 Part 1, Chapters 8 and 9 of Betsy's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 8. After the Dinner. The carriage which took Hannah home also took Miss McPherson to the door of her dwelling, a large old-fashioned New England house, with a wide hall through the centre, and a square room on either side. One, the drawing room or parlor in which the mass of furniture had not been changed during the twenty years and more that Miss Betsy had lived there. The other, the living room where the lady sat and ate and received her friends, and where now a bright fire was burning in the Franklin Stove, and the kettle was singing upon the hub while a little round Swiss table was standing on the Persian rug before the fire, and on it the delicate cup and saucer and sugar-ball and creamer, which Miss McPherson had herself bought at Savra years ago when the life she looked forward to was very different from what had actually come to her. Finally the memory of the day when she walked through those brilliant rooms at Savra and bought her costly wares, softened a little her somewhat harsh uncompromising nature, for there was a very womanly expression on her usually severe face as she sipped her favour too long, and gazed dreamily into the fire, where she seemed to again see the sweet face of the child who had talked to her on the shores of Cardigan Bay, and whose innocent prattle had by turns amused and interested and enraged her. And as she gazed she thought, Yes, Gray was right. Why didn't I take the little thing in my arms and bring her home with me? To think of her being hungry when there is enough wasted in this house every day to feed her. And why did I so far forget myself as to talk as I did today? I, who am usually so silent with regard to my affairs. Why need I have told them that Archie's wife was a trollop? I suppose the venom is still rankling in me for the name she called me, old sour kraut, and Miss Betsy smiled grimly as she remembered all the child upon the terrace had said to her that summer morning three years ago. She is truthful at all events, she continued, and I like that and I wish I had her here. She would be a comfort to me now that I am old and the house has no young life in it except my cats. Here's the bedroom at the end of the hall opening from my room. She could have that, and I should be so happy fitting it up for her. I'd trim it with blue and have hangings at the bed and— Here she stopped, seized with a sudden inspiration and summoning the housemaid Flora to her she said, Remove the things and bring my writing desk. Flora obeyed and her mistress was soon deep in the construction of a letter to Archie Bald MacPherson to whom she made the proposition that he should bring his daughter Betsy to her, or if he did not care to cross the ocean himself, that he place her under the charge of some reliable person who was coming to America and who would see her safely to Allington or that failing she did not know but she would come herself for the child so anxious was she to have her. I shall not try to conceal from you that I have seen her. You know that by the result. I did see her on the terrace and saw your wife, too, and I liked the child and water for my own, to train as I please and to bring up to some useful occupation so that, if necessary, she can earn her own living. There has been too much false pride in our family on account of birth and blood. The idea that because you are born a gentleman or lady you must not work is absurd. Would it not be more honorable to sweep the streets or scour knives and pear potatoes than to sponge ones living out of strangers who despise you in their hearts even when inviting you to their houses? We have men and women, too, in America who do not work but get their living from others and we call them tramps and have them arrested as vagrants. But that is neither here nor there. I want you to give little Betsy to me and she at least will never regret it. But don't let the hope of a fortune influence you for my will was made years ago and not a MacPherson is remembered in it. Still if Betsy pleases me I may add a codicell and give her a few thousands but don't count upon it or my death either. We are a long-lived race and I am perfectly strong and well. So if you let me have her do it because you think it will be better for her morally and spiritually to be removed from the poisonous atmosphere which surrounds her. I liked her face. I liked her voice. I liked her frankness. I shall like her. So send her and I will bear the expense or write and say you can't and that will close the book. There aren't, Miss Betsy MacPherson, Allington, Massachusetts. P.S. I shall direct this to the old home in Wales though I have no idea you are there as I hear your wife prefers to be travelling. The letter finished and directed Miss Betsy sat a long time gazing dreamily into the fire and thinking of the past, the present, and the possible future when a bright-haired child might be sitting there by her side and making her life less lonely and aimless than it was now. Meanwhile the party at Grey's Park had gathered around the fire in the drying room and Geraldine was repeating to her sister the particulars of her presentation to the Queen, shivering occasionally as she heard the sleet and snow beating against the window, for with the going down of the sun the storm had commenced again with redoubled fury and the wind howled dismally as it swept past the corners of the house bearing with it blinding sheets of snow and rain and sounding sometimes like human sobbing as it died away in the distance. Is there someone crying outside or is it the wind? Mr. Gerald asked as the sobbing seemed like a wail of anguish while there crapped over him one of those indefinable presentiments which we have all felt at times and could not explain, a presentiment in his case of coming evil whose shadow was already upon him. It is the wind, Grey said, what an awful storm for Thanksgiving night and rising he walked to the window just as outside there was a sound of a fast-coming vehicle which stopped at the side Piazza. A few moments later the door of the drying room opened and a servant appeared with a note which she handed to Mr. Gerald saying, Sam Powley brought this from your sister, he says your father is very bad. Mr. Gerald was not greatly surprised. It seemed to him he had expected this for the sobbing of the wind had sounded to him like his father's voice calling to him in the storm. Taking the note from the girl he tore it open and read, dear brother, On my return home I found our father much worse, indeed, I have never seen him so bad, and he insists upon your coming to him tonight, so I have sent Sam for you, with instructions to call on his return for our clergyman Mr. Sanford, as he wishes particularly to see him. Come at once, and come alone, Hannah. The words come alone were underscored, and Burton felt intuitively that the secrety had long suspected and which had shadowed his father's life was at last coming to him unsought. He was sure of it, and knew why Hannah had written, come alone. It meant that Gray must not come with him, and when the boy who had stood beside him and read the note with him exclaimed, Grant, by his worse, he is going to die. Let us go at once, he said very decidedly. No, my son, not tonight. Tomorrow you shall go and stay all day, but not tonight in this storm. He unwillingly Gray yielded and saw his father depart without him. How is my father? How does he seem? Mr. Gerald asked of the boy Sam who replied, I don't know, I have not seen him. He would not even let me in this afternoon when Miss Hannah was gone. He locked the door and I heard him working at something on the floor by his bed, as if trying to tear up the plank. He was there when Miss Hannah came home and found him. I guess he is pretty crazy. But here we are at the ministers. I was to stop for him, you know. You will have to hold the horse. I shan't be long. And raining up the gate of the rectory, Sam plunged into the snow and waiting to the door gave a tremendous peel upon the brass knocker. The Reverend Mr. Sanford, who had for many years been rector of the Little Church in Allington, was taking his evening tea with his better half, Mrs. Martha Sanford, a little plump red-faced woman with light gray eyes and yellow hair, who ruled her husband with a rod of iron and would have ruled his parish if they had not rebelled against her. With all her faults, however, she took excellent care of her lord and master, and looked after his health as carefully as she did after his household interests. And on this particular night, because he had complained of a slight hoarseness to which he was subject, she had at once enveloped his throat with folds of red flannel under which was a slice of salt-pork, her favorite remedy for all troubles of a bronchial nature. And in his warmly wadded dressing-gown and padded slippers, the Reverend Man sat enjoying his tea and crisp slices of toast, which Mrs. Martha prepared for him herself when the sound of the brass knocker startled them both and made Mrs. Martha start so suddenly that the slice of bread she was toasting dropped from the fork upon the hot coals where it was soon reduced to ashes. Who can be pounding like that on such a night as this? She asked, as she hastened to open the hall door which admitted such a gust of wind that she came near shutting it in Sam's face. But the boy managed to crowd into the hall and shaking a whole snow-bank of snow from his cap and coat he began. If you please, ma'am, old Mr. Gerald is very bad indeed, and Miss Hannah wants the minister to come right off. Mr. Burton Gerald is out in the sleigh waiting for him and says he must hurry. Mr. Sanford go out such a night as this, it's impossible. He is half sick now. What does old Mr. Gerald want? Mrs. Sanford said sharply. And Sam replied as he shook down another mass of snow upon the carpet. Don't know. The sacrament may be, as I guess he's going to die, and the boy advanced a step or two into the warmly lighted room where the rector who had risen to his feet was beginning to divest himself of his dressing-gown. Stay back. You have brought snow enough into the hall without spoiling the parlor carpet too, Mrs. Martha said angrily, then going to her husband whose purpose she divined she continued. Charles, are you crazy to think of going out in this storm? But my dear, the rector began meekly, if the poor old man is dying, and Hannah would never have sent in such a storm unless she thought so. If he is dying and desires the comfort of the communion, shall I refuse it to him because of a little inconvenience to myself? No, no. I have not so learned, Christ. Please bring me my coat, Martha, and my boots, and the little communion service. A pretty time of day to think of that, just as the candle is burned to the snuff, Mrs. Martha retorted. Here for years you have exhorted and entreated him to be confirmed, and he has resisted all your appeals with the excuse that for him to go to the Lord's table would be a mortal sin, and now just at the last in such a storm he sends for you. I consider it an insult to his Creator and to you, too. Will you please bring my coat and boot and things? I can never quite find them myself, was all the rector said, and knowing that further opposition was useless, Mrs. Martha went in quest of the boots and overshoes and coat and overcoat and muffler and fur cap and mittens and heavy shawl in which she enveloped her husband, lamenting that there was not ready a hot soapstone for his feet which were sure to suffer. But the little man did not need the soapstone. He had the warmest, kindest, most unselfish heart that ever beat in a human breast and never thought of the storm as he waded through the deep snow and took his seat beside Bert and Gerald in the sleigh, which Sam drove rapidly toward the farmhouse in the pasture. Nine. The horror at the farmhouse. When Hannah reached home, the gray November afternoon was already merging into the dark night which was made still darker by the violence of the increasing storm, and never had Hannah's home seemed so desolate and dreary as it did when the sleigh turned from the highway into the crossroad which led to it, and she saw through the gathering gloom the low, snow-covered roof and the windows from which no welcoming light was shining. It had been so bright and cheerful and warm in the drawing-room at Gray's Park, and here all was cold and cheerless and dark as she went into the house with a vague presentiment of the horror awaiting her. Entering through the woodshed she stumbled upon Sam, who was sitting on a pile of wood and who said to her, I guess your father is mighty bad. I didn't go near him till I heard him groaning and praying and taking on so that I opened the door and asked if he wanted anything. Then he jumped out of bed and told me to be gone, spying on him, and he locked the door on me, and I heard him as if he was under the bed trying to tear up the floor and I ran out here for I was afraid. Under the bed, Hannah repeated while a cold sweat oozed from every pore. He must be crazy, but do not come with me to his room, it would make him worse. I can manage him alone, but please make a fire in the summer kitchen and stay there this evening. Father seems to know when anyone is in the next room and it troubles him. He asked him, the boy replied, thinking at a very strange freak that the old man would allow no one with him except his daughter. But Sam was neither quick nor suspicious and glad of any change from the cold woodshed, he started to kindle a fire in the room adjoining which in summer was used for a kitchen, while Hannah, lighting a candle, hastened to the door of her father's room which he found locked, while from within she heard labored breathing and a sound like tugging at a board which evidently offered resistance. Father, she cried in terror, let me in. It is I, Hannah, and Sam is in the woodshed. After a moment the key was turned and Hannah stepped inside, locking the door after her. In the middle of the floor her father stood, with his long white hair falling around his corpse-like face and his eyes bright with the excitement of delirium. The bed was moved toward the center of the room and in the farthest corner a board of the floor had been partially removed. What are you doing? Hannah asked, advancing quickly to her father. Oh, Hannah, the old man said whimperingly, I did so want to be sure that it was there. I dreamed it was gone, that it had never been there, and it was so real I wanted to see. I thought I'd get done before you came, but it was so hard. I cannot get the boards up. But you can do it. Go down on your knees and take the floor up, just this once. I'll never ask it again. It was thirty-one years ago to-night, and when it is thirty-two I shall be dead. Go down, Hannah. I want to know if it is there still, the horror I have slept over every night for thirty-one long years. No, father, Hannah answered firmly. Ask me anything but that. Be satisfied that it is there. Who should take it away when no one knows but ourselves? Get into bed, father, you are shivering with cold. Like a conquered child, the old man obeyed her and crept into bed while she drew the blankets around him, and then stooping down in the dark corner she drove the loosened board to its place, shuddering as she did so and experiencing a feeling of terror such as she had not felt before in the years. Pushing the bed back to its usual position, she sat down by her father and tried to quiet him, for he was strangely restless and talked of things which made the blood curdle in her veins. Hark! he exclaimed as a gust of wind went shrieking past the window. What was that, Hannah? That sound like a human cry. It was only the wind. A wild storm is sweeping over the hills tonight. She said as she drew a little nearer to him and took his hand in hers as if to give herself courage, for she too fancied there was in the wailing wind the echo of a cry she could never forget. Yes, the old man replied, just such a storm as shook the house thirty one years ago to-night, and above it all I hear rovers howl, and the awful word you shouted aloud, and which the winds caught up and carried everywhere so that the world is full of it. Do you remember it, Hannah? Did she remember it? Ask rather could she ever forget the awful word which it seemed to her was written on the very walls and doors of the house and on her forehead where all the world might see it. Ask her if she remembered when even now, after the lapse of thirty one years, she could hear so distinctly the shriek of despair, which as her father had said, the winds had caught up and carried over the hills and far away, where it was still repeating itself over and over again, and would go on forever until reparation were made, if that were possible now. It was always ringing in her ears, just as the stains were on her hands, where she felt them as she clasped her long thin fingers convulsively and wondered if she were going mad. Her father was very quiet now. He was falling asleep and sinking on her knees beside the bed, their wretched woman moaned piteously. Oh, my father in heaven, how long must I bear this burden which tonight presses so heavily? Help me, help me, for I am so weak and sad. Thou knowest I was innocent, and I have tried so hard to do right. If I have failed, if I ought to have spoken in spite of the vile, forgive me, for if my sin is great, great too has been my punishment. I cannot stay here, she thought as she rose from her knees. The room is full of phantoms which gibber at me from the dark corners and shout the word in my ears as I shouted at that awful night when Rover kept me company. Poor old Rover, lying under the snow. If he were only here I should not be quite so desolate. I believe that for the first time in my life I am a coward, and shaking with cold or fear or both, Hannah left her father's room and went into the kitchen where Sam was stuffing the stove with wood. The moment she appeared, however, he withdrew the stick he was crowding in and began to close some of the drafts. But she said to him, Don't do that, Sam, let it burn. Put on more. I am very cold. And light a candle, Sam, three candles. It is so dark here and the wind howls so. Does it say anything to you, Sam? Any word I mean? Sam had no idea what she meant, nor indeed did he think if she meant anything for his wits came slowly. People called him stupid and this was his greatest recommendation to Hannah who could not have had a bright quick-seeing boy in her household. Sam suited her and his answer to her question was characteristic of him. No, I don't hear nothing it says, only it screams like a panther in a fit, and Sam deliberately lighted the three candles and placed them on the table, while Hannah drew a hard wooden chair to the stove and putting her feet upon the hearth, clasped her hands around her knees and sat there till she was thoroughly warm and her nerves were quieted. She was not afraid now, and taking one of the candles she went to her father's room and found him sleeping with a calm, peaceful expression on his face, and another looked too, which made her heart stand still a moment, for she felt intuitively that the black shadow of death had crept into the room. Suddenly he awoke, and seeing her standing by him, smiled lovingly upon her and said, Is that you, Hannah? Faithful always, but your work is almost done. I am going home very soon to the dear Saviour. I am sure of it, I know it. My sins are washed away in his blood. And the stains upon my hands, which are clean and white now as were grazed the day he caught and held me so fast. May God bless the boy and make him a good man and a comfort to you, my child, who have been so much to me, the best, most unselfish of daughters. And something tells me you will be happy when I am gone. I hope so, I pray so. And now, Hannah, send for Burton. I shall not be here in the morning, and I must see him once more, and send for Mr. Sanford too. I must see him before I die. Burton and the minister, no one else, not even the boy Gray. He must not come for Hannah. I am going to tell. What, Father? Hannah gasped, and he replied, I am going at last to confess the whole to my son and the clergyman. I must do it. I shall die easier. But, Father, Hannah cried in alarm. Reflect a moment. What possible good could it do to tell Mr. Sanford, or even Burton? It would only give him unnecessary pain. You have kept it so long. Why not let the grave bury your secret? Because I cannot, the old man answered. I must tell Burton. I have always intended to do it at the last so that he might know what you have borne. Perhaps he may be kinder, gentler with you. Burton stands well with men. High in the world, but he is not like you. He would never have done what you have, and I want him to know that there is a sacrifice which ennobles one more than all the honors of the world, and I want Mr. Sanford to know why I could not go forward and ratify my baptismal vows, as he has so often urged me to do, thinking me obstinate in my refusal, and I wish to hear him say that he believes I am forgiven, that Christ will receive me, even me, a... Oh, Hannah, I cannot say that word. I cannot give myself that name. I never have, you know. It was so sudden, so without forethought, and could I live my life over again? I think I should tell at once and not bury the secret as I did. But hurry, Hannah, send Sam. I have but a few hours to live. Tell them to come quickly, Burton and the minister. Not gray. So Hannah wrote the note to her brother and gave it to Sam, who in a most unwilling frame of mind, harnessed the horse and started in the storm for Gray's Park. Meanwhile, in anticipation of the coming of the guests, Hannah put her father's room a little more to rights, lighted another candle, put more wood in the stove, and then sat down to wait the result, with a heart which it seemed to her had ceased to beat, so pulseless and dead it lay in her bosom. She had no fear of anything personally adverse to herself or her father arising from the telling of the secret kept so many years. It would be safe with Mr. Sanford, while her proud brother would die a thousand deaths sooner than reveal it. But oh, how cruelly he would be hurt and how he would shrink from the story and blame her that she allowed it to be told, especially to the clergymen. And she might perhaps prevent that yet. So she made another effort, but her father was determined. I must, I must. I shall die easier and he will never tell. We have known him so long. 25 years he has been here and he took to us from the first. Do you remember how often he used to come and read to you on the bench under the apple tree? Yes, father, Hannah answered with a gasp when he went on. Seeing you two together so much, I used to think he had a liking for you and you for him. Did you, Hannah? Were you and the minister ever engaged? No, father, never. Hannah replied as she pressed her hands tightly together while two great burning tears rolled down her cheeks. And yet you were a comely enough last then. Her father rejoined as if bent on tormenting her. You had lost your bright gutter, to be sure, but there was something very winsome in your face and eyes and manner. And he might better have married you than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, fussy Martha Craig, who like the Martha of old is troubled about many things and believes the minister a stirred-up kind of life. Mrs. Sanford is a model housekeeper and takes good care of her husband, Hannah said softly. And then as she heard the sound of voices outside, she arose quickly and went to meet her brother and the man who her father had said would better have married her than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Martha. End of chapters eight and nine. Part one, chapters 10, 11 and 12 of Bessie's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Eight. The Interview The rector was full of interest and concern as he stepped into the room and when Hannah apologized for sending for him on such a night he answered promptly. Not at all, not at all. If I can be of any comfort to you or your father I should be very sorry not to come. How is he? Hannah did not answer him. So intent was she upon studying her brother's face, which was anything but sympathetic as he shook the snow from his overcoat and warmed his hands by the stove. The honorable Burton Gerald liked his comfort and ease and as he was far from easy or comfortable he made his sister feel it by his manner if not by his words. His father's so much worse that you must send for us in this storm, he asked and Hannah replied. Yes, he is very bad. He says he is going to die and I believe it. He will not last the night out and of course I must send for you and he insisted that Mr. Sandford should come too. Yes, certainly I am glad he did. The clergyman rejoined thrusting his hands into his coat pocket. He wishes the communion, I dare say, and he placed reverently upon the table the little silver service. Hannah's face flushed as she replied. He did not mention that, but I do not suppose he thinks he can receive it. What he wishes is to see you, to talk to you, to, to... She hesitated her brother's countenance was so forbidding, then added quickly. He wishes to tell you something which he has kept for years, and her voice sank to a whisper as she glanced again at her brother. It was coming then, the thing he had suspected so long and which he never had wished to learn, and Burton Gerald breathed hard as he said. But surely Hannah, if there are family secrets to be told I am the one to hear them and not a stranger, Mr. Sandford can have no interest in our affairs. I could not help it, brother, Hannah said mildly. I tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen, and Mr. Sandford is not like a stranger to us. She turned her dark eyes full of tears upon the clergyman who gave her back an answering glance which her brother did not observe and would not have comprehended if he had. Yes, Hannah, Mr. Sandford said, you can trust me, be the secret one of life or death that is safe with me as with you. And he gave her his hand by way of affirmation. And Hannah took the offered hand and held fast to it as a drowning man holds to a straw while the tears ran like rain down her pale face. Hannah, Burton, are you there and the minister? There is no time to lose, came feebly from the sick room and Hannah said. He is calling us. Go to him, please. I will join you in a minute. Then she hurried to the summer kitchen where she found Sam who thought his work done and was removing his boots preparatory to going to bed. Wait, Sam, she said. I am sorry for I know you are tired and sleepy, but you must sit up a while longer and take Mr. Sandford home. I will bring you an easy chair in which you can sleep till I want you. Thus speaking she brought a large Boston rocker and a pillow for the tired boy who she knew would soon be fast asleep with no suspicion of what was about to transpire in the sick room to which she next repaired closing the door behind her. Her father had both Burton's hands in his and was crying like a little child. Oh, my son, my son, he said, if I could undo the past I should not have to turn my eyes from my own child in shame, in that I have done ever since you were a boy and came from Boston to see us. How old was he, Hannah? How old was Burton when the terrible thing happened? Twelve, Hannah answered, and her father went wandering on like one out of his mind, talking of Burton when he was a boy, of his dead wife, of Hannah, who had suffered so long and of the storm which he said was like the one which swept the New England Hills thirty-one years ago that very night when the snow fell so deep that no one came near the place till Monday. Three whole days, he said, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and I had time to hide the dark deed so securely that it has never been suspected. Burton started quickly in glass at his sister with a look of amazed inquiry. He had thought of forgery and theft and embezzlement but never of what his father's words might imply and the cold sweat began to freeze from the palms of his hands while a kind of nightmare crapped over him and kept him rooted to the spot as his father went on. But, oh, what agony of remorse I have endured. The tortures of the lost are not more intense than my sufferings have been. Think of my meeting people day after day with the mark of cane upon my brow, burning there so hotly that it seemed as if you all must see it and know my guilt. How could I join myself to God's people with this sin unconfessed? I could not, and yet I feel in my heart that I am forgiven, washed in his blood as white as snow so that there is rest for me in paradise. Still I must confess. I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister, but no one else, not Gray. No, no, not the boy Gray who loves me so much. His life must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Gray, Gray, may God bless the boy and give him every needful happiness and make him so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon our name. Father, Burton cried in a choking voice, for pity's sake have done and tell me what you mean. The suspense is terrible. I mean, and the old man spoke clearly and distinctly, I mean, thirty one years ago tonight in the heat of passion I killed a man in the kitchen yonder and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I have slept over his grave ever since. A murderer dropped from Burton Gerald's pale lips and a murderer was echoed in the next room by lips far whiter than Burton Gerald's, and which quivered with mortal pain as the boy Gray started from his stooping position over the stove and felt that he was dying. For Gray was there and had been for the last few minutes and had heard the secret which he was not to know. After his father left Gray's Park, he had sat a few minutes with his mother and aunt, and then complaining of a headache, had asked to be excused and got to his room which was at the head of some stairs leading down into a narrow hall and out into the side yard. When the boy entered his chamber he had no intention of going to the farmhouse, but as he thought of his grandfather dying and that tomorrow might perhaps be too late to see him alive, they wished to go there grew stronger and stronger until it became an impulse which he could not resist. Something tells me I must go, he said, that it is needful for me to be there and to go I shall. I am not afraid of the snow. It cannot be more than a foot on the level. I have waited through more banks than that and it is only a mile from here across the fields and through the woods. I shall not tell anyone but I am going. And in a few moments Gray had descended the stairs and unlocking the outer door locked it again and putting the key in his pocket started for the farmhouse, striking into a crossroad which led across the fields and which in summer he used often to take in preference to the highway. It was a little nearer and led through grassy lanes and cool fine woods and pleasant pasturelands across a stream where he had once built a dam and had a little waterwheel which his grandfather made for him. The way, however, was anything but pleasant now with the cold, dark sky, the tall leafless trees and the drifting snow which he found was more than a foot deep on the level except in the woods where it had not fallen so thickly. But Gray was young and fearless and he went on rapidly until he reached the knoll from which the house was visible not far away. It had ceased snowing by this time and the moon which was nearly at its full was struggling to show itself through a rift in the Gray clouds. The wind, however, was still blowing in wild gusts and as it swept past him he, too, fancied it had in it a human sound. It is like Aunt Hannah's voice calling to me. I am glad I came though I suppose Father was cold. He said as he paused a moment to rest and then rapidly descended the knoll to the house. Entering by the woodshed door which was first reached he went into the summer kitchen and passed on into the second kitchen where a candle was burning dimly and where he stopped a moment by the warm stove. No one heard him, no one knew he was there, but as he stood in the silence and darkness he heard distinctly his grandfather's voice and this is what he heard. I must tell you, my son and you, my minister, but no one else. Not Gray. No, no, not the boy Gray who loves me so much. His life must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Gray, Gray, may God bless him and give him every needful happiness and make him so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon our name. Here Gray who stood motionless heard his father say, for pity's sake tell me what you mean, the suspense is terrible. And then came the awful response which sounded through the silent room like the knell to all the boy's future happiness and peace of mind. Thirty-one years ago tonight in the heat of passion I killed a man in the kitchen yonder and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I have slept on his grave ever since. No wonder Gray's face grew white as the face of a corpse while his heart throbbed with unutterable pain as he whispered the word his father had said aloud. His grandfather whom he had thought so good and loved so much, a murderer. He had killed a man in that very room perhaps on the spot where the boy was standing, and Gray recoiled from the place and looked down upon the floor which gave no sign of the tragedy enacted there thirty-one years ago and kept hidden ever since. Like a flash of lightning Gray saw all the past and understood now what had been singular in his grandfather's manner and in his Aunt Hannah's too, for she had been privy to the deed and had helped to keep it from the world, and to Gray this was the bitterest thought of all, the one which made him sick and faint and dizzy as he groped his way to the door which he opened and closed cautiously and then fell heavily upon his face in the snow with all consciousness for the moment blotted out. The chill however and the damp revived him almost immediately and struggling to his feet he started on his route back to Gray's Park along the same road he had come, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but that one word that name his father had given to his grandfather and which he too had echoed. Over and over the winds repeated it until the wood seemed full of it and he said to himself, Will it always be so? Shall I never hear anything but that again so long as I live and I am so young, only fourteen, and I meant to be a great and honorable man and a good one too? And I can still be that. God knows I am not to blame. Would he hear me, I wonder, if I should ask him now to take some of this pain away which fills my heart to bursting. And there on the pure white snow in the shadow of the leafless woods the heartbroken boy knelt down and with clasped hands and the great tears streaming over his upturned face asked God to forgive him for his grandfather's sin and take the pain away and help him to be a good man if he could never be great and distinguished. And God heard that prayer made to him in the wintery night from the depths of the boyish heart and a feeling of quiet came over Gray as he resumed his walk. I am not to blame, he said, and people will not think so if they know which they never will, for father will not tell, nor Mr. Sanford either, but I shall always know and life will never be the same to me again. It certainly looked for Lorne and dreary enough to him by the time he reached Gray's park and letting himself quietly in he crept noiselessly up to his bed from which he did not rise until late the next morning when his Aunt Lucy came herself to call