“In that case,” said he, somewhat embarrassed, “perhaps you will permit us now to withdraw.”
The banker sat silent a moment, his stern face pallid and thoughtful. Then he turned to Phil.
“Mr. Daring,” he said, “I owe to you and to your brave sister my thanks for your discretion and consideration of me in the conduct of this unfortunate affair. Eric owes you a still greater debt. You have behaved as a man, sir; I wish to God you had been my son instead of that cowering criminal seated before me. Will you add a little to my obligation — will you do me another favor?”
“If I may, sir,” said Phil, flushed and miserable despite this praise.
“Tell me what punishment to inflict upon this — thief.”
Phil straightened up and looked squarely into the banker’s eyes. He had longed for this question; the opportunity was now his.
“Sir,” he replied, “I know Eric; I have known him for years. His fault lay in his extravagant tastes, which forced him into debt because his father would not give him as much money as he thought he needed. The debts drove him to crime, and for his crime he has already suffered such punishment as all your proposed severity could not inflict upon him. I know Eric — tenderhearted, generous and kind — not bad, sir, in spite of this offense he was so weak as to commit. If you will forgive him, Mr. Spaythe, if you will love him and take him to your heart again, I promise that never in the future will you have cause to regret it. Eric will be honest and true from this day forward. But if, on the other hand, you now cast him off, you will ruin his life and your own; for a boy condemned by his own father can hope for no mercy from the world. He is your only son, Mr. Spaythe; forgive him.”
During this impassioned speech, which came straight from the young fellow’s heart, the banker sat staring at him with dull, expressionless eyes. Eric had raised his head to gaze at Phil wonderingly. Then he turned to his father a pleading look that might have melted his anger had he seen it; but Mr. Spaythe still stared at Phil Daring, as if dazed by the boy’s frankness.
Mr. Ferguson slowly rose and laid an arm across the banker’s shoulder. The gesture was strangely caressing, as between one man and another.
“Phil is right, Duncan,” he said softly. “The boy is your son, and you can make a man of him, if you will.”
Slowly the banker’s head drooped until it rested upon his arms, outstretched upon the flat desk before him. For a time he remained motionless, while those who watched and waited scarce dared to breathe.
Then Mr. Spaythe looked up, and the sternness had left his face.
“Eric,” he said, “you are forgiven.”
CHAPTER XXVI
THE WATERMARK
Phœbe found the chickens had not been fed, and they were making a plaintive outcry for attention. She went to the stair and called to Elaine, but there was no reply.
Slowly ascending to the upper floor she pushed open the door and called again. Then something about her grandfather’s awkward position attracted her attention. She crept forward to peer into his face; then started back with a cry of dismay. Her grandfather was not there. A pillow and a bolster supported the dressing gown and head-shawl which had so cleverly deceived her.
Hurrying down she met Phil and Judge Ferguson coming up the walk. They told her to get Cousin Judith, and when the four were assembled in the quaint old parlor the girls heard the extraordinary story of Elaine’s arrest and Eric’s forgiveness.
Miss Halliday made a desperate fight for Jonathan Eliot’s money. Judge Ferguson was not the
only lawyer in Riverdale. Among the others was a little, fat, bald-headed man named Abner Kellogg, whom the court allowed to defend the woman.
Kellogg was shrewd, and Elaine promised him a big fee if he won; so he challenged Mr. Ferguson to prove that the deed of gift was a forgery and had not been signed by the deceased miser.
This was a difficult thing to do. The signature was very much like Mr. Eliot’s; so like it that the experts would not state positively that he had not affixed it to the deed. Moreover, Elaine’s contention that she had received no regular wages for years; that she had been the only close friend and confidant of the old man, and that he had promised her his money and property, when he died, as a return for her faithful service, was all so plausible that it greatly strengthened her claim.
She testified before the court that Jonathan Eliot had executed this deed of gift just before he was stricken with paralysis.
