"Perhaps it's from Gerald, father.
"More likely," snorted Mrs. Depew, "from the county lunatic asylum, to say they've a vacancy for a permanency if your father likes to call."
"Here, Tess, girlie, read this. See who it's from, and what it's about."
The girl took the letter and read.
"That makes the nineteen thousand pounds," said Tessie, as she finished reading the letter. "I wondered what eighteen meant."
"There's time to catch the train;" he walked to the window as he spoke, and called out, "You, Sam, just hitch the mare on to the buggy----"
"And what's the buggy for?" interrupted his wife.
"To drive to the station, of course."
"Well, the buggy won't hold four people, will it?"
"Four?"
"Yes. Sam'll have to go to bring it back. Do you expect me and Tessie to hang on to that axle?"
"What? Are you going?"
"Am I? I reckon. If you think, George Depew, that you are going to career around the streets of N'York, bulging money at every pocket, with nary a sensible soul to look after you, let me tell you, you make a mistake."
"But, mother dear," said Tessie; "you will never be ready. The train goes in twenty minutes, and you will never have time to change your dress."
"Won't I? Sakes alive! You've known me for nigh on nineteen years, and you don't know your mother yet."
She had thrown off her apron and was rolling down her sleeves as she spoke. Then she called out to the hired girl:
"You, Liz, my boots, the ones I wore last time I was in Oakville. Won't be ready, won't I?" she continued, as she bustled up-stairs to change her dress; "I guess I shall be ready before you are."
Her husband changed the order, and the horse was harnessed to a four wheeled trap. By the time the farmer had changed into fresh boots and coat, Mrs. Depew was heard descending the stairs.
"On time, I reckon, ain't I?" she inquired as she tied her bonnet strings. "Where's that gal? Now, you, Tessie, jump about; never mind your hair, clap your hat on, and come right down at once. We don't need to miss that train."
She was outside getting into her seat, and had taken the reins in hand before she had finished speaking.
Tessie ran down, jumped up, and presently they were driving rapidly in the direction of the station.
The train was caught, and during the journey the situation was discussed with much spirit.
The fact that the hero had appealed to Mrs. Depew, when her husband had turned him out, was not forgotten by that lady. Her "I told you so" song she sang for all it was worth, and kept her foot on the low pedal, too.
"I know a man, I do hope, when I see one," she said, "and at five o'clock this afternoon I hope to put my arms round the neck of one, and give him a good sounding kiss. I'm just real anxious to fill a great gaping hole in our midst. I'm wanting to extend a welcoming hand to a son-in-law that'll fill it, and supply the common sense we're so hard up for with our men folk."
CHAPTER XXXIX
MRS. DEPEW HAS THINGS HER OWN WAY
Before five o'clock the three Depews--father, mother, and daughter--were in the New York lawyer's office, and punctually at the hour Gerald entered.
The lawyer, who had guessed something of what had happened, judiciously left them together for a few minutes.
Mrs. Depew carried out her threat; she walked straight over to Gerald, and gave him what she called a "smack."
"You, Gerald," she said, "I'm as real pleased to see you as I am to see the snow go away in winter. I believed in you, my lad, from the first, and if I've got an old fool for a husband, remember that he is only an old fool, and there's no scrap of real bad in him--that he's as good a husband, and as good a father as ever stepped in shoes."
"I want to say right here, Gerald," interposed the farmer, "that I'm as real sorry as any man can be for what I----"
"There's no need for you to say anything to me just now, farmer,"
interrupted Gerald stiffly; "you said enough last time we met to last me for many a day."
"I know, lad, I know, lad--don't I know it? You're not going to play heavy on a man old enough to be your father?"
"You were heavy enough on me--young enough to be your son! I have made up my mind"--he sat down with an air of determination as he spoke "to talk to you; to talk to you freely, when the whole of your nineteen thousand pounds is found.
"I've got hold on the balance that's missing, and it only wants the lawyer to put things in trim for it to be recovered. When it is--when the whole nineteen thousand pounds is in your possession--I shall want you to eat the word 'thief' you applied to me."
"Ain't I just eating it, Gerald?" said the old man humbly. "Is there a man here in N'York with as much humble pie in his mouth as I've got? I take back all I said----"
"Maybe, but I----"
And then Gerald paused.
Two soft, warm hands passed over the back of his chair, passed his face, came round his neck; warm lips touched his ear, and a voice he loved better than any other whispered:
"Gerald!--he is my father."
That did it. Gerald jumped up and took the farmer by the hand.
All his anger had evaporated under the touch of those soft, warm lips.
"Well, farmer, let bygones be bygones. We'll forget all that's been said that ought not to have been said. Here comes the lawyer. Let's get along with the declaration."
"I have it all ready," said the lawyer. "It is a joint declaration." He read it, and then said, "Come along with me to the justice's office; and it can be declared right off."
The justice before whom they presented themselves glanced at the document he was signing.
"Coincidence," he said, "or is it the same? Loide's--an English lawyer--death was reported at the police station this afternoon."
Death! Gerald started. Had he then killed the man he had struggled with?
He said: