Chapter 22

The cashier straightened up, threw his head back, and actually smiled. He had scored linguistically--by a clever manipulation of the sentence he had made the some one who had stolen the money the some one who who had replaced it. That was accusation by inference, if you like. As the other did not speak, Lane added: “I will wire for Mr. Crane to come at once; this is a matter for investigation.”

Mortimer bowed his head in acquiesence; what could he say--what other stand could the bank take?

“You might remain at your desk,” the cashier said, “if there is any mistake we'll discover it, no doubt.”

Mortimer felt like one dead, indeed as a dishonored man he were better dead. The bank was like a mausoleum, and he a lost spirit haunting its precincts in quest of the undefiled body that had been his but yesterday. Cass, the teller, certainly shunned him as he would a leper. Lane, vindictively pleased that he had unearthed the villain, drew his small soul into a shell of cold, studious politeness; much as a sea spider might house his unpleasant body in a discarded castle of pink and white.

Alan Porter was late--he had not come yet. Mortimer waited in suffering suspense for his appearance. What would come of it all. Now that the money was replaced, if the boy admitted his guilt to Crane, probably no further action would be taken, but he would be dishonored in the sight of his employer. Mortimer had sought to avert this; had not denounced Alan in the first instance; by good fortune had been able to replace the money; even now had refused to divulge the name of the thief. He was well aware of the mass of circumstantial evidence, the outcome of his own hurried actions, that pointed to himself as the guilty one. Better this than that he should denounce the boy. Dishonor to the lad might kill his father; for Mortimer was well aware of the doctor's edict. And Allis, the girl he loved as his life, would hang her head in shame for evermore. He was anxious to see Alan before the cashier did; he did not want the boy to deny taking the money at first, as he might do if he were unaware of the circumstances; it would place him in a wrong light.

Just before twelve Alan Porter came hurriedly in. He had missed his train the night before, he explained in a general way to all. Mortimer stepped up to him almost at once, speaking with low, earnest rapidity; the cashier was in his own office and Mr. Cass was not within earshot.

“I put the money back, but its loss had been discovered yesterday. I have been accused of taking it, but have denied it, accusing no one. I want you to say that you borrowed it, thinking it no great harm, as it was your father's money.”

Alan would have interrupted him, but Mortimer said, “Wait till I finish;” and then continued: “There will be nothing done to you, I feel sure, if you will take this stand, because of your father's connection with Crane. It will save me from dishonor--”

“Mr. Porter.”

It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's low, pleading tones.

Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, “Will you step into my office for a minute?”

The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him. Had he denied taking the money? My God! the full horror of Mortimer's hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it profit him to denounce the boy.

Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?

Mentally his argument, his analysis of the proper course to pursue was tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly to shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its degradation had accrued to him.

At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened. That was the other happening.

Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes when Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply interested in his affairs.

The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned that Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money--that was but natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it--that was conclusive. Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circumstances were drawn about the accused man.

“Let us question him?” said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.

Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.

The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?--but that was impossible. Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it--because he was responsible for its custody.

“Can't you see,” cried Crane, impatiently, “that this simple denial of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your--” he hesitated--“your implication?”

XL

While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.

The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness--all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. “You're like a caged bear, Alan,” she cried, with a smile of impertinence; “I should hate to be shut up a day like this--no wonder you're cross, brother.”

“I'm busy,” he answered, curtly. “I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you.”

“I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance,” she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.

“It's paid, Allis.”

“Paid! I thought--”

“Wait, I'll come out;” and opening a door in the rail, he passed around to the girl.

“Father's note is paid,” he resumed, “but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole”--the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper--“a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend.”

“That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal.”

“Yes, he did,” persisted the brother, “and he begged of me to take the blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!”

“Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money will be found somewhere.”

“It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the money if he had not stolen it?”

“Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?”

The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. “Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything else; they caught him putting the money back.”

Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course.

“Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet,” she said.

“Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew about it, he begged me to say nothing--practically admitted that he had taken the money, and was going to put it back.”

“Why should he tell you that, Alan?”

“I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him.”

“I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is--I don't care what they say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it.” She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes--not that she was accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth.

“Do you mean it was to shield me--that I took it? No one could have taken the money except Mortimer or myself.”

“I don't know,” answered the girl, wearily; “it's all so terribly new; I only know that Mortimer did not steal it.”

While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in his face was a look of troubled gravity.

When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain over Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neck in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter--they were a hero breed--and accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind this terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, the innocent one, on every side.

As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his attitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, “Behold, here is Barabbas!”

A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of reproval--nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice seem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanished in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had incurred it.

Mortimer heard the brother say, “I think you had better not,” then the girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, “I will, I must.”

In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the wicket, said, “Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I want to speak with you.”

He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted in the latter's office.

“Let us go out into the sunshine,” Allis said. “Can you--will it make any difference?”

“I don't think it matters much,” he answered, despondently; “things are as bad as they can be, I suppose.”

He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had assured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door it creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village street was deserted; there was no one to listen.

“What is this dreadful thing all about?” and she laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; she had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him.

“A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking it,” he answered, bitterly.

“You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so.”

He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate earnestness, “I did not steal the money.”

“Some one took it?”

“Yes.”

“And you know who it was?”

“I do not.”

“But you suspect some one?”

He did not answer.

“Did you put the money back?”

He nodded his head.

“To protect somebody's good name?”

“Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it,” he broke in, vehemently; “all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantial evidence that I took it,” he added, bitterly, “and nothing that I can say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond that I will say nothing; it is useless--worse than useless; it would be criminal--would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may arrest me as a felon--at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank and go away. It won't make much difference.--I am as I was before, an honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you--”

She stopped him with an imploring gesture.

“Let me finish,” he said. “I must go back to the office. I thought that you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much.”

“You cared for my poor opinion?” she asked. The quiver in her voice caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin.

“Yes, I care,” he answered; “and it seemed all so dark before you brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But I must go back to--my prison it seems like now--when I leave you;” this with a weary attempt at brave mockery.

Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that had guided Lauzanne to victory. “If anything happens, if you are going away--I think you are right to go if they distrust you--you will see me before you leave, won't you?”

“Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?” The word came very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy.

“Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away,” she answered.

“Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a good woman believes in him.”

The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: “Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?” and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.

“Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” and she held out her hand.

Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank.

“May I go with you?” asked Crane; “I want to see your father.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over,” the girl answered.

XLI

When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: “I doubt if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew--I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole it.”

“I do know of this terrible thing,” she answered. “I shook hands with him because I believe him innocent.”

“You know more than we do?” It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful inquiry.

“Mr. Mortimer could not steal--it is impossible.”

“Have you sufficient grounds for your faith--do you happen to know who took the money, for it was stolen?”

The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that was good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive possibilities.

She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed.

Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience. Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a question so unanswerable. He waited.

Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind tabulated--she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip--it was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip. Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend? It must have been to see Alan--the boy was there. If he had discovered that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with which he had replaced the thousand dollars.

The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before her eyes.

She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused of others as a thief, and one--her own brother--charged by her reason with the crime.

Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no sign of a desire to pursue the discussion.

“Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent,” hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he felt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was only assimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief.

Allis answered his observation--he distinctly felt the vibration of pain in her voice--with a startling depth of analytical discernment:--

“While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidence about him, trying to shield some one else, that--that--it is too terrible!” she broke off, passionately--“he is innocent. For God's sake, Mr. Crane”--she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his arm, pleadingly--“for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You can do it--you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The money has been paid back.”

“It isn't that, Miss Allis”--his voice was so cuttingly even after the erratic pump of her own--“in a bank one must not have a dishonest person. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clear himself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator--”

“He will never do that; he cannot if he would.”