IN WHICH ERNEST WONDERS WHAT TOM THORNTON WILL DO, AND FINDS OUT.
THOUGH I had not travelled much, I felt quite at home on the train. I
was not troubled with any of that disagreeable quality called
"greenness," for I had read the newspapers every day regularly for five
years; and, through them, a person may know the world without seeing
much of it. Besides, nearly all my schoolmates had come from places more
or less distant; and, being of an inquiring mind, I had "pumped" many of
them dry.
With what I had read, with what I had learned from pictures, maps, and
diagrams, and with what my friends had told me while we were sailing in
the Splash, I had a tolerably correct idea of the city of New York. I
was very much surprised, when I arrived there, to find how familiar the
streets were to me. I had pored for hours at a time over the street
maps of the cities in Colton's Atlas; I had walked in imagination
through the streets of London and Paris; and I had read the
encyclopaedia, and all the books of travel which came in my way.
After this course of study, I was not burdened with "greenness." I felt
at home; and, though I looked with interest upon scenes and objects that
were new to me, I did not keep my mouth wide open, or stare like an
idiot. I take all this pains to prove that I was not green, because I
had an especial horror of verdancy in general, and verdant boys in
particular. I kept myself cool and self-possessed, and I was delighted
to find that no one looked at me, or appeared to think I was ill at
ease.
I was dressed in my best clothes, and though they were made by a
provincial tailor, Parkville was progressive enough to boast of a
genuine artist in this line. There was nothing about my companion, any
more than myself, to attract attention. Doubtless most of the people
thought we were brother and sister, or that some elderly gentleman and
lady, seated in another part of the car, would claim us when we reached
our destination. I suppose I thought of all these things because I
feared that some one was looking at me, and because I had an especial
dread of being noticed at that time.
Even Bob Hale, partial as he was, and sympathizing with me to the
fullest extent, could not deny that I had been guilty of what he called
"technical theft." In the very worst possible phase in which it could be
viewed, I had robbed my uncle's safe of nearly fifteen hundred dollars,
and I had the money in my pocket. I was liable, therefore, to be
arrested at any moment when the intelligence of my constructive crime
should be forwarded to the proper officers, or whenever a deputy sheriff
from Parkville could overtake me.
My conscience did not then, and it does not now, accuse me of the crime
of theft. That money was really mine, though, if it had been applied or
invested by my legal trustee, in accordance with the law, and the last
will of my father, I should have had no more right to touch it than if
it had belonged to another person. My uncle and his graceless son were
engaged in a scheme to rob me. The latter wished to destroy the will at
once,--supposed it had already been done,--while the former, from simply
prudential motives, preserved it. In his own words, he dared not burn
it. He evidently kept it that it might open an avenue of escape in case
his vicious plan miscarried. After I had been disposed of, sent off and
had "lost the run" of my uncle, the document could be destroyed. I felt,
therefore, that I was fully justified in using enough of the money, at
least, to enable me to obtain justice.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when the train arrived at Albany. We
could go no farther that night, and I felt the awkwardness of my
situation. I did not like to go to a hotel with Kate Loraine; and,
leaving her in the ladies' room at the railroad station, I looked about
the premises till I found a respectable-looking baggage-master, whom I
asked to direct me to a good boarding-house. He gave me the street and
number of one he could recommend, and I called a carriage, which
conveyed us to the place indicated. It was kept by a very worthy old
lady, who fortunately had two vacant rooms, though she seemed to be
suspicious, and hesitated about taking us.
"Who are you?" asked she, bluntly, as she surveyed me from head to foot.
"My name is Ernest Thornton. This young lady's name is Kate Loraine. She
is going to her uncle's in New York. I was recommended to stop at your
house, and I have money enough to pay for all we have," I replied, as
squarely as I could speak, and telling as much of the truth as it was
important for the old lady to know.
"How long do you want to stop?" she asked, apparently satisfied with my
reply.
"I don't know yet. I shall be able to tell you to-morrow," I answered,
for I had some doubts whether I should leave the next day.
"Well, I suppose I can keep you," said she.
"Thank you."
"Have you had any supper?"
"No, ma'am, we have not."
I paid the hackman, who stood with the valise I had bought in Romer for
Kate, in his hand, and he departed. I don't know whether any one thought
we were runaways or not. We were safe for the present. The old lady
showed us our rooms, and then went to get us some supper. I sat down in
my chamber to think over the situation. I was not quite satisfied, and
of course I wished to keep out of trouble just as long as I could.
