note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) great-uncle hoot-toot. by mrs. molesworth, author of "the palace in the garden," "'carrots': just a little boy," "the cuckoo clock," etc. illustrated by gordon browne, e. j. walker, lizzie lawson, j. bligh, and maynard brown. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, charing cross, w.c.; , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j. b. young and co. [illustration: frances and elsa.] great-uncle hoot-toot. "... what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, why then we rack the value."--_much ado about nothing._ chapter i. the master of the house. "that's geoff, i'm sure," said elsa; "i always know his ring. i do hope----" and she stopped and sighed a little. "what?" said frances, looking up quickly. "oh, nothing particular. run down, vic, dear, and get geoff to go straight into the school-room. order his tea at once. i _don't_ want him to come upstairs just now. mamma is so busy and worried with those letters." [illustration: vicky.] vic, a little girl of nine, with long fair hair and long black legs, and a pretty face with a bright, eager expression, needed no second bidding. she was off almost before elsa had finished speaking. "what a good child she is!" said frances. "what a clever, nice boy she would have made! and if geoff had been a girl, perhaps he would have been more easily managed." "i don't know," said elsa. "perhaps if vicky had been a boy she would have been spoilt and selfish too." "elsa," said frances, "i think you are rather hard upon geoff. he is like all boys. everybody says they are more selfish than girls, and then they grow out of it." "they grow out of showing it so plainly, perhaps," replied elsa, rather bitterly. "but you contradict yourself, frances. just a moment ago you said what a much nicer boy vic would have made. all boys aren't like geoff. of course, i don't mean that he is really a bad boy; but it just comes over me now and then that it is a _shame_ he should be such a tease and worry, boy or not. when mamma is anxious, and with good reason, and we girls are doing all we can, why should geoff be the one we have to keep away from her, and to smooth down, as it were? it's all for her sake, of course; but it makes me ashamed, all the same, to feel that we are really almost afraid of him. there now----" and she started up as the sound of a door, slammed violently in the lower regions, reached her ears. but before she had time to cross the room, vicky reappeared. "it's nothing, elsa," the child began eagerly. "geoff's all right; he's not cross. he only slammed the door at the top of the kitchen stair because i reminded him not to leave it open." "you might have shut it yourself, rather than risk a noise to-night," said elsa. "what was he doing at the top of the kitchen stair?" vicky looked rather guilty. "he was calling to phoebe to boil two eggs for his tea. he says he is so hungry. i would have run up to tell you; but i thought it was better than his teasing mamma about letting him come in to dinner." elsa glanced at frances. "you see," her glance seemed to say. "yes, dear," she said aloud to the little sister, "anything is better than that. run down again, vicky, and keep him as quiet as you can." "would it not be better, perhaps," asked frances, rather timidly, "for one of us to go and speak to him, and tell him quietly about mamma having had bad news?" "he wouldn't rest then till he had heard all about it from herself," said elsa. "of course he'd be sorry for her, and all that, but he would only show it by teasing." it was frances's turn to sigh, for in spite of her determination to see everything and everybody in the best possible light, she knew that elsa was only speaking the truth about geoffrey. half an hour later the two sisters were sitting at dinner with their mother. she was anxious and tired, as they knew, but she did her utmost to seem cheerful. "i have seen and heard nothing of geoff," she said suddenly. "has he many lessons to do to-night? he's all right, i suppose?" "oh yes," said frances. "vic's with him, looking out his words. he seems in very good spirits. i told him you were busy writing for the mail, and persuaded him to finish his lessons first. he'll be coming up to the drawing-room later." "i think mamma had better go to bed almost at once," said elsa, abruptly. "you've finished those letters, dear, haven't you?" "yes--all that i can write as yet. but i must go to see mr. norris first thing to-morrow morning. i have said to your uncle that i cannot send him particulars till next mail." "mamma, darling," said frances, "do you really think it's going to be very bad?" mrs. tudor smiled rather sadly. "i'm afraid so," she said; "but the suspense is the worst. once we really _know_, we can meet it. you three girls are all so good, and geoff, poor fellow--he _means_ to be good too." "yes," said frances, eagerly, "i'm sure he does." "but 'meaning' alone isn't much use," said elsa. "mamma," she went on with sudden energy, "if this does come--if we really do lose all our money, perhaps it will be the best thing for geoff in the end." mrs. tudor seemed to wince a little. "you needn't make the very worst of it just yet, any way," said frances, reproachfully. "and it would in one sense be the hardest on geoff," said the mother, "for his education would have to be stopped, just when he's getting on so well, too." "but----" began elsa, but she said no more. it was no use just then expressing what was in her mind--that getting on well at school, winning the good opinion of his masters, the good fellowship of his companions, did not comprise the whole nor even the most important part of the duty of a boy who was also a son and a brother--a son, too, of a widowed mother, and a brother of fatherless sisters. "i would almost rather," she said to herself, "that he got on less well at school if he were more of a comfort at home. it would be more manly, somehow." her mother did not notice her hesitation. "let us go upstairs, dears," she said. "i _am_ tired, but i am not going to let myself be over-anxious. i shall try to put things aside, as it were, till i hear from great-uncle hoot-toot. i have the fullest confidence in his advice." "i wish he would take it into his head to come home," said frances. "so do i," agreed her mother. they were hardly settled in the drawing-room before vic appeared. "elsa," she whispered, "geoff sent me to ask if he may have something to eat." "something to eat," repeated elsa. "he had two eggs with his tea. he can't be hungry." "no--o-- but there were anchovy toasts at dinner--harvey told him. and he's so fond of anchovy toasts. i think you'd better say he may, elsa, because of mamma." "very well," the elder sister replied. "it's not right--it's always the way. but what are we to do?" vicky waited not to hear her misgivings, but flew off. she was well-drilled, poor little soul. her brother was waiting for her, midway between the school-room and dining-room doors. "well?" he said, moving towards the latter. "yes. elsa says you may," replied the breathless little envoy. "elsa! what has she to do with it? i told you to ask mamma, not elsa," he said roughly. he stood leaning against the jamb of the door, his hands in his pockets, with a very cross look on his handsome face. but victoria, devoted little sister though she was, was not to be put down by any cross looks when she knew she was in the right. "geoff," she said sturdily, "i'll just leave off doing messages or anything for you if you are _so_ selfish. how could i go teasing mamma about anchovy toasts for you when she is so worried?" "how should i know she is busy and worried?" said geoff. "what do you mean? what is it about?" "i don't know. at least i only know that elsa and francie told me that she _was_ worried, and that she had letters to write for the ship that goes to india to-morrow." "for the indian mail you mean, i suppose," said geoff. "what a donkey you are for your age, vic! oh, if it's only that, she's writing to that old curmudgeon; _that's_ nothing new. come along, vicky, and i'll give you a bit of my toasts." [illustration: her brother was waiting for her.] he went into the dining-room as he spoke, and rang the bell. "harvey'll bring them up. i said i'd ring if i was to have them. upon my word, vic, it isn't every fellow of my age that would take things so quietly. never touching a scrap without leave, when lots like me come home to late dinner every night." "elsa says it's only middle-class people who let children dine late," said vic, primly, "_i_ shan't come down to dinner till i'm _out_." geoffrey burst out laughing. "rubbish!" he said. "elsa finds reasons for everything that suits her. here, vicky, take your piece." vicky was not partial to anchovy toasts, but to-night she was so anxious to keep geoff in a good humour, that she would have eaten anything he chose to give her, and pretended to like it. so she accepted her share, and geoff munched his in silence. he was a well-made, manly looking boy, not tall for his years, which were fourteen, but in such good proportion as to give promise of growing into a strong and vigorous man. his face was intended by nature to be a very pleasing one. the features were all good; there was nobility in the broad forehead, and candour in the bright dark eyes, and--sometimes--sweetness in the mouth. but this "sometimes" had for long been becoming of less and less frequent occurrence. a querulous, half-sulky expression had invaded the whole face: its curves and lines were hardening as those of no young face should harden; the very carriage of the boy was losing its bright upright fearlessness--his shoulders were learning to bend, his head to slouch forward. one needed but to glance at him to see that geoffrey tudor was fast becoming that most disagreeable of social characters, a grumbler! and with grumbling unrepressed, and indulged in, come worse things, for it has its root in that true "root of all evil," selfishness. as the last crumbs of the anchovy toasts disappeared, geoff glanced round him. "i say, vic," he began, "is there any water on the sideboard? those things are awfully salt. but i don't know that i'm exactly thirsty, either. i know what i'd like--a glass of claret, and i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. at my age it's really too absurd that----" "what are you talking about, geoff?" said elsa's voice in the doorway. "mamma wants you to come up to the drawing-room for a little. what is it that is too absurd at your age?" "nothing in particular--or rather everything," said geoff, with a slight tone of defiance. there was something in elsa's rather too superior, too elder-sisterly way of speaking that, as he would have expressed it, "set him up." "i was saying to vic that i'd like a glass of claret, and that i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. other fellows would help themselves to it. i often think i'm a great donkey for my pains." elsa looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and contempt. "what will he be saying next, i wonder?" her glance seemed to say. but the words were not expressed. "come upstairs," she said. "vicky has told you, i know, that you must be _particularly_ careful not to tease mamma to-night." geoff returned her look with an almost fierce expression in the eyes that could be so soft and gentle. "i wish you'd mind your own business, and leave mother and me to ourselves. it's your meddling puts everything wrong," he muttered. but he followed his elder sister upstairs quietly enough. down in the bottom of his heart was hidden great faith in elsa. he would, had occasion demanded it, have given his life, fearlessly, cheerfully, for her or his mother, or the others. but the smaller sacrifices, of his likes and dislikes, of his silly boyish temper and humours--of "self," in short, he could not or would not make. still, something in elsa's words and manner this evening impressed him in spite of himself. he followed her into the drawing-room, fully _meaning_ to be good and considerate. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. "mayn't i speak to you, mamma?" that was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps we should say--with geoffrey. he _meant_ to be good. he would not for worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. he worked well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. he was rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky" boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements, and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. the wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family. yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in the ordinary sense of the word. mrs. tudor, though gentle, and in some ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. she had brought up her children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. and gradually her anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling geoffrey by making him of too much consequence. it came to be recognized in the household that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms. not that geoff was passionate or violent. had he been so, things would have sooner come to a crisis. he was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced such tiresomeness for themselves. and as there is no doubt a grain of the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the fates, or something higher than the fates, not interposed, it would be difficult to exaggerate. the cloudy look had not left geoff's face when he came into the drawing-room. but, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like that." his mother took no notice of it. "well, geoff?" she said pleasantly. "how have you got on to-day, my boy?" he muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "oh, all right;" then catching sight of elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her affectionately. "are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "must i not speak to you?" mrs. tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what geoff's "speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over, and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. such talks were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. but they were very wearing to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake such discussion with geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual anxiety. she smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. it cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much. "of course i can speak to you, geoff. have you anything particular to tell me?" "lots of things," said the boy. he drew forward a chair in which to settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant glance at his sisters as he did so. "humbugging me as usual about mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. but elsa and frances only glanced at each other in despair. "well," said mrs. tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair. "mamma," began geoffrey, "there must be something done about my pocket-money. i just can't do with what i've got. i've waited to speak about it till i had talked it over with some of the other fellows. they nearly all have more than i." "boys of your age--surely not?" interposed mrs. tudor. [illustration: "there must be something done about my pocket-money."] "well, _some_ of them are not older than i," allowed geoff. "if you'd give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots, and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. the girls"--with cutting emphasis--"are always hinting that i ask you for too many things, and _i_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. if you'd give me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself." "at your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual." "i don't see that it matters exactly about age," said geoff, "if one's got sense." "but have you got sense enough, geoff?" said frances, gently. "i'm three years older than you, and i've only just begun to have an allowance for my clothes, and i should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been for elsa helping me." "girls are quite different," said geoff. "they want all sorts of rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. boys only need regular necessary things." "then you haven't any wants at present, i should think, geoff," said elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "you were completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks ago." geoff glowered at her. "mamma," he said, "will you once for all make elsa and frances understand that when i'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?" mrs. tudor did not directly respond to this request. "will you tell me, geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your head? what things are you in want of?" geoff hesitated. fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly summoned to do so. "there's lots of things," he began. "i _should_ have a pair of proper football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on, you know, like i have. all the fellows have proper ones when they're fifteen or so." "but you are not fifteen." "well, i might wait about the _boots_ till next term. but i do really want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as the idea occurred to him; "you know i began boxing this term." "and don't they provide boxing-gloves? how have you managed hitherto?" asked his mother, in surprise. "oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to have them of one's own. it's horrid always to seem just one of the lot that can't afford things of their own." "and if you are _not_ rich--and i dare say nearly all your schoolfellows are richer than you"--said elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that you are?" "sham," repeated geoff, roughly. "mamma, i do think you should speak to elsa.--if you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister threateningly. "i don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the others." a look of pain crept over mrs. tudor's tired face. had she done wrong? was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she felt she had made many in her life--to have sent geoff to a first-class school? "geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause me when you speak so. it was almost my principal reason for settling in london seven years ago, that i might be able to send you to one of the best schools. we could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably, in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of school." "well, i wish i had, then," said geoff, querulously. "i perfectly hate london; i have always told you so. i shouldn't mind what i did if it was in the country. it isn't that i want to spend money, or that i've extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as i am at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. you would have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and let me go to a country school. i _hate_ london; and just because i want things like other fellows, i'm scolded." mrs. tudor did not speak. she looked sad and terribly tired. "geoff," said elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see that mamma is very tired. do wait to talk to her till she is better able for it. and it is getting late." "do go, geoff," said his mother. "i have listened to what you have said; it is not likely i shall forget it. i will talk to you afterwards." the boy looked rather ashamed. "i haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother. "i'm sorry you're so tired." there was silence for a moment after he had left the room. "i am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said mrs. tudor, at last. "it has been one of the many mistakes i have made, and now i suppose i am to be punished for it." elsa made a movement of impatience. "mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "i don't think you would speak that way if you weren't tired. there isn't any truth in what geoff says. i don't mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. he makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. he has everything right for a boy of his age to have. i know there are boys whose parents are really rich who have less than he has." "yes, indeed, mamma; elsa is right," said frances. "geoff is insatiable. he picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception, and wants to have them all. he has a perfect genius for grumbling." "because he is always thinking of himself," said elsa. "mamma, don't think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?" "perhaps so," said her mother. "i am always in hopes of making him ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him." "and he does feel ashamed," said frances, eagerly. "i saw it to-night; he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own that he had been inventing grievances." "things have been too smooth for him," said elsa; "that's the truth of it. he needs some hardships." "and as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said mrs. tudor, with a rather wintry smile. "oh, mamma, forgive me! do you know, i had forgotten all about our money troubles," elsa exclaimed. "why don't you tell geoff about them, mamma? it's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him understand how wrong and selfish he is." "i will tell him soon, but not just yet. i do not want to distract his mind from his lessons, and i wish to be quite sure first. i think i should wait till i hear from your great-uncle." "and that will be--how long? it is how many weeks since mr. norris first wrote that he was uneasy? about seven, i should say," said elsa. "quite that," said her mother. "it is the waiting that is so trying. i can do nothing without great-uncle hoot-toot's advice." that last sentence had been a familiar one to mrs. tudor's children almost ever since they could remember. "great-uncle hoot-toot" had been a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. his opinions, his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the punishment most to be dreaded. and yet they had never seen him! "i wish he would come home himself," said elsa. "i think geoff would be much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of sharpness in her tone. "poor geoff!" said her mother. "i suppose the truth is that very few women know how to manage boys." "i don't see that," said elsie. "on the contrary, a generous-natured boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's severity. it is just that, that i don't like about geoff. there is a want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him." "no," said frances. "i don't quite agree with you. i think it is there, but somehow not awakened. mamma," she went on, "supposing our great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out that we all called him 'hoot-toot'?" "oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. your father told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'hoot-toot, hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving." "what a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the girls together. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. an unlooked-for arrival. the next few days were trying ones for all the tudor family. the mother was waiting anxiously for further news of the money losses, with which, as her lawyers told her, she was threatened; the sisters were anxious too, though, with the bright hopefulness of their age, the troubles which distressed their mother fell much more lightly on them: _they_ were anxious because they saw _her_ suffering. vicky had some misty idea that something was wrong, but she knew very little, and had been forbidden to say anything to geoff about the little she did know. so that of the whole household geoff was the only one who knew nothing, and went on living in his fool's paradise of having all his wants supplied, yet grumbling that he had nothing! he was in a particularly tiresome mood--perhaps, in spite of themselves, it was impossible for his sisters to bear with him as patiently as usual; perhaps the sight of his mother's pale face made him dissatisfied with himself and cross because he would not honestly own that he was doing nothing to help and please her. and the weather was very disagreeable, and among geoff's many "hates" was a very exaggerated dislike to bad weather. about this sort of thing he had grumbled much more since his return from a long visit to some friends in the country the summer before, when the weather had been splendid, and everything done to make him enjoy himself, in consequence of which he had come home with a fixed idea that the country was always bright and charming; that it was only in town that one had to face rain and cold and mud. as to fog, he had perhaps more ground for his belief. "did you ever see such beastly weather?" were his first words to vicky one evening when the good little sister had rushed to the door on hearing geoff's ring, so that his majesty should not be kept waiting an unnecessary moment. "i am perfectly drenched, and as cold as ice. is tea ready, vic?" "quite ready--at least it will be by the time you've changed your things. do run up quick, geoff. it's a bad thing to keep on wet clothes." "mamma should have thought of that before she sent me to a day-school," said geoff. "i've a good mind just _not_ to change my clothes, and take my chance of getting cold. it's perfect slavery--up in the morning before it's light, and not home till pitch dark, and soaked into the bargain." "hadn't you your mackintosh on?" asked vicky. "my mackintosh! it's in rags. i should have had a new one ages ago." "geoff! i'm sure it can't be so bad. you've not had it a year." "a year. no one wears a mackintosh for a year. the buttons are all off, and the button-holes are burst." "i'm sure they can be mended. martha would have done it if you'd asked her," said vic, resolving to see to the unhappy mackintosh herself. "i know poor mamma doesn't want to spend any extra money just now." "there's a great deal too much spent on elsa and frances, and all their furbelows," said geoff, in what he thought a very manly tone. "here, vicky, help me to pull off my boots, and then i must climb up to the top of the house to change my things." vicky knelt down obediently and tugged at the muddy boots, though it was a task she disliked as much as she could dislike anything. she was rewarded by a gruff "thank you," and when geoff came down again in dry clothes, to find the table neatly prepared, and his little sister ready to pour out his tea, he did condescend to say that she was a good child! but even though his toast was hot and crisp, and his egg boiled to perfection, geoff's pleasanter mood did not last long. he had a good many lessons to do that evening, and they were lessons he disliked. vicky sat patiently, doing her best to help him till her bedtime came, and he had barely finished when frances brought a message that he was to come upstairs--mamma said he was not to work any longer. "you have finished, surely, geoff?" she said, when he entered the drawing-room. "if i had finished, i would have come up sooner. you don't suppose i stay down there grinding away to please myself, do you?" replied the boy, rudely. "geoff!" exclaimed his sisters, unwisely, perhaps. he turned upon them. "i've not come to have you preaching at me. mamma, will you speak to them?" he burst out. "i hate this life--nothing but fault-finding as soon as i show my face. i wish i were out of it, i do! i'd rather be the poorest ploughboy in the country than lead this miserable life in this hateful london." [illustration: vicky ... tugged at the muddy boots.] he said the last words loudly, almost shouting them, indeed. to do him justice, it was not often his temper got so completely the better of him. the noise he was making had prevented him and the others from hearing the bell ring--prevented them, too, from hearing, a moment or two later, a short colloquy on the stairs between harvey and a new-comer. "thank you," said the latter; "i don't want you to announce me. i'll do it myself." geoff had left the door open. "yes," he was just repeating, even more loudly than before, "i hate this life, i do. i am grinding at lessons from morning to night, and when i come home this is the way you treat me. i----" but a voice behind him made him start. "hoot-toot, young man," it said. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! come, i say, this sort of thing will never do. and ladies present! hoot----" but the "toot" was drowned in a scream from mrs. tudor. "uncle, dear uncle, is it you? can it be you yourself? oh, geoff, geoff! he is not often such a foolish boy, uncle, believe me. oh, how--how thankful i am you have come!" she had risen from her seat and rushed forward to greet the stranger, but suddenly she grew strangely pale, and seemed on the point of falling. elsa flew towards her on the one side, and the old gentleman on the other. "poor dear!" he exclaimed. "i have startled her, i'm afraid. hoot-toot, hoot-toot, silly old man that i am. where's that ill-tempered fellow off to?" he went on, glancing round. "can't he fetch a glass of water, or make himself useful in some way?" "i will," said frances, darting forward. geoffrey had disappeared, and small wonder. "i am quite right now, thank you," said mrs. tudor, trying to smile, when elsa had got her on to the sofa. "don't be frightened, elsa dear. nor you, uncle; it was just the--the start. i've had a good deal to make me anxious lately, you know." "i should think i did--those idiots of lawyers!" muttered the old man. "and poor geoff," she went on; "i am afraid i have not paid much attention to him lately, and he's felt it--foolishly, perhaps." "rubbish!" said uncle hoot-toot under his breath. "strikes me he's used to a good deal too much attention," he added as an aside to elsa, with a quick look of inquiry in his bright keen eyes. elsa could hardly help smiling, but for her mother's sake she restrained herself. "it will be all right now you have come home, dear uncle," mrs. tudor went on gently. "how was it? had you started before you got my letters? why did you not let us know?" "i was on the point of writing to announce my departure," said the old gentleman, "when your letter came. it struck me then that i could get home nearly as quickly as a letter, and so i thought it was no use writing." "then you know--you know all about this bad news?" said mrs. tudor falteringly. [illustration: the arrival of great-uncle hoot-toot.] "yes; those fellows wrote to me. _that_ was right enough; but what they meant by worrying you about it, my dear, i can't conceive. it was quite against all my orders. what did poor frank make me your trustee for, if it wasn't to manage these things for you?" "then you think, you hope, there may be something left to manage, do you?" asked mrs. tudor, eagerly. "i have been anticipating the very worst. i did not quite like to put it in words to these poor children"--and she looked up affectionately at the two girls; "but i have really been trying to make up my mind to our being quite ruined." "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said her uncle. "no such nonsense, my dear. i shall go to norris's to-morrow morning and have it out with him. ruined! no, no. it'll be all right, you'll see. we'll go into it all, and you have nothing to do but leave things to me. now let us talk of pleasanter matters. what a nice, pretty little house you've got! and what nice, pretty little daughters! good girls, too, or i'm uncommonly mistaken. they're comforts to you, alice, my dear, eh?" "the greatest possible comforts," answered the mother, warmly. "and so is little vic. you haven't seen her yet." "little vic? oh, to be sure--my namesake." for great-uncle hoot-toot's real name, you must know, was mr. victor byrne. "to be sure; must see her to-morrow; vic, to be sure." "and geoffrey," mrs. tudor went on less assuredly. "geoff is doing very well at school. you will have a good report of him from his masters. he is a steady worker, and----" "but how about the _home_ report of him, eh?" said mr. byrne, drily. "there's two sides to most things, and i've rather a weakness for seeing both. never mind about that just now. i never take up impressions hastily. don't be afraid. i'll see master geoff for myself. let's talk of other things. what do these young ladies busy themselves about? are they good housekeepers, eh?" mrs. tudor smiled. "can you make a pudding and a shirt, elsa and frances?" she asked. "tell your uncle your capabilities." "i could manage the pudding," said elsa. "i think the days for home-made shirts are over." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" said mr. byrne; "new-fangled notions, eh?" "no, indeed, great-uncle hoot----" began frances, eagerly. then blushing furiously, she stopped short. the old gentleman burst out laughing. "never mind, my dear; i'm used to it. it's what they always called me--all my nephews and nieces." "have you a great many nephews and nieces besides us?" asked elsa. mr. byrne laughed again. "that depends upon myself," he said. "i make them, you see. i have had any quantity in my day, but they're scattered far and wide. and--there are a great many blanks, alice, my dear, since i was last at home," he added, turning to mrs. tudor. "i don't know that any of them was ever quite such a pet of mine as this little mother of yours, my dears." "oh!" said elsa, looking rather disappointed; "you are not our real uncle, then? i always thought you were." [illustration: my blackamoor.] "well, think so still," said mr. byrne. "at any rate, you must treat me so, and then i shall be quite content. but i must be going. i shall see you to-morrow after i've had it out with that donkey norris. what a stupid idiot he is, to be sure!" and for a moment great-uncle hoot-toot looked quite fierce. "and then i must see little vic. what time shall i come to-morrow, alice?" "whenever you like, uncle," she said. "will you not come and stay here altogether?" "no, thank you, my dear. i've got my own ways, you see. i'm a fussy old fellow. and i've got my servant--my blackamoor. he'd frighten all the neighbours. and you'd fuss yourself, thinking i wasn't comfortable. i'll come up to-morrow afternoon and stay on to dinner, if you like. and just leave the boy to me a bit. good night, all of you; good night." and in another moment the little old gentleman was gone. the two girls and their mother sat staring at each other when he had disappeared. "isn't it like a dream? can you believe he has really come, mamma?" said elsa. "hardly," replied her mother. "but i am very thankful. if only geoff will not vex him." elsa and frances said nothing. they had their own thoughts about their brother, but they felt it best not to express them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. foolish geoff. "is he like what you expected, elsa?" asked frances, when they were in their own room. "who? great-uncle hoot-toot? i'm sure i don't know. i don't think i ever thought about what he'd be like." "oh, i _had_ an idea," said frances. "quite different, of course, from what he really is. i had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. i think i must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'nutcracker of nuremberg,' without knowing it." "well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said elsa. "he looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. did you notice what small brown hands he has, and such _very_ bright eyes? isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?" "i think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said frances. "elsa, i am very glad he has come. i think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. she does look so ill." "it's half of it geoff," said elsa, indignantly. "and now he must needs spoil great-uncle hoot-toot's arrival by his tempers. perhaps it's just as well, however. 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' i fancy geoff has met his master." "elsa, you frighten me a little," said frances. "you don't think he'll be very severe with poor geoff?" "i don't think he'll be more severe than is for geoff's good," replied elsa. "i must confess, though, i shouldn't like to face great-uncle hoot-toot if i felt i had been behaving badly. how his eyes can gleam!" "and how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! i'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said frances, who was very imaginative. "but if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us." "yes; and if he takes geoff in hand," added elsa. "but, frances, we must go to bed. i want to make everything very nice to-morrow; i'm going to think about what to have for dinner while i go to sleep." for elsa was housekeeper--a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet. [illustration: elsa was housekeeper.] at breakfast geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. but he said nothing except "good morning." he started, however, a little, when he saw his mother. "mamma," he said, "are you not well? you look so very pale." the girls glanced up at this. it was true. they had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to mrs. tudor's most pressing anxieties. "yes, mamma dear. it is true. you do look very pale. now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. we will manage everything, so that great-uncle hoot-toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said elsa. geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. he was still on his high horse. "geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. try to get your lessons done quickly. uncle will wish to see something of you." he muttered an indistinct "very well, mamma," as he shut the door. "humph!" he said to himself, "i suppose elsa will want to make him think i'm properly treated. but _i_ shall tell him the truth--any _man_ will understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. i don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. there's a limit to endurance. but i wish mamma didn't look so pale. of course they'll make out it's all _my_ fault." and feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, master geoff stalked off. great-uncle hoot-toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. he found mrs. tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. the little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed--so much so that elsa and frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing. "how do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes. "quite well, thank you," replied the little girl. "hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?--a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from india to see you." vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over great-uncle hoot-toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. a red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off. "what is it, vicky dear?" she whispered. "what _will_ he think of the children? geoff in a temper, and vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "you are not frightened?" she added aloud. "no," said vicky, trying to recover herself. "it's only about geoff. i want to ask--_him_--not to be angry with geoff." "and why should i be angry with geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "has he been saying so to you?" "oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "geoff didn't say anything. it was harvey and martha. they said they hoped he'd find his master now _you'd_ come, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. you won't whip him, will you? oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "geoff isn't naughty _really_. he doesn't mean to be naughty." the tears were very near now. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. "come, come, my little vic; i don't like this at all. so they've been making me out an ogre. that's too bad. me whip geoff! why, i think he could better whip me--a strong, sturdy fellow like that. no, no, i don't want to whip him, i assure you. but i'm glad to see geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. he's not a bad brother to you, i hope? you couldn't be so fond of him if he were." "oh no; geoff's not naughty to me, scarcely _never_," said vicky, eagerly. "i'm sure he never wants to be naughty. it's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny. "exactly," said uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head. "well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?" vicky looked up doubtfully again. "if i think of some plan--something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little vic?" she gave him a long steady stare. "yes," she said at last. then with a sigh, "i would like geoff to get out of his tiresome ways." and from this time great-uncle hoot-toot and vicky were fast friends. then he asked elsa and frances to go out a little walk with him. "is your mother always as pale as i have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone. elsa hesitated. "no," she said at last. "i'm afraid she is not at all well. geoff noticed it this morning." "oh, indeed! then he does notice things sometimes?" said mr. byrne, drily. "he's very fond of mamma," put in frances. "he takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle. "it's--it's all his temper, i'm afraid," frances allowed reluctantly. "it is that he's spoilt," said elsa. "he's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. he has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for geoff?" "who says you're going to lose your money?" "i don't know exactly why i feel sure it's not coming right. i know you said so to mamma--at least you tried to make her happier; but i can't understand it. if that mr. norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong." mr. byrne moved and looked at her sharply. "you don't speak that way to your mother, i hope?" "of course not," said elsa; "i'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. i was only speaking of what i thought myself." "well--well--as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. i cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. i may just tell you this much--all this trouble is nothing new; i had seen it coming for years. the only thing i had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. there was no need for her to know anything about it. i'm her trustee----" "but not legally," interrupted elsa. "mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? but never mind. i will explain all about it to you both--before long. just now the question is your mother. i think you will agree with me when i say that it is plain to me that master geoff should leave home?" "i'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said elsa. "you see, geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. he's truthful and conscientious--he is, indeed, and you must see i'm not inclined to take his part." "but he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. i'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however--that i promise you, for i think it would be the ruin of him. whatever i may do to save your mother, i don't see but that master geoff should face his true position." "and we too, great-uncle," said frances, eagerly. "elsa and i are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already." "i quite believe you, my dear," said mr. byrne, approvingly. "you shall tell me your plans some time soon, and i will tell you mine. no fear but that you shall have work to do." "and----" began elsa, but then she hesitated. "i was going to ask you not to decide anything about geoff till you have seen more of him. if frances and i could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf---- no, i'm afraid i can't honestly say that having geoff at home would be any comfort to her--less than ever if frances and i were away. great-uncle, don't you think geoff should have some idea of all this?" "certainly. but i cannot risk his teasing your mother. we will wait a few days. i should like to see poor alice looking better; and i shall judge of geoff for myself, my dears." they were just at home again by this time. vicky met them at the door. she was in great excitement about mr. byrne's indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes. "i was watching for geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "but my tea's ready; i must go." and off she ran. "good little girl," said great-uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head approvingly. "no grumbling from _her_, eh?" "no, never," said elsa, warmly. "she's having her tea alone to-day. geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour." "humph!" said the old gentleman. [illustration] [illustration: geoff's interview with great-uncle hoot-toot.] [illustration] chapter v. a crisis. mrs. tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. geoff glanced dubiously at great-uncle hoot-toot. "shall i--shall i stay with you, sir?" he asked. geoff was on his good behaviour. the old gentleman glanced at him. "certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "no lessons--eh?" "no, sir," geoff replied. "i've got all done, except a little i can do in the morning." "they work you pretty hard, eh?" "yes, they do. there's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in london. it's pretty much the same story--grind, grind, from one week's end to another." "hoot-toot! that sounds melancholy," said mr. byrne. "no holidays, eh?" "oh, of course, i've some holidays," said geoff. "but, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters----" "_only_," repeated the old gentleman; but geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone. "and mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or----" "doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted mr. byrne again. "oh yes; it would be too silly not to do _that_. i told her at the beginning--i mean, she understood--it wouldn't do. but there's lots of things i'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. i should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. it's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. such weather! i do hate london!" "indeed!" said mr. byrne. "it's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here." "she did it for the best, i suppose," said geoff. "she didn't want to part with me, you see. but i'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; i do so detest london. and then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school." "what may those be?" inquired the old gentleman. "oh, heaps of things. pocket-money, for one thing. i was telling mother about it. i really should have more, if i'm to stay properly at school. there's dick colethorne, where i was staying last holidays--cousins of ours; he has six times what i have, and he's only two years older." "and--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked mr. byrne. "oh no," replied geoff, unwarily. "his father's a very rich man; and dick is the only child." "all the same, begging mr. colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as croesus, i think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said mr. byrne. "well, of course, i shouldn't want as much as he has," said geoff; "but still----" "geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. but we'll have some more talk about all this. i don't want to keep your mother waiting, as i promised to talk some more to _her_ this evening. so we'll go upstairs. some day, perhaps, i'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. i'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine." "no-o," said geoff. "that's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. i'd like to talk about it with you, sir; i don't see but that at my age i might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even. it looks so foolish never to touch any. it's not that i _care_ about it, you know." "at your age?" repeated mr. byrne, slowly. "well, geoff--do you know, i don't quite agree with you. nor do i see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about." they were half-way upstairs by this time. geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room. "he's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to vicky; "i believe elsa's been setting him against me." vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "oh, geoff," she said, "i do think he's so nice." "you do, do you?" said he. "well, i don't. i'll tell you what, vicky; i've a great mind to run away. i do so hate this life. i work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and i never get any thanks for it; and everything i want is grudged me. my umbrella's all in rags, and i'm ashamed to take it out; and if i was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see." "but you haven't had it long, geoff," said vic. "i've had it nearly a year. you're getting as bad as the rest, vicky," he said querulously. he had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? you and victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?" mrs. tudor looked up anxiously. "oh no," said vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking." "and about what, pray?" persisted mr. byrne. vicky hesitated. she did not want to vex geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies. "about geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red. "about geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "what could there be so interesting and exciting to say about geoff's umbrella?" "only that i haven't got one--at least, mine's in rags; and if i say i need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said geoff, as sulkily as he dared. "my dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "you know i have never refused you anything you really require." geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. but elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers--for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse--caught his muttered whisper. "of course. always the way if _i_ want anything." mr. byrne did not stay late. he saw that mrs. tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear. a few days passed. great-uncle hoot-toot spent a part of each with the tudor family, quietly making his observations. geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. so at last she took elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life. and every evening, when alone with victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated. but a change came, and that in a way which geoffrey little expected. one evening when mr. byrne said "good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired. "make your mother go to bed at once, elsa," he said, "i don't like her looks. if she's not better to-morrow, i must have a doctor to see her. and," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. has he bothered her much lately?" "mamma has left him alone. it was much the best thing to do," elsa replied. "but all the same, i can see that it is making her very unhappy." "time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said mr. byrne. "try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. i have nearly made up my mind, and i'll tell you all about it to-morrow." elsa felt rather frightened. "great-uncle," she said, "i don't want to make silly excuses for geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately." "or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "but you needn't think i require to be softened to him, my dear; i am only thinking of his good. he's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. but he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. he needs bringing to his senses." geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. he did not hear any disturbance that night--the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. he knew nothing of it all. for, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house--of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "we must manage to get geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet." when he awoke it was still dark. but there was a light in his room--some one had come in with a candle. it was elsa. he rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. and when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. she seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious--_was_ it the candle, or was she really so very pale? "elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? what is the matter? isn't it dreadfully late--or--or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly. "it's the morning," said elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night--frances and i. at least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up." "what was it?" asked geoff, sleepily still. "was the house on fire?" "oh, geoff, don't be silly!" said elsa; "it's--it's much worse. mamma has been so ill--she is still." geoff started up now. "do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said. "the doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "he thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. but she's very ill--she must be kept most _exceedingly_ quiet, and----" "i'll get up now at once," said geoff; "i won't be five minutes, elsa. tell mamma i'd have got up before if i'd known." "but, geoff," said elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. you can't see her--you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. the doctor says she is to be kept _perfectly_ quiet, and not worried in any way." "i wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said geoff, hastily. [illustration: it was elsa.] "you couldn't help it," said elsa. "she--she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. we quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. but if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. the doctor said you were not to go into her room." a choking feeling had come into geoff's throat when elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. but as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. he was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way. "i think you're forgetting yourself, elsa. is mamma not as much to _me_ as to you girls? do you think i haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? i tell you i just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment. elsa grew still paler than she had been before. "geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. it was for that i came up to tell you. you must _not_ come into mother's room. i'd do anything to prevent it, but i can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when--when we are all so unhappy. i don't want to make you more unhappy, but i can't help speaking plainly to you. you _have_ worried mamma terribly lately, geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. it's--it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. i cannot allow it." "_you_ allow it!" burst out geoff. "are you the head of the house?" "yes," said elsa, "when mamma is ill, i consider that i am. and what's more, geoff, i have telegraphed to great-uncle hoot-toot. he made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. i expect him directly. it is past seven. geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. i will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go." "i _will_ see mamma before i go to school," he replied sharply. "i give you fair warning." "geoff," said elsa, "you shall not." and with these words she left the room. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. geoff "won't stand it." geoff hurried on with his dressing. he was wretchedly unhappy--all the more so because he was furiously angry with elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself. his room was, as i have said, at the top of the house. he did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of mr. byrne. "geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. they have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. when you have finished, i will come to talk to you a little before you go to school." geoff glanced up. there was something in great-uncle hoot-toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting. "very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as mr. byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room. it looked dreary and strange this morning. it was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for mrs. tudor's illness had upset the whole household. the fire was only just lighted; the preparations for geoff's breakfast were only half ready. it was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness. "they all hate me," he said to himself. "i've known it for a long time, but i've never been so sure of it before. it is much the best for me to go away. mamma _has_ cared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. she'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well--i dare say they have exaggerated her illness--they will have the pleasure of saying it's because i'm gone. there's only vic who'll really care. but she won't mind so very much, either. i'll write to her now and then. i must think how best to do about going away. i hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. i don't mind what i do, if it's in the country. i might go down to some farmhouse--one of those jolly farms where dick and i used to get a glass of milk last summer. i wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. it would be much jollier than grinding away at school. and i am sure dick and i did as much work as any haymakers last summer." he had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. he ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when mr. byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress. "is he really _heartless_?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "am i mistaken in thinking the good material is there?" "i want to talk to you, geoff," he said. "you are early this morning. you need not start for twenty minutes or more." "am i to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said geoff, in a peculiar tone. mr. byrne looked at him rather sadly. "it is not _i_ preventing it," he said. "the doctor has left his orders." "i understand," said geoff, bitterly. "well, it does not much matter. mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me." the old gentleman looked at him sharply. "are you thinking of running away?" he said. "not running away," said geoffrey. "i'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but i've made up my mind to go. and now that mother has thrown me over too, i don't suppose any one will care." "you've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said mr. byrne. "but i have something to say to you, geoff. one thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. i had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. i myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. but now the worst has come----" "what is the worst?" asked geoffrey. "have we lost everything?" "yes," said mr. byrne, "i think that's about it." "i think i should have been told this before," said geoff. "well," said his uncle, "i'm not sure but that i agree with you. but your mother wished to save you as long as she could. and you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble." [illustration: "i have something to say to you, geoff."] geoff said nothing. "i shall take care of your mother and sisters," mr. byrne went on. "i am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said geoffrey. "at your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "and as yet, you cannot even do that directly. you must go on with your education. i have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about." "and who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy. "i," replied mr. byrne. "thank you," said geoffrey. his tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "i know i should thank you, but i don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. i shall manage for myself. it is much best for me to go away altogether. even--even if this about our money hadn't happened, i was already making up my mind to it." mr. byrne looked at him. "legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said. "she is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me." "perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "i will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is." "thank you," said geoffrey again. then mr. byrne left the room, and geoff went off to school. he was in a strange state of mind. he hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. he hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him. "it isn't mother herself," he reflected. "it's all elsa and frances, and that horrid old hoot-toot. but as for going to any school _he'd_ send me to--no, thank you." he was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared. "please, sir," he said, "i was to tell you that the lady is better--doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply. "all right," said geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go. geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "that young gentleman with the dark hair. you see plain when i speak to him," he said in his rather broken english. the other man nodded his head. "i shall know him again, no fear. tell your master it's all right," he said. geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. at another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun. "what a surly humour tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another. geoff overheard it, and glared at him. "i shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself. he did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. and there, just within, faithful vicky was awaiting him. "i've been watching for you such a time, geoff dear," she said. "mamma's better. _aren't_ you glad? the doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out." "have you seen her?" said geoff, abruptly. vicky hesitated. she knew her answer would vex geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true. [illustration: he stood still a moment speaking to another man.] "i've only _just_ seen her," she said. "elsa just took me in for a moment. she has to be kept very, very quiet, geoff. she'll have to be very quiet for a long time." "you may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "i know what that means--i'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' oh yes, i quite understand." he was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation. "geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said vicky. "i wish i hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but i didn't like to say so to elsa. i know you didn't _mean_ ever to vex mamma, and i'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? would you like me just to run and tell elsa and great-uncle hoot-toot how _dreadfully_ you'd like to see her just for a minute? if you just peeped in, you know, and said 'good night, mamma; i am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. shall i, geoff?" "no," he replied gruffly. "i want to ask nothing. and i'm not sure that i _do_ want dreadfully to see her. caring can't be all on one side." vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time. "oh, geoff!" was all she could say. "mamma not care for you!" her distress softened him a little. "don't _you_ cry about it, vic," he said. "i do believe _you_ care for me, anyway. you always will, won't you, vicky?" "of course i shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into geoff's teacup. they were in the school-room by this time, and vicky was at her usual post. "and some day," pursued geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and----" "cream," suggested vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream." "of course," geoff went on. "i was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. we'd have a cream-cow, vicky." "a cream-cow," vicky repeated. "what's that?" "oh, i don't know exactly. but one often reads of a milk-cow, so i supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. i'll find out all about it when----" but he stopped short. "never mind, vicky. when i have a little farm of my own, in the country, i promise you i'll send for you to come and live with me." "but you'll invite mamma and elsa, and francie too, geoff; i wouldn't care to come without them," objected vicky. "mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. perhaps elsa and frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. i'm sure i hope so." he had talked himself and vicky into quite good spirits by this time. he was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. but it was soon recalled to him. elsa put her head in at the door. "vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. come now, quick, before geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he just _must_ not see her for some days. mamma sees that he must not." geoff's face grew dark. "elsa," vicky called out appealingly. but elsa had already disappeared. and then geoffrey _quite_ made up his mind. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. a fortunate chance. he was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. he thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. he packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them. then he looked at his purse. he had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. it was enough to take him some hours' distance out of london, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away. he did not sleep much that night. he was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. at last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. he got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. he could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. elsa's voice came to him as he stood there. "i am _so_ glad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "i hoped you would be when i went to bed, at three o'clock. you were sleeping so peacefully. i am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. everything is quite right." geoff's face hardened again. "i know what all that means," he thought. "yes, indeed, everything is so right that i, _i_, have to run away like a thief, because i am too miserable to bear it any more." and he lingered no longer. he made his way out of the house without difficulty. it was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. he felt chilly--chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. but going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing geoff had but scant experience. his bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. no one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. he was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as geoff overtook him--for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible--the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile. "excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way." geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. he was too much of a londoner to make friends hastily. "thank you," he said. "i can manage it. i'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus." "just precisely what i'm going to do myself," said the other. "i'm quite a stranger hereabouts. i've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and i'm off for the day to shalecray, to see another friend. can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?" "which railway station?" said geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness. "victoria station, to be sure. it's the one i come by. isn't it the big station for all parts?" "bless you! no," said geoff. "there are six or seven as big as it in london. what line is this place on?" "that's more nor i can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. but he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. and in the interest of the conversation geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him. "ah, well! never mind. i'm going to victoria myself, and when we get there i'll look up your place and find you your train," said geoff, patronizingly. he had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared. "he is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. and, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but a _most_ suspicious person. [illustration: walking along beside geoff.] "you're very kind, sir," he replied. "you see, london's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it." "yes, of course," said geoff. "for my part, i often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in london. you're a great deal better off in the country." "there's bads and goods everywhere, i take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically. but by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. and an omnibus rattling over london stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of victoria station. geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly. "i say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? for i'm frightfully hungry. you don't mind waiting while i have some breakfast, do you? i'll look you out your train for that place as soon as i've had some." "all right, sir," said the stranger. "if it wouldn't be making too free, i'd be pleased to join you. but i suppose you'll be going into the first-class?" "oh no," said geoff. "i don't mind the second-class." and into the second-class refreshment-room they went. they grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up shalecray. "here you are!" he exclaimed. "and upon my word, that's a good joke. this place--shalecray--is on the very line i'm going by. i wonder i never noticed it. i came up that way not long ago, from entlefield." "indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "and are you going to entlefield to-day?" "well," said geoff, "i fancy so. i've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. i know the country about there. i want to find some--some farmhouse." "oh, exactly--i understand," interrupted the young man. "you want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days--just for a breath of country air." "well, no; not exactly," said geoffrey. "the fact is, i'm looking out for--for some sort of situation about a farm. i'm very fond of country life. i don't care what i do. i'm not a fine gentleman!" the countryman looked at him with interest. "i see," he said. "you're tired of town, i take it, sir. but what do your friends say to it, sir? at sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, i suppose?" "not always," said geoff. "i've made no secret of it. i've no father, and--i'm pretty much my own master." "'i care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing. "something like it, i suppose," said geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. for a vision of vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him--of elsa and frances trying how to break to their mother the news that geoff had really run away. "they'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "they've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and i don't want to live on _his_ money." "do you think i can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause. the countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered. "how old may you be, sir? sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired. "i'm not so much; i'm only fourteen," said geoff, rather reluctantly. "really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "you'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. not afraid of roughing it? fond of riding, i dare say?" "oh yes," said geoff. "at least, in town of course i haven't had as much of it as i'd like." he had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of mrs. colethorne's. "no, in course not. well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, farmer eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. he's a very decent fellow--a bit rough-spoken, maybe. but you're used to country ways--you'd not mind that." "oh, not a bit!" said geoff. "i'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. and you say it's possible--that this farmer eames may perhaps have a place that i should do for?" "nay, sir, i can't say that. it's just a chance. i only said he'd maybe know of something." "well, i don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. i'll only take a ticket to shalecray, then. i can go on farther later in the day if i don't find anything to suit me there. we'd better take the first train--a quarter to nine. we've still twenty minutes or so to wait." "yes, there's plenty of time--time for a pipe. you don't object, sir? but, bless me"--and he felt in his pockets one after the other--"if i haven't forgotten my 'bacca! with your leave, sir, i'll run across the street to fetch some. i saw a shop as we came in." "very well," said geoff; "i'll wait here. don't be too late." he had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room. it was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! he only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:-- "got him all safe. will report further this evening." and ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for shalecray. geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. he did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. and as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. he must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it was _possible_ he might have to pay his own way for some little time to come. "still, the chances are i shall find what i want very easily," he reflected. "it is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me." it did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. for in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby. [illustration] chapter viii. "half-a-crown a week and his victuals." shalecray was a small station, where no very considerable number of trains stopped in the twenty-four hours. it was therefore a slow train by which geoffrey tudor and his new friend travelled; so, though the distance from london was really short, it took them fully two hours to reach their destination. and two hours on a raw drizzly november morning is quite a long enough time to spend in a third-class carriage, shivering if the windows are down, and suffering on the other hand from the odours of damp fustian and bad tobacco if they are up. cold as it was, it seemed pleasant in comparison when they got out at last, and were making their way down a very muddy, but really country lane. geoff gave a sort of snort of satisfaction. "i do love the country," he said. his companion looked at him curiously. "i believe you, sir," he replied. "you must like it, to find it pleasant in november," he went on, with a tone which made geoff glance at him in surprise. somehow in the last few words the countryman's accent seemed to have changed a little. geoff could almost have fancied there was a cockney twang about it. "why, don't _you_ like it?" said geoff. "you said you were lost and miserable in town." "of course, sir. what else could i be? i'm country born and bred. but it's not often as a londoner takes to it as you do, and it's not to say lively at this time, and"--he looked down with a grimace--"the lanes is uncommon muddy." "how far is it to your friend's place?" geoff inquired, thinking to himself that if _he_ were to remark on the mud it would not be surprising, but that it was rather curious for his companion to do so. "a matter of two mile or so," jowett--for ned jowett, he had told geoff, was his name--replied; "and now i come to think of it, perhaps it'd be as well for you to leave your bag at the station. i'll see that it's all right; and as you're not sure of stopping at crickwood, there's no sense in carrying it there and maybe back again for nothing. i'll give it in charge to the station-master, and be back in a moment." he had shouldered it and was hastening back to the station almost before geoff had time to take in what he said. the boy stood looking after him vaguely. he was beginning to feel tired and a little dispirited. he did not feel as if he could oppose anything just then. "if he's a cheat and he's gone off with my bag, i just can't help it," he thought. "he won't gain much. still, he looks honest." and five minutes later the sight of the young man's cheery face as he hastened back removed all his misgivings. "all right, sir," he called out. "it'll be quite safe; and if by chance you hit it off with mr. eames, the milk-cart that comes to fetch the empty cans in the afternoon can bring the bag too." they stepped out more briskly after that. it was not such a very long walk to the farm, though certainly more than the two miles jowett had spoken of. as they went on, the country grew decidedly pretty, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one saw that in summer and pleasant weather it must be very pretty. geoff, however, was hardly at the age for admiring scenery much. he looked about him with interest, but little more than interest. "are there woods about here?" he asked suddenly. "i do like woods." jowett hesitated. "i don't know this part of the country not to say so very well," he replied. "there's some fine gentlemen's seats round about, i believe. crickwood bolders, now, is a fine place--we'll pass by the park wall in a minute; it's the place that eames's should by rights be the home farm to, so to say. but it's been empty for a many years. the family died down till it come to a distant cousin who was in foreign parts, and he let the farm to eames, and the house has been shut up. they do speak of his coming back afore long." geoff looked out for the park of which jowett spoke; they could not see much of it, certainly, without climbing the wall, for which he felt no energy. but a little farther on they came to gates, evidently a back entrance, and they stood still for a moment or two and looked in. "yes," said geoff, gazing over the wide expanse of softly undulating ground, broken by clumps of magnificent old trees, which at one side extended into a fringe skirting the park for miles apparently, till it melted in the distance into a range of blue-topped hills--"yes, it must be a fine place indeed. that's the sort of place, now, i'd like to own, jowett." he spoke more cordially again, for jowett's acquaintance with the neighbourhood had destroyed a sort of misgiving that had somehow come over him as to whether his new friend were perhaps "taking him in altogether." [illustration: they stood still for a moment or two.] "i believe you," said the countryman, laughing loudly, as if geoff's remark had been a very good joke indeed. geoff felt rather nettled. "and why shouldn't i own such a place, pray?" he said haughtily. "such things, when one is a _gentleman_, are all a matter of chance, as you know. if my father, or my grandfather, rather, had not been a younger son, i should have been----" ned jowett turned to him rather gravely. "i didn't mean to offend you, sir," he said. "but you must remember you're taking up a different line from that. farmer eames, or farmer nobody, wouldn't engage a farm hand that expected to be treated as a gentleman. it's not my fault, sir. 'twas yourself told me what you wished." geoff was silent for a moment or two. it was not easy all at once to make up his mind to _not_ being a gentleman any more, and yet his common sense told him that jowett was right; it must be so. unless, indeed, he gave it all up and went back home again to eat humble pie, and live on great-uncle hoot-toot's bounty, and go to some horrid school of his choosing, and be more "bullied" (so he expressed it to himself) than ever by his sisters, and scarcely allowed to see his mother at all. the silent enumeration of these grievances decided him. he turned round to jowett with a smile. "yes," he said; "i was forgetting. you must tell farmer eames he'll not find any nonsense about me." "all right, sir. but, if you'll excuse me, i'd best perhaps drop the 'sir'?" geoff nodded. "and that reminds me," jowett went on, "you've not told me your name--leastways, what name you wish me to give eames. we're close to his place now;" and as he spoke he looked about him scrutinizingly. "ten minutes past the back way through the park you'll come to a lane on the left. eames's farm is the first house you come to on the right," he repeated to himself, too low for geoff to hear. "yes, i can't be wrong." "you can call me jim--jim jeffreys," said the boy. "he needn't be afraid of getting into any trouble if he takes me on. i've no father, and my mother won't worry about me," he added bitterly. the entrance to the lane just then came in sight. "this here's our way," said jowett. "supposing i go on a bit in front. i think it would be just as well to explain to eames about my bringing you." "all right," said geoff. "i'll come on slowly. where is the farm?" "first house to the right; you can't miss it. but i'll come back to meet you again." he hurried on, and geoff followed slowly. he was hungry now as well as cold and tired--at least, he supposed he must be hungry, he felt so dull and stupid. what should he do if farmer eames could not take him on? he began to ask himself; he really felt as if it would be impossible for him to set off on his travels again like a tramp, begging for work all over the country. and for the first time it began faintly to dawn upon him that he had acted very foolishly. "but it's too late now," he said to himself; "i'd die rather than go home and ask to be forgiven, and be treated by them all as if i deserved to be sent to prison. i've got enough money to keep me going for a day or two, anyway. if it was summer--haymaking-time, for instance, i suppose it would be easy enough to get work. but now----" and he shivered as he gazed over the bare, dreary, lifeless-looking fields on all sides, where it was difficult to believe that the green grass could ever spring again, or the golden grain wave in the sunshine--"i really wonder what work there can be to do in the winter. the ground's as hard as iron; and oh, my goodness, isn't it cold?" suddenly some little way in front he descried two figures coming towards him. the one was jowett; the other, an older, stouter man, must be farmer eames. geoff's heart began to beat faster. would he be met by a refusal, and told to make his way back to the station? and if so, where would he go, what should he do? it had all seemed so easy when he planned it at home--he had felt so sure he would find what he wanted at once; he had somehow forgotten it would no longer be summer when he got out into the country again! for the first time in his life he realized what hundreds, nay, thousands of boys, no older than he, must go through every day--poor homeless fellows, poor and homeless through no fault of their own in many cases. "if ever i'm a rich man," thought geoff, "i'll think of to-day." and his anxiety grew so great that by the time the two men had come up to him his usually ruddy face had become almost white. jowett looked at him curiously. "you look uncommon cold, jim," he said. "this 'ere's jim jeffreys as i've been a-talking to you of, mr. eames," he said, by way of introduction to the farmer. "ah, indeed!" farmer eames replied; "seems a well-grown lad, but looks delicate. is he always so white-like?" "bless you! no," said jowett; "he's only a bit done up with--with one thing and another. we made a hearly start of it, and it's chilly this morning." the farmer grunted a little. "he'd need to get used to starting early of a morning if he was to be any use to me," he said half-grudgingly. but even this sounded hopeful to geoff. "oh, i don't mind getting up early," he said quickly. "i'm not used to lying in bed late." "there's early _and_ early," said the farmer. "what i might take you on trial for would be to drive the milk-cart to and fro the station. there's four sendings in all--full and empty together. and the first time is for the up-train that passes shalecray at half-past five." geoff shivered a little. but it would not do to seem daunted. "i'll be punctual," he said. "and of course, between times you'd have to make yourself useful about the dairy, and the pigs--you'd have to see to the pigs, and to make yourself useful," repeated the farmer, whose power of expressing himself was limited. "of course," agreed geoff as heartily as he could, though, truth to tell, the idea of pigs had not hitherto presented itself to him. "well," farmer eames went on, turning towards jowett, "i dunno as i mind giving him a trial, seeing as i'm just short of a boy as it happens. and for the station work, it's well to have a sharpish lad, and a civil-spoken one. you'll have to keep a civil tongue in your head, my boy--eh?" "certainly," said geoff, but not without a slight touch of haughtiness. "of course i'll be civil to every one who's civil to me." "and who isn't civil to thee, maybe, now and then," said the farmer, with a rather curious smile. "'twon't be all walking on roses--nay, 'twon't be all walking on roses to be odd boy in a farm. but there's many a one as'd think himself uncommon lucky to get the chance, i can tell you." "oh, and so i do," said geoff, eagerly. "i do indeed. i think it's awfully good of you to try me; and you'll see i'm not afraid of work." "and what about his character?" said the farmer, speaking again to jowett. "can you answer for his honesty?--that's the principal thing." geoff's cheeks flamed, and he was starting forward indignantly, when a word or two whispered, sternly almost, in his ear by jowett, forced him to be quiet. "don't be an idiot! do you want to spoil all your chances?" he said. and something in the tone again struck geoff with surprise. he could scarcely believe it was the simple young countryman who was speaking. "i don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "you see it's all come about in a rather--uncommon sort of way." "i should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too. "and," pursued jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin." "half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "and he must bind himself for three months certain--i'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. and i can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either." jowett looked at geoff. "very well," said geoff. "and you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "you can manage it well enough, and sunday school, too, if you're sharp--there's only twice to the station on sundays." "on sundays, too?" repeated geoff. sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home. "to be sure," said eames, sharply. "beasts can't do for themselves on sundays no more than any other day. and londoners can't drink sour milk on sundays neither." "no," said geoff, meekly enough. "of course i'm used to church," he added, "but i think i'm rather too old for the sunday school." "i'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. it's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, mr. jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation. "why not call me ned? you're very high in your manners to-day, eames," said the other, with a sort of wink. then they both laughed and walked on, leaving geoff to follow. nothing was said about _his_ being hungry. "perhaps _i_ shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. pigs, etc. it was not quite so bad as that, however. farmer eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. a stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking. "here we are again, wife," said eames. "glad to see dinner's ready. take a chair, mr. ned. you'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "this here's the new boy, missis--i've settled to give him a trial." mrs. eames murmured something, which geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. she was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, geoff noticed that it was very red--redder than a moment before. he could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy. "shall i help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan. eames burst out laughing. "that's a good joke," he said. "he knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow." geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder. "come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. eames must have his joke." "i see naught to laugh at," said mrs. eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough." "you're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "it's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. sit thee down, ned; and jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and i'll give you some dinner by-and-by." geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. he sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till mr. and mrs. eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. but from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband. "she means to be kind," thought the boy. and her kindness apparently had some effect. the farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside. "will you have a sup, jim?" he said good-naturedly. "i can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way." [illustration: he sat quietly enough.] "no, thank you," geoff replied. "i never take beer; moth----" but he stopped suddenly. "as you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, i dare say you're hungry." he cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. the slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but geoff was faint with hunger. he took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. but, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home--the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china--and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the atlantic. he drank some water--for on his refusing beer, mrs. eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; _it_ was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. and by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again. "and what are you going to be about, eames?" said jowett. "i'll walk round the place with you, if you like. i must take the four train up again." "all right," the farmer replied; "jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. you'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. do 'ee know how to drive a bit?" "oh yes," replied geoff, eagerly. "i drove a good deal last summer at--in the country. and i know i was very fond of it." "well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. but the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. now, i'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. it'll want emptying--eh, wife?" "it do that," she replied. "but he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. those are your best ones, ain't they?" geoff looked down at his suit. it was not his best, for he had left his eton jackets and trousers behind him. the clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. but now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in. "i've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket." "he should have a rougher one," said mrs. eames. "i'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of george's as'd make down." "all right," said eames. "but you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. whoever heard o' such a thing?" just then a voice was heard at the door. "i'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy." "all right," said eames; and, followed by geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard. it was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with jowett. "them's the stables," said matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. i've nought to say to pony; it's your business. and i'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. young folks has no call to be idle." "i don't mean to be idle," said geoff; "but if mr. eames doesn't find fault with me, _you_'ve no call to do so either." he spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. he muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation. "them's pigs," said he. matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics. geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. grunt, grumph, snort--out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. poor things! it was still empty. geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them. "i'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "i don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty." "ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said matthew, with a grin. he hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not. "no," said geoff, "i'll not do that till the first of april; but i'll tell you what, matthew, i'll not keep them as dirty as they are. and _i_ should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." matthew scowled. "pigs don't _need_ to be so dirty," geoff went on. "i know at cole----" but he stopped abruptly. he was certainly not going to take matthew into his confidence. he asked to be shown the pony--poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"--and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner. very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of mrs. eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. it wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. but geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there _might_ be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. he would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it. he was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when eames and jowett came back from the fields. "time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. geoff turned off to the stable. he wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to matthew, had not jowett strolled into the stable. he felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready. "been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "seems a bit strange at first." "i don't mind the work; but--it does all seem very rough," said geoff. there was a slight quiver in his voice, but jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. he liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous. "is there anything i can do for you on my way through town?" asked jowett. "i'll be in your part of the world to-night." "are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked geoff. jowett nodded. "i wish----" began the boy. "if i'd thought of it, i'd have written a letter for you to post in london. but there's no time now." jowett looked at his watch--a very good silver watch it was--"i don't know that," he said. "i can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and i'll see that your letter gets to--wherever it is, at once." "thank you," said geoff. "and jowett"--he hesitated. "you've been very good to me--would you mind one thing more? there's some one i would like to hear from sometimes, but i don't want to give my address. could i tell them--her--it's my sister--to write to your place, and you to send it to me?" "to be sure," said jowett. "but i won't give my address in the country. you just say to send on the letter to the care of 'mr. abel smith, livery stables, mowbray place mews,' and i'll see it comes straight to you. you won't want to give your name maybe? just put 'mr. james, care of abel smith.'" "thank you," said geoff, with a sigh of relief. "you see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and i'd like to know how--how they are." "to be sure," said jowett again; "it's only natural. and however bad one's been treated by one's people--and it's easy to see they must have treated you _on_common badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though i respects you for it all the more--still own folks is own folks." he cast a shrewd glance at geoff, as he spoke. the boy could not help colouring. had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? was his determination to run away and be independent of great-uncle hoot-toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for mr. byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance. "but anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves. at the station, jowett was as good as his word. he got the paper and a pencil, and geoff wrote a short note to vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. and jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any londoner. but as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. and it was a very subdued and home-sick geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. poor geoff! he drove into the yard, where matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. half forgetting himself, geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. he was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back. "dost think i's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "may stand till doomsday afore i'll touch him." [illustration: matthew, the man.] geoff turned back. of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder--more gratefully, i dare say, than he had often thanked elsa or frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. but, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. it was all so strange and new too; at colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. he did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. and at last old dapple was made as comfortable as geoff knew how, for matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand. the fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to geoff smelt very nasty. he coughed, to attract mr. eames's attention. "i've brought my bag from the station," he said. "will you tell me where i'm to sleep?" the farmer looked up sharply. "you've brought the milk-cans back, too, i suppose? your bag's not the principal thing. have you seen to dapple?" "yes," said geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky. eames looked at him again, and still more sharply. "i told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "you'll say 'sir' when you speak to me." but just then mrs. eames fortunately made her appearance. "don't scold him--he's only a bit strange," she said. "come with me, jim, and i'll show you your room." "thank you," said the boy, gratefully. mrs. eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, geoff saw a very small, very bare room. there was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall. mrs. eames looked round. "it's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." then she gave him the light, and turned to go. "please," said geoff, meekly, "might i have a piece of bread? i'm rather hungry." it was long past his usual tea-time. "to be sure!" she replied. "you've not had your tea? i put it on the hob for you." and the good woman bustled off again. geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. she poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. but it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. it was the thought of tea-time at home--the neat table, and vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked--that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. he felt as if he could not bear it. he swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer. "shall i go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "i'm--i'm rather tired." "go to bed?" repeated eames. "yes, i suppose so. you must turn out early--the milk must be at the station by half-past five." "how shall i wake?" asked geoff, timidly. "wake? you'll have to learn to wake like others do. however, for the first, i'll tell matthew to knock you up." "thank you. good-night, sir." "good-night." and the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading. "you'll find your bed well aired. i made betsy see to that," called out mrs. eames. "thank you," said geoff again, more heartily this time. but he overheard eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad." "and you'd have him laid up with rheumatics--dying of a chill? that'd be a nice finish up to it all. you know quite well----" but geoff heard no more. and he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard. he got out what he required for the night. he wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. he tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. it was very cold, but, as mrs. eames had said, quite dry. the chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. he was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear vicky might be happy. and then he fell asleep--so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. he sat up. where was he? at first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly--wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out-- "up with you there, jim, d'ye hear? i'm not a-going to stand here all day. it's past half-past four. jim--you lazy lout. i'll call master if you don't speak--a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!" gradually geoff remembered all--the feeling of the things about him--the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see. [illustration: knocking so roughly.] "i'm coming, matthew!" he shouted back. "i'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. he had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in--enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. he dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. he managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "i must try to wash when i come back," he said to himself. then he hurried out, and none too soon. [illustration: geoff at the station.] matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "you'll have to look sharp," he said, as geoff hurried to the stable. "betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. you should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute." the harnessing of dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. but it got done at last, and geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where betsy was filling the last of the cans. she was not so cross as she might have been, and mrs. eames had not yet appeared. they got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station. it seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to london. how little he or vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which mrs. tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! and though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out. "you'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "i'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time." geoff did not answer--he was getting used to sharp words and tones. he nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, november rain began to fall. he buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old dapple in the milk-cart. he was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning. mrs. eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, geoff came in. there was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. mrs. eames heard him, however, and looked up. she started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face. "bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. whatever's the matter?" geoff smiled a little--he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face--and his smile made mrs. eames still more sorry for him. "there's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "i'm only rather cold--and wet. i'm strange to it all, i suppose. i wanted to know what i should do next. should i feed the pigs?" "have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "he's gone down the fields with matthew and the others. didn't you meet 'em?" geoff shook his head. "no; i went straight to the stable when i came back from the station." "you'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "there--hang it before the fire. and," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold--it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread." she poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire. "thank you, thank you awfully," said geoff. oh, how good the coffee smelt! he had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, _how_ he would have grumbled! coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar--bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! truly geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity. breakfast over, came the pigs. the farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as betsy was much more good-natured than matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. he would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of matthew's mocking him. but besides this there was not time. at eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter geoff dared not be late. and in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to mrs. eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized master geoffrey tudor. after dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. oh, how tired geoff was getting of the lane to the station! and the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. for a message had come from london that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again farmer eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. it was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. _very_ hard indeed it seemed to him--to proud geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. and big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. and yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as farmer eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master. "i suppose," thought geoff, "i have never really known what hardships were, though i did think i had plenty to bear at home." what would elsa have said had she heard him? [illustration] chapter xi. "hoot-toot" behind the hedge. that first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. the days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. the loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. he got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. he was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. but no letters came, no answer to his note to vicky begging her to write; and geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder. "they would let me know, somehow, i suppose, if there was anything much the matter--if--mamma had not got much better yet." for even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." and yet she had looked very ill that last evening. he thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her--to know how she was. often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "oh, mamma, mamma!" but there was no one to hear. and with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "they don't care for me. they are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family. but these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. his experiences had already made him more practical--he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the dick whittington way--he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! he saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked mrs. eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had _not_ always been easy for her to procure for him. yes, geoff was certainly learning some lessons. [illustration: sobbing and crying.] sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. he went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. and no more was said about the sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. on sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of crickwood bolders. he liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. the house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place--just the sort of "home" of geoff's wildest dreams. "if we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself--"mamma quite well and not worried about money--elsa and frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and vicky----" but at the idea of _vicky's_ happiness, words failed him. it was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. for even on sundays people can't do without eating and drinking. [illustration: geoff stood still in amazement.] one sunday a queer thing happened. he was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. they were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like eames's. it might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. and geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear--"hoot-toot, hoot-toot! i tell you----" but instantly the voice dropped. it sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. geoff stood still in amazement. _could_ great-uncle hoot-toot be there? it seemed too impossible. but the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together. "if he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. but to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was mr. eames himself. "what's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "thou'st staring as if i were a ghost." "i thought--i thought," stammered geoff, "that i saw--no, heard your voice just now at the lodge." eames laughed. "but i couldn't be in two places at once, could i? well, get off with you to the station." all was as usual of a sunday there. no one about, no passengers by the up-train--only the milk-cans; and geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy. but had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. a passenger did start from shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. and when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed-- "oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? i've been watching for you such a long time. oh, do--do tell me about geoff! did you see him? and oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?" "come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all i can tell." the three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. the mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness. "did you find him easily, uncle? was it where you thought?" asked vicky. "yes, yes; i had no difficulty. i saw him, vicky, but without his seeing me. he has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. and i had an excellent account of him from the farmer. he is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. but i am afraid he is very unhappy--his face had a set sad look in it that i do not like to see on one so young. i fear he never got your letters, vicky. there must have been some mistake about the address. i didn't want to push the thing too far. you must write again, my little girl--say all you can to soften him. what i want is that it should come from _his_ side. he will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! now go to bed, vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. i want to talk it all over with your mother. don't be unhappy about poor old geoff, my dear." obedient vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. she tried to whisper "good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. still, vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past. as soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others. "she doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked. "no," said elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. she has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home." great-uncle hoot-toot nodded his head. "that is all right. years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if i am no longer here, _you_ may tell him all about it, my dears. but just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. i should not at all like him to know i had employed detectives. he would be angry at having been taken in. that jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. i must see him about that. what was the address geoff gave in his note to vicky? are you sure she put it right?" "oh yes," said frances; "i saw it both times. it was-- 'to mr. james, care of mr. adam smith, murray place mews.'" "hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. he could not make it out. but we, who know in what a hurry geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why vicky's letters had never reached him. for the address he _should_ have given was-- "abel smith, _mowbray_ place mews." "this time," mr. byrne went on, "i'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. jowett must manage it. let vicky address as before, and i'll see that it reaches him." "what do you think she should write?" said mrs. tudor, anxiously. "what she feels. it does not much matter. but let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever--that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. if i mistake not, from what i saw and what eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. and he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him." "but, uncle dear," said elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish--and--if _all_ your delightful plans are realized, won't geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?" "no," said mr. byrne. "eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was i that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as i told you), i found it easy to make him understand all i wished. crickwood bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. they only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and eames says i am spoken of as the new mr. bolders, and not by my own name." "i see," said elsa. "and," continued mr. byrne, "of course geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. it _was_ a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to colethorne's." "and you say that he is really working hard, and--and making the best of things?" asked mrs. tudor. she smiled a little as she said it. geoff's "making the best of things" was such a _very_ new idea. "yes," replied great-uncle hoot-toot. "eames gives him the best of characters. he says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble." "fancy geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed elsa. "i don't know that i find _that_ so difficult to fancy," said frances. "i think geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. we would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. i think what i pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. what time did you say he had to get up, uncle?" [illustration: vicky writing the letter.] "he has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'--she can't forget who he really is, it appears. i was glad to hear it; i don't want the poor boy actually to suffer--and i don't want it to go on much longer. i confess i don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year." "no, indeed," said the girls. "and he must be _so_ lonely." "yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "i saw that in his face. and i was _glad_ to see it. it shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. you've had your wish for him to some extent, elsa, my dear. he has at last known some hardships." elsa's eyes filled with tears, though great-uncle hoot-toot had had no thought of hurting her. "don't say that, please," she entreated. "i think--i am sure--i only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even." "i know, i know," the old gentleman agreed. "but i think he has had about enough of it. see that vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. a letter at last. christmas had come and gone. it brought geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. he had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of december with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a christmas card. and for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he _sure_ there was no letter for james jeffreys? but the postman only shook his head. he had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of mr. eames,'" as geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. and when not only christmas, but new year's day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope. "it is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "i think they might think a _little_ of me. they might be sorry for me, even--even if i did worry them all when i was at home. they might guess how lonely i am. it isn't the hard work. if it was for mother i was working, and if i knew they were all pleased with me, i wouldn't mind it. but i can't bear to go on like this." yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for mr. byrne's charity. and every feeling of independence and manliness in geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. he could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. and gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would emigrate! he saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months. "and then," thought geoff, "i might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things i have at home i might get the rest of the money. or--i would not even mind taking it as a _loan_ from great-uncle hoot-toot. that would seem different; and of course i do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only i were a man that would be my business." and for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. his old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. but these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he _could_ not bear it any longer. and he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened. it was about six weeks after the sunday on which he had thought he had overheard great-uncle hoot-toot's voice through the hedge. it was a sunday again. geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the hall, when a sudden exclamation from mrs. eames made him look up. the farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser. [illustration: geoff reading vicky's letter.] as she did so, a letter fell forward. it was addressed in a clear, good hand to "james jeffreys, at mr. eames's, crickwood farm, shalecray." "bless me!" cried the good woman. "what's this a-doing here? jem, boy, 'tis thine. when can it have come? it may have been up there a good bit." geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand. "give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. a look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. for it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "i forward enclosed, as agreed.--ned jowett." and the second envelope was addressed to "mr. james" in a round, childish hand, that geoff knew well. it was vicky's. he darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. he could not have read the letter before any one. already the tears were welling up into his eyes. and long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. this was what vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old! "my darling geoff, "why haven't you written to us? i wrote you a letter the minute i got your little note with the address, and i have written to you again since then. great-uncle hoot-toot says you are sure to get this letter. i think you can't have got the others. but still you might have written. i have been so _very_ unhappy about you. of course i was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still i have been very unhappy. mamma got better very slowly. i don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. she has been very unhappy, too, and so have elsa and frances, but poor vicky most of all. we do so want you at home again. geoff, i can't tell you how good old uncle hoot-toot is. there is something about money i can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. oh, geoff, darling, do come home. we do all love you so, and mamma and elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. i think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. i keep your room so nice. i dust it myself every day. mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then i have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. but i was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. i have wrapped up our teapot, after harvey had made it very bright, and i won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. oh, geoffy, darling, do come home! "your loving, unhappy little "vicky." the tears came faster and faster--so fast that it was with difficulty geoff could see to read the last few lines. he hid his face in his hands and sobbed. he was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. and with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. he saw himself as he had really been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt. "yes," he said to himself, "that was all i _really_ had to complain of. they considered me too much--they spoilt me. but, oh, i would be so different now! only--i can't go home and say to great-uncle hoot-toot, 'i've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' it would seem _too_ mean. no, i must keep to my plan--it's too late to change. but i think i might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. in three weeks i shall have been here three months, and then i may ask for a holiday. i'll write to vicky now at once, and tell her so--i can post the letter when i go to the station. they must have thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. i wonder how it was i never got the other letters? but it doesn't matter now i've got this one. oh, dear vicky, i think i shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!" he had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. and once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. this was his letter:-- "crickwood farm, february . "my dearest vicky, "i have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the th of january. mrs. eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. i never got your other letters; i can't think what became of them. i've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. vicky, i can't tell you all i'd like to say. i thought i'd write to mamma, but i feel as if i couldn't. will you tell her that i just _beg_ her to forgive me? not only for leaving home without leave, like i did, but for all the way i went on and all the worry i gave her. i see it all quite plain. i've been getting to see it for a good while, and when i read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. i don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home--i wouldn't mind anything if i thought i was doing right. but it's the loneliness. vicky, i have thought sometimes i'd go out of my mind. will you ask great-uncle hoot-toot to forgive me, too? i'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and i think i am much sensibler about money than i was, so perhaps he'll tell me. i can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then i'll come home for one day. i shall have to tell you my plans, and i think mamma will think i'm right. i must work hard, and perhaps in a few years i shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. for i've made up my mind to emigrate. i don't think i'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, i don't mind it, and i love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. please, vicky, make everybody understand that i hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.--your very loving "geoff. "p.s.