Agatha Webb

by Anna Katharine Green

  XXXII

  WHY AGATHA WEBB WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN IN SUTHERLANDTOWN

  Meanwhile Sweetwater had been witness to a series of pantomimic actionsthat interested him more than Amabel's conduct under this finalexamination. Frederick, who had evidently some request to make ordirection to give, had sent a written line to the coroner, who, onreading it, had passed it over to Knapp, who a few minutes later was tobe seen in conference with Agnes Halliday. As a result, the latter roseand left the room, followed by the detective. She was gone a half-hour,then simultaneously with her reappearance, Sweetwater saw Knapp hand abundle of letters to the coroner, who, upon opening them, chose outseveral which he proceeded to read to the jury. They were the lettersreferred to by Frederick as having been given to him by his mother. Thefirst was dated thirty-five years previously and was in the handwritingof Agatha herself. It was directed to James Zabel, and was read amid aprofound hush.

  DEAR JAMES:

  You are too presumptuous. When I let you carry me away from John in thatmaddening reel last night, I did not mean you to draw the inference youdid. That you did draw it argues a touch of vanity in a man who is notalone in the field where he imagines himself victor. John, who ishumbler, sees some merit in--well, in Frederick Snow, let us say. So doI, but merit does not always win, any more than presumption. When wemeet, let it be as friends, but as friends only. A girl cannot be driveninto love. To ride on your big mare, Judith, is bliss enough for mytwenty years. Why don't you find it so too? I think I hear you say youdo, but only when she stops at a certain gate on Portchester highway.Folly! there are other roads and other gates, though if I should see youenter one--There! my pen is galloping away with me faster than Judithever did, and it is time I drew rein. Present my regards to John--Butno; then he would know I had written you a letter, and that might hurthim. How could he guess it was only a scolding letter, such as it wouldgrieve him to receive, and that it does not count for anything! Were itto Frederick Snow, now--There! some horses are so hard to pull up--andso are some pens. I will come to a standstill, but not before your door.

  Respectfully your neighbour,

  AGATHA GILCHRIST.

  DEAR JAMES:

  I know I have a temper, a wicked temper, and now you know it too. Whenit is roused, I forget love, gratitude, and everything else that shouldrestrain me, and utter words I am myself astonished at. But I do not getroused often, and when all is over I am not averse to apologising oreven to begging forgiveness. My father says my temper will undo me, butI am much more afraid of my heart than I am of my temper. For instance,here I am writing to you again just because I raised my riding-whip andsaid--But you know what I said, and I am not fond of recalling thewords, for I cannot do so without seeing your look of surprise andcontrasting it with that of Philemon's. Yours had judgment in it, whilePhilemon's held only indulgence. Yet I liked yours best, or should haveliked it best if it were not for the insufferable pride which is a partof my being. Temper such as mine OUGHT to surprise you, yet would I beAgatha Gilchrist without it? I very much fear not. And not being AgathaGilchrist, should I have your love? Again I fear not. James, forgive me.When I am happier, when I know my own heart, I will have lessprovocation. Then, if that heart turns your way, you will find a greatand bountiful serenity where now there are lowering and thunderoustempests. Philemon said last night that he would be content to have myfierce word o' mornings, if only I would give him one drop out of thehoney of my better nature when the sun went down and twilight broughtreflection and love. But I did not like him any the better for sayingthis. YOU would not halve the day so. The cup with which you wouldrefresh yourself must hold no bitterness. Will it not have to beproffered, then, by other hands than those of

  AGATHA GILCHRIST?

  MR. PHILEMON WEBB.

  Respected Sir:

  You are persistent. I am willing to tell YOU, though I shall neverconfide so much to another, that it will take a stronger nature thanyours, and one that loves me less, to hold me faithful and make me thehappy, devoted wife which I must be if I would not be a demon. I cannot,I dare not, marry where I am not held in a passionate, self-forgetfulsubjection. I am too proud, too sensitive, too little mistress of myselfwhen angry or aroused. If, like some strong women, I loved what wasweaker than myself, and could be controlled by goodness and unlimitedkindness, I might venture to risk living at the side of the mostindulgent and upright man I know. But I am not of that kind. Strengthonly can command my admiration or subdue my pride. I must fear where Ilove, and own for husband him who has first shown himself my master.

  So do not fret any more for me, for you, less than any man I know, willever claim my obedience or command my love. Not that I will not yield myheart to you, but that I cannot; and, knowing that I cannot, feel ithonest to say so before any more of your fine, young manhood is wasted.Go your ways, then, Philemon, and leave me to the rougher paths my feetwere made to tread. I like you now and feel something like a tenderregard for your goodness, but if you persist in a courtship which onlymy father is inclined to smile upon, you will call up an antagonism thatcan lead to nothing but evil, for the serpent that lies coiled in mybreast has deadly fangs, and is to be feared, as you should know whohave more than once seen me angry.

  Do not blame John or James Zabel, or Frederick Snow, or even SamuelBarton for this. It would be the same if none of these men existed. Iwas not made to triumph over a kindly nature, but to yield thehaughtiest heart in all this county to the gentle but firm control ofits natural master. Do you want to know who that master is? I cannottell you, for I have not yet named him to myself.

  DEAR JAMES:

  I am going away. I am going to leave Portchester for several months. Iam going to see the world. I did not tell you this last night for fearof weakening under your entreaties, or should I say commands? Lately Ihave felt myself weakening more than once, and I want to know what itmeans. Absence will teach me, absence and the sight of new faces. Do youquarrel with this necessity? Do you think I should know my mind withoutany such test? Alas! James, it is not a simple mind and it baffles me attimes. Let us then give it a chance. If the glow and glamour of elegantcity life can make me forget certain snatches of talk at our old gate,or that night when you drew my hand through your arm and softly kissedmy fingertips, then I am no mate for you, whose love, however critical,has never wavered, but has made itself felt, even in rebuke, as thestrongest, sweetest thing that has entered my turbulent life. Because Iwould be worthy of you, I submit to a separation which will either be apermanent one or the last that will ever take place between you and me.John will not bear this as well as you, yet he does not love me as well,possibly because to him I am simply a superior being, while to you I ama loving but imperfect woman who wishes to do right but can only do sounder the highest guidance.

  DEAR JOHN:

  I feel that I owe you a letter because you have been so patient. You mayshow it to James if you like, but I mean it for you as an old and dearfriend who will one day dance at my wedding.

  I am living in a whirl of enjoyment. I am seeing and tasting ofpleasures I have only dreamed about till now. From a farmhouse kitchento Mrs. Andrews's drawing-room is a lively change for a girl who lovesdress and show only less than daily intercourse with famous men andbrilliant women. But I am bearing it nobly and have developed tastes Idid not know I possessed; expensive tastes, John, which I fear may unfitme for the humble life of a Portchester matron. Can you imagine medressed in rich brocade, sitting in the midst of Washington's choicestcitizens and exchanging sallies with senators and judges? You may findit hard, yet so it is, and no one seems to think I am out of place, nordo I feel so, only--do not tell James--there are movements in my heartat times which make me shut my eyes when the lights are brightest, anddream, if but for an instant, of home and the tumble-down gateway whereI have so often leaned when someone (you know who it is now, John, and Ishall not hurt you too deeply by mentioning him) was saying good-nightand calling down the blessings of Heaven upon a head not worthy t
oreceive them.

