THE SECRET OF THE FOOT-REST.
For a moment Gerald was stricken dumb with astonishment by the unexpected announcement that John Hubbard had married the heiress to Adam Brewster’s fortune, and all that it implied.
Then there arose with him a terrible indignation in view of what he believed to be a foul wrong—the successful consummation of the long and cunning plotting of a skilful knave.
“Do I understand that you have married this so-called Miss Anna Brewster?” he finally demanded in a strangely calm voice.
“Exactly; that is just what I have done,” replied the man, showing his teeth. “Miss Anna was a handsome girl, of whom almost any man might feel proud—well educated and—ah—amiable. She is a few years older than Allison. She was naturally grateful for the interest which I manifested in her affairs; we found, upon a closer acquaintance, that we were mutually congenial, and she consented to honor me with her hand.”
“And her fortune, also—it goes without saying, I suppose?” scornfully interposed Gerald, who was fast losing command of himself, as he realized what consummate villainy lay behind this revelation.
“Certainly; Miss Brewster being the only child of her father, of course inherits the bulk of his property, although the widow has her third; while the lady having become my wife, it naturally devolves upon me to manage her interests,” the man responded, a ghastly, malicious grin expressing his enjoyment of the situation.
“You are a scoundrel, sir!” said Gerald, between his compressed teeth. “I firmly believe that for years you have been scheming for this very thing. I know that you wanted to marry Allison when you believed her to be rich, and when you could not carry your point in that direction, and get her money, you doubtless plotted to bring the same result about in some other way.”
“Well, you certainly did not succeed in getting any of Adam Brewster’s gold!—you were rather balked in your efforts to win the pretty heiress—eh!” sneered the wretch, but flushing guiltily beneath the young man’s fiery, accusing glance.
“I would scorn to marry any woman for her money,” said Gerald proudly.
“You did care, for the girl, though—you became very sweet on her, if I remember rightly.”
“That is a matter which does not concern you in the least, sir.”
“Think so?” was the satirical rejoinder. “Possibly it does not—now, but it did concern me very much at one time. Have you forgotten the very significant little object-lesson which I gave you over three years ago? I told you, when I crushed the bud which she had given to you, that everything which stood in my path should share the same fate.”
“I remember,” said Gerald sternly, but with bloodless lips, as he thought how that act had symbolized Allison’s fate as she lay crushed and bleeding beneath that fatal wreck; “but,” he continued in the same tone, “let me now, in turn, prophesy for you—your day of triumph will be short, for if you have been guilty of fraud—and I firmly believe you have—if you have been false to the trust which Mr. Brewster reposed in you, you will ere long find yourself doomed. I am studying law, Mr. Hubbard, under one of the shrewdest attorneys of our day, and, when I complete my studies, if not before, I shall make it my business to investigate this singular case, which has so recently excited the gossip of New York society, and given a million or more of money into your greedy hands; and, if such a thing be possible, justice shall be meted out to you.”
“Bah! you brag like a second David, aching to slay another Goliath; but such valiant deeds are not achieved in this nineteenth century, you insufferable boaster!” snarled John Hubbard, as he turned resolutely aside to pursue his way.
“Hold!” commanded Gerald authoritatively; “I have yet one more word for you. Following out your simile, let me say that my sling is a dauntless will, and a pebble may yet be found which will do its work and hurl you from the heights, upon which you feel so secure, into an ignominious abyss from which you will never arise.”
Upon returning to Lady Bromley’s elegant residence in Portland Square, Gerald informed Mr. Lyttleton of his encounter with John Hubbard. The lawyer was deeply interested in the rehearsal of the conversation which had taken place between the two, and when the young man concluded, he remarked, with no little warmth and conviction:
“There certainly has been foul play in connection with the Brewster property. I always felt that the man was a rascal, but he is a very clever one, and you may be very sure that he has so covered his tracks and burned his bridges behind him that, unless some unforeseen evidence comes to light, it would be very difficult to depose him from his position.”
“I cannot credit that story regarding the woman who calls herself Mrs. Brewster,” said Gerald reflectively. “I would give a good deal to have our old friend, Plum, examine that certificate of hers, and those old letters, which she claims were written by Mr. Brewster before their marriage.”
