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diff --git a/40915.txt b/40915.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 98f460a..0000000 --- a/40915.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,24937 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow. First Series, by Mrs. Henry Wood - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Johnny Ludlow. First Series - -Author: Mrs. Henry Wood - -Release Date: October 2, 2012 [EBook #40915] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW. FIRST SERIES *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - - - - "We spake of many a vanished scene, - Of what we once had thought and said, - Of what had been, and might have been, - And who was changed, and who was dead." - LONGFELLOW. - - - - - JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - BY - - MRS. HENRY WOOD, - AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC. - - _FIRST SERIES._ - - [Illustration] - - +Fiftieth Thousand.+ - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, - +Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.+ - 1895. - - (_All rights reserved._) - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - I. LOSING LENA 1 - - II. FINDING BOTH OF THEM 16 - - III. WOLFE BARRINGTON'S TAMING 28 - - IV. MAJOR PARRIFER 48 - - V. COMING HOME TO HIM 64 - - VI. LEASE, THE POINTSMAN 80 - - VII. AUNT DEAN 98 - - VIII. GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL 117 - - IX. DICK MITCHEL 133 - - X. A HUNT BY MOONLIGHT 150 - - XI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END 165 - - XII. "JERRY'S GAZETTE" 182 - - XIII. SOPHIE CHALK 203 - - XIV. AT MISS DEVEEN'S 219 - - XV. THE GAME FINISHED 238 - - XVI. GOING TO THE MOP 256 - - XVII. BREAKING DOWN 275 - - XVIII. REALITY OR DELUSION? 293 - - XIX. DAVID GARTH'S NIGHT-WATCH 308 - - XX. DAVID GARTH'S GHOST 329 - - XXI. SEEING LIFE 348 - - XXII. OUR STRIKE 368 - - XXIII. BURSTING-UP 389 - - XXIV. GETTING AWAY 409 - - XXV. OVER THE WATER 427 - - XXVI. AT WHITNEY HALL 447 - - - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - - - -I. - -LOSING LENA. - - -We lived chiefly at Dyke Manor. A fine old place, so close upon the -borders of Warwickshire and Worcestershire, that many people did not -know which of the two counties it was really in. The house was in -Warwickshire, but some of the land was in Worcestershire. The Squire -had, however, another estate, Crabb Cot, all in Worcestershire, and very -many miles nearer to Worcester. - -Squire Todhetley was rich. But he lived in the plain, good old-fashioned -way that his forefathers had lived; almost a homely way, it might be -called, in contrast with the show and parade that have sprung up of -late years. He was respected by every one, and though hotheaded and -impetuous, he was simple-minded, open-handed, and had as good a heart as -any one ever had in this world. An elderly gentleman now, was he, of -middle height, with a portly form and a red face; and his hair, what was -left of it, consisted of a few scanty, lightish locks, standing up -straight on the top of his head. - -The Squire had married, but not very early in life. His wife died in -a few years, leaving one child only; a son, named after his father, -Joseph. Young Joe was just the pride of the Manor and of his father's -heart. - -I, writing this, am Johnny Ludlow. And you will naturally want to hear -what I did at Dyke Manor, and why I lived there. - -About three-miles' distance from the Manor was a place called the Court. -Not a property of so much importance as the Manor, but a nice place, -for all that. It belonged to my father, William Ludlow. He and Squire -Todhetley were good friends. I was an only child, just as Tod was; and, -like him, I had lost my mother. They had christened me John, but always -called me Johnny. I can remember many incidents of my early life now, -but I cannot recall my mother to my mind. She must have died--at least I -fancy so--when I was two years old. - -One morning, two years after that, when I was about four, the servants -told me I had a new mamma. I can see her now as she looked when she came -home: tall, thin, and upright, with a long face, pinched nose, a meek -expression, and gentle voice. She was a Miss Marks, who used to play the -organ at church, and had hardly any income at all. Hannah said she was -sure she was thirty-five if she was a day--she was talking to Eliza -while she dressed me--and they both agreed that she would probably turn -out to be a tartar, and that the master might have chosen better. I -understood quite well that they meant papa, and asked why he might have -chosen better; upon which they shook me and said they had not been -speaking of my papa at all, but of the old blacksmith round the corner. -Hannah brushed my hair the wrong way, and Eliza went off to see to her -bedrooms. Children are easily prejudiced: and they prejudiced me against -my new mother. Looking at her with the eyes of maturer years, I know -that though she might be poor in pocket, she was good and kindly, and -every inch a lady. - -Papa died that same year. At the end of another year, Mrs. Ludlow, my -step-mother, married Squire Todhetley, and we went to live at Dyke -Manor; she, I, and my nurse Hannah. The Court was let for a term of -years to the Sterlings. - -Young Joe did not like the new arrangements. He was older than I, could -take up prejudices more strongly, and he took a mighty strong one -against the new Mrs. Todhetley. He had been regularly indulged by his -father and spoilt by all the servants; so it was only to be expected -that he would not like the invasion. Mrs. Todhetley introduced order -into the profuse household, hitherto governed by the servants. They and -young Joe equally resented it; they refused to see that things were -really more comfortable than they used to be, and at half the cost. - -Two babies came to the Manor; Hugh first, Lena next. Joe and I were sent -to school. He was as big as a house, compared with me, tall and strong -and dark, with an imperious way and will of his own. I was fair, gentle, -timid, yielding to him in all things. His was the master-spirit, swaying -mine at will. At school the boys at once, the very first day we entered, -shortened his name from Todhetley to Tod. I caught up the habit, and -from that time I never called him anything else. - -And so the years went on. Tod and I at school being drilled into -learning; Hugh and Lena growing into nice little children. During the -holidays, hot war raged between Tod and his step-mother. At least -_silent_ war. Mrs. Todhetley was always kind to him, and she never -quarrelled; but Tod opposed her in many things, and would be generally -sarcastically cool to her in manner. - -We did lead the children into mischief, and she complained of that. Tod -did, that is, and of course I followed where he led. "But we can't let -Hugh grow up a milksop, you know, Johnny," he would say to me; "and he -would if left to his mother." So Hugh's clothes in Tod's hands came to -grief, and sometimes Hugh himself. Hannah, who was the children's nurse -now, stormed and scolded over it: she and Tod had ever been at daggers -drawn with each other; and Mrs. Todhetley would implore Tod with tears -in her eyes to be careful with the child. Tod appeared to turn a deaf -ear to them, and marched off with Hugh before their very eyes. He really -loved the children, and would have saved them from injury with his life. -The Squire drove and rode his fine horses. Mrs. Todhetley had set up a -low basket-chaise drawn by a mild she-donkey: it was safer for the -children, she said. Tod went into fits whenever he met the turn-out. - -But Tod was not always to escape scot-free, or incite the children to -rebellion with impunity. There came a day when he brought himself, -through it, to a state of self-torture and repentance. - -It occurred when we were at home for the summer holidays, just after -the crop of hay was got in, and the bare fields looked as white in -the blazing sun as if they had been scorched. Tod and I were in the -three-cornered meadow next the fold-yard. He was making a bat-net with -gauze and two sticks. Young Jacobson had shown us his the previous day, -and a bat he had caught with it; and Tod thought he would catch bats -too. But he did not seem to be making much hand at the net, and somehow -managed to send the pointed end of the stick through a corner of it. - -"I don't think that gauze is strong enough, Tod." - -"I am afraid it is not, Johnny. Here, catch hold of it. I'll go indoors, -and see if they can't find me some better. Hannah must have some." - -He flew off past the ricks, and leaped the little gate into the -fold-yard--a tall, strong fellow, who might leap the Avon. In a few -minutes I heard his voice again, and went to meet him. Tod was coming -away from the house with Lena. - -"Have you the gauze, Tod!" - -"Not a bit of it; the old cat won't look for any; says she hasn't time. -I'll hinder her time a little. Come along, Lena." - -The "old cat" was Hannah. I told you she and he were often at daggers -drawn. Hannah had a chronic complaint in the shape of ill-temper, and -Tod called her names to her face. Upon going in to ask her for the -gauze, he found her dressing Hugh and Lena to go out, and she just -turned him out of the nursery, and told him not to bother her then with -his gauze and his wants. Lena ran after Tod; she liked him better than -all of us put together. She had on a blue silk frock, and a white straw -hat with daisies round it; open-worked stockings were on her pretty -little legs. By which we saw she was about to be taken out for show. - -"What are you going to do with her, Tod?" - -"I'm going to hide her," answered Tod, in his decisive way. "Keep where -you are, Johnny." - -Lena enjoyed the rebellion. In a minute or two Tod came back alone. He -had left her between the ricks in the three-cornered field, and told her -not to come out. Then he went off to the front of the house, and I stood -inside the barn, talking to Mack, who was hammering away at the iron of -the cart-wheel. Out came Hannah by-and-by. She had been dressing herself -as well as Hugh. - -"Miss Lena!" - -No answer. Hannah called again, and then came up the fold-yard, looking -about. - -"Master Johnny, have you seen the child?" - -"What child?" I was not going to spoil Tod's sport by telling her. - -"Miss Lena. She has got off somewhere, and my mistress is waiting for -her in the basket-chaise." - -"I see her just now along of Master Joseph," spoke up Mack, arresting -his noisy hammer. - -"See her where?" asked Hannah. - -"Close here, a-going that way." - -He pointed to the palings and gate that divided the yard from the -three-cornered field. Hannah ran there and stood looking over. The ricks -were within a short stone's throw, but Lena kept close. Hannah called -out again, and threw her gaze over the empty field. - -"The child's not there. Where can she have got to, tiresome little -thing?" - -In the house, and about the house, and out of the house, as the old -riddle says, went Hannah. It was jolly to see her. Mrs. Todhetley and -Hugh were seated patiently in the basket-chaise before the hall-door, -wondering what made Hannah so long. Tod, playing with the mild -she-donkey's ears, and laughing to himself, stood talking graciously to -his step-mother. I went round. The Squire had gone riding into Evesham; -Dwarf Giles, who made the nattiest little groom in the county, for all -his five-and-thirty years, behind him. - -"I can't find Miss Lena," cried Hannah, coming out. - -"Not find Miss Lena!" echoed Mrs. Todhetley. "What do you mean, Hannah? -Have you not dressed her?" - -"I dressed her first, ma'am, before Master Hugh, and she went out of -the nursery. I can't think where she can have got to. I've searched -everywhere." - -"But, Hannah, we must have her directly; I am late as it is." - -They were going over to the Court to a children's early party at the -Sterlings'. Mrs. Todhetley stepped out of the basket-chaise to help in -the search. - -"I had better fetch her, Tod," I whispered. - -He nodded yes. Tod never bore malice, and I suppose he thought Hannah -had had enough of a hunt for that day. I ran through the fold-yard to -the ricks, and called to Lena. - -"You can come out now, little stupid." - -But no Lena answered. There were seven ricks in a group, and I went into -all the openings between them. Lena was not there. It was rather odd, -and I looked across the field and towards the lane and the coppice, -shouting out sturdily. - -"Mack, have you seen Miss Lena pass indoors?" I stayed to ask him, in -going back. - -No: Mack had not noticed her; and I went round to the front again, and -whispered to Tod. - -"What a muff you are, Johnny! She's between the ricks fast enough. No -danger that she'd come out when I told her to stay!" - -"But she's not there indeed, Tod. You go and look." - -Tod vaulted off, his long legs seeming to take flying leaps, like a -deer's, on his way to the ricks. - -To make short of the story, Lena was gone. Lost. The house, the outdoor -buildings, the gardens were searched for her, and she was not to be -found. Mrs. Todhetley's fears flew to the ponds at first; but it was -impossible she could have come to grief in either of the two, as they -were both in view of the barn-door where I and Mack had been. Tod avowed -that he had put her amid the ricks to hide her; and it was not to be -imagined she had gone away. The most feasible conjecture was, that she -had run from between the ricks when Hannah called to her, and was hiding -in the lane. - -Tod was in a fever, loudly threatening Lena with unheard-of whippings, -to cover his real concern. Hannah looked red, Mrs. Todhetley white. I -was standing by him when the cook came up; a sharp woman, with red-brown -eyes. We called her Molly. - -"Mr. Joseph," said she, "I have heard of gipsies stealing children." - -"Well?" returned Tod. - -"There was one at the door a while agone--an insolent one, too. Perhaps -Miss Lena----" - -"Which way did she go?--which door was she at?" burst forth Tod. - -"'Twas a man, sir. He came up to the kitchen-door, and steps inside as -bold as brass, asking me to buy some wooden skewers he'd cut, and saying -something about a sick child. When I told him to march, that we never -encouraged tramps here, he wanted to answer me, and I just shut the door -in his face. A regular gipsy, if ever I see one," continued Molly; "his -skin tawny and his wild hair jet-black. Maybe, in revenge, he have stole -off the little miss." - -Tod took up the notion, and his face turned white. "Don't say anything -of this to Mrs. Todhetley," he said to Molly. "We must just scour the -country." - -But in departing from the kitchen-door, the gipsy man could not by any -possibility have made his way to the rick-field without going through -the fold-yard. And he had not done that. It was true that Lena might -have run round and got into the gipsy's way. Unfortunately, none of -the men were about, except Mack and old Thomas. Tod sent these off in -different directions; Mrs. Todhetley drove away in her pony-chaise to -the lanes round, saying the child might have strayed there; Molly and -the maids started elsewhere; and I and Tod went flying along a by-road -that branched off in a straight line, as it were, from the kitchen-door. -Nobody could keep up with Tod, he went so fast; and I was not tall and -strong as he was. But I saw what Tod in his haste did not see--a dark -man with some bundles of skewers and a stout stick, walking on the other -side of the hedge. I whistled Tod back again. - -"What is it, Johnny?" he said, panting. "Have you seen her?" - -"Not her. But look there. That must be the man Molly spoke of." - -Tod crashed through the hedge as if it had been so many cobwebs, -and accosted the gipsy. I followed more carefully, but got my face -scratched. - -"Were you up at the great house, begging, a short time ago?" demanded -Tod, in an awful passion. - -The man turned round on Tod with a brazen face. I say brazen, because he -did it so independently; but it was not an insolent face in itself; -rather a sad one, and very sickly. - -"What's that you ask me, master?" - -"I ask whether it was you who were at the Manor-house just now, -begging?" fiercely repeated Tod. - -"I was at a big house offering wares for sale, if you mean that, sir. I -wasn't begging." - -"Call it what you please," said Tod, growing white again. "What have you -done with the little girl?" - -For, you see, Tod had caught up the impression that the gipsy _had_ -stolen Lena, and he spoke in accordance with it. - -"I've seen no little girl, master." - -"You have," and Tod gave his foot a stamp. "What have you done with -her?" - -The man's only answer was to turn round and walk off, muttering to -himself. Tod pursued him, calling him a thief and other names; but -nothing more satisfactory could he get out of him. - -"He can't have taken her, Tod. If he had, she'd be with him now. He -couldn't eat her, you know." - -"He may have given her to a confederate." - -"What to do? What do gipsies steal children for?" - -Tod stopped in a passion, lifting his hand. "If you torment me with -these frivolous questions, Johnny, I'll strike you. How do I know what's -done with stolen children? Sold, perhaps. I'd give a hundred pounds -out of my pocket at this minute if I knew where those gipsies were -encamped." - -We suddenly lost the fellow. Tod had been keeping him in sight in the -distance. Whether he disappeared up a gum-tree, or into a rabbit-hole, -Tod couldn't tell; but gone he was. - -Up this lane, down that one; over this moor, across that common; so -raced Tod and I. And the afternoon wore away, and we had changed our -direction a dozen times: which possibly was not wise. - -The sun was getting low as we passed Ragley gates, for we had finally -got into the Alcester road. Tod was going to do what we ought to have -done at first: report the loss at Alcester. Some one came riding along -on a stumpy pony. It proved to be Gruff Blossom, groom to the Jacobsons. -They called him "Gruff" because of his temper. He did touch his hat to -us, which was as much as you could say, and spurred the stumpy animal -on. But Tod made a sign to him, and he was obliged to stop and listen. - -"The gipsies stole off little Miss Lena!" cried old Blossom, coming out -of his gruffness. "That's a rum go! Ten to one if you find her for a -year to come." - -"But, Blossom, what do they do with the children they steal?" I asked, -in a sort of agony. - -"They cuts their hair off and dyes their skins brown, and then takes 'em -out to fairs a ballad-singing," answered Blossom. - -"But why need they do it, when they have children of their own?" - -"Ah, well, that's a question I couldn't answer," said old Blossom. -"Maybe their'n arn't pretty children--Miss Lena, she is pretty." - -"Have you heard of any gipsies being encamped about here?" Tod demanded -of him. - -"Not lately, Mr. Joseph. Five or six months ago, there was a lot 'camped -on the Markis's ground. They warn't there long." - -"Can't you ride about, Blossom, and see after the child?" asked Tod, -putting something into his hand. - -Old Blossom pocketed it, and went off with a nod. He was riding -about, as we knew afterwards, for hours. Tod made straight for the -police-station at Alcester, and told his tale. Not a soul was there but -Jenkins, one of the men. - -"I haven't seen no suspicious characters about," said Jenkins, who -seemed to be eating something. He was a big man, with short black hair -combed on his forehead, and he had a habit of turning his face upwards, -as if looking after his nose--a square ornament, that stood up straight. - -"She is between four and five years old; a very pretty child, with blue -eyes and a good deal of curling auburn hair," said Tod, who was growing -feverish. - -Jenkins wrote it down--"Name, Todhetley. What Christian name?" - -"Adalena, called 'Lena.'" - -"Recollect the dress, sir?" - -"Pale blue silk; straw hat with wreath of daisies round it; open-worked -white stockings, and thin black shoes; white drawers," recounted Tod, as -if he had prepared the list by heart coming along. - -"That's bad, that dress is," said Jenkins, putting down the pen. - -"Why is it bad?" - -"'Cause the things is tempting. Quite half the children that gets stole -is stole for what they've got upon their backs. Tramps and that sort -will run a risk for a blue silk that they'd not run for a brown holland -pinafore. Auburn curls, too," added Jenkins, shaking his head; "that's a -temptation also. I've knowed children sent back home with bare heads -afore now. Any ornaments, sir?" - -"She was safe to have on her little gold neck-chain and cross. They are -very small, Jenkins--not worth much." - -Jenkins lifted his nose--not in disdain, it was a habit he had. "Not -worth much to you, sir, who could buy such any day, but an uncommon bait -to professional child-stealers. Were the cross a coral, or any stone of -that sort?" - -"It was a small gold cross, and the chain was thin. They could only be -seen when her cloak was off. Oh, I forgot the cloak; it was white: -llama, I think they call it. She was going to a child's party." - -Some more questions and answers, most of which Jenkins took down. -Handbills were to be printed and posted, and a reward offered on the -morrow, if she was not previously found. Then we came away; there was -nothing more to do at the station. - -"Wouldn't it have been better, Tod, had Jenkins gone out seeking her and -telling of the loss abroad, instead of waiting to write all that down?" - -"Johnny, if we don't find her to night, I shall go mad," was all he -answered. - -He went back down Alcester Street at a rushing pace--not a run but a -quick walk. - -"Where are you going now?" I asked. - -"I'm going up hill and down dale until I find that gipsies' encampment. -You can go on home, Johnny, if you are tired." - -I had not felt tired until we were in the police-station. Excitement -keeps off fatigue. But I was not going to give in, and said I should -stay with him. - -"All right, Johnny." - -Before we were clear of Alcester, Budd the land-agent came up. He was -turning out of the public-house at the corner. It was dusk then. Tod -laid hold of him. - -"Budd, you are always about, in all kinds of nooks and by-lanes: can you -tell me of any encampment of gipsies between here and the Manor-house?" - -The agent's business took him abroad a great deal, you know, into the -rural districts around. - -"Gipsies' encampment?" repeated Budd, giving both of us a stare. -"There's none that I know of. In the spring, a lot of them had the -impudence to squat down on the Marquis's----" - -"Oh, I know all that," interrupted Tod. "Is there nothing of the sort -about now?" - -"I saw a miserable little tent to-day up Cookhill way," said Budd. "It -might have been a gipsy's or a travelling tinker's. 'Twasn't of much -account, whichever it was." - -Tod gave a spring. "Whereabouts?" was all he asked. And Budd explained -where. Tod went off like a shot, and I after him. - -If you are familiar with Alcester, or have visited at Ragley or anything -of that sort, you must know the long green lane leading to Cookhill; it -is dark with overhanging trees, and uphill all the way. We took that -road--Tod first, and I next; and we came to the top, and turned in the -direction Budd had described the tent to be in. - -It was not to be called dark; the nights never are at midsummer; and -rays from the bright light in the west glimmered through the trees. On -the outskirts of the coppice, in a bit of low ground, we saw the tent, -a little mite of a thing, looking no better than a funnel turned upside -down. Sounds were heard within it, and Tod put his finger on his lip -while he listened. But we were too far off, and he took his boots off, -and crept up close. - -Sounds of wailing--of some one in pain. But that Tod had been three -parts out of his senses all the afternoon, he might have known at -once that they did not come from Lena, or from any one so young. Words -mingled with them in a woman's voice; uncouth in its accents, nearly -unintelligible, an awful sadness in its tones. - -"A bit longer! a bit longer, Corry, and he'd ha' been back. You needn't -ha' grudged it to us. Oh----h! if ye had but waited a bit longer!" - -I don't write it exactly as she spoke; I shouldn't know how to spell it: -we made a guess at half the words. Tod, who had grown white again, put -on his boots, and lifted up the opening of the tent. - -I had never seen any scene like it; I don't suppose I shall ever see -another. About a foot from the ground was a raised surface of some sort, -thickly covered with dark green rushes, just the size and shape of a -gravestone. A little child, about as old as Lena, lay on it, a white -cloth thrown over her, and just touching the white, still face. A torch, -blazing and smoking away, was thrust into the ground and lighted up the -scene. Whiter the face looked now, because it had been tawny in life. I -would rather see one of our faces in death than a gipsy's. The contrast -between the white face and dress of the child, and the green bed of -rushes it lay on was something remarkable. A young woman, dark too, and -handsome enough to create a commotion at the fair, knelt down, her brown -hands uplifted; a gaudy ring on one of the fingers, worth sixpence -perhaps when new, sparkled in the torchlight. Tod strode up to the dead -face and looked at it for full five minutes. I do believe he thought at -first that it was Lena. - -"What is this?" he asked. - -"It is my dead child!" the woman answered. "She did not wait that her -father might see her die!" - -But Tod had his head full of Lena, and looked round. "Is there no other -child here?" - -As if to answer him, a bundle of rags came out of a corner and set up a -howl. It was a boy of about seven, and our going in had wakened him up. -The woman sat down on the ground and looked at us. - -"We have lost a child--a little girl," explained Tod. "I thought she -might have been brought here--or have strayed here." - -"I've lost _my_ girl," said the woman. "Death has come for her!" And, -when speaking to us, she spoke more intelligibly than when alone. - -"Yes; but this child has been lost--lost out of doors! Have you seen or -heard anything of one?" - -"I've not been in the way o' seeing or hearing, master; I've been in -the tent alone. If folks had come to my aid, Corry might not have died. -I've had nothing but water to put to her lips all day?" - -"What was the matter with her?" Tod asked, convinced at length that Lena -was not there. - -"She have been ailing long--worse since the moon come in. The sickness -took her with the summer, and the strength began to go out. Jake have -been down, too. He couldn't get out to bring us help, and we have had -none." - -Jake was the husband, we supposed. The help meant food, or funds to get -it with. - -"He sat all yesterday cutting skewers, his hands a'most too weak to -fashion 'em. Maybe he'd sell 'em for a few ha'pence, he said; and he -went out this morning to try, and bring home a morsel of food." - -"Tod," I whispered, "I wish that hard-hearted Molly had----" - -"Hold your tongue, Johnny," he interrupted sharply. "Is Jake your -husband?" he asked of the woman. - -"He is my husband, and the children's father." - -"Jake would not be likely to steal a child, would he?" asked Tod, in a -hesitating manner, for him. - -She looked up, as if not understanding. "Steal a child, master! What -for?" - -"I don't know," said Tod. "I thought perhaps he had done it, and had -brought the child here." - -Another comical stare from the woman. "We couldn't feed these of ours; -what should we do with another?" - -"Well: Jake called at our house to sell his skewers; and, directly -afterwards, we missed my little sister. I have been hunting for her ever -since." - -"Was the house far from here!" - -"A few miles." - -"Then he have sunk down of weakness on his way, and can't get back." - -Putting her head on her knees, she began to sob and moan. The child--the -living one--began to bawl; one couldn't call it anything else; and -pulled at the green rushes. - -"He knew Corry was sick and faint when he went out. He'd have got back -afore now if his strength hadn't failed him; though, maybe, he didn't -think of death. Whist, then, whist, then, Dor," she added, to the boy. - -"Don't cry," said Tod to the little chap, who had the largest, brightest -eyes I ever saw. "That will do no good, you know." - -"I want Corry," said he. "Where's Corry gone?" - -"She's gone up to God," answered Tod, speaking very gently. "She's gone -to be a bright angel with Him in heaven." - -"Will she fly down to me?" asked Dor, his great eyes shining through -their tears at Tod. - -"Yes," affirmed Tod, who had a theory of his own on the point, and used -to think, when a little boy, that his mother was always near him, one of -God's angels keeping him from harm. "And after a while, you know, if you -are good, you'll go to Corry, and be an angel, too." - -"God bless you, master!" interposed the woman. "He'll think of that -always." - -"Tod," I said, as we went out of the tent, "I don't think they are -people to steal children." - -"Who's to know what the man would do?" retorted Tod. - -"A man with a dying child at home wouldn't be likely to harm another." - -Tod did not answer. He stood still a moment, deliberating which way to -go. Back to Alcester?--where a conveyance might be found to take us -home, for the fatigue was telling on both of us, now that disappointment -was prolonged, and I, at least, could hardly put one foot before -another. Or down to the high-road, and run the chance of some vehicle -overtaking us? Or keep on amidst these fields and hedgerows, which would -lead us home by a rather nearer way, but without chance of a lift? Tod -made up his mind, and struck down the lane the way we had come up. He -was on first, and I saw him suddenly halt, and turn to me. - -"Look here, Johnny!" - -I looked as well as I could for the night and the trees, and saw -something on the ground. A man had sunk down there, apparently from -exhaustion. His face was a tawny white, just like the dead child's. A -stout stick and the bundles of skewers lay beside him. - -"Do you see the fellow, Johnny? It is the gipsy." - -"Has he fainted?" - -"Fainted, or shamming it. I wonder if there's any water about?" - -But the man opened his eyes; perhaps the sound of voices revived him. -After looking at us a minute or two, he raised himself slowly on his -elbow. Tod--the one thought uppermost in his mind--said something about -Lena. - -"The child's found, master!" - -Tod seemed to give a leap. I know his heart did. "Found!" - -"Been safe at home this long while." - -"Who found her?" - -"'Twas me, master." - -"Where was she?" asked Tod, his tone softening. "Let us hear about it." - -"I was making back for the town" (we supposed he meant Alcester), "and -missed the way; land about here's strange to me. A-going through a bit -of a groove, which didn't seem as if it was leading to nowhere, I heard -a child crying. There was the little thing tied to a tree, stripped, -and----" - -"Stripped!" roared Tod. - -"Stripped to the skin, sir, save for a dirty old skirt that was tied -round her. A woman carried her off to that spot, she told me, robbed her -of her clothes, and left her there. Knowing where she must ha' been -stole from--through you're accusing _me_ of it, master--I untied her to -lead her home, but her feet warn't used to the rough ground, and I made -shift to carry her. A matter of two miles it were, and I be not good for -much. I left her at home safe, and set off back. That's all, master." - -"What were you doing here?" asked Tod, as considerately as if he had -been speaking to a lord. "Resting?" - -"I suppose I fell, master. I don't remember nothing, since I was -tramping up the lane, till your voices came. I've had naught inside my -lips to-day but a drink o' water." - -"Did they give you nothing to eat at the house when you took the child -home?" - -He shook his head. "I saw the woman again, nobody else. She heard what I -had to say about the child, and she never said 'Thank ye.'" - -The man had been getting on his feet, and took up the skewers, that were -all tied together with string, and the stick. But he reeled as he stood, -and would have fallen again but for Tod. Tod gave him his arm. - -"We are in for it, Johnny," said he aside to me. "Pity but I could be -put in a picture--the Samaritan helping the destitute!" - -"I'd not accept of ye, sir, but that I have a child sick at home, and -want to get to her. There's a piece of bread in my pocket that was give -me at a cottage to-day." - -"Is your child sure to get well?" asked Tod, after a pause; wondering -whether he could say anything of what had occurred, so as to break the -news. - -The man gazed right away into the distance, as if searching for an -answer in the far-off star shining there. - -"There's been a death-look in her face this day and night past, master. -But the Lord's good to us all." - -"And sometimes, when He takes children, it is done in mercy," said Tod. -"Heaven is a better place than this." - -"Ay," rejoined the man, who was leaning heavily on Tod, and could never -have got home without him, unless he had crawled on hands and knees. -"I've been sickly on and off for this year past; worse lately; and I've -thought at times that if my own turn was coming, I'd be glad to see my -children gone afore me." - -"Oh, Tod!" I whispered, in a burst of repentance, "how could we have -been so hard with this poor fellow, and roughly accused him of stealing -Lena?" But Tod only gave me a knock with his elbow. - -"I fancy it must be pleasant to think of a little child being an angel -in heaven--a child that we have loved," said Tod. - -"Ay, ay," said the man. - -Tod had no courage to say more. He was not a parson. Presently he asked -the man what tribe he belonged to--being a gipsy. - -"I'm not a gipsy, master. Never was one yet. I and my wife are -dark-complexioned by nature; living in the open air has made us darker; -but I'm English born; Christian, too. My wife's Irish; but they do say -she comes of a gipsy tribe. We used to have a cart, and went about the -country with crockery; but a year ago, when I got ill and lay in a -lodging, the things were seized for rent and debt. Since then it's been -hard lines with us. Yonder's my bit of a tent, master, and now I can get -on alone. Thanking ye kindly." - -"I am sorry I spoke harshly to you to-day," said Tod. "Take this: it is -all I have with me." - -"I'll take it, sir, for my child's sake; it may help to put the strength -into her. Otherwise I'd not. We're honest; we've never begged. Thank ye -both, masters, once again." - -It was only a shilling or two. Tod spent, and never had much in his -pockets. "I wish it had been sovereigns," said he to me; "but we will do -something better for them to-morrow, Johnny. I am sure the Pater will." - -"Tod," said I, as we ran on, "had we seen the man close before, and -spoken with him, I should never have suspected him. He has a face to be -trusted." - -Tod burst into a laugh. "There you are Johnny, at your faces again!" - -I was always reading people's faces, and taking likes and dislikes -accordingly. They called me a muff for it at home (and for many other -things), Tod especially; but it seemed to me that I could read people as -easily as a book. Duffham, our surgeon at Church Dykely, bade me _trust -to it_ as a good gift from God. One day, pushing my straw hat up to draw -his fingers across the top of my brow, he quaintly told the Squire that -when he wanted people's characters read, to come to me to read them. The -Squire only laughed in answer. - -As luck had it, a gentleman we knew was passing in his dog-cart when we -got to the foot of the hill. It was old Pitchley. He drove us home: and -I could hardly get down, I was so stiff. - -Lena was in bed, safe and sound. No damage, except fright and the loss -of her clothes. From what we could learn, the woman who took her off -must have been concealed amidst the ricks, when Tod put her there. Lena -said the woman laid hold of her very soon, caught her up, and put her -hand over her mouth, to prevent her crying out; she could only give one -scream. I ought to have heard it, only Mack was making such an awful -row, hammering that iron. How far along fields and by-ways the woman -carried her, Lena could not be supposed to tell: "Miles!" she said. Then -the thief plunged amidst a few trees, took the child's things off, put -on an old rag of a petticoat, and tied her loosely to a tree. Lena -thought she could have got loose herself, but was too frightened to try; -and just then the man, Jake, came up. - -"I liked _him_," said Lena. "He carried me all the way home, that my -feet should not be hurt; but he had to sit down sometimes. He said he -had a poor little girl who was nearly as badly off for clothes as that, -but she did not want them now, she was too sick. He said he hoped my -papa would find the woman, and put her in prison." - -It is what the Squire intended to do, chance helping him. But he did not -reach home till after us, when all was quiet again: which was fortunate. - -"I suppose you blame me for that?" cried Tod, to his step-mother. - -"No, I don't, Joseph," said Mrs. Todhetley. She called him Joseph nearly -always, not liking to shorten his name, as some of us did. "It is so -very common a thing for the children to be playing in the three-cornered -field amidst the ricks; and no suspicion that danger could arise from it -having ever been glanced at, I do not think any blame attaches to you." - -"I am very sorry now for having done it," said Tod. "I shall never -forget the fright to the last hour of my life." - -He went straight to Molly, from Mrs. Todhetley, a look on his face that, -when seen there, which was rare, the servants did not like. Deference -was rendered to Tod in the household. When anything should take off the -good old Pater, Tod would be master. What he said to Molly no one heard; -but the woman was banging at her brass things in a tantrum for three -days afterwards. - -And when we went to see after poor Jake and his people, it was too late. -The man, the tent, the living people, and the dead child--all were -gone. - - - - -II. - -FINDING BOTH OF THEM. - - -Worcester Assizes were being held, and Squire Todhetley was on the grand -jury. You see, although Dyke Manor was just within the borders of -Warwickshire, the greater portion of the Squire's property lay in -Worcestershire. This caused him to be summoned to serve. We were often -at his house there, Crabb Cot. I forget who was foreman of the jury that -time: either Sir John Pakington, or the Honourable Mr. Coventry. - -The week was jolly. We put up at the Star-and-Garter when we went -to Worcester, which was two or three times a-year; generally at the -assizes, or the races, or the quarter-sessions; one or other of the busy -times. - -The Pater would grumble at the bills--and say we boys had no business to -be there; but he would take us, if we were at home, for all that. The -assizes came on this time the week before our summer holidays were up; -the Squire wished they had not come on until the week after. Anyway, -there we were, in clover; the Squire about to be stewed up in the county -courts all day; I and Tod flying about the town, and doing what we -liked. - -The judges came in from Oxford on the usual day, Saturday. And, to -make clear what I am going to tell about, we must go back to that -morning and to Dyke Manor. It was broiling hot weather, and Mrs. -Todhetley, Hugh, and Lena, with old Thomas and Hannah, all came on the -lawn after breakfast to see us start. The open carriage was at the -door, with the fine dark horses. When the Squire did come out, he -liked to do things well; and Dwarf Giles, the groom, had gone on to -Worcester the day before with the two saddle-horses, the Pater's and -Tod's. They might have ridden them in this morning, but the Squire -chose to have his horses sleek and fresh when attending the high -sheriff. - -"Shall I drive, sir?" asked Tod. - -"No," said the Pater. "These two have queer tempers, and must be handled -carefully." He meant the horses, Bob and Blister. Tod looked at me; he -thought he could have managed them quite as well as the Pater. - -"Papa," cried Lena, as we were driving off, running up in her white -pinafore, with her pretty hair flying, "if you can catch that naughty -kidnapper at Worcester, you put her in prison." - -The Squire nodded emphatically, as much as to say, "Trust me for that." -Lena alluded to the woman who had taken her off and stolen her clothes -two or three weeks before. Tod said, afterwards, there must have been -some prevision on the child's mind when she said this. - -We reached Worcester at twelve. It is a long drive, you know. Lots of -country-people had arrived, and the Squire went off with some of them. -Tod and I thought we'd order luncheon at the Star--a jolly good one; -stewed lampreys, kidneys, and cherry-tart; and let it go into the -Squire's bill. - -I'm afraid I envied Tod. The old days of travelling post were past, when -the sheriff's procession would go out to Whittington to meet the judges' -carriage. They came now by rail from Oxford, and the sheriff and his -attendants received them at the railway station. It was the first time -Tod had been allowed to make one of the gentlemen-attendants. The Squire -said now he was too young; but he looked big, and tall, and strong. To -see him mount his horse and go cantering off with the rest sent me into -a state of envy. Tod saw it. - -"Don't drop your mouth, Johnny," said he. "You'll make one of us in -another year or two." - -I stood about for half-an-hour, and the procession came back, passing -the Star on its way to the county courts. The bells were ringing, the -advanced heralds blew their trumpets, and the javelin-guard rode at a -foot-pace, their lances in rest, preceding the high sheriff's grand -carriage, with its four prancing horses and their silvered harness. Both -the judges had come in, so we knew that business was over at Oxford; -they sat opposite to the sheriff and his chaplain. I used to wonder -whether they travelled all the way in their wigs and gowns, or robed -outside Worcester. Squire Todhetley rode in the line next the carriage, -with some more old ones of consequence; Tod on his fine bay was nearly -at the tail, and he gave me a nod in passing. The judges were going to -open the commission, and Foregate Street was crowded. - -The high sheriff that year was a friend of ours, and the Pater had an -invitation to the banquet he gave that evening. Tod thought he ought to -have been invited too. - -"It's sinfully stingy of him, Johnny. When I am pricked for sheriff--and -I suppose my turn will come some time, either for Warwickshire or -Worcestershire--I'll have more young fellows to my dinner than old -ones." - -The Squire, knowing nothing of our midday luncheon, was surprised that -we chose supper at eight instead of dinner at six; but he told the -waiter to give us a good one. We went out while it was getting ready, -and walked arm-in-arm through the crowded streets. Worcester is always -full on a Saturday evening; it is market-day there, as every one knows; -but on Assize Saturday the streets are almost impassable. Tod, tall and -strong, held on his way, and asked leave of none. - -"Now, then, you two gents, can't you go on proper, and not elbow -respectable folks like that?" - -"Holloa!" cried Tod, turning at the voice. "Is it you, old Jones?" - -Old Jones, the constable of our parish, touched his hat when he saw it -was us, and begged pardon. We asked what he was doing at Worcester; but -he had only come on his own account. "On the spree," Tod suggested to -him. - -"Young Mr. Todhetley," cried he--the way he chiefly addressed Tod--"I'd -not be sure but that woman's took--her that served out little Miss -Lena." - -"That woman!" said Tod. "Why do you think it?" - -Old Jones explained. A woman had been apprehended near Worcester the -previous day, on a charge of stripping two little boys of their clothes -in Perry Wood. The description given of her answered exactly, old Jones -thought, to that given by Lena. - -"She stripped 'em to the skin," groaned Jones, drawing a long face as he -recited the mishap, "two poor little chaps of three years, they was, -living in them cottages under the Wood--not as much as their boots did -she leave on 'em. When they got home their folks didn't know 'em; quite -naked they was, and bleating with terror, like a brace of shorn sheep." - -Tod put on his determined look. "And she is taken, you say, Jones?" - -"She was took yesterday, sir. They had her before the justices this -morning, and the little fellows knowed her at once. As the 'sizes was -on, leastways as good as on, their worships committed her for trial -there and then. Policeman Cripp told me all about it; it was him that -took her. She's in the county gaol." - -We carried the tale to the Pater that night, and he despatched a -messenger to Mrs. Todhetley, to say that Lena must be at Worcester on -the Monday morning. But there's something to tell about the Sunday yet. - -If you have been in Worcester on Assize Sunday, you know how the -cathedral is on that morning crowded. Enough strangers are in the town -to fill it: the inhabitants who go to the churches at other times -attended it then; and King Mob flocks in to see the show. - -Squire Todhetley was put in the stalls; Tod and I scrambled for places -on a bench. The alterations in the cathedral (going on for years before -that, and going on for years since, and going on still) caused space -to be limited, and it was no end of a cram. While people fought for -standing-places, the procession was played in to the crash of the organ. -The judges came, glorious in their wigs and gowns; the mayor and -aldermen were grand as scarlet and gold chains could make them; and -there was a large attendance of the clergy in their white robes. The -Bishop had come in from Hartlebury, and was on his throne, and the -service began. The Rev. Mr. Wheeler chanted; the Dean read the lessons. -Of course the music was all right; they put up fine services on Assize -Sundays now; and the sheriff's chaplain went up in his black gown to -preach the sermon. Three-quarters of an hour, if you'll believe me, -before that sermon came to an end! - -Ere the organ had well played its Amen to the Bishop's blessing, the -crowd began to push out. We pushed with the rest and took up our places -in the long cathedral nave to see the procession pass back again. It -came winding down between the line of javelin-men. Just as the judges -were passing, Tod motioned me to look opposite. There stood a young boy -in dreadful clothes, patched all over, but otherwise clean; with great -dark wondering eyes riveted on the judges, as if they had been stilted -peacocks; on their wigs, their solemn countenances, their held-up -scarlet trains. - -Where had I seen those eyes, and their brightness? Recollection flashed -over me before Tod's whisper: "Jake's boy; the youngster we saw in the -tent." - -To get across the line was impossible: manners would not permit it, let -alone the javelin-guard. And when the procession had passed, leaving -nothing but a crowd of shuffling feet and the dust on the white -cathedral floor, the boy was gone. - -"I say, Johnny, it is rather odd we should come on those tent-people, -just as the woman has turned up," exclaimed Tod, as we got clear of the -cathedral. - -"But you don't think they can be connected, Tod?" - -"Well, no; I suppose not. It's a queer coincidence, though." - -_This_ we also carried to the Squire, as we had the other news. He was -standing in the Star gateway. - -"Look here, you boys," said he, after a pause given to thought; "keep -your eyes open; you may come upon the lad again, or some of his folk. I -should like to do something for that poor man; I've wished it ever since -he brought home Lena, and that confounded Molly drove him out by way of -recompense." - -"And if they should be confederates, sir?" suggested Tod. - -"Who confederates? What do you mean, Joe?" - -"These people and the female-stripper. It seems strange they should both -turn up again in the same spot." - -The notion took away the Pater's breath. "If I thought that; if I find -it is so," he broke forth, "I'll--I'll--transport the lot." - -Mrs. Todhetley arrived with Lena on Sunday afternoon. Early on Monday, -the Squire and Tod took her to the governor's house at the county -prison, where she was to see the woman, as if accidentally, nothing -being said to Lena. - -The woman was brought in: a bold jade with a red face: and Lena nearly -went into convulsions at the sight of her. There could be no mistake the -woman was the same: and the Pater became redhot with anger; especially -to think he could not punish her in Worcester. - -As the fly went racing up Salt Lane after the interview, on its way to -leave the Squire at the county courts, a lad ran past. It was Jake's -boy; the same we had seen in the cathedral. Tod leaped up and called to -the driver to stop, but the Pater roared out an order to go on. His -appearance at the court could not be delayed, and Tod had to stay with -Lena. So the clue was lost again. Tod brought Lena to the Star, and then -he and I went to the criminal court, and bribed a fellow for places. Tod -said it would be a sin not to hear the kidnapper tried. - -It was nearly the first case called on. Some of the lighter cases were -taken first, while the grand jury deliberated on their bills for the -graver ones. Her name, as given in, was Nancy Cole, and she tried to -excite the sympathies of the judge and jury by reciting a whining -account of a deserting husband and other ills. The evidence was quite -clear. The two children (little shavers in petticoats) set up a roar in -court at sight of the woman, just as Lena had done in the governor's -house; and a dealer in marine stores produced their clothes, which -he had bought of her. Tod whispered to me that he should go about -Worcester after this in daily dread of seeing Lena's blue-silk frock -and open-worked stockings hanging in a shop window. Something was said -during the trial about the raid the prisoner had also recently made on -the little daughter of Mr. Todhetley, of Dyke Manor, Warwickshire, and -of Crabb Cot, Worcestershire, "one of the gentlemen of the grand jury at -present sitting in deliberation in an adjoining chamber of the court." -But, as the judge said, that could not be received in evidence. - -Mrs. Cole brazened it out: testimony was too strong for her to attempt -denial. "And if she _had_ took a few bits o' things, 'cause she was -famishing, she didn't hurt the childern. She'd never hurt a child in -her life; couldn't do it. Just contrairy to that; she gave 'em sugar -plums--and candy--and a piece of a wig,[1] she did. What was she to do? -Starve? Since her wicked husband, that she hadn't seen for this five -year, deserted of her, and her two boys, fine grown lads both of 'em, -had been accused of theft and got put away from her, one into prison, -t'other into a 'formitory, she hadn't no soul to care for her nor help -her to a bit o' bread. Life was hard, and times was bad; and--there it -was. No good o' saying more." - - [1] A small plain bun sold in Worcester. - -"Guilty," said the foreman of the jury, without turning round. "We find -the prisoner guilty, my lord." - -The judge sentenced her to six months' imprisonment with hard labour. -Mrs. Cole brazened it out still. - -"Thank you," said she to his lordship, dropping a curtsey as they were -taking her from the dock; "and I hope you'll sit there, old gentleman, -till I come out again." - -When the Squire was told of the sentence that evening, he said it was -too mild by half, and talked of bringing her also to book at Warwick. -But Mrs. Todhetley said, "No; forgive her." After all, it was only the -loss of the clothes. - -Nothing whatever had come out during the trial to connect Jake with the -woman. She appeared to be a waif without friends. "And I watched and -listened closely for it, mind you, Johnny," remarked Tod. - - * * * * * - -It was a day or two after this--I think, on the Wednesday evening. The -Squire's grand-jury duties were over, but he stayed on, intending to -make a week of it; Mrs. Todhetley and Lena had left for home. We had -dined late, and Tod and I went for a stroll afterwards; leaving the -Pater, and an old clergyman, who had dined with us, to their wine. -In passing the cooked-meat shop in High-street, we saw a little chap -looking in, his face flattened against the panes. Tod laid hold of -his shoulder, and the boy turned his brilliant eyes and their hungry -expression upon us. - -"Do you remember me, Dor?" You see, Tod had not forgotten his name. - -Dor evidently did remember. And whether it was that he felt frightened -at being accosted, or whether the sight of us brought back to him the -image of the dead sister lying on the rushes, was best known to himself; -but he burst out crying. - -"There's nothing to cry for," said Tod; "you need not be afraid. Could -you eat some of that meat?" - -Something like a shiver of surprise broke over the boy's face at the -question; just as though he had had no food for weeks. Tod gave him a -shilling, and told him to go in and buy some. But the boy looked at the -money doubtingly. - -"A whole shilling! They'd think I stole it." - -Tod took back the money, and went in himself. He was as proud a fellow -as you'd find in the two counties, and yet he would do all sorts of -things that many another glanced askance at. - -"I want half-a-pound of beef," said he to the man who was carving, "and -some bread, if you sell it. And I'll take one of those small pork-pies." - -"Shall I put the meat in paper, sir?" asked the man: as if doubting -whether Tod might prefer to eat it there. - -"Yes," said Tod. And the customers, working-men and a woman in a drab -shawl, turned and stared at him. - -Tod paid; took it all in his hands, and we left the shop. He did not -mind being seen carrying the parcels; but he would have minded letting -them know that he was feeding a poor boy. - -"Here, Dor, you can take the things now," said he, when we had gone a -few yards. "Where do you live?" - -Dor explained after a fashion. We knew Worcester well, but failed to -understand. "Not far from the big church," he said; and at first we -thought he meant the cathedral. - -"Never mind," said Tod; "go on, and show us." - -He went skimming along, Tod keeping him within arm's-length, lest he -should try to escape. Why Tod should have suspected he might, I don't -know; nothing, as it turned out, could have been farther from Dor's -thoughts. The church he spoke of proved to be All Saints'; the boy -turned up an entry near to it, and we found ourselves in a regular -rookery of dirty, miserable, tumble-down houses. Loose men stood about, -pipes in their mouths, women, in tatters, their hair hanging down. - -Dor dived into a dark den that seemed to be reached through a hole you -had to stoop under. My patience! what a close place it was, with a smell -that nearly knocked you backwards. There was not an earthly thing in the -room that we could see, except some straw in a corner, and on that Jake -was lying. The boy appeared with a piece of lighted candle, which he had -been upstairs to borrow. - -Jake was thin enough before; he was a skeleton now. His eyes were sunk, -the bones of his face stood out, the skin glistened on his shapely nose, -his voice was weak and hollow. He knew us, and smiled. - -"What's the matter?" asked Tod, speaking gently. "You look very ill." - -"I be very ill, master; I've been getting worse ever since." - -His history was this. The same night that we had seen the tent at -Cookhill, some travelling people of Jake's fraternity happened to encamp -close to it for the night. By their help, the dead child was removed as -far as Evesham, and there buried. Jake, his wife, and son, went on to -Worcester, and there the man was taken worse; they had been in this room -since; the wife had found a place to go to twice a week washing, earning -her food and a shilling each time. It was all they had to depend upon, -these two shillings weekly; and the few bits o' things they had, to use -Jake's words, had been taken by the landlord for rent. But to see Jake's -resignation was something curious. - -"He was very good," he said, alluding to the landlord and the seizure; -"he left me the straw. When he saw how bad I was, he wouldn't take it. -We had been obliged to sell the tent, and there was a'most nothing for -him." - -"Have you had no medicine? no advice?" cried Tod, speaking as if he had -a lump in his throat. - -Yes, he had had medicine; the wife went for it to the free place (he -meant the dispensary) twice a week, and a young doctor had been to see -him. - -Dor opened the paper of meat, and showed it to his father. "The -gentleman bought it me," he said; "and this, and this. Couldn't you eat -some?" - -I saw the eager look that arose for a moment to Jake's face at sight of -the meat: three slices of nice cold boiled beef, better than what we got -at school. Dor held out one of them; the man broke off a morsel, put it -into his mouth, and had a choking fit. - -"It's of no use, Dor." - -"Is his name 'Dor'?" asked Tod. - -"His name is James, sir; same as mine," answered Jake, panting a little -from the exertion of swallowing. "The wife, she has called him 'Dor' for -'dear,' and I've fell into it. She has called me Jake all along." - -Tod felt something ought to be done to help him, but he had no more -idea what than the man in the moon. I had less. As Dor piloted us to -the open street, we asked him where his mother was. It was one of her -working-days out, he answered; she was always kept late. - -"Could he drink wine, do you think, Dor?" - -"The gentleman said he was to have it," answered Dor, alluding to the -doctor. - -"How old are you, Dor?" - -"I'm anigh ten." He did not look it. - -"Johnny, I wonder if there's any place where they sell beef-tea?" cried -Tod, as we went up Broad Street. "My goodness! lying there in that -state, with no help at hand!" - -"I never saw anything so bad before, Tod." - -"Do you know what I kept thinking of all the time? I could not get it -out of my head." - -"What?" - -"Of Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Johnny, lad, there seems an awful -responsibility lying on some of us." - -To hear Tod say such a thing was stranger than all. He set off running, -and burst into our sitting-room in the Star, startling the Pater, who -was alone and reading one of the Worcester papers with his spectacles -on. Tod sat down and told him all. - -"Dear me! dear me!" cried the Pater, growing red as he listened. "Why, -Joe, the poor fellow must be dying!" - -"He may not have gone too far for recovery, father," was Tod's answer. -"If we had to lie in that close hole, and had nothing to eat or drink, -we should probably soon become skeletons also. He may get well yet with -proper care and treatment." - -"It seems to me that the first thing to be done is to get him into the -Infirmary," remarked the Pater. - -"And it ought to be done early to-morrow morning, sir; if it's too late -to-night." - -The Pater got up in a bustle, put on his hat, and went out. He was going -to his old friend, the famous surgeon, Henry Carden. Tod ran after him -up Foregate Street, but was sent back to me. We stood at the door of the -hotel, and in a few moments saw them coming along, the Pater arm-in-arm -with Mr. Carden. He had come out as readily to visit the poor helpless -man as he would to visit a rich one. Perhaps more so. They stopped when -they saw us, and Mr. Carden asked Tod some of the particulars. - -"You can get him admitted to the Infirmary at once, can you not?" said -the Pater, impatiently, who was all on thorns to have something done. - -"By what I can gather, it is not a case for the Infirmary," was the -answer of its chief surgeon. "We'll see." - -Down we went, walking fast: the Pater and Mr. Carden in front, I and Tod -at their heels; and found the room again with some difficulty. The wife -was in then, and had made a handful of fire in the grate. What with the -smoke, and what with the other agreeable accompaniments, we were nearly -stifled. - -If ever I wished to be a doctor, it was when I saw Mr. Carden with -that poor sick man. He was so gentle with him, so cheery and so kind. -Had Jake been a duke, I don't see that he could have been treated -differently. There was something superior about the man, too, as though -he had seen better days. - -"What is your name?" asked Mr. Carden. - -"James Winter, sir, a native of Herefordshire. I was on my way there -when I was taken ill in this place." - -"What to do there? To get work?" - -"No, sir; to die. It don't much matter, though; God's here as well as -there." - -"You are not a gipsy?" - -"Oh dear no, sir. From my dark skin, though, I've been taken for one. My -wife's descended from a gipsy tribe." - -"We are thinking of placing you in the Infirmary, Jake," cried the -Pater. "You will have every comfort there, and the best of attendance. -This gentleman----" - -"We'll see--we'll see," interposed Mr. Carden, breaking in hastily on -the promises. "I am not sure that the Infirmary will do for him." - -"It is too late, sir, I think," said Jake, quietly, to Mr. Carden. - -Mr. Carden made no reply. He asked the woman if she had such a thing as -a tea-cup or wine-glass. She produced a cracked cup with the handle off -and a notch in the rim. Mr. Carden poured something into it that he had -brought in his pocket, and stooped over the man. Jake began to speak in -his faint voice. - -"Sir, I'd not seem ungrateful, but I'd like to stay here with the wife -and boy to the last. It can't be for long now." - -"Drink this; it will do you good," said Mr. Carden, holding the cup to -his lips. - -"This close place is a change from the tent," I said to the woman, who -was stooping over the bit of fire. - -Such a look of regret came upon her countenance as she lifted it: just -as if the tent had been a palace. "When we got here, master, it was -after that two days' rain, and the ground was sopping. It didn't do for -_him_"--glancing round at the straw. "He was getting mighty bad then, -and we just put our heads into this place--bad luck to us!" - -The Squire gave her some silver, and told her to get anything in she -thought best. It was too late to do more that night. The church clocks -were striking ten as we went out. - -"Won't it do to move him to the Infirmary?" were the Pater's first words -to Mr. Carden. - -"Certainly not. The man's hours are numbered." - -"There is no hope, I suppose?" - -"Not the least. He may be said to be dying now." - -No time was lost in the morning. When Squire Todhetley took a will to -heart he carried it out, and speedily. A decent room with an airy window -was found in the same block of buildings. A bed and other things were -put in it; some clothes were redeemed; and by twelve o'clock in the day -Jake was comfortably lying there. The Pater seemed to think that this -was not enough: he wanted to do more. - -"His humanity to my child kept him from seeing the last moments of his," -said he. "The little help we can give him now is no return for that." - -Food and clothes, and a dry, comfortable room, and wine and proper -things for Jake--of which he could not swallow much. The woman was not -to go out to work again while he lasted, but to stay at home and attend -to him. - -"I shall be at liberty by the hop-picking time," she said, with a sigh. -Ah, poor creature! long before that. - -When Tod and I went in later in the afternoon, she had just given Jake -some physic, ordered by Mr. Carden. She and the boy sat by the fire, tea -and bread-and-butter on the deal table between them. Jake lay in bed, -his head raised on account of his breathing, I thought he was better; -but his thin white face, with the dark, earnest, glistening eyes, was -almost painful to look upon. - -"The reading-gentleman have been in," cried the woman suddenly. "He's -coming again, he says, the night or the morning." - -Tod looked puzzled, and Jake explained. A good young clergyman, who had -found him out a day or two before, had been in each day since with his -Bible, to read and pray. "God bless him!" said Jake. - -"Why did you go away so suddenly?" Tod asked, alluding to the hasty -departure from Cookhill. "My father was intending to do something for -you." - -"I didn't know that, sir. Many thanks all the same. I'd like to thank -_you_ too, sir," he went on, after a fit of coughing. "I've wanted to -thank you ever since. When you gave me your arm up the lane, and said -them pleasant things to me about having a little child in heaven, you -knew she was gone." - -"Yes." - -"It broke the trouble to me, sir. My wife heard me coughing afar off, -and came out o' the tent. She didn't say at first what there was in the -tent, but began telling how you had been there. It made me know what had -happened; and when she set on a-grieving, I told her not to: Carry was -gone up to be an angel in heaven." - -Tod touched the hand he put out, not speaking. - -"She's waiting for me, sir," he continued, in a fainter voice. "I'm as -sure of it as if I saw her. The little girl I found and carried to the -great house has rich friends and a fine home to shelter her; mine had -none, and so it was for the best that she should go. God has been very -good to me. Instead of letting me fret after her, or murmur at lying -helpless like this, He only gives me peace." - -"That man must have had a good mother," cried out Tod, as we went away -down the entry. And I looked up at him, he spoke so queerly. - -"Do you think he will get better, Tod? He does not seem as bad as he did -last night." - -"Get better!" retorted Tod. "You'll always be a muff, Johnny. Why, every -breath he takes threatens to be his last. He is miles worse than he was -when we found him. This is Thursday: I don't believe he can last out -longer than the week; and I think Mr. Carden knows it." - -He did not last so long. On the Saturday morning, just as we were going -to start for home, the wife came to the Star with the news. Jake had -died at ten the previous night. - -"He went off quiet," said she to the Squire. "I asked if he'd not like -a dhrink; but he wouldn't have it: the good gentleman had been there -giving him the bread and wine, and he said he'd take nothing, he -thought, after that. 'I'm going, Mary,' he suddenly says to me about ten -o'clock, and he called Dor up and shook hands with him, and bade him be -good to me, and then he shook hands with me. 'God bless ye both,' says -he, 'for Christ's sake; and God bless the friends who have been kind to -us!' And with that he died." - -That's all, for now. And I hope no one will think I invented this -account of Jake's death, for I should not like to do it. The wife -related it to us in the exact words written. - -"And I able to do so little for him," broke forth the Squire, suddenly, -when we were about half-way home; and he lashed up Bob and Blister -regardless of their tempers. Which the animals did not relish. - -And so that assize week ended the matter. Bringing imprisonment to the -kidnapping woman, and to Jake death. - - - - -III. - -WOLFE BARRINGTON'S TAMING. - - -This is an incident of our school life; one that I never care to look -back upon. All of us have sad remembrances of some kind living in -the mind; and we are apt in our painful regret to say, "If I had but -done this, or had but done the other, things might have turned out -differently." - -The school was a large square house, built of rough stone, gardens and -playgrounds and fields extending around it. It was called Worcester -House: a title of the fancy, I suppose, since it was some miles away -from Worcester. The master was Dr. Frost, a tall, stout man, in white -frilled shirt, knee-breeches and buckles; stern on occasion, but a -gentleman to the back-bone. He had several under-masters. Forty boys -were received; we wore the college cap and Eton jacket. Mrs. Frost -was delicate: and Hall, a sour old woman of fifty, was manager of the -eatables. - -Tod and I must have been in the school two years, I think, when Archie -Hearn entered. He was eleven years old. We had seen him at the house -sometimes before, and liked him. A regular good little fellow was -Archie. - -Hearn's father was dead. His mother had been a Miss Stockhausen, sister -to Mrs. Frost. The Stockhausens had a name in Worcestershire: chiefly, I -think, for dying off. There had been six sisters; and the only two now -left were Mrs. Frost and Mrs. Hearn: the other four quietly faded away -one after another, not living to see thirty. Mr. Hearn died, from an -accident, when Archie was only a year old. He left no will, and there -ensued a sharp dispute about his property. The Stockhausens said it all -belonged to the little son; the Hearn family considered that a portion -of it ought to go back to them. The poor widow was the only quiet spirit -amongst them, willing to be led either way. What the disputants did was -to put it into Chancery: and I don't much think it ever came out again. - -It was the worst move they could have made for Mrs. Hearn. For it -reduced her to a very slender income indeed, and the world wondered how -she got on at all. She lived in a cottage about three miles from the -Frosts, with one servant and the little child Archibald. In the course -of years people seemed to forget all about the property in Chancery, and -to ignore her as quite a poor woman. - -Well, we--I and Tod--had been at Dr. Frost's two years or so, when -Archibald Hearn entered the school. He was a slender little lad with -bright brown eyes, a delicate face and pink cheeks, very sweet-tempered -and pleasant in manner. At first he used to go home at night, but when -the winter weather set in he caught a cough, and then came into the -house altogether. Some of the big ones felt sure that old Frost took him -for nothing: but as little Hearn was Mrs. Frost's nephew and we liked -_her_, no talk was made about it. The lad did not much like coming into -the house: we could see that. He seemed always to be hankering after his -mother and old Betty the servant. Not in words: but he'd stand with his -arms on the play-yard gate, his eyes gazing out towards the quarter -where the cottage was; as if he would like his sight to penetrate the -wood and the two or three miles beyond, and take a look at it. When any -of us said to him as a bit of chaff, "You are staring after old Betty," -he would say Yes, he wished he could see her and his mother; and then -tell no end of tales about what Betty had done for him in his illnesses. -Any way, Hearn was a straightforward little chap, and a favourite in the -school. - -He had been with us about a year when Wolfe Barrington came. Quite -another sort of pupil. A big, strong fellow who had never had a mother: -rich and overbearing, and cruel. He was in mourning for his father, who -had just died: a rich Irishman, given to company and fast living. Wolfe -came in for all the money; so that he had a fine career before him and -might be expected to set the world on fire. Little Hearn's stories had -been of home; of his mother and old Betty. Wolfe's were different. He -had had the run of his father's stables and knew more about horses and -dogs than the animals knew about themselves. Curious things, too, he'd -tell of men and women, who had stayed at old Barrington's place: and -what he said of the public school he had been at might have made old -Frost's hair stand on end. Why he left the public school we did not find -out: some said he had run away from it, and that his father, who'd -indulged him awfully, would not send him back to be punished; others -said the head-master would not receive him back again. In the nick of -time the father died; and Wolfe's guardians put him to Dr. Frost's. - -"I shall make you my fag," said Barrington, the day he entered, catching -hold of little Hearn in the playground, and twisting him round by the -arm. - -"What's that?" asked Hearn, rubbing his arm--for Wolfe's grasp had not -been a light one. - -"What's that!" repeated Barrington, scornfully. "What a precious young -fool you must be, not to know. Who's your mother?" - -"She lives over there," answered Hearn, taking the question literally, -and nodding beyond the wood. - -"Oh!" said Barrington, screwing up his mouth. "What's her name? And -what's yours?" - -"Mrs. Hearn. Mine's Archibald." - -"Good, Mr. Archibald. You shall be my fag. That is, my servant. And -you'll do every earthly thing that I order you to do. And mind you do it -smartly, or may be that girl's face of yours will show out rather blue -sometimes." - -"I shall not be anybody's servant," returned Archie, in his mild, -inoffensive way. - -"Won't you! You'll tell me another tale before this time to-morrow. Did -you ever get licked into next week?" - -The child made no answer. He began to think the new fellow might be in -earnest, and gazed up at him in doubt. - -"When you can't see out of your two eyes for the swelling round them, -and your back's stiff with smarting and aching--_that's_ the kind of -licking I mean," went on Barrington. "Did you ever taste it?" - -"No, sir." - -"Good again. It will be all the sweeter when you do. Now look you here, -Mr. Archibald Hearn. I appoint you my fag in ordinary. You'll fetch and -carry for me: you'll black my boots and brush my clothes; you'll sit up -to wait on me when I go to bed, and read me to sleep; you'll be dressed -before I am in the morning, and be ready with my clothes and hot water. -Never mind whether the rules of the house are against hot water, _you'll -have to provide it_, though you boil it in the bedroom grate, or out in -the nearest field. You'll attend me at my lessons; look out words for -me; copy my exercises in a fair hand--and if you were old enough to -_do_ them, you'd _have_ to. That's a few of the items; but there are -a hundred other things, that I've not time to detail. If I can get -a horse for my use, you'll have to groom him. And if you don't put out -your mettle to serve me in all these ways, and don't hold yourself in -readiness to fly and obey me at any minute or hour of the day, you'll -get daily one of the lickings I've told you of, until you are licked -into shape." - -Barrington meant what he said. Voice and countenance alike wore a -determined look, as if his words were law. Lots of the fellows, -attracted by the talking, had gathered round. Hearn, honest and -straightforward himself, did not altogether understand what evil might -be in store for him, and grew seriously frightened. - -The captain of the school walked up--John Whitney. "What is that you say -Hearn has to do?" he asked. - -"_He_ knows now," answered Barrington. "That's enough. They don't allow -servants here: I must have a fag in place of one." - -In turning his fascinated eyes from Barrington, Hearn saw Blair standing -by, our mathematical master--of whom you will hear more later. Blair -must have caught what passed: and little Hearn appealed to him. - -"Am I obliged to be his fag, sir?" - -Mr. Blair put us leisurely aside with his hands, and confronted the new -fellow. "Your name is Barrington, I think," he said. - -"Yes, it is," said Barrington, staring at him defiantly. - -"Allow me to tell you that 'fags' are not permitted here. The system -would not be tolerated by Dr. Frost for a moment. Each boy must wait on -himself, and be responsible for himself: seniors and juniors alike. You -are not at a public-school now, Barrington. In a day or two, when you -shall have learnt the customs and rules here, I dare say you will find -yourself quite sufficiently comfortable, and see that a fag would be an -unnecessary appendage." - -"Who is that man?" cried Barrington, as Blair turned away. - -"Mathematical master. Sees to us out of hours," answered Bill Whitney. - -"And what the devil did you mean by making a sneaking appeal to _him_?" -continued Barrington, seizing Hearn roughly. - -"I did not mean it for sneaking; but I could not do what you wanted," -said Hearn. "He had been listening to us." - -"I wish to goodness that confounded fool, Taptal, had been sunk in his -horse-pond before he put me to such a place as this," cried Barrington, -passionately. "As to you, you sneaking little devil, it seems I can't -make you do what I wanted, fags being forbidden fruit here, but it -shan't serve you much. There's to begin with." - -Hearn got a shake and a kick that sent him flying. Blair was back on the -instant. - -"Are you a coward, Mr. Barrington?" - -"A coward!" retorted Barrington, his eyes flashing. "You had better try -whether I am or not." - -"It seems to me that you act like one, in attacking a lad so much -younger and weaker than yourself. Don't let me have to report you to Dr. -Frost the first day of your arrival. Another thing--I must request you -to be a little more careful in your language. You have come amidst -gentlemen here, not blackguards." - -The matter ended here; but Barrington looked in a frightful rage. It -was unfortunate that it should have occurred the day he entered; but it -did so, word for word, as I have written it. It set some of us rather -against Barrington, and it set _him_ against Hearn. He didn't "lick him -into next week," but he gave him many a blow that the boy did nothing to -deserve. - -Barrington won his way, though, as the time went on. He had a liberal -supply of money, and was open-handed with it; and he would often do a -generous turn for one and another. The worst of him was his roughness. -At play he was always rough; and, when put out, savage as well. His -strength and activity were something remarkable; he would not have -minded hard blows himself, and he showered them out on others with no -more care than if we had been made of pumice-stone. - -It was Barrington who introduced the new system at football. We had -played it before in a rather mild way, speaking comparatively, but he -soon changed that. Dr. Frost got to know of it in time, and he appeared -amongst us one day when we were in the thick of it, and stopped the -game with a sweep of his hand. They play it at Rugby now very much as -Barrington made us play it then. The Doctor--standing with his face -unusually red, and his shirt and necktie unusually white, and his -knee-buckles gleaming--asked whether we were a pack of cannibals, that -we should kick at one another in that dangerous manner. If we ever -attempted it again, he said, football should be stopped. - -So we went back to the old way. But we had tried the new, you see: and -the consequence was that a great deal of rough play would creep into it -now and again. Barrington led it on. No cannibal (as old Frost put it) -could have been more carelessly furious at it than he. To see him with -his sallow face in a heat, his keen black eyes flashing, his hat off, -and his straight hair flung back, was not the pleasantest sight to my -mind. Snepp said one day that he looked just like the devil at these -times. Wolfe Barrington overheard him, and kicked him right over the -hillock. I don't think he was ill-intentioned; but his strong frame -had been untamed; it required a vent for its superfluous strength: his -animal spirits led him away, and he had never been taught to put a curb -on himself or his inclinations. One thing was certain--that the name, -Wolfe, for such a nature as his, was singularly appropriate. Some of -us told him so. He laughed in answer; never saying that it was only -shortened from Wolfrey, his real name, as we learnt later. He could be -as good a fellow and comrade as any of them when he chose, and on the -whole we liked him a great deal better than we had thought we should at -first. - -As to his animosity against little Hearn, it was wearing off. The lad -was too young to retaliate, and Barrington grew tired of knocking him -about: perhaps a little ashamed of it when there was no return. In a -twelvemonth's time it had quite subsided, and, to the surprise of many -of us, Barrington, coming back from a visit to old Taptal, his guardian, -brought Hearn a handsome knife with three blades as a present. - -And so it would have gone on but for an unfortunate occurrence. I shall -always say and think so. But for that, it might have been peace between -them to the end. Barrington, who was defiantly independent, had betaken -himself to Evesham, one half-holiday, without leave. He walked straight -into some mischief there, and broke a street boy's head. Dr. Frost was -appealed to by the boy's father, and of course there was a row. The -Doctor forbade Barrington ever to stir beyond bounds again without first -obtaining permission; and Blair had orders that for a fortnight to come -Barrington was to be confined to the playground in after-hours. - -Very good. A day or two after that--on the next Saturday afternoon--the -school went to a cricket-match; Doctor, masters, boys, and all; -Barrington only being left behind. - -Was he one to stand this? No. He coolly walked away to the high-road, -saw a public conveyance passing, hailed it, mounted it, and was carried -to Evesham. There he disported himself for an hour or so, visited the -chief fruit and tart shops; and then chartered a gig to bring him back -to within half-a-mile of the school. - -The cricket-match was not over when he got in, for it lasted up to the -twilight of the summer evening, and no one would have known of the -escapade but for one miserable misfortune--Archie Hearn happened to have -gone that afternoon to Evesham with his mother. They were passing along -the street, and he saw Barrington amidst the sweets. - -"There's Wolfe Barrington!" said Archie, in the surprise of the moment, -and would have halted at the tart-shop; but Mrs. Hearn, who was in a -hurry, did not stop. On the Monday, she brought Archie back to school: -he had been at home, sick, for more than a week, and knew nothing of -Barrington's punishment. Archie came amongst us at once, but Mrs. Hearn -stayed to take tea with her sister and Dr. Frost. Without the slightest -intention of making mischief, quite unaware that she was doing -so, Mrs. Hearn mentioned incidentally that they had seen one of the -boys--Barrington--at Evesham on the Saturday. Dr. Frost pricked up his -ears at the news; not believing it, however: but Mrs. Hearn said yes, -for Archie had seen him eating tarts at the confectioner's. The Doctor -finished his tea, went to his study, and sent for Barrington. Barrington -denied it. He was not in the habit of telling lies, was too fearless of -consequences to do anything of the sort; but he denied it now to the -Doctor's face; perhaps he began to think he might have gone a little too -far. Dr. Frost rang the bell and ordered Archie Hearn in. - -"Which shop was Barrington in when you saw him on Saturday?" questioned -the Doctor. - -"The pastrycook's," said Archie, innocently. - -"What was he doing?" blandly went on the Doctor. - -"Oh! no harm, sir; only eating tarts," Archie hastened to say. - -Well--it all came out then, and though Archie was quite innocent of -wilfully telling tales; would have cut out his tongue rather than have -said a word to injure Barrington, he received the credit of it now. -Barrington took his punishment without a word; the hardest caning old -Frost had given for many a long day, and heaps of work besides, and a -promise of certain expulsion if he ever again went off surreptitiously -in coaches and gigs. But Barrington thrashed Hearn worse when it was -over, and branded him with the name of Sneak. - -"He will never believe otherwise," said Archie, the tears of pain and -mortification running down his cheeks, fresh and delicate as a girl's. -"But I'd give the world not to have gone that afternoon to Evesham." - -A week or two later we went in for a turn at "Hare and Hounds." -Barrington's term of punishment was over then. Snepp was the hare; a -fleet, wiry fellow who could outrun most of us. But the hare this time -came to grief. After doubling and turning, as Snepp used to like to do, -thinking to throw us off the scent, he sprained his foot, trying to leap -a hedge and dry ditch beyond it. We were on his trail, whooping and -halloaing like mad; he kept quiet, and we passed on and never saw him. -But there was no more scent to be seen, and we found we had lost it, and -went back. Snepp showed up then, and the sport was over for the day. -Some went home one way, and some another; all of us were as hot as fire, -and thirsting for water. - -"If you'll turn down here by the great oak-tree, we shall come to my -mother's house, and you can have as much water as you like," said little -Hearn, in his good-nature. - -So we turned down. There were only six or seven of us, for Snepp and his -damaged foot made one, and most of them had gone on at a quicker pace. -Tod helped Snepp on one side, Barrington on the other, and he limped -along between them. - -It was a narrow red-brick house, a parlour window on each side the -door, and three windows above; small altogether, but very pretty, with -jessamine and clematis climbing up the walls. Archie Hearn opened the -door, and we trooped in, without regard to ceremony. Mrs. Hearn--she -had the same delicate face as Archie, the same pink colour and bright -brown eyes--came out of the kitchen to stare at us. As well she might. -Her cotton sleeves were turned up to the elbows, her fingers were -stained red, and she had a coarse kitchen cloth pinned round her. She -was pressing black currants for jelly. - -We had plenty of water, and Mrs. Hearn made Snepp sit down, and looked -at his foot, and put a wet bandage round it, kneeling before him to do -it. I thought I had never seen so nice a face as hers; very placid, with -a sort of sad look in it. Old Betty, that Hearn used to talk about, -appeared in a short blue petticoat and a kind of brown print jacket. I -have seen the homely servants in France, since, dressed very similarly. -Snepp thanked Mrs. Hearn for giving his foot relief, and we took off our -hats to her as we went away. - -The same night, before Blair called us in for prayers, Archie Hearn -heard Barrington giving a sneering account of the visit to some of the -fellows in the playground. - -"Just like a cook, you know. Might be taken for one. Some coarse bunting -tied round her waist, and hands steeped in red kitchen stuff." - -"My mother could never be taken for anything but a lady," spoke up -Archie bravely. "A lady may make jelly. A great many ladies prefer to do -it themselves." - -"Now you be off," cried Barrington, turning sharply on him. "Keep at a -distance from your betters." - -"There's nobody in the world better than my mother," returned the boy, -standing his ground, and flushing painfully: for, in truth, the small -way they were obliged to live in, through Chancery retaining the -property, made a sore place in a corner of Archie's heart. "Ask Joseph -Todhetley what he thinks of her. Ask John Whitney. _They_ recognize her -for a lady." - -"But then they are gentlemen themselves." - -It was I who put that in. I couldn't help having a fling at Barrington. -A bit of applause followed, and stung him. - -"If you shove in your oar, Johnny Ludlow, or presume to interfere with -me, I'll pummel you to powder. There." - -Barrington kicked out on all sides, sending us backward. The bell rang -for prayers then, and we had to go in. - -The game the next evening was football. We went out to it as soon as tea -was over, to the field by the river towards Vale Farm. I can't tell much -about its progress, except that the play seemed rougher and louder than -usual. Once there was a regular skirmish: scores of feet kicking out at -once; great struggling, pushing and shouting: and when the ball got off, -and the tail after it in full hue and cry, one was left behind lying on -the ground. - -I don't know why I turned my head back; it was the merest chance that I -did so: and I saw Tod kneeling on the grass, raising the boy's head. - -"Holloa!" said I, running back. "Anything wrong? Who is it?" - -It was little Hearn. He had his eyes shut. Tod did not speak. - -"What's the matter, Tod? Is he hurt?" - -"Well, I think he's hurt a little," was Tod's answer. "He has had a kick -here." - -Tod touched the left temple with his finger, drawing it down as far as -the back of the ear. It must have been a good wide kick, I thought. - -"It has stunned him, poor little fellow. Can you get some water from the -river, Johnny?" - -"I could if I had anything to bring it in. It would leak out of my straw -hat long before I got here." - -But little Hearn made a move then, and opened his eyes. Presently he sat -up, putting his hands to his head. Tod was as tender with him as a -mother. - -"How do you feel, Archie?" - -"Oh, I'm all right, I think. A bit giddy." - -Getting on to his feet, he looked from me to Tod in a bewildered manner. -I thought it odd. He said he wouldn't join the game again, but go in and -rest. Tod went with him, ordering me to keep with the players. Hearn -walked all right, and did not seem to be much the worse for it. - -"What's the matter now?" asked Mrs. Hall, in her cranky way; for she -happened to be in the yard when they entered, Tod marshalling little -Hearn by the arm. - -"He has had a blow at football," answered Tod. "Here"--indicating the -place he had shown me. - -"A kick, I suppose you mean," said Mother Hall. - -"Yes, if you like to call it so. It was a blow with a foot." - -"Did you do it, Master Todhetley?" - -"No, I did not," retorted Tod. - -"I wonder the Doctor allows that football to be played!" she went on, -grumbling. "I wouldn't, if I kept a school; I know that. It is a -barbarous game, only fit for bears." - -"I am all right," put in Hearn. "I needn't have come in, but for feeling -giddy." - -But he was not quite right yet. For without the slightest warning, -before he had time to stir from where he stood, he became frightfully -sick. Hall ran for a basin and some warm water. Tod held his head. - -"This is through having gobbled down your tea in such a mortal hurry, -to be off to that precious football," decided Hall, resentfully. "The -wonder is, that the whole crew of you are not sick, swallowing your food -at the rate you do." - -"I think I'll lie on the bed for a bit," said Archie, when the sickness -had passed. "I shall be up again by supper-time." - -They went with him to his room. Neither of them had the slightest notion -that he was seriously hurt, or that there could be any danger. Archie -took off his jacket, and lay down in his clothes. Mrs. Hall offered to -bring him up a cup of tea; but he said it might make him sick again, and -he'd rather be quiet. She went down, and Tod sat on the edge of the bed. -Archie shut his eyes, and kept still. Tod thought he was dropping off to -sleep, and began to creep out of the room. The eyes opened then, and -Archie called to him. - -"Todhetley?" - -"I am here, old fellow. What is it?" - -"You'll tell him I forgive him," said Archie, speaking in an earnest -whisper. "Tell him I know he didn't think to hurt me." - -"Oh, I'll tell him," answered Tod, lightly. - -"And be sure give my dear love to mamma." - -"So I will." - -"And now I'll go to sleep, or I shan't be down to supper. You will come -and call me if I am not, won't you?" - -"All right," said Tod, tucking the counterpane about him. "Are you -comfortable, Archie?" - -"Quite. Thank you." - -Tod came on to the field again, and joined the game. It was a little -less rough, and there were no more mishaps. We got home later than -usual, and supper stood on the table. - -The suppers at Worcester House were always the same--bread and cheese. -And not too much of it. Half a round off the loaf, with a piece of -cheese, for each fellow; and a drop of beer or water. Our other meals -were good and abundant; but the Doctor waged war with heavy suppers. If -old Hall had had her way, we should have had none at all. Little Hearn -did not appear; and Tod went up to look after him. I followed. - -Opening the door without noise, we stood listening and looking. Not that -there was much good in looking, for the room was in darkness. - -"Archie," whispered Tod. - -No answer. No sound. - -"Are you asleep, old fellow?" - -Not a word still. The dead might be there; for all the sound there was. - -"He's asleep, for certain," said Tod, groping his way towards the bed. -"So much the better, poor little chap. I won't wake him." - -It was a small room, two beds in it; Archie's was the one at the end by -the wall. Tod groped his way to it: and, in thinking of it afterwards, I -wondered that Tod did go up to him. The most natural thing would have -been to come away, and shut the door. Instinct must have guided him--as -it guides us all. Tod bent over him, touching his face, I think. I stood -close behind. Now that our eyes were accustomed to the darkness, it -seemed a bit lighter. - -Something like a cry from Tod made me start. In the dark, and holding -the breath, one is easily startled. - -"Get a light, Johnny. A light!-quick! for the love of Heaven." - -I believe I leaped the stairs at a bound. I believe I knocked over -Mother Hall at the foot. I know I snatched the candle that was in her -hand, and she screamed after me as if I had murdered her. - -"Here it is, Tod." - -He was at the door waiting for it, every atom of colour gone clean out -of his face. Carrying it to the bed, he let its light fall full on -Archie Hearn. The face was white and cold; the mouth covered with froth. - -"Oh, Tod! What is it that's the matter with him?" - -"Hush', Johnny! I fear he's dying. Good Lord! to think we should have -been such ignorant fools as to leave him by himself!--as not have sent -for Featherstone!" - -We were down again in a moment. Hall stood scolding still, demanding her -candle. Tod said a word that silenced her. She backed against the wall. - -"Don't play your tricks on me, Mr. Todhetley." - -"Go and see," said Tod. - -She took the light from his hand quietly, and went up. Just then, the -Doctor and Mrs. Frost, who had been walking all the way home from Sir -John Whitney's, where they had spent the evening, came in, and learnt -what had happened. - -Featherstone was there in no time, so to say, and shut himself into the -bedroom with the Doctor and Mrs. Frost and Hall, and I don't know how -many more. Nothing could be done for Archibald Hearn: he was not quite -dead, but close upon it. He was dead before any one thought of sending -to Mrs. Hearn. It came to the same. Could she have come upon telegraph -wires, she would still have come too late. - -When I look back upon that evening--and a good many years have gone by -since then--nothing arises in my mind but a picture of confusion, tinged -with a feeling of terrible sorrow; ay, and of horror. If a death happens -in a school, it is generally kept from the pupils, as far as possible; -at any rate they are not allowed to see any of its attendant stir and -details. But this was different. Upon masters and boys, upon mistress -and household, it came with the same startling shock. Dr. Frost said -feebly that the boys ought to go up to bed, and then Blair told us to -go; but the boys stayed on where they were. Hanging about the passages, -stealing upstairs and peeping into the room, questioning Featherstone -(when we could get the chance of coming upon him), as to whether Hearn -would get well or not. No one checked us. - -I went in once. Mrs. Frost was alone, kneeling by the bed; I thought she -must have been saying a prayer. Just then she lifted her head to look at -him. As I backed away again, she began to speak aloud--and oh! what a -sad tone she said it in! - -"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow!" - -There had to be an inquest. It did not come to much. The most that could -be said was that he died from a kick at football. "A most unfortunate -but an accidental kick," quoth the coroner. Tod had said that he saw the -kick given: that is, had seen some foot come flat down with a bang on -the side of little Hearn's head; and when Tod was asked if he recognized -the foot, he replied No: boots looked very much alike, and a great many -were thrust out in the skirmish, all kicking together. - -Not one would own to having given it. For the matter of that, the fellow -might not have been conscious of what he did. No end of thoughts glanced -towards Barrington: both because he was so ferocious at the game, and -that he had a spite against Hearn. - -"I never touched him," said Barrington, when this leaked out; and his -face and voice were boldly defiant. "It wasn't me. I never so much as -saw that Hearn was down." - -And as there were others quite as brutal at football as Barrington, he -was believed. - -We could not get over it any way. It seemed so dreadful that he should -have been left alone to die. Hall was chiefly to blame for that; and it -cowed her. - -"Look here," said Tod to us, "I have a message for one of you. Whichever -the cap fits may take it to himself. When Hearn was dying he told me to -say that he forgave the fellow who kicked him." - -This was the evening of the inquest-day. We had all gathered in the -porch by the stone bench, and Tod took the opportunity to relate what -he had not related before. He repeated every word that Hearn had said. - -"Did Hearn know who it was, then?" asked John Whitney. - -"I think so." - -"Then why didn't you ask him to name him!" - -"Why didn't I ask him to name him," repeated Tod, in a fume. "Do you -suppose I thought he was going to die, Whitney?--or that the kick was to -turn out a serious one? Hearn was growing big enough to fight his own -battles: and I never thought but he would be up again at supper-time." - -John Whitney pushed his hair back, in his quiet, thoughtful way, and -said no more. He was to die, himself, the following year--but that has -nothing to do with the present matter. - -I was standing away at the gate after this, looking at the sunset, when -Tod came up and put his arms on the top bar. - -"What are you gazing at, Johnny?" - -"At the sunset. How red it is! I was thinking that if Hearn's up there -now he is better off. It is very beautiful." - -"I should not like to have been the one to send him there, though," was -Tod's answer. "Johnny, I am certain Hearn knew who it was," he went on -in a low tone. "I am certain he thought the fellow, himself, knew, and -that it had been done for the purpose. I think I know also." - -"Tell us," I said. And Tod glanced over his shoulders, to make sure no -one was within hearing before he replied. - -"Wolfe Barrington." - -"Why don't you accuse him, Tod?" - -"It wouldn't do. And I am not absolutely sure. What I saw, was this. In -the rush, one of them fell: I saw his head lying on the ground. Before I -could shout out to the fellows to take care, a boot with a grey trouser -over it came stamping down (not kicking) on the side of the head. If -ever anything was done deliberately, that stamp seemed to be; it could -hardly have been chance. I know no more than that: it all passed in a -moment. I didn't _see_ that it was Barrington. But--what other fellow is -there among us who would have wilfully harmed little Hearn? It is that -thought that brings conviction to me." - -I looked round to where a lot of them stood at a distance. "Wolfe has -got on grey trousers, too." - -"That does not tell much," returned Tod. "Half of us wear the same. -Yours are grey; mine are grey. It's just this: While I am convinced in -my own mind that it was Barrington, there's no sort of proof that it was -so, and he denies it. So it must rest, and die away. Keep counsel, -Johnny." - -The funeral took place from the school. All of us went to it. In the -evening, Mrs. Hearn, who had been staying at the house, surprised us by -coming into the tea-room. She looked very small in her black gown. Her -thin cheeks were more flushed than usual, and her eyes had a great -sadness in them. - -"I wished to say good-bye to you; and to shake hands with you before I -go home," she began, in a kind tone, and we all got up from the table to -face her. - -"I thought you would like me to tell you that I feel sure it must have -been an accident; that no harm was intended. My dear little son said -this to Joseph Todhetley when he was dying--and I fancy that some -prevision of death must have lain then upon his spirit and caused him to -say it, though he himself might not have been quite conscious of it. He -died in love and peace with all; and, if he had anything to forgive--he -forgave freely. I wish to let you know that I do the same. Only try to -be a little less rough at play--and God bless you all. Will you shake -hands with me?" - -John Whitney, a true gentleman always, went up to her first, meeting her -offered hand. - -"If it had been anything but an accident, Mrs. Hearn," he began in -tones of deep feeling: "if any one of us had done it wilfully, I think, -standing to hear you now, we should shrink to the earth in our shame and -contrition. You cannot regret Archibald much more than we do." - -"In the midst of my grief, I know one thing: that God has taken him from -a world of care to peace and happiness; I try to _rest_ in that. Thank -you all. Good-bye." - -Catching her breath, she shook hands with us one by one, giving each a -smile; but did not say more. - -And the only one of us who did not feel her visit as it was intended, -was Barrington. But he had no feeling: his body was too strong for it, -his temper too fierce. He would have thrown a sneer of ridicule after -her, but Whitney hissed it down. - -Before another day had gone over, Barrington and Tod had a row. It was -about a crib. Tod could be as overbearing as Barrington when he pleased, -and he was cherishing ill-feeling towards him. They went and had it out -in private--but it did not come to a fight. Tod was not one to keep -in matters till they rankled, and he openly told Barrington that he -believed it was he who had caused Hearn's death. Barrington denied it -out-and-out; first of all swearing passionately that he had not, and -then calming down to talk about it quietly. Tod felt less sure of it -after that: as he confided to me in the bedroom. - -Dr. Frost forbid football. And the time went on. - - * * * * * - -What I have further to relate may be thought a made-up story, such as we -find in fiction. It is so very like a case of retribution. But it is all -true, and happened as I shall put it. And somehow I never care to dwell -long upon the calamity. - -It was as nearly as possible a year after Hearn died. Jessup was captain -of the school, for John Whitney was too ill to come. Jessup was almost -as rebellious as Wolfe; and the two would ridicule Blair, and call him -"Baked pie" to his face. One morning, when they had given no end of -trouble to old Frost over their Greek, and laid the blame upon the hot -weather, the Doctor said he had a great mind to keep them in until -dinner-time. However, they ate humble-pie, and were allowed to escape. -Blair was taking us for a walk. Instead of keeping with the ranks, -Barrington and Jessup fell out, and sat down on the gate of a field -where the wheat was being carried. Blair said they might sit there if -they pleased, but forbid them to cross the gate. Indeed, there was a -standing interdiction against our entering any field whilst the crops -were being gathered. We went on and left them. - -Half-an-hour afterwards, before we got back, Barrington had been carried -home, dying. - -Dying, as was supposed. He and Jessup had disobeyed Blair, disregarded -orders, and rushed into the field, shouting and leaping like a couple of -mad fellows--as the labourers afterwards said. Making for the waggon, -laden high with wheat, they mounted it, and started on the horses. In -some way, Barrington lost his balance, slipped over the side and the -hind wheel went over him. - -I shall never forget the house when we got back. Jessup, in his terror, -had made off for his home, running most of the way--seven miles. He was -in the same boat as Wolfe, except that he escaped injury--had gone over -the stile in defiance of orders, and got on the waggon. Barrington was -lying in the blue-room; and Mrs. Frost, frightened out of bed, stood on -the landing in her night-cap, a shawl wrapped round her loose white -dressing-gown. She was ill at the time. Featherstone came striding up -the road wiping his hot face. - -"Lord bless me!" cried Featherstone when he had looked at Wolfe and -touched him. "I can't deal with this single-handed, Dr. Frost." - -The doctor had guessed that. And Roger was already away on a galloping -horse, flying for another. He brought little Pink: a shrimp of a -man, with a fair reputation in his profession. But the two were more -accustomed to treating rustic ailments than grave cases, and Dr. Frost -knew that. Evening drew on, and the dusk was gathering, when a carriage -with post-horses came thundering in at the front gates, bringing Mr. -Carden. - -They did not give to us boys the particulars of the injuries; and -I don't know them to this day. The spine was hurt; the right ankle -smashed: we heard that much. Taptal, Barrington's guardian, came over, -and an uncle from London. Altogether it was a miserable time. The -masters seized upon it to be doubly stern, and read us lectures upon -disobedience and rebellion--as though we had been the offenders! As to -Jessup, his father handed him back again to Dr. Frost, saying that in -his opinion a taste of birch would much conduce to his benefit. - -Barrington did not seem to suffer as keenly as some might have done; -perhaps his spirits kept him up, for they were untamed. On the very day -after the accident, he asked for some of the fellows to go in and sit -with him, because he was dull. "By-and-by," the doctors said. And the -next day but one, Dr. Frost sent me in. The paid nurse sat at the end of -the room. - -"Oh, it's you, is it, Ludlow! Where's Jessup?" - -"Jessup's under punishment." - -His face looked the same as ever, and that was all that could be seen of -him. He lay on his back, covered over. As to the low bed, it might have -been a board, to judge by its flatness. And perhaps was so. - -"I am very sorry about it, Barrington. We all are. Are you in much -pain?" - -"Oh, I don't know," was his impatient answer. "One has to grin and bear -it. The cursed idiots had stacked the wheat sloping to the sides, or it -would never have happened. What do you hear about me?" - -"Nothing but regret that it----" - -"I don't mean that stuff. Regret, indeed! regret won't undo it. I mean -as to my getting about again. Will it be ages first?" - -"We don't hear a word." - -"If they were to keep me here a month, Ludlow, I should go mad. Rampant. -You shut up, old woman." - -For the nurse had interfered, telling him he must not excite himself. - -"My ankle's hurt; but I believe it is not half as bad as a regular -fracture: and my back's bruised. Well, what's a bruise? Nothing. Of -course there's pain and stiffness, and all that; but so there is after -a bad fight, or a thrashing. And they talk about my lying here for -three or four weeks! Catch me." - -One thing was evident: they had not allowed Wolfe to suspect the gravity -of the case. Downstairs we had an inkling, I don't remember whence -gathered, that it might possibly end in death. There was a suspicion of -some internal injury that we could not get to know of; and it is said -that even Mr. Carden, with all his surgical skill, could not get at it, -either. Any way, the prospect of recovery for Barrington was supposed to -be of the scantiest; and it threw a gloom over us. - -A sad mishap was to occur. Of course no one in their senses would -have let Barrington learn the danger he was in; especially while there -was just a chance that the peril would be surmounted. I read a book -lately--I, Johnny Ludlow--where a little child met with an accident; and -the first thing the people around him did, father, doctors, nurses, was -to inform him that he would be a cripple for the rest of his days. That -was common sense with a vengeance: and about as likely to occur in real -life as that I could turn myself into a Dutchman. However, something of -the kind did happen in Barrington's case, but through inadvertence. -Another uncle came over from Ireland; an old man; and in talking with -Featherstone he spoke out too freely. They were outside Barrington's -door, and besides that, supposed that he was asleep. But he had awakened -then; and heard more than he ought. The blue-room always seemed to have -an echo in it. - -"So it's all up with me, Ludlow?" - -I was by his bedside when he suddenly said this, in the twilight of the -summer evening. He had been lying quite silent since I entered, and his -face had a white, still look on it, never before noticed there. - -"What do you mean, Barrington?" - -"None of your shamming here. I know; and so do you, Johnny Ludlow. I -say, though it makes one feel queer to find the world's slipping away. -I had looked for so much jolly _life_ in it." - -"Barrington, you may get well yet; you may, indeed. Ask Pink and -Featherstone, else, when they next come; ask Mr. Carden. I can't think -what idea you have been getting hold of." - -"There, that's enough," he answered. "Don't bother. I want to be quiet." - -He shut his eyes; and the darkness grew as the minutes passed. -Presently some one came into the room with a gentle step: a lady in a -black-and-white gown that didn't rustle. It was Mrs. Hearn. Barrington -looked up at her. - -"I am going to stay with you for a day or two," she said in a low sweet -voice, bending over him and touching his forehead with her cool fingers. -"I hear you have taken a dislike to the nurse: and Mrs. Frost is really -too weakly just now to get about." - -"She's a sly cat," said Barrington, alluding to the nurse, "and watches -me out of the tail of her eye. Hall's as bad. They are in league -together." - -"Well, they shall not come in more than I can help. I will nurse you -myself." - -"No; not you," said Barrington, his face looking red and uneasy. "I'll -not trouble _you_." - -She sat down in my chair, just pressing my hand in token of greeting. -And I left them. - -In the ensuing days his life trembled in the balance; and even when part -of the more immediate danger was surmounted, part of the worst of the -pain, it was still a toss-up. Barrington had no hope whatever: I don't -think Mrs. Hearn had, either. - -She hardly left him. At first he seemed to resent her presence; to wish -her away; to receive unwillingly what she did for him; but, in spite of -himself he grew to look round for her, and to let his hand lie in hers -whenever she chose to take it. - -Who can tell what she said to him? Who can know how she softly and -gradually awoke the better feelings within him, and won his heart from -its hardness? She did do it, and that's enough. The way was paved for -her. What the accident had not done, the fear of death had. Tamed him. - -One evening when the sun had sunk, leaving only a fading light in -the western sky, and Barrington had been watching it from his bed, he -suddenly burst into tears. Mrs. Hearn busy amongst the physic bottles, -was by his side in a moment. - -"Wolfe!" - -"It's very hard to have to die." - -"Hush, my dear, you are not worse: a little better. I think you may be -spared; I do indeed. And--in any case--you know what I read to you this -evening: that to die is gain." - -"Yes, for some. I've never had my thoughts turned that way." - -"They are turned now. That is quite enough." - -"It is such a little while to have lived," went on Barrington, after a -pause. "Such a little while to have enjoyed earth. What are my few years -compared with the ages that have gone by, with the ages and ages that -are to come. Nothing. Not as much as a drop of water to the ocean." - -"Wolfe, dear, if you live out the allotted years of man, three score -and ten, what would even that be in comparison? As you say--nothing. It -seems to me that our well-being or ill-being here need not much concern -us: the days, whether short or long, will pass as a dream. Eternal life -lasts for ever; soon we must all be departing for it." - -Wolfe made no answer. The clear sky was assuming its pale tints, shading -off one into another, and his eyes were looking at them. But it was as -if he saw nothing. - -"Listen, my dear. When Archibald died, _I_ thought I should have died; -died of grief and pain. I grieved to think how short had been his span -of life on this fair earth; how cruel his fate in being taken from it -so early. But, oh, Wolfe, God has shown me my mistake. I would not have -him back again if I could." - -Wolfe put up his hand to cover his face. Not a word spoke he. - -"I wish you could see things as I see them, now that they have been -cleared for me," she resumed. "It is so much better to be in heaven than -on earth. We, who are here, have to battle with cares and crosses; and -shall have to do so to the end. Archie has thrown-off all care. He is in -happiness amidst the redeemed." - -The room was growing dark. Wolfe's face was one of intense pain. - -"Wolfe, dear, do not mistake me; do not think me hard if I say that you -would be happier there than here. There is nothing to dread, dying in -Christ. Believe me, I would not for the world have Archie back again: -how could I then make sure what the eventual ending would be? You and he -will know each other up there." - -"Don't," said Wolfe. - -"Don't what?" - -Wolfe drew her hand close to his face, and she knelt down to catch his -whisper. - -"I killed him." - -A pause: and a sort of sob in her throat. Then, drawing away her hand, -she laid her cheek to his. - -"My dear, I think I have known it." - -"You--have--known--it?" stammered Wolfe in disbelief. - -"Yes. I thought it was likely. I felt nearly sure of it. Don't let it -trouble you now. Archie forgave, you know, and I forgave; and God will -forgive." - -"How could you come here to nurse me--knowing that?" - -"It made me the more anxious to come. You have no mother." - -"No." Wolfe was sobbing bitterly. "She died when I was born. I've never -had anybody. I've never had a chapter read to me, or a prayer prayed." - -"No, no, dear. And Archie--oh, Archie had all that. From the time he -could speak, I tried to train him for heaven. It has seemed to me, -since, just as though I had foreseen he would go early, and was -preparing him for it." - -"I never meant to kill him," sobbed Wolfe. "I saw his head down, and I -put my foot upon it without a moment's thought. If I had taken thought, -or known it would hurt him seriously, I wouldn't have done it." - -"He is better off, dear," was all she said. "You have that comfort." - -"Any way, I am paid out for it. At the best, I suppose I shall go upon -crutches for life. That's bad enough: but dying's worse. Mrs. Hearn, I -am not ready to die." - -"Be you very sure God will not take you until you are ready, if you only -wish and hope to be made so from your very heart," she whispered. "I -pray to Him often for you, Wolfe." - -"I think you must be one of heaven's angels," said Wolfe, with a burst -of emotion. - -"No, dear; only a weak woman. I have had so much sorrow and care, -trial upon trial, one disappointment after another, that it has left me -nothing but Heaven to lean upon. Wolfe, I am trying to show you a little -bit of the way there; and I think--I do indeed--that this accident, -which seems, and is, so dreadful, may have been sent by God in mercy. -Perhaps, else, you might never have found Him: and where would you have -been in all that long, long eternity? A few years here; never-ending -ages hereafter!--Oh, Wolfe! bear up bravely for the little span, even -though the cross may be heavy. Fight on manfully for the real life to -come." - -"If you will help me." - -"To be sure I will." - - * * * * * - -Wolfe got about again, and came out upon crutches. After a while they -were discarded, first one, then the other, and he took permanently to a -stick. He would never go without that. He would never run or leap again, -or kick much either. The doctors looked upon it as a wonderful cure--and -old Featherstone was apt to talk to us boys as if it were he who had -pulled him through. But not in Henry Carden's hearing. - -The uncles and Taptal said he would be better now at a private tutor's. -But Wolfe would not leave Dr. Frost's. A low pony-carriage was bought -for him, and all his spare time he would go driving over to Mrs. -Hearn's. He was as a son to her. His great animal spirits had been -taken out of him, you see; and he had to find his happiness in quieter -grooves. One Saturday afternoon he drove me over. Mrs. Hearn had asked -me to stay with her until the Monday morning. Barrington generally -stayed. - -It was in November. Considerably more than a year after the accident. -The guns of the sportsmen were heard in the wood; a pack of hounds and -their huntsmen rode past the cottage at a gallop, in full chase after a -late find. Barrington looked and listened, a sigh escaping him. - -"These pleasures are barred to me now." - -"But a better one has been opened to you," said Mrs. Hearn, with a -meaning smile, as she took his hand in hers. - -And on Wolfe's face, when he glanced at her in answer, there sat a look -of satisfied rest that I am sure had never been seen on it before he -fell off the waggon. - - - - -IV. - -MAJOR PARRIFER. - - -He was one of the worst magistrates that ever sat upon the bench of -justices. Strangers were given to wonder how he got his commission. But, -you see, men are fit or unfit for a post according to their doings in -it; and, generally speaking, people cannot tell what those doings will -be beforehand. - -They called him Major: Major Parrifer: but he only held rank in a -militia regiment, and every one knows what that is. He had bought the -place he lived in some years before, and christened it Parrifer Hall. -The worst title he could have hit upon; seeing that the good old Hall, -with a good old family in it, was only a mile or two distant. Parrifer -Hall was only a stone's throw, so to say, beyond our village, Church -Dykely. - -They lived at a high rate; money was not wanting; the Major, his wife, -six daughters, and a son who did not come home very much. Mrs. Parrifer -was stuck-up: it is one of our county sayings, and it applied to her. -When she called on people her silk gowns rustled as if lined with -buckram; her voice was loud, her manner patronizing; the Major's voice -and manner were the same; and the girls took after them. - -Close by, at the corner of Piefinch Lane, was a cottage that belonged -to me. To me, Johnny Ludlow. Not that I had as yet control over that -or any other cottage I might possess. George Reed rented the cottage. -It stood in a good large garden which touched Major Parrifer's side -fence. On the other side the garden, a high hedge divided it from the -lane: but it had only a low hedge in front, with a low gate in the -middle. Trim, well-kept hedges: George Reed took care of that. - -There was quite a history attaching to him. His father had been indoor -servant at the Court. When he married and left it, my grandfather gave -him a lease of this cottage, renewable every seven years. George was -the only son, had been very decently educated, but turned out wild -when he grew up and got out of everything. The result was, that he was -only a day-labourer, and never likely to be anything else. He took to -the cottage after old Reed's death, and worked for Mr. Sterling; who -had the Court now. George Reed was generally civil, but uncommonly -independent. His first wife had died, leaving a daughter, Cathy; later -on he married again. Reed's wild oats had been sown years ago; he was -thoroughly well-conducted and industrious now, working in his own garden -early and late. - -When Cathy's mother died, she was taken to by an aunt, who lived near -Worcester. At fifteen she came home again, for the aunt had died. Her -ten years' training there had done very little for her, except make her -into a pretty girl. Cathy had been trained to idleness, but to very -little else. She could sing; self-taught of course; she could embroider -handkerchiefs and frills; she could write a tolerable letter without -many mistakes, and was great at reading, especially when the literature -was of the halfpenny kind issued weekly. These acquirements (except the -last) were not bad things in themselves, but quite unsuited to Cathy -Reed's condition and her future prospects in life. The best that she -could aspire to, the best her father expected for her, was that of -entering on a light respectable service, and later to become, perhaps, -a labourer's wife. - -The second Mrs. Reed, a quiet kind of young woman, had one little girl -only when Cathy came home. She was almost struck dumb when she found -what had been Cathy's acquirements in the way of usefulness; or rather -what were her deficiencies. The facts unfolded themselves by degrees. - -"Your father thinks he'd like you to get a service with some of the -gentlefolks, Cathy," her step-mother said to her. "Perhaps at the -Court, if they could make room for you; or over at Squire Todhetley's. -Meanwhile you'll help me with the work at home for a few weeks first; -won't you, dear? When another little one comes, there'll be a good deal -on my hands." - -"Oh, I'll help," answered Cathy, who was a good-natured, ready-speaking -girl. - -"That's right. Can you wash?" - -"No," said Cathy, with a very decisive shake of the head. - -"Not wash?" - -"Oh dear, no." - -"Can you iron?" - -"Pocket-handkerchiefs." - -"Your aunt was a seamstress; can you sew well?" - -"I don't like sewing." - -Mrs. Reed looked at her, but said no more then, rather leaving practice -instead of theory to develop Cathy's capabilities. But when she came to -put her to the test, she found Cathy could not, or would not, do any -kind of useful work whatever. Cathy could not wash, iron, scour, cook, -or sweep; or even sew plain coarse things, such as are required in -labourers' families. Cathy could do several kinds of fancy-work. Cathy -could idle away her time at the glass, oiling her hair, and dressing -herself to the best advantage; Cathy had a smattering of history and -geography and chronology; and of polite literature, as comprised in the -pages of the aforesaid halfpenny and penny weekly romances. The aunt had -sent Cathy to a cheap day-school where such learning was supposed to be -taught: had let her run about when she ought to have been cooking and -washing; and of course Cathy had acquired a distaste for work. Mrs. Reed -sat down aghast, her hands falling helpless on her lap, a kind of fear -of what might be Cathy's future stealing into her heart. - -"Child, what is to become of you?" - -Cathy had no qualms upon the point herself. She gave a laughing kiss to -the little child, toddling round the room by the chairs, and took out of -her pocket one of those halfpenny serials, whose thrilling stories of -brigands and captive damsels she had learnt to make her chief delight. - -"I shall have to teach her everything," sighed disappointed Mrs. Reed. -"Catherine, I don't think the kind of useless things your aunt has -taught you are good for poor folk like us." - -Good! Mrs. Reed might have gone a little further. She began her -instruction, but Cathy would not learn. Cathy was always good-humoured; -but of work she would do none. If she attempted it, Mrs. Reed had to do -it over again. - -"Where on earth will the gentlefolks get their servants from, if the -girls are to be like you?" cried honest Mrs. Reed. - -Well, time went on; a year or two. Cathy Reed tried two or three -services, but did not keep them. Young Mrs. Sterling at the Court at -length took her. In three months Cathy was home again, as usual. "I do -not think Catherine will be kept anywhere," Mrs. Sterling said to her -step-mother. "When she ought to have been minding the baby, the nurse -would find her with a strip of embroidery in her hand, or buried in the -pages of some bad story that can only do her harm." - -Cathy was turned seventeen when the warfare set in between her father -and Major Parrifer. The Major suddenly cast his eyes on the little -cottage outside his own land and coveted it. Before this, young Parrifer -(a harmless young man, with no whiskers, and sandy hair parted down the -middle) had struck up an acquaintance with Cathy. When he left Oxford -(where he got plucked twice, and at length took his name off the books) -he would often be seen leaning over the cottage-gate, talking to Cathy -in the garden, with the two little half-sisters that she pretended to -mind. There was no harm: but perhaps Major Parrifer feared it might -grow into it; and he badly wanted the plot of ground, that he might pull -down the cottage and extend his own boundaries to Piefinch Lane. - -One fine day in the holidays, when Tod and I were indoors making flies -for fishing, our old servant, Thomas, appeared, and said that George -Reed had come over and wanted to speak to me. Which set us wondering. -What could he want with me? - -"Show him in here," said Tod. - -Reed came in: a tall, powerful man of forty; with dark, curling hair, -and a determined, good-looking face. He began saying that he had heard -Major Parrifer was after his cottage, wanting to buy it; so he had come -over to beg me to interfere and stop the sale. - -"Why, Reed, what can I do?" I asked. "You know I have no power." - -"You wouldn't turn me out of it yourself, I know, sir." - -"That I wouldn't." - -Neither would I. I liked George Reed. And I remembered that he used to -have me in his arms sometimes when I was a little fellow at the Court. -Once he carried me to my mother's grave in the churchyard, and told me -she had gone to live in heaven. - -"When a rich gentleman sets his mind on a poor man's bit of a cottage, -and says, 'That shall be mine,' the poor man has not much chance against -him, sir, unless he that owns the cottage will be his friend. I know you -have no power at present, Master Johnny; but if you'd speak to Mr. -Brandon, perhaps he would listen to you." - -"Sit down, Reed," interrupted Tod, putting his catgut out of hand. "I -thought you had the cottage on a lease." - -"And so I have, sir. But the lease will be out at Michaelmas next, and -Mr. Brandon can turn me from it if he likes. My father and mother died -there, sir; my wife died there; my children were born there; and the -place is as much like my homestead as if it was my own." - -"How do you know old Parrifer wants it?" continued Tod. - -"I have heard it from a safe source. I've heard, too, that his lawyer -and Mr. Brandon's lawyer have settled the matter between their two -selves, and don't intend to let me as much as know I'm to go out till -the time comes, for fear I should make a row over it. Nobody on earth -can stop it except Mr. Brandon," added Reed, with energy. - -"Have you spoken to Mr. Brandon, Reed?" - -"No, sir. I was going up to him; but the thought took me that I'd better -come off at once to Master Ludlow; his word might be of more avail than -mine. There's no time to be lost. If once the lawyers get Mr. Brandon's -consent, he may not be able to recall it." - -"What does Parrifer want with the cottage?" - -"I fancy he covets the bit of garden, sir; he sees the order I've -brought it into. If it's not that, I don't know what it can be. The -cottage can be no eyesore to him; he can't see it from his windows." - -"Shall I go with you, Johnny?" said Tod, as Reed went home, after -drinking the ale old Thomas had given him. "We will circumvent that -Parrifer, if there's law or justice in the Brandon land." - -We went off to Mr. Brandon's in the pony-carriage, Tod driving. He lived -near Alcester, and had the management of my property whilst I was a -minor. As we went along who should ride past, meeting us, but Major -Parrifer. - -"Looking like the bull-dog that he is," cried Tod, who could not bear -the man. "Johnny, what will you lay that he has not been to Mr. -Brandon's? The negotiations are becoming serious." - -Tod did not go in. On second thought, he said it might be better to -leave it to me. The Squire must try, if I failed. Mr. Brandon was at -home; and Tod drove on into Alcester by way of passing the time. - -"But I don't think you can see him," said the housekeeper, when she came -to me in the drawing-room. "This is one of his bad days. A gentleman -called just now, and I went in to the master, but it was of no use." - -"I know; it was Major Parrifer. We thought he might have been calling -here." - -Mr. Brandon was thin and little, with a shrivelled face. He lived alone, -except for three or four servants, and always fancied himself ill with -one ailment or another. When I went in, for he said he'd see me, he was -sitting in an easy-chair, with a geranium-coloured Turkish cap on his -head, and two bottles of medicine at his elbow. - -"Well, Johnny, an invalid as usual, you see. And what is it you so -particularly want?" - -"I want to ask you a favour, Mr. Brandon, if you'll be good enough to -grant it me." - -"What is it?" - -"You know that cottage, sir, at the corner of Piefinch Lane. George -Reed's." - -"Well?" - -"I have come to ask you not to let it be sold." - -"Who wants to sell it?" asked he, after a pause. - -"Major Parrifer wants to buy it; and to turn Reed out. The lawyers are -going to arrange it." - -Mr. Brandon pushed the cap up on his brow and gave the tassel over his -ear a twirl as he looked at me. People thought him incapable; but it was -only because he had no work to do that he seemed so. He would get a bit -irritable sometimes; very rarely though; and he had a squeaky voice: but -he was a good and just man. - -"How did you hear this, Johnny?" - -I told him all about it. What Reed had said, and of our having met the -Major on horseback as we drove along. - -"He came here, but I did not feel well enough to see him," said Mr. -Brandon. "Johnny, you know that I stand in place of your father, as -regards your property; to do the best I can with it." - -"Yes, sir. And I am sure you do it." - -"If Major Parrifer--I don't like the man," broke off Mr. Brandon, "but -that's neither here nor there. At the last magistrates' meeting I -attended he was so overbearing as to shut us all up. My nerves were -unstrung for four-and-twenty hours afterwards." - -"And Squire Todhetley came home swearing," I could not help putting in. - -"Ah," said Mr. Brandon. "Yes; some people can throw bile off in that -way. I can't. But, Johnny, all that goes for nothing, in regard to the -matter in hand: and I was about to point out to you that if Major -Parrifer has set his mind upon buying Reed's cottage and the bit of land -attached to it, he is no doubt prepared to offer a good price; more, -probably, than it is worth. If so, I should not, in your interests, be -justified in refusing this." - -I could feel my face flush with the sense of injustice, and the tears -come into my eyes. They called me a muff for many things. - -"I would not touch the money myself, sir. And if you used it for me, I'm -sure it would never bring any good." - -"What's that, Johnny?" - -"Money got by oppression or injustice never does. There was a fellow at -school----" - -"Never mind the fellow at school. Go on with your own argument." - -"To turn Reed out of the place where he has always lived, out of the -garden he has done so well by, just because a rich man wants to get -possession of it, would be fearfully unjust, sir. It would be as bad as -the story of Naboth's vineyard, that we heard read in church last -Sunday, for the First Lesson. Tod said so as we came along." - -"Who's Tod?" - -"Joseph Todhetley. If you turned Reed out, sir, for the sake of -benefiting me, I should be ashamed to look people in the face when they -talked of it. If you please, sir, I do not think my father would allow -it if he were living. Reed says the place is like his homestead." - -Mr. Brandon measured two tablespoonfuls of medicine into a glass, drank -it off, and ate a French plum afterwards. The plums were on a plate, and -he handed them to me. I took one, and tried to crack the stone. - -"You have taken up a strong opinion on this matter, Master Johnny." - -"Yes, sir. I like Reed. And if I did not, he has no more right to be -turned out of his home than Major Parrifer has out of his. How would -_he_ like it, if some rich and powerful man came down on his place and -turned him out?" - -"Major Parrifer can't be turned out of his, Johnny. It is his own." - -"And Reed's place is mine, sir--if you won't be angry with me for saying -it. Please don't let it be done, Mr. Brandon." - -The pony-carriage came rattling up at this juncture, and we saw Tod look -at the windows impatiently. I got up, and Mr. Brandon shook hands with -me. - -"What you have said is all very good, Johnny, right in principle; -but I cannot let it quite outweigh your interests. When this proposal -shall be put before me--as you say it will be--it must have my full -consideration." - -I stopped when I got to the door and turned to look at him. If he would -only have given me an assurance! He read in my face what I wanted. - -"No, Johnny, I can't do that. You may go home easy for the present, -however; for I will promise not to accept the offer to purchase without -first seeing you again and showing you my reasons." - -"I may have gone back to school, sir." - -"I tell you I will see you again if I decide to accept the offer," he -repeated emphatically. And I went out to the pony-chaise. - -"Old Brandon means to sell," said Tod, when I told him. And he gave the -pony an angry cut, that made him fly off at a gallop. - -Will anybody believe that I never heard another word upon the subject, -except what people said in the way of gossip? It was soon known that -Mr. Brandon had declined to sell the cottage; and when his lawyer -wrote him word that the sum, offered for it, was increased to quite an -unprecedented amount, considering the value of the cottage and garden -in question, Mr. Brandon only sent a peremptory note back again, -saying he was not in the habit of changing his decisions, and the -place _was not for sale_. Tod threw up his hat. - -"Bravo, old Brandon! I thought he'd not go quite over to the enemy." - -George Reed wanted to thank me for it. One evening, in passing his -cottage on my way home from the Court, I leaned over the gate to speak -to his little ones. He saw me and came running out. The rays of the -setting sun shone on the children's white corded bonnets. - -"I have to thank you for this, sir. They are going to renew my lease." - -"Are they? All right. But you need not thank me; I know nothing about -it." - -George Reed gave a decisive nod. "If you hadn't got the ear of Mr. -Brandon, sir, I know what box I should have been in now. Look at them -girls!" - -It was not a very complimentary mode of speech, as applied to the Misses -Parrifer. Three of them were passing, dressed outrageously in the -fashion as usual. I lifted my straw hat, and one of them nodded in -return, but the other two only looked out of the tail of their eyes. - -"The Major has been trying it on with me now," remarked Reed, watching -them out of sight. "When he found he could not buy the place, he thought -he'd try and buy out me. He wanted the bit of land for a kitchen-garden, -he said; and would give me a five-pound bank-note to go out of it. Much -obliged, Major, I said; but I'd not go for fifty." - -"As if he had not heaps of land himself to make kitchen-gardens of!" - -"But don't you see, Master Johnny, to a man like Major Parrifer, who -thinks the world was made for him, there's nothing so mortifying as -being balked. He set his mind upon this place; he can't get it; and he -is just boiling over. He'd poison me if he could. Now then, what's -wanted?" - -Cathy had come up, with her pretty dark eyes, whispering some question -to her father. I ran on; it was growing late, and the Manor ever-so-far -off. - - * * * * * - -From that time the feud grew between Major Parrifer and George Reed. -Not openly; not actively. It could not well be either when their -relative positions were so different. Major Parrifer was a wealthy -landed proprietor, a county magistrate (and an awfully overbearing -one); and George Reed was a poor cottager who worked for his bread as -a day-labourer. But that the Major grew to abhor and hate Reed; that -the man, inhabiting the place at his very gates in spite of him, and -looking at him independently, as if to say he knew it, every time he -passed, had become an eyesore to him; was easily seen. - -The Major resented it on us all. He was rude to Mr. Brandon when they -met; he struck out his whip once when he was on horse-back, and I -passed him, as if he would like to strike me. I don't know whether he -was aware of my visit to Mr. Brandon; but the cottage was mine, I was -friendly with Reed, and that was enough. Months, however, went on, and -nothing came of it. - -One Sunday morning in winter, when our church-bells were going for -service, Major Parrifer's carriage turned out with the ladies all in -full fig. The Major himself turned out after it, walking, one of his -daughters with him, a young man who was on a visit there, and a couple -of servants. As they passed George Reed's, the sound of work being done -in the garden at the back of the cottage caught the Major's quick ears. -He turned softly down Piefinch Lane, stole on tiptoe to the high hedge, -and stooped to peep through it. - -Reed was doing something to his turnips; hoeing them, the Major said. He -called the gentleman to him and the two servants, and bade them look -through the hedge. Nothing more. Then the party came on to church. - -On Tuesday, the Major rode out to take his place on the magisterial -bench at Alcester. It was bitterly cold January weather, and only one -magistrate besides himself was on it: _a clergyman_. Two or three petty -offenders were brought before them, who were severely sentenced--as -prisoners always were when Major Parrifer was presiding. Another -magistrate came in afterwards. - -Singular to say, Tod and I had gone to the town that day about a new -saddle for his horse; singular on account of what happened. In saying -we were there I am telling the truth; it is not invented to give -colour to the tale. Upon turning out of the saddler's, which is near -the justice-room, old Jones the constable was coming along with a -prisoner handcuffed, a tail after him. - -"Halloa!" cried Tod. "Here's fun!" - -But I had seen what Tod did not, and rubbed my eyes, wondering if they -saw double. - -"_Tod!_ It is George Reed!" - -Reed's face was as white as a sheet, and he walked along, not -unwillingly, but as one in a state of sad shame, of awful rage. Tod -made only one bound to the prisoner; and old Jones knowing us, did not -push him back again. - -"As I'm a living man, I do not know what this is for, or why I am -paraded through the town in disgrace," spoke Reed, in answer to Tod's -question. "If I'm charged with wrong-doing, I am willing to appear and -answer for it, without being turned into a felon in the face and eyes of -folks, beforehand." - -"Why do you bring Reed up in this manner--handcuffed?" demanded Tod of -the constable. - -"Because the Major telled me to, young Mr. Todhetley." - -Be you very sure Tod pushed after them into the justice-room: the -police saw him, but he was a magistrate's son. The crowd would have -liked to push in also, but were sent to the right-about. I waited, and -was presently admitted surreptitiously. Reed was standing before Major -Parrifer and the other two, handcuffed still; and I gathered what the -charge was. - -It was preferred by Major Parrifer, who had his servants there and a -gentleman as witnesses. George Reed had been working in his garden on -the previous Sunday morning--which was against the law. Old Jones had -gone to Mr. Sterling's and taken him on the Major's warrant, as he was -thrashing corn. - -Reed's answer was to the following effect. - -He was _not_ working. His wife was ill--her little boy being only four -days old--and Dr. Duffham ordered her some mutton broth. He went to the -garden to get the turnips to put into it. It was only on account of her -illness that he didn't go to church himself, he and Cathy. They might -ask Dr. Duffham. - -"Do you dare to tell me you were not hoeing turnips?" cried Major -Parrifer. - -"I dare to say I was not doing it as work," independently answered the -man. "If you looked at me, as you say, Major, through the hedge, you -must have seen the bunch of turnips I had got up, lying near. I took the -hoe in my hand, and I did use it for two or three minutes. Some dead -weeds had got thrown along the bed, by the children, perhaps, and I -pulled them away. I went indoors directly: before the clock struck -eleven the turnips were on, boiling with the scrag of mutton. I peeled -them and put them in myself." - -"I see the bunch of turnips," cried one of the servants. "They was -lying----" - -"Hold your tongue, sir," roared his master; "if your further evidence -is wanted, you'll be asked for it. As to this defence"--and the Major -turned to his brother-magistrates with a scornful smile--"it is quite -ingenious; one of the clever excuses we usually get here. But it will -not serve your turn, George Reed. When the sanctity of the Sabbath is -violated----" - -"Reed is not a man to say he did not do a thing if he did," interrupted -Tod. - -The Major glared at him for an instant, and then put out of hand a big -gold pencil he was waving majestically. - -"Clear the room of spectators," said he to the policeman. - -Which was all Tod got for interfering. We had to go out: and in a minute -or two Reed came out also, handcuffed as before; not in charge of old -Jones, but of the county police. He had been sentenced to a month's -imprisonment. Major Parrifer had wanted to make it three months; he -said something about six; but the other two thought they saw some -slightly extenuating circumstances in the case. A solicitor who was -intimate with the Sterlings, and knew Reed very well, had been present -towards the end. - -"Could you not have spoken in my defence, sir?" asked Reed, as he passed -this gentleman in coming out. - -"I would had I been able. But you see, my man, when the law gets -broken----" - -"The devil take the law," said Reed, savagely. "What I want is justice." - -"And the administrators of it are determined to uphold it, what can -be said?" went on the solicitor equably, as if there had been no -interruption. - -"You would make out that I broke the law, just doing what I did; and I -swear it was no more? That I can be legally punished for it?" - -"Don't, Reed; it's of no use. The Major and his witnesses swore you were -at work. And it appears that you were." - -"I asked them to take a fine--if I must be punished. I might have found -friends to advance it for me." - -"Just so. And for that reason of course they did not take it," said the -candid lawyer. - -"What is my wife to do while I am in prison? And the children? I may -come out to find them starved. A month's long enough to starve them in -such weather as this." - -Reed was allowed time for no more. He would not have been allowed that, -but for having been jammed by the crowd at the doorway. He caught my eye -as they were getting clear. - -"Master Johnny, will you go to the Court for me--your own place, -sir--and tell the master that I swear I am innocent? Perhaps he'll let -a few shillings go to the wife weekly; tell him with my duty that I'll -work it out as soon as I am released. All this is done out of revenge, -sir, because Major Parrifer couldn't get me from my cottage. May the -Lord repay him!" - -It caused a commotion, I can tell you, this imprisonment of Reed's; the -place was ringing with it between the Court and Dyke Manor. Our two -houses seemed to have more to do with it than other people's; first, -because Reed worked at the Court; secondly, because I, who owned both -the Court and the cottage, lived at the Manor. People took it up pretty -warmly, and Mrs. Reed and the children were cared for. Mr. Sterling paid -her five shillings a week; and Mr. Brandon and the Squire helped her on -the quiet, and there were others also. In small country localities -gentlemen don't like to say openly that their neighbours are in the -wrong: at any rate, they rarely _do_ anything by way of remedy. Some -spoke of an appeal to the Home Secretary, but it came to nothing, and no -steps were taken to liberate Reed. Bill Whitney, who was staying a week -with us, wrote and told his mother about it; she sent back a sovereign -for Mrs. Reed; we three took it to her, and went about saying old -Parrifer ought to be kicked, which was a relief to our feelings. - -But there's something to tell about Cathy. On the day that Reed was -taken up, it was not known at his home immediately. The neighbours, -aware that the wife was ill, said nothing to her--for old Duffham -thought she was going to have a fever, and ordered her to be kept quiet. -For one thing, they did not know what there was to tell; except that -Reed had been marched off from his work in handcuffs by Jones the -constable. In the evening, when news came of his committal, it was -agreed that an excuse should be made to Mrs. Reed that her husband had -gone out on a business job for his master; and that Cathy--who could not -fail to hear the truth from one or another--should be warned not to say -anything. - -"Tell Cathy to come out here," said the woman, looking over the gate. It -was the little girl they spoke to; who could talk well: and she answered -that Cathy was not there. So Ann Perkins, Mrs. Reed's sister, was called -out. - -"Where's Cathy?" cried they. - -Ann Perkins answered in a passion--that she did not know where Cathy -was, but would uncommonly like to know, and she only wished she was -behind her--keeping her there with her sister when she ought to be at -her own home! Then the women told Ann Perkins what they had intended to -tell Cathy, and looked out for the latter. - -She did not come back. The night passed, and the next day passed, and -Cathy was not seen or heard of. The only person who appeared to have -met her was Goody Picker. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, -Tuesday, and Cathy had her best bonnet on. Mother Picker remarked upon -her looking so smart, and asked where she was going to. Cathy answered -that her uncle (who lived at Evesham) had sent to say she must go over -there at once. "But when she came to the two roads, she turned off -quite on the contrairy way to Evesham, and I thought the young woman -must be daft," concluded Mrs. Picker. - -The month passed away, and Reed came out; but Cathy had not returned. -He got home on foot, in the afternoon, his hair cut close, and seemed -as quiet as a lamb. The man had been daunted. It was an awful insult -to put upon him; a slur on his good name for life; and some of them -said George Reed would never hold up his head again. Had he been cruel -or vindictive, he might have revenged himself on Major Parrifer, -personally, in a manner the Major would have found it difficult to -forget. - -The wife was about again, but sickly: the little ones did not at first -know their father. One of the first people he asked after was Cathy. -The girl was not at hand to welcome him, and he took it in the light of -a reproach. When men come for the first time out of jail, they are -sensitive. - -"Mr. Sterling called in yesterday, George, to say you were to go to your -work again as soon as ever you came home," said the wife, evading the -question about Cathy. "Everybody has been so kind; they know you didn't -deserve what you got." - -"Ah," said Reed, carelessly. "Where's Cathy?" - -Mrs. Reed felt obliged to tell him. No diplomatist, she brought out the -news abruptly: Cathy had not been seen or heard of since the afternoon -he was sent to prison. That aroused Reed: nothing else seemed to have -done it: and he got up from his chair. - -"Why, where is she? What's become of her?" - -The neighbours had been indulging in sundry speculations on the same -question, which they had obligingly favoured Mrs. Reed with; but she did -not think it necessary to impart them to her husband. - -"Cathy was a good girl on the whole, George; putting aside that she'd do -no work, and spent her time reading good-for-nothing books. What I think -is this--that she heard of your misfortune after she left, and wouldn't -come home to face it. She is eighteen now, you know." - -"Come home from where?" - -Mrs. Reed had to tell the whole truth. That Cathy, dressed up in her -best things, had left home without saying a word to any one, stealing -out of the house unseen; she had been met in the road by Mrs. Picker, -and told her what has already been said. But the uncle at Evesham had -seen nothing of her. - -Forgetting his cropped hair--as he would have to forget it until it -should grow again--George Reed went tramping off, there and then, the -nearly two miles of way to Mother Picker's. She could not tell him much -more than he already knew. "Cathy was all in her best, her curls 'iled, -and her pink ribbons as fresh as her cheeks, and said in answer to -questions that she had been sent for sudden to her uncle's at Evesham: -but she had turned off quite the contrairy road." From thence, Reed -walked on to his brother's at Evesham; and learnt that Cathy had not -been sent for, and had not come. - -When Reed got home, he was dead-beat. How many miles the man had walked -that bleak February day, he did not stay to think--perhaps twenty. When -excitement buoys up the spirit, the body does not feel fatigue. Mrs. -Reed put supper before her husband, and he ate mechanically, lost in -thought. - -"It fairly 'mazes me," he said, presently, in local phraseology. "But -for going out in her best, I should think some accident had come to her. -There's ponds about, and young girls might slip in unawares. But the -putting on her best things shows she was going somewhere." - -"She put 'em on, and went off unseen," repeated Mrs. Reed, snuffing the -candle. "_I_ should have thought she'd maybe gone off to some wake--only -there wasn't one agate within range." - -"Cathy had no bad acquaintance to lead her astray," he resumed. "The -girls about here are decent, and mind their work." - -"Which Cathy didn't," thought Mrs. Reed. "Cathy held her head above -'em," she said, aloud. "It's my belief she used to fancy herself one -o' them fine ladies in her halfpenny books. She didn't seem to make -acquaintance with nobody but that young Parrifer. She'd talk to him by -the hour together, and I couldn't get her indoors." - -Reed lifted his head. "Young Parrifer!--what--_his_ son?" turning his -thumb in the direction of Parrifer Hall. "Cathy talked to him?" - -"By the hour together," reiterated Mrs. Reed. "He'd be on that side the -gate, a-talking, and laughing, and leaning on it; and Cathy, she'd be in -the path by the tall hollyhocks, talking back to him, and fondling the -children." - -Reed rose up, a strange look on his face. "How long was that going on?" - -"Ever so long; I can't just remember. But young Parrifer is only at the -Hall by fits and starts." - -"And you never told me, woman!" - -"I thought no harm of it. I don't think harm of it now," emphatically -added Mrs. Reed. "The worst of young Parrifer, that I've seen, is that -he's as soft as a tomtit." - -Reed put on his hat without another word, and walked out. Late as it -was, he was going to the Hall. He rang a peal at it, more like a lord -than a labourer just let out of prison. There was some delay in opening -the door: the household had gone upstairs; but a man came at last. - -"I want to see Major Parrifer." - -The words were so authoritative; the man's appearance so strange, with -his tall figure and his clipped hair, as he pushed forward into the -hall, that the servant momentarily lost his wits. A light, in a room on -the left, guided Reed; he entered it, and found himself face to face -with Major Parrifer, who was seated in an easy-chair before a good fire, -spirits on the table, and a cigar in his mouth. What with the smoke from -that, what with the faint light--for all the candles had been put out -but one--the Major did not at first distinguish his late visitor's face. -When the bare head and the resolute eyes met his, he certainly paled a -little, and the cigar fell on to the carpet. - -"I want my daughter, Major Parrifer." - -To hear a demand made for a daughter when the Major had possibly been -thinking the demand might be for his life, was undoubtedly a relief. It -brought back his courage. - -"What do you mean, fellow?" he growled, stamping out the fire of the -cigar. "Are you out of your mind?" - -"Not quite. You might have driven some men out of theirs, though, by -what you've done. _We'll let that part be_, Major. I have come to-night -about my daughter. Where is she?" - -They stood looking at each other. Reed stood just inside the door, hat -in hand; he did not forget his manners even in the presence of his -enemy; they were a habit with him. The Major, who had risen in his -surprise, stared at him: he really knew nothing whatever of the matter, -not even that the girl was missing; and he did think Reed's imprisonment -must have turned his brain. Perhaps Reed saw that he was not understood. - -"I come home from prison, into which you put me, Major Parrifer, to find -my daughter Catherine gone. She went away the day I was taken up. Where -she went, or what she's doing, Heaven knows; but you or yours are -answerable for it, whichever way it may be." - -"You have been drinking," said Major Parrifer. - -"_You_ have, maybe," returned Reed, glancing at the spirits on the -table. "Either Cathy went out on a harmless jaunt, and is staying away -because she can't face the shame at home which you have put there; or -else she went out to meet your son, and has been taken away by him. I -think it must be the last; my fears whisper it to me; and, if so, you -can't be off knowing something of it. Major Parrifer, I must have my -daughter." - -Whether the hint given about his son alarmed the Major, causing him to -forget his bluster for once, and answer civilly, he certainly did it. -His son was in Ireland with his regiment, he said; had not been at the -Hall for weeks and weeks; he could answer for it that Lieutenant -Parrifer knew nothing of the girl. - -"He was here at Christmas," said George Reed. "I saw him." - -"And left two or three days after it. How dare you, fellow, charge him -with such a thing? He'd wring your neck for you if he were here." - -"Perhaps I might find cause to wring his first. Major Parrifer, I want -my daughter." - -"If you do not get out of my house, I'll have you brought before me -to-morrow for trespassing, and give you a second month's imprisonment," -roared the Major, gathering bluster and courage. "You want another month -of it: this one does not appear to have done you the good it ought. -Now--go!" - -"I'll go," said Reed, who began to see the Major really did not know -anything of Cathy--and it had not been very probable that he did. "But -I'd like to leave a word behind me. You have succeeded in doing me a -great injury, Major Parrifer. You are rich and powerful, I am poor and -lowly. You set your mind on my bit of a home, and because you could -not drive me from it, you took advantage of your magistrate's post to -sentence me to prison, and so be revenged. It has done me a great deal -of harm. What good has it done you?" - -Major Parrifer could not speak for rage. - -"It will come home to you, sir, mark me if it does not. God has seen my -trouble, and my wife's trouble, and I don't believe He ever let such a -wrong pass unrewarded. _It will come home to you, Major Parrifer._" - -George Reed went out, quietly shutting the hall-door behind him, and -walked home through the thick flakes of snow that had begun to fall. - - - - -V. - -COMING HOME TO HIM. - - -The year was getting on. Summer fruits were ripening. It had been a warm -spring, and hot weather was upon us early. - -One fine Sunday morning, George Reed came out of his cottage and turned -up Piefinch Lane. His little girls were with him, one in either hand, in -their clean cotton frocks and pinafores and straw hats. People had gone -into church, and the bells had ceased. Reed had not been constant in -attendance since the misfortune in the winter, when Major Parrifer put -him into prison. The month's imprisonment had altered him; his daughter -Cathy's mysterious absence had altered him more; he seemed unwilling to -face people, and any trifle was made an excuse to himself for keeping -away from service. To-day it was afforded by the baby's illness. Reed -said to his wife that he would take the little girls out a bit to keep -the place quiet. - -Rumours were abroad that he had heard once from Cathy; that she told him -she should come back some day and surprise him and the neighbours, that -she was "all right, and he had no call to fret after her." Whether this -was true or pure fiction, Reed did not say: he was a closer man than he -used to be. - -Lifting the children over a stile in Piefinch Lane, just beyond his -garden, Reed strolled along the by-path of the field. It brought him to -the high hedge skirting the premises of Major Parrifer. The man had -taken it by chance, because it was a quiet walk. He was passing along -slowly, the children running about the field, on which the second crop -of grass was beginning to grow, when voices on the other side of the -hedge struck on his ear. Reed quietly put some of the foliage aside, and -looked through; just as Major Parrifer had looked through the hedge in -Piefinch Lane at him, that Sunday morning some few months before. - -Major Parrifer had been suffering from a slight temporary indisposition. -He did not consider himself sufficiently recovered to attend service, -but neither was he ill enough to lie in bed. With the departure of his -family for church, the Major had come strolling out in the garden in an -airy dressing-gown, and there saw his gardener picking peas. - -"Halloa, Hotty! This ought to have been done before." - -"Yes, sir, I know it; I'm a little late," answered Hotty; "I shall have -done in two or three minutes. The cook makes a fuss if I pick 'em too -early; she says they don't eat so well." - -The peas were for the gratification of the Major's own palate, so he -found no more fault. Hotty went on with his work, and the Major gave -a general look round. On a near wall, at right angles with the hedge -through which Reed was then peering, some fine apricots were growing, -green yet. - -"These apricots want thinning, Hotty," observed the Major. - -"I have thinned 'em some, sir." - -"Not enough. Our apricots were not as fine last year as they ought to -have been. I said then they had not had sufficient room to grow. Green -apricots are always useful; they make the best tart known." - -Major Parrifer walked to the greenhouse, outside which a small basket -was hanging, brought it back, and began to pick some of the apricots -where they looked too thick. Reed, outside, watched the process--not -alone. As luck had it, a man appeared on the field-path, who proved to -be Gruff Blossom, the Jacobsons' groom, coming home to spend Sunday with -his friends. Reed made a sign to Blossom to be silent, and caused him to -look on also. - -With the small basket half full, the Major desisted, thinking possibly -he had plucked enough, and turned away carrying it. Hotty came out from -the peas, his task finished. They strolled slowly down the path by the -hedge; the Major first, Hotty a step behind, talking about late and -early peas, and whether Prussian blues or marrowfats were the best -eating. - -"Do you see those weeds in the onion-bed?" suddenly asked the Major, -stopping as they were passing it. - -Hotty turned his head to look. A few weeds certainly had sprung up. He'd -attend to it on the morrow, he told his master; and then said something -about the work accumulating almost beyond him, since the under-gardener -had been at home ill. - -"Pick them out now," said the Major; "there's not a dozen of them." - -Hotty stooped to do as he was bid. The Major made no more ado but -stooped also, uprooting quite half the weeds himself. Not much more, in -all, than the dozen he had spoken of: and then they went on with their -baskets to the house. - -Never had George Reed experienced so much gratification since the day -he came out of prison. "Did you see the Major at it?--thinning his -apricots and pulling up his weeds?" he asked of Gruff Blossom. And -Blossom's reply, gruff as usual, was to ask what might be supposed to -ail his eyes that he shouldn't see it. - -"Very good," said Reed. - -One evening in the following week, when we were sitting out on the -lawn, the Squire smoking, Mrs. Todhetley nursing her face in her hand, -with toothache as usual, Tod teasing Hugh and Lena, and I up in the -beech-tree, a horseman rode in. It proved to be Mr. Jacobson. Giles took -his horse, and he came and sat down on the bench. The Squire asked him -what he'd take, and being thirsty, he chose cider. Which Thomas brought. - -"Here's a go," began Mr. Jacobson. "Have you heard what's up?" - -"I've not heard anything," answered the Squire. - -"Major Parrifer has a summons served on him for working in his garden -on a Sunday, and is to appear before the magistrates at Alcester -to-morrow," continued old Jacobson, drinking off a glass of cider at a -draught. - -"No!" cried Squire Todhetley. - -"It's a fact. Blossom, our groom, has also a summons served on him to -give evidence." - -Mrs. Todhetley lifted her face; Tod left Hugh and Lena to themselves: I -slid down from the beech-tree; and we listened for more. - -But Mr. Jacobson could not give particulars, or say much more than he -had already said. All he knew was, that on Monday morning George Reed -had appeared before the magistrates and made a complaint. At first they -were unwilling to grant a summons; laughed at it; but Reed, in a burst -of reproach, civilly delivered, asked why there should be a law for -the poor and not for the rich, and in what lay the difference between -himself and Major Parrifer; that the one should be called to account and -punished for doing wrong, and the other was not even to be accused when -he had done it. - -"Brandon happened to be on the bench," continued Jacobson. "He appeared -struck with the argument, and signed the summons." - -The Squire nodded. - -"My belief is," continued old Jacobson, with a wink over the rim of -the cider glass, "that granting that summons was as good as a play to -Brandon and the rest. I'd as lieve, though, that they'd not brought -Blossom into it." - -"Why?" asked Mrs. Todhetley, who had been grieved at the time at the -injustice done to Reed. - -"Well, Parrifer is a disagreeable man to offend. And he is sure to visit -Blossom's part in this on me." - -"Let him," said Tod, with enthusiasm. "Well done, George Reed!" - -Be you very sure we went over to the fight. Squire Todhetley did not -appear: at which Tod exploded a little: he only wished _he_ was a -magistrate, wouldn't he take his place and judge the Major! But the -Pater said that when people had lived to his age, they liked to be at -peace with their neighbours--not but what he hoped Parrifer would "get -it," for having been so cruelly hard upon Reed. - - * * * * * - -Major Parrifer came driving to the Court-house in his high carriage -with a great bluster, his iron-grey hair standing up, and two grooms -attending him. Only the magistrates who had granted the summons sat. -The news had gone about like wild-fire, and several of them were in and -about the town, but did not take their places. I don't believe there -was one would have lifted his finger to save the Major from a month's -imprisonment; but they did not care to sentence him to it. - -It was a regular battle. Major Parrifer was in an awful passion the -whole time; asking, when he came in, how they dared summon him. _Him!_ -Mr. Brandon, cool as a cucumber, answered in his squeaky voice, that -when a complaint of breaking the law was preferred before them and sworn -to by witnesses, they could only act upon it. - -First of all, the Major denied the facts. _He_ work in his garden on a -Sunday!--the very supposition was preposterous! Upon which George Reed, -who was in his best clothes, and looked every bit as good as the Major, -and far pleasanter, testified to what he had seen. - -Major Parrifer, dancing with temper when he found he had been looked at -through the hedge, and that it was Reed who had looked, gave the lie -direct. He called his gardener, Richard Hotty, ordering him to testify -whether he, the Major, ever worked in his garden, either on Sundays or -week-days. - -"Hotty was working himself, gentlemen," interposed George Reed. "He was -picking peas; and he helped to weed the onion-bed. But it was done by -his master's orders, so it would be unjust to punish him." - -The Major turned on Reed as if he would strike him, and demanded of the -magistrates why they permitted the fellow to interrupt. They ordered -Reed to be quiet, and told Hotty to proceed. - -But Hotty was one of those slow men to whom anything like evasion is -difficult. His master had thinned the apricot tree that Sunday morning; -he had helped to weed the onion-bed; Hotty, conscious of the fact, but -not liking to admit it, stammered and stuttered, and made a poor figure -of himself. Mr. Brandon thought he would help him out. - -"Did you see your master pick the apricots?" - -"I see him pick--just a few; green 'uns," answered Hotty, shuffling from -one leg to the other in his perplexity. "'Twarn't to be called work, -sir." - -"Oh! And did he help you to weed the onion-bed?" - -"There warn't a dozen weeds in it in all, as the Major said to me at the -time," returned Hotty. "He see 'em, and stooped down on the spur o' the -moment, and me too. We had 'em up in a twinkling. 'Twarn't work, sir; -couldn't be called it nohow. The Major, he never do work at no time." - -Blossom had not arrived, and it was hard to tell how the thing would -terminate: the Major had this witness, Hotty, such as he was, protesting -that nothing to be called work was done. Reed had no witness, as yet. - -"Old Jacobson is keeping Blossom back, Johnny," whispered Tod. "It's a -sin and a shame." - -"No, he is not," I said. "Look there!" - -Blossom was coming in. He had walked over, and not hurried himself. -Major Parrifer plunged daggers into him, if looks could do it, but it -made no difference to Blossom. - -He gave his evidence in his usual surly manner. It was clear and -straightforward. Major Parrifer had thinned the apricot tree for its own -benefit; and had weeded the onion-bed, Hotty helping at the weeds by -order. - -"What brought _you_ spying at the place, James Blossom?" demanded a -lawyer on the Major's behalf. - -"Accident," was the short answer. - -"Indeed! You didn't go there on purpose, I suppose?--and skulk under the -hedge on purpose?--and peer into the Major's garden on purpose?" - -"No, I didn't," said Blossom. "The field is open to every one, and I was -crossing it on my way to old father's. George Reed made me a sign afore -I came up to him, to look in, as he was doing; and I did so, not knowing -what there might be to see. It would be nothing to me if the Major -worked in his garden of a Sunday from sunrise to sunset; he's welcome to -do it; but if you summon me here and ask me, did I see him working, I -say yes, I did. Why d'you send me a summons if you don't want me to tell -the truth? Let me be, and I'd ha' said nothing to mortal man." - -Evidently nothing favourable to the defence could be got out of James -Blossom. Mr. Brandon began saying to the Major that he feared there was -no help for it; they should be obliged to convict him: and he was met by -a storm of reproach. - -_Convict_ him! roared the Major. For having picked two or three green -apricots--and for stooping to pull up a couple or so of worthless weeds? -He would be glad to ask which of them, his brother-magistrates sitting -there, would not pick an apricot, or a peach, or what not, on a Sunday, -if he wanted to eat one. The thing was utterly preposterous. - -"And what was it _I_ did?" demanded George Reed, drowning voices that -would have stopped him. "I went to the garden to get up a bunch of -turnips for my sick wife, and seeing some withered weeds flung on the -bed I drew them off with the hoe. What was that, I ask? And it was no -more. No more, gentlemen, in the sight of Heaven." - -No particular answer was given to this; perhaps the justices had none -ready. Mr. Brandon was beginning to confer with the other two in an -undertone, when Reed spoke again. - -"I was dragged up here in handcuffs, and told I had broken the law; -Major Parrifer said to me himself that I had violated the sanctity of -the Sabbath (those were the words), and therefore I must be punished; -there was no help for it. What has he done? I did not do as much as he -has." - -"Now you know, Reed, this is irregular," said one of the justices. "You -must not interrupt the Court." - -"You put me in prison for a month, gentlemen," resumed Reed, paying no -attention to the injunction. "They cut my hair close in the prison, and -they kept me to hard labour for the month, as if I did not have enough -of hard labour out of it. My wife was sick and disabled at the time, my -three little children are helpless: it was no thanks to the magistrates -who sentenced me, gentlemen, or to Major Parrifer, that they did not -starve." - -"Will you be quiet, Reed?" - -"If I deserved one month of prison," persisted Reed, fully bent on -saying what he had to say, "Major Parrifer must deserve two months, for -his offence is greater than mine. The law is the same for both of us, I -suppose. He----" - -"Reed, if you say another word, I will order you at once from the room," -interrupted Mr. Brandon, his thin voice sharp and determined. "How dare -you persist in addressing the Bench when told to be quiet!" - -Reed fell back and said no more. He knew that Mr. Brandon had a habit -of carrying out his own authority, in spite of his nervous health and -querulous way of speaking. The justices spoke a few words together, and -then said they found the offence proved, and inflicted a fine on Major -Parrifer. - -He dashed the money down on the table, in too great a rage to do it -politely, and went out to his carriage. No other case was on, that day, -and the justices got up and mixed with the crowd. Mr. Brandon, who felt -chilly on the hottest summer's day, and was afraid of showers, buttoned -on a light overcoat. - -"Then there are _two_ laws, sir?" said Reed to him, quite civilly, but -in a voice that every one might hear. "When the law was made against -Sabbath-breaking, those that made it passed one for the rich and another -for the poor!" - -"Nonsense, Reed." - -"_Nonsense_, sir? I don't see it. _I_ was put in prison; Major Parrifer -has only to pay a bit of money, which is of no more account to him than -dirt, and that he can't feel the loss of. And my offence--if it was an -offence--was less than his." - -"Two wrongs don't make a right," said Mr. Brandon, dropping his voice to -a low key. "You ought not to have been put in prison, Reed; had I been -on the bench it should not have been done." - -"But it was done, sir, and my life got a blight on it. It's on me yet; -will never be lifted off me." - -Mr. Brandon smiled one of his quiet smiles, and spoke in a whisper. "He -has got it too, Reed, unless I am mistaken. He'll carry that fine about -with him always. Johnny, are you there? Don't go and repeat what you've -heard me say." - -Mr. Brandon was right. To have been summoned before the Bench, where he -had pompously sat to summon others, and for working on a Sunday above -all things, to have been found guilty and fined, was as the most bitter -potion to Major Parrifer. The bench would never again be to him the seat -it had been; the remembrance of the day when he was before it would, as -Mr. Brandon expressed it, be carried about with him always. - -They projected a visit to the sea-side at once. Mrs. Parrifer, with -three of the Miss Parrifers, came dashing up to people's houses in the -carriage, finer and louder than ever; she said that she had not been -well, and was ordered to Aberystwith for six weeks. The next day -they and the Major were off; and heaps of cards were sent round with -"P. P. C." in the corner. I think Mr. Brandon must have laughed when he -got his. - - * * * * * - -The winter holidays came round again. We went home for Christmas, as -usual, and found George Reed down with some sort of illness. There's -an old saying, "When the mind's at ease the body's delicate," but Mr. -Duffham always maintained that though that might apply to a short period -of time, in the long-run mind and body sympathized together. George Reed -had been a very healthy man, and as free from care as most people; this -last year care and trouble and mortification had lain on his mind, and -at the beginning of winter his health broke down. It was quite a triumph -(in the matter of opinion) for old Duffham. - -The illness began with a cough and low fever, neither of which can -labourers afford time to lie up for. It went on to more fever, and to -inflammation of the lungs. There was no choice then, and Reed took to -his bed. For the most part, when our poor people fell ill, they had to -get well again without notice being taken of them; but events had drawn -attention to Reed, and made him a conspicuous character. His illness was -talked of, and so he received help. Ever since the prison affair I had -felt sorry for Reed, as had Mrs. Todhetley. - -"I have had some nice strong broth made for Reed, Johnny," she said to -me one day in January; "it's as good and nourishing as beef-tea. If you -want a walk, you might take it to him." - -Tod had gone out with the Squire; I felt dull, as I generally did -without him, and put on my hat and coat. Mrs. Todhetley had the broth -put into a bottle, and brought it to me wrapped in paper. - -"I would send him a drop of wine as well, Johnny, if you'd take care not -to break the bottles, carrying two of them." - -No fear. I put the one bottle in my breast-pocket, and took the other -in my hand. It was a cold afternoon, the sky of a steely-blue, the sun -bright, the ground hard. Major Parrifer and two of his daughters, coming -home from a ride, were cantering in at the gates as I passed, the groom -riding after them. I lifted my hat to the girls, but they only tossed -their heads. - -Reed was getting over the worst then, and I found him sitting by the -kitchen fire, muffled in a bed-rug. Mrs. Reed took the bottles from me -in the back'us--as they called the place where the washing was done--for -Reed was sensitive, and did not like things to be sent to him. - -"Please God, I shall be at work next week," said Reed, with a groan: and -I saw he knew that I had brought something. - -He had been saying that all along; four or five weeks now. I sat down -opposite to him, and took up the boy, Georgy. The little shaver had come -round to me, holding by the chairs. - -"It's going to be a hard frost, Reed." - -"Is it, sir? Out-o'-door weather don't seem to be of much odds to me -now." - -"And a fall o' some sort's not far off, as my wrist tells me," put in -Mrs. Reed. Years ago she had broken her wrist, and felt it always in -change of weather. "Maybe some snow's coming." - -I gave Georgy a biscuit; the two little girls, who had been standing -against the press, began to come slowly forward. They guessed there was -a supply in my pocket. I had dipped into the biscuit-basket at home -before coming away. The two put out a hand each without being told, and -I dropped a biscuit into them. - -It had taken neither time nor noise, and yet there was some one -standing inside the door when I looked up again, who must have come -in stealthily; some one in a dark dress, and a black and white plaid -shawl. Mrs. Reed looked and the children looked; and then Reed turned -his head to look also. - -I think I was the first to know her. She had a thick black veil before -her face, and the room was not light. Reed's illness had left him thin, -and his eyes appeared very large: they assumed a sort of frightened -stare. - -"Father! you are sick!" - -Before he could answer, she had run across the brick floor and thrown -her arms round his neck. Cathy! The two girls were frightened and flew -to their mother; one began to scream and the other followed suit. -Altogether there was a good deal of noise and commotion. Georgy, like -a brave little man, sucked his biscuit through it all with great -composure. - -What Reed said or did, I had not noticed; I think he tried to fling -Cathy from him--to avoid suffocation perhaps. She burst out laughing in -her old light manner, and took something out of the body of her gown, -under the shawl. - -"No need, father: I am as honest as anybody," said she. "Look at this." - -Reed's hand shook so that he could not open the paper, or understand it -at first when he had opened it. Cathy flung off her bonnet and caught -the children to her. They began to know her then and ceased their cries. -Presently Reed held the paper across to me, his hand trembling more than -before, and his face, that illness had left white enough, yet more -ghastly with emotion. - -"Please read it, sir." - -I did not understand it at first either, but the sense came to me soon. -It was a certificate of the marriage of Spencer Gervoise Daubeney -Parrifer and Catherine Reed. They had been married at Liverpool the very -day after Cathy disappeared from home; now just a year ago. - -A sound of sobbing broke the stillness. Reed had fallen back in his -chair in a sort of hysterical fit. Defiant, hard, strong-minded Reed! -But the man was three parts dead from weakness. It lasted only a minute -or two; he roused himself as if ashamed, and swallowed down his sobs. - -"How came he to marry you, Cathy?" - -"Because I would not go away with him without it father. We have been -staying in Ireland." - -"And be you repenting of it yet?" asked Mrs. Reed, in ungracious tones. - -"Pretty near," answered Cathy, with candour. - -It appeared that Cathy had made her way direct to Liverpool when she -left home the previous January, travelling all night. There she met -young Parrifer, who had preceded her and made arrangements for the -marriage. They were married that day, and afterwards went on to Ireland, -where he had to join his regiment. - -To hear all this, sounding like a page out of a romance, would be -something wonderful for our quiet place when it came to be told. You -meet with marvellous stories in towns now and then, but with us they are -almost unknown. - -"Where's your husband?" asked Reed. - -Cathy tossed her head. "Ah! Where! That's what I've come home about," -she answered: and it struck me at once that something was wrong. - -What occurred next we only learnt from hearsay. I said good day to them, -and came away, thinking it might have been better if Cathy had not -married and left home. It was a fancy of mine, and I don't know why it -should have come to me, but it proved to be a right one. Cathy put on -her bonnet again to go to Parrifer Hall: and the particulars of her -visit were known abroad later. - -It was growing rather dark when she approached it; the sun had set, the -grey of evening was drawing on. Two of the Misses Parrifer were at the -window and saw her coming, but Cathy had her veil down and they did not -recognize her. The actions and manners and air of a lady do not come -suddenly to one who has been differently bred; and the Misses Parrifer -supposed the visitor to be for the servants. - -"Like her impudence!" said Miss Jemima. "Coming to the front entrance!" - -For Cathy, whose year's experience in Ireland had widely changed her, -had no notion of taking up her old position. She meant to hold her own; -and was capable of doing it, not being deficient in the quality just -ascribed to her by Miss Jemima Parrifer. - -"What next!" cried Miss Jemima, as a ring and a knock resounded through -the house, waking up the Major: who had been dozing over the fire -amongst his daughters. - -The next was, that a servant came to the room and told the Major a lady -wanted him. She had been shown into the library. - -"What name?" asked the Major. - -"She didn't give none, sir. I asked, but she said never mind the name." - -"Go and ask it again." - -The man went and came back. "It is Mrs. Parrifer, sir." - -"Mrs. who?" - -"Mrs. Parrifer, sir." - -The Major turned and stared at his servant. They had no relatives -whatever. Consequently the only Mrs. Parrifer within knowledge was his -wife. - -Staring at the man would not bring him any elucidation. Major Parrifer -went to the library, and there saw the lady standing on one side of the -fender, holding her foot to the fire. She had her back to him, did not -turn, and so the Major went round to the other side of the hearth-rug -where he could see her. - -"My servant told me a Mrs. Parrifer wanted me. Did he make a mistake in -the name?" - -"No mistake at all, sir," said Cathy, throwing up her thick veil, and -drawing a step or two back. "I am Mrs. Parrifer." - -The Major recognized her then. Cathy Reed! He was a man whose bluster -rarely failed him, but he had none ready at that moment. Three-parts -astounded, various perplexities held him tongue-tied. - -"That is to say, Mrs. Spencer Parrifer," continued Cathy. "And I have -come over from Ireland on a mission to you, sir, from your son." - -The Major thought that of all the audacious women it had ever been his -lot to meet, this one was the worst: at least as much as he could think -anything, for his wits were a little confused just then. A moment's -pause, and then the storm burst forth. - -Cathy was called various agreeable names, and ordered out of the room -and the house. The Major put up his hands to "hurrish" her out--as we -say in Worcestershire by the cows, though I don't think you would find -the word in the dictionary. But Cathy stood her ground. He then went -ranting towards the door, calling for the servants to come and put her -forth. Cathy, quicker than he, gained it first and turned to face him, -her back against it. - -"You needn't call me those names, Major Parrifer. Not that I care--as I -might if I deserved them. I am your son's wife, and have been such ever -since I left father's cottage last year; and my baby, your grandson, -sir, which it's seven weeks old he is, is now at the Red Lion, a mile -off. I've left it there with the landlady." - -He could not put her out of the room unless by force; he looked ready to -kick and strike her; but in the midst of it a horrible dread rose up in -his heart that the calmly spoken words were true. Perhaps from the hour -when Reed had presented himself at the house to ask for his daughter, -the evening of the day he was discharged from prison, up to this time, -Major Parrifer had never thought of the girl. It had been said in his -ears now and again that Reed was grieving for his daughter; but the -matter was altogether too contemptible for Major Parrifer to take note -of. And now to hear that the girl had been with his son all the time, -his wife! But that utter disbelief came to his aid, the Major might have -fallen into a fit on the spot. For young Mr. Parrifer had cleverly -contrived that neither his father away at home nor his friends on the -spot should know anything about Cathy. He had been with his regiment in -quarters; she had lived privately in another part of the town. Mrs. Reed -had once called Lieutenant Parrifer as soft as a tomtit. He was a great -deal softer. - -"Woman! if you do not quit my house, with your shameless lies, you shall -be flung out of it." - -"I'll quit it as soon as I have told you what I came over the sea to -tell. Please to look at this first, sir?" - -Major Parrifer snatched the paper that she held out, carried it to -the window, and put his glasses across his nose. It was a copy of the -certificate of marriage. His hands shook as he read it, just as Reed's -had shaken a short time before; and he tore it passionately in two. - -"It is only the copy," said Cathy calmly, as she picked up the pieces. -"Your son--if he lives--is about to be tried for his life, sir. He is in -custody for wilful murder!" - -"How dare you!" shrieked Major Parrifer. - -"It is what they have charged him with. I have come all the way to tell -it you, sir." - -Major Parrifer, brought to his senses by fright, could only listen. -Cathy, her back against the door still, gave him the heads of the story. - -Young Parrifer was so soft that he had been made a butt of by sundry of -his brother-officers. They might not have tolerated him at all, but for -winning his money. He drank, and played cards, and bet upon horses; they -encouraged him to drink, and then made him play and bet, and altogether -cleared him out: not of brains, he had none to be cleared of: but of -money. Ruin stared him in the face: his available cash had been parted -with long ago; his commission (it was said) was mortgaged: how many -promissory notes, bills, I O U's he had signed could not even be guessed -at. In a quarrel a few nights before, after a public-house supper, when -some of them were the worse for drink, young Parrifer, who could on rare -occasions go into frightful passions, flung a carving-knife at one of -the others, a lieutenant named Cook; it struck a vital part and killed -him. Mr. Parrifer was arrested by the police at once; he was in plain -clothes and there was nothing to show that he was an officer. They had -to strap him down to carry him to prison: between drink, rage, and -fever, he was as a maniac. The next morning he was lying in brain fever, -and when Cathy left he had been put into a strait-waistcoat. - -She gave the heads of this account in as few words as it is written. -Major Parrifer stood like a helpless man. Taking one thing with another, -the blow was horrible. Parents don't often see the defects in their own -children, especially if they are only sons. Far from having thought his -son soft, unfit (as he nearly was) to be trusted about, the Major had -been proud of him as his heir, and told the world he was perfection. -Soft as young Parrifer was, he had contrived to keep his ill-doings from -his father. - -Of course it was only natural that the Major's first relief should be -abuse of Cathy. He told her all that had happened to his son _she_ was -the cause of, and called her a few more genteel names in doing it. - -"Not at all," said Cathy; "you are wrong there, sir. His marriage with -me was a little bit of a stop-gap and served to keep him straight for a -month or two; but for that, he would have done for himself before now. -Do you think I've had a bargain in him, sir? No. Marriage is a thing -that can't be undone, Major Parrifer: but I wish to my heart that I was -at home again in father's cottage, light-hearted Cathy Reed." - -The Major made no answer. Cathy went on. - -"When the news was brought to me by his servant, that he had killed a -man and was lying raving, I thought it time to go and see about him. -They would not let me into the lock-up where he was lying--and you might -have heard his ravings outside. _I_ did. I said I was his wife; and then -they told me I had better see Captain Williams. I went to head-quarters -and saw Captain Williams. He seemed to doubt me; so I showed him the -certificate, and told him my baby was at home, turned six weeks old. He -was very kind then, sir; took me to see my husband; and advised me to -come over here at once and give you the particulars. I told him what was -the truth--that I had no money, and the lodgings were owing for. He -said the lodgings must wait: and he would lend me enough money for the -journey." - -"Did you see him?" growled Major Parrifer. - -Cathy knew that he alluded to his son, though he would not speak the -name. - -"I saw him, sir; I told you so. He did not know me or anybody else; he -was raving mad, and shaking so that the bed shook under him." - -"How is it that they have not written to me?" demanded Major Parrifer. - -"I don't think anybody liked to do it. Captain Williams said the best -plan would be for me to come over. He asked me if I'd like to hear the -truth of the past as regarded my husband; or if I would just come here -and tell you the bare facts that were known about his illness and the -charge against him. I said I'd prefer to hear the truth--it couldn't be -worse than I suspected. Then he went on to the drinking and the gambling -and the debts, just as I have repeated it to you, sir. He was very -gentle; but he said he thought it would be mistaken kindness not to let -me fully understand the state of things. He said Mr. Parrifer's father, -or some other friend, had better go over to Ireland." - -In spite of himself, a groan escaped Major Parrifer. The blow was the -worst that could have fallen upon him. He had not cared much for his -daughters; his ambition was centred in his son. Visions of a sojourn at -Dublin, and of figuring off at the Vice-Regal Court, himself, his wife, -and his son, had floated occasionally in rose-coloured clouds before his -eyes, poor pompous old simpleton. And now--to picture the visit he must -set out upon ere the night was over, nearly drove him wild with pain. -Cathy unlatched the door, but waited to speak again before she opened -it. - -"I'll rid the house of me now that I have broke it to you, sir. If you -want me I shall be found at father's cottage; I suppose they'll let -me stay there: if not, you can hear of me at the place where I've left -my baby. And if your son should ever wake out of his delirium, Major -Parrifer, he will be able to tell you that if he had listened to me and -heeded me, or even only come to spend his evenings with me--which it's -months since he did--he would not have been in this plight now. Should -they try him for murder; and nothing can save him from it if he gets -well; I----" - -A succession of screams cut short what Cathy was about to add. In her -surprise she drew wide the door, and was confronted by Miss Jemima -Parrifer. That young lady, curious upon the subject of the visit and -visitor, had thought it well to put her ear to the library door. With no -effect, however, until Cathy unlatched it. And then she heard more than -she had thought for. - -"Is it _you_!" roughly cried Miss Jemima, recognizing her for the -ill-talked-of Cathy Reed, the daughter of the Major's enemy. "What do -you want here?" - -Cathy did not answer. She walked to the hall-door and let herself out. -Miss Jemima went on into the library. - -"Papa, what was it she was saying about Spencer, that vile girl? What -did she do here? Why did she send in her name as Mrs. Parrifer?" - -The Major might have heard the questions, or he might not; he didn't -respond to them. Miss Jemima, looking closely at him in the darkness of -the room, saw a grey, worn, terror-stricken face, that looked as her -father's had never looked yet. - -"Oh, papa! what is the matter? Are you ill?" - -He walked towards her in the quietest manner possible, took her arm and -pushed her out at the door. Not rudely; softly, as one might do who is -in a dream. - -"Presently, presently," he muttered in quite an altered voice, low and -timid. And Miss Jemima found the door bolted against her. - -It must have been an awful moment with him. Look on what side he would, -there was no comfort. Spencer Parrifer was ruined past redemption. He -might die in this illness, and then, what of his soul? Not that the -Major was given to that kind of reflection. Escaping the illness, he -must be tried--for his life, as Cathy had phrased it. And escaping that, -if the miracle were possible, there remained the miserable debts and the -miserable wife he had clogged himself with. - -Curiously enough, as the miserable Major, most miserable in that moment, -pictured these things, there suddenly rose up before his mind's eye -another picture. A remembrance of Reed, who had stood in that very room -less than twelve months ago, in the dim light of late night, with his -hair cut close, and his warning: "_It will come home to you, Major -Parrifer._" _Had_ it come home to him? Home to him already? The drops of -agony broke out on his face as he asked the question. It seemed to him, -in that moment of excitement, so very like some of Heaven's own -lightning. - -One grievous portion of the many ills had perhaps not fallen, but for -putting Reed in prison--the marriage; and that one was more humiliating -to Major Parrifer's spirit than all the rest. Had Reed been at liberty, -Cathy might not have made her escape untracked, and the bitter marriage -might, in that case, have been avoided. - -A groan, and now another, broke from the Major. How it had come home -to him! not his selfishness and his barbarity and his pride, but this -sorrowful blow. Reed's month in prison, compared with this, was as a -drop of water to the ocean. As to the girl--when Reed had come asking -for tidings of her, it had seemed to the Major not of the least moment -whither she had gone or what ill she had entered on: was she not a -common labourer's daughter, and that labourer George Reed? Even then, at -that very time, she was his daughter-in-law, and his son the one to be -humiliated. Major Parrifer ground his teeth, and only stopped when he -remembered that something must be done about that disgraceful son. - -He started that night for Ireland. Cathy, affronted at some remark made -by Mrs. Reed, took herself off from her father's cottage. She had a -little money still left from her journey, and could spend it. - -Spencer Gervoise Daubeney Parrifer (the Major and his wife had bestowed -the fine names upon him in pride at his baptism) died in prison. He -lived only a day after Major Parrifer's arrival, and never recognized -him. Of course it saved the trial, when he would probably have been -convicted of manslaughter. It saved the payment of his hundreds of debts -too; post-obits and all; he died before his father. But it could not -save exposure; it could not keep the facts from the world. Major and -Mrs. Parrifer, so to say, would never lift up their heads again; the sun -of their life had set. - -Neither would Cathy lift hers yet awhile. She contrived to quarrel with -her father; the Parrifers never took the remotest notice of her; she -was nearly starved and her baby too. What little she earned was by hard -work: but it would not keep her, and she applied to the parish. The -parish in turn applied to Major Parrifer, and forced from him as much as -the law allowed, a few shillings a week. Having to apply to the parish -was, for Cathy, a humiliation never to be forgotten. The neighbours made -their comments. - -"Cathy Reed had brought her pigs to a fine market!" - -So she had; and she felt it more than the loss of her baby, who died -soon after. Better that she had married an honest day-labourer: and -Cathy knew it now. - - - - -VI. - -LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. - - -It happened when we were staying at our other house, Crabb Cot. In -saying "we" were staying at it, I mean the family, for Tod and I were at -school. - -Crabb Cot lay beyond the village of Crabb. Just across the road, a few -yards higher up, was the large farm of Mr. Coney; and his house and ours -were the only two that stood there. Crabb Cot was a smaller and more -cosy house than Dyke Manor; and, when there, we were not so very far -from Worcester: less than half-way, comparing it with the Manor. - -Crabb was a large and straggling parish. North Crabb, which was nearest -to us, had the church and schools in it, but very few houses. South -Crabb, further off, was more populous. Nearly a mile beyond South Crabb, -there was a regular junction of rails. Lines, crossing each other in a -most bewildering manner, led off in all directions: and it required no -little manoeuvring to send the trains away right at busy times. Which -of course was the pointsman's affair. - -The busiest days had place in summer, when excursion trains were in full -swing: but they would come occasionally at other times, driving the -South Crabb station people off their heads with bother before night. - -The pointsman was Harry Lease. I dare say you have noticed how certain -names seem to belong to certain places. At North Crabb and South Crabb, -and in the district round about, the name of Lease was as common as -blackberries in a hedge; and if the different Leases had been cousins -in the days gone by, the relationship was lost now. There might be -seven-and-twenty Leases, in and out, but Harry Lease was not, so far as -he knew, akin to any of them. - -South Crabb was not much of a place at best. A part of it, Crabb Lane, -branching off towards Massock's brickfields, was crowded as a London -street. Poor dwellings were huddled together, and children jostled each -other on the door-steps. Squire Todhetley said he remembered it when it -really was a lane, hedges on either side and a pond that was never dry. -Harry Lease lived in the last house, a thatched hut with three rooms in -it. He was a steady, civil, hard-working man, superior to some of his -neighbours, who were given to reeling home at night and beating their -wives on arrival. His wife, a nice sort of woman to talk to, was a bad -manager; but the five children were better behaved and better kept than -the other grubbers in the gutter. - -Lease was the pointsman at South Crabb Junction, and helped also in the -general business there. He walked to his work at six in the morning, -carrying his breakfast with him; went home to dinner at twelve, the -leisure part of the day at the station, and had his tea taken to him at -four; leaving in general at nine. Sometimes his wife arrived with the -tea; sometimes the eldest child, Polly, an intelligent girl of six. -But, one afternoon in September, a crew of mischievous boys from the -brickfields espied what Polly was carrying. They set upon her, turned -over the can of tea in fighting for it, ate the bread-and-butter, tore -her pinafore in the skirmish, and frightened her nearly to death. After -that, Lease said that the child should not be sent with the tea: so, -when his wife could not take it, he went without tea. Polly and her -father were uncommonly alike, too quiet to battle much with the world: -sensitive, in fact: though it sounds odd to say that. - -During the month of November one of the busy days occurred at South -Crabb Junction. There was a winter meeting on Worcester race-course, a -cattle and pig show in a town larger than Worcester, and two or three -markets and other causes of increased traffic, all falling on the -same day. What with cattle-trains, ordinary and special trains, and -goods-trains, and the grunting of obstinate pigs, Lease had plenty to -do to keep his points in order. - -How it fell out he never knew. Between eight and nine o'clock, when a -train was expected in on its way to Worcester, Lease forgot to shift the -points. A goods-train had come in ten minutes before, for which he had -had to turn the points, and he never turned them back again. On came the -train, almost as quickly as though it had not to pull up at South Crabb -Junction. Watson, the station-master, came out to be in readiness. - -"The engine has her steam on to-night," he remarked to Lease as he -watched the red lights, like two great eyes, come tearing on. "She'll -have to back." - -She did something worse than back. Instead of slackening on the near -lines, she went flying off at a tangent to some outer ones on which the -goods-train stood, waiting until the passenger train should pass. There -was a short, sharp sound from the whistle, a great collision, a noise of -steam hissing, a sense of dire confusion: and for one minute afterwards -a dead lull, as if every one and everything were paralyzed. - -"You never turned the points!" shouted the station-master to Lease. - -Lease made no rejoinder. He backed against the wall like a man helpless, -his arms stretched out, his face and eyes wild with horror. Watson -thought he was going to have a fit, and shook him roughly. - -"_You've_ done it nicely, you have!" he added, as he flew off to the -scene of disaster, from which the steam was beginning to clear away. But -Lease reached it before him. - -"God forgive me! God have mercy upon me!" - -A porter, running side by side with Lease, heard him say it. In telling -it afterwards the man described the tone as one of intense, piteous -agony. - -The Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, who had been a few miles off to spend the -day, were in the train with Lena. The child did nothing but cry and sob; -not with damage, but fright. Mr. Coney also happened to be in it; and -Massock, who owned the brickfields. They were not hurt at all, only a -little shaken, and (as the Squire put it afterwards,) mortally scared. -Massock, an under-bred man, who had grown rich by his brickfields, was -more pompous than a lord. The three seized upon the station-master. - -"Now then, Watson," cried Mr. Coney, "what was the cause of all this?" - -"If there have been any negligence here--and I know there have--you -shall be transported for it, Watson, as sure as I'm a living man," -roared Massock. - -"I'm afraid, gentlemen, that something was wrong with the points," -acknowledged Watson, willing to shift the blame from himself, and too -confused to consider policy. "At least that's all I can think." - -"With the points!" cried Massock. "Them's Harry Lease's work. Was he on -to-night?" - -"Lease is here as usual, Mr. Massock. I don't say this lies at his -door," added Watson, hastily. "The points might have been out of order; -or something else wrong totally different. I should like to know, for my -part, what possessed Roberts to bring up his train at such speed." - -Darting in and out of the heap of confusion like a mad spirit; now -trying by his own effort to lift the broken parts of carriages off some -sufferer, now carrying a poor fellow away to safety, but always in the -thick of danger went Harry Lease. Braving the heat and steam as though -he felt them not, he flew everywhere, himself and his lantern alike -trembling with agitation. - -"Come and look here, Harry; I'm afraid he's dead," said a porter, -throwing his light upon a man's face. The words arrested Mr. Todhetley, -who was searching for Lease to let off a little of his anger. It was -Roberts, the driver of the passenger-train, who lay there, his face -white and still. Somehow the sight made the Squire still, too. Raising -Roberts's head, the men put a drop of brandy between his lips, and he -moved. Lease broke into a low glad cry. - -"He is not dead! he is not dead!" - -The angry reproaches died away on the Squire's tongue: it did not seem -quite the time to speak them. By-and-by he came upon Lease again. The -man had halted to lean against some palings, feeling unaccountably -strange, much as though the world around were closing to him. - -"Had you been drinking to-night, Lease?" - -The question was put quietly: which was, so to say, a feather in the hot -Squire's cap. Lease only shook his head by way of answer. He had a pale, -gentle kind of face, with brown eyes that always wore a sad expression. -He never drank, and the Squire knew it. - -"Then how came you to neglect the points, Lease, and cause this awful -accident?" - -"I don't know, sir," answered Lease, rousing out of his lethargy, but -speaking as one in a dream. "I can't think but what I turned them as -usual." - -"You knew the train was coming? It was the ordinary train." - -"I knew it was coming," assented Lease. "I watched it come along, -standing by the side of Mr. Watson. If I had not set the points right, -why, I should have thought surely of them then; it stands to reason I -should. But never such a thought came into my mind, sir. I waited there, -just as if all was right; and I believe I _did_ shift the points." - -Lease did not put this forth as an excuse: he only spoke aloud the -problem that was working in his mind. Having shifted the points -regularly for five years, it seemed simply impossible that he could have -neglected it now. And yet the man could not _remember_ to have done it -this evening. - -"You can't call it to mind?" said Squire Todhetley, repeating his last -words. - -"No, I can't, sir: and no wonder, with all this confusion around me and -the distress I'm in. I may be able to do so to-morrow." - -"Now look you here, Lease," said the Squire, getting just a little -cross: "if you had put the points right you couldn't fail to remember -it. And what causes your distress, I should like to ask, but the -knowledge that you _didn't_, and that all this wreck is owing to you?" - -"There is such a thing as doing things mechanically, sir, without the -mind being conscious of it." - -"Doing things wilfully," roared the Squire. "Do you want to tell me I am -a fool to my face?" - -"It has often happened, sir, that when I have wound up the mantel-shelf -clock at night in our sleeping-room, I'll not know the next minute -whether I've wound it or not, and I have to try it again, or else ask -the wife," went on Lease, looking straight out into the darkness, as if -he could see the clock then. "I can't think but what it must have been -just in that way that I put the points right to-night." - -Squire Todhetley, in his anger, which was growing hot again, felt that -he should like to give Lease a sound shaking. He had no notion of such -talk as this. - -"I don't know whether you are a knave or a fool, Lease. Killing men and -women and children; breaking arms and legs; putting a whole trainful -into mortal fright; smashing property and engines to atoms; turning the -world, in fact, upside down, so that people don't know whether they -stand on their heads or their heels! You may think you can do this with -impunity perhaps, but the law will soon teach you better. I should not -like to go to bed with human lives on my soul." - -The Squire disappeared in a whirlwind. Lease--who seemed to have taken a -leaf out of his own theory, and listened mechanically--closed his eyes -and put his head back against the palings, like one who has had a shock. -He went home when there was nothing more to be done. Not down the -highway, but choosing the field-path, where he would not be likely -to meet a soul. Crabb Lane, accustomed to put itself into a state of -commotion for nothing at all, had got something at last, and was up in -arms. All the men employed at the station lived in Crabb Lane. The wife -and children of Bowen, the stoker of the passenger-train,--dead--also -inhabited a room in that noisy locality. So that when Lease came in view -of the place, he saw an excited multitude, though it was then long after -ordinary bed-time. Groups stood in the highway; heads, thrust forth at -upper windows, were shouting remarks across the street and back again. -Keeping on the far side of the hedge, Lease got in by the back-door -unseen. His wife was sitting by the fire, trembling and frightened. She -started up. - -"Oh, Harry! what is the truth of this?" - -He did not answer. Not in neglect; Lease was as civil indoors as out, -which can't be said of every one; but as if he did not hear. The supper, -bread and half a cold red-herring, was on the table. Generally he was -hungry enough for supper, but he never glanced at it this evening. - -Sitting down, he looked into the fire and remained still, listening -perhaps to the outside hubbub. His wife, half dead with fear and -apprehension, could keep silence no longer, and asked again. - -"I don't know," he answered then. "They say that I never turned the -points; I'm trying to remember doing it, Mary. My senses have been -scared out of me." - -"But _don't_ you remember doing it?" - -He put his hands to his temples, and his eyes took that far-off, sad -look, often seen in eyes when the heart is troubled. With all his might -and main, the man was trying to recall the occurrence which would not -come to him. A dread conviction began to dawn within him that it never -would or could come; and Lease's face grew damp with drops of agony. - -"I turned the points for the down goods-train," he said presently; "I -remember that. When the goods came in, I know I was in the signal-house. -Then I took a message to Hoar; and next I stepped across with some oil -for the engine of an up-train that dashed in; they called out that it -wanted some. I helped to do it, and took the oil back again. It would be -then that I went to put the points right," he added after a pause. "I -_hope_ I did." - -"But, Harry, don't you remember doing it?" - -"No, I don't; there's where it is." - -"You always put the points straight at once after the train has passed?" - -"Not if I'm called off by other work. It ought to be done. A pointsman -should stand while the train passes, and then step off to right the -points at once. But when you are called off half-a-dozen ways to things -crying out to be done, you can't spend time in waiting for the points. -We've never had a harder day's work at the station than this has been, -Mary; trains in, trains out; the place has hardly been free a minute -together. And the extra telegraphing!--half the passengers that stopped -seemed to want to send messages. When six o'clock came I was worn out; -done up; fit to drop." - -Mrs. Lease gave a start. An idea flashed into her mind, causing her -to ask mentally whether _she_ could have had indirectly a hand in the -calamity. For that had been one of the days when her husband had had no -tea taken to him. She had been very busy washing, and the baby was sick -and cross: that had been quite enough to fill incapable Mrs. Lease's -hands, without bothering about her husband's tea. And, of all days in -the year, it seemed that he had, on this one, most needed tea. Worn out! -done up! - -The noise in Crabb Lane was increasing, voices sounded louder, and -Mrs. Lease put her hands to her ears. Just then a sudden interruption -occurred. Polly, supposed to be safe asleep upstairs, burst into the -kitchen in her night-gown, and flew into her father's arms, sobbing and -crying. - -"Oh, father, is it true?--is it true?" - -"Why--Polly!" cried the man, looking at her, in astonishment. "What's -this?" - -She hid her face on his waistcoat, her hands clinging round him. Polly -had awakened and heard the comments outside. She was too nervous and -excitable for Crabb Lane. - -"They are saying you have killed Kitty Bowen's father. It isn't true, -father! Go out and tell them that it isn't true!" - -His own nerves were unstrung; his strength had gone out of him; it only -needed something of this kind to finish up Lease; and he broke into -sobs. Holding the child to him with a tight grasp, they cried together. -If Lease had never known agony before in his life, he knew it then. - -The days went on. There was no longer any holding-out on Lease's part -on the matter of points: all the world said he had been guilty of -neglecting to turn them; and he supposed he had. He accepted the fate -meekly, without resistance, his manner strangely still, as one who has -been utterly subdued. When talked to, he freely avowed that it remained -a puzzle to him how he could have forgotten the points, and what made -him forget them. He shrank neither from reproach nor abuse; listening -patiently to all who chose to attack him, as if he had no longer any -right to claim a place in the world. - -He was not spared. Coroner and jury, friends and foes, all went on at -him, painting his sins in flaring colours, and calling him names to his -face. "Murderer" was one of the least of them. Four had died in all; -Roberts was not expected to live; the rest were getting well. There -would have been no trouble over the inquest (held at the Bull, between -Crabb Lane and the station), it might have been finished in a day, and -Lease committed for trial, but that one of those who had died was a -lawyer; and his brother (also a lawyer) and other of his relatives -(likewise lawyers) chose to make a commotion. Mr. Massock helped them. -Passengers must be examined; rails tried; the points tested; every -conceivable obstacle was put in the way of a conclusion. Fifteen times -had the jury to go and look at the spot, and see the working of the -points tested. And so the inquest was adjourned from time to time, and -might be finished perhaps something under a year. - -The public were like so many wolves, all howling at Lease; from the -aforesaid relatives and Brickfield Massock, down to the men and women of -Crabb Lane. Lease was at home on bail, surrendering himself at every -fresh meeting of the inquest. A few wretched malcontents had begun to -hiss him as he passed in and out of Crabb Lane. - - * * * * * - -When we got home for the Christmas holidays, nothing met us but tales of -Lease's wickedness, in having sent one train upon the other. The Squire -grew hot in talking of it. Tod, given to be contrary, said he should -like to have Lease's own version of the affair. A remark that affronted -the Squire. - -"You can go off and get it from him, sir. Lease won't refuse it; he'd -give it to the dickens, for the asking. He likes nothing better than to -talk about it." - -"After all, it was only a misfortune," said Tod. "It was not wilfully -done." - -"Not wilfully done!" stuttered the Pater in his rage. "When I, and -Lena, and her mother were in the train, and might have been smashed -to atoms! When Coney, and Massock (not that I like the fellow), and -scores more were put in jeopardy, and some were killed; yes, sir, -killed. A misfortune! Johnny, if you stand there grinning like an -idiot, I'll send you back to school: you shall both pack off this very -hour. A misfortune, indeed! Lease deserves hanging." - -The next morning we came upon Lease accidentally in the fields. He -was leaning over the gate amongst the trees, as Tod and I crossed the -rivulet bridge--which was nothing but a plank or two. A couple of -bounds, and we were up with him. - -"Now for it, Lease!" cried Tod. "Let us hear a bit about the matter." - -How Lease was altered! His cheeks were thin and white, his eyes -had nothing but despair in them. Standing up he touched his hat -respectfully. - -"Ay, sir, it has been a sad time," answered Lease, in a low, patient -voice, as if he felt worn out. "I little thought when I last shut -you and Master Johnny into the carriage the morning you left, that -misfortune was so close at hand." For, just before it happened, we had -been at home for a day's holiday. - -"Well, tell us about it." - -Tod stood with his arm round the trunk of a tree, and I sat down on an -opposite stump. Lease had very little to say; nothing, except that he -must have forgotten to change the points. - -And that made Tod stare. Tod, like the Pater, was hasty by nature. -Knowing Lease's good character, he had not supposed him guilty; and to -hear the man quietly admit that he _was_ excited Tod's ire. - -"What do you mean, Lease?" - -"Mean, sir?" returned Lease, meekly. - -"Do you mean to say that you did _not_ attend to the points?--that you -just let one train run on to the other?" - -"Yes, sir; that is how it must have been. I didn't believe it, sir, for -a long time afterwards: not for several hours." - -"A long time, that," said Tod, an unpleasant sound of mockery in his -tone. - -"No, sir; I know it's not much, counting by time," answered Lease -patiently. "But nobody can ever picture how long those hours seemed to -me. They were like years. I couldn't get the idea into me at all that I -had not set the points as usual; it seemed a thing incredible; but, try -as I would, I was unable to call to mind having done it." - -"Well, I must say that is a nice thing to confess to, Lease! And there -was I, yesterday afternoon, taking your part and quarrelling with my -father." - -"I am sorry for that, sir. I am not worth having my part taken in -anything, since that happened." - -"But how came you to _do_ it?" - -"It's a question I shall never be able to answer, sir. We had a busy -day, were on the run from morning till night, and there was a great deal -of confusion at the station: but it was no worse than many a day that -has gone before it." - -"Well, I shall be off," said Tod. "This has shut me up. I thought of -going in for you, Lease, finding every one else was dead against you. -A misfortune is a misfortune, but wilful carelessness is sin: and my -father and his wife and my little sister were in the train. Come along, -Johnny." - -"Directly, Tod. I'll catch you up. I say, Lease, how will it end?" I -asked, as Tod went on. - -"It can't end better than two years' imprisonment for me, sir; and I -suppose it may end worse. It is not _that_ I think of." - -"What else, then?" - -"Four dead already, sir; four--and one soon to follow them, making -five," he answered, his voice hushed to a whisper. "Master Johnny, it -lies on me always, a dreadful weight never to be got rid of. When I was -young, I had a sort of low fever, and used to see in my dreams some -dreadful task too big to be attempted, and yet I had to do it; and the -weight on my mind was awful. I didn't think, till now, such a weight -could fall in real life. Sleeping or waking, sir, I see those four -before me dead. Squire Todhetley told me that I had their lives on my -soul. And it is so." - -I did not know what to answer. - -"So you see, sir, I don't think much of the imprisonment; if I did, -I might be wanting to get the suspense over. It's not any term of -imprisonment, no, not though it were for life, that can wash out the -past. I'd give my own life, sir, twice over if that could undo it." - -Lease had his arm on the gate as he spoke, leaning forward. I could not -help feeling sorry for him. - -"If people knew how I'm punished within myself, Master Johnny, they'd -perhaps not be so harsh upon me. I have never had a proper night's rest -since it happened, sir. I have to get up and walk about in the middle of -the night because I can't lie. The sight of the dawn makes me sick, and -I say to myself, How shall I get through the day? When bed-time comes, I -wonder how I shall lie till morning. Often I wish it had pleased God to -take me before that day had happened." - -"Why don't they get the inquest over, Lease?" - -"There's something or other always brought up to delay it, sir. I -don't see the need of it. If it would bring the dead back to life, why, -they might delay it; but it won't. They might as well let it end, and -sentence me, and have done with it. Each time when I go back home -through Crabb Lane, the men and women call out, 'What, put off again!' -'What, ain't he in gaol yet!' Which is the place they say I ought to -have been in all along." - -"I suppose the coroner knows you'll not run away, Lease." - -"Everybody knows that, sir." - -"Some would, though, in your place." - -"I don't know where they'd run to," returned Lease. "They couldn't run -away from their own minds--and that's the worst part of it. Sometimes I -wonder whether I shall ever get it off mine, sir, or if I shall have it -on me, like this, to the end of my life. The Lord knows what it is to -me; nobody else does." - -You cannot always make things fit into one another. I was thinking so as -I left Lease and went after Tod. It was awful carelessness not to have -set the points; causing death, and sorrow, and distress to many people. -Looking at it from their side, the pointsman was detestable; only -fit, as the Squire said, to be hanged. But looking at it side by side -with Lease, seeing his sad face, his self-reproach, and his patient -suffering, it seemed altogether different; and the two aspects would not -by any means fit in together. - -Christmas week, and the absence of a juror who had gone out visiting, -made another excuse for putting off the inquest to the next week. When -that came, the coroner was ill. There seemed to be no end to the delays, -and the public steam was getting up in consequence. As to Lease, he went -about like a man who is looking for something that he has lost and -cannot find. - -One day, when the ice lay in Crabb Lane, and I was taking the slides on -my way through it to join Tod, who had gone rabbit-shooting, a little -girl ran across my feet, and was knocked down. I fell too; and the child -began to cry. Picking her up, I saw it was Polly Lease. - -"You little stupid! why did you run into my path like that?" - -"Please, sir, I didn't see you," she sobbed. "I was running after -father. Mother saw him in the field yonder, and sent me to tell him we'd -got a bit o' fire." - -Polly had grazed both her knees; they began to bleed just a little, and -she nearly went into convulsions at sight of the blood. I carried her -in. There was about a handful of fire in the grate. The mother sat on a -low stool, close into it, nursing one of the children, and the rest sat -on the floor. - -"I never saw such a child as this in all my life, Mrs. Lease. Because -she has hurt her knees a bit, and sees a drop of blood, she's going to -die of fright. Look here." - -Mrs. Lease put the boy down and took Polly, who was trembling all over -with her deep low sobs. - -"It was always so, sir," said Mrs. Lease; "always since she was a baby. -She is the timorest-natured child possible. We have tried everything; -coaxing and scolding too; but we can't get her out of it. If she pricks -her finger her face turns white." - -"I'd be more of a woman than cry at nothing, if I were you, Polly," said -I, sitting on the window-ledge, while Mrs. Lease washed the knees; which -were hardly damaged at all when they came to be examined. But Polly only -clung to her mother, with her face hidden, and giving a deep sob now and -then. - -"Look up, Polly. What's this!" - -I put it into her hand as I spoke; a bath bun that I had been carrying -with me, in case I did not get home to luncheon. Polly looked round, and -the sight dried the tears on her swollen face. You never saw such a -change all in a moment, or such eager, glad little eyes as hers. - -"Divide it mother," said she. "Leave a bit for father." - -Two of them came flocking round like a couple of young wolves; the -youngest couldn't get up, and the one Mrs. Lease had been nursing stayed -on the floor where she put him. He had a sickly face, with great bright -grey eyes, and hot, red lips. - -"What's the matter with him, Mrs. Lease?" - -"With little Tom, sir? I think it's a kind of fever. He never was -strong; none of them are: and of course these bad times can but tell -upon us." - -"Don't forget father, mother," said Polly. "Leave the biggest piece for -father." - -"Now I tell you all what it is," said I to the children, when Mrs. -Lease began to divide it into half-a-dozen pieces, "that bun's for -Polly, because she has hurt herself: you shall not take any of it from -her. Give it to Polly, Mrs. Lease." - -Of all the uproars ever heard, those little cormorants set up the worst. -Mrs. Lease looked at me. - -"They must have a bit, sir: they must indeed. Polly wouldn't eat all -herself, Master Ludlow; you couldn't get her to do it." - -But I was determined Polly should have it. It was through me she got -hurt; and besides, I liked her. - -"Now just listen, you little pigs. I'll go to Ford's, the baker's, and -bring you all a bun a-piece, but Polly must have this one. They have -lots of currants in them, those buns, for children that don't squeal. -How many are there of you? One, two, three,---- four." - -Catching up my cap, I was going out when Mrs. Lease touched me. "Do you -really mean it, sir?" she asked in a whisper. - -"Mean what? That I am going to bring the buns? Of course I mean it. I'll -be back with them directly." - -"Oh, sir--but do forgive me for making free to ask such a thing--if you -would only let it be a half-quartern loaf instead?" - -"A half-quartern loaf!" - -"They've not had a bit between their lips this day, Master Ludlow," she -said, catching her breath, as her face, which had flushed, turned pale -again. "Last night I divided between the four of them a piece of bread -half the size of my hand; Tom, he couldn't eat." - -I stared for a minute. "How is it, Mrs. Lease? can you not get enough -food?" - -"I don't know where we should get it from, sir. Lease has not broken his -fast since yesterday at midday." - -Dame Ford put the loaf in paper for me, wondering what on earth I wanted -with it, as I could see by her inquisitive eyes, but not liking to ask; -and I carried it back with the four buns. They were little wolves and -nothing else when they saw the food. - -"How has this come about, Mrs. Lease?" I asked, while they were eating -the bread she cut them, and she had taken Tom on her lap again. - -"Why, sir, it is eight weeks now, or hard upon it, since my husband -earned anything. They didn't even pay him for the last week he was at -work, as the accident happened in it. We had nothing in hand; people -with only eighteen shillings a week and five children to feed, can't -save; and we have been living on our things. But there's nothing left -now to make money of--as you may see by the bare room, sir." - -"Does not any one help you?" - -"Help us!" returned Mrs. Lease. "Why, Master Ludlow, people, for the -most part, are so incensed against my husband, that they'd take the -bread out of our mouths, instead of putting a bit into them. All their -help goes to poor Nancy Bowen and her children: and Lease is glad it -should be so. When I carried Tom to Mr. Cole's yesterday, he said that -what the child wanted was nourishment." - -"This must try Lease." - -"Yes," she said, her face flushing again, but speaking very quietly. -"Taking one thing with another, I am not sure but it is killing him." - -After this break, I did not care to go to the shooting, but turned back -to Crabb Cot. Mrs. Todhetley was alone in the bow-windowed parlour, so I -told her of the state the Leases were in, and asked if she would not -help them. - -"I don't know what to say about it, Johnny," she said, after a pause. -"If I were willing, you know Mr. Todhetley would not be so. He can't -forgive Lease for his carelessness. Every time Lena wakes up from sleep -in a fright, fancying it is another accident, his anger returns to him. -We often hear her crying out, you know, down here in an evening." - -"The carelessness was no fault of Lease's children, that they should -suffer for it." - -"When you grow older, Johnny, you will find that the consequences of -people's faults fall more on others than on themselves. It is very sad -the Leases should be in this state; I am sorry for them." - -"Then you'll help them a bit, good mother." - -Mrs. Todhetley was always ready to help any one, not needing to be -urged; on the other hand, she liked to yield implicitly to the opinions -of the Squire. Between the two, she went into a dilemma. - -"Suppose it were Lena, starving for want of food and warmth?" I said. -"Or Hugh sick with fever, as that young Tom is? Those children have done -no more harm than ours." - -Mrs. Todhetley put her hand up to her face, and her mild eyes looked -nearly as sad as Lease's. - -"Will you take it to them yourself, Johnny, in a covered basket, and not -let it be seen? That is, make it your own doing?" - -"Yes." - -"Go to the kitchen then, and ask Molly. There are some odds and ends of -things in the larder that will not be particularly wanted. You see, -Johnny, I do not like to take an active part in this; it would seem like -opposing the Squire." - -Molly was stooping before the big fire, basting the meat, in one of her -vile humours. If I wanted to rob the larder, I must do it, she cried; -it was my business, not hers; and she dashed the basting spoon across -the table by way of accompaniment. - -I gave a good look round the larder, and took a raised pork-pie that had -a piece cut out of it, and a leg of mutton three parts eaten. On the -shelf were a dozen mince-pies, just out of their patty-pans; I took six -and left six. Molly, screwing her face round the kitchen-door, caught -sight of them as they went into the basket, and rushing after me out of -the house, shrieked out for her mince-pies. - -The race went on. She was a woman not to be daunted. Just as we turned -round by the yellow barn, I first, she raving behind, the Squire pounced -upon us, asking what the uproar meant. Molly told her tale. I was a -thief, and had gone off with the whole larder, more particularly with -her mince-pies. - -"Open the basket, Johnny," said the Squire: which was the one Tod and I -used when we went fishing. - -No sooner was it done than Molly marched off with the pies in triumph. -The Pater regarded the pork-pie and the meat with a curious gaze. - -"This is for you and Joe, I suppose. I should like to know for how many -more." - -I was one of the worst to conceal things, when taken-to like this, and -he got it all out of me in no time. And then he put his hand on my -shoulder and ordered me to say _who_ the things were for. Which I had to -do. - -Well, there was a row. He wanted to know what I meant by being wicked -enough to give food to Lease. I said it was for the children. I'm afraid -I almost cried, for I did not like him to be angry with me, but I know I -promised not to eat any dinner at home for three days if he would let me -take the meat. Molly's comments, echoing through the house, betrayed to -Mrs. Todhetley what had happened, and she came down the road with a -shawl over her head. She told the Squire the truth then: that she had -sanctioned it. She said she feared the Leases were quite in extremity, -and begged him to let the meat go. - -"Be off for this once, you young thief," stamped the Squire, "but don't -let me catch you at anything of this sort again." - -So the meat went to the Leases, and two loaves that Mrs. Todhetley -whispered me to order for them at Ford's. When I reached home with the -empty basket, they were going in to dinner. I took a book and stayed in -the parlour. In a minute or two the Squire sent to ask what I was doing -that for. - -"It's all right, Thomas. I don't want any dinner to-day." - -Old Thomas went away and returned again, saying the master ordered me to -go in. But I wouldn't do anything of the sort. If he forgot the bargain, -I did not. - -Out came the Squire, his face red, napkin in hand, and laid hold of me -by the shoulders. - -"You obstinate young Turk! How dare you defy me? Come along." - -"But it is not to defy you, sir. It was a bargain, you know; I -promised." - -"What was a bargain?" - -"That I should not have any dinner for three days. Indeed I meant it." - -The Squire's answer was to propel me into the dining-room. "Move down, -Joe," he said, "I'll have him by me to-day. I'll see whether he is to -starve himself out of bravado." - -"Why, what's up?" asked Tod, as he went to a lower seat. "What have you -been doing, Johnny?" - -"Never mind," said the Squire, putting enough mutton on my plate for -two. "You eat that, Mr. Johnny?" - -It went on so throughout dinner. Mrs. Todhetley gave me a big share of -apple pudding; and, when the macaroni came on, the Squire heaped my -plate. And I know it was all done to show he was not really angry with -me for having taken the things to the Leases. - -Mr. Cole, the surgeon, came in after dinner, and was told of my -wickedness. Lena ran up to me and said might she send her new sixpence -to the poor little children who had no bread to eat. - -"What's that Lease about, that he does not go to work?" asked the -Squire, in loud tones. "Letting folks hear that his young ones are -starving!" - -"The man can't work," said Mr. Cole. "He is out on probation, you know, -waiting for the verdict, and the sentence on him that is to follow." - -"Then why don't they return their verdict and sentence him?" demanded -the Squire, in his hot way. - -"Ah!" said Mr. Cole, "it's what they ought to have done long ago." - -"What will it be! Transportation?" - -"I should take care it was _not_, if I were on the jury. The man had too -much work on him that day, and had had nothing to eat or drink for too -many hours." - -"I won't hear a word in his defence," growled the Squire. - - * * * * * - -When the jury met for the last time, Lease was ill. A day or two before -that, some one had brought Lease word that Roberts, who had been -lingering all that time in the infirmary at Worcester, was going at -last. Upon which Lease started to see him. It was not the day for -visitors at the infirmary, but he gained admittance. Roberts was lying -in the accident ward, with his head low and a blue look in his face; -and the first thing Lease did, when he began to speak, was to burst out -crying. The man's strength had gone down to nothing and his spirit was -broken. Roberts made out that he was speaking of his distress at having -been the cause of the calamity, and asking to be forgiven. - -"Mate," said Roberts, putting out his hand that Lease might take it, -"I've never had an ill thought to ye. Mishaps come to all of us that -have to do with rail-travelling; us drivers get more nor you pointsmen. -It might have happened to me to be the cause, just as well as to you. -Don't think no more of it." - -"Say you forgive me," urged Lease, "or I shall not know how to bear it." - -"I forgive thee with my whole heart and soul. I've had a spell of it -here, Lease, waiting for death, knowing it must come to me, and I've got -to look for it kindly. I don't think I'd go back to the world now if I -could. I'm going to a better. It seems just peace, and nothing less. -Shake hands, mate." - -They shook hands. - -"I wish ye'd lift my head a bit," Roberts said, after a while. "The -nurse she come and took away my pillow, thinking I might die easier, I -suppose: I've seen her do it to others. Maybe I was a'most gone, and the -sight of you woke me up again like." - -Lease sat down on the bed and put the man's head upon his breast in the -position that seemed most easy to him; and Roberts died there. - -It was one of the worst days we had that winter. Lease had a night's -walk home of many miles, the sleet and wind beating upon him all the -way. He was not well clad either, for his best things had been pawned. - -So that when the inquest assembled two days afterwards, Lease did not -appear at it. He was in bed with inflammation of the chest, and Mr. Cole -told the coroner that it would be dangerous to take him out of it. Some -of them called it bronchitis; but the Squire never went in for new -names, and never would. - -"I tell you what it is, gentlemen," broke in Mr. Cole, when they were -quarrelling as to whether there should be another adjournment or not, -"you'll put off and put off, until Lease slips through your fingers." - -"Oh, will he, though!" blustered old Massock. "He had better try at it! -We'd soon fetch him back again." - -"You'd be clever to do it," said the doctor. - -Any way, whether it was this or not, they thought better of the -adjournment, and gave their verdict. "Manslaughter against Henry -Lease." And the coroner made out his warrant of committal to Worcester -county prison: where Lease would lie until the March assizes. - -"I am not sure but it ought to have been returned Wilful Murder," -remarked the Squire, as he and the doctor turned out of the Bull, and -picked their way over the slush towards Crabb Lane. - -"It might make no difference, one way or the other," answered Mr. Cole. - -"Make no difference! What d'ye mean? Murder and manslaughter are two -separate crimes, Cole, and must be punished accordingly. You see, -Johnny, what your friend Lease has come to!" - -"What I meant, Squire, was this: that I don't much think Lease will live -to be tried at all." - -"Not live!" - -"I fancy not. Unless I am much mistaken, his life will have been claimed -by its Giver long before March." - -The Squire stopped and looked at Cole. "What's the matter with him? This -inflammation--that you went and testified to?" - -"That will be the cause of death, as returned to the registrar." - -"Why, you speak just as if the man were dying now, Cole!" - -"And I think he is. Lease has been very low for a long time," added Mr. -Cole; "half clad, and not a quarter fed. But it is not that, Squire: -heart and spirit are alike broken: and when this cold caught him, he had -no stamina to withstand it; and so it has seized upon a vital part." - -"Do you mean to tell me to my face that he will die of it?" cried the -Squire, holding on by the middle button of old Cole's great-coat. -"Nonsense, man! you must cure him. We--we did not want him to die, you -know." - -"His life or his death, as it may be, are in the hands of One higher -than I, Squire." - -"I think I'll go in and see him," said the Squire, meekly. - -Lease was lying on a bed close to the floor when we got to the top of -the creaky stairs, which had threatened to come down with the Squire's -weight and awkwardness. He had dozed off, and little Polly, sitting on -the boards, had her head upon his arm. Her starting up awoke Lease. I -was not in the habit of seeing dying people; but the thought struck me -that Lease must be dying. His pale weary face wore the same hue that -Jake's had worn when he was dying: if you have not forgotten him. - -"God bless me!" exclaimed the Squire. - -Lease looked up with his sad eyes. He supposed they had come to tell -him officially about the verdict--which had already reached him -unofficially. - -"Yes, gentlemen, I know it," he said, trying to get up out of respect, -and falling back. "Manslaughter. I'd have been present if I could. Mr. -Cole knows I wasn't able. I think God is taking me instead." - -"But this won't do, you know, Lease," said the Squire. "We don't want -you to die." - -"Well, sir, I'm afraid I am not good for much now. And there'd be the -imprisonment, and then the sentence, so that I could not work for my -wife and children for some long years. When people come to know how I -repented of that night's mistake, and that I have died of it, why, -they'll perhaps befriend them and forgive me. I think God has forgiven -me: He is very merciful." - -"I'll send you in some port wine and jelly and beef-tea--and some -blankets, Lease," cried the Squire quickly, as if he felt flurried. -"And, Lease, poor fellow, I am sorry for having been so angry with you." - -"Thank you for all favours, sir, past and present. But for the help from -your house my little ones would have starved. God bless you all, and -forgive me! Master Johnny, God bless _you_." - -"You'll rally yet, Lease; take heart," said the Squire. - -"No, sir, I don't think so. The great dark load seems to have been -lifted off me, and light to be breaking. Don't sob, Polly! Perhaps -father will be able to see you from up there as well as if he stayed -here." - -The first thing the Squire did when we got out, was to attack Mr. Cole, -telling him he ought not to have let Lease die. As he was in a way about -it, Cole excused it, quietly saying it was no fault of his. - -"I should like to know what it is that has killed him, then?" - -"Grief," said Mr. Cole. "The man has died of what we call a broken -heart. Hearts don't actually sever, you know, Squire, like a china -basin, and there's always some ostensible malady that serves as a reason -to talk about. In this case it will be bronchitis. Which, in point of -fact, is the final end, because Lease could not rally against it. He -told me yesterday that his heart had ached so keenly since November, it -seemed to have dried up within him." - -"We are all a pack of hard-hearted sinners," groaned the Squire, in his -repentance. "Johnny, why could you not have found them out sooner? Where -was the use of your doing it at the eleventh hour, sir, I'd like to -know?" - -Harry Lease died that night. And Crabb Lane, in a fit of repentance as -sudden as the Squire's, took the cost of the funeral off the parish -(giving some abuse in exchange) and went in a body to the grave. I and -Tod followed. - - - - -VII. - -AUNT DEAN. - - -Timberdale was a small place on the other side of Crabb Ravine. Its -Rector was the Reverend Jacob Lewis. Timberdale called him Parson Lewis -when not on ceremony. He had married a widow, Mrs. Tanerton: she had a -good deal of money and two boys, and the parish thought the new lady -might be above them. But she proved kind and good; and her boys did not -ride roughshod over the land or break down the farmers' fences. She died -in three or four years, after a long illness. - -Timberdale talked about her will, deeming it a foolish one. She left all -she possessed to the Rector, "in affectionate confidence," as the will -worded it, "knowing he would do what was right and just by her sons." As -Parson Lewis was an upright man with a conscience of his own, it was -supposed he would do so; but Timberdale considered that for the boys' -sake she should have made it sure herself. It was eight-hundred a year, -good measure. - -Parson Lewis had a sister, Mrs. Dean, a widow also, who lived near -Liverpool. She was not left well-off at all; could but just make a -living of it. She used to come on long visits to the Parsonage, which -saved her cupboard at home; but it was said that Mrs. Lewis did not like -her, thinking her deceitful, and they did not get on very well together. -Parson Lewis, the meekest man in the world and the most easily led, -admitted to his wife that Rebecca had always been a little given to -scheming, but he thought her true at heart. - -When poor Mrs. Lewis was out of the way for good in Timberdale -churchyard, Aunt Dean had the field to herself, and came and stayed as -long as she pleased, with her child, Alice. She was a little woman with -a mild face and fair skin, and had a sort of purring manner with her. -Scarcely speaking above her breath, and saying "dear" and "love" at -every sentence, and caressing people to their faces, the rule was to -fall in love with her at once. The boys, Herbert and Jack, had taken to -her without question from the first, and called her "Aunt." Though she -was of course no relation whatever to them. - -Both the boys made much of Alice--a bright-eyed, pretty little girl with -brown curls and timid, winsome ways. Herbert, who was very studious -himself, helped her with her lessons: Jack, who was nearer her age, -but a few months older, took her out on expeditions, haymaking and -blackberrying and the like, and would bring her home with her frock torn -and her knees damaged. He told her that brave little girls never cried -with him; and the child would ignore the smart of the grazed knees -and show herself as brave as a martyr. Jack was so brave and fearless -himself and made so little of hurts, that she felt a sort of shame at -giving way to her natural timidity when with him. What Alice liked best -was to sit indoors by Herbert's side while he was at his lessons, and -read story books and fairy tales. Jack was the opposite of all that, and -a regular renegade in all kinds of study. He would have liked to pitch -the books into the fire, and did not even care for fairy tales. They -came often enough to Crabb Cot when we were there, and to our neighbours -the Coneys, with whom the Parsonage was intimate. I was only a little -fellow at the time, years younger than they were, but I remember I -liked Jack better than Herbert. As Tod did also for the matter of that. -Herbert was too clever for us, and he was to be a parson besides. He -chose the calling himself. More than once he was caught muffled in the -parson's white surplice, preaching to Jack and Alice a sermon of his own -composition. - -Aunt Dean had her plans and her plots. One great plot was always at -work. She made it into a dream, and peeped into it night and day, as if -it were a kaleidoscope of rich and many colours. Herbert Tanerton was to -marry her daughter and succeed to his mother's property as eldest son: -Jack must go adrift, and earn his own living. She considered it was -already three parts as good as accomplished. To see Herbert and Alice -poring over books together side by side and to know that they had the -same tastes, was welcome to her as the sight of gold. As to Jack, with -his roving propensities, his climbing and his daring, she thought it -little matter if he came down a tree head-foremost some day, or pitched -head over heels into the depths of Crabb Ravine, and so threw his life -away. Not that she really wished any cruel fate for the boy; but she did -not care for him; and he might be terribly in the way, when her foolish -brother, the parson, came to apportion the money. And he _was_ foolish -in some things; soft, in fact: she often said so. - -One summer day, when the fruit was ripe and the sun shining, Mr. Lewis -had gone into his study to write his next Sunday's sermon. He did not -get on very quickly, for Aunt Dean was in there also, and it disturbed -him a little. She was of restless habits, everlastingly dusting books, -and putting things in their places without rhyme or reason. - -"Do you wish to keep out all _three_ of these inkstands, Jacob? It is -not necessary, I should think. Shall I put one up?" - -The parson took his eyes off his sermon to answer. "I don't see that -they do any harm there, Rebecca. The children use two sometimes. Do as -you like, however." - -Mrs. Dean put one of the inkstands into the book-case, and then looked -round the room to see what else she could do. A letter caught her eye. - -"Jacob, I do believe you have never answered the note old Mullet brought -this morning! There it is on the mantelpiece." - -The parson sighed. To be interrupted in this way he took quite as a -matter of course, but it teased him a little. - -"I must see the churchwardens, Rebecca, before answering it. I want to -know, you see, what would be approved of by the parish." - -"Just like you, Jacob," she caressingly said. "The parish must approve -of what you approve." - -"Yes, yes," he said hastily; "but I like to live at peace with every -one." - -He dipped his pen into the ink, and wrote a line of his sermon. The open -window looked on to the kitchen-garden. Herbert Tanerton had his back -against the walnut-tree, doing nothing. Alice sat near on a stool, her -head buried in a book that by its canvas cover Mrs. Dean knew to be -"Robinson Crusoe." Just then Jack came out of the raspberry bushes with -a handful of fruit, which he held out to Alice. "Robinson Crusoe" fell -to the ground. - -"Oh, Jack, how good they are!" said Alice. And the words came distinctly -to Aunt Dean's ears in the still day. - -"They are as good again when you pick them off the trees for yourself," -cried Jack. "Come along and get some, Alice." - -With the taste of the raspberries in her mouth, the temptation was not -to be resisted; and she ran after Jack. Aunt Dean put her head out at -the window. - -"Alice, my love, I cannot have you go amongst those raspberry bushes; -you would stain and tear your frock." - -"I'll take care of her frock, aunt," Jack called back. - -"My darling Jack, it cannot be. That is her new muslin frock, and she -must not go where she might injure it." - -So Alice sat down again to "Robinson Crusoe," and Jack went his way -amongst the raspberry bushes, or whither he would. - -"Jacob, have you begun to think of what John is to be?" resumed Aunt -Dean, as she shut down the window. - -The parson pushed his sermon from him in a sort of patient -hopelessness, and turned round on his chair. "To be?--In what way, -Rebecca?" - -"By profession," she answered. "I fancy it is time it was thought of." - -"Do you? I'm sure I don't know. The other day when something was being -mentioned about it, Jack said he did not care what he was to be, -provided he had no books to trouble him." - -"I only hope you will not have trouble with him, Jacob, dear," observed -Mrs. Dean, in ominous tones, that plainly intimated she thought the -parson would. - -"He has a good heart, though he is not so studious as his brother. Why -have you shut the window, Rebecca? It is very warm." - -Mrs. Dean did not say why. Perhaps she wished to guard against the -conversation being heard. When any question not quite convenient to -answer was put to her, she had a way of passing it over in silence; and -the parson was too yielding or too inert to ask again. - -"_Of course_, Brother Jacob, you will make Herbert the heir." - -The parson looked surprised. "Why should you suppose that, Rebecca? I -think the two boys ought to share and share alike." - -"My dear Jacob, how _can_ you think so? Your dead wife left you in -charge, remember." - -"That's what I do remember, Rebecca. She never gave me the slightest -hint that she should wish any difference to be made: she was as fond of -one boy as of the other." - -"Jacob, you must do your duty by the boys," returned Mrs. Dean, with -affectionate solemnity. "Herbert must be his mother's heir; it is -right and proper it should be so: Jack must be trained to earn his -own livelihood. Jack--dear fellow!--is, I fear, of a roving, random -disposition: were you to leave any portion of the money to him, he would -squander it in a year." - -"Dear me, I hope not! But as to leaving all to his brother--or even a -larger portion than to Jack--I don't know that it would be right. A -heavy responsibility lies on me in this charge, don't you see, Rebecca?" - -"No doubt it does. It is full eight-hundred a year. And _you_ must be -putting something by, Jacob." - -"Not much. I draw the money yearly, but expenses seem to swallow it up. -What with the ponies kept for the boys, and the cost of the masters from -Worcester, and a hundred a year out of it that my wife desired the poor -old nurse should have till she died, there's not a great deal left. My -living is a poor one, you know, and I like to help the poor freely. When -the boys go to the university it will be all wanted." - -Help the poor freely!--just like him! thought Aunt Dean. - -"It would be waste of time and money to send Jack to college. You should -try and get him some appointment abroad, Jacob. In India, say." - -The clergyman opened his eyes at this, and said he should not like -to see Jack go out of his own country. Jack's mother had not had any -opinion of foreign places. Jack himself interrupted the conversation. He -came flying up the path, put down a cabbage leaf full of raspberries on -the window-sill, and flung open the window with his stained fingers. - -"Aunt Dean, I've picked these for you," he said, introducing the leaf, -his handsome face and good-natured eyes bright and sparkling. "They've -never been so good as they are this year. Father, just taste them." - -Aunt Dean smiled sweetly, and called him her darling, and Mr. Lewis -tasted the raspberries. - -"We were just talking of you, Jack," cried the unsophisticated man--and -Mrs. Dean slightly knitted her brows. "Your aunt says it is time you -began to think of some profession." - -"What, yet awhile?" returned Jack. - -"That you may be suitably educated for it, my boy." - -"I should like to be something that won't want education," cried Jack, -leaning his arms on the window-sill, and jumping up and down. "I think -I'd rather be a farmer than anything, father." - -The parson drew a long face. This had never entered into his -calculations. - -"I fear that would not do, Jack. I should like you to choose something -higher than that; some profession by which you may rise in the world. -Herbert will go into the Church: what should you say to the Bar?" - -Jack's jumping ceased all at once. "What, be a barrister, father? Like -those be-wigged fellows that come on circuit twice a year to Worcester?" - -"Like that, Jack." - -"But they have to study all their lives for it, father; and read up -millions of books before they can pass! I couldn't do it; I couldn't -indeed." - -"What do you think of being a first-class lawyer, then? I might place -you with some good firm, such as----" - -"Don't, there's a dear father!" interrupted Jack, all the sunshine -leaving his face. "I'm afraid if I were at a desk I should kick it over -without knowing it: I must be running out and about.--Are they all gone, -Aunt Dean? Give me the leaf, and I'll pick you some more." - -The years went on. Jack was fifteen: Herbert eighteen and at Oxford: -the advanced scholar had gone to college early. Aunt Dean spent quite -half her time at Timberdale, from Easter till autumn, and the parson -never rose up against it. She let her house during her absence: it was -situated on the banks of the river a little way from Liverpool, near -the place they call New Brighton now. It might have been called New -Brighton then for all I know. One family always took the house for the -summer months, glad to get out of hot Liverpool. - -As to Jack, nothing had been decided in regard to his future, for -opinions about it differed. A little Latin and a little history and a -great deal of geography (for he liked that) had been drilled into him: -and there his education ended. But he was the best climber and walker -and leaper, and withal the best-hearted young fellow that Timberdale -could boast: and he knew about land thoroughly, and possessed a great -stock of general and useful and practical information. Many a day when -some of the poorer farmers were in a desperate hurry to get in their -hay or carry their wheat on account of threatening weather, had Jack -Tanerton turned out to help, and toiled as hard and as long as any of -the labourers. He was hail-fellow-well-met with everyone, rich and poor. - -Mrs. Dean had worked on always to accomplish her ends. Slowly and -imperceptibly, but surely; Herbert must be the heir; John must shift for -himself. The parson had had this dinned into him so often now, in her -apparently frank and reasoning way, that he began to lend an ear to it. -What with his strict sense of justice, and his habit of yielding to his -sister's views, he felt for the most part in a kind of dilemma. But Mrs. -Dean had come over this time determined to get something settled, one -way or the other. - -She arrived before Easter this year. The interminable Jack (as she often -called him in her heart) was at home; Herbert was not. Jack and Alice -did not seem to miss him, but went out on their rambles together as they -did when children. The morning before Herbert was expected, a letter -came from him to his stepfather, saying he had been invited by a -fellow-student to spend the Easter holidays at his home near London and -had accepted it. - -Mr. Lewis took it as a matter of course in his easy way; but it -disagreed with Aunt Dean. She said all manner of things to the parson, -and incited him to write for Herbert to return at once. Herbert's answer -to this was a courteous intimation that he could not alter his plans; -and he hoped his father, on consideration, would fail to see any good -reason why he should do so. Herbert Tanerton had a will of his own. - -"Neither do I see any reason, good or bad, why he should not pay the -visit, Rebecca," confessed the Rector. "I'm afraid it was foolish of me -to object at all. Perhaps I have not the right to deny him, either, if I -wished it. He is getting on for nineteen, and I am not his own father." - -So Aunt Dean had to make the best and the worst of it; but she felt as -cross as two sticks. - -One day when the parson was abroad on parish matters, and the Rectory -empty, she went out for a stroll, and reached the high steep bank where -the primroses and violets grew. Looking over, she saw Jack and Alice -seated below; Jack's arm round her waist. - -"You are to be my wife, you know, Alice, when we are grown up. Mind -that." - -There was no answer, but Aunt Dean certainly thought she heard the sound -of a kiss. Peeping over again, she saw Jack taking another. - -"And if you don't object to my being a farmer, Alice, I should like it -best of all. We'll keep two jolly ponies and ride about together. Won't -it be good?" - -"I don't object to farming, Jack. Anything you like. A successful -farmer's home is a very pleasant one." - -Aunt Dean drew away with noiseless steps. She was too calm and callous a -woman to turn white; but she did turn angry, and registered a vow in her -heart. That presuming, upstart Jack! They were only two little fools, -it's true; no better than children; but the nonsense must be stopped in -time. - -Herbert went back to Oxford without coming home. Alice, to her own -infinite astonishment, was despatched to school until midsummer. The -parson and his sister and Jack were left alone; and Aunt Dean, with her -soft smooth manner and her false expressions of endearment, ruled all -things; her brother's better nature amidst the rest. - -Jack was asked what he would be. A farmer, he answered. But Aunt Dean -had somehow caught up the most bitter notions possible against farming -in general; and Mr. Lewis, not much liking the thing himself, and -yielding to the undercurrent ever gently flowing, told Jack he must fix -on something else. - -"There's nothing I shall do so well at as farming, father," -remonstrated Jack. "You can put me for three or four years to some -good agriculturist, and I'll be bound at the end of the time I should -be fit to manage the largest and best farm in the country. Why, I am -a better farmer now than some of them are." - -"Jack, my boy, you must not be self-willed. I cannot let you be a -farmer." - -"Then send me to sea, father, and make a sailor of me," returned Jack, -with undisturbed good humour. - -But this startled the parson. He liked Jack, and he had a horror of the -sea. "Not that, Jack, my boy. Anything but that." - -"I'm not sure but I should like the sea better than farming," went on -Jack, the idea full in his head. "Aunt Dean lent me 'Peter Simple' one -day. I know I should make a first-rate sailor." - -"Jack, don't talk so. Your poor mother would not have liked it, and I -don't like it; and I shall never let you go." - -"Some fellows run away to sea," said Jack, laughing. - -The parson felt as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown down -his back. Did Jack mean that as a threat? - -"John," said he, in as solemn a way as he had ever spoken, "disobedience -to parents sometimes brings a curse with it. You must promise me that -you will never go to sea." - -"I'll not promise that, off-hand," said Jack. "But I will promise never -to go without your consent. Think it well over, father; there's no -hurry." - -It was on the tip of Mr. Lewis's tongue to withdraw his objection to the -farming scheme then and there: in comparison with the other it looked -quite fair and bright. But he thought he might compromise his judgment -to yield thus instantly: and, as easy Jack said, there was no hurry. - -So Jack went rushing out of doors again to the uttermost bounds of the -parish, and the parson was left to Aunt Dean. When he told her he meant -to let Jack be a farmer, she laughed till the tears came into her eyes, -and begged him to leave matters to her. _She_ knew how to manage boys, -without appearing directly to cross them: there was this kind of trouble -with most boys, she had observed, before they settled satisfactorily in -life, but it all came right in the end. - -So the parson said no more about farming: but Jack talked a great deal -about the sea. Mr. Lewis went over in his gig to Worcester, and bought a -book he had heard of, "Two Years before the Mast." He wrote Jack's name -in it and gave it him, hoping its contents might serve to sicken him of -the sea. - -The next morning the book was missing. Jack looked high and low for -it, but it was gone. He had left it on the sitting-room table when he -went up to bed, and it mysteriously disappeared during the night. The -servants had not seen it, and declared it was not on the table in the -morning. - -"It could not--I suppose--have been the cat," observed Aunt Dean, in a -doubtful manner, her eyes full of wonder as to where the book could have -got to. "I have heard of cats doing strange things." - -"I don't think the cat would make away with a book of that size, -Rebecca," said the parson. And if he had not been the least suspicious -parson in all the Worcester Diocese, he might have asked his sister -whether _she_ had been the cat, and secured the book lest it should -dissipate Jack's fancy for the sea. - -The next thing she did was to carry Jack off to Liverpool. The parson -objected at first: Liverpool was a seaport town, and might put Jack more -in mind of the sea than ever. Aunt Dean replied that she meant him to -see the worst sides of sea life, the dirty boats in the Mersey, the -wretchedness of the crews, and the real discomfort and misery of a -sailor's existence. That would cure him, she said: what he had in his -head now was the romance picked up from books. The parson thought there -was reason in this, and yielded. He was dreadfully anxious about Jack. - -She went straight to her house near New Brighton, Jack with her, and a -substantial sum in her pocket from the Rector to pay for Jack's keep. -The old servant, Peggy, who took care of it, was thunderstruck to see -her mistress come in. It was not yet occupied by the Liverpool people, -and Mrs. Dean sent them word they could not have it this year: at least -not for the present. While she put matters straight, she supplied Jack -with all Captain Marryat's novels to read. The house looked on the -river, and Jack would watch the fine vessels starting on their long -voyages, their white sails trim and fair in the sunshine, or hear the -joyous shouts from the sailors of a homeward-bound ship as Liverpool -hove in view; and he grew to think there was no sight so pleasant to the -eye as these wonderful ships; no fate so desirable as to sail in them. - -But Aunt Dean had changed her tactics. Instead of sending Jack on to the -dirtiest and worst managed boats in the docks, where the living was hard -and the sailors were discontented, she allowed him to roam at will on -the finest ships, and make acquaintance with their enthusiastic young -officers, especially with those who were going to sea for the first time -with just such notions as Jack's. Before Midsummer came, Jack Tanerton -had grown to think that he could never be happy on land. - -There was a new ship just launched, the _Rose of Delhi_; a magnificent -vessel. Jack took rare interest in her. He was for ever on board; was -for ever saying to her owners--friends of Aunt Dean's, to whom she had -introduced him--how much he should like to sail in her. The owners -thought it would be an advantageous thing to get so active, open, -and ready a lad into their service, although he was somewhat old -for entering, and they offered to article him for four years, as -"midshipman" on the _Rose of Delhi_. Jack went home with his tale, his -eyes glowing; and Aunt Dean neither checked him nor helped him. - -Not _then_. Later, when the ship was all but ready to sail, she told -Jack she washed her hands of it, and recommended him to write and ask -his stepfather whether he might sail in her, or not. - -Now Jack was no letter writer; neither, truth to tell, was the parson. -He had not once written home; but had contented himself with sending -affectionate messages in Aunt Dean's letters. Consequently, Mr. Lewis -only knew what Aunt Dean had chosen to tell him, and had no idea that -Jack was getting the real sea fever upon him. But at her suggestion Jack -sat down now and wrote a long letter. - -Its purport was this. That he was longing and hoping to go to sea; was -sure he should never like anything else in the world so well; that the -_Rose of Delhi_, Captain Druce, was the most magnificent ship ever -launched; that the owners bore the best character in Liverpool for -liberality, and Captain Druce for kindness to his middies; and that he -hoped, oh he hoped, his father would let him go; but that if he still -refused, he (Jack) would do his best to be content to stay on shore, for -he did not forget his promise of never sailing without his consent. - -"Would you like to see the letter, Aunt Dean, before I close it?" he -asked. - -Aunt Dean, who had been sitting by, took the letter, and privately -thought it was as good a letter and as much to the purpose as the best -scribe in the land could have written. She disliked it, for all that. - -"Jack, dear, I think you had better put a postscript," she said. "Your -father detests writing, as you know. Tell him that if he consents he -need not write any answer: you will know what it means--that you may -go--and it will save him trouble." - -"But, Aunt Dean, I should like him to wish me good-bye and God speed." - -"He will be sure to do the one in his heart and the other in his -prayers, my boy. Write your postscript." - -Jack did as he was bid: he was as docile as his stepfather. Exactly as -Mrs. Dean suggested, wrote he: and he added that if no answer arrived -within two posts, he should take it for granted that he was to go, and -should see about his outfit. There was no time to lose, for the ship -would sail in three or four days. - -"I will post it for you, Jack," she said, when it was ready. "I am going -out." - -"Thank you, Aunt Dean, but I can post it myself. I'd rather: and then I -shall know it's off. Oh, shan't I be on thorns till the time for an -answer comes and goes!" - -He snatched his cap and vaulted off with the letter before he could be -stopped. Aunt Dean had a curious look on her face, and sat biting her -lips. She had not intended the letter to go. - -The first post that could possibly bring an answer brought one. Jack was -not at home. Aunt Dean had sent him out on an early commission, watched -for the postman, and hastened to the door herself to receive what he -might bring. He brought two letters--as it chanced. One from the Rector -of Timberdale; one from Alice Dean. Mrs. Dean locked up the one in her -private drawer upstairs: the other she left on the breakfast-table. - -"Peggy says the postman has been here, aunt!" cried the boy, all -excitement, as he ran in. - -"Yes, dear. He brought a letter from Alice." - -"And nothing from Timberdale?" - -"Well, I don't know that you could quite expect it by this post, Jack. -Your father might like to take a little time for consideration. You may -read Alice's letter, my boy: she comes home this day week for the summer -holidays." - -"Not till this day week!" cried Jack, frightfully disappointed. "Why, I -shall have sailed then, if I go, Aunt Dean! I shall not see her." - -"Well, dear, you will see her when you come home again." - -Aunt Dean had no more commissions for Jack after that, and each time the -postman was expected, he placed himself outside the door to wait for -him. The man brought no other letter. The reasonable time for an answer -went by, and none came. - -"Aunt Dean, I suppose I may get my outfit now," said Jack, only half -satisfied. "But I wish I had told him to write in any case: just a -line." - -"According to what you said, you know, Jack, silence must be taken for -consent." - -"Yes, I know. I'd rather have had a word, though, and made certain. I -wish there was time for me just to run over to Timberdale and see him!" - -"But there's not, Jack, more's the pity: you would lose the ship. Get a -piece of paper and make out a list of the articles the second mate told -you you would want." - -The _Rose of Delhi_ sailed out of port for Calcutta, and John Tanerton -with her, having signed articles to serve in her for four years. The -night before his departure he wrote a short letter of farewell to his -stepfather, thanking him for his tacit consent, and promising to do his -best to get on, concluding it with love to himself and to Herbert, and -to the Rectory servants. Which letter somehow got put into Aunt Dean's -kitchen fire, and never reached Timberdale. - -Aunt Dean watched the _Rose of Delhi_ sail by; Jack, in his bran-new -uniform, waving his last farewell to her with his gold-banded cap. The -sigh of relief she heaved when the fine vessel was out of sight seemed -to do her good. Then she bolted herself into her chamber, and opened Mr. -Lewis's letter, which had lain untouched till then. As she expected, it -contained a positive interdiction, written half sternly, half lovingly, -for John to sail in the _Rose of Delhi_, or to think more of the sea. -Moreover, it commanded him to come home at once, and it contained a -promise that he should be placed to learn the farming without delay. -Aunt Dean tripped down to Peggy's fire and burnt that too. - -There was a dreadful fuss when Jack's departure became known at -Timberdale. It fell upon the parson like a thunderbolt. He came striding -through the ravine to Crabb Cot, and actually burst out crying while -telling the news to the Squire. He feared he had failed somehow in -bringing John up, he said, or he never would have repaid him with this -base disobedience and ingratitude. For, you see, the poor man thought -Jack had received his letter, and gone off in defiance of it. The Squire -agreed with him that Jack deserved the cat-o'-nine tails, as did all -other boys who traitorously decamped to sea. - -Before the hay was all in, Aunt Dean was back at Timberdale, bringing -Alice with her and the bills for the outfit. She let the parson think -what he would about Jack, ignoring all knowledge of the letter, and -affecting to believe that Jack could not have had it. But the parson -argued that Jack must have had it, and did have it, or it would have -come back to him. The only one to say a good word for Jack was Alice. -She persisted in an opinion that Jack could not be either disobedient -or ungrateful, and that there must have been some strange mistake -somewhere. - -Aunt Dean's work was not all done. She took the poor parson under her -wing, and proved to him that he had no resource now but to disinherit -Jack, and made Herbert the heir. To leave money to Jack would be wanton -waste, she urged, for he would be sure to squander it: better bequeath -all to Herbert, who would of course look after his brother in later -life, and help him if he needed help. So Mr. Hill, one of the Worcester -solicitors, was sent for to Timberdale to receive instructions for -making the parson's will in Herbert's favour, and to cut Jack off with -a shilling. - -That night, after Mr. Hill had gone back again, was one of the worst the -parson had ever spent. He was a just man and a kind one, and he felt -racked with fear lest he had taken too severe a measure, and one that -his late wife, the true owner of the money and John's mother, would -never have sanctioned. His bed was fevered, his pillow a torment; up he -got, and walked the room in his night-shirt. - -"My Lord and God knoweth that I would do what is right," he groaned. "I -am sorely troubled. Youth is vain and desperately thoughtless; perhaps -the boy, in his love of adventure, never looked at the step in the light -of ingratitude. I cannot cut him quite off; I should never again find -peace of mind if I did it. He shall have a little; and perhaps if he -grows into a steady fellow and comes back what he ought to be, I may -alter the will later and leave them equal inheritors." - -The next day the parson wrote privately to Mr. Hill, saying he had -reconsidered his determination and would let Jack inherit to the extent -of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. - -Herbert came home for the long vacation; and he and Alice were together -as they had been before that upstart Jack stepped in. They often came to -the Squire's and oftener to the Coneys'. Grace Coney, a niece of old -Coney, had come to live at the farm; she was a nice girl, and she and -Alice liked each other. You might see them with Herbert strolling about -the fields any hour in the day. At home Alice and Herbert seemed never -to care to separate. Mrs. Dean watched them quietly, and thought how -beautifully her plans had worked. - -Aunt Dean did not go home till October. After she left, the parson had -a stroke of paralysis. Charles Ashton, then just ordained to priest's -orders, took the duty. Mrs. Dean came back again for Christmas. As if -she would let Alice stay away from the Parsonage when Herbert was at -home! - -The _Rose of Delhi_ did not come back for nearly two years. She was what -is called a free ship, and took charters for any place she could make -money by. One day Alice Dean was leaning out of the windows of her -mother's house, gazing wistfully on the sparkling sea, when a grand and -stately vessel came sailing homewards, and some brown-faced young fellow -on the quarter deck set on to swing his cap violently by way of hailing -her. She looked to the flag which happened to be flying, and read the -name there, "_The Rose of Delhi_." It must be Jack who was saluting. -Alice burst into tears of emotion. - -He came up from the docks the same day. A great, brown, handsome fellow -with the old single-hearted, open manners. And he clasped Alice in his -arms and kissed her ever so many times before she could get free. Being -a grown-up young lady now, she did not approve of unceremonious kissing, -and told Jack so. Aunt Dean was not present, or she might have told him -so more to the purpose. - -Jack had given satisfaction, and was getting on. He told Alice privately -that he did not like the sea so much as he anticipated, and could not -believe how any other fellow did like it; but as he had chosen it as -his calling, he meant to stand by it. He went to Timberdale, in spite -of Aunt Dean's advice and efforts to keep him away. Herbert was absent, -she said; the Rector ill and childish. Jack found it all too true. Mr. -Lewis's mind had failed and his health was breaking. He knew Jack and -was very affectionate with him, but seemed not to remember anything of -the past. So never a word did Jack hear of his own disobedience, or of -any missing letters. - -One person alone questioned him; and that was Alice. It was after he -got back from Timberdale. She asked him to tell her the history of -his sailing in the _Rose of Delhi_, and he gave it in detail, without -reserve. When he spoke of the postscript that Aunt Dean had bade him -add to his letter, arranging that silence should be taken for consent, -and that as no answer had come, he of course had so taken it, the girl -turned sick and faint. She saw the treachery that had been at work and -where it had lain; but for her mother's sake she hushed it up and let -the matter pass. Alice had not lived with her mother so many years -without detecting her propensity for deceit. - -Some years passed by. Jack got on well. He served as third mate on the -_Rose of Delhi_ long before he could pass, by law, for second. He was -made second mate as soon as he had passed for it. The _Rose of Delhi_ -came in and went out, and Jack stayed by her, and passed for first mate -in course of time. He was not sent back in any of his examinations, -as most young sailors are, and the board once went the length of -complimenting him on his answers. The fact was, Jack held to his word -of doing his best; he got into no mischief and was the smartest sailor -afloat. He was in consequence a favourite with the owners, and Captain -Druce took pains with him and brought him on in seamanship and -navigation, and showed him how to take observations, and all the rest -of it. There's no end of difference in merchant-captains in this -respect: some teach their junior officers nothing. Jack finally passed -triumphantly for master, and hoped his time would come to receive a -command. Meanwhile he went out again as first mate on the _Rose of -Delhi_. - -One spring morning there came news to Mrs. Dean from Timberdale. The -Rector had had another stroke and was thought to be near his end. She -started off at once, with Alice. Charles Ashton had had a living given -to him; and Herbert Tanerton was now his stepfather's curate. Herbert -had passed as shiningly in mods and divinity and all the rest of it as -Jack had passed before the Marine Board. He was a steady, thoughtful, -serious young man, did his duty well in the parish, and preached better -sermons than ever the Rector had. Mrs. Dean, who looked upon him as -Alice's husband as surely as though they were married, was as proud of -his success as though it had been her own. - -The Rector was very ill and unable to leave his bed. His intellect was -quite gone now. Mrs. Dean sat with him most of the day, leaving Alice to -be taken care of by Herbert. They went about together just as always, -and were on the best of confidential terms; and came over to the -Coneys', and to us when we were at Crabb Cot. - -"Herbert," said Mrs. Dean one evening when she had all her soft, sugary -manner upon her and was making the young parson believe she had no -one's interest at heart in the world but his: "my darling boy, is it not -almost time you began to think of marriage? None know the happiness and -comfort brought by a good wife, dear, until they experience it." - -Herbert looked taken aback. He turned as red as a school-girl, and -glanced half-a-moment at Alice, like a detected thief. - -"I must wait until I have a living to think of that, Aunt Dean." - -"Is it necessary, Herbert? I should have thought you might bring a wife -home to the Rectory here." - -Herbert turned the subject with a jesting word or two, and got out -of his redness. Aunt Dean was eminently satisfied; his confusion and -his hasty glance at Alice had told tales; and she knew it was only a -question of time. - -The Rector died. When the grass was long and the May-flowers were in -bloom and the cuckoo was singing in the trees, he passed peacefully to -his Rest. Just before death he recovered speech and consciousness; but -the chief thing he said was that he left his love to Jack. - -After the funeral the will was opened. It had not been touched -since that long past year when Jack had gone away to sea. Out of the -eight-hundred a year descended from their mother, Jack had a hundred -and fifty; Herbert the rest. Aunt Dean made a hideous frown for once in -her life; a hundred and fifty pounds a year for Jack, was only, as she -looked upon it, so much robbery on Herbert and Alice. Out of the little -money saved by the Rector, five hundred pounds were left to his sister, -Rebecca Dean; the rest was to be divided equally between Herbert and -Jack; and his furniture and effects went to Herbert. On the whole, Aunt -Dean was tolerably satisfied. - -She was a woman who liked strictly to keep up appearances, and she made -a move to leave the young parson at the end of a week or two's time, and -go back to Liverpool. Herbert did not detain her. His own course was -uncertain until a fresh Rector should be appointed. The living was in -the gift of a neighbouring baronet, and it was fancied by some that he -might give it to Herbert. One thing did surprise Mrs. Dean; angered -her too: that Herbert had not made his offer to Alice before their -departure. Now that he had his own fortune at command, there was no -necessity to wait for a living. - -News greeted them on their arrival. The _Rose of Delhi_ was on her way -home once more, with John Tanerton in command. Captain Druce had been -left behind at Calcutta, dangerously ill. Alice's colour came and went. -She looked out for the homeward-bound vessels passing upwards, and felt -quite sick with anxiety lest Jack should fail in any way, and never -bring home the ship at all. - -"The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton." Alice Dean cast her eyes on the -shipping news in the morning paper, and read the announcement amidst the -arrivals. Just for an instant her sight left her. - -"Mamma," she presently said, quietly passing over the newspaper, "the -_Rose of Delhi_ is in." - -"The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton," read Mrs. Dean. "The idea of -their sticking in Jack's name as captain! He will have to go down again -as soon as Captain Druce returns. A fine captain I dare say he has -made!" - -"At least he has brought the ship home safely and quickly," Alice -ventured to say. "It must have passed after dark last night." - -"Why after dark?" - -Alice did not reply--Because I was watching till daylight faded--which -would have been the truth. "Had it passed before, some of us might have -seen it, mamma." - -The day was waning before Jack came up. Captain Tanerton. Jack was never -to go back again to his chief-mateship, as Aunt Dean had surmised, for -the owners had given him permanent command of the _Rose of Delhi_. The -last mail had brought news from Captain Druce that he should never be -well enough for the command again, and the owners were only too glad to -give it to the younger and more active man. Officers and crew alike -reported that never a better master sailed than Jack had proved himself -on this homeward voyage. - -"Don't you think I have been very lucky on the whole, Aunt Dean? Fancy a -young fellow like me getting such a beautiful ship as that!" - -"Oh, very lucky," returned Aunt Dean. - -Jack looked like a captain too. He was broad and manly, with an -intelligent, honest, handsome face, and the quick keen eye of a sailor. -Jack was particular in his attire too: and some sailors are not so: he -dressed as a gentleman when on shore. - -"Only a hundred and fifty left to me!" cried Jack, when he was told the -news. "Well, perhaps Herbert may require more than I, poor fellow," he -added in his good nature; "he may not get a good living, and then he'll -be glad of it. I shall be sure to do well now I've got the ship." - -"You'll be at sea always, Jack, and will have no use for money," said -Mrs. Dean. - -"Oh, I don't know about having no use for it, Aunt. Anyway, my father -thought it right to leave it so, and I am content. I wish I could have -said farewell to him before he died!" - -A few more days, and Aunt Dean was thrown on her beam-ends at a -worse angle than ever the _Rose of Delhi_ hoped to be. Jack and Alice -discussed matters between themselves, and the result was disclosed to -her. They were going to be married. - -It was Alice who told her. Jack had just left, and she and her mother -were sitting together in the summer twilight. At first Mrs. Dean thought -Alice was joking: she was like a mad woman when she found it true. Her -great dream had never foreshadowed this. - -"How dare you attempt to think of so monstrous a thing, you wicked girl? -Marry your own brother-in-law!