him and told him his grandfather was dead. 11. At the Old Man's Bedside When the word murderer dropped from Berton Gerald's lips his father started as if a bullet had pierced his heart and the hot blood surged up into his face as he said, Oh, my son, my son, that you should be the first to call me by a name which even Hannah has never spoken and she has known it all the time. She saw me do the deed. She helped me bury it. Poor Hannah! You! and Berton turned fiercely upon his sister who stood like a block of marble and almost as colorless. You helped, then you were an accessory to the crime and never spoke, never told. No wonder your hair turned white before its time. Brother, brother! Hannah cried as she threw up her hands in an anguish of entreaty. You do not know, you cannot guess, or you would never reproach me thus. But I do know that you kept silence and that I who thought myself so honorable and high am branded with disgrace and the son of a Stay! and the dying man gathered all his remaining strength for the reproof. You shall not call me by that name again. You shall not speak thus to your sister, the noblest woman in the most faithful daughter God ever gave the world. I bound her by a solemn oath not to speak, even had she wished to, which she did not, for I was her father. Your father, too, and I know that in some respects you are not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. Say, Mr. Sanford! and he turned to the rector who had stood looking on stupefied with what he heard. Did Hannah do wrong, not to bear witness against me? Hannah never does wrong. The rector said rousing himself, and going a step nearer to her he took her cold, clammy hand between his own and held it there while he continued, Mr. Gerald, you reproach your sister for her silence, but consider what her speaking would have done for you. If you feel it so keenly when only you and I know of it, what would you have felt had the whole world been made cognizant of the fact? I do not know the circumstances of your father's crime. And, if so, the gallows would not have been his punishment, though a prison might, and do you think that as the son of a felon you could have stood where you do now in the world's estimation? No, instead of reproaches which I do not believe spring from a sense of justice, rather thank your sister who has given all the brightness of her life to shield her father from punishment and you from disgrace. The rector spoke more severely than what says what, for he felt a contempt for her, and he felt a contempt for the man whose real character he now understood better than he had before, but his words had a good effect for Burton saw the truth there was in them and turning to his sister who was sobbing piteously, he said. Forgive me, Hannah, if I seemed unjust. I am so stunned and hurt that I am not myself and do not know what I say. I am glad you kept silent. To have spoken would have been to ruin me, but why, having kept the secret so long, did you not keep it longer? Why did not father take it with him to his grave? Surely no good can come from wounding and humiliating me so cruelly. Perhaps not, my son, the old man answered feebly, for you it might have been better if I had never spoken. Possibly it is a morbid fancy, but I felt that I must confess to my minister. My conscience said so, and that I must tell you in order that you may be a comfort and help to Hannah in what she means to do. What does she mean to do? Burton asked an alarm and his father replied, Make restitution in some way to the friends of the man I killed, if she can find them. Oh, and Burton said his teeth firmly together as he thought what danger there might be in restitution, for that would involve confession, and that meant disgrace to the Gerald name. I shall prevent that if I can. It is well after all that I should know, he thought. Then to his father he said, Who was the man? Where are his friends? Tell me all now. Yes, I will. But Hannah, look, I thought I heard someone moving in the next room a few minutes ago. The old man said, and going to the door Hannah glanced around the empty kitchen which bore no trace of the white-faced boy, who not long before had left it with a naking heart and who at that moment was kneeling in the snow and asking God to forgive him for his grandfather's sin. There is no one there, and Sam is sleeping soundly in the room beyond. She said, as she returned to her father's side and taking her place by him passed her arm around him, and supported and reassured him, while he told the story of that awful night, the story which the author will tell in her own words rather than in those of the dying man who introduced a great deal of matter irrelevant to the case. 12. The story. 40 years or more before the night of which we write, there had come to Allington a peddler whose home was across the sea in Carnarvon, Wales. He was a little cross-eyed, red-haired, wiry man with a blunt, sharp way of speaking but was very popular with the citizens of Allington, to whom he sold such small articles as he could conveniently carry in a bundle upon his back. Needles, pins, thread, pencils, matches, thimbles, cough lozenges, brand-dressed spills, handkerchiefs, ribbons, combs, and sometimes Irish laces and Balbergans formed a part of his heterogeneous stock which was varied from time to time to suit the season or the wants of his customers. Very close at a bargain and very saving of his money he seldom stopped at the hotel but passed the night at the houses of his acquaintances who frequently made no charge for his meals or his lodgings. Especially was this the case at the farmhouse where the peddler whose name was Joel Rogers was always welcome and where he usually stayed when in Allington. Between Peter Gerald and the peddler there was a strong friendship and the two often sat into the small hours of the night while the latter told marvelous tales of his wild Welsh country which he held above all other lands and to which the last time he was seen in Allington he said he was about to return. For three days he remained in the town selling off the most of his stock and then bidding his friends goodbye started late on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Day for the adjoining town where a few debts were owing him and where he hoped to dispose of the rest of his merchandise. As he left the village the snow began to fall heavily and this perhaps was why he decided to stop at the farmhouse which was not upon the highway but nearly half a mile from it upon a crossroad which led through Peter Gerald's farm to the town line and which was seldom traveled by anyone except by Peter Gerald himself and those who came to visit him. Thus the house stood in a most lonely secluded spot with only the chimney and the top of the roof visible to the people of the neighborhood. Here Peter Gerald lived with his daughter Hannah who was now nearly fifteen and who had kept this house since her mother's death which occurred when she was twelve years old. Bright, unselfish and very pretty Hannah was a general favorite with the people of Allington and many were the merry makings and frolics held at the old farmhouse by her young friends. But these were suddenly brought to an end by a fearful sickness which came upon Hannah and which transformed her from the lighthearted, joyous girl of fifteen into a quiet, reserved, white-faced woman who might have passed for twenty-five and whose hair at eighteen was beginning to turn gray. It was the fever the people said and Hannah permitted them to think so though she knew the cause that lay behind the fever and dated from the awful night when Joel Rogers came into their kitchen and asked for shelter from the storm which was readily granted him. It was probably his last visit he said as it was doubtful if he ever returned to America for he meant to settle down and die in Carnarvon, his old home where his only sister Elizabeth was living. Then he talked of his money which he said was considerable and was mostly invested in some slate quarries in the vicinity of Carnarvon. For a long time the two men sat before the wood fire talking of England and Wales, eating the apples which Hannah brought them from the cellar and drinking freely of some wine which Peter had made himself and which he brought out in honor of his friend's last visit. This at last began to take effect, making them loud and noisy and inclined to contradict each other and quarrel generally and then as the peddler was counting out his gold of which he had several hundred dollars he turned suddenly to Mr. Gerald and said, by the way you have never paid me the five dollars I loaned you when I was here last winter. The latter affirmed that he had paid it in the spring and that Hannah saw him do it which was the fact. But the peddler persisted in his demand and grew louder and more vociferous in his language calling both Peter Gerald and Hannah liars and saying he would have his money if he went to law to get it. A violent quarrel then ensued and such epithets as liar, cheat and swindler were freely interchanged and then there was a simultaneous spring at each other, the chairs were overturned and they were rolling upon the floor, dealing each other fierce blows and tearing each other's hair like wild beasts. It was the peddler who struck first but Peter, being the stronger of the two, got his antagonist under him and with a stick of wood which was lying upon the hearth, struck him upon the head, inflicting a fearful wound from which the blood flowed in torrents, staining Peter's hands and face as he pushed back his hair and sobered him at once. But it was too late for when Hannah, who during the fight had cowered in the corner with her hands over her eyes, withdrew them as the struggle ceased and looked at the white, bloodstained face over which her father was bending, she knew the man was dead and with a cry of horror ran from the room out into the darkness where shriek after shriek of murder, murder, ran out upon the air and was drowned by the louder scream of the terrible storm which was sweeping over the hills that Thanksgiving night. Beside her in the snow crouched the house-dog rover, trembling with fear and mingling his howling cry of terror with her more awful one of murder. The dog had been a witness of the fray, keeping close by his mistress's side and occasionally uttering a low growl of disapproval as the blows fell thick and fast and when at last it was over and the dead man lay white and still with his blood upon the floor, rover sprang toward his master with a loud, angry bark and then fled with Hannah into the storm where he mingled his cry with hers and added to the horror of the scene. Half crazed with what he had done and terrified lest he should be detected, Peter Gerald's first idea was of self-preservation from the law and the cries he had heard outside filled him with rage and fear, staggering to his daughter's side he struck the dog a savage blow then taking Hannah roughly by the arm and leading her into the house he said to her fiercely, Are you crazy girl? That you yell out your father's guilt to the world? You and that brute of a dog whom I will kill and so have him out of the way? Here you rover, come here! he said to the dog who was standing before Hannah bristling with anger and growling at intervals. Come here while I finish you! Had he opened the door of the woodshed where he always kept the gun he had carried in the war of 1812? Divining his intention Hannah stepped between him and Rover on whose head she laid her hand protectingly while she said, Father you will not touch the dog if you value your own safety for if you do every man in Allington shall know what you have done before tomorrow dawns. Isn't it enough that you have killed him and she pointed shudderingly to the inanimate form upon the floor? For a moment Peter Gerald regarded her with the face of a maniac. Then his expression changed and with a burst of tears and sobs he fell upon his knees at her feet and clasping the hem of her dress abjectly in his hands besought her to pity him, to have mercy and save him from the gallows. For in the first frenzy of fear he felt it would be his life they would require if once his guilt were known. I cannot die a felon's death. You do not want your poor father hung? Think of yourself. Think of Burton. Both so young to carry such a disgrace all your lives. I did not mean to kill him. God knows I didn't. He provoked me so. He hit me first and I struck harder than I thought and he is dead. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? I cannot be hung. You will not betray me. Promise me you will not. She had no thought of betraying him except as she had threatened it in defense of Rover who now stood up erect looking first at her and then at her father as if curious to see how it would end. Father, I have no wish to see you hung. Hannah said while her knees shook under her at the thought. I shall not witness against you if I can help it. But what will you do? How can you keep it a secret? People will know when they see him that he did not die by fair means. To her the thought of hiding the crime had not occurred and a shudder of horror ran through her frame when her father said, People need not know. He was going to Europe. Let them think he has gone and we will bury him, you and I, where he will never be found. Burry him here? Where? And Hannah's teeth chattered with fright at the thought of living all her life in a house which held a buried secret in the shape of a murdered man. Burry him under the floor of my room over in the corner where the bed always stands. The father replied so calmly that Hannah looked at him wonderingly to see if he were utterly void of feeling that he could speak so quietly of what filled her with unspeakable dread. But he was neither callous nor unconcerned. He was merely stunned with the magnitude and suddenness of his crime and the natural fear of its detection. The repentance, the remorse were to come afterward and be meted out to him in such measure of bitterness as has seldom fallen to the lot of a man. Regarding his daughter fixately for a moment he said in a hard, reckless kind of way, Hannah there is no use in whimpering now. The deed is done and cannot be undone. Though God is my witness I would give my life in a moment for the one I have taken if I could and I swear to you solemnly that I wish I had been the one killed rather than the one to kill. But it was not to be so. I have slain my friend. The world would call it murder as you did and hang me. I cannot be hung. I must hide it, bury it, and you must help and swear on the Bible not to tell so long as I live. Will you do it? Answer quick and let us get to work for I am a very coward and hear voices in the storm as of people coming to take me. Will you help me and will you swear? Oh Father, Father! Hannah cried in an agony of entreaty. Do not ask me to help. Do not ask me to swear, though I promise not to tell if I can avoid it. But if he is missed, if inquiry is made for him, if he is traced here and I am questioned and put upon my oath, I cannot tell a lie and maybe they would not hang you when they knew the circumstances. He was very unreasonable and aggravating and called us both liars. I can testify to that. Oh Father, consider a moment. Would it not be better to go at once and confess the truth to someone who has influence? Captain Gray is our friend. Tell him and ask his advice. Go, Father, now and leave him where he lies. I shall not be afraid to stay alone knowing you are doing right. Go, Father. She was on her knees before him now, clasping his feet and pleading piteously. But she might as well have talked to a stone. Give himself up to the hangman. Never, he answered. And she was no daughter of his to desire his death as she evidently did. She could stay there in the corner with her dog as great a sneak as herself. He did not wish her services. He could manage alone, he said angrily, as he turned from her and entered his room where she heard him moving out his bed and knew that he was taking up a portion of the floor. Then there came over a great blackness and a buzzing in her head like the sound of many bees in the summer time and she fell upon her face unconscious of everything. How long she lay thus she did not know, but when she came to herself again there was no light in the room except that made by the dying fire upon the hearth and Rover was licking her cold-faced hands and now and then uttering a low whine as if in token of sympathy. The body was still upon the floor near her, but from her father's room there came a sound, the import of which she understood perfectly. Shivering as with a chill she moaned, Oh, how can I bear it? My life will be one long living death and I shall always want to shriek out the dreadful thing which father says I must keep. Can I, ought I? And could they hang my father? I do not think so. They would call it manslaughter and pardon him for my sake, for Burton's. And here the poor girl groaned bitterly as she thought of Burton her young brother whom she loved so much and of whom she was so proud and for whom she was so glad that he could live in Boston amid all the fine sights of a city which suited him better than the homely life at the farmhouse. Even after her mother's funeral her aunt, Mrs. Weatherby, had offered to take him home with her and bring him up as her own. Hannah had felt for a time as if she could not let him go and leave her there alone. But when she thought of all the benefit it would be to him and saw how much he wished it, she stifled every selfish feeling for his sake and saw him leave her without a sign of the pain at her heart or the unutterable longing she had for his companionship. And now, as she thought of him, her bitterest pang came from the fact that if this deed were known he would suffer all his life from the shame of it and to herself, she said, for Burton's sake I must bear it always and alone. He must never know what I know. No one must ever know and may God forgive me if I am doing wrong. And falling upon her knees with her head upon Rover's neck, their wretched girl prayed earnestly for grace to know what was right and strength to do it. And he, who hears every sincere cry for help, even though his ear may seem deaf and the Heaven's brass, sending back the cry like an unmeaning sound gave her the strength needful for the hour, and a feeling of calmness stall over her, making her quiet and even fearless of the stiffened form lying so near her upon the floor. But when a few minutes later her father appeared in the door with a candle in his hand and said to her, I have done all I can do alone, you must help me now. The old terror came back and staggering to her feet she asked, what do you wish me to do? Help carry him into the next room. Her father replied, and then, forgetting Burton, forgetting everything, she burst out again. Oh, father, will it not be better to tell the truth at once? The fact that you do so will go a long way to clearing you. The people all respect you so much and they know he was quarrelsome and insulting at times. Think, father, think. I have thought, he answered, and I tell you I cannot be hanged. Then, going swiftly to his bedroom, he came back with a Bible in his hand and standing before the white-faced girl said to her, I see I cannot trust you unless you swear upon this book, never, while I live, to breathe to any living person what has been done here tonight. When I am dead do what you like, but swear now as you hope for heaven never to tell. And Hannah took the oath which she dictated to her and kissed the sacred book which seemed to burn her lips as she did so. She had sworn. She would keep the vow to the end and her father knew it and with this fear lifted from his mind he became almost cheerful in his manner as he explained to her what she was to do. And Hannah obeyed him and with limbs which trembled in every joint went with him to the attic and helped him bring down some boards which had lain there for years and on which she and Burton had played many an hour in days gone by. She knew what he was going to do with them and without a word held the light while he fashioned the rude coffin in which he laid the dead man, but not until she had with her own hands reverently and tenderly wash the blood from the ghastly face and bound about the wound upon the temple a handkerchief which she found in his pack. Then after the body was placed in the box she took a pillow from her father's bed and putting on it a clean covering and placing it under the peddler's head folded his hands upon his breast and kneeling beside the box bowed her head upon the boards and began the Lord's prayer. It was her burial service for the dead all she could think of and for a moment her father stood staring at her as if stupefied with what he saw then his features relaxed and falling on his knees beside her cried out piteously, Oh Father in heaven forgive, forgive thou knowest I did not mean to do it. Have mercy, have mercy. Blot out my great sin and if her prayer for the dead is not wrong grant that this man my friend whom I sent into eternity with no time for repentance may be among the saved. Forbid that I should destroy him body and soul. Oh, help me, for the brand of cane is upon me and already my punishment seems greater than I can bear. If I could give my life for his I would do so gladly but I cannot and I must live on in torment forever and ever with this blood stain on my hands burning like coals of fire. Oh my heavenly Father, have mercy. I did not mean to do it. His head was on the rough coffin and he was sobbing in wild abandonment of despair while Hannah too knelt beside him with the face as white as the dead man's and eyes into which there had come a look of fright and horror which would never entirely leave them until her dying day. In a corner of the room Rover had been lying for the last fifteen or twenty minutes, lying the proceedings warily and occasionally giving a growl of disapproval when his master came near him and when the body was lifted into the coffin he uttered a long deep howl which echoed through the house like the wail of some troubled spirit drifting on the wings of the wind still moaning around the windows and the doors. Oh Rover, Rover, don't! Hannah cried going to him and winding her arms around his neck. Be quiet, Rover, or I shall die. As if he comprehended her meaning the noble brute lay down again and resting his head upon his paws looked on until his master gave way to his paroxysm of grief. Then he arose and going up to the prostrate man licked his hair and face just as earlier in the night he had licked Hannah's when she lay beside him on the floor. He was only a dog but his sympathy was reassuring to the wretched man who looked up and with a faint smile said to his daughter, Rover forgives and pities me. I will take it as a token that God will do so too and now we must finish our work. As if endued with superhuman strength Hannah helped her father carry the body to the grave he had dug and there they buried it while her tears fell like rain and her father's lips moved with the words, forgive, forgive. I did not mean to kill him. Everything belonging to the peddler was buried with him except a leathern bag in which was the gold he had counted in the evening and a small tin box fastened by a padlock, the key of which was found in his pocket and his silver watch which Hannah laid aside with the thought of his sister Elizabeth whom he had mentioned was so much affection and who he said was to be his heir. The money and the watch belonged to her and must be kept sacredly until the day when Hannah could safely give them to her as she fully meant to do. For the rest there was nothing of any value and they buried it with him and filled the grave or rather the father filled it while Hannah held the light and Rover looked on curiously. Then when