It was not Elaine’s money, this secret hoard; that was certain. Therefore it must belong to Gran’pa Eliot. Phœbe remembered that always while he was in health and able to be around he had personally occupied these rooms—the one Elaine now slept in, and the big front room opening out of it, where he now sat propped up in helpless oblivion of all earthly treasure.
There was no longer any doubt that Gran’pa Eliot had long been a miser and cunningly secreted his wealth. He had caused the trap to be made in the floor and the cupboard built behind the mantel. With years the passion for saving had grown upon him, and after his wife’s death and his daughter’s marriage he gave free rein to his hobby and converted all his land into ready money. To avoid suspicion he had spread the report of his financial failure and claimed he was reduced to poverty.
So much Phœbe had no difficulty in comprehending. In what way the old housekeeper had discovered her master’s secret was not clear, but Elaine’s resolve not to desert Mr. Eliot was obviously due to her knowledge of his vast hoard. When he became paralyzed and helpless she realized that the fortune, unsuspected by all others, was now safely within her own grasp. Phœbe decided, shuddering the while, that the woman was a greater slave to that secret hoard than ever her grandfather had been.
When daybreak came the girl arose and quietly dressed herself. Then she softly slipped out of the house and started for a walk through the valley, hoping the morning air would cool her throbbing brain. Here, amid a silence scarcely broken by the low mooing of the cows and the crowing of the distant cocks, she began to doubt the evidence of her own senses. It was all so wonderful and unreal that she could barely admit the truth of it; and yet—and yet—. Often before she had heard the sound of the gold being slid across the table: so often, indeed, that she well knew her eyes had not deceived her when, at last, they revealed to her the explanation of the puzzling sounds.
And now the question arose, what should she do? How should she act, now that she had discovered this terrible secret? The knowledge of her grandfather’s wealth in no way elated her; rather did she feel scorn and resentment at his despicable weakness. It hurt her to think that her mother’s father could be guilty of such folly and pitiful sordidness. It was too soon for her to reflect that this money might easily affect the fortunes of her brothers and sisters and herself; all she thought of was the shame of the thing, that her grandfather could become a miser and gloat in secret over the dross of gold and silver—and soiled bank notes. What an abominable, inhuman passion it was—a passion shared by old Elaine Halliday, a creature Phœbe had always despised intuitively.
During an hour’s brisk walk she became sorry that her curiosity had led her to discover this horrid secret. But she resolved to keep her own counsel and tell no one what she had seen. Even Phil must be spared this humiliation, for the poor boy had quite enough to worry him already.
Phœbe returned to the house with glowing cheeks and bright eyes, in spite of her sleepless night and mental perturbation. She greeted the family cheerfully and took her seat at the breakfast table with her native composure fully regained.
“When is the boat race, Phil?” asked Miss Eliot.
“A week from Saturday,” he said. “I’ve got to practice with the boys every evening, from now on. I wanted them to let me out, this year, but they foolishly insist on my pulling stroke.”
“Why foolishly?” inquired Becky.