Round the Block Part 26

"The explanation is _plausible_" (Mr. Minford emphasized the word), "and I will not attempt to set it aside. G.o.d alone knows all the motives of human action. Now, to the second, and more serious implication of the letter. I have visited your native village, and inquired into your early history. Though you moved to the city over fifteen years ago, and have returned to your birthplace but once since, so far as I could ascertain--"

"Allow me," said Marcus. "My absence from my old home may seem strange, but it is occasioned by no shame or disgrace. My father, mother, and twin brother died and were buried there. By my father's failure, shortly before his death, the old family mansion pa.s.sed out of his hands, and was afterward torn down to make room for a railway depot. This extinction of my family--for I am now left without a relation in the world, excepting a half-sister--and this destruction of our old home, have made my native village horrible to me. When I visited the scene of desolation, ten years ago, the village seemed to me like a huge graveyard, in every part of which some happiness of my boyhood was entombed; and I vowed that I would never go near it again. In the matter of family recollections, I am exquisitely sensitive."

"I respect your feelings, sir," said the inventor, "and regret that I should be the means of reviving these painful recollections. But I have, a duty to perform."

"And I will no longer delay you in its performance. Now be kind enough to let me know the worst at once. I can stand it." Marcus unconsciously sat up more erect, as if to brace himself against a shock.

"On my arrival in the village, my first act was to seek out some of the oldest inhabitants. I found that most of them distinctly remembered you, and your brother--Aurelius, I think, was his name. You will pardon me for telling you the exact result of my inquiries, but I found that these old inhabitants, without a single exception, gave you a very bad name, and your brother a very good one."

Marcus was about to explain, that his brother and himself were images of each other; that the former was crafty, and full of mischief, and that he (Marcus) had been made, on fifty occasions, the innocent scapegoat of his brother's little offences. But he forbore. He had cheerfully received reprimands, and even chastis.e.m.e.nts, for his brother while living; and he would not blacken his memory when dead. He merely smiled a sad smile, and said, "Ah?"

"Many of the offences charged against you by these old gossips, were petty and excusable. But there were others, committed by you when you were at or near manhood, exhibiting, if true--understand, I say, _if_ true--a moral depravity for which no extenuation can be found. Some of the charges were not sustained by adequate proofs, and those I set down as idle rumors. But there was one of which the proof was abundant and most positive. No less than five persons gave me circ.u.mstantial accounts--all agreeing with each other--of your betrayal and ruin of Lucy Anserhoff."

"Lucy Anserhoff!" echoed Marcus, in real amazement. "I have a faint remembrance of an old lady by that name, and a pretty girl who was her daughter. But as G.o.d is my judge, I never wronged her." Still there was that expression of guilt, which did not escape the scrutinizing glance of the inventor.

Marcus could have hunted up evidence to transfer the burden of the imputed wrong to the memory of the dead Aurelius. But should he commit this profanation of the grave--as he regarded it? The voice of brotherly love--for he had tenderly loved his erring brother--said, "No." Would any amount of proof satisfy the nervous, doubting man before him? He feared not. Therefore Marcus Wilkeson did an act of awful solemnity, to prove his innocence. And, because the doing of it thrilled his sensitive soul, as if he had thrust himself into the terrible presence of the Infinite, he weakly supposed that the most suspicious of men would unhesitatingly believe him.

He stood up, turned his eyes to the ceiling, raised both hands, and said, in a deep, trembling voice:

"May G.o.d strike me dead, if I am guilty of this offence, or any like it, or of any thought of wrong toward your daughter."

Marc as sat down, pale, and caught his breath quickly. He was awestricken by his own act.

"That is a solemn adjuration," said the inventor, after a short pause, "and should not be lightly taken."

Marcus looked well at Mr. Minford. Unbelief was written in every hard line and wrinkle of that white, deathlike face. "Do you doubt me now?"

he asked, sharply. His sensitiveness on the subject of personal honor and veracity was painfully acute. He had never told a lie in his life.

"Oh! no," replied Mr. Minford; "I do not say that I doubt you" (in a tone expressive of the greatest doubt). "I shall be truly glad to receive counter proofs from you."

"You have heard my solemn appeal to G.o.d, sir. Between gentlemen of honor that should be sufficient."

The inventor's thin lips (from which the last drops of blood had disappeared within the last half hour) curved in a satirical smile.

