closed their eyes in placid content.
During the meal Miss Norris questioned Carl closely as to his home experiences. Having no reason for concealment Carl frankly related his troubles with his stepmother, eliciting expressions of sympathy and approval from his hostess.
“Your stepmother must be an ugly creature?” she said.
“I am afraid I am prejudiced against her,” said Carl, “but that is my opinion.”
“Your father must be very weak to be influenced against his own son by such a woman.”
Carl winced a little at this outspoken criticism, for he was attached to his father in spite of his unjust treatment.
“My father is an invalid,” he said, apologetically, “and I think he yielded for the sake of peace.”
“All the same, he ought not to do it,” said Miss Norris. “Do you ever expect to live at home again?”
“Not while my stepmother is there,”
answered Carl. “But I don’t know that I should care to do so under any circumstances, as I am now receiving a business training. I
should like to make a little visit home,” he added, thoughtfully, “and perhaps I may do so after I return from Chicago. I shall have no favors to ask, and shall feel independent.”
“If you ever need a home,” said Miss
Norris, abruptly, “come here. You will be welcome.”
“Thank you very much,” said Carl, gratefully. “It is all the more kind in you since
you have known me so short a time.”
“I have known you long enough to judge of you,” said the maiden lady. “And now if you won’t have anything more we will go into the next room and talk business.”
Carl followed her into the adjoining room, and Miss Norris at once plunged into the subject. She handed him a business card bearing
this inscription:
JOHN FRENCH,
BOOTS, SHOES AND RUBBER GOODS,
42a State Street, CHICAGO.
“This young man wants me to lend him two thousand dollars to extend his business,” she said. “He is the son of an old school friend, and I am willing to oblige him if he is a sober, steady and economical business man. I want you to find out whether this is the case and report to me.”
“Won’t that be difficult?” asked Carl.
“Are you afraid to undertake anything that is difficult?”
“No,” answered Carl, with a smile. “I was only afraid I might not do the work satisfactorily.”
“I shall give you no instructions,” said Miss Norris. “I shall trust to your good judgment.
I will give you a letter to Mr. French, which you can use or not, as you think wise. Of course, I shall see that you are paid for your trouble.”
“Thank you,” said Carl. “I hope my services may be worth compensation.”
“I don’t know how you are situated as to money, but I can give you some in advance,”
and the old lady opened her pocketbook.
“No, thank you, Miss Norris; I shall not need it. I might have been short if you had not kindly paid me a reward for a slight service.”
“Slight, indeed! If you had lost a bank book like mine you would be glad to get it back at such a price. If you will catch the rascal who stole it I will gladly pay you as much more.”
“I wish I might for my own sake, but I am afraid it would be too late to recover my money and clothing.”
At an early hour Carl left the house, promising to write to Miss Norris from Chicago.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
“Well,” thought Carl, as he left the house where he had been so hospitably entertained, “I shall not lack for business. Miss Norris seems to have a great deal of confidence in me, considering that I am a stranger. I will take care that she does not repent it.”
“Can you give a poor man enough money to buy a cheap meal?” asked a plaintive voice.
Carl scanned the applicant for charity closely. He was a man of medium size, with a pair of small eyes, and a turnup nose. His dress was extremely shabby, and he had the appearance of one who was on bad terms with fortune. There was nothing striking about his appearance, yet Carl regarded him with surprise and wonder. Despite the difference in age, he bore a remarkable resemblance to his stepbrother, Peter Cook.
“I haven’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours,” continued the tramp, as he may properly be called. “It’s a hard world to such as me, boy.”
“I should judge so from your looks,” answered Carl.
“Indeed you are right. I was born to ill luck.”
Carl had some doubts about this. Those who represent themselves as born to ill luck can usually trace the ill luck to errors or shortcomings of their own. There are doubtless
inequalities of fortune, but not as great as many like to represent. Of two boys who
start alike one may succeed, and the other fail, but in nine cases out of ten the success or failure may be traced to a difference in the qualities of the boys.
“Here is a quarter if that will do you any good,” said Carl.
The man clutched at it with avidity.
“Thank you. This will buy me a cup of coffee and a plate of meat, and will put new life into me.”
He was about to hurry away, but Carl felt like questioning him further. The extraordinary resemblance between this man and his
stepbrother led him to think it possible that there might be a relationship between them. Of his stepmother’s family he knew little or nothing. His father had married her on short acquaintance, and she was very reticent about her former life. His father was indolent, and had not troubled himself to make inquiries. He took her on her own representation as the widow of a merchant who had failed in business.
On the impulse of the moment–an impulse which he could not explain–Carl asked
abruptly–“Is your name Cook?”
A look of surprise, almost of stupefaction, appeared on the man’s face.
“Who told you my name?” he asked.
“Then your name is Cook?”
“What is your object in asking?” said the man, suspiciously.
“I mean you no harm,” returned Carl, “but I have reasons for asking.”
“Did you ever see me before?” asked the man.
“No.”
“Then what makes you think my name is Cook? It is not written on my face, is it?”
“No.”
“Then how—-“
Carl interrupted him.
“I know a boy named Peter Cook,” he said, “who resembles you very strongly.”
“You know Peter Cook–little Peter?”
exclaimed the tramp.
“Yes. Is he a relation of yours?”
“I should think so!” responded Cook,
emphatically. “He is my own son–that is, if he is a boy of about your age.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he? Is his mother alive?”
“Your wife!” exclaimed Carl, overwhelmed at the thought.
“She was my wife!” said Cook, “but while I was in California, some years since, she took possession of my small property, procured a divorce through an unprincipled lawyer,
and I returned to find myself without wife, child or money. Wasn’t that a mean trick?”
“I think it was.”
“Can you tell me where she is?” asked Cook, eagerly.
“Yes, I can.”
“Where can I find my wife?” asked Cook, with much eagerness.
Carl hesitated. He did not like his stepmother; he felt that she had treated him meanly, but he was not prepared to reveal her
present residence till he knew what course Cook intended to pursue.
“She is married again,” he said, watching Cook to see what effect this announcement might have upon him.
“I have no objection, I am sure,” responded Cook, indifferently. “Did she marry well?”
“She married a man in good circumstances.”
“She would take good care of that.”
“Then you don’t intend to reclaim her?”
“How can I? She obtained a divorce,
though by false representations. I am glad to be rid of her, but I want her to restore the two thousand dollars of which she robbed me. I left my property in her hands, but when she ceased to be my wife she had no right to take possession of it. I ought not to be surprised, however. It wasn’t the first theft she had committed.”
