Ralph Raymond's Heir

"Now," said the Major, "how does it happen that you are traveling alone, and almost friendless in this region? I confess it surprises me. I cannot understand why your guardian should allow it."

"It is a strange story," said Robert. "I do not understand it myself."

Therefore he gave an account of the manner in which he had been consigned to the care of James Cromwell, and the events that followed, his auditor listening with strong interest.

"So he intrusted you to the charge of a druggist! That is certainly strange. He removed you from your school, and sent you to an inferior school in a Western village. There is something remarkable about this."

When Robert gave an account of James Cromwell's attempt to put him out of the way, Major Woodley's eyes flashed, and Edith, placing her hand on Robert's arm, said, "What a horrid, wicked man he must have been!"

"I sometimes think he is not in his right mind," said Robert. "What do you think, sir?" he continued, appealing to the Major.

"I am not so charitable," said the Major. "I think he was quite aware of what he was doing and that he had a motive in what he did."

"What motive could he have had, sir?"

"I will keep that to myself at present. I have my suspicions, but they may be groundless."

In fact Major Woodley suspected that Cromwell was acting under instructions from Paul Morton, of whom he had a bad opinion, and he determined to satisfy himself on this point when they reached New York. But he felt that it would not be of any service to impart this to Robert until he should have ascertained definitely.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE GHOST IN NO. 41

After waiting two days, during which no tidings were received of Robert, James Cromwell determined to go to New York. He had hoped that the body might be found in order that he might carry with him the proof that would entitle him to the reward of ten thousand dollars. But he did not venture to suggest that the pond should be dragged, lest it might appear that he was too well informed about the matter.

He announced his determination to Mr. Manton and Clara the evening previous. He thought it politic to assign a double motive for his departure.

"You may remember," he said, "that I referred to a relative in delicate health from whom I expected a legacy."

"Yes," said Mr. Manton.

"I have received intelligence that he is very low and wishes to see me. So, although it will be inconvenient for me to leave my business, I find it necessary to go."

"Perhaps you may be rewarded for going," suggested Mr. Manton.

"Yes, I have no reason to doubt that I shall be well remembered in my relative's will. I think that when I return there will be nothing to prevent my complying with the conditions you named, and that I may be able to claim your daughter's hand."

"Perhaps I may change my mind," said Clara, energetically; but she saw fit to devote herself to her suitor through the entire evening, displaying an affability and assumed interest which quite captivated him. The thoughts of her favor even drove away the memories of the dark deed which, as he fully believed, had consigned to a watery grave the boy who had been committed to his charge.

"There seems some chance of his story proving true," said Mr. Manton, when the two were alone.

"Yes, it may be. On that chance I've been trying to make myself agreeable to-night. He evidently thinks I'm dead in love with him. As if anybody could fancy such a stupid lout. I declare I wish it was somebody else who was going to get the money. The exertions I've made have quite wearied me," and fair Clara yawned excessively.

"If you think you can't like him, it is not too late to withdraw," said the father, who had a little more heart than his daughter.

"Oh, as to that, it isn't of much consequence," said Clara. "I haven't got much sentiment, and if he can show the cash, I'll marry him."

"I presume you won't throw away your fascinations upon him after marriage," said her father.

"You may be sure of that. He'll soon have a realizing sense of my motives in marrying him."

"Suppose he resents it, and treats you badly?" suggested Mr. Manton, with a little paternal solicitude.

"I can protect myself," said Clara, with nonchalance. "He's a weak fool and I can twist him round my finger."

"He may not be as manageable as you think, Clara."

"Oh, I know him thoroughly. He hasn't much spirit. I should be ashamed if I could not manage him."

"You remember Catharine in 'Taming the Shrew'?"

"Very polite, upon my word, to compare me to a shrew. Yes, I remember her; but I shall have a different man to deal with from Petruchio. You needn't trouble yourself about me. I know what I'm about."

"Well, it's your own affair," said Mr. Manton, philosophically. "We shall know in a short time whether I am to welcome a son-in-law."

"Or whether your daughter is to remain a while longer 'an impatient rose on the ancestral tree.'"

