Alger Horatio Jr.
Paul Prescott's Charge
XXXII
RIGHT TRIUMPHANT
George Dawkins resumed his duties the next morning as usual. Notwithstanding the crime he had committed to screen himself from the consequences of a lighter fault, he felt immeasurably relieved at the thought that he had shaken himself free from the clutches of Duval. His satisfaction was heightened by the disgrace and summary dismissal of Paul, whom he had never liked. He decided to ask the place for a cousin of his own, whose society would be more agreeable to him than that of his late associate.
“Good-morning, sir,” he said, as Mr. Danforth entered.
“Good-morning,” returned his employer, coldly.
“Have you selected any one in Prescott’s place, yet, sir?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have a cousin, Malcolm Harcourt, who would be glad to take it.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Danforth, whose manner somewhat puzzled Dawkins.
“I should enjoy having him with me,” continued Dawkins.
“Did you like Prescott?”
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, promptly, “I didn’t want to say so before, but now, since he’s turned out so badly, I don’t mind saying that I never thought much of him.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Danforth, “I liked him from the first. Perhaps we are wrong in thinking that he took the money.”
“I should think there could be no doubt of it,” said Dawkins, not liking the sympathy and returning good feeling for Paul which his employer manifested.
“I don’t agree with you,” said Mr. Danforth, coldly. “I have decided to reinstate Paul in his former place.”
“Then, if any more money is missing, you will know where it has gone,” said Dawkins, hastily.
“I shall.”
“Then there is no chance for my cousin?”
“I am expecting to have a vacancy.”
Dawkins looked up in surprise.
“I shall require some one to fill YOUR place,” said Mr. Danforth, significantly.
“Sir!” exclaimed Dawkins, in astonishment and dismay.
His employer bent a searching glance upon him as he asked, sternly, “where did you obtain the money which you paid away last evening?”
“I—don’t—understand—you, sir,” gasped Dawkins, who understood only too well.
“You met a man at the door of a low tavern in—Street, last evening, to whom you paid one hundred and fifty dollars, precisely the sum which I lost yesterday.”
“Who has been slandering me, sir?” asked Dawkins, very pale.
“An eye-witness of the meeting, who heard the conversation between you. If you want more satisfactory proof, here it is.”
Mr. Danforth took from his pocket-book the torn fragments of the note which Dawkins had given to Duval.
“Here is an obligation to pay a certain Duval the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. It bears your signature. How you could have incurred such a debt to him you best know.”
Dawkins maintained a sullen silence.
“I suppose you wish me to leave your employment,” he said at length.
“You are right. Hold,” he added, as Dawkins was about leaving the room, “a word more. It is only just that you should make a restitution of the sum which you have taken. If you belonged to a poor family and there were extenuating circumstances, I might forego my claim. But your father is abundantly able to make good the loss, and I shall require you to lay the matter before him without loss of time. In consideration of your youth, I shall not bring the matter before the public tribunals, as I have a right to do.”
Dawkins turned pale at this allusion, and muttering some words to the effect that he would do what he could, left the counting-room.
This threat proved not to be without its effect. The next day he came to Mr. Danforth and brought the sum for which he had become responsible. He had represented to his father that he had had his pocket picked of this sum belonging to Mr. Danforth, and in that manner obtained an equal amount to replace it. It was some time before Mr. Dawkins learned the truth. Then came a storm of reproaches in which all the bitterness of his father’s nature was fully exhibited. There had never been much love between father and son. Henceforth there was open hatred.
We must return to Paul, whom we left in much trouble.
It was a sad walk which he took homeward on the morning of his dismissal.
“What brings you home so early?” asked Mrs. Cameron, looking up from her baking, as Paul entered.
Paul tried to explain, but tears came to his eyes, and sobs choked his utterance.
“Are you sick, Paul?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, in alarm.
“No, Aunt Hester.”
“Then what is the matter?” she asked anxiously.
“I have lost my place.”
“Poor boy! I am very sorry to hear it. But it might have been worse.”