  Does this argue my speedy return? Perhaps. Yet I do not know. There arefond hearts here also, and a life in this country's centre would be agreat life for me if only I could forget the touch of a certainrestraining hand which has great power over me even as a memory. For thesake of that touch shall I give up the grandeur and charm of this broadlife? Answer, John. You know him and me well enough now to say.

  DEAR JOHN:

  I do not understand your letter. You speak in affectionate terms ofeverybody, yet you beg me to wait and not be in a hurry to return. Why?Do you not realise that such words only make me the more anxious to seeold Portchester again? If there is anything amiss at home, or if Jamesis learning to do without me--but you do not say that; you only intimatethat perhaps I will be better able to make up my mind later than now,and hint of great things to come if I will only hold my affections incheck a little longer. This is all very ambiguous and demands a fullerexplanation. So write to me once more, John, or I shall sever everyengagement I have made here and return.

  DEAR JOHN:

  Your letter is plain enough this time. James read the letter I wrote youabout my pleasure in the life here and was displeased at it. He thinks Iam growing worldly and losing that simplicity which he has always lookedupon as my most attractive characteristic. So! so! Well, James is right;I am becoming less the country girl and more the woman of the worldevery day I remain here. That means I am becoming less worthy of him.So--But whatever else I have to say on this topic must be said to him.For this you will pardon me like the good brother you are. I cannot helpmy preference. He is nearer my own age; besides, we were made for eachother.

  DEAR JAMES:

  I am not worldly; I am not carried away by the pleasures andsatisfactions of this place,--at least not to the point of forgettingwhat is dearer and better. I have seen Washington, I have seen gay life;I like it, but I LOVE Portchester. Consequently I am going to return toPortchester, and that very soon. Indeed I cannot stay away much longer,and if you are glad of this, and if you wish to be convinced that a girlwho has been wearing brocade and jewels can content herself quite gailyagain with calico, come up to the dear old gate a week from now and youwill have the opportunity. Do you object to flowers? I may wear a flowerin my hair.

  Your wayward but ever-constant

  AGATHA.

  DEAR JAMES:

  Why must I write? Why am I not content with the memory of last night?When one's cup is quite full, a cup that has been so long infilling,--must some few drops escape just to show that a great joy likemine is not satisfied to be simply quiescent? I have suffered so longfrom uncertainty, have tried you and tried myself with so tedious anindecision, that, now I know no other man can ever move my heart as youhave done, the ecstasy of it makes me over-demonstrative. I want to tellyou that I love you; that I do not simply accept your love, but give youback in fullest measure all the devotion you have heaped upon me inspite of my many faults and failings. You took me to your heart lastnight, and seemed satisfied; but it does not satisfy me that I just letyou do it without telling you that I am proud and happy to be the chosenone of your heart, and that as I saw your smile and the proud passionwhich lit up your face, I felt how much sweeter was the dear domesticbliss you promised me than the more brilliant but colder life of astatesman's wife in Washington.

  I missed the flower from my hair when I went back to my room last night.Did you take it, dear? If so, do not cherish it. I hate to think ofanything withering on your breast. My love is deathless, James, and ownsno such symbol as that. But perhaps you are not thinking of my love, butof my faults. If so, let the flower remain where you have put it; andwhen you gaze on it say, "Thus is it with the defects of my darling;once in full bloom, now a withered remembrance. When I gathered her theybegan to fade." O James, I feel as if I never could feel anger again.

  DEAR JAMES:

  I do not, I cannot, believe it. Though you said to me on going out,"Your father will explain," I cannot content myself with hisexplanations and will never believe what he said of you except youconfirm his accusations by your own act. If, after I have told youexactly what passed between us, you return me this and other letters,then I shall know that I have leaned my weight on a hollow staff, andthat henceforth I am to be without protector or comforter in this world.

  O James, were we not happy! I believed in you and felt that you believedin me. When we stood heart to heart under the elm tree (was it only lastnight?) and you swore that if it lay in the power of earthly man to makeme happy, I should taste every sweet that a woman's heart naturallycraved, I thought my heaven had already come and that now it onlyremained for me to create yours. Yet that very minute my father wasapproaching us, and in another instant we heard these words:

  "James, I must talk with you before you make my daughter forget herselfany further." Forget herself! What had happened? This was not the way myfather had been accustomed to talk, much as he had always favoured thesuit of Philemon Webb, and pleased as he would have been had my choicefallen on him. Forget herself! I looked at you to see how theseinsulting words would affect you. But while you turned pale, or seemedto do so in the fading moonlight, you were not quite so unprepared forthem as I was myself, and instead of showing anger, followed my fatherinto the house, leaving me shivering in a spot which had held no chillfor me a moment before. You were gone--how long? To me it seemed anhour, and perhaps it was. It would seem to take that long for a man'sface to show such change as yours did when you confronted me again inthe moonlight. Yet a lightning stroke makes quick work, and perhaps mycountenance in that one minute showed as great a change as yours. Elsewhy did you shudder away from me, and to my passionate appeal reply withthis one short phrase: "Your father will explain"? Did you think anyother words than yours would satisfy me, or that I could believe evenhim when he accused you of a base and dishonest act? Much as I havealways loved and revered my father, I find it impossible not to hopethat in his wish to see me united to Philemon he has resorted to anunworthy subterfuge to separate us; therefore I give you our interviewword for word. May it shock you as much as it shocked me. Here is whathe said first:

  "Agatha, you cannot marry James Zabel. He is not an honest man. He hasdefrauded me, ME, your father, of several thousand dollars. In a cleverway, too, showing him to be as subtle as he is unprincipled. Shall Itell you the wretched story, my girl? He has left me to do so. He seesas plainly as I do that any communication between you two after thediscovery I have this day made would be but an added offence. He is atleast a gentleman, which is something, considering how near he came tobeing my son-in-law."

  I may have answered. People do cry out when they are stabbed, sometimes,but I rather think I did not say a word, only looked a disdain which atthat minute was as measureless as my belief in you. YOU dishonest?YOU--Or perhaps I laughed; that would have been truer to my feeling;yes, I must have laughed.

  My father's next words indicated that I did something.

  "You do not believe in his guilt," he went on, and there was a kindnessin his tone which gave me my first feeling of real terror. "I canreadily comprehend that, Agatha. He has been in my office and actedunder my eye for several years now, and I had almost as much confidencein him as you had, notwithstanding the fact that I liked him much betteras my confidential clerk than as your probable or prospective husband.He has never held the key to my heart; would God he never had to yours!But he was a good and reliable man in the office, or so I thought, and Igave into his hand much of the work I ought to have done myself,especially since my health has more or less failed me. My trust heabused. A month ago--it was during that ill turn you remember I receiveda letter from a man I had never expected to hear from again. He was inmy debt some ten thousand dollars, and wrote that he had brought withhim as much of this sum as he had been able to save in the last fiveyears, to Sutherlandtown, where he was now laid up with a dangerousillness from which he had small hope of recovering. Would I come thereand get it? He was a stranger and wished to take no one into hisco
nfidence, but he had the money and would be glad to place it in myhands. He added that as he was a lone man, without friends or relativesto inherit from him, he felt a decided pleasure at the prospect ofsatisfying his only creditor, and devoutly hoped he would be well enoughto realise the transaction and receive my receipt. But if his feverincreased and he should be delirious or unconscious when I reached him,then I was to lift up the left-hand corner of the mattress on which helay and take from underneath his head a black wallet in which I wouldfind the money promised me. He had elsewhere enough to pay all hisexpenses, so that the full contents of the wallet were mine.

