But the fact that he was about to spend an evening in the company of Miss Jennie herself, outweighed all these slight objections. Conscious, too, of her feeling toward him, he could not help viewing the hours just before him with a delightful flutter of anticipation.
The first pleasant disappointment which came to Tom, after reaching the fine residence and receiving the cordial welcome of the family, was the discovery that G. Field Catherwood was not present, and would not form one of the little party. That lifted a load of apprehension from his shoulders.
Inasmuch as it had to come, Tom took the thanks of the parents like a hero. He listened with a respectful smile, blushed under the compliments, and blushed still more when Jennie with a straightforward, earnest look said,—
“Mr. Gordon may say it was not much, but it saved my life, and I shall never, NEVER forget it. If Mr. Catherwood had shown a hundredth part of his courage—”
“There, there, daughter,” protested her father, as they seated themselves at the table, “a truce to all that; let us leave him out of the conversation.”
“And, if you please, drop the whole thing,” added Tom, who began to feel uncomfortable under it all.
“Since it will be more agreeable to you, we will do so,” was the hearty remark of the head of the family, as all began “discussing,” as the expression goes, the feast before them. “I will say, however, that Jennie did meet with one experience, in which her rescuer showed possibly more pluck than Mr. Gordon today.”
The guest looked inquiringly at his host.
“She seems to be destined to be concerned in unpleasant adventures.”
“Yes; I hope this is the last of them. What I refer to happened some five or six years ago,—possibly more than that. At any rate, she was a small girl, crossing the ferry at New York with her mother, when in the crowd and crush, by some means which I never could understand, she fell overboard. The river was full of floating ice, and she would have been drowned but for the heroism of a boy, who sprang in after her, and, at the risk of his own life, kept her afloat until both could be drawn on board.”
Tom Gordon felt his face turning scarlet. He was so disturbed for the moment that he could not frame any words. He could only look at his employer and listen. In that moment there flashed upon him the explanation of a little mystery which had troubled him for months.
The first time he looked into the face of Jennie Warmore, the suspicion came to him that somewhere and at some time, under far different circumstances, he had met her. When sitting at her side in the dog-cart that afternoon, this suspicion became a certainty. He strove to account for it on the theory that it was one of those accidental resemblances which all of us have met in our experience; but he could not make himself believe it to be the fact.
Strange that he never thought of associating her with that memorable incident in his own life! He had sacredly preserved the chain and likeness; and it was the similarity between the latter and the budding young lady that caused the perplexity in his mind. He wondered that he had not hit upon the explanation before it was flung in his face, as may be said.
By the time Mrs. Warmore had added her account to that of her husband, Tom had regained mastery of himself.
“And who was the lad that did all this?” he asked in the most innocent manner conceivable.
“That is the one feature about the affair that has always troubled me,” said the merchant. “I have tried to find out, but have never been able to gain the first clew to his identity. Mrs. Warmore was so frantic in mind that she did not think of the noble rescuer until he was gone. Then she made inquiries, but no one seemed to know anything about him.”
“It distressed me,” added the lady; “for I felt he must think we were ungrateful. We advertised in the papers, but it was useless. I do not suppose we shall ever know who he was.”
“He may have been some poor boy in need of help,” added Mr. Warmore; “but so brave a lad as that is sure to get along.”
“I presume you remember the incident?” remarked Tom, turning toward the daughter.
“How can I ever forget it?” she asked in reply, with a shiver. “I can feel that icy water even now, as it closed round me that wintry night. It was too dark to see my rescuer’s face plainly, but I would know him if I met him fifty years from now. He was remarkably handsome.”
“A boy of that age changes very much in a few years.”
“He could never change so as to grow out of my recollection,” said Jennie with a positiveness that made Tom Gordon smile.
“And of all the strange things that were ever done by a child,” said Mrs. Warmore, “none ever equalled what Jennie did while floating in the water.”
“Indeed, what could that be?”
“Tell him yourself, daughter.”
The young lady blushed and laughed.
“I don’t know what possessed me to do it. I hardly think I was conscious of matters or responsible for all I did. When the lad was fighting his way through the icy waters, I remember snatching a chain and locket containing my likeness from my neck, and twisting the chain about a button on his coat. I had a feeling of wishing to do something that should help him to remember me. After that I became wholly unconscious.”
“It seems to me the little fellow was rewarded by securing the chain and locket,” remarked Tom with a significant smile.
“That was but a trifle compared to what he ought to have received,” replied Jennie.
“You forget that it contained your picture.”
The compliment was so neatly put that all laughed, and the face of the young lady became rosier than ever.
“Pardon me,” Tom hastened to say; “of course the little fellow has preserved those mementoes, and I should not he surprised if he turns up some day when least expected.”
“I hope so,” was the fervent response of Jennie, in which sentiment her parents joined.
It is not necessary to dwell upon the evening, which was a red letter one in Tom Gordon’s life. No more delightful hours were ever spent by him; and when, without tarrying too late, he left, he could make no mistake as to the sentiments of the three, and especially the youngest, toward him. He had made an impression there, and it would be his own fault if it failed to ripen into something serious.