--you may write here now. i don't mind you all knowing where i am." by the time geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. he had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. he was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the shalecray mail. the man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked. "by tuesday," thought geoff, "i may have a letter if vicky writes at once. and i might write again next sunday. so that we'd hear of each other every week." and this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a sunday evening, eames was sitting smoking beside the fire. "the missis has told me about your letter, jim," said the farmer. "i'm right-down sorry about it, but i don't rightly know who to blame. it's just got slipped out o' sight." "thank you," geoff replied. "i'm awfully glad to have it now." "he's never looked so bright since he came," said mr. eames to his wife when geoff had left the room. "he's about getting tired of it, i fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, i take it. but he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so i told the squire. he's a fine spirit of his own, too." "and as civil a lad as ever i seed," added mrs. eames. "no nonsense and no airs. one can tell as he's a real gentleman. all the same, i'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. and you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if i hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor i could bear." "well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. and you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. the new squire and his family. tuesday brought no letter for geoff--nor wednesday, nor even thursday. his spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. this thought kept him up till thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, jim? i posted it straight away," and then geoff did not know what to think. he did not like to write again. he began to fear that vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and great-uncle hoot-toot and elsa and frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought. "i will wait till i can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then i will write and say i am coming, and if they won't see me i must just bear it. at least, i am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to america, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then." when he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. _he_ had had a letter that morning, though geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him. "jim, my boy," he said, "i shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. the new squire's coming down on monday to look round a bit. they've been tidying up at the house; did you know?" geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the hall grounds except on sundays, and on the last sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change. "do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "they're very short of hands, and i've promised to help what i could. the rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. with this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds." "i could do that," said geoff, his eyes sparkling. "i don't know much about gardening, but i know enough for that." it was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "when shall i go, sir?" he went on eagerly. "why, the sooner the better," said mr. eames. "to-morrow morning. that'll give you two good days. branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. the south parlour is all ready. there'll be a deal to do to the house--new furniture and all the rest of it. he--the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's--and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice. "are they going to live here?" asked geoff. he liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that i was different from any other." "going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. the new squire would be off his head not to live at crickwood bolders, when it belongs to him. a beautiful place as it is too." "yes," agreed geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. the squire should be a happy man." he thought so more and more during the next two days. there was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood--especially on the south side, where geoff's work lay. the weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk. "i wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "but even to be a good gardener i suppose one should learn a lot of things i know nothing about." good-will goes a long way, however. geoff felt really proud of his work by saturday evening, and on sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well. "those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance. "they don't show from the house," said geoff, "and branch says it's too early to do much. there will be frosts again." "no matter," said mr. eames; "i'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for monday, seeing as i'd promised to help. i'll give you another day off the home-work, jim. robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work." [illustration: the farmer took a look at the flowerbeds himself.] geoff looked up uneasily. it would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. but there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him. "very well, sir," he said. "i'll do as you like, of course; but i don't want any one else to do my own work for long." "all right," said eames. for a moment geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away. monday saw geoff again at his post. it was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. there was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to london and try to see them. "and if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "i must just work on till i can emigrate." he glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. he was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely. the morning was getting on; geoff looked at his watch--he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it--it was nearly twelve. "i must go home to dinner, i suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. as he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do. "they have come," thought geoff. "they'll be out here in another instant. i can't help it if it _is_ silly; i should _hate_ ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought. he hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. a little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind. "oh!" was geoff's first thought, "how like vicky!" but it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him--_upon_ him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "oh, geoffey, geoffey! my own geoffey! it's i--it's your vicky." geoff staggered, and almost fell. for a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. but the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly. "how is it? where have you come from? do you know the new squire? where is mamma? why didn't you write?" and, laughing and crying, vicky tried to explain. did she know the new squire? could geoff not guess? where were they all? mamma, elsa, frances, great-uncle hoot-toot--where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? up there on the terrace--yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. and she dragged geoff up with her, geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do--never do, geoff, my boy." they let vicky explain it all in her own way. how great-uncle hoot-toot had come home from india, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. how disappointed he had been by geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord. "and," vicky went on innocently, "was it not _wonderful_ that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with mr. eames, whom he has known so long?" in which geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been--how mr. byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the london police, "ned jowett," the innocent countryman whom geoff had patronized! the boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. and his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately--that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to great-uncle hoot-toot than they had had any idea of. "your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "mr. byrne has no relations of his own. we were left very poor, but he never let me know it. the lawyers by mistake wrote to _me_ about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. so you see, geoff, what we owe him--_everything_--and you must be guided by his wishes entirely." they were kind and good wishes. he did not want geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. for two or three years geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. they say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to geoff at mr. byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about. [illustration] printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. dusty diamonds cut and polished, by r.m. ballantyne. first published ________________________________________________________________________ as so often with ballantyne there are two concurrent stories in this book. in one of these we meet two little stray and homeless boys in the vicinity of whitechapel in the east-end of london. these two are rescued from the streets, trained up and sent to canada to live as part of a farmer's family there. the other story concerns the mother of one of the boys, with too many children, a drink-habit, and a wife-beating and criminal husband: plainly there's not much going for her, but her eldest daughter manages to bring life together for the family. the bad father, on his release from jail, deserts his wife, which is no bad thing; the wife takes the blue ribbon and gives up drinking; a couple of well-to-do gentlemen take an interest in the family; and finally they all emigrate to canada and live happily ever after. of course, it is a little more complicated than that, with a burglary thrown in as well as a smattering of do-good-ers and do-bad-ers. but for those with an interest in the street-life of the nineteenth century this will be a very interesting book for you. a note about the author. robert michael ballantyne was born in and died in . he was educated at the edinburgh academy, and in he became a clerk with the hudson bay company, working at the red river settlement in northern canada until , arriving back in edinburgh in . the letters he had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should construct a book based on these letters. three of his most enduring books were written over the next decade, "the young fur traders", "ungava", "the hudson bay company", and were based on his experiences with the h.b.c. in this period he also wrote "the coral island" and "martin rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by ballantyne. having been chided for small mistakes he made in these books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about. with these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for teenagers. he researched the cornish mines, the london fire brigade, the postal service, the railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the life-boat service, south africa, norway, the north sea fishing fleet, ballooning, deep-sea diving, algiers, and many more, experiencing the lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived. he was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he encountered with great care and attention to detail. his young readers looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the s and s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year, all very good reading. the rate of production diminished in the last ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed. he published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for very young children under the pseudonym "comus". for today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what we would nowadays call "pi". in part that was the way people wrote in those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the red river settlement, in the wilds of canada, he had been a little dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how they ought to behave, as he felt he had been. some of his books were quite short, little over pages. these books formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less pocket-money. these books are particularly well-written and researched, because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for their money. they were published as six series, three books in each series. re-created as an e-text by nick hodson, september . ________________________________________________________________________ dusty diamonds cut and polished, by r.m. ballantyne. chapter one. an accident and some of its curious results. every one has heard of those ponies--those shaggy, chubby, innocent-looking little creatures--for which the world is indebted, we suppose, to shetland. well, once on a time, one of the most innocent-looking, chubbiest, and shaggiest of shetland ponies--a dark brown one--stood at the door of a mansion in the west-end of london. it was attached to a wickerwork vehicle which resembled a large clothes-basket on small wheels. we do not mean, of course, that the pony was affectionately attached to it. no; the attachment was involuntary and unavoidable, by reason of a brand-new yellow leather harness with brass buckles. it objected to the attachment, obviously, for it sidled this way, and straddled that way, and whisked its enormous little tail, and tossed its rotund little head, and stamped its ridiculously small feet; and champed its miniature bit, as if it had been a war-horse of the largest size, fit to carry a wallace, a bruce, or a richard of the lion-heart, into the midst of raging battle. and no wonder; for many months had not elapsed since that brown creature had kicked up its little heels, and twirled its tail, and shaken its shaggy mane in all the wild exuberance of early youth and unfettered freedom on the heather hills of its native island. in the four-wheeled basket sat a little girl whom it is useless to describe as beautiful. she was far beyond that! her delicate colour, her little straight nose, her sparkling teeth, her rosebud of a mouth, her enormous blue eyes, and floods of yellow hair--pooh! these are not worth mentioning in the same sentence with her expression. it was that which carried all before it, and swept up the adoration of man-and-woman-kind as with the besom of fascination. she was the only child of sir richard brandon. sir richard was a knight and a widower. he was knighted, not because of personal merit, but because he had been mayor of some place, sometime or other, when some one connected with royalty had something important to do with it! little diana was all that this knight and widower had on earth to care for, except, of course, his horses and dogs, and guns, and club, and food. he was very particular as to his food. not that he was an epicure, or a gourmand, or luxurious, or a hard drinker, or anything of that sort--by no means. he could rough it, (so he said), as well as any man, and put up with whatever chanced to be going, but, when there was no occasion for roughing it, he did like to see things well cooked and nicely served; and wine, you know, was not worth drinking--positively nauseous--if it was not of the best. sir richard was a poor man--a very poor man. he had only five thousand a year--a mere pittance; and he managed this sum in such a peculiar way that he never had anything wherewith to help a struggling friend, or to give to the poor, or to assist the various religious and charitable institutions by which he was surrounded; while at certain intervals in the year he experienced exasperating difficulty in meeting the demands of those torments to society, the tradespeople--people who ought to be ashamed of themselves for not being willing to supply the nobility and gentry with food and clothing gratuitously! moreover, sir richard never by any chance laid anything by. standing by the pony's head, and making tender efforts to restrain his waywardness, stood a boy--a street boy--a city arab. to a londoner any description of this boy would be superfluous, but it may be well to state, for the benefit of the world at large, that the class to which he belonged embodies within its pale the quintessence of rollicking mischief, and the sublimate of consummate insolence. this remarkable boy was afflicted with a species of dance--not that of saint vitus, but a sort of double-shuffle, with a stamp of the right foot at the end--in which he was prone to indulge, consciously and unconsciously, at all times, and the tendency to which he sometimes found it difficult to resist. he was beginning to hum the sharply-defined air to which he was in the habit of performing this dance, when little diana said, in a silvery voice quite in keeping with her beauty-- "let go his head, boy; i'm quite sure that he cannot bear restraint." it may be remarked here that little di was probably a good judge on that point, being herself nearly incapable of bearing restraint. "i'd better not, miss," replied the boy with profound respect in tone and manner, for he had yet to be paid for the job; "he seems raither frisky, an' might take a fancy to bolt, you know." "let his head go, i say!" returned miss diana with a flashing of the blue eyes, and a pursing of the rosebud mouth that proved her to be one of adam's race after all. "vell, now, don't you think," rejoined the boy, in an expostulating tone, "that it would be as veil to vait for the guv'nor before givin' 'im 'is 'ead?" "do as i bid you, sir!" said di, drawing herself up like an empress. still the street boy held the pony's head, and it is probable that he would have come off the victor in this controversy, had not diana's dignified action given to the reins which she held a jerk. the brown pony, deeming this full permission to go on, went off with a bound that overturned the boy, and caused the fore-wheel to strike him on the leg as it passed. springing up with the intention of giving chase to the runaway, the little fellow again fell, with a sharp cry of pain, for his leg was broken. at the same moment sir richard brandon issued from the door of his mansion leisurely, and with an air of calm serenity, pulling on his gloves. it was one of the knight's maxims that, under all circumstances, a gentleman should maintain an appearance of imperturbable serenity. when, however, he suddenly beheld the street boy falling, and his daughter standing up in her wickerwork chariot, holding on to the brown pony like an amazon warrior of ancient times, his maxim somehow evaporated. his serenity vanished. so did his hat as he bounded from beneath it, and left it far behind in his mad and hopeless career after the runaway. a policeman, coming up just as sir richard disappeared, went to the assistance of the street boy. "not much hurt, youngster," he said kindly, as he observed that the boy was very pale, and seemed to be struggling hard to repress his feelings. "vell, p'raps i is an' p'raps i ain't, bobby," replied the boy with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile, for he felt safe to chaff or insult his foe in the circumstances, "but vether hurt or not it vont much matter to you, vill it?" he fainted as he spoke, and the look of half-humorous impudence, as well as that of pain, gave place to an expression of infantine repose. the policeman was so struck by the unusual sight of a street boy looking innocent and unconscious, that he stooped and raised him quite tenderly in his arms. "you'd better carry him in here," said sir richard brandon's butler, who had come out. "i saw it 'appen, and suspect he must be a good deal damaged." sir richard's footman backing the invitation, the boy was carried into the house accordingly, laid on the housemaid's bed, and attended to by the cook, while the policeman went out to look after the runaways. "oh! what ever shall we do?" exclaimed the cook, as the boy showed symptoms of returning consciousness. "send for the doctor," suggested the housemaid. "no," said the butler, "send for a cab, and 'ave the boy sent home. i fear that master will blame me for givin' way to my feelin's, and won't thank me for bringin' 'im in here. you know he is rather averse to the lower orders. besides, the poor boy will be better attended to at 'ome, no doubt. i dare say you'd like to go 'ome, wouldn't you?" he said, observing that the boy was looking at him with a rather curious expression. "i dessay i should, if i could," he answered, with a mingled glance of mischief and pain, "but if you'll undertake to carry me, old cock, i'll be 'appy to go." "i'll send you in a cab, my poor boy," returned the butler, "and git a cabman as i'm acquainted with to take care of you." "all right! go a'ead, ye cripples," returned the boy, as the cook approached him with a cup of warm soup. "oh! ain't it prime!" he said, opening his eyes very wide indeed, and smacking his lips. "i think i'll go in for a smashed pin every day o' my life for a drop o' that stuff. surely it must be wot they drinks in 'eaven! have 'ee got much more o' the same on 'and?" "never mind, but you drink away while you've got the chance," replied the amiable cook; "there's the cab coming, so you've no time to lose." "vell, i _am_ sorry i ain't able to 'old more, an' my pockets wont 'old it neither, bein' the wuss for wear. thankee, missus." he managed, by a strong effort, to dispose of a little more soup before the cab drew up. "where do you live?" asked the butler, as he placed the boy carefully in the bottom of the cab with his unkempt head resting on a hassock, which he gave him to understand was a parting gift from the housemaid. "vere do i live?" he repeated. "vy, mostly in the streets; my last 'ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but i do sometimes condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion 'ouse in vitechapel." "and what is your name? sir richard may wish to inquire for you-- perhaps." "may he? oh! i'm sorry i ain't got my card to leave, but you just tell him, john--is it, or thomas?--ah! thomas. i knowed it couldn't 'elp to be one or t'other;--you just tell your master that my name is robert, better known as bobby, frog. but i've lots of aliases, if that name don't please 'im. good-bye, thomas. farewell, and if for ever, then-- you know the rest o' the quotation, if your eddication's not bin neglected, w'ich is probable it was. oh! by the way. this 'assik is the gift of the 'ouse-maid? you observe the answer, cabby, in case you and i may differ about it 'ereafter." "yes," said the amused butler, "a gift from jessie." "ah!--jus' so. an' she's tender-'earted an' on'y fifteen. wots 'er tother name? summers, eh? vell, it's prettier than vinters. tell 'er i'll not forget 'er. now, cabman--'ome!" a few minutes more, and bobby frog was on his way to the mansion in whitechapel, highly delighted with his recent feast, but suffering extremely from his broken limb. meanwhile, the brown pony--having passed a bold costermonger, who stood shouting defiance at it, and waving both arms till it was close on him, when he stepped quickly out of its way--eluded a dray-man, and entered on a fine sweep of street, where there seemed to be no obstruction worth mentioning. by that time it had left the agonised father far behind. the day was fine; the air bracing. the utmost strength of poor little diana, and she applied it well, made no impression whatever on the pony's tough mouth. influences of every kind were favourable. on the illogical principle, probably, that being "in for a penny" justified being "in for a pound," the pony laid himself out for a glorious run. he warmed to his work, caused the dust to fly, and the clothes-basket to advance with irregular bounds and swayings as he scampered along, driving many little dogs wild with delight, and two or three cats mad with fear. gradually he drew towards the more populous streets, and here, of course, the efforts on the part of the public to arrest him became more frequent, also more decided, though not more successful. at last an inanimate object effected what man and boy had failed to accomplish. in a wild effort to elude a demonstrative cabman near the corner of one of the main thoroughfares, the brown pony brought the wheels of the vehicle into collision with a lamp-post. that lamp-post went down before the shock like a tall head of grain before the sickle. the front wheels doubled up into a sudden embrace, broke loose, and went across the road, one into a greengrocer's shop, the other into a chemist's window. thus diversely end many careers that begin on a footing of equality! the hind-wheels went careering along the road like a new species of bicycle, until brought up by a donkey-cart, while the basket chariot rolled itself violently round the lamp-post, like a shattered remnant, as if resolved, before perishing, to strangle the author of all the mischief. as to the pony, it stopped, and seemed surprised at first by the unexpected finale, but the look quickly changed--or appeared to change--to one of calm contentment as it surveyed the ruin. but what of the fair little charioteer? truly, in regard to her, a miracle, or something little short of one, had occurred. the doctrine that extremes meet contains much truth in it--truth which is illustrated and exemplified more frequently, we think, than is generally supposed. a tremendous accident is often much less damaging to the person who experiences it than a slight one. in little diana's case, the extremes had met, and the result was absolute safety. she was shot out of her basket carriage after the manner of a sky-rocket, but the impulse was so effective that, instead of causing her to fall on her head and break her pretty little neck, it made her perform a complete somersault, and alight upon her feet. moreover, the spot on which she alighted was opportune, as well as admirably suited to the circumstances. at the moment, ignorant of what was about to happen, police-constable number --we are not quite sure of what division--in all the plenitude of power, and blue, and six-feet-two, approached the end of a street entering at right angles to the one down which our little heroine had flown. he was a superb specimen of humanity, this constable, with a chest and shoulders like hercules, and the figure of apollo. he turned the corner just as the child had completed her somersault, and received her two little feet fairly in the centre of his broad breast, driving him flat on his back more effectively than could have been done by the best prize-fighter in england! number proved a most effectual buffer, for di, after planting her blow on his chest, sat plump down on his stomach, off which she sprang in an agony of consternation, exclaiming-- "oh! i have killed him! i've killed him!" and burst into tears. "no, my little lady," said number , as he rose with one or two coughs and replaced his helmet, "you've not quite done for me, though you've come nearer the mark than any _man_ has ever yet accomplished. come, now, what can i do for you? you're not hurt, i hope?" this sally was received with a laugh, almost amounting to a cheer, by the half-horrified crowd which had quickly assembled to witness, as it expected, a fatal accident. "hurt? oh! no, i'm not hurt," exclaimed di, while tears still converted her eyes into blue lakelets as she looked anxiously up in the face of number ; "but i'm quite sure you must be hurt--awfully. i'm _so_ sorry! indeed i am, for i didn't mean to knock you down." this also was received by the crowd with a hearty laugh, while number sought to comfort the child by earnestly assuring her that he was not hurt in the least--only a little stunned at first, but that was quite gone. "wot does she mean by knockin' of 'im down?" asked a small butcher's boy, who had come on the scene just too late, of a small baker's boy who had, happily, been there from the beginning. "she means wot she says," replied the small baker's boy with the dignified reticence of superior knowledge, "she knocked the constable down." "wot! a leetle gurl knock a six-foot bobby down?--walk-_er_!" "very good; you've no call to b'lieve it unless you like," replied the baker's boy, with a look of pity at the unbelieving butcher, "but she did it, though--an' that's six month with 'ard labour, if it ain't five year." at this point the crowd opened up to let a maniac enter. he was breathless, hatless, moist, and frantic. "my child! my darling! my dear di!" he gasped. "papa!" responded diana, with a little scream, and, leaping into his arms, grasped him in a genuine hug. "oh! i say," whispered the small butcher, "it's a melly-drammy--all for nuffin!" "my!" responded the small baker, with a solemn look, "won't the lord left-tenant be down on 'em for play-actin' without a licence, just!" "is the pony killed?" inquired sir richard, recovering himself. "not in the least, sir. 'ere 'e is, sir; all alive an' kickin'," answered the small butcher, delighted to have the chance of making himself offensively useful, "but the hinsurance offices wouldn't 'ave the clo'se-baskit at no price. shall i order up the remains of your carriage, sir?" "oh! i'm so glad he's not dead," said diana, looking hastily up, "but this policeman was nearly killed, and _i_ did it! he saved my life, papa." a chorus of voices here explained to sir richard how number had come up in the nick of time to receive the flying child upon his bosom. "i am deeply grateful to you," said the knight, turning to the constable, and extending his hand, which the latter shook modestly while disclaiming any merit for having merely performed his duty--he might say, involuntarily. "will you come to my house?" said sir richard. "here is my card. i should like to see you again, and pray, see that some one looks after my pony and--" "and the remains," suggested the small butcher, seeing that sir richard hesitated. "be so good as to call a cab," said sir richard in a general way to any one who chose to obey. "here you are, sir!" cried a peculiarly sharp cabby, who, correctly judging from the state of affairs that his services would be required, had drawn near to bide his time. sir richard and his little daughter got in and were driven home, leaving number to look after the pony and the remains. thus curiously were introduced to each other some of the characters in our tale. chapter two. the irresistible power of love. need we remark that there was a great deal of embracing on the part of di and her nurse when the former returned home? the child was an affectionate creature as well as passionate. the nurse, mrs screwbury, was also affectionate without being passionate. poor diana had never known a mother's love or care; but good, steady, stout mrs screwbury did what in her lay to fill the place of mother. sir richard filled the place of father pretty much as a lamp-post might have done had it owned a child. he illuminated her to some extent-- explained things in general, stiffly, and shed a feeble ray around himself; but his light did not extend far. he was proud of her, however, and very fond of her--when good. when not good, he was--or rather had been--in the habit of dismissing her to the nursery. nevertheless, the child exercised very considerable and ever-increasing influence over her father; for, although stiff, the knight was by no means destitute of natural affection, and sometimes observed, with moist eyes, strong traces of resemblance to his lost wife in the beautiful child. indeed, as years advanced, he became a more and more obedient father, and was obviously on the high road to abject slavery. "papa," said di, while they were at luncheon that day, not long after the accident, "i _am_ so sorry for that poor policeman. it seems such a dreadful thing to have actually jumped upon him! and oh! you should have heard his poor head hit the pavement, and seen his pretty helmet go spinning along like a boy's top, ever so far. i wonder it didn't kill him. i'm _so_ sorry." di emphasised her sorrow by laughing, for she had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the memory of the spinning helmet was strong upon her just then. "it must indeed have been an unpleasant blow," replied sir richard, gravely, "but then, dear, you couldn't help it, you know--and i dare say he is none the worse for it now. men like him are not easily injured. i fear we cannot say as much for the boy who was holding the pony." "oh! i quite forgot about him," exclaimed di; "the naughty boy! he wouldn't let go the pony's reins when i bid him, but i saw he tumbled down when we set off." "yes, he has been somewhat severely punished, i fear, for his disobedience. his leg had been broken. is it not so, balls?" "yes, sir," replied the butler, "'e 'as 'ad 'is--" balls got no farther, for diana, who had been struck dumb for the moment by the news, recovered herself. "his leg broken!" she exclaimed with a look of consternation; "oh! the poor, poor boy!--the dear boy! and it was me did that too, as well as knocking down the poor policeman!" there is no saying to what lengths the remorseful child would have gone in the way of self-condemnation if her father had not turned her thoughts from herself by asking what had been done for the boy. "we sent 'im 'ome, sir, in a cab." "i'm afraid that was a little too prompt," returned the knight thoughtfully. "a broken leg requires careful treatment, i suppose. you should have had him into the house, and sent for a doctor." balls coughed. he was slightly chagrined to find that the violation of his own humane feelings had been needless, and that his attempt to do as he thought his master would have wished was in vain. "i thought, sir richard, that you didn't like the lower orders to go about the 'ouse more--" again little di interrupted the butler by asking excitedly where the boy's home was. "in the neighbour'ood of w'itechapel, miss di." "then, papa, we will go straight off to see him," said the child, in the tone of one whose mind is fully made up. "you and i shall go together-- won't we? good papa!" "that will do, balls, you may go. no, my dear di, i think we had better not. i will write to one of the city missionaries whom i know, and ask him to--" "no, but, papa--dear papa, we _must_ go. the city missionary could never say how very, _very_ sorry i am that he should have broken his leg while helping me. and then i should _so_ like to sit by him and tell him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. poor, _poor_ boy, we _must_ go, papa, won't you?" "not to-day, dear. it is impossible to go to-day. there, now, don't begin to cry. perhaps--perhaps to-morrow--but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty--how _very_ nasty--the places are in which our lower orders live." "oh! yes i have," said di eagerly. "haven't i seen our nursery on cleaning days?" a faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight's countenance. "true, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. then the smells. oh! they are very dreadful--" "what--worse than _we_ have when there's cabbage for dinner?" "yes, much worse than that." "i don't care, papa. we _must_ go to see the boy--the poor, _poor_ boy, in spite of dirt and smells. and then, you know--let me up on your knee and i'll tell you all about it. there! well, then, you know, i'd tidy the room up, and even wash it a little. oh, you can't think how nicely i washed up my doll's room--her corner, you know,--that day when i spilt all her soup in trying to feed her, and then, while trying to wipe it up, i accidentally burst her, and all her inside came out--the sawdust, i mean. it was the worst mess i ever made, but i cleaned it up as well as jessie herself could have done--so nurse said." "but the messes down in whitechapel are much worse than you have described, dear," expostulated the parent, who felt that his powers of resistance were going. "so much the better, papa," replied di, kissing her sire's lethargic visage. "i should like _so_ much to try if i could clean up something worse than my doll's room. and you've promised, you know." "no--only said `perhaps,'" returned sir richard quickly. "well, that's the same thing; and now that it's all nicely settled, i'll go and see nurse. good-bye, papa." "good-bye, dear," returned the knight, resigning himself to his fate and the newspaper. chapter three. poverty manages to board out her infant for nothing. on the night of the day about which we have been writing, a woman, dressed in "unwomanly rags" crept out of the shadow of the houses near london bridge. she was a thin, middle-aged woman, with a countenance from which sorrow, suffering, and sin had not been able to obliterate entirely the traces of beauty. she carried a bundle in her arms which was easily recognisable as a baby, from the careful and affectionate manner in which the woman's thin, out-spread fingers grasped it. hurrying on to the bridge till she reached the middle of one of the arches, she paused and looked over. the thames was black and gurgling, for it was intensely dark, and the tide half ebb at the time. the turbid waters chafed noisily on the stone piers as if the sins and sorrows of the great city had been somehow communicated to them. but the distance from the parapet to the surface of the stream was great. it seemed awful in the woman's eyes. she shuddered and drew back. "oh! for courage--only for one minute!" she murmured, clasping the bundle closer to her breast. the action drew off a corner of the scanty rag which she called a shawl, and revealed a small and round, yet exceedingly thin face, the black eyes of which seemed to gaze in solemn wonder at the scene of darkness visible which was revealed. the woman stood between two lamps in the darkest place she could find, but enough of light reached her to glitter in the baby's solemn eyes as they met her gaze, and it made a pitiful attempt to smile as it recognised its mother. "god help me! i can't," muttered the woman with a shiver, as if an ice-block had touched her heart. she drew the rag hastily over the baby's head again, pressed it closer to her breast, retraced her steps, and dived into the shadows from which she had emerged. this was one of the "lower orders" to whom sir richard brandon had such an objection, whom he found it, he said, so difficult to deal with, (no wonder, for he never tried to deal with them at all, in any sense worthy of the name), and whom it was, he said, useless to assist, because all _he_ could do in such a vast accumulation of poverty would be a mere drop in the bucket. hence sir richard thought it best to keep the drop in his pocket where it could be felt and do good--at least to himself, rather than dissipate it in an almost empty bucket. the bucket, however, was not quite empty--thanks to a few thousands of people who differed from the knight upon that point. the thin woman hastened through the streets as regardless of passers-by as they were of her, until she reached the neighbourhood of commercial street, spitalfields. here she paused and looked anxiously round her. she had left the main thoroughfare, and the spot on which she stood was dimly lighted. whatever she looked or waited for, did not, however, soon appear, for she stood under a lamp-post, muttering to herself, "i _must_ git rid of it. better to do so than see it starved to death before my eyes." presently a foot-fall was heard, and a man drew near. the woman gazed intently into his face. it was not a pleasant face. there was a scowl on it. she drew back and let him pass. then several women passed, but she took no notice of them. then another man appeared. his face seemed a jolly one. the woman stepped forward at once and confronted him. "please, sir," she began, but the man was too sharp for her. "come now--you've brought out that baby on purpose to humbug people with it. don't fancy you'll throw dust in _my_ eyes. i'm too old a cock for that. don't you know that you're breaking the law by begging?" "i'm _not_ begging," retorted the woman, almost fiercely. "oh! indeed. why do you stop me, then?" "i merely wished to ask if your name is thompson." "ah hem!" ejaculated the man with a broad grin, "well no, madam, my name is _not_ thompson." "well, then," rejoined the woman, still indignantly, "you may move on." she had used an expression all too familiar to herself, and the man, obeying the order with a bow and a mocking laugh, disappeared like those who had gone before him. for some time no one else appeared save a policeman. when he approached, the woman went past him down the street, as if bent on some business, but when he was out of sight she returned to the old spot, which was near the entrance to an alley. at last the woman's patience was rewarded by the sight of a burly little elderly man, whose face of benignity was unmistakably genuine. remembering the previous man's reference to the baby, she covered it up carefully, and held it more like a bundle. stepping up to the newcomer at once, she put the same question as to name, and also asked if he lived in russell square. "no, my good woman," replied the burly little man, with a look of mingled surprise and pity, "my name is _not_ thompson. it is twitter-- samuel twitter, of twitter, slime and--, but," he added, checking himself, under a sudden and rare impulse of prudence, "why do you ask my name and address?" the woman gave an almost hysterical laugh at having been so successful in her somewhat clumsy scheme, and, without uttering another word, darted down the alley. she passed rapidly round by a back way to another point of the same street she had left--well ahead of the spot where she had stood so long and so patiently that night. here she suddenly uncovered the baby's face and kissed it passionately for a few moments. then, wrapping it in the ragged shawl, with its little head out, she laid it on the middle of the footpath full in the light of a lamp, and retired to await the result. when the woman rushed away, as above related, mr samuel twitter stood for some minutes rooted to the spot, lost in amazement. he was found in that condition by the returning policeman. "constable," said he, cocking his hat to one side the better to scratch his bald head, "there are strange people in this region." "indeed there are, sir." "yes, but i mean _very_ strange people." "well, sir, if you insist on it, i won't deny that some of them are _very_ strange." "yes, well--good-night, constable," said mr twitter, moving slowly forward in a mystified state of mind, while the guardian of the night continued his rounds, thinking to himself that he had just parted from one of the very strangest of the people. suddenly samuel twitter came to a full stop, for there lay the small baby gazing at him with its solemn eyes, apparently quite indifferent to the hardness and coldness of its bed of stone. "abandoned!" gasped the burly little man. whether mr twitter referred to the infant's moral character, or to its being shamefully forsaken, we cannot now prove, but he instantly caught the bundle in his arms and gazed at it. possibly his gaze may have been too intense, for the mild little creature opened a small mouth that bore no proportion whatever to the eyes, and attempted to cry, but the attempt was a failure. it had not strength to cry. the burly little man's soul was touched to the centre by the sight. he kissed the baby's forehead, pressed it to his ample breast, and hurried away. if he had taken time to think he might have gone to a police-office, or a night refuge, or some such haven of rest for the weary, but when twitter's feelings were touched he became a man of impulse. he did not take time to think--except to the extent that, on reaching the main thoroughfare, he hailed a cab and was driven home. the poor mother had followed him with the intention of seeing him home. of course the cab put an end to that. she felt comparatively easy, however, knowing, as she did, that her child was in the keeping of "twitter, slime and ---." that was quite enough to enable her to trace mr twitter out. comforting herself as well as she could with this reflection, she sat down in a dark corner on a cold door-step, and, covering her face with both hands, wept as though her heart would break. gradually her sobs subsided, and, rising, she hurried away, shivering with cold, for her thin cotton dress was a poor protection against the night chills, and her ragged shawl was--gone with the baby. in a few minutes she reached a part of the whitechapel district where some of the deepest poverty and wretchedness in london is to be found. turning into a labyrinth of small streets and alleys, she paused in the neighbourhood of the court in which was her home--if such it could be called. "is it worth while going back to him?" she muttered. "he nearly killed baby, and it wouldn't take much to make him kill me. and oh! he was so different--once!" while she stood irresolute, the man of whom she spoke chanced to turn the corner, and ran against her, somewhat roughly. "hallo! is that you?" he demanded, in tones that told too clearly where he had been spending the night. "yes, ned, it's me. i was just thinking about going home." "home, indeed--'stime to b'goin' home. where'v you bin? the babby 'll 'v bin squallin' pretty stiff by this time." "no fear of baby now," returned the wife almost defiantly; "it's gone." "gone!" almost shouted the husband. "you haven't murdered it, have you?" "no, but i've put it in safe keeping, where _you_ can't get at it, and, now i know that, i don't care what you do to _me_." "ha! we'll see about that. come along." he seized the woman by the arm and hurried her towards their dwelling. it was little better than a cellar, the door being reached by a descent of five or six much-worn steps. to the surprise of the couple the door, which was usually shut at that hour, stood partly open, and a bright light shone within. "wastin' coal and candle," growled the man with an angry oath, as he approached. "hetty didn't use to be so extravagant," remarked the woman, in some surprise. as she spoke the door was flung wide open, and an overgrown but very handsome girl peered out. "oh! father, i thought it was your voice," she said. "mother, is that you? come in, quick. here's bobby brought home in a cab with a broken leg." on hearing this the man's voice softened, and, entering the room, he went up to a heap of straw in one corner whereon our little friend bobby frog--the street-arab--lay. "hallo! bobby, wot's wrong with 'ee? you ain't used to come to grief," said the father, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, and giving him a rough shake. things oftentimes "are not what they seem." the shake was the man's mode of expressing sympathy, for he was fond of his son, regarding him, with some reason, as a most hopeful pupil in the ways of wickedness. "it's o' no use, father," said the boy, drawing his breath quickly and knitting his brows, "you can't stir me up with a long pole now. i'm past that." "what! have 'ee bin runned over?" "no--on'y run down, or knocked down." "who did it? on'y give me his name an' address, an' as sure as my name's ned i'll--" he finished the sentence with a sufficiently expressive scowl and clenching of a huge fist, which had many a time done great execution in the prize ring. "it wasn't a he, father, it was a she." "well, no matter, if i on'y had my fingers on her windpipe i'd squeeze it summat." "if you did i'd bang your nose! she didn't go for to do it a-purpose, you old grampus," retorted bobby, intending the remark to be taken as a gentle yet affectionate reproof. "a doctor's bin an' set my leg," continued the boy, "an' made it as stiff as a poker wi' what 'e calls splints. he says i won't be able to go about for ever so many weeks." "an' who's to feed you, i wonder, doorin' them weeks? an' who sent for the doctor? was it him as supplied the fire an' candle to-night?" "no, father, it was me," answered hetty, who was engaged in stirring something in a small saucepan, the loose handle of which was attached to its battered body by only one rivet; the other rivet had given way on an occasion when ned frog sent it flying through the doorway after his retreating wife. "you see i was paid my wages to-night, so i could afford it, as well as to buy some coal and a candle, for the doctor said bobby must be kept warm." "afford it!" exclaimed ned, in rising wrath, "how can 'ee say you can afford it w'en i 'aven't had enough grog to _half_ screw me, an' not a brown left. did the doctor ask a fee?" "no, father, i offered him one, but he wouldn't take it." "ah--very good on 'im! i wonder them fellows has the cheek to ask fees for on'y givin' advice. w'y, i'd give advice myself all day long at a penny an hour, an' think myself well off too if i got that--better off than them as got the advice anyhow. what are you sittin' starin' at an' sulkin' there for?" this last remark was addressed gruffly to mrs frog, who, during the previous conversation, had seated herself on a low three-legged stool, and, clasping her hands over her knees, gazed at the dirty blank walls in blanker despair. the poor woman realised the situation better than her drunken husband did. as a bird-fancier he contributed little, almost nothing, to the general fund on which this family subsisted. he was a huge, powerful fellow, and had various methods of obtaining money--some obvious and others mysterious--but nearly all his earnings went to the gin-palace, for ned was a man of might, and could stand an enormous quantity of drink. hetty, who worked, perhaps we should say slaved, for a firm which paid her one shilling a week, could not manage to find food for them all. mrs frog herself with her infant to care for, had found it hard work at any time to earn a few pence, and now bobby's active little limbs were reduced to inaction, converting him into a consumer instead of a producer. in short, the glaring fact that the family expenses would be increased while the family income was diminished, stared mrs frog as blankly in the face as she stared at the dirty blank wall. and her case was worse, even, than people in better circumstances might imagine, for the family lived so literally from hand to mouth that there was no time even to think when a difficulty arose or disaster befell. they rented their room from a man who styled it a furnished apartment, in virtue of a rickety table, a broken chair, a worn-out sheet or two, a dilapidated counterpane, four ragged blankets, and the infirm saucepan before mentioned, besides a few articles of cracked or broken crockery. for this accommodation the landlord charged ninepence per day, which sum had to be paid _every night_ before the family was allowed to retire to rest! in the event of failure to pay they would have been turned out into the street at once, and the door padlocked. thus the necessity for a constant, though small, supply of cash became urgent, and the consequent instability of "home" very depressing. to preserve his goods from the pawnbroker, and prevent a moonlight flitting, this landlord had printed on his sheets the words "stolen from ---" and on the blankets and counterpane were stamped the words "stop thief!" mrs frog made no reply to her husband's gruff question, which induced the man to seize an empty bottle, as being the best way of rousing her attention. "come, you let mother alone, dad," suggested bobby, "she ain't a-aggrawatin' of you just now." "why, mother," exclaimed hetty, who was so busy with bobby's supper, and, withal, so accustomed to the woman's looks of hopeless misery that she had failed to observe anything unusual until her attention was thus called to her, "what ever have you done with the baby?" "ah--you may well ask that," growled ned. even the boy seemed to forget his pain for a moment as he now observed, anxiously, that his mother had not the usual bundle on her breast. "the baby's gone!" she said, bitterly, still keeping her eyes on the blank wall. "gone!--how?--lost? killed? speak, mother," burst from hetty and the boy. "no, only gone to where it will be better cared for than here." "come, explain, old woman," said ned, again laying his hand on the bottle. as hetty went and took her hand gently, mrs frog condescended to explain, but absolutely refused to tell to whose care the baby had been consigned. "well--it ain't a bad riddance, after all," said the man, as he rose, and, staggering into a corner where another bundle of straw was spread on the floor, flung himself down. appropriately drawing two of the "stop thief" blankets over him, he went to sleep. then mrs frog, feeling comparatively sure of quiet for the remainder of the night, drew her stool close to the side of her son, and held such intercourse with him as she seldom had the chance of holding while bobby was in a state of full health and bodily vigour. hetty, meanwhile, ministered to them both, for she was one of those dusty diamonds of what may be styled the east-end diggings of london--not so rare, perhaps, as many people may suppose--whose lustre is dimmed and intrinsic value somewhat concealed by the neglect and the moral as well as physical filth by which they are surrounded. "of course you've paid the ninepence, hetty?" "yes, mother." "you might 'ave guessed that," said bobby, "for, if she 'adn't we shouldn't 'ave bin here." "that and the firing and candle, with what the doctor ordered, has used up all i had earned, even though i did some extra work and was paid for it," said hetty with a sigh. "but i don't grudge it, bobby--i'm only sorry because there's nothing more coming to me till next week." "meanwhile there is nothing for _this_ week," said mrs frog with a return of the despair, as she looked at her prostrate son, "for all i can manage to earn will barely make up the rent--if it does even that-- and father, you know, drinks nearly all he makes. god help us!" "god _will_ help us," said hetty, sitting down on the floor and gently stroking the back of her mother's hand, "for he sent the trouble, and will hear us when we cry to him." "pray to him, then, hetty, for it's no use askin' me to join you. i can't pray. an' don't let your father hear, else he'll be wild." the poor girl bent her head on her knees as she sat, and prayed silently. her mother and brother, neither of whom had any faith in prayer, remained silent, while her father, breathing stertorously in the corner, slept the sleep of the drunkard. chapter four. samuel twitter astonishes mrs. twitter and her friends. in a former chapter we described, to some extent, the person and belongings of a very poor man with five thousand a year. let us now make the acquaintance of a very rich one with an income of five hundred. he has already introduced himself to the reader under the name of samuel twitter. on the night of which we write mrs twitter happened to have a "few friends" to tea. and let no one suppose that mrs twitter's few friends were to be put off with afternoon tea--that miserable invention of modern times--nor with a sham meal of sweet warm water and thin bread and butter. by no means. we have said that samuel twitter was rich, and mrs twitter, conscious of her husband's riches, as well as grateful for them, went in for the substantial and luxurious to an amazing extent. unlimited pork sausages and inexhaustible buttered toast, balanced with muffins or crumpets, was her idea of "tea." the liquid was a secondary point--in one sense--but it was always strong. it was the only strong liquid in fact allowed in the house, for mr twitter, mrs twitter, and all the little twitters were members of the blue ribbon army; more or less enthusiastic according to their light and capacity. the young twitters descended in a graduated scale from sammy, the eldest, (about sixteen), down through molly, and willie, and fred, and lucy, to alice the so-called "baby"--though she was at that time a remarkably robust baby of four years. mrs twitter's few friends were aware of her tendencies, and appreciated her hospitality, insomuch that the "few" bade fair to develop by degrees into many. well, mrs twitter had her few friends to tea, and conviviality was at its height. the subject of conversation was poverty. mrs loper, a weak-minded but amiable lady, asserted that a large family with pounds a year was a poor family. mrs loper did not know that mrs twitter's income was five hundred, but she suspected it. mrs twitter herself carefully avoided giving the slightest hint on the subject. "of course," continued mrs loper, "i don't mean to say that people with five hundred are _very_ poor, you know; indeed it all depends on the family. with six children like you, now, to feed and clothe and educate, and with everything so dear as it is now, i should say that five hundred was poverty." "well, i don't quite agree with you, mrs loper, on that point. to my mind it does not so much depend on the family, as on the notions, and the capacity to manage, in the head of the family. i remember one family just now, whose head was cut off suddenly, i may say in the prime of life. a hundred and fifty a year or thereabouts was the income the widow had to count on, and she was left with five little ones to rear. she trained them well, gave them good educations, made most of their garments with her own hands when they were little, and sent one of her boys to college, yet was noted for the amount of time she spent in visiting the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, for whom she had always a little to spare out of her limited income. now, if wealth is to be measured by results, i think we may say that that poor lady was rich. she was deeply mourned by a large circle of poor people when she was taken home to the better land. her small means, having been judiciously invested by a brother, increased a little towards the close of life, but she never was what the world esteems rich." mrs twitter looked at a very tall man with a dark unhandsome countenance, as if to invite his opinion. "i quite agree with you," he said, helping himself to a crumpet, "there are some people with small incomes who seem to be always in funds, just as there are other people with large incomes who are always hard-up. the former are really rich, the latter really poor." having delivered himself of these sentiments somewhat sententiously, mr crackaby,--that was his name,--proceeded to consume the crumpet. there was a general tendency on the part of the other guests to agree with their hostess, but one black sheep in the flock objected. he quite agreed, of course, with the general principle that liberality with small means was beautiful to behold as well as desirable to possess--the liberality, not the small means--and that, on the other hand, riches with a narrow niggardly spirit was abominable, but then--and the black sheep came, usually, to the strongest part of his argument when he said "but then"--it was an uncommonly difficult thing, when everything was up to famine prices, and gold was depreciated in value owing to the gold-fields, and silver was nowhere, and coppers were changed into bronze,--exceedingly difficult to practise liberality and at the same time to make the two ends meet. as no one clearly saw the exact bearing of the black sheep's argument, they all replied with that half idiotic simper with which ignorance seeks to conceal herself, and which politeness substitutes for the more emphatic "pooh," or the inelegant "bosh." then, applying themselves with renewed zest to the muffins, they put about ship, nautically speaking, and went off on a new tack. "mr twitter is rather late to-night, i think?" said mr crackaby, consulting his watch, which was antique and turnipy in character. "he is, indeed," replied the hostess, "business must have detained him, for he is the very soul of punctuality. that is one of his many good qualities, and it is _such_ a comfort, for i can always depend on him to the minute,--breakfast, dinner, tea; he never keeps us waiting, as too many men do, except, of course, when he is unavoidably detained by business." "ah, yes, business has much to answer for," remarked mrs loper, in a tone which suggested that she held business to be an incorrigibly bad fellow; "whatever mischief happens with one's husband it's sure to be business that did it." "pardon me, madam," objected the black sheep, whose name, by the way, was stickler, "business does bring about much of the disaster that often appertains to wedded life, but mischief is sometimes done by other means, such, for instance, as accidents, robberies, murders--" "oh! mr stickler," suddenly interrupted a stout, smiling lady, named larrabel, who usually did the audience part of mrs twitter's little tea parties, "how _can_ you suggest such ideas, especially when mr twitter is unusually late?" mr stickler protested that he had no intention of alarming the company by disagreeable suggestions, that he had spoken of accident, robbery, and murder in the abstract. "there, you've said it all over again," interrupted mrs larrabel, with an unwonted frown. "but then," continued stickler, regardless of the interruption, "a broken leg, or a rifled pocket and stunned person, or a cut windpipe, may be applicable to the argument in hand without being applied to mr twitter." "surely," said mrs loper, who deemed the reply unanswerable. in this edifying strain the conversation flowed on until the evening grew late and the party began to grow alarmed. "i do hope nothing has happened to him," said mrs loper, with a solemnised face. "i think not. i have seen him come home much later than this--though not often," said the hostess, the only one of the party who seemed quite at ease, and who led the conversation back again into shallower channels. as the night advanced, however, the alarm became deeper, and it was even suggested by mrs loper that crackaby should proceed to twitter's office--a distance of three miles--to inquire whether and when he had left; while the smiling mrs larrabel proposed to send information to the headquarters of the police in scotland yard, because the police knew everything, and could find out anything. "you have no idea, my dear," she said, "how clever they are at scotland yard. would you believe it, i left my umbrellar the other day in a cab, and i didn't know the number of the cab, for numbers won't remain in my head, nor the look of the cabman, for i never look at cabmen, they are so rude sometimes. i didn't even remember the place where i got into the cab, for i can't remember places when i've to go to so many, so i gave up my umbrellar for lost and was going away, when a policeman stepped up to me and asked in a very civil tone if i had lost anything. he was so polite and pleasant that i told him of my loss, though i knew it would do me no good, as he had not seen the cab or the cabman. "`i think, madam,' he said, `that if you go down to scotland yard to-morrow morning, you may probably find it there.' "`young man,' said i, `do you take me for a fool!' "`no, madam, i don't,' he replied. "`or do you take my umbrellar for a fool,' said i, `that it should walk down to scotland yard of its own accord and wait there till i called for it?' "`certainly not, madam,' he answered with such a pleasant smile that i half forgave him. "`nevertheless if you happen to be in the neighbourhood of scotland yard to-morrow,' he added, `it might be as well to call in and inquire.' "`thank you,' said i, with a stiff bow as i left him. on the way home, however, i thought there might be something in it, so i did go down to scotland yard next day, where i was received with as much civility as if i had been a lady of quality, and was taken to a room as full of umbrellas as an egg's full of meat--almost. "`you'd know the umbrellar if you saw it, madam,' said the polite constable who escorted me. "`know it, sir!' said i, `yes, i should think i would. seven and sixpence it cost me--new, and i've only had it a week--brown silk with a plain handle--why, there it is!' and there it was sure enough, and he gave it to me at once, only requiring me to write my name in a book, which i did with great difficulty because of my gloves, and being so nervous. now, how did the young policeman that spoke to me the day before know that my umbrellar would go there, and how did it get there? they say the days of miracles are over, but i don't think so, for that was a miracle if ever there was one." "the days of miracles are indeed over, ma'am," said the black sheep, "but then that is no reason why things which are in themselves commonplace should not appear miraculous to the uninstructed mind. when i inform you that our laws compel cabmen under heavy penalties to convey left umbrellas and parcels to the police-office, the miracle may not seem quite so surprising." most people dislike to have their miracles unmasked. mrs larrabel turned from the black sheep to her hostess without replying, and repeated her suggestion about making inquiries at scotland yard--thus delicately showing that although, possibly, convinced, she was by no means converted. they were interrupted at this point by a hurried knock at the street door. "there he is at last," exclaimed every one. "it is his knock, certainly," said mrs twitter, with a perplexed look, "but rather peculiar--not so firm as usual--there it is again! impatient! i never knew my sam impatient before in all our wedded life. you'd better open the door, dear," she said, turning to the eldest twitter, he being the only one of the six who was privileged to sit up late, "mary seems to have fallen asleep." before the eldest twitter could obey, the maligned mary was heard to open the door and utter an exclamation of surprise, and her master's step was heard to ascend the stair rather unsteadily. the guests looked at each other anxiously. it might be that to some minds--certainly to that of the black sheep--visions of violated blue-ribbonism occurred. as certainly these visions did _not_ occur to mrs twitter. she would sooner have doubted her clergyman than her husband. trustfulness formed a prominent part of her character, and her confidence in her sam was unbounded. even when her husband came against the drawing-room door with an awkward bang--the passage being dark--opened it with a fling, and stood before the guests with a flushed countenance, blazing eyes, a peculiar deprecatory smile, and a dirty ragged bundle in his arms, she did not doubt him. "forgive me, my dear," he said, gazing at his wife in a manner that might well have justified the black sheep's thought, "screwed," "i--i-- business kept me in the office very late, and then--" he cast an imbecile glance at the bundle. "what _ever_ have you got there, sam?" asked his wondering wife. "goodness me! it moves!" exclaimed mrs loper. "live poultry!" thought the black sheep, and visions of police cells and penal servitude floated before his depraved mental vision. "yes, mrs loper, it moves. it is alive--though not very much alive, i fear. my dear, i've found--found a baby--picked it up in the street. not a soul there but me. would have perished or been trodden on if i had not taken it up. see here!" he untied the dirty bundle as he spoke, and uncovered the round little pinched face with the great solemn eyes, which gazed, still wonderingly, at the assembled company. it is due to the assembled company to add that it returned the gaze with compound interest. chapter five. treats still further of riches, poverty, babies, and police. when mr and mrs twitter had dismissed the few friends that night, they sat down at their own fireside, with no one near them but the little foundling, which lay in the youngest twitter's disused cradle, gazing at them with its usual solemnity, for it did not seem to require sleep. they opened up their minds to each other thus:-- "now, samuel," said mrs twitter, "the question is, what are you going to do with it?" "well, mariar," returned her spouse, with an assumption of profound gravity, "i suppose we must send it to the workhouse." "you know quite well, sam, that you don't mean that," said mrs twitter, "the dear little forsaken mite! just look at its solemn eyes. it has been clearly cast upon us, sam, and it seems to me that we are bound to look after it." "what! with six of our own, mariar?" "yes, sam. isn't there a song which says something about luck in odd numbers?" "and with only pounds a year?" objected mr twitter. "_only_ five hundred. how can you speak so? we are _rich_ with five hundred. can we not educate our little ones?" "yes, my dear." "and entertain our friends?" "yes, my love,--with crumpets and tea." "don't forget muffins and bloater paste, and german sausage and occasional legs of mutton, you ungrateful man!" "i don't forget 'em, mariar. my recollection of 'em is powerful; i may even say vivid." "well," continued the lady, "haven't you been able to lend small sums on several occasions to friends--" "yes, my dear,--and they are _still_ loans," murmured the husband. "and don't we give a little--i sometimes think too little--regularly to the poor, and to the church, and haven't we got a nest-egg laid by in the post-office savings-bank?" "all true, mariar, and all _your_ doing. but for your thrifty ways, and economical tendencies, and rare financial abilities, i should have been bankrupt long ere now." mr twitter was nothing more than just in this statement of his wife's character. she was one of those happily constituted women who make the best and the most of everything, and who, while by no means turning her eyes away from the dark sides of things, nevertheless gave people the impression that she saw only their bright sides. her economy would have degenerated into nearness if it had not been commensurate with her liberality, for while, on the one hand, she was ever anxious, almost eager, to give to the needy and suffering every penny that she could spare, she was, on the other hand, strictly economical in trifles. indeed mrs twitter's vocabulary did not contain the word trifle. one of her favourite texts of scripture, which was always in her mind, and which she had illuminated in gold and hung on her bedroom walls with many other words of god, was, "gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost." acting on this principle with all her heart, she gathered up the fragments of time, so that she had always a good deal of that commodity to spare, and was never in a hurry. she gathered up bits of twine and made neat little rings of them, which she deposited in a basket--a pretty large basket--which in time became such a repository of wealth in that respect that the six twitters never failed to find the exact size and quality of cordage wanted by them--and, indeed, even after the eldest, sammy, came to the years of discretion, if he had suddenly required a cable suited to restrain a first-rate iron-clad, his mind would, in the first blush of the thing, have reverted to mother's basket! if friends wrote short notes to mrs twitter--which they often did, for the sympathetic find plenty of correspondents--the blank leaves were always torn off and consigned to a scrap-paper box, and the pile grew big enough at last to have set up a small stationer in business. and so with everything that came under her influence at home or abroad. she emphatically did what she could to prevent waste, and became a living fulfilment of the well-known proverb, for as she wasted not she wanted not. but to return from this digression-- "well, then," said mrs twitter, "don't go and find fault, samuel," (she used the name in full when anxious to be impressive), "with what providence has given us, by putting the word `only' to it, for we are _rich_ with five hundred a year." mr twitter freely admitted that he was wrong, and said he would be more careful in future of the use to which he put the word "only." "but," said he, "we haven't a hole or corner in the house to put the poor thing in. to be sure, there's the coal-cellar and the scuttle might be rigged up as a cradle, but--" he paused, and looked at his wife. the deceiver did not mean all this to be taken as a real objection. he was himself anxious to retain the infant, and only made this show of opposition to enlist maria more certainly on his side. "not a corner!" she exclaimed, "why, is there not the whole parlour? do you suppose that a baby requires a four-post bed, and a wash-hand-stand, and a five-foot mirror? couldn't we lift the poor darling in and out in half a minute? besides, there is our own room. i feel as if there was an uncomfortable want of some sort ever since _our_ baby was transplanted to the nursery. so we will establish the old bassinet and put the mite there." "and what shall we call it, maria?" "call it--why, call it--call it--mite--no name could be more appropriate." "but, my love, mite, if a name at all, is a man's--that is, it sounds like a masculine name." "call it mita, then." and so it was named, and thus that poor little waif came to be adopted by that "rich" family. it seems to be our mission, at this time, to introduce our readers to various homes--the homes of england, so to speak! but let not our readers become impatient, while we lead the way to one more home, and open the door with our secret latch-key. this home is in some respects peculiar. it is not a poor one, for it is comfortable and clean. neither is it a rich one, for there are few ornaments, and no luxuries about it. over the fire stoops a comely young woman, as well as one can judge, at least, from the rather faint light that enters through a small window facing a brick wall. the wall is only five feet from the window, and some previous occupant of the rooms had painted on it a rough landscape, with three very green trees and a very blue lake, and a swan in the middle thereof, sitting on an inverted swan which was meant to be his reflection, but somehow seemed rather more real than himself. the picture is better, perhaps, than the bricks were, yet it is not enlivening. the only other objects in the room worth mentioning are, a particularly small book-shelf in a corner; a cuckoo-clock on the mantel-shelf, an engraved portrait of queen victoria on the wall opposite in a gilt frame, and a portrait of sir robert peel in a frame of rosewood beside it. on a little table in the centre of the room are the remains of a repast. under the table is a very small child, probably four years of age. near the window is another small, but older child--a boy of about six or seven. he is engaged in fitting on his little head a great black cloth helmet with a bronze badge, and a peak behind as well as before. having nearly extinguished himself with the helmet, the small boy seizes a very large truncheon, and makes a desperate effort to flourish it. close to the comely woman stands a very tall, very handsome, and very powerful man, who is putting in the uppermost buttons of a police-constable's uniform. behold, reader, the _tableau vivant_ to which we would call your attention! "where d'you go on duty to-day, giles," asked the comely young woman, raising her face to that of her husband. "oxford circus," replied the policeman. "it is the first time i've been put on fixed-point duty. that's the reason i'm able to breakfast with you and the children, molly, instead of being off at half-past five in the morning as usual. i shall be on for a month." "i'm glad of it, giles, for it gives the children a chance of seeing something of you. i wish you'd let me look at that cut on your shoulder. do!" "no, no, molly," returned the man, as he pushed his wife playfully away from him. "hands off! you know the punishment for assaulting the police is heavy! now then, monty," (to the boy), "give up my helmet and truncheon. i must be off." "not yet, daddy," cried monty, "i's a pleeceman of the a division, number , 'ats me, an' i'm goin' to catch a t'ief. i 'mell 'im." "you smell him, do you? where is he, d'you think?" "oh! i know," replied the small policeman--here he came close up to his father, and, getting on tiptoe, said in a very audible whisper, "he's under de table, but don' tell 'im i know. his name's joe!" "all right, i'll keep quiet, monty, but look alive and nab him quick, for i must be off." thus urged the small policeman went on tiptoe to the table, made a sudden dive under it, and collared his little brother. the arrest, however, being far more prompt than had been expected, the "t'ief" refused to be captured. a struggle ensued, in the course of which the helmet rolled off, a corner of the tablecloth was pulled down, and the earthenware teapot fell with a crash to the floor. "it's my duty, i fear," said giles, "to take you both into custody and lock you up in a cell for breaking the teapot as well as the peace, but i'll be merciful and let you off this time, monty, if you lend your mother a hand to pick up the pieces." monty agreed to accept this compromise. the helmet and truncheon were put to their proper uses, and the merciful police-constable went out "on duty." chapter six. wealth pays a visit to poverty. it was an interesting sight to watch police-constable number as he went through the performance of his arduous duties that day at the regent circus in oxford street. to those who are unacquainted with london, it may be necessary to remark that this circus is one of those great centres of traffic where two main arteries cross and tend to cause so much obstruction, that complete stoppages would become frequent were it not for the admirable management of the several members of the police force who are stationed there to keep order. the "oxford circus," as it is sometimes called, is by no means the largest or most crowded of such crossings, nevertheless the tide of traffic is sufficiently strong and continuous there to require several police-constables on constant duty. when men are detailed for such "fixed-point" duty they go on it for a month at a time, and have different hours from the other men, namely, from nine in the morning till five in the afternoon. we have said it was interesting to watch our big hero, number , in the performance of his arduous duties. he occupied the crossing on the city side of the circus. it was a magnificent afternoon, and all the metropolitan butterflies were out. busses flowed on in a continuous stream, looking like big bullies who incline to use their weight and strength to crush through all obstruction. the drivers of these were for the most part wise men, and restrained themselves and their steeds. in one or two instances, where the drivers were unwise, a glance from the bright eye of giles scott was quite sufficient to keep all right. and giles could only afford to bestow a fragmentary glance at any time on the refractory, for, almost at one and the same moment he had to check the impetuous, hold up a warning hand to the unruly, rescue a runaway child from innumerable horse-legs, pilot a stout but timid lady from what we may call refuge-island, in the middle of the roadway, to the pavement, answer an imbecile's question as to the whereabouts of the tower or saint paul's, order a loitering cabby to move on, and look out for his own toes, as well as give moderate attention to the carriage-poles which perpetually threatened the small of his own back. we should imagine that the premium of insurance on the life of number was fabulous in amount, but cannot tell. besides his great height, giles possessed a drooping moustache, which added much to his dignified appearance. he was also imperturbably grave, except when offering aid to a lady or a little child, on which occasions the faintest symptoms of a smile floated for a moment on his visage like an april sunbeam. at all other times his expression was that of incorruptible justice and awful immobility. no amount of chaff, no quantity of abuse, no kind of flattery, no sort of threat could move him any more than the seething billows of the mediterranean can move gibraltar. costermongers growled at him hopelessly. irate cabmen saw that their wisdom lay in submission. criminals felt that once in his grasp their case was hopeless, just as, conversely, old ladies felt that once under his protection they were in absolute security. even street-boys felt that references to "bobbies," "coppers," and "slops;" questions as to how 'is 'ead felt up there; who rolled 'im hout so long; whether his mother knew 'e was hout; whether 'e'd sell 'em a bit of 'is legs; with advice to come down off the ladder, or to go 'ome to bed-- that all these were utterly thrown away and lost upon giles scott. the garb of the london policeman is not, as every one knows, founded on the principles of aesthetics. neither has it been devised on utilitarian principles. indeed we doubt whether the originator of it, (and we are happy to profess ignorance of his name), proceeded on any principle whatever, except the gratification of a wild and degraded fancy. the colour, of course, is not objectionable, and the helmet might be worse, but the tunic is such that the idea of grace or elegance may not consist with it. we mention these facts because giles scott was so well-made that he forced his tunic to look well, and thus added one more to the already numerous "exceptions" which are said to "prove the rule." "allow me, madam," said giles, offering his right-hand to an elderly female, who, having screwed up her courage to make a rush, got into sudden danger and became mentally hysterical in the midst of a conglomerate of hoofs, poles, horse-heads, and wheels. the female allowed him, and the result was sudden safety, a gasp of relief, and departure of hysteria. "not yet, please," said giles, holding up a warning right-hand to the crowd on refuge-island, while with his left waving gently to and fro he gave permission to the mighty stream to flow. "now," he added, holding up the left-hand suddenly. the stream was stopped as abruptly as were the waters of jordan in days of old, and the storm-staid crew on refuge-island made a rush for the mainland. it was a trifling matter to most of them that rush, but of serious moment to the few whose limbs had lost their elasticity, or whose minds could not shake off the memory of the fact that between and lives are lost in london streets by accidents every year, and that between and are more or less severely injured annually. before the human stream had got quite across, an impatient hansom made a push. the eagle eye of number had observed the intention, and in a moment his gigantic figure stood calmly in front of the horse, whose head was raised high above his helmet as the driver tightened the reins violently. just then a small slipshod girl made an anxious dash from refuge-island, lost courage, and turned to run back, changed her mind, got bewildered, stopped suddenly and yelled. giles caught her by the arm, bore her to the pavement, and turned, just in time to see the hansom dash on in the hope of being overlooked. vain hope! number saw the number of the hansom, booked it in his memory while he assisted in raising up an old gentleman who had been overturned, though not injured, in endeavouring to avoid it. during the lull--for there are lulls in the rush of london traffic, as in the storms of nature,--giles transferred the number of that hansom to his note-book, thereby laying up a little treat for its driver in the shape of a little trial the next day terminating, probably, with a fine. towards five in the afternoon the strain of all this began to tell even on the powerful frame of giles scott, but no symptom did he show of fatigue, and so much reserve force did he possess that it is probable he would have exhibited as calm and unwearied a front if he had remained on duty for eighteen hours instead of eight. about that hour, also, there came an unusual glut to the traffic, in the form of a troop of the horse-guards. these magnificent creatures, resplendent in glittering steel, white plumes, and black boots, were passing westward. giles stood in front of the arrested stream. a number of people stood, as it were, under his shadow. refuge-island was overflowing. comments, chiefly eulogistic, were being freely made and some impatience was being manifested by drivers, when a little shriek was heard, and a child's voice exclaimed:-- "oh! papa, papa--there's _my_ policeman--the one i so nearly killed. he's _not_ dead after all!" giles forgot his dignity for one moment, and, looking round, met the eager gaze of little di brandon. another moment and duty required his undivided attention, so that he lost sight of her, but di took good care not to lose sight of him. "we will wait here, darling," said her father, referring to refuge-island on which he stood, "and when he is disengaged we can speak to him." "oh! i'm _so_ glad he's not dead," said little di, "and p'raps he'll be able to show us the way to my boy's home." di had a method of adopting, in a motherly way, all who, in the remotest manner, came into her life. thus she not only spoke of our butcher and our baker, which was natural, but referred to "my policeman" and "my boy" ever since the day of the accident. when giles had set his portion of the traffic in harmonious motion he returned to his island, and was not sorry to receive the dignified greeting of sir richard brandon, while he was delighted as well as amused by the enthusiastic grasp with which di seized his huge hand in both of her little ones, and the earnest manner in which she inquired after his health, and if she had hurt him much. "did they put you to bed and give you hot gruel?" she asked, with touching pathos. "no, miss, they didn't think i was hurt quite enough to require it," answered giles, his drooping moustache curling slightly as he spoke. "i had hoped to see you at my house," said sir richard, "you did not call." "thank you, sir, i did not think the little service i rendered your daughter worth making so much of. i called, however, the same evening, to inquire for her, but did not wish to intrude on you." "it would have been no intrusion, friend," returned sir richard, with grand condescension. "one who has saved my child's life has a claim upon my consideration." "a dook 'e must be," said a small street boy in a loud stage whisper to a dray-man--for small street-boys are sown broadcast in london, and turn up at all places on every occasion, "or p'raps," he added on reflection, "'e's on'y a markiss." "now then," said giles to the dray-man with a motion of the hand that caused him to move on, while he cast a look on the boy which induced him to move off. "by the way, constable," said sir richard, "i am on my way to visit a poor boy whose leg was broken on the day my pony ran away. he was holding the pony at the time. he lives in whitechapel somewhere. i have the address here in my note-book." "excuse me, sir, one moment," said number , going towards a crowd which had gathered round a fallen horse. "i happen to be going to that district myself," he continued on returning, "what is the boy's name?" "robert--perhaps i should rather say bobby frog," answered sir richard. "the name is familiar," returned the policeman, "but in london there are so many--what's his address, sir,--roy's court, near commercial street? oh! i know it well--one of the worst parts of london. i know the boy too. he is somewhat noted in that neighbourhood for giving the police trouble. not a bad-hearted fellow, i believe, but full of mischief, and has been brought up among thieves from his birth. his father is, or was, a bird-fancier and seller of penny articles on the streets, besides being a professional pugilist. you will be the better for protection there, sir. i would advise you not to go alone. if you can wait for five or ten minutes," added giles, "i shall be off duty and will be happy to accompany you." sir richard agreed to wait. within the time mentioned giles was relieved, and, entering a cab with his friends, drove towards whitechapel. they had to pass near our policeman's lodgings on the way. "would you object, sir, stopping at my house for five minutes?" he asked. "certainly not," returned the knight, "i am in no hurry." number stopped the cab, leaped out and disappeared through a narrow passage. in less than five minutes a very tall gentlemanly man issued from the same passage and approached them. little di opened her blue eyes to their very uttermost. it was _her_ policeman in plain clothes! she did not like the change at all at first, but before the end of the drive got used to him in his new aspect--all the more readily that he seemed to have cast off much of his stiffness and reserve with his blue skin. near the metropolitan railway station in whitechapel the cab was dismissed, and giles led the father and child along the crowded thoroughfare until they reached commercial street, along which they proceeded a short distance. "we are now near some of the worst parts of london, sir," said giles, "where great numbers of the criminal and most abandoned characters dwell." "indeed," said sir richard, who did not seem to be much gratified by the information. as for di, she was nearly crying. the news that _her_ boy was a thief and was born in the midst of such naughty people had fallen with chilling influence on her heart, for she had never thought of anything but the story-book "poor but honest parents!" "what large building is that?" inquired the knight, who began to wish that he had not given way to his daughter's importunities, "the one opposite, i mean, with placards under the windows." "that is the well-known home of industry, instituted and managed by miss macpherson and a staff of volunteer workers. they do a deal of good, sir, in this neighbourhood." "ah! indeed," said sir richard, who had never before heard of the home of industry. "and, pray, what particular industry does this miss mac-- what did you call her?" "macpherson. the lady, you know, who sends out so many rescued waifs and strays to canada, and spends all her time in caring for the poorest of the poor in the east-end and in preaching the gospel to them. you've often seen accounts of her work, no doubt, in the _christian_?" "well--n-no. i read the _times_, but, now you mention it, i have some faint remembrance of seeing reference to such matters. very self-denying, no doubt, and praiseworthy, though i must say that i doubt the use of preaching the gospel to such persons. from what i have seen of these lowest people i should think they were too deeply sunk in depravity to be capable of appreciating the lofty and sublime sentiments of christianity." number felt a touch of surprise at these words, though he was too well-bred a policeman to express his feelings by word or look. in fact, although not pre-eminently noted for piety, he had been led by training, and afterwards by personal experience, to view this matter from a very different standpoint from that of sir richard. he made no reply, however, but, turning round the corner of the home of industry, entered a narrow street which bore palpable evidence of being the abode of deepest poverty. from the faces and garments of the inhabitants it was also evidently associated with the deepest depravity. as little di saw some of the residents sitting on their doorsteps with scratched faces, swelled lips and cheeks, and dishevelled hair, and beheld the children in half-naked condition rolling in the kennel and extremely filthy, she clung closer to her father's side and began to suspect there were some phases of life she had never seen--had not even dreamt of! what the knight's thoughts were we cannot tell, for he said nothing, but disgust was more prominent than pity on his fine countenance. those who sat on the doorsteps, or lolled with a dissipated air against the door-posts, seemed to appreciate him at his proper value, for they scowled at him as he passed. they recognised number , however, (perhaps by his bearing), and gave him only a passing glance of indifference. "you said it would be dangerous for me to come here by myself," said sir richard, turning to giles, as he entered another and even worse street. "are they then so violent?" "many of them are among the worst criminals in london, sir. here is the court of which you are in search: roy's court." as he spoke, ned frog staggered out of his own doorway, clenched his fists, and looked with a vindictive scowl at the strangers. a second glance induced him to unclench his fists and reel round the corner on his way to a neighbouring grog-shop. whatever other shops may decay in that region, the grog-shops, like noxious weeds, always flourish. the court was apparently much deserted at that hour, for the men had not yet returned from their work--whatever that might be--and most of the women were within doors. "this is the house," continued giles, descending the few steps, and tapping at the door; "i have been here before. they know me." the door was opened by hetty, and for the first time since entering those regions of poverty and crime, little di felt a slight rise in her spirits, for through hetty's face shone the bright spirit within; albeit the shining was through some dirt and dishevelment, good principle not being able altogether to overcome the depressing influences of extreme poverty and suffering. "is your mother at home, hetty!" "oh! yes, sir. mother, here's mr scott. come in, sir. we are so glad to see you, and--" she stopped, and gazed inquiringly at the visitors who followed. "i've brought some friends of bobby to inquire for him. sir richard brandon--mrs frog." number stood aside, and, with something like a smile on his face, ceremoniously presented wealth to poverty. wealth made a slightly confused bow to poverty, and poverty, looking askance at wealth, dropt a mild courtesy. "vell now, i'm a dutchman if it ain't the hangel!" exclaimed a voice in the corner of the small room, before either wealth or poverty could utter a word. "oh! it's _my_ boy," exclaimed di with delight, forgetting or ignoring the poverty, dirt, and extremely bad air, as she ran forward and took hold of bobby's hand. it was a pre-eminently dirty hand, and formed a remarkable contrast to the little hands that grasped it! the small street boy was, for the first time in his life, bereft of speech! when that faculty returned, he remarked in language which was obscure to di:-- "vell, if this ain't a go!" "what is a go?" asked di with innocent surprise. instead of answering, bobby frog burst into a fit of laughter, but stopped rather suddenly with an expression of pain. "oh! 'old on! i say. this won't do. doctor 'e said i musn't larf, 'cause it shakes the leg too much. but, you know, wot's a cove to do ven a hangel comes to him and axes sitch rum questions?" again he laughed, and again stopped short in pain. "i'm _so_ sorry! does it feel _very_ painful? you can't think how constantly i've been thinking of you since the accident; for it was all my fault. if i hadn't jumped up in such a passion, the pony wouldn't have run away, and you wouldn't have been hurt. i'm so _very, very_ sorry, and i got dear papa to bring me here to tell you so, and to see if we could do anything to make you well." again bobby was rendered speechless, but his mind was active. "wot! i ain't dreamin', am i? 'as a hangel _really_ come to my bedside all the vay from the vest-end, an' brought 'er dear pa'--vich means the guv'nor, i fancy--all for to tell me--a kid whose life is spent in `movin' on'--that she's wery, wery, sorry i've got my leg broke, an' that she's bin an' done it, an' she would like to know if she can do hanythink as'll make me vell! but it ain't true. it's a big lie! i'm dreamin', that's all. i've been took to hospital, an' got d'lirious-- that's wot it is. i'll try to sleep!" with this end in view he shut his eyes, and remained quite still for a few seconds, and when di looked at his pinched and pale face in this placid condition, the tears _would_ overflow their natural boundary, and sobs _would_ rise up in her pretty throat, but she choked them back for fear of disturbing her boy. presently the boy opened his eyes. "wot, are you there yet?" he asked. "oh yes. did you think i was going away?" she replied, with a look of innocent surprise. "i won't leave you now. i'll stay here and nurse you, if papa will let me. i have slept once on a shake-down, when i was forced by a storm to stay all night at a juv'nile party. so if you've a corner here, it will do nicely--" "my dear child," interrupted her amazed father, "you are talking nonsense. and--do keep a little further from the bed. there may be-- you know--infection--" "oh! you needn't fear infection here, sir," said mrs frog, somewhat sharply. "we are poor enough, god knows, though i _have_ seen better times, but we keep ourselves pretty clean, though we can't afford to spend much on soap when food is so dear, and money so scarce--so _very_ scarce!" "forgive me, my good woman," said sir richard, hastily, "i did not mean to offend, but circumstances would seem to favour the idea--of--of--" and here wealth--although a bank director and chairman of several boards, and capable of making a neat, if weakly, speech on economic laws and the currency when occasion required--was dumb before poverty. indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and fairly looked her in the face. "the fact is, mrs frog," said giles scott, coming to the rescue, "sir richard is anxious to know something about your affairs--your family, you know, and your means of--by the way, where is baby?" he said looking round the room. "she's gone lost," said mrs frog. "lost?" repeated giles, with a significant look. "ay, lost," repeated mrs frog, with a look of equal significance. "bless me, how did you lose your child?" asked sir richard, in some surprise. "oh! sir, that often happens to us poor folk. we're used to it," said mrs frog, in a half bantering half bitter tone. sir richard suddenly called to mind the fact--which had not before impressed him, though he had read and commented on it--that , children under ten years of age had been lost that year, (and it was no exceptional year, as police reports will show), in the streets of london, and that of these children were _never found_. he now beheld, as he imagined, one of the losers of the lost ones, and felt stricken. "well now," said giles to mrs frog, "let's hear how you get along. what does your husband do?" "he mostly does nothin' but drink. sometimes he sells little birds; sometimes he sells penny watches or boot-laces in cheapside, an' turns in a little that way, but it all goes to the grog-shop; none of it comes here. then he has a mill now an' again--" "a mill?" said sir richard,--"is it a snuff or flour--" "he's a professional pugilist," explained giles. "an' he's employed at a music-hall," continued mrs frog, "to call out the songs an' keep order. an' bobby always used to pick a few coppers by runnin' messages, sellin' matches, and odd jobs. but he's knocked over now." "and yourself. how do you add to the general fund?" asked sir richard, becoming interested in the household management of poverty. "well, i char a bit an' wash a bit, sir, when i'm well enough--which ain't often. an' sometimes i lights the jews' fires for 'em, an' clean up their 'earths on saturdays--w'ich is their sundays, sir. but hetty works like a horse. it's she as keeps us from the work'us, sir. she's got employment at a slop shop, and by workin' 'ard all day manages to make about one shillin' a week." "i beg your pardon--how much?" "one shillin', sir." "ah, you mean one shilling a day, i suppose." "no, sir, i mean one shillin' a _week_. mr scott there knows that i'm tellin' what's true." giles nodded, and sir richard said, "ha-a-hem," having nothing more lucid to remark on such an amazing financial problem as was here set before him. "but," continued mrs frog, "poor hetty has had a sad disappointment this week--" "oh! mother," interrupted hetty, "don't trouble the gentleman with that. perhaps he wouldn't understand it, for of course he hasn't heard about all the outs and ins of slop-work." "pardon me, my good girl," said sir richard, "i have not, as you truly remark, studied the details of slop-work minutely, but my mind is not unaccustomed to financial matters. pray let me hear about this--" a savage growling, something between a mastiff and a man, outside the door, here interrupted the visitor, and a hand was heard fumbling about the latch. as the hand seemed to lack skill to open the door the foot considerately took the duty in hand and burst it open, whereupon the huge frame of ned frog stumbled into the room and fell prostrate at the feet of sir richard, who rose hastily and stepped back. the pugilist sprang up, doubled his ever ready fists, and, glaring at the knight, asked savagely: "who the--" he was checked in the utterance of a ferocious oath, for at that moment he encountered the grave eye of number . relaxing his fists he thrust them into his coat-pockets, and, with a subdued air, staggered out of the house. "my 'usband, sir," said mrs frog, in answer to her visitor's inquiring glance. "oh! is that his usual mode of returning home?" "no, sir," answered bobby from his corner, for he was beginning to be amused by the succession of surprises which wealth was receiving, "'e don't always come in so. sometimes 'e sends 'is 'ead first an' the feet come afterwards. in any case the furniture's apt to suffer, not to mention the in'abitants, but you've saved us to-night, sir, or, raither, mr scott 'as saved both us an' you." poor little di, who had been terribly frightened, clung closer to her father's arm on hearing this. "perhaps," said sir richard, "it would be as well that we should go, in case mr frog should return." he was about to say good-bye when di checked him, and, despite her fears, urged a short delay. "we haven't heard, you know, about the slops yet. do stop just one minute, dear papa. i wonder if it's like the beef-tea nurse makes for me when i'm ill." "it's not that kind of slops, darling, but ready-made clothing to which reference is made. but you are right. let us hear about it, miss hetty." the idea of "miss" being applied to hetty, and slops compared to beef-tea proved almost too much for the broken-legged boy in the corner, but he put strong constraint on himself and listened. "indeed, sir, i do not complain," said hetty, quite distressed at being thus forcibly dragged into notice. "i am thankful for what has been sent--indeed i am--only it _was_ a great disappointment, particularly at this time, when we so much needed all we could make amongst us." she stopped and had difficulty in restraining tears. "go on, hetty," said her mother, "and don't be afraid. bless you, he's not goin' to report what you say." "i know that, mother. well, sir, this was the way on it. they sometimes--" "excuse me--who are `they'?" "i beg pardon, sir, i--i'd rather not tell." "very well. i respect your feelings, my girl. some slop-making firm, i suppose. go on." "yes, sir. well--they sometimes gives me extra work to do at home. it do come pretty hard on me after goin' through the regular day's work, from early mornin' till night, but then, you see, it brings in a little more money--and, i'm strong, thank god." sir richard looked at hetty's thin and colourless though pretty face, and thought it possible that she might be stronger with advantage. "of late," continued the girl, "i've bin havin' extra work in this way, and last week i got twelve children's ulsters to make up. this job when finished would bring me six and sixpence." "how much?" "six and sixpence, sir." "for the whole twelve?" asked sir richard. "yes, sir--that was sixpence halfpenny for makin' up each ulster. it's not much, sir." "no," murmured wealth in an absent manner; "sixpence halfpenny is _not_ much." "but when i took them back," continued hetty--and here the tears became again obstreperous and difficult to restrain--"the master said he'd forgot to tell me that this order was for the colonies, that he had taken it at a very low price, and that he could only give me three shillin's for the job. of--of course three shillin's is better the nothin', but after workin' hard for such a long long time an' expectin' six, it was--" here the tears refused to be pent up any longer, and the poor girl quietly bending forward hid her face in her hand. "come, i think we will go now," said sir richard, rising hastily. "good-night, mrs frog, i shall probably see you again--at least--you shall hear from me. now, di--say good-night to your boy." in a few minutes sir richard stood outside, taking in deep draughts of the comparatively fresher air of the court. "the old screw," growled bobby, when the door was shut. "'e didn't leave us so much as a single bob--not even a brown, though 'e pretends that six of 'em ain't much." "don't be hard on him, bobby," said hetty, drying her eyes; "he spoke very kind, you know, an' p'raps he means to help us afterwards." "spoke kind," retorted the indignant boy; "i tell 'ee wot, hetty, you're far too soft an' forgivin'. i s'pose that's wot they teaches you in sunday-school at george yard--eh? vill speakin' kind feed us, vill it clothe us, vill it pay for our lodgin's!" the door opened at that moment, and number re-entered. "the gentleman sent me back to give you this, mrs frog," laying a sovereign on the rickety table. "he said he didn't like to offer it to you himself for fear of hurting your feelings, but i told him he needn't be afraid on that score! was i right, missis? look well after it, now, an' see that ned don't get his fingers on it." giles left the room, and mrs frog, taking up the piece of gold, fondled it for some time in her thin fingers, as though she wished to make quite sure of its reality. then wrapping it carefully in a piece of old newspaper, she thrust it into her bosom. bobby gazed at her in silence up to this point, and then turned his face to the wall. he did not speak, but we cannot say that he did not pray, for, mentally he said, "i beg your parding, old gen'l'm'n, an' i on'y pray that a lot of fellers like you may come 'ere sometimes to 'urt our feelin's in that vay!" at that moment hetty bent over the bed, and, softly kissing her brother's dirty face, whispered, "yes, bobby, that's what they teach me in sunday-school at george yard." thereafter wealth drove home in a cab, and poverty went to bed in her rags. chapter seven. bicycling and its occasional results. it is pleasant to turn from the smoke and turmoil of the city to the fresh air and quiet of the country. to the man who spends most of his time in the heart of london, going into the country--even for a short distance--is like passing into the fields of elysium. this was, at all events, the opinion of stephen welland; and stephen must have been a good judge, for he tried the change frequently, being exceedingly fond of bicycling, and occasionally taking what he termed long spins on that remarkable instrument. one morning, early in the summer-time, young welland, (he was only eighteen), mounted his iron horse in the neighbourhood of kensington, and glided away at a leisurely pace through the crowded streets. arrived in the suburbs of london he got up steam, to use his own phrase, and went at a rapid pace until he met a "chum," by appointment. this chum was also mounted on a bicycle, and was none other than our friend samuel twitter, junior--known at home as sammy, and by his companions as sam. "isn't it a glorious day, sam?" said welland as he rode up and sprang off his steed. "magnificent!" answered his friend, also dismounting and shaking hands. "why, stephen, what an enormous machine you ride!" "yes, it's pretty high-- inches. my legs are long, you see. well, where are we to run to-day?" "wherever you like," said sam, "only let it be a short run, not more than forty miles, for i've got an appointment this afternoon with my old dad which i can't get off." "that'll do very well," said welland, "so we can go round by--" here he described a route by country road and village, which we pretend not to remember. it is sufficient to know that it represented the required "short" run of forty miles--such is the estimate of distance by the youth of the present day! "now then, off we go," said welland, giving his wheel--he quite ignored the existence of the little thing at the back--a shove, putting his left foot on the treadle, and flinging his right leg gracefully over. young twitter followed suit, but sammy was neither expert nor graceful. true, he could ride easily, and travel long distances, but he could only mount by means of the somewhat clumsy process of hopping behind for several yards. once up, however, he went swiftly enough alongside his tall companion, and the two friends thereafter kept abreast. "oh! isn't it a charming sensation to have the cool air fanning one's cheeks, and feel the soft tremor of the wheel, and see the trees and houses flow past at such a pace? it is the likest thing to flying i ever felt," said welland, as they descended a slight incline at, probably, fifteen miles an hour. "it is delightful," replied sam, "but, i say, we better put on the brakes here a bit. it gets much steeper further down." instead of applying the brake, however, young welland, in the exuberance of his joy, threw his long legs over the handles, and went down the slope at railway speed, ready, as he remarked, for a jump if anything should go wrong. twitter was by no means as bold as his friend, but, being ashamed to show the white feather, he quietly threw his shorter legs over the handles, and thus the two, perched--from a fore-and-aft point of view-- upon nothing, went in triumph to the bottom of the hill. a long stretch of smooth level road now lay before them. it required the merest touch on the treadles to send them skimming along like skaters on smooth ice, or swallows flying low. like gentle ghosts they fleeted along with little more than a muffled sound, for their axles turned in ball-sockets and their warning bells were silent save when touched. onward they went with untiring energy, mile after mile, passing everything on the way--pedestrians, equestrians, carts and gigs; driving over the level ground with easy force, taking the hills with a rush to keep up the pace, and descending on the other sides at what welland styled a "lightning run." now they were skimming along a road which skirted the margin of a canal, the one with hands in his coat-pockets, the other with his arms crossed, and both steering with their feet; now passing under a railway-arch, and giving a wild shout, partly to rouse the slumbering echoes that lodged there, and partly to rouse the spirit of a small dog which chanced to be passing under it--in both cases successfully! anon they were gliding over a piece of exposed ground on which the sun beat with intense light, causing their shadows to race along with them. again they were down in a hollow, gliding under a row of trees, where they shut off a little of the steam and removed their caps, the better to enjoy the grateful shade. soon they were out in the sunshine again, the spokes of their wheels invisible as they topped a small eminence from the summit of which they took in one comprehensive view of undulating lands, with villages scattered all round, farm-houses here and there, green fields and flowering meadows, traversed by rivulet or canal, with cattle, sheep, and horses gazing at them in silent or startled wonder, and birds twittering welcome from the trees and hedge-rows everywhere. now they were crossing a bridge and nearing a small town where they had to put hands to the handles again and steer with precaution, for little dogs had a tendency to bolt out at them from unexpected corners, and poultry is prone to lose its heads and rush into the very jaws of danger, in a cackling effort to avoid it. stray kittens and pigs, too, exhibited obstinate tendencies, and only gave in when it was nearly too late for repentance. little children, also, became sources of danger, standing in the middle of roads until, perceiving a possible catastrophe, they dashed wildly aside--always to the very side on which the riders had resolved to pass,--and escaped by absolute miracle! presently they came to a steep hill. it was not steep enough to necessitate dismounting, but it rendered a rush inadvisable. they therefore worked up slowly, and, on gaining the top, got off to breathe and rest a while. "that _was_ a glorious run, wasn't it, sam?" said welland, flicking the dust from his knees with his handkerchief. "what d'ye say to a glass of beer?" "can't do it, stephen, i'm blue ribbon." "oh! nonsense. why not do as i do--drink in moderation?" "well, i didn't think much about it when i put it on," said sam, who was a very sensitive, and not very strong-minded youth; "the rest of us did it, you know, by father's advice, and i joined because they did." welland laughed rather sarcastically at this, but made no rejoinder, and sam, who could not stand being laughed at, said-- "well, come, i'll go in for one glass. i'll be my own doctor, and prescribe it medicinally! besides, it's an exceptional occasion this, for it is awfully hot." "it's about the best run i ever had in the same space of time," said welland on quitting the beer shop. "first-rate," returned sam, "i wish my old dad could ride with us. he _would_ enjoy it so." "couldn't we bring him out on a horse? he could ride that, i suppose?" "never saw him on a horse but once," said sam, "and that time he fell off. but it's worth suggesting to him." "better if he got a tricycle," said welland. "i don't think that would do, for he's too old for long rides, and too short-winded. now, stephen, i'm not going to run down this hill. we _must_ take it easy, for it's far too steep." "nonsense, man, it's nothing to speak of; see, i'll go first and show you the way." he gave the treadle a thrust that sent him off like an arrow from a bow. "stay! there's a caravan or something at the bottom--wild beasts' show, i think! stop! hold on!" but sam twitter shouted in vain. welland's was a joyous spirit, apt to run away with him. he placed his legs over the handles for security, and allowed the machine to run. it gathered speed as it went, for the hill became steeper, insomuch that the rider once or twice felt the hind-wheel rise, and had to lean well back to keep it on the ground. the pace began to exceed even welland's idea of pleasure, but now it was too late to use the brake, for well did he know that on such a slope and going at such a pace the slightest check on the front wheel would send him over. he did not feel alarmed however, for he was now near the bottom of the hill, and half a minute more would send him in safety on the level road at the foot. but just at the foot there was a sharpish turn in the road, and welland looked at it earnestly. at an ordinary pace such a turn could have been easily taken, but at such a rate as he had by that time attained, he felt it would require a tremendous lean over to accomplish it. still he lost no confidence, for he was an athlete by practice if not by profession, and he gathered up his energies for the moment of action. the people of the caravan--whoever they were--had seen him coming, and, beginning to realise his danger to some extent, had hastily cleared the road to let him pass. welland considered the rate of speed; felt, rather than calculated, the angle of inclination; leaned over boldly until the tire almost slipped sideways on the road, and came rushing round with a magnificent sweep, when, horrible sight! a slight ridge of what is called road-metal crossed the entire road from side to side! a drain or water pipe had recently been repaired, and the new ridge had not yet been worn down by traffic. there was no time for thought or change of action. another moment and the wheel was upon it, the crash came, and the rider went off with such force that he was shot well in advance of the machine, as it went with tremendous violence into the ditch. if welland's feet had been on the treadles he must have turned a complete somersault. as it was he alighted on his feet, but came to the ground with such force that he failed to save himself. one frantic effort he made and then went down headlong and rolled over on his back in a state of insensibility. when sam twitter came to the bottom of the hill with the brake well applied he was able to check himself in time to escape the danger, and ran to where his friend lay. for a few minutes the unfortunate youth lay as if he had been dead. then his blood resumed its flow, and when the eyes opened he found sam kneeling on one side of him with a smelling bottle which some lady had lent him, and a kindly-faced elderly man with an iron-grey beard kneeling on the other side and holding a cup of water to his lips. "that's right, stephen, look up," said sam, who was terribly frightened, "you're not much hurt, are you?" "hurt, old fellow, eh?" sighed stephen, "why should i be hurt? where am i? what has happened?" "take a sip, my young friend, it will revive you," said the man with the kindly face. "you have had a narrow escape, but god has mercifully spared you. try to move now; gently--we must see that no bones have been broken before allowing you to rise." by this time welland had completely recovered, and was anxious to rise; all the more that a crowd of children surrounded him, among whom he observed several ladies and gentlemen, but he lay still until the kindly stranger had felt him all over and come to the conclusion that no serious damage had been done. "oh! i'm all right, thank you," said the youth on rising, and affecting to move as though nothing had happened, but he was constrained to catch hold of the stranger rather suddenly, and sat down on the grass by the road-side. "i do believe i've got a shake after all," he said with a perplexed smile and sigh. "but," he added, looking round with an attempt at gaiety, "i suspect my poor bicycle has got a worse shake. do look after it, sam, and see how it is." twitter soon returned with a crestfallen expression. "it's done for, stephen. i'm sorry to say the whole concern seems to be mashed up into a kind of wire-fencing!" "is it past mending, sam?" "past mending by any ordinary blacksmith, certainly. no one but the maker can doctor it, and i should think it would take him a fortnight at least." "what is to be done?" said stephen, with some of his companion's regret of tone. "what a fool i was to take such a hill--spoilt such a glorious day too--for you as well as myself, sam. i'm _very_ sorry, but that won't mend matters." "are you far from home, gentlemen?" asked the man with the iron-grey beard, who had listened to the conversation with a look of sympathy. "ay, much too far to walk," said welland. "d'you happen to know how far off the nearest railway station is?" "three miles," answered the stranger, "and in your condition you are quite unfit to walk that distance." "i'm not so sure of that," replied the youth, with a pitiful look. "i think i'm game for three miles, if i had nothing to carry but myself, but i can't leave my bicycle in the ditch, you know!" "of course you can't," rejoined the stranger in a cheery tone, "and i think we can help you in this difficulty. i am a london city missionary. my name is john seaward. we have, as you see, brought out a number of our sunday-school children, to give them a sight of god's beautiful earth; poor things, they've been used to bricks, mortar, and stone all their lives hitherto. now, if you choose to spend the remainder of the day with us, we will be happy to give you and the injured bicycle a place in our vans till we reach a cabstand or a railway station. what say you? it will give much pleasure to me and the teachers." welland glanced at his friend. "you see, sam, there's no help for it, old boy. you'll have to return alone." "unless your friend will also join us," said the missionary. "you are very kind," said sam, "but i cannot stay, as i have an engagement which must be kept. never mind, stephen. i'll just complete the trip alone, and comfort myself with the assurance that i leave you in good hands. so, good-bye, old boy." "good-bye, twitter," said stephen, grasping his friend's hand. "twitter," repeated the missionary, "i heard your friend call you sam just now. excuse my asking--are you related to samuel twitter of twitter, slime, and company, in the city?" "i'm his eldest son," said sam. "then i have much pleasure in making your acquaintance," returned the other, extending his hand, "for although i have never met your father, i know your mother well. she is one of the best and most regular teachers in our sunday-schools. is she not, hetty?" he said, turning to a sweet-faced girl who stood near him. "indeed she is, i was her pupil for some years, and now i teach one of her old classes," replied the girl. "i work in the neighbourhood of whitechapel, sir," continued the missionary, "and most of the children here attend the institution in george yard." "well, i shall tell my mother of this unexpected meeting," said sam, as he remounted his bicycle. "good-bye, stephen. don't romp too much with the children!" "adieu, sam, and don't break your neck on the bicycle." in a few minutes sam twitter and his bicycle were out of sight. chapter eight. a great and memorable day. when young stephen welland was conducted by john seaward the missionary into a large field dotted with trees, close to where his accident had happened, he found that the children and their guardians were busily engaged in making arrangements for the spending of an enjoyable day. and then he also found that this was not a mere monster excursion of ordinary sunday-schools, but one of exceedingly poor children, whose garments, faces, and general condition, told too surely that they belonged to the lowest grade in the social scale. "yes," said the missionary, in reply to some question from welland, "the agency at george yard, to which i have referred, has a wide-embracing influence--though but a small lump of leaven when compared with the mass of corruption around it. this is a flock of the ragged and utterly forlorn, to many of whom green fields and fresh air are absolutely new, but we have other flocks besides these." "indeed! well, now i look at them more carefully, i see that their garments do speak of squalid poverty. i have never before seen such a ragged crew, though i have sometimes encountered individuals of the class on the streets." "hm!" coughed the missionary with a peculiar smile. "they are not so ragged as they were. neither are they as ragged as they will be in an hour or two." "what do you mean?" "i mean that these very rough little ones have to receive peculiar treatment before we can give them such an outing as they are having to-day. as you see, swings and see-saws have been put up here, toys are now being distributed, and a plentiful feast will ere long be forthcoming, through the kindness of a christian gentleman whose heart the lord has inclined to `consider the poor,' but before we could venture to move the little band, much of their ragged clothing had to be stitched up to prevent it falling off on the journey, and we had to make them move carefully on their way to the train--for vans have brought us only part of the way. now that they are here, our minds are somewhat relieved, but i suspect that the effect of games and romping will undo much of our handiwork. come, let us watch them." the youth and the missionary advanced towards a group of the children, whose souls, for the time being, were steeped in a see-saw. this instrument of delight consisted of a strong plank balanced on the trunk of a noble tree which had been recently felled, with many others, to thin the woods of the philanthropist's park. it was an enormous see-saw! such as the ragged creatures had never before seen--perhaps never conceived of, their experiences in such joys having been hitherto confined to small bits of broken plank placed over empty beer barrels, or back-yard fences. no fewer than eight children were able to find accommodation on it at one and the same time, besides one of the bigger boys to straddle in the centre; and it required the utmost vigilance on the part of a young man teacher at one end of the machine, and hetty frog at the other end, to prevent the little ragamuffins at either extremity from being forced off. already the missionary's anticipation in regard to the undoing of their labour had begun to be verified. there were at least four of the eight whose nether garments had succumbed to the effort made in mounting the plank, and various patches of flesh-colour revealed the fact that the poor little wearers were innocent of flannels. but it was summer-time, and the fact had little effect either on wearers or spectators. the missionary, however, was not so absorbed in the present but that he felt impelled to remark to welland: "that is their winter as well as summer clothing." the bicyclist said nothing in reply, but the remark was not lost upon him. "now, dick swiller," said the young man teacher, "i see what you're up to. you mustn't do it!" richard swiller, who was a particularly rugged as well as ragged boy of about thirteen, not being in the habit of taking advice, did do it. that is, he sent his end of the plank up with such violence that the other end came to the ground with a shock which caused those who sat there to gasp, while it all but unseated most of those who were on the higher end. indeed one very small and pinched but intelligent little boy, named by his companions blobby, who looked as if time, through the influence of privation and suffering, had been dwindling instead of developing him,--actually did come off with a cry of alarm, which, however, changed into a laugh of glee when he found himself in his teacher's arms, instead of lying "busted on the ground," as he afterwards expressed it when relating the incident to an admiring audience of fellow ragamuffins in the slums of spitalfields. blobby was immediately restored to his lost position, and swiller was degraded, besides being made to stand behind a large tree for a quarter of an hour in forced inaction, so that he might have time to meditate on the evil consequences of disobedience. "take care, robin," said hetty, to a very small but astonishingly energetic fellow, at her end of the see-saw, who was impressed with the notion that he was doing good service by wriggling his own body up and down, "if you go on so, you'll push lilly snow off." robin, unlike dick, was obedient. he ceased his efforts, and thereby saved the last button which held his much too small waistcoat across his bare bosom. "what a sweet face the child she calls lilly snow has--if it were only clean," observed welland. "a little soap and water with a hair brush would make her quite beautiful." "yes, she is very pretty," said the missionary and the kindly smile with which he had been watching the fun vanished, as he added in a sorrowful voice, "her case is a very sad one, dear child. her mother is a poor but deserving woman who earns a little now and then by tailoring, but she has been crushed for years by a wicked and drunken husband who has at last deserted her. we know not where he is, perhaps dead. five times has her home been broken up by him, and many a time has she with her little one been obliged to sit on doorsteps all night, when homeless. little lilly attends our sunday-school regularly, and hetty is her teacher. it is not long since hetty herself was a scholar, and i know that she is very anxious to lead lilly to the lord. the sufferings and sorrows to which this poor child has been exposed have told upon her severely, and i fear that her health will give way. a day in the country like this may do her good perhaps." as the missionary spoke little lilly threw up her arms and uttered a cry of alarm. robin, although obedient, was short of memory, and his energetic spirit being too strong for his excitable little frame he had recommenced his wriggling, with the effect of bursting the last button off his waistcoat and thrusting lilly off the plank. she was received, however, on hetty's breast, who fell with her to the ground. "not hurt, hetty!" exclaimed the missionary, running forward to help the girl up. "oh! no, sir," replied hetty with a short laugh, as she rose and placed lilly on a safer part of the see-saw. "come here, hetty," said john seaward, "and rest a while. you have done enough just now; let some one else take your place." after repairing the buttonless waistcoat with a pin and giving its owner a caution, hetty went and sat down on the grass beside the missionary. "how is bobby?" asked the latter, "i have not found a moment to speak to you till now." "thank you, sir, he's better; much better. i fear he will be well too soon." "how so? that's a strange remark, my girl." "it may seem strange, sir, but--you know--father's very fond of bobby." "well, hetty, that's not a bad sign of your father." "oh but, sir, father sits at his bedside when he's sober, an' has such long talks with him about robberies and burglaries, and presses him very hard to agree to go out with him when he's well. i can't bear to hear it, for dear bobby seems to listen to what he says, though sometimes he refuses, and defies him to do his worst, especially when he--" "stay, dear girl. it is very very sad, but don't tell me anything more about your father. tell it all to jesus, hetty. he not only sympathises with, but is able to save--even to the uttermost." "yes, thank god for that `uttermost,'" said the poor girl, clasping her hands quickly together. "oh, i understood that when he saved _me_, and i will trust to it now." "and the gentleman who called on you,--has he been again?" asked the missionary. "no, sir, he has only come once, but he has sent his butler three or four times with some money for us, and always with the message that it is from miss diana, to be divided between bobby and me. unfortunately father chanced to be at home the first time he came and got it all, so we got none of it. but he was out the other times. the butler is an oldish man, and a very strange one. he went about our court crying." "crying! hetty, that's a curious condition for an oldish butler to be in." "oh, of course i don't mean cryin' out like a baby," said hetty, looking down with a modest smile, "but i saw tears in his eyes, and sometimes they got on his cheeks. i can't think what's the matter with him." whatever mr seaward thought on this point he said nothing, but asked if bobby was able to go out. oh yes, he was quite able to walk about now with a little help, hetty said, and she had taken several walks with him and tried to get him to speak about his soul, but he only laughed at that, and said he had too much trouble with his body to think about his soul--there was time enough for that! they were interrupted at this point by a merry shout of glee, and, looking up, found that young welland had mounted the see-saw, taken lilly snow in front of him, had dick swiller reinstated to counterbalance his extra weight, and was enjoying himself in a most hilarious manner among the fluttering rags. assuredly, the fluttering rags did not enjoy themselves a whit less hilariously than he. in this condition he was found by the owner of the grounds, george brisbane, esquire, of lively hall, who, accompanied by his wife, and a tall, dignified friend with a little girl, approached the see-saw. "i am glad you enjoy yourself so much, my young friend," he said to welland; "to which of the ragged schools may you belong?" in much confusion--for he was rather shy--welland made several abortive efforts to check the see-saw, which efforts dick swiller resisted to the uttermost, to the intense amusement of a little girl who held mrs brisbane's hand. at last he succeeded in arresting it and leaped off. "i beg pardon," he said, taking off his cap to the lady as he advanced, "for intruding uninvited on--" "pray don't speak of intrusion," interrupted mr brisbane, extending his hand; "if you are here as mr seaward's friend you are a welcome guest. your only intrusion was among the little ones, but as they seem not to resent it neither do i." welland grasped the proffered hand. "thank you very much," he returned, "but i can scarcely lay claim to mr seaward's friendship. the fact is, i am here in consequence of an accident to my bicycle." "oh! then you _are_ one of the poor unfortunates after all," said the host. "come, you are doubly welcome. not hurt much, i hope. no? that's all right. but don't let me keep you from your amusements. remember, we shall expect you at the feast on the lawn. you see, sir richard," he added, turning to his dignified friend, "when we go in for this sort of thing we don't do it by halves. to have any lasting effect, it must make a deep impression. so we have got up all sorts of amusements, as you observe, and shall have no fewer than two good feeds. come, let us visit some other--why, what are you gazing at so intently?" he might well ask the question, for sir richard brandon had just observed hetty frog, and she, unaccustomed to such marked attention, was gazing in perplexed confusion on the ground. at the same time little di, having caught sight of her, quitted mrs brisbane, ran towards her with a delighted scream, and clasping her hand in both of hers, proclaimed her the sister of "my boy!" hetty's was not the nature to refuse such affection. though among the poorest of the poor, and clothed in the shabbiest and most patchy of garments, (which in her case, however, were neat, clean and well mended), she was rich in a loving disposition; so that, forgetting herself and the presence of others, she stooped and folded the little girl in her arms. and, when the soft brown hair and pale pretty face of poverty were thus seen as it were co-mingling with the golden locks and rosy cheeks of wealth, even sir richard was forced to admit to himself that it was not after all a very outrageous piece of impropriety! "oh! i'm _so_ glad to hear that he's much better, and been out too! i would have come to see him again long long ago, but p--" she checked herself, for mrs screwbury had carefully explained to her that no good girl ever said anything against her parents; and little di had swallowed the lesson, for, when not led by passion, she was extremely teachable. "and oh!" she continued, opening her great blue lakelets to their widest state of solemnity, "you haven't the smallest bit of notion how i have dreamt about my boy--and my policeman too! i never can get over the feeling that they might both have been killed, and if they had, you know, it would have been me that did it; only think! i would have-- been--a murderer! p'raps they'd have hanged me!" "but they weren't killed, dear," said hetty, unable to restrain a smile at the awful solemnity of the child, and the terrible fate referred to. "no--i'm _so_ glad, but i can't get over it," continued di, while those near to her stood quietly by unable to avoid overhearing, even if they had wished to do so. "and they do such strange things in my dreams," continued di, "you can't think. only last night i was in our basket-cart--the dream-one, you know, not the real one--and the dream-pony ran away again, and gave my boy such a dreadful knock that he fell flat down on his back, tumbled over two or three times, and rose up--a policeman! not _my_ policeman, you know, but quite another one that i had never seen before! but the very oddest thing of all was that it made me so angry that i jumped with all my might on to his breast, and when i got there it wasn't the policeman but the pony! and it was dead--quite dead, for i had killed it, and i wasn't sorry at all--not a bit!" this was too much for hetty, who burst into a laugh, and sir richard thought it time to go and see the games that were going on in other parts of the field, accompanied by welland and the missionary, while hetty returned to her special pet lilly snow. and, truly, if "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin," there were touches of nature enough seen that day among these outcasts of society to have warranted their claiming kin with the whole world. leap-frog was greatly in favour, because the practitioners could abandon themselves to a squirrel-and-cat sort of bound on the soft grass, which they had never dared to indulge in on the london pavements. it was a trying game, however, to the rags, which not only betrayed their character to the eye by the exhibition of flesh-tints through numerous holes, but addressed themselves also to the ears by means of frequent and explosive rendings. pins, however, were applied to the worst of these with admirable though temporary effect, and the fun became faster and more furious,--especially so when the points of some of the pins touched up the flesh-tints unexpectedly. on these occasions the touches of nature became strongly pronounced-- expressing themselves generally in a yell. another evidence of worldly kinship was, that the touched-up ones, instead of attributing the misfortune to accident, were prone to turn round with fierce scowl and doubled fists under the impression that a guilty comrade was in rear! the proceedings were totally arrested for one hour at mid-day, when unlimited food was issued, and many of the forlorn ones began to feel the rare sensation of being stuffed quite full and rendered incapable of wishing for more! but this was a mere interlude. like little giants refreshed they rose up again to play--to swing, to leap, to wrestle, to ramble, to gather flowers, to roll on the grass, to bask in the gladdening sunshine, and, in some cases, to thank god for all his mercies, in spite of the latent feeling of regret that there was so little of all that enjoyment in the slums, and dark courts, and filthy back-streets of the monster city. of course all the pins were extracted in this second act of the play, and innumerable new and gaping wounds were introduced into the clothing, insomuch that all ordinary civilised people, except philanthropists, would have been shocked with the appearance of the little ones. but it was during the third and closing act of the play that the affair culminated. the scene was laid on the lawn in front of mr brisbane's mansion. enter, at one end of the lawn, a band of small and dirty but flushed and happy boys and girls, in rags which might appropriately be styled ribbons. at the other end of the lawn a train of domestics bearing trays with tea, cakes, buns, pies, fruits, and other delectable things, to which the ragged army sits down. enter host and hostess, with sir richard, friends and attendants. (_host_.)