"In the eyes of the law a man is innocent until proven guilty; the world says he is guilty until proven innocent."

I was taken to the district attorney's office, treated with courtesy, and told I would be released on giving five hundred dollars bail.

I believed I could do this and was given the day to accomplish it. By telephone and telegraph I tried to find the friends whom I thought would surely stand by me to that extent in this emergency, especially as there was no possible risk of loss. They had but to take the five hundred dollars out of their bank and deposit it in another place quite as secure. Sooner or later it would come back to them.

When the day was ended I was poorer by the amount of the tolls I had paid and had not found the friend. This one would like to do it, but could not; another had gone to luncheon and would call me up on the telephone as soon as he returned--he must be still at luncheon. Every one I tried had some excuse.

To my wife I wrote fully, suggesting to her a number of people to whom she might appeal in her efforts to effect my release. Then I settled down to grim despair.

For three full weeks my wife labored unceasingly to get bail. The amount had been reduced, first to three hundred, then to two hundred dollars, and finally she secured the latter sum and I returned to her almost a wreck mentally and physically.

Among the people I had told my wife to apply to was Mr. Mallison, who, it will be remembered, was the man to whom I sold the Wood and Slater interests in certain properties.

For some time before our second failure he had been doing business in our office on joint account and some of the money he had contributed was lost. In reply to my wife's letter he gave these losses as a reason for not helping, and added that I had admitted to his lawyer I had not made the purchases for which his money was to be used for margins.

I know the man and do not believe he would knowingly make a statement contrary to the facts, but I cannot conceive how he could possibly place such a construction on anything that was said by me at the interview he referred to, or at any other time. It is absolutely and unqualifiedly false. Not only did I make clear that every dollar of his money had been applied as intended, but I urged his lawyer to examine the books and trace the losses, and understood he would do so. When he did not, I supposed he was entirely satisfied and did not want to further mix in my affairs for fear that the creditors would try to hold his client responsible as an undisclosed partner.

Is it reasonable to suppose that I would appeal to Mallison for help if there had been the slightest shadow of foundation for the statement in his letter? The idea is preposterous.

My condition was now such that rest was imperative. In three weeks I had lost in weight twenty-one pounds and my nerves were almost in a state of total collapse. I hoped a few weeks in the country would renew my physical strength and mental equilibrium, but I had underestimated the force of the shock. All the summer and fall the weakness remained and it was only toward the close of the year I was able to resume my labors. This enforced rest was made possible through the kindness of two or three gentlemen in the trade and one or two other friends who contributed the funds to meet my family expenses.

When bail was given I was told trial would come early in October.

Letters of inquiry to the district attorney brought only indefinite replies, simply telling me I would be notified when wanted, and there the matter ended.

CHAPTER XLIX

RETROSPECTION

Nearly forty, or, to be exact, thirty-nine years of my life have been covered by this narrative, now drawing to its conclusion.

As I sit at my writing-table, memory carries me back to the first chapter, and even before--to my school-boy days, those happy days when care was unknown.

The panorama moves slowly on before my mental vision and I see myself a youth at the portal of manhood.

Into view now comes the fair girl who honored and blessed me with a love that has proved almost beyond the power of conception. As I raise my eyes from the paper they rest on her dear face. Wonderful to relate, no lines of care do I discover. Save for the premature and very becoming silver of her hair and the matronly development of figure there is but little indication of the many years that have pa.s.sed since we joined hands in our voyage of life. As her glance meets mine, she flashes at me, as in the days of yore, the same sweet smile of love and tenderness.

The early years of our married life appear before me. Those years when periods of worry alternated with others of freedom from care.

The years of my early struggle against heavy odds, to gain success.

The years of "Love's young dream" how sweet that side of my life seemed then, and how far sweeter, deeper, stronger seems now the love of our later years through the triumphs and trials those years brought with them.

To my mind comes the successive births of our children and the joy the advent of each brought into our family circle.

And now I see myself in the delirium of that well-nigh fatal illness when but for my devoted wife's careful nursing the occasion for writing this narrative would never have arisen.

The scene changes and year after year of prosperity rolls into view.

