Luck and Pluck

CHAPTER XXXII.
MRS. OAKLEY'S SUSPICIONS

The sudden disappearance of the will struck Mrs. Oakley with dismay. It threatened her with the loss of two-thirds of her estate. But she was not a woman to bear it in silence. She possessed a fund of energy, and lost no time in seeking to determine the important question, "Who had taken it?"

She descended at once to the kitchen, where she found Hannah setting the table for supper.

"Hannah," she said, abruptly, "have you been upstairs to my chamber this afternoon?"

"No, ma'am," said Hannah.

"Think a moment," said her mistress, sternly; "have you not been up?"

"No, ma'am, I haven't. I told you so once," said Hannah, not altogether pleased with the doubt implied by the second question.

"Has any one called here since I went away?" asked Mrs. Oakley.

"No, ma'am."

"Then there has been no one in the house excepting yourself?"

"No one except Master Ben."

"Ben!" repeated Mrs. Oakley, in a changed voice. "When did Ben come home?"

"About an hour ago,—maybe an hour and a half," said Hannah.

"He is not here now."

"Isn't he, ma'am? I suppose he went out, but I didn't hear him."

"You are quite sure no one else has been in the house?" inquired her mistress.

"Certain sure, ma'am."

Mrs. Oakley went upstairs slowly. A new idea had forced its way into her mind. It must be that Ben had taken both the money and the will. That he should have taken the first didn't surprise her, for with all her love for her son, she had small confidence in his honesty. No doubt he had got into debt, and so was tempted to appropriate the bills. But why should he have taken the will? That was something she could not understand. For the money she cared little comparatively. But the loss of the will was ruin, if John or his friends found it, or, if not, she would live in perpetual fear of their discovering it.

"If I once get hold of it again," she said to herself, "I will take care that all danger from that source shall end and forever. Ben will never divulge its existence, of course. He will understand that it affects his interests too nearly."

She waited in nervous excitement for Ben's reappearance.

At length his step was heard—never more welcome than now.

Ben entered, feeling rather nervous also.

"Has mother found out?" he thought.

"Good-afternoon, mother," he said, with apparent unconcern. "Is supper most ready? I'm awful hungry."

"I want to speak to you a moment, Benjamin," said his mother. "Will you come upstairs?"

"Now for it," thought Ben.

"Can't you speak here just as well?" he said. "I'm tired."

"I would rather have you come upstairs," said Mrs. Oakley.

"Just as you say," said Ben; "but I don't see why you can't talk just as well down here."

Mrs. Oakley led the way to her own chamber. Ben followed, feeling, it must be confessed, not altogether comfortable. This feeling was not diminished when his mother closed the door carefully. She turned and confronted him.

"You have been to my bureau-drawer, Ben," she said, eying him fixedly.

"I don't know what you mean," said Ben.

"You came home about two hours ago, didn't you?"

"Yes, I came home then," said Ben, knowing that it would be of no use to deny what could be proved by Hannah's testimony.

"You came up to this chamber, found my keys on the table, and opened the upper drawer of my bureau."

"Did you see me do it?" asked Ben, feeling confident that he was accused on suspicion merely.

"No, but—"

"Doesn't Hannah pretend that she saw me?"

"No."

"Lucky for her she doesn't. If she did she'd lie," said Ben, glad to find out so much.

"Do you mean to deny that you came up here?" asked Mrs. Oakley.

"Yes, I do. It seems to me you're mighty quick in suspecting me," continued Ben, with an air of injured innocence. "But what's all the fuss about? Have you missed anything?"

"Yes," said his mother, "I have met with a serious loss. But, Benjamin, it is very important that I should clearly understand who did or did not take it. Will you assure me upon your honor that you did not take anything from my bureau?"

"Of course I will," said Ben, who felt that he was in for it, and must stick stoutly to the lie at all hazards. "But you haven't told me what you lost."

Mrs. Oakley turned pale with consternation. She had depended upon Ben's proving the real culprit, in which case she could require restitution, at any rate, of the will.

"I lost a sum of money," she said,—"a hundred and twenty dollars."

