Agatha Webb (34 page)

I would gladly give my life if I could once hold you in my arms,
my erring but beloved son. Will the day ever come when I can? Will
you have strength enough to hear my story and preserve your peace
and let me go down to the grave with the memory of one look, one
smile, that is for me alone? Sometimes I foresee this hour and am
happy for a few short minutes; and then some fresh story of your
recklessness is wafted through the town and—

What stopped her at this point we shall never know. Some want of
Philemon's, perhaps. At all events she left off here and the
letter was never resumed. It was the last secret outpouring of her
heart. With this broken sentence Agatha's letters terminated.

That afternoon, before the inquiry broke up, the jury brought in
their verdict. It was:

"Death by means of a wound inflicted upon herself in a moment of
terror and misapprehension."

It was all his fellow-townsmen could do for Frederick.

But Frederick's day of trial was not yet over. There was a closed
door to open and a father to see (as in his heart he still called
Mr. Sutherland). Then there were friends to face, and foes, under
conditions he better than anyone else, knew were in some regards
made worse rather than better by the admissions and revelations of
this eventful day—Agnes, for instance. How could he meet her pure
gaze? But it was his father he must first confront, his father to
whom he would have to repeat in private the tale which robbed the
best of men of a past, and took from him a son, almost a wife,
without leaving him one memory calculated to console him.
Frederick was so absorbed in this anticipation that he scarcely
noticed the two or three timid hands stretched out in
encouragement toward him, and was moving slowly toward the door
behind which his father had disappeared so many hours before, when
he was recalled to the interests of the moment by a single word,
uttered not very far from him. It was simply, "Well?" But it was
uttered by Knapp and repeated by Mr. Courtney.

Frederick shuddered, and was hurrying on when he found himself
stopped by a piteous figure that, with appealing eyes and timid
gestures, stepped up before him. It was Amabel.

"Forgive!" she murmured, looking like a pleading saint. "I did not
know—I never dreamed—you were so much of a man, Frederick: that
you bore such a heart, cherished such griefs, were so worthy of
love and a woman's admiration. If I had—"

Her expression was eloquent, more eloquent than he had ever seen
it, for it had real feeling in it; but he put her coldly by.

"When my father's white hairs become black again, and the story of
my shame is forgotten in this never-forgetting world, then come
back and I will forgive you."

And he was passing on when another touch detained him. He turned,
this time in some impatience, only to meet the frank eyes of
Sweetwater. As he knew very little of this young man, save that he
was the amateur detective who had by some folly of his own been
carried off on the Hesper, and who was probably the only man saved
from its wreck, he was about to greet him with some commonplace
phrase of congratulation, when Sweetwater interrupted him with the
following words:

"I only wanted to say that it may be easier for you to approach
your father with the revelations you are about to make if you knew
that in his present frame of mind he is much more likely to be
relieved by such proofs of innocence as you can give him than
overwhelmed by such as show the lack of kinship between you. For
two weeks Mr. Sutherland has been bending under the belief of your
personal criminality in this matter. This was his secret, which
was shared by me."

"By you?"

"Yes, by me! I am more closely linked to this affair than you can
readily imagine. Some day I may be able to explain myself, but not
now. Only remember what I have said about your father—pardon me,
I should perhaps say Mr. Sutherland—and act accordingly. Perhaps
it was to tell you this that I was forced back here against my
will by the strangest series of events that ever happened to a
man. But," he added, with a sidelong look at the group of men
still hovering about the coroner's table, "I had rather think it
was for some more important office still. But this the future will
show,—the future which I seem to see lowering in the faces over
there."

And, waiting for no reply, he melted into the crowd.

Frederick passed at once to his father.

No one interrupted them during this solemn interview, but the
large crowd that in the halls and on the steps of the building
awaited Frederick's reappearance showed that the public interest
was still warm in a matter affecting so deeply the heart and
interests of their best citizen. When, therefore, that long-closed
door finally opened and Frederick was seen escorting Mr.
Sutherland on his arm, the tide of feeling which had not yet
subsided since Agatha's letters were read vented itself in one
great sob of relief. For Mr. Sutherland's face was calmer than
when they had last seen it, and his step more assured, and he
leaned, or made himself lean, on Frederick's arm, as if to impress
upon all who saw them that the ties of years cannot be shaken off
so easily, and that he still looked upon Frederick as his son.

But he was not contented with this dumb show, eloquent as it was.
As the crowd parted and these two imposing figures took their way
down the steps to the carriage which had been sent for them, Mr.
Sutherland cast one deep and long glance about him on faces he
knew and on faces he did not know, on those who were near and
those who were far, and raising his voice, which did not tremble
as much as might have been expected, said deliberately:

"My son accompanies me to his home. If he should afterwards be
wanted, he will be found at his own fireside. Good-day, my
friends. I thank you for the goodwill you have this day shown us
both."

Then he entered the carriage.

The solemn way in which Frederick bared his head in acknowledgment
of this public recognition of the hold he still retained on this
one faithful heart, struck awe into the hearts of all who saw it.
So that the carriage rolled off in silence, closing one of the
most thrilling and impressive scenes ever witnessed in that time-
worn village.

But, alas! all tides have their ebb as well as flow, and before
Mr. Sutherland and Frederick were well out of the main street the
latter became aware that notwithstanding the respect with which
his explanations had been received by the jury, there were many of
his fellow-townsmen who were ready to show dissatisfaction at his
being allowed to return in freedom to that home where he had still
every prospect of being called the young master. Doubt, that seed
of ramifying growth, had been planted in more than one breast, and
while it failed as yet to break out into any open manifestation,
there were evidences enough in the very restraint visible in such
groups of people as they passed that suspicion had not been
suppressed or his innocence established by the over-favourable
verdict of the coroner's jury.