all was done, when the floor was nailed down securely, the bed moved back to its place, the blood stains washed from the kitchen floor and there was nothing left to indicate the awful tragedy which had been enacted there, the father and daughter sat down with Rover lying between them and talked as to how they would face it. CHAPTERS XIII and XIV of Bessie's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes On the table beside them lay the watch, the leathern bag in the box which had belonged to the deceased. In the bag there were several hundred daughters in twenty, ten and five daughter gold pieces and in the box which Hannah unlocked there were some papers and tied together with a faded ribbon was a lock of dark brown hair, a bit of purple heather, a few English violets and some leaves of ivy, while on the paper in which they were wrapped was the date of a summer day many, many years ago when the dead man was young. Whatever might have been the romance of which this souvenir was the sign, it was buried forever with the past and Hannah put it back in the box as carefully and tenderly as if it were the hand of the woman on whose head that brown dress once grew. The next thing which met the view was a picture painted on ivory of a young girl who might have been sixteen or eighteen years of age and whose face was so beautiful that Hannah uttered an exclamation of surprise as she held it to the light and examined it closely. The dress was old-fashioned and such as would indicate that the wearer belonged to the middle rather than the wealthy class but Hannah did not think of that so absorbed was she in the beauty of the fresh young face and the expression of the large blue eyes which seemed to look at her so intently. The dark brown dress so carefully wrapped in paper and bearing the scent of English violets and Heather Blossoms could never have grown on this girl's head for the wavy hair which fell in such masses upon her neck was of that peculiar shade of gold dashed with red seldom seen in America and which laterally has become so fashionable that where nature fails to produce it art has been called into requisition and achieved most wonderful success. Oh how lovely she is! Hannah said showing the picture to her father. This must be his sister, the Elizabeth he was so fond of. He said once she was many years younger than himself and very beautiful. I do not wonder he loved her. The bundle of papers was next examined and found to contain a few receipts for monies paid in England and America and the will of the deceased executed some months before and in which he gave everything he possessed to his beloved and only sister Elizabeth, her heirs and assigns for ever. Father, Hannah said with a trembling voice as she finished reading aloud this will, I am sure that this is his sister's picture and we have a duty to do. We must find Elizabeth Rogers and put her in possession of her own, this gold in the box and whatever else he may have owned in Wales. He spoke of shares in some mines or quarries. These all belong to his sister and we must not defraud her. Those blue eyes would haunt me forever. What shall we do? She was looking earnestly at her father over whose face there came a sudden pallor and a hard, bitter expression as he answered her. Find her, of course, advertise, go to Wales if necessary in search of her or get a lawyer to do it. Break your vow, tell the whole truth as you would have to in order to establish his death and get me hanged. That would be the result of restitution. Oh, Father! Hannah cried in terror. Is there no other way? If I find this woman and give her her own, must I tell her the whole truth? Will it not be enough if I say he is dead that I saw him die and that I helped delay him in his coffin? I would not mention you or that I had a father. Surely she would be satisfied? Yes, she might, but not the law. I do not understand the ins and outs myself. There are so many questions necessary to make a thing legal, but this I am sure of. The whole thing would be ripped up and I hanged as I told you. No, Hannah, you cannot find this woman while I live, which, please, God may not belong. When I am gone, find her if you like, but you must shield me. Remember your vow and—and swear again—not to move in the matter while I live. He was growing so excited with this new fear that his daughter shrank from him in alarm, and at last yielding to his importunities took another oath of secrecy which doomed the blue-eyed woman in Wales to a life of poverty if such now were her portion. But what shall we do with this money? Hannah asked, and her father replied. Keep it until you can restore it to its rightful owner without harm to me. Elizabeth may never get it, but her heirs—some child yet on board may be made rich by you one day, who knows. Yes, some child then on board might one day be richer for this crime, but that did not comfort Hannah now, and the future held no gleam of hope or happiness for her, as she put the papers and the watch and the gold and the portrait together in the tin box and tried to think where she could hide them. Owing to the storm and the depth of the snow no one visited the lonely farmhouse until the Monday following the tragedy, when a neighbor came breaking through the drifts to see how it fared with Peter, who tried to appear natural as he talked of the depth of the snow and inquired for the news, and mentally anathematized the dog rover who, the moment the stranger appeared, stretched himself before the bedroom door with a keen, watchful look in his eyes, as if he were on the alert and guarding the terrible secret. And this habit commenced that morning was continued by the faithful creature up to the day of his death which happened several years later. No matter where he was, whether chasing a rabbit through the woods or sleeping by the stable door, he seemed by some instinct to know when a visitor arrived, and hastened at once to his post from which neither threats nor persuasions could dislodge him. For Hannah tried both, but when she coaxed he whined and whisked his big tail on the floor, and when she threatened he growled and showed his teeth, but stayed there just the same. The Monday night following the tragedy, Hannah was stricken down with a low, nervous fever which lasted for weeks, and from which she arose the mere shadow of her former self. All life and vivacity had left her, and instead of a girl of fifteen she seemed like a woman of twenty-five, so quiet and reserved she became with no color in her cheeks, no elasticity in her step, no joy in her voice, no brightness anywhere except in her large dark eyes, which shone with unusual brilliancy and had in them always a look which puzzled and fascinated her friends, who little dreamed of what those strangely bright, beautiful eyes saw constantly before them. Whether sleeping or waking the picture was always there, of the dead man on the floor with the blood stains on his face, and she felt the touch of the clammy hands which she had folded upon his breast. She could not go to school again, for in her morbid state of mind to study was impossible, and so she stayed at home, brooding over the past and shrinking from the future with no companionship except that of Rover who seemed so fully to understand and sympathize with her. Oftentimes when her work for the day was done and she sat down listlessly upon a little seat beneath the apple-tree which grew in the yard, the dog would go to her and putting his head in her lap, gaze into her face with such a human look of pity in his eyes that her tears would fall like rain as she wound her arms around his neck and sobbed, Oh dear old Rover, you know and you are sorry for me. What should I do without you? What shall I do when you are gone? And the white lips would frame a prayer that Rover might be spared to her long for without him life would be intolerable. And yet Hannah had no foolish fancies filled though the house was with the image of the dead man. She did not believe in ghosts and had no fear that the occupant of the hidden grave beneath the floor would come back to trouble her. It was rather the horror of the crime, the sin which so oppressed her, filling her with the wildest fancies and making her see always that dreadful word murder written everywhere upon the walls and the bloodstains on the floor where no trace was visible to other eyes than hers. Sometimes in the dark night in her lonely bed beneath the roof with the stars looking in upon her she felt as if her brain were on fire and that she was going mad with the load of anguish and guilt for she accused herself as equally guilty with her father in as much as she had witnessed the deed and was helping him to conceal it. But God knows I cannot help it. I am bound with bonds I cannot break. She would cry as she stretched her hands toward heaven in dumb supplication for pardon and peace which came at last to the troubled spirit. And though she never knew again the joy of youth which had left her forever there came to her long intervals of rest and quiet and comparative peace if not happiness. And when three years after the tragedy which had blighted her young life she with others of her companions ratified her baptismal vows and openly confessed Christ he who sees and knows the secrets of all hearts knew that among those who knelt to receive the right of confirmation there was not one pure or more sincere than she who thought herself the vilest of the vile. Naturally as time rolled on and the peddler Rogers came no more to Allington inquiries were made for him the people wondering if he intended remaining in Wales the remainder of his life or would he appear in their midst again some day with his Baalbergans and Irish linens but as he had never been more to the citizens than a peddler of dry goods he was soon forgotten and Peter Gerald's secret was safe under the floor and the tin box with the gold and the will was safe in the niche of the huge chimney where Hannah had hidden it until such times it could be given into the hands of the rightful owner for this Hannah fully intended doing how or when or by what agency she could not tell but some time in the future restitution would be made either to Elizabeth or her heirs she had calculated the interest on the money and resolved yearly to lay by that amount for the benefit of the Roger heirs everything pertaining to Carnarvon she read up knowing perfectly its history where it was situated how to reach it and almost fancying that she knew the very house where the peddler had lived and where possibly Elizabeth was still living and some day she would find the place and give up the money and will and tell as much of the past as was necessary to tell but no more and with this end in view she lived her dreary monotonous life which knew no changed except on the rare intervals when her young brother Burton came up from Boston to spend a few days with the father and sister from whom he was growing estranged so fast for between them and himself there was nothing common and he was always glad when his short visit was over and he was free to return to the life more in accordance with his taste than that at the farmhouse when Rover died several years after the tragedy of which he was a witness Anna felt that she had lost all that made life and durable and mourned for him as for a human friend with all the faithful sagacity of his race the noble root had clung to her seldom quitting her side and frequently when her heart was saddest and she was weeping by herself licking her face and hair and uttering a kind of low cry as if he understood her perfectly and when at last he died it was with his head in her lap and her tears falling upon his shaggy face even to the last he was faithful to the charge he had so long assumed a neighbor had come into the kitchen and dragging himself from the mat on which he was lying Rover crawled to the door of the bedroom and stretched himself in front of it while in the