The Young Bank Messenger

CHAPTER XXIV.

STEPHEN RAY AND HIS SON

Leaving Ernest and Luke Robbins on their way to California, our attention is called to other characters who must play a part in the drama of the boy from Oak Forks.

A few miles from Elmira, upon an eminence from which there was a fine view of the surrounding country, stood the handsome country mansion of Stephen Ray, already referred to as the cousin of Ernest's father. It passed into his possession by inheritance from poor Ernest's grandfather, the will under which the bequest was made cutting off his son for no worse a crime than marrying a girl thoroughly respectable but of humble birth.

Stephen Ray, since he came into possession of his uncle's estate, had improved it considerably. He had torn down the old stable and built an imposing new one. The plain carriage which had satisfied his uncle had been succeeded by an elegant coach, and the sober but rather slow horse by a pair of spirited steeds.

Mr. Ray had become pompous, and by his manner made it clear that he considered him self a man of great consequence. He was a local magistrate, and had for years endeavored to obtain a nomination for Congress.

Had he been of popular manners he would probably have succeeded, but he was not a favorite among the poorer classes, and their vote must be considered.

There is an old saying, "Like father, like son," and Clarence, now turned sixteen, the only child of the country magnate, was like his father in all objectionable qualities. He was quite as much impressed with ideas of his own consequence.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Ray sat on the piazza, the day being unusually warm, reading a newspaper. In the street, near by, his son Clarence was moving swiftly on a new bicycle which his father had just purchased for him.

"Out of the way, there!" he called out, as a shabbily-dressed stranger with a weary step plodded along the pathway.

Whether because he was hard of hearing or because his mind was preoccupied, the stranger did not heed the warning, and Clarence, who might easily have avoided the collision, ran into him recklessly. Had the bicycle been moving at a greater rate of speed, he might have been seriously hurt. As it was, he was nearly thrown down.

But he rallied, and seizing the offending rider with no gentle grasp, dragged him from the wheel and shook him vigorously.

"Let me alone, you tramp!" exclaimed Clarence, furiously.

But the stranger did not release his hold.

"Not till you apologize for running into me," he answered sternly.

"Apologize to a man like you!" ejaculated Clarence, struggling furiously for his freedom. "What do you take me for?"

"For an impudent young rascal," was the reply.

"Let me alone, I tell you!"

"Will you apologize?"

"There is no need of an apology. You got in my way."

"You have no business on the sidewalk with your bicycle. It is meant for foot-passengers."

"Do you know who I am?" demanded Clarence, haughtily.

"No, I don't, nor do I care."

"I am Clarence Ray, son of Squire Stephen Ray. He is a magistrate, and he can send you to jail."

These words of Clarence had the effect he desired. The stranger released him and eyed him with close scrutiny.

"So you are the son of Stephen Ray?" he said.

"Yes. What have you to say now?"

"That you had no right to run into me, whoever your father may be."

"I shall report your insolence to my father. I shall charge you with violently assaulting me."

"I might have known you were Stephen Ray's son," said the stranger thoughtfully.

"Do you know my father?" asked Clarence in considerable surprise.

"I am on my way to call upon him."

"I don't think it will do any good. He never gives money to tramps."

"I have a great mind to give you another shaking up," said the man, and in some fear Clarence edged away from him.

It was evident that this shabby-looking stranger had not a proper respect for those who were in a higher station.

"I will tell him not to give you anything," continued Clarence.

"Like father, like son," said the stranger thoughtfully, apparently not disturbed by the boy's threats.

Evidently he was no common tramp, or he would have been more respectful to the son of the man from whom he was probably about to ask a favor.

"You just wait till you see my father. He'll give you a lecture that you won't soon forget."

"You'd better get on your wheel, boy, and go right along," said the stranger calmly.

"Do you know where my father lives?"

"Yes, at yonder fine house. I see him sitting out on the piazza. Shall we go along together?"

"No, I don't keep such company as you. Tramps are not my style."

"And yet some day you may be as poor and friendless as myself."

"That isn't very likely; my father is a very rich man."

"I knew him when he was poor."

More and more puzzled by the independent manner of this shabby stranger, Clarence made a spurt, and soon found himself in the grounds of his father's house.

"With whom were you talking, Clarence?" asked Stephen Ray, as his son joined him on the piazza.

"One of the most impudent tramps I ever came across," answered Clarence. "He made an attack upon me, and pulled me from my bicycle."

Stephen Ray's cheek flamed with anger. An insult to his son was an insult to him.

"Why did he do this? How dared he?" he demanded angrily.

"Because I happened to touch him as I passed," answered Clarence.

"He actually pulled you from your bicycle?" asked Stephen Ray, almost incredulous.

"Yes."

"I should like to meet him. I should feel justified in ordering his arrest."

"You will have a chance to meet him. He told me he was going to call upon you there he is now, entering the gate."

Stephen was glad to hear it. He wanted to empty the vials of his wrath on the audacious offender. He prided himself on his grand manner.

