Part 23

"How could he hide so much money?" I asked, remembering the great stacks of bills my father used to bring home and the trouble mother and he had in secreting them about the house.

"It was mostly in big bills, with some gold and silver."

"Did you see it?"

"Yes, but only casually, as he and Rathe sealed it up."

"Uncle Job took it in charge afterward?"

"Yes; Rathe and I coming away together. At daybreak the next morning your uncle woke us up, complaining of his head and looking wild and disordered. He couldn't give any account of the money, however, except that he thought he had been drugged, and indeed the odor of chloroform filled the room, as I found on going there, which I did at once."

"That's enough to clear him," I cried. "Nothing could be plainer."

"Yes, so it would seem; but they claim he invented the story."

"The room was filled with the stuff, you say?"

"Yes; but Moth says your uncle spilled it himself, to hide the crime."

"The liar! he knows better. Oh, it's wicked to accuse Uncle Job when he can't prove what he says."

"Yes, that is what his friends think; but what we are saying don't lead to anything, and while we are talking you are freezing. Come, Constance will want to see you and welcome you back." Saying which, Mr. Seymour, not a whit the worse for the cold, took my arm and led me into the house, though I was all of a tremor, so biting was the air.

Mr. Seymour ordered breakfast served in the Treasury, looking upon my coming as an event, he said. Constance being told of my arrival, came in presently, looking pale and distressed, and seeing me beside her father, ran forward without speaking, save to call my name, clasping her arms about my neck and hiding her face on my shoulder.

"There, Puss, don't give way like that," Mr. Seymour exclaimed. "Gilbert is all right, and with the strength and color of a prince, as you can see."

"Yes, papa; but when I heard he was here the fear that something dreadful had happened gave me such a fright I could scarce stand."

This I did not doubt, for the dear girl trembled as with a chill, and loosing her hands and taking them in mine, I drew her to me and kissed her, saying:

"I was never in such fine health in my life, Constance; the country is the place to build one up, you know."

At breakfast, seated beside her, I forgot, and wholly, Uncle Job and the errand on which I had come. How beautiful she was, I thought. Almost a woman, too, in height, and with the grace of one. Surely there never was any one so fair and good as she. Pressing her hand, I wondered that I could have remained so long away, or that another's troubles, should have been needed to bring me back; but so it was always. Loving her, I was content, or thought I was, when away, knowing her thoughts, like mine, were ever such as we would have shared had we been together. Thus it had been from the first, neither change of place nor period making any difference to us, but constant in all things, each day only added to our love. Nor, as I have told you, was this affection in anything like that of children; nor of brother or sister, but of man and woman. This Mr. Seymour knew, and since that day at Wild Plum had treated me in all things as if I were his son and a man grown. Of the reason for this, remembering my youth, I do not know, unless indeed something in his own life led him to view the matter differently from what other men would have done in his place. Thus all things contributed to make the bond between us as strong as the affections of two loving and trusting hearts could make it; and thus it continued, each day only adding to its strength.

"Gilbert's come back to see if he can aid his Uncle Job," Mr. Seymour remarked, as he arose from the table. "Maybe you can help him, Puss. Two such wise young heads ought to be equal to most anything. He has lost no time in finding out everything I know"; and with that he kissed her and went out, turning at the door to smile upon her, half in banter, half in earnest.

"Yes, Constance," I said, turning to her, "I've come back to help Uncle Job, but how, I can't see."

"I am sure you will be able to help him if any one can, Gilbert," she answered, with simple trust; "I have thought of him so much because of you, and knowing how distressed you would be when you came to hear of his misfortune."

"That's like you, Constance, but what can we do? Who could have stolen the money and yet have covered it up so well?"

"There were but two who knew he had the money--papa and Mr. Rathe. Papa didn't take it, we know. Then if he did not, Rathe must, and that I believe."

"He never left the house, your father says, and so how could he have taken it?" I answered.

"Papa thinks so, but how do we know. He could have left the house easily enough during the night without any one knowing it, I'm sure."

