fifty dollars. It bears your signature. How you could have incurred such
a debt to him you best know.”
Dawkins maintained a sullen silence.
“I suppose you wish me to leave your employment,” he said at length.
“You are right. Hold,” he added, as Dawkins was about leaving the room,
“a word more. It is only just that you should make a restitution of the
sum which you have taken. If you belonged to a poor family and there
were extenuating circumstances, I might forego my claim. But your father
is abundantly able to make good the loss, and I shall require you to
lay the matter before him without loss of time. In consideration of your
youth, I shall not bring the matter before the public tribunals, as I
have a right to do.”
Dawkins turned pale at this allusion, and muttering some words to the
effect that he would do what he could, left the counting-room.
This threat proved not to be without its effect. The next day he came to
Mr. Danforth and brought the sum for which he had become responsible. He
had represented to his father that he had had his pocket picked of this
sum belonging to Mr. Danforth, and in that manner obtained an equal
amount to replace it. It was some time before Mr. Dawkins learned the
truth. Then came a storm of reproaches in which all the bitterness of
his father's nature was fully exhibited. There had never been much love
between father and son. Henceforth there was open hatred.
We must return to Paul, whom we left in much trouble.
It was a sad walk which he took homeward on the morning of his
dismissal.
“What brings you home so early?” asked Mrs. Cameron, looking up from her
baking, as Paul entered.
Paul tried to explain, but tears came to his eyes, and sobs choked his
utterance.
“Are you sick, Paul?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, in alarm.
“No, Aunt Hester.”
“Then what is the matter?” she asked anxiously.
“I have lost my place.”
“Poor boy! I am very sorry to hear it. But it might have been worse.”
“No, not very well, Aunt Hester, for Mr. Danforth thinks I have taken
some of his money.”
“He is very unjust!” exclaimed Aunt Hester, indignantly, “he ought to
have known better than to think you would steal.”
“Why, no,” said Paul, candidly, “I must confess the evidence was against
me, and he doesn't know me as well as you do, Aunt Hester.”
“Tell me all about it, Paul.”
Aunt Hester sat down and listened attentively to our hero's story.
“How do you account for the money being found in your pocket?” she asked
at length.
“I think it must have been put there by some one else.”
“Have you any suspicions?”
“Yes,” said Paul, a little reluctantly, “but I don't know whether I
ought to have. I may be wronging an innocent person.”
“At any rate it won't do any harm to tell me.”
“You've heard me speak of George Dawkins?”
“Yes.”
“I can't help thinking that he put the fifty dollars into my pocket, and
took the rest himself.”
“How very wicked he must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, indignantly.
“Don't judge him too hastily; Aunt Hester, he may not be guilty, and I
know from my own experience how hard it is to be accused when you are
innocent.”
Soon after the sexton came in, and Paul of course, told his story over
again.
“Never mind, Paul,” said Uncle Hugh, cheerily. “You know your own
innocence; that is the main thing. It's a great thing to have a clear
conscience.”
“But I liked Mr. Danforth and I think he liked me. It's hard to feel
that he and Mrs. Danforth will both think me guilty, especially after
the kindness which I have experienced from them.”
“We all have our crosses, my boy,--some light and others heavy. Yours, I
admit is a heavy one for a boy to bear. But when men are unjust there is
One above who will deal justly with us. You have not forgotten him.”
“No, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, reverently.
“Trust in him, Paul, and all will come out right at last. He can prove
your innocence, and you may be sure he will, in his own good time. Only
be patient, Paul.”
“I will try to be, Uncle Hugh.”
The simple, hearty trust in God, which the sexton manifested, was not
lost upon Paul. Sustained by his own consciousness of innocence, and
the confidence reposed in him by those who knew him best, his mind soon
regained its cheerful tone. He felt an inward conviction that God would
vindicate his innocence.
His vindication came sooner than he anticipated.
The next day as the sexton's family were seated at their plain dinner, a
knock was heard upon the outer door.
“Sit still, Hester,” said Mr. Cameron. “I will go to the door.”
Opening the door he recognized Mr. Danforth, who attended the same
church.
“Mr. Cameron, I believe,” said Mr. Danforth, pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I come in? I am here on a little business.”
“Certainly, Mr. Danforth. Excuse my not inviting you before; but in my
surprise at seeing you, I forgot my politeness.”
The sexton led the way into the plain sitting-room.
“I believe Paul Prescott is an inmate of your family.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry----”
“I know what you would say, sir; but it is needless. May I see Paul a
moment?”
Paul was surprised at the summons, and still more surprised at finding
who it was that wished to see him.
He entered the room slowly, uncertain how to accost Mr. Danforth. His
employer solved the doubt in his mind by advancing cordially, and taking
his hand.
“Paul,” he said pleasantly, “I have come here to ask your forgiveness
for an injustice, and to beg you to resume your place in my
counting-room.”
“Have you found out who took the money, sir?” asked Paul, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Who was it, sir?”
“It was Dawkins.”
Mr. Danforth explained how he had become acquainted with the real thief.
In conclusion, he said, “I shall expect you back to-morrow morning,
Paul.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dawkins of course leaves my employ. You will take his place, and
receive his salary, seven dollars a week instead of five. Have you any
friend whom you would like to have in your own place?”
Paul reflected a moment and finally named a schoolmate of his, the son
of poor parents, whom he knew to be anxiously seeking a situation, but
without influential friends to help him.
“I will take him on your recommendation,” said Mr. Danforth, promptly.
“Can you see him this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul.
The next day Paul resumed his place in Mr. Danforth's counting-room.
XXXIII.
PAUL REDEEMS HIS PLEDGE.
Two years passed, unmarked by any incident of importance. Paul
continued in Mr. Danforth's employment, giving, if possible, increased
satisfaction. He was not only faithful, but exhibited a rare aptitude
for business, which made his services of great value to his employer.
From time to time Mr. Danforth increased his salary, so that, though
only nineteen, he was now receiving twelve dollars per week, with the
prospect of a speedy increase. But with his increasing salary, he did
not increase his expenses. He continued as economical as ever. He had
not forgotten his father's dying injunction. He remained true to the
charge which he had taken upon himself, that of redeeming his father's
memory from reproach. This, at times subjected him to the imputation
of meanness, but for this he cared little. He would not swerve from the
line of duty which he had marked out.
One evening as he was walking down Broadway with an acquaintance, Edward
Hastings, who was employed in a counting-room near him, they paused
before a transparency in front of a hall brilliantly lighted.
“The Hutchinsons are going to sing to-night, Paul,” said Hastings. “Did
you ever hear them?”
“No; but I have often wished to.”
“Then suppose we go in.”
“No, I believe not.”
“Why not. Paul? It seems to me you never go anywhere. You ought to amuse
yourself now and then.”
“Some other time I will,--not now.”
“You are not required to be at home in the evening, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why not come in now? It's only twenty-five cents.”
“To tell the truth, Ned, I am saving up my money for a particular
purpose; and until that is accomplished, I avoid all unnecessary
expense.”
“Going to invest in a house in Fifth Avenue? When you do, I'll call.
However, never mind the expense. I'll pay you in.”
“I'm much obliged to you, Ned, but I can't accept.”
“Why not?”
“Because at present I can't afford to return the favor.”
“Never mind that.”
“But I do mind it. By-and-by I shall feel more free. Good-night, if you
are going in.”
“Good-night, Paul.”
“He's a strange fellow,” mused Hastings.
“It's impossible to think him mean, and yet, it looks a great deal like
it. He spends nothing for dress or amusements. I do believe that I've
had three coats since he's been wearing that old brown one. Yet, he
always looks neat. I wonder what he's saving up his money for.”
Meanwhile Paul went home.
The sexton and his wife looked the same as ever. Paul sometimes fancied
that Uncle Hugh stooped a little more than he used to do; but his life
moved on so placidly and evenly, that he grew old but slowly. Aunt
Hester was the same good, kind, benevolent friend that she had always
been. No mother could have been more devoted to Paul. He felt that he
had much to be grateful for, in his chance meeting with this worthy
couple.
It was the first of January,--a clear, cold day. A pleasant fire burned
in the little stove. Mr. Cameron sat at one side, reading the evening
paper; Mrs. Cameron at the other, knitting a stocking for Paul. A large,
comfortable-looking cat was dozing tranquilly on the hearth-rug. Paul,
who had been seated at the table, rose and lighted a candle.
“Where are you going, Paul?” asked Aunt Hester.
“Up-stairs for a moment.”
Paul speedily returned, bearing in his hand a small blue bank-book, with
his name on the cover.
He took out his pencil and figured a few minutes.
“Uncle Hugh,” said he, looking up, “when I get a hundred dollars more, I
shall have enough to pay father's debt.”
“Principal and interest?”
“Yes, principal and interest; reckoning the interest for a year to
come.”
“I did not suppose you had so much money, Paul. You must have been very
economical.”
