BASIL WENTWORTH REACHES GENEVA.
Ten days later a servant came to Ben’s room with a card.
It bore the name of Basil Wentworth.
“Show the gentleman up,” he said.
As Basil entered the room, his face wore a look of sympathy.
“My dear Edwin,” he said, “I cannot tell you how much I sympathize with
you in your sudden bereavement.”
He surveyed Ben with interest and curiosity and was forced to admit
that he was a most attractive boy.
“You, at any rate look the picture of health,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Wentworth, but you are under a mistake. My name is not Edwin
Harcourt, but Ben Bruce.”
“Where then is Edwin?” asked Basil in great surprise.
“He died over a year since. Mrs. Harcourt seems to have adopted me in
his place.”
“But in that case,” and Basil stopped short, for he did not like to
speak ill of the dead.
“I know what you would say, Mr. Wentworth, but if any wrong has
been done it will be repaired. I have a letter here written by Mrs.
Harcourt, which I opened after her death. It will explain all.”
Basil Wentworth read the letter in silence.
“So far as I am concerned,” he said, “I freely forgive my cousin the
deception. Of course you had no suspicion of the real state of things.”
“No, Mr. Wentworth. I certainly should not have consented to keep my
friend Frank Mordaunt and his family out of the money that justly
belongs to him.”
“Do you know where the Mordaunts are living?” asked Basil eagerly.
“Yes; they live in Brooklyn, and are very poor. Frank sells papers for
a living, but you know that this is a very poor dependence.”
“But I thought that they had some property.”
“It was lost, by speculation, I think.”
“I will at once send them a hundred dollars, to tide them over till the
income which belongs to them comes into their hands.”
“I wish you would, Mr. Wentworth,” said Ben earnestly. “They stand in
great need of it.”
“But Edwin, or rather Ben, you don’t speak of yourself. My cousin’s
death will be a serious loss to you.”
“Yes, but I think I shall get along.”
“You are young and hopeful. Do you think Mrs. Harcourt has provided for
you?”
“I know nothing about that. Her will, as she writes, is in the hands of
her bankers in Paris. She has appointed you her executor.”
“I will be your friend, Ben. I am sure that you have been strictly
honorable in this matter.”
“I am rich in friends,” said Ben smiling. “General Flint, an American,
is in the hotel, and he has been of great service to me in arranging
for the funeral.”
“Were you provided with money sufficient to defray the expenses?”
“Yes; Mrs. Harcourt supplied me with all that was needful.”
“Will you be ready to accompany me to Paris to-morrow? It is desirable
that I should have your testimony as to my poor cousin’s death.”
“Yes, Mr. Wentworth, I am at your disposal.”
When General Flint learned that Ben was about to leave Geneva for
Paris, he decided to go too.
“I should feel lonely without you, my lad,” he said. “Besides, you may
need a friend.”
“I think Mr. Wentworth will be my friend, but I hope to have your
friendship also.”
This was the letter that Basil Wentworth wrote to his uncle:
“MY DEAR UNCLE:
“I have reached Geneva and found that it was indeed true about
my poor cousin’s death. I have also had a great surprise.
Edwin died more than a year since, and the boy who came to
your house with Maria was only an adopted son whom she had
put in his place. The boy is a fine, manly fellow, and had no
idea that he was being used to defeat the ends of justice. So
far as I remember Edwin, this boy is much his superior, and
I should be pleased to feel that he was a relative. Perhaps
Maria has provided for him by will. She left a letter which he
opened after her death, which revealed to him for the first
time the object of his adoption. And now comes something truly
remarkable. This Ben Bruce, for that is his real name, is well
acquainted with the Mordaunts, who are living in Brooklyn, and
he speaks very highly of Frank, a boy of his own age, who has
been reduced to selling papers for a living. I don’t know why
his mother has steadfastly kept aloof from her relatives in New
York, but I think it is on account of her pride. I have sent
them a hundred dollars to tide them over till they come into
possession of the income which will now fall to them.
“I shall stay as brief a time in Paris as I can, and will then
sail for New York with Ben. I mean to help him if he is not
provided for in my cousin’s will.”
On arriving in Paris Basil Wentworth went at once to the banking house
of John Munroe & Co. and gave notice of Mrs. Harcourt’s death. The will
was handed to him, and he opened it. He read it through attentively and
then turned to Ben.
“Ben,” he said, “you are left the sole heir to Mrs. Harcourt’s
property.”
Ben looked the surprise which he felt.
“I had no idea of this,” he said. “Will it be right for me to accept
it, not being a relative?”
“Mrs. Harcourt’s relatives are well provided for. They inherit Edwin’s
income, which was ten thousand dollars a year. I am sure that no one
will object to your inheritance. I must tell you, however, that my
poor cousin was by no means rich. Probably she will not leave more than
forty thousand dollars.”
“That seems a great deal to me, but she wished the last year’s income
which she received wrongfully for her son to be repaid.”
“That will make ten thousand dollars. My share of that will be half,
and I will excuse you from paying it. The half that goes to the
Mordaunts may be repaid.”
“I shall be glad, Mr. Wentworth, if you will act as my guardian. You
have shown yourself such a generous friend that I am sure I could make
no better selection.”
“My dear boy,” said Basil warmly, “I will accept the appointment,
and you may be sure, that I will protect your interests. You are a
fortunate boy.”
When General Flint was told of Ben’s good luck, he was quite delighted.
“The only regret I have, my lad,” he said, “is that you are now rich,
and I shall not have the pleasure of helping you.”
“I will take the will for the deed, General Flint. I don’t think you
would have allowed me to suffer.”
“Not much, my boy. I hope you will come out to Iowa next year and make
a visit. I shall be glad to show you something of the great West.”
“I will come, general. I shall not soon forget your kindness to me when
I needed a friend.”
Basil’s letter to Frank Mordaunt arrived at a critical moment. On
account of some delay in the mail the two letters, Ben’s and Basil
Wentworth’s, reached them the same day.
Things had gone badly with them. Frank had been laid up for ten days by
an attack of the grip, and of course his earnings during that time were
suspended. They had no money laid aside, and the rent was nearly due.
Frank was of a cheerful disposition, but he could not help feeling
depressed.
“I don’t know how we are coming out, Frank,” said his mother sadly.
“Life is such a struggle that I don’t derive much pleasure from it.”
“Wait till the clouds roll by, mother,” said Frank with forced gayety.
“They are a long time in rolling by. When did you hear from Ben last?”
“Not for two months.”
At that moment the postman’s whistle was heard, and Alvin ran
down-stairs to meet him.
“Two letters, mother,” he said. “They are both for Frank.”
“Let me see the address.”
“One is in Ben’s handwriting,” said Frank, and he tore it open.
“Good news, mother!” he exclaimed in excitement. “Our fortune has come.”
“How’s that?”
“Edwin Harcourt died over a year since, and we come into an income of
five thousand dollars. All your troubles are over, mother.”
“God be thanked, though I am sorry for the poor boy’s death. From whom
is your other letter?”
By this time Frank had opened it.
To his great delight he found an order on a New York banker for a
hundred dollars.
“Look at this, mother!” he cried. “One hundred dollars! We shall be
able to pay the rent now.”
The next morning Mr. Grubb the landlord came in.
“I suppose you can pay the rent, widder?” he said.
“I shall have it this afternoon, Mr. Grubb.”
“That don’t go down,” said Grubb crossly. “Why couldn’t you have it
this morning?”
“Because my son has gone to New York to cash an order for one hundred
dollars. That will be enough to pay the rent, won’t it?”
“Is that straight, widder?” asked the landlord incredulously.
“I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods, Mr. Grubb,” said Mrs.
Mordaunt indignantly.
“Oh, it’s all right. I’ll come around to-morrow. I’m glad you’re so
prosperous, widder.”
“I don’t think we shall care to occupy your rooms long, Mr. Grubb.”
“I hope you haven’t taken offense, widder. I shall be glad to have
you stay.”
“We have become rich, Mr. Grubb, and shall want to live in more
commodious rooms.”
“I have a better tenement near the Park, ma’am.”
“We may look at it, but our plans are not made yet.”
Mr. Grubb left the house with a greatly increased respect for his
tenants.