TRULY, VENGEANCE IS MINE.
"Sit down and dangle your legs, and you will see your revenge."
—Italian Proverb.
It is a broiling day, or has been, but toward evening the same dense, lurid heat reigns over everybody and everything. The Australian sunset is going down in all its fiery glory. The sandy wastes stretch out far and wide, looking in the glowing heat like beds of living ashes. The miners are all out by their hut doors, vainly endeavoring to catch a reviving breath of fresh air, which seems very loth to lend its invigorating presence.
"Jim wants to see the American paper we got last night; here's a Canadian one, too." The man addressed took the pipe he was smoking out of his mouth.
"No, lad, there's nothing in the papers to interest me; lend it to some of the other chaps, there may be something to please them." He puts his pipe in his mouth and finishes his smoke. "May I see them a few moments, please?" asks the man whom no one dares approach with other than respect. He had come there and been very successful with his mine; the men said he was making money fast. He never drank, nor told long yarns with his fellow workers, and they at first feared, then grew to respect his solitude. Through the day no one worked harder than Ned Field, and it stood to reason that at night he was too tired to remain talking when sleep and rest were so much needed. He takes the paper in his own little cabin, spreads the sheet out on the table, and pores over the contents with eager eyes.
"Serious and Supposedly Fatal Accident.—As Mr. Cyril Fanchon was being driven home from his office, the horses became startled, ran away, upsetting the carriage, and throwing him out immediately in front of the convent of St. Marguerite. The injured gentleman was carried into the convent, where he now lies in a critical condition. Mr. Fanchon is of the firm of Litchfield & Fanchon, whom the reader may remember as Litchfield being the defaulter for thirty thousand dollars, and who left the country with that amount. It is supposed Mr. Fanchon, who is well and favorably known, will die."
The paper lies unheeded on the table, the minutes and hours pass unheeded likewise, but the man sitting there in the little rudely constructed cabin never stirs. The clock strikes five and the man springs to his feet.
There is quite a surprise among the miners, when they start to work the next morning, to see their old chum departing with his few worldly goods for parts unknown. He took passage in the next steamer, and his heart rejoiced as each mile brought him nearer the completion of his hopes.
Sir Barry Traleigh has started out for a walk. All day he has been unsettled, anxious, worried; he cannot define the feeling which oppresses him, as he expresses it; he feels as if "something unusual was going to happen." Very tired and often very discouraged was Sir Barry during those two years. He had tried with untiring, unwearied patience to find Mr. Litchfield's whereabouts, no expense of time or money had he spared, and yet not a word of hope could he send to the anxious, waiting family. All he could do was to buoy them up with hopes, and those were almost failing him. He had written a letter to Miss Adeline, telling of his assumption of another name, and pleaded for her to forgive the deception he had practised upon them, but saying she would be sure to forgive, when he could explain personally. All this he had written, and much more to the same effect. Dolores answered the letter for her aunt. A letter full of bitter reproaches, refusing to hear any explanation from him—words which stung Sir Barry's proud spirit to the quick. Any other man would have thrown up the whole business, but not so Sir Barry. He could not understand Dolores' strange actions. He sent a postal card saying he was going to see them, and named the day. But he received a curt note, saying they were not at home to strangers; so Sir Barry would not force himself where he was not wanted. He had certainly done wrong, but then Miss Adeline might have been a little more charitable. He was sure it must be Dolores who influenced Miss Adeline, and what he had ever done to be under the bane of Dolores' displeasure, was more than Sir Barry's keenest discernment could fathom. It entirely disheartened his efforts, this fruitless search, from day to day, week to week, and month to month, seeking among strange faces. The cabs and busses rattled along, up and down, in a ceaseless clatter of wheels and rumbles, that make him wonder if they tried to see how many scurrying foot passengers they could knock down in their progress along. He stands a minute to watch the whirling, pushing mass, then enters the station house, as the train is coming, in to watch who comes. And the first man he meets is the one man whom he would give the best thousand dollars he had to meet, just when and where he does. In spite of the heavy beard and deep sunburn, Sir Barry is not to be deceived; he recognizes immediately his old friend Edward Litchfield. Sir Barry rushes forward, extending his hands, and greeting him joyfully.
"Ah, Jet my boy, the first home face I have seen; it does my heart good to look at your face, lad." Edward Litchfield looks haggard and worried.
"How are things working?" are the first words he utters after the welcome is over, and they have taken a cab for Sir Barry's apartments.
"Of course Fanchon got the money, and used it; you disappeared, and of course he let you carry the blame with you; the business is going on with Fanchon at the head. It is the second rather steep affair for which he will be called to account. Of course I could do nothing, but now you are here, we will have a general sifting up of affairs," Sir Barry says with satisfaction.
"How is Fanchon getting? Poor fellow, I feel so sorry for him, but it is my duty to clear my own and my family's name from dishonor."
"We will go to the convent to-morrow, and see if he can say anything, clearly," Sir Barry says.
He is very anxious that all this miserable affair shall be cleared up as soon as possible.
