WHAT will they do?" asked Kate, trembling with fear, when I told her my uncle and Tom had driven off.
"I don't know; that is what I would like to ascertain," I replied, considering the circumstances which presented themselves. "If they were going to the same place, they would have taken the same vehicle. It is about fifteen miles round by the road to Cannondale. I think one of them must have gone that way. About two miles below, the road lies near the lake, and I will run down where I can see which of them goes in that direction."
"I am terribly frightened, Ernest Thornton," said my fair passenger, after I had headed the Splash in the direction indicated.
"I cannot deny, Kate, that we are both in greatdanger of being captured; but I shall do the best I can, and we can only hope that it will come out right in the end. Tom Thornton will do everything that mortal man can do to catch us."
"I'm afraid you are doing too much for me, Ernest Thornton. You will get yourself into trouble," she added, anxiously.
"Don't worry about me, Kate. I think Tom Thornton has a stronger desire to capture me now than he has you. We are both in the same boat in a double sense. I will tell you all about it by and by. I must keep my eyes wide open now. Of course Tom knows you have an uncle in New York."
"I suppose he does."
"Then he will readily understand that you intend to reach him if you can."
"Mrs. Loraine would think so, I know, for she burned the letter I wrote to my uncle."
"There goes Tom Thornton's chaise," said I, pointing to the vehicle, as we reached a part of the lake which commanded a view of the road. "He has stopped to watch the boat. I know where he is going now, and that's enough."
"What will you do?" asked Kate, fixing the gaze of her deep-blue eyes upon me.
"I hardly know. I confess that my plans are not arranged yet, and everything depends upon circumstances. I am going up to the Institute now to find Bob Hale, if I can."
"Will that be safe?"
"I think it will. No boat on the lake can catch the Splash in this breeze; and Bob may be able to help me."
In half an hour we were off the Institute pier; but the recess was over, and the students were all in the school-room. It was not safe for me to remain long in this vicinity, for my uncle had by this time reached Parkville, and had probably employed some one to pursue me. I wrote a note to Bob with pencil, on a slip of paper I had in my pocket, and running the Splash up to the pier, sent it to the school-room by one of the men who was at work in the garden. My friend appeared immediately.
"Come on board, Bob. I have a great deal to say to you, and only a little time to say it in."
"But it is school time," replied Bob.
"I must not stop here a moment. I am going off, Bob, and may never see you again, at least not for some time."
"Why, what's up, Ernest?" he asked, as he stepped on board, his scruples removed by the announcement I had made.
"A great deal has happened since we parted last night," I replied, pushing off the Splash from the pier.
"How do you do, Miss Loraine?" continued Bob. "I am glad to see you are still safe."
"I am very well, thanks to Ernest Thornton," she replied.
I headed the boat up the lake towards the cottage again, and proceeded to tell Bob all that had happened since midnight. He listened in amazement to my story. I showed him my father's will, which I had not yet read, and we went through it together.
"It is very plain that they mean to cheat you out of the property your father left for you," said he.
"That is clear enough. My uncle told me nearly a year ago that my father left nothing for me."
"It seems that your father died in England," added Bob.
"Yes; in London. This will names my mother as my guardian, and my uncle Amos as the trustee, to take care of the property, which, it seems, was all in stocks and bonds. But my uncle says my mother is in an insane asylum; but whether in England or the United States, I don't know," I continued, folding up the will.
"I don't see how your uncle did it. It is the most infernal, mean business I ever heard of," said Bob, indignantly. "But what are you going to do?"
"I am going to find my mother!"
"How will you find her? Where will you look for her?"
"I don't know," I answered, feeling for the first time that my information was very insufficient.
"Were there no other papers in the safe?"
"Plenty of them; but I was so agitated I could not examine them."
"But what are you going to do, Ernest?"
"I am going to New York, first; then to Philadelphia,perhaps, where Tom Thornton lives when he is at home. I may find out something there."
"But how will you get to New York?"
"My plan was to run up the creek, and take the train at the Adieno station; but Tom Thornton has gone over that way, and I am afraid he will have somebody stationed there and at Cannondale to stop us. If you could help me, Bob—"
"Help you! certainly I'll help you!" interposed he, warmly. "What shall I do?"
"If you could get a team and drive us over to Romer, which is about ten miles, we could take the train there without danger."
"I'll do it."
"And, Bob, you may tell your father the whole story, and then he won't blame you," I added, not wishing to get him into a scrape.