“No, not very well, Aunt Hester, for Mr. Danforth thinks I have taken some of his money.”
“He is very unjust!” exclaimed Aunt Hester, indignantly, “he ought to have known better than to think you would steal.”
“Why, no,” said Paul, candidly, “I must confess the evidence was against me, and he doesn’t know me as well as you do, Aunt Hester.”
“Tell me all about it, Paul.”
Aunt Hester sat down and listened attentively to our hero’s story.
“How do you account for the money being found in your pocket?” she asked at length.
“I think it must have been put there by some one else.”
“Have you any suspicions?”
“Yes,” said Paul, a little reluctantly, “but I don’t know whether I ought to have. I may be wronging an innocent person.”
“At any rate it won’t do any harm to tell me.”
“You’ve heard me speak of George Dawkins?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t help thinking that he put the fifty dollars into my pocket, and took the rest himself.”
“How very wicked he must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, indignantly.
“Don’t judge him too hastily; Aunt Hester, he may not be guilty, and I know from my own experience how hard it is to be accused when you are innocent.”
Soon after the sexton came in, and Paul of course, told his story over again.
“Never mind, Paul,” said Uncle Hugh, cheerily. “You know your own innocence; that is the main thing. It’s a great thing to have a clear conscience.”
“But I liked Mr. Danforth and I think he liked me. It’s hard to feel that he and Mrs. Danforth will both think me guilty, especially after the kindness which I have experienced from them.”
“We all have our crosses, my boy,—some light and others heavy. Yours, I admit is a heavy one for a boy to bear. But when men are unjust there is One above who will deal justly with us. You have not forgotten him.”
“No, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, reverently.
“Trust in him, Paul, and all will come out right at last. He can prove your innocence, and you may be sure he will, in his own good time. Only be patient, Paul.”
“I will try to be, Uncle Hugh.”
The simple, hearty trust in God, which the sexton manifested, was not lost upon Paul. Sustained by his own consciousness of innocence, and the confidence reposed in him by those who knew him best, his mind soon regained its cheerful tone. He felt an inward conviction that God would vindicate his innocence.
His vindication came sooner than he anticipated.
The next day as the sexton’s family were seated at their plain dinner, a knock was heard upon the outer door.
“Sit still, Hester,” said Mr. Cameron. “I will go to the door.”
Opening the door he recognized Mr. Danforth, who attended the same church.
“Mr. Cameron, I believe,” said Mr. Danforth, pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I come in? I am here on a little business.”
“Certainly, Mr. Danforth. Excuse my not inviting you before; but in my surprise at seeing you, I forgot my politeness.”
The sexton led the way into the plain sitting-room.
“I believe Paul Prescott is an inmate of your family.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry–”
“I know what you would say, sir; but it is needless. May I see Paul a moment?”
Paul was surprised at the summons, and still more surprised at finding who it was that wished to see him.
He entered the room slowly, uncertain how to accost Mr. Danforth. His employer solved the doubt in his mind by advancing cordially, and taking his hand.
“Paul,” he said pleasantly, “I have come here to ask your forgiveness for an injustice, and to beg you to resume your place in my counting-room.”
“Have you found out who took the money, sir?” asked Paul, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Who was it, sir?”
“It was Dawkins.”
Mr. Danforth explained how he had become acquainted with the real thief. In conclusion, he said, “I shall expect you back to-morrow morning, Paul.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dawkins of course leaves my employ. You will take his place, and receive his salary, seven dollars a week instead of five. Have you any friend whom you would like to have in your own place?”
Paul reflected a moment and finally named a schoolmate of his, the son of poor parents, whom he knew to be anxiously seeking a situation, but without influential friends to help him.
“I will take him on your recommendation,” said Mr. Danforth, promptly. “Can you see him this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul.
The next day Paul resumed his place in Mr. Danforth’s counting-room.