“Can this be true?” asked Carl, excited.
“Yes, I married her without knowing much of her antecedents. Two years after marriage I ascertained that she had served a year’s term of imprisonment for a theft of jewelry from a lady with whom she was living as housekeeper.”
“Are you sure of this?”
“Certainly. She was recognized by a friend of mine, who had been an official at the prison. When taxed with it by me she admitted it, but claimed that she was innocent. I succeeded in finding a narrative of the trial in an old file of papers, and came to the conclusion that she was justly convicted.”
“What did you do?”
“I proposed separation, but she begged me to keep the thing secret, and let ourselves remain the same as before. I agreed out of consideration for her, but had occasion to regret
it. My business becoming slack, I decided to go to California in the hope of acquiring a competence. I was not fortunate there, and was barely able, after a year, to get home. I found that my wife had procured a divorce, and appropriated the little money I had left. Where she had gone, or where she had conveyed our son, I could not learn. You say
you know where she is.”
“I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“Mr. Cook,” said Carl, after a pause for reflection, “I will tell you, but not just at present. I am on my way to Chicago on business.
On my return I will stop here, and take you with me to the present home of your former wife. You will understand my interest in the matter when I tell you that she is now married to a relative of my own.”
“I pity him whoever he is,” said Cook.
“Yes, I think he is to be pitied,” said Carl, gravely; “but the revelation you will be able to make will enable him to insist upon a separation.”
“The best thing he can do! How long before you return to Albany?”
“A week or ten days.”
“I don’t know how I am to live in the meantime,” said Cook, anxiously. “I am penniless,
but for the money you have just given me.”
“At what price can you obtain board?”
“I know of a decent house where I can obtain board and a small room for five dollars a week.”
“Here are twelve dollars. This will pay for two weeks’ board, and give you a small sum besides. What is the address?”
Cook mentioned a number on a street by the river.
Carl took it down in a notebook with which he had provided himself.
“When I return to Albany,” he said, “I will call there at once.”
“You won’t forget me?”
“No; I shall be even more anxious to meet you than you will be to meet me. The one to whom your former wife is married is very near and dear to me, and I cannot bear to think that he has been so wronged and
imposed upon!”
“Very well, sir! I shall wait for you with confidence. If I can get back from my former wife the money she robbed me of, I can
get on my feet again, and take a respectable position in society. It is very hard for a man dressed as I am to obtain any employment.”
Looking at his shabby and ragged suit, Carl could readily believe this statement. If he had wished to employ anyone he would hardly have been tempted to engage a man so
discreditable in appearance. “Be of good courage, Mr. Cook,” he said, kindly. “If your story is correct, and I believe it is, there are better days in store for you.”
“Thank you for those words,” said Cook, earnestly. “They give me new hope.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
FROM ALBANY TO NIAGARA.
Carl took the afternoon train on the
following day for Buffalo. His thoughts were busy with the startling discovery he had made in regard to his stepmother. Though he had never liked her, he had been far from imagining that she was under the ban of the law.
It made him angry to think that his father had been drawn into a marriage with such a
woman–that the place of his idolized mother had been taken by one who had served a term at Sing Sing.
Did Peter know of his mother’s past disgrace? he asked himself. Probably not, for it
had come before his birth. He only wondered that the secret had never got out before. There must be many persons who had known her as a prisoner, and could identify her now. She had certainly been fortunate with the fear of discovery always haunting her. Carl could not understand how she could carry her head so high, and attempt to tyrannize over his father and himself.
What the result would be when Dr. Crawford learned the antecedents of the woman
whom he called wife Carl did not for a moment doubt. His father was a man of very strict ideas on the subject of honor, and good repute, and the discovery would lead him to turn from Mrs. Crawford in abhorrence. Moreover, he was strongly opposed to divorce, and
Carl had heard him argue that a divorced person should not be permitted to remarry. Yet
in ignorance he had married a divorced woman, who had been convicted of theft, and served a term of imprisonment. The discovery would be a great shock to him, and it
would lead to a separation and restore the cordial relations between himself and his son.
Not long after his settlement in Milford; Carl had written as follows to his father:
“Dear Father:–Though I felt obliged to leave home for reasons which we both understand, I am sure that you will feel interested
to know how I am getting along. I did not realize till I had started out how difficult it is for a boy, brought up like myself, to support himself when thrown upon his own exertions. A newsboy can generally earn enough money to maintain himself in the style to which he is accustomed, but I have had a comfortable and even luxurious home, and could hardly bring myself to live in a tenement house, or a very cheap boarding place. Yet I would rather do either than stay in a home made unpleasant by the persistent hostility of one member.
“I will not take up your time by relating the incidents of the first two days after I left home. I came near getting into serious trouble through no fault of my own, but happily
escaped. When I was nearly penniless I fell in with a prosperous manufacturer of furniture who has taken me into his employment.
He gives me a home in his own house, and pays me two dollars a week besides. This is enough to support me economically, and I shall after a while receive better pay.
“I am not in the office, but in the factory, and am learning the business practically, starting in at the bottom. I think I have a taste for it, and the superintendent tells me I am making remarkable progress. The time was when
I would have hesitated to become a working boy, but I have quite got over such foolishness. Mr. Jennings, my employer, who is considered a rich man, began as I did, and I hope some day to occupy a position similar to his.
“I trust you are quite well and happy, dear father. My only regret is, that I cannot see you occasionally. While my stepmother and Peter form part of your family, I feel that I can never live at home. They both dislike me, and I am afraid I return the feeling. If you are sick or need me, do not fail to send for me, for I can never forget that you are my father, as I am your affectionate son,
Carl.”
This letter was handed to Dr. Crawford at the breakfast table. He colored and looked agitated when he opened the envelope, and Mrs. Crawford, who had a large share of
curiosity, did not fail to notice this.
“From whom is your letter, my dear?” she asked, in the soft tone which was habitual with her when she addressed her husband
“The handwriting is Carl’s,” answered Dr. Crawford, already devouring the letter eagerly.
“Oh!” she answered, in a chilly tone. “I have been expecting you would hear from him. How much money does he send for?”
“I have not finished the letter.” Dr. Crawford continued reading. When he had finished he laid it down beside his plate.
“Well?” said his wife, interrogatively. “What does he have to say? Does he ask leave to come home?”
“No; he is quite content where he is.”
“And where is that?”
“At Milford.”
“That is not far away?”
“No; not more than sixty miles.”
“Does he ask for money?”
“No; he is employed.”
“Where?”
“In a furniture factory.”
“Oh, a factory boy.”
“Yes; he is learning the business.”
“He doesn’t seem to be very ambitious,” sneered Mrs. Crawford.
“On the contrary, he is looking forward to being in business for himself some day.”
“On your money–I understand.”
“Really, Mrs. Crawford, you do the boy injustice. He hints nothing of the kind. He evidently means to raise himself gradually as his employer did before him. By the way, he has a home in his employer’s family. I think Mr. Jennings must have taken a fancy to Carl.”
“I hope he will find him more agreeable than I did,” said Mrs. Crawford, sharply.
“Are you quite sure that you always treated Carl considerately, my dear?”
“I didn’t flatter or fondle him, if that is what you mean. I treated him as well as he could expect.”
“Did you treat him as well as Peter, for example?”
“No. There is a great difference between the two boys. Peter is always respectful and obliging, and doesn’t set up his will against mine. He never gives me a moment’s uneasiness.”
“I hope you will continue to find him a comfort, my dear,” said Dr. Crawford, meekly.
He looked across the table at the fat, expressionless face of his stepson, and he blamed himself because he could not entertain a warmer regard for Peter. Somehow he had
a slight feeling of antipathy, which he tried to overcome.
“No doubt he is a good boy, since his mother says so,” reflected the doctor, “but I don’t appreciate him. I will take care, however, that neither he nor his mother sees this.”
When Peter heard his mother’s encomium upon him, he laughed in his sleeve.
“I’ll remind ma of that when she scolds me,” he said to himself. “I’m glad Carl isn’t coming back. He was always interferin’ with me. Now, if ma and I play our cards right we’ll get all his father’s money. Ma thinks he won’t live long, I heard her say so the other day. Won’t it be jolly for ma and me to come into a fortune, and live just as we please! I hope ma will go to New York. It’s stupid here, but I s’pose we’ll have to stay for the present.”
“Is Carl’s letter private?” asked Mrs. Crawford, after a pause.
“I–I think he would rather I didn’t show it ,” returned her husband, remembering the allusion made by Carl to his stepmother.
“Oh, well, I am not curious,” said Mrs. Crawford, tossing her head.
None the less, however, she resolved to see and read the letter, if she could get hold of it without her husband’s knowledge. He was
so careless that she did not doubt soon to find it laid down somewhere. In this she proved correct. Before the day was over, she found Carl’s letter in her husband’s desk. She opened and read it eagerly with a running fire of comment.
“`Reasons which we both understand,'” she repeated, scornfully. “That is a covert attack upon me. Of course, I ought to expect that. So he had a hard time. Well, it served him right for conducting himself as he did. Ah, here is another hit at me–`Yet I would rather do either than live in a home made unpleasant by the persistent hostility of one member.’ He is trying to set his father against me. Well, he won’t succeed. I can twist Dr. Paul Crawford round my finger, luckily, and neither
his son nor anyone else can diminish my influence over him.”
She read on for some time till she reached this passage: “While my stepmother and
Peter form a part of your family I can never live at home. They both dislike me, and I am afraid I return the feeling.” “Thanks for the information,” she muttered. “I knew it before. This letter doesn’t make me feel any more friendly to you, Carl Crawford. I see that you are trying to ingratiate yourself with your father, and prejudice him against me and my poor Peter, but I think I can defeat your kind intentions.”
She folded up the letter, and replaced it in her husband’s desk.
“I wonder if my husband will answer Carl’s artful epistle,” she said to herself. “He can if he pleases. He is weak as water, and I will see that he goes no farther than words.”
Dr. Crawford did answer Carl’s letter. This is his reply:
“Dear Carl:–i am glad to hear that you are comfortably situated. I regret that you were so headstrong and unreasonable. It
seems to me that you might, with a little effort, have got on with your stepmother. You could hardly expect her to treat you in the same way as her own son. He seems to be
a good boy, but I own that I have never been able to become attached to him.”
Carl read this part of the letter with satisfaction. He knew how mean and contemptible Peter was, and it would have gone to his heart to think that his father had transferred his affection to the boy he had so much reason to dislike.
“I am glad you are pleased with your
prospects. I think I could have done better for you had your relations with your stepmother been such as to make it pleasant for you to remain at home. You are right in thinking that I am interested in your welfare. I hope, my dear Carl, you will become a happy and prosperous man. I do not forget that you are my son, and I am still your affectionate father,
“Paul Crawford.”
Carl was glad to receive this letter. It showed him that his stepmother had not yet succeeded in alienating from him his father’s affection.
But we must return to the point where we left Carl on his journey to Buffalo. He
enjoyed his trip over the Central road during the hours of daylight. He determined on his return to make an all-day trip so that he might enjoy the scenery through which he now rode in the darkness.
At Buffalo he had no other business except that of Mr. Jennings, and immediately after breakfast he began to make a tour of the furniture establishments. He met with excellent success, and had the satisfaction of sending home some large orders. In the evening he took train for Niagara, wishing to see the falls in the early morning, and resume his journey in the afternoon.
He registered at the International Hotel on the American side. It was too late to do more than take an evening walk, and see the falls gleaming like silver through the darkness.
“I will go to bed early,” thought Carl, “and get up at six o’clock.”
He did go to bed early, but he was more fatigued than he supposed, and slept longer than he anticipated. It was eight o’clock before he came downstairs. Before going in to breakfast, he took a turn on the piazzas. Here he fell in with a sociable gentleman, much addicted to gossip.
“Good-morning!” he said. “Have you seen the falls yet?”
“I caught a glimpse of them last evening I am going to visit them after breakfast.”
“There are a good many people staying here just now–some quite noted persons, too.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, what do you say to an English lord?” and Carl’s new friend nodded with am important air, as if it reflected great credit on the hotel to have so important a guest.
“Does he look different from anyone else?” asked Carl, smiling.
“Well, to tell the truth, he isn’t much to look at,” said the other. “The gentleman who is with him looks more stylish. I thought he was the lord at first, but I afterwards learned that he was an American named Stuyvesant.”
Carl started at the familiar name.
“Is he tall and slender, with side whiskers, and does he wear eyeglasses?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes; you know him then?” said the other, in surprise.
“Yes,” answered Carl, with a smile, “I am slightly acquainted with him. I am very anxious to meet him again.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CARL MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF AN ENGLISH LORD.
“There they are now,” said the stranger, suddenly pointing out two persons walking slowly along the piazza. “The small man, in the rough suit, and mutton-chop whiskers, is Lord Bedford.”
