Chapter XIX Revelations
It was with feelings of perplexity and foreboding that Madelaine had received her two visitors that morning.
Her heart died within her when Judge Simmons introduced himself as an acquaintance of her husband, with whom he had travelled during that momentous journey to the west. She wondered how much of the terrible past lay open to his gaze, and what new peril the future might have in store.
It was a relief when the strangers’ conversation turned at once to the subject of the tract of land acquired by Gerald so many years before, the title deeds to which they told her they were desirous of investigating. What was the value of a few acres in the wilds of America compared with the well-being of the one she loved? True, he had spoken regretfully of it to her, but he had also mentioned it in connection with Mr. Field, the man of all others whom he sought to avoid, and she had no wish to stir up dangerous enquiries by seeking to establish a claim to that which had so long passed out of their hands.
Afraid of implicating her husband or doing anything of which he would not approve, she committed herself to nothing, merely assuring her callers that she would gladly give up all idea of the recovery of the property rather than involve herself in legal or other toils. Much against her will, she at length permitted Elihu Pratt to make a copy of the letter written to her by Mr. Field, which she produced at their request, comforting herself that it only afforded additional proof of Gerald’s supposed death, and might thus be of advantage to him than otherwise.
“I am thankful to be leaving Sunbury to-day,” she thought, “and that I shall be able to talk it over with my husband this evening. By to-morrow I trust we shall be lost to the world in the great whirlpool of London.”
There was one thing only which Madelaine desired to do before she left. She could not depart without bidding farewell to the man whom she had so recently nursed back to life from the very borders of the grave.
“I wish you would run up to the village and ask Benjamin Green to come and see me, Robin,” she said after the two visitors had left the house. “Tell him we are going away this afternoon, and that I want to say good-bye to him.”
It was not long before Ben appeared, his arm still in a sling, but otherwise almost recovered from the effects of his late accident.
After a few moments’ chat Madelaine excused herself, saying she must finish her packing, as the fly was coming for them soon after lunch. She shook hands cordially with her former patient, but Ben still lingered.
“Mrs. Power,” he began, but words seemed to fail him, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly on the carpet, and half turned away his head. All at once he hastily put his hand into his coat pocket and took out a small parcel which he placed upon the table before her.
“That is yours,” he said. “It was lying just there when I took it.”
“What can it be?” asked Madelaine in surprise as she opened the packet. “My husband’s watch!” she exclaimed in delight. “How did you get hold of it? I am truly pleased to have it back again.”
With shame and contrition did Ben confess his misdeeds, telling how on the night of his first return to Sunbury, he had been tempted by the open window as he prowled round the house after his raid on Robin’s ducks.
“I’ve got Mother Sheppard’s bag of coin here also,” he said, “and the three and ninepence that was for the missionaries, though I’m sorry the box is gone. It would be mighty kind of you if you would let me hand it all over to you, so that you might give it back to them as rightly owns it. I’ve got the promise of two nice fowls for you, which I’ll just run over and fetch before you leave, if you won’t mind taking them instead of the other birds that I pinched.”
“It is very brave of you, Ben, and of course right to tell me this,” remarked Madelaine, “for I had no suspicion of it.”
“It’s no use saying a fellow wants to be a Christian if he don’t act like one,” replied Ben. “If Christ is my Master, I must see to it that I don’t do the Devil’s bidding. It’s the least I can do to give back what isn’t mine, even if it lands me in the lock-up, where I ought of rights to be, if I got my deserts.”
“Who am I that I should accuse him?” said Madelaine to herself as she listened to his confession. “Surely I of all others should deal mercifully with those who have gone astray, and who desire to return, remembering all my Gerald has gone through.”
With gentle words she assured Ben of her forgiveness, and told him she would answer also for Mrs. Sheppard and Robin.
“You have begun well,” she said at length, “for this has been a hard thing to do. May God help you to persevere.”
“Would you mind me asking you one thing before I go?” said Ben. “There was some writing inside the watch, saying as it belonged to a Gerald Barker. I came across someone of that name out west about ten years ago, but he disappeared rather sudden, and the report got about that he was drowned. When you cried out just now, saying it was your husband’s watch, I wondered could he have been the same Barker I’d known then. If so be as it was, I suppose you’ve married again, seeing you’re Mrs. Power now.”