“I fear you will never be gratified, my boy,” said his friend; “the case has been settled, and no one has any authority to rake it over again, unless, as I said before, some new evidence should be forthcoming, or some barefaced fraud detected which would implicate the victors in the recent trial. If we had been in New York at the time the case was in court, I should have followed it with a great deal of interest.”
Gerald said no more about the matter at that time. All the same, he made a secret resolve that immediately upon his return he would go to New Haven and examine the records of marriage-certificates, to assure himself that matters were exactly as they had been represented.
He could not—he would not believe that there had ever been an ignoble secret in his former employer’s life. He almost felt it a personal injury, and resented it as such, that his fair name should have been so smirched before the public. He felt, too, that Mrs. Manning, as the nearest of kin, was being deeply wronged by having Mr. Brewster’s large fortune so diverted from its proper channel.
The week following found him, with Lady Bromley and Mr. Lyttleton, on the broad Atlantic, and fast approaching the shores of their native land.
Upon their arrival in New York her ladyship took a suite of rooms in a hotel, saying that she wanted a place of her own in the city, where she could go and come, making visits here and there, as she liked. She, however, persuaded Gerald to take a room in the same house with her.
“I shall want an escort,” she smilingly told him, “for I mean to go about a good deal, and it will be so convenient to have you near—that is, if you will not feel that I am imposing upon you.”
Gerald assured her that it would give him great pleasure to attend her wherever she might feel inclined to go; and he was thankful to her for looking to him for companionship, for it seemed to him that it would be almost more than he could bear to be left to himself among the familiar scenes which reminded him so forcibly of Allison.
He did not have a suspicion that Lady Bromley had made all these arrangements wholly on his account; that his sorrowful face and heavy eyes so haunted her that she resolved to give him just as little time as possible to dwell upon his trouble.
Thus it came to pass that they breakfasted and dined together, Gerald getting his luncheon down-town, near the office, while in the evening they almost invariably went out to some concert, lecture, or place of amusement, or had friends come to them.
In this way they grew to be more and more fond of each other, until the sweet, though lonely woman gradually came to regard the high-minded fellow with almost as much affection as if he had been her son; while he never failed to experience a feeling of restfulness and content in her presence.
One Sunday afternoon Gerald and his friend were sitting in Lady Bromley’s charming little parlor. The young man had been reading aloud from a new book that was just out, until, as the daylight began to wane, Gerald had observed that her ladyship had seemed somewhat restless, and several times had glanced rather wistfully around the room. At last, realizing that he was watching her, she broke forth with an apologetic little laugh:
“Gerald, I really must have a hassock. I have acquired the habit of using a foot-rest, and I shall not feel at home until I can get into my natural position. I shall go out to-morrow morning and buy three or four; then I can have one in every room.”
“Why did you not speak of it before?” Gerald inquired. “I would have supplied your needs with pleasure. Possibly I might find one in the house to-night for you. I will go and ask the clerk. Ah!”—with sudden thought—“I have the very thing for you; at least, it will answer your purpose until you are better equipped.”
With that he started up, and, going to his own room, took from his trunk the old-fashioned cricket that had belonged to his aunt.
With a smile of amusement over the antiquated appearance of the thing, he returned with it to his friend.
“It is as ‘old as the hills,’ and rather a shabby affair for a modern boudoir,” he remarked as he placed it conveniently for Lady Bromley, and then he told her the history of it, while she listened with curious interest.
“But for Aunt Honor’s wish that I would not part with it, because it was an heirloom which she prized, I would have gotten rid of it long ago,” he remarked, in conclusion. “It is a veritable ‘elephant’ upon my hands, for I usually carry it in my trunk wherever I go.”
“That must indeed be rather inconvenient for you,” Lady Bromley observed, as she regarded the quaint old foot-rest critically. “It is queer how tenacious of heirlooms some people are,” she added reflectively; “I know of some attics and storerooms that are full of just such things, and they are of no use to any one; but, having been purchased and prized by some remote ancestor, they are regarded as sacred, and it would be thought desecration to either dispose of or destroy them. But, Gerald, this cricket is made of solid mahogany! If it was repolished, the brass claw feet nicely cleaned and laquered, and the top handsomely upholstered, it would really be a very pretty thing.”
