His Good Name

by J. J. Bell

 

His Good Name

By J. J. Bell
Author of “Wee Macgreegor,” “Courtin' Christina,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY L. A. SHAFER

THE great liner was nearing the end of her long voyage. The dawn of another day would see her slowing into port. Dinner in the grand saloon was just over. It had been a merry repast. There had been much hearty laughter, many congratulations and expressions of good will. A record passage had made the possibility of Christmas Eve on shore a certainty. Even passengers not homeward bound caught the spirit of the majority, and joined in the jubilation of the hour.

The weather was calm and, for the season, unusually mild. A full moon shone from an almost cloudless sky. A score or so of passengers, eschewing the luxurious shelter of music lounge or smoking room, paced the spacious deck.

Against the rail, in the shadow of a lifeboat, a man and a woman stood in converse. His bearing was that of a young man, but even in the half light his dark countenance betrayed a harsh melancholy that suggested middle age at least; however, he was a little over thirty. Her years were less difficult to guess. She had the mouth of a girl and the eyes of a woman; she was slimly, though not delicately, formed; her face was gentle—gentle in both senses of the word. In her early twenties, you would have said.

She was regarding him with a somewhat puzzled look.

“You say-that you are eager, yet not glad, to be home, Mr. Garth——”

“I didn't say home, Miss Nevis,” he interrupted. “I said England.”

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured, a little stiffly, and turned away her eyes.

“Forgive me,” he exclaimed, with compunction. “I was rude—and not for the first time. I sometimes wonder how you have put up with my rudeness and bitterness all those weeks. But, believe me, you are the last person in the world to whom I would willingly be rude or bitter. Only the word home is like a sting to me.”

He sighed and gazed down at the rushing water.

“Ah!” she exclaimed softly, and turned again to him. “How stupid, how unkind I have been, to talk of it so often! I ought to have understood or guessed——”

“How should you? What was I to you but an irritable individual who took undue advantage of your good nature and patience?” He faced her once more. “Miss Nevis, I wish I could tell you what your acquaintance—I daren't use the word friendship—has meant to me since we left Sydney. You knew nothing of me, and yet——”

“You knew nothing of me, Mr. Garth.” She smiled faintly. “But are you really such a suspicious character?”

He gave a short laugh.

“Possibly you have noticed that I have hardly spoken to any one on board save yourself?” he said.

“I have sometimes thought that more variety in the way of companionship might be good for you.”

“And for yourself? I am well aware that I have been monopolizing you. You ought not to have permitted it, Miss Nevis,” he said, with a poor attempt at a bantering tone. “What would you say if I told you now that I am traveling under an assumed name?”

She laughed.

“Are you a prince or only a duke, please?”

“You're sure I don't look a criminal?”

He regarded her with grave eyes.

Abruptly the smile left her lips.

“Mr. Garth!” she whispered.

“My real name is not Garth, Miss Nevis. It is”—he paused—“it is dishonored. No use in mentioning it.”

She did not shrink from him, but her hand tightened on the rail.

“I—I am sorry,” she said at last.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “Did you hear what I said?”

She bowed.

“That my real name was dishonored?”

She bowed again.

“You are not—disgusted?”

“Why should I be? You did not dishonor it,” she returned quietly.

His expression of harsh melancholy almost vanished, his voice was eager as a boy's, as he cried:

“You believe that of me? You take me for an honorable man? Ah, but how can you know?”

“I just know,” she answered simply.

“God bless your sweet faith!” he whispered. “Miss Nevis,” he went on, in a low tone, “will you let me tell you something of myself and why I am now bound for England?”

Perhaps it was his voice rather than his words that rendered her suddenly shy. She glanced back at the lights of the lounge, saying:

“I'm afraid it's getting late, and I ought to go.”

“It is my last opportunity,” he pleaded. “Won't you listen for a few minutes?”

She hesitated. Five weeks is a long time on board ship, and this man had been her daily companion. She could no longer pretend to herself that he was no more than a passing acquaintance, that his affairs were nothing to her.