--it would be no better. It is Herbert -that is to be your husband." - -Alice shook her head with a smile. "Herbert would not have me, mamma; -nor would I have him. Herbert will marry Grace Coney." - -"Who?" cried Mrs. Dean. - -"Grace Coney. They have been in love with each other ever so many years. -I have known it all along. He will marry her as soon as his future is -settled. I had promised to be one of the bridesmaids, but I suppose I -shall not have the chance now." - -"Grace Coney--that beggarly girl!" shrieked Mrs. Dean. "But for her -uncle's giving her shelter she must have turned out in the world when -her father died and earned her living how she could. She is not a lady. -She is not Herbert's equal." - -"Oh yes, she is, mamma. She is a very nice girl and will make him a -perfect wife. Herbert would not exchange her for the richest lady in the -land." - -"If Herbert chooses to make a spectacle of himself, you never shall!" -cried poor Mrs. Dean, all her golden visions fast melting into air. "I -would see that wicked Jack Tanerton at the bottom of the sea first." - -"Mother, dear, listen to me. Jack and I have cared for each other for -years and years, and we should neither of us marry any one else. There -is nothing to wait for; Jack is as well off as he will be for years to -come: and--and we have settled it so, and I hope you will not oppose -it." - -It was a cruel moment for Aunt Dean. Her love for other people had been -all pretence, but she did love her daughter. Besides that, she was -ambitious for her. - -"I can never let you marry a sailor, Alice. Anything but that." - -"It was you who made Jack a sailor, mother, and there's no help for it," -said Alice, in low tones. "I would rather he had been anything else in -the world. I should have liked him to have had land and farmed it. We -should have done well. Jack had his four hundred a year clear, you know. -At least, he ought to have had it. Oh, mother, don't you see that while -you have been plotting against Jack you have plotted against me?" - -Aunt Dean felt sick with memories that were crowding upon her. The -mistake she had made was a frightful one. - -"You cannot join your fate to Jack's, Alice," she repeated, wringing her -hands. "A sailor's wife is too liable to be made a widow." - -"I know it, mother. I shall share his danger, for I am going out in the -_Rose of Delhi_. The owners have consented, and Jack is fitting up a -lovely little cabin for me that is to be my own saloon." - -"My daughter sail over the seas in a merchant ship!" gasped Aunt Dean. -"Never!" - -"I should be no true wife if I could let my husband sail without me. -Mother, it is you alone who have carved out our destiny. Better have -left it to God." - -In a startled way, her heart full of remorse, she was beginning to see -it; and she sat down, half fainting, on a chair. - -"It is a miserable prospect, Alice." - -"Mother, we shall get on. There's the hundred and fifty a year certain, -you know. That we shall put by; and, as long as I sail with him, a good -deal more besides. Jack's pay is settled at twenty pounds a month, and -he will make more by commission: perhaps as much again. Have no fear for -us on that score. Jack has been unjustly deprived of his birthright; and -I think sometimes that perhaps as a recompense Heaven will prosper him." - -"But the danger, Alice! The danger of a sea-life!" - -"Do you know what Jack says about the danger, mother? He says God is -over us on the sea as well as on land and will take care of those who -put their trust in Him. In the wildest storm I will try to let that -great truth help me to feel peace." - -Alas for Aunt Dean! Arguments slipped away from her hands just as her -plans had slipped from them. In her bitter repentance, she lay on the -floor of her room that night and asked God to have pity upon her, for -her trouble seemed greater than she could bear. - -The morning's post brought news from Herbert. He was made Rector of -Timberdale. Aunt Dean wrote back, telling him what had taken place, and -asking, nay, almost commanding, that he should restore an equal share -of the property to Jack. Herbert replied that he should abide by his -stepfather's will. The living of Timberdale was not a rich one, and he -wished Grace, his future wife, to be comfortable. "Herbert was always -intensely selfish," groaned Aunt Dean. Look on which side she would, -there was no comfort. - -The _Rose of Delhi_, Captain Tanerton, sailed out of port again, -carrying also with her Mrs. Tanerton, the captain's wife. And Aunt Dean -was left to bemoan her fate, and wish she had never tried to shape out -other people's destinies. Better, as Alice said, that she had left that -to God. - - - - -VIII. - -GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. - - -We had to make a rush for it. And making a rush did not suit the Squire, -any more than it does other people who have come to an age when the -body's heavy and the breath nowhere. He reached the train, pushed -head-foremost into a carriage, and then remembered the tickets. "Bless -my heart?" he exclaimed, as he jumped out again, and nearly upset a lady -who had a little dog in her arms, and a mass of fashionable hair on her -head, that the Squire, in his hurry, mistook for tow. - -"Plenty of time, sir," said a guard who was passing. "Three minutes to -spare." - -Instead of saying he was obliged to the man for his civility, or -relieved to find the tickets might still be had, the Squire snatched out -his old watch, and began abusing the railway clocks for being slow. Had -Tod been there he would have told him to his face that the watch was -fast, braving all retort, for the Squire believed in his watch as he did -in himself, and would rather have been told that _he_ could go wrong -than that the watch could. But there was only me: and I wouldn't have -said it for anything. - -"Keep two back-seats there, Johnny," said the Squire. - -I put my coat on the corner furthest from the door, and the rug on the -one next to it, and followed him into the station. When the Squire -was late in starting, he was apt to get into the greatest flurry -conceivable; and the first thing I saw was himself blocking up the -ticket-place, and undoing his pocket-book with nervous fingers. He had -some loose gold about him, silver too, but the pocket-book came to his -hand first, so he pulled it out. These flurried moments of the Squire's -amused Tod beyond everything; he was so cool himself. - -"Can you change this?" said the Squire, drawing out one from a roll of -five-pound notes. - -"No, I can't," was the answer, in the surly tones put on by -ticket-clerks. - -How the Squire crumpled up the note again, and searched in his breeches -pocket for gold, and came away with the two tickets and the change, I'm -sure he never knew. A crowd had gathered round, wanting to take their -tickets in turn, and knowing that he was keeping them flurried him all -the more. He stood at the back a moment, put the roll of notes into his -case, fastened it and returned it to the breast of his over-coat, sent -the change down into another pocket without counting it, and went out -with the tickets in hand. Not to the carriage; but to stare at the big -clock in front. - -"Don't you see, Johnny? exactly four minutes and a half difference," he -cried, holding out his watch to me. "It is a strange thing they can't -keep these railway clocks in order." - -"My watch keeps good time, sir, and mine is with the railway. I think it -is right." - -"Hold your tongue, Johnny. How dare you! Right? You send your watch to -be regulated the first opportunity, sir; don't _you_ get into the habit -of being too late or too early." - -When we finally went to the carriage there were some people in it, but -our seats were left for us. Squire Todhetley sat down by the further -door, and settled himself and his coats and his things comfortably, -which he had been too flurried to do before. Cool as a cucumber was -he, now the bustle was over; cool as Tod could have been. At the other -door, with his face to the engine, sat a dark, gentleman-like man of -forty, who had made room for us to pass as we got in. He had a large -signet-ring on one hand, and a lavender glove on the other. The other -three seats opposite to us were vacant. Next to me sat a little man with -a fresh colour and gold spectacles, who was already reading; and beyond -him, in the corner, face to face with the dark man, was a lunatic. -That's to mention him politely. Of all the restless, fidgety, worrying, -hot-tempered passengers that ever put themselves into a carriage to -travel with people in their senses, he was the worst. In fifteen moments -he had made as many darts; now after his hat-box and things above his -head; now calling the guard and the porters to ask senseless questions -about his luggage; now treading on our toes, and trying the corner seat -opposite the Squire, and then darting back to his own. He wore a wig of -a decided green tinge, the effect of keeping, perhaps, and his skin was -dry and shrivelled as an Egyptian mummy's. - -A servant, in undress livery, came to the door, and touched his hat, -which had a cockade on it, as he spoke to the dark man. - -"Your ticket, my lord." - -Lords are not travelled with every day, and some of us looked up. The -gentleman took the ticket from the man's hand and slipped it into his -waistcoat pocket. - -"You can get me a newspaper, Wilkins. The _Times_, if it is to be had." - -"Yes, my lord." - -"Yes, there's room here, ma'am," interrupted the guard, sending the door -back for a lady who stood at it. "Make haste, please." - -The lady who stepped in was the same the Squire had bolted against. -She sat down in the seat opposite me, and looked at every one of us by -turns. There was a sort of violet bloom on her face and some soft white -powder, seen plain enough through her veil. She took the longest gaze at -the dark gentleman, bending a little forward to do it; for, as he was in -a line with her, and also had his head turned from her, her curiosity -could only catch a view of his side-face. Mrs. Todhetley might have -said she had not put on her company manners. In the midst of this, the -man-servant came back again. - -"The _Times_ is not here yet, my lord. They are expecting the papers in -by the next down-train." - -"Never mind, then. You can get me one at the next station, Wilkins." - -"Very well, my lord." - -Wilkins must certainly have had to scramble for his carriage, for we -started before he had well left the door. It was not an express-train, -and we should have to stop at several stations. Where the Squire and I -had been staying does not matter; it has nothing to do with what I have -to tell. It was a long way from our own home, and that's saying enough. - -"Would you mind changing seats with me, sir?" - -I looked up, to find the lady's face close to mine; she had spoken in -a half-whisper. The Squire, who carried his old-fashioned notions of -politeness with him when he went travelling, at once got up to offer her -the corner. But she declined it, saying she was subject to face-ache, -and did not care to be next the window. So she took my seat, and I sat -down on the one opposite Mr. Todhetley. - -"Which of the peers is that?" I heard her ask him in a loud whisper, as -the lord put his head out at his window. - -"Don't know at all, ma'am," said the Squire. "Don't know many of the -peers myself, except those of my own county: Lyttleton, and Beauchamp, -and----" - -Of all snarling barks, the worst was given that moment in the Squire's -face, suddenly ending the list. The little dog, an ugly, hairy, -vile-tempered Scotch terrier, had been kept concealed under the -lady's jacket, and now struggled itself free. The Squire's look of -consternation was good! He had not known any animal was there. - -"Be quiet, Wasp. How dare you bark at the gentleman? He will not bite, -sir: he----" - -"Who has a dog in the carriage?" shrieked the lunatic, starting up in a -passion. "Dogs don't travel with passengers. Here! Guard! Guard!" - -To call out for the guard when a train is going at full speed is -generally useless. The lunatic had to sit down again; and the lady -defied him, so to say, coolly avowing that she had hidden the dog from -the guard on purpose, staring him in the face while she said it. - -After this there was a lull, and we went speeding along, the lady -talking now and again to the Squire. She seemed to want to grow -confidential with him; but the Squire did not seem to care for it, -though he was quite civil. She held the dog huddled up in her lap, so -that nothing but his head peeped out. - -"Halloa! How dare they be so negligent? There's no lamp in this -carriage." - -It was the lunatic again, and we all looked at the lamp. It had no light -in it; but that it _had_ when we first reached the carriage was certain; -for, as the Squire went stumbling in, his head nearly touched the lamp, -and I had noticed the flame. It seems the Squire had also. - -"They must have put it out while we were getting our tickets," he said. - -"I'll know the reason why when we stop," cried the lunatic, fiercely. -"After passing the next station, we dash into the long tunnel. The idea -of going through it in pitch darkness! It would not be safe." - -"Especially with a dog in the carriage," spoke the lord, in a chaffing -kind of tone, but with a good-natured smile. "We will have the lamp -lighted, however." - -As if to reward him for interfering, the dog barked up loudly, and tried -to make a spring at him; upon which the lady smothered the animal up, -head and all. - -Another minute or two, and the train began to slacken speed. It was only -an insignificant station, one not likely to be halted at for above a -minute. The lunatic twisted his body out of the window, and shouted for -the guard long before we were at a standstill. - -"Allow me to manage this," said the lord, quietly putting him down. -"They know me on the line. Wilkins!" - -The man came rushing up at the call. He must have been out already, -though we were not quite at a standstill yet. - -"Is it for the _Times_, my lord? I am going for it." - -"Never mind the _Times_. This lamp is not lighted, Wilkins. See the -guard, and _get it done_. At once." - -"And ask him what the mischief he means by his carelessness," roared out -the lunatic after Wilkins, who went flying off. "Sending us on our road -without a light!--and that dangerous tunnel close at hand." - -The authority laid upon the words "Get it done," seemed an earnest that -the speaker was accustomed to be obeyed, and would be this time. For -once the lunatic sat quiet, watching the lamp, and for the light that -was to be dropped into it from the top; and so did I, and so did the -lady. We were all deceived, however, and the train went puffing on. The -lunatic shrieked, the lord put his head out of the carriage and shouted -for Wilkins. - -No good. Shouting after a train is off never is much good. The lord -sat down on his seat again, an angry frown crossing his face, and the -lunatic got up and danced with rage. - -"I do not know where the blame lies," observed the lord. "Not with my -servant, I think: he is attentive, and has been with me some years." - -"I'll know where it lies," retorted the lunatic. "I am a director on the -line, though I don't often travel on it. This _is_ management, this is! -A few minutes more and we shall be in the dark tunnel." - -"Of course it would have been satisfactory to have a light; but it is -not of so much consequence," said the nobleman, wishing to soothe him. -"There's no danger in the dark." - -"No danger! No danger, sir! I think there is danger. Who's to know -that dog won't spring out and bite us? Who's to know there won't be -an accident in the tunnel? A light is a protection against having our -pockets picked, if it's a protection against nothing else." - -"I fancy our pockets are pretty safe to-day," said the lord, glancing -round at us with a good-natured smile; as much as to say that none of us -looked like thieves. "And I certainly trust we shall get through the -tunnel safely." - -"And I'll take care the dog does not bite you in the dark," spoke up the -lady, pushing her head forward to give the lunatic a nod or two that -you'd hardly have matched for defying impudence. "You'll be good, won't -you, Wasp? But I should like the lamp lighted myself. You will perhaps -be so kind, my lord, as to see that there's no mistake made about it at -the next station!" - -He slightly raised his hat to her and bowed in answer, but did not -speak. The lunatic buttoned up his coat with fingers that were either -nervous or angry, and then disturbed the little gentleman next him, -who had read his big book throughout the whole commotion without once -lifting his eyes, by hunting everywhere for his pocket-handkerchief. - -"Here's the tunnel!" he cried out resentfully, as we dashed with a -shriek into pitch darkness. - -It was all very well for her to say she would take care of the dog, but -the first thing the young beast did was to make a spring at me and then -at the Squire, barking and yelping frightfully. The Squire pushed it -away in a commotion. Though well accustomed to dogs he always fought shy -of strange ones. The lady chattered and laughed, and did not seem to try -to get hold of him, but we couldn't see, you know; the Squire hissed at -him, the dog snarled and growled; altogether there was noise enough to -deafen anything but a tunnel. - -"Pitch him out at the window," cried the lunatic. - -"Pitch yourself out," answered the lady. And whether she propelled the -dog, or whether he went of his own accord, the beast sprang to the other -end of the carriage, and was seized upon by the nobleman. - -"I think, madam, you had better put him under your mantle and keep -him there," said he, bringing the dog back to her and speaking quite -civilly, but in the same tone of authority he had used to his servant -about the lamp. "I have not the slightest objection to dogs myself, but -many people have, and it is not altogether pleasant to have them loose -in a railway carriage. I beg your pardon; I cannot see; is this your -hand?" - -It was her hand, I suppose, for the dog was left with her, and he went -back to his seat again. When we emerged out of the tunnel into daylight, -the lunatic's face was blue. - -"Ma'am, if that miserable brute had laid hold of me by so much as -the corner of my great-coat tail, I'd have had the law of you. It is -perfectly monstrous that any one, putting themselves into a first-class -carriage, should attempt to outrage railway laws, and upset the comfort -of travellers with impunity. I shall complain to the guard." - -"He does not bite, sir; he never bites," she answered softly, as if -sorry for the escapade, and wishing to conciliate him. "The poor little -bijou is frightened at darkness, and leaped from my arms unawares. -There! I'll promise that you shall neither see nor hear him again." - -She had tucked the dog so completely out of sight, that no one could -have suspected one was there, just as it had been on first entering. The -train was drawn up to the next station; when it stopped, the servant -came and opened the carriage-door for his master to get out. - -"Did you understand me, Wilkins, when I told you to get this lamp -lighted?" - -"My lord, I'm very sorry; I understood your lordship perfectly, but -I couldn't see the guard," answered Wilkins. "I caught sight of him -running up to his van-door at the last moment, but the train began to -move off, and I had to jump in myself, or else be left behind." - -The guard passed as he was explaining this, and the nobleman drew his -attention to the lamp, curtly ordering him to "light it instantly." -Lifting his hat to us by way of farewell, he disappeared; and the -lunatic began upon the guard as if he were commencing a lecture to -a deaf audience. The guard seemed not to hear it, so lost was he in -astonishment at there being no light. - -"Why, what can have douted it?" he cried aloud, staring up at the lamp. -And the Squire smiled at the familiar word, so common in our ears at -home, and had a great mind to ask the guard where he came from. - -"I lighted all these here lamps myself afore we started, and I see 'em -all burning," said he. There was no mistaking the home accent now, and -the Squire looked down the carriage with a beaming face. - -"You are from Worcestershire, my man." - -"From Worcester itself, sir. Leastways from St. John's, which is the -same thing." - -"Whether you are from Worcester, or whether you are from Jericho, I'll -let you know that you can't put empty lamps into first-class carriages -on this line without being made to answer for it!" roared the lunatic. -"What's your name! I am a director." - -"My name is Thomas Brooks, sir," replied the man, respectfully touching -his cap. "But I declare to you, sir, that I've told the truth in saying -the lamps were all right when we started: how this one can have got -douted, I can't think. There's not a guard on the line, sir, more -particular in seeing to the lamps than I am." - -"Well, light it now; don't waste time excusing yourself," growled the -lunatic. But he said nothing about the dog; which was surprising. - -In a twinkling the lamp was lighted, and we were off again. The lady and -her dog were quiet now: he was out of sight: she leaned back to go to -sleep. The Squire lodged his head against the curtain, and shut his eyes -to do the same; the little man, as before, never looked off his book; -and the lunatic frantically shifted himself every two minutes between -his own seat and that of the opposite corner. There were no more -tunnels, and we went smoothly on to the next station. Five minutes -allowed there. - -The little man, putting his book in his pocket, took down a black -leather bag from above his head, and got out; the lady, her dog hidden -still, prepared to follow him, wishing the Squire and me, and even the -lunatic, with a forgiving smile, a polite good morning. I had moved to -that end, and was watching the lady's wonderful back hair as she stepped -out, when all in a moment the Squire sprang up with a shout, and -jumping out nearly upon her, called out that he had been robbed. She -dropped the dog, and I thought he must have caught the lunatic's -disorder and become frantic. - -It is of no use attempting to describe exactly what followed. The lady, -snatching up her dog, shrieked out that perhaps she had been robbed -too; she laid hold of the Squire's arm, and went with him into the -station-master's room. And there we were: us three, and the guard, and -the station-master, and the lunatic, who had come pouncing out too at -the Squire's cry. The man in spectacles had disappeared for good. - -The Squire's pocket-book was gone. He gave his name and address at once -to the station-master: and the guard's face lighted with intelligence -when he heard it, for he knew Squire Todhetley by reputation. The -pocket-book had been safe just before we entered the tunnel; the Squire -was certain of that, having felt it. He had sat in the carriage with his -coat unbuttoned, rather thrown back; and nothing could have been easier -than for a clever thief to draw it out, under cover of the darkness. - -"I had fifty pounds in it," he said; "fifty pounds in five-pound notes. -And some memoranda besides." - -"Fifty pounds!" cried the lady, quickly. "And you could travel with all -that about you, and not button up your coat! You ought to be rich!" - -"Have you been in the habit of meeting thieves, madam, when travelling?" -suddenly demanded the lunatic, turning upon her without warning, his -coat whirling about on all sides with the rapidity of his movements. - -"No, sir, I have not," she answered, in indignant tones. "Have you?" - -"I have not, madam. But, then, you perceive I see no risk in travelling -with a coat unbuttoned, although it may have bank-notes in the pockets." - -She made no reply: was too much occupied in turning out her own pockets -and purse, to ascertain that they had not been rifled. Re-assured on the -point, she sat down on a low box against the wall, nursing her dog; -which had begun its snarling again. - -"It must have been taken from me in the dark as we went through the -tunnel," affirmed the Squire to the room in general and perhaps the -station-master in particular. "I am a magistrate, and have some -experience in these things. I sat completely off my guard, a prey for -anybody, my hands stretched out before me, grappling with that dog, that -seemed--why, goodness me! yes he _did_, now that I think of it--that -seemed to be held about fifteen inches off my nose on purpose to attack -me. That's when the thing must have been done. But now--which of them -could it have been?" - -He meant which of the passengers. As he looked hard at us in rotation, -especially at the guard and station-master, who had not been in the -carriage, the lady gave a shriek, and threw the dog into the middle of -the room. - -"I see it all," she said, faintly. "He has a habit of snatching at -things with his mouth. He must have snatched the case out of your -pocket, sir, and dropped it from the window. You will find it in the -tunnel." - -"Who has?" asked the lunatic, while the Squire stared in wonder. - -"My poor little Wasp. Ah, villain! beast! it is he that has done all -this mischief." - -"He might have taken the pocket-book," I said, thinking it time to -speak, "but he could not have dropped it out, for I put the window up as -we went into the tunnel." - -It seemed a nonplus for her, and her face fell again. "There was the -other window," she said in a minute. "He might have dropped it there. I -heard his bark quite close to it." - -"_I_ pulled up that window, madam," said the lunatic. "If the dog did -take it out of the pocket it may be in the carriage now." - -The guard rushed out to search it; the Squire followed, but the -station-master remained where he was, and closed the door after them. A -thought came over me that he was stopping to keep the two passengers in -view. - -No; the pocket-book could not be found in the carriage. As they came -back, the Squire was asking the guard if he knew who the nobleman was -who had got out at the last station with his servant. But the guard did -not know. - -"He said they knew him on the line." - -"Very likely, sir. I have not been on this line above a month or two." - -"Well, this is an unpleasant affair," said the lunatic impatiently; "and -the question is--What's to be done? It appears pretty evident that your -pocket-book was taken in the carriage, sir. Of the four passengers, I -suppose the one who left us at the last station must be held exempt from -suspicion, being a nobleman. Another got out here, and has disappeared; -the other two are present. I propose that we should both be searched." - -"I'm sure I am quite willing," said the lady, and she got up at once. - -I think the Squire was about to disclaim any wish so to act; but the -lunatic was resolute, and the station-master agreed with him. There was -no time to be lost, for the train was ready to start again, her time -being up, and the lunatic was turned out. The lady went into another -room with two women, called by the station-master, and _she_ was turned -out. Neither of them had the pocket-book. - -"Here's my card, sir," said the lunatic, handing one to Mr. Todhetley. -"You know my name, I dare say. If I can be of any future assistance to -you in this matter, you may command me." - -"Bless my heart!" cried the Squire, as he read the name on the card. -"How could you allow yourself to be searched, sir?" - -"Because, in such a case as this, I think it only right and fair that -every one who has the misfortune to be mixed up in it _should_ be -searched," replied the lunatic, as they went out together. "It is a -satisfaction to both parties. Unless you offered to search me, you -could not have offered to search that woman; and I suspected her." - -"Suspected _her_!" cried the Squire, opening his eyes. - -"If I didn't suspect, I doubted. Why on earth did she cause her dog to -make all that row the moment we got into the tunnel? It must have been -done then. I should not be startled out of my senses if I heard that -that silent man by my side and hers was in league with her." - -The Squire stood in a kind of amazement, trying to recall what he could -of the little man in spectacles, and see if things would fit into one -another. - -"Don't you like her look?" he asked suddenly. - -"No, I _don't_," said the lunatic, turning himself about. "I have a -prejudice against painted women: they put me in mind of Jezebel. Look at -her hair. It's awful." - -He went out in a whirlwind, and took his seat in the carriage, not a -moment before it puffed off. - -"_Is_ he a lunatic?" I whispered to the Squire. - -"He a lunatic!" he roared. "You must be a lunatic for asking it, Johnny. -Why, that's--that's----" - -Instead of saying any more, he showed me the card, and the name nearly -took my breath away. He is a well-known London man, of science, talent, -and position, and of world-wide fame. - -"Well, I thought him nothing better than an escaped maniac." - -"_Did_ you?" said the Squire. "Perhaps he returned the compliment on -you, sir. But now--Johnny, who has got my pocket-book?" - -As if it was any use asking me? As we turned back to the -station-master's room, the lady came into it, evidently resenting the -search, although she had seemed to acquiesce in it so readily. - -"They were rude, those women. It is the first time I ever had the -misfortune to travel with men who carry pocket-books to lose them, and I -hope it will be the last," she pursued, in scornful passion, meant for -the Squire. "One generally meets with _gentlemen_ in a first-class -carriage." - -The emphasis came out with a shriek, and it told on him. Now that she -was proved innocent, he was as vexed as she for having listened to the -advice of the scientific man--but I can't help calling him a lunatic -still. The Squire's apologies might have disarmed a cross-grained hyena; -and she came round with a smile. - -"If any one _has_ got the pocket-book," she said, as she stroked her -dog's ears, "it must be that silent man with the gold spectacles. There -was no one else, sir, who could have reached you without getting up to -do it. And I declare on my honour, that when that commotion first arose -through my poor little dog, I felt for a moment something like a man's -arm stretched across me. It could only have been his. I hope you have -the numbers of the notes." - -"But I have not," said the Squire. - -The room was being invaded by this time. Two stray passengers, a -friend of the station-master's, and the porter who took the tickets, had -crept in. All thought the lady's opinion must be correct, and said the -spectacled man had got clear off with the pocket-book. There was no one -else to pitch upon. A nobleman travelling with his servant would not be -likely to commit a robbery; the lunatic was really the man his card -represented him to be, for the station-master's friend had seen and -recognized him; and the lady was proved innocent by search. Wasn't the -Squire in a passion! - -"That close reading of his was all a blind," he said, in sudden -conviction. "He kept his face down that we should not know him in -future. He never looked at one of us! he never said a word! I shall go -and find him." - -Away went the Squire, as fast as he could hurry, but came back in a -moment to know which was the way out, and where it led to. There was -quite a small crowd of us by this time. Some fields lay beyond the -station at the back; and a boy affirmed that he had seen a little -gentleman in spectacles, with a black bag in his hand, making over the -first stile. - -"Now look here, boy," said the Squire. "If you catch that same man, I'll -give you five shillings." - -Tod could not have flown faster than the boy did. He took the stile at a -leap; and the Squire tumbled over it after him. Some boys and men joined -in the chase; and a cow, grazing in the field, trotted after us and -brought up the rear. - -Such a shout from the boy. It came from behind the opposite hedge of the -long field. I was over the gate first; the Squire came next. - -On the hedge of the dry ditch sat the passenger, his legs dangling, his -neck imprisoned in the boy's arms. I knew him at once. His hat and gold -spectacles had fallen off in the scuffle; the black bag was wide open, -and had a tall bunch of something green sticking up from it; some tools -lay on the ground. - -"Oh, you wicked hypocrite!" spluttered the Squire, not in the least -knowing what he said in his passion. "Are you not ashamed to have played -upon me such a vile trick? How dare you go about to commit robberies!" - -"I have not robbed you, at any rate," said the man, his voice trembling -a little and his face pale, while the boy loosed the neck but pinioned -one of the arms. - -"Not robbed me!" cried the Squire. "Good Heavens! Who do you suppose you -have robbed, if not me? Here, Johnny, lad, you are a witness. He says he -has not robbed me." - -"I did not know it was yours," said the man meekly. "Loose me, boy; I'll -not attempt to run away." - -"Halloa! here! what's to do?" roared a big fellow, swinging himself over -the gate. "Any tramp been trespassing?--anybody wanting to be took up? -I'm the parish constable." - -If he had said he was the parish engine, ready to let loose buckets of -water on the offender, he could not have been more welcome. The Squire's -face was rosy with satisfaction. - -"Have you your handcuffs with you, my man?" - -"I've not got them, sir; but I fancy I'm big enough and strong enough to -take _him_ without 'em. Something to spare, too." - -"There's nothing like handcuffs for safety," said the Squire, rather -damped, for he believed in them as one of the country's institutions. -"Oh, you villain! Perhaps you can tie him with cords?" - -The thief floundered out of the ditch and stood upon his feet. He did -not look an ungentlemanly thief, now you came to see and hear him; and -his face, though scared, might have been thought an honest one. He -picked up his hat and glasses, and held them in his hand while he spoke, -in tones of earnest remonstrance. - -"Surely, sir, you would not have me taken up for this slight offence! I -did not know I was doing wrong, and I doubt if the law would condemn me; -I thought it was public property!" - -"Public property!" cried the Squire, turning red at the words. "Of all -the impudent brazen-faced rascals that are cheating the gallows, you -must be the worst. My bank-notes public property!" - -"Your what, sir?" - -"My bank-notes, you villain. How dare you repeat your insolent -questions?" - -"But I don't know anything about your bank-notes, sir," said the man -meekly. "I do not know what you mean." - -They stood facing each other, a sight for a picture; the Squire with his -hands under his coat, dancing a little in rage, his face crimson; the -other quite still, holding his hat and gold spectacles, and looking at -him in wonder. - -"You don't know what I mean! When you confessed with your last breath -that you had robbed me of my pocket-book!" - -"I confessed--I have not sought to conceal--that I have robbed the -ground of this rare fern," said the man, handling carefully the green -stuff in the black bag. "I have not robbed you or any one of anything -else." - -The tone, simple, quiet, self-contained, threw the Squire in amazement. -He stood staring. - -"Are you a fool?" he asked. "What do you suppose I have to do with your -rubbishing ferns?" - -"Nay, I supposed you owned them; that is, owned the land. You led me to -believe so, in saying I had robbed you." - -"What I've lost is a pocket-book, with ten five-pound bank-notes in it; -I lost it in the train; it must have been taken as we came through the -tunnel; and you sat next but one to me," reiterated the Squire. - -The man put on his hat and glasses. "I am a geologist and botanist, sir. -I came here after this plant to-day--having seen it yesterday, but then -I had not my tools with me. I don't know anything about the pocket-book -and bank-notes." - -So that was another mistake, for the botanist turned out of his pockets -a heap of letters directed to him, and a big book he had been reading in -the train, a treatise on botany, to prove who he was. And, as if to -leave no loophole for doubt, one stepped up who knew him, and assured -the Squire there was not a more learned man in his line, no, nor one -more respected, in the three kingdoms. The Squire shook him by the hand -in apologizing, and told him we had some valuable ferns near Dyke Manor, -if he would come and see them. - -Like Patience on a monument, when we got back, sat the lady, waiting to -see the prisoner brought in. Her face would have made a picture too, -when she heard the upshot, and saw the hot Squire and the gold -spectacles walking side by side in friendly talk. - -"I think still he must have got it," she said, sharply. - -"No, madam," answered the Squire. "Whoever may have taken it, it was not -he." - -"Then there's only one man, and that is he whom you have let go on in -the train," she returned decisively. "I thought his fidgety movements -were not put on for nothing. He had secured the pocket-book somewhere, -and then made a show of offering to be searched. Ah, ha!" - -And the Squire veered round again at this suggestion, and began to -suspect he had been doubly cheated. First, out of his money, next out of -his suspicions. One only thing in the whole bother seemed clear; and -that was, that the notes and case had gone for good. As, in point of -fact, they had. - - * * * * * - -We were on the chain-pier at Brighton, Tod and I. It was about eight -or nine months after. I had put my arms on the rails at the end, -looking at a pleasure-party sailing by. Tod, next to me, was bewailing -his ill-fortune in not possessing a yacht and opportunities of -cruising in it. - -"I tell you No. I don't want to be made sea-sick." - -The words came from some one behind us. It seemed almost as though they -were spoken in reference to Tod's wish for a yacht. But it was not -_that_ that made me turn round sharply; it was the sound of the voice, -for I thought I recognized it. - -Yes: there she was. The lady who had been with us in the carriage that -day. The dog was not with her now, but her hair was more amazing than -ever. She did not see me. As I turned, she turned, and began to walk -slowly back, arm-in-arm with a gentleman. And to see him--that is, to -see them together--made me open my eyes. For it was the lord who had -travelled with us. - -"Look, Tod!" I said, and told him in a word who they were. - -"What the deuce do they know of each other?" cried Tod with a frown, for -he felt angry every time the thing was referred to. Not for the loss of -the money, but for what he called the stupidity of us all; saying always -had _he_ been there, he should have detected the thief at once. - -I sauntered after them: why I wanted to learn which of the lords he was, -I can't tell, for lords are numerous enough, but I had had a curiosity -upon the point ever since. They encountered some people and were -standing to speak to them; three ladies, and a fellow in a black glazed -hat with a piece of green ribbon round it. - -"I was trying to induce my wife to take a sail," the lord was saying, -"but she won't. She is not a very good sailor, unless the sea has its -best behaviour on." - -"Will you go to-morrow, Mrs. Mowbray?" asked the man in the glazed hat, -who spoke and looked like a gentleman. "I will promise you perfect -calmness. I am weather-wise, and can assure you this little wind will -have gone down before night, leaving us without a breath of air." - -"I will go: on condition that your assurance proves correct." - -"All right. You of course will come, Mowbray?" - -The lord nodded. "Very happy." - -"When do you leave Brighton, Mr. Mowbray?" asked one of the ladies. - -"I don't know exactly. Not for some days." - -"A muff as usual, Johnny," whispered Tod. "That man is no lord: he is a -Mr. Mowbray." - -"But, Tod, he _is_ the lord. It is the one who travelled with us; -there's no mistake about that. Lords can't put off their titles as -parsons can: do you suppose his servant would have called him 'my lord,' -if he had not been one?" - -"At least there is no mistake that these people are calling him Mr. -Mowbray now." - -That was true. It was equally true that they were calling her Mrs. -Mowbray. My ears had been as quick as Tod's, and I don't deny I was -puzzled. They turned to come up the pier again with the people, and the -lady saw me standing there with Tod. Saw me looking at her, too, and -I think she did not relish it, for she took a step backward as one -startled, and then stared me full in the face, as if asking who I might -be. I lifted my hat. - -There was no response. In another moment she and her husband were -walking quickly down the pier together, and the other party went on to -the end quietly. A man in a tweed suit and brown hat drawn low over his -eyes, was standing with his arms folded, looking after the two with a -queer smile upon his face. Tod marked it and spoke. - -"Do you happen to know that gentleman?" - -"Yes, I do," was the answer. - -"Is he a peer?" - -"On occasion." - -"On occasion!" repeated Tod. "I have a reason for asking," he added; "do -not think me impertinent." - -"Been swindled out of anything?" asked the man, coolly. - -"My father was, some months ago. He lost a pocket-book with fifty pounds -in it in a railway carriage. Those people were both in it, but not then -acquainted with each other." - -"Oh, weren't they!" said the man. - -"No, they were not," I put in, "for I was there. He was a lord then." - -"Ah," said the man, "and had a servant in livery no doubt, who came up -my-lording him unnecessarily every other minute. He is a member of the -swell-mob; one of the cleverest of the _gentleman_ fraternity, and the -one who acts as servant is another of them." - -"And the lady?" I asked. - -"She is a third. They have been working in concert for two or three -years now; and will give us trouble yet before their career is stopped. -But for being singularly clever, we should have had them long ago. And -so they did not know each other in the train! I dare say not!" - -The man spoke with quiet authority. He was a detective come down from -London to Brighton that morning; whether for a private trip, or on -business, he did not say. I related to him what had passed in the train. - -"Ay," said he, after listening. "They contrived to put the lamp out -before starting. The lady took the pocket-book during the commotion she -caused the dog to make, and the lord received it from her hand when he -gave her back the dog. Cleverly done! He had it about him, young sir, -when he got out at the next station. _She_ waited to be searched, and to -throw the scent off. Very ingenious, but they'll be a little too much so -some fine day." - -"Can't you take them up?" demanded Tod. - -"No." - -"I will accuse them of it," he haughtily said. "If I meet them again on -this pier----" - -"Which you won't do to-day," interrupted the man. - -"I heard them say they were not going for some days." - -"Ah, but they have seen you now. And I think--I'm not quite sure--that -he saw me. They'll be off by the next train." - -"Who are _they_?" asked Tod, pointing to the end of the pier. - -"Unsuspecting people whose acquaintance they have casually made here. -Yes, an hour or two will see Brighton quit of the pair." - -And it was so. A train was starting within an hour, and Tod and I -galloped to the station. There they were: in a first-class carriage: not -apparently knowing each other, I verily believe, for he sat at one door -and she at the other, passengers dividing them. - -"Lambs between two wolves," remarked Tod. "I have a great mind to warn -the people of the sort of company they are in. Would it be actionable, -Johnny?" - -The train moved off as he was speaking. And may I never write another -word, if I did not catch sight of the man-servant and his cockade in the -next carriage behind them! - - - - -IX. - -DICK MITCHEL. - - -I did not relate this story by my own wish. To my mind there's nothing -very much in it to relate. At the time it was written the newspapers -were squabbling about farmers' boys and field labour and political -economy. "And," said a gentleman to me, "as you were at the top and tail -of the thing when it happened, and are well up in the subject generally, -Johnny Ludlow, you may as well make a paper of it." That was no other -than the surgeon, Duffham. - -About two miles from Dyke Manor across the fields, but in the opposite -direction to that of the Court where the Sterlings lived, Elm Farm was -situated. Mr. Jacobson lived in it, as his father had lived before him. -The property was not their own; they rented it: it was fine land, and -Jacobson had the reputation of being the best farmer for miles round. -Being a wealthy man, he had no need to spare money on house or land, and -did not spare it. He and the Squire were about the same age, and had -been cronies all their lives. - -Not to go into extraneous matter, I may as well say at once that one -of the labourers on Jacobson's farm was a man named John Mitchel. He -lived in a cottage not far from us--a poor place consisting of two -rooms and a wash-house; they call it back'us there--and had to walk -nearly two miles to his work of a morning. Mitchel was a steady man -of thirty-five, with a round head and not any great amount of brains -inside it. Not but what he had as much brains as many labourers have, -and quite enough for the sort of work his life was passed in. There -were six children; the eldest, Dick, ten years old; and most of them -had straw-coloured hair, the pattern of their father's. - -Just before the turn of harvest one hot summer, John Mitchel presented -himself at Mr. Jacobson's house in a clean smock frock, and asked a -favour. It was, that his boy, Dick, should be taken on as ploughboy. Old -Jacobson objected, saying the boy was too young and little. Little he -might be, Mitchel answered, but not too young--warn't he ten? The lad -had been about the farm for some time as scarecrow: that is, employed -to keep the birds away: and had a shilling a week for it. Old Jacobson -stood to what he said, however, and little Dick did not get his -promotion. - -But old Jacobson got no peace. Every opportunity Mitchel could get, or -dare to use, he began again, praying that Dick might be tried. The boy -was "cute," he said; strong enough also, though little; and if the -master liked to pay him only fourpence a day, they'd be grateful for -it; 'twould be a help, and was wanted badly. All of no use: old -Jacobson still said No. - -One afternoon during this time, we started to go to the Jacobsons' after -a one-o'clock dinner,--I and Mrs. Todhetley. She was fond of going -over to an early tea there, but not by herself, for part of the way -across the fields was lonely. Considering that she had been used to -the country, she was a regular coward as to lonely walks, expecting to -see tramps or robbers at every corner. In passing the row of cottages -in Duck Lane, for we took that road, we saw Hannah Mitchel leaning -over the footboard of her door to look after her children, who were -playing near the pond in the sunshine with a lot more; quite a heap -of the little reptiles, all badly clad and as dirty as pigs. Other -labourers' dwellings stood within hail, and the children seemed to -spring up in the place thicker than wheat; Mrs. Mitchel's was quite a -small family, reckoning by comparison, but how the six were clothed -and fed was a mystery, out of Mitchel's wages of ten shillings a week. -It was thought good pay. Old Jacobson was liberal, as farmers go. He -paid the best wages; gave all his labourers a stunning big portion of -home-fed pork at Christmas, with fuel to cook it: and his wife was -good to the women when they fell sick. - -Mrs. Todhetley stopped to speak. "Is it you, Hannah Mitchel? Are you -pretty well?" - -Hannah Mitchel stood upright and dropped a curtsey. She had a bundle in -her arms, which proved to be the baby, then not much above a fortnight -old. - -"Dear me! it's very early for it to be about," said Mrs. Todhetley, -touching its little red cheeks. "And for you too." - -"It is, ma'am; but what's to be done?" was the answer. "When there's -only one pair of hands for everything, one can't afford to lie by long." - -"You seem but poorly," said Mrs. Todhetley, looking at her. She was -a thin, dark-haired woman, with a sensible face. Before she married -Mitchel, she had lived as under-nurse in a gentleman's family, where she -picked up some idea of good manners. - -"I be feeling a bit stronger, thank you," said the woman. "Strength -don't come back to one in a day, ma'am." - -The Mitchel children were sidling up, attracted by the sight of the -lady. Four young grubs in tattered garments. - -"I can't keep 'em decent," said the mother, with a sigh of apology. -"I've not got no soap nor no clothes to do it with. They come on so -fast, and make such a many, one after another, that it's getting a hard -pull to live anyhow." - -Looking at the children; remembering that, with the father and mother, -there were eight mouths to feed, and that the man's wages were the ten -shillings a week all the year round (but there were seasons when he did -over-work and earned more), Mrs. Todhetley might well give her assenting -answer with an emphatic nod. - -"We was hoping to get on a bit better," resumed the wife; "but Mitchel -he says the master don't seem to like to listen. A'most a three weeks it -be now since Mitchel first asked it him." - -"In what way better?" - -"By putting little Dick to the plough, ma'am. He gets a shilling a week -now, he'd got two then, perhaps three, and 'twould be such a help to us. -Some o' the farmers gives fourpence halfpenny a day to a ploughboy, some -as much as sixpence. The master he bain't one of the near ones; but Dick -be little of his age, he don't grow fast, and Mitchel telled the master -he'd take fourpence a day and be thankful for't." - -Thoughts were crowding into Mrs. Todhetley's mind--as she mentioned -afterwards. A child of ten ought to be learning and playing; not working -from twelve to fourteen hours a day. - -"It would be a hard life for him." - -"True, ma'am, at first; but he'd get used to it. I could have wished the -summer was coming on instead o the winter--'twould be easier for him to -begin upon. Winter mornings be so dark and cold." - -"Why not let him wait until the next winter's over?" - -The very suggestion brought tears into Hannah Mitchel's eyes. "You'd -never say it, ma'am, if you knew how bad his wages is wanted and the -help they'd be. The older children grows, the more they wants to eat; -and we've got six of 'em now. What would you, ma'am?--they don't bring -food into the world with 'em; they must help to earn it for themselves -as quick as anybody can be got to hire 'em. Sometimes I wonder why God -should send such large families to us poor people." - -Mrs. Todhetley was turning to go on her way, when the woman in a timid -voice said: "Might she make bold to ask, if she or Squire Todhetley -would say a good word to Mr. Jacobson about the boy: that it would be -just a merciful kindness." - -"We should not like to interfere," replied Mrs. Todhetley. "In any case -I could not do it with a good heart: I think it would be so hard upon -the poor little boy." - -"Starving's harder, ma'am." - -The tears came running down her cheeks with the answer; and they won -over Mrs. Todhetley. - -Crossing the high, crooked, awkward stile--over which, in coming the -other way, if people were not careful they generally pitched head -first into Duck Lane--we found ourselves in what was called the square -paddock, a huge piece of land, ploughed last year. The wheat had been -carried from it only this afternoon, and the gleaners in their cotton -bonnets were coming in. On, from thence, across other fields and stiles; -we went a little out of our way to call at Glebe Cottage--a small white -house that lay back amidst the fields--and inquire after old Mrs. Parry, -who had just had a stroke. - -Who should be at Elm Farm, when we got in, but the surgeon, Duffham: -come on there from paying his daily visit to Mrs. Parry. He and old -Jacobson were in the green-house, looking at the grapes: a famous crop -they had that year; not ripe yet. Mrs. Jacobson sat at the open window -of the long parlour, making a new jelly-bag. She was a pleasant-faced -old lady, with small flat silver curls and a net cap. - -Of course they got talking about little Dick Mitchel. Duffham knew the -boy; seeing that when a doctor was wanted at the Mitchels', it was he -who attended. Mrs. Todhetley told exactly what had passed: and old -Jacobson--a tall, portly man, with a healthy colour--grew nearly purple -in the face, disputing. - -Dick Mitchel would be of as good as no use for the team, he said, and -the carters put shamefully upon those young ones. In another year the -boy would be stronger and bigger. Perhaps he would take him then. - -"For my part, I cannot think how the mothers can like their poor boys to -go out so young," cried the old lady, looking up from her flannel bag. -"A ploughboy's life is very hard in winter." - -"Hannah Mitchel says it has to be one of two things--early work or -starving," said Mrs. Todhetley. "And that's pretty true." - -"Labourers' boys are born to it, ma'am, and so it comes easy to 'em: as -skinning does to eels," cried Duffham quaintly. - -"Poor things, yes. But it is very hard upon the children. The worst is, -all the labourers seem to have no end of them. Hannah Mitchel has just -said she sometimes wonders why God should send so many to poor people." - -This was an unfortunate remark. To hear the two gentlemen laugh, you'd -have thought they were at a Christmas pantomime. Old Jacobson brought -himself up in a kind of passion. - -What business, in the name of all that was imprudent, had these poor -people to have their troops of children, he asked. They knew quite well -they could not feed them; that the young ones would be three-parts -starved in their earlier years, and in their later ones come to the -parish and be a burden on the community. Look at this same man, Mitchel. -His grandfather, a poor miserable labourer, had a troop of children; -Mitchel's father had a troop, twelve; _he_, Mitchel, had six, and -seemed to be going on fair for six more. There was no reason in it. Why -couldn't they be content with a moderate number, three or four, that -might have a chance of finding room in the world? It was not much less -than a crime for these men, next door to paupers themselves, to launch -their tens and their dozens of boys and girls into life, and then turn -round and say, Why does God send them? Nice kind of logic, that was! - -And so he kept on, for a good half-hour, Duffham helping him. _He_ -brought up the French peasantry: saying our folks ought to take a lesson -from them. You don't see whole flocks of children over there, cried -Duffham. One, or two, or at most three, would be found to comprise the -number of a family. And why? Because the French were a prudent race. -They knew there was no provision for superfluous children; no house-room -at home, or food, or clothing; and no parish pay to fall back upon: they -knew that however many children they had they must provide for them: -they didn't set up, of themselves, a regiment of little famishing -mouths, and then charge it on Heaven; they were not so reckless and -wicked. Yes, he must repeat it, wicked; and the two ladies listening -would endorse the word if they knew half the deprivation and the -sufferings these poor small mortals were born to; he saw enough of it, -having to be often amongst them. - -"Why don't you tell the parents this, doctor?" - -Tell them! returned Duffham. He _had_ told them; told them till his -tongue was tired of talking. - -Any way, the little things were grievously to be pitied, was what the -two ladies answered. - -"I have often wished it was not a sin to drown the superfluous little -mites as we do kittens," wound up Duff. - -One of the ladies dropped the jelly-bag, the other shrieked out, Oh! - -"For their sakes," he added. "It's true, upon my word of honour. Of -all wrongs the world sees, never was there a worse wrong than the one -inflicted on these inoffensive children by the parents, in bringing them -into it. God help the little wretches! man can't do much." - -And so they talked on. The upshot was, that old Jacobson stood to his -word, and declined to make Dick Mitchel a ploughboy yet awhile. - -We had tea at four o'clock--at which fashionable people may laugh; -considering that it was real tea, not the sham one lately come into -custom. Mrs. Todhetley wanted to get home by daylight, and the summer -evenings were shortening. Never was brown bread-and-butter so sweet as -the Jacobsons': we used to say it every time we went; and the home-baked -rusks were better than Shrewsbury cake. They made Mrs. Todhetley put two -or three in her bag for Hugh and Lena. - -Old Duff went with us across the first field, turning off there to -take the short-cut to his home. It was a warm, still, lovely evening, -the moon rising. The gleaners were busy in the square paddock: Mrs. -Todhetley spoke to some as we passed. At the other end, near the crooked -stile, two urchins stood fighting, the bigger one trying to take a small -armful of wheat from the other. I went to the rescue, and the marauder -made off as fast as his small bare feet would carry him. - -"He haven't gleaned, hisself, and wants to take mine," said the little -one, casting up his big grey eyes to us appealingly through the tears. -He was a delicate-looking pale-faced boy of nine, or so, with light -hair. - -"Very naughty of him," said Mrs. Todhetley. "What's your name?" - -"It's Dick, lady." - -"Dick--what?" - -"Dick Mitchel." - -"Dear me--I thought I had seen the face before," said Mrs. Todhetley to -me. "But there are so many boys about here, Johnny; and they all look -pretty much alike. How old are you, Dick?" - -"I'm over ten," answered Dick, with an emphasis on the over. Children -catch up ideas, and no doubt he was as eager as the parents could be to -impress on the world his fitness to be a ploughboy. - -"How is it that you have been gleaning, Dick?" - -"Mother couldn't, 'cause o' the babby. They give me leave to come on -since four o'clock: and I've got all this." - -Dick looked at the stile and then at his bundle of wheat, so I took it -while he got over. As we went on down the lane, Mrs. Todhetley inquired -whether he wanted to be a ploughboy. Oh yes! he answered, his face -lighting up, as if the situation offered some glorious prospect. It 'ud -be two shilling a week; happen more; and mother said as he and Totty and -Sam and the t'others 'ud get treacle to their bread on Sundays then. -Apparently Mrs. Mitchel knew how to diplomatize. - -"I'll give him one of the rusks, I think, Johnny," whispered Mrs. -Todhetley. - -But while she was taking it from the bag, he ran in with his wheat. She -called to him to come back, and gave him one. His mother had taken the -wheat from him, and looked out at the door with it in her hands. Seeing -her, Mrs. Todhetley went up, and said Mr. Jacobson would not at present -do anything. The next minute Mitchel appeared pulling at his straw hair. - -"It is hard lines," he said, humbly, "when the lad's of a' age to be -earning, and the master can't be got to take him on. And me to ha' -worked on the same farm, man and boy; and father afore me." - -"Mr. Jacobson thinks the boy would not be strong enough for the work." - -"Not strong enough, and him rising eleven!" exclaimed Mitchel, as if -the words were some dreadful aspersion on Dick. "How can he be strong -if he gets no work to make him strong, ma'am? Strength comes with the -working--and nobody don't oughtn't to know that better nor the master. -Anyhow, if he _don't_ take him, it'll be cruel hard lines for us." - -Dick was outside, dividing the rusk with a small girl and boy, all three -seated in the lane, and looking as happy over the rusk as if they had -been children in a fairy tale. "It's Totty," said he, pausing in the -work of division to speak, "and that 'un's Sam." Mrs. Todhetley could -not resist the temptation of finding two more rusks, which made one -apiece. - -"He is a good-natured little fellow, Johnny," she remarked, as we went -along. "Intelligent, too: in that he takes after his mother." - -"Would it be wrong to let him go on the farm as ploughboy?" - -"Johnny, I don't know. I'd rather not give an opinion," she added, -looking right before her into the moon, as if seeking for one there. "Of -course he is not old enough or big enough, practically speaking; but on -the other hand, where there are so many mouths to feed, it seems hard -not to let him earn money if he can earn it. The root of the evil lies -in there being so many mouths--as was said at Mr. Jacobson's this -afternoon." - - * * * * * - -It was winter before I heard anything more of the matter. Tod and I got -home for Christmas. One day in January, when the skies were lowering, -and the air was cold and raw, but not frosty, I was crossing a field on -old Jacobson's land then being ploughed. The three brown horses at the -work were as fine as you'd wish to see. - -"You'll catch it smart on that there skull o' yourn, if ye doan't keep -their yeads straight, ye young divil." - -The salutation was from the man at the tail of the plough to the boy at -the head of the first horse. Looking round, I saw little Mitchel. The -horses stopped, and I went up to him. Hall, the ploughman, took the -opportunity to beat his arms. I dare say they were cold enough. - -"So your ambition is attained, is it, Dick? Are you satisfied?" - -Dick seemed not to understand. He was taller, but the face looked -pinched, and there was never a smile on it. - -"Do you like being a ploughboy?" - -"It's hard and cold. Hard always; frightful cold of a morning." - -"How's Totty?" - -The face lighted up just a little. Totty weren't any better, but she -didn't die; Jimmy did. Which was Jimmy?--Oh, Jimmy was after Nanny, next -to the babby. - -"What did Jimmy die of?" - -Whooping cough. They'd all been bad but him--Dick. Mother said he'd had -it when he was no older nor the babby. - -Whether the whooping-cough had caused an undue absorption of Mitchel's -means, certain it was, Dick looked famished. His cheeks were thin, his -hands blue. - -"Have you been ill, Dick?" - -No, he had not been ill. 'Twas Jimmy and the t'others. - -"He's the incapablest little villain I ever had put me to do with," -struck in the ploughman. "More lazy nor a fattened pig." - -"Are you lazy, Dick?" - -I think an eager disclaimer was coming out, but the boy remembered in -time who was present--his master, the ploughman. - -"Not lazy wilful," he said, bursting into tears. "I does my best: mother -tells me to." - -"Take that, you young sniveller," said Hall, dealing him a good sound -slap on the left cheek. "And now go on: ye know ye've got this lot to go -through to-day." - -He took hold of the plough, and Dick stretched up his poor trembling -hands to the first horse to guide him. I am sure the boy _was_ trying to -do his best; but he looked weak and famished and ill. - -"Why did you strike him, Hall? He did nothing to deserve it." - -"He don't deserve nothing else," was Hall's answer. "Let him alone, and -the furrows 'ud be as crooked as a dog's leg. You dun' know what these -young 'uns be for work, sir.--Keep 'em in the line, you fool!" - -Looking back as I went down the field, I watched the plough going -slowly up it, Dick seeming to have his hands full with the well-fed -horses. - -"Yes, I heard the lad was taken on, Johnny," Mrs. Todhetley said when I -told her that evening. "Mitchel prevailed with his master at last. Mr. -Jacobson is good-hearted, and knew the Mitchels were in sore need of the -extra money the boy would earn. Sickness makes a difference to the poor -as well as to the rich." - -I saw Dick Mitchel three or four times during that January. The -Jacobsons had two nephews staying with them from Oxfordshire, and it -caused us to go over often. The boy seemed a weak little mite for the -place; but of course, having undertaken the work, he had to do it. He -was no worse off than others. To be at the farm before six o'clock, he -had to leave home at half-past five, taking his breakfast with him, -which was chiefly dry bread. As to the boy's work, it varied--as those -acquainted with the executive of a busy farm can tell you. Besides the -ploughing, he had to pump, and carry water and straw, and help with the -horses, and go errands to the blacksmith's and elsewhere, and so on. -Carters and ploughmen do not spare their boys; and on a large farm like -this they are the immediate rulers, not the master himself. Had Dick -been under Mr. Jacobson's personal eye, perhaps it might have been -lightened a little, for he was a humane man. There were three things -that made it seem particularly hard for Dick Mitchel, and those three -were under no one's control; his natural weakliness, his living so far -from the farm, and its being winter weather. In summer the work is -nothing like as hard for the boys; and it was a great pity that Dick had -not first entered on his duties in that season to get inured to them -before the winter. Mr. Jacobson gave him the best wages--three shillings -a week. Looking at the addition it must have seemed to Mitchel's ten, it -was little wonder he had not ceased to petition old Jacobson. - -The Jacobsons were kind to the boy--as I can affirm. One cold day when I -was over there with the nephews, shooting birds, we went into the best -kitchen at twelve o'clock for some pea-soup. They were going to carry -the basins into the parlour, but we said we'd rather eat it there by the -big blazing fire. Mrs. Jacobson came in. I can see her now, with a soft -white woollen kerchief thrown over her shoulders to keep out the cold, -and her net cap above her silver curls. We were getting our second -basinfuls. - -"Do have some, aunt," said Fred. "It's the best you ever tasted." - -"No, thank you, Fred. I don't care to spoil my dinner." - -"It won't spoil ours." - -She laughed a little, and stood looking from the window into the -fold-yard, saying presently that she feared the frost was going to set -in now in earnest, which would not be pleasant for their journey.--For -this was the last day of the nephews' stay, and she was going home with -them for a week. There had been no very severe cold all the winter; -which was a shame because of the skating; if the ponds had a thin -coating of ice on them one day, it would all melt the next. - -"Bless me! there's that poor child sitting out in the cold! What is he -eating?--his dinner?" - -Her words made us look from the window. Dick Mitchel had put himself -down by the distant pig-sty, and seemed to be eating something that he -held in his hands. He was very white--as might be seen even from where -we stood. - -"Mary," said she to one of the servants, "go and call that boy in." - -Little Mitchel came in; pinched and blue. His clothes were thin, not -half warm enough for the weather; an old red woollen comforter was -twisted round his neck. He took off his battered drab hat, and put his -bread into it. - -"Is that your dinner?" asked Mrs. Jacobson. - -"Yes'm," said Dick, pulling the forelock of his light hair. - -"But why did you not go home to-day?" - -"Mother said there was nothing but bread for dinner to-day, and she give -it me to bring away with my breakfast." - -"Well, why did you sit out in the cold? You might have gone indoors -somewhere to eat it." - -"I were tired, 'm," was all Dick answered. - -To look at him, one would say the "tired" state was chronic. He was -shivering slightly with the cold; his teeth chattered. Mrs. Jacobson -took his hand, and put him to sit on a low wooden stool close to the -fire, and gave him a basin of pea-soup. - -"Let him have more if he can eat it," she said to Mary when she went -away. So the boy for once was well warmed and fed. - -Now, it may be thought that Mrs. Jacobson, being a kind old lady, might -have told him to come in for some soup every cold day. And perhaps her -will was good to do it. But it would never have answered. There were -boys on the farm besides Dick, and no favour could be shown to one more -than to another. No, nor to the boys more than to the men. Nor to the -men on this farm more than to the men on that. Old Jacobson would -have had his brother farmers pulling his ears. Those of you who are -acquainted with the subject will know all this. - -And there's another thing I had better say. In telling of Dick Mitchel, -it will naturally sound like an exceptional or isolated case, because -those who read have their attention directed to this one and not to -others. But, in actual fact, Dick's was only one of a great many; the -Jacobsons had employed ploughboys and other boys always; lots of them; -some strong and some weak, just as the boys might happen to be. For a -young boy to be out with the plough in the cold winter weather, seems -nothing to a farmer and a farmer's men: it lies in the common course of -events. He has to get through as he best can; he must work to eat; and -as a compensating balance there comes the warmth and the easy work of -summer. Dick Mitchel was only one of the race; the carter and ploughman, -his masters, had begun life exactly as he had, had gone through the same -ordeal, the hardships of a long winter's day and the frost and snow. -Dick Mitchel was as capable of his duties as many another had been. -Dick's father had been little and weakly in his boyhood, but he got over -that and grew as strong as the rest of them. Dick might have got over -it, too, but for some extraordinary weather that set in. - -Mrs. Jacobson had been in Oxfordshire a week when old Jacobson started -to fetch her home, intending to stay there two or three days. The -weather since she left had been going on in the same stupid way; a thin -coating of snow to be seen one day, the green of the fields the next. -But on the morning after old Jacobson started, the frost set in with a -vengeance, and we got our skates out. Another day came in, and the -Squire declared he had never felt anything to equal the cold. We had not -had it as sharp for years: and then, you see, he was too fat to skate. -The best skating was on a pond on old Jacobson's land, which they called -the lake from its size. - -It was on this second day that I came across Dick Mitchel. Hastening -home from the lake after dark--for we had skated till we couldn't see -and then kept on by moonlight--the skates in my hand and all aglow with -heat, who should be sitting by the bank on this side the crooked stile -instead of getting over it, but little Mitchel. But for the moon shining -right on his face, I might have passed without seeing him. - -"You are taking it airily, young Dick. Got the gout?" - -Dick just lifted his head and stared a little; but didn't speak. - -"Come! Why don't you go home?" - -"I'm tired," murmured Dick. "I'm cold." - -"Get up. I'll help you over the stile." - -He did as he was bid at once. We had got well on down the lane, and I -had my hand on his shoulder to steady him, for his legs seemed to slip -about like Punch's in the show, when he turned suddenly back again. - -"The harness." - -"The what?" I said. - -Something seemed the matter with the boy: it was just as if he had -partly lost the power of speech, or had been struck stupid. I made -out at last that he had left some harness on the ground, which he was -ordered to take to the blacksmith's. - -"I'll get over for it, Dick. You stop where you are." - -It was lying where he had been sitting; a short strap with a broken -buckle. Dick took it and we went on again. - -"Were you asleep, just now, Dick?" - -"No, sir. It were the moon." - -"What was the moon?" - -"I were looking into it. Mother says God's all above there: I thought -happen I might see Him." - -A long explanation for Dick to-night. The recovery of the strap seemed -to have brightened up his intellect. - -"You'll never see Him in this world, Dick. He sees you always." - -"And that's what mother says. He sees I can't do more nor my arms'll let -me. I'd not like Him to think I can." - -"All right, Dick. You only do your best always; He won't fail to see -it." - -I had hardly said the last words when down went Dick without warning, -face foremost. Picking him up, I took a look into his eyes by the -moonlight. - -"What did you do that for, Dick?" - -"I don't know." - -"Is it your legs?" - -"Yes, it's my legs. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it when I fell under -the horses to-day, but Hall he beated of me and said I did." - -After that I did not loose him; or I'm sure he would have gone down -again. Arrived at his cottage, he was for passing it. - -"Don't you know your own door, Dick Mitchel?" - -"It's the strap," he said. "I ha' got to take it to Cawson's." - -"Oh, I'll step round with that. Let's see what there is to do." - -He seemed unwilling, saying he must take it back to Hall in the morning. -Very well, I said, so he could. We went in at his door; and at first I -thought I must have got into a black fog. The room was a narrow, poking -place; but I couldn't see across it. Two children were coughing, one -choking, one crying. Mrs. Mitchel's face, ornamented with blacks, -gradually loomed out to view through the atmosphere. - -"It be the chimbley, sir. I hope you'll please to excuse it. It don't -smoke as bad as this except when the weather's cold beyond common." - -"It's to be hoped it doesn't. I should call it rather miserable if it -did." - -"Yes, sir. Mitchel, he says he thinks the chimbley must have frozed." - -"Look here, Mrs. Mitchel, I've brought Dick home: I found him sitting in -the cold on the other side of the stile, and my belief is, he thought he -could not get over it. He is about as weak as a young rat." - -"It's the frost, sir," she said. "The boys all feel it that has to be -out and about. It'll soon be gone, Dick. This here biting cold don't -never last long." - -Dick was standing against her, bending his face on her old stuff gown. -She put her arm about him kindly. - -"No, it can't last long, Mrs. Mitchel. Could he not be kept indoors -until it gives a bit--let him have a holiday? No? Wouldn't it do?" - -She opened her eyes wide at this. Such a thing as keeping a ploughboy at -home for a holiday, had never entered her imagination. - -"Why, Master Ludlow, sir, he'd lose his place!" - -"But, suppose he were ill, and had to stay at home?" - -"Then the Lord help us, if it came to that! Please, sir, his wages might -be stopped. I've heard of a master paying in illness, though it's not -many of 'em as would, but I've never knowed 'em pay for holidays. The -biting cold will go soon, Dick," she added, looking at him; "don't be -downhearted." - -"I should give him a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Mitchel, and let him go to -bed. Good night; I'm off." - -I should have liked to say beer instead of tea; it would have put a bit -of strength into the boy; but I might just as well have suggested wine, -for all they had of either. Leaving the strap at the blacksmith's--it -was but a minute or two out of my road--I told him to send it up to -Mitchel's as soon as it was done. - -"I dare say!" was what I got in answer. - -"Look here, Cawson: the lad's ill, and his father was not in the way. If -you don't choose to let your boy run up with that, or take it yourself, -you shall never have another job of work from the Squire if I can -prevent it." - -"I'll send it, sir," said Cawson, coming to his senses. Not that he had -much from us: we chiefly patronized Dovey, down in Piefinch Cut. - -Now, all this happened: as Duffham and others could testify if -necessary; it is not put in to make up a story. But I never thought -worse of Dick than that he was done over for the moment with the cold. - -Of all days in remembrance, the next was the worst. The cold was more -intense--though that had seemed impossible; and a fierce wind was -blowing that cut you in two. It kept us from skating--and that's saying -a good deal. We got half-way to the lake, and couldn't stand it, so -turned home again. Jacobson's team was out, braving the weather: we saw -it at a distance. - -"What a fool that waggoner must be to bring out the team to-day!" cried -Tod. "He can't do any good on this hard ground. He must be doing it for -bravado. It is a sign his master's not at home." - -In the afternoon, when a good hot meal had put warmth into us, we -thought we'd be off again; and this time gained the pond. The wind was -like a knife; I never skated in anything like it before; but we kept on -till dusk. - -Going homewards, in passing Glebe Cottage, which lay away on the left, -we caught sight of three or four people standing before it. - -"What's to do there?" asked Tod of a man, expecting to hear that old -Mrs. Parry had had a second stroke. - -"Sum'at's wrong wi' Jacobson's ploughboy," was the answer. "He has just -been took in there." - -"Jacobson's ploughboy! Why, Tod, that must be Dick Mitchel." - -"And what if it is!" returned Tod, starting off again. "The youngster's -half frozen, I dare say. Let us get home. Johnny. What are you stopping -for?" - -By saying "half frozen" he meant nothing. Not a thought of real ill was -in his mind. I went across to the house; and met Hall the ploughman -coming out of it. - -"Is Dick Mitchel ill, Hall?" - -"He ought to be, sir; if he bain't shamming," returned Hall, crustily. -"He have fell down five times since noon, and the last time wouldn't -get up upon his feet again nohow. Being close a-nigh the old lady's I -carried of him in." - -Hall went back to the house with me. I don't think he much liked the -boy's looks. Dick had been put to lie on the warm brick floor before the -kitchen fire, a blanket on his legs, and his head on a cushion. Mrs. -Parry was ill in bed upstairs. The servant looked a stupid young country -girl, seemingly born without wits. - -"Have you given him anything?" I asked her. - -"Please, sir, I've put the kettle on to bile." - -"Is there any brandy in the house?" - -"_Brandy!_" the girl exclaimed with wonder. No. Her missis never took -anything stronger nor tea and water gruel. - -"Hall," I said, looking at the man, "some one must go for Mr. Duffham. -And Dick's mother might as well be told." - -Bill Leet, a strapping young fellow standing by, made off at this, -saying he'd bring them both. Hall went away to his team, and I stooped -over the boy. - -"What is the matter, Dick? Tell me how you feel." - -Except that Dick smiled a little, he made no answer. His eyes, gazing up -into mine, looked dim. The girl had taken away the candle, but the fire -was bright. As I took one of his hands to rub it, his fingers clasped -themselves round mine. Then he began to say something, with a pause -between each word. I had to bend close to catch it. - -"He--brought--that--there--strap." - -"All right, Dick." - -"Thank--ee--sir." - -"Are you in any pain, Dick?" - -"No." - -"Or cold?" - -"No." - -The girl came back with a candle and some hot milk in a tea-cup. I put a -teaspoonful into Dick's mouth. But he could not swallow it. Who should -come rushing in then but old Jones the constable, wanting to know what -was up. - -"Well I never!--why, that's Mitchel's Dick!" cried Jones, peering down -in the candle-light. "What's took _him_?" - -"Jones, if you and the girl will rub his hands, I'll go and get some -brandy. We can't let him lie like this and give him nothing." - -Old Jones, liking the word brandy on his own score, knelt down on his -fat gouty legs with a groan, and laid hold of one of the hands, the girl -taking the other. I went leaping off to Elm Farm. - -And went for nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson being out, the cellar was -locked up, and no brandy could be got at. The cook gave me a bottle of -gooseberry wine; which she said might do as well if hotted up. - -Duffham was stooping over the boy when I got back, his face long, and -his cane lying on the ironing-board. Bill Leet had met him half-way, so -no time was lost. He was putting something into Dick's lips with a -teaspoon--perhaps brandy. But it ran the wrong way; out instead of in. -Dick never stirred, and his eyes were shut. The doctor got up. - -"Too late, Johnny," he whispered. - -The words startled me. "Mr. Duffham! No?" - -He looked into my eyes, and nodded YES. "The exposure to-day has been -too much for him. He is going fast." - -And just at that moment Hannah Mitchel came in. I have often thought -that the extreme poor, whose lives are but one vast hardship from the -cradle to the grave, who have to struggle always, do not feel strong -emotion. At any rate, they don't show much. Hannah Mitchel knelt down, -and looked quietly at the white, shrunken face. - -"Dicky," she said, putting his hair gently back from his brow; which now -had a damp moisture on it. "What's amiss, Dicky?" - -He opened his eyes at the voice and feebly lifted one hand towards her. -Mrs. Mitchel glanced round at the doctor's face; and I think she read -the truth there. She gathered his poor head into her arms, and let it -rest on her bosom. Her old black shawl was on, her bonnet fell backwards -and hung from her neck by the strings. - -"Oh, Dicky! Dicky!" - -He lay still, looking at her. She gave one sob and choked the rest down. - -"Be he dying, sir?--ain't there no hope?" she cried to Mr. Duffham, who -was standing in the blaze of the fire. And the doctor just moved his -head for answer. - -There was a still hush in the kitchen. Her tears began to fall down her -cheeks slowly and softly. - -"Dicky, wouldn't you like to say 'Our Father'?" - -"I--'ve--said--it,--mother." - -"You've always been a good boy, Dicky." - -Old Jones blew his nose; the stupid girl burst into a sob. Mr. Duffham -told them to hush. - -Dick's eyes were slowly closing. The breath was very faint now, and came -at long intervals. Presently Mr. Duffham took him from his mother, and -laid him down flat, without the cushion. - -Well, he died. Poor little Dick Mitchel died. And I think, taking the -wind and the work into consideration, that he was better off. - -Mr. Jacobson got back the next day. He sharply taxed the ploughman with -the death, saying he ought to have seen the state the boy was in on that -last bitter day, and have sent him home. But Hall declared he never -thought anything ailed the boy, except that the cold was cutting him -more than ordinary, just as it was cutting everybody else. - -The county coroner came over to hold the inquest. The jury, after -hearing what Mr. Duffham had to say, brought it in that Richard Mitchel -died from exposure to the cold during the recent remarkable severity of -the weather, not having sufficient stamina to resist it. Some of the -local newspapers took it up, being in want of matter that dreary season. -They attacked the farmers; asking the public whether labourers' children -were to be held as of no more value than this, in a free and generous -country like England, and why they were made to work so young by such -hard and wicked task-masters as the master of Elm Farm. That put the -master of Elm Farm on his mettle. He retorted by a letter of sharp good -sense; finishing it with a demand to know whether the farmers were -expected to club together to provide meat and puddings gratis for the -flocks of children that labourers chose to gather about them. The Squire -read it aloud to every one, as the soundest letter he'd ever seen -written. - -"I am afraid their view is the right one--that the children are too -thick on the ground, poor things," sighed Mrs. Todhetley. "Any way, -Johnny, it is very hard on the young ones to have to work as poor little -Dick did: late and early, wet or dry: and I am glad for his sake that -God has taken him." - - - - -X. - -A HUNT BY MOONLIGHT. - - -This is another tale of our school life. It is not much in itself, you -may say, but it was to lead to lasting events. Curious enough, it is, to -sit down and trace out the beginning of things: when we _can_ trace it; -but it is often too remote for us. - -Mrs. Frost died, and the summer holidays were prolonged in consequence. -September was not far off when we met again, and gigs and carriages went -bowling up with us and our boxes. - -Sanker was in the large class-room when we got in. He looked up for a -minute, and turned his head away. Tod and I went up to him. He did shake -hands, and it was as much as you could say. I don't think he was the -sort of fellow to bear malice; but it took time to bring him round if -once offended. - -Sanker had gone home with us to Dyke Manor when the holidays began. He -belonged to a family in Wales (very poor they were now), and was a -distant cousin of Mrs. Todhetley's. Before he had been with us long, a -matter occurred that put him out, and he betook himself away from the -Manor there and then. But I do not intend to go into that history now. - -Things had been queer at school towards the close of the past term. -Petty pilferings took place: articles and money alike disappeared. A -thief was amongst us, and no mistake: but we did not know where to look -for him. It was to be hoped that the same thing would not occur again. - -"My father and Mrs. Todhetley are in the drawing-room," said Tod. "They -are asking to see you." - -Sanker hesitated; but he went at last. The interview softened things a -little, for he was civil to us when he came back again. - -"What's that about the plants?" he asked me. - -I told him what. They had been destroyed in some unaccountable manner. -"Whether it was done intentionally, or whether moving them into the hall -and back again did it, is not positively decided; I don't suppose it -ever will be. You ought to have come over to that ball, Sanker, after -all of us writing to press it." - -"Well," he said, coldly. "I don't care for balls. Monk was suspected, -was he not?" - -"Yes. Some of us suspect him still. He was savage at being accused -of--But never mind that"--and I pulled myself up in sudden recollection. -"Monk has left, and we have engaged another gardener. Jenkins is not -good for much." - -"Hallo! What has _he_ come back?" - -Ned Sanker was looking towards the door as he spoke. Two of them were -coming in, who must have arrived at the same time--Vale and Lacketer. -They were new ones, so to say, both having entered only last Easter. -Vale was a tall, quiet fellow, with a fair, good-looking face and mild -blue eyes; his friends lived at Vale Farm, about two miles off. Lacketer -had sleek black hair, and a sharp nose; he had only an aunt, and was -from Oxfordshire. I didn't like him. He had a way of cringing to those -of us who were born to position in the world; but any poor friendless -chap, who had nothing but himself and his work to get on by, he put upon -shamefully. As for him, we couldn't find out that he'd ever had any -relations at all, except the aunt. - -I looked at Sanker, to see which he alluded to; his eyes were fixed on -Vale with a stare. Vale had not been going to leave, that the school -knew of. - -"Why are you surprised that he has come back, Sanker?" - -"Because I--didn't suppose he _would_," said Sanker, with a pause where -I have put it, and an uncommonly strong emphasis on the "would." - -It was just as though he had known something about Vale. Flashing across -my memory came the mysterious avowal Sanker had made at our house about -the discovery of the thief at school; and I now connected the one with -the other. They call me a muff, I know, but I cannot help my thoughts. - -"Sanker! was _he_ the thief?" - -"Hold your tongue, Ludlow," returned Sanker, in a fright. "I told you -I'd give him a chance again, didn't I? But I never thought he would come -back to take it." - -"I would have believed it of any fellow rather than of Vale." - -Sanker turned his face sharp, and looked at me. "Oh, would you?" said -he, after a pause. "Well, then, you'd _better_ believe it of any other. -Mind you do. It will be safer, Johnny Ludlow." - -He walked away into a group of them, as if afraid of my saying more. I -turned out at the door leading to the playground, and came upon Tod in -the porch. - -"What was that you and Sanker were saying about Vale, Johnny?" - -I was aware that I ought not to tell him; I knew I ought not: but I -_did_. Tod read me always as one reads a book, and I had never attempted -to keep from him any earthly thing. - -"Sanker says it was Vale. About the things lost last half. He told me, -you know, that he had discovered who it was that took them." - -"What, he the thief! Vale?" - -"Hush, Tod. Give him another chance, as Sanker says." - -Tod rushed out of the porch with a bound. He had heard a movement on the -other side the trellis-work, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of -a tassel disappearing round the corner. - -We went in for noise at Worcester House just as much as they do at other -schools; but not this afternoon. Mrs. Frost had been a favourite, and -Sanker told us about her funeral. Things seemed to wear a mournful look. -The servants were in black, the Doctor was in jet black, even to his -gaiters. He wore the old style of dress always, knee breeches and -buckles: but I have mentioned this before. We used to call him old -Frost; this afternoon we said "the Doctor." - -"You can't think what it was like while the house was shut up," said -Sanker. "Coal-pits are jolly to it. I never saw the Doctor until the -funeral. Being the only fellow at school, was, I suppose, the reason -they asked me to go to it. He cried ever so much over the grave." - -"Fancy old Frost crying!" interrupted Lacketer. - -"I cried too," avowed Sanker, in a short sharp tone, as if disapproving -of the remark; and it silenced Lacketer. "She had been ailing a long -time, as we all knew, but she only grew very ill at the last, she told -me." - -"When did you see her?" - -"Two days before she died. Hall came to me, saying I was to go up. It -was on Wednesday at sunset. The hot red sun was shining right into the -room, and she sat back from it on the sofa in a white gown. It was very -hot these holidays, and she felt at times fit to die of it: she never -bore heat well." - -To hear Sanker tell this was nearly as good as a play. A solemn play I -mean. None of us made the least noise as we stood round him: it seemed -as if we could see Mrs. Frost's room, and her nice placid face, drawn -back from the rays of the red hot sun. - -"She told me to reach a little Bible that was on the drawers, and sit -close to her and read a chapter," continued Sanker. "It was the seventh -of St. John's Revelation; where that verse is, that says there shall be -no more hunger and thirst; neither shall the sun light on them nor any -heat. She held my hand while I read it. I had complained of the light -for her, saying what a pity it was the room had no shutters. 'You see,' -she said, when the chapter was read, 'how soon all discomforts here -will pass away. Give my dear love to the boys when they come back,' -she went on. 'Tell them I should like to have seen them all and said -good-bye. Not good-bye for ever; be sure tell them that, Sanker: I leave -them all a charge to come to me _there_ in God's good time. Not one of -them must fail.' And now I've told you, and it's off my mind," concluded -Sanker, in a different voice. - -"Did you see her again?" - -"When she was in her coffin. She gave me the Bible." - -Sanker took it out of his pocket. His name was written in it, "Edward -Brooke Sanker, with Mary Frost's love." She had made him promise to read -in it daily, if he began only with one verse. He did not tell us that -then. - -While we were looking at the writing, Bill Whitney came in. Some of them -thought he had left at Midsummer. Lacketer shook hands; he made much of -Whitney, after the fashion of his mind and manners. Old Whitney was a -baronet, and Bill would be Sir William sometime: for his elder brother, -John, whom we had so much liked, was dead. Bill was good-natured, and -divided hampers from home liberally. - -"_I_ don't know why I am back again," he said, in answer to questions; -"you must ask Sir John. I shall be the better for another year or two of -it, he says. Who likes grapes?" - -He was beginning to undo a basket he had brought with him: it was filled -with grapes, peaches, plums, and nectarines. Those of us who had plenty -of fruit at home did not care to take much; but the others went in for -it eagerly. - -"Our peaches are finer than these, Whitney," cried Vale. - -Lacketer gave Vale a push. "You big lout, mind your manners!" cried he. -"Don't eat the peaches if you don't like 'em." - -"So they were," said Vale, who never answered offensively. - -"There! that's enough insolence from _you_." - -Old Vale was Sir John Whitney's tenant. Of course, according to -Lacketer's creed, Vale deserved putting down for only speaking to -Whitney. - -"He is right," said Whitney, who thought no more of being his father's -son than he would of being a shopkeeper's. "Mr. Vale's peaches this year -were the finest in the county. He sent my mother some, and she said they -ought to have gone up to a London fruit-show." - -"I never saw such peaches as Mr. Vale's," put in Sanker, talking at -Lacketer, and not kindly. "And the flavour was as good as the look. Mrs. -Frost enjoyed those peaches to the last: it was almost the only thing -she took." - -Vale's face shone. "We shall always be glad at home that they were so -good this year, for her sake." - -Altogether, Lacketer was shut up. He stood over Whitney, who was undoing -a small desk he had brought. Amidst the things, that lay on the ledge -inside, was a thin, yellow, old-fashioned-looking coin. - -"It's a guinea," said Bill Whitney. "I mean to have a hole bored in it -and wear it to my watch-chain." - -"I'd lock it up safely until then, Whitney," burst forth Snepp, who -came from Alcester. "Or it may go after the things that were lost last -half-year." - -Turning to glance at Sanker, I found he had left the room. Whitney was -balancing the guinea on his finger. - -"Fore-warned, fore-armed, Snepp," he said. "Who the thief was, I can't -think; but I advise him not to begin his game again." - -"Talking of warning, I should like to give one on my own score," said -Tod. "By-gones may be by-gones; I don't wish to recur to them; but if I -lose anything this half and can find the thief, I'll put him into the -river." - -"What, to drown him?" - -"To duck him. I'll do it as sure as my name's Todhetley." - -Vale dropped his handkerchief and stooped to pick it up again. It might -have been an accident; and the redness of his face might have come of -stooping; but I saw Tod did not think so. Ducking is the favourite -punishment in Worcestershire for a public offender, as all the county -knows. When a man misbehaves himself on the race-course at Worcester, -they duck him in the Severn underneath. - -"The guinea would not be of much use to any one," said Lacketer. "You -couldn't pass it." - -"Oh, couldn't you, though!" answered Whitney. "You'd better try. It's -worth twenty-one shillings, and they might give a shilling or two in for -the antiquity of the coin." - -"Gentlemen." - -We turned to see the Doctor, standing there in his deep mourning, with -his subdued red face. He came in to introduce a new master. - - * * * * * - -The time went on. We missed Mrs. Frost; and Hall, the crabbed woman with -the cross face, made a mean substitute. She had it all her own way now. -The puddings had less jam in them, and the pies hardly any fruit. Little -Landon fell ill; and one day, after hours, when some of us went up to -see him, we found him crying for Mrs. Frost. He was only seven; the -youngest in the school, and made a sort of plaything of; an orphan with -no friends to see to him much. Illness had been Mrs. Frost's great -point. Any of us who were laid by she'd sit with half the day, reading -nice stories, and talking to us of good things, just as our mothers -might do. I know mine would if she had lived. However, we managed to -get along in spite of Hall, hoping the Doctor would find her out and -discharge her. - -Matters went on quietly for some weeks. No one lost anything: and we had -almost forgotten there had been a doubt that we might lose something, -when it occurred. The loss was Tod's--rather curious, at first sight, -that it should be, after his threat of what he would do. And Tod, as -they all knew, was not one to break his word. It was only half-a-crown; -but there could be no certainty that sovereigns would not go next. Not -to speak of the disagreeable sense of feeling the thief was amongst us -still, and taking to his tricks again. - -Tod was writing to Evesham for some articles he wanted. Bill Whitney, -knowing this, got him to add an order for some stationery for himself: -which came back in the parcel. The account, nine-and-tenpence, was made -out to Tod ("Joseph Todhetley, Esquire!"), half-a-crown of it being -Whitney's portion. Bill handed him the half-crown at once; and Tod, who -was busy with his own things and had his hands full, asked him to put it -on the mantelpiece. - -The tea-bell rang, and they went away and forgot it. Only they two -had been in the room. But others might have gone in afterwards. We -were getting up from tea when Tod called to me to go and fetch him the -half-crown. - -"It is on the mantelpiece, Johnny." - -I went through the passages and turned into the box-room; a place where -knots of us gathered sometimes. But the mantelpiece had no half-crown on -it, and I carried the news back to Tod. - -"Did you take it up again, Bill?" he asked of Whitney. - -"I didn't touch it after I put it down," said Whitney. "It was there -when the tea-bell rang." - -They said I had overlooked it, and both went to the box-room. I followed -slowly; thinking they should search for themselves. Which they did; and -were standing with blank faces when I got in. - -"It has gone after my guinea," Whitney was saying. - -"What guinea?" - -"My guinea. The one you saw. That disappeared a week ago." - -Bill was not a fellow to make much row over anything; but Tod--and I, -too--wondered at his having taken it so easily. Tod asked him why he had -not spoken. - -"Because Lacketer--who was with me when I discovered the loss--asked me -to be silent for a short time," said Whitney. "He has a suspicion; and -is looking out for himself." - -"Lacketer has?" - -"He says so. I am sure he has. He thinks he could put his finger any -minute on the fellow; but it would not do to accuse him without proof; -and he is waiting for it." - -Tod glanced at me, and I at him, both of us thinking of Vale. - -"Yesterday Lacketer lost something himself," continued Whitney. "A -shilling, I think it was. He went into a fine way over it, and said now -he'd watch in earnest." - -"Who is it he suspects?" asked Tod. - -"He won't tell me; says it would not be fair." - -"Well, I shall talk about my half-crown, if you and Lacketer choose to -be silent over your losses," said Tod, decisively. "And I'll be as good -as my word, and give the reptile a ducking if I can track him." - -He went straight to the playground. It was a fine October evening, the -daylight nearly gone, and the hunter's moon rising in the sky. Tod told -about his half-crown, and the boys ceased their noise to listen to him. -He talked himself into a passion, and said some stinging things. "He -suspected who it was, and he heard that Lacketer suspected, and he -fancied that another or two suspected, and one _knew_; and he thought, -now that affairs had come to this pitch, when nothing, put for a minute -out of hand, was safe, it might be better for them all to declare their -suspicions, and hunt the animal as they'd hunt a hare." - -There was a pause when Tod finished. He was about the biggest and -strongest in the school; his voice was one of power, his manner ready -and decisive; so that it was just as though a master spoke. Lacketer -came out from amongst them, looking white. I could see that in the -twilight. - -"Who says I suspect? Speak for yourself, Todhetley. Don't bring up my -name." - -"Do you scent the fox, or don't you?" roared Tod back again, not at all -in a humour to be crossed. "If you _do_, you must speak, and not shirk -it. Is the whole school to lie under doubt because of one black sheep?" - -Tod's concluding words were drowned in noise; applause for him, murmurs -for Lacketer. I looked round for Vale, and saw him behind the rest, as -if preparing to make a run for it. That said nothing: he was one of -those quiet-natured fellows who liked to keep aloof from rows. When I -looked back again, Sanker was standing a little forward, not far from -Lacketer. - -"As good speak as not, Lacketer," put in Whitney. "I don't mind telling -now that that guinea of mine has been taken; and you know you lost a -shilling yourself. You say you could put your finger on the fellow." - -"Speak!" "Speak!" "Speak!" came the shouts from all quarters. And -Lacketer turned whiter. - -"There's no proof," he said. "I might have been mistaken in what I -fancied. I _won't_ speak." - -"Then I shall say you are an accomplice," roared Tod, in his passion. "I -intend to hunt the fellow to earth to-night, and I'll do it." - -"I don't suspect any one in particular," said Lacketer, looking as if he -were run to earth himself. "There." - -Great commotion. Lacketer was hustled, but got away and disappeared. -Sanker went after him. Tod had been turning on Sanker, saying why didn't -_he_ speak. - -"Half-a-crown is half-a-crown, and I mean to get mine back again," -avowed Tod. "If some of you are rich enough to lose your half-crowns, -I'm not. But it isn't that. Sovereigns may go next. It isn't _that_. It -is the knowing that we have a light-fingered, disreputable, sneaking rat -amongst us, whose proper place would be a reformatory, not a school for -honest men's sons." - -"Name!" "Proofs!" "Proofs!" "Name!" It was as if a torrent had been let -loose. In the midst of the lull that ensued a voice was heard, and a -name. - -"_Vale._ Harry Vale." - -Harding was the one to say it: a clever, first-class boy. You might have -heard a pin drop in the surprise: and Harding went on after a minute. - -"I beg to state that I do not accuse Vale myself. I know nothing -whatever about the case. But I have reason to think Vale's name is the -one that has been mentioned in connection with the losses last half." - -"I know it is," cried Tod, who had only wanted the lead, not choosing to -take it himself. "Now then, Vale, make your defence if you can." - -I dare say you recollect how hotly you used to take up a cause when you -were at school yourselves, not waiting to know whether it might be right -or wrong. Mrs. Frost said to us on one of these occasions she wondered -whether we should ever be as eager to take up heaven. They pounced upon -Vale with an awful row. He stood with his arm round one of the trees -behind, looking scared to death. I glanced back for Sanker, expecting -his confirming testimony, but could not see him, and at that moment -Lacketer appeared again, peeping round the trees. Whitney called to him. - -"Here, Lacketer. Was it Vale you suspected?" - -"As much as I did anybody else," doggedly answered Lacketer. - -It was taken as an affirmative. The boys believed the thief was found, -and were mad against him. Vale spoke something, shaking and trembling -like the leaves in the wind, but his words were drowned. He was not -brave, and they looked ready to tear him to pieces. - -"My half-crown, Vale," roared Tod. "Did you take it just now?" - -Vale made no answer; I thought he could not. His face frightened me; the -lips were blue and drawn, his teeth chattered. - -"Search his pockets." - -It was a simultaneous thought, for a dozen said it. Vale was turned out, -and half-a-crown found upon him; no other money. The boys yelled and -groaned. Tod, with his great strength, pushed them aside, as the coin -was flung to him. - -"Shall I resume possession of this half-crown?" he asked of Vale, -holding it before him in defiant mockery. - -"If you like. I----" - -Vale broke down with a gasp and a sob. His piteous aspect might have -moved even Tod. - -"Look here," said he, "I don't care in general to punish a coward; I -regard him as an abject animal beneath me: but I cannot go from my word. -Ducking is too good for you, Vale, but you shall have it. Be off to that -tree yonder; we'll give you so much grace. Let him start fair, boys, and -then hound him on. It will be a fine chase." - -Vale, seeming to be too confused and terror-stricken to do anything but -obey, went to the tree, and then darted away _in the direction of the -river_. It takes time to read all this; but scarcely a minute appeared -to have passed since Tod first came out with Whitney, and spoke of the -half-crown. Giving Vale the fair start, the boys sprang after him, like -a pack of hounds in full cry. Tod, the swiftest runner in the school, -was following, when he found himself seized by Sanker. I had stayed -behind. - -"Have you been accusing Vale? Are you going to duck him?" - -"Well?" cried Tod, angry at being stopped. - -"It was not Vale who took the things. Vale! He is as innocent as you -are. You'll kill him, Todhetley; he cannot bear terror." - -"Who says he is innocent?" - -"I do. I say it on my honour. It was another fellow, whose name I've -been suppressing. This is _your_ work, Johnny Ludlow." - -I felt a sudden rush of repentance. A conviction that Sanker spoke -nothing but the truth. - -"You said it was Vale, Sanker." - -"I never did. _You_ said it. I told you you'd better believe it was any -other rather than Vale. And I meant it." - -But that Sanker was not a fellow to tell a lie, I should have thought -he told one then. The impression, resting on my memory, was that he -acknowledged to its being Vale, if he had not exactly stated it. - -"You know you told me to be quiet, Sanker: you said, give him a chance." - -"But I thought you were speaking of another then, not Vale. I swear it -was not Vale. He is as honest as the day." - -Tod, looking ready to strike me, waiting for no more explanation, was -already off, shouting to the crew to turn, far more anxious now to save -Vale than he had been to duck him. - -How he managed to arrest them, I never knew. He did do it. But for being -the fleetest runner and strongest fellow, he could never have overtaken, -passed, and flung himself back upon them, with his arms stretched out, -words of explanation on his lips. - -The river was more than a mile away, taking the straight course over the -fields, as a bird flies, and leaping fences and ditches. Vale went -panting on, _for it_. It was as if his senses were scared out of him. -Tod flew after him, the rest following on more gently. The school-bell -boomed out to call us in for evening study, but none heeded it. - -"Stop, Vale! Stop!" shouted Tod. "It has been a mistake. Come back and -hear about it. It was not you; it was another fellow. Come back, Harry; -come back!" - -The more Tod shouted, the faster Vale went on. You should have seen the -chase in the moonlight. It put us in mind of the fairy tales of Germany, -where the phantom huntsman and his pack are seen coursing at midnight. -Vale made for a part where the banks of the river are overshadowed by -trees. Tod was only about thirty yards behind when he gained it; he saw -him leap in, and heard the plunge. - -But when he got close, there was no sign of Vale in the water. Had he -suddenly sunk? Tod's heart stood still with fear. The boys were coming -up by ones and twos, and a great silence ensued. Tod stript ready to -plunge in when Vale should rise. - -"Here's his cap," whispered one, picking it up from the bank. - -"He was a good swimmer; he must have been seized with cramp." - -"Look here; they say there are holes in the river, just above this bend. -What if he has sunk into one?" - -"Hold your row, all of you," cried Tod, in a hoarse whisper that -betrayed his fear. "Who's to listen with that noise?" - -He was listening for a sound, watching for the faintest ripple, that -might give indication of Vale's rising. But none came. Tod stood there -in his shirt till he shivered with cold. And the church clock struck -seven, and then eight, and it was of no use waiting. - -It was a horrible feeling. Somehow we seemed, I and Tod, to be -responsible for Vale's death, I for having mistaken Sanker; Tod for -entering upon the threatened ducking, and hounding the boys on. - -The worst was to come: going back to Dr. Frost and the masters with the -tale; breaking it to Mr. and Mrs. Vale at Vale Farm. While Tod was -dressing himself, the rest went on slowly, no one staying by him but me -and Sanker. - -"It's _your_ doing more than mine," Tod said, turning to Sanker in his -awful distress. "If you knew who the thief was last half, you should -have disclosed it; not have given him the opportunity to resume his -game. Had you done so this could not have happened." - -"I promised him then I should proclaim him if he did resume it; I have -told him to-night I shall do it," quietly answered Sanker. "It was -Lacketer." - -"Lacketer!" - -"Lacketer. And since my eyes were opened, it has seemed to me that all -yours must have been closed, not to find him out. His manner was enough -to betray him: only, I suppose--you wanted the clue." - -"But, Sanker, why did you let me think it was Vale?" I asked. - -"_You_ made the first mistake; I let you lie under it for Lacketer's -sake; to give him the chance," said Sanker. "Who was to foresee you -would go and tell?" - -It had never passed my lips, save those few words at the time when Tod -questioned me. Harding was the one outside the porch who had overheard -it; but he had kept it to himself until now, when he thought the time -had come for speaking. - -What was to be done?--what was to be done? It seemed as if a great -darkness had suddenly fallen upon us, and could never again be lifted. -We had death upon our hands. - -"There's just a chance," said Tod, dragging his legs along like so much -lead, and beginning with a sort of groan. "Vale may have made for the -land again as soon as he got in, and come out lower down. In that case -he would run home probably." - -Just a chance, as Tod said. But in the depth of despair chances are -caught at. If we cut across to the left, Vale Farm was not more than a -mile off: and we turned to it. Absenting ourselves from school seemed as -nothing. Tod went on with a bound now there was an object, a ray of -hope; I and Sanker after him. - -"I can't go in," said Tod, when we came in front of the farm, a long, -low house, with lights gleaming in some of the windows. "It's not -cowardice; at least, I don't think it is. It's---- Never mind; I'll wait -for you here." - -"I say," said Sanker to me, "what excuse are we to make for going in at -this time? We can't tell the truth." - -_I_ could not. Harry Vale stood alone; he had neither brother nor -sister. I could not go in and tell his mother that he was dead. She was -sitting in one of the front parlours, sewing by the lamp. We saw her -through the window as we stole up to look in. But there was no time for -plotting. Footsteps approached, and we only got back on the path when -Mr. Vale came up. He was a tall, fine man, with a fair face and blue -eyes like his son's. What we said I hardly knew; something about being -close by, and thought we'd call on our way home. Sanker had been there -several times in the holidays. - -Mr. Vale took us in with a beaming face to his wife. They were the -kindest-hearted people, liberal and hospitable, as most well-to-do -farmers are. Mrs. Vale, rolling up her work, said we must take something -to help us on our way home, and rang the bell. We never said we could -not stop; we never said Tod was waiting outside. But there were no signs -that Vale had gone home half-drowned. - -Two maids put the supper on the table, and Mrs. Vale helped them; for -Sanker had summoned courage to say it was late for us to stop. About a -dozen things. Cold ducks, and ham, collared-head, a big dish of custard, -and fruit and cake. I couldn't have swallowed a morsel; the lump rising -in my throat would have hindered it. I don't think Sanker could, for he -said resolutely we must not sit down because of Dr. Frost. - -"How is Harry?" asked Mrs. Vale. - -"Oh, he is--very well," said Sanker, after waiting to see if I'd answer. -"Have you seen him lately?" - -"Not since last Sunday week, when he and young Snepp spent the day here. -He was looking well, and seemed in spirits. It was rather a hazard, -sending him to school at all; Mr. Vale wanted to have him taught at -home, as he has been until this year. But I think it is turning out for -the best." - -"He gets frightened, does he not?" said Sanker, who knew what she meant. - -"He did," replied Mrs. Vale; "but he is growing out of it. Never was a -braver little child born than he; but when he was four years old, he -strolled away from his nurse into a field where a bull was grazing, a -savage animal. What exactly happened, we never knew; that Harry was -chased across the field by it was certain, and then tossed. The chief -injury was to the nerves, strange though that may seem in so young a -child. For a long time afterwards, the least alarm would put him into a -state of terrible fear, almost a fit. But he is getting over it now." - -She told this for my benefit; just as if she had divined the night's -work; Sanker knew it before. I felt sick with remorse as I listened--and -Tod had called him a coward! Let us get away. - -"I wish you could stay, my lads," cried Mr. Vale; "it vexes me to turn -you out supperless. What's this, Charlotte? Ah yes, to be sure! I wish -you could put up the whole table for them." - -For Mrs. Vale had been putting up some tartlets, and gave us each a -packet of them. "Eat them as you go along," she said. "And give my love -to Harry." - -"And tell him that he must bring you both on Sunday, to spend the day," -added Mr. Vale. "Perhaps young Mr. Todhetley will come also. You might -have breakfast, and go with us to church. I'll write to Dr. Frost." - -Outside at last; I and my shame. These good, simple-hearted people--oh, -had we indeed, between us, made them childless? "Young Mr. Todhetley," -waiting amid the stubble in the outer field, came springing up to the -fence, his face white in the light of the hunter's moon. - -"What a long while you have been! Well?" - -"Nothing," said Sanker, briefly. "No news! I don't think we've been much -above five minutes." - -What a walk home it was! Mr. Blair, the out-of-school master, came down -upon us with his thunder, but Tod seemed never to hear him. The boys, -hushed and quiet as nature is before an impending storm, had not dared -to tell and provoke it. I could not see Lacketer. - -"Where's Vale?" roared Mr. Blair, supposing he had been with us. "But -that prayers are waiting, I'd cane all four of you. Where are you going, -Todhetley?" - -"Don't stop me, Mr. Blair," said Tod, putting him aside with a quiet -authority and a pain in his voice that made Blair stare. We called -Blair, Baked Pie, because of his name, Pyefinch. - -"Read the prayers without me, please Mr Blair," went on Tod. "I must see -Dr. Frost. If you don't know what has happened to-night, sir, ask the -rest to tell you." - -He went out to his interview with the Doctor. Tod was not one to shirk -his duty. Seeing Vale's father and mother he had shrunk from; but the -confession to Dr. Frost he made himself. What passed between them we -never knew: how much contrition Tod spoke, how much reproach the Doctor. -Roger and Miles, the man-servant and boy, were called into the library, -and sent abroad: we thought it might be to search the banks of the -river, or give notice for it to be dragged. The next called in was -Sanker. The next, Lacketer. - -But Lacketer did not answer the call. He had vanished. Mr. Blair went -searching for him high and low, and could not find him. Lacketer had run -away. He knew his time at Worcester House was over, and thought he'd -save himself from dismissal. It was he who had been the thief, and whom -Sanker suspected. As good mention here that Dr. Frost got a letter from -his aunt the next Saturday, saying the school did not agree with her -nephew, and she had withdrawn him from it. - -Whether the others slept that night, I can't tell; I did not. Harry -Vale's drowned form was in my mind all through it; and the sorrow of Mr. -and Mrs. Vale. In the morning Tod got up, looking more like one dead -than alive: he had one of his frightful headaches. I felt ready to die -myself; it seemed that never another happy morning could dawn on the -world. - -"Shall I ask if I may bring you some breakfast up here, Tod? And it's -just possible, you know, that Vale----" - -"Hold your peace, Johnny!" he snapped. "If ever you tell me a false -thing of a fellow again, I'll thrash your life out of you." - -He came downstairs when he was dressed, and went out, waiting neither -for breakfast nor prayers. I went out to watch him away, knowing he must -be going to Vale Farm. - -Oh, I never shall forget it. As Tod passed round the corner by the -railings, he ran up against him. _Him_, Harry Vale. - -My sight grew dim; I couldn't see; the field and railings were reeling. -But it only lasted for a moment or two. Tod's breath was coming in great -gasps then, and he had Vale's two hands grasped in his. I thought he was -going to hug him; a loud sob broke from him. - -"We have been thinking you were drowned!" - -Vale smiled. "I am too good a swimmer for that." - -"But you disappeared at once." - -"I struck back out of the river the instant I got into it; I was afraid -you'd come in after me; and crept round the alder trees lower down. When -you were all gone I swam across in my clothes; see how they've shrunk!" - -"Swam across! Have you not been home?" - -"No, I went to my uncle's: it's nearer than home: and they made me go to -bed, and dried my things, and sent to tell Dr. Frost. I did not say why -I went into the water," added Vale, lifting his kind face. "But the -Doctor came round the ferry late, and he knew all about it. They talked -to me well, he and my uncle, about being frightened at nothing, and I've -promised not to be so stupid again." - -"God bless you, Vale!" cried Tod. "You know it was a mistake." - -"Yes, Dr. Frost said so. The half-crown was my own. My uncle met us boys -when we were out walking yesterday morning, and gave it me. I thought -you might have seen him give it." - -Tod linked his arm within Vale's and walked off to the breakfast-room. -The wonder to me was how, with Vale's good honest face and open manners, -we could have thought him capable of theft. But when you once go in for -a mistake it carries you on in spite of improbabilities. The boys were -silent for an instant when Vale went in, and then you'd have thought the -roof was coming off with cheers. Tod stood looking from the window, and -I vow I saw him rub his handkerchief across his eyes. - -We went to Vale Farm on Sunday morning early: the four of us invited, -and Harding. Mr. Vale shook hands twice with us all round so heartily, -that we might see, I thought, they bore no malice; and Mrs. Vale's -breakfast was a sight to do you good, with its jugs of cream and -home-made sausages. - -After that, came church: it looked like a procession turning out for it. -Mr. and Mrs. Vale and the grandmother, an upright old lady with a -China-crape shawl and white hair, us five and a man and maid-servant -behind. The river lay on the right, the church was in front of us; -people dotted the fields on their way to it, and the bells were ringing -as they do at a wedding. - -"This is a different sort of Sunday from what we thought last Thursday -it would be," I said in Tod's ear when we were together for a minute at -the gate. - -"Johnny, if I were older, and went in for that kind of thing, as perhaps -I shall do sometime, I should like to put up a public thanksgiving in -church to-day." - -"A public thanksgiving?" - -"For mercies received." - -I stared at Tod. He did not seem to heed it, but took his hat off and -walked with it in his hand all across the churchyard. - - - - -XI - -THE BEGINNING OF THE END. - - -Perhaps this might be called the beginning of the end of the chain of -events that I alluded to in that other paper. An end that terminated in -distress, and death, and sorrow. - -It was the half-year following that hunt of ours by moonlight. Summer -weather had come in, and we were looking forward to the holidays, hoping -the heat would last. - -The half-mile field, so called from its length, on Vale Farm was being -mowed. Sunday intervened, and the grass was left to dry until the -Monday. The haymakers had begun to rake it into cocks. The river -stretched past along the field on one side; a wooden fence bounded it -on the other. It was out of all proportion, that field, so long and so -narrow. - -Tod and I and Sanker and Harry Vale were spending the Sunday at the -Farm. Since that hunt last autumn Mr. and Mrs. Vale often invited us. -There was no evening service, and we went into the hay-field, and began -throwing the hay at one another. It was rare fun; they might almost have -heard our shouts at Worcester House: and I don't believe but that every -one of us forgot it was Sunday. - -What with the sultry weather and the hay, some of us got into a -tolerable heat. The river wore a tempting look; and Tod and Sanker, -without so much as a thought, undressed themselves behind the trees, -and plunged in. It was twilight then; the air had began to wear its -weird silence; the shadows were putting on their ghastliness; the -moon, well up, sailed along under white clouds. - -I and Vale were walking slowly back towards the Farm, when a great cry -broke over the water,--a cry as of something in pain; but whether from -anything more than a night-bird, was uncertain. Vale stopped and turned -his head. - -A second cry: louder, longer, more distinct, and full of agony. It -came from one of those two in the water. Vale flew back with his fleet -foot--fleeter than any fellow's in the school, except Tod's and Snepp's. -As I followed, a startling recollection came over me, and I wondered -how it was that all of us had been so senseless as to forget it: that -one particular spot on the river was known to be dangerous. - -"Bear up; I'm coming," shouted Vale. "Don't lose your heads." - -A foot-passenger walking on the other side the fence, saw something -was wrong: if he did not hear Vale's words, he heard the cry, and came -cutting across the field, scattering the hay with his feet. And then I -saw it was Baked Pie; which meant our mathematical master, Mr. Blair. -They had given him at baptism the name of "Pyefinch," after some old -uncle who had money to leave; no second name, nothing but that: and the -school had converted him into "Baked Pie." But I don't think fathers and -mothers have any right to put odd names upon helpless babies and send -them out to be a laughing-stock to the world. - -Blair was not a bad fellow, setting his name aside, and had gone in for -honours at Cambridge. We reached the place together. - -"What is amiss, Ludlow?" - -"I don't know, sir. Todhetley and Sanker are in the water; and we've -heard cries." - -"In the water to-night! And _there_!" - -Vale, already in the middle of the river, was swimming back, holding up -Sanker. But Tod was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Blair looked up and down; -and an awful fear came over me. The current led down to Mr. Charles -Vale's mill--Vale's uncle. More than one man had found his death there. - -"Oh, Mr. Blair! where is he? What has become of him?" - -"Hush!" breathed Blair. He was quietly slipping off some of his things, -his eyes fixed on a particular part of the river. In he went, striking -out without more splash than he could help, and reached it just as Tod's -head appeared above water. _The third time of rising._ I did not go in -for such a girl's trick as to faint; but I never afterwards could trace -the minutes as they had passed until Tod was lying on the grass under -the trees. _That_ I remember always. The scene is before my eyes now as -plainly as it was then, though more time has since gone by than perhaps -you'd think for: the treacherous river flowing on calmly, the quivering -leaves overhead, through which the moon was glittering, and Tod lying -there white and motionless. Mr. Blair had saved his life; there could be -no question about that, saved it only by a minute of time; and I thought -to myself I'd never call him Baked Pie again. - -"Instead of standing moonstruck, Ludlow, suppose you make a run to the -Farm and see what help you can get," spoke Mr. Blair. "Todhetley must be -carried there, and put between hot blankets." - -Help was found. Sanker walked to the Farm, Tod was carried; and a -regular bustle set in when they arrived there. Both were put to bed; Tod -had come-to then. Mrs. Vale and the servants ran up and down like wild -Indians; and the good old lady with the white hair insisted upon sitting -up by Tod's bedside all night. - -"No, mother," said Mr. Vale; "some of us will do that." - -"My son, I tell you that I shall watch by him myself," returned the old -lady; and, as they deferred to her always, she did. - -When explanation of the accident was given--as much of it as ever could -be given--it sounded rather strange. _Both_ of them had been taken with -cramp, and the river was not in fault, after all. Tod said that he had -been in the water two or three minutes, when he was seized with what he -supposed to be cramp in the legs, though he never had it before. He was -turning to strike out for the bank, when he found himself seized by -Sanker. They loosed each other in a minute, but Tod was helpless, and he -sank. - -Sanker's story was very much the same. He was seized with cramp, and -in his fear caught hold of Tod for protection. Tod was an excellent -swimmer, Sanker a poor one; but while Sanker's cramp grew better, Tod's -disabled him. Most likely, as we decided when we heard this, Sanker, who -never went down at all, would have got out of the water without help; -Tod would have been drowned but for Blair. He had sunk twice when the -rescue came. Mr. Featherston, the man of pills who attended the school, -said it was all through their having jumped into the water when they -were in a white heat; the cold had struck to them. While Mrs. Hall, with -her grave face, thought it was through their having gone bathing on a -Sunday. - -Whatever it was through, old Frost made a commotion. He was not severe -in general, but he raised noise enough over this. What with one thing -and another, the school, he declared, was being everlastingly upset. - -Tod and Sanker came back from Mr. Vale's the next day; Monday. The -Doctor ordered them into his study, and sat there with his cane in -his hand while he talked, rapping the table with it now and again as -fiercely as if it had been their backs. And the backs would surely have -had it but for having just escaped coffins. - -All this would not have been much, but it was to lead to a great deal -more. To quite a chain of events, as I have said; and to trouble and -sorrow in the far-off ending. Hannah, at home, was fond of repeating to -Lena what she called the sayings of poor Richard: "For want of a nail -the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a -horse the rider was lost; and all for the want of a little care about a -horse-shoe nail." The horse-shoe nail and the man's loss seemed a great -deal nearer each other than that Sunday night's accident, and what was -eventually to come of it. A small mustard-seed, dropped into the ground, -shoots forth and becomes in the end a great tree. - -On the Wednesday, who should come over but the Squire, clasping Pyefinch -Blair's hand in his, and saying with tears in his good old eyes that he -had saved his son's life. Old Frost, you see, had written the news to -Dyke Manor. Tod, strong and healthy in constitution, was all right -again, not a hair of his head the worse for it; but Sanker had not -escaped so well. - -As early as the Monday night, the first night of his return home from -Vale Farm, it began to come on; and the next morning the boys, sleeping -in the same room, told a tale of Sanker's having been delirious. He -had sat up in bed and woke them all up with his cries, thinking he was -trying to swim out of deep water, and could not. Next he said he wanted -some water to drink; they gave him one draught after another till the -big water-jug was emptied, but his thirst kept on saying "More! more!" -Sanker did not seem to remember any of this. He came down with the rest -in the morning, his face very white, except for a pinkish spot in the -middle of his cheeks, and he thought the fellows must be chaffing him. -The fellows told him they were not; and one, it was Bill Whitney, said -they would not think of chaffing him just after his having been so -nearly drowned. - -It went on to the afternoon. Sanker ate no dinner, for I looked to see; -he was but one amidst the many, and it was not noticed by the masters. -And if it had been, they'd have thought that the ducking had taken away -his appetite. The drawing-master, Wilson, followed suit with Hall, and -said he was not surprised at their being nearly drowned, after making -hay on the Sunday. But, about four o'clock, when the first-class were -before Dr. Frost with their Greek books, Sanker suddenly let his fall. -Instead of stooping for it, his eyes took a far-off look, as if they -were seeking for it round the walls of the room. - -"Lay hold of him," said Dr. Frost. - -He did not faint, but seemed dull: it looked as much like a lazy fit -as anything; and he was sensible. They put him to sit on one of the -benches, and then he began to tremble. - -"He must be got to bed," said the Doctor. "Mr. Blair, kindly see Mrs. -Hall, will you. Tell her to warm it. Stay. Wait a moment." - -Dr. Frost followed Mr. Blair from the hall. It was to say that Sanker -had better go at once to the blue-room. If the bed there was not aired, -or otherwise ready, Sanker's own bedding could be taken to it. "I'll -give Mrs. Hall the orders myself," said the Doctor. - -The blue-room--called so from its blue-stained walls--was the one used -on emergencies. When we found Sanker had been taken there, we made up -our minds that he was going to have an illness. Featherston came and -thought the same. - -The next day, Wednesday, he was in a sort of fever, rambling every other -minute. The Squire said he should like to see him, and Blair took him -upstairs. Sanker lay with the same pink hue on his cheeks, only deeper; -and his eyes were bright and glistening. Hall, who was addicted to -putting in her word on all occasions when it could tell against us boys, -said if he had stayed two or three days in bed at Vale Farm, where he -was first put, he'd have had nothing of this. Perhaps Hall was right. It -had been Sanker's own doings to get up. When Mrs. Vale saw him coming -downstairs, she wanted to send him back to bed again, but he told her he -was quite well, and came off to school. - -Sanker knew the Squire, and put out his hand. The Squire took it without -saying a word. He told us later that to him Sanker's face looked as if -it had death in it. When he would have spoken, Sanker's eyes had grown -wild again, and he was talking nonsense about his class-books. - -"Johnny, boy, you sit in this room a bit at times; you are patient and -not rough," said the Squire, when he went out to his carriage, for he -had driven over. "I have asked them to let you be up there as much as -they can. The poor boy is very ill, and has no relatives near him." - -Dwarf Giles, touching his hat to Tod and me, was at the horses' heads, -Bob and Blister. The cattle knew us: I'm sure of it. They had had -several hours' rest in old Frost's stables while the Squire went on foot -about the neighbourhood to call on people. Dr. Frost, standing out with -us, admired the fine dark horses very much; at which Giles was prouder -than if the Doctor had admired _him_. He cared for nothing in the world -so much as those two animals, and groomed them with a will. - -"You'll take care that he wants for nothing, Doctor," I heard the Squire -say as he shook hands. "Don't spare any care and expense to get him well -again; I wish to look upon this illness as my charge. It seems something -like an injustice, you see, that my boy should come off without damage, -and this poor fellow be lying there." - -He took the reins and stepped up to his seat, Giles getting up beside -him. As we watched the horses step off with the high step that the -Squire loved, he looked back and nodded to us. And it struck me that, in -this care for Sanker, the Pater was trying to make some recompense for -the suspicion cast on him a year before at Dyke Manor. - -It was a sharp, short illness, the fever raging, though not infectious; -I had never been with any one in anything like it before, and I did not -wish to be again. To hear how Sanker's mind rambled, was marvellous; but -some of us shivered when it came to raving. Very often he'd be making -hay; fighting against numbers that were throwing cocks at him, while -he could not throw back at them. Then he'd be in the water, buffeting -with high waves, and shrieking out that he was drowning, and throwing -his thin hot arms aloft in agony. Sometimes the trouble would be his -lessons, hammering at Latin derivations and Greek roots; and next he was -toiling through a problem in Euclid. One night when he was at the worst, -old Featherston lost his head, and the next day Mr. Carden came posting -from Worcester in his carriage. - -There were medical men of renown nearer; but somehow in extremity we all -turned to him. And his skill did not fail here. Whether it might be any -special relief he was enabled to give, or that the disease had reached -its crisis, I cannot tell, but from the moment Mr. Carden stood at his -bedside, Sanker began to mend. Featherston said the next day that the -worst of the danger had passed. It seemed to us that it had just set in; -no rat was ever so weak as Sanker. - -The holidays came then, and the boys went home: all but me. Sanker -couldn't lift a hand, but he could smile at us and understand, and he -said he should like to have me stay a bit with him; so they sent word -from home I might. Mr. Blair stayed also; Dr. Frost wished it. The -Doctor was subpoenaed to give evidence on a trial at Westminster, and -had to hasten up to London. Blair had no relatives at all, and did not -care to go anywhere. He told me in confidence that his staying there -saved his pocket. Blair was strict in school, but over Sanker's bed -he got as friendly with me as possible. I liked him; he was always -gentlemanly; and I grew to dislike their calling him Baked Pie as much -as he disliked it himself. - -"You go out and get some air, Ludlow," he said to me the day after the -school broke up, "or we may have you ill next." - -Upon that I demanded what I wanted with air. I had taken precious long -walks with the fellows up to the day before yesterday. - -"You go," said he, curtly. - -"Go, Johnny," said Sanker, in his poor weak voice, which couldn't raise -itself above a whisper. "I'm getting well, you know." - -My way of taking the air was to sit down at one of the schoolroom desks -and write to Tod. In about five minutes some one walked round the house -as if looking for an entrance, and then stopped at the side-door. -Putting my head out of the window, I took a look at her. It was a young -lady in a plain grey dress and straw bonnet, with a cloak over her arm, -and an umbrella put up against the sun. The back regions were turned -inside out, for they had begun the summer cleaning that morning, and the -cook came clanking along in pattens to answer the knock. - -"This is Dr. Frost's, I believe. Can I see him?" - -It was a sweet, calm, gentle voice. The cook, who had no notion of -visitors arriving at the cleaning season, when the boys were just got -rid of, and the Doctor had gone away, stared at her for a moment, and -then asked in her surly manner whether she had business with Dr. Frost. -That cook and old Molly at home might have run in a curricle, they were -such a match in temper. - -"Business!