Stephenson! I am resigned to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank-notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered, Mary—but I have never had much courage, and I have not the pluck to try to market a cheque signed with that disastrous name. It would be a trap. That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is cheques—”
“Oh, Edward, it is TOO bad!” And she held up the cheques and began to cry.
“Put them in the fire! quick! we mustn't be tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at US, along with the rest, and—Give them to ME, since you can't do it!” He snatched them and tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he came near to fainting.
“Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as gold!”
“Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?”
“Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of that be, Mary?”
“Edward, do you think—”
“Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty-eight thousand five hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve dollars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about par for it.”
“And does it all come to us, do you think—instead of the ten thousand?”
“Why, it looks like it. And the cheques are made to 'Bearer,' too.”
“Is that good, Edward? What is it for?”
“A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn't want the matter known. What is that—a note?”
“Yes. It was with the cheques.”
It was in the “Stephenson” handwriting, but there was no signature. It said:
“I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of
temptation. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that,
and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honour you—and that is sincere
too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. Dear sir,
I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable men
in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take the whole pot, you
are entitled to it.”
Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:
“It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary—I am miserable again.”
“I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—”
“To think, Mary—he BELIEVES in me.”
“Oh, don't, Edward—I can't bear it.”
“If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary—and God knows I believed I deserved them once—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for them. And I would put that paper away, as representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always. But now—We could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence, Mary.”
He put it in the fire.
A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope. Richards took from it a note and read it; it was from Burgess:
“You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It was at
cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grateful
heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave and good
and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, knowing as you do of
that matter of which I am accused, and by the general voice condemned;
but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a grateful man; it
will help me to bear my burden. (Signed) 'BURGESS.'”
“Saved, once more. And on such terms!” He put the note in the lire. “I—I wish I were dead, Mary, I wish I were out of it all!”
“Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—and they come so fast!”
Three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found himself in possession of a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped these words: “THE REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER WAS—” Around the other face was stamped these: “GO, AND REFORM. (SIGNED) PINKERTON.” Thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and Harkness's election was a walk-over.
Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had received their cheques their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had committed. But they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out. This gives it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect. At church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins. After church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what—vague, shadowy, indefinite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn't seen it; but they did not know that. What could his conduct mean? It might mean—it might—mean—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that he knew that Richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening when Richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of Burgess's innocence; next Richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he HAD heard it. They would call Sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face; if she had been betraying them to Mr. Burgess, it would show in her manner. They asked her some questions—questions which were so random and incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people's minds had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the business. She blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor. When they were alone again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out of the combination. When things had got about to the worst Richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and his wife asked:
“Oh, what is it?—what is it?”
“The note—Burgess's note! Its language was sarcastic, I see it now.” He quoted: “'At bottom you cannot respect me, KNOWING, as you do, of THAT MATTER