Once more she leaned her arms on the rail and watched the water, brilliant with lights from the portholes.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I'll put it in as few words as I can.”

He thought for a moment, then began in a cool, steady voice:

“It is twelve years since I left England, in disgrace and much to the relief of my friends. Many a man in my position would have had the police after him, but the man who believed that I had injured him was both merciful and proud. He even offered me money so that I might get away comfortably. But he could not prevent the story's getting abroad.

“He was my uncle—the rich member of our family—and he had brought me up and taken my cousin and myself into his big business. My cousin and I were friendly, but not particularly so. Though we were about the same age, our tastes were very different. My cousin, who was the old man's favorite, had a great regard for money; he was in a hurry to be rich. He went too fast, and got into trouble—such trouble that I dare say he did not know what he was doing when—— Well, I'll spare you the details, Miss Nevis. An evening came when my cousin and I were summoned before our uncle. He asked us whether we could explain certain figures—ugly figures. One of us was responsible. My cousin denied all knowledge. I said nothing at all. Why I acted so, I really could not tell you now. Perhaps I thought then that I was behaving rather nobly; now I know it to have been sheer idiocy.”

“Oh, no!” cried the girl warmly.

The man who called himself Garth shook his head and continued:

“My uncle gave me an hour to leave his house. Before the time was up, my cousin came to me secretly to implore me to keep silence for one year. He was, he assured me, on the eve of making a huge fortune, and so certain was he of success that he insisted on my taking his written promise to pay me one-half of all he possessed at the end of twelve months, and to confess the truth to our uncle. I didn't want the paper then, but I'm glad I have it now.” He tapped his breast. “He has had eleven years' grace, anyway.”

His voice was eager as a boy's, as he cried: “You believe that of me? You take me for an honorable man? Ah, but how can you know?” “I just know,” she answered simply.

“So he has never made any reparation?” she inquired after a pause.

“Our uncle died within the year, deeming me a blackguard. I learned of his death through a newspaper, not from my cousin.”

“But at the end of the year?”

“Nothing happened at the end of the year. Nothing has ever happened, so far as my cousin is concerned. I grant that for the last ten years he might have experienced difficulty in finding me—had he wanted to do so; but for two years he was aware of my whereabouts.”

“Perhaps he did not make his fortune, after all,” she ventured, wincing at the bitterness in his voice.

“You are charitable, Miss Nevis; but it happens that he inherited our uncle's business and fortune. At the present moment he is enormously wealthy. Some little time ago, ere I decided to make this voyage, I employed a man in London to discover and send me particulars. My cousin is married, has a son, lives in a splendid West End house, and is noted for his liberality and hospitality. From a cable received at Gibraltar, I learned that he gives a large party to-morrow night——”

“Christmas Eve!”

“Christmas Eve, Miss Nevis. I intend to be present.”

At the significant tone of his voice she gave a little shiver.

“Are you feeling cold?” he tenderly inquired.

“No; but I must go soon. Have you never reminded your cousin of his promise, Mr. Garth?”

“Never; and I confess that until lately I had no idea of doing so. Perhaps I hadn't enough time to think about it. But now——”

He halted.

“Now?” she echoed.

“Now he has got to clear my name.”

“I—I see. But—perhaps—he thinks you are—dead.”

“I've no doubt he hopes that I am,” was the grim reply. “Well,” he went on, “I won't boast that I would not touch his money, simply because I happen to have made enough through my own exertions. Otherwise I should be inclined to enforce the bond. But I must have back my good name.” He looked straight into her eyes. “And I never desired it back so strongly as I do now,” he whispered passionately.

Her eyes wavered before his and fell. And suddenly a sob escaped her.

“Miss Nevis!” he cried, distressed.

“Oh, I am sorry for you,” she said, “but what will this mean to your cousin's wife and child?”

For a moment anger got the better of him.

“His wife and child! And what if I should desire a wife and—and child? Miss Nevis, am I seeking anything more than the barest of justice?”

