In the Hands of the Malays, and Other Stories

by G. A. Henty

"So I hurried to get a few things together for him, and the moment that I had done so he was off to catch the train. I don't think he was five minutes in the house altogether, and it was not till he had gone that I was able to think clearly what had happened."

"I am not blaming you, mother dear," Roland said tenderly. "But it is most unfortunate that father should have acted as he did. You and I know perfectly well that he is innocent, but his running away will, of course, convince everyone else that he is guilty. It would have been a thousand times better to have braved it out, however strong the circumstances might be that point against him."

"So I think, of course, Roland. But you know what your father is, and naturally I understand him even better than you do. You have only known him since he was prosperous and respected here; but in the early days of our marriage, when he was still a struggling young man, I learnt, I will not say the faults, my son, but the weaknesses of his character. He is, as you know, a man of strict, nay, of extreme, honour and integrity. But he is sensitive almost to a fault. He has no self-assertion and very little self-confidence. He is just the man, in fact, to bend before a storm rather than brave it; and although I may greatly lament it, I am not a bit surprised that, when suddenly confronted with such a terrible accusation as this, and seeing, as he says, that circumstances are altogether against him, he should abandon the field without a struggle rather than face the storm of public obloquy and indignation."

Roland was silent. He knew how his father shrunk from anything like a public turmoil, and how easily upset he was by trifles which another would scarcely have noticed; and although he had never acknowledged as much to himself, he had even when much younger been vaguely conscious that his father was lacking in force of character. There was a disinclination to find fault, a shrinking from unpleasantness, and an avoidance even of argument; a desire that everything should go on with clock-like regularity, and that nothing should disturb the even tenor of life, which seemed to show a constitutional avoidance of effort or struggle. Still, as Roland had, as his mother said, only seen his father under circumstances of ease and comfort, he could not tell how far this was an innate defect in his character until it now showed itself so disastrously.

"You don't know where he has gone to, mother?" he said at length; "because, if you have the slightest idea as to the locality, I will start at once to try and find him, and to persuade him to return, whatever the circumstances may be against him. It would be a thousand times better to brave it out than, by running away, to make what cannot but appear a tacit confession of guilt. And now, mother dear, what do you intend to do?"

"That is what I was wanting to talk to you about, Roland. It seems to me that the best thing to do will be to give up our house at once, and to sell the furniture; and then, in the meantime, if I do not hear from your father, to move right away to some place where we shall not be known, and where I can earn a little money by my needle, and you perhaps can obtain a situation of some sort."

"No, mother," Roland said decidedly. "I quite agree with you as to giving up the house and selling the furniture, but go away we will not. Father may have given up the battle in despair, but I shall stay and fight it out. We know that he did not take this money—it is for me to find out who did so. If we go away the matter can never be cleared up; so long as we remain here there is a chance of our striking on some clue or other."

"It will be dreadful," Mrs. Partridge began.

"It will be horribly painful," Roland agreed. "Awful to have to meet all your old friends and know that they regard one as the son of a swindler. But it has to be done, mother, for only so can we hope to prove that father is an honest man. But I don't ask you to stay, mother. I am quite sure that uncle will be glad for you to go and live with him at the farm. He was saying only yesterday that it had been a dull life for him since aunt had gone."

"No, my boy, I could not do that," Mrs. Partridge said. "I could not leave you here to bear the burden alone."