A Man of Honor

"'But in agreeing to do this, Ewing, I am moved solely by my desire to shield you from disgrace and consequent ruin. When I gave you that money for your father it was a sacred trust, and in converting it to other uses you not only wronged me, but you made yourself guilty of something very like a crime. Pardon me if I speak plainly, for I am speaking only for your good and I speak only to you. I want you to understand how terribly wrong and altogether dishonorable your act was, so that you may never be guilty of another such. I am not disposed to reproach you, but I do want to warn you. You are the son of a gentleman, and you have no right to bring disgrace upon your father's name. You ought not to gamble, and if you do gamble you have no right to surrender your honor in payment of your losses. I promise you, as you ask me to do, that I will not tell what you have done; and you know I never break a promise under any circumstances whatever. But in promising this I place my own reputation in your keeping, depending upon you, in the event of necessity, to frankly acknowledge your fault, so that I may not appear to have run away from a debt which in fact I have paid.'

"When I read that letter," continued Billy, "I began to see daylight. Bob had given his word of honor to Ewing not to expose him. Ewing had died before he could make the money matter good, and Bob, like the great, big, honorable, dear old fellow that he is, allowed himself to go to jail and bear the reputation of an absconding debtor, rather than break his promise to the dead boy. He paid the money again, too. I suspected, of course, that Foggy and Charley Harrison were mixed up in the matter some way, particularly as the very last visit Ewing ever made to the Court House was made on the day that Bob went away. I went to Philadelphia, and there found the canceled draft, drawn in favor of David Currier; indorsed to Robert Pagebrook; and by him indorsed to Edwin Pagebrook. Then followed, as you know, an indorsement to James M. Raves, signed 'E. Pagebrook.' That, of course, was written by Ewing, who at the suggestion of these two men made the draft over to them – or to one of them – by signing his own name, which happened, when written with the initial only, to be the same as his father's. Foggy then indorsed it to Harrison, and he, being respectable, had no difficulty in getting Rosenwater to cash it for him. It never entered Rosenwater's head, of course, to question any of the signatures back of Harrison's. Now my theory is that this draft did not cover Ewing's losses by two hundred and twenty-five dollars; and so the two thrifty gentlemen made the boy execute the note that Harrison holds for that amount, dating it ahead, and making it for borrowed money."

"You're right, Barksdale, without a doubt," said the commonwealth's attorney; "but how are we going to make a jury see it? There's plenty of evidence to found an indictment on, but I'm afraid there a'n't enough to secure a conviction."

"That's true," said Billy. "But we must do our very best. If we can't convict both, we may one; and even if we fail altogether in the prosecution, we will at least expose the rascals, and this county will be too hot for them afterwards. Foggy is always shaky in the knees, and if we give him half a chance will turn state's evidence. Why not sound him on the subject?"

Foggy needed very little sounding indeed. At the first intimation that there might be hope for him if he would tell what he knew he volunteered a confession, which bore out Billy's theory to the letter. From his statement, too, it appeared that Harrison was the author of the whole scheme. He had overborne Ewing's scruples, and by dint of threats compelled him to commit a practical forgery by writing his own name in such a way as to make it appear to be his father's. While Foggy was at it he made a clean breast, telling all about his partnership with Harrison in the gambling operations, and admitting that the note Harrison held was dated ahead and given solely for a gambling debt.

The commonwealth's attorney agreed to enter a nolle prosequi in Foggy's case, and to transfer him, at the trial, from the prisoner's box to the witness stand.

When Billy came out from this conference he found Major Pagebrook awaiting an opportunity to speak to him. The major, it seems, after going home had returned to the Court House.

"Billy," he said, "I know now about that letter from Robert to Ewing. Sarah Ann has told me she read it when it came. What is to be done about it?"

"Nothing," said Billy, "except that you will of course return Robert the extra three hundred dollars he has paid you."

"Of course I'll do that. But I mean – the fact is I don't want that letter to appear on the trial. You will have to tell where you got it, and it will come out, in spite of everything, that Sarah Ann knew of it."

"Well, Cousin Edwin, what am I to do? This has been a wretched business from first to last. Poor Bob has suffered severely for Ewing's fault, and – I must speak plainly – through Cous – through your wife's iniquity. Not only has he had to pay the money twice, he has been sent to jail, and but for a lucky accident his reputation as an honorable man would have been destroyed forever, and that merely to gratify your wife's petty and unreasonable spite against him. It became my duty to unravel this mystery for the sake of freeing Bob from an unjust and undeserved disgrace. In doing that I have accidentally stumbled upon the discovery of a crime, and even if it were not illegal I am not the man to compound a felony. For you I am heartily sorry, but your wife is only reaping what she has sown. I would do anything honorable to spare your feelings, Cousin Edwin, but I can not help giving evidence in this case. I really do not see, however, precisely how Bob's letter can be used as evidence. If it had been sufficient in itself to establish the facts to which it referred I should have used it to set Bob right, and the thing would have ended there. But Bob's statement was of course an interested one, and I feared that after a time, if not immediately, gossip would seize upon that point and say the whole thing was made up merely to clear Bob. I knew he would never show Ewing's letter to which his was a reply, and so I set myself to work hunting up the draft. I don't see how the letter can well come up on the trial, but if it should become necessary for me to tell about it, I must tell all about it, of course."

