CHAPTER XII

It was well for Charles's state of mind that he was unaware of what had happened at his home at the time of his disappearance and shortly afterward.

Two weeks from the day of the exposure of the affair at the bank, a personage of great importance in the estimation of the Brownes arrived from Europe. It was an uncle of William and Charles, an elderly man of considerable wealth, a childless widower, who, having long since retired from business, lived on a private income and traveled extensively, that he might pass the remainder of his days with less monotony than the quiet life of Boston afforded; he was a lonely old man who cared little for club life and had no tastes in art, music, or literature.

James Browne reached the home of his nephew one Sunday morning just as the little family were leaving the table. They were expecting him, but not quite so soon, for they had thought that he would stop as usual for a few days in New York, where he had landed.

He was tall and slender, with a pink complexion and rather long snow-white hair and beard. It was plain that he was angry, and it was evident in a moment that he had been so since he sailed from Southampton a week before. He shook hands with William perfunctorily and kissed Celeste and Ruth as if it were a mere matter of form which the relationship demanded. He was about to speak, when Celeste interrupted him by rising and leading the child to the door, where she was turned over to a maid.

"We think it best for her not to hear anything about her uncle," Celeste said. "She simply thinks he has gone away for a while. She was devoted to him."

"She may as well know," the old man retorted, gruffly. "She will hear it quickly enough. I heard it even in London. You see, my name was mentioned along with all the rest of you. The papers, even over there, had accounts of it. It was thought the scoundrel had sailed for England under an assumed name. My bankers asked for particulars. They are more blunt about such things over there than we are. Well, well! has he been caught yet?"

"No, not yet," William answered, and both Celeste and his uncle stared at him. His face was very rigid and had the bloodless look of a man who was in a low nervous condition.

"Where do they think he is?" the old man demanded.

"No one knows," William managed to say, "He has not been heard of since he left."

The elder Browne sniffed in disgust and stroked his beard with his carefully manicured fingers. William noticed that their nails glistened in the light from the window. He noticed the loose English cut of his uncle's tweed suit, and the quaint watch-fob which had been picked up somewhere abroad.

"Do you think he will be caught?" the old man went on.

"I don't know. I can't say," was William's slow reply. "The police have not—not consulted me as to that. The bank officials don't mention it, either. They are very considerate. In fact, they are very kind and anxious to have me feel—feel that they do not hold me responsible for what happened."

"I suppose so," the elder Browne said, promptly. "I read that you had made the loss good. Have you?"

"Half of it is paid already, and they know where the rest is coming from in a few days. They are well secured and satisfied."

"I was going to speak of that debt later," the old man said. "We are all one family, and a disgrace like this against our name and blood ought to be shouldered equally, as far as cost is concerned. William, I'm going to pay half of that shortage. I'll give my check for it to-morrow. I'll see Bradford in the morning. Do you know, I don't want the scamp brought back here. I think when the loss is paid the chase will let up. What is your idea?"

William was astounded by the unexpected offer, so much so that he hardly noted the questions which followed it.

"I'm afraid," William answered, "that the police will not be influenced by it. A reward has been offered and the detective force of the city is trying to win it. The offer has gone to other cities as well."

"Well, I don't want him brought back and tried and sent up," the old man went on, frowning and jerking his beard. "The papers would be full of it again, day after day, and everybody would be pitying us. I don't want any one's pity. I've tried to live decently myself, and at my time of life I don't deserve all this publicity for no fault of mine. I must say that I liked the young scamp, even at his worst. You see, I never thought of his being anything but a drunkard, and a rather good-natured one at that. He was always doing kind things. I've heard of some. Michael once told me of quite a sum Charlie advanced for him when he needed it. Where is Michael?"

"He has gone to New York," Celeste explained. "His mother lives there, and is not very well again. We are expecting him home soon. Yes, Charlie was kind to him, and Michael is heartbroken by what has happened."

"Have you discovered what the boy was investing in?" the old man asked. "How did he lose such a large amount, or did he really take it with him, as some think?"

William had become pale. He lowered his eyes. He had the look of a man on trial for his life. The ordeal was more severe than any he had passed through since his brother left. His friends and associates had seldom broached the topic, but the present questioner saw no reasons for reserve. Seeing that her husband was overlooking his uncle's last question, Celeste answered it.

