WHEREIN SOME THINGS ARE EXPLAINED.
Propped up by pillows in an easy-chair before a roaring fire in the
great fireplace, George Frothingham was sitting, relating to a group of
listeners the story of his adventures on the way from New York.
His sister Grace, seated on the arm of the chair, was softly stroking
his hand.
Aunt Clarissa, who had discarded her tatting-frames, was busily clicking
her needles at the toe of a woollen stocking.
"What I don't see," said George, "is where I got that little
chopped-down horse that you say I rode upon. I do not know where he came
from."
"But you are anticipating," said Aunt Clarissa; "you had only got as far
in your story as sighting Lyons Farms."
"Oh, that's so!" said George. "Now comes the part that I hate most to
tell. When I came down the hill, it was evident that something was wrong
in the collection of little houses. No one was stirring about, and the
ruins of a small building were smoking to the left of the road. What do
you suppose had happened? The firing that I had heard two or three hours
before had taken place here. There had been a skirmish. A body of
English troops and a company of Hessians on a marauding excursion had
been met at the cross-roads by a handful of militia. It makes my blood
boil to tell the rest, but the Lord will punish them. All this had
happened only a few hours before I arrived. They had shot Mr. Hinckley,
and a brute of a Hessian had rested his gun on the window-sill, and
killed his wife as she bent over her baby's cradle. Then, like redskins,
they had hurried off. I found no one amongst the dwellings but some
frightened children huddling in a cellar. The houses were robbed and
empty."
Aunt Clarissa had dropped her stocking and rushed into the next room.
"God forgive me!" she had exclaimed, when she was alone, and she had
reached her long arms up above her head. "Curse them and their tyrants
to the bottom of the sea! How could I have been so blind--so stubborn?"
When she had come back, however, she kissed her nephew on the forehead.
The remembrance of the scene, and the picture of it which was going
through his mind, had caused George to pause and sink back silently
among the cushions. "I think I will rest a little," he said.
No one disturbed him, and for some time there was silence.
In a few minutes a loud, hearty voice was heard ringing through the
hallway.
George smiled. "Colonel Hewes," he said. "Do ask him in."
The Colonel greeted his young friend with a subdued effusion, and, with
the gentleness of a woman, spread out George's fingers in his palm.
"Just back from headquarters!" he said. "Lad, lad, I have had you on my
mind, and when I heard of your escape, I grew quite young again. The
Commander-in-Chief himself rejoiced to hear of it, for the officer with
despatches from the north brought the news of your arrival. But when his
Excellency heard for what you had gone to New York he grew quite angry.
He laid aside my request for active service, though. Too bad the plan
fell through! It was my idea.--I wrote and proposed it to the printer."
George smiled to himself. Perhaps Mr. Hewes's next venture would be an
attempt to capture the King of England.
"Did you come along by the Tumble Ridge Road?" inquired the Colonel. He
did not catch Aunt Clarissa's warning glance.
George wrinkled his forehead. "Now let me think; yes--there's where it
occurred," he said. "But wait; I have got to think how it all happened."
"Don't try, brother George," said Grace. "Wait until another day."
"No, I must tell it now. Where was I?"
"You were telling about Lyons Farms," said his sister.
"Oh yes! I found an old sledge in a shed much like the one that my good
friend Wissinck had driven me in from Paulus Hook. Although old Molly
was very tired, I harnessed her up and put the children--there were four
of them--in a feather-bed, and drove across the hill. I stopped at the
first house that I came across, and found two old women there. You
should have heard their stories! The Hessians have been worse than
Indians; you would hardly believe it.--But enough. I left the children
there with the two old women, and pushed along as best I could three or
four miles further. Here I came upon the remains of a camp-fire by the
road-side, and was glad enough to find the remnants of a meal in the
kettle that hung over the smouldering fire. It had been left hurriedly.
"That night I slept in a farm-house in the mountains. The poor old mare
was so tired by this time that I determined to make the rest of the trip
on foot, and left her in the care of the old farmer, who promised to
return her. I shall never forget how I suffered all that day. If it had
not been for two rough snow-shoes that I had made out of the staves of a
molasses hogshead, I could not have gotten through the snow at all." He
paused. "Now comes the part that leads up to my forgetting."
George had seemed to gather strength as he went on with the recital. He
now sat up straighter, and the color came to his pale cheeks.
"I had almost feared I had lost my way when I saw the trunk of a
shattered pine--the one that was struck by lightning, you remember--then
I knew that I was only six miles from home. I was weak and faint, for I
had had nothing to eat but a frozen potato all that day. I soon came to
the cross-roads where the path winds across the ridge. It was a
short-cut, and I took it. The bushes interfered with my rough
snow-shoes, and I discarded them and plunged through the snow. When I
came to the hollow by the old Camel rock, I smelt smoke quite
distinctly.--It is here, you know, that the path joins the road
again.--As I pushed through the short pines the smoke became stronger,
and all at once I found myself face to face with a group of men seated
about a fire. Two or three horses were tethered to the trees, and the
men were all armed.
"'God save our country!' I exclaimed--for the idea that there were
English so close about seemed impossible.
"'God save ourselves!' said one of the men, with a laugh.
"At that moment I recognized a man in the little circle who was slowly
rising to his feet. It was that rascal Cloud, the man who had robbed
Uncle Nathan unknown for so many years, you remember."
"Well," cried Colonel Hewes. "He's got his dues. I--" The Colonel
stopped and dug his fingers into his palm.
George had not noticed the interruption. "I knew, of course," he went
on, "that some mischief was afoot, for that wretch never had an honest
thought. I backed away, and was going to make a break for the road near
by, when I tripped and fell.
"'Seize him!' said Cloud, and in another moment I was bound hand and
foot. They took my purse, which yet contained some gold pieces. They
were as murdering a lot of pirates as you ever saw!"
"We know of them," the Colonel broke in, excitedly. "There's a price on
all their heads, for they acknowledge no law or party. But go on."
"'What are you going to do with me?' I asked, after they had searched
every pocket. No one paid the least attention.
"They had drawn apart and were whispering together, and I could see that
Cloud was talking angrily. How long they conversed I do not know, but it
was at some length. When Cloud had finished speaking, there was some
dissent about what he said, and the rest--all but two--took their
bundles, and, heading about, struck off through the woods. Cloud was
left sitting opposite to me, his horse was tied to a tree a short
distance off. I shall never forget the look in that man's eyes. It was
the look of Satan himself."
"Go on," said Colonel Hewes, breathlessly.
Aunt Clarissa and Grace gathered closer.
"'Do you remember me?' asked Cloud.
"'I do for a thieving villain,' I replied.
"'Do you know that your uncle had me tied and thrashed like a low black
nigger?' he exclaimed, his teeth coming over his under lip.
"'And well deserved,' said I. Perhaps it was foolish, but I so detest
the man that I could reply naught else.
"'I swore that I would be revenged on him and his,' snarled Cloud.
"'What are you going to do?' I inquired. I was wound about lengthwise
with a long rope, and could move no more than my little finger.
"'I am going to hang you,' he replied. The two men that had been left
behind approached us as if to interfere, but he repulsed them, and they
hurried into the woods.
"I was frightened. The idea that he really intended to do it never
entered my mind. But now I judge that he must be a maniac and nothing
less.
"'You villain,' I said, 'you dare not lay hands on me!'"
Aunt Clarissa started. She remembered this was the expression that
George had used in his delirium.
"Do you know what that, _that_"--George paused for an expression--"what
he did?" he said at last, quite calmly. "He put a rope around my neck,
and threw the end over the branch of a tree. Even then I did not suppose
that he was trying to do anything but frighten me, but I shall never
forget the horror with which I felt the rope tighten about my throat! As
he was no heavier than I, he could not lift me entirely from the
ground.--I could still almost stand upon my toes."
Aunt Clarissa and Grace both grew faint. The Colonel dashed his
riding-whip to the ground.
George panted as he went on with his story. "I can remember no more than
seeing that fiend standing there cross-legged, looking up at me. Then
it seemed to me I fell from some frightful height."
"You must have come home after that," said Aunt Clarissa, "for you
arrived here shortly after dusk."
She made up her mind that she would not say anything about the latter
escapade and his escape from the house, as George did not wish to talk
on further, and Colonel Hewes also concluded to say nothing about the
doctor's discovery, which the latter had related to him.
"After I fell, I remember nothing for two days, you know," George added.
"Never mind," said Aunt Clarissa, smoothing back his hair. "You must
rest, dear boy."
The lad closed his eyes, and appeared to drop asleep.
Colonel Hewes took his leave at once. As he went across the meadow
toward the foundry a thought struck him. "Jove! I have the solution!" he
said, "It was Adam Bent Knee's revenge. Indian blood will show out. I
have always held it so. He has settled scores for good and all with his
old enemy Cloud."
There was one thing that puzzled every one--the presence of the strange
horse that it was supposed George must have picked up somewhere on the
Tumble Ridge Road, and while still under the influence of his disordered
mind. Burnt into the saddle was the name "Ralston, Hoboken." If the
"colt" could have talked, it could have added some astonishing
information that would have cleared away the fog of uncertainty. It was
thought, however, that the little horse might have escaped from the band
of marauders, and that the young man had found him after he had fallen,
and had managed to free himself from his bonds. Colonel Hewes's cousin
could have solved a great deal of this mystery, but he had gone to
Morristown, and had been ordered thence to General Putnam's forces in
the southern part of the State.
There was some confusion also about the time of day at which things had
taken place.
But we must return and follow the doings of the royalist Lieutenant,
young William Frothingham, after he had closed the door of his old home
behind him, and had bade that mysterious adieu to his white-robed sister
in the hallway. Her exclamation and her calling him by his brother's
name had proved again that the resemblance must be as marvelous as ever.
As soon as he had left the house he started on a run toward the old
bridge, and taking a lumber path, he waded through the snow, intending
to make for the hut of Adam Bent Knee that was in the hollow in the
ridge. He knew that the old Indian would give him shelter, and would
help him on his way, no matter to what party he belonged.