"Whew!" said Ben. "That was a loss."

"But that was not all. There was besides a—a document of importance, for which I cared more than the money."

"I've no doubt of it," thought Ben.

"What was it?" he said aloud.

"What it was is quite immaterial," said Mrs. Oakley. "It is sufficient to say that it was a document of very great importance. I care little for the money compared with that. If you took it, Ben," she said, with a sudden final appeal, "I will forgive you, and let you keep the money, if you will restore the—the document."

There was a look of entreaty in the proud woman's eyes, as she made this appeal to her son. She waited anxiously for the answer.

But the inducement was not sufficient. The one hundred and twenty dollars were already paid away, and Ben owed one hundred and eighty dollars besides. He knew that Winchester would not remit the debt. There was no chance whatever of that. So Ben determined to keep the rôle of injured innocence which he had assumed in the beginning. His mother would not be able to find him out. It may be thought that this was inconsistent with his plan of raising money out of his mother's fears by withholding the will. But he had arranged that already. He might find the will,—perhaps in Hannah's chamber, perhaps elsewhere, he could decide that hereafter; but he resolved not to own up to the theft. In fact, after denying it stoutly, it would have been difficult to do that.

"Look here, mother," he said, "I am not a thief, and I wish you would not try to make me out one. You're ready enough to suspect me. Why don't you suspect Hannah? She was here all the time."

"I have already spoken to Hannah," said Mrs. Oakley.

"What did she say?"

"She said she had not been upstairs during my absence."

"And you believed her," said Ben, reproachfully. "Do you believe her before me?"

"Yes, I believed her," said Mrs. Oakley; "and I will tell you why. She might take the money, but she wouldn't be likely to take the paper."

"I don't know about that. She might think it was of importance. She might think you would pay her money to get it back."

Just then it flashed across Mrs. Oakley's mind that Hannah had seen the will in her hand on the day that she undertook to burn it. Why had she not thought of that before? It might be that Hannah was more artful than she gave her credit for, and, suspecting the value of the document, had taken it as well as the money.

"I will question Hannah again," she said. "Come with me, Benjamin."

They went downstairs together, and Hannah was summoned from the kitchen.

"Hannah," said Mrs. Oakley, "listen attentively to me."

"Certainly, ma'am," said Hannah, wondering what was coming.

"Something was taken from my drawer this afternoon, Hannah,—some money and something else. Do you know anything about it?"

"Sure I don't, ma'am. I told you once before."

"If you took it, and will tell me, and restore everything, I will forgive you, and let you keep ten dollars of the money besides."

"But I didn't take it, ma'am," said poor Hannah, earnestly.

"If you don't," said Mrs. Oakley, sternly, "I will send for the constable, and have you arrested at once and carried to prison."

Hannah burst into a piteous howl, and declared that she never stole so much as a pin, and called the Virgin and all the saints to witness that she was innocent.

"Give up the paper you took," said Mrs. Oakley, "and you may keep twenty dollars of the money."

But Hannah again declared that she took nothing.

"Stop a minute," said Ben; "maybe we're all wrong. When I went out of the house I saw a very suspicious-looking man coming this way."

"What was his appearance?"

"He had black hair and whiskers," said Ben, glibly, "and was meanly dressed."

"Was he coming towards the house?"

"Yes."

"Did such a person come to the house, Hannah?"

"I didn't see him; but he might have come to the wing door without me knowing it."

"I'll bet ten dollars he was the thief," said Ben.

Mrs. Oakley did not know what to say or think. Both Ben and Hannah stoutly denied the theft, and resisted the most liberal overtures to a confession. It might be the ill-looking man spoken of.

"What'll you give me if I find the paper, mother?" asked Ben. "I'll get on the track of the scamp, and get it if I can."

"I'll give fifty dollars," said his mother.

"But you offered a hundred a little while ago."

"I'll give you a hundred and twenty then."

"Promise me two hundred cash down, and I'll do my best."

"I'll give you two hundred dollars when you place the paper in my hands."

"All right," said Ben. "If I can find the man, I'll offer him a little something to begin with. It won't be of any use to him, you know."