--oh, certainly. I must see him, if you please." - -The cook shook off her pattens, and went up the back stairs, leaving the -young lady outside. As it was business, she supposed she must call Mr. -Blair. - -"Somebody wants Dr. Frost," was her announcement to him. "A girl at the -side door." - -Which of course caused Blair to suppose it might be a child from one -of the cottages come to ask for help of some sort; as they did come -sometimes. He thought Hall might have been called to her, but he went -down at once; without his coat, and his invalid-room slippers on. -Naturally, when he saw the young lady, it took him aback. - -"I beg your pardon, sir; I hope you will not deem me an intruder. I have -just arrived here." - -Blair stared almost as much as the cook had done. The face was so -pleasant, the voice so refined, that he inwardly called himself a fool -for showing himself to her in that trim. For once, speech failed him; a -thing Blair had never done at mathematics, I can tell you; he had not -the smallest notion who she was or what she wanted. And the silence -seemed to frighten her. - -"Am I too late?" she asked, her face growing white. "Has the--the worse -happened?" - -"Happened to what?" questioned Blair, for he never once thought of the -sick fellow above, and was all at sea. "Pardon me, young lady, but I do -not know what you are speaking of." - -"Of my brother, Edward Sanker. Oh, sir! is he dead?" - -"Miss Sanker! Truly I beg your pardon for my stupidity. He is out of -danger; is getting well." - -She sat down for a minute on the old stone bench beyond the door, -roughed with the crowd of boys' names cut in it. Her lips were trembling -just a little, and the soft brown eyes had tears in them; but the face -was breaking into a happy smile. - -"Oh, Dr. Frost, thank you, thank you! Somehow I never thought of him as -dead until this moment, and it startled me." - -Fancy her taking him for Frost! Blair was a good-looking fellow under -thirty, slender and well made. The Doctor stood out an old guy of fifty, -with a stern face and black knee-breeches. - -"My mother had your letter, sir, but she was not able to come. My father -is very ill, needing her attention every moment; she strove to see on -which side her duty lay--to stay with him, or to come to Edward; and she -thought it must lie in remaining with papa. So she sent me. I left Wales -last night." - -"Is Mr. Sanker's a fever, too?" asked Blair, in wonder. - -"No, an accident. He was hurt in the mine." - -It was odd that it should be so; the two illnesses occurring at the same -time! Mr. Sanker, it appeared, fell from the shaft; his leg was broken, -and there were other injuries. At first they were afraid for him. - -Blair fell into a dilemma. He wouldn't have minded Mrs. Sanker; but he -did not know much about young ladies, not being accustomed to them. She -got up from the bench. - -"Mamma bade me say to you, Dr. Frost----" - -"I beg your pardon," interrupted Blair again. "I am not Dr. Frost; -the Doctor went to London this morning. My name is Blair--one of the -masters. Will you walk in?" - -He shut her into the parlour on his way to call Hall, and to put on his -boots and coat. Seeing me, he turned into the schoolroom. - -"Ludlow, are not the Sankers connections of yours?" - -"Not of mine. Of Mrs. Todhetley's." - -"It's all the same. You go in and talk to her. I don't know what on -earth to do. She has come to be with Sanker, but she won't like to -stay here with only you and me. If the Doctor were at home it would be -different." - -"She seems an uncommon nice girl, Mr. Blair." - -"Good gracious!" went on Blair in his dilemma. "The Doctor told me he -had written to Wales some time ago; but he supposed Mrs. Sanker could -not make it convenient to come; and yesterday he wrote again, saying -there was no necessity for it, as Sanker was out of danger. I don't -know what on earth to do with her," repeated Blair, who had a habit of -getting hopelessly bewildered on occasions. "Hall! Where's Mrs. Hall?" - -As he went calling out down the flagged passage, a boy came whistling to -the door, carrying a carpet-bag: Miss Sanker's luggage. The coach she -had had to take on leaving the rail put her down half-a-mile away, and -she walked up in the sun, leaving her bag to be brought after her. - -It seemed that we were going in for mistakes. When I went to her, and -began to say who I was, she mistook me for Tod. It made me laugh. - -"Tod is a great, strong fellow, as tall as Mr. Blair, Miss Sanker. I am -only Johnny Ludlow." - -"Edward has told me all about you both," she said, taking my hand, and -looking into my face with her sweet eyes. "Tod's proud and overbearing, -though generous; but you have ever been pleasant with him. I am afraid I -shall begin to call you 'Johnny' at once." - -"No one ever calls me anything else; except the masters here." - -"You must have heard of me--Mary?" - -"But you are not Mary?" - -"Yes, I am." - -That she was telling truth any fellow might see, and yet at first I -hardly believed her. Sanker had told us his sister Mary was beautiful as -an angel. _Her_ face had no beauty in it, so to say; it was only kind, -nice, and loving. People called Mrs. Parrifer a beautiful woman; perhaps -I had taken my notions of beauty from her; she had a Roman nose, and -great big eyes that rolled about, had a gruff voice, and a lovely -peach-and-white complexion (but people said it was paint), and looked -three parts a fool. Mary Sanker was just the opposite to all this, and -her cheeks were dimpled. But still she had not what people call beauty. - -"May I go up and see Edward?" - -"I should think so. Mr. Blair, I suppose, will be back directly. He is -looking very ill: you will not be frightened at him?" - -"After picturing him in my mind as dead, he will not frighten me, -however ill he may look." - -"I should say the young lady had better take off her bonnet afore going -in. Young Mr. Sanker haven't seen bonnets of late, and might be scared." - -The interruption came from Hall; we turned, and saw her standing there. -She spoke resentfully, as if Miss Sanker had offended her; and no doubt -she had, by coming when the house was not in company order, and had -nothing better to send in for dinner but cold mutton and half a rhubarb -pie. Hall would have to get the mutton hashed now, which she would never -have done for me and Blair. - -"Yes, if you please; I should much like to take my bonnet off," said -Miss Sanker, going up to Hall with a smile. "I think you must be Mrs. -Hall. My brother has talked of you." - -Hall took her to a room, and presently she came forth all fresh and -nice, the travel dust gone, and her bright brown hair smooth and glossy. -Her grey dress was soft, one that would not disturb a sick-room; it had -a bit of white lace at the throat and wrists, and a little pearl brooch -in front. She was twenty-one last birthday, but did not look as much. - -Blair had been in to prepare Sanker, and his great eyes (only great -since his illness) were staring for her with a wild expectation. You -never saw brother and sister less alike; the one so nice, the other ugly -enough to frighten the crows. Sanker had my hand clasped tight in his, -when she stooped to kiss him. I don't think he knew it; but I could not -get away. In that moment I saw how fond they were of each other. - -"Could not the mother come, Mary?" - -"No, papa is--is not well," she said, for of course she would not tell -him yet of any accident. "Papa wanted her there, and you wanted her -here; she thought her duty lay at home, and she was not afraid but that -God would raise up friends to take care of you." - -"What is the matter with him?" - -"Some complicated illness or other," Mary Sanker answered, in careless -tones. "He was a little better when I came away. You have been very ill, -Edward." - -He held up his wasted hand as proof, with a half smile; but it fell -again. - -"I don't believe I should have pulled through it all, Mary, but for -Blair." - -"That's the gentleman I saw. The one without a coat. Has he nursed you?" - -Sanker motioned with his white lips. "Right well, too. He, and Hall, and -Johnny here. Old Hall is as good as gold when any of us are ill." - -"And pays herself out by being tarter than ever when we are well," I -could not help saying: for it was the truth. - -"Blair saved Todhetley's life," Sanker went on. "We used to call him -Baked Pie before, and give him all the trouble we could." - -"Ought you to talk, Edward?" - -"It is your coming that seems to give me strength for it," he answered. -"I did not know that Frost had written home." - -"There was a delay with the letters, or I might have been here three -days ago," said Miss Sanker, speaking in penitent tones, as if she were -in the habit of taking other people's faults upon herself. "While papa -is not well, the clerk down at the mine opens the business letters. -Seeing one directed to papa privately, he neither spoke of it nor sent -it up, and for three days it lay unopened." - -Sanker had gone off into one of his weak fits before she finished -speaking: lying with his eyes and mouth wide open, between sleeping and -waking. Hall came in and said with a tone that snapped Miss Sanker up, -_it wouldn't do_: if people could not be there without talking, they -must not be there at all. I don't say but that she was a capable nurse, -or that when a fellow was downright ill, she spared the wine in the -arrowroot, and the sugar in the tea. Mary Sanker sat down by the -bedside, her finger on her lips to show that she meant to keep silence. - -We had visitors later. Mrs. Vale came over, as she did most days, to see -how Sanker was getting on; and Bill Whitney brought his mother. Mrs. -Vale told Mary Sanker that she had better sleep at the Farm, as the -Doctor was away; she'd give her a nice room and make her comfortable. -Upon that, Lady Whitney offered a spacious bed and dressing-room at -the Hall. Mary thanked them both, saying how kind they were to be so -friendly with a stranger; but thought she must go to the Farm, as it -would be within a walk night and morning. Bill spoke up, and said the -carriage could fetch and bring her; but Vale Farm was decided upon; and -when night came, I went with her to show her the way. - -"That's the water they went into, Miss Sanker; and that's the very spot -behind the trees." She shivered just a little as she looked, but did not -say much. Mrs. Vale met us at the door, and the old lady kissed Mary and -told her she was a good girl to come fearlessly all the way alone from -Wales to nurse her sick brother. When Mary came back the next morning, -she said they had given her such a beautiful room, the dimity curtains -whiter than snow, and the sheets scented with lavender. - -Her going out to sleep appeased Hall;--that, or something else. She was -gracious all day, and sent us in a couple of chickens for dinner. Mr. -Blair cut them up and helped us. He had written to tell Dr. Frost in -London of Miss Sanker's arrival, and while we were at table a telegram -came back, saying Mrs. Hall was to take care of Miss Sanker, and make -her comfortable. - -It went on so for three or four days; Mary sleeping at the Farm, and -coming back in the morning. Sanker got well enough to be taken to a sofa -in the pretty room that poor Mrs. Frost sat in nearly to the last; and -we were all four growing very jolly, as intimate as if we'd known each -other as infants. I had taken to call her Mary, hearing Sanker do it so -often; and twice the name slipped accidentally from Mr. Blair. The news -from Wales was better and better. For visitors we had Mrs. Vale, Lady -Whitney, and Bill, and old Featherston. Some of them came every day. Dr. -Frost was detained in London. The trial did not come on so soon as it -was put down for; and when it did, it lasted a week, and the witnesses -had to stay there. He had written to Mary, telling her to make herself -quite happy, for she was in good hands. He also wrote to Mrs. Vale, and -to Hall. - -Well, it was either the fourth or fifth day. I know it was on Monday; -and at five o'clock we were having tea for the first time in Sanker's -sitting-room, the table drawn near the sofa, and Mary pouring it out. It -was the hottest of hot weather, the window was up as high as it would -go, but not a breath of air came in. Therefore, to see Blair begin to -shake as if he were taken with an ague, was something inexplicable. His -face looked grey, his ears and hands had turned a sort of bluish white. - -"Halloa!" said Sanker, who was the first to notice him. "What's the -matter, sir?" - -Blair got up, and sat down again, his limbs shaking, his teeth -chattering. Mary Sanker hastily put some of the hot tea into a saucer, -and held it to his lips. His teeth rattled against the china; I thought -they would bite a piece out of it; and in trying to take the saucer from -Miss Sanker, the tea was spilt on the carpet. - -"Just call Mrs. Hall, Johnny," said Sanker, who had propped himself up -on his elbow to stare. - -Hall came, and Mr. Featherston came; but they could not make anything -out of it except that Blair had had a shaking-fit. He was soon all right -again (except for a burning heat); but the surgeon, given naturally -to croak (or he wouldn't have got so frightened about Sanker when Mr. -Carden was telegraphed for), said he hoped the mathematical master had -not set in for fever. - -He had set in for something. That was clear. The shaking-fits took him -now and again, giving place to spells of low fever. Featherston was -not sure whether it had not a "typhoid character," he said; but the -suspicion was quite enough, and our visitors fell off. Mrs. Vale was the -only one who came; she laughed at supposing she could be afraid of it. -So there we still were, we four; prisoners, as may be said; with some -fever amongst us that perhaps might be of a typhoid character. Mr. -Featherston said (or Hall, I forget which) that it must have been -smouldering within him ever since the Sunday night when he jumped into -the river, and Blair thought so himself. - -Do not imagine he was as ill as Sanker had been. Nothing of the sort. He -got up every morning, and was in Mrs. Frost's sitting-room with us until -evening: but he grew nearly as weak as Sanker, and wanted pretty nearly -as much waiting on. Sometimes his hands were like a burning coal; -sometimes so cold that Mary would take them in hers to try and rub a -little life into them. She was the gentlest nurse possible, and did not -seem to think anything more of waiting on him than on her brother. Mrs. -Hall would stand by and say there was nothing left for her to do. - -One day Lady Whitney came over, braving the typhoid suspicion, and asked -to see Miss Sanker in the great drawing-room; where she stood sniffing -at a bottle of aromatic vinegar. - -"My dear," she said, when Mary went to her, "I do not think this is at -all a desirable position for you to be placed in. I should not exactly -like it for one of my own daughters. Mr. Blair is a very gentleman-like -man, and all that, with quite proper feelings no doubt; but sitting with -him in illness is altogether different from sitting with your brother. -Featherston tells me there's little or no danger of infection, and I -have come to take you back to the Hall with me." - -But Mary would not go. It was not the position she should have -voluntarily chosen, but circumstances had led her into it, and she -thought her duty lay in staying where she was at present, was the -substance of her answer. Mr. Blair had nursed her brother through his -dangerous illness, and it would be cruelly ungrateful to leave him, now -that he was ill himself. It seemed a duty thrown expressly in her way, -she added; and her mother approved of what she was doing. - -So Lady Whitney went away (leaving the bottle of aromatic vinegar as a -present for the sick-room) three parts convinced. Any way, when she got -home, she said that Mary Sanker was a sweet, good girl, trusty to her -fingers' ends. - -I'm sure she was like sunshine in the room, and read to us out of the -Bible just as Harry Vale's fine old grandmother might have done. The -first day that Sanker took a drive in a fly, he was tired afterwards, -and went to bed and to sleep at tea-time. Towards sunset, before I -walked with her to the Farm, Mary took the Book as usual; and then -hesitated, as if in doubt whether to presume to read or not, Sanker -being away. - -"Oh yes; yes, if you please," said Mr. Blair. - -She began the tenth chapter of St. John. It is a passably long one, as -every one knows; and when she laid the Book down again, Blair had his -eyes shut and his head resting on the back of the easy chair where he -generally sat. His face never looked more still and white. I glanced at -Mary and she at me; we thought he was worse, and she went up to him. - -"I ought not to have read so long a chapter," she gently said. "I fear -you are feeling worse." - -"No; I was only thinking. Thinking what an angel you are," he added in -low, impassioned, yet reverent tones, as he bent forward to look up in -her face, and took both her hands for a moment in his. - -She drew them away at once, saying, as she passed me, that she was going -to put on her bonnet, and should be ready in a minute. Of course it -might have been the reflection of the red sun-clouds, but I never saw -any face so glowing in all my life. - -The next move old Featherston made, was to decide that the fever was -_not_ of a typhoid character; and visitors came about us again. It was -something like opening a public-house after a spell of closing; all -the Whitneys flocked in together, except Sir John, who was in town for -Parliament. Mrs. Hall was uncommonly short with every one. She had -said from the first there was nothing infectious in the fever, told -Featherston so to his face, and resented people's having stayed away. I -wrote home to tell them there. On the Saturday Dr. Frost arrived, and we -were glad to see him. Blair was getting rather better then. - -"Well, that Sunday night's plunge in the water has had its revenge!" -remarked Dr. Frost. "It only wants Todhetley and Vale to follow suit." - -But neither of them had the least intention of following suit. On the -Monday Tod arrived to surprise us, strong as ever. The Squire had -trusted him to drive the horses: you should have seen them spanking in -at the gate of Worcester House, pawing the gravel, as Tod in the high -carriage, the ribbons in his hands, and the groom beside him, brought -them up beautifully to the door. Some people called Tod ugly, saying his -features were strong; but I know he promised to be the finest man in our -two counties. - -He brought an invitation for the sick and the well. When the two -invalids were able to get to Dyke Manor, Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley expected -to see them, for change of air. Mary Sanker and I were to go as soon as -we liked. Which we did in a few days, and were followed by Sanker and -Mr. Blair: both able to help themselves then, and getting well all one -way. - -It did not surprise people very much to hear that the mathematical -master and Mary Sanker had fallen in love with one another. He (as Bill -Whitney's mother had put in) was gentleman-like; a good-looking fellow -to boot: and you have heard what _she_ was. The next week but one after -arriving at Dyke Manor, Blair took Mrs. Todhetley into his confidence, -though he had said nothing to Mary. They would be sure to marry in the -end, she privately told the Squire, for their likeness to each other had -struck her at first sight. - -"Mary will not have a shilling, Mr. Blair; she will go to her husband -(whenever she shall marry) with even a very poor outfit," Mrs. Todhetley -explained, wishing Blair to fully understand things. "Her father, Philip -Sanker, was a gentleman bred and born, but his patrimony was small. He -was persuaded to embark it in a Welsh mine, and lost all. Report said -some roguery was at work, but I don't know that it was. It ended in his -becoming overlooker on the very same mine, at a salary so small that -they could hardly have reared their family anywhere but in Wales. Mary -does not play, or draw, you see; she has no accomplishments." - -"She has what is a great deal better; she does not want them," answered -Blair, his pale face lighting up. - -"In point of fact, the Sankers--as I fancy--have sacrificed the girls' -interests to the boys; they of course must have a thorough education," -remarked Mrs. Todhetley. "They are good people, both; you could not -fail to like them. I sometimes think, Mr. Blair, that the children of -these refined men and women (and Philip Sanker and his wife are that), -compelled to live closely and to look at every sixpence before it is -spent, turn out all the better for it." - -"I am sure they do," answered Blair, earnestly. "It was my own case." - -Taking Mrs. Todhetley into confidence meant as to his means as well as -his love. He had saved a little money during the eight years he had been -at work for himself--about two hundred pounds. It might be possible, he -thought, to take a school with this, and set up a tent at once: he and -Mary. Mrs. Todhetley shook her head; she could make as much of small -sums as any one, but fancied this would scarcely be enough for what he -wished. - -"There would be the furniture," she ventured to say with some -hesitation, not liking to damp him. - -"I think that is often included in the purchase-money for the -good-will," said Blair. - -He had been acting on this notion before speaking to Mrs. Todhetley, and -a friend of his in London, the Reverend Mr. Lockett, was already looking -out for any schools that might be in the market. In a few days news came -down of one to be disposed of in the neighbourhood of London. Mr. -Lockett thought it was as good an investment as Blair was likely to -find, he wrote word: only, the purchase-money, inclusive of furniture, -was four hundred pounds instead of two. - -"It is of no use to think of it," said Mr. Blair, pushing his curly hair -(they used to say he was vain of it at Frost's) from his perplexed brow. -"My two hundred pounds will not go far towards that." - -"It seems to me that the first step will be to go up and see the place," -remarked Mrs. Todhetley. "If what Mr. Lockett says of the school be -true; that is, if the people who have the disposal of it are not -deceiving him; it must be a very good thing." - -"I suppose you mean that half the purchase-money should remain on it as -a mortgage, to be paid off later," cried Blair, seizing the idea and -brightening up. - -"No; not exactly," said Mrs. Todhetley, getting as red as a rose, for -she did not like to tell him what she did mean; it looked rather like a -conspiracy. - -"Look here, Blair," cried the Squire, taking him in the garden by the -button-hole, "_I_ will see about the other two hundred. You go up and -make inquiries on the spot; and perhaps I'll go too; I should like a run -up; and if the affair is worth your while, we'll pay the money down on -the nail, and so have done with it." - -It was Blair's turn to grow red now. "Do you mean, sir, that you--that -you--would advance the half of the money? But it would be too generous. -I have no claim on you----" - -"No claim on me!" burst forth the Squire, in a passion, pinning him -against the wall of the pigeon-house. "No claim on me! When you saved my -son from drowning only a few weeks ago! And had an ague through it! No -claim on me! What next will you say?" - -"But that was nothing, sir. Any man, with the commonest feelings -of humanity, would jump into the water if he saw a fellow-creature -sinking." - -"Commonest fiddlestick!" roared the Squire. "If this school is one -likely to answer your purpose, you put down your two hundred pounds, and -I will see to the rest. There! We'll go up to-day." - -"Oh, sir, I never expected this. Perhaps in a year or two I shall be -able to pay the money back again: but the goodness I can never repay." - -"Don't you trouble your head about paying me back till you're asked to -do it," retorted the Squire, mortally offended at the notion. "If you -are too proud to take it and say nothing about it, I'll give it to Mary -Sanker instead of you. I will, too. Mind, sir! that half shall be your -wife's, not yours." - -If you'll believe me, there were tears in old Blair's eyes. He was soft -at times. The Squire gave him another thrust, which nearly sent Blair -into the pigeon-house, and then walked off with his head up and his -nankeen coat-skirts held out behind, to watch Drew give the green meat -to the pigs. Blair got over his push, and went to find Miss Mary, his -thin cheeks alight with a spot as red as Sanker's had worn when his -illness was coming on. - -They went up to London that day. The Squire had plenty of sense when he -chose to exercise it; and instead of trusting to his own investigation -and Blair's (which would have been the likeliest thing for him to do in -general) he took a lawyer to the spot. - -It proved to be all right. The gentleman giving up the school had made -some money at it, and was going abroad to his friends, who had settled -in Queensland. Any efficient man, he said to the Squire, able to _keep_ -pupils when once he had secured them, could not fail to do well at it. -The clergyman, Mr. Lockett, had called on one or two of the parents, who -confirmed what was asserted. Altogether it was a straightforward thing, -but they wouldn't abate a shilling of the four hundred pounds. - -The Squire concluded the bargain on the spot, for other applicants were -after it, and there was danger in delay. He came back to Dyke Manor; and -the next thing he did was to accompany Mary Sanker home, and tell the -news there. - -Mr. Blair stayed in London to take possession, and get things in order. -He had only time for a few days' flying visit to Mr. and Mrs. Sanker in -Wales before opening his new school. There was no opposition there: -people are apt to judge prospects according to their own circumstances; -and they seemed to think it a good offer for Mary. - -There was no opposition anywhere. Dr. Frost found a new mathematical -master without trouble, and sent Blair his best wishes and a full set of -plated spoons and forks and things, engraved with the initials P. M. B. -He was wise enough to lay out the sum he wished to give in useful -things, instead of a silver tea-pot or any other grand article of that -kind, which would not be brought to light once a year. - -Blair cribbed a week's holiday at Michaelmas, and went down to be -married. We saw them at the week's end as they passed through Worcester -station. Mary looked the same sweet girl as ever, in the same quiet grey -dress (or another that was related to it); and Blair was jolly. He -clasped the Squire's hands as if he wanted to take them with him. We -handed in a big basket of grapes and nectarines from Mrs. Todhetley; and -Mary's nice face smiled and nodded her thanks to the last, as the train -puffed on. - -"Good luck to them!" said Tod. - -Good luck to them. You will hear what luck they had. - -For this is _not_ the end of that Sunday night's work, or it would have -hardly been worth relating, seeing that people get married every day, -and no one thinks cheese of it but themselves. The end has to come. - - - - -XII. - -"JERRY'S GAZETTE." - - -The school, taken to by Mr. Blair, was in one of the suburbs of London. -It may be as well not to mention which of them; but some of the families -yet living there cannot fail to remember the circumstances when they -read this. For what I am going to tell you of is true. It did not happen -last year; nor the year before. When it did happen, is of no consequence -to any one. - -When Pyefinch Blair got into the house, he found that it had some -dilapidations, which had escaped his notice, and would have to be -repaired. Not an uncommon case by any means. Mr. Blair paid the four -hundred pounds for the school, including the furniture and good-will, -and that drained him of his money. It was not a bad bargain, as bargains -go. He then had the house put into fair order, and bought a little more -furniture that seemed necessary to him, intending that his boys should -be comfortable, as well as the young wife he was soon to bring home. - -The school did not profess to be one of those higher-class schools -that charge a hundred a year and extras. It was moderate in terms and -moderate in size; the pupils being chiefly sons of well-to-do tradesmen, -some of them living on the spot. At first, Blair (bringing with him his -Cambridge notions) entertained thoughts of raising the school to a -higher price and standard. But it would have been a risk; almost like -beginning a fresh venture. And when he found that the school paid well, -and masters and boys got on comfortably, he dropped the wish. - -More than two years went by. One evening, early in February, Mrs. Blair -was sitting by the parlour fire after tea, with a great boy on her lap, -who was forward with his tongue, and had just begun to walk with a -totter. I don't think you could have seen much difference in _her_ from -what she was as Mary Sanker. She had the same neat sort of dress and -quiet manner, the fresh gentle face and sweet eyes, and the pretty, -smooth brown hair. Her husband told her sometimes that she would spoil -the boys with kindness. If any one fell into disgrace, she was sure to -beg him off; it was wonderful what a good mother she was to them, and -only twenty-four years old yet. - -Mr. Blair was striding the carpet with his head down, as one in -perplexed thought, a scowl upon his brow. It was something unusual, for -he was always bright. He was as slender and good-looking a fellow as he -used to be. Mrs. Blair noticed him and spoke. - -"Have you a headache, Pyefinch?" She had long ago got over the odd sound -of his Christian name. Habit familiarizes most things. - -"No." - -"What is it, then?" - -He did not make any answer; seemed not to hear her. Mrs. Blair put the -boy down on the hearthrug. The child was baptized Joseph, after Squire -Todhetley, whom they persisted in calling their best friend. - -"Run to papa, Joe. Ask him what the matter is." - -The young gentleman went swaying across the carpet, with some -unintelligible language of his own. Mr. Blair had no resource but to -pick him up: and he carried him back to his mother. - -"What is the matter, Pyefinch?" she asked again, taking his hand. "I am -sure you are not well." - -"I am quite well," he said; "but I have got into a little bother lately. -What ails me this evening is, that I find I must tell you of it, and I -don't like to do so. There, Mary, send the child away." - -She knew the nursemaid was busy; would not ring, but carried him out -herself. Mr. Blair was sitting down when she returned, staring into the -fire. - -"I had hoped you would never know it, Mary; I had not intended that you -should. The fact is----" - -Mr. Blair stopped. His wife glanced at him; a serene calm in her eyes, a -firm reliance in her loving tone. - -"Do not hesitate, Pyefinch. The greater the calamity, the more need that -I should hear it." - -"Nay, it is no such great mischief as to be called a calamity. When I -took to this house and school, I incurred a debt, and I am suddenly -called upon to pay it." - -"Do you mean Mr. Todhetley's?" - -A smile at the question crossed the schoolmaster's face. "Mr. -Todhetley's was a present; I thought you understood that, Mary. When -I would have spoken of returning it, you may remember that he went into -a passion." - -"What debt is it, then?" - -"I paid four hundred pounds, you know, for the school; half of it I had -saved; the other half was given by Mr. Todhetley. Well and good, so -far. But I had not thought of one thing--the money that would be wanted -for current expenses, and for the hundred and one odd things that stare -you in the face upon taking to a new concern. Repairs had to be done, -furniture to be bought in; and not a penny coming in until the end -of the quarter: not much then, for most of the boys pay half-yearly. -Lockett, who was down here most days, saw that if I could not get some -money to go on with, there would be no resource but to re-sell the -school. He bestirred himself, and got me the loan of a hundred and fifty -pounds from a friend, at only five per cent. interest. This money I am -suddenly called upon to repay." - -"But why?" - -"Because he from whom I had it is dead, and the executors have called it -in. It was Mr Wells." - -She recognized the name as that of a gentleman with whom they had been -slightly acquainted; he had died suddenly, in the prime of life. - -"Has any of it been paid off?" - -"None. I could have repaid a portion every half-year as it came round, -but Mr. Wells would not let me. 'You had a great deal better use it in -improving the school and getting things comfortable about you; I am -in no hurry,' was his invariable rejoinder. Lockett thought he meant -eventually to make me a present of the money, being a wealthy man -without near relatives. Of course I never looked for anything of the -sort; but I was as easy as to the debt as though I had not contracted -it." - -"Will the executors not let you have the use of the money still?" - -"You should see their curt note, ordering its immediate repayment! -Lockett seems more vexed at the turn affairs have taken than even I am. -He was here to-day." - -Mrs. Blair sat in silent reflection, wishing she had known of this. Many -an odd shilling that she had thought justified in spending, she would -willingly have recalled now. Not that they could have amounted to much -in the aggregate. Presently she looked at her husband. - -"Pyefinch, it seems to me that there's only one thing to do. You must -borrow the sum from some one else, which of course will make us only as -much in debt as we are now; and we must pay it off by instalments as -quickly as we possibly can." - -"It is what Lockett and I have decided on already as the only course. -Why, Mary, this worry has been on our minds for a fortnight past," he -added, turning quickly. "But now that it has come to borrowing again, -and not from a friend, I felt that I ought to tell you. Besides, there's -another thing." - -"Go on," she said. - -"We have found a man to advance the money. Lockett and I picked him out -from the _Times_ advertisements. These fellows are awful rogues, for the -most part; but this is not one of the worst. Lockett made inquiries of -a parishioner of his who understands these things, and finds Gavity -(that's his name) is tolerably fair for a professional money-lender. I -shall have to pay him higher interest. And he wants me to give him a -bill of sale on the furniture." - -"A bill of sale on the furniture! What is that?" - -"That is what I meant when I said there was another thing," replied -Mr. Blair. "Wells was content with my note of hand; this man requires -security on my goods. It is a mere matter of form in my case, he says. -As I am doing well, and there's no fear of my not keeping the interest -paid up, I suppose it is. In two or three years from this, all being -well, the debt itself will be wiped off." - -"Oh yes; I hope so. The school is prosperous." - -Her tone was anxious, and Mr. Blair detected it. But for considering -that she ought to know it, he would rather have kept this trouble to -himself. And he was not sure upon another point: whether, in giving -this bill of sale upon the furniture, Mr. Gavity might deem it essential -to come in and take a list, article by article, bed by bed, table by -table. If so, it would not have been possible to conceal it from her. -He mentioned this. She, with himself, could not understand the necessity -of their furniture being brought into the transaction at all, seeing -that there could be no doubt as to their ability to repay. The one knew -just as much about bills of sale and the rights they gave, as the other: -and, that, was nothing. - -And now that the communication to his wife was off his mind--for in -that had lain the chief weight--Mr. Blair was more at ease. As they sat -talking together, discussing the future in all its aspects, the shadow -lifted itself, and things looked brighter. It did not seem to either of -them so formidable a matter after all. It was only changing one creditor -for another, and paying a little higher interest. - -The transaction was accomplished. Gavity advanced the money, and took -the bill of sale upon the furniture. He shot up the expenses--as -money-lenders of his stamp generally do--and brought up the loan to a -hundred and eighty, instead of a hundred and fifty. Still, taking things -for all in all, the position was perhaps as fair and hopeful a one as -can be experienced under debt. It was but a temporary clog; Mr. and Mrs. -Blair both knew that. The school was flourishing; their prospects were -good; they were young, and healthy, and hopeful. And though Mr. Gavity -would of course exact his rights to the uttermost farthing, he had no -intention of playing the rogue. In all candour let it be avowed, the -gentleman money-lender did not see that it was a case affording scope -for it. - - * * * * * - -I had to tell that much as well as I could, seeing that it only came to -me by hearsay in the future. - -And now to go back a little while, and to ourselves at Dyke Manor. - -After their marriage the Squire did not lose sight of Mr. and Mrs. -Blair. A basket of things went up now and then, and the second Christmas -they were invited to come down; but Mary wrote to decline, on account -of Joe, the baby. "Let them leave Joe at home," cried Tod; but Mrs. -Todhetley, shaking her head, said the dear little infant would come -to sad grief without its mother. Soon after that, when the Squire was -in London, he took the omnibus and went to see them, and told us how -comfortably they were getting on. - -Years went round to another Christmas, when the exacting Joe would be -some months over two years old. In the passing of time you are apt to -lose sight of interests, unless they are close ones; and for some months -we had heard nothing of the Blairs. Mrs. Todhetley spoke of it one -evening. - -"Send them a Christmas hamper," said the Squire. - -The Christmas hamper went. With a turkey and ham, and a brace of -pheasants in it; some bacon and apples to fill up, and sweet herbs and -onions. Lena put in her favourite doll, dressed as a little mother, for -young Joe. It had a false arm; and no legs, so to say: Hugh cut the feet -off one day, and Hannah had to sew the stumps up. We hoped they would -enjoy it all, including the doll, and drank good luck to them on -Christmas Day. - -A week and a half went on, and no news came. Mrs. Todhetley grew uneasy -about the hamper, feeling sure it had been confiscated by the railway. -Mary Blair had always written so promptly to acknowledge everything sent -to them. - -One January day the letter came in by the afternoon post. We knew Mary's -handwriting. The Squire and Madam were at the Sterlings', and it was -nine o'clock at night when they drove in. Mrs. Todhetley's face ached, -which was quite usual she had a white handkerchief tied round it. When -they were seated round the fire, I remembered the letter, and gave it to -her. - -"Now to hear the fate of the hamper!" she exclaimed, carrying it to the -lamp. But, what with the face-ache, and what with her eyes, which were -not so good by candle-light as they used to be, Mrs. Todhetley could not -read the contents readily. She looked at the writing, page after page, -and then gave a short scream of dismay. Something was wrong. - -"Those thieves have grabbed the hamper!" cried the Squire. - -"No; I think the Blairs have had the hamper. I fear it is something -worse," she said faintly. "Perhaps you will read it aloud." - -The Squire put his spectacles on as he took the letter. We gathered -round the table, waiting. Mrs. Todhetley sat with her head aside, -nursing her cheek; and Tod, who had been reading, put his book down. The -Squire hammered a good deal over the writing, which was not so legible -as Mary's was in general. She appeared to have meant it for Mrs. -Todhetley and the Squire jointly. - - -"'MY VERY DEAR FRIENDS, - -"'If I have delayed writing to you it was not for want of -in-ingredients'"---- - -"Ingredients!" cried one of us. - -"It must be gratitude," corrected the Squire. "Don't interrupt." - -"'Gratitude for your most welcome and liberal present, but because -my heart and hands have alike shrunk from the ex--ex--explanation -it must entail. Alas! a series of very terrible misfortunes have -overwormed--overwhelmed us. We have had to give up our school and our -prospects together, and to turn out of our once happy dome.'" - -"Dome!" put in Tod. - -"I suppose it's home," said the Squire. "This confounded lamp is as dim -as it can be to-night!" And he went on fractiously. - -"'Through no fault of my husband's he had to borrow a hundred and -fifty pounds nearly twelve months ago. The man he had it from was a -money-lender, a Mr. Gavity; he charged a high rate of interest, and -brought the cost up to about thirty pounds; but we have no reason -to think he wished to act un--unfar--unfairly by us. He required -security--which I suppose was only reasonable. The Reverend Mr. Lockett -offered himself; but Gavity said parsons were slippers.'" - -"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Todhetley. - -"The word's slippery, I expect," cried the Squire with a frown. "One -would think she had emptied the water-bottle into the inkpot." - -"'Gavity said parsons were slippery; meaning that they were often worth -no more than their word. He took, as security, a bill of sale on the -furnace. Stay,--furniture. Our school was quite prosperous; there was -not the slightest doubt that in a short time the whole of the debt could -be cleared off; so we had no hesitation in letting him have the bill -of sale. And no harm would have come of it, but for one dreadful -misfortune, which (as it seems) was a necessary part of the attendant -proceedings. My husband got put into _Jer--Jer--Jerry's Gazelle_.'" - -"_Jerry's Gazelle?_" - -"_Jerry's Gazette_," corrected the Squire. - -"_Jerry's Gazette?_" - -We all spoke at once. He stared at the letters and then at us. We stared -back again. - -"It _is_ _Jerry's Gazette_--as I think. Come and see, Joe." - -Tod looked over the Squire's shoulder. It certainly looked like -"_Jerry's Gazette_," he said; but the ink was pale. - -"'_Jerry's Gazette._' Go on, father. Perhaps you'll find an explanation -further on." - -"'This _Jerry's Gazette_, it appears, is circulated chiefly (and I -think privately) amongst comical men--commercial men; merchants, and -tradespeople. When they read its list of names, they know at once who -is in difficulties. Of course they saw my husband's name there, Pyefinch -Blair; unfortunately a name so peculiar as not to admit of any doubt. -I did not see the _Gazette_, but I believe the amount of the debt was -stated, and that Gavity (but I don't know whether he was mentioned by -name) had a bill of sale on our household furniture.'" - -"What the dickens is _Jerry's Gazette_?" burst forth the Squire, giving -the letter a passionate flick. "I know but of one _Gazette_, into which -men of all conditions go, whether they are made lords or bankrupts. -What's this other thing?" - -He put up his spectacles, and stared at us all again, as if expecting an -answer. But he might as well have asked it of the moon. Mrs. Todhetley -sat with the most hopeless look you ever saw on her face. So he went on -reading again. - -"'We knew nothing about _Jerry's Gazette_ ourselves, or that there was -such a pub--pub--publication, or that the transaction had appeared in -it; and could not imagine why the school began to fall off. Some of the -pupils were taken away, _at once_, some at Lady-day; and by Midsummer -nearly every one had left. We used to lie awake night after night, -grieving and wondering what could be the matter, searching in vain for -any cause of offence, given unwittingly to the boys or their parents. -Often and often we got up in the morning to go about our day's work, -never having closed our eyes. At last, a gentleman, whose son had been -one of the first renewed--removed, told Pyefinch the truth: that he had -appeared in _Jerry's Gazette_. The fathers who subscribed to _Jerry's -Gazette_ had seen it for themselves; and they informed the others.'" - -"The devil take _Jerry's Gazette_," interrupted Tod, deliberately. "This -reads like an episode of the Secret Inquisition, sir, in the days of the -French Revolution." - -"It reads like a thing that an honest Englishman's ears ought to redden -to hear of," answered the Squire, as he put the lamp nearer, for his -outstretched arms were getting cramped. - -"'Pyefinch went round to every one of the boy's fathers. Some -would not see him, some not hear him; but to those who did, he -imported--imparted--the whole circumstances; showing how it was that -he had had to borrow the money (or rather to re-borrow it, but I have -not time in this letter to go so far into detail), and that it could -not by any possibility injure the boys or touch their interests. Most -of them, he said, were very kind and sympathizing, so far as words -went, saying that in this case _Jerry's Gazette_ appeared to have been -the means of inflicting a cruel wrong; but they would not agree to -replace their sons with us. They either declined point-blank, or said -they'd consider of it; but you see the greater portion of the boys -were already placed at other schools. All of them told Pyefinch one -thing--that they were thoroughly satisfied with his treatment in every -respect, and but for this interruption would probably have left their -sons with him as long as they wanted intrusion--instruction. The long -and short of it was this, my dear friends: they did not choose to have -their sons educated by a man who was looked upon in the commercial -world as next door to a bankrupt. One of them delicately hinted as -much, and said Mr. Blair must be aware that he was liable to have his -house topped--stripped--at any moment under the bill of sale. We said -to ourselves that evening, as Pyefinch and I talked together, that -we might have removed boys of our own from a school under the same -circumstances.'" - -"That's true enough," murmured Mrs. Todhetley. - -"'My letter has grown very long and I must hasten to conclude it. -Just before the rent was due at Michaelmas (we paid it half-yearly, by -agreement) Gavity put the bill of sale into force. One morning several -men came in and swept off the furniture. We were turned out next: though -indeed to have attempted to remain in that large house were folly. The -landlord came in a passion, and told Pyefinch that he would put him in -prison if he were worth it; as he was not, he had better go out of the -pitch--place--forthwith, as another tenant was ready to take possession. -Since then we have been staying here, Pyefinch vainly seeking to -get some employment. What we hoped was, that he would obtain an -under-mastership to some public fool----" - -"Fool, sir!" - -"'School. But it seems difficult. He sends his best regards to you, and -bids me say that the reason you have not heard from us so long is, that -we could not bear to tell you the ill news after your former kindness to -us. The arrival of the hamper leaves us no resource. - -"'Thank you for that. Thank you very truly. The people at the old house -have our address, and re-directed it here. We received it early on -Christmas Eve. How good the things were, you do not need to be told. I -stuffed the turkey--I shall make a famous cook in time--and sent it to -the backhouse--bakehouse. You should have seen the pill--picture--it -was when it came home. Believe me, my dear friends, we are both of us -grateful for all your kindness to us, past and present. Little Joe is so -delighted with the doll, he scarcely puts it out of his arms. Our best -love to all, including Hugh and Lena. Thank Johnny for the beautiful new -book he put in. I must apologize in conclusion for my writing; the ink -we get in these penny bottles is pale; and baby has been on my lap all -the time, never easy a minute. Do not say anything of all this, please, -should you be writing to Wales. - - "'Ever most truly yours, - "'MARY BLAIR. - "'_13, Difford's Buildings, Paddington._'" - - -The Squire put the letter down and his spectacles on it, quite solemnly. -You might have heard a pin drop in that room. - -"This is a thing that must be inquired into. I shall go up to-morrow." - -"And I'd go too, sir, but for my engagement to the Whitneys," said Tod. - -"She must mean, in speaking of a baby, that there's another," spoke Mrs. -Todhetley, in a frightened sort of whisper. "Besides little Joe. Dear -me!" - -"I don't understand it," stamped the Squire, getting red. "Turned out of -house and home through _Jerry's Gazette_! Do we live in England, I'd -like to ask?--under English laws?--enjoying English rights and freedom? -_Jerry's Gazette?_ What the deuce _is_ _Jerry's Gazette_? Where does it -come from? What issues it? The Lord Chamberlain's Office?--or Scotland -Yard?--or some Patent society that we've not heard of, down here? The -girl must have been imposed upon: her statement won't hold water." - -"It looks as though she had been, sir." - -"_Looks_ like it, Johnny! It must be so," said the Squire, growing -warmer. "I have temporary need of a sum of money, and I borrow it -straightforwardly, honestly purposing and undertaking to pay it back -with good interest, but not exactly wanting my neighbours to know about -it; and you'd like me to believe that there's some association, or -publication, or whatever else it may be, that won't allow this to be -done privately, but must pounce upon the transaction, and take it down -in print, and send it round to the public, just as if it were a wedding -or a burying!" - -The Squire had grown redder than a roost-cock. He always did when -tremendously put out, and the matter would not admit of calling in old -Jones the constable. - -"Folly! Moonshine! Blair, poor fellow, has been slipping into some -disaster, had his furniture seized, and so invents this fable to appease -his wife, not liking to tell her the truth. _Jerry's Gazette!_ When I -was a youngster, my father took me to see an exhibition in Worcester -called 'Jerry's Dogs.' The worst damage you could get there was a cold, -from the holes in the canvas roof, or a pitch over the front into the -sawdust. But in _Jerry's Gazette_, according to this tale, you may be -damaged for life. Don't tell me! Do we live in Austria, or France, or -any of those places, where--as it's said--a man can't so much as put -on a pair of clean stockings in a morning, but its laid before high -quarters in black and white at mid-day by the secret police! No, you -need not tell me that." - -"I never heard of _Jerry's Gazette_ in all my life; I don't know whether -it is a stage performance or something to eat; but I feel convinced Mary -Blair would not write this without having good grounds for it," said -Tod, bold as usual. - -And do you know--though you may be slow to believe it--the Squire had -taken latterly to listen to him. He turned his red old face on him now, -and some of its fierceness went out of it. - -"Then, Joe, all I can say is this--that English honour and English -notions have changed uncommonly from what they used to be. 'Live and let -live' was one of our mottoes; and most of us tried to act up to it. I -know no more of this," striking his hand on the letter, "than you know, -boys; and I cannot think but that she must have been under some -unaccountable mistake in writing it. Any way, I'll go up to London -to-morrow: and if you like, Johnny, you can go with me." - -We went up. I did not feel sure of it until the train was off, for Tod -seemed three-parts inclined to give up the shooting at the Whitneys', -and start for London instead; in which case the Squire might not have -taken me. Tod and some more young fellows were invited to Whitney Hall -for three days, to a shooting-match. - -It was dusk when we reached London, and as cold as charity. The Squire -turned into the railway hotel and had some chops served, but did not -wait for a regular dinner. When once he was in for impatience, he _was_ -in for it. - -"Difford's Buildings, Paddington," had been the address, so we thought -it would not be far to go. The Squire held on in his way along the -crowded streets, as if he were about to set things to rights, elbowing -the people, and asking the road at every turn. Some did not know -Difford's Buildings, and some directed us wrongly; but we got there at -last. It was in a narrow, quiet street; a row of what Londoners call -eight-roomed houses, with little gates opening to the square patches of -smoky garden, and "Difford's Buildings" written up as large as life at -the corner. - -"Let's see," said the Squire, looking sideways at the windows. "Number -thirteen, was it not, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir." - -Difford's Buildings were not well lighted, and there was no seeing the -numbers. The Squire stopped before the one he thought must be thirteen; -when some one came out at the house-door, shutting it behind him, and -met us at the gate. A youngish clergyman in a white necktie. He and the -Squire stood looking at each other in the gathering darkness. - -"Can you tell me if Mr. Blair lives here?" - -"Yes, he does," was the answer. "I think--I think I have the pleasure of -speaking to Mr. Todhetley." - -The Squire knew him then--the Reverend Mr. Lockett. They had met when -Blair first took to the school. - -"What _is_ all this extraordinary history?" burst forth the Squire, -seizing him by the button of his great-coat, and taking him a few yards -further on. "Mrs. Blair has been writing us a strange rigmarole, which -nobody can make head or tail of; about ruin, and sales, and something -she calls _Jerry's Gazette_." - -"Ay," quietly answered the clergyman in a tone of pain, as he put his -arm inside the Squire's, and they paced slowly up and down. "It is one -of the saddest histories my experience has ever had to do with." - -The Squire was near coming to an explosion in the open street. "Will you -be pleased to tell me, sir, whether there exists such a thing as -_Jerry's Gazette_, or whether it is a fable? I have heard of Jerry's -Performing Dogs; went to see 'em once: but I don't know what this other -invention can be." - -"Certainly there is such a thing," said Mr. Lockett. "It is, I fancy, a -list of people who unfortunately get into difficulties; at least, people -who fall into difficulties seem to get shown up in it. I am told it is -meant chiefly for private circulation: which may imply, as I imagine -(but here I may be wrong) what may be called secret circulation. Blair -had occasion to borrow a little money, and _his_ name appeared in it. -From that moment he was a marked man, and his school fell off." - -"Goodness bless my soul!" cried the Squire solemnly, completely taken -aback at hearing Mary's letter confirmed. "Who gives _Jerry's Gazette_ -the right to do this?" - -"I don't know about the right. It seems it has the power." - -"It is a power I never heard of before, sir. We have a parson, down our -way, who tells us every Sunday the world's coming to an end. I think it -must be. I know it's getting too clever for me to understand. If a man -has the misfortune (perhaps after years of struggling that nobody knows -anything about but himself) to break up at last, he goes into the -country's _Gazette_ in a straightforward manner, and the public read it -over their breakfast-tables, and there's nothing underhand about it. But -as to this other thing--if I comprehend the matter rightly--Blair did -not as much as know of its existence, or that his name was going into -it." - -"I am sure he did not; or I, either," said Mr. Lockett. - -"I should like its meaning explained, then," cried the Squire, getting -hotter and angrier. "Is it a fair, upright, honest thing; or is it a -sort of Spanish Inquisition?" - -"I cannot tell you," answered the parson, as they both stood still. -"Mr. Blair was informed by the father of one of his pupils that he -believed the sheet was first of all set up as a speculation, and was -found to answer so well that it became quite an institution. I do not -know whether this is true." - -"I have heard of an institution for idiots, but I never heard of one for -selling up men's chairs and tables," stormed the Squire. "No, sir, and I -don't believe it now. I might take up my standing to-morrow on the top -of the Monument, and say to the public, 'Here I am, and I'll ferret out -what I can about you, and whisper it to one another of you;' and so -bring a serpent's trail on the unsuspecting heads, and altogether play -Old Gooseberry with the crowds below me. Do you suppose, sir, the Lord -Chancellor would wink his eye at me, stuck aloft there at my work, and -would tolerate such a spectacle?" - -"I fear the Lord Chancellor has not much to do with it," said Mr. -Lockett, smiling at the Squire's random logic. - -"Then suppose we say good men--public opinion--commercial justice and -honour? Come!" - -He shook the frail railings, on which his hand was resting, until -they nearly came to grief. Mr. Lockett related the particulars of the -transaction from the beginning; the original debt, which Blair was -suddenly called upon to pay off, and the contraction of the one to -Gavity. He said that he himself had had as much to do with it as Blair, -in the capacity of friend and adviser, and felt almost as though he -were responsible for the turn affairs had taken; which had caused him -scarcely to enjoy an easy moment since. The Squire began to abuse -Gavity, but Mr. Lockett said the man did not appear to have had any -ill intention. As to his having sold off the goods--if he had not sold -them, the landlord would have done so. - -"And what's Blair doing now?" asked Mr. Todhetley. - -"Battling with illness for his life," said the clergyman. "I have just -been praying with him." - -The Squire retreated towards the lamp-post, as if some one had given him -a blow. Mr. Lockett explained further. - -It was in September that they had left their home. His own lodging and -the church of which he was curate were in Paddington, and he found rooms -for Blair and his wife in the same neighbourhood--two parlours in -Difford's Buildings. Blair (who had lost heart so terribly as to be good -for little) spared no time or exertion in seeking for something to do. -He tried to get into King's College; they liked his appearance and -testimonials, but at present had no vacancy: he tried private schools -for an ushership, but did did not get one: nothing seemed to be vacant -just then. Then he tried for a clerk's place. Day after day, ill or -well, rain or fine, feasting or fasting, he went tramping about London -streets. At last, one of those who had had sons at his school, gave him -some out-door employment--that of making known a new invention and -soliciting customers for it from shop to shop: Blair to be paid on -commission. Naturally, he did not let weather hinder him, and would come -home to Difford's Buildings at night, wet through. There had been a -great deal of rain in November and December. But he got wet once too -often, and was attacked with rheumatic fever. The fever was better now; -but the weakness it had left was dangerous. - -"She did not say anything about this in her letter," interrupted the -Squire resentfully, when Mr. Lockett had explained so far. - -"Blair told her not to do so. He thought if their position were revealed -to the friends who had once shown themselves so kind, it might look -almost like begging for help again." - -"Blair's a fool!" roared the Squire. - -"Mrs. Blair has not made the worst of it to her family in Wales. It -would only distress them, she says, for they could not help her. Mr. -Sanker has been ill again for some time past, has not been allowed, I -believe, to draw his full salary, and there's no doubt they want every -penny of their means for themselves; and more too." - -"How have they lived here?" asked the Squire, as we went slowly back to -the gate. - -"Blair earned a little while he could get about; and his wife has been -enabled to procure some kind of wool-work from a warehouse in the city, -which pays her very well," said the clergyman, dropping his voice to a -whisper, as if he feared to be overheard. "Unfortunately there's the -baby to take up much of her time. It was born in October, soon after -they came there." - -"And I should like to know what business there has to be a baby?" cried -the Squire, who was like a man off his head. "Couldn't the baby have -waited for a more convenient season?" - -"It might have been better; it is certainly a troublesome, crying little -thing," said the parson. "Yes, you can go straight in: the parlour door -is on the right. I have a service this evening at seven, and shall be -late for it. This is your son, I presume, sir?" - -"My son! law bless you! My son is a strapping young fellow, six feet two -in his stockings. This is Johnny Ludlow." - -He shook hands pleasantly, and was good enough to say he had heard -of me. The Squire went on, and I with him. There was no lamp in the -passage, and we had to feel on the right for the parlour door. - -"Come in," called out Mary, in answer to the knock. I knew her voice -again. - -We can't help our thoughts. Things come into the mind without leave or -licence; and it is no use saying they ought not to, or asking why they -do. Nearly opposite the door in the small room was the fireplace. Mary -Blair sat on a low stool before it, doing some work with coloured wools -with a big hooked needle, a baby in white lying flat on her lap, and the -little chap, Joe, sitting at her feet. All in a moment it put me in mind -of Mrs. Lease, sitting on her stool before the fire that day long ago -(though in point of fact, as I discovered afterwards, hers had been a -bucket turned upside down) with the sick child on her lap, and the other -little ones round her. Why this, to-night, should have reminded me of -that other, I cannot say, but it did; and in the light of an omen. You -must ridicule me if you choose: it is not my fault; and I am telling -nothing but the truth. Lease had died. Would Pyefinch Blair die? - -The Squire went in gingerly, as if he had been treading on ploughshares. -The candle stood on the mantel-piece, a table was pushed back under the -window. Altogether the room was poor, and a small saucepan simmered on -the hob. Mary turned her head, and rose up with a flushed face, letting -the work fall on the baby's white nightgown, as she held out her hand. -Little Joe, a sturdy fellow in a scarlet frock, with big brown eyes, -backed against the wall by the fireplace and stood staring, Lena's doll -held safely under his pinafore. - -She lost her presence of mind. The Squire was the veriest old stupid, -when he wanted to make-believe, that you'd see in a winter's day. He -began saying something about "happening to be in town, and so called." -But he broke down, and blurted out the truth. "We've come to see after -you, my dear; and to learn what all this trouble means." - -And then _she_ broke down. Perhaps it was the sight of us, recalling -the old time at Dyke Manor, when the future looked so fair and happy; -perhaps it was the mention of the trouble. She put her hands before her -face, and the tears rained through her fingers. - -"Shut the door, will you, Johnny," she whispered. "Very softly." - -It was the other door she pointed to, one at the end of the room, and I -closed it without noise. Except for a sob now and again, that she kept -down as well as she could, the grief passed away. Young Joe, frightened -at matters, suddenly went at her, full butt, and hid his eyes in her -petticoats with a roar. I took him on my knee and got him round again. -Somehow children are never afraid of me. The Squire rubbed his old red -nose, and said he had a cold. - -But, was she not altered! Now that the flush had faded, and emotion -passed, the once sweet, fresh, blooming face stood out in its reality. -Sweet, indeed, it was still; but the bloom and freshness had given place -to a haggard look, and to dark circles round the soft brown eyes, weary -now. - -She had no more to tell of the past calamities than her letter and Mr. -Lockett had told. _Jerry's Gazette_ was the sore point with the Squire, -but she did not seem to understand it better than we did. - -"I want to know one thing," said he, quite fiercely. "How did _Jerry's -Gazette_ get at the transaction between your husband and Gavity? Did -Gavity go to it, open-mouthed, with the news?" - -Mary did not know. She had heard something about a register--that the -bill of sale had to be registered somewhere, and thought _Jerry's -Gazette_ might have obtained the information from that source. - -"Heaven bless us all!" cried the Squire. "Can't a man borrow a bit of -money but it must become known to his enemies, if he has any, bringing -them down upon him like a pack of hounds in full cry? This used to be -the freest land on earth." - -The baby began to scream. She put down the wool-work, and hushed it to -her. I am sure the Squire had half a mind to tell her to give it a -gentle shaking. He looked upon screaming babies as natural enemies: the -truth is, with all his abuse, he was afraid of them. - -"Has it got a name?" he asked gruffly. - -"Yes--Mary: he wished it," she said, glancing at the door. "I thought -we should have to call it Polly, in contradistinction to mine." - -Polly! That was another coincidence. Lease's eldest girl was Polly. And -what made her speak of things in the past tense? She caught me looking -at her; caught, I fancy, the fear on my face. I told her hurriedly that -little Joe must be a Dutchman, for not a word could I understand of the -tale he was whispering about his doll. - -What with Mary's work, and the little earned by Blair while he was -about, they had not wanted for necessaries in a plain way. I suppose -Lockett took care they should not do so: but he was only a curate. - -The baby needed its supper, to judge by the squealing. Mary poured the -contents of the saucepan--some thin gruel--into a saucer, and began -feeding the little mite by teaspoonfuls, putting each one to her own -lips first to test it. - -"That's poor stuff," cried the Squire, in a half-pitying, half-angry -tone, his mind divided between resentment against babies in general and -sympathy with this one. As the baby was there, of course it had to be -fed, but what he wanted to know was, why it need have come just when -trouble was about. When put out, he had no reason at all. Mrs. Blair -suddenly turned her face towards the end door, listening; and we heard -a faint voice calling "Mary." - -"Joe, dear, go and tell papa that I will be with him in one minute." - -The little chap slid down, giving me his doll to nurse, and went -pattering across the carpet, standing on tiptoe to open the door. The -Squire said he should like to go in and see Blair. Mary went on first -to warn him of our advent. - -My goodness! _That_ Pyefinch Blair, who used to flourish his cane, and -cock it over us boys at Frost's! I should never have known him for the -same. - -He lay in bed, too weak to raise his head from the pillow, the white -skin drawn tightly over his hollow features; the cheeks slightly -flushing as he watched us coming. And again I thought of Lease; for the -same look was on this face that had been on his when he was dying. - -"Lord bless us!" cried the Squire, in what would have been a solemn tone -but for surprise. And Mr. Blair began faintly to offer a kind of apology -for his illness, hoping he should soon get over it now. - -It was nothing but the awful look, putting one unpleasantly in mind of -death, that kept the Squire from breaking out with a storm of abuse all -round. Why could they not have sent word to Dyke Manor, he wanted to -know. As to asking particulars about _Jerry's Gazette_, which the -Squire's tongue was burning to do, Blair was too far gone for it. While -we stood there the doctor came in; a little man in spectacles, a friend -of Mr. Lockett's. He told Blair he was getting on all right, spoke to -Mrs. Blair, and took his departure. The Squire, wishing good night in a -hurry, went out after the doctor, and collared him as he was walking up -the street. - -"Won't he get over it?" - -"Well, sir, I am afraid not. His state of weakness is alarming." - -The Squire turned on him with a storm, just as though he had known him -for years: asking why on earth Blair's friends (meaning himself) had not -been written to, and promising a prosecution if he let him die. The -doctor took it sensibly, and was cool as iced water. - -"We medical men are only gifted at best with human skill, sir," he said, -looking the Squire full in the face. - -"Blair is young--not much turned thirty." - -"The young die as well as the old, when it pleases Heaven to take them." - -"But it doesn't please Heaven to take _him_," retorted the Squire, -worked up to the point when he was not accountable for his words. "But -that you seem in earnest, young man, probably meaning no irreverence, -I'd ask you how you dare bring Heaven's name into such a case as this? -Did Heaven fling him out of house and home into _Jerry's Gazette_, do -you suppose? Or did man? Man, sir: selfish, hard, unjust man. Don't talk -to me, Mr. Doctor, about Heaven." - -"All I wished to imply, sir, was, that Mr. Blair's life is not in my -keeping, or in that of any human hands," said the doctor, when he had -listened quietly to the end. "I will do my best to bring him round; I -can do no more." - -"You must bring him round." - -"There can be no 'must' about it: and I doubt if he is to be brought -round. Mr. Blair has not naturally a large amount of what we call -stamina, and this illness has laid a very serious hold upon him. It -would be something in his favour if the mind were at ease: which of -course it cannot be in his circumstances." - -"Now look here--you just say outright he is going to die," stormed the -Squire. "Say it and have done with it. I like people to be honest." - -"But I cannot say he is. Possibly he may recover. His life and his death -both seem to hang on the turn of a thread." - -"And there's that squealing young image within earshot! Could Blair be -got down to my place in the country? You might come with him if you -liked. There's some shooting." - -"Not yet. It would kill him. What we have to fight against now is the -weakness: and a hard fight it is." - -The Squire's face was rueful to look at. "This London has a reputation -for clever physicians: you pick out the best, and bring him here with -you to-morrow morning. Do you hear, sir?" - -"I will bring one, if you wish it. It is not essential." - -"Not essential!" wrathfully echoed the Squire. "If Blair's recovery is -not essential, perhaps you'll tell me, sir, whose is! What is to become -of his poor young wife if he dies?--and the little fellow with the -doll?--and that cross-grained puppet in white? Who will provide for -them? Let me tell you, sir, that I won't have him die--if doctors can -keep him alive. He belongs to me, sir, in a manner: he saved my son's -life--as fine a fellow as you could set eyes on, six feet two without -his boots. Not essential! What next?" - -"It is not so much medical skill he requires now as care, and rest, and -renovation," spoke the doctor in his calm way. - -"Never mind. You take a physician to him, and let him attend him with -you, and don't spare expense. In all my life I never saw anybody want -patching up so much as he wants it." - -The Squire shook hands with him, and went on round the corner. I was -following, when the doctor touched me on the shoulder. - -"He has a good heart, for all his hot speech," whispered he, nodding -towards the Squire. "In talking with him this evening, when you find him -indulging hopes of Blair's recovery, _don't encourage them_: rather lead -him, if possible, to look at the other side of the question." - -The surgeon was off before I recovered from my surprise. But it was now -my turn to run after him. - -"Do you know that he will not get well, sir?" - -"I do not know it; the weak and the strong are alike in the hands of -God; but I think it scarcely possible that he can recover," was the -answer; and the voice had a solemn tone, the face a solemn aspect, in -the uncertain light. "And I would prepare friends always to meet the -worst when it is in my power to do so." - -"Now then, Johnny! You were going to take the wrong turning, were you, -sir! Let me tell you, you might get lost in London before knowing it." - -The Squire had come back to the corner, looking for me. I walked on by -his side in silence, feeling half dazed, the hopeless words playing -pranks in my brain. - -"Johnny, I wonder where we can find a telegraph office? I shall -telegraph to your mother to send up Hannah to-morrow. Hannah knows what -the sick need: and that poor thing with her children ought not to be -left alone." - -But as to giving any hint to the Squire of the state of affairs, I -should like the doctor to have tried it himself. Before I had finished -the first syllable, he attacked me as if I had been a tiger; demanding -whether those were my ideas of Christianity, and if I supposed there'd -be any justice in a man's dying because he had got into _Jerry's -Gazette_. - -In the morning the Squire went on an expedition to Gavity's office in -the city. It was a dull place of two rooms, with a man to answer people. -We had not been there a minute when the Squire began to explode, going -on like anything at the man for saying Mr. Gavity was engaged and could -not be seen. The Squire demanded if he thought we were creditors, that -he should deny Gavity. - -What with his looks and his insistence, and his promise to bring in -Sir Richard Mayne, he got to see Gavity. We went into a good room with -a soft red carpet and marble-topped desk in it. Mr. Gavity politely -motioned to chairs before the blazing fire, and I sat down. - -Not the Squire. Out it all came. He walked about the room, just as he -walked at home when he was in a way, and said all kinds of things; -wanting to know who had ruined Pyefinch Blair, and what _Jerry's -Gazette_ meant. Gavity seemed to be used to explosions: he took it so -coolly. - -When the Squire calmed down, he almost grew to see things in Gavity's -own light--namely, that Gavity had not been to blame. To say the truth, -I could not understand that he had. Except in selling them up. And -Gavity said if he had not done it, the landlord would. - -So nothing was left for the Squire to vent his wrath on but _Jerry's -Gazette_. He no more understood what _Jerry's Gazette_ really was, or -whether it was a good or bad thing in itself, than he understood the -construction of the planet Jupiter. It's well Dwarf Giles was not -present. The day before we came to London, he overheard Giles swearing -in a passion, and the Squire had pounced upon him with an indignant -inquiry if he thought swearing was the way to get to heaven. What he -said about _Jerry's Gazette_ caused Gavity's eyes to grow round with -wonder. - -"Lord love ye!" said Gavity, "_Jerry's Gazette_ a thing that wants -putting down! Why, it is the blessedest of institutions to us City men. -It is a public Benefactor. The commercial world has had no boon like it. -Did you know the service it does, you'd sing its praises, sir, instead -of abusing it." - -"How dare you tell me so to my face?" demanded the Squire. - -"_Jerry's Gazette's_ like a gold mine, sir. It is making its fortune. -A fine one, too." - -"_I_ shouldn't like to make a fortune out of my neighbours' tears, and -blood, and homes, and hearths," was the wrathful answer. "If Pyefinch -Blair dies in his illness, will _Jerry's Gazette_ settle a pension from -its riches on his widow and children? Answer me that, Mr. Gavity." - -Mr. Gavity, to judge by his looks, thought the question nearly as -unreasonable as he thought the Squire. He wanted to tell of the vast -benefit _Jerry's Gazette_ had proved in certain cases; but the Squire -stopped his ears, saying Blair's case was enough for him. - -"I do not deny that the _Gazette_ may work mischief once in a way," -acknowledged Mr. Gavity. "It is but a solitary instance, sir; and in all -commercial improvements the few must suffer for the many." - -No good. The Squire went at him again, hammer and tongs, and at last -dashed away without saying good morning, calling out to me to come on, -and not stop a moment longer in a nest of thieves and casuists. - -Difford's Buildings had us in the afternoon. The baby was in its basket, -little Joe lay asleep before the fire, the doll against his cheek, and -Mary was kneeling by the bed in the back room. She got up hastily when -she saw us. - -"I think he is weaker," she said in a whisper, as she came through the -door and pushed it to. "There is a look on his face that I do not like." - -There was a look on hers. A wan, haggard, patiently hopeless look, that -seemed to say she could struggle no longer. It was not natural; neither -was the calm, lifeless tone. - -"Stay here a bit, my dear, and rest yourself," said the Squire to her. -"I'll go in and sit with him." - -There could be no mistake now. Death was in every line of his face. His -head was a little raised on the pillow; and the hollow eyes tried to -smile a greeting. The Squire was good for a great deal, but not for -making believe with that sight before him. He broke down with a great -sob. - -"Don't grieve for me," murmured poor Blair. "Hard though it seems to -leave her, I have learnt to say, 'God's will be done.' It is all for the -best--oh, it is all for the best. We must through much tribulation enter -into the Kingdom." - -And then _I_ broke down, and hid my face on the counterpane. Poor old -Blair! And we boys had called him Baked Pie! - -I went to Paddington station to meet the train. Hannah was in it, and -came bursting out upon me with a shriek that might have been heard at -Oxford. Upon the receipt of the telegram, she and Mrs. Todhetley came to -the conclusion that I had been run over, and was lying in some hospital -with my legs off. That was through the Squire's wording of the message; -he would not let me write it. "Send Hannah to London to-morrow by -mid-day train, to nurse somebody that's in danger." - -Blair lingered three days yet before he died, sensible to the last, -and quite happy. Not a care or anxiety on his mind about what had so -troubled him all along--the wife and children. - -"Through God's mercy; He knows how to soothe the death-bed," said Mr. -Lockett. - -Whether Mary would have to go home to Wales with her babies, or stay and -do what she could for them in London, depending on the wool-work, the -clergyman said he did not know, when talking to us at the hotel. He -supposed it must be one of the two. - -"We'll have them down at the Manor, and fatten 'em up a bit, Johnny," -spoke the Squire, a rueful look on his good old face. "Mercy light upon -us! and all through _Jerry's Gazette_!" - - * * * * * - -I must say a word for myself. _Jerry's Gazette_ (if there is such a -thing still in existence) may be, as Mr. Gavity expressed it to us then, -the "blessedest of institutions to him and commercial men." I don't wish -to deny it, and I could not if I wished; for except in this one instance -(which may have been an exceptional case, as Gavity insisted) I know -nothing of it or its working. But I declare on my honour I have told -nothing but the truth in regard to what it did for the schoolmaster, -Pyefinch Blair. - - - - -XIII. - -SOPHIE CHALK. - - -The horses went spanking along the frosty road, the Squire driving, his -red comforter wrapped round his neck. Mrs. Todhetley sat beside him; Tod -and I behind. It was one of the jolliest days that early January ever -gave us; dark blue sky, and icicles on the trees: a day to tempt people -out. Mrs. Todhetley, getting to her work after breakfast, said it was a -shame to stay indoors: and it was hastily decided to drive over to the -Whitneys' place and see them. So the large phaeton was brought round. - -I had not expected to go. When there was a probability of their staying -anywhere sufficiently long for the horses to be put up, Giles was -generally taken: the Squire did not like to give trouble to other -people's servants. It would not matter at the Whitneys': they had a host -of them. - -"I don't know that I care about going," said Tod, as we stood outside, -waiting for the others, Giles at the horses' heads. - -"Not care, Tod! Anna's at home." - -He flicked his glove at my face for the impudence. We laughed at him -about Anna Whitney sometimes. They were great friends. The Squire, -hearing some nonsense one day, took it seriously, and told Tod it would -be time enough for him to get thinking about sweethearts when he was out -of leading-strings. Which of course Tod did not like. - -It was a long drive; I can tell you that. And as we turned in at the -wide gravel sweep that led up to the house, we saw their family coach -being brought round with some luggage on it, the postillion in his -undress jacket, just laced at the seams with crimson. The Whitneys never -drove from the box. - -Whitney Hall was a long red-brick house with a good many windows and -wide circular steps leading to the door, its park and grounds lying -around it. Anna came running to meet us as we went in, dressed for a -journey. She was seventeen; very fair; with a gentle face, and smooth, -bright, dark auburn hair; one of the sweetest girls you could see on a -summer's day. Tod was the first to shake hands with her, and I saw her -cheeks blush as crimson as Sir John's state liveries. - -"You are going out, my dear," said Mrs. Todhetley. - -"Oh yes," she answered, the tears rising in her eyes, which were as blue -as the dark blue sky. "We have had bad news. William----" - -The dining-room door across the hall opened, and a host of them came -forth. Lady Whitney in a plaid shawl, the strings of her bonnet untied; -Miss Whitney (Helen), Harry, and some of the young ones behind. Anna's -quiet voice was drowned, for they all began to tell of it together. - -Sir John and William were staying at some friend's house at Ombersley. -Lady Whitney thought they would have been home to-day: instead of which -the morning's post had a brought letter to say that an accident had -occurred to William in hunting; some muff who couldn't ride had gone -swerving right against Bill's horse, and he was thrown. Except that Bill -was insensible, nothing further of the damage could be gathered from the -letter; for Sir John, if put out, could write no more intelligibly than -the Squire. The chief of what he said was--that they were to come off at -once. - -"We are going, of course; I with the two girls and Harry; the carriage -is waiting to take us to the station," said poor Lady Whitney, her -bonnet pushed off. "But I do wish John had explained further: it is such -suspense. We don't think it can be extremely serious, or there would -have been a telegram. I'm sure I have shivered at every ring that has -come to the door this morning." - -"And the post was never in, as usual, until nearly ten o'clock," -complained Harry. "I wonder my father puts up with it." - -"And the worst is that we had a visitor coming to-day," added Helen. -"Mamma would have telegraphed to London for her not to start, but there -was not time. It's Sophie Chalk." - -"Who is Sophie Chalk?" asked Tod. - -Helen told us, while Lady Whitney was finding places for everyone at the -table. They had been taking a scrambling luncheon; sitting or standing: -cold beef, mince-pies, and cheese. - -"Sophie Chalk was a schoolfellow of mine," said Helen. "It was an old -promise--that she should come to visit us. Different things have caused -it to be put off, but we have kept up a correspondence. At length I got -mamma to say that she might come as soon as Christmas was turned; and -to-day was fixed. We don't know what on earth to do." - -"Let her come to us until you see how things turn out," cried the -Squire, in his hearty good-nature, as he cut himself a slice of beef. -"We can take her home in the carriage: one of these boys can ride back -if you'll lend him a horse." - -Mrs. Todhetley said he took the very words out of her mouth. The -Whitneys were too flurried to affect ceremony, and very gladly accepted -the offer. But I don't think it would ever have been made had the Squire -and madam known what was to come of it. - -"There will be her luggage," observed Anna; who usually remembered -things for every one. And Lady Whitney looked round in consternation. - -"It must come to us by rail; we will send for it from the station," -decided Tod, always ready at a pinch. "What sort of a damsel is this -Sophie Chalk, Anna?" - -"I never saw her," replied Anna. "You must ask Helen." - -Tod whispered something to Anna that made her smile and blush. "I'll -write you my sentiments about her to Ombersley," he said aloud. "Those -London girls are something to look at." And I knew by Tod's tone that he -was prepared _not_ to like Miss Sophie Chalk. - -We saw them out to the carriage; the Squire putting in my lady, Tod, -Helen and Anna. One of the housemaids, Lettice Lane, was wildly running -in and out, bringing things to the carriage. She had lived with us once; -but Hannah's temper and Letty's propensity for gossip did not get on -together. Mrs. Todhetley, when they had driven away, asked her how she -liked her place--which she had entered at Michaelmas. Oh, pretty well, -Lettice answered: but for her old mother, she should emigrate to -Australia. She used to be always saying so at Dyke Manor, and it was -one of the things that Hannah would not put up with, telling her decent -girls could find work at home. - -Tod went off next, on horseback: and, before three o'clock, we drove to -the station to meet the London train. The Squire stayed in the carriage, -sending me and Mrs. Todhetley on the platform. - -Two passengers got out at the small station; a little lady in feathers, -and a butcher in a blue frock, who had charge of a calf in the open van. -Mrs. Todhetley stepped up to the lady and inquired whether she was Miss -Chalk. - -"I am Miss Chalk. Have I the honour of speaking to Lady Whitney?" - -While matters were being explained, I stood observing her. A very small, -slight person, with pretty features white as ivory; and wide-open light -blue eyes, that were too close together, and had a touch of boldness in -them. It would take a great deal to daunt their owner, if I could read -countenances: and that I was always doing so was no fault of mine, for -the instinct, strong and irrepressible, lay within me--as old Duffham -once said. I did not like her voice; it had no true ring in it; I did -not much like her face. But the world in general no doubt found her -charming, and the Squire thought her so. - -She sat in front with him, a carpet-bag between them: and I, behind, had -a great black box crowding my legs. She could not do without that much -of her luggage: the rest might come by rail. - -"Johnny," whispered Mrs. Todhetley to me, "I am afraid she is very grand -and fashionable. I don't know how we shall manage to amuse her. Do you -like her?" - -"Well--she has got a stunning lot of hair." - -"Beautiful hair, Johnny!" - -With the hair close before us, I could only say so. It was brown; rather -darker than Anna Whitney's, but with a red tinge in it, and about double -the quantity. Nature or art was giving it a wonderful gloss in the light -of the setting sun, as she turned her head about, laughing and talking -with the Squire. Her dress was some bright purple stuff trimmed with -white fur; her hands, lying in repose on her lap, had yellow gauntlets -on. - -"I'm glad I ordered a duck for dinner, in addition to the boiled veal -and bacon, Johnny," whispered Mrs. Todhetley again. "The fish won't be -much: it is only the cold cod done up in parsley sauce." - -Tod, at home long before, was at the door ready for us when we arrived. -I saw her staring at him in the dusk. - -"Who was the gentleman that handed me out?" she asked me as we went in. - -"Mr. Todhetley's son." - -"I--think--I have heard Helen Whitney talk of him," she said in -reflection. "He will be very rich, will he not?" - -"Pretty well. He will have what his father has before him, Miss Chalk." - -Mrs. Todhetley suggested tea, but she said she would prefer a glass -of wine; and went up to her chamber after taking it. Hannah and the -housemaid were hastily putting one in order for her. Sleepy with the -frosty air, I was nodding over the fire in the drawing-room when the -rustle of silk awoke me. - -It was Miss Chalk. She came in gleaming like a fairy, her dress shining -in the fire-light; for they had not been in to light the candles. It had -a green-and-gold tinge, and was cut very low. Did she think we had a -party?--or that dressing for dinner was the fashion in our plain country -house--as it might have been at a duke's? Her shoulders and arms were -white as snow; she wore a silver necklace, the like of which I had never -seen, silver bracelets, and a thick cord of silver twisting in and out -of her complicated hair. - -"I'm sure it is very kind of your people to take me in," she said, -standing still on the hearthrug in her beauty. "They have lighted a fire -in my room; it is so comfortable. I do like a country house. At Lady -Augustus Difford's----" - -Her head went round at the opening of the door. It was Tod. She stepped -timidly towards him, like a schoolgirl: dressed as now, she looked no -older than one. Tod might have made up his mind not to like her; but he -had to surrender. Holding out her hand to him, he could only yield to -the vision, and his heart shone in his eyes as he bent them upon her. - -"I beg your pardon for having passed you without notice; I did not even -thank you for lifting me down; but I was frozen with the drive," she -said, in low tones. "Will you forgive me, Mr. Todhetley?" - -Forgive her! As Tod stood there with her hand in his, he looked inclined -to eat her. Forgiveness was not enough. He led her to the fire, speaking -soft words of gallantry. - -"Helen Whitney has often talked to me about you, Mr. Todhetley. I little -thought I should ever make your acquaintance; still less, be staying in -your father's house." - -"And I as little dreamt of the good fortune that was in store for me," -answered Tod. - -He was a tall, fine young fellow then, rising twenty, looking older than -his age; she (as she looked to-night) a delicate, beautiful fairy, of -any teens fancy might please to picture. As Tod stood over her, his -manner took a gentle air, his eyes a shy light--quite unusual with him. -She did not look up, except by a modest glance now and again, dropping -her eyes when they met his own. He had the chance to take his fill of -gazing, and used it. - - * * * * * - -Tod was caught. From the very first night that his eyes fell on Sophie -Chalk, his heart went out to her. Anna Whitney! What child's play had -the joking about her been to this! Anna might have been his sister, for -all the regard he had for her of a certain sort; and he knew it now. - -A looker-on sees more than a player, and I did not like one thing--she -drew him on to love her. If ever a girl spread a net to entangle a man's -feet, that girl was Sophie Chalk. She went about it artistically, too; -in the sweetest, most natural way imaginable; and Tod did not see or -suspect an atom of it. No fellow in a similar case ever does. If their -heart's not engaged, their vanity is; and it utterly blinds them. I -said a word or two to him, and was nearly knocked over for my pains. -At the end of the fortnight--and she was with us nearly that length of -time--Tod's heart had made its choice for weal or for woe. - -She took care that it should be so; she did, though he cut my head off -now for saying it. You shall judge. She began on that first night when -she came down in her glistening silk, with the silver on her neck and -hair. In the drawing-room, after dinner, she sat by him on the sofa, -talking in a low voice, her face turned to him, lifting her eyes and -dropping them again. My belief is, she must have been to a school where -they taught eye-play. Tod thought it was sweet, natural, shy modesty. I -thought it was all artistic. Mrs. Todhetley was called from the room on -domestic matters; the Squire, gone to sleep in his dinner-chair, had not -come in. After tea, when all were present, she went to the piano, which -no one ever opened but me, and played and sang, keeping Tod by her side -to turn the music, and to talk to her at available moments. In point of -execution, her singing was perfect, but the voice was rather harsh--not -a note of real melody in it. - -After breakfast the next morning, when we were away together, she came -to us in her jaunty hat, all feathers, and her purple dress with its -white fur. She lured him off to show her the dyke and goodness knows -what else, leaving Lena, who had come out with her, to be taken home by -me. In the afternoon Tod drove her out in the pony-chaise; they had -settled the drive between them down by the dyke, and I know she had -plotted for it, just as surely as though I had been behind the hedge -listening. I don't say Tod was loth; it was quite the other way from the -first. They took a two-hours' drive, returning home at dusk; and then -she laughed and talked with him and me round the fire until it was time -to get ready for dinner. That second evening she came down in a gauzy -sort of dress, with a thin white body. Mrs. Todhetley thought she would -be cold, but she said she was used to it. - -And so it went on; never were they apart for an hour--no, nor scarcely -for a minute in the day. - -At first Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley saw nothing. Rather were they glad Tod -should be so attentive to a stranger; for special politeness had not -previously been one of Tod's virtues; but they could only notice as the -thing went on. Mrs. Todhetley grew to have an uneasy look in her eyes, -and one day the Squire spoke out. Sophie Chalk had tied a pink woollen -scarf over her head to go out with Tod to see the rabbits fed: he ran -back for something, and the Squire caught his arm. - -"Don't carry that on too far, Joe. You don't know who the girl is." - -"What nonsense, sir!" returned Tod, with a ready laugh; but he turned -the colour of a peony. - -We did not know much about her, except that she seemed to be on the -high ropes, talking a good deal of great people, and of Lord and Lady -Augustus Difford, with whom she had been staying for two months before -Christmas. Her home in London, she said, was at her sister's, who had -married a wealthy merchant, and lived fashionably in Torriana Square. -Mrs. Todhetley did not like to appear inquisitive, and would not ask -questions. Miss Chalk was with us as the Whitneys' friend, and that was -sufficient. - -Bill Whitney's hurt turned out to be something complicated about the -ribs. There was no danger after the first week, and they returned home -during the second, bringing Bill with them. Helen Whitney wrote the same -day for Sophie Chalk, and she said that her mamma would be happy also to -see Tod and me for a short time. - -We went over in the large phaeton, Tod driving, Miss Chalk beside him; I -and Dwarf Giles behind. She had thanked Mrs. Todhetley in the prettiest -manner; she told the Squire, as he handed her into the carriage, that -she should never forget his kindness, and hoped some time to find an -opportunity of repaying it. - -Such kissing between Helen and Sophie Chalk! I thought they'd never -leave off. Anna stood by Tod, while he looked on: a hungry light in his -eyes, as if envying Helen the kisses she took. He had no eyes now for -Anna. Lady Whitney asked if we would go upstairs to William: he was -impatient to see us both. - -"Halloa, old Johnny!" - -He was lying on his back on a broad flat sofa, looking just as well -as ever in the face. They had given him up the best bedroom and -dressing-room because he was ill: nice rooms, both--with the door -opening between. - -"How did it happen, Bill?" - -"Goodness knows! Some fellow rode his horse pretty near over mine--don't -believe he had ever been astride anything but a donkey before. Where's -Tod?" - -"Somewhere.--I thought he was close behind me." - -"I'm so glad you two have come. It's awfully dull, lying here all day." - -"Are you obliged to lie?" - -"Carden says so." - -"Do you have Carden?" - -"As if our folk would be satisfied without him in a surgical case, and -one of danger! He was telegraphed for on the spot, and came over in less -than an hour. It happened near the Ombersley station. He comes here -every other day, and Featherston between whiles as his locum tenens." - -Tod burst in with a laugh. He had been talking to the girls in the -gallery outside. Leaving him and Bill Whitney to have out their own -chaffer, I went through the door to the other room--the fire there was -the largest. "How do you do, sir?" - -Some one in a neat brown gown and close white cap, sewing at a table -behind the door, had got up to say this with a curtsey. Where had I seen -her?--a woman of three or four and thirty, with a meek, delicate face, -and a subdued expression. She saw the puzzle. - -"I am Harry Lease's widow, sir. He was pointsman at South Crabb?" - -Why, yes, to be sure! And she was not much altered either. But it was a -good while now since he died, and she and the children had moved away at -the time. I shook hands: the sight of her brought poor Harry Lease to my -mind--and many other things. - -"Are you living here?" - -"I have been nursing young Mr. Whitney, sir. Mr. Carden sent me over -from Worcester to the place where he was lying; and my lady thought I -might as well come on here with them for a bit, though he don't want -more done for him now than a servant could do. What a deal you have -grown, sir!" - -"Have I? You should see Joseph Todhetley. You knew me, though, Mrs. -Lease?" - -"I remembered your voice, sir. Besides, I heard Miss Anna say that you -were coming here." - -Asking after Polly, she gave me the family history since Lease's death. -First of all, after moving to her mother's at Worcester, she tried to -get a living at making gloves. Her two youngest children caught some -disorder, and died; and then she took to go out nursing. In that she -succeeded so well--for it seemed to be her vocation, she said--as to be -brought under the notice of some of the medical gentlemen of the town. -They gave her plenty to do, and she earned an excellent living, Polly -and the other two being cared for by the grandmother. - -"After the scuffle, and toil, and sorrow of the old days, nursing seems -like a holiday to me, Master Ludlow," she concluded; "and I am at home -with the children for a day or two as often as I can be." - -"Johnny!" - -The call was Bill Whitney's, and I went into the other room. Helen was -there, but not Tod. She and Bill were disputing. - -"I tell you, William, I shall bring her in. She has asked to come. You -can't think how nice she is." - -"And I tell you, Helen, that I won't have her brought in. What do I want -with your Sophie Chalks?" - -"It will be your loss." - -"So be it! I can't do with strange girls here." - -"You will see that." - -"Now look here, Helen--_I won't have it_. To-morrow is Mr. Carden's day -for coming, and I'll tell him that I can't be left in peace. He will -soon give you a word of a sort." - -"Oh, well, if you are so serious about it as that, let it drop," -returned Helen, good-humouredly. "I only thought to give you -pleasure--and Sophie Chalk did ask to come in." - -"Who _is_ this Sophie Chalk? That's about the nineteenth time I have -asked it." - -"The sweetest girl in the world." - -"Let that pass. Who is she?" - -"I went to school with her at Miss Lakon's. She used to do my French for -me, and touch up my drawings. She vowed a lasting friendship, and I am -not going to forget it. Every one loves her. Lord and Lady Augustus -Difford have just had her staying with them for two months." - -"Good souls!" cried Bill, satirically. - -"She is the loveliest fairy in the world, and dresses like an angel. -Will you see her now, William?" - -"No." - -Helen went off with a flounce. Bill was half laughing, half peevish over -it. Confinement made him fretful. - -"As if I'd let them bring a parcel of girls in to bother me! _You_'ve -had her for these past three weeks, I hear, Johnny." - -"Pretty near it." - -"Do you like her?" - -"Tod does." - -"What sort of a creature is the syren?" - -"She'd fascinate the eyes out of your head, Bill, give her the chance." - -"Then I'll be shot if she shall have the chance as far as I am -concerned! Lease!"--raising his voice--"keep all strange ladies out of -here. If they attempt to enter, tell them we've got rats about." - -"Very well, sir." - -Other visitors were staying in the house. A Miss Deveen, and her -companion Miss Cattledon. We saw them first at dinner. Miss Deveen sat -by Sir John--an ancient lady, active and upright, with a keen, pleasant -face and white hair. She had on a worked-muslin shirt-front, with three -emerald studs in it that glittered as bright as diamonds. They were -beautiful. After dinner, when the four old ones began whist, and we were -at the other end of the drawing-room in a group, some one spoke of the -studs. - -"They are nothing compared with some of her jewellery," said Helen -Whitney. "She has a whole set of most beautiful diamonds. I hardly know -what they are worth." - -"But those emeralds she has on to-night must be of great value," cried -Sophie Chalk. "See how they sparkle!" - -It made us all turn. As Miss Deveen moved in throwing down her cards, -the rays from the wax-lights fell on the emeralds, bringing out the -purest green ever imagined by a painter. - -"I should like to steal them," said Sophie Chalk; "they would look well -on me." - -It made us laugh. Tod had his eyes fixed on her, a strange love in their -depths. Anna Whitney, kneeling on the ground behind me, could see it. - -"I would rather steal a set of pink topaz studs that she has," spoke -Helen; "and the opals, too. Miss Deveen is great in studs." - -"Why in studs?" - -"Because she always wears this sort of white body; it is her habitual -evening dress, with satin skirts. I know she has a different set of -studs for every day in the month." - -"Who is she?" asked Sophie Chalk. - -"A cousin of mamma's. She has a great deal of money, and no one in -particular to leave it to. Harry says he hopes she'll remember, in -making her will, that he is only a poor younger son." - -"Just you shut up, Helen," interrupted Harry, in a whisper. "I believe -that companion has ears at the back of her head." - -Miss Cattledon glanced round from the whist-table, as though the ears -were there and wide open. She was a wiry lady of middle age, quite -forty, with a screwed-in waist and creaking stays, a piece of crimson -velvet round her long thin neck, her scanty hair light as ginger. - -"It is she that has charge of the jewel-box," spoke Helen, when we -thought it safe to begin again. "Miss Deveen is a wonderful old lady for -sixty; she has come here without a maid this time, and dresses herself. -I don't see what use Miss Cattledon is to her, unless it is to act as -general refrigerator, but she gets a hundred a year salary and some of -the old satins. Sophie, I'm sure she heard what we said--that we should -like to steal the trinkets." - -"Hope she relished it!" quoth Harry. "She'll put them under double lock -and key, for fear we should break in." - -It was all jesting. Amid the subdued laughing, Tod bent his face over -Sophie Chalk, his hand touching the lace on her sleeve. She had on blue -to-night with a pearl necklace. - -"Will you sing that song for me, Miss Chalk?" - -She rose and took his arm. Helen jumped up and arrested them ere they -reached the piano. - -"We must not have any music just now. Papa never likes it when they are -at whist." - -"How very unreasonable of him!" cried Tod, looking fiercely at Sir -John's old red nose and steel spectacles. - -"Of course it is," agreed Helen. "If he played for guinea stakes instead -of sixpenny, he could not be more particular about having no noise. Let -us go into the study: we can do as we like there." - -We all trooped off. It was a small square room with a shabby carpet and -worn horse-hair chairs. Helen stirred up the fire; and Sophie sat down -on a low stool and said she'd tell us a fairy tale. - - * * * * * - -We had been there just a week when it came out. The week was a good one. -Long walks in the frosty air; a huge swing between the cedar trees; -riding by turns on the rough Welsh pony for fun; bagatelle indoors, -work, music, chatter; one dinner-party, and a small dance. Half my time -was spent in Bill's room. Tod seemed to find little leisure for coming -up; or for anything else, except Sophie Chalk. It was a gone case with -Tod: looking on, I could see that; but I don't think any one else saw -it, except Anna. He liked Sophie too well to make it conspicuous. Harry -made open love to her; Sir John said she was the prettiest little lady -he had seen for many a day. I dare say Tod told her the same in private. - -And she? Well, I don't know what to say. That she kept Tod at her side, -quietly fascinating him always, was certain; but her liking for him did -not appear real. To me it seemed that she was _acting_ it. "I can't -make that Sophie Chalk out, Tod," I said to him one day by the beeches: -"she seems childishly genuine, but I believe she's just as sharp as a -needle." Tod laughed idly, and told me I was the simplest muff that ever -walked in shoe-leather. She was no rider, and some one had to walk by -her side when she sat on the Welsh pony, holding her on at all the -turnings. It was generally Tod: she made believe to be frightfully timid -with _him_. - -It was at the end of the week that the loss was discovered: Miss -Deveen's emerald studs were gone. You never heard such a commotion. She, -the owner, took it quietly, but Miss Cattledon made noise enough for -ten. The girls were talking round the study fire the morning after the -dance, and I was writing a note at the table, when Lettice Lane came in, -her face white as death. - -"I beg your pardon, young ladies, for asking, but have any of you seen -Miss Deveen's emerald studs, please?" - -They turned round in surprise. - -"Miss Deveen's studs!" exclaimed Helen. "We are not likely to have seen -them, Lettice. Why do you ask?" - -"Because, Miss Helen, they are gone--that is, Miss Cattledon says they -are. But, with so much jewellery as there is in that case, it is very -easy to overlook two or three little things." - -Why Lettice Lane should have shaken all over in telling this, was a -marvel. Her very teeth chattered. Anna inquired; but all the answer -given by the girl was, that it had "put her into a twitter." Sophie -Chalk's countenance was full of compassion, and I liked her for it. - -"Don't let it trouble you, Lettice," she said kindly. "If the studs are -missing, I dare say they will be found. Just before I came down here -my sister lost a brooch from her dressing-table. The whole house was -searched for it, the servants were uncomfortable----" - -"And was it found, miss?" interrupted Lettice, too eager to let her -finish. - -"Of course it was found. Jewels don't get hopelessly lost in gentlemen's -houses. It had fallen down, and, caught in the lace of the toilette -drapery, was lying hid within its folds." - -"Oh, thank you, miss; yes, perhaps the studs have fallen too," said -Lettice Lane as she went out. Helen looked after her in some curiosity. - -"Why should the loss trouble _her_? Lettice has nothing to do with Miss -Deveen's jewels." - -"Look here, Helen, I wish we had never said we should like to steal the -things," spoke Sophie Chalk. "It was all in jest, of course, but this -would not be a nice sequel to it." - -"Why--yes--you did say it, some of you," cried Anna, who, until then, -had seemed buried in thought; and her face flushed. - -"What if we did?" retorted Helen, looking at her in some slight -surprise. - -Soon after this, in going up to Bill's room, I met Lettice Lane. She was -running down with a plate, and looked whiter than ever. - -"Are the studs found, Lettice?" - -"No, sir." - -The answer was short, the manner scared. Helen had wondered why the loss -should affect her; and so did I. - -"Where's the use of your being put out over it, Lettice? You did not -take them." - -"No, Master Johnny, I did not; but--but----" looking round and dropping -her voice, "I am afraid I know who did; and it was through me. I'm -a'most mad." - -This was rather mysterious. She gave no opportunity for more, but ran -down as though the stairs were on fire. - -I went on to Bill's chamber, and found Tod and Harry with him: they -were laughing over a letter from some fellow at Oxford. Standing at the -window close by the inner door, which was ajar, I heard Lettice Lane go -into the dressing-room and speak to Mrs. Lease in a half whisper. - -"I can't bear this any longer," she said. "If you have taken -those studs, for Heaven's sake put them back. I'll make some -excuse--say I found them under the carpet, or slipped under the -drawers--anything--only put them back!" - -"I don't know what you mean," replied Mrs. Lease, who always spoke as -though she had only half a voice. - -"Yes, you do. You have got the studs." - -By the pause that ensued, Nurse Lease seemed to have lost the power of -speech. Lettice took the opportunity to put it more strongly. - -"If you've got them about you, give them into my hand now, and I'll -manage the rest. Not a living soul shall ever know of this if you will. -Oh, do give them to me!" - -Mrs. Lease spoke then. "If you say this again, Lettice Lane, I'll tell -my lady all. And indeed, I have been wanting to tell her ever since I -heard that something had gone. It was for your sake I did not." - -"For my sake!" shrieked Lettice. - -"Well, it was. I'm sure I'd not like to say it if I could help, Lettice -Lane; but it did strike me that you might have been tempted to--to--you -know." - -So it was accusation and counter-accusation. Which of the two confessed -first was uncertain; but in a short time the whole was known to the -house, and to Lady Whitney. - -On the previous night the upper housemaid was in bed with some slight -illness, and it fell to Lettice Lane to put the rooms to rights after -the ladies had dressed. Instead of calling one of the other servants -she asked Mrs. Lease to help her--which must have been for nothing -but to gossip with the nurse, as Lady Whitney said. On Miss Deveen's -dressing-table stood her case of jewels, the key in the lock. Lettice -lifted the lid. On the top tray glittered a heap of ornaments, and the -two women feasted their eyes with them. Nurse Lease declared that she -never put "a finger's end" on a single article. Lettice could not say as -much. Neither (if they were to be believed) had observed the green -studs; and the upper tray was not lifted to see what was underneath. -Miss Cattledon, who made one at the uproar, put in her word at this, to -say they were telling a falsehood, and her face had enough vinegar in -it to pickle a salmon. Other people might like Miss Cattledon, but I did -not. She was in a silent rage with Miss Deveen for having chosen to keep -the jewel-case during their stay at Whitney Hall, and for carelessly -leaving the key in it. Miss Deveen took the loss calmly, and was as cool -as a cucumber. - -"I don't know that the emerald studs were in the upper tray last night; -I don't remember to have seen them," Miss Deveen said, as if bearing out -the assertion of the two women. - -"Begging your pardon, madam, they _were_ there," stiffly corrected Miss -Cattledon. "I saw them. I thought you would put them on, as you were -going to wear your green satin gown, and asked if I should lay them out; -but you told me you would choose for yourself." - -Miss Deveen had worn diamonds; we had noticed their lustre. - -"I'm sure it is a dreadful thing to have happened!" said poor Lady -Whitney, looking flurried. "I dare not tell Sir John; he would storm the -windows out of their frames. Lease, I am astonished at _you_. How could -you dare open the box?" - -"I never did open it, my lady," was the answer. "When I got round from -the bed, Lettice was standing with it open before her." - -"I don't think there need be much doubt as to the guilty party," struck -in Miss Cattledon with intense acrimony, her eyes swooping down upon -Lettice. And if they were not sly and crafty eyes, never you trust me -again. - -"I do not think there need be so much trouble made about it," corrected -Miss Deveen. "It's not your loss, Cattledon--it is mine: and my own -fault too." - -But Miss Cattledon would not take the hint. She stuck to it like a -leech, and sifted evidence as subtly as an Old Bailey lawyer. Mrs. -Lease carried innocence on the surface; no one could doubt it: Lettice -might have been taken for a seven-years' thief. She sobbed, and choked, -and rambled in her tale, and grew as confused as a hunted hare, -contradicting herself at every second word. The Australian scheme -(though it might have been nothing but foolish talk) told against her -now. - -Things grew more uncomfortable as the day went on, the house being -ransacked from head to foot. Sophie Chalk cried. She was not rich, she -said to me, but she would give every shilling of money she had with her -for the studs to be found; and she thought it was very wrong to accuse -Lettice, when so many strangers had been in the house. I liked Sophie -better than I had liked her yet: she looked regularly vexed. - -Sir John got to know of it: Miss Cattledon told him. He did not storm -the windows out, but he said the police must come in and see Lettice -Lane. Miss Deveen, hearing of this, went straight to Sir John, and -assured him that if he took any serious steps while the affair was so -doubtful, she would quit his house on the instant, and never put foot -in it again. He retorted that it must have been Lettice Lane--common -sense and Miss Cattledon could not be mistaken--and that it ought to -be investigated. - -They came to a compromise. Lettice was not to be given into custody -at present; but she must quit the Hall. That, said Miss Deveen, was -of course as Sir John and Lady Whitney pleased. To tell the truth, -suspicion did seem strong against her. - -She went away at eventide. One of the men was charged to drive her to -her mother's, about five miles off. I and Anna, hastening home from -our walk--for we had lost the others, and the stars were coming out in -the wintry sky--saw them as we passed the beeches. Lettice's face was -swollen with crying. - -"We are so sorry this has happened, Lettice," Anna gently said, going up -to the gig. "I do hope it will be cleared up soon. Remember one thing--I -shall think well of you, until it is. _I_ do not suspect you." - -"I am turned out like a criminal, Miss Anna," sobbed the girl. "They -searched me to the skin; that Miss Cattledon standing on to see that the -housekeeper did it properly; and they have searched my boxes. The only -one to speak a kind word to me as I came away, was Miss Deveen herself. -It's a disgrace I shall never get over." - -"That's rubbish, Lettice, you know,"--for I thought I'd put in a good -word, too. "You will soon forget it, once the right fellow is pitched -upon. Good luck to you, Lettice." - -Anna shook hands with her, and the man drove on, Lettice sobbing aloud. -Not hearing Anna's footsteps, I looked round and saw she had sat down on -one of the benches, though it was white with frost. I went back. - -"Don't you go and catch cold, Anna." - -"Johnny, you cannot think how this is troubling _me_." - -"Why you--in particular?" - -"Well--for one thing I can't believe that she is guilty. I have always -liked Lettice." - -"So did we at Dyke Manor. But if she is not guilty, who is?" - -"I don't know, Johnny," she continued, her eyes taking a thoughtful, -far-off look. "What I cannot help thinking, is this--though I feel -half ashamed to say it. Several visitors were in the house last night; -suppose one should have found her way into the room, and taken them? -If so, how cruel this must be on Lettice Lane." - -"Sophie Chalk suggested the same thing to me to-day. But a visitor would -not do such a thing. Fancy a lady stealing jewels!" - -"The open box might prove a strong temptation. People do things in such -moments, Johnny, that they would fly from at other times." - -"Sophie said that too. You have been talking together." - -"I have not exchanged a word with Sophie Chalk on the subject. The ideas -might occur naturally to any of us." - -I did not think it at all likely to have been a visitor. How should a -visitor know there was an open jewel-box in Miss Deveen's room? The -chamber, too, was an inner one, and therefore not liable to be entered -accidentally. To get to it you had to go through Miss Cattledon's. - -"The room is not easy of access, you know, Anna." - -"Not very. But it might be reached." - -"I say, are you saying this for any purpose?" - -She turned round and looked at me rather sharply. - -"Yes. Because I do not believe it was Lettice Lane." - -"Was it Miss Cattledon herself, Anna? I have heard of such curious -things. Her eyes took a greedy look to-day when they rested on the -jewels." - -As if the suggestion frightened her--and I hardly know how I came to -whisper it--Anna started up, and ran across the lawn, never looking -back or stopping until she reached the house. - - - - -XIV. - -AT MISS DEVEEN'S. - - -The table was between us as we stood in the dining-room at Dyke Manor--I -and Mrs. Todhetley--and on it lay a three-cornered article of soft -geranium-coloured wool, which she called a "fichu." I had my great coat -on my arm ready for travelling, for I was going up to London on a visit -to Miss Deveen. - -It was Easter now. Soon after the trouble, caused by the loss of the -emerald studs at Whitney Hall in January, the party had dispersed. -Sophie Chalk returned to London; Tod and I came home; Miss Deveen was -going to Bath. The studs had not been traced--had never been heard of -since; and Lettice Lane, after a short stay in disgrace at her mother's -cottage, had suddenly disappeared. Of course there were not wanting -people to affirm that she had gone off to her favourite land of promise, -Australia, carrying the studs with her. - -The Whitneys were now in London. They did not go in for London seasons; -in fact, Lady Whitney hardly remembered to have had a season in London -at all, and she quite dreaded this one, saying she should feel like a -fish out of water. Sir John occupied a bedroom when he went up for -Parliament, and dined at his club. But Helen was nineteen, and they -thought she ought to be presented to the Queen. So Miss Deveen was -consulted about a furnished house, and she and Sir John took one for six -weeks from just before Easter. They left Whitney Hall at once to take -possession; and Bill Whitney and Tod, who got an invitation, joined them -the day before Good Friday. - -The next Tuesday I received a letter from Miss Deveen. We were very good -friends at Whitney, and she had been polite enough to say she should be -glad to see me in London. I never expected to go, for three-parts of -those invitations do not come to anything. She wrote now to ask me to go -up; it might be pleasant for me, she added, as Joseph Todhetley was -staying with the Whitneys. - -It is of no use going on until I have said a word about Tod. If ever a -fellow was hopelessly in love with a girl, he was with Sophie Chalk. I -don't mean hopeless as to the love, but as to getting out of it. On the -day that we were quitting Whitney Hall--it was on the 26th of January, -and the icicles were clustering on the trees--they had taken a long walk -together. What Tod said I don't know, but I think he let her know how -much he loved her, and asked her to wait until he should be of age and -could ask the question--would she be his wife? We went with her to the -station, and the way Tod wrapped her up in the railway-carriage was as -good as a show. (Pretty little Mrs. Hughes, who had been visiting old -Featherston, went up by the same train and in the same carriage.) They -corresponded a little, she and Tod. Nothing particular in her letters, -at any rate--nothing but what the world might see, or that she might -have written to Mrs. Todhetley, who had one from her on occasion--but I -know Tod just lived on those letters and her remembrance; he could not -hide it from me; and I saw without wishing to see or being able to help -myself. Why, he had gone up to London now in one sole hope--that of -meeting again with Miss Chalk! - -Mrs. Todhetley saw it too--had seen it from the time when Sophie Chalk -was at Dyke Manor--and it grieved and worried her. But not the Squire: -he no more supposed Tod was going to take up seriously with Sophie -Chalk, than with the pink-eyed lady exhibited the past year at Pershore -Fair. - -Well, that's all of explanation. This was Wednesday morning, and the -Squire was going to drive me to the station for the London train. Mrs. -Todhetley at the last moment was giving me charge of the fichu, which -she had made for Sophie Chalk's sister. - -"I did not send it by Joseph; I thought it as well not to do so," she -observed, as she began to pack it up in tissue paper. "Will you take it -down to Mrs. Smith yourself, Johnny, and deliver it?" - -"All right." - -"I--you know, Johnny, I have the greatest dislike to anything that is -mean or underhand," she went on, dropping her voice a little. "But I do -not think it would be wrong, under the circumstances, if I ask you to -take a little notice of what these Smiths are. I don't mean in the way -of being fashionable, Johnny; I suppose they are all that; but whether -they are nice, good people. Somehow I did not like Miss Chalk, with all -her fascinations, and it is of no use to pretend that I did." - -"She was too fascinating for ordinary folk, good mother." - -"Yes, that was it. She seemed to put the fascinations on. And, Johnny, -though we were to hear that she had a thousand a year to her fortune, I -should be miserable if I thought Joe would choose her for his wife." - -"She used to say she was poor." - -"But she seemed to have a whole list of lords and ladies for her -friends, so I conclude she and her connections must be people of note. -It is not that, Johnny--rich or poor--it is that I don't like her for -herself, and I do not think she is the one to make Joe happy. She never -spoke openly about her friends, you know, or about herself. At any rate, -you take down this little parcel to Mrs. Smith, with my kind regards, -and then you'll see them for yourself. And in judgment and observation -you are worth fifty of Joe, any day." - -"Not in either judgment or observation; only in instinct." - -"And that's for yourself," she added, slipping a sovereign into my -pocket. "I don't know how much Mr. Todhetley has given you. Mind you -spend your money in right things, Johnny. But I am not afraid; I could -trust you all over the world." - -Giles put in my portmanteau, and we drove off. The hedges were beginning -to bud; the fields looked green. From observations about the young -lambs, and a broken fence that he went into a passion over, the Squire -suddenly plunged into something else. - -"You take care of yourself, sir, in London! Boys get into all kinds of -pitfalls there, if they don't mind." - -"But I do not call myself a boy, sir, now." - -"Not call yourself a boy!" retorted the Squire, staring. "I'd like to -know what else you are. Tod's a boy, sir, and nothing else, though he -does count twenty years. I wonder what the world's coming to!" he added, -lashing up Bob and Blister. "In my days, youngsters did not think -themselves men before they had done growing." - -"What I meant was that I am old enough to take care of myself. Mrs. -Todhetley has just said she could trust me all over the world." - -"Just like her foolishness! Take care you don't get your pockets picked: -there's sure to be a thief at every corner. And don't you pick them -yourself, Master Johnny. I knew a young fellow once who went up to -London with ten pounds in his pocket. He was staying at the Castle and -Falcon Hotel, near the place where the mails used to start from--and a -fine sight it was to see them bowl out, one after another, with their -lamps lighted. Well, Johnny, this young fellow got back again in four -days by one of these very mails, every shilling spent, and his fare down -not paid. You'd not think that was steady old Jacobson; but it was." - -I laughed. The Squire looked more inclined to cry. - -"Cleaned out, he was; not a rap left! Money melts in London--that's a -fact--and it is very necessary to be cautious. _His_ went in seeing the -shows; so he told his father. Don't you go in for too many of them, -Johnny, or you may find yourself without funds to bring you home, and -railways don't give trust. You might go to the Tower, now; and St. -Paul's; and the British Museum; they are steady places. I wouldn't -advise a theatre, unless it's just once--some good, respectable play; -and mind you go straight home after it. Some young men slink off to -singing-shops now, they say, but I am sure such places can bring no -good." - -"Being with Miss Deveen, sir, I don't suppose I shall have the -opportunity of getting into much harm." - -"Well, it's right in me to caution you, Johnny. London is a dreadful -place, full of sharpers and bad people. It used to be in the old days, -and I don't suppose it has improved in these. You have no father, -Johnny, and I stand to you in the light of one, to give you these -warnings. Enjoy your visit rationally, my boy, and come home with a true -report and a good conscience. That's the charge my old father always -gave to me." - -Miss Deveen lived in a very nice house, north-westward, away from the -bustle of London. The road was wide, the houses were semi-detached, with -gardens around and plenty of trees in view. Somehow I had hoped Tod -would be at the Paddington terminus, and was disappointed, so I took a -cab and went on. Miss Deveen came into the hall to receive me, and said -she did not consider me too big to be kissed, considering she was over -sixty. Miss Cattledon, sitting in the drawing-room, gave me a finger to -shake, and did not seem to like my coming. Her waist and throat were -thinner and longer than ever; her stays creaked like parchment. - -If I'd never had a surprise in my life, I had one before I was in the -house an hour. Coming down from the bedroom to which they had shown me, -a maid-servant passed me on the first-floor landing. It was Lettice -Lane! I wondered--believe me or not, as you will--I wondered whether I -saw a ghost, and stood back against the pillar of the banisters. - -"Why, Lettice, is it you?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"But--what are you doing _here_?" - -"I am here in service, sir." - -She ran on upstairs. Lettice in Miss Deveen's house. It was worse than -a Chinese puzzle. - -"Is that you, Johnny? Step in here?" - -The voice--Miss Deveen's--came from a half-opened door, close at hand. -It was a small, pretty sitting-room, with light blue curtains and -chairs. Miss Deveen sat by the fire, ready for dinner. In her white body -shone amethyst studs, quite as beautiful as the lost emeralds. - -"We call this the blue-room, Johnny. It is my own exclusively, and no -one enters it except upon invitation. Sit down. Were you surprised to -see Lettice Lane?" - -"I don't think I was ever so much surprised in all my life. She says she -is living here." - -"Yes; I sent for her to help my housemaid." - -I was thoroughly mystified. Miss Deveen put down her book and -spectacles. - -"I have taken to glasses, Johnny." - -"But I thought you saw so well." - -"So I do, for anything but very small type--and that book seems to have -been printed for none but the youngest eyes. And I see people as well as -things," she added significantly. - -I felt sure of that. - -"Do you remember, Johnny, the day after the uproar at Whitney Hall, that -I asked you to pilot me to Lettice Lane's mother's, and to say nothing -about it?" - -"Yes, certainly. You walked the whole four miles of the way. It is five -by road." - -"And back again. I am good for more yet than some of the young folk are, -Johnny; but I always was an excellent walker. Next day the party broke -up; that pretty girl, Sophie Chalk, departed for London, and you and -young Todhetley left later. When you reached your home in the evening, -I don't suppose you thought I had been to Dyke Manor the same day." - -"No! Had you really, Miss Deveen?" - -"Really and truly. I'll tell you now the reason of those journeys -of mine. As Lettice Lane was being turned out of the Hall, she made -a remark in the moment of departure, accidentally I am sure, which -caused me to be almost certain she was not guilty of stealing the -studs. Before, whilst they were all condemning her as guilty, _I_ had -felt doubtful of it; but of course I could not be sure, and Miss -Cattledon reproaches me with thinking every one innocent under every -circumstance--which is a mistake of hers. Mind, Johnny, the few words -Lettice said might have been used designedly, by one crafty and guilty, -on purpose to throw me off suspicion: but I felt almost persuaded -that the girl had spoken them in unconscious innocence. I went to her -mother's to see them both; I am fond of looking into things with my own -eyes; and I came away with my good opinion strengthened. I went next to -Mrs. Todhetley's to hear what she said of the girl; I saw her and your -old nurse, Hannah, making my request to both not to speak of my visit. -They gave the girl a good character for honesty; Mrs. Todhetley thought -her quite incapable of taking the studs; Hannah could not say what a -foolish girl with roving ideas of Australia in her head might do in a -moment of temptation. In less than a fortnight I was back in London, -having paid my visit to Bath. I had been reflecting all that time, -Johnny, on the cruel blight this must be on Lettice Lane, supposing -that she was innocent. I thought the probabilities were that she _was_ -innocent, not guilty; and I determined to offer her a home in my own -house during the uncertainty. She seemed only too glad to accept it, and -here she is. If the girl should eventually turn out to be innocent, I -shall have done her a real service; if guilty, why I shall not regret -having held out a helping hand to her, that may perhaps save her for the -future." - -"It was very kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Deveen!" - -"My chief difficulty lay in keeping the suspicion lying on Lettice Lane -a secret from my household. Fortunately I had taken no servants with me -to Whitney Hall, my maid having been ill at the time; but Cattledon is -outrageously virtuous, and of course proportionally bitter against -Lettice. You saw that at Whitney." - -"She would have been the first to tell of her." - -"Yes. I had to put the thing rather strongly to Miss Cattledon--'Hold -your tongue or leave me.' It answered, Johnny. Cattledon likes her -place here, and acts accordingly. She picks up her petticoats from -contamination when she meets the unfortunate Lettice; but she takes -care to hold her tongue." - -"Do you think it will ever be found out, Miss Deveen?" - -"I hope it will." - -"But who--could have taken them?" And the thought of what I had said to -Anna Whitney, that it might be Miss Cattledon herself, flashed over me -as I put the question. - -"I think"--Miss Deveen glanced round as if to make sure we were alone, -and dropped her voice a little--"that it must have been one of the -guests who came to Whitney Hall that night. Cattledon let out one thing, -but not until after we were at home again, for the fact seemed not to -have made the least impression on her memory at the time; but it came -back afterwards. When she was quitting her room after dressing that -evening--I being already out of mine and downstairs--she saw the shawl -she had worn in the afternoon lying across a chair just as she had -thrown it off. She is very careful of her clothes; and hesitated, she -said, whether to go back then and fold it; but, knowing she was late, -did not do so. She had been downstairs about ten minutes, when I asked -her to fetch my fan, which I had forgotten. Upon going through her -room to mine, she saw the shawl lying on the floor, and picked it up, -wondering how it could have come there. At that time the maids had not -been in to put either her room or mine to rights. Now, what I infer, -Johnny, is that my jewel-case was visited and the studs were stolen -_before_ Lettice Lane and Mrs. Lease went near the rooms, and that the -thief, in her hurry to escape, brushed against the shawl and threw it -down." - -"And cannot Miss Cattledon see the probability of that?" - -"She will not see it. Lettice Lane is guilty with her and no one else. -Prejudice goes a long way in this world, Johnny. The people who came to -the dance that night were taking off their things in the next room to -Miss Cattledon's, and I think it likely that some one of them may have -found a way into my chamber, perhaps even by accident, and the sight of -the brilliant emerald studs--they were more beautiful than any they -were lying with--was too much for human equanimity. It was my fault for -leaving the dressing-case open--and do you know, Johnny, I believe I -left it literally _open_--I can never forget that." - -"But Lettice Lane said it was shut; shut but not locked." - -"Well, it is upon my conscience that I left it open. Whoever took -the studs may have shut down the lid, in caution or forgetfulness. -Meanwhile, Johnny, don't you say anything of what I have told you; at -the Whitneys' or elsewhere. They do not know that Lettice Lane is with -me; they are prejudiced against her, especially Sir John; and Lettice -has orders to keep out of the way of visitors. Should they by chance see -her, why, I shall say that as the case was at best doubtful, I am giving -the girl a chance to redeem her good name. We are going there after -dinner. So mind you keep counsel." - -"To the Whitneys'?" - -"It is only next door, as you may say. I did not mention that you were -coming up," she added, "so there will be a surprise for them. And now we -will go down. Here, carry my book for me, Johnny." - -In the drawing-room we found a grey-haired curate, with a mild voice; -Miss Cattledon was simpering and smiling upon him. I gathered that he -did duty in the church hard by, and had come to dinner by invitation. He -took in Miss Deveen, and that other blessed lady fell to me. It was a -very good dinner, uncommonly good to me after my journey. Miss Deveen -carved. And didn't she make me eat! She said she knew what boys' -appetites were. The curate took his leave, but Miss Deveen sat on; she -fancied to have heard that the Whitneys were to have friends to dinner -that night, and would not go in too early. - -About half-a-dozen houses lay between, and Miss Deveen put a shawl over -her head and walked the distance. "Such a mistake, to have taken a -place for them so near Hyde Park!" whispered Miss Cattledon as we were -following--and I'm sure she must have been in a gracious mood to give me -the confidence. "Neither Sir John nor Miss Deveen has much notion of -the requirements of fashionable society, Mr. Ludlow: as to poor Lady -Whitney, she is a very owl in all that relates to it." - -Poor Lady Whitney--not looking like an owl, but a plain, good-hearted -English mother--was the first to see us. There was no dinner-party -after all. She sat on a chair just inside the drawing-room, which was -precisely the same in build and size as Miss Deveen's, but had not her -handsome furniture and appointments. She said she was glad to see me, -and would have invited me with Joe, but for want of beds. - -They were all grouped at the other end of the room, playing at forfeits, -and a great deal too busy to notice me. I had leisure to look at them. -Helen was talking very fast: Harry shouting; Anna sat leaning her cheek -on her hand; Tod stood frowning and angry against the wall; the young -ones were jumping about like savages; and Bill Whitney was stuck on -a stool, his eyes bandaged, and the tips of a girl's white fingers -touching his hands. A fairy, rather than a girl, for that's what she -looked like, with her small, light figure and her gauze skirts floating: -Miss Sophie Chalk. - -But what on earth had come to her hair? It used to be brown; it was now -light, and gleaming with gold spangles. Perhaps it belonged to her fairy -nature. - -Suddenly Bill shouted out "Miss Chalk," threw off the bandage, and -caught her hands to kiss her! It was all in the forfeits: he had a right -to do it, because he guessed her name. She laughed and struggled, the -children and Helen were as wild Indians with glee, and Tod looked ready -to bring the roof down. Just as Bill gave the kiss, Anna saw me. - -Of course it created an interlude, and the forfeits were thrown up. Tod -came out of his passion, feeling a little frightened. - -"Johnny! Why, what in the world brings you here? Anything wrong with my -father?" - -"I am only come up on a visit to Miss Deveen, Tod." - -"Well, I'm sure!" cried Tod; as if he thought he ought to have all the -visiting, and I none of it. - -Sophie put her hand into mine. "I am so glad to see you again," she said -in her softest tone. "And dear Mrs. Todhetley, how is she? and the sweet -children?" - -But she never waited to hear how; for she turned away at some question -put by Bill Whitney. - -Sir John came in, and the four old ones sat down to their whist in the -small drawing-room opening from this. The children were sent to bed. -Sophie Chalk went to the piano to sing a song in hushed tones, Tod -putting himself on one side, Bill on the other. - -"Are _both_ of them going in for the lady's favour?" I asked of Anna, -pointing to the piano, as she made room for me on the sofa. - -"I think Miss Chalk would like it, Johnny." - -"How well Bill is looking!" - -"Oh, he has quite recovered; he seems all the stronger for his accident. -I suppose the rest and the nursing set him up." - -"Is Sophie Chalk staying here?" - -"No; there's hardly room for her. But she has been here every day and -all day since we came up. They send her home in a cab at night, and one -of the maids has to go with her. It is Helen's arrangement." - -"Do you like London, Anna?" - -"No. I wish I had stayed at home." - -"But why?" - -"Well--but I can't tell you every reason." - -"Tell me one?" - -Anna did not answer. She sat looking out straight before her, her eyes -full of trouble. - -"Perhaps it is all nothing, Johnny. I may be fanciful and foolish, and -so take up mistaken notions. Wrong ones, on more points than one." - -"Do you mean anything--_there_?" - -"Yes. It would be--_I_ think--a terrible misfortune for us, if William -were to engage himself to Sophie Chalk." - -"You mean Tod, Anna?" I said, impulsively. - -She blushed like a rose. "Down at Whitney I did think it was he; but -since we came here she seems to have changed; to be--to be----" - -"Going in for Bill. I put it plainly you see, Anna." - -"I cannot help fearing that it would be a very sad mistake for either -of them. Oh, Johnny, I am just tormented out of my peace, doubting -whether or not I ought to speak. Sometimes I say to myself, yes it -would be right, it is my duty. And then again I fancy that I am -altogether mistaken, and that there's nothing for me to say." - -"But what could you say, Anna?" - -Anna had been nervously winding her thin gold chain round her finger. -She unwound it again before answering. - -"Of course--what could I? And if I were to speak, and--and--find there -was no cause," she dreamily added, "I should never forgive myself. The -shame of it would rest upon me throughout life." - -"Well, I don't see that, Anna. Just because you fancied things were -serious when they were not so! Where would be the shame?" - -"You don't understand, Johnny. _I_ should feel it. And so I wish I had -stayed down at Whitney, out of the reach of torment. I wish another -thing with all my heart--that Helen would not have Sophie Chalk here." - -"I think you may take one consolation to yourself, Anna--that whatever -you might urge against her, it would most likely make not the smallest -difference one way or the other. With Tod I am sure it would not. If he -set his mind on marrying Sophie Chalk, other people's grumbling would -not turn him from it." - -"It might depend a little on what the grumblings were," returned Anna, -as if fighting for the last word. "But there; let it drop. I would -rather say no more." - -She took up a photograph book, and we began looking over it together. - -"Good gracious! Here's Miss Cattledon? Small waist and all!" - -Anna laughed. "She had it taken in Bath, and sent it to William. He had -only asked her for it in joke." - -"So those studs have never turned up, Anna?" - -"No. I wish they would. I should pray night and morning for it, if I -thought it would do no one an injury." - -"Johnny!" called out Sir John. - -"Yes, sir." - -"Come you, and take my hand for five minutes. I have just remembered a -note I ought to have written this afternoon." - -"I shall be sure to play badly," I said to Lady Whitney, who had fallen -to Sir John in cutting for partners. - -"Oh, my dear, what does it matter?" she kindly answered. "I don't mind -if you do. I do not play well myself." - - * * * * * - -The next morning Miss Cattledon went out to ten-o'clock daily service. -Miss Deveen said she had taken to the habit of doing so. I wondered -whether it was for the sake of religion, or for that grey-haired curate -who did the prayers. Sitting by ourselves, I told Miss Deveen of the -commission I had from Mrs. Todhetley; and somehow, without my intending -it, she gathered a little more. - -"Go by all means, and learn what you can, Johnny. Go at once. I don't -think you need, any of you, be afraid, though," she added, laughing. "I -have seen very much of boy-and-girl love; seen that it rarely comes to -anything. Young men mostly go through one or two such episodes before -settling seriously to the business of life." - -The omnibus took me to Oxford Street, and I found my way from thence -to Torriana Square. It proved to be a corner house, its front entrance -being in the square. But there was a smaller entrance on the side -(which was rather a bustling street), and a sort of office window, on -the wire blind of which was written, in white letters, "Mr. Smith, -wine-merchant." - -A wine-merchant! Well, I was surprised. Could there be any mistake? No, -it was the right number. But I thought there must be, and stood staring -at the place with both eyes. That _was_ a come-down. Not but that -wine-merchants are as good as other people; only Sophie Chalk had -somehow imparted the notion of their living up to lords and ladies. - -I asked at the front-door for Mrs. Smith, and was shown upstairs to a -handsome drawing-room. A little girl, with a sallow face, thin and -sickly, was seated there. She did not get up, only stared at me with her -dark, keen, deep-set eyes. - -"Do you know where your mamma is, Miss Trot?" asked the servant, putting -a chair. - -"You can go and search for her?" - -She looked at me so intently as the maid left the room, that I told her -who I was, and what I had come for. The child's tongue--it seemed as -sharp a one as Miss Cattledon's--was let loose. - -"I have heard of you, Johnny Ludlow. Mrs. Smith would be glad to see -you. You had better wait." - -I don't know how it is that I make myself at home with people; or, -rather, that people seem so soon to be at home with me. I don't _try_ to -do it, but it is always so. In two or three minutes, when the girl was -talking to me as freely as though I were her brother, the maid came back -again. - -"Miss Trot, I cannot find your mamma." - -"Mrs. Smith's out. But I was not obliged to tell you so. I'll not spare -you any work when you call me Miss Trot." - -The maid's only answer was to leave the room: and the little girl--who -spoke like a woman--shook her dark hair from her face in temper. - -"I've told them over and over again I will not be called Miss Trot. How -would you like it? Because my mamma took to say it when I was a baby, it -is no reason why other people should say it." - -"Perhaps your mamma says it still, and so they fall into it also." - -"My mamma is dead." - -Just at the moment I did not take in the meaning of the words. "Mrs. -Smith dead!" - -"Mrs. Smith is not my mother. Don't insult me, please. She came here as -my governess. If papa chose to make a fool of himself by marrying her -afterwards, it was not my fault. What are you looking at?" - -I was looking at her: she seemed so strange a child; and feeling -slightly puzzled between the other Mrs. Smith and this one. They say I -am a muff at many things; I am sure I am at understanding complicated -relationships. - -"Then--Miss Chalk is--_this_ Mrs. Smith's sister?" - -"Well, you might know that. They are a pair, and I don't like either of -them. There are two crying babies upstairs now." - -"Mrs. Smith's?" - -"Yes, Mrs. Smith's"--with intense aggravation. "Papa had quite enough -with me, and I could have managed the house and servants as well as -_she_ does. And because Nancy Chalk was not enough, in addition we must -be never safe from Sophonisba! Oh, there are crosses in life!" - -"Who is Sophonisba?" - -"She is Sophonisba." - -"Perhaps you mean Sophie Chalk?" - -"Her name's not Sophie, or Sophia either. She was christened Sophonisba, -but she hates the name, and takes care to drop it always. She is a deep -one, is Sophonisba Chalk!" - -"Is this her home?" - -"She makes it her home, when she's not out teaching. And papa never -seems to think it an encroachment. Sophonisba Chalk does not keep her -places, you know. She thought she had got into something fine last -autumn at Lord Augustus Difford's, but Lady Augustus gave her warning at -the first month's end." - -"Then Miss Chalk is a governess?" - -"What else do you suppose she is? She comes over people, and gets a -stock of invitations on hand, and goes to them between times. You should -hear the trouble there is about her dresses, that she may make a good -appearance. And how she does it I can't think: they don't tell me their -contrivances. Mrs. Smith must give her some--I am sure of it--which papa -has to pay for; and Sophonisba goes in trust for others." - -"She was always dressed well down with us." - -"Of course she was. Whitney Hall was her great-card place; but the time -for the visit was so long before it was fixed, she thought it had all -dropped through. It came just right: just when she was turned out of -Lady Augustus Difford's. Helen Whitney had promised it a long while -before." - -"I know; when they were schoolfellows at Miss Lakon's." - -"They were not schoolfellows. Sophonisba was treated as the rest, but -she was only improving pupil. She gave her services, learnt of some of -the masters, and paid nothing. How old do you think she is?" broke off -Miss Trot. - -"About twenty." - -"She was six-and-twenty last birthday; and they say she will look like a -child till she's six-and-thirty. I call it a shame for a young woman of -that age to be doing nothing for herself, but to be living on strangers: -and papa and I are nothing else to her." - -"How old are you?" I could not help asking. - -"Fifteen; nearly sixteen. People take me to be younger, because I am -short, and it vexes me. They would not think me young if they knew how I -feel. Oh, I can tell you it is a sharpening thing for your papa to marry -again, and to find yourself put down in your own home." - -"Has Miss Chalk any engagement now?" - -"She has not had an engagement all this year, and now it's April! I -don't believe she looks after one. She pretends to teach me--while she's -waiting, she says; but it's all a farce; I won't learn of her. I heard -her tell Mr. Everty I was a horrid child. Fancy that!" - -"Who is Mr. Everty?" - -"Papa's head-clerk. He is a gentleman, you know, and Sophonisba thinks -great things of him. Ah, I could tell something, if I liked! but she put -me on my honour. Oh, she's a sly one! Just now, she is all her time at -the Whitneys', red-hot for it. You are not going? Stay to luncheon." - -"I must go; Miss Deveen will be waiting for me. You can deliver the -parcel, please, with Mrs. Todhetley's message. I will call in to see -Mrs. Smith another day." - -"And to see me too?" came the quick retort. - -"Yes, of course." - -"Now, mind, you can't break your word. I shall say it is me you are -coming to call upon; they think I am nobody in this house. Ask for -_Miss_ Smith when you come. Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow!" - -She never stirred as I shook hands; she seemed never to have stirred -hand or foot throughout the interview. But, as I opened the door, there -came an odd sort of noise, and I turned to look what it was. - -She. Hastening to cross the room, with a crutch, to ring the bell! And I -saw that she was both lame and deformed. - -In passing down the side street by the office, some one brushed by, -with the quick step of a London business man. Where had I seen the -face before? Whose did it put me in mind of? Why--it came to me all in -a minute--Roger Monk's! He who had lived at Dyke Manor for a short -time as head-gardener under false auspices. But, as I have not said -anything about him before, I will not enter into the history now. -Before I could turn to look, Monk had disappeared; no doubt round the -corner of the square. - -"Tod," I said, as soon as I came across him, "Sophie Chalk's a -governess." - -"Well, what of that?" asked Tod. - -"Not much; but she might as well have been candid with us at Dyke -Manor." - -"A governess is a lady." - -"Ought to be. But why did she make out to us that she had been a -visitor at the Diffords', when she was only the teacher? We should -have respected her just as much; perhaps made more of her." - -"What are you cavilling at? As if a lady was never a teacher before!" - -"Oh, Tod! it is not that. Don't you see?--if she had kept a chandler's -shop, and been open about it, what should we have cared? It was the -sailing under false colours; trying to pass herself off for what she is -not." - -He gave no answer to this, except a whistle. - -"She is turned six-and-twenty, Tod. And she was not a school-girl at -Miss Lakon's, but governess-pupil." - -"I suppose she was a schoolgirl once?" - -"I suppose she was." - -"Good. What else have you to say, wise Johnny?" - -"Nothing." - -Nothing; for where was the use? Sophie Chalk would have been only -an angel in his eyes, though he heard that she had sold apples at a -street-corner. Sophie, that very morning, had begged Lady Whitney to let -her instruct the younger children, "as a friend," so long as they were -in town; for the governess at Whitney was a daily one, and they had not -brought her. Lady Whitney at first demurred, and then kissed Sophie for -her goodness. The result was, that a bed was found for Miss Chalk, and -she stayed with them altogether. - -But I can't say much for the teaching. It was not Sophie Chalk's fault, -perhaps. Helen would be in the schoolroom, and Harry would be there; and -I and Anna sometimes; and Tod and Bill always. Lady Whitney looked upon -this London sojourn as a holiday, and did not mind whether the children -learnt or played, provided they were kept passably quiet. I told Sophie -of my visit to take the fichu, and she made a wry face over the lame -girl. - -"That Mabel Smith! Poor morbid little object! What she would have grown -into but for the fortunate chance of my sister's marrying into the -house, I can't imagine, Johnny. I'll draw you her portrait in her -night-cap, by-and-by." - -The days went on. We did have fun: but war was growing up between -William Whitney and Tod. There could no longer be a mistake (to those -who understood things and kept their eyes open) of the part Sophie Chalk -was playing: and that was trying to throw Tod over for William Whitney, -and to make no fuss about it, I don't believe she cared a brass button -for either: but Bill's future position in life would be better than -Tod's, seeing that his father was a baronet. Bill was going in for her -favour; perhaps not seriously: it might have been for the fun of the -moment, or to amuse himself by spiting Tod. Sir John and my lady never -so much as dreamt of the by-playing going on before their faces, and I -don't think Helen did. - -"I told you she'd fascinate the eyes out of your head, Bill, give her -the chance," said I to him one day in the schoolroom, when Miss Chalk -was teaching her pupils to dance. - -"You shut up, Johnny," he said, laughing, and shied the atlas at me. - -Before the day was out, there was a sharp, short quarrel. They were -all coming for the evening to Miss Deveen's. I went in at dusk to tell -them not to make it nine at night. Turning into the drawing-room, I -interrupted a scene--Bill Whitney and Tod railing at one another. What -the bone of contention was I never knew, for they seemed to have reached -the end of it. - -"You did," said Tod. - -"I did not," said Bill. - -"I tell you, you _did_, William Whitney." - -"Let it go; it's word against word, and we shall never decide it. You -are mistaken, Todhetley; but I am not going to ask your leave as to what -I shall do, or what I shan't." - -"You have no right to say to Miss Chalk what I heard you saying to-day." - -"I tell you, you did not hear me say anything of the sort. Put it that -you did--what business is it of yours? If I chose to go in for her, to -ask her to be the future Lady Whitney--though it may be many a year, I -hope, before I step into my father's place, good old man!