CHAPTER IV. – The Meeting
UNTIL the time for him to seek some means of reaching the spot, selected for the meeting, that he intended should be fatal to one of them, Kent Lomax walked the streets of the city, brooding deeply over his sorrows, and his determination to avenge Ruby, whom he looked upon with pity rather than anger, and her mother, whose death had been brought on by the act of Schuyler Cluett.
At daylight he sought a livery stable, and asked for a horse to ride out to the rendezvous.
"You can get a horse, sir, but you are unknown to us, and we must ask a deposit of his value," said the man.
"Ah! that is it, you fear I am a horse-thief; well, hitch a carriage for me and send a driver, one who knows how to reach this place," and he gave the directions where he wished to go.
Soon after he sprang into the vehicle and was driven away at a rapid pace, and in an hour's time was set down at a lonely spot on the riverbank.
Up the stream some distance he saw another vehicle draw up, and out of it sprang Schuyler Cluett and Rayford, and he walked hastily toward them.
"I am glad to see that you are not a coward," said Kent Lomax, addressing Schuyler Cluett.
"You are all wrong in this, Lomax, much as appearances are against me," said Cluett.
"I know I am right, for I have not had my eyes shut the past two months.
"Are you ready?"
"I am."
"I have brought a pair of weapons belonging to Mr. Cluett, sir, and you can take your choice," said Rayford, opened a box in which were a pair of handsome revolvers.
"I have a weapon, sir."
"It is best that they be alike."
"Very well, I will take one of these."
"Take your choice."
Kent Lomax selected one without an instant of hesitation, and said:
"This will do."
Rayford took the revolver and carefully loaded it, and then took up the other and did likewise.
Then he paced off ten paces, gave the men the choice of positions by tossing up a dollar, and Kent Lomax won.
Both took their positions, Schuyler Cluett with a quiet smile of confidence upon his face, and Kent Lomax calm, cold, but haggard, stern and determined.
The sun was now up, gilding the tree-tops and causing the dew to sparkle like diamonds upon the grass.
It was a pretty scene, and yet one that had been selected to be desecrated by a tragedy.
Each man took his position, revolver in hand, and standing to one side, Rayford said:
"Gentlemen, I am to give the word as follows:
"One, two, three, fire!
"Between the words three and fire, you are to pull trigger, and you can keep firing until one or the other falls, or you empty your weapons.
"Now, are you ready?"
Both nodded in the affirmative, and then in a loud voice came the fatal words:
"One! two! three —"
There was no need of uttering the word fire, for the revolver of each flashed at three.
And the result?
Schuyler Cluett staggered backward, his hand to his head, while Kent Lomax dropped as though a bullet had pierced his brain.
"Shot through the heart," said Rayford coolly, and then turning to his friend he added:
"I think that should cancel my indebtedness to you, Schuyler."
"What?"
"I put a ball of putty, wrapped with tin-foil, in his pistol, and even with it he left his mark in the dead centre of your forehead, for it is bruised; but had it been lead, you would have been a dead man."
"Great Heavens! did you do that?" asked Schuyler Cluett.
"I did."
"Rayford, I know not what to say; but as you have saved my life, I will call the debt square between us; but see, he is not dead, and I will put him in his carriage and send him to a hospital, for we must look to our own safety now."
This was done; the body of the wounded, unconscious man was placed in the carriage that had brought him out, and the driver ordered to take him to a hospital.
Then the two friends entered their own carriage, and were driven, by another road, rapidly back to the city.
The next morning the following notice of the affair appeared in the morning papers:
"A MYSTERIOUS DUEL
"At dawn yesterday morning a young gentleman evidently from the country, judging from his dress and appearance, went to Nailor's livery stable and sought to hire a saddle-horse for a few hours; but, upon the price of the animal being demanded, as he was an utter stranger to the foreman, he called for a carriage and driver, and ordered the latter to drive him to a spot on the Schuylkill river, between the Laurel Hill Cemetery and the Wissahickon creek, and to lose no time in getting there.
"Upon reaching the spot he left the vehicle, just as another carriage drove up in the distance, and from it alighted two gentlemen.
"There the stranger walked on and met them, reports his driver, and the three conversed together for a moment; then two of them threw off their overcoats, while the third paced off a certain distance and, after loading two weapons taken from a case, handed them to the duelists.