--after asking a blessing--"my little friends, this afternoon we meet to eat, and only one request have i to make--that you shall do your duty well." (small boy in ribbons.--"von't i, just!") "no platter shall return to my house till it be empty. no little one shall quit these premises till he be full; what cannot be eaten must be carried away." (the ragged army cheers.) (_host_.)--"enough. fall-to." (they fall-to.) (_little boy_ in tatters, pausing.)--"_i_ shan't fall two, i'll fall three or four." (_another little boy_, in worse tatters.)--"so shall i." (_first little boy_.)--"i say, jim, wot would mother say if she was here?" (_jim_.)--"she'd say nothin'. 'er mouth 'ud be too full to speak." (prolonged silence. only mastication heard, mingled with a few cases of choking, which are promptly dealt with.) (_blobby_, with a sigh.)--"i say, robin, i'm gettin' tight." (_robin_, with a gasp.)--"so am i; i'm about bustin'." (_blobby_, coming to another pause.)--"i say, robin, i'm as full as i can 'old. so's all my pockits, an' there's some left over!" (_robin--sharply_.)--"stick it in your 'at, then." (blobby takes off his billycock, thrusts the remnant of food therein, and puts it on.) enter the brass band of the neighbouring village, (the bandsmen being boys), which plays a selection of airs, and sends a few of the smaller ragamuffins to sleep. (_sir richard brandon_, confidentially to his friend.)--"it is an amazing sight." (_host_.)--"would that it were a more common sight!" enter more domestics with more tea, buns, and fruit; but the army is glutted, and the pockets are brought into requisition: much pinning being a necessary consequence. (_lilly snow_, softly.)--"it's like 'eaven!" (_hetty_, remonstratingly.)--"oh! lilly, 'eaven is quite different." (_dick swiller_.)--"i'm sorry for it. couldn't be much 'appier to my mind." (_host_.)--"now, dear boys and girls, before we close the proceedings of this happy day, my excellent friend, your missionary, mr seaward, will say a few words." john seaward steps to the front, and says a few words--says them so well, too, so simply, so kindly, yet so heartily, that the army is roused to a pitch of great enthusiasm; but we leave this speech to the reader's imagination: after which--_exeunt omnes_. and, as the curtain of night falls on these ragged ones, scattered now, many of them, to varied homes of vice, and filth, and misery, the heavy eyelids close to open again, perchance, in ecstatic dreams of food, and fun and green fields, fresh air and sunshine, which impress them more or less with the idea embodied in the aphorism, that "god made the country, but man made the town." chapter nine. how the poor are succoured. "i am obliged to you, mr seaward, for coming out of your way to see me," said sir richard brandon, while little di brought their visitor a chair. "i know that your time is fully occupied, and would not have asked you to call had not my friend mr brisbane assured me that you had to pass my house daily on your way to--to business." "no apology, sir richard, pray. i am at all times ready to answer a call whether of the poor or the rich, if by any means i may help my lord's cause." the knight thought for a moment that he might claim to be classed among the poor, seeing that his miserable pittance of five thousand barely enabled him to make the two ends meet, but he only said: "ever since we had the pleasure of meeting at that gathering of ragged children, my little girl here has been asking so many questions about poor people--the lower orders, i mean--which i could not answer, that i have asked you to call, that we may get some information about them. you see, diana is an eccentric little puss," (di opened her eyes very wide at this, wondering what "eccentric" could mean), "and she has got into a most unaccountable habit of thinking and planning about poor people." "a good habit, sir richard," said the missionary. "`blessed are they that consider the poor.'" sir richard acknowledged this remark with a little bow. "now, we should like to ask, if you have no objection, what is your chief object in the mission at--what did you say its name--ah! george yard?" "to save souls," said mr seaward. "oh--ah--precisely," said the knight, taken somewhat aback by the nature and brevity of the answer, "that of course; but i meant, how do you proceed? what is the method, and what the machinery that you put in motion?" "perhaps," said the missionary, drawing a small pamphlet from his pocket, "this will furnish you with all the information you desire. you can read it over to miss diana at your leisure--and don't return it; i have plenty more. meanwhile i may briefly state that the mission premises are in george yard, high street, whitechapel, one of the worst parts of the east of london, where the fire of sin and crime rages most fiercely; where the soldiers of the cross are comparatively few, and would be overwhelmed by mere numbers, were it not that they are invincible, carrying on the war as they do in the strength of him who said, `lo, i am with you alway.' "in the old coaching days," continued mr seaward, "this was a great centre, a starting-point for mail-coaches. for nigh thirty years the mission has been there. the `black horse' was a public-house in george yard, once known to the magistrates as one of the worst gin-shops and resort of thieves and nurseries of crime in london. that public-house is now a shelter for friendless girls, and a place where sick children of the poor are gratuitously fed." from this point the missionary went off into a graphic account of incidents illustrative of the great work done by the mission, and succeeded in deeply interesting both diana and her father, though the latter held himself well in hand, knowing, as he was fond of remarking, that there were two sides to every question. checking his visitor at one point, he said, "you have mentioned ragged schools and the good that is done by them, but why should not the school-boards look after such children?" "because, sir richard, the school-boards cannot reach them. there are upwards of , people in london who have never lived more than three months in one place. no law reaches this class, because they do not stay long enough in any neighbourhood for the school-board authorities to put the law into operation. now, nearly three hundred of the children of these wanderers meet in our free ragged day schools twice a day for instruction. here we teach them as efficiently as we can in secular matters, and of course they are taught the word of god, and told of jesus the saviour of sinners; but our difficulties are great, for children as well as parents are often in extremest poverty, the former suffering from hunger even when sent to school--and they never stay with us long. let me give you an instance:-- "one morning a mother came and begged to have her children admitted. she had just left the workhouse. three children in rags, that did not suffice to cover much less to protect them, stood by her side. she did not know where they were to sleep that night, but hoped to obtain a little charing and earn enough to obtain a lodging somewhere. she could not take the children with her while seeking work--would we take them in? for, if not, they would have to be left in the streets, and as they were very young they might lose themselves or be run over. we took them in, fed, sympathised with, and taught them. in the afternoon the mother returned weary, hungry, dejected. she had failed to obtain employment, and took the children away to apply for admission to a casual ward." "what is a casual ward, mr missionary?" asked di. "seaward, my love,--his name is not missionary," said sir richard. "a casual ward," answered the visitor, "is an exceedingly plain room with rows of very poor beds; mere wooden frames with canvas stretched on them, in which any miserable beggars who choose to submit to the rules may sleep for a night after eating a bit of bread and a basin of gruel-- for all which they pay nothing. it is a very poor and comfortless place--at least you would think it so--and is meant to save poor people from sleeping, perhaps dying, in the streets." "do some people sleep in the streets?" asked di in great surprise. "yes, dear, i'm sorry to say that many do." "d'you mean on the stones, in their night-dresses?" asked the child with increasing surprise. "yes, love," said her father, "but in their ordinary clothes, not in their night-dresses--they have no night-dresses." little di had now reached a pitch of surprise which rendered her dumb, so the missionary continued: "here is another case. a poor widow called once, and said she would be so grateful if we would admit her little girl and boy into the schools. she looked clean and tidy, and the children had not been neglected. she could not afford to pay for them, as she had not a penny in the world, and applied to us because we made no charge. the children were admitted and supplied with a plain but nourishing meal, while their mother went away to seek for work. we did not hear how she sped, but she had probably taken her case to god, and found him faithful, for she had said, before going away, `i know that god is the father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow.' "again, another poor woman came. her husband had fallen sick. till within a few days her children had been at a school and paid for, but now the bread-winner was ill--might never recover--and had gone to the hospital. these children were at once admitted, and in each case investigation was made to test the veracity of the applicants. "of course," continued the missionary, "i have spoken chiefly about the agencies with which i happen to have come personally in contact, but it must not be supposed that therefore i ignore or am indifferent to the other grand centres of influence which are elsewhere at work in london; such as, for instance, the various agencies set agoing and superintended by dr barnardo, whose _home for working and destitute boys_, in stepney causeway, is a shelter from which thousands of rescued little ones go forth to labour as honest and useful members of society, instead of dying miserably in the slums of london, or growing up to recruit the ranks of our criminal classes. these agencies, besides rescuing destitute and neglected children, include _homes for destitute girls_ and for _little boys_ in ilford and jersey, an _infirmary for sick children of the destitute classes_ in stepney, _orphan homes, ragged and day schools, free dinner-table to destitute children, mission halls, coffee palaces_, and, in short, a grand net-work of beneficent agencies--evangelistic, temperance, and medical--for the conduct of which is required not far short of one hundred pounds a day!" even sir richard brandon, with all his supposed financial capacities, seemed struck with the magnitude of this sum. "and where does dr barnardo obtain so large an amount?" he asked. "from the voluntary gifts of those who sympathise with and consider the poor," replied seaward. "then," he added, "there is that noble work carried on by miss rye of the _emigration home for destitute little girls_, at the avenue house, peckham, from which a stream of destitute little ones continually flows to canada, where they are much wanted, and who, if allowed to remain here, would almost certainly be _lost_. strong testimony to the value of this work has been given by the bishops of toronto and niagara, and other competent judges. let me mention a case of one of miss rye's little ones, which speaks for itself. "a little girl of six was deserted by both father and mother." "oh! _poor_ little thing!" exclaimed the sympathetic di, with an amazing series of pitiful curves about her eyebrows. "yes, poor indeed!" responded seaward. "the mother forsook her first; then her father took her on the tramp, but the little feet could not travel fast enough, so he got tired of her and offered her to a workhouse. they refused her, so the tramping was continued, and at last baby was sold for three shillings to a stranger man. on taking his purchase home, however, the man found that his wife was unwilling to receive her; he therefore sent poor little baby adrift in the streets of london!" "_what_ a shame!" cried di, with flashing orbs. "was it not? but, when father and mother cast this little one off, the lord cared for it. an inspector of police, who found it, took it to his wife, and she carried it to miss rye's home, where it was at once received and cared for, and, doubtless, this little foundling girl is now dwelling happily and usefully with a canadian family." "how nice!" exclaimed di, her eyes, lips, and teeth bearing eloquent witness to her satisfaction. "but no doubt you have heard of miss rye's work, as well as that of miss annie macpherson at the home of industry, and, perhaps, contributed to--" "no," interrupted sir richard, quickly, "i do not contribute; but pray, mr seaward, are there other institutions of this sort in london?" "oh! yes, there are several, it would take me too long to go into the details of the various agencies we have for succouring the poor. there is, among others, the church of england `_central home for waifs and strays_,' with a `receiving house' for boys in upper clapton, and one for girls in east dulwich, with the archbishop of canterbury for its president. possibly you may have heard of the `_strangers' rest_,' in saint george street, ratcliff highway, where, as far as man can judge, great and permanent good is being constantly done to the souls of sailors. a sailor once entered this `rest' considerably the worse for drink. he was spoken to by christian friends, and asked to sign the pledge. he did so, and has now been steadfast for years. returning from a long voyage lately, he went to revisit the _rest_, and there, at the bible-class, prayed. part of his prayer was--`god bless the strangers' rest. o lord, we thank thee for this place, and we shall thank thee to all eternity.' this is a sample of the feeling with which the place is regarded by those who have received blessing there. in the same street, only a few doors from this rest, is the `_sailor's welcome home_.' this is more of a home than the other, for it furnishes lodging and unintoxicating refreshment, while its devoted soul-loving manager, miss child, and her assistant workers, go fearlessly into the very dens of iniquity, and do all they can to bring sailors to jesus, and induce them to take the pledge against strong drink, in which work they are, through god's blessing, wonderfully successful. these two missions work, as it were, into each other's hands. in the `rest' are held prayer-meetings and bible-classes, and when these are dismissed, the sailors find the open door of the `welcome home' ready to receive them, and the inmates there seek to deepen the good influence that has been brought to bear at the meetings--and this in the midst of one of the very worst parts of london, where temptation to every species of evil is rampant, on the right-hand and on the left, before and behind. "but, sir richard, although i say that a grand and extensive work of salvation to soul, body, and spirit is being done to thousands of men, and women, and children, by the agencies which i have mentioned, and by many similar agencies which i have not now time to mention, as well as by the band of city missionaries to which i have the honour to belong, i would earnestly point out that these all put together only scratch the surface of the vast mass of corruption which has to be dealt with in this seething world of london, the population of which is, as you are aware, equal to that of all scotland; and very specially would i remark that the work is almost exclusively carried on by the _voluntary contributions_ of those who `consider the poor!' "the little tract which i have given you will explain much of the details of this great work, as carried on in the george yard mission. when you have read that, if you desire it, i will call on you again. meanwhile engagements compel me to take my leave." after luncheon, that day, sir richard drew his chair to the window, but instead of taking up the newspaper and recommending his little one to visit the nursery, he said: "come here, di. you and i will examine this pamphlet--this little book--and i'll try to explain it, for reports are usually very dry." di looked innocently puzzled. "should reports always be wet, papa?" sir richard came nearer to the confines of a laugh than he had reached for a long time past. "no, love--not exactly wet, but--hm--you shall hear. draw the stool close to my knee and lay your head on it." with his large hand on the golden tresses, sir richard brandon began to examine the record of work done in the george yard mission. "what is this?" he said. "_toy classes_,--why, this must be something quite in your way, di." "oh yes, i'm sure of that, for i adore toys. tell me about it." "these toy classes are for the cheerless and neglected," said the knight, frowning in a businesslike way at the pamphlet. "sometimes so many as eighty neglected little ones attend these classes. on one occasion, only one of these had boots on, which were very old, much too large, and both lefts. when they were seated, toys and scrap-books were lent to them. there were puzzles, and toy-bricks, and many other things which kept them quite happy for an hour. of course the opportunity was seized to tell them about jesus and his love. a blessed lesson which they would not have had a chance of learning at home--if they had homes; but many of them had none. when it was time to go they said--`can't we stay longer?' "the beginning of this class was interesting," said sir richard, continuing to read. "the thought arose--`gather in the most forlorn and wretched children; those who are seldom seen to smile, or heard to laugh; there are many such who require christian sympathy.' the thought was immediately acted on. a little barefooted ragged boy was sent into the streets to bring in the children. soon there was a crowd round the school-door. the most miserable among the little ones were admitted. the proceedings commenced with prayer--then the toys were distributed, the dirty little hands became active, and the dirty little faces began to look happy. when the toys were gathered up, some could not be found, so, at the next meeting, some of the bigger children were set to watch the smaller ones. presently one little detective said: `please, teacher, teddy's got a horse in his pocket,' and another said that sally had an elephant in her pinafore! occasion was thus found to show the evil of stealing, and teach the blessedness of honesty. they soon gave up pilfering, and they now play with the toys without desiring to take them away." "how nice!" said di. "go on, papa." "what can this be?" continued sir richard, quoting--"_wild flowers of the forest day nursery_. oh! i see--very good idea. i'll not read it, di, i'll tell you about it. there are many poor widows, you must know, and women whose husbands are bad, who have no money to buy food and shelter for themselves and little ones except what they can earn each day. but some of these poor women have babies, and they can't work, you know, with babies in their arms, neither can they leave the babies at home with no one to look after them, except, perhaps, little sisters or brothers not much older than themselves, so they take their babies to this cradle-home, and each pays only twopence, for which small sum her baby is taken in, washed, clothed, warmed, fed, and amused by kind nurses, who keep it till the mother returns from her work to get it back again. isn't that good?" "oh! yes," assented di, with all her heart. "and i read here," continued her father, "that thousands of the infants of the poor die every year because they have not enough food, or enough clothing to keep them warm." "oh _what_ a pity!" exclaimed di, the tears of ready sympathy rushing hot into her upturned eyes. "so you see," continued sir richard, who had unconsciously, as it were, become a pleader for the poor, "if there were a great many nurseries of this kind all over london, a great many little lives would be saved." "and why are there not a great many nurseries of that kind, papa?" "well, i suppose, it is because there are no funds." "no what? papa." "not enough of money, dear." "oh! _what_ a pity! i wish i had lots and lots of money, and then wouldn't i have cradle-homes everywhere?" sir richard, knowing that he had "lots and lots" of money, but had not hitherto contributed one farthing to the object under consideration, thought it best to change the subject by going on with the george yard record. but we will not conduct the reader through it all--interesting though the subject certainly is. suffice it to say that he found the account classed under several heads. under "_feeding the hungry_," for instance, he learned that many poor children are entirely without food, sometimes, for a whole day, so that only two courses are open to them-- to steal food and become criminals, or drift into sickness and die. from which fate many hundreds are annually rescued by timely aid at george yard, the supplies for which are sent by liberal-minded christians in all ranks of life--from mr crackaby with his pounds a year, up through mr brisbane and his class to the present earl of shaftesbury--who, by the way, has taken a deep interest and lent able support to this particular mission for more than a quarter of a century. but the name of sir richard brandon did not appear on the roll of contributors. he had not studied the "lower orders" much, except from a politico-economical-argumentative after-dinner-port-winey point of view. under the head of "_clothing necessitous children_," he found that some of the little ones presented themselves at the school-door in such a net-work of rags, probably infected, as to be unfit even for a ragged school. they were therefore taken in, had their garments destroyed, and were supplied with new clothes. also, that about children between the ages of three and fourteen years were connected with the institution--scattered among the various works of usefulness conducted for the young. under "_work among lads_," he found that those big boys whom one sees idling about corners of streets, fancying themselves men, smoking with obvious dislike and pretended pleasure, and on the highroad to the jail and the gallows--that those boys were enticed into classes opened for carpentry, turning, fretwork, and other attractive industrial pursuits-- including even printing, at a press supplied by lord shaftesbury. this, in connection with evening classes for reading, writing, and arithmetic--the whole leading up to the grand object and aim of all--the salvation of souls. under other heads he found that outcast boys were received, sheltered, sent to industrial homes, or returned to friends and parents; that temperance meetings were held, and drunkards, male and female, sought out, prayed for, lovingly reasoned with, and reclaimed from this perhaps the greatest curse of the land; that juvenile bands of hope were formed, on the ground of prevention being better than cure; that lodging-houses, where the poorest of the poor, and the lowest of the low do congregate, were visited, and the gospel proclaimed to ears that were deaf to nearly every good influence; that mothers' meetings were held--one of them at that old headquarters of sin, the "black horse," where counsel and sympathy were mingled with a clothing club and a bible-woman; that there were a working men's benefit society, bible-classes, sunday-school, a sewing-class, a mutual labour loan society, a shelter for homeless girls, a library, an invalid children's dinner, a bath-room and lavatory, a flower mission, and--hear it, ye who fancy that a penny stands very low in the scale of financial littleness--a farthing bank! all this free--conducted by an unpaid band of considerably over a hundred christian workers, male and female--and leavening the foundations of society, without which, and similar missions, there would be very few leavening influences at all, and the superstructure of society would stand a pretty fair chance of being burst up or blown to atoms--though the superstructure is not very willing to believe the fact! in addition to all this, sir richard learned, to his great amazement, that the jews won't light their fires on the sabbath-day--that is, on our saturday--that they won't even poke it, and that this abstinence is the immediate cause of a source of revenue to the un-jewish poor, whom the jews hire to light and poke their fires for them. and, lastly, sir richard brandon learned that mr george holland, who had managed that mission for more than quarter of a century, was resolved, in the strength of the lord, to seek out the lost and rescue the perishing, even though he, sir richard, and all who resembled him, should refuse to aid by tongue or hand in the glorious work of rescuing the poor from sin and its consequences. chapter ten. balls, bobby, sir richard, and giles appear on the stage. as from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step, so, from the dining-room to the kitchen there is but a stair. let us descend the stair and learn that while sir richard was expounding the subject of "the poor" to little di, mr balls, the butler, was engaged on the same subject in the servants' hall. "i cannot tell you," said balls, "what a impression the sight o' these poor people made on me." "la! mr balls," said the cook, who was not unacquainted with low life in london, having herself been born within sound of bow-bells, "you've got no occasion to worrit yourself about it. it 'as never bin different." "that makes it all the worse, cook," returned balls, standing with his back to the fireplace and his legs wide apart; "if it was only a temporary depression in trade, or the repeal of the corn laws that did it, one could stand it, but to think that such a state of things _always_ goes on is something fearful. you know i'm a country-bred man myself, and ain't used to the town, or to such awful sights of squalor. it almost made me weep, i do assure you. one room that i looked into had a mother and two children in it, and i declare to you that the little boy was going about stark naked, and his sister was only just a slight degree better." "p'raps they was goin' to bed," suggested mrs screwbury. "no, nurse, they wasn't; they was playing about evidently in their usual costume--for that evenin' at least. i would not have believed it if i had not seen it. and the mother was so tattered and draggled and dirty--which, also, was the room." "was that in the court where the frogs live?" asked jessie summers. "it was, and a dreadful court too--shocking!" "by the way, mr balls," asked the cook, "is there any chance o' that brat of a boy bobby, as they call him, coming here? i can't think why master has offered to take such a creeter into his service." "no, cook, there is no chance. i forgot to tell you about that little matter. the boy was here yesterday and he refused--absolutely declined a splendid offer." "i'm glad to hear it," returned the cook. "tell us about it, mr balls," said jessie summers with a reproachful look at the other. "i'm quite fond of that boy--he's such a smart fellow, and wouldn't be bad-looking if he'd only wash his face and comb his hair." "he's smart enough, no doubt, but impudence is his strong point," rejoined the butler with a laugh. the way he spoke to the master beats everything. "`i've sent for you, my boy,' said sir richard, in his usual dignified, kindly way, `to offer you the situation of under-gardener in my establishment.'" "`oh! that's wot you wants with me, is it?' said the boy, as bold as brass; indeed i may say as bold as gun-metal, for his eyes an' teeth glittered as he spoke, and he said it with the air of a dook. master didn't quite seem to like it, but i saw he laid restraint on himself and said: `you have to thank my daughter for this offer--' "`thank you, miss,' said the boy, turnin' to miss di with a low bow, imitatin' sir richard's manner, i thought, as much as he could. "`of course,' continued the master, rather sharply, `i offer you this situation out of mere charity--' "`oh! you do, do you?' said the extraordinary boy in the coolest manner, `but wot if i objec' to receive charity? ven i 'olds a 'orse i expecs to be paid for so doin', same as you expecs to be paid w'en you attends a board-meetin' to grin an' do nuffin.' "`come, come, boy,' said sir richard, gettin' redder in the face than i ever before saw him, `i am not accustomed to low pleasantry, and--' "`an' i ain't accustomed,' broke in the boy, `to 'igh hinsults. do you think that every gent what years a coat an' pants with 'oles in 'em is a beggar?' "for some moments master seemed to be struck speechless, an' i feared that in spite of his well-known gentleness of character he'd throw the ink-stand at the boy's head, but he didn't; he merely said in a low voice, `i would dismiss you at once, boy, were it not that i have promised my daughter to offer you employment, and you can see by her looks how much your unnatural conduct grieves her.' "an' this was true, for poor miss di sat there with her hands clasped, her eyes full of tears, her eyebrows disappearin' among her hair with astonishment, and her whole appearance the very pictur' of distress. `however,' continued sir richard, `i still make you the offer, though i doubt much whether you will be able to retain the situation. your wages will--' "`please sir,' pleaded the boy, `don't mention the wages. i couldn't stand that. indeed i couldn't; it would really be too much for me.' "`why, what do you mean?' says master. "`i mean,' says impudence, `that i agree with you. i don't think i _could_ retain the sitivation, cause w'y? in the fust place, i ain't got no talent at gardenin'. the on'y time i tried it was w'en i planted a toolip in a flower-pot, an' w'en i dug it up to see 'ow it was a-gittin on a cove told me i'd planted it upside down. however, i wasn't goin' to be beat by that cove, so i say to 'im, jack, i says, i planted it so a purpus, an' w'en it sprouts i'm a-goin' to 'ang it up to see if it won't grow through the 'ole in the bottom. in the second place, i couldn't retain the sitivation 'cause i don't intend to take it, though you was to offer me six thousand no shillin's an' no pence no farthin's a year as salary.' "i r'ally did think master would ha' dropt out of his chair at that. as for miss di, she was so tickled that she gave a sort of hysterical laugh. "`balls,' said master, `show him out, and--' he pulled up short, but i knew he meant to say have an eye on the great-coats and umbrellas, so i showed the boy out, an' he went down-stairs, quite quiet, but the last thing i saw of him was performin' a sort of minstrel dance at the end of the street just before he turned the corner and disappeared." "imp'rence!" exclaimed the cook. "naughty, ungrateful boy!" said mrs screwbury. "but it was plucky of him," said jessie summers. "i would call it cheeky," said balls, "i can't think what put it into his head to go on so." if mr balls had followed bobby frog in spirit, watched his subsequent movements, and listened to his remarks, perhaps he might have understood the meaning of his conduct a little better. after he had turned the corner of the street, as above mentioned, bobby trotted on for a short space, and then, coming to a full stop, executed a few steps of the minstrel dance, at the end of which he brought his foot down with tremendous emphasis on the pavement, and said-- "yes, i've bin an' done it. i know'd i was game for a good deal, but i did _not_ think i was up to that. one never knows wot 'e's fit for till 'e tries. wot'll hetty think, i wonder?" what hetty thought he soon found out, for he overtook her on the thames embankment on her way home. bobby was fond of that route, though a little out of his way, because he loved the running water, though it _was_ muddy, and the sight of steamers and barges. "well, bobby," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "where have you been?" "to see old swallow'd-the-poker, hetty." "what took you there?" asked the girl in surprise. "my legs. you don't suppose i've set up my carriage yet, do you?" "come, you know what i mean." "vell, then, i went because i was sent for, an' wot d'ye think? the old gen'l'man hoffered me the sitivation of under-gardener!" "you don't say so! oh! bobby, what a lucky boy--an' what a kind gentleman! tell me all about it now," said hetty, pressing her hand more tenderly on her brother's shoulder. "what wages is he to give you?" "no wages wotsomever." hetty looked into her brother's face with an expression of concerned surprise. she knew some tradespeople who made her work hard for so very little, that it was not difficult to believe in a gentleman asking her brother to work for nothin'! still she had thought better of sir richard, and expected to hear something more creditable to him. "ah, you may look, but i do assure you he is to give me no wages, an' i'm to do no work." here bobby executed a few steps of his favourite dance, but evidently from mere habit, and unconsciously, for he left off in the middle, and seemed to forget the salient point of emphasis with his foot. "what _do_ you mean, bobby?--be earnest, like a dear boy, for once." "earnest!" exclaimed the urchin with vehemence. "i never was more in earnest in my life. you should 'ave seen swallow'd-the-poker w'en i refused to 'ave it." "refused it?" "ay--refused it. come hetty, i'll explain." the boy dropped his facetious tone and manner while he rapidly ran over the chief points of his interview with sir richard. "but why did you refuse so good an offer?" asked hetty, still unable to repress her surprise. "because of daddy." "daddy?" "ay, daddy. you know he's fond o' me, is daddy, and, d'ye know, though p'r'aps you mayn't believe it, i'm raither fond o' _him_; but 'e's a bad 'un, is daddy. he's bent on mischief, you see, an' 'e's set his 'art on my 'elpin' of 'im. but i _wont_ 'elp 'im--that's flat. now, what d'ye think, hetty," (here he dropped his voice to almost a whisper and looked solemn), "dad wants to make use o' me to commit a burglary on swallow'd-the-poker's 'ouse." "you don't mean it, bobby!" "but i do, hetty. dad found out from that rediklous butler that goes veepin' around our court like a leeky pump, that the old gen'l'man was goin' to hoffer me this sitivation, an 'e's bin wery 'ard on me to accept it, so that i may find out the ways o' the 'ouse where the plate an' waluables lay, let 'im in some fine dark night an' 'elp 'im to carry off the swag." a distressed expression marked poor hetty's reception of this news, but she said never a word. "now you won't tell, hetty?" said the boy with a look of real anxiety on his face. "it's not so much his killin' me i cares about, but i wouldn't bring daddy to grief for any money. i'd raither 'elp 'im than that. you'll not say a word to nobody?" "no, bobby, i won't say a word." "vell, you see," continued the boy, "ven i'd made myself so disagreeable that the old gen'l'man would 'ave nothin' to do with me, i came straight away, an' 'ere i am; but it _was_ a trial, let me tell you, specially ven 'e come to mention wages--an sitch a 'eavenly smell o' roasted wittles come up from the kitchen too at the moment, but i 'ad only to look at miss di, to make me as stubborn as a nox or a hass. `wot!' thinks i to myself, `betray that hangel--no, never!' yet if i was to go into that 'ouse i know i'd do it, for daddy's got sitch a wheedlin' way with 'im w'en 'e likes, that i couldn't 'old hout long--so i giv' old swallowed-the-poker sitch a lot o' cheek that i thought 'e'd kick me right through the winder. he was considerable astonished as well as riled, i can tell you, an' miss di's face was a pictur', but the old butler was the sight. he'd got 'is face screwed up into sitch a state o' surprise that it looked like a eight-day clock with a gamboil. now, hetty, i'm goin' to tell 'ee what'll take your breath away. i've made up my mind to go to canada!" hetty did, on hearing this, look as if her breath had been taken away. when it returned sufficiently she said: "bobby, what put that into your head?" "the 'ome of hindustry," said bobby with a mysterious look. "the home of industry," repeated the girl in surprise, for she knew that institution well, having frequently assisted its workers in their labour of love. "yes, that's the name--'ome of hindustry, what sends off so many ragged boys to canada under miss macpherson." "ay, bobby, it does a great deal more than that," returned the girl. "sending off poor boys and girls to canada is only one branch of its work. if you'd bin to its tea-meetin's for the destitute, as i have, an' its clothin' meetin's and its mothers' meetin's, an--" "'ow d'ye know i 'aven't bin at 'em all?" asked the boy with an impudent look. "well, you know, you couldn't have been at the mothers' meetings, bobby." "oh! for the matter o' that, no more could you." "true, but i've heard of them all many and many a time; but come, tell me all about it. how did you come to go near the home of industry at all after refusing so often to go with me?" "vell, i didn't go because of bein' axed to go, you may be sure o' that, but my little dosser, tim lumpy, you remember 'im? the cove wi' the nose like a button, an' no body to speak of--all legs an' arms, like a 'uman win'-mill; vell, you must know they've nabbed 'im, an' given 'im a rig-out o' noo slops, an' they're goin' to send 'im to canada. so i 'appened to be down near the 'ome one day three weeks past, an' i see lumpy a-goin' in. `'allo!' says i. `'allo!' says 'e; an' then 'e told me all about it. `does they feed you well?' i axed. `oh! don't they, just!' said 'e. `there's to be a blow hout this wery night,' said 'e. `i wonder,' says i, `if they'd let me in, for i'm uncommon 'ungry, i tell you; 'ad nuffin' to heat since last night.' just as i said that, a lot o' fellers like me came tumblin' up to the door--so i sneaked in wi' the rest--for i thought they'd kick me hout if they knowed i'd come without inwitation." "well, and what then?" asked hetty. here our little street-arab began to tell, in his own peculiar language and style, how that he went in, and found a number of ladies in an upper room with forms set, and hot tea and bread to be had--as much as they could stuff--for nothing; that the boys were very wild and unruly at first, but that after the chief lady had prayed they became better, and that when half-a-dozen nice little girls were brought in and had sung a hymn or two they were quite quiet and ready to listen. like many other people, this city arab did not like to speak out freely, even to his sister, on matters that touched his feelings deeply, but he said enough to let the eager and thankful hetty know that not only had jesus and his love been preached to the boys, but she perceived that what had been said and sung had made an unusual impression, though the little ragged waif sought to conceal it under the veil of cool pleasantry, and she now recognised the fact that the prayers which she had been putting up for many a day in her brother's behalf had been answered. "oh! i'm so happy," she said; and, unable to restrain herself, flung her arms round bobby's neck and kissed him. it was evident that the little fellow rather liked this, though he pretended that he did not. "come, old gal," he said brusquely, "none o' that sort o' thing. i can't stand it. don't you see, the popilation is lookin' at us in surprise; besides, you've bin an' crushed all my shirt front!" "but," continued hetty, as they walked on again, "i'm not happy to hear that you are goin' to canada. what ever will i do without you, bobby?" poor girl, she could well afford to do without him in one sense, for he had hitherto been chiefly an object of anxiety and expense to her, though also an object of love. "i'm sorry to think of goin' too, hetty, for your sake an' mother's, but for daddy's sake and my own i _must_ go. you see, i can't 'old hout agin 'im. w'en 'e makes up 'is mind to a thing you know 'e sticks to it, for 'e's a tough un; an' 'e's got sitch a wheedlin' sort o' way with 'im that i can't 'elp givin' in a'most. so, you see, it'll be better for both of us that i should go away. but i'll come back, you know, hetty, with a fortin--see if i don't--an' then, oh! won't i keep a carridge an' a ridin' 'oss for daddy, an' feed mother an' you on plum-duff an' pork sassengers to breakfast, dinner, an' supper, with ice cream for a relish!" poor hetty did not even smile at this prospect of temporal felicity. she felt that in the main the boy was right, and that the only chance he had of escaping the toils in which her father was wrapping him by the strange union of affection and villainy, was to leave the country. she knew, also, that, thanks to the home of industry and its promoters, the sending of a ragged, friendless, penniless london waif, clothed and in his right mind, to a new land of bright and hopeful prospects, was an event brought within the bounds of possibility. that night bob frog stood with his dosser, (i.e. his friend), tim lumpy, discussing their future prospects in the partial privacy of a railway-arch. they talked long, and, for waifs, earnestly--both as to the land they were about to quit and that to which they were going; and the surprising fact might have been noted by a listener--had there been any such present, save a homeless cat--that neither of the boys perpetrated a joke for the space of at least ten minutes. "vy," observed little frog at length, "you seem to 'ave got all the fun drove out o' you, lumpy." "not a bit on it," returned the other, with a hurt look, as though he had been charged with some serious misdemeanour, "but it do seem sitch a shabby thing to go an' forsake my blind old mother." "but yer blind old mother wants you to go," said bobby, "an' says she'll be well looked arter by the ladies of the 'ome, and that she wouldn't stand in the way o' your prospec's. besides, she ain't yer mother!" this was true. tim lumpy had neither father nor mother, nor relative on earth, and the old woman who, out of sheer pity, had taken him in and allowed him to call her "_mother_," was a widow at the lowest possible round of that social ladder, at the top of which--figuratively speaking--sits her gracious majesty the queen. mrs lumpy had found him on her door-step, weeping and in rags, at the early age of five years. she had taken him in, and fed him on part of a penny loaf which formed the sole edible substance for her own breakfast. she had mended his rags to the extent of her ability, but she had not washed his face, having no soap of her own, and not caring to borrow from neighbours who were in the same destitute condition. besides, she had too hard a battle to fight with an ever-present and pressing foe, to care much about dirt, and no doubt deemed a wash of tears now and then sufficient. lumpy himself seemed to agree with her as to this, for he washed himself in that fashion frequently. having sought for his parents in vain, with the aid of the police, mrs lumpy quietly kept the boy on; gave him her surname, prefixed that of timothy, answered to the call of mother, and then left him to do very much as he pleased. in these circumstances, it was not surprising that little tim soon grew to be one of the pests of his alley. tim was a weak-eyed boy, and remarkably thin, being, as his friend had said, composed chiefly of legs and arms. there must have been a good deal of brain also, for he was keen-witted, as people soon began to find out to their cost. tim was observant also. he observed, on nearing the age of ten years, that in the great river of life which daily flowed past him, there were certain faces which indicated tender and kindly hearts, coupled with defective brain-action, and a good deal of self-will. he became painfully shrewd in reading such faces, and, on wet days, would present himself to them with his bare little red feet and half-naked body, rain water, (doing duty for tears), running from his weak bloodshot eyes, and falsehoods of the most pitiable, complex, and impudent character pouring from his thin blue lips, whilst awful solemnity seemed to shine on his visage. the certain result was--coppers! these kindly ones have, unwittingly of course, changed a text of scripture, and, for the words "_consider_ the poor," read "throw coppers to the poor!" you see, it is much easier to relieve one's feelings by giving away a few pence, than to take the trouble of visiting, inquiring about, and otherwise _considering_, the poor! at all events it would seem so, for tim began to grow comparatively rich, and corrupted, still more deeply, associates who were already buried sufficiently in the depths of corruption. at last little tim was met by a lady who had befriended him more than once, and who asked him why he preferred begging in the streets to going to the ragged school, where he would get not only food for the body, but for the soul. he replied that he was hungry, and his mother had no victuals to give him, so he had gone out to beg. the lady went straight to mrs lumpy, found the story to be true, and that the poor half-blind old woman was quite unable to support the boy and herself. the lady prevailed on the old woman to attend the meetings for poor, aged, and infirm women in miss macpherson's "beehive," and little tim was taken into the "home for destitute little boys under ten years of age." it was not all smooth sailing in that home after tim lumpy entered it! being utterly untamed, tim had many a sore struggle ere the temper was brought under control. one day he was so bad that the governess was obliged to punish him by leaving him behind, while the other boys went out for a walk. when left alone, the lady-superintendent tried to converse with him about obedience, but he became frightfully violent, and demanded his rags that he might return again to the streets. finally he escaped, rushed to his old home in a paroxysm of rage, and then, getting on the roof, declared to the assembled neighbours that he would throw himself down and dash out his brains. in this state a bible-woman found him. after offering the mental prayer, "lord, help me," she entreated him to come down and join her in a cup of tea with his old mother. the invitation perhaps struck the little rebel as having a touch of humour in it. at all events he accepted it and forthwith descended. over the tea, the bible-woman prayed aloud for him, and the poor boy broke down, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness. soon afterwards he was heard tapping at the door of the home--gentle and subdued. thus was this waif rescued, and he now discussed with his former comrade the prospect of transferring themselves and their powers, mental and physical, to canada. diverging from this subject to bobby's father, and his dark designs, tim asked if ned frog had absolutely decided to break into sir richard brandon's house, and bobby replied that he had; that his father had wormed out of the butler, who was a soft stupid sort of cove, where the plate and valuables were kept, and that he and another man had arranged to do it. "is the partikler night fixed?" asked tim. "yes; it's to be the last night o' this month." "why not give notice?" asked tim. "'cause i won't peach on daddy," said bob frog stoutly. little tim received this with a "quite right, old dosser," and then proposed that the meeting should adjourn, as he was expected back at the home by that time. two weeks or so after that, police-constable number was walking quietly along one of the streets of his particular beat in the west-end, with that stateliness of step which seems to be inseparable from place, power, and six feet two. it was a quiet street, such as wealth loves to inhabit. there were few carriages passing along it, and fewer passengers. number had nothing particular to do--the inhabitants being painfully well-behaved, and the sun high. his mind, therefore, roamed about aimlessly, sometimes bringing playfully before him a small abode, not very far distant, where a pretty woman was busy with household operations, and a ferocious policeman, about three feet high, was taking into custody an incorrigible criminal of still smaller size. a little boy, with very long arms and legs, might have been seen following our friend giles scott, until the latter entered upon one of those narrow paths made by builders on the pavements of streets when houses are undergoing repairs. watching until giles was half way along it, the boy ran nimbly up and accosted him with a familiar-- "well, old man, 'ow are you?" "pretty bobbish, thank you," returned the constable, for he was a good-natured man, and rather liked a little quiet chaff with street-boys when not too much engaged with duty. "well, now, are you aweer that there's a-goin' to be a burglairy committed in this 'ere quarter?" asked the boy, thrusting both hands deep into his pockets, and bending his body a little back, so as to look more easily up at his tall friend. "ah! indeed, well no, i didn't know it, for i forgot to examine the books at scotland yard this morning, but i've no doubt it's entered there by your friend who's goin' to commit it." "no, it ain't entered there," said the boy, with a manner and tone that rather surprised number ; "and i'd advise you to git out your note-book, an' clap down wot i'm a-goin' to tell ye. you know the 'ouse of sir richard brandon?" "yes, i know it." "well, that 'ouse is to be cracked on the st night o' this month." "how d'you know that, lad?" asked giles, moving towards the end of the barricade, so as to get nearer to his informant. "no use, bobby," said tim, "big as you are, you can't nab me. believe me or not as you like, but i advise you to look arter that there 'ouse on the st if you valley your repitation." tim went off like a congreve rocket, dashed down a side street, sloped into an alley, and melted into a wilderness of bricks and mortar. of course giles did not attempt to follow, but some mysterious communications passed between him and his superintendent that night before he went to bed. chapter eleven. sir richard and mr. brisbane discuss, and di listens. "my dear sir," said sir richard brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to george brisbane, esquire of lively hall, "the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with." "it is, unquestionably," assented brisbane, "so difficult, that i am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise." "pardon me, brisbane, there i think you are in error. everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. if the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials--not in further legislation. but what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?" "i mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. great age is a sufficient argument of itself, i think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive--not repulsive, as at present-- and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. `god pity the aged poor,' is often my prayer, `and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.'" "but, my dear sir," returned sir richard, "you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand." "well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms--sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave." "but, then, brisbane, as i said, it is their own fault--they have the workhouse to go to." "but, then, as _i_ said, sir richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as i have described. however, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. indeed scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as--`the poor ye have always with you,' and, `blessed are they who consider the poor.' don't you agree with me, mr welland?" stephen welland--who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with mr brisbane and sir richard--replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion. "take another glass of sherry," said sir richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; "it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point." "no more, thank you, sir richard." "come, come--fill your glass," said the knight; "you and i must set an example of moderate drinking to brisbane, as a counter-blast to his blue-ribbonism." welland smiled and re-filled his glass. "nay, i never thrust my opinions on that point on people," said brisbane, with a laugh, "but if you _will_ draw the sword and challenge me, i won't refuse the combat!" "no, no, brisbane. please spare us! i re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. i quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it--and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and i won't offend again." "ah, sir richard, you are an unfair foe. you draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before i can return on you. however, you have stated my position so well that i forgive you and shake hands. but, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor--how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man's table will go to sustain them i now, just take the glass of wine which welland has swallowed--against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, sir richard. its value is, say, sixpence. excuse me, i do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! well, i happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the `beehive' in spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. with dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to canada. such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. twopence an hour is the pay. they are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. many of these women, i may remark, are true christians. i wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. one woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. she was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. when i questioned her she said--`i have difficulties indeed, but i tell my father all. sometimes, when i'm very hungry and have nothing to eat, i tell him, and i know he hears me, for he takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.' "`but how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?' i asked. "`well, sir,' she said, `sometimes, when very hard-up, i spend part of it this way:--i buy a hap'orth o' tea, a hap'orth o' sugar, a hap'orth o' drippin', a hap'orth o' wood and a penn'orth o' bread. sometimes when better off than usual i get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps quarter of a hundredweight, because i save a farthing by getting the whole quarter, an' that lasts me a long time, and wi' the farthing i mayhap treat myself to a drop o' milk. sometimes, too, i buy my penn'orth o' wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for i can make it go further that way.' "so, you see, welland," continued brisbane, "your glass of sherry would have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman, who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of her, as you now are of your own mother." "it is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so low an ebb," returned the young man seriously. "yes, and it is very difficult," said sir richard, "to reduce one's mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard the subject of finance from a different standpoint." "but the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to understand," resumed brisbane, "is the state of mind and feeling of those professing christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of absolute wealth to many of the destitute." this latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host-- all the more so, perhaps, that he knew brisbane did not intend it as a thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a year--for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take shootings in scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why, he must pay for it, you know! "the greatest trouble of these poor women, i found," continued brisbane, "is their rent, which varies from shillings to shillings a week for their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out of `the house,' so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. one of them told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair of `specs,' and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her fading eyesight. i thought at the time what a deal of good might be done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send their disused spectacles to the home of industry in commercial street, spitalfields, for the poor. by the way, your sight must have changed more than once, sir richard! have you not a pair or two of disused spectacles to spare?" "well, yes, i have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don't you think?" "oh! by no means. we could manage to convert the rims into blue steel, and leave something over for sugar and tea." "well, i'll send them," said sir richard with a laugh. "by the way, you mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful work, although too old for much. what plan might that be?" "it is a very simple plan," answered brisbane, "and consists chiefly in the work being apportioned according to ability. worn garments and odds and ends of stuff are sent to the beehive from all parts of the country by sympathising friends. these are heaped together in one corner of the room where the poor old things work. down before this mass of stuff are set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. these skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of clothing, including the house slippers and glengarry caps worn by the little rescued boys. even handkerchiefs and babies' long frocks are conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! the work, thus selected and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering limbs of any destitute child that may enter the refuge as well as to complete the outfits of the little emigrants." "well, brisbane, i freely confess," said sir richard, "that you have roused a degree of interest in poor old women which i never felt before, and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. do the old women receive any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?" "no, i am sorry to say they do not--at least not usually. you see it takes a hundred or more sixpences every monday merely to keep that sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work at _half-price_, that it has been hitherto continued. you see it is a matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. it enables them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and trust in god as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and bare cupboards. "the day on which i visited the place i could not bear the thought of this, so i gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. this sufficed. large kettles are always kept in readiness for such occasions. these were put on immediately by the matron. the elder girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty minutes i had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating heartily and enjoying a hot meal. my own soul was fed, too--for the words came to me, `i was an hungered and ye gave me meat,' and one old woman, sitting near me, said, `i have a long walk home, and have been casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether i could spare a penny for a cup of tea on the way. how good the lord is to send this!'" with large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened colour and varying expression, sat little di brandon at her father's elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity stirred her little heart to its very centre. in the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid commentary, to the sympathetic mrs screwbury, and finally, in bed, presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of steaming tea! chapter twelve. sammy twitter's fall. we must turn now to samuel twitter, senior. that genial old man was busy one morning in the nursery, amusing little mita, who had by that time attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period of life, and was what mrs loper, mr crackaby, and mr stickler called "engaging." "mariar!" shouted mr twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishing her toilet in the adjoining room. "she's makin' faces at me--yes, she's actually attempting to laugh!" "the darling!" came from the next room, in emphatic tones. "mariar!" "well, dear." "is sammy down in the parlour?" "i don't know. why?" "because he's not in his room--tumti-iddidy-too-too--you charming thing!" it must be understood that the latter part of this sentence had reference to the baby, not to mrs twitter. having expended his affections and all his spare time on mita,--who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,--mr twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen sammy yet. "no, sir, i hain't." "are you sure he's not in his room?" "well, no, sir, but i knocked twice and got no answer." "very odd; sammy didn't use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly," said mr twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son. obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. more than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that sammy's bed was unruffled, so that sammy himself must have slept elsewhere! in silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, "mariar, sammy's gone!" "dead!" exclaimed mrs twitter with a look of horror. "no, no; not dead, but gone--gone out of the house. did not sleep in it last night, apparently." poor mrs twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face. up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add, deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of god, their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathies with suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carried into practical effect. the consequence was that they were a well-ordered and loving family. there are many such in our land-- families which are guided by the spirit and the word of god. the sudden disappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the twitter family was not an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his own particular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mother since he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had been hitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of the eight-day clock by his father every saturday night. in addition to all this, sammy was of an amiable disposition, and had been trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion--which his father had fixed at fifteen--he was allowed a latch-key, as he had frequently to work at his employer's books till a lateish hour,-- sometimes eleven o'clock--after the family, including the domestic, had gone to rest. "now, samuel," said mrs twitter, with a slight return of her wonted energy, "there can be only two explanations of this. either the dear boy has met with an accident, or--" "well, mariar, why do you pause?" "because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his going wrong or running away! the first thing i've got to do, samuel, is to go to the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have to advise." "the very thing i was thinking of, mariar; but don't it strike you it might be better that _i_ should go to the station?" "no, samuel, the station is near. i can do that, while you take a cab, go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. now, go; we have not a moment to lose. mary," (this was the next in order to sammy), "will look after the children's breakfast. make haste!" mr twitter made haste--made it so fast that he made too much of it, over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting the front door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into the shade. but twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. he arose undamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and went his way. mrs twitter immediately followed her husband's example in a less violent and eccentric manner. the superintendent of police received her with that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristic of the force. he listened with patient attention to the rather incoherent tale which she told with much agitation--unbosoming herself to this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings and opinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidential friend though he was an absolute stranger--such is the wonderful influence of power in self-possessed repose, over weakness in distressful uncertainty! having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word of interruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions and noted the replies, the superintendent advised mrs twitter to calm herself, for that it would soon be "all right;" to return home, and abide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in the circumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the first ray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of sammy's disappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap. "what a thing it is," she muttered to herself on her way home, "to put things into the hands of a _man_--one you can feel sure will do everything sensibly and well, and without fuss." the good lady meant no disparagement to her sex by this--far from it; she referred to a manly man as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment, rather disparagingly about the salute which her samuel's bald pate had given to the door that morning. probably she failed to think of the fussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent of police, for it is said that people seldom see themselves! but mrs twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and her conscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done samuel a slight injustice. indeed she _had_ done him injustice, for that estimable little man went about his inquiries after the lost sammy with a lump as big as a walnut on the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy that might have made the superintendent himself envious. "not been at the office for two days, sir!" exclaimed mr twitter, repeating--in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it--the words of sammy's employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line. "no, sir," said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware. "do--you--mean--to--tell--me," said twitter, with deliberate solemnity, "that my son samuel has not been in this office for _two days_?" "that is precisely what i mean to tell you," returned the hardware man, "and i mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregular of late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he has come here drunk." "drunk!" repeated twitter, almost in a shout. "yes, sir, drunk--intoxicated." the hardware man seemed at that moment to mr twitter the hardest-ware man that ever confronted him. he stood for some moments aghast and speechless. "are you aware, sir," he said at last, in impressive tones, "that my son samuel wears the blue ribbon?" the hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it. this latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing mr twitter to a condition of sudden humility. "there, sir," said he, "i entirely agree with you, but i had believed-- indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise--that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon." this was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that sammy was not immaculate--that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father's heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. in his extremity, he looked up to god and found relief in rolling his care upon him. as he slowly recovered from the shock, twitter's brain resumed its wonted activity. "you have a number of clerks, i believe?" he suddenly asked the hardware man. "yes, i have--four of them." "would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?" "certainly not. come along." on entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. the latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. the reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen. the employer took no notice, and mr twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. he made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:-- "mr dobbs, may i have the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation with you outside?" "c-certainly, sir," replied dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat. "will you be so good as to tell me, mr dobbs," said twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, "where my son samuel twitter spent last night?" twitter looked steadily in the clerk's eyes as he put this question. he was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded. "eh! your--your--son s-samuel," stammered dobbs, looking at twitter's breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face. he had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. mr twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality. "my poor boy," he said, "don't attempt to deceive me. you are guilty, and you know it. stay, don't speak yet. i have no wish to injure you. on the contrary, i pray god to bless and save you; but what i want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. if you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, i assure you." "does--does--he know anything about this?" asked dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man. "no, nothing of your having led sammy astray, if that's what you mean,-- at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing, if you only confide in me. of course he may have his suspicions." "well, sir," said dobbs, with a sigh of relief, "he's in my lodgings." having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called a cab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son sammy lay sprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the night before, after a season of drunken riot. he was in a heavy sleep, with his still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight of dissipation. "sammy," said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently by the arm; but the poor boy made no answer--even a roughish shake failed to draw from him more than the grumbled desire, "let me alone." "oh! god spare and save him!" murmured the father, in a still husky voice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed--prayed as though his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer lay apparently unconscious through it all. he rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when a heavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and the landlady, announcing "a gentleman, sir," ushered in the superintendent of police, who looked at mr twitter with a slight expression of surprise. "you are here before me, i see, sir," he said. "yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?" "well, i had not much difficulty. you see it is part of our duty to keep our eyes open," replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile, "and i have on several occasions observed your son entering this house with a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with his blue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me this morning i came straight here." "thank you--thank you. it is _very_ kind. i--you--it could not have been better managed." mr twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed. "perhaps," said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, "you would prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. if i can be of any further use to you, you know where to find me. good-day, sir." without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left the room. "oh! sammy, sammy, speak to me, my dear boy--speak to your old father!" he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but the drunken sleeper did not move. rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady. "i'll go home, missis," he said, "and send the poor lad's mother to him." "very well, sir, i'll look well after 'im till she comes." twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to her lodger's room. there, to her surprise, she found sammy up and hastily pulling on his boots. in truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still very drunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. he had indeed been asleep when his father's entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intense shame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commenced with this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. but the thought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had a sensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made. at the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. dressing himself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of the earnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distracted mother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that he had fled. plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walking swiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendered desperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a low grog-shop, and called for a glass of beer. "well, i say, you're com--comin' it raither strong, ain't you, young feller?" said a voice at his elbow. he looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot. "that's no business of yours," replied sam twitter, sharply. "well, thash true, 'tain't no b-busnish o' mine. i--i'm pretty far gone m'self, i allow; but i ain't quite got the l-length o' drinkin' in a p-public 'ouse wi' th' bl-blue ribb'n on." the fallen lad glanced at his breast. there it was,--forgotten, desecrated! he tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders--most of whom were women of the lowest grade--and dashed it on the floor. "thash right.--you're a berrer feller than i took you for," said the sot at his elbow. to avoid further attention sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten. he had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered. "have a glass, ol' feller?" said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him. "thank you, no--not to-day," replied john seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion--fishing for men! "i have come to give you a glass to-day, friends." "well, that's friendly," said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out of which next minute staggered ned frog. "come, what is't to be, old man?" "a looking-glass," replied the missionary, picking out a tract from the bundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter. "but the tract is not the glass i speak of, friend: here it is, in the word of that god who made us all--made the throats that swallow the drink, and the brains that reel under it." here he read from a small bible, "`but they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.'" "bah!" said ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as he left the place with a swing; "i don't drink wine, old man; can't afford anything better than beer, though sometimes, when i'm in luck, i have a drop of old tom." there was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous were the witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he took no notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning over the leaves of his bible. when there was a lull he said:-- "now, dear sisters," (turning to the women who, with a more or less drunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), "for sisters of mine you are, having been made by the same heavenly father; i won't offer you another glass,--not even a looking-glass,--for the one i have already held up to you will do, if god's holy spirit opens your eyes to see yourselves in it; but i'll give you a better object to look at. it is a saviour--one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sin in every form. you know his name well, most of you; it is jesus, and that name means saviour, for he came to save his people from their sins." at this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent on keeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. she asked him with a leer if he had got a wife. "no," he said, "but i have got a great respect and love for women, because i've got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face of this earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother. sister," he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near him with a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, "the best prayer that i could offer up for you--and i _do_ offer it--is, that the little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartily as i bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strong drink and refuse the saviour." at that moment a loud cry was heard outside. they all rose and ran to the door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with her eyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, and her ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enter the public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almost destroyed her. she had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freely over her face as the missionary lifted her. he was a powerful man, and could take her up tenderly and with ease. she was not much hurt, however. after seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchief she professed to be much better. this little incident completed the good influence which the missionary's words and manner had previously commenced. most of the women began to weep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hope addressed to them. a few of course remained obdurate, though not unimpressed. all this time young sam twitter remained in his dark corner, with his head resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. well did he know john seaward, and well did seaward know him, for the missionary had long been a fellow-worker with mrs twitter in george yard and at the home of industry. the boy was very anxious to escape seaward's observation. this was not a difficult matter. when the missionary left, after distributing his tracts, sammy rose up and sought to hide himself--from himself, had that been possible--in the lowest slums of london. chapter thirteen. tells of some curious and vigorous peculiarities of the lower orders. now it must not be supposed that mrs frog, having provided for her baby and got rid of it, remained thereafter quite indifferent to it. on the contrary, she felt the blank more than she had expected, and her motherly heart began to yearn for it powerfully. to gratify this yearning to some extent, she got into the habit of paying frequent visits, sometimes by night and sometimes by day, to the street in which samuel twitter lived, and tried to see her baby through the stone walls of the house! her eyes being weak, as well as her imagination, she failed in this effort, but the mere sight of the house where little matty was, sufficed to calm her maternal yearnings in some slight degree. by the way, that name reminds us of our having omitted to mention that baby frog's real name was matilda, and her pet name matty, so that the name of mita, fixed on by the twitters, was not so wide of the mark as it might have been. one night mrs frog, feeling the yearning strong upon her, put on her bonnet and shawl--that is to say, the bundle of dirty silk, pasteboard, and flowers which represented the one, and the soiled tartan rag that did duty for the other. "where are ye off to, old woman?" asked ned, who, having been recently successful in some little "job," was in high good humour. "i'm goin' round to see mrs tibbs, ned. d'you want me?" "no, on'y i'm goin' that way too, so we'll walk together." mrs frog, we regret to say, was not particular as to the matter of truth. she had no intention of going near mrs tibbs, but, having committed herself, made a virtue of necessity, and resolved to pay that lady a visit. the conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. arrived at twitter's street an idea struck mrs frog. "ned," said she, "i'm tired." "well, old girl, you'd better cut home." "i think i will, ned, but first i'll sit down on this step to rest a bit." "all right, old girl," said ned, who would have said the same words if she had proposed to stand on her head on the step--so easy was he in his mind as to how his wife spent her time; "if you sit for half-an-hour or so i'll be back to see you 'ome again. i'm on'y goin' to bundle's shop for a bit o' baccy. ain't i purlite now? don't it mind you of the courtin' days?" "ah! ned," exclaimed the wife, while a sudden gush of memory brought back the days when he was handsome and kind,--but ned was gone, and the slightly thawed spring froze up again. she sat down on the cold step of a door which happened to be somewhat in the shade, and gazed at the opposite windows. there was a light in one of them. she knew it well. she had often watched the shadows that crossed the blind after the gas was lighted, and once she had seen some one carrying something which looked like a baby! it might have been a bundle of soiled linen, or undarned socks, but it might have been matty, and the thought sent a thrill to the forlorn creature's heart. on the present occasion she was highly favoured, for, soon after ned had left, the shadows came again on the blind, and came so near it as to be distinctly visible. yes, there could be no doubt now, it _was_ a baby, and as there was only one baby in that house it followed that the baby was _her_ baby--little matty! here was something to carry home with her, and think over and dream about. but there was more in store for her. the baby, to judge from the shadowy action of its fat limbs on the blind, became what she called obstropolous. more than that, it yelled, and its mother heard the yell--faintly, it is true, but sufficiently to send a thrill of joy to her longing heart. then a sudden fear came over her. what if it was ill, and they were trying to soothe it to rest! how much better _she_ could do that if she only had the baby! "oh! fool that i was to part with her!" she murmured, "but no. it was best. she would surely have bin dead by this time." the sound of the little voice, however, had roused such a tempest of longing in mrs frog's heart, that, under an irresistible impulse, she ran across the road and rang the bell. the door was promptly opened by mrs twitter's domestic. "is--is the baby well?" stammered mrs frog, scarce knowing what she said. "_you've_ nothink to do wi' the baby that i knows on," returned mrs twitter's domestic, who was not quite so polite as her mistress. "no, honey," said mrs frog in a wheedling tone, rendered almost desperate by the sudden necessity for instant invention, "but the doctor said i was to ask if baby had got over it, or if 'e was to send round the--the--i forget its name--at once." "what doctor sent you?" asked mrs twitter, who had come out of the parlour on hearing the voices through the doorway, and with her came a clear and distinct yell which mrs frog treasured up in her thinly clad but warm bosom, as though it had been a strain from paradise. "there must surely be some mistake, my good woman, for my baby is quite well." "oh! thank you, thank you--yes, there must have been some mistake," said mrs frog, scarce able to restrain a laugh of joy at the success of her scheme, as she retired precipitately from the door and hurried away. she did not go far, however, but, on hearing the door shut, turned back and took up her position again on the door-step. poor mrs frog had been hardened and saddened by sorrow, and suffering, and poverty, and bad treatment; nevertheless she was probably one of the happiest women in london just then. "_my_ baby," she said, quoting part of mrs twitter's remarks with a sarcastic laugh, "no, madam, she's not _your_ baby _yet_!" as she sat reflecting on this agreeable fact, a heavy step was heard approaching. it was too slow for that of ned. she knew it well--a policeman! there are hard-hearted policemen in the force--not many, indeed, but nothing is perfect in this world, and there are a _few_ hard-hearted policemen. he who approached was one of these. "move on," he said in a stern voice. "please, sir, i'm tired. on'y restin' a bit while i wait for my 'usband," pleaded mrs frog. "come, move on," repeated the unyielding constable in a tone that there was no disputing. indeed it was so strong that it reached the ears of ned frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife. ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. he advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman's forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another. as every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with ned frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had "his work cut out for him." the tussle that ensued was tremendous, and mrs frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. but it was brief. before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the "baccy" which he had purchased. thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find ned frog at a certain mansion in the west-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at her majesty's expense. the comrade, however, not being aware of ned's incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. he had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner's fate. but this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose. "ned must be ill, or got a haccident o' some sort," he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. "howsever, you an' me'll go at it alone, sniveller." "wery good, bunky," replied sniveller, "'ow is it to be? by the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout--or wot?" "the larder windy, my boy." "sorry for that," said sniveller. "why?" "'cause it _is_ so 'ard to go past the nice things an' smell 'em all without darin' to touch 'em till i lets you in. couldn't you let me 'ave a feed first?" "unpossible," said the burglar. "wery good," returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation. now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of sir richard brandon. one of these was number . it is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings--though not deeds of evil--were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull's-eye lanterns. the only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, mr thomas balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit. of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore number laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies. about that "wee short hour" of which the poet burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted sir richard brandon's pantry. to the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened. "they've bin an' forgot it!" he whispered. "git in," was the curt reply. sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor--not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash. sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. he also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. he likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. the smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him. number smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness. meanwhile, the chief operator, bunky, went round to the back door. sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. another moment, and bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion. yet another moment, and bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for number was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude. "now, then, show a light," said giles, quietly. two bull's-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the laocoon, without the serpents. "fetch the bracelets," said giles. at these words the bull's-eyes converged, and sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished--he was never heard of more! then followed two sharp _clicks_, succeeded by a sigh of relief as number relaxed his arms. "you needn't rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man," said giles to bunky in a low voice. bunky did _not_ feel inclined. he thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. he was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint sir richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger. referring to this matter on the following day in the servants' hall, thomas balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer--for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler--and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the metropolitan police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of number ! chapter fourteen. number off duty. some time after the attempt made upon sir richard brandon's house, giles scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on. his pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. the juvenile policeman, and the incorrigible criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the queen, the other under that of sir robert peel. giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on. "they expect pretty hard work of you, giles," remarked molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty. "why, moll, you wouldn't have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?" replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. "somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o' life don't do it, who will?" "true, giles, but surely you won't deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had a _little_ less to do, and a _little_ more time with your family. you men,--especially you scotchmen--are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can't open her lips to say a word, but you pounce upon it and make an argument of it." "now molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! why do you take me so sharp? isn't taking-up the special privilege of the police?" "am i not entitled," said molly, ignoring her husband's question, "to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled noses, and black eyes?" "come now," returned giles, "you must admit that i have fewer of these discomforts than most men of the force, owing, no doubt, to little men being unable to reach so high--and, d'you know, it's the little men who do most damage in life; they're such a pugnacious and perverse generation! as to swelled noses, these are the fortune of war, at least of civil war like ours--and black eyes, why, my eyes are black by nature. if they were of a heavenly blue like yours, molly, you might have some ground for complaint when they are blackened." "and then there is such dreadful tear and wear of clothes," continued molly; "just look at that, now!" she held up to view a sock with a hole in its heel large enough to let an orange through. "why, molly, do you expect that i can walk the streets of london from early morning till late at night, protect life and property, and preserve public tranquillity, as this little book puts it, besides engaging in numerous scuffles and street rows without making a hole or two in my socks?" "ah! giles, if you had only brain enough to take in a simple idea! it's not the making of holes that i complain of. it is the making of such awfully big ones before changing your socks! there now, don't let us get on domestic matters. you have no head for these, but tell me something about your little book. i am specially interested in it, you see, because the small policeman in the crib over there puts endless questions about his duties which i am quite unable to answer, and, you know, it is a good thing for a child to grow up with the idea that father and mother know everything." "just so, molly. i hope you'll tell your little recruit that the first and foremost duty of a good policeman is to obey orders. let me see, then, if i can enlighten you a bit." "but tell me first, giles--for i really want to know--how many are there of you altogether, and when was the force established on its present footing, and who began it, and, in short, all about it. it's _so_ nice to have you for once in a way for a quiet chat like this." "you have laid down enough of heads, molly, to serve for the foundation of a small volume. however, i'll give it you hot, since you wish it, and i'll begin at the end instead of the beginning. what would you say, now, to an army of eleven thousand men?" "i would say it was a very large one, though i don't pretend to much knowledge about the size of armies," said molly, commencing to mend another hole about the size of a turnip. "well, that, in round numbers, is the strength of the metropolitan police force at the present time--and not a man too much, let me tell you, for what with occasional illnesses and accidents, men employed on special duty, and men off duty--as i am just now--the actual available strength of the force at any moment is considerably below that number. yes, it is a goodly army of picked and stalwart men, (no self-praise intended), but, then, consider what we have to do." "we have to guard and keep in order the population of the biggest city in the world; a population greater than that of the whole of scotland." "oh! of course, you are sure to go to scotland for your illustrations, as if there was no such place as england in the world," quietly remarked molly, with a curl of her pretty lip. "ah! molly, dear, you are unjust. it is true i go to scotland for an illustration, but didn't i come to england for a wife? now, don't go frowning at that hole as if it couldn't be bridged over." "it is the worst hole you ever made," said the despairing wife, holding it up to view. "you make a worsted hole of it then, moll, and it'll be all right. besides, you don't speak truth, for i once made a worse hole in your heart." "you never did, sir. go on with your stupid illustrations," said molly. "well, then, let me see--where was i?" "in scotland, of course!" "ah, yes. the population of all scotland is under four millions, and that of london--that is, of the area embraced in the metropolitan police district, is estimated at above four million seven hundred thousand--in round numbers. of course i give it you all in round numbers." "i don't mind how round the numbers are, giles, so long as they're all square," remarked the little wife with much simplicity. "well, just think of that number for our army to watch over; and that population--not all of it, you know, but part of it--succeeds--in spite of us in committing, during one year, no fewer than , `principal' offences such as murders, burglaries, robberies, thefts, and such-like. what they would accomplish if we were not ever on the watch i leave you to guess. "last year, for instance, burglaries, as we style house-breaking by night, were committed in london. the wonder is that there are not more, when you consider the fact that the number of doors and windows found open by us at night during the twelve months was nearly , . the total loss of property by theft during the year is estimated at about , pounds. besides endeavouring to check crime of such magnitude, we had to search after above , persons who were reported lost and missing during the year, about , of whom were children." "oh! the _poor_ darlings," said molly, twisting her sympathetic eyebrows. "ay, and we found of these darlings," continued the practical giles, "and of the adults. of the rest some returned home or were found by their friends, but adults and children have been lost altogether. then, we found within the twelve months dead bodies which we had to take care of and have photographed for identification. during the same period, (and remember that the record of every twelve months is much the same), we seized over , stray dogs and returned them to their owners or sent them to the dogs' home. we arrested over , persons for being drunk and disorderly. we inspected all the public vehicles and horses in london. we attended to accidents which occurred in the streets, of which were fatal. we looked after more than , articles varying in value from pence to pounds which were lost by a heedless public during the year, about , of which articles were restored to the owners. we had to regulate the street traffic; inspect common lodging-houses; attend the police and other courts to give evidence, and many other things which it would take me much too long to enumerate, and puzzle your pretty little head to take in." "no, it wouldn't," said molly, looking up with a bright expression; "i have a wonderful head for figures--especially for handsome manly figures! go on, giles." "then, look at what is expected of us," continued number , not noticing the last remark. "we are told to exercise the greatest civility and affability towards every one--high and low, rich and poor. we are expected to show the utmost forbearance under all circumstances; to take as much abuse and as many blows as we can stand, without inflicting any in return; to be capable of answering almost every question that an ignorant--not to say arrogant--public may choose to put to us; to be ready, single-handed and armed only with our truncheons and the majesty of the law, to encounter burglars furnished with knives and revolvers; to plunge into the midst of drunken maddened crowds and make arrests in the teeth of tremendous odds; to keep an eye upon strangers whose presence may seem to be less desirable than their absence; to stand any amount of unjust and ungenerous criticism without a word of reply; to submit quietly to the abhorrence and chaff of boys, labourers, cabmen, omnibus drivers, tramps, and fast young men; to have a fair knowledge of the `three rs' and a smattering of law, so as to conduct ourselves with propriety at fires, fairs, fights, and races, besides acting wisely as to mad dogs, german bands, (which are apt to produce mad _men_), organ-grinders, furious drivers, and all other nuisances. in addition to all which we must be men of good character, good standing--as to inches--good proportions, physically, and good sense. in short, we are expected to be--and blamed if we are not--as near to a state of perfection as it is possible for mortal man to attain on this side the grave, and all for the modest sum which you are but too well aware is the extent of our income." "is one of the things expected of you," asked molly, "to have an exceedingly high estimate of yourselves?" "nay, molly, don't you join the ranks of those who are against us. it will be more than criminal if you do. you are aware that i am giving the opinion expressed by men of position who ought to know everything about the force. that we fulfil the conditions required of us not so badly is proved by the fact that last year, out of the whole , there were officers and men who obtained rewards for zeal and activity, while only one man was discharged, and four men were fined or imprisoned. i speak not of number one--or, i should say number . for myself i am ready to admit that i am the most insignificant of the force." "o giles! what a barefaced display of mock modesty!" "nay, molly, i can prove it. everything in this world goes by contrast, doesn't it? then, is there a man in the whole force except myself, i ask, whose wife is so bright and beautiful and good and sweet that she reduces him to mere insignificance by contrast?" "there's something in that, giles," replied molly with gravity, "but go on with your lecture." "i've nothing more to say about the force," returned giles; "if i have not said enough to convince you of our importance, and of the debt of gratitude that you and the public of london owe to us, you are past conviction, and--" "you are wrong, giles, as usual; i am never past conviction; you have only to take me before the police court in the morning, and any magistrate will at once convict me of stupidity for having married a scotchman and a policeman!" "i think it must be time to go on my beat, for you beat me hollow," said number , consulting his watch. "no, no, giles, please sit still. it is not every day that i have such a chance of a chat with you." "such a chance of pitching into me, you mean," returned giles. "however, before i go i would like to tell you just one or two facts regarding this great london itself, which needs so much guarding and such an army of guardians. you know that the metropolitan district comprises all the parishes any portion of which are within miles of charing cross--this area being square miles. the rateable value of it is over twenty-six million eight hundred thousand pounds sterling. see, as you say you've a good head for _figures_, there's the sum on a bit of paper for you-- , , pounds. during last year , new houses were built, forming new streets and four new squares--the whole covering a length of miles. the total number of new houses built during the last _ten_ years within this area has been , , extending over miles of streets and squares!" "stay, i can't stand it!" cried molly, dropping her sock and putting her fingers in her ears. "why not, old girl?" "because it is too much for me; why, even _your_ figure is a mere nothing to such sums!" "then," returned giles, "you've only got to stick me on to the end of them to make my information ten times more valuable." "but are you quite sure that what you tell me is true, giles?" "quite sure, my girl--at least as sure as i am of the veracity of colonel henderson, who wrote the last police report." at this point the chat was interrupted by the juvenile policeman in the crib under sir robert peel. whether it was the astounding information uttered in his sleepy presence, or the arduous nature of the duty required of him in dreams, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when number uttered the word "report" there came a crash like the report of a great gun, and number of the a division, having fallen overboard, was seen on the floor pommelling some imaginary criminal who stoutly refused to be captured. giles ran forward to the assistance of number , as was his duty, and took him up in his arms. but number had awakened to the fact that he had hurt himself, and, notwithstanding the blandishments of his father, who swayed him about and put him on his broad shoulders, and raised his curly head to the ceiling, he refused for a long time to be comforted. at last he was subdued, and returned to the crib and the land of dreams. "now, molly, i must really go," said giles, putting on his uniform. "i hope number won't disturb you again. good-bye, lass, for a few hours," he added, buckling his belt. "here, look, do you see that little spot on the ceiling?" "yes,--well?" said molly, looking up. giles took unfair advantage of her, stooped, and kissed the pretty little face, received a resounding slap on the back, and went out, to attend to his professional duties, with the profound gravity of an incapable magistrate. there was a bright intelligent little street-arab on the opposite side of the way, who observed giles with mingled feelings of admiration, envy, and hatred, as he strode sedately along the street like an imperturbable pillar. he knew number personally; had seen him under many and varied circumstance, and had imagined him under many others-- not unfrequently as hanging by the neck from a lamp-post--but never, even in the most daring flights of his juvenile fancy, had he seen him as he has been seen by the reader in the bosom of his poor but happy home. chapter fifteen. mrs. frog sinks deeper and deeper. "nobody cares," said poor mrs frog, one raw afternoon in november, as she entered her miserable dwelling, where the main pieces of furniture were a rickety table, a broken chair, and a heap of straw, while the minor pieces were so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention. there was no fire in the grate, no bread in the cupboard, little fresh air in the room and less light, though there was a broken unlighted candle stuck in the mouth of a quart bottle which gave promise of light in the future--light enough at least to penetrate the november fog which had filled the room as if it had been endued with a pitying desire to throw a veil over such degradation and misery. we say degradation, for mrs frog had of late taken to "the bottle" as a last solace in her extreme misery, and the expression of her face, as she cowered on a low stool beside the empty grate and drew the shred of tartan shawl round her shivering form, showed all too clearly that she was at that time under its influence. she had been down to the river again, more than once, and had gazed into its dark waters until she had very nearly made up her mind to take the desperate leap, but god in mercy had hitherto interposed. at one time a policeman had passed with his weary "move on"--though sometimes he had not the heart to enforce his order. more frequently a little baby-face had looked up from the river with a smile, and sent her away to the well-known street where she would sit in the familiar door-step watching the shadows on the window-blind until cold and sorrow drove her to the gin-palace to seek for the miserable comfort to be found there. whatever that comfort might amount to, it did not last long, for, on the night of which we write, she had been to the palace, had got all the comfort that was to be had out of it, and returned to her desolate home more wretched than ever, to sit down, as we have seen, and murmur, almost fiercely, "nobody cares." for a time she sat silent and motionless, while the deepening shadows gathered round her, as if they had united with all the rest to intensify the poor creature's woe. presently she began to mutter to herself aloud-- "what's the use o' your religion when it comes to this? what sort of religion is in the hearts of these," (she pursed her lips, and paused for an expressive word, but found none), "these rich folk in their silks and satins and broadcloth, with more than they can use, an' feedin' their pampered cats and dogs on what would be wealth to the likes o' me! religion! bah!" she stopped, for a voice within her said as plainly as if it had spoken out: "who gave you the sixpence the other day, and looked after you with a tender, pitying glance as you hurried away to the gin-shop without so much as stopping to say `thank you'? she wore silks, didn't she?" "ah, but there's not many like that," replied the poor woman, mentally, for the powers of good and evil were fighting fiercely within her just then. "how do you know there are not many like that?" demanded the voice. "well, but _all_ the rich are not like that," said mrs frog. the voice made no reply to that! again she sat silent for some time, save that a low moan escaped her occasionally, for she was very cold and very hungry, having spent the last few pence, which might have given her a meal, in drink; and the re-action of the poison helped to depress her. the evil spirit seemed to gain the mastery at this point, to judge from her muttered words. "nothing to eat, nothing to drink, no work to be got, hetty laid up in hospital, ned in prison, bobby gone to the bad again instead of goin' to canada, and--nobody cares--" "what about baby?" asked the voice. this time it was mrs frog's turn to make no reply! in a few minutes she seemed to become desperate, for, rising hastily, she went out, shut the door with a bang, locked it, and set out on the familiar journey to the gin-shop. she had not far to go. it was at the corner. if it had not been at that corner, there was one to be found at the next--and the next--and the next again, and so on all round; so that, rushing past, as people sometimes do when endeavouring to avoid a danger, would have been of little or no avail in this case. but there was a very potent influence of a negative kind in her favour. she had no money! recollecting this when she had nearly reached the door, she turned aside, and ran swiftly to the old door-step, where she sat down and hid her face in her hands. a heavy footstep sounded at her side the next moment. she looked quickly up. it was a policeman. he did not apply the expected words--"move on." he was a man under whose blue uniform beat a tender and sympathetic heart. in fact, he was number --changed from some cause that we cannot explain, and do not understand--from the metropolitan to the city police force. his number also had been changed, but we refuse to be trammelled by police regulations. number he was and shall remain in this tale to the end of the chapter! instead of ordering the poor woman to go away, giles was searching his pockets for a penny, when to his intense surprise he received a blow on the chest, and then a slap on the face! poor mrs frog, misjudging his intentions, and roused to a fit of temporary insanity by her wrongs and sorrows, sprang at her supposed foe like a wildcat. she was naturally a strong woman, and violent passion lent her unusual strength. oh! it was pitiful to witness the struggle that ensued!--to see a woman, forgetful of sex and everything else, striving with all her might to bite, scratch, and kick, while her hair tumbled down, and her bonnet and shawl falling off made more apparent the insufficiency of the rags with which she was covered. strong as he was, giles received several ugly scratches and bites before he could effectually restrain her. fortunately, there were no passers-by in the quiet street, and, therefore, no crowd assembled. "my poor woman," said giles, when he had her fast, "do keep quiet. i'm going to do you no harm. god help you, i was goin' to give you a copper when you flew at me so. come, you'd better go with me to the station, for you're not fit to take care of yourself." whether it was the tender tone of giles's voice, or the words that he uttered, or the strength of his grasp that subdued mrs frog, we cannot tell, but she gave in suddenly, hung down her head, and allowed her captor to do as he pleased. seeing this, he carefully replaced her bonnet on her head, drew the old shawl quite tenderly over her shoulders, and led her gently away. before they had got the length of the main thoroughfare, however, a female of a quiet, respectable appearance met them. "mrs frog!" she exclaimed, in amazement, stopping suddenly before them. "if you know her, ma'am, perhaps you may direct me to her home." "i know her well," said the female, who was none other than the bible-nurse who visited the sick of that district; "if you have not arrested her for--for--" "oh no, madam," interrupted giles, "i have not arrested her at all, but she seems to be unwell, and i was merely assisting her." "oh! then give her over to me, please. i know where she lives, and will take care of her." giles politely handed his charge over, and went on his way, sincerely hoping that the next to demand his care would be a man. the bible-woman drew the arm of poor mrs frog through her own, and in a few minutes stood beside her in the desolate home. "nobody cares," muttered the wretched woman as she sank in apathy on her stool and leaned her head against the wall. "you are wrong, dear mrs frog. _i_ care, for one, else i should not be here. many other christian people would care, too, if they knew of your sufferings; but, above all, god cares. have you carried your troubles to him?" "why should i? he has long ago forsaken me." "is it not, dear friend, that you have forsaken him? jesus says, as plain as words can put it, `come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.' you tell me it is of no use to go to him, and you don't go, and then you complain that he has forsaken you! where is my friend hetty?" "in hospital." "indeed! i have been here several times lately to inquire, but have always found your door locked. your husband--" "he's in prison, and bobby's gone to the bad," said mrs frog, still in a tone of sulky defiance. "i see no sign of food," said the bible-nurse, glancing quickly round; "are you hungry?" "hungry!" exclaimed the woman fiercely, "i've tasted nothin' at all since yesterday." "poor thing!" said the bible-nurse in a low tone; "come--come with me. i don't say more. you cannot speak while you are famishing. stay, first one word--" she paused and looked up. she did not kneel; she did not clasp her hands or shut her eyes, but, with one hand on the door-latch, and the other grasping the poor woman's wrist, she prayed-- "god bless and comfort poor mrs frog, for jesus' sake." then she hurried, without uttering a word, to the institution in george yard. the door happened to be open, and the figure of a man with white hair and a kind face was seen within. entering, the bible-nurse whispered to this man. another moment and mrs frog was seated at a long deal table with a comfortable fire at her back, a basin of warm soup, and a lump of loaf bread before her. the bible-nurse sat by and looked on. "somebody cares a little, don't _you_ think?" she whispered, when the starving woman made a brief pause for breath. "yes, thank god," answered mrs frog, returning to the meal as though she feared that some one might still snatch it from her thin lips before she got it all down. when it was finished the bible-nurse led mrs frog into another room. "you feel better--stronger?" she asked. "yes, much better--thank you, and quite able to go home." "there is no occasion for you to go home to-night; you may sleep there," (pointing to a corner), "but i would like to pray with you now, and read a verse or two." mrs frog submitted, while her friend read to her words of comfort; pleaded that pardon and deliverance might be extended, and gave her loving words of counsel. then the poor creature lay down in her corner, drew a warm blanket over her, and slept with a degree of comfort that she had not enjoyed for many a day. when it was said by mrs frog that her son bobby had gone to the bad, it must not be supposed that any very serious change had come over him. as that little waif had once said of himself, when in a penitent mood, he was about as bad as he could be, so couldn't grow much badder. but when his sister lost her situation in the firm that paid her such splendid wages, and fell ill, and went into hospital in consequence, he lost heart, and had a relapse of wickedness. he grew savage with regard to life in general, and committed a petty theft, which, although not discovered, necessitated his absence from home for a time. it was while he was away that the scene which we have just described took place. on the very next day he returned, and it so happened that on the same day hetty was discharged from hospital "cured." that is to say, she left the place a thin, tottering, pallid shadow, but with no particular form of organic disease about her. she and her mother had received some food from one who cared for them, through the bible-nurse. "mother, you've been drinkin' again," said hetty, looking earnestly at her parent's eyes. "well, dear," pleaded mrs frog, "what could i do? you had all forsaken me, and i had nothin' else to comfort me." "oh! mother, darling mother," cried hetty, "do promise me that you will give it up. i won't get ill or leave you again--god helping me; but it will kill me if you go on. _do_ promise." "it's of no use, hetty. of course i can easily promise, but i can't keep my promise. i _know_ i can't." hetty knew this to be too true. without the grace of god in the heart, she was well aware that human efforts _must_ fail, sooner or later. she was thinking what to reply, and praying in her heart for guidance, when the door opened and her brother bobby swaggered in with an air that did not quite accord with his filthy fluttering rags, unwashed face and hands, bare feet and unkempt hair. "vell, mother, 'ow are ye? hallo! hetty! w'y, wot a shadder you've become! oh! i say, them nusses at the hospital must 'ave stole all your flesh an' blood from you, for they've left nothin' but the bones and skin." he went up to his sister, put an arm round her neck, and kissed her. this was a very unusual display of affection. it was the first time bobby had volunteered an embrace, though he had often submitted to one with dignified complacency, and hetty, being weak, burst into tears. "hallo! i say, stop that now, young gal," he said, with a look of alarm, "i'm always took bad ven i see that sort o' thing, i can't stand it." by way of mending matters the poor girl, endeavouring to be agreeable, gave a hysterical laugh. "come, that's better, though it ain't much to boast of,"--and he kissed her again. finding that, although for the present they were supplied with a small amount of food, hetty had no employment and his mother no money, our city arab said that he would undertake to sustain the family. "but oh! bobby, dear, don't steal again." "no, hetty, i won't, i'll vork. i didn't go for to do it a-purpose, but i was overtook some'ow--i seed the umbrellar standin' handy, you know, and--etceterer. but i'm sorry i did it, an' i won't do it again." swelling with great intentions, robert frog thrust his dirty little hands into his trouser pockets--at least into the holes that once contained them--and went out whistling. soon he came to a large warehouse, where a portly gentleman stood at the door. planting himself in front of this man, and ceasing to whistle in order that he might speak, he said:-- "was you in want of a 'and, sir?" "no, i wasn't," replied the man, with a glance of contempt. "sorry for that," returned bobby, "'cause i'm in want of a sitivation." "what can you do?" asked the man. "oh! hanythink." "ah, i thought so; i don't want hands who can do anything, i prefer those who can do something." bobby frog resumed his whistling, at the exact bar where he had left off, and went on his way. he was used to rebuffs, and didn't mind them. but when he had spent all the forenoon in receiving rebuffs, had made no progress whatever in his efforts, and began to feel hungry, he ceased the whistling and became grave. "this looks serious," he said, pausing in front of a pastry-cook's shop window. "but for that there plate glass _wot_ a blow hout i might 'ave! beggin' might be tried with advantage. it's agin the law, no doubt, but it ain't a _sin_. yes, i'll try beggin'." but our arab was not a natural beggar, if we may say so. he scorned to whine, and did not even like to ask. his spirit was much more like that of a highwayman than a beggar. proceeding to a quiet neighbourhood which seemed to have been forgotten by the police, he turned down a narrow lane and looked out for a subject, as a privateer might search among "narrows" for a prize. he did not search long. an old lady soon hove in sight. she seemed a suitable old lady, well-dressed, little, gentle, white-haired, a tottering gait, and a benign aspect. bobby went straight up and planted himself in front of her. "please, ma'am, will you oblige me with a copper?" the poor old lady grew pale. without a word she tremblingly, yet quickly, pulled out her purse, took therefrom a shilling, and offered it to the boy. "oh! marm," said bobby, who was alarmed and conscience-smitten at the result of his scheme, "i didn't mean for to frighten you. indeed i didn't, an' i won't 'ave your money at no price." saying which he turned abruptly round and walked away. "boy, boy, _boy_!" called the old lady in a voice so entreating, though tremulous, that bobby felt constrained to return. "you're a most remarkable boy," she said, putting the shilling back into her purse. "i'm sorry to say, marm, that you're not the on'y indiwidooal as 'olds that opinion." "what do you mean by your conduct, boy?" "i mean, marm, that i'm wery 'ard up. _uncommon_ 'ard up; that i've tried to git vork an' can't git it, so that i'm redooced to beggary. but, i ain't a 'ighway robber, marm, by no means, an' don't want to frighten you hout o' your money if you ain't willin' to give it." the little tremulous old lady was so pleased with this reply that she took half-a-crown out of her purse and put it into the boy's hand. he looked at her in silent surprise. "it ain't a _copper_, marm!" "i know that. it is half-a-crown, and i willingly give it you because you are an honest boy." "but, marm," said bobby, still holding out the piece of silver on his palm, "i _ain't_ a honest boy. i'm a thief!" "tut, tut, don't talk nonsense; i don't believe you." "vel now, this beats all that i ever did come across. 'ere's a old 'ooman as i tells as plain as mud that i'm a thief, an' nobody's better able to give a opinion on that pint than myself, yet she _won't_ believe it!" "no, i won't," said the old lady with a little nod and a smile, "so, put the money in your pocket, for you're an honest boy." "vell, it's pleasant to 'ear that, any'ow," returned bobby, placing the silver coin in a vest pocket which was always kept in repair for coins of smaller value. "where do you live, boy? i should like to come and see you." "my residence, marm, ain't a mansion in the vest-end. no, nor yet a willa in the subarbs. i'm afear'd, marm, that i live in a district that ain't quite suitable for the likes of you to wisit. but--" here bobby paused, for at the moment his little friend tim lumpy recurred to his memory, and a bright thought struck him. "well, boy, why do you pause?" "i was on'y thinkin', marm, that if you wants to befriend us poor boys-- they calls us waifs an' strays an' all sorts of unpurlite names--you've on'y got to send a sov, or two to miss annie macpherson, 'ome of hindustry, commercial street, spitalfields, an' you'll be the means o' doin' a world o' good--as i 'eard a old gen'l'm with a white choker on say the wery last time i was down there 'avin' a blow out o' bread an' soup." "i know the lady and the institution well, my boy," said the old lady, "and will act on your advice, but--" ere she finished the sentence bobby frog had turned and fled at the very top of his speed. "stop! stop! stop!" exclaimed the old lady in a weakly shout. but the "remarkable boy" would neither stop nor stay. he had suddenly caught sight of a policeman turning into the lane, and forthwith took to his heels, under a vague and not unnatural impression that if that limb of the law found him in possession of a half-crown he would refuse to believe his innocence with as much obstinacy as the little old lady had refused to believe his guilt. on reaching home he found his mother alone in a state of amused agitation which suggested to his mind the idea of old tom. "wot, bin at it again, mother?" "no, no, bobby, but somethin's happened which amuses me much, an' i can't keep it to myself no longer, so i'll tell it to you, bobby." "fire away, then, mother, an' remember that the law don't compel no one to criminate hisself." "you know, bob, that a good while ago our matty disappeared. i saw that the dear child was dyin' for want o' food an' warmth an' fresh air, so i thinks to myself, `why shouldn't i put 'er out to board wi' rich people for nothink?'" "a wery correct notion, an' cleverer than i gave you credit for. i'm glad to ear it too, for i feared sometimes that you'd bin an' done it." "oh! bobby, how could you ever think that! well, i put the baby out to board with a family of the name of twitter. now it seems, all unbeknown to me, mrs twitter is a great helper at the george yard ragged schools, where our hetty has often seen her; but as we've bin used never to speak about the work there, as your father didn't like it, of course i know'd nothin' about mrs twitter bein' given to goin' there. well, it seems she's very free with her money and gives a good deal away to poor people." (she's not the only one, thought the boy.) "so what does the bible-nurse do when she hears about poor hetty's illness but goes off and asks mrs twitter to try an' git her a situation." "`oh! i know hetty,' says mrs twitter at once, `that nice girl that teaches one o' the sunday-school classes. send her to me. i want a nurse for our baby,' that's for matty, bob--" "what! _our_ baby!" exclaimed the boy with a sudden blaze of excitement. "yes--our baby. she calls it _hers_!" "well, now," said bobby, after recovering from the fit of laughter and thigh-slapping into which this news had thrown him, "if this don't beat cockfightin' all to nuffin'! why, mother, hetty'll know baby the moment she claps eyes on it." "of course she will," said mrs frog; "it is really very awkward, an' i can't think what to do. i'm half afraid to tell hetty." "oh! don't tell her--don't tell her," cried the boy, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous glee. "it'll be sich fun! if i 'ad on'y the chance to stand be'ind a door an' see the meetin' i wouldn't exchange it--no not for a feed of pork sassengers an' suet pud'n. i must go an' tell this to tim lumpy. it'll bust 'im--that's my on'y fear, but i must tell 'im wotever be the consikences." with this stern resolve, to act regardless of results, bob frog went off in search of his little friend, whose departure for canada had been delayed, from some unknown cause, much to bob's satisfaction. he found tim on his way to the beehive, and was induced not only to go with him, but to decide, finally, to enter the institution as a candidate for canada. being well-known, both as to person and circumstances, he was accepted at once; taken in, washed, cropped, and transformed as if by magic. chapter sixteen. sir richard visits the beehive, and sees many surprising things. "my dear mrs loper," said mrs twitter over a cup of tea, "it is very kind of you to say so, and i really do think you are right, we have done full justice to our dear wee mita. who would ever have thought, remembering the thin starved sickly child she was the night that sam brought her in, that she would come to be such a plump, rosy, lovely child? i declare to you that i feel as if she were one of my own." "she is indeed a very lovely infant," returned mrs loper. "don't you think so, mrs larrabel?" the smiling lady expanded her mouth, and said, "very." "but," continued mrs twitter, "i really find that the entire care of her is too much for me, for, although dear mary assists me, her studies require to be attended to, and, do you know, babies interfere with studies dreadfully. not that i have time to do much in that way at present. i think the bible is the only book i really study now, so, you see, i've been thinking of adding to our establishment by getting a new servant;--a sort of nursery governess, you know,--a cheap one, of course. sam quite agrees with me, and, as it happens, i know a very nice little girl just now--a very very poor girl--who helps us so nicely on sundays in george yard, and has been recommended to me as a most deserving creature. i expect her to call to-night." "be cautious, mrs twitter," said mrs loper. "these _very_ poor girls from the slums of whitechapel are sometimes dangerous, and, excuse me, rather dirty. of course, if you know her, that is some security, but i would advise you to be very cautious." "thank you, my dear," said mrs twitter, "i usually am very cautious, and will try to be so on this occasion. i mean her to be rather a sort of nursery governess than a servant.