Chapter XXIV: Aunt Rachel’s Will, 337 (8)

I was tempted to do so. She had been worrying for weeks about her letters, and she would continue to do so as long as we remained in Europe. No letters would come; none could come. Her parents and her sisters were as anxious about her as she was about them. I could never make peace on the plan which I had laid out at home. My wife would become more and more unhappy, and after the facts of my defalcation had been fully published, I should be still more in dread of meeting some American who would recognize me. As a teller in the bank I was well known to many of the wealthiest men of Boston. Under existing treaties, I could be arrested in most of the European nations, and sent back to the scene of my crime. There was no place of safety for me. I could not flee from the wrath to come.

“What do you suspect, Lilian?” I inquired.

“I should not suspect anything, if this paper did not say that your accounts were supposed to be wrong. I don’t know any thing about such things, but this paragraph set me to thinking how strange your movements were when you left Boston. I wish I could believe it is all right. Why don’t you go to your place in Paris? We had to leave home at twenty-four hours’ notice, because there must be no delay.”

“We are going next week.”

“But you have laid your plans to travel in Europe for the next year, at least.”

What was the use for me to attempt to explain? It was worse than folly. I had told Lilian so many stories, without regard to their consistency, that she knew not what to believe. I was disgusted with myself.

“I don’t see where you got so much money, either, Paley,” she added.

“Do you think I stole it?” I asked, somewhat severely.

“I’m afraid you did,” she answered, with a shudder.

“You are?”

“When I think of it, I am really afraid you did. Here we are in London under an assumed name. All your papers call you Charles Gaspiller. You told me you had over thirty thousand dollars too.”

“I should have had more if I had not lost any,” I replied, in rather a surly tone.

“Tell me the whole truth, Paley. Let me know the worst. If my husband is a—”

“A what?”

“A defaulter, a thief. Let me know it,” said she, with a burst of agony.

“A thief!” I exclaimed, springing to my feet.

“Don’t be angry, Paley.”

“When my wife calls me a thief, we have been together long enough,” I added, sternly.

I took my hat, and rushed out of the room. I was angry, but my wrath was of only a moment’s duration. I went out into the Strand, and walked at a furious pace till I reached the American Agency. I wished to know the worst. If I had been published as a defaulter in Boston, I was no longer safe in London. I wished to see a file of Boston papers. I had not thought of looking at them before, because I desired to banish my native land from my mind.

I turned the folios till I came to the one which Lilian had seen. I read the paragraph again. It was very vague. It did not say that the missing teller was a defaulter; it only hinted at something of the kind, for the inference always is, when a bank officer disappears, that his cash is short. I turned over the sheet to find something more about the matter. There was nothing else about me or the bank; but as I examined the paper, my eyes rested for a moment on the list of deaths.

“In Springhaven, 15th inst., Miss Rachel Glasswood, 67 years.”

My aunt had passed away on the very day that I sailed from New York! How I cursed myself again and again! If I had not fled I should certainly have been able to pay my debt to the bank in a short time, for I was confident she had left me enough for this. I had banished myself from home for nothing. I had suffered tortures which no innocent man can understand or conceive of, and years of misery were still before me. I had made up my mind long before, that honesty was the best policy; and I even had a glimmering conception of something higher than this. I was sure I should have been happier with poverty and hard labor for my lot, if I could only have been honest.

How I envied Tom Flynn! His piety, which I had derided, seemed to me now to be the sum total of earthly joy. I do not believe in cant of any kind, but if ever a man was convicted of sin, I was, though I had not yet the courage to attempt to retrace my steps. My wife virtually called me a thief. It was only the truth; I deserved the epithet, and more than that.

I turned to the next paper. There was nothing about me or the bank in it, and I continued my search till, in a subsequent issue, I found another paragraph. The writer was happy to assure the public that the bank would not lose a dollar by the missing teller. I was surprised at this announcement, for I was indebted to the bank in the sum of thirty-eight thousand dollars. I could not understand it. I turned to the stock lists in the several papers. The shares in the Forty-Ninth had been affected by the first paragraph, but the quotations showed that they had been restored by the information contained in the second.

I concluded that the bank had determined to conceal my deficit to avoid the loss of public confidence. But while I was trying to satisfy myself with this theory, a better one was suggested to me. My aunt died on the day of my departure. Within the week the substance of her will was known to Captain Halliard. She had left her whole fortune to me, and it was to be used in making good the deficiency in my cash. Of course I had no idea how much she had left, but I supposed it was enough to satisfy the bank, or to pay the loss with the sums for which my bondsmen were liable. One thing was plain, that, if the bank acknowledged no loss, it would not proceed against me; and I realized that I was safe from arrest while in Europe.

I could find no further allusion to the missing teller in any of the papers. If the deficit was made good, doubtless my friends would labor to cover up my errors. As the matter now stood, the money in my possession belonged to me. I tried to make myself believe that it was Aunt Rachel’s fortune. But I could not wink out of sight my blasted reputation, for, whatever the papers said, or failed to say, people would have their own opinions about my sudden departure. I was far from satisfied. If my financial record were explained away, I could not get rid of the consciousness of my own guilt, which was positive suffering to me. I was convicted of my sin, and I had even prayed to God for mercy under my misery.

Poor Lilian was suffering quite as severely. I had left her in anger, and the tears came to my eyes when I thought of her. I hastened back to the hotel. I found her lying upon the sofa, sobbing like a child. I raised her in my arms, kissed her tenderly, and begged her to forgive my harsh conduct.

“O, Paley! how miserable I am! Only tell me that you are not guilty, and I shall be happy,” she said.

“You would hate and despise me if I told you the truth, Lilian,” I replied.

“Then it is the truth!” she exclaimed, springing up, and looking at me with something like horror in her expression.

I did not know what had come over me, unless it was the conscious conviction of my sin, but without definitely resolving to tell the truth, I found it impossible to utter any more lies. Life seemed to me a more solemn thing than ever before.

“I deserve the worst you can say of me, Lilian.”

“Then you are a defaulter, Paley?”

“I am; but no one knows it.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“I wish I could hide it from myself. You shall know all, Lilian.”

“But give back the money. I would rather be a beggar and sweep the crossings of the streets, than live in luxury on stolen money.”

“Do not be too severe, Lilian. The bank will not lose a dollar by me. On the very day that we sailed from New York, Aunt Rachel died. I have no doubt that she left most of her property to me; and the bank has by this time been paid every dollar I owed it.”

“That is some comfort, but not much. You have ruined your reputation. Poor Aunt Rachel! I wish I had seen more of her. What could tempt you to go astray, Paley?” continued my wife, the tears coming to her eyes again.

“I was extravagant, and lived beyond my means. I borrowed the money to furnish our house, and I was otherwise in debt.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Paley? We all thought you were made of money.”

“I had not the courage to tell you.”

“I know I am giddy, and fond of dress and show, but I would rather have lived in an attic, and dressed in calico, than had you run in debt. You always said you had plenty of money, and your salary seemed to be more than enough to supply all our wants.”

“I was weak and foolish, Lilian. I can see it now; I could not see it then.”

I told her the whole story from the beginning to the end—how I had been thorned by my uncle and by other creditors, and how I had been tempted to take the money from the bank. I told the truth, as I understood it at the time, when I declared that I had not, at first, intended to rob my employers. She listened to me with the deepest interest, occasionally interrupting me with questions. I told her the whole truth. I did not even conceal from her the fact that I had destroyed her letters. She wept bitterly as she rehearsed the sufferings of her parents and sisters.

“Let us go home, Paley,” said she, when I had finished the loathsome confession. “I don’t want to see Europe till you have atoned for your fault.”

“I may be thrown into prison if I go to Boston again,” I suggested.

She clasped me in her arms and wept upon my neck. If her heart was bursting, mine was hardly less affected. The afternoon, the evening, the night passed away, and still we wept and groaned in bitterness of spirit in each other’s arms. The clock struck four in the morning before we could decide what to do. She could not advise me to go home if a prison cell awaited me. I never realized the pressure of guilt so heavily before. I never knew my wife till then. Guilty as I was she still clung to me, and was willing to share my lot of shame and disgrace.

In the morning hours I told her what I would do. I would write to Tom Flynn. I would confess my error to him, assure him of the sincere penitence I felt, and be governed by his advice. I did write, page after page, and, sheet after sheet, till I had told the whole story. I assured him every penny the bank or my bondsmen had lost should be paid. I would give up everything I had.

I sent my long letter, with another from Lilian to her friends, by the next mail, and anxiously waited a reply, which could not reach me under three weeks.

_CHAPTER XXIV._

AUNT RACHEL’S WILL.