Gerald laughed.
“That involves a good deal of reconstruction, and I am afraid I do not care enough for it to take all that trouble, especially as I never use anything of the kind,” he smilingly responded, and then they drifted to some other subject. A few days later, when he returned at his usual hour for dinner, his friend lifted a doubtful face to him.
“Gerald,” she said plaintively. “I have ruined your cricket! Look!” she continued, removing her feet from it, when he saw that the bright, intricate patchwork, which had been the work of Miss Winchester’s patient fingers, was all discolored.
“I was trying, this afternoon, to remove some spots of iron-rust from a couple of nice handkerchiefs, and I did not like to trust the work to any one else,” her ladyship continued. “Suddenly the bottle of acid slipped from my hands, the contents were spilled upon the cricket, and the color all taken out of the cover, as you see.”
“Never mind; pray do not give it another thought,” replied the young man indifferently, “that patchwork was years and years old—it has served its day and generation.”
“May I fix it over for you?” questioned his companion. “I will have it done nicely, and then it will make a pretty ornament for my room as long as we remain here.”
“Certainly; do with it as you like,” heartily replied Gerald. “I would like to give it to you, since it seems to interest you so much, but I’m afraid Aunt Honor’s ghost would haunt me for being so unmindful of her wishes.”
“Oh, I do not want you to give it to me; but I would like to make it a more presentable piece of furniture,” said her ladyship, and there the matter rested.
But the next day, when she was alone, she looked it over carefully, to consider just how she would repair it. Taking her scissors, she cut away a portion of the patchwork covering, and then laughed out amusedly as another, faded and worn, was revealed to her.
“There may be half a dozen, for aught I know,” she mused, “and I have a curiosity to see what taste and texture represent the previous generations of my Gerald’s family.”
Clipping busily away, she cut the whole outer cover off, when a piece of worsted work came to light.
“Ah!” said Lady Bromley. “Miss Winchester’s ancestor, next removed, was evidently fond of crewel embroidery! It is a very pretty design—ferns and honeysuckles—and there are an endless number of stitches in it; if it could only speak, what an interesting history it might give me of the girl or woman who wrought it!
“But this is strange!” she added, a moment after. “It has been partially cut away on three sides, and”—lifting it—“so has the next cover, which is a piece of ordinary tapestry, and the next, also, which is of ordinary horsehair, and probably the original covering.
“Generation the fourth, and last,” she observed in a tone of satisfaction, as she removed the ragged hair-cloth and threw it to one side, for her occupation was becoming rather distasteful, on account of the dust which arose from her efforts.
This left only a layer of cotton to be disposed of, and, as she gathered it up and laid it upon the heap of rags beside her, a low, startled exclamation burst from her lips upon observing that there was a lid in the top of the cricket, and that a leather loop had been tacked upon one side of it, to enable it to be readily lifted from its place.
“Well! I am afraid I have stumbled upon some secret with which I have no business!” rather nervously murmured her ladyship, as she curiously eyed the ancient foot-rest. “What can it mean? Possibly this heirloom, which he has so affected to despise, may prove, after all, to be very precious to ‘my Gerald.’”
She had almost unconsciously grown into the habit of calling him “my Gerald,” her constantly increasing affection for him giving her a certain sense of possession.
“Perhaps we shall discover title-deeds to a great fortune—as we read about in novels—in this dusty, musty little sepulcher which, in all probability, has not been opened for many years,” she went on, with a light, mocking laugh at her romantic suspicion. “And yet”—with a slight start—“every cover except the last had been partially cut away, so, of course, Miss Winchester must have known the secret—possibly she also may have concealed something in here for him to find, and that is why she made him promise never to part with it.”
With her thumb and finger she laid hold of the leather loop and lifted the cover, just enough to ascertain whether the thing was empty or not.
The next instant she dropped it again, a quick, startled cry breaking from her.
The receptacle was packed full of papers!
With a very grave face Lady Bromley arose from the floor, carefully placed the cricket in one corner of the room, and dropped an afghan over it.