--that is probably the girl." she referred to a rather timid knock at the front door. in another second the domestic announced hetty frog, who entered with a somewhat shy air, and seemed fluttered at meeting with unexpected company. "come in, hetty, my dear; i'm glad to see you. my friends here know that you are a helper in our sunday-schools. sit down, and have a cup of tea. you know why i have sent for you?" "yes, mrs twitter. it--it is very kind. our bible-nurse told me, and i shall be so happy to come, because--but i fear i have interrupted you. i--i can easily come back--" "no interruption at all, my dear. here, take this cup of tea--" "and a crumpet," added mrs larrabel, who sympathised with the spirit of hospitality. "yes, take a crumpet, and let me hear about your last place." poor hetty, who was still very weak from her recent illness, and would gladly have been excused sitting down with two strangers, felt constrained to comply, and was soon put at her ease by the kindly tone and manner of the hostess. she ran quickly over the chief points of her late engagements, and roused, without meaning to do so, the indignation of the ladies by the bare mention of the wages she had received for the amount of work done. "well, my dear," said the homely mrs twitter, "we won't be so hard on you here. i want you to assist me with my sewing and darning--of which i have a very great deal--and help to take care of baby." "very well, ma'am," said hetty, "when do you wish me to begin my duties?" "oh! to-morrow--after breakfast will do. it is too late to-night. but before you go, i may as well let you see the little one you are to have charge of. i hear she is awake." there could be no doubt upon that point, for the very rafters of the house were ringing at the moment with the yells which issued from an adjoining room. "come this way, hetty." mrs loper and mrs larrabel, having formed a good opinion of the girl, looked on with approving smiles. the smiles changed to glances of surprise, however, when hetty, having looked on the baby, uttered a most startling scream, while her eyes glared as though she saw a ghostly apparition. seizing the baby with unceremonious familiarity, hetty struck mrs twitter dumb by turning it on its face, pulling open its dress, glancing at a bright red spot on its back, and uttering a shriek of delight as she turned it round again, and hugged it with violent affection, exclaiming, "oh! my blessed matty!" "the child's name is not matty; it is mita," said mrs twitter, on recovering her breath. "what _do_ you mean, girl?" "her name is _not_ mita, it is matty," returned hetty, with a flatness of contradiction that seemed impossible in one so naturally gentle. mrs twitter stood, aghast--bereft of the power of speech or motion. mrs loper and mrs larrabel were similarly affected. they soon recovered, however, and exclaimed in chorus, "what _can_ she mean?" "forgive me, ma'am," said hetty, still holding on to baby, who seemed to have an idea that she was creating a sensation of some sort, without requiring to yell, "forgive my rudeness, ma'am, but i really couldn't help it, for this is my long-lost sister matilda." "sister matilda!" echoed mrs loper. "long-lost sister matilda!" repeated mrs larrabel. "this--is--your--long-lost sister matilda," rehearsed mrs twitter, like one in a dream. the situation was rendered still more complex by the sudden entrance of mr twitter and his friend crackaby. "what--what--what's to do _now_, mariar?" "sister matilda!" shouted all three with a gasp. "lunatics, every one of 'em," murmured crackaby. it is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to add that a full explanation ensued when the party became calmer; that mrs twitter could not doubt the veracity of hetty frog, but suspected her sanity; that mrs frog was sent for, and was recognised at once by mr twitter as the poor woman who had asked him such wild and unmeaning questions the night on which he had found the baby; and that mr and mrs twitter, mrs loper, mrs larrabel, and crackaby came to the unanimous conclusion that they had never heard of such a thing before in the whole course of their united lives--which lives, when united, as some statisticians would take a pride in recording, formed two hundred and forty-three years! poor mrs twitter was as inconsolable at the loss of her baby as mrs frog was overjoyed at the recovery of hers. she therefore besought the latter to leave little mita, _alias_ matty, with her just for one night longer-- only one night--and then she might come for her in the morning, for, you know, it would have been cruel to remove the child from her warm crib at that hour to a cold and comfortless lodging. of course mrs frog readily consented. if mrs frog had known the events that lay in the womb of the next few hours, she would sooner have consented to have had her right-hand cut off than have agreed to that most reasonable request. but we must not anticipate. a few of our _dramatis personae_ took both an active and an inactive part in the events of these hours. it is therefore imperative that we should indicate how some of them came to be in that region. about five of the clock in the afternoon of the day in question, sir richard brandon, his daughter and idol diana, and his young friend stephen welland, sat in the dining-room of the west-end mansion concluding an early and rather hasty dinner. that something was pending was indicated by the fact that little di sat accoutred in her hat and cloak. "we shall have to make haste," said sir richard, rising, "for i should not like to be late, and it is a long drive to whitechapel." "when do they begin?" asked welland. "they have tea at six, i believe, and then the meeting commences at seven, but i wish to be early that i may have a short conversation with one of the ladies of the home." "oh! it will be so nice, and such fun to see the dear little boys. how many are going to start for canada, to-night, papa?" "about fifty or sixty, i believe, but i'm not sure. they are sent off in batches of varying size from time to time." "is the demand for them so great?" asked welland, "i should have thought that canadian farmers and others would be afraid to receive into their dwellings what is often described as the scum of the london streets." "they were afraid at first, i am told, but soon discovered that the little fellows who came from miss macpherson's home had been subjected to such good training and influences before leaving that they almost invariably turned out valuable and trustworthy workmen. no doubt there are exceptions in this as in every other case, but the demand is, it seems, greater than the supply. it is, however, a false idea that little waifs and strays, however dirty or neglected, are in any sense the scum of london. youth, in all circumstances, is cream, and only turns into scum when allowed to stagnate or run to waste. come, now, let us be off. mr seaward, the city missionary, is to meet us after the meeting, and show you and me something of those who have fallen very low in the social scale. brisbane, who is also to be at the meeting, will bring di home. by the way, have you heard anything yet about that poor comrade and fellow-clerk of yours--twitter, i think, was his name-- who disappeared so suddenly?" "nothing whatever. i have made inquiries in all directions--for i had a great liking for the poor fellow. i went also to see his parents, but they seemed too much cut up to talk on the subject at all, and knew nothing of his whereabouts." "ah! it is a very sad case--very," said sir richard, as they all descended to the street. "we might, perhaps, call at their house to-night in passing." entering a cab, they drove away. from the foregoing conversation the reader will have gathered that the party were about to visit the beehive, or home of industry, and that sir richard, through the instrumentality of little di and the city missionary, had actually begun to think about the poor! it was a special night at the beehive. a number of diamonds with some of their dust rubbed off--namely, a band of little boys, rescued from the streets and from a probable life of crime, were to be assembled there to say farewell to such friends as took an interest in them. the hive had been a huge warehouse. it was now converted, with but slight structural alteration, into a great centre of light in that morally dark region, from which emanated gospel truth and christian influence, and in which was a refuge for the poor, the destitute, the sin-smitten, and the sorrowful. not only poverty, but sin-in-rags, was sure of help in the beehive. it had been set agoing to bring, not the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. when sir richard arrived he found a large though low-roofed room crowded with people, many of whom, to judge from their appearance, were, like himself, diamond-seekers from the "west-end," while others were obviously from the "east-end," and had the appearance of men and women who had been but recently unearthed. there were also city missionaries and other workers for god in that humble-looking hall. among them sat mr john seaward and george brisbane, esquire. placing di and welland near the latter, sir richard retired to a corner where one of the ladies of the establishment was distributing tea to all comers. "where are your boys, may i ask?" said the knight, accepting a cup of tea. "over in the left corner," answered the lady. "you can hardly see them for the crowd, but they will stand presently." at that moment, as if to justify her words, a large body of boys rose up, at a sign from the superintending genius of the place, and began to sing a beautiful hymn in soft, tuneful voices. it was a goodly array of dusty diamonds, and a few of them had already begun to shine. "surely," said sir richard, in a low voice, "these cannot be the ragged, dirty little fellows you pick up in the streets?" "indeed they are," returned the lady. "but--but they seem to me quite respectable and cleanly fellows, not at all like--why, how has the change been accomplished?" "by the united action, sir, of soap and water, needles and thread, scissors, cast-off garments, and love." sir richard smiled. perchance the reader may also smile; nevertheless, this statement embodied probably the whole truth. when an unkempt, dirty, ragged little savage presents himself, or is presented, at the refuge, or is "picked up" in the streets, his case is promptly and carefully inquired into. if he seems a suitable character--that is, one who is _utterly_ friendless and parentless, or whose parents are worse than dead to him--he is received into the home, and the work of transformation--both of body and soul--commences. first he is taken to the lavatory and scrubbed outwardly clean. his elfin locks are cropped close and cleansed. his rags are burned, and a new suit, made by the old women workers, is put upon him, after which, perhaps, he is fed. then he is sent to a doctor to see that he is internally sound in wind and limb. if passed by the doctor, he receives a brief but important training in the rudiments of knowledge. in all of these various processes love is the guiding principle of the operator-- love to god and love to the boy. he is made to understand, and to _feel_, that it is in the name of jesus, for the love of jesus, and in the spirit of jesus--not of mere philanthropy--that all this is done, and that his body is cared for _chiefly_ in order that the soul may be won. little wonder, then, that a boy or girl, whose past experience has been the tender mercies of the world--and that the roughest part of the world--should become somewhat "respectable," as sir richard put it, under such new and blessed influences. suddenly a tiny shriek was heard in the midst of the crowd, and a sweet little voice exclaimed, as if its owner were in great surprise-- "oh! oh! there is _my_ boy!" a hearty laugh from the audience greeted this outburst, and poor di, shrinking down, tried to hide her pretty face on welland's ready arm. her remark was quickly forgotten in the proceedings that followed--but it was true. there stood, in the midst of the group of boys, little bobby frog, with his face washed, his hair cropped and shining, his garments untattered, and himself looking as meek and "respectable" as the best of them. beside him stood his fast friend tim lumpy. bobby was not, however, one of the emigrant band. having joined only that very evening, and been cropped, washed, and clothed for the first time, he was there merely as a privileged guest. tim, also, was only a guest, not having quite attained to the dignity of a full-fledged emigrant at that time. at the sound of the sweet little voice, bobby frog's meek look was replaced by one of bright intelligence, not unmingled with anxiety, as he tried unavailingly to see the child who had spoken. we do not propose to give the proceedings of this meeting in detail, interesting though they were. other matters of importance claim our attention. it will be sufficient to say that mingled with the semi-conversational, pleasantly free-and-easy, intercourse that ensued, there were most interesting short addresses from the lady-superintendents of "the sailors' welcome home" and of the "strangers' rest," both of ratcliff highway, also from the chief of the ragged schools in george yard, and several city missionaries, as well as from city merchants who found time and inclination to traffic in the good things of the life to come as well as in those of the life that now is. before the proceedings had drawn to a close a voice whispered: "it is time to go, sir richard." it was the voice of john seaward. following him, sir richard and welland went out. it had grown dark by that time, and as there were no brilliantly lighted shops near, the place seemed gloomy, but the gloom was nothing to that of the filthy labyrinths into which seaward quickly conducted his followers. "you have no occasion to fear, sir," said the missionary, observing that sir richard hesitated at the mouth of one very dark alley. "it would, indeed, hardly be safe were you to come down here alone, but most of 'em know me. i remember being told by one of the greatest roughs i ever knew that at the very corner where we now stand he had _many_ and many a time knocked down and robbed people. that man is now an earnest christian, and, like paul, goes about preaching the name which he once despised." at the moment a dark shadow seemed to pass them, and a gruff voice said, "good-night, sir." "was that the man you were speaking of?" asked sir richard, quickly. "oh no, sir," replied seaward with a laugh; "that's what he was once like, indeed, but not what he is like now. his voice is no longer gruff. take care of the step, gentlemen, as you pass here; so, now we will go into this lodging. it is one of the common lodging-houses of london, which are regulated by law and under the supervision of the police. each man pays fourpence a night here, for which he is entitled to a bed and the use of the kitchen and its fire to warm himself and cook his food. if he goes to the same lodging every night for a week he becomes entitled to a free night on sundays." the room into which they now entered was a long low chamber, which evidently traversed the whole width of the building, for it turned at a right angle at the inner end, and extended along the back to some extent. it was divided along one side into boxes or squares, after the fashion of some eating-houses, with a small table in the centre of each box, but, the partitions being little higher than those of a church-pew, the view of the whole room was unobstructed. at the inner angle of the room blazed a coal-fire so large that a sheep might have been easily roasted whole at it. gas jets, fixed along the walls at intervals, gave a sufficient light to the place. this was the kitchen of the lodging-house, and formed the sitting-room of the place; and here was assembled perhaps the most degraded and miserable set of men that the world can produce. they were not all of one class, by any means; nor were they all criminal, though certainly many of them were. the place was the last refuge of the destitute; the social sink into which all that is improvident, foolish, reckless, thriftless, or criminal finally descends. sir richard and welland had put on their oldest great-coats and shabbiest wideawakes; they had also put off their gloves and rings and breastpins in order to attract as little attention as possible, but nothing that they could have done could have reduced their habiliments to anything like the garments of the poor creatures with whom they now mingled. if they had worn the same garments for months or years without washing them, and had often slept in them out of doors in dirty places, they might perhaps have brought them to the same level, but not otherwise. some of the people, however, were noisy enough. many of them were smoking, and the coarser sort swore and talked loud. those who had once been in better circumstances sat and moped, or spoke in lower tones, or cooked their victuals with indifference to all else around, or ate them in abstracted silence; while not a few laid their heads and arms on the tables, and apparently slept. for sleeping in earnest there were rooms overhead containing many narrow beds with scant and coarse covering, which, however, the law compelled to be clean. one of the rooms contained seventy such beds. little notice was taken of the west-end visitors as they passed up the room, though some dark scowls of hatred were cast after them, and a few glanced at them with indifference. it was otherwise in regard to seaward. he received many a "good-night, sir," as he passed, and a kindly nod greeted him here and there from men who at first looked as if kindness had been utterly eradicated from their systems. one of those whom we have described as resting their heads and arms on the tables, looked hastily up, on hearing the visitors' voices, with an expression of mingled surprise and alarm. it was sammy twitter, with hands and visage filthy, hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, and garments beyond description disreputable. he seemed the very embodiment of woe and degradation. on seeing his old friend welland he quickly laid his head down again and remained motionless. welland had not observed him. "you would scarcely believe it, sir," said the missionary, in a low tone; "nearly all classes of society are occasionally represented here. you will sometimes find merchants, lawyers, doctors, military men, and even clergymen, who have fallen step by step, chiefly in consequence of that subtle demon drink, until the common lodging-house is their only home." "heaven help me!" said sir richard; "my friend brisbane has often told me of this, but i have never quite believed it--certainly never realised it--until to-night. and even now i can hardly believe it. i see no one here who seems as if he ever had belonged to the classes you name." "do you see the old man in the last box in the room, on the left-hand side, sitting alone?" asked seaward, turning his back to the spot indicated. "yes." "well, that is a clergyman. i know him well. you would never guess it from his wretched clothing, but you might readily believe it if you were to speak to him." "that i will not do," returned the other firmly. "you are right, sir," said seaward, "i would not advise that you should--at least not here, or now. i have been in the habit of reading a verse or two of the word and giving them a short address sometimes about this hour. have you any objection to my doing so now? it won't detain us long." "none in the world; pray, my good sir, don't let me disarrange your plans." "perhaps," added the missionary, "you would say a few words to--" "no, no," interrupted the other, quickly; "no, they are preaching to _me_ just now, mr seaward, a very powerful sermon, i assure you." during the foregoing conversation young welland's thoughts had been very busy; ay, and his conscience had not been idle, for when mention was made of that great curse strong drink, he vividly recalled the day when he had laughed at sam twitter's blue ribbon, and felt uneasy as to how far his conduct on that occasion had helped sam in his downward career. "my friends," said the missionary aloud, "we will sing a hymn." some of those whom he addressed turned towards the speaker; others paid no attention whatever, but went on with their cooking and smoking. they were used to it, as ordinary church-goers are to the "service." the missionary understood that well, but was not discouraged, because he knew that his "labour in the lord" should not be in vain. he pulled out two small hymn-books and handed one to sir richard, the other to welland. sir richard suddenly found himself in what was to him a strange and uncomfortable position, called on to take a somewhat prominent part in a religious service in a low lodging-house! the worst of it was that the poor knight could not sing a note. however, his deficiency in this respect was more than compensated by john seaward, who possessed a telling tuneful voice, with a grateful heart to work it. young welland also could sing well, and joined heartily in that beautiful hymn which tells of "the wonderful words of life." after a brief prayer the missionary preached the comforting gospel, and tried, with all the fervour of a sympathetic heart, to impress on his hearers that there really was hope for the hopeless, and rest for the weary in jesus christ. when he had finished, stephen welland surprised him, as well as his friend sir richard and the audience generally, by suddenly exclaiming, in a subdued but impressive voice, which drew general attention: "friends, i had no intention of saying a word when i came here, but, god forgive me, i have committed a sin, which seems to force me to speak and warn you against giving way to strong drink. i had--nay, i _have_--a dear friend who once put on the blue ribbon." here he related the episode at the road-side tavern, and his friend's terrible fall, and wound up with the warning: "fellow-men, fellow-sinners, beware of being laughed out of good resolves--beware of strong drink. i know not where my comrade is now. he may be dead, but i think not, for he has a mother and father who pray for him without ceasing. still better, as you have just been told, he has an advocate with god, who is able and willing to save him to the uttermost. forgive me, mr seaward, for speaking without being asked. i could not help it." "no need to ask forgiveness of me, mr welland. you have spoken on the lord's side, and i have reason to thank you heartily." while this was being said, those who sat near the door observed that a young man rose softly, and slunk away like a criminal, with a face ashy pale and his head bowed down. on reaching the door, he rushed out like one who expected to be pursued. it was young sam twitter. few of the inmates of the place observed him, none cared a straw for him, and the incident was, no doubt, quickly forgotten. "we must hasten now, if we are to visit another lodging-house," said seaward, as they emerged into the comparatively fresh air of the street, "for it grows late, and riotous drunken characters are apt to be met with as they stagger home." "no; i have had enough for one night," said sir richard. "i shall not be able to digest it all in a hurry. i'll go home by the metropolitan, if you will conduct me to the nearest station." "come along, then. this way." they had not gone far, and were passing through a quiet side street, when they observed a poor woman sitting on a door-step. it was mrs frog, who had returned to sit on the old familiar spot, and watch the shadows on the blind, either from the mere force of habit, or because this would probably be the last occasion on which she could expect to enjoy that treat. a feeling of pity entered sir richard's soul as he looked on the poorly clothed forlorn creature. he little knew what rejoicing there was in her heart just then--so deceptive are appearances at times! he went towards her with an intention of some sort, when a very tall policeman turned the corner, and approached. "why, giles scott!" exclaimed the knight, holding out his hand, which giles shook respectfully, "you seem to be very far away from your beat to-night." "no, sir, not very far, for this is my beat, now. i have exchanged into the city, for reasons that i need not mention." at this point a belated and half-tipsy man passed with his donkey-cart full of unsold vegetables and rubbish. "hallo! you big blue-coat-boy," he cried politely to giles, "wot d'ye call _that_?" giles had caught sight of "_that_" at the same moment, and darted across the street. "why, it's fire!" he shouted. "run, young fellow, you know the fire-station!" "_i_ know it," shouted the donkey-man, sobered in an instant, as he jumped off his cart, left it standing, dashed round the corner, and disappeared, while number beat a thundering tattoo on samuel twitter's front door. chapter seventeen. things become too hot for the twitter family. before the thunder of giles scott's first rap had ceased, a pane of glass in one of the lower windows burst, and out came dense volumes of smoke, with a red tongue or two piercing them here and there, showing that the fire had been smouldering long, and had got well alight. it was followed by an appalling shriek from mrs frog, who rushed forward shouting, "oh! baby! baby!" "hold her, sir," said giles to young welland, who sprang forward at the same moment. welland was aware of the immense value of prompt obedience, and saw that giles was well fitted to command. he seized mrs frog and held her fast, while giles, knowing that there was no time to stand on ceremony, stepped a few paces back, ran at the door with all his might, and applied his foot with his great weight and momentum to it. as the oak is shattered by the thunderbolt, so was samuel twitter's door by the foot of number . but the bold constable was met by a volume of black smoke which was too much even for him. it drove him back half suffocated, while, at the same time, it drove the domestic out of the house into his arms. she had rushed from the lower regions just in time to escape death. a single minute had not yet elapsed, and only half-a-dozen persons had assembled, with two or three policemen, who instantly sought to obtain an entrance by a back door. "hold her, sir richard," said welland, handing the struggling mrs frog over. the knight accepted the charge, while welland ran to the burning house, which seemed to be made of tinder, it blazed up so quickly. giles was making desperate efforts to enter by a window which vomited fire and smoke that defied him. an upper window was thrown open, and samuel twitter appeared in his night-dress, shouting frantically. stephen welland saw that entrance or egress by lower window or staircase was impossible. he had been a noted athlete at school. there was an iron spout which ran from the street to the roof. he rushed to that, and sprang up more like a monkey than a man. "pitch over blankets!" roared giles, as the youth gained a window of the first floor, and dashed it in. "the donkey-cart!" shouted welland, in reply, and disappeared. giles was quick to understand. he dragged--almost lifted--the donkey and cart on to the pavement under the window where mr twitter stood waving his hands and yelling. the poor man had evidently lost his reason for the time, and was fit for nothing. a hand was seen to grasp his neck behind, and he disappeared. at the same moment a blanket came fluttering down, and welland stood on the window-sill with mrs twitter in his arms, and a sheet of flame following. the height was about thirty feet. the youth steadied himself for one moment, as if to take aim, and dropped mrs twitter, as he might have dropped a bundle. she not only went into the vegetable cart, with a bursting shriek, but right through it, and reached the pavement unhurt--though terribly shaken! four minutes had not yet elapsed. the crowd had thickened, and a dull rumbling which had been audible for half a minute increased into a mighty roar as the fiery-red engine with its brass-helmeted heroes dashed round the corner, and pulled up with a crash, seeming to shoot the men off. these swarmed, for a few seconds, about the hose, water plug, and nozzles. at the same instant the great fire-escape came rushing on the scene, like some antediluvian monster, but by that time giles had swept away the debris of the donkey-cart, with mrs twitter imbedded therein, and had stretched the blanket with five powerful volunteers to hold it. "jump, sir, jump!" he cried. samuel twitter jumped--unavoidably, for welland pushed him--just as the hiss and crackle of the water-spouts began. he came down in a heap, rebounded like india-rubber, and was hurled to one side in time to make way for one of his young flock. "the children! the children!" screamed mrs twitter, disengaging herself from the vegetables. "where are they?" asked a brass-helmeted man, quietly, as the head of the escape went crashing through an upper window. "the top floor! all of 'em there!--top flo-o-o-r!" "no--no-o-o! some on the second fl-o-o-or!" yelled mr twitter. "i say _top--floo-o-o-r_," repeated the wife. "you forget--baby--ba-i-by!" roared the husband. a wild shriek was mrs twitter's reply. the quiet man with the brass helmet had run up the escape quite regardless of these explanations. at the same time top windows were opened up, and little night-dressed figures appeared at them all, apparently making faces, for their cries were drowned in the shouts below. from these upper windows smoke was issuing, but not yet in dense, suffocating volumes. the quiet man of the escape entered a second floor window through smoke and flames as though he were a salamander. the crowd below gave him a lusty cheer, for it was a great surging crowd by that time; nevertheless it surged within bounds, for a powerful body of police kept it back, leaving free space for the firemen to work. a moment or two after the quiet fireman had entered, the night-dressed little ones disappeared from the other windows and congregated, as if by magic, at the window just above the head of the escape. almost simultaneously the fly-ladder of the escape--used for upper windows--was swung out, and when the quiet fireman had got out on the window-sill with little lucy in his arms and little alice held by her dress in his teeth, its upper rounds touched his knees, as if with a kiss of recognition! he descended the fly-ladder, and shoved the two terrified little ones somewhat promptly into the canvas shoot, where a brother fireman was ready to pilot them together xxx to the ground. molly being big had to be carried by herself, but willie and fred went together. during all this time poor mrs frog had given herself over to the one idea of screaming "baby! bai-e-by!" and struggling to get free from the two policemen, who had come to the relief of sir richard, and who tenderly restrained her. in like manner mr and mrs twitter, although not absolutely in need of restraint, went about wringing their hands and making such confused and contradictory statements that no one could understand what they meant, and the firemen quietly went on with their work quite regardless of their existence. "policeman!" said sam twitter, looking up in the face of number , with a piteous expression, and almost weeping with vexation, "_nobody_ will listen to me. i would go up myself, but the firemen won't let me, and my dear wife has such an idea of sticking to truth that when they ask her, `is your baby up there?' she yells `no, not _our_ baby,' and before she can explain she gasps, and then i try to explain, and that so bamboozles--" "_is_ your baby there?" demanded number vehemently. "yes, it is!" cried twitter, without the slightest twinge of conscience. "what room?" "that one," pointing to the left side of the house on the first floor. just then part of the roof gave way and fell into the furnace of flame below, leaving visible the door of the very room to which twitter had pointed. a despairing groan escaped him as he saw it, for now all communication seemed cut off, and the men were about to pull the escape away to prevent its being burned, while, more engines having arrived, something like a mountain torrent of water was descending on the devoted house. "stop, lads, a moment," said giles, springing upon the escape. he might have explained to the firemen what he had learned, but that would have taken time, and every second just then was of the utmost value. he was up on the window-sill before they well understood what he meant to do. the heat was intolerable. a very lake of fire rolled beneath him. the door of the room pointed out by twitter was opposite--fortunately on the side furthest from the centre of fire, but the floor was gone. only two great beams remained, and the one giles had to cross was more than half burned through. it was a fragile bridge on which to pass over an abyss so terrible. but heroes do not pause to calculate. giles walked straight across it with the steadiness of a rope-dancer, and burst in the scarred and splitting door. the smoke here was not too dense to prevent his seeing. one glance revealed baby frog lying calmly in her crib as if asleep. to seize her, wrap her in the blankets, and carry her to the door of the room, was the work of a moment, but the awful abyss now lay before him, and it seemed to have been heated seven times. the beam, too, was by that time re-kindling with the increased heat, and the burden he carried prevented giles from seeing, and balancing himself so well. he did not hesitate, but he advanced slowly and with caution. a dead silence fell on the awe-stricken crowd, whose gaze was concentrated now on the one figure. the throbbing of the engines was heard distinctly when the roar of excitement was thus temporarily checked. as giles moved along, the beam cracked under his great weight. the heat became almost insupportable. his boots seemed to shrivel up and tighten round his feet. "he's gone! no, he's not!" gasped some of the crowd, as the tall smoke and flame encompassed him, and he was seen for a moment to waver. it was a touch of giddiness, but by a violent impulse of the will he threw it off, and at the same time bounded to the window, sending the beam, which was broken off by the shock, hissing down into the lake of fire. the danger was past, and a loud, continuous, enthusiastic cheer greeted gallant number as he descended the chute with the baby in his arms, and delivered it alive and well, and more solemn than ever, to its mother--its _own_ mother! when sir richard brandon returned home that night, he found it uncommonly difficult to sleep. when, after many unsuccessful efforts, he did manage to slumber, his dreams re-produced the visions of his waking hours, with many surprising distortions and mixings--one of which distortions was, that all the paupers in the common lodging-houses had suddenly become rich, while he, sir richard, had as suddenly become poor, and a beggar in filthy rags, with nobody to care for him, and that these enriched beggars came round him and asked him, in quite a facetious way, "how he liked it!" next morning, when the worthy knight arose, he found his unrested brain still busy with the same theme. he also found that he had got food for meditation, and for discussion with little di, not only for some time to come, but, for the remainder of his hours. chapter eighteen. the ocean and the new world. doctors tell us that change of air is usually beneficial, often necessary, nearly always agreeable. relying on the wisdom of this opinion, we propose now to give the reader who has followed us thus far a change of air--by shifting the scene to the bosom of the broad atlantic--and thus blow away the cobwebs and dust of the city. those who have not yet been out upon the great ocean cannot conceive-- and those who have been out on it may not have seen--the splendours of a luminous fog on a glorious summer morning. the prevailing ideas in such circumstances are peace and liquidity! the only solid object visible above, below, or around, being the ship on which you stand. everything else is impalpable, floating, soft, and of a light, bright, silvery grey. the air is warm, the sea is glass; it is circular, too, like a disc, and the line where it meets with the sky is imperceptible. your little bark is the centre of a great crystal ball, the limit of which is immensity! as we have said, peace, liquidity, luminosity, softness, and warmth prevail everywhere, and the fog, or rather, the silvery haze--for it is dry and warm as well as bright--has the peculiar effect of deadening sound, so that the quiet little noises of ship-board rather help than destroy the idea of that profound tranquillity which suggests irresistibly to the religious mind the higher and sweeter idea of "the peace of god." but, although intensely still, there is no suggestion of death in such a scene. it is only that of slumber! for the ocean undulates even when at rest, and sails flap gently even when there is no wind. besides this, on the particular morning to which we call attention, a species of what we may call "still life" was presented by a mighty iceberg--a peaked and towering mountain of snowy white and emerald blue--which floated on the sea not a quarter of a mile off on the starboard bow. real life also was presented to the passengers of the noble bark which formed the centre of this scene, in the form of gulls floating like great snowflakes in the air, and flocks of active little divers rejoicing unspeakably on the water. the distant cries of these added to the harmony of nature, and tended to draw the mind from mere abstract contemplation to positive sympathy with the joys of other animals besides one's-self. the only discordant sounds that met the ears of those who voyaged in the bark _ocean queen_ were the cacklings of a creature in the hen-coops which had laid an egg, or thought it had done so, or wished to do so, or, having been sea-sick up to that time, perhaps, endeavoured to revive its spirits by recalling the fact that it once did so, and might perhaps do so again! by the way there was also one other discord, in the form of a pugnacious baby, which whimpered continuously, and, from some unaccountable cause, refused to be comforted. but that was a discord which, as in some musical chords, seemed rather to improve the harmony-- at least in its mother's ears. the _ocean queen_ was an emigrant ship. in her capacious hull, besides other emigrants, there were upwards of seventy diamonds from the beehive in spitalfields on their way to seek their fortunes in the lands that are watered by such grand fresh-water seas as lakes superior and huron and michigan and ontario, and such rivers as the ottawa and the saint lawrence. robert frog and tim lumpy were among those boys, so changed for the better in a few months that, as the former remarked, "their own mothers wouldn't know 'em," and not only improved in appearance, but in spirit, ay, and even to some small extent in language--so great had been the influence for good brought to bear on them by christian women working out of love to god and souls. "ain't it lovely?" said tim. "splendacious!" replied bob. the reader will observe that we did not say the language had, at that time, been _much_ improved! only to some small extent. "i've seen pictur's of 'em, bob," said tim, leaning his arms on the vessel's bulwarks as he gazed on the sleeping sea, "w'en a gen'l'man came to george yard with a magic lantern, but i never thought they was so big, or that the holes in 'em was so blue." "nor i neither," said bob. they referred, of course, to the iceberg, the seams and especially the caverns in which graduated from the lightest azure to the deepest indigo. "why, i do believe," continued bobby, as the haze grew a little thinner, "that there's rivers of water runnin' down its sides, just like as if it was a mountain o' loaf-sugar wi' the fire-brigade a-pumpin' on it. an' see, there's waterfalls too, bigger i do b'lieve than the one i once saw at a pantomime." "ay, an' far prettier too," said tim. bobby frog did not quite see his way to assent to that. the waterfalls on the iceberg were bigger, he admitted, than those in the pantomime, but then, there was not so much glare and glitter around them. "an' i'm fond of glare an' glitter," he remarked, with a glance at his friend. "so am i, bob, but--" at that instant the dinner-bell rang, and the eyes of both glittered-- they almost glared--as they turned and made for the companion-hatch, bob exclaiming, "ah, that's the thing that _i'm_ fond of; glare an' glitter's all wery well in its way, but it can't 'old a candle to grub!" timothy lumpy seemed to have no difference of opinion with his friend on that point. indeed the other sixty-eight boys seemed to be marvellously united in sentiment about it, for, without an exception, they responded to that dinner-bell with a promptitude quite equal to that secured by military discipline! there was a rattling of feet on decks and ladderways for a few seconds, and then all was quiet while a blessing was asked on the meal. for many years miss annie macpherson has herself conducted parties of such boys to canada, but the party of which we write happened to be in charge of a gentleman whom we will name the guardian; he was there to keep order, of course, but in truth this was not a difficult matter, for the affections of the boys had been enlisted, and they had already learned to practise self-restraint. that same day a whale was seen. it produced a sensation among the boys that is not easily described. considerately, and as if on purpose, it swam round the ship and displayed its gigantic proportions; then it spouted as though to show what it could do in that line, and then, as if to make the performance complete and reduce the westminster aquarium to insignificance, it tossed its mighty tail on high, brought it down with a clap like thunder, and finally dived into its native ocean followed by a yell of joyful surprise from the rescued waifs and strays. there were little boys, perhaps even big ones, in that band, who that day received a lesson of faith from the whale. it taught them that pictures, even extravagant ones, represent great realities. the whale also taught them a lesson of error, as was proved by the remark of one waif to a brother stray:-- "i say, piggie, it ain't 'ard _now_, to b'lieve that the whale swallered jonah." "you're right, konky." strange interlacing of error with error traversed by truth in this sublunary sphere! piggie was wrong in admitting that. konky was right, for, as every one knows, or ought to know, it was not a whale at all that swallowed jonah, but a "great fish" which was "prepared" for the purpose. but the voyage of the _ocean queen_ was not entirely made up of calms, and luminous fogs, and bergs, and whales, and food. a volume would be required to describe it all. there was much foul weather as well as fair, during which periods a certain proportion of the little flock, being not very good sailors, sank to depths of misery which they had never before experienced--not even in their tattered days--and even those of them who had got their "sea-legs on," were not absolutely happy. "i say, piggie," asked the waif before mentioned of his chum, (or dosser), konky, "'ow long d'ee think little mouse will go on at his present rate o' heavin'?" "i can't say," answered the stray, with a serious air; "i ain't studied the 'uman frame wery much, but i should say, 'e'll bust by to-morrow if 'e goes on like 'e's bin doin'." a tremendous sound from little mouse, who lay in a neighbouring bunk, seemed to justify the prophecy. but little mouse did not "bust." he survived that storm, and got his sea-legs on before the next one. the voyage, however, was on the whole propitious, and, what with school-lessons and bible-lessons and hymn-singing, and romping, and games of various kinds instituted and engaged in by the guardian, the time passed profitably as well as pleasantly, so that there were, perhaps, some feelings of regret when the voyage drew to an end, and they came in sight of that great land which the norsemen of old discovered; which columbus, re-discovering, introduced to the civilised world, and which, we think, ought in justice to have been named columbia. and now a new era of life began for those rescued waifs and strays-- those east-end diamonds from the great london fields. canada--with its mighty lakes and splendid rivers, its great forests and rich lands, its interesting past, prosperous present, and hopeful future--opened up to view. but there was a shadow on the prospect, not very extensive, it is true, but dark enough to some of them just then, for here the hitherto united band was to be gradually disunited and dispersed, and friendships that had begun to ripen under the sunshine of christian influence were to be broken up, perhaps for ever. the guardian, too, had to be left behind by each member as he was severed from his fellows and sent to a new home among total strangers. still there were to set off against these things several points of importance. one of these was that the guardian would not part with a single boy until the character of his would-be employer was inquired into, and his intention to deal kindly and fairly ascertained. another point was, that each boy, when handed over to an employer, was not to be left thereafter to care for himself, but his interests were to be watched over and himself visited at intervals by an emissary from the beehive, so that he would not feel friendless or forsaken even though he should have the misfortune to fall into bad hands. the guardian also took care to point out that, amid all these leave-takings and partings, there was one who would "never leave nor forsake" them, and to whom they were indebted for the first helping hand, when they were in their rags and misery, and forsaken of man. at last the great gulf of saint lawrence was entered, and here the vessel was beset with ice, so that she could not advance at a greater rate than two or three miles an hour for a considerable distance. soon, however, those fields of frozen sea were passed, and the end of the voyage drew near. then was there a marvellous outbreak of pens, ink, and paper, for the juvenile flock was smitten with a sudden desire to write home before going to the interior of the new land. it was a sad truth that many of the poor boys had neither parent nor relative to correspond with, but these were none the less eager in their literary work, for had they not miss macpherson and the ladies of the home to write to? soon after that, the party landed at the far-famed city of quebec, each boy with his bag containing change of linen, and garments, a rug, etcetera; and there, under a shed, thanks were rendered to god for a happy voyage, and prayer offered for future guidance. then the guardian commenced business. he had momentous work to do. the home of industry and its work are well-known in canada. dusty diamonds sent out from the beehive were by that time appreciated, and therefore coveted; for the western land is vast, and the labourers are comparatively few. people were eager to get the boys, but the character of intending employers had to be inquired into, and this involved care. then the suitability of boys to situations had to be considered. however, this was finally got over, and a few of the reclaimed waifs were left at quebec. this was the beginning of the dispersion. "i don't like it at all," said bobby frog to his friend tim lumpy, that evening in the sleeping car of the railway train that bore them onward to montreal; "they'll soon be partin' you an' me, an' that'll be worse than wallerin' in the mud of vitechapel." bobby said this with such an expression of serious anxiety that his little friend was quite touched. "i hope not, bob," he replied. "what d'ee say to axin' our guardian to put us both into the same sitivation?" bobby thought that this was not a bad idea, and as they rolled along these two little waifs gravely discussed their future prospects. it was the same with many others of the band, though not a few were content to gaze out of the carriage windows, pass a running commentary on the new country, and leave their future entirely to their guardian. soon, however, the busy little tongues and brains ceased to work, and ere long were steeped in slumber. at midnight the train stopped, and great was the sighing and groaning, and earnest were the requests to be let alone, for a batch of the boys had to be dropped at a town by the way. at last they were aroused, and with their bags on their shoulders prepared to set off under a guide to their various homes. soon the sleepiness wore off, and, when the train was about to start, the reality of the parting seemed to strike home, and the final handshakings and good wishes were earnest and hearty. thus, little by little, the band grew less and less. montreal swallowed up a good many. while there the whole band went out for a walk on the heights above the reservoir with their guardian, guided by a young scotsman. "that's a jolly-lookin' 'ouse, tim," said bob frog to his friend. the scotsman overheard the remark. "yes," said he, "it is a nice house, and a good jolly man owns it. he began life as a poor boy. and do you see that other villa--the white one with the green veranda among the trees? that was built by a man who came out from england just as you have done, only without anybody to take care of him; god however cared for him, and now you see his house. he began life without a penny, but he had three qualities which will make a man of any boy, no matter what circumstances he may be placed in. he was truthful, thorough, and trustworthy. men knew that they might believe what he said, be sure of the quality of what he did, and could rely upon his promises. there was another thing much in his favour, he was a total abstainer. drink in this country ruins hundreds of men and women, just as in england. shun drink, boys, as you would a serpent." "i wouldn't shun a drink o' water just now if i could get it," whispered bobby to his friend, "for i'm uncommon thirsty." at this point the whole band were permitted to disperse in the woods, where they went about climbing and skipping like wild squirrels, for these novel sights, and scents, and circumstances were overwhelmingly delightful after the dirt and smoke of london. when pretty well breathed--our waifs were grown too hardy by that time to be easily exhausted--the guardian got them to sit round him and sing that sweet hymn: "shall we gather at the river?" and tears bedewed many eyes, for they were reminded that there were yet many partings in store before that gathering should take place. and now the remnant of the band--still a goodly number--proceeded in the direction of the far west. all night they travelled, and reached belleville, where they were received joyfully in the large house presented as a free gift to miss macpherson by the council of the county of hastings. it served as a "distributing home" and centre in canada for the little ones till they could be placed in suitable situations, and to it they might be returned if necessary, or a change of employer required it. this belleville home was afterwards burned to the ground, and rebuilt by sympathising canadian friends. but we may not pause long here. the far west still lies before us. our gradually diminishing band must push on. "it's the sea!" exclaimed the boy who had been named little mouse, _alias_ robbie dell. "no, it ain't," said konky, who was a good deal older; "it's a lake." "ontario," said the guardian, "one of the noble fresh-water seas of canada." onward, ever onward, is the watchword just now--dropping boys like seed-corn as they go! woods and fields, and villas, and farms, and waste-lands, and forests, and water, fly past in endless variety and loveliness. "a panoramy without no end!" exclaimed tim lumpy after one of his long gazes of silent admiration. "_wot_ a diff'rence!" murmured bobby frog. "wouldn't mother an' daddy an' hetty like it, just!" the city of toronto came in sight. the wise arrangements for washing in canadian railway-cars had been well used by the boys, and pocket-combs also. they looked clean and neat and wonderfully solemn as they landed at the station. but their fame had preceded them. an earnest crowd came to see the boys, among whom were some eager to appropriate. "i'll take that lad," said one bluff farmer, stepping forward, and pointing to a boy whose face had taken his fancy. "and i want six boys for our village," said another. "i want one to learn my business," said a third, "and i'll learn him as my own son. here are my certificates of character from my clergyman and the mayor of the place i belong to." "i like the looks of that little fellow," said another, pointing to bob frog, "and should like to have him." "does you, my tulip?" said bobby, whose natural tendency to insolence had not yet been subdued; "an' don't you vish you may get 'im!" it is but justice to bobby, however, to add, that this remark was made entirely to himself. to all these flattering offers the guardian turned a deaf ear, until he had passed through the crowd and marshalled his boys in an empty room of the depot. then inquiries were made; the boys' characters and capacities explained; suitability on both sides considered; the needs of the soul as well as the body referred to and pressed; and, finally, the party went on its way greatly reduced in numbers. thus they dwindled and travelled westward until only our friend bobby, tim, konky, and little mouse remained with the guardian, whose affections seemed to intensify as fewer numbers were left on which they might concentrate. soon the little mouse was caught. a huge backwoods farmer, who could have almost put him in his coat-pocket, took a fancy to him. the fancy seemed to be mutual, for, after a tearful farewell to the guardian, the mouse went off with the backwoodsman quite contentedly. then konky was disposed of. a hearty old lady with a pretty daughter and a slim son went away with him in triumph, and the band was reduced to two. "i do believe," whispered bob to tim, "that he's goin' to let us stick together after all." "you are right, my dear boy," said the guardian, who overheard the remark. "a family living a considerable distance off wishes to have two boys. i have reason to believe that they love the lord jesus, and will treat you well. so, as i knew you wished to be together, i have arranged for your going to live with them." as the journey drew to a close, the guardian seemed to concentrate his whole heart on the little waifs whom he had conducted so far, and he gave them many words of counsel, besides praying with and for them. at last, towards evening, the train rushed into a grand pine-wood. it soon rushed out of it again and entered a beautiful piece of country which was diversified by lakelet and rivulet, hill and vale, with rich meadow lands in the hollows, where cattle browsed or lay in the evening sunshine. the train drew up sharply at a small road-side station. there was no one to get into the cars there, and no one to get out except our two waifs. on the road beyond stood a wagon with a couple of spanking bays in it. on the platform stood a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, short-legged farmer with a face like the sun, and a wide-awake on the back of his bald head. "mr merryboy, i presume?" said the guardian, descending from the car. "the same. glad to see you. are these my boys?" he spoke in a quick, hearty, off-hand manner, but bobby and tim hated him at once, for were they not on the point of leaving their last and best friend, and was not this man the cause? they turned to their guardian to say farewell, and, even to their own surprise, burst into tears. "god bless you, dear boys," he said, while the guard held open the door of the car as if to suggest haste; "good-bye. it won't be _very_ long i think before i see you again. farewell." he sprang into the car, the train glided away, and the two waifs stood looking wistfully after it with the first feelings of desolation that had entered their hearts since landing in canada. "my poor lads," said mr merryboy, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, "come along with me. home is only six miles off, and i've got a pair of spanking horses that will trundle us over in no time." the tone of voice, to say nothing of "home" and "spanking horses," improved matters greatly. both boys thought, as they entered the wagon, that they did not hate him quite so much as at first. the bays proved worthy of their master's praise. they went over the road through the forest in grand style, and in little more than half an hour landed bobby and tim at the door of their canadian home. it was dark by that time, and the ruddy light that shone in the windows and that streamed through the door as it opened to receive them seemed to our waifs like a gleam of celestial light. chapter nineteen. at home in canada. the family of mr merryboy was a small one. besides those who assisted him on the farm--and who were in some cases temporary servants--his household consisted of his wife, his aged mother, a female servant, and a small girl. the latter was a diamond from the london diggings, who had been imported the year before. she was undergoing the process of being polished, and gave promise of soon becoming a very valuable gem. it was this that induced her employer to secure our two masculine gems from the same diggings. mrs merryboy was a vigorous, hearty, able-bodied lady, who loved work very much for the mere exercise it afforded her; who, like her husband, was constitutionally kind, and whose mind was of that serious type which takes concern with the souls of the people with whom it has to do as well as with their bodies. hence she gave her waif a daily lesson in religious and secular knowledge; she reduced work on the sabbath-days to the lowest possible point in the establishment, and induced her husband, who was a little shy as well as bluff and off-hand, to institute family worship, besides hanging on her walls here and there sweet and striking texts from the word of god. old mrs merryboy, the mother, must have been a merry girl in her youth; for, even though at the age of eighty and partially deaf, she was extremely fond of a joke, practical or otherwise, and had her face so seamed with the lines of appreciative humour, and her nutcracker mouth so set in a smile of amiable fun, and her coal-black eyes so lit up with the fires of unutterable wit, that a mere glance at her stirred up your sources of comicality to their depths, while a steady gaze usually resulted in a laugh, in which she was sure to join with an apparent belief that, whatever the joke might be, it was uncommonly good. she did not speak much. her looks and smiles rendered speech almost unnecessary. her figure was unusually diminutive. little martha, the waif, was one of those mild, reticent, tiny things that one feels a desire to fondle without knowing why. her very small face was always, and, as bobby remarked, awfully grave, yet a ready smile must have lurked close at hand somewhere, for it could be evoked by the smallest provocation at any time, but fled the instant the provoking cause ceased. she seldom laughed, but when she did the burst was a hearty one, and over immediately. her brown hair was smooth, her brown eyes were gentle, her red mouth was small and round. obedience was ingrained in her nature. original action seemed never to have entered her imagination. she appeared to have been born with the idea that her sphere in life was to do as she was directed. to resist and fight were to her impossibilities. to be defended and kissed seemed to be her natural perquisites. yet her early life had been calculated to foster other and far different qualities, as we shall learn ere long. tim lumpy took to this little creature amazingly. she was so little that by contrast he became quite big, and felt so! when in martha's presence he absolutely felt big and like a lion, a roaring lion capable of defending her against all comers! bobby was also attracted by her, but in a comparatively mild degree. on the morning after their arrival the two boys awoke to find that the windows of their separate little rooms opened upon a magnificent prospect of wood and water, and that, the partition of their apartment consisting of a single plank-wall, with sundry knots knocked out, they were not only able to converse freely, but to peep at each other awkwardly--facts which they had not observed the night before, owing to sleepiness. "i say, tim," said bob, "you seem to have a jolly place in there." "first-rate," replied tim, "an' much the same as your own. i had a good squint at you before you awoke. isn't the place splendacious?" "yes, tim, it is. i've been lookin' about all the mornin' for adam an' eve, but can't see 'em nowhere." "what d'ee mean?" "why, that we've got into the garden of eden, to be sure." "oh! stoopid," returned tim, "don't you know that they was both banished from eden?" "so they was. i forgot that. well, it don't much matter, for there's a prettier girl than eve here. don't you see her? martha, i think they called her--down there by the summer-'ouse, feedin' the hanimals, or givin' 'em their names." "there you go again, you ignorant booby," said tim; "it wasn't eve as gave the beasts their names. it was adam." "an' wot's the difference, i should like to know? wasn't they both made _one_ flesh? however, i think little martha would have named 'em better if she'd bin there. what a funny little thing she is!" "funny!" returned tim, contemptuously; "she's a _trump_!" during the conversation both boys had washed and rubbed their faces till they absolutely shone like rosy apples. they also combed and brushed their hair to such an extent that each mass lay quite flat on its little head, and bade fair to become solid, for the guardian's loving counsels had not been forgotten, and they had a sensation of wishing to please him even although absent. presently the house, which had hitherto been very quiet, began suddenly to resound with the barking of a little dog and the noisy voice of a huge man. the former rushed about, saying "good-morning" as well as it could with tail and tongue to every one, including the household cat, which resented the familiarity with arched back and demoniacal glare. the latter stamped about on the wooden floors, and addressed similar salutations right and left in tones that would have suited the commander of an army. there was a sudden stoppage of the hurricane, and a pleasant female voice was heard. "i say, bob, that's the missus," whispered tim through a knot-hole. then there came another squall, which seemed to drive madly about all the echoes in the corridors above and in the cellars below. again the noise ceased, and there came up a sound like a wheezy squeak. "i say, tim, that's the old 'un," whispered bob through the knot-hole. bob was right, for immediately on the wheezy squeak ceasing, the hurricane burst forth in reply: "yes, mother, that's just what i shall do. you're always right. i never knew such an old thing for wise suggestions! i'll set both boys to milk the cows after breakfast. the sooner they learn the better, for our new girl has too much to do in the house to attend to that; besides, she's either clumsy or nervous, for she has twice overturned the milk-pail. but after all, i don't wonder, for that red cow has several times showed a desire to fling a hind-leg into the girl's face, and stick a horn in her gizzard. the boys won't mind that, you know. pity that martha's too small for the work; but she'll grow--she'll grow." "yes, she'll grow, franky," replied the old lady, with as knowing a look as if the richest of jokes had been cracked. the look was, of course, lost on the boys above, and so was the reply, because it reached them in the form of a wheezy squeak. "oh! i say! did you ever! milk the keows! on'y think!" whispered bob. "ay, an' won't i do it with my mouth open too, an' learn 'ow to send the stream up'ards!" said tim. their comments were cut short by the breakfast-bell; at the same time the hurricane again burst forth: "hallo! lads--boys! youngsters! are you up?--ah! here you are. good-morning, and as tidy as two pins. that's the way to get along in life. come now, sit down. where's martha? oh! here we are. sit beside me, little one." the hurricane suddenly fell to a gentle breeze, while part of a chapter of the bible and a short prayer were read. then it burst forth again with redoubled fury, checked only now and then by the unavoidable stuffing of the vent-hole. "you've slept well, dears, i hope?" said mrs merryboy, helping each of our waifs to a splendid fried fish. sitting there, partially awe-stricken by the novelty of their surroundings, they admitted that they had slept well. "get ready for work then," said mr merryboy, through a rather large mouthful. "no time to lose. eat--eat well--for there's lots to do. no idlers on brankly farm, i can tell you. and we don't let young folk lie abed till breakfast-time every day. we let you rest this morning, bob and tim, just by way of an extra refresher before beginning. here, tuck into the bread and butter, little man, it'll make you grow. more tea, susy," (to his wife). "why, mother, you're eating nothing--nothing at all. i declare you'll come to live on air at last." the old lady smiled benignly, as though rather tickled with that joke, and was understood by the boys to protest that she had eaten more than enough, though her squeak had not yet become intelligible to them. "if you do take to living on air, mother," said her daughter-in-law, "we shall have to boil it up with a bit of beef and butter to make it strong." mrs merryboy, senior, smiled again at this, though she had not heard a word of it. obviously she made no pretence of hearing, but took it as good on credit, for she immediately turned to her son, put her hand to her right ear, and asked what susy said. in thunderous tones the joke was repeated, and the old lady almost went into fits over it, insomuch that bob and tim regarded her with a spice of anxiety mingled with their amusement, while little martha looked at her in solemn wonder. twelve months' experience had done much to increase martha's love for the old lady, but it had done nothing to reduce her surprise; for martha, as yet, did not understand a joke. this, of itself, formed a subject of intense amusement to old mrs merryboy, who certainly made the most of circumstances, if ever woman did. "have some more fish, bob," said mrs merryboy, junior. bob accepted more, gratefully. so did tim, with alacrity. "what sort of a home had you in london, tim?" asked mrs merryboy. "well, ma'am, i hadn't no home at all." "no home at all, boy; what do you mean? you must have lived somewhere." "oh yes, ma'am, i always lived somewheres, but it wasn't nowheres in partikler. you see i'd neither father nor mother, an' though a good old 'ooman did take me in, she couldn't purvide a bed or blankets, an' her 'ome was stuffy, so i preferred to live in the streets, an' sleep of a night w'en i couldn't pay for a lodgin', in empty casks and under wegitable carts in covent garden market, or in empty sugar 'ogsheads. i liked the 'ogsheads best w'en i was 'ungry, an' that was most always, 'cause i could sometimes pick a little sugar that was left in the cracks an' 'oles, w'en they 'adn't bin cleaned out a'ready. also i slep' under railway-arches, and on door-steps. but sometimes i 'ad raither disturbed nights, 'cause the coppers wouldn't let a feller sleep in sitch places if they could 'elp it." "who are the `coppers?'" asked the good lady of the house, who listened in wonder to tim's narration. "the coppers, ma'am, the--the--pl'eece." "oh! the police?" "yes, ma'am." "where in the world did they expect you to sleep?" asked mrs merryboy with some indignation. "that's best known to themselves, ma'am," returned tim; "p'raps we might 'ave bin allowed to sleep on the thames, if we'd 'ad a mind to, or on the hatmosphere, but never 'avin' tried it on, i can't say." "did you lead the same sort of life, bob?" asked the farmer, who had by that time appeased his appetite. "pretty much so, sir," replied bobby, "though i wasn't quite so 'ard up as tim, havin' both a father and mother as well as a 'ome. but they was costly possessions, so i was forced to give 'em up." "what! you don't mean that you forsook them?" said mr merryboy with a touch of severity. "no, sir, but father forsook me and the rest of us, by gettin' into the stone jug--wery much agin' my earnest advice,--an' mother an' sister both thought it was best for me to come out here." the two waifs, being thus encouraged, came out with their experiences pretty freely, and made such a number of surprising revelations, that the worthy backwoodsman and his wife were lost in astonishment, to the obvious advantage of old mrs merryboy, who, regarding the varying expressions of face around her as the result of a series of excellent jokes, went into a state of chronic laughter of a mild type. "have some more bread and butter, and tea, bob and some more sausage," said mrs merryboy, under a sudden impulse. bob declined. yes, that london street-arab absolutely declined food! so did tim lumpy! "now, my lads, are you quite sure," said mr merryboy, "that you've had enough to eat?" they both protested, with some regret, that they had. "you couldn't eat another bite if you was to try, could you?" "vell, sir," said bob, with a spice of the `old country' insolence strong upon him, "there's no sayin' what might be accomplished with a heffort, but the consikences, you know, might be serious." the farmer received this with a thunderous guffaw, and, bidding the boys follow him, went out. he took them round the farm buildings, commenting on and explaining everything, showed them cattle and horses, pigs and poultry, barns and stables, and then asked them how they thought they'd like to work there. "uncommon!" was bobby frog's prompt reply, delivered with emphasis. "fust rate!" was tim lumpy's sympathetic sentiment. "well, then, the sooner we begin the better. d'you see that lot of cord-wood lying tumbled about in the yard, bob?" "yes, sir." "you go to work on it, then, and pile it up against that fence, same as you see this one done. an' let's see how neatly you'll do it. don't hurry. what we want in canada is not so much to see work done quickly as done well." taking tim to another part of the farm, he set him to remove a huge heap of stones with a barrow and shovel, and, leaving them, returned to the house. both boys set to work with a will. it was to them the beginning of life; they felt that, and were the more anxious to do well in consequence. remembering the farmer's caution, they did not hurry, but tim built a cone of stones with the care and artistic exactitude of an architect, while bobby piled his billets of wood with as much regard to symmetrical proportion as was possible in the circumstances. about noon they became hungry, but hunger was an old foe whom they had been well trained to defy, so they worked on utterly regardless of him. thereafter a welcome sound was heard--the dinner-bell! having been told to come in on hearing it, they left work at once, ran to the pump, washed themselves, and appeared in the dining-room looking hot, but bright and jovial, for nothing brightens the human countenance so much, (by gladdening the heart), as the consciousness of having performed duty well. from the first this worthy couple, who were childless, received the boys into their home as sons, and on all occasions treated them as such. martha mild, (her surname was derived from her character), had been similarly received and treated. "well, lads," said the farmer as they commenced the meal--which was a second edition of breakfast, tea included, but with more meat and vegetables--"how did you find the work? pretty hard--eh?" "oh! no, sir, nothink of the kind," said bobby, who was resolved to show a disposition to work like a man and think nothing of it. "ah, good. i'll find you some harder work after dinner." bobby blamed himself for having been so prompt in reply. "the end of this month, too, i'll have you both sent to school," continued the farmer with a look of hearty good-will, that tim thought would have harmonised better with a promise to give them jam-tart and cream. "it's vacation time just now, and the schoolmaster's away for a holiday. when he comes back you'll have to cultivate mind as well as soil, my boys, for i've come under an obligation to look after your education, and even if i hadn't, i'd do it to satisfy my own conscience." the _couleur-de-rose_ with which bob and tim had begun to invest their future faded perceptibly on hearing this. the viands, however, were so good that it did not disturb them very much. they ate away heartily, and in silence. little martha was not less diligent, for she had been busy all the morning in the dairy and kitchen, playing, rather than working, at domestic concerns, yet in her play doing much real work, and acquiring useful knowledge, as well as an appetite. after dinner the farmer rose at once. he was one of those who find it unnecessary either to drink or smoke after meals. indeed, strong drink and tobacco were unknown in his house, and, curiously enough, nobody seemed to be a whit the worse for their absence. there were some people, indeed, who even went the length of asserting that they were all the better for their absence! "now for the hard work i promised you, boys; come along." chapter twenty. occupations at brankly farm. the farmer led our two boys through a deliciously scented pine-wood at the rear of his house, to a valley which seemed to extend and widen out into a multitude of lesser valleys and clumps of woodland, where lakelets and rivulets and waterfalls glittered in the afternoon sun like shields and bands of burnished silver. taking a ball of twine from one of his capacious pockets, he gave it to bobby along with a small pocket-book. "have you got clasp-knives?" he asked. "yes, sir," said both boys, at once producing instruments which were very much the worse for wear. "very well, now, here is the work i want you to do for me this afternoon. d'you see the creek down in the hollow yonder--about half a mile off?" "yes, yes, sir." "well, go down there and cut two sticks about ten feet long each; tie strings to the small ends of them; fix hooks that you'll find in that pocket-book to the lines. the creek below the fall is swarming with fish; you'll find grasshoppers and worms enough for bait if you choose to look for 'em. go, and see what you can do." a reminiscence of ancient times induced bobby frog to say "walke-e-r!" to himself, but he had too much wisdom to say it aloud. he did, however, venture modestly to remark-- "i knows nothink about fishin', sir. never cotched so much as a eel in--" "when i give you orders, _obey_ them!" interrupted the farmer, in a tone and with a look that sent bobby and tim to the right-about double-quick. they did not even venture to look back until they reached the pool pointed out, and when they did look back mr merryboy had disappeared. "vell, i say," began bobby, but tim interrupted him with, "now, bob, you _must_ git off that 'abit you've got o' puttin' v's for double-u's. wasn't we told by the genl'm'n that gave us a partin' had-dress that we'd never git on in the noo world if we didn't mind our p's and q's? an' here you are as regardless of your v's as if they'd no connection wi' the alphabet." "pretty cove _you_ are, to find fault wi' _me_," retorted bob, "w'en you're far wuss wi' your haitches--a-droppin' of 'em w'en you shouldn't ought to, an' stickin' of 'em in where you oughtn't should to. go along an' cut your stick, as master told you." the sticks were cut, pieces of string were measured off, and hooks attached thereto. then grasshoppers were caught, impaled, and dropped into a pool. the immediate result was almost electrifying to lads who had never caught even a minnow before. bobby's hook had barely sunk when it was seized and run away with so forcibly as to draw a tremendous "hi! hallo!! ho!!! i've got 'im!!!" from the fisher. "hoy! hurroo!!" responded tim, "so've i!!!" both boys, blazing with excitement, held on. the fish, bursting, apparently, with even greater excitement, rushed off. "he'll smash my stick!" cried bob. "the twine's sure to go!" cried tim. "hold o-o-on!" this command was addressed to his fish, which leaped high out of the pool and went wriggling back with a heavy splash. it did not obey the order, but the hook did, which came to the same thing. "a ten-pounder if he's a' ounce," said tim. "you tell that to the horse--hi ho! stop that, will you?" but bobby's fish was what himself used to be--troublesome to deal with. it would not "stop that." it kept darting from side to side and leaping out of the water until, in one of its bursts, it got entangled with tim's fish, and the boys were obliged to haul them both ashore together. "splendid!" exclaimed bobby, as they unhooked two fine trout and laid them on a place of safety; "at 'em again!" at them they went, and soon had two more fish, but the disturbance created by these had the effect of frightening the others. at all events, at their third effort their patience was severely tried, for nothing came to their hooks to reward the intense gaze and the nervous readiness to act which marked each boy during the next half-hour or so. at the end of that time there came a change in their favour, for little martha mild appeared on the scene. she had been sent, she said, to work with them. "to play with us, you mean," suggested tim. "no, father said work," the child returned simply. "it's jolly work, then! but i say, old 'ooman, d'you call mr merryboy father?" asked bob in surprise. "yes, i've called him father ever since i came." "an' who's your real father?" "i have none. never had one." "an' your mother?" "never had a mother either." "well, you air a curiosity." "hallo! bob, don't forget your purliteness," said tim. "come, mumpy; father calls you mumpy, doesn't he?" "yes." "then so will i. well, mumpy, as i was goin' to say, you may come an' _work_ with my rod if you like, an' we'll make a game of it. we'll play at work. let me see where shall we be?" "in the garden of eden," suggested bob. "the very thing," said tim; "i'll be adam an' you'll be eve, mumpy." "very well," said martha with ready assent. she would have assented quite as readily to have personated jezebel or the witch of endor. "and i'll be cain," said bobby, moving his line in a manner that was meant to be persuasive. "oh!" said martha, with much diffidence, "cain was wicked, wasn't he?" "well, my dear eve," said tim, "bobby frog is wicked enough for half-a-dozen cains. in fact, you can't cane him enough to pay him off for all his wickedness." "bah! go to bed," said cain, still intent on his line, which seemed to quiver as if with a nibble. as for eve, being as innocent of pun-appreciation as her great original probably was, she looked at the two boys in pleased gravity. "hi! cain's got another bite," cried adam, while eve went into a state of gentle excitement, and fluttered near with an evidently strong desire to help in some way. "hallo! got 'im again!" shouted tim, as his rod bent to the water with jerky violence; "out o' the way, eve, else you'll get shoved into gihon." "euphrates, you stoopid!" said cain, turning his beehive training to account. having lost his fish, you see, he could afford to be critical while he fixed on another bait. but tim cared not for rivers or names just then, having hooked a "real wopper," which gave him some trouble to land. when landed, it proved to be the finest fish of the lot, much to eve's satisfaction, who sat down to watch the process when adam renewed the bait. now, bobby frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give tim a gentle push behind. for tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged. "tim," said bob. "adam, if you please--or call me father, if you prefer it!" "well, then, father, since i haven't got an abel to kill, i'm only too 'appy to have a adam to souse." saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off! eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. he quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor eve's inexpressible relief. "what d'ee mean by that, bob?" demanded tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion. "cain, if you please--or call me son, if you prefers it," cried bob, as he ran out of his friend's way; "but don't be waxy, father adam, with your own darlin' boy. i couldn't 'elp it. you'd ha' done just the same to me if you'd had the chance. come, shake 'ands on it." tim lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. he grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand. "i forgive you, cain, but please go an' look for abel an' pitch into _him_ w'en next you git into that state o' mind, for it's agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so." saying which, tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed. "wot a remarkable difference," said bobby, breaking a rather long silence of expectancy, as he glanced round on the splendid landscape which was all aglow with the descending sun, "'tween these 'ere diggin's an' commercial road, or george yard, or ratcliff 'ighway. ain't it, tim?" before tim could reply, mr merryboy came forward. "capital!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of the fish; "well done, lads, well done. we shall have a glorious supper to-night. now, mumpy, you run home and tell mother to have the big frying-pan ready. she'll want your help. ha!" he added, turning to the boys, as martha ran off with her wonted alacrity, "i thought you'd soon teach yourselves how to catch fish. it's not difficult here. and what do you think of martha, my boys?" "she's a trump!" said bobby, with decision. "fust rate!" said tim, bestowing his highest conception of praise. "quite true, lads; though why you should say `fust' instead of first-rate, tim, is more than i can understand. however, you'll get cured of such-like queer pronunciations in course of time. now, i want you to look on little mumpy as your sister, and she's a good deal of your sister too in reality, for she came out of that same great nest of good and bad, rich and poor--london. has she told you anything about herself yet?" "nothin', sir," answered bob, "'cept that when we axed--asked, i mean--i ax--ask your parding--she said she'd neither father nor mother." "ah! poor thing; that's too true. come, pick up your fish, and i'll tell you about her as we go along." the boys strung their fish on a couple of branches, and followed their new master home. "martha came to us only last year," said the farmer. "she's a little older than she looks, having been somewhat stunted in her growth, by bad treatment, i suppose, and starvation and cold in her infancy. no one knows who was her father or mother. she was `found' in the streets one day, when about three years of age, by a man who took her home, and made use of her by sending her to sell matches in public-houses. being small, very intelligent for her years, and attractively modest, she succeeded, i suppose, in her sales, and i doubt not the man would have continued to keep her, if he had not been taken ill and carried to hospital, where he died. of course the man's lodging was given up the day he left it. as the man had been a misanthrope--that's a hater of everybody, lads--nobody cared anything about him, or made inquiry after him. the consequence was, that poor martha was forgotten, strayed away into the streets, and got lost a second time. she was picked up this time by a widow lady in very reduced circumstances, who questioned her closely; but all that the poor little creature knew was that she didn't know where her home was, that she had no father or mother, and that her name was martha. "the widow took her home, made inquiries about her parentage in vain, and then adopted and began to train her, which accounts for her having so little of that slang and knowledge of london low life that you have so much of, you rascals! the lady gave the child the pet surname of mild, for it was so descriptive of her character. but poor martha was not destined to have this mother very long. after a few years she died, leaving not a sixpence or a rag behind her worth having. thus little mumpy was thrown a third time on the world, but god found a protector for her in a friend of the widow, who sent her to the refuge--the beehive as you call it--which has been such a blessing to you, my lads, and to so many like you, and along with her the pounds required to pay her passage and outfit to canada. they kept her for some time and trained her, and then, knowing that i wanted a little lass here, they sent her to me, for which i thank god, for she's a dear little child." the tone in which the last sentence was uttered told more than any words could have conveyed the feelings of the bluff farmer towards the little gem that had been dug out of the london mines and thus given to him. reader, they are prolific mines, those east-end mines of london! if you doubt it, go, hear and see for yourself. perhaps it were better advice to say, go and dig, or help the miners! need it be said that our waifs and strays grew and flourished in that rich canadian soil? it need not! one of the most curious consequences of the new connection was the powerful affection that sprang up between bobby frog and mrs merryboy, senior. it seemed as if that jovial old lady and our london waif had fallen in love with each other at first sight. perhaps the fact that the lady was intensely appreciative of fun, and the young gentleman wonderfully full of the same, had something to do with it. whatever the cause, these two were constantly flirting with each other, and bob often took the old lady out for little rambles in the wood behind the farm. there was a particular spot in the woods, near a waterfall, of which this curious couple were particularly fond, and to which they frequently resorted, and there, under the pleasant shade, with the roar of the fall for a symphony, bob poured out his hopes and fears, reminiscences and prospects into the willing ears of the little old lady, who was so very small that bob seemed quite a big man by contrast. he had to roar almost as loud as the cataract to make her hear, but he was well rewarded. the old lady, it is true, did not speak much, perhaps because she understood little, but she expressed enough of sympathy, by means of nods, and winks with her brilliant black eyes, and smiles with her toothless mouth, to satisfy any boy of moderate expectations. and bobby _was_ satisfied. so, also, were the other waifs and strays, not only with old granny, but with everything in and around their home in the new world. chapter twenty one. treats of altered circumstances and blue-ribbonism. once again we return to the great city, and to mrs frog's poor lodging. but it is not poor now, for the woman has at last got riches and joy-- such riches as the ungodly care not for, and a joy that they cannot understand. it is not all riches and joy, however. the master has told us that we shall have "much tribulation." what then? are we worse off than the unbelievers? do _they_ escape the tribulation? it is easy to prove that the christian has the advantage of the worldling, for, while both have worries and tribulation without fail, the one has a little joy along with these--nay, much joy if you choose--which, however, will end with life, if not before; while the other has joy unspeakable and full of glory, which will increase with years, and end in absolute felicity! let us look at mrs frog's room now, and listen to her as she sits on one side of a cheerful fire, sewing, while hetty sits on the other side, similarly occupied, and matty, _alias_ mita, lies in her crib sound asleep. it is the same room, the same london atmosphere, which no moral influence will ever purify, and pretty much the same surroundings, for mrs frog's outward circumstances have not altered much in a worldly point of view. the neighbours in the court are not less filthy and violent. one drunken nuisance has left the next room, but another almost as bad has taken his place. nevertheless, although not altered much, things are decidedly improved in the poor pitiful dwelling. whereas, in time past, it used to be dirty, now it is clean. the table is the same table, obviously, for you can see the crack across the top caused by ned's great fist on that occasion when, failing rather in force of argument while laying down the law, he sought to emphasise his remarks with an effective blow; but a craftsman has been at work on the table, and it is no longer rickety. the chair, too, on which mrs frog sits, is the same identical chair which missed the head of bobby frog that time he and his father differed in opinion on some trifling matter, and smashed a panel of the door; but the chair has been to see the doctor, and its constitution is stronger now. the other chair, on which hetty sits, is a distinct innovation. so is baby's crib. it has replaced the heap of straw which formerly sufficed, and there are two low bedsteads in corners which once were empty. besides all this there are numerous articles of varied shape and size glittering on the walls, such as sauce-pans and pot-lids, etcetera, which are made to do ornamental as well as useful duty, being polished to the highest possible degree of brilliancy. everywhere there is evidence of order and care, showing that the inmates of the room are somehow in better circumstances. let it not be supposed that this has been accomplished by charity. mrs samuel twitter is very charitable, undoubtedly. there can be no question as to that; but if she were a hundred times more charitable than she is, and were to give away a hundred thousand times more money than she does give, she could not greatly diminish the vast poverty of london. mrs twitter had done what she could in this case, but that was little, in a money point of view, for there were others who had stronger claims upon her than mrs frog. but mrs twitter had put her little finger under mrs frog's chin when her lips were about to go under water, and so, figuratively, she kept her from drowning. mrs twitter had put out a hand when mrs frog tripped and was about to tumble, and thus kept her from falling. when mrs frog, weary of life, was on the point of rushing once again to london bridge, with a purpose, mrs twitter caught the skirt of her ragged robe with a firm but kindly grasp and held her back, thus saving her from destruction; but, best of all, when the poor woman, under the influence of the spirit of god, ceased to strive with her maker and cried out earnestly, "what must i do to be saved?" mrs twitter grasped her with both hands and dragged her with tender violence towards the fold, but not quite into it. for mrs twitter was a wise, unselfish woman, as well as good. at a certain point she ceased to act, and said, "mrs frog, go to your own hetty, and she will tell you what to do." and mrs frog went, and hetty, with joyful surprise in her heart, and warm tears of gratitude in her eyes, pointed her to jesus the saviour of mankind. it was nothing new to the poor woman to be thus directed. it is nothing new to almost any one in a christian land to be pointed to christ; but it _is_ something new to many a one to have the eyes opened to see, and the will influenced to accept. it was so now with this poor, self-willed, and long-tried--or, rather, long-resisting--woman. the spirit's time had come, and she was made willing. but now she had to face the difficulties of the new life. conscience--never killed, and now revived--began to act. "i must work," she said, internally, and conscience nodded approval. "i must drink less," she said, but conscience shook her head. "it will be very hard, you see," she continued, apologetically, "for a poor woman like me to get through a hard day without just _one_ glass of beer to strengthen me." conscience did all her work by looks alone. she was naturally dumb, but she had a grand majestic countenance with great expressive eyes, and at the mention of _one_ glass of beer she frowned so that poor mrs frog almost trembled. at this point hetty stepped into the conversation. all unaware of what had been going on in her mother's mind, she said, suddenly, "mother, i'm going to a meeting to-night; will you come?" mrs frog was quite willing. in fact she had fairly given in and become biddable like a little child,--though, after all, that interesting creature does not always, or necessarily, convey the most perfect idea of obedience! it was a rough meeting, composed of rude elements, in a large but ungilded hall in whitechapel. the people were listening intently to a powerful speaker. the theme was strong drink. there were opponents and sympathisers there. "it is the greatest curse, i think, in london," said the speaker, as hetty and her mother entered. "bah!" exclaimed a powerful man beside whom they chanced to sit down. "i've drank a lot on't an' don't find it no curse, at all." "silence," cried some in the audience. "i tell 'ee it's all barn wot 'e's talkin'," said the powerful man. "put 'im out," cried some of the audience. but the powerful man had a powerful look, and a great bristly jaw, and a fierce pair of eyes which had often been blackened, and still bore the hues of the last fight; no one, therefore, attempted to put him out, so he snapped his fingers at the entire meeting, said, "bah!" again, with a look of contempt, and relapsed into silence, while the speaker, heedless of the slight interruption, went on. "why, it's a blue ribbon meeting, hetty," whispered mrs frog. "yes, mother," whispered hetty in reply, "that's one of its names, but its real title, i heard one gentleman say, is the gospel-temperance association, you see, they're very anxious to put the gospel first and temperance second; temperance bein' only one of the fruits of the gospel of jesus." the speaker went on in eloquent strains pleading the great cause--now drawing out the sympathies of his hearers, then appealing to their reason; sometimes relating incidents of deepest pathos, at other times convulsing the audience with touches of the broadest humour, insomuch that the man who said "bah!" modified his objections to "pooh!" and ere long came to that turning-point where silence is consent. in this condition he remained until reference was made by the speaker to a man-- not such a bad fellow too, when sober--who, under the influence of drink, had thrown his big shoe at his wife's head and cut it so badly that she was even then--while he was addressing them--lying in hospital hovering between life and death. "that's me!" cried the powerful man, jumping up in a state of great excitement mingled with indignation, while he towered head and shoulders above the audience, "though how _you_ come for to 'ear on't beats me holler. an' it shows 'ow lies git about, for she's _not_ gone to the hospital, an' it wasn't shoes at all, but boots i flung at 'er, an' they only just grazed 'er, thank goodness, an' sent the cat flyin' through the winder. so--" a burst of laughter with mingled applause and cheers cut off the end of the sentence and caused the powerful man to sit down in much confusion, quite puzzled what to think of it all. "my friend," said the speaker, when order had been restored, "you are mistaken. i did not refer to you at all, never having seen or heard of you before, but there are too many men like you--men who would be good men and true if they would only come to the saviour, who would soon convince them that it is wise to give up the drink and put on the blue ribbon. let it not be supposed, my friends, that i say it is the _duty_ of every one to put on the blue ribbon and become a total abstainer. there are circumstances in which a `little wine' may be advisable. why, the apostle paul himself, when timothy's stomach got into a chronic state of disease which subjected him, apparently, to `frequent infirmities,' advised him to take a `little wine,' but he didn't advise him to take many quarts of beer, or numerous glasses of brandy and water, or oceans of old tom, or to get daily fuddled on the poisons which are sold by many publicans under these names. still less did paul advise poor dyspeptic timothy to become his own medical man and prescribe all these medicines to himself, whenever he felt inclined for them. yes, there are the old and the feeble and the diseased, who may, (observe i don't say who _do_, for i am not a doctor, but who _may_), require stimulants under medical advice. to these we do not speak, and to these we would not grudge the small alleviation to their sad case which may be found in stimulants; but to the young and strong and healthy we are surely entitled to say, to plead, and to entreat--put on the blue ribbon if you see your way to it. and by the young we mean not only all boys and girls, but all men and women in the prime of life, ay, and beyond the prime, if in good health. surely you will all admit that the young require no stimulants. are they not superabounding in energy? do they not require the very opposite--sedatives, and do they not find these in constant and violent muscular exercise?" with many similar and other arguments did the speaker seek to influence the mass of human beings before him, taking advantage of every idea that cropped up and every incident in the meeting that occurred to enforce his advice--namely, total abstinence for the young and the healthy-- until he had stirred them up to a state of considerable enthusiasm. then he said:-- "i am glad to see you enthusiastic. nothing great can be done without enthusiasm. you may potter along the even tenor of your way without it, but you'll never come to much good, and you'll never accomplish great things, without it. what is enthusiasm? is it not seeing the length, breadth, height, depth, and bearing of a good thing, and being zealously affected in helping to bring it about? there are many kinds of enthusiasts, though but one quality of enthusiasm. weak people show their enthusiasm too much on the surface. powerful folk keep it too deep in their hearts to be seen at all. what then, are we to scout it in the impulsive because too obvious; to undervalue it in the reticent because almost invisible? nay, let us be thankful for it in any form, for the _thing_ is good, though the individual's manner of displaying it may be faulty. let us hope that the too gushing may learn to clap on the breaks a little--a very little; but far more let us pray that the reticent and the self-possessed, and the oh!--dear--no--you'll--never-- catch--me--doing--that--sort--of--thing people, may be enabled to get up more steam. better far in my estimation the wild enthusiast than the self-possessed and self-sufficient cynic. just look at your gentlemanly cynic; good-natured very likely, for he's mightily pleased with himself and excessively wise in regard to all things sublunary. why, even he has enthusiasm, though not always in a good cause. follow him to the races. watch him while he sees the sleek and beautiful creatures straining every muscle, and his own favourite drawing ahead, inch by inch, until it bids fair to win. is _that_ our cynic, bending forward on his steed, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheek, and partly open mouth and quick-coming breath, and so forgetful of himself that he swings off his hat and gives vent to a lusty cheer as the favourite passes the winning-post? "but follow him still further. don't let him go. hold on to his horse's tail till we see him safe into his club, and wait there till he has dined and gone to the opera. there he sits, immaculate in dress and bearing, in the stalls. it is a huge audience. a great star is to appear. the star comes on--music such as might cause the very angels to bend and listen. "the sweet singer exerts herself; her rich voice swells in volume and sweeps round the hall, filling every ear and thrilling every heart, until, unable to restrain themselves, the vast concourse rises _en masse_, and, with waving scarf and kerchief, thunders forth applause! and what of our cynic? there he is, the wildest of the wild--for he happens to love music--shouting like a maniac and waving his hat, regardless of the fact that he has broken the brim, and that the old gentleman whose corns he has trodden on frowns at him with savage indignation. "yes," continued the speaker, "the whole world is enthusiastic when the key-note of each individual, or class of individuals, is struck; and shall _we_ be ashamed of our enthusiasm for this little bit of heavenly blue, which symbolises the great fact that those who wear it are racing with the demon drink to save men and women, (ourselves included, perhaps), from his clutches; racing with despair to place hope before the eyes of those who are blindly rushing to destruction; racing with time to snatch the young out of the way of the destroyer before he lays hand on them; and singing--ay, shouting--songs of triumph and glory to god because of the tens of thousands of souls and bodies already saved; because of the bright prospect of the tens of thousands more to follow; because of the innumerable voices added to the celestial choir, and the glad assurance that the hymns of praise thus begun shall not die out with our feeble frames, but will grow stronger in sweetness as they diminish in volume, until, the river crossed, they shall burst forth again with indescribable intensity in the new song. "some people tell us that these things are not true. others say they won't last. my friends, i know, and many of you know, that they _are_ true, and even if they were _not_ to last, have we not even now ground for praise? shall we not rejoice that the lifeboat has saved some, because others have refused to embark and perished? but we don't admit that these things won't last. very likely, in the apostolic days, some of the unbelievers said of them and their creed, `how long will it last?' if these objectors be now able to take note of the world's doings, they have their answer from father time himself; for does he not say, `christianity has lasted nearly nineteen hundred years, and is the strongest moral motive-power in the world to-day?' the blue ribbon, my friends, or what it represents, is founded on christianity; therefore the principles which it represents are sure to stand. who will come now and put it on?" "i will!" shouted a strong voice from among the audience, and up rose the powerful man who began the evening with "bah!" and "pooh!" he soon made his way to the platform amid uproarious cheering, and donned the blue. "hetty," whispered mrs frog in a low, timid voice, "i think i would like to put it on too." if the voice had been much lower and more timid, hetty would have heard it, for she sat there watching for her mother as one might watch for a parent in the crisis of a dread disease. she knew that no power on earth can change the will, and she had waited and prayed till the arrow was sent home by the hand of god. "come along, mother," she said--but said no more, for her heart was too full. mrs frog was led to the platform, to which multitudes of men, women, and children were pressing, and the little badge was pinned to her breast. thus did that poor woman begin her christian course with the fruit of self-denial. she then set about the work of putting her house in order. it was up-hill work at first, and very hard, but the promise did not fail her, "lo! i am with you alway." in all her walk she found hetty a guardian angel. "i must work, hetty, dear," she said, "for it will never do to make you support us all; but what am i to do with baby? there is no one to take charge of her when i go out." "i am quite able to keep the whole of us, mother, seeing that i get such good pay from the lady i work for, but as you want to work, i can easily manage for baby. you know i've often wished to speak of the infant nursery in george yard. before you sent matty away i wanted you to send her there, but--" hetty paused. "go on, dear. i was mad agin' you an' your religious ways; wasn't that it?" said mrs frog. "well, mother, it don't matter now, thank god. the infant nursery, you know, is a part of the institution there. the hearts of the people who manage it were touched by the death of so many thousands of little ones every year in london through want and neglect, so they set up this nursery to enable poor widowed mothers and others to send their babies to be cared for--nursed, fed, and amused in nice airy rooms--while the mothers are at work. they charge only fourpence a day for this, and each baby has its own bag of clothing, brush and comb, towel and cot. they will keep matty from half-past seven in the morning till eight at night for you, so that will give you plenty of time to work, won't it, mother?" "it will indeed, hetty, and all for fourpence a day, say you?" "yes, the ordinary charge is fourpence, but widows get it for twopence for each child, and, perhaps, they may regard a deserted wife as a widow! there is a fine of twopence per hour for any child not taken away after eight, so you'll have to be up to time, mother." mrs frog acted on this advice, and thus was enabled to earn a sufficiency to enable her to pay her daily rent, to clothe and feed herself and child, to give a little to the various missions undertaken by the institutions near her, to put a little now and then into the farthing bank, and even to give a little in charity to the poor! now, reader, you may have forgotten it, but if you turn back to near the beginning of this chapter, you will perceive that all we have been writing about is a huge digression, for which we refuse to make the usual apology. we return again to mrs frog where we left her, sitting beside her cheerful fire, sewing and conversing with hetty. "i can't bear to think of 'im, hetty," said mrs frog. "you an' me sittin' here so comfortable, with as much to eat as we want, an' to spare, while your poor father is in a cold cell. he's bin pretty bad to me of late, it's true, wi' that drink, but he wasn't always like that, hetty; even you can remember him before he took to the drink." "yes, mother, i can, and, bless the lord, he may yet be better than he ever was. when is his time up?" "this day three weeks. the twelve months will be out then. we must pray for 'im, hetty." "yes, mother. i am always prayin' for him. you know that." there was a touch of anxiety in the tones and faces of both mother and daughter as they talked of the father, for his home-coming might, perhaps, nay probably would, be attended with serious consequences to the renovated household. they soon changed the subject to one more agreeable. "isn't bobby's letter a nice one, mother?" said hetty, "and so well written, though the spellin' might have been better; but then he's had so little schoolin'." "it just makes my heart sing," returned mrs frog. "read it again to me, hetty. i'll never tire o' hearin' it. i only wish it was longer." the poor mother's wish was not unnatural, for the letter which bobby had written was not calculated to tax the reader's patience, and, as hetty hinted, there was room for improvement, not only in the spelling but in the writing. nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's heart. we shall therefore give it _verbatim et literatim_. brankly farm--kanada. "deer mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. o you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for kensintn gardings--wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals--wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my--ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus--all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun bobby." "isn't it beautiful?" said mrs frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband's return. "yes, mother. bless the people that sent 'im out to canada," said hetty, "for he would never have got on here." there came a tap to the door as she spoke, and mrs twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome. "i came, mrs frog," she said, accepting the chair--for there was even a third chair--which hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will be home again." good mrs twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's feelings by needless reference to jail. "i expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied mrs frog. "that will do nicely," returned mrs twitter. "you see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con--in getting men like ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of--of getting on in life, you understand?" "_yes_, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life," said mrs frog, sadly. "well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman--the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, mrs frog--which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as i happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the yard, to the mothers' meeting, i thought i'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send ned to me the moment he comes home." "i will, ma'am, and god bless you for thinkin' of us so much." "remember, now," said mrs twitter, impressively, "_before_ he has time to meet any of his old comrades. tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. i won't tell you what. that is my message to him. and now, how is my mita? oh! i need not ask. there she lies like a little angel!" (mrs twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "i wish i saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, mrs frog." mrs frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. she was thankful, however, to the good lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages. "ah!" sighed mrs twitter, "if we could only transport you all to canada--" "oh! ma'am," exclaimed mrs frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had _such_ a nice letter from our bobby. let her see it, hetty." "yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't quite understand yet the need for capital letters." "never mind, hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned mrs twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short." "yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said mrs frog, indulging in a truism. mrs twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint mrs frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. she sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which canada had received since it was discovered. "now, mind, send ned up _at once_," said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room. "yes, mrs twitter, i will; good-night." chapter twenty two. ned frog's experiences and sammy twitter's woes. but ned frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time. when discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her. it may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with ned of expressing his feelings. a growl was more common and more natural, considering his character. drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do. as he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. to become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. the saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. as he turned into commercial street, ned met number full in the face. he knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. guilty men usually over-reach themselves. giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front. in a retired spot ned examined his "find." it contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of mrs samuel twitter, written in ink and without any address. "you're in luck, ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. "now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere mrs s.t. lives, so you can't find 'er to return it to 'er. besides, it's more than likely she won't feel the want of it--w'ereas i feels in want of it wery much indeed. of course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first place, i refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, i 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so i don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, i'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an' 'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly--'ere goes!" having thus cleared his conscience, ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer. almost immediately afterwards he met an irishman, an old friend. "terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand. "hooroo! ned frog, sure i thought ye was in limbo!" "you thought right, terry; only half-an-hour out. come along, i'll stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. by the way, have you done that job yet?" "what job?" "why, the dynamite job, of course." "no, i've gi'n that up," returned the irishman with a look of contempt. "to tell you the honest truth, i don't believe that the way to right ireland is to blow up england. but there's an englishman you'll find at the swan an' anchor--a sneakin' blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink--he'll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. i'm off it." notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. he met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him. it was hetty, praying. the poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound. it was the voice of little matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds. ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes. "no peace there," he said, sternly. "prayin' an' squallin' don't suit me, so good-night to 'ee all." with that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return! "is that you, ned frog?" inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed. "no, 'tain't," said ned, fiercely, as he left the court. he went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. paying the requisite fourpence for the night's lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. it was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong. next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. he went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of dean and flower street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to ned's new home. having paid a week's rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer. while thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes' conversation with him outside. "ned," he said, "i'm glad i fell in with you, for i'm uncommon 'ard up just now." "i never lends money," said ned, brusquely turning away. "'old on, ned, i don't want yer money, bless yer. i wants to _give_ you money." "oh! that's quite another story; fire away, old man." "well, you see, i'm 'ard up, as i said, for a man to keep order in my place. the last man i 'ad was a good 'un, 'e was. six futt one in 'is socks, an' as strong as a 'orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than 'im come in to the 'all, an' they 'ad a row, an' my man got sitch a lickin' that he 'ad to go to hospital, an' 'e's been there for a week, an' won't be out, they say, for a month or more. now, ned, will you take the job? the pay's good an' the fun's considerable. so's the fightin', sometimes, but you'd put a stop to that you know. an', then, you'll 'ave all the day to yourself to do as you like." "i'm your man," said ned, promptly. thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of london are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them. one night ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow--a sort of book-stall on wheels--who was pushing his way through the crowded street. it was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with "bah!" and "pooh!" and had ended by putting on the blue ribbon. he had once been a comrade of ned frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him. "hallo! reggie north, can that be you?" north let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, "how are 'ee, old man? w'y you're lookin' well, close cropped an' comfortable, eh! livin' at her majesty's expense lately? where d'ee live now, ned? i'd like to come and see you." ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode. "but i say, north, how respectable you are! what's come over you? not become a travellin' bookseller, have you?" "that's just what i am, ned." "well, there's no accountin' for taste. i hope it pays." "ay, pays splendidly--pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better." "how's that?" asked ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; "oh! i see, bibles." "yes, ned, bibles, the word of god. will you buy one?" "no, thank 'ee," said ned, drily. "here, i'll make you a present o' one, then," returned north, thrusting a bible into the other's hand; "you can't refuse it of an old comrade. good-night. i'll look in on you soon." "you needn't trouble yourself," ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the bible after him, but checked himself. it was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way. the hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests! we do not mean to describe the proceedings. let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said-- "signor twittorini will now sing." the signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. there was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all _so natural_, as one half-tipsy woman remarked. so it was--intensely natural--for signor twittorini was no other than poor sammy twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk--as much with misery as with beer. the manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. as poor sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great italian singer in low society. but sammy had over-rated his own powers. after the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. when it had partially subsided, sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage. this was the climax! it brought down the house! never before had they seen such an actor. he was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an _encore_ with tremendous fervour, expecting that signor twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. but poor sammy did not respond. "i see,--you can improvise," said the manager, quite pleased, "and i've no objection when it's well done like that; but you'd better go on now, and stick to the programme." "i can't sing," said sammy, in passionate despair. "come, come, young feller, i don't like actin' _off_ the stage, an' the audience is gittin' impatient." "but i tell you i can't sing a note," repeated sam. "what! d'ye mean to tell me you're not actin'?" "i wish i was!" cried poor sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands. "come now. you've joked enough. go on and do your part," said the puzzled manager. "but i tell you i'm _not_ joking. i couldn't sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!" it might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated--we know not--but the truth of what sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at sam's throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept. the manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that signor twittorini had met with a sudden disaster--not a very serious one-- which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening. this, with a very significant look and gesture from ned frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly. ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. he did so by the back door, and found sam still sitting on the door-step. "what's the matter with ye, youngster?" he said, going up to him. "you've made a pretty mess of it to-night." "i couldn't help it--indeed i couldn't. perhaps i'll do better next time." "better! ha! ha! you couldn't ha' done better--if you'd on'y gone on. but why do ye sit there?" "because i've nowhere to go to." "there's plenty o' common lodgin'-'ouses, ain't there?" "yes, but i haven't got a single rap." "well, then, ain't there the casual ward? why don't you go there? you'll git bed and board for nothin' there." having put this question, and received no answer, ned turned away without further remark. hardened though ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. he turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but signor twittorini was gone. he had heard the manager's voice, and fled. a policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level. here he knocked with trembling hand. he was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread--quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses--so dead was the silence--each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. one of the trestles was empty. he was told he might appropriate it. "are they dead?" he asked, looking round with a shudder. "not quite," replied his jailer, with a short laugh, "but dead-beat most of 'em--tired out, i should say, and disinclined to move." sam twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again. in the morning sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation. so he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in london--depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow! aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so. some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in ned frog's voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist's coming out. he followed him a short way, and then running forward, said-- "oh, sir! i'm very low!" "hallo! signor twittorini again!" said ned, wheeling round, sternly. "what have i to do with your being low? i've been low enough myself at times, an' nobody helped--" ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false. "i think i'm dying," said sam, leaning against a house for support. "well, if you do die, you'll be well out of it all," replied ned, bitterly. "what's your name?" "twitter," replied sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name. "twitter--twitter. i've heard that name before. why, yes. father's name samuel--eh? mother alive--got cards with mrs samuel twitter on 'em, an' no address?" "yes--yes. how do you come to know?" asked sam in surprise. "never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi' me. i've got a sort o' right to feed you. ha! ha! come along." sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless. in a few minutes he was in ned's garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction. "have some beer!" said ned, filling a pewter pot. "no--no--no--no!" said sam, shuddering as he turned his head away. "well, youngster," returned ned, with a slight look of surprise, "please yourself, and here's your health." he drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade sam lie down and rest. the miserable boy was only too glad to do so. he flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the "sweet restorer" embraced him was the huge form of ned frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth. chapter twenty three. hopes revive. mr thomas balls, butler to sir richard brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants' hall, delivered himself of the opinion that "things was comin' to a wonderful pass when sir richard brandon would condescend to go visitin' of a low family in whitechapel." "but the family is no more low than you are, mr balls," objected jessie summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal. "of course not, my dear," replied balls, with a paternal smile. "i did not for a moment mean that mr samuel twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. sir richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an' he 'as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. whether he's right or whether he's wrong ain't for me to say. i merely remark that, things being as they are, the master 'as come to a wonderful pass." "it's all along of miss diana," said mrs screwbury. "that dear child 'as taken the firm belief into her pretty 'ead that all people are equal in the sight of their maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist sir richard round her little finger, and she's taken a great fancy to that twitter family ever since she's been introduced to them at that 'ome of industry by mr welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. and mrs twitter goes about the 'ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she's grown quite fond of her." "but we _ain't_ all equal, mrs screwbury," said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, "an' nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it." "quite right, cook," said balls. "for instance, no one would ever admit that i was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to mrs screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with jessie summers as a 'ouse-maid, or that i was equal to sir richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. no, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and i fear that when death comes, he's not very particular as to who it is he's cuttin' down when he's got the order." a ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. "that's for the cab," remarked mr balls as he went out. now, while these things were taking place at the "west-end," in the "east-end" the twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves--that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. for the cloud that sammy's disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed. since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. on the contrary, sammy was never out of his parents' thoughts. they prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. they also took every possible step to discover their boy's retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting sammy up: but all in vain. it must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced mrs twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. she did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at george yard and at commercial street. at the twitter social board--which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned--sat not only mr and mrs twitter and all the little twitters, but also mrs loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and mrs larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and mr crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and mr stickler, who was oracular. thus the small table was full. "mariar, my dear," said mr twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, "we must just take things as we find 'em. the world is not goin' to change its course on purpose to please _us_. things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether." "you're right, mr twitter. i always said so," remarked mrs loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. "if we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we'd have to--have to--" "succumb to it," suggested mrs larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles. "no, mrs larrabel, i never succumb--from principle i never do so. the last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. i would bow to it." "quite right, ma'am, quite right," said stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; "to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, i ask you, would be the result?" as mrs loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage. these remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of crackaby and excite the mental energies of twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend crackaby felt for him sincerely. thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument--which was not always the case. poor twitter! he was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire--his house having been uninsured--but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. a few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child's bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. mr twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. he had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. mr twitter was not absolutely ruined. he had only "got into difficulties." but this was a small matter in his and his good wife's eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved sammy. he had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, "_so_ sensitive." it never occurred to mrs twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace. "you have not yet advertised, i think?" said crackaby. "no, not yet," answered twitter; "we cannot bear to publish it. but we have set several detectives on his track. in fact we expect one of them this very evening; and i shouldn't wonder if that was him," he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door. "please, ma'am," said the domestic, "mr welland's at the door with another gentleman. 