They sat down to supper. Ben partook heartily, feeling that he had as good as got the two hundred dollars, while Mrs. Oakley was pale and nervous, and had no appetite. How differently she would have felt if she had only known that the lost will was all the while laid snugly away in Ben's coat-pocket!

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A STRANGE METAMORPHOSIS

Ben decided not to produce the will too soon. It would look suspicious. Besides, the longer it remained missing, the more rejoiced his mother would be to recover it, and so naturally the more ready to pay the reward she had promised. The afternoon of the next day he thought would be quite soon enough to "find" it.

Meanwhile the next morning Ben strolled over to the tavern, thinking he might find Winchester. But that young man had gone out on a fishing excursion, and had left word to that effect with the landlord.

So Ben strolled down to the river. It was a delightful day, and the desire seized him to "go in swimming." Though he cared little for other athletic exercises, he was fond of swimming, and was quite a fair swimmer.

Now, as Ben's ill luck would have it, Sam Selwyn chanced to be in the woods quite near by, and saw Ben undress and go into the water. He was not fond of Ben, and he was fond of a practical joke. Besides, he had been for some time wanting to pay off Ben for the share he had in making John's life uncomfortable. A plan suggested itself to him.

"I'll do it!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

He ran home,—it was but a few steps across lots,—dashed upstairs, and from an upper room took a faded calico dress and hoop-skirt, and, rolling them up, made his way swiftly back to the river. The river's edge was heavily wooded, and running vines and thick underbrush almost completely concealed the water from the sight. He went to the place where Ben had deposited his clothes, took away his coat, vest, and pantaloons, put the gown and hoop-skirt in their place, and quickly departed. Ben's clothes he hid away in the hollow trunk of an old tree not more than two rods distant. But in doing so a folded paper slipped out of the coat-pocket. Sam's attention was drawn towards it, for it looked like the legal papers of which his father had so many in his office. Opening it under an impulse of curiosity, his face instantly glowed with an expression of the most earnest and enthusiastic joy.

"By all my lucky stars!" he exclaimed; "if this isn't the lost will! This will set John all right. I wonder how that scamp got hold of it!"

Sam put the will in his own inside coat-pocket, and buttoned up his coat to make sure that it was safe. He wanted to go at once and communicate the joyful discovery to his father, but he also wanted to enjoy Ben's dismay when he found his clothes gone. This he could not forego on any account, and that he might be an unseen witness of all that occurred, he climbed up a large tree whose thick-leaved branches hid him completely.

Hardly had he concealed himself before Ben emerged from the water. He at once proceeded to the spot where he had left his clothing. In ludicrous perplexity he gazed at the remarkable change which had taken place. He lifted the gown and skirt, and found that his shirt, collar, hat, stockings, and shoes were untouched.

He put on his shirt and stockings, and called out, angrily, thinking the author of the trick might be within hearing:—

"I say, bring back my clothes!"

But no reply was made.

"Bring back my clothes, I say!" he called, in louder and more angry accents.

But again this reasonable request fell unheeded. He waited anxiously for a response, but none came.

"Where are you, you scoundrel?" he screamed, in very ill temper.

"Don't you wish you knew?" thought Sam, as he looked calmly down from a distance upon Ben.

"Perhaps the scamp has hid my clothes somewhere about here," thought Ben.

He proceeded to search in every direction he could think of. But the hollow tree, rather strangely, did not occur to him and escaped his notice.

His anger and dismay increased as he found his search vain.

"I wish I had the mean, contemptible rascal here!" he exclaimed. "I'd break every bone in his body!"

"I don't know about that, Ben Brayton," silently commented Sam, from his secure post of observation.

"What shall I do?" thought Ben, gloomily.

He sat down to consider. His situation was certainly an embarrassing one. Of course he could not go home in his shirt, and the only alternative was to wear the odious gown. It was hard to make up his mind to that. He preferred to wait awhile to see if help would not come from some quarter. Sam began to get tired in his perch.

"Why don't the fellow dress and go home?" he muttered.