--who has the -right to say me nay?" - -Tod was foaming. Dusk though it was, I could see that. They took no more -account of my being present, than of Harry's little barking dog. - -"Look here, Bill Whitney. If----" - -"Are you boys quarrelling?" - -The interruption was Anna's. Passing through the hall, she had heard the -voices and looked in. As if glad of the excuse to get away, Bill Whitney -followed her from the room. Tod went out and banged the hall-door after -him. - -I waited, thinking Anna might come in, and strolled into the little -drawing-room. There, quiet as a mouse, stood Sophie Chalk. She had been -listening, for certain; and I hope it gratified her: her eyes sparkled -a little. - -"Why, Johnny! was it _you_ making all that noise? What was the matter? -Anything gone wrong?" - -It was all very fine to try it on with me. I just looked straight at -her, and I think she saw as much. Saying something about going to search -for Helen, she left the room. - -"What was the trouble, Johnny?" whispered Anna, stealing up to me. - -"Only those two having a jar." - -"I heard that. But what was it about? Sophie Chalk?" - -"Well, yes; that was it, Anna." - -We were at the front window then. A man was lighting the street-lamps, -and Anna seemed to be occupied in watching him. There was enough care on -her face to set one up in the dismals for life. - -"No harm may come of it, Anna. Any way, you can do nothing." - -"Oh, Johnny, I wish I knew!" she said, clasping her hands. "I wish -I could satisfy myself which way _right_ lies. If I were to speak, -it might be put down to a wrong motive. I try to see whether that -thought is not a selfish one, whether I ought to let it deter me. But -then--that's not the worst." - -"That sounds like a riddle, Anna." - -"I wish I had some good, judicious person who would hear all and judge -for me," she said, rather dreamily. "If you were older, Johnny, I think -I would tell you." - -"I am as old as you are, at any rate." - -"That's just it. We are neither of us old enough nor experienced enough -to trust to our own judgment." - -"There's your mother, Anna." - -"I know." - -"What you mean is, that Sir John and Lady Whitney ought to have their -eyes opened to what's going on, that they may put an end to Miss Chalk's -intimacy here, if they deem the danger warrants it?" - -"That's near enough, Johnny. And I don't see my way sufficiently clearly -to do it." - -"Put the case to Helen." - -"She would only laugh in my face. Hush! here comes some one." - -It was Sophie Chalk. She looked rather sharply at us both, and said she -could not find Helen anywhere. - -And the days were to go on in outward smoothness and private discomfort, -Miss Sophie exercising her fascinations on the whole of us. - - * * * * * - -But for having promised that lame child to call again in Torriana -Square, I should not have cared to go. It was afternoon this time. The -servant showed me upstairs, and said her mistress was for the moment -engaged. Mabel Smith sat in the same seat in her black frock; some books -lay on a small table drawn before her. - -"I thought you had forgotten to come." - -"Did you? I should be sure not to forget it." - -"I am so tired of my lessons," she said, irritably, sweeping the books -away with her long thin fingers. "I always am when _they_ teach me. Mrs. -Smith has kept me at them for two hours; she has gone down now to engage -a new servant." - -"I get frightfully tired of my lessons sometimes." - -"Ah, but not as I do; you can run about: and learning, you know, will -never be of use to me. I want you to tell me something. Is Sophonisba -Chalk going to stay at Lady Whitney's?" - -"I don't know. They will not be so very long in town." - -"But I mean is she to be governess there, and go into the country with -them?" - -"No, I think not." - -"She wants to. If she does, papa says he shall have some nice young lady -to sit with me and teach me. Oh, I do hope she will go with them, and -then the house would be rid of her. I say she will: it is too good a -chance for her to let slip. Mrs. Smith says she won't: she told Mr. -Everty so last night. He wouldn't believe her, and was very cross over -it." - -"Cross over it?" - -"He said Sophonisba ought not to have gone there at all without -consulting him, and that she had not been home once since, and only -written him one rubbishing note that had nothing in it; and he asked -Mrs. Smith whether she thought that was right." - -A light flashed over me. "Is Miss Chalk going to marry Mr. Everty?" - -"I suppose that's what it will come to," answered the curious child. -"She has promised to; but promises with her don't go for much when it -suits her to break them. Sophonisba put me on my honour not to tell; but -now that Mr. Everty has spoken to Mrs. Smith and papa, it is different. -I saw it a long while ago; before she went to the Diffords'. I have -nothing to do but to sit and watch and think, you see, Johnny Ludlow; -and I perceive things quicker than other people." - -"But--why do you fancy Miss Chalk may break her promise to Mr. Everty?" - -"If she meant to keep it, why should she be scheming to go away as the -Whitneys' governess? I know what it is: Sophonisba does not think Mr. -Everty good enough for her, but she would like to keep him waiting on, -for fear of not getting anybody better." - -Anything so shrewd as Mabel Smith's manner in saying this, was never -seen. I don't think she was naturally ill-natured, poor thing; but she -evidently thought she was being wronged amongst them, and it made her -spitefully resentful. - -"Mr. Everty had better let her go. It is not I that would marry a wife -who dyed her hair." - -"Is Miss Chalk's dyed? I thought it might be the gold dust." - -"Have you any eyes?" retorted Mabel. "When she was down in the country -with you her hair was brown; it's a kind of yellow now. Oh, she knows -how to set herself off, I can tell you. Do you happen to remember who -was reigning in England when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took place -in France?" - -The change of subject was sudden. I told her it was Queen Elizabeth. - -"Queen Elizabeth, was it? I'll write it down. Mrs. Smith says I shall -have no dessert to-day, if I don't tell her. She puts those questions -only to vex me. As if it mattered to anybody. Oh, here's papa!" - -A little man came in with a bald head and pleasant face. He said he was -glad to see me and shook hands. She put out her arms, and he came and -kissed her: her eyes followed him everywhere; her cheeks had a sudden -colour: it was easy to see that he was her one great joy in life. And -the bright colour made her poor thin face look almost charming. - -"I can't stay a minute, Trottie; going out in a hurry. I think I left my -gloves up here." - -"So you did, papa. There was a tiny hole in the thumb and I mended it -for you." - -"That's my little attentive daughter! Good-bye. Mr. Ludlow, if you will -stay to dinner we shall be happy." - -Mrs. Smith came in as he left the room. She was rather a plain likeness -of Miss Chalk, not much older. But her face had a straightforward, open -look, and I liked her. She made much of me and said how kind she had -thought it of Mrs. Todhetley to be at the trouble of making a fichu for -her, a stranger. She hoped--she did hope, she added rather anxiously, -that Sophie had not asked her to do it. And it struck me that Mrs. Smith -had not quite the implicit confidence in Miss Sophie's sayings and -doings that she might have had. - -It was five o'clock when I got away. At the door of the office in the -side street stood a gentleman--the same I had seen pass me the other -day. I looked at him, and he at me. - -"Is it Roger Monk?" - -A startled look came over his face. He evidently did not remember me. I -said who I was. - -"Dear me! How you have grown! Do walk in." And he spoke to me in the -tones an equal would speak, not as a servant. - -As he was leading the way into a sort of parlour, we passed a clerk at a -desk, and a man talking to him. - -"Here's Mr. Everty; he will tell you," said the clerk, indicating Monk. -"He is asking about those samples of pale brandy, sir: whether they are -to go." - -"Yes, of course; you ought to have taken them before this, Wilson," was -Roger Monk's answer. And so I saw that _he_ was Mr. Everty. - -"I have resumed my true name, Everty," he said to me in low tones. "The -former trouble, that sent me away a wanderer, is over. Many men, I -believe, are forced into such episodes in life." - -"You are with Mr. Smith?" - -"These two years past. I came to him as head-clerk; I now have a -commission on sales, and make a most excellent thing of it. I don't -think the business could get on without me now." - -"Is it true that you are to marry Miss Chalk?" I asked, speaking on a -sudden impulse. - -"Quite true; if she does not throw me over," he answered, and I wondered -at his candour. "I suppose you have heard of it indoors?" - -"Yes. I wish you all success."--And didn't I wish it in my inmost heart! - -"Thank you. I can give her a good home now. Perhaps you will not talk -about that old time if you can help it, Mr. Ludlow. You used to be -good-natured, I remember. It was a dark page in my then reckless life; I -am doing what I can to redeem it." - -I dare say he was; and I told him he need not fear. But I did not like -his eyes yet, for they had the same kind of shifty look that Roger -Monk's used to have. He might get on none the worse in business; for, as -the Squire says, it is a shifty world. - -Sophie Chalk engaged to Mr. Everty, and he Roger Monk! Well, it was a -complication. I went back to Miss Deveen's without, so to say, seeing -daylight. - - - - -XV. - -THE GAME FINISHED. - - -The clang of the distant church bell was ringing out for the daily -morning service, and Miss Cattledon was picking her way across the road -to attend to it, her thin white legs displayed, and a waterproof cloak -on. It had rained in the night, but the clouds were breaking, promising -a fine day. I stood at the window, watching the legs and the pools of -water; Miss Deveen sat at the table behind, answering a letter that had -come to her by the morning post. - -"Have you ever thought mine a peculiar name, Johnny?" she suddenly -asked. - -"No," I said, turning to answer her. "I think it a pretty one." - -"It was originally French: De Vigne: but like many other things has been -corrupted with time, and made into what it is. Is that ten o'clock -striking?" - -Yes: and the bell was ceasing. Miss Cattledon would be late. It was a -regular penalty to her, I knew, to go out so early, and quite a new -whim, begun in the middle of Lent. She talked a little in her vinegar -way of the world's wickedness in not spending some of its working -hours inside a church, listening to that delightful curate with the -mild voice, whose hair had turned prematurely grey. Miss Deveen, -knowing it was meant for her, laughed pleasantly, and said if the many -years' prayers from her chamber had not been heard as well as though -she had gone into a church to offer them up, she should be in a poor -condition now. I went with Miss Cattledon one Monday morning out of -politeness. There were nine-and-twenty in the pews, for I counted -them: eight-and-twenty being single ladies (to judge by the look), -some young, some as old as Cattledon. The grey-haired curate was -assisted by a young deacon, who had a black beard and a lisp and his -hair parted down the middle. It was very edifying, especially the -ten-minutes' gossip with the two clergymen coming out, when we all -congregated in the aisle by the door. - -"My great-grandfather was a grand old proprietor in France, Johnny; a -baron," continued Miss Deveen. "I don't think I have much of the French -nature left in me." - -"I suppose you speak French well, Miss Deveen?" - -"Not a word of it, Johnny. They pretended to teach it me when I was a -child, but I'm afraid I was unusually stupid. Why, who can this be?" - -She alluded to a ring at the visitors' bell. One of the servants came in -and said that the gentleman who had called once or twice before had come -again. - -Miss Deveen looked up, first at the servant, then at me. She seemed to -be considering. - -"I will see him in two or three minutes, George"--and the man shut the -door. - -"Johnny," she said, "I have taken you partly into my confidence in -this affair of the lost studs; I think I will tell you a little more. -After I sent for Lettice Lane here--and my impression, as I told you, -was very strongly in favour of her innocence--it occurred to me that I -ought to see if anything could be done to prove it; or at least to set -the matter at rest, one way or the other, instead of leaving it to -time and chance. The question was, how could I do it? I did not like -to apply to the police, lest more should be made of it than I wished. -One day a friend of mine, to whom I was relating the circumstances, -solved the difficulty. He said he would send to me some one with whom -he was well acquainted, a Mr. Bond, who had once been connected with -the detective police, and who had got his dismissal through an affair -he was thought to have mismanaged. It sounded rather formidable to my -ears, 'once connected with the detective police;' but I consented, and -Mr. Bond came. He has had the thing in hand since last February." - -"And what has he found out?" - -"Nothing, Johnny. Unless he has come to tell me now that he has--for it -is he who is waiting. I think it may be so, as he has called so early. -First of all, he was following up the matter down in Worcestershire, -because the notion he entertained was, that the studs must have been -taken by one of the Whitneys' servants. He stayed in the neighbourhood, -pursuing his inquiries as to their characters and habits, and visiting -all the pawnbrokers' shops that he thought were at available distances -from the Hall." - -"Did he think it was Lettice Lane?" - -"He _said_ he did not: but he took care (as I happen to know) to worm -out all he could of Lettice's antecedents while he was inquiring about -the rest. I had the girl in this room at his first visit, not alarming -her, simply saying that I was relating the history of the studs' -disappearance to this friend who had called, and desired her to describe -her share in it to make the story complete. Lettice suspected nothing; -she told the tale simply and naturally, without fear: and from that -very moment, Johnny, I have felt certain in my own mind the girl is as -innocent as I am. Mr. Bond '_thought_ she might be,' but he would not -go beyond that; for women, he said, were crafty, and knew how to make -one think black was white." - -"Miss Deveen, suppose, after all, it should turn out to have been -Lettice?" I asked. "Should you proceed against her?" - -"I shall not proceed against any one, Johnny; and I shall hush the -matter up if I can," she answered, ringing for Mr. Bond to be shown in. - -I was curious to see him also; ideas floating through my brain of -cocked-hats and blue uniform and Richard Mayne. Mr. Bond turned out to -be a very inoffensive-looking individual indeed; a little man, wearing -steel spectacles, in a black frock-coat and grey trousers. - -"When I last saw you, madam," he began, after he was seated, and Miss -Deveen had told him he might speak before me, "I mentioned that I -had abandoned my search in the country, and intended to prosecute my -inquiries in London." - -"You did, Mr. Bond." - -"That the theft lay amongst Sir John Whitney's female servants, I have -thought likely all along," continued Mr. Bond. "If the thief felt afraid -to dispose of the emeralds after taking them--and I could find no trace -of them in the country--the probability was that she would keep them -secreted about her, and get rid of them as soon as she came to London, -if she were one of the maids brought up by Lady Whitney. There were two -I thought in particular might have done it; one was the lady's maid; -the other, the upper-housemaid, who had been ill the night of their -disappearance. All kinds of ruses are played off in the pursuit of -plunder, as we have cause to learn every day; and it struck me the -housemaid might have feigned illness, the better to cover her actions -and throw suspicion off herself. I am bound to say I could not learn -anything against either of these two young women; but their business -took them about the rooms at Whitney Hall; and an open jewel-case is a -great temptation." - -"It is," assented Miss Deveen. "That carelessness lay at my door, and -therefore I determined never to prosecute in this case; never, in fact, -to bring the offender to open shame of any sort in regard to it." - -"And that has helped to increase the difficulty," remarked Mr. Bond. -"Could the women have been searched and their private places at Whitney -Hall turned out, we might or might not have found the emeralds; -but----" - -"I wouldn't have had it done for the Lord Chancellor, sir," interrupted -Miss Deveen, hotly. "_One_ was searched, and that was quite enough for -me, for I believe her to be innocent. If you can get at the right person -quietly, for my own satisfaction, well and good. My instructions went so -far, but no farther." - -Mr. Bond took off his spectacles for a minute, and put them on again. -"I understood this perfectly when I took the business in hand," he said -quietly. "Well, madam, to go on. Lady Whitney brought her servants to -London, and I came up also. Last night I gleaned a little light on the -matter." - -He paused, and put his hand into his pocket. I looked, and Miss Deveen -looked. - -"Should you know the studs again?" he asked her. - -"You may as well ask me if I should know my own face in the glass, Mr. -Bond. Of course I should." - -Mr. Bond opened a pill-box: three green studs lay in it on white cotton. -He held it out to Miss Deveen. - -"Are these they?" - -"No, certainly not," replied Miss Deveen, speaking like one in -disappointment. "_Those_ are not to be compared with mine, sir." - -Mr. Bond put the lid on the box, and returned it to his pocket. Out came -another box, long and thin. - -"These are my studs," quickly exclaimed Miss Deveen, before she had -given more than a glance. "You can look yourself for the private marks I -told you about, Mr. Bond." - -Three brilliant emeralds, that seemed to light up the room, connected -together by a fine chain of gold. At either end, the chain was finished -off by a small square plate of thin gold, on one of which was an -engraved crest, on the other Miss Deveen's initials. In shape the -emeralds looked like buttons more than studs. - -"I never knew they were linked together, Miss Deveen," I exclaimed in -surprise. - -"Did you not, Johnny?" - -Never. I had always pictured them as three loose studs. Mr. Bond, who no -doubt had the marks by heart before he brought them up, began shutting -them into the box as he had the others. - -"Anticipating from the first that the studs would most probably be found -at a pawnbroker's, if found at all, I ventured to speak to you then of -a difficulty that might attend the finding," said he to Miss Deveen. -"Unless a thing can be legally proved to have been stolen, a pawnbroker -cannot be forced to give it up. And I am under an engagement to return -these studs to the pawnbroker, whence I have brought them, in the course -of the morning." - -"You may do so," said Miss Deveen. "I dare say he and I can come to an -amicable arrangement in regard to giving them up later. My object has -been to discover who stole them, not to bring trouble or loss upon -pawnbrokers. How did you discover them, Mr. Bond?" - -"In a rather singular manner. Last evening, in making my way to Regent -Street to a place I had to go to on business, I saw a young woman turn -out of a pawnbroker's shop. The shutters were put up, but the doors were -open. Her face struck me as being familiar; and I remembered her as Lady -Whitney's housemaid--the one who had been ill in bed, or pretended to -be, the night the studs were lost. Ah, ah, I thought, some discovery may -be looming up here. I have some acquaintance with the proprietor of the -shop; a very respectable man, who has become rich by dint of hard, -honest work, and is a jeweller now as well as a pawnbroker. My own -business could wait, and I went in and found him busy with accounts in -his private room. He thought at first I had only called in to see him in -passing. I gave him no particulars; but said I fancied a person in whom -I was professionally interested, had just been leaving some emerald -studs in his shop." - -"What is the pawnbroker's name?" interrupted Miss Deveen. - -"James. He went to inquire, and came back, saying that his assistant -denied it. There was only one assistant in the shop: the other had left -for the night. This assistant said that no one had been in during the -last half-hour, excepting a young woman, a cousin of his wife's; who did -not come to pledge anything, but simply to say how-d'ye-do, and to ask -where they were living now, that she might call and see the wife. Mr. -James added that the man said she occupied a good situation in the -family of Sir John and Lady Whitney, and was not likely to require to -pledge anything. Plausible enough, this, you see, Miss Deveen; but the -coincidence was singular. I then told James that I had been in search -for these two months of some emerald studs lost out of Sir John -Whitney's house. He stared a little at this, paused a moment in thought, -and then asked whether they were of unusual value and very beautiful. -Just so, I said, and minutely described them. Mr. James, without another -word, went away and brought the studs in. Your studs, Miss Deveen." - -"And how did he come by them?" - -"He won't tell me much about it--except that they took in the goods some -weeks ago in the ordinary course of business. The fact is he is vexed: -for he has really been careful and has managed to avoid these unpleasant -episodes, to which all pawnbrokers are liable. It was with difficulty I -could get him to let me bring them up here: and that only on condition -that they should be in his hands again before the clock struck twelve." - -"You shall keep faith with him. But now, Mr. Bond, what is your opinion -of all this?" - -"My opinion is that that same young woman stole the studs: and that -she contrived to get them conveyed to London to this assistant, her -relative, who no doubt advanced money upon them. I cannot see my way to -any other conclusion under the circumstances," continued Mr. Bond, -firmly. "But for James's turning crusty, I might have learned more." - -"I will go to him myself," said Miss Deveen, with sudden resolution. -"When he finds that my intention is to hold his pocket harmless and make -no disturbance in any way, he will not be crusty with me. But this -matter must be cleared up if it be possible to clear it." - -Miss Deveen was not one to be slow of action, once a resolve was taken. -Mr. Bond made no attempt to oppose her: on the contrary, he seemed to -think it might be well that she should go. She sent George out for a -cab, in preference to taking her carriage, and said I might accompany -her. We were off long before Miss Cattledon's conference with the -curates within the church was over. - -The shop was in a rather obscure street, not far from Regent Street. I -inquired for Mr. James at the private door, and he came out to the cab. -Miss Deveen said she had called to speak to him on particular business, -and he took us upstairs to a handsomely furnished room. He was a -well-dressed, portly, good-looking man, with a pleasant face and easy -manners. Miss Deveen, bidding him sit down near her, explained the -affair in a few words, and asked him to help her to elucidate it. He -responded frankly at once, and said he would willingly give all the aid -in his power. - -"Singular to say, I took these studs in myself," he observed. "I never -do these things now, but my foreman had a holiday that day to attend -a funeral, and I was in the shop. They were pledged on the 27th of -January: since Mr. Bond left this morning I have referred to my books." - -The 27th of January. It was on the night of the 23rd that the studs -disappeared. Then the thief had not lost much time! I said so. - -"Stay a minute, Johnny," cried Miss Deveen: "you young ones sum up -things too quickly for me. Let me trace past events. The studs, as you -say, were lost on the 23rd; the loss was discovered on the 24th, and -Lettice Lane was discharged; on the 25th those of us staying at Whitney -Hall began to talk of leaving; and on the 26th you two went home after -seeing Miss Chalk off by rail to London." - -"And Mrs. Hughes also. They went up together." - -"Who is Mrs. Hughes?" asked Miss Deveen. - -"Don't you remember?--that young married lady who came to the dance with -the Featherstons. She lives somewhere in London." - -Miss Deveen considered a little. "I don't remember any Mrs. Hughes, -Johnny." - -"But, dear Miss Deveen, you must remember her," I persisted. "She was -very young-looking, as little as Sophie Chalk; Harry Whitney, dancing -with her, trod off the tail of her thin pink dress. I heard old -Featherston telling you about Mrs. Hughes, saying it was a sad history. -Her husband lost his money after they were married, and had been obliged -to take a small situation." - -Recollection flashed upon Miss Deveen. "Yes, I remember now. A pale, -lady-like little woman with a sad face. But let us go back to business. -You all left on the 26th; I and Miss Cattledon on the 27th. Now, while -the visitors were at the Hall, I don't think the upper-housemaid could -have had time to send off the studs by rail. Still less could she have -come up herself to pledge them." - -Miss Deveen's head was running on Mr. Bond's theory. - -"It was no housemaid that pledged the studs," spoke Mr. James. - -"I was about to say, Mr. James, that if you took them in yourself over -the counter, they could not have been sent up to your assistant." - -"All the people about me are trustworthy, I can assure you, ma'am," he -interrupted. "They would not lend themselves to such a thing. It was a -lady who pledged those studs." - -"A lady?" - -"Yes, ma'am, a lady. And to tell the truth, if I may venture to say it, -the description you have now given of a lady just tallies with her." - -"Mrs. Hughes?" - -"It seems so to me," continued Mr. James. "Little, pale, and lady-like: -that is just what she was." - -"Dear me!" cried Miss Deveen, letting her hands drop on her lap as if -they had lost their power. "You had better tell me as much as you can -recollect, please." - -"It was at dusk," said Mr. James. "Not quite dark, but the lamps were -lighted in the streets and the gas indoors: just the hour, ma'am, that -gentlefolk choose for bringing their things to us. I happened to be -standing near the door, when a lady came into the shop and asked to see -the principal. I said I was he, and retired behind the counter. She -brought out these emerald studs"--touching the box--"and said she wanted -to sell them, or pledge them for their utmost value. She told me a -tale, in apparent confidence, of a brother who had fallen into debt at -college, and she was trying to get together some money to help him, or -frightful trouble might come of it. If it was not genuine," broke off -Mr. James, "she was the best actor I ever saw in all my life." - -"Please go on." - -"I saw the emeralds were very rare and beautiful. She said they were an -heirloom from her mother, who had brought the stones from India and had -them linked together in England. I told her I could not buy them; she -rejoined that it might be better only to pledge them, for they would not -be entirely lost to her, and she might redeem them ere twelve months had -passed if I would keep them as long as that. I explained that the law -exacted it. The name she gave was Mary Drake, asking if I had ever heard -of the famous old forefather of theirs, Admiral Drake. The name answers -to the initials on the gold." - -"'M. D.' They were engraved for Margaret Deveen. Perhaps she claimed the -crest, also, Mr. James," added that lady, sarcastically. - -"She did, ma'am; in so far as that she said it was the crest of the -Drake family." - -"And you call her a lady?" - -"She had every appearance of one, in tone and language too. Her -hand--she took one of her gloves off when showing the studs--was a -lady's hand; small, delicate, and white as alabaster. Ma'am, rely upon -it, though she may not be a lady in deeds, she must be living the life -of one." - -"But now, who was it?" - -Yes, who was it? Miss Deveen, looking at us, seemed to wait for an -answer, but she did not get one. - -"How much did you lend upon the studs?" - -"Ten pounds. Of course that is nothing like their value." - -"Should you know her again? How was she dressed?" - -"She wore an ordinary Paisley shawl; it was cold weather; and had a -thick veil over her face, which she never lifted." - -"Should not that have excited your suspicion?" interrupted Miss Deveen. -"I don't like people who keep their veils down while they talk to you." - -The pawnbroker smiled. "Most ladies keep them down when they come here. -As to knowing her again, I am quite certain that I should; and her voice -too. Whoever she was, she went about it very systematically, and took me -in completely. Her asking for the principal may have thrown me somewhat -off my guard." - -We came away, leaving the studs with Mr. James: the time had not arrived -for Miss Deveen to redeem them. She seemed very thoughtful as we went -along in the cab. - -"Johnny," she said, breaking the silence, "we talk lightly enough about -the Finger of Providence; but I don't know what else it can be that -has led to this discovery so far. Out of the hundreds of pawnbroking -establishments scattered about the metropolis, it is wonderfully -strange that this should have been the one the studs were taken to; and -furthermore, that Bond should have been passing it last night at the -moment Lady Whitney's housemaid came forth. Had the studs been pledged -elsewhere, we might never have heard of them; neither, as it is, but -for the housemaid's being connected with Mr. James's assistant." - -Of course it was strange. - -"You were surprised to see the studs connected together, Johnny. That -was the point I mentioned in reference to Lettice Lane. '_One_ might -have fallen down,' she sobbed out to me, in leaving Whitney Hall; 'even -two; but it's beyond the bounds of probability that three should, -ma'am.' She was thinking of the studs as separated; and it convinced -me that she had never seen them. True, an artful woman might say so -purposely to deceive me, but I am sure that Lettice has not the art to -do it. But now, Johnny, we must consider what steps to take next. I -shall not rest until the matter is cleared." - -"Suppose it should never get on any further!" - -"Suppose you are like a young bear, all your experience to come?" -retorted Miss Deveen. "Why, Johnny Ludlow, do you think that when that -Finger I ventured to speak of is directing an onward course, It halts -midway? There cannot, I fear, be much doubt as to the thief; but we must -have proof." - -"You think it was----" - -"Mrs. Hughes. What else can I think? She is very nice, and I could not -have believed it of her. I suppose the sight of the jewels, combined -with her poverty, must have proved the temptation. I shall get back the -emeralds, but we must screen her." - -"Miss Deveen, I don't believe it was Mrs. Hughes." - -"Not believe it?" - -"No. Her face is not that of one who would do such a thing. You might -trust it anywhere." - -"Oh, Johnny! there you are at your faces again!" - -"Well, I was never deceived in any face yet. Not in one that I -_thoroughly_ trusted." - -"If Mrs. Hughes did not take the studs, and bring them to London, and -pledge them, who else could have brought them? They were taken to Mr. -James's on the 27th, remember." - -"That's the puzzle of it." - -"We must find out Mrs. Hughes, and then contrive to bring her within -sight of Mr. James." - -"The Whitneys know where she lives. Anna and Helen have been to call -upon her." - -"Then our way is pretty plain. Mind you don't breathe a syllable of this -to mortal ear, Johnny. It might defeat our aims. Miss Cattledon, always -inquisitive, will question where we have been this morning with her -curious eyes; but for once she will not be satisfied." - -"I should not keep her, Miss Deveen." - -"Yes you would, Johnny. She is faithful; she suits me very well; and her -mother and I were girls together." - - * * * * * - -It was a sight to be painted. Helen Whitney standing there in her -presentation dress. She looked wonderfully well. It was all white, -with a train behind longer than half-a-dozen peacocks' tails, lace and -feathers about her hair. The whole lot of us were round her; the young -ones had come from the nursery, the servants peeped in at the door; Miss -Cattledon had her eye-glass up; Harry danced about the room. - -"Helen, my dear, I admire all very much except your necklace and -bracelets," said Miss Deveen, critically. "They do not match: and do not -accord with the dress." - -The necklace was a row of turquoises, and did not look much: the -bracelets were gold, with blue stones in the clasps. The Whitney family -did not shine in jewels, and the few diamonds they possessed were on -Lady Whitney to-day. - -"But I had nothing else, Miss Deveen," said Helen, simply. "Mamma said -these must do." - -Miss Deveen took off the string of blue beads as if to examine them, and -left in its place the loveliest pearl necklace ever seen. There was a -scream of surprise; some of us had only met with such transformations in -fairy tales. - -"And these are the bracelets to match, my dear. Anna, I shall give you -the same when your turn for making your curtsey to your queen comes." - -Anna smiled faintly as she looked her thanks. She always seemed -regularly down in spirits now, not to be raised by pearl necklaces. For -the first time her sad countenance seemed to strike Tod. He crossed -over. - -"What is wrong, Anna?" he whispered. "Are you not well?" - -"Quite well, thank you," she answered, her cheeks flushing painfully. - -At this moment Sophie Chalk created a diversion. Unable to restrain -her feelings longer, she burst into tears, knelt down outside Helen's -dress, and began kissing her hand and the pearl bracelet in a transport -of joy. - -"Oh, Helen, my dear friend, how rejoiced I am? I said upstairs that your -ornaments were not worthy of you." - -Tod's eyes were glued on her. Bill Whitney called out Bravo. Sophie, -kneeling before Helen in her furbelows, made a charming tableau. - -"It is good acting, Tod," I said in his ear. - -He turned sharply. But instead of cuffing me into next week, he just -sent his eyes straight out to mine. - -"Do you call it acting?" - -"I am sure it is. But not for you." - -"You are bold, Mr. Johnny." - -But I could tell by the subdued tone and the subdued manner, that his -own doubts had been at last awakened whether or not it _was_ acting. - -Lady Whitney came sailing downstairs, a blaze of yellow satin; her face, -with flurry, like a peony. She could hardly say a word of thanks for the -pearls, for her wits had gone wool-gathering. When she was last at Court -herself, Bill was a baby in long-clothes. We went out with them to the -carriage; the lady's-maid taking at least five minutes to settle the -trains: and Bill said he hoped the eyes at the windows all round enjoyed -the show. The postillion--an unusual sight in London--and the two men -behind wore their state liveries, white and crimson; their bouquets -bigger than cabbages. - -"You will dance with me the first dance to-night?" Tod whispered to -Sophie Chalk, as they were going in after watching the carriage away. - -Sophie made a slight pause before she answered; and I saw her eyes -wander out in the distance towards Bill Whitney. - -"Oh, thank you," she said, with a great display of gratitude. "But I -think I am engaged." - -"Engaged for the first dance?" - -"Yes. I am so sorry." - -"The second, then?" - -"With the greatest pleasure." - -Anna heard it all as well as I. Tod gave Sophie's hand a squeeze to seal -the bargain, and went away whistling. - -Not being in the world of fashion, we did not know how other people -finished up Drawing-room days (and when Helen Whitney went to Court they -_were_ Drawing-rooms), but the Whitneys' programme was this: A cold -collation in lieu of dinner, when Fate should bring them home again, and -a ball in the evening. The ball was our joint invention. Sitting round -the schoolroom fire one night we settled it for ourselves: and after Sir -John and my lady had stood out well, they gave in. Not that it would be -much of a ball, for they had few acquaintances in London, and the house -was small. - -But now, had any aid been wanted by Miss Deveen to carry out her plans, -she could not have devised better than this. For the Whitneys invited -(all unconsciously) Mrs. Hughes to the ball. Anna came into Miss -Deveen's after they had been sending out the invitations (only three -days before the evening), and began telling her the names as a bit of -gossip. She came at last to Mrs. Hughes. - -"Mrs. Hughes," interrupted Miss Deveen, "I am glad of that, Anna, for I -want to see her." - -Miss Deveen's seeing her would not go for much in the matter of -elucidation; it was Mr. James who must see her; and the plan by which he -might do so was Miss Deveen's own. She went down and arranged it with -him, and before the night came, it was all cut and dried. He and she and -I knew of it; not another soul in the world. - -"You will have to help me in it a little, Johnny," she said. "Be at hand -to watch for Mr. James's arrival, and bring him up to me." - -We saw them come back from the Drawing-room between five and six, Helen -with a brilliant colour in her cheeks; and at eight o'clock we went in. -London parties, which begin when you ought to be in your first sleep, -are not understood by us country people, and eight was the hour named in -the Whitneys' invitations. Cattledon was screwed into a rich sea-green -satin (somebody else's once), with a water-lily in her thin hair; and -Miss Deveen wore all her diamonds. Sir John, out of his element and -frightfully disconsolate, stood against the wall, his spectacles lodged -on his old red nose. The thing was not in his line. Miss Deveen went up -to shake hands. - -"Sir John, I am rather expecting a gentleman to call on me on business -to-night," she said; "and have left word for him to step in and see me -here. Will you forgive the liberty?" - -"I'm sure it's no liberty; I shall be glad to welcome him," replied Sir -John, dismally. "There'll not be much here but stupid boys and girls. We -shall get no whist to-night. The plague only knows who invented balls." - -It was a little odd that, next to ourselves, Mrs. Hughes should be the -first to arrive. She was very pale and pretty, and her husband was a -slender, quiet, delicate man, looking like a finished gentleman. Miss -Deveen followed them with her eyes as they went up to Lady Whitney. - -"She does not look like it, does she, Johnny?" whispered Miss Deveen to -me. No, I was quite sure she did not. - -Sophie Chalk was in white, with ivy leaves in her spangled hair, the -sweetest fairy to look at ever seen out of a moonlight ring. Helen, in -her Court dress and pearls, looked plain beside her. They stood talking -together, not noticing that I and Tod were in the recess behind. Most of -the people had come then, and the music was tuning up. The rooms looked -well; the flowers, scattered about, had come up from Whitney Hall. Helen -called to her brother. - -"We may as well begin dancing, William." - -"Of course we may," he answered. "I don't know what we have waited for. -I must find a partner. Miss Chalk, may I have the honour of dancing the -first dance with you?" - -That Miss Chalk's eyes went up to his with a flash of gratitude, and -then down in modesty to the chalked floor, I knew as well as though they -had been behind her head instead of before it. - -"Oh, thank you," said she, "I shall be so happy." And I no more dared -glance at Tod than if he had been an uncaged crocodile. She had told -_him_ she was engaged for it. - -But just as William was about to give her his arm, and some one came and -took away Helen, Lady Whitney called him. He spoke with his mother for a -minute or two and came back with a cloud on his face. - -"I am awfully sorry, Sophie. The mother says I must take out Lady Esther -Starr this first time, old Starr's wife, you know, as my father's -dancing days are over. Lady Esther is seven-and-thirty if she's a day," -growled Bill, "and as big as a lighthouse. I'll have the second with -you, Sophie." - -"I am _afraid_ I am engaged for the second," hesitated Miss Sophie. "I -think I have promised Joseph Todhetley." - -"Never mind him," said Bill. "You'll dance it with me, mind." - -"I can tell him I mistook the dance," she softly suggested. - -"Tell him anything. All right." - -He wheeled round, and went up to Lady Esther, putting on his glove. -Sophie Chalk moved away, and I took courage to glance sideways at Tod. - -His face was white as death: I think with passion. He stood with his -arms folded, never moving throughout the whole quadrille, only looking -out straight before him with a fixed stare. A waltz came next, for which -they kept their partners. And Sophie Chalk had enjoyed the luck of -sitting down all the time. Whilst they were making ready for the second -quadrille, Tod went up to her. - -"This is our dance, Miss Chalk." - -Well, she had her share of boldness. She looked steadily in his face, -assuring him that he was mistaken, and vowing through thick and thin -that it was the _third_ dance she had promised him. Whilst she was -excusing herself, Bill came up to claim her. Tod put out his strong arm -to ward him off. - -"Stay a moment, Whitney," he said, with studied calmness, "let me -have an understanding first with Miss Chalk. She can dance with you -afterwards if she prefers to do so. Miss Chalk, _you know_ that you -promised yourself to me this morning for the second dance. I asked you -for the first: you were engaged for that, you said, and would dance the -second with me. There could be no mistake, on your side or on mine." - -"Oh, but _indeed_ I understood it to be the third, dear Mr. Todhetley," -said she. "I am dreadfully sorry if it is my fault. I will dance the -third with you." - -"I have not asked you for the third. Do as you please. If you throw me -over for this second dance, I will never ask you for another again as -long as I live." - -Bill Whitney stood by laughing; seeming to treat the whole as a good -joke. Sophie Chalk looked at him appealingly. - -"And you certainly promised _me_, Miss Chalk," he put in. "Todhetley, it -is a misunderstanding. You and I had better draw lots." - -Tod bit his lip nearly to bleeding. All the notice he took of Bill's -speech was to turn his back upon him, and address Sophie. - -"The decision lies with you alone, Miss Chalk. You have engaged yourself -to him and to me: choose between us." - -She put her hand within Bill's arm, and went away with him, leaving a -little honeyed flattery for Tod. But Bill Whitney looked back curiously -into Tod's white face, all his brightness gone; for the first time he -seemed to realize that it was serious, almost an affair of life or -death. His handkerchief up, wiping his damp brow, Tod did not notice -which way he was going, and ran against Anna. "I beg your pardon," he -said, with a start, as if waking out of a dream. "Will you go through -this dance with me, Anna?" - -Yes. He led her up to it; and they took their places opposite Bill and -Miss Chalk. - -Mr. James was to arrive at half-past nine. I was waiting for him near -the entrance door. He was punctual to time; and looked very well in -his evening dress. I took him up to Miss Deveen, and she made room -for him on the sofa by her side, her diamonds glistening. He must -have seen their value. Sir John had his rubber then in the little -breakfast-parlour: Miss Cattledon, old Starr, and another making it up -for him. Wanting to see the game played out, I kept by the sofa. - -This was not the dancing-room: but they came into it in couples between -the dances, to march round in the cooler air. Mr. James looked and Miss -Deveen looked; and I confess that whenever Mrs. Hughes passed us, I felt -queer. Miss Deveen suddenly arrested her and kept her talking for a -minute or two. Not a word bearing upon the subject said Mr. James. Once, -when the room was clear and the measured tread to one of Strauss's best -waltzes could be heard, Lady Whitney approached. Catching sight of the -stranger by Miss Deveen, she supposed he had been brought by some of the -guests, and came up to make his acquaintance. - -"A friend of mine, dear Lady Whitney," said Miss Deveen. - -Lady Whitney, never observing that no name was mentioned, shook hands at -once with Mr. James in her homely country fashion. He stood up until she -had moved away. - -"Well?" said Miss Deveen, when the dancers had come in again. "Is the -lady here?" - -"Yes." - -I had expected him to say No, and could have struck him for destroying -my faith in Mrs. Hughes. She was passing at the moment. - -"Do you see her now?" whispered Miss Deveen. - -"Not now. She was at the door a moment ago." - -"Not now!" exclaimed Miss Deveen, staring at Mrs. Hughes. "Is it not -_that_ lady?" - -Mr. James sent his eyes in half-a-dozen directions. - -"Which lady, ma'am?" - -"The one who has just passed in black silk, with the simple white net -quilling round the neck." - -"Oh dear, no!" said Mr. James. "I never saw that lady in my life before. -The lady, _the_ lady, is dressed in white." - -Miss Deveen looked at him, and I looked. _Here_, in the rooms, and yet -not Mrs. Hughes! - -"This is the one," he whispered, "coming in now." - -The one, turning in at that particular instant, was Sophie Chalk. But -others were before her and behind her. She was on Harry Whitney's arm. - -"Why don't you dance, Miss Deveen?" asked bold Harry, halting before the -sofa. - -"Will you dance with me, Master Harry?" - -"Of course I will. Glad to get you." - -"Don't tell fibs, young man. I might take you at your word, if I had my -dancing-shoes on." - -Harry laughed. Sophie Chalk's blue eyes happened to rest on Mr. James's -face: they took a puzzled expression, as if wondering where she had -seen it. Mr. James rose and bowed to her. She must have recognized him -then, for her features turned livid, in spite of the powder upon them. - -"Who is it, Johnny?" she whispered, in her confusion, loosing Harry's -arm and coming behind. - -"Well, you must ask that of Miss Deveen. He has come here to see her: -something's up, I fancy, about those emerald studs." - -Had it been to save my fortune, I could not have helped saying it. I saw -it all as in a mirror. _She_ it was who had taken them, and pledged them -afterwards. A similar light flashed on Miss Deveen. She followed her -with her severe face, her condemning eyes. - -"Take care, Johnny!" cried Miss Deveen. - -I was just in time to catch Sophie Chalk. She would have fallen on my -shoulder. The room was in a commotion at once: a young lady had fainted. -What from? asked every one. Oh, from the heat, of course. And no other -reason was breathed. - -Mr. James's mission was over. It had been successful. He made his bow to -Lady Whitney, and withdrew. - - * * * * * - -Miss Deveen sent for Sophie Chalk the next day, and they had it out -together, shut up alone. Sophie's coolness was good for any amount of -denial, but it failed here. And then she took the other course, and -fell on her knees at Miss Deveen's feet, and told a pitiable story of -being alone in the world, without money to dress herself, and the open -jewel-casket in Miss Deveen's chamber (into which accident, not design, -had really taken her) proving too much in the moment's temptation. Miss -Deveen believed it; she told her the affair should never transpire -beyond the two or three who already knew it; that she would redeem the -emeralds herself, and say nothing even to Lady Whitney; but, as a matter -of course, Miss Chalk must close her acquaintance with Sir John's -family. - -And, singular to say, Sophie received a letter from someone that same -evening, inviting her to go out of town. At least, she said she did. - -So, quitting the Whitneys suddenly was plausibly accounted for; and -Helen Whitney did not know the truth for many a day. - -What did Tod think? For that, I expect, is what you are all wanting to -ask. That was another curious thing--that he and Bill Whitney should -have come to an explanation before the ball was over. Bill went up to -him, saying that had he supposed Tod could mean anything serious in his -admiration of Sophie Chalk, he should never have gone in for admiring -her himself, even in pastime; and certainly would not continue to do so -or spoil sport again. - -"Thank you for telling me," answered Tod, with indifference. "You are -quite welcome to go in for Sophie Chalk in any way you please. _I_ have -done with her." - -"No," said Bill, "good girls must grow scarcer than they are before I -should go in seriously for Sophie Chalk. She's all very well to talk and -laugh with, and she is uncommonly fascinating." - -It was my turn to put in a word. "As I told you, Bill, months ago, -Sophie Chalk would fascinate the eyes out of your head, give her the -chance." - -Bill laughed. "Well she has had the chance, Johnny: but she has not done -it." - -Altogether, Sophie, thanks to her own bad play, had fallen to a -discount. - -When Miss Deveen announced to the world that she had found her emerald -studs (lost through an accident, she discovered, and recovered in the -same way) people were full of wonder at the chances and mistakes of -life. Lettice Lane was cleared triumphantly. Miss Deveen sent her home -for a week to shake hands with her friends and enemies, and then took -her back as her own maid. - -And the only person I said a syllable to was Anna. I knew it would be -safe: and I dare say you would have done the same in my place. But she -stopped me at the middle of the first sentence. - -"I have known it from the first, Johnny: I was nearly as sure of it as -I could be; and it is that that has made me so miserable." - -"Known it was Sophie Chalk?" - -"As good as known it. I had no proof, only suspicion. And I could not -see whether I ought to speak the suspicion even to mamma, or to keep it -to myself. As things have turned out, I am very thankful to have been -silent." - -"How was it, then?" - -"That night at Whitney Hall, after they had all come down from dressing, -mamma sent me up to William's room with a message. As I was leaving -it--it is at the end of the long corridor, you know--I saw some one peep -cautiously out of Miss Cattledon's chamber, and then steal up the back -stairs. It was Sophie Chalk. Later, when we were going to bed, and I was -quite undressed, Helen, who was in bed, espied Sophie's comb and brush -on the table--for she had dressed in our room because of the large -glass--and told me to run in with them: she only slept in the next room. -It was very cold. I knocked and entered so sharply that the door-bolt, a -thin, creaky old thing, gave way. Of course I begged her pardon; but she -seemed to start up in terrible fear, as if I had been a ghost. She had -not touched her hair, but sat in her shawl, sewing at her stays; and she -let them drop on the carpet and threw a petticoat over them. I thought -nothing, Johnny; nothing at all. But the next morning when commotion -arose and the studs were missing, I could not help recalling all this; -and I quite hated myself for thinking Sophie Chalk might have taken them -when she stole out of Miss Cattledon's room, and was sewing them later -into her stays." - -"You thought right, you see." - -"Johnny, I am very sorry for her. I wish we could help her to some good -situation. Depend upon it, this will be a lesson to her: she will never -so far forget herself again." - -"She is quite able to take care of herself, Anna. Don't let it trouble -you. I dare say she will marry Mr. Everty." - -"Who is Mr. Everty?" - -"Some one who is engaged in the wine business with Sophie Chalk's -brother-in-law, Mr. Smith." - - - - -XVI. - -GOING TO THE MOP. - - -"I never went to St. John's mop in my life," said Mrs. Todhetley. - -"That's no reason why you never should go," returned the Squire. - -"And never thought of engaging a servant at one." - -"There are as good servants to be picked up at a mop as out of it; and -you have a great deal better choice," said he. "My mother has hired many -a man and maid at the mop: first-rate servants too." - -"Well, then, perhaps we had better go into Worcester to-morrow and see," -concluded she, rather dubiously. - -"And start early," said the Squire. "What is it you are afraid of?" he -added, noting her doubtful tone. "That good servants don't go to the mop -to be hired?" - -"Not that," she answered. "I know it is the only chance farmhouse -servants have of being hired when they change their places. It was the -noise and crowd I was thinking of." - -"Oh, that's nothing," returned the Pater. "It is not half as bad as the -fair." - -Mrs. Todhetley stood at the parlour window of Dyke Manor, the autumn -sun, setting in a glow, tingeing her face and showing up its thoughtful -expression. The Squire was in his easy-chair, looking at one of the -Worcester newspapers. - -There had been a bother lately about the dairy-work. The old dairy-maid, -after four years of the service, had left to be married; two others had -been tried since, and neither suited. The last had marched herself off -that day, after a desperate quarrel with Molly; the house was nearly at -its wits' end in consequence, and perhaps the two cows were also. Mrs. -Todhetley, really not knowing what in the world to do, and fretting -herself into the face-ache over it, was interrupted by the Pater and -his newspaper. He had just read there the reminder that St. John's -annual Michaelmas Mop would take place on the morrow: and he told Mrs. -Todhetley that she could go there and hire a dairy-maid at will. Fifty -if she wanted them. At that time the mop was as much an institution -as the fair or the wake. Some people called it the Statute Fair. - -Molly, whose sweet temper you have had a glimpse or two of before, -banged about among her spoons and saucepans when she heard what was in -the wind. "Fine muck it 'ud be," she said, "coming out o' that there -Worcester mop." Having the dairy-work to do as well as her own just now, -the house scarcely held her. - -We breakfasted early the next morning and started betimes in the large -open carriage, the Squire driving his pair of fine horses, Bob and -Blister. Mrs. Todhetley sat with him, and I behind. Tod might have gone -if he would: but the long drive out and home had no charms for him, and -he said ironically he should like to see himself attending the mop. It -was a lovely morning, bright and sunny, with a suspicion of crispness in -the air: the trees were putting on their autumn colours, and shoals of -blackberries were in the hedges. - -Getting some refreshment again at Worcester, and leaving the Squire at -the hotel, I and Mrs. Todhetley walked to the mop. It was held in the -parish of St. John's--a suburb of Worcester on the other side of the -Severn, as all the country knows. Crossing the bridge and getting well -up the New Road, we plunged into the thick of the fun. - -The men were first, standing back in a line on the foot-path, fronting -the passers-by. Young rustics mostly in clean smock-frocks, waiting to -be looked at and questioned and hired, a broad grin on their faces with -the novelty of the situation. We passed them: and came to the girls and -women. You could tell they were nearly all rustic servants too, by their -high colours and awkward looks and manners. As a rule, each held a thick -cotton umbrella, tied round the middle after the fashion of Mrs. Gamp's, -and a pair of pattens whose bright rings showed they had not been in -use that day. To judge by the look of the present weather, we were not -likely to have rain for a month: but these simple people liked to guard -against contingencies. Crowds of folk were passing along like ourselves, -some come to hire, some only to take up the space and stare. - -Mrs. Todhetley elbowed her way amongst them. So did I. She spoke to one -or two, but nothing came of it. Whom should we come upon, to my intense -surprise, but our dairy-maid--the one who had taken herself off the -previous day! - -"I hope you will get a better place than you had with me, Susan," said -the Mater, rather sarcastically. - -"I hopes as how I shall, missis," was the insolent retort. "'Twon't be -hard to do, any way, that won't, with that there overbearing Molly in -yourn." - -We went on. A great hulking farmer as big as a giant, and looking as -though he had taken more than was good for him in the morning, came -lumbering along, pushing every one right and left. He threw his bold -eyes on one of the girls. - -"What place be for you, my lass?" - -"None o' yourn, master," was the prompt reply. - -The voice was good-natured and pleasant, and I looked at the girl as the -man went shouldering on. She wore a clean light cotton gown, a smart -shawl all the colours of the rainbow, and a straw bonnet covered with -sky-blue bows. Her face was fairer than most of the faces around; her -eyes were the colour of her ribbons; and her mouth, rather wide and -always smiling, had about the nicest set of teeth I ever saw. To take -likes and dislikes at first sight without rhyme or reason, is what I am -hopelessly given to, and there's no help for it. People laugh mockingly: -as you have heard me say. "There goes Johnny with his fancies again!" -they cry: but I know that it has served me well through life. I took a -liking to this girl's face: it was an honest face, as full of smiles as -the bonnet was of bows. Mrs. Todhetley noticed her too, and halted. The -girl dropped a curtsey. - -"What place are you seeking?" she asked. - -"Dairy-maid's, please, ma'am." - -The good Mater stood, doubtful whether to pursue inquiries or to pass -onwards. She liked the face of the girl, but did not like the profusion -of blue ribbons. - -"I understand my work well, ma'am, please; and I'm not afraid of any -much of it, in reason." - -This turned the scale. Mrs. Todhetley stood her ground and plunged into -questioning. - -"Where have you been living?" - -"At Mr. Thorpe's farm, please, near Severn Stoke." - -"For how long?" - -"Twelve months, please. I went there Old Michaelmas Day, last year." - -"Why are you leaving?" - -"Please, ma'am"--a pause here--"please, I wanted a change, and the work -was a great sight of it; frightful heavy; and missis often cross. Quite -a herd o' milkers, there was, there." - -"What is your name?" - -"Grizzel Clay. I be strong and healthy, please, ma'am; and I was -twenty-two in the summer." - -"Can you have a character from Mrs. Thorpe?" - -"Yes, please, ma'am, and a good one. She can't say nothing against me." - -And so the queries went on; one would have thought the Mater was hiring -a whole regiment of soldiers. Grizzel was ready and willing to enter on -her place at once, if hired. Mrs. Thorpe was in Worcester that day, and -might be seen at the Hare and Hounds inn. - -"What do you think, Johnny?" whispered the Mater. - -"I should hire her. She's just the girl I wouldn't mind taking without -any character." - -"With those blue bows! Don't be simple, Johnny. Still I like the girl, -and may as well see Mrs. Thorpe." - -"By the way, though," she added, turning to Grizzel, "what wages do you -ask?" - -"Eight pounds, please, ma'am," replied Grizzel, after some hesitation, -and with reddening cheeks. - -"Eight pounds!" exclaimed Mrs. Todhetley. "That's very high." - -"But you'll find me a good servant, ma'am." - -We went back through the town to the Hare and Hounds, an inn near the -cathedral. Mrs. Thorpe, a substantial dame in a long cloth skirt and -black hat, by which we saw she had come in on horse-back, was at dinner. - -She gave Grizzel Clay a good character. Saying the girl was honest, -clean, hardworking, and very sweet-tempered; and, in truth, she was -rather sorry to part with her. Mrs. Todhetley asked about the blue bows. -Ay, Mrs. Thorpe said, that was Grizzel Clay's great fault--a love of -finery: and she recommended Mrs. Todhetley to "keep her under" in that -respect. In going out we found Grizzel waiting under the archway, having -come down to learn her fate. Mrs. Todhetley said she should engage her, -and bade her follow us to the hotel. - -"It's an excellent character, Johnny," she said, as we went along the -street. "I like everything about the girl, except the blue ribbons." - -"I don't see any harm in blue ribbons. A girl looks nicer in ribbons -than without them." - -"That's just it," said the Mater. "And this girl is good-looking enough -to do without them. Johnny, if Mr. Todhetley has no objection, I think -we had better take her back in the carriage. You won't mind her sitting -by you?" - -"Not I. And I'm sure I shall not mind the ribbons." - -So it was arranged. The girl was engaged, to go back with us in the -afternoon. Her box would be sent on by the carrier. She presented -herself at the Star at the time of starting with a small bundle: and a -little birdcage, something like a mouse-trap, that had a bird in it. - -"Could I be let take it, ma'am?" she asked of Mrs. Todhetley. "It's -only a poor linnet that I found hurt on the ground the last morning I -went out to help milk Thorpe's cows. I'm a-trying, please, to nurse it -back to health." - -"Take it, and welcome," cried the Squire. "The bird had better die, -though, than be kept to live in that cage." - -"I was thinking to let it fly, please, sir, when it's strong again." - -Grizzel had proper notions. She screwed herself into the corner of the -seat, so as not to touch me. I heard all about her as we went along. - -She had gone to live at her Uncle Clay's in Gloucestershire when her -mother died, working for them as a servant. The uncle was "well-to-do," -rented twenty acres of land, and had two cows and some sheep and pigs -of his own. The aunt had a nephew, and this young man wanted to court -her, Grizzel: but she'd have nothing to say to him. It made matters -uncomfortable, and last year they turned her out: so she went and hired -herself at Mrs. Thorpe's. - -"Well, I should have thought you had better be married and have a home -of your own than go out as dairy-maid, Grizzel." - -"That depends upon who the husband is, sir," she said, laughing -slightly. "I'd rather be a dairy-maid to the end o' my days--I'd rather -be a prisoner in a cage like this poor bird--than have anything to say -to that there nephew of aunt's. He had red hair, and I can't abide it." - - * * * * * - -Grizzel proved to be a good servant, and became a great favourite in the -house, except with Molly. Molly, never taking to her kindly, was for -quarrelling ten times a day, but the girl only laughed back again. -She was superior to the general run of dairy-maids, both in looks and -manners: and her good-humoured face brought sweethearts up in plenty. - -Two of them were serious. The one was George Roper, bailiff's man on a -neighbouring farm; the other was Sandy Lett, a wheelwright in business -for himself at Church Dykely. Of course matters ran in this case, as -they generally do run in such cases, all cross and contrary: or, as the -French say, _a tort et a travers_. George Roper, a good-looking young -fellow with curly hair and a handsome pair of black whiskers, had not a -coin beyond the weekly wages he worked for: he had not so much as a -chair to sit in, or a turn-up bedstead to lie on; yet Grizzel loved him -with her whole heart. Sandy Lett, who was not bad-looking either, and -had a good home and a good business, she did not care for. Of course the -difficulty lay in deciding which of the two to choose: ambition and her -friends recommended Sandy Lett; imprudence and her own heart, George -Roper. Like the donkey between the two bundles of hay, Grizzel was -unable to decide on either, and kept both the swains on the tenter-hooks -of suspense. - -Sunday afternoons were the great trouble of Grizzel's life. Roper had -holiday then, and came: and Lett, whose time was his own, though of -course he could not afford to waste it on a week-day, also came. One -would stand at the stile in one field, the other at a stile in another -field: and Grizzel, arrayed in one of the light print gowns she -favoured, the many-coloured shawl, and the dangerous blue-ribboned -bonnet, did not dare to go out to either, lest the other should pounce -upon his rival, and a fight ensue. It was getting quite exciting in the -household to watch the progress of events. Spring passed, the summer -came round; and between the two, Grizzel had her hands full. The other -servants could not imagine what the men saw in her. - -"It is those blue ribbons she's so fond of!" said Mrs. Todhetley to us -two, with a sigh. "I doubted them from the first." - -"I should say it is the blue eyes," dissented Tod. - -"And I the white teeth and laughing face. _Nobody_ can help liking her." - -"You shut up, Johnny. If I were Roper----" - -"Shut up yourself, Joseph: both of you shut up: you know nothing about -it," interrupted the Squire, who had seemed to be asleep in his chair. -"It comes of woman's coquetry and man's folly. As to these two fellows, -if Grizzel can't make up her mind, I'll warn them both to keep off my -grounds at their peril." - -One evening during the Midsummer holidays, in turning out of the -oak-walk to cross the fold-yard, I came upon Grizzel leaning on the -gate. She had a bunch of sweet peas in her hand, and tears in her eyes. -George Roper, who must have been talking to her, passed me quickly, -touching his hat. - -"Good evening, sir." - -"Good evening, Roper." - -He walked away with his firm, quick stride: a well-made, handsome, -trustworthy fellow. His brown velveteen coat (an old one of his -master's) was shabby, but he looked well in it; and his gaitered legs -were straight and strong. That he had been the donor of the sweet peas, -a rustic lover's favourite offering, was evident. Grizzel attempted to -hide them in her gown when she saw me, but was not quick enough, so she -was fain to hold them openly in her hand, and make believe to be busy -with her milk-pail. - -"It's a drop of skim milk I've got over; I was going to take it to the -pigs," said she. - -"What are you crying about?" - -"Me crying!" returned Grizzel. "It's the sun a shinin' in my eyes, -sir." - -Was it! "Look here, Grizzel, why don't you put an end to this state of -bother? You won't be able to milk the cows next." - -"'Tain't any in'ard bother o' that sort as 'll keep me from doing my -proper work," returned she, with a flick to the handle of the pail. - -"At any rate, you can't marry two men: you would be taken up by old -Jones the constable, you know, and tried for bigamy. And I'm sure you -must keep _them_ in ferment. George Roper's gone off with a queer look -on his face. Take him, or dismiss him." - -"I'd take him to-morrow, but for one thing," avowed the girl in a half -whisper. - -"His short wages, I suppose--sixteen shillings a week." - -"Sixteen shillings a week short wages!" echoed Grizzel. "I call 'em good -wages, sir. I'd never be afraid of getting along on them with a steady -man--and Roper's that. It ain't the wages, Master Johnny. It is, that I -promised mother never to begin life upon less than a cottage and some -things in it." - -"How do you mean?" - -"Poor mother was a-dying, sir. Her illness lasted her many a week, and -she might be said to be a-dying all the time. I was eighteen then. -'Grizzy,' says she to me one night, 'you be a likely girl and 'll get -chose afore you be many summers older. But you must promise me that -you'll not, on no temptation whatsoever, say yes to a man till he has -a home of his own to take you to, and beds and tables and things -comfortable about him. Once begin without 'em, and you and him 'll -spend all your after life looking out for 'em; but they'll not come -any the more for that. And you'll be at sixes-and-sevens always: and -him, why perhaps he'll take to the beer-shop--for many a man does, -through having, so to say, no home. I've seen the ill of it in my -days,' she says, 'and if I thought you'd tumble into it I'd hardly -rest quiet in the grave where you be so soon a-going to place me.' 'Be -at ease, mother,' says I to her in answer, 'and take my promise, which -I'll never break, not to set-up for marriage without a home o' my own -and proper things in it.' That promise I can't break, Master Johnny; -and there has laid the root of the trouble all along." - -I saw then. Roper had nothing but a lodging, not a stick or stone that -he could call his own. And the foolish man, instead of saving up out of -his wages, spent the remnant in buying pretty things for Grizzel. It was -a hopeless case. - -"You should never have had anything to say to Roper, knowing this, -Grizzel." - -Grizzel twirled the sweet peas round and round in her fingers, and -looked foolish, answering nothing. - -"Lett has a good home to give you and means to keep it going. He must -make a couple of pounds a week. Perhaps more." - -"But then I don't care for him, Master Johnny." - -"Give him up then. Send him about his business." - -She might have been counting the blossoms on the sweet-pea stalks. -Presently she spoke, without looking up. - -"You see, Master Johnny, one does not like to--to lose all one's -chances, and grow into an old maid. And, if I _can't_ have Roper, -perhaps--in time--I might bring myself to take Lett. It's a better -opportunity than a poor dairy-maid like me could ever ha' looked for." - -The cat was out of the bag. Grizzel was keeping Lett on for a remote -contingency. When she could make up her mind to say No to Roper, she -meant to say Yes to him. - -"It is awful treachery to Roper; keeping him on only to drop him at -last," ran my thoughts. "Were I he, I should give her a good shaking, -and leave----" - -A sudden movement on Grizzel's part startled me. Catching up her pail, -she darted across the yard by the pond as fast as her pattens would -go, poured the milk into the pig-trough with a dash, and disappeared -indoors. Looking round for any possible cause for this, I caught sight -of a man in light fustian clothes hovering about in the field by the -hay-ricks. It was Sandy Lett; he had walked over on the chance of -getting to see her. But she did not come out again. - -The next move in the drama was made by Lett. The following Monday he -presented himself before the Squire--dressed in his Sunday-going things, -and a new hat on--to ask him to be so good as to settle the matter, for -it was "getting a'most beyond him." - -"Why, how can I settle it?" demanded the Squire. "What have I to do with -it?" - -"It's a tormenting of me pretty nigh into fiddle-strings," pleaded Lett. -"What with her caprices--for sometimes her speaks to me as pleasant as a -angel, while at others her won't speak nohow; and what with that dratted -folk over yonder a-teasing of me"--jerking his head in the direction of -Church Dykely--"I don't get no peace of my life. It be a shame, Squire, -for any woman to treat a man as she's a-treating me." - -"I can't make her have you if she won't have you," exploded the Squire, -not liking the appeal. "It is said, you know, that she would rather have -Roper." - -Sandy Lett, who had a great idea of his own merits, turned his nose up -in the air. "Beg pardon, Squire," he said, "but that won't wash, that -won't. Grizzel couldn't have nothing serious to say to that there Roper; -nought but a day-labourer on a farm; _she couldn't_: and if he don't -keep his distance from her, I'll wring his ugly head round for him. Look -at me beside him!--my good home wi' its m'hogany furniture in't. I can -keep her a'most like a lady. She may have in a wench once a week for the -washing and scrubbing, if she likes: I'd not deny her nothing in reason. -And for that there Roper to think to put hisself atween us! No; 'twon't -do: the moon's not made o' green cheese. Grizzel's a bit light-hearted, -sir; fond o' chatter; and Roper he've played upon that. But if you'd -speak a word for me, Squire, so as I may have the banns put up----" - -"What the deuce, Lett, do you suppose I have to do with my -women-servants and their banns?" testily interrupted the Squire. "I -can't interfere to make her marry you. But I'll tell you thus much, -and her too: if there is to be this perpetual uproar about Grizzel, -she shall quit my house before the twelvemonth she engaged herself for -is up. And that's a disgrace for any young woman." - -So Sandy Lett got nothing by coming, poor unfortunate man. And yet--in -a sense he did. The Squire ordered the girl before him, and told her in -a sharp, decisive tone that she must either put an end to the state of -things--or leave his service. And Grizzel, finding that the limit of -toleration had come, but unable in her conflicting difficulties to -decide which of the swains to retain and which discard, dismissed the -two. After that, she was plunged over head and ears in distress, and for -a week could hardly see to skim off the cream for her tears. - -"This comes of hiring dairy wenches at a statty fair!" cried wrathful -Molly. - - * * * * * - -The summer went on. August was waning. One morning when Mr. Duffham had -called in and was helping Mrs. Todhetley to give Lena a spoonful of jam -(with a powder in it), at which Lena kicked and screamed, Grizzel ran -into the room in excitement so great, that they thought she was going -into a fit. - -"Why, what is it?" questioned Mrs. Todhetley, with a temporary truce to -the jam hostilities. "Has either of the cows kicked you down, Grizzel?" - -"I'm--I'm come into a fortin!" shrieked Grizzel hysterically, laughing -and crying in the same breath. - -Mr. Duffham put her into a chair, angrily ordering her to be calm--for -anger is the best remedy in the world to apply to hysterics--and took a -letter from her that she held out. It told her that her Uncle Clay was -dead, and had left her a bequest of forty pounds. The forty pounds to -be paid to her in gold whenever she should go and apply for it. This -letter had come by the morning post: but Grizzel, busy in her dairy, had -only just now opened it. - -"For the poor old uncle to have died in June, and them never to ha' let -me hear on't!" she said, sobbing. "Just like 'em! And me never to have -put on a bit o' mourning for him!" - -She rose from the chair, drying her eyes with her apron, and held out -her hand for the letter. As Mrs. Todhetley began to say she was very -glad to hear of her good luck, a shy look and a half-smile came into the -girl's face. - -"I can get the home now, ma'am, with all this fortin," she whispered. - -Molly banged her pans about worse than ever, partly in envy at the good -luck of the girl, partly because she had to do the dairy work during -Grizzel's absence in Gloucestershire: a day and a half, which was given -her by Mrs. Todhetley. - -"There won't be no standing anigh her and her finery now," cried rampant -Molly to the servants. "She'll tack her blue ribbons on to her tail as -well as her head. Lucky if the dairy some fine day ain't found turned -all sour!" - -Grizzel came back in time; bringing her forty pounds in gold wrapped-up -in the foot of a folded stocking. The girl had as much sense as one here -and there, and a day or two after her arrival she asked leave to speak -to her mistress. It was to say that she should like to leave at the end -of her year, Michaelmas, if her mistress would please look out for some -one to replace her. - -"And what are you going to do, Grizzel, when you do leave? What are your -plans?" - -Grizzel turned the colour of a whole cornfield of poppies, and confessed -that she was going to be married to George Roper. - -"Oh," said Mrs. Todhetley. But she had nothing to urge against it. - -"And please, ma'am," cried Grizzel, the poppies deepening and glowing, -"we'd like to make bold to ask if the master would let to us that bit of -a cottage that the Claytons have went out of." - -The Mater was quite taken aback. It seemed indeed that Grizzel had been -laying her plans to some purpose. - -"It have a nice piece o' ground to grow pertaters and garden stuff, and -it have a pigsty," said Grizzel. "Please, ma'am, we shall get along -famous, if we can have that." - -"Do you mean to set up a pig, Grizzel?" - -Grizzel's face was all one smile. Of course they did. With such a -fortune as she had come into, she intended herself and her husband to -have everything good about them, including a pig. - -"I'll give Grizzel away," wrote Tod when he heard the news of the legacy -and the projected marriage. "It will be fun! And if you people at home -don't present her with her wedding-gown it will be a stingy shame. Let -it have a good share of blue bows." - -"No, though, will he!" exclaimed Grizzel with sparkling eyes, when told -of the honour designed her by Tod. "Give me away! Him! I've always said -there's not such another gentleman in these parts as Mr. Joseph." - -The banns were put up, and matters progressed smoothly; with one -solitary exception. When Sandy Lett heard of the treason going on behind -his back, he was ready to drop with blighted love and mortification. A -three-days' weather blight was nothing to his. Quite forgetting modesty, -he made his fierce way into the house, without saying with your leave -or by your leave, and thence to the dairy where Grizzel stood making-up -butter, startling the girl so much with his white face and wild eyes -that she stepped back into a pan of cream. Then he enlarged upon her -iniquity, and wound up by assuring her that neither she nor her "coward -of a Roper" could ever come to good. After that, he left her alone, -making no further stir. - -Grizzel quitted the Manor and went into the cottage, which the Squire -had agreed to let to them: Roper was to come to it on the wedding-day. A -daughter of Goody Picker's, one Mary Standish (whose husband had a habit -of going off on roving trips and staying away until found and brought -back by the parish), stayed with Grizzel, helping her to put the cottage -in habitable order, and arrange in it the articles she bought. That sum -of forty pounds seemed to be doing wonders: I told Grizzel I could not -have made a thousand go as far. - -"Any left, Master Johnny? Why of course I shall have plenty left," she -said. "After buying the bed and the set o' drawers and the chairs and -tables; and the pots and pans and crockeryware for the kitchen; and the -pig and a cock and hen or two; and perviding a joint of roast pork and -some best tea and white sugar for the wedding-day, we shall still have -pounds and pounds on't left. 'Tisn't me, sir, nor George nether, that -'ud like to lavish away all we've got and put none by for a rainy day." - -"All right, Grizzel. I am going to give you a tea-caddy." - -"Well now, to think of that, Master Johnny!" she said, lifting her -hands. "And after the mistress giving me such a handsome gownd!--and the -servants clubbing together, and bringing a roasting oven and beautiful -set o' flat irons. Roper and me'll be set up like a king and queen." - -On Saturday, the day before that fixed for the wedding, I and Tod -were passing the cottage--a kind of miniature barn, to look at, with -a thatched roof, and a broken grindstone at the door--and went in: -rather to the discomfiture of Grizzel and Mrs. Standish, who had their -petticoats shortened and their arms bare, scouring and scrubbing and -making ready for the morrow. Returning across the fields later, we saw -Grizzel at the door, gazing out all ways at once. - -"Consulting the stars as to whether it will be fine to-morrow, Grizzel?" -cried Tod, who was never at a loss for a ready word. - -"I was a-looking out for Mary Standish, sir," she said. "George Roper -haven't been here to-night, and we be all at doubtings about several -matters he was to have come in to settle. First he said he'd go on -betimes to the church o' Sunday morning; then he said he'd come here and -we'd all walk together: and it was left at a uncertainty. There's the -blackberry pie, too, that he've not brought." - -"The blackberry pie!" said I. - -"One that Mrs. Dodd, where he lodges, have made a present of to us for -dinner, Master Johnny. Roper was to ha' brought it in to-night ready. It -won't look well to see him carrying of a baked-pie on a Sunday morning, -when he've got on his wedding-coat. I can't think where he have got to!" - -At this moment, some one was seen moving towards us across the field -path. It proved to be Mary Standish: her gown turned up over her head, -and a pie in her hands the size of a pulpit cushion. Red syrup was -running down the outside of the dish, and the crust looked a little -black at the edges. - -"My, what a big beauty!" exclaimed Grizzel. - -"Do take it, Grizzel, for my hands be all cramped with its weight," said -Mrs. Standish: who, as it turned out, had been over to Roper's lodgings, -a mile and a half away, with a view to seeing what had become of the -bridegroom elect. And she nearly threw the pie into Grizzel's arms, and -took down her gown. - -"And what do Roper say?" asked Grizzel. "And why have he not been here?" - -"Roper's not at home," said Mary Standish. "He come in from work about -six; washed and put hisself to rights a bit, and then went out with a -big bundle. Mrs. Dodd called after him to bring the pie, but he called -back again that the pie might wait." - -"What was in the bundle?" questioned Grizzel, resenting the slight shown -to the pie. - -"Well, by the looks on't, Mother Dodd thought 'twas his working clothes -packed up," replied Mary Standish. - -"His working clothes!" cried Grizzel. - -"A going to take 'em to the tailor's, maybe, to get 'em done up. And not -afore they wanted it." - -"Why, it's spending money for nothing," was Grizzel's comment. "I could -ha' done up them clothes." - -"Well, it's what Mother Dodd thought," concluded Mary Standish. - -We said good night, and went racing home, leaving the two women at the -door, Grizzel lodging the heavy blackberry pie on the old grindstone. - - * * * * * - -It was a glorious day for Grizzel's wedding. The hour fixed by the clerk -(old Bumford) was ten o'clock, so that it might be got well over before -the bell rang out for service. We reached the church early. Amongst the -few spectators already there was cross-grained Molly, pocketing her -ill-temper and for once meaning to be gracious to Grizzel. - -Ten o'clock struck, and the big old clock went ticking on. Clerk Bumford -(a pompous man when free from gout) began abusing the wedding-party for -not keeping its time. The quarter past was striking when Grizzel came -up, with Mary Standish and a young girl. She looked white and nervous, -and not at all at ease in her bridal attire--a green gown of some kind -of stuff, and no end of pink ribbons: the choice of colours being -Grizzel's own. - -"Is Roper here yet?" whispered Mary Standish. - -"Not yet." - -"It's too bad of him!" she continued. "Never to send a body word whether -he meant to call for us, or not: and us a waiting there till now, -expecting of him." - -But where was George Roper? And (as old Bumford asked) what did he mean -by it? The clergyman in his surplice and hood looked out at the vestry -twice, as if questioning what the delay meant. We stood just inside the -porch, and Grizzel grew whiter and whiter. - -"Just a few minutes more o' this delay, and there won't be no wedding -at all this blessed morning," announced Clerk Bumford for the public -benefit. "George Roper wants a good blowing up, he do." - -Ere the words were well spoken, a young man named Dicker, who was a -fellow-lodger of Roper's and was to have accompanied him to church, made -his appearance alone. That something had gone wrong was plainly to be -seen: but, what with the publicity of his present position, and what -with the stern clerk pouncing down upon him in wrath, the young man -could hardly get his news out. - -In the first place, Roper had never been home all night; never been -seen, in short, since he had left Mrs. Dodd's with the bundle, -as related by Mary Standish. That morning, while Dicker in his -consternation knew not what to be at--whether to be off to church -alone, or to wait still, in the hope that Roper would come--two notes -were delivered at Mrs. Dodd's by a strange boy: the one addressed to -himself, John Dicker, the other to "Miss Clay," meaning Grizzel. They -bore ill news; George Roper had given up his marriage, and gone away -for good. - -At this extraordinary crisis, pompous Clerk Bumford was so taken aback, -that he could only open his mouth and stare. It gave Dicker the -opportunity to put in a few words. - -"What we thought at Mother Dodd's was, that Roper had took a drop too -much somewhere last evening, and couldn't get home. He's as sober a man -as can be--but whatever else was we to think? And when this writed note -come this morning, and we found he had gone off to Ameriky o' purpose -to avoid being married, we was downright floundered. This is yours, -Grizzel," added the young man in as gently considerate a tone as any -gentleman could have used. - -Grizzel's hand shook as she took the letter he held out. She was biting -her pale lips hard to keep down emotion. "Take it and read it," she -whispered to Mary Standish--for in truth she herself could not, with all -that sea of curious eyes upon her. - -But Mary Standish laboured under the slight disadvantage of not being -able to read writing: conscious of this difficulty, she would not touch -the letter. Mr. Bumford, his senses and his tongue returning together, -snatched it without ceremony out of Grizzel's hand. - -"I'll read it," said he. And he did so. And I, Johnny Ludlow, give you -the copy verbatim. - - "Der Grisl, saterdy evenin, this comes hoppin you be wel as it leves - me at presint, Which this is to declar to you der grisl that our - marage is at an end, it hav ben to much for me and praid on my - sperits, I cant stand it no longer nohow and hav took my leve of you - for ivir, Der Grisl I maks my best way this night to Livirpol to tak - ship for Ameriky, and my last hops for you hearby xprest is as you - may be hapy with annother, I were nivir worthey of you der grisl and - thats a fac, but I kep it from you til now when I cant kep it no - longer cause of my conshunse, once youv red this hear letter dont - you nivir think no mor on me agen, which I shant on you, Adew for - ivir, - - "your unfortnit friend George Roper. - - "Ide av carred acros that ther blakbured pi but shoud have ben to - late, my good hops is youl injoy the pi with another better nor you - ivir could along with me, best furwel wishes to Mary Standish. - G R." - -What with the penmanship and what with the spelling, it took old -Bumford's spectacles some time to get through. A thunderbolt could -hardly have made more stir than this news. No one spoke, however; and -Mr. Bumford folded the letter in silence. - -"I always knowed what that there Roper was worth," broke forth Molly. -"He pipe-clayed my best black cloak on the sly one day when I ordered -him off the premises. You be better without him, Grizzel, girl--and -here's my hand and wishing you better luck in token of it." - -"Mrs. Dodd was right--them was a change a' clothes he was a taking with -him to Ameriky," added Mary Standish. - -"Roper's a jail-bird, I should say," put in old Bumford. "A nice un -too." - -"But what can it be that's went wrong--what is it that have took him -off?" wondered the young man, Dicker. - -The parson in his surplice had come down the aisle and was standing to -listen. Grizzel, in the extremity of mental bitterness and confusion, -but striving to put a face of indifference on the matter before the -public, gazed around helplessly. - -"I'm better without him, as Molly says--and what do I care?" she cried -recklessly, her lips quivering. The parson put his hand gravely on her -arm. - -"My good young woman, I think you are in truth better without him. Such -a man as that is not worthy of a regret." - -"No, sir, and I don't and won't regret him," was her rapid answer, the -voice rising hysterically. - -As she turned, intending to leave the church, she came face to face with -Sandy Lett. I had seen him standing there, drinking in the words of the -note with all his ears and taking covert looks at Grizzel. - -"Don't pass me by, Grizzel," said he. "I feel hearty sorry for all this, -and I hope that villain'll come to be drowned on his way to Ameriky. Let -me be your friend. I'll make you a good one." - -"Thank you," she answered. "Please let me go by." - -"Look here, Grizzel," he rejoined with a start, as if some thought had -at that moment occurred to him. "Why shouldn't you and me make it up -together? Now. If the one bridegroom's been a wicked runagate, and left -you all forsaken, you see another here ready to put on his shoes. Do, -Grizzel, do!" - -"Do what?" she asked, not taking his meaning. - -"Let's be married, Grizzel. You and me. There's the parson and Mr. -Bumford all ready, and we can get it over afore church begins. It's a -good home I've got to take you to. Don't say nay, my girl." - -Now what should Grizzel do? Like the lone lorn widow in "David -Copperfield," who, when a ship's carpenter offered her marriage, -"instead of saying, 'Thank you, sir, I'd rather not,' up with a bucket -of water and dashed it over him," Grizzel "up" with her hand and dealt -Mr. Sandy a sounding smack on his left cheek. Smarting under the -infliction, Sandy Lett gave vent to a word or two of passion, out of -place in a church, and the parson administered a reprimand. - -Grizzel had not waited. Before the sound of her hand had died away, she -was outside the door, quickly traversing the lonely churchyard. A fine -end to poor Grizzel's wedding! - -The following day, Monday, Mrs. Todhetley went over to the cottage. -Grizzel, sitting with her hands before her, started up, and made believe -to be desperately busy with some tea-cups. We were all sorry for her. - -"Mr. Todhetley has been making inquiry into this business, Grizzel," -said the Mater, "and it certainly seems more mysterious than ever, for -he cannot hear a word against Roper. His late master says Roper was the -best servant he ever had; he is as sorry to lose him as can be." - -"Oh, ma'am, but he's not worth troubling about--my thanks and duty to -the master all the same." - -"Would you mind letting me see Roper's note?" - -Grizzel took it out of the tea-caddy I had given her--which caddy was to -have been kept for show. Mrs. Todhetley, mastering the contents, and -biting her lips to suppress an occasional smile, sat in thought. - -"I suppose this is Roper's own handwriting, Grizzel?" - -"Oh, ma'am, it's his, safe enough. Not that I ever saw him write. He -talks about the blackberry pie, you see; one might know it is his by -that." - -"Then, judging by what he says here, he must have got into some bad -conduct, or trouble, I think, which he has been clever enough to keep -from you and the world." - -"Oh yes, that's it," said Grizzel. "Poor mother used to say one might -be deceived in a saint." - -"Well, it's a pity but he had given some clue to its nature: it would -have been a sort of satisfaction. But now--I chiefly came over to ask -you, Grizzel, what you purpose to do?" - -"There's only one thing for me now, ma'am," returned poor crestfallen -Grizzel, after a pause: "I must get another place." - -"Will you come back to the Manor?" - -A hesitation--a struggle--and then she flung her apron up to her face -and burst into tears. Dairy-maids have their feelings as well as their -betters, and Grizzel's "lines" were very bitter just then. She had been -so proud of this poor cottage home; she had grown to love it so in only -those few days, and to look forward to years of happiness within it in -their humble way: and now to find that she must give it up and go to -service again! - -"The Squire says he will consider it as though you and Roper had not -taken the cottage; and he thinks he can find some one to rent it who -will buy the furniture of you--that is, if you prefer to sell it," she -resumed very kindly. "And I think you had better come back to us, -Grizzel. The new maid in your place does not suit at all." - -Grizzel took down her apron and rubbed her eyes. "It's very good of you, -ma'am--and of the master--and I'd like to come back only for one thing. -I'm afraid Molly would let me have no peace in my life: she'd get -tanking at me about Roper before the others. Perhaps I'd hardly be able -to stand it." - -"I will talk to her," said Mrs. Todhetley, rising to leave. "Where is -Mary Standish to-day?" - -"Gone over to Alcester, ma'am. She had a errand there she said. But I -think it was only to tell her folks the tale of my trouble." - -Molly had her "talking to" at once. It put her out a little; for she was -really feeling some pity for Grizzel, and did not at all intend to "get -tanking" at her. Molly had once experienced a similar disappointment -herself; and her heart was opening to Grizzel. After her dinner was -served that evening, she ran over to the cottage, in her coarse cooking -apron and without a bonnet. - -"Look here," she said, bursting in upon Grizzel, sitting alone in the -dusk. "You come back to your place if you like--the missis says she has -given you the option--and don't you be afeard of me. 'Tisn't me as'll -ever give back to you a word about Roper; and, mind, when I says a thing -I mean it." - -"Thank you, Molly," humbly replied poor Grizzel, catching her breath. - -"The sooner you come back the better," continued Molly, fiercely. "For -it's not me and that wench we've got now as is going to stop together. I -had to call the missis into the dairy this blessed morning, and show her -the state it was in. So you'll come back, Grizzel--and we'll be glad to -see you." - -Grizzel nodded her head: her heart was too full to speak. - -"And as to that false villain of a Roper, as could serve a woman such a -pitiful trick, I only wish I had the doctoring of him! He should get -a--a--a----" Molly's voice, pitched in a high tone, died gradually away. -What on earth was it, stepping in upon them? Some most extraordinary -object, who opened the door softly, and came in with a pitch. Molly -peered at it in the darkness with open mouth. - -A cry from Grizzel. A cry half of terror, half of pain. For she had -recognized the object to be a man, and George Roper. George Roper with -his hair and handsome whiskers cut off, and white sleeves in his brown -coat--so that he looked like a Merry Andrew. - -He seemed three parts stupefied: not at all like a traveller in -condition to set off to America. Sinking into the nearest wooden chair, -he stared at Grizzel in a dazed way, and spoke in a slow, questioning, -wondering voice. - -"I can't think what it is that's the matter with me." - -"Where be your whiskers--and your hair?" burst forth Molly. - -The man gazed at her for a minute or two, taking in the question -gradually; he then raised his trembling hand to either side his -face--feeling for the whiskers that were no longer there. - -"A nice pot o' mischief _you_'ve been a getting into!" cried sharp -Molly. "Is that your own coat? What's gone of the sleeves?" - -For, now that the coat could be seen closely, it turned out that -its sleeves had been cut out, leaving the bare white shirt-sleeves -underneath. Roper looked first at one arm, then at the other. - -"What part of Ameriky be you bound for, and when do the ship sail?" -pursued sarcastic Molly. - -The man opened his mouth and closed it again; like a born natural, as -Molly put it. Grizzel suddenly clung to him with a sobbing cry. - -"He is ill, Molly; he's ill. He has had some trick played on him. -George, what be it?" But still George Roper only gazed about him as if -too stupid to understand. - -In short, the man _was_ stupid. That is, he had been stupefied, and as -yet was only partially recovering its effects. He remembered going into -the barber's shop on Saturday night to have his hair cut, after leaving -his bundle of clothes at the tailor's. Some ale was served round at the -barber's, and he, Roper, took a glass. After that he remembered nothing: -all was blank, until he woke up an hour ago in the unused shed at the -back of the blacksmith's shop. - -That the ale had been badly drugged, was evident. The question -arose--who had played the trick? In a day or two, when Roper had -recovered, an inquiry was set on foot: but nothing came of it. The -barber testified that Roper seemed sleepy after the ale, and a joke went -round that he must have been drinking some previously. He went out of -the shop without having his hair cut, with several more men--and that -was all the barber knew. Of course Sandy Lett was suspected. People said -he had done it in hope to get himself substituted as bridegroom. Lett, -however, vowed through thick and thin that he was innocent; and nothing -was traced home to him. Neither was the handwriting of the note. - -They were married on the Thursday. Grizzel was too glad to get him back -unharmed to make bones about the shorn whiskers. No difficulty was made -about opening the church on a week-day. Clerk Bumford grumbled at it, -but the parson put him down. And the blackberry pie served still for the -wedding-dinner. - - - - -XVII. - -BREAKING DOWN. - - -"Have him here a bit." - -"Oh! But would you like it?" - -"Like it?" retorted the Squire. "I know this: if I were a hard-worked -London clerk, ill for want of change and rest, and I had friends living -in a nice part of the country, I should feel it uncommonly hard if they -did not invite me." - -"I'm sure it is very kind of you to think of it," said Mrs. Todhetley. - -"Write at once and ask him," said the Squire. - -They were speaking of a Mr. Marks. He was a relation of Mrs. -Todhetley's; a second or third cousin. She had not seen him since she -was a girl, when he used sometimes to come and stay at her father's. He -seemed not to have got on very well in life; was only a clerk on a small -salary, was married and had some children. A letter now and then passed -between them and Mrs. Todhetley, but no other acquaintanceship had been -kept up. About a month before this, Mrs. Todhetley had written to ask -how they were going on; and the wife in answering--for it was she who -wrote--said her husband was killing himself with work, and she quite -believed he would break down for good unless he had a rest. - -We heard more about it later. James Marks was clerk in the great -financial house of Brown and Co. Not particularly great as to -reputation, for they made no noise in the world, but great as to -their transactions. They did a little banking in a small way, and had -mysterious money dealings with no end of foreign places: but if you -had gone into their counting-house in London you'd have seen nothing -to show for it, except Mr. Brown seated at a table-desk in a small -room, and half-a-dozen clerks, or so, writing hard, or bending over -columns of figures, in a larger one. Mr. Brown was an elderly little -gentleman in a chestnut wig, and the "Co." existed only in name. - -James Marks had been thrown on the world when he was seventeen, with a -good education, good principles, and a great anxiety to get on in life. -He had to do it; for he had only himself to look to--and, mind you, I -have lived long enough to learn that that's not at all the worst thing a -young man can have. When some friends of his late father's got him into -Brown and Co.'s house, James Marks thought his fortune was made. That -is, he thought he was placed in a position to work up to one. But no. -Here he was, getting on for forty years of age, and with no more -prospect of fortune, or competency either, than he had had at the -beginning. - -How many clerks, and especially bankers' clerks, are there in that -City of London now who could say the same! Who went into their house -(whatsoever it may be) in the hey-day of youth, exulting in their good -luck in having obtained the admission for which so many others were -striving. They saw not the long years of toil before them, the weary -days of close work, with no rest or intermission, except Sunday; -they saw not the struggle to live and pay; they saw not themselves -middle-aged men, with a wife and family, hardly able to keep the wolf -from the door. It was James Marks's case. He had married. And what with -having to keep up the appearance of gentlepeople (at least to make a -pretence at it) and to live in a decent-looking dwelling, and to buy -clothes, and to pay doctors' bills and children's schooling, I'll leave -you to guess how much he had left for luxuries out of his two hundred a -year. - -When expenses were coming upon him thick and fast, Marks sought out some -night employment. A tradesman in the neighbourhood--Pimlico--a butterman -doing a flourishing business, advertised for a book-keeper to attend two -or three hours in the evening. James Marks presented himself and was -engaged. It had to be done in secrecy, lest offence should be taken at -head-quarters. Had the little man in the chestnut wig heard of it, he -might have objected to his clerk keeping any books but his own. Shut up -in the butterman's small back-closet that he called his counting-house, -Mr. Marks could be as private as need be. So there he was! After coming -home from his day's toil, instead of taking recreation, the home-sitting -with his wife, or the stroll in the summer weather, in place of throwing -work to the winds and giving his brain rest, James Marks, after -snatching a meal, tea and supper combined, went forth to work again, to -weary his eyes with more figures and his head with casting them up. He -generally managed to get home by eleven except on Saturday; but the -day's work was too much for any man. Better for him (could he have -pocketed pride, and gained over Brown and Co.) that he had hired himself -to stand behind the evening counter and serve out the butter and -cheese to the customers. It would at least have been a relief from the -accounts. And so the years had gone on. - -A portion of the wife's letter to Mrs. Todhetley had run as follows: -"Thank you very much for your kind inquiries after my husband, and for -your hope that he is not overworking himself. _He is._ But I suppose I -must have said something about it in my last letter (I am ashamed to -remember that it was written two years ago!) that induced you to refer -to it. That he is overworking himself I have known for a long time: -and things that he has said lately have tended to alarm me. He speaks -of sometimes getting confused in the head. In the midst of a close -calculation he will suddenly seem to lose himself--lose memory and -figures and all, and then he has to leave off for some minutes, close -his eyes, and keep perfectly still, or else leave his stool and take a -few turns up and down the room. Another thing he mentions--that the -figures dance before his eyes in bed at night, and he is adding them up -in his brain as if it were daytime and reality. It is very evident to me -that he wants change and rest." - -"And what a foolish fellow he must have been not to take it before -this!" cried the Squire, commenting on parts of the letter, while Mrs. -Todhetley wrote. - -"Perhaps that is what he has not been able to do, sir," I said. - -"Not able! Why, what d'ye mean, Johnny?" - -"It is difficult for a banker's clerk to get holiday. Their work has to -go on all the same." - -"Difficult! when a man's powers are breaking down! D'ye think bankers -are made of flint and steel, not to give their clerks holiday when it is -needed? Don't you talk nonsense, Johnny Ludlow." - -But I was not so far wrong, after all. There came a letter of warm -thanks from Mr. Marks himself in answer to Mrs. Todhetley's invitation. -He said how much he should have liked to accept it and what great good -it would certainly have done him; but that upon applying for leave he -found he could not be spared. So there seemed to be an end of it; and we -hoped he would get better without the rest, and rub on as other clerks -have to rub on. But in less than a month he wrote again, saying he would -come if the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley were still pleased to have him. -He had been so much worse as to be obliged to tell Mr. Brown the -truth--that he believed he _must_ have rest; and Mr. Brown had granted -it to him. - -It was the Wednesday in Passion Week, and a fine spring day, when James -Marks arrived at Dyke Manor. Easter was late that year. He was rather a -tall man, with dark eyes and very thin hair; he wore spectacles, and at -first was rather shy in manner. - -You should have seen his delight in the change. The walks he took, the -enjoyment of what he called the sweet country. "Oh," he said one day -to us, "yours must be the happiest lot on earth. No forced work; your -living assured; nothing to do but to revel in this health-giving air! -Forgive my freedom, Mr. Todhetley," he added a moment after: "I was -contrasting your lot with my own." - -We were passing through the fields towards the Court: the Squire was -taking him to see the Sterlings, and he had said he would rather walk -than drive. The hedges were breaking into green: the fields were yellow -with buttercups and cowslips. This was on the Monday. The sun shone and -the breeze was soft. Mr. Marks sniffed the air as he went along. - -"Six months of this would make a new man of me," we heard him say to -himself in a low tone. - -"Take it," cried the Squire. - -Mr. Marks laughed, sadly enough. "You might as well tell me, sir, to--to -take heaven," he said impulsively. "The one is no more in my power than -the other.--Hark! I do believe that's the cuckoo!" - -We stood to listen. It was the cuckoo, sure enough, for the first time -that spring. It only gave out two or three notes, though, and then was -silent. - -"How many years it is since I heard the cuckoo!" he exclaimed, brushing -his hand across his eyes. "More than twenty, I suppose. It seems to -bring back my youth to me. What a thing it would be for us, sir, if we -could only go to the mill that grinds people young again!" - -The Squire laughed. "It is good of _you_ to talk of age, Marks; why, I -must be nearly double yours," he added--which of course was random -speaking. - -"I feel old, Mr. Todhetley: perhaps older than you do. Think of the -difference in our mode of life. I, tied to a desk for more hours of -the twenty-four than I care to think of, my brain ever at work; you, -revelling in this beautiful, healthy freedom!" - -"Ay, well, it is a difference, when you come to think of it," said the -Squire soberly. - -"I must not repine," returned Marks. "There are more men in my case than -in yours. No doubt it is well for me," he continued, dropping his voice, -with a sigh. "Were your favoured lot mine, sir, I might find so much -good in it as to forget that this world is not our home." - -Perhaps it had never struck the Squire before how much he was to be -envied; but Marks put it strongly. "You'd find crosses and cares enough -in my place, I can tell you, Marks, of one sort or another. Johnny, -here, knows how I am bothered sometimes." - -"No doubt of it," replied Marks, with a smile. "No lot on earth can be -free from its duties and responsibilities; and they must of necessity -entail care. That is one thing, Mr. Todhetley; but to be working away -your life at high pressure--and to know that you are working it away--is -another." - -"You acknowledge, then, that you are working too hard, Marks," said the -Squire. - -"I know I am, sir. But there's no help for it." - -"It is a pity." - -"Why it should begin to tell upon me so early I don't know. There are -numbers of other men, who work as long and as hard as I do, and are -seemingly none the worse for it." - -"The time will come though when they will be, I presume." - -"As surely as that sun is shining in the sky." - -"Possibly you have been more anxious than they, Marks." - -"It may be so. My conscience has always been in my work, to do it -efficiently. I fear, too, I am rather sensitively organized as to nerves -and brain. Upon those who are so, I fancy work tells sooner than on -others." - -The Squire put his arm within Marks's. "You must have a bit of a -struggle to get along, too, on your small salary." - -"True: and it all helps. Work and struggle together are not the most -desirable combination. But for being obliged to increase my means by -some stratagem or other, I should not have taken on the additional -evening's work." - -"How long are you at it, now, of an evening?" - -"Usually about two hours. On Saturdays and at Christmas-time longer." - -"And I suppose you must continue this night-work?" - -"Yes. I get fifty pounds a year for it. And I assure you I should not -know how to spare one pound of the fifty. No one knows the expenses of -children, except those who have to look at every shilling before it can -be spent." - -There was a pause. Mr. Marks stooped, plucked a cowslip and held it to -his lips. - -"Don't you think, Marks," resumed the Squire, in a confidential, -friendly tone, "that you were just a little imprudent to marry?" - -"No, I do not think I was," he replied slowly, as if considering the -question. "I did not marry very early: I was eight-and-twenty; and I -had got together the wherewithal to furnish a house, and something in -hand besides. The question was mooted among us at Brown's the other -day--whether it was wiser, or not, for young clerks to marry. There is a -great deal to be urged both ways--against marrying and against remaining -single." - -"What can you urge against remaining single?" - -"A very great deal, sir. I feel sure, Mr. Todhetley, that you can form -no idea of the miserable temptations that beset a young fellow in -London. Quite half the London clerks, perhaps more, have no home to go -to when their day is over; I mean no parent's home. A solitary room and -no one to bear them company in it; that's all they have; perhaps, in -addition, a crabbed landlady. Can you blame them very much if they go -out and escape this solitude?--they are at the age, you know, when -enjoyment is most keen; the thirst for it well-nigh irrepressible----" - -"And then they go off to those disreputable singing places!" exploded -the Squire, not allowing him to finish. - -"Singing places, yes; and other places. Theatres, concerts, -supper-rooms--oh, I cannot tell you a tithe of the temptation that -meets them at every turn and corner. Many and many a poor young fellow, -well-intentioned in the main, has been ruined both in pocket and in -health by these snares; led into them at first by dangerous companions." - -"Surely all do not get led away." - -"Not all. Some strive on manfully, remembering early precepts and taking -God for their guide, and so escape. But it is not the greater portion -who do this. Some marry early, and secure themselves a home. Which is -best?--I put the question only in a worldly point of view. To commit the -imprudence of marrying, and so bring on themselves and wives intolerable -perplexity and care: or to waste their substance in riotous living!" - -"I'll be shot if I know!" cried the Squire, taking off his hat to -rub his puzzled head. "It's a sad thing for poor little children to -be pinched, and for men like you to be obliged to work yourselves to -shatters to keep them. But as to those others, I'd give 'em all a night -at the treadmill. Johnny! Johnny Ludlow!" - -"Yes, sir." - -"You may be thankful that _you_ don't live in London." - -I had been thinking to myself that I was thankful not to be one of those -poor young clerks to have no home to go to when work was over. Some -fellows would rather tramp up and down the streets, than sit alone in -a solitary room; and the streets, according to Marks, teemed with -temptations. He resumed. - -"In my case I judged it the reverse of imprudence to marry, for my wife -expected a fairly good fortune. She was an only child, and her father -had realized enough to live quietly; say three or four hundred a year. -Mr. Stockleigh had been a member of the Stock Exchange, but his health -failed and he retired. Neither I nor his daughter ever doubted--no, nor -did he himself--that this money must come to us in time." - -"And won't it?" cried the Squire. - -Marks shook his head. "I fear not. A designing servant, that they had, -got over him after his daughter left--he was weak in health and weak in -mind--and he married her. Caroline--my wife--resented it naturally; -there was some recrimination on either side, and since then they have -closed the door against her and me. So you see, with no prospect before -us, there's nothing for me but to work the harder," he concluded, with a -kind of plucked-up cheerfulness. - -"But, to do that, you should get up your health and strength, Marks. You -must, you know. What would you do if you broke down?" - -"Hush!" came the involuntary and almost affrighted answer. "Don't remind -me of it, sir. Sometimes I dream of it, and cannot bear to awaken." - -We had got to like Marks very much only in those few days. He was a -gentleman in mind and manners and a pleasant one into the bargain, -though he did pass his days adding up figures and was kept down by -poverty. The Squire meant to keep him for a month: two months if he -would stay. - -On the following morning, Tuesday, during breakfast-time, a letter came -for him by the post--the first he had had. He had told his wife she need -not write to him, wanting to have all the time for idle enjoyment: not -to spend it in answering letters. - -"From home, James?" asked Mrs. Todhetley. - -"No," said he, smiling. "It is only a reminder that I am due to-morrow -at the house." - -"What house?" cried the Squire. - -"Our house, sir. Brown and Co.'s." - -The Squire put down his buttered roll--for Molly had graciously sent in -hot rolls that morning--and stared at the speaker. - -"What on earth are you talking of?" he cried. "You don't mean to say you -are thinking of going back?" - -"Indeed I am--unfortunately. I must get up to London to-night." - -"Why, bless my heart," cried the Squire, getting up and standing a bit, -"you've not been here a week!" - -"It is all the leave I could get, Mr. Todhetley: a week. I thought you -understood that." - -"You can't go away till you are cured," roared the Squire. "Why didn't -you go back the day you came? Don't talk nonsense, Marks." - -"Indeed I should like to stay longer," he earnestly said. "I wish I -could. Don't you see, Mr. Todhetley, that it does not lie with me?" - -"Do you dare to look me in the face, Marks, and tell me this one week's -rest has cured you? What on earth!--are you turning silly?" - -"It has done me a great, great deal of good----" - -"It has not, Marks. It can't have done it; not real good," came the -Squire's interruption. "One would think you were a child." - -"It was with difficulty I obtained this one week's leave," he explained. -"I am really required in the office; my absence I know causes trouble. -This holiday has done so much for me that I shall go back with a good -heart." - -"Look here," said the Squire: "suppose you take French leave, and stay?" - -"In that case my discharge would doubtless arrive by the first post." - -"Look here again: suppose in a month or two you break down and have to -leave? What then?" - -"Brown and Co. would appoint a fresh clerk in my place." - -"Why don't Brown and Co. keep another clerk or two, so as to work you -all less?" - -Marks smiled at the very idea. "That would increase their expenses, Mr. -Todhetley. They will never do that. It is a part of the business of -Brown's life to keep expenses down." - -Well, Marks had to go. The Squire was very serious in thinking more rest -absolutely needful--of what service _could_ a week be, he reiterated. -Down he sat, wrote a letter to Brown and Co., telling them his opinion, -and requesting the favour of their despatching James Marks back for a -longer holiday. This he sent by post, and they would get it in the -morning. - -"No, I'll not trust it to you, Marks," he said: "you might never deliver -it. Catch an old bird with chaff!" - -To this letter there came no answer at all; and Mr. Marks did not come -back. The Squire relieved his mind by calling Brown and Co. thieves and -wretches--and so it passed. It must be remembered that I am writing of -past years, when holidays were not so universal for any class, clerk or -master, as they are at present. Not that I am aware whether financiers' -clerks get them now. - -The next scene in the drama I can only tell by hearsay. It took place in -London, where I was not. - - * * * * * - -It was a dull, rainy day in February, and Mrs. Marks sat in her -parlour in Pimlico. The house was one of a long row, and the parlour -just about large enough to turn in. She sat by the fire, nursing a -little two-year-old girl, and thinking; and three other children, the -eldest a boy of nine, were playing at the table--building houses on -the red cloth with little wooden bricks. Mrs. Marks was a sensible -woman, understanding proper management, and had taken care to bring up -her children not to be troublesome. She looked about thirty, and must -have been pretty once, but her face was faded now, her grey eyes had -a sad look in them. The chatter at the table and the bricks fell -unheeded on her ear. - -"Mamma, will it soon be tea-time?" - -There was no answer. - -"Didn't you hear, mamma? Carry asked if it would soon be tea-time. What -were you thinking about?" - -She heard this time, and started out of her reverie. "Very soon now, -Willy dear. Thinking? Oh, I was thinking about your papa." - -Her thoughts were by no means bright ones. That her husband's health and -powers were failing, she felt as sure of as though she could foresee the -ending that was soon to come. How he went on and did his work was a -marvel: but he could not give it up, or bread would fail. - -The week's rest in the country had set Mr. Marks up for some months. -Until the next autumn he worked on better than he had been able to do -for some time past. And then he failed again. There was no particular -failing outwardly, but he felt all too conscious that his overtaxed -brain was getting worse than it had ever been. He struggled on; -making no sign. That he should have to resign part of his work was an -inevitable fact: he must give up the evening book-keeping to enable him -to keep his more important place. "Once let me get Christmas work over," -thought he, "and as soon as possible in the New Year, I will resign." - -He got the Christmas work over. Very heavy it was, at both places, and -nearly did for him. It is the last straw, you know, that breaks the -camel's back: and that work broke James Marks. Towards the end of -January he was laid up in bed with a violent cold that settled on his -chest. Brown and Co. had to do without him for eleven days: a calamity -that--so far as Marks was concerned--had never happened in Brown and -Co.'s experience. Then he went back to the city again, feeling shaken; -but the evening labour was perforce given up. - -No one knew how ill he was: or, to speak more correctly, how unfit for -work, how more incapable of it he was growing day by day. His wife -suspected a little. She knew of his sleepless nights, the result of -overtaxed nerves and brain, when he would toss and turn and get up and -walk the room; and dress himself in the morning without having slept. - -"There are times," he said to her in a sort of horror, "when I cannot -at all collect my thoughts. I am as long again at my work as I used to -be, and have to go over it again and again. There have been one or two -mistakes, and old Brown asks what is coming to me. I can't help it. -The figures whirl before me, and I lose my power of mind." - -"If you could only sleep well!" said Mrs. Marks. - -"Ay, if I could. The brain is as much at work by night as by day. There -are the figures mentally before me, and there am I, adding them up." - -"You should see a clever physician, James. Spare the guinea, and go. It -may be more than the guinea saved." - -Mr. Marks took the advice. He went to a clever doctor; explained his -position, the kind of work he had to do, and described his symptoms. -"Can I be cured?" he asked. - -"Oh yes, I think so," said the doctor, cheerfully, without telling him -that he had gone on so far as to make it rather doubtful. "The necessary -treatment is very simple. Take change of scene and perfect rest." - -"For how long?" - -"Twelve months, at least." - -"Twelve months!" repeated Marks, in a queer tone. - -"At least. It is a case of absolute necessity. I will write you a -prescription for a tonic. You must live _well_. You have not lived well -enough for the work you have to do." - -As James Marks went out into the street he could have laughed a laugh -of bitter mockery. Twelve months' rest for _him_? The doctor had told -him one thing--that had he taken rest in time, a very, very much -shorter period would have sufficed. "I wonder how many poor men there -are like myself in London at this moment," he thought, "who want this -rest and cannot take it, and who ought to live better and cannot -afford to do it!" - -It was altogether so very hopeless that he did nothing, except take the -tonic, and he continued to go to the City as usual. Some two or three -weeks had elapsed since then: he of course growing worse, though there -was nothing to show it outwardly: and this was the end of February, and -Mrs. Marks sat thinking of it all over the fire; thinking of what she -knew, and guessing at what she did not know, and her children were -building houses at the table. - -The servant came in with the tea-things, and took the little girl. Only -one servant could be kept--and hardly that. Mrs. Marks had made her own -tea and was pouring out the children's milk-and-water, when they heard a -cab drive up and stop at the door. A minute after Mr. Marks entered, -leaning on the arm of one of his fellow-clerks. - -"Here, Mrs. Marks, I have brought you an invalid," said the latter -gaily, making light of it for her sake. "He seems better now. I don't -think there's much the matter with him." - -Had it come? Had what she had been dreading come--that he was going to -have an illness, she wondered. But she was a trump of a wife, and showed -herself calm and comforting. - -"You shall both of you have some tea at once," she said, cheerfully. -"Willy, run and get more tea-cups." - -It appeared that Mr. Marks had been, as the clerk expressed it, very -queer that day; more so than usual. He could not do his work at all; -had to get assistance continually from one or the other, and ended by -falling off his stool to the floor, in what he called, afterwards, a -"sensation of giddiness." He seemed fit for nothing, and Mr. Brown said -he had better be taken home. - -That day ended James Marks's work. He had broken down. At night he told -his wife what the physician had said; which he had not done before. She -could scarcely conceal her dismay. - -A twelvemonth's rest for him! What would become of them? Failing his -salary, they would have no means whatever of living. - -"Oh, if my father had only acted by us as he ought!" she mentally cried. -"James could have taken rest in time then, and all would have been well. -Will he help us now it has come to this? Will _she_ let him?--for it is -she who holds him in subjection and steels his heart against us." - -Mr. Stockleigh, the father, lived at Sydenham. She, the new wife, had -taken him off there from his residence in Pimlico as soon as might be -after the marriage; and the daughter had never been invited inside the -house. But she resolved to go there now. Saying nothing to her husband, -Mrs. Marks started for Sydenham the day after he was brought home ill, -and found the place without trouble. - -The wife, formerly the cook, was a big brawny woman with a cheek and a -tongue of her own. When Mrs. Marks was shown in, she forgot herself in -the surprise; old habits prevailed, and she half dropped a curtsey. - -"I wish to see papa, Mrs. Stockleigh." - -"Mr. Stockleigh's out, ma'am." - -"Then I must wait until he returns." - -Mrs. Stockleigh did not see her way clear to turn this lady from -the house, though she would have liked to do it. She made a show of -hospitality, and ordered wine and cake to be put on the table. Of which -wine, Mrs. Marks noticed with surprise, she drank _four_ glasses. "Now -and then we used to suspect her of drinking in the kitchen!" ran through -Mrs. Marks's thoughts. "Has it grown upon her?" - -The garden gate opened, and Mr. Stockleigh came through it. He was so -bowed and broken that his daughter scarcely knew him. She hastened out -and met him in the path. - -"Caroline!" he exclaimed in amazement. "Is it really you? How much you -have changed?" - -"I came down to speak to you, papa. May we stay and talk here in the -garden?" - -He seemed glad to see her, rather than not, and sat down with her on the -garden bench in the sun. In a quiet voice she told him all: and asked -him to help her. Mrs. Stockleigh had come out and stood listening to the -treason, somewhat unsteady in her walk. - -"I--I would help you if I could, Caroline," he said, in hesitation, -glancing at his wife. - -"Yes, but you can't, Stockleigh," she put in. "Our own expenses is as -much as iver we can manage, Mrs. Marks. It's a orful cost, living out -here, and our two servants is the very deuce for extravigance. I've -changed 'em both ten times for others, and the last lot is always worse -than the first." - -"Papa, do you see our position?" resumed Mrs. Marks, after hearing the -lady patiently. "It will be a long time before James is able to do -anything again--if he ever is--and we have not been able to save money. -What are we to do? Go to the workhouse? I have four little children." - -"You know that you can't help, Stockleigh," insisted Mr. Stockleigh's -lady, taking up the answer, her face growing more inflamed. "You've not -got the means to do anything: and there's an end on't." - -"It is true, Caroline; I'm afraid I have not," he said--and his daughter -saw with pain how tremblingly subject he was to his wife. "I seem short -of money always. How did you come down, my dear?" - -"By the train, papa. Third class." - -"Oh dear!" cried Mr. Stockleigh. "My health's broken, Caroline. It is, -indeed, and my spirit too. I am sure I am very sorry for you. Will you -come in and take some dinner?" - -"We've got nothing but a bit of 'ashed beef," cried Mrs. Stockleigh, -as if to put a damper upon the invitation. "Him and me fails in our -appetites dreadful: I can't think what's come to 'em." - -Mrs. Marks declined dinner: she had to get back to the children. That -any sort of pleading would be useless while that woman held sway, she -saw well. "Good-bye, papa," she said. "I suppose we must do the best we -can alone. Good morning, Mrs. Stockleigh." - -To her surprise her father kissed her; kissed her with quivering lips. -"I will open the gate for you, my dear," he said, hastening on to it. -As she was going through, he slipped a sovereign into her hand. - -"It will pay for your journey, at least, my dear. I am sorry to hear of -your travelling third class. Ah, times have changed. It is not that I -won't help you, child, but that I can't. She goes up to receive the -dividends, and keeps me short. I should not have had that sovereign now, -but it is the change out of the spirit bill that she sent me to pay. -Hush! the money goes in drink. She drinks like a fish. Ah, Caroline, I -was a fool--a fool! Fare you well, my dear." - -"Fare _you_ well, dear papa, and thank you," she answered, turning away -with brimming eyes and an aching heart. - -After resting for some days and getting no better, James Marks had to -give it up as a bad job. He went to the City house, saw Mr. Brown, and -told him. - -"Broken down!" cried old Brown, hitching back his wig, as he always did -when put out. "I never heard such nonsense. At your age! The thing's -incomprehensible." - -"The work has been very wearing to the brain, sir; and my application to -it was close. During the three-and-twenty years I have been with you I -have never had but one week's holiday: the one last spring." - -"You told me then you felt like a man breaking down, as if you were good -for nothing," resentfully spoke old Brown. - -"Yes, sir. I told you that I believed I was breaking down for want of a -rest," replied Marks. "It has proved so." - -"Why, you had your rest." - -"One week, sir. I said I feared it would not be of much use. But--it was -not convenient for you to allow me more." - -"Of course it was not convenient; you know it could not be convenient," -retorted old Brown. "D'you think I keep my clerks for play, Marks? D'you -suppose my business will get done of itself?" - -"I was aware myself, sir, how inconvenient my absence would be, and -therefore I did not press the matter. That one week's rest did me a -wonderful amount of service: it enabled me to go on until now." - -Old Brown looked at him. "See here, Marks--we are sorry to lose you: -suppose you take another week's change now, and try what it will do. A -fortnight, say. Go to the sea-side, or somewhere." - -Marks shook his head. "Too late, sir. The doctors tell me it will be -twelve months before I am able to work again at calculations." - -"Oh, my service to you," cried Mr. Brown. "Why, what are you going to do -if you cannot work?" - -"That is a great deal more than I can say, sir. The thought of it is -troubling my brain quite as much as work ever did. It is never out of -it, night or day." - -For once in his screwy life, old Brown was generous. He told Mr. Marks -to draw his salary up to the day he had left, and he added ten pounds to -it over and above. - - * * * * * - -During that visit I paid to Miss Deveen's in London, when Tod was with -the Whitneys, and Helen made her first curtsey to the Queen, and we -discovered the ill-doings of that syren, Mademoiselle Sophie Chalk, I -saw Marks. Mrs. Todhetley had given me two or three commissions, as may -be remembered: one amongst them was to call in Pimlico, and see how -Marks was getting on. - -Accordingly I went. We had heard nothing, you must understand, of what -I have told above, and did not know but he was still in his situation. -It was a showery day in April: just a twelvemonth, by the way, since -his visit to us at Dyke Manor. I found the house out readily; it was -near Ebury Street; and I knocked. A young lad opened the door, and -asked me to walk into the parlour. - -"You are Mr. Marks's son," I said, rubbing my feet on the mat: "I can -tell by the likeness. What's your name?" - -"William. Papa's is James." - -"Yes, I know." - -"He is ill," whispered the lad, with his hand on the door handle. -"Mamma's downstairs, making him some arrowroot." - -Well, I think you might have knocked me down with a feather when I knew -him--for at first I did not. He was sitting in an easy-chair by the -fire, dressed, but wrapped round with blankets: and instead of being -the James Marks we had known, he was like a living skeleton, with -cheek-bones and hollow eyes. But he was glad to see me, smiled, and -held out his hand from the blanket. - -It is uncommonly awkward for a young fellow to be taken unawares like -this. You don't know what to say. I'm sure I as much thought he was -dying as I ever thought anything in this world. At last I managed to -stammer a word or two about being sorry to see him so ill. - -"Ay," said he, in a weak, panting voice, "I am different from what I -was when with your kind people, Johnny. The trouble I foresaw then has -come." - -"You used sometimes to feel then as though you would not long keep up," -was my answer, for really I could find nothing else to say. - -He nodded. "Yes, I felt that I was breaking down--that I should -inevitably break down unless I could have rest. I went on until -February, Johnny, and then it came. I had to give up my situation; and -since then I have been dangerously ill from another source--chest and -lungs." - -"I did not know your lungs were weak, Mr. Marks." - -"I'm sure I did not," he said, after a fit of coughing. "I had one -attack in January through catching a cold. Then I caught another cold, -and you see the result: the doctor hardly saved me. I never was subject -to take cold before. I suppose the fact is that when a man breaks down -in one way he gets weak in all, and is more liable to other ailments." - -"I hope you will get better as the warm weather comes on. We shall soon -have it here." - -"Better of this cough, perhaps: I don't know: but not better yet of my -true illness that I think most of--the overtaxed nerves and brain. Oh, -if I could only have taken a sufficient rest in time!" - -"Mr. Todhetley said you ought to have stayed with us for three months. -He says it often still." - -"I believe," he said, solemnly lifting his hand, "that if I could have -had entire rest then for two or three months, it would have set me up -for life. Heaven hears me say it." - -And what a dreadful thing it now seemed that he had not! - -"I don't repine. My lot seems a hard one, and I sometimes feel sick and -weary when I dwell upon it. I have tried to do my duty: I could but keep -on and work, as God knows. There was no other course open to me." - -I supposed there was not. - -"I am no worse off than many others, Johnny. There are men breaking down -every day from incessant application and want of needful rest. Well for -them if their hearts don't break with it!" - -And, to judge by the tone he spoke in, it was as much as to say that his -heart had broken. - -"I am beginning to dwell less on it now," he went on. "Perhaps it is -that I am too weak to feel so keenly. Or that Christ's words are being -indeed realized to me: 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy -laden, and I will give you rest.' God does not forsake us in our -trouble, Johnny, once we have learnt to turn to Him." - -Mrs. Marks came into the room with the cup of arrowroot. The boy had -run down to tell her I was there. She was very pleasant and cheerful: -you could be at home with her at once. While he was waiting for the -arrowroot to cool, he leant back in his chair and dropped into a doze. - -"It must have been a frightful cold that he caught," I whispered to her. - -"It was caught the day he went into the City to tell Mr. Brown he must -give up his situation," she answered. "There's an old saying, of being -penny wise and pound foolish, and that's what poor James was that day. -It was a fine morning when he started; but rain set in, and when he left -Mr. Brown it was pouring, and the streets were wet. He ought to have -taken a cab, but did not, and waited for an omnibus. The first that -passed was full; by the time another came he had got wet and his feet -were soaking. That brought on a return of the illness he had had in -January." - -"I hope he will get well." - -"It lies with God," she answered. - -They made me promise to go again. "Soon, Johnny, soon," said Mr. Marks -with an eagerness that was suggestive. "Come in the afternoon and have -some tea with me." - -I had meant to obey literally and go in a day or two; but one thing or -other kept intervening, and a week or ten days passed. One Wednesday -Miss Deveen was engaged to a dinner-party, and I took the opportunity to -go to Pimlico. It was a stormy afternoon, blowing great guns one minute, -pouring cats and dogs the next. Mrs. Marks was alone in the parlour, the -tea-things on the table before her. - -"We thought you had forgotten us," she said in a half-whisper, shaking -hands. "But this is the best time you could have come; for a kind -neighbour has invited all the children in for the evening, and we shall -be quiet. James is worse." - -"Worse!" - -"At least, weaker. He cannot sit up long now without great fatigue. He -lay down on the bed an hour ago and has dropped asleep," she added, -indicating the next room. "I am waiting for him to awake before I make -the tea." - -He awoke then: the cough betrayed it. She went into the room, and -presently he came back with her. No doubt he was worse! my heart sank at -seeing him. If he had looked like a skeleton before, he was like a -skeleton's ghost now. - -"Ah, Johnny! I knew you would come." - -I told him how it was I had not been able to come before, going into -details. It seemed to amuse him to hear of the engagements, and I -described Helen Whitney's Court dress as well as I could--and Lady -Whitney's--and the servants' great bouquets--and the ball at night. He -ate one bit of thin toast and drank three big cups of tea. Mrs. Marks -said he was always thirsty. - -After tea he had a violent fit of coughing and thought he must lie down -to rest for a bit. Mrs. Marks came back and sat with me. - -"I hope he will get well," I could not help saying to her. - -She shook her head. "I fear he has not much hope of it himself," she -answered. "Only yesterday I heard him tell Willy--that--that God would -take care of them when he was gone." - -She could hardly speak the last words, and broke down with a sob. I -wished I had not said anything. - -"He has great trust, but things trouble him very much," she resumed. -"Nothing else can be expected, for he knows that our means are almost -spent." - -"It must trouble you also, Mrs. Marks." - -"I seem to have so much to trouble me that I dare not dwell upon it. I -pray not to, every hour of the day. If I gave way, what would become of -them?" - -At dark she lighted the candles and drew down the blinds. Just after -that, there came a tremendous knock at the front-door, loud and long. -"Naughty children," she exclaimed. "It must be they." - -"I'll go; don't you stir, Mrs. Marks." - -I opened the door, and a rush of wind and rain seemed to blow in an old -gentleman. He never said a word to me, but went banging into the parlour -and sank down on a chair out of breath. - -"Papa!" exclaimed Mrs. Marks. "Papa!" - -"Wait till I get up my speech, my dear," said the old gentleman. "She is -gone." - -"Who is gone!" cried Mrs. Marks. - -"_She._ I don't want to say too much against her now she's gone, -Caroline; but she _is_ gone. She had a bad fall downstairs in a tipsy -fit some days ago, striking her head on the flags, and the doctors could -do nothing for her. She died this morning, poor soul; and I am coming -to live with you and James, if you will have me. We shall all be so -comfortable together, my dear." - -Perhaps Mrs. Marks remembered at once what it implied--that the pressure -of poverty was suddenly lifted and she and those dear ones would be at -ease for the future. She bent her head in her hands for a minute or two, -keeping silence. - -"Your husband shall have rest now, my dear, and all that he needs. So -will you, Caroline." - -It had come too late. James Marks died in May. - - * * * * * - -It was about three or four years afterwards that we saw the death of Mr. -Brown in the _Times_. The newspapers made a flourish of trumpets over -him; saying he had died worth two hundred thousand pounds. - -"There must be something wrong somewhere, Johnny," remarked the Squire, -in a puzzle. "_I_ should not like to die worth all that money, and know -that I had worked my clerks to the bone to get it together. I wonder how -he will like meeting poor Marks in the next world?" - - - - -XVIII. - -REALITY OR DELUSION? - - -This is a ghost story. Every word of it is true. And I don't mind -confessing that for ages afterwards some of us did not care to pass -the spot alone at night. Some people do not care to pass it yet. - -It was autumn, and we were at Crabb Cot. Lena had been ailing; and in -October Mrs. Todhetley proposed to the Squire that they should remove -with her there, to see if the change would do her good. - -We Worcestershire people call North Crabb a village; but one might count -the houses in it, little and great, and not find four-and-twenty. South -Crabb, half a mile off, is ever so much larger; but the church and -school are at North Crabb. - -John Ferrar had been employed by Squire Todhetley as a sort of -overlooker on the estate, or working bailiff. He had died the previous -winter; leaving nothing behind him except some debts; for he was not -provident; and his handsome son Daniel. Daniel Ferrar, who was rather -superior as far as education went, disliked work: he would make a show -of helping his father, but it came to little. Old Ferrar had not put -him to any particular trade or occupation, and Daniel, who was as -proud as Lucifer, would not turn to it himself. He liked to be a -gentleman. All he did now was to work in his garden, and feed his -fowls, ducks, rabbits, and pigeons, of which he kept a great quantity, -selling them to the houses around and sending them to market. - -But, as every one said, poultry would not maintain him. Mrs. Lease, in -the pretty cottage hard by Ferrar's, grew tired of saying it. This Mrs. -Lease and her daughter, Maria, must not be confounded with Lease the -pointsman: they were in a better condition of life, and not related to -him. Daniel Ferrar used to run in and out of their house at will when a -boy, and he was now engaged to be married to Maria. She would have a -little money, and the Leases were respected in North Crabb. People began -to whisper a query as to how Ferrar got his corn for the poultry: he -was not known to buy much; and he would have to go out of his house at -Christmas, for its owner, Mr. Coney, had given him notice. Mrs. Lease, -anxious about Maria's prospects, asked Daniel what he intended to do -then, and he answered, "Make his fortune: he should begin to do it as -soon as he could turn himself round." But the time was going on, and the -turning round seemed to be as far off as ever. - -After Midsummer, a niece of the schoolmistress's, Miss Timmens, had come -to the school to stay: her name was Harriet Roe. The father, Humphrey -Roe, was half-brother to Miss Timmens. He had married a Frenchwoman, and -lived more in France than in England until his death. The girl had been -christened Henriette; but North Crabb, not understanding much French, -converted it into Harriet. She was a showy, free-mannered, good-looking -girl, and made speedy acquaintance with Daniel Ferrar; or he with her. -They improved upon it so rapidly that Maria Lease grew jealous, and -North Crabb began to say he cared for Harriet more than for Maria. When -Tod and I got home the latter end of October, to spend the Squire's -birthday, things were in this state. James Hill, the bailiff who had -been taken on by the Squire in John Ferrar's place (but a far inferior -man to Ferrar; not much better, in fact, than a common workman, and of -whose doings you will hear soon in regard to his little step-son, David -Garth) gave us an account of matters in general. Daniel Ferrar had been -drinking lately, Hill added, and his head was not strong enough to stand -it; and he was also beginning to look as if he had some care upon him. - -"A nice lot, he, for them two women to be fighting for," cried Hill, who -was no friend to Ferrar. "There'll be mischief between 'em if they don't -draw in a bit. Maria Lease is next door to mad over it, I know; and -t'other, finding herself the best liked, crows over her. It's something -like the Bible story of Leah and Rachel, young gents, Dan Ferrar likes -the one, and he's bound by promise to the t'other. As to the French -jade," concluded Hill, giving his head a toss, "she'd make a show -of liking any man that followed her, she would; a dozen of 'em on a -string." - -It was all very well for surly Hill to call Daniel Ferrar a -"nice lot," but he was the best-looking fellow in church on Sunday -morning--well-dressed too. But his colour seemed brighter; and his -hands shook as they were raised, often, to push back his hair, that -the sun shone upon through the south-window, turning it to gold. He -scarcely looked up, not even at Harriet Roe, with her dark eyes roving -everywhere, and her streaming pink ribbons. Maria Lease was pale, quiet, -and nice, as usual; she had no beauty, but her face was sensible, and -her deep grey eyes had a strange and curious earnestness. The new parson -preached, a young man just appointed to the parish of Crabb. He went in -for great observances of Saints' days, and told his congregation that -he should expect to see them at church on the morrow, which would be the -Feast of All Saints. - -Daniel Ferrar walked home with Mrs. Lease and Maria after service, and -was invited to dinner. I ran across to shake hands with the old dame, -who had once nursed me through an illness, and promised to look in and -see her later. We were going back to school on the morrow. As I turned -away, Harriet Roe passed, her pink ribbons and her cheap gay silk dress -gleaming in the sunlight. She stared at me, and I stared back again. And -now, the explanation of matters being over, the real story begins. But I -shall have to tell some of it as it was told by others. - -The tea-things waited on Mrs. Lease's table in the afternoon; waited for -Daniel Ferrar. He had left them shortly before to go and attend to his -poultry. Nothing had been said about his coming back for tea: that he -would do so had been looked upon as a matter of course. But he did not -make his appearance, and the tea was taken without him. At half-past -five the church-bell rang out for evening service, and Maria put her -things on. Mrs. Lease did not go out at night. - -"You are starting early, Maria. You'll be in church before other -people." - -"That won't matter, mother." - -A jealous suspicion lay on Maria--that the secret of Daniel Ferrar's -absence was his having fallen in with Harriet Roe: perhaps had gone of -his own accord to seek her. She walked slowly along. The gloom of dusk, -and a deep dusk, had stolen over the evening, but the moon would be up -later. As Maria passed the school-house, she halted to glance in at the -little sitting-room window: the shutters were not closed yet, and the -room was lighted by the blazing fire. Harriet was not there. She only -saw Miss Timmens, the mistress, who was putting on her bonnet before a -hand-glass propped upright on the mantel-piece. Without warning, Miss -Timmens turned and threw open the window. It was only for the purpose of -pulling-to the shutters, but Maria thought she must have been observed, -and spoke. - -"Good evening, Miss Timmens." - -"Who is it?" cried out Miss Timmens, in answer, peering into the dusk. -"Oh, it's you, Maria Lease! Have you seen anything of Harriet? She went -off somewhere this afternoon, and never came in to tea." - -"I have not seen her." - -"She's gone to the Batleys', I'll be bound. She knows I don't like her -to be with the Batley girls: they make her ten times flightier than she -would otherwise be." - -Miss Timmens drew in her shutters with a jerk, without which they would -not close, and Maria Lease turned away. - -"Not at the Batleys', not at the Batleys', but with _him_," she cried, -in bitter rebellion, as she turned away from the church. From the -church, not to it. Was Maria to blame for wishing to see whether she -was right or not?