"Word was then given, the driver supposes – for he was too far off to hear – and the pistols flashed together, one man staggering, as though wounded, the other falling as though dead.
"The driver was then called, and the one who lay prostrate was raised and placed in the vehicle which was ordered to drive with all speed to the Hospital, the others entering the other carriage and driving rapidly off in another direction.
"Upon being questioned by our reporter, the driver of the stranger said that the other duelist was a young society man about town, but he did not, or pretended not to know his name.
"He said the stranger's bullet had wounded him in the head, as he wore a handkerchief about it, but there was no blood-stain visible.
"The comrade of the alleged society-man was also a young gentleman of this city, but whom the driver pretended not to know.
"Going to the Hospital our reporter discovered that the stranger was there.
"He had a watch, chain, seal-ring, and sleeve buttons all of good value, and a pocket book containing several hundred dollars in bank-bills, but not a slip of paper, or anything to solve his identity.
"He was shot just over the heart, and the surgeons feared to probe the wound, which they say will doubtless prove fatal though there is the slightest chance for his recovery, as he possesses a fine physique and the appearance of an iron constitution.
"Reporters and detectives are busy trying to solve the mystery, and our readers will be informed if aught is discovered regarding this strange affair."
CHAPTER V. – The Boy Protector
AGAIN to the crowded metropolis my story shifts, and to a part of the grand city where dwell those of the humbler walks in life.
Here are no brown-stone fronts, no elegant homes, but the imprint of poverty is upon all.
Long years before the place was a fashionable locality; but the rapid growth of the city forced the wealthy residents up town, and into their homes, not then as now, superb structures, palatial in their fittings, the poorer classes moved, to again give place to those of a still lower strata of the society that goes to make up the world to be found in metropolitan life.
In a tenement-flat, on the fourth floor of a dingy-looking building, a woman sat alone, a piece of embroidery in her hands.
The flat consisted of four rooms, one large one in the front, with a hall-room adjoining, and the same in the rear.
Those in the front were used as sitting-room and bed-room; those in the rear, the larger one for a kitchen and dining-room combined, the smaller for a sleeping-chamber, for there was a cot in it.
The furniture was very scant, and cheap-looking, there being nothing more than was actually necessary for use.
But an air of cleanliness was upon all, and the woman who sat alone in the front room had the appearance of one reared in refinement, one who had seen better days ere she had come to feel the pinching of poverty.
She was neatly clad in a black cashmere dress that was a trifle seedy, and which appeared to have been often brushed.
Her form was slender, very graceful, and her face was beautiful yet sad, while her large eyes were sunken and inflamed as though from weeping.
The work she was engaged upon ill accorded with the rooms and surroundings, for she was embroidering a silk scarf of a rare and costly pattern, and she kept it folded closely in a clean towel, excepting the part upon which her slender, skilful fingers worked.
An easel stood near her with a box of paints and brushes, and a half-finished painting was before her, a landscape scene, with a cosy country house, an old mill, a brook, and a valley stretching away in the distance.
Suddenly her eyes were raised from her work, and rested upon the canvas.
"Dear, dear old Brookside! how I long to see you once again, and yet I dare not go, even though I should have to beg my bread.
"Not one word in all these long, weary, wretched years have I heard from those whom I love so dearly, and deserted to become the wife of —a scoundrel!
"Heaven forgive me that rash act; and forgive me for bringing sorrow upon my parents and poor Kent; but I was fascinated by that wretch – yes, fascinated, as though by a snake, for it was not love I felt, as now I hate him – no, no, I should not say that of the dead, of the father of my children," and she dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears.
Thirteen years have passed away since the reader last beheld her who sits there sobbing like a child, and the once beautiful girl of eighteen, pretty Ruby Raymond, the miller's daughter, has sadly changed in all that time.
Almost from the moment that she left her lovely, happy home, deserting her parents, and flying from the love of honest, brave Kent Lomax, her miseries had begun; and, too proud to return to dear old Brookside, though deserted by her husband, whom she afterward had heard was dead, she struggled on to support herself and her two children.
Not a word had she heard from her parents, and she would not write to them, fearing a rebuff.
