"And Mercedes? How is she?"
"It is some time since I heard, sir; the last was, she had gone with
her husband to Havana."
"Havana!" shouted Mr. Bowdoin; and before Jamie could explain he had
crushed his beaver on his head and rushed from the bank.
Jamie's head sank over the desk, and the tears came. If only this cup
could pass from him! If Heaven would pardon this one deceit in all his
darkened, upright life, and let him restore the one trust he had
broken, before he died! And then he dried his eyes, and took to
figuring,--figuring over again, as he had so often done before, the
time needed, at the present rate, to make good his theft. Ten years
more--a little less--would do it.
But old Mr. Bowdoin ran to the counting-room, where he found his son
and Harley in that gloomy silence that ends an unsatisfactory
communication.
"Say what you will, you'll never make me believe old Jamie is a
thief," said Harley.
"Thief! you low-toned rascal!" cried Mr. Bowdoin. "Thief yourself!
He's just told me Mercedes is in Havana. Of course he wants Spanish
gold!"
"Of course he does!" cried Harley.
"Of course he does!" cried James.
Their faces brightened, and each one inwardly congratulated himself
that the others had not thought how much easier it would have been for
Jamie to send her bills of exchange.