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Shadows of a
Great City
A ROMANTIC STORY FOUNDED UPON
L. R. SHEWELL’S PLAY OF THE SAME NAME
By GRACE MILLER WHITE
[“She Must Never Leave This Place Alive!”]
The Shadows of a Great City.
A ROMANTIC STORY
Founded Upon L. R. Shewell’s Famous Play of
the Same Name.
BY
GRACE MILLER WHITE,
Author of “Driven From Home,” “Joe Welch the Peddler,”
“No Wedding Bells for Her,” “Sky Farm,” “A Midnight
Marriage,” “Souvenir Book of ‘Way Down East’,”
“Why Women Sin,” “Human Hearts,” “A
Ragged Hero,” “From Rags to Riches,”
Etc., Etc.
Copyright, 1904, by
J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.
All Rights Reserved by C. B. Jefferson.
New York:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 Rose Street.
SHADOWS OF A GREAT CITY
CHAPTER I.
Three children were hopping among the daisies in a beautiful grove near a stone mansion covered with ivy. Their happy shouts and merry laughter filled the air until the birds in the branches twittered back from very happiness.
Two boys and one little girl made up the number, and the girl was clapping her hands wildly, watching the boys as they wrestled in the grass.
The larger of them brought the other down upon his face and made him admit that the match was over.
“I had you foul when I wound my leg about yours,” explained he. “You cannot expect to down a big fellow like me,” and the boy straightened himself with a chuckle.
The girl ceased her laughing and came forward.
“Well, I don’t care, George Benson; Tom’s as good as you are any day. That’s what he is.”
“Nobody said he wasn’t,” contemptuously replied the lad, “but he can’t fight.”
Tom was watching George out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine whether it would be well to go at it again, when the girl spoke:
“Never you mind, Tommy; you come with me, and I’ll ask papa for twenty-five cents, and then we will go to the candy store.”
The boy addressed as George Benson followed Tom and the girl.
“You needn’t be a tight-wad,” exclaimed he; “stingy, stingy, stingy.”
“She ain’t stingy, George,” snapped Tom, “and if you say she is stingy again, I’ll knuckle your pate.”
“Stingy cat Annie, stingy cat Annie,” shouted George loudly. “There now, here’s my head, you knuckle it if you dare!”
With a bound Tom was up on the back of George and was rubbing the curly head with a vengeance. Back and forth they tottered upon the lawn until the girl shouted:
“There, that’s enough now, Tom; just you show him that you can lick him. Now, Mr. George, if you’ll be good, you can go to the candy store with us.”
“Don’t want none of your old candy,” sulkily replied the other. “I wouldn’t eat it fer nothing, and I’ll get even with you, Mr. Tom, for knuckling my pate.”
“Come on now and get even,” exclaimed Tom; “you ain’t the only plug in the world.”
But George did not seem anxious to get even, and he sent a stone flying after Annie Benson and Tom Cooper.
“George can be so mean when he wants to be,” sighed the girl.
“So he can. Now, why didn’t he come to the store after the fight? He had no right to call you stingy.”
“No, for I always give him half of what I have, after he spends his allowance that father gives him.”
They were silent for a few moments, and then the girl continued:
“I sometimes think that George is jealous of you and me, and he ought not to be, for father does as much for him as for any one else, and I am papa’s own child.”
“Of course you are, Annie, while I am only a little boy Mr. Benson was so good to. Never mind, when I get big I’m going to marry you.”
“Oh, you can’t, Tom,” replied Annie, “for I am four years older than you are. You would not want to have your wife boss you, would you, Tom, and I would have to if I was older than you.”
“Oh, not always. I read in a book once,” proceeded Tom earnestly, “about a man and a woman, and she was ten years older than her husband, and they were very happy.”
“Were they, really? I never heard of such a thing. I thought the husbands had to be at least twenty years older than the wife.”
“Pshaw, no, and I’m going to have you for my wife.”
Again there was silence. The girl was about twelve, while the boy, although large for his age, was but eight.