He was accustomed to seeing men of the stamp of this stranger quail before him and show nervous alarm at his rebukes. He had no doubt that his majestic wrath would overwhelm the shabby outcast who had audaciously assaulted his son and heir.

He rose to his feet, and stood the personification of haughty displeasure as the poor man, who dared his anger, walked composedly up the path. He now stood by the piazza steps.

"It is well you have come here," began the squire in a dignified tone. "My son tells me that you have committed an unprovoked outrage upon him in dragging him from his wheel. I can only conclude that you are under the influence of liquor."

Stephen Ray waited curiously to hear what the man would say. He was prepared for humble apologies.

"I am no more drunk than yourself, if that is what you mean, Stephen Ray," was the unexpected reply.

Squire Ray was outraged and scandalized.

"You must be drunk or you would not dare to talk in this way. Who authorized you to address me in this familiar way?"

"You are only a man, I believe, Stephen Ray. I have addressed you as respectfully as you have spoken to me."

"Respect to you?" repeated Mr. Ray, disdainfully. "Has the time come when we must be respectful to tramps?"

"A poor tramp is quite as deserving of respect as a rich rascal."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the squire suspiciously.

"It was a general remark."

"It is well that it was. But it has no application in the present instance. If you are poor I will give you a quarter, but only on condition that you apologize to my son."

The stranger laughed.

"Why should I apologize to your son?" he asked.

"You pulled him off his bicycle. Do you deny it?"

"No, I do not. Do you know what he did?"

"He brushed against you with his wheel, he tells me, accidentally."

"So that is his version of it? He deliberately ran into me."

"I gave you warning. I said 'Out of the way, there!'" interrupted Clarence.

"Yes, but you had no right on the side walk. That is meant for foot-passengers."

"It seems to me, sir, that you are remarkably independent for a man of your rank. Even if it had been as you say, you had no right to assault my son. I might have you arrested on your own confession, but I will forbear doing so on condition that you leave town at once."

"I have a little business with you, first, Stephen Ray."

"If you expect alms, you have come to the wrong man. I don't believe in encouraging beggars."

"I know very well that you are not charitable. You see, I used to be acquainted with you."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Benjamin Bolton."

Stephen Ray looked startled.

"Benjamin Bolton!" he repeated, half incredulous. "I can't believe it."

CHAPTER XXV.

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE

"Look at me closely, Stephen Ray," said the strange visitor. "I think you will see some traces of the Bolton you used to know."

Stephen Ray, somewhat discomposed, did examine his visitor closely. Against his will he was obliged to acknowledge the resemblance of the man before him to one who in past times had had an intimate acquaintance with his affairs.

"You may be Benjamin Bolton," he said after a pause, "but if so, you have fallen off greatly in your appearance. When I first knew you, you were well dressed and–"

"Respectable, I suppose you mean to say?"

"Well, respectable, if you will have it so. Now you look more like a tramp than a lawyer."

"True as gospel, every word of it. But it isn't too late to mend. That's an old proverb and a true one. It is quite in the line of possibility that I should get back to the position from which I fell."

"Perhaps so, but I'm not sanguine of it."

"With your powerful help nothing is impossible–not even that."

"You must not count upon that," said Stephen Ray, stiffly. "It is a good while since we parted company. I don't myself care to renew the acquaintance."

"But I do," rejoined Bolton with emphasis. "I told you that I had business with you."

"I have very little time at my disposal," said Ray, pulling out an elegant gold watch–a Jurgensen–and consulting it.

"I think it may be well for you to spare me a little time," went on Bolton, quietly.

There was something in his tone that sounded like a threat, and Stephen Ray could not wholly conceal his uneasiness.

"Well," he said, "I will give you ten minutes. Get through your business, whatever it is, as soon as possible."

"Hadn't you better send your son away?" suggested Bolton, significantly.

"Why should I?"

But on second thoughts Mr. Ray concluded to act on the hint, and turning to Clarence he said, "Clarence, you might take another spin on your wheel."

This did not suit Clarence at all. His curiosity had been excited by his father's change of front towards the objectionable stranger, and he counted on finding out the reason for it.

"Why can't I stay?" he grumbled. "I am tired of riding."

"Then go up stairs. This man and I have a little private business together."

He spoke firmly, and Clarence knew by his tone that further remonstrance would be un availing, so with a dissatisfied look he left the room.

"Now, sir," said Stephen Ray, sharply, when his son had taken his departure, "I gave you ten minutes. You will need to be expeditious."

"It will take more than ten minutes–what I have to say," returned Bolton, coolly. "I am rather tired of standing, so you will excuse me if I sit down."

As he spoke he dropped into a comfortable chair three feet from his host.

"Confound his impudence!" thought Ray, much annoyed.

"I think we had better go indoors," he said.

He did not care to be seen in an apparently friendly conversation with a man like Bolton.

"Very well. I think myself it may be better."

He followed Ray into a room which the latter used as a library and office, and took care to select a comfortable seat.