dying eyes lifted to Hannah's face there was an expression of unutterable love and regret for the mistress he was leaving forever when the visitor left the house Hannah tried to coax the dog back to his mat near the stove but he was too weak to move and so she placed a blanket under him and kneeling by his side put his head in her lap and held it there until he ceased to breathe after his death there was nothing to relieve the tedium of Hannah's life but for her trust in God her reason must have given way under the strain for it was not only her own sorrow but her father's as well which she had to bear with him there was no rest day or night and every breath was a prayer for mercy and forgiveness at first he was continually haunted with a fear of detection and frequently in the night he would steal noiselessly to Hannah's room and awakening her with a whisper tell her there were men about the house come to arrest him and charge her with having broken her oath and betrayed him into the hands of the law every possible precaution against the surprise was taken iron bolts were put on the doors the windows were nailed down and the house was never for an hour left alone the people said the man was deranged and pitied the young girl who from daily association with him was becoming almost as peculiar as himself after a few years the aged pastor who had so long officiated in the stone church on the common died and the Reverend Charles Sanford fresh from the theological cemetery was called to take his place full of energy and zeal in his work the young rector soon made himself equated with all his parishioners and seem to find a peculiar attraction in the inmates of the farmhouse where he spent a great deal of time arguing with the father on the nature of the unpardonable sin and answering the many questions his host propounded to him upon the subject of genuine repentance and its fruits and how far confession to man was necessary that one might be saved to these discourses Hannah was always an attentive listener and there came gradually a new light into her dark eyes and a faint color to her white cheeks when she saw the rector coming up the walk and met his winning smile but all this was ended at last for after a night in June when she walked with the young clergyman through the pasture land under the row of chestnut trees which grew upon the hillside he came less frequently to the farmhouse and when he did come his discourse was mostly with her father whom he was laboring to convince that it was his duty to be confirmed but Peter always answered him no you don't know what you ask I am too vile too greatest sinner for that the very stones would cry out against me the clergyman thought him crazy and after a time abandoned the effort and went but seldom to the farmhouse where Hannah had again entered the dark cloud in which his coming had made a rift and which now seemed darker than ever because of the momentary brightness which had been thrown upon it she too had labored with her father as Mr. Sanford had done telling him of the peace which was sure to follow a duty performed but he answered her never child never for don't you see I must first confess in that is to put the halter around my neck they would hang me now sure for the concealment if for nothing more it might have been better if I had told at first as you advised I believe now they would have been lenient toward me a few years in prison perhaps and then freedom the rest of my life oh if I had done it but now it is forever too late God may forgive me I think he will but I can never join his church with this crime on my soul after this Hannah said no more to him upon the subject but bent all her energies to soothe and rid him of the morbid half crazy fancies which had taken possession of him and so the wretched years went on until Peter Gerald had numbered more than three score years and ten and suffered enough to atone many times for crimes far more heinous than this had been but nature at last could endure no more and on the Thanksgiving night thirty one years after the event which had blighted his life he felt that he was dying and insisted upon confessing his sin not only to his son but also to his clergyman who had been his friend and spiritual advisor for so many years I shall die so much easier he said to Hannah who sent for them both and then with her arm around her father held him against her bosom while he told in substance and with frequent pauses for breath the story we have narrated fourteen the effect of the story after the first great shock of surprise when the word murderer dropped from his lips and he reproached his sister so harshly and unreasonably Bert and Gerald stood with folded arms and a gloomy unsympathetic face as immovable at first as if he had been a stone and listened to the tale as repeated by his father but when the tragic part was reached and he saw the dead man on the floor his sister crouching in the corner of the room with Rover at her side the rude coffin the open grave and the secret midnight burial his breath came in long shuttering gasps and the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead and about his palate lips and when his father said I buried him here in this room under this bed where I have slept ever since and he is there now he started backward as suddenly as if the ghost of the peddler had risen from the floor and confronted him then staggering forward he would have fallen if Mr. Sanford had not caught him by the arm and supported him a moment bringing him a chair the clergyman said to him pittingly sit down Mr. Gerald and try to compose yourself you are not in fault no one can blame you no no I know it but it hurts me just the same the disgrace I can never be happy again oh Hannah why did you let him tell me I cannot bear it I cannot the wretched Burton moaned and his father replied your sister has borne it for 31 years are you less brave than she I don't know yes I believe I am I have more at stake than she our positions are not the same there is Geraldine and Gray I can never look them in the face again knowing what I know Burton cried impetuously and covering his face with his hands he sobbed as strong men never sob save when some terrible storm which they feel themselves inadequate to meet is beating pitilessly upon them oh brother Hannah said in her soft and treating voice this is worse than all the rest don't take it so hard it is not so bad as you think you will not be disgraced Geraldine will never know the world will never know char Mr. Sanford is just as safe as I he will never tell and the dark eyes looked for one moment at the man whom in her excitement and forgetfulness she had almost called by his Christian name and who in response to the call and the look went to her side and laying his hand upon her head said solemnly as heaven is my witness what I have heard here tonight shall never pass my lips pressing his hand for an instant upon Hannah's bowed head he withdrew it but stayed at her side until the recital was ended and the old man who was sinking fast said to him in a faint whisper you know all now and why I could not join the church it was too late to tell the world of my guilt God knew it I believe he has baptized me with his holy spirit do you think that as his minister you can pray for my departing soul yes yes the clergyman replied and falling upon his knees for he saw in the pinched face the look he could not mistake he began the prayer for the dying one who whispered faintly that is good very good and now Hannah the Lord's prayer once more it is the last we have said it many times together you and I when the night was blackest and we could think of nothing else where are you Hannah he added in a tone of alarm as if he had lost her it is growing dark and I cannot see you must not leave me now we have kept together so long I am here father with my arm around your neck and I am kissing your dear face Hannah said and then bending over she commenced the prayer they had so often said together when no other words would come faintly the old man's voice joined hers and that of the clergyman and only Burton was silent he could not pray but sat silent while his father whispered at short intervals forgive yes that's the good word and I am forgiven I feel it I know it salvation is sure even for me and in heaven I shall wait and watch for you Hannah the best and true as daughter a man ever had oh god bless my Hannah and grant that some joy some happiness may come to her when I am gone and gray the baby gray oh bless him too with every needful blessing the baby gray whose little hands took the stain the smart from mine my gray whom I love so much and Burton too Hannah suggested as her father see speaking without mentioning his son yes he replied rousing a little and Burton my son god bless him but he is not like you Hannah nor like gray he could not forgive as you have he will never forgive me and yet he is very just very good very respectable and the honorable Burton Gerald of Boston tell him goodbye and god bless him from me the murderer those were the last words he ever spoke for though he lingered for some hours it was in a kind of stupor from which they could not rouse him seeing that he could be of no further service and remembering the careful Martha who he knew was sitting up for him armed with reproaches for the lateness of the hour and various medicines as preventatives for the gold he was sure to have taken Mr Sanford signified his intention to return home and insisted that the boy Sam should not be awakened to drive him there the storm had ceased the moon had come out and he greatly preferred the walk he said even if the snow was deep there were curious thoughts crowding in the brain of the grave quiet man tumultuous thoughts which spanned a score of years and brought with them keen joy as well as a bitter pain he was standing before the kitchen fire with Hannah near him holding the warm muffler he was to tie around his neck regarding her fixedly for a moment he said addressing her by the old pet name which had once been so familiar to him Hanny that is why you said no to me that summer night when we walked together under the chestnut trees and I felt that you had broken my heart anyone who saw Hannah Gerald at that moment would have called her beautiful with the sudden light which shown in her dark eyes the bright cutter which came to her cheeks and the softness which spread itself all over her upturned face as she answered promptly and still very modestly yes Charlie that was the reason for an instant these two whom a cruel fate had separated looked into each other's eyes with a look in which the love of twenty years was embodied then involuntarily the hands clasped and the man and the woman who had walked together under the chestnut trees twenty years ago kissed each other for the first time in their lives she feeling that on her part there was nothing unwomanly nothing wrong in the act and he feeling that on his part there was not the shadow of infidelity to the woman who bore his name and looked so carefully after his welfare the one was his wife whom he respected greatly and to whose wishes he sacrificed every wish of his own when he could conscientiously do so the other was the woman he had loved in the long ago and whose no spoken so decidedly and with no explanation except that it must be had sent him from her with a heartache from which he now knew he had never fully recovered twelve years after that summer the memory of which was still half joy half pain he had married miss Martha Adams of Cambridge because a mutual friend had told him he ought to do so that a bachelor clergyman was never as useful as a married one and that miss Martha a maiden lady of thirty five was eminently fitted to fulfill the duties of erector's wife for she came from a long line of clergy and for years had run the Sunday school and the sewing society and the church generally in the parish to which she belonged