Dr. Wortle's School Part 29

"My cousin; Ferdinand Lefroy. He was very well known in his own State, and in California too, till he died. He was a good fellow, but given to drink. We used to tell him that if he would marry it would be better for him;--but he never would;--he never did." Robert Lefroy as he said this put his left hand into his trousers-pocket over the notes which he had placed there, and drew a small revolver out of his pocket with the other hand. "I am better prepared now," he said, "than when you had your six-shooter under your pillow at Leavenworth."

"I do not believe a word of it. It's a lie," said Peac.o.c.ke.

"Very well. You're a chap that's fond of travelling, and have got plenty of money. You'd better go down to Louisiana and make your way straight from New Orleans to Kilbrack. It ain't above forty miles to the south-west, and there's a rail goes within fifteen miles of it. You'll learn there all about Ferdinand Lefroy as was our cousin,--him as never got married up to the day he died of drink and was buried at San Francisco. They'll be very glad, I shouldn't wonder, to see that pretty little picter of yours, because they was always uncommon fond of cousin Ferdy at Kilbrack. And I'll tell you what; you'll be sure to come across my brother Ferdy in them parts, and can tell him how you've seen me. You can give him all the latest news, too, about his own wife. He'll be glad to hear about her, poor woman." Mr. Peac.o.c.ke listened to this without saying a word since that last exclamation of his. It might be true. Why should it not be true? If in truth there had been these two cousins of the same name, what could be more likely than that his money should be lured out of him by such a fraud as this? But yet,--yet, as he came to think of it all, it could not be true. The chance of carrying such a scheme to a successful issue would have been too small to induce the man to act upon it from the day of his first appearance at Bowick. Nor was it probable that there should have been another Ferdinand Lefroy unknown to his wife; and the existence of such a one, if known to his wife, would certainly have been made known to him.

"It's a lie," said he, "from beginning to end."

"Very well; very well. I'll take care to make the truth known by letter to Dr. Wortle and the Bishop and all them pious swells over there. To think that such a chap as you, a minister of the gospel, living with another man's wife and looking as though b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in your mouth! I tell you what; I've got a little money in my pocket now, and I don't mind going over to England again and explaining the whole truth to the Bishop myself. I could make him understand how that photograph ain't worth nothing, and how I explained to you myself as the lady's righteous husband is all alive, keeping house on his own property down in Louisiana.

Do you think we Lefroys hadn't any place beside Kilbrack among us?"

"Certainly you are a liar," said Peac.o.c.ke.

"Very well. Prove it."

"Did you not tell me that your brother was buried at San Francisco?"

"Oh, as for that, that don't matter. It don't count for much whether I told a crammer or not. That picter counts for nothing. It ain't my word you were going on as evidence. You is able to prove that Ferdy Lefroy was buried at 'Frisco. True enough. I buried him. I can prove that. And I would never have treated you this way, and not have said a word as to how the dead man was only a cousin, if you'd treated me civil over there in England. But you didn't."

"I am going to treat you worse now," said Peac.o.c.ke, looking him in the face.

"What are you going to do now? It's I that have the revolver this time."

As he said this he turned the weapon round in his hand.

"I don't want to shoot you,--nor yet to frighten you, as I did in the bed-room at Leavenworth. Not but what I have a pistol too." And he slowly drew his out of his pocket. At this moment two men sauntered in and took their places in the further corner of the room. "I don't think there is to be any shooting between us."

"There may," said Lefroy.

"The police would have you."

"So they would--for a time. What does that matter to me? Isn't a fellow to protect himself when a fellow like you comes to him armed?"

"But they would soon know that you are the swindler who escaped from San Francisco eighteen months ago. Do you think it wouldn't be found out that it was you who paid for the shares in forged notes?"

"I never did. That's one of your lies."

"Very well. Now you know what I know; and you had better tell me over again who it is that lies buried under the stone that's been photographed there."

"What are you men doing with them pistols?" said one of the strangers, walking across the room, and standing over the backs of their chairs.

"We are alooking at 'em," said Lefroy.

"If you're agoing to do anything of that kind you'd better go and do it elsewhere," said the stranger.

"Just so," said Lefroy. "That's what I was thinking myself."