At length Ben made up his mind that it must be done, and, with a hearty anathema on the author of his perplexity, robed himself in the dress. Sam nearly exploded with laughter as he saw Ben arrayed in the gown, which fell lank around him. Ben gazed ruefully at his extraordinary figure, and then at the hoop-skirt. He concluded that he would not look quite so badly with that addition. He therefore fitted it on as well as he could, and adjusted his dress by the help of some pins which he found sticking in the dress.

"I wish I had a hood or something to hide my face," muttered Ben, dismally. "I might pass for a girl then. Now folks will stare at me as if I was mad, and if any one sees me I shall never hear the last of it."

Certainly Ben's black felt hat did not look much in keeping with the faded calico dress, now properly filled out by the hoop-skirt, which swayed from side to side as he walked.

"Oh, it's too rich!" thought Sam, almost choking with suppressed laughter. "What a sensation he will make in the village!"

Just then Ben's foot got caught somehow, and he fell sprawling. He gathered himself up with furious energy, and did not observe that there was a conspicuous stain of mud on his dress. He took a roundabout way, so as to remain under cover of the woods as long as he could.

"I must meet Ben, and enjoy his discomfort," thought Sam.

He scrambled down from the tree, and cautiously made a short cut for the road, unseen by Ben. He posted himself at a place where Ben must emerge. He walked along, apparently absorbed in thought, till he came face to face with Ben, who, very much ashamed of his appearance, was walking as fast as his embarrassing clothing would allow.

"Good gracious, Ben Brayton!" he exclaimed, in affected amazement. "Why, what possesses you to go round in this style?"

"No choice of mine. I couldn't help it," said Ben, ruefully. "I went in swimming. Some scamp stole my clothes, and left these traps in their place."

"Well, upon my word, Ben, really you do cut the queerest figure I ever saw!" said Sam, giving vent to his pent-up mirth.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Ben, in a most aggrieved tone.

"You would if you could only see yourself," said Sam,—and he burst out with laughter again.

"Do you mean to insult me?" said Ben, wrathfully.

"Excuse me, Ben; but really I can't help it. See, there's Miss Clark coming. If she don't laugh I'll forfeit a dollar."

Miss Clark was one of the prettiest young ladies in the village, and to be seen by her was most humiliating. But there was no dodging it. She met Ben face to face, and, as might be expected, was moved to merriment.

"Good-morning, Miss Clark," said Ben, sheepishly.

The young lady tried to say good-morning, but only burst into a fresh fit of mirth as she passed along, Sam joining her a few moments afterwards.

Ben walked on very much discomposed. He was still half a mile from home, and it was very probable that he would meet others.

"I'd give fifty dollars to be safe at home," he groaned.

He had reason to say so. Just then the scholars in the village school were sent out to their morning recess. They espied the strange figure, and instantly, boy-like, started in pursuit.

"Keep your distance!" said Ben, furiously, to his young tormentors.

"Oh my! what a fine young lady I am!" said one.

"How do you do this morning, Miss Brayton?" said another.

"What a becoming dress!" commented another, with much admiration.

Ben tried to give chase to his tormentors, but, as might have been expected, not being accustomed to his attire, tripped, and fell headlong.

Then a shout, long and loud, went up from the boys.

Ben could not stand it. He gathered up his skirts, and ran towards home with all the expedition he was capable of. The old doctor met him, and gazed in wonder at the flying figure, not recognizing Ben in his new costume. He began to speculate whether it might not be an insane person, who had broken from his or her confinement.

Panting for breath, Ben at length brought up at his own door. It was locked, Mrs. Oakley having followed the old adage of "shutting the stable-door after the horse is stolen." Ben rang a tremendous peal at the door-bell, which was quickly answered by Hannah.

When she saw the strange figure before her, she uttered a loud shriek, and fled with precipitation.

Mrs. Oakley heard the bell and Hannah's shriek, and came hastily to the head of the stairs.

"What does this ridiculous masquerading mean?" she demanded, sternly.

"It means that I went in swimming, and some rascal stole my clothes and left these," growled Ben, provoked that he should be blamed for his misfortune.

