XX
A SURPRISE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND
Meanwhile Mr. Sutherland and Frederick stood facing each other in theformer's library. Nothing had been said during their walk down the hill,and nothing seemed likely to proceed from Frederick now, though hisfather waited with great and growing agitation for some explanation thatwould relieve the immense strain on his heart. At last he himself spoke,dryly, as we all speak when the heart is fullest and we fear to revealthe depth of our emotions.
"What papers were those you gave into Agnes Halliday's keeping? Anythingwhich we could not have more safely, not to say discreetly, harboured inour own house?"
Frederick, taken aback, for he had not realised that his father had seenthese papers, hesitated for a moment; then he boldly said:
"They were letters--old letters--which I felt to be better out of thishouse than in it. I could not destroy them, so I gave them into theguardianship of the most conscientious person I know. I hope you won'tdemand to see those letters. Indeed, sir, I hope you won't demand to seethem. They were not written for your eye, and I would rather rest underyour displeasure than have them in any way made public."
Frederick showed such earnestness, rather than fear, that Mr. Sutherlandwas astonished.
"When were these letters written?" he asked. "Lately, or before--You saythey are old; how old?"
Frederick's breath came easier.
"Some of them were written years ago--most of them, in fact. It is apersonal matter--every man has such. I wish I could have destroyed them.You will leave them with Agnes, sir?"
"You astonish me," said Mr. Sutherland, relieved that he could at leasthope that these letters were in nowise connected with the subject of hisown frightful suspicions. "A young girl, to whom you certainly were mostindifferent a week ago, is a curious guardian of letters you decline toshow your father."
"I know it," was Frederick's sole reply.
Somehow the humility with which this was uttered touched Mr. Sutherlandand roused hopes he had supposed dead. He looked his son for the firsttime directly in the eye, and with a beating heart said:
"Your secrets, if you have such, might better be entrusted to yourfather. You have no better friend--" and there he stopped with ahorrified, despairing feeling of inward weakness. If Frederick hadcommitted a crime, anything would be better than knowing it. Turningpartially aside, he fingered the papers on the desk before which he wasstanding. A large envelope, containing some legal document, lay beforehim. Taking it up mechanically, he opened it. Frederick as mechanicallywatched him.
"I know," said the latter, "that I have no better friend. You have beentoo good, too indulgent. What is it, father? You change colour, lookill, what is there in that paper?"
Mr. Sutherland straightened himself; there was a great reserve ofstrength in this broken-down man yet. Fixing Frederick with a gaze morepenetrating than any he had yet bestowed upon him, he folded his handsbehind him with the document held tightly between them, and remarked:
"When you borrowed that money from me you did it like a man who expectedto repay it. Why? Whence did you expect to receive the money with whichto repay me? Answer, Frederick; this is your hour for confession."
Frederick turned so pale his father dropped his eyes in mercy.
"Confess?" he repeated. "What should I confess? My sins? They are toomany. As for that money, I hoped to return it as any son might hope toreimburse his father for money advanced to pay a gambler's debt. I saidI meant to work. My first money earned shall be offered to you. I--"
"Well? Well?" His father was holding the document he had just read,opened out before his eyes.
"Didn't you expect THIS?" he asked. "Didn't you know that that poorwoman, that wretchedly murdered, most unhappy woman, whose death thewhole town mourns, had made you her heir? That by the terms of thisdocument, seen by me here and now for the first time, I am made executorand you the inheritor of the one hundred thousand dollars or more leftby Agatha Webb?"
"No!" cried Frederick, his eyes glued to the paper, his whole face andform expressing something more akin to terror than surprise. "Has shedone this? Why should she? I hardly knew her."
"No, you hardly knew her. And she? She hardly knew you; if she had shewould have abhorred rather than enriched you. Frederick, I had rathersee you dead than stand before me the inheritor of Philemon and AgathaWebb's hard-earned savings."
"You are right; it would be better," murmured Frederick, hardly heedingwhat he said. Then, as he encountered his father's eye resting upon himwith implacable scrutiny, he added, in weak repetition: "Why should shegive her money to me? What was I to her that she should will me herfortune?"
The father's finger trembled to a certain line in the document, whichseemed to offer some explanation of this; but Frederick did not followit. He had seen that his father was expecting a reply to the question hehad previously put, and he was casting about in his mind how to answerit.
"When did you know of this will?" Mr. Sutherland now repeated. "For knowof it you did before you came to me for money."
Frederick summoned up his full courage and confronted his fatherresolutely.
"No," said he, "I did not know of it. It is as much of a surprise to meas it is to you."
He lied. Mr. Sutherland knew that he lied and Frederick knew that heknew it. A shadow fell between them, which the older, with thatunspeakable fear upon him roused by Sweetwater's whispered suspicions,dared no longer attempt to lift.
After a few minutes in which Frederick seemed to see his father agebefore his eyes, Mr. Sutherland coldly remarked:
"Dr. Talbot must know of this will. It has been sent here to me fromBoston by a lawyer who drew it up two years ago. The coroner may not asyet have heard of it. Will you accompany me to his office to-morrow? Ishould like to have him see that we wish to be open with him in anaffair of such importance."
"I will accompany you gladly," said Frederick, and seeing that hisfather neither wished nor was able to say anything further, he bowedwith distant ceremony as to a stranger and quietly withdrew. But whenthe door had closed between them and only the memory of his father'schanged countenance remained to trouble him, he paused and laid his handagain on the knob, as if tempted to return. But he left without doingso, only to turn again at the end of the hall and gaze wistfully back.Yet he went on.
As he opened his own door and disappeared within, he said half audibly:
"Easy to destroy me now, Amabel. One word and I am lost!"
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