“Would you advise me to have a private talk with him, and tell him what I know!” asked Phil.
“What’s the use! He cannot put back the money he has taken. Better let the thing run its course, Phil, and keep out of it yourself in every way.’’
“I will,” said Phil, with decision.
But Eric was not long in discovering a change in Phil’s attitude toward him. The young man did not mean to alter his manner toward his old friend, but their former congenial relations were rather abruptly broken off, much to Eric’s surprise. Then the latter became suspicious, and while he spoke to his colleague as cheerfully as of old, Phil frequently caught Eric watching him with a sly, searching glance that had a trace of fear in it. This mistrust gradually wore away when the banker’s son found he had not been betrayed, or even questioned. If Phil found any entries in the books that did not look exactly right to him, he passed them over and said nothing. This served to restore Eric’s confidence in him, and the two boys continued to work together in perfect harmony.
Phœbe was very miserable over Phil’s discovery of Eric’s irregularities. It was the first time any disgraceful or criminal act had been brought close to her knowledge, and she became nervous for fear her twin might, in some way, become implicated in the terrible affair. The girl was sorry for Eric, and grieved over him with all her kindly heart.
It seemed so sad that a bright young fellow with such splendid prospects should go wrong and foolishly ruin all his future life. She knew Mr. Spaythe well enough to believe he would cast off Eric without mercy when he learned the fact that his son was a thief. For this reason she sincerely hoped the banker would never make the discovery.
CHAPTER XIV
THE FOLLY OF GRAN ‘PA ELIOT
That night Phœbe was again aroused by the peculiar sliding noise in the next room. She had been awaiting it for so long that she was alert to the slightest sound Elaine made, and now she lost no time in silently mounting upon the table and opening the peephole she had prepared. Her own room was shrouded in gloom, but the housekeeper had placed a lighted candle upon her table, before which she was seated in her white nightrobe.
When Phœbe first observed her, old Elaine was tying the mouth of a stout canvas bag that was full of some irregular, lumpy material. Then she drew another bag toward her — there were several standing upon the broad table — and unfastened the cord that bound it while it was lying upon its side. At once a shower of gold burst forth, and with her long bony fingers the woman slid each piece of money across the table, at the same time eagerly counting it in the low, mumbling tone Phœbe had so often heard but could not before explain.
From her perch of observation the girl counted them with her. There were exactly two hundred and fifty twenty-dollar gold pieces in the bag — a sum amounting to five thousand dollars.
Elaine cautiously replaced the hoard and firmly secured the mouth of the sack. Another bag was opened. It contained smaller coins, ten-dollar pieces, and there were three hundred of them.
The woman did not hurry, although her every movement denoted fervent excitement. Bending over the table, she slowly slid piece after piece from one pile to another until all had been counted. The sacks were old and soiled. How many times, Phoebe wondered, had their contents been counted and gloated over? Five separate sacks old Elaine unfastened, counted, and tied up again, and all were filled with yellow gold. Then she twined her arms around the bulging bags and began kissing them ecstatically. “Mine!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Mine — mine!” Then she reached down and raised a trap in the floor, disclosing a cavity between the joists into which she lowered a sack. It was a familiar “thump” to Phoebe’s ears, the puzzling mystery of which was now explained. With each sack she deposited she repeated: “Mine!” in so weird a tone that it sent the chills coursing down the back of the startled and amazed girl.
Now Elaine replaced the trap, drew the rag carpet over it and stood upright. She cast an undecided glance around and walked to the old-fashioned mantel that stood against the opposite wall. It was made of some dark wood, and had been quite cleverly carved. Nearly every bed chamber in the house had a similar mantel and fireplace.
Elaine put her hand to one corner and the entire woodwork swung outward on hinges, showing a deep cavity which was lined with narrow shelves. Except as the woman herself obstructed the view, Phœbe could clearly see the whole of this secret cupboard, which had been ingeniously built into the chimney. The shelves were covered with stacks of silver coins and thick packages of bills. The silver Elaine merely glanced at, but the packets of paper money she piled into her loose robe, gathered into a sack, and carried it to the table, where she proceeded methodically to count it. The eagerness she had displayed while counting the gold was now lacking in her manner. She was intent enough upon her task, and handled each bill with loving care; but only the hard yellow gold had seemed to enrapture her.