"Really, Stephen Ray," he remarked, glancing around him at the well-filled bookcases, the handsome pictures, and the luxurious furniture, "you are very nicely fixed here."

"I suppose you didn't come to tell me that," responded Stephen Ray with a sneer.

"Well, not altogether, but it is as well to refer to it. I have known you a good many years. I remember when you first came here to visit your uncle in the character of a poor relation. I don't believe you had a hundred dollars to your name."

Such references grated upon the purse-proud aristocrat, who tried to persuade himself that he had always been as prosperous as at present.

"There is no occasion for your reminiscences," he said stiffly.

"No, I suppose you don't care to think of those days now. Your cousin, Dudley, a fine young man, was a year or two older. Who would have thought that the time would come when you–the poor cousin–would be reigning in his place?"

"If that is all you have to say, our interview may as well close."

"It isn't all I have to say. I must indulge in a few more reminiscences, though you dislike them. A few years passed. Dudley married against his father's wishes; that is, his father did not approve of his selection, and he fell out of favor. As he lost favor you gained it."

"That is true enough, but it is an old story. Why recall it?"

"Does it seem just that an own son should be disinherited and a stranger–"

"A near relative," corrected Stephen Ray.

"Well, a near relative, but less near than an only son. Does it seem right that Dudley should have been disinherited and you put in his place?"

"Certainly. My cousin disobeyed his father, while I was always dutiful and obedient."

"So he was left in poverty."

"I don't see how that concerns you, Benjamin Bolton. My uncle had the right to dispose of his property as he pleased. It was not for me to question his right nor you."

"Probably Dudley Ray is living in poverty now."

"You are mistaken. He is dead."

"Indeed! Poor fellow. He was a generous and high-minded man."

"Whatever he may have been, he offended his father and suffered the consequences."

"Too true!"

"But I fail to understand why you should have come to discuss this matter with me."

"When did Dudley die?"

"I can't be sure as to the year. I think it was about a year after his father's death."

"I presume that his father's injustice helped to hasten his end."

"I won't permit any reflections upon my dear uncle and benefactor. He did what he liked with his own. He felt that the estate would be better in my hands than in Dudley's."

"Admitting for a moment that this was so, did your heart prompt you to bestow a part of the estate on your unfortunate cousin?"

"No; for I am sure my uncle would have disapproved of such action on my part."

"Do you know if he suffered much from poverty?"

"No; I did not concern myself with that, nor need you."

"I would like to comment on one of your statements. You say that your uncle had a right to dispose of his estate as he pleased."

"Do you dispute it?"

"No; I agree with you. Stephen Ray, was his estate disposed of according to his wishes?"

Mr. Ray started, and his face became flushed.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that he bequeathed the estate to his son, and you took possession of it."

Bolton spoke slowly, and eyed Stephen Ray keenly.

"Are you mad?" gasped Stephen. "How could I do that? His will, devising the estate to me, was duly probated, and I entered upon my inheritance by due process of law."

"I know such a will was probated."

"Then what have you to say?" demanded Stephen Ray, defiantly. "Do you mean to deny that the will was genuine?"

"No."

"Because if you do, you can go to the probate office, and submit the will to any judge of my uncle's handwriting."

"There will be no occasion. I admit that the will was written by him."

"What do you mean, then?" asked Stephen Ray, showing relief.

"I mean this–that it was not his last will and testament."

"Where is the later one? Produce it if you can," said Stephen Ray, triumphantly.

"You say this fearlessly because you found a later will–and destroyed it."

"It is a vile slander!"

"No; I will swear that such a will was made."

"If it was destroyed, he destroyed it himself."

"No, he did not. I am willing to swear that when he died that will was in existence."

"I don't think your swearing will do much good," sneered Stephen Ray.

"Perhaps so; but one thing has not occurred to you."

"What is that?"

"A duplicate of the last will was placed in my hands. That will exists to-day!"

Stephen Ray started violently.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Seeing is believing."

"Then bring it here, and let me see it. However, there is one material circumstance that would make it of no value."

"What is it?"

"My cousin Dudley is dead, and so is his son Ernest. There would be no one to profit by the production of the alleged will."

Bolton was quite taken aback by this statement, as Stephen Ray perceived, and he plumed himself on the success of his falsehood.

"When did the boy die?" asked Bolton.

"About five years ago."

"And where?"

"At Savannah," answered Ray, glibly.

"What should have taken him down there?"

"I am not positive, but I believe after his father's death a Southern gentleman became interested in him and took him to Georgia, where the poor boy died."

Bolton looked keenly at the face of his companion, and detected an expression of triumph about the eyes which led him to doubt the truth of his story. But he decided not to intimate his disbelief.

"That was sad," he said.

"Yes; and as you will see, even had your story about the will been true it would have made no difference in the disposal of the property."

"Still the revelation of your complicity in the suppression of the last will would injure your reputation, Mr. Ray."

"I can stand it," answered Ray with assumed indifference. "You see, my dear fellow, you have brought your wares to the wrong market. Of course you are disappointed."