Major Pagebrook walked away, his head bowed as if there were a heavy weight upon his shoulders, and Billy pitied him heartily. This woman, who, in her groundless malignity, had wrought so much wrong and brought so much of sorrow upon the good old man, was his wife, and he could not free himself from the fact or its consequences. He had never willingly done a wrong in his life, and it seemed peculiarly hard that he should now have to suffer so sorely for the sins of the woman whom he called wife.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Which Is also The Last

Upon leaving Major Pagebrook Billy mounted his horse and galloped away toward Shirley, not caring to remain till the court should reassemble at four, as there could hardly be any business done beyond the formal presentation of the indictments by the grand jury and the committal of the prisoners to await trial.

When he entered the yard gate at Shirley he found his father, who had returned from the court house some time before, awaiting him.

"I have not told Sudie, my son," said the old gentleman. "I found it hard to keep my lips closed, but you have managed this affair grandly, my boy, and you ought to have the pleasure of telling the story in your own way. Go into the office, and I'll send Sudie to you."

Miss Sudie was naturally enough alarmed when her uncle, repressing everything like an expression of joy, and in doing that managing to look as solemn as a death warrant, told her that Billy wanted to see her in the office immediately. But Billy's look, as she entered, reassured her. He met her just inside the door, and taking her face between his hands, said:

"I'm as proud and as glad as a boy with red morocco tops to his boots, little girl."

"What about, Cousin Billy?" asked Miss Sudie in a tremor of uncertainty.

"Because I've been doing the duty you set me. I've been 'turning something up.' I've torn the mask off of that dear old rascal Bob Pagebrook, and shown him up in his true colors. It's just shameful the way he's been deceiving us, making us think him an absconding debtor and all that when he a'n't anything of the sort. He's as true as – as you are. There; that's a figure of speech he'd approve if he could hear it, and he shall too. I'm going to write him a letter to-night, telling him just what I think of him."

There was a little flutter in Miss Sudie's manner as she sat down, unable to stand any longer.

"Tell me about it, please," was all she could say.

"Well, in a word, Bob's all right, with a big balance over. He's as straight as a well rope when the bucket's full. Let me make you understand that in advance, and then I'll tell my story."

And with this Billy proceeded in his own way to tell the young woman all about the visit to Philadelphia and its results. When he had finished Miss Sudie simply sat and looked at him, smiling through her tears the thankfulness she could not put into words. When after awhile she found her voice she said some things which were very pleasant indeed to Mr. Billy in the hearing.

The next day's mail carried three letters to Mr. Robert Pagebrook. What Miss Sudie said in hers I do not know, and if I did I should not tell. Col. Barksdale wrote in a stately way, as he always did when he meant to be particularly affectionate, the gist of his letter lying in the sentence with which he opened it, which was:

"I did not know, until now, how much of your father there is in you."

Mr. Billy's letter would make the fortune of any comic paper if it could be published. Robert insists that there were just three hundred and sixty-five hitherto unheard of metaphors in the body of it, and twenty-one more in the postscript. He says he counted them carefully.

Naturally enough, after all that had happened, everybody at Shirley wanted Robert to come back again as soon as possible, and one and all entreated him to spend the Christmas there. This he promised to do, but at the last moment he was forced to abandon his purpose in consequence of the utter failure of Mr. Dudley's health, an occurrence which left Robert with the entire burden of the paper upon him, and made it impossible for him to leave New York during the holidays. Even with Robert there the publishers were anxious about the management of the paper at so critical a time; but Robert's single-handed success fully justified the confidence Mr. Dudley had felt and expressed in his ability to conduct the paper, and when, a month later, Dudley resigned entirely, to go abroad in search of health, our friend Robert Pagebrook was promoted to his place and pay, having won his way in a few months to a position in his new profession which he had not hoped to gain without years of patient toil.

The rest of my story hardly needs telling. The winter was passed in hard work on Robert's part, but the work was of a sort which it delighted him to do. He knew the worth of printed words, and rejoiced in the possession of that power which the printing-press only can give to a man, multiplying him, as it were, and enabling him to give utterance to his thought in the presence of an audience too vast and too widely scattered ever to be reached by any one human voice. It was a favorite theory of his, too, that printed words carry with them some of the force expended upon them by the press itself – that a sentence which would fall meaningless from its author's lips may mold a score of human lives if it be put in type. He was and is an enthusiast in his work, and never apostle went forth to preach a new gospel with more of earnestness or with a stronger sense of responsibility than Robert Pagebrook brings with him daily to his desk.

The winter softened into spring, and when the spring was richest in its promise there was a quiet wedding at Shirley.

My story is fully told, but my friend who writes novels insists that I must not lay down the pen until I shall have gathered up what he calls the loose threads, and knitted them into a seemly and unraveled end.

Major Pagebrook, dreading the possible exposure of his wife's misconduct, placed money in the hands of a friend, and that friend became surety for Dr. Harrison's appearance when called for trial. Of course Dr. Harrison betook himself to other parts, going, indeed, to the West Indies, where he died of yellow fever a year or two later. Foggy disappeared also, but whither he went I really do not know.

Billy Barksdale is still a bachelor, and still likes to listen while Aunt Catherine explains relationships with her keys.

Col. Barksdale has retired from practice, and lives quietly at Shirley.

Cousin Sarah Ann is still Cousin Sarah Ann, but she lives in Richmond now, having discovered years ago that the air of the country did not agree with her.

Robert and Sudie have a pretty little place in the country, within half an hour's ride of New York, and I sometimes run out to spend a quiet Sunday with Cousin Sudie. Robert I can see in his office any day. Their oldest boy, William Barksdale Pagebrook, entered college last September.