“Indeed, no. But justice is such an awful, hideous thing when it strikes the innocent along with the guilty. I sometimes think that is the real reason for representing Justice blindfolded and armed with a clumsy sword.”

He drew in his breath.

“So you would advise me,” he said, in a strained voice, “to remain under my cloud?”

“I have no right to advise you in anything,” she replied, with gentle dignity.

He was nettled into saying:

“Can you give me any reason why I should not confront my cousin to-morrow night?”

Softly she answered:

“To-morrow is Christmas Eve.”

“On Easter Eve my cousin allowed me to be cast out.”

Her eyes filled.

“Poor man!” she murmured. “But you have found happiness since. You have not been miserable all the time.”

“No, of course not,” he admitted, a trifle sulkily.

“I believe your cousin has.”

“I don't. He can't have a conscience.”

“Some consciences never seem to make one do the right thing, but they go on hurting all the same. Please don't think that I do not sympathize with you.”

Said Garth abruptly: “Why do you defend him—a man you don't even know?”

“I don't defend him. No one could defend him. But I would beg you not to add revenge to your justice. Let Christmas pass before you confront him.”

“But that is mere sentiment.”

“Even so, the world would be unendurable without it. Oh, Mr. Garth, if you do this thing to-morrow, what of all your Christmas Eves to come, however your name may shine? Will you ever forget the broken man and those who love him?”

“The world is still before him. He retains his wealth. I envy him your sympathy. It is, of course, nothing to you that I remain a wanderer under a false name.”

The girl raised her head.

“That is not quite fair of you,” she said warmly. Then, with a slight inclination: “I must go. Good night—and, lest we do not meet in the rush to-morrow morning, good-by.”

She held out her hand.

“Miss Nevis,” he whispered wildly, hoarsely, “do you forbid me to take back my own?”

“Forbid you, Mr. Garth?” A certain haughtiness had crept into her voice. “Of course, I do not forbid you.”

She drew her hand from his clasp.

“But,” desperately, “is my good name nothing at all to you?”

For a moment she hesitated, looking downward. Her words were audible, and no more; they seemed to come unwillingly:

“I—I'm afraid it is nothing to me.”

He did not look back, or he might have seen Miss Nevis watching him with sorry, puzzled eyes.

She was gone, leaving him there, a half-stunned creature. He stared at the gleaming water. What a fool he had been to dream that she might care a little, to imagine that his past or his future mattered to her! Later the old bitterness got the better of him. There were other women in the world—plenty of other women. His first business was to get back his good name. Then—— But he knew in his soul that there was no other woman in the world like Sybil Nevis.

II.

Next morning he kept to his state-room until the ship was alongside the landing stage. He was among the first to disembark. He did not look back, or he might have seen Miss Nevis watching him with sorry, puzzled eyes. Making straight for the special train, he ensconced himself in a “smoker” and opened a newspaper. He was aware that, like himself, she was bound for London, and until last night he had indulged happy thoughts of the railway journey.

To-day, though sitting in the same train, she was all the world away from him. He tried not to think of her, not to speculate on her destination in town, to forget that she had promised to give him her address there. He sought to blot out all his plans for and visions of meeting her in London immediately the ugly business was over and he had an unsullied name to offer her. He attempted to read, but his eyes were incapable of seeing aught but her gentle face and beautiful name against the common paper and printers ink—Sybil!

As he left the train he caught a glimpse of her engaging a porter. Evidently no one had come to meet her. He felt that he ought to offer her his assistance with respect to her luggage, yet he hurried from the platform and tipped an inspector heavily to have his own belongings sent after him to his hotel. The play was over; the lights were out—what use to take a last peep behind the curtain? Let him forget all the foolish glamour and prepare for the stern business awaiting him a few hours hence. He walked from the station like a man under the influence of a drug.