Phœbe’s limbs were getting numb and her knees knocked together tremblingly; but she stuck obstinately to her post of observation until Elaine had finished her self imposed task and replaced the money. This accomplished, the woman swung the mantel into place and with a leer of cunning and contentment still lingering upon her wrinkled features blew out her candle and went to bed.
Phoebe closed the slide and managed to climb down and creep into her own bed, without making a noise. Then she lay shivering with nervous chills, induced by the astonishing discovery she had made.
There was no sleep for the girl that night. At first, a supreme bewilderment prevented her from thinking clearly; but, after a time, she grew more composed and began to marshall her thoughts into some sort of order.
It was not Elaine’s money, this secret hoard; that was certain. Therefore it must belong to Gran’pa Eliot. Phoebe remembered that always while he was in health and able to be around he had personally occupied these rooms — the one Elaine now slept in, and the big front room opening out of it, where he now sat propped up in helpless oblivion of all earthly treasure.
There was no longer any doubt that Gran’pa Eliot had long been a miser and cunningly secreted his wealth. He had caused the trap to be made in the floor and the cupboard built behind the mantel. With years the passion for saving had grown upon him, and after his wife’s death and his daughter’s marriage he gave free rein to his hobby and converted all his land into ready money. To avoid suspicion he had spread the report of his financial failure and claimed he was reduced to poverty.
So much Phœbe had no difficulty in comprehending. In what way the old housekeeper had discovered her master’s secret was not clear, but Elaine’s resolve not to desert Mr. Eliot was obviously due to her knowledge of his vast hoard. When he became paralyzed and helpless she realized that the fortune, unsuspected by all others, was now safely within her own grasp. Phœbe decided, shuddering the while, that the woman was a greater slave to that secret hoard than ever her grandfather had been.
When daybreak came the girl arose and quietly dressed herself. Then she softly slipped out of the house and started for a walk through the valley, hoping the morning air would cool her throbbing brain. Here, amid a silence scarcely broken by the low mooing of the cows and the crowing of the distant cocks, she began to doubt the evidence of her own senses. It was all so wonderful and unreal that she could barely admit the truth of it; and yet — and yet — . Often before she had heard the sound of the gold being slid across the table: so often, indeed, that she well knew her eyes had not deceived her when, at last, they revealed to her the explanation of the puzzling sounds.
And now the question arose, what should she do? How should she act, now that she had discovered this terrible secret? The knowledge of her grandfather’s wealth in no way elated her; rather did she feel scorn and resentment at his despicable weakness. It hurt her to think that her mother’s father could be guilty of such folly and pitiful sordidness. It was too soon for her to reflect that this money might easily affect the fortunes of her brothers and sisters and herself
; all she thought of was the shame of the thing, that her grandfather could become a miser and gloat in secret over the dross of gold and silver — and soiled bank notes. What an abominable, inhuman passion it was — a passion shared by old Elaine Halliday, a creature Phœbe had always despised intuitively.
During an hour’s brisk walk she became sorry that her curiosity had led her to discover this horrid secret. But she resolved to keep her own counsel and tell no one what she had seen. Even Phil must be spared this humiliation, for the poor boy had quite enough to worry him already.
Phœbe returned to the house with glowing cheeks and bright eyes, in spite of her sleepless night and mental perturbation. She greeted the family cheerfully and took her seat at the breakfast table with her native composure fully regained.
“When is the boat race, Phil?” asked Miss Eliot.
“A week from Saturday,” he said. “I’ve got to practice with the boys every evening, from now on. I wanted them to let me out, this year, but they foolishly insist on my pulling stroke.”.
“Why foolishly?” inquired Becky.
“Because, I’mworking for a living, now, and can’t devote much time to getting into condition. Those Bayport fellows are out every day, and mean to win if they can.”
“I must see that boat race,” said Cousin Judith. “Boating has always been one of my favorite sports. I hope you’ll do well, Phil; but, of course, you can’t neglect business for pleasure.”
CHAPTER XV
SUE GETS A DIVORCE
After breakfast Sue wandered out and found Doris upon the lawn. The youngest of the Darings was now nearly twelve years old and had associated so constantly with her elders that she considered herself quite “grown up” and in no way inferior to Doris Randolph, who, having an advantage in years, assumed toward Sue the airs of a young lady.
Since she had tipped over the punch bowl and taken a lemonade bath a good deal of fun had been poked at poor Sue, which she deeply resented. It was bad enough to have lost all the joy of the party, without being twitted afterward about her misfortune.
Doris was surely too sedate and practical minded to wish to tease Sue, so her greeting was wholly innocent when she said:
“Good morning. Is that the lemonade dress which you are wearing!”
“No,” retorted Sue, flushing; “is that the hypocrite’s dress which you are wearing, Miss Religion?”
Doris was provoked, and with good reason, for she was sincere enough in her religious sentiments. Also, she was still worldly minded to the extent of becoming angry. After a cold, stony look at Sue, she said:
“I have submitted to the insolence of you Darings long enough, and hereafter I forbid you to address me, for I shall not recognize you as an acquaintance.”
At this instant Cousin Judith appeared upon the scene and hearing Doris’speech stopped short in surprise.
“Why, what is the trouble, my dears?” she asked.
“This child, madam,” returned Doris, stiffly, “is still a barbarian, and unfit to associate with civilized beings.”
“I called her a hypocrite,” flashed Sue, defiantly; “and she is one.” Miss Eliot was shocked.
“I am surprised, Sue dear; surprised and grieved. You have treated Doris very badly, and I want you to apologize to her for your rudeness.”
“I won’t!” said Sue, stamping her foot. “I’ll die rather than beg pardon of Miss Nancy Hypocrite!”
Judith looked at her in amazement. “Go into the house, my dear,” she said, rather sternly; “I’ll join you there presently.”
Sue raised her long lashes and swept one rebellious look at the Little Mother. Doris’ face had a slight sneer upon it, and the angry child noted it. Turning squarely about she ignored Cousin Judith’s command and marched down the street toward the village.
Doris gave a little laugh.
“A pleasant mannered young lady, I must say, Miss Eliot,” she tittered. “But, I assure you I meant what I said. I shall never speak to her again, unless she apologizes.”
“An apology is your due, I think,” Miss Eliot said soberly, and then without further remark she continued on her way to the Randolph house to see Marion, with whom she had an engagement.
At noon Sue did not return to dinner. She had called upon Nannette Bennett, who was about her own age, and driven with her to a farm out on the Exeter road.
“Can you stay here to dinner?” asked Nannette.
“Of course,” replied Sue, readily. “There’s no one at home who has the right to give me orders.”
Nannette did not understand this strange speech, but let it pass without remark. The two girls spent all day at the farm, although I am not sure Sue was enjoying herself for a single moment. She did not reach home until the family was seated at the supper table.
Phil had inquired anxiously for his sister, and Judith quietly explained that Sue had called Doris bad names and refused to apologize.
“When I asked her to return to the house, where I hoped to be able to reason with her,” she added, “Sue refused to obey my request and walked down the street instead. I do not know where she is, now.”
Phil was worried, and even Don looked grave.
“I had intended to practice this evening with the boat crew,” said the elder brother, “but I think I ought to hunt for Sue instead. She has been bad and rebellious, I know; but she’s our little sister, just the same, and I’m afraid something has happened to her.”
Cousin Judith made no reply and the meal was progressing in gloomy silence when Sue walked in, threw down her hat and quietly took her seat at the table. She did not look at the Little Mother, nor at anyone else directly, but helped herself to food and with an assumption of composure began to eat.