  "I remembered the man and I wanted the money; so, not being able to gofor it myself, I authorised James Zabel to collect it for me. He startedat once for Sutherlandtown, and in a few hours returned with the walletalluded to. Though I was suffering intensely at the time, I rememberdistinctly the air with which he laid it down and the words with whichhe endeavoured to carry off a certain secret excitement visible in him.'Mr. Orr was alive, sir, and fully conscious; but he will not outlivethe night. He seemed quite satisfied with the messenger and gave up thewallet without any hesitation.' I roused up and looked at him. 'What hasshaken you up so?' I asked. He was silent a moment before replying. 'Ihave ridden fast,' said he; then more slowly, 'One feels sorry for a mandying alone and amongst strangers.' I thought he showed an unnecessaryemotion, but paid no further heed to it at the time.

  "The wallet held two thousand and more dollars, which was less than Iexpected, but yet a goodly sum and very welcome. As I was counting itover I glanced at the paper accompanying it. It was an acknowledgment ofdebt and mentioned the exact sum I should find in the wallet--$2753.67.Pointing them out to James, I remarked, 'The figures are in differentink from the words. How do you account for that?' I thought his answerrather long in coming, though when it did come it was calm, if notstudied. 'I presume,' said he, 'that the sum was inserted atSutherlandtown, after Mr. Orr was quite sure just how much he couldspare for the liquidation of this old debt.' 'Very likely,' I assented,not bestowing another thought upon the matter.

  "But to-day it has been forced back upon my attention in a curious ifnot providential way. I was over in Sutherlandtown for the first timesince my illness, and having some curiosity about my unfortunate buthonest debtor, went to the hotel and asked to see the room in which hedied. It being empty they at once showed it to me; and satisfied that hehad been made comfortable in his last hours, I was turning away, when Iespied on a table in one corner an inkstand and what seemed to be an oldcopy-book. Why I stopped and approached this table I do not know, butonce in front of it I remembered what Zabel had said about the figures,and taking up the pen I saw there, I dipped it in the ink-pot andattempted to scribble a number or two on a piece of loose paper I foundin the copy-book. The ink was thick and the pen corroded, so that it wasnot till after several ineffectual efforts that I succeeded in makingany strokes that were at all legible. But when I did, they were soexactly similar in colour to the numbers inserted in Mr. Orr'smemorandum (which I had fortunately brought with me) that I wasinstantly satisfied this especial portion of the writing had been done,as James had said, in this room, and with the very pen I was thenhandling. As there was nothing extraordinary in this, I was turningaway, when a gust of wind from the open window lifted the loose sheet ofpaper I had been scribbling on and landed it, the other side up, on thecarpet. As I stooped for it I saw figures on it, and feeling sure thatthey had been scrawled there by Mr. Orr in his attempt to make the penwrite, I pulled out the memorandum again and compared the two minutely.They were the work of the same hand, but the figures on the stray leafdiffered from those in the memorandum in a very important particular.Those in the memorandum began with a 2, while those on the stray sheetbegan with a 7--a striking difference. Look, Agatha, here is the pieceof paper just as I found it. You see here, there, and everywhere the oneset of figures, 7753.67. Here it is hardly legible, here it is blottedwith too much ink, here it is faint but sufficiently distinct, andhere--well, there can be no mistake about these figures, 7753.67; yetthe memorandum reads, $2753.67, and the money returned to me amounts to$2753.67--a clean five thousand dollars' difference."

  Here, James, my father paused, perhaps to give me a commiserating look,though I did not need it; perhaps to give himself a moment in which toregain courage for what he still had to say. I did not break thesilence; I was too sure of your integrity; besides, my tongue could nothave moved if it would; all my faculties seemed frozen except thatinstinct which cried out continually within me: "No! there is no faultin James. He has done no wrong. No one but himself shall ever convinceme that he has robbed anyone of anything except poor me of my poorheart." But inner cries of this kind are inaudible and after a moment'sinterval my father went on:

  "Five thousand dollars is no petty sum, and the discrepancy in the twosets of figures which seemed to involve me in so considerable a loss setme thinking. Convinced that Mr. Orr would not be likely to scribble onenumber over so many times if it was not the one then in his mind, I wentto Mr. Forsyth's office and borrowed a magnifying-glass, through which Iagain subjected the figures in the memorandum to a rigid scrutiny. Theresult was a positive conviction that they had been tampered with aftertheir first writing, either by Mr. Orr himself or by another whom I neednot name. The 2 had originally been a 7, and I could even see where thetop line of the 7 had been given a curl and where a horizontal strokehad been added at the bottom.

  "Agatha, I came home as troubled a man as there was in all these parts.I remembered the suppressed excitement which had been in James Zabel'sface when he handed me over the money, and I remembered also that youloved him, or thought you did, and that, love or no love, you werepledged to marry him. If I had not recalled all this I might haveproceeded more warily. As it was, I took the bold and open course andgave James Zabel an opportunity to explain himself. Agatha, he did notembrace it. He listened to my accusations and followed my finger when Ipointed out the discrepancy between the two sets of figures, but he madeno protestations of innocence, nor did he show me the front of an honestman when I asked if he expected me to believe that the wallet had heldonly two thousand and over when Mr. Orr handed it over to him. On thecontrary he seemed to shrink into himself like a person whose life hasbeen suddenly blasted, and replying that he would expect me to believenothing except his extreme contrition at the abuse of confidence ofwhich he had been guilty, begged me to wait till to-morrow before takingany active steps in the matter. I replied that I would show him thatmuch consideration if he would immediately drop all pretensions to yourhand. This put him in a bad way; but he left, as you see, with just asimple injunction to you to seek from me an explanation of his strangedeparture. Does that look like innocence or does it look like guilt?"

  I found my tongue at this and passionately cried: "James Zabel's life,as I have known it, shows him to be an honest man. If he has done whatyou suggest, given you but a portion of the money entrusted to him andaltered the figures in the memorandum to suit the amount he brought you,then there is a discrepancy between this act and all the other acts ofhis life which I find it more difficult to reconcile than you did thetwo sets of figures in Mr. Orr's handwriting. Father, I must hear fromhis own lips a confirmation of your suspicions before I will creditthem."

  And this is why I write you so minute an account of what passed betweenmy father and myself last night. If his account of the matter is acorrect one, and you have nothing to add to it in way of explanation,then the return of this letter will be token enough that my father hasbeen just in his accusations and that the bond between us must bebroken. But if--O James, if you are the true man I consider you, and allthat I have heard is a fabrication or mistake, then come to me at once;do not delay, but come at once, and the sight of your face at the gatewill be enough to establish your innocence in my eyes.

  AGATHA.

  The letter that followed this was very short:

  DEAR JAMES:

  The package of letters has been recei
ved. God help me to bear this shockto all my hopes and the death of all my girlish beliefs. I am not angry.Only those who have something left to hold on to in life can be angry.

  My father tells me he has received a packet too. It contained fivethousand dollars in ten five-hundred-dollar notes. James! James! was notmy love enough, that you should want my father's money too?

  I have begged my father, and he has promised me, to keep the cause ofthis rupture secret. No one shall know from either of us that JamesZabel has any flaw in his nature.

  The next letter was dated some months later. It is to Philemon:

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  The gloves are too small; besides, I never wear gloves. I hate theirrestraint and do not feel there is any good reason for hiding my hands,in this little country town where everyone knows me. Why not give themto Hattie Weller? She likes such things, while I have had my fill offinery. A girl whose one duty is to care for a dying father has no roomleft in her heart for vanities.

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  It is impossible. I have had my day of love and my heart is quite dead.Show your magnanimity by ceasing to urge me any longer to forget thepast. It is all you can do for

  AGATHA.

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  You WILL have my hand though I have told you that my heart does not gowith it. It is hard to understand such persistence, but if you aresatisfied to take a woman of my strength against her will, then God havemercy upon you, for I will be your wife.

  But do not ask me to go to Sutherlandtown. I will live here. And do notexpect to keep up your intimacy with the Zabels. There is no tie ofaffection remaining between James and myself, but if I am to shed thathalf-light over your home which is all I can promise and all that youcan hope to receive, then keep me from all influence but your own. Thatthis in time may grow sweet and dear to me is my earnest prayer to-day,for you are worthy of a true wife.

  AGATHA.

  DEAR JOHN:

  I am going to be married. My father exacts it and there is no goodreason why I should not give him this final satisfaction. At least I donot think there is; but if you or your brother differ from me--Saygood-bye to James from me. I pray that his life may be peaceful. I knowthat it will be honest.

  AGATHA.

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  My father is worse. He fears that if we wait till Tuesday he will not beable to see us married. Decide, then, what our duty is; I am ready toabide by your pleasure.

  AGATHA.

  The following is from John Zabel to his brother James, and is dated oneday after the above:

  DEAR JAMES:

  When you read this I will be far away, never to look in your face again,unless you bid me. Brother, brother, I meant it for the best, but Godwas not with me and I have made four hearts miserable without givinghelp to anyone.

  When I read Agatha's letter--the last for more reasons than one that Ishall ever receive from her--I seemed to feel as never before what I haddone to blast your two lives. For the first time I realised to the fullthat but for me she might have been happy and you the respected husbandof the one grand woman to be found in Portchester. That I had loved herso fiercely myself came back to me in reproach, and the thought that sheperhaps suspected that the blame had fallen where it was not deservedroused me to such a pitch that I took the sudden and desperateresolution of telling her the truth before she gave her hand toPhilemon. Why the daily sight of your misery should not have driven mebefore to this act, I cannot tell. Some remnants of the old jealousy mayhave been still festering in my heart; or the sense of the greatdistance between your self-sacrificing spirit and the selfishness of myweaker nature risen like a barrier between me and the only noble actleft for a man in my position. Whatever the cause, it was not tillto-day the full determination came to brave the obloquy of a fullconfession; but when it did come I did not pause till I reached Mr.Gilchrist's house and was ushered into his presence.

  He was lying on the sitting-room lounge, looking very weak andexhausted, while on one side of him stood Agatha and on the otherPhilemon, both contemplating him with ill-concealed anxiety. I had notexpected to find Philemon there, and for a moment I suffered the extremeagony of a man who has not measured the depth of the plunge he is aboutto take; but the sight of Agatha trembling under the shock of myunexpected presence restored me to myself and gave me firmness toproceed. Advancing with a bow, I spoke quickly the one word I had comethere to say.

  "Agatha, I have done you a great wrong and I am here to undo it. Formonths I have felt driven to confession, but not till to-day have Ipossessed the necessary courage. NOW, nothing shall hinder me."

  I said this because I saw in both Mr. Gilchrist and Philemon adisposition to stop me where I was. Indeed Mr. Gilchrist had risen onhis elbow and Philemon was making that pleading gesture of his which weknow so well.

  Agatha alone looked eager. "What is it?" she cried. "I have a right toknow." I went to the door, shut it, and stood with my back against it, afigure of shame and despair; suddenly the confession burst from me."Agatha," said I, "why did you break with my brother James? Because youthought him guilty of theft; because you believed he took the fivethousand dollars out of the sum entrusted to him by Mr. Orr for yourfather. Agatha, it was not James who did this it was I; and James knewit, and bore the blame of my misdoing because he was always a loyal souland took account of my weakness and knew, alas! too well, that openshame would kill me."

  It was a weak plea and merited no reply. But the silence was so dreadfuland lasted so long that I felt first crushed and then terrified. Raisingmy head, for I had not dared to look any of them in the face, I cast oneglance at the group before me and dropped my head again, startled. Onlyone of the three was looking at me, and that was Agatha. The others hadtheir heads turned aside, and I thought, or rather the passing fancytook me, that they shrank from meeting her gaze with something of thesame shame and dread I myself felt. But she! Can I ever hope to make yourealise her look, or comprehend the pang of utter self-abasement withwhich I succumbed before it? It was so terrible that I seemed to hearher utter words, though I am sure she did not speak; and with some wildidea of stemming the torrent of her reproaches, I made an effort atexplanation, and impetuously cried: "It was not for my own good, Agatha,not for self altogether, I did this. I too loved you, madly,despairingly, and, good brother as I seemed, I was jealous of James andhoped to take his place in your regard if I could show a greaterprosperity and get for you those things his limited prospects deniedhim. You enjoy money, beauty, ease; I could see that by your letters,and if James could not give them to you and I could--Oh, do not look atme like that! I see now that millions could not have bought you."

  "Despicable!" was all that came from her lips. At which I shuddered andgroped about for the handle of the door. But she would not let me go.Subduing with an unexpected grand self-restraint the emotions which hadhitherto swelled too high in her breast for either speech or action, shethrust out one arm to stay me and said in short, commanding tones: "Howwas this thing done? You say you took the money, yet it was James whowas sent to collect it--or so my father says." Here she tore her looksfrom me and cast one glance at her father. What she saw I cannot say,but her manner changed and henceforth she glanced his way as much asmine and with nearly as much emotion. "I am waiting to hear what youhave to say," she exclaimed, laying her hand on the door over my head soas to leave me no opportunity for escape. I bowed and attempted anexplanation.

  "Agatha," said I, "the commission was given to James and he rode toSutherlandtown to perform it. But it was on the day when he wasaccustomed to write to you, and he was not easy in his mind, for hefeared he would miss sending you his usual letter. When, therefore, hecame to the hotel and saw me in Philemon's room--I was often there inthose days, often without Philemon's knowing it--he saw, or thought hedid, a way out of his difficulties. Entering where I was, he explainedto me his errand, and we being then--though never, alas! since--one ineverything but the secret hopes he enjoyed, he asked me if I would go inhis stead
to Mr. Orr's room, present my credentials, and obtain themoney while he wrote the letter with which his mind was full. Though myjealousy was aroused and I hated the letter he was about to write, I didnot see how I could refuse him; so after receiving such credentials ashe himself carried, and getting full instructions how to proceed, I lefthim writing at Philemon's table and hastened down the hall to the doorhe had pointed out. If Providence had been on the side of guilt, thecircumstances could not have been more favourable for the deception Iafterwards played. No one was in the hall, no one was with Mr. Orr tonote that it was I instead of James who executed Mr. Gilchrist'scommission. But I was thinking of no deception then. I proceeded quiteinnocently on my errand, and when the feeble voice of the invalid bademe enter, I experienced nothing but a feeling of compassion for a mandying in this desolate way, alone. Of course Mr. Orr was surprised tosee a stranger, but after reading Mr. Gilchrist's letter which I handedhim, he seemed quite satisfied and himself drew out the wallet at thehead of his bed and handed it over. 'You will find,' said he, 'amemorandum inside of the full amount, $7758.67. I should like to havereturned Mr. Gilchrist the full ten thousand which I owe him, but thisis all I possess, barring a hundred dollars which I have kept for myfinal expenses.' 'Mr. Gilchrist will be satisfied,' I assured him.'Shall I make you out a receipt?' He shook his head with a sad smile. 'Ishall be dead in twenty-four hours. What good will a receipt do me?' Butit seemed unbusinesslike not to give it, so I went over to the table,where I saw a pen and paper, and recognising the necessity of countingthe money before writing a receipt, I ran my eye over the bills, whichwere large, and found the wallet contained just the amount he had named.Then I glanced at the memorandum. It had evidently been made out by himat some previous time, for the body of the writing was in firmcharacters and the ink blue, while the figures were faintly inscribed inmuddy black. The 7 especially was little more than a straight line, andas I looked at it the devil that is in every man's nature whispered atfirst carelessly, then with deeper and deeper insistence: 'How easy itwould be to change that 7 to a 2! Only a little mark at the top and theleast additional stroke at the bottom and these figures would stand forfive thousand less. It might be a temptation to some men.' It presentlybecame a temptation to me; for, glancing furtively up, I discovered thatMr. Orr had fallen either into a sleep or into a condition ofinsensibility which made him oblivious to my movements. Five thousanddollars! just the sum of the ten five-hundred-dollar bills that made thebulk of the amount I had counted. In this village and at my age this sumwould raise me at once to comparative independence. The temptation wastoo strong for resistance. I succumbed to it, and seizing the pen beforeme, I made the fatal marks. When I went back to James the wallet was inmy hand, and the ten five-hundred-dollar bills in my breast pocket."