'e says 'e won't come in--'e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment." "oh! bid 'em come in, bid 'em come in," said mrs twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small. another moment, and stephen welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with sir richard brandon, on their way to the beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of sam. "come in, and welcome, _do_," said mrs twitter to sir richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the beehive meetings by that time. "and miss diana, too! i'm _so_ glad you've brought her. sit down, dear. not so near the door. to be sure there ain't much room anywhere else, but--get out of the way, stickler." the black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and di was accommodated with his chair. stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. if a lamp-post had been knighted stickler would have bowed down to it. if an ass had been what he styled "barrow-knighted," he would have lain down and let it walk over him--perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick--certainly would not have resented one. "allow me, sir richard," he said, with some reference to the knight's hat. "hush, stickler!" said mrs twitter. the black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard. "your stick, sir richard," said stickler, "permit--" "hold your tongue, stickler," said mrs twitter. the black sheep held his tongue--between his teeth,--and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching mrs twitter's head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity. sir richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the city missionary, john seaward, came in. he evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting. "you are heartily welcome. come in," said mrs twitter, looking about for a chair, "come, sit beside me, mr seaward, on the stool. you'll not object to a humble seat, i know." "i am afraid," said sir richard, "that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests." "oh! dear, no, sir, i love unexpected guests--the more unexpected the more i--molly, dear," (to her eldest girl), "take all the children up-stairs." mrs twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time. "but what of sam?" asked young welland in a low tone; "any news yet?" "none," said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck. "dear, darling child," said mrs twitter, returning the embrace with interest. "but i have brought you news," said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush. "news!" echoed twitter with sudden vehemence. "oh! mr seaward," exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale. "yes," continued seaward; "as all here seem to be friends, i may tell you that sam has been heard of at last. he has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over sam will be for good instead of evil." an expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known. at this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was mrs twitter that it must be sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of number . "i--i--beg your pardon, mr scott, i thought that--" "no harm done, ma'am," said giles. "may i come in?" "certainly, and most welcome." when the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. but they did not! probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion. "you have found him!" exclaimed mrs twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in giles's calm countenance with tearful eyes. "yes, ma'am, i am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. i have just left him." "and does he know you have come here? is he expecting us?" asked the poor woman breathlessly. "oh! dear, no, ma'am, i rather think that if he knew i had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me." "how d'you know he's not willing?" demanded mr twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for sammy. "because i heard him say so, sir. i went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of north, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. i knew north well, and recognised your son at once. north seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return," ("bless him! bless him!" from mrs twitter), "for i heard him say as i passed--`oh! no, no, no, i can _never_ return home!'" "where is he? take me to him at once. my bonnet and shawl, molly!" "pardon me, ma'am," said giles. "it is not a very fit place for a lady--though there are _some_ ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it--" "yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place," interposed twitter. "come, it is _my_ duty to go to this place. can you lead me to it, mr scott?" "oh! and i should like to go too--so much, so _very_ much!" it was little di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous. "pardon me, sir richard," said mr seaward, "this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where mr scott says poor sam is staying. if you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell sam that some one wishes to see him." "your plan is pretty good, but i will arrange my plans myself," said mr twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. "go and do your own part, mr seaward. give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave sammy to me. i will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. are you ready?" "quite ready," said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man's sudden display of resolution. mrs twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. sir richard agreed to go and take di with him, if giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call. "you see," he said, "i have been in similar places before now, but--not with my little child!" as for loper, larrabel, crackaby, stickler, and company--feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,--they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned. it was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that sam twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by number . that day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. one penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. with the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself. on his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole. "hallo! young feller," exclaimed the man, "you're the chap that was livin' wi' ned frog the night i called to see 'im--eh! sam twitter, ain't you?" "yes," said young sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. "yes, i am. t-twitter _is_ my name. you're the man that gave him the bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin' to speak to him about his soul?" "the same, young feller. that's me, an' reggie north is my name. he'd 'ave 'ad some trouble to turn me out _once_, though, but i've given up quarrellin' and fightin' now, havin' enlisted under the banner of the prince of peace," replied the man, who was none other than our bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech--"bah!" and "pooh!" at the gospel-temperance meeting. "where are you going?" sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound. "well, i'm going there too, so come along." sam could not choose but go with the man. he would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off. entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and north, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered sam half. several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, north and his friend sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal. "what made you leave ned?" asked north. "how did you know i'd left him?" "why, because if you was still with him you wouldn't be here!" this was so obvious that sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile. "i left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and i've got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that i can't resist it, so i came away. and there's no chance of any one offering me beer in this place." "not much," said north, with a grin. "but, young feller," (and there was something earnestly kind in the man's manner here), "if you feel an _awful_ desire for drink, you'd better put on this." he touched his bit of blue ribbon. "no use," returned sam, sorrowfully, "i once put it on, and--and--i've broke the pledge." "that's bad, no doubt; but what then?" returned north; "are we never to tell the truth any more 'cause once we told a lie? are we never to give up swearin' 'cause once we uttered a curse? the lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. why, sin is the very thing he saves us from--if we'll only come to him." sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. reggie north listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. the words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. the speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. he was discoursing on poverty and its causes. "it is nothing more nor less," he said, with emphasis, "than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty." "hear! hear!" cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence. "what right," asked the man, somewhat indignantly, "what right has sir crossly cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that 'e don't know what to do with, when we're starvin'?" (hear!) "he didn't earn these millions; they was left to 'im by his father, an' _he_ didn't earn 'em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an' back to the time of the robber who came over with william--the greatest robber of all--an' stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers." (hear! hear!) "an' what right has lord lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he's got?" (`ha! you may say that!' from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) "what right has he, i say, to his lands? the ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. my friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. what right have they, i ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? if i had my way," (_hear_! hear! and a laugh), "i would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as i see before me--such as this poor fellow," (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said `just so' feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). "do i not speak the truth?" he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him. "well, mister, i ain't just quite clear about that," said reggie north, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. there was an immediate and complete silence, for north had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. "i'm not a learned man, you see, an' hain't studied the subjec', but isn't there a line in the bible which says, `blessed are they that consider the poor?' now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an' no rich to consider 'em!" there was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but north checked him with-- "'old on, sir, i ain't done yet. you said that sir cowley cross--" "crossly cowel," cried his opponent, correcting. "i ax your pardon; sir crossly cowel--that 'e 'ad no right to 'is millions, 'cause 'e didn't earn 'em, and because 'is father left 'em to 'im. now, i 'ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing--but of coorse that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment--an' she was left a fi' pun note by 'er father as 'ad a game leg--though that's nothin' to do wi' the argiment neither. now, what puzzles me is, that if sir cow--cross--" a great shout of laughter interrupted north here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer. "what puzzles me is," continued north, "that if sir crossly cowel 'as no right to 'is millions, my old grandmother 'ad no right to 'er fi' pun note!" ("hear, hear," and applause.) "i don't know nothin' about that there big thief willum you mentioned, nor yet lord lorrumdoddy, not bein' 'ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in 'is principles--" "of course i does," said the social reformer indignantly. "well, then," resumed north, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, "do you see that man? if you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. what right have you to two coats when he has none?" the reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity. to give his argument more force, reggie north took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up. "see here, mates, when i came to this house i said to myself, `the lord 'as given me success to-day in sellin' his word,'--you know, some of you, that i'm a seller of bibles and testaments?" "ay, ay, old boy. _we_ know you," said several voices. "and i wasn't always that," added north. "_that's_ true, anyhow," said a voice with a laugh. "well. for what i was, i might thank drink and a sinful heart. for what i am i thank the lord. but, as i was goin' to say, i came here intendin' to give this sixpence--it ain't much, but it's all i can spare--to some poor feller in distress, for i practise what i preach, and i meant to do it in a quiet way. but it seems to me that, seein' what's turned up, i'll do more good by givin' it in a public way--so, there it is, old man," and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes. the change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to sir crossly cowel, or lord lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity. the poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a "thank 'ee," to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by north. "stop, stop, my fine fellow! not quite so fast. if you'll wait till i've finished my little business here, i'll take you to where you'll get some warm grub for nothin', and maybe an old coat too." encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while north and sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted. "the first thing you must do, my boy," said north, kindly, "is to return to your father's 'ouse; an' that advice cuts two ways--'eaven-ward an' earth-ward." "oh! no, no, _no_, i can never return home," replied sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father. it was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of number , who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the twitter family. chapter twenty four. the returning prodigal. for a considerable time the bible-seller plied sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them. they were followed by one of the ladies of the beehive, who devote all their time--and, may we not add, all their hearts--to the rescue of the perishing. along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. she was our friend hetty frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns. after her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. they greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of sir richard brandon followed seaward. "a bloated haristocrat!" growled one of the men. "got a smart little darter, anyhow," remarked another, as di, holding tight to her father's hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm. for poor little di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything in _couleur de rose_, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. the reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. she had imagined sorrowful faces. had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. altogether poor little di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. in after years she reached one of the true heights--which was out of sight higher than the false one! there was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work--like the visit of di and her father. they were familiar with the east-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast. they carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine--in the person of hetty frog--sat down before it. simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang--"come to the saviour." the others joined--even sir richard brandon made an attempt to sing--as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. meanwhile, john seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. and so eloquent with nature's simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the twitters while the comforting gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around. but _we_ must not forget the twitters. they are our text and sermon just now! young sam twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. but his companion whispered him to wait a bit. soon his attention was riveted. while he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. he wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled--as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. the man's hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. on one of his fingers was a gold ring. this incongruity was lost on sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him. these things were not, however, lost on reggie north, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion. when, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. he naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. but great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand. again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it. a strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy's frame. he stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father! "sammy--dear, dear sammy," whispered the man, in a husky voice. but sammy could not reply. he was thunderstruck. neither could his father speak, for he was choking. but reggie north had heard enough. he was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation. "now then, old gen'lm'n," he whispered, "don't you go an' make a fuss, if you're wise. go out as quiet as you came in, an' leave this young 'un to me. it's all right. i'm on _your_ side." samuel twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man's manner, and the wisdom of his advice. letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. two minutes later, north and sammy followed. they found the old father outside, who again grasped his son's hand with the words, "sammy, my boy--dear sammy;" but he never got further than that. number was there too. "you'll find the cab at the end of the street, sir," he said, and next moment sammy found himself borne along--not unwillingly--by north and his father. a cab door was opened. a female form was seen with outstretched arms. "mother!" "sammy--darling--" the returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. mr twitter turned round. "thank you. god bless you, whoever you are," he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there. "no thanks to me, sir. look higher," said the bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. "now then, cabby, drive on." the cabby obeyed. having already received his instructions he did not drive home. where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. it was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to sammy opened the door. mrs twitter remained in the cab while sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. they were shown into what the boy must have considered--if he considered anything at all just then--a preposterously small room. the lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, "the bath is quite ready, sir." "now, sammy,--dear boy," said mr twitter, "off with your rags--and g-git into that b-bath." obviously mr twitter did not speak with ease. in truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath. "now then, sammy--look sharp! you didn't use--to--be--so--slow! eh?" "no, father. i suppose it--it--is want of habit. i haven't undressed much of late." this very nearly upset poor mr twitter. he made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress. "it--it's not too hot--eh?" "oh! no, father. it's--it's--v-very nice." "go at it with a will, sammy. head and all, my boy--down with it. and don't spare the soap. lots of soap here, sammy--no end of soap!" the truth of which mr twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream. "oh! hold on, father, it's getting into my eyes." "my boy--dear sammy--forgive me. i didn't quite know what i was doing. never mind. down you go again, sammy--head and all. that's it. now, that's enough; out you come." "oh! father," said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, "it's so good of you to forgive me so freely." "forgive you, my son! forgive! why, i'd--i'd--" he could say no more, but suddenly clasped sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent. unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself. "you dirty boy! what d'you mean by it?" "it's your own fault, daddy," replied sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel. a knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence. "please, sir," said a female voice, "the lady in the cab sends to say that she's gettin' impatient." "tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes," replied mr twitter with reckless hilarity. "yes, sir." "now, my boy, here's your toggery," said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle--"your best suit, sammy; the one you used to wear only on sundays, you extravagant fellow." sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. his father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by mrs twitter. he was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed. next morning early--before breakfast--mrs twitter assembled all the little twitters, and put them on chairs in a row--according to order, for mrs twitter's mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. they ranged from right to left thus:-- molly, willie, fred, lucy, and alice--with alice's doll on a doll's chair at the left flank of the line. "now children," said mrs twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large--in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with alice's doll. "now children, your dear brother sammy has come home." "oh! how nice! where has he been? what has he seen? why has he been away so long? how jolly!" were the various expressions with which the news was received. "silence." the stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. to say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild. "now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away--no notice at all." "are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?" asked little alice with a look of wonder. "dear child, you do not understand me. we are all charmed to see sammy back, and so thankful--so glad--that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to him _except_," (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), "_except_ ask him _where--he-- has--been_." "mayn't we ask him how he liked it, mamma?" said alice. "liked what, child?" "where he has been, mamma." "no, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back." fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that sammy had been _somewhere_ that was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, fred said nothing. "now, dolly," whispered little alice, bending down, "'member dat--you're so glad sammy's come back; mustn't say more--not a word more." "it is enough for you to know, my darlings," continued mrs twitter, "that sammy has been wandering and has come back." "listen, dolly, you hear? sammy's been wandering an' come back. dat's 'nuff for you." "you see, dears," continued mrs twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor sammy's feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, "you see, sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won't like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so i want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like--your lessons,--for instance, when he comes down." "before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?" asked alice, who was extremely conscientious. "darling child," exclaimed the perplexed mother, "you'll never take it in. what i want to impress on you is--" she stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of sammy himself was heard on the stair. "now, mind, children, not a word--not--a--word!" the almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek--pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction. fortunately for sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, alice began an elaborate account of her dolly's recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and lucy of her attempts to draw and paint. mr and mrs twitter contented themselves with gazing on sammy's somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them. thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father's house. chapter twenty five. canada again--and surprising news. it is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. we have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it--for it is a grand truism. let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of brankly in canada. lake ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. we can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. at the bottom of the hill lies brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of god. it is a good many years, reader, since you and i were last here. then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. but these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly. the fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. the plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. everything is improved--well, no, not everything. mr merryboy's legs have not improved. they will not move as actively as they were wont to do. they will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. but mr merryboy's spirit has improved--though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good! mrs merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but mrs merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. the few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was--especially when she speaks or smiles. the hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of canada. wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. she is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. it is quite clear, however, when you look into granny's coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created! but who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? two young men and a young girl. one young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. the other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. the girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft--just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, "my little pet!" why, these are two "waifs" and a "stray!" don't you know them? look again. is not the stout fellow our friend bobby frog, the slim one tim lumpy, and the girl martha mild? but who, in all london, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? nobody--except those good samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are. mr merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. as granny, mrs merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house. "something seems to be wrong with father this morning, i think," said mrs merryboy, junior, listening. granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled. "he's either unusually jolly or unusually savage--a little more tea, mother," said tim lumpy, pushing in his cup. tim, being father-and-motherless, called mr merryboy father and the wife mother. so did martha, but bobby frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder mrs merryboy granny. "something for good or evil must have happened," said bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer. at last the door flew open and the storm burst in. and we may remark that mr merryboy's stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din--not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places. "hallo! good people all, how are 'ee? morning--morning. boys, d'ee know that the saw-mill's come to grief?" "no, are you in earnest, father?" cried tim, jumping up. "in earnest! of course i am. pretty engineers you are. sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. don't know which, and what's more i don't care. come, martha, my bantam chicken, let's have a cup of tea. bother that stick, it can't keep its legs much better than myself. how are you, mother? glorious weather, isn't it?" mr merryboy ignored deafness. he continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him. and she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. after all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what bobby frog in his early days would have described in the words, "wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy?" but bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches--though he still had some trouble with his r's. as he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman's report. and, truly, when he and tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water's edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. the machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. the result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. the result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw! "h'm! that comes of haste," muttered bob, as he surveyed the wreck. "if i had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened." "never mind, bob, we must learn by experience, you know," said tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. "luckily, we have a spare saw in the store." "run and fetch it," said bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation. when he was gone bob and tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen. the first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame. "there," said bob, as he flung it down, "you won't use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, tim?" "plenty--more than we want." "well, you go to work on it while i fix up the new saw." to work the two went accordingly--adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house. "so soon!" exclaimed bob; "dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy." "d'ye think so, bob? well, now, i look on it as a great comfort-- specially when you're hungry." "ah! but that's because you are greedy, tim. you always were too fond o' your grub." "come, bob, no slang. you know that mother doesn't like it. by the way, talkin' of mothers, is it on wednesday or thursday that you expect _your_ mother?" "thursday, my boy," replied bob, with a bright look. "ha! that _will_ be a day for me!" "so it will, bob, i'm glad for your sake," returned tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. his friend at once understood its significance. "tim, my boy, i'm sorry for you. i wish i could split my mother in two and give you half of her." "yes," said tim, somewhat absently, "it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you." "but there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations," said bob, taking his friend's arm as they approached the house. "come along, come along, youngsters," shouted mr merryboy from the window, "the dinner's gettin' cold, and granny's gettin' in a passion. look sharp. if you knew what news i have for you you'd look sharper." "what news, sir?" asked bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly "groan" with viands--it was too strong for that--but which was heavily weighted therewith. "i won't tell you till after dinner--just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite." "but suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn't it?" said tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer's eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping. "well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for i won't tell you," said mr merryboy firmly. "it will do you good--eh! mother, won't a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times-- eh?" the old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room. "i knew you'd agree with me--ha! ha! you always do, mother," cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention. after dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when mr merryboy called them back. "what would you say, boys, to hear that sir richard brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in canada?" "i would think he'd gone mad, sir, or changed his nature," responded bob. "well, as to whether he's gone mad or not i can't tell--he may have changed his nature, who knows? that's not beyond the bounds of possibility. anyway, he is coming. i've got a letter from a friend of mine in london who says he read it in the papers. but perhaps you may learn more about it in _that_." he tossed a letter to bob, who eagerly seized it. "from sister hetty," he cried, and tore it open. the complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology. "dearest bob," it ran, "you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. i had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. sir richard has changed his mind! you know, in my last, i told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter--as well as mother and me, and matty. he is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn't merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. it's all owing to that sweet miss di, who comes so much about here that she's almost as well-known as giles scott the policeman, or our missionary. by the way, giles has been made an inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and--he's a wonderful man is giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he's old enough. he's big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. after all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is? "but i'm wandering, i always do wander, bob, when i write to you! well, as i was saying, sir richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with miss di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. he wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the lord jesus--and not ashamed to say so. as i had already taken our passages in the _amazon_ steamer--" "the _amazon_!" interrupted mr merryboy, with a shout, "why, that steamer has arrived already!" "so it has," said bob, becoming excited; "their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they'll be here immediately!" "perhaps to-night!" exclaimed mrs merryboy. "oh! _how_ nice!" murmured martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that hetty about whom she had heard so much. "impossible!" said tim lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. "they would never come on without dropping us a line from quebec, or montreal, to announce their arrival." "that's true, tim," said mr merryboy, "but you've not finished the letter, bob--go on. mother, mother, what a variety of faces you _are_ making!" this also was true, for old mrs merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses. "as i had already," continued bob, reading, "taken our passages in the _amazon_ steamer, sir richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear mr and mrs merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to brandon--which, i believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where sir richard means us all to go to. i don't know exactly where it is--and i don't know anybody who does, but that's no matter. enough for mother, and matty, and me to know that it's within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean! "you'll also be glad to hear that mr twitter with all his family is to join this band. it quite puts me in mind of the story of the pilgrim fathers, that i once heard in dear mr holland's meeting hall, long ago. i wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the beehive. wouldn't that be charming! but, then,--who would be left to look after london? no, it is better that they should remain at home. "poor mr twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. his boys and girls will be a great help to him in canada, instead of a burden as they have been in london--the younger ones i mean, of course, for molly, and sammy, and willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. i don't think mrs twitter quite likes it, and i'm sure she's almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving george yard. it is said that their friends mrs loper, mrs larrabel, stickler, and crackaby, want to join, but i rather think sir richard isn't very keen to have them. mr stephen welland is also coming. one of sir richard's friends, mr brisbane i think, got him a good situation in the mint-- that's where all the money is coined, you know--but, on hearing of this expedition to canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the mint--very unwillingly, however, i believe, for he wanted very much to go into the mint. now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for i'm in the middle of packing), hetty." now, while bob frog was in the act of putting hetty's letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door. he brought a telegram addressed to "mr robert frog." it was from montreal, and ran thus: "we have arrived, and leave this on tuesday forenoon." "why, they're almost here _now_," cried bob. "harness up, my boy, and off you go--not a moment to lose!" cried mr merryboy, as bob dashed out of the room. "take the bays, bob," he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, "and the biggest wagon. don't forget the rugs!" ten minutes later, and bob frog, with tim lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station. chapter twenty six. happy meetings. it was to the same railway station as that at which they had parted from their guardian and been handed over to mr merryboy years before that bobby frog now drove. the train was not due for half an hour. "tim," said bob after they had walked up and down the platform for about five minutes, "how slowly time seems to fly when one's in a hurry!" "doesn't it?" assented tim, "crawls like a snail." "tim," said bob, after ten minutes had elapsed, "what a difficult thing it is to wait patiently when one's anxious!" "isn't it!" assented tim, "so hard to keep from fretting and stamping." "tim," said bob, after twenty minutes had passed, "i wonder if the two or three dozen people on this platform are all as uncomfortably impatient as i am." "perhaps they are," said tim, "but certainly possessed of more power to restrain themselves." "tim," said bob, after the lapse of five-and-twenty minutes, "did you ever hear of such a long half-hour since you were born?" "never," replied the sympathetic tim, "except once long ago when i was starving, and stood for about that length of time in front of a confectioner's window till i nearly collapsed and had to run away at last for fear i should smash in the glass and feed." "tim, i'll take a look round and see that the bays are all right." "you've done that four times already, bob." "well, i'll do it five times, tim. there's luck, you know, in odd numbers." there was a sharpish curve on the line close to the station. while bob frog was away the train, being five minutes before its time, came thundering round the curve and rushed alongside the platform. bob ran back of course and stood vainly trying to see the people in each carriage as it went past. "oh! _what_ a sweet eager face!" exclaimed tim, gazing after a young girl who had thrust her head out of a first-class carriage. "let alone sweet faces, tim--this way. the third classes are all behind." by this time the train had stopped, and great was the commotion as friends and relatives met or said good-bye hurriedly, and bustled into and out of the carriages--commotion which was increased by the cheering of a fresh band of rescued waifs going to new homes in the west, and the hissing of the safety valve which took it into its head at that inconvenient moment to let off superfluous steam. some of the people rushing about on that platform and jostling each other would have been the better for safety valves! poor bobby frog was one of these. "not there!" he exclaimed despairingly, as he looked into the last carriage of the train. "impossible," said tim, "we've only missed them; walk back." they went back, looking eagerly into carriage after carriage--bob even glancing under the seats in a sort of wild hope that his mother might be hiding there, but no one resembling mrs frog was to be seen. a commotion at the front part of the train, more pronounced than the general hubbub, attracted their attention. "oh! where is he--where is he?" cried a female voice, which was followed up by the female herself, a respectable elderly woman, who went about the platform scattering people right and left in a fit of temporary insanity, "where is my bobby, where _is_ he, i say? oh! _why_ won't people git out o' my way? _git_ out o' the way," (shoving a sluggish man forcibly), "where are you, bobby? bo-o-o-o-o-by!" it was mrs frog! bob saw her, but did not move. his heart was in his throat! he _could_ not move. as he afterwards said, he was struck all of a heap, and could only stand and gaze with his hands clasped. "out o' the _way_, young man!" cried mrs frog, brushing indignantly past him, in one of her erratic bursts. "oh! bobby--where _has_ that boy gone to?" "mother!" gasped bob. "who said that?" cried mrs frog, turning round with a sharp look, as if prepared to retort "you're another" on the shortest notice. "mother!" again said bob, unclasping his hands and holding them out. mrs frog had hitherto, regardless of the well-known effect of time, kept staring at heads on the level which bobby's had reached when he left home. she now looked up with a startled expression. "can it--is it--oh! bo--" she got no further, but sprang forward and was caught and fervently clasped in the arms of her son. tim fluttered round them, blowing his nose violently though quite free from cold in the head--which complaint, indeed, is not common in those regions. hetty, who had lost her mother in the crowd, now ran forward with matty. bob saw them, let go his mother, and received one in each arm-- squeezing them both at once to his capacious bosom. mrs frog might have fallen, though that was not probable, but tim made sure of her by holding out a hand which the good woman grasped, and laid her head on his breast, quite willing to make use of him as a convenient post to lean against, while she observed the meeting of the young people with a contented smile. tim observed that meeting too, but with very different feelings, for the "sweet eager face" that he had seen in the first-class carriage belonged to hetty! long-continued love to human souls had given to her face a sweetness--and sympathy with human spirits and bodies in the depths of poverty, sorrow, and deep despair had invested it with a pitiful tenderness and refinement--which one looks for more naturally among the innocent in the higher ranks of life. poor tim gazed unutterably, and his heart went on in such a way that even mrs frog's attention was arrested. looking up, she asked if he was took bad. "oh! dear no. by no means," said tim, quickly. "you're tremblin' so," she returned, "an' it ain't cold--but your colour's all right. i suppose it's the natur' o' you canadians. but only to think that my bobby," she added, quitting her leaning-post, and again seizing her son, "that my bobby should 'ave grow'd up, an' his poor mother knowed nothink about it! i can't believe my eyes--it ain't like bobby a bit, yet some'ow i _know_ it's 'im! why, you've grow'd into a gentleman, you 'ave." "and you have grown into a flatterer," said bob, with a laugh. "but come, mother, this way; i've brought the wagon for you. look after the luggage, tim--oh! i forgot. this is tim, hetty--tim lumpy. you remember, you used to see us playing together when we were city arabs." hetty looked at tim, and, remembering bobby's strong love for jesting, did not believe him. she smiled, however, and bowed to the tall good-looking youth, who seemed unaccountably shy and confused as he went off to look after the luggage. "here is the wagon; come along," said bob, leading his mother out of the station. "the waggin, boy; i don't see no waggin." "why, there, with the pair of bay horses." "you don't mean the carridge by the fence, do you?" "well, yes, only we call them wagons here." "an' you calls the 'osses _bay_ 'osses, do you?" "well now, _i_ would call 'em beautiful 'osses, but i suppose bay means the same thing here. you've got strange ways in canada." "yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as i hope you shall find out ere long. get in, now. take care! now then, hetty--come, matty. how difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling matty i left in london!" matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother. "do you drive, tim; i'll stay inside," said bob. in another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to brankly farm at the rate of ten miles an hour. need it be said that the amiable merryboys did not fail of their duty on that occasion? that hetty and matty took violently to brown-eyed martha at first sight, having heard all about her from bob long ago--as she of them; that mrs merryboy was, we may say, one glowing beam of hospitality; that mrs frog was, so to speak, one blazing personification of amazement, which threatened to become chronic--there was so much that was contrary to previous experience and she was so slow to take it in; that mr merryboy became noisier than ever, and that, what between his stick and his legs, to say nothing of his voice, he managed to create in one day hubbub enough to last ten families for a fortnight; that the domestics and the dogs were sympathetically joyful; that even the kitten gave unmistakeable evidences of unusual hilarity-- though some attributed the effect to surreptitiously-obtained cream; and, finally, that old granny became something like a chinese image in the matter of nodding and gazing and smirking and wrinkling, so that there seemed some danger of her terminating her career in a gush of universal philanthropy--need all this be said, we ask? we think not; therefore we won't say it. but it was not till bob frog got his mother all to himself, under the trees, near the waterfall, down by the river that drove the still unmended saw-mill, that they had real and satisfactory communion. it would have been interesting to have listened to these two--with memories and sympathies and feelings towards the saviour of sinners so closely intertwined, yet with knowledge and intellectual powers in many respects so far apart. but we may not intrude too closely. towards the end of their walk, bob touched on a subject which had been uppermost in the minds of both all the time, but from which they had shrunk equally, the one being afraid to ask, the other disinclined to tell. "mother," said bob, at last, "what about father?" "ah! bobby," replied mrs frog, beginning to weep, gently, "i know'd ye would come to that--you was always so fond of 'im, an' he was so fond o' you too, indeed--" "i know it, mother," interrupted bob, "but have you never heard of him?" "never. i might 'ave, p'r'aps, if he'd bin took an' tried under his own name, but you know he had so many aliases, an' the old 'ouse we used to live in we was obliged to quit, so p'r'aps he tried to find us and couldn't." "may god help him--dear father!" said the son in a low sad voice. "i'd never 'ave left 'im, bobby, if he 'adn't left me. you know that. an' if i thought he was alive and know'd w'ere he was, i'd go back to 'im yet, but--" the subject was dropped here, for the new mill came suddenly into view, and bob was glad to draw his mother's attention to it. "see, we were mending that just before we got the news you were so near us. come, i'll show it to you. tim lumpy and i made it all by ourselves, and i think you'll call it a first-class article. by the way, how came you to travel first-class?" "oh! that's all along of sir richard brandon. he's sitch a liberal gentleman, an' said that as it was by his advice we were goin' to canada, he would pay our expenses; and he's so grand that he never remembered there was any other class but first, when he took the tickets, an' when he was show'd what he'd done he laughed an' said he wouldn't alter it, an' we must go all the way first-class. he's a strange man, but a good 'un!" by this time they had reached the platform of the damaged saw-mill, and bob pointed out, with elaborate care, the details of the mill in all its minute particulars, commenting specially on the fact that most of the telling improvements on it were due to the fertile brain and inventive genius of tim lumpy. he also explained the different kinds of saws--the ripping saw, and the cross-cut saw, and the circular saw, and the eccentric saw--just as if his mother were an embryo mill-wright, for he _felt_ that she took a deep interest in it all, and mrs frog listened with the profound attention of a civil engineer, and remarked on everything with such comments as--oh! indeed! ah! well now! ain't it wonderful? amazin'! an' you made it all too! oh! bobby!--and other more or less appropriate phrases. on quitting the mill to return to the house they saw a couple of figures walking down another avenue, so absorbed in conversation that they did not at first observe bob and his mother, or take note of the fact that matty, being a bouncing girl, had gone after butterflies or some such child-alluring insects. it was tim lumpy and hetty frog. and no wonder that they were absorbed, for was not their conversation on subjects of the profoundest interest to both?--george yard, whitechapel, commercial street, spitalfields, and the sailor's home, and the rests, and all the other agencies for rescuing poor souls in monstrous london, and the teachers and school companions whom they had known there and never could forget! no wonder, we say, that these two were absorbed while comparing notes, and still less wonder that they were even more deeply absorbed when they got upon the theme of bobby frog--so much loved, nay, almost worshipped, by both. at last they observed mrs frog's scarlet shawl--which was very conspicuous--and her son, and tried to look unconscious, and wondered with quite needless surprise where matty could have gone to. bobby frog, being a sharp youth, noted these things, but made no comment to any one, for the air of canada had, somehow, invested this waif with wonderful delicacy of feeling. although bob and his mother left off talking of ned frog somewhat abruptly, as well as sorrowfully, it does not follow that we are bound to do the same. on the contrary, we now ask the reader to leave brankly farm rather abruptly, and return to london for the purpose of paying ned a visit. chapter twenty seven. a strange visit and its results. edward frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quantity), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. but in other respects he has not fallen off--nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected. when ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. he inquired for mrs frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,--and no one knew where she had gone. with a heavy heart ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. he thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings. "if i'd on'y put it all in the savin's bank," he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, "i'd 'ave bin well off to-day." an old comrade turned the corner at that moment. "what! ned frog!" he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. "well, this _is_ good luck. come along, old boy!" it was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. he went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to. he was "treated." he drank beer. other old friends came in. he drank gin. if good resolves had been coming up in his mind earlier in the day he forgot them now. if better feelings had been struggling for the mastery, he crushed them now. he got drunk. he became disorderly. he went into high street, whitechapel, with a view to do damage to somebody. he succeeded. he tumbled over a barrow, and damaged his own shins. he encountered number soon after, and, through his influence, passed the night in a police cell. after this ned gave up all thought of searching for his wife and family. "better let 'em alone," he growled to himself on being discharged from the police-office with a caution. but, as we have said or hinted elsewhere, ned was a man of iron will. he resolved to avoid the public-house, to drink in moderation, and to do his drinking at home. being as powerful and active as ever he had been, he soon managed, in the capacity of a common labourer, to scrape enough money together to enable him to retake his old garret, which chanced to be vacant. indeed its situation was so airy, and it was so undesirable, that it was almost always vacant. he bought a few cages and birds; found that the old manager of the low music-hall was still at work and ready to employ him, and thus fell very much into his old line of life. one night, as he was passing into his place of business--the music-hall--a man saw him and recognised him. this was a city missionary of the john seaward type, who chanced to be fishing for souls that night in these troubled waters. there are many such fishermen about, thank god, doing their grand work unostentatiously, and not only rescuing souls for eternity, but helping, more perhaps than even the best informed are aware of, to save london from tremendous evil. what it was in ned frog that attracted this man of god we know note but, after casting his lines for some hours in other places, he returned to the music-hall and loitered about the door. at a late hour its audience came pouring out with discordant cries and ribald laughter. soon ned appeared and took his way homeward. the missionary followed at a safe distance till he saw ned disappear through the doorway that led to his garret. then, running forward, he entered the dark passage and heard ned's heavy foot clanking on the stone steps as he mounted upwards. the sound became fainter, and the missionary, fearing lest he should fail to find the room in which his man dwelt--for there were many rooms in the old tenement--ran hastily up-stairs and paused to listen. the footsteps were still sounding above him, but louder now, because ned was mounting a wooden stair. a few seconds later a heavy door was banged, and all was quiet. the city missionary now groped his way upwards until he came to the highest landing, where in the thick darkness he saw a light under a door. with a feeling of uncertainty and a silent prayer for help he knocked gently. the door was opened at once by a middle-aged woman, whose outline only could be seen, her back being to the light. "is it here that the man lives who came up just now?" asked the missionary. "what man?" she replied, fiercely, "i know nothink about men, an' 'ave nothink to do with 'em. ned frog's the on'y man as ever comes 'ere, an' _he_ lives up there." she made a motion, as if pointing upwards somewhere, and banged the door in her visitor's face. "up there!" the missionary had reached the highest landing, and saw no other gleam of light anywhere. groping about, however, his hand struck against a ladder. all doubt as to the use of this was immediately banished, for a man's heavy tread was heard in the room above as he crossed it. mounting the ladder, the missionary, instead of coming to a higher landing as he had expected, thrust his hat against a trap-door in the roof. immediately he heard a savage human growl. evidently the man was in a bad humour, but the missionary knocked. "who's there?" demanded the man, fiercely, for his visitors were few, and these generally connected with the police force. "may i come in?" asked the missionary in a mild voice--not that he put the mildness on for the occasion. he was naturally mild--additionally so by grace. "oh! yes--you may come in," cried the man, lifting the trap-door. the visitor stepped into the room and was startled by ned letting fall the trap-door with a crash that shook the whole tenement. planting himself upon it, he rendered retreat impossible. it was a trying situation, for the man was in a savage humour, and evidently the worse for drink. but missionaries are bold men. "now," demanded ned, "what may _you_ want?" "i want your soul," replied his visitor, quietly. "you needn't trouble yourself, then, for the devil's got it already." "no--he has not got it _yet_, ned." "oh! you know me then?" "no. i never saw you till to-night, but i learned your name accidentally, and i'm anxious about your soul." "you don't know me," ned repeated, slowly, "you never saw me till to-night, yet you're anxious about my soul! what stuff are you talkin'! 'ow can that be?" "now, you have puzzled _me_," said the missionary. "i cannot tell how that can be, but it is no `stuff' i assure you. i think it probable, however, that your own experience may help you. didn't you once see a young girl whom you had never seen before, whom you didn't know, whom you had never even heard of, yet you became desperately anxious to win her?" ned instantly thought of a certain woman whom he had often abused and beaten, and whose heart he had probably broken. "yes," he said, "i did; but then i had falled in love wi' her at first sight, and you can't have falled in love wi' _me_, you know." ned grinned at this idea in spite of himself. "well, no," replied the missionary, "not exactly. you're not a very lovable object to look at just now. nevertheless, i _am_ anxious about your soul _at first sight_. i can't tell how it is, but so it is." "come, now," said ned, becoming suddenly stern. "i don't believe in your religion, or your bible, or your prayin' and psalm-singin'. i tell you plainly, i'm a infidel. but if you can say anything in favour o' your views, fire away; i'll listen, only don't let me have any o' your sing-songin' or whinin', else i'll kick you down the trap-door and down the stair an' up the court and out into the street--speak out, like a man." "i will speak as god the holy spirit shall enable me," returned the missionary, without the slightest change in tone or manner. "well, then, sit down," said ned, pointing to the only chair in the room, while he seated himself on the rickety table, which threatened to give way altogether, while the reckless man swung his right leg to and fro quite regardless of its complainings. "have you ever studied the bible?" asked the missionary, somewhat abruptly. "well, no, of course not. i'm not a parson, but i have read a bit here and there, an' it's all rubbish. i don't believe a word of it." "there's a part of it," returned the visitor, "which says that god maketh his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. do you not believe that?" "of course i do. a man can't help believin' that, for he sees it--it falls on houses, fields, birds and beasts as well." "then you _do_ believe a word of it?" "oh! come, you're a deal too sharp. you know what i mean." "no," said his visitor, quickly, "i don't quite know what you mean. one who professes to be an infidel professes more or less intelligent disbelief in the bible, yet you admit that you have never studied the book which you profess to disbelieve--much less, i suppose, have you studied the books which give us the evidences of its truth." "don't suppose, mr parson, or missioner, or whatever you are," said ned, "that you're goin' to floor me wi' your larnin'. i'm too old a bird for that. do you suppose that i'm bound to study everything on the face o' the earth like a lawyer before i'm entitled to say i don't believe it. if i see that a thing don't work well, that's enough for me to condemn it." "you're quite right there. i quite go with that line of reasoning. by their fruits shall ye know them. a man don't usually go to a thistle to find grapes. but let me ask you, ned, do you usually find that murderers, drunkards, burglars, thieves, and blackguards in general are students of the bible and given to prayer and psalm-singing?" "ha! ha! i should rather think not," said ned, much tickled by the supposition. "then," continued the other, "tell me, honestly, ned, do you find that people who read god's word and sing his praise and ask his blessing on all they do, are generally bad fathers, and mothers, and masters, and servants, and children, and that from their ranks come the worst people in society?" "now, look here, mr missioner," cried ned, leaping suddenly from the table, which overturned with a crash, "i'm one o' them fellers that's not to be floored by a puff o' wind. i can hold my own agin most men wi' fist or tongue. but i like fair-play in the ring or in argiment. i have _not_ studied this matter, as you say, an' so i won't speak on it. but i'll look into it, an' if you come back here this day three weeks i'll let you know what i think. you may trust me, for when i say a thing i mean it." "will you accept a testament, then," said the missionary, rising and pulling one out of his pocket. "no, i won't," said ned, "i've got one." the missionary looked surprised, and hesitated. "don't you believe me?" asked ned, angrily. "at first i did not," was the reply, "but now that i stand before your face and look in your eyes i _do_ believe you." ned gave a cynical laugh. "you're easy to gull," he said; "why, when it serves my purpose i can lie like a trooper." "i know that," returned the visitor, quietly, "but it serves your purpose to-night to speak the truth. i can see that. may i pray that god should guide you?" "yes, you may, but not here. i'll have no hypocritical goin' down on my knees till i see my way to it. if i don't see my way to it, i'll let you know when you come back this day three weeks." "well, i'll pray for you in my own room, ned frog." "you may do what you like in your own room. good-night." he lifted the trap-door as he spoke, and pointed downward. the missionary at once descended after a brief "good-night," and a pleasant nod. ned just gave him time to get his head out of the way when he let the trap fall with a clap like thunder, and then began to pace up and down his little room with his hands in his pockets and his chin on his breast. after a short time he went to a corner of the room where stood a small wooden box that contained the few articles of clothing which he possessed. from the bottom of this he fished up the new testament that had been given to him long ago by reggie north. drawing his chair to the table and the candle to his elbow, the returned convict opened the book, and there in his garret began for the first time to read in earnest the wonderful word of life! chapter twenty eight. the great change. punctual to the day and the hour, the missionary returned to ned's garret. much and earnestly had he prayed, in the meantime, that the man might be guided in his search after truth, and that to himself might be given words of wisdom which might have weight with him. but the missionary's words were not now required. god had spoken to the rough man by his own word. the holy spirit had carried conviction home. he had also revealed the saviour, and the man was converted before the missionary again saw him. reader, we present no fancy portrait to you. our fiction had its counterpart in actual life. ned frog, in essential points at least, represents a real man--though we have, doubtless, saddled on his broad shoulders a few unimportant matters, which perhaps did not belong to him. "i believe that this is god's word, my friend," he said, extending his hand, the moment the missionary entered, "and in proof of that i will now ask you to kneel with me and pray." you may be sure that the man of god complied gladly and with a full heart. we may not, however, trace here the after-course of this man in detail. for our purpose it will suffice to say that this was no mere flash in the pan. ned frog's character did not change. it only received a new direction and a new impulse. the vigorous energy and fearless determination with which he had in former days pursued sin and self-gratification had now been turned into channels of righteousness. very soon after finding jesus for himself, he began earnestly to desire the salvation of others, and, in a quiet humble way, began with the poor people in his own stair. but this could not satisfy him. he was too strong both in body and mind to be restrained, and soon took to open-air preaching. "i'm going to begin a mission," he said, one day, to the missionary who had brought him to the saviour. "there are many stout able fellows here who used to accept me as a leader in wickedness, and who will, perhaps, agree to follow me in a new walk. some of them have come to the lord already. i'm goin', sir, to get these to form a band of workers, and we'll take up a district." "good," said the missionary, "there's nothing like united action. what part of the district will you take up yourself, ned?" "the place where i stand, sir," he replied. "where i have sinned there will i preach to men the saviour of sinners." and he did preach, not with eloquence, perhaps, but with such fervour that many of his old comrades were touched deeply, and some were brought to christ and joined his "daniel band." moreover, ned kept to his own district and class. he did not assume that all rich church-goers are hypocrites, and that it was his duty to stand in conspicuous places and howl to them the message of salvation, in tones of rasping discord. no, it was noted by his mates, as particularly curious, that the voice of the man who could, when he chose, roar like a bull of bashan, had become soft and what we may style entreative in its tone. moreover, he did not try to imitate clerical errors. he did not get upon a deadly monotone while preaching, as so many do. he simply _spoke_ when he preached-- spoke loud, no doubt, but in a tone precisely similar to that in which, in former days, he would have seriously advised a brother burglar to adopt a certain course, or to carefully steer clear of another course, in order to gain his ends or to avoid falling into the hands of the police. thus men, when listening to him, came to believe that he was really speaking to them in earnest, and not "preaching!" oh! that young men who aim at the high privilege of proclaiming the "good news" would reflect on this latter point, and try to steer clear of that fatal rock on which the church--not the episcopal, presbyterian, or any other church, but the whole church militant--has been bumping so long to her own tremendous damage! one point which told powerfully with those whom ned sought to win was, that he went about endeavouring, as far as in him lay, to undo the evil that he had done. some of it could never be undone--he felt that bitterly. some could be remedied--he rejoiced in that and went about it with vigour. for instance, he owed several debts. being a handy fellow and strong, he worked like a horse, and soon paid off his debts to the last farthing. again, many a time had he, in days gone by, insulted and defamed comrades and friends. these he sought out with care and begged their pardon. the bulldog courage in him was so strong that in former days he would have struck or insulted any man who provoked him, without reference to his, it might be, superior size or strength. he now went as boldly forward to confess his sin and to apologise. sometimes his apologies were kindly received, at other times he was rudely repelled and called a hypocrite in language that we may not repeat, but he took it well; he resented nothing now, and used to say he had been made invulnerable since he had enlisted under the banner of the prince of peace. yet, strange to say, the man's pugilistic powers were not rendered useless by his pacific life and profession. one day he was passing down one of those streets where even the police prefer to go in couples. suddenly a door burst open and a poor drunken woman was kicked out into the street by a big ruffian with whom ned was not acquainted. not satisfied with what he had done, the rough proceeded to kick the woman, who began to scream "murder!" a crowd at once collected, for, although such incidents were common enough in such places, they always possessed sufficient interest to draw a crowd; but no one interfered, first, because no one cared, and, second, because the man was so big and powerful that every one was afraid of him. of course ned interfered, not with an indignant statement that the man ought to be ashamed of himself, but, with the quiet remark-- "she's only a woman, you know, an' can't return it." "an' wot 'ave _you_ got to do with it?" cried the man with a savage curse, as he aimed a tremendous blow at ned with his right-hand. our pugilist expected that. he did not start or raise his hands to defend himself, he merely put his head to one side, and the huge fist went harmlessly past his ear. savagely the rough struck out with the other fist, but ned quietly, yet quickly put his head to the other side, and again the fist went innocently by. a loud laugh and cheer from the crowd greeted this, for, apart altogether from the occasion of the disagreement, this turning of the head aside was very pretty play on the part of ned--being a remarkably easy-looking but exceedingly difficult action, as all boxers know. it enabled ned to smile in the face of his foe without doing him any harm. but it enraged the rough to such an extent, that he struck out fast as well as hard, obliging ned to put himself in the old familiar attitude, and skip about smartly. "i don't want to hurt you, friend," said ned at last, "but i _can_, you see!" and he gave the man a slight pat on his right cheek with one hand and a tap on the forehead with the other. this might have convinced the rough, but he would not be convinced. ned therefore gave him suddenly an open-handed slap on the side of the head which sent him through his own doorway; through his own kitchen--if we may so name it--and into his own coal-cellar, where he measured his length among cinders and domestic _debris_. "i didn't want to do it, friends," said ned in a mild voice, as soon as the laughter had subsided, "but, you see, in the bible--a book i'm uncommon fond of--we're told, as far as we can, to live peaceably with all men. now, you see, i couldn't live peaceably wi' this man to-day. he wouldn't let me, but i think i'll manage to do it some day, for i'll come back here to-morrow, and say i'm sorry i had to do it. meanwhile i have a word to say to you about this matter." here ned got upon the door-step of his adversary, and finished off by what is sometimes styled "improving the occasion." of course, one of the first things that ned frog did, on coming to his "right mind," was to make earnest and frequent inquiries as to the fate of his wife and family. unfortunately the man who might have guided him to the right sources of information--the city missionary who had brought him to a knowledge of the truth--was seized with a severe illness, which not only confined him to a sick-bed for many weeks, but afterwards rendered it necessary that he should absent himself for a long time from the sphere of his labours. thus, being left to himself, ned's search was misdirected, and at last he came to the heart-breaking conclusion that they must have gone, as he expressed it, "to the bad;" that perhaps his wife had carried out her oft-repeated threat, and drowned herself, and that bobby, having been only too successful a pupil in the ways of wickedness, had got himself transported. to prosecute his inquiries among his old foes, the police, was so repugnant to ned that he shrank from it, after the failure of one or two attempts, and the only other source which might have been successful he failed to appeal to through his own ignorance. he only knew of george yard and the home of industry by name, as being places which he had hated, because his daughter hetty was so taken up with them. of course he was now aware that the people of george yard did good work for his new master, but he was so ignorant of the special phase of their work at the beginning of his christian career that he never thought of applying to them for information. afterwards he became so busy with his own special work, that he forgot all about these institutions. when the missionary recovered and returned to his work, he at once--on hearing for the first time from ned his family history--put him on the scent, and the discovery was then made that they had gone to canada. he wrote immediately, and soon received a joyful reply from hetty and a postscript from bobby, which set his heart singing and his soul ablaze with gratitude to a sparing and preserving god. about that time, however, the robust frame gave way under the amount of labour it was called on to perform. ned was obliged to go into hospital. when there he received pressing invitations to go out to canada, and offers of passage-money to any extent. mrs frog also offered to return home without delay and nurse him, and only waited to know whether he would allow her. ned declined, on the ground that he meant to accept their invitation and go to canada as soon as he was able to undertake the voyage. a relapse, however, interfered with his plans, and thus the visit, like many other desirable events in human affairs, was, for a time, delayed. chapter twenty nine. home again. time passed away, and bobby frog said to his mother one morning, "mother, i'm going to england." it was a fine summer morning when he said this. his mother was sitting in a bower which had been constructed specially for her use by her son and his friend tim lumpy. it stood at the foot of the garden, from which could be had a magnificent view of the neighbouring lake. rich foliage permitted the slanting sunbeams to quiver through the bower, and little birds, of a pert conceited nature, twittered among the same. martha mild--the very embodiment of meek, earnest simplicity, and still a mere child in face though almost a woman in years--sat on a wooden stool at mrs frog's feet reading the bible to her. martha loved the bible and mrs frog; they were both fond of the bower; there was a spare half-hour before them;--hence the situation, as broken in upon by bobby. "to england, bobby?" "to england, mother." martha said nothing, but she gave a slight--an almost imperceptible-- start, and glanced at the sturdy youth with a mingled expression of anxiety and surprise. the surprise bob had expected; the anxiety he had hoped for; the start he had not foreseen, but now perceived and received as a glorious fact! oh! bobby frog was a deep young rascal! his wild, hilarious, reckless spirit, which he found it so difficult to curb, even with all surroundings in his favour, experienced a great joy and sensation of restfulness in gazing at the pretty, soft, meek face of the little waif. he loved martha, but, with all his recklessness, he had not the courage to tell her so, or to ask the condition of her feelings with regard to himself. being ingenious, however, and with much of the knowing nature of the "stray" still about him, he hit on this plan of killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by briefly announcing his intentions to his mother; and the result was more than he had hoped for. "yes, mother, to england--to london. you see, father's last letter was not at all satisfactory. although he said he was convalescent and hoped to be able to travel soon, it seemed rather dull in tone, and now several posts have passed without bringing us a letter of any kind from him. i am beginning to feel anxious, and so as i have saved a good bit of money i mean to have a trip to old england and bring daddy out with me." "that will be grand indeed, my son. but will mr merryboy let ye go, bobby?" "of course he will. he lets me do whatever i please, for he's as fond o' me as if he were my father." "no; he ain't that," returned mrs frog, with a shake of the head; "your father was rough, bobby, specially w'en in liquor, but he 'ad a kind 'art at bottom, and he was very fond o' you, bobby--almost as fond as he once was o' me. mr merryboy could never come up to 'im in _that_." "did i say he came up to him, mother? i didn't say he was as fond o' me as my own father, but _as if he was_ my father. however, it's all arranged, and i go off at once." "not before breakfast, bobby?" "no, not quite. i never do anything important on an empty stomach, but by this time to-morrow i hope to be far on my way to the sea-coast, and i expect martha to take good care of you till i come back." "i'll be _sure_ to do that," said martha, looking up in mrs frog's face affectionately. bob frog noted the look, and was satisfied. "but, my boy, i shan't be here when you come back. you know my visit is over in a week, and then we go to sir richard's estate." "i know that, mother, but martha goes with you there, to help you and hetty and matty to keep house while tim lumpy looks after the farm." "farm, my boy, what nonsense are you talking?" "no nonsense, mother, it has all been arranged this morning, early though it is. mr merryboy has received a letter from sir richard, saying that he wants to gather as many people as possible round him, and offering him one of his farms on good terms, so mr merryboy is to sell this place as soon as he can, and tim and i have been offered a smaller farm on still easier terms close to his, and not far from the big farm that sir richard has given to his son-in-law mr welland--" "son-in-law!" exclaimed mrs frog. "do you mean to say that mr welland, who used to come down an' preach in the lodgin'-'ouses in spitalfields 'as married that sweet hangel miss di?" "i do mean that, mother. i could easily show him a superior angel, of course," said bob with a steady look at martha, "but he has done pretty well, on the whole." "pretty well!" echoed mrs frog indignantly; "he couldn't 'ave done better if 'e'd searched the wide world over." "there i don't agree with you," returned her son; "however, it don't matter--hallo! there goes granny down the wrong path!" bob dashed off at full speed after mrs merryboy, senior, who had an inveterate tendency, when attempting to reach mrs frog's bower, to take a wrong turn, and pursue a path which led from the garden to a pretty extensive piece of forest-land behind. the blithe old lady was posting along this track in a tremulo-tottering way when captured by bob. at the same moment the breakfast-bell rang; mr merryboy's stentorian voice was immediately heard in concert; silvery shouts from the forest-land alluded to told where hetty and matty had been wandering, and a rush of pattering feet announced that the dogs of the farm were bent on being first to bid the old gentleman good-morning. as bob frog had said, the following day found him far on his way to the sea-coast. a few days later found him on the sea,--wishing, earnestly, that he were on the land! little more than a week after that found him in london walking down the old familiar strand towards the city. as he walked slowly along the crowded thoroughfare, where every brick seemed familiar and every human being strange, he could not help saying to himself mentally, "can it be possible! was it here that i used to wander in rags? thank god for the rescue and for the rescuers!" "shine yer boots, sir?" said a facsimile of his former self. "certainly, my boy," said bob, at once submitting himself to the operator, although, his boots having already been well "shined," the operation was an obvious absurdity. the boy must have felt something of this, for, when finished, he looked up at his employer with a comical expression. bob looked at him sternly. "they were about as bright before you began on 'em," he said. "they was, sir," admitted the boy, candidly. "how much?" demanded the old street boy. "on'y one ha'penny, sir," replied the young street boy, "but ven the day's fine, an' the boots don't want much shinin', we gin'rally expecs a penny. gen'l'min _'ave_ bin known to go the length of tuppence." bob pulled out half-a-crown and offered it. the boy grinned, but did not attempt to take it. "why don't you take it, my boy?" "you _don't_ mean it, do you?" asked the boy, as the grin faded and the eyes opened. "yes, i do. here, catch. i was once like you. christ and canada have made me what you see. here is a little book that will tell you more about that." he chanced to have one of miss macpherson's _canadian homes for london wanderers_ in his pocket, and gave it to the little shoe-black,--who was one of the fluttering free-lances of the metropolis, not one of the "brigade." bob could not have said another word to have saved his life. he turned quickly on his heel and walked away, followed by a fixed gaze and a prolonged whistle of astonishment. "how hungry i used to be here," he muttered as he walked along, "so uncommon hungry! the smell of roasts and pies had something to do with it, i think. why, there's the shop--yes, the very shop, where i stood once gazing at the victuals for a full hour before i could tear myself away. i do think that, for the sake of starving boys, to say nothing of men, women, and girls, these grub-shops should be compelled to keep the victuals out o' the windows and send their enticing smells up their chimneys!" presently he came to a dead stop in front of a shop where a large mirror presented him with a full-length portrait of himself, and again he said mentally, "can it be possible!" for, since quitting london he had never seen himself as others saw him, having been too hurried, on both occasions of passing through canadian cities, to note the mirrors there. in the backwoods, of course, there was nothing large enough in the way of mirror to show more than his good-looking face. the portrait now presented to him was that of a broad-chested, well-made, gentlemanly young man of middle height, in a grey tweed suit. "not _exactly_ tip-top, a , superfine, you know, bobby," he muttered to himself with the memory of former days strong upon him, "but--but-- perhaps not altogether unworthy of--of--a thought or two from little martha mild." bob frog increased in stature, it is said, by full half an inch on that occasion, and thereafter he walked more rapidly in the direction of whitechapel. with sad and strangely mingled memories he went to the court where his early years had been spent. it was much the same in disreputableness of aspect as when he left it. time had been gnawing at it so long that a few years more or less made little difference on it, and its inhabitants had not improved much. passing rapidly on he went straight to the beehive, which he had for long regarded as his real home, and there, once again, received a hearty welcome from its ever busy superintendent and her earnest workers; but how different his circumstances now from those attending his first reception! his chief object, however, was to inquire the way to the hospital in which his father lay, and he was glad to learn that the case of ned frog was well-known, and that he was convalescent. it chanced that a tea-meeting was "on" when he arrived, so he had little more at the time than a warm shake of the hand from his friends in the home, but he had the ineffable satisfaction of leaving behind him a sum sufficient to give a sixpence to each of the miserable beings who were that night receiving a plentiful meal for their bodies as well as food for their souls--those of them, at least, who chose to take the latter. none refused the former. on his way to the hospital he saw a remarkably tall policeman approaching. "well, you _are_ a long-legged copper," he muttered to himself, with an irrepressible laugh as he thought of old times. the old spirit seemed to revive with the old associations, for he felt a strong temptation to make a face at the policeman, execute the old double-shuffle, stick his thumb to the end of his nose, and bolt! as the man drew nearer he did actually make a face in spite of himself--a face of surprise--which caused the man to stop. "excuse me," said bob, with much of his old bluntness, "are not you number ?" "that is not my number now, sir, though i confess it was once," answered the policeman, with a humorous twinkle of the eye. bobby noticed the word "sir," and felt elated. it was almost more than waif-and-stray human nature could stand to be respectfully "sirred" by a london policeman--his old foe, whom, in days gone by and on occasions innumerable, he had scorned, scouted, and insulted, with all the ingenuity of his fertile brain. "your name is giles scott, is it not?" he asked. "it is, sir." "do you remember a little ragged boy who once had his leg broken by a runaway pony at the west-end--long ago?" "yes, as well as if i'd seen him yesterday. his name was bobby frog, and a sad scamp he was, though it is said he's doing well in canada." "he must 'ave changed considerable," returned bob, reverting to his old language with wonderful facility, "w'en number don't know 'im. yes, in me, robert frog, esquire, of chikopow farm, canada vest, you be'old your ancient henemy, who is on'y too 'appy to 'ave the chance of axin your parding for all the trouble he gave you, an' all the 'ard names he called you in days gone by." bobby held out his hand as he spoke, and you may be sure our huge policeman was not slow to grasp it, and congratulate the stray on his improved circumstances. we have not time or space to devote to the conversation which ensued. it was brief, but rapid and to the point, and in the course of it bob learned that molly was as well, and as bright and cheery as ever--also somewhat stouter; that monty was in a fair way to become a real policeman, having just received encouragement to expect admission to the force when old enough, and that he was in a fair way to become as sedate, wise, zealous, and big as his father; also, that little jo aimed at the same honourable and responsible position, and was no longer little. being anxious, however, to see his father, bob cut the conversation short, and, having promised to visit his old enemy, hastened away. the ward of the hospital in which bob soon found himself was a sad place. clean and fresh, no doubt, but very still, save when a weary sigh or a groan told of suffering. among the beds, which stood in a row, each with its head against the wall, one was pointed out on which a living skeleton lay. the face was very very pale, and it seemed as if the angel of death were already brooding over it. yet, though so changed, there was no mistaking the aspect and the once powerful frame of ned frog. "i'd rather not see any one," whispered ned, as the nurse went forward and spoke to him in a low voice, "i'll soon be home--i think." "father, _dear_ father," said bob, in a trembling, almost choking voice, as he knelt by the bedside and took one of his father's hands. the prostrate man sprang up as if he had received an electric shock, and gazed eagerly into the face of his son. then, turning his gaze on the nurse, he said-- "i'm not dreaming, am i? it's true, is it? is this bobby?" "whether he's bobby or not i can't say," replied the nurse, in the tone with which people sometimes address children, "but you're not dreaming-- it _is_ a gentleman." "ah! then i _am_ dreaming," replied the sick man, with inexpressible sadness, "for bobby is no gentleman." "but it _is_ me, daddy," cried the poor youth, almost sobbing aloud as he kissed the hand he held, "why, you old curmudgeon, i thought you'd 'ave know'd the voice o' yer own son! i've grow'd a bit, no doubt, but it's me for all that. look at me!" ned did look, with all the intensity of which he was capable, and then fell back on his pillow with a great sigh, while a death-like pallor overspread his face, almost inducing the belief that he was really dead. "no, bobby, i ain't dead yet," he said in a low whisper, as his terrified son bent over him. "thank god for sendin' you back to me." he stopped, but, gradually, strength returned, and he again looked earnestly at his son. "bobby," he said, in stronger tones, "i thought the end was drawin' near--or, rather, the beginnin'--the beginnin' o' the new life. but i don't feel like that now. i feel, some'ow, as i used to feel in the ring when they sponged my face arter a leveller. i did think i was done for this mornin'. the nurse thought so too, for i 'eerd her say so; an' the doctor said as much. indeed i'm not sure that my own 'art didn't say so--but i'll cheat 'em all yet, bobby, my boy. you've put new life into my old carcase, an' i'll come up to the scratch yet--see if i don't." but ned frog did not "come up to the scratch." his work for the master on earth was finished--the battle fought out and the victory gained. "gi' them all my love in canada, bobby, an' say to your dear mother that i _know_ she forgives me--but i'll tell her all about that when we meet--in the better land." thus he died with his rugged head resting on the bosom of his loved and loving son. chapter thirty. the new home. once again, and for the last time, we shift our scene to canada--to the real backwoods now--the brandon settlement. sir richard, you see, had been a noted sportsman in his youth. he had chased the kangaroo in australia, the springbok in africa, and the tiger in india, and had fished salmon in norway, so that his objections to the civilised parts of canada were as strong as those of the red indians themselves. he therefore resolved, when making arrangements to found a colony, to push as far into the backwoods as was compatible with comfort and safety. hence we now find him in the _very_ far west. we decline to indicate the exact spot, because idlers, on hearing of its fertility and beauty and the felicity of its inhabitants, might be tempted to crowd to it in rather inconvenient numbers. let it suffice to say, in the language of the aborigines, that it lies towards the setting sun. around brandon settlement there are rolling prairies, illimitable pasture-land, ocean-like lakes, grand forests, and numerous rivers and rivulets, with flat-lands, low-lands, high-lands, undulating lands, wood-lands, and, in the far-away distance, glimpses of the back-bone of america--peaked, and blue, and snow-topped. the population of this happy region consists largely of waifs with a considerable sprinkling of strays. there are also several families of "haristocrats," who, however, are not "bloated"--very much the reverse. the occupation of the people is, as might be expected, agricultural; but, as the colony is very active and thriving and growing fast, many other branches of industry have sprung up, so that the hiss of the saw and the ring of the anvil, the clatter of the water-mill, and the clack of the loom, may be heard in all parts of it. there is a rumour that a branch of the great pacific railway is to be run within a mile of the brandon settlement; but that is not yet certain. the rumour, however, has caused much joyful hope to some, and rather sorrowful anxiety to others. mercantile men rejoice at the prospect. those who are fond of sport tremble, for it is generally supposed, though on insufficient grounds, that the railway-whistle frightens away game. any one who has travelled in the scottish highlands and seen grouse close to the line regarding your clanking train with supreme indifference, must doubt the evil influence of railways on game. meanwhile, the sportsmen of brandon settlement pursue the buffalo and stalk the deer, and hunt the brown and the grizzly bear, and ply rod, net, gun, and rifle, to their hearts' content. there is even a bank in this thriving settlement--a branch, if we mistake not, of the flourishing bank of montreal--of which a certain mr welland is manager, and a certain thomas balls is hall-porter, as well as general superintendent, when not asleep in the hall-chair. mrs welland, known familiarly as di, is regarded as the mother of the settlement--or, more correctly, the guardian angel--for she is not yet much past the prime of life. she is looked upon as a sort of goddess by many people; indeed she resembles one in mind, face, figure, and capacity. we use the last word advisedly, for she knows and sympathises with every one, and does so much for the good of the community, that the bare record of her deeds would fill a large volume. amongst other things she trains, in the way that they should go, a family of ten children, whose adoration of her is said to be perilously near to idolatry. she also finds time to visit an immense circle of friends. there are no poor in brandon settlement yet, though there are a few sick and a good many aged, to whom she ministers. she also attends on sir richard, who is part of the bank family, as well as a director. the good knight wears well. his time is divided between the children of di, the affairs of the settlement, and a neighbouring stream in which the trout are large and pleasantly active. mrs screwbury, who spent her mature years in nursing little di, is renewing her youth by nursing little di's little ones, among whom there is, of course, another little di whom her father styles di-licious. jessie summers assists in the nursery, and the old cook reigns in the canadian kitchen with as much grace as she formerly reigned in the kitchen at the "west-end." quite close to the bank buildings there is a charming villa, with a view of a lake in front and a peep through the woods at the mountains behind, in which dwells the cashier of the bank with his wife and family. his name is robert frog, esquire. his wife's name is martha. his eldest son, bobby--a boy of about nine or ten--is said to be the most larky boy in the settlement. we know not as to that, but any one with half an eye can see that he is singularly devoted to his mild little brown-eyed mother. there is a picturesque little hut at the foot of the garden of beehive villa, which is inhabited by an old woman. to this hut bobby the second is very partial, for the old woman _is_ exceedingly fond of bobby--quite spoils him in fact--and often entertains him with strange stories about a certain lion of her acquaintance which was turned into a lamb. need we say that this old woman is mrs frog? the bank cashier offered her a home in beehive villa, but she prefers the little hut at the foot of the garden, where she sits in state to receive visitors and is tenderly cared for by a very handsome young woman named matty, who calls her "mother". matty is the superintendent of a neighbouring school, and it is said that one of the best of the masters of that school is anxious to make matty and the school his own. if so, that master must be a greedy fellow--all things considered. there is a civil engineer--often styled by bob frog an uncivil engineer--who has planned all the public works of the settlement, and is said to have a good prospect of being engaged in an important capacity on the projected railway. but of this we cannot speak authoritatively. his name is t lampay, esquire. ill-natured people assert that when he first came to the colony his name was tim lumpy, and at times his wife hetty calls him lumpy to his face, but, as wives do sometimes call their husbands improper names, the fact proves nothing except the perversity of woman. there is a blind old woman in his establishment, however, who has grown amiably childish in her old age, who invariably calls him tim. whatever may be the truth as to this, there is no question that he is a thriving man and an office-bearer in the congregational church, whose best sabbath-school teacher is his wife hetty, and whose pastor is the reverend john seaward--a man of singular good fortune, for, besides having such men as robert frog, t. lampay, and sir richard brandon to back him up and sympathise with him on all occasions, he is further supported by the aid and countenance of samuel twitter, senior, samuel twitter, junior, mrs twitter, and all the other twitters, some of whom are married and have twitterers of their own. samuel twitter and his sons are now farmers! yes, reader, you may look and feel surprised to hear it, but your astonishment will never equal that of old twitter himself at finding himself in that position. he never gets over it, and has been known, while at the tail of the plough, to stop work, clap a hand on each knee, and roar with laughter at the mere idea of his having taken to agriculture late in life! he tried to milk the cows when he first began, but, after having frightened two or three animals into fits, overturned half a dozen milk-pails, and been partially gored, he gave it up. sammy is his right-hand man, and the hope of his declining years. true, this right-hand has got the name of being slow, but he is considered as pre-eminently sure. mrs twitter has taken earnestly to the sick, since there are no poor to befriend. she is also devoted to the young--and there is no lack of them. she is likewise strong in the tea-party line, and among her most favoured guests are two ladies named respectively loper and larrabel, and two gentlemen named crackaby and stickler. it is not absolutely certain whether these four are a blessing to the new settlement or the reverse. some hold that things in general would progress more smoothly if they were gone; others that their presence affords excellent and needful opportunity for the exercise of forbearance and charity. at all events mrs twitter holds that she could not live without them, and george brisbane, esquire, who owns a lovely mansion on the outskirts of the settlement, which he has named lively hall, vows that the departure of that quartette would be a distinct and irreparable loss to society in brandon settlement. one more old friend we have to mention, namely, reggie north, who has become a colporteur, and wanders far and near over the beautiful face of canada, scattering the seed of life with more vigour and greater success than her sons scatter the golden grain. his periodical visits to the settlement are always hailed with delight, because north has a genial way of relating his adventures and describing his travels, which renders it necessary for him to hold forth as a public lecturer at times in the little chapel, for the benefit of the entire community. on these occasions north never fails, you may be quite sure, to advance his master's cause. besides those whom we have mentioned, there are sundry persons of both sexes who go by such names as dick swiller, blobby, robin, lilly snow, robbie dell, and little mouse, all of whom are grown men and women, and are said to have originally been london waifs and strays. but any one looking at them in their backwoods prosperity would pooh-pooh the idea as being utterly preposterous! however this may be, it is quite certain that they are curiously well acquainted with the slums of london and with low life in that great city. these people sometimes mention the name of giles scott, and always with regret that that stalwart policeman and his not less stalwart sons are unable to see their way to emigrate, but if they did, as bobby frog the second asks, "what would become of london?" "they'd make such splendid backwoodsmen," says one. "and the daughters would make such splendid wives for backwoodsmen," says another. mr merryboy thinks that canada can produce splendid men of its own without importing them from england, and mrs merryboy holds that the same may be said in regard to the women of canada, and old granny, who is still alive, with a face like a shrivelled-up potato, blinks with undimmed eyes, and nods her snow-white head, and beams her brightest smile in thorough approval of these sentiments. ah, reader! brandon settlement is a wonderful place, but we may not linger over it now. the shadows of our tale have lengthened out, and the sun is about to set. before it goes quite down let us remind you that the diamonds which you have seen dug out, cut, and polished, are only a few of the precious gems that lie hidden in the dust of the great cities of our land; that the harvest might be very great, and that the labourers at the present time are comparatively few. the end. tillie: a mennonite maid a story of the pennsylvania dutch by helen reimensnyder martin contents i "oh, i love her! i love her!" ii "i'm going to learn you once!" iii "what's hurtin' you, tillie?" iv "the doc" combines business and pleasure v "novels ain't moral, doc!" vi jake getz in a quandary vii "the last days of pump-eye" viii miss margaret's errand ix "i'll do my darn best, teacher!" x adam schunk's funeral xi "pop! i feel to be plain" xii absalom keeps company xiii ezra herr, pedagogue xiv the harvard graduate xv the wackernagels at home xvi the wackernagels "conwerse" xvii the teacher meets absalom xviii tillie reveals herself xix tillie tells a lie xx tillie is "set back" xxi "i'll marry him to-morrow!" xxii the doc concocts a plot xxiii sunshine and shadow xxiv the revolt of tillie xxv getz "learns" tillie xxvi tillie's last fight tillie: a mennonite maid a story of the pennsylvania dutch i "oh, i love her! i love her!" tillie's slender little body thrilled with a peculiar ecstasy as she stepped upon the platform and felt her close proximity to the teacher--so close that she could catch the sweet, wonderful fragrance of her clothes and see the heave and fall of her bosom. once tillie's head had rested against that motherly bosom. she had fainted in school one morning after a day and evening of hard, hard work in her father's celery-beds, followed by a chastisement for being caught with a "story-book"; and she had come out of her faint to find herself in the heaven of sitting on miss margaret's lap, her head against her breast and miss margaret's soft hand smoothing her cheek and hair. and it was in that blissful moment that tillie had discovered, for the first time in her young existence, that life could be worth while. not within her memory had any one ever caressed her before, or spoken to her tenderly, and in that fascinating tone of anxious concern. afterward, tillie often tried to faint again in school; but, such is nature's perversity, she never could succeed. school had just been called after the noon recess, and miss margaret was standing before her desk with a watchful eye on the troops of children crowding in from the playground to their seats, when the little girl stepped to her side on the platform. this country school-house was a dingy little building in the heart of lancaster county, the home of the pennsylvania dutch. miss margaret had been the teacher only a few months, and having come from kentucky and not being "a millersville normal," she differed quite radically from any teacher they had ever had in new canaan. indeed, she was so wholly different from any one tillie had ever seen in her life, that to the child's adoring heart she was nothing less than a miracle. surely no one but cinderella had ever been so beautiful! and how different, too, were her clothes from those of the other young ladies of new canaan, and, oh, so much prettier--though not nearly so fancy; and she didn't "speak her words" as other people of tillie's acquaintance spoke. to tillie it was celestial music to hear miss margaret say, for instance, "buttah" when she meant butter-r-r, and "windo" for windah. "it gives her such a nice sound when she talks," thought tillie. sometimes miss margaret's ignorance of the dialect of the neighborhood led to complications, as in her conversation just now with tillie. "well?" she inquired, lifting the little girl's chin with her forefinger as tillie stood at her side and thereby causing that small worshiper to blush with radiant pleasure. "what is it, honey?" miss margaret always made tillie feel that she liked her. tillie wondered how miss margaret could like her! what was there to like? no one had ever liked her before. "it wonders me!" tillie often whispered to herself with throbbing heart. "please, miss margaret," said the child, "pop says to ast you will you give me the darst to go home till half-past three this after?" "if you go home till half-past three, you need not come back, honey--it wouldn't be worth while, when school closes at four." "but i don't mean," said tillie, in puzzled surprise, "that i want to go home and come back. i sayed whether i have the darst to go home till half-past three. pop he's went to lancaster, and he'll be back till half-past three a'ready, and he says then i got to be home to help him in the celery-beds." miss margaret held her pretty head on one side, considering, as she looked down into the little girl's upturned face. "is this a conundrum, tillie? how your father be in lancaster now and yet be home until half-past three? it's uncanny. unless," she added, a ray of light coming to her,--"unless 'till' means by. your father will be home by half-past three and wants you then?" "yes, ma'am. i can't talk just so right," said tillie apologetically, "like what you can. yes, sometimes i say my we's like my w's, yet!" miss margaret laughed. "bless your little heart!" she said, running her fingers through tillie's hair. "but you would rather stay in school until four, wouldn't you, than go home to help your father in the celery-beds?" "oh, yes, ma'am," said tillie wistfully, "but pop he has to get them beds through till saturday market a'ready, and so we got to get 'em done behind thursday or friday yet." "if i say you can't go home?" tillie colored all over her sensitive little face as, instead of answering, she nervously worked her toe into a crack in the platform. "but your father can't blame you, honey, if i won't let you go home." "he wouldn't stop to ast me was it my fault, miss margaret. if i wasn't there on time, he'd just--" "all right, dear, you may go at half-past three, then," miss margaret gently said, patting the child's shoulder. "as soon as you have written your composition." "yes, ma'am, miss margaret." it was hard for tillie, as she sat at her desk that afternoon, to fix her wandering attention upon the writing of her composition, so fascinating was it just to revel idly in the sense of the touch of that loved hand that had stroked her hair, and the tone of that caressing voice that had called her "honey." miss margaret always said to the composition classes, "just try to write simply of what you see or feel, and then you will be sure to write a good 'composition.'" tillie was moved this afternoon to pour out on paper all that she "felt" about her divinity. but she had some misgivings as to the fitness of this. she dwelt upon the thought of it, however, dreamily gazing out of the window near which she sat, into the blue sky of the october afternoon--until presently her ear was caught by the sound of miss margaret's voice speaking to absalom puntz, who stood at the foot of the composition class, now before her on the platform. "you may read your composition, absalom." absalom was one of "the big boys," but though he was sixteen years old and large for his age, his slowness in learning classed him with the children of twelve or thirteen. however, as learning was considered in new canaan a superfluous and wholly unnecessary adjunct to the means of living, absalom's want of agility in imbibing erudition never troubled him, nor did it in the least call forth the pity or contempt of his schoolmates. three times during the morning session he had raised his hand to announce stolidly to his long-suffering teacher, "i can't think of no subjeck"; and at last miss margaret had relaxed her spartan resolution to make him do his own thinking and had helped him out. "write of something that is interesting you just at present. isn't there some one thing you care more about than other things?" she had asked. absalom had stared at her blankly without replying. "now, absalom," she had said desperately, "i think i know one thing you have been interested in lately--write me a composition on girls." of course the school had greeted the advice with a laugh, and miss margaret had smiled with them, though she had not meant to be facetious. absalom, however, had taken her suggestion seriously. "is your composition written, absalom?" she was asking as tillie turned from the window, her contemplation of her own composition arrested by the sound of the voice which to her was the sweetest music in the world. "no'm," sullenly answered absalom. "i didn't get it through till it was time a'ready." "but, absalom, you've been at it this whole blessed day! you've not done another thing!" "i wrote off some of it." "well," sighed miss margaret, "let us hear what you have done." absalom unfolded a sheet of paper and laboriously read: "girls "the only thing i took particular notice to, about girls, is that they are always picking lint off each other, still." he stopped and slowly folded his paper. "but go on," said miss margaret. "read it all.' "that's all the fu'ther i got." miss margaret looked at him for an instant, then suddenly lifted the lid of her desk, evidently to search for something. when she closed it her face was quite grave. "we'll have the reading-lesson now," she announced. tillie tried to withdraw her attention from the teacher and fix it on her own work, but the gay, glad tone in which lizzie harnish was reading the lines, "when thoughts of the last bitter hour come like a blight over thy spirit--" hopelessly checked the flow of her ideas. this class was large, and by the time absalom's turn to read was reached, "thanatopsis" had been finished, and so the first stanza of "the bells" fell to him. it had transpired in the reading of "thanatopsis" that a grave and solemn tone best suited that poem, and the value of this intelligence was made manifest when, in a voice of preternatural solemnity, he read: "what a world of merriment their melody foretells!" instantly, when he had finished his "stanza," lizzie raised her hand to offer a criticism. "absalom, he didn't put in no gestures." miss margaret's predecessor had painstakingly trained his reading-classes in the art of gesticulation in public speaking, and miss margaret found the results of his labors so entertaining that she had never been able to bring herself to suppress the monstrosity. "i don't like them gestures," sulkily retorted absalom. "never mind the gestures," miss margaret consoled him--which indifference on her part seemed high treason to the well-trained class. "i'll hear you read, now, the list of synonyms you found in these two poems," she added. "lizzie may read first." while the class rapidly leafed their readers to find their lists of synonyms, miss margaret looked up and spoke to tillie, reminding her gently that that composition would not be written by half-past three if she did not hasten her work. tillie blushed with embarrassment at being caught in an idleness that had to be reproved, and resolutely bent all her powers to her task. she looked about the room for a subject. the walls were adorned with the print portraits of "great men,"--former state superintendents of public instruction in pennsylvania,--and with highly colored chromo portraits of washington, lincoln, grant, and garfield. then there were a number of framed mottos: "education rules in america," "rely on yourself," "god is our hope," "dare to say no," "knowledge is power," "education is the chief defense of nations." but none of these things made tillie's genius to burn, and again her eyes wandered to the window and gazed out into the blue sky; and after a few moments she suddenly turned to her desk and rapidly wrote down her "subject"--"evening." the mountain of the opening sentence being crossed, the rest went smoothly enough, for tillie wrote it from her heart. "evening. "i love to take my little sisters and brothers and go out, still, on a hill-top when the sun is setting so red in the west, and the birds are singing around us, and the cows are coming home to be milked, and the men are returning from their day's work. "i would love to play in the evening if i had the dare, when the children are gay and everything around me is happy. "i love to see the flowers closing their buds when the shades of evening are come. the thought has come to me, still, that i hope the closing of my life may come as quiet and peaceful as the closing of the flowers in the evening. "matilda maria getz." miss margaret was just calling for absalom's synonyms when tillie carried her composition to the desk, and absalom was replying with his customary half-defiant sullenness. "my pop he sayed i ain't got need to waste my time gettin' learnt them cinnamons. pop he says what's the use learnin' two words where [which] means the selfsame thing--one's enough." absalom's father was a school director and absalom had grown accustomed, under the rule of miss margaret's predecessors, to feel the force of the fact in their care not to offend him. "but your father is not the teacher here--i am," she cheerfully told him. "so you may stay after school and do what i require." tillie felt a pang of uneasiness as she went back to her seat. absalom's father was very influential and, as all the township knew, very spiteful. he could send miss margaret away, and he would do it, if she offended his only child, absalom. tillie thought she could not bear it at all if miss margaret were sent away. poor miss margaret did not seem to realize her own danger. tillie felt tempted to warn her. it was only this morning that the teacher had laughed at absalom when he said that the declaration of independence was "a treaty between the united states and england,"--and had asked him, "which country, do you think, hurrahed the loudest, absalom, when that treaty was signed?" and now this afternoon she "as much as said absalom's father should mind to his own business!" it was growing serious. there had never been before a teacher at william penn school-house who had not judiciously "showed partiality" to absalom. "and he used to be dummer yet [stupider even] than what he is now," thought tillie, remembering vividly a school entertainment that had been given during her own first year at school, when absalom, nine years old, had spoken his first piece. his pious methodist grandmother had endeavored to teach him a little hymn to speak on the great occasion, while his frivolous aunt from the city of lancaster had tried at the same time to teach him "bobby shafto." new canaan audiences were neither discriminating nor critical, but the assembly before which little absalom had risen to "speak his piece off," had found themselves confused when he told them that "on jordan's bank the baptist stands, silver buckles on his knee." tillie would never forget her own infantine agony of suspense as she sat, a tiny girl of five, in the audience, listening to absalom's mistakes. but eli darmstetter, the teacher, had not scolded him. then there was the time that absalom had forced a fight at recess and had made little adam oberholzer's nose bleed--it was little adam (whose father was not at that time a school director) that had to stay after school; and though every one knew it wasn't fair, it had been accepted without criticism, because even the young rising generation of new canaan understood the impossibility and folly of quarreling with one's means of earning money. but miss margaret appeared to be perfectly blind to the perils of her position. tillie was deeply troubled about it. at half-past three, when, at a nod from miss margaret the little girl left her desk to go home, a wonderful thing happened--miss margaret gave her a story-book. "you are so fond of reading, tillie, i brought you this. you may take it home, and when you have read it, bring it back to me, and i'll give you something else to read." delighted as tillie was to have the book for its own sake, it was yet greater happiness to handle something belonging to miss margaret and to realize that miss margaret had thought so much about her as to bring it to her. "it's a novel, tillie. have you ever read a novel?" "no'm. only li-bries." "what?" "sunday-school li-bries. us we're evangelicals, and us children we go to the sunday-school, and i still bring home li-bry books. pop he don't uphold to novel-readin'. i have never saw a novel yet." "well, this book won't injure you, tillie. you must tell me all about it when you have read it. you will find it so interesting, i'm afraid you won't be able to study your lessons while you are reading it." outside the school-room, tillie looked at the title,--ivanhoe,"--and turned over the pages in an ecstasy of anticipation. "oh! i love her! i love her!" throbbed her little hungry heart. ii "i'm going to learn you once!" tillie was obliged, when about a half-mile from her father's farm, to hide her precious book. this she did by pinning her petticoat into a bag and concealing the book in it. it was in this way that she always carried home her "li-bries" from sunday-school, for all story-book reading was prohibited by her father. it was uncomfortable walking along the highroad with the book knocking against her legs at every step, but that was not so painful as her father's punishment would be did he discover her bringing home a "novel"! she was not permitted to bring home even a school-book, and she had greatly astonished miss margaret, one day at the beginning of the term, by asking, "please, will you leave me let my books in school? pop says i darsen't bring 'em home." "what you can't learn in school, you can do without," tillie's father had said. "when you're home you'll work fur your wittles." tillie's father was a frugal, honest, hard-working, and very prosperous pennsylvania dutch farmer, who thought he religiously performed his parental duty in bringing up his many children in the fear of his heavy hand, in unceasing labor, and in almost total abstinence from all amusement and self-indulgence. far from thinking himself cruel, he was convinced that the oftener and the more vigorously he applied "the strap," the more conscientious a parent was he. his wife, tillie's stepmother, was as submissive to his authority as were her five children and tillie. apathetic, anemic, overworked, she yet never dreamed of considering herself or her children abused, accepting her lot as the natural one of woman, who was created to be a child-bearer, and to keep man well fed and comfortable. the only variation from the deadly monotony of her mechanical and unceasing labor was found in her habit of irritability with her stepchild. she considered tillie "a dopple" (a stupid, awkward person); for though usually a wonderful little household worker, tillie, when very much tired out, was apt to drop dishes; and absent-mindedly she would put her sunbonnet instead of the bread into the oven, or pour molasses instead of batter on the griddle. such misdemeanors were always plaintively reported by mrs. getz to tillie's father, who, without fail, conscientiously applied what he considered the undoubted cure. in practising the strenuous economy prescribed by her husband, mrs. getz had to manoeuver very skilfully to keep her children decently clothed, and tillie in this matter was a great help to her; for the little girl possessed a precocious skill in combining a pile of patches into a passably decent dress or coat for one of her little brothers or sisters. nevertheless, it was invariably tillie who was slighted in the small expenditures that were made each year for the family clothing. the child had always really preferred that the others should have "new things" rather than herself--until miss margaret came; and now, before miss margaret's daintiness, she felt ashamed of her own shabby appearance and longed unspeakably for fresh, pretty clothes. tillie knew perfectly well that her father had plenty of money to buy them for her if he would. but she never thought of asking him or her stepmother for anything more than what they saw fit to give her. the getz family was a perfectly familiar type among the german farming class of southeastern pennsylvania. jacob getz, though spoken of in the neighborhood as being "wonderful near," which means very penurious, and considered by the more gentle-minded amish and mennonites of the township to be "overly strict" with his family and "too ready with the strap still," was nevertheless highly respected as one who worked hard and was prosperous, lived economically, honestly, and in the fear of the lord, and was "laying by." the getz farm was typical of the better sort to be found in that county. a neat walk, bordered by clam shells, led from a wooden gate to the porch of a rather large, and severely plain frame house, facing the road. every shutter on the front and sides of the building was tightly closed, and there was no sign of life about the place. a stranger, ignorant of the pennsylvania dutch custom of living in the kitchen and shutting off the "best rooms,"--to be used in their mustiness and stiff unhomelikeness on sunday only,--would have thought the house temporarily empty. it was forbiddingly and uncompromisingly spick-and-span. a grass-plot, ornamented with a circular flower-bed, extended a short distance on either side of the house. but not too much land was put to such unproductive use; and the small lawn was closely bordered by a corn-field on the one side and on the other by an apple orchard. beyond stretched the tobacco--and wheat-fields, and behind the house were the vegetable garden and the barn-yard. arrived at home by half-past three, tillie hid her "ivanhoe" under the pillow of her bed when she went up-stairs to change her faded calico school dress for the yet older garment she wore at her work. if she had not been obliged to change her dress, she would have been puzzled to know how to hide her book, for she could not, without creating suspicion, have gone up-stairs in the daytime. in new canaan one never went up-stairs during the day, except at the rare times when obliged to change one's clothes. every one washed at the pump and used the one family roller-towel hanging on the porch. miss margaret, ever since her arrival in the neighborhood, had been the subject of wide-spread remark and even suspicion, because she "washed up-stairs" and even sat up-stairs!--in her bedroom! it was an unheard-of proceeding in new canaan. tillie helped her father in the celery-beds until dark; then, weary, but excited at the prospect of her book, she went in from the fields and up-stairs to the little low-roofed bed-chamber which she shared with her two half-sisters. they were already in bed and asleep, as was their mother in the room across the hall, for every one went to bed at sundown in canaan township, and got up at sunrise. tillie was in bed in a few minutes, rejoicing in the feeling of the book under her pillow. not yet dared she venture to light a candle and read it--not until she should hear her father's heavy snoring in the room across the hall. the candles which she used for this surreptitious reading of sunday-school "li-bries" and any other chance literature which fell in her way, were procured with money paid to her by miss margaret for helping her to clean the school-room on friday afternoons after school. tillie would have been happy to help her for the mere joy of being with her, but miss margaret insisted upon paying her ten cents for each such service. the little girl was obliged to resort to a deep-laid plot in order to do this work for the teacher. it had been her father's custom--ever since, at the age of five, she had begun to go to school--to "time" her in coming home at noon and afternoon, and whenever she was not there on the minute, to mete out to her a dose of his ever-present strap. "i ain't havin' no playin' on the way home, still! when school is done, you come right away home then, to help me or your mom, or i 'll learn you once!" but it happened that miss margaret, in her reign at "william perm" school-house, had introduced the innovation of closing school on friday afternoons at half-past three instead of four, and tillie, with bribes of candy bought with part of her weekly wage of ten cents, secured secrecy as to this innovation from her little sister and brother who went to school with her--making them play in the school-grounds until she was ready to go home with them. before miss margaret had come to new canaan, tillie had done her midnight reading by the light of the kerosene lamp which, after every one was asleep, she would bring up from the kitchen to her bedside. but this was dangerous, as it often led to awkward inquiries as to the speedy consumption of the oil. candles were safer. tillie kept them and a box of matches hidden under the mattress. it was eleven o'clock when at last the child, trembling with mingled delight and apprehension, rose from her bed, softly closed her bedroom door, and with extremely judicious carefulness lighted her candle, propped up her pillow, and settled down to read as long as she should be able to hold her eyes open. the little sister at her side and the one in the bed at the other side of the room slept too soundly to be disturbed by the faint flickering light of that one candle. to-night her stolen pleasure proved more than usually engrossing. at first the book was interesting principally because of the fact, so vividly present with her, that miss margaret's eyes and mind had moved over every word and thought which, she was now absorbing. but soon her intense interest in the story excluded every other idea--even the fear of discovery. her young spirit was "out of the body" and following, as in a trance, this tale, the like of which she had never before read. the clock down-stairs in the kitchen struck twelve--one--two, but tillie never heard it. at half-past two o'clock in the morning, when the tallow candle was beginning to sputter to its end, she still was reading, her eyes bright as stars, her usually pale face flushed with excitement, her sensitive lips parted in breathless interest--when, suddenly, a stinging blow of "the strap" on her shoulders brought from her a cry of pain and fright. "what you mean, doin' somepin like, this yet!" sternly demanded her father. "what fur book's that there?" he took the book from her hands and tillie cowered beneath the covers, the wish flashing through her mind that the book could change into a bible as he looked at it!