"Oh, you sweet child!" I cried, my heart filling. For from the moment Mr. Seymour had mentioned Rathe's name I believed him to be the thief, and no other. "How can we prove it, though, for no one suspects him, not even your father," I added, looking at her to see how she took it.

"I don't know about that. Papa's a man, and doesn't always say what he thinks; but I know he doesn't like Rathe any more than we do."

"Well, we must wait and see what Fox says," I answered. "I'm going to meet him to-night and let him know everything I can find out. He's promised to help, though afraid to come to Appletop because of Moth."

"You thought he could aid you before, I know, but how can he do anything if he dare not show himself?" she asked, as if not placing much hope in anything he could do.

"Men like him know more than others about things of this kind, I've heard say. They are more alert, I suppose, and Fox seems so clear in his way of looking at things."

"I hope he can help. I'm sure he thinks a great deal of you or he would not have come to make inquiries when you were sick. I wouldn't build too much on him, though, if I were you, Gilbert, for Moth is weaving a dreadful web about your uncle, I fear," the sweet girl answered, as if looking forward to some great sorrow in store for me; and with the words, she put her arms about my neck and pressed her face against mine in comfort of companionship and tender sympathy.

*CHAPTER XXXIX*

*THE DEPTHS*

After breakfast I asked Constance to go with me to see Uncle Job, and her father assenting, we soon reached the jail where he was confined. It was a forlorn-looking place, built of rough logs, strips of wood and plaster filling the intervening spaces. Gaining admission, we found Uncle Job in a cell apart, and so cold and cheerless of aspect that we could scarce restrain our tears at the sight of it. He, not expecting us, was quite upset, but recovering himself, asked us to sit down on the rude bench that half-filled the place and answered for both seat and bed.

"Your faces are like a glimpse of heaven," he exclaimed, putting his arms about us with tender affection.

To this we could make no reply, and for a long time sat bolt upright, holding his hands and gazing at the blank wall before us. At last, mustering some courage, I said:

"I would have been here before, uncle, but have been living at the Blakes', and it was only yesterday that he came home and told us of your trouble."

"Then that is where you have been?" he asked, surprised at what I said.

"Yes," I replied.

"They are kind people, and had I known you were there, I should not have worried about you."

"It was foolish in me to run away, and I'm ashamed of myself; and now more than ever," I answered, unable to say more.

"You need not have feared Moth; and now he is under bonds not to molest you, so there will be no further trouble."

"I am glad of that, though I don't care for him any more. He is a scoundrel and sneak, and I'm going to give him a thrashing when I see him," I answered, and meaning to do as I said.

"That is foolish talk, Gilbert. You must not get into any trouble with him. He is a man to fear and avoid. Wait; time will bring everything out right."

"Yes, we hope so; but Moth deserves a beating just the same for mixing up so much in our affairs," I answered.

"Nothing he attempts against us will succeed," Uncle Job answered, and believing what he said. For he was in all things a very religious man, and did not think it possible that the innocent could suffer wrong.

"What chance have you, Uncle Job, anyway, for we are all worried to death?" I exclaimed at last, my emotion overcoming me.

"The chance an innocent man always has"; saying which he looked into my eyes, as if to read there my inmost thoughts concerning him.

"We know you're innocent, we're sure you are," I answered; "but if they don't believe it and find you guilty?"

"How can I help that, save by telling the truth? There is no other way, for I can't make head or tail of it, and haven't a single witness. Nothing save my word and what men know of me."

"They know nothing but good of you, but who did take the money? You know, I'm sure."

"If I knew, I would say so; but I don't, and so can't accuse any one."

"Then who do you think took it?" I asked, standing up and facing him.

"What I think isn't of any account unless I know and can prove it, and that I can't do."

"Yes, and keeping still, they will convict you!" I cried, stirred out of all patience by his calm assurance.

"I hope not; but there is no other way that I know of, or that others can devise for me, so far as I can see."

"Mr. Seymour says you were drugged."