XXXIII
PAUL REDEEMS HIS PLEDGE
Two years passed, unmarked by any incident of importance. Paul continued in Mr. Danforth’s employment, giving, if possible, increased satisfaction. He was not only faithful, but exhibited a rare aptitude for business, which made his services of great value to his employer. From time to time Mr. Danforth increased his salary, so that, though only nineteen, he was now receiving twelve dollars per week, with the prospect of a speedy increase. But with his increasing salary, he did not increase his expenses. He continued as economical as ever. He had not forgotten his father’s dying injunction. He remained true to the charge which he had taken upon himself, that of redeeming his father’s memory from reproach. This, at times subjected him to the imputation of meanness, but for this he cared little. He would not swerve from the line of duty which he had marked out.
One evening as he was walking down Broadway with an acquaintance, Edward Hastings, who was employed in a counting-room near him, they paused before a transparency in front of a hall brilliantly lighted.
“The Hutchinsons are going to sing to-night, Paul,” said Hastings. “Did you ever hear them?”
“No; but I have often wished to.”
“Then suppose we go in.”
“No, I believe not.”
“Why not. Paul? It seems to me you never go anywhere. You ought to amuse yourself now and then.”
“Some other time I will,—not now.”
“You are not required to be at home in the evening, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why not come in now? It’s only twenty-five cents.”
“To tell the truth, Ned, I am saving up my money for a particular purpose; and until that is accomplished, I avoid all unnecessary expense.”
“Going to invest in a house in Fifth Avenue? When you do, I’ll call. However, never mind the expense. I’ll pay you in.”
“I’m much obliged to you, Ned, but I can’t accept.”
“Why not?”
“Because at present I can’t afford to return the favor.”
“Never mind that.”
“But I do mind it. By-and-by I shall feel more free. Good-night, if you are going in.”
“Good-night, Paul.”
“He’s a strange fellow,” mused Hastings.
“It’s impossible to think him mean, and yet, it looks a great deal like it. He spends nothing for dress or amusements. I do believe that I’ve had three coats since he’s been wearing that old brown one. Yet, he always looks neat. I wonder what he’s saving up his money for.”
Meanwhile Paul went home.
The sexton and his wife looked the same as ever. Paul sometimes fancied that Uncle Hugh stooped a little more than he used to do; but his life moved on so placidly and evenly, that he grew old but slowly. Aunt Hester was the same good, kind, benevolent friend that she had always been. No mother could have been more devoted to Paul. He felt that he had much to be grateful for, in his chance meeting with this worthy couple.
It was the first of January,—a clear, cold day. A pleasant fire burned in the little stove. Mr. Cameron sat at one side, reading the evening paper; Mrs. Cameron at the other, knitting a stocking for Paul. A large, comfortable-looking cat was dozing tranquilly on the hearth-rug. Paul, who had been seated at the table, rose and lighted a candle.
“Where are you going, Paul?” asked Aunt Hester.
“Up-stairs for a moment.”
Paul speedily returned, bearing in his hand a small blue bank-book, with his name on the cover.
He took out his pencil and figured a few minutes.
“Uncle Hugh,” said he, looking up, “when I get a hundred dollars more, I shall have enough to pay father’s debt.”
“Principal and interest?”
“Yes, principal and interest; reckoning the interest for a year to come.”
“I did not suppose you had so much money, Paul. You must have been very economical.”
“Yes, Uncle Hugh more so than I have wanted to be, oftentimes; but whenever I have been tempted to spend a cent unnecessarily, I have always called to mind my promise made to father on his deathbed, and I have denied myself.”
“You have done well, Paul. There are few who would have had the resolution to do as you have.”
“Oh yes, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, modestly, “I think there are a great many. I begin to feel repaid already. In a few months I shall be able to pay up the whole debt.”
At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Mr. Cameron answered the summons.
“Does Mr. Paul Prescott live here?” inquired a boy.
“Yes. Do you want to see him?”
“Here is a letter for him. There is no answer.”
The messenger departed, leaving the letter in Mr. Cameron’s hand.
Somewhat surprised, he returned to the sitting-room and handed it to Paul.
