Joan's Enemies/Chapter 10

HEIR hands fell apart. The sweet, powerful emotion had spent itself, having shaken but not broken their self-control. They were not weaklings, these two; they could face facts, and the facts before them now were hard and urgent. Their hearts must wait: the man knew it, and the girl feared it. She was the first to speak.

“What have you done to your wrist?”

“Out prospecting, I was clumsy enough to get it crushed; it is not serious. I'm afraid I have interrupted you at dinner, and perhaps you have some engagement.”

“No. Please sit down.”

He took a chair a little way off, saying: “I fancy we have both a good many questions to ask, Joan; I am ready to answer yours. But perhaps I ought first to tell you that your letter reached me along with your telegram: they were brought to the camp, some forty miles from the place of their address. But for the telegram the letter might have lain there for another week or so.”

“I see.” She thought for a moment. “I will ask just one question now, for I am sure you would wish to hear about your uncle. Why did you telegraph you would start in ten days? You must have left almost at once.”

He smiled a little grimly. “I could not count on the wire's being read by you only, and I wished, if possible, to avoid encountering one or two people who might be unduly interested in my visit to the old place. That may not sound a very satisfactory answer to your question—”

“I am perfectly satisfied,” she said quickly if not altogether truthfully, adding rather unnecessarily: “Then you have just arrived.”

“A few hours ago. You are the second person I have spoken to. The first was an old friend—the only one I have kept in touch with during the last two ears.”

“Mr. Henley!” she exclaimed before she was aware.

“Henley!” He looked at her curiously. “I don't know anyone of that name.”

“I mean the man who forwarded the fifteen hundred to Mr. Cran.” She stopped.

“It was Fairthorn, the man I have just left, who did that for me,” said Douglas, his color deepening. “So my uncle told you! Your letter did not mention that. But who is Henley?”

OAN wished she had held her tongue—for the time being, at any rate. “I will try to explain later,” she said uneasily. “Yes, Mr. Cran told me about the money. It—it puzzled him greatly, your sending it.”

“It was quite simple.”

“Yes, if you had—had owed him the money.”

“Well, I did owe it, as you so kindly put it—didn't I?”

“No.”

He smiled at the downright answer. “Your letter told me that Uncle Rufus had discovered some evidence of my honesty. But might he not have said so much out of—well, generosity?”

“No.”

“You have given me your hand, Joan,” he continued; “so I take it that you believe in me.”

“I have always done so,” she said quietly.

“Even the fifteen hundred's being returned did not give you doubts?”

“Only a little curiosity.” She smiled faintly.

“I wonder what made you believe in me, Joan.”

“Can one always give reasons for one's beliefs?”

For a moment or two he was silent, his gaze warm with gratitude. Then: “Yet it is really quite simple about that fifteen hundred. I had made a bit of money out there—two or three thousand merely—and believing that the old man deemed me guilty, I did what I could to make the best of a bad job. I was fond of him, Joan, though I hurt him as I did.”

“If he had only known why,” she said softly, her eyes averted.

“No one will ever know why,” he replied, a sudden harshness in his voice. It was gone when he resumed: “By the way, I got a piece of very pleasant news this evening. Fairthorn told me that you had become mistress of this house.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, flushing, “so you have heard! I've been wondering how I was going to tell you. You will believe me when I say that the thing was altogether unexpected, and that I have been rather unhappy about it. But you'll take it back, wont you?”

“Take what back, Joan?”

“The house and the—the money. There's a lot of money, you know.”

OW it was his turn to redden; then he laughed easily. “I'm afraid my uncle, if, he knew, would be hurt by that; and I have my feelings too; so I hope you wont [sic] mention the matter again. All the same, it's what I should have expected of you.”

“But it seems all wrong.”

“It is very much all right, so far as I am concerned. When I got your wire, almost the first thing I wondered about was Elm House. I knew I was out of the question, but I hoped it would not go to—to certain persons. Well, it's splendid to think of the old place being yours, though I don't suppose you will want to live in it always.”

“He wished me to stay in it for six months, at least. I think he must have wanted me to stay till—till the books were taken away. The books, you know, are—”

“Yes; Fairthorn told me about the books.”

She smiled for the first time. “I have not met Mr. Fairthorn,” she said, “but he seems to know something of my affairs.”

“Very little. He knows you by sight.” Douglas hesitated before he added: “I've got to confess that during my absence he sent me occasional news of you—small news, of course, but better than nothing. For instance, you went to church on a Sunday last May in a grayish hat with touches of scarlet-—”

“How absurd!”

“I'm sure it wasn't! And the previous December you were at the theater in a—”

“Oh, please!” She broke off with a laugh, then called herself a fool to have felt pleased, and said gravely: “I must tell you some things about your uncle, and after that I will give you a letter from him.”

OAN'S little tale was soon told, without interruption from the listener, and when she had made an end he was still silent.

“I think,” she added, after a pause, “indeed I am sure, that he would have told me much more had he been spared a little longer. We were to have had a talk that evening; he had asked me to dine with him. Well, I hope I have at least made it clear that he believed in you and longed for your return.”

