The Inglises; Or, How the Way Opened

by Margaret M. Robertson

Mr Oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that David was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment.

“No, I have not. Have you anything to tell me about it? The sooner the better,” said Mr Oswald.

“I know only what Mr Caldwell has told me,” said David.

“You may go,” said Mr Oswald.

And David went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. He did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. He had no one to speak to, which made it worse. He could not write to his mother or even to Violet, because there was nothing to tell. Mr Oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. No; there was nothing to tell.

But he could not help being unhappy. The time seemed very long. The weather became very warm. All that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother’s return. He received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit.

He made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little Dick Lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. But, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. He never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. He seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. He sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. Once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. David was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his Greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence.

Next day, kind, but foolish Mrs Lacy told him that Mr Oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though David was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought Mr Oswald had begun to doubt him. Indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with Frank, who had returned home not at all well. He was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for Mr Oswald’s manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. But he did not ask him, and Frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as David hoped he might.

That night, Mr Caldwell returned to Singleton. He did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see David before he went home. The first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, David could never very well remember. Whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend’s hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. It was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard Mr Caldwell’s voice, saying:

“Have patience, David. You are not the first one that has been falsely accused. Anger never helped any one through trouble yet. What would your mother say?”