David had rather a hard time for the next few days. A great trouble had
fallen on him. He could have borne anything else better he sometimes
thought. His good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must
leave a stain on it, he thought. Every day that passed made it less
likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up,
and until this happened, Mr Oswald would never perfectly trust him
again; and David said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily,
that he could not stay where he was not trusted. Nor was it likely that
Mr Oswald would wish him to stay. They might have to leave the bridge
house and Singleton, and where could they go?
Of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very
foolish on David's part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. He
knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out
of it some good must come. He said to himself that he had been growing
proud of his good name, of being his mother's right hand, and of having
the confidence of Mr Oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to
happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and
that he could do nothing good of himself. Gradually David came to see
how right Mr Caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great
matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and
impatience and distrust.
Just as if the Lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring
for him all this time! Just as though this were a matter that could not
be committed to His care--trusted altogether to Him! Yes, he
acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. A great many times every
day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that
seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be
so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble
well.
He did bear it pretty well, Mr Caldwell thought, and he watched him
closely through these days. Mr Oswald thought so, top, and wondered a
little. He could not really believe David Inglis to be guilty of theft,
but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient
under a false accusation. The only way in which he showed that he
resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the
invitation to his house, which he again renewed. Frank told his father
that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake
David's resolution, but he did not succeed.
David did not think he bore his trial well. In his heart, he was angry
and desponding often. And, oh! how he wanted his mother! It would not
have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he
could not bring himself to write to her about it. When it should be
made clear where the lost money had gone--so clear that even Mr Oswald
would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and
get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. It would spoil
her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and,
besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared
to speak of him as dishonest. This was foolish, too, but he could not
tell her till afterwards.
His mother was not quite at ease about him. She knew he was in trouble.
She had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and
an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was
something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed
after Jem went away. So, when an opportunity occurred for Violet to go
to Singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to
see how Davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner
of life in Gourlay.
And when David came home one night, to find Violet making tea instead of
Mrs Lacy, was he not glad to see her! He was more glad to see her than
he would have been to see his mother. He knew he never could have
talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in
his heart, and he could keep it from Violet. At least, so he said to
himself. But when tea was over, and Violet had told him all they were
doing at Gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him
questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad
story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister's
astonished and indignant face. For astonishment was Violet's first
feeling--astonishment that such a thing could have happened to Davie,
and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation.
"And haven't you the least idea what may have become of the money,
Davie? Don't you have any suspicion of any one?" asked she, after she
had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. "Have they
not been trying to discover something?"
"They have been trying, I suppose."
"And what do _you_ think, Davie? There must be some clue, surely."
But David was silent.
"You do suspect some one?" said Violet, eagerly.
"No," said he, slowly; "I have no sufficient reason for suspecting any
one."
"Tell _me_, Davie."
"No; I have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. It
came into my head one night; but I know it is foolish and wrong, and I
have nothing to tell."
"When did it happen?" asked Violet, after a little.
David could not tell her the exact time. He had never been told the
date of the receipt which Mr Oswald had given; but he thought it could
not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not
heard of the loss till after Jem had gone.
Violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and
said nothing for a good while. By and by she came and leaned over the
chair in which David was sitting, and asked:
"David, when did Philip Oswald go away?"
David turned round and looked at her uneasily.
"A good while ago. Soon after you all went away to Gourlay. No,
Violet--don't say it," said he, eagerly, as he met her look. "He could
not do it. Why should he? He has all the money he wants. And,
besides, he _could_ not do such a thing."
"David," said Violet, gravely, "was it Philip that you were thinking
about?"
"Don't, Violet! It came into my mind--I couldn't help that, but it is
wrong to speak of it. It could not have been he."
"I don't know. It does not seem possible. He is foolish and
frivolous--and not to be relied on; but I do not think he would do such
a thing as--take money--unless--"
"Violet! Don't speak of it. A false accusation is a terrible thing."
"I am not accusing him. There does not seem to be a sufficient motive
for such an act. The sum was so small--and then--"
"Dear Violet!" said David, in great distress, "don't speak of it any
more."
"Well, I will not--but Mr Oswald accused you. You are a great deal
better than I am, Davie," said his sister, softly.
David laughed an uncertain laugh.
"That is all you know about it," said he.
When Violet went up next day to speak to Miss Oswald about the little
girls, the first word that Frank said to her was:
"Has Davie told you? Oh! Violet, what will Aunt Mary think of papa?"
But Violet could not trust herself to speak of Davie's trouble to him.
She was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by
Frank's pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but
him.
"Are you ill, Frank? Are your eyes worse? What have you been doing to
them?"
For Frank had dropped his head down on his hands again.
"Yes, they are worse. I was out in the rain, and caught cold. I was
not strong enough to go, I suppose. Phil, sent me back with some people
who were coming down. He would have come himself, but, of course, I
couldn't let him."
"You would have done better to come to Gourlay with us," said Violet.
"Yes, even without Jem or Davie. I wish I had gone."
"Come with me to-morrow," said Violet, earnestly. "Mamma will be very
glad to see you."
But Frank shook his head sadly.
"I cannot, Violet. I should be ashamed to look Aunt Mary in the face--
after--"
"You need not, Frank. Mamma will know. And you don't suppose that
anything they say can really hurt our Davie?"
"No; not in the end. But--there's no use in talking."
"I am not afraid!" said Violet. "And mamma will not fret about it; I am
sure of that?"
There was nothing more said for some time, and then Violet asked:
"Where is your brother now?"
"He must be far across the country by this time. He was enjoying the
trip very much when I left him."
"And when will he be home?"
"I don't know. Not for a good while yet. Why are you asking?"
Frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into Violet's
face.
"Why are you asking?" he repeated.
But Violet did not answer him. As she looked at his poor, pale face,
the tears started in her eyes.
"Frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. You want mamma again.
She will do you more good than the doctor."
"Violet, tell me one thing! Does Davie blame Phil--about the missing
money, I mean. Tell me!"
"Davie blame your brother! Why should you say so? Davie would be
shocked at such a question from you. What reason could he have to blame
Philip?"
But Violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was
afraid to let him know all her thoughts about Davie's trouble. She did
not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. She wished very
much for Frank's sake that he should return to Gourlay with her, and she
hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. Miss Oswald was, by no means,
disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him
go. She was not very much accustomed to the society of young people,
and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very
ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter
into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised
to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be
permitted to go. Violet took care to avoid being alone with Frank while
she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about Philip.
It was all arranged as Violet desired it might be. Mr Oswald made no
serious objections to his son's going to Gourlay. Frank himself
objected, but the prospect of going with Violet was too pleasant to make
his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home
decided him to go.
"Violet," said David, when the time came to say good-bye, "you must not
tell mamma about all this vexation. It would only make her unhappy, and
do no good."
But Violet would not promise.
"I cannot, Davie. I cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to
know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. But you need
not be afraid. Mamma will not fret. She will know that it will all be
right in the end."
And the "end" of David's trouble, as far as the missing money was
concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each
other good-bye. He had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in
the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to
him a very small trouble indeed. He read it over and over again, and
laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping
the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother.
"Mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it," said he to
himself; "and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which
is sure to come right in the end."
And so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather,
and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the
loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him,
and he was by no means well. He did his best to do well all that was
given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings
lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should
all come home.
There was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match
or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the
earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of
it. David would have gone with, the rest, but Mr Caldwell, who was at
the moment engaged with Mr Oswald in his private room, had asked him to
remain till he came out to him again. David waited, not caring that he
lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for
anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little
unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it.
For when he had read his mother's letter only the other day, he had
taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged
how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let Mr Oswald's doubts and
suspicions dismay him. He had said then that it was all past now, and
that he could wait God's time for the clearing of his name, without
being unhappy or afraid again. And now here he was wondering anxiously
whether Mr Oswald and Mr Caldwell were speaking about the lost money,
and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. He was
tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty
house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to
himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand
was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said--
"Well, Davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since I went
away?"
David turned and saw Philip Oswald. In his surprise, and because of the
many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a
word. He forgot to take the hand which Philip held out to him.
"Have you, Davie? I declare you look as if you had not seen the light
of the sun for a month! What is the matter with you, Davie?"
He might well ask it, for David had grown very pale, and his heart was
beating fast. In spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with
Violet, associated Philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as
he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was
that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it.
No, Philip Oswald could not help him out of his trouble.
