University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

THE ACCUSATION.

—Baillie.

Henry arose the next morning with that
strange, unaccountable feeling we have all,
at times, experienced, but none can comprehend;
that indefinable presentiment of coming
misfortune which may, for aught we
know, be one part of our invisible communication
with the world of spirits. He pursued
his labors, however, with his usual zeal, tho'
he could not cast from his soul the heaviness
which oppressed it.

It was evening. The other clerks, with
Richard, had departed, and Henry was preparing
to close the store, when Mr. Abbot
appeared. It was contrary to his usual habit
to return after his late dinner, and Henry
knew not what should have brought him
forth; but the vague feeling of coming ill
rose again to his mind. But his heart was
right; why should he fear?

“Henry, I should like to speak a few words
with you,” said Mr. Abbot.

Henry unlocked the door, and re-entered
the store with his employer.

Mr. Abbot seated himself, and motioned
Henry to a chair. He obeyed, and then,
wonderingly awaited what his master should
say.

“My boy,” said the merchant, “I have
heard some accusations against you. I am
loth to believe them. Several sums have
been missed, at different times, by Mr.
Woodley, and he has been unable to account
for them. But mark me, Henry! I do not
suspect you, my boy! But I would be relieved
of any doubt in the matter. You
keep the cash account?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you permit me to inspect it?”

“Certainly, sir,” as he unlocked the draw,
and took out the book. “It's here.”

The merchant took it, and glanced over
the columns. He appeared satisfied, as Henry's
glance rested on his face. Suddenly he
paused, and looked at the boy with a scrutinizing
gaze—

“Will you look here?”

Henry glanced at the page—he changed
color, and was silent.

“Are not these figures altered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“By your hand?”

Henry was again silent.

“I am sorry—I am, my boy! But I cannot
believe you guilty—”

“Oh, do not believe it. I am innocent—
indeed I am. I know not who has changed
the figures, I—”

“Yet it was Richard who first informed
Mr. Woodley that there were several small
sums missing which had not been entered on
the cash account.”

“Richard!” cried Henry.

“I was loath to believe his suspicions of
your dishonesty. I did not credit them. Yet
I knew not but that you had thoughtlessly
done this. Tell me, my boy! have you been
urged to this by difficulties. Confess to me.
If it is so, and you will reveal it all to me, I
promise to forgive you. Nay, more; I will
see that in future you shall not be—” The
merchant paused, for the orphau had risen
from his seat, and stood proudly confronting
him.

“Sir, I am INNOCENT! I know not who
would ruin me.”

“How, then, are the alternations of your
figures to be accounted for?”

Henry spoke not. A sad, a dark suspicion
shot across his mind. Richard had spoken
to Mr. Abbot. Richard, whom he had detected,
and—forgiven—Richard, whom he
had befriended And he was thus repaid.
A dark thought of revenge crossed his mind.
But again came the thought of his mother's
friend—of his own loved benefactress. He
was silent still.

Mr. Abbot gazed at him sorrowfully. “Is
it come to this?” he asked. “Do you fear
to trust me? Have I not been your friend?”

“Oh, my benefactor! my more than fa
ther!” cried the orphan, falling on his
knees. “I would not wrong you. I have
nothing to confess; I am innocent, in truth
I am!”

“And whom do you suspect?”

“Richard Martin,” rose to the lips of
Henry, but he uttered not the name aloud.

“This is trifling, Henry,” said the merchant.
“I would save you, I would befriend
you. But you must first confess your folly—
I will not call it crime. To-morrow I shall
expect your decision.” And buttoning his
great coat, for the night was cold and stormy,
Mr. Abbot rose to leave. Henry mechanically
locked the door, and put the keys in
his pocket.

“I will take the keys to-night,” said the
merchant.

Henry felt as if a dagger had pierced his
heart. His breast heaved convulsively—he
spoke not, but stretched forth his hand. Mr.
Abbot walked quickly away, and the orphan
sunk upon the stone step of the door.

The cold, biting sleet blew keenly in his
unprotected face. The wind whistled around
the corner of Central street, and swept the
chill drifts towards him. But he heeded
them not!