£19,000

CHAPTER XXXVIII

He realized Gerald's story must have been true—what would have been the sense of trying to pass off that folded piece of newspaper as bank notes? The trick would necessarily be found out at once.

The midday meal was under way, and was being disposed of in unusual silence.

Mrs. Depew did not like the red eyed appearance of her daughter, and her husband did not like the glances his wife occasionally favored him with as a result thereof.

A messenger came to the door with a letter for the farmer. He took it and tried to read it, but could only make out a word here and there.

"Here, Tess, just read this out, will you?"

His daughter took it and read.

The farmer said "Jerusalem!" His wife—after the manner of wives—said, "There! I told you so," and the daughter said tearfully, "And you called him a thief, father!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Depew, rubbing it in, after the manner of her sex, "an almost stranger goes out of his way to bring you more money than you have ever dreamed of, and you call him a thief! I've no patience with the man."

"No, old woman, you haven't," replied the farmer. "Mebbe it would be better for all of us if you had. Give me my store coat and hat. I'm going right away to N'York by the next train."

"And what good's that, I should like to know? Sakes alive! Can't the man understand that the money's to his credit here in Oakville?"

"Yes, the man's got gumption enough for that," answered the farmer grimly. "Just now, it ain't the money that's agitating me—that's all right."

"Then, what on earth do you want to go to N'York for?"

"To make about the most humble apology lips ever vented. I'm going to find Gerald Danvers, and tell him that a bigger old fool don't prowl about this airth than I am; and I'm going to beg him—d'ye hear—beg him to forgive me for insulting him."

"Dear father!"

"That's it, Tess. Because your old dad's a bit of a fool, you don't want to rub it in, do you? You leave that to your mother. Come here, girlie, and gimme a kiss."

"Lawd sakes, now! Just listen to the man! As if I'd said anything!"

"No, mother," said the farmer, over Tessie's shoulder—he was holding her to him—"it wouldn't be you to say anything. Silence is the kind of thing you shine in. Now, Tessie, gimme your sweetheart's address, and I'll get there slick away."

"Father, I don't know it."

"You—don't—know—it?"

"No, father. He will come back here now the money is found."

"Not if I know him, he won't," interposed the farmer's wife. "People that are turned out of doors and called 'thief' and threatened with whips ain't likely to come groveling around."

"Mother!"

"Oh, yes, 'mother.' But 'mother' won't find that boy, will it? Lawd sakes! When I was a gal, sweethearts didn't behave like that. When your father was courting me, I should ha' liked to see him stalk away to N'York without telling me where he was going to put up. My—yes!"

"Hullo!" said the farmer, "here's a special delivery letter!"

"Perhaps it's from Gerald, father.

"More likely," snorted Mrs. Depew, "from the county lunatic asylum, to say they've a vacancy for a permanency if your father likes to call."

"Here, Tess, girlie, read this. See who it's from, and what it's about."

The girl took the letter and read.

"That makes the nineteen thousand pounds," said Tessie, as she finished reading the letter. "I wondered what eighteen meant."

"There's time to catch the train;" he walked to the window as he spoke, and called out, "You, Sam, just hitch the mare on to the buggy——"

"And what's the buggy for?" interrupted his wife.

"To drive to the station, of course."

"Well, the buggy won't hold four people, will it?"

"Four?"

"Yes. Sam'll have to go to bring it back. Do you expect me and Tessie to hang on to that axle?"

"What? Are you going?"

"Am I? I reckon. If you think, George Depew, that you are going to career around the streets of N'York, bulging money at every pocket, with nary a sensible soul to look after you, let me tell you, you make a mistake."

"But, mother dear," said Tessie; "you will never be ready. The train goes in twenty minutes, and you will never have time to change your dress."

"Won't I? Sakes alive! You've known me for nigh on nineteen years, and you don't know your mother yet."

She had thrown off her apron and was rolling down her sleeves as she spoke. Then she called out to the hired girl:

"You, Liz, my boots, the ones I wore last time I was in Oakville. Won't be ready, won't I?" she continued, as she bustled up-stairs to change her dress; "I guess I shall be ready before you are."

Her husband changed the order, and the horse was harnessed to a four wheeled trap. By the time the farmer had changed into fresh boots and coat, Mrs. Depew was heard descending the stairs.

"On time, I reckon, ain't I?" she inquired as she tied her bonnet strings. "Where's that gal? Now, you, Tessie, jump about; never mind your hair, clap your hat on, and come right down at once. We don't need to miss that train."

She was outside getting into her seat, and had taken the reins in hand before she had finished speaking.

Tessie ran down, jumped up, and presently they were driving rapidly in the direction of the station.

The train was caught, and during the journey the situation was discussed with much spirit.

The fact that the hero had appealed to Mrs. Depew, when her husband had turned him out, was not forgotten by that lady. Her "I told you so" song she sang for all it was worth, and kept her foot on the low pedal, too.

"I know a man, I do hope, when I see one," she said, "and at five o'clock this afternoon I hope to put my arms round the neck of one, and give him a good sounding kiss. I'm just real anxious to fill a great gaping hole in our midst. I'm wanting to extend a welcoming hand to a son-in-law that'll fill it, and supply the common sense we're so hard up for with our men folk."

CHAPTER XXXIX

"I want to say right here, Gerald," interposed the farmer, "that I'm as real sorry as any man can be for what I——"

"There's no need for you to say anything to me just now, farmer," interrupted Gerald stiffly; "you said enough last time we met to last me for many a day."