He reached the hut at last. It was built against a bank, and was roofed
with bark and slabs of pine. Something had happened here, however, for
the interior was torn to pieces. The furs that hung upon the wall were
cut and slashed, and a half-barrel of apples had been thrown across the
floor. All this had been done quite recently, for there were signs
before the door of footprints and horses' hoofs. They led along the
lumber path from the summit, and a short distance further on the same
tracks were seen going in the opposite direction as if the party had
doubled. The latter trail was much the fresher. William followed it.
They had broken a way through the snow, and he could travel for three or
four miles much more easily. The trail led him through the woods until
he descried the other side of the mountain. Far below him William made
out a fire's light shimmering through the trees. Broad streaks had
appeared in the east, and the edge of the red sun was showing through
the horizon clouds. It was a grand sight. So still was the air that a
twig that he stepped on in the snow seemed to him to crack like the
report of a pistol. A belated owl in its sturdy driving flight swept
across the clearing before him. Such a feeling of loneliness came over
him that his heart sank again. What had his career as an officer of the
crown brought to him? There was nothing of the coward in his
disposition, and his sense of duty, as we know, was developed to the
limit, but he hoped with all his soul that should he arrive safely back
in the city, that he and all the gleaming bayonets there might be
bundled back into the ships and sent to England. He prayed that he might
never be compelled to draw his sword against this people, his own
people, who were "rebels" no longer in his mind or estimation!
The sight of the fire in the woods reminded him that he was hungry, and
must push ahead that he might reconnoitre. He half slid down the sharp
declivity, and forced his way through the bushes.
There was a group of rough-looking men seated about a bivouac at the
right of a great oak; some leaning forward wrapped in heavy blankets,
appeared asleep. Three horses were nibbling at the twigs of the stunted
undergrowth. One had strayed to quite a distance, and was standing
mournfully leg-deep in the snow. As William came down the hill he found
himself at the top of a great rock even with the branches of the oak and
overlooking the small fire. He was in full sight when one of the party
looked up and saw him. The man's jaw dropped, and he caught his breath,
with an exclamation that aroused the drowsy ones about him. One of the
men rolled backwards with a howl, and with his blanket trailing behind
him plunged down the hill.
"Greeting, good friends," said William.
The effect of this short speech astonished him. Two of the men sprang up
and jumped astride of the nearest horses, and the others took to their
heels like the first, and soon the whole party was crashing down the
hill like a herd of startled deer.
William did not move. He was too astonished to call after them, and from
his post on the rock saw them come out into the meadow some distance
below, where they stopped and talked. They appeared to come to one
decision, for after looking back, they pushed on hastily, and entered
the woods at the other side of the valley.
Swinging himself down by the branches of the oak, William found himself
in possession of the very things that he most needed. In their
unaccountable flight the strange party had left behind them a rough
blanket and a blue woollen cape, and a huge flint-lock pistol, whose
dark butt protruded from the snow, where it had been dropped, like some
new growth of the forest.
A short distance away was a placid-looking horse who had commenced again
to gnaw the trunk of a white birch.
"Refuse not the gifts the gods provide," quoted William. "What did they
take me for? I must look like an army or a constable. A lot of thieves,
most likely."
He extricated the horse with some difficulty, and picking up the blanket
and woollen cape, he retraced his steps to the top of the ridge, and
made his way along the summit toward the travelled road to the
southward. He had now the things he had wished for to continue his
journey. By noon he had covered some fifteen miles, for he could hardly
urge the sorry beast out of a walk. He met no one on the road until the
sun glowered directly above his head. He had passed several houses, but
deemed it safer to go on as far as he could before he stopped and asked
the direction. As he made his way through a bit of swampy land he saw
ahead of him a strange-looking object. It was a man carrying a heavy
burden on his back. What it was at first William could not make out, but
as he approached nearer he saw that it was the body of a freshly
slaughtered hog. He was almost at the strange figure's heels before the
latter turned. The broad honest face with a cheek closely pressed
against the dead pig's open-mouthed visage presented such a comical
picture that William to save himself could not but smile.
"Greeting, good friend," he said. "Good-morrow."
The man did not answer, but walked closely up to William's side, almost
thrusting his own face and the pig's into the saddle.
"What sayest thou?" he inquired. "I am deaf as a ploughshare."
"Can you tell me the direction of Plainfield?" shouted William, bending
over.
"Yea, friend," was the answer, "but thou art too far north." William had
surmised as much.
"Where are you going with your burden?" he inquired.
"Oh, the shoat?" the man answered, rubbing his cheek against the pig's
fat jowl to steady him on his shoulder. "It's a gift I am making to a
righteous cause. I am not a man of war," he added. "It is against my
creed, but they who fight need flesh to strengthen them. I am taking
this to some good people who are camped below us. Thou art a soldier?"
"I am," said William.
"I would shake hands with thee, but I should drop my load." The broad
face smiled.
"Come, place him upon my horse," said William, dismounting.
As they were placing the pink body across the saddle, and William was
marvelling at the man's great strength, there was a hail from a clump of
alders to the left.
"Ah, Brother Whitehead," was the exclamation, "what have we here?"
A tall, black-bearded man came through the bushes. Behind him followed
three or four stalwart youths, with long-barrelled rifles over their
shoulders. But before another word was spoken the first man leaped
across a ditch and came toward William, saluting as he did so. Then it
was seen that he wore a ragged Continental uniform.
"Well met indeed, and God bless you, Lieutenant Frothingham! Methinks
you are in time to aid us." The youths who were with him also came to an
awkward salute. "We have the green-coated women-slayers cornered," he
continued. "Not one of them will escape. There were some 'Lobster Backs'
with them. They will suffer for the doings at Lyons Farms, I'll warrant
you."
"Are the English near us?" inquired William, his heart beating fast.
"Ay, and the Hessians too! They were driven back in their efforts to
reach Elizabethtown, and we have been gathering our forces for an attack
this afternoon. You rank me, sir," he continued. "I am but Sergeant
Ralston, and my elbow touched yours at Princeton and Harlem, you may
remember. Come now, sir, will you take command? We have some brave
hearts with us."
William half faltered. Here, indeed, was a predicament.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
IN THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.
LADY ARABELLA STUART.
BY MRS. LEW. WALLACE.
One of the most familiar names to the student of English history is that
of Lady Arabella Stuart, who was long a constant source of alarm to
James I., because she was born near the throne. She never urged her
claim nor appeared to covet the crown; daughter of Charles, Earl of
Lennox, and cousin to the King, she inherited a full share of the beauty
and misfortunes of her race. A lovely girl, full of wit and grace,
gifted with the gentle art of making friends, she was the life of a
lifeless court.
Many matches were proposed to the sovereign, who had power to make or
break a marriage for her. Suitors of various rank and countries knelt at
her feet, and it was told that even Henri the Great of France had dreams
of seating the blue-eyed Countess with the wavy tresses on the throne of
Charlemagne.
So passed her youth; and in her thirty-fifth year James, by way of
banter, told the maiden she had remained fancy free to suit him long
enough; she might now wed whom she would. Poets, adventurers, courtiers,
and knights of high lineage kissed her white hand, but came no nearer
the heart, which beat faster for none but William Seymour, afterward
Marquis of Hertford, a youth of twenty-three years. Only the stars were
witness as they sealed their vows and oath, and the secret kept well for
a season. But a bird in the air carried the matter to Windsor, and
Seymour was arrested and brought before the Council to answer for the
outrage--betrothal in secrecy.
He denied everything; swore he had not thought of anything but pastime.
What did he want with a wife ten years older than himself? And so the
rumor was forgotten with other court gossip.
They thought the King would give up his nonsense, for Seymour was from
one of the proudest families of Europe, and there was no reason in this
opposition; besides, he had consented to a wedding. But no relenting was
admitted by James, and in July, 1610, a poor priest was found and bribed
to risk his neck by going through the marriage ceremony for the lovers.
[Illustration: ST. THOMAS'S TOWER, WHERE SEYMOUR WAS CONFINED.]
After a year of concealment the news reached the King's ear. He was
enraged; the priest was thrown into prison, the two witnesses present
were arrested, and the offending pair parted in the first sweetness of
the honeymoon. Seymour was sent to St. Thomas's Tower on the river. He
was furnished handsome apartments, with plates, hangings, books,
luxurious belongings; and the Countess was lodged in a fine house on the
Thames, with attendance and surroundings as became her rank; allowed
every freedom--except freedom.
Indifferent to the elegancies about her, the bride wrote tender and
passionate letters to her bridegroom, but he answered never a word.
Sweet William made no sign, sent no love-gift. He wrote only to the
Lords of the Council, praying to be restored to liberty, that his health
would be lost if he were not freed, and busied his days making himself
comfortable in the chambers over the Traitors' Gate of London Tower, his
wife's money paying the bills.
One dull, foggy day she quietly stepped into a common barge and floated
down the river to the barred window on the wharf, where she might make
signs to him who did not appear bold enough to plan an escape, and
returned safely to her castle. The brave movement could not be
concealed, and in his wrath the King ordered a dozen counties to be put
between his cousin and the defiant prisoner looking with despair at the
water-gates.
Sadly did the tearful blue eyes turn to the bleak and frozen North,
while sentinels doubled their watch on the square tower built over the
moat.
Such was his Majesty's pleasure.
Lady Arabella's attendants were devoted, ready to brave death itself for
their mistress; her soft, kind manner never failed to win where
self-love had not taken too deep a hold. Day and night, while she sighed
her soul away, they schemed and planned to open a path to reunion in the
pleasant land of France, where they might be at peace in banishment. At
last she slipped off, well provided by her aunt, the Countess of
Shrewsbury, with costly jewels current in any country, and with good
English gold to lavish on any who might espouse her cause. She glided
down the Thames, reached the Channel, by arrangement was taken on a
light French bark; but the open water in front of Calais was not for the
hapless bride. Captain Corvè did his best; his little craft was no match
for the swift war-ship _Adventure_ in pursuit. Gallantly he fought wind
and wave, but Admiral Monson outsped him, and after thirteen shots were
fired, he struck his flag, and the crew of the victorious vessel boarded
the bark which carried the royal lady.
