When it was fairly decided that Miss Bethia's pleasant plan for the
summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. Miss
Bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and
in a few days Mrs Inglis and Violet and the children followed. The
little Oswalds went with them, and Jem and possibly Frank Oswald were to
follow when their holidays commenced. Whether David was to go or not,
was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard
to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the
others were to enjoy. He helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for
their departure, and made light of his mother's anxiety and doubts as to
the comfort of those who were to be left behind.
But when they were gone, and Jem and David left in the deserted house
alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. They were
quite alone, for Mrs Lacy, the neighbour whom Mrs Inglis had engaged
to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to
care for, and could only be there a part of the day. The unwonted
silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits.
"It's queer, too," said Jem, who had been promising himself great
enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the
school examinations that were coming on. "I used to think the children
bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten,
times more distracting, I think."
David nodded assent.
"They will be in Gourlay long ago," said he. "I wonder how it will seem
to mamma to go back again."
Jem looked grave.
"It won't be all pleasure to her, I am afraid."
"No; she will have many things to remember; but I think she would rather
have gone to Gourlay than anywhere else. I wish I could have gone with
her."
"Yes; but she has Violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret
or be unhappy."
"She will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing
for her to go there now."
"Yes; but I am glad she is there; and I hope I may be there, too, before
the summer is over."
Jem's examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did
not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to
his mother and the children till after their return to Singleton; for
Jem did not go to Gourlay, but in quite another direction.
When an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great
engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the
country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable
machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful
thoughts to his mother and Gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of
boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go.
Indeed, by the time his mother's consent reached him, his preparations
were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole
object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had
been offered him. But, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to
Jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights
far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and David was left
alone.
He was not in great spirits. Jem had left him no earlier than he must
have done had it been to join his mother and the children in Gourlay.
But, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful,
strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, David
had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily
have changed to discontent or envy of his brother's happier fortune.
Happier fortune, indeed! How foolish his thoughts were! David laughed
at himself when he called up the figure of Jem, with bared arms and
blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop,
going here and there--doing this and that at the bidding of his master.
A very hard working world Jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought
about him, David made believe content, and congratulated himself on the
quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made
plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they
lasted. But they were very dull days and evenings. The silence in the
house grew more oppressive to him than even Jem had found it. The long
summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that
had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on
them.
There had been something said at first about his going to the Oswald's
to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. Mr
Philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements
for the going away of his little sisters. But the invitation had not
been repeated. Mr Philip had gone away long before Jem. He had, at
the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going--not, indeed,
to Red River, but far away into the woods. Mr Oswald had forgotten the
invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and David went home to
the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague
impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen
to break it. Before Jem had been gone a week, something did happen.
Indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to David's
knowledge at that time.
Mr Caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business
journeys, and one night David lingered beyond the usual hour that he
might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay
in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home
together that Mr Caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that
had occurred in the office. A small sum of money had been missed, and
the circumstances connected with its loss led Mr Caldwell to believe
that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. Mr
Caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say
much about it, but he questioned David closely about those who had been
coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair.
David was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw
light upon the painful matter. But he did not succeed.
The circumstances, as David learned them then and afterwards, were
these: Mr Oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of
the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum
of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. The rest
of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his
private safe allotted to the papers of the society. A receipt for the
whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an
entry in the society's books corresponded to the sum named in this
receipt. Mr Oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of
it, because such was never his custom. The accounts of the society were
kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to
them were made by Mr Oswald himself. It did not make the loss a matter
of less importance that the sum missed was small. Nor did it make Mr
Oswald and Mr Caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it.
The loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken
place, when the quarterly making up of the society's accounts had been
taken in hand, and Mr Oswald could not remember much about the
circumstances. The date of the receipt showed the time. The person who
paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver
coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared.
All this was not told by Mr Caldwell that first afternoon. It came to
David's knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. The matter
was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. Mr Caldwell
had asked David not to speak of it to them, or to any one.
When Mr Caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the
loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that
the reason was that Mr Oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and
wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. But, as time went on,
he began to notice a change in Mr Oswald's manner toward him. He had
never said many words to him in the course of the day. It was not his
way with those in his employment, except with Mr Caldwell. He said
less than ever to him now, but David fancied that he was more watchful
of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his
manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions
as to his work for the day.