Carl eyed the British nobleman with some curiosity. Evidently Lord Bedford was no dude. His suit was of rough cloth and illfitting. He was barely five feet six inches in height, with features decidedly plain, but with an absence of pretension that was creditable to him, considering that he was really what he purported to be. Stuyvesant walked by his side, nearly a head taller, and of more distinguished bearing, though of plebeian extraction. His manner was exceedingly deferential,
and he was praising England and everything English in a fulsome manner.
“Yes, my lord,” Carl overheard him say, “I have often thought that society in England is far superior to our American society.”
“Thanks, you are very kind,” drawled the nobleman, “but really I find things very decent in America, upon my word. I had been reading Dickens’s `Notes’ before I came over and I expected to find you very uncivilized, and–almost aboriginal; but I assure you I have met some very gentlemanly persons in America, some almost up to our English standard.”
“Really, my lord, such a tribute from a man in your position is most gratifying. May I state this on your authority?”
“Yes, I don’t mind, but I would rather not get into the papers, don’t you know. You are not a–reporter, I hope.”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Stuyvesant, in a lofty tone. “I am a scion of one of the oldest families in New York. Of course I know that social position is a very different thing here from what it is in England. It must be a gratifying thing to reflect that you are a lord.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I never thought much about it.”
“I should like so much to be a lord. I care little for money.”
“Then, by Jove, you are a remarkable man.”
“In comparison with rank, I mean. I would rather be a lord with a thousand pounds a year than a rich merchant with ten times as much.”
“You’ll find it very inconvenient being a lord on a thousand; you might as well be a beggar.”
“I suppose, of course, high rank requires a large rent roll. In fact, a New York gentleman requires more than a trifle to support him. I can’t dress on less than two hundred pounds a year.”
“Your American tailors are high-priced, then?”
“Those that I employ; we have cheap tailors, of course, but I generally go to Bell.”
Mr. Stuyvesant was posing as a gentleman of fashion. Carl, who followed at a little distance behind the pair, was much amused by
his remarks, knowing what he did about him.
“I think a little of going to England in a few months,” continued Stuyvesant.
“Indeed! You must look me up,” said Bedford, carelessly.
“I should, indeed, be delighted,” said Stuyvesant, effusively.
“That is, if I am in England. I may be on the Continent, but you can inquire for me at my club–the Piccadilly.”
“I shall esteem it a great honor, my lord. I have a penchant for good society. The lower orders are not attractive to me.”
“They are sometimes more interesting,” said the Englishman; “but do you know, I am surprised to hear an American speak in this way. I thought you were all on a level here in a republic.”
“Oh, my lord!” expostulated Stuyvesant, deprecatingly. “You don’t think I would associate with shopkeepers and common tradesmen?”
“I don’t know. A cousin of mine is
interested in a wine business in London. He is a younger son with a small fortune, and draws a very tidy income from his city business.”
“But his name doesn’t appear on the sign, I infer.”
“No, I think not. Then you are not in business, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“No; I inherited an income from my father. It isn’t as large as I could wish, and I have abstained from marrying because I could not maintain the mode of living to which I have been accustomed.”
“You should marry a rich girl.”
“True! I may do so, since your lordship recommends it. In fact, I have in view a young lady whose father was once lord mayor (I beg pardon, mayor) of New York.
Her father is worth a million.”
“Pounds?”
“Well, no, dollars. I should have said two hundred thousand pounds.”
“If the girl is willing, it may be a good plan.”
“Thank you, my lord. Your advice is very kind.”
“The young man seems on very good terms with Lord Bedford,” said Carl’s companion, whose name was Atwood, with a shade of envy in his voice.
“Yes,” said Carl.
“I wish he would introduce me,” went on Mr. Atwood.
“I should prefer the introduction of a different man,” said Carl.
“Why? He seems to move in good society.”
“Without belonging to it.”
“Then you know him?”
“Better than I wish I did.”
Atwood looked curious.
“I will explain later,” said Carl;
“now I must go in to breakfast.”
“I will go with you.”
Though Stuyvesant had glanced at Carl, he did not appear to recognize him, partly, no doubt, because he had no expectation of meeting the boy he had robbed, at Niagara. Besides, his time and attention were so much
taken up by his aristocratic acquaintance that he had little notice for anyone else. Carl observed with mingled amusement and vexation that Mr. Stuyvesant wore a new necktie, which he had bought for himself in New York, and which had been in the stolen gripsack.
“If I can find Lord Bedford alone I will put him on his guard,” thought Carl. “I shall spoil Mr. Stuyvesant’s plans.”
After breakfast Carl prepared to go down to the falls.
On the way he overtook Lord Bedford walking in the same direction, and, as it happened, without a companion. Carl quickened his
pace, and as he caught up with him, he raised his hat, and said: “Lord Bedford, I believe.”
“Yes,” answered the Englishman, inquiringly.
“I must apologize for addressing a stranger, but I want to put you on your guard against a young man whom I saw walking with you
on the piazza.”
“Is he–what do you know of him?” asked Lord Bedford, laying aside his air of indifference.
“I know that he is an adventurer and a thief. I made his acquaintance on a Hudson River steamer, and he walked off with my valise and a small sum of money.”
“Is this true?” asked the Englishman, in amazement.
“Quite true. He is wearing one of my neckties at this moment.”
“The confounded cad!” ejaculated the Englishman, angrily. “I suppose he intended to rob me.”
“I have no doubt of it. That is why I ventured to put you on your guard.”
“I am a thousand times obliged to you. Why, the fellow told me he belonged to one of the best families in New York.”
“If he does, he doesn’t do much credit to the family.”
“Quite true! Why, he was praising everything English. He evidently wanted to gain my confidence.”
“May I ask where you met him?” asked Carl.
“On the train. He offered me a light. Before I knew it, he was chatting familiarly with me. But his game is spoiled. I will let him
know that I see through him and his designs.” “Then my object is accomplished,” said Carl. “Please excuse my want of ceremony.” He
turned to leave, but Bedford called him back.
“If you are going to the falls, remain with me,” he said. “We shall enjoy it better in company.”
“With pleasure. Let me introduce myself as Carl Crawford. I am traveling on business and don’t belong to one of the first families.”
“I see you will suit me,” said the Englishman, smiling.
Just then up came Stuyvesant, panting and breathless. “My lord,” he said, “I lost sight of you. If you will allow me I will join you.
“Sir!” said the Englishman, in a freezing voice, “I have not the honor of knowing you.”