"And use her thorns on her father instead of a husband," supplemented Mr. Manton.

"But you are getting bright in your old age, papa. Be careful or the rose may show its thorns."

The conversation just recorded indicates the pleasant prospect which James Cromwell had of domestic happiness in case his wishes were gratified, and he gained the hand of the young lady. But he had no conception of her real disposition, or he might have hesitated to go farther. She had tact enough to veil her faults from the scrutiny of her lover, and present to him only an amiable and agreeable side.

In the morning, James Cromwell started for New York, going by Wheeling. It so chanced that he arrived in the evening at the same hotel where Robert and Major Woodley had rooms. He was fatigued by his long journey, and retired at nine o'clock, or soon after his arrival. He did not think to look over the books of the hotel, or he might have made the discovery that Robert was still alive, and that his journey was likely to prove fruitless. Neither did he meet Major Woodley or Robert, for they were sitting together in the major's room until half-past ten, chatting cosily.

But James Cromwell was destined to meet with an adventure, which tormented his soul with guilty fear, and gave him a great shock.

It chanced that the room assigned to him was No. 41. The room occupied by Robert was No. 43, just beyond in the same corridor.

As has been said, Cromwell retired to bed at half-past nine; but, though fatigued, he was unable to go to sleep—he was haunted by the thoughts of the pond and the body that lay beneath, deprived of life through his most wicked agency, and as he lay he became nervous and restless, and not even his physical fatigue could induce the coveted slumber to visit him.

When Robert, coming from the room of Major Woodley, sought his own room, he could not at first remember whether it was No. 41 or 43. He had the impression that it was No. 41 that had been assigned him. He accordingly opened the door of the room and stood just within the door.

At the sound of the opening door James Cromwell rose in bed, and gazed with horror at the face and figure of the boy whom he supposed that he had murdered. The moonlight entering through the windows fell upon Robert's face and gave it a ghastly look, or at least seemed to do so to the excited imagination of the guilty Cromwell. He gazed spell-bound, and cowering with fear at the apparition, with difficulty ejaculated:

"Who are you?"

Of course Robert recognized Cromwell and he at once guessed the truth, that he was going to New York to give his own version of his disappearance to his uncle. He saw at once that he was mistaken for a ghost, and the desire seized him to carry out this deception. Certainly, if one were justifiable in frightening another by exciting his superstitious fears Robert was justified in terrifying the man who had so basely sought his life.

When, therefore, with faltering lips, James Cromwell put the question, "Who are you?" Robert answered in a low, guttural voice:

"I am the spirit of the boy you murdered!" As he uttered the words, he waved one hand aloft, and made a step forward toward the bed.

Excited to the wildest pitch, Cromwell trembled convulsively, then opened his lips to utter a piercing shriek, and flinging the bed-clothes over his head, cowered beneath them in craven terror.

Robert thought this a good chance to make his exit. He noiselessly retreated, closing the door behind him, and entered his own room before the servants, aroused by Cromwell's shriek, could reach the door of his apartment.

"What's the matter here?" demanded a waiter, opening the door of No. 41.

The only answer was a groan from beneath the bed-clothes.

"What's the matter, I say?" he repeated, rather sharply.

The voice was so decidedly earthly that James Cromwell, somewhat relieved of his fear, removed the clothes from his head, and looked up.

"I—I don't know," he said, "I think I had the night-mare."

"Well," uttered the servant, "I hope you won't have it again. You'll wake up all that are asleep, and make them think that somebody is being murdered."

James Cromwell recoiled at the last word, and he said, hastily, for he feared a return of the supposed spirit:

"My friend, if you'll come in here and stop till I've gone to sleep, I'll pay you for your trouble. I'm afraid of having the night-mare again."

"Can't do it; I haven't got the time. Besides, what's the use? You won't have the night-mare when you're awake."

He shut the door, and James Cromwell lay for a long time in a state of nervous terror, trying to go to sleep, but unable to do so. At last, from sheer fatigue, he fell into a troubled slumber, which was disturbed by terrifying dreams.