added to this she had some money and excellent health two good things in a minister's wife as everybody knew Mr. Sanford promised his friend to think about it and then one afternoon walked across the fields to the house among the rocks and looked again at Hannah who was twelve years older and graver and quieter than when she won the love of his young manhood but there was something inexpressibly sweet in the pale sad face and the large dark eyes thrilled him as they did of old so that he found his longing for her greater if possible than ever but when he said to her Hanny have you ever regretted your answer to me and she replied no never he turned away and walking back across the fields to his own home wrote to his friend in Walpole signifying his readiness to be introduced to Miss Martha Adams the result of this was that Martha had been his wife for nearly eight years and ruled him with a rod of iron which she however sometimes covered so that he did not feel it quite so much as he might otherwise have done but it pressed heavily now as in the clear cold night he walked slowly home through the deep untrodden snow which he scarcely minded so intent were his thoughts upon the past and what might have been alas for the many hearts aching in secret and sending backward vain regrets for what might have been what should have been but what can never be and if sometimes the heart thus rung cries out with a great cry for the happiness it has missed is their disloyalty to him or her who stands where another should have stood God only knows and he is far more merciful and ready to forgive his airing children than are they to forgive each other and he must have pitied the man who with the thought of Hannah thrilling every fiber of his heart went back to the home where Martha was waiting impatiently for him with words of chiding upon her lips he knew it would be so knew she would sit up for him until morning if necessary and knew to that in all probability bowls of herb tea and a hot foot bath awaited him for Martha was careful of his help and sometimes oppressive with her attentions and he sighed as he drew near his home and saw the light and thought oh if she would only go to bed and leave me alone a while and not make me talk but she was up and waiting for him in her purple flannel dressing gown which did not improve her ruddy complexion and a frown on her face which deepened into a scowl as he came in and she saw the condition of his boots in the lower part of his pants Charles Sanford she began do you mean to say you walked and do you know what time it is yes Martha he answered meekly it is very late but I could not help it and I insisted upon walking rather than have the tired sleeping boy come out in the cold I needed the exercise I am not cold but you have taken cold you needn't tell me and I've got the water ready for a foot bath and some hot boncette tea how did you leave Mr. Gerald and did he take the sacrament at last she said and he replied no he did not he but before he could say more she burst out with growing irritability not take it why then did he send for you on such a night and why did you stay so long she was pouring the boiling water into the foot tub in which she had put a preparation of mustard and prickly ash and red pepper which she kept on hand for extreme cases like this and the odor of the steam made him sick and faint as grasping the mantle he replied he wished me to pray with him he will not live till morning please don't talk to me anymore I am more tired than I thought and something makes me very sick he was as white as ashes and with all her better softer nature roused for Martha was at heart a very good woman she helped him to a chair and bathed this head in alcohol and rubbed his hands and did not question him again but she made him swallow the herb tea and she kept on talking herself wondering what Hannah would do after her father was gone would she stay there alone or live with her brother most likely the former as Mrs. Gerald would never have her in her family and really one could not blame her Hannah was so peculiar and queer pity was that she had never married an old maid was always in the way and then Mrs. Martha as if bent on torturing her husband to whom every word was a stab wondered if any man ever had wanted Hannah Gerald for his wife and asked her husband if he had ever heard of any such thing I should not be likely to know it he replied for until you came I never heard any gossip there was an implied rebuke in this answer and it silenced Mrs. Martha who said no more of Hannah but as soon as possible got her Lord to bed with a soapstone at his feet and a blanket wrapped around him in order to make him sweat and break up the cold she was certain he had taken meanwhile at the farmhouse Burton and his sister were standing together near the kitchen fire where poor Gray had stood two hours before and heard what changed the coloring of his whole life they were speaking of him and what they said was if it were only myself I might bear it Burton said though life can never be to me again what it has been and I shall think like Cain that the sin is branded on me and I was so proud and stood so high and meant to make the name of Gerald so honorable a name that Gray and his children would rejoice that they bore it of course but I shall and that will make a difference Hannah he added quickly struck by something in her face what did you mean or rather what did father mean by your making restitution to the peddler's friends what is there to restore in his recital if his crime the old man had omitted to speak of the money and the will or at most he had touched so lightly upon them that it had escaped the notice of his son whose mind was wholly absorbed in one idea and that of the body buried under the floor within a few feet of him Hannah explained to him what her father meant and told him of the box and the gold to which she had every year added the interest compound interest to so that the amount had more than quadrupled and she had found it necessary to have another and larger box in which to keep the treasure that is why I have so often asked you to change bills into gold for me she said paper might depreciate in value or the banks go down but gold is gold everywhere and I have tried so hard to earn or save the interest denying myself many things which I should have enjoyed as well as most women and getting for myself the reputation of closeness and even stinginess which I did not deserve I had to be economical with myself to meet my payments which increased as the years went on until they are so large that sometimes I have not been able to put the hole in the box at the end of the year and I am behind hand now but I keep an exact account and shall make it up in time but Hannah I used to give you money willingly and would have given you more if you had asked for it I had no idea of this Burton said and she replied yes I know you would but I did not like to do it for fear you would thank me extravagant and wonder what I did with so much not a penny you gave us every went into the box that was my matter not yours and I have worked so hard to do it for father was not able to look after the farm which of itself is foreign Baron and as he was only willing to hire a boy I have done a man's work myself at times you Hannah you Burton said gazing at the pale faced frail looking woman who had done the work of a man rather than ask money of him who sometimes spent more on one large party than she did in a whole year and who said to him with a sad smile yes I have spate at the garden and planted the corn in the field back of the hill where no one could see me and have helped Sam get in the hay though I never attempted to mow but I did lay up a bit of stonewall which had tumbled down I have done what I could poor Hannah no wonder that her hands once so small and shapely were broad and hard and rough and not much like Mrs Geraldines on which there were diamonds enough to more than liquidate the debt due to Elizabeth Rogers and her ears and no wonder that her dress which so often offended her brother's artistic and critical eye was coarse and plain and selected with a view to durability rather than comeliness she had done what she could and what few women would have done and Burton knew it and was conscious of a great feeling of respect and pity if not affection for her as she stood before him in a stooping posture with her toil worn hands clasped together as if asking his pardon for having intruded her own joyless life upon his notice but above every other feeling in his heart was the horrible fear of exposure if she attempted restitution and he said to her at last I am sorry for you Hannah and I can understand how with your extreme conscientiousness you believed at your duty to do as you have done but this must go no further to discover Elizabeth Rogers is to confess ourselves the children of a murderer and this I cannot allow you have no right to visit father's sin upon gray who would be sure to find it out if you stirred in the matter he is sensitive very and proud of his name it would kill him to know what we do no brother it would hurt him but not kill him Hannah said with energy and ever since he was a little child I have depended upon him to comfort me to help me as I knew he would when he was older and something tells me he will find the airs I do not mean to tell him until he is a man able to understand Hannah and there was fears anger in the voice you are not my sister if you ever dare tell gray this thing or hinted to him in any way he must never know it both for his own sake and mine I could not even look at him without shame if he knew what my father was you have kept it thirty one years keep it thirty one longer and as you vowed secrecy to my father so swear to me solemnly as you hope for heaven never to tell gray or anyone he had seized her wrist and held it so tightly that she winced with pain as she cried out oh Burton I cannot I must restore the money and the will stuff and nonsense he repeated growing more and more excited that woman is dead before this and her airs if she had any scattered to the winds people never miss what they never had and they will not miss this paltry some promise me that you will drop this insane idea of restitution and never reveal what you know even after Geraldine and I are dead should you outlive us both think of the disgrace to the grays and so worried and worn and half grazed with fatigue and excitement Hannah bound herself again and had not gray already known the secret Elizabeth Rogers airs would never have heard of the tin box in the chimney from which place Hannah brought it at last to show the contents to her brother who perfectly sure that she would keep her word could calmly examine the wheel and scan the features of the young girl upon the ivory she is very lovely he said though evidently she belongs to the working class her dress indicates as much but whoever she is or was she is not like this now she is old or dead put it back in the box Hannah and if ever you accidentally find to a certainty where the original is or her airs send the will and the money to her from Boston or New York and she will thus get her own without knowing where it came from this was rather a lame way to make restitution but Hannah seized upon it as something feasible and felt in a measure comforted she would herself go to Europe sometime and hunt up the Roger air so cautiously that no suspicion could attach to her and then having found them she would send them the will and the money she was hoarding for them this was a ray of hope amid the darkness this straw to which she clung and the future did not seem quite so cheerless even when a few hours later she stood with her brother by the side of her dead father who had died without a struggle or sigh just as the chill morning was breaking in the east and giving promise of a fairer day than the previous one had been and of chapters 13 and 14