Paul opened it hastily, and discovered inclosed, a bank-note for one hundred dollars. It was accompanied with a note from his employer, stating that it was intended as a New Year’s gift, but in the hurry of business, he had forgotten to give it to him during the day.
Paul’s face lighted up with joy.
“Oh, Uncle Hugh!” he exclaimed, almost breathless with delight. “Don’t you see that this will enable me to pay my debt at once?”
“So it will, Paul. I wish you joy.”
“And my father’s memory will be vindicated,” said Paul, in a tone of deep satisfaction. “If he could only have lived to see this day!”
A fortnight later, Paul obtained permission from his employer to be absent from the office for a week. It was his purpose to visit Cedarville and repay ‘Squire Conant the debt due him: and then, to go across the country to Wrenville, thirty miles distant, to see Aunt Lucy Lee. First, however, he ordered a new suit of a tailor, feeling a desire to appear to the best advantage on his return to the scene of his former humiliation. I must not omit to say that Paul was now a fine-looking young fellow of nineteen, with a frank, manly face, that won favor wherever he went.
In due course of time, he arrived at Cedarville, and found his way without difficulty to the house of ‘Squire Conant.
It was a large house, rather imposing in its exterior, being quite the finest residence in the village.
Paul went up the walk, and rang the bell.
“Can I see ‘Squire Conant?” he asked of the servant who answered the bell.
“You’ll find him in that room,” said the girl, pointing to a door on the left hand of the hall.
“As he doesn’t know me, perhaps you had better go before.”
The door was opened, and Paul found himself in the presence of his father’s creditor. ‘Squire Conant was looking pale and thin. He was just recovering from a severe sickness.
“I presume you don’t recognize me, sir,” said Paul.
“Did I ever see you before?”
“Yes, sir; my name is Paul Prescott.”
“Not the son of John Prescott?”
“The same, sir. I believe my father died in your debt.”
“Yes. I lent him five hundred dollars, which he never repaid.”
“He tried to do so, sir. He had saved up a hundred and fifty dollars towards it, but sickness came upon him, and he was obliged to use it.”
‘Squire Conant’s temper had been subdued by the long and dangerous illness through which he had passed. It had made him set a smaller value on his earthly possessions, from which he might be separated at any moment. When he answered Paul, it was in a manner which our hero did not expect.
“Never mind. I can afford to lose it. I have no doubt he did what he could.”
“But I have come to pay it, sir,” said Paul.
“You!” exclaimed ‘Squire Conant, in the greatest astonishment.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“I earned it, sir.”
“But you are very young. How could you have earned so much?”
Paul frankly told the story of his struggles; how for years he had practised a pinching economy, in order to redeem his father’s memory from reproach.
‘Squire Conant listened attentively.
“You are a good boy,” he said, at length.
“Shall you have anything left after paying this money?”
“No, sir; but I shall soon earn more.”
“Still, you ought to have something to begin the world with. You shall pay me half the money, and I will cancel the note.”
“But, sir,–”
“Not a word. I am satisfied, and that is enough. If I hadn’t lent your father the money, I might have invested it with the rest, and lost all.”
‘Squire Conant produced the note from a little trunk of papers, and handed it to Paul, who paid him the amount which he had stipulated, expressing at the same time his gratitude for his unexpected generosity.
“Never mind about thanks, my boy,” said ‘Squire Conant: “I am afraid I have loved money too well heretofore. I hope I am not too old to turn over a new leaf.”
XXXIV
HOW PAUL GOES BACK TO WRENVILLE
While ‘Squire Conant was speaking, Paul formed a sudden resolution. He remembered that Aunt Lucy Lee was a sister of ‘Squire Conant. Perhaps, in his present frame of mind, it might be possible to induce him to do something for her.
“I believe I am acquainted with a sister of yours, ‘Squire Conant,” he commenced.
“Ha!” exclaimed the ‘Squire.
“Mrs. Lucy Lee.”
“Yes,” was the slow reply; “she is my sister. Where did you meet her?”