She gracefully yielded herself prisoner to James, King of England,
consoled by the thought that he whom she loved better than life was so
well disguised, and his plot so well laid, that he was safe in French
port.
"Where is William, Earl of Seymour?" demanded Monson, Admiral in command
of the chase.
Lady Arabella smiled.
"I cannot tell, but I believe he is beyond the reach of his enemies and
mine."
[Illustration: LONDON TOWER FROM THE RIVER.]
So she was marched to the Tower, into rooms once occupied by Margaret
Douglas, the common grandmother of the King and herself.
When brought before the Lords she was mild and patient, yet asked with
becoming spirit why she, a free woman of royal blood, should be held a
criminal and separated from her lawful husband.
The furious King seized her jewels and money; and her two companions in
the flight, gentlemen by birth, were dragged to the torture-chamber of
the Tower, and forced to confess what they knew of the perilous attempt.
The tale of Seymour's changes of wig and cloak, in various disguises and
places, is too long to tell here. Delighted with liberty and with
France, he seemed to mourn the loss of his bride less than the loss of
her jewels and money, for William dearly loved to loiter in the delicate
plain called Ease, and lie in the soft places gold can buy. The
calculating fellow found his high name a passport in Paris, which city
was vastly amusing, and so was the staid but not less delightful capital
of the Belgians.
In the damp old rooms of her grandmother Lady Arabella languished five
years. The third year an escape was arranged, and when the time was ripe
and success appeared assured she was betrayed, and the venture ended in
nothing but harsher treatment. While "William, dearest," danced the
night away, she wore out the dark hours writing prayers to the King, who
deigned no answer.
Like other high-born dames, she was skilled in cunning needle-work, and
many a doleful day was spent stitching gay silks into canvas, making a
bright broidery, offered as a souvenir to the man who imprisoned her;
but the King would not touch the pretty gift. The courtesy did not move
him any more than her demand to be tried by her peers, according to law,
in open-court, instead of by a Committee of the Council sitting with
closed doors.
When the tapestry came back rejected the blue eyes grew dimmer, and her
cheek paled with the heart-sickness of hope deferred, or rather of
despair, and it was rumored that the daughter of the House of Stuart had
met her doom in madness. Sorriest of all the history is that the
youthful husband forgot his too-loving wife. The letters full of
tenderness reached the trifler at European courts, and lay unanswered.
The low-browed villain Wood, who had her in charge, knew the death of
his captive would please King James and the courtiers who lived on his
smiles. His small mind lent itself to all sorts of petty annoyances and
means to make imprisonment unwholesome. She must not walk, nor have her
own attendants, nor food and dress befitting the near kinswoman of
queens, though the offended monarch generously had the ceiling of her
room "mended to keep out wind and rain."
The forlorn lady passed from deep melancholy to spasms that touched her
brain. Even in such pitiful condition she was closely watched and
guarded by the nervous coward, who pretended to believe there was an
Arabella plot, with Raleigh at its head, secreted in the Tower.
For a year the insane Countess lived, gentle and harmless, chattering
like a little child. Her one amusement was singing songs of love and
longing, learned in happy days, with the lute, whose trembling strings
made the saddest strains ear ever heard. The heart-breaking music
softened even her jailer; he grew compassionate, and she wandered at
will through the doleful halls and the garden. But the wan face never
brightened; she faded slowly, drooped, and died.
In the chill midnight of autumn her wornout body was brought by the
black-flowing river to Westminster Abbey, in a miserable coffin without
a plate, and laid away in that sanctuary with no ceremony, not even a
prayer. "For," says a loyal courtier, "to have had a great funeral for
one dying out of favor with the King would reflect on the King's honor."
After a troubled life she sleeps well in the tomb of her ill-starred
family, close beside the dust of her grandmother, Margaret Douglas. Her
coffin lies across and flattens the leaden casket which holds the
headless corpse of her great-aunt Mary, unhappy Queen of Scots. Neither
name nor date is above her breast, and the skull and bones were plainly
seen below the rotten wood in 1868 (a ghastly sight!) when the vaults
were searched for the remains of James I.
Her persecutor rests near his victim. The enemies are at one now. The
strange peace of death which ends all feuds has brought them together,
and their restless hearts lie still, awaiting the coming of the Angel of
the Resurrection.
The period of which I write is sometimes called the good old times. I
call it the bad old times.
A FLASH IN THE DARK.
BY R. M. FULLER.
The Whitonville Camera Club was to meet at Will Vaughan's house
Wednesday evening. Whitonville is a town of some size in the western
part of New York. Mr. Vaughan, Will's father, one of its earliest
residents, lives in a large old-fashioned house on the main street,
opposite the Whitonville Bank, of which he is president. All day the
overcast sky had given promise of a downpour, and the sultry atmosphere,
charged with electricity, presaged plenty of thunder and lightning
before midnight.
