IV
From a Clear Sky
The inmates of the Oakley house had not been long in their beds before Hamilton was out of his and rousing his own little household.
“You, Joe,” he called to his son, “git up f’om daih an’ come right hyeah. You got to he’p me befo’ you go to any shop dis mo’nin’. You, Kitty, stir yo’ stumps, miss. I know yo’ ma’s a-dressin’ now. Ef she ain’t, I bet I’ll be aftah huh in a minute, too. You all layin’ ’roun’, snoozin’ w’en you all des’ pint’ly know dis is de mo’nin’ Mistah Frank go ’way f’om hyeah.”
It was a cool Autumn morning, fresh and dew-washed. The sun was just rising, and a cool clear breeze was blowing across the land. The blue smoke from the “house,” where the fire was already going, whirled fantastically over the roofs like a belated ghost. It was just the morning to doze in comfort, and so thought all of Berry’s household except himself. Loud was the complaining as they threw themselves out of bed. They maintained that it was an altogether unearthly hour to get up. Even Mrs. Hamilton added her protest, until she suddenly remembered what morning it was, when she hurried into her clothes and set about getting the family’s breakfast.
The good humour of all of them returned when they were seated about their table with some of the good things of the night before set out, and the talk ran cheerily around.
“I do declaih,” said Hamilton, “you all’s as bad as dem white people was las’ night. De way dey waded into dat food was a caution.” He chuckled with delight at the recollection.
“I reckon dat’s what dey come fu’. I wasn’t payin’ so much ’tention to what dey eat as to de way dem women was dressed. Why, Mis’ Jedge Hill was des’ mo’n go’geous.”
“Oh, yes, ma, an’ Miss Lessing wasn’t no ways behin’ her,” put in Kitty.
Joe did not condescend to join in the conversation, but contented himself with devouring the good things and aping the manners of the young men whom he knew had been among last night’s guests.
“Well, I got to be goin’,” said Berry, rising. “There’ll be early breakfas’ at de ‘house’ dis mo’nin’, so’s Mistah Frank kin ketch de fus’ train.”
He went out cheerily to his work. No shadow of impending disaster depressed his spirits. No cloud obscured his sky. He was a simple, easy man, and he saw nothing in the manner of the people whom he served that morning at breakfast save a natural grief at parting from each other. He did not even take the trouble to inquire who the strange white man was who hung about the place.
When it came time for the young man to leave, with the privilege of an old servitor Berry went up to him to bid him goodbye. He held out his hand to him, and with a glance at his brother, Frank took it and shook it cordially. “Goodbye, Berry,” he said. Maurice could hardly restrain his anger at the sight, but his wife was moved to tears at her brother-in-law’s generosity.
The last sight they saw as the carriage rolled away towards the station was Berry standing upon the steps waving a hearty farewell and godspeed.
“How could you do it, Frank?” gasped his brother, as soon as they had driven well out of hearing.
“Hush, Maurice,” said Mrs. Oakley gently; “I think it was very noble of him.”
“Oh, I felt sorry for the poor fellow,” was Frank’s reply. “Promise me you won’t be too hard on him, Maurice. Give him a little scare and let him go. He’s possibly buried the money, anyhow.”
“I shall deal with him as he deserves.”
The young man sighed and was silent the rest of the way.
“Whether I fail or succeed, you will always think well of me, Maurice?” he said in parting; “and if I don’t come up to your expectations, well—forgive me—that’s all.”
His brother wrung his hand. “You will always come up to my expectations, Frank,” he said. “Won’t he, Leslie?”
“He will always be our Frank, our good, generous-hearted, noble boy. God bless him!”
The young fellow bade them a hearty goodbye, and they, knowing what his feelings must be, spared him the prolonging of the strain. They waited in the carriage, and he waved to them as the train rolled out of the station.
“He seems to be sad at going,” said Mrs. Oakley.
“Poor fellow, the affair of last night has broken him up considerably, but I’ll make Berry pay for every pang of anxiety that my brother has suffered.”
“Don’t be revengeful, Maurice; you know what brother Frank asked of you.”
“He is gone and will never know what happens, so I may be as revengeful as I wish.”
The detective was waiting on the lawn when Maurice Oakley returned. They went immediately to the library, Oakley walking with the firm, hard tread of a man who is both exasperated and determined, and the officer gliding along with the catlike step which is one of the attributes of his profession.
“Well?” was the impatient man’s question as soon as the door closed upon them.
“I have some more information that may or may not be of importance.”
“Out with it; maybe I can tell.”
“First, let me ask if you had any reason to believe that your butler had any resources of his own, say to the amount of three or four hundred dollars?”
“Certainly not. I pay him thirty dollars a month, and his wife fifteen dollars, and with keeping up his lodges and the way he dresses that girl, he can’t save very much.”
“You know that he has money in the bank?”
“No.”
“Well, he has. Over eight hundred dollars.”
“What? Berry? It must be the pickings of years.”
“And yesterday it was increased by five hundred more.”
“The scoundrel!”
“How was your brother’s money, in bills?”
“It was in large bills and gold, with some silver.”
“Berry’s money was almost