Stuyvesant was overwhelmed.
“I–I hope I have not offended you, my lord,” he said.
“Sir, I have learned your character from this young man.”
This called the attention of Stuyvesant to Carl. He flushed as he recognized him
“Mr. Stuyvesant,” said Carl, “I must trouble you to return the valise you took from my stateroom, and the pocketbook which you borrowed.
My name is Carl Crawford, and my room is 71.”
Stuyvesant turned away abruptly. He left the valise at the desk, but Carl never recovered his money.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHAT CARL LEARNED IN CHICAGO.
As Carl walked back from the falls he met Mr. Atwood, who was surprised to find h*is young acquaintance on such intimate terms with Lord Bedford. He was about to pass
with a bow, when Carl, who was good-natured, said: “Won’t you join us, Mr. Atwood?
If Lord Bedford will permit, I should like to introduce you.”
“Glad to know any friend of yours, Mr. Crawford,” said the Englishman, affably.
“I feel honored by the introduction,” said Atwood, bowing profoundly.
“I hope you are not a friend of Mr.–ah, Mr. Stuyvesant,” said the nobleman, “the person I was talking with this morning. Mr.
Crawford tells me he is a–what do you call it?–a confidence man.”
“I have no acquaintance with him, my lord. I saw him just now leaving the hotel.”
“I am afraid he has gone away with my valise and money,” said Carl.
“If you should be inconvenienced, Mr. Crawford,” said the nobleman, “my purse is at your disposal.”
“Thank you very much, Lord Bedford,” said Carl, gratefully. “I am glad to say I am still fairly well provided with money.”
“I was about to make you the same offer, Mr. Crawford,” said Atwood.
“Thank you! I appreciate your kindness, even if I’m not obliged to avail myself of it.”
Returning to the hotel, Lord Bedford
ordered a carriage, and invited Atwood and Carl to accompany him on a drive. Mr. Atwood
was in an ecstasy, and anticipated with proud satisfaction telling his family of his intimate friend, Lord Bedford, of England. The peer, though rather an ordinary-looking man,
seemed to him a model of aristocratic beauty. It was a weakness on the part of Mr. Atwood, but an amiable one, and is shared by many who live under republican institutions.
After dinner Carl felt obliged to resume his journey. He had found his visit to Niagara very agreeable, but his was a business and not a pleasure trip, and loyalty to his employer required him to cut it short. Lord Bedford shook his hand heartily at parting.
“I hope we shall meet again, Mr. Crawford,” he said. “I expect, myself, to reach Chicago on Saturday, and shall be glad to have you call on me at the Palmer House.”
“Thank you, my lord; I will certainly inquire for you there.”
“He is a very good fellow, even if he is a lord,” thought Carl.
Our young hero was a thorough American, and was disposed to think with Robert Burns, that
“The rank is but the guinea, stamp;
The man’s the gold for a’ that!”
No incident worth recording befell Carl on his trip to Chicago. As a salesman he met with excellent success, and surprised Mr. Jennings by the size of his orders. He was led, on reaching Chicago, to register at the Sherman House, on Clark Street, one of the most
reliable among the many houses for travelers offered by the great Western metropolis.
On the second day he made it a point to find out the store of John French, hoping to acquire the information desired by Miss Norris.
It was a store of good size, and apparently well stocked. Feeling the need of new footgear, Carl entered and asked to be shown some shoes. He was waited upon by a young clerk named Gray, with whom he struck up a pleasant acquaintance.
“Do you live in Chicago?” asked Gray? sociably.
“No; I am from New York State. I am here on business.”
“Staying at a hotel?”
“Yes, at the Sherman. If you are at leisure this evening I shall be glad to have you call on me. I am a stranger here, and likely to find the time hang heavy on my hands.”
“I shall be free at six o’clock.”
“Then come to supper with me.”
“Thank you, I shall be glad to do so,” answered Gray, with alacrity. Living as he did at a cheap boarding house, the prospect of a supper at a first-class hotel was very attractive. He was a pleasant-faced young man of
twenty, who had drifted to Chicago from his country home in Indiana, and found it hard to make both ends meet on a salary of nine dollars a week. His habits were good, his manner was attractive and won him popularity
with customer’s, and with patience he was likely to succeed in the end.
“I wish I could live like this every day,” he said, as he rose from a luxurious supper. “At present my finances won’t allow me to board at the Sherman.”
“Nor would mine,” said Carl; “but I am allowed to spend money more freely when I am traveling.”
“Are you acquainted in New York?” asked Gray.
“I have little or no acquaintance in the city,” answered Carl.
“I should be glad to get a position there.”
“Are you not satisfied with your present place?”
“I am afraid I shall not long keep it.”
“Why not? Do you think you are in any danger of being discharged?”
“It is not that. I am afraid Mr. French will be obliged to give up business.”
“Why?” asked Carl, with keen interest.
“I have reason to think he is embarrassed. I know that he has a good many bills out, some of which have been running a long time. If any pressure is brought to bear upon him, he may have to suspend.”
Carl felt that he was obtaining important information. If Mr. French were in such a condition Miss Norris would be pretty sure to lose her money if she advanced it.
“To what do you attribute Mr. French’s embarrassment?” he asked.
“He lives expensively in a handsome house near Lincoln Park, and draws heavily upon the business for his living expenses. I think that explains it. I only wonder that he has been able to hold out so long.”
“Perhaps if he were assisted he would be able to keep his head above water.”
“He would need a good deal of assistance. You see that my place isn’t very secure, and I shall soon need to be looking up another.”
“I don’t think I shall need to inquire any farther,” thought Carl. “It seems to me Miss Norris had better keep her money.”
Before he retired he indited the following letter to his Albany employer:
Miss Rachel Norris.
“Dear Madam:–I have attended to your commission, and have to report that Mr.
French appears to be involved in business embarrassments, and in great danger to bankruptcy. The loan he asks of you would no doubt
be of service, but probably would not long delay the crash. If you wish to assist him, it would be better to allow him to fail, and then advance him the money to put him on his feet. I am told that his troubles come from living beyond his means.
“Yours respectfully,
“Carl Crawford.”
By return mail Carl received the following note:
“My Dear Young Friend:–Your report
confirms the confidence I reposed in you. It is just the information I desired.
I shall take your advice and refuse the loan. What other action I may take hereafter I cannot tell. When you return, should you stop in Albany, please call on me. If unable to do this, write me from Milford.
Your friend,
“Rachel Norris.”