Then, for the first time, flashed upon Ben the crowning misfortune,—that the lost will was in his coat-pocket. Upon the recovery of that depended his chance of getting the two hundred dollars. He sank into a chair, pale with dismay.

"Are you sick, Ben?" asked his mother, hastily.

"No," he said; "but I must dress as quick as possible, and go back and find my clothes if I can."

He dressed in nervous haste, and set out for the woods. This time he espied the hollow tree. There he found his clothes. He felt in the pockets, and found that everything was safe, including his watch and pocket-book.

But the will was gone! Ben instituted a strict and careful search in every conceivable direction, but he found no trace of the lost document.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
CONCLUSION

A letter was at once despatched to John, from Squire Selwyn, requesting his immediate return to Hampton.

Though no reason was assigned for the summons, John of course lost no time in obeying it. On the third day he was set down at the lawyer's house.

"O John, how glad I am to see you!" said Sam, in his delight flinging both arms around John's neck, and giving him a warm embrace.

John's greeting was no less hearty.

"Such news, John!" said Sam.

"It isn't the will?" inquired John, eagerly.

"But it is, though."

"Found?"

"Yes, and I found it. Didn't I tell you so! Don't you remember my dream?"

"But perhaps it's all a dream now."

"Well, if it is, it's a substantial dream, and father's got the document locked up in his safe. You're no longer dependent on Mrs. Oakley, and you can go to college with me, and—you don't know how glad I am."

"Yes, I do, Sam," said John. "You're just as glad as if it had happened to yourself, and that's what I expected of you. But you haven't told me how it was found yet."

"Oh, it was such fun!" said Sam. "Sit down here, and I'll tell you all about it."

It need hardly be said that John was amused by the story of Ben's ludicrous embarrassment; but he was surprised as well.

"How could Ben have got hold of it? I don't understand that."

"Nor I," said Sam. "But as long as we've got it, we won't trouble ourselves about that."

It was decided that the next morning Squire Selwyn, accompanied by John, should call on Mrs. Oakley, and make arrangements founded on the new phase of affairs.

Mrs. Oakley had not received intelligence of John's return, and her surprise was accompanied by a nervous sensation, when Hannah came up to her chamber, and announced that Squire Selwyn was below, and Master John was with him.

"John Oakley?" she demanded, hastily.

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Oakley entered the parlor with her old haughty step, and coldly bade the lawyer "good-morning." Of John she took no notice.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Oakley," said John.

"So you have got back, have you?" she said.

"Yes, he has got home to stay," said Squire Selwyn, significantly.

"With or without my permission, I suppose," said Mrs. Oakley.

"I don't know that he needs anybody's permission to live in his own house," said the lawyer.

"His own house!" repeated Mrs. Oakley, in a voice which, despite her efforts, betrayed some nervousness.

"Yes, Mrs. Oakley. My object in calling upon you this morning is to apprise you that the will is found."

"What will?" she demanded.

"Your late husband's last will and testament, in which he bequeaths this estate to his son John, here present."

"Where's the will?"

"Here," said the lawyer, producing it.

"Will you let me see it?"

"Excuse me, but it must remain in my possession till it is publicly read."

"What reason have I for believing this to be a genuine document?" said Mrs. Oakley, harshly. It was foolish thus to contend, and she knew it; but it angered her that by the document she should be stripped of two-thirds of what she had come to look upon as her own.

"I am prepared to swear that it is the will which I drew up for your husband three months before his death."

"I suppose I am not to ask how it came into your possession?" said Mrs. Oakley. "If it was concealed in this house, some one must have entered illegally, and made a secret search."

Mrs. Oakley fixed her eyes upon John, feeling satisfied that he had entered the house on the day she left her keys out, and opened the drawer.

"If you think I had anything to do with it, Mrs. Oakley," said John, "you are mistaken. I only reached Hampton last evening, summoned by Squire Selwyn."

"I accused you of nothing," said Mrs. Oakley, but she was greatly surprised.

"As to who found the will, Mrs. Oakley," said Squire Selwyn, composedly, "I will only suggest that your son Benjamin can probably throw more light on this matter than any one else."