But, as he walked homeward in the silvery moonlight, he felt a respect for himself which, it is safe to say, would have come to few placed as he was. He had not given the first hint that he was the boy who, at the risk of his own life, had leaped into the wintry waters and rescued little Jennie Warmore from death.
Who would have held back the secret in his situation? Would you or I? Doubtful, if when smitten with love for a fair, sweet girl, we had felt that its telling would have riveted the bonds which, at the most, were only partly formed, and might dissolve into nothingness if not thus strengthened.
It was the youth’s fine-grained sense of honor that restrained him.
“She holds a good opinion of me now. If it should ever happen that that feeling grows into love (and Heaven grant it may!), it must be for me alone, and not for any accident in the past. Suppose I had not done her a good turn today,—she might have discarded Catherwood for his baseness, but what would have caused her to transfer her regard to me? No, she shall never know the whole truth until—until—”
He dared not finish the thrilling sentence, the blissful hope, the wild dream, that set his nerves dancing. Unto us all can come that radiant, soulful, all-absorbing emotion but once in our life, and it is too sacred to be trifled with; for once destroyed, once crushed, once dead, and the holy thing vanishes forever.
Two noticeable truths became manifest to Tom Gordon on the morrow. G. Field Catherwood’s dislike of him was intensified. The young man had felt from the first that the head clerk was not only more attractive than he in looks, but was far brighter intellectually. Added now to this was the feeling of jealousy. He had received from Jennie Warmore a too pointed expression of her contempt for him to have any
possible room for misunderstanding it. When he ventured to hint at their engagement, which had been discussed, but never formally made, she shook her head decisively, and his heart collapsed.
He had strolled by the house early in the evening, having fully recovered from the injuries resulting from the runaway, and was on the point of passing through the gate, when he observed a figure ahead of him. One quick glance disclosed that it was young Gordon, on his way to pass the evening there. That knowledge caused the dude to wheel about and go to the hotel, where he made his home. And as he strode along the highway, his heart overflowed with the bitterness of gall and wormwood.
He made no attempt to conceal his feelings on the following day, when he and Gordon came in contact at the store. Tom avoided him as much as possible; but, of necessity, they occasionally came together, and the repulsion was mutual. This unpleasantness was fully offset not only by the consciousness of the regard of Miss Warmore, but by the cordial manner of her father. Those signs of distrust which he had shown during the past week were gone, and his kindness and consideration for the young man were so marked as to attract the attention of all. It was clear that the mists between them had vanished.
CHAPTER XXIII
That night, after the establishment of Mr. Warmore was closed and the employees had gone home, two persons remained behind to engage in earnest consultation. They were the proprietor and G. Field Catherwood, the young man who expected, at the end of the year, to become an equal partner with him. The doors were fastened, and the two sat alone in the private office, the expression on the faces of both showing that some grave matter weighed upon them.
“How long has this been going on?” asked Mr. Warmore.
“For two weeks or more; that is to say, I discovered it about a fortnight ago. No doubt it has been kept up in a small way for a long time previous to that.”
“How much do you suppose has been taken altogether?”
“Several hundred dollars; perhaps a thousand.”
“And your suspicions point to Mr. Gordon?”
“I am sorry to say they do. Of course he was the last one to suspect; but, when I began quietly investigating, the trail led unmistakably to him.”
“What caused you first to suspect him, Mr. Catherwood?”
“Well, when a merchant finds some, one of his employees is robbing him, the most natural thing to do is to look into the habits of them all. If he discovers that one is living beyond his means, he naturally probes a little farther; and, if his habits prove to be extravagant, the suspicion increases.”
“What did you find out about Mr. Gordon?”
“I accidentally learned that he has a considerable sum in the savings-bank.”
“He deserves credit for that.”
“True, if that which was deposited was his own. Besides, he spends a good deal of money.”
“In what way?”
“In the first place, on his clothes.”
“He certainly is well dressed, but no more so than his salary will permit.”
“Last week he paid off a mortgage on the farm of Mr. Pitcairn, and then made a present of it to the old gentleman.”
“What was the amount?”
“Several thousand dollars.”
“You are mistaken. Mr. Pitcairn told me of it three days ago. He had promised Mr. Gordon not to tell any one; but the farmer was so happy that he said he could not keep it back. It was only three hundred dollars, however.”
“Then I was misinformed,” Catherwood hastened to say with a flush; “but I happen to know he is speculating in Wall Street, and betting on the races.”
“That is bad; is your information reliable?”
“There can be no doubt of its truth.”
“Have you any objection to telling me the channel through which this knowledge reached you?”
“I would be glad to do so, but the source at present is confidential.”
“Very well; I am sorry to hear this about Mr. Gordon, for, as you know, I held him in high regard. For the present, let us keep the matter a close secret. Do not let him see he is under suspicion, and we will not move until certain there can be no mistake in the matter.”