"My father is away; but don't worry about me. You are clearly in the right, and I will do all I can for you, whatever happens to me."
"Thank you, Bob. The time will come when I shall stand on my feet, and then it will be all right with you."
I ran the Splash up a small creek on the edge of the town, and landed Bob. He was to procure a horse and covered wagon, and take Kate and myself at the cottage; for, now that Tom and my uncle were away, it seemed to be the safest place to land. Besides, I had another object in view in choosing this locality.
For an hour I cruised about the upper end of the lake, until I saw Bob wave his handkerchief from the wagon, near the cottage. I ran the Splash into the mouth of the brook, which was the only place where the water was deep enough to permit our landing. I lowered the sails, and fastened the painter to a tree. I directed Kate to run through the grove to the road, where she would find the wagon, and promised to join her in a few moments. Trembling with fear, she ran up the hill, and I hastened to the cottage. My uncle was away, and I was determined to look at the papers in the safe again, for I was convinced that I could not find my mother without more information than I possessed.
ERNEST SURPRISED BY HIS UNCLE.—Page 139.ERNEST SURPRISED BY HIS UNCLE.—Page 139.
I went directly to the bay window where I had entered the library before, and effected an entrancewithout any difficulty. I found the key of the safe under the cushion, where I had left it, and opened the door. Eagerly I seized the pile of papers I had seen before, and began to examine them. Most of them were unintelligible to me, and apparently had no connection with my father's affairs; but there were several letters dated at London, which I thrust into my pocket. I could find nothing else which promised to be of service to me, and I was about to close the door, when I discovered a sealed letter lying in a pigeon hole by itself. I took it from its place, and read the direction: "Robert G. Bunyard, 47 Old Jewry, Chambers, London."
This letter, I was convinced, would afford me some information; indeed, the address would give me a clew to what I wanted. I was kneeling on one knee, with this letter in my hand, when the door of the library suddenly opened, and my uncle stepped into the room.
"Ernest Thornton!" cried he, in tones so full of terror that they pierced my soul.
He sprang towards me; but I stepped out of his way, though I was nearly paralyzed by this unexpectedinterruption. I thrust the letter into my pocket, and stood at bay near the window by which I had entered.
"What have you done?" gasped uncle Amos, as he staggered towards me, his face pale as a sheet, and his limbs trembling in every fibre. "What papers have you taken?"
"My father's will for one," I replied, almost as much disturbed as he was.
"O Heaven!" groaned he.
"Uncle Amos, will you tell me now where my mother is?"
"O, Ernest! I am ruined!" exclaimed he, sinking into a chair.
"Will you tell me where my mother is?" I repeated, with all the earnestness I could command.
"Is this the return you make to me for all my kindness to you?" he added, in a choking voice. "I have given you all you wanted—boats, money, everything. Have pity on me, Ernest. I—I shall—I shall go mad!"
"I should think you would," I replied, having in some degree recovered my self-possession. "Youtold me my father left nothing for me; that my mother was in an insane asylum."
"She is, Ernest—she is," said he.
"Where?" I demanded, in a loud, fierce tone.
"I cannot tell you. Where is Thomas? Send for him, and he will make it all right. You shall have every dollar that belongs to you, Ernest. I am a miserable wretch; but I did not do this deed for my own sake. Send for Thomas."
"I have had enough of Thomas. He would cut my throat as readily as he would turn his hand. Will you tell me where my mother is, or shall I find her myself?"
"You cannot find her, Ernest. Be calm, and you shall have all. Send for Thomas."
"I will not send for him. I don't care so much for the money as I do for my mother. Tell me where she is, or send for her."
"She could not come."
"Then I can go to her."
"Sit down, Ernest, and be calm."
"I'm calm enough. I could forgive you for anythingyou have done to me. If you will not tell me where she is, I shall find her myself."
"You cannot find her."
"I can apply to Mr. Robert G. Bunyard—and—"
My uncle sprang to his feet, uttered a cry of agony, and attempted to stagger towards me; but his legs yielded beneath him, and he sank upon the floor. He had either fainted or fallen in a fit. I called old Betsey, and she and I placed him on a sofa. She said he had only fainted, and wanted to know what had happened. I replied that my uncle would tell her if he thought best. We bathed his head and rubbed his temples till he opened his eyes.
"Send for Thomas," said he, feebly.