  Agatha had begun to shudder. She shook so she rattled the door againstwhich I leaned.

  "And when you found that Providence was not so much upon your side asyou thought, when you saw that the fraud was known and that your brotherwas suspected of it--"

  "Don't!" I pleaded, "don't make me recall that hour!"

  But she was inexorable. "Recall that and every hour," she commanded."Tell me why he sacrificed himself, why he sacrificed me, to a cur--"

  She feared her own tongue, she feared her own anger, and stopped."Speak," she whispered, and it was the most ghastly whisper that everleft mortal lips. I was but a foot from her and she held me as by astrong enchantment. I could not help obeying her.

  "To make it all clear," I pursued, "I must go back to the time Irejoined James in Philemon's room. He had finished his letter when Ientered and was standing with it, sealed, in his hand. I may have castit a disdainful glance. I may have shown that I was no longer the sameman I had been when I left him a half-hour before, for he lookedcuriously at me for a moment previous to saying:

  "'Is that the wallet you have there? Was Mr. Orr conscious, and did hegive it to you himself?' 'Mr. Orr was conscious,' I returned,--and Ididn't like the sound of my own voice, careful as I was to speaknaturally,--' but he fainted just before I came out, and I think you hadbetter ask the clerk as you go down to send someone up to him.'

  "James was weighing the pocket-book in his hand. 'How much do you thinkthere is in here? The debt was ten thousand.' I had turned carelesslyaway and was looking out of the window. 'The memorandum inside gives thefigures as two thousand,' I declared. 'He apologises for not sending thefull amount. He hasn't it.' Again I felt James looking at me. Why? Couldhe see that guilty wad of bills lying on my breast? 'How came you toread the memorandum?' he asked. 'Mr. Orr wished me to. I looked at it toplease him.' This was a lie--the first I had ever uttered. James's eyeshad not moved. 'John,' said he, 'this little bit of business seems tohave disturbed you. I ought to have attended to it myself. I am quitesure I ought to have attended to it myself.' 'The man is dying,' Imuttered. 'You escaped a sad sight. Be satisfied that you have got themoney. Shall I post that letter for you?' He put it jealously in hispocket, and again I saw him look at me, but he said nothing more exceptthat he repeated that same phrase, 'I ought to have attended to itmyself. Agatha might better have waited.' Then he went out; but Iremained till Philemon came home. My brother and myself were no longercompanions; a crime divided us,--a crime he could not suspect, yet whichmade itself felt in both our hearts and prepared him for the revelationmade to him by Mr. Gilchrist some weeks after. That night he came toSutherlandtown, where I was, and entered my bedroom--not in thefraternal way of the old days, but as an elder enters the presence of ayounger. 'John,' he said, without any preamble or preparation, 'whereare the five thousand dollars you kept back from Mr. Gilchrist? Thememorandum said seven and you delivered to me only two.' There aredeath-knells sounded in every life; those words sounded mine, or wouldhave if he had not immediately added: 'There! I knew you had no stamina.I have taken your crime on myself, who am really to blame for it, sinceI delegated my duty to another, and you will only have to bear thedisgrace of having James Zabel for a brother. In exchange, give me themoney; it shall be returned to-morrow. You cannot have disposed of italready. After which, you, or rather I, will be in the eyes of the worldonly a thief in intent, not in fact.' Had he only stopped there!--but hewent on: 'Agatha is lost to me, John. In return, be to me the brother Ialways thought you up to the unhappy day the sin of Achan came betweenus.'

  "YOU were lost to him! It was all I heard. YOU were lost to him! Then,if I acknowledged the crime I should not only take up my own burden ofdisgrace, but see him restored to his rights over the only woman I hadever loved. The sacrifice was great and my virtue was not equal to it. Igave him back the money, but I did not offer to assume theresponsibility of my own crime."

  "And since?"

  In what a hard tone she spoke!

  "I have had to see Philemon gradually assume the rights James onceenjoyed."

  "John," she asked,--she was under violent self-restraint,--"why do youcome now?"

  I cast my eyes at Philemon. He was standing, as before, with his eyesturned away. There was discouragement in his attitude, mingled with acertain grand patience. Seeing that he was better able to bear her lossthan either you or myself, I said to her very low, "I thought you oughtto know the truth before you gave your final word. I am late, but Iwould have been TOO LATE a week from now."

  Her hand fell from the door, but her eyes remained fixed on my face.Never have I sustained such a look; never will I encounter such another.

  "It is too late NOW," she murmured. "The clergyman has just gone whounited me to Philemon."

  The next minute her back was towards me; she had faced her father andher new-made husband.

  "Father, you knew this thing!" Keen, sharp, incisive, the words rangout. "I saw it in your face when he began to speak."

  Mr. Gilchrist drooped slightly; he was a very sick man and the scenehad been a trying one.

  "If I did," was his low response, "it was but lately. You were engagedthen to Philemon. Why break up this second match?"

  She eyed
him as if she found it difficult to credit her ears. Suchindifference to the claims of innocence was incredible to her. I saw hergrand profile quiver, then the slow ebbing from her cheek of every dropof blood indignation had summoned there.

  "And you, Philemon?" she suggested, with a somewhat softened aspect."You committed this wrong ignorantly. Never having heard of this crime,you could not know on what false grounds I had been separated fromJames."

  I had started to escape, but stopped just beyond the threshold of thedoor as she uttered these words. Philemon was not as ignorant as shesupposed. This was evident from his attitude and expression.

  "Agatha," he began, but at this first word, and before he could claspthe hands held helplessly out before her, she gave a great cry, andstaggering back, eyed both her father and himself in a frenzy ofindignation that was all the more uncontrollable from the superhumaneffort which she had hitherto made to suppress it.

  "You too!" she shrieked. "You too! and I have just sworn to love,honour, and obey you! Love YOU! Honour YOU! the unconscionable wretchwho--"

  But here Mr. Gilchrist rose. Weak, tottering, quivering with somethingmore than anger, he approached his daughter and laid his finger on herlips.

