"Stop!"
Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a
letter, was about to yield to his curiosity and follow the constable,
when, as he reached the door, his uncle's word thundered out and made
him turn and go on with his writing in response to a severe look and a
pointing finger.
From time to time the boy looked up furtively as he sat, and wondered
why his uncle did not say anything more about the money.
But the time glided on, and the struggle between his desire to speak out
frankly and his indignant wounded pride continued.
A dozen times over he was on the point of crossing to the stern-looking
old man, and begging him to listen and believe, but Uncle Josiah sat
there with the most uncompromising of expressions on his face, and Don
dared not speak. He dared not trust himself for very shame, as the
incident had so upset him, that he felt sure that he must break down and
cry like a child if he attempted to explain.
After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the
click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows
came the deep _burr burr_ of Jem's bass, and the shrill inquiring tones
of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord.
Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as
he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those
were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different
warehouses in the great yard.
Directly after Jem's foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed
it a little way, and waited.
"Come in," said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at
Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply
immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of
gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer
grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very
expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don.
"Well?" said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
"Beg pardon, sir! Thought you'd like to hear how we got on?"
"Well?"
"Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he
begun kicking like mad--leastways he didn't kick, because his legs was
tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the
ladder."
"And he is now safely locked up?"
"Yes, sir, and I've been thinking, sir, as he must have took that money
when Master Don here was up in the warehouse along o' me."
"I daresay we shall find all out by-and-by, Wimble," said the old
merchant, coldly. "That will do, now."
Jem looked uneasily at Don, as he turned his hat round to make sure
which was the right way on, and moved slowly toward the door.
"Which, begging your pardon, sir, you don't think now as--"
"Well?" said the old merchant, sharply, for Jem had stopped.
"Think as Mrs Wimble picked up any of the money, sir?"
"No, no, my man, of course not."
"Thankye, sir, I'm glad of that; and if I might make so bold, sir, about
Master Don--"
"What do you wish to say, man?"
"Oh, nothing, sir, only I'm quite sure, sir, as it was all Mike
Bannock's doing, and--"
"I think you had better go on with your work, Wimble, which you do
understand, and not meddle with things that are beyond you."
"Certainly, sir, certainly," said Jem, quickly. "Just going, sir;" and
giving Don a sympathetic look, he hurried out, but had hardly closed the
door before he opened it again.
"Beg pardon, sir, Mrs Lavington, sir, and Miss Kitty."
Don started from his stool, crimson with mortification. His mother!
What would Uncle Josiah say?
Jem Wimble gave Don another look full of condolence before he closed the
door, leaving Mrs Lavington and her niece in the office.
Mrs Lavington's face was full of anxiety and care, as she glanced from
her son to her brother and back again, while Kitty's was as full of
indignant reproof as she darted an angry look at Don, and then frowned
and looked straight down at the floor.
"Well?" said the old merchant, coldly, "why have you come? You know I
do not like you to bring Kitty here to the business place."
"I--I heard--" faltered Mrs Lavington, who stood in great awe of her
brother when he was in one of his stern moods.
"Heard? Well, what did you hear?"
"Such terrible news, Josiah."
"Well, well, what?"
"Oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, wildly, as she stepped forward and
caught his hand, "tell me it is not true."
"How can I tell you what is not true when I don't know what you are
talking about," cried the old man, impatiently. "My dear Laura, do you
think I have not worries enough without your coming here?"
"Yes, yes; I know, dear."
"And you ought to know that I shall do what is just and right."
"I am sure of that, Josiah, but I felt obliged to come. Kitty and I
were out shopping, and we met a crowd."
"Then you should have turned down a side street."
"But they were your men in the midst, and directly after I saw little
Sally Wimble following."
"Oh, she was, was she?" cried the old man, glad of some one on whom to
vent his spleen. "That woman goes. How dare she leave the gates when
her husband is out? I shall be having the place robbed again."
"Yes, that is what she said, Josiah--that you had been robbed, and that
Don--my boy--oh, no, no, no; say it is not true."
Mrs Lavington looked wildly from one to the other, but there was a dead
silence, and in a few minutes the poor woman's manner had entirely
changed. When she first spoke it was as the timid, shrinking,
affectionate woman; now it was as the mother speaking in defence of her
child.
"I say it is not true," she cried. "You undertook to be a father to my
poor boy, and now you charge him with having robbed you."
"Laura, be calm," said the old merchant, quietly; "and you had better
take Kitty back home and wait."
"You have always been too stern and harsh with the poor boy," continued
Mrs Lavington, without heeding him. "I was foolish ever to come and
trust to you. How dare you charge him with such a crime?"
"I did not charge him with any crime, my dear Laura," said the old
merchant, gravely.
"Then it is not true?"
"It is true that I have been robbed, and that the man whom Lindon has
persisted in making his companion, in spite of all I have said to the
contrary, has charged him with the base, contemptible crime of robbing
the master who trusted him."