"I don't think he had a large amount of money when he left," she said, in crisp, firm tones, and William felt her eyes sweep steadily toward him as she spoke. "That seems to be out of the question, and I am sure that William agrees with me."

"I—I've never said anything about that," William stammered, without looking at either his wife or his uncle. "I only know that Bradford, the directors, and the—the police department have made no report on that line."

"Any one could keep such transactions hidden, could they not?" Celeste asked. "By acting through secret agents outside of Boston, for instance."

"Yes, oh yes!" the old man answered. "Many men who are important heads of great concerns and who handle the public's funds often speculate that way, on the quiet. Banks would lose their depositors if such dealings were known. Agents can easily be found who will hold their tongues. So you think the boy may have some associate, Lessie?"

"I didn't say that, exactly," Celeste retorted, coldly. "I only thought that William might know if such an agent could have been employed."

No reply was forthcoming from the pale man of whom she was speaking, and suddenly the new-comer turned upon him. "What is the matter here, anyway?" he almost fiercely demanded.

"Matter?" William asked, with a start. "Where? What do you mean?"

"Why, we don't seem to be getting anywhere," the old man answered, petulantly. "Both of you somehow seem changed. You don't seem to know much about the affair. I expected, when I saw you, to learn something more than has been published, but you both talk in riddles and in a shifting, roundabout way."

To his astonishment, Celeste got up and left the room, closing the door behind her.

The two men stared at each other. "You must excuse her," William finally said. "She is all upset over it. She has shut herself in and doesn't go out at all now. She has refused to receive several callers. She goes about with Ruth a little, but that is all."

"Ah, I see—the shame of it, I presume!" the old man said. "Well, I can sympathize with her. She thought a lot of Charlie. Perhaps she can't find it in her heart to blame him seriously. Women are that way, you know. She used to overlook his wild conduct, I remember. Well, well! Perhaps we might as well not talk about it before her. She seems different to me—looks as if she were soured on everything and everybody. Now when I said just now that I was going to pay half the loss, instead of looking pleased I thought she half resented it."

"You must not blame her," William said, with drawn lips. "She has a lot to bear. She feels the—the disgrace of it on Ruth's account."

"We all feel the disgrace of it," the old man answered, "but women are more sensitive, imaginative, and high-strung than men."

"Celeste may have gone to see about your room," William said, just as the church-bells began ringing. He caught their tones and hoped that they would somehow interrupt a conversation which he felt he could no longer sustain. The old man was on his feet now, having risen at the departure of Celeste, and he began to stride back and forth across the room. He folded his hands and wrung them together. He muttered some words which William failed to catch, as he paused at a window, and then he came back.

"If it is hard for me, I presume it is even harder for you to bear," he said, aloud. "On the way over, as I sat in the sun in my steamer chair, with nothing else to think about, I often pictured you there at the bank with those associates. My reason tells me that they are sympathetic with you and must feel a certain regret for allowing you to pay back such a large amount; still, if I may be allowed to say so, you must feel awkward. You must meet big depositors who—well, who think perhaps that you ought to have had better judgment than not to have kept track of the boy's plunging. To have retained a dissipated young scamp like that in your employment was imprudent in itself, to say nothing of all the rest."

"They may blame me," William said, reluctantly. "I don't know how they feel, or how they talk together in private. I only know they still seem to have confidence in me and in my business judgment. God knows I am doing the best I can to run things straight, and I keep showing them the figures. They laugh at me for being so particular, and assure me that it is unnecessary, but I intend to keep it up."

"This is a hidebound, Puritan community," the old man responded, with a slow frown, "and I feel that you are against conditions at the bank that you don't yet fully realize. Bradford and the others are sly, long-headed business men, and they are not going to tell you all they think."

William stared, his mouth falling open, a heavy hand splaying over the cap of his knee. "I don't understand," he faltered. "What could they be keeping from me?"

"Well"—and the old man seemed to be probing his vocabulary for adroit words—"it may be like this. In a community of this kind there is perhaps a certain class of well-meaning people who have the—the old-fashioned idea that dishonesty runs in the blood of certain families. I remember that when I was younger I imbibed that idea from some source or other. It is silly, of course, but it may exist, and if there is any place that it would be apt to thrive it would be among a lot of nervous bank depositors and stockholders. Now that is one thing I have come to fight by my influence and with my money."