BOTH Lilian and myself were miserable while we waited for an answer from Tom Flynn. I pictured to myself the surprise of the noble fellow when he read my letter. I was not worthy of the disinterested friendship he had extended to me, but I did not believe that he would spurn me, as I deserved, in my guilt and shame.

We were tired of London, and rather to seek relief from the misery that preyed upon us than to see the sights, we went over to Paris. There was no peace for me in the gay capital, any more than in England, and at the end of a fortnight we returned to London. I had written to Tom that his answer would find me there. I wished him to inform me whether I could safely return to Boston, for I wished to go there, settle up my business, and then begin life anew in some part of the country where I was not known. The future, therefore, was still a problem to me. My first duty was to pay all that I owed the bank. With the ill-gotten wealth I had with me, and with what Aunt Rachel had left me, if she had left me anything, I should be able to discharge all my obligations.

I felt that I deserved a term in the State Prison, but I was not willing to endure the penalty of my crime. I hoped that I might be permitted to escape if I saved the bank from loss. This settlement was now the question above all others with me, and I looked more earnestly for an opportunity to restore my stolen plunder than I ever had to obtain it. Perhaps if Lilian had not been possessed of my secret I should have felt differently. As it was, she suffered not so much from the fear of what the world would say, as from actual consciousness of my guilt. She had vastly more of real principle than I ever gave her credit for. I had measured her by the standard of her mother, rather than her father. I could not persist in a crime which she so sincerely condemned.

My wife saved me.

The misery which I had suffered before she knew of my guilt was the fear of consequences, the fear of discovery. Her anguish rebuked me. She loved me, even while she despised me for my sin. Day after day we talked of the matter, and I was more and more impressed with the folly and wickedness of my past conduct. A man is a fool to commit a crime.

The three weeks expired, and I looked for my letter from Tom Flynn. It did not come, but I was willing to believe that there was some unavoidable delay. Tom would certainly write. Another week elapsed. I saw by the morning paper that the steamer had passed Cape Clear, and I waited with intense anxiety for the arrival of the mail, which was due in the evening. Lilian and I sat in the parlor awaiting the postman. There was a knock at the door. The letter had come at last, and I hastened to open the door.

Instead of a servant with the letter, at the door stood Tom Flynn!

“Paley, how are you?” exclaimed he, grasping both my hands.

The tears stood in my eyes, for it seemed like the days of innocence to be thus warmly greeted by him. I could not speak. I threw myself on the sofa and wept like a child.

“Lilian, how do you do?” cried Tom, entering the room, and grasping the hand of my wife.

Poor Lilian! It was more than she could bear. She had no burden of guilt on her pure soul, but she bore mine as though it had been her own. She burst into tears, dropped into her chair, and covered her face with her hands. She sobbed like an infant.

“Come, Paley, don’t take it too hardly,” said the generous Tom, clapping me on the shoulder. “I received your letter, and of course I know all about it.”

“Tom, I’m the most miserable fellow in the world,” I said, venturing to look up at him.

“To be candid, Paley, I don’t wonder at it. You deserve it. But I rejoice to know that you have come to take a right view of your past conduct,” replied he, with the candor which always distinguished him.

“I deserve all the reproaches you can heap upon me. You need not spare me, Tom.”

“It is not for me to reproach you, Paley; and I will not. I know how much you must have suffered since you came to yourself.”

“You are pure-minded and innocent, Tom; and you can form no idea of it.”

“If you repent of your error, Paley—”

“I do repent, and I have asked my God to forgive me.”

“Give me your hand, Paley. Let us not say another word about it. All shall yet be well with you, if you have made your peace with God,” said Tom, as he took my hand and pressed it warmly.

“You are too kind, Tom.”

“But I am talking here while my wife is waiting for me,” added he.

“Your wife!”

“Yes,” replied he, with a smile which expressed the pleasure he felt at being able to use the endearing term.

“Where is she?” asked Lilian.

“Down stairs; I will bring her up at once.”

“But stop, Tom,” interposed Lilian, with no little embarrassment in her manner.

“What, Lilian?”

“Who is she?” asked my wife, timidly.

“Who is she?” exclaimed Tom, opening his eyes, and then laughing merrily.

“It seems like an age since I left Boston, and I did not know but you had changed your mind.”

“An age! Why, it is only three months. My wife, of course, is no other than Bertha. We were talking seriously of marriage before you came away. We had fixed the time when I received your letter, but we made it two weeks earlier, so that we could take our bridal tour across the Atlantic. I desired to see you because I could not write you what I wanted to say.”

“You are more than a brother to me.”

“Wait till I bring Bertha up, before you say anything more. O, by the way, she knows nothing at all about this affair with the bank. Don’t say anything to her about it. It would only make her miserable for nothing. Besides, everything is all right with you, Paley. It is, upon my word.”

“How can we conceal it from her?” asked Lilian, as Tom left the room.

“We must do it, since he desires it,” I replied. “He says it is all right with me, and if Bertha don’t know any thing about my conduct, I suppose others do not.”

In a moment Tom appeared with his wife, who rushed into Lilian’s arms. They kissed each other, and I think Bertha was the happiest being I ever saw. My wife had not written anything about my crime to her friends, because she feared to compromise me.

“Why didn’t you write to us before, Lilian?” demanded Bertha.

“I did, but my letters did not reach you, it seems,” replied my wife; and I saw that she shuddered at the deception she was compelled to use.

“We thought you had gone to New Orleans.”

“No, we did not; but how is dear ma, and father and Ellen?”

“All very well; and very happy, after they had heard from you. You are a rich man’s wife now, Lilian, and I hope—”

“Come, Paley, I must look after my luggage,” interposed Tom, who evidently did not care to have me hear what his wife had to say.

I was somewhat astonished to hear Bertha call Lilian a rich man’s wife. I could not fully comprehend it. I suppose from this that Aunt Rachel had actually left me her property, as I had anticipated she would, but the most that I had ever heard her rated at was thirty thousand dollars, and according to the city standard, this would not make a very rich man. I was willing to wait for an explanation, however, and I followed Tom out of the room. We went down to the office, where rooms for the newly married couple were secured near mine. The baggage was sent up, and Tom and I took the parlor for a conference.

“I suppose you are anxious to know how your affairs stand in Boston, Paley,” said my friend.

“I am only anxious to make my peace with God and man,” I replied, earnestly. “I have sinned against God and man. I am a wretch.”

“That’s a fact, Paley; I can’t deny it. But repent and sin no more.”

“Tom, if it were not for my wife, I feel that I should be willing to serve out my term in the State Prison. I feel that I have no right to be exempted from the consequences of my crime; but Lilian would suffer more than I should, if the law were to take its course.”

“Never mind the law. You must suffer the penalty of God’s law—you need not fear man’s. When you left, Paley, I took your place. I soon discovered what you had done to your books. I had nearly fainted away when I found what you had been doing. There was a deficit of something like twenty thousand dollars.”

“Just thirty-eight thousand, Tom,” I interposed.

“Then you were more ingenious than I took you to be,” added he, with evident disgust.

“I am going to tell the truth.”

“Well, no one has investigated the matter very closely. Indeed, no one knows anything about it but your uncle, Mr. Bristlebach, and myself; not even the cashier.”

“That’s very strange,” I replied, wondering at the secrecy with which the affair had been managed.

“I don’t know that it is. You wrote me that you had learned of your aunt’s death. She died on the day after you left home. Your uncle telegraphed to you in Albany, but was unable to ascertain where you were. The funeral was deferred as long as possible for you, but you did not return. Before your aunt was buried, I discovered what you had been doing, and realized that you did not intend to return. I told your uncle, and the president what I had ascertained, and we examined the books. Captain Halliard cursed and swore like a madman, but after a while he cooled off, and declared that the news would kill your mother.

“Mr. Bristlebach only added that the news would injure the bank, and it would take a year to convince the public that it had lost only twenty thousand dollars; for that was what the deficit appeared to be then, though the rest of it would have soon become apparent, as the foreign accounts were settled. It was therefore decided to say nothing about it. After your aunt’s funeral, Squire—an old lawyer in Court Street, I forget his name—”

“Squire Townsend.”

“Squire Townsend came to the bank and told your uncle he had your aunt’s will, and that, after paying out a few small legacies, her property was all left to you. This information settled the matter. If you had property enough, the bank would lose nothing by you. Your disappearance called forth a paragraph or two in the papers, but Mr. Bristlebach caused others to be inserted to the effect that the bank would not lose a dollar by your absence.”

“I saw all these items.”

“So you wrote me. Now, Paley, how much do you suppose your aunt left?”

“I don’t know. People used to say she was worth about twenty thousand dollars, but finally the sum got up to thirty thousand,” I replied.