“Yes, Uncle Hugh more so than I have wanted to be, oftentimes; but
whenever I have been tempted to spend a cent unnecessarily, I have
always called to mind my promise made to father on his deathbed, and I
have denied myself.”
“You have done well, Paul. There are few who would have had the
resolution to do as you have.”
“Oh yes, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, modestly, “I think there are a great
many. I begin to feel repaid already. In a few months I shall be able to
pay up the whole debt.”
At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Mr. Cameron answered the
summons.
“Does Mr. Paul Prescott live here?” inquired a boy.
“Yes. Do you want to see him?”
“Here is a letter for him. There is no answer.”
The messenger departed, leaving the letter in Mr. Cameron's hand.
Somewhat surprised, he returned to the sitting-room and handed it to
Paul.
Paul opened it hastily, and discovered inclosed, a bank-note for one
hundred dollars. It was accompanied with a note from his employer,
stating that it was intended as a New Year's gift, but in the hurry of
business, he had forgotten to give it to him during the day.
Paul's face lighted up with joy.
“Oh, Uncle Hugh!” he exclaimed, almost breathless with delight. “Don't
you see that this will enable me to pay my debt at once?”
“So it will, Paul. I wish you joy.”
“And my father's memory will be vindicated,” said Paul, in a tone of
deep satisfaction. “If he could only have lived to see this day!”
A fortnight later, Paul obtained permission from his employer to
be absent from the office for a week. It was his purpose to visit
Cedarville and repay 'Squire Conant the debt due him: and then, to go
across the country to Wrenville, thirty miles distant, to see Aunt Lucy
Lee. First, however, he ordered a new suit of a tailor, feeling a desire
to appear to the best advantage on his return to the scene of his former
humiliation. I must not omit to say that Paul was now a fine-looking
young fellow of nineteen, with a frank, manly face, that won favor
wherever he went.
In due course of time, he arrived at Cedarville, and found his way
without difficulty to the house of 'Squire Conant.
It was a large house, rather imposing in its exterior, being quite the
finest residence in the village.
Paul went up the walk, and rang the bell.
“Can I see 'Squire Conant?” he asked of the servant who answered the
bell.
“You'll find him in that room,” said the girl, pointing to a door on the
left hand of the hall.
“As he doesn't know me, perhaps you had better go before.”
The door was opened, and Paul found himself in the presence of his
father's creditor. 'Squire Conant was looking pale and thin. He was just
recovering from a severe sickness.
“I presume you don't recognize me, sir,” said Paul.
“Did I ever see you before?”
“Yes, sir; my name is Paul Prescott.”
“Not the son of John Prescott?”
“The same, sir. I believe my father died in your debt.”
“Yes. I lent him five hundred dollars, which he never repaid.”
“He tried to do so, sir. He had saved up a hundred and fifty dollars
towards it, but sickness came upon him, and he was obliged to use it.”
'Squire Conant's temper had been subdued by the long and dangerous
illness through which he had passed. It had made him set a smaller value
on his earthly possessions, from which he might be separated at any
moment. When he answered Paul, it was in a manner which our hero did not
expect.
“Never mind. I can afford to lose it. I have no doubt he did what he
could.”
“But I have come to pay it, sir,” said Paul.
“You!” exclaimed 'Squire Conant, in the greatest astonishment.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“I earned it, sir.”
“But you are very young. How could you have earned so much?”
Paul frankly told the story of his struggles; how for years he had
practised a pinching economy, in order to redeem his father's memory
from reproach.
'Squire Conant listened attentively.
“You are a good boy,” he said, at length.
“Shall you have anything left after paying this money?”
“No, sir; but I shall soon earn more.”
“Still, you ought to have something to begin the world with. You shall
pay me half the money, and I will cancel the note.”
“But, sir,----”
“Not a word. I am satisfied, and that is enough. If I hadn't lent your
father the money, I might have invested it with the rest, and lost all.”
'Squire Conant produced the note from a little trunk of papers, and
handed it to Paul, who paid him the amount which he had stipulated,
expressing at the same time his gratitude for his unexpected generosity.
“Never mind about thanks, my boy,” said 'Squire Conant: “I am afraid I
have loved money too well heretofore. I hope I am not too old to turn
over a new leaf.”
XXXIV.
HOW PAUL GOES BACK TO WRENVILLE.
While 'Squire Conant was speaking, Paul formed a sudden resolution. He
remembered that Aunt Lucy Lee was a sister of 'Squire Conant. Perhaps,
in his present frame of mind, it might be possible to induce him to do
something for her.
“I believe I am acquainted with a sister of yours, 'Squire Conant,” he
commenced.