  "Be quiet!" he said. "Philemon is not to blame. A month ago he came tome and prayed that as a relief to his mind I would tell him why you hadseparated yourself from James. He had always thought the match hadfallen through on account of some foolish quarrel or incompatibility,but lately he had feared there was something more than he suspected inthis break, something that he should know. So I told him why you haddismissed James; and whether he knew James better than we did, orwhether he had seen something in his long acquaintance with thesebrothers which influenced his judgment, he said at once: 'This cannot betrue of James. It is not in his nature to defraud any man; but John--Imight believe it of John. Isn't there some complication here?' I hadnever thought of John, and did not see how John could be mixed up withan affair I had supposed to be a secret between James and myself, butwhen we came to locate the day, Philemon remembered that on returning tohis room that night, he had found John awaiting him. As his room was notfive doors from that occupied by Mr. Orr, he was convinced that therewas more to this matter than I had suspected. But when he laid thematter before James, he did not deny that John was guilty, but wasperemptory in wishing you not to be told before your marriage. He knewthat you were engaged to a good man, a man that your father approved, aman that could and would make you happy. He did not want to be the meansof a second break, and besides, and this, I think, was at the bottom ofthe stand he took, for James Zabel was always the proudest man I everknew,--he never could bear, he said, to give to one like Agatha a namewhich he knew and she knew was not entirely free from reproach. It wouldstand in the way of his happiness and ultimately of hers; his brother'sdishonour was his. So while he still loved you, his only prayer was thatafter you were safely married and Philemon was sure of your affection,he should tell you that the man you once regarded so favourably was notunworthy of that regard. To obey him, Philemon has kept silent, whileI--Agatha, what are you doing? Are you mad, my child?"

  She looked so for the moment. Tearing off the ring which she had wornbut an hour, she flung it on the floor. Then she threw her arms high upover her head and burst out in an awful voice:

  "Curses on the father, curses on the husband, who have combined to makeme rue the day I was born! The father I cannot disown, but thehusband--"

  "Hush!"

  It was Mr. Gilchrist who dared her fury. Philemon said nothing.

  "Hush! he may be the father of your children. Don't curse--"

  But she only towered the higher and her beauty, from being simplymajestic, became appalling.

  "Children!" she cried. "If ever I bear children to this man, may theblight of Heaven strike them as it has struck me this day. May they dieas my hopes have died, or, if they live, may they bruise his heart asmine is bruised, and curse their father as--"

  Here I fled the house. I was shaking as if this awful denunciation hadfallen on my own head. But before the door closed behind me, a differentcry called me back. Mr. Gilchrist was lying lifeless on the floor, andPhilemon, the patient, tender Philemon, had taken Agatha to his breastand was soothing her there as if the words she had showered upon him hadbeen blessings instead of the most fearful curses which had ever leftthe lips of mortal woman.

  The next letter was in Agatha's handwriting. It was dated some monthslater and was stained and crumpled more than any other in the wholepacket. Could Philemon once have told why? Were these blotted lines theresult of his tears falling fast upon them, tears of forty years ago,when he and she were young and love had been doubtful? Was the sheet soyellowed and so seamed because it had been worn on his breast and foldedand unfolded so often? Philemon, thou art in thy grave, sleeping sweetlyat last by thy deeply idolised one, but these marks of feeling stillremain indissolubly connected with the words that gave them birth.

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  You are gone for a day and a night only, but it seems a lengthenedabsence to me, meriting a little letter. You have been so good to me,Philemon, ever since that dreadful hour following our marriage, thatsometimes--I hardly dare yet to say always--I feel that I am beginningto love you and that God did not deal with me so harshly when He cast meinto your arms. Yesterday I tried to tell you this when you almostkissed me at parting. But I was afraid it was a momentary sentimentalityand so kept still. But to-day such a warm well-spring of joy rises in myheart when I think that to-morrow the house will be bright again, andthat in place of the empty wall opposite me at table I shall see yourkindly and forbearing face, I know that the heart I had thoughtimpregnable has begun to yield, and that daily gentleness, and aboundless consideration from one who had excuse for bitter thoughts andrecrimination, are doing what all of us thought impossible a few shortmonths ago.

  Oh, I am so happy, Philemon, so happy to love where it is now my duty tolove; and if it were not for that dreadful memory of a father dying withharsh words in his ears, and the knowledge that you, my husband, yet notmy husband, are bearing ever about with you echoes of words that inanother nature would have turned tenderness into gall, I could be merryalso and sing as I go about the house making it pleasant and comfortableagainst your speedy return. As it is I can but lay my hand softly on myheart as its beatings grow too impetuous and say, "God bless my absentPhilemon and help him to forgive me! I forgive him and love him as Inever thought I could."

  That you may see that these are not the weak outpourings of a lonelywoman, I will here write that I heard to-day that John and James Zabelhave gone into partnership in the ship-building business, John's unclehaving left him a legacy of several thousand dollars. I hope they willdo well. James, they say, is full of business and is, to all appearance,perfectly cheerful. This relieves me from too much worry in his regard.God certainly knew what kind of a husband I needed. May you findyourself equally blessed in your wife.

  Another letter to Philemon, a year later:

  DEAR PHILEMON:

  Hasten home, Philemon; I do not like these absences. I am just now tooweak and fearful. Since we knew the great hope before us, I have lookedoften in your face for a sign that you remembered what this hope cannotbut recall to my shuddering memory. Philemon, Philemon, was I mad? WhenI think what I said in my rage, and then feel the little life stirringabout my heart, I wonder that God did not strike me dead rather thanbestow upon me the greatest blessing that can come to woman. Philemon,Philemon, if anything should happen to the child! I think of it by day,I think of it by night. I know you think of it too, though you show mesuch a cheerful countenance and make such great plans for the future."Will God remember my words, or will He forget? It seems as if my reasonhung upon this question."

  A note this time in answer to one from John Zabel:

  DEAR JOHN:

  Thank you for words which could have come from nobody else. My child isdead. Could I expect anything different? If I did, God has rebuked me.

/>   Philemon thinks only of me. We understand each other so perfectly nowthat our greatest suffering comes in seeing each other's pain. My load Ican bear, but HIS--Come and see me, John; and tell James our house isopen to him. We have all done wrong, and are caught in one net ofmisfortune. Let it make us friends again.

  Below this in Philemon's hand:

  My wife is superstitious. Strong and capable as she is, she has regardedthis sudden taking off of our first-born as a sign that certain wordsuttered by her on her marriage day, unhappily known to you and, as Itake it, to James also, have been remembered by the righteous God aboveus. This is a weakness which I cannot combat. Can you, who alone of allthe world beside know both it and its cause, help me by a renewedfriendship, whose cheerful and natural character may gradually make herforget? If so, come like old neighbours, and dine with us on our weddingday. If God sees that we have buried the past and are ready to forgiveeach other the faults of our youth, perhaps He will further spare thisgood woman. I think she will be able to bear it. She has great strengthexcept where a little child is concerned. That alone can henceforth stirthe deepest recesses of her heart.