By this time Tom Thornton had probably reached the cottage of his
father, and had learned what had happened. My uncle had told him that I
had obtained the precious will--that the charter of their villany was
gone. He had found that "that boy" was not to be trifled with. "That
boy" had possessed himself of the fearful secret of their evil
practices, had probed the mystery of their iniquity, and was ready to
come down upon them like an avenging spirit, to expose their rascality,
and to publish to the world the story of their infamy.
How mad, vexed, overwhelmed Tom was I could easily imagine. He had no
more soul than a brickbat, and without a doubt had heaped abuse upon his
father, had berated him for not burning the will, and for permitting me,
by his weak fears, to be a bombshell in their path so long. Before I
knew who Tom was, I had heard hard words pass between them. I now
supposed he was angry because my uncle would not "dispose" of me in
some manner which he proposed.
Tom Thornton and his father had discovered that the evil man shall not
prosper in his way; the sword of retribution was hanging over them, and
their cherished scheme was crumbling to pieces. My uncle was in despair,
as he had been when I left him. Piteously he had begged of me to be
merciful to him; and if he had told me where my mother was, and promised
to do justice to her, I am sure I could not have gone another step to
expose him. But my uncle was an old man--if not in years, at least in
sorrow and suffering. For years he had been pursued by the terrors of a
guilty conscience; had been in an agony of doubt and fear, if not of
remorse. He was broken down, had lost his courage, and there was nothing
to fear from him.
Tom was a different person. He was bold and daring. He had no
conscience, and apparently no fears. He was young and vigorous,
strong-minded and reckless. For years he had been living like a nabob
upon the income of the property which my father had left for me. He had
been swimming in luxury, driving his span, and spending half his time
in winning the favor of the fair widow Loraine, whose fortune, if not
Kate's, he intended to add to his own ill-gotten wealth. Tom Thornton
would not resign his possession of the property, and his bright
prospects of the future, without a terrible struggle, and I was quite
confident that I should have to fight a grim battle with him.
What would he do? That was the vital question with me. As the prudent
general endeavors to anticipate the purposes of the enemy, I tried to
measure the probable intentions of Tom Thornton. What would he do? Would
he have me arrested as a criminal for robbing my uncle's safe? I confess
that the cold sweat stood upon my brow as I thought of it; as I
considered what an awful thing it would be to be carried back to
Parkville by an officer, and sent to the common jail. But, perhaps, if
this were done, it would be the best thing that could possibly happen to
me.
If arrested and tried, I should have the privilege of the meanest
criminal to defend myself. I should call on Squire Hale to produce my
father's will. I should lay bare in a court of justice the whole of
Tom's and his father's infamous conduct. But Tom knew that I had taken
the will; that I had deprived him of his sheet anchor. With only half an
eye he could see what the consequence of arresting me must be. My uncle
would groan and tremble at the very idea of such an exposure. After
these reflections, I came to the conclusion that I should not be
arrested as a criminal. Tom Thornton would fight his battle with other
weapons than those of justice and the law.
Tom had shown by his acts that he did not scruple to take the law into
his own hands, and I was convinced that my future trials were to be
caused by individual persecution rather than public prosecution. Again
the question came up, What will he do? It was certain that he would
follow me, and it was almost as certain that he would find me. I had
hardly a doubt that he would take the night train from the west, and be
in Albany the next morning. Such a person as Tom Thornton must be a
selfish man, and I concluded that he would not trouble himself much more
about finding Kate. His own trials overshadowed those of the fair widow
of Cannondale. He would be after me rather than Kate.
While I was anxiously considering the case, the landlady called me to
supper. She poured out the tea, and asked more questions than I cared to
answer; but so far as I said anything, I told the truth. I did not sleep
many hours that night; I was too much disturbed by the perils of my
situation to slumber. I thought, and thought, and thought. Tom Thornton
would arrive in the morning. At the railroad station he would begin his
inquiries for me. The baggage-master, who had directed me to the
boarding-house, would tell him just where I was.
I had almost made up my mind to leave Kate in Albany, go to New York
alone, find her uncle, and then return for her; but the thought that Tom
would arrive in the morning caused me to abandon this plan. I rose very
early, and walked down to the river, where I found a steamer would leave
for New York at eight o'clock. I went back to the boarding-house, and
after breakfast paid the bill. We walked down to the river, and went on
board of the steamer. I took a seat where I could see everybody that
came on board of the boat, for I felt very certain that Tom Thornton was
already in the city, and searching for me. I was not wrong, for just as
the boat was on the point of starting, and I was congratulating myself
on the fact that we were safe, I saw him standing on the wharf, looking
at me.