Mr Caldwell did not remain long in Singleton at this time, and having
no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money,
David, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might
otherwise have done. Once he ventured to speak to Mr Oswald about it.
"Have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?" said he, one night,
when there were only they two in the office.
Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled,
changing colour and looking at him in astonishment.
"No, I have not. Have _you_ anything to tell me about it? The sooner
the better," said Mr Oswald.
"I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me," said David.
"You may go," said Mr Oswald.
And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his
manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more
certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to,
which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to
Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and
short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never
said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell.
But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The
weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was
done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother's
return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully
gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.
He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his
accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual.
But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a
sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right
between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He
seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook
him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the
garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at
night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been
forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him
knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his
head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him
stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.
Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been
at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and
where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was
surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he
thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his
mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days
at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He
was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters
in the morning, for Mr Oswald's manner was much kinder, and he spoke to
him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not
come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.
That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till
after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went
home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money;
and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether
the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of
suspicion in his friend's hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not
know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some
one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell's voice,
saying:
"Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely
accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would
your mother say?"
His mother! David uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain.
Was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief?
"David," said his friend solemnly, "it is at a time like this that our
trust in God stands us in stead. There is nothing to be dismayed at, if
you are innocent."
"If!" said David, with a gasp.
"Ay! `if!' Your mother herself might say as much as that. And you have
not said that the charge is a false one yet."
"I did not think I should need to say so to you!"
"But you see, my lad, I am not speaking for myself. I was bidden ask
you the question point blank, and I must give your answer to him that
sent me. My word is another matter. You must answer to him."
"To Mr Oswald, I suppose? Why should he suspect me? Has he been
suspecting me all these weeks? Was that the reason he wished nothing
said about it in the office?"
"That was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna' let your eyes flash
on me," said Mr Caldwell, severely. "Don't you think it has caused him
much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?"
"But why should he suspect _me_?"
"There seemed to be no one else. But he must speak for himself. I have
nothing to say for him. I have only to carry him your answer."
"I will answer him myself," said David, rising, as though he were going
at once to do it. But he only walked to the window and stood looking
out.
"David," said Mr Caldwell, "put away your books, and come home with
me."
"No, I cannot do that," said David, shortly.
He did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken
for a while. By and by Mr Caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way:
"David, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to
see that you bear it well. The accusation will give but small concern
to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been
indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit." And then he went away.
He did not go very far, however. It was getting late, and, in the
gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house
seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he
reached the gate.
"David," said he kindly, opening the door, "come away home with me."
But David only answered as he had done before.
"No, I cannot do that."
He said it in a gentler tone, however, and added:
"No, I thank you, Mr Caldwell, I would rather not."
"It will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart.
You need not be alone, however. You don't need me to tell you where you
are to take all this trouble to. You may honour _Him_ by bearing it
well," said his friend.
"Bear it well!" No, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first.
When Mr Caldwell had gone, and David had shut the doors and windows to
keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had
kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a
flood. And they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh.
There was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter
as they fell. He had wild thoughts of going that very night to Mr
Oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would
never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected,
seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him
eager to defend himself at whatever cost. But night brought wiser
counsels; and David knew, as Mr Caldwell had said, where to betake
himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another
mind.
As for Mr Caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to
Mr Oswald. He did not even go home first to his own house, though he
had not been there for a fortnight.
"For who knows," said he to himself, "what that foolish lad may go and
say in his anger, and Mr Oswald must hear what I have to say first, or
it may end badly for all concerned."
He found Mr Oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few
words concerning the business which had called him away during the last
few weeks, he told him of his visit to David, and spoke with decision as
to the impossibility of the lad's having any knowledge of the lost
money.
"It seems impossible, certainly," said Mr Oswald; "and yet how can its
disappearance be accounted for? It must have been taken from the table
or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or I must have
seen it at night. There can be no doubt it was brought to me on that
day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young
Inglis and yourself were gone. I was out, I remember, when it was time
to go home. When I came in, there was no one in the outer office. You
had sent David out, you said. He came in before I left--" And he went
over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money
that vexed him. Though the loss had been ten times as great, it would
have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of
confidence in those whom he employed.