I was satisfied that he would recover, and being perfectly willing Tom should be sent for, I told Jerry where he could probably be found. I then left the house by the front door. My uncle's horse stood at the hitching-post. He had probably employed some one to follow up the Splash, and then returned to the house. As I went out, I saw a large sail-boat standing up the lake, which I concludedwas in pursuit of me. Hastening up the hill, I found Bob greatly alarmed at my long absence.
"I was afraid something had happened to you," said he.
"Drive on, and I will tell you about it," I replied, as I seated myself in the wagon.
WHAT kept you so long?" asked Bob, when I was seated. "I was sure something had gone wrong with you."
"I don't know whether it has gone right or wrong. I went into the library, and opened the safe again. While I was looking at the papers, my uncle came in."
"Whew!" whistled Bob. "There was a storm in the library about that time—wasn't there?"
"Not much of a storm. I pity my uncle from the bottom of my heart. He is suffering more than you can imagine or I can describe, and he has been a sufferer for years," I replied.
"Well, what did he say to you?" asked Bob, who did not seem to be in the humor, at that moment, for moralizing.
I described the scene which had occurred in the library as minutely as I could,—and Kate and Bob were thrilled by the narrative. For my own part I had not yet recovered from the shock it had given me. The expression of agony on my uncle's face haunted my imagination. I could still see his pale face and his quivering lip, and his piteous pleading lingered in my ears. Most terrible are the sufferings of the evil-doer, and I resolved anew that I would always be true to God and principle. What were mines of wealth to a man tortured with the pangs of remorse?
"Do you think there is any danger that we shall be pursued?" asked Bob.
"Not the least," I replied. "I don't think any one will suspect that we have left town. I believe my uncle engaged a boatman to pursue the Splash. I saw a schooner, which I think was the Alert, standing up the lake, after we had landed. They will find the Splash in the brook where I left her. Old Jerry was going over after Tom Thornton, and very likely he will reach the cottage some time this afternoon. As it is almost a matter of life and death with him,no doubt he will follow; but he will be a day behind us. Now, Bob, I want to look over these papers, so as to determine what I am to do."
I read my father's will again. It appeared from this document that he belonged to the city of Philadelphia, but was temporarily residing in London. How long he lived there, or for what purpose, I had no means of knowing. His property, consisting of stocks, bonds, and other securities, amounted to over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the income of one third of which, after paying legacies, was placed in trust for the use of my mother during her lifetime, and two thirds in trust for his son during his minority. Five thousand dollars was given to his brother, who was appointed his sole executor and trustee, with an annuity of fifteen hundred dollars, payable from the income of the trust funds, during the minority of his son Ernest; and of five hundred dollars during the life of his wife, if she survived the son's maturity. In the event of his wife's decease, her third was to be held in trust for his son. The mother was appointed the guardian of the son; and if the son died before he was twenty-one, then the property was to go to his brother, "the said Amos."
"It is rather a mixed-up mess," said I, perplexed by the contingencies and the repetitions.
"I don't think so," replied Bob, who was more of a lawyer than I was. "I understand it well enough. Your father gives your uncle five thousand dollars in the first place, and then the income of one third to your mother, and two thirds to you till you are of age. If your mother is living when you are twenty-one, your uncle pays you your two thirds; if she is not living, he is to pay you the whole; and that ends his connection with the business. He is to have fifteen hundred dollars a year for taking care of the property."
"I understand all that," I added.
"The rest of it is clear enough. If your mother dies before you are twenty-one, all the income goes to you. Whenever your mother dies, her share goes to you. If you die before your mother, your share goes to your uncle; and then your mother's share goes to him or his heirs at her death. It says at the end there that your uncle shall not be required to give bonds for the faithful performance of his duty under the will. Don't you understand it?"
"I think I do; at least I understand enough of it. I would give all the money to know where my poor mother is. I care more for her than I do for myself."
"I think you will find her."
"O, I hope you will!" exclaimed Kate.
"I heard Tom tell my uncle that he had given him all the money he wanted," I added. "What do you suppose that means?"
"I suppose your uncle has given up the property to Tom," replied Bob.
"Tom lives in Philadelphia—don't he, Kate?"
"I think he does; indeed I am pretty sure of it," she answered.
"I can't see how they have managed the business without discovery. My father must have had some friends who knew about his affairs."
"And your mother, too," added Bob. "I don't see through it; but I suppose you will understand it one of these days."
"Bob, I don't like to carry this will round with me. I may lose it, or Tom Thornton may get it away from me. I want you to take it. Give it toyour father, and ask him to keep it safe for me. And when I want a powerful friend, I shall call upon him."
"You may be sure he will do all he can for you," said Bob, heartily, as he carefully deposited the precious document in his pocket. "What else have you, Ernest?"
"Here is a letter directed to 'Robert G. Bunyard, London,'" I replied, producing it.
"I wouldn't open that yet. What else have you?"
"Here are half a dozen letters," I added, opening one of them.
"What does it say?—read it," said Bob, impatiently.
I read it, and it proved to be an acknowledgment of the receipt of two hundred pounds, signed by Bunyard.
Four others were of similar import, and all of them were dated in different years. The sixth began in the same manner, acknowledging a like sum of money. It was dated three years back. I read aloud, with intense emotion, a few lines that followed the business matter.
"'The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree of health.'"
"My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the letter in my hand.
"How sad!" said Kate.
"I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through the earth for her!" I ejaculated, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears. "Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?"
"I did not, Ernest; but don't be distressed about it. The letter intimates that she is kindly treated."
"I hope she is."
"Have you any more papers, Ernest?" asked Bob, apparently as much with the intention of turning my thoughts away from the sad subject which agitated me, as of gratifying his own curiosity.
"That's all, Bob," I replied, taking from my pocket the piece of newspaper in which I had rolled up the money I had taken from the safe. "Was it stealing for me to take this money?" I asked, as I unrolled the bills.
"I don't think it was," replied Bob. "You took it to pay your expenses in finding your mother; and, even if it were a technical theft, I don't think any one can blame you for what you have done. The money is really your own. How much is there?"
"I don't know. I haven't looked at it before."
"Count it, Ernest."
I did so, and was appalled to find I had taken between fourteen and fifteen hundred dollars.
"All right, Ernest. You are a smart fellow, and I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place," replied Bob, who did not appear to be alarmed at the magnitude of the sum.
"What?"
"I would go to England in the very next steamer, and find my mother."
"Go to England!"
"It is clear enough to me that your mother isthere. If you expect to find her, you must go there."
"I will do it, Bob," I replied, excited at the idea of crossing the ocean in search of my mother.
"Certainly; do it. You have a letter directed to—what's his name?"
"Robert G. Bunyard."
"Go to London, find this man, deliver the letter, and tell him you want to see the poor lady."
"I'll do it. Don't you suppose Tom Thornton will try to stop me?"
"No matter if he does. Keep a stiff upper lip."
"I shall do that. I have fought my way through so far, and I shall do it to the end," I replied, confidently. "It would have been better if I had avoided that scene with my uncle; but I could not help it."
"What odds will that make?"
"A great deal of odds. My uncle knows now that I have the address of his London correspondent. He will tell Tom about it. My uncle may be full of regret and sorrow; but his son will follow me like a bloodhound. But, no matter what happens, Bob, Ishall fight my way through. My poor mother shall be released from her bondage, and be happy again."
"Right, Ernest!" exclaimed Bob, as he urged forward the horse.
We rode in silence for several miles; but I was intensely excited as I thought of what my mother had endured for a dozen years. I recalled the indistinct visions of the past, which still lingered in my mind; and more vividly than ever before it came to my remembrance that, far back in the past, I had known a motherly lady, who loved and cherished me as a little child. The dreary waste of waters which had lingered in my fancy became a reality to me. I had crossed the ocean, after the death of my father; but I did not yet know whether I was born in England or the United States.
I prayed for my mother; and she seemed more dear to me than if I had seen her every day of my life. I prayed that God would spare her, and restore her to me; that he would crown with success my exertions to find her. I am sure that, in all my intense emotion, I did not cherish a sentiment of revenge towards my uncle, or even towards his son,who had treated me like a brute. My silent prayers warmed my heart, and blessed me with new strength and courage.
At half past two we drove into Romer. Bob put up his horse at a stable, and we dined together at a hotel. At quarter past four, the train going east arrived; and, bidding Bob an affectionate farewell, after he had promised to write me the news in Parkville on his return, Kate and I entered the car, and were soon whirling away from the town, from friends and from enemies.
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 wereto 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 encyclopædia, 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 whenwe 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. Thelatter 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, andthen 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 myuncle 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 inluxury, 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. Ishould 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 owntrials 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 everybodythat 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.