“George said he was going to marry me,” said Annie after a while. “He said that my father was very rich and that he being my cousin ought to have the right to look after my money.”
“George ain’t good enough for you, Annie,” hesitated Tom. “If you won’t tell I’ll tell you something.”
“I promise, and cross my heart,” replied Annie.
“I saw Tom take money from your father’s safe.”
“Oh, Tom, you really didn’t?”
“I really did,” answered the boy, hanging his head.
“How could George be so wicked when papa is so good to him. Why, he has had no father or mother for many years. He and I are the same age. My father and his are brothers.”
The girl’s mouth drooped at the corners and her little face worked painfully, for as much as she scolded her big cousin she loved him.
She never had had a brother, and now to find this young lad whom she had taken into her heart like one should be found wanting was hard to bear.
“You are sure, Tommy dear?” asked she plaintively.
“More than sure, for he offered me five dollars and I wouldn’t take it.”
“Good for you, Tom,” replied the girl, “and for that I’ll marry you when you get to be a man. You are a good fellow, Tommy.”
Annie Benson was the only child of her father, her mother having died long ago.
The millionaire had taken under his control his nephew, who had been left an orphan, also another boy called Tom Cooper, the son of an old friend. These three children had grown up together and were like brothers and sister.
There was much love between them, with the exception of George, who hated Tom Cooper and wanted his cousin to himself.
“I’ll get even with him for knuckling my nut,” grumbled the lad as he watched the other two run away. “I suppose he thinks he’s smart because Annie’s going to buy candy. She ain’t the only one; just look at that coin,” and he took out a handful of money and pretended to show it to some one. “’Taint every fellow that can show a hand like that,” and he ran and jumped over a large gatepost, evidently satisfied with himself.
Annie and Tom in the meantime climbed the mansion steps, and the girl ran ahead, shaking her golden curls in the wind.
She rapped lightly upon the library door and stood patiently until she heard a kind voice call out:
“Come in, little one, come in,” and the gentleman put out his arms and the child sprang into them.
“What does father’s baby want now?” asked he lovingly.
“Some money to go to the store for bon-bons with Tommy. I don’t like Cousin George as much as I do Tom and father,” and here the child hesitated. “I have promised to marry Tom.”
This astounding statement caused the man to throw back his head and give a great laugh.
“You needn’t laugh, father,” said the child, wriggling from his arms and pouting a little; “if Tommy and I want to get married, can’t we?”
Again the rich man chuckled, drawing the child closely and looking into her eyes, and then saying solemnly:
“Do you want to leave your father all alone, without any one to love him?”
How many times in the future did the girl remember these words! How many tears had she shed over the remembrance of the loving embrace he had given her when he told her that she could not give away his baby, that she did not belong to herself and was his own sweet child!
Annie Benson leaned confidently against her father’s breast.
“I’m so glad that you want me, father,” sighed she. “I love you very much indeed, and I’ll tell Tom that I can’t marry him.”
With two coins in her hand and tender kisses upon her lips, the girl scampered out to join the waiting youngster upon the porch.
“Can’t marry you, Tom,” she shouted, “for father says I belong to him and have no right to give myself away.”
“Oh, pshaw, why did you tell him yet? Of course we are too little. Did he laugh?”
“Not only did he laugh,” replied Annie, “but he shouted.”
“Mean of him,” muttered the lad, tears rising in his eyes. “I suppose he thinks because I’m but eight years old that I never will be a man, but, never mind, I’ll show him.”
After that the children got their candy, but neither the boy nor girl seemed to relish it much, and when they reached home Annie’s father was talking with George in the library.
“The master wants to see Master Tom for a few moments,” said the butler.
The little lad tremblingly went to his benefactor.
“You wanted me, sir?” asked he softly.
“Yes. Come here, lad. Would you like to go away to a good school for boys?”
“And leave Annie?” faltered the boy.
“Of course,” replied Benson; “but you don’t always want to be around with girls, do you?”
“Is George going?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to go,” sobbed Tommy; “but I don’t want to leave Annie.”
“Annie will go to school herself very soon,” said the millionaire, “and then you would be left alone.”