"I was, but by whom I can't tell; and as regards the money, I know no more about it than Constance here," he exclaimed, laying his hand on her head. At this she burst into tears, and for that matter Uncle Job himself could no longer maintain any semblance of calmness, so great was his distress.

Long we talked, but without any result, for not a thing could I learn likely to afford Fox a clew to work upon. When at last we returned home, much discouraged, we were greatly surprised to find Mr. and Mrs. Blake awaiting us. Mrs. Blake greeted me in the most affectionate way, throwing her arms about my body and holding me against her bosom for a long time without speaking. At last overcoming her agitation, she exclaimed between her sobs:

"How could you leave us in the way you did, Gilbert; and the horror of it, too! You can never know, you foolish boy, how my heart sank when I found you were out in that dreadful storm. How could you have been so cruel?" and stopping, she held me from her, as if to assure herself that it was I and no one else she clasped in her arms.

"I had no thought of the storm or that I ran any risk. Indeed, it was not so bad, after all, for when I reached the Eagle's Nest I found supper and a warm bed. I'm not a bit the worse, you see, for the journey; but I'm sorry to have caused you so much anxiety and trouble, and hope you'll forgive me," I answered, much cast down at her distress.

"I never saw a storm so fierce and wild. We scarce slept for the cold and rocking of the house in the wind; and when, late in the night, I went to your room to see how you were getting on, I thought I should have died when I found you gone and your bed untouched. Sitting about until there was a bit of light, we started after you, stopping, with our hearts in our mouths, to stir every mound of snow by the wayside, expecting to find your body beneath it. Oh, it was dreadful!"

"Oh, Gilbert, you never told us a word of this," Constance cried, coming to my side. "How could you have kept it back?"

"It was not nearly so bad as Mrs. Blake thinks, Constance. I reached the tavern all right, and in a little while was as good as new. If the night hadn't turned out as it did, I would have been here by twelve o'clock, and none the worse for the tramp, either."

"Yes, but think, Miss Constance, of his being in the forest alone, and on such a night and clad as he was! We will always blame ourselves for not bringing him here yesterday, as he implored us to do."

"Please don't talk of it any more, I love you so much!" I cried out at last. "I couldn't help doing what I did."

"I know you couldn't; and we are happy in finding you alive and well. You will go back with us, or if not now, when your uncle's trouble is fixed up, as we hope and pray it will be soon. You know we love you as if you were our own son."

"That we do, Gilbert, and wish you to live with us always," Mr. Blake now broke in for the first time.

"Sweet lady," Mr. Seymour here interposed, coming forward and taking Mrs. Blake's hand and kissing it reverently as a son might, "I want to thank you and Mr. Blake for your kindness to Gilbert and love for him; and I am made happy, madam, by having an insight into a heart so affectionate and true and every way worthy of regard. Gilbert is as my own son, and I kiss your hand again, madam, to show my respect and love for you," and Mr. Seymour bent over and lifted her hand to his lips with as much deference as he would have shown his queen. Constance, who had stood by with tears dimming her eyes, now put her soft arms about Mrs. Blake and embraced and kissed her, as if she could not show plainly enough how much she loved her for her tender heart.

As the Blakes had left home without their breakfast, and it was now midday, Constance ordered luncheon spread for them in the Treasury, and while they were satisfying their hunger we sat about or waited upon them with loving attention. Afterward, as they could not be prevailed upon to stop longer, Constance and I went with them to the edge of the town, where we watched till they were out of sight. When it was dark, I went to meet Fox, as we had agreed, but without hope, so little had I been able to learn that would be of use to him. He was there before me, and upon hearing my voice, which I could by no means render cheerful, cried out in great spirits:

"Don't be downhearted, you little vagrant, but tell me all you have found out, not forgetting the smallest thing, as I told you. It is in some trifle that the rogues always give themselves away, the thief-catchers say. I ought to have been a constable, and not a preacher, my boy," he went on; with cheerful unconcern; "but many a good man has made a like mistake. It shows, you see, how little we know what we are good for when young. Come now, commence at the beginning and tell me what you have discovered, and take your time about it, for there is no hurry."