--which miracle would surely temper the punishment that in a moment she knew would be meted out to her. "'iwanhoe'--a novel! a novel!" he said in genuine horror. "tillie, where d'you get this here!" tillie knew that if she told lies she would go to hell, but she preferred to burn in torment forever rather than betray miss margaret; for her father, like absalom's, was a school director, and if he knew miss margaret read novels and lent them to the children, he would surely force her out of "william penn." "i lent it off of elviny dinkleberger!" she sobbed. "you know i tole you a'ready you darsen't bring books home! and you know i don't uphold to novel-readin'! i 'll have to learn you to mind better 'n this! where d' you get that there candle?" "i--bought it, pop." "bought? where d'you get the money!" tillie did not like the lies she had to tell, but she knew she had already perjured her soul beyond redemption and one lie more or less could not make matters worse. "i found it in the road." "how much did you find?" "fi' cents." "you hadn't ought to spent it without astin' me dare you. now i'm goin' to learn you once! set up." tillie obeyed, and the strap fell across her shoulders. her outcries awakened the household and started the youngest little sister, in her fright and sympathy with tillie, to a high-pitched wailing. the rest of them took the incident phlegmatically, the only novelty about it being the strange hour of its happening. but the hardest part of her punishment was to follow. "now this here book goes in the fire!" her father announced when at last his hand was stayed. "and any more that comes home goes after it in the stove, i'll see if you 'll mind your pop or not!" left alone in her bed, her body quivering, her little soul hot with shame and hatred, the child stifled her sobs in her pillow, her whole heart one bleeding wound. how could she ever tell miss margaret? surely she would never like her any more!--never again lay her hand on her hair, or praise her compositions, or call her "honey," or, even, perhaps, allow her to help her on fridays!--and what, then, would be the use of living? if only she could die and be dead like a cat or a bird and not go to hell, she would take the carving-knife and kill herself! but there was hell to be taken into consideration. and yet, could hell hold anything worse than the loss of miss margaret's kindness? how could she tell her of that burned-up book and endure to see her look at her with cold disapproval? oh, to make such return for her kindness, when she so longed with all her soul to show her how much she loved her! for the first time in all her school-days, tillie went next morning with reluctance to school. iii "what's hurtin' you, tillie?" she meant to make her confession as soon as she reached the school-house--and have it over--but miss margaret was busy writing on the blackboard, and tillie felt an immense relief at the necessary postponement of her ordeal to recess time. the hours of that morning were very long to her heavy heart, and the minutes dragged to the time of her doom--for nothing but blackness lay beyond the point of the acknowledgment which must turn her teacher's fondness to dislike. she saw miss margaret's eyes upon her several times during the morning, with that look of anxious concern which had so often fed her starved affections. yes, miss margaret evidently could see that she was in trouble and she was feeling sorry for her. but, alas, when she should learn the cause of her misery, how surely would that look turn to coldness and displeasure! tillie felt that she was ill preparing the way for her dread confession in the very bad recitations she made all morning. she failed in geography--every question that came to her; she failed to understand miss margaret's explanation of compound interest, though the explanation was gone over a third time for her especial benefit; she missed five words in spelling and two questions in united states history! "tillie, tillie!" miss margaret solemnly shook her head, as she closed her book at the end of the last recitation before recess. "too much 'ivanhoe,' i'm afraid! well, it's my fault, isn't it?" the little girl's blue eyes gazed up at her with a look of such anguish, that impulsively miss margaret drew her to her side, as the rest of the class moved away to their seats. "what's the matter, dear?" she asked. "aren't you well? you look pale and ill! what is it, tillie?" tillie's overwrought heart could bear no more. her head fell on miss margaret's shoulder as she broke into wildest crying. her body quivered with her gasping sobs and her little hands clutched convulsively at miss margaret's gown. "you poor little thing!" whispered miss margaret, her arms about the child; "what's the matter with you, honey? there, there, don't cry so--tell me what's the matter." it was such bliss to be petted like this--to feel miss margaret's arms about her and hear that loved voice so close to her!--for the last time! never again after this moment would she be liked and caressed! her heart was breaking and she could not answer for her sobbing. "tillie, dear, sit down here in my chair until i send the other children out to recess--and then you and i can have a talk by ourselves," miss margaret said, leading the child a step to her arm-chair on the platform. she stood beside the chair, holding tillie's throbbing head to her side, while she tapped the bell which dismissed the children. "now," she said, when the door had closed on the last of them and she had seated herself and drawn tillie to her again, "tell me what you are crying for, little girlie." "miss margaret!" tillie's words came in hysterical, choking gasps; "you won't never like me no more when i tell you what's happened, miss margaret!" "why, dear me, tillie, what on earth is it?" "i didn't mean to do it, miss margaret! and i'll redd up for you, fridays, still, till it's paid for a'ready, miss margaret, if you'll leave me, won't you, please? oh, won't you never like me no more?" "my dear little goosie, what is the matter with you? come," she said, taking the little girl's hand reassuringly in both her own, "tell me, child." a certain note of firmness in her usually drawling southern voice checked a little the child's hysterical emotion. she gulped the choking lump in her throat and answered. "i was readin' 'ivanhoe' in bed last night, and pop woke up, and seen my candle-light, and he conceited he'd look once and see what it was, and then he seen me, and he don't uphold to novel-readin', and he--he--" "well?" miss margaret gently urged her faltering speech. "he whipped me and--and burnt up your book!" "whipped you again!" miss margaret's soft voice indignantly exclaimed. "the br--" she checked herself and virtuously closed her lips. "i'm so sorry, tillie, that i got you into such a scrape!" tillie thought miss margaret could not have heard her clearly. "he--burnt up your book yet, miss margaret!" she found voice to whisper again. "indeed! i ought to make him pay for it!" "he didn't know it was yourn, miss margaret--he don't uphold to novel-readin', and if he'd know it was yourn he'd have you put out of william penn, so i tole him i lent it off of elviny dinkleberger--and i'll help you fridays till it's paid for a'ready, if you'll leave me, miss margaret!" she lifted pleading eyes to the teacher's face, to see therein a look of anger such as she had never before beheld in that gentle countenance--for miss margaret had caught sight of the marks of the strap on tillie's bare neck, and she was flushed with indignation at the outrage. but tillie, interpreting the anger to be against herself, turned as white as death, and a look of such hopeless woe came into her face that miss margaret suddenly realized the dread apprehension torturing the child. "come here to me, you poor little thing!" she tenderly exclaimed, drawing the little girl into her lap and folding her to her heart. "i don't care anything about the book, honey! did you think i would? there, there--don't cry so, tillie, don't cry. _i_ love you, don't you know i do!"--and miss margaret kissed the child's quivering lips, and with her own fragrant handkerchief wiped the tears from her cheeks, and with her soft, cool fingers smoothed back the hair from her hot forehead. and this child, who had never known the touch of a mother's hand and lips, was transported in that moment from the suffering of the past night and morning, to a happiness that made this hour stand out to her, in all the years that followed, as the one supreme experience of her childhood. ineffable tenderness of the mother heart of woman! that afternoon, when tillie got home from school,--ten minutes late according to the time allowed her by her father,--she was quite unable to go out to help him in the field. every step of the road home had been a dragging burden to her aching limbs, and the moment she reached the farm-house, she tumbled in a little heap upon the kitchen settee and lay there, exhausted and white, her eyes shining with fever, her mouth parched with thirst, her head throbbing with pain--feeling utterly indifferent to the consequences of her tardiness and her failure to meet her father in the field. "ain't you feelin' good?" her stepmother phlegmatically inquired from across the room, where she sat with a dish-pan in her lap, paring potatoes for supper. "no, ma'am," weakly answered tillie. "pop 'll be looking fur you out in the field." tillie wearily closed her eyes and did not answer. mrs. getz looked up from her pan and let her glance rest for an instant upon the child's white, pained face. "are you feelin' too mean to go help pop?" "yes, ma'am. i--can't!" gasped tillie, with a little sob. "you ain't lookin' good," the woman reluctantly conceded. "well, i'll leave you lay a while. mebbe pop used the strap too hard last night. he sayed this dinner that he was some uneasy that he used the strap so hard--but he was that wonderful spited to think you'd set up readin' a novel-book in the night-time yet! you might of knew you'd ketch an awful lickin' fur doin' such a dumm thing like what that was. sammy!" she called to her little eight-year-old son, who was playing on the kitchen porch, "you go out and tell pop tillie she's got sick fur me, and i'm leavin' her lay a while. now hurry on, or he'll come in here to see, once, ain't she home yet, or what. go on now!" sammy departed on his errand, and mrs. getz diligently resumed her potato-paring. "i don't know what pop'll say to you not comin' out to help," she presently remarked. tillie's head moved restlessly, but she did not speak. she was past caring what her father might say or do. mrs. getz thoughtfully considered a doubtful potato, and, concluding at length to discard it, "i guess," she said, throwing it back into the pan, "i'll let that one; it's some poor. do you feel fur eatin' any supper?" she asked. "i'm havin' fried smashed-potatoes and wieners [frankfort sausages]. some days i just don't know what to cook all." tillie's lips moved, but gave no sound. "i guess you're right down sick fur all; ain't? i wonder if pop'll have doc in. he won't want to spend any fur that. but you do look wonderful bad. it's awful onhandy comin' just to-day. i did feel fur sayin' to pop i'd go to the rewiwal to-night, of he didn't mind. it's a while back a'ready since i was to a meetin'--not even on a funeral. and they say they do now make awful funny up at bethel rewiwal this week. i was thinkin' i'd go once. but if you can't redd up after supper and help milk and put the childern to bed, i can't go fur all." no response from tillie. mrs. getz sighed her disappointment as she went on with her work. presently she spoke again. "this after, a lady agent come along. she had such a complexion lotion. she talked near a half-hour. she was, now, a beautiful conversationist! i just set and listened. then she was some spited that i wouldn't buy a box of complexion lotion off of her. but she certainly was, now, a beautiful conversationist!" the advent of an agent in the neighborhood was always a noteworthy event, and tillie's utterly indifferent reception of the news that to-day one had "been along" made mrs. getz look at her wonderingly. "are you too sick to take interest?" she asked. the child made no answer. the woman rose to put her potatoes on the stove. it was an hour later when, as tillie still lay motionless on the settee, and mrs. getz was dishing up the supper and putting it on the table, which stood near the wall at one end of the kitchen, mr. getz came in, tired, dirty, and hungry, from the celery-beds. the child opened her eyes at the familiar and often dreaded step, and looked up at him as he came and stood over her. "what's the matter? what's hurtin' you, tillie?" he asked, an unwonted kindness in his voice as he saw how ill the little girl looked. "i don'--know," tillie whispered, her heavy eyelids falling again. "you don' know! you can't be so worse if you don' know what's hurtin' you! have you fever, or the headache, or whatever?" he laid his rough hand on her forehead and passed it over her cheek. "she's some feverish," he said, turning to his wife, who was busy at the stove. "full much so!" "she had the cold a little, and i guess she's took more to it," mrs. getz returned, bearing the fried potatoes across the kitchen to the table. "i heard the doc talkin' there's smallpox handy to us, only a mile away at new canaan," said getz, a note of anxiety in his voice that made the sick child wearily marvel. why was he anxious about her? she wondered. it wasn't because he liked her, as miss margaret did. he was afraid of catching smallpox himself, perhaps. or he was afraid she would be unable to help him to-morrow, and maybe for many days, out in the celery-beds. that was why he spoke anxiously--not because he liked her and was sorry. no bitterness was mingled with tillie's quite matter-of-fact acceptance of these conclusions. "it would be a good much trouble to us if she was took down with the smallpox," mrs. getz's tired voice replied. "i guess not as much as it would be to her," the father said, a rough tenderness in his voice, and something else which tillie vaguely felt to be a note of pain. "are you havin' the doc in fur her, then?" his wife asked. "i guess i better, mebbe," the man hesitated. his thrifty mind shrank at the thought of the expense. he turned again to tillie and bent over her. "can't you tell pop what's hurtin' you, tillie?" "no--sir." mr. getz looked doubtfully and rather helplessly at his wife. "it's a bad sign, ain't, when they can't tell what's hurtin' 'em?" "i don't know what fur sign that is when they don't feel nothin'," she stoically answered, as she dished up her frankfort sausages. "if a person would just know oncet!" he exclaimed anxiously. "anyhow, she's pretty much sick--she looks it so! i guess i better mebbe not take no risks. i'll send fur doc over. sammy can go, then." "all right. supper's ready now. you can come eat." she went to the door to call the children in front the porch and the lawn; and mr. getz again bent over the child. "can you eat along, tillie?" tillie weakly shook her head. "don't you feel fur your wittles?" "no--sir." "well, well. i'll send fur the doc, then, and he can mebbe give you some pills, or what, to make you feel some better; ain't?" he said, again passing his rough hand over her forehead and cheek, with a touch as nearly like a caress as anything tillie had ever known from him. the tears welled up in her eyes and slowly rolled over her white face, as she felt this unwonted expression of affection. her father turned away quickly and went to the table, about which the children were gathering. "where's sammy?" he asked his wife. "i'm sendin' him fur the doc after supper." "where? i guess over," she motioned with her head as she lifted the youngest, a one-year-old boy, into his high chair. "over" was the family designation for the pump, at which every child of a suitable age was required to wash his face and hands before coming to the table. while waiting for the arrival of the doctor, after supper, getz ineffectually tried to force tillie to eat something. in his genuine anxiety about her and his eagerness for "the doc's" arrival, he quite forgot about the fee which would have to be paid for the visit. iv "the doc" combines business and pleasure miss margaret boarded at the "hotel" of new canaan. as the only other regular boarder was the middle-aged, rugged, unkempt little man known as "the doc," and as the transient guests were very few and far between, miss margaret shared the life of the hotel-keeper's family on an intimate and familiar footing. the invincible custom of new canaan of using a bedroom only at night made her unheard-of inclination to sit in her room during the day or before bedtime the subject of so much comment and wonder that, feeling it best to yield to the prejudice, she usually read, sewed, or wrote letters in the kitchen, or, when a fire was lighted, in the combination dining-room and sitting-room. it was the evening of the day of tillie's confession about "ivanhoe," and miss margaret, after the early supper-hour of the country hotel, had gone to the sitting-room, removed the chenille cover from the centre-table, uncorked the bottle of fluid sold at the village store as ink, but looking more like raspberryade, and settled herself to write, to one deeply interested in everything which interested her, an account of her day and its episode with the little daughter of jacob getz. this room in which she sat, like all other rooms of the district, was too primly neat to be cozy or comfortable. it contained a bright new rag carpet, a luridly painted wooden settee, a sewing-machine, and several uninviting wooden chairs. margaret often yearned to pull the pieces of furniture out from their stiff, sentinel-like stations against the wall and give to the room that divine touch of homeyness which it lacked. but she did not dare venture upon such a liberty. very quickly absorbed in her letter-writing, she did not notice the heavy footsteps which presently sounded across the floor and paused at her chair. "now that there writin'--" said a gruff voice at her shoulder; and, startled, she quickly turned in her chair, to find the other boarder, "the doc," leaning on the back of it, his shaggy head almost on a level with her fair one. "that there writin'," pursued the doctor, continuing to hold his fat head in unabashed proximity to her own and to her letter, "is wonderful easy to read. wonderful easy." miss margaret promptly covered her letter with a blotter, corked the raspberry-ade, and rose. "done a'ready?" asked the doctor. "for the present, yes." "see here oncet, teacher!" he suddenly fixed her with his small, keen eyes as he drew from the pocket of his shabby, dusty coat a long, legal-looking paper. "i have here," he said impressively, "an important dokiment, teacher, concerning of which i desire to consult you perfessionally." "yes?" "you just stay settin'; i'll fetch a chair and set aside of you and show it to you oncet." he drew a chair up to the table and margaret reluctantly sat down, feeling annoyed and disappointed at this interruption of her letter, yet unwilling, in the goodness of her heart, to snub the little man. the doctor bent near to her and spoke confidentially. "you see, them swanged fools in the legislature has went to work and passed a act--ag'in' my protest, mind you--compellin' doctors to fill out blanks answerin' to a lot of darn-fool questions 'bout one thing and 'nother, like this here." he had spread open on the table the paper he had drawn from his pocket. it was soiled from contact with his coat and his hands, and margaret, instead of touching the sheet, pressed it down with the handle of her pen. the doctor noticed the act and laughed. "you're wonderful easy kreistled [disgusted]; ain't? i took notice a'ready how when things is some dirty they kreistle you, still. but indeed, teacher," he gravely added, "it ain't healthy to wash so much and keep so clean as what you do. it's weakenin'. that's why city folks ain't so hearty--they get right into them big, long tubs they have built in their houses up-stairs! i seen one oncet in at doc hess's in lancaster. i says to him when i seen it, 'you wouldn't get me into that--it's too much like a coffin!' i says. 'it would make a body creepy to get in there.' and he says, 'i'd feel creepy if i didn't get in.' 'yes,' i says,'that's why you're so thin. you wash yourself away,' i says." "what's it all about?" miss margaret abruptly asked, examining the paper. "these here's the questions," answered the doctor, tracing them with his thick, dirty forefinger; "and these here's the blank spaces fur to write the answers into. now you can write better 'n me, teacher; and if you'll just take and write in the answers fur me, why, i'll do a favor fur you some time if ever you ast it off of me. and if ever you need a doctor, just you call on me, and i'm swanged if i charge you a cent!" among the simple population of new canaan the doc was considered the most blasphemous man in america, but there seemed to be a sort of general impression in the village that his profanity was, in some way, an eccentricity of genius. "thank you," miss margaret responded to his offer of free medical services. "i'll fill out the paper for you with pleasure." she read aloud the first question of the list. '"where did you attend lectures?'" her pen suspended over the paper, she looked at him inquiringly. "well?" she asked. "lekshures be blowed!" he exclaimed. "i ain't never 'tended no lekshures!" "oh!" said miss margaret, nodding conclusively. "well, then, let us pass on to the next question. 'to what school of medicine do you belong?'" "school?" repeated the doctor; "i went to school right here in this here town--it's better 'n thirty years ago, a'ready." "no," miss margaret explained, "that's not the question. 'to what school of medicine do you belong?' medicine, you know," she repeated, as though talking to a deaf person. "oh," said the doctor, "medicine, is it? i never have went to none," he announced defiantly. "i studied medicine in old doctor johnson's office and learnt it by practisin' it. that there's the only way to learn any business. do you suppose you could learn a boy carpenterin' by settin' him down to read books on sawin' boards and a-lekshurin' him on drivin' nails? no more can you make a doctor in no such swanged-fool way like that there!" "but," said margaret, "the question means do you practise allopathy, homeopathy, hydropathy, osteopathy,--or, for instance, eclecticism? are you, for example, a homeopathist?" "gosh!" said the doctor, looking at her admiringly, "i'm blamed if you don't know more big words than i ever seen in a spellin'-book or heard at a spellin'-bee! home-o-pathy? no, sir! when i give a dose to a patient, still, he 'most always generally finds it out, and pretty gosh-hang quick too! when he gits a dose of my herb bitters he knows it good enough. be sure, i don't give babies, and so forth, doses like them. all such i treat, still, according to home-o-pathy, and not like that swanged fool, doc hess, which only last week he give a baby a dose fitten only fur a field-hand--and he went to college!--oh, yes!--and heerd lekshures too! natural consequence, the baby up't and died fur 'em. but growed folks they need allopathy." "then," said margaret, "you might be called an eclectic?" "a eclectic?" the doctor inquiringly repeated, rubbing his nose. "to be sure, i know in a general way what a eclectic is, and so forth. but what would you mean, anyhow, by a eclectic doctor, so to speak, heh?" "an eclectic," margaret explained, "is one who claims to adopt whatever is good and reject whatever is bad in every system or school of medicine." "if that ain't a description of me yet!" exclaimed the doctor, delighted. "write 'em down, teacher! i'm a--now what d'you call 'em?" "you certainly are a what-do-you-call-'em!" thought margaret--but she gravely repeated, "an eclectic," and wrote the name in the blank space. "and here i've been practisin' that there style of medicine fur fifteen years without oncet suspicioning it! that is," he quickly corrected himself, in some confusion, "i haven't, so to speak, called it pretty often a eclectic, you see, gosh hang it! and--you understand, don't you, teacher?" margaret understood very well indeed, but she put the question by. the rest of the blank was filled with less difficulty, and in a few minutes the paper was folded and returned to the doctor's pocket. "i'm much obliged to you, teacher," he said heartily. "and mind, now," he added, leaning far back in his chair, crossing his legs, thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets, and letting his eyes rest upon her, "if ever you want a doctor, i ain't chargin' you nothin'; and leave me tell you somethin'," he said, emphasizing each word by a shake of his forefinger, "jake getz and nathaniel puntz they're the two school directors that 'most always makes trouble fur the teacher. and i pass you my word that if they get down on you any, and want to chase you off your job, i'm standin' by you--i pass you my word!" "thank you. but what would they get down on me for?" "well, if jake getz saw you standin' up for his childern against his lickin' 'em or makin' 'em work hard; or if you wanted to make 'em take time to learn their books at home when he wants 'em to work--or some such--he'd get awful down on you. and nathaniel puntz he 's just the contrary--he wants his n' spoiled--he's got but the one." miss margaret recalled with a little thrill the loyalty with which tillie had tried to save her from her father's anger by telling him that elviny dinkleberger had lent her "ivanhoe." "i suppose i had a narrow escape there," she thought. "poor little tillie! she is so conscientious--i can fancy what that lie cost her!" gathering up her stationery, she made a movement to rise--but the doctor checked her with a question. "say! not that i want to ast questions too close--but what was you writin', now, in that letter of yourn, about jake getz?" miss margaret was scarcely prepared for the question. she stared at the man for an instant, then helplessly laughed at him. "well," he said apologetically, "i don't mean to be inquisitive that way--but sometimes i speak unpolite too--fur all i've saw high society a'ready!" he added, on the defensive. "why, here one time i went in to lancaster city to see doc hess, and he wouldn't have it no other way but i should stay and eat along. 'och,' i says, 'i don't want to, i'm so common that way, and i know yous are tony and it don't do. i'll just pick a piece [have luncheon] at the tavern,' i says. but no, he says i was to come eat along. so then i did. and his missus she was wonderful fashionable, but she acted just that nice and common with me as my own mother or my wife yet. and that was the first time i have eat what the noos-papers calls a course dinner. they was three courses. first they was soup and nothin' else settin' on the table, and then a colored young lady come in with such a silver pan and such a flat, wide knife, and she scraped the crumbs off between every one of them three courses. i felt awful funny. i tell you they was tony. i sayed to the missus, 'i hadn't ought to of came here. i'm not grand enough like yous'; but she sayed, 'it's nothing of the kind, and you're always welcome.' yes, she made herself that nice and common!" concluded the doctor. "so you see i have saw high society." "yes," miss margaret assented. "say!" he suddenly put another question to her. "why don't you get married?" "well," she parried, "why don't you?" "i was married a'ready. my wife she died fur me. she was layin' three months. she got so sore layin'. it was when we was stoppin' over in chicago yet. that's out in illinois. then, when she died,--och," he said despondently, "there fur a while i didn't take no interest in nothin' no more. when your wife dies, you don't feel fur nothin'. yes, yes," he sighed, "people have often troubles! oh," he granted, "i went to see other women since. but," shaking his head in discouragement, "it didn't go. i think i'm better off if i stay single. yes, i stay single yet. well," he reconsidered the question, his head on one side as he examined the fair lady before him, "if i could get one to suit me oncet." miss margaret grew alarmed. but the doctor complacently continued, "when my wife died fur me i moved fu'ther west, and i got out as fur as utah yet. that's where they have more 'n one wife. i thought, now, that there was a poor practice! one woman would do me. say!" he again fixed her with his eye. "what?" "do you like your job?" "well," she tentatively answered, "it's not uninteresting." "would you ruther keep your job than quit and get married?" "that depends--" "or," quickly added the doctor, "you might jus keep on teachin' the school after you was married, if you married some one livin' right here. ain't? and if you kep' on the right side of the school board. unlest you'd ruther marry a town fellah and give up your job out here. some thinks the women out here has to work too hard; but if they married a man where [who] was well fixed," he said, insinuatingly, "he could hire fur 'em [keep a servant]. now, there's me. i'm well fixed. i got money plenty." "you are very fortunate," said miss margaret, sympathetically. "yes, ain't? and i ain't got no one dependent on me, neither. no brothers, no sisters, no--wife--" he looked at her with an ingratiating smile. "some says i'm better off that way, but sometimes i think different. sometimes i think i'd like a wife oncet." "yes?" said miss margaret. "um--m," nodded the doctor. "yes, and i'm pretty well fixed. i wasn't always so comfortable off. it went a long while till i got to doin' pretty good, and sometimes i got tired waitin' fur my luck to come. it made me ugly dispositioned, my bad luck did. that's how i got in the way of addicting to profane language. i sayed, still, i wisht, now, the good lord would try posperity on me fur a while--fur adwersity certainly ain't makin' me a child of gawd, i sayed. but now," he added, rubbing his knees with satisfaction, "i'm fixed nice. besides my doctor's fees, i got ten acres, and three good hommies that'll be cows till a little while yet. and that there organ in the front room is my property. bought it fifteen years ago on the instalment plan. i leave missus keep it settin' in her parlor fur style that way. do you play the organ?" "i can," was miss margaret's qualified answer. "i always liked music--high-class music--like 'pinnyfore.' that's a nopery i heard in lancaster there one time at the rooft-garden. that was high-toned music, you bet. no trash about that. gimme somepin nice and ketchy. that's what i like. if it ain't ketchy, i don't take to it. and so," he added admiringly, "you can play the organ too!" "that's one of my distinguished accomplishments," said miss margaret. "well, say!" the doctor leaned forward and took her into his confidence. "i don't mind if my wife is smart, so long as she don't bother me any!" with this telling climax, the significance of which miss margaret could hardly mistake, the doctor fell back again in his chair, and regarded with complacency the comely young woman before him. but before she could collect her shocked wits to reply, the entrance of jake getz's son, sammy, interrupted them. he had come into the house at the kitchen door, and, having announced the object of his errand to the landlady, who, by the way, was his father's sister, he was followed into the sitting-room by a procession, consisting of his aunt, her husband, and their two little daughters. sammy was able to satisfy but meagerly the eager curiosity or interest of the household as to tillie's illness, and his aunt, cousins, and uncle presently returned to their work in the kitchen or out of doors, while the doctor rose reluctantly to go to the stables to hitch up. "pop says to say you should hurry," said sammy. "there's time plenty," petulantly answered the doctor. "i conceited i'd stay settin' with you this evening," he said regretfully to miss margaret. "but a doctor can't never make no plans to stay no-wheres! well!" he sighed, "i'll go round back now and hitch a while." "sammy," said miss margaret, when she found herself alone with the child, "wasn't your mother afraid you would get ill, coming over here, on such a cool evening, barefooted?" "och, no; she leaves me let my shoes off near till it snows already. the teacher we had last year he used to do worse 'n that yet!--he'd wash his feet in the winter-time!" said sammy, in the tone of one relating a deed of valor. "i heard aunty em speak how he washed 'em as much as oncet a week, still, in winter! the doc he sayed no wonder that feller took cold!" miss margaret gazed at the child with a feeling of fascination. "but, sammy," she said wonderingly, "your front porches get a weekly bath in winter--do the people of new canaan wash their porches oftener than they wash themselves?" "porches gets dirty," reasoned sammy. "folks don't get dirty in winter-time. summer's the time they get dirty, and then they mebbe wash in the run." "oh!" said miss margaret. during the six weeks of her life in canaan, she had never once seen in this or any other household the least sign of any toilet appointments, except a tin basin at the pump, a roller-towel on the porch, and a small mirror in the kitchen. tooth-brushes, she had learned, were almost unknown in the neighborhood, nearly every one of more than seventeen years wearing "store-teeth." it was a matter of much speculation to her that these people, who thought it so essential to keep their houses, especially their front porches, immaculately scrubbed, should never feel an equal necessity as to their own persons. the doctor came to the door and told sammy he was ready. "i wouldn't do it to go such a muddy night like what this is," he ruefully declared to miss margaret, "if i didn't feel it was serious; jake getz wouldn't spend any hirin' a doctor, without it was some serious. i'm sorry i got to go." "good-night, sammy," said miss margaret. "give tillie my love; and if she is not able to come to school to-morrow, i shall go to see her." v "novels ain't moral, doc!" tillie still lay on the kitchen settee, her father sitting at her side, when the doctor and sammy arrived. the other children had all been put to bed, and mrs. getz, seated at the kitchen table, was working on a pile of mending by the light of a small lamp. the doctor's verdict, when he had examined his patient's tongue, felt her pulse, and taken her temperature, was not clear. "she's got a high fever. that's 'a all the fu'ther i can go now. what it may turn to till morning, i can't tell till morning. give her these powders every hour, without she's sleeping. that's the most that she needs just now." "yes, if she can keep them powders down," said mr. getz, doubtfully. "she can't keep nothin' with her." "well, keep on giving them, anyhow. she's a pretty sick child." "you ain't no fears of smallpox, are you?" mrs. getz inquired. "mister was afraid it might mebbe be smallpox," she said, indicating her husband by the epithet. "not that you say that i sayed it was!" mr. getz warned the doctor. "we don't want no report put out! but is they any symptoms?" "och, no," the doctor reassured them. "it ain't smallpox. what did you give her that she couldn't keep with her?" "i fed some boiled milk to her." "did she drink tea?" he inquired, looking profound. "we don't drink no store tea," mrs. getz answered him. "we drink peppermint tea fur supper, still. tillie she didn't drink none this evening. some says store tea's bad fur the nerves. i ain't got no nerves," she went on placidly. "leastways, i ain't never felt none, so fur. mister he likes the peppermint." "and it comes cheaper," said mister. "mebbe you've been leavin' tillie work too much in the hot sun out in the fields with you?" the doctor shot a keen glance at the father; for jake getz was known to all canaan township as a man that got more work out of his wife and children than any other farmer in the district. "after school, some," mr. getz replied. "but not fur long at a time, fur it gets late a'ready till she gets home. anyhow, it's healthy fur her workin' in the fields. i guess," he speculated, "it was her settin' up in bed readin' last night done it. i don't know right how long it went that she was readin' before i seen the light, but it was near morning a'ready, and she'd burned near a whole candle out." "and mebbe you punished her?" the doctor inquired, holding his hand to tillie's temples. "well," nodded mr. getz, "i guess she won't be doin' somepin like that soon again. i think, still, i mebbe used the strap too hard, her bein' a girl that way. but a body's got to learn 'em when they're young, you know. and here it was a novel-book! she borrowed the loan of it off of elviny dinkleberger! i chucked it in the fire! i don't uphold to novel-readin'!" "well, now," argued the doctor, settling back in his chair, crossing his legs, and thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, "some chance times i read in such a 'home companion' paper, and here this winter i read a piece in nine chapters. i make no doubt that was a novel. leastways, i guess you'd call it a novel. and that piece," he said impressively, "wouldn't hurt nobody! it learns you. that piece," he insisted, "was got up by a moral person." "then i guess it wasn't no novel, doc," mr. getz firmly maintained. "anybody knows novels ain't moral. anyhow, i ain't havin' none in my house. if i see any, they get burnt up." "it's a pity you burnt it up, jake. i like to come by somepin like that, still, to pass the time when there ain't much doin'. how did elviny dinkleberger come by such a novel?" "i don't know. if i see her pop, i 'll tell him he better put a stop to such behaviors." tillie stirred restlessly on her pillow. "what was the subjeck of that there novel, tillie?" the doctor asked. "its subjeck was 'iwanhoe,'" mr. getz answered. "yes, i chucked it right in the stove." "'iwanhoe'!" exclaimed the doctor. "why, elviny must of borrowed the loan of that off of teacher--i seen teacher have it." tillie turned pleading eyes upon his face, but he did not see her. "do you mean to say," demanded mr. getz, "that teacher lends novels to the scholars!" "och!" said the doctor, suddenly catching the frantic appeal of tillie's eyes, and answering it with ready invention, "what am i talkin' about! it was elviny lent it to aunty em's little rebecca at the hotel, and teacher was tellin' rebecca she mustn't read it, but give it back right aways to elviny." "well!" said mr. getz, "a teacher that would lend novels to the scholars wouldn't stay long at william penn if my wote could put her out! and there 's them on the board that thinks just like what i think!" "to be sure!" the doctor soothed him. "to be sure! yes," he romanced, "rebecca she lent that book off of elviny dinkleberger, and teacher she tole rebecca to give it back." "i'll speak somepin to elviny's pop, first time i see him, how elviny's lendin' a novel to the scholars!" affirmed mr. getz. "you needn't trouble," said the doctor, coolly. "elviny's pop he give elviny that there book last christmas. i don't know what he'll think, jake, at your burnin' it up." tillie was gazing at the doctor, now, half in bewilderment, half in passionate gratitude. "if tillie did get smallpox," mrs. getz here broke in, "would she mebbe have to be took to the pest-house?" tillie started, and her feverish eyes sought in the face of the doctor to know what dreadful place a "pest-house" might be. "whether she'd have to be took to the pest-house?" the doctor inquiringly repeated. "yes, if she took the smallpox. but she ain't takin' it. you needn't worry." "doctors don't know near as much now as what they used to, still," mr. getz affirmed. "they didn't have to have no such pest-houses when i was a boy. leastways, they didn't have 'em. and they didn't never ketch such diseases like 'pendycitis and grip and them." "do you mean to say, jake getz, that you pass it as your opinion us doctors don't know more now than what they used to know thirty years ago, when you was a boy?" "of course they don't," was the dogmatic rejoinder. "nor nobody knows as much now as they did in ancient times a'ready. i mean back in bible times." "do you mean to say," hotly argued the doctor, "that they had automobiles in them days?" "to be sure i do! automobiles and all the other lost sciences!" "well," said the doctor, restraining his scorn with a mighty effort, "i'd like to see you prove it oncet!" "i can prove it right out of the bible! do you want better proof than that, doc? the bible says in so many words, 'there's nothing new under the sun.' there! you can't come over that there, can you? you don't consider into them things enough, doc. you ain't a religious man, that 's the trouble!" "i got religion a plenty, but i don't hold to no sich dumm thoughts!" "did you get your religion at bethel rewiwal?" mrs. getz quickly asked, glancing up from the little stocking she was darning, to look with some interest at the doctor. "i wanted to go over oncet before the rewiwal's done. but now tillie's sick, mebbe i won't get to go fur all. when they have rewiwals at bethel they always make so! and," she added, resuming her darning, "i like to see 'em jump that way. my, but they jump, now, when they get happy! but i didn't get to go this year yet." "well, and don't you get affected too?" the doctor asked, "and go out to the mourners' bench?" "if i do? no, i go just to see 'em jump," she monotonously repeated. "i wasn't never conwerted. mister he's a hard evangelical, you know." "and what does he think of your unconwerted state?" the doctor jocularly inquired. "what he thinks? there's nothing to think," was the stolid answer. "up there to bethel rewiwal," said mr. getz, "they don't stay conwerted. till rewiwal's over, they're off church again." "it made awful funny down there this two weeks back," repeated mrs. getz. "they jumped so. now there's the lutherans, they don't make nothin' when they conwert themselves. they don't jump nor nothin'. i don't like their meetin's. it's onhandy tillie got sick fur me just now. i did want to go oncet. here 's all this mendin' she could have did, too. she 's handier at sewin' than what i am, still. i always had so much other work, i never come at sewin', and i 'm some dopplig at it." "yes?--yes," said the doctor, rising to go. "well, tillie, good-by, and don't set up nights any more readin' novels," he laughed. "she ain't likely to," said her father. "my childern don't generally do somepin like that again after i once ketch 'em at it. ain't so, tillie? well, then, doc, you think she ain't serious?" "i said i can't tell till i've saw her again a'ready." "how long will it go till you come again?" "well," the doctor considered, "it looks some fur fallin' weather--ain't? if it rains and the roads are muddy till morning, so 's i can't drive fast, i won't mebbe be here till ten o'clock." "oh, doctor," whispered tillie, in a tone of distress, "can't i go to school? can't i? i'll be well enough, won't i? it's friday to-morrow, and i--i want to go!" she sobbed. "i want to go to miss margaret!" "no, you can't go to school to-morrow, tillie," her father said, "even if you're some better; i'm keepin' you home to lay still one day anyhow." "but i don't want to stay home!" the child exclaimed, casting off the shawl with which her father had covered her and throwing out her arms. "i want to go to school! i want to, pop!" she sobbed, almost screaming. "i want to go to miss margaret! i will, i will!" "tillie--tillie!" her father soothed her in that unwonted tone of gentleness that sounded so strange to her. his face had turned pale at her outcries, delirious they seemed to him, coming from his usually meek and submissive child. "there now," he said, drawing the cover over her again; "now lay still and be a good girl, ain't you will?" "will you leave me go to school to-morrow?" she pleaded piteously. "dare i go to school to-morrow?" "no, you dassent, tillie. but if you're a good girl, mebbe i 'll leave sammy ast teacher to come to see you after school." "oh, pop!" breathed the child ecstatically, as in supreme contentment she sank back again on her pillow. "i wonder will she come? do you think she will come to see me, mebbe?" "to be sure will she." "now think," said the doctor, "how much she sets store by teacher! and a lot of 'em's the same way--girls and boys." "i didn't know she was so much fur teacher," said mr. getz. "she never spoke nothin'." "she never spoke nothin' to me about it neither," said mrs. getz. "well, i 'll give you all good-by, then," said the doctor; and he went away. on his slow journey home through the mud he mused on the inevitable clash which he foresaw must some day come between the warm-hearted teacher (whom little tillie so loved, and who so injudiciously lent her "novel-books") and the stern and influential school director, jacob getz. "there my chanct comes in," thought the doctor; "there's where i mebbe put in my jaw and pop the question--just when jake getz is makin' her trouble and she's gettin' chased off her job. i passed my word i'd stand by her, and, by gum, i 'll do it! when she's out of a job--that's the time she 'll be dead easy! ain't? she's the most allurin' female i seen since my wife up't and died fur me!" vi jake getz in a quandary tillie's illness, though severe while it lasted, proved to be a matter of only a few days' confinement to bed; and fortunately for her, it was while she was still too weak and ill to be called to account for her misdeed that her father discovered her deception as to the owner of "ivanhoe." at least he found out, in talking with elviny dinkleberger and her father at the lancaster market, that the girl was innocent of ever having owned or even seen the book, and that, consequently, she had of course never lent it either to rebecca wackernagel at the hotel or to tillie. despite his rigorous dealings with his family (which, being the outcome of the pennsylvania dutch faith in the divine right of the head of the house, were entirely conscientious), jacob getz was strongly and deeply attached to his wife and children; and his alarm at tillie's illness, coming directly upon his severe punishment of her, had softened him sufficiently to temper his wrath at finding that she had told him what was not true. what her object could have been in shielding the real owner of the book he could not guess. his suspicions did not turn upon the teacher, because, in the first place, he would have seen no reason why tillie should wish to shield her, and, in the second, it was inconceivable that a teacher at william penn should set out so to pervert the young whom trusting parents placed under her care. there never had been a novel-reading teacher at william penn. the board would as soon have elected an opium-eater. where had tillie obtained that book? and why had she put the blame on elviny, who was her little friend? the doc, evidently, was in league with tillie! what could it mean? jake getz was not used to dealing with complications and mysteries. he pondered the case heavily. when he went home from market, he did not tell tillie of his discovery, for the doctor had ordered that she be kept quiet. not until a week later, when she was well enough to be out of bed, did he venture to tell her he had caught her telling a falsehood. he could not know that the white face of terror which she turned to him was fear for miss margaret and not, for once, apprehension of the strap. "i ain't whippin' you this time," he gruffly said, "if you tell me the truth whose that there book was." tillie did not speak. she was resting in the wooden rocking-chair by the kitchen window, a pillow at her head and a shawl over her knees. her stepmother was busy at the table with her saturday baking; sammy was giving the porch its saturday cleaning, and the other children, too little to work, were playing outdoors; even the baby, bundled up in its cart, was out on the grass-plot. "do you hear me, tillie? whose book was that there?" tillie's head hung low and her very lips were white. she did not answer. "you 're goin' to act stubborn to me!" her father incredulously exclaimed, and the woman at the table turned and stared in dull amazement at this unheard-of defiance of the head of the family. "tillie!" he grasped her roughly by the arm and shook her. "answer to me!" tillie's chest rose and fell tumultuously. bat she kept her eyes downcast and her lips closed. "fur why don't you want to tell, then?" "i--can't, pop!" "can't! if you wasn't sick i 'd soon learn you if you can't! now you might as well tell me right aways, fur i'll make you tell me some time!" tillie's lips quivered and the tears rolled slowly over her white cheeks. "fur why did you say it was elviny?" "she was the only person i thought to say." "but fur why didn't you say the person it was? answer to me!" he commanded. tillie curved her arm over her face and sobbed. she was still too weak from her fever to bear the strain of this unequal contest of wills. "well," concluded her father, his anger baffled and impotent before the child's weakness, "i won't bother you with it no more now. but you just wait till you 're well oncet! we'll see then if you'll tell me what i ast you or no!" "here's the doc," announced mrs. getz, as the sound of wheels was heard outside the gate. "well," her husband said indignantly as he rose and went to the door, "i just wonder what he's got to say fur hisself, lyin' to me like what he done!" "hello, jake!" was the doctor's breezy greeting as he walked into the kitchen, followed by a brood of curious little getzes, to whom the doctor's daily visits were an exciting episode. "howdy-do, missus," he briskly addressed the mother of the brood, pushing his hat to the back of his head in lieu of raising it. "and how's the patient?" he inquired with a suddenly professional air and tone. "some better, heh? heh? been cryin'! what fur?" he demanded, turning to mr. getz. "say, jake, you ain't been badgerin' this kid again fur somepin? she'll be havin' a relapse if you don't leave her be!" "it's you i'm wantin' to badger, doc weaver!" retorted mr. getz. "what fur did you lie to me about that there piece entitled 'iwanhoe'?" "you and your 'iwanhoe' be blowed! are you tormentin' this here kid about that yet? a body'd think you'd want to change that subjec', jake getz!" "not till i find from you, doc, whose that there novel-book was, and why you tole me it was elviny dinkleberger's!" "that's easy tole," responded the doctor. "that there book belonged to--" "no, doc, no, no!" came a pleading cry from tillie. "don't tell, doc, please don't tell!" "never you mind, tillie, that's all right. look here, jake getz!" the doctor turned his sharp little eyes upon the face of the father grown dark with anger at his child's undutiful interference. "you're got this here little girl worked up to the werge of a relapse! i tole you she must be kep' quiet and not worked up still!" "all right. i'm leavin' her alone--till she's well oncet! you just answer fur yourself and tell why you lied to me!" "well, jake, it was this here way. that there book belonged to me and tillie lent it off of me. that's how! ain't tillie?" mr. getz stared in stupefied wonder, while mrs. getz, too, looked on with a dull interest, as she leaned her back against the sink and dried her hands upon her apron. as for tillie, a great throb of relief thrilled through her as she heard the doctor utter this napoleonic lie--only to be followed the next instant by an overwhelming sense of her own wickedness in thus conniving with fraud. abysses of iniquity seemed to yawn at her feet, and she gazed with horror into their black depths. how could she ever again hold up her head. but--miss margaret, at least, was safe from the school board's wrath and indignation, and how unimportant, compared with that, was her own soul's salvation! "why didn't tillie say it was yourn?" mr. getz presently found voice to ask. "i tole her if she left it get put out i am addicted to novel readin'," said the doctor glibly, and with evident relish, "it might spoil my practice some. and tillie she's that kind-hearted she was sorry far me!" "and so you put her up to say it was elviny's! you put her up to tell lies to her pop!" "well, i never thought you 'd foller it up any, jake, and try to get elviny into trouble." "doc, i always knowed you was a blasphemer and that you didn't have no religion. but i thought you had anyhow morals. and i didn't think, now, you was a coward that way, to get behind a child and lie out of your own evil deeds!" "i'm that much a coward and a blasphemer, jake, that i 'm goin' to add the cost of that there book of mine where you burnt up, to your doctor's bill, unlest you pass me your promise you 'll drop this here subjec' and not bother tillie with it no more." the doctor had driven his victim into a corner. to yield a point in family discipline or to pay the price of the property he had destroyed--one of the two he must do. it was a most untoward predicament for jacob getz. "you had no right to lend that there book to tillie, doc, and i ain't payin' you a cent fur it!" he maintained. "i jus' mean, jake, i 'll make out my bill easy or stiff accordin' to the way you pass your promise." "if my word was no more better 'n yours, doe, my passin' my promise wouldn't help much!" "that's all right, jake. i don't set up to be religious and moral. i ain't sayed my prayers since i am old enough a'ready to know how likely i was, still, to kneel on a tack!" "it's no wonder you was put off of church!" was the biting retort. "hold up there, jake. i wasn't put off. i went off. i took myself off of church before the brethren had a chanct to put me off." "sammy!" mr. getz suddenly and sharply admonished his little son, who was sharpening his slate-pencil on the window-sill with a table-knife, "you stop right aways sharpenin' that pencil! you dassent sharpen your slate-pencils, do you hear? it wastes 'em so!" sammy hastily laid down the knife and thrust the pencil into his pocket. mr. getz turned again to the doctor and inquired irritably, "what is it to you if i teach my own child to mind me or not, i'd like to know?" "because she's been bothered into a sickness with this here thing a'ready, and it 's time it stopped now!" "it was you started it, leavin' her lend the book off of you!" "that's why i feel fur sparin' her some more trouble, seein' i was the instrument in the hands of providence fur gettin' her into all this here mess. see?" "i can't be sure when to know if you're lyin' or not," said mr. getz helplessly. "mebbe you can't, jake. sometimes i'm swangfid if i'm sure, still, myself. but there's one thing you kin be cocksure of--and that's a big doctor-bill unlest you do what i sayed." "now that i know who she lent the book off of there ain't nothin' to bother her about," sullenly granted mr. getz. "and as fur punishment--she's had punishment a-plenty, i guess, in her bein' so sick." "all right," the doctor said magnanimously. "there's one thing i 'll give you, jake: you're a man of your word, if you are a dutch hog!" "a--whatever?" mr. getz angrily demanded. "and i don't see," the doctor complacently continued, rising and pulling his hat down to his eyebrows, preparatory to leaving, "where tillie gets her fibbin' from. certainly not from her pop." "i don't mind her ever tellin' me no lie before." "och, jake, you drive your children to lie to you, the way you bring 'em up to be afraid of you. they got to lie, now and again, to a feller like you! well, well," he soothingly added as he saw the black look in the father's face at the airing of such views in the presence of his children, "never mind, jake, it 's all in the day's work!" he turned for a parting glance at tillie. "she 's better. she 'll be well till a day or two, now, and back to school--if she's kep' quiet, and her mind ain't bothered any. now, good-by to yous." vii "the last day of pump-eye" for a long time after her unhappy experiences with "ivanhoe" tillie did not again venture to transgress against her father's prohibition of novels. but her fear of the family strap, although great, did not equal the keenness of her mental hunger, and was not sufficient, therefore, to put a permanent check upon her secret midnight reading, though it did lead her to take every precaution against detection. miss margaret continued to lend her books and magazines from time to time, and in spite of the child's reluctance to risk involving the teacher in trouble with the school board through her father, she accepted them. and so during all this winter, through her love for books and her passionate devotion to her teacher, the little girl reveled in feasts of fancy and emotion and this term at school was the first season of real happiness her young life had ever known. once on her return from school the weight of a heavy volume had proved too great a strain on her worn and thin undergarment during the long walk home; the skirt had torn away from the band, and as she entered the kitchen, her stepmother discovered the book. tillie pleaded with her not to tell her father, and perhaps she might have succeeded in gaining a promise of secrecy had it not happened that just at the critical moment her father walked into the kitchen. of course, then the book was handed over to him, and tillie with it. "did you lend this off the doc again?" her father sternly demanded, the fated book in one hand and tillie's shoulder grasped in the other. tillie hated to utter the lie. she hoped she had modified her wickedness a bit by answering with a nod of her head. "what's he mean, throwin' away so much money on books?" mr. getz took time in his anger to wonder. he read the title, "'last days of pump-eye.' well!" he exclaimed, "this here's the last hour of this here 'pump-eye'! in the stove she goes! i don't owe the doc no doctor's bill now, and i'd like to see him make me pay him fur these here novels he leaves you lend off of him!" "please, please, pop!" tillie gasped, "don't burn it. give it back to--him! i won't read it--i won't bring home no more books of--hisn! only, please, pop, don't burn it--please!" for answer, he drew her with him as he strode to the fireplace. "i'm burnin' every book you bring home, do you hear?" he exclaimed; but before he could make good his words, the kitchen door was suddenly opened, and sammy's head was poked in, with the announcement, "the doc's buggy's comin' up the road!" the door banged shut again, but instantly tillie wrenched her shoulder free from her father's hand, flew out of doors and dashed across the "yard" to the front gate. her father's voice followed her, calling to her from the porch to "come right aways back here!" unheeding, she frantically waved to the doctor in his approaching buggy. sammy, with a bevy of small brothers and sisters, to whom, no less than to their parents, the passing of a "team" was an event not to be missed, were all crowded close to the fence. "some one sick again?" inquired the doctor as he drew up at tillie's side. "no, doc--but," tillie could hardly get her breath to speak, "pop's goin' to burn up 'last days of pompeii'; it's miss margaret's, and he thinks it's yourn; come in and take it, doc--please--and give it back to miss margaret, won't you?" "sure!" the doctor was out of his buggy at her side in an instant. "oh!" breathed tillie, "here's pop comin' with the book!" "see me fix him!" chuckled the doctor. "he's so dumm he'll b'lee' most anything. if i have much more dealin's with your pop, tillie, i'll be ketchin' on to how them novels is got up myself. and then mebbe i'll let doctorin', and go to novel-writin'!" the doctor laughed with relish of his own joke, as mr. getz, grim with anger, stalked up to the buggy. "look-ahere!" his voice was menacing as he held out the open book for tillie's inspection, and the child turned cold as she read on the fly-leaf, "margaret lind. "from a. c. l. christmas, --" "you sayed the doc give it to you! did you lend that other 'n' off of teacher too? answer to me! i'll have her chased off of william penn! i'll bring it up at next board meetin'!" "hold your whiskers, jake, or they'll blow off! you're talkin' through your hat! don't be so dumm! teacher she gev me that there book because she passed me her opinion she don't stand by novel-readin'. she was goin' to throw out that there book and i says i'd take it if she didn't want it. so then i left tillie borrow the loan of it." "so that's how you come by it, is it?" mr. getz eyed the doctor with suspicion. "how did you come by that there 'iwanhoe'?" "that there i bought at the second-hand book-store in there at lancaster one time. i ain't just so much fur books, but now and again i like to buy one too, when i see 'em cheap." "well, here!" mr. getz tossed the book into tie buggy. "take your old 'pump-eye.' and clear out. if i can't make you stop tryin' to spoil my child fur me, i can anyways learn her what she'll get oncet, if she don't mind!" again his hand grasped tillie's shoulder as he turned her about to take her into the house. "you better watch out, jake getz, or you 'll have another doctor's bill to pay!" the doctor warningly called after him. "that girl of yourn ain't strong enough to stand your rough handlin', and you'll find it out some day--to your regret! you'd better go round back and let off your feelin's choppin' wood fur missus, stead of hittin' that little girl, you big dopple!" mr. getz stalked on without deigning to reply, thrusting tillie ahead of him. the doctor jumped into his buggy and drove off. his warning, however, was not wholly lost upon the father. tillie's recent illness had awakened remorse for the severe punishment he had given her on the eve of it; and it had also touched his purse; and so, though she did not escape punishment for this second and, therefore, aggravated offense, it was meted out in stinted measure. and indeed, in her relief and thankfulness at again saving miss margaret, the child scarcely felt the few light blows which, in order that parental authority be maintained, her father forced himself to inflict upon her. in spite of these mishaps, however, tillie continued to devour all the books she could lay hold of and to run perilous risks for the sake of the delight she found in them. miss margaret stood to her for an image of every heroine of whom she read in prose or verse, and for the realization of all the romantic day-dreams in which, as an escape from the joyless and sordid life of her home, she was learning to live and move and have her being. therefore it came to her as a heavy blow indeed when, just after the christmas holidays, her father announced to her on the first morning of the reopening of school, "you best make good use of your time from now on, tillie, fur next spring i'm takin' you out of school." tillie's face turned white, and her heart thumped in her breast so that she could not speak. "you're comin' twelve year old," her father continued, "and you're enough educated, now, to do you. me and mom needs you at home." it never occurred to tillie to question or discuss a decision of her father's. when he spoke it was a finality and one might as well rebel at the falling of the snow or rain. tillie's woe was utterly hopeless. her dreary, drooping aspect in the next few days was noticed by miss margaret. "pop's takin' me out of school next spring," she heart-brokenly said when questioned. "and when i can't see you every day, miss margaret, i won't feel for nothin' no more. and i thought to get more educated than what i am yet. i thought to go to school till i was anyways fourteen." so keenly did miss margaret feel the outrage and wrong of tillie's arrested education, when her father could well afford to keep her in school until she was grown, if he would; so stirred was her warm southern blood at the thought of the fate to which poor tillie seemed doomed--the fate of a household drudge with not a moment's leisure from sunrise to night for a thought above the grubbing existence of a domestic beast of burden (thus it all looked to this woman from kentucky), that she determined, cost what it might, to go herself to appeal to mr. getz. "he will have me 'chased off of william penn,'" she ruefully told herself. "and the loss just now of my munificent salary of thirty-five dollars a month would be inconvenient. 'the doc' said he would 'stand by' me. but that might be more inconvenient still!" she thought, with a little shudder. "i suppose this is an impolitic step for me to take. but policy 'be blowed,' as the doctor would say! what are we in this world for but to help one another? i must try to help little tillie--bless her!" so the following monday afternoon after school, found miss margaret, in a not very complacent or confident frame of mind, walking with tillie and her younger brother and sister out over the snow-covered road to the getz farm to face the redoubtable head of the family. viii miss margaret's errand it was half-past four o'clock when they reached the farm-house, and they found the weary, dreary mother of the family cleaning fish at the kitchen sink, one baby pulling at her skirts, another sprawling on the floor at her feet. miss margaret inquired whether she might see mr. getz. "if you kin? yes, i guess," mrs. getz dully responded. "sammy, you go to the barn and tell pop teacher's here and wants to speak somepin to him. mister's out back," she explained to miss margaret, "choppin' wood." sammy departed, and miss margaret sat down in the chair which tillie brought to her. mrs. getz went on with her work at the sink, while tillie set to work at once on a crock of potatoes waiting to be pared. "you are getting supper very early, aren't you?' miss margaret asked, with a friendly attempt to make conversation. "no, we're some late. and i don't get it ready yet, i just start it. we're getting strangers fur supper." "are you?" "yes. some of mister's folks from east bethel." "and are they strangers to you?" mrs. getz paused in her scraping of the fish to consider the question. "if they're strangers to us? och, no. we knowed them this long time a'ready. us we're well acquainted. but to be sure they don't live with us, so we say strangers is comin'. you don't talk like us; ain't?" "n--not exactly." "i do think now (you must excuse me sayin' so) but you do talk awful funny," mrs. getz smiled feebly. "i suppose i do," miss margaret sympathetically replied. mr. getz now came into the room, and miss margaret rose to greet him. "i'm much obliged to meet you," he said awkwardly as he shook hands with her. he glanced at the clock on the mantel, then turned to speak to tillie. "are yous home long a'ready?" he inquired. "not so very long," tillie answered with an apprehensive glance at the clock. "you're some late," he said, with a threatening little nod as he drew up a chair in front of the teacher. "it's my fault," miss margaret hastened to say, "i made the children wait to bring me out here." "well," conceded mr. getz, "then we'll leave it go this time." miss margaret now bent her mind to the difficult task of persuading this stubborn pennsylvania dutchman to accept her views as to what was for the highest and best good of his daughter. eloquently she pointed out to him that tillie being a child of unusual ability, it would be much better for her to have an education than to be forced to spend her days in farm-house drudgery. but her point of view, being entirely novel, did not at all appeal to him. "i never thought to leave her go to school after she was twelve. that's long enough fur a girl; a female don't need much book-knowledge. it don't help her none to keep house fur her mister." "but she could become a teacher and then she could earn money," miss margaret argued, knowing the force of this point with mr. getz. "but look at all them years she'd have to spend learnin' herself to be intelligent enough fur to be a teacher, when she might be helpin' me and mom." "but she could help you by paying board here when she becomes the new canaan teacher." "that's so too," granted mr. getz; and margaret grew faintly hopeful. "but," he added, after a moment's heavy weighing of the matter, "it would take too long to get her enough educated fur to be a teacher, and i'm one of them," he maintained, "that holds a child is born to help the parent, and not contrarywise--that the parent must do everything fur the child that way." "if you love your children, you must wish for their highest good," she suggested, "and not trample on their best interests." "but they have the right to work for their parents," he insisted. "you needn't plague me to leave tillie stay in school, teacher. i ain't leavin' her!" "do you think you have a right to bring children into the world only to crush everything in them that is worth while?" margaret dared to say to him, her face flushed, her eyes bright with the intensity of her feelings. "that's all blamed foolishness!" jake getz affirmed. "do you think that your daughter, when she is grown and realizes all that she has lost, will 'rise up and call you blessed'?" she persisted. "do i think? well, what i think is that it's a good bit more particular that till she's growed she's been learnt to work and serve them that raised her. and what i think is that a person ain't fit to be a teacher of the young that sides along with the childern ag'in' their parents." miss margaret felt that it was time she took her leave. "look-ahere oncet, teacher!" mr. getz suddenly said, fixing on her a suspicious and searching look, "do you uphold to novel-readin'?" miss margaret hesitated perceptibly. she must shield tillie even more than herself. "what a question to ask of the teacher at william penn!" she gravely answered. "i know it ain't such a wery polite question," returned mr. getz, half apologetically. "but the way you side along with childern ag'in' their parents suspicions me that the doc was lyin' when he sayed them novel-books was hisn. now was they hisn or was they yourn?" miss margaret rose with a look and air of injury. "'mr. getz, no one ever before asked me such questions. indeed," she said, in a tone of virtuous primness, "i can't answer such questions." "all the same," sullenly asserted mr. getz, "i wouldn't put it a-past you after the way you passed your opinion to me this after!" "i must be going," returned miss margaret with dignity. mrs. getz came forward from the stove with a look and manner of apology for her husband's rudeness to the visitor. "what's your hurry? can't you stay and eat along? we're not anyways tired of you." "thank you. but they will be waiting for me at the hotel," said miss margaret gently. tillie, a bit frightened, also hovered near, her wistful little face pale. miss margaret drew her to her and held her at her side, as she looked up into the face of mr. getz. "i am very, very sorry, mr. getz, that my visit has proved so fruitless. you don't realize what a mistake you are making." "that ain't the way a teacher had ought to talk before a scholar to its parent!" indignantly retorted mr. getz. "and i'm pretty near sure it was all the time you where lent them books to tillie--corruptin' the young! i can tell you right now, i ain't votin' fur you at next election! and the way i wote is the way two other members always wotes still--and so you'll lose your job at william penn! that's what you get fur tryin' to interfere between a parent and a scholar! i hope it'll learn you!" "and when is the next election?" imperturbably asked miss margaret. "next month on the twenty-fifth of february. then you'll see oncet!" "according to the terms of my agreement with the board i hold my position until the first of april unless the board can show reasons why it should be taken from me. what reasons can you show?" "that you side along with the--" "that i try to persuade you not to take your child out of school when you can well afford to keep her there. that's what you have to tell the board." mr. getz stared at her, rather baffled. the children also stared in wide-eyed curiosity, realizing with wonder that teacher was "talkin' up to pop!" it was a novel and interesting spectacle. "well, anyways," continued mr. getz, rallying, "i'll bring it up in board meeting that you mebbe leave the scholars borry the loan of novels off of you." "but you can't prove it. i shall hold the board to their contract. they can't break it." miss margaret was taking very high ground, of which, in fact, she was not at all sure. mr. getz gazed at her with mingled anger and fascination. here was certainly a new species of woman! never before had any teacher at william penn failed to cringe to his authority as a director. "this much i kin say," he finally declared. "mebbe you kin hold us to that there contract, but you won't, anyways, be elected to come back here next term! that's sure! you'll have to look out fur another place till september a'ready. and we won't give you no recommend, neither, to get yourself another school with!" just here it was that miss margaret had her triumph, which she was quite human enough to thoroughly enjoy. "you won't have a chance to reelect me, for i am going to resign at the end of the term. i am going to be married the week after school closes." never had mr. getz felt himself so foiled. never before had any one subject in any degree to his authority so neatly eluded a reckoning at his hands. a tingling sensation ran along his arm and he had to restrain his impulse to lift it, grasp this slender creature standing so fearlessly before him, and thoroughly shake her. "who's the party?" asked mrs. getz, curiously. "it never got put out that you was promised. i ain't heard you had any steady comp'ny. to be sure, some says the doc likes you pretty good. is it now, mebbe, the doc? but no," she shook her head; "mister's sister em at the hotel would have tole me. is it some one where lives around here?" "i don't mind telling you," miss margaret graciously answered, realizing that her reply would greatly increase mr. getz's sense of defeat. "it is mr. lansing, a nephew of the state superintendent of schools and a professor at the millersville normal school." "well, now just look!" mrs. getz exclaimed wonderingly. "such a tony party! the state superintendent's nephew! that's even a more way-up person than what the county superintendent is! ain't? well, who'd 'a' thought!" "miss margaret!" tillie breathed, gazing up at her, her eyes wide and strained with distress, "if you go away and get married, won't i never see you no more?" "but, dear, i shall live so near--at the normal school only a few miles away. you can come to see me often." "but pop won't leave me, miss margaret--it costs too expensive to go wisiting, and i got to help with the work, still. o miss margaret!" tillie sobbed, as margaret sat down and held the clinging child to her, "i'll never see you no more after you go away!" "tillie, dear!" margaret tried to soothe her. "i 'll come to see you, then, if you can't come to see me. listen, tillie,--i've just thought of something." suddenly she put the little girl from her and stood up. "let me take tillie to live with me next fall at the normal school. won't you do that, mr. getz!" she urged him. "she could go to the preparatory school, and if we stay at millersville, dr. lansing and i would try to have her go through the normal school and graduate. will you consent to it, mr. getz?" "and who'd be payin' fur all this here?" mr. getz ironically inquired. "tillie could earn her own way as my little maid--helping me keep my few rooms in the normal school building and doing my mending and darning for me. and you know after she was graduated she could earn her living as a teacher." margaret saw the look of feverish eagerness with which tillie heard this proposal and awaited the outcome. before her husband could answer, mrs. getz offered a weak protest. "i hear the girls hired in town have to set away back in the kitchen and never dare set front--always away back, still. tillie wouldn't like that. nobody would." "but i shall live in a small suite of rooms at the school--a library, a bedroom, a bath-room, and a small room next to mine that can be tillie's bedroom. we shall take our meals in the school dining-room." "well, that mebbe she wouldn't mind. but 'way back she wouldn't be satisfied to set. that's why the country girls don't like to hire in town, because they dassent set front with the missus. here last market-day sophy haberbush she conceited she'd like oncet to hire out in town, and she ast me would i go with her after market to see a lady that advertised in the newspaper fur a girl, and i sayed no, i wouldn't mind. so i went along. but sophy she wouldn't take the place fur all. she ast the lady could she have her country company, sundays--he was her company fur four years now and she wouldn't like to give him up neither. she tole the lady her company goes, still, as early as eleven. but the lady sayed her house must be darkened and locked at half-past ten a'ready. she ast me was i sophy's mother and i sayed no, i'm nothin' to her but a neighbor woman. and she tole sophy, when they eat, still, sophy she couldn't eat along. i guess she thought sophy haberbush wasn't good enough. but she's as good as any person. her mother's name is smith before she was married, and them smiths was well fixed. she sayed sophy'd have to go in and out the back way and never out the front. why, they say some of the town people's that proud, if the front door-bell rings and the missus is standin' right there by it, she won't open that there front door but wants her hired girl to come clear from the kitchen to open it. yes, you mightn't b'lee me, but i heerd that a'ready. and mary hertzog she tole me when she hired out there fur a while one winter in town, why, one day she went to the missus and she says, 'there's two ladies in the parlor and i tole 'em you was helpin' in the kitchen,' and the missus she ast her, 'what fur did you tell 'em that? why, i'm that ashamed i don't know how to walk in the parlor!' and mary she ast the colored gentleman that worked there, what, now, did the missus mean?--and he sayed, 'well, mary, you've a heap to learn about the laws of society. don't you know you must always leave on the ladies ain't doin' nothin'?' mary sayed that colored gentleman was so wonderful intelligent that way. he'd been a restaurant waiter there fur a while and so was throwed in with the best people, and he was, now, that tony and high-minded! och, i wouldn't hire in town! to be sure, mister can do what he wants. well," she added, "it's a quarter till five--i guess i'll put the peppermint on a while. mister's folks'll be here till five." she moved away to the stove, and margaret resumed her assault upon the stubborn ignorance of the father. "think, mr. getz, what a difference all this would make in tillie's life," she urged. "and you'd be learnin' her all them years to up and sass her pop when she was growed and earnin' her own livin'!" he objected. "i certainly would not." "and all them years till she graduated she'd be no use to us where owns her," he said, as though his child were an item of live stock on the farm. "she could come home to you in the summer vacations," margaret suggested. "yes, and she'd come that spoilt we couldn't get no work out of her. no, if i hire her out winters, it'll be where i kin draw her wages myself--where's my right as her parent. what does a body have childern fur? to get no use out of 'em? it ain't no good you're plaguin' me. i ain't leavin' her go. tillie!" he commanded the child with a twirl of his thumb and a motion of his head; "go set the supper-table!" margaret laid her arm about tillie's shoulder. "well, dear," she said sorrowfully, "we must give it all up, i suppose. but don't lose heart, tillie. i shall not go out of your life. at least we can write to each other. now," she concluded, bending and kissing her, "i must go, but you and i shall have some talks before you stop school, and before i go away from new canaan." she pressed her lips to tillie's in a long kiss, while the child clung to her in passionate devotion. mr. getz looked on with dull bewilderment. he knew, in a vague way, that every word the teacher spoke to the child, no less than those useless caresses, was "siding along with the scholar ag'in' the parent," and yet he could not definitely have stated just how. he was quite sure that she would not dare so to defy him did she not know that she had the whip-handle in the fact that she did not want her "job" next year, and that the board could not, except for definite offenses, break their contract with her. it was only in view of these considerations that she played her game of "plaguing" him by championing tillie. jacob getz was incapable of recognizing in the teacher's attitude toward his child an unselfish interest and love. so, in dogged, sullen silence, he saw this extraordinary young woman take her leave and pass out of his house. ix "i'll do my darn best, teacher!" it soon "got put out" in new canaan that miss margaret was "promised," and the doctor was surprised to find how much the news depressed him. "i didn't know, now, how much i was stuck on her! to think i can't have her even if i do want her" (up to this time he had had moments now and then of not feeling absolutely sure of his inclination), "and that she's promised to one of them tony millersville normal professors! if it don't beat all! well," he drew a long, deep sigh as, lounging back in his buggy, he let his horse jog at his own gait along the muddy country road, "i jus' don't feel fur nothin' to-day. she was now certainly a sweet lady," he thought pensively, as though alluding to one who had died. "if there's one sek i do now like, it's the female--and she was certainly a nice party!" in the course of her career at william penn, miss margaret had developed such a genuine fondness for the shaggy, good-natured, generous, and unscrupulous little doctor, that before she abandoned her post at the end of the term, and shook the dust of new canaan from her feet, she took him into her confidence and begged him to take care of tillie. "she is an uncommon child, doctor, and she must--i am determined that she must--be rescued from the life to which that father of hers would condemn her. you must help me to bring it about." "nothin' i like better, teacher, than gettin' ahead of jake getz," the doctor readily agreed. "or obligin' you. to tell you the truth,--and it don't do no harm to say it now,--if you hadn't been promised, i was a-goin' to ast you myself! you took notice i gave you an inwitation there last week to go buggy-ridin' with me. that was leadin' up to it. after that sunday night you left me set up with you, i never conceited you was promised a'ready to somebody else--and you even left me set with my feet on your chair-rounds!" the doctor's tone was a bit injured. "am i to understand," inquired miss margaret, wonderingly, "that the permission to sit with one's feet on the rounds of a lady's chair is taken in new canaan as an indication of her favor--and even of her inclination to matrimony?" "it's looked to as meanin' gettin' down to biz!" the doctor affirmed. "then," meekly, "i humbly apologize." "that's all right," generously granted the doctor, "if you didn't know no better. but to be sure, i'm some disappointed." "i'm sorry for that!" "would you of mebbe said yes, if you hadn't of been promised a'ready to one of them tony millersville normal professors," the doctor inquired curiously--"me bein' a professional gentleman that way?" "i'm sure," replied this daughter of eve, who wished to use the doctor in her plans for tillie, "i should have been highly honored." the rueful, injured look on the doctor's face cleared to flattered complacency. "well," he said, "i'd like wery well to do what you ast off of me fur little tillie getz. but, teacher, what can a body do against a feller like jake getz? a body can't come between a man and his own offspring." "i know it," replied margaret, sadly. "but just keep a little watch over tillie and help her whenever you see that you can. won't you? promise me that you will. you have several times helped her out of trouble this winter. there may be other similar opportunities. between us, doctor, we may be able to make something of tillie." the doctor shook his head. "i'll do my darn best, teacher, but jake getz he's that wonderful set. a little girl like tillie couldn't never make no headway with jake getz standin' in her road. but anyways, teacher, i pass you my promise i'll do what i can." miss margaret's parting advice and promises to tillie so fired the girl's ambition and determination that some of the sting and anguish of parting from her who stood to the child for all the mother-love that her life had missed, was taken away in the burning purpose with which she found herself imbued, to bend her every thought and act in all the years to come to the reaching of that glorious goal which her idolized teacher set before her. "as soon as you are old enough," miss margaret admonished her, "you must assert yourself. take your rights--your right to an education, to some girlish pleasures, to a little liberty. no matter what you have to suffer in the struggle, fight it out, for you will suffer more in the end if you let yourself be defrauded of everything which makes it worth while to have been born. don't let yourself be sacrificed for those who not only will never appreciate it, but who will never be worth it. i think i do you no harm by telling you that you are worth all the rest of your family put together. the self-sacrifice which pampers the selfishness of others is not creditable. it is weak. it is unworthy. remember what i say to you--make a fight for your rights, just as soon as you are old enough--your right to be a woman instead of a chattel and a drudge. and meantime, make up for your rebellion by being as obedient and helpful and affectionate to your parents as you can be, without destroying yourself." such sentiments and ideas were almost a foreign language to tillie, and yet, intuitively, she understood the import of them. in her loneliness, after miss margaret's departure, she treasured and brooded over them day and night; and very much as the primitive christian courted martyrdom, her mind dwelt, with ever-growing resolution, upon the thought of the heroic courage with which, in the years to come, she would surely obey them. miss margaret had promised tillie that she would write to her, and the child, overlooking the serious difficulties in the way, had eagerly promised in return, to answer her letters. once a week mr. getz called for mail at the village store, and miss margaret's first letter was laboriously read by him on his way out to the farm. he found it, on the whole, uninteresting, but he vaguely gathered from one or two sentences that the teacher, even at the distance of five miles, was still trying to "plague" him by "siding along with his child ag'in' her parent." "see here oncet," he said to tillie, striding to the kitchen stove on his return home, the letter in his hand: "this here goes after them novel-books, in the fire! i ain't leavin' that there woman spoil you with no such letters like this here. now you know!" the gleam of actual wickedness in tillie's usually soft eyes, as she saw that longed-for letter tossed into the flames, would have startled her father had he seen it. the girl trembled from head to foot and turned a deathly white. "i hate you, hate you, hate you!" her hot heart was saying as she literally glared at her tormentor. "i'll never forget this--never, never; i'll make you suffer for it--i will, i will!" but her white lips were dumb, and her impotent passion, having no other outlet, could only tear and bruise her own heart as all the long morning she worked in a blind fury at her household tasks. but after dinner she did an unheard-of thing. without asking permission, or giving any explanation to either her father or her stepmother, she deliberately abandoned her usual saturday afternoon work of cleaning up (she said to herself that she did not care if the house rotted), and dressing herself, she walked straight through the kitchen before her stepmother's very eyes, and out of the house. her father was out in the fields when she undertook this high-handed step; and her mother was so dumb with amazement at such unusual behavior that she offered but a weak protest. "what'll pop say to your doin' somepin like this here!" she called querulously after tillie as she followed her across the kitchen to the door. "he'll whip you, tillie; and here's all the sweepin' to be did--" there was a strange gleam in tillie's eyes before which the woman shrank and held her peace. the girl swept past her, almost walked over several of the children sprawling on the porch, and went out of the gate and up the road toward the village. "what's the matter of her anyways?" the woman wonderingly said to herself as she went back to her work. "is it that she's so spited about that letter pop burnt up? but what's a letter to get spited about? there was enough worse things'n that that she took off her pop without actin' like this. och, but he'll whip her if he gets in here before she comes back. where's she goin' to, i wonder! well, i never did! i would not be her if her pop finds how she went off and let her work! i wonder shall i mebbe tell him on her or not, if he don't get in till she's home a'ready?" she meditated upon this problem of domestic economy as she mechanically did her chores, her reflections on tillie taking an unfriendly color as she felt the weight of her stepdaughter's abandoned tasks added to the already heavy burden of her own. it was to see the doctor that tillie had set out for the village hotel. he was the only person in all her little world to whom she felt she could turn for help in her suffering. her "aunty em," the landlady at the hotel, was, she knew, very fond of her; but tillie never thought of appealing to her in her trouble. "i never thought when i promised miss margaret i'd write to her still where i'd get the stamps from, and the paper and envelops," tillie explained to the doctor as they sat in confidential consultation in the hotel parlor, the child's white face of distress a challenge to his faithful remembrance of his promise to the teacher. "and now i got to find some way to let her know i didn't see her letter to me. doc, will you write and tell her for me?" she pleaded. "my hand-writin' ain't just so plain that way, tillie. but i'll give you all the paper and envelops and stamps you want to write on yourself to her." "oh, doc!" tillie gazed at him in fervent gratitude. "but mebbe i hadn't ought to take 'em when i can't pay you." "that's all right. if it'll make you feel some easier, you kin pay me when you're growed up and teachin'. your miss margaret she's bound to make a teacher out of you--or anyways a educated person. and then you kin pay me when you're got your nice education to make your livin' with." "that's what we'll do then!" tillie joyfully accepted this proposal. "i'll keep account and pay you back every cent, doc, when i'm earnin' my own livin'." "all right. that's settled then. now, fur your gettin' your letters, still, from teacher. how are we goin' to work that there? i'll tell you, tillie!" he slapped the table as an idea came to him. "you write her off a letter and tell her she must write her letters to you in a envelop directed to me. and i'll see as you get 'em all right, you bet! ain't?" "oh, doc!" tillie was affectionately grateful. "you are so kind to me! what would i do without you?" tears choked her voice, filled her eyes, and rolled down her face. "och, that's all right," he patted her shoulder. "ain't no better fun goin' fur me than gettin' ahead of that mean old jake getz!" tillie drew back a bit shocked; but she did not protest. carrying in her bosom a stamped envelop, a sheet of paper and a pencil, the child walked home in a very different frame of mind from that in which she had started out. she shuddered as she remembered how wickedly rebellious had been her mood that morning. never before had such hot and dreadful feelings and thoughts burned in her heart and brain. in an undefined way, the growing girl realized that such a state of mind and heart was unworthy her sacred friendship with miss margaret. "i want to be like her--and she was never ugly in her feelings like what i was all morning!" when she reached home, she so effectually made up for lost time in the vigor with which she attacked the saturday cleaning that mrs. getz, with unusual forbearance, decided not to tell her father of her insubordination. tillie wrote her first letter to miss margaret, ty stealth, at midnight. x adam schunk's funeral a crucial struggle with her father, to which both tillie and miss margaret had fearfully looked forward, came about much sooner than tillie had anticipated. the occasion of it, too, was not at all what she had expected and even planned it to be. it was her conversion, just a year after she had been taken out of school, to the ascetic faith of the new mennonites that precipitated the crisis, this conversion being wrought by a sermon which she heard at the funeral of a neighboring farmer. a funeral among the farmers of lancaster county is a festive occasion, the most popular form of dissipation known, bringing the whole population forth as in some regions they turn out to a circus. adam schank's death, having been caused by his own hand in a fit of despair over the loss of some money he had unsuccessfully invested, was so sudden and shocking that the effect produced on canaan township was profound, not to say awful. as for tillie, it was the first event of the kind that had ever come within her experience, and the religious sentiments in which she had been reared aroused in her, in common with the rest of the community, a superstitious fear before this sudden and solemn calling to judgment of one whom they had all known so familiarly, and who had so wickedly taken his own life. during the funeral at the farm-house, she sat in the crowded parlor where the coffin stood, and though surrounded by people, she felt strangely alone with this weird mystery of death which for the first time she was realizing. her mother was in the kitchen with the other farmers' wives of the neighborhood who were helping to prepare the immense quantity of food necessary to feed the large crowd that always attended a funeral, every one of whom, by the etiquette of the county, remained to supper after the services. her father, being among the hired hostlers of the occasion, was outside in the barn. mr. getz was head hostler at every funeral of the district, being detailed to assist and superintend the work of the other half dozen men employed to take charge of the "teams" that belonged to the funeral guests, who came in families, companies, and crowds. that so well-to-do a farmer as jake getz, one who owned his farm "clear," should make a practice of hiring out as a funeral hostler, with the humbler farmers who only rented the land they tilled, was one of the facts which gave him his reputation for being "keen on the penny." adam schunk, deceased, had been an "evangelical," but his wife being a new mennonite, a sect largely prevailing in southeastern pennsylvania, the funeral services were conducted by two ministers, one of them a new mennonite and the other an evangelical. it was the sermon of the new mennonite that led to tillie's conversion. the new mennonites being the most puritanic and exclusive of all sects, earnestly regarding themselves as the custodians of the only absolutely true light, their ministers insist on certain prerogatives as the condition of giving their services at a funeral. a new mennonite preacher will not consent to preach after a "world's preacher"--he must have first voice. it was therefore the somber doctrine of fear preached by the reverend brother abram underwocht which did its work upon tillie's conscience so completely that the gentler gospel set forth afterward by the evangelical brother was scarcely heeded. the reverend brother abram underwocht, in the "plain" garb of the mennonite sect, took his place at the foot of the stairway opening out of the sitting-room, and gave expression to his own profound sense of the solemnity of the occasion by a question introductory to his sermon, and asked in a tone of heavy import: "if this ain't a blow, what is it?" handkerchiefs were promptly produced and agitated faces hidden therein. why this was a "blow" of more than usual force, brother underwocht proceeded to explain in a blood-curdling talk of more than an hour's length, in which he set forth the new mennonite doctrine that none outside of the only true faith of christ, as held and taught by the new mennonites, could be saved from the fire which cannot be quenched. with the heroism born of deep conviction, he stoically disregarded the feelings of the bereaved family, and affirmed that the deceased having belonged to one of "the world's churches," no hope could be entertained for him, nor could his grieving widow look forward to meeting him again in the heavenly home to which she, a saved new mennonite, was destined. taking advantage of the fact that at least one third of those present were non-mennonites, brother underwoeht followed the usual course of the preachers of his sect on such an occasion, and made of his funeral sermon an exposition of the whole field of new mennonite faith and practice. beginning in the garden of eden, he graphically described that renowned locality as a type of the paradise from which adam schunk and others who did not "give themselves up" were excluded. "it must have been a magnificent scenery to almighty gawd," he said, referring to the beauties of man's first paradise. "but how soon to be snatched by sin from man's mortal vision, when eve started that conversation with the enemy of her soul! beloved, that was an unfortunate circumstance! and you that are still out of christ and in the world, have need to pray fur gawd's help, his aid, and his assistance, to enable you to overcome the enemy who that day was turned loose upon the world--that gawd may see fit to have you when you're done here a'ready. heed the solemn warning of this poor soul now laying before you cold in death! "'know that you're a transient creature, soon to fade and pass away." "even lazarus, where [who] was raised to life, was not raised fur never to die no more!" the only comfort he could offer to this stricken household was that he knew how bad they felt, having had a brother who had died with equal suddenness and also without hope, as he "had suosode hisself with a gun." this lengthy sermon was followed by a hymn, sung a line at a time at the preacher's dictation: "the body we now to the grave will commit, to there see corruption till jesus sees fit a spirit'al body for it to prepare, which henceforth then shall immortality wear." the new mennonites being forbidden by the "rules of the meeting" ever to hear a prayer or sermon by one who is not "a member," it was necessary, at the end of the reverend abram underwocht's sermon, for all the mennonites present to retire to a room apart and sit behind closed doors, while the evangelical brother put forth his false doctrine. so religiously stirred was tillie by the occasion that she was strongly tempted to rise and follow into the kitchen those who were thus retiring from the sound of the false teacher's voice. but her conversion not yet being complete, she kept her place. no doubt it was not so much the character of brother underwocht's new mennonite sermon which effected this state in tillie as that the spiritual condition of the young girl, just awakening to her womanhood, with all its mysterious craving, its religious brooding, its emotional susceptibility, led her to respond with her whole soul to the first appeal to her feelings. absorbed in her mournful contemplation of her own deep "conviction of sin," she did not heed the singing, led by the evangelical brother, of the hymn, "rock of ages, clept for me," nor did she hear a word of his discourse. at the conclusion of the house services, and before the journey to the graveyard, the supper was served, first to the mourners, and then to all those who expected to follow the body to the grave. the third table, for those who had prepared the meal, and the fourth, for the hostlers, were set after the departure of the funeral procession. convention has prescribed that the funeral meal shall consist invariably of cold meat, cheese, all sorts of stewed dried fruits, pickles, "lemon rice" (a dish never omitted), and coffee. as no one household possesses enough dishes for such an occasion, two chests of dishes owned by the mennonite church are sent to the house of mourning whenever needed by a member of the meeting. the mennonites present suffered a shock to their feelings upon the appearance of the widow of the deceased adam schunk, for--unprecedented circumstance!--she wore over her black mennonite hood a crape veil! this was an innovation nothing short of revolutionary, and the brethren and sisters, to whom their prescribed form of dress was sacred, were bewildered to know how they ought to regard such a digression from their rigid customs. "i guess mandy's proud of herself with her weil," tillie's stepmother whispered to her as she gave the girl a tray of coffee-cups to deliver about the table. but tillie's thoughts were inward bent, and she heeded not what went on about her. fear of death and the judgment, a longing to find the peace which could come only with an assured sense of her salvation, darkness as to how that peace might be found, a sense of the weakness of her flesh and spirit before her father's undoubted opposition to her "turning plain," as well as his certain refusal to supply the wherewithal for her mennonite garb, should she indeed be led of the spirit to "give herself up,"--all these warring thoughts and emotions stamped their lines upon the girl's sweet, troubled countenance, as, blind and deaf to her surroundings, she lent her helping hand almost as one acting in a trance. xi "pop! i feel to be plain" the psychical and, considering the critical age of the young girl, the physiological processes by which tillie was finally led to her conversion it is not necessary to analyze; for the experience is too universal, and differs too slightly in individual cases, to require comment. perhaps in tillie's case it was a more intense and permanent emotion than with the average convert. otherwise, deep and earnest though it was with her, it was not unique. the new mennonite sermon which had been the instrument to determine the channel in which should flow the emotional tide of her awakening womanhood, had convinced her that if she would be saved, she dare not compromise with the world by joining one of those churches as, for instance, the methodist or the evangelical, which permitted every sort of worldly indulgence,--fashionable dress, attendance at the circus, voting at the polls, musical instruments, "pleasure-seeking," and many other things which the word of god forbade. she must give herself up to the lord absolutely and entirely, forswearing all the world's allurements. the new mennonites alone, of all the christian sects, lived up to this scriptural ideal, and with them tillie would cast her lot. this austere body of christians could not so easily have won her heart had it forbidden her cherished ambition, constantly encouraged and stimulated by miss margaret, to educate herself. fortunately for her peace of mind, the new mennonites were not, like the amish, "enemies to education," though to be sure, as the preacher, brother abram underwocht, reminded her in her private talk with him, "to be dressy, or too well educated, or stylish, didn't belong to christ and the apostles; they were plain folks." it was in the lull of work that came, even in the getz family, on sunday afternoon, that tillie, summoning to her aid all the fervor of her new-found faith, ventured to face the ordeal of opening up with her father the subject of her conversion. he was sitting on the kitchen porch, dozing over a big bible spread open on his knee. the children were playing on the lawn, and mrs. getz was taking her sunday afternoon nap on the kitchen settee. tillie seated herself on the porch step at her father's feet. her eyes were clear and bright, but her face burned, and her heart beat heavily in her heaving bosom. "pop!" she timidly roused him from his dozing. "heh?" he muttered gruffly, opening his eyes and lifting his head. "pop, i got to speak somepin to you." an unusual note in her voice arrested him, and, wide awake now, he looked down at her inquiringly. "well? what, then?" "pop! i feel to be plain." "you! feel fur turnin' plain! why, you ain't old enough to know the meanin' of it! what d' you want about that there theology?" "i'm fourteen, pop. and the spirit has led me to see the light. i have gave myself up," she affirmed quietly, but with a quiver in her voice. "you have gave yourself up!" her father incredulously repeated. "yes, sir. and i'm loosed of all things that belong to the world. and now i feel fur wearin' the plain dress, fur that's according to scripture, which says, 'all is wanity!'" never before in her life had tillie spoken so many words to her father at one time, and he stared at her in astonishment. "yes, you're growin' up, that's so. i ain't noticed how fast you was growin'. it don't seem no time since you was born. but it's fourteen years back a'ready--yes, that's so. well, tillie, if you feel fur joinin' church, you're got to join on to the evangelicals. i ain't leavin' you follow no such nonsense as to turn plain. that don't belong to us getzes. we're evangelicals this long time a'ready." "aunty em was a getz, and she's gave herself up long ago." "well, she's the only one by the name getz that i ever knowed to be so foolish! i'm an evangelical, and what's good enough fur your pop will do you, i guess!" "the evangelicals ain't according to scripture, pop. they have wine at the communion, and the bible says, 'taste not, handle not,' and 'look not upon the wine when it is red.'" that she should criticize the evangelicals and pronounce them unscriptural was disintegrating to all his ideas of the subjection, of children. his sun-burned face grew darker. "mebbe you don't twist that there book! gawd he wouldn't of created wine to be made if it would be wrong fur to look at it! you can't come over that, can you? them scripture you spoke, just mean not to drink to drunkenness, nor eat to gluttonness. but," he sternly added, "it ain't fur you to answer up to your pop! i ain't leavin' you dress plain--and that's all that's to say!" "i got to do it, pop," tillie's low voice answered, "i must obey to christ." "what you sayin' to me? that you got to do somepin i tole you you haven't the dare to do? are you sayin' that to me, tillie? heh?" "i got to obey to christ," she repeated, her face paling. "you think! well, we'll see about that oncet! you leave me see you obeyin' to any one before your pop, and you'll soon get learnt better! how do you bring it out that the scripture says, 'childern, obey your parents'?" "'obey your parents in the lord,'" tillie amended. "well, you'll be obeyin' to the scripture and your parent by joinin' the evangelicals. d' you understand?" "the evangelicals don't hold to scripture, pop. they enlist. and we don't read of christ takin' any interest in war." "yes, but in the old dispensation them old kings did it, and certainly they was good men! they're in the bible!" "but we're livin' under the new dispensation. and a many things is changed to what they were under the old. pop, i can't dress fashionable any more." "now, look here, tillie, i oughtn't argy no words with you, fur you're my child and you're got the right to mind me just because i say it. but can't you see the inconsistentness of the plain people? now a new mennonite he says his conscience won't leave him wear grand [wear worldly dress] but he'll make his livin' in lancaster city by keepin' a jew'lry-store. and yet them mennonites won't leave a sister keep a millinery-shop!" "but," tillie tried to hold her ground, "there's watches, pop, and clocks that jew'lers sells. they're useful. we got to have watches and clocks. millinery is only pleasing to the eye." "well, the women couldn't go bare-headed neither, could they? and is ear-rings and such things like them useful? and all them fancy things they keep in their dry-goods stores? och, they're awful inconsistent that way! i ain't got no use fur new mennonites! why, here one day, when your mom was livin' yet, i owed a new mennonite six cents, and i handed him a dime and he couldn't change it out, but he sayed he'd send me the four cents. well, i waited and waited, and he never sent it. then i bought such a postal-card and wrote it in town to him yet. and that didn't fetch the four cents neither. i wrote to him backward and forward till i had wrote three cards a'ready, and then i seen i wouldn't gain nothin' by writin' one more if he did pay me, and if he didn't pay i'd lose that other cent yet. so i let it. now that's a new mennonite fur you! do you call that consistentness?" "but it's the word of gawd i go by, pop, not by the weak brethren." "well, you'll go by your pop's word and not join to them new mennonites! now i don't want to hear no more!" "won't you buy me the plain garb, pop?" "buy you the plain garb! now look here, tillie. if ever you ast me again to leave you join to anything but the evangelicals, or speak somepin to me about buyin' you the plain garb, i'm usin' the strap. do you hear me?" "pop," said tillie, solemnly, her face very white, "i'll always obey to you where i can--where i think it's right to. but if you won't buy me the plain dress and cap, aunty em wackernagel's going to. she says she never knew what happiness it was to be had in this life till she gave herself up and dressed plain and loosed herself from all worldly things. and i feel just like her." "all right--just you come wearin' them mennonite costumes 'round me oncet! i'll burn 'em up like what i burned up them novels where you lent off of your teacher! and i'll punish you so's you won't try it a second time to do what i tell you you haven't the dare to do!" the color flowed back into tillie's white face as he spoke. she was crimson now as she rose from the porch step and turned away from him to go into the house. jake getz realized, as with a sort of dull wonder his eyes followed her, that there was a something in his daughter's face this day, and in the bearing of her young frame as she walked before him, which he was not wont to see, which he did not understand, and with which he felt he could not cope. the vague sense of uneasiness which it gave him strengthened his resolve to crush, with a strong hand, this budding insubordination. two uneventful weeks passed by, during which tillie's quiet and dutiful demeanor almost disarmed her father's threatening watchfulness of her; so that when, one sunday afternoon, at four o'clock, she returned from a walk to her aunty em wackernagel's, clad in the meek garb of the new mennonites, his amazement at her intrepidity was even greater than his anger. the younger children, in high glee at what to them was a most comical transformation in their elder sister, danced around her with shrieks of laughter, crying out at the funny white cap which she wore, and the prim little three-cornered cape falling over her bosom, designed modestly to cover the vanity of woman's alluring form. mrs. getz, mechanically moving about the kitchen to get the supper, paused in her work only long enough to remark with stupid astonishment, "did you, now, get religion, tillie?" "yes, ma'am. i've gave myself up." "where did you come by the plain dress?" "aunty em bought it for me and helped me make it." her father had followed her in from the porch and now came up to her as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. the children scattered at his approach. "you go up-stairs and take them clo'es off!" he commanded. "i ain't leavin' you wear 'em one hour in this house!" "i have no others to put on, pop," tillie gently answered, her soft eyes meeting his with an absence of fear which puzzled and baffled him. "where's your others, then?" "i've let 'em at aunty em's. she took 'em in exchange for my plain dress. she says she can use 'em on 'manda and rebecca." "then you walk yourself right back over to the hotel and get 'em back of? of her, and let them clo'es you got on. go!" he roughly pointed to the door. "she wouldn't give 'em back to me. she'd know i hadn't ought to yield up to temptation, and she'd help me to resist by refusing me my fashionable clo'es." "you tell her if you come back home without 'em, i'm whippin' you! she'll give 'em to you then." "she'd say my love to christ ought not to be so weak but i can bear anything you want to do to me, pop. she had to take an awful lot off of gran'pop when she turned plain. pop," she added earnestly, "no matter what you do to me, i ain't givin' 'way; i'm standin' firm to serve christ!" "we'll see oncet!" her father grimly answered, striding across the room and taking his strap from its corner in the kitchen cupboard he grasped tillie's slender shoulder and lifted his heavy arm. and now for the first time in her life his wife interposed a word against his brutality. "jake!" in astonishment he turned to her. she was as pale as her stepdaughter. "jake! if she has got religion, you'll have awful bad luck if you try to get her away from it!" "i ain't sayin' she can't get religion if she wants! to be sure, i brung her up to be a christian. but i don't hold to this here nonsense of turnin' plain, and i tole her so, and she's got to obey to me or i'll learn her!" "you'll have bad luck if you whip her fur somepin like this here," his wife repeated. "don't you mind how when aunty em turned plain and gran'pop he acted to her so ugly that way, it didn't rain fur two weeks and his crops was spoilt, and he got that boil yet on his neck! yes, you'll see oncet," she warned him "if you use the strap fur somepin like what this is, what you'll mebbe come by yet!" "och, you're foolish!" he answered, but his tone was not confident. his raised arm dropped to his side and he looked uneasily into tillie's face, while he still kept his painful grasp of her shoulder. the soft bright eyes of the young girl met his, not with defiance, but with a light in them that somehow brought before his mind the look her mother had worn the night she died. superstition was in his blood, and he shuddered inwardly at his uncanny sense of mystery before this unfamiliar, illumined countenance of his daughter. the exalted soul of the girl cast a spell which even his unsensitive spirit could keenly feel, and something stirred in his breast--the latent sense of affectionate, protecting fatherhood. tillie saw and felt this sudden change in him. she lifted her free hand and laid it on his arm, her lips quivering. "father!" she half whispered. she had never called him that before, and it seemed strangely to bring home to him what, in this crisis of his child's life, was due to her from him, her only living parent. suddenly he released her shoulder and tossed away the strap. "i see i wouldn't be doin' right to oppose you in this here, tillie. well, i'm glad, fur all, that i ain't whippin' you. it goes ag'in' me to hit you since you was sick that time. you're gettin' full big, too, to be punished that there way, fur all i always sayed still i'd never leave a child of mine get ahead of me, no matter how big they was, so long as they lived off of me. but this here's different. you're feelin' conscientious about this here matter, and i ain't hinderin' you." to tillie's unspeakable amazement, he laid his hand on her head and held it there for an instant. "gawd bless you, my daughter, and help you to serve the lord acceptable!" so that crisis was past. but tillie knew, that night, as she rubbed witch-hazel on her sore shoulder, that a far worse struggle was before her. in seeking to carry out the determination that burned in her heart to get an education, no aid could come to her as it had to-day, from her father's sense of religious awe. would she be able, she wondered, to stand firm against his opposition when, a second time, it came to an issue between them? xii absalom keeps company tillie wrote to miss margaret (she could not learn to call her mrs. lansing) how that she had "given herself up and turned plain," and miss margaret, seeing how sacred this experience was to the young girl, treated the subject with all respect and even reverence. the correspondence between these two, together with the books which from time to time came to the girl from her faithful friend, did more toward tillie's growth and development along lines of which her parents had no suspicion, than all the schooling at william penn, under the instruction of the average "millersville normal," could ever have accomplished. and her tongue, though still very provincial, soon lost much of its native dialect, through her constant reading and study. of course whenever her father discovered her with her books he made her suffer. "you're got education enough a'ready," he would insist. "and too much fur your own good. look at me--i was only educated with a testament and a spelling-book and a slate. we had no such a blackboards even, to recite on. and do _i_ look as if i need to know any more 'n what i know a'ready?" tillie bore her punishments like a martyr--and continued surreptitiously to read and to study whenever and whatever she could; and not even the extreme conscientiousness of a new mennonite faltered at this filial disobedience. she obeyed her father implicitly, however tyrannical he was, to the point where he bade her suppress and kill all the best that god had given her of mind and heart. then she revolted; and she never for an instant doubted her entire justification in eluding or defying his authority. there was another influence besides her books and miss margaret's letters which, unconsciously to herself, was educating tillie at this time. her growing fondness for stealing off to the woods not far from the farm, of climbing to the hill-top beyond the creek, or walking over the fields under the wide sky--not only in the spring and summer, but at all times of the year--was yielding her a richness, a depth and breadth, of experience that nothing else could have given her. a nature deeply sensitive to the mysterious appeal of sky and green earth, of deep, shady forest and glistening water, when unfolding in daily touch with these things, will learn to see life with a broader, saner mind and catch glimpses and vistas of truth with a clearer vision than can ever come to one whose most susceptible years are spent walled in and overtopped by the houses of the city that shut out and stifle "the larger thought of god." and tillie, in spite of her narrowing new mennonite "convictions," did reach through her growing love for and intimacy with nature a plane of thought and feeling which was immeasurably above her perfunctory creed. sometimes the emotions excited by her solitary walks gave the young girl greater pain than happiness--yet it was a pain she would not have been spared, for she knew, though the knowledge was never formulated in her thought, that in some precious, intimate way her suffering set her apart and above the villagers and farming people about her--those whose placid, contented eyes never strayed from the potato-patch to the distant hills, or lifted themselves from the goodly tobacco-fields to the wide blue heavens. thus, cramped and crushing as much of her life was, it had--as all conditions must have--its compensations; and many of the very circumstances which at the time seemed most unbearable brought forth in later years rich fruit. and so, living under her father's watchful eye and relentless rule,--with long days of drudgery and outward acquiescence in his scheme of life that she devote herself, mind, body, and soul, to the service of himself, his wife, and their children, and in return to be poorly fed and scantily clad,--tillie nevertheless grew up in a world apart, hidden to the sealed vision of those about her; as unknown to them in her real life as though they had never looked upon her face; and while her father never for an instant doubted the girl's entire submission to him, she was day by day waxing stronger in her resolve to heed miss margaret's constant advice and make a fight for her right to the education her father had denied her, and for a life other than that to which his will would consign her. there were dark times when her steadfast purpose seemed impossible of fulfilment. but tillie felt she would rather die in the struggle than become the sort of apathetic household drudge she beheld in her stepmother--a condition into which it would be so easy to sink, once she loosed her wagon from its star. it was when tillie was seventeen years old--a slight, frail girl, with a look in her eyes as of one who lives in two worlds--that absalom puntz, one sunday evening in the fall of the year, saw her safe home from meeting and asked permission to "keep comp'ny" with her. now that morning tillie had received a letter from miss margaret (sent to her, as always, under cover to the doctor), and absalom's company on the way from church was a most unwelcome interruption to her happy brooding over the precious messages of love and helpfulness which those letters always brought her. a request for permission to "keep comp'ny" with a young lady meant a very definite thing in canaan township. "let's try each other," was what it signified; and acceptance of the proposition involved on each side an exclusion of all association with others of the opposite sex. tillie of course understood this. "but you're of the world's people, absalom," her soft, sweet voice answered him. they were walking along in the dim evening on the high dusty pike toward the getz farm. "and i'm a member of meeting. i can't marry out of the meeting." "this long time a'ready, tillie, i was thinkin' about givin' myself up and turnin' plain," he assured her. "to be sure, i know i'd have to, to git you. you've took notice, ain't you, how reg'lar i 'tend meeting? well, oncet me and you kin settle this here question of gittin' married, i'm turnin' plain as soon as i otherwise [possibly] kin." "i have never thought about keeping company, absalom." "nearly all the girls around here as old as you has their friend a'ready." absalom was twenty years old, stoutly built and coarse-featured, a deeply ingrained obstinacy being the only characteristic his heavy countenance suggested. he still attended the district school for a few months of the winter term. his father was one of the richest farmers of the neighborhood, and absalom, being his only child, was considered a matrimonial prize. "is there nobody left for you but me?" tillie inquired in a matter-of-fact tone. the conjugal relation, as she saw it in her father's home and in the neighborhood, with its entirely practical basis and utter absence of sentiment, had no attraction or interest for her, and she had long since made up her mind that she would none of it. "there ain't much choice," granted absalom. "but i anyways would pick out you, tillie." "why me?" "i dunno. i take to you. and i seen a'ready how handy you was at the work still. mom says, too, you'd make me a good housekeeper." tillie never dreamed of resenting this practical approval of her qualifications for the post with which absalom designed to honor her. it was because of her familiarity with such matrimonial standards as these that from her childhood up she had determined never to marry. from what she gathered of miss margaret's married life, through her letters, and from what she learned from the books and magazines which she read, she knew that out in the great unknown world there existed another basis of marriage. but she did not understand it and she never thought about it. the strongly emotional tide of her girlhood, up to this time, had been absorbed by her remarkable love for miss margaret and by her earnest religiousness. "there's no use in your wasting your time keeping company with me, absalom. i never intend to marry. i've made up my mind." "is it that your pop won't leave you, or whatever?" "i never asked him. i don't know what he would say." "mom spoke somepin about mebbe your pop he'd want to keep you at home, you bein' so useful to him and your mom. but i sayed when you come eighteen, you're your own boss. ain't, tillie?" "father probably would object to my marrying because i'm needed at home," tillie agreed. "that's why they wouldn't leave me go to school after i was eleven. but i don't want to marry." "you leave me be your steady friend, tillie, and i'll soon get you over them views," urged absalom, confidently. but tillie shook her head. "it would just waste your time, absalom." in canaan township it would have been considered highly dishonorable for a girl to allow a young man to "sit up with her sundays" if she definitely knew she would never marry him. time meant money, and even the time spent in courting must be judiciously used. "i don't mind if i do waste my time settin' up with you sundays, tillie. i take to you that much, it's something surprising, now! will you give me the dare to come next sunday?" "if you don't mind wasting your time--" tillie reluctantly granted. "it won't be wasted. i'll soon get you to think different to what you think now. you just leave me set up with you a couple sundays and see!" "i know i'll never think any different, absalom. you must not suppose that i will." "is it somepin you're got ag'in' me?" he asked incredulously, for he knew he was considered a prize. "i'm well-fixed enough, ain't i? i'd make you a good purvider, tillie. and i don't addict to no bad habits. i don't chew. nor i don't drink. nor i don't swear any. the most i ever sayed when i was spited was 'confound it.'" "it isn't that i have anything against you, absalom, especially. but--look here, absalom, if you were a woman, would you marry? what does a woman gain?" absalom stared at her in the dusky evening light of the high road. to ask of his slow-moving brain that it question the foundations of the universe and wrestle with a social and psychological problem like this made the poor youth dumb with bewilderment. "why should a woman get married?" tillie repeated. "that's what a woman's fur," absalom found his tongue to say. "she loses everything and gains nothing." "she gets kep'," absalom argued. "like the horses. only not so carefully. no, thank you, absalom. i can keep myself." "i'd keep you better 'n your pop keeps you, anyways, tillie. i'd make you a good purvider." "i won't ever marry," tillie repeated. "i didn't know you was so funny," absalom sullenly answered. "you might be glad i want to be your reg'lar friend." "no," said tillie, "i don't care about it." they walked on in silence for a few minutes. tillie looked away into the starlit night and thought of miss margaret and wished she were alone, that her thoughts might be uninterrupted. absalom, at her side, kicked up the dust with his heavy shoes, as he sulkily hung his head. presently he spoke again. "will you leave me come to see you sundays, still, if i take my chancet that i'm wastin' my time?" "if you'll leave it that way," tillie acquiesced, "and not hold me to anything." "all right. only you won't leave no one else set up with you, ain't not?" "there isn't any one else." "but some chance time another feller might turn up oncet that wants to keep comp'ny with you too." "i won't promise anything, absalom. if you want to come sundays to see me and the folks, you can. that's all i'll say." "i never seen such a funny girl as what you are!" growled absalom. tillie made no reply, and again they went on in silence. "say!" it was absalom who finally spoke. tillie's absent, dreamy gaze came down from the stars and rested upon his heavy, dull face. "ezra herr he's resigned william penn. he's gettin' more pay at abra'm lincoln in janewille. it comes unhandy, his leavin', now the term's just started and most all the applicants took a'ready. pop he got a letter from in there at lancaster off of superintendent reingruber and he's sendin' us a applicant out till next saturday three weeks--fur the directors to see oncet if he'll do." absalom's father was secretary of the board, and mr. getz was the treasurer. "pop he's goin' over to see your pop about it till to-morrow evenin' a'ready if he can make it suit." "when does ezra go?" tillie inquired. the new mennonite rule which forbade the use of all titles had led to the custom in this neighborhood, so populated with mennonites, of calling each one by his christian name. "till next friday three weeks," absalom replied. "pop says he don't know what to think about this here man superintendent reingruber's sendin' out. he ain't no millersville normal. the superintendent says he's a 'harvard gradyate'--whatever that