Gloom seemed to settle over the childish hearts in the home as both boys vied with each other for most of Annie’s attention, and Tom won out, for the little girl could not forget that George had taken money from her dear father, and the lad pondered long over his cousin’s changed attitude.
The children all went away to school, the millionaire thinking it best to keep his girl from the two boys, who might captivate her childish heart, but little he thought that his ambitions for her would be dashed to the ground by one wave of the tiny white hand.
For four years the children met only in summer, when the girl went traveling with a chaperone and the boys stayed at home upon the estate. Scarcely ever did they go to New York city to live in the mansion excepting at Christmas, when the family were in the city.
One holiday Annie came home in a different mood than ever before, and her face would color up when spoken to sharply or when surprised.
Her father and the boys noticed the difference, but not one could understand the cause.
She had very little to say to any one, and one afternoon her father called her to his study.
“Little maid,” said he tenderly, “is there anything your father can say to you that will make you any happier than you now are? Even Tommy noticed that you were not your usual self.”
“Tommy is only a child, father,” said the girl impetuously, “and he does not know what it means to think.”
“Neither should you, child,” replied Mr. Benson; “you are but sixteen. What have you in your life to make you so thoughtful, or I might say unhappy?”
“Not unhappy, father, not that,” cried the girl.
“Then, what?”
“Why—why—nothing. I am worried over my studies.”
Mr. Benson sighed. He would have given much to have had his child give him her confidence. Her little heart was completely locked and would not open for his knocking.
“You are positive that you are quite happy?”
“Quite positive.”
“And that you do not want for money?”
“Oh, father dear, all the girls say how generous you are with me.”
“Then there is nothing more I can say, is there?”
He said this pleadingly, because his heart was filled with sorrow for his darling. Suddenly she burst into tears, and the curly head dropped upon his arm and the child wept heartily.
After that there was more sympathy between them.
Annie went back to school with a heavy heart. She knew that she was keeping a weighty secret from her father.
With her hands to her face and tears in her eyes, she stepped from the train.
A young man, handsome, clever and spirited-looking came to meet her.
“Why, darling, have you been crying, and why? Did you not know that you were coming to your sweetheart, and that he would care for you?”
“Aye, dear heart, I know,” sobbed the girl, “but I had to lie to my father, and I love him so dearly, Victor.”
“I know that, dearest, but we are going to tell him just as soon as we are married. I cannot wait any longer.”
Oh, Annie Benson, beloved of your father, had you only told your handsome lover that you would rather wait until your parent had given his consent, how much better your life would have been, but, woman-like, you could not refuse the man you love.
“I wanted to wait,” murmured she softly.
“Then you do not love me,” said the lad sadly; “you could not stay away from me for years if you did care for me.”
“But, Victor, I do love you, indeed I do, but I love father, too.”
“Then you will never be my wife, Annie.”
For a moment the girl stood thinking, and even the angels in heaven wondered if she were going to do what was right.
She simply turned with the love light shining in her eyes, and laid her hand in his.
“My darling, I am yours when you are ready.”
“Then let it be to-day. Do not go back to school, but come with me, and you will never regret it.”
Regret it? Is there ever a sin in the world committed that the sinner does not regret it?
No sooner had the marriage vow been taken, no sooner had Annie Benson promised to love, honor and obey Victor Standish, than she began to regret.
“Oh, Victor, I wish father knew,” said she, “and that I was with Martha at school. The girls will all be expecting me.”
“And you love the girls better than you do me, your own husband?”
“No, no, I love you, Victor, and I will show you what a good wife I can make.”
“And we will write to your father and tell him all about it,” said the lad, “and he will forgive, and maybe I can get something to work at in New York. Would you not like to live with him?”
“Oh, indeed I would. That is all I am worrying about, for my father loves me devotedly, and I would not wound his feelings for the world.”
So a penitent letter, filled with sobbing appeals to forgive her, arrived at the Benson mansion, on Fifth avenue, at the appointed time.
The rich man was sitting alone when the butler brought it. He read it and re-read it, and then sat down to think.