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Will Vaughan to his friend and visitor Tom
Wetherby, as they stood on the front porch looking at the angry sky. "If
the storm breaks before the fellows get here the meeting falls through;
but here comes Frank Wentworth."
The young men exchanged cordial greetings, and followed Will to the
library, where the meeting was to be held. One after another the members
arrived, until the whole club was seated around the table. Tom Wetherby
belonged to a large club in the city, and was recognized as an authority
by the members of this small country organization. He was a bright young
fellow of nineteen, always on the lookout for some novel subject for his
camera, which accompanied him on all his wanderings. He listened to the
debate, offering a word now and then as his opinion was requested, until
his ear caught the swish of rain hurled violently against the
window-panes by the wind. Presently this was followed by heavy peals of
thunder, and flash after flash of lightning.
"If you don't mind, Will, I will try to catch a flash or two of the
lightning; I have been waiting for a chance like this for a long time,"
said Tom.
"All right, old fellow; we'll excuse you. Look out your camera isn't
blown away."
Tom was soon busy setting up his camera on the front porch, with the
lens pointed at the sky at an angle which just cleared the tops of the
opposite houses. The rain poured down, while crash upon crash of thunder
followed each successive flash of lightning. Nearer and nearer came the
force and violence of the storm, until the centre of electrical activity
was directly over the village. Tom exposed several plates, and had put
the last plate-holder in position when his foot struck one leg of the
tripod, almost capsizing the camera. A quick grab at the instrument
prevented the catastrophe; but before he could get the camera in
position, again, a blinding flash came, followed simultaneously by a
crash which shook the building to its very foundation. For a moment Tom
was dazed with the vivid light. Every object was illuminated with a
brightness exceeding daylight, and then all became intensely dark. Tom
capped his lens, seized his camera, and re-entered the house, where he
found the club still discussing the topic of the evening.
"Well, what luck?" they exclaimed.
Tom shook the water from his clothes, wiped the moisture carefully from
the camera, and replied: "Oh, so so! the last plate must be a dead
failure, though. I knocked the camera half over just before that
terrible crash."
The following morning the Vaughans were at breakfast when a quick ring
at the door-bell was heard, and Mr. Vaughan recognized the voice of one
of his clerks, saying, "I must see Mr. Vaughan without delay, if you
please."
Mr. Vaughan surmised from the tones of the speaker that something had
happened, and hastened to the door.
"Mr. Vaughan," exclaimed the excited clerk, "please come over to the
bank at once. We have been robbed, sir."
"Robbed?"
"Yes, sir; everything is in confusion. The vault is open, and papers and
securities litter the floor."
It took but a moment to recognize the truth of the clerk's statement.
The vault door was wide open, but the lock had not been injured. The
robbery had been committed by some person who knew the combination of
the lock, or the vault had not been fastened the night before.
Mr. Vaughan discarded the latter idea, for he had tried the vault door
before leaving the bank, and knew that it was locked. There were three
besides himself in the employ of the bank--James Hendrix, the cashier;
Frank Wentworth, bookkeeper and assistant cashier; and John Salters,
general utility clerk, the man who had notified him of the robbery.
Neither Hendrix nor Wentworth had arrived, and Mr. Vaughan requested the
clerk to gather up the papers which were still lying scattered over the
floor, while he endeavored to find a clew to the robbery.
While they were thus engaged the cashier entered, and appeared surprised
to find the president already there.
Mr. Vaughan immediately informed him of the robbery, and noted the look
of indignation and astonishment with which the news was received.
"Hendrix, what was your cash balance last evening?"
The cashier, after consulting the books, replied, "Twenty-eight thousand
five hundred and twenty dollars, fifty-eight cents, of which six
thousand four hundred was in bills, twenty thousand in government bonds,
and the balance in securities and currency."
Mr. Vaughan stepped to the cashier's desk, glanced over the book,
verifying the figures, and was about turning away, when his eye caught
the edge of a paper protruding from the right-hand drawer of Wentworth's
desk, which adjoined that of the cashier.
Without saying a word or attracting attention to his movements, the
president quietly drew the paper from the drawer and gave it a glance as
he put it in his coat pocket.
It was a thousand-dollar government bond.
At this moment Frank Wentworth entered the bank with a pleasant
"Good-morning." As he passed behind the rail which separated the
customers' side from the working office he noticed the eyes of the
president fixed upon him with a stern expression entirely new to him.
"Wentworth, I would like to see you in my office immediately," said the
president.
When they had entered the little room, Mr. Vaughan closed the door, and,
looking Wentworth in the eye, said:
"Frank, the bank has been robbed of a large sum of money, exactly how
much we do not know until these securities have been examined and
counted."
Wentworth's face became crimson, for the president's manner implied more
than the mere words conveyed.
"You were the last one to leave, were you not?"
"Yes, sir; but everything was safe and sound when I left. I tried the
vault door after putting on my hat and coat, and I am positive it was
securely locked."
