Part 112 (2/2)
”It was a breach of confidence, Mayne Gordon, to tell Mr Gunson here of the existence of gold in the little valley. Do you remember your promise to me?”
”Yes, sir,” I said, boldly, for I felt that at last the truth must come out, and I should be cleared; for I would speak now if Mr Gunson did not. ”I remember well.”
”Mayne,” said Gunson; and my heart seemed to leap--”Mayne tell me about the gold up yonder? No, no; it was not he.”
”What!” cried Mr Raydon, excitedly. ”It was not Mayne Gordon who told you?”
”No; it was that little Chinaman confided to me that he had made a big find. The little fellow always had confidence in me. He brought me quite a hundred pounds' worth to take care of for him when I was here last, and proposed to put himself under my protection and to work for me if I allowed him a tenth.”
”Then it was not Mayne?” cried Mrs John, excitedly.
”No, madam. I knew friend Raydon would be angry, but I was obliged to accept the offer, for I felt that some time or other the people would come, and I argued that the sooner it was all cleared out the better for Raydon's peace of mind. You knew it must be discovered.”
”Yes; I always knew that; but I wanted to keep away those who came as long as possible.”
”They are going already, and you will soon have your vales in peace again.”
”Yes, yes, yes,” muttered Mr Raydon, beginning to walk up and down the room, while I felt in such a whirl of excitement, as I saw Mrs John's beautiful, motherly eyes fixed lovingly on mine, and felt Mr John s.n.a.t.c.h my hand and press it, and then give vent to his delight at the clearing up by slapping me heavily on the shoulder, that I could not see Mr Raydon's puckered brow. What I did see was the bear's head looking down at me, showing its grinning teeth as if it were laughing and pleased, and the moose staring at me with its mournful aspect less marked. All nonsense this, I know, but there was a feeling of joy within me that filled me with exultation.
The silence was almost painful at last, and the tension grew to such an extent that I felt at last that I must run out and tell Esau I had misjudged him, as I had been misjudged, when Mr Raydon stopped before me and said softly--
”You remember your Latin, Mayne?”
”A little, sir,” I said, wondering at his words.
”_Humanum est curare_. You know that?”
”Yes, sir,” I said, huskily; ”but please don't say any more.”
”I must. I have erred bitterly. I was blind to the truth. Will you forgive me?”
”Mr Raydon!” I cried.
”My dear boy,” he said, as he grasped my hands; and, to my astonishment, I saw the tears standing in his eyes, while I could not help thinking as he stood there softened towards me, how like he seemed to his sister; ”you do not know how I have suffered, hard, cold man as I have grown in my long residence in these wilds.”
”But it's all past now, sir,” I said; ”and you know the truth.”
”Yes; all past,” said Gunson, warmly.
”Past; but I shall never forget it, Mayne. My dear sister's letter interested me deeply in you, and when you came I felt that she had not exaggerated, and you at once made your way with me. Then came this wretched misunderstanding, blinding me to everything but the fact that I had received a wound, one which irritated me more than I can say.”
”Pray, pray say no more, sir,” I cried, excitedly.
”I must, Mayne. I ought to have known better.”
”I am glad, Dan,” cried Mr John, exultingly. ”I have always been such a weak, easily-led-away man, that my life has been a series of mistakes; and it is a delightful triumph to me to find that my hard-headed, stern brother-in-law can blunder too.”
”Yes; it will take some of the conceit out of me,” said Mr Raydon, smiling. ”There; shake hands, my lad. I read your forgiveness in your eyes.”
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