  After this, a gap of years. One, two, three, four, five children werelaid away to rest in Portchester churchyard, then Philemon and she cameto Sutherlandtown; but not till after a certain event had occurred, bestmade known by this last letter to Philemon:

  DEAREST HUSBAND:

  Our babe is born, our sixth and our dearest, and the reproach of itsfirst look had to be met by me alone. Oh, why did I leave you and cometo this great Boston where I have no friend but Mrs. Sutherland? Did Ithink I could break the spell of fate or providence by giving birth tomy last darling among strangers? I shall have to do something more thanthat if I would save this child to our old age. It is borne in upon melike fate that never will a child prosper at my breast or survive theclasp of my arms. If it is to live it must be reared by others. Somewoman who has not brought down the curse of Heaven upon her by her ownblasphemies must nourish the tender frame and receive the blessing ofits growing love. Neither I nor you can hope to see recognition in ourbabe's eye. Before it can turn upon us with love, it will close in itslast sleep and we will be left desolate. What shall we do, then, withthis little son? To whose guardianship can we entrust it? Do you know aman good enough or a woman sufficiently tender? I do not, but if Godwills that our little Frederick should live, He will raise up someone.By the pang of possible separation already tearing my heart, I believethat He WILL raise up someone. Meanwhile I do not dare to kiss thechild, lest I should blight it. He is so sturdy, Philemon, so differentfrom all the other five.

  I open this to add that Mrs. Sutherland has just been in--with herfive-weeks-old infant. His father is away, too, and has not yet seen hisboy; and this is their first after ten years of marriage. Oh, that myfuture opened before me as brightly as hers!

  The next letter opens with a cry:

  Philemon! Come to me, Philemon! I have done what I threatened. I havemade the sacrifice. Our child is no longer ours, and now, perhaps, hemay live. But oh, my breaking heart! my empty arms! Help me to bear mydesolation, for it is for life. We will never have another child.

  And where is it? Ah, that is the wonder of it. Near you, Philemon, yetnot too near. Mrs. Sutherland has it, and you may have seen its littleface through the car window if you were in the station last night whenthe express passed through to Sutherlandtown. Ah! but she has her burdento bear too. An awful, secret burden like my own, only she will have thechild--for, Philemon, she has taken it in lieu of her own, which diedlast night in my sight; and Mr. Sutherland does not know what she hasdone, and never will, if you keep the secret as I shall, for the sake ofthe life our little innocent has thus won.

  What do I mean and how was it all? Philemon, it was God's work, all butthe deception, and that is for the good of all, and to save four brokenhearts. Listen. Yesterday, only yesterday,--it seems a month ago,--Mrs.Sutherland came again to see me with her baby in her arms. Mr.Sutherland is expected home, as you know, this week, and she was aboutto start out for Sutherlandtown so as to be in her own house when hecame. The baby was looking well and she was the happiest of women; forthe one wish of his heart and hers had been fulfilled and she was soongoing to have the bliss of showing the child to his father. My own babewas on the bed asleep, and I, who am feeling wonderfully strong, wassitting up in a little chair as far away from him as possible, not outof hatred or indifference--oh, no!--but because he seemed to rest betterwhen left entirely by himself and not under the hungry look of my eye.Mrs. Sutherland went over to look at it. "Oh, he is fair like my baby,"she said, "and almost as sturdy, though mine is a month older." And shestooped down and kissed him. Philemon, he smiled for her, though henever had for me. I saw it with a greedy longing that almost made me cryout. Then I turned to her and we talked.

  Of what? I cannot remember now. At home we had never been intimatefriends. She is from Sutherlandtown and I am from Portchester, and thedistance of nine miles is enough to estrange people. But here, each witha husband absent and a darling infant lying asleep under our eyes,interests we have never thought identical drew us to one another and wechatted with ever-increasing pleasure--when suddenly Mrs. Sutherlandjumped up in a terrible fright. The infant she had been rocking on herbreast was blue; the next minute it shuddered; the next--it lay in herarms DEAD!

  I hear the shriek yet with which she fell with it still in her arms tothe floor. Fortunately no other ears were open to her cry. I alone sawher misery. I alone heard her tale. The child had been poisoned,Philemon, poisoned by her. She had mistaken a cup of medicine for a cupof water and had given the child a few drops in a spoon just beforesetting out from her hotel. She had not known at the time what she haddone, but now she remembered that the fatal cup was just like the otherand that the two stood very near together. Oh, her innocent child, andoh, her husband!

  It seemed as if the latter thought would drive her wild. "He has sowished for a child," she moaned. "We have been married ten years andthis baby seemed to have been sent from heaven. He will curse me, hewill hate me, he will never be able after this to bear me in his sight."This was not true of Mr. Sutherland, but it was useless to argue withher. Instead of attempting it, I took another way to stop her ravings.Lifting the child out of her hands, I first listened at its heart, andthen, finding it was really dead,--Philemon, I have seen too manylifeless children not to know,--I began slowly to undress it. "What areyou doing?" she cried. "Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Webb, what are you doing?" Forreply I pointed to the bed, where two little arms could be seen feeblyfluttering. "You shall have my child," I whispered. "I have carried toomany babies to the tomb to dare risk bringing up another." And catchingher poor wandering spirit with my eye, I held her while I told her mystory.

  Philemon, I saved that woman. Before I had finished speaking I saw thereason return to her eye and the dawning of a pitiful hope in herpassion-drawn face. She looked at the child in my arms and then shelooked at the one in the bed, and the long-drawn sigh with which shefinally bent down and wept over our darling told me that my cause waswon. The rest was easy. When the clothes of the two children had beenexchanged, she took our baby in her arms and prepared to leave. Then Istopped her. "Swear," I cried, holding her by the arm and lifting myother hand to heaven, "swear you will be a mother to this child! Swearyou will love it as your own and rear it in the paths of truth andrighteousness!" The convulsive clasp with which she drew the baby to herbreast assured me more than her shuddering "I swear!" that her heart hadalready opened to it. I dropped her arm and covered my face with myhands. I could not see my darling go; it was worse than death--for themoment it was worse than death. "O God, save him!" I groaned. "God, makehim an honour--" But here she caught me by the arm. Her clutch wasfrenzied, her teeth were chattering. "Swear in your turn!" she gasped."Swear that if I do a mother's duty by this boy, you will keep my secretand never, never reveal to my husband, to the boy, or to the world thatyou have any claims upon him!" It was like tearing the heart f
rom mybreast with my own hand, but I swore, Philemon, and she in her turn drewback. But suddenly she faced me again, terror and doubt in all herlooks. "Your husband!" she whispered. "Can you keep such a secret fromhim? You will breathe it in your dreams." "I shall tell him," Ianswered. "Tell him!" The hair seemed to rise on her forehead and sheshook so that I feared she would drop the babe. "Be careful!" I cried."See! you frighten the babe. My husband has but one heart with me. WhatI do he will subscribe to. Do not fear Philemon." So I promised in yourname. Gradually she grew calmer. When I saw she was steady again, Imotioned her to go. Even my more than mortal strength was failing, andthe baby--Philemon, I had never kissed it and I did not kiss it then. Iheard her feet draw slowly towards the door, I heard her hand fall onthe knob, heard it turn, uttered one cry, and then----

  They found me an hour after, lying along the floor, clasping the deadinfant in my arms. I was in a swoon, and they all think I fell with thechild, as perhaps I did, and that its little life went out during myinsensibility. Of its features, like and yet unlike our boy's, no oneseems to take heed. The nurse who cared for it is gone, and who elsewould know that little face but me? They are very good to me, and arefull of self-reproaches for leaving me so long in my part of thebuilding alone. But though they watch me now, I have contrived to writethis letter, which you will get with the one telling of the baby's deathand my own dangerous condition. Destroy it, Philemon, and then COME.Nothing in all the world will give me comfort but your hand laid undermy head and your true eyes looking into mine. Ah, we must love eachother now, and live humbly! All our woe has come from my early girlishdelight in gay and elegant things. From this day on I eschew allvanities and find in your affection alone the solace which Heaven willnot deny to our bewildered hearts. Perhaps in this way the blessing thathas been denied us will be visited on our child, who will live. I am nowsure, to be the delight of our hearts and the pride of our eyes, eventhough we are denied the bliss of his presence and affection.

