M R. KENYON returned from the South baffled in his enquiries about his wife. Henceforth his life was one unceasing anxiety. He had pretended that his wife was dead, and she might at any time return alive to the village. This would place him in a very disagreeable position. He might, indeed, say that she was insane, and that he had been compelled to place her in an asylum. But everybody would ask: "Why did you not say this before? Why report that your wife was dead?" and he would be unprepared with an answer.
Indeed, he feared that the discovery of his conduct would make him legally liable to an unpleasant extent.
We already know that he had employed Denton to dog the steps of Oliver and Bundy. All at once Denton ceased to communicate with him. For five days not a word had come to him from Chicago. He naturally felt disturbed.
"What has got into Denton? Why doesn't he write to me? Can he have betrayed me?"
This is what he said to himself one morning as he sat at his desk in the house which had once been his wife's.
"If I could only sell this place even at a sacrifice, I would go to Europe, taking Roland with me," he muttered. "Even as it is, perhaps it will be as well."
Mr. Kenyon looked at the morning paper, searching for the advertisement of the Cunard Line. "A steamer sails on Saturday," he read, "and it is now Tuesday. I will go to the city to-morrow and engage passage. In Europe I shall be safe. Then if my wife turns up I need not fear her."
At this point a servant—one recently engaged—came to the door of his room and informed him that a gentleman wished to see him.
"Do you know who it is?" he enquired.
"No, sir. I never saw him before."
"Bring him up, then; or, stay—is he in the parlor?"
"Yes, sir."
"I will see him there."
Mr. Kenyon came downstairs quite unprepared for the visitor who awaited him.
He started back when his glance fell on Oliver.
"Why do you come here?" he demanded with a frown.
"That is a strange question to ask, Mr. Kenyon. This is the house where I was born. It was built by my father. It ought to be mine."
"Indeed!" answered Kenyon, with a sneer.
"You know it as well as I do, sir."
"I know that the place is mine, and that you are an intruder."
"Upon what do you rest your claim, Mr. Kenyon?" asked our hero.
"Upon your mother's will, as you know very well."
"I don't believe that my mother would make a will depriving me of my rightful inheritance."
"I care very little what you believe. The will has been admitted to probate and is in force. I don't think it will do you any good to dispute it."
"Where did my mother die, Mr. Kenyon?" demanded Oliver, looking fixedly at his step-father.
"Can he have met his mother?" thought Kenyon, momentarily disturbed. But he inwardly decided in the negative. Of course they might meet some day, but then he would be in Europe and out of harm's reach.
"You know very well where she died."
"Do you object to tell me?"
"I object to answering foolish questions. What is your motive in reviving this melancholy subject?"
"I want to ask you to have my mother's remains brought to this town and laid beside the body of my father in our family tomb."
"He is still in the dark!" thought Mr. Kenyon.
"Impossible!" he answered.
"That's true enough," thought Oliver.
"Have you any other business?" asked his step-father.
"I wish you to give me a fair portion of the property which my mother left."
Mr. Kenyon smiled disagreeably. He felt his power.
"Really, your request is very modest," he answered, "but it can't be complied with."
"Mr. Kenyon, do you think it right to deprive me of all share in my father's property?"
"You have forfeited it by your misconduct," said his step-father decisively.
Just then the door opened, and Roland entered.
"Has he come back?" he demanded disagreeably.
"He has favored us with a call, Roland," said Mr. Kenyon. "He thought we might be glad to see him."
"I wonder he has the face to show himself in this house," said Roland.
"Why?" asked Oliver.
"Oh, you know why well enough. You are a common thief."
"Roland Kenyon, you will see the time when you will regret that insult, and that very soon," said Oliver, with honest indignation.
"Oh, shall I? I'm not afraid of you," retorted Roland.
"I permit no threats here," said Mr. Kenyon angrily.
"He is safe for the present," said Oliver.
"Thank you for nothing," said Roland. "Father, how long are you going to let him stay in the house?"
"That is not for your father to say, Roland," said Oliver coolly.
"What do you mean, you young reprobate?" demanded the step-father angrily. "If you have come here to make a disturbance, you have come to the wrong place, and selected the wrong man. Will you oblige me by leaving the house?"
Oliver sat near the window. He saw, though neither of the others did, that a carriage stood at the gate, and that Nicholas Bundy and a New York lawyer were descending from it. The time had now come for a change of tone.
"Mr. Kenyon," he said, "My answer is briefly that this house is not yours. I have a better right here than you."
"This insolence is a little too much!" exclaimed his step-father, pale with passion. "Leave this house instantly or I will have you put out!"
Before there could be an answer the bell rang. Mr. Kenyon put a restraint on himself.