“You have, Joan,” said Grant with a sigh. “Thank you for telling it so kindly. It will be a long regret to me.”

“That you did not confide in him?” she said eagerly.

“That was impossible—in the circumstances. Don't misunderstand me, Joan. I regret nothing except that I should have caused the old man suffering. At the time—I hope you can believe this—I did not dream in my haste that he would be deeply affected by my action. Uncle Rufus was never anything but just; but I cannot remember his ever showing much feeling. Latterly his books—”

“He changed during the last two years of his life. But please, don't fancy that I have ever judged you, even in my thoughts. From the very first I have felt certain you were shielding another person.”

Douglas made a slight gesture of distress.

“Later,” she went on, rising and going to the safe, “I began to wonder whether I knew the person. I am quite sure Mr. Cran did know—or suspect—just before the end..... How stupid of me! I must go and fetch the keys.”

OUGLAS got up. “Whatever you have to give me can wait,” he said. “Joan, I ask you as a friend not to waste another thought on the question of why I went away. Only a few people were, and are, interested, and it would serve no good purpose to go back on the matter. For me it is enough that you should have believed in me all along, and that my uncle believed before he died. Shall we let it rest there?”

“As you will,” she answered. “If I have said too much, forgive me. Only, Douglas, the truth will come out in spite of you, and I will say that the person who took what you gave—no matter how readily you gave it—is too abominable for words! There! I've said my say!” She ended, with a smile on her lips, and a moisture in her lovely eyes.

“Ah, Joan!” he sighed, downcast. If it meant uncovering the truth before he could hope to win her, what should he do? For another woman held his vow of concealment.

“Will you come and be introduced to Aunt Griselda before I deliver the precious letter?” she asked in a lighter tone. “I may tell you that she has been most assiduous in making me take that big safe seriously. One would almost imagine she knew of my terrible responsibility!”

“And does she not?”

“Neither she nor anybody alive. There were times, I must confess, when I felt burdened, and once I did get a scare. I have mentioned a Mr. Henley. Well, nearly a fortnight ago, Mr. Henley rang me up stating that you had instructed him to inquire whether Mr. Cran had left a packet for you in my charge.”

“But, as I've told you, I know nobody called Henley, and I certainly would not have employed a third person to convey such a message to you!”

“However, I don't think Mr. Henley got much satisfaction. He seemed to take fright and—”

“Joan, I'm afraid this has been an unpleasant business for you. I'm sorry you had to undertake it. No doubt it was only some impertinent and curious person who wanted information. Think no more about it.”

“Well, I don't take it so seriously now that you are here to relieve me of my trust,” she said. “Now I'll go get Aunt Griselda.”

RESENTLY Joan came back with her relative.

“My niece tells me you have just arrived from Canada,” said Griselda, seating herself. She chose a place whence she could have an uninterrupted view of his face. “Are you glad to be home?”

“I am glad to be here.” He noticed Joan's slight frown and added quickly: “I put it that way, Miss Gosling, because, if ever I have a home, it is likely to be in Canada.”

“Your work being there,” she said with little apparent interest.

Joan, engaged in opening the safe, said over her shoulder: “Aunt Griselda, I have a letter to present to Mr. Grant; as a matter of form, you'd better witness its delivery.”

“I am willing,” said Miss Gosling, “but would not a written receipt be the proper thing?” She looked from one to the other in the perky manner of a bird.

“Quite right,” said Grant. “I ought to have thought of that.”

“Nonsense!” Joan exclaimed, shutting the drawer with a bang. “One can have too much formality.” She came over with the yellow envelope, extracted the white one and presented it to Grant. “Here it is, Douglas, just as your uncle gave it to me, and I hope—” She stopped short.

Miss Gosling was on her feet, staring, nay, glaring, at the packet now in Grant's hand.

“What on earth is the matter, Aunt Griselda?”

“I'm afraid—I'm afraid you'll never forgive me. But I have got to tell you. Don't open it just yet, Mr. Grant. May I have it in my hand for a moment?”

“Why, certainly,” said the puzzled young man, handing it over.

“But this is extraordinary—” the girl began.

O Joan, from a keen inspection of the back of the envelope, Miss Gosling turned unhappy eyes.

“Joan, before I say more, I beg you to answer a few questions. Did Mr. Cran have more than one seal on his desk?”

“He had two, but—”

“Can you say with which seal he sealed this letter, and if so, can you produce the seal?”

“I remember most distinctly that he used his favorite silver one. It has not been used since. Both seals have exactly the same device—a raven. But you must explain—”

“Where is the silver seal?”

The young man softly interposed. “Get it, if you can, Joan. It seems that Miss Gosling has something important to show us.”

The older woman gave him a grateful glance; the younger stepped over to the writing-table, opened a drawer and came back with the article desired. It was a beautiful little bit of workmanship, in the shape of a nymph posed above the die. None too graciously Joan offered it to her aunt. The latter gave a little groan, and muttered, “As I feared!”

“Mr. Grant,” she- went on, “I am afraid you will never forgive me. You are not going to be the first to open this letter. Joan, take the letter and see if that seal fits the impression.”