"I know, lad, I know, lad—don't I know it? You're not going to play heavy on a man old enough to be your father?"

"You were heavy enough on me—young enough to be your son! I have made up my mind"—he sat down with an air of determination as he spoke "to talk to you; to talk to you freely, when the whole of your nineteen thousand pounds is found.

"I've got hold on the balance that's missing, and it only wants the lawyer to put things in trim for it to be recovered. When it is—when the whole nineteen thousand pounds is in your possession—I shall want you to eat the word 'thief' you applied to me."

"Ain't I just eating it, Gerald?" said the old man humbly. "Is there a man here in N'York with as much humble pie in his mouth as I've got? I take back all I said——"

"Maybe, but I——"

And then Gerald paused.

Two soft, warm hands passed over the back of his chair, passed his face, came round his neck; warm lips touched his ear, and a voice he loved better than any other whispered:

"Gerald!—he is my father."

That did it. Gerald jumped up and took the farmer by the hand.

All his anger had evaporated under the touch of those soft, warm lips.

"Well, farmer, let bygones be bygones. We'll forget all that's been said that ought not to have been said. Here comes the lawyer. Let's get along with the declaration."

"I have it all ready," said the lawyer. "It is a joint declaration." He read it, and then said, "Come along with me to the justice's office; and it can be declared right off."

The justice before whom they presented themselves glanced at the document he was signing.

"Coincidence," he said, "or is it the same? Loide's—an English lawyer—death was reported at the police station this afternoon."

Death! Gerald started. Had he then killed the man he had struggled with? He said:

"You mean Richard Loide." And he mentioned the hotel.

"That's where the accident occurred. Lift accident—there is the certificate just brought in."

"Will you loan this to me?" inquired the lawyer, after perusing it; "I think it will save some trouble."

"Yes," answered the justice; "if you return it within two hours. It has to go to the coroner by then."

This was promised. Outside the office the lawyer hailed a hackman.

"Get in," he said to his companions; "we will drive straight to the money changer's."

They did. The hackman waited. They entered the office.

"You remember me, Mr. Wolff?" queried the lawyer.

It was evident the banker did—from his obsequious manner in receiving his visitor. Doubtless the lawyer knew something of him.

"You have a thousand pound English note in your possession belonging to my client here."

"I hope you not tink, Meestair Denison, dat I intends——"

"Oh, I know you only want to give it up to the right owner. He's here—this gentleman. Mr. Loide left it with you—Loide's dead. Here's the police certificate of his death."

"Det, eh?"

"He was acting in England as a lawyer for this client of mine, and paid over eighteen out of nineteen thousand pounds. The other thousand pound note was missing. This declaration sworn to before Justice Colonel George F. Vanderwood to-day proves the ownership."

"So."

It was evident that the mention of the justice had impressed the banker.

"You will give up the note, I suppose, without any trouble?"

"Sairtenly, Meestair Denison, if you say so. I suppose I haf some eendemnity, eh?"

"I have prepared one. Here it is. Mr. Depew, will you sign it?"

Mr. Depew did so, and in exchange got the missing thousand pound note.

"Now, back to my office," said the lawyer, "where the ladies are waiting."

They returned there. The farmer flourished his note, and then threw it into his wife's lap.

"All's well, old girl," he said; "got him. It's all settled."

"And now you have only to settle with me," said the lawyer, with a smile, "and the whole thing will be ended."

"Not much, it isn't," interposed Mrs. Depew. "There's a marriage settlement for you to draw up. My old man is settling nine thousand pounds on our daughter, Tessie, who is to be married to Mr. Gerald Danvers here."

"No need for a settlement, madam. Give her the money now before they are married, and it's hers as firmly as any deed could make it so."

"Is that so? Then, George, you'd better give it right away—here."

"Plenty of time, old girl, when we get back——"

"Get back! There's no putting back from here with a couple of single people around. Those two is going to be made one before we step out of N'York again."

"Mother!"

"That's me, Tess—you hear me say it.

"You really mean that, Mrs. Depew," inquired Gerald, with sparkling eyes.

"Young man," she answered, "you've evidently got to learn that when your mother-in-law that is to be says a thing, she means it."

"Mrs. Depew, you're the finest mother-in-law the world holds! You're a brick! a regular brick!"

"But, mother," said the blushing Tessie, "I haven't got anything ready——"

"Lawd sakes! Listen to that now! And here are we in N'York with a bank full of money, too! Can't you buy what you want?"

"Of course she can," interrupted Gerald eagerly. "Mrs. Depew, you're the most sensible woman I've ever met."

"None of your soft soap now!"

"It's a fact. It's a capital idea. Couldn't be better. Don't you think so, farmer?"

Of course the farmer thought so. He valued his domestic peace, and assured it by acquiescence in most of his wife's ideas.

He even went so far as to say that he had thought a similar idea out as they drove along.

Tessie made another—must it be confessed, very faint-hearted?—protest.

"Why should you be in such a hurry, mother?"

"Because I don't believe in long engagements—that's why. Because this boy was promised his reward—that's why. Because you know perfectly well that you are just as anxious to get married as he is to marry you—that's why. Because I'm getting an old woman, and the sooner you get married, the longer I shall have on earth to play with my grandchildren—that's why."

"Mother!"

Of course it was settled that way. When they left New York shortly after, Gerald and Tessie were man and wife.

Mrs. Depew usually contrived to get her own way. If, of that household it was true that the husband was the head, she was the neck—she was so capable of turning the head.

THE END