Madelaine wished she had bitten her tongue out before she uttered the exclamation with which she greeted the sight of the watch.
“I have never married again,” she faltered. “It was owing to a legacy that I was obliged to change my name.”
Ben looked at her narrowly, surprised at the sudden alteration in her voice.
“Was Barker not drowned then, after all?” he asked. “It is very queer, but I could almost swear that I caught a glimpse of his face last night as I went back to the inn. I was rather late coming home from a friend’s and someone was lighting his pipe at the corner of this road as I passed. The match flared up for a second, and I thought to myself at the time, ‘How like Jerry,’ as we used to call him. I sang out, ‘Who goes there?’ but the man had vanished before I got to the turn. If so be that your husband is still living as you give me to understand, I guess it was really he that I met, and that he’s staying here with you now. By the way, I remember Barker used to be a chum of Field’s. The last time we three were together was in Wattie Long’s house in the backwoods. It’s a night I couldn’t well forget. It would be odd if we met again here in Sunbury after so many years.”
“Oh, please don’t say anything to Mr. Field about it!” cried Madelaine piteously. “Ben, I must throw myself on your mercy, as I believe you wish to be my friend. You must know all, if you were in the hut that night, so I need not hide anything from you. The kindest deed you can do both to my husband and me is to say nothing about this unexpected meeting. Gerald is dead to all intents and purposes, and you can do no good to anyone by publishing his existence to the world.”
“You may be sure I wouldn’t lift a finger to hurt you or any of yours, Mrs. Power,” answered Ben earnestly. “I have too much cause to bless you for all you did for me. If Barker wants to lie low, I’m not the one to give him away.”
“I trust you,” replied Madelaine, “and I am sure you will not mention to anyone that you have seen him here. Only I would just like you to understand, Ben, before I leave, that my dear husband was not conscious of what he did that fatal night when you last met. It was from Mr. Field’s lips that he learnt the consequences of his hasty blow. He must have been maddened by the strong liquor which had flowed so freely among you, for he had no spite against poor Mr. Long, and can recollect nothing of the quarrel which laid the old man dead at his feet. As you know, he tried to drown himself in despair, after he realized what he had done, but God in His mercy saved him and gave him another chance. Sorely has the terrible crime blighted both his life and mine, but he has sincerely repented, and indeed is now going to make amends, if he can, for his sin.”
For a moment Ben stood as if meditating upon her words.
“And has Gerald Barker been in hiding all these years because of this?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Madelaine, “and I am in mortal dread lest Mr. Field should hear of him being in England, and give information which might lead to his immediate conviction. Until yesterday, I myself believed him to have perished in the waters, and we have only just been restored to one another again. Like yourself, Ben, he has lately come to see things differently, and has made up his mind to return to California at once, so as to give himself up voluntarily before a magistrate. I am counting more than I can say on the few precious days that remain for us to be together on the voyage, and I think I should break my heart if he was snatched away from me now.”
“Never you fear,” was the answer, as Ben took his departure. “I’m your friend to the backbone, Mrs. Power, and sorry should I be to harm you either by word or deed.”
It would, however, have disturbed Madelaine greatly had she known that Green’s first act on leaving her was to walk straight to the Vicarage, where he requested a few moments’ conversation with the clergyman, who was also a Justice of the Peace. She would have been still more anxious had she seen the two men set out almost at once in the direction of Farncourt.
“Are the American gentlemen still with Mr. Field?” asked Ben, as the butler opened the door.
“That’s lucky,” he remarked to the vicar, on receiving an answer in the affirmative. “I thought I recognized Elihu Pratt as he motored past. He was pointed out to me one day in New York as one of the rising men. I’m glad he’s still here, for he may be useful to us.”
Thus it was, that as Mr. Field uttered the words recorded in the last chapter, the door of the study opened, and the vicar and Benjamin Green entered the room.
“Why, here is the very man we wanted,” said Judge Simmons, as the servant announced the new-comers. “He may be able to throw light not only on the document before us, but on the astounding statement which Mr. Field has just made. Mr. Green, would you first kindly tell us whether you can identify this signature as yours?”
“Yes, that is my handwriting,” replied Ben, as he laid down the paper, “and I see the other witness is Walter Long.”
“Mr. Field has just informed us that this same Walter Long was murdered by Gerald Barker, the man in whose name the deed is made out, and that Barker threw himself into the river in dismay at having committed such a crime,” continued the judge. “Discrepancies, however, seem to multiply as we proceed further. The document, which purports to be a transfer of Barker’s land to Thomas Algernon Field, is dated the day after that which Field himself gave to Barker’s wife as the one on which her husband was drowned. If Gerald Barker killed Walter Long, how then is his victim’s signature found here also?”
“It is no great wonder that I made an error in writing to Mrs. Barker,” blurted out Mr. Field impatiently, “but Ben acknowledges himself that he signed the transfer all right, so why should you keep on harping about it like this?”
As he spoke, the harassed man sought to catch Ben’s eye, in a desperate endeavour to convey some signal of warning or appeal.
“I never knew what the paper contained till this moment,” exclaimed Ben, ignoring the look. “It clears up a good deal that was difficult to understand. You remember, Field, you would not let me read it, being as you said, your own private will, and you told me to be sharp about it, as you were in such a hurry to be off. I know now what it was, and why you sat up writing half the night when you believed I was asleep. You considered it a good opportunity to get hold of Barker’s claim, and, seeing he had already done away with himself, I suppose you thought you were safe.”
“You dare to accuse me in this manner?” shouted Mr. Field, crimsoning with fury. “I challenge you to prove the truth of your words.”
“I now also know why you wanted Wattie’s letter,” continued Ben, taking no notice of the interruption. “I saw you steal it out of the old man’s coat. It was a rare chance for you to copy his name also, he lying powerless in the next room and unable to testify that it was forged.”
“Can you tell us exactly under what circumstances this interview between you and Mr. Field took place?” asked Judge Simmons.
“When I put my name there, in Wattie’s own hut in the backwoods,” replied Ben, “he had already been felled by the cowardly blow, and Barker had been gone some hours.”
“Did you see Barker knock the old man down?” questioned Mr. Pratt.
“Barker never lifted a finger against anyone,” answered Ben bluntly.
“Why then, who struck him?” exclaimed Judge Simmons in surprise.
“There stands the man who did it!” said Ben, dramatically pointing with his finger at Mr. Field, as he stood livid and trembling before his accuser. “He evidently thought I was too drunk to notice it, but I had still enough sense to know what happened. Field and Wattie had been playing cards, and no doubt Field lost, for all of a sudden he got up in a towering rage, shouting out something about a cheat. I myself saw Field dash Wattie to the ground with his fist. The poor chap fell against a corner of the table, gashing his head horribly upon the edge. I watched Field go to him and bind up the wound, but the old man never spoke or moved. Field then carried him to the inner room where there was a bed, and shut the door.
“What had Barker to do with it then?” enquired Judge Simons.
“Gerald had no hand in it at all,” answered Ben. “He was lying on the floor all the time, sleeping off his bout. Field had been egging him on to drink the whole evening, and he had had more than enough, being a tender-foot and not used to our liquor.”
“What followed?” asked Mr. Pratt, as he jotted down something in his note-book.
“I went to sleep too after a time,” continued Ben, “and when I woke, Barker was gone, and Field was sitting at the table writing for all he was worth. It was then I saw him steal old Wattie’s letter. He got me to sign something when I was coming round, but I was too mixed to know what it was. That’s the very paper you have there, with my signature at the foot. Next morning Field hurried me off with him at dawn, we having arranged beforehand to travel together to the south. I thought Wattie was still resting after the blow, and Field persuaded me not to disturb him, as he was asleep. We separated as soon as we reached the nearest station, and I never met him again until I found him here in Sunbury on my return home.”
“You lie!” thundered Mr. Field. “Every statement you have made is false! You confess that you were drunk, so how can you give any reliable account of what took place? Surely Barker’s deliberate attempt at suicide is enough to prove his acknowledgment of the crime. It is preposterous to try to lay it at my door. What witness can you bring to prove your accusation? It is only one man’s word against another, and I have as good a right as you to be believed.”
“There is a witness whom I can bring,” answered Ben calmly, “and one whose evidence will be conclusive too.”
“Who is it, pray?” asked Mr. Field with a mocking laugh.
“Old Wattie himself,” was Ben’s reply.
As he said the words, Mr. Field suddenly threw up his hands, and staggering to a chair, fell back unconscious upon the cushions.