“Both were below the fact. Her inventory amounts to over fifty thousand. They say she had twenty thousand more than fifteen years ago. She has never spent much of anything, and her stocks paid her from six to twenty per cent. In a word, Paley, you are a rich man.”

I was astonished at this information, and more than ever conscious of the folly of my past conduct.

“You can return to Boston, and if any body ever suspected that you were a defaulter, your money will cover up the error.”

“I don’t deserve this good fortune, Tom.”

“That’s very true,” replied Tom, drily. “If you are honest and true, you may enjoy it. I hope it will not undo your reformation.”

“It will not, Tom,” I added, solemnly. “I am grateful to God for His mercy in sparing me from the consequences of my errors; and I promise you that I will try to be faithful to Him and to my fellow-creatures.”

Before I could fully comprehend his purpose, Tom had gently drawn me upon my knees at his side, on the floor, and there he prayed for me more earnestly than I could have uttered the petition for myself. I felt better. The prayer did me good. We talked for half an hour of the religious aspect of my case, and I came to believe that I was a true convert.

“How did they explain my absence?” I asked, as we rose to join our wives.

“Your wife’s mother said you had gone to New Orleans to take a situation in a banking office. Your uncle sent a messenger there to find you. We all supposed you were there till I received your letter. I showed it to Captain Halliard, and explained my plan to him. He approved it, for the executor is waiting for you to claim your aunt’s property.”

“I must return immediately.”

“No; I am going to stay over here two or three months, for I have given up my place in the bank.”

“What is that for?”

“I have a chance to go into business in the spring. My old employer in the dry goods business wants to sell out to me for forty thousand dollars. If you will go in with me, with a part of your capital, we can make a good thing of it.”

“Will you trust me, Tom?” I inquired, wondering at the confidence he proposed to give me, after what I had done.

“Paley, I believe your repentance is sincere; and believing so, I think you are not so likely to go astray as you would be if you had had no bitter experience to remind you that the way of the transgressor is hard.”

“I hope to prove worthy of your confidence and regard, Tom.” I replied, clasping his hand. “I shall be glad to go into business with you.”

“In the spring, then, we will do so. Now I am over here, I mean to see something of Europe. You must write to your uncle, stating the amount of the deficit. Give him a draft on Mr. Townsend, who is your aunt’s executor, for the whole sum. Write to the executor yourself, also, directing him to take care of the balance till your return.”

“I have about the value of thirty thousand dollars with me,” I added, with a blush, as I thought of the means by which I had obtained it.

After this conference I felt more cheerful than for months before. I realized that Tom’s earnest prayer for me had been heard, and that God had forgiven my great sin. I pledged myself anew to be faithful. I trembled when I thought that, if my aunt’s dying bounty had not been interposed to save me, I might have spent a portion of my life in prison. Truly, I had every thing to be grateful for. When, after Tom and Bertha had retired, I told Lilian what had passed between my friend and myself, she wept tears of joy and gratitude.

My story is told. We travelled in Europe till the end of February, and then sailed from Cadiz to Havana, and thence proceeded to New Orleans. I wrote to my uncle, and sent him the requisite papers to adjust my accounts. He replied to me in a very good-natured strain, for to him crime undiscovered was no crime at all. I wrote to my mother, also. I could not wound her with the terrible truth, and therefore did not allude to the reasons for my leaving Boston.

When we got home, we were warmly welcomed by all our friends. I was regarded as a rich man, for a young one, and people were not disposed to ask hard questions. I do not think my mother was ever fully satisfied as to the reason of my leaving Boston so suddenly, but she did not press me for an explanation.

Tom and I went into business in the spring. After paying every dollar I owed, I had about forty thousand dollars. My partner put in twenty thousand dollars, and I the same. We are doing well, and both of us stand well in the community. Mr. Bristlebach is dead, and my uncle still keeps my secret.

I bought a house similar to the one I had occupied for so brief a period in Needham Street, and our home was all that peace, plenty and grateful hearts could make it.

I do not yet feel like an innocent man; I can never feel so. I shall regret and repent my sin to the end of my life. But I appreciate all my blessings, not the least of which is my wife, who has been my guardian angel since the day that her horror of my crime assured me of the reality of truth and goodness.

I am trying, by every means in my power, to atone for my error, for which a lifetime is no more than sufficient. I was not inclined to evil by nature or by education, and, I still feel that my crime was the legitimate result of LIVING TOO FAST.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.