“Ha!” exclaimed the 'Squire.
“Mrs. Lucy Lee.”
“Yes,” was the slow reply; “she is my sister. Where did you meet her?”
“At the Wrenville Poorhouse.”
“How long ago?”
“About six years since.”
“Is she there, still?”
“Yes, sir. Since I have been in New York, I have heard from her
frequently. I am going from here to visit her. Have you any message,
sir? I am sure she would be glad to hear from you.”
“She shall hear from me,” said the 'Squire in a low voice. “Sit down,
and I will write her a letter which, I hope, will not prove unwelcome.”
Five minutes afterwards he handed Paul an open letter.
“You may read it,” he said, abruptly.
“You have been a better friend to my sister than I. You shall witness my
late reparation.”
The letter was as follows:----
CEDARVILLE, JAN 13, 18--.
MY DEAR SISTER:--
I hope you will forgive me for my long neglect. It is not fitting that
while I am possessed of abundant means you should longer remain the
tenant of an almshouse. I send you by the bearer of this note, Paul
Prescott, who, I understand, is a friend of yours, the sum of three
hundred dollars. The same sum will be sent you annually. I hope it will
be sufficient to maintain you comfortably. I shall endeavor to call upon
you soon, and meanwhile remain, Your affectionate brother,
EZEKIEL CONANT.
Paul read this letter with grateful joy. It seemed almost to good to be
true. Aunt Lucy would be released from the petty tyranny of Mrs. Mudge's
household, and perhaps--he felt almost sure Aunt Hester would be willing
to receive her as a boarder, thus insuring her a peaceful and happy home
in her declining years.
“Oh, sir,” said he, seizing 'Squire Conant's hand, “you cannot tell how
happy you have made me.”
“It is what I ought to have done before. Here is the money referred to
in the letter,--three hundred dollars,--mind you don't lose it.”
“I will take every care, sir.”
“You may tell my sister that I shall be happy to have her write me.”
“I will, sir.”
Paul left 'Squire Conant's house, feeling that he had great cause for
joy. The 'Squire's refusal to receive more than half the debt, left him
master of over three hundred dollars. But I am not sure whether he did
not rejoice even more over the good fortune which had come to Aunt Lucy
Lee, whose kindness to him, in his unfriended boyhood, he would ever
hold in grateful remembrance. He enjoyed in anticipation the joy
which he knew Aunt Lucy would feel when the change in her fortunes was
communicated to her. He knew also how great would be the chagrin of Mr.
and Mrs. Mudge, when they found that the meek old lady whom they hated
was about to be rescued from their clutches. On the whole, Paul felt
that this was the happiest day of his life. It was a satisfaction to
feel that the good fortune of his early friend was all due to his own
intercession.
He was able to take the cars to a point four miles distant from
Wrenville. On getting out on the platform he inquired whether there was
a livery stable near by. He was directed to one but a few rods distant.
Entering he asked, “Can you let me have a horse and chaise to go to
Wrenville?”
“Yes, sir,” said the groom.
“Let me have the best horse in the stable,” said Paul, “and charge me
accordingly.”
“Yes, sir,” said the groom, respectfully, judging from Paul's dress and
tone that he was a young gentleman of fortune.
A spirited animal was brought out, and Paul was soon seated in the
chaise driving along the Wrenville road. Paul's city friends would
hardly have recognized their economical acquaintance in the well-dressed
young man who now sat behind a fast horse, putting him through his best
paces. It might have been a weakness in Paul, but he remembered the
manner in which he left Wrenville, an unfriended boy, compelled to fly
from persecution under the cover of darkness, and he felt a certain
pride in showing the Mudges that his circumstances were now entirely
changed. It was over this very road that he had walked with his little
bundle, in the early morning, six years before. It seemed to him almost
like a dream.
At length he reached Wrenville. Though he had not been there for six
years, he recognized the places that had once been familiar to him. But
everything seemed to have dwindled. Accustomed to large city warehouses,
the houses in the village seemed very diminutive. Even 'Squire Benjamin
Newcome's house, which he had once regarded as a stately mansion, now
looked like a very ordinary dwelling.
As he rode up the main street of the village, many eyes were fixed
upon him and his carriage, but no one thought of recognizing, in
the well-dressed youth, the boy who had run away from the Wrenville
Poorhouse.
XXXV.
CONCLUSION.
At the very moment that Paul was driving through the village street,
Mr. Nicholas Mudge entered the Poorhouse in high spirits. Certainly
ill-fortune must have befallen some one to make the good man so
exhilarant.