Carl was detained for several days in Chicago. He chanced to meet his English friend,
Lord Bedford, upon his arrival, and the nobleman, on learning where he was staying, also
registered at the Sherman House. In his company Carl took a drive over the magnificent boulevard which is the pride of Chicago, and rose several degrees in the opinion of those guests who noticed his intimacy with the English guest.
Carl had just completed his Chicago business when, on entering the hotel, he was surprised to see a neighbor of his father’s–Cyrus Robinson–a prominent business man of Edgewood Center. Carl was delighted, for he had
not been home, or seen any home friends for over a year.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Robinson,” he said, offering his hand.
“What! Carl Crawford!” exclaimed Robinson, in amazement. “How came you in Chicago?
Your father did not tell me you were here.”
“He does not know it. I am only here on a business visit. Tell me, Mr. Robinson, how is my father?”
“I think, Carl, that he is not at all well. I am quite sure he misses you, and I don’t believe your stepmother’s influence over him is
beneficial. Just before I came away I heard a rumor that troubled me. It is believed in Edgewood that she is trying to induce your father to make a will leaving all, or nearly all his property to her and her son.”
“I don’t care so much for that, Mr. Robinson, as for my father’s health.”
“Carl,” said Robinson, significantly, “if such a will is made I don’t believe your father will live long after it.”
“You don’t mean that?” said Carl, horror-struck.
“I think Mrs. Crawford, by artful means will worry your father to death. He is of a nervous temperament, and an unscrupulous woman can shorten his life without laying herself open to the law.”
Carl’s face grew stern.
“I will save my father,” he said, “and defeat my stepmother’s wicked schemes.”
“I pray Heaven you can. There is no time to be lost.”
“I shall lose no time, you may be sure. I shall be at Edgewood within a week.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MAKING A WILL.
In Edgewood Center events moved slowly. In Carl Crawford’s home dullness reigned supreme. He had been the life of the house, and his absence, though welcome to his stepmother, was seriously felt by his father, who
day by day became thinner and weaker, while his step grew listless and his face seldom brightened with a smile. He was anxious to have Carl at home again, and the desire became so strong that he finally broached the subject.
“My dear,” he said one day at the breakfast table, “I have been thinking of Carl considerably of late.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Crawford, coldly.
“I think I should like to have him at home once more.”
Mrs. Crawford smiled ominously.
“He is better off where he is,” she said, softly.
“But he is my only son, and I never see him,” pleaded her husband.
“You know very well, Dr. Crawford,” rejoined his wife, “that your son only made trouble in the house while he was here.”
“Yet it seems hard that he should be driven from his father’s home, and forced to take refuge among strangers.”
“I don’t know what you mean by his being driven from home,” said Mrs. Crawford, tossing her head. “He made himself disagreeable, and, not being able to have his own way, he took French leave.”
“The house seems very lonely without him,” went on Dr. Crawford, who was too wise to get into an argument with his wife.
“It certainly is more quiet. As for company, Peter is still here, and would at any time stay with you.”
Peter did not relish this suggestion, and did not indorse it.
“I should not care to confine him to the house,” said Dr. Crawford, as his glance rested on the plain and by no means agreeable face of his stepson.
“I suppose I need not speak of myself. You know that you can always call upon me.”
If Dr. Crawford had been warmly attached to his second wife, this proposal would have cheered him, but the time had gone by when he found any pleasure in her society. There was a feeling of almost repulsion which he tried to conceal, and he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that the presence of his wife gave him rather uneasiness than comfort.
“Carl is very well off where he is,” resumed Mrs. Crawford. “He is filling a business position, humble, perhaps, but still one that gives him his living and keeps him out of mischief. Let well enough alone, doctor, and don’t interrupt his plans.”
“I–I may be foolish,” said the doctor, hesitating, “but I have not been feeling as well as usual lately, and if anything should happen to me while Carl was absent I should die very unhappy.”
Mrs. Crawford regarded her husband with uneasiness.
“Do you mean that you think you are in any danger?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I am not an old man, but, on the other hand, I am an invalid. My father died when he was only a year older than
I am at present.”
Mrs. Crawford drew out her handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe her tearless eyes.
“You distress me beyond measure by your words, my dear husband. How can I think
of your death without emotion? What should I do without you?”
“My dear, you must expect to survive me. You are younger than I, and much stronger.”
“Besides,” and Mrs. Crawford made an
artful pause, “I hardly like to mention it, but Peter and I are poor, and by your death
might be left to the cold mercies of the world.”
“Surely I would not fail to provide for you.”
Mrs. Crawford shook her head.
“I am sure of your kind intentions, my husband,” she said, “but they will not avail unless you provide for me in your will.”
“Yes, it’s only right that I should do so. As soon as I feel equal to the effort I will draw up a will.”
“I hope you will, for I should not care to be dependent on Carl, who does not like me. I hope you will not think me mercenary, but to Peter and myself this is of vital importance.”
“No, I don’t misjudge you. I ought to have thought of it before.”
“I don’t care so much about myself,” said Mrs. Crawford, in a tone of self-sacrifice, “but I should not like to have Peter thrown upon the world without means.”
“All that you say is wise and reasonable,” answered her husband, wearily. “I will attend to the matter to-morrow.”
The next day Mrs. Crawford came into her husband’s presence with a sheet of legal cap.
“My dear husband,” she said, in a soft, insinuating tone, “I wished to spare you trouble, and I have accordingly drawn up a will
to submit to you, and receive your signature, if you approve it.”
Dr. Crawford looked surprised.
“Where did you learn to write a will?” he asked.
“I used in my days of poverty to copy documents for a lawyer,” she replied. “In this way I became something of a lawyer myself.”
“I see. Will you read what you have prepared?”
Mrs. Crawford read the document in her hand. It provided in the proper legal phraseology for an equal division of the testator’s estate between the widow and Carl.
“I didn’t know, of course, what provision you intended to make for me,” she said, meekly. “Perhaps you do not care to leave me half the estate.”
“Yes, that seems only fair. You do not mention Peter. I ought to do something for him.”
“Your kindness touches me, my dear husband, but I shall be able to provide for him
out of my liberal bequest. I do not wish to rob your son, Carl. I admit that I do not like him, but that shall not hinder me from being just.”
Dr. Crawford was pleased with this unexpected concession from his wife. He felt that he should be more at ease if Carl’s future was assured.
“Very well, my dear,” he said, cheerfully. “I approve of the will as you have drawn it up, and I will affix my signature at once.” “Then, shall I send for two of the neighbors to witness it?”