This child, whom he loved better than his life, had without his consent married some no-account.
“Victor, Victor Standish; and who is he, pray?”
Then his anger arose, and this is the letter he wrote in reply:
“My Dear Annie:
“To say I was surprised and grieved would not tell my emotion when I read your letter. I have but this to say: When you feel ready to leave this vagabond, and come back to your father, he is ready to receive you. But with him you can never come. I hope I shall hear from you in a sensible way soon. Do not apply to me for money while you are this man’s wife. Until that time comes that you are free from him, I will simply sign myself,
“Your Father.”
CHAPTER II.
When Annie Standish read this letter she swooned at her husband’s feet, for she had been so sure that her father would forgive her and tell her to come home immediately, that he would take them both into his heart and home.
Victor Standish took the letter in his hands as he supported his wife’s tottering steps and swore that he would make this father-in-law retract his words and welcome his daughter Annie home again.
As he sat watching her a load of pain seemed to rest upon his heart, for he had brought her to this great agony, and by insisting that she marry him he had separated her from home kindred, and nothing was left to her but him, and he must make up for all, and bring into her life every bit of pleasure in his power.
Annie stirred and opened her eyes.
“It isn’t true, is it, Victor?” cried she. “Oh, I had such a dreadful dream, and I thought that papa wouldn’t forgive me, and the thought was more than I could bear.”
The tears started into the young husband’s eyes. The pale face leaning against his arm was so inexpressibly dear to him.
“Sweetheart,” murmured he, “would you feel that you could not live for your husband, if——”
“Then it is true, it is true. Oh, papa, papa, how could you do so to your little girl,” and the cry that went up from the slender throat was never forgotten by the young husband.
“Don’t, don’t, Annie, you will break my heart.”
After that they were silent, each suffering for the sin committed.
They heard no more from the rich father, and his pride would not bend. When the summer came, and the fall ushered in the red leaves Annie rose from a bed of sickness and brought a little child with her, and with tears in her eyes she whispered to her husband:
“Sweetheart, I shall name her Helen after my mother. I am sure that it will please my father.”
So the wee bit of humanity was christened, and Annie Standish began to be happier.
Still the news of the little child’s birth did not soften the banker’s heart, as he had said that he would not forgive, and forgive he would not.
So the days went by until one afternoon Victor came in with the news that his regiment had been ordered out for active service.
“It will be a chance for me to make a name for you and the baby,” said he lovingly. “Oh, Annie, that is all I want to do, for I have an ambition to make your father change his mind.”
“But, but,” faltered Annie, “you might get killed, Victor, and then what would Helen and I do? There would be no one left to us then.”
The soldier husband kissed away the bright tears which flowed down her cheeks.
“There, there, Annie, we are going to pray that I may come back to you very soon, when the war is over, and, think of it, little wife, I may bring back some stripes upon my sleeve, and you know that will mean honor for us all.”
“And reconciliation with my father,” sighed the girl.
The days seemed to fly between the time he was ordered away and the day that her husband started. Annie’s heart felt now that she had nothing to live for but the dear baby, which had filled up such a large gap in her life. Helen was now nearly two years old, and her mother over eighteen. She looked like a little girl herself, and few would believe that the large rosy baby was the offspring of the childish woman.
For two whole years the wife patiently waited, waited for the home-coming of the soldier. Twice she had written her father, and once had visited his home. She had been told by her cousin George that it was by the command of her father that she was sent from his door almost starving.
Again she waited, but as a reward for her patience there came a message from one of Victor’s companions that he had died after receiving a bullet in his body, and the only thing she had from that foreign country was a little package of her own letters and one partly finished by him to her.
The night she received the package she sat up long after Helen had retired, for the child was too young to understand the mother’s grief.
“If father would only let us come home,” whispered she after re-reading the letter. “I must do something, and my health is growing poorer every day.”
With this thought in her mind all the time, she one morning took her baby and went to her father’s home.
He surely would not send her away when he knew that her husband was dead, and that [she and Helen were starving.]
She carried the tottering child part of the way.