"But it is not true, Josiah; and that is what you always do, treat my
poor boy as if he were your servant instead of your nephew--your
sister's boy."
"I treat Lindon as if he were my son when we are at home," said the old
man, quietly. "When we are here at the office I treat him as my clerk,
and I trust him to look after my interests, and to defend me from
dishonest people."
Don looked up, and it was on his lips to say, "Indeed, uncle, I always
have done so," when the old man's next words seemed to chill and harden
him.
"But instead of doing his duty by me, I have constantly had to reprove
him for making a companion of a man whom I weakly, and against my better
judgment, allowed in the yard; and the result is I have been robbed, and
this man accuses Lindon of committing the robbery, and bribing him to
silence."
"But it is not true, Josiah. My son could not be guilty of such a
crime."
"He will have every opportunity of disproving it before the
magistrates," said Uncle Josiah, coldly.
"Magistrates!--my boy?" exclaimed Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, no, no,
no, brother; you will not proceed to such extremities as these. My boy
before the magistrates. Impossible!"
"The matter is out of my hands, now," said the old merchant, gravely.
"I was bound to charge that scoundrel labourer with the theft. I could
not tell that he would accuse your son of being the principal in the
crime."
"But you will stop it now for my sake, dear. Don, my boy, why do you
not speak, and beg your uncle's forgiveness?"
Don remained silent, with his brow wrinkled, his chin upon his breast,
and a stubborn look of anger in his eyes, as he stood with his hands in
his pockets, leaning back against his desk.
"Do you hear me, Don? Tell your uncle it is not true, and beg him to
help you clear yourself from this disgrace."
The lad made no reply, merely crossing his legs, and made his
shoe-buckles rasp together as he slowly moved his feet.
"Don!"
He looked up strangely, met his mother's earnest appealing gaze, and for
the moment his better nature prevailed; but as he looked from her to his
uncle, and saw the old man's grey eyes fixed upon him searchingly, a
feeling of obstinate anger swept over him again, and made him set his
teeth, as something seemed to whisper to him, "No; you told the truth,
and he would not believe you. Let him prove you guilty if he can!"
It was not the first time in history that a boy had stubbornly fought
against his better self, and allowed the worst part of his nature to
prevail.
"Do you not hear me, Don?" cried his mother. "Why do you not speak?"
Don remained silent, and Kitty, as she looked at him, angrily uttered an
impatient ejaculation.
"Don, my son, for my sake speak to your uncle. Do you not hear me?"
"Yes, mother."
"Then appeal to him to help you. Ask him to forgive you if you have
done wrong."
"And she believes me guilty, too," thought Don, as he scowled at his
feet.
"But you have not done wrong, my boy. I, your mother, will not believe
it of you."
Don's better self began to force down that side of his mental scale.
"You may have been weak and foolish, Don, but nothing worse."
The evil scale went down now in turn, and with it the foolish, ignorant
boy's heart sank low.
"Come, Don."
"I've nothing more to say, mother."
"Nothing more to say!" cried Mrs Lavington, wildly. "Oh, yes, yes, you
have much to say, my boy. Come, throw away this wilful pride and
obstinacy."
"I wish I could," thought Don one moment. "It is as cruel as it is
unjust," he thought the next; and he felt more obstinately full of pride
than ever.
"Don, I command you to speak," said Mrs Lavington, whose manner now
began to change; but unfortunately the stern tone she adopted had the
wrong effect, and the wrinkles in the boy's face grew deeper, and the
position more strained.
If Uncle Josiah, who had never had boys of his own, had come down from
the lofty perch he had assumed, taken the boy's hand, and said in kindly
and frank tones, "Come, Don, my boy, there are troubles enough in life,
clouds sufficient to obscure too much sunshine; speak out, let's have
all this over, and clear the storm away,"--if he had said something like
that, Don would have melted, and all would have been well; but
accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in
spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel
the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the
slightest advance, he said to himself, "It is not my duty to eat humble
pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him,
and will do him good."
So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was
longing to cast himself upon his mother's neck. The poor woman felt
indignant at her son's conduct, and the last straw which broke the
camel's back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a
desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and
in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him.
"Don, dear!" she cried.
The boy's face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after
all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in
his.
"Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you," she cried.
"Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again."
Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he
half turned away.
"No, no, Don, dear," she whispered; "pray don't be obstinate. Confess
that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will
forgive you; I know he will."
Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into
tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung.
"Laura, dear," said Uncle Josiah, gravely, "I think we had better bring
this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do
what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for
clearing himself."
"I am not guilty," cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head.
"I thought so this morning, my boy," said the old merchant, gravely.
"Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will
walk home with you, if you please."
"Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak," cried Mrs Lavington,
piteously.
Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle's words had
raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to
throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his
indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in
obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to
lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while.
Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months
and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of
peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of
frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride.
"He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head
bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the
room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his
cheek rapidly kissed.
"Kitty!"
"Coming, father."
Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same
attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of
the wicket-gate.
Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange.