Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp

“Can you spare me a few minutes, Squire Haynes?”

“I am in haste, sir.”

“My business is important, and has already been too long delayed.”

“Too long delayed?”

“Yes, it has waited twelve years.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said the squire.

“Perhaps I can assist you. You know me as Henry Morton. That is not my real name.”

“An alias!” sneered the squire in a significant tone.

“Yes, I had my reasons,” returned the young man, unmoved.

“I have no doubt of it.”

Henry Morton smiled, but did not otherwise notice the unpleasant imputation.

“My real name is Richard Waring.”

Squire Haynes started violently and scrutinized the young man closely through his spectacles. His vague suspicions were confirmed.

“Do you wish to know my business with you?”

The squire muttered something inaudible.

“I demand the restitution of the large sum of money entrusted to you by my father, just before his departure to the West Indies—a sum of which you have been the wrongful possessor for twelve years.”

“Do you mean to insult me?” exclaimed the squire, bold in the assurance that the sole evidence of his fraud was undiscovered.

“Unless you comply with my demand I shall proceed against you legally, and you are enough of a lawyer to understand the punishment meted out to that description of felony.”

“Pooh, pooh! Your threats won’t avail you,” said the squire contemptuously. “Your plan is a very clumsy one. Let me suggest to you, young man, that threats for the purpose of extorting money are actionable.”

“Do you doubt my identity?”

“You may very probably be the person you claim to be, but that won’t save you.”

“Very well. You have conceded one point.”

He walked quietly to the door of the adjoining room, opened it, and in a distinct voice called “James Travers.”

At the sound of this name Squire Haynes sank into a chair, ashy pale.

A man, not over forty, but with seamed face, hair nearly white, and a form evidently broken with ill health, slowly entered.

Squire Haynes beheld him with dismay.

“You see before you, Squire Haynes, a man whose silence has been your safeguard for the last twelve years. His lips are now unsealed. James Travers, tell us what you know of the trust reposed in this man by my father.”

“No, no,” said the squire hurriedly. “It—it is enough. I will make restitution.”

“You have done wisely,” said Richard Waring. (We must give him his true name.) “When will you be ready to meet me upon this business?”

“To-morrow,” muttered the squire.

He left the house with the air of one who has been crushed by a sudden blow.

The pride of the haughty had been laid low, and retribution, long deferred, had come at last.

Numerous and hearty were the congratulations which Mr. Morton—I mean Mr. Waring—received upon his new accession of property.

“I do not care so much for that,” he said, “but my father’s word has been vindicated. My mind is now at peace.”

There was more than one happy heart at the farm that night. Mr. Waring had accomplished the great object of his life; and as for Frank and his mother, they felt that the black cloud which had menaced their happiness had been removed, and henceforth there seemed prosperous days in store. To cap the climax of their happiness, the afternoon mail brought a letter from Mr. Frost, in which he imparted the intelligence that he had been promoted to a second lieutenancy.

“Mother,” said Frank, “you must be very dignified now, You are an officer’s wife.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. CONCLUSION

The restitution which Squire Haynes was compelled to make stripped him of more than half his property. His mortification and chagrin was so great that he determined to remove from Rossville. He gave no intimation where he was going, but it is understood that he is now living in the vicinity of Philadelphia, in a much more modest way than at Rossville.

To anticipate matters a little, it may be said that John was recently examined for college, but failed so signally that he will not again make the attempt. He has shown a disposition to be extravagant, which, unless curbed, will help him run through his father’s diminished property at a rapid rate whenever it shall come into his possession.

The squire’s handsome house in Rossville was purchased by Henry Morton—I must still be allowed to call him thus, though not his real name. He has not yet taken up his residence there, but there is reason to believe that ere long there will be a Mrs. Morton to keep him company therein.

Not long since, as he and Frank lay stretched out beneath a thick-branching oak in the front yard at the farm, Mr. Morton turned to our hero and said, “Are you meaning to go to college when your father comes home, Frank?”

Frank hesitated.

“I have always looked forward to it,” he said, “but lately I have been thinking that I shall have to give up the idea.”

“Why so?”

“Because it is so expensive that my father cannot, in justice to his other children, support me through a four years’ course. Besides, you know, Mr. Morton, we are four hundred dollars in your debt.”

“Should you like very much to go to college, Frank?”

“Better than anything else in the world.”

“Then you shall go.”

Frank looked up in surprise.

“Don’t you understand me?” said Mr. Morton.