He scarcely noticed the changes in the traffic of the London streets—the whirling taxicabs, the elegant cars, the noisy, vile-smelling busses that would have seemed so strange to him twelve years ago. And he deliberately shut his eyes to the many signs of Christmastide. In the Strand he encountered a man whom he had known well in the days of his youth. The man half halted, started, flushed, and walked on quickly. Garth went white. Verily, he was not forgotten! It was time that he obtained justice!

The man half halted, started, flushed, and walked on quickly.

 

“Sure this is the house?”

“Yessir. Number twenty-four you gave me.”

“Oh—all right.”

Garth paid the driver, and, after the cab had gone, stood staring up at the windows of the great house. Nearly all the windows were dark.

“Simmons has given me either the wrong address or the wrong date of the party,” he muttered. “However, it's easy to make certain.”

He ascended the broad steps and rang the bell. As he did so, a clock in the neighborhood tolled ten.

“If this is his house, and he is out, I'll wait till he comes in, though it should be Christmas morning,” said Garth to himself.

The door was opened softly by a manservant.

“Does Mr. Charles Stannard live here?”

“Yes, sir. But——”

“Has he gone out?”

“No, sir.” The man hesitated, “Excuse me, sir, but is it important you should see him?”

“Very important.”

The man invited Garth to enter, and closed the door very quietly.

“I'll find out whether Mr. Stannard can see you, sir,” he said, in a hushed voice; and, treading on tiptoe, he led the way to a room at the back of the spacious hall. The visitor noticed that the house was exceedingly still.

The man showed him into the library and requested his name.

“Garth—Mr. James Garth, of Sydney.”

Left to himself, the visitor allowed his gaze to wander about the handsome room. No doubt about it, Charles Stannard was a wealthy man. Yet all his riches would avail him naught against the demand of justice. Already Garth heard him offering half his fortune to save his name, saw him on his knees imploring mercy. All at once he shivered and went nearer to the fire.

A large photograph on the mantel caught his eye—the likeness of a little boy, a singularly beautiful and frank countenance.

“Can that be his son?” he thought sarcastically, and was proceeding to study the young features in detail when the servant returned.

“Do you mind waiting for a little while, sir?” said the man. “It is not possible for me to inform Mr. Stannard until the doctors have gone.”

“Certainly, I'll wait. Is—is Mr. Stannard ill?”

“No, sir. It is Master Charlie.” The man's voice fell to a whisper. “Very ill, sir, We are afraid——” He checked himself. “I will inform Mr. Stannard as soon as possible, sir,” he said, and went out.

For a moment or two Garth gazed at the closed door. Then, as if against his will, he turned again to the photograph. The fine, boyish eyes looked into his.

With a stifled exclamation, he moved from the hearth and halfway across the room. He stopped short at a table laden with parcels of various shapes and sizes, and bearing also a heap of unopened letters. He could not help seeing what was written on the labels and envelopes.

“Master Charlie Stannard"—the name of the little boy who was very ill—his Christmas presents, his Christmas cards.

Garth clenched his hands and turned away. What was it that Miss Nevis had said about Justice blindfolded and armed with a clumsy sword? Could Justice not strike his enemy so that none other should suffer? If Justice must strike now, would it not be better for this little boy who was very ill that he should never get better—never open those parcels and letters? And the little boy's mother—what of her?

He dropped into a chair. His hands relaxed; he bowed his face in them. What was he going to do? Had Miss Nevis been right, after all? He wanted his good name, and to obtain it he must ignore what he had called sentiment Sentiment? Nay, common humanity. his love for a woman, his pity for a child, his very reverence for Christ—all these tender things bade him stay his hand. He could not have both a good name and a good conscience Which would he choose?

 

The clock on the mantel chimed eleven ere he uncovered his face. It was worn with the spiritual struggle, yet something of the harshness of it melancholy had departed. He got up, gave himself an impatient shake, walked over to the hearth, and took from his pocket a blank envelope. From the envelope he extracted a soiled sheet of paper. For a brief space he regarded it, weighing its value, as it were, then stooped to place it in the fire.