No one spoke. The others had glanced inquiringly at Cousin Judith, whose face was pale and unrelenting. She did not ask Sue where she had been, nor chide her for disobedience; but she passed the plate of cold meat to her and asked Auntie to bring in Miss Sue’s chocolate.
This condition of affairs was so unusual with the Darings that they were uncertain how to act. Even Becky looked askance at her small sister, as if she were some strange, untamed animal, and Don told himself this escapade deserved a worse punishment than fighting in the mud. He had “taken his own medicine” with frank courage, knowing he deserved the Little Mother’s rebuke and telling her he was truly sorry he had hurt her feelings. But here was little Sue developing a spirit of defiance hitherto unknown in the Daring family circle. Phil was hurt and Phœbe distressed, but both voluntarily left the matter in Miss Eliot’s hands for adjustment.
After supper Cousin Judith said to the culprit in a kindly tone: “Come to my room, Sue. I wish to have a little talk with you.”
“I’ve nothing to talk about,” replied Sue, sullenly.
Phil went away to his practice on the river and Sue followed her sisters out upon the porch. Cousin Judith, perhaps hoping the girl would change her mind, had gone directly to her room.
“You’ re acting like a little fool, Sue,” observed Becky. “I’m surprised at you.”
Sue colored, but did not reply. Presently she went to her room and shut herself in until bedtime.
At breakfast next morning Cousin Judith said, addressing all the five Darings, impartially:
“Our contract, the Articles of Adoption, states that if any one of you proves rebellious to my authority the rebel is to be tried by a committee of two, and must abide by the committee’s decision. Is it not so?”
“That’s a fact, Little Mother,” replied Phil, seriously.
“In the case we have now to consider, Sue has disobeyed me more than once,” continued Miss Eliot. “I, therefore charge her with rebellion, and it becomes proper for her to select two of you to try her case. If I am found to be wrong I will ask her pardon and try to make amends. If she is wrong she must ask my pardon and submit to any penalty I may impose.”
Sue paled and then flushed. She cast a furtive glance around the table and then
said, in a hard, unyielding tone:
“I’mwilling. I choose Phœbe and Don.”
“Very well,” returned Cousin Judith. “The trial shall take place at once.”
None of them saw anything humorous in the situation. As a rule the Darings were merry hearted boys and girls, full of fun and good spirits; but, these Articles of Adoption were regarded by them all as sacred. Each realized to an extent what a blessing the Little Mother had already been to them, and was determined to uphold her authority. For her coming had virtually revolutionized the household and given them a happy home and a sympathetic, generous friend.
Sue, however, marched into the parlor with her stubborn spirit unconquered by any feeling of gratitude, and Phœbe and Donald gravely followed her.
“Tell us the beginning of the trouble, dear,” urged the elder sister.
Sue related her conversation with Doris.
“I’ve put up with her slurs’ n’ sarcasms long enough,” she said. “If she’s so blessed religious as she tries to make out, why does she pick on me ev’ry minute? I’m glad I called her a hypocrite, an’ I won’t take it back — not for a second!”
“Perhaps she did not mean to offend you by speaking of the ‘lemonade dress’,” suggested Phœbe. “I’ve always found her a good-hearted girl and quite ladylike.”
“That’s what I object to,” was the answer. “I won’t stand for her ladylike airs, Phœbe, an’ that’s all there is to it.”
“Sometimes our judgment proves to be wrong,” said Phœbe. “Anyhow, Cousin Judith knows best.”
“There’s another thing that makes me mad,” cried Sue. “Cousin Judith takes Doris’ part against me. Isn’t she supposed to stand up for her own adopted children?”
“Not when they’re wrong, sis,” said Don stoutly.
“Who’s to say whether they’re wrong or not?” Sue demanded.
“She is, of course. She’s older, and knows more.”
“Cousin Judith,” added Phoebe, “tries to be always right and just. She thought you were impudent to Doris, who is our neighbor and has been kind to us all, and so she asked you to apologize.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 337