"Go out at once," he said, "I have other visitors who require my attention."
The door opened, and the lawyer and Mr. Bundy were admitted. To Mr. Kenyon's surprise both nodded to Oliver. It was revealed to him that they were his friends.
"Gentlemen," he said, with less courtesy than he would otherwise have shown, "I do not know you. I am occupied, and cannot spare you any time this morning."
"We cannot excuse you, Mr. Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy. "We come here as the friends of this boy, your step-son. My companion is Mr. Brief, a lawyer, and my name is Bundy—Nicholas Bundy."
Mr. Kenyon winced at this name.
"I don't understand you," he said. "We have no business together. I must request you to excuse me."
"Plain words are best," said the lawyer. "Mr. Kenyon, I am authorized to demand your instant relinquishment of the property and estates of the late Mr. Conrad."
"In whose favor?" asked Mr. Kenyon, whose manner betrayed agitation.
"In favor of Oliver Conrad and his mother."
"His mother is dead!" said Kenyon nervously; "and by her will the property is mine."
"The will is a forgery."
"Take care what you say, sir. I require you to prove it."
"I shall prove it by Mrs. Conrad herself."
As he spoke, Mrs. Conrad, who had been in the carriage, entered the room. She never spoke to her husband, but sat down quietly, while Roland stared at her, open-mouthed, as at one from the grave.
"Father," he exclaimed, "didn't you tell me she was dead?"
"She never died, but was incarcerated by your father in an insane asylum, while he forged a will bequeathing him the property," said the lawyer. "Well, Mr. Kenyon, what have you to say?"
"Gentlemen, the game is up," said Kenyon sullenly. "I played for high stakes, and have lost. That's all."
"You have placed yourself in the power of the wife you have wronged. You could be indicted for forgery and conspiracy. Do you admit that?"
"I suppose I must."
"What have you to say why we should not so proceed?"
"Spare me, and I will go away and trouble you no more."
"First, you must render an account of the property in your possession, and make an absolute surrender of it all."
"Would you leave me a beggar?" asked Kenyon, in a tone of anguish.
"If so, we should only treat you as you treated your step-son. But my client is merciful. She is willing to allow you and your son an annuity of five hundred dollars each, on condition that you leave this neighborhood and do not return to it."
"It is small, but I accept," said Mr. Kenyon sullenly.
"For your own good, I advise you to go to-day, before your treatment of your wife becomes known in the village," said Mr. Brief. "Call at my office in the city, and business arrangements can be made there."
"I am willing," said Kenyon.
"Wait a minute, Kenyon," said Nicholas Bundy, "I've got a word of advice. Don't go to Kelso, in Indiana."
"Why not?" asked Kenyon mechanically.
"Because you look so much like a certain Rupert Jones, who once flourished and forged there, that there might be trouble. I used to know Rupert Jones myself, and he did me an injury. You remember that. I have wanted to be revenged for years, but I am satisfied now. Once you were up and I was down. Now it's the other way. I am rich, and when I die, that boy"—pointing to Oliver—"is my heir."
Roland looked as if a thunderbolt had fallen. He had never been aware of his father's perfidy before. He had himself acted meanly, but at that moment Oliver pitied him.
"Roland," said he, "I once thought I should enjoy this moment, but I don't. I wish you good luck. Will you take my hand?"
Roland's thin lips compressed. He hesitated, but hate prevailed.
"No," he answered. "I won't take your hand. I hate you!"
"I am sorry for it," said Oliver. "I am glad you won't be unprovided for, and won't suffer. If ever you feel differently, come to me."
Mr. Kenyon and Roland left the house together, and took the first train for the city. They called at the office of Mr. Brief, and the final arrangements were concluded. Oliver and his mother came back to their own, and Nicholas Bundy came to live with them. Oliver concluded his preparations for college, where in due time he graduated.
Three years later Mr. Kenyon died, by a strange coincidence, in an insane asylum. Then Roland, chastened by suffering and privation, for his father had squandered their joint allowance on drink, and many times he had fasted for twenty-four hours together, came back to his old home, and sought a reconciliation with those he had once hated. He was generously received, a mercantile position was found for him, his old allowance was doubled, and he grew to like Oliver as much as he had once detested him.
If Mrs. Conrad is ever married again it will be to Mr. Bundy, who is her devoted admirer. Oliver has decided to become a lawyer. If he carries out his purpose, he will always be ready to champion the cause of the poor and the oppressed. He is engaged to Carrie Dudley, and the wedding will take place immediately after he is admitted to the bar. The clouds are dispersed, and henceforth, we may hope, his pathway will be lighted by sunshine to
THE END.