--for walking about a little in the thought of meeting -them? At any rate it is what she did. And had her reward; such as it -was. - -As she was passing the top of the withy walk, their voices reached her -ear. People often walked there, and it was one of the ways to South -Crabb. Maria drew back amidst the trees, and they came on: Harriet Roe -and Daniel Ferrar, walking arm-in-arm. - -"I think I had better take it off," Harriet was saying. "No need to -invoke a storm upon my head. And that would come in a shower of hail -from stiff old Aunt Timmens." - -The answer seemed one of quick accent, but Ferrar spoke low. Maria Lease -had hard work to control herself: anger, passion, jealousy, all blazed -up. With her arms stretched out to a friendly tree on either side,--with -her heart beating,--with her pulses coursing on to fever-heat, she -watched them across the bit of common to the road. Harriet went one way -then; he another, in the direction of Mrs. Lease's cottage. No doubt to -fetch her--Maria--to church, with a plausible excuse of having been -detained. Until now she had had no proof of his falseness; had never -perfectly believed in it. - -She took her arms from the trees and went forward, a sharp faint cry of -despair breaking forth on the night air. Maria Lease was one of those -silent-natured girls who can never speak of a wrong like this. She had -to bury it within her; down, down, out of sight and show; and she went -into church with her usual quiet step. Harriet Roe with Miss Timmens -came next, quite demure, as if she had been singing some of the infant -scholars to sleep at their own homes. Daniel Ferrar did not go to church -at all: he stayed, as was found afterwards, with Mrs. Lease. - -Maria might as well have been at home as at church: better perhaps that -she had been. Not a syllable of the service did she hear: her brain was -a sea of confusion; the tumult within it rising higher and higher. She -did not hear even the text, "Peace, be still," or the sermon; both so -singularly appropriate. The passions in men's minds, the preacher said, -raged and foamed just like the angry waves of the sea in a storm, until -Jesus came to still them. - -I ran after Maria when church was over, and went in to pay the promised -visit to old Mother Lease. Daniel Ferrar was sitting in the parlour. He -got up and offered Maria a chair at the fire, but she turned her back -and stood at the table under the window, taking off her gloves. An open -Bible was before Mrs. Lease: I wondered whether she had been reading -aloud to Daniel. - -"What was the text, child?" asked the old lady. - -No answer. - -"Do you hear, Maria! What was the text?" - -Maria turned at that, as if suddenly awakened. Her face was white; her -eyes had in them an uncertain terror. - -"The text?" she stammered. "I--I forget it, mother. It was from Genesis, -I think." - -"Was it, Master Johnny?" - -"It was from the fourth chapter of St. Mark, 'Peace, be still.'" - -Mrs. Lease stared at me. "Why, that is the very chapter I've been -reading. Well now, that's curious. But there's never a better in the -Bible, and never a better text was taken from it than those three words. -I have been telling Daniel here, Master Johnny, that when once that -peace, Christ's peace, is got into the heart, storms can't hurt us much. -And you are going away again to-morrow, sir?" she added, after a pause. -"It's a short stay?" - -I was not going away on the morrow. Tod and I, taking the Squire in a -genial moment after dinner, had pressed to be let stay until Tuesday, -Tod using the argument, and laughing while he did it, that it must -be wrong to travel on All Saints' Day, when the parson had specially -enjoined us to be at church. The Squire told us we were a couple of -encroaching rascals, and if he did let us stay it should be upon -condition that we did go to church. This I said to them. - -"He may send you all the same, sir, when the morning comes," remarked -Daniel Ferrar. - -"Knowing Mr. Todhetley as you do Ferrar, you may remember that he never -breaks his promises." - -Daniel laughed. "He grumbles over them, though, Master Johnny." - -"Well, he may grumble to-morrow about our staying, say it is wasting -time that ought to be spent in study, but he will not send us back until -Tuesday." - -Until Tuesday! If I could have foreseen then what would have happened -before Tuesday! If all of us could have foreseen! Seen the few hours -between now and then depicted, as in a mirror, event by event! Would it -have saved the calamity, the dreadful sin that could never be redeemed? -Why, yes; surely it would. Daniel Ferrar turned and looked at Maria. - -"Why don't you come to the fire?" - -"I am very well here, thank you." - -She had sat down where she was, her bonnet touching the curtain. Mrs. -Lease, not noticing that anything was wrong, had begun talking about -Lena, whose illness was turning to low fever, when the house door opened -and Harriet Roe came in. - -"What a lovely night it is!" she said, taking of her own accord the -chair I had not cared to take, for I kept saying I must go. "Maria, what -went with you after church? I hunted for you everywhere." - -Maria gave no answer. She looked black and angry; and her bosom heaved -as if a storm were brewing. Harriet Roe slightly laughed. - -"Do you intend to take holiday to-morrow, Mrs. Lease?" - -"Me take holiday! what is there in to-morrow to take holiday for?" -returned Mrs. Lease. - -"I shall," continued Harriet, not answering the question: "I have been -used to it in France. All Saints' Day is a grand holiday there; we go to -church in our best clothes, and pay visits afterwards. Following it, -like a dark shadow, comes the gloomy Jour des Morts." - -"The what?" cried Mrs. Lease, bending her ear. - -"The day of the dead. All Souls' Day. But you English don't go to the -cemeteries to pray." - -Mrs. Lease put on her spectacles, which lay upon the open pages of the -Bible, and stared at Harriet. Perhaps she thought they might help her to -understand. The girl laughed. - -"On All Souls' Day, whether it be wet or dry, the French cemeteries are -full of kneeling women draped in black; all praying for the repose of -their dead relatives, after the manner of the Roman Catholics." - -Daniel Ferrar, who had not spoken a word since she came in, but sat with -his face to the fire, turned and looked at her. Upon which she tossed -back her head and her pink ribbons, and smiled till all her teeth were -seen. Good teeth they were. As to reverence in her tone, there was none. - -"I have seen them kneeling when the slosh and wet have been ankle-deep. -Did you ever see a ghost?" added she, with energy. "The French believe -that the spirits of the dead come abroad on the night of All Saints' -Day. You'd scarcely get a French woman to go out of her house after -dark. It is their chief superstition." - -"What _is_ the superstition?" questioned Mrs. Lease. - -"Why, _that_," said Harriet. "They believe that the dead are allowed to -revisit the world after dark on the Eve of All Souls; that they hover in -the air, waiting to appear to any of their living relatives, who may -venture out, lest they should forget to pray on the morrow for the rest -of their souls."[2] - - [2] A superstition obtaining amongst some of the lower orders - in France. - -"Well, I never!" cried Mrs. Lease, staring excessively. "Did you ever -hear the like of that, sir?" turning to me. - -"Yes; I have heard of it." - -Harriet Roe looked up at me; I was standing at the corner of the -mantel-piece. She laughed a free laugh. - -"I say, wouldn't it be fun to go out to-morrow night, and meet the -ghosts? Only, perhaps they don't visit this country, as it is not under -Rome." - -"Now just you behave yourself before your betters, Harriet Roe," put in -Mrs. Lease, sharply. "That gentleman is young Mr. Ludlow of Crabb Cot." - -"And very happy I am to make young Mr. Ludlow's acquaintance," returned -easy Harriet, flinging back her mantle from her shoulders. "How hot your -parlour is, Mrs. Lease." - -The hook of the cloak had caught in a thin chain of twisted gold that -she wore round her neck, displaying it to view. She hurriedly folded her -cloak together, as if wishing to conceal the chain. But Mrs. Lease's -spectacles had seen it. - -"What's that you've got on, Harriet? A gold chain?" - -A moment's pause, and then Harriet Roe flung back her mantle again, -defiance upon her face, and touched the chain with her hand. - -"That's what it is, Mrs. Lease: a gold chain. And a very pretty one, -too." - -"Was it your mother's?" - -"It was never anybody's but mine. I had it made a present to me this -afternoon; for a keepsake." - -Happening to look at Maria, I was startled at her face, it was so white -and dark: white with emotion, dark with an angry despair that I for -one did not comprehend. Harriet Roe, throwing at her a look of saucy -triumph, went out with as little ceremony as she had come in, just -calling back a general good night; and we heard her footsteps outside -getting gradually fainter in the distance. Daniel Ferrar rose. - -"I'll take my departure too, I think. You are very unsociable to-night, -Maria." - -"Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have cause to be." - -She flung his hand back when he held it out; and in another moment, as -if a thought struck her, ran after him into the passage to speak. I, -standing near the door in the small room, caught the words. - -"I must have an explanation with you, Daniel Ferrar. Now. To-night. We -cannot go on thus for a single hour longer." - -"Not to-night, Maria; I have no time to spare. And I don't know what you -mean." - -"You do know. Listen. I will not go to my rest, no, though it were for -twenty nights to come, until we have had it out. I _vow_ I will not. -There. You are playing with me. Others have long said so, and I know it -now." - -He seemed to speak some quieting words to her, for the tone was low and -soothing; and then went out, closing the door behind him. Maria came -back and stood with her face and its ghastliness turned from us. And -still the old mother noticed nothing. - -"Why don't you take your things off, Maria?" she asked. - -"Presently," was the answer. - -I said good night in my turn, and went away. Half-way home I met Tod -with the two young Lexoms. The Lexoms made us go in and stay to supper, -and it was ten o'clock before we left them. - -"We shall catch it," said Tod, setting off at a run. They never let us -stay out late on a Sunday evening, on account of the reading. - -But, as it happened, we escaped scot-free this time, for the house was -in a commotion about Lena. She had been better in the afternoon, but at -nine o'clock the fever returned worse than ever. Her little cheeks and -lips were scarlet as she lay on the bed, her wide-open eyes were bright -and glistening. The Squire had gone up to look at her, and was fuming -and fretting in his usual fashion. - -"The doctor has never sent the medicine," said patient Mrs. Todhetley, -who must have been worn out with nursing. "She ought to take it; I am -sure she ought." - -"These boys are good to run over to Cole's for that," cried the Squire. -"It won't hurt them; it's a fine night." - -Of course we were good for it. And we got our caps again; being charged -to enjoin Mr. Cole to come over the first thing in the morning. - -"Do you care much about my going with you, Johnny?" Tod asked as we were -turning out at the door. "I am awfully tired." - -"Not a bit. I'd as soon go alone as not. You'll see me back in -half-an-hour." - -I took the nearest way; flying across the fields at a canter, and -startling the hares. Mr. Cole lived near South Crabb, and I don't -believe more than ten minutes had gone by when I knocked at his door. -But to get back as quickly was another thing. The doctor was not at -home. He had been called out to a patient at eight o'clock, and had not -yet returned. - -I went in to wait: the servant said he might be expected to come in from -minute to minute. It was of no use to go away without the medicine; and -I sat down in the surgery in front of the shelves, and fell asleep -counting the white jars and physic bottles. The doctor's entrance awoke -me. - -"I am sorry you should have had to come over and to wait," he said. -"When my other patient, with whom I was detained a considerable time, -was done with, I went on to Crabb Cot with the child's medicine, which I -had in my pocket." - -"They think her very ill to-night, sir." - -"I left her better, and going quietly to sleep. She will soon be well -again, I hope." - -"Why! is that the time?" I exclaimed, happening to catch sight of -the clock as I was crossing the hall. It was nearly twelve. Mr. Cole -laughed, saying time passed quickly when folk were asleep. - -I went back slowly. The sleep, or the canter before it, had made me feel -as tired as Tod had said he was. It was a night to be abroad in and to -enjoy; calm, warm, light. The moon, high in the sky, illumined every -blade of grass; sparkled on the water of the little rivulet; brought out -the moss on the grey walls of the old church; played on its round-faced -clock, then striking twelve. - -Twelve o'clock at night at North Crabb answers to about three in the -morning in London, for country people are mostly in bed and asleep at -ten. Therefore, when loud and angry voices struck up in dispute, just as -the last stroke of the hour was dying away on the midnight air, I stood -still and doubted my ears. - -I was getting near home then. The sounds came from the back of a -building standing alone in a solitary place on the left-hand side of -the road. It belonged to the Squire, and was called the yellow barn, -its walls being covered with a yellow wash; but it was in fact used as -a storehouse for corn. I was passing in front of it when the voices -rose upon the air. Round the building I ran, and saw--Maria Lease: and -something else that I could not at first comprehend. In the pursuit of -her vow, not to go to rest until she had "had it out" with Daniel -Ferrar, Maria had been abroad searching for him. What ill fate brought -her looking for him up near our barn?--perhaps because she had -fruitlessly searched in every other spot. - -At the back of this barn, up some steps, was an unused door. Unused -partly because it was not required, the principal entrance being in -front; partly because the key of it had been for a long time missing. -Stealing out at this door, a bag of corn upon his shoulders, had come -Daniel Ferrar in a smock-frock. Maria saw him, and stood back in the -shade. She watched him lock the door and put the key in his pocket; she -watched him give the heavy bag a jerk as he turned to come down the -steps. Then she burst out. Her loud reproaches petrified him, and he -stood there as one suddenly turned to stone. It was at that moment that -I appeared. - -I understood it all soon; it needed not Maria's words to enlighten me. -Daniel Ferrar possessed the lost key and could come in and out at will -in the midnight hours when the world was sleeping, and help himself -to the corn. No wonder his poultry throve; no wonder there had been -grumblings at Crabb Cot at the mysterious disappearance of the good -grain. - -Maria Lease was decidedly mad in those few first moments. Stealing is -looked upon in an honest village as an awful thing; a disgrace, a crime; -and there was the night's earlier misery besides. Daniel Ferrar was a -thief! Daniel Ferrar was false to her! A storm of words and reproaches -poured forth from her in confusion, none of it very distinct. "Living -upon theft! Convicted felon! Transportation for life! Squire Todhetley's -corn! Fattening poultry on stolen goods! Buying gold chains with the -profits for that bold, flaunting French girl, Harriet Roe! Taking his -stealthy walks with her!" - -My going up to them stopped the charge. There was a pause; and then -Maria, in her mad passion, denounced him to me, as representative (so -she put it) of the Squire--the breaker-in upon our premises! the robber -of our stored corn! - -Daniel Ferrar came down the steps; he had remained there still as a -statue, immovable; and turned his white face to me. Never a word in -defence said he: the blow had crushed him; he was a proud man (if any -one can understand that), and to be discovered in this ill-doing was -worse than death to him. - -"Don't think of me more hardly than you can help, Master Johnny," he -said in a quiet tone. "I have been almost tired of my life this long -while." - -Putting down the bag of corn near the steps, he took the key from his -pocket and handed it to me. The man's aspect had so changed; there was -something so grievously subdued and sad about him altogether, that I -felt as sorry for him as if he had not been guilty. Maria Lease went on -in her fiery passion. - -"You'll be more tired of it to-morrow when the police are taking you to -Worcester gaol. Squire Todhetley will not spare you, though your father -was his many-years bailiff. He could not, you know, if he wished; Master -Ludlow has seen you in the act." - -"Let me have the key again for a minute, sir," he said, as quietly as -though he had not heard a word. And I gave it to him. I'm not sure but -I should have given him my head had he asked for it. - -He swung the bag on his shoulders, unlocked the granary door, and -put the bag beside the other sacks. The bag was his own, as we found -afterwards, but he left it there. Locking the door again, he gave me -the key, and went away with a weary step. - -"Good-bye, Master Johnny." - -I answered back good night civilly, though he had been stealing. When -he was out of sight, Maria Lease, her passion full upon her still, -dashed off towards her mother's cottage, a strange cry of despair -breaking from her lips. - -"Where have you been lingering, Johnny?" roared the Squire, who was -sitting up for me. "You have been throwing at the owls, sir, that's what -you've been at; you have been scudding after the hares." - -I said I had waited for Mr. Cole, and had come back slower than I went; -but I said no more, and went up to my room at once. And the Squire went -to his. - -I know I am only a muff; people tell me so, often: but I can't help it; -I did not make myself. I lay awake till nearly daylight, first wishing -Daniel Ferrar could be screened, and then thinking it might perhaps be -done. If he would only take the lesson to heart and go on straight for -the future, what a capital thing it would be. We had liked old Ferrar; -he had done me and Tod many a good turn: and, for the matter of that, -we liked Daniel. So I never said a word when morning came of the past -night's work. - -"Is Daniel at home?" I asked, going to Ferrar's the first thing before -breakfast. I meant to tell him that if he would keep right, I would keep -counsel. - -"He went out at dawn, sir," answered the old woman who did for him, and -sold his poultry at market. "He'll be in presently: he have had no -breakfast yet." - -"Then tell him when he comes, to wait in, and see me: tell him it's all -right. Can you remember, Goody? 'It is all right.'" - -"I'll remember, safe enough, Master Ludlow." - -Tod and I, being on our honour, went to church, and found about ten -people in the pews. Harriet Roe was one, with her pink ribbons, the -twisted gold chain showing outside a short-cut velvet jacket. - -"No, sir; he has not been home yet; I can't think where he can have got -to," was the old Goody's reply when I went again to Ferrar's. And so I -wrote a word in pencil, and told her to give it him when he came in, for -I could not go dodging there every hour of the day. - -After luncheon, strolling by the back of the barn: a certain -reminiscence I suppose taking me there, for it was not a frequented -spot: I saw Maria Lease coming along. - -Well, it was a change! The passionate woman of the previous night had -subsided into a poor, wild-looking, sorrow-stricken thing, ready to die -of remorse. Excessive passion had wrought its usual consequences; a -re-action: a re-action in favour of Daniel Ferrar. She came up to me, -clasping her hands in agony--beseeching that I would spare him; that I -would not tell of him; that I would give him a chance for the future: -and her lips quivered and trembled, and there were dark circles round -her hollow eyes. - -I said that I had not told and did not intend to tell. Upon which she -was going to fall down on her knees, but I rushed off. - -"Do you know where he is?" I asked, when she came to her sober senses. - -"Oh, I wish I did know! Master Johnny, he is just the man to go and -do something desperate. He would never face shame; and I was a mad, -hard-hearted, wicked girl to do what I did last night. He might run -away to sea; he might go and enlist for a soldier." - -"I dare say he is at home by this time. I have left a word for him -there, and promised to go in and see him to-night. If he will undertake -not to be up to wrong things again, no one shall ever know of this from -me." - -She went away easier, and I sauntered on towards South Crabb. Eager as -Tod and I had been for the day's holiday, it did not seem to be turning -out much of a boon. In going home again--there was nothing worth staying -out for--I had come to the spot by the three-cornered grove where I saw -Maria, when a galloping policeman overtook me. My heart stood still; for -I thought he must have come after Daniel Ferrar. - -"Can you tell me if I am near to Crabb Cot--Squire Todhetley's?" he -asked, reining-in his horse. - -"You will reach it in a minute or two. I live there. Squire Todhetley is -not at home. What do you want with him?" - -"It's only to give in an official paper, sir. I have to leave one -personally upon all the county magistrates." - -He rode on. When I got in I saw the folded paper upon the hall-table; -the man and horse had already gone onwards. It was worse indoors than -out; less to be done. Tod had disappeared after church; the Squire was -abroad; Mrs. Todhetley sat upstairs with Lena: and I strolled out again. -It was only three o'clock then. - -An hour, or more, was got through somehow; meeting one, talking to -another, throwing at the ducks and geese; anything. Mrs. Lease had her -head, smothered in a yellow shawl, stretched out over the palings as I -passed her cottage. - -"Don't catch cold, mother." - -"I am looking for Maria, sir. I can't think what has come to her to-day, -Master Johnny," she added, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. -"The girl seems demented: she has been going in and out ever since -daylight like a dog in a fair." - -"If I meet her I will send her home." - -And in another minute I did meet her. For she was coming out of Daniel -Ferrar's yard. I supposed he was at home again. - -"No," she said, looking more wild, worn, haggard than before; "that's -what I have been to ask. I am just out of my senses, sir. He has gone -for certain. Gone!" - -I did not think it. He would not be likely to go away without clothes. - -"Well, I know he is, Master Johnny; something tells me. I've been all -about everywhere. There's a great dread upon me, sir; I never felt -anything like it." - -"Wait until night, Maria; I dare say he will go home then. Your mother -is looking out for you; I said if I met you I'd send you in." - -Mechanically she turned towards the cottage, and I went on. Presently, -as I was sitting on a gate watching the sunset, Harriet Roe passed -towards the withy walk, and gave me a nod in her free but good-natured -way. - -"Are you going there to look out for the ghosts this evening?" I asked: -and I wished not long afterwards I had not said it. "It will soon be -dark." - -"So it will," she said, turning to the red sky in the west. "But I have -no time to give to the ghosts to-night." - -"Have you seen Ferrar to-day?" I cried, an idea occurring to me. - -"No. And I can't think where he has got to; unless he is off to -Worcester. He told me he should have to go there some day this week." - -She evidently knew nothing about him, and went on her way with another -free-and-easy nod. I sat on the gate till the sun had gone down, and -then thought it was time to be getting homewards. - -Close against the yellow barn, the scene of last night's trouble, whom -should I come upon but Maria Lease. She was standing still, and turned -quickly at the sound of my footsteps. Her face was bright again, but had -a puzzled look upon it. - -"I have just seen him: he has not gone," she said in a happy whisper. -"You were right, Master Johnny, and I was wrong." - -"Where did you see him?" - -"Here; not a minute ago. I saw him twice. He is angry, very, and will -not let me speak to him; both times he got away before I could reach -him. He is close by somewhere." - -I looked round, naturally; but Ferrar was nowhere to be seen. There was -nothing to conceal him except the barn, and that was locked up. The -account she gave was this--and her face grew puzzled again as she -related it. - -Unable to rest indoors, she had wandered up here again, and saw Ferrar -standing at the corner of the barn, looking very hard at her. She -thought he was waiting for her to come up, but before she got close to -him he had disappeared, and she did not see which way. She hastened past -the front of the barn, ran round to the back, and there he was. He stood -near the steps looking out for her; waiting for her, as it again seemed; -and was gazing at her with the same fixed stare. But again she missed -him before she could get quite up; and it was at that moment that I -arrived on the scene. - -I went all round the barn, but could see nothing of Ferrar. It was an -extraordinary thing where he could have got to. Inside the barn he could -not be: it was securely locked; and there was no appearance of him in -the open country. It was, so to say, broad daylight yet, or at least not -far short of it; the red light was still in the west. Beyond the field -at the back of the barn, was a grove of trees in the form of a triangle; -and this grove was flanked by Crabb Ravine, which ran right and left. -Crabb Ravine had the reputation of being haunted; for a light was -sometimes seen dodging about its deep descending banks at night that no -one could account for. A lively spot altogether for those who liked -gloom. - -"Are you sure it was Ferrar, Maria?" - -"Sure!" she returned in surprise. "You don't think I could mistake him, -Master Johnny, do you? He wore that ugly seal-skin winter-cap of his -tied over his ears, and his thick grey coat. The coat was buttoned -closely round him. I have not seen him wear either since last winter." - -That Ferrar must have gone into hiding somewhere seemed quite evident; -and yet there was nothing but the ground to receive him. Maria said she -lost sight of him the last time in a moment; both times in fact; and it -was absolutely impossible that he could have made off to the triangle or -elsewhere, as she must have seen him cross the open land. For that -matter I must have seen him also. - -On the whole, not two minutes had elapsed since I came up, though it -seems to have been longer in telling it: when, before we could look -further, voices were heard approaching from the direction of Crabb Cot; -and Maria, not caring to be seen, went away quickly. I was still -puzzling about Ferrar's hiding-place, when they reached me--the Squire, -Tod, and two or three men. Tod came slowly up, his face dark and grave. - -"I say, Johnny, what a shocking thing this is!" - -"What is a shocking thing?" - -"You have not heard of it?--But I don't see how you could hear it." - -I had heard nothing. I did not know what there was to hear. Tod told me -in a whisper. - -"Daniel Ferrar's dead, lad." - -"_What?_" - -"He has destroyed himself. Not more than half-an-hour ago. Hung himself -in the grove." - -I turned sick, taking one thing with another, comparing this -recollection with that; which I dare say you will think no one but a -muff would do. - -Ferrar was indeed dead. He had been hiding all day in the three-cornered -grove: perhaps waiting for night to get away--perhaps only waiting -for night to go home again. Who can tell? About half-past two, Luke -Macintosh, a man who sometimes worked for us, sometimes for old Coney, -happening to go through the grove, saw him there, and talked with him. -The same man, passing back a little before sunset, found him hanging -from a tree, dead. Macintosh ran with the news to Crabb Cot, and they -were now flocking to the scene. When facts came to be examined there -appeared only too much reason to think that the unfortunate appearance -of the galloping policeman had terrified Ferrar into the act; -perhaps--we all hoped it!--had scared his senses quite away. Look at it -as we would, it was very dreadful. - -But what of the appearance Maria Lease saw? At that time, Ferrar had -been dead at least half-an-hour. Was it reality or delusion? That is (as -the Squire put it), did her eyes see a real, spectral Daniel Ferrar; or -were they deceived by some imagination of the brain? Opinions were -divided. Nothing can shake her own steadfast belief in its reality; to -her it remains an awful certainty, true and sure as heaven. - -If I say that I believe in it too, I shall be called a muff and a double -muff. But there is no stumbling-block difficult to be got over. Ferrar, -when found, was wearing the seal-skin cap tied over the ears and the -thick grey coat buttoned up round him, just as Maria Lease had described -to me; and he had never worn them since the previous winter, or taken -them out of the chest where they were kept. The old woman at his home -did not know he had done it then. When told that he died in these -things, she protested that they were in the chest, and ran up to look -for them. But the things were gone. - - - - -XIX. - -DAVID GARTH'S NIGHT-WATCH. - - -It was the following year, and we were again at Crabb Cot. Fever had -broken out at Dr. Frost's, and the school was dismissed. The leaves were -falling late that year, for November was nearly half through, and they -strewed the ground. But if the leaves were late, the frost was early. -The weather had come in curiously cold. Three days before the morning I -am about to speak of, the warm weather suddenly changed, and it was now -as freezing as January. It is not often that you see ice mingling with -the dead leaves of autumn. Both the ice and the leaves have to do -with what happened: and I think you often find that if the weather is -particularly unseasonable, we get something by which to remember it. - -At the corner of a field between our house and North Crabb, stood a -small solitary dwelling, called Willow Brook Cottage: but the brook from -which it took its name was dry now. The house had a lonely look, and was -lonely; and perhaps that kept it empty. It had been unoccupied for more -than a year, when the Squire, tired of seeing it so, happened to say in -the hearing of James Hill, that new bailiff of ours, that he would let -it for an almost nominal rent. Hill caught at the words and said he -would be glad to rent it: for some cause or other he did not like the -house he was in, and had been wanting to leave it. At least, he said so: -but he was of a frightfully stingy turn, and we all thought the low rent -tempted him. Hill, this working bailiff, was a steady man, but severe -upon every one. - -It was during this early frost that he began to move in. One morning -after breakfast, I was taking the broad pathway across the fields to -North Crabb, which led close by Willow Cottage, and saw Hill wheeling a -small truck up with some of his household goods. He was a tall, strong -man, and the cold was tolerably sharp, but the load had warmed him. - -"Good morning, Master Johnny." - -"Making ready for the flitting, Hill?" - -Hill wheeled the truck up to the door, and sat down on one of the -handles whilst he wiped his face. It was an honest, though cross face; -habitually red. The house had a good large garden at its side, enclosed -by wooden palings; with a shed and some pigstys at the back. Trees -overshadowed the palings: and the fallen leaves, just now, inside the -garden and out were ankle-deep. - -"A fine labour I shall have, getting the place in order!" cried Hill, -pointing to some broken palings and the overgrown branches. "Don't think -but what the Squire has the best of the bargain, after all!" - -"You'd say that, Hill, if he gave you a house rent-free." - -Hill took the key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and we went in. -This lower room was boarded; the kitchen was at the back; above were two -fair-sized chambers. One of them looked towards Crabb Ravine; the other -was only lighted by a skylight in the roof. - -"You have had fires here, Hill!" - -"I had 'em in every room all day yesterday, sir, and am going to light -'em again now. My wife said it must be done; and she warn't far wrong; -for a damp house plays the mischief with one's bones. The fools that -women be, to be sure!--and my wife's the worst of 'em." - -"What has your wife done?" - -"She had a bit of a accident yesterday, Master Johnny. A coming out with -a few things for this place, she stepped upon some ice, and fell; it -gave her ankle a twist, and she had to be helped home. I'm blest if -she's not a-saying now that it's a bad omen! Because she can't get about -and help shift the things in here, she says we shan't have nothing but -ill-luck in the place." - -I had already heard of the accident. Hill's wife was a little shrinking -woman, mild and gentle, quite superior to him. She was a widow when he -married her a short time ago, a Mrs. Garth, with one son, David. Miss -Timmens, the schoolmistress at North Crab, was her sister. On the -previous morning a letter had come from Worcester, saying their mother, -Mrs. Timmens, was taken dangerously ill, and asking them to go over. -Miss Timmens went; Hill refused for his wife. How could he get along at -moving-time without her, he demanded. She cried and implored, but Hill -was hard as flint. So she had to remain at home, and set about her -preparations for removal; surly Hill was master and mistress too. In -starting with the first lot of movables--a few things carried in her -arms--the accident occurred. So that, in the helping to move, she was -useless; and the neighbours, ever ready to take part in a matrimonial -grievance, said it served Hill right. Any way, it did not improve his -temper. - -"When do you get in here, Hill?" - -"To-morrow, Master Johnny, please the pigs. But for the wife's -awk'ardness we'd ha' been in to-day. As to any help Davvy could give, -it's worth no more nor a rat's; he haven't got much more strength in him -nor one neither. Drat the boy!" - -Leaving Hill to his task, I went on; and in passing Mrs. Hill's -dwelling, I thought I'd give a look in to inquire after the ankle. The -cottage stood alone, just as this other one did, but was less lonely, -for the Crabb houses were round about. Davy's voice called out, "Come -in." - -He was the handiest little fellow possible for any kind of housework--or -for sewing, either; but not half strong enough or rough enough for a -boy. His soft brown eyes had a shrinking look in them, his face was -delicate as a girl's, and his hair hung in curls. But he was a -little bit deformed in the back--some called it only a stoop in the -shoulders--and, though fourteen, might have been taken for ten. The -boy's love for his mother was something wonderful. They had lived at -Worcester; she had a small income, and he had been well brought up. When -she married Hill--all her friends were against it, and it was in fact a -frightful mistake--of course they had to come to North Crabb; but Davy -was not happy. Always a timid lad, he could not overcome his first fear -of Hill. Not that the man was unkind, only rough and resolute. - -Davy was washing up the breakfast-things; his mother sat near, sorting -the contents of a chest: a neat little woman in a green stuff gown, with -the same sweet eyes as David and the same shrinking look in them. She -left off when I went in, and said her ankle was no worse. - -"It's a pity it happened just now, Mrs. Hill." - -"I'd have given a great deal for it not to, sir. They call me foolish, I -know; always have done; but it just seems to me like an omen. I had a -few articles in my arms, the first trifles we'd begun to move, and down -I fell on going out at this door. To me it seems nothing but a warning -that we ought not to move into Willow Cottage." - -David had halted in his work at the tea-cups, his brown eyes fixed -on his mother. That it was not the first time he had listened to the -superstition, and that he was every whit as bad as she, might plainly -be seen. - -"I have never liked the thought of that new place from the first, Master -Johnny. It is as if something held me back from it. Hill keeps saying -that it's a convenient dwelling, and dirt-cheap; and so it is; but I -don't like the notion of it. No more does David." - -"Oh, I dare say you will like it when you get in, Mrs. Hill, and David, -too." - -"It is to be hoped so, sir." - -The day went on; and its after events I can only speak of from hearsay. -Hill moved in a good many of his goods, David carrying some of the -lighter things, Luke Macintosh was asked to go and sleep in the house -that night as a safeguard against thieves, but he flatly refused, unless -some one slept there with him. Hill ridiculed his cowardice; and finally -agreed that David should bear him company. - -He made the bargain without his wife. She had other views for David. Her -intention was to send the lad over to Worcester by the seven-o'clock -evening train; not so much because his bed and bedding had been carried -off and there was nothing for him to sleep on, as that his dying -grandmother had expressed a wish to see him. To hear then that David was -not to go, did not please Mrs. Hill. - -It was David himself who carried in the news. She had tea waiting on the -table when they came in: David first, for his step-father had stopped to -speak to some one in the road. - -"But, David, dear--you _must_ go to Worcester," she said, when he told -her. - -"He will never let me, mother," was David's answer. "He says the things -might be stolen if nobody takes care of them: and Macintosh is afraid to -be there alone." - -She paused and looked at him, a thought striking her. The boy was -leaning upon her in his fond manner, his hand in hers. - -"Should you be afraid, David?" - -"Not--I think--with Luke. We are to be in the same room, mother." - -But Mrs. Hill noticed that his voice was hesitating; his small weak hand -trembled in hers. There was not a more morally brave heart than David -Garth's; he had had a religious training; but at being alone in the dark -he was a very coward, afraid of ghosts and goblins. - -"Hill," said she to her husband when he stamped in, the lad having -gone to wash his hands, "I cannot let David sleep in the other house -to-night. He will be too timid." - -"Timid!" repeated Hill, staring at the words. "Why, Luke Macintosh will -be with him." - -"David won't like it. Macintosh is nothing but a coward himself." - -"Don't thee be a fool, and show it," returned Hill, roughly. "Thee'll -keep that boy a baby for his life. Davvy would as soon sleep in the -house alone, as not, but for the folly put into his head by you. And why -not? He's fourteen." - -Hill--to give him his due--only spoke as he thought. That any one in the -world, grown to fourteen and upwards, could be afraid of sleeping in a -house alone, was to him literally incomprehensible. - -"I said he must go over to Worcester to see mother, James," she meekly -resumed; "you know I did." - -"Well, he can't go to-night; he shall go in the morning. There! He may -stop with her for a week, an' ye like, for all the good he is to me." - -"Mother's looking for him to-night, and he ought to go. The dying----" - -"Now just you drop it, for he can't be spared," interrupted Hill. "The -goods might be stole, with all the loose characters there is about, and -that fool of a Macintosh won't go in of himself. He's a regular coward! -Davvy must keep him company--it's not so much he does for his keep--and -he may start for Worcester by daylight." - -Whenever Hill came down upon her with this resolute decision, it struck -her timid forthwith. The allusion to the boy's keep was an additional -thrust, for it was beginning to be rather a sore subject. An uncle at -Worcester, who had no family and was well to do, had partly offered to -adopt the lad; but it was not yet settled. Davy was a great favourite -with all the relatives; Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress, doted on him. -Mrs. Hill, not venturing on further remonstrance, made the best of the -situation. - -"Davy, you are to go to Worcester the first thing in the morning," she -said, when he came back from washing his hands. "So as soon as you've -been home and had a bit o' breakfast, you shall run off to the train." - -Tea over, Hill went out on some business, saying he should be in at -eight, or thereabouts, to go with Davy to the cottage. As the hour drew -near, David, sitting over the fire with his mother in pleasant talk, as -they loved to do, asked if he should read before he went: for her habit -was to read the Bible to him, or cause him to read to her, the last -thing. - -"Yes, dear," she said. "Read the ninety-first Psalm." - -So David read it. Closing the book when it was over, he sat with it on -his knee, thoughtfully. - -"If we could only _see_ the angels, mother! It is so difficult to -remember always that they are close around, taking care of us." - -"So it is, Davy. Most of us forget it." - -"When life's over it will be so pleasant for them to carry us away to -heaven! I wish you and I could go together, mother." - -"We shall each go when God pleases, David." - -"Oh yes, I know that." - -Mrs. Hill, remembering this little bit of conversation, word for word, -repeated it afterwards to me and others, with how they had sat, and -David's looks. I say this for fear people might think I had invented it. - -Hill came in, and they prepared to go to the other house. David, his -arms full--for, of course, with things to be carried, they did not go -out empty-handed--came suddenly back from the door in going out, flung -his load down, and clasped his mother. She bent to kiss him. - -"Good night, my dear one! Don't you and Luke get chattering all night. -Go to sleep betimes." - -He burst into tears, clinging to her with sobs. It was as if his heart -were breaking. - -"Are you afraid to go?" she whispered. - -"I must go," was his sobbing answer. - -"Now then, Davvy!" called back Hill's rough tones. "What the plague are -you lagging for?" - -"Say good-bye to me, mother! Say good-bye!" - -"Good-bye, and God bless you, David! Remember the angels are around -you!" - -"I know; I know!" - -Taking up his bundles, he departed, keeping some paces behind Hill all -the way; partly to hide his face, down which the tears were raining; -partly in his usual awe of that formidable functionary who stood to him -as a step-father. - -Arrived at the house, Hill was fumbling for the key, when some one came -darting out from the shadow of its eaves. It proved to be Luke -Macintosh. - -"I was a-looking round for you," said crusty Hill. "I began to think -you'd forgot the time o' meeting." - -"No, I'd not forgot it; but I be come to say that I can't oblige you by -sleeping there," was Luke's reply. "The master have ordered me off with -the waggon afore dawn, and so--I'm a-going to sleep at home." - -Had I been there, I could have said the master had _not_ ordered Luke -off before dawn; but after his breakfast. It was just a ruse of his, -to avoid doing what he had never relished, sleeping in the house. Hill -suspected as much, and went on at him, mockingly asking if he was -afraid of hobgoblins. Luke dodged away in the midst of it, and Hill -relieved his anger by a little hot language. - -"Come along, Davvy," said he at last; "we must put these here things -inside." - -Unlocking the door, he went in; and, the first thing, fell against -something or other in the dark. Hill swore a little at that, and struck -a light, the fire having gone out. This lower room was full of articles, -thrown down out of hand; the putting things straight had been left to -the morrow. - -"Carry the match afore me, Davvy. These blankets must go upstairs." - -By some oversight no candles had been taken to the house; only the box -of matches. David lighted one match after the other, while Hill arranged -the blankets on the mattress for sleeping. This room--the one with the -skylight--was to be David's. - -"There," said Hill, taking the box of matches from him, "you'll be -comfortable here till morning. If you find it cold, you might keep on -your trousers." - -David Garth stood speechless, a look of horror struggling to his face. -In that first moment he dared not remonstrate; his awe of Hill was too -great. - -"What's the matter now?" asked Hill, striking another match. "What ails -you?" - -"You'll not leave me here, all by myself?" whispered the unhappy boy, in -desperate courage. - -"Not leave you here by yourself! Why, what d'ye think is to harm you? -Don't you try on your nonsense and your games with me, Master Davvy. I'm -not soft, like your mother. Say your prayers and get to sleep, and I'll -come and let you out in the morning." - -By a dexterous movement, Hill got outside, and closed the door softly, -slipping the bolt. The match in his fingers was nearly burnt out; -nevertheless, it had shown a last faint vision of a boy kneeling in -supplication, his hands held up, his face one of piteous agony. As Hill -struck another match to light the staircase, a wailing cry mingled with -the sound: entreaties to be let out; prayers not to be left alone; low -moans, telling of awful terror. - -"Drat the boy! This comes of his mother's coddling. Hold your row, -Davvy," he roared out, wrathfully: "you'd not like me to come back and -give you a basting." - -And Mr. James Hill, picking his way over the bundles, locked the outer -door, and betook himself home. That was our respectable bailiff. What do -you think of him? - -"Did you leave Davy comfortable?" asked Mrs. Hill, when he got back. - -"He'll be comfortable enough when he's asleep," shortly answered Hill. -"Of all hardened, ungrateful boys, that of yourn's the worst." - -"Had Luke come when you got there?" she resumed, passing over the -aspersion on Davy. - -"He was waiting: he came right out upon us like an apparition," was -Hill's evasive answer. And he did not tell the rest. - -But now, a singular thing happened that night. Mrs. Hill was in a sound -sleep, when a loud, agonized cry of "Mother" aroused her from it. She -started up, wide awake instantly, and in terror so great that the -perspiration began to pour off her face. In that moment the call was -repeated. The voice was David's voice; it had appeared to be in the -room, close to her, and she peered into every corner in vain. Then she -supposed it must have come through the window; that David, from some -cause or other, had come home from Willow Brook, and was waiting to be -let in. A dread crossed her of Hill's anger, and she felt inclined to -order the boy to go back again. - -Opening the casement window, she called to him by name; softly at first, -then louder. There was no answer. Mrs. Hill stretched out her head as -far as the narrow casement allowed, but neither David nor anyone else -could she see; nothing but the shadows cast by the moonlight. Just then -the old church clock struck out. She counted the strokes and found it -twelve. Midnight. It was bitterly cold: she closed the window at last, -concluding David had gone off from fear of being punished. All she could -hope was that he would have the sense, that dangerously keen night, to -run off to the brick kilns, and get warm there. - -But the terror lay upon her yet; she was unable to tell why or -wherefore; unless from the strangely appealing agony of the cry; still -less could she shake it off. It seemed odd. Hill awoke with the -commotion, and found her trembling. - -"What have ye got to be affrighted on?" he asked roughly, when she had -told her tale. And Mrs. Hill was puzzled to say what. - -"You had been a-dreaming of him, that's what it was. You've got nothing -else in your mind, day nor night, but that there boy." - -"It was not a dream; I am quite positive it was himself; I could not -mistake his voice," persisted Mrs. Hill. "He has come away from the -cottage, for sure. Perhaps that Luke Macintosh might have got teasing -him." - -Knowing what Hill knew, that the boy was locked in, he might safely have -stood out that he could not have come away from it; but he said no more. -Rolling himself round, he prepared to go to sleep again, resentful at -having been awakened. - -Hill overslept himself in the morning, possibly through the interrupted -rest. When he went out it was broad daylight. David Garth's being locked -up half-an-hour more or less went for nothing with Hill, and he stayed -to load the truck with some of the remainder of his goods. - -"Send Davy home at once, James," called out the wife, as he began to -wheel it away. "I'll give him his breakfast, and let him start off to -the train." - -For, with daylight, and the sight of the door-key, Mrs. Hill could only -reverse her opinion, and conclude unwillingly that it might have been a -dream. Hill showed her the key, telling her that he had locked the door -"for safety." Therefore it appeared to be impossible that David could -have got out. - -The first thing Hill saw when he and his truck approached the cottage, -was young Jim Batley, mounted on the roof and hammering away at the -skylight with his freezing hands. Jim, a regular sailor for climbing, -had climbed a tree, and thence swung himself on to the tiles. Hill -treated him to some hard words, and ordered him to come down and get a -licking. Down came Jim, taking care to dodge out of Hill's reach. - -"I can't make David hear," said Jim. "I've got to go to Timberdale, and -I want him to go along with me." - -"That's no reason why you should get atop of my roof," roared Hill. "You -look out for a sweet hiding, young Jim. The first time I get hold on -you, you shall have it kindly." - -"He sleeps uncommon hard," said Jim. "One 'ud think the cold had froze -him. I've got to take a letter to my uncle's at Timberdale: we shall -find a jolly good hot breakfast when we get there." - -Hill condescended to abate his anger so far as to inform Jim Batley that -David could not go to Timberdale; adding that he was going off by train -to see his grandmother at Worcester. Ordering Jim to take himself away, -he unlocked the door and entered the cottage. - -Jim Batley chose to stay. He was a tall, thin, obstinate fellow, of -eleven, and meant to wait and speak to David. Given to following his own -way whenever he could, in spite of his father and mother, it occurred to -him that perhaps David might be persuaded to take Timberdale first and -the train after. - -He amused himself with the dead leaves while he waited. But it seemed -that David took a long time dressing. The truck stood at the door; Jim -stamped and whistled, and shied a few stones at the topmost article, -which was Mrs. Hill's potato saucepan. Presently Hill came out and began -to unload, beginning with the saucepan. - -"Where's Davy?" demanded Jim, from a safe distance. "Ain't he ready -yet?" - -"Now if you don't get off about your business I'll make you go," was -Hill's answer, keeping his back turned to the boy. "You haven't got -nothing to stop here for." - -"I'm stopping to speak to Davy." - -"Davy was away out o' here afore daylight and took the first train to -Worcester. He's a'most there by now." - -Young boys are not clever reasoners; but certain contradictory odds and -ends passed through Jim's disappointed mind. For one thing, he had seen -Hill unlock the door. - -"I don't think he's gone out yet. I see his boots." - -"What boots?" asked Hill, putting a bandbox inside the door. - -"Davy's. I see 'em through the skylight; they stood near the mattress." - -"Them was a pair of my boots as I carried here last night. I tell ye -Davvy's _gone_: can't ye believe? He won't be home for some days -neither, for his grandmother's safe to keep him." - -Jim Batley went off slowly on his way to Timberdale: there was nothing -to stay for, Davy being gone. Happening to turn round, he caught Hill -looking after him, and saw his face for the first time. It had turned -white as death. The contrast was very remarkable, for it was usually of -a deep red. - -"Well, I never!" cried Jim, halting in surprise. "Mayhap the cold have -took him! Serve him right." - -When Hill had got all the things inside he locked himself in, probably -not to be disturbed while he arranged them. Mrs. Hill had been waiting -breakfast ever so long when she heard the truck coming back. - -"Whatever's become of David?" she began. "I expected him home at once." - -"David has started for Worcester," said Hill. - -"Started for Worcester? Without his breakfast?" - -"Now don't you worry yourself about petty things," returned Hill, -crustily. "You wanted him to go, and he's gone. He won't starve; let him -alone for that." - -The notion assumed by Mrs. Hill was, that her husband had started the -boy off from the cottage direct to the train. She felt thoroughly vexed. - -"He had all his old clothes on, Hill. I would not have had him go to -Worcester in that plight for any money. You might have let the child -come home for a bit of breakfast--and to dress himself. There was not -so much as a brush and comb at the place, to make his hair tidy." - -"There's no pleasing you," growled Hill. "Last night you were a'most -crying, cause Davvy couldn't be let go over to see your mother; and, now -that he is gone, _that_ don't please ye! Women be the very deuce for -grumbling." - -Mrs. Hill dropped the subject--there could be no remedy--and gave her -husband his breakfast in silence. Hill seemed to eat nothing, and looked -very pale; at moments ghastly. - -"Don't you feel well?" she asked. - -"Well?--I'm well enough. What should ail me--barring the cold? It's as -sharp a frost as ever I was out in." - -"Drink this," she said, pouring him out another cup of hot tea. "It is -cold; and I'm sorry we've got it so for our moving. What time shall we -get in to-day, Hill?" - -"Not at all." - -"Not at all!" repeated the wife in surprise. - -"No, not at all," was Hill's surly confirmation. "What with you -disabled, and Davvy o' no use, things is not as forrard as they ought to -be. I've got to be off to my work too, pretty quick, or the Squire'll be -about me. We shan't get in till to-morrow." - -"But nearly all our things are in," she remonstrated. "There's as good -as nothing left here." - -"I tell ye we don't go in afore to-morrow," said Hill, giving the table -a thump. "Can't ye be satisfied with that?" - -He went off to his work. Mrs. Hill, accepting the change as inevitable, -resigned herself, and borrowed a saucepan to cook the potatoes for -dinner. She might have spared herself the trouble; her husband did not -come in for any. He bought a penny loaf and some cheese, and made his -dinner of it inside our home barn, Molly giving him some beer. He had -done it before when very busy: but the work he was about that day was in -no such hurry, and he might have left it if he would. - -"Who is to sleep in the house to-night?" his wife asked him when he got -home to tea. - -"I shall," said Hill. "I won't be beholden to nobody." - -Mrs. Hill, remembering the experience of the past night, quaked a little -at finding she should have to sleep in the old place alone, devoutly -praying there might be no recurrence of the dream that had thrown her -into such mortal terror. She and Davy were just alike--frightened at -their own shadows in the dark. When Hill was safe off, she hurried into -bed, and kept her head under the clothes. - -Hill came back betimes in the morning; and they moved in at once; old -Coney's groom, who happened to be out with the dog-cart, offering to -drive Mrs. Hill. Though her ankle was better and the distance short, she -could hardly have walked. Instead of finding the house in order, as she -expected, it was all sixes and sevens; the things lying about all over -it. - -Towards evening, Hannah got me to call at Willow Brook and say she'd -go there in the morning for an hour or two, to help put things in -order--the mistress had said she might do so. The fact was, Hannah was -burning for a gossip, she and Hill's wife being choice friends. It was -almost dark; the front room looked tolerably straight, and Mrs. Hill -sat by the fire, resting her foot and looking out at the window, the -shutters not yet closed. - -"I'd be very thankful for her to come, Master Johnny," she said eagerly, -hardly letting me finish. "There's a great deal to do; and, besides -that, it is so lonesome here. I never had such a feeling in all my life; -and I have gone into strange homes before this." - -"It does seem lonesome, somehow. The fancy may go off in a day or two." - -"I don't know, sir: it's to be hoped it will. Master Johnny, as true as -that we are sitting here, when I got out of Mr. Coney's dog-cart and -put my foot over the threshold to enter, a fit of trembling took me all -over. There was no cause for it: I mean I was not thinking of anything -to give it me. Not a minute before, I was laughing; for the man had been -telling me a joking story of something that happened yesterday at his -master's. A strange fear seemed to come upon me all at once as I stepped -over the threshold, and I began to shake from head to foot. Hill stared -at me, and at last asked if it was the cold; I told him truly that I -did not know what it was; except that it seemed like some unaccountable -attack, for I was well wrapped up. He had some brandy in a bottle, and -made me drink a drop. The fit went off; but I have had a queer lonesome -feeling on me ever since, as if the house was not one to be alone in." - -"And you have been alone, I suppose?" - -"Every bit of the time, save when Hill came in to his dinner. I don't -remember ever to have had such a feeling before in broad daylight. It's -just as if the house was haunted." - -Not believing in haunted houses, I laughed. Mrs. Hill got up to stir the -fire. It blazed, and cast her shadow upon the opposite wall. - -"When dusk came on, I could hardly bear it. But for your coming in, -Master Johnny, I should have stood at the door in the cold, and watched -for Hill: things don't feel so lonely to one out of doors as in." - -So it seemed that I was in for a stay--any way, till Hill arrived. After -this, it would not have been very kind to leave her alone; she looked so -weak and little. - -"I've never liked the thought of moving here from the first," she went -on; "and then there came the accident to my foot. Some people think -nothing at all of omens, Master Johnny, but I do think of them. They -come oftener than is thought for too; only, so few take notice of them. -I wish Davy was back! I can't bear to be in this house alone." - -"David is at Worcester, I heard Hill say." - -"He went yesterday morning, sir. I expected a letter from him to-day; -and it is very curious that none have come. Davy knew how anxious I -was about mother; and he never fails to write when he's away from me. -Somehow, all things are going crooked and cross just now. I had a fright -the night before last. Master Johnny, and I am hardly quit of it yet." - -"What was that?" I asked her. - -She stared into the fire for a minute or two before she answered me. -There was no other light in the room; I sat back against the wall beside -the window--the shutters were still open. - -"You might not care to hear it, sir." - -"I should if it's worth telling." - -Turning from the fire, she looked straight at me while she told it from -beginning to end, exactly as I have written it above. The tale would -have been just the thing for Mrs. Todhetley: who went in for marvels. - -"Hill stood to it that it was a dream, Master Johnny; but the more I -think of it, the less I believe it could have been one. If I had only -heard the call in my sleep, or in the moment of waking, why of course it -might have been a dream; but when I heard it the second time it was -_after_ I awoke. I heard it as plain as I hear my own voice now; and -plainer, too." - -"But what else, except a dream, do you fancy it could have been?" - -"Well, sir, that's what is puzzling me. But for Hill's convincing me -Davy could not have got out of here after he had locked him and -Macintosh in for safety, I should have said it was the boy himself, -calling me from outside. It sounded in the room, close to me: but the -fright I was in might have deceived me. What's that?" - -A loud rapping at the window. I am not ashamed to say that coming so -unexpectedly it startled me. Mrs. Hill, with a shrill scream, darted -forward to catch hold of my arm. - -"Let me go. Some one wants to be let in. I dare say it's Hill." - -"Master Johnny, I beg your pardon," she said, going back. "Hill ought to -know better than to come frightening me at night like this." - -I opened the door, and Miss Timmens walked in: not Hill. The knocking -had not been intended to frighten any one, but as a greeting to Mrs. -Hill--Miss Timmens having seen her through the glass. - -"You know you always were one of the quaking ones, Nanny," she said, -scoffing at the alarm. "I have just got back from Worcester, and thought -you'd like to hear that mother's better." - -"And it is well you are back, Miss Timmens," I put in. "The school -has been in rebellion. Strangers, going by, have taken it for a bear -garden." - -"That Maria Lease is just good for nothing," said Miss Timmens, -wrathfully. "When she offered to take my place I knew she'd not be of -much use. Yes, sir; it was the thought of the school that brought me -back so soon." - -"And mother is really better!" cried Mrs. Hill. "I am so thankful. If -she had died and I not able to get over to her, I should never have -forgiven myself. How is David?" - -"Are you getting straight, Nancy?" asked Miss Timmens, looking round the -room, and not noticing the question about David. - -"Straight! and only moved in this morning! and me with this ankle!" - -Miss Timmens laughed. She was just as capable as her sister was the -contrary. - -"About David?" added Mrs. Hill, "I was so vexed that he went over in his -old clothes! It was Hill's fault. Have you brought me a letter from -him?" - -"How could I bring you a letter from him?" returned Miss Timmens. "A -letter from where?" - -It was a minute or two before elucidation was arrived at, for both were -at cross-purposes. David Garth had not been at Worcester at all, so far -as Miss Timmens knew; certainly not at his grandmother's. - -To see Mrs. Hill sink back into her chair at this information, and let -her hands fall on her lap, and gaze helplessly from her frightened eyes, -was only to be expected. Miss Timmens kept asking what it all meant, and -where David was, but she could get no answer. So I told her what Mother -Hill had just told me--about Hill's sending him off to Worcester. She -stared like anything. - -"Why, where in the name of wonder can the boy have got to?" - -"I see it all," spoke the mother then, in a whisper. "Davy did find his -way out of this house; and it was his voice I heard, and not a dream. I -knew it. I knew it at the time." - -These words would have sounded mysterious to any one given to mystery. -Miss Timmens was not. She was a long, thin female, with a chronic -redness on her nose and one cheek, and she was as practical as could be. -Demanding what Mrs. Hill meant by "not a dream," she stood warming her -boots at the fire while she was enlightened. - -"The boy is keeping away for fear of Hill tanning him," spoke Miss -Timmens, summing up the question. "Don't you think so, Master Ludlow?" - -"I should, if I could see how he got out of the cottage, after Hill had -locked him in it." - -"Luke Macintosh put him out at this window," said Miss Timmens, -decisively. "Hill couldn't lock that up. They'd open the shutters, and -Luke would pop him out: to get rid of the boy, no doubt. Mr. Luke ought -to be punished for it." - -I did not contradict her. Of course it might have been so; but knowing -Luke, I did not think he would care to be left in the house alone. -Unless--the thought flashed over me--unless Luke sent away David that -he might be off himself. Amidst a good deal of uncertainty, this view -seemed the most probable. - -"Where is David?" bemoaned Mrs. Hill; "where is he? And with these -bitter cold nights----" - -"Now don't you worry yourself, Nanny," interrupted strong-minded Miss -Timmens. "I'll see to David; and bring him home, too." - -Hill's cough was heard outside. Miss Timmens--who had been in a dead -rage at the marriage, and consequently hated Hill like poison--hastened -to depart. We went away together, passing Hill by the dried-up brook. -He looked stealthily at us, and threw back a surly good night to me. - -"I'm sure I don't know where I am to look for the boy first," began Miss -Timmens, as we went along. "Poor fellow! he is keeping away out of fear. -It would not surprise me if Macintosh is taking care of him. The man's -not ill-natured." - -"I don't understand why Hill should have told his mother David was gone -to Worcester, unless he did go." Neither did I. - -"David never went to Worcester; rely upon that, Master Ludlow," was her -answer. "He is well known at Shrub Hill Station, and I could not have -failed to hear of it, for one of the porters lodges in mother's house; -besides, David would have come down to us at once. Good night, sir. I -dare say he will turn up before to-morrow." - -She went on towards the school-house, I the other way to Crabb Cot. Mrs. -Todhetley and the Squire were talking together by the blazing fire, -waiting until old Thomas announced dinner. - -"Where have you been lingering this cold evening, Johnny?" began the -Squire. "Don't you get trying the ponds, sir; the ice is not wafer thick -yet." - -Kneeling on the rug between them, holding my hands to the warmth, I told -where I had been, and what I had heard. Mrs. Todhetley, who seemed to -have been born with a sympathy for children, went into lamentation -over--it was what she said--that poor little gentle lamb, David. - -"Macintosh is about somewhere," spoke the Squire, ringing the bell. "We -will soon hear whether he knows what has become of the boy." - -Thomas was ordered to find Macintosh and send him in. He came presently, -shy and sheepish, as usual. Standing just inside the door, he blinked -his eyes and rubbed his hands one over the other, like an idiot. It was -only his way. - -"Do you know where David Garth is?" began the Squire, who thought -himself a regular Q.C. at cross-examining. Luke stared and said No. The -fact was, he had not heard that David was missing. - -"What time was it that you put him out of the window the night before -last?" - -Luke's eyes and mouth opened. He had no more idea what the Squire meant -than the man in the moon. - -"Don't stand there as if you were a born simpleton, but answer me," -commanded the Squire. "When you and David Garth were put into Hill's new -cottage to take care of the things for the night, how came you to let -the boy out of it? Why did you do it? Upon what plea?" - -"But I didn't do it, sir," said Luke. - -"Now don't you stand there and say that to my face, Macintosh. It won't -answer; for I know all about it. You put that poor shivering boy out at -the window that you might be off yourself; that's about the English of -it. Where did he go to?" - -"But I couldn't do it, sir," was Luke's answer to this. "I was not in -the place myself." - -"You were not there yourself?" - -"No, sir, I warn't. Knowing I should have to go off with the waggon -pretty early, I went down and telled Hill that I should sleep at home." - -"Do you mean to say you did not go into Hill's place at all?" - -"No, sir, I didn't. I conclude Hill slept there hisself. I know nothing -about it, for I don't happen to have come across Hill since. I've kept -out of his way." - -This was a new turn to the affair. Luke quitted the room, and a silence -ensued. Mrs. Todhetley touched me on the shoulder. - -"Johnny?" - -"Yes!" I said, wondering at the startled look in her eyes. - -"I hope Hill did not put that poor child into the house alone! If so, no -wonder that he made his escape from it." - - * * * * * - -The matter could not rest. One talked, and another talked: and before -noon next day it was known all over the place that David Garth had been -put to sleep by himself in the empty cottage. Miss Timmens attacked Hill -with her strong tongue, and told him it was enough to frighten the child -to death. Hill was sullen. He would answer nothing; and all she could -get out of him was, that it was no business of hers. In vain she -demanded his reasons for saying the boy had gone to Worcester by the -early train: whether he sent him--whether he saw him off. Hill said -David did go; and then took refuge in dogged silence. - -The schoolmistress was not one to be played with. Of a tenacious turn, -she followed out things with a will. She called in the police; she -harangued people outside her door; she set the parish in a ferment. But -David could not be heard of, high or low. Since the midnight hour, when -that call of his awoke his mother, and was again repeated, he seemed to -have vanished. - -There arose a rumour that Jim Batley could tell something. Miss Timmens -pounced upon him as he was going by the school-house, conveyed him -indoors, and ordered him to make a clean breast of it. It was not much -that Jim had to tell: but that little seemed of importance to Miss -Timmens, and he told it readily. One thing Jim persisted in--that the -boots he saw through the skylight must have been David's boots. Hill had -called them his, he said, but they were not big enough--not men's boots -at all. Hill was looking "ghastly white," as if he had had a fright, Jim -added, when he told him David was gone off to Worcester. - -Perhaps it was in that moment that a fear of something worse than had -been yet suspected dawned upon Miss Timmens. Tying on her bonnet, she -came up to Crabb Cot, and asked to see the Squire. - -"It is getting more serious," she said, after old Thomas had shown her -in. "I think, sir, Hill should be forced to explain what he knows. I -have come here to ask you to insist upon it." - -"The question is--what does he know?" rejoined the Squire. - -"More than he has confessed," said Miss Timmens, in her positive manner. -"Jim Batley stands to it that those boots must, from the size, have been -David's boots. Now, Squire Todhetley, if David's boots were there, where -was David? That is what's lying on my mind, sir." - -"What did Jim Batley see besides the boots?" asked the Squire. - -"Nothing in particular," she answered. "He said the cupboard door stood -open, and hid the best part of the room. David would not be likely to -run away and leave his boots behind him." - -"Unless he was in too great a fright to stop to put them on." - -"I don't think that, sir." - -"What is it you wish to imply?" asked the Squire, not seeing the drift -of the argument. - -"I wish I knew myself," replied Miss Timmens, candidly. "I am certain -Hill has not told all he could tell: he has been deceitful over it from -the first, and he must be made to explain. Look here, sir: when he got -to Willow Cottage that morning, there's no doubt he thought David was in -it. Very well. He goes in to call him; stays a bit, and then comes out -and tells young Jim that David has gone to Worcester. How was he to -know David had gone to Worcester?--who told him? The boy says, too, that -Hill looked ghastly, as if he had been frightened." - -"David must have gone somewhere, or he would have been in the room," -argued the Squire. "He would not be likely to go back after quitting it, -and his mother heard him call to her in the middle of the night." - -"Just so, sir. But--if Hill did not find him, why should he come out and -assert that David had started for Worcester?--Why not have said David -had escaped?" - -"I am sure I don't know." - -"It's the boots that come over me," avowed Miss Timmens; "I can't come -to the bottom of them. I mean to come to the bottom of Hill, though, and -make him disclose what he knows. You are his master, sir, and perhaps he -will tell you without trouble, if you will please to be so good as -question him. If he won't, I'll have him brought up before the Bench." - -Away went Miss Timmens, with a parting remark that the school must be -rampant by that time. The Squire sat thinking a bit, and then put on his -hat and great-coat, telling me I might come with him and hear what Hill -had to say. We expected to find Hill in the ploughed field between his -cottage and North Crabb. But Hill was in his own garden; we saw him as -we went along. Without ceremony, the Squire opened the wooden gate, and -stepped in. Hill was raking the leaves together by the shed at the end -of the garden. - -He threw down the rake when he saw us, as if startled, his red face -turning white. Coming forward, he began a confused excuse for being -at home at that hour of the day, saying there was so much to do when -getting into a fresh place; and that he had not been well for two days, -"had had a sickness upon him." The Squire, never hard with the men, told -him he was welcome to be there, and began talking about the garden. - -"It is as rich a bit of land, Hill, as any in the parish, and you may -turn it to good account if you are industrious. Does your wife intend to -keep chickens?" - -"Well, sir, I suppose she will. Town-bred women don't understand far -about 'em, though. It may be a'most as much loss as profit." - -"Nonsense," said the Squire, in his quick way. "Loss! when you have -every convenience about you! This used to be the fowl-house in Hopton's -time," he added, rapping the side of the shed with his stick. "Why! -you've been putting a padlock on it, Hill!" - -For the door was fastened with a padlock; a new one, to judge by its -look. Hill made no comment. He had taken up the rake again and was -raking vigorously at the dead leaves. I wondered what he was shaking -for. - -"Have you any treasures here, that you should lock it up?" - -"Only the watering-can, sir, and a few o' my garden tools," answered -Hill. "There's a heap of loose characters about, and nothing's safe from -'em." - -Putting his back against the shed, the Squire suddenly called on Hill to -face him, and entered on the business he had come upon. "Where was David -Garth? Did he, Hill, know anything about him?" - -Hill had looked pale before; I said so; but that was nothing to the -frightful whiteness that took him now. Ears, lips, neck; all turned the -hue of the dead. The rake shook in his grasp; his teeth chattered. - -"Come, Hill," said the Squire; "I see you have something to say." - -But Hill protested he had nothing to say: except that the boy's absence -puzzled him. The Squire put some home questions upon the points spoken -of by Miss Timmens, showing Hill that we knew all. He then told him he -might take his choice; answer, or go before the magistrates. - -Apparently Hill saw the futility of holding out longer. His very aspect -would have convicted him, as the Squire said: if he had committed -murder, he could not have looked more guilty. Glancing shudderingly -around on all sides, as though the air had phantoms in it, he whispered -his version of the morning's work. - -It was true that he _had_ gone to the house expecting to find David in -it; and it was true that when he entered he found him flown. Not wishing -to alarm the boy's mother, he told Jim Batley that David had gone by -early train to Worcester: he told the mother so. As to the boots, Hill -declared they were his own, not David's; and that Jim's eyes must have -been deceived in the size. And he vowed and declared he knew no more -than this, or where David could have got to. - -"What do you think you deserve for locking the child in the house by -himself?" asked the Squire, sternly. - -"Everything that'll come upon me through it," readily acknowledged Hill. -"I could cut my hands off now for having done it; but I never thought -he'd be really frightened. It's just as if his ghost had been haunting -me ever since; I see him a-following of me everywhere." - -"His ghost!" exclaimed the Squire. "Do you suppose he is dead?" - -"I don't know," said the man, passing his shaking hand across his damp -forehead. "I wish to Heaven I had let him go off to his grandmother's -that same blessed night!" - -"Then you wish me to understand, Hill, that you absolutely know nothing -of where the boy may be?" - -"Nothing at all, sir." - -"Don't you think it might have been as well if you had told the truth -from the first?" asked the Squire, rather sarcastically. - -"Well, sir, one's mind gets confused at times, and I thought of his -mother. I could not be off seeing that if anything had happened, it lay -on my shoulders for having left him alone, in there." - -Whether the Squire believed Hill could tell more, I don't know. I did. -As we went on to the school-house, the Pater kept silence. Miss Timmens -was frightfully disappointed at the result, and said Hill was a shifty -scoundrel. - -"I cannot tell what to think," the Squire remarked to her. "His manner -is the strangest I ever saw; it is just as though he had something on -his conscience. He said the boy's ghost seemed to haunt him. Did you -notice that, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir. A queer idea." - -"He--he--never could have found David dead in the morning?" cried Miss -Timmens, in a low tone, herself turning a little pale. "Dead of fright?" - -"That could not be," said the Squire. "You forget that David had made -his escape before midnight, and was at his mother's, calling to her." - -"True, true," assented Miss Timmens. "Any way, I am certain Hill is -somehow or other deceiving us, and he is a born villain for doing it." - -But Hill, deceiving us though he had been, could not hold out. In going -back, we saw him leaning over the palings waiting for us. But that the -man is living yet, I should have said he was going to die there and -then, for he looked exactly like it. - -It seemed that just after we left him, a policeman had made his -appearance. Not as a policeman, but as a friend; for he and Hill were -cronies. He told Hill confidentially that there was "going to be a row -over that there lost boy; that folks were saying that he might have been -murdered; that unless Hill could tell something satisfactory about him, -he and others might be in custody before the day was over." Whether Hill -found himself brought to a point from which there was neither advance -nor retreat, or that he inevitably saw that concealment could no longer -be maintained, or that he was stricken to despair and felt helpless, I -know not. There he stood, his head over the palings, saying he would -tell all. - -It was a sad tale to listen to. Miss Timmens's last supposition was -right--Hill, upon going up to release David Garth, had found him dead. -And, so far as the man's experience of death went, he must have been -dead for six or seven hours. - -"I'd like you to come and see him, sir," panted Hill. - -Gingerly stepped the Squire in Hill's wake across the garden to the -shed. Unlocking the door, Hill stepped back for us to enter. On a -mattress on the ground was David, laid straight in his every-day -clothes, and covered with a blanket; his pretty hair, which his mother -had so loved, carefully smoothed. Hill,--rough, burly, cross-grained -Hill,--burst into tears and sobbed like a child. - -"I'd give my life to undo it, and bring him back again, Squire; I'd give -my life twice over, Master Johnny; but I declare before Heaven, I never -thought to harm the boy. When I see him the next morning, lying dead, -I'd not have minded if the Lord had struck me dead too. I've been a'most -mad ever since." - -"Johnny," said the Squire, in low tones, "go you to South Crabb, and -bring over Mr. Cole. Do not talk of this." - -The surgeon was at home, and came back with me. I did not quite -understand why the Squire sent for him, seeing he could do no good. - -And the boots were David's, after all; the only things he had taken off. -Hill had brought him to this shed the next night; with some vague idea -of burying him in the ground under the leaves. "But I couldn't do it," -he avowed amid his sobs; "I couldn't do it." - -There was an examination, Cole and another making it; and they gave -evidence at the inquest. One of them (it was Cole) thought the boy must -have died from fright, the other from the cold; and a nice muff this -last must have been. - -"I did not from the first like that midnight call, or the apparently -causeless terror the poor mother awoke in," said Mrs. Todhetley, to me. -"The child's spirit must have cried out to her in his death-agony. I -have known a case like this before." - -"But----" - -"Hold your tongue, Johnny, You have not lived long enough to gain -experience of these things." - -And I held it. - - - - -XX. - -DAVID GARTH'S GHOST. - - -"Is it true that she's going to marry him, Miss Timmens?" - -"True! _I_ don't know," retorted Miss Timmens, in wrath. "It won't be -for lack of warning, if she does. I told her so last night; and she -tossed her head in answer. She's a vain, heartless girl, Hannah Baber, -with no more prudence about her than a female ostrich." - -"There may be nothing in it, after all," said Hannah. "She is generally -ready to flirt, you know." - -"Flirt!" shrieked Miss Timmens in her shrillest tone. "She'd flirt with -a two-legged wheelbarrow if it had trousers on." - -This colloquy was taking place at the private door of the school-house. -And you must understand that we have gone back a few months, for at this -time David Garth was not dead. Hannah, who had gone down from Crabb Cot -on an errand, came upon Miss Timmens standing there to look out. Of -course she stayed to gossip. - -The object of Miss Timmens's wrath was her niece, Harriet Roe. A vain, -showy, handsome, free-natured girl, as you have heard, with bright dark -eyes and white teeth--who had helped to work the mischief between Maria -Lease and Daniel Ferrar which had led to Ferrar's dreadful death. -Humphrey Roe, Harriet's father, was half-brother to Miss Timmens and -Mrs. Hill; he had settled in France, and married a Frenchwoman. Miss -Harriet chose to call herself French, and politely said the English were -not fit to tie that nation's shoes. Perhaps that was why she had now -taken up with a cousin, Louis Roe. Not that Louis Roe was really French: -he had been born in France of English parents, and so was next door to -it. A fashionable-looking young man North Crabb considered him, for he -wore well-cut coats and a moustache. A moustache was a thing to be -stared at in simple country places then. It may have had something to -do with Miss Timmens's dislike to the young man. Louis Roe was only a -distant relative: a tenth cousin, or so; of whom Miss Timmens had heard -before, but never seen. When he appeared unexpectedly one January day -at the school-house (it was the January after Daniel Ferrar's death), -ostensibly to see Harriet, whom he had known in France, Miss Timmens, -between surprise and the moustache, was less gracious than she might -have been. From that time to this--March--he had (as Miss Timmens put -it) haunted the place, though chiefly taking up his abode at Worcester. -Harriet had struck into a flirtation with him at once, after her native -fashion: and now it was reported that they were going to be married. -Miss Timmens could not find out that he was doing anything for a living. -He talked of his fine "affaires" over in France: but when she questioned -him of what nature the "affaires" were, he either evaded her like an -eel, or gave rambling answers that she could make neither head nor tail -of. The way in which he and Harriet would jabber French in her presence, -not a word of which language could she comprehend, and the laughing -that went on at the same time, put Miss Timmens's back up worse than -anything, for she thought they were making game of her. She could be -tart when she pleased; and when that happened, the redness in the nose -and cheek grew redder. Very tart indeed was she, recounting these -grievances to Hannah. - -"My firm belief, Hannah Baber, is, that he wants to get hold of Harriet -for her two-hundred pounds. She has that much, you know: it came to her -from her mother. Roe would rather play the gentleman than work. It is -the money he's after, not Harriet." - -"The money may put him into some good way of business, and they may live -comfortably together," suggested Hannah. - -"Pigs may fly," returned Miss Timmens. "There's something in that -young man, Hannah Baber, that I could not trust. Oh, but girls are -wilful!--and simple, at the best, where the men are concerned! They -can't see an inch beyond their noses: no, and they won't let others, -who have sight, see for them. Look there!" - -Emerging into the spring sunshine from the withy walk, came the -gentleman in question; Harriet Roe in her gay ribbons at his side. Miss -Timmens gave her door a bang, regardless of good manners, and Hannah -pursued her way. - -The road thus paved for it, North Crabb church was not taken by surprise -when it heard the marriage banns read out one Sunday morning between -Louis Roe, of the parish of St. Swithin, Worcester (he was staying there -at the time), and Henriette Adele Marie Roe. Miss Timmens, who had not -been taken into confidence, started violently; Mademoiselle Henriette -Adele Marie, sitting by her side, held up her head and her blooming -cheeks with unruffled equanimity. It was said there was a scene when -they got home: Miss Timmens's sister (once Mrs. Garth, but then our -bailiff's wife, James Hill) looking in at the school-house to assist -at it. Neither of them could make anything of Harriet. - -"I'll tell you what it is, Aunt Susan and Aunt Nancy," said the girl -passionately, when her temper got roused: "_my mind is made up to marry -Louis_; and if you don't drop this magging now and for good; if you -attempt to worry me any further, I'll go off to Worcester, and stay with -him till the day arrives. There! how would you like that? I will, I -declare. It would be thought nothing at all of in my country, with the -wedding so near." - -This shut them up. Mrs. Hill, a meek, gentle little woman, who had her -sorrows, and habitually let Miss Timmens do all the talking when they -were together, began to cry. Harriet ate her cold dinner standing, and -went off for an afternoon promenade with Monsieur Louis. From that time, -even Miss Timmens gave up all thought of opposition, seeing that events -must take their course. Harriet's parents were dead; she was over age, -and her own mistress in the eye of the law. - -"Would you mind taking a turn with me in the withy walk, Harriet Roe?" -asked Maria Lease, as they were coming out of church that same night. - -Harriet was alone. Louis Roe had gone back to Worcester. The request -surprised her considerably. Since Daniel Ferrar's death the past -November, Maria had been very distant with her; averting her head if -they happened to meet. - -"So you have come to your senses, have you, Maria Lease?" was the half -insolent, half good-natured answer. "I'll walk down it with you if you -like." - -"Come to my senses in what way?" asked Maria, in low, subdued, sad -tones, as they went towards the withy walk. - -"About--_you_ know what. You blamed _me_ for what happened. As good as -laid his death at my door." - -"Did you ever hear me say so?" - -"Oh, I could see: your manner was enough. As if I either helped it -on--or could have prevented it! We used to have just a bit of talking -and laughing together, he and I, but that was all." - -That's all! And the gold chain was still on Harriet's neck. Maria -suppressed a sigh. - -"Whether I blamed you for it, Harriet Roe, or whether I blamed myself, -is of no moment now. The past can never be recalled or redeemed in this -world--its remembrance alone remains. I want to do you a little service, -Harriet. Nothing may come of it, but it is my duty to speak." - -Amidst the shadows of the withy beds, under the silent stars, Maria -spoke, dropping her voice to a whisper. In a sufficiently curious but -accidental manner, she had heard something said the previous week about -Louis Roe. A stranger, who had known him in France, spoke very much -in his disfavour. He said that any girl, if she cared for her future -happiness and credit would be mad to unite herself to him. Maria had -asked no particulars; they might not have been given if she had; but the -impression of Louis Roe left on her mind was not a good one. All this -she quietly repeated to Harriet. It was received in anything but a -friendly spirit. - -"Thank you for nothing, Maria Lease. Because you lost your own -husband--that was to have been--you think you'll try what you can do -to deprive me of mine. A slice of revenge, I suppose: but it won't -succeed." - -"Harriet, you are mistaken," rejoined Maria; and Miss Harriet thought -she had never in her life heard so mournfully sad a tone as the words -were spoken in. "So much self-reproach fell upon me that bitter evening -when he was found dead: reproach that can never be lifted from me while -time shall last: that I do not think I can ever again do an ill turn in -this life, or give an unkind word. The whole world does not seem to be -as sinful in its wickedness as I was in my harsh unkindness; and there's -no sort of expiation left to me. If I pass my whole existence laying my -hands under other people's feet in humble hope to serve them, it cannot -undo the bitterness of my passion when I exposed him before Johnny -Ludlow. The exposure was more than he could bear; and he--he put an end -to it. I suffer always, Harriet Roe; my days are one prolonged burning -agony of repentance. Repentance that brings no relief." - -"My goodness!" cried Harriet, her breath almost scared away at hearing -this, careless-natured though she was. "I'll tell you what, Maria: I -should turn Roman Catholic in your place; and let a priest absolve me -from the sin." - -A priest absolve her from the sin! The strange anguish on her compressed -lips was visible as Maria Lease turned her face upwards in the -starlight. ONE Most High and merciful Priest was ever there, who could, -and would, wash out her sin. But--what of Daniel Ferrar, who had died in -his? - -"If there is one person whom I would more especially seek in kindness -to serve, it is you, Harriet," she resumed, putting her hand gently -on Harriet's arm--and her fingers accidentally touched the chain -that Daniel Ferrar had hung round the girl's neck in his perfidy. -"Revenge!--from me!" - -"The very idea of my giving up Louis is absurd," was Harriet's -rejoinder, as they came out of the withy walk. "Thank you all the -same, Maria Lease; and there's my hand. I see now that you meant -kindly: but no one shall set me against my promised husband." - -Maria shook the hand in silence. - -"Look here, Maria--don't go and tell your beautiful scandal to sharp -Susan Timmens. Not that I care whether you do or not, except on the -score of contention. She would strike up fresh opposition, and it might -come to scratching and fighting. My temper has borne enough: one can't -be a lamb always." - -The wedding came off on Easter Tuesday. Harriet wore a bright silk -dress, the colour of lilac, with a wreath and veil. When the latter -ornaments came home, Miss Timmens nearly fainted. Decent young women in -their station of life were married in bonnets, she represented: not in -wreaths and veils. But Harriet Roe, reared to French customs, said -bonnets could never be admissible for a bride, and she'd sooner go to -church in a coal-scuttle. The Batley girls, in trains and straw-hats, -were bridesmaids. Miss Timmens wore a new shawl and white gloves; and -poor little David Garth--who was to die of fright before that same year -came to an end--stood with his hand locked in his mother's. - -And so, in the self-same church where she had sat displaying her graces -before the ill-fated Daniel Ferrar, and by the same young clergyman who -had preached to her then, Harriet became the wife of Louis Roe, and went -away with him to London. - - * * * * * - -The next move in the chain of events was the death of David Garth in -Willow Cottage. It occurred in November, when Tod and I were staying -at home, and has been already told of. James Hill escaped without -punishment: it was said there was no law to touch him. He protested -through thick and thin that he meant no harm to the boy; to do him -justice, it was not supposed he had: he was finely repentant for it, -and escaped with a reprimand. - -Mrs. Hill refused to remain in the cottage. What with her innate -tendency to superstition, with the real facts of the case, and with that -strange belief--that David's spirit had appeared to her in the moment of -dying; a belief firm and fixed as adamant--she passed into a state of -horror of the dwelling. Not another night could she remain in it. The -doctor himself, Cole, said she must not. Miss Timmens took her in as a -temporary thing; until the furniture could be replaced in their former -house, which was not let. Hill made no objection to this. For that -matter, he seemed afraid of the new place himself, and was glad to get -back to the old one. All his native surliness had left him for the time: -he was as a subdued man whose tongue has departed on an excursion. You -see, he had feared the law might come down upon him. The coroner's -inquest had brought in a safe verdict: all Hill received was a censure -for having locked the boy in alone: but he could not yet feel sure that -the affair would not be taken up by the magistrates: and the parish said -in his hearing that his punishment ought to be transportation at the -very least. Altogether, it subdued him. - -So, as soon as David's funeral was over, and while his wife was still -with Miss Timmens, Hill began to move back his goods in a sort of humble -silence. Crowds collected to see the transport, much to Hill's annoyance -and discomfiture. The calamity had caused intense excitement in the -place; and Miss Timmens, who had a very long tongue, and hated Hill just -as much as she had loved David, kept up the ball. Hill's intention was -to lock up Willow Cottage until he could get Mr. Todhetley to release -him from it. At present he dared not ask: all of us at Crabb Cot, -from the Squire downwards, were bitterly against him for his wicked -inhumanity to poor David. - -Curious to say--curious because of what was to happen out of it--as Hill -was loading the truck with the last remaining things, a stranger came up -to the cottage door. Just at the first moment, Hill did not recognize -him; he had shaved off his moustache and whiskers, and grown a beard -instead. And that alters people. - -"How are you, Hill? What are you up to here?" - -It was Louis Roe--who had married Mademoiselle Henriette the previous -Easter. Where they had been since, or what they had done, was a sort of -mystery, for Harriet had written only one letter. By that letter, it was -gathered that they were flourishing in London: but no address was given, -and Miss Timmens had called her a heartless jade, not to want to hear -from her best relatives. - -Hill answered that he was pretty well, and went on loading; but said -nothing to the other question. Louis Roe--perceiving sundry straggling -spectators who stood peering, as if the loading of a hand-barrow with -goods were a raree-show--rather wondered at appearances, and asked -again. Hill shortly explained then that they had moved into Willow -Cottage; but his wife found it didn't suit her, and so they were moving -back again to the old home. - -He went off with the truck, before he had well answered, giving no time -for further colloquy. Louis Roe happened to come across young Jim Batley -amidst the tag-rag, and heard from him all that had occurred. - -"He must be a cruel devil, to leave a timid child all night in a -house alone!" was Mr. Roe's indignant comment; who, whatever his -shortcomings might be in the eyes of Miss Timmens, was not thought -to be hard-hearted. - -"His mother, she sees his ghost," went on Jim Batley. "Leastways, heered -it." - -Mr. Roe took no notice of this additional communication. Perhaps ghosts -held a low place in his creed--and he appeared to have plunged into a -reverie. Starting out of it in a minute or two, he ran after Hill, and -began talking in a low, business tone. - -Hill could not believe his ears. Surely such luck had never befallen a -miserable man! For here was Louis Roe offering to take Willow Cottage -off his hands: to become his, Hill's, tenant for a short time. The -double rent; this, and that for the old house he was returning to; had -been weighing upon Hill's mind as heavily as David weighed upon it. The -man had saved plenty of money, but he was of a close nature. Squire -Todhetley was a generous man; but Hill felt conscious that he had -displeased him too much to expect any favour at present. - -"What d'ye want of the cottage?" asked Hill, suppressing all signs of -satisfaction. "Be you and Harriet a-coming to live down here?" - -"We should like to stay here for a few weeks--say till the dead of -winter's over," replied Roe. "London is a beastly dull place in bad -weather; the fogs don't agree with Harriet. I had thought of taking two -or three rooms at Birmingham: but I don't know but she'll like this -cottage best--if you will let me have it cheap." - -It would be cheap enough. For Hill named the very moderate rent he -had agreed to pay the Squire. Only too glad was he, to get that. Roe -promised to pay him monthly. - -North Crabb was electrified at the news. Mr. and Mrs. Roe were coming to -stay in the cottage where poor David Garth had just died. No time was -lost over it, either. On the following day some hired furniture was put -into it, and Harriet herself arrived. - -She was looking very ill. And I'm sure if she had appeared with a beard -as well as her husband, her face could not have seemed more changed. Not -her face only, but her manners. Instead of figuring off in silks and -ribbons, finer than the stars, laughing with every one she met, and -throwing her handsome eyes about, she wore only plain things, and went -along noticing no one. Some people called it "pride;" Miss Timmens said -it was disappointment. The first time Tod and I met her, she never -lifted her eyes at all. Tod would have stayed to speak; but she just -said, "Good morning, gentlemen," and went on. - -"I say, Johnny, there's some change there," was Tod's remark, as he -turned to look after her. - -They had been in the place about a week--and Roe seemed to keep indoors, -or else was away, for no one ever saw him--when a strange turn arose, -that was destined to set the neighbourhood in an uproar. I was running -past the school-house one evening at dusk, and saw Maria Lease sitting -with Miss Timmens by fire-light. Liking Maria very much--for I always -did like her, and always shall--I went bolt in to them. James Hill's -wife was also there, in her mourning gown with crape on it, sitting -right back in the chimney corner. She had gone back to Hill then, but -made no scruple of leaving him alone often: and Hill, who had had his -lesson, put up with it. And you would never guess; no, not though you -had tried from then till Midsummer; what they were whispering about, as -though scared out of their seven senses. - -David Garth's ghost was haunting Willow Cottage. - -Miss Timmens was telling the story; the others listened with open -mouths. She began at the beginning again for my benefit. - -"I was sitting by myself here about this time last evening, Master -Johnny, having dismissed the children, and almost too tired with their -worry to get my own tea, when Harriet Roe came gliding in at the door, -looking whiter than a sheet, and startling me beyond everything. 'Aunt -Susan,' says she in so indistinct a tone that I should have boxed one of -the girls had she attempted to use such, 'would you take pity on me and -let me stay here till to-morrow morning? Louis went away this afternoon, -and I dare not stop alone in the place all night.' 'What are you afraid -of?' I asked, not telling her at once that she might stay; but down she -sat, and threw her mantle and bonnet off--taking French leave. I never -saw _her_ in such a state before," continued Miss Timmens vehemently; -"shivering and shaking as if she had an ague, and not a particle of her -impudence left in her. 'I think that place must be damp with the willow -brook, aunt,' says she; 'it gives me a sensation of cold.' 'Now don't -you talk nonsense about your willow brooks, Harriet Roe,' says I. 'You -are not shaking for willow brooks, or for cold either, but from fright. -What is it?' 'Well then,' says she, plucking up a bit, 'I'm afraid of -seeing the boy.' 'What boy?' says I--'not David?' 'Yes; David,' she -says, and trembles worse than ever. 'He appeared to Aunt Nancy; a sign -he is not at rest; and he is as sure to be in the house as sure can be. -Dying in the way he did, and lying hid in the shed as he did, what else -is to be expected?' Well, Master Johnny, this all seemed to me very -odd--as I've just observed to Nancy," continued Miss Timmens. "It struck -me, sir, there was more behind. 'Harriet,' says I, 'have you _seen_ -David Garth?' But at first no satisfactory answer could I get from her, -neither yes nor no. At last she said she had not seen him, but knew she -should if she stayed in the house by herself at night, for that he came -again, and was _in_ it. It struck me she was speaking falsely; and that -she _had_ seen him; or what she took for him." - -"I know she has; I feel convinced of it," spoke up poor Mrs. Hill, -tilting back her black bonnet--worn for David--to wipe the tears from -her eyes. "Master Ludlow, don't smile, sir--though it's best perhaps for -the young to disbelieve these solemn things. As surely as that we are -talking here, my dear boy's spirit came to me in the moment of his -death. I feared it might take to haunting the cottage, sir; and that's -one reason why I could not stay in it." - -"Yes; Harriet has seen him," interposed Maria Lease in low, firm tones. -"Just as I saw Daniel Ferrar. Master Johnny, _you_ know I saw _him_." - -Well, truth to say, I thought she must have seen Daniel Ferrar. Having -assisted at the sight--or if not at the actual sight, at the place and -time and circumstance attending it--I did not see how else it was to be -explained away. - -"Where's Harriet now?" I asked. - -"She stayed here last night, and went off by rail this morning to her -grandmother's at Worcester," replied Miss Timmens. "Mother will be glad -of her for a day or so, for she keeps her bed still." - -"Then who is in the cottage?" - -"Nobody, sir. It's locked up. Roe is expected back to-morrow." - -Miss Timmens began to set her tea-things, and I left them. Whom should I -come upon in the road, but Tod--who had been over to South Crabb. I told -him all this; and we took the broad path home through the fields, which -led us past Willow Cottage. The fun Tod made of what the women had been -saying, was beyond everything. A dreary dwelling, it looked; cold, and -deserted, and solitary in the dusky night, on which the moon was rising. -The back looked towards Crabb Ravine and the three-cornered grove in -which Daniel Ferrar had taken his own life away; and to the barn where -Maria had seen Ferrar after death. In front was the large field, bleak -and bare; and beyond, the scattered chimneys of North Crabb. A lively -dwelling altogether!--let alone what had happened in it to David Garth. -I said so. - -"Yes, it is a lively spot!" acquiesced Tod. "Beautifully lively in -itself, without having the reputation of being haunted. Eugh! Let's get -home to dinner, Johnny." - -Mr. and Mrs. Coney and Tom came in after dinner. Old Coney and the -Squire smoked till tea-time. When tea was over we all sat down to Pope -Joan. Mr. Coney kept mistaking hearts for diamonds, clubs for spades; -he had not his spectacles, and I offered to fetch them. Upon that, he -set upon Tom for being lazy and letting Johnny Ludlow do what it was -his place to do. The result was, that Tom Coney and I had a race which -should reach the farm first. The night was bright, the moon high. -Coming back with the spectacles, a man encountered us, tearing along -as fast as we were. And that was like mad. - -"Halloa!" cried Tom. "What's up." - -Tom had cause to ask it. The man was Luke Macintosh: and never in all -my life had I seen a specimen of such terror. His face was white, his -breath came in gasps. Without saying with your leave or by your leave, -he caught hold of Tom Coney's arm. - -"Master, as I be a living sinner, I ha' just seen Davy Garth." - -"Seen David Garth?" echoed Tom, wondering whether Luke had been -drinking. - -"I see him as plain as plain. He be at that end window o' the Willow -Cottage." - -"Do you mean his ghost, or himself?" asked Tom, making game of it. - -"Why, his ghost, in course, sir. It's well known hisself be dead and -buried--worse luck! Mercy on us!--I'd ha' lost a month's wages rather -nor see this." - -Considering Luke Macintosh was so great a coward that he would not go -through the Ravine after nightfall, this was not much from him. Neither -had his conscience been quite easy since David's death: as it may be -said that he, through refusing at the last moment to sleep in the house, -had in a degree been the remote cause of it. His account was this: -Passing the Willow Cottage on his way from North Crabb, he happened to -look up at the end window, and saw David standing there all in white in -the moonlight. - -"I never see nothing plainer in all my born days, never," gasped Luke. -"His poor little face hadn't no more colour in it nor chalk. Drat them -ghosts and goblins, then! What does they come and show theirselves to -decent folk for?" - -He was trembling just as Miss Timmens, some three hours before, had -described Harriet Roe to have trembled. An idea flashed into my mind. - -"Now, Luke, just you confess--who is it that has put this into your -head?" I asked. But Luke only stared at me: he seemed unable to -understand. - -"Some one has been telling you this to-night at North Crabb?" - -"Telling me what, Master Ludlow?" - -"That David Garth is haunting the cottage. It is what people are saying, -Tom," I added to Coney. - -"Then, Master Johnny, I never heered a blessed syllable on't," he -replied; and so earnestly that it was not possible to doubt him. "Nobody -have said nothing to me. For the matter o' that, I didn't stop to talk -to a soul, but just put Molly's letter in the window slit--which was -what I went for--and turned back again. I wish the woman had ha' been -skinned afore she'd got me to go off to the post for her to-night. -Plague on me, to have took the way past the cottage! as if the road -warn't good enough to ha' served me!--and a sight straighter!" - -"Were there lights in the cottage, Luke?" asked Coney. "Did you see the -Roes about?" - -"There warn't no more sign o' light or life a-nigh the place, Mr. Tom, -no more nor if they'd all been dead and buried inside it." - -"It is shut up, Tom," I said. "Roe and his wife are away." - -"Lawk a mercy!--not a living creature in it but the ghost!" quaked Luke. - -As I have said, this was not much from Luke, taking what he was into -consideration; but it was to be confirmed by others. One of the Coneys' -maid-servants came along, as we stood there, on her way from North -Crabb. A sensible, respectable woman, with no nonsense about her in -general; but she looked almost as scared as Luke now. - -"You don't mean to say _you_ have seen it, Dinah?" cried Tom, staring at -her. - -"Yes, I have, sir." - -"What! seen David Garth?" - -"Well, I suppose it was him. It was something at the window, in white, -that looked like him, Mr. Tom." - -"Did you go on purpose to look for it, Dinah?" asked Tom ironically. - -"The way I happened to go was this, sir. James Hill overtook me coming -out of North Crabb: he was going up to Willow Cottage to speak to Roe; -and I thought I'd walk with him, instead of taking the road. Not but -what he's a beauty to walk with, _he_ is, after his cruelty to his -wife's boy," broke off Dinah: "but company is company on a solitary road -at night. When we got to the cottage, Hill knocked; I stayed a minute to -say how-d'ye-do to Mrs. Roe, for I've not seen her yet. Nobody answered -the door; the place looked all dark and empty. 'They must be out for the -evening, I should think,' says Hill: and with that he steps back and -looks up at the windows. 'Lord be good to us! what's that?' says he, -when he had got round where he could see the end casement. I went to -him, and found him standing like a pump, just as stiff and upright, his -hands clutched hold of one another, and his eyes staring up at the panes -in mortal terror. 'What is it?' says I. 'It's Davvy,' says he; but the -voice didn't sound like Hill's voice, and it scared me a bit. 'Yes, it's -him,' says Hill; 'he have got on the sheet as was wrapped round him to -carry him to the shed. I--I lodged him again that there window to make -the turning; the stairs was awk'ard,' went on Hill, as if he was -speaking again the grain, but couldn't help himself.--And sure enough, -Mr. Tom--sure enough, Master Ludlow, there was David." - -"Nonsense, Dinah!" cried Tom Coney. - -"I saw him quite well, sir, in the white sheet," said Dinah. "The moon -was shining on the window a'most as bright as day." - -"It were brighter nor day," eagerly put in Luke Macintosh. "You'll -believe me now, Mr. Tom." - -"I'd not believe it if I saw it," said Tom Coney. - -"As we stood looking up, me laying hold of Hill's arm," resumed Dinah, -as if she had not told all her tale, "there came a loud whistling and -shouting behind. Which was young Jim Batley, bringing some message from -them sisters of his to Harriet Roe. I bade him hush his noise, but he -only danced and mocked at me; so then I told him the cottage was empty, -except for David Garth. That hushed him. He came stealing up, and stood -by me, staring. You should have seen his face change, Mr. Tom." - -"Was he frightened?" - -"Frightened is hardly the word for it, sir. His teeth began to chatter, -as if he had a fit; and down he went at last like a stone, face first, -howling fearful. We couldn't hardly get him up again to come away, me -and Hill. And as to the ghost, Mr. Tom, it _was_ still there." - -"Well, it is a queer tale," acknowledged Tom Coney. - -"We made for the road, all three of us then, and I turned on here--and -I didn't half like coming by the barn where Maria Lease saw Daniel -Ferrar," candidly added Dinah. "T'other two went on their opposite way, -Jim never letting go of Hill's coat-tails." - -There was no more Pope Joan that night. We carried the story indoors; -and I mentioned also what had been said to Miss Timmens. The Squire and -old Coney laughed. - -With David Garth's ghost to be seen, it could not be supposed that I, or -Tod, or Tom Coney, should stay away from the sight. When we reached the -place, some twenty people had collected round the house. Jim Batley had -told the tale in North Crabb. - -But curious watchers had seen nothing. Neither did we. For the bright -night had changed to darkness. A huge curtain of cloud had come up from -the south, covering the moon and the best part of the sky, as a pall -covers a coffin. If gazing could have brought a ghost to the window, -there would assuredly have been one. The casement was at the end of the -house; serving to light the narrow upstairs passage. A huge cherry-tree -hid the casement in summer; very slightly its bare branches obscured it -now. - -A sound, as of some panting animal, came up beside me as I leaned on the -side palings. I turned; and saw the bailiff. Some terrible power of -fascination had brought him back again, against his will. - -"So it is gone, Hill, you see." - -"It's not gone, Mr. Johnny," was his answer. "For some of our sights, -it'll never go away again. You look well at the right-hand side, sir, -and see if you don't see some'at white there." - -Peering steadily, I thought I did see something white--as of a face -above a white garment. But it might have been fancy. - -"Us as saw _him_ couldn't mistake it for fancy," was Hill's rejoinder. -"There was three on us: me, and Dinah up at Coney's, and that there imp -of a Jim Batley." - -"Some one saw it before you did, Hill. At least he says so. Luke -Macintosh. He was scared out of his senses." - -The effect of these words on Hill was such, that I quite believed he was -scared out of _his_. He clasped his hands in wild emotion, and turned up -his eyes to give thanks. - -"It's ret'ibution a working its ends, Mr. Ludlow. See it first, did he! -And I hope to my heart he'll see it afore his eyes evermore. If that -there Macintosh had not played a false and coward's game, no harm 'ud -ha' come to Davvy." - -The crowd increased. The Squire and old Coney came up, and told the -whole assemblage that they were born idiots. Of course, with nothing -to be seen, it looked as though we all were that. In the midst of it, -making quietly for the back-door, as though he had come home through -Crabb Ravine from Timberdale, I espied Louis Roe. Saying nothing to any -one, I went round and told him. - -"David Garth's ghost in the place!" he exclaimed. "Why, it will frighten -my wife to death. Of course there's nothing of the sort; but women are -so foolishly timid." - -I said his wife was not there. Roe took a key from his pocket, unlocked -the back-door, and went in. He was talking to me, and I stepped over the -threshold to the kitchen, into which the door opened. He began feeling -on the shelf for matches, and could not find any. - -"There's a box in the bedroom, I know," he said; and went stumbling -upstairs. - -Down he came, after a minute or so, with the matches, struck one, and -lighted a candle. Opening the front door, he showed himself, explained -that he had just come home, and complained of the commotion. - -"There's no such thing in this lower world as ghosts," said Roe. -"Whoever pretends to see them must be either drunk or mad. As to this -house--well, some of you had better walk in and re-assure yourselves. -You are welcome." - -He was taken at his word. A few came in, and went looking about for -the ghost, upstairs and down. Writing about it now, it seems to have -been the most ridiculous thing in the world. Nothing was to be found. -The narrow passage above, where David had stood, was empty. "As if -supernatural visitants waited while you looked for them!" cried the -superstitious crowd outside. - -It is easier to raise a disturbance of this kind than to allay it, and -the ghost-seers stayed on. The heavy cloud in the heavens rolled away -by-and-by; and the moon came out, and shone on the casement again. But -neither David Garth nor anything else was then to be seen there. - - * * * * * - -The night's commotion passed away, but not the rumours. That David -Garth's spirit could not rest, but came back to trouble the earth, -especially that spot known as Willow Cottage, was accepted as a fact. -People would go stealing up there at night, three or four of them -arm-in-arm, and stand staring at the casement, and walk round the -cottage. Nothing more was to be seen--perhaps because there was no moon -to light up the window. Harriet Roe was at home again with her husband; -but she did not go abroad much: and her face seemed to wear a sort of -uneasy terror. "The fear of seeing _him_ is wearing her heart out; why -does Roe stop in the place?" said North Crabb: and though Harriet had -never been much of a favourite, she had plenty of sympathy now. - -It soon came to be known in a gradual sort of way that a visitor was -staying at Willow Cottage. A young woman fashionably dressed, who was -called Mrs. James; and who was said to be the wife of James Roe, Louis -Roe's elder brother. Some people declared that a man was also there: -they had seen one. Harriet denied it. An acquaintance of her husband's, -a Mr. Duffy, had been over to see them from Birmingham, she said, but he -went back again. She was not believed. - -What with the ghost, and what with the mystery attaching to its -inhabitants, Willow Cottage was a great card just then. If you ask me -to explain what mystery there could be, I cannot do so: all I know is, -an idea that there was something of the kind, apart from David, dawned -upon many minds in North Crabb. Miss Timmens spoke it openly. She did -not like Harriet's looks, and said that something or other was killing -her. And Susan Timmens considered it her duty to try and come to the -bottom of it. - -At all sorts of hours, seasonable and unseasonable, Miss Timmens -presented herself at Willow Cottage. Rarely alone. Sometimes Mrs. Hill -would be with her; or it would be Maria Lease; or one of the Batley -girls; and once it was young Jim. Louis Roe grew to feel annoyed at -this; he told Harriet he would not have confounded people coming there, -prying; and he closed the door against them. So, the next time Miss -Timmens went, she found the door bolted in the most inhospitable manner. -Harriet threw open the parlour window to speak to her. - -"Louis says he won't have any more visitors calling here just now; not -even you, Aunt Susan." - -"What does he say that for?" snapped Miss Timmens. - -"We came down here to be quiet: he has some accounts to go over, and -can't be disturbed at them. So perhaps you'll stay away, Aunt Susan. -I'll come to the school-house sometimes instead." - -It was the dusk of the evenings but Miss Timmens could see the fearful -look of illness on Harriet's face. She was also trembling. - -"Harriet, what's the matter with you?" she asked, in a kinder tone. - -"Nothing." - -"_Nothing!_ Why, you look as ill as you can look. You are trembling all -over." - -"It's true I don't feel very well this evening, aunt, but I think it is -nothing. I often feel as if I had a touch of ague." - -Miss Timmens bent her face nearer; it had a strange concern in it. -"Harriet, look here. There's some mystery about this place; won't you -tell me what it is? I--seem--to--be--afraid--for--_you_," she concluded, -in a slow and scarcely audible whisper. - -For answer, Miss Timmens found the window slammed down in her face. An -impression arose--she hardly knew whence gathered, or whether it had any -foundation--that it was not Harriet who had slammed it, but some one -concealed behind the curtain. - -"Well I'm sure!" cried she. "It might have taken my nose off." - -"It was so cold, aunt!" Harriet called out apologetically through the -glass. "Good night." - -Miss Timmens walked off in dudgeon. Revolving matters along the broad -field-path, she liked their appearance less and less. Harriet was -looking as ill as possible: and what meant that trembling? Was it caused -by sickness of body, or terror of mind? Mrs. Hill, when consulted, -summed it up comprehensively: "It is David about the place: _that's_ -killing her." - -Harriet Roe did not make her appearance at the school-house, and the -next day but one Miss Timmens went up again. The door was bolted. Miss -Timmens knocked, but received no answer. Not choosing to be treated in -that way she made so much noise, first at the door and then at the -window, that the former was at length unclosed by Mrs. James, in list -shoes and a dressing-gown, as if her toilette had been delayed that day. -The chain was kept up--a new chain that Miss Timmens had not seen -before--and she could not enter. - -"I want to see Harriet, Mrs. James." - -"Harriet's gone," replied Mrs. James. - -"Gone! Gone where?" - -"To London. She went off there yesterday morning." - -Miss Timmens felt, as she would have said, struck into herself. An idea -flashed over her that the words had not a syllable of truth in them. - -"What did she go to London for?" - -Mrs. James glanced over her two shoulders, seemingly in terror herself, -and sunk her voice to a whisper. "She had grown afraid of the place, -this dark winter weather. Miss Timmens--it's as true as you're -there--nothing would persuade her out of the fancy that she was always -seeing David Garth. He used to stand in a sheet at the end of the -upstairs passage and look at her. Leastways, _she_ said so." - -This nearly did for Miss Timmens. It might be true; and she could not -confute it. "Do _you_ see him, Mrs. James?" - -"Well, no; I never have. Goodness knows, I don't want to." - -"But Harriet was not well enough to take a long journey," contended Miss -Timmens. "She never could have undertaken one in her state of health." - -"I don't know what you mean by 'state,' Miss Timmens. She would shake -a bit at times; but we saw nothing else the matter with her. Perhaps -_you_ would shake if you had an apparition in the house. Any way, well -or ill, she went off to London. Louis took her as far as the station -and saw her away." - -"Will you give me her address? I should like to write to her." - -Mrs. James said she could not give the address, because she did not know -it. Nothing more was to be got out of her, and Miss Timmens reluctantly -departed. - -"I should hope they've not murdered her--and are concealing her in the -house as Hill concealed David," was the comment she gave vent to in her -perplexity and wrath. - -From that time, nothing could be heard of Harriet Roe. A week went on; -nearly two weeks; but she never was seen, and no tidings came of her. So -far as could be ascertained, she had not gone away by train: neither -station-master nor porter remembered to have seen her. Miss Timmens grew -as thin as a ghost herself: the subject worried her night and day. That -some ill had happened to Harriet; or been _done_ to her, she did not -doubt. Once or twice she managed to see Roe; once or twice she saw Mrs. -James: speaking to them at the door with the chain up. Roe said he heard -from his wife nearly every other day; but he would not show the letters, -or give the address: a conclusive proof to the mind of Miss Timmens that -neither had any existence. _What had they done with Harriet?_ Miss -Timmens could not have been in much worse mental trouble had she herself -made away with her. - -One morning the postman delivered a letter at the school-house. It bore -the London post-mark, and purported to be from Harriet. A few lines -only--saying she was well and enjoying herself, and should come back -sometime--the writing shaky and blotted, and bearing but a slight -resemblance to hers. Miss Timmens dashed it on the table. - -"The fools, to think they can deceive me this way! That's no more -Harriet's writing than it is mine." - -But Miss Timmens's passion soon subsided into a grave, settled, awful -dread. For she saw that this had been written to delude her into the -belief that Harriet was in health and life--when she might be in neither -one nor the other. She brought the letter to Crabb Cot. She took it -round the parish. She went with it to the police-station; imparting her -views of it to all freely. It was a sham; a blind; a forgery: and -_where_ was she to look for poor lost Harriet Roe? - -That same evening the ghost appeared again. Miss Timmens and others went -up to the cottage, intending to demand an interview with Roe; and they -found the house shut up, apparently deserted. Reconnoitring the windows -from all points, their dismayed eyes rested on something at the end -casement: a thin, shadowy form, robed in white. Every one of them saw -it; but, even as they looked, it seemed to vanish away. Yes, there was -no question that the house was haunted. Perhaps Harriet had died from -fright, as poor David died. - -Things could not go on like this for ever. After another day or two -of discomfort, Mr. Todhetley, as a county magistrate, incited by the -feeling in the parish, issued a private mandate for Roe to appear before -him, that he might be questioned as to what had become of his wife. It -was not a warrant; but a sort of friendly invitation, that could offend -no one. Jiff the policeman was entrusted with the delivery of the -message, a verbal one, and I went with him. - -As if she had scented our errand for herself, and wanted to make a third -in it, who should meet us in the broad path, but Miss Timmens. Willow -Cottage might or might not be haunted, but I am sure her legs were: they -couldn't be still. - -"What are _you_ doing up here, Jiff?" she tartly asked. - -Jiff told her. Squire Todhetley wanted Roe at Crabb Cot. - -"It will be of no use, Jiff; the door's sure to be fast," groaned Miss -Timmens. "My opinion is that Roe has left the place for good." - -Miss Timmens was mistaken. The shutters were open, and the house showed -signs of life. Upon knocking at the door--Miss Timmens took off her -patten to do it with, and you might have heard the echoes at North -Crabb--it was flung wide by Mrs. James. - -Mr. Roe? No, Mr. Roe was not at home. Mrs. Roe was. - -Mrs. Roe was! "What, Harriet?" cried excited Miss Timmens. - -Yes, Harriet. If we liked to walk in and see her, we could do so. - -By the kitchen fire, as being biggest and hottest, in a chair stuffed -about with blankets, sat Harriet Roe. Worn, white, shadowy, she was -evidently just getting over some desperate illness. I stared; the -policeman softly whistled; you might have knocked Miss Timmens down -with a feather. - -"Good patience, child--why, where have you been hiding all this while?" -cried she. "And what on earth has been the matter with you?" - -"I have been upstairs in my room, Aunt Susan, keeping my bed. As to the -illness, it turned out to be ague and low fever." - -"Upstairs where?" - -"Here." - -Jiff went out again; there was nothing to stay for. I followed, leaving -Miss Timmens and Harriet to have it out together. - -She had really been ill in bed all the time, Mrs. James and Roe -attending on her. It did not suit them to admit visitors; for James Roe, -who had fallen into some difficulty in London, connected with forged -bills, was lying concealed at Willow Cottage. That's why people were -kept out. It would not have done by any means for Miss Timmens and her -sharp eyes to go upstairs and catch a glimpse of him; so they concocted -the tale that Harriet was away. James Roe was safely away now, and Louis -with him. Louis had been mixed up in the bill trouble in a lesser -degree: but quite enough so to induce him to absent himself from London -for a time, and to stay quietly at North Crabb. - -"Was it fear or ague that caused you to shake so that last evening I saw -you here?" questioned Miss Timmens. - -"Ague. I never got out of bed after that night. I could hardly write -that letter, aunt, that Louis sent to London to be posted to you." - -"And--did you really see David Garth?" - -"No, I never saw him," said Harriet. "But, after all the reports and -talk, I was timid at being in the house alone--James and his wife -had not come then--and that's why I asked you to let me stay at the -school-house the night my husband was away." - -"But it was told me that you _did_ see him." - -"I was always frightened for fear I should." - -"It strikes me you have had other causes for fright as well, Harriet," -cried shrewd Miss Timmens. - -"Well, you see--this business of James Roe's has put me about. Every -knock that came to the door seemed to me to be somebody coming for -_him_. My husband says the ghost is all rubbish and fancy, Aunt Susan." - -"Rubbish and fancy, does he?" - -"He says that when he came in here with Johnny Ludlow, the night there -was that commotion, in going up for some matches, he fell over something -at the top of the stairs by the end casement, and flung it behind the -rafters. Next day he saw what it was. I had tied a white cloth over a -small dwarf mop to sweep the walls with, and must have left it near the -window. I remembered that I did leave it there. It no doubt looked in -the moonlight just like a white face. And that's what was taken for -David's ghost." - -Miss Timmens paused, considering matters: she might believe just as much -of this as she liked. - -"It appeared again at the same place, Harriet, two or three days ago." - -"That was me, aunt. I saw you all looking up, and drew away again for -fear you should know me. Mrs. James was making my bed, and I had crawled -there." - -There it ended. So far the mystery was over. The explanation was -confided to the public, who received it differently. Some accepted the -mop version; others clung to the ghost. And Hill never had a penny of -his rent. Louis Roe was away; and, as it turned out, did not come back -again. - -Mrs. James wanted to leave also; and Maria Lease took her place as -nurse. Tenderly she did it, too; and Harriet got well. She was going off -to join her husband as soon as she could travel: it was said in France. -No one knew; unless it was Maria Lease. She and Harriet had become -confidential friends. - -"Which is the worse fate--yours or mine?" cried Harriet to Maria, half -mockingly, half woefully, the day she was packing her trunk. "You have -your lonely life, and your never-ending repentance for what you call -your harsh sin: I have my sickness and my trouble--and I have enough of -that, Maria." But Maria Lease only shook her head in answer. - -"Trouble and repentance are our best lot in this world, Harriet. They -come to fit us for heaven." - -But North Crabb, though willingly admitting that Harriet Roe, in -marrying, had not entered on a bed of lilies, and might have been -happier had she kept single, would not, on the whole, be shaken from its -belief that the ghost still haunted the empty cottage. Small parties -made shivering pilgrimages up there on a moonlight night, to watch for -it, and sometimes declared that it appeared. Fancy goes a long way in -this world. - - - - -XXI. - -SEEING LIFE. - - -The Clement-Pells lived at Parrifer Hall, and were as grand as all the -rest of us put together. After that affair connected with Cathy Reed, -and the death of his son, Major Parrifer and his family could not bear -to stay in the place. They took a house near London, and Parrifer Hall -was advertised to be let. Mr. Clement-Pell came forward, and took it for -a term of years. - -The Clement-Pells rolled in riches. His was one of those cases of -self-made men that have been so common of late years: where an -individual, from a humble position, rises by perceptible degrees, until -he towers above all, like a Jack sprung out of a box, and is the wonder -and envy of the world around. Mr. Clement-Pell was said to have begun -life in London as a lawyer. Later, circumstances brought him down to a -bustling town in our neighbourhood where he became the manager of a -small banking company; and from that time he did nothing but rise. -"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, -leads on to fortune," says Shakespeare: and this was the tide in Mr. -Clement-Pell's. The small banking company became a great one. Its spare -cash helped to make railways, to work mines, and to do all kinds of -profitable things. The shareholders flourished; Mr. Clement-Pell was -more regarded than a heathen deity. He established a branch at two or -three small places; and, amongst them, one at Church Dykely. After that, -he took Parrifer Hall. The simple people around could not vie with the -grandeur of the Pells, and did not try to do so. The Pells made much of -me and Joseph Todhetley--perhaps because there was a dearth of young -fellows near--and often asked us to the Hall. Mrs. Pell, a showy, -handsome woman, turned up her nose at all but the best families, and -would not associate with farmers, however much they might live like -gentlefolk. She was decisive in manner, haughty, and ruled the house -and everything in it, including her husband, with iron will. In a -slight degree she and her children put us in mind of the Parrifers: -for they held their heads in the clouds as the Parrifers had done, and -the ostentation they displayed was just the least bit vulgar. Mr. -Pell was a good-looking, gentlemanlike man, with a pleasant, hearty, -straightforward manner that took with every one. He was neither fine -nor stuck up: but his wife and daughters were; after the custom of a -good many who have shot up into greatness. - -And now that's the introduction to the Clement-Pells. One year they took -a furnished house in London, and sent to invite me and Tod up in the -summer. It was not very long after we had paid that visit to the -Whitneys and Miss Deveen. The invitation was cordially pressed; but -Squire Todhetley did not much like our going. - -"Look here, you boys," said he, as we were starting, for the point was -yielded, "I'd a great deal rather you were going to stay at home. Don't -you let the young Pells lead you into mischief." - -Tod resented the doubt. "We are not boys, sir." - -"Well, I suppose you'd like to call yourselves young men," returned the -Pater; "you in particular, Joe. But young men have gone up to London -before now, and come home with their fingers burnt." - -Tod laughed. - -"They have. It is this, Joe: Johnny, listen to me. A young fellow, just -launched on the world, turns out very much according to the companions -he is thrown amongst and the associations he meets with. I have a notion -that the young Pells are wild; fast, as it is called now; so take -care of yourselves. And don't forget that though their purses may be -unlimited, yours are not." - -Three footmen came rushing out when the cab stopped at the house in -Kensington, and the Pells made much of us. Mr. Pell and the eldest son, -James, were at the chief bank in the country; they rarely spared the -time to come up; but the rest were in town. Mrs. Pell, the four girls, -the two sons, and a new German governess. The house was not as large as -Parrifer Hall, and Tod and I had a top room between us, with two beds in -it. Fabian Pell held a commission in the army. Augustus was reading for -the bar--he was never called at home anything but "Gusty." - -We got there just before dinner, and dressed for it--finding dress -was expected. A worn-looking, fashionable man of thirty was in the -drawing-room when we went down, the Honourable Mr. Crayton: and Fabian -brought in two officers. Mrs. Pell wore blue, with a string of pearls on -her neck that were too big to be real: the two girls were in white silk -and white shoes. Altogether, considering it was not a state occasion, -but a friendly dinner, the dresses looked too fine, more suited to a -duke's table; and I wondered what Mrs. Todhetley would have said to -them. - -"Will you take Constance in to dinner, Mr. Todhetley?" - -Tod took her. She was the second girl: the eldest, Martha Jane, went in -with one of the officers. The younger girls, Leonora and Rose, dined in -the middle of the day with the governess. Gusty was not there, and -Fabian and I went in together. - -"Where is he?" I asked of Fabian. - -"Gusty? Oh, knocking about somewhere. His getting home to dinner's -always a chance. He has chambers in town." - -Why the idea should have come over me, I know not, unless it was the -tone Mrs. Pell spoke in, but it flashed across my mind that she was -looking at Tod as a possible husband for her daughter Constance. He was -not of an age to marry yet: but some women like to plot and plan these -things beforehand. I hated her for it: I did not care that Tod should -choose one of the Pells. Gusty made his appearance in the course of the -evening; and we fellows went out with him. - -The Squire was right: it was fast life at the Pells', and no mistake. -I don't believe there was a thing that cost money but Fabian and Gusty -Pell and Crayton went in for it. Crayton was with them always. He seemed -to be the leader: the Pells followed him like sheep; Tod went with them. -I sometimes: but they did not always ask me to go. Billiards and cards -were the chief amusements; and there'd be theatres and singing-halls. -The names of some of the places would have made the Squire's hair stand -on end. One, a sort of private affair, that the Pells and Crayton said -it was a favour to gain admittance to, was called "Paradise." Whether -that was only the Pells' or Crayton's name for it, we did not hear. -And a paradise it was when you were inside, if decorations and mirrors -can make one. Men and women in evening dress sang songs in a kind of -orchestra; to which you might listen sitting and smoking or lounging -about and talking: if you preferred a rubber at whist or a hand at -ecarte in another room, there you had it. Never a thing was there, -apparently, that the Squire could reasonably have grumbled at, except -the risk of losing money at cards, and the sense of intoxicating -pleasure. But I don't think it was a good place to go to. The Pells -called all this "Seeing Life." - -It would not have done Tod much harm--for he had his head on his -shoulders the right way--but for the gambling. It is a strong word to -use; but the play grew into nothing less. Had the Squire said to us, -Take care you don't learn to gamble up in London, Tod would have -resented it as much as if he had been warned not to go and hang himself, -feeling certain that there was no more chance of one than the other. But -gambling, like some other things--drinking for instance--steals upon you -by degrees, too imperceptibly to alarm you. The Pells and Crayton and -other fellows that they knew went in for cards and billiards wholesale. -Tod was asked at first to take a quiet hand with them; or just play for -the tables--and he thought no more of complying than if the girls had -pressed him to make one at the round game of Old Maid, or to while away -a wet afternoon at bagatelle. - -There was no regularity in Mrs. Pell's household: there was no more -outward observance of religion than if we'd lived in Heathendom. It was -so different from Tod's last London visit, when he was at the Whitneys'. -_There_ you had to be at the breakfast-table to the moment--half-past -eight; and to be in at bedtime, unless engaged out with friends. Sir -John read a chapter of the Bible morning and night, and then, pushing -the spectacles lower on his old red nose, he'd look over them at us and -tell us simply to be good boys and girls. _Here_ you might come down at -any hour, from nine or ten, to eleven or twelve, and ring for fresh -breakfast to be supplied. As to staying out at night, that was quite ad -libitum; a man-servant sat up till morning to open the door. - -I was initiated less into the card-playing than Tod, and never once was -asked to make one at pool, probably because it was taken for granted -that I had less money to stake. Which was true. Tod had not much, for -the matter of that: and it never struck me to think he was losing -wholesale. - -I got home one night at twelve, having been dining at Miss Deveen's and -going to a concert with her afterwards. Tod was not in, and I sat up in -our room, writing to Mr. Brandon, which I had put off doing until I felt -ashamed. Tod came in as I was folding the letter. It was hot weather, -and he stretched himself out at the open window. - -"Are you going to stop there all night, Tod?" I asked by-and-by. "It's -one o'clock." - -"I may as well stop here, for all the sleep I shall get in bed," was his -answer, as he brought his head in. "I'm in an awful mess, Johnny." - -"What kind of mess?" - -"Debt." - -"Debt! What for?" - -"Card-playing," answered Tod, shortly. "And betting at pool." - -"Why do you play?" - -"I'll be shot if I would ever have touched one of their cards, or their -billiard balls either, had I known what was to come of it. Let me once -get out of this hole, and neither Gusty Pell nor Crayton shall ever draw -me in again. I'll promise them _that_." - -"How much is it?" - -"That I owe? Twenty-five pounds." - -"Twenty-five--what?" I cried, starting up. - -"Don't wake up the next room, Johnny. Twenty-five pounds. And not a -stiver in my pocket to go on with. I owe it to Crayton." - -Sitting on the edge of his bed, he told me how the thing had crept upon -him. At first they only played for shillings; one night Crayton suddenly -changed the stakes to sovereigns. The other fellows playing took it as a -matter of course, and Tod did not like to make a fuss, and get up---- - -"I should, Tod," I interrupted. - -"I dare say you would," he retorted. "I didn't. But I honestly told -them that if I lost much, my purse would not stand it. Oh that need -not trouble you, they said. When we rose, that night, I owed Crayton -nineteen pounds." - -"They must be systematic gamblers!" - -"No, not that. Gentlemen who play high. Since then I have played, hoping -to redeem my losses--they tell me I shall be sure to do it. But the -redemption has not come yet, for it is twenty-five pounds now." - -"Tod," I said, after a pause, "it would about kill the Pater." - -"It would awfully vex him. And that's what is doing the mischief, you -see, Johnny. I can't write home for the money without telling him what I -want it for; he'd never give it me unless I said: and I can't cut our -visit short to the Pells and leave Crayton in debt." - -"But--_what's_ to be done, Tod?" - -"Nothing until I get some luck, and win enough back to pay him." - -"You may get deeper into the mire." - -"Yes--there's that chance." - -"It will never do to go on playing." - -"Will you tell me what else I am to do? I must continue to play: or -pay." - -I couldn't tell him; I didn't know. Fifty of the hardest problems in -Euclid were nothing to this. Tod sat down in his shirt-sleeves. - -"Get one of the Pells to let you have the money, Tod. A loan of twenty -or thirty pounds can be nothing to them." - -"It's no good, Johnny. Gusty is cleaned out. As to Fabian, he never has -any spare cash, what with one expensive habit and another. Oh, I shall -win it back again: perhaps to-morrow. Luck must turn." - -Tod said no more. But what particularly struck me was this: that, to win -money from a guest in that way, and he a young fellow not of age, whose -pocket-money they knew to be limited, was not at all consistent with the -idea of their being "gentlemen." - -The next evening we were in a well-known billiard-room. Fabian Pell, -Crayton, and Tod were at pool. It had been a levee day, or something of -that sort, and Fabian was in full regimentals. Tod was losing, as usual. -He was no match for those practised players. - -"I wish you would get me a glass of water, Johnny," he said. - -So I got it. In turning back after taking the glass from his hand, who -should I see on the high bench against the wall, sitting just where -I had been sitting a minute before, but my guardian and trustee, -Mr. Brandon. _Could_ it be he? Old Brandon in London! and in a -billiard-room. - -"It is never you, sir! Here!" - -"Yes, it is I, Johnny Ludlow," he said in his squeaky voice. "As to -being here, I suppose I have as much right to be here as you have: -perhaps rather more. I should like to ask what brings you here." - -"I came in with those three," I said, pointing towards the board. - -He screwed up his little eyes, and looked. "Who are they?" he asked. -"Who's the fellow in scarlet?" For he did not happen to know these two -younger Pells by sight. - -"That's Fabian Pell, sir. The one standing with his hands in his -pockets, near Joseph Todhetley, is the Honourable Mr. Crayton." - -"Who's the Honourable Mr. Crayton?" - -"I think his father is the Earl of Lackland." - -"Oh, ah; one of Lackland's sons, is he? There's six or eight sons, of -them, Johnny Ludlow, and not a silver coin amongst the lot. Lackland -never had much, but what little it was he lost at horse-racing. The sons -live by their wits, I've heard: lords' sons have not much work in them. -The Honourable Mr. Crayton, eh! Your two friends had better take care of -themselves." - -The thought of how Tod had "taken care" of himself flashed into my mind. -I wouldn't have old Brandon know it for the world. - -"I posted a letter to you to-day, sir. I did not know you were from -home." - -"What was it about?" - -"Nothing particular, sir. Only I had not written since we were in -London." - -"How long are you going to stay here, Johnny Ludlow?" - -"About another week, I suppose." - -"I mean _here_. In this disreputable room." - -"Disreputable, sir!" - -"Yes, Johnny Ludlow, disreputable. Disreputable for all young men, -especially for a very young one like you. I wonder what your father -would have said to it!" - -"I, at least, sir, am doing no harm in it." - -"Yes, you are, Johnny. You are suffering your eyes and mind to grow -familiar with these things. So, their game is over, is it!" - -I turned round. They had finished, and were leaving. In looking for me, -Tod saw Mr. Brandon. He came up to shake hands with him, and told me -they were going. - -"Come in and see me to-morrow morning, Johnny Ludlow," said Mr. Brandon, -in a tone of command. "Eleven o'clock." - -"Yes, sir. Where are you staying?" - -"The Tavistock; Covent Garden." - -"Johnny, what the mischief brings _him_ here?" whispered Tod, as we went -downstairs. - -"I don't know. I thought it must be his ghost at first." - -From the billiard-rooms we went on to Gusty's chambers, and found him at -home with some friends. He served out wine, with cold brandy-and-water -for Crayton--who despised anything less. They sat down to cards--loo. -Tod did not play. Complaining of a racking headache, he sat apart in a -corner. I stood in another, for all the chairs were occupied. Altogether -the party seemed to want life, and broke up soon. - -"Was it an excuse to avoid playing, Tod?" I asked, as we walked home. - -"Was what an excuse?" - -"Your headache." - -"If your head were beating as mine is, Johnny, you wouldn't call it an -excuse. You'll be a muff to the end of your days." - -"Well, I thought it might be that." - -"Did you! If I made up my mind not to play, I should tell it out -straightforwardly: not put forth any shuffling 'excuse.'" - -"Any way, a headache's better than losing your money." - -"Don't bother." - - * * * * * - -I got to the Tavistock at five minutes past eleven, and found Mr. -Brandon reading the _Times_. He looked at me over the top of it, as if -he were surprised. - -"So you _have_ come, Mr. Johnny!" - -"Yes, sir. I turned up the wrong street and missed my way: it has made -me a little late." - -"Oh, that's the reason, is it," said Mr. Brandon. "I thought perhaps a -young man, who has been initiated into the ways of London life, might no -longer consider it necessary to attend to the requests of his elders." - -"But would you think that of me, sir?" - -Mr. Brandon put the newspaper on the table with a dash, and burst out -with as much feeling as his weak voice would allow him. - -"Johnny Ludlow, I'd rather have seen you come to sweep a crossing in -this vile town, than to frequent one of its public billiard-rooms!" - -"But I don't frequent them, Mr. Brandon." - -"How many times have you been in?" - -"Twice in the one where you saw me: once in another. Three times in -all." - -"That's three times too much. Have you played?" - -"No, sir; there's never any room for me." - -"Do you bet?" - -"Oh no." - -"What do you go for, then?" - -"I've only gone in with the others when I have been out with them." - -"Pell's sons and the Honourable Mr. Crayton. Rather ostentatious of you, -Johnny Ludlow, to hasten to tell me he was the 'Honourable.'" - -My face flushed. I had not said it in that light. - -"One day at Pershore Fair, in a booth, the clown jumped on to the -boards and introduced himself," continued Mr. Brandon: "'I'm the clown, -ladies and gentlemen,' said he. That's the Honourable Mr. Crayton, say -you.