Not a word had she heard from Kent Lomax, and, after all that she had done to break his heart, she would not seek his aid in her distress.
She had sewed, embroidered, and then taken up painting as a means of support; but her income was small, and she had to live very humbly.
Her children she sent to the public school, and she clothed them as well as she could.
"Oh! if I could only get a little money saved up, that, in disguise, I could go down to Brookside and see them all there, though they know me not!
"I could leave my children with good hearted Mrs. Lucas, next door, and be gone but a few days, for I only wish to see the dear old home, to gaze upon the faces of my parents, to see Kent, and then come back to my wretchedness and toil; but I feel I could work the better if I could go.
"Still, I cannot, for it would take nearly fifty dollars to go and return, and I have but ten saved up, and it would not be right, if I had the money to spend it thus, for what if I should be taken sick, what would my little ones do?"
Again she buried her face in her hands and wept, to start suddenly, hastily drying her eyes, and, as a second knock came at the door, to call out:
"Come in!"
The door opened and a man entered.
He was a most unprepossessing looking person, one to dread, for he looked like a tramp in dress, and a scoundrel in his face.
The woman arose quickly, and asked as firmly as she could:
"Well, sir, what do you wish here?"
"I've come on business, missus, so don't go to squealin', fer I doesn't mean ter harm yer ef yer puts up ther chink as I tells you," was the reply in a sullen voice.
The woman saw that she was in the man's power, for to scream would bring no aid, as it would scarcely be heard above the din of the city.
Her children were at school, and there was no one to call upon.
The face of the man showed his evil heart, and in dread she said:
"I have but a few dollars in the world, and would you take that?"
"I would, you bet! fer I needs money, and I'll git it, ef I has ter make trouble, so out with it."
The poor woman stepped to a little half-desk, half-table, the place where she kept the few souvenirs of the past, and took therefrom a silk purse.
Out of this she took the money, eleven dollars in all.
"Let me keep one dollar," she pleaded, adding:
"I need it so much."
"Not a copper cent, missus, so hand it over."
"Here it is, eleven dollars."
"It is not enough, for I need more."
"It is all I have."
"You've got jewellery."
"I've a little, souvenirs of my girlhood."
"Durn yer girlhood! Yer should forgit it; so hand it over."
"I will not!" she said firmly.
"Then I chokes that neck o' yours ontil yer can't preach, and takes all."
"Mercy you can have all," and she handed out a small box containing a few trinklets of little intrinsic value, but which she prized most highly.
"You've got some rings there."
"My wedding ring, and one other."
"They are worth somethin'."
"They are worth a great deal to me, for one tells me of a happy past, the other of only sorrow."
"One was given by a lover, I guesses, and t'other by your husband."
"You are right."
"Well, I wants 'em."
"No! no! no! You would not take these."
"Come, I hain't no time to lose, for I'm wanted by the perlice, and to pertect mysel', I'll jist tie you up, and put a bandage on that music-box o' yourn, so you sha'n't shout when I gets out."
As he spoke he advanced toward her, and with a spring he grasped her arm, stifling a cry with his huge right hand.
At the same moment he fell like a log upon the floor, struck down by an iron poker held in the hand of a boy of twelve, who unseen by the robber or his victim, had glided into the room from the back chamber, closely followed by a little girl of ten.
With a bound the woman sprang away from the man as he fell, while she cried in a voice of anguish:
"Oh, Will, my son, you have killed him!"
"I have but protected you, mother," was the reply of the brave boy, who stood over the prostrate form, the iron, which he had used as a weapon, still grasped in his hand.
CHAPTER VI. – The Reward for a Convict
THE boy who had entered the room and dealt what appeared a death-blow to the robber, was a handsome little fellow of twelve, well-grown for his age, with an agile, athletic form, and a face that would win attention anywhere.
He was poorly clad, yet his clothes were neat, and he had the look of one who had been reared in refinement, in spite of his humble and poverty-stamped surroundings.
Behind him, holding in her little hands her own and her brother's books, for the two had just come from school, was a little, fairy-like form of ten years.
Her face was bright, sparkling and lovely, with a look of wisdom and feeling above her years, while her attire was neat, fashionably-made, though of very cheap material, and there was a certain style about her that many a millionaire's daughter on Fifth Avenue would give much to possess.
"My son, you have killed him," repeated the mother, in a tone of horror.
"No – no, mother, for I did not hit him that hard; I don't think I did, at least, though I was very angry at seeing him spring at you, and I am so glad we came.
"We got a half-holiday this afternoon, and came in the back door to surprise you, when we heard that man talking, and I picked up the kitchen poker and – "
"But, Will, something must be done, and – "
The words ended in a startled cry, for the man suddenly rose up to a sitting posture.
But Will was equal to the situation, and raising his poker he cried out sternly:
"Lie down, sir! quick, or I will kill you!"
The half-dazed wretch saw that the boy held him at his mercy, and he dropped back again in a recumbent position.
"Run, Pearl, and get a policeman to come!" cried Will, and the young girl darted away, while the robber started to rise, with the remark:
"No perlice for me, boy – Oh!"
Back he fell, as the poker descended upon his head with a force that again stunned him.
"Oh, Will!" groaned the poor woman.
"I had to do it, mother, or he would have killed us both to get away, for he's a desperate fellow."
And the fearless boy stood over his prisoner with the air of one who meant to stand no trifling, and knew very well that he was master of the situation.
The man soon revived again, but a motion of the poker held over him, and a stern order, kept him on his back, for he had twice felt the weight of the boy's blow, and, bleeding from two scalp-wounds and with aching head, he concluded to remain quiet.
It seemed an age to the mother and son that Pearl was gone; but she had fairly flown to the nearest police station, and came dashing into the room breathlessly, crying:
"They are coming!"
Again the man moved uneasily, but the boy said sternly:
"Don't make me hit you again; but I will if you don't keep quiet."
"I'll even up on yer some day, boy, if I go to prison for ten years!" growled the man; and as he spoke, there came steps upon the stairs without, and a sergeant and two policemen entered, as Pearl threw open the door.
The sergeant bowed politely, for the appearance of the lady commanded respect, and he said:
"Well done, my little man – ha! it is you is it, Black Brick?" and he turned his attention to the prisoner, who already was in irons, as the two officers had lost no time in getting the handcuffs upon him and placing him upon his feet.
"Yes, it's me, Sergeant Daly, and you put a cool thousand in your pocket by my capture," was the sullen reply, and then he added:
"I s'pose you won't share it with me fer givin' myself up?"
"My boy, this fellow you have caught is an escaped convict, and there's a thousand dollars' reward offered for his capture, which you can get by making an application for it."
"Thank you, sir, but neither my son or myself would accept money thus earned, poor as we are," said the lady quickly.
"You know best, madam," said the surprised sergeant, while the two officers also looked amazed.
"What is your name, my lad?" asked Sergeant Daly, taking out a note-book.
"Will Raymond, sir."
"And your name, madam, in full, please?" and the sergeant turned to the mother.
She choked up at the question, her face flashed and then paled; but after an effort at self-control she responded:
"My name was Ruby Raymond, and since my husband's death I retain the name for my children.
"Is it necessary that I should give another?"
"No madam, the name of Raymond will do; but you will not surely refuse the reward allowed for the capture of that rascal there!"
"I cannot allow my son to accept it, sir."
"Pardon me if I say I believe you need the money."
"I need it, sir, true; but not blood money, for I could not look upon it in any other way."
The sergeant bowed, gave a hasty glance about the rooms, and said to Will:
"Come and see me, my boy, and should you need a friend at any time call on me," and the sergeant followed his men and their prisoner, after bowing politely to Mrs. Raymond.
As the door closed behind the officer, Mrs. Raymond sprang toward her son, and throwing her arms about him, she cried earnestly:
"Oh, Willie, my noble boy, you have saved me more than you can ever know, for poor as I am I would not take a fortune for this ring," and she held up a solid gold band before his eyes; but it was not her wedding ring.
CHAPTER VII. – The Lost Gold Piece
SEVERAL months have passed away since the daring attempt of the escaped convict to rob Mrs. Raymond in her humble home, and a change has come that has brought gloom upon the mother and her two children.
It may have been the shock she had, when threatened by the intruder, that caused her to break down and take to her bed ill; but certain it is that she was forced to give up her work, she said for a day or two, and keep her children home from school.