He woke, at an early hour unrefreshed, and going below ordered a breakfast which he did not relish.

Thence he went to the depot and took the early morning train bound eastward. He was already speeding on his way rapidly before Robert Raymond arose. The door of No. 41 was open, and he looked in. But the occupant had disappeared. Going to the office he saw the name of James Cromwell on the books of the hotel, and learned from the clerk that he had already gone.

"He's a queer chap," said the clerk; "he had a terrible night-mare last night, and shrieked loud enough to take the roof off. You must have heard him, as your room adjoined his!"

"Yes, I heard him," said Robert, but he said no more.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A STARTLING APPEARANCE

Paul Morton was sitting in his library, carelessly scanning the daily paper. He no longer wore the troubled expression of a few weeks before. He had succeeded in weathering the storm that threatened his business prospects by the timely aid afforded by a portion of his ward's property, and now his affairs were proceeding prosperously.

It may be asked how with such a crime upon his soul he could experience any degree of comfort or satisfaction. But this is a problem we cannot explain. Probably his soul was so blunted to all the best feelings of our common nature that he was effected only by that which selfishly affected his own interest.

"At last I am in a secure position," he said to himself. "Then the opportune death of my ward, of which I am advised by Cromwell, gives me his large estate. With this to fall back upon, and my business righted, I do not see why I should not look forward in a few years to half-a-million."

He was indulging in these satisfactory reflections when the door opened, and a servant entered.

"A gentleman to see you," she said.

"Who is it?" asked Mr. Morton.

"I think it is the same one that called several times about the time of Mr. Raymond's funeral."

"Cromwell!" repeated Mr. Morton. "Show him up," he said.

A moment afterward James Cromwell entered the room.

The two looked at each other with a kind of guilty intelligence. Each saw in the other a murderer. One had put to death his intimate friend, for the sake of his money. The other had sent to death (so both supposed) an innocent boy, confided to his charge, and his crime, too, was instigated by the same sordid motive.

"Well," said Paul Morton, slowly.

"Did you receive a letter from me a day or two since?" asked James Cromwell.

"Yes."

"About the boy?"

"Yes, but I did not quite understand it. You wrote that he had disappeared. Has he returned to you?"

"No," said Cromwell.

"How do you account for his disappearance?" asked Paul Morton.

"I think he must have gone out in a boat on the pond and got drowned," said Cromwell.

"Has the body been found?" questioned the merchant.

"Not yet."

"Was not the pond searched, then?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that he was drowned there?"

James Cromwell moved uneasily in his chair. It was not a pleasant question for him to answer.

"I cannot, of course, say positively," he stammered, "but I have every reason to feel satisfied that the boy is dead."

"And yet, come away from Madison without ascertaining definitely."

"I thought there was no need," said Cromwell.

"No need! Do you think I am willing to remain in uncertainty as to whether or not my ward is dead? What faith am I to put in your statement since it appears that you have no satisfactory evidence to offer?"

James Cromwell began to perceive his mistake. He saw that he ought to have had the pond dragged, and personally superintended the funeral ceremonies of his victim, in order that he might have brought to the merchant the most indubitable proof of the reality of his death.

"Why need he be so particular?" he thought. Then, with a suspicious feeling, he began to think that Mr. Morton was making all this unnecessary trouble in order to evade the payment of the sum which he had promised him. This thought irritated him, and to satisfy himself whether his suspicions were correct, he determined to broach the subject at once.

"I need not remind you," he said, "of the promise you made me in case the boy should not live."

"To what promise do you refer?" demanded Paul Morton.

"You promised me the sum of ten thousand dollars as a reward for my care of your ward."

"It would be a handsome reward for a few weeks' care," said the merchant, sneering.

"I can't help that," said Cromwell, angrily. "Handsome or not, it is what you promised me. Do you mean to say you did not?" he added, defiantly.

"Softly, my friend. I have said nothing of the sort. But you will do me the favor to remember that it was only to be given in case the boy died."

"Well, he is dead."

"How am I to know that?"

"Because I say so."

"You only say you think he is dead. You bring me no proof. When I ask you how you can know it positively, you offer me no explanation."

"I saw his ghost Thursday night," said James Cromwell, shuddering.

"His ghost! What ridiculous nonsense is this?" demanded the merchant.

"I saw his ghost as plain as I see you," said Cromwell, in a subdued voice.

"And where was it that this precious apparition came to you?" asked Mr. Morton, with contempt.

"It was in a hotel at Wheeling," said James Cromwell. "I was lying awake when the door of my chamber suddenly opened, and his person entered."

"Did he speak?" asked Paul Morton, impressed in spite of himself, by the tone of conviction with which the other spoke.

"Yes," said Cromwell.

"What did he say?"

"I—cannot tell," he said, with a shudder.

"Pooh, man! you had a night-mare, nothing more and nothing less," said the merchant. "You must be crazy if you expect me to believe that the boy is dead on any such absurd testimony as this. I dare say you had eaten a heavy dinner, or perhaps drank too much, and so the supposed ghost was only the offspring of your own distempered fancy, and that proceeded from a disordered stomach."

James Cromwell shook his head.

"You are wrong," he said. "I was as wide awake as I am now."

"Well, that is your affair—if you choose to believe in the reality of this visitation, well and good. That is nothing to me. But if you want me to credit the story of the boy's death, you must bring a certified statement from the coroner in your town—Madison is the name, I believe—then there will be no room for doubt."

"To do that, I shall be obliged to return to the West," said Cromwell, disconcerted.

"Then you have only yourself to blame for the extra trouble you are obliged to take. You ought not to have come away at all until you could bring with you satisfactory evidence of the boy's death."

James Cromwell looked down in dismay. This did not suit his views at all. Besides, he saw that it would be awkward to go back, and institute such proceedings so late. But Paul Morton evidently meant to keep him to it.

"Perhaps it would have been better," he said, at last.

"Of course it would. You can see for yourself that until I have satisfactory proof of my ward's decease I cannot take possession of the property, nor of course can I give you any portion of it while I am not sure whether it is mine to give. I should think that was plain enough."

It was plain enough. James Cromwell saw that now, and he was provoked at his mistake.

"Then," he said, disappointed, "I suppose I must go back."

"No, that will not be necessary. You can telegraph to some person to institute a search of the pond, if you have reason to think the body will be found there, and request information to be sent at once of any discovery that may be made."

"I will do so," said Cromwell, relieved.

While they were speaking, the doorbell had rung, though neither had heard it, and Major Woodley, instructing the servant to usher him in without previous announcement, entered the presence of the guilty employer and his equally guilty confederate; close behind him followed Robert Raymond.

At the sight of him Cromwell staggered to his feet, and gazed upon him with distended eyes, and Paul Morton sat as if rooted to the chair.

It was an effective tableau.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CONCLUSION

The merchant was the first to recover his self-possession.

"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir," he said to Major Woodley.

"My name is Woodley," said the latter. "I was a friend of this boy's father," and he laid his hand on the shoulder of Robert.

"May I ask how you fell in with him? I confess I am puzzled at his unexpected appearance, having just received intelligence from this person (indicating Cromwell) that he had disappeared."

"May I ask, as his father's friend, why you should have committed Robert to the care of a man, who is, to say the least, wholly unfitted by education or experience, to have the charge of him?"

"I do not choose to be called to account," said Mr. Morton, haughtily. "His father made me his guardian, and confided in my judgment."

"Then, sir, you should have shown yourself worthy of the confidence he reposed in you," said Major Woodley.

"Sir, you assume an extraordinary tone," said Paul Morton, angrily.

"Are you aware of the manner in which the boy has been treated by the person to whom you committed him?"

"Yes, I presume so. You perhaps have credited the boy's story, which probably is wholly unreliable. Of course, I don't know what he has told you."

"Then, sir, I have to inform you that it is only by a miracle that the boy stands here to-day in health. This wretch made two distinct attempts to murder him!" and he pointed his finger at James Cromwell.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Paul Morton, nervously.

"It is not only possible, but true. On the first occasion he attempted to hurl him over Niagara Falls, but the boy's quick grasp saved him from the fearful fate."

