| In
the year 18— there was a village in Canada, which
for the purposes of this story may be known as Sedgeford.
It has gradually grown to a town, put off many of the
quaintnesses which it possessed in its village days,
and taken on not a few of the crudities which come with
enlarged boundaries. But it has hardly altered in picturesqueness,
and even at the risk of revealing an identity which
might well be concealed, as in the elements of this
fiction, truth is largely mixed, this beauty of situation
may be a little dwelt upon.
From a clear lake the shore
rises steeply, and above the silver ripple stands the
town, fronting the rising sun. Many of the houses are
of brick, more ruddy than is usual with that material
in Canada, and, with the dark pines for a background,
the place borrows a tone of richness; as if the picture
had been painted by an old master—as if the pigments
he had used were his deepest and warmest. The light
seems to dwell considerately there, not in sombreness,
but with a temperate strength. In winter the place gives
good cheer to travelers crossing the frozen lake in
the north-west wind; either by day, with the glow of
welcome in the houses, each giving the sign of a hearth
in the tossed plume of smoke, or by night, with the
lights above the snow, from a distance clustered like
a single diamond shaking with light, or, nearer, separating
into stars of different magnitudes outlining a new terrene
constellation.
Once in the streets, a feeling
of comfort surprises the traveler; he knows that there
he might die in contentment, and his discernment, for
the nonce disarmed, leads him to believe that
there every man has a plenty and is free of care. It
is not true; but the fancy, springing to life in the
congenial atmosphere of the place, has root in an ideal
of the human heart from which we have drifted far.
In the year already written
down, there lived in Sedgeford a family named Pangman,
whose head was a great man in the village. He possessed
the largest general store in the place, and was also
the postmaster, he issued [Page 105]
the marriage licenses and was full of those small important
offices which gather about one in his position.
He was a man whom everyone respected
and there were daily prophecies for his success in life.
Many people believed he could do what he would: that
if politics attracted him he would lead his party, that
if business held him he would be rich and powerful.
Already he had been remarkably successful, and he was
in, so called, comfortable circumstances.
His wife was a woman of fine
character and her activity in charitable works gave
her husband an additional claim on the goodwill of the
community. She had such native tact and wisdom that
she was likely to grace any position in which she might
be placed.
Four children had been born
to them, and at the time when the occurrence happened
which so seriously affected the tranquility of their
existence, they were respectively eighteen, sixteen,
ten and four years of age. The eldest was a girl, called
Christine, the next a boy, Charles. The two youngest
children, a boy and girl, have no active part in this
history; their names need not be mentioned.
The Sedgeford post-office was
one of some importance, as the township was thickly
settled and the farmers generally preferred having their
mail matter sent to the office at the market-town. One
department of the Government had an agency at Sedgeford
which transacted a large volume of business. Twice a
year a money packet was received addressed to the agent
whose duty it was to make certain cash payments to the
Indian wards of the Government. This packet contained
usually about $12,000.00; it was invariably registered,
and arrived at Sedgeford during the months of April
and November.
In April of the year 18—
the packet was overdue; the middle of the month came
and went and nothing was heard of it. The Agent inquired
of the postmaster and the postmaster inquired of the
agent, but the interchange of questions did not bring
the delinquent packet. At last Mr. Pangman said: “You
had better let them know.” Accordingly, the agent
reported the non-arrival of the money. Days went by,
but he received no answer to his letter and at last
he telegraphed. An answer came promptly. The packet
had been registered to his address on the 5th of April,
and a letter of instruction had accompanied it under
separate cover. He had received neither. The information
threw the two officials into a state of alarm. The agent
at once advised his department, and in due time the
post-office inspector for the district arrived at Sedgeford.
The letter, properly registered, had passed the hands
of the mail clerks on the route and had been billed
to the Sedgeford office. It did not take the skilled
officials long to place the responsibility [Page 106]
where it rested, with Mr. Pangman. He was nonplussed.
He was deeply concerned. Charles must know something
about it; he had helped him with the mail constantly,
being his sworn assistant. Charles was sent for; it
was early in the morning; he was not at home. He had
left the previous evening to row across the bay of the
lake, saying he would likely stay all night with a friend.