"When did you come, Philip?" said he. "I should scarcely have known
you, if you hadn't spoken."
Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. He
was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to
David to have grown taller in these two months.
"I have improved, haven't I? I can't say as much for you. What is the
trouble, Davie?"
Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing
brown face close to David's. But David drew himself away. He hated
himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he
looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the
summer have passed so differently to them? At the moment he was very
miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and
afraid. So he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned away
saying nothing.
"Is it as bad as that? Can't I help you? Frank seemed to think I
might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble
or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you
got into a scrape at last?"
"A scrape!" repeated David. "No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I
should be sorry to trouble you."
"Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to
come, because of Frank's letter. He seemed to think I could put you
through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old
Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?"
David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to
the time of Philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or other
light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to
him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before.
If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone,
for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by
breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have
done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to
answer.
"So you have come home!" said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. "You
have not been in haste."
"I beg your pardon. I _have_ been in haste. I did not intend to come
home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about
it."
"And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless."
"You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him
a minute, and then I'll go home with you, Davie," said Philip, turning
towards his father's door. "David has important business with me,"
added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.
David shook his head.
"Your father will tell you all about it," said he, hoarsely.
Philip whistled and came back again.
"That is the way, is it?"
"Or I will tell you," said Mr Caldwell, gravely. "Young man, what did
your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while
ago?"
Philip looked at him in surprise.
"What is that to you, sir? He said--I don't very well know what he
said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and
blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in
trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through."
Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother's
letter and held it out to David. "Perhaps you can make it out," said
he.
Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some
places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip
could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet's,
and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost
money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the
letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem
mysterious to Philip.
"Can you make it out?" Philip asked.
"I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out
from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell."
"All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I
can help you out of the scrape, I will."
"That is to be seen yet," said Mr Caldwell.
Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as
possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the
money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by
him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how
Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of
having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr
Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might
have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from
his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the
matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip's face, and his
last words were--
"And it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the
matter. Is that what he says in his letter?"
Philip's face was well worth looking at as the story went on. At first
he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise,
and then to consternation, as Mr Caldwell proceeded. When he ceased
speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question--
"What could my father mean? To blame Davie, of all people!"
"There was no one else, he thought," said David.
"No one else!" repeated Philip. "Nonsense! There was Mr Caldwell and
all the rest of them in the office, and there was _me_. I took the
money."
"If you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser
thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation,
and a deal of unhappiness to David Inglis and the rest of them," said
Mr Caldwell, severely. "You had best tell your father about it now,"
added he, as Mr Oswald came out of his room.
"Acknowledge it! Of course, I acknowledge it. Papa, did you not get
the note I left on your table for you the day I went away?"
"The note!" repeated his father. "I got no note from you."
"David, my man," whispered Mr Caldwell, "do you mind the word that
says, `He shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy
judgment as the noonday?' The Lord doesna forget."
The story as they gathered it from Philip's explanations and
exclamations was this: He had come to the office to see his father
directly from the train that had brought him home from C--. He had not
found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some
change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and
that he must return to C-- without a moment's delay, in order that all
arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. He
was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver
that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full
value in paper money in exchange. There could be no mistake about it,
and he had never doubted but his father had received it.
"And, papa! the absurdity of suspecting Davie," said Philip, not very
respectfully, when his story was done.
"And now the matter lies between him and you," said his father. "For
the money is not forthcoming. You may have neglected to leave it after
all."
But Philip was certain as to that point. He had enclosed it with his
note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was
lying on the table. There could be no mistake about that.
"And we are just where we were before," said Mr Caldwell. "But don't
be cast down, David. There must be a way out of this."
"But nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted
Davie. That was too absurd, you know. If I had been you, Davie, I
would have cut the whole concern," said Philip.
"There would have been much wisdom in that," said Mr Caldwell dryly.
"There is no fear of David Inglis."
David said nothing. He stood folding and unfolding the letter that
Philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really
been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of Mr
Oswald might still rest on him "I wonder you did not think of me,
father," went on Philip. "Frank did, I dare say, though I could not
make out what he meant. But the money must be somewhere. Let us have a
look."
He went into his father's room, and the others followed. Philip looked
about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months
ago. There were loose papers on the table, and some letters and
account-books. The morning paper was there, and Mr Oswald's hat and
cane, and that was all.