“He would not give me the paper then,” she explained in a logical, composed way, “but kept it in an iron box in his secret cupboard. He told me that when he died I could take the paper, and it would prove my claim. So I did take it, and showed it to Phœbe Daring, and she gave me back the money she had stolen from me.”
When asked why she had concealed the fact of Mr. Eliot’s death for three days and hidden his body and the money in the tomb, she replied that she was afraid of the Darings and their lawyer, Judge Ferguson. The Darings had stolen from her and the judge had threatened her with the law. She was a simple, inexperienced old woman, she added, unable to oppose such bitter and powerful enemies, who had always treated her unjustly. She feared that when they knew of Mr. Eliot’s death they would take away her money — as indeed they had done — and so she had tried to keep the matter secret until she could get far away from Riverdale. She had intended to let the Darings have the house, although it was clearly her own. The place had grown distasteful to her, and the money would enable her to live comfortably in some other part of the country.
She flatly denied her attempt to entomb Mr. Ferguson, the constable and Toby Clark, which had been frustrated by the boy sacrificing his foot for their lives, and they refrained from pressing this charge against her. Toby’s foot was healing, but he would be a cripple as long as he lived.
Taken all together, Elaine’s position was far more strong than Mr. Ferguson had anticipated. By permission of the court he examined the deed of gift closely, afterward complaining that the paper seemed too new to have been written upon three years ago. It was a heavy, thick sheet, resembling parchment, and on it the judge discovered a watermark consisting of the letters “A.R.”
Lawyer Kellogg, who defended Elaine, replied that paper kept away from light and air, as this had been, would remain white and look new for years, and therefore Mr. Ferguson’s contention was ridiculous. The court agreed with Mr. Kellogg in this, and poor Mr. Ferguson was at his wits’ end to find some reasonable flaw in the document.
The case had been on trial for a week, and had been adjourned over Sunday. The Darings and Cousin Judith, who had at first been elated at the prospect of inheriting Gran’pa Eliot’s wealth, had by degrees fallen into a state of hopeless despondency.
After his Sunday dinner Judge Ferguson came over for a talk with his clients, and although his intention was to cheer them, his own face was too serious to be very assuring.
“I am morally certain that woman is deceiving us,” he said; “but I must confess my fear that we shall be unable to prove the deed a forgery.”
“Never mind, sir,” replied Phil, smiling at Phœbe to give her courage; “we’ve managed to get along so far without gran’pa’s money, and I guess we can stand it hereafter.”
“That isn’t the point,” suggested Judith. “The money is rightfully yours, and you are entitled to it. Why, the fortune left by my uncle is nearly a hundred thousand dollars, counting the money and securities alone. Surely Elaine Halliday cannot claim her services to be worth all that!”
“Not justly, my dear,” answered the judge; “but the law will not look at it from that point of view, and here is a point of law to be considered. If the deed is allowed to stand we cannot prevent Elaine from getting every penny, and the house to boot. If it is a forgery, and so proved, she is not entitled to a dollar beyond her wages as housekeeper. Even that would be forfeited by her deception.”
“Suppose,” said Phœbe, “we compromise, and agree to give her all the money if she will let
us have the house. Wouldn’t that be better than getting nothing at all?” -
“I fear it is too late to compromise,” said the judge, shaking his head regretfully. “At first we might have made such an arrangement, but now that pettifogger Kellogg will insist on her getting everything. Elaine has wisely left her defence entirely in Kellogg’s hands.”
“Isn’t he a rascal?” asked Cousin Judith.
“I would not accuse him of rascality,” was the reply. “No; Kellogg is not a bad man, nor a bad lawyer; he is doing his duty by his client, that is all.”
Just then Becky came rushing across the lawn, screaming and laughing. She was closely followed by Don and Allerton Randolph, who tried to head her off. Becky was clutching and waving a paper, and she ran up to Cousin Judith, who sat beside the judge, and thrust the paper into her hand, crying:
“Don’t let ‘em have it, Little Mother — promise you won’t!”