The day wore on but he did not come back. A messenger
returned from his friend’s with the word that
he had not visited them. The inspector, who was an adept
at looking suspicious, became an index finger of accusation.
By nightfall he had concluded to act without pretending
any longer to take Mr. Pangman’s hopeful view
of the case. Charles’ boat was missing, he argued;
until that was found without his son he would not harbor
a single suspicion. The next morning two lads brought
it; they had found it beached in a shallow cove. A note
to his mother was pinned to the gunwale. Simply a few
words.
“Dear
Mother: Forgive me, don’t think hardly of me.
I had to go, and it will be better for all of you.
Give Christie a kiss. Charlie.”
When
she read that note her greatest trial came to her, a
lightning stroke. But she turned to comfort her husband.
He lost control of himself; he wrung his hands as if
he had burnt them, and wept like a child. He seemed
completely overcome by his son’s crime. Ruin stared
him in the face; to pay such a sum he would have to
sell or mortgage every tittle he owned in Sedgeford—and
he must, he would repay the amount at once.
But here his friends stepped
in. It was powerfully represented to Government that
he should be given an opportunity, a man of his integrity—
that he should not be dealt with harshly. Perhaps his
son would return; a little time might well be consumed
in the interests of justice. But nothing was heard of
the unfortunate young man, and in a year’s time
Mr. Pangman repaid the money with interest as he wished
no one to suffer for the sin of his misguided boy. He
was an able financier and he raised every cent of the
money and continued his business as before.
He prospered, but this cloud
shadowed the family life. The feeling of trouble dwelt
with them constantly, there was a gap at the table which
stood for a failure in life. The younger children were
too inexperienced to understand, but Christine mourned
for her brother and could not be comforted. She had
always been a very delicate child—for ten years
she had been confined to the house, and for long periods
to her bed, by a malady which baffled the doctors. Her
brother had been her best friend and comforter, he had
sat with her by day, watched with her at night, and
made her [Page 107] life more than
tolerable. She was inconsolable. She kept the note he
had written in a locket over her heart.
Years went by and Mr. Pangman
prospered so exceedingly that he sold his business at
Sedgeford and removed to Toronto, a city which was growing
in wealth and importance. He made excellent investments
and the home of the Pangmans was a luxurious one. Beyond
everything, Christine became much better; she regained
her strength, could walk and drive, and, although her
nervous organization was still extremely sensitive,
she was, by comparison with her former state, restored
to health. Mrs. Pangman found larger opportunities in
the city to engage in her deep-hearted charities; her
husband, who had changed since their supreme sorrow,
seconded her in everything. Their church funds were
aided munificently, and many were the private sufferings
which were either entirely removed or softened by their
grace.
Very few in the city of their
adoption, knew the story of their trial, of the robbery
and flight, but in their home life the lost son had
not been forgotten. His name was never mentioned, but
Mr. Pangman supplicated for him at the family altar
night and morning euphuistically: “May he who
wanders afar, we know not whether alive or dead, be
brought to a knowledge of Thy truth, and, if it be not
Thy will that he shall again join with us at this altar,
let our family be united in Heaven.” But to Christine
he was still alive, his image was ever present with
her, she had thought so vividly of him that he was a
power in her life, and her new strength and the widened
range of her activities did not wean her from this fancy.
She always remembered that he had thought of her last:
her heart had grown round the words, “Give Christie
a kiss.” It is to such simple, childish expressions
that the most tragic affections often cling.
One morning early in May of
the year 18—Christine was engaged in some small
domestic task in the dining-room. She had been so long
cheated of all such feminine employment that she took
delight in them. Standing by the sideboard with a silver
cup in her hand, she was aware of some indistinct object
to her left, between her and the window. She did not
glance at it, but it seemed to be there, where nothing
stood. She kept her eyes fixed on the cup and slowly
recognized that what she saw was a plain deal table
very much notched as if whittled by a knife, and covered
with blotches of ink. Upon it was a heap of something,
unformed; a yellow light as if falling from a lamp lay
upon the whole. The picture slowly faded away.
That is very strange, she thought.