A few minutes later the two walked out of the front door, which was carefully locked behind them, and sauntered homeward. The younger man went to the chief hotel of the town, while the elder continued up the highway, thinking deeply over the subject he had just discussed with Catherwood.
Now, it so happened that Josiah Warmore, the merchant, was a far shrewder man than G. Field Catherwood suspected. If the latter had been playing a part, so had the former.
As has been intimated, it came to the knowledge of the merchant, about a fortnight before, that some one in his employ was systematically robbing him. Gatherwood first dropped a hint, and then both investigated so far as the opportunity allowed. The result turned suspicion toward Tom Gordon. The merchant had learned, in the course of his long and varied experience, the sad truth that no man in the world can be picked out and declared, beyond all possibility of doubt, to be absolutely honest. Thousands of people live and die and go to their graves wrapped in the mantle of unassailable integrity. It may be they have not defrauded a person out of a penny, for the simple reason that the temptation has never been strong enough to make them do so. Had it been a little stronger, they would have succumbed. Others, after years of straightforward life, have fallen. So it might be that, though he had given full trust to Tom Gordon, he was not worthy to receive that trust. This half-belief caused the chill in his treatment of the young man, so different from that to which he had been accustomed. Before making up his final judgment, however, Mr. Warmore resolved that every vestige of doubt should be removed. He sent for Mr. Fyfe Lathewood, one of the shrewdest detectives in New York City, told him all the circumstances, and ordered him to find out the whole truth, no matter what it cost, or where it might strike.
The detective had been at work the better part of a week, without any one in Bellemore suspecting his identity or business. On the afternoon of the day in which Tom Gordon checked the runaway pony of Miss Warmore, the detective dropped into the store, as any stranger might have done, made a few trifling purchases, and then turned and walked out. As he did so, he managed to pass close to the proprietor, who was standing at the front, and whispered:—
“It isn’t Gordon; I’ll see you tonight.”
Mr. Warmore was strolling homeward, swinging the heavy cane which he always carried, when, in passing a small stretch of woods just beyond the outskirts of the town, a man stepped from among the trees with the stealth of a shadow and waited for him to approach. The merchant hesitated a moment in doubt of his identity, but the other spoke in a low voice,—
“It’s all right; come on.”
“I wasn’t quite sure,” remarked Mr. Warmore, turning aside among the trees, where he could talk with the detective without the possibility of being seen or overheard.
“Well,” said the merchant in a guarded voice, “what is it?”
“It was a dirty piece of business to throw suspicion on that young Gordon. He is as innocent as you or I.”
“What did you learn about him?”
“You told me of that mortgage which he paid off for the farmer where he has lived so long.”
“Yes; there is no doubt of the truth of that.”
“He has been in your employ for four or five years. You tell me he is saving, and has no bad habits. So the paying of such a small mortgage ought not to be impossible.”
“By no means.”
“Nor would it be strange if he had a nest-egg in the savings-bank?”
“Knowing him as well as I do, I would be surprised if such was not the fact. There is no one in the world dependent on him, and his wages are liberal. But what about Wall Street and the races?”
“He has never risked a dollar there, I am sure of it.”
“I had my doubts, but Catherwood told me he had positive information.”
“He si
mply lied to you—that’s all. Have you found how this money is taken from you? Does it disappear through the day,—that is, is it missing at night in making up the accounts, or is the money short in the morning?”
“It has happened in both ways.”
“You do not keep a private watchman?”
“We have one who passes along the front every half hour or so, and looks in to see if the light is burning, and everything is right. Two of the clerks sleep overhead, so it would seem that such a thing as burglary is out of the question.”
“Can you get me inside the store tonight without being seen?”
“I guess I can manage it,” replied the merchant in surprise.
“How would you like to go with me? There will be no personal danger. I will see to that.”
“What time of the night do you wish to enter?”
“It isn’t likely there will be a visitor before midnight; but, to make sure, we will say about eleven.”
“I can warn the watchman—”
“You mustn’t think of such a thing! We must slip inside without a soul knowing it. The watchman is the last one to trust.”
“Do you suspect him?” asked the astonished Mr. Warmore.
“Not in the least; but you must never trust any person when it can possibly be avoided. Doubtless, he means well, but he may leak. The gentleman for whom we are looking might take it into his head to quiz him: do you see?”
“It shall be as you say. Will you call for me?”
“Yes; it will be safe enough, I think, to do that.”
After his family had retired, Mr. Warmore lit a cigar a few minutes before the time mentioned, and sauntered down the path in front of his house. Detective Lathewood was prompt, and met him at his gate. They walked briskly along the highway, until they entered the town and approached the large establishment which had been in the possession of the Warmore family for the better part of a century. The merchant’s familiarity with his own premises enabled him to enter by a back way, without attracting the attention of the watchman or any one. They waited till the streets, which were quite clear at that late hour, showed no one near, when they slipped inside, and closed the door behind them.
The Edward S. Ellis Megapack Page 163