To Mr. Sutherland, suffering now from the reaction following all
great efforts, much, if not all, of this quiet but significant
display of public feeling passed unnoticed. But to Frederick,
alive to the least look, the least sign that his story had not
been accepted unquestioned, this passage through the town was the
occasion of the most poignant suffering.

For not only did these marks of public suspicion bespeak possible
arraignment in the future, but through them it became evident that
even if he escaped open condemnation in the courts, he could never
hope for complete reinstatement before the world, nor, what was to
him a still deeper source of despair, anticipate a day when
Agnes's love should make amends to him for the grief and errors of
his more than wayward youth. He could never marry so pure a being
while the shadow of crime separated him from the mass of human
beings. Her belief in his innocence and the exact truth of his
story (and he was confident she did believe him) could make no
difference in this conclusion. While he was regarded openly or in
dark corners or beside the humblest fireside as a possible
criminal, neither Mr. Sutherland nor her father, nor his own heart
even, would allow him to offer her anything but a friend's
gratitude, or win from her anything but a neighbour's sympathy;
yet in bidding good-bye to larger hopes and more importunate
desires, he parted with the better part of his heart and the only
solace remaining in this world for the boundless griefs and tragic
experiences of his still young life. He had learned to love
through suffering, only to realise that the very nature of his
suffering forbade him to indulge in love.

And this seemed a final judgment, even in this hour of public
justification. He had told his story and been for the moment
believed, but what was there in his life, what was there in the
facts as witnessed by others, what was there in his mother's
letters and the revelation of their secret relationship, to
corroborate his assertions, or to prove that her hand and not his
had held the weapon when the life-blood gushed from her devoted
breast? Nothing, nothing; only his word to stand against all human
probabilities and natural inference; only his word and the
generous nature of the great-hearted woman who had thus perished!
Though a dozen of his fellow-citizens had by their verdict
professed their belief in his word and given him the benefit of a
doubt involving his life as well as his honour, he, as well as
they, knew that neither the police nor the general public were
given to sentimentality, and that the question of his guilt still
lay open and must remain so till his dying day. For from the
nature of things no proof of the truth was probable. Batsy being
dead, only God and his own heart could know that the facts of that
awful half-hour were as he had told them.

Had God in His justice removed in this striking way his only
witness, as a punishment for his sins and his mad indulgence in
acts so little short of crime as to partake of its guilt and merit
its obloquy?

He was asking himself this question as he bent to fasten the gate.
His father had passed in, the carriage had driven off, and the
road was almost solitary—but not quite. As he leaned his arm over
the gate and turned to take a final glance down the hillside, he
saw, with what feelings no one will ever know, the light figure of
Agnes advancing on the arm of her father.

He would have drawn back, but a better impulse intervened and he
stood his ground. Mr. Halliday, who walked very close to Agnes,
cast her an admonitory glance which Frederick was not slow in
interpreting, then stopped reluctantly, perhaps because he saw her
falter, perhaps because he knew that an interview between these
two was unavoidable and had best be quickly over.

Frederick found his voice first.

"Agnes," said he, "I am glad of this opportunity for expressing my
gratitude. You have acted like a friend and have earned my eternal
consideration, even if we never speak again."

There was a momentary silence. Her head, which had drooped under
his greeting, rose again. Her eyes, humid with feeling, sought his
face.

"Why do you speak like that?" said she. "Why shouldn't we meet?
Does not everyone recognise your innocence, and will not the whole
world soon see, as I have, that you have left the old life behind
and have only to be your new self to win everyone's regard?"

"Agnes," returned Frederick, smiling sadly as he observed the
sudden alarm visible in her father's face at these enthusiastic
words, "you know me perhaps better than others do and are prepared
to believe my words and my more than unhappy story. But there are
few like you in the world. People in general will not acquit me,
and if there was only one person who doubted "—Mr. Halliday began
to look relieved—"I would fail to give any promise of the new
life you hope to see me lead, if I allowed the shadow under which
I undoubtedly rest to fall in the remotest way across yours. You
and I have been friends and will continue such, but we will hold
little intercourse in future, hard as I find it to say so. Does
not Mr. Halliday consider this right? As your father he must."

Agnes's eyes, leaving Frederick's for a moment, sought her
father's. Alas! there was no mistaking their language. Sighing
deeply, she again hung her head.

"Too much care for people's opinion," she murmured, "and too
little for what is best and noblest in us. I do not recognise the
necessity of a farewell between us any more than I recognise that
anyone who saw and heard you to-day can believe in your guilt."

"But there are so many who did not hear and see me. Besides" (here
he turned a little and pointed to the garden in his rear), "for
the past week a man—I need not state who, nor under what
authority he acts—has been in hiding under that arbour, watching
my every movement, and almost counting my sighs. Yesterday he left
for a short space, but to-day he is back. What does that argue,
dear friend? Innocence, completely recognised, does not call for
such guardianship."

The slight frame of the young girl bending so innocently toward
him shuddered involuntarily at this, and her eyes, frightened and
flashing, swept over the arbour before returning to his face.

"If there is a watcher there, and if such a fact proves you to be
in danger of arrest for a crime you never committed, then it
behooves your friends to show where they stand in this matter, and
by lending their sympathy give you courage and power to meet the
trials before you."

"Not when they are young girls," murmured Frederick, and casting a
glance at Mr. Halliday, he stepped softly back.