But the flames were not to have it—from his hands, at least. Struck by a new thought, he rose and carried it to the writing table. There he spread it out, and, with a blue pencil taken from the tray, he scrawled “Canceled” across it. Then he placed it in the envelope, addressed it to “Charles Stannard, esquire,” and left it on the blotting pad.

“Charles,” he said huskily, “I'm glad your boy is going to get better. And it—it's the time of peace and good will, you know.

There was nothing more for him to do but get away as quickly as possible. With that idea in view, he crossed to the bell. Ere he could press the button, however, the door opened. He pulled himself together, expecting his cousin,

But it was a woman who entered, and at the sight of her his composure gave way.

“Sybil—Miss Nevis!” he cried.

She was very pale, but her voice was fairly steady.

“Yes, Mr. Garth.” She closed the door soundlessly, and advanced a few paces into the room, halting with her hand on the back of a chair. “I suppose you did not expect to see me here,” she said, with the ghost of a smile.

For an instant his heart flamed hot against her.

“So you knew all the time!” he exclaimed.

“It is but a few minutes ago that I was told you were waiting to see my brother-in-law. I have known only since then. On the steamer I did not know your real name.” She paused and added: “I would have come at once, but the truth was a great shock to me.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, abashed by the gentleness of her speech.

“It was natural to suspect me.” Her grip on the chair tightened; she lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them bravely to meet his. “Mr. Garth,” she said, “I am no longer in a position to plead for the man who wronged you. You might reasonably say that I was pleading for myself. I cannot expect you to believe that last night I tried to speak for your own sake no less than for common humanity's. But now, in Christ's name, beg you to delay—to postpone——”

“Don't!” he muttered lower than she could hear.

“To postpone your act of—justice. Of late, Charles has been very unfortunate; he is all but ruined. He and my sister will have to begin life all over again. But, above all, their little son, their only child——”

Garth took a step forward.

“Say no more!” he said shakily. “I—I have given it up.”

“You have given it up?"

She failed to grasp his meaning.

“I found that I could do nothing to Charles. I have left the only evidence against him on his table, there. I was going away when you came in. I will go now.”

He was just in time to support her and help her to a chair.

“Oh, you good man!” she sighed, hiding her face; “you good man!”

He winced. He looked down at her bowed head, his heart in a turmoil, then with a sigh he turned and moved over to the window. When she had recovered herself, they might, perhaps, part friends, he thought, gazing into the blackness. And there was no sound in the room until a once-familiar voice said brokenly:

“Sybil, my dear, don't give way. I've come to tell you that the crisis is past. Charlie is going to get better. Alice wants you to—— Oh, my God!”

For Garth had slowly wheeled about, and was now facing his cousin. But save by his voice, Garth would never have recognized the haggard, worn-out man who clung to the open door.

The last of Garth's hatred flickered out. Perhaps it was not his own spirit alone that guided him as he went forward with outstretched hand.

“Charles,” he said huskily, “I'm glad your boy is going to get better. And it—it's the time of peace and good will, you know.”

Letting go the nerveless hand, he glanced at the girl.

“Good-by, Miss Nevis, and thank you,” he said softly, and left the room.

With all her gentleness, Sybil was no conventional weakling. She overtook him fumbling at the outer door.

“Where are you going?” she almost demanded, drying her eyes.

“To consider what can be done for my cousin,” he answered shamefacedly; “and to Sydney by the first steamer,” he added somewhat harshly.

“The first steamer!”

There was that in her voice that made his heart leap.

Yet he replied coldly:

“Would you ask me to stay till the next? Remember that this is London, and that my dishonor is not forgotten. Would you care to be seen with me in London? My good name——”

“It is nothing to me.”

“You have said so before.”

“Yes. I think you misunderstood me then,” she whispered. “I meant that it was nothing compared with——”

She broke down.

There was silence.

“Tell me straight,” he said at last, with great effort, “tell me straight, Sybil Nevis—am I anything at all to you?”

It seemed a very long time before she breathed the word:

“Everything!”