--And so you have gone in with Mr. Crayton and the Pells!" - -"And with Joseph Todhetley." - -"Ay. And perhaps London will do him more harm than it will you; you're -not much better than a boy yet, hardly up to bad things. I wonder what -possessed Joe's father to let you two come up to stay with the Pells! I -should have been above it in his place." - -"Above it? Why, Mr. Brandon, they live in ten times the style we do." - -"And spend twenty times as much over it. Who was thinking about style or -cost, Mr. Johnny? Don't you mistake Richard for Robert." - -He gave a flick to the newspaper, and stared me full in the face. I did -not venture to speak. - -"Johnny Ludlow, I don't like your having been initiated into the -iniquities of fast life--as met with in billiard-rooms, and similar -places." - -"I have got no harm from them, sir." - -"Perhaps not. But you might have got it." - -I supposed I might: and thought of Tod and his losings. - -"You have good principles, Johnny Ludlow, and you've a bit of sense in -your head; and you have been taught to know that this world is not the -end of things. Temptation is bad for the best, though. When I saw you -in that place last night, looking on with eager eyes at the balls, -listening to the betting, I wished I had never let your father make me -your guardian." - -"I did not know my eyes or ears were so eager, sir. I don't think they -were." - -"Nonsense, boy: that goes as a matter of course. You have heard of -gambling hells?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"Well, a public billiard-room is not many degrees better. It is crowded -with adventurers who live by their wits. Your needy 'honourables,' -who've not a sixpence of their own in their purses, and your low-lived -blackguards, who have sprung from the scum of the population, are -equally at home there. These men, the lord's son and the blackguard, -must each make a living: whether by turf-betting, or dice, or cards, -or pool--they must do it somehow. Is it a nice thing, pray, for you -honest young fellows to frequent places where you must be their boon -companions?" - -"No, I don't think it is." - -"Good, Johnny. Don't you go into one again--and keep young Todhetley -out if you can. It is no place, I say, for an honest man and a -gentleman: you can't touch pitch and not be defiled; neither can a -youngster frequent these billiard-rooms and the company he meets in -them, and come away unscathed. His name will get a mark against it. -That's not the worst: his _soul_ may get a mark upon it; and never be -able to throw it off again during life. You turn mountebank, and dance -at wakes, Johnny, rather than turn public billiard player. There's -many an honest mountebank, dancing for the daily crust he puts into -his mouth: I don't believe you'd find one honest man amongst billiard -sharpers." - -He dropped the paper in his heat. I picked it up. - -"And that's only one phase of their fast life, these billiard-rooms," -he continued. "There are other things: singing-halls, and cider -cellars--and all sorts of places. You steer clear of the lot, Johnny. -And warn Todhetley. He wants warning perhaps more than you do." - -"Tod has caught no harm, I think, except----" - -"Except what?" asked he sharply, as I paused. - -"Except that I suppose it costs him money, sir." - -"Just so. A good thing too. If these seductions (as young fools call -them) could be had without money, the world would soon be turned -upside down. But as to harm, Johnny, once a young fellow gets to feel -at home in these places, I don't care how short his experience may be, -he loses his self-respect. He does; and it takes time to get it back -again. You and Joe had not been gone five minutes last night, with -your 'Honourable' and the other fellow in scarlet, when there was a -row in the room. Two men quarrelled about a bet; sides were taken by -the spectators, and it came to blows. I have heard some reprobate -language in my day, Johnny Ludlow, but I never heard such as I heard -then. Had you been there, I'd have taken you by the back of the neck -and pitched you out of the window, before your ears should have been -tainted with it." - -"Did you go to the billiard-room, expecting to see me there, Mr. -Brandon?" I asked. And the question put his temper up. - -"Go to the billiard-room, expecting to see _you_ there, Johnny Ludlow!" -he retorted, his voice a small shrill pipe. "How dare you ask it? I'd -as soon have expected to see the Bishop of London there, as you. I can -tell you what, young man: had I known you were going to these places, -I should pretty soon have stopped it. Yes, sir: you are not out of my -hands yet. If I could not stop you personally, I'd stop every penny of -your pocket-money." - -"We couldn't think--I and Tod--what else you had gone for sir," said I, -in apology for having put the question. - -"I don't suppose you could. I have a graceless relative, Johnny Ludlow; -a sister's son. He is going to the bad, fast, and she got me to come up -and see what he was after. I could not find him; I have not found him -yet; but I was told that he frequented those rooms, and I went there on -speculation. Now you know. He came up to London nine months ago as -pure-hearted a young fellow as you are: bad companions laid hold of him, -and are doing their best to ruin him. I should not like to see _you_ on -the downward road, Johnny; and you shan't enter on it if I can put a -spoke in the wheel. Your father was my good friend." - -"There is no fear for me, Mr. Brandon." - -"Well, Johnny, I hope not. You be cautious, and come and dine with me -this evening. And now will you promise me one thing: if you get into any -trouble or difficulty at any time, whether it's a money trouble, or what -not, you come to me with it. Do you hear?" - -"Yes, sir. I don't know any one I would rather take it to." - -"I do not expect you to get into one willingly, mind. _That's_ not what -I mean: but sometimes we fall into pits through other people. If ever -you do, though it were years to come, bring the trouble to me." - -And I promised, and went, according to the invitation, to dine with him -in the evening. He had found his nephew: a plain young medical student, -with a thin voice like himself. Mr. Brandon dined off boiled scrag of -mutton; I and the nephew had soup and fish and fowl and plum pudding. - -After that evening I did not see anything more of old Brandon. Upon -calling at the Tavistock they said he had left for the rest of the week, -but would be back on the following Monday. - -And it was on the following Monday that Tod's affairs came to a climax. - - * * * * * - -We had had a regal entertainment. Fit for regal personages--as it seemed -to us simple country people, inexperienced in London dinner giving. Mrs. -Pell headed her table in green gauze, gold beetles in her hair, and a -feathered-fan dangling. Mr. Pell, who had come to town for the party, -faced her; the two girls, the two sons, and the guests were dispersed on -either side. Eighteen of us in all. Crayton was there as large as life, -and of the other people I did not know all the names. The dinner was -given for some great gun who had to do with railway companies. He kept -it waiting twenty minutes, and then loomed in with a glistening bald -head, and a yellow rose in his coat: his wife, a very little woman in -pink, on his arm. - -"I saw your father yesterday," called out Pell down the table to Tod. -"He said he was glad to hear you were enjoying yourselves." - -"Ah--yes--thank you," replied Tod, in a hesitating sort of way. I don't -know what _he_ was thinking of; but it flashed into my mind that the -Squire would have been anything but "glad," had he known about the -cards, and the billiards, and the twenty-five-pound debt. - -Dinner came to an end at last, and we found a few evening guests in the -drawing-room--mostly young ladies. Some of the dinner people went away. -The railway man sat whispering with Pell in a corner: his wife nodded -asleep, and woke up to talk by fits and starts. The youngest girl, Rose, -who was in the drawing-room with Leonora and the governess, ran up to -me. - -"Please let me be your partner, Mr. Ludlow! They are going to dance a -quadrille in the back drawing-room." - -So I took her, and we had the quadrille. Then another, that I danced -with Constance. Tod was not to be seen anywhere. - -"I wonder what has become of Todhetley?" - -"He has gone out with Gusty and Mr. Crayton, I think," answered -Constance. "It is too bad of them." - -By one o'clock all the people had left; the girls and Mrs. Pell said -good night and disappeared. In going up to bed, I met one of the -servants. - -"Do you know what time Mr. Todhetley went out, Richard?" - -"Mr. Todhetley, sir? He has not gone out. He is in the smoking-room -with Mr. Augustus and Mr. Crayton. I've just taken up some soda-water." - -I went on to the smoking-room: a small den, built out on the leads of -the second floor, that no one presumed to enter except Gusty and Fabian. -The cards lay on the table in a heap, and the three round it were -talking hotly. I could see there had been a quarrel. Some stranger had -come in, and was standing with his back to the mantel-piece. They called -him Temply; a friend of Crayton's. Temply was speaking as I opened the -door. - -"It is clearly a case of obligation to go on; of honour. No good in -trying to shirk it, Todhetley." - -"I will not go on," said Tod, as he tossed back his hair from his hot -brow with a desperate hand. "If you increase the stakes without my -consent, I have a right to refuse to continue playing. As to honour; I -know what that is as well as any one here." - -They saw me then: and none of them looked too well pleased. Gusty asked -me what I wanted; but he spoke quite civilly. - -"I came to see after you all. Richard said you were here." - -What they had been playing at, I don't know: whether whist, ecarte, loo, -or what. Tod, as usual, had been losing frightfully: I could see that. -Gusty was smoking; Crayton, cool as a cucumber, drank hard at -brandy-and-soda. If that man had swallowed a barrel of cognac, he would -never have shown it. Temply and Crayton stared at me rudely. Perhaps -they thought I minded it. - -"I wouldn't play again to-night, were I you," I said aloud to Tod. - -"No, I won't; there," he cried, giving the cards an angry push. "I am -sick of the things--and tired to death. Good night to you all." - -Crayton swiftly put his back against the door, barring Tod's exit. "You -cannot leave before the game's finished, Todhetley." - -"We had not begun the game," rejoined Tod. "_You_ stopped it by trebling -the stakes. I tell you, Crayton, I'll not play again to-night." - -"Then perhaps you'll pay me your losses." - -"How much are they?" asked Tod, biting his lips. - -"To-night?--or in all, do you mean?" - -"Oh, let us have it all," was Tod's answer; and I saw that he had great -difficulty in suppressing his passion. All of them, except Crayton, -seemed tolerably heated. "You know that I have not the ready-money to -pay you; you've known that all along: but it's as well to ascertain how -we stand." - -Crayton had been coolly turning over the leaves of a note-case, adding -up some figures there, below his breath. - -"Eighty-five before, and seven to-night makes just ninety-two. -Ninety-two pounds, Todhetley." - -I sprang up from the chair in terror. It was as if some blast had swept -over me, "Ninety-two pounds! Tod! do you owe _that_?" - -"I suppose I do." - -"_Ninety-two pounds!_ It cannot be. Why, it is close upon a hundred!" -Crayton laughed at my consternation, and Temply stared. - -"If you'll go on playing, you may redeem some of it, Todhetley," said -Crayton. "Come, sit down." - -"I will not touch another card to-night," said he, doggedly. "I have -said it: and I am not one to break my word: as Johnny Ludlow here can -testify to. I don't know that I shall play again after to-night." - -Crayton was offended. Cool though he was, I think he was somewhat the -worse for what he had taken--perhaps they all were. "Then you'll make -arrangements for paying your debts," said he, in scornful tones. - -"Yes, I'll do that," answered Tod. And he got away. So did I, after a -minute or two: Gusty kept me, talking. - -In passing upstairs, for we slept on the third floor, Mr. Pell came -suddenly out of a room on the left; a candle in one hand and some papers -in the other, and a look on his face as of some great trouble. - -"What! are you young men not in bed yet?" he exclaimed. "It is late." - -"We are going up now. Is anything the matter, sir?" I could not help -asking. - -"The matter?" he repeated. - -"I thought you looked worried." - -"I am worried with work," he said, laughing slightly. "While others take -their rest, I have to be up at my books and letters. Great wealth brings -great care with it, Johnny Ludlow, and hard work as well. Good night, my -lad." - -Tod was pacing the room with his hands in his pockets. It was a terrible -position for him to be in. Owing a hundred pounds--to put it in round -numbers--for a debt of honour. No means of his own, not daring to tell -his father. I mounted on the iron rail of my little bed opposite the -window, and looked at him. - -"Tod, what _is_ to be done?" - -"For two pins I'd go and enlist in some African regiment," growled he. -"Once over the seas, I should be lost to the world here, and my shame -with me." - -"Shame!" - -"Well, and it is shame. An ordinary debt that you can't pay is bad -enough; but a debt of honour----" - -He stopped, and caught his breath with a sort of sob--as if there were -no word strong enough to express the sense of shame. - -"It will never do to tell the Pater." - -"Tell _him_!" he exclaimed sharply. "Johnny, I'd cut off my right -hand--I'd fling myself into the Thames, rather than bring such a blow on -him." - -"Well, and so I think would I." - -"It would kill him as sure as we are here, Johnny. He would look upon -it that I have become a confirmed gambler, and I believe the shock -and grief would be such that he'd die of it. No: I have not been so -particularly dutiful a son, that I should bring _that_ upon him." - -I balanced myself on the bed-rail. Tod paced the carpet slowly. - -"No, never," he repeated, as if there had not been any pause. "I would -rather die myself." - -"But what is to be done?" - -"Heaven knows! I wish the Pells had been far enough before they had -invited us up." - -"I wish you had never consented to play with the lot at all, Tod. You -might have stood out from the first." - -"Ay. But one glides into these things unconsciously. Johnny, I begin to -think Crayton is just a gambler, playing to win, and nothing better." - -"Playing for his bread. That is, for the things that constitute it. His -drink, and his smoke, and his lodgings, and his boots, and his rings. -Old Brandon said it. As to his dinners, he generally gets them at -friends' houses." - -"Old Brandon said it, did he?" - -"Why, I told you so the same day. And you bade me shut up." - -"Do you know what they want me to do, Johnny? To sign a post-obit bond -for two hundred, or so, to be paid after my father's death. It's true. -Crayton will let me off then." - -"And will you do it?" I cried, feeling that my eyes blazed as I leaped -down. - -"No, I _won't_: and I told them so to-night. That's what the quarrel was -about. 'Every young fellow does it whose father lives too long and keeps -him out of his property,' said that Temply. 'Maybe so; I won't,' I -answered. Neither will I. I'd rather break stones on the road than -speculate upon the good Pater's death, or anticipate his money in that -manner to hide my sins." - -"Gusty Pell ought to help you." - -"Gusty says he can't. Fabian, I believe, really can't; he is in -difficulties of his own: and sometimes, Johnny, I fancy Gus is. Crayton -fleeces them both, unless I am mistaken. Yes, he's a sharper; I see -through him now. I want him to take my I O U to pay him as soon as I -can, and he knows I would do it, but he won't do that. There's two -o'clock." - -It was of no use sitting up, and I began to undress. The question -reiterated itself again and again--what was to be done? I lay awake all -night thinking, vainly wishing I was of age. Fanciful thoughts crossed -my mind: of appealing to rich old Pell, and asking him to lend the -money, not betraying Gusty and the rest by saying what it was wanted -for; of carrying the story to Miss Deveen, and asking her; and lastly, -of going to old Brandon, and getting _him_ to help. I grew to think that -I _would_ do this, however much I disliked it, and try Brandon; that it -lay in my duty to do so. - -Worn and haggard enough looked Tod the next morning. He had sat up -nearly all night. When breakfast was over, I started for the Tavistock, -whispering a word to Tod first. - -"Avoid the lot to-day, Tod. I'll try and help you out of the mess." - -He burst out laughing in the midst of his perplexity. "_You_, Johnny! -what next?" - -"Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse." - -"But you can never be the mouse in this, you mite of a boy! Thank you -all the same, Johnny: you mean it well." - -"Can I see Mr. Brandon?" I asked at the hotel, of a strange waiter. - -"Mr. Brandon, sir? He is not staying here." - -"Not staying here!" - -"No, sir, he left some days ago." - -"But I thought he was coming back again." - -"So I believe he is, sir. But he has not come yet." - -"Do you know where he is?" - -"At Brighton, sir." - -It was about as complete a floorer as I ever wished to get. All the way -along, I had been planning which way to break it to him. I turned from -the door, whistling and thinking. Should I go after him to Brighton? I -had the money, and the time, why should I not do so? Heaven alone knew -how much depended upon Tod's being released from trouble; Heaven alone -knew what desperate course he might take in his shame, if not released -from it. - -Dropping a note to Tod, saying I should be out for the day, and getting -a porter to take it up, I made the best of my way to the nearest -Brighton station, and found a train just starting. Brighton was a large -place, and they could not tell me at the Tavistock what hotel Mr. -Brandon was staying at; except that one of the waiters "thought" it -might be the Old Ship. And that's where I first went, on arrival. - -No. No one of the name of Brandon was at the Old Ship. So there I was, -like an owl in a desert, wondering where to go next. - -And how many hotels and inns I tried before I found him, it would be -impossible to remember now. One of the last was up Kemp Town way--the -Royal Crescent Hotel. - -"Is Mr. Brandon staying here?" - -"Mr. Brandon of Warwickshire? Yes, sir." - -It was so very unexpected an answer after all the failures, that I -hardly believed my own ears. Mr. Brandon was not well, the waiter added: -suffering from cold and sore throat--but he supposed I could see him. I -answered that I must see him; I had come all the way from London on -purpose. - -Old Brandon was sitting in a long room, with a bow-window looking out on -the sea; some broth at his elbow, and a yellow silk handkerchief resting -cornerwise on his head. - -"Mr. Ludlow, sir," said the waiter. And he dropped the spoon into the -broth, and stared at me as if I were an escaped lunatic. - -"Why!--you! What on earth brings _you_ here, Johnny Ludlow?" - -To tell him what, was the hardest task I'd ever had in my life. And I -did it badly. Sipping spoonfuls of broth and looking hard at me whilst -he listened, did not help the process. I don't know how I got it out, or -how confused was the way I told him that I wanted a hundred pounds of my -own money. - -"A hundred pounds, eh?" said he. "You are a nice gentleman, Johnny -Ludlow!" - -"I am very sorry, sir, to have to ask it. The need is very urgent, or I -should not do so." - -"What's it for?" questioned he. - -"I--it is to pay a debt, sir," I answered, feeling my face flush hot. - -"Whose debt?" - -By the way he looked at me, I could see that he knew as plainly as -though I had told him, that it was not my debt. And yet--but for letting -him think it was mine, he might turn a deaf ear to me. Old Brandon -finished up his broth, and put the basin down. - -"You are a clever fellow, Johnny Ludlow, but not quite clever enough to -deceive me. You'd no more get into such debt yourself, than I should. I -have a better opinion of you than that. Who has sent you here?" - -"Indeed, sir, I came of my own free will. No one knows, even, that I -have come. Mr. Brandon, I hope you will help me: it is almost a matter -of life or death." - -"You are wasting words and time, Johnny Ludlow." - -And I felt I was. Felt it hopelessly. - -"There's an old saying, and a very good one, Johnny--Tell the whole -truth to your lawyer and doctor. I am neither a lawyer nor a doctor: -but I promise you this much, that unless you tell me the truth of the -matter, every word of it, and explain your request fully and clearly, -you may go marching back to London." - -There was no help for it. I spoke a few words, and they were quite -enough. He seemed to grasp the situation as by magic, and turned me, as -may be said, inside out. In five minutes he knew by heart as much of it -as I did. - -"So!" said he, in his squeaky voice--ten times more squeaky when he -was vexed. "Good! A nice nest you have got amongst. Want him to give -post-obit bonds, do they! Which _is_ Todhetley--a knave or a fool?" - -"He has refused to give the bonds, I said, sir." - -"Bonds, who's talking of bonds?" he retorted. "For playing, _I_ mean. He -must have been either a knave or a fool, to play till he owed a hundred -pounds when he knew he had not the means to pay." - -"But I have explained how it was, sir. He lost, and then played on, -hoping to redeem his losses. I think Crayton had him fast, and would not -let him escape." - -"Ay. Got him, and kept him. That's your grand friend, the Honourable, -Johnny Ludlow. There: give me the newspaper." - -"But you will let me have the money, sir?" - -"Not if I know it." - -It was a woeful check. I set on and begged as if I had been begging for -life: saying I hardly knew what. That it might save Tod from a downhill -course--and spare grief to the poor old Squire--and pain to me. Pain -that would lie on my mind always, knowing that I possessed the money, -yet might not use it to save him. - -"It's of no use, Johnny. I have been a faithful guardian to you, and -done well by your property. Could your dead father look back on this -world and see the income you'll come into when you are of age, he would -know I speak the truth. You cannot suppose I should waste any portion of -it, I don't care how slight a one, in paying young men's wicked gambling -debts." - -I prayed him still. I asked him to put himself in my place and see if -he would not feel as I felt. I said that I should never--as I truly -believed--have an opportunity of spending money that would give me half -the pleasure of this, or do half the good. Besides, it was only a loan: -Tod was sure to repay it when he could. No: old Brandon was hard as -flint. He got up and rang the bell. - -"We'll drop it, Johnny. What will you take? Have you had anything since -breakfast?" - -"No, sir. But I don't want anything." - -"Bring up dinner for this young gentleman," he said, when the waiter -appeared. "Anything you have that's _good_. And be quick about it, -please." - -They brought up a hastily prepared dinner: and very good it was. But -I could scarcely eat for sorrow. Old Brandon, nursing himself at the -opposite end of the table, the yellow handkerchief on his head, looked -at me all the while. - -"Johnny Ludlow, do you know what I think--that you'd give away your head -if it were loose. It's a good thing you have me to take care of you." - -"No, sir, I should not. If you would let me have this hundred pounds--it -is really only ninety-two, though--I would repay it with two hundred -when I came of age." - -"Like the simpleton you are." - -"I think I would give half my money, Mr. Brandon, to serve Todhetley in -this strait. We are as brothers." - -"No doubt you would: but you've not got it to give, Johnny. You can let -him fight his own battles." - -"And I would if he were able to fight them: but he is not able; it's an -exceptional case. I must go back to London, and try there." - -Old Brandon opened his eyes. "How?" - -"I think perhaps Miss Deveen would let me have the money. She is rich -and generous--and I will tell her the whole truth. It is a turning-point -in Todhetley's life, sir: help would save him." - -"How do you know but he'd return to the mire? Let him have this money, -and he might go on gambling and lose another hundred. Perhaps hundreds -at the back of it." - -"No, sir, that he never would. He may go deeper into the mire if he does -not get it. Enlist, or something." - -"Are you going already, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir. I must catch the next train, and it's a good way to the -station." - -"You can take a fly. Wait a few minutes." - -He went into his bedroom, on the same floor. When he came back, he held -a piece of paper in his hand. - -"There, Johnny. But it is my loan; not yours." - -It was a cheque for a hundred pounds. He had listened, after all! The -surprise was so great that I am afraid my eyes were dim. - -"The loan is mine, Johnny," he repeated. "I am not going to risk your -money, and prove myself a false trustee. When Todhetley can repay it, it -will be to me, not to you. But now--understand: unless he gives you a -solemn promise never to play with that 'Honourable' again, or with -either of the Pells, _you will not use the cheque_, but return it to -me." - -"Oh, Mr. Brandon, there will be no difficulty. He only wants to be quit -of them." - -"Get his promise, I say. If he gives it, present this cheque at -Robarts's in Lombard Street to-morrow, and they'll pay you the money -over the counter." - -"It is made out to my order!" I said, looking at the cheque: "not to -Crayton!" - -"To Crayton!" retorted Mr. Brandon. "I wouldn't let a cheque of mine, -uncrossed, fall into _his_ hands. He might add an ought or two to the -figures. I drew it out for an even hundred, you see: the odd money may -be wanted. You'll have to sign your name at the back: do it at the bank. -And now, do you know why I have let you have this?" - -I looked at him in doubt. - -"Because you have obeyed the injunctions I gave you--to bring any -difficulty you might have to me. I certainly never expected it so -soon, or that it would take this form. Don't you get tumbling into -another. Let people take care of themselves. There: put it into your -breast-pocket, and be off." - -I don't know how I got back to town. There was no accident, and we were -not pitched into next week. If we had been, I'm not sure that I should -have minded it; for that cheque in my pocket seemed a panacea for all -human ills. The Pells were at dinner when I entered: and Tod was lying -outside his bed, with one of his torturing headaches. He did not often -have them: which was a good thing, for they were rattlers. Taking his -hand from his head, he glanced at me. - -"Where have you been all day, Johnny?" he asked, hardly able to speak. -"That was a short note of yours." - -"I've been to Brighton." - -Tod opened his eyes again with surprise. He did not believe it. - -"Why don't you say Bagdad, at once? Keep your counsel, if you choose, -lad. I'm too ill to get it out of you." - -"But I don't want to keep it: and I have been to Brighton. Had dinner -there, too. Tod, old fellow, the mouse has done his work. Here's a -cheque for you for a hundred pounds." - -He looked at it as I held it out to him, saw it was true, and then -sprang off the bed. I had seen glad emotion in my life, even at that -early period of it, but hardly such as Tod's then. Never a word spoke -he. - -"It is lent by Mr. Brandon to you, Tod. He bade me say it. I could not -get any of mine out of him. The only condition is--that, before I cash -it, you shall promise not to play again with Crayton or the Pells." - -"I'll promise it now. Glad to do it. Long live old Brandon! Johnny, my -good brother, I'm too ill to thank you--my temples seem as if they were -being split with a sledge-hammer--but you have _saved_ me." - -I was at Robarts's when it opened in the morning. And signed my name at -the back of the cheque, and got the money. Fancy _me_ having a hundred -pounds paid to me in notes and gold! The Squire would have thought the -world was coming to an end. - - - - -XXII. - -OUR STRIKE. - - -It was September, and they were moving to Crabb Cot for a week or two's -shooting. The shooting was not bad about there, and the Squire liked a -turn with his gun yet. Being close on the Michaelmas holidays, Tod and I -were with them. - -When the stay was going to be short, the carriages did not come over -from Dyke Manor. On arriving at South Crabb station, there was a fly -waiting. It would not take us all. Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley, the two -children, and Hannah got into it, and some of the luggage was put on -the top. - -"You two boys can walk," said the Pater. "It will stretch your legs." - -And a great deal rather walk, too, than be boxed up in a crawling fly! - -We took the way through Crabb Lane: the longest but merriest, for it was -always lively with noise and dirt. Reports had gone abroad long before -that Crabb Lane was "out on strike:" Tod and I thought we would take a -look at it in this new aspect. - -There were some great works in the vicinity--I need not state here their -exact speciality--and the men employed at them chiefly inhabited Crabb -Lane. It was setting-up these works that caused the crowded dwellings -in Crabb Lane to be built--for where a number of workmen congregate -together, habitations must of necessity follow. - -You have heard of Crabb Lane before--in connection with what I once told -you about Harry Lease the pointsman. It was a dingy, over-populated, -bustling place, prosperous on the whole, its inhabitants as a rule -well-to-do. A strike was quite a new feature, bringing to most of them a -fresh experience in life. England had strikes in those past days, but -they were not common. - -Crabb Lane during working hours had hitherto been given over to the -children, who danced in the gutters and cried and screamed themselves -hoarse. Women also would be out of doors, idling away their time in -gossip, or else calling across to each other from the windows. But -now, as I and Tod went down it, things looked different. Instead of -women and children, men were there. Every individual man, I believe, -out of every house the lane contained; for there appeared to be shoals -of them. They lounged idly against the walls, or stood about in -groups. Some with pipes, some without; some laughing and jeering, -apparently in the highest spirits, as if they had climbed the tree of -fortune; some silent and anxious-looking. - -"Well, Hoar, how are you?" - -It was Tod who spoke. The man he addressed, Jacob Hoar, was one of the -best of the workmen: a sober, steady, honest fellow, with a big frame -and a resolute face. He had the character of being fierce in temper, -sometimes savage with his fellow-men, if put out. Alfred Hoar--made -pointsman at the station in poor Harry Lease's place--was his brother. - -Hoar did not answer Tod at all. He was standing quite alone near the -door of his house, a strangely defiant look upon his pale face, and his -firm lips drawn in. Unless I was mistaken, some of the men over the way -were taking covert glances at him, as though he were a kangaroo they had -to keep aloof from. Hoar turned his eyes slowly upon us, took off his -round felt hat, and smoothed back his dark hair. - -"I be as well as matters'll let me be, young Mr. Todhetley," he then -said. - -"There's a strike going on, I hear," said Tod. "Has been for some time." - -"Yes, there's a strike a-going on," assented Hoar, speaking in a -deliberate, sullen manner, as a man resenting some special grievance. -"Has been for some time, as you say. And I don't know when the strike -'ll be a-going off." - -"How is Eliza?" I asked. - -"Much as usual, Mr. Johnny. What should ail her?" - -Evidently there was no sociability to be got out of Jacob Hoar that -afternoon, and we left him. A few yards further, we passed Ford's, the -baker's. No end of heads were at the shop door, and _they_ seemed to be -staring at Hoar. - -"He must have been dealing out a little abuse to the public generally, -Tod," said I. - -"Very likely," answered Tod. "He seems bursting with some rage or -other." - -"Nay, I don't think it's rage so much as vexation. Something must have -gone wrong." - -"Well, perhaps so." - -"Look here, Tod. If we had a home to keep up and a lot of mouths to feed -and weekly rent to pay, and a strike stopped the supplies, we might be -in a worse humour than Hoar is." - -"Right, Johnny." And Tod went off at a strapping pace. - -How it may be with other people, I don't know: but when I get back to -a place after an absence, I want to see every one, and am apt to go -dashing in at doors without warning. - -"It won't take us a minute to look in on Miss Timmens, Tod," I said, -as we neared the school-house. "She'll tell us the news of the whole -parish." - -"Take the minute, then, if you like," said Tod. "I am not going to -bother myself with Miss Timmens." - -Neither perhaps should I, after that, for Tod swayed me still; but in -passing the door it was opened wide by one of the little scholars. Miss -Timmens sat in her chair, the lithe, thin cane, three yards long, raised -in her hand, its other end descending, gently enough on the shoulders of -a chattering girl. - -"I don't keep it to beat 'em," Miss Timmens was wont to say of her cane, -"but just to tap 'em into attention when they are beyond the reach of my -hand." And, to give her her due, it was nothing more. - -"It's you, is it, Master Johnny? I heard you were all expected." - -"It's me, safe enough. How goes the world with you, Miss Timmens?" - -"Cranky," was the short answer. "South Crabb's going out of its senses, -I think. The parson is trying to introduce fresh ways and doings, in my -school: new-fangled rubbish, Master Johnny, that will bring more harm -than good. I won't have it, and so he and I are at daggers drawn. And -there's a strike in the place!" - -I nodded. While she spoke, it had struck me, looking at the room, that -it was not so full as usual. - -"It's the strike does that," she said, in a sort of triumph. "It's the -strike that works all the ill and every kind of evil"--and it was quite -evident the strike found no more favour with her than the parson's fresh -ways. - -"But what has the strike to do with the children's absence from school?" - -"The strike has carried all the children's best things to the pawn-shop, -and they've nothing decent left to come abroad in. That is one cause, -Johnny Ludlow," she concluded, very tartly. - -"Is there any other?" - -"Don't you think that sufficient? I am not going to let them appear -before me in rags--and so Crabb Lane knows. But there is another cause, -sir. This strike has so altered the course of things that the whole -order of ordinary events is turned upside down. Even if the young ones' -frocks were home again, it would be ten to one against their coming to -school." - -"I don't see the two little Hoars." And why I had been looking for -those particular children I can't say, unless it was that Hoar and his -peculiar manner had been floating in my mind ever since we passed him. - -"'Liza and Jessy--no, but they've been here till to-day," was the reply, -given after a long pause. "Are you going, Mr. Johnny?--I'll just step -outside with you." - -She drew the door close behind her, keeping the handle in her hand, and -looked straight into my face. - -"Jacob Hoar has gone and beat his boy almost to death this morning--and -the strike's the cause of _that_," she whispered, emphatically. - -"Jacob Hoar has!--Why, how came he to do it?"--I exclaimed, recalling -more forcibly than ever the man's curious look, and the curious looks of -the other men holding aloof from him. "Which of his boys is it?" - -"The second of them; little Dick. Yes, he is black and blue all over, -they say; next door to beat to death; and his arm's broken. And they -have the strike to thank for it." - -She repeated the concluding words more stingingly than before. That Miss -Timmens was wroth with the strike, there could be no mistake. I asked -her why the strike was to be thanked for the beating and the broken arm. - -"Because the strike has brought misery; and _that_ is the source of all -the ill going on just now in Crabb Lane," was her reply. "When the men -threw themselves out of work, of course they threw themselves out of -wages. Some funds have been furnished to them, weekly I believe, from -the Trades Union League--or whatever they call the thing--but it seems a -mere nothing compared with what they used to earn. Household goods, as -well as clothes, have been going to the pawn-shop, but they have now -pledged all they've got to pledge, and are, it is said, in sore straits: -mothers and fathers and children alike hungry. It is some time now since -they have had enough to eat. Fancy that, Mr. Johnny!" - -"But why should Dicky be beaten for that?" I persisted, trying to keep -her to the point--a rather difficult matter with Miss Timmens at all -times. - -"It was in this way," she answered, dropping her voice to a lower key, -and giving a pull at the door to make sure it had not opened. "Dicky, -poor fellow, is half starved; he's not used to it, and feels it keenly: -resents it, I dare say. This morning, when out in the lane, he saw a -tray of halfpenny buns, hot from the oven, put on old Ford's counter. -The sight was too much for him, the temptation too great. Dicky Hoar is -naturally honest; has been, up to now, at all events: but I suppose -hunger was stronger than honesty to-day. He crept into the shop on all -fours, abstracted a bun with his fingers, and was creeping out again, -when Ford pounced upon him, bun in hand. There was a fine outcry. Ford -was harsh, roared out for the policeman, and threatened him with jail, -and in the midst of the commotion Hoar came up. In his mortification at -hearing that a boy of his had been caught pilfering, he seized upon a -thick stick that a bystander happened to have, and laid it unmercifully -upon poor Dick." - -"And broke his arm?" - -"And broke his arm. And covered him with weals beside. He'll be all -manner of colours to-morrow." - -"What a brutal fellow Hoar must be!" - -"To beat him like that?--well, yes," assented Miss Timmens, in accents -that bore rather a dubious sound. "Passion must have blinded him and -urged him further than he intended. The man has always been upright; -prided himself on being so, as one may say; and there's no doubt that -to find his child could be a thief shook him cruelly. This strike is -ruining the tempers of the men; it makes them feel at war with -everything and everybody." - -When I got home I found them in the thick of the news also, for Cole the -doctor was there telling it all. Mrs. Todhetley, sitting on the sofa -with her bonnet untied and her shawl unpinned, was listening in a kind -of horror. - -"But surely the arm cannot be _broken_, Mr. Cole!" she urged. - -"Broken just above the wrist, ma'am. I ought to know, for I set it. -Wicked little rascal, to steal the bun! As to Hoar, he is as fierce as a -tiger when really enraged." - -"Well, it sounds very shocking." - -"So it does," said Cole. "I think perhaps it may be productive of one -good--keep the boy from picking and stealing to the end of his life." - -"He was hungry, you say." - -"Famished, ma'am. Most of the young ones in Crabb Lane are so just now." - -The Squire was walking up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. -He halted, and faced the Doctor. - -"Look here, Cole--what has brought this state of things about? A -strike!--and prolonged! Why, I should as soon have expected to hear -the men had thrown up their work to become Merry Andrews! Who is in -fault?--the masters or the men?" - -Cole lifted his eyebrows. "The masters lay the blame on the men, the men -lay it on the masters." - -"What is it the men are holding out for?" - -"To get more wages, and to do less work." - -"Oh, come, that's a twofold demand," cried the Pater. "Modest folk -generally ask for one favour at a time. Meanwhile things are all at -sixes-and-sevens, I suppose, in Crabb Lane?" - -"Ay," said the Doctor. "At worse than sixes-and-sevens, indoors and out. -There are empty cupboards and empty rooms within; and there's a good -deal of what's bad without. It's the wives and children that suffer, -poor things." - -"The men must be senseless to throw themselves out of work!" - -"The men only obey orders," cried Mr. Cole. "There's a spirit of -disaffection abroad: certain people have constituted themselves rulers, -and they say to the men, 'You must do this,' and 'You must not do that.' -The men have yielded themselves up to be led, and _do_ do what they are -told, right or wrong." - -"I don't say they are wrong to try to get more wages if they can; it -would be odd if we were to be debarred from bettering ourselves," spoke -the Squire. "But to throw up their work whilst they are trying, there's -the folly; there's where the shoe must tighten. Let them keep on their -work whilst they agitate." - -"They'd tell you, I expect, that the masters would be less likely to -listen then than they are now." - -"Well, they've no right, in common sense, to throw up their wives' and -children's living, if they do their own," concluded the Squire. - -Cole nodded. "There's some truth in that," he said as he got up to -leave. "Any way, things are more gloomy with us than you'd believe, -Squire." - - * * * * * - -You may remember that I told you, when speaking of the Court and my -early home, how, when I was a little child of four years old, Hannah my -nurse, and Eliza one of her fellow-servants, commented freely in my -hearing on my father's second marriage, and shook me well because I was -wise enough to understand them. Eliza was then housemaid at the Court; -and soon after this she had left it to marry Jacob Hoar. She was a nice -sort of young woman (in spite of the shaking), and I kept up a great -acquaintance with her, and was free, so to say, of her house in Crabb -Lane, running in and out of it at will, when we were at Crabb Cot. A -tribe of little Hoars arrived, one after another. Jacky, the eldest, -over ten now, had a place at the works, and earned two shillings a week. -"'Twarn't much," said Hoar the father, "but 'twas bringing his hand in." -Dick, the second, he who had just had the beating, was nine; two girls -came next, and there was a young boy of three. - -Hoar earned capital wages--to judge by the comfortable way in which they -lived: I should think not less than forty shillings a week. Of course -they spent it all, every fraction; as a rule, families of that class -never put by for a rainy day. They might have done it, I suppose; in -those days provisions were nothing like as dear as they are now; the -cost of living altogether was less. - -Of course the Hoars had to suffer in common with the rest under the -strike. But I did not like to hear of empty cupboards in connection with -Eliza; no, nor of her boy's broken arm; and in the evening I went back -to Crabb Lane to see her. They lived next door but one to the house that -had been Lease the pointsman's; but theirs was far better than that -tumble-down hut. - -Well, it was a change! The pretty parlour looked half dismantled. Its -ornaments and best things had gone, as Miss Timmens expressed it, to -adorn the pawnshop. The carpet also. Against the wall, on a small -mattress brought down for him, lay Dicky and his bruises. Some of the -children sat on the floor: Mrs. Hoar was kneeling over Dicky and bathing -his cheek, which was big enough for two, for it had caught the stick -kindly. - -"Well, Eliza!" - -She got up, sank into a chair, flung her apron up to her face, and burst -into tears. I suppose it was at the sight of me. Not knowing what to say -to that, I pulled the little girls' ears and then sat down on the floor -by Dicky. _He_ began to cry. - -"Oh come, Dick, don't; you'll soon be better. Face smarts, does it?" - -"I never thought to meet you like this, Master Johnny," said Eliza, -getting up and speaking through her tears. "'Twas hunger made him do it, -sir; nothing else. The poor little things be so famished at times it -a'most takes the sense out of 'em." - -"Yes, I am sure it was nothing else. Look up, Dick. Don't cry like -that." One would have thought the boy was going into hysterics. - -I had an apple in my pocket and gave it to him. He kept it in his hand -for some time, and then began to eat it ravenously, sobbing now and -then. The left arm, the broken one, lay across him, bound up in splints. - -"I didn't mean to steal the bun," he whispered, looking up at me through -his tears. "I'd ha' give Mrs. Ford the first ha'penny for it that I'd -ever got. I was a-hungered, I was. We be always a-hungered now." - -"It is hard times with you, I am afraid, Eliza," I said, standing by -her. - -Opening her mouth to answer, a sob caught her breath, and she put her -hand to her side, as if in pain. Her poor face, naturally patient and -meek, was worn, and had a bright hectic spot upon it. Eliza used to be -very pretty, and was young-looking still, with smooth brown hair, and -mild grey eyes: she looked very haggard now and less tidy. But, as to -being tidy, how can folk be that, when all their gowns worth a crown are -hanging up at the pawnbroker's? - -"It's dreadful times, Master Johnny. It's times that frighten me. Worse -than all, I can't see when it is to end, and what the end is to be." - -"Don't lose heart. The end will be that the men will go to work again: I -dare say soon." - -"The Lord send it!" she answered. "That's the best we can hope for, sir; -and that'll be hard enough. For we shall have to begin life again, as -'twere; with debts all around us, and our household things and our -clothes in pledge." - -"You will get them out again then." - -"Ay, but how long will it take to earn the money to do it? This strike, -as I look upon it, has took at the rate of five years of prosperity out -of our lives, Master Johnny." - -"The league--or whatever it is--allows you all money to live, does it -not?" - -"We get some, sir. It's not a great deal. They tell us that there's -strikes a-going on in many parts just now; these strikes have to be -helped as well as the operatives here; and so it makes the allowance -small. We have no means of knowing whether that's true or not, us women, -I mean; but I dare say it is." - -"And the allowance is not enough to keep you in food?" - -"Master Johnny, there's so many other things one wants, beside bare -food," she answered, with a sigh. "We must pay our rent, or the landlord -would turn us out; we must have a bit o' coal for firing: we must have -soap; clothes must be washed, sir, and we must be washed; we must have a -candle these dark evenings; shoes must be mended: and there's other -trifles, too, that I needn't go into, as well as what Hoar takes for -himself----" - -"But does he take much?" I interrupted. - -"No, sir, he don't: nothing to what some of 'em takes: he has always -been a good husband and father. The men, you see, sir, must have a few -halfpence in their pockets to pay for their smoke and that, at their -meetings in the evening. There's not much left for food when all this -comes to be taken out--and we are seven mouths to fill." - -No wonder they were hungry! - -"Some of the people you've known ought to help you, Eliza. Mrs. Sterling -at the old home might: or Mrs. Coney. Do they?" - -Eliza Hoar shook her head. "The gentlemen be all again us, sir, and so -the ladies dare not do anything. As to Mrs. Sterling--I don't know that -she has so much as heard of the strike--all them miles off." - -"You mean the gentlemen are against the strike!" - -"Yes, sir; dead again it. They say strikes is the worst kind of evil -that can set in, both for us and for the country; that it will increase -the poor-rates to a height to be afraid of, and in the end drive the -work away from the land. Sitting here with my poor children around me at -dusk to save candle, I get thinking sometimes that the gentlemen may not -be far wrong, Master Johnny." - -Seeing the poor quiet faces lifted to me, from which every bit of spirit -seemed to have gone, I wished I had my pockets full of buns for them. -But buns were not likely to be there; and of money I had none: buying -one of the best editions of Shakespeare had just cleared me out. - -"Where's Hoar?" I asked, in leaving. - -A hot flush overspread her face. "He has not shown himself here, Master -Johnny, since what he did to _him_," was her resentful answer, pointing -to Dick. "Afraid to face me, he is." - -"I'd not say too much to him, Eliza. It could not undo what's done, and -might only make matters worse. I dare say Hoar is just as much vexed -about it as you are." - -"It's to be hoped he is! Why did he go and set upon the child in that -cruel way? It's the men that goes in for the strike; 'tisn't us: and -when the worry of it makes 'em so low they hardly know where to turn, -they must vent it upon us. Master Johnny, there are minutes now when I -could wish myself dead but for the children." - -I went home with my head full of a scheme--getting Mrs. Todhetley and -perhaps the Coneys to do something for poor Eliza Hoar. But I soon found -I might as well have pleaded the cause of the public hangman. - -Who should come into our house that evening but old Coney himself. As if -the strike were burning a hole in his tongue, he began upon it before he -was well seated, and gave the Squire his version of it: that is, his -opinion. It did not differ in substance from what had been hinted at by -Eliza Hoar. Mr. Coney did not speak _for_ the men or _against_ them; he -did not speak for or against the masters; that question of conflicting -interests he said he was content to leave: but what he did urge, and -very strongly, was, that strikes in themselves must be productive of -an incalculable amount of harm; they brought misery on the workmen, -pecuniary embarrassment on the masters, and they most inevitably would, -if persisted in, eventually ruin the trade of the kingdom; therefore -they should, by every possible means, be discouraged. The Squire, in his -hot fashion, took up these opinions for his own and enlarged upon them. - -When old Coney was gone and we had our slippers on, I told them of my -visit to Eliza, and asked them to help her just a little. - -"Not by a crust of bread, Johnny," said the Squire, more firmly and -quietly than he usually spoke. "Once begin to assist the wives and -children, and the men would have so much the less need to bring the -present state of things to an end." - -"I am so sorry for Eliza, sir." - -"So am I, Johnny. But the proper person to be sorry for her is her -husband: her weal and woe can lie only with him." - -"If we could help her ever so little!" - -The Squire looked at me for a full minute. "Attend to me, Johnny Ludlow. -Once for all, NO! The strike, as Coney says, must be discouraged by -every means in our power. _Discouraged_, Johnny. Otherwise these strikes -may come into fashion, and grow to an extent of which no man can foresee -the end. They will bring the workmen to one of two things--starvation, -or the workhouse. That result seems to me inevitable." - -"I'm sure it makes me feel very uncomfortable," said the Mater. "One can -hardly see where one's duty lies." - -"Our poor-rates are getting higher every day; what do you suppose -they'll come to if this is to go on?" continued the Squire. "I'd be glad -for the men to get better pay if they are underpaid now: whether they -are or not, I cannot tell; but rely upon it, striking is not the way to -attain to it. It's a way that has ruined many a hopeful workman, who -otherwise would have gone on contentedly to the end of his days; ay, and -has finally killed him. It will ruin many another. Various interests are -at stake in this; you must perceive it for yourself, Johnny lad, if you -have any brains; but none so great as that of the workmen themselves. -With all my heart I wish, for their own sakes, they had not taken this -extreme step." - -"And if the poor children starve, sir?" I ventured to say. - -"Fiddlestick to starving! They need not starve while there's a workhouse -to go to. And _won't_; that's more. _Can't_ you see how all this acts, -Mr. Johnny? The men throw themselves out of work; and when matters -come to an extremity the parish must feed the children, and we, the -rate-payers, must pay. A pleasant prospect! How many scores of children -are there in Crabb Lane alone?" - -"A few dozens, I should say, sir." - -"And a few to that. No, Johnny; let the men look to their families' -needs. For their own sakes; I repeat it; for their own best interests, -I'll have them left alone. They have entered on this state of things of -their own free will, and they must themselves fight it out.--And now get -you off to bed, boys." - -"The Pater's right, Johnny," cried Tod, stepping into my room as we -went up, his candle flaring in the draught from the open staircase -window; "right as right can be on principle; but it _is_ hard for the -women and children----" - -"It is hard for themselves, too, Tod: only they have the unbending -spirit of Britons, to hold out to the death and make no bones over it." - -"I wish you'd not interrupt a fellow," growled Tod. "Look here; I've got -four-and-sixpence, every farthing I can count just now. You take it and -give it to Eliza. The Pater need know nothing." - -He emptied his trousers pocket of the silver, and went off with his -candle. I'm not sure but that he and I both enjoyed the state of -affairs as something new. Had any one told us a year ago that our quiet -neighbourhood could be disturbed by a public ferment such as this, we -should never have believed it. - -The next morning I went over to South Crabb with the four-and-sixpence. -Perhaps it was not quite fair to give it, after what the Squire had -said--but there's many a worse thing than that done daily in the world. -Eliza caught her breath when I gave it to her, and thanked me with her -eyes as well as her lips. She had on a frightfully old green gown--green -once--shabby and darned and patched, and no cap; and she was on her -knees wiping up some spilt water on the floor. - -"Mind, Eliza, you must not say a word to any one. I should get into no -end of a row." - -"You were always generous, Master Johnny. Even when a baby----" - -"Never mind that. It is not I who am generous now. The silver was given -me for you by some one else; I am cleared out, myself. Where's Dicky?" - -"He's upstairs in his bed, sir: too stiff to move. Mr. Cole, too, said -he might as well lie there to-day. Would you like to go up and see him?" - -As I ran up the staircase, open from the room, a vision of her wan face -followed me--of the catching sob again--of the smooth brown hair which -she was pressing from her temples. We have heard of a peck of troubles: -she seemed to have a bushel of them. - -Dicky was a sight, as far as variety of colours went. There was no -mistake about his stiffness. - -"It won't last long, Dick; and then you'll be as well as ever." - -Dick's grey eyes--they were just like his mother's--looked up at mine. I -thought he was going to cry. - -"There. You will never take anything again, will you?" - -Dick shook his head as emphatically as his starched condition allowed. -"Father says as he'd kill me the next time if I did." - -"When did he say that?" - -"This morning; afore he went out." - -Dicky's room had a lean-to roof, and was about the size of our jam -closet at Crabb Cot. Not an earthly article was in it but the mattress -he was lying on. - -"Who sleeps here besides you, Dicky?" - -"Jacky and little Sam. 'Liza and Jessy sleeps by father and mother." - -"Well, good day, Dicky." - -Whom should I come upon at the end of Crabb Lane, but the Squire and -Hoar. The Squire had his gun in his hand and was talking his face red: -Hoar leaned against the wooden palings that skirted old Massock's -garden, and looked as sullen as he had looked yesterday. I thought the -Pater had been blowing him up for beating the boy; but it seemed that he -was blowing him up for the strike. Cole, the surgeon, hurrying along on -his rounds, stopped just as I did. - -"Not your fault, Hoar!" cried the Squire. "Of course I know it's not -your fault alone, but you are as bad as the rest. Come; tell me what -good the strike has done for you." - -"Not much as yet," readily acknowledged Hoar, in a tone of incipient -defiance. - -"To me it seems nothing less than a crime to throw yourself out of work. -There's the work ready to your hands, _spoiling_ for want of being -done--and yet you won't do it!" - -"I do but obey orders," said Hoar: who seemed to be miserable enough, in -spite of the incipient defiance. - -"But is there any sense in it?" reasoned the Squire. "If you men could -drop the work and still keep up your homes and, their bread-and-cheese, -and their other comforts, I'd say nothing. But look at your poor -suffering wives and children. I should be _ashamed_ to be idle, when my -idleness bore such consequences." - -The man answered nothing. Cole put in his word. - -"There are times when I feel _I_ should like to run away from my work, -and go in for a few weeks' or months' idleness, Jacob Hoar; and drink my -two or three glasses of port wine after dinner of a day, like a lord; -and be altogether independent of my station and my patients, and of -every other obligation under the sun. But I can't. I know what it would -do for _me_--bring me to the parish." - -"D'ye think we throw up the work for the sake o' being idle?" returned -Hoar. "D'ye suppose, sirs,"--with a burst of a sigh--"that this state o' -things is a _pleasure_ to us? We are doing it for future benefit. We are -told by them who act for us, and who must know, that great benefit will -come of it if we be only firm; that our rights be in our own hands if we -only persevere long enough in standing out for 'em. Us men has our -rights, I suppose, as well as other folks." - -"Those who, as you term it, act for you, may be mistaken, Hoar," said -the Squire. "I'll leave that point: and go on to a different question. -Do you think that the future benefit (whatever that may be: it's vague -enough now) _is worth the cost you are paying for it_?" - -No reply. A look crossed Hoar's face that made me think he sometimes -asked the same question of himself. - -"It does appear to be a very _senseless_ quarrel, Hoar," went on the -Squire. Cole had walked on. "One-sided too. There's an old saying, -'Cutting off one's nose to spite one's face,' and your strike seems just -an illustration of it. You see, it is only _you men_ that suffer. The -rulers you speak of don't suffer: while they are laying down rules for -you, they are flourishing on the meat and corn of the land; the masters, -in one sense, do not suffer, for they are not reduced to any extremity -of any kind. But you, my poor fellows, _you_ bear the brunt of it all. -Look at your homes, how they are bared; look at your hungry children. -What but hunger drove little Dick to crib that bun yesterday?" - -Hoar took off his hat and passed his hand over his brow and his black -hair. It seemed to be a favourite action of his when in any worry of -thought. - -"It is just ruin, Jacob Hoar. If some great shock--say a mountain of -snow, or a thunderbolt--descended suddenly from the skies and destroyed -everything there was in your home, leaving but the bare walls standing, -what a dreadful calamity you would think it. How bitterly you'd bemoan -it!--perhaps almost feel inclined, if you only dared, to reproach Heaven -for its cruelty! But you--you bring on this calamity yourself, of your -own free and deliberate will. You have dismantled your home with your -own fingers; you have taken out your goods and sold or pledged them, to -buy food. I hear you have parted with all." - -"A'most," assented Hoar readily; as if it quite pleased him the Squire -should show up the case at its worst. - -"Put it that you resume work to-morrow, you don't resume it as a free -man. You'll have a load of debt and embarrassment on your shoulders. -You will have your household goods to redeem--if they are then still -redeemable: you will have your clothes and shoes to buy, to replace -present rags: while on your mind will lie the weight of all this past -time of trouble, cropping up every half-hour like a nightmare. Now--is -the future benefit you hint at worth all this?" - -Hoar twitched a thorny spray off the hedge behind the pales, and twirled -it about between his teeth. - -"Any way," he said, the look of perplexity clearing somewhat on his -face, "I be but doing as my mates do; and we are a-doing for the best. -So far as we are told and believe, it'll be all for the best." - -"Then _do_ it," returned the Squire in a passion; and went stamping away -with his gun. - -"Johnny, they are all pig-headed together," he presently said, as we -crossed the stile into the field of stubble whence the corn had been -reaped. "One can't help being sorry for them: they are blinded by -specious arguments that will turn out, I fear, to be all moonshine. Hold -my gun, lad. Where's that dog, now? Here, Dash, Dash, Dash!" - -Dash came running up; and Tod with him. - - * * * * * - -In a fortnight's time, Crabb Cot was deserted again. Tod and I returned -to our studies, the Squire and the rest to Dyke Manor. As the weeks -went on, scraps of news would reach us about the strike. There were -meetings of the masters alone: meetings of the men and what they called -delegates; meetings of masters and men combined. It all came to nothing. -The masters at length offered to concede a little: the men (inwardly -wearied out, sick to death of the untoward state of things) would have -accepted the slight concession and returned to work with willing feet; -but their rulers--the delegates, or whatever they were--said no. And so -the idleness and the pinching distress continued: the men got more -morose, and the children more ragged. After that (things remaining in a -chronic state of misery, I suppose) we heard nothing. - - * * * * * - -"Another lot of faggots, Thomas; and heap up the coal. This is weather! -Goodness, man! Don't put the coal on gingerly, as if you were afraid of -it. Molly's a fool." - -We were in the cozy sitting-room again at Crabb Cot. The Squire was -right: it _was_ weather: the coldest I have ever felt in December. Old -Thomas's hands were frozen with the drive from the station. Molly, who -had come on the day before, had put about a handful of fire in the grate -to greet us with. Naturally it put the Squire's temper up. - -"That there strike's a-going on still, sir," began Thomas, as he waited -to watch his wood blaze up. - -"No!" cried the Squire. For we had naturally supposed it to be at an -end. - -"It is, though, sir. Ford the driver telled me, coming along, that Crabb -Lane was in a fine state for distress." - -"Oh dear! I wish I knew whose fault it is!" bewailed Mrs. Todhetley. -"What more did the driver say, Thomas?" - -"Well, ma'am, _he_ said it must be the men's fault--because there the -work is, still a-waiting for 'em, and they won't do it." - -"The condition the poor children must be in!" - -"Like hungry wolves," said old Thomas. "'Twas what Ford called 'em, and -he ought to know: own brother to Ford the baker, as lives in the very -thick of the trouble!" - -Scarcely anything was talked of that evening but the strike. Its long -continuance half frightened some of us. Old Coney, coming in to smoke -his pipe with the Squire, pulled a face as long as his arm at the -poor-rate prospect: the Squire wondered how much work would stay in the -country. - -It was said the weekly allowance made to the men was not so much as -it had been at first. It was also said that the Society, making it, -considered Crabb Lane in general had been particularly improvident in -spending the allowance, or it would not have been reduced to its present -distressed condition. Which was not to be wondered at, in Mr. Coney's -opinion: people used to very good wages, he said, could not all at once -pull up habits and look at every farthing as a miser does. Crabb Lane -was reproachfully assured by the Society that other strikes had kept -themselves quite respectable, comparatively speaking, upon just the -same allowance, and had not parted with _all_ their pots and pans. - -That night I dreamt of the strike. It's as true as that I am writing -this. I dreamt I saw thousands and thousands of red-faced men--not -pale-faced ones--each tossing a loaf of bread up and down. - -"I suppose I may go over and see Eliza," I said to Mrs. Todhetley, after -breakfast in the morning. - -"There is no reason why you should not, Johnny, that I know of," she -answered, after a pause. "Excepting the cold." - -As if I minded the cold! "I hope the whole lot, she and the young ones, -won't look like skeletons, that's all. Tod, will you come?" - -"Not if I know it, old fellow. I have no fancy for seeing skeletons." - -"Oh, that was all my nonsense." - -"I know that. A pleasant journey to you." - -The hoar frost had gathered on the trees, the ice hung fantastically -from their branches: it was altogether a beautiful sight. Groups of Miss -Timmens's girls, coming to school with frozen noses, were making slides -as they ran. As to Crabb Lane, it looked nearly deserted: the cold -kept the men indoors. Knocking at Hoar's door with a noise like a -fire-engine, I went in with a leap. - -The scene I came upon brought me up short. Just at first I did not -understand it. In the self-same corner by the fireplace where Dicky's -bed had been that first day, was a bed now, and Eliza lay on it: and by -her side, wedged against the wall, was what looked like a bundle of -green baize with a calico nightcap on. The children--and really and -truly they were not much better than living skeletons--sat on the floor. - -"What's to do here, you little mites? Is mother ill?" - -Dicky, tending the fire (I could have put it into a cocoa-nut), turned -round to answer me. He had got quite well again, arm and all. - -"Mother's _very_ ill," said he in a whisper. "That's the new baby." - -"The new what?" - -"The new baby," repeated Dick, pointing to the green bundle. "It's two -days old." - -An old tin slop-pail, turned upside down, stood in the corner of the -hearth. I sat down on it to revolve the news and take in the staggering -aspect of things. - -"What do you say, Dick? A baby--two days old?" - -"Two days," returned Dick. "I'd show him to you but for fear o' waking -mother." - -"He came here the night afore last, he did, while we was all asleep -upstairs," interposed the younger of the little girls, Jessy. "Mr. Cole -brought him in his pocket: father said so." - -"'Twasn't the night afore last," corrected 'Liza. "'Twas the night afore -that." - -Poor, pale, pinched faces, with never a smile on any one of them! -Nothing takes the spirit out of children like long-continued famine. - -Stepping across, I looked down at Mrs. Hoar. Her eyes were half open as -if she were in a state of stupor. I don't think she knew me: I'm not -sure she even saw me. The face was fearfully thin and hollow, and white -as death. - -"Wouldn't mother be better upstairs, Dick?" - -"She's here 'cause o' the fire," returned Dick, gently dropping on a bit -of coal the size of a marble. "There ain't no bed up there, neither; -they've brought it down." - -The "bed" looked like a sack of shavings. From my heart I don't believe -it was anything else. At that moment, the door opened and a woman came -in; a neighbour, I suppose; her clothes very thin. - -"It's Mrs. Watts," said Dick. - -Mrs. Watts curtsied. She looked as starved as they did. It seemed she -knew me. - -"She be very bad. Mr. Ludlow, sir." - -"She seems so. Is it--fever?" - -"Law, sir! It's more famine nor fever. If her strength can last -out--why, well and good; she may rally. If it don't, she'll go, sir." - -"Ought she not to have things, Mrs. Watts? Beef-tea and wine, and all -that." - -Mrs. Watts stared a minute, and then her lips parted with a sickly -smile. "I don't know where she'd get 'em from, sir! Beef-tea and wine! -A drop o' plain tea is a'most more nor us poor can manage to find now. -The strike have lasted long, you see, sir. Any way, she's too weak to -take much of anything." - -"If I--if I could bring some beef-tea--or some wine--would it do her -good?" - -"It might just be the saving of her life, Mr. Ludlow, sir." - -I went galloping home through the snow. Mrs. Todhetley was stoning -raisins in the dining-room for the Christmas puddings. Telling her the -news in a heap, I sat down to get my breath. - -"Ah, I was afraid so," she said quietly, and without surprise. "I feared -there might be another baby at the Hoars' by this time." - -"Another baby at the Hoars'!" cried Tod, looking up from my new -Shakespeare that he was skimming. "How is it going to get fed?" - -"I fear that's a problem none of us can solve, Joseph," said she. - -"Well, folk must be daft, to go on collecting a heap more mouths -together, when there's nothing to feed them on," concluded Tod, dropping -his head into the book again. Mrs. Todhetley was slowly wiping her -fingers on the damp cloth, and looking doubtful. - -"Joseph, your papa's not in the way and I cannot speak to him--_do_ -you think I might venture to send something to poor Eliza under the -circumstances?" - -"Send and risk it," said Tod, in his prompt manner. "_Of course._ As to -the Pater--at the worst, he'll only storm a bit. But I fancy he would be -the first to send help himself. He wouldn't let her die for the want of -it." - -"Then I'll despatch Hannah at once." - -Hoar was down by the bed when Hannah got there, holding a drop of ale to -his wife's lips. Mr. Cole was standing by with his hat on. - -"_Ale!_" exclaimed Hannah to the surgeon. "May she take _that_?" - -"Bless me, yes," said he, "and do her good." - -Hannah followed him outside the door when he was leaving. "How will it -go with her, sir?" she asked. "She looks dreadfully ill." - -"Well," returned the Doctor, "I think the night will about see the end -of it." - -The words frightened Hannah. "Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "What's the -matter with her that she should die?" - -"Famine and worry have been the matter with her. What she will die of is -exhaustion. She has had a sharpish turn just now, you understand; and -has no stamina to bring her up again." - -It was late in the afternoon when Hannah came home again. There was no -change, she said, for the better or the worse. Eliza still lay as much -like one dead as living. - -"It's quite a picter to see the poor little creatures sitting on the -bare floor and quiet as mice, never speaking but in a whisper," cried -Hannah, as she shook the snow from her petticoats on the mat. "It's just -as if they had an instinct of what is coming." - -The Squire, far from being angry, wanted to send over half the house. -It was not Eliza's fault, he said, it was the strike's--and he hoped -with all his heart she'd get through it. Helping the men's wives in -ordinary was not to be thought of; but when it came to dying, that was -a different matter. In the evening, between dinner and tea, I offered -to go over and see whether any progress had been made. Being curious -on the point themselves, they said yes. - -The snow was coming down smartly. My great-coat and hat were soon -white enough for me to be taken for a ghost enjoying the air at night. -Knocking at the Hoars' door gently, it was opened by Jacky. He asked -me to go in. - -To my surprise they were again alone--Eliza and the children. Mrs. Watts -had gone home to put her own flock to bed; and Hoar was out. 'Liza sat -on the hearthstone, the sleeping bundle on her lap. - -"Father's a-went to fetch Mr. Cole," said Jacky. "Mother began a talking -queer--dreams, like--and it frightened him. He told us to mind her till -he run back with the Doctor." - -Looking down, I thought she was delirious. Her eyes were wide open and -glistening, a scarlet spot shone on her cheeks. She began talking to me. -Or rather to the air: for I'm sure she knew no one. - -"A great bright place it is, up there; all alight and shining. Silvery, -like the stars. Oh, it's beautiful! The people be in white, and no -strikes can come in!" - -"She've been a-talking about the strikes all along," whispered Jacky, -who was kneeling on the mattress. "Mother! Mother, would ye like a drop -o' the wine?" - -Whether the word mother aroused her, or the boy's voice--and she had -always loved Jacky with a great love--she seemed to recognize him. He -raised her head as handy as could be, and held the tea-cup to her lips. -It was half full of wine; she drank it all by slow degrees, and revived -to consciousness. - -"Master Johnny!" she said then in a faint tone. - -I could not help the tears filling my eyes as I knelt down by her in -Jacky's place. She knew she was dying. I tried to say a word or two. - -"It's the leaving the children, Master Johnny, to strikes and things -o' that kind, that's making it so hard for me to go. The world's full -o' trouble: look at what ours has been since the strike set in! I'd -not so much mind _that_ for them, though--for the world here don't -last over long, and perhaps it's a'most as good to be miserable as -easy in it--if I thought they'd all come to me in the bright place -afterwards. But--when one's clammed with famine and what not, it's a -sore temptation to do wrong. Lord, bring them to me!" she broke forth, -suddenly clasping her hands. "Lord Jesus, pray for them, and save -them!" - -She was nothing but skin and bone. Her hands fell, and she began -plucking at the blanket. You might have heard a pin drop in the room. -The frightened children hardly breathed. - -"I shall see your dear mamma, Master Johnny. I was at her death-bed; -'twas me mostly waited on her in her sickness. If ever a sainted lady -went straight to heaven, 'twas her. When I stood over her grave I -little thought my own ending was to be so soon. Strikes! Nothing but -strikes--and famine, and bad tempers, and blows. Lord Jesus, wash us -white from our sins, and take us all to that better world! No strikes -there; no strikes there." - -She was going off her head again. The door opened, and Hoar, the Doctor, -and Mrs. Watts all came in together. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Todhetley went over through the snow in the morning. Eliza Hoar -had died in the night, and lay on the mattress, her wasted face calm -and peaceful. Hoar and the children had migrated to the kitchen at the -back, a draughty place hardly large enough for the lot to turn round -in. The eldest girl was trying to feed the baby with a tea-spoon. - -"What are you giving it, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Todhetley. - -"Sugar and water, with a sup o' milk in't, please, ma'am." - -"I hope you are contented, Jacob Hoar, now you have killed your wife." - -Very harsh words, those for Mrs. Todhetley to speak: and she hastened -to soften them. But, as she said afterwards, the matter altogether was -a cruel folly and sin, making her heart burn with shame. "That is, -Hoar, with the strike; for it is the strike that has killed her." - -Hoar, who had been sitting with his head in the chimney, noticing no -one, burst into a sudden flood of tears, and sobbed for a minute or two. -Mrs. Todhetley was giving the children a biscuit apiece from her bag. - -"I did it all for the best," said Hoar, presently. "'Twasn't me that -originated the strike. I but joined in it with the rest of my mates." - -"And their wives and families are in no better plight than yours." - -"Nobody can say I've not done my duty as a husband and a father," cried -Hoar. "I've not been a drunkard, nor a rioter, nor a spendthrift. I've -never beat her nor swore at her, as some of 'em does." - -"Well, she is lying _there_; and the strike has brought her to it. Is it -so, or not?" - -Hoar did not answer: only caught his breath with a sound of pain. - -"It seems to me, Hoar, that the strikes cannot be the good things you -think for," she said, her voice now full of pity for the man. "They -don't bring luck with them; on the contrary, they bring a great deal -of ill-luck. It is you workmen that suffer; mostly in your wives and -children. I do not pretend to judge whether strikes may be good from a -political point of view, I am not clever; but they do tell very hardly -upon your poor patient wives and little ones." - -"And don't you see as they tell upon us men, too!" he retorted with a -sob that was half pitiful, half savage. "Ay, and worst of all; for if -they should be mistaken steps stead of right ones, we've got 'em on our -conscience." - -"But you go in for them, Hoar. You, individually: and this last night's -blow is the result. It certainly seems that there must be a mistake -somewhere." - - * * * * * - -This has not been much to tell of, but it is _true_; and, as strikes are -all the go just now, I thought I would write out for you a scrap of one -of ours. For my own part, I cannot see that strikes do much good in the -long run; or at best, that they are worth the outlay. I do know, for I -have heard and seen it, that through many a long day the poor wives and -children can only cry aloud to Heaven to pity them and their privations. - -In course of time the strike (it was the longest on record in our parts, -though we have had a few since then) came to an end. Upon which, the men -began life again with bare homes and sickly young ones; and a few vacant -chairs. - - - - -XXIII. - -BURSTING-UP. - - -There have been fiery August days in plenty; but never a more fiery one -than this that I am going to tell of. It was Wednesday: and we were -sitting under the big tree on the lawn at Dyke Manor. A tree it would -have done you good only to look at on a blazing day: a large weeping -ash, with a cool and shady space within it, large enough for a dozen -chairs round, and a small table. - -The chairs and the table were there now. On the latter stood iced cider -and some sparkling lemonade: uncommonly good, both, on that thirsty day. -Mr. Brandon, riding by on his cob, had called in to see us; and sat -between me and Mrs. Todhetley. She was knitting something in green -shades of wool. The Squire had on a straw hat; Tod lay on the grass -outside, in the shade of the laurels; Hugh and Lena stood at the bench -near him, blowing bubbles and chattering like magpies. - -"Well, I don't know," said old Brandon, taking a draught of the -lemonade. "It often happens with me if I plan to go anywhere much -beforehand, that when the time comes I am not well enough for it." - -Mr. Todhetley had been telling him that he thought he should take the -lot of us to the seaside for a week or two in September; and suggested -that he should go with us. It had been a frightfully hot summer, and -everybody felt worn out. - -"Where shall you go?" questioned Mr. Brandon. - -"Somewhere in Wales, I think," said the Squire. "It's easiest of access -from here. Aberystwith, perhaps." - -"Not much of a sea at Aberystwith," cried Mr. Brandon, in his squeaky -voice. - -"Well, it's not quite a Gibraltar Rock, Brandon, but it does for us. The -last time we went to the seaside; it is three years ago now----" - -"Four," mildly put in Mrs. Todhetley, looking up from her wools. - -"Four, is it! Well, it was Aberystwith we went to then; and we were very -comfortably lodged. It was at a Mrs. Noon's, I remember; and----who's -coming now?" - -A dash in at the gate was heard--a little startling Mr. Brandon, lest -whatever it was should dash over his cob, tied to the gate-post--and -then came the smooth run of light wheels on the gravel. - -"Look out and see who it is, Johnny." - -Putting the leaves aside, I saw a light, elegant, open carriage, driven -by a groom in livery; a gentleman seated beside him in dainty gloves. - -"Why, that's the Clement-Pells' little carriage!" exclaimed Mrs. -Todhetley, who had been looking for herself. - -"And that's Mr. Clement-Pell in it," said I. - -"Oh," said Mr. Brandon. "I'll go then." But the Squire put up his arm to -detain him. - -Tod did the honours. Went to receive him, and brought him to us under -the tree. The children stopped blowing bubbles to stare at Mr. -Clement-Pell as he crossed the lawn. It struck me that just a shade of -annoyance appeared in his face when he saw so many of us there. -Shaking hands, he sat down by Mr. Todhetley, observing that it was -some time since he had seen us. It was six weeks, or so: for we had -not happened to meet him since that visit of mine and Tod's at his -house in Kensington. All the family were back again now at Parrifer -Hall: and we were going to a grand entertainment there on the -following day, Thursday. An open-air fete, the invitations had said. - -"You have been very busy lately, Mr. Clement-Pell," observed the Squire. -"I've not been able to get to see you to thank you for the kindness of -your folk to my boys in town. Twice I called at your chief Bank, but you -were not visible." - -"I have been unusually busy," was the answer. "Business gets worse; -that is, more extensive; every day. I have had to be about a good deal -besides; so that with one thing and another, my time has been more than -fully occupied. I am very glad your young men enjoyed themselves with us -in London," he added in hearty tones. - -Mr. Brandon gave me such a look that for the life of me I could not say -a word in answer. The London visit, taking it altogether, had not been -one of enjoyment: but Clement-Pell had no suspicion of the truth. - -"Rather a _rapid_ life, that London life," remarked Mr. Brandon dryly. -And I went hot all over, for fear he might be going to let out things to -the company. - -"Rapid?" repeated Mr. Clement-Pell. "Well, so it is; especially for us -business men." - -Mr. Brandon coughed, but said no more. The Squire pressed refreshment -on Mr. Clement-Pell. He'd have nothing to say to the cider--it would -make him hotter, he thought--but took some of the lemonade. As he was -putting the glass down Mrs. Todhetley asked whether to-morrow's fete -was to be as grand and large as was reported. And the annoyance, -seen before, most certainly again crossed Clement-Pell's face at the -question. - -"I do not really know much about it," he answered. "These affairs are my -wife's, not mine." - -"And perhaps you don't much care for them," put in the Squire, who had -noticed the expression. - -"I should like them very much, if I had more time to spare for them," -said Mr. Clement-Pell, playing with his handsome chain and seals. "We -men of large undertakings must be content to work ourselves, and to let -our wives and daughters do the playing. However, I hope I shall manage -an hour or two for this one to-morrow." - -"What are to be the amusements?" inquired Mrs. Todhetley. - -"The question is, rather, what they are not to be," smiled Mr. -Clement-Pell. "I heard the girls talking about it with one another last -night. Dancing, music, archery, fortune-telling----" - -"Something, I suppose, of what may be called a fancy-fair," she -interrupted. - -"Just so. A fancy-fair without charge. At any rate, I make no doubt it -will be pleasant: and I sincerely hope to see you all at it. _You_ will -come, I trust, Mr. Brandon. These things are not in your usual way, I am -aware, but----" - -"I have neither the health nor the inclination for them," said Mr. -Brandon, quite shrilly, stopping him before he could finish. - -"But I trust you will make an exception in favour of us to-morrow, I was -about to say. Mrs. Clement-Pell and the Miss Clement-Pells will be so -pleased to see you." - -"Thank you," said old Brandon, in a tone only just short of rudeness. "I -must be going, Squire." - -He got up as he spoke, shook hands with Mrs. Todhetley only, nodded to -the rest of us, and set off across the lawn. Children liked him in spite -of his voice and dry manner, and of course Hugh and Lena, pipes and -soap-suds and all, attended him to the gate. - -As the brown cob went trotting off, and the Squire was coming back -again--for he had gone too--Mr. Clement-Pell met him half-way across the -lawn, and then they both went indoors together. - -"Clement-Pell must want something," said Mrs. Todhetley. "Johnny, do you -notice how very aged and worn he is? It never struck me until to-day. He -looks quite grey." - -"Well, that's because he is getting so. I shall be grey some time." - -"But I don't mean that kind of greyness, Johnny; grey hairs. His _face_ -looks grey." - -"It was the reflection of these green leaves, good mother." - -"Well--perhaps it might be," she doubtfully agreed, looking up. "What a -grand fete it is to be, Johnny!" - -"You'll have to put on your best bib-and-tucker, good mother. That new -dress you bought for the Sterlings' christening." - -"I should if I went. But the fact is, Johnny, I and Mr. Todhetley have -made up our minds not to go, I fancy. We were talking together about it -this morning. However--we shall see when to-morrow comes." - -"I wouldn't be you, then. That will be too bad." - -"These open-air fetes are not in our way, Johnny. Dancing, and archery, -and fortune-telling are not much in the way of us old people. You young -ones think them delightful--as we did once. Hugh! Lena! what _is_ all -that noise about? You are not to take her bowl, Hugh: keep to your own. -Joseph, please part them." - -Joe accomplished it by boxing the two. In the midst of the noise, Mr. -Clement-Pell came out. He did not cross the lawn again to Mrs. -Todhetley; just called out a good day in getting into his carriage, and -lifted his hat as he drove away. - -"I say, father, what did he want with you?" asked Tod, as the Squire -came sauntering back, the skirts of his light coat held behind him. - -"That's my business, Joe," said the Squire. "Mind your own." - -Which was a checkmate for Tod. The truth was, Tod had been uneasily -wondering whether it might not be his business. That is, whether Mr. -Clement-Pell had obtained scent of that gambling of his up in London and -had come to enlighten the Squire. Tod never felt safe upon the point: -which, you see, was all owing to his lively conscience. - -"What a beautiful little carriage that is!" said Mrs. Todhetley to the -Pater. "It puts me in mind of a shell." - -"Ay; must have cost a pretty penny, small as it is. Pell can afford -these fancy things, with his floating wealth." - -In that city of seething crowds and wealth, London, where gigantic -operations are the rule instead of the exception, and large fortunes -are made daily, Mr. Clement-Pell would not have been thought much -of; but in our simple country place, with its quiet experiences, -Clement-Pell was a wonder. His riches were great. His power of making -money for himself and others seemed elastic; and he was bowed down to -as a reigning potentate--a king--an Olympian deity. - -You have heard of him before. He had come to a neighbouring town some -years back as manager of a small banking company, having given up, it -was understood, a good law practice in London to undertake it. The small -banking grew and grew under his management. Some of its superfluous -hoards were profitably employed: to construct railroads; to work mines; -to found colonies. All sorts of paying concerns were said to have some -of Clement-Pell's money in them, and to bring him in cent. per cent. It -was believed that if all the wealth of the East India Company and the -Bank of England to boot had been poured into the hands of Clement-Pell, -it could not have been more than he would be able to use to profit, so -great were the resources at his command. People fought with one another -to get their money accepted by Mr. Clement-Pell. No wonder. The funds -gave them a paltry three per cent. for it; Mr. Clement-Pell doubled the -amount. So the funds lost the money, and Mr. Clement-Pell gained it. He -was worshipped as the greatest benefactor that had ever honoured the -country by settling down in it. - -I think his manner went for something. It was so pleasant. The world -itself might have loved Mr. Clement-Pell. Deputations asked for his -portrait to hang up in public buildings; individuals besought his -photograph. Mrs. Clement-Pell was less liked: she was extravagant and -haughty. It was said she was of very high family indeed, and she could -not have looked down upon common people with more scorn had she been -born a duchess. I'm sure no duchess ever gave herself the airs that Mrs. -Clement-Pell did, or wore such fine bonnets. - -When Mr. Clement-Pell opened a little branch Bank at Church Dykely (as -he had already done at two or three other small places), the parish at -once ascended a few feet into the air. As Church Dykely in its humility -had never possessed a Bank before, it was naturally something to be -proud of. The Bank was a little house near to Duffham's, the doctor, -with a door and one window; no larger premises being obtainable. The -natives collected round to gaze, and marvel at the great doings destined -to be enacted behind that wire blind: and Mr. Clement-Pell was followed -by a tail of admiring rustics whenever he stepped abroad. - -Church Dykely only had its branch in what might be called the later -years, dating from the beginning of the Clement-Pell dynasty, and when -he had made a far and wide reputation, and was in the full tide of his -prosperity. It was after its establishment that he took Parrifer Hall. -This little branch Bank was found to be a convenience to many people. It -had a manager and a clerk; and Mr. Clement-Pell would condescend to be -at it occasionally, chiefly on Mondays. He was popular with all classes: -county gentlemen and rich farmers asked him to dinner; the poor got from -him many a kind word and handshake. Mrs. Clement-Pell dined with him at -the gentlemen's tables, but she turned up her nose at the farmers, and -would not go near them. In short, take them for all in all, there was -no family so grand in the county, or who made so much noise as the -Clement-Pells. Their income was something enormous; and of course they -might launch out if they liked. It had grown to be a saying amongst us, -"As rich as the Clement-Pells." - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Todhetley had said she supposed the entertainment would be -something like a fancy-fair. We had not had a great experience of -fancy-fairs in our county; but if they were all like this, I shouldn't -mind going to one twice a week. The sky was unclouded, the wind still, -the leaves of the trees scarcely stirred. On the lawn the sun blazed hot -and brilliant: but the groves were cool and shady. Since the place came -into Mr. Clement-Pell's occupancy, he had taken-in part of a field, and -made the grounds more extensive. At least, Mrs. Clement-Pell had done -so, which came to the same: spending money went for nothing with her. -And why should it, when they had so much? If you climbed to the top -of an artificial rockery you could see over the high hedge. I did so: -and took a look at the chimneys of George Reed's cottage. You've not -forgotten him; and his trouble with Major Parrifer. But for that -trouble, the Clement-Pells might never have had the chance of occupying -Parrifer Hall. - -It was as good as fairy-land. Flags hung about; banners waved; statues -had decked themselves in garlands. The lawns and the walks were alive -with company, the ladies sported gala dresses all the colours of the -rainbow. Dancing, shooting, flirting, talking, walking, sitting; we were -as gay as birds of paradise. There was a tent for the band, and another -for refreshments, and no end of little marquees, dotted about, for -anything. One was a post-office; where love-letters might be had for -the asking. When I look back on that day now through the mist of -years, it stands out as the gayest and sunniest left to memory. As to -refreshment--you may think of anything you like and know it was there. -There was no regular meal at all throughout the afternoon and evening; -but you could begin eating and drinking when you went in if you chose, -and never leave off till you left. The refreshment tent communicated -with one of the doors of the house, through which fresh supplies came -as they were wanted. All was cold. Besides this, there was a tea and -coffee marquee, where the kettles were kept always on the boil. No one -could say the Clement-Pells spared pains or expense to entertain their -guests right royally. - -Tod and I strolled about, to take in the whole scene. The Clement-Pell -carriages (the big barouche and the small affair that Mrs. Todhetley -had called a shell) came dashing up at intervals, graciously despatched -to bring relays of guests who did not keep carriages of their own. Mrs. -Clement-Pell stood on the lawn to receive them; the Miss Clement-Pells -with her. If I were able to describe their attire I would do so; it beat -anything for gorgeousness I had ever seen. Glistening silk skirts under -robes of beautiful lace; fans in their hands and gossamer veils in their -hair. - -"I say, Tod, here they come!" - -A sober carriage was driving slowly in. We knew it well: and its steady -old horses and servants too. It was Sir John Whitney's. Rushing round a -side path, we were up with it when it stopped. Bill Whitney and his two -sisters came tumbling out of it. - -"It's going on to your house now, with the trunk," said Helen, to us. -"William has been most awfully tiresome: he would put his every-day -boots and coat in our box, instead of bringing a portmanteau for -himself." - -"As if a fellow wanted a portmanteau for just one night!" exclaimed -Bill. "What you girls can have in that big trunk, amazes me. I should -say you are bringing your bed and pillows in it." - -"It has only our dresses for to-morrow morning in it, and all that," -retorted Helen, who liked to keep Bill in order and to domineer over -him. "The idea of having to put in great clumsy boots with _them_, and -a rough coat smelling of smoke!" - -"This is to be left here, I think, Miss Helen," said the footman, -displaying a small black leather bag. - -"Why, yes; it contains our combs and brushes," returned Helen, taking it -and giving it to one of the Clement-Pell servants, together with two -cloaks for the evening. - -Tod went up to the postillion. "Look here, Pinner: the Squire says you -had better stop at the Manor to rest the horses. You will find the groom -there, I dare say." - -"Thank you, sir," said Pinner. "They'll be a bit done up if we goes -straight off back." - -The girls and Bill went up to the Clement-Pell group, and were made -much of. It was the first time they had visited the Pells, and their -coming was regarded as a special honour. Sir John and Lady Whitney had -declined: and it was arranged that Bill and his sisters should sleep -at our house, and the carriage come for them the next day. - -Escaping from the Pells, we all sat down on a bench. Helen Whitney began -whispering about the Miss Pells' dresses. - -"I never saw such beauties," she exclaimed. "I wonder what they cost?" - -"Millions, I should say," cried Bill. - -"These are plain ugly old things beside them," grumbled Helen. - -She meant her own dress and Anna's. They wore white spotted muslins, and -blue ribbons. One of those gorgeous robes was worth fifty times as much: -but I know which set of girls looked the most lady-like. - -"They are very beautiful," sighed Helen, with a spice of envy. "But too -much for an affair like this." - -"Not for them," said Bill stoutly. "The Clement-Pells could afford robes -of diamonds if they liked. I'm not sure but I shall go in for one of the -girls." - -"Don't talk nonsense," reproved Helen. - -We went into the fortune-telling tent. It was full of people, screaming -and laughing. A real gipsy with a swarthy skin and black flowing locks -was telling fortunes. Helen had hers told when she could make a -place, and was promised a lord for a husband, and five-and-thirty -grandchildren. At which the tent roared again, and Helen laughed too. - -"And now it is your turn, my pretty little maid," said the sibyl to Anna -Whitney. And Anna, always modest and gentle, turned as red as a rose, -and said she already knew as much of her own fortune as she desired to -know at present. - -"What's in _this_ hand?" cried the gipsy, suddenly seizing upon Tod's -big one, and devouring its lines with her eyes. "Nay, master; don't draw -it away, for there's matter here, and to spare. You are not afraid, are -you?" - -"Not of you, my gipsy queen," gallantly answered Tod, resigning his palm -to her. "Pray let my fate be as good as you can." - -"It is a smooth hand," she went on, never lifting her gaze. "Very -smooth. You'll not have many of the cares and crosses of life. -Nevertheless, I see that you have been in some peril lately. And I -should say it was connected with money. Debt." - -There were not many things could bring the colour to Joseph Todhetley's -face; but it matched then the scarlet mantle the gipsy wore slung over -her right shoulder. You might have heard a pin drop in the sudden hush. -Anna's blue eyes were glancing shyly up through their long lashes. - -"Peril of debt, or--perhaps--of--steeple-chasing," continued the sibyl -with deliberation; and at that the shouts of laughter broke out again -through the tent, and Anna smiled. "Take you care of yourself, sir; for -I perceive you will run into other perils before you settle down. You -have neither caution nor foresight." - -"_That's_ true enough, I believe," said Tod. "Any more?" - -"No more. For you are just one of those imprudent mortals who will -never heed a friendly warning. Were I you, I'd keep out of the world -till I grew older." - -"Thank you," said Tod, laughing as much as the rest of them: and he drew -away his hand. - -"Johnny, that was a near shave," he whispered, putting his arm within -mine when we had pushed our way out. "Was it all guesswork? Who the -deuce is the woman?" - -"I know who _I_ think she is. The Pells' English governess, Miss -Phebus." - -"Nonsense!" - -"I do. She has got herself up in character and dyed her skin and hair." - -"Then, by George, if it _is_, she must have gathered an inkling of that -matter in London." - -"I don't see how." - -"Nor I. Johnny, some of these days I shall be bursting out with it to -the Pater, and so get the weight off my mind." - -"I shouldn't wonder. She says you have no caution." - -"It's not pleasant, I can tell you, youngster, to live in dread that -somebody else will bring it out to him. I'll go in for this next dance, -I think. Where's Anna?" - -Anna did not say no. She would never say no to anything _he_ asked her, -if I possessed the gift of divination. They joined the dancers; Bill and -Helen went to the archery. - -"And how are _you_ enjoying it, pray, Johnny Ludlow?" - -The voice nearly shot me off the arm of the bench. For it was Mr. -Brandon's. I don't think there was any living man I should have been so -surprised at seeing at the fete as he. - -"Why! is it you, sir?" - -"Yes, it is, Johnny. You need not stare as if you thought me an -intruder. I was invited." - -"Yes, of course, sir. But I--I fancied you never came to such parties." - -"Never was at one like this--unless I went to it in my sleep," he said, -standing with me before the bench, and casting his eyes around. "I came -to-day to look after you." - -"After me, sir!" - -"Yes, after you. And perhaps a little bit after your friend, Todhetley. -Mr. Pell informed us the entertainments would include fortune-telling: -I didn't know but there might be a roulette-table as well. Or cards, -or dice, or billiards." - -"Oh no, sir; there's nothing of that sort." - -"It's not the fault of the young Pells, I expect, then. That choice -companion of yours, called Gusty, and the other one in scarlet." - -"Neither of them is here, Mr. Brandon. Gusty has gone to the Highlands -for grouse-shooting; and Fabian sent word he couldn't get leave to come -down. I have not seen the eldest son yet, but I suppose he is somewhere -about." - -"Oh," said Mr. Brandon--and whenever he spoke of the Pells his voice -was thinner than ever, and most decidedly took a mocking sound--"gone -grouse-shooting, is Gusty! And the other can't get leave. A lieutenant, -is he not?" - -"Yes, a lieutenant. His sister Constance has just told us she does not -believe it is true that he could not get leave. She thinks he never -asked for it, because he wanted to stay in London." - -"Ah. It's fine to be the Pells, Johnny. One son off to shoot grouse; -another living his fast London life; the rest holding grand doings down -here that could hardly be matched by the first nobleman amongst us. Very -fine. Wonder what they spend a year--taking it in the aggregate?" - -"Have you been here long, sir?" - -"Half-an-hour, or so--I've been looking about me, Johnny, and listening -to the champagne corks popping off. Squire here?" - -"No. He and Mrs. Todhetley did not come." - -"Sensible people. Where's young Joe?" - -"He is with the Whitneys. Dancing with Anna, I think." - -"And he had better keep to that," said Mr. Brandon, with a little nod. -"He'll get no harm there." - -We sat down, side by side. Taking a side-glance at him, I saw his eyes -fixed on Mrs. and the Miss Clement-Pells, who were now mixing with the -company. He did not know much about ladies' dress, but theirs seemed to -strike him. - -"Showy, Johnny, is it not?" - -"It looks very bright in the sun, sir." - -"No doubt. So do spangles." - -"It's real, sir, that lace. Helen Whitney says so." - -"A great deal too real. So is the rest of it. Hark at the music and the -corks and the laughter! Look at the people, and the folly!" - -"Don't you like the fete, sir?" - -"Johnny, I hate it with my whole heart." - -I was silent. Mr. Brandon was always more queer than other people. - -"Is it in _keeping_ with the Pells, this upstart grandeur and profusion? -Come, Johnny Ludlow, you've some sense in your head: answer me. They -have both risen from nothing, Johnny. When he began life, Pell's -ambition was to rise to a competency; an el dorado of three or four -hundred a year: and that only when he had worked for it. I have seen her -take in the milk for their tea from the milkman at the door; when they -kept one servant to do everything. Pell rose by degrees and grew rich; -so much the more credit due to his perseverance and his business -talents----" - -"And would you not have them spend their riches, Mr. Brandon?" - -"Spend their riches!--of course I would, in a proper way. Don't you -interrupt your elders, Johnny Ludlow. Where would be the use of a man's -getting money unless he spent some of it. But not in _this_ way; not in -the lavish and absurd and sinful profusion that they have indulged in of -late years. Is it seemly, or right, or decent, the way they live in? The -sons apeing the manners and company of their betters, of young fellows -who are born to the peerage and their thousands a year? The mother -holding her head in the air as if she wore an iron collar: the daughters -with their carriages and their harps and their German governesses, and -their costly furbelows that are a scandal on common sense? The world has -run mad after these Pells of late years: but I know this much--I have -been ashamed only to look on at the Pells' unseemly folly." - -At that moment Martha Jane Pell--in the toilette that Bill Whitney said -must have cost "millions"--went looming by, flirting with Captain -Connaught. Mr. Brandon looked after them with his little eyes. - -"They are too fine for their station, Johnny. They were not born to this -kind of thing; were not reared to it; have only plunged into it of -recent years, and it does not sit well upon them. One can only think of -upstarts all the time. The Pells might have lived as gentlepeople; ay, -and married their children to gentlemen and gentlewomen had they -pleased: but, to launch out in this unseemly way, has been a just -humiliation to themselves, and has rendered them a poor, pitiful -laughing-stock in the eyes of all right-minded people. It's nothing less -than a burlesque on all the proprieties of life. And it may be that we -have not seen the end of it, Johnny." - -"Well, sir, they can hardly be grander than----" - -"Say more assuming, lad." - -"I suppose I meant that, Mr. Brandon. Perhaps you think they'll be for -taking the Marquis's place, Ragley, next, if it should come into the -market. Or Eastnor Castle: or----" - -"I did not mean exactly in that way, Johnny," he interrupted again, a -queer look on his thin lips as he got up. - -"Are you going into the eating tent, sir?" - -"I am going away. Now that I have seen that you and Joe Todhetley are -tolerably safe from gaming tables and the like, there's nothing further -to keep me here. I feel a sort of responsibility in regard to you two, -seeing that that unpleasant secret lies with me, and not with Joe's -father." - -"It is early to go, sir. The fun has hardly begun." - -"None too early for me. I am a magistrate; looked up to, in a manner, -in the neighbourhood, insignificant though I am. It is not I who will -countenance this upstart foolery by my presence longer than I can help, -Johnny Ludlow." - -Mr. Brandon disappeared. The hours went on to twilight and then to dark. -Once during the evening I caught sight of Mr. Clement-Pell: and what -occurred as I did so was like a bit of romance. People crowded the side -paths under the light of the Chinese lanterns. For lanterns were hanging -on the trees and shrubs, and the whole scene was one of enchantment out -of the Arabian Nights. One of the remote walks was not lighted; perhaps -it had been forgotten. I had missed Bill Whitney and was at the end of -the grounds hunting for him, when I saw, through the trees, a solitary -figure pacing this dark walk with his arms folded. It was not very -likely to be Bill: but there was no harm in going to see. - -It turned out to be Mr. Clement-Pell. But before I got out of the trees -into the walk--for it was the nearest way back to the lights and the -company--some one pushed through the trees on the opposite side of the -path, and stood in front of him. The moon shone as much as an August -moon ever does shine; and I saw Clement-Pell start as if he had been -told his house was on fire. - -"I thought this might be a likely place to find you," said the stranger -in a savage whisper. "You have kept out of my way for two days at the -Bank--too busy to see me, eh?--so, hearing what was going on here, I -took the train and came over." - -"I'm sure I am--happy to see you, Mr. Johnson," cried Clement-Pell in -a voice that seemed to tremble a little; and unless the moonlight was -in fault, he had turned as pale as a ghost. "Would have sent you an -invitation had I known you were down." - -"I dare say you would! I did not come to attend festivals, Pell, but to -settle business-matters." - -"You must be aware I cannot attend to business to-night," interrupted -Clement-Pell. "Neither do I ever enter upon it at my own residence. I -will see you to-morrow morning at eleven at the Bank." - -"Honour bright? Or is it a false plea, put forth to shuffle out of me -now?" - -"I will see you to-morrow morning at the Bank at eleven o'clock," -repeated Clement-Pell, emphatically. "We are very busy just now, and I -must be there the first thing. And now, Mr. Johnson, if you will go -into the refreshment tent, and make yourself at home----" - -"No refreshments for me, thank you: I must hasten away to catch the -train. But first of all, I will ask you a question: and answer it you -must, whether it is your habit of entering on business at home, or -whether it is not. Is it true that----" - -I did not want to hear more secrets, and went crashing through the -trees. I should have gone before, but for not liking they should know -any one was there. They turned round. - -"Oh, is it you, Mr. Ludlow?" cried Pell, putting out his hand as I -passed them. - -"Yes, sir. I am looking for young Whitney. Have you seen him?" - -"I think I saw him at the door of one of the tents, just now. You'll -find him amongst the company, I dare say. The Squire and Mrs. Todhetley -have not come, I hear." - -"No sir." - -"Ah well--give my very kind regards to them, and say I am sorry. I hope -you are taking care of yourself--in the way of refreshments." - -The stranger and I had stood facing each other. He was a very -peculiar-looking man with a wide stare; black hair, white whiskers, and -very short legs. I thought it anything but good manners of him to come -over, as he had confessed to have done, to disturb Clement-Pell at such -a time. - -At nine o'clock Giles arrived with the pony-carriage for the young -ladies and two of us: the other and Giles were to walk. But we didn't -see the fun of leaving so early. Giles said he could not wait long: he -must be back to get old Jacobson's gig ready, who was spending the -evening at the Manor. The Jacobsons, being farmers, though they were -wealthy, and lived in good old style, had been passed over when Mrs. -Clement-Pell's invitations went out. So Tod sent Giles and the carriage -back again, with a message that we all preferred walking, and should -follow shortly. - -Follow, we did; but not shortly. It was past eleven when we got away. -The dancing had been good, and no one was at hand to say we must leave. -Helen and Anna Whitney came out with their cloaks on. What with the -dancing and the sultriness of the weather, the night was about as hot as -an oven. We were almost the last to leave: but did not mean to say so at -home. It was a splendid night, though; very clear, the moon larger than -usual. We went on in no particular order; the five of us turning out of -the Parrifer gates together. - -"Oh," screamed Helen, when we were some yards down the road, "where's -the bag? Anna, have you brought the bag?" - -"No," replied Anna. "You told me you would bring it." - -"Well--I meant to do so. William, you must run back for it." - -"Oh, bother the bag," said Bill. "You girls can't want the bag to-night. -I'll come over for it in the morning." - -"Not want it!--Why, our combs and brushes and thin shoes are in it," -retorted Helen. "It is on a chair in that little room off the hall. -Come, William, go for it." - -"I'll go, Helen," I said. "Walk quietly on, and I shall catch you up." - -The grounds looked quite deserted: the Chinese lanterns had burned -themselves out, and the doors appeared closed. One of the side windows -was open and gay with light; I thought it would be less trouble to enter -that way, and leaped up the balcony steps to the empty room. Empty, as I -took it to be. - -Well, it was a sort of shock. The table had a desk and a heap of papers -on it, and on it all lay a man's head. The face was hidden in his hands, -but he lifted it as I went in. - -It was Clement-Pell. But I declare that at the first moment I did not -know him. If ever you saw a face more haggard than other faces, it was -his. He sat bolt upright in his chair then, and stared at me as one in -awful fear. - -"I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know any one was here." - -"Oh, it is you," he said, and broke out into a smile--which somehow made -the face look even more worn and weary than before. "I thought you had -all left." - -"So we have, sir. But Miss Whitney forgot her bag, and I have run back -for it. She left it in the small room in the hall." - -"Oh ay, all right," he said. "You can go and get it, and run out this -way again if you like. I dare say the hall-door is closed." - -"Good night, sir," I said, coming back with the bag. "We have had a most -delightful day, Mr. Clement-Pell, and I'm sure we ought to thank you for -it." - -"I am glad it has been pleasant. Good night." - -The trees were pretty thick on this side the house. In passing a grove a -few paces from the window, I saw something that was neither trunks nor -leaves; but Mr. Johnson's face with its black hair and white whiskers. -He was hiding in the trees, his face peeping out to look at the room and -at Clement-Pell. - -It made me feel queer. It made me think of treachery. Though what -treachery, or where, I hardly knew. Not a trace was to be seen of the -face now: he drew it in; no doubt to let me pass. Ought I to warn Mr. -Pell that he was being watched? I had distinctly heard the man say he -was going away directly: why had he stayed? Yes, it would be right and -kind. Walking a bit further, I quietly turned back. - -Clement-Pell had a pen in his hand this time, and was poring over what -seemed to be a big account-book, or ledger. He looked surprised again, -but spoke quietly. - -"Still left something behind you, Mr. Ludlow?" - -"No, sir, not this time," I said, speaking below my breath. "I thought -I would come back and tell you, Mr. Pell, that some one outside is -watching this room. If----" - -I broke off in sheer astonishment. He started up from his chair and -came creeping to where I stood, to hide himself as it seemed from the -watcher, his haggard cheeks white as death. But he put a good face on it -to me. - -"I could not hear you," he whispered. "What did you say? Some one -watching?" - -"It is the same man I saw you talking to in the dark walk to-night, with -the black hair and white whiskers. Perhaps he means no harm, sir; he is -hiding in the trees, and just peeping out to look in here." - -"You are sure it is that same man?" he asked with a relieved air. - -"Quite sure." - -"Then it is all right. Mr. Johnson is an eccentric friend of mine. -Rather--in fact, rather given to take at times more than is good for -him. I suppose he has been going in for champagne. I--I thought it might -be some bad character." - -It might be "all right," as Mr. Pell said: I fancied, by the relieved -tone, that it _was_ so: but I felt quite sure that he had cause to fear, -if not Mr. Johnson, some one else. At that moment there arose a slight -rustle of leaves outside, and he stood, holding his breath to listen, -his finger raised. The smell of the shrubs was borne freely on the night -air. - -"It is only the wind: there must be a little breeze getting up," said -Mr. Clement-Pell. "Thank you; and good night. Oh, by the way, don't talk -of this, Mr. Ludlow. If Johnson _has_ been exceeding, he would not like -to hear of it again." - -"No fear, sir. Once more, good night." - -Before I had well leaped the steps of the balcony, the window, a very -heavy one, was closed with a bang, and the shutters being put to. -Glancing back, I saw the white face of Clement-Pell through the closing -shutters, and then heard the bolts shot. What could he be afraid of? -Perhaps Johnson turned mad when he drank. Some men do. - -"Have you been making that bag, Johnny?" they called out when I caught -them up. - -"No." - -"I'm sure it was on the chair," said Helen. - -"Oh, I found it at once. I stayed talking with Mr. Pell. I say, has the -night grown damp?--or is it my fancy?" - -"What does it matter?" returned Bill Whitney. "I wish I was in a bath, -for my part, if it was only cold water." - -The Squire stood at the end of the garden when we reached home, with old -Jacobson, whose gig was waiting. After reproaching us with our sins, -first for sending the carriage back empty, then for being so late, the -Squire came round and asked all about the party. Old Jacobson drew in -his lips as he listened. - -"It's fine to be the Clement-Pells!" cried he. "Why, a Duke-Royal could -not give a grander party than that. Real lace for gowns, had they! No -wonder Madame Pell turns her nose up at farmers!" - -"Did Clement-Pell send me any particular message?" asked the Pater. - -"He sent his kind regards," I said. "And he was sorry you and Mrs. -Todhetley did not go." - -"It was a charming party," cried Helen Whitney. "Papa and mamma put it -to us, when the invitation came--would we go, or would we not go. They -don't much care for the Clement-Pells. I am glad we did go: I would not -have missed it for the world. But there's something about the -Clement-Pells that tells you they are not gentlepeople." - -"Oh, that's the show and the finery," said Bill. - -"No, I think it lies more in their tones and their manner of speaking," -said Helen. - - * * * * * - -"Johnny, are you _quite_ sure Clement-Pell sent me no message, except -kind regards, and that?" - -"Quite sure, sir." - -"Well, it's very odd." - -"What is very odd, sir?" - -"Never you mind, Johnny." - -This was after breakfast on the Saturday morning. The Squire was opening -a letter that the post had brought, and looked up to ask me. Not that -the letter had anything to do with Clement-Pell, for it only enclosed a -bill for some ironmongery bought at Evesham. - -On the Friday the Whitneys had gone home, and Tod with them. So I was -alone: with nothing to do but to wish him back again. - -"I am going to Alcester, Johnny," said the Pater, in the course of the -morning. "You can come with me if you like." - -"Then will you please bring me back some money?" cried Mrs. Todhetley. -"You will pass the Bank, I suppose." - -"It's where I am going," returned the Pater: and I thought his voice had -rather a grumbling tone in it. - -We took the pony-carriage, and he let me drive. It was as hot as ever; -and the Squire wondered when the autumn cool would be coming in. Old -Brandon happened to be at his gate as we went by, and the Pater told me -to pull up. - -"Going in to Alcester?" cried Mr. Brandon. - -"Just as far as the Bank," said the Pater. "So I hear you went to the -Clement-Pells' after all, Brandon." - -"I looked in to see what it was like," said old Brandon, giving me a -moment's hard stare: as much as to recall to my mind what had really -taken him there. - -"It was a dashing affair, I hear." - -"Rather too much so for me," cried Mr. Brandon drily. "Where's your son, -sir?" - -"Oh, he's gone home with the Whitneys' young folk. How hot it is -to-day!" - -"Ay. Too hot to stand in it long. Drive on, Johnny." - -The Squire went in to the Bank alone, leaving me with the carriage. He -banked with the Old Bank at Worcester; but it was a convenience to have -some little money nearer in case of need, and he had recently opened a -small account at Alcester. Upon which Clement-Pell had said he might as -well have opened it with him, at his Church Dykely branch. But the -Squire explained that he had as good as promised the Alcester people, -years ago, that if he did open an account nearer than Worcester it -should be with them. He came out, looking rather glum, stuffing some -notes into his pocket-book. - -"Turn the pony round, Johnny," said he. "We'll go back. It's too hot to -stay out to-day." - -"Yes, sir. Is anything the matter?" - -"Anything the matter! No. Why do you ask?" - -"I thought you looked put out, sir." - -"There's nothing the matter. Only I think men of business should not -be troubled with short memories. Take care of that waggon. What's the -fellow galloping his horses at that rate for? Now, Johnny, I say, take -care. Or else, give me the reins." - -I nearly laughed. At home they never seemed to think I could do -anything. If they did let me drive, it was always Now take care of this, -Johnny; or, Take care of that. And yet I was a more careful driver than -Tod: though I might not have had so much strength as he to pull up a -four-in-hand team had it run away. - -"Go round through Church Dykely, Johnny, and stop at Pell's Bank," said -the Squire, as I was turning off on the direct road home. - -I turned the pony's head accordingly. It took us about a mile out of our -way. The pavement was so narrow and the Bank room so small, that I heard -all that passed when the Squire went in. - -"Is Mr. Clement-Pell here?" - -"Oh dear no, sir," replied the manager. "He is always at the chief Bank -on Saturday. Did you want him?" - -"Not particularly. Tell him I think he must have forgotten to send to -me." - -"I'll tell him, sir. He may look in here to-night on his return. If you -wish to see him yourself, he will be here all day on Monday." - -The Squire came out and got in again. Cutting round the sharp corner -by Perkins the butcher's, I nearly ran into Mrs. and the Miss -Clement-Pells, who were crossing the dusty road in a line like geese, -the one behind the other; their muslins sweeping the highway like -brooms, and their complexions sheltered under point lace parasols. - -"There you go again, Johnny! Pull up, sir." - -I pulled up: and the heads came from under the parasols, and grouped -round to speak to us. They had quite recovered Thursday's fatigue, Mrs. -Clement-Pell graciously said, in answer to the Squire's inquiries; and -she hoped all her young friends had done the same, Mr. Todhetley's young -friends in particular. - -"_They_ felt no fatigue," cried the Pater, "Why, ma'am, they'd keep -anything of that sort up for a week and a day, and not feel it. How's -Mr. Clement-Pell?" - -"He is as well as he allows himself to be," she answered. "I tell him he -is wearing himself out with work. His business is of vast magnitude, Mr. -Todhetley. Good day." - -"So it is," acquiesced the Pater as we drove on, partly to himself, -partly to me. "Of vast magnitude. For my part, I'd rather do less, -although it involved less returns. One can forgive a man, like him, -forgetting trifles. And, Johnny, I shouldn't wonder but his enormous -riches render him careless of small obligations." - -Part of which was unintelligible to me. - -Sunday passed. We nodded to the Miss Clement-Pells at church (their -bonnets making the pew look like a flower-garden); but did not see Mr. -Clement-Pell or his wife. Monday passed; bringing a note from Tod, to -say Lady Whitney and Bill would not let him leave yet. Tuesday morning -came in. I happened to be seated under the hedge in the kitchen-garden, -mending a fishing-rod, when a horse dashed up to the back gate. Looking -through, I saw it was the butcher boy, Sam Rimmer. Molly, who was in one -of her stinging tempers that morning, came out. - -"We don't want nothing," said she tartly. "So you might have spared -yourself the pains of coming." - -"Don't want nothing!" returned the boy. "Why's that?" - -"Why's that!" she retorted. "It's like your imperence to ask. Do -families want joints every day; specially such weather as this? I -a-going to cook fowls for dinner, and we've the cold round o' beef for -the kitchen. Now you know why, Sam Rimmer." - -Sam Rimmer sat looking at her as if in a quandary, gently rubbing his -hair, which shone again in the sun. - -"Well, it's a pity but you wanted some," said he, slowly. "We've gone -and been and pervided a shop full o' meat to-day, and it'll be a dead -loss on the master. The Clement-Pells don't want none, you see: and they -took a'most as much as all the rest o' the gentlefolks put together. -There's summat up there." - -"Summat up where?" snapped Molly. - -"At the Clement-Pells'. The talk is, that they've busted-up, and be all -gone off in consekence." - -"Why, what d'ye mean?" cried Molly. "Gone off where? Busted-up from -what?" - -But, before Perkins's boy could answer, the Pater, walking about the -path in his straw hat and light thin summer coat, came on the scene. He -had caught the words. - -"What's that you are saying about the Clement-Pells, Sam Rimmer?" - -Sam Rimmer touched his hair, and explained. Upon going to Parrifer Hall -for orders, he had found it all sixes-and-sevens; some of the servants -gone, the rest going. They told him their master had bursted-up, and was -gone away since Sunday morning; and the family since Monday morning. And -his master, Perkins, would have all the meat left on his hands that he -had killed on purpose for the Clement-Pells. - -You should have seen the Squire's amazed face. At first he did not know -how to take the words, and stared at Sam Rimmer without speaking. - -"All the Banks has went and busted-up too," said Sam. "They be a-saying, -sir, as how there won't be nothing for nobody." - -The Squire understood now. He turned tail and rushed into the house. And -rushed against Mr. Brandon, who was coming in. - -"Well, have you heard the news?" asked Mr. Brandon in his thinnest -voice. - -"I can't believe it; I don't believe it," raved the Squire. -"Clement-Pell would never be such a swindler. He owes me two hundred -pounds." - -Mr. Brandon opened his little eyes. "Owes it _you_!" - -"That day, last week, when he came driving in, in his smart cockle-shell -carriage--when you were here, you know, Brandon. He got a cheque for two -hundred pounds from me. A parcel of money that ought to have come over -from the chief Bank had not arrived, he said, and the Church Dykely -branch might be run close; would I let him have a cheque for two or -three hundred pounds on the Bank at Alcester. I told him I did not -believe I had anything like two hundred pounds lying at Alcester: but I -drew a cheque out for that amount, and wrote a note telling the people -there to cash it, and I would make it right." - -"And Pell drove straight off to Alcester then and there, and cashed the -cheque?" said Mr. Brandon in his cynical way. - -"He did. He had told me I should receive the money on the following day. -It did not come, or on the Friday either; and on Saturday I went to -Alcester, thinking he might have paid it in there." - -"Which of course he had not," returned old Brandon. "Well, you must have -been foolish, to be so taken-in." - -"Taken-in!" roared the Squire, in a passion. "Why, if he had asked me -for two thousand pounds he might have had it--a man with the riches of -Clement-Pell." - -"Well, he wouldn't have got any from me. One who launched out as he did, -and let his family launch out, I should never put much trust in. Any -way, the riches are nowhere; and it is said Pell is nowhere too." - -It was all true. As Sam Rimmer put it, Clement-Pell and his Banks had -bursted-up. - - - - -XXIV. - -GETTING AWAY. - - -You have heard of the avalanches that fall without warning and crush -luckless dwellers in the Swiss mountains; and of maelstroms that suddenly -swallow up vessels sailing jauntily along on a calm sea; and of railway -trains, filled with happy passengers, that one minute are running -smoothly and safely along, and the next are nowhere: but nothing of this -sort ever created the consternation that attended the bursting-up of the -Clement-Pells. - -It was Saturday night.--For we have to trace back a day or two.--Seated -in the same room where I had seen him when I went back for Helen -Whitney's bag, was Clement-Pell. That the man had come to his last gasp, -he knew better than any one else in the world could have told him. How -he had braved it out, and fought against the stream, and still kept off -the explosion since the night but one before--Thursday--when Mr. Johnson -had intruded himself into the grounds and then stealthily watched him -from the trees, and he knew all was over, it might have puzzled him to -tell. How he had fought against all for months, ay, and years, turned -him sick only to recall. It had been a fierce, continuous, secret -battle; and it had nearly worn him out, and turned his face and his hair -grey before their time. - -On the day following this fete-night, Friday, Clement-Pell took the -train and was at his chief Bank early. He held his interview with Mr. -Johnson; he saw other people; and his manner was free and open as usual. -On this next day, Saturday, he had been denied to nearly all callers at -the Bank: he was too busy to be interrupted, he told his clerks: and his -son James boldly made appointments with them in his name for the Monday. -After dark on Saturday evening, by the last train, he reached home, -Parrifer Hall. And there he was, in that room of his; the door and -shutters bolted and barred upon him, alternately pacing it in what -looked like tribulation, and bending over account-books by the light of -two wax candles. - -Leaning his forehead on his hand, he sat there, and thought it out. He -strove to look the situation fully in the face; what it was, and what -it would be. Ruin, and worse than ruin. Clement-Pell had possessed good -principles once: so to say, he possessed them still. But he had allowed -circumstances to get the better of him and of them. He had come from -his distant home (supposed to have been London) as the manager of an -insignificant and humble little Bank: that was years ago. It was only a -venture: but a certain slice of luck, that need not be recorded here, -favoured him, and he got on beyond his best expectations. He might have -made an excellent living, nay, a good fortune, and kept his family as -gentlepeople, had he been prudent. But the luck, coming suddenly, turned -his head, you see. Since then, I, Johnny Ludlow, who am no longer the -inexperienced boy of that past time, have known it turn the heads of -others. He launched out into ventures, his family launched into expense. -The ventures paid; the undue expense did not pay. When matters came to -be summed up by a raging public, it was said that it was this expense -which had swamped the Pells. That alone, I suppose, it could not have -been: but it must have gone some way towards it. - -It lay on his mind heavily that Saturday night. Looking back, he got -wondering how much more, in round figures, his family had cost him than -they ought to have cost. There had been his wife's different expenses. -Her houses, and her staff of servants, her carriages and horses, her -dresses and jewels, and all the rest that it would take too long to tell -of; and the costly bringing-up of his daughters; and the frightful -outlay of his two younger sons. Fabian and Gusty Pell ought to have had -ten thousand a year apiece, to have justified it. James had his expenses -too, but in a quieter way. Clement-Pell ran his nervous fingers through -his damp hair, as he thought of this, and in his bitter mind told -himself that his family had ruined him. Unlimited spending--show--the -shooting up above their station! He gave a curse to it now. He had not -checked it when he might have done so; and it (or they) got the upper -hand, and then he could not. Nothing is so difficult as to put down such -expenses as these when they have become a habit. - -And so the years had soon come that he found need for supplies. -Unlimited as his millions were supposed to be by a confiding public, -Clement-Pell in secret wanted money more than most people. His -operations were gigantic, but then they required gigantic resources to -keep them going. Money was necessary--or the smash must have come two or -three years earlier. But sufficient money was not then conveniently -attainable by Clement-Pell: and so--he created some. He believed when -all his returns from these gigantic operations should flow in, that he -could redeem the act; could replace the money, and no one ever be the -wiser. But (it is the old story; one that has been enacted before and -since), he found somehow that he could not replace it. Like Tod and that -gambling affair when we were in London, in trying to redeem himself, he -only got further into the mire. Tod, in playing on to cover his losses, -doubled them; Clement-Pell's fresh ventures in the stream of speculation -only sent him into deeper water. Of late, Clement-Pell had been walking -as on a red-hot ploughshare. It burnt and scorched him everlastingly, -and he could not get out of it. But the end had come. The thunder-cloud -so long hovering in the air was on the very point of bursting, and he -was not able to meet it. He must get away: he could not face it. - -Get away for good, as he hoped, never to be tracked by friends or foes. -What his future life was to be he did not attempt to consider: he only -knew that he would give all he ever had been worth to be able to live -on, no matter how quietly, with his fellow-men around him. The little -moderate home that he and his wife had once looked to as the haven of -their desires, would have been a harbour of safety and pride to him now. - -Say what you will, men do not like to be shown up as black sheep in the -eyes of their fellows; especially if they have hitherto stood out as -conspicuously white leaders of the flock. The contrast is so great, the -fall so startling. The public gives them all sorts of hard names; as it -did in the case of Clement-Pell. A desperately hardened man he must be, -said the world, with a brazen conscience; unprincipled as--well, yes, as -Satan. But we may be very sure of one thing--that upon none does the -disgrace tell so keenly, the ruin so heavily, the sense of shame so -cruelly, as on these men themselves. Put it, if you will, that they make -a purse and carry it off to set up a new home in some foreign land--they -carry their sense of humiliation with them also; and their sun of -happiness in this life has set. Men have tried this before now, and died -of it. - -That was the _best_ that lay prospectively before Clement-Pell: what the -worst might be, he did not dare dwell upon. Certain ugly possibilities -danced before his mental vision, like so many whirling ballet girls. "If -I can only get away!" he muttered; "if I can only get away!" - -He tried to confine his whole attention to the ledgers before him, and -he put on his spectacles again. Mental trouble and mental work will dim -the sight as well as whiten the hair and line the face, and Clement-Pell -could not see as he had seen a year before. He altered figures; he -introduced entries; he tore out whole leaves, and made a bonfire of them -in the grate--carefully removing from the grate first of all its paper -ornament. One book he burnt wholesale, even to the covers; and the -covers made a frightful smell and daunted him. - -Money was wanted here, there, everywhere. Snatching a piece of paper he -idly dotted down the large sums occurring to him at the moment; and -quite laughed as he glanced at the total. These were only business -liabilities. At his elbow lay a pile of bills: domestic and family -debts. House rent, taxes, horses, carriages, servants' wages, bills for -food, bills for attire: all running back a long while; for no one had -pressed Clement-Pell. The outlay for the fete might well have been -profuse, since none of it was ever paid for. Beside the bills lay -letters from Fabian and Gusty--wanting money as usual. To all these he -scarcely gave a thought; they were as nothing. Even though he were made -bankrupt upon them, they were still as nothing: for they would not brand -his brow with the word felon. And he knew that there were other claims, -of which no record appeared here, that might not be so easily wiped out. - -Just for a moment, he lost himself in a happy reverie of what might -have been had he himself been wise and prudent. It was Gusty's pressing -letter that induced the reflection. He saw himself a prosperous man -of moderate expenses and moderate desires, living at his ease in his -own proper station, instead of apeing the great world above him. His -daughters reared to be good and thoughtful women, his sons to be steady -and diligent whatever their calling, whether business or profession. And -what were they? "Curse the money and the pride that deluded me and my -wife to blindness!" broke with a groan from the lips of Clement-Pell. - -A sharp knocking at the door made him start. He looked about to see if -there were anything to throw over his tell-tale table, and had a great -mind to take off his coat and fling it there. Catching up the ornamental -paper of the grate to replace it if he could, the knocking came again, -and with it his wife's voice, asking what that smell of burning was. He -let her in, and bolted the door again. - -How far Mrs. Clement-Pell had been acquainted with his position, never -came out to the world. That she must have known something of it was -thought to be certain; and perhaps the additional launching out -lately--the sojourn at Kensington, the fete, and all the rest of it--had -only been entered upon to disarm suspicion. Shut up together in that -room, they no doubt planned together the getting-away. That Mrs. -Clement-Pell fought against their leaving home and grandeur, to become -fugitives, flying in secret like so many scapegoats, would be only -natural: we should all so fight; but he must have shown her that there -was no help for it. When she quitted the room again, she looked like one -over whom twenty years had passed--as Miss Phebus told us later. And the -whole of that night, Mrs. Clement-Pell never went to bed; but was in her -room gathering things together barefooted, lest she should be heard. -Jewels--dresses--valuables! It must have been an awful night; deciding -which of her possessions she should take, and which leave for ever. - -At six in the morning, Sunday, Mr. Clement-Pell's bell rang, and the -groom was summoned. He was bade get the small open carriage ready to -drive his master to the railway station to catch an early train. Being -Sunday, early trains were not common. Mr. Clement-Pell had received -news the previous night, as was intimated, of an uncle's illness. At -that early hour, and Sunday besides, Clement-Pell must have thought he -was safe from meeting people: but, as it happened (things do happen -unexpectedly in this world), in bowling out from his own gates, he -nearly bowled over Duffham. The Doctor, coming home from a distant -patient, to whom he had been called in the night, was jogging along on -his useful old horse. - -"Well!" said he to the banker. "You _are_ off early." - -"Drive on, don't stop," whispered Clement-Pell to the groom. "I had news -last night of the dangerous illness of my poor old uncle, and am going -to see him," he called out to Duffham as they passed. "We shall have it -piping hot again to-day, Doctor!" - -The groom told of this encounter afterwards--as did Duffham too, -for that matter. And neither of them had any more suspicion that -Clement-Pell was playing a part than a baby could have had. In the -course of the morning the groom drove in again, having safely conveyed -his master to a distant station. The family went to church as usual, -chaperoned by Miss Phebus. Mrs. Clement-Pell stayed at home, saying she -had a headache: and no doubt quietly completed her preparations. - -About six o'clock at night a telegram was delivered. The uncle was -dying: Mrs. Clement-Pell must come as soon as possible, to be in time to -see him: as to bringing the children she must do as she pleased about -that. In Mrs. Pell's agitation and dismay she read the telegram aloud to -the governess and the servant who brought it to her. Then was confusion! -Mrs. Pell seemed to have lost her head. Take the children?