Little Pearl was a good cook, however, and Will made the fires and did what little marketing there was, so that their mother did not suffer for want of attention.
Still she fretted, and a fever followed, and Will went after a doctor on his own responsibility, and placed his mother in his care.
The man of medicine made three visits, and his pay took two-thirds of the little money the poor woman had, and she determined to get up and go to work to earn more.
But she could do but little, and, weak and wretched, she gained strength very slowly.
Then Will went out to see what he could get to do, and each night he came in with a few pence, earned by blacking boots, running errands or selling papers, and this helped to eke out a subsistence for all three.
Mrs. Raymond did not seem to suffer pain, she had no fever, but her ailment appeared to be heart trouble, and night after night she lay awake brooding over her sorrows.
Surprised, as the days passed, that Will seemed to be bringing in more money each day, she wondered at it, and questioned him, but he merely said that he picked it up in odd jobs.
"But, Will, you are looking pale and haggard, and you are working too hard," seeing that he did look wan and white.
"No, mother, I'm all right," he answered, and so the conversation ended.
But that night Mrs. Raymond could not sleep, and growing strangely nervous, she went to wake her son to talk to her for awhile.
To her surprise he was not in his little rear room adjoining the kitchen, and the bed had not been slept in.
She awakened Pearl and asked her about her brother.
"Oh, mamma, don't scold him, for he is at work," said Pearl anxiously.
"Your brother at work, and at night?"
"Yes, mamma, for he has a place as night messenger in a telegraph office; he goes on at ten o'clock and gets off at six," explained Pearl.
"My poor boy! and this accounts for his being so hard to wake up every morning.
"Yes, mamma; but he sleeps in the daytime when he can, and you know he goes to bed early, but I always wake him up at half-past nine o'clock; and, oh, mamma! Will gets six dollars a week, only think of that."
"And he's killing himself, he don't get half the sleep he should have.
"He must give it up, Pearl, for I will not allow him to ruin his health and slave his young life away as he is doing."
"But, mamma, you are sick, and Will makes so much, and you ought not to work."
But Mrs. Raymond was firm in her resolve, and when Will came creeping into his little room in the early morning, he was astonished at finding his mother lying in his bed, awaiting him.
In vain he argued; she would not hear of his continuing his night-work, and so Will Raymond left his place and looked for something else to do.
But nothing came in his way; times were hard, and but a few pennies a day were all the mother and her children had to live on.
Will seldom ate at home, saying that he got plenty at the lunch-counters during the day, and he left the scanty food for his mother and sister; but this his mother soon began to disbelieve, as the boy looked really ill and was growing thin.
"To-day is Thanksgiving Day, Will, so we must have a good dinner," said Mrs. Raymond, with a forced smile, one morning, after a most meagre breakfast.
"Oh, mamma!" said Will, and his heart was too full to say more.
"My son, I have a gold-piece – a three-dollar piece given me years ago, and which I have held on to until now, never counting it in thinking of my finances; but I wish you to take it and go to some good market and invest a dollar at least in a good dinner;" and the poor mother turned away to hide her tears, for the faces of her children told her plainly that they were hungry – yes, very hungry, as she was herself.
Will took the piece of gold, when his mother had taken it from its hiding-place, and placed it carefully in his pocket.
Then he started out upon his errand.
He was anxious to make his money go as far as possible, and yet secure the best, so he wended his way to a market, which had often attracted his attention.
Arriving at the market he feasted his eyes upon bunches of crisp, white celery, selected some fine sweet-potatoes, picked out a fine chicken, and then felt in his pocket for his money.
The marketman saw him turn pale as death, and then say, in a whisper, which he knew was not feigned:
"My gold-piece is gone!"
"Have you lost your money, my little man?" he asked, in a kindly way.
"Yes, sir; and it is all we have in the world.
"Ah! here is a hole in my pocket, and it has rolled out, for it was a three-dollar gold-piece.
"But maybe I can find it, sir," and the tears were in the boy's eyes.
"If you do not come back, I will trust you for your Thanksgiving dinner, for I know you will pay me when you can."
"Oh, thank you, sir! You are so kind!" and Will bounded away to look for his gold-piece.
But then he remembered that if he went at a rapid pace it might escape his eye; he walked slowly, searching the ground at every step of the way.