To explain, Mr. Mudge had just been to the village store to purchase
some groceries. One of his parcels was tied up in a stray leaf of a
recent New York Daily, in which he discovered an item which he felt
sure would make Aunt Lucy unhappy. He communicated it to Mrs. Mudge,
who highly approved his design. She called the old lady from the common
room.
“Here, Aunt Lucy,” she said, “is something that will interest you.”
Aunt Lucy came in, wondering a little at such an unusual mark of
attention.
Mrs. Mudge immediately commenced reading with malicious emphasis a
paragraph concerning a certain Paul Prescott, who had been arrested
for thieving, and sentenced to the House of Reformation for a term of
months.
“There,” said Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, “what do you say to your
favorite now? Turned out well, hasn't he? Didn't I always say so? I
always knew that boy was bad at heart, and that he'd come to a bad end.”
“I don't believe it's the same boy,” declared Aunt Lucy, who was
nevertheless unpleasantly affected by the paragraph. She thought it
possible that Paul might have yielded to a powerful temptation.
“Perhaps you think I've been making it up. If you don't believe it look
at the paper for yourself,” thrusting it into Aunt Lucy's hands.
“Yes,” said the old lady. “I see that the name is the same; but, for
all that, there is a mistake somewhere. I do not believe it is the same
boy.”
“You don't? Just as if there would be more than one boy of that name.
There may be other Prescotts, but there isn't but one Paul Prescott,
take my word for it.”
“If it is he,” said Aunt Lucy, indignantly, “is it Christianlike to
rejoice over the poor boy's misfortune?”
“Misfortune!” retorted Mrs. Mudge with a sneer; “you call it a
misfortune to steal, then! I call it a crime.”
“It's often misfortune that drives people to it, though,” continued the
old lady, looking keenly at Mrs. Mudge. “I have known cases where they
didn't have that excuse.”
Mrs. Mudge colored.
“Go back to your room,” said she, sharply; “and don't stay here accusing
me and Mr. Mudge of unchristian conduct. You're the most troublesome
pauper we have on our hands; and I do wish the town would provide for
you somewhere else.”
“So do I,” sighed the old lady to herself, though she did not think fit
to give audible voice to her thoughts.
It was at this moment that Paul halted his chaise at the gate, and
lightly jumping out, fastened his horse to a tree, and walked up to the
front door.
“Who can it be?” thought Mrs. Mudge, hastily adjusting her cap, and
taking off her apron.
“I don't know, I'm sure,” said Mr. Mudge, unsuspiciously.
“I declare! I look like a fright.”
“No worse than usual,” said her husband, gallantly.
By this time Paul had knocked.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Mrs. Mudge, deferentially, her respect excited
by Paul's dress and handsome chaise.
“Is Mrs. Lee in?” inquired Paul, not caring to declare himself, yet, to
his old enemy.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mudge, obsequiously, though not overpleased to find
that this was Aunt Lucy's visitor; “would you like to see her?”
“If you please.”
“What can he want of the old lady?” thought Mrs. Mudge, as she went to
summon her.
“A visitor for me?” asked Aunt Lucy, looking at Mrs. Mudge somewhat
suspiciously.
“Yes; and as he's come in a carriage, you'd better slick up a little;
put on a clean cap or something.”
Aunt Lucy was soon ready.
She looked wonderingly at Paul, not recognizing him.
“You are not very good at remembering your old friends,” said Paul, with
a smile.
“What!” exclaimed Aunt Lucy, her face lighting up with joy; “are you
little Paul?”
“Not very little, now,” said our hero, laughing; “but I'm the same Paul
you used to know.”
Mrs. Mudge, who through the half open door had heard this revelation,
was overwhelmed with astonishment and confusion. She hurried to her
husband.
“Wonders will never cease!” she exclaimed, holding up both hands. “If
that doesn't turn out to be Paul Prescott. Of course he's up in the
world, or he wouldn't dress so well, and ride in such a handsome
carriage.”
“You don't say so!” returned Mr. Mudge, who looked as if he had heard of
a heavy misfortune.
“Yes, I do; I heard him say so with his own lips. It's a pity you showed
that paragraph to Aunt Lucy, this morning.”
“That you showed, you mean,” retorted her husband.
“No, I don't. You know it was you that did it.”
“Hush; they'll hear.”
Meanwhile the two friends were conversing together happily.
“I'm so glad you're doing so well, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy. “It was a
lucky day when you left the Poorhouse behind you.”
“Yes, Aunt Lucy, and to-day is a lucky day for you. There's room for two
in that chaise, and I'm going to take you away with me.”