“But what is it?” asked Judith, glancing at the paper and then smiling.
“Allerton drew it, just for us,” said Donald, flushed and angry, “and Becky grabbed it and ran away. Make her give it back, Cousin Judith — Allerton doesn’t want anyone to see it.”
“But it is quite clever,” replied Judith, still smiling. “I did not know you were so good an artist, Allerton.”
“I am not very clever, Miss Eliot,” replied Allerton, in his sedate way. “Mother thinks I am artistic, and encourages me to draw; but she does not like me to make cartoons, such as this, for she says it degrades my talent.”
“H-m. Let’s see the cartoon,” said the judge.
“May I show it to Mr. Ferguson, Allerton?”
The boy hesitated.
“If you wish to, Miss Eliot,” he said.
The judge took the paper, put on his glasses, and after a glance laughed heartily. It was a caricature of old Miss Halliday, executed with considerable humor and skill, considering the artist’s youth.
Suddenly the judge gave a start and the paper trembled in his hands.
“Bless my soul!” he cried, holding it to the light. “What’s this?”
“That?” said Allerton, leaning forward. “Oh, that is the watermark of my initials,’ A.R.’ The drawing paper was especially made for me, as a Christmas present.”
A silence fell upon the little group. Mr. Ferguson, Phœbe, Phil and Cousin Judith eyed one another by turns, and in every eye gleamed the certainty that Jonathan Eliot’s fortune was saved to the Darings.
“When did you receive such a fine present, Allerton?” asked Phil, his voice trembling in spite of his efforts to control it.
“At the last holiday season,” answered the boy readily.
The old lawyer turned a delighted face to the eager group.
“Your grandfather has been paralyzed three years!” he exclaimed.
“Tell me,” said Phœbe to Allerton, “did you ever give Miss Halliday any of your paper?”
He took time to think; then his face brightened and he replied:
“Only one sheet. She begged me for it one day when she brought the eggs.”
“And when was that, my lad?” inquired Mr. Ferguson.
“A month ago, perhaps.”
Mr. Kellogg threw up Elaine’s case in disgust, and would have nothing more to do with it. When the deed of gift was proven a forgery and old Miss Halliday was told she must go to prison unless she confessed, she finally broke down and admitted the truth. Being aware of the fact that no one save herself knew of her master’s hoarded treasure, she planned to get it for herself. After practising his handwriting for months she became so expert that the deed she finally executed deceived even the experts. Had it not been for the telltale watermark upon the paper she would have easily won.
The unscrupulous woman took her defeat with dogged indifference, still protesting that her wages were in arrears and that she was entitled to several hundred dollars for back pay. This, by advice of Judge Ferguson, was given her. The Darings refrained from prosecuting the poor creature, and she was allowed to take her wages and leave Riverdale forever.
No one in the little village seemed sorry to see her go.
PHOEBE DARING
Phoebe Daring, published by Reilly & Britton in 1912, was the sequel to The Daring Twins, published the year before, and the only other title in Baum’s projected series of mystery novels for young people. Belgian-American artist, Joseph Pierre Nuyttens did the artwork. Phoebe Daring features a plot much like its predecessor, in which Phoebe attempts to solve the mystery surrounding the false accusations against a good man. Baum may have written a third in the series which did not survive, and correspondence indicates other planned titles.
A first edition copy of Phoebe Daring
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER I
HOW TOBY CLARK LOST HIS JOB
“It’s a shame!” cried Becky Daring, indignantly shaking her scraggly red locks for emphasis.
“So say we all of us,” observed her brother Don in matter-of-fact tones. “But that won’t help it, Beck.”
“Wasn’t it all Judge Ferguson’s fault?” asked little Sue, listening with round, solemn eyes.
“Why, the poor old judge couldn’t help dying, you know,” said Don, judicially. “And he hadn’t an idea his candle would flicker out so soon. Old Mr. Ferguson liked Toby Clark and I’m sure, if he’d thought his own end was so near, he’d have fixed it so his clerk wouldn’t be left out in the cold.”
“And now Toby hasn’t any job, or any money, or any friends,” remarked Sue, sighing deeply.
“Yes, he has!” declared Becky. “He has me for a friend, for one, and all the village to back me up. But friends ain’t bread-an’-butter and I guess a poor cripple out of work is as bad off as if be hadn’t a friend in the world. That’s why I say it’s a shame Judge Ferguson didn’t leave him any money. It’s worse than a common shame — it’s just a howling shame!”
“Dear me,” said Phoebe, entering the room with a smiling glance at her younger sisters and brother, “what’s wrong now? What’s a howling shame, Becky?”
“The way Judge Ferguson treated Toby Clark.”
Phoebe’s smile vanished. She went to the window and stood looking out for a moment. Then she turned and seated herself among the group.
“You’ve heard the news, then?” she asked.
“Yes. Doris Randolph told us the Fergusons read the will this morning, and Toby wasn’t mentioned in it,” replied Don.
“That is not strange,” said Phoebe, thoughtfully. “Toby Clark was not a relative of the Fergusons, you know; he was just a clerk in the judge’s law office.”
“But he’s a cripple,” retorted Becky, “and he was made a cripple by saving Judge Ferguson’s life.”
“That is true,” admitted Phoebe. “Judge Ferguson went into grandfather’s vault, where he suspected all the Daring money had been hidden by old Elaine, our crazy housekeeper, and while he was in there, in company with Toby and the constable, old Elaine tried to shut the heavy door and lock them all up. Had she succeeded they would soon have suffocated; but Toby stopped the door from closing, with his foot, which was badly crushed, and so by his quick wit and bravery saved three lives — including his own. The judge was grateful to him, of course, and had he lived Toby would hav
e remained in his law office until in time he became a partner. That his friend and patron suddenly died and so deprived Toby of further employment, was due to the accident of circumstances. I do not think anyone can be blamed.”
They were silent a moment and then Sue asked: “What’s going to become of Toby now, Phoebe!”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t any father or mother; they both died years ago, long before Judge Ferguson took the boy to work for him. The Clarks owned a little cabin down by the river — a poor place it is — and there Toby has lived and cooked his own meals while he studied law in the judge’s office. He lives there yet, and since the judge died, a week ago, he has done nothing but mourn for his friend and benefactor. But Toby will find some other work to do, I’m sure, as soon as he applies for it, for everyone in the village likes him.”
“Can’t we do something?” asked Becky earnestly. “We owe Toby a lot, too, for he helped the judge to save grandfather’s fortune for us.”
“We will do all we can,” replied Phoebe, positively, “but we can’t offer Toby charity, you understand. He is very proud and it would hurt him dreadfully to think we were offering him alms. I’ll ask the Little Mother about it and see what she thinks.”
That ended the conversation, for the time, and the younger Darings all ran out into the crisp October air while Phoebe went about her household duties with a thoughtful face. She and her twin, Phil, were the real heads of the Daring family, although the orphans had a “Little Mother” in Cousin Judith Eliot, a sweet-faced, gentle young woman who had come to live with them and see that they were not allowed to run wild. But Phil was now in college, paving the way for mighty deeds in the future, and Phoebe knew her twin would be deeply grieved over the sudden death of their father’s old friend, Judge Ferguson. The judge had also been their guardian and, with Cousin Judith, a trustee of the Daring estate — a competence inherited from their grandfather, Jonas Eliot, who had been one of the big men of the county. The fine old colonial mansion in which the Darings lived was also an inheritance from Grandpa Eliot, and although it was not so showy as some of the modern residences of Riverdale — the handsome Randolph house across the way, for instance — it possessed a dignity and beauty that compelled respect.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 346