--Of course -she should take them;--and, oh, when was the earliest time they could -start? - -The earliest time by rail was the following morning. And part of -the night was again passed in preparation--openly, this time. Mrs. -Clement-Pell said they should probably stay away some days, perhaps -a week or two, and must take things accordingly. The boxes were all -brought into her room, that she might superintend; the poor old uncle -was so very particular as to dress, she said, and she trusted he might -yet recover. On the Monday morning, she and her daughters departed in -the large carriage, at the same early hour that her husband had gone, -and for the same remote station. After all, not so much luggage went; -only a box a-piece. In stepping into her carriage, she told the -servants that it would be an excellent opportunity to clean the paint -of the sitting-rooms and of the first-floor while she was away: the -previous week she had remarked to them that it wanted doing. - -The day went on; the household no doubt enjoying their freedom and -letting the paint alone. No suspicion was aroused amongst them until -late in the afternoon, when a curious rumour was brought over of some -confusion at the chief Bank--that it had stopped and its master had -flown. At first the governess and servants laughed at this: but -confirmation soon came thick and three-fold. Clement-Pell had burst-up. - -And why the expression "bursting-up" should have been universally -applied to the calamity by all people, high and low, I know no more -than you; but it was so. Perhaps in men's minds there existed some -assimilation between a bubble, that shines brightly for its brief -existence before bursting, like the worthless froth it is, and the -brilliant but foundationless career of Mr. Clement-Pell. - -The calamity at first was too great to be believed in. It drove people -mad only to fancy it might be true: and one or two, alas! subsequently -went mad in reality. For the bursting-up of Mr. Clement-Pell's huge -undertakings caused the bursting-up of many private ones, and of -households with them. Means of living went: homes were desolated. - -It would be easier to tell you of those who had not trusted money in the -hands of Clement-Pell, than of those who had. Some had given him their -all. Led away by the fascinating prospect of large interest, they forgot -future safety in the dazzling but delusive light of immediate good. I -should like it to be distinctly understood that I, Johnny Ludlow, am -writing of a matter which took place years ago; and not of any recent -event, or events, that may have since occurred to shake public -equanimity in our own local world. - -Disbelief in the misfortune was natural. Clement-Pell had stood -on a lofty pedestal, unapproachable by common individuals. We put -greater trust in him--in his unbounded wealth, his good faith, his -stability--than we could have put in any other man on the face of the -globe. We should almost as soon have expected the skies to fall as -Clement-Pell. The interests of so many were involved and the ruin would -be so universal, that the terrified natives could only take refuge in -disbelief: and Squire Todhetley was amongst them. - - * * * * * - -The news was brought to Dyke Manor on the Tuesday morning, as you have -heard, by the butcher boy, Sam Rimmer; and was confirmed by Mr. Brandon. -When the first momentary shock had been digested by the Squire, he -arrived at the conclusion that it must be false. But that Sam had -trotted off, he might have heard the length of the Pater's tongue. Sam -being gone, he turned his indignation on Mr. Brandon. - -"One would have thought you had sense to know better, Brandon," said he, -raging about the breakfast-room with the skirts of his light morning -coat held out behind him. "Giving ear to a cock-and-bull story that -_can't_ be true! Take care Pell does not get to hear it. He'd sue you -for defamation." - -"He'd be welcome," nodded old Brandon, in his thin voice, as he stood, -whip in hand, against the window. - -"The grand fete of last Thursday," gasped Mrs. Todhetley--who had been -puzzling her brains over Sam Rimmer's master's book, the writing in -which could never be deciphered. "Surely the Clement-Pells would not -have given that fete had things been going wrong with them." - -"And poured iced champagne, unlimited, down folk's throats; and strutted -about in point-lace and diamonds," added old Brandon. "Madam, I'd -believe it all the more for that." - -As he spoke, the remembrance of the scene I had witnessed in the -grounds, and Clement-Pell's curious fear later when I told him of the -same man watching him, flashed over me, bringing a conviction that the -report was true. - -"I heard it at the chief Bank yesterday," began Mr. Brandon. "Having -some business to transact in the town, I went over by train in the -afternoon, and chanced to meet Wilcox in High Street. He is a red-faced -man in general----" - -"Oh, I know Wilcox," impatiently interrupted the Squire. "Face as red as -the sun in a fog. What has that to do with it?" - -"Well, it was as pale yesterday as the moon on a frosty night," went on -old Brandon. "I asked if he had an attack of bile--being subject to it -myself--and he said No, it was an attack of fright. And then he told me -there was a report in town that something was wrong with Pell's affairs, -and that he had run away. Wilcox will lose every penny of his savings." - -"All talk; all talk," said the Pater in his obstinacy. - -"And for a man to come to Wilcox's age, which must be five-and-fifty, it -is no light blow to lose a life's savings," calmly went on old Brandon. -"I went to the Bank, and found it besieged by an excited and angry crowd -fighting to get in, the door locked, and the porter vainly trying to put -up the shutters. That was enough to show me what the matter was, and I -left Wilcox to it." - -The Squire stared in perplexity, rubbing up his scanty hair the wrong -way while his senses came to him. - -"It is all true," said Mr. Brandon, nodding to him. "Church Dykely is in -an uproar this morning already." - -"I'll go and see for myself," said the Squire, stripping off his nankeen -coat in haste so great that he tore one sleeve nearly out. "I'll go and -see; this is _not_ credible. Clement-Pell would never have swindled me -out of two hundred pounds only a day or two before he knew he was going -all to smash." - -"The most likely time for him to do it," persisted Mr. Brandon. "People, -as a rule, only do these things when they are desperate." - -But the Squire did not stay to listen. Settling himself into his other -coat, he went driving on across the fields as though he were walking for -a wager. Mr Brandon mounted his cob, and put up his umbrella against the -sun. - -"Never embark any money with these beguiling people that promise you -undue interest, Johnny Ludlow," said Mr. Brandon, as I kept by his side, -and opened the gates for him. "Where would you have been now, young -man--or, worse, where should I have been--had I, the trustee of your -property, consented to risk it with Pell? He asked me to do it." - -"Clement-Pell did, sir? When?" - -"A year or two ago. I gave him an answer, Johnny; and I fancy he has not -altogether liked me since. 'I could not think of placing even a shilling -of Johnny Ludlow's where I did not know it to be safe,' I said to him. -'It will be safe with me,' says Pell, sharply. 'Possibly so, Mr Pell,' I -answered; 'but you see there's only your word as guarantee, and that is -not enough for an honest trustee.' That shut him up." - -"Do you mean to say you have doubted Clement-Pell's stability, Brandon?" -demanded the Squire, who was near enough to hear this. - -"I don't know about doubting," was the answer. "I have thought it as -likely to come to a smash as not. That the chances for it were rather -better than half." - -This sent the Squire on again. _He_ had no umbrella; and his straw hat -glistened in the heat. - -Church Dykely was in a commotion. Folk were rushing up to the little -branch Bank black in the face, as if their collars throttled them; for -the news was spreading like fire in dry turf. The Squire went bolting in -through every obstruction, and seized upon the manager. - -"Do you mean to tell me that it's true, Robertson?" he fiercely -cried.--"That things have gone to smash?" - -"I am afraid it is, sir," said Robertson, who looked more dead than -alive. "I am unable to understand it. It has fallen upon me with as much -surprise as it has on others." - -"Now, don't you go and tell falsehoods, Robertson," roared the Squire, -as if he meant to shake the man. "Surprise upon you, indeed! Why, have -you not been here--at the head and tail of everything?" - -"But I did not know how affairs were going. Indeed, sir, I tell you -truth." - -"Tell a jackass not to bray!" foamed the Squire. "Have you been short of -funds here lately, or have you not? Come, answer me that." - -"It is true. We have been short. But Mr. Clement-Pell excused it to me -by saying that a temporary lock-up ran the Banks short, especially the -small branch Banks. I declare, before Heaven, that I implicitly believed -him," added Robertson, "and never suspected there could be any graver -cause." - -"Then you are either a fool or a knave." - -"Not a knave, Squire Todhetley. A fool I suppose I have been." - -"I want my two hundred pounds," returned the Squire. "And, Robertson, I -mean to have it." - -But Robertson had known nothing of the loan; was surprised to hear of it -now. As to repayment, that was out of his power. He had not two hundred -pence left in the place, let alone pounds. - -"It is a case of swindle," said the Squire. "It's not one of ordinary -debt." - -"I can't help it," returned Robertson. "If it were to save Mr. -Clement-Pell from hanging, I could not give a stiver of it. There's my -own salary, sir, since Midsummer; that, I suppose, I shall lose: and I -can't afford it, and I don't know what will become of me and my poor -little children." - -At this, the Squire's voice and anger dropped, and he shook hands with -Robertson. But, as a rule, every one began by brow-beating the manager. -The noise was deafening. - -How had Pell got off? By which route: road or rail? By day or night? It -was a regular hubbub of questions. Mr. Brandon sat on his cob all the -while, patiently blinking his eyes at the people. - -Palmerby of Rock Cottage came up; his old hands trembling, his face as -white as the new paint on Duffham's windows. "It can't be true!" he was -crying. "It can't be true!" - -"Had you money in his hands, Palmerby?" - -"Every shilling I possess in the world." - -Mr. Brandon opened his lips to blow him up for foolishness: but -something in the poor old face stopped him. Palmerby elbowed his way -into the Bank. Duffham came out of his house, a gallipot of ointment in -his hand. - -"Well, this is a pretty go!" - -The Squire took him by the buttonhole. "Where's the villainous swindler -off to, Duffham?" - -"I should like to know," answered the surgeon. "I'd be pretty soon on -his trail and ask him to refund my money." - -"But surely he has none of yours?" - -"Pretty nigh half the savings of my years." - -"Mercy be good to us!" cried the Pater. "He got two hundred pounds out -of me last week. What's to become of us all?" - -"It's not so much a question of what is to become of us--of you and me, -Squire," said Duffham, philosophically, "as of those who had invested -with him their all. We can bear the loss: you can afford it without much -hurt; I must work a few years longer, Heaven permitting me, than I had -thought to work. That's the worst of us. But what will those others do? -What will be the worst for them?" - -Mr. Brandon nodded approvingly from his saddle. - -"Coming home last night from Duck Lane--by the way, there's another -infant at John Mitchel's, because he had not enough before--the -blacksmith accosted me, saying Clement-Pell was reported to be in a mess -and to have run off. The thing sounded so preposterous that I thought at -first Dobbs must have been drinking; and told him that I happened to -know Clement-Pell was only off to a relative's death-bed. For on Sunday -morning, you see----" - -A crush and rush stopped Duffham's narrative, and nearly knocked us all -down. Ball the milkman had come bumping amongst us in a frantic state, -his milk-cans swinging from his shoulders against my legs. - -"I say, Ball, take care of my trousers. Milk stains, you know." - -"Master Ludlow, sir, I be a'most mad, I think. Folks is saying as Mr. -Clement-Pell and his banks have busted-up." - -"Well? You have not lost anything, I suppose?" - -"Not lost!" panted poor Ball. "I've lost all I've got. 'Twere a hundred -pound, Mr. Johnny, scraped together hard enou', as goodness knows. Mr. -Clement-Pell were a-talking to me one day, and he says, says he, Ah, -says he, it's difficult to get much interest now; money's plentiful. I -give eight per cent., says he; most persons gets but three. Would ye -take mine, sir, says I; my hundred pound? If you like, he says. And I -took it to him, gentlemen, thinking what luck I was in, and how safe it -were. My hundred pound!"--letting the cans down with a clatter. "My -hundred pound that I'd toiled so hard for! Gentlefolk, wherever be all -the money a-gone?" - -Well, it was a painful scene. One we were glad to get out of. The -Squire, outrageously angry at the way he had been done out of his money, -insisted on going to Parrifer Hall. Mr. Brandon rode his cob; Duffham -stepped into his surgery to get his hat. - -One might have fancied a sale was going on. The doors were open: boxes -belonging to some of the servants were lying by the side-entrance, ready -to be carted away; people (creditors and curiosity-mongers) stood about. -Sam Rimmer's master, the butcher, came out of the house as we went in, -swearing. Perkins had not been paid for a twelvemonth, and said it would -be his ruin. Miss Phebus was in the hall, and seemed to have been having -it out with him. She was a light-haired, bony lady of thirty-five, or -so, and had made a rare good gipsy that day in the tent. Her eyes were -peculiar: green in some lights, yellow in others: a frightfully hard -look they had in them this morning. - -"Oh, Mr. Todhetley, I am so glad to see you!" she said. "It is a cruel -turn that the Clement-Pells have served me, leaving me here without -warning, to bear the brunt of all this! Have you come in the interests -of the family?" - -"I've come after my own interests, ma'am," returned the Pater. "To find -out, if I can, where Clement-Pell has gone to: and to see if I can get -back any of the money I have been done out of." - -"Why, it seems every one must be a creditor!" she exclaimed in surprise, -on hearing this. - -"I know I am one," was his answer. - -"To serve _me_ such a trick,--to behave to me with this duplicity: it is -infamous," went on Miss Phebus, after she had related to us the chief -events of the Sunday, as connected with the story of the dying uncle and -the telegram. "If I get the chance, I will have the law against them, -Mr. Todhetley." - -"It is what a few more of us mean to do, ma'am," he answered. - -"They owe me forty pounds. Yes, Mr. Duffham, it is forty pounds: and I -cannot afford to lose it. Mrs. Pell has put me off from time to time: -and I supposed it to be all right; I suspected nothing. They have not -treated me well lately, either. Leaving me here to take care of the -house while they were enjoying themselves up in Kensington! I had a -great mind to give warning then. The German governess got offended while -they were in town, and left. Some friend of Fabian Pell's was rude to -her." - -A little man looked into the room just then; noting down the furniture -with his eye. "None of these here articles must be moved, you -understand, mum," he said to Miss Phebus. - -"Don't talk to me," she answered wrathfully. "I am going out of the -house as soon as I can put my things together." And the man went away. - -"If I had only suspected!" she resumed to us, her angry tone full of -pain; "and I think I might have done so, had I exercised my wits. My -room is next to Mrs. Pell's; but it's not much larger than a closet, and -has no fireplace in it: she only gave it me because it was not good -enough for any one else. Saturday night was very hot--as you must -remember--and I could not sleep. The window was open, but the room felt -like an oven. After tossing about for I don't know how long, I got up -and opened the door, thinking it might admit a breath of air. At that -moment I heard sounds below--the quiet shutting of a door, and advancing -footsteps. Wondering who could be up so late, I peeped out and saw Mrs. -Pell. She came up softly, a candle in her hand, and her face quite -curious and altered--aged and pale and haggard. She must be afraid of -the ghosts, I thought to myself, as she turned off into her chamber--for -we had been telling ghost-stories that night up to bed-time. After that, -I did not get to sleep; not, as it seemed, for hours; and all the time I -heard drawers being opened and shut in her bed and dressing-room. She -must even then have been preparing for flight." - -"And the dying uncle was invented for the occasion, I presume," remarked -Mr. Duffham. - -"All I know is, I never heard of an uncle before," she tartly answered. -"I asked Mrs. Clement-Pell on Sunday night where the uncle lived, and -how long a journey they had to go: she answered shortly that he was at -his country house, and bade me not tease her. Mr. Duffham, can my own -boxes be stopped?" - -"I should think no one would attempt to do it," he answered. "But I'd -get them out as soon as I could, were I you, Miss Phebus." - -"What a wreck it will be!" she exclaimed. - -"You have used the right word, ma'am," put in Mr. Brandon, who had left -his horse outside. "And not only here. Wrecks they will be; and many of -them." - -We stood looking at one another ruefully. The Pater had come to hunt up -his two hundred pounds; but there did not seem much chance of his doing -it. "Look here," said he suddenly to the governess, "where was that -telegram sent from?" - -"We have not been able to discover. It was only seen by Mrs. Pell. After -she had read it aloud, she crushed it up in her hand, as if in frightful -distress, and called out about the poor dear old uncle. She took care it -should not be seen: we may be very sure of that." - -"But who sent the telegram?" - -"I don't know," said Miss Phebus viciously. "Her husband, no doubt. -Neither was the luggage that they took with them labelled: we have -remembered the fact since." - -"I think we might track them by that luggage," observed the Pater. "Five -big boxes." - -"If you do track them by it I'll eat the luggage wholesale," cried wise -old Brandon. "Clement-Pell's not a fool, or his wife either. They'll go -off just in the opposite direction that they appeared to go--and their -boxes in another. As to Pell, he was probably unknown at the distant -station the groom drove him to." - -There was no end to be served in staying longer at the house, and we -quitted it, leaving poor Miss Phebus to her temper. I had never much -liked her; but I could not help feeling for her that unlucky morning. - -"What's to be done now?" gloomily cried the Squire, while old Brandon -was mounting. "It's like being in a wood that you can't get out of. If -Clement-Pell had played an honest part with me: if he had come and said, -'Mr. Todhetley, I am in sore need of a little help,' and told me a bit -about things: I don't say that I would have refused him the money. But -to dupe me out of it in the specious way he did was nothing short of -swindling; and I will bring him to book for it if I can." - -That day was only the beginning of sorrow. There have been such cases -since: perhaps worse; where a sort of wholesale ruin has fallen upon a -neighbourhood: but none, to me, have equalled that. It was the first -calamity of the kind in my experience; and in all things, whether of joy -or sorrow, our earliest impressions are the most vivid. It is the first -step that costs, the French tell us: and that is true of all things. - - * * * * * - -The ruin turned out to be wider even than was feared; the distress -greater. Some had only lost part of their superfluous cash. It was -mortifying; but it did not further affect their prosperity, or take from -them the means of livelihood; no luxuries need be given up, or any -servants dispensed with. Others had invested so much that it would throw -them back years, perhaps cripple them for life. Pitiable enough, that, -but not the worst. It was as nothing to those who had lost their all. - -People made it their business to find out more about Mr. and Mrs. -Clement-Pell than had been known before. Both were of quite obscure -origin, it turned out, and he had _not_ been a lawyer in London, but -only a lawyer's clerk. So much the more credit to him for getting on to -be something better. If he had only had the sense to let well alone! But -she?--well, all I mean to say here, is this: the farmers she had turned -up her nose at were far, far better born and bred, even the smallest of -them, than she was. Let that go: other women have been just as foolishly -upstart as Mrs. Clement-Pell. One fact came out that I think _riled_ the -public worse than any other: that his Christian name was Clement and his -surname Pell. He had united the two when growing into a great man, and -put a "J." before the Clement, which had no right there. Mr. Brandon had -known it all along--at least he chanced to know that in early life his -name was simply Clement Pell. The Squire, when he heard of this, went -into a storm of reproach at old Brandon, because he had not told it. - -"Nay, why should I have sought to do the man an injury?" remonstrated -Mr. Brandon. "It was no business of mine, that I should interfere. We -must live and let live, Squire, if we care to go through the world -peaceably." - -The days went on, swelling the list of creditors who came forward to -declare themselves. The wonder was, that so many had been taken in. But -you see, people had not made it their business to proclaim that their -money lay with Clement-Pell. Gentlefolk who lived on their fortunes; -professional men of all classes, including the clergy; commercial men of -high and low degree; small tradespeople; widows with slender incomes, -and spinsters with less. If Clement-Pell had taken the money of these -people, not intentionally to swindle them, as the Squire put it in -regard to his own, but only knowing there was a chance that it would not -be safe, he must have been a hard and cruel man. I think the cries of -the defrauded of that unhappy time must have gone direct to heaven. - -He was not spared. Could hard words injure an absentee, Clement-Pell -must have come in for all sorts of harm. His ears burned, I should -fancy--if there's any truth in the saying that ears burn when distant -friends give pepper. The queerest fact was, that no money seemed to be -left. Of the millions that Clement-Pell had been worth, or had had to -play with, nothing remained. It was inconceivable. What had become of -the stores? The hoards of gold; the chests, popularly supposed to be -filled with it; the bank-notes; the floating capital--where was it all? -No one could tell. People gazed at each other with dismayed faces as -they asked it. Bit by bit, the awful embarrassment in which he had been -plunged for years came to light. The fictitious capital he had created -had consumed itself: and the good money of the public had gone with it. -Of course he had made himself secure and carried off loads, said the -maddened creditors. But they might have been mistaken there. - -For a week or two confusion reigned. Accountants set to work in a fog; -official assignees strove to come to the bottom of the muddy waters. -There existed some of what people called securities; but they were so -hemmed in by claims that the only result would be that there would not -be anything for any one. Clement-Pell had done well to escape, or the -unhappy victims had certainly tarred and feathered him. All that time -he was being searched for, and not a clue could be obtained to him. -Stranger perhaps to say, there was no clue to his wife and daughters -either. The five boxes had disappeared. It was ascertained that certain -boxes, answering to the description, had been sent to London on the -Monday from a populous station by a quick train, and were claimed at the -London terminus by a gentleman who did _not_ bear any resemblance to -Clement-Pell. I'm sure the excitement of the affair was something before -unknown to the Squire, as he raged up hill and down dale in the August -weather, and it must have been as good as a course of Turkish baths to -him. - -Ah me! it is all very well to write of it in a light strain at this -distance of time; but God alone knows how many hearts were broken by it. - -One of the worst cases was poor Jacob Palmerby's. He had saved money -that brought him in about a hundred a year in his old age. Clement-Pell -got hold of the money, doubled the interest, and Palmerby thought that a -golden era had set in. For several years now he had enjoyed it. His wife -was dead; his only son, who had been a sizar at Cambridge, was a curate -in London. With the bursting up of Clement-Pell, Jacob Palmerby's means -failed: he had literally not a sixpence left in the world. The blow -seemed to have struck him stupid. He mostly sat in silence, his head -down; his clothes neglected. - -"Come, Palmerby, you must cheer up, you know," said the Squire to him -one evening that we looked in at Rock Cottage, and found Mr. Brandon -there. - -"Me cheer up," he returned, lifting his face for a moment--and in the -last fortnight it had grown ten years older. "What am I to cheer up for? -There's nothing left. _I_ can go into the workhouse--but there's poor -Michael." - -"Michael?" - -"My son, the parson. The capital that ought to have been his after me, -and brought him in his hundred a year, as it did me before I drew it -from the funds, is gone. Gone. It is of him I think. He has been a good -son always. I hope he won't take to cursing me." - -"Parsons don't curse, you know, and Michael will be a good son still," -said Mr. Brandon, shrilly. "Don't you fret, Palmerby. Fretting does no -good." - -"It 'ud wear out a donkey--as I tell him," put in the old woman-servant, -Nanny, who had brought in his supper of bread-and-milk. - -He did not lift his head; just swayed it once from side to side by way -of general response. - -"It's the way he goes on all day, masters," whispered Nanny when we went -out. "His heart's a-breaking--and I wish it was that knave of a Pell's -instead. All these purty flowers to be left," pointing to the clusters -of roses and geraniums and honeysuckles within the gate, "and the -chairs and tables to be sold, and the very beds to be took from under -us!" - -"Nay, nay, Nanny, it may turn out better than that," spoke the Squire. - -"Why, how can it turn out better, sirs?" she asked. "Pell didn't pay the -dividends this two times past: and the master, believing as all his -excuses was gospel, never thought of pressing for it. If we be in debt -to the landlord and others, is it our fault? But the sticks and stones -must be sold to pay, and the place be given up. There be the work'us for -me; I know that, and it don't much matter; but it'll be a crying shame -if the poor master have to move into it." - -So it would be. And there were others in a similar plight to his; -nothing else but the workhouse before them. - -"He won't never live to go--that's one consolation," was Nanny's last -comment as she held the gate open. "Good evening to ye, sirs; good -evening, Master Johnny." - -What with talking to Dobbs the blacksmith, and staying with Duffham to -drink what he called a dish of tea, it was almost dark when I set out -home; the Squire and Mr. Brandon having gone off without me. I was -vaulting over the stile the near way across the fields, expecting to -catch it for staying, when a man shot into my path from behind the -hedge. - -"Johnny Ludlow." - -Well, I did feel surprised. It was Gusty Pell! - -"Halloa!" said I. "I thought you were in Scotland." - -"I was there," he answered. And then, while we looked at one another, he -began to tell me the reason of his coming away. Why it is that all kinds -of people seem to put confidence in me and trust me with matters they'd -never speak of to others, I have never found out. Had it been Tod, for -instance, Gusty Pell would never have shown himself out of the hedge to -talk to him. - -Gusty, shooting the grouse on the moors, had found his purse emptied of -its last coin. He wrote to his father for more money: wrote and wrote; -but none arrived: neither money nor letter. Being particularly in want -of supplies, he borrowed a sovereign or two from his friends, and came -off direct to see the reason why. Arrived within a few miles of home he -heard very ugly rumours; stories that startled him. So he waited and -came on by night, thinking it more prudent not to show himself. - -"Tell me all about it, Johnny Ludlow, for the love of goodness!" -he cried, his voice a little hoarse with agitation, his hand -grasping my arm like a vice. "I have been taking a look at the place -outside"--pointing up the road towards Parrifer Hall--"but it seems to -be empty." - -It was empty, except for a man who had charge of the things until the -sale could take place. Softening the narrative a little, and not calling -everything by the name the public called it, I gave the facts to Gusty. - -He drew a deep breath at the end, like a hundred sighs in one. Then I -asked him how it was he had not heard these things--had not been written -to. - -"I don't know," he said. "I have been moving about Scotland: perhaps a -letter of theirs may have miscarried; and I suppose my later letters did -not reach them. The last letter I had was from Constance, giving me an -account of some grand fete here that had taken place the previous day." - -"Yes. I was at it with Todhetley and the Whitneys. The--the crisis came -three or four days after that." - -"Johnny, where's my father?" he asked, after a pause, his voice sunk to -a whisper. - -"It is not known where he is." - -"Is it true that he is being--looked for?" - -"I am afraid it is." - -"And, if they find him--what then? Why don't you speak?" he added -impatiently. - -"I don't know what. Some people say it will only be a bad case of -bankruptcy." - -"Any way, it is a complete smash." - -"Yes, it's that." - -"Will it, do you think, be ruin, Johnny? Ruin utter and unmitigated?" - -"It is that already--to many persons round about." - -"But I mean to my own people," said he, impatiently. - -"Well, I should fear it would be." - -Gusty took off his hat to wipe his brow. He looked white in the -starlight. - -"What will become of me? I must fly too," he muttered, as if to the -stars. "And what of Fabian?--he cannot remain in his regiment. Johnny -Ludlow, this blow is like death to me." - -And it struck me that of the two calamities, Gusty Pell, non-religious -though he was, would rather have met death. I felt dreadfully sorry for -him. - -"Where's James?" he suddenly asked. "Is he gone too?" - -"James disappeared on the Sunday, it is said. It would hardly have been -safe for him to remain: the popular feeling is very bitter." - -"Well, I must make myself scarce again also," he said, after a pause. -"Could you lend me a pound or so, Johnny, if you've got it about you?" - -I told him I wished I had; he should have been heartily welcome to it. -Pulling out my pockets, I counted it all up--two shillings and -fivepence. Gusty turned from it with disdain. - -"Well, good evening, Johnny. Thank you for your good wishes--and for -telling me what you have. I don't know to whom else I could have -applied: and I am glad to have chanced to meet you." - -He gave another deep sigh, shook my hand, got over the stile, and crept -away, keeping close to the hedge, as if he intended to make for -Alcester, I stood and watched him until he was lost in the shadows. - -And so the Pells, one and all, went into exile in some unknown region, -and the poor duped people stayed to face their ruin at home. It was an -awful time, and that's the truth. - - - - -XXV. - -OVER THE WATER. - - -We had what they called the "dead-lights" put in the ladies' cabin at -Gravesend: that will show what the weather was expected to be in the -open sea. In the saloon, things were pitching about before we reached -Margate. Rounding the point off Broadstairs, the steamer caught it -strong and sharp. - -"Never heed a bit of pitching: we've the wind all for us, and shall -make a short passage," said the captain in hearty tones, by way of -consolation to the passengers generally. "A bit o' breeze at sea is -rather pleasant." - -Pleasant it might be to him, Captain Tune, taking in a good dinner, as -much at ease as if he had been sitting in his dining-room ashore. Not -so pleasant, though, for some of us, his passengers. - -Ramsgate and other landmarks passed, and away in the open sea it was -just a gale. That, and nothing less. Some one said so to the man at the -wheel: a tall, middle-aged, bronzed-faced fellow in shirt sleeves and -open blue waistcoat. - -"Bless y're ignorance! This a gale! Why, 'taint half a one. It'll be a -downright fair passage, this 'un will, shorter nor ord'nary." - -"What do you call a gale--if this is not one?" - -"I ain't allowed to talk: you may see it writ up." - -"Writ up," it was. "Passengers are requested not to talk to the man at -the wheel." But if he had been allowed to talk, and talked till now, he -would never have convinced some of the unhappy creatures around, that -the state of wind then blowing was not a gale. - -It whistled in the sails, it roared over the paddle-wheels, it seemed to -play at pitch-and-toss with the sea. The waves rose with mountain force, -and then broke like mad: the steamer rolled and lurched, and righted -herself; and then lurched and rolled again. Captain Tune stood on the -bridge, apparently enjoying it, the gold band on his cap glistening in -the sun. We got his name from the boat bills; and a jolly, courteous, -attentive captain he seemed to be. But for the pitching and tossing and -general discomfort, it would have been called beautiful weather. The -air was bright; the sun as hot as it is in July, although September was -all but out. - -"Johnny. Johnny Ludlow." - -The voice--Mr. Brandon's--was too faint to be squeaky. He sat amidships -on a camp stool, his back against the cabin wall--or whatever the -boarding was--wrapped in a plaid. A yellow handkerchief was tied over -his head, partly to keep his cap on, partly to protect his ears. The -handkerchief hid most of his face, except his little nose; which looked -pinched and about as yellow as the silk. - -"Did you call me, sir?" - -"I wish you'd see if you can get to my tail pocket, Johnny. I've been -trying this ten minutes, and do nothing but find my hands hopelessly -entangled in the plaid. There's a tin box of lozenges there." - -"Do you feel ill, sir?" I asked, as I found the box, and gave it to him. - -"Never was ill at sea in my life, Johnny, in the way you mean. But the -motion always gives me the most frightful headache imaginable. How are -you?" - -The less said about how I was, the better. All I hoped was he wouldn't -keep me talking. - -"Where's the Squire?" he asked. - -I pointed to a distant heap on the deck, from which groans came forth -occasionally: and just managed to speak in answer. - -"He seems uncommonly ill, sir." - -"Well, he _would_ come, you know, Johnny. Tell him he ought to take----" - -What he ought to take was lost in the rush of a wave which came dashing -over us. - -After all, I suppose it was a quick and good, though rough passage, for -Boulogne-sur-Mer was sighted before we thought for. As the stiller I -kept the better I was, there was nothing to do but to sit motionless and -stare at it. - -You'll never guess what was taking us across the Channel. Old Brandon -called it from the first a wild-goose chase; but, go, the Squire would. -He was after that gentleman who had played havoc with many people's -hearts and money, who had, so to say, scattered ruin wholesale--Mr. -Clement-Pell. - -Not a trace had the public been able to obtain as to the direction of -the Pells' flight; not a clue to the spot in which they might be hiding -themselves. The weeks had gone on since their departure: August passed -into September, September was passing: and for all that could be -discovered of them, they might as well never have existed. The committee -for winding up the miserable affairs raged and fumed and pitied, and -wished they could just put their hands on the man who had wrought the -evil; Squire Todhetley raged and fumed also on his own score; but none -of them were any the nearer finding Pell. In my whole life I had never -seen the Squire so much put out. It was not altogether the loss of the -two hundred pounds he had been (as he persisted in calling it) swindled -out of; it was the distress he had to witness daily around him. I do -think nothing would have given him more satisfaction than to join a mob -in administering lynch law to Clement-Pell, and to tar and feather him -first. Before this happened, the Squire had talked of going to the -seaside: but he would not listen to a word on the subject now: only -to speak of it put him out of temper. Tod was away. He received an -invitation to stay with some people in Gloucestershire, who had good -game preserves; and was off the next day. And things were in this lively -state at home: the Squire grumbling, Mrs. Todhetley driving about with -one or other of the children in the mild donkey-cart, and I fit to eat -my head off with having nothing to do: when some news arrived of the -probable sojourning place of the Clement-Pells. - -The news was not much. And perhaps hardly to be relied on. Mr. and Mrs. -Sterling at the Court had been over to Paris for a fortnight: taking -the baby with them. I must say that Mrs. Sterling was always having -babies--if any one cares for the information. Before one could walk -another was sure to arrive. And not only the baby had been to Paris, but -the baby's nursemaid, Charlotte. Old Brandon, remarking upon it, said -he'd rather travel with half a score of mischievous growing boys than -one baby: and _they_ were about the greatest calamity he could think of. - -Well, in coming home, the Sterling party had, to make the short -crossing, put themselves on board the Folkestone boat at Boulogne, and -the nursemaid was sitting on deck with the baby on her lap, when, just -as the steamer was moving away, she saw, or thought she saw, Constance -Pell, standing on the shore a little apart from the people gathered -there to watch the boat off. Mrs. Sterling told the nurse she must be -mistaken: but Charlotte held to it that she was not. As chance had it, -Squire Todhetley was at the Court with old Sterling when they got home; -and he heard this. It put him into a commotion. He questioned Charlotte -closely, but she never wavered in her statement. - -"I am positive it was Miss Constance Pell, sir," she repeated. "She had -on a thick blue veil, and one of them new-fashioned large round capes. -Just as I happened to be looking at her--not thinking it was anybody I -knew--a gust of wind took the veil right up above her bonnet, and I saw -it was Miss Constance Pell. She pulled at the veil with both her hands, -in a scuffle like, to get it down again." - -"Then I'll go off to Boulogne," said the Squire, with stern resolution. -And back he came to Dyke Manor full of it. - -"It will be a wild-goose chase," observed Mr. Brandon, who had called -in. "If Pell has taken himself no further away than Boulogne--that is, -allowing he has got out of England at all--he is a greater fool than I -took him for." - -"Wild-goose chase or not, I shall go," said the Pater, hotly. "And I -shall take Johnny; he'll be useful as an interpreter." - -"I will go with you," came the unexpected rejoinder of Mr. Brandon. "I -want a bit of a change." - -And so we went up to London to take the steamer there. And here we were, -all three of us, ploughing the waves _en route_ for Boulogne, on the -wild-goose chase after Clement-Pell. - -Just as the passengers had come to the conclusion that they must die of -it, the steamer shot into Boulogne harbour. She was tolerably long -swinging round; then was made fast, and we began to land. Mr. Brandon -took off his yellow turban and shook his cap out. - -"Johnny, I'd never have come if I had known it was going to be like -this," moaned the poor Squire--and every trace of red had gone out of -his face. "No, not even to catch Clement-Pell. What on earth is that -crowd for?" - -It looked about five hundred people; they were pushing and crushing -each other, fighting for places to see us land and go through the -custom-house. No need to tell of this: not a reader of you, but you must -know it well. - -The first thing, patent to my senses amidst the general confusion, was -hearing my name shouted out by the Squire in the custom-house. - -"Johnny Ludlow!" - -He was standing before two Frenchmen in queer hats, who sat behind a -table or counter, asking him questions and preparing to write down the -answers: what his name was, and what his age, and where he was born, -just as though he were a footman in want of a place. Not a word could he -understand, and looked round for me helplessly. As to my French--well, I -knew it pretty well, and talked often with our French master at Dr. -Frost's: but you must not think I was as fluent in it as though I'd been -a born Frenchman. It was rather the other way. - -We put up at the Hotel des Bains. A good hotel--as is well known--but -nothing to look at from the street. Mr. Brandon had been in Boulogne -before, and always used it. The _table d'hote_ restored the Squire's -colour and spirits together: and by the time dinner was over, he felt -ready to encounter the sea again. As to Mr. Brandon, he made his meal of -some watery broth, two slices of melon, and a bowlful of pounded sugar. - -The great question was--to discover whether the Clement-Pells were in -the town; and, if so, to find them out. Mr. Brandon's opinion never -varied--that Charlotte had been mistaken and they were not in the place -at all. Allowing, for argument's sake, that they were there, he said, -they would no doubt be living partly in concealment; and it might not -answer for us to go inquiring about them openly, lest they got to hear -of it, and took measures to secure themselves. There was sense in that. - -The next day we went strolling up to the post-office in the Rue des -Vieillards, the wind blowing us round the corners sharply; and there -inquired for the address of the Clement-Pells. The people were not very -civil; stared as if they'd never been asked for an address before; and -shortly affirmed that no such name was known _there_. - -"Why, of course not," said old Brandon quietly, as we strolled down -again. "They wouldn't be in the town under their own name--if they are -here at all." - -And there would lie the difficulty. - -That wind, that the man at the wheel had scoffed at when called a gale, -had been at any rate the beginning of one. It grew higher and higher, -chopping round to the south-west, and for three days we had it kindly. -On the second day not a boat could get out or in; and there were no -bathing-machines to be had. The sea was surging, full of tumult--but it -was a grand sight to see. The waves dashed over the pier, ducking the -three or four venturesome spirits who went there. I was one of them--and -received a good blowing up from Mr. Brandon for my pains. - -The gale passed. The weather set in again calm and lovely; but we seemed -to be no nearer hearing anything of the Clement-Pells. So far as that -went, the time was being wasted: but I don't think any of us cared much -about that. We kept our eyes open, looking out for them, and asked -questions in a quiet way: at the _etablissement_, where the dancing went -on; at the libraries; and of the pew women at the churches. No; no -success: and time went on to the second week in October. On account of -the remarkably fine weather, the season and amusements were protracted. - -One Friday morning I was sitting on the pier in the sunshine, listening -to a couple of musicians, who appeared there every day. He had a violin; -she played a guitar, and sang "Figaro." An old gentleman by me said he -had heard her sing the same song for nearly a score of years past. The -town kept very full, for the weather was more like summer than autumn. -There were moments, and this was one of them, that I wished more than -ever Tod was over. - -Strolling back off the pier and along the port, picking my way amidst -the ropes of the fishing-boats, stretched across my path, I met face -to face--Constance Pell. The thick blue veil, just as Charlotte had -described it, was drawn over her bonnet: but something in her form -struck me, and I saw her features through the veil. She saw me too, and -turned her head sharply towards the harbour. - -I went on without notice, making believe not to have seen her. Glancing -round presently, I saw her cross the road and begin to come back on the -other side by the houses. Knowing that the only chance was to trace her -home, and not to let her see I was doing it, I stopped before one of the -boats, and began talking to a fisherman, never turning my head towards -her at all. She passed quickly, on to the long street, once glancing -back at me. When she was fairly on her way, I went at the top of my -speed to the port entrance of the hotel; ran straight through the yard -and up to my room, which faced the street. There she was, walking -onwards, and very quickly. Close by the chemist's shop at the opposite -corner, she turned to look back; no doubt looking after me, and no doubt -gratified that I was nowhere to be seen. Then she went on again. - -Neither the Squire nor Mr. Brandon was in the hotel, that I could find; -so I had to take the matter in hand myself, and do the best I could. -Letting her get well ahead, I followed cautiously. She turned up the -Grande Rue, and I turned also, keeping her in view. The streets were -tolerably full, and though she looked back several times, I am sure she -did not see me. - -Up the hill of the Grande Rue, past the Vice-Consulate, under the -gateway of the Upper Town, through the Upper Town itself, and out by -another gateway. I thought she was never going to stop. Away further -yet, to the neighbourhood of a little place called Maquetra--but I am -not sure that I spell the word properly. There she turned into a small -house that had a garden before it. - -They call me a muff at home, as you have heard often: and there's no -doubt I have shown myself a muff more than once in my life. I was one -then. What I ought to have done was, to have gone back the instant I had -seen her enter; what I really did was, to linger about behind the hedge, -and try to get a glimpse through it. It skirted the garden: a long, -narrow garden, running down from the side of the house. - -It was only a minute or two in all. And I was really turning back when -a maid-servant in a kind of short brown bedgown (so Hannah called the -things at home), black petticoat, grey stockings and wooden sabots, came -out at the gate, carrying a flat basket made of black and white straw. - -"Does Monsieur Pell live there?" I asked, waiting until she had come up. - -"Monsieur _Qui_?" said the girl. - -"Pell. Or Clement-Pell." - -"There is no gentlemans at all lives there," returned she, changing -her language to very decent English. "Only one Madame and her young -meesses." - -I seemed to take in the truth in a minute: they were there, but he -was not. "I think they must be the friends I am in search of," was my -remark. "What is the name?" - -"Brune." - -"Brune?--Oh, Brown. A lady and four young ladies?" - -"Yes, that's it. Bon jour, monsieur." - -She hurried onwards, the sabots clattering. I turned leisurely to take -another look at the hedge and the little gate in it, and saw a blue veil -fluttering inwards. Constance Pell, deeper than I, had been gazing after -me. - -Where had the Squire and old Brandon got to? Getting back to the hotel, -I could not find either of them. Mr. Brandon might be taking a warm -sea-bath, the waiters thought, and the Squire a cold one. I went about -to every likely place, and went in vain. The dinner-bell was ringing -when they got in--tired to death; having been for some prolonged ramble -over beyond Capecure. I told them in their rooms while they were washing -their hands--but as to stirring in it before dinner, both were too -exhausted for it. - -"I said I thought they must be here, Brandon," cried the Squire, in -triumph. - -"He is not here now, according to Johnny," squeaked old Brandon. - -After dinner more time was lost. First of all, in discussing what they -should do; next, in whether it should be done that night. You see, it -was not Mrs. Pell they wanted, but her husband. As it was then dark, it -was thought best to leave it until morning. - -We went up in state about half-past ten; taking a coach, and passing -_en route_ the busy market scene. The coach seemed to have no springs: -Mr. Brandon complained that it shook him to pieces. This was Saturday, -you know. The Squire meant to be distantly polite to Mrs. and the Miss -Pells, but to insist upon having the address given him of Mr. Pell. -"We'll not take the coach quite up to the door," said he, "or we may -not get in." Indeed, the getting in seemed to be a matter of doubt: -old Brandon's opinion was that they'd keep every window and door -barred, rather than admit us. - -So the coach set us down outside the furthermost barrier of the Upper -Town, and we walked on to the gate, went up the path, and knocked at the -door. - -As soon as the servant opened it--she had the same brown bedgown on, the -same grey stockings, and wooden sabots--the Squire dexterously slipped -past her into the passage to make sure of a footing. She offered no -opposition: drew back, in fact, to make room. - -"I must come in; I have business here," said he, almost as if in -apology. - -"The Messieurs are free to enter," was her answer; "but they come to a -house empty." - -"I want to speak to Madame Brown," returned the Squire, in a determined -tone. - -"Madame Brown and the Mees Browns are depart," she said. "They depart at -daylight this morning, by the first convoi." - -We were in the front parlour then: a small room, barely furnished. The -Squire flew into one of his tempers: he thought the servant was playing -with him. Old Brandon sat down against the wall, and nodded his head. He -saw how it was--they had really gone. - -But the Squire stormed a little, and would not believe it. The girl, -catching one word in ten, for he talked very fast, wondered at his -anger. - -The young gentlemans was at the place yesterday, she said, glancing at -me: it was a malheur but they had come up before the morning, if they -wanted so much to see Madame. - -"She has not gone: I know better," roared the Squire. "Look here, young -woman--what's your name, though?" - -"Mathilde," said she, standing quite at ease, her hands turned on her -hips and her elbows out. - -"Well, then, I warn you that it's of no use your trying to deceive _me_. -I shall go into every room of this house till I find Madame Brown--and -if you attempt to stop me, I'll bring the police up here. Tell her that -in French, Johnny." - -"I hear," said Mathilde, who had a very deliberate way of speaking. "I -comprehend. The Messieurs go into the rooms if they like, but I go with, -to see they not carry off any of the articles. This is the salon." - -Waiting for no further permission, he was out of the salon like a shot. -Mr. Brandon stayed nodding against the wall; he had not the slightest -reverence for the Squire's diplomacy at any time. The girl slipped off -her sabots and put her feet into some green worsted slippers that stood -in the narrow passage. My belief was she thought we wanted to look over -the house with a view to taking it. - -"It was small, but great enough for a salle a manger," she said, showing -the room behind--a little place that had literally nothing in it but an -oval dining-table, some matting, and six common chairs against the -walls. Upstairs were four bedrooms, bare also. As to the fear of our -carrying off any of the articles, we might have found a difficulty in -doing so. Except beds, chairs, drawers, and wash-hand-stands, there was -nothing to carry. Mrs. Brown and the Miss Browns were not there: and the -rooms were in as much order as if they had not been occupied for a -month. Mathilde had been at them all the morning. The Squire's face was -a picture when he went down: he began to realize the fact that he was -once more left in the lurch. - -"It is much health up here, and the house fine," said the girl, leaving -her shoes in the passage side by side with the sabots, and walking into -the salon in her stockings, without ceremony; "and if the Messieurs -thought to let it, and would desire to have a good servant with it, I -would be happy to serve them, me. I sleep in the house, or at home, as -my patrons please; and I very good to make the kitchen; and I----" - -"So you have not found them," interrupted old Brandon, sarcastically. - -The Squire gave a groan. He was put out, and no mistake. Mathilde, in -answer to questions, readily told all she knew. - -About six weeks ago, she thought it was--but no, it must be seven, now -she remembered--Madame Brown and the four Mees Browns took this house -of the proprietaire, one Monsieur Bourgeois, marchand d'epicerie, and -engaged her as servant, recommended to Madame by M. Bourgeois. Madame -and the young ladies had lived very quietly, giving but little trouble; -entrusted her to do all the commissions at the butcher's and elsewhere, -and never questioned her fidelity in the matter of the sous received in -change at market. The previous day when she got home with some pork and -sausages, which she was going after when the young gentlemans spoke to -her--nodding to me--Madame was all bouleversee; first because Mees -Constance had been down to the town, which Madame did not like her to -do; next because of a letter---- - -At this point the Squire interrupted. Did she mean to imply that the -ladies never went out? - -No, never, continued Mathilde. Madame found herself not strong to walk -out, and it was not proper for the young demoiselles to go walk without -her--as the Messieurs would doubtless understand. But Mees Constance had -ennui with that, and three or four times she had walked out without -Madame's knowing. Yesterday, par exemple, Madame was storming at her -when she (Mathilde) came home with the meat, and the young ladies her -sisters stormed at her---- - -"There; enough of that," snapped the Squire. "What took them away?" - -That was the letter, resumed the girl in her deliberate manner. It was -the other thing, that letter was, that had contributed to Madame's -bouleversement. The letter had been delivered by hand, she supposed, -while she was gone to the pork-shop; it told Madame the triste news of -the illness of a dear relative; and Madame had to leave at once, in -consequence. There was confusion. Madame and the young ladies packing, -and she (Mathilde), when her dinner had been cooked and eaten, running -quick for the proprietaire, who came back with her. Madame paid him up -to the end of the next week, when the month would be finished and--that -was all. - -Old Brandon took up the word. "Mr. Brown?--He was not here at all, was -he?" - -"Not at all," replied Mathilde. "Madame's fancy figured to her he might -be coming one of these soon days: if so, I refer him to M. Bourgeois." - -"Refer him for what?" - -"Nay, I not ask, monsieur. For the information, I conclude, of where -Madame go and why she go. Madame talk to the proprietaire with the salon -door shut." - -So that was all we got. Mathilde readily gave M. Bourgeois's address, -and we went away. She had been civil through it all, and the Squire -slipped a franc into her hand. From the profusion of thanks he received -in return, it might have been a louis d'or. - -Monsieur Bourgeois's shop was in the Upper Town, not far from the -convent of the Dames Ursulines. He said--speaking from behind his -counter while weighing out some coffee--that Madame Brown had entrusted -him with a sealed letter to Monsieur Brown in case he arrived. It -contained, Madame had remarked to him, only a line or two to explain -where they had gone, as he would naturally be disappointed at not -finding them; and she had confided the trust to him that he would only -deliver it into M. Brown's own hand. _He_ did not know where Madame had -gone. As M. Bourgeois did not speak a word of English, or the Squire a -word of French, it's hard to say when they would have arrived at an -explanation, left to themselves. - -"Now look here," said Mr. Brandon, in his dry, but uncommonly -clear-sighted way, as we went home, "_Clement-Pell's expected here_. -We must keep a sharp watch on the boats." - -The Squire did not see it. "As if he'd remain in England all this time, -Brandon!" - -"We don't know where he has stayed. I have thought all along he was as -likely to be in England as elsewhere: there's no place a man's safer in, -well concealed. The very fact of his wife and daughters remaining in -this frontier town would be nearly enough to prove that he was still in -England." - -"Then why on earth _did_ he stay there?" retorted the Squire. "Why has -he not got away before?" - -"I don't know. Might fear there was danger perhaps in making the -attempt. He has lain perdu in some quiet corner; and now that he thinks -the matter has partly blown over and the scent is less keen, he means to -come over. That's what his wife has waited for." - -The Squire seemed to grasp the whole at once. "I wonder when he will be -here?" - -"Within a day or two, you may be sure, or not at all," said Mr. Brandon, -with a nod. "She'll write to stop his coming, if she knows where to -write to. The sight of Johnny Ludlow has startled her. You were a great -muff to let yourself be seen, young Johnny." - -"Yes, sir, I know I was." - -"Live and learn, live and learn," said he, bringing out his tin box. -"One cannot put old heads upon young shoulders." - - * * * * * - -Sunday morning. After breakfast I and Mr. Brandon were standing under -the porte-cochere, looking about us. At the banking house opposite; -at a man going into the chemist's shop with his hand tied up; at the -marchand-de-coco with his gay attire and jingling bells and noisy -tra-la-la-la: at anything, in short, there might be to see, and so while -away the half-hour before church-time. The Squire had gone strolling -out, saying he should be back in time for service. People were passing -down towards the port, little groups of them in twos and threes; apart -from the maid-servants in their white caps, who were coming back from -mass. One of the hotel waiters stood near us, his white napkin in his -hand. He suddenly remarked, with the easy affability of the French of -his class (which, so far as I know, and I have seen more of France since -then, never degenerates into disrespect), that some of these people -might be expecting friends by the excursion boat, and were going down to -see it come in. - -"What excursion boat?" asked Mr. Brandon of the waiter, quicker than he -generally spoke. - -"One from Ramsgate," the man replied. "It was to leave the other side -very early, so as to get to Boulogne by ten o'clock; and to depart again -at six in the afternoon." Mr. Brandon looked at the speaker; and then -at me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he drew me towards the port; -charging the waiter to be sure and tell Mr. Todhetley when he returned, -that we had gone to see the Ramsgate boat come in. It was past ten then. - -"_If Clement-Pell comes at all it will be by this excursion boat_, -Johnny," said he impressively, as we hurried on. - -"Why do you think so, Mr. Brandon?" - -"Well, I do think so. The people who make excursion trips are not those -likely to know him, or of whom he would be afraid. He will conceal -himself on it amongst the crowd. It is Sunday also--another reason. What -flag is that up on the signal-post by the pier house, Johnny? Your eyes -are younger than mine." - -"It is the red one, sir" - -"For a steamer in sight. She is not in yet then. It must be for _her_. -It's hardly likely there would be another one coming in this morning." - -"There she is!" I exclaimed. For at that moment I caught sight in the -distance of a steamer riding on close up to the harbour mouth, pitching -a little in her course. - -"Run you on, Johnny," said Mr. Brandon, in excitement. "I'll come as -quickly as I can, but my legs are not as fleet as yours. Get a place -close to the cords, and look out sharply." - -It was a bright day, somewhat colder than it had been, and the wind -high enough to make it tolerably rough for any but good sailors--as -the sparkles of white foam on the blue sea betrayed. I secured a good -place behind the cord, close to the landing-stage: a regular crowd had -collected, early though it was, Sunday being an idle day with some of -the French. The boat came in, was being moored fast below us, and was -crowded with pale faces. - -Up came the passengers, mounting the almost perpendicular gangway: -assisted by the boatmen, below; and by two appariteurs, in their cocked -hats and Sunday clothes, above. It was nearly low water: another -quarter-of-an-hour and they'd have missed their tide: pleasant, that -would have been, for the excursionists. As only one could ascend the -ladder at once, I had the opportunity of seeing them all. - -Scores came: my sight was growing half-confused: and there had been -no one resembling Clement-Pell. Some of them looked fearfully ill -still, and had not put up the ears of their caps or turned down their -coat collars; so that to get a good view of these faces was not -possible--and Clement-Pell might have already landed, for all I could -be sure of to the contrary. Cloaks were common in those days, and -travelling caps had long ears to them. - -It was quite a stroke of fortune. A lady with a little boy behind her -came up the ladder, and the man standing next to me--he was vary tall -and big--went at once into a state of excitement. "C'est toi! c'est toi, -ma soeur!" he called out. She turned at the voice, and a batch of -kissing ensued. A stout dame pushed forward frantically to share the -kissing: but a douanier angrily marched off the passenger towards the -custom-house. She retorted on him not to be so _difficile_, turned round -and said she must wait for her other little one. Altogether there was no -end of chatter and commotion. I was eclipsed and pushed back into the -shade. - -The other child was appearing over the top of the ladder then; a mite -of a girl, her face held close to the face of the gentleman carrying -her. I supposed he was the husband. He wore a cloak, his cap was drawn -well over his eyebrows, and very little could be seen of him but his -hands and his nose. Was he the husband? The mother, thanking him -volubly in broken English for his politeness in carrying up her little -girl, would have taken her from him; but he motioned as if he would -carry her to the custom-house, and stepped onward, looking neither to -the left nor right. At that moment my tall neighbour and the stout -dame raised a loud greeting to the child, clapping their hands and -blowing kisses: the man put out his long arm and pulled at the sleeve -of the young one's pelisse. It caused the gentleman to halt and look -round. Enough to make him. - -Why--where had I seen the eyes? They were close to mine, and seemed -quite familiar. Then remembrance flashed over me. They were -Clement-Pell's. - -It is almost the only thing about a man or woman that cannot be -disguised--the expression of the eyes. Once you are familiar with any -one's eye, and have learned its expression by heart; the soul that looks -out of it; you cannot be mistaken in the eye, though you meet it in a -desert, and its owner be disguised as a cannibal. - -But for the eyes, I should never have known him, got up, as he was, -with false red hair. He went straight on instantly, not suspecting -I was there, for the two had hidden me. The little child's face was -pressed close to Mr. Pell's as he went on; a feeling came over me that -he was carrying it, the better to conceal himself. As he went into the -custom-house, I pushed backwards out of the crowd; saw Mr. Brandon, -and whispered to him. He nodded quietly; as much as to say he thought -Pell would come. - -"Johnny, we must follow him: but we must not let him see us on any -account. I dare say he is going all the way up to Maquetra--or whatever -you call the place." - -Making our way round to the door by which the passengers were let out, -we mixed with the mob and waited. The custom-house was not particular -with Sunday excursionists, and they came swarming out by dozens. When -Pell appeared, I jogged Mr. Brandon's elbow. - -The touters, proclaiming the merits of their respective hotels, and -thrusting their cards in Pell's face, seemed to startle him, for he -shrank back. Comprehending the next moment, he said, No, no, passed on -to the carriages, and stepped into one that was closed. The driver was -a couple of minutes at least, taking his orders: perhaps there was -some bother, the one jabbering French, the other English. But the -coach drove off at last. - -"Now then, Johnny, for that other closed coach. We shall have to do -without church this morning. Mind you make the coachman understand what -he is to do." - -"Suivez cette voiture qui vient de partir; mais pas trop pres." The man -gave back a hearty "Oui, monsieur," as if he understood the case. - -It was a slow journey. The first coach did not hurry itself, and took -by-ways to its destination. It turned into the Rue de la Coupe, opposite -our hotel, went through the Rue de l'Hopital, and thence to regions -unknown. All I knew was, we went up a hill worse than that of the Grande -Rue, and arrived circuitously at Maquetra. Mr. Brandon had stretched his -head out as we passed the hotel, but could not see the Squire. - -"It's his affair, you know, Johnny. Not mine." - -Clement Pell got out at his gate, and went in. We followed cautiously, -and found the house-door on the latch, Mathilde having probably -forgotten to close it after admitting Mr. Pell. They stood in the salon: -Mathilde in a handsome light chintz gown and white stockings and shoes, -for she had been to nine-o'clock mass; he with a strangely perplexed, -blank expression on his face as he listened to her explanation. - -"Yes, monsieur, it is sure they are depart; it is but the morning of -yesterday. The proprietaire, he have the letter for you that Madame -confide to him. He--Tiens, voici encore ces Messieurs!" - -Surprise at our appearance must have caused her change of language. -Clement-Pell gave one look at us and turned his face to the window, -hoping to escape unrecognized. Mr. Brandon ordered me to the English -church in the Upper Town, saying I should not be very late for that, and -told Mathilde he did not want her. - -"I shall make the little promenade and meet my bon-ami," observed -Mathilde, independently, as I proceeded to do as I was bid. And what -took place between the two we left can only be related at second hand. - -"Now, Mr. Pell, will you spare me your attention?" began Mr. Brandon. - -Clement-Pell turned, and took off his cloak and cap, seeing that it -would be worse than useless to attempt to keep up the farce. With the -red wig on his head and the red hair on his face, no unobservant man -would then have recognized him for the great ex-financier. - -Mr. Brandon was cold, uncompromising, but civil; Clement-Pell at first -subdued and humble. Taking courage after a bit, he became slightly -restive, somewhat inclined to be insolent. - -"It is a piece of assurance for you to come here at all, sir; tracking -me over my very threshold, as if you were a detective officer. What is -the meaning of it? I don't owe you money." - -"I have told you the meaning," replied Mr. Brandon--feeling that his -voice had never been more squeaky, but showing no sign of wrath. "The -affair is not mine at all, but Squire Todhetley's, I was down on the -port when you landed--went to look for you, in fact; the Squire did not -happen to be in the way, so I followed you up in his place." - -"With what object?" - -"Why, dear me, Mr. Pell, you are not deaf. I mentioned the object; the -Squire wants his two hundred pounds refunded. A very clever trick, your -getting it from him!" - -Clement-Pell drew in his lips; his face had no more colour in it than -chalk. He sat with his back to the wall, his hands restlessly playing -with his steel watch-chain. What had come of the thick gold one he used -to wear? Mr. Brandon had a chair near the table, and faced him. - -"Perhaps you would like me to refund to you all my creditors' money -wholesale, as well as Mr. Todhetley's?" retorted Clement-Pell, -mockingly. - -"I have nothing to do with them, Mr. Pell. Neither, I imagine, does Mr. -Todhetley intend to make their business his. Let each man mind his own -course, and stand or fall by it. If you choose to assure me you don't -owe a fraction to any one else in the world, I shall not tell you that -you do. I am speaking now for my friend, Squire Todhetley: I would a -great deal rather he were here to deal with you himself; but action has -accidentally been forced upon me." - -"I know that I owe a good deal of money; or, rather, that a good many -people have lost money through me," returned Clement-Pell, after a -pause. "It's my misfortune; not my fault." - -Mr. Brandon gave a dry cough. "As to its not being your fault, Mr. Pell, -the less said about that the better. It was in your power to pull up in -time, I conclude, when you first saw things were going wrong." - -Clement-Pell lifted his hand to his forehead, as if he felt a pain -there. "You don't know; you don't know," he said irritably,--a great -deal of impatience in his tone. - -"No, I'm thankful that I _don't_," said Mr. Brandon, taking out his tin -box, and coolly eating a lozenge. "I am very subject to heartburn, Mr. -Pell. If ever you get it try magnesia lozenges. An upset, such as this -affair of yours has been, would drive a man of my nerves into a lunatic -asylum." - -"It may do the same by me before I have done with it," returned Clement -Pell. And Mr. Brandon thought he meant what he said. - -"Any way, it is rumoured that some of those who are ruined will be there -before long, Mr. Pell. You might, perhaps, feel a qualm of conscience if -you saw the misery it has entailed." - -"And do you think I don't feel it?" returned Mr. Pell, catching his -breath. "You are mistaken, if you suppose I do not." - -"About Squire Todhetley's two hundred pounds, sir?" resumed old Brandon, -swallowing the last of the lozenge. "Is it convenient to you to give it -me?" - -"No, it is not," was the decided answer. And he seemed to be turning -restive again. - -"But I will _thank_ you to do so, Mr. Pell." - -"I cannot do so." - -"And not to make excuses over it. They will only waste time." - -"I have not got the money; I cannot give it." - -Upon that they set on again, hammer and tongs. Mr. Brandon insisting -upon the money; Pell vowing that he had it not, and could not and would -not give so much as a ten-pound note of it. Old Brandon never lost his -temper, never raised his voice, but he said a thing or two that must -have stung Pell's pride. At the end of twenty minutes, he was no nearer -the money than before. Pell's patience gave signs of wearing out: Mr. -Brandon could have gone quietly on till bed-time. - -"You must be aware that this is not a simple debt, Mr. Pell. It is--in -fact--something worse. For your own sake, it may be well to refund it." - -"Once more I say I cannot." - -"Am I to understand that is as much as to say you will not?" - -"If you like to take it so. It is most painful to me, Mr. Brandon, to -have to meet you in this spirit, but you force it on me. The case is -this: I am not able to refund the debt to Squire Todhetley, and he has -no power to enforce his claim to it." - -"I don't know that." - -"I do though. It is best to be plain, as we have come to this, Mr. -Brandon; and then perhaps you will bring the interview to an end, and -leave me in peace. You have no power over me in this country; none -whatever. Before you can obtain that, there are certain forms and -ceremonies to be gone through in a legal court; you must make over -the----" - -"Squire Todhetley's is not a case of debt," interrupted old Brandon. "If -it were, he would have no right in honour to come here and seek payment -over the heads of the other creditors." - -"It is a case of debt, and nothing else. As debt only could you touch -me upon it here--and not then until you have proved it and got judgment -upon it in England. Say, if you will, that I have committed murder -or forged bank-notes--you could not touch me here unless the French -government gave me up at the demand of the English government. Get all -the police in the town to this room if you will, Mr. Brandon, and they -would only laugh at you. They have no power over me. I have committed no -offence against this country." - -"Look here," said old Brandon, nodding his head. "I know a bit about -French law; perhaps as much as you: knew it years ago. What you say is -true enough; an Englishman, whether debtor or criminal, in his own land, -cannot be touched here, unless certain forms and ceremonies, as you -express it, are first gone through. But you have rendered yourself -amenable to French law on another point, Clement-Pell; I could consign -you to the police this moment, if I chose, and they would have to take -you." - -Clement-Pell quite laughed at what he thought the useless boast. But he -might have known old Brandon better. "What is my crime, sir?" - -"You have come here and are staying here under a false name--Brown. That -is a crime in the eyes of the French law; and one that the police, if -they get to know of it, are obliged to take cognizance of." - -"No!" exclaimed Clement-Pell, his face changing a little. - -"_Yes_," said Mr. Brandon. "Were I to give you up for it to-day, they -would put you on board the first boat leaving for your own country. Once -on the opposite shore, you may judge whether Squire Todhetley would let -you escape again." - -It was all true. Mr. Pell saw that it was so. His fingers nervously -trembled; his pale face wore a piteous aspect. - -"You need not be afraid of me: I am not likely to do it," said Mr. -Brandon: "I do not think the Squire would. But you see now what lies -within his power. Therefore I would recommend you to come to terms with -him." - -Clement-Pell rubbed his brow with his handkerchief. He was driven into a -corner. - -"I have told you truth, Mr. Brandon, in saying that I am not able to -repay the two hundred pounds. I am not. Will he take half of it?" - -"I cannot tell. I have no authority for saying that he will." - -"Then I suppose he must come up here. As it has come to this, I had -better see him. If he will accept one hundred pounds, and undertake not -to molest me further, I will hand it over to him. It will leave me -almost without means: but you have got me in a hole. Stay a moment--a -thought strikes me. Are there any more of my creditors in the town at -your back, Mr. Brandon?" - -"Not that I am aware of. I have seen none." - -"On your honour?" - -Mr. Brandon opened his little eyes, and took a stare at Pell. "My word -is the same as my honour, sir. Always has been and always will be." - -"I beg your pardon. A man, driven to my position, naturally fears an -enemy at every corner. And--if my enemies were to find me out here, they -might be too much for me." - -"Of course they would be," assented Mr. Brandon, by way of comfort. - -"Will you go for Squire Todhetley? What is done, must be done to-day, -for I shall be away by the first train in the morning." - -Shrewd old Brandon considered the matter before speaking. "By the time I -get back here with the Squire you may have already taken your departure, -Mr. Pell." - -"No, on my honour. How should I be able to do it? No train leaves the -town before six to-night: the water is low in the harbour and no boat -could get out. As it has come to this, I will see Squire Todhetley: and -the sooner the better." - -"I will trust you," said Mr. Brandon. - -"Time was when I was deemed more worthy of trust: perhaps was more -worthy of it,"--and tears involuntarily rose to his eyes. "Mr. Brandon, -believe me--no man has suffered by this as I have suffered. Do you think -I did it for pleasure?--or to afford myself wicked gratification! No. I -would have forfeited nearly all my remaining life to prevent the smash. -My affairs got into their awful state by degrees; and I had not the -power to retrieve them. God alone knows what the penalty has been to -me--and what it will be to my life's end." - -"Ay. I can picture it pretty tolerably, Mr. Pell." - -"No one can picture it," he returned, with emotion. "Look at my ruined -family--the position of my sons and daughters. Not one of them can hold -up their heads in the world again without the consciousness that they -may be pointed at as the children of Clement-Pell the swindler. What is -to be their future?--how are they to get along? You must have heard many -a word of abuse applied to me lately, Mr. Brandon: but there are few men -on this earth more in need of compassion than I--if misery and suffering -can bring the need. When morning breaks, I wish the day was done; when -night comes, I toss and turn and wonder how I shall live through it." - -"I am sorry for you," said Mr. Brandon, moved to pity, for he saw how -the man needed it. "Were I you, I would go back home and face my debts. -Face the trouble, and in time you may be able to live it down." - -Clement-Pell shook his head hopelessly. Had it been debt alone, he might -never have come away. - - * * * * * - -The sequel to all this had yet to come. Perhaps some of you may guess -it. Mr. Brandon pounced upon the Squire as he was coming out of church -in the Rue du Temple, and took him back in another coach. Arrived at the -house, they found the door fast. Mathilde appeared presently, arm-in-arm -with her sweetheart--a young man in white boots with ear-rings in his -ears. "Was M. Brown of depart," she repeated, in answer to the Squire's -impulsive question: but no, certainly he was not. And she gave them the -following information. - -When she returned after midday, she found M. Brown all impatience, -waiting for her to show him the way to the house of Monsieur Bourgeois, -that he might claim Madame's letter. When they reached the shop, it had -only the fille de boutique in it. Monsieur the patron was out making a -promenade, the fille de boutique said he might be home possibly for the -shutting up at two o'clock. - -Upon that, M. Brown decided to make a little promenade himself until two -o'clock; and Mathilde, she made a further promenade on her own account: -and had now come up, before two, to get the door open. Such was her -explanation. If the gentlemans would be at the pains of sitting down in -the salon, without doubt M. Brown would not long retard. - -They sat down. The clock struck two. They sat on, and the clock struck -three. Not until then did any thought arise that Clement-Pell might not -keep faith with them. Mathilde's freely expressed opinion was that M. -Brown, being strange to the town, had lost himself. She ran to the -grocer's shop again, and found it shut up: evidently no one was there. - -Four o'clock, five o'clock; and no Mr. Brown. They gave him up then; it -seemed quite certain that he had given them the slip. Starving with -hunger, exploding with anger, the Squire took his wrathful way back to -the hotel: Mr. Brandon was calm and sucked his magnesia lozenges. -Clement-Pell was a rogue to the last. - -There came to Mr. Brandon the following morning, through the Boulogne -post-office, a note; on which he had to pay five sous. It was from -Clement-Pell, written in pencil. He said that when he made the agreement -with Mr. Brandon never a thought crossed him of not keeping faith: but -that while he was waiting about for the return of the grocer who held -his wife's letter, he saw an Englishman come off the ramparts--a -creditor who knew him well and would be sure to deliver him up, were it -in his power, if he caught sight of him. It struck him, Clement-Pell, -with a panic: he considered that he had only one course left open to -him--and that was to get away from the place at once and in the quietest -manner he was able. There was a message to Mr. Todhetley to the effect -that he would send him the hundred pounds later if he could. Throughout -the whole letter ran a vein of despairing sadness, according with what -he had said to Mr. Brandon; and the Squire's heart was touched. - -"After all, Brandon, the fellow _is_ to be pitied. It's a frightful -position: enough to make a man lose heart for good and all. I'm not sure -that I should have taken the hundred pounds from him." - -"That's more than probable," returned old Brandon, drily. "It remains -a question, though, in my mind, whether he did see the creditor and -did 'take a panic:' or whether both are not invented to cover his -precipitate departure with the hundred pounds." - -How he got away from the town we never knew. The probability was, that -he had walked to the first station after Boulogne on the Paris railroad, -and there taken the evening train. And whether he had presented himself -again at Monsieur Bourgeois's shop, that excellent tradesman, who did -not return home until ten on Sunday night, was unable to say. Any way, -M. Bourgeois held the letter yet in safety. So the chances are, that Mr. -and Mrs. Pell are still dodging about the earth in search of each other, -after the fashion of the Wandering Jew. - -And that's a true account of our visit to Boulogne after Clement-Pell. -Mr. Brandon calls it to this hour a wild-goose chase: certainly it -turned out a fruitless one. But we had a good passage back again, the -sea as calm as a mill-pond. - - - - -XXVI. - -AT WHITNEY HALL. - - -It has often been in my mind to tell of John Whitney's death. You will -say it is too sad and serious for a paper. But it is well to have -serious thoughts brought before us at certain seasons. This is one of -them: seeing that it's the beginning of a new year, and that every year -takes us nearer to another life whether we are old or whether we are -young.[3] - - [3] Written for the January number of _The Argosy_, 1872. - -Some of them thought his illness might never have come on but for an -accident that happened. It is quite a mistake. The accident had nothing -to do with the later illness. Sir John and Lady Whitney could tell you -so as well as I. John was always one of those sensitive, thoughtful, -religious boys that somehow don't seem so fit for earth as heaven. - - * * * * * - -"Now mind, you boys," cried Sir John to us at breakfast. "There's just a -thin coating of ice on the lake and ponds, but it won't bear. Don't any -of you venture on it." - -"We will not, sir," replied John, who was the most obedient son living. - -There's not much to be done in the way of out-door sports when snow lies -on the ground. Crowding round the children's play-room window later, all -the lot of us, we looked out on a white landscape. Snow lodged on the -trees, hid the grass in the fields, covered the hills in the distance. - -"It's an awful sell," cried Bill Whitney and Tod nearly in a breath. -"No hunting, no shooting, and no nothing. The ponds won't bear; -snowballing's common. One might as well lie in bed." - -"And what sort of a 'sell' do you suppose it is for the poor men who -are thrown out of work?" asked Sir John, who had come in, reading a -newspaper, and was airing his back at the fire. "Their work and wages -are stopped, and they can't earn bread for their children. You boys are -dreadfully to be pitied, you are!" - -He tilted his steel spectacles up on his good old red nose, and nodded -to us. Harry, the pert one of the family, answered. - -"Well, papa, and it is a settler for us boys to have our fun spoiled. As -to the working-men--oh, they are used to it." - -Sir John stared at him for a full minute. "If I thought you said that -from your heart, Mr. Harry, I'd order you from my presence. No son of -mine shall get into the habit of making unfeeling speeches, even in -jest." - -Sir John meant it. We saw that Harry's words had really vexed him. John -broke the silence. - -"Papa, if I should live to be ever in your place," he said, in his quiet -voice, that somehow _always_ had a tone of thoughtfulness in it, even -when at play with the rest of us at old Frost's, "I shall make a point -of paying my labourers' wages in full this wintry time, just the same as -though they worked. It is not their fault that they are idle." - -Sir John started at _him_ now. "What d'ye mean by 'if you live,' lad?" - -John considered. The words had slipped from him without any special -thought at all. People use such figures of speech. It was odd though, -when we came to remember it a long while afterwards, that he should have -said it just that one day. - -"I recollect a frost that lasted fourteen weeks, boys," said Sir John. -"That was in 1814. They held a fair on the Thames, we heard, and roasted -an ox whole on it. Get a frost to last all that time, and you'd soon -tire of paying wages for nothing, John." - -"But, father, what else could I do--or ought I to do? I could not let -them starve--or break up their poor homes by going into the workhouse. I -should fear that some time, in return, God might break up mine." - -Sir John smiled. John was so very earnest always when he took up -a serious matter. Letting the question drop, Sir John lowered his -spectacles, and went out with his newspaper. Presently we saw him going -round to the farm-yard in his great-coat and beaver gaiters. John sat -down near the fire and took up a book he was fond of--"Sintram." - -This was Old Christmas Day. Tod and I had come over to Whitney Hall for -a week, and two days of it were already gone. We liked being there, and -the time seemed to fly. Tod and Bill still stood staring and grumbling -at the snow, wishing the frost would get worse, or go. Harry went out -whistling; Helen sat down with a yawn. - -"Anna, there's a skein of blue silk in that workbag behind you. Get it -out and hold it for me to wind." - -Anna, who was more like John in disposition than any of them, always -good and gentle, got the silk; and they began to wind it. In the midst -of it, Harry burst in with a terrific shout, dressed up as a bear, and -trying to upset every one. In the confusion Anna dropped the silk on the -carpet, and Helen boxed her ears. - -John looked up from his book. "You should not do that, Helen." - -"What does she drop the silk for, then--careless thing!" retorted Helen, -who was quick in temper. "Once soil that light shade of blue, and it -can't be used. You mind yourself John." - -John looked at them both. At Helen, taking up the silk from the floor; -at Anna, who was struggling to keep down her tears under the infliction, -because Tod was present. She wouldn't have minded me. John said no more. -He had a very nice face without much colour in it; dark hair, and large -grey-blue eyes that seemed to be always looking out for something they -did not see. He was sixteen then, upright and slender. All the world -liked John Whitney. - -Later on in the day we were running races in the broad walk, that was so -shady in summer. The whole of us. The high laurel hedges on either side -had kept the snow from drifting, and it hardly lay there at all. We gave -the girls a third of the run, and they generally beat us. After an hour -of this, tired and hot, we gave in, and dispersed different ways. John -and I went towards the lake to see whether the ice was getting thicker, -talking of school and school interests as we went along. Old Frost's -grounds were in view, which naturally put us in mind of the past: and -especially of the great event of the half year--the sad fate of Archie -Hearn. - -"Poor little Hearn!" he exclaimed. "I did feel his death, and no -mistake. That is, I felt for his mother. I think, Johnny, if I could -have had the chance offered me, I would have died myself to let him -live." - -"That's easier said than done--if it came to the offer, Whitney." - -"Well, yes it is. She had no one but him, you see. And to think -of her coming into the school that time and saying she forgave the -fellow--whoever it was. I've often wondered whether Barrington had cause -to feel it." - -"She is just like her face, Whitney--good. I've hardly ever seen a face -I like as much as Mrs. Hearn's." - -John Whitney laughed a little. They all did at my likes and dislikes of -faces. "I was reading a book the other day, Johnny---- See that poor -little robin!" he broke off. "It looks starved, and it must have its -nest somewhere. I have some biscuit in my pocket." - -It came into my head, as he dived into his pocket and scattered the -crumbs, that he had brought the supply out for these stray birds. But if -I write for ever I could not make you understand the thoughtfulness of -John Whitney. - -"Hark, Johnny! What's that?" - -Cries, screams, sobs. We were near the end of the walk then and rushed -out. Anna met us in a dreadful state of agitation. Charley was in the -lake! Whitney caught the truth before I did, and was off like a shot. - -The nurse, Willis, was dancing frantically about at the water's edge; -the children roared. Willis said Master Charles had slipped on to the -ice "surrepstitiously" when her back was turned, and had gone souse in. -John Whitney had already plunged in after his little brother; his coat, -jacket, and waistcoat were lying on the bank. William Whitney and Tod, -hearing the noise, came rushing up. - -"Mamma sent me to tell nurse they had been out long enough, and were to -come in," sobbed Anna, shaking like a leaf. "While I was giving her the -message, Charley fell in. Oh, what will be done?" - -That was just like Anna. Helen would have been cool as a cucumber. Done? -Why, John had already saved him. The ice, not much thicker than a -shilling, and breaking whenever touched, hardly impeded him at all. Bill -and Tod knelt down and lent hands, and they were landed like a couple -of drowned rats, Charley howling with all his might. John, always -thoughtful, wrapped his great-coat round the lad, and the other two went -off with him to the house. - -John caught a cold. Not very much of one. He was hot, you see, when he -plunged in; and he had only his jacket to put on over his wet clothes to -walk home in. Not much of a cold, I say; but he never seemed to be quite -the same after that day: and when all was over they would date his -illness back from it. Old Featherstone physicked him; and the days -passed on. - -"I can't think why John should be so feverish," Lady Whitney would -remark. His hands would be hot, and his cheeks scarlet, and he did not -eat. Featherstone failed to alter the state of things; so one day Sir -John took him into Worcester to Mr. Carden. - -Mr. Carden did not seem to think much of it--as we heard over at Dyke -Manor. There was nothing wrong with the lungs or any other vital part. -He changed the medicine that Featherstone had been giving, and said he -saw no present reason why John should not go back to school. Sir John, -standing by in his old spectacles, listening and looking, caught up the -words "at present" and asked Mr. Carden whether he had any particular -meaning in saying it. But Mr. Carden would not say. Sending his pleasant -blue eyes straight into Sir John's, he assured him that he did not -anticipate mischief, or see reason to fear it. He thought, he hoped, -that, once John was back with his studies and his companions, he would -recover tone and be as well as ever. - -And Mr. Carden's physic did good; for when Whitney came back after -the holidays, he seemed himself again. Lady Whitney gave five hundred -directions to Mrs. Frost about the extras he was to eat and drink, Hall -being had in to assist at the conference. The rest of us rather wished -for fevers ourselves, if they entailed beaten-up eggs and wine and jelly -between meals. He did his lessons; and he came out in the playground, -though he did not often join in play, especially rough play: and he -went for walks with us or stayed in as inclination led him, for he -was allowed liberty in all things. By Easter he had grown thinner and -weaker: and yet there was no specific disease. Mr. Carden came over to -Whitney Hall and brought Dr. Hastings, and they could not discover any: -but they said he was not strong and wanted care. It was left to John to -decide whether he would go back to school after Easter, or not: and he -said he should like to go. And so the weeks went on again. - -We could not see any change at all in him. It was too gradual, I -suppose. He seemed very quiet, strangely thoughtful always, as though he -were inwardly puzzling over some knotty question hard to solve. Any -quarrel or fight would put him out beyond belief: he'd come up with his -gentle voice, and stretch out his hands to part the disputants, and did -not rest until he had made peace. Wolfe Barrington, with one of his -sneers, said Whitney's nerves were out of joint. Once or twice we saw -him reading a pocket-Bible. It's quite true. And there was something in -his calm face and in his blue-grey eyes that hushed those who would have -ridiculed. - -"I say, Whitney, have you heard?" I asked. "The Doctor means to have the -playground enlarged for next half. Part of the field is to be taken in." - -"Does he?" returned Whitney. It was the twenty-ninth of May, and a -half-holiday. The rest had gone in for Hare-and-Hounds. I stayed with -Whitney, because he'd be dull alone. We were leaning over the playground -gate. - -"Blair let it out this morning at mathematics. By the way, Whitney, you -did not come in to them." - -"I did not feel quite up to mathematics to-day, Johnny." - -"I am glad it's going to be done, though. Are not you?" - -"It won't make much difference to me, I expect. I shall not be here." - -"Not here!" - -"I don't think so." - -His chin rested on his hands above the gate. His eyes were gazing out -straight before him; looking--as I said before--for something they did -not see. - -"Do you think you shall be too ill to come next half, Whitney?" - -"Yes, I do." - -"Are you feeling worse?" I asked after a minute or two, taken up with -staring at the sky. - -"That's what they are always asking me indoors?" he remarked. "It's just -this, Johnny; I don't feel worse from day to day; I could not say any -one morning that I feel a shade worse than I did the previous one: -but when I look back a few weeks or months; say, for example, to the -beginning of the half, or at Easter, and remember how very well I was -then, compared with what I am now, I know that I must be a great deal -worse. I could not do now what I did then. Why! I quite believe I might -have gone in for Hare-and-Hounds then, if I had chosen. Fancy my trying -it now!" - -"But you don't have any pain." - -"None. I'm only weak and tired; always feeling to want to lie down and -rest. Every bit of strength and energy has gone out of me, Johnny." - -"You'll get well," I said hastily. - -"I'm sure I don't know." - -"Don't you want to?" It was his cool answer made me ask it. - -"Why, of course I do." - -"Well then?" - -"I'll tell you, Johnny Ludlow; there is a feeling within me, and I can't -say why it's there or whence it comes, that's always saying to me I -shall _not_ get well. At least, whenever I think about it. It seems just -as though it were telling me that instead of getting well it will be--be -just the opposite." - -"What a dreadful thing to have, Whitney! It must be like a fellow going -about with a skeleton!" - -"Not at all dreadful. It never frightens me, or worries me. Just as the -rest of you look forward naturally to coming back here, and living out -your lives to be men, and all that, so I seem _not_ to look to it. The -feeling has nothing bad at all about it. If it had, I dare say it would -not be there." - -I stood on the small gate and took a swing. It pained me to hear him say -this. - -"I suppose you mean, Whitney, that you may be going to die?" - -"That's about it, Johnny. I don't know it; I may get well, after all." - -"But you don't think you will?" - -"No, I don't. Little Hearn first; I next. Another ought to follow, to -make the third." - -"You speak as easily as if it were only going out to tea, Whitney!" - -"Well, I feel easy. I do, indeed." - -"Most of us would be daunted, at any rate." - -"Exactly. Because you are not going to die. Johnny Ludlow, I am getting -to _think_ a great deal; to have a sort of insight that I never had -before; and I see how very wisely and kindly all things are ordered." - -If he had gone in for a bout of tumbling like the mountebanks, I could -not have been as much surprised as to hear him say this. It was more in -Mrs. Frost's line than in ours. It laid hold on me at once; and from -that moment, I believed that John Whitney would die. - -"Look here, Whitney. It is evident by what you say about failing -strength, that you must be getting worse. Why don't you tell them at -home, and go there and be nursed?" - -"I don't want to be nursed. I am not ill enough for it. I'm better as I -am: here, amongst you fellows. As to telling them--time enough for that. -And what is there to tell? They see for themselves I am not as strong as -I was: there's nothing else to tell." - -"There's this feeling that you say lies upon you." - -"What, and alarm them for nothing? I dare say. There _would_ be a -hullabaloo. I should be rattled home in the old family coach, and Carden -would be sent for, post haste, Hastings also, and--well, you are a muff, -Johnny. I've told you this because I like you, and because I thought you -would understand me; which is more than the other fellows would. Mind -you keep counsel." - -"Well, you ought to be at home." - -"I am better here, while I am as I am. The holidays will be upon us -soon. I expect I shall not come back afterwards." - -Now, if you ask me till next week, I could not give a better account of -the earlier part of John Whitney's illness than this. He was ill; and -yet no one could find out why he should be ill, or what was the matter -with him. Just about this time, Featherstone took up the notion that it -was "liver," and dosed him for it. For one thing, he said Whitney must -ride out daily, good hard riding. So a horse would be brought over from -the Hall by the old groom, and they would go out together. During the -Whitsun week, when Sir John was away from Parliament, he came also and -rode with him. But no matter whether they went slow or fast, Whitney -would come back ready to die from the exertion. Upon that, Featherstone -changed his opinion, and said riding must be given up. - -By the time the Midsummer holidays came, any one might see the change -in Whitney. It struck Mrs. Frost particularly when he went in to say -good-bye to her. - -"For the last time, I think," he said in a low tone, but with a smiling -countenance, as she stood holding his hand. - -Mrs. Frost knew what he meant, and her face, always so pale, and -delicate, went red. - -"I trust not," she answered. "But--God knows what is best." - -"Oh yes, and we do not. Farewell, dear Mrs. Frost. Thank you truly for -all your care and kindness." - -The tears stood in her eyes. _She_ was to be the next one to go from us, -after John Whitney. - -Wolfe Barrington stood at the door as he passed. "Good luck to you, -Whitney," said he, carelessly. "I'd throw all those nerves of yours -over, if I were you, before I came back again." - -Whitney turned back and held out his hand. "Thank you, Barrington," he -replied in his kind, truthful voice; "you wish me well, I know. Good -luck to _you_, in all ways; and I mean it with my whole heart. As to -nerves, I do not think I possess any, though some of you have been -pleased to joke about it." - -They shook hands, these two, little thinking that, in one sense, the -life of both would soon be blighted. In a short time, only a few weeks, -Wolfe was to be brought nearer to immediate death than even John -Whitney. - -Not until he was at home and had settled down among them, did his people -notice the great change in him. Lady Whitney, flurried and anxious, sent -for Sir John from London. Mr. Carden was summoned, and old Featherstone -met him often in consultation. Dr. Hastings came once or twice, but he -was an invalid himself then; and Mr. Carden, as every one knew, was -equal to anything. Still--it was a positive fact--there was no palpable -disease to grapple with in John, only weakness and wasting away. No -cough, no damaged lungs. "If only it were gout or dropsy, one would know -what to do," grumbled Featherstone; but Mr. Carden kept his own counsel. -They decided that John should go to the seaside for change. - -"As if it could do me any good!" he remonstrated. "_Change_ won't make -any difference to me. And I'd a great deal rather stay quietly at home." - -"Why do you say it will not do you good?" cried Lady Whitney, who -happened to hear him. - -"Because, mother, I feel nearly sure that it will not." - -"Oh dear!" cried she, flurried out of her senses, "John's going to turn -rebellious now." - -"No, I am not," said John, smiling at her. "I mean to go without any -rebellion at all." - -"There's my best lad," said she fondly. "Change of scene is all -pleasure, John. It's not like going through a course of pills and -powders." - -Well, they all went to the seaside, and at the end of five weeks they -all came back again. John had to be assisted out of the carriage, from -fatigue. There could be no mistake now. - -After that, it was just a gradual decay. The sinking was so -imperceptible that he seemed to be always at a stand-still, and some -days he was as well as any one need be. His folk did not give up hope of -him: no one does in such cases. John was cheerful, and often merry. - -"It can't be consumption," Sir John would say. "We've nothing of the -kind in our family; neither on his mother's side nor on mine. A younger -sister of hers died of a sort of decline: but what can that have to do -with John?" - -Why, clearly nothing. As every one agreed. - -In one of Mr. Carden's visits, Sir John tackled him as he was going -away, asking what it was. The two were shut up together talking for a -quarter-of-an-hour, Mr. Carden's horses--he generally came over in his -carriage--growing rampant the while. Sir John did not seem much wiser -when the sitting was over. He only shuffled his spectacles about on his -old red nose--as he used to do when perplexed. Talking of noses: you -never saw two so much alike as his and the Squire's, particularly when -they went into a temper. - -Not very long after they were back from the seaside, and directly after -school met, the accident occurred to Barrington. You have heard of it -before: and it has nothing to do with the present paper. John Whitney -took it to heart. - -"He is not fit to die," Bill heard him say. "He is not fit to die." - -One morning John walked over to see him, resting on stiles and gates -between whiles. It was not very far; but he was good for very little -now. Barrington was lying flat on his bed, Mrs. Hearn waiting on him. -Wolfe was not tamed then. - -"It's going to be a race between us, I suppose, Whitney," said he. "You -look like a shadow." - -"A race?" replied Whitney, not taking him. - -"In that black-plumed slow coach that carries dead men to their graves, -and leaves them there. A race which of us two will have the honour of -starting first. What a nice prospect! I always hated clayey soil. Fancy -lying in it for ever and a day!" - -"Fancy, rather, being borne on angels' wings, and living with God in -heaven for ever and ever!" cried Whitney earnestly. "Oh Barrington, -fancy _that_." - -"You'd do for a parson," retorted Barrington. - -The interview was not satisfactory: Whitney so solemnly earnest, Wolfe -so mockingly sarcastic: but they parted good friends. It was the last -time they ever saw each other in life. - -And thus a few more weeks went on. - -Now old Frost had one most barbarous custom. And that was, letting the -boys take the few days of Michaelmas holiday, or not, as the parents -pleased. Naturally, very few did please. I and Tod used to go home: but -that was no rule for the rest. We did not go home this year. A day or -two before the time, Sir John Whitney rode over to Dyke Manor. - -"You had better let the two boys come to us for Michaelmas," he said to -the Squire. "John wants to see them, and they'll cheer us up. It's -anything but a lively house, I can tell you, Todhetley, with the poor -lad lying as he is." - -"I can't see why he should not get well," said the Squire. - -"I'm sure I can't. Carden ought to be able to bring him round." - -"So he ought," assented the Squire. "It would be quite a feather in -his cap, after all these months of illness. As to the boys, you may be -troubled with 'em, and welcome, Sir John, if you care to be." - -And so, we went to Whitney Hall that year, instead of home. - - * * * * * - -John had the best rooms, the two that opened into one another. Sometimes -he would be on the bed in one, sometimes on the sofa in the other. Then -he would walk about on some one's arm; or sit in the easy-chair at the -west window, the setting sun full on his wasted face. Barrington had -called him a shadow: you should have seen him now. John had talked to -Barrington of angels: he was just like an angel in the house himself. -And--will you believe it?--they had not given up hope of his getting -well again. I wondered the doctors did not tell Lady Whitney the plain -truth, and have done with it: but to tell more professional truth than -they can help, is what doctors rarely put themselves out of the way to -do. - -And still--the shadow of the coming death lay on the house. In -the hushed voices and soft tread of the servants, in the subdued -countenances of Sir John and Lady Whitney, and in the serious spirit -that prevailed, the shadow might be seen. It is good to be in such a -house as this: for the lessons learnt may take fast hold of the heart. -It was good to hear John Whitney talk: and I never quite made out -whether he was telling of dreams or realities. - -Tod was out of his element: as much so as a fish is out of water. He had -plenty of sympathy with John, would have made him well at any sacrifice -to himself: but he could not do with the hushed house, in which all -things seemed to give way to that shadow of the coming presence. Tod, in -his way, was religious enough; more so than some fellows are; but dying -beds he did not understand, and would a great deal rather have been -shooting partridges than be near one. He and Bill Whitney--who was just -as uncomfortable as Tod--used to get off anywhere whenever they could. -They did not forget John. They would bring him all kinds of things; -flowers, fruit, blackberries as big as Willis's thimble, and the finest -nuts off the trees; but they did not care to sit long with him. - -John was awake one afternoon, and I was sitting beside him. He sat in -his easy-chair at the window--as he liked to do at this hour when the -evening was drawing on. The intensely serene look that for some time now -had taken possession of his face, I had never seen surpassed in boy or -man. - -"How quiet the house is, Johnny!" he said, touching my hand. "Where are -they all?" - -"Helen and Anna went out to ask after Mrs. Frost and Barrington. And the -boys--but I think you know it--have gone with Sir John to Evesham. You -wouldn't call the house quiet, John, if you could hear the row going on -in the nursery." - -He smiled a little. "Charley's a dreadful Turk: none of us elder ones -were ever half as bad. Where's the mother?" - -"Half-an-hour ago she was shut up with some visitors in the -drawing-room. It's those Miss Clutterbucks, John: they always stay -long enough to hold a county meeting." - -"Is Mrs. Frost worse--that the girls have gone to ask after her?" he -resumed. - -"I think so. Harry said Dr. Frost shook his head about her, when they -saw him this morning." - -"She'll never be strong," remarked John. "And perhaps the bother of the -school is too much for her." - -"Hall takes a good deal of that, you know." - -"But Hall cannot take the responsibility; the true care of the school. -That must lie on Mrs. Frost." - -What a beautiful sky it was! The sun was nearing the horizon; small -clouds, gold and red and purple, lay in the west, line above line. John -Whitney sat gazing in silence. There was nothing he liked so much as -looking at these beautiful sunsets. - -"Go and play for me, will you, Johnny?" - -The piano was at the far end of the room in the shade. My playing is -really nothing. It was nothing to speak of then, it is nothing to speak -of now: but it is soft and soothing; and some people like it. John could -play a little himself, but it was too much exertion for him now. They -had tried to teach Bill. He was kept hammering at it for half a year, -and then the music master told Sir John that he'd rather teach a post. -So Bill was released. - -"The same thing that you played the evening before last, Johnny. Play -that." - -"But I can't. It was only some rubbish out of my own head, made up as I -went along." - -"Make up some more then, old fellow." - -I had hardly sat down, when Lady Whitney came in, stirred the fire--if -they kept up much, he felt the room too warm--and took one of the -elbow-chairs in front of it. - -"Go on, my dear," she said. "It is very pleasant to hear you." - -But it was not so pleasant to play before her--not that, as I believed, -her ears could distinguish the difference between an Irish Jig and the -Dead March in Saul--and I soon left off. The playing or the fire had -sent Lady Whitney into a doze. I crossed the room and sat down by John. - -He was still looking at the sunset, which had not much changed. The hues -were deeper, and streaks of gold shot upwards in the sky. Toward the -north there was a broad horizon of green, fading into gold, and pale -blue. Never was anything more beautiful. John's eyes fixed on it. - -"If it is so beautiful here, Johnny, what will it be _there_?" he -breathed, scarcely above a whisper. "It makes one long to go." - -Sometimes, when he said these things, I hardly knew how to answer, and -would let his words die off into silence. - -"The picture of heaven is getting realized in my mind, Johnny--though I -know how poor an idea of it it must needs be. A wide, illimitable space; -the great white throne, and the saints in their white robes falling down -before it, and the harpists singing to their harps." - -"You must think of it often." - -"Very often. The other night in bed, when I was between sleep and -waking, I seemed to see the end--to go through it. I suppose it was one -part thought, and three parts dream. I was dead, Johnny: I had already -my white robe on, and angels were carrying me up to heaven. The crystal -river was flowing along, beautiful flowers on its banks, and the Tree of -Life, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. I seemed to see -it all, Johnny. Such flowers! such hues; brighter than any jewels ever -seen. These colours are lovely"--pointing to the sky--"but they are tame -compared with those I saw. Myriads of happy people were flitting about -in white, redeemed as I was; the atmosphere shone with a soft light, the -most delicious music floated in it. Oh, Johnny, think of this world with -its troubles and disappointments and pains; and then think of that other -one!" - -The sunset was fading. The pale colours of the north were blending -together like the changing hues of the opal. - -"There are two things I have more than loved here," he went on. "Colours -and music. Not the clashing of many instruments, or the mere mechanical -playing, however classically correct, of one who has acquired his art by -hard labour: but the soft, sweet, dreamy touch that stirs the heart. -Such as yours, Johnny. Stop, old fellow. I know what you would say. That -your playing is no playing at all, compared with that of a skilled hand; -that the generality of people would wonder what there is in it: but for -myself, I could listen to you from night till morning." - -It was very foolish of him to say this; but I liked to hear it. - -"It is the sort of music, as I have always fancied, that we shall hear -in heaven. It was the sort I seemed to hear the other night in my dream; -soft, low, full of melody. That _sort_, you know, Johnny; not the same. -_That_ was this earth's sweetest music etherealized." - -Hearing him talk like this, the idea struck me that it might be better -for us all generally if we turned our thoughts more on heaven and on the -life we may find there. It would not make us do our duty any the less -earnestly in this world. - -"Then take colours," he went on. "No one knows the intense delight I -have felt in them. On high days and holidays, my mother wears that big -diamond ring of hers--you know it well, Johnny. Often and often have I -stolen it from her finger, to let the light flash upon it, and lost -myself for half-an-hour--ay, and more--gazing entranced on its changing -hues. I love to see the rays in the drops of the chandeliers; I love to -watch the ever-varying shades on a wide expanse of sea. Now these two -things that I have so enjoyed here, bright colours and music, we have -the promise of finding in heaven." - -"Ay. The Bible tells us so." - -"And I saw the harpers harping with their harps," he repeated to -himself--and then fell into silence. "Johnny, look at the opal in the -sky now." - -It was very soft and beautiful. - -"And there's the evening star." - -I turned my head. Yes, there it was, and it trembled in the sky like a -point of liquid silver. - -"Sometimes I think I shall see the Holy City before I die," he -continued. "See its picture as in a mirror--the New Jerusalem. Oh, -Johnny, I should have to shade my eyes. Not a beautiful colour or shade -but will be there; and her light like unto a jasper stone, clear as -crystal. When I was a little boy--four, perhaps--papa brought me home a -kaleidoscope from London. It was really a good one, and its bits of -glass were unusually brilliant. Johnny, if I lived to be an old man, I -could never describe the intense joy those colours gave me--any more -than I can describe the joy I seemed to feel the other night in that -dream of heaven." - -He was saying all this in a tender tone of reverence that thrilled -through one. - -"I remember another thing about colours. The year that papa was pricked -for High Sheriff, mamma went over with him to Worcester for the March -Assize-time, and she took me. I was seven, I think. On the Sunday -morning we went with the crowd to service in the cathedral. It was all -very grand and imposing to my young mind. The crashing organ, the long -procession of white-robed clergy and college boys, the two majestic -beings in scarlet gowns, their trains held up by gentlemen, and the wigs -that frightened me! I had been told I was going to college to see the -judge. In my astonished mind I don't think I knew which was judge and -which was organ. Papa was in attendance on the judges; the only one who -seemed to be in plain clothes in the procession. An impression remained -on me that he had a white wand in his hand; but I suppose I was wrong. -Attending papa, walked his black-robed chaplain who was to preach; -looking like a crow amongst gay-plumaged birds. And, lining the way all -along the body of the cathedral from the north entrance to the gates of -the choir, were papa's livery men with their glittering javelins. You've -seen it all, Johnny, and know what the show is to a child such as I was. -But now, will you believe that it was all as _nothing_ to me, compared -with the sight of the many-coloured, beautiful east window?[4] I sat in -full view of it. We had gone in rather late, and so were only part of -the throng. Mamma with me in her hand--I remember I wore purple velvet, -Johnny--was stepping into the choir after the judges and clergy had -taken their places, when one of the black-gowned beadsmen would have -rudely shut the gates upon her. Upon that, a verger pushed out his -silver mace to stop him. 'Hist,' says he, 'it's the High Sheriff's -lady--my Lady Whitney;' and the beadsman bowed and let us pass. We were -put into the pew under the sub-dean's stall. It was Winnington-Ingram, I -think, who was sub-dean then, but I am not sure. Whoever it was did not -sit in the sub-dean's stall, but in the next to it, for he had given -that up, as was customary, to one of the judges. With the great wig -flowing down right upon my head, as it seemed, and the sub-dean's -trencher sticking over the cushion close to it, I was in a state of -bewilderment; and they were some way through the Litany--the cathedral -service at Worcester began with the Litany then, you remember, as they -had early morning prayers--before I ventured to look up at all. As I did -so, the colours of the distant east window flashed upon my dazzled -sight. Not dazzled with the light, Johnny, though it was a sunny day, -but with the charm of the colours. What it was to me in that moment I -could never describe. That window has been abused enough by people who -call themselves connoisseurs in art; but I know that to me it seemed as -the very incarnation of celestial beauty. What with the organ, and the -chanting, and the show that had gone before, and now this sight to -illuminate it, I seemed to be in Paradise. I sat entranced; unable to -take my fascinated eyes from the window: the pew faces it, you know; and -were I to live for ever, I can never forget that day, or what it was to -me. This will show you what colours have been to me here, Johnny. What, -then, will they be to me in heaven?" - - [4] The old East window: not the new one. - -"How well you remember things!" - -"I always did--things that make an impression on me," he answered. "A -quiet, thoughtful child does so. You were thoughtful yourself." - -True. Or I don't suppose I could have written these papers. The light in -the sky faded out as we sat in silence. John recurred to his dream. - -"I thought I saw the Saviour," he whispered. "I did indeed. Over the -crystal river, and beyond the white figures and the harps, was a great -light. There stood in it One different from the rest. He had a grand, -noble countenance, exquisite in sweetness, and it was turned upon me -with a loving smile of welcome. Johnny, I _know_ it was Jesus. Oh, it -will be good to be there!" - -No doubt of it. Very good for him. - -"The strange thing was, that I felt no fear. None. Just as securely as I -seemed to lie in the arms of the angels, so did I seem secure in the -happiness awaiting me. A great many of us fear death, Johnny; I see now -that all fear will cease with this world, to those who die in Christ." - -A sudden burst of subdued sobbing broke the stillness of the room and -startled us beyond everything. Lady Whitney had wakened up and was -listening. - -"Oh, John, my darling boy, don't talk so!" she said, coming forward -and laying her cheek upon his shoulder. "We can't spare you; we can't -indeed." - -His eyes were full of tears: so were mine. He took his mother's hand and -stroked it. - -"But it must be, mother dear?" he gently whispered. "God will temper the -loss to you all." - -"Any of them but you, John! You were ever my best and dearest son." - -"It's all for the best, mother: it must be. The others are not ready to -go." - -"And don't you _care_ to leave us?" she said, breaking down again. - -"I did care; very much; but lately I seem to have looked only to the -time when we shall meet again. Mother, I do not think now I would live -if the chance were offered me." - -"Well, it's the first time I ever heard of young people wanting to die!" -cried Lady Whitney. - -"Mother, I think we must be very close on death _before_ we want it," he -gently answered. "Don't you see the mercy?--that when this world is -passing from us, we are led insensibly to long for the next?" - -She sat down in the chair that I had got up from, and drew it closer to -him. A more simple-minded woman than Lady Whitney never lived. She -sobbed gently. He kept her hand between his. - -"It will be a great blow to me; I know that; and to your father. He -feels it now more than he shows, John. You have been so good and -obedient, you see; never naughty and giving us trouble like the rest." - -There was another silence. His quiet voice broke it. - -"Mother, dear, the thought has crossed me lately, that it must be good -to have one, whom we love very much, taken on to heaven. It must make it -seem more like our final home; it must, I think, make us more desirous -of getting there. 'John's gone on to it,' you and papa will be thinking; -'we shall see him again when the end comes.' And it will cause you to -look for the end, instead of turning away from it, as too many do. Don't -grieve, mother! Had it been God's will, I should have lived. But it was -not; and He is taking me to a better home. A little sooner, a little -later; it cannot make much difference which, if we are only ready for it -when it comes." - -The distant church bells, which always rang on a Friday night, broke -upon the air. John asked to have the window opened. I threw it up, and -we sat listening. The remembrance of that hour is upon me now, just as -vividly as he remembered the moment when he first saw the old east -window in the cathedral. The melody of the bells; the sweet scent of the -mignonette in the garden; the fading sky: I close my eyes and realize it -all. - -The girls returned, bringing word that Mrs. Frost was very ill, but not -much more so than usual. Directly afterwards we heard Sir John come -home. - -"They are afraid Barrington's worse," observed Helen; "and of course it -is worrying Mrs. Frost. Mr. Carden has not been there to-day either, -though he was expected: they hope he will be over the first thing in the -morning." - -In they trooped, Sir John and the boys; all eagerly talking of the -pleasant afternoon they had had, and what they had seen and done at -Evesham. But the room, as they said later, seemed to have a strange hush -upon it, and John's face an altered look: and the eager voices died away -again. - -John was the one to read the chapter that night. He asked to do so; and -chose the twenty-first of Revelation. His voice was low, but quite -distinct and clear. Without pausing at the end, he went on to the next -chapter, which concludes the Bible. - -"Only think what it will be, Johnny!" he said to me later, following up -our previous conversation. "All manner of precious stones! all sorts of -glorious colours! Better even" (with a smile) "than the great east -window." - -I don't know whether it surprised me, or not, to find the house in -commotion when I woke the next morning, and to hear that John Whitney -was dying. A remarkable change had certainly taken place in him. He lay -in bed; not insensible, but almost speechless. - -Breakfast was scarcely over when Mr. Carden's carriage drove in. He had -been with Barrington, having started from Worcester at day-dawn. John -knew him, and took his hand and smiled. - -"What's to be done for him?" questioned Sir John, pointing to his son. - -Mr. Carden gave one meaning look at Sir John, and that was all. Nothing -more of any kind could be done for John Whitney. - -"Good-bye, Mr. Carden; good-bye," said John, as the surgeon was leaving. -"You have been very kind." - -"Good-bye, my boy." - -"It is so sudden; so soon, you know, Carden," cried poor Sir John, as -they walked downstairs together. "You ought to have warned me that it -was coming." - -"I did not know it would be quite so soon as this," was Mr. Carden's -answer--and I heard him say it. - -John had visitors that day, and saw them. Some of the fellows from -Frost's, who came over when they heard how it was; Dr. Frost himself; -and the clergyman. At dusk, when he had been lying quietly for some -time, except for the restlessness that often ushers in death, he opened -his eyes and began speaking in a whisper. Lady Whitney, thinking he -wanted something, bent down her ear. But he was only repeating a verse -from the Bible. - -"And there shall be no night there: and they need no candle, neither -light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall -reign for ever and ever." - -Bill, who had his head on the bolster on the other side, broke into a -hushed sob. It did not disturb the dying. They were John's last words. - -Quite a crowd went to his funeral. It took place on the following -Thursday. Dr. Frost and Mr. Carden (and it's not so often _he_ wasted -his time going to a funeral!) and Featherstone and the Squire amongst -them. Poor Sir John sobbed over the grave, and did not mind who saw and -heard him, while they cast the earth on the coffin. - -"_Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope -of the Resurrection to eternal life._" - -That the solemn promise was applicable to John Whitney, and that he had -most assuredly entered on that glorious life, I knew as well then as -I know now. The corruptible had put on incorruption, the mortal -immortality. - - * * * * * - -Not much of a story, you will say. But I might have told a worse. And I -hope, seeing we must all go out at the same gate, that we shall be as -ready for it as he was. - - JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - -THE END. - - - LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - -THE NEW ISSUE OF - -MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS - -is now being published in uniform Volumes, crown 8vo., bound in cloth, -price 2_s._ each, at monthly intervals. - -Each Volume can be obtained separately at any Bookseller's, or the names -of Subscribers to the entire Series will be registered for the delivery -of a Volume each Month. The "Johnny Ludlow" Papers are included in this -Series. - - -1. - -EAST LYNNE. - -_FOUR HUNDREDTH THOUSAND._ - -"'East Lynne' is so full of incident, so exciting in every page, and -so admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed without -reading to the very last page."--THE OBSERVER. - -"A work of remarkable power which displays a force of description and a -dramatic completeness we have seldom seen surpassed. The interest of the -narrative intensifies itself to the deepest pathos. The closing scene is -in the highest degree tragic, and the whole management of the story -exhibits unquestionable genius and originality."--THE DAILY NEWS. - -"'East Lynne' has been translated into the Hindustani and Parsee -languages, and the success of it has been very great."--DANIEL -BANDMANN'S JOURNAL. - - -2. - -THE CHANNINGS. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"'The Channings' will probably be read over and over again, and it can -never be read too often."--THE ATHENAEUM. - - -3. - -MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"The boldness, originality, and social scrutiny displayed in this work -remind the reader of Adam Bede. It would be difficult to place beside -the death of Edgar Halliburton anything in fiction comparable with its -profound pathos and simplicity. It is long since the novel-reading world -has had reason so thoroughly to congratulate itself upon the appearance -of a new work as in the instance of 'Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.' It is -a fine work; a great and artistic picture."--THE MORNING POST. - - -4. - -THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. - -_SEVENTY-SEVENTH THOUSAND._ - -"'The Shadow of Ashlydyat' is very clever, and keeps up the constant -interest of the reader. It has a slight supernatural tinge, which gives -the romantic touch to the story which Sir Walter Scott so often used -with even greater effect; but it is not explained away at the end as Sir -Walter Scott's supernatural touches generally, and inartistically, -were."--THE SPECTATOR. - -"The genius of Mrs. Henry Wood shines as brightly as ever. There is a -scene or two between Maria Godolphin and her little girl just before she -dies, which absolutely melt the heart. The death-bed scene likewise is -exquisitely pathetic."--THE COURT JOURNAL. - - -5. - -LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. - -_SEVENTY-SEVENTH THOUSAND._ - -"The story is admirably told."--THE SPECTATOR. - - -6. - -VERNER'S PRIDE. - -_SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"'Verner's Pride' is a first-rate novel in its breadth of outline and -brilliancy of description. Its exciting events, its spirited scenes, and -its vivid details, all contribute to its triumph. The interest this work -awakens, and the admiration it excites in the minds of its readers, must -infallibly tend to the renown of the writer, while they herald the -welcome reception of the work wherever skill in construction of no -ordinary kind, or a ready appreciation of character, which few possess, -can arouse attention or win regard."--THE SUN. - - -7. - -ROLAND YORKE. - -_ONE HUNDREDTH THOUSAND._ - -"In all respects worthy of the hand that wrote 'The Channings' and 'East -Lynne.' There is no lack of excitement to wile the reader on, and from -the first to the last a well-planned story is sustained with admirable -spirit and in a masterly style."--THE DAILY NEWS. - - -8. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+The First Series.+ - -_FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"We regard these stories as almost perfect of their kind."--SPECTATOR. - -"Fresh, lively, vigorous, and full of clever dialogue, they will meet -with a ready welcome. The Author is masterly in the skill with which she -manages her successive dramas."--STANDARD. - -"It is an agreeable change to come upon a book like Johnny -Ludlow."--SATURDAY REVIEW. - -"Vigour of description and a strong grasp of character."--ATHENAEUM. - -"The Author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had -suspected among our living writers of fiction."--NONCOMFORMIST. - -"Tales full of interest."--VANITY FAIR. - -"Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories -have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single -exception they maintain a powerful hold on the mind of the reader, and -keep his sympathies in a continued state of healthy excitement."--DAILY -TELEGRAPH. - - -9. - -MILDRED ARKELL. - -_FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Henry Wood certainly possesses in a wholly exceptional degree the -power of uniting the most startling incident of supernatural influence -with a certain probability and naturalness which compels the most -critical and sceptical reader, having once begun, to go on reading.... -He finds himself conciliated by some bit of quiet picture, some accent -of poetic tenderness, some sweet domestic touch telling of a heart -exercised in the rarer experiences; and as he proceeds he wonders more -and more at the manner in which the mystery, the criminality, the -plotting, and the murdering reconciles itself with a quiet sense of the -justice of things; and a great moral lesson is, after all, found to lie -in the heart of all the turmoil and exciting scene-shifting. It is this -which has earned for Mrs. Wood so high a place among popular novelists, -and secured her admittance to homes from which the sensational novelists -so-called are excluded."--THE NONCOMFORMIST. - - -10. - -SAINT MARTIN'S EVE. - -_FORTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"A good novel."--THE SPECTATOR. - -"Mrs. Wood has spared no pains to accumulate the materials for a -curiously thrilling story."--THE SATURDAY REVIEW. - - -11. - -TREVLYN HOLD. - -_FORTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"We cannot read a page of this work without discovering a graphic force -of delineation which it would not be easy to surpass."--THE DAILY NEWS. - - -12. - -GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. - -_FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"The name of Mrs. Henry Wood has been familiar to novel-readers for many -years, and her fame widens and strengthens with the increase in the -number of her books."--THE MORNING POST. - - -13. - -THE RED COURT FARM. - -_FORTY-FOURTH THOUSAND._ - -"When we say that a plot displays Mrs. Wood's well-known skill in -construction, our readers will quite understand that their attention -will be enchained by it from the first page to the last."--THE WEEKLY -DISPATCH. - - -14. - -WITHIN THE MAZE. - -_SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The decided novelty and ingenuity of the plot of 'Within the Maze' -renders it, in our eyes, one of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels. -It is excellently developed, and the interest hardly flags for a -moment."--THE GRAPHIC. - - -15. - -ELSTER'S FOLLY. - -_THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist: she interests -people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and -furnishes an intricate and carefully woven plot."--THE MORNING POST. - - -16. - -LADY ADELAIDE. - -_THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"One of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels."--THE STAR. - -"Mme. Henry Wood est fort celebre en Angleterre, et ses romans--tres -moraux et tres bien ecrits--sont dans toutes les mains et revivent dans -toutes les memoires. _Le serment de lady Adelaide_ donneront a nos -lecteurs une idee tres suffisante du talent si eleve de mistress Henry -Wood."--L'INSTRUCTION PUBLIQUE. - - -17. - -OSWALD CRAY. - -_THIRTY-SEVENTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood has certainly an art of novel-writing which no rival -possesses in the same degree and kind. It is not, we fancy, a common -experience for any one to leave one of these novels unfinished."--THE -SPECTATOR. - - -18. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+The Second Series.+ - -_TWENTY-THIRD THOUSAND._ - -"The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had -suspected among our living writers of fiction. It is not possible by -means of extracts to convey any adequate sense of the humour, the -pathos, the dramatic power and graphic description of this book."--THE -NONCOMFORMIST. - -"Mrs. Henry Wood has made a welcome addition to the list of the works of -contemporary fiction."--ATHENAEUM (_second notice_). - -"These most exquisite studies."--NONCOMFORMIST (_second notice_). - -"These tales are delightful from their unaffected and sometimes pathetic -simplicity."--STANDARD (_second notice_). - -"To write a short story really well is the most difficult part of the -art of fiction; and 'Johnny Ludlow' has succeeded in it in such a manner -that his--or rather her--art looks like nature, and is hardly less -surprising for its excellence than for the fertility of invention on -which it is founded."--GLOBE. - -"Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, -pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will -not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages."--ILLUSTRATED -LONDON NEWS. - - -19. - -ANNE HEREFORD. - -_THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood's story, 'Anne Hereford,' is a favourable specimen of her -manner; the incidents are well planned, and the narrative is easy and -vigorous."--THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. - - -20. - -DENE HOLLOW. - -_THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"Novel-readers wishing to be entertained, and deeply interested in -character and incident, will find their curiosity wholesomely gratified -by the graphic pages of 'Dene Hollow,' an excellent novel, without the -drawbacks of wearisome digressions and monotonous platitudes so common -in the chapters of modern fiction."--THE MORNING POST. - - -21. - -EDINA. - -_TWENTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The whole situation of the book is clever, and the plot is well -managed."--ACADEMY. - -"Edina's character is beautifully drawn."--THE LITERARY WORLD. - - -22. - -A LIFE'S SECRET. - -_THIRTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND._ - -"Now that the rights of capital and labour are being fully inquired -into, Mrs. Wood's story of a 'A Life's Secret' is particularly opportune -and interesting. It is based upon a plot that awakens curiosity and -keeps it alive throughout. The hero and heroine are marked with -individuality, the love-passages are finely drawn, and the story -developed with judgment."--THE CIVIL SERVICE GAZETTE. - -"If Mrs. Wood's book does not tend to eradicate the cowardice, folly, -and slavish submission to lazy agitators among the working men, all we -can say is that it ought to do so, for it is at once well written, -effective, and truthful."--THE ILLUSTRATED TIMES. - - -23. - -COURT NETHERLEIGH. - -_TWENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND._ - -"We always open one of Mrs. Wood's novels with pleasure, because we are -sure of being amused and interested."--THE TIMES. - -"Lisez-le; l'emotion que vous sentirez peu a peu monter a votre coeur -est saine et fortifiante. Lisez-le; c'est un livre honnete sorti d'une -plume honnete et vous pourrez le laisser trainer sur la table."--LE -SIGNAL (_Paris_). - - -24. - -LADY GRACE. - -_SIXTEENTH THOUSAND._ - -"Lady Grace worthily continues a series of novels thoroughly English in -feeling and sentiment, and which fairly illustrate many phases of our -national life."--MORNING POST. - - -25. - -BESSY RANE. - -_THIRTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"The power to draw minutely and carefully each character with -characteristic individuality in word and action is Mrs. Wood's especial -gift. This endows her pages with a vitality which carries the reader to -the end, and leaves him with the feeling that the veil which in real -life separates man from man has been raised, and that he has for once -seen and known certain people as intimately as if he had been their -guardian angel. This is a great fascination."--THE ATHENAEUM. - - -26. - -PARKWATER. - -_TWENTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood's pleasant style and vivid imagination were never more -pleasantly manifested."--JOHN BULL. - - -27. - -THE UNHOLY WISH, ETC. - -"The characters and situations of which the author made her books are, -indeed, beyond criticism; their interest has been proved by the -experience of generations."--PALL-MALL GAZETTE. - - -28. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+The Third Series.+ - -"The peculiar and unfailing charm of Mrs. Wood's style has rarely been -more apparent than in this succession of chronicles, partly of rustic -life, some relating to the fortunes of persons in a higher class, but -all remarkable for an easy simplicity of tone, true to nature."--MORNING -POST. - - -29. - -THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. - -_THIRTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"A book by Mrs. Wood is sure to be a good one, and no one who opens 'The -Master of Greylands' in anticipation of an intellectual treat will -be disappointed. The keen analysis of character, and the admirable -management of the plot, alike attest the clever novelist."--JOHN BULL. - - -30. - -ORVILLE COLLEGE. - -_THIRTY-THIRD THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood's stories bear the impress of her versatile talent and -well-known skill in turning to account the commonplaces of daily life -as well as the popular superstitions of the multitude."--THE LITERARY -WORLD. - - -31. - -POMEROY ABBEY. - -_THIRTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"All the Pomeroys are very cleverly individualised, and the way in which -the mystery is worked up, including its one horribly tragic incident, is -really beyond all praise."--THE MORNING POST. - - -32. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+Fourth Series.+ - -"Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories -have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single -exception they maintain a powerful hold upon the mind of the reader, and -keep his sympathies in a continued state of healthy excitement."--DAILY -TELEGRAPH. - - -33. - -ADAM GRAINGER, ETC. - -"Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist; she interests -people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and -furnishes an intricate and carefully-woven plot."--MORNING POST. - - -34. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+Fifth Series.+ - -"Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, -pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will -not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages."--ILLUSTRATED -LONDON NEWS. - - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. - _And to be obtained at all Booksellers' in Town and Country._ - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -For this txt-version italics were surrounded with _underscores_, words -in Old English font with +signs+, and small capitals changed to all -capitals. - -Errors in punctuation were corrected silently. Also the following -corrections were made, on page - - 18 "goal" changed to "gaol" (She's in the county gaol.) - 77 "wan't" changed to "want" (If you want me I shall be found) - 98 "litttle" changed to "little" (a little given to scheming) - 132 "litttle" changed to "little" (they'll be a little too much) - 203 "as" changed to "at" (We laughed at him about) - 203 "postilion" changed to "postillion" (the postillion in his undress - jacket) - 204 "plaecs" changed to "places" (finding places for) - 207 "Todhetloy" changed to "Todhetley" (talked to me about you, Mr. - Todhetley.) - 223 "o" changed to "of" (with roving ideas of Australia) - 230 "Sophonsiba" canged to "Sophonisba" (Sophonisba was treated as) - 277 "or" changed to "of" (a letter of warm thanks) - 357 "roon" changed to "room" (the billiard-room) - 405 "Jonnny" changed to "Johnny" (to Alcester, Johnny," said the - Pater) - 432 "grande" changed to "Grande" (She turned up the Grande Rue). - -Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling -and hyphenation. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow. First Series, by Mrs. Henry Wood - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW. FIRST SERIES *** - -***** This file should be named 40915.txt or 40915.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/9/1/40915/ - -Produced by David Edwards, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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