"The big book lay just here," said Philip. "I laid my note on it, so
that it need not be overlooked."
"There are more big books in the office than one," said Mr Caldwell,
crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still
standing open. One by one he lifted the large account-books that were
not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether
any paper might have been shut in them. As soon as Philip understood
what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal
more energy and interest than Mr Caldwell displayed. But it was Mr
Caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking--Philip's note
to his father--safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as
though it might not have been opened for years.
"I mind well; I was referring back to Moses Cramp's account of past
years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. And now, David
Inglis, your trial is over for this time," and he handed the note to Mr
Oswald.
"Provided Mr Philip has made no mistake," added he, cautiously, as the
note was opened.
The interest with which David looked on may be imagined. It took Mr
Oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while
before he laid it down, and Mr Caldwell, claiming Mr Philip's help,
set about putting the big books in their places again. David never
thought of offering to help.
"It has been a very unfortunate mistake," said Mr Oswald, at last.
"All's well that ends well," said his son lightly.
"I am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, David.
I might have known that _you_ were not to blame, but there seemed to be
no one else. I beg your pardon sincerely," said Mr Oswald.
"I am very glad it is all right, sir," said David, quietly.
"I should like to know one thing," said Philip. "How came Frank to
write to me? He must have thought I was the thief--the young rascal.
Did you think so, Davie?"
"No," said David, "I never thought you took it. I don't know what Frank
thought. I never spoke to him about it, nor to any one," added David,
after a moment's hesitation.
"Well! never mind. I'll sift that matter by and by. Come up to the
house with me, Davie. I am very sorry for all the pain you have had
about this business. Come home with me to-night."
"No; I am going home by myself. I have a headache. You were not to
blame."
"Yes, he was to blame," said Mr Oswald. "It was a very unbusiness-like
way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned."
"It has been bad enough all through for David Inglis. Mr Philip, if
you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and
let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few
days."
Philip opened his eyes.
"I am afraid I could not fill David's place in the office," said he.
"I am afraid of that, too. But you would be better than nobody, and we
would have patience with you. And David must go for awhile, whether you
take his place or no."
"Yes," assented Mr Oswald, rather absently. "He might as well have a
holiday now as any time. And, Philip, I expect you to take your own
place in the office after this regularly."
Philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see.
"I'll give it a trial," said he.
"And can I go to-morrow, Mr Caldwell?" said David. "I have no
preparations to make, and I should like to take them by surprise."
"By all means. I should like to go with you and see it," said Philip.
"But, I suppose, that would hardly do--just at present."
David bade them good-night, and went down the street with Mr Caldwell.
"I am much obliged to you, sir. I am very glad to get away from the
office for awhile, to say nothing of going to Gourlay and seeing them
all."
David's eyes sparkled at the thought.
"Well! You have borne your trouble not so ill," said Mr Caldwell; "and
you may tell your mother I said so."
David laughed; but he looked grave in a moment.
"I don't think you would say I bore it well, if you knew all the angry
thoughts I had. But I am very glad and thankful now, and I am sure
mamma will thank you for all your kindness. I know now you never
thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing."
"We are all poor creatures, David, my man. There is no saying what we
mightna' do if we were left to ourselves. Be thankful and humble, and
pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man's
eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his
well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the Lord
guide you," said Mr Caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away.
David stood gazing after him with astonished eyes.
"I responsible for him! That can hardly be. I am nothing to him. I
wonder what mamma would say? I shall have nothing to do with him for
awhile, at least. I like Frank much the best. Oh! isn't it good to be
going home!"
David had one thing to do with Philip Oswald before he went away. He
came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his
little sisters, and to see him off. He was merry and good-humoured,
though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill
David's place in the office to the satisfaction of Mr Caldwell.
"If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sunday
with you," said he. "I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. I
did not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonest
person, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both."
He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. But
David was shocked.
"Violet never thought that of you. She only said that--that--"
"Well! What did she say?" demanded Philip.
"She said it was quite impossible," went on David. "She said there was
no motive--I mean--She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought
first of your own pleasure--but--"
There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train.
He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence for
two minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip's
astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could
not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good.
For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often
for his welfare.
"At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now," said David.
And he was quite right.