"But we are not going to do anything," said Mr. Peac.o.c.ke. "I have not the slightest idea of shooting the gentleman; and he has just as little of shooting me."

"Then what do you sit with 'em out in your hands in that fas.h.i.+on for?"

said the stranger. "It's a decent widow woman as keeps this house, and I won't see her set upon. Put 'em up." Whereupon Lefroy did return his pistol to his pocket,--upon which Mr. Peac.o.c.ke did the same. Then the stranger slowly walked back to his seat at the other side of the room.

"So they told you that lie; did they,--at 'Frisco?" asked Lefroy.

"That was what I heard over there when I was inquiring about your brother's death."

"You'd believe anything if you'd believe that."

"I'd believe anything if I'd believe in your cousin." Upon this Lefroy laughed, but made no further allusion to the romance which he had craftily invented on the spur of the moment. After that the two men sat without a word between them for a quarter of an hour, when the Englishman got up to take his leave. "Our business is over now," he said, "and I will bid you good-bye."

"I'll tell you what I'm athinking," said Lefroy. Mr. Peac.o.c.ke stood with his hand ready for a final adieu, but he said nothing. "I've half a mind to go back with you to England. There ain't nothing to keep me here."

"What could you do there?"

"I'd be evidence for you, as to Ferdy's death, you know."

"I have evidence. I do not want you."

"I'll go, nevertheless."

"And spend all your money on the journey."

"You'd help;--wouldn't you now?"

"Not a dollar," said Peac.o.c.ke, turning away and leaving the room. As he did so he heard the wretch laughing loud at the excellence of his own joke.

Before he made his journey back again to England he only once more saw Robert Lefroy. As he was seating himself in the railway car that was to take him to Buffalo the man came up to him with an affected look of solicitude. "Peac.o.c.ke," he said, "there was only nine hundred dollars in that roll."

"There were a thousand. I counted them half-an-hour before I handed them to you."

"There was only nine hundred when I got 'em."

"There were all that you will get. What kind of notes were they you had when you paid for the shares at 'Frisco?" This question he asked out loud, before all the pa.s.sengers. Then Robert Lefroy left the car, and Mr.

Peac.o.c.ke never saw him or heard from him again.

Conclusion.

CHAPTER X.

THE DOCTOR'S ANSWER.

WHEN the Monday came there was much to be done and to be thought of at Bowick. Mrs. Peac.o.c.ke on that day received a letter from San Francisco, giving her all the details of the evidence that her husband had obtained, and enclosing a copy of the photograph. There was now no reason why she should not become the true and honest wife of the man whom she had all along regarded as her husband in the sight of G.o.d. The writer declared that he would so quickly follow his letter that he might be expected home within a week, or, at the longest, ten days, from the date at which she would receive it. Immediately on his arrival at Liverpool, he would, of course, give her notice by telegraph.

When this letter reached her, she at once sent a message across to Mrs.

Wortle. Would Mrs. Wortle kindly come and see her? Mrs. Wortle was, of course, bound to do as she was asked, and started at once. But she was, in truth, but little able to give counsel on any subject outside the one which was at the moment nearest to her heart. At one o'clock, when the boys went to their dinner, Mary was to instruct her father as to the purport of the letter which was to be sent to Lord Bracy,--and Mary had not as yet come to any decision. She could not go to her father for aid;--she could not, at any rate, go to him until the appointed hour should come; and she was, therefore, entirely thrown upon her mother. Had she been old enough to understand the effect and the power of character, she would have known that, at the last moment, her father would certainly decide for her,--and had her experience of the world been greater, she might have been quite sure that her father would decide in her favour.

But as it was, she was quivering and shaking in the dark, leaning on her mother's very inefficient aid, nearly overcome with the feeling that by one o'clock she must be ready to say something quite decided.

And in the midst of this her mother was taken away from her, just at ten o'clock. There was not, in truth, much that the two ladies could say to each other. Mrs. Peac.o.c.ke felt it to be necessary to let the Doctor know that Mr. Peac.o.c.ke would be back almost at once, and took this means of doing so. "In a week!" said Mrs. Wortle, as though painfully surprised by the suddenness of the coming arrival.