Presently he walked bolt up against a gentleman who had been watching his approach for half a block.
"Oh, pardon me, sir!" he said.
"Certainly, my boy; but you appear to be searching for something that you have lost?"
The face of the man was full of kindness, though stern, and his voice had a sympathetic tone in it that touched the boy, who told his misfortune to the stranger, adding:
"It was all we had, sir, and poor mother's heart will break, I know."
The man looked like one who had seen the world, and he dressed as one who had a plethoric pocket-book.
He was a reader of human nature, and saw that it was no begging for sympathy that the boy told his story for.
A man of fifty, perhaps, he was well preserved, and yet there was that in his face that seemed to indicate that his life had not been all made up of sunshine.
"My boy, I found your gold-piece, and – "
"Oh, sir!" cried Will, in delight.
"Yes, and I took it as an omen of good luck, this Thanksgiving day, and I meant to devote many times its amount to charity, of which I might not have thought but for my finding this gold-piece.
"No, I cannot give you my 'luck-piece,' as I must keep it; but I will give you more than its value, so let us go to the market and get the things you ordered, and then, if you will ask me home with you, I will go, for somehow I look upon you as a lucky find, my boy.
"Come, now, to the market."
"But, sir, our home is a flat on the top floor of a tenement-house, and it is so humble, and we are so poor, you would not like to go there."
"I will go, unless you refuse to take me, my boy."
"No, sir, I could not refuse one who is so kind to me," was the answer, and Will led the way back to the market.
"Did you find your money, my lad?" asked the man.
"Yes, sir, or rather this gentleman found it for me."
"Yes, sir, and I wish you to put up your best turkey, and other things that I will order, and send at once to the address that my young friend here will give you."
Will stood aghast, as he heard the orders, for flour, tea, coffee, sugar, hams and other things were on the list until he seemed to feel that his kind friend was going to provision the flat for a year to come.
"Now, Will, we must take a carriage, for I am a trifle lame, from the effects of an old wound when I was a soldier in the Mexican war," and a passing hack was called, and the two entered it.
Arriving at the tenement-house the gentleman bade the driver wait, and then he followed Will up the dingy flights of stairs to the top floor.
Opening the door of the sitting-room, Will ushered his guest in, and Mrs. Raymond arose from her easy-chair at sight of a stranger.
She looked pale and thin, but very beautiful, and her face slightly flushed as she saw her son with the visitor.
"This is my mother, Mr. Ivey, and this, my little sister Pearl.
"Mother, this gentleman has been most kind to me," and Will introduced his visitor with the ease of one double his years.
The visitor seemed amazed at the lovely woman he beheld before him, and instinctively he knew that he was in the presence of a lady.
He bowed low, and advancing held out his hand, while he said:
"You must pardon my intrusion, Mrs. Raymond; but I was so fortunate this morning as to find a three-dollar gold-piece.
"It caught my eye, as it glittered upon the pavement, and picking it up I saw that it had a hole in it, so attached it to my watch-chain.
"A moment after I beheld one I recognized as the owner coming in search of it, and thus I made the acquaintance of your noble boy, and hence took the occasion to also meet you and his sister."
Mrs. Raymond was touched by the words of the visitor, and there was that in his face that seemed to impress her, and she said:
"You are very welcome, sir, though ours is but a poor home for visitors, and I have been an invalid for some little time; but may I ask, as my son introduced you as Mr. Ivey, if you are not Colonel Richard Ivey, who was known as Dashing Dick Ivey of the Dragoons in the Mexican war?"
"Why yes, madam, that was my name, when years ago I was a cavalry officer; but have we met before that you recognize me?"
"No, sir, but when a girl I kept a scrap-book, and yours was among the pictures that I took from a paper and put in it, and often have I looked over the book and your face has but little changed, so I recalled it upon hearing your name."
"You are very kind, my dear madam, and this is another link of friendship between us that you should remember me as a soldier, and I hope you will look upon me from this day as an old friend, one who knows your sufferings and your needs, for I have heard all from Will, and I intend to do for you just what I would have done for a sister of mine were she in distress," and into the hearts of the mother and her children came a joy that they had not known for many a long day, and all through Will Raymond's losing his three-dollar gold-piece on Thanksgiving Day.