Chapter VI: An Arrest

It is in life's supreme moments that destiny calls the loudest.

Miss Charlotte stands in the Westbrook morning-room, her demeanor plainly indicating nervousness and irresolution. From time to time she looks in a hesitating way at Doctor Westbrook's broad back, as he stares out of the window. Presently she speaks, as if with an effort; but her deliciously soft and gentle voice in its free and expressive play falls upon the listener's ears so like a harmony struck from silver strings, that to say it breaks the silence is to use a phrase too harsh.

"I don't consider our age--that is, seriously," she is saying; "but, Mobley, there are other things."

She paused and contemplated his back a moment.

"If what you see from that window is of more consequence than what I am saying," she observed, "I will--"

The Doctor wheeled about instantly, before she had done.

"Believe me, Charlotte," he made haste to protest, "you had my undivided attention. I saw nothing out of the window--or elsewhere; I was conscious only of your words."

His obvious sincerity satisfied her. She smiled and proceeded, the man watching her with sober, thoughtful eyes.

"I will confess something to you, Mobley, and perhaps you will understand better--why--why I hesitate." She paused again, and the Doctor could see that she was trying to overcome a nervousness and embarrassment quite foreign to her nature. But she conquered this feeling at once, and went on.

"Mobley," with added earnestness, her lustrous eyes bravely meeting his, "I am possessed of a pride so strong that I am afraid it is greater than my love. What a poor, miserable, wretched affection my love for you must be! I am ashamed of it."

"Oh, dear girl," he commenced with abrupt impetuosity; but she stopped him.

"No, no; let me finish. All my life, Mobley, I have lived more or less in the past. In my fancies we have not been poor; to me the poor little cottage we have called home has indeed been a home; and the dear old home that is sinking so rapidly into irremediable ruin only a phantasm of what might have been. But when I think of home, Mobley, the old place rises in my mind. It has been my constant yearning that it may be rehabilitated; that mamma, Clay, and I might once more foregather beneath its roof in the circumstances which I cannot help feeling are ours by right; and for this consummation I have looked to Clay with an unfaltering faith. Perhaps it is wicked, Mobley, but I cannot help it. If you take me, I want it to be from such a station; not like a mendicant creeping to shelter. Oh, I could not bear that!"

The man was profoundly affected, shaken to the very depths of his nature; but he felt that he understood her; and so great was his respect for this unexpected confidence, that, chaotic and fanciful as its tenor might be, he exerted a mighty effort to restrain a swelling tide that threatened to sweep him from his feet and leave him pouring out his passion in fervid incoherences, kneeling there before her.

"Charlotte, I can only repeat that I love you. I have waited. But, dearest, now--now," he came quickly close up to her, "now can you make this confession and still hesitate? Can you look at me and still say that any obstacle stands between us? Oh! Charlotte, Charlotte! My love can no longer be denied!"

Her eyes were downcast, her bosom rose and fell tumultuously; but when he would have taken her in his arms, she stopped him.

"Oh, don't--don't, Mobley," in a whisper. "There are--there are other things." Although he obeyed her, he stood with arms outstretched, his attitude an impassioned appeal from which the woman turned away her eyes.

"Since you have been here with Joyce," he resumed, after a moment, "it has been a delight to watch you go about the house; for it made it so easy to fancy that you would come and go thus always. Charlotte, dear heart, look at me."

Slowly the beautiful eyes, suffused with wonderful softness and light, rose to the appealing hands, to his own eager orbs, and straightway dropped again.

"Charlotte, will you not stay? Dear?"

"Mobley, I--I can't."

Quite suddenly she clenched her slim fingers together in a little gesture of helplessness. Her next words were inconsequential.

"Oh, why does not Mr. Converse return? Where can he be? Has he abandoned us?"

The Doctor, being ignorant of the connecting links of thought, may be pardoned if, at this momentous juncture, he mentally consigned the Captain to the limbo of eternal darkness. His arms dropped, and he asked, wonderingly,

"What has he got to do with it?"

"Mobley, can't you understand?" She laid a hand lightly upon his broad chest, regarding him now with a look of anxious seriousness.

"I said there were other things," she went on; "that there was something else we must consider before we think of--of our own happiness. This awful cloud still hangs over us, and until it is cleared away, I am afraid. It is selfish--wrong--for us to consider our own happiness at such a time. He is the only one who can clear that cloud away, Mobley. Oh, why doesn't he come? It is time! It is time!"

Doctor Westbrook's impatience evinced itself only by a shrug of the shoulders.

"I have no such hope," said he. "He's like all the rest of them; unless a thing's as plain as a pikestaff, he can't do any more than an ordinary mortal,--unless, again, it's further to complicate matters and cause more trouble. Why doesn't he come, indeed! He will, perhaps, when the whole affair has had time to die of inanition."

Now, neither of them had heard footsteps in the hall, so deeply were they engrossed, and when a sudden knock was struck upon the door, both started. Charlotte sat down in some confusion, and, after a second's hesitation, the Doctor called, "Come in," his tone betraying his vexation at the interruption.

The door opened barely wide enough to admit a tall, slender man, a stranger to Charlotte, but one whose features were somehow familiar. The movement was silent and stealthy. His look shot about the entire apartment, apparently without noting its two human occupants. He noiselessly closed the door again, and placed his back against it. Charlotte glanced at the physician and perceived that he was regarding the intruder with frank disfavor and an annoyance he did not attempt to conceal.

"Your name's Adams, is it not?" the Doctor sharply asked.

The man ducked his head in a swift bow of acknowledgment. When he stood upright again he held a card in his hand. The action was like a sleight-of-hand performance, so quickly was it done; for Charlotte was entirely unable to see where that card came from.

The Doctor ignored it; while Adams, in nowise abashed, said:

"Yes, sir, Doctor Westbrook,--Adams. Septimus Adams; Magnolia Investigating Agency." He discomfited Charlotte by turning abruptly and thrusting the card at her.

"Here, never mind that," said Doctor Westbrook, with a brusqueness that caused Charlotte to wonder. "How did you get in here? What do you want?"

Adams ran a finger around the inside of his collar, an action which betrayed an astonishing limberness of neck.

"Well, Doctor," he began, casting rapid side-glances at Charlotte, and not looking at his interlocutor at all, "you see, what I have to say had best be said in priv--"

"Say it here and now or not at all," the Doctor demanded. "Had I known who was knocking, you would not have intruded, I tell you candidly; but since you are here, state your business as briefly as possible."

Adams made a peculiar sound with his tongue and accompanied it with an expression of protestation.

"Don't take that way with me, Doctor," said he; "you'll regret it presently, I'm sure. If you don't care about the lady being present I'm sure I don't. It was only out of a consideration for her feelings--and yours, too, Doctor--that I threw out the suggestion."

"And once more, I tell you there is nothing privy between you and me, Adams. Be brief."

"Very well."

With a movement that was again almost like prestidigitation, Adams had the door open, and there appeared the familiar, now puzzled, countenance of McCaleb.

"That's the man," Adams went on, pointing to Doctor Westbrook,--assuredly, direct enough now. "I charge Mobley Westbrook with the murder of Señor Alberto de Sanchez." With extraordinary adroitness, he placed McCaleb between himself and the physician.

For a moment the silence could almost be felt, tense and breathless as it was. McCaleb was the only one present who evinced any embarrassment; he had every air of a man suddenly and unwillingly thrust into a ridiculous position. Charlotte was too dazed to comprehend at once what was going forward, and she simply sat motionless and stared at Adams with a blank look. That individual, by his recent manoeuvre, had placed himself near the open door, and he was, moreover, again smiling and flashing his teeth. As for the Doctor, he seemed for the time being overcome with astonishment; then he laughed harshly and unnaturally; and what he said was quite unaccountable:

"So it has come at last. Well, I have been expecting it."

He sat down suddenly and fell to stroking his beard. His glance seemed to pass casually to Adams, who, when his shifting eyes caught it, swallowed hastily and edged still nearer the door.

A sudden anger burst from the Doctor.

"Close that door!" he thundered. "Don't let that rascal slip away till we see how far he means to push this thing."

With the Doctor's first enigmatic words McCaleb seemed to recover his _sang-froid_. Briefly he regarded the other with a startled look, as if the words were unexpected and surprising; now he turned to Adams, his surprise very manifest.

He closed the door.

"I must warn you, Doctor," said he, "that anything you say may be used against you; yet, if you wish to make a statement, you are at liberty to do so. It is true that you have been charged with this--this crime; I have the warrant here, sworn to by Adams."

The Doctor had not moved his look from Investigator Adams, who now betrayed every sign of uneasiness. Once or twice that wonderfully flexible right hand stole toward the region of his hip pocket, but each time it came stealthily back again, to pluck uncertainly at his prognathous chin.

"McCaleb, do your duty!" said he.

"When I get good and ready," McCaleb returned, without looking at him; he was still waiting on Doctor Westbrook. The latter now spoke.

"Oh, I have no statement to make; why should I? The whole wretched business has been such a nightmare that I haven't the heart to attempt a defence."

Once more he turned to Adams.

"So this is your revenge, is it?" he asked. "This is your way of getting back at me for the old Civic Reform League; it's a pity I didn't stay with it until I had smoked you out, you scoundrel."

He looked again to McCaleb. "Well, I suppose I must go with you; I am ready."

But there came an interruption from an unlooked-for source. Before any one was aware of it, Charlotte had arisen and was between the Doctor and the other two men. She faced them magnificently--like a tigress at bay.

"You touch him if you dare!"

The words were uttered with ominous quietness. If a look could convey any physical effect, McCaleb and Adams would have been seared and scorched and blasted by the lightning-like fire of wrath that blazed about them. All of her moving personality showed plainly in that look, dominating the situation as if the other actors therein were no more than wooden marionettes. McCaleb recoiled; Adams cowered behind him.

"Mobley, tell him that he lies--there, that wretched creature hiding behind the other."

She levelled a potent finger at the abject Adams.

"Charlotte," Doctor Westbrook whispered in her ear, "this is only making matters worse; believe me, this is not the place to correct whatever mis--"

Charlotte stamped her foot with fierce impatience.

"Tell him that he lies; make him swallow those vile words before either of you leaves this room."

That terrible, menacing finger was to Adams like an iron spit upon which he, impaled, was being held up to a threatening multitude. McCaleb essayed a diversion.

"This is unfortunate, Miss Fairchild. You know me pretty well; you know that I must serve this warrant; you know I would never do it were it not--" But she was not paying the slightest attention to him. He turned helplessly to the Doctor.

At last the awful look in Charlotte's eyes, the menacing finger, became unbearable. Adams, like the well-known worm, turned. He also squirmed, worm-like, and was heard to mutter something.

"What does the creature say?" demanded Charlotte.

"He says that he has an eye-witness to the murder," McCaleb interpreted.

Two regal strides, and she was standing above Adams, an incarnation of outraged womanhood, of implacable, devastating wrath.

"Who is your witness?"

For once his eyes had ceased to rove; they were held by Charlotte's--hypnotized by their compelling magnetism.

"Who is your witness?" she repeated, sternly--not to be denied.

"Don't--don't touch me," he hissed. "Keep away!"

"Touch you, you filthy thing? Ugh! Who is your witness?"

Of a sudden McCaleb sprang toward them.

"Here, none of that!" he cried through clenched teeth. Something flashed for an instant between the two men, and when he stepped back again he was holding a pistol in his hand and regarding the unfortunate Adams with anger and contempt.

"Who is your witness?" She was apparently oblivious of the little by-play.

There was no escaping it. In the end he stammered something, to Charlotte unintelligible, but McCaleb started and came on a step nearer.

"Who?" asked Charlotte.

"How--How--Howard Lynden."

Now it was her turn to recoil. The sternness of her countenance gave way to a mingled look of amazement and incredulity. She laughed a little wildly.

"How ridiculous! I see now; it is merely a vulgar joke--some spite which this wretched creature is trying to vent upon you, Mobley."

Now that the tension was broken, McCaleb felt that he could again make himself heard.

"Indeed, Miss Fairchild, it is no joke," earnestly. "If Adams, here, should try such a game, he would find it the worse for him, as he knows very well."

"You'll see how much of a joke it is," muttered Adams, with a malignant look at the Doctor. But McCaleb went on, ignoring him.

"However unpleasant it may be, I have the warrant issued in proper form, and, one way or another, I must serve it."

What next occurred banished from the minds of all everything that had preceded it.

The door noiselessly swung open and revealed the large figure and the impassive features of Captain John Converse.

While they stared at him in speechless surprise, he nodded briefly to the Doctor; long afterward, when Charlotte looked back at the scene, she became possessed of a conviction which is with her to this day--that he deliberately winked at her.

He turned to McCaleb, to whom the familiar sibilant voice was inexpressibly welcome.

"I will relieve you of your unpleasant duty, Mac," said he, smoothly. The young man passed over the warrant with an alacrity which demonstrated that the Captain had correctly characterized his task.

"Pardon me for intruding, Doctor," Converse continued, "but it seems you were so absorbed in here that you didn't hear me knock.... Miss Fairchild, you--"

Something in her manner bade him stop. He glanced significantly at Doctor Westbrook; but before either had time to do or say anything further, Charlotte had risen hastily from the chair into which she had sunk upon the Captain's unexpected entrance, her every movement betraying a suppressed excitement, an agitation imminently upon the point of mastering her self-control.

"No, no!" she said, laughing somewhat hysterically, "I am not going to faint; but oh! Mr. Converse, I am so glad you have come!" She sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and sat on the floor, laughing and crying together.

The Doctor went over to her, raised her gently, and led her to the couch, where he sat beside her and held her head on his shoulder. There was something exultant in his look, as if he enjoyed being arrested; for the woman now clung to him as though she had never refused the caress of those sheltering arms.

The Captain stood silently watching them with expressionless eyes, turning the warrant over and over in his hands. At last he thrust it carelessly into his pocket and turned away.

Adams and McCaleb slipped unobserved from the room.

Some time later, when Charlotte was again calm, Mr. Converse said to her, "Miss Fairchild, I have an answer to our riddle."

"Then, thank God! the mystery is solved!" she said; and the Doctor burst forth eagerly:

"Is that true?"

Converse ignored both inquiries.

"Come nearer, Miss Fairchild," said he; and when, wondering, she had obeyed, he leaned forward and whispered one word into her ear.... "That's what our riddle has for its answer," he went on in a louder tone. "'Paquita--what do you spell?' is a riddle no longer."

Charlotte started back.

"Revenge--but that tells me nothing," she said, blankly. Converse smiled knowingly and shook his head.

"Perhaps you will not press me with questions which I haven't time to answer; it cannot be told in a word. It's a long story, and a remarkable one too; but we will hear it soon. It is not for me to tell it. I am waiting for Mr. Nettleton, Mr. Mountjoy, Clay, and Howard Lynden--though I don't believe that last gentleman will come now--and one or two others.... Ah, here are Clay and Mr. Nettleton now. You got my message, I see,"--this last to Clay.

"Yes," returned the young man; "but I'm dashed if I understand it. What's it all about, anyhow? Where have you been? When did you--"

"What?--where?--when?" Converse interrupted. "Pray make allowance for my age. Better yet, don't ask any questions at all. You will soon have enough to occupy your mind fully."

Mr. Nettleton merely spoke a word or two of greeting; otherwise he remained silent until Mr. Converse now abruptly addressed him.

"Did you bring it?" he asked.

For answer the lawyer drew a manuscript from his pocket. His manner was sober, and unconsciously it foreshadowed the gravity of what was about to transpire. A spirit of expectancy animated everybody present; a dawning realization that at last the crisis was at hand, that the veil hiding the mystery was about to be rent. So far as this is concerned, they were soon to learn that the rending of one veil was to disclose but a single one of many complexities and yet another concealing veil beyond; that while the enveloping mists were surely dissipating, they passed but slowly, revealing only a little at a time.

"While we are waiting for the others, Mr. Nettleton will read this aloud," said the Captain.

"What is it?" from the Doctor.

"I suppose you might call it the 'Ante-Mortem Statement of William Slade, Deceased,'" Mr. Nettleton replied; and Converse interjected, "'Slade's Blessing.'"

"Good," the lawyer rejoined. "That would not be an inept title. It came to me this morning through the mail, and evidently was only lately written."

Again Converse spoke. "How is Miss Joyce? Could she be present?" He proceeded no further, when he noticed the Doctor shaking his head in a decided negative.

"She is rapidly regaining her strength," the latter added; "but of everything that happened up to the time of returning consciousness, she remembers nothing."

"Dear me!" ejaculated the Captain; "that is unfortunate. Is this blank likely to be permanent?"

"God knows that I hope not. It is too early to hazard a positive opinion."

"Well, well," Converse repeated, thoughtfully; "yet, perhaps--However, Mr. Nettleton, go on; read."

"But, Mr. Converse," Charlotte interposed, "this is all so incomprehensible; we are tossed about in such a turmoil of bewilderment that my mind is incapable of understanding anything, and I am sure that Mobley is no better off. When did you return? Where have you been so long? Have some mercy upon us, for I feel as though I were going mad."

"Dear lady," he returned, "try to have a little patience; you shall know all, quickly."

"But, about Mobley--what did that man mean by accusing him? by saying that Howard had witnessed the--the murder? My God! when will this end?"

The Captain spoke soothingly.

"Let this manuscript be read, and everything else will fall in naturally. I have already said that the story cannot be told in a word. It is a strange tale, and we must take one thing at a time if we hope ever to comprehend it. Now go ahead, Mr. Nettleton."

The lawyer appeared to consider.

"I question the advisability of reading this," he said at length; "but Mr. Converse thinks otherwise. I wish to say first, however, that many things in this manuscript will prove to be exceedingly painful to you, Mobley, and to you, Charlotte and Clay. So much so, that it will be impossible for you to hear them unmoved. I have read it, and I know. It is contemptible. It brings grave charges against your two fathers; yet, if you wish ever to understand the mystery that so entangles you, a perusal of this will be necessary. Each one of you could take it alone and go through with it as you may; but to read it here aloud will be a terrible ordeal. What are your wishes?"

"Bob," the Doctor returned, "we have all borne so much that the fact of this being an additional ordeal weighs but little against the assurance that we are to see this web of mystery and suspicion untangled. I think the three of us most concerned will agree to that?" He looked to Charlotte and Clay, who nodded acquiescence. Converse also nodded his head vigorously, adding: "My idea, exactly. You will hear the dead vilified and yourselves damned roundly; but, dear me, what of that?" he asked, cheerfully. "Slade was as cracked as a brick sidewalk, and he couldn't do anything else."

Mr. Nettleton smiled. "It wouldn't do to go too far into that, Converse; remember the will."

"Well," the other retorted, "that is the most sensible thing he ever did. He was sane enough when that was drawn. You must remember, it is fourteen years old."

Now the lawyer turned to Clay and Charlotte. "It is agreed, then, that I shall read this aloud?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

"Fire away," from Clay; and his sister supplemented, "If we can't bear it, we can stop you."

Although there were times during the reading when she hid her face in her hands and wept softly; when Clay or the Doctor or both sat with white set faces, with clenched hands and rigid jaws, to the credit of their self-control may it here be set down, that there was no interruption until Mr. Nettleton had quite finished.

That which follows is merely a _précis_ of what constituted a remarkable document. Those portions deleted, comprising quite a half of the writing, are nothing more nor less than a manifestation of Slade's arrant egotism, his innate selfishness, an almost fiendish vindictiveness, and a seemingly inborn malevolence that was baffled at every turn. Indeed, the one bright spot in the entire writing--his professed affection, if so tender an emotion can be associated with his nature--is all the more extraordinary because it stands alone among all the man's ungenerous impulses and thwarted ambitions. Those portions may well be dispensed with; they are simply unpleasant reading. Otherwise the document is given as he wrote it.