"Are you equally positive in regard to the front door after you had
passed out?"
"Yes, sir; I turned the knob repeatedly; the door was closed and
locked."
"You have no theory to offer as to how the robbery was accomplished?"
"Why, Mr. Vaughan! how should I know anything more about it than
yourself? Was the vault door open?"
Without replying, the president said, "Step to the door and call Mr.
Hendrix and Mr. Salters."
Frank did as he was bidden.
"Each of you has a private drawer in your desk of which you retain the
key. The bank has lost a large sum of money, and we must be willing to
clear ourselves of the suspicion which might attach, in view of the fact
that the vault combination is unknown to any person outside this room.
You will hand me your keys, and come with me to the outer office while I
perform a most unpleasant duty."
Hendrix's desk was first inspected; then Salters's; but nothing found to
implicate them.
Mr. Vaughan next opened Frank's private drawer, and there, directly in
front, lay two of the government bonds and a number of bills of
different denominations.
Wentworth's face became ashen, his knees trembled, and he gasped for
breath. Presently, however, he looked Mr. Vaughan squarely in the eye,
and exclaimed, "Mr. Vaughan, in spite of what we see, and what you
doubtless think, I do not know how the bonds came there."
The president did not reply. He tried the keys of the others' desks in
Wentworth's lock, and neither would fit.
"Mr. Hendrix, you will call an officer; my duty is plain; I cannot evade
it."
As the cashier went out of the door, Mr. Vaughan turned to Wentworth,
who had sunk into a chair, covering his face with his hands, and said:
"Frank, I could not feel much worse if this had been against my own boy
Will. Your father was a director of this bank, and my friend for years.
It is a mercy that he did not live to see this day."
Wentworth made no answer; the power of speech appeared to have forsaken
him. He did not lift his head nor utter a sound until Hendrix appeared
with an officer.
Mr. Vaughan explained the situation, and Frank was led away in custody.
Consternation fell upon Frank's friends and acquaintances, for the
evidence was so overwhelming that his simple denial of any knowledge of
the matter had no weight with the majority. His mother and sister,
together with the members of the camera club, formed a small minority
who believed him innocent.
Will Vaughan was untiring in his efforts to console Mrs. Wentworth and
her daughter Alice, and did his best to keep Frank's spirits up. What
could he do, however, to stem the tide of public opinion? Again and
again he besought Frank to discover some tangible clew to the robbery.
Frank had racked his brain in the effort to do so, without avail.
Tom Wetherby returned to his home in New York early on the morning of
the day following the storm. He knew nothing of the robbery until weeks
afterwards, when a long letter from Will Vaughan arrived, detailing the
terrible plight of Wentworth, and rehearsing all the circumstances.
"Too bad! too bad!" muttered Tom, as he finished the letter. "I don't
believe Wentworth guilty any more than Will does. His face is as honest
and open as the day."
Will's letter called the lightning plates taken at Whitonville to mind,
and he determined to do so now; accordingly he went up to his dark-room
and was soon as busy as a bee. One after another the plates were
developed, fixed, and washed, until plate-holder No. 7 was reached. Tom
hesitated as he drew the slide and removed the plate from the holder.
"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed, "what's the use of bothering with this one?"
for he remembered with a smile the wild grab for the camera and the
dazzling flash that came before he could straighten the tripod.
"I don't suppose there's anything on it--but here goes, for fun,
anyway!"
He popped it into the tray, poured the developer over it, and awaited
results. After a while the image began to show, and little by little the
detail came out.
"Hello! what's that?" Tom's eyes fastened on the negative with
astonishment. His face assumed an expression of intense interest, for
moment by moment the image grew stronger and stronger. With the utmost
care he completed the process, and then, opening the dark-room door,
flew down the stairs two steps at a time, tore into his bedroom, grabbed
Will's letter from the desk, and read the concluding paragraph as
follows:
"My heart aches for Frank and his mother and Alice. I don't believe one
word of the charge against him; but, like all the rest of his friends,
am powerless to help him. The trial comes off on the 18th."
"The 18th, and to-day is the 17th! It's a close call, but it's got to be
done, and I'll do it," cried Tom, in a whirl of excitement.
He hurried to the telephone in the library, called up his father's
office in the lower part of the city, and while waiting for the
connection looked at his watch. It was quarter of three o'clock. Then
the customary "Hello!" came over the wire.
"Please tell Mr. Wetherby to come to the 'phone."
"Who are you?"
"His son Tom; I want to speak to father."
Presently Mr. Wetherby called back, "Well, Tom, what is it? Hurry up;
I'm busy!"
"Father," shouted Tom, his voice betraying the excitement he was under.
"I must go to Whitonville to-night. I think I've got something which
will help Will Vaughan's friend who is accused of robbing the bank."
"My son, hadn't you better wait until I get home and talk the matter
over with you?"
"Can't wait, father; to-day is the 17th; Wentworth's trial takes place
to-morrow. The only train which would get me there by noon to-morrow
leaves at four o'clock this afternoon--about an hour from now."