“Ah, little girl,” pleaded she when they were in sight of the mansion, “won’t you be a good girl and walk now? Mother’s arms are so tired.”
“Helen will walk, mother dear,” answered the child, “but I’se so tired.”
The tears sprang into the mother’s eyes as she heard this plaintive wail.
“Never mind, sweety, there is grandpa’s home, and he will let us come in, and you shall see him.”
The great mansion loomed up mysteriously before them, and the woman shuddered as she looked, for she wondered if the hard-hearted old man would turn his own child from his door again starving.
She slowly crawled up the steps and rang the bell. A strange butler answered and partly closed the door when he saw the rags.
“I want to see Mr. Benson,” faltered Annie.
“Mr. Benson, senior or junior?”
“Oh, senior. He is my father. I must see him to-day.”
The man did not ask her to come in, but shut the door in her face. He went hastily back to the library, and then seeing but an old grey-haired man sitting there he softly closed the door and ran upstairs.
“What do you want?” came the voice from the inside in answer to the slight knock.
“The person is at the door you told me never to allow in,” said the butler.
It took but a moment for George Benson to get down stairs.
“Why, Annie,” said the soft voice, “I am very sorry to see you in this condition, and you shall have money, but do not come in. Your father is so incensed against you that I would not answer for the consequences if you should.”
“Oh, I want to see him, George, so much. Do not turn me away. My child and I are starving.”
“Oh, well, as far as money is concerned, I will give you some, but I am sure your father will refuse you admittance.”
“Ask him, any way, George,” pleaded she.
“Then, wait,” and the man swung gracefully along the hallway.
The wasted old man sitting in the chair looked up as his nephew entered.
“Want me, uncle?” asked the younger man.
“No, George,” replied the old man; “I was just thinking of Annie and wondering if I should ever see her again. Oh, George, do you ever think that she will forgive me for turning from her?”
A dark shadow settled over the handsome young face.
“I’m sure I don’t know, uncle dear. It seems if she were very anxious she would write to you or in some way answer your letters.”
“That’s so, that’s so,” was the reply. “I suppose she is satisfied in her husband’s love.”
“I suppose so.”
With this George Benson came back to Annie and said: “Poor little girl, he absolutely refuses to see you.”
He slipped some money into the woman’s hand, and she turned away with a broken heart.
Millionaire Benson sat in his library after the departure of his nephew. He wanted his daughter sorely, was willing to forgive her all, even her husband, if she would but return, but there was an evil influence at work about him, and many times George Benson would spend hours in telling him of Annie’s sin.
As he sat there this morning and his nephew had gone, another young man just out of college ran up the stairs and burst into the library.
“Uncle,” said he lightly, “how are you to-day?”
“Pretty well, my boy, pretty well. How are you?”
“Oh, more than well, and I do like my work so much. They say at the bank that I am going to be able soon to take a better position.”
“Bravo, Tom,” cried the old man; “you shall have any position in that bank you can earn; and labor, boy, labor; that is the secret of success.”
“So it is, uncle, and you shall be proud of your boy some day.”
The old gentleman sighed.
“I believe that, Tom,” replied he, “and I would be satisfied with all my children if I could only see my girl. One would think so sweet a character as Annie would forgive her old stubborn father, would they not?”
“Yes,” reluctantly replied the young man.
It is not hard to recognize in this lad the youth who had fallen in love with Annie when he was but a mere child. He had gone to college and graduated. It had been a proud day when he was installed in the bank as one of its employees, and now he was telling his benefactor how willing he was to work hard and climb to the top.
“I wish, too, that you could find Annie,” said the lad, after a time of silence. “It seems as if she would be willing to forgive you, even if for nothing else, for what you could do for them. Have you ever thought, uncle, that she might not have gotten your letters?”
“I have not thought of that, but probably that is it. Could you try and find out for me now?”
“Indeed I could and gladly would,” cried Tom, “and maybe I shall bring her back. Now, where was she when you last heard from her?”
The address was looked up and the old man said:
“Now, if you find them, Tom, bring the whole family back with you.”