“It will be well.”
Two near neighbors were sent for and
witnessed Dr. Crawford’s signature to the will.
There was a strangely triumphant look in Mrs. Crawford’s eyes as she took the document after it had been duly executed.
“You will let me keep this, doctor?” she asked. “It will be important for your son as well as myself, that it should be in safe hands.”
“Yes; I shall be glad to have you do so. I rejoice that it is off my mind.”
“You won’t think me mercenary, my dear husband, or indifferent to your life?”
“No; why should I?”
“Then I am satisfied.”
Mrs. Crawford took the will, and carrying it upstairs, opened her trunk, removed the false bottom, and deposited under it the last will and testament of Dr. Paul Crawford.
“At last!” she said to herself. “I am secure, and have compassed what I have labored for so long.”
Dr. Crawford had not noticed that the will to which he affixed his signature was not the same that had been read to him. Mrs. Crawford had artfully substituted another paper
of quite different tenor. By the will actually executed, the entire estate was left to Mrs. Crawford, who was left guardian of her son and Carl, and authorized to make such provision for each as she might deem suitable. This, of course, made Carl entirely dependent on a woman who hated him.
“Now, Dr. Paul Crawford,” said Mrs. Crawford to herself, with a cold smile, “you may
die as soon as you please. Peter and I are provided for. Your father died when a year older than you are now, you tell me. It is hardly likely that you will live to a greater age than he.”
She called the next day on the family physician, and with apparent solicitude asked his
opinion of Dr. Crawford’s health.
“He is all I have,” she said, pathetically, “all except my dear Peter. Tell me what you think of his chances of continued life.”
“Your husband,” replied the physician, “has one weak organ. It is his heart. He may live for fifteen or twenty years, but a sudden excitement might carry him off in a moment. The best thing you can do for him is to keep him tranquil and free from any sudden shock.”
Mrs. Crawford listened attentively.
“I will do my best,” she said, “since so much depends on it.”
When she returned home it was with a settled purpose in her heart.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
PETER LETS OUT A SECRET.
“Can you direct me to the house of Dr. Crawford?” asked a stranger.
The inquiry was addressed to Peter Cook in front of the hotel in Edgewood Center.
“Yes, sir; he is my stepfather!”
“Indeed! I did not know that my old friend was married again. You say you are his stepson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He has an own son, about your age, I should judge.”
“That’s Carl! he is a little older than me.”
“Is he at home?”
“No,” answered Peter, pursing up his lips.
“Is he absent at boarding school?”
“No; he’s left home.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the stranger, in surprise. “How is that?”
“He was awfully hard to get along with, and didn’t treat mother with any respect. He wanted to have his own way, and, of course, ma couldn’t stand that.”
“I see,” returned the stranger, and he eyed Peter curiously. “What did his father say to his leaving home?” he asked.
“Oh, he always does as ma wishes.”
“Was Carl willing to leave home?”
“Yes; he said he would rather go than obey ma.”
“I suppose he receives an allowance from his father?”
“No; he wanted one, but ma put her foot down and said he shouldn’t have one.”
“Your mother seems to be a woman of considerable firmness.”
“You bet, she’s firm. She don’t allow no boy to boss her.”
“Really, this boy is a curiosity,” said Reuben Ashcroft to himself. “He doesn’t excel in the amiable and attractive qualities. He has a sort of brutal frankness which can’t keep a secret.”
“How did you and Carl get along together?” he asked, aloud.
“We didn’t get along at all. He wanted to boss me, and ma and I wouldn’t have it.”
“So the upshot was that he had to leave the house and you remained?”
“Yes, that’s the way of it,” said Peter, laughing.
“And Carl was actually sent out to earn his own living without help of any kind from his father?”
“Yes.”
“What is he doing?” asked Ashcroft, in some excitement. “Good heavens! he may have suffered from hunger.”
“Are you a friend of his?” asked Peter, sharply.
“I am a friend of anyone who requires a friend.”
“Carl is getting along well enough. He is at work in some factory in Milford, and gets a living.”
“Hasn’t he been back since he first left home?”
“No.”
“How long ago is that?”
“Oh, ’bout a year,” answered Peter, carelessly.
“How is Dr. Crawford? Is he in good health?”
“He ain’t very well. Ma told me the other day she didn’t think he would live long. She got him to make a will the other day.”
“Why, this seems to be a conspiracy!” thought Ashcroft. “I’d give something to see that will.”
“I suppose he will provide for you and your mother handsomely?”
“Yes; ma said she was to have control of the property. I guess Carl will have to stand round if he expects any favors.”
“It is evident this boy can’t keep a secret,” thought Ashcroft. “All the better for me. I hope I am in time to defeat this woman’s schemes.”
“There’s the house,” said Peter, pointing it out.
“Do you think Dr. Crawford is at home?”
“Oh, yes, he doesn’t go out much. Ma is away this afternoon. She’s at the sewing circle, I think.”
“Thank you for serving as my guide,” said Ashcroft. “There’s a little acknowledgment which I hope will be of service to you.”
He offered a half dollar to Peter, who accepted it joyfully and was profuse in his thanks.
“Now, if you will be kind enough to tell the doctor that an old friend wishes to see him,
I shall be still further obliged.”
“Just follow me, then,” said Peter, and he led the way into the sitting-room.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Dr. CRAWFORD IS TAKEN TO TASK.
After the first greetings, Reuben Ashcroft noticed with pain the fragile look of his friend.
“Are you well?” he asked
“I am not very strong,” said Dr. Crawford, smiling faintly, “but Mrs. Crawford takes good care of me.”
“And Carl, too–he is no doubt a comfort to you?”
Dr. Crawford flushed painfully.
“Carl has been away from home for a year, he said, with an effort.
“That is strange your own son, too! Is there anything unpleasant? You may confide in me, as I am the cousin of Carl’s mother.’
“The fact is, Carl and Mrs. Crawford didn’t hit it off very well.”
“And you took sides against your own son, said Ashcroft, indignantly.
“I begin to think I was wrong, Reuben. You don’t know how I have missed the boy.
“Yet you sent him out into the world without a penny.”
“How do you know that?” asked Dr. Crawford quickly.
“I had a little conversation with your stepson as I came to the house. He spoke very frankly and unreservedly about family affairs;
He says you do whatever his mother tells you.
Dr. Crawford looked annoyed and blushed with shame.
“Did he say that?” he asked.
“Yes; he said his mother would not allow you to help Carl.”