Thus encouraged, I told him all I had found out, not omitting anything I could remember, however trifling.

"So Miss Constance thinks Rathe is the thief, does she? A bright girl, I'll wager; but why does she think that?" he asked, when I had concluded.

"Because neither of us like him, and because he and Mr. Seymour were the only ones there when the money was sealed up the evening before the robbery."

"So they sealed it up, did they? What was that for, I wonder?"

"I don't know, unless to make sure."

"Well, it was business-like, anyway; but Miss Constance must have some other reason for disliking Rathe?"

"Yes, because he and Uncle Job are rivals."

"Rivals! rivals! For what, I'd like to know?"

"For Miss Betty's favor."

"What is that you are saying? Pray, who is Miss Betty?"

"Miss Betty Singleton, a young lady in Appletop."

"How long have they been rivals?"

"I don't know, but before I came here."

"Well, this is what I call gossip, Gilbert, and makes me feel as if I were in Boston again. We ought to have a cup of tea and a bit of toast and a cozy fire to enjoy it fully, though. Which of the suitors, pray, does Miss Betty favor--your uncle or the other man?"

"Uncle Job, Constance thinks."

"I'll bet she is right, too, if Miss Betty is a girl of sense, and she is or your uncle wouldn't care for her. So the rivalry has been on for a long time--before you had that scare in Murderer's Hollow, probably?"

"Yes, long before that."

"Well, you have a fine ear for gossip, Gilbert, if you are not much of a detective. Let me see now," he went on, "if I have everything straight"; and with that he began to question me afresh about the robbery, and the money, and the shape it was in, and how and where Uncle Job lived, and about his business and love affair, and a thousand other things of which I could see no point whatever.

"You have not told me when the trial is to come off," he exclaimed, finally, "or isn't that decided yet?"

"In three days from now."

"Whew! but they are speedy! Let me see, the robbery happened eight days ago. That is hardly giving him time to turn around."

"That's what I think, but Mr. Seymour says it's the way, and that Uncle Job wishes it hurried," I answered.

"Yes; and it's as good a way as any. The sooner men are tried and afforded a chance to prove their innocence, or stand convicted, the more likely justice is to be done. Only time enough should be given to get together the evidence. More than that is a trick."

"Enough time hasn't been allowed Uncle Job," I answered, "for there's only three days more, and nothing has been done."

"I don't know. A good many things might happen in three days, Gilbert; so don't be too downhearted. Go back to town and see what more you can learn, and don't forget to spy out what Moth and the constable are doing. Then come here the second night from this, crammed with news, and I will be here to meet you. You are sure, though, that you have told me everything you have heard?" he added.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, then, if that is all, give me your hand and I will help you to a ride to town."

On our way back he sought to cheer me up, but not with much success, for I could see no loophole by which Uncle Job could escape, so closely was the web drawn about him--unless, indeed, his good name should serve him with the jury, as he thought; but of this I had not much hope, so greatly did I fear Moth's misrepresentations and sarcasm of speech.

The next day, when on my way to visit Uncle Job, I met Blott as he was leaving the jail. Jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Uncle Job's cell, he remarked, in his slow way:

"He's in the spider's web, sure; Pickle's got him, the little ant!"

"Yes," I cried; "and he is the man who saved your life. Now he's in trouble why don't you save him, and pay your debt?" I asked, in a heat.

"There's nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to help him. He saved my life an' saved me from other things worse'n dyin'," Blott answered, mournfully. "I could git him out of jail easy enough, if that was all, an' offered to, but he won't budge."

"I spoke without thinking, Blott," I answered, ashamed of myself; "but he is in trouble, and needs friends, and hasn't any."

"He's lots of friends, an' that's all the good it does; but the Lord ain't goin' to let a man like him be eaten up by moths, I don't believe, though how he's to be saved I don't see."

"Can't anything be done?" I asked, in despair.