Marcus interpreted it as a reiterated doubt and a sneer upon his honor.

For the moment he lost control of his temper, and was about to make a remark that he would have regretted immediately after, when the door yielded to a gentle pressure, and Pet entered the room.

Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull, and the lids hung droopingly, weighed down by twenty-four hours of wakefulness by the bedside of her sick teacher. The faint blue crescents beneath--those strange shadows of the grave, which sometimes seem the deepest when the eyes above are giving the brightest light--imparted a frail, delicate beauty to her countenance. They were the last master-touches of Nature in working out that portraiture of weaned and sleepy loveliness.

As she put her foot in the room, Mr. Minford and his guest telegraphed a truce with their eyes, and a.s.sumed a cheerful look.

Little Pet timidly ran to her father, and kissed him, and then shook hands with Marcus. He observed a shrinking in her touch. She averted her eyes.

"Your clothes are damp, and your feet wet, my darling," said the father,

"Are they?" answered Pet, looking down at her saturated garments and glistening shoes. "I had not noticed them. Oh! I am so happy that she is well now. The doctor called at the house just before I left, and said she was out of all danger. He ordered me home."

"Very sensible of the doctor. Another hour of this watching might have killed my poor child."

"So I took a last look at my dear teacher--who was asleep--and kissed her, and came right away through the rain."

"It was foolish to do that without an umbrella and overshoes, my child.

But, as you were always forgetful of yourself, your father will not be forgetful of you, at any rate." The inventor glanced significantly at Marcus. That glance, so full of distrust, entered his soul. He longed to say something--if only a word of common civility--to the young girl; but he felt that there was now an impa.s.sable barrier between them.

"But what is the matter, Pet?" exclaimed the father. She had dropped into a chair, and her head fell on one side. He sprang to catch her. So did Marcus. But the inventor reached her first, and seized her in his arms, directing another of his speaking looks at Marcus.

Pet roused herself at the touch of her father's hands, sat erect, and opened her large blue eyes. "I am so sleepy," she said.

"Of course you are, my blessed; and to bed you must go at once. That is my prescription. But, first--always first--a cup of tea."

The inventor darted to the stove, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the teapot, poured out a cup of the universal restorer, scalding his forefinger in the hurry, milked and sugared it just right, and bore it to his daughter, who was nodding again. She drank it dutifully, like medicine.

Children do not comprehend tea. We have to grow up to it. It is the appointed balm of fatigued and sorrowing middle age.

In its function of medicine, the strong draught revived her, giving a twist to her pretty features, and sending a lively shudder through her slender frame. Pet rose from her seat quite briskly.

"Now to bed. To bed at once. No delay. And mind you put on all the blankets, and your heavy shawl a-top of them."

"Yes, father."

Marcus blushed, twirled his hat, and made a motion toward the door.

"You need not go, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor. "I beg that you will not. I wish to settle up that little unfinished business with you to-night."

Marcus saw that the inventor was in earnest. He coughed, and hesitated what to say.

But, before he could say anything, Pet had kissed her father, and said "Good-night," in a faint voice, to the guest, and already had her hand on the k.n.o.b of the door which led to her little sleeping room.

"Remember, darling--all the blankets, and your shawl. To-morrow morning you will wake up bright and happy, and ready to enjoy a little surprise that I shall have for you." He jerked his thumb toward the machine.

Pet understood him, and smiled sadly. "You need bed more than I, father," said she.

"Nonsense, child!" replied the old man, with a hollow laugh. "It is not for the patient to prescribe to the physician. There, good-night, now."

He kissed her again with more tenderness. "Remember," said he, "there is a little surprise in store for you to-morrow."

Pet said, "Heaven bless you, father," murmured another "Good-night," and disappeared within her sanctuary, closing the door after her.

"Now, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor, "we can finish our conversation."

His voice sounded like a voice from the tomb.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLASHING ORBS.

The rain had ceased, and the moon was out. The dark, ma.s.sy clouds that floated between her and the earth were doing their ghostly, phantasmagoric work. At one moment, clear, white light, like a shroud; at another moment, darkness, like a pall. An owl, lighting on the spire of Grace Church in his flight over the city, might have seen the white edge of the shroud, or the black edge of the pall, advancing in well-defined lines over the housetops, and the parks, and the two rivers, swiftly succeeding each other.