is, pop says! pop he sayed it ain't familiar with him what that there is. and i guess the other directors don't know neither. pop he sayed when we're payin' as much as forty dollars a month we had ought, now, to have a millersville normal, and nothin' less. who wants to pay forty dollars a month fur such a harvard gradyate that we don't know right what it is." "what pay will ezra get at janeville?" tillie asked. her heart beat fast as she thought how she might, perhaps, in another year be the applicant for a vacancy at william penn. "around forty-five dollars," absalom answered. "oh!" tillie said; "it seems so much, don't it?" "fur settin' and doin' nothin' but hearin' off spellin' and readin' and whatever, it's too much! pop says he's goin' to ast your pop and the rest of the board if they hadn't ought to ast this here harvard gradyate to take a couple dollars less, seein' he ain't no millersville normal." they had by this time reached the farm, and tillie, not very warmly, asked absalom whether he would "come in and sit awhile." she almost sighed audibly as he eagerly consented. when he had left at twelve o'clock that night, she softly climbed the stairs to her room, careful not to disturb the sleeping household. tillie wondered why it was that every girl of her acquaintance exulted in being asked to keep company with a gentleman friend. she had found "sitting up" a more fatiguing task than even the dreaded monday's washing which would confront her on the morrow. "seein' it's the first time me and you set up together, i mebbe better not stay just so late," absalom had explained when, after three hours' courting, he had reluctantly risen to take his leave, under the firm conviction, as tillie plainly saw, that she felt as sorry to have him go as evidently he was to part from her! "how late," thought tillie, "will he stay the second time he sits up with me? and what," she wondered, "do other girls see in it?" the following sunday night, absalom came again, and this time he stayed until one o'clock, with the result that on the following monday morning tillie overslept herself and was one hour late in starting the washing. it was that evening, after supper, while mrs. getz was helping her husband make his toilet for a meeting of the school board--at which the application of that suspicious character, the harvard graduate, was to be considered--that the husband and wife discussed these significant sunday night visits. mrs. getz opened up the subject while she performed the wifely office of washing her husband's neck, his increasing bulk making that duty a rather difficult one for him. standing over him as he sat in a chair in the kitchen, holding on his knees a tin basin full of soapy water, she scrubbed his fat, sunburned neck with all the vigor and enthusiasm that she would have applied to the cleaning of the kitchen porch or the scouring of an iron skillet. a custom prevailed in the county of leaving one's parlor plainly furnished, or entirely empty, until the eldest daughter should come of age; it was then fitted up in style, as a place to which she and her "regular friend" could retire from the eyes of the girl's folks of a sunday night to do their "setting up." the occasion of a girl's "furnishing" was a notable one, usually celebrated by a party; and it was this fact that led her stepmother to remark presently: "say, pop, are you furnishin' fur tillie, now she's comin' eighteen years old?" "i ain't thought about it," mr. getz answered shortly. "that front room's furnished good enough a'ready. no--i ain't spendin' any!" "seein' she's a member and wears plain, it wouldn't cost wery expensive to furnish fur her, fur she hasn't the dare to have nothin' stylish like a organ or gilt-framed landscapes or sich stuffed furniture that way." "the room's good enough the way it is," repeated mr. getz. "i don't see no use spendin' on it." "it needs new paper and carpet. pop, it'll get put out if you don't furnish fur her. the neighbors'll talk how you're so close with your own child after she worked fur you so good still. i don't like it so well, pop, havin' the neighbors talk." "leave 'em talk. their talkin' don't cost me nothin'. i ain't furnishin'!" his tone was obstinate and angry. his wife rubbed him down with a crash towel as vigorously as she had washed him, then fastened his shirt, dipped the family comb in the soapy water and began with artistic care to part and comb his hair. "absalom puntz he's a nice party, pop. he'll be well-fixed till his pop's passed away a'ready." "you think! well, now look here, mom!" mr. getz spoke with stern decision. "tillie ain't got the dare to keep comp'ny sundays! it made her a whole hour late with the washin' this mornin'. i'm tellin' her she's got to tell absalom puntz he can't come no more." mrs. getz paused with comb poised in air, and her feeble jaw dropped in astonishment. "why, pop!" she said. "ain't you leavin' tillie keep comp'ny?" "no," affirmed mr. getz. "i ain't. what does a body go to the bother of raisin' childern fur? just to lose 'em as soon as they are growed enough to help earn a little? i ain't leavin' tillie get married! she's stayin' at home to help her pop and mom--except in winter when they ain't so much work, and mebbe then i'm hirin' her out to aunty em at the hotel where she can earn a little, too, to help along. she can easy earn enough to buy the children's winter clo'es and gums and school-books." "when she comes eighteen, pop, she'll have the right to get married whether or no you'd conceited you wouldn't give her the dare." "if i say i ain't buyin' her her aus styer, absalom puntz nor no other feller would take her." an "aus styer" is the household outfit always given to a bride by her father. "well, to be sure," granted mrs. getz, "i'd like keepin' tillie home to help me out with the work still. i didn't see how i was ever goin' to get through without her. but i thought when absalom puntz begin to come sundays, certainly you'd be fur her havin' him. i was sayin' to her only this mornin' that if she didn't want to dishearten absalom from comin' to set up with her, she'd have to take more notice to him and not act so dopplig with him--like as if she didn't care whether or no he made up to her. i tole her i'd think, now, she'd be wonderful pleased at his wantin' her, and him so well-fixed. certainly i never conceited you'd be ag'in' it. tillie she didn't answer nothin'. sometimes i do now think tillie's some different to what other girls is." "i'd be glad," said jacob getz in a milder tone, "if she ain't set on havin' him. i was some oneasy she might take it a little hard when i tole her she darsent get married." "och, tillie she never takes nothin' hard," mrs. getz answered easily. "she ain't never ast me you goin' to furnish fur her. she don't take no interest. she's so funny that way. i think to myself, still, tillie is, now, a little dumm!" it happened that while this dialogue was taking place, tillie was in the room above the kitchen, putting the two most recently arrived getz babies to bed; and as she sat near the open register with a baby on her lap, every word that passed between her father and stepmother was perfectly audible to her. with growing bitterness she listened to her father's frank avowal of his selfish designs. at the same time she felt a thrill of exultation, as she thought of the cherished secret locked in her breast--hidden the more securely from those with whom she seemed to live nearest. how amazed they would be, her stolid, unsuspicious parents, when they discovered that she had been secretly studying and, with miss margaret's help, preparing herself for the high calling of a teacher! one more year, now, and she would be ready, miss margaret assured her, to take the county superintendent's examination for a certificate to teach. then good-by to household drudgery and the perpetual self-sacrifice that robbed her of all that was worth while in life. with a serene mind, tillie rose, with the youngest baby in her arms, and tenderly tucked it in its little bed. xiii ezra herr, pedagogue it was a few days later, at the supper-table, that tillie's father made an announcement for which she was not wholly unprepared. "i'm hirin' you out this winter, tillie, at the hotel. aunty em says she's leavin' both the girls go to school again this winter and she'll need hired help. she'll pay me two dollars a week fur you. she'll pay it to me and i'll buy you what you need, still, out of it. you're goin' till next monday." tillie's heart leaped high with pleasure at this news. she was fond of her aunty em; she knew that life at the country hotel would be varied and interesting in comparison with the dull, grubbing existence of her own home; she would have to work very hard, of course, but not so hard, so unceasingly, as under her father's eye; and she would have absolute freedom to devote her spare time to her books. the thought of escaping from her father's watchfulness, and the prospect of hours of safe and uninterrupted study, filled her with secret joy. "i tole aunty em she's not to leave you waste no time readin'; when she don't need you, you're to come home and help mom still. mom she says she can't get through the winter sewin' without you. well, aunty em she says you can sew evenin's over there at the hotel, on the childern's clo'es. mom she can easy get through the other work without you, now sallie's goin' on thirteen. till december a'ready sally'll be thirteen. and the winter work's easy to what the summer is. in summer, to be sure, you'll have to come home and help me and mom. but in winter i'm hirin' you out." "but sally ain't as handy as what tillie is," said mrs. getz, plaintively. "and i don't see how i'm goin' to get through oncet without tillie." "sally's got to learn to be handier, that's all. she's got to get learnt like what i always learnt tillie fur you." fire flashed in tillie's soft eyes--a momentary flame of shame and aversion; if her blinded father had seen and understood, he would have realized how little, after all, he had ever succeeded in "learning" her the subservience he demanded of his children. as for the warning to her aunt, she knew that it would be ignored; that aunty em would never interfere with the use she made of the free time allowed her, no matter what her father's orders were to the contrary. "and you ain't to have absalom puntz comin' over there sundays neither," her father added. "i tole aunty em like i tole you the other day, i ain't leavin' you keep comp'ny. i raised you, now you have the right to work and help along a little. it's little enough a girl can earn anyways." tillie made no comment. her silence was of course understood by her father to mean submission; while her stepmother felt in her heart a contempt for a meekness that would bear, without a word of protest, the loss of a steady friend so well-fixed and so altogether desirable as absalom puntz. in absalom's two visits tillie had been sufficiently impressed with the steadiness of purpose and obstinacy of the young man's character to feel appalled at the fearful task of resisting his dogged determination to marry her. so confident he evidently was of ultimately winning her that at times tillie found herself quite sharing his confidence in the success of his courting, which her father's interdict she knew would not interfere with in the least. she always shuddered at the thought of being absalom's wife; and a feeling she could not always fling off, as of some impending doom, at times buried all the high hopes which for the past seven years had been the very breath of her life. tillie had one especially strong reason for rejoicing in the prospect of going to the village for the winter. the harvard graduate, if elected, would no doubt board at the hotel, or necessarily near by, and she could get him to lend her books and perhaps to give her some help with her studies. the village of new canaan and all the township were curious to see this stranger. the school directors had felt that they were conceding a good deal in consenting to consider the application of sueh an unknown quantity, when they could, at forty dollars a month, easily secure the services of a millersville normal. but the stress that had been brought to bear upon them by the county superintendent, whose son had been a classmate of the candidate, had been rather too strong to be resisted; and so the "harvard gradyate man" was coming. that afternoon tillie had walked over in a pouring rain to william penn to carry "gums" and umbrellas to her four younger brothers and sisters, and she had realized, with deep exultation, while listening to ezra herr's teaching, that she was already far better equipped than was ezra to do the work he was doing,--and he was a millersville normal! it happened that ezra was receiving a visit from a committee of janeville school directors, and he had departed from his every-day mechanical style of teaching in favor of some fancy methods which he had imbibed at the normal school during his attendance at the spring term, and which he reserved for use on occasions like the present. tillie watched him with profound attention, but hardly with profound respect. "childern," ezra said, with a look of deep thought, as he impressively paced up and down before the class of small boys and girls ranged on the platform, "now, childern, what's this reading lesson about?" "'bout a apple-tree!" answered several eager little voices. "yes," said ezra. "about an apple-tree. correct. now, childern--er--what grows on apple-trees, heh?" "apples!" answered the intelligent class. "correct. apples. and--now--what was it that came to the apple-tree?" "a little bird." "yes. a bird came to the apple tree. well--er," he floundered for a moment, then, by a sudden inspiration, "what can a bird do?" "fly! and sing!" "a bird can fly and sing," ezra nodded. "very good. now, sadie, you dare begin. i 'll leave each one read a werse." the next recitation was a fourth reader lesson consisting of a speech of daniel webster's, the import of which not one of the children, if indeed the teacher himself, had the faintest suspicion. and so the class was permitted to proceed, without interruption, in its labored conning of the massive eloquence of that great statesman; and the directors presently took their departure in the firm conviction that in ezra herr they had made a good investment of the forty-five dollars a month appropriated to their town out of the state treasury, and they agreed, on their way back to janeville, that new canaan was to be pitied for having to put up with anything so unheard-of as "a harvard gradyate or whatever," after having had the advantages of an educator like ezra herr. and tillie, as she walked home with her four brothers and sisters, hoped, for the sake of her own advancement, that a harvard graduate was at least not less intelligent than a millersville normal. xiv the harvard graduate that a man holding a harvard degree should consider so humble an educational post as that of new canaan needs a word of explanation. walter fairchilds was the protege of his uncle, the high church bishop of a new england state, who had practically, though not legally, adopted him, upon the death of his father, when the boy was fourteen years old, his mother having died at his birth. it was tacitly understood by walter that his uncle was educating him for the priesthood. his life, from the time the bishop took charge of him until he was ready for college, was spent in church boarding-schools. a spiritually minded, thoughtful boy, of an emotional temperament which responded to every appeal of beauty, whether of form, color, sound, or ethics, walter easily fell in with his uncle's designs for him, and rivaled him in the fervor of his devotion to the esthetic ritual of his church. his summer vacations were spent at bar harbor with the bishop's family, which consisted of his wife and two anemic daughters. they were people of limited interests, who built up barriers about their lives on all sides; social hedges which excluded all humanity but a select and very dull, uninteresting circle; intellectual walls which never admitted a stray unconventional idea; moral demarcations which nourished within them the mammon of self-righteousness, and theological harriers which shut out the sunlight of a broad charity. therefore, when in the course of his career at harvard, walter fairchilds discovered that intellectually he had outgrown not only the social creed of the divine right of the well-born, in which these people had educated him, but their theological creed as well, the necessity of breaking the fact to them, of wounding their affection for him, of disappointing the fond and cherished hope with which for years his uncle had spent money upon his education--the ordeal which he had to face was a fiery one. when, in deepest sorrow, and with all the delicacy of his sensitive nature, he told the bishop of his changed mental attitude toward the problem of religion, it seemed to him that in his uncle's reception of it the spirit of the spanish inquisitors was revived, so mad appeared to him his horror of this heresy and his conviction that he, walter, was a poison in the moral atmosphere, which must be exterminated at any cost. in this interview between them, the bishop stood revealed to him in a new character, and yet walter seemed to realize that in his deeper consciousness he had always known him for what he really was, though all the circumstances of his conventional life had conduced to hide his real self. he saw, now, how the submissiveness of his own dreamy boyhood had never called into active force his guardian's native love of domineering; his intolerance of opposition; the pride of his exacting will. but on the first provocation of circumstances, these traits stood boldly forth. "is it for this that i have spent my time and money upon you--to bring up an infidel?" bishop fairchilds demanded, when he had in part recovered from the first shock of amazement the news had given him. "i am not an infidel even if i have outgrown high church dogmas. i have a faith--i have a religion; and i assure you that i never so fully realized the vital truth of my religion as i do now--now that i see things, not in the dim cathedral light, but out under the broad heavens!" "how can you dare to question the authority of our holy mother, the church, whose teachings have come down to us through all these centuries, bearing the sacred sanction of the most ancient authority?" "old things can rot!" walter answered. "and you fancy," the bishop indignantly demanded, "that i will give one dollar for your support while you are adhering to this blasphemy? that i will ever again even so much as break bread with you, until, in humble contrition, you return to your allegiance to the church?" walter lifted his earnest eyes and met squarely his uncle's frowning stare. then the boy rose. "nothing, then, is left for me," he said steadily, "but to leave your home, give up the course of study i had hoped to continue at harvard, and get to work." "you fully realize all that this step must mean?" his uncle coldly asked him. "you are absolutely penniless." "in a matter of this kind, uncle, you must realize that such a consideration could not possibly enter in." "you have not a penny of your own. the few thousands that your father left were long ago used up in your school-bills." "and i am much in your debt; i know it all." "so you choose poverty and hardship for the sake of this perversity?" "others have suffered harder things for principle." thus they parted. and thus it was, through the suddenness and unexpectedness of the loss of his home and livelihood, that walter fairchilds came to apply for the position at william penn. "here, tillie, you take and go up to sister jennie hershey's and get some mush. i'm makin' fried mush fur supper," said aunty em, bustling into the hotel kitchen where her niece was paring potatoes, one saturday afternoon. "here's a quarter. get two pound." "oh, tillie," called her cousin rebecca from the adjoining dining-room, which served also as the family sitting-room, "hurry on and you'll mebbe be in time to see the stage come in with the new teacher in. mebbe you'll see him to speak to yet up at hershey's." "lizzie hershey's that wonderful tickled that the teacher's going to board at their place!" said amanda, the second daughter, a girl of tillie's age, as she stood in the kitchen doorway and watched tillie put on her black hood over the white mennonite cap. stout aunty em also wore the mennonite dress, which lent a certain dignity to her round face with its alert but kindly eyes; but her two daughters were still "of the world's people." "when lizzie she tole me about it, comin' out from lancaster after market this morning," continued amanda, "she was now that tickled! she sayed he's such a good-looker! och, i wisht he was stoppin' here; ain't, tillie? lizzie'll think herself much, havin' a town fellah stoppin' at their place." "if he's stoppin' at hershey's," said rebecca, appearing suddenly, "that ain't sayin' he has to get in with lizzie so wonderful thick! i hope he's a jolly fellah." amanda and rebecca were now girls of seventeen and eighteen years--buxom, rosy, absolutely unideal country lasses. beside them, frail little tillie seemed a creature of another clay. "lizzie tole me: she sayed how he come up to their market-stall in there at lancaster this morning," amanda related, "and tole her he'd heard jonas hershey's pork-stall at market was where he could mebbe find out a place he could board at in new canaan with a private family--he'd sooner live with a private family that way than at the hotel. well, lizzie she coaxed her pop right there in front of the teacher to say they'd take him, and jonas hershey he sayed he didn't care any. so lizzie she tole him then he could come to their place, and he sayed he'd be out this after in the four-o'clock stage." "well, and i wonder what her mother has to say to her and jonas fixin' it up between 'em to take a boarder and not waitin' to ast her!" aunty em said. "i guess mebbe sister jennie's spited!" the appellation of "sister" indicated no other relation than that of the mennonite church membership, mrs. jonas hershey being also a new mennonite. "now don't think you have to run all the way there and back, tillie," was her aunt's parting injunction. "_i_ don't time you like what your pop does! well, i guess not! i take notice you're always out of breath when you come back from an urrand. it's early yet--you dare stop awhile and talk to lizzie." tillie gave her aunt a look of grateful affection as she left the house. often when she longed to thank her for her many little acts of kindness, the words would not come. it was the habit of her life to repress every emotion of her mind, whether of bitterness or pleasure, and an unconquerable shyness seized upon her in any least attempt to reveal herself to those who were good to her. it was four o'clock on a beautiful october afternoon as she walked up the village street, and while she enjoyed, through all her sensitive maiden soul, the sweet sunshine and soft autumn coloring, her thought dwelt with a pleasant expectancy on her almost inevitable meeting with "the teacher," if he did indeed arrive in the stage now due at new canaan. unlike her cousins amanda and rebecca, and their neighbor lizzie hershey, tillie's eagerness to meet the young man was not born of a feminine hunger for romance. life as yet had not revealed those emotions to her except as she had known them in her love for miss margaret--which love was indeed full of a sacred sentiment. it was only because the teacher meant an aid to the realization of her ambition to become "educated" that she was interested in his coming. it was but a few minutes' walk to the home of jonas hershey, the country pork butcher. as tillie turned in at the gate, she heard, with a leap of her heart, the distant rumble of the approaching stagecoach. jonas hershey's home was probably the cleanest, neatest-looking red brick house in all the county. the board-walk from the gate to the door fairly glistened from the effects of soap and water. the flower-beds, almost painfully neat and free from weeds, were laid out on a strictly mathematical plan. a border of whitewashed clam-shells, laid side by side with military precision, set off the brilliant reds and yellows of the flowers, and a glance at them was like gazing into the face of the midday sun. tillie shaded her dazzled eyes as she walked across the garden to the side door which opened into the kitchen. it stood open and she stepped in without ceremony. for a moment she could see nothing but red and yellow flowers and whitewashed clam-shells. but as her vision cleared, she perceived her neighbor, lizzie hershey, a well-built, healthy-looking country lass of eighteen years, cutting bread at a table, and her mother, a large fat woman wearing the mennonite dress, standing before a huge kitchen range, stirring "ponhaus" in a caldron. the immaculate neatness of the large kitchen gave evidence, as did garden, board-walk, and front porch, of that morbid passion for "cleaning up" characteristic of the dutch housewife. jonas hershey did a very large and lucrative business, and the work of his establishment was heavy. but he hired no "help" and his wife and daughter worked early and late to aid him in earning the dollars which he hoarded. "sister jennie!" tillie accosted mrs. hershey with the new mennonite formal greeting, "i wish you the grace and peace of the lord." "the same to you, sister," mrs. hershey replied, bending to receive tillie's kiss as the girl came up to her at the stove--the mennonite interpretation of the command, "salute the brethren with a holy kiss." "well, lizzie," was tillie's only greeting to the girl at the table. lizzie was not a member of meeting and the rules forbade the members to kiss those who were still in the world. "well, tillie," answered lizzie, not looking up from the bread she was cutting. tillie instantly perceived a lack of cordiality. something was wrong. lizzie's face was sullen and her mother's countenance looked grim and determined. tillie wondered whether their evident ill-humor were in any way connected with herself, or whether her aunty em's surmise were correct, and sister jennie was really "spited." "i've come to get two pound of mush," she said, remembering her errand. "it's all," mrs. hershey returned. "we solt every cake at market, and no more's made yet. it was all a'ready till market was only half over." "aunty em'll be disappointed. she thought she'd make fried mush for supper," said tillie. "have you strangers?" inquired mrs. hershey. "no, we haven't anybody for supper, unless some come on the stage this after. we had four for dinner." "were they such agents, or what?" asked lizzie. tillie turned to her. "whether they were agents? no, they were just pleasure-seekers. they were out for a drive and stopped off to eat." at this instant the rattling old stage-coach drew up at the gate. the mother and daughter, paying no heed whatever to the sound, went on with their work, mrs. hershey looking a shade more grimly determined as she stirred her ponhaus and lizzie more sulky. tillie had just time to wonder whether she had better slip out before the stranger came in, when a knock on the open kitchen door checked her. neither mother nor daughter glanced up in answer to the knock. mrs. hershey resolutely kept her eyes on her caldron as she turned her big spoon about in it, and lizzie, with sullen, averted face, industriously cut her loaf. a second knock, followed by the appearance of a good-looking, well-dressed young man on the threshold, met with the same reception. tillie, in the background, and hidden by the stove, looked on wonderingly. the young man glanced, in evident mystification, at the woman by the stove and at the girl at the table, and a third time rapped loudly. "good afternoon!" he said pleasantly, an inquiring note in his voice. mrs. hershey and lizzie went on with their work as though they had not heard him. he took a step into the room, removing his hat. "you were expecting me this afternoon, weren't you?" he asked. "this is the place," lizzie remarked at last. "you were looking for me?" he repeated. mrs. hershey suddenly turned upon lizzie. "why don't you speak?" she inquired half-tauntingly. "you spoke before." tillie realized that sister jennie must be referring to lizzie's readiness at market that morning to "speak," in making her agreement with the young man for board. "you spoke this morning," the mother repeated. "why can't you speak now?" "och, why don't you speak yourself?" retorted lizzie. "it ain't fur me to speak!" the stranger appeared to recognize that he was the subject of a domestic unpleasantness. "you find it inconvenient to take me to board?" he hesitatingly inquired of mrs. hershey. "i shouldn't think of wishing to intrude. there is a hotel in the place, i suppose?" "yes. there is a hotel in new canaan." "i can get board there, no doubt?" "well," mrs. hershey replied argumentatively, "that's a public house and this ain't. we never made no practice of takin' boarders. to be sure, jonas he always was fur boarders. but i ain't fur!" "oh, yes," gravely nodded the young man. "yes. i see." he picked up the dress-suit case which he had set on the sill. "where is the hotel, may i ask?" "just up the road a piece. you can see the sign out," said mrs. hershey, while lizzie banged the bread-box shut with an energy forcibly expressive of her feelings. "thank you," responded the gentleman, a pair of keen, bright eyes sweeping lizzie's gloomy face. he bowed, put his hat on his head and stepped out of the house. there was a back door at the other side of the kitchen. not stopping for the ceremony of leave-taking, tillie slipped out of it to hurry home before the stranger should reach the hotel. her heart beat fast as she hurried across fields by a short-cut, and there was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes. her ears were tingling with sounds to which they were unaccustomed, and which thrilled them exquisitely--the speech, accent, and tones of one who belonged to that world unknown to her except through books--out of which miss margaret had come and to which this new teacher, she at once recognized, belonged. undoubtedly he was what was called, by magazine-writers and novel-writers, a "gentleman." and it was suddenly revealed to tillie that in real life the phenomenon thus named was even more interesting than in literature. the clean cut of the young man's thin face, his pale forehead, the fineness of the white hand he had lifted to his hat, his modulated voice and speech, all these things had, in her few minutes' observation of him, impressed themselves instantly and deeply upon the girl's fresh imagination. out of breath from her hurried walk, she reached the back door of the hotel several minutes before the teacher's arrival. she had just time to report to her aunt that sister jennie's mush was "all," and to reply in the affirmative to the eager questions of amanda and rebecca as to whether she had seen the teacher, when the sound of the knocker on the front door arrested their further catechism. "the stage didn't leave out whoever it is--it drove right apast," said aunty em. "you go, tillie, and see oncet who is it." tillie was sure that she had not been seen by the evicted applicant for board, as she had been hidden behind the stove. this impression was confirmed when she now opened the door to him, for there was no recognition in his eyes as he lifted his hat. it was the first time in tillie's life that a man had taken off his hat to her, and it almost palsied her tongue as she tried to ask him to come in. in reply to his inquiry as to whether he could get board here, she led him into the darkened parlor at the right of a long hall. groping her way across the floor to the window she drew up the blind. "just sit down," she said timidly. "i'll call aunty em." "thank you," he bowed with a little air of ceremony that for an instant held her spellbound. she stood staring at him--only recalled to herself and to a sense of shame for her rudeness by the sudden entrance of her aunt. "how d' do?" said mrs. wackernagel in her brisk, businesslike tone. "d'you want supper?" "i am the applicant for the new canaan school. i want to get board for the winter here, if i can--and in case i'm elected." "well, i say! tillie! d'you hear that? why us we all heard you was goin' to jonas hershey's." "they decided it wasn't convenient to take me and sent me here." "now think! if that wasn't like sister jennie yet! all right!" she announced conclusively. "we can accommodate you to satisfaction, i guess." "have you any other boarders?" the young man inquired. "no reg'lar boarders--except, to be sure, the doc; and he's lived with us it's comin' fifteen years, i think, or how long, till november a'ready. it's just our own fam'ly here and my niece where helps with the work, and the doc. we have a many to meals though, just passing through that way, you know. we don't often have more 'n one reg'lar boarder at oncet, so we just make 'em at home still, like as if they was one of us. now you," she hospitably concluded, "we'll lay in our best bed. we don't lay 'em in the best bed unless they're some clean-lookin'." tillie noticed as her aunt talked that while the young man listened with evident interest, his eyes moved about the room, taking in every detail of it. to tillie's mind, this hotel parlor was so "pleasing to the eye" as to constitute one of those temptations of the enemy against which her new mennonite faith prescribed most rigid discipline. she wondered whether the stranger did not think it very handsome. the arrangement of the room was evidently, like jonas hershey's flower-beds, the work of a mathematical genius. the chairs all stood with their stiff backs squarely against the wall, the same number facing each other from the four sides of the apartment. photographs in narrow oval frames, six or eight, formed another oval, all equidistant from the largest, which occupied the dead center, not only of this group, but of the wall from which it depended. the books on the square oak table, which stood in the exact middle of the floor, were arranged in cubical piles in the same rigid order. tillie saw the new teacher's glance sweep their titles: "touching incidents, and remarkable answers to prayer"; "from tannery to white house"; "gems of religious thought," by talmage; "history of the galveston horror; illustrated"; "platform echoes, or living truths for heart and head," by john b. gough. "lemme see--your name's fairchilds, ain't?" the landlady abruptly asked. "yes," bowed the young man. "will you, now, take it all right if i call you by your christian name? us mennonites daresent call folks mr. and mrs. because us we don't favor titles. what's your first name now?" mr. fairchilds considered the question with the appearance of trying to remember. "you'd better call me pestalozzi," he answered, with a look and tone of solemnity. "pesky louzy!" mrs. waekernagel exclaimed. "well, now think! that's a name where ain't familiar 'round here. is it after some of your folks?" "it was a name i think i bore in a previous incarnation as a teacher of youth," fairchilds gravely replied. mrs. waekernagel looked blank. "tillie!" she appealed to her niece, who had shyly stepped half behind her, "do you know right what he means?" tillie dumbly shook her head. "pesky louzy!" mrs. waekernagel experimented with the unfamiliar name. "don't it, now, beat all! it'll take me awhile till i'm used to that a'ready. mebbe i'll just call you teacher; ain't?" she looked at him inquiringly, expecting an answer. "ain't!" she repeated in her vigorous, whole-souled way. "eh--ain't what?" fairchilds asked, puzzled. "och, i just mean, say not? can't you mebbe talk english wery good? we had such a foreigners at this hotel a'ready. we had oncet one, he was from phil'delphy and he didn't know what we meant right when we sayed, 'the butter's all any more.' he'd ast like you, 'all what?' yes, he was that dumm! och, well," she added consolingly, "people can't help fur their dispositions, that way!" "and what must i call you?" the young man inquired. "my name's wackernagel." "miss or mrs.?" "well, i guess not miss anyhow! i'm the mother of four!" "oh, excuse me!" "oh, that's all right!" responded mrs. wackernagel, amiably. "well, i must go make supper now. you just make yourself at home that way." "may i go to my room?" "now?" asked mrs. wackernagel, incredulously. "before night?" "to unpack my dress-suit case," the young man explained. "my trunk will be brought out to-morrow on the stage." "all right. if you want. but we ain't used to goin' up-stairs in the daytime. tillie, you take his satchel and show him up. this is my niece, tillie getz." again mr. fairchilds bowed to the girl as his eyes rested on the fair face looking out from her white cap. tillie bent her head in response, then stooped to pick up the suit case. but he interposed and took it from her hands--and the touch of chivalry in the act went to her head like wine. she led the way up-stairs to the close, musty, best spare bedroom. xv the wackernagels at home at the supper-table, the apparently inexhaustible topic of talk was the refusal of the hersheys to receive the new teacher into the bosom of their family. a return to this theme again and again, on the part of the various members of the wackernagel household, did not seem to lessen its interest for them, though the teacher himself did not take a very animated part in its discussion. tillie realized, as with an absorbing interest she watched his fine face, that all he saw and heard here was as novel to him as the world whence he had come would be to her and her kindred and neighbors, could they be suddenly transplanted into it. tillie had never looked upon any human countenance which seemed to express so much of that ideal world in which she lived her real life. "to turn him off after he got there!" mrs. wackernagel exclaimed, reverting for the third time to the episode which had so excited the family. "and after lizzie and jonas they'd sayed he could come yet!" "well, i say!" mr. wackernagel shook his head, as though the story, even at its third recital, were full of surprises. mr. wackernagel was a tall, raw-boned man with conspicuously large feet and hands. he wore his hair plastered back from his face in a unique, not to say distinguished style, which he privately considered highly becoming his position as the proprietor of the new canaan hotel. mr. wackernagel's self-satisfaction did indeed cover every detail of his life--from the elegant fashion of his hair to the quality of the whisky which he sold over the bar, and of which he never tired of boasting. not only was he entirely pleased with himself, but his good-natured satisfaction included all his possessions--his horse first, then his wife, his two daughters, his permanent boarder, "the doc," and his wife's niece tillie. for people outside his own horizon, he had a tolerant but contemptuous pity. mr. wackernagel and the doctor both sat at table in their shirt-sleeves, the proprietor wearing a clean white shirt (his extravagance and vanity in using two white shirts a week being one of the chief historical facts of the village), while the doctor was wont to appear in a brown cotton shirt, the appearance of which suggested the hostler rather than the physician. that fairchilds should "eat in his coat" placed him, in the eyes of the wackernagels, on the high social plane of the drummers from the city, many of whom yearly visited the town with their wares. "and teacher he didn't press 'em none, up at jonas hershey's, to take him in, neither, he says," mrs. wackernagel pursued. "he says?" repeated mr. wackernagel, inquiringly. "well, that's like what i was, too, when i was a young man," he boasted. "if i thought i ain't wanted when i went to see a young lady--if she passed any insinyations--she never wasn't worried with me ag'in!" "i guess lizzie's spited that teacher's stoppin' at our place," giggled rebecca, her pretty face rosy with pleasurable excitement in the turn affairs had taken. she sat directly opposite mr. fairchilds, while amanda had the chair at his side. tillie could see that the young man's eyes rested occasionally upon the handsome, womanly form of her very good-looking cousin amanda. men always looked at amanda a great deal, tillie had often observed. the fact had never before had any special significance for her. "are you from lancaster, or wherever?" the doctor inquired of mr. fairchilds. "from connecticut," he replied in a tone that indefinably, but unmistakably checked further questioning. "now think! so fur off as that!" "yes, ain't!" exclaimed mrs. wackernagel. "it's a wonder a body'd ever be contented to live that fur off." "we're had strangers here in this hotel," mr. wackernagel began to brag, while he industriously ate of his fried sausage and fried potatoes, "from as fur away as illinois yet! and from as fur south as down in maine! yes, indeed! ain't, mom?" he demanded of his wife. "och, yes, many's the strange meals i cooked a'ready in this house. one week i cooked forty strange meals; say not, abe?" she returned. "yes, i mind of that week. it was mrs. johnson and her daughter we had from illinois and mrs. snyder from maine," abe explained to mr. fairchilds. "and them johnsons stayed the whole week." "they stopped here while mr. johnson went over the county sellin' milk-separators," added mrs. wackernagel. "and abe he was in lancaster that week, and the doc he was over to east donegal, and there was no man here except only us ladies! do you mind, rebecca?" eebecca nodded, her mouth too full for utterance. "mrs. johnson she looked younger than her own daughter yet," mrs. wackernagel related, with animation, innocent of any suspicion that the teacher might not find the subject of mrs. johnson as absorbing as she found it. "there is nothing like good health as a preserver of youth," responded fairchilds. "hotel-keepin' didn't pay till we got the license," mr. wackernagel chatted confidentially to the stranger. "mom, to be sure, she didn't favor my havin' a bar, because she belonged to meetin'. but i seen i couldn't make nothin' if i didn't. it was never no temptation to me--i was always among the whisky and i never got tight oncet. and it ain't the hard work farmin' was. i had to give up followin' farmin'. i got it so in my leg. why, sometimes i can't hardly walk no more." "and can't your doctor cure you?" fairchilds asked, with a curious glance at the unkempt little man across the table. "och, yes, he's helped me a heap a'ready. him he's as good a doctor as any they're got in lancaster even!" was the loyal response. "here a couple months back, a lady over in east donegal township she had wrote him a letter over here, how the five different kinds of doses where he give her daughter done her so much good, and she was that grateful, she sayed she just felt indebted fur a letter to him! ain't, doc? she sayed now her daughter's engaged to be married and her mind's more settled--and to be sure, that made somepin too. yes, she sayed her gettin' engaged done her near as much good as the five different kind of doses done her." "are you an allopath?" fairchilds asked the doctor. "i'm a eclectic," he responded glibly. "and do you know, teacher, i'd been practisin' that there style of medicine fur near twelve years before i knowed it was just to say the eclectic school, you understand." "like moliere's prose-writer!" remarked the teacher, then smiled at himself for making such an allusion in such a place. "won't you have some more sliced radishes, teacher?" urged the hostess. "i made a-plenty." "no, i thank you," fairchilds replied, with his little air of courtesy that so impressed the whole family. "i can't eat radishes in the evening with impunity." "but these is with winegar," mrs. wackernagel corrected him. before mr. fairchilds could explain, mr. wackernagel broke in, confirming the doctor's proud claim. "yes, doc he's a eclectic," he repeated, evidently feeling that the fact reflected credit on the hotel. "you can see his sign on the side door." "i was always interested in science," explained the doctor, under the manifest impression that he was continuing the subject. "phe-non-e-ma. that's what i like. odd things. i'm stuck on 'em! now this here wireless telegraphy. i'm stuck on that, you bet! to me that there's a phe-non-e-ma." "teacher," interrupted mrs. wackernagel, "you ain't eatin' hearty. leave me give you some more sausage." "if you please," mr. fairchilds bowed as he handed his plate to her. "why don't you leave him help hisself," protested mr. wackernagel. "he won't feel to make hisself at home if he can't help hisself like as if he was one of us that way." "och, well," confessed mrs. wackernagel, "i just keep astin' him will he have more, so i can hear him speak his manners so nice." she laughed aloud at her own vanity. "you took notice of it too, tillie, ain't? you can't eat fur lookin' at him!" a tide of color swept tillie's face as the teacher, with a look of amusement, turned his eyes toward her end of the table. her glance fell upon her plate, and she applied herself to cutting up her untouched sausage. "now, there's doc," remarked amanda, critically, "he's got good manners, but he don't use 'em." "och," said the doctor, "it ain't worth while to trouble." "i think it would be wonderful nice, teacher," said mrs. wackernagel, "if you learnt them manners you got to your scholars this winter. i wisht 'manda and rebecca knowed such manners. they're to be your scholars this winter." "indeed?" said fairchilds; "are they?" "'manda there," said her father, "she's so much fur actin' up you'll have to keep her right by you to keep her straight, still." "that's where i shall be delighted to keep her," returned fairchilds, gallantly, and amanda laughed boisterously and grew several shades rosier as she looked boldly up into the young man's eyes. "ain't you fresh though!" she exclaimed coquettishly. how dared they all make so free with this wonderful young man, marveled tillie. why didn't they realize, as she did, how far above them he was? she felt almost glad that in his little attentions to amanda and rebecca he had scarcely noticed her at all; for the bare thought of talking to him overwhelmed her with shyness. "mind tillie!" laughed mr. wackernagel, suddenly, "lookin' scared at the way yous are all talkin' up to teacher! tillie she's afraid of you," he explained to mr. fairchilds. "she ain't never got her tongue with her when there's strangers. ain't, tillie?" tillie's burning face was bent over her plate, and she did not attempt to answer. mr. fairchilds' eyes rested for an instant on the delicate, sensitive countenance of the girl. but his attention was diverted by an abrupt exclamation from mrs. wackernagel. "oh, abe!" she suddenly cried, "you ain't tole teacher yet about the albright sisters astin' you, on market, what might your name be!" the tone in which this serious omission was mentioned indicated that it was an anecdote treasured among the family archives. "now, i would mebbe of forgot that!" almost in consternation said mr. wackernagel. "well," he began, concentrating his attention upon the teacher, "it was this here way. the two miss albrights they had bought butter off of us, on market, for twenty years back a'ready, and all that time we didn't know what was their name, and they didn't know ourn; fur all, i often says to mom, 'now i wonder what's the name of them two thin little women.' well, you see, i was always a wonderful man fur my jokes. yes, i was wery fond of makin' a joke, still. so here one day the two sisters come along and bought their butter, and then one of 'em she says, 'excuse me, but here i've been buyin' butter off of yous fur this twenty years back a'ready and i ain't never heard your name. what might your name be?' now i was such a man fur my jokes, still, so i says to her"--mr. wackernagel's whole face twinkled with amusement, and his shoulders shook with laughter as he contemplated the joke he had perpetrated--"i says, 'well, it might be gener'l jackson'"--laughter again choked his utterance, and the stout form of mrs. wackernagel also was convulsed with amusement, while amanda and rebecca giggled appreciatively. tillie and the doctor alone remained unaffected. "'it might be gener'l jackson,' i says. 'but it ain't. it's abe wackernagel,' i says. you see," he explained, "she ast me what might my name be.--see?--and i says 'it might be jackson'--might be, you know, because she put it that way, what might it be. 'but it ain't,' i says. 'it's wackernagel.'" mr. and mrs. wackernagel and their daughters leaned back in their chairs and gave themselves up to prolonged and exuberant laughter, in which the teacher obligingly joined as well as he was able. when this hilarity had subsided, mr. wackernagel turned to mr. fairchilds with a question. "are you mebbe feelin' oneasy, teacher, about meetin' the school directors to-night? you know they meet here in the hotel parlor at seven o'clock to take a look at you; and if you suit, then you and them signs the agreement." "and if i don't suit?" "they'll turn you down and send you back home!" promptly answered the doctor. "that there board ain't conferrin' william penn on no one where don't suit 'em pretty good! they're a wonderful partic'lar board!" after supper the comely amanda agreed eagerly to the teacher's suggestion that she go with him for a walk, before the convening of the school board at seven o'clock, and show him the school-house, as he would like to behold, he said, "the seat of learning" which, if the board elected him, was to be the scene of his winter's campaign. amanda improved this opportunity to add her word of warning to that of the doctor. "that there board's awful hard to suit, still. oncet they got a millersville normal out here, and when she come to sign they seen she was near-sighted that way, and nathaniel puntz--he's a director--he up and says that wouldn't suit just so well, and they sent her back home. and here oncet a lady come out to apply and she should have sayed [she is reported to have said] she was afraid new canaan hadn't no accommodations good enough fur her, and the directors ast her, 'didn't most of our presidents come out of log cabins?' so they wouldn't elect her. now," concluded amanda, "you see!" "thanks for your warning. can you give me some pointers?" "what's them again?" "well, i must not be near-sighted, for one thing, and i must not demand 'all the modern improvements.' tell me what manner of man this school board loves and admires. to be in the dark as to their tastes, you know--" "you must make yourself nice and common," amanda instructed him. "you haven't dare to put on no city airs. to be sure, i guess they come a good bit natural to you, and, as mom says still, a body can't help fur their dispositions; but our directors is all plain that way and they don't like tony people that wants to come out here and think they're much!" "yes? i see. anything else?" "well, they'll be partic'lar about your bein' a perfessor." "how do you mean?" amanda looked at him in astonishment. "if you're a perfessor or no. they'll be sure to ast you." mr. fairchilds thoughtfully considered it. "you mean," he said, light coming to him, "they will ask me whether i am a professor of religion, don't you?" "why, to be sure!" "oh!" "and you better have your answer ready." "what, in your judgment, may i ask, would be a suitable answer to that?" "well, are you a perfessor?" "oh, i'm anything at all that will get me this 'job.' i've got to have it as a makeshift until i can get hold of something better. let me see--will a baptist do?" "are you a baptist?" the girl stolidly asked. "when circumstances are pressing. will they be satisfied with a baptist?" "that's one of the fashionable churches of the world," amanda replied gravely. "and the directors is most all mennonites and amish and dunkards. all them is plain churches and loosed of the world, you know." "oh, well, i'll wriggle out somehow! trust to luck!" fairchilds dismissed the subject, realizing the injudiciousness of being too confidential with this girl on so short an acquaintance. at the momentous hour of seven, the directors promptly assembled. when tillie, at her aunt's request, carried two kerosene lamps into the parlor, a sudden determination came to the girl to remain and witness the reception of the new teacher by the school board. she was almost sick with apprehension lest the board should realize, as she did, that this harvard graduate was too fine for such as they. it was an austere board, hard to satisfy, and there was nothing they would so quickly resent and reject as evident superiority in an applicant. the normal school students, their usual candidates, were for the most part, though not always, what was called in the neighborhood "nice and common." the new canaan board was certainly not accustomed to sitting in judgment upon an applicant such as this pestalozzi fairchilds. (tillie's religion forbade her to call him by the vain and worldly form of mr.) no one noticed the pale-faced girl as, after placing one lamp on the marble-topped table about which the directors sat and another on the mantelpiece, she moved quietly away to the farthest corner of the long, narrow parlor and seated herself back of the stove. the applicant, too, when he came into the room, was too much taken up with what he realized to be the perils of his case to observe the little watcher in the corner, though he walked past her so close that his coat brushed her shoulder, sending along her nerves, like a faint electric shock, a sensation so novel and so exquisite that it made her suddenly close her eyes to steady her throbbing head. there were present six members of the board--two amishmen, one old mennonite, one patriarchal-looking dunkard, one new mennonite, and one evangelical, the difference in their religious creeds being attested by their various costumes and the various cuts of beard and hair. the evangelical, the new mennonite, and the amishmen were farmers, the dunkard kept the store and the post-office, and the old mennonite was the stage-driver. jacob getz was the evangelical; and nathaniel puntz, absalom's father, the new mennonite. the investigation of the applicant was opened up by the president of the board, a long-haired amishman, whose clothes were fastened by hooks and eyes instead of buttons and buttonholes, these latter being considered by his sect as a worldly vanity. "what was your experience a'ready as a teacher?" fairchilds replied that he had never had any. tillie's heart sank as, from her post in the corner, she heard this answer. would the members think for one moment of paying forty dollars a month to a teacher without experience? she was sure they had never before done so. they were shaking their heads gravely over it, she could see. but the investigation proceeded. "what was your persuasion then?" tillie saw, in the teacher's hesitation, that he did not understand the question. "my 'persuasion'? oh! i see. you mean my church?" "yes, what's your conwictions?" he considered a moment. tillie hung breathlessly upon his answer. she knew how much depended upon it with this board of "plain" people. could he assure them that he was "a bible christian"? otherwise, they would never elect him to the new canaan school. he gave his reply, presently, in a tone suggesting his having at that moment recalled to memory just what his "persuasion" was. "let me see--yes--i'm a truth-seeker." "what's that again?" inquired the president, with interest. "i have not heard yet of that persuasion." "a truth-seeker," he gravely explained, "is one who believes in--eh--in a progress from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity to a definite, coherent heterogeneity." the members looked at each other cautiously. "is that the english you're speakin', or whatever?" asked the dunkard member. "some of them words ain't familiar with me till now, and i don't know right what they mean." "yes, i'm talking english," nodded the applicant. "we also believe," he added, growing bolder, "in the fundamental, biogenetic law that ontogenesis is an abridged repetition of philogenesis." "he says they believe in genesis," remarked the old mennonite, appealing for aid, with bewildered eyes, to the other members. "maybe he's a jew yet!" put in nathaniel puntz. "we also believe," mr. fairchilds continued, beginning to enjoy himself, "in the revelations of science." "he believes in genesis and in revelations," explained the president to the others. "maybe he's a cat'lic!" suggested the suspicious mr. puntz. "no," said fairchilds, "i am, as i said, a truth-seeker. a truth-seeker can no more be a catholic or a jew in faith than an amishman can, or a mennonite, or a brennivinarian." tillie knew he was trying to say "winebrennarian," the name of one of the many religious sects of the county, and she wondered at his not knowing better. "you ain't a gradyate, neither, are you?" was the president's next question, the inscrutable mystery of the applicant's creed being for the moment dropped. "why, yes, i thought you knew that. of harvard." "och, that!" contemptuously; "i mean you ain't a gradyate of millersville normal?" "no," humbly acknowledged fairchilds. "when i was young," mr. getz irrelevantly remarked, "we didn't have no gradyate teachers like what they have now, still. but we anyhow learnt more according." "how long does it take you to get 'em from a, b, c's to the testament?" inquired the patriarchal dunkard. "that depends upon the capacity of the pupil," was mr. fairchilds's profound reply. "can you learn 'em 'rithmetic good?" asked nathaniel puntz. "i got a son his last teacher couldn't learn 'rithmetic to. he's wonderful dumm in 'rithmetic, that there boy is. absalom by name. after the grandfather. his teacher tried every way to learn him to count and figger good. he even took and spread toothpicks out yet--but that didn't learn him neither. i just says, he ain't appointed to learn 'rithmetic. then the teacher he tried him with such a algebry. but absalom he'd get so mixed up!--he couldn't keep them x's spotted." "i have a method," mr. fairchilds began, "which i trust--" to tillie's distress, her aunt's voice, at this instant calling her to "come stir the sots [yeast] in," summoned her to the kitchen. it was very hard to have to obey. she longed so to stay till fairchilds should come safely through his fiery ordeal. for a moment she was tempted to ignore the summons, but her conscience, no less than her grateful affection for her aunt, made such behavior impossible. softly she stole out of the room and noiselessly closed the door behind her. a half-hour later, when her aunt and cousins had gone to bed, and while the august school board still occupied the parlor, tillie sat sewing in the sitting-room, while the doctor, at the other side of the table, nodded over his newspaper. since tillie had come to live at the hotel, she and the doctor were often together in the evening; the doc was fond of a chat over his pipe with the child whom he so helped and befriended in her secret struggles to educate herself. there was, of course, a strong bond of sympathy and friendship between them in their common conspiracy with miss margaret, whom the doctor had never ceased to hold in tender memory. just now tillie's ears were strained to catch the sounds of the adjourning of the board. when at last she heard their shuffling footsteps in the hall, her heart beat fast with suspense. a moment more and the door leading from the parlor opened and fairchilds came out into the sitting-room. tillie did not lift her eyes from her sewing, but the room seemed suddenly filled with his presence. "well!" the doctor roused himself to greet the young man; "were you 'lected?" breathlessly, tillie waited to hear his answer. "oh, yes; i've escaped alive!" fairchilds leaned against the table in an attitude of utter relaxation. "they roasted me brown, though! galileo at rome, and martin luther at worms, had a dead easy time compared to what i've been through!" "i guess!" the doctor laughed. "ain't!" "i'm going to bed," the teacher announced in a tone of collapse. "good night!" "good night!" answered the doctor, cordially. fairchilds drew himself up from the table and took a step toward the stairway; this brought him to tillie's side of the table, and he paused a moment and looked down upon her as she sewed. her fingers trembled, and the pulse in her throat beat suffocatingly, but she did not look up. "good night, miss--tillie, isn't it?" "matilda maria," tillie's soft, shy voice replied as her eyes, full of light, were raised, for an instant, to the face above her. the man smiled and bowed his acknowledgment; then, after an instant's hesitation, he said, "pardon me: the uniform you and mrs. wackernagel wear--may i ask what it is?" "'uniform'?" breathed tillie, wonderingly. "oh, you mean the garb? we are members of meeting. the world calls us new mennonites." "and this is the uni--the garb of the new mennonites?" "yes, sir." "it is a very becoming garb, certainly," fairchilds smiled, gazing down upon the fair young girl with a puzzled look in his own face, for he recognized, not only in her delicate features, and in the light of her beautiful eyes, but also in her speech, a something that set her apart from the rest of this household. tillie colored deeply at his words, and the doctor laughed outright. "by gum! they wear the garb to make 'em look unbecomin'! and he ups and tells her it's becomin' yet! that's a choke, teacher! one on you, ain't? that there cap's to hide the hair which is a pride to the sek! and that cape over the bust is to hide woman's allurin' figger. see? and you ups and tells her it's a becomin' unyform! unyforms is what new mennonites don't uphold to! them's fur cat'lics and 'piscopals--and fur warriors--and the mennonites don't favor war! unyforms yet!" he laughed. "i'm swanged if that don't tickle me!" "i stand corrected. i beg pardon if i've offended," fairchilds said hastily. "miss--matilda--i hope i've not hurt your feelings? believe me, i did not mean to." "och!" the doctor answered for her, "tillie she ain't so easy hurt to her feelin's, are you, tillie? gosh, teacher, them manners you got must keep you busy! well, sometimes i think i'm better off if i stay common. then i don't have to bother." the door leading from the bar-room opened suddenly and jacob getz stood on the threshold. "well, tillie," he said by way of greeting. "uncle abe sayed you wasn't went to bed yet, so i stopped to see you a minute." "well, father," tillie answered as she put down her sewing and came up to him. awkwardly he bent to kiss her, and tillie, even in her emotional excitement, realized, with a passing wonder, that he appeared glad to see her after a week of separation. "it's been some lonesome, havin' you away," he told her. "is everybody well?" she asked. "yes, middlin'. you was sewin', was you?" he inquired, glancing at the work on the table. "yes, sir." "all right. don't waste your time. next saturday i 'll stop off after market on my way out from lancaster and see you oncet, and get your wages off of aunty em." "yes, sir." a vague idea of something unusual in the light of tillie's eyes arrested him. he glanced suspiciously at the doctor, who was speaking in a low tone to the teacher. "look-ahere, tillie. if teacher there wants to keep comp'ny with one of yous girls, it ain't to be you, mind. he ain't to be makin' up to you! i don't want you to waste your time that there way." apprehensively, tillie darted a sidelong glance at the teacher to see if he had heard--for though no tender sentiment was associated in her mind with the idea of "keeping company," yet intuitively she felt the unseemliness of her father's warning and its absurdity in the eyes of such as this stranger. mr. fairchilds was leaning against the table, his arms folded, his lips compressed and his face flushed. she was sure that he had overheard her father. was he angry, or--almost worse--did that compressed mouth mean concealed amusement? "well, now, i must be goin'," said mr. getz. "be a good girl, mind. och, i 'most forgot to tell you. me and your mom's conceited we'd drive up to puntz's sunday afternoon after the dinner work's through a'ready. and if aunty em don't want you partic'lar, you're to come home and mind the childern, do you hear?" "yes, sir." "now, don't forget. well, good-by, then." again he bent to kiss her, and tillie felt fairchilds's eyes upon her, as unresponsively she submitted to the caress. "good night to you, teacher." mr. getz gruffly raised his voice to speak to the pair by the table. "and to you, doc." they answered him and he went away. when tillie slowly turned back to the table, the teacher hastily took his leave and moved away to the stairway at the other end of the room. as she took up her sewing, she heard him mount the steps and presently close and lock the door of his room at the head of the stairs. "he was, now, wonderful surprised, tillie," the doctor confided to her, "when i tole him jake getz was your pop. he don't think your pop takes after you any. i says to him, 'tillie's pop, there, bein' one of your bosses, you better make up to tillie,' i says, and he sayed, 'you don't mean to tell me that that mr. getz of the school board is the father of this girl?' 'that's what,' i says. 'he's that much her father,' i says, 'that you'd better keep on the right side of him by makin' up to tillie,' i says, just to plague him. and just then your pop up and sayed if teacher wanted to keep comp'ny he must pick out 'manda or rebecca--and i seen teacher wanted to laugh, but his manners wouldn't leave him. he certainly has, now, a lot of manners, ain't, tillie?" tillie's head was bent over her sewing and she did not answer. the doctor yawned, stretched himself, and guessed he would step into the bar-room. tillie bent over her sewing for a long time after she was left alone. the music of the young man's grave voice as he had spoken her name and called her "miss matilda" sang in her brain. the fascination of his smile as he had looked down into her eyes, and the charm of his chivalrous courtesy, so novel to her experience, haunted and intoxicated her. and tonight, tillie felt her soul flooded with a life and light so new and strange that she trembled as before a miracle. meanwhile, walter fairchilds, alone in his room, his mind too full of the events and characters to which the past day had introduced him to admit of sleep, was picturing, with mingled amusement and regret, the genuine horror of his fastidious relatives could they know of his present environment, among people for whom their vocabulary had but one word--a word which would have consigned them all, even that sweet-voiced, clear-eyed little puritan, matilda maria, to outer darkness; and that he, their adopted son and brother, should be breaking bread and living on a footing of perfect equality with these villagers he knew would have been, in their eyes, an offense only second in heinousness to that of his apostasy. xvi the wackernagels "conwerse" the next day, being the sabbath, brought to tillie two of the keenest temptations she had ever known. in the first place, she did not want to obey her father and go home after dinner to take care of the children. all in a day the hotel had become to her the one haven where she would be, outside of which the sun did not shine. true, by going home she might hope to escape the objectionable sunday evening sitting-up with absalom; for in spite of the note she had sent him, telling him of her father's wish that he must not come to see her at the hotel, she was unhappily sure that he would appear as usual. indeed, with his characteristic dogged persistency, he was pretty certain to follow her, whithersoever she went. and even if he did not, it would be easier to endure the slow torture of his endless visit under this roof, which sheltered also that other presence, than to lose one hour away from its wonderful and mysterious charm. "now, look here, tillie," said aunty em, at the breakfast-table, "you worked hard this week, and this after you're restin'--leastways, unless you want to go home and take care of all them litter of childern. if you don't want to go, you just stay--and _i'll_ take the blame! i'll say i needed you." "let jake getz come 'round here tryin' to bully you, tillie," exclaimed mr. wackernagel, "and it won't take me a week to tell him what i think of him! i don't owe him nothin'!" "no," agreed jake getz's sister, "we don't live off of him!" "and i don't care who fetches him neither!" added mr. wackernagel--which expression of contempt was one of the most scathing known to the tongue of a pennsylvania dutchman. "what are you goin' to do, tillie?" amanda asked. "are you goin' or stayin'?" tillie wavered a moment between duty and inclination; between the habit of servility to her father and the magic power that held her in its fascinating spell here under her uncle's roof. "i'm staying," she faltered. "good fur you, tillie!" laughed her uncle. "you're gettin' learnt here to take your own head a little fur things. well, i'd like to get you spoilt good fur your pop--that's what i'd like to do!" "we darsent go too fur," warned aunty em, "or he won't leave her stay with us at all." "now there's you, abe," remarked the doctor, dryly; "from the time your childern could walk and talk a'ready all you had to say was 'go'--and they stayed. ain't?" mr. wackernagel joined in the loud laughter of his wife and daughters. tillie realized that the teacher, as he sipped his coffee, was listening to the dialogue with astonishment and curiosity, and she hungered to know all that was passing through his mind. her second temptation came to her upon hearing fairchilds, as they rose from the breakfast-table, suggest a walk in the woods with amanda and rebecca. "and won't miss tillie go too?" he inquired. her aunt answered for her. "och, she wouldn't have dare, her bein' a member, you know. it would be breakin' the sabbath. and anyways, even if it wasn't sunday, us new mennonites don't take walks or do anything just fur pleasure when they ain't nothin' useful in it. if tillie went, i'd have to report her to the meetin', even if it did go ag'in' me to do it." "and then what would happen?" mr. fairchilds inquired curiously. "she'd be set back." "'set back'?" "she wouldn't have dare to greet the sisters with a kiss, and she couldn't speak with me or eat with me or any of the brothers and sisters till she gave herself up ag'in and obeyed to the rules." "this is very interesting," commented fairchilds, his contemplative gaze moving from the face of mrs. wackernagel to tillie. "but," he questioned, "mrs. wackernagel, why are your daughters allowed to do what you think wrong and would not do?" "well," began aunty em, entering with relish into the discussion, for she was strong in theology, "we don't hold to forcin' our childern or interferin' with the free work of the holy spirit in bringin' souls to the truth. we don't do like them fashionable churches of the world where teaches their childern to say their prayers and makes 'em read the bible and go to sunday-school. we don't uphold to sunday-schools. you can't read nothin' in the scripture about sunday-schools. we hold everybody must come by their free will, and learnt only of the holy spirit, into the light of the one true way." fairchilds gravely thanked her for her explanation and pursued the subject no further. when tillie presently saw him start out with her cousins, an unregenerate longing filled her soul to stay away from meeting and go with them, to spend this holy sabbath day in worshiping, not her god, but this most god-like being who had come like the opening up of heaven into her simple, uneventful life. in her struggle with her conscience to crush such sinful desires, tillie felt that now, for the first time, she understood how jacob of old had wrestled with the angel. her spiritual struggle was not ended by her going dutifully to meeting with her aunt. during all the long services of the morning she fought with her wandering attention to keep it upon the sacred words that were spoken and sung. but her thoughts would not be controlled. straying like a wicked imp into forbidden paths, her fancy followed the envied ones into the soft, cool shadows of the autumn woods and along the banks of the beautiful conestoga, and mingling with the gentle murmuring of the leaves and the rippling of the water, she heard that resonant voice, so unlike any voice she had ever heard before, and that little abrupt laugh with its odd falsetto note, which haunted her like a strain of music; and she saw, in the sunlight of the lovely october morning, against a background of gold and brown leaves and silver water, the finely chiseled face, the thoughtful, pale forehead, the kind eyes, the capable white hands, of this most wonderful young man. tillie well understood that could the brethren and sisters know in what a worldly frame of mind she sat in the house of god this day, undoubtedly they would present her case for "discipline," and even, perhaps, "set her back." but all the while that she tried to fight back the enemy of her soul, who thus subtly beset her with temptation to sin, she felt the utter uselessness of her struggle with herself. for even when she did succeed in forcing her attention upon some of the hymns, it was in whimsical and persistent terms of the teacher that she considered them. how was it possible, she wondered, for him, or any unconverted soul, to hear, without being moved to "give himself up," such lines as these: "he washed them all to make them clean, but judas still was full of sin. may none of us, like judas, sell our lord for gold, and go to hell!" and these: "o man, remember, thou must die; the sentence is for you and i. where shall we be, or will we go, when we must leave this world below?" in the same moment that tillie was wondering how a "truth-seeker" would feel under these searching words, she felt herself condemned by them for her wandering attention. the young girl's feelings toward the stranger at this present stage of their evolution were not, like those of amanda and rebecca, the mere instinctive feminine craving for masculine admiration. she did not think of herself in relation to him at all. a great hunger possessed her to know him--all his thoughts, his emotions, the depths and the heights of him; she did not long, or even wish, that he might know and admire her. the three-mile drive home from church seemed to tillie, sitting in the high, old-fashioned buggy at her aunt's side, an endless journey. never had old dolly traveled so deliberately or with more frequent dead stops in the road to meditate upon her long-past youth. mrs. wackernagel's ineffectual slaps of the reins upon the back of the decrepit animal inspired in tillie an inhuman longing to seize the whip and lash the feeble beast into a swift pace. the girl felt appalled at her own feelings, so novel and inexplicable they seemed to her. whether there was more of ecstasy or torture in them, she hardly knew. immediately after dinner the teacher went out and did not turn up again until evening, when he retired immediately to the seclusion of his own room. the mystification of the family at this unaccountably unsocial behavior, their curiosity as to where he had been, their suspense as to what he did when alone so long in his bedroom, reached a tension that was painful. promptly at half-past six, absalom, clad in his sunday suit, appeared at the hotel, to perform his weekly stint of sitting-up. as rebecca always occupied the parlor on sunday evening with her gentleman friend, there was only left to absalom and tillie to sit either in the kitchen or with the assembled family in the sitting-room. tillie preferred the latter. of course she knew that such respite as the presence of the family gave her was only temporary, for in friendly consideration of what were supposed to be her feelings in the matter, they would all retire early. absalom also knowing this, accepted the brief inconvenience of their presence without any marked restiveness. "say, absalom," inquired the doctor, as the young man took up his post on the settee beside tillie, sitting as close to her as he could without pushing her off, "how did your pop pass his opinion about the new teacher after the board meeting saturday, heh?" the doctor was lounging in his own special chair by the table, his fat legs crossed and his thumbs thrust into his vest arms. amanda idly rocked back and forth in a large luridly painted rocking-chair by the window, and mrs. wackernagel sat by the table before an open bible in which she was not too much absorbed to join occasionally in the general conversation. "he sayed he was afraid he was some tony," answered absalom. "and," he added, a reflection in his tone of his father's suspicious attitude on saturday night toward fairchilds, "pop sayed he couldn't make out what was his conwictions. he couldn't even tell right was he a bible christian or no." "he certainly does, now, have pecooliar views," agreed the doctor. "i was talkin' to him this after--" "you was!" exclaimed amanda, a note of chagrin in her voice. "well, i'd like to know where at? where had he took himself to?" "up to the woods there by the old mill. i come on him there at five o'clock--layin' readin' and musin'--when i was takin' a short cut home through the woods comin' from adam oberholzer's." "well i never!" cried amanda. "and was he out there all by hisself the whole afternoon?" she asked incredulously. "so much as i know. ain't he, now, a queer feller not to want a girl along when one was so handy?" teased the doctor. "well," retorted amanda, "i think he's hard up--to be spendin' a whole afternoon readin'!" "oh, doc!" tillie leaned forward and whispered, "he's up in his room and perhaps he can hear us through the register!" "i wisht he kin," declared amanda, "if it would learn him how dumm us folks thinks a feller where spends a whole sunday afternoon by hisself readin'!" "why, yes," put in mrs. wackernagel; "what would a body be wantin' to waste time like that fur?--when he could of spent his nice afternoon settin' there on the porch with us all, conwersin'." "and he's at it ag'in this evenin', up there in his room," the doctor informed them. "i went up to give him my lamp, and i'm swanged if he ain't got a many books and such pamp'lets in his room! as many as ten, i guess! i tole him: i says, 'it does, now, beat all the way you take to them books and pamp'lets and things!'" "it's a pity of him!" said motherly mrs. wackernagel. "and i says to him," added the doctor, "i says, 'you ain't much fur sociability, are you?' i says." "well, i did think, too, amanda," sympathized her mother, "he'd set up with you mebbe to-night, seein' rebecca and tillie's each got their gent'man comp'ny--even if he didn't mean it fur really, but only to pass the time." "och, he needn't think i'm dyin' to set up with him! there's a plenty others would be glad to set up with me, if i was one of them that was fur keepin' comp'ny with just anybody! but i did think when i heard he was goin' to stop here that mebbe he'd be a jolly feller that way. well," amanda concluded scathingly, "i'm goin' to tell lizzie hershey she ain't missin' much!" "what's them pecooliar views of hisn you was goin' to speak to us, doc?" said absalom. "och, yes, i was goin' to tell you them. well, here this after we got to talkin' about the subjeck of prayer, and i ast him his opinion. and if i understood right what he meant, why, prayin' is no different to him than musin'. leastways, that's the thought i got out of his words." "musin'," repeated absalom. "what's musin'?" "yes, what's that ag'in?" asked mrs. wackernagel, alert with curiosity, theological discussions being always of deep interest to her. "musin' is settin' by yourself and thinkin' of your learnin'," explained the doctor. "i've took notice, this long time back, educated persons they like to set by theirselves, still, and muse." "and do you say," demanded absalom, indignantly, "that teacher he says it's the same to him as prayin'--this here musin'?" "so much as i know, that's what he sayed." "well," declared absalom, "that there ain't in the bible! he'd better watch out! if he ain't a bible christian, pop and jake getz and the other directors'll soon put him off william penn!" "och, absalom, go sass your gran'mom!" was the doctor's elegant retort. "what's ailin' you, anyways, that you want to be so spunky about teacher? i guess you're mebbe thinkin' he'll cut you out with tillie, ain't?" "i'd like to see him try it oncet!" growled absalom. tillie grew cold with fear that the teacher might hear them; but she knew there was no use in protesting. "are you goin' to keep on at william penn all winter, absalom?" mrs. wackernagel asked. "just long enough to see if he kin learn 'rithmetic to me. ezra herr, he was too dumm to learn me." "mebbe," said the doctor, astutely, "you was too dumm to get learnt!" "i am wonderful dumm in 'rithmetic," absalom acknowledged shamelessly. "but pop says this here teacher is smart and kin mebbe learn me. i've not saw him yet myself." much as tillie disliked being alone with her suitor, she was rather relieved this evening when the family, en masse, significantly took its departure to the second floor; for she hoped that with no one but absalom to deal with, she could induce him to lower his voice so their talk would not be audible to the teacher in the room above. had she been able but faintly to guess what was to ensue on her being left alone with him, she would have fled up-stairs with the rest of the family and left absalom to keep company with the chairs. xvii the teacher meets absalom only a short time had the sitting-room been abandoned to them when tillie was forced to put a check upon her lover's ardor. "now, absalom," she firmly said, moving away from his encircling arm, "unless you leave me be, i'm not sitting on the settee alongside you at all. you must not kiss me or hold my hand--or even touch me. never again. i told you so last sunday night." "but why?" absalom asked, genuinely puzzled. "is it that i kreistle you, tillie?" "n--no," she hesitated. an affirmative reply, she knew, would be regarded as a cold-blooded insult. in fact, tillie herself did not understand her own repugnance to absalom's caresses. "you act like as if i made you feel repulsive to me, tillie," he complained. "n--no. i don't want to be touched. that's all." "well, i'd like to know what fun you think there is in settin' up with a girl that won't leave a feller kiss her or hug her!" "i'm sure i don't know what you do see in it, absalom. i told you not to come." "if i ain't to hold your hand or kiss yon, what are we to do to pass the time?" he reasoned. "i'll tell you, absalom. let me read to you. then we wouldn't be wasting the evening." "i ain't much fur readin'. i ain't like teacher." he frowned and looked at her darkly. "i've took notice how much fur books you are that way. last sunday night, too, you sayed, 'let me read somepin to you.' mebbe you and teacher will be settin' up readin' together. and mebbe the doc wasn't just jokin' when he sayed teacher might cut me out!" "please, absalom," tillie implored him, "don't talk so loud!" "i don't care! i hope he hears me sayin' that if he ever comes tryin' to get my girl off me, i 'll get pop to have him put off his job!" "none of you know what you are talking about," tillie indignantly whispered. "you can't understand. the teacher is a man that wouldn't any more keep company with one of us country girls than you would keep company, absalom, with a gipsy. he's above us!" "well, i guess if you're good enough fur me, tillie getz, you're good enough fur anybody else--leastways fur a man that gets his job off the wotes of your pop and mine!" "the teacher is a--a gentleman, absalom." absalom did not understand. "well, i guess i know he ain't a lady. i guess i know what his sek is!" tillie sighed in despair, and sank back on the settee. for a few minutes they sat in strained silence. "i never seen a girl like what you are! you're wonderful different to the other girls i've knew a'ready." tillie did not reply. "where d'you come by them books you read?" "the doc gets them for me." "well, tillie, look-ahere. i spoke somepin to the doc how i wanted to fetch you somepin along when i come over sometime, and i ast him what, now, he thought you would mebbe like. and he sayed a book. so i got cousin sally puntz to fetch one along fur me from the methodist sunday-school li-bry, and here i brung it over to you." he produced a small volume from his coat pocket. "i was 'most ashamed to bring it, it's so wonderful little. i tole cousin sally, 'why didn't you bring me a bigger book?' and she sayed she did try to get a bigger one, but they was all. there's one in that li-bry with four hunderd pages. i tole her, now, she's to try to get me that there one next sunday before it's took by somebody. this one's 'most too little." tillie smiled as she took it from him. "thank you, absalom. i don't care if it's little, so long as it's interesting--and instructive," she spoke primly. "the bible's such a big book, i thought the bigger the book was, the nearer it was like the bible," said absalom. "but there's the dictionary, absalom. it's as big as the bible." "don't the size make nothin'?" absalom asked. tillie shook her head, still smiling. she glanced down and read aloud the title of the book she held: "'what a young husband ought to know.'" "but, absalom!" she faltered. "well? what?" she looked up into his heavy, blank face, and suddenly a faint sense of humor seemed born in her--and she laughed. the laugh illumined her face, and it was too much for absalom. he seized her and kissed her, with resounding emphasis, squarely on the mouth. instantly tillie wrenched herself away from him and stood up. her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. and yet, she was not indignant with him in the sense that a less unsophisticated girl would have been. absalom, according to new canaan standards, was not exceeding his rights under the circumstances. but an instinct, subtle, undefined, incomprehensible to herself, contradicted, indeed, by every convention of the neighborhood in which she had been reared, made tillie feel that in yielding her lips to this man for whom she did not care, and whom, if she could hold out against him, she did not intend to marry, she was desecrating her womanhood. vague and obscure as her feeling was, it was strong enough to control her. "i meant what i said, absalom. if you won't leave me be, i won't stay here with you. you'll have to go home, for now i'm going right up-stairs." she spoke with a firmness that made the dull youth suddenly realize a thing of which he had never dreamed, that however slightly tillie resembled her father in other respects, she did have a bit of his determination. she took a step toward the stairs, but absalom seized her skirts and pulled her back. "you needn't think i'm leavin' you act like that to me, tillie!" he muttered, his ardor whetted by the difficulties of his courting. "now i'll learn you!" and holding her slight form in his burly grasp he kissed her again and again. "leave me go!" she cried. "i'll call out if you don't! stop it, absalom!" absalom laughed aloud, his eyes glittering as he felt her womanly helplessness in his strong clasp. "what you goin' to do about it, tillie? you can't help yourself--you got to get kissed if you want to or no!" and again his articulate caresses sounded upon her shrinking lips, and he roared with laughter in his own satisfaction and in his enjoyment of her predicament. "you can't help yourself," he said, crushing her against him in a bearish hug. "absalom!" the girl's voice rang out sharply in pain and fear. then of a sudden absalom's wrists were seized in a strong grip, and the young giant found his arms pinned behind him. "now, then, absalom, you let this little girl alone. do you understand?" said fairchilds, coolly, as he let go his hold on the youth and stepped round to his side. absalom's face turned white with fury as he realized who had dared to interfere. he opened his lips, but speech would not come to him. clenching his fingers, he drew back his arm, but his heavy fist, coming swiftly forward, was caught easily in fairchilds's palm--and held there. "come, come," he said soothingly, "it isn't worth while to row, you know. and in the presence of the lady!" "you mind to your own business!" spluttered absalom, struggling to free his hand, and, to his own surprise, failing. quickly he drew back his left fist and again tried to strike, only to find it too caught and held, with no apparent effort on the part of the teacher. tillie, at first pale with fright at what had promised to be so unequal a contest in view of the teacher's slight frame and the brawny, muscular strength of absalom, felt her pulses bound with a thrill of admiration for this cool, quiet force which could render the other's fury so helpless; while at the same time she felt sick with shame. "blame you!" cried absalom, wildly. "le' me be! it don't make nothin' to you if i kiss my girl! i don't owe you nothin'! you le' me be!" "certainly," returned fairchilds, cheerfully. "just stop annoying miss tillie, that's all i want."' he dropped the fellow's hands and deliberately drew out his handkerchief to wipe his own. a third time absalom made a furious dash at him, to find his two wrists caught in the vise-like grip of his antagonist. "tut, tut, absalom, this is quite enough. behave yourself, or i shall be obliged to hurt you." "you--you white-faced, woman-faced mackerel! you think you kin hurt me! you--" "now then," fairchilds again dropped absalom's hands and picked up from the settee the book which the youth had presented to tillie. "here, absalom, take your 'what a young husband ought to know' and go home." something in the teacher's quiet, confident tone cowed absalom completely--for the time being, at least. he was conquered. it was very bewildering. the man before him was not half his weight and was not in the least ruffled. how had he so easily "licked" him? absalom, by reason of his stalwart physique and the fact that his father was a director, had, during most of his school life, found pleasing diversion in keeping the various teachers of william penn cowed before him. he now saw his supremacy in that quarter at an end--physically speaking at least. there might be a moral point of attack. "look-ahere!" he blustered. "do you know my pop's nathaniel puntz, the director?" "you are a credit to him, absalom. by the way, will you take a message to him from me? tell him, please, that the lock on the school-room door is broken, and i'd be greatly obliged if he would send up a lock-smith to mend it." absalom looked discouraged. a harvard graduate was, manifestly, a freak of nature--invulnerable at all points. "if pop gets down on you, you won't be long at william penn!" he bullied. "you'll soon get chased off your job!" "my job at breaking you in? well, well, i might be spending my time more profitably, that's so." "you go on out of here and le' me alone with my girl!" quavered absalom, blinking away tears of rage. "that will be as she says. how is it, miss tillie? do you want him to go?" now tillie knew that if she allowed absalom puntz to leave her in his present state of baffled anger, fairchilds would not remain in new canaan a month. absalom was his father's only child, and nathaniel puntz was known to be both suspicious and vindictive. "clothed in a little brief authority," as school director, he never missed an opportunity to wield his precious power. with quick insight, tillie realized that the teacher would think meanly of her if, after her outcry at absalom's amorous behavior, she now inconsistently ask that he remain with her for the rest of the evening. but what the teacher might think about her did not matter so much as that he should be saved from the wrath of absalom. "please leave him stay," she answered in a low voice. fairchilds gazed in surprise upon the girl's sweet, troubled face. "let him stay?" "yes." "then perhaps my interference was unwelcome?" "i thank you, but--i want him to stay." "yes? i beg pardon for my intrusion. good night." he turned away somewhat abruptly and left the room. and tillie was again alone with absalom. in his chamber, getting ready for bed, fairchilds's thoughts idly dwelt upon the strange contradictions he seemed to see in the character of the little mennonite maiden. he had thought that he recognized in her a difference from the rest of this household--a difference in speech, in feature, in countenance, in her whole personality. and yet she could allow the amorous attentions of that coarse, stupid cub; and her protestations against the fellow's liberties with her had been mere coquetry. well, he would be careful, another time, how he played the part of a don quixote. meantime tillie, with suddenly developed histrionic skill, was, by a spartan self-sacrifice in submitting to absalom's love-making, overcoming his wrath against the teacher. absalom never suspected how he was being played upon, or what a mere tool he was in the hands of this gentle little girl, when, somewhat to his own surprise, he found himself half promising that the teacher should not be complained of to his father. the infinite tact and scheming it required on tillie's part to elicit this assurance without further arousing his jealousy left her, at the end of his prolonged sitting-up, utterly exhausted. yet when at last her weary head found her pillow, it was not to rest or sleep. a haunting, fearful certainty possessed her. "dumm" as he was, absalom, in his invulnerable persistency, had become to the tired, tortured girl simply an irresistible force of nature. and tillie felt that, struggle as she might against him, there would come a day when she could fight no longer, and so at last she must fall a victim to this incarnation of dutch determination. xviii tillie reveals herself in the next few days, tillie tried in vain to summon courage to appeal to the teacher for assistance in her winter's study. day after day she resolved to speak to him, and as often postponed it, unable to conquer her shyness. meantime, however, under the stimulus of his constant presence, she applied herself in every spare moment to the school-books used by her two cousins, and in this unaided work she succeeded, as usual, in making headway. fairchilds's attention was arrested by the frequent picture of the little mennonite maiden conning school-books by lamp-light. one evening he happened to be alone with her for a few minutes in the sitting-room. it was hallowe'en, and he was waiting for amanda to come down from her room, where she was arraying herself for conquest at a party in the village, to which he had been invited to escort her. "studying all alone?" he inquired sociably, coming to the table where tillie sat, and looking down upon her. "yes," said tillie, raising her eyes for an instant. "may i see!" he bent to look at her book, pressing it open with his palm, and the movement brought his hand in contact with hers. tillie felt for an instant as if she were going to swoon, so strangely delicious was the shock. "'hiawatha,'" he said, all unconscious of the tempest in the little soul apparently so close to him, yet in reality so immeasurably far away. "do you enjoy it?" he inquired curiously. "oh, yes"; then quickly she added, "i am parsing it." "oh!" there was a faint disappointment in his tone. "but," she confessed, "i read it all through the first day i began to parse it, and--and i wish i was parsing something else, because i keep reading this instead of parsing it, and--" "you enjoy the story and the poetry?" he questioned. "but a body mustn't read just for pleasure," she said timidly; "but for instruction; and this 'hiawatha' is a temptation to me." "what makes you think you ought not to read 'just for pleasure'?" "that would be a vanity. and we mennonites are loosed from the things of the world." "do you never do anything just for the pleasure of it?" "when pleasure and duty go hand in hand, then pleasure is not displeasing to god. but christ, you know, did not go about seeking pleasure. and we try to follow him in all things." "but, child, has not god made the world beautiful for our pleasure? has he not given us appetites and passions for our pleasure?--minds and hearts and bodies constructed for pleasure?" "has he made anything for pleasure apart from usefulness?" tillie asked earnestly, suddenly forgetting her shyness. "but when a thing gives pleasure it is serving the highest possible use," he insisted. "it is blasphemous to close your nature to the pleasures god has created for you. blasphemous!" "those thoughts have come to me still," said tillie. "but i know they were sent to me by the enemy." "'the enemy'?" "the enemy of our souls." "oh!" he nodded; then abruptly added, "now do you know, little girl, i wouldn't let him bother me at this stage of the game, if i were you! he's a back number, really!" he checked himself, remembering how dangerous such heresies were in new canaan. "don't you find it dull working alone?" he asked hastily, "and rather uphill?" "it is often very hard." "often? then you have been doing it for some time?" "yes," tillie answered hesitatingly. no one except the doctor shared her secret with miss margaret. self-concealment had come to be the habit of her life--her instinct for self-preservation. and yet, the teacher's evident interest, his presence so close to her, brought all her soul to her lips. she had a feeling that if she could overcome her shyness, she would be able to speak to him as unrestrainedly, as truly, as she talked in her letters to miss margaret. "do you have no help at all?" he pursued. could she trust him with the secret of miss margaret's letters? the habit of secretiveness was too strong upon her. "there is no one here to help me--unless you would sometimes," she timidly answered. "i am at your service always. nothing could give me greater pleasure." "thank you." her face flushed with delight. "you have, of course, been a pupil at william penn?" he asked. "yes, but father took me out of school when i was twelve. ever since then i've been trying to educate myself, but--" she lifted troubled eyes to his face, "no one here knows it but the doctor. no one must know it." "trust me," he nodded. "but why must they not know it?" "father would stop it if he found it out." "why?" "he wouldn't leave me waste the time." "you have had courage--to have struggled against such odds." "it has not been easy. but--it seems to me the things that are worth having are never easy to get." fairchilds looked at her keenly. "'the things that are worth having'? what do you count as such things?" "knowledge and truth; and personal freedom to be true to one's self." he concealed the shock of surprise he felt at her words. "what have we here?" he wondered, his pulse quickening as he looked into the shining upraised eyes of the girl and saw the tumultuous heaving of her bosom. he had been right after all, then, in feeling that she was different from the rest of them! he could see that it was under the stress of unusual emotion that she gave expression to thoughts which of necessity she must seldom or never utter to those about her. "'personal freedom to be true to one's self'?" he repeated. "what would it mean to you if you had it?" "life!" she answered. "i am only a dead machine, except when i am living out my true self." he deliberately placed his hand on hers as it lay on the table. "you make me want to clasp hands with you. do you realize what a big truth you have gotten hold of--and all that it involves?" "i only know what it means to me." "you are not free to be yourself?" "i have never drawn a natural breath except in secret." tillie's face was glowing. scarcely did she know herself in this wonderful experience of speaking freely, face to face, with one who understood. "my own recent experiences of life," he said gravely, "have brought me, too, to realize that it is death in life not to be true to one's self. but if you wait for the freedom to be so--" he shrugged his shoulders. "one always has that freedom if he will take it--at its fearful cost. to be uncompromisingly and always true to one's self simply means martyrdom in one form or another." he, too, marveled that he should have found any one in this household to whom he could speak in such a vein as this. "i always thought," tillie said, "that when i was enough educated to be a teacher and be independent of father, i would be free to live truly. but i see that you cannot. you, too, have to hide your real self. else you could not stay here in new canaan." "or anywhere else, child," he smiled. "it is only with the rare few whom one finds on one's own line of march that one can be absolutely one's self. your secret life, miss tillie, is not unique." a fascinating little brown curl had escaped from tillie's cap and lay on her cheek, and she raised her hand to push it back where it belonged, under its snowy mennonite covering. "don't!" said fairchilds. "let it be. it's pretty!" tillie stared up at him, a new wonder in her eyes. "in that mennonite cap, you look like--like a madonna!" almost unwittingly the words had leaped from his lips; he could not hold them back. and in uttering them, it came to him that in the freedom permissible to him with an unsophisticated but interesting and gifted girl like this--freedom from the conventional restraints which had always limited his intercourse with the girls of his own social world--there might be possible a friendship such as he had never known except with those of his own sex--and with them but rarely. the thought cheered him mightily; for his life in new canaan was heavy with loneliness. with the selfishness natural to man, he did not stop to consider what such companionship might come to mean to this inexperienced girl steeped in a life of sordid labor and unbroken monotony. there came the rustle of amanda's skirts on the stairs. fairchilds clasped tillie's passive hand. "i feel that i have found a friend to-night." amanda, brilliant in a scarlet frock and pink ribbons, appeared in the doorway. the vague, almost unseeing look with which the teacher turned to her was interpreted by the vanity of this buxom damsel to be the dazzled vision of eyes half blinded by her radiance. for a long time after they had gone away together, tillie sat with her face bowed upon her book, happiness surging through her with every great throb of her heart. at last she rose, picked up the lamp and carried it into the kitchen to the little mirror before which the family combed their hair. holding the lamp high, she surveyed her features. as long as her arm would bear the weight of the uplifted lamp, she gazed at her reflected image. when presently with trembling arm she set it on the dresser, tillie, like mother eve of old, had tasted of the tree of knowledge. tillie knew that she was very fair. that evening marked another crisis in the girl's inner life. far into the night she lay with her eyes wide open, staring into the darkness, seeing there strange new visions of her own soul, gazing into its hitherto unsounded depths and seeing there the heaven or the hell--she scarcely knew which--that possessed all her being. "blasphemous to close your nature to the pleasures god has created for you!" his words burned themselves into her brain. was it to an abyss of degradation that her nature was bearing her in a swift and fatal tide--or to a holy height of blessedness? alternately her fired imagination and awakened passion exalted her adoration of him into an almost religious joy, making her yearn to give herself to him, soul and body, as to a god; then plunged her into an agony of remorse and terror at her own idolatry and lawlessness. a new universe was opened up to her, and all of life appeared changed. all the poetry and the stories which she had ever read held new and wonderful meanings. the beauty in nature, which, even as a child, she had felt in a way she knew those about her could never have understood, now spoke to her in a language of infinite significance. the mystery, the wonder, the power of love were revealed to her, and her soul was athirst to drink deep at this magic fountain of living water. "you look like a madonna!" oh, surely, thought tillie, in the long hours of that wakeful night, this bliss which filled her heart was a temptation of the evil one, who did not scruple to use even such as the teacher for an instrument to work her undoing! was not his satanic hand clearly shown in these vain and wicked thoughts which crowded upon her--thoughts of how fair she would look in a red gown like amanda's, or in a blue hat like rebecca's, instead of in her white cap and black hood? she crushed her face in her pillow in an agony of remorse for her own faithlessness, as she felt how hideous was that black mennonite hood and all the plain garb which hitherto had stood to her for the peace, the comfort, the happiness, of her life! with all her mind, she tried to force back such wayward, sinful thoughts, but the more she wrestled with them, the more persistently did they obtrude themselves. on her knees she passionately prayed to be delivered from the temptation of such unfaithfulness to her lord, even in secret thought. yet even while in the very act of pleading for mercy, forgiveness, help, to her own unutterable horror she found herself wondering whether she would dare brave her father's wrath and ask her aunt, in the morning, to keep back from her father a portion of her week's wages that she might buy some new white caps, her old ones being of poor material and very worn. it was a tenet of her church that "wearing-apparel was instituted by god as a necessity for the sake of propriety and also for healthful warmth, but when used for purposes of adornment it becomes the evidence of an un-christlike spirit." now tillie knew that her present yearning for new caps was prompted, not by the praiseworthy and simple desire to be merely neat, but wholly by her vain longing to appear more fair in the eyes of the teacher. thus until the small hours of the morning did the young girl wrestle with the conflicting forces in her soul. but the enemy had it all his own way; for when tillie went down-stairs next morning to help her aunt get breakfast, she knew that she intended this day to buy those new caps in spite of the inevitable penalty she would have to suffer for daring to use her own money without her father's leave. and when she walked into the kitchen, her aunt was amazed to see the girl's fair face looking out from a halo of tender little brown curls, which, with a tortured conscience, and an apprehension of retribution at the hands of the meeting, tillie had brushed from under her cap and arranged with artful care. xix tillie tells a lie it was eleven o'clock on the following saturday morning, a busy hour at the hotel, and mrs. wackernagel and tillie were both hard at work in the kitchen, while eebecca and amanda were vigorously applying their young strength to "the up-stairs work." the teacher was lounging on the settee in the sitting-room, trying to read his boston transcript and divert his mind from its irritation and discontent under a condition of things which made it impossible for him to command tillie's time whenever he wanted a companion for a walk in the woods, or for a talk in which he might unburden himself of his pent-up thoughts and feelings. the only freedom she had was in the evening; and even then she was not always at liberty. there was amanda always ready and at hand--it kept him busy dodging her. why was fate so perverse in her dealings with him? why couldn't it be tillie instead of amanda? fairchilds chafed under this untoward condition of things like a fretful child--or, rather, just like a man who can't have what he wants. both tillie and her aunt went about their tasks this morning with a nervousness of movement and an anxiety of countenance that told of something unwonted in the air. fairchilds was vaguely conscious of this as he sat in the adjoining room, with the door ajar. "tillie!" said her aunt, with a sharpness unusual to her, as she closed the oven door with a spasmodic bang, "you put on your shawl and bonnet and go right up to sister jennie hershey's for some bacon." "why, aunty em!" said tillie, in surprise, looking up from the table where she was rolling out paste; "i can't let these pies." "i'll finish them pies. you just go now." "but we've got plenty of bacon." "if we've got bacon a-plenty, then get some ponhaus. or some mush. hurry up and go, tillie!" she came to the girl's side and took the rolling-pin from her hands. "and don't hurry back. set awhile. now get your things on quick." "but, aunty em--" "are you mindin' me, tillie, or ain't you?" her aunt sharply demanded. "but in about ten minutes father will be stopping on his way from lancaster market," tillie said, though obediently going toward the corner where hung her shawl and bonnet, "to get my wages and see me, aunty em--like what he does every saturday still." "well, don't be so dumm, tillie! that's why i'm sendin' you off!" "oh, aunty em, i don't want to go away and leave you to take all the blame for those new caps! and, anyhow, father will stop at sister jennie hershey's if he don't find me here." "i won't tell him you're there. and push them curls under your cap, or sister jennie'll be tellin' the meeting, and you'll be set back yet! i don't know what's come over you, tillie, to act that vain and unregenerate!" "father will guess i'm at sister jennie's, and he'll stop to see." "that's so, too." aunty em thoughtfully considered the situation. "go out and hide in the stable, tillie." tillie hesitated as she nervously twisted the strings of her bonnet. "what's the use of hiding, aunty em? i'd have to see him next saturday." "he won't be so mad about it till next saturday." tillie shook her head. "he'll keep getting angrier--until he has satisfied himself by punishing me in some way for spending that money without leave." the girl's face was pale, but she spoke very quietly, and her aunt looked at her curiously. "tillie, ain't you afraid of your pop no more?" "oh, aunty em! yes, i am afraid of him." "i'm all fidgety myself, thinkin' about how mad he'll be. dear knows what you must feel yet, tillie--and what all your little life you've been feelin', with his fear always hangin' over you still. sometimes when i think how my brother jake trains up his childern!"--indignation choked her--"i have feelin's that are un-christlike, tillie!" "and yet, aunty em," the girl said earnestly, "father does care for me too--even though he always did think i ought to want nothing else but to work for him. but he does care for me. the couple of times i was sick already, he was concerned. i can't forget it." "to be sure, he'd have to be a funny man if he wasn't concerned when his own child's sick, tillie. i don't give him much for that." "but it always puzzled me, aunty em--if father's concerned to see me sick or suffering, why will he himself deliberately make me suffer more than i ever suffered in any sickness? i never could understand that." "he always thinks he's doin' his duty by you. that we must give him. och, my! there's his wagon stoppin' now! go on out to the stable, tillie! quick!" "aunty em!" tillie faltered, "i'd sooner stay and have it done with now, than wait and have it hanging over me all the week till next saturday." there was another reason for her standing her ground and facing it out. ever since she had yielded to the temptation to buy the caps and let her hair curl about her face, her conscience had troubled her for her vanity; and a vague feeling that in suffering her father's displeasure she would be expiating her sin made her almost welcome his coming this morning. there was the familiar heavy tread in the bar-room which adjoined the kitchen. tillie flushed and paled by turns as it drew near, and her aunt rolled out the paste with a vigor and an emphasis that expressed her inward agitation. even fairchilds, in the next room, felt himself infected with the prevailing suspense. "well!" was jake getz's greeting as he entered the kitchen. "em!" he nodded to his sister. "well, tillie!" there was a note of affection in his greeting of his daughter. tillie realized that her father missed her presence at home almost as much as he missed the work that she did. the nature of his regard for her was a mystery that had always puzzled the girl. how could one be constantly hurting and thwarting a person whom one cared for? tillie went up to him dutifully and held out her hand. he took it and bent to kiss her. "are you well? you're lookin' some pale. and your hair's strubbly [untidy]." "she's been sewin' too steady on them clo'es fur your childern," said aunty em, quickly. "it gives her such a pain in her side still to set and sew. i ain't leavin' her set up every night to sew no more! you can just take them clo'es home, jake. they ain't done, and they won't get done here." "do you mebbe leave her set up readin' books or such pamp'lets, ain't?" mr. getz inquired. "i make her go to bed early still," mrs. wackernagel said evasively, though her mennonite conscience reproached her for such want of strict candor. "that dude teacher you got stayin' here mebbe gives her things to read, ain't?" mr. getz pursued his suspicions. "he's never gave her nothin' that i seen him," mrs. wackernagel affirmed. "well, mind you don't leave her waste time readin'. she ain't to." "you needn't trouble, jake!" "well," said jake, "i'll leave them clo'es another week, and mebbe tillie'll feel some better and can get 'em done. mom won't like it when i come without 'em this mornin'. she's needin' 'em fur the childern, and she thought they'd be done till this morning a'ready." "why don't you hire your washin' or buy her a washin'-machine? then she'd have time to do her own sewin'." "work don't hurt a body," mr. getz maintained. "it's healthy. what's tillie doin' this morning?" "she was bakin' these pies, but i want her now to redd up. take all them pans to the dresser, tillie." tillie went to the table to do as she was bid. "well, i must be goin' home now," said mr. getz. "i'll take tillie's wages, em." mrs. wackernagel set her lips as she wiped her hands on the roller-towel and opened the dresser drawer to get her purse. "how's her?" she inquired, referring to mrs. getz to gain time, as she counted out the money. "she's old-fashioned." "is the childern all well?" "yes, they're all middlin' well. hurry up, em; i'm in a hurry, and you're takin' wonderful long to count out them two dollars." "it's only one and a half this week, jake. tillie she had to have some new caps, and they come to fifty cents. and i took notice her underclo'es was too thin fur this cold spell, and i wanted her to buy herself a warm petticoat, but she wouldn't take the money." an angry red dyed the swarthy neck and forehead of the man, as his keen eyes, very like his sister's, only lacking their expression of kindness, flashed from her face to the countenance of his daughter at the dresser. "what business have you lettin' her buy anything?" he sternly demanded. "you was to give me her wages, and _i_ was to buy her what she couldn't do without. you're not keepin' your bargain!" "she needed them caps right away. i couldn't wait till saturday to ast you oncet. and," she boldly added, "you ought to leave her have another fifty cents to buy herself a warm petticoat!" "tillie!" commanded her father, "you come here!" the girl was very white as she obeyed him. but her eyes, as they met his, were not afraid. "it's easy seen why you're pale! i guess it ain't no pain in your side took from settin' up sewin' fur mom that's made you pale! now see here," he sternly said, "what did you do somepin like this fur? spendin' fifty cents without astin' me!" "i needed the caps," she quietly answered. "and i knew you would not let me buy them if i asked you, father." "you're standin' up here in front of me and sayin' to my face you done somepin you knowed i wouldn't give you darst to do! and you have no business, anyhow, wearin' them new mennonite caps! i never wanted you to take up with that blamed foolishness! well, i'll learn you! if i had you home i'd whip you!" "you ain't touchin' her 'round here!" exclaimed his sister. "you just try it, jake, and i'll call abe out!" "is she my own child or ain't she, em wackernagel? and can i do with my own what i please, or must i ast you and abe wackernagel?" "she's too growed up fur to be punished, jake, and you know it." "till she's too growed up to obey her pop, she'll get punished," he affirmed. "where's the good of your religion, i'd like to know, em--settin' a child on to defy her parent? and you, tillie, you stole that money off of me! your earnin's ain't yourn till you're twenty-one. is them new mennonite principles to take what ain't yourn? it ain't only the fifty cents i mind--it's your disobedience and your stealin'." "oh, father! it wasn't stealing!" "of course it wasn't stealin'--takin' what you earnt yourself--whether you are seventeen instead of twenty-one!" her aunt warmly assured her. "now look-ahere, em! if yous are goin' to get her so spoilt fur me, over here, she ain't stayin' here. i'll take her home!" "well, take her!" diplomatically answered his sister. "i can get abe's niece over to east donegal fur one-seventy-five. she'd be glad to come!" mr. getz at this drew in his sails a bit. "i'll give her one more chancet," he compromised. "but i ain't givin' her no second chancet if she does somepin again where she ain't got darst to do. next time i hear of her disobeyin' me, home she comes. i'd sooner lose the money than have her spoilt fur me. now look-ahere, tillie, you go get them new caps and bring 'em here." tillie turned away to obey. "now, jake, what are you up to?" his sister demanded as the girl left the room. "do you suppose i'd leave her keep them caps she stole the money off of me to buy?" getz retorted. "she earnt the money!" maintained mrs. wackernagel. "the money wasn't hern, and i'd sooner throw them caps in the rag-bag than leave her wear 'em when she disobeyed me to buy 'em." "jake getz, you're a reg'lar tyrant! you mind me of herod yet--and of punshus palate!" "ain't i followin' scripture when i train up my child to obey to her parent?" he wanted to know. "now look-ahere, jake; i'll give you them fifty cents and make a present to tillie of them caps if you'll leave her keep 'em." but in spite of his yearning for the fifty cents, mr. getz firmly refused this offer. paternal discipline must be maintained even at a financial loss. then, too, penurious and saving as he was, he was strictly honest, and he would not have thought it right to let his sister pay for his child's necessary wearing-apparel. "no, tillie's got to be punished. when i want her to have new caps, i'll buy 'em fur her." tillie reentered the room with the precious bits of linen tenderly wrapped up in tissue paper. her pallor was now gone, and her eyes were red with crying. she came to her father's side and handed him the soft bundle. "these here caps," he said to her, "mom can use fur night-caps, or what. when you buy somepin unknownst to me, tillie, i ain't leavin' you keep it! now go 'long back to your dishes. and next saturday, when i come, i want to find them clo'es done, do you understand?" tillie's eyes followed the parcel as it was crushed ruthlessly into her father's coat pocket--and she did not heed his question. "do you hear me, tillie?" he demanded. "yes," she answered, looking up at him with brimming eyes. his sister, watching them from across the room, saw in the man's face the working of conflicting feelings--his stern displeasure warring with his affection. mrs. wackernagel had realized, ever since tillie had come to live with her, that "jake's" brief weekly visits to his daughter were a pleasure to the hard man; and not only because of the two dollars which he came to collect. just now, she could see how he hated to part from her in anger. justice having been meted out in the form of the crushed and forfeited caps in his pocket, he would fain take leave of the girl with some expression of his kindlier feelings toward her. "now are you behavin' yourself--like a good girl--till i come again?" he asked, laying his hand upon her shoulder. "yes," she said dully. "then give me good-b'y." she held up her face and submitted to his kiss. "good-by, em. and mind you stop spoilin' my girl fur me!" he opened the door and went away. and fairchilds, an unwilling witness to the father's brutality, felt every nerve in his body tingle with a longing first to break the head of that brutal dutchman, and then to go and take little tillie in his arms and kiss her. to work off his feelings, he sprang up from the settee, put on his hat, and flung out of the house to walk down to "the krik." "never you mind, tillie," her aunt consoled her. "i'm goin' in town next wednesday, and i'm buyin' you some caps myself fur a present." "oh, aunty em, but maybe you'd better not be so good to me!" tillie said, dashing away the tears as she industriously rubbed her pans. "it was my vanity made me want new caps. and father's taking them was maybe the lord punishing my vanity." "you needed new caps--your old ones was wore out. and don't you be judgin' the lord by your pop! don't try to stop me--i'm buyin' you some caps." now tillie knew how becoming the new caps were to her, and her soul yearned for them even as (she told herself) israel of old yearned after the flesh-pots of egypt. to lose them was really a bitter disappointment to her. but aunty em would spare her that grief! a sudden passionate impulse of gratitude and love toward her aunt made her do a most unwonted thing. taking her hands from her dish-water, she dried them hastily, went over to mrs. wackernagel, threw her arms about her neck, and kissed her. "oh, aunty em, i love you like i've never loved any one--except miss margaret and--" she stopped short as she buried her face in her aunt's motherly bosom and clung to her. "and who else, tillie?" mrs. wackernagel asked, patting the girl's shoulder, her face beaming with pleasure at her niece's affectionate demonstration. "no one else, aunty em." tillie drew herself away and again returned to her work at the dresser. but all the rest of that day her conscience tortured her that she should have told this lie. for there was some one else. xx tillie is "set back" on sunday morning, in spite of her aunt's protestations, tillie went to meeting with her curls outside her cap. "they'll set you back!" protested mrs. wackernagel, in great trouble of spirit. "it would be worse to be deceitful than to be vain," tillie answered. "if i am going to let my hair curl week-days, i won't be a coward and deceive the meeting about myself." "but whatever made you take it into your head to act so vain, tillie?" her bewildered aunt inquired for the hundredth time. "it can't be fur absalom, fur you don't take to him. and, anyways, he says he wants to be led of the spirit to give hisself up. to be sure, i hope he ain't tempted to use religion as a means of gettin' the girl he wants!" "i know i'm doing wrong, aunty em," tillie replied sorrowfully. "maybe the meeting to-day will help me to conquer the enemy." she and her aunt realized during the course of the morning that the curls were creating a sensation. an explanation would certainly be demanded of tillie before the week was out. after the service, they did not stop long for "sociability,"--the situation was too strained,--but hurried out to their buggy as soon as they could escape. tillie marveled at herself as, on the way home, she found how small was her concern about the disapproval of the meeting, and even about her sin itself, before the fact that the teacher thought her curls adorable. aunty em, too, marveled as she perceived the girl's strange indifference to the inevitable public disgrace at the hands of the brethren and sisters. whatever was the matter with tillie? at the dinner-table, to spare tillie's evident embarrassment (perhaps because of the teacher's presence), mrs. wackernagel diverted the curiosity of the family as to how the meeting had received the curls. "what did yous do all while we was to meeting?" she asked of her two daughters. "me and amanda and teacher walked to buckarts station," rebecca answered. "did yous, now?" "up the pike a piece was all the fu'ther i felt fur goin'," continued eebecca, in a rather injured tone; "but amanda she was so fur seein' oncet if that fellah with those black mustache was at the blacksmith's shop yet, at buckarts! i tole her she needn't be makin' up to him, fur he's keepin' comp'ny with lizzie hershey!" "say, mom," announced amanda, ignoring her sister's rebuke, "i stopped in this morning to see lizzie hershey, and she's that spited about teacher's comin' here instead of to their place that she never so much as ast me would i spare my hat!" "now look!" exclaimed mrs. wackernagel. "and when i said, after while, 'now i must go,' she was that unneighborly she never ast me, 'what's your hurry?'" "was she that spited!" said mrs. wackernagel, half pityingly. "well, it was just like sister jennie hershey, if she didn't want teacher stayin' there, to tell him right out. some ain't as honest. some talks to please the people." "what fur sermont did yous have this morning?" asked mr. wackernagel, his mouth full of chicken. "we had levi harnish. he preached good," said mrs. wackernagel. "ain't he did, tillie?" "yes," replied tillie, coloring with the guilty consciousness that scarcely a word of that sermon had she heard. "i like to hear a sermont, like hisn, that does me good to my heart," said mrs. wackernagel. "levi harnish, he's a learnt preacher," said her husband, turning to fairchilds. "he reads wonderful much. and he's always thinkin' so earnest about his learnin' that i've saw him walk along the street in lancaster a'ready and a'most walk into people!" "he certainly can stand on the pulpit elegant!" agreed mrs. wackernagel. "why, he can preach his whole sermont with the bible shut, yet! and he can put out elocution that it's something turrible!" "you are not a mennonite, are you?" fairchilds asked of the landlord. "no," responded mr. wackernagel, with a shrug. "i bothered a whole lot at one time about religion. now i never bother." "we had silas trout to lead the singin' this morning," continued mrs. wackernagel. "i wisht i could sing by note, like him. i don't know notes; i just sing by random." "where's doc, anyhow?" suddenly inquired amanda, for the doctor's place at the table was vacant. "he was fetched away. mary holzapple's mister come fur him!" mr. wackernagel explained, with a meaning nod. "i say!" cried mrs. wackernagel. "so soon a'ready! and last week it was sue hess! doc's always gettin' fetched! nothin' but babies and babies!" tillie, whose eyes were always on the teacher, except when he chanced to glance her way, noted wonderingly the blush that suddenly covered his face and neck at this exclamation of her aunt's. in the primitive simplicity of her mind, she could see nothing embarrassing in the mere statement of any fact of natural history. "here comes doc now!" cried rebecca, at the opening of the kitchen door. "hello, doc!" she cried as he came into the dining-room. "what is it?" "twin girls!" the doctor proudly announced, going over to the stove to warm his hands after his long drive. "my lands!" exclaimed amanda. "now what do you think!" ejaculated mrs. wackernagel. "how's missus?" rebecca inquired. "doin' fine! but mister he ain't feelin' so well. he wanted a boy--or boys, as the case might be. it's gettin' some cold out," he added, rubbing his hands and holding them to the fire. that evening, when again fairchilds was unable to have a chat alone with tillie, because of absalom puntz's unfailing appearance at the hotel, he began to think, in his chagrin, that he must have exaggerated the girl's superiority, since week after week she could endure the attentions of "that lout." he could not know that it was for his sake--to keep him in his place at william penn--that poor tillie bore the hated caresses of absalom. that next week was one never to be forgotten by tillie. it stood out, in all the years that followed, as a week of wonder--in which were revealed to her the depths and the heights of ecstatic bliss--a bliss which so filled her being that she scarcely gave a thought to the disgrace hanging over her--her suspension from meeting. the fact that tillie and the teacher sat together, now, every evening, called forth no surmises or suspicions from the wackernagels, for the teacher was merely helping tillie with some studies. the family was charged to guard the fact from mr. getz. the lessons seldom lasted beyond the early bedtime of the family, for as soon as tillie and fairchilds found the sitting-room abandoned to their private use, the school-books were put aside. they had somewhat to say to each other. tillie's story of her long friendship with miss margaret, which she related to fairchilds, made him better understand much about the girl that had seemed inexplicable in view of her environment; while her wonder at and sympathetic interest in his own story of how he had come to apply for the school at new canaan both amused and touched him. "do you never have any doubts, tillie, of the truth of your creed?" he asked curiously, as they sat one evening at the sitting-room table, the school-books and the lamp pushed to one end. he had several times, in this week of intimacy, found it hard to reconcile the girl's fine intelligence and clear thought in some directions with her religious superstition. he hesitated to say a word to disturb her in her apparently unquestioning faith, though he felt she was worthy of a better creed than this impossibly narrow one of the new mennonites. "she isn't ready yet," he had thought, "to take hold of a larger idea of religion." "i have sometimes thought," she said earnestly, "that if the events which are related in the bible should happen now, we would not credit them. an infant born of a virgin, a star leading three travelers, a man who raised the dead and claimed to be god--we would think the folks who believed these things were ignorant and superstitious. and because they happened so long ago, and are in the book which we are told came from god, we believe. it is very strange! sometimes my thoughts trouble me. i try hard not to leave such thoughts come to me." "let, tillie, not 'leave.'" "will i ever learn not to get my 'leaves' and 'lets' mixed!" sighed tillie, despairingly. "use 'let' whenever you find 'leave' on the end of your tongue, and vice versa," he advised, with a smile. she looked at him doubtfully. "are you joking?" "indeed, no! i couldn't give you a better rule." "there's another thing i wish you would tell me, please," she said, her eyes downcast. "well?" "i can't call you 'mr.' fairchilds, because such complimentary speech is forbidden to us new mennonites. it would come natural to me to call you 'teacher,' but you would think that what you call 'provincial.'" "but you say 'miss' margaret." "i could not get out of the way of it, because i had called her that so many years before i gave myself up. that makes it seem different. but you--what must i call you?" "i don't see what's left--unless you call me 'say'!" "i must have something to call you," she pleaded. "would you mind if i called you by your christian name?" "i should like nothing better." he drew forward a volume of mrs. browning's poems which lay among his books on the table, opened it at the fly-leaf, and pointed to his name. "'walter'?" read tillie. "but i thought--" "it was pestalozzi? that was only my little joke. my name's walter." on the approach of sunday, fairchilds questioned her one evening about absalom. "will that lad be taking up your whole sunday evening again?" he demanded. she told him, then, why she suffered absalom's unwelcome attentions. it was in order that she might use her influence over him to keep the teacher in his place. "but i can't permit such a thing!" he vehemently protested. "tillie, i am touched by your kindness and self-sacrifice! but, dear child, i trust i am man enough to hold my own here without your suffering for me! you must not do it." "you don't know nathaniel puntz!" she shook her head. "absalom will never forgive you, and, at a word from him, his father would never rest until he had got rid of you. you see, none of the directors like you--they don't understand you--they say you are 'too tony.' and then your methods of teaching--they aren't like those of the millersville normal teachers we've had, and therefore are unsound! i discovered last week, when i was out home, that my father is very much opposed to you. they all felt just so to miss margaret." "i see. nevertheless, you shall not bear my burdens. and don't you see it's not just to poor absalom? you can't marry him, so you ought not to encourage him." "'if i refused to le-let absalom come, you would not remain a month at new canaan," was her answer. "but it isn't a matter of life and death to me to stay at new canaan! i need not starve if i lose my position here. there are better places." tillie gazed down upon the chenille table-cover, and did not speak. she could not tell him that it did seem to her a matter of life and death to have him stay. "it seems to me, tillie, you could shake off absalom through your father's objections to his attentions. the fellow could not blame you for that." "but don't you see i must keep him by me, in order to protect you." "my dear little girl, that's rough on absalom; and i'm not sure it's worthy of you." "but you don't understand. you think absalom will be hurt in his feelings if i refuse to marry him. but i've told him all along i won't marry him. and it isn't his feelings that are concerned. he only wants a good housekeeper." fairchilds's eyes rested on the girl as she sat before him in the fresh bloom of her maidenhood, and he realized what he knew she did not--that unsentimental, hard-headed, and practical as absalom might be, if she allowed him the close intimacy of "setting-up" with her, the fellow must suffer in the end in not winning her. but the teacher thought it wise to make no further comment, as he saw, at any rate, that he could not move her in her resolution to defend him. and there was another thing that he saw. the extraneous differences between himself and tillie, and even the radical differences of breeding and heredity which, he had assumed from the first, made any least romance or sentiment on the part of either of them unthinkable, however much they might enjoy a good comradeship,--all these differences had strangely sunk out of sight as he had, from day to day, grown in touch with the girl's real self, and he found himself unable to think of her and himself except in that deeper sense in which her soul met his. any other consideration of their relation seemed almost grotesque. this was his feeling--but his reason struggled with his feeling and bade him beware. suppose that she too should come to feel that with the meeting of their spirits the difference in their conditions melted away like ice in the sunshine. would not the result be fraught with tragedy for her? for himself, he was willing, for the sake of his present pleasure, to risk a future wrestling with his impracticable sentiments; but what must be the cost of such a struggle to a frail, sensitive girl, with no compensations whatever in any single phase of her life? clearly, he was treading on dangerous ground. he must curb himself. before another sunday came around, the ax had fallen--the brethren came to reason with tillie, and finding her unable to say she was sincerely repentant and would amend her vain and carnal deportment, she was, in the course of the next week, "set back." "i would be willing to put back the curls," she said to her aunt, who also reasoned with her in private; "but it would avail nothing. for my heart is still vain and carnal. 