"Not as it appears now; but be cheerf, Gilbert, be cheerf. It'll all come out right in the end, an' truth'll triumph, if what the Sunday-school teachers preach is true. To make sure, though, git your uncle into the idea of movin', an' I'll have him clear of the place an' out of the country in twenty-four hours"; saying which, Blott wrung my hand and hurried away, as if not daring to trust himself to speak further.

Save what I have related, the two days passed without my being able to find out anything new or of interest to Fox. Upon my going to the meeting-place, as we had agreed, however, he was not there, nor did he come. This I could not account for, unless, indeed, he was discouraged like the others, and seeing no hope for Uncle Job had avoided meeting me. This I thought was the case, but waiting until midnight, I at last returned home, worn and discouraged, without one comforting thought regarding the trial to come off the following day.

*CHAPTER XL*

*JOB THROCKMORTON'S TRIAL: THE TRAGEDY*

The next morning I arose at break of day and hastened to the jail, to be with Uncle Job to comfort him in some measure, if that were possible, before going to the place of trial. Afterward, seated beside him in the crowded courtroom, I looked about, to see Miss Betty a few feet away, her eyes red and swollen, as if she had grieved much and slept but little. All the fun was clean gone out of the poor thing, and in its place nothing but sorrow and deep anxiety. Her face, too, always so rosy and smiling, was now pale and drawn, giving her the look of being much older than she was. Meeting my gaze, she smiled upon me, as if in gratitude for my being there. Constance sat beside her, and when I caught her eye her face lighted, and this I knew to comfort me and give me courage to abide the end, whatever it might be. Except these two and Setti, who sat next to Constance, no friendly look met mine. Surely, I thought, some of our friends might have come, or was our cause so desperate that every one stayed away to hide their grief at the end they so clearly foresaw?

Uncle Job bore himself like the fine gentleman he was, neither courting nor shunning the eye of any one when he entered the room. Bowing politely to those who recognized him, he passed others who avoided acquaintanceship with the grace of unconsciousness that only well-bred people possess. This happening led me to believe then and this belief has only been strengthened by time, that no good man or woman ever can refuse to recognize another whom they by chance know, however humble or obscure, unless such person has been convicted of some crime that shames our morals. Only the smaller parasites and hangers-on of social life, I am assured, can commit such an offense against good manners. Uncle Job, however, did not appear cast down by what he saw, though craving kindly sympathy and being a man who would have freely offered it under like circumstances.

Moth sat near by, looking pinched and meaner than ever, I thought, though his appearance was always inferior to that of other men. The cunning look he gave me from out his deep-set eyes when I glanced his way I pretended not to see, so greatly did I loathe the man. Looking beyond to the jury, I could not make them out, unless, indeed, they had the air of expecting a treat, for which pay was to be forthcoming, rather than having a duty to perform. Being men tanned in the sun and simple of habit, however, I could not tell. Mr. Promb, Uncle Job's lawyer, sat beside Moth, and suffered greatly, I thought, in comparison with that saffron-faced and eager-eyed man. Otherwise he was wholesome to look upon, and without doubt much the better man of the two. If Uncle Job could but have had Mr. Lincoln to plead his cause, I mourned, as we sat waiting, there would then be no need to borrow trouble. His innocence would be made clear as noonday to every one by the honesty and God-like persuasiveness of his advocate. Alas! neither he nor any other fit person for occasion so great could be had, and Uncle Job must, perforce, suffer whatever fate befell him.

Mr. Seymour had thought it greatly in Uncle Job's favor that the trial was to be before Judge Douglas, a rising man, already much spoken of in the state because of the brilliancy of his mind and his vast comprehension of the world and its affairs. This truly great man was, at the time of which I speak, just beginning the wonderful career that for many years made him a power in the land and known of men far and near, all finally to culminate in his strivings after the presidency with Mr. Lincoln and his death at an early day thereafter. Of his greatness, however, soon to be proven in the Senate and elsewhere, only the more discerning had then, any inkling.[*]