Her first impression was to run and tell her mother,
but just as she reached the door she remembered that
her [Page 108] mother was out. Then
she recollected that she had somewhere read that other
people had had similar experiences. She resolved to
keep the matter to herself, lest by communicating the
occurrence she might break the spell and remove the
possibility of receiving a similar visitation. At this
resolve she turned faint with excitement and had to
recline for some time before she could move.
Weeks passed, and July had come
with its heat and its beginning of a dying summer. Christine
had been away from the city in the mountains. She had
not been the observer during this time of anything which
she could trace to an actuality. Mr. Pangman having
been recalled to the city on urgent business, had brought
her for a companion. They had driven out in the morning
through the park and Mr. Pangman had directed the coachman
to stop before the new building for the Provincial Parliament.
He had left the carriage and had gone within the walls,
which had risen ten or twelve feet, with the purpose
of seeing one of the contractors. Christine was left
alone.
It was extremely warm. The carriage
stood near one of the corners of masonry but there was
no shade. Her eyes followed the lines in the purplish
stone. Then without warning she became aware of the
beginning of a picture between herself and the background
of the wall. It was the same deal table as before; she
saw it more clearly. The mass which she had before found
undistinguishable, she now saw was a heap of letters
and papers. There was one parcel sealed, much larger
than anything else on the table, except a leather satchel.
The same yellow light flooded everything. Behind this
scene she could plainly discern the purplish wall of
the new building. As before, it soon faded away. It
seemed to her she had seen a colored print in a book,
the lines were of that sharp distinctness; but there
was something familiar in the picture, as if the book
were a book of memory.
As she was trying to recollect,
her father came out of the works. As soon as she saw
him she recognized that the leather satchel that she
had seen was the image of one which had years ago belonged
to him, when they lived at Sedgeford. He ran towards
her with trepidation; she was pale and faint. The heat
bore the blame of her condition and as fast as the horses
could carry them they sped away to their cool house.
Mr. Pangman wished to send for
his wife, fearing that Christine might be seriously
ill, but she would not hear of it. In a day or two she
was quite herself, and they carried out their plans
of returning to the mountains. September found them
again in the city. During this interval Christine had
not had a recurrence of the vision, but she had succeeded
in fixing the impression that it was her father’s
old satchel which she had seen. When she was [Page
109] a very little girl, she had frequently
been within the Sedgeford post-office, which was merely
a division of her father’s shop, and she had,
with partial success, called upon her memory to furnish
details of the arrangements which would correspond with
her vision. What she had twice seen would be repeated,
she had faith; and, moreover, she began to think of
the occurrences devoutly, as if they had some significance
above the common level of her experience.
It was early in the morning
when she saw it again. She awoke in the silence which
she felt in her room after the departure of a pair of
swallows which every year inhabited the eave above her
window, whose purling notes were the first sounds she
heard. The sun was nearly up, and her room was faintly
lighted. Between her bed and the window she saw the
now familiar picture, but there were several new elements
in it. Above the table she could see a looking-glass
in a black frame; a figure stood before it— her
father. So distinct was the impression as she remembered
him in the old days at Sedgeford, that she started up
with a cry, and the fabric of her vision slipped away
like summer lightning.
That day she did not feel able
to rise, a feeling of dejection, which was a stranger
to her, kept a weight on her heart. She thought much
about her old suffering, much about her brother Charlie,
and, for the first time in years, she opened the locket
and read the words he had pencilled and the message
for herself. Could it be that the strange hallucination,
which had come to her now three times, was in any way
connected with him? Would she have to wait weeks before
knowing?
She had not long to wait. One
evening in October she was in her room; it was not late,
but the house was quiet. She stood before her glass,
her luxuriant hair flooding her shoulders, falling to
her waist over the loose wrapper that she wore. In a
moment she saw the picture in her mirror. She did not
stir. This time there was movement. Her father’s
figure was actually tearing the wrapper off a packet.
His back was turned to her, but she could see him thrusting
something into the satchel. Suddenly, her attention
was drawn to the looking-glass above the table. There
she saw her brother Charlie’s face, pale, serious,
attentive. Her father seemed to raise his head and see
it also, but in a moment it moved away, the vision faltered,
and she was confronting her blank mirror.