Neither the old nor the young man knew that there was a listener at the door, and that a strangely handsome face was peering in with a look of scorn upon the graceful, well-moulded lips.
“So he is going to find her, is he, and make my chances of a fortune not worth a picayune? Well, his time is short in this mansion.”
He stole away, and Tom, with an affectionate embrace, left his uncle.
For a long time the old man sat and dreamed, dreamed of a woman, sweet, in the long ago days when he was young and she was beautiful, dreamed of that time when a little child, with light golden hair, had been born to them, and of their happiness and joy. Then later, when the first shadow fell upon the home and the gentle spirit of his wife took flight and left him.
Then, after that, he had but the little girl, and she had lived and reigned in his heart for sixteen short years, and had gone like a shade of night, but it had been a great deal his own fault. Why did he not overlook the foolish step and try to make something of her husband? As he sat there he slumbered slightly, and then over his mind came a scene of the past. A child, with long curls, flitted before him, and he saw her flying away over the lawn and once in a while she looked back at him, her eyes smiling sweetly and the tiny hand shaking him a farewell, and then another dream as sweet as the last one flitted close upon his brain.
A dignified girl, in a white dress, sat beside him, and he heard his own voice say:
“Tell me, Annie, is there anything I can do to make you happy?” and before he could stop her he saw her fading away and dissolving into the shadows upon the wall.
He lifted his hands and gave a great groan.
“Annie,” murmured he, “come back to your father.”
“What is the matter, uncle?” shouted George Benson. “Why do you mutter in your sleep? There, wake up, a dream is only a dream anyway.”
The old man sat up thoughtfully, and with tears in his eyes said:
“I dreamed that Annie was here, George, and, oh, I want my child, I want my child.”
Impatiently George Benson sat down, for he had not patience with this imbecile old man.
“I would not waste my energy upon the ungrateful girl,” said he, “for she does not seem to care, or why should she not answer your letters? It is shameful for a daughter to be so undutiful.”
There was something in the young man’s tone that caused the millionaire to look keenly at him.
Then he closed his lips upon the words that were about to fall. He was upon the point of confiding how Tom was going after Annie, but the rich man noticed a glitter in the blue eyes, and he said nothing.
Then George spoke slowly:
“Uncle, will you keep to yourself what I am going to tell you?”
“Of course,” responded the rich man; “I have never betrayed your confidence.”
“Never.”
“Then, I will not begin now.”
“Did you know that Tom Cooper thinks that you are going to leave him half your fortune? I saw him just now as he went out, and he said that you had asked him to help find Annie, and that he was not going to do anything like it, but to give you the idea that he was working hard to locate her, and he said that if she kept away from the house that you would leave him half your fortune.”
The old man was rising from his chair slowly.
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Surely. He said that you two talked over the matter, and that you asked him to aid you in finding the girl, and he said he had given you the idea that he could bring her back to you.”
“So he did,” ejaculated the old man.
“And I fear that he intends to do you wrong, as much as I hate to say it of the fellow whom I have grown up with, but then we could not expect to have him care as much for Annie as I do, not being related to her.”
For a long time the old man sat in his chair muttering to himself. He had grown to love this boy, this very young boy, who had always sent in the best reports from college to him, like his own son even. But the last blow had fallen.
“Annie,” he whispered as he labored upstairs to his bedroom, “I shall never see you again. You have had your revenge now, for I shall not be upon the earth long.”
Then he sent for his nephew after his valet had put him in bed, and said:
“If Tom Cooper comes here, he is to be refused admittance; also notify the bank that he is to be discharged.”
After George Benson heard this he went down stairs, and with a malicious smile upon his face wrote the letter, and as he dropped it in the mail box, he said to himself:
“So you will find the girl, will you, Tom Cooper? We will soon see what your future will amount to.”
CHAPTER III.
The next morning Tom Cooper came whistling into the bank. His future looked so bright, and did he not have his uncle’s permission to find the little lost girl? He went behind the glass window and found a notice upon his desk to call upon the president in his room, and without delay the lad ran into the rear of the building and tapped lightly upon a door marked, “T. D. Dalton.”
“You wished to see me, sir,” and then he stopped, for the grave face before him gave his heart a chill.
“Yes, lad; sit down.”
Tom Cooper slid into the chair, a strange feeling coming over him.
“Have you done anything to offend Mr. Benson?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Perfectly.”
“Something has happened then, for I have this in the morning mail.”
Tom took the paper mechanically in his fingers, and there before him was an order to take his position from him, and only yesterday his benefactor had been so pleasant. While he held the letter in his hand he could not help but think that George Benson had been instrumental in his downfall.
He went from the bank to the mansion, only to find that he was barred from there, and Mr. Benson refused to see him, and as he left the steps for the last time in his life a face watched him from an upper window.
“So you are going to throw over my scheme, are you, Tom Cooper? Well, I don’t think so. Now go and starve with my pretty cousin, and do not forget that when you hold a good position it might slip from your fingers before you are aware of it.”
From that day on Tom Cooper could find nothing to do, and he haunted the places of his friends until at last one day he met an old chum upon the street.
“Nothing yet, Cooper?” asked the stranger.
“No, and I am thinking of going to sea for a while. I can take a position and go around the world, and be gone three months, and maybe by that time something will open for me.”
“Sorry,” sympathized the other, “for you had the best prospects of any of the fellows graduating in your class.”
“Well, I haven’t now,” bitterly answered Cooper, “and good-bye, old fellow. When I return I’ll let you know my success.”
After this it was smooth sailing for George Benson. Tom out of the way, and his cousin not to be found, and his uncle sick in bed afflicted with paralysis.
What more could a man want than a fortune at his fingers’ end, and nothing in the way but an old man, with one foot in the grave, and the doctor gave but little hope of his living long.
One morning George Benson had gone out when the doctor arrived, and the good man ran up the stairs and looked into the old man’s chamber without being announced.
There were tears upon the wrinkled face.
“Why, Mr. Benson, are you in such pain?” said the doctor in great sympathy.
“No.”
“Then what are you weeping for? Tell me; maybe I can help you.”
“No one can do that, Johnson,” replied the millionaire; “I am weeping for my daughter.”
“Your daughter? I did not know that you had one.”
“Oh, yes I have, but I do not know where. She was a good little girl, but married against my will, and for a time I returned all of her letters, and she has since then refused to forgive me.”
“Well, well; this is interesting. Tell me all about it.”
It eased the poor, throbbing heart to tell the painful story.
“And your child has refused to answer you in any way?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure that she got the message?”
The old man looked into his physician’s eyes, and remembered that Tom Cooper had asked that same question.
“As sure as a man can be who has to confide his affairs to a third party.”
“And that party your nephew?”
“Yes.”
“Would you think me impertinent, my dear Mr. Benson, if I should say that I believe your daughter has never received your letters, and another thing I would ask you: How have you made your will?”
“In my nephew’s favor.”
“And do you think that right to your daughter? What if she never received your letters, or if she had died and left a child?”
“She had a little baby, I know,” sadly replied the old man.
“Then it seems a shame that while you have an own child that you should not at least have her provided for. Think of it, she may be in distress and not know that you have wanted her.”
The old man started up in bed and held out his feeble hand and said:
“Doctor, will you help me? Oh, I beg of you to make it possible for my child to again look into my face, and I shall bless you forever.”
“Then, one thing,” gravely replied the physician, “is that you should make another will immediately, and you should keep the fact from your nephew until after it is over.”
“Will you send for my lawyer now?” tremblingly asked the rich man.
“I want you to witness my will, and swear that I am in my right mind.”
So the telephone was brought into use, and the family lawyer was hurried into the mansion, and for some hours the three men were closeted together, and a servant was brought into the room to witness the will.
They were still there when George Benson came home. He heard that the doctor was still with his uncle, but no one said anything about a lawyer.
“I’ll wait down here until he comes down,” muttered the young man to himself. “I hate to hear uncle complain of his aches and pains, and he is such a bore. I shall be glad when he is dead.”