The reports next day of the patient were much better; there was no question but that he would die, but as far as clearness of mind went, why he was perfectly capable of settling any affairs he wished. Sir Barry secures the services of a prominent lawyer and an officer of the police force, and with the physician visited the convent the next day. They took down Fanchon's written confession. He had knowingly obtained the missing money, for purposes he did not state; he professed himself sorry for having wronged his partner, but seemed utterly unaware of what punishment he would be called upon to suffer for his crime. Then Sir Barry says clearly:
"It is an understood fact that Cyril Fanchon is accused and found guilty of default of trust, is that true gentlemen?" Sir Barry looks around the room inquiringly.
"The man's own words declare himself guilty," is the reply.
"And I accuse him of another crime, that of bigamy."
"Sir Barry you must surely be mistaken," interrupted Mr. Litchfield, gravely. The silence for a moment is almost unbearable.
"That man lying there went to Scotland, won the affections of a pure, innocent girl, the pretty daughter of one of my tenants. He married her when he was already married here. He left his little Scottish bride, and she left her home, followed him here and found him a married man with a wife and family. She gave up all worldly ambitions; she is here in this convent, the girl who has tended him so faithfully during his illness—Sister Jean, once Jantie Mackeith. Are you listening? Is it not so?"
If Cyril Fanchon were dying, Sir Barry could not help feeling that Jantie Mackeith's hour of triumph had come. From pale to red, from red to purple, turned the face of Cyril Fanchon.
"Is that true?" Mr. Litchfield's voice is stern and reproachful. "Can it be possible this young man can be guilty of so much dishonor? impossible."
The doctor gives Fanchon some brandy, and he says sullenly:
"Well, if I did, whose business is it but my own?"
"Scoundrel," comes from Sir Barry's clenched teeth.
"In those two cases my friend, you are in my charge." The police officer steps forward.
"Cannot arrangements be made to let him remain here? You see death is not far off." Mr. Litchfield feels so sorry to see his late partner reduced to such distressing circumstances.
"Pity does more harm than good to such men as him," Sir Barry declares. All inducements were unavailable, and Cyril Fanchon was removed to prison. His wife, utterly heart-broken, took her children and went home to her father, and Edward Litchfield was proclaimed a free man. Old friends gathered around, glad to find their friend had not been unworthy their esteem.
"Aunt Adeline, you had better go right in the kitchen, for Zoe is in the preserve kettle, and I am afraid your plums will be scarce if they are not looked after, by some one less fond of tasting them than she is."
Aunt Adeline is out in the garden gathering fruit: peaches, ripe and luscious, and pears, rich and mellow.
"There, give me the basket, and I will finish." Dolores daintily holds up her white skirt, and climbs up the stepping stones, the better to gather those aunt Adeline could not reach.
"Say, Dolores, please throw me down that big, ripe peach up there, just this side of your head. Oh dear." Dolores does as requested.
"Zoe, child, what is it now?" she asks anxiously.
"I burnt my tongue, that's what's the matter, if you want to know. I wish I'd let the old preserves alone." She stands there leaning her pretty plump arms on the fence and watches her sister.
The train whistle blows shrilly, and is the only noise that disturbs the sweet drowsy stillness. Then the youngest Miss Litchfield saunters idlely off, vainly trying to coax the burnt tongue with sundry ripe peaches and pears.
Dolores laughs and works on; and as the sunlight glances through the boughs of the trees, lingering with a loving touch on her pretty hair, and sparkles and glistens in the tiny diamond earstuds, which had been Blondine's last Christmas gift. Dolores loved these, her only valuable trinkets, and wore them constantly: she even slept in her pretty eardrops. The little gate in the vegetable garden clicks, but the young lady perched on the wall never heeds it. She goes on placidly gathering her pears and peaches. Occasionally a more tempting one than the others finds its doom in her pretty mouth, but then the picker is always privileged.
"My eldest daughter is, as usual, busy, and where is my other daughter?"
It seems so natural that she should hear that voice; and those very words have been repeated so often that Dolores laughs softly, then she gives herself a little pinch to make sure she is awake, and not dreaming, then she looks down.
"Father." Slipping down into his arms.
"Hurrah! Aunt Adeline, father's home." Shouts the brilliant Miss Zoe, rushing up to fling her long arms around that beloved neck. She has witnessed the arrival from the very highest limb of a sweet bough apple tree, and has come down as quickly as possible, to the utter destruction of her dress sleeve, which looked now utterly innocent of ever being dignified by the name of sleeve. Nevertheless, her greeting was just as sincere, for Mr. Litchfield loved this, his youngest daughter, fondly; in fact, considered her a queen among women, no matter how she looked in other people's eyes. The fatted calf was certainly killed that day, in honor of the master's return. Aunt Adeline piled the tea-table with everything good, every imaginable luxury, to tempt her brother's appetite. And Zoe had a right royal feast, having three different kinds of preserves, and every variety of pie and cake, in which her longing heart delighted. It was a truly gala day.