Buzz-z-z went the 'phone.
Mr. Wetherby was probably thinking about it. He knew Tom was a pretty
level headed young man, and felt convinced that his son had something of
material importance to the case.
The break seemed an age to Tom, and he called over the 'phone
impatiently,
"Well, father, can I go?"
"Yes, Tom. I think I can rely on your judgment. If you haven't money
enough for the journey, explain matters to your mother, who will supply
you. Be sure and write me full particulars, and come home as soon as
practical."
When the four-o'clock express rolled out of the Grand Central Depot that
afternoon, Tom Wetherby was aboard, and in his grip was the plate that
came out of holder No. 7, and a bromide print therefrom.
* * * * *
The court-room at Whitonville was crowded to suffocation. Never before
had such widespread interest been manifested in a criminal case in that
town.
Frank Wentworth was known and liked by everybody, and the astonishment
and grief at his predicament were universal.
Hendrix testified to quitting the bank about five o'clock in the
afternoon, leaving the president and Wentworth still there.
Mr. Vaughan testified to his departure a few minutes after the cashier,
and that Wentworth was still at his desk.
Frank, in his own defence, accounted for every moment from the time he
left the bank until he entered it next morning; but the fact that he was
the last to leave the building after remaining there alone half an hour
weighed heavily against him.
No one but the Almighty and Frank himself could know what took place in
the interim, and the lawyers sought in vain to bridge over the fatal
half-hour which succeeded Mr. Vaughan's departure.
The case finally went to the jury, and a verdict of guilty was
reluctantly rendered in accordance with the facts.
The District Attorney moved for sentence, and Frank was directed to take
his place before the bar, when a commotion occurred at the door of the
court-room.
Some one was evidently trying to force his way through the crowd.
For a moment all was confusion, and the judge rapped savagely for order.
All this time a young man was making the best of his way towards the
bench. It was Tom Wetherby. Without looking to the right or left he
kept his eye fixed upon the judge, and raised his hand in token of a
desire to be heard.
Judge Dalton, recognizing that something of import must be responsible
for this unprecedented proceeding, calmly awaited Tom's approach.
At length he reached Wentworth's side before the bar, and speaking
earnestly, said: "I believe, your honor, I have in my possession
evidence which will clearly establish the innocence of the prisoner. I
have travelled all the way from New York to bring it to you, and reached
Whitonville less than half an hour ago. If you will let me give the
evidence to the prisoner's counsel before you take further action, I
think you will be satisfied with the truth of my statement."
The required permission was given, and every eye in the room was fixed
on Tom while he hurriedly told his story to the lawyer and produced his
negative and print.
A consultation followed between Frank's lawyer, the District Attorney,
and Judge Dalton.
Presently the judge turned to the jury and said, "In view of the fact
that new evidence of importance has been presented to me, the District
Attorney recommends the reopening of the case; I therefore set aside the
verdict rendered, and ask your further consideration of the matter."
The excitement of the spectators was intense. Frank's lawyer promptly
called Tom to the stand.
Tom testified to the facts we already know, and took his seat.
"Mr. Hendrix," said the lawyer, turning to the cashier, who occupied a
seat among the witnesses for the people, "will you take the witness
chair for a few moments?"
Hendrix started as though he had been shot, but rose and made his way to
the stand.
"Will you tell us, Mr. Hendrix, where you were between the hours of nine
and ten o'clock on the night of the robbery?"
"I was at home."
"Did you not leave the house at all that evening?"
"No, sir; it was a very stormy night, and I did not go out."
"You are perfectly sure of this?"
"Certainly. I did not leave my house."
"Mr. Hendrix, will you look at this picture and tell me if you recognize
the person it represents?"
Hendrix took the bromide print from the lawyer's hand, and saw--the
entrance of the Whitonville Bank; a man was just issuing from the door;
one hand was on the knob in the act of closing the door, while the other
hand was holding his hat firmly on his head to prevent its being blown
away; the man's face was clearly distinguishable; _it was himself_!
[Illustration: THE EFFECT UPON THE GUILTY MAN WAS PITIFUL.]
The effect upon the guilty man was pitiful. He shook with fear; his head
dropped upon his breast, and the picture fell from his nerveless grasp
to the floor.
The lawyer quickly handed the print to the jury, and then turning to the
judge, said: "Your honor, our side of the case has been presented. We
have finished."
The jury promptly acquitted Frank, who was surrounded by friends eager
to congratulate him on his wonderful escape.
Tom was the hero of the hour, and received compliments enough to turn
the head of any fellow less modest and unassuming.
Hendrix's story is quickly told. Speculation, losses, peculation in
small sums to make good the losses, and finally robbery to cover the
petty thievings. He made a full confession--told how he put the bonds in
Frank's drawer to avert suspicion from himself, using a duplicate key to
open the drawer. He is now undergoing a long term of imprisonment in
Auburn.
Frank Wentworth is the new cashier of the Whitonville Bank, and enjoys
the friendship and regard of the entire community.
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.