Those years when with wealth steadily increasing I reveled in the business I had created and reared to such large proportions. The thought of the contrast with present conditions for an instant stops the beating of my heart--and yet I think, "'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

Now comes that day when I considered the question of retiring from business. Oh! why did not the fates then guide me rightly? What years of misery would have been spared to those I loved--and yet that very love was the motive that swayed me.

The pictures change. Clouds gather and darken the sunshine of my life. Crashes of thunder sound in my ears and the storm of my first failure is upon me. "The ship founders." G.o.d help the pa.s.sengers and crew!

The boat is launched and gathers them in--can it make the sh.o.r.e?

Here and there a little smooth water, an occasional rift of light through the clouds--alas! only to be followed by greater darkness--and the pictures cease. But no, there is still one to come.

The boat is aground. Mountains of surf dash on the rocky coast, seeking to tear the frail craft to pieces. In the perspective behold the sea of many years, studded with the crafts of those friends of my former good ship _Prosperity_. How many I see that owe to me, some only a pennant, many a sail or two, and others the stanch deck on which they stand.

Do they see our signal of distress? Beyond a doubt. Do they answer it? Wait.

Speeding toward us, with the flag of true friendship flying at the peak, comes a gallant ship. In letters of gold the name _Dwight Temple_ stands out from the bow. Many times we have asked aid from its owner and never once has it been refused, though in our great wreck his loss was heavy. Here comes to our relief the good ship _George Todd_, a friend that has never failed; but in many of our dark hours his ship has sailed in foreign waters, far removed from our troubled seas. Then comes sailing right for us _Charlie Fitch_, never but once appealed to, and then did his best and instantly to help us. And now one more, the _Carleton Cushing,_--a true friend, a heart of oak, but the craft too small to avail in a heavy sea--and that is all!

How about the great ocean steamer which could take on board our whole boat and never miss the cost? Has the captain seen our signals?

Seen them?--yes, again and again, written in letters of blood drawn from our hearts, and ignored them. Freighted with probably fifty millions of dollars that ship goes from port to port doing good.

It must be so, for these philanthropic acts have been widely advertised. But while we have sailed in the same waters for nearly forty years our boat is now too small to be noticed, though once we did receive a keg of ship biscuit for which we still owe and are not ungrateful.

And there is another large steamer--how about that one? No help for us there. We sailed in company for years, but now that steamer, the _Viedler,_ is bound on a voyage of discovery to the North Pole and has no desire to aid a craft which has met with disaster, even though manned by old friends.

And so it is with all the rest.

See all those small boats--not one but has seen our signals of trouble. We did not expect from them material aid. They are too small to give it. But though for many years we have been friends, helping them time and time again in their days of need, they have forgotten us. From them we looked for the touch of sympathy, the firm grasp of the hand, the friendly word of encouragement, and we looked in vain. Not even to the woman came a single line to lighten her burden.

It's the way of the world. Thank G.o.d, I have been able to chronicle exceptions, even though so few.

CHAPTER L

A DREAM

It is midnight--my narrative is finished. As the pen drops from my hand the weary eyes close and I sleep.

The living room in our bungalow. Before the great stone fire-place sitting side by side, my wife and I. Her hand rests in mine as we gaze into the flames ascending from the fragrant logs resting on the ma.s.sive wrought-iron andirons. These and the caribou head looking down on us from above the high mantel came from the hall at "Redstone."

The chime rings out as in the days long gone by from the dear old clock re-purchased from Charlie Wood.

As we look around the room in the soft fire-light we see the few old friends left from that awful slaughter when our household G.o.ds were sold; and best of all, in the low shelves at one end of the room are the dearly loved volumes, all that remain of our once fine library.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Redstone"--The Hall]

We leave our chairs, and going arm-in-arm to the window stand watching the moon rise out of the sea. All is peace and contentment in this modest home wherein we plan to end our days, for at last we have found rest.

The maid comes in the room, lights the lamps, draws the draperies over the windows and again we are alone. From my writing-table I take up the letter received from my publishers by the last mail.

It has been read and re-read, but again I read it aloud. It tells such good news.