I HAD discovered what Tom Thornton intended to do, in part. It was not an officer who came to arrest me; it was Tom himself. Though I had confidently expected him—as we always dread the worst possible thing that can happen to us—I had hoped to escape him when the bell sounded for the departure of the steamer. I felt quite sure that all was well with me, and had begun to congratulate myself on my singular good fortune, when his ugly face appeared on the wharf.
I do not think now that I made any mistake in not remaining in Albany, for it was the easiest thing in the world for him to trace me out, and find the boarding-house where I had spent the night. If I had left the cars at the last station before the train reached Albany, I might have avoided him. It seemedto me that my only way was to continue the journey, and I did so. If I had been alone it would have been an easy matter to evade him.
Tom Thornton rushed on board of the steamer just in season to secure his passage, for the plank was hauled on board the moment he had crossed it. I was on the hurricane deck when I saw him, and he saw me. Perhaps there was a chance for me yet to outflank him. It was a bad scrape, but all I could do was to make the best of it. I left my position when I saw Tom coming on board, and went to Kate, whom I had requested to remain in the saloon. I sat down by her side, and tried to look as unmoved as I could.
"Don't be frightened, Kate," I began.
"Frightened! Of course I am not frightened now," she replied, fixing the gaze of her deep eyes upon me.
"But you musn't be when I tell you something."
"What, Ernest Thornton?" demanded she, taking the alarm at once.
"Tom Thornton is on board of this steamer. Don't be alarmed; I will take care of you. Heshall not harm you, and he shall not take you away from me."
"O mercy!" exclaimed she, turning as white as a sheet.
"Don't be disturbed, Kate. I think I can take care of him," I added, with more confidence than I felt.
"What shall we do?"
"I don't know yet, but I will see. Leave it all to me, Kate. If he speaks to you, answer him civilly."
"I could not speak to him. I shall faint away if he comes near me. O, Ernest Thornton, I am frightened almost to death!"
"There is no need of your being alarmed. I don't think he desires to see you half so much as he does me. I will put you in a safe place soon. Come down into the ladies' cabin for the present."
She followed me, trembling in every fibre of her frame. I left her at the door, bidding her keep out of sight as much as possible. A glance along the main deck, in the vicinity of the captain's office, assured me Tom was not there and I procured a state-roomof the clerk. Going half way up the stairs to the saloon, I discovered my pursuer. He was evidently looking for me. I watched him till he had made the circuit of the long apartment, carefully avoiding him. He then went below, to look for me in other parts of the boat. He walked forward first, and I took this opportunity to conduct Kate to the saloon again, and gave her the state-room I had procured, telling her to lock herself in.
"Won't he find me here?" asked she, with quivering lips.
"No matter if he does: keep your door locked. I will knock four times by two's. Don't open the door on any account till you hear my rap."
"I will not."
"I will keep watch on the outside. Now don't be alarmed. I will take good care of you."
She closed the door, and I heard her lock it. I felt then that she, at least, was out of Tom's reach for a time, and that I was in condition to fight the battle alone. Large as the steamer was, it was impossible for me to avoid a meeting with him, since he knew that I was on board. If he had not seenme the case would have been different, and I might have contrived to keep out of his way.
I could not help asking myself what I should do. I did not expect Tom would resort to violence in the presence of hundreds of passengers. He would fasten himself upon me, and not lose sight of me. If he had intended to arrest me, he would have sent a sheriff after me, instead of coming himself. What would he do next? This was the important question. Of course I could not answer it. I could only wait for time and circumstances to develop his plan. As it was useless for me to attempt to avoid him, I sat down in the saloon, resolved to let things take their course.
Summoning to my aid all the coolness, self-possession, and impudence I could command,—and I found that for an emergency in which I had right and justice on my side, I had an abundant supply of this kind of ammunition,—I calmly waited the appearance of my adversary. I deliberately made up my mind to speak up like a man to him, and to stand my ground like a hero. If he made a scene, I would denounce him, and punch him with the naked truth.
Tom Thornton appeared to be making a very diligent search below, for it was half an hour before he came up to the saloon again. Most of the passengers were out on the hurricane deck, or in other places where they could view the scenery on the shores of the river. I had plenty of time to get thoroughly "primed" for the exciting interview I anticipated. As I thought the matter over, I felt that I had the weather-gage of him—that all the advantage was on my side. The will was in my possession, and subject to my order. I had the address of my uncle's London correspondent, and whatever Tom might threaten, he could not deprive me of these favoring points. I could afford to be cool and impudent; and if Tom wanted to talk, I could talk as fast and as much to the point as he could.
At last I saw him come up the steps. He was certainly a splendid-looking fellow, though he was evidently a man of the world. He was elegantly dressed, not over-dressed, and his movements were easy and graceful. I could not help thinking of these things, in which he had so decided an advantage over me. But he lacked one thing, without whicheverything else is vain and valueless—moral principle. He was a villain, and as such I despised him.
I could not help noticing that the expression on his face was troubled, rather than malignant; indeed, he really seemed to be more in sorrow than in anger. He saw me when he first glanced around the saloon, and walked towards the sofa on which I was seated. This time he was not savage and violent, as he had been before when I met him. He had something to think of now, and perhaps he had learned that "that boy" was not to be trifled with.
"Good morning, Ernest," said he; and it would have been difficult to discover in his tones that he was an enemy.
"Good morning, Mr. Tom Thornton," I replied, in cheerful tones, intending to intimate to him that I was master of the situation.
"You left home rather suddenly," he continued.
"Rather; and I presume you did not think a great while about it before you started."
"Ernest, I think we had better come to an understanding," he added, seating himself on the sofa at my side.
"I know what I am about, and I suppose you know what you are about," I answered, with easy assurance. "I don't know that we can come to any better understanding."
"I think we can," added Tom, very mildly. "I don't believe you know what you are about."
"Leave that to me."
"Ernest, I know what you have done at your uncle's house," said he, in a whisper, as though he had possessed himself of a valuable secret.
"So do I."
"You robbed your uncle's safe," he continued, in the same confidential tone.
"That depends on whether the safe was his or mine," I answered, readily.
"Ernest, it is no use for you to play bluff with me. You know what you have done," he added, rather petulantly; and I saw he was disappointed because he had failed to make an impression upon me.
"No one knows better than I what I have done."
"You have taken money and valuable papers out of your uncle's safe."
"I know it."
"You opened it without his knowledge or consent."
"I know that too."
"And then you ran away from your home."
"That also I know."
"I was sent for by your uncle—"
"By your father, you mean," I interposed.
"I said by your uncle," added he, persistently. "I found him quite ill—made so by your bad behavior."
"Not much," I replied, when Tom looked into my face to notice the effect of this revelation. "Didn't he tell you he had not slept nights for years; that he had steeped his soul in crime foryoursake, Mr. Tom Thornton?"
He started, sprang to his feet; but recollecting himself, he sat down again, and tried to recover his calmness.
"It's no use for you to tell me, Mr. Tom Thornton, that your father was made ill by my bad behavior. It was your bad behavior and his own that trouble him."
"Young man, you talk just as though you wereentirely innocent yourself," added Tom, virtuously. "Do you really think you are free from guilt?"
"I think I have done nothing more than my duty."
"Then you believe it is all right to break into your uncle's safe, and take his money and his papers?"
"Circumstances alter cases."
"They don't make black white."
"Sometimes a man's hypocrisy whitewashes his whole life. Sometimes a man lives for years on his ill-gotten gains, and all the world thinks he is an honest man. Then circumstances make black white."
"You are talking of something besides the subject before us. Let us come back to it."
"No; I am talking about the subject before us."
"You confess that you robbed your uncle's safe."
"I admit that I helped myself to certain things in it which I wanted. I am ready to admit it anywhere you choose to place me," I replied, easily and good-naturedly.
"Are you aware that you have committed acrime?" said he, more pointedly than he had before spoken.
"I don't think I have committed any crime, or even any wrong. If you think so, Mr. Tom Thornton, you are welcome to your opinion."
"I do think so," he answered, beginning to be a little excited. "Do you know that I can arrest you, and send you to prison?"
"I do know it; and I respectfully ask, Why don't you do it?"
"Why don't I do it?" repeated he, apparently amazed at my impudence, and disappointed because an arrest and a prison appeared to have no terrors to me.
"Yes, why don't you do it?"
"I'll tell you why I don't do it. Because your uncle is weak, and don't wish to injure you. That's the reason."
"That isn't the reason. I want to tell you, Mr. Tom Thornton, that nothing would suit me better than to have you arrest me, and send me to prison."
This answer vexed him so much that he jumped up, and walked off.