  Mrs. Sutherland was not seen to enter or go out of my rooms. Being onher way to the depot, she kept on her way, and must be now in her ownhome. Her secret is safe, but ours--oh, you will help me to preserve it!Help me not to betray--tell them I have lost five babies before thisone--delirious--there may be an inquest--she must not be mentioned--letall the blame fall on me if there is blame--I fell--there is a bruise onthe baby's forehead--and--and--I am growing incoherent--I will try anddirect this and then love--love--O God!

  [A scrawl for the name.]

  Under it these words:

  Though bidden to destroy this, I have never dared to do so. Some day itmay be of inestimable value to us or our boy. PHILEMON WEBB.

  This was the last letter found in the first packet. As it was laid down,sobs were heard all over the room, and Frederick, who for some time nowhad been sitting with his head in his hands, ventured to look up andsay: "Do you wonder that I endeavoured to keep this secret, bought atsuch a price and sealed by the death of her I thought my mother and ofher who really was? Gentlemen, Mr. Sutherland loved his wife andhonoured her memory. To tell him, as I shall have to within the hour,that the child she placed in his arms twenty-five years ago was analien, and that all his love, his care, his disappointment, and hissufferings had been lavished on the son of a neighbour, required greatercourage than to face doubt on the faces of my fellow-townsmen, oranything, in short, but absolute arraignment on the charge of murder.Hence my silence, hence my indecision, till this woman"--here he pointeda scornful finger at Amabel, now shrinking in her chair--"drove me to itby secretly threatening me with a testimony which would have made me themurderer of my mother and the lasting disgrace of a good man who alonehas been without blame from the beginning to the end of this desperateaffair. She was about to speak when I forestalled her. My punishment, ifI deserve such, will be to sit and hear in your presence the reading ofthe letters still remaining in the coroner's hands."

  These letters were certain ones written by Agatha to her unacknowledgedson. They had never been sent. The first one dated from his earliestinfancy, and its simple and touching hopefulness sent a thrill throughevery heart. It read as follows:

  Three years old, my darling! and the health flush has not faded fromyour cheek nor the bright gold from your hair.

  Oh, how I bless Mrs. Sutherland that she did not rebuke me when yourfather and I came to Sutherlandtown and set up our home where I could atleast see your merry form toddling through the streets, holding on tothe hand of her who now claims your love. My darling, my pride, myangel, so near and yet so far removed, will you ever know, even in theheaven to which we all look for joy after our weary pilgrimage is over,how often in this troublous world, and in these days of your earlyinfancy, I have crept out of my warm bed, dressed myself, and, without aword to your father, whose heart it would break, gone out and climbedthe steep hillside just to look at the window of your room to see if itwere light or dark and you awake or sleeping? To breathe the scent ofthe eglantine which climbs up to your nursery window, I have braved thenight-damps and the watching eyes of Heaven; but you have a child'sblissful ignorance of all this; you only grow and grow and live, mydarling, LIVE!--which is the only boon I crave, the only recompense Iask.

  Have I but added another sin to my account and brought a worse vengeanceon myself than that of seeing you die in your early infancy? Frederick,my son, my son, I heard you swear to-day! Not lightly, thoughtlessly, asboys sometimes will in imitation of their elders, but bitterly,revengefully, as if the seeds of evil passions were already pushing tolife in the boyish breast I thought so innocent. Did you wonder at thestrange woman who stopped you? Did you realise the awful woe from whichmy commonplace words sprang? No, no, what grown mind could take that in,least of all a child's? To have forsworn the bliss of motherhood andentered upon a life of deception for THIS! Truly Heaven is implacableand my last sin is to be punished more inexorably than my first.

  There are worse evils than death. This I have always heard, but now Iknow it. God was merciful when He slew my babes, and I, presumptous inmy rebellion, and the efforts with which I tried to prevent His work.Frederick, you are weak, dissipated, and without conscience. The darlingbabe, the beautiful child, has grown into a reckless youth whoseimpulses Mr. Sutherland will find it hard to restrain, and over whom hismother--do _I_ call her your mother?--has little influence, though shetries hard to do a mother's part and save herself and myself fromboundless regret. My boy, my boy, do you feel the lack of your ownmother's vigour? Might you have lived under my care and owned a betterrestraint and learned to work and live a respectable life incircumstances less provocative of self-indulgence? Such questions, whenthey rise, are maddening. When I see them form themselves in Philemon'seyes I drive them out with all the force of my influence, which is stillstrong over him. But when they make way in my own breast, I can find norelief, not even in prayer. Frederick, were I to tell you the truthabout your parentage, would the shock of such an unexpected revelationmake a man of you? I have been tempted to make the trial, at times. Deepdown in my heart I have thought that perhaps I should best serve thegood man who is growing grey under your waywardness, by opening upbefore you the past and present agonies of which you are the unconsciouscentre. But I cannot do this while SHE lives. The look she gave me oneday when I approached you a step too near at the church door, provesthat it would be the killing of her to reveal her long-preserved secretnow. I must wait her death, which seems near, and then--No, I cannot doit. Mr. Sutherland has but one staff to lean on, and that is you. It maybe a poor one, a breaking one, but it is still a staff. I dare not takeit away--I dare not. Ah, if Philemon was the man he was once, he mightcounsel me, but he is only a child now; just as if God had heard my cryfor children and had given me--HIM.

  More money, and still more money! and I hate it except for what it willdo for the poor and incapable about me. How strange are the ways ofProvidence! To us who have no need of aught beyond a competence, moneypours in almost against our will, while to those who long and labour forit,
it comes not, or comes so slowly the life wears out in the waitingand the working. The Zabels, now! Once well-to-do ship-builders, with agood business and a home full of curious works of art, they now appearto find it hard to obtain even the necessities of life. Such are thefreaks of fortune; or should I say, the dealings of an inscrutableProvidence? Once I tried to give something out of my abundance to theseold friends, but their pride stood in the way and the attempt failed.Worse than that. As if to show that benefits should proceed from them tome rather than from me to them, James bestowed on me a gift. It is astrange one,--nothing more nor less than a quaint Florentine daggerwhich I had often admired for its exquisite workmanship. Was it the lasttreasure he possessed? I am almost afraid so. At all events it shall liehere in my table-drawer where I alone can see it. Such sights are notgood for Philemon. He must have cheerful objects before him, happy facessuch as mine tries to be. But ah!

  I would gladly give my life if I could once hold you in my arms, myerring but beloved son. Will the day ever come when I can? Will you havestrength enough to hear my story and preserve your peace and let me godown to the grave with the memory of one look, one smile, that is for mealone? Sometimes I foresee this hour and am happy for a few shortminutes; and then some fresh story of your recklessness is waftedthrough the town and--What stopped her at this point we shall neverknow. Some want of Philemon's, perhaps. At all events she left off hereand the letter was never resumed. It was the last secret outpouring ofher heart. With this broken sentence Agatha's letters terminated..

  ......

  That afternoon, before the inquiry broke up, the jury brought in theirverdict. It was:

  "Death by means of a wound inflicted upon herself in a moment of terrorand misapprehension."

  It was all his fellow-townsmen could do for Frederick.