William's groping, even bewildered, stare showed that he did not understand what his uncle was driving at, and in a few halting words he managed to say so.

"Why, it is like this, my boy," the old man explained. "I know Bradford well, and several of your directors, and when I plank down my half of the missing money to-morrow I am going to take such a firm, fatherly stand behind you that—well, two of us fighting for the family honor will be a stronger force than one, that's all. I stand well here in Boston, I know that, and I am going to back you."

"I haven't really felt that I was in need of—" William was breaking in, but his uncle did not suffer him to finish.

"Well, you do need it," he said, sharply. "I can see it in your looks. You have lost weight. You look nervous. You have an agitated manner. You speak in jerks. This thing is killing you. Your mind may break under the strain. Yes, I'm going to hang about the bank. I'll transfer my chief deposit—and it happens to be a big one just now—from New York to your bank. I'll buy all the floating stock I can pick up. I'll be in the market for it at all times. Now—now what do you think of that?"

"It will help wonderfully," William declared, with faintly rising fervor which in a moment seemed to pass away, for Celeste was entering the room. She came in softly and resumed the chair she had left a few minutes before.

"Suppose you tell her what I am going to do," the old man said to his nephew. "It may brace her up, you know."

A helpless, bewildered expression filled the face of the younger man. He hesitated, licked his dry lips, and then wiped them with a handkerchief which he had kept tightly balled in his hand. "You can do it better than I," he managed to get out. "It is most kind, and—and thoughtful of you."

"It is nothing but an effort to defend the family honor," the old man began, and he repeated what he had just said to his nephew, and with some elaboration of details. "What do you think of that?" he ended, with a straight look into the face of the quiet listener.

"It is kind of you," she answered, coldly. "It will be a great help to my husband at the bank. By the way, between you two do you expect to do anything at all toward helping Charlie?"

"Help him! How can we?" the old man asked, with a startled glance at his nephew. "Do you mean, my dear, if we intend to help him escape pursuit?"

"If he has to escape, yes. What can he do alone, and out in the world as he is without friends or money?"

"Money? I guess he has plenty of that, from all accounts," and her uncle suppressed a mirthless smile. "Don't you think so, my dear?"

"I have an idea that he was almost penniless," Celeste answered, her eyes on the floor, her thin white hands clasped firmly in her lap.

"Have you any positive evidence of that?" the old man inquired.

But to his surprise, Celeste made no answer beyond saying:

"I have a strong feeling that he needs both friends and money."

"But," her uncle fired up impatiently, "how can we help him? Even if we could find him, and didn't let the authorities know, we would be aiding, abetting, and even concealing a lawbreaker. Oh no, my dear, the thing for us to do is to make it thoroughly known that we have cut him off, that we are ashamed of the relationship, and that we are honest, if he isn't."

Celeste shrugged her shoulders; an evanescent sneer curled her lip, but that was all. Presently she said: "Your room is ready. You must be tired and dusty. I'm sorry Michael is not here to wait on you, as he used to do."

As she spoke she rose, and, with stilted courtesy, so did the two men. The older man started up to his room, leaving Celeste and her husband face to face.

"That is a wonderful plan your uncle has," she said, coldly. "I presume it will work well in your behalf. Yes, they will be influenced at the bank by your uncle's money and backing. If they have ever blamed you for employing Charlie they won't any more."

"I am glad for Ruth's sake—and for yours," William added. "My affairs are in better shape now, anyway, and if I were to die—I assure you I don't feel very strong—you and the child would be fairly well provided for, along with the heavy life insurance I carry."

"I am not afraid that you will die soon," Celeste said, in a low, firm voice. "I have the feeling that you will be permitted to live long enough to straighten out everything in your life that should be attended to."

He took her arm, leading her toward the door. "I want you to know one thing—I want you to think of it constantly," he said, tremulously. "I mean it when I say that I'd rather die than bring trouble down on you and our little girl. In a situation like this there are some things that are worse than death. And you must remember that men sometimes take risks for the sake of those they love that they would not take for themselves."

The face of the little woman darkened rebelliously. She frowned and drew her arm from his fawning grasp. She started to speak, but choked up, and, lowering her head, she went up the stairs hurriedly as if to hide her rising emotion. Alone in her room, she stood listening to the ringing of the church-bells. She went to a window and looked out.