'man looketh upon the outward appearance, but god looketh on the heart.'" "then, tillie," said her aunt, her kindly face pale with distress in the resolution she had taken, "you'll have to go home and stay. you can't stay here as long as you're not holding out in your professions." tillie's face went white, and she gazed into her aunt's resolute countenance with anguish in her own. "i'd not do it to send you away, tillie, if i could otherwise help it. but look how inconwenient it would be havin' you here to help work, and me not havin' dare to talk or eat with you. i'm not obeyin' to the 'rules' now in talkin' to you. but i tole the brethren i'd only speak to you long enough to reason with you some--and then, if that didn't make nothin', i'd send you home." the rules forbade the members to sit at table or hold any unnecessary word of communication with one who had failed to "hold out," and who had in consequence been "set back." tillie, in her strange indifference to the disgrace of being set back, had not foreseen her inevitable dismissal from her aunt's employ. she recognized, now, with despair in her soul, that aunty em could not do otherwise than send her home. "when must i go, aunty em?" "as soon as you make your mind up you ain't goin' to repent of your carnal deportment." "i can't repent, aunty em!" tillie's voice sounded hollow to herself as she spoke. "then, tillie, you're got to go to-morrow. i 'll have to get my niece from east donegal over." it sounded to tillie like the crack of doom. the doctor, who was loath to have her leave, who held her interests at heart, and who knew what she would forfeit in losing the help which the teacher was giving her daily in her studies, undertook to add his expostulations to that of the brethern and sisters. "by gum, tillie, slick them swanged curls back, if they don't suit the taste of the meeting! are you willin' to leave go your nice education, where you're gettin', fur a couple of damned curls? i don't know what's got into you to act so blamed stubborn about keepin' your hair strubbled 'round your face!" "but the vanity would still be in my heart even if i did brush them back. and i don't want to be deceitful." "och, come now," urged the doctor, "just till you're got your certificate a'ready to teach! that wouldn't be long. then, after that, you can be as undeceitful as you want." but tillie could not be brought to view the matter in this light. she did not sit at table with the family that day, for that would have forced her aunt to stay away from the table. mrs. wackernagel could break bread without reproach with all her unconverted household; but not with a backslider--for the prohibition was intended as a discipline, imposed in all love, to bring the recalcitrant member back into the fold. that afternoon, tillie and the teacher took a walk together in the snow-covered woods. "it all seems so extraordinary, so inexplicable!" fairchilds repeated over and over. like all the rest of the household, he could not be reconciled to her going. his regret was, indeed, greater than that of any of the rest, and rather surprised himself. the pallor of tillie's face and the anguish in her eyes he attributed to the church discipline she was suffering. he never dreamed how wholly and absolutely it was for him. "is it any stranger," tillie asked, her low voice full of pain, "than that your uncle should send you away because of your unbelief?" this word, "unbelief," stood for a very definite thing in new canaan--a lost and hopeless condition of the soul. "it seems to me, the idea is the same," said tillie. "yes," acknowledged fairchilds, "of course you are right. intolerance, bigotry, narrowness--they are the same the world over--and stand for ignorance always." tillie silently considered his words. it had not occurred to her to question the perfect justice of the meeting's action. suddenly she saw in the path before her a half-frozen, fluttering sparrow. they both paused, and tillie stooped, gently took it up, and folded it in her warm shawl. as she felt its throbbing little body against her hand, she thought of herself in the hand of god. she turned and spoke her thought to fairchilds. "could i possibly hurt this little bird, which is so entirely at my mercy? could i judge it, condemn and punish it, for some mistake or wrong or weakness it had committed in its little world? and could god be less kind, less merciful to me than i could be to this little bird? could he hold my soul in the hollow of his hand and vivisect it to judge whether its errors were worthy of his divine anger? he knows how weak and ignorant i am. i will not fear him," she said, her eyes shining. "i will trust myself in his power--and believe in his love." "the new mennonite creed won't hold her long," thought fairchilds. "our highest religious moments, tillie," he said, "come to us, not through churches, nor even through bibles. they are the moments when we are most receptive of the message nature is always patiently waiting to speak to us--if we will only hear. it is she alone that can lead us to see god face to face, instead of 'through another man's dim thought of him.'" "yes," agreed tillie, "i have often felt more--more religious," she said, after an instant's hesitation, "when i've been walking here alone in the woods, or down by the creek, or up on chestnut hill--than i could feel in church. in church we hear about god, as you say, through other men's dim thoughts of him. here, alone, we are with him." they walked in silence for a space, tillie feeling with mingled bliss and despair the fascination of this parting hour. but it did not occur to fairchilds that her departure from the hotel meant the end of their intercourse. "i shall come out to the farm to see you, tillie, as often as you will let me. you know, i've no one else to talk to, about here, as i talk with you. what a pleasure it has been!" "oh, but father will never le--let me spend my time with you as i did at the hotel! he will be angry at my being sent home, and he will keep me constantly at work to make up for the loss it is to him. this is our last talk together!" "i'll risk your father's wrath, tillie. you don't suppose i'd let a small matter like that stand in the way of our friendship?" "but father will not l--let--me spend time with you. and if you come when he told you not to he would put you out of william penn!" "i'm coming, all the same, tillie." "father will blame me, if you do." "can't you take your own part, tillie?" he gravely asked. "no, no," he hastily added, for he did not forget the talk he had overheard about the new caps, in which mr. getz had threatened personal violence to his daughter. "i know you must not suffer for my sake. but you cannot mean that we are not to meet at all after this?" "only at chance times," faltered tillie; "that is all." very simply and somewhat constrainedly they said good-by the next morning, fairchilds to go to his work at william penn and tillie to drive out with her uncle abe to meet her father's displeasure. xxi "i'll marry him to-morrow!" mr. getz had plainly given absalom to understand that he did not want him to sit up with tillie, as he "wasn't leaving her marry." absalom had answered that he guessed tillie would have something to say to that when she was "eighteen a'ready." and on the first sunday evening after her return home he had boldly presented himself at the farm. "that's where you'll get fooled, absalom, fur she's been raised to mind her pop!" mr. getz had responded. "if she disobeyed to my word, i wouldn't give her no aus styer. i guess you wouldn't marry a girl where wouldn't bring you no aus styer!" absalom, who was frugal, had felt rather baffled at this threat. nevertheless, here he was again on sunday evening at the farm to assure tillie that he would stand by her, and that if she was not restored to membership in the meeting, he wouldn't give himself up, either. mr. getz dared not go to the length of forbidding absalom his house, for that would have meant a family feud between all the getzes and all the puntzes of the county. he could only insist that tillie "dishearten him," and that she dismiss him not later than ten o'clock. to almost any other youth in the neighborhood, such opposition would have proved effectual. but every new obstacle seemed only to increase absalom's determination to have what he had set out to get. to-night he produced another book, which he said he had bought at the second-hand book-store in lancaster. "'cupid and psyche,'" tillie read the title. "oh, absalom, thank you. this is lovely. it's a story from greek mythology--i've been hearing some of these stories from the teacher"--she checked herself, suddenly, at absalom's look of jealous suspicion. "i'm wonderful glad you ain't in there at the hotel no more," he said. "i hadn't no fair chancet, with teacher right there on the grounds." "absalom," said tillie, gravely, with a little air of dignity that did not wholly fail to impress him, "i insist on it that you never speak of the teacher in that way in connection with me. you might as well speak of my marrying the county superintendent! he'd be just as likely to ask me!" the county superintendent of public instruction was held in such awe that his name was scarcely mentioned in an ordinary tone of voice. "as if there's no difference from a teacher at william penn to the county superintendent! you ain't that dumm, tillie!" "the difference is that the teacher at william penn is superior in every way to the county superintendent!" she spoke impulsively, and she regretted her words the moment they were uttered. but absalom only half comprehended her meaning. "you think you ain't good enough fur him, and you think i ain't good enough fur you!" he grumbled. "i have never saw such a funny girl! well," he nodded confidently, "you'll think different one of these here days!" "you must not cherish any false hopes, absalom," tillie insisted in some distress. "well, fur why don't you want to have me?" he demanded for the hundredth time. "absalom,"--tillie tried a new mode of discouragement,--"i don't want to get married because i don't want to be a farmer's wife--they have to work too hard!" it was enough to drive away any lover in the countryside, and for a moment absalom was staggered. "well!" he exclaimed, "a woman that's afraid of work ain't no wife fur me, anyways!" tillie's heart leaped high for an instant in the hope that now she had effectually cooled his ardor. but it sank again as she recalled the necessity of retaining at least his good-will and friendship, that she might protect the teacher. "now, absalom," she feebly protested, "did you ever see me afraid of work?" "well, then, if you ain't afraid of workin', what makes you talk so contrary?" "i don't know. come, let me read this nice book you've brought me," she urged, much as she might have tried to divert one of her little sisters or brothers. "i'd ruther just set. i ain't much fur readin'. jake getz he says he's goin' to chase you to bed at ten--and ten comes wonderful soon sundays. leave us just set." tillie well understood that this was to endure absalom's clownish wooing. but for the sake of the cause, she said to herself, she would conquer her repugnance and bear it. for two weeks after tillie's return home, she did not once have a word alone with fairchilds. he came several times, ostensibly on errands from her aunt; but on each occasion he found her hard at work in her father's presence. at his first visit, tillie, as he was leaving, rose from her corn-husking in the barn to go with him to the gate, but her father interfered. "you stay where you're at!" with burning face, she turned to her work. and fairchilds, carefully suppressing an impulse to shake jake getz till his teeth rattled, walked quietly out of the gate and up the road. her father was more than usually stern and exacting with her in these days of her suspension from meeting, inasmuch as it involved her dismissal from the hotel and the consequent loss to him of two dollars a week. as for tillie, she found a faint consolation in the fact of the teacher's evident chagrin and indignation at the tyrannical rule which forbade intercourse between them. at stated intervals, the brethren came to reason with her, but while she expressed her willingness to put her curls back, she would not acknowledge that her heart was no longer "carnal and vain," and so they found it impossible to restore her to favor. a few weeks before christmas, absalom, deciding that he had imbibed all the arithmetical erudition he could hold, stopped school. on the evening that he took his books home, he gave the teacher a parting blow, which he felt sure quite avenged the outrageous defeat he had suffered at his hands on that sunday night at the hotel. "me and tillie's promised. it ain't put out yet, but i conceited i'd better tell you, so's you wouldn't be wastin' your time tryin' to make up to her." "you and tillie are engaged to be married?" fairchilds incredulously asked. "that's what! as good as, anyways. i always get somepin i want when i make up my mind oncet." and he grinned maliciously. fairchilds pondered the matter as, with depressed spirits, he walked home over the frozen road. "no wonder the poor girl yielded to the pressure of such an environment," he mused. "i suppose she thinks absalom's rule will not be so bad as her father's. but that a girl like tillie should be pushed to the wall like that--it is horrible! and yet--if she were worthy a better fate would she not have held out?--it is too bad, it is unjust to her 'miss margaret' that she should give up now! i feel," he sadly told himself, "disappointed in tillie!" when the notable "columbus celebration" came off in new canaan, in which event several schools of the township united to participate, and which was attended by the entire countryside, as if it were a funeral, tillie hoped that here would be an opportunity for seeing and speaking with walter fairchilds. but in this she was bitterly disappointed. it was not until a week later, at the township institute, which met at new canaan, and which was also attended by the entire population, that her deep desire was gratified. it was during the reading of an address, before the institute, by miss spooner, the teacher at east donegal, that fairchilds deliberately came and sat by tillie in the back of the school-room. tillie's heart beat fast, and she found herself doubting the reality of his precious nearness after the long, dreary days of hungering for him. she dared not speak to him while miss spooner held forth, and, indeed, she feared even to look at him, lest curious eyes read in her face what consciously she strove to conceal. she realized his restless impatience under miss spooner's eloquence. "it was a week back already, we had our columbus celebration," read this educator of lancaster county, genteelly curving the little finger of each hand, as she held her address, which was esthetically tied with blue ribbon. "it was an inspiring sight to see those one hundred enthusiastic and paterotic children marching two by two, led by their equally enthusiastic and paterotic teachers! forming a semicircle in the open air, the exercises were opened by a song, 'o my country,' sung by clear--r-r-ringing--childish voices...." it was the last item on the program, and by mutual and silent consent, tillie and fairchilds, at the first stir of the audience, slipped out of the schoolhouse together. tillie's father was in the audience, and so was absalom. but they had sat far forward, and tillie hoped they had not seen her go out with the teacher. "let us hurry over to the woods, where we can be alone and undisturbed, and have a good talk!" proposed fairchilds, his face showing the pleasure he felt in the meeting. after a few minutes' hurried walking, they were able to slacken their pace and stroll leisurely through the bleak winter forest. "tillie, tillie!" he said, "why won't you abandon this 'carnal' life you are leading, be restored to the approbation of the brethren, and come back to the hotel? i am very lonely without you." tillie could scarcely find her voice to answer, for the joy that filled her at his words--a joy so full that she felt but a very faint pang at his reference to the ban under which she suffered. she had thought his failure to speak to her at the "celebration" had indicated indifference or forgetfulness. but now that was all forgotten; every nerve in her body quivered with happiness. he, however, at once interpreted her silence to mean that he had wounded her. "forgive me for speaking so lightly of what to you must be a sacred and serious matter. god knows, my own experience--which, as you say, was not unlike your own--was sufficiently serious to me. but somehow, i can't take this seriously--this matter of your pretty curls!" "sometimes i wonder whether you take any person or any thing, here, seriously," she half smiled. "you seem to me to be always mocking at us a little." "mocking? not so bad as that. and never at you, tillie." "you were sneering at miss spooner, weren't you?" "not at her; at christopher columbus--though, up to the time of that celebration, i was always rather fond of the discoverer of america. but now let us talk of you, tillie. allow me to congratulate you!" "what for?" "true enough. i stand corrected. then accept my sincere sympathy." he smiled whimsically. tillie lifted her eyes to his face, and their pretty look of bewilderment made him long to stoop and snatch a kiss from her lips. but he resisted the temptation. "i refer to your engagement to absalom. that's one reason why i wanted you to come out here with me this afternoon--so that you could tell me about it--and explain to me what made you give up all your plans. what will your miss margaret say?" tillie stopped short, her cheeks reddening. "what makes you think i am promised to absalom?" "the fact is, i've only his word for it." "he told you that?" "certainly. isn't it true?" "do you think so poorly of me?" tillie asked in a low voice. he looked at her quickly. "tillie, i'm sorry; i ought not to have believed it for an instant!" "i have a higher ambition in life than to settle down to take care of absalom puntz!" said tillie, fire in her soft eyes, and an unwonted vibration in her gentle voice. "my credulity was an insult to you!" "absalom did not mean to tell you a lie. he has made up his mind to have me, so he thinks it is all as good as settled. sometimes i am almost afraid he will win me just by thinking he is going to." "send him about his business! don't keep up this folly, dear child!" "i would rather stand absalom," she faltered, "than stand having you go away." "but, tillie," he turned almost fiercely upon her--"tillie, i would rather see you dead at my feet than to see your soul tied to that clod of earth!" a wild thrill of rapture shot through tillie's heart at his words. for an instant she looked up at him, her soul shining in her eyes. "does he--does he--care that much what happens to me?" throbbed in her brain. for the first time fairchilds fully realized, with shame at his blind selfishness, the danger and the cruelty of his intimate friendship with this little mennonite maid. for her it could but end in a heartbreak; for him--"i have been a cad, a despicable cad!" he told himself in bitter self-reproach. "if i had only known! but now it's too late--unless--" in his mind he rapidly went over the simple history of their friendship as they walked along; and, busy with her own thought, tillie did not notice his abstraction. "tillie," he said suddenly. "next saturday there is an examination of applicants for certificates at east donegal. you must take that examination. you are perfectly well prepared to pass it." "oh, do you really, really think i am?" the girl cried breathlessly. "i know it. the only question is, how are you going to get off to attend the examination?" "father will be at the lancaster market on saturday morning!" "then i'll hire a buggy, come out to the farm, and carry you off!" "no--oh, no, you must not do that. father would be so angry with you!" "you can't walk to bast donegal. it's six miles away." "let me think.--uncle abe would do anything i asked him--but he wouldn't have time to leave the hotel saturday morning. and i couldn't make him or aunty em understand that i was educated enough to take the examination. but there's the doc!" "of course!" cried fairchilds. "the doc isn't afraid of the whole county! shall i tell him you'll go if he'll come for you?" "yes!" "good! i'll undertake to promise for him that he'll be there!" "when father comes home from market and finds me gone!" tillie said--but there was exultation, rather than fear, in her voice. "when you show him your certificate, won't that appease him? when he realizes how much more you can earn by teaching than by working for your aunt, especially as he bore none of the expense of giving you your education? it was your own hard labor, and none of his money, that did it! and now i suppose he'll get all the profit of it!" fairchilds could not quite keep down the rising indignation in his voice. "no," said tillie, quietly, though the color burned in her face. "walter! i'm going to refuse to give father my salary if i am elected to a school. i mean to save my money to go to the normal--where miss margaret is." "so long as you are under age, he can take it from you, tillie." "if the school i teach is near enough for me to live at home, i'll pay my board. more than that i won't do." "but how are you going to help yourself?" "i haven't made up my mind, yet, how i'm going to do it. it will be the hardest struggle i've ever had--to stand out against him in such a thing," tillie continued; "but i will not be weak, i will not! i have studied and worked all these years in the hope of a year at the normal--with miss margaret. and i won't falter now!" before he could reply to her almost impassioned earnestness, they were startled by the sound of footsteps behind them in the woods--the heavy steps of men. involuntarily, they both stopped short, tillie with the feeling of one caught in a stolen delight; and fairchilds with mingled annoyance at the interruption, and curiosity as to who might be wandering in this unfrequented patch of woods. "i seen 'em go out up in here!" it was the voice of absalom. the answer came in the harsh, indignant tones of mr. getz. "next time i leave her go to a instytoot or such a columbus sallybration, she'll stay at home! wastin' time walkin' 'round in the woods with that dude teacher!--and on a week-day, too!" tillie looked up at fairchilds with an appeal that went to his heart. grimly he waited for the two. "so here's where you are!" cried mr. getz, striding up to them, and, before fairchilds could prevent it, he had seized tillie by the shoulder. "what you mean, runnin' off up here, heh? what you mean?" he demanded, shaking her with all his cruel strength. "stop that, you brute!" fairchilds, unable to control his fury, drew back and struck the big man squarely on the chest. getz staggered back, amazement at this unlooked-for attack for a moment getting the better of his indignation. he had expected to find the teacher cowed with fear at being discovered by a director and a director's son in a situation displeasing to them. "let the child alone, you great coward--or i 'll horsewhip you!" getz recovered himself. his face was black with passion. he lifted the horsewhip which he carried. "you'll horsewhip me--me, jake getz, that can put you off william penn to-morrow if i want! will you do it with this here? he demanded, grasping the whip more tightly and lifting it to strike--but before it could descend, fairchilds wrenched it out of his hand. "yes," he responded, "if you dare to touch that child again, you shameless dog!" tillie, with anguished eyes, stood motionless as marble, while absalom, with clenched fists, awaited his opportunity. "if i dare!" roared getz. "if i have dare to touch my own child!" he turned to tillie. "come along," he exclaimed, giving her a cuff with his great paw; and instantly the whip came down with stinging swiftness on his wrist. with a bellow of pain, getz turned on fairchilds, and at the same moment, absalom sprang on him from behind, and with one blow of his brawny arm brought the teacher to the ground. getz sprawled over his fallen antagonist and snatched his whip from him. "come on, absalom--we'll learn him oncet!" he cried fiercely. "we'll learn him what horsewhippin' is! we'll give him a lickin' he won't forget!" absalom laughed aloud in his delight at this chance to avenge his own defeat at the hands of the teacher, and with clumsy speed the two men set about binding the feet of the half-senseless fairchilds with absalom's suspenders. tillie felt herself spellbound, powerless to move or to cry out. "now!" cried getz to absalom, "git back, and i'll give it to him!" the teacher, stripped of his two coats and bound hand and foot, was rolled over on his face. he uttered no word of protest, though they all saw that he had recovered consciousness. the truth was, he simply recognized the uselessness of demurring. "warm him up, so he don't take cold!" shouted absalom--and even as he spoke, jake getz's heavy arm brought the lash down upon fairchilds's back. at the spiteful sound, life came back to tillie. like a wild thing, she sprang between them, seized her father's arm and hung upon it. "listen to me! listen! father! if you strike him again, i'll marry absalom to-morrow!" by inspiration she had hit upon the one argument that would move him. her father tried to shake her off, but she clung to his arm with the strength of madness, knowing that if she could make him grasp, even in his passionate anger, the real import of her threat, he would yield to her. "i'll marry absalom! i'll marry him to-morrow!" she repeated. "you darsent--you ain't of age! let go my arm, or i'll slap you ag'in!" "i shall be of age in three months! i'll marry absalom if you go on with this!" "that suits me!" cried absalom. "keep on with it, jake!" "if you do, i'll marry him to-morrow!" there was a look in tillie's eyes and a ring in her voice that her father had learned to know. tillie would do what she said. and here was absalom "siding along with her" in her unfilial defiance! jacob getz wavered. he saw no graceful escape from his difficulty. "look-ahere, tillie! if i don't lick this here feller, i'll punish you when i get you home!" tillie saw that she had conquered him, and that the teacher was safe. she loosed her hold of her father's arm and, dropping on her knees beside fairchilds began quickly to loosen his bonds. her father did not check her. "jake getz, you ain't givin' in that easy?" demanded absalom, angrily. "she'd up and do what she says! i know her! and i ain't leavin' her marry! you just wait"--he turned threateningly to tillie as she knelt on the ground--"till i get you home oncet!" fairchilds staggered to his feet, and drawing tillie up from the ground, he held her two hands in his as he turned to confront his enemies. "you call yourselves men--you cowards and bullies! and you!" he turned his blazing eyes upon getz, "you would work off your miserable spite on a weak girl--who can't defend herself! dare to touch a hair of her head and i'll break your damned head and every bone in your body! now take yourselves off, both of you, you curs, and leave us alone!" "my girl goes home along with me!" retorted the furious getz. "and you--you 'll lose your job at next board meetin', saturday night! so you might as well pack your trunk! here!" he laid his hand on tillie's arm, but fairchilds drew her to him and held his arm about her waist, while absalom, darkly scowling, stood uncertainly by. "leave her with me. i must talk with her. must, i say. do you hear me? she--" his words died on his lips, as tillie's head suddenly fell forward on his shoulder, and, looking down, fairchilds saw that she had fainted. xxii the doc concocts a plot "so you see i'm through with this place!" fairchilds concluded as, late that night, he and the doctor sat alone in the sitting-room, discussing the afternoon's happenings. "i was forced to believe," he went on, "when i saw jake getz's fearful anxiety and real distress while tillie remained unconscious, that the fellow, after all, does have a heart of flesh under all his brutality. he had never seen a woman faint, and he thought at first that tillie was dead. we almost had him on our hands unconscious!" "well, the faintin' saved tillie a row with him till he got her home oncet a'ready," the doctor said, as he puffed away at his pipe, his hands in his vest arms, his feet on the table, and a newspaper under them to spare the chenille table-cover. "yes. otherwise i don't know how i could have borne to see her taken home by that ruffian--to be punished for so heroically defending me!" "you bet! that took cheek, ain't?--fur that little girl to stand there and jaw jake getz--and make him quit lickin' you! by gum, that minds me of sceneries i've saw a'ready in the theayter! they most gener'ly faints away in a swoond that way, too. well, tillie she come round all right, ain't?--till a little while?" "yes. but she was very pale and weak, poor child!" fairchilds answered, resting his head wearily upon his palm. "when she became conscious, getz carried her out of the woods to his buggy that he had left near the school-house." "how did absalom take it, anyhow?" "he's rather dazed, i think! he doesn't quite know how to make it all out. he is a man of one idea--one at a time and far apart. his idea at present is that he is going to marry tillie." "yes, and i never seen a puntz yet where didn't come by what he set his stubborn head to!" the doctor commented. "it wonders me sometimes, how tillie's goin' to keep from marryin' him, now he's made up his mind so firm!" "tillie knows her own worth too well to throw herself away like that." "well, now i don't know," said the doctor, doubtfully. "to be sure, i never liked them puntzes, they're so damned thick-headed. dummness runs in that family so, it's somepin' surprisin'! dummness and stubbornness is all they got to 'em. but absalom he's so well fixed--tillie she might go furder and do worse. now there's you, teacher. if she took up with you and yous two got married, you'd have to rent. absalom he'd own his own farm." "now, come, doc," protested fairchilds, disgusted, "you know better--you know that to almost any sort of a woman marriage means something more than getting herself 'well fixed,' as you put it. and to a woman like tillie!" "yes--yes--i guess," answered the doctor, pulling briskly at his pipe. "it's the same with a male--he mostly looks to somepin besides a good housekeeper. there's me, now--i'd have took miss margaret--and she couldn't work nothin'. i tole her i don't mind if my wife is smart, so she don't bother me any." "you did, did you?" smiled fairchilds. "and what did the lady say to that?" "och, she was sorry!" "sorry to turn you down, do you mean?" "it was because i didn't speak soon enough," the doctor assured him. "she was promised a'ready to one of these here tony perfessers at the normal. she was sorry i hadn't spoke sooner. to be sure, after she had gave her word, she had to stick to it." he thoughtfully knocked the ashes from his pipe, while his eyes grew almost tender. "she was certainly, now, an allurin' female! "so now," he added, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "you think your game's played out here, heh?" "getz and absalom left me with the assurance that at the saturday-night meeting of the board i'd be voted out. if it depends on them--and i suppose it does--i'm done for. they'd like to roast me over a slow fire!" "you bet they would!" "i suppose i haven't the least chance?" "well, i don' know--i don' know. it would suit me wonderful to get ahead of jake getz and them puntzes in this here thing--if i anyways could! le' me see." he thoughtfully considered the situation. "the board meets day after to-morrow. there's six directors. nathaniel puntz and jake can easy get 'em all to wote to put you out, fur they ain't anyways stuck on you--you bein' so tony that way. now me, i don't mind it--them things don't never bother me any--manners and cleanness and them." "cleanness?" "och, yes; us we never seen any person where wasted so much time washin' theirself--except miss margaret. i mind missus used to say a clean towel didn't last miss margaret a week, and no one else usin' it! you see, what the directors don't like is your always havin' your hands so clean. now they reason this here way--a person that never has dirty hands is lazy and too tony." "yes?" "but me, i don't mind. and i'm swanged if i wouldn't like to beat out jake and nathaniel on this here deal! say! i'll tell you what. this here game's got fun in it fur me! i believe i got a way of doin' them fellers. i ain't tellin' you what it is!" he said, with a chuckle. "but it's a way that's goin' to work! i'm swanged if it ain't! you'll see oncet! you just let this here thing to me and you won't be chased off your job! i'm doin' it fur the sake of the fun i'll get out of seein' jake getz surprised! mebbe that old dutchman won't be wonderful spited!" "i shall be very much indebted to you, doctor, if you can help me, as it suits me to stay here for the present." "that's all right. fur one, there's adam oberholzer; he 'll be an easy guy when it comes to his wote. fur if i want, i can bring a bill ag'in' the estate of his pop, disceased, and make it 'most anything. his pop he died last month. now that there was a man"--the doctor settled himself comfortably, preparatory to the relation of a tale--"that there was a man that was so wonderful set on speculatin' and savin' and layin' by, that when he come to die a pecooliar thing happened. you might call that there thing phe-non-e-ma. it was this here way. when ole adam oberholzer (he was named after his son, adam oberholzer, the school director) come to die, his wife she thought she'd better send fur the evangelical preacher over, seein' as adam he hadn't been inside a church fur twenty years back, and, to be sure, he wasn't just so well prepared. oh, well, he was deef fur three years back, and churches don't do much good to deef people. but then he never did go when he did have his sound hearin'. many's the time he sayed to me, he sayed, 'i don't believe in the churches,' he sayed, 'and blamed if it don't keep me busy believin' in a gawd!' he sayed. so you see, he wasn't just what you might call a pillar of the church. one time he had such a cough and he come to me and sayed whether i could do somepin. 'you're to leave tobacco be,' i sayed. ole adam he looked serious. 'if you sayed it was caused by goin' to church,' he answered to me, 'i might mebbe break off. but tobacco--that's some serious,' he says. adam he used to have some notions about the bible and religion that i did think, now, was damned unushal. here one day when he was first took sick, before he got so deef yet, i went to see him, and the evangelical preacher was there, readin' to him that there piece of scripture where, you know, them that worked a short time was paid the same as them that worked all day. the preacher he sayed he thought that par'ble might fetch him 'round oncet to a death-bed conwersion. but i'm swanged if adam didn't just up and say, when the preacher got through, he says, 'that wasn't a square deal accordin' to my way of lookin' at things.' yes, that's the way that there feller talked. why, here oncet--" the doctor paused to chuckle at the recollection--"when i got there, reverend was wrestlin' with adam to get hisself conwerted, and it was one of adam's days when he was at his deefest. reverend he shouted in his ear, 'you must experience religion--and get a change of heart--and be conwerted before you die!' 'what d' you say?' adam he ast. then reverend, he seen that wouldn't work, so he cut it short, and he says wery loud, 'trust the lord!' now, ole adam oberholzer in his business dealin's and speculatin' was always darned particular who he trusted, still, so he looked up at reverend, and he says, 'is he a reliable party?' well, by gum, i bu'st right out laughin'! i hadn't ought to--seein' it was adam's death-bed--and reverend him just sweatin' with tryin' to work in his job to get him conwerted till he passed away a'ready. but i'm swanged if i could keep in! i just hollered!" the doctor threw back his head and shouted with fresh appreciation of his story, and fairchilds joined in sympathetically. "well, did he die unconverted?" he asked the doctor. "you bet! reverend he sayed afterwards, that in all his practice of his sacred calling he never had knew such a carnal death-bed. now you see," concluded the doctor, "i tended ole adam fur near two months, and that's where i have a hold on his son the school-directer." he laughed as he rose and stretched himself. "it will be no end of sport foiling jake getz!" fairchilds said, with but a vague idea of what the doctor's scheme involved. "well, doctor, you are our mascot--tillie's and mine!" he added, as he, too, rose. "what's that?" "our good luck." he held out an objectionably clean hand with its shining finger-nails. "good night, doc, and thank you!" the doctor awkwardly shook it in his own grimy fist. "good night to you, then, teacher." out in the bar-room, as the doctor took his nightly glass of beer at the counter, he confided to abe wackernagel that somehow he did, now, "like to see teacher use them manners of hisn. i'm 'most as stuck on 'em as missus is!" he declared. xxiii sunshine and shadow tillie's unhappiness, in her certainty that on saturday night the board would vote for the eviction of the teacher, was so great that she felt almost indifferent to her own fate, as she and the doctor started on their six-mile ride to east donegal. but when he presently confided to her his scheme to foil her father and absalom, she became almost hysterical with joy. "you see, tillie, it's this here way. two of these here directers owes me bills. now in drivin' you over to east donegal i'm passin' near to the farms of both of them directers, and i'll make it suit to stop off and press 'em fur my money. they're both of 'em near as close as jake getz! they don't like it fur me to press 'em to pay right aways. so after while i'll say that if they wote ag'in' jake and nathaniel, and each of 'em gets one of the other two directers to wote with him to leave teacher keep his job, i'll throw 'em the doctor's bill off! adam oberholzer he owes me about twelve dollars, and joseph kettering he owes me ten. i guess it ain't worth twelve dollars to adam and ten to joseph to run teacher off william penn!" "and do you suppose that they will be able to influence the other two--john coppenhaver and pete underwocht?" "when all them dollars depends on it, i don't suppose nothin'--i know. i'll put it this here way: 'if teacher ain't chased off, i'll throw you my doctor's bill off. if he is, you'll pay me up, and pretty damned quick, too!'" "but, doc," faltered tillie, "won't it be bribery?" "och, tillie, a body mustn't feel so conscientious about such little things like them. that's bein' too serious." "did you tell the teacher you were going to do this?" she uneasily asked. "well, i guess i ain't such a blamed fool! i guess i know that much, that he wouldn't of saw it the way _i_ see it. i tole him i was goin' to bully them directers to keep him in his job--but he don't know how i'm doin' it." "i'm glad he doesn't know," sighed tillie. "yes, he darsent know till it's all over oncet." the joy and relief she felt at the doctor's scheme, which she was quite sure would work out successfully, gave her a self-confidence in the ordeal before her that sharpened her wits almost to brilliancy. she sailed through this examination, which otherwise she would have dreaded unspeakably, with an aplomb that made her a stranger to herself. even that bugbear of the examination labeled by the superintendent, "general information," and regarded with suspicion by the applicants as a snare and a delusion, did not confound tillie in her sudden and new-found courage; though the questions under this head brought forth from the applicants such astonishing statements as that henry viii was chiefly noted for being "a great widower"; and that the mother of the gracchi was "probably mrs. gracchi." in her unwonted elation, tillie even waxed a bit witty, and in the quiz on "methods of discipline," she gave an answer which no doubt led the superintendent to mark her high. "what method would you pursue with a boy in your school who was addicted to swearing?" she was asked. "i suppose i should make him swear off!" said tillie, with actual flippancy. a neat young woman of the class, sitting directly in front of the superintendent, and wearing spectacles and very straight, tight hair, cast a shocked and reproachful look upon tillie, and turning to the examiner, said primly, "_i_ would organize an anti-swearing society in the school, and reward the boys who were not profane by making them members of it, expelling those who used any profane language." "and make every normal boy turn blasphemer in derision, i'm afraid," was the superintendent's ironical comment. when, at four o'clock that afternoon, she drove back with the doctor through the winter twilight, bearing her precious certificate in her bosom, the brightness of her face seemed to reflect the brilliancy of the red sunset glow on snow-covered fields, frozen creek, and farm-house windows. "bully fur you, matilda!" the doctor kept repeating at intervals. "now won't miss margaret be tickled, though! i tell you what, wirtue like hern gits its rewards even in this here life. she'll certainly be set up to think she's made a teacher out of you unbeknownst! and mebbe it won't tickle her wonderful to think how she's beat jake getz!" he chuckled. "of course you're writin' to her to-night, tillie, ain't you?" he asked. "i'd write her off a letter myself if writin' come handier to me." "of course i shall let her know at once," tillie replied; and in her voice, for the first time in the doctor's acquaintance with her, there was a touch of gentle complacency. "i'll get your letter out the tree-holler to-morrow morning, then, when i go a-past--and i can stamp it and mail it fur you till noon. then she'll get it till monday morning yet! by gum, won't she, now, be tickled!" "isn't it all beautiful!" tillie breathed ecstatically. "i've got my certificate and the teacher won't be put out! what did adam oberholzer and joseph kettering say, doc?" "i've got them fixed all right! just you wait, tillie!" he said mysteriously. "mebbe us we ain't goin' to have the laugh on your pop and old nathaniel puntz! you'll see! wait till your pop comes home and says what's happened at board meetin' to-night! golly! won't he be hoppin' mad!" "what is going to happen, doc?" "you wait and see! i ain't tellin' even you, tillie. i'm savin' it fur a surprise party fur all of yous!" "father won't speak to me about it, you know. he won't mention teacher's name to me." "then won't you find out off of him about the board meetin'?" the doctor asked in disappointment. "must you wait till you see me again oncet?" "he will tell mother. i can get her to tell me," tillie said. "all right. somepin's going to happen too good to wait! now look-ahere, tillie, is your pop to be tole about your certificate?" "i won't tell him until i must. i don't know how he'd take it. he might not let me get a school to teach. of course, when once i've got a school, he will have to be told. and then," she quietly added, "i shall teach, whether he forbids it or not." "to be sure!" heartily assented the doctor. "and leave him go roll hisself, ain't! i'll keep a lookout fur you and tell you the first wacancy i hear of." "what would i do--what should i have done in all these years, doc--if it hadn't been for you!" smiled tillie, with an affectionate pressure of his rough hand; and the doctor's face shone with pleasure to hear her. "you have been a good friend to me, doc." "och, that's all right, tillie. as i sayed, wirtue has its reward even in this here life. my wirtuous acts in standin' by you has gave me as much satisfaction as i've ever had out of anything! but now, tillie, about tellin' your pop. i don't suspicion he'd take it anyways ugly. a body'd think he'd be proud! and he hadn't none of the expense of givin' you your nice education!" "i can't be sure how he would take it, doc, so i would rather not tell him until i must." "all right. just what you say. but i dare tell missus, ain't?" "if she won't tell the girls, doc. it would get back to father, i'm afraid, if so many knew it." "i 'll tell her not to tell. she 'll be as pleased and proud as if it was manda or rebecca!" "poor aunty em! she is so good to me, and i'm afraid i've disappointed her!" tillie humbly said; but somehow the sadness that should have expressed itself in the voice of one under suspension from meeting, when speaking of her sin, was quite lacking. when, at length, they reached the getz farm, mr. getz met them at the gate, his face harsh with displeasure at tillie's long and unpermitted absence from home. "hello, jake!" said the doctor, pleasantly, as her father lifted her down from the high buggy. "i guess missus tole you how i heard tillie fainted away in a swoond day before yesterday, so this morning i come over to see her oncet--aunty em she was some oneasy. and i seen she would mebbe have another such a swoond if she didn't get a long day out in the air. it's done her wonderful much good--wonderful!" "she hadn't no need to stay all day!" growled mr. getz. "mom had all tillie's work to do, and her own too, and she didn't get it through all." "well, better let the work than have tillie havin' any more of them dangerous swoonds. them's dangerous, i tell you, jake! sometimes folks never comes to, yet!" mr. getz looked at tillie apprehensively. "you better go in and get your hot supper, tillie," he said, not ungently. before this forbearance of her father, tillie had a feeling of shame in the doctor's subterfuges, as she bade her loyal friend good night and turned to go indoors. "you'll be over to board meetin' to-night, ain't?" the doctor said to mr. getz as he picked up the reins. "to be sure! me and nathaniel puntz has a statement to make to the board that'll chase that tony dude teacher off his job so quick he won't have time to pack his trunk!" "is that so?" the doctor said in feigned surprise. "well, he certainly is some tony--that i must give him, jake. well, good night to yous! be careful of tillie's health!" getz went into the house and the doctor, chuckling to himself, drove away. tillie was in bed, but sleep was far from her eyes, when, late that night, she heard her father return from the board meeting. long she lay in her bed, listening with tense nerves to his suppressed tones as he talked to his wife in the room across the hall, but she could not hear what he said. not even his tone of voice was sufficiently enlightening as to how affairs had gone. in her wakefulness the night was agonizingly long; for though she was hopeful of the success of the doctor's plot, she knew that possibly there might have been some fatal hitch. at the breakfast-table, next morning, her father looked almost sick, and tillie's heart throbbed with unfilial joy in the significance of this. his manner to her was curt and his face betrayed sullen anger; he talked but little, and did not once refer to the board meeting in her presence. it was not until ten o'clock, when he had gone with some of the children to the evangelical church, that she found her longed-for opportunity to question her stepmother. "well," she began, with assumed indifference, as she and her mother worked together in the kitchen preparing the big sunday dinner, "did they put the teacher out?" "if they put him out?" exclaimed mrs. getz, slightly roused from her customary apathy. "well, i think they didn't! what do you think they done yet?" "i'm sure," said tillie, evidently greatly interested in the turnips she was paring, "i don't know." "they raised his salary five a month!" the turnips dropped into the pan, and tillie raised her eyes to gaze incredulously into the face of her stepmother, who, with hands on her hips, stood looking down upon her. "yes," went on mrs. getz, "that's what they done! a dumm thing like that! and after pop and nathaniel puntz they had spoke their speeches where they had ready, how teacher he wasn't fit fur william penn! and after they tole how he had up and sassed pop, and him a directer yet! and nathaniel he tole how absalom had heard off the doc how teacher he was a' unbeliever and says musin' is the same to him as prayin'! now think! such conwictions as them! and then, when the wote was took, here it come out that only pop and nathaniel puntz woted ag'in' teacher, and the other four they woted fur! and they woted to raise his salary five a month yet!" tillie's eyes dropped from her mother's face, her chin quivered, she bit her lip, and suddenly, unable to control herself, she broke into wild, helpless laughter. mrs. getz stared at her almost in consternation. never before in her life had she seen tillie laugh with such abandon. "what ails you?" she asked wonderingly. tillie could find no voice to answer, her slight frame shaking convulsively. "what you laughin' at, anyhow?" mrs. getz repeated, now quite frightened. "that--that wyandotte hen jumped up on the sill!" tillie murmured--then went off into a perfect peal of mirth. it seemed as though all the pent-up joy and gaiety of her childhood had burst forth in that moment. "i don't see nothin' in that that's anyways comical--a wyandotte hen on the window-sill!" said mrs. getz, in stupid wonder. "she looked so--so--oh!" tillie gasped, and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. "you don't take no int'rust in what i tole you all!" mrs. getz complained, sitting down near her stepdaughter to pick the chickens for dinner. "i'd think it would make you ashamed fur the way you stood up fur teacher ag'in' your own pop here last thursday--fur them four directers to go ag'in' pop like this here!" "what reasons did they give for voting for the teacher?" tillie asked, her hysterics subsiding. "they didn't give no reasons till they had him elected a'ready. then adam oberholzer he got up and he spoke how teacher learned the scholars so good and got along without lickin' 'em any (pop he had brung that up ag'in' teacher, but adam he sayed it was fur), and that they better mebbe give him five extry a month to make sure to keep such a kind man to their childern, and one that learnt 'em so good." tillie showed signs, for an instant, of going off into another fit of laughter. "what's ailin' you?" her mother asked in mystification. "i never seen you act so funny! you better go take a drink." tillie repressed herself and went on with her work. during the remainder of that day, and, indeed, through all the week that followed, she struggled to conceal from her father the exultation of her spirits. she feared he would interpret it as a rejoicing over his defeat, and there was really no such feeling in the girl's gentle heart. she was even moved to some faint--it must be confessed, very faint--pangs of pity for him as she saw, from day to day, how hard he took his defeat. apparently, it was to him a sickening blow to have his "authority" as school director defied by a penniless young man who was partly dependent upon his vote for daily bread. he suffered keenly in his conviction that the teacher was as deeply exultant in his victory as getz had expected to be. in these days, tillie walked on air, and to mrs. getz and the children she seemed almost another girl, with that happy vibration in her usually sad voice, and that light of gladness in her soft pensive eyes. the glorious consciousness was ever with her that the teacher was always near--though she saw him but seldom. this, and the possession of the precious certificate, her talisman to freedom, hidden always in her bosom, made her daily drudgery easy to her and her hours full of hope and happiness. deep as was tillie's impression of the steadiness of purpose in absalom's character, she was nevertheless rather taken aback when, on the sunday night after that horrible experience in the woods, her suitor stolidly presented himself at the farm-house, attired in his best clothes, his whole aspect and bearing eloquent of the fact that recent defeat had but made him more doggedly determined to win in the end. tillie wondered if she might not be safe now in dismissing him emphatically and finally; but she decided there was still danger lest absalom might wreak his vengeance in some dreadful way upon the teacher. her heart was so full of happiness that she could tolerate even absalom. only two short weeks of this brightness and glory, and then the blow fell--the blow which blackened the sun in the heavens. the teacher suddenly, and most mysteriously, resigned and went away. no one knew why. whether it was to take a better position, or for what other possible reason, not a soul in the township could tell--not even the doc. strange to say, fairchilds's going, instead of pleasing mr. getz, was only an added offense to both him and absalom. they had thirsted for vengeance; they had longed to humiliate this "high-minded dude"; and now not only was the opportunity lost to them, but the "job" they had determined to wrest from him was indifferently hurled back in their faces--he didn't want it! absalom and getz writhed in their helpless spleen. tillie's undiscerning family did not for an instant attribute to its true cause her sudden change from radiant happiness to the weakness and lassitude that tell of mental anguish. they were not given to seeing anything that was not entirely on the surface and perfectly obvious. three days had passed since fairchilds's departure--three days of utter blackness to tillie; and on the third day she went to pay her weekly visit to the tree-hollow in the woods where she was wont to place miss margaret's letters. on this day she found, to her amazement, two letters. her knees shook as she recognized the teacher's handwriting on one of them. there was no stamp and no post-mark on the envelop. he had evidently written the letter before leaving, and had left it with the doctor to be delivered to her. tillie had always been obliged to maneuver skilfully in order to get away from the house long enough to pay these weekly visits to the tree-hollow; and she nearly always read her letter from miss margaret at night by a candle, when the household was asleep. but now, heedless of consequences, she sat down on a snow-covered log and opened fairchilds's letter, her teeth chattering with more than cold. it was only a note, written in great haste and evidently under some excitement. it told her of his immediate departure for cambridge to accept a rather profitable private tutorship to a rich man's son. he would write to tillie, later, when he could. meanwhile, god bless her--and he was always her friend. that was all. he gave her no address and did not speak of her writing to him. tillie walked home in a dream. all that evening, she was so "dopplig" as finally to call forth a sharp rebuke from her father, to which she paid not the slightest heed. would she ever see him again, her heart kept asking? would he really write to her again? where was he at this moment, and what was he doing? did he send one thought to her, so far away, so desolate? did he have in any least degree the desire, the yearning, for her that she had for him? tillie felt a pang of remorse for her disloyalty to miss margaret when she realized that she had almost forgotten that always precious letter. when, a little past midnight, she took it from her dress pocket she noticed what had before escaped her--some erratic writing in lead on the back of the envelop. it was in the doctor's strenuous hand. "willyam pens as good as yoorn ive got them all promist but your pop to wote for you at the bored meating saterdy its to be a surprize party for your pop." xxiv the revolt of tillie at half-past seven o'clock on saturday evening, the school board once more convened in the hotel parlor, for the purpose of electing fairchilds's successor. "up till now," mr. getz had remarked at the supper-table, "i ain't been tole of no candidate applyin' fur william penn, and here to-night we meet to elect him--or her if she's a female." tillie's heart had jumped to her throat as she heard him, wondering how he would take it when they announced to him that the applicant was none other than his own daughter--whether he would be angry at her long deception, or gratified at the prospect of her earning so much money--for, of course, it would never occur to him that she would dare refuse to give him every cent she received. there was unwonted animation in the usually stolid faces of the school board to-night; for the members were roused to a lively appreciation of the situation as it related to jake getz. the doctor had taken each and every one of them into his confidence, and had graphically related to them the story of how tillie had "come by" her certificate, and the tale had elicited their partizanship for tillie, as for the heroine of a drama. even nathaniel puntz was enjoying the fact that he was to-night on the side of the majority. with tillie, they were in doubt as to how jake getz would receive the news. "is they a' applicant?" he inquired on his arrival. "why, to be sure," said nathaniel puntz. "what fur would it be worth while to waste time meetin' to elect her if they ain't none?" "then she's a female, is she?" "well, she ain't no male, anyways, nor no harvard gradyate, neither. if she was, _i_ wouldn't wote fur her!" "what might her name be?" "it's some such a french name," answered the doctor, who had carried in the lamp and was lingering a minute. "it would, now, surprise you, jake, if you heard it oncet." "is she such a foreigner yet?" getz asked suspiciously. "i mistrust 'em when they're foreigners." "well," spoke adam oberholzer, as the doctor reluctantly went out, "it ain't ten mile from here she was raised." "is she a gradyate? we hadn't ought to take none but a normal. we had _enough_ trouble!" "no, she ain't a normal, but she's got her certificate off the superintendent." "has any of yous saw her?" "och, yes, she's familiar with us," replied joseph kettering, the amishman, who was president of the board. "why ain't she familiar with me, then?" getz inquired, looking bewildered, as the president opened the ink-bottle that stood on the table about which they sat, and distributed slips of paper. "well, that's some different again, too," facetiously answered joseph kettering. "won't she be here to-night to leave us see her oncet?" "she won't, but her pop will," answered nathaniel puntz; and mr. getz vaguely realized in the expressions about him that something unusual was in the air. "what do we want with her _pop_?" he asked. "we want his _wote_!" answered adam oberholzer--which sally brought forth hilarious laughter. "what you mean?" demanded getz, impatient of all this mystery. "it's the daughter of one of this here board that we're wotin' fur!" mr. getz's eyes moved about the table. "why, none of yous ain't got a growed-up daughter that's been to school long enough to get a certificate." "it seems there's ways of gettin' a certificate without goin' to school. some girls can learn theirselves at home without even a teacher, and workin' all the time at farm-work, still, and even livin' out!" said mr. puntz. "i say a girl with industry like that would make any feller a good wife." getz stared at him in bewilderment. "the members of this board," said mr. kettering, solemnly, "and the risin' generation of the future, can point this here applicant out to their childern as a shinin' example of what can be did by industry, without money and without price--and it'll be fur a spur to 'em to go thou and do likewise." "are you so dumm, jake, you don't know yet who we mean?" nathaniel asked. "why, to be sure, don't i! none of yous has got such a daughter where lived out." "except yourself, jake!" the eyes of the board were fixed upon mr. getz in excited expectation. but he was still heavily uncomprehending. then the president, rising, made his formal announcement, impressively and with dignity. "members of canaan township school board: we will now proceed to wote fur the applicant fur william penn. she is not unknownst to this here board. she is a worthy and wirtuous female, and has a good moral character. we think she's been well learnt how to manage childern, fur she's been raised in a family where childern was never scarce. the applicant," continued the speaker, "is--as i stated a couple minutes back--a shining example of industry to the rising generations of the future, fur she's got her certificate to teach--and wery high marks on it--and done it all by her own unaided efforts and industry. members of canaan township school board, we are now ready to wote fur matilda maria getz." before his dazed wits could recover from the shock of this announcement, jake getz's daughter had become the unanimously elected teacher of william penn. the ruling passion of the soul of jacob getz manifested itself conspicuously in his reception of the revelation that his daughter, through deliberate and systematic disobedience, carried on through all the years of her girlhood, had succeeded in obtaining a certificate from the county superintendent, and was now the teacher-elect at william penn. the father's satisfaction in the possession of a child capable of earning forty dollars a month, his greedy joy in the prospect of this addition to his income, entirely overshadowed and dissipated the rage he would otherwise have felt. the pathos of his child's courageous persistency in the face of his dreaded severity, of her pitiful struggle with all the adverse conditions of her life,--this did not enter at all into his consideration of the case. it was obvious to tillie, as it had been to the school board on saturday night, that he felt an added satisfaction in the fact that this wonder had been accomplished without any loss to him either of money or of his child's labor. somehow, her father's reception of her triumph filled her heart with more bitterness than she had ever felt toward him in all the years of her hard endeavor. it was on the eve of her first day of teaching that his unusually affectionate attitude to her at the supper-table suddenly roused in her a passion of hot resentment such as her gentle heart had not often experienced. "i owe you no thanks, father, for what education i have!" she burst forth. "you always did everything in your power to hinder me!" if a bomb had exploded in the midst of them, mr. and mrs. getz could not have been more confounded. mrs. getz looked to see her husband order tillie from the table, or rise from his place to shake her and box her ears. but he did neither. in amazement he stared at her for a moment--then answered with a mildness that amazed his wife even more than tillie's "sassiness" had done. "i'd of left you study if i'd knowed you could come to anything like this by it. but i always thought you'd have to go to the normal to be fit fur a teacher yet. and you can't say you don't owe me no thanks--ain't i always kep' you?" "kept me!" answered tillie, with a scorn that widened her father's stare and made her stepmother drop her knife on her plate; "i never worked half so hard at aunty em's as i have done here every day of my life since i was nine years old--and she thought my work worth not only my 'keep,' but two dollars a week besides. when do you ever spend two dollars on me? you never gave me a dollar that i hadn't earned ten times over! you owe me back wages!" jake getz laid down his knife, with a look on his face that made his other children quail. his countenance was livid with anger. "owe you back wages!" he choked. "ain't you my child, then, where i begat and raised? don't i own you? what's a child fur? to grow up to be no use to them that raised it? you talk like that to me!" he roared. "you tell me i owe you back money! now listen here! i was a-goin' to leave you keep five dollars every month out of your forty. yes, i conceited i'd leave you have all that--five a month! now fur sassin' me like what you done, i ain't leavin' you have none the first month!" "and what," tillie wondered, a strange calm suddenly following her outburst, as she sat back in her chair, white and silent, "what will he do and say when i refuse to give him more than the price of my board?" her school-work, which began nest day, diverted her mind somewhat from its deep yearning for him who had become to her the very breath of her life. it was on the sunday night after her first week of teaching that she told absalom, with all the firmness she could command, that he must not come to see her any more, for she was resolved not to marry him. "who are you goin' to marry, then?" he inquired, unconvinced. "no one." "do you mean it fur really, that you'd ruther be a' ole maid?" "i'd rather be six old maids than the wife of a dutchman!" "what fur kind of a man do you want, then?" "not the kind that grows in this township." "would you, mebbe," absalom sarcastically inquired, "like such a dude like what--" "absalom!" tillie flashed her beautiful eyes upon him. "you are unworthy to mention his name to me! don't dare to speak to me of him--or i shall leave you and go up-stairs right away!" absalom sullenly subsided. when, later, he left her, she saw that her firm refusal to marry him had in no wise baffled him. this impression was confirmed when on the next sunday night, in spite of her prohibition, he again presented himself. tillie was mortally weary that night. her letter had not come, and her nervous waiting, together with the strain of her unwonted work of teaching, had told on her endurance. so poor absalom's reception at her hands was even colder than her father's greeting at the kitchen door; for since tillie's election to william penn, mr. getz was more opposed than ever to her marriage, and he did not at all relish the young man's persistency in coming to see her in the face of his own repeated warning. "tillie," absalom began when they were alone together after the family had gone to bed, "i thought it over oncet, and i come to say i'd ruther have you 'round, even if you didn't do nothin' but set and knit mottos and play the organ, than any other woman where could do all my housework fur me. i'll hire fur you, tillie--and you can just set and enjoy yourself musin', like what doc says book-learnt people likes to do." tillie's eyes rested on him with a softer and a kindlier light in them than she had ever shown him before; for such a magnanimous offer as this, she thought, could spring only from the fact that absalom was really deeply in love, and she was not a little touched. she contemplated him earnestly as he sat before her, looking so utterly unnatural in his sunday clothes. a feeling of compassion for him began to steal into her heart. "if i am not careful," she thought in consternation, "i shall be saying, 'yes,' out of pity." but a doubt quickly crept into her heart. was it really that he loved her so very much, or was it that his obstinacy was stronger than his prudence, and that if he could not get her as he wanted her,--as his housekeeper and the mother of numberless children,--he would take her on her own conditions? only so he got her--that was the point. he had made up his mind to have her--it must be accomplished. "absalom," she said, "i am not going to let you waste any more of your time. you must never come to see me again after to-night. i won't ever marry you, and i won't let you go on like this, with your false hope. if you come again, i won't see you. i'll go up-stairs!" one would have thought that this had no uncertain ring. but again tillie knew, when absalom left her, that his resolution not only was not shaken,--it was not even jarred. the weeks moved on, and the longed-for letter did not come. tillie tried to gather courage to question the doctor as to whether fairchilds had made any arrangement with him for the delivery of a letter to her. but an instinct of maidenly reserve and pride which, she could not conquer kept her lips closed on the subject. had it not been for this all-consuming desire for a letter, she would more keenly have felt her enforced alienation from her aunt, of whom she was so fond; and at the same time have taken really great pleasure in her new work and in having reached at last her long-anticipated goal. in the meantime, while her secret sorrow--like sir hudibras's rusting sword that had nothing else to feed upon and so hacked upon itself--seemed eating out her very heart, the letter which would have been to her as manna in the wilderness had fallen into her father's hands, and after being laboriously conned by him, to his utter confusion as to its meaning, had been consigned to the kitchen fire. mr. getz's reasons for withholding the letter from his daughter and burning it were several. in the first place, fairchilds was "an unbeliever," and therefore his influence was baneful; he was jacob getz's enemy, and therefore no fit person to be writing friendly letters to his daughter; he asked tillie, in his letter, to write to him, and this would involve the buying of stationery and wasting of time that might be better spent; and finally, he and tillie, as he painfully gathered from the letter, were "making up" to a degree that might end in her wanting to marry the fellow. mr. getz meant to tell tillie that he had received this letter; but somehow, every time he opened his lips to speak the words, the memory of her wild-cat behavior in defense of the teacher that afternoon in the woods, and her horribly death-like appearance when she had lain unconscious in the teacher's arms, recurred to him with a vividness that effectually checked him, and eventually led him to decide that it were best not to risk another such outbreak. so she remained in ignorance of the fact that fairchilds had again written to her. carlyle's "gospel of work" was indeed tillie's salvation in these days; for in spite of her restless yearning and loneliness, she was deeply interested and even fascinated with her teaching, and greatly pleased and encouraged with her success in it. at last, with the end of her first month at william penn, came the rather dreaded "pay-day"; for she knew that it would mean the hardest battle of her life. the forty dollars was handed to her in her schoolroom on friday afternoon, at the close of the session. it seemed untold wealth to tillie, who never before in her life had owned a dollar. she' did not risk carrying it all home with her. the larger part of the sum she intrusted to the doctor to deposit for her in a lancaster bank. when, at five o'clock, she reached home and walked into the kitchen, her father's eagerness for her return, that he might lay his itching palms on her earnings, was perfectly manifest to her in his unduly affectionate, "well, tillie!" she was pale, but outwardly composed. it was to be one of those supreme crises in life which one is apt to meet with a courage and a serenity that are not forthcoming in the smaller irritations and trials of daily experience. "you don't look so hearty," her father said, as she quietly hung up her shawl and hood in the kitchen cupboard. "a body'd think you'd pick up and get fat, now you don't have to work nothin', except mornings and evenings." "there is no harder work in the world, father, than teaching--even when you like it." "it ain't no work," he impatiently retorted, "to set and hear off lessons." tillie did not dispute the point, as she tied a gingham apron over her dress. her father was sitting in a corner of the room, shelling corn, with sammy and sally at his side helping him. he stopped short in his work and glanced at tillie in surprise, as she immediately set about assisting her mother in setting the supper-table. "you was paid to-day, wasn't you?" "yes." "well, why don't you gimme the money, then? where have you got it?" tillie drew a roll of bills from her pocket and came up to him. he held out his hand. "you know, tillie, i tole you i ain't givin' you none of your wages this month, fur sassin' me like what you done. but next month, if you're good-behaved till then, i'll give you mebbe five dollars. gimme here," he said, reaching for the money across the heads of the children in front of him. but she did not obey. she looked at him steadily as she stood before him, and spoke deliberately, though every nerve in her body was jumping. "aunty em charged the teacher fifteen dollars a month for board. that included his washing and ironing. i really earn my board by the work i do here saturdays and sundays, and in the mornings and evenings before and after school. but i will pay you twelve dollars a month for my board." she laid on his palm two five-dollar bills and two ones, and calmly walked back to the table. getz sat as one suddenly turned to stone. sammy and sally dropped their corn-cobs into their laps and stared in frightened wonder. mrs. getz stopped cutting the bread and gazed stupidly from her husband to her stepdaughter. tillie alone went on with her work, no sign in her white, still face of the passion of terror in her heart at her own unspeakable boldness. suddenly two resounding slaps on the ears of sammy and sally, followed by their sharp screams of pain and fright, broke the tense stillness. "who tole you to stop workin', heh?" demanded their father, fiercely. "leave me see you at it, do you hear? you stop another time to gape around and i 'll lick you good! stop your bawlin' now, this minute!" he rose from his chair and strode over to the table. seizing tillie by the shoulder, he drew her in froet of him. "gimme every dollar of them forty!" "i have given you all i have." "where are you got the others hid?" "i have deposited my money in a lancaster bank." jacob getz's face turned apoplectic with rage. "who took it to lancaster fur you?" "i sent it." "what fur bank?" "i prefer not to tell you that." "you perfer! i'll learn you perfer! who took it in fur you--and what fur bank? answer to me!" "father, the money is mine." "it's no such thing! you ain't but seventeen. and i don't care if you're eighteen or even twenty-one! you're my child and you 'll obey to me and do what i tell you!" "father, i will not submit to your robbing me, you can't force me to give you my earnings. if you could, i wouldn't teach at all!" "you won't submit! and i darsent rob you!" he spluttered. "don't you know i can collect your wages off the secretary of the board myself?" "before next pay-day i shall be eighteen. then you can't legally do that. if you could, i would resign. then you wouldn't even get your twelve dollars a month for my board. that's four dollars more than i can earn living out at aunty em's." beside himself with his fury, getz drew her a few steps to the closet where his strap hung, and jerking it from its nail, he swung out his arm. but tillie, with a strength born of a sudden fury almost matching his own, and feeling in her awakened womanhood a new sense of outrage and ignominy in such treatment, wrenched herself free, sprang to the middle of the room, and faced him with blazing eyes. "dare to touch me--ever again so long as you live!--and i'll kill you, i'll kill you!" such madness of speech, to ears accustomed to the carefully tempered converse of mennonites, amish, and dunkards, was in itself a wickedness almost as great as the deed threatened. the family, from the father down to six-year-old zephaniah, trembled to hear the awful words. "ever dare to touch me again so long as we both live--and i'll stab you dead!" mrs. getz shrieked. sally and sammy clung to each other whimpering in terror, and the younger children about the room took up the chorus. "tillie!" gasped her father. the girl tottered, her eyes suddenly rolled back in her head, she stretched out her hands, and fell over on the floor. once more tillie had fainted. xxv getz "learns" tillie as a drowning man clings to whatever comes in his way, tillie, in these weary days of heart-ache and yearning, turned with new intensity of feeling to miss margaret, who had never failed her, and their interchange of letters became more frequent. her father did not easily give up the struggle with her for the possession of her salary. finding that he could not legally collect it himself from the treasurer of the board, he accused his brother-in-law, abe wackernagel, of having taken it to town for her; and when abe denied the charge, with the assurance, however, that he "would do that much for tillie any day he got the chancet," mr. getz next taxed the doctor, who, of course, without the least scruple, denied all knowledge of tillie's monetary affairs. on market day, he had to go to lancaster city, and when his efforts to force tillie to sign a cheek payable to him had proved vain, his baffled greed again roused him to uncontrollable fury, and lifting his hand, he struck her across the cheek. tillie reeled and would have fallen had he not caught her, his anger instantly cooling in his fear lest she faint again. but tillie had no idea of fainting. "let me go," she said quietly, drawing her arm out of his clasp. turning quickly away, she walked straight out of the room and up-stairs to her chamber. her one change of clothing she quickly tied into a bundle, and putting on her bonnet and shawl, she walked down-stairs and out of the house. "where you goin'?" her father demanded roughly as he followed her out on the porch. she did not answer, but walked on to the gate. in an instant he had overtaken her and stood squarely in her path. "where you goin' to?" he repeated. "to town, to board at the store." he dragged her, almost by main force, back into the house, and all that evening kept a watch upon her until he knew that she was in bed. next morning, tillie carried her bundle of clothing to school with her, and at the noon recess she went to the family who kept the village store and engaged board with them, saying she could not stand the daily walks to and from school. when, at six o'clock that evening, she had not returned home, her father drove in to the village store to get her. but she locked herself in her bedroom and would not come out. in the next few weeks he tried every means of force at his command, but in vain; and at last he humbled himself to propose a compromise. "i'll leave you have some of your money every month, tillie,--as much as ten dollars,--if you'll give me the rest, still." "why should i give it to you, father? how would that benefit me?" she said, with a rather wicked relish in turning the tables on him and applying his life principle of selfishness to her own case. her father did not know how to meet it. never before in her life, to his knowledge, had tillie considered her own benefit before his and that of his wife and children. that she should dare to do so now seemed to knock the foundations from under him. "when i'm dead, won't you and the others inherit off of me all i've saved?" he feebly inquired. "but that will be when i'm too old to enjoy or profit by it." "how much do you want i should give you out of your wages every month, then?" "you can't give me what is not yours to give." "now don't you be sassin' me, or i'll learn you!" they were alone in her school-room on a late february afternoon, after school had been dismissed. tillie quickly rose and reached for her shawl and bonnet. she usually tried to avoid giving him an opportunity like this for bullying her, with no one by to protect her. "just stay settin'," he growled sullenly, and she knew from his tone that he had surrendered. "if you'll come home to board, i won't bother you no more, then," he further humbled himself to add. the loss even of the twelve dollars' board was more than he could bear. "it would not be safe," answered tillie, grimly. "och, it 'll be safe enough. i'll leave you be." "it would not be safe for you." "fur me? what you talkin'?" "if you lost your temper and struck me, i might kill you. that's why i came away." the father stared in furtive horror at the white, impassive face of his daughter. could this be tillie--his meek, long-suffering tillie? "another thing," she continued resolutely, for she had lost all fear of speaking her mind to him, "why should i pay you twelve dollars a month board, when i get my board at the store for six, because i wait on customers between times?" mr. getz looked very downcast. there was a long silence between them. "i must go now, father. this is the hour that i always spend in the store." "i'll board you fur six, then," he growled. "and make me work from four in the morning until eight or nine at night? it is easier standing in the store. i can read when there are no customers." "to think i brung up a child to talk to me like this here!" he stared at her incredulously. "the rest will turn out even worse," tillie prophesied with conviction, "unless you are less harsh with them. your harshness will drive every child you have to defy you." "i'll take good care none of the others turns out like you!" he threateningly exclaimed. "and you'll see oncet! you'll find out! you just wait! i tried everything--now i know what i'm doin'. it'll learn you!" in the next few weeks, as nothing turned up to make good these threats, tillie often wondered what her father had meant by them. it was not like him to waste time in empty words. but she was soon to learn. one evening the doctor came over to the store to repeat to her some rumors he had heard and which he thought she ought to know. "tillie! your pop's workin' the directers to have you chased off william penn till the april election a'ready!" "oh, doc!" tillie gasped, "how do you know?" "that's what the talk is. he's goin' about to all of 'em whenever he can handy leave off from his work, and he's tellin' 'em they had ought to set that example to onruly children; and most of 'em's agreein' with him. nathaniel puntz he agrees with him. absalom he talks down on you since you won't leave him come no more sundays, still. your pop he says when your teachin' is a loss to him instead of a help, he ain't leavin' you keep on. he says when you don't have no more money, you'll have to come home and help him and your mom with the work. nathaniel puntz he says this is a warnin' to parents not to leave their children have too much education--that they get high-minded that way and won't even get married." "but, doc," tillie pleaded with him in an agony of mind, "you won't let them take my school from me, will you? you'll make them let me keep it?" the doctor gave a little laugh. "by golly, tillie, i ain't the president of america! you think because i got you through oncet or twicet, i kin do anything with them directers, still! well, a body can't always get ahead of a set of stubborn-headed dutchmen--and with nathaniel puntz so wonderful thick in with your pop to work ag'in' you, because you won't have that dumm absalom of hisn!" "what shall i do?" tillie cried. "i can never, never go back to my old life again--that hopeless, dreary drudgery on the farm! i can't, indeed i can't! i won't go back. what shall i do?" "look-ahere, tillie!" the doctor spoke soothingly, "i'll do what i otherwise kin to help you. i'll do, some back-talkin' myself to them directers. but you see," he said in a troubled tone, "none of them directers happens to owe me no doctor-bill just now, and that makes it a little harder to persuade 'em to see my view of the case. now if only some of their wives would up and get sick for 'em and i could run 'em up a bill! but," he concluded, shaking his head in discouragement, "it's a wonderful healthy season--wonderful healthy!" in the two months that followed, the doctor worked hard to counteract mr. getz's influence with the board. tillie, too, missed no least opportunity to plead her cause with them, not only by direct argument, but by the indirect means of doing her best possible work in her school. but both she and the doctor realized, as the weeks moved on, that they were working in vain; for mr. getz, in his statements to the directors, had appealed to some of their most deep-rooted prejudices. tillie's filial insubordination, her "high-mindedness," her distaste for domestic work, so strong that she refused even to live under her father's roof--all these things made her unfit to be an instructor and guide to their young children. she would imbue the "rising generation" with her worldly and wrong-headed ideas. had tillie remained "plain," she would no doubt have had the championship of the two new mennonite members of the board. but her apostasy had lost her even that defense, for she no longer wore her nun-like garb. after her suspension from meeting and her election to william penn, she had gradually drifted into the conviction that colors other than gray, black, or brown were probably pleasing to the creator, and that what really mattered was not what she wore, but what she was. it was without any violent struggles or throes of anguish that, in this revolution of her faith, she quite naturally fell away from the creed which once had held her such a devotee. when she presently appeared in the vain and ungodly habiliments of "the world's people," the brethren gave her up in despair and excommunicated her. "no use, tillie," the doctor would report in discouragement, week after week; "we're up against it sure this time! you're losin' william penn till next month, or i'll eat my hat! a body might as well try to eat his hat as move them pig-headed dutch once they get sot. and they're sot on puttin' you out, all right! you see, your pop and nathaniel puntz they just fixed 'em! me and you ain't got no show at all." tillie could think of no way of escape from her desperate position. what was there before her but a return to the farm, or perhaps, at best, marriage with absalom? "to be sure, i should have to be reduced to utter indifference to my fate if i ever consented to marry absalom," she bitterly told herself. "but when it is a question between doing that and living at home, i don't know but i might be driven to it!" at times, the realization that there was no possible appeal from her situation did almost drive her to a frenzy. after so many years of struggle, just as she was tasting success, to lose all the fruits of her labor--how could she endure it? with the work she loved taken away from her, how could she bear the gnawing hunger at her heart for the presence of him unto whom was every thought of her brain and every throbbing pulse of her soul? the future seemed to stretch before her, a terrible, an unendurable blank. the first week of april was the time fixed for the meeting of the board at which she was to be "chased off her job"; and as the fatal day drew near, a sort of lethargy settled upon her, and she ceased to straggle, even in spirit, against the inevitable. "well, tillie," the doctor said, with a long sigh, as he came into the store at six o'clock on the eventful evening, and leaned over the counter to talk to the girl, "they're all conwened by now, over there in the hotel parlor. your pop and nathaniel puntz they're lookin' wonderful important. tour pop," he vindictively added, "is just chucklin' at the idea of gettin' you home under his thumb ag'in!" tillie did not speak. she sat behind the counter, her cheeks resting on the backs of her hands, her wistful eyes gazing past the doctor toward the red light in the hotel windows across the way. "golly! but i'd of liked to beat 'em out on this here game! but they've got us, tillie! they'll be wotin' you out of your job any minute now. and then your pop'll be comin' over here to fetch you along home! oh! if he wasn't your pop i c'd say somethin' real perfane about him." tillie drew a long breath; but she did not speak. she could not. it seemed to her that she had come to the end of everything. "look-ahere, tillie," the doctor spoke suddenly, "you just up and get ahead of 'em all--you just take yourself over to the millersville normal! you've got some money saved, ain't you?" "yes!" a ray of hope kindled in her eyes. "i have saved one hundred and twenty-five dollars! i should have more than that if i had not returned to the world's dress." "a hundred and twenty-five's plenty enough for a good starter at the millersville normal," said the doctor. "but," tillie hesitated, "this is april, and the spring term closes in three months. what should i do and where could i go after that? if i made such a break with father, he might refuse to take me home even if i had nowhere else to go. could i risk that?" the doctor leaned his head on his hand and heavily considered the situation. "i'm blamed if i dare adwise you, tillie. it's some serious adwisin' a young unprotected female to leave her pop's rooft to go out into the unbeknownst world," he said sentimentally. "to be sure, miss margaret would see after you while you was at the normal. but when wacation is here in june she might mebbe be goin' away for such a trip like, and then if you couldn't come back home, you'd be throwed out on the cold wide world, where there's many a pitfall for the onwary." "it seems too great a risk to run, doesn't it? there seems to be nothing--nothing--that i can do but go back to the farm," she said, the hope dying out of her eyes. "just till i kin get you another school, tillie," he consoled her. "i'll be lookin' out for a wacancy in the county for you, you bet!" "thank you, doc," she answered wearily; "but you know another school couldn't possibly be open to me until next fall--five months from now." she threw her head back upon the palm of her hand. "i'm so tired--so very tired of it all. what's the use of struggling? what am i struggling for?" "what are you struggling fur?" the doctor repeated. "why, to get shed of your pop and all them kids out at the getz farm that wears out your young life workin' for 'em! that's what! and to have some freedom and money of your own--to have a little pleasure now and ag'in! i tell you, tillie, i don't want to see you goin' out there to that farm ag'in!" "do you think i should dare to run away to the normal?" she asked fearfully. the doctor tilted back his hat and scratched his head. "leave me to think it over oncet, tillie, and till to-morrow mornin' a'ready i'll give you my answer. my conscience won't give me the dare to adwise you offhand in a matter that's so serious like what this is." "father will want to make me go out to the farm with him this evening, i am sure," she said; "and when once i am out there, i shall not have either the spirit or the chance to get away, i'm afraid." the doctor shook his head despondently. "we certainly are up ag'in' it! i can't see no way out." "there is no way out," tillie said in a strangely quiet voice. "doc," she added after an instant, laying her hand on his rough one and pressing it, "although i have failed in all that you have tried to help me to be and to do, i shall never forget to be grateful to you--my best and kindest friend!" the doctor looked down almost reverently at the little white hand resting against his dark one. suddenly tillie's eyes fixed themselves upon the open doorway, where the smiling presence of walter fairchilds presented itself to her startled gaze. "tillie! and the doc! well, it's good to see you. may i break in on your conference--i can see it '& important." he spoke lightly, but his voice was vibrant with some restrained emotion. at the first sight of him, tillie's hand instinctively crept up to feel if those precious curls were in their proper place. the care and devotion she had spent upon them during all these weary, desolate months! and all because a man--the one, only man--had once said they were pretty! alas, tillie, for your mennonite principles! and now, at sight of the dear, familiar face and form, the girl trembled and was speechless. not so the doctor. with a yell, he turned upon the visitor, grasped both his hands, and nearly wrung them off. "hang me, of i was ever so glad to see a feller like wot i am you. teacher," he cried in huge delight, "the country's saved! providence fetched you here in the nick of time! you always was a friend to tillie, and you kin help her out now!" walter fairchilds did not reply at first. he stood, gazing over the doctor's shoulder at the new tillie, transformed in countenance by the deep waters through which she had passed in the five months that had slipped round since he had gone out of her life; and so transformed in appearance by the dropping of her mennonite garb that he could hardly believe the testimony of his eyes. "is it--is it really you, tillie?" he said, holding out his hand. "and aren't you even a little bit glad to see me?" the familiar voice brought the life-blood back to her face. she took a step toward him, both hands outstretched,--then, suddenly, she stopped and her cheeks crimsoned. "of course we're glad to see you--very!" she said softly but constrainedly. "lemme tell you the news," shouted the doctor. "you 'll mebbe save tillie from goin' out there to her pop's farm ag'in! she's teacher at william penn, and her pop's over there at the board meetin' now, havin' her throwed off, and then he'll want to take her home to work herself to death for him and all them baker's dozen of children he's got out there! and tillie she don't want to go--and waste all her nice education that there way!" fairchilds took her hand and looked down into her shining eyes. "i hardly know you, tillie, in your new way of dressing!" "what--what brings you here?" she asked, drawing away her hand. "i've come from the millersville normal school with a letter for you from mrs. lansing," he explained, "and i've promised to bring you back with me by way of answer. "i am an instructor in english there now, you know, and so, of course, i have come to know your 'miss margaret,'" he added, in answer to tillie's unspoken question. the girl opened the envelop with trembling fingers and read: "my dear little mennonite maid: we have rather suddenly decided to go abroad in july--my husband needs the rest and change, as do we all; and i want you to go with me as companion and friend, and to help me in the care of the children. in the meantime there is much to be done by way of preparation for such a trip; so can't you arrange to come to me at once and you can have the benefit of the spring term at the normal. i needn't tell you, dear child, how glad i shall be to have you with me. and what such a trip ought to mean to you, who have struggled so bravely to live the life the almighty meant that you should live, you only can fully realize. you're of age now and can act for yourself. break with your present environment now, or, i'm afraid, tillie, it will be never. "come to me at once, and with the bearer of this note. with love, i am, as always, your affectionate "'miss margaret.'" when she had finished tillie looked up with brimming eyes. "doc," she said, "listen!" and she read the letter aloud, speaking slowly and distinctly that he might fully grasp the glory of it all. at the end the sweet voice faltered and broke. "oh, doc!" sobbed tillie, "isn't it wonderful!" the shaggy old fellow blinked his eyes rapidly, then suddenly relieved his feelings with an outrageous burst of profanity. with a rapidity bewildering to his hearers, his tone instantly changed again to one of lachrymose solemnity: "'gawd moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform!'" he piously repeated. "ain't, now, he does, tillie! och!" he exclaimed, "i got a thought! you go right straight over there to that there board meetin' and circumwent 'em! before they're got time to wote you off your job, you up and throw their old william penn in their dutch faces, and tell 'em be blowed to 'em! tell 'em you don't want their blamed old school--and you're goin' to europe, you are! to europe, yet!" he seized her hand as he spoke and almost pulled her to the store door. "do it, tillie!" cried fairchilds, stepping after them across the store. "present your resignation before they have a chance to vote you out! do it!" he said eagerly. tillie looked from one to the other of the two men before her, excitement sparkling in her eyes, her breath coming short and fast. "i will!" turning away, she ran down the steps, sped across the street, and disappeared in the hotel. the doctor expressed his overflowing feelings by giving fairchilds a resounding slap on the shoulders. "by gum, i'd like to be behind the skeens and witness jake getz gettin' fooled ag'in! this is the most fun i had since i got 'em to wote you five dollars a month extry, teacher!" he chuckled. "golly! i'm glad you got here in time! it was certainly, now," he added piously, "the hand of providence that led you!" xxvi tillie's last fight "we are now ready to wote fer the teacher fer william penn fer the spring term," announced the president of the board, when all the preliminary business of the meeting had been disposed of; "and before we perceed to that dooty, we will be glad to hear any remarks." the members looked at mr. getz, and he promptly rose to his feet to make the speech which all were expecting from him--the speech which was to sum up the reasons why his daughter should not be reelected for another term to william penn. as all these reasons had been expounded many times over in the past few months, to each individual school director, mr. getz's statements to-night were to be merely a more forcible repetition of his previous arguments. but scarcely had he cleared his throat to begin, when there was a knock on the door; it opened, and, to their amazement, tillie walked into the room. her eyes sparkling, her face flushed, her head erect, she came straight across the room to the table about which the six educational potentates were gathered. that she had come to plead her own cause, to beg to be retained at her post, was obviously the object of this intrusion upon the sacred privacy of their weighty proceedings. had that, in very truth, been her purpose in coming to them, she would have found little encouragement in the countenances before her. every one of them seemed to stiffen into grim disapproval of her unfilial act in thus publicly opposing her parent. but there was something in the girl's presence as she stood before them, some potent spell in her fresh girlish beauty, and in the dauntless spirit which shone in her eyes, that checked the words of stern reproof as they sprang to the lips of her judges. "john kettering,"--her clear, soft voice addressed the amish president of the board, adhering, in her use of his first name, to the mode of address of all the "plain" sects of the county,--"have i your permission to speak to the board?" "it wouldn't be no use." the president frowned and shook his head. "the wotes of this here board can't be influenced. there's no use your wastin' any talk on us. we're here to do our dooty by the risin' generation." mr. kettering, in his character of educator, was very fond of talking about "the rising generation." "and," he added, "what's right's right." "as your teacher at william penn, i have a statement to make to the board," tillie quietly persisted. "it will take me but a minute. i am not here to try to influence the vote you are about to take." "if you ain't here to influence our wotes, what are you here fer?" "that's what i ask your permission to tell the board." "well," john kettering reluctantly conceded, "i'll give you two minutes, then. go on. but you needn't try to get us to wote any way but the way our conscience leads us to." tillie's eyes swept the faces before her, from the stern, set features of her father on her left, to the mild-faced, long-haired, hooks-and-eyes amishman on her right. the room grew perfectly still as they stared at her in expectant curiosity; for her air and manner did not suggest the humble suppliant for their continued favor,--rather a self-confidence that instinctively excited their stubborn opposition. "she'll see oncet if she kin do with us what she wants," was the thought in the minds of most of them. "i am here," tillie spoke deliberately and distinctly, "to tender my resignation." there was dead silence. "i regret that i could not give you a month's notice, according to the terms of my agreement with you. but i could not foresee the great good fortune that was about to befall me." not a man stirred, but an ugly look of malicious chagrin appeared upon the face of nathaniel puntz. was he foiled in his anticipated revenge upon the girl who had "turned down" his absalom? mr. getz sat stiff and motionless, his eyes fixed upon tillie. "i resign my position at william penn," tillie repeated, "to go to europe for four months' travel with miss margaret." again she swept them with her eyes. her father's face was apoplectic; he was leaning forward, trying to speak, but he was too choked for utterance. nathaniel puntz looked as though a wet sponge had been dashed upon his sleek countenance. the other directors stared, dumfounded. this case had no precedent in their experience. they were at a loss how to take it. "my resignation," tillie continued, "must take effect immediately--to-night. i trust you will have no difficulty in getting a substitute." she paused--there was not a movement or a sound in the room. "i thank you for your attention." tillie bowed, turned, and walked across the room. not until she reached the door was the spell broken. with her hand on the knob, she saw her father rise and start toward her. she had no wish for an encounter with him; quickly she went out into the hall, and, in order to escape him, she opened the street door, stepped out, and closed it very audibly behind her. then hurrying in at the adjoining door of the bar-room, she ran out to the hotel kitchen, where she knew she would find her aunt. mrs. wackernagel was alone, washing dishes at the sink. she looked up with a start at tillie's hurried entrance, and her kindly face showed distress as she saw who it was; for, faithful to the rules, she would not speak to this backslider and excommunicant from the faith. but tillie went straight up to her, threw her arms about her neck, and pressed her lips to her aunt's cheek. "aunty em! i can't go away without saying good-by to you. i am going to europe! to europe, aunty em!" she cried. the words sounded unreal and strange to her, and she repeated them to make their meaning clear to herself. "miss margaret has sent for me to take me with her to europe!" she rapidly told her aunt all that had happened, and mrs. wackernagel's bright, eager face of delight expressed all the sympathy and affection which tillie craved from her, but which the mennonite dared not utter. "aunty em, no matter where i go or what may befall me, i shall never forget your love and kindness. i shall remember it always, always." aunty em's emotions were stronger, for the moment, than her allegiance to the rules, and her motherly arms drew the girl to her bosom and held her there in a long, silent embrace. she refrained, however, from kissing her; and presently tillie drew herself away and, dashing the tears from her eyes, went out of the house by the back kitchen door. from here she made her way, in a roundabout fashion, to the rear entrance of the store-keeper's house across the road, for she was quite sure that her father had gone into the store in search of her. cautiously stepping into the kitchen, she found fairchilds restlessly pacing the floor, and he greeted her return with a look of mingled pleasure and apprehension. "your father is out front, in the store, tillie," he whispered, coming close to her. "he's looking for you. he doesn't know i'm in town, of course. come outside and i 'll tell you our plan." he led the way out of doors, and they sought the seclusion of a grape-arbor far down the garden. "we'll leave it to the doc to entertain your father," fairchilds went on; "you will have to leave here with me to-night, tillie, and as soon as possible, for your father will make trouble for us. we may as well avoid a conflict with him--especially for your sake. for myself, i shouldn't mind it!" he smiled grimly. he was conscious, as his eyes rested on tillie's fair face under the evening light, of a reserve in her attitude toward him that was new to her. it checked his warm impulse to take her hands in his and tell her how glad he was to see her again. "how can we possibly get away to-night?" she asked him. "there are no stages until the morning." "we shall have to let the doc's fertile brain solve it for us, tillie. he has a plan, i believe. of course, if we have to wait until morning and fight it out with your father, then we'll have to, that's all. but i hope that may be avoided and that we may get away quietly." they sat in silence for a moment. suddenly fairchilds leaned toward her and spoke to her earnestly. "tillie, i want to ask you something. please tell me--why did you never answer my letters?" she lifted her startled eyes to his. "your letters?" "yes. why didn't you write to me?" "you wrote to me?" she asked incredulously. "i wrote you three times. you don't mean to tell me you never got my letters?" "i never heard from you. i would--i would have been so glad to!" "but how could you have missed getting them?" her eyes fell upon her hands clasped in her lap, and her cheeks grew pale. "my father," she half whispered. "he kept them from you?" "it must have been so." fairchilds looked very grave. he did not speak at once. "how can you forgive such things?" he presently asked. "one tenth of the things you have had to bear would have made an incarnate fiend of me!" she kept her eyes downcast and did not answer. "i can't tell you," he went on, "how bitterly disappointed i was when i didn't hear from you. i couldn't understand why you didn't write. and it gave me a sense of disappointment in you. i thought i must have overestimated the worth of our friendship in your eyes. i see now--and indeed in my heart i always knew--that i did you injustice." she did not look up, but her bosom rose and fell in long breaths. "there has not been a day," he said, "that i have not thought of you, and wished i knew all about you and could see you and speak with you--tillie, what a haunting little personality you are!" she raised her eyes then,--a soft fire in them that set his pulse to bounding. but before she could answer him they were interrupted by the sound of quick steps coming down the board walk toward the arbor. tillie started like a deer ready to flee, but fairchilds laid a reassuring hand upon hers. "it's the doc," he said. the faithful old fellow joined them, his finger on his lips to warn them to silence. "don't leave no one hear us out here! jake getz he's went over to the hotel to look fer tillie, but he'll be back here in a jiffy, and we've got to hurry on. tillie, you go on up and pack your clo'es in a walise or whatever, and hurry down here back. i'm hitchin' my buggy fer yous as quick as i kin. i'll leave yous borry the loan of it off of me till to-morrow--then, teacher, you kin fetch it over ag'in. ain't?" "all right, doc; you're a brick!" tillie sped into the house to obey the doctor's bidding, and fairchilds went with him across the street to the hotel stables. in the course of ten minutes the three conspirators were together again in the stable-yard behind the store, the doctor's horse and buggy ready before them. "father's in the store--i heard his voice," panted tillie, as fairchilds took her satchel from her and stowed it in the back of the buggy. "hurry on, then," whispered the doctor, hoarsely, pushing them both, with scant ceremony, into the carriage. "good-by to yous--and good luck! och, that's all right; no thanks necessary! i'm tickled to the end of my hair at gettin' ahead of jake getz! say, fairchilds," he said, with a wink, "this here mare's wonderful safe--you don't have to hold the reins with both hands! see?" and he shook in silent laughter at his own delicate and delicious humor, as he watched them start out of the yard and down the road toward millersville. for a space there was no sound but the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the rattle of the buggy wheels; but in the heart of the mennonite maid, who had fought her last battle for freedom and won, there was ineffable peace and content; and her happiness smiled from quivering lips and shone in her steadfast eyes. mr. abe wackernagel, of the new canaan hotel, was very fond, in the years that followed, of bragging to his transient guests of his niece who was the wife of "such a millersville normal perfessor--perfessor fairchilds." and mr. jake getz was scarcely less given to referring to his daughter "where is married to such a perfessor at the normal." "but what do i get out of it?" he was wont ruefully to add. "where do i come in, yet?--i where raised her since she was born, a'ready?" none team the yeoman adventurer by george gough to a. d. steel-maitland, m.p. in gratitude and admiration contents i. the great jack ii. the sergeant of dragoons iii. mistress margaret waynflete iv. our journey commences v. the ancient high house vi. my lord brocton vii. the results of losing my virgil viii. the conjurer's cap ix. my career as a highwayman x. sultan xi. in which i slip xii. the guest-room of the "rising sun" xiii. pharaoh's kine xiv. "war has its risks" xv. in the moorlands xvi. bonnie prince charlie xvii. my new hat xviii. the double six xix. what came of foppery xx. the council at derby xxi. master freake knows at last xxii. a brother of the lamp xxiii. donald xxiv. my lord brocton piles up his account xxv. i settle my account with my lord brocton xxvi. the way of a maid with a man epilogue: the little jack chapter i the great jack our kate, joe braggs, and i all had a hand in the beginning, and as great results grew in the end out of the small events of that december morning, i will set them down in order. it began by my refusing point-blank to take kate to the vicar's to watch the soldiers march by. i loved the vicar, the grave, sweet, childless old man who had been a second father to me since the sad day which made my mother a widow, and but for the soldiers nothing would have been more agreeable than to spend the afternoon with the old man and his books. but my heart would surely have broken had i gone. a caged linnet is a sorry enough sight in a withdrawing-room, but hang the cage on a tree in a sunlit garden, with free birds twittering and flitting about it, and you turn dull pain into shattering agony. the vicar's little study, with the rows of books he had made me know and love with some small measure of his own learning and passion, was the perch and seed-bowl of my cage, the things in it, after my sweet mother and saucy kate, that made life possible, but still part of the cage, and it would have maddened me to hop and twitter there in sight of free men with arms in their hands and careers in front of them. jack dobson would march by, the sweetness of life for kate--little dreamed she that i knew it--but for me the bitterness of death. jack dobson! i liked jack, but not clinquant in crimson and gold, with spurs and sword clanking on the hard, frost-bitten road. i laughed at the idea; jack dobson, whom i had fought time and time again at school until i could lick him as easily as i could look at him; jack dobson, a jolly enough lad, who fought cheerily even when he knew a sound thrashing was in store for him, but all his brains were good for was to stumble through _arma virumque cano_, and then whisper, "noll, you can fire a gun and shoot a man, but how can you sing 'em?" and because his thin, shadowy, grasping father was a man of much outward substance and burgess for the ancient borough, jack was cornet in my lord brocton's newly raised regiment of dragoons, this day marching with other of the duke of cumberland's troops from lichfield to stafford. and for me, the pride of old bloggs for latin and of all the lads for fighting, the most stirring deed of arms available was shooting rabbits. so, consuming inwardly with thoughts of my hard fate, i refused to go to the vicar's. mother should go. for her it would be a real treat, and kate would be the better under her quiet, seeing eyes. "well then," said kate, "grump at home over your beastly virgil." mother, who understood as only mothers can, said nothing, and prepared my favourite dishes for dinner. the meal over, and the house-place 'tidied,' which seldom meant more than the harassing of a few stray specks of dust, kate in her best fripperies and mother in her churchgoing gown started for the vicar's. i stood in the porch and watched them across the cobbled yard and along the road till they dropped out of sight beyond the bridge. then kate's share of these introductory events became manifest. search high, search low, there was no sign of my dear, dumpy virgil, in yellowing parchment with red edges. i found kate's cookery-book, and would have flung it through the window, but my eye caught the quaint inscription on the fly-leaf, in her big, pot-hooky handwriting: "katherine wheatman, her book, god give her grease to larn to cook. at the hanyards. jul. ." the simple words stung me like angry hornets. our red-headed kate was no scholar, but at any rate her reading was more useful in our little world than mine; for this was where she learned the artistry of the dainties and devices jack dobson and i were so fond of. and if i did not soon learn to do something well, even were it only how to farm my five hundred acres to a profit, kate's cooking would really require the miraculous aid suggested in her unintentional and, to me, biting epigram. i put the book down, and gave over the hunt for my virgil. it would probably be useless in any case, since kate had a cunning all her own, and had surely bestowed it far beyond any searching of mine. i contented myself with a fair reprisal, stowing a stray ribbon of hers in my breeches' pocket, and sat down to smoke. my pipe would not draw, and i smashed it in trying to make it. the tall oak clock tick-tocked on in the house-place, and jane sang on at her churning in the dairy across the yard. i sat gazing at the fire, where i could see nothing but jack dobson in his martial grandeur, and i hated him for his greatness, and despised myself for my pettiness. all the same it was unendurable, and it was a relief to see joe braggs tiptoeing carefully across the yard dairywards. the rascal should have been patching a gap in the hedge of ten-acres, and here he was, foraging for a jug of ale. he could wheedle jane as easily as he could snare a rabbit, but i would scarify him out of his five senses, the hulk. the singing stopped, and then the churning, and five minutes later i crept up to the kitchen door, which was ajar. there was my lord joe, a jug of ale in hand, his free arm round jane's neck. how endurable these two found life at the hanyards! i caught a fragment of their gossip. "be there such things as rale quanes, jin?" "of course," she replied. "there's pictures of 'em in one of master noll's books. crowns on their yeds, too." "there's one on 'em down 'tour house, jin, but she ain't got no crown. but bless thee, wench, i'd sooner kiss thee than look at fifty quanes." jane yelped as i murdered an incipient kiss by knocking the jug out of his hand across the kitchen, but in kicking him out of doors i tripped over a bucket of water, and about half a score fine dace flopped miserably on the wet floor. "dunna carry on a' that'n, master noll," said joe. "i only com' up t'ouse to bring you them daceys." "and what the devil do i want with them?" said i angrily. joe knew me. he said, "there's a jack as big as a gate-post in that 'ole between the reeds along th' 'igh bonk." he saw the cock of my eye, and went on: "i saw 'im this mornin', an' 'eard 'im. 'e made a splosh like a sack o' taters droppin' off the bridge. so i just copped 'e a few daceys, thinkin' as you'd be sure to go after 'im." "put them in some fresh water, joe, and you, jane, fill him another jug. i'll own up to mistress kate for smashing the other." i fetched my rod and tackle, picked up the bucket of dace, and set off across the fields to the river. the bank nearer the house, and about three hundred yards from it, stood from two to six feet above the water, being lowest where a brick bridge carried the road to the village. the opposite bank was very low, and was fringed in summer with great masses of reeds and bulrushes, now withered down nearly to nothing, but still showing the pocket of deep water where the jack had "sploshed like a sack o' taters." it was opposite the highest part of our bank--the hanyards was bounded by the river in this direction--and the bridge was about one hundred yards down-stream to my left. in a few minutes a fine dace was swimming in the gap as merrily as the tackle would let him. for an hour or more i took short turns up and down the bank, just far enough from the edge to keep my cork in view. if the jack was there, he made no sign, and at length my sportsman's eagerness began to flag, and my eye roamed across the meadows to the church spire, under the shadow of which life as i could never know it was lilting merrily northwards. here i was and here i should remain, like a cabbage, till death pulled me up by the roots. worthy master walton says that angling is the contemplative man's recreation, and, having had in these later years much to con over in my mind, i know that he is right. but it is no occupation for a fuming man, and as i marched up and down i forgot all about my cork, till, with a short laugh that had the tail of a curse in it, i noted that a real gaff was a silly weapon with which to cut down an imaginary highlander, and turned again to my angling. and at that very moment a thing happened the like of which i had never seen before, and have not since seen in another ten years of fishing. my rod was jerked clean off the bank, and careered away down-stream so fast that i had to run hard to get level with it. here was work indeed, and at that joyous moment i would not have changed places with jack dobson. without ado, i jumped into the river, waded out, recovered the butt of my rod, and struck. "as big as a gate-post." joe was right. as i struck, the jack came to the surface. the great stretch of yellow belly and the monstrous length of vicious snout made my heart leap for joy. i would rather land him than command a regiment. my rod bent to a sickle as i fought him, giving him line and pulling in, again, again, and again. a dozen times i saw the black bars on his shimmering back as he came at me, evil in his red-rimmed eyes and danger in his cruel teeth, but the stout tackle stood it out. sweat poured off my forehead though i was up to the waist in ice-cold water. inch by inch i fought my way to the bank, and then fought on again to get close to the bridge, where i could scramble out. probably i was half an hour in getting him there, but at last, by giving him suddenly a dozen yards of loose line to go at, i was able to climb on to the bank and check him before he got across to the stumps of the reeds. but here i met with disaster, for in climbing up i jerked the hook of my gaff out of my collar, where i had put it for safety, and it fell into the stream. "stick to the fish," said some one behind me, "and leave the hook to me." "thanks," said i briefly, for i was scant of breath, and continued the struggle. a woman knelt on the bank, pulled the gaff in with a riding whip, plunged down a shapely hand and recovered it. then she stood behind me, watching the fight. the jack, big and strong as he was, began to tire, and soon i had him making short, sharp spurts in the shallow water at our feet. my new ally stood quietly on the bank, holding the gaff ready for the right moment. it came: a deft movement, a good pull together, and the great jack curled and bounced on the bank. "over thirty pounds if he's an ounce!" i cried gleefully. "well done, fisherman!" she said. "it was a splendid sight. i've watched you all along. when you jumped into the river, i thought you were going to drown yourself. you had been walking up and down in a most desperate and dejected fashion." the raillery gave me courage to look into her eyes. i wondered if they were black, but decided that they were not, since her hair was the colour of wheat when it is ripening for the sickle and the summer sun falls on it at eve. and i, who am six feet in my socks, had hardly to lower my eyes to look into hers. her face was beautiful beyond all imagining of mine. i had conjured up visions of dido enthralled of aeneas, of cleopatra bending antony to her whim. but the conscious art of my day-dreams had wrought no such marvel as here i saw in very flesh before me. i felt as one who drinks deep of some rich and rare vintage, and wonders why the gods have blessed him so. and further, as small things jostle big things in the mind, i knew that this was the real queen that had dazzled joe braggs. "what do you call it?" she said, looking down at the fish. "a jack, or pike, madam." "'the tyrant of the watery plains,' as mr. pope calls him. you've heard of mr. pope, the poet?" she spoke as if 'no' was the inevitable answer. "strictly speaking, no, madam," said i gravely, "but i have read his so-called poems." she frowned. "horace calls the jack," i continued, "_lupus_, the wolf-fish, as one may say, and a very good name too. doubtless madam has heard of horace." my quip brought a glint into her eyes and a richer colour to her cheek. "yes, heard of him," she said, with a trace of chagrin in her voice. "and now, o nimrod of the watery plains, how far is it to the village smithy?" "just under a mile, madam." "and how long does it take to shoe a horse?" "how many shoes, madam?" again the glint in her eyes, and this time i saw some of the blue in them. "one, sir," she said shortly. "ten to fifteen minutes, madam." "he's a very long time," she said under her breath. "the smith