Heart to heart

Four days after he had been found dead in his rooms, Allen Chesterbrook was buried. The funeral ceremony was conducted at the very church where he was to have been married to Maud Willowby; and while the church had been crowded on that beautiful morning, it was now, despite the cold rain that had set in, literally packed. People are fond of a sensation, especially when it contains a dash of tragedy. Most of them came; not out of respect for the dead, but to see what would take place and how Maud Willowby would carry herself.

But the sightseers were disappointed, so far as Maud was concerned. She did not appear, and it was whispered about that she was too ill to leave her bed. The colonel came alone, grave and dignified. His face was pale, and during the service, which was most impressive, it grew paler, but otherwise he exhibited no emotion. When it was announced that those present might advance to the front and take a last look at the departed one, he did not stir from his seat.

“He feels it too deeply—he doesn’t dare to trust himself—he’s that proud about manifesting any weakness,” was the way most of the Lakeview folks judged him, and he was willing to allow them this belief.

When the final words were said some few pressed forward to give him their sympathy and to send a kind word to his daughter. He listened in almost absolute silence, and at the first opportunity broke away and hurried to his conveyance, and that was the last seen of him for the day.

From the church the coffin, after being boxed, was taken to the boat landing, there to be shipped by water and rail to New York, for interment in Greenwood Cemetery. A host of relatives accompanied the remains, and as the boat sailed down the lake it could truly be said that the passing of Allen Chesterbrook was completed so far as Lakeview in general was concerned.

Of course, people continued to talk of his death, and wondered who had killed him, and a very few asked themselves if it was possible he had committed suicide; but other matters came up shortly after—a serious runaway and a fire at one of the hotels—and the nine days’ wonder became merely a horrible shadow of the past.

For some reason, hardly perhaps known to himself, Henry Cross breathed easier when the body was removed from the bachelor apartment below his own rooms. On the day following, a relative who had been left behind packed up Chesterbrook’s effects and had them sent away, and then the two rooms were aired by Jackson and locked up. It was likely no one would want them for some time to come; but as the rent was paid for the balance of the leased term, neither the owner nor the janitor was disturbed because the apartment was without a tenant.

The only man who seemed entirely forgotten during the changes that were taking place was Jimmie Neirney, Chesterbrook’s former valet. Not one of the rich man’s relatives remembered his faithful services. He was paid what was due him, no more, and was told he might immediately look for a position elsewhere. It is barely possible that some of the relatives thought Chesterbrook’s death would not have occurred had Jimmie paid more attention to his master’s interests.

But Jimmie was too industrious a fellow to grieve over the way he had been treated. He wrote another letter to his sweetheart, telling her of what had happened and that the expected vacation could not be taken, and then hunted up a position with a gentleman who lived at Oakdale, another summer resort five miles up an arm of the lake. The change kept Jimmie busy, and he had no time to think of what had occurred or to remember the veiled woman he had seen pass out of the back door under the wash hung up to dry.

True to his promise, Henry Cross indorsed the notes, as per his agreement with Colonel Willowby. The transaction took place at the office of the Land Improvement Company, on the day after the funeral. Mr. Bixby, the president of the company, was present, as was also Violet Harding. In the presence of the outsiders the transaction was a formal one, and at its conclusion the colonel and the young man rode away together in the former’s turnout.

“Bixby has succeeded in fixing up the other notes, so we are safe,” said the colonel, as soon as they had started. “You cannot imagine what a load has been lifted from my heart, Cross.”

“I am glad to be of service, sir, as I said before. You have enough trouble otherwise. How is your daughter this morning?”

“I believe she is better. She came down and took breakfast with me, and that’s a good sign.”

“Did you——” The young man broke off suddenly.

“No, I have not yet told her, I am waiting for a favorable chance. It is not a pleasant theme to discuss with her in her present condition.”

“Then perhaps you had better not say anything. Let matters take their own course. In time the whole miserable business will be forgotten.”

“Perhaps you are right. I will wait and think it over. But I am curious to know more of that Miss Harding. Were you at the funeral yesterday?”

“No.”

“Then you cannot say if she was there or not. Bixby told me she asked for permission to be absent from her duties on the wedding morning.”

“Then it’s more than likely she attended the funeral.”

“Very probable. Her conduct is exceedingly strange. If I were sure she had helped Allen to deceive us I would pack her off at once.”

“It may be she was herself deceived. I would not throw the poor girl out of work on suspicion.”

“Oh, she can stay—for the present. But I am not as forgiving as you, Cross; I cannot so readily forget harm done.”

“I am no saint.” The young man uttered a short laugh. “I did not forget my quarrel with Chesterbrook on the night of the Charity Ball.”

“And what was that quarrel about, if I may ask? I understand you refused to speak of it at the inquest.”

“It was not much. I had my name down for a dance with Maud, and he rubbed my name from her card and substituted his own. He claimed it was a mistake, and we had a few hot words down in the gentlemen’s room, that was all. I merely refused to speak of this quarrel so that her name might not be dragged into the evidence before the coroner.”