"For some one must have taken the money, even if David Inglis be not
guilty."
Here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room.
"David Inglis, papa! What can you mean?" and Frank came hurriedly
forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the
light.
"My boy! are you here? What would the doctor say? You should have been
in bed long ago."
"But, papa, what is it that is lost? You never could blame Davie, papa.
You could not think Davie could take money, Mr Caldwell?"
"No, I know David Inglis better," said Mr Caldwell, quietly.
"And, papa, you don't think ill of Davie? You would not if you knew
him. Papa! you have not accused him? Oh! what will Aunt Mary think?"
cried the boy in great distress. "Papa, how could you do it?"
Mr Oswald was asking himself the same question. The only thing he
could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing
to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in David.
But he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told Frank
it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his
discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away.
"But I shall go to Davie the first thing in the morning, papa. I would
not believe such a thing of Davie, though a hundred men declared it. I
would sooner believe it of--of Mr Caldwell," said Frank, excitedly.
"Be quiet, Frank," said his father; but Mr Caldwell laughed a little
and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said
good-night and went away. And Mr Oswald was not left in a very
pleasant frame of mind, that is certain.
True to his determination to see David, Frank reached the bank next
morning before his father. He reached it before David, too, and he
would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine
which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him
dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in
his father's office for a while. He lay still after his father came in,
and only moved when he heard David's voice saying--
"Mr Caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir."
Then Frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend.
"He does not mean it, Davie!" he cried. "Papa knows you never could
have done such a thing. Don't be angry, old fellow."
And then he put out his hand to clasp David's, and missed it partly
because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that
rushed to them. David regarded him in dismay.
"Are they so bad as that, Frank? Are they worse again?" said David,
forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. They
were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes.
He was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on David's
shoulder, but his tears were not for himself.
"You were wrong to come out to-day, Frank," said his father, surprised
and perplexed at his sudden break-down; "you must go home immediately."
"Papa, tell Davie that you do not believe he took the money," cried the
boy. "He _could_ not do it, papa."
"Indeed, I did not, sir," said David. "I know nothing about the matter
except what Mr Caldwell has told me. You may believe me, sir."
"I do not know what to believe," said Mr Oswald. "It seems unlikely
that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. But I
have been deceived many a time. Who could have taken it?"
"It was not I," said David, quietly, and while he said it he was
conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Mr Oswald
in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. An angry
denial, he felt now, would have availed little.
"Papa, begin at the beginning and tell Davie all about it. Perhaps he
will think of something you have forgotten--something that may help you
to find out where the money has gone," said Frank, earnestly.
But Mr Oswald would do nothing of the sort. He was tired and perplexed
with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost
money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its
loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself.
"You must go, Frank. You are not fit to be here," said he.
"I want to hear you tell Davie that you don't believe he is a thief."
A thief! That is a very ugly word, and David winced as it was spoken.
Mr Oswald winced too.
"Money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its
disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a
sense, be open to suspicion. Let us hope that the guilty person will be
found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it."
"But why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?" said David,
in some excitement.
"It was not a pleasant thing to tell."
"No, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. There is less chance that
the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared
at once. And must I lie under the suspicion always? I do not think you
have been just to me."
"That will do. The less said the better," said Mr Oswald. "Frank, you
must go home."
"You will not go away, Davie?" said Frank.
"Not if I may stay. Where could I go?" said David.
"You will stay, of course. Let us hope the truth about this unpleasant
business may come out at last. We must all be uncomfortable until it
does."
"If you had only spoken to David about it sooner," said Frank, again.
But Mr Oswald would neither say nor hear more. Entreated by Frank,
however, he asked David to go and stay at his house, till his mother
returned home. But David refused to go even for a day, and no
entreaties of Frank could move him.
"I don't wonder that you will not come," said Frank. "I don't blame you
for refusing. And oh! what will Aunt Mary think of us all?"
"She will know that _you_ are all right, Frank," said David, trying to
look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. He did not
succeed very well, nor did Frank; and David, thinking of it afterwards,
was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay
with him for a while, and thinking of his friend's troubles did him some
good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. But he could
not make up his mind to go to Mr Oswald's house, and he did not see
Frank again for a good while after that.