Christine threw herself upon
her bed and gave herself to the tragic thoughts which
seized upon her like lions. Her mind flew back to that
old, melancholy time at Sedgeford, and she felt anew
the pang which had struck through her when she had been
told of her brother’s flight. Suddenly she sprang
to her feet. An idea which had just entered her brain
appalled [Page 110] her. It had root in that gesture
of her father’s figure, and the sad, significant
face of her brother in the glass. She had had for all
these years a strenuous faith in his innocence; a faith
with nothing tangible to support it, living like a delicate,
air-fed plant, sustained upon invisible nourishment.
Now that she seemed to possess a sort of evidence, no
matter how subtle, how occult, she would have the truth.
She knew her father was alone in his library. Her mother
and sister were out, her brother was away. She went
rapidly down the stairs.
Mr. Pangman was stretched upon
a sofa with his fingers in the leaves of a book which
he had not been reading. The day had been remarkably
successful; by a shrewd manipulation of stocks, he had
cleared a very large sum, but he had not been thinking
of that. Whenever he was alone with his soul, there
was only one subject for his thoughts. Anyone would
have pitied the rich, powerful, respected man, could
he have seen his gashed heart, and known how much of
his life was consumed by a vain longing for his lost
boy. He was absorbed in such hopeless reflection as
Christine approached his door. His face followed his
broken thoughts, and looked deep sorrow, and even despair.
Christine frightened him with
her wan, spirit face, her streaming hair. She seemed
to float, rather than move; in truth, she did not feel
her limbs. She spoke at once, while he was raising himself
on the sofa, with a look of apprehension, and her name
on his lips. His face, with its mask of despair, shocked
her, and she noticed with involuntary surprise how white
his hair was, and how deep and anxious were the lines
on his brow. But, while the thought was flashed upon
her, she had spoken.
“Father, was there a table
in the Sedgeford office with a looking-glass above it?”
“Yes, Christine. Why do
you ask?” He started, but it did not seem to him
an unnatural question.
“I have had a strange
idea. Father, did Charlie take that money?”
“Yes, dear; poor boy!
What has made you think of it to-night?”
“And you knew nothing
about it?”
His face fell strangely pallid,
his voice almost vanished.
“No—no—why?
he took the money. I paid back every cent—every
cent.”
“And you did not see his
face in the glass?”
“I—in the glass—Christine—do
not stare like that.” He could not control his
twitching arm.
“In the glass—I
mean when you put the money into the satchel.”
[Page 111]
He fell as if a stone from a
sling had entered his brain between the eyes. But he
did not faint; he put up his hands as if to keep back
a rush of memories.
“Christine!” he
cried, not in his own voice, “it was his fault.”
“His fault—that
poor boy—who led him on? You plotted—he
was to take the blame. I see it—you have kept
him away. Give him back to me. Give me my brother.”
Her eye was on fire.
“No, no, Christine. You
don’t understand; he misunderstood; he
thought I was going to keep the money, but I only wanted
it for a while. He went away; he may have thought I
would be blamed, but he needn’t have gone.”
She stood, dazed by her tumultuous
thoughts; she had, for a moment, fancied her brother
partly guilty, now she saw him innocent.
“You saw his face in the
glass. You knew that he knew. You did not speak to him.
You let him go,”—these words in a low voice,
as if thinking out loud. Her father stood before her,
judged.
“He took the disgrace
for you because—why?—he thought you had
everything at stake, that your ruin would kill us all—now
I know, don’t speak—he did not say a word
to anyone—he let us think what we would—
he thought he was saving us.”
“Christine, how could
I know?” She looked beyond him stonily.
“What did you do with
that money?”
“I turned it over.”
“Turned it over?”
“Yes, I speculated with
it. In a year I had doubled it. I paid it back; they
lent me money on the place at Sedgeford at three per
cent., but I was getting ten per cent. for all the money
I could find. Everyone liked me and trusted me.”
“And you were acting a
lie! Father! Father! And this prosperity is built on
the heart of my brother—his ruined life!”
He tried to calm her, but he
was so broken in every nerve that he shook like a sapling
in a great wind.
“Listen, Christine; how
could I help that—I have spent a fortune in trying
to find him. Think of what I have given to the church;
to-night I was preparing to give a new organ.”
“No! no!” she cried,
“do not speak to me. I must think.” She
threw herself on her knees and hid her face against
the lounge. A moment later she was on her feet. [Page
112]
“Father,” she said
calmly, “we must renounce all this, you must tell
everyone. We must go away. You must save your soul.
You must tell mother. We must not wear a mask any longer.”
He felt fire rise from his heart
and flood his brain. He could not see. He caught at
the air.
“Christine,” he
groaned, “not me! Just think how I am respected;
everyone would lose faith—no, no, I can’t,
I have been rich too long. It would kill your mother—just
think—to make a confession.”
“Father, listen to me,
you must do this yourself, no one else can do it for
you, it is the only thing left to do. I do not demand
it—everything good and just in heaven demands
it. It must be done, and you must do it.”
She left him. He fell back on
the sofa. There was no further need for concealment
from himself; he was plunged into despair. The horrid
life he had led stood beside him like a character in
a play. He knew the part was hateful, but he loved the
character he had made. “I cannot, cannot, cannot,”
he cried out in spirit, with a growing intensity. Christine
would not ask him to do that. It was only Christine
he had to deal with. He felt clammy; he brushed cold
water off his face, how had it come there? How could
Christine have found out? Perhaps Charlie had come back—nonsense,
he had almost direct proof that he was dead—and
what need was there then to confess. He battled up and
down the lurid field of his experience. He went to his
room locked himself in, and began again. Dawn found
him tossing on his bed. He did not know how all these
years of cowardice had weakened him. When he rose he
could not stand.
Christine met him at his door.
“You will tell mother first,” she said.
Lead-colored, weary lids were over her eyes.
“Never,” he groaned,
“never, I cannot tell anyone; think for a moment
of what I stand for.” He was unable to exorcise
his demon and Christine seemed to feel it.
“I am in the right,”
she said; “by noon you must do it.” Then
she mentioned the Rev. Mr. Birchlake’s name. “If
you cannot tell mother, tell Mr. Birchlake; go at once.”
He felt so little control that
he left the house. He wandered on the streets. He wandered
far. For long periods he forgot himself. He did not
know where he was. Suddenly he found himself without
his hat. Persons he did not know were staring at him.
He found a shop and bought a new hat. It was half after
twelve when he came to his office. Christine was there.
He spoke wild angry words. Would she never leave him
alone. She went away without a word. He spent all the
afternoon looking at his desk. He would not see anyone.
He could not tell of what he was thinking. [Page
113]
Suddenly he felt that it was
late; it was growing dark. He drove home in a cab. He
feared to meet Christine. He found a letter on his writing
table. He read it, and for some time did not comprehend.
“Dear
Father: —I have decided to leave this house
and never enter it again until I know you have confessed.
When I see an advertisement, worded as follows, in
the Buffalo papers, I will give mother my address
and she will write to me: ‘Christie. There’s
a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as
we will.’ Do not try to find me, it is useless.
Christine.”
He
fell back in his chair. No! no! he could not stand this.
What explanation could he give of Christine’s
absence? This would kill his wife. No, rather than do
that he would call on Mr. Birchlake. He went out at
once. He had not far to go, but he seemed unconscious
of the way. A wave rose in his breast and tossed to
his brain and rolled back again: to confess and not
to confess; to save Christine or to let her go; he would
get her back before anyone knew. No, she had gone, and
she could stay. The wave rolled and tossed. He found
himself in Mr. Birchlake’s study. He must do something
now. The wave commenced to beat him wearily and blind
him; it was full of light. He felt Mr. Birchlake’s
step. The whole deep ocean was upon him. He did not
see his pastor’s extended arm. His hands were
like two bats fluttering over his head. His nerveless
jaw fell to chattering. He tried to speak. He was going
to say, “I am a guilty soul.” But he cried
out in a loud, ungoverned voice, “Christine! Christine!
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough
hew them as we will.” And these (unexplained,
until Christine’s note was found) were the only
words that moved his lips until they were forever covered
with silence.
Strange!
sometimes our resolves come too late; sometimes when
we would drink the cup of expiation, the bright power
which has so long, so patiently held it to our lips
snatches it away, and hides his face darkly. [Page
114]
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