Seek and Find Part 16

"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 wis.h.i.+ng to get him into a sc.r.a.pe.

"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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ERNEST SURPRISED BY HIS UNCLE.--Page 139.]

I went directly to the bay window where I had entered the library before, and effected an entrance without any difficulty. I found the key of the safe under the cus.h.i.+on, 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 unexpected interruption. 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. "You told 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 anything you 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 concluded was 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.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH ERNEST LEAVES PARKVILLE, AND TAKES THE TRAIN FOR THE EASTWARD.

"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 G.o.d and principle. What were mines of wealth to a man tortured with the pangs of remorse?