“At the Wrenville Poorhouse.”
“How long ago?”
“About six years since.”
“Is she there, still?”
“Yes, sir. Since I have been in New York, I have heard from her frequently. I am going from here to visit her. Have you any message, sir? I am sure she would be glad to hear from you.”
“She shall hear from me,” said the ‘Squire in a low voice. “Sit down, and I will write her a letter which, I hope, will not prove unwelcome.”
Five minutes afterwards he handed Paul an open letter.
“You may read it,” he said, abruptly.
“You have been a better friend to my sister than I. You shall witness my late reparation.”
The letter was as follows:–
CEDARVILLE, JAN 13, 18—. MY DEAR SISTER:—
I hope you will forgive me for my long neglect. It is not fitting that while I am possessed of abundant means you should longer remain the tenant of an almshouse. I send you by the bearer of this note, Paul Prescott, who, I understand, is a friend of yours, the sum of three hundred dollars. The same sum will be sent you annually. I hope it will be sufficient to maintain you comfortably. I shall endeavor to call upon you soon, and meanwhile remain, Your affectionate brother,
EZEKIEL CONANT.
Paul read this letter with grateful joy. It seemed almost to good to be true. Aunt Lucy would be released from the petty tyranny of Mrs. Mudge’s household, and perhaps—he felt almost sure Aunt Hester would be willing to receive her as a boarder, thus insuring her a peaceful and happy home in her declining years.
“Oh, sir,” said he, seizing ‘Squire Conant’s hand, “you cannot tell how happy you have made me.”
“It is what I ought to have done before. Here is the money referred to in the letter,—three hundred dollars,—mind you don’t lose it.”
“I will take every care, sir.”
“You may tell my sister that I shall be happy to have her write me.”
“I will, sir.”
Paul left ‘Squire Conant’s house, feeling that he had great cause for joy. The ‘Squire’s refusal to receive more than half the debt, left him master of over three hundred dollars. But I am not sure whether he did not rejoice even more over the good fortune which had come to Aunt Lucy Lee, whose kindness to him, in his unfriended boyhood, he would ever hold in grateful remembrance. He enjoyed in anticipation the joy which he knew Aunt Lucy would feel when the change in her fortunes was communicated to her. He knew also how great would be the chagrin of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, when they found that the meek old lady whom they hated was about to be rescued from their clutches. On the whole, Paul felt that this was the happiest day of his life. It was a satisfaction to feel that the good fortune of his early friend was all due to his own intercession.
He was able to take the cars to a point four miles distant from Wrenville. On getting out on the platform he inquired whether there was a livery stable near by. He was directed to one but a few rods distant. Entering he asked, “Can you let me have a horse and chaise to go to Wrenville?”
“Yes, sir,” said the groom.
“Let me have the best horse in the stable,” said Paul, “and charge me accordingly.”
“Yes, sir,” said the groom, respectfully, judging from Paul’s dress and tone that he was a young gentleman of fortune.
A spirited animal was brought out, and Paul was soon seated in the chaise driving along the Wrenville road. Paul’s city friends would hardly have recognized their economical acquaintance in the well-dressed young man who now sat behind a fast horse, putting him through his best paces. It might have been a weakness in Paul, but he remembered the manner in which he left Wrenville, an unfriended boy, compelled to fly from persecution under the cover of darkness, and he felt a certain pride in showing the Mudges that his circumstances were now entirely changed. It was over this very road that he had walked with his little bundle, in the early morning, six years before. It seemed to him almost like a dream.
At length he reached Wrenville. Though he had not been there for six years, he recognized the places that had once been familiar to him. But everything seemed to have dwindled. Accustomed to large city warehouses, the houses in the village seemed very diminutive. Even ‘Squire Benjamin Newcome’s house, which he had once regarded as a stately mansion, now looked like a very ordinary dwelling.
As he rode up the main street of the village, many eyes were fixed upon him and his carriage, but no one thought of recognizing, in the well-dressed youth, the boy who had run away from the Wrenville Poorhouse.