“He–misunderstood “
“Paul, I fear he understands the case only too well. I don’t want to pain you, but your wife
is counting on your speedy death.”
“I told her I didn’t think I should live long.”
“And she got you to make a will?”
“Yes; did Peter tell you that?”
“He said his mother was to have control of the property, and Carl would get nothing if he didn’t act so as to please her.”
“There is some mistake here. By my will –made yesterday–Carl is to have an equal share, and nothing is said about his being dependent on anyone.”
“Who drew up the will?”
“Mrs. Crawford.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
Ashcroft looked puzzled.
“I should like to read the will myself,” he said, after a pause. “Where is it now?”
“Mrs. Crawford has charge of it.”
Reuben Ashcroft remained silent, but his mind was busy.
“That woman is a genius of craft,” he said to himself. “My poor friend is but a child in her hands. I did not know Paul would be so pitiably weak.”
“How do you happen to be here in Edgewood, Reuben?” asked the doctor.
“I had a little errand in the next town, and could not resist the temptation of visiting you.”
“You can stay a day or two, can you not?”
“I will, though I had not expected to do so.”
“Mrs. Crawford is away this afternoon. She will be back presently, and then I will introduce you.”
At five o’clock Mrs. Crawford returned, and her husband introduced her to his friend.
Ashcroft fixed his eyes upon her searchingly.
“Her face looks strangely familiar,” he said to himself. “Where can I have seen her?”
Mrs. Crawford, like all persons who have a secret to conceal, was distrustful of strangers. She took an instant dislike to Reuben Ashcroft, and her greeting was exceedingly cold.
“I have invited Mr. Ashcroft to make me a visit of two or three days, my dear,” said her husband. “He is a cousin to Carl’s mother.”
Mrs. Crawford made no response, but kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet. She could not have shown more plainly that the invitation was not approved by her.
“Madam does not want me here,” thought Ashcroft, as he fixed his gaze once more upon his friend’s wife. Again the face looked familiar, but he could not place it.
“Have I not seen you before, Mrs. Crawford?” he asked, abruptly.
“I don’t remember you,” she answered, slowly. “Probably I resemble some one you have met.”
“Perhaps so,” answered Ashcroft, but he could not get rid of the conviction that somewhere and some time in the past he had met
Mrs. Crawford, and under circumstances that had fixed her countenance in his memory.
After supper Dr. Crawford said: “My dear, I have told our guest that I had, as a prudential measure, made my will. I wish you would get it, and let me read it to him.”
Mrs. Crawford looked startled and annoyed.
“Couldn’t you tell him the provisions of it?” she said.
“Yes, but I should like to show him the document.”
She turned and went upstairs. She was absent at least ten minutes. When she returned
she was empty-handed.
“I am sorry to say,” she remarked, with a forced laugh, “that I have laid away the will so carefully that I can’t find it.”
Ashcroft fixed a searching look upon her, that evidently annoyed her.
“I may be able to find it to-morrow,” she resumed.
“I think you told me, Paul,” said Ashcroft, turning to Dr. Crawford, “that by the will your estate is divided equally between Carl and Mrs. Crawford.”
“Yes.”
“And nothing is said of any guardianship on the part of Mrs. Crawford?”
“No; I think it would be better, Ashcroft, that you should be Carl’s guardian. A man can study his interests and control him better.”
“I will accept the trust,” said Ashcroft, “though I hope it may be many years before the necessity arises.”
Mrs. Crawford bit her lips, and darted an angry glance at the two friends. She foresaw that her plans were threatened with failure.
The two men chatted throughout the evening, and Dr. Crawford had never of late seemed happier. It gave him new life and raised his spirits to chat over old times with his early friend.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A MAN OF ENERGY.
The next morning Ashcroft said to his host: “Paul, let us take a walk to the village.”
Dr. Crawford put on his hat, and went out with his friend.
“Now, Paul,” said Ashcroft, when they were some rods distant from the house, “is there a lawyer in Edgewood?”
“Certainly, and a good one.”
“Did he indite your will?”
“No; Mrs. Crawford wrote it out.
She was at one time copyist for a lawyer.”
“Take my advice and have another drawn up to-day without mentioning the matter to her. She admits having mislaid the one made yesterday.”
“It may be a good idea.”
“Certainly, it is a prudent precaution. Then you will be sure that all is safe. I have, myself, executed a duplicate will. One I keep,
the other I have deposited with my lawyer.”
Ashcroft was a man of energy. He saw that Dr. Crawford, who was of a weak, vacillating temper, executed the will. He and another witnessed it, and the document was left with the lawyer.
“You think I had better not mention the matter to Mrs. Crawford?” he said.
“By no means–she might think it was a reflection upon her for carelessly mislaying the first.”
“True,” and the doctor, who was fond of peace, consented to his friend’s plan.
“By the way,” asked Ashcroft, “who was your wife what was her name, I mean–before her second marriage?”
“She was a Mrs. Cook.”
“Oh, I see,” said Ashcroft, and his face lighted up with surprise and intelligence
“What do you see?” inquired Dr. Crawford. “I thought your wife’s face was familiar. I met her once when she was Mrs. Cook.”
“You knew her, then?”
“No, I never exchanged a word with her till I met her under this roof.
“How can I tell him that I first saw her when a visitor to the penitentiary among the female prisoners?” Ashcroft asked himself. “My poor friend would sink with mortification.”
They were sitting in friendly chat after their return from their walk, when Mrs. Crawford burst into the room in evident excitement.
“Husband,” she cried, “Peter has brought home a terrible report. He has heard from a person who has just come from Milford that Carl has been run over on the railroad and instantly killed!”
Dr. Crawford turned pale, his features worked convulsively, and he put his hand to his heart, as he sank back in his chair, his face as pale as the dead.
“Woman!” said Ashcroft, sternly, “I believe you have killed your husband!”
“Oh, don’t say that! How could I be so imprudent?” said Mrs. Crawford, clasping her hands,
and counterfeiting distress.
Ashcroft set himself at once to save his friend from the result of the shock.
“Leave the room!” he said, sternly, to Mrs. Crawford.
“Why should I? I am his wife.”
“And have sought to be his murderer. You know that he has heart disease. Mrs. –Cook,
I know more about you than you suppose.”
Mrs. Crawford’s color receded.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. She had scarcely reached the door, when there was a sound of footsteps outside and Carl dashed into the room, nearly upsetting his stepmother.
“You here?” she said, frigidly.
“What is the matter with my father?” asked Carl.
“Are you Carl?” said Ashcroft, quickly.
“Yes.”