Читать книгу A Broken Memory - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Gladys laid the letter on one side for the moment and drew a long, deep breath of thankfulness. She knew instinctively that she had not yet reached the dramatic climax of the letter, but she had read enough to see that her dead brother had not wilfully fallen away from grace for the second time. At any rate, if he had, it was more for the sake of friendship than anything else, and he had nothing to gain by it.

She picked up the letter and resumed.

"And now comes the cruel part of the story. I, of course, was under the impression that Wilfred had gone to his stockbroker friend and drawn the money in advance. But, as a matter of fact he had anticipated things and taken the necessary cash from the coffers of the bank. He had done this being absolutely convinced that in a couple of days he would have been enabled to make good. But it is always in circumstances like these that fate chooses to play a spiteful part. The broker in question was waylaid coming home from his club late at night by gang of hooligans who treated him so cruelly that, when the police arrived on the scene, the unfortunate man was dead. Needless to say the money that Wilfred had expected, and which he had every intention of replacing in the bank drawer, did not arrive till many days after, with the inevitable consequences for poor old Wilfred. I could not raise a cent from anybody, and the only man who could have helped us had gone suddenly up country on a short shooting expedition. If Patrick French had remained in Cape Town, I should never have had occasion to write this letter."

Gladys frowned as she read this, and her lips curled scornfully. She could not see the man who had more or less led Wilfred to his death putting himself out a single inch to save the boy's good name. Then she went on with the letter.

"Well, there we were, both of us at our wits' end, not knowing what to do, and, whatever the world may say or Puritans may think I shall always maintain that Wilfred did a fine thing when he went to his bank manager and made a clean breast of it. And I am quite sure that the manager sympathised with him, more especially as the money was repaid within a month.

"But what could the manager do? In the eyes of the directors, Wilfred had been guilty of a serious crime, and, I suppose, from a banking point of view it really was a serious crime. There was no prosecution, because the money was voluntarily returned, but poor old Wilfred was dismissed, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

"He didn't even give me a chance to reproach myself, he never came near me, and the next thing I heard was that he had gone up country, together with French and Bland, with a view to finding those new diamond and ruby mines and making everybody's fortunes. The pity of it is that I had not an opportunity of warning either Wilfred or French as to the true character of the man with whom they were dealing. If I had, that expedition would never have taken place. As it is, I am compelled to regard myself more or less as the man who murdered your brother.

"I make no excuses, because, in a case like this excuses are puerile. I don't ask you to forgive me because you never will, and I don't ask you to see me because that would be too painful to both of us. But I have had to force myself to write this letter out of justice to the memory of poor old Wilfred. I want you to know that he had no criminal intent and that he sacrificed himself on the altar of friendship.

Yours sincerely,

Gerald Lewis."

There were tears in Gladys' eyes as she laid down the letter. It was good to know, at any rate, that Wilfred had erred out of mistaken chivalry and with a desire to save the reputation of a friend. She liked to feel that he had been doing his best to repair the past, and that, but for an unexpected tragedy, he would have made good in his new sphere. And, in a way, she felt rather proud of him. She would have liked to have told the world all this, but there were reasons why she was compelled to keep it to herself. Then, with a lighter heart, she tore open the envelope of the other letter. It was more curt and business-like and signed by the manager of the bank in Cape Town where Wilfred had been employed during the last two years. In effect, it merely confirmed what Gerald Lewis had said, with a few expressions of personal regret. Thus:—

"Dear Madam.—I duly received your cablegram and replied as requested on the prepaid form. You will be glad to know that things were not so bad where your brother was concerned as might have appeared from my necessarily curt message in response to your inquiry. Personally speaking, if my directors had responded to certain suggestions I made, your brother would still be in the service of the bank. That his action was exceedingly wrong, not to say criminal, I do not attempt to disguise. But there were extenuating circumstances of an unusual nature and I think that it is my duty to disclose them.

"Your brother borrowed the sum of a hundred pounds from the bank without saying anything to me or asking anybody's permission. In fact, the law would say he stole it. This, of course, he did, but he had every reason to expect that he could pay it back within a day or two, and the money was necessary to preserve the good name of a friend. Unfortunately, through unforeseen circumstances into which I need not enter, the sum in question was not available by the expected date, which meant that within a few hours your brother's defalcation would have been inevitably discovered.

"Whereupon he acted very promptly, and, I think, very bravely. He came to me and made a full confession. Of course, I could not overlook so serious a matter and, consequently, I placed it before my directors. At my earnest solicitation, they abstained from prosecution, but naturally, they refused to retain your brother's services in the bank. He was accordingly discharged and, I regret to learn since then, that he lost his life somewhere in Upper Rhodesia. Assuring you of all my deepest sympathy.—

Yours faithfully,

Peter Haggit."

And so that was the end of it Gladys thought sadly. She would never see Wilfred again, but she would treasure his memory as that of one who was more sinned against than sinning. In her heart of hearts she knew that she had expected something much worse than this, some disgraceful episode that would linger in her mind to the end of her days. And yet, curiously enough, all the deep bitterness in her heart was against the man called Patrick French. She knew that this was absolutely illogical, but in a way she identified him with the rascal Bland and placed him in exactly the same category. She would make inquiries as to French, and if ever fate gave her the opportunity of meeting him face to face, she would know what to say.

Then she dismissed the whole thing. Well, thank heaven, she had her work to do, and her garden to attend to. There was no occasion, now, to call in the aid of friends, or to tell anyone the story which she regarded as sacred. With a much lighter heart she went about her duties, followed by Marta, who had not failed to notice the postmarks on the two letters.

"And is there any news, Miss Gladys?" the old woman asked.

"Indeed, yes," Gladys smiled. "I don't want to talk about it, Marta, but I know, now, what happened to poor Mr. Wilfred, and how well he behaved. Some of these days I will tell you all about it, but I really cannot bear to speak now. You go back to your work and leave me to mine."

Gladys finished the set of drawings she was making and dropped them in the letter box of the village post office. Then she came back to her tea, and, after that, sat in the porch in the fading sunshine of an early April day, trying to interest herself in the latest novel she had obtained from the library at Marwich. But it seemed rather a dull story after the living drama of the morning, so that she threw it aside and busied herself presently with a patch of late daffodils which were not coming on quite as quickly as she had hoped. It was practically dark before she had finished this task and she stood there just for a moment or two in the scented, violet night, whilst Marta was getting the supper inside.

It was a very still evening with the promise of a fine day on the morrow, so still indeed that every sound from far off carried to her ears. At the end of the garden, facing the road, she could just make out the dim outline of a row of elms bordering the road that led to the village. The peacefulness and silence were very soothing and Gladys was quite reluctant to turn away from it when, suddenly, the sound of voices broke on her ear. She heard the echo of two sets of footsteps, one slow and plodding, the other swift as if the owner were running in pursuit of some object in front. Then a voice cried out as if in pain. The voice was followed by heavy breathing, as if two people were engaged in a struggle.

"Here, what the devil——" one voice cried.

The words trailed off into nothing, and it seemed to Gladys as if the speaker had come heavily to the ground. Followed other heavy footsteps and, almost directly afterwards lighter footsteps moving with great rapidity and dying away in the distance. Gladys pushed her way out into the lane.

A man lay there with another standing over him. The upright figure Gladys could just recognise.

"What's wrong here, Walton?" she demanded.

The village blacksmith, for he it was looked up.

"I dunno, miss," he said breathlessly. "But if I ain't greatly mistaken, Miss Brooke, it's a case of murder. Would you mind bringing a light?"