"I cannot believe this," muttered Mr. Morton.

"On the second occasion he seized him unawares while both were in a boat on a pond, and threw him into the water to drown. Fortunately, he was rescued by one who witnessed the attempt."

"These are fables," said Paul Morton. "The boy has grossly deceived you."

"We can send for evidence, if necessary," said Major Woodley, coolly, "but that will hardly be necessary. If you look at that man's face, you will read upon it the proof that the story is no invention, and is the literal truth."

He pointed to Cromwell, who was livid with terror, and stricken with the confusion of conscious guilt. He staggered to his feet, and in his wild terror attempted to rush out of the apartment.

In this he was unsuccessful. Woodley coolly stepped in front of him, and said, "Not so fast, Mr. Cromwell. We cannot dispense with you yet."

Cromwell glanced at the stalwart figure of the Major, and saw that resistance would be useless. Hoping to make better terms for himself, he said, "Promise not to harm me, and I will tell you all."

"Are you mad?" said Paul Morton, sharply, filled with terror lest his confederate should betray him. "Do you never plead guilty to this atrocious charge!"

"Why should he not, if he is guilty?" demanded Major Woodley. "It appears that you desire to shield him."

Paul Morton saw his imprudence, and determined to adopt a different course.

"If he is guilty, I do not wish to shield him. But I thought you meant to terrify him into confessing what was not true."

"There is no need of that. We can prove the charge on the testimony of the boy, and the man who witnessed the attempt to drown him. I will not engage to screen him from punishment, but if he confesses it, he will stand a better chance of mercy."

"Then," said Cromwell, clutching at this promise, "I will tell you all. I did try to drown the boy."

"And what could have been your motive for such a dastardly deed?"

"Mr. Morton promised me ten thousand dollars when the boy was dead."

"It's a lie!" ejaculated Paul Morton, hoarsely. "He has told an atrocious falsehood!"

But, though he spoke thus, his face became livid and the truth was patent in his look.

"Can this be true?" demanded Major Woodley, shocked and startled, "What motive could Mr. Morton have for conniving at such a crime? How would the boy's death benefit him?"

"Read his father's will, and you will know," said Cromwell. "At the boy's death the whole property goes to Mr. Morton."

"Is this true, Mr. Morton?" said Major Woodley, sternly.

"So much is true, but the other is a base lie," said the merchant.

"I could wish it were so. What evidence can you give of the truth of your statement? Have you the offer in writing?"

"No, he was too careful to write it, but he hinted at it in terms which only I could understand."

"He is a miserable liar," said the merchant.

"I can hardly believe him capable of such atrocity."

"You cannot?" said Cromwell, glancing at Paul Morton, spitefully. "Then I will tell you what he is capable of. I accuse him of poisoning the boy's father."

"Good heavens! are you mad?" exclaimed Major Woodley, starting.

"I am perfectly aware of what I am saying, and I can prove it. He bought the poison of me, at a time when I was employed in a drug store on the Bowery. It was a slow poison which accomplished its work without leaving any perceptible traces."

Robert listened to the revelations with pale face, horror-stricken, and for a moment no word was spoken.

"Mr. Morton," said Major Woodley, "this is an extraordinary charge, which, whether you are innocent or guilty, must be investigated. I brought a policeman here with the view of arresting this man Cromwell, but I feel it is my duty to direct your arrest also." As he spoke, he opened the door communicating with the hall, and a policeman entered.

"Arrest these two men," he said.

Paul Morton's face wore the look of one brought to bay, and he exclaimed, "Never will I submit to the indignity. Here is one means of escape."

He pulled a drawer beside him open, and drew forth a revolver.

"I must die," he said, "but I will not die alone."

As he spoke he pointed the revolver at Cromwell, and there was a sharp report.

The unhappy druggist bounded from his chair with a shrill cry, then sank lifeless on the carpet, the life-blood welling from his heart.

There was a cry of horror from all who witnessed the tragic scene.

Major Woodley sprang forward to seize the revolver, but too late. Paul Morton turned it, and pressing it to his forehead, drew the trigger.