"Benjamin!" exclaimed Mrs. Oakley, quickly.

"Yes, I have reason to think he can give you all the information you desire."

Mrs. Oakley compressed her lips closely. Was it possible that Ben had found the will and deliberately carried it to Squire Selwyn? Could he have sold her and his own interests to the enemy? No doubt she argued, Squire Selwyn had bribed him at a heavy price to deliver it up.

"I don't understand this," she said. "If Benjamin found the will, he should have brought it to me."

"As, of course, you would have placed it in my hands, there is no harm done," said the lawyer, watching keenly the face that showed some discomposure as he spoke. "But you can settle that with Ben. I will merely read you the provisions of the will informally, previous to presenting it for probate."

To this Mrs. Oakley could make no objection, though she was fully acquainted with the document to be read.

It provided that the home estate, consisting of the family mansion, and lands situated in the town of Hampton, valued together at twenty thousand dollars, should go to John. Of the remaining estate, invested in stocks and bonds, valued at forty thousand dollars, one half was to go to John, and the remaining half to Mrs. Oakley. Squire Selwyn was appointed executor, and guardian of John, until the latter should attain his majority.

"If the will is genuine,"—commenced Mrs. Oakley,—

"You certainly do not question my word to that effect?" said the lawyer, gravely.

"I have no right to stay in this house," continued Mrs. Oakley.

"I am quite sure John would wish you to exercise your own choice in that matter."

"I shall not remain a tenant on sufferance," said Mrs. Oakley, coldly. "Next week Benjamin and I go to the city."

"You will act your own pleasure, of course," said Squire Selwyn, rather glad to hear it, if the truth must be told.

Some other matters were discussed and they rose to go. John received no invitation to remain.

"I am afraid I must burden your hospitality, Squire Selwyn," he said, as they left the house.

"You are a welcome guest, and will always be, John," said the lawyer. "Sam will be delighted at the arrangement."

"I don't know how my aunt will manage without me," said John. "I was her business manager."

"It seems to me, John, that your aunt had better sell out her store, and come and keep house for you. You will have a large house, and you are not quite old enough to marry and go to house-keeping."

"Not quite," said John, laughing.

"Your aunt will thus be relieved from business anxieties, and you are quite rich enough to provide for her and your cousins."

"It is an excellent arrangement," said John. "I'll write to her at once."

John did write, and, as might have been expected his aunt was very glad to accept his offer. It was, of course, impossible to doubt the validity of the will, and its provisions were, as soon as practicable, carried into effect. Mrs. Oakley removed to New York with Ben, and established herself at a boarding-house. On some accounts it was an unwise step. Ben, having nothing useful to do, grew dissipated, and contracted debts on all hands. In five years his mother's twenty thousand dollars had dwindled to a few hundreds, and once more she found herself obliged to exert herself for a support. She opened a boarding-house, by means of which she managed to make a living. As for Ben, who she fondly hoped would grow up a gentleman, he appears to be sinking deeper and deeper every day into worthlessness and dissipation. He has cost his mother many sorrowful hours.

Mr. Huxter is dead. Probably his excesses in drinking hastened his death. His poor wife was left quite destitute. When John heard of her distress, grateful for her sympathy at a time when he stood in need of it, he asked permission to help her. A certain sum is paid her annually by him, by which, with her earnings as a dress-maker,—a trade which she followed before her marriage,—she is able to make a comfortable living for herself and her children.

John returned to his studies, and was admitted to college with Sam, where both took a high rank. They graduated at the last commencement, and are now both studying law.

Squire Bradley, of Wilton, who was much impressed by the skill with which John ferreted out Mr. Hall's rascality, is anxious to have John enter his office; but Sam, who is unwilling to part with one who from boyhood has been his most intimate friend, insists that John shall enter his father's office with him, after completing a course at a celebrated Law School where they now are. Probably this arrangement will best suit John. I have no hesitation in predicting for him a noble manhood and an honorable career. In spite of the gifts of Fortune that he possesses, I consider his warm and generous heart, his personal integrity, and his manly character, to be John Oakley's most valuable Inheritance.