“I see. Chesterbrook was just reckless enough to do that and call it a joke.”

“Well, some might have called it a joke; but—but——”

“I understand, perfectly. Between you two—at that time—it could be no joke; matters were too serious, eh?”

“Exactly, sir. By the way, what particular bit of land here is to be improved first?”

Henry Cross shifted the subject, thus showing that the discussion of what had occurred in the past was distasteful to him. The colonel took the hint and soon both were busy talking over future prospects in Lakeview realty.

Colonel Willowby took the young man around to various plots of ground, and grew enthusiastic as he spoke of what was to be accomplished; and the drive in the keen morning air did both men good. Shortly before noon the young man was dropped at the door of the hotel at which he was in the habit of dining.

Colonel Willowby found his daughter in the library, reading the local morning paper, which contained a long account of the funeral and the events in connection with it. She wore a loose morning gown of deepest purple, and her golden hair was done up in a single large twist at the back. Her face was white and somewhat haggard, but she showed no signs of recent weeping.

The colonel came in quietly, and for the instant she did not notice him as he stood near the doorway, looking at her. Then she glanced up quickly, folded the paper, and put it away.

“You have been out riding, papa?” she asked.

“Yes, I had to go down to the Land Improvement office, Maud. And what has my girl been doing while I was away?” he went on, with an attempt at cheerfulness.

“I have been putting things away, and reading.”

She did not say what things she had placed away, or what she had been reading; but he knew she meant her magnificent trousseau, and the article in the paper. A sigh struggled for utterance but he suppressed it.

“Don’t you want to go out driving with me this afternoon? You can veil yourself, and we can take one of the country roads——”

“I will go gladly!” she cried. “That is just what I want—to get out—out in the open air, away from the house and people!”

“Then we will order luncheon at once. It is a trifle cold after the rain, but I think we can stand it.”

The order was immediately sent to the kitchen, and soon luncheon was served. She scarcely touched the food, but drank a cup of hot chocolate. He ate several chicken sandwiches and drank his coffee and wine, and then they were ready to go—in a buggy which the old colonel strongly refused to sacrifice for the “new-fangled” motor car.

Scarcely a word was spoken until the last of the houses on the road was left behind; then he turned to her.

“Which way shall it be, Maud? On toward Oakdale?”

“No, no, papa; let us go the other way. You know I don’t like the scenery in that vicinity.”

Without a word, he turned the head of the horse up a side road. It was a curious whim of Maud’s, this never wishing to drive out to Oakdale; but he had always humored her in it and he humored her now. Never once did he imagine that there was any real reason behind that whim.

“You said before luncheon that you had been down to the Land Improvement office,” she went on presently. “What are you going to do now, papa? Find some one else to indorse those horrid notes?”

“I have already found some one else—that is, for part of them; and Bixby is going to take care of the rest.”

“I am glad, for your sake. You were worried, weren’t you? I thought you were, by your face.”

“Yes, Maud, I was very much worried, for there was so much at stake.”

The girl sat silent, and then shivered. He fancied he knew what was in her mind. Should he tell her the truth about Chesterbrook? He took a deep breath, but before he could speak she asked:

“Who indorsed the notes, papa? They were quite large, weren’t they?”

He had hoped she would not refer to them again. His face flushed and he pretended to be busy with the horse, taking a new hold on the reins, and tapping the animal with the whip.

“A gentleman who did not wish his name mentioned in the transaction signed for me, and Bixby is going to get Dichter to sign the others. Gently, Tom, gently! Now go along steadily, that’s a good fellow!”

He pretended to be busier than ever, but she was not to be put off. She waited a moment, and then asked:

“Was it Mr. Cross?”

“Why, what makes you think it was he?” he cried, in astonishment.

“I saw him call on you right after the—the—you know what I mean, papa.”

“Do you think Mr. Cross such a rich man?”

“I know he inherited quite a sum from a relative some time ago. Am I right, papa?”

He did not answer directly. “The gentleman did not wish his name mentioned,” he returned evasively. “I gave my promise.”

She looked at his face and saw that she had struck the truth. She said no more on the subject.

On they went over the hilly roads, through patches of woods and past well-tilled fields, crossing half a dozen tiny brooks, with their picturesque rustic bridges. The ride seemed to be doing her good, for some of the color came back to her cheeks.

All too soon, for her, it was time to return. She wished she could go on and on and on without ever stopping. But the evening shadows were creeping up, and the atmosphere had become almost too cool for comfort. The colonel tucked her in afresh and turned the horse’s head homeward.

When they had started, he had had a faint idea that the chance might present itself to tell her the truth concerning Chesterbrook. But as he contemplated her pale face and sad expression, he had not the heart to do so. He thought, after all, that Henry Cross might be right; that it would be better to let matters rest as they were.