With a creeping sense of dismay Joan did as requested—and went white. “Oh,” she cried piteously, “the seal is too small!” Next moment she darted to the table and picked up a seal with a plain ebony handle..... “It fits!” And now her voice was faint. “What has happened?”

RANT turned to Miss Gosling; he was stirred by the sight of Joan's distress; and his voice, though under control, was sharpened by resentment. “Are we to understand, Miss Gosling, that the letter originally sealed by my uncle has been opened and resealed by another person?”

Miss Gosling, the picture of humiliation, bowed her head.

“Forgive me, Joan,” he said after a moment's pause. “Are you positive my uncle used the silver seal?”

“I can see him using it now! But the thing is impossible! The letter has never left the safe since I put it there, a few days after his death; and from the moment I received it until I pet it there I carried it.” Involuntarily her hand went to her breast.

“Suppose I open it and see what its contents are,” the young man suggested. “After all, there may be—”

“Wait!” cried the girl. “Aunt Griselda, you must tell us at once how you come to know so much—how, indeed, you come to know anything at all—about this letter. When I trusted you with the keys—”

“Don't, oh, don't!” moaned Miss Gosling in a voice of such misery that her niece's wrath subsided. “Let us sit down, please,” she went on, “and I will tell you all I know. It's a horrid, horrid business, and I've been an awful fool, but I thought I was doing you a service, Joan, in keeping things to myself for the time being.”

Miss Gosling's story was bitter hearing for Joan March. She had been tricked and confounded by a friend, that “sweet little thing” Lottie Lismore and fooled by a man against whom she ought to have been on her guard, Mr. Stormont; and so, instead of having fulfilled her trust, she had, for anything she knew to the contrary caused the man of her heart grave injury. She was too heartsick to make any comment at the close of the dreary yet sensational recital.

Grant, however, did not appear at a loss. He got up and with an easy smile approached Miss Gosling. “You are an extremely plucky lady,” he said, “and I should like to shake your hand.”

Whereat two tears, the first shed in many years, as the spinster long afterward mentioned, rolled down her apple cheeks, and from that instant she was devoted to Douglas Grant.

The tears were too much for the generous Joan. In a moment her arms were round the little woman, and she was murmuring: “You poor dear, how awful it must have been for you!”

RANT may have been apprehensive of more tears, for he said briskly:

“Well, what about opening the letter now?”

He took out his knife.

Without a word Joan handed him his property.

“It isn't empty, anyway,” he remarked, and slit the flap carefully.

At the sight of the strip of paper which he took out and unfolded, Joan's color came back. “That,” she cried, “is just what I saw Mr. Cran put into the envelope. Perhaps, after all—” She stopped short at his puzzled look.

“I suppose this means something,” he said at last, “but at first sight it is very like a joke—or a puzzle. It is evident that it is a cutting from a document—something to do with platinum, two gentlemen lately mentioned by Miss Gosling, and myself.”

“Two gentleman!” echoed Miss Gosling.

“Platinum!” exclaimed Joan. “May I—” She held out her hand for the strip, but withdrew it quickly. “I beg your pardon. I had no business to—”

“Please examine it, Joan,” he said, looking up from the once-familiar writing. “You may be able to throw some light on this queer fragment. To me it suggests something in the nature of buried treasure—which, of course, is absurd.”

“Why absurd?” Miss Gosling inquired with a trace of her old asperity.

“Platinum,” murmured Joan to herself, remembering her last interview with Stormont. Then aloud: “What do these mean—deep chamb,' and laborat'? Why, chamber'  and laboratory, of course! Oh, Douglas, perhaps, after all— And listen: 'A stone flag, .... 1 foot from N. w .... stance from E. w.'  These must be directions. Let us go at once to the laboratory!”

“It all sounds rather suggestive, but I seem to remember,” said Grant, “that the laboratory had a cement floor—not stone.”

“So it has,” she admitted, crestfallen.

“We must presume,” said Miss Gosling, “that the person who, thanks to my folly, managed to open your letter took a copy of that paper; and we may imagine that he took it in order to complete information he already possessed.”

“Aunt Griselda,” cried the girl, “you are clever!”

“I'm an old fool, but I sometimes see the likely side. When were you last in the laboratory, Joan?”

“Two years ago, for the first time. I doubt whether it has been opened since except by the valuator after Mr. Cran died. It is completely dismantled—nothing but benches, shelves, and bare walls.”

“Are there windows?”

“Yes—barred,” answered Grant. “I think we had better delay our visit until we can have daylight,” he went on, guessing that his companions had undergone enough for the present. “If any treasure is there, it's safe enough. With your permission, Joan, we shall make an inspection to-morrow or the next day. Now, I had better get back to town. I'm staying to-night with Fairthorn at his rooms. Please keep that paper for me.”

Poor Joan! The only consent she could give was her silence. But an unexpected intervention left the paper in Grant's hand.

Miss Gosling had risen in an oddly stealthy fashion.

“Sh! she whispered. “I feel that some one is eavesdropping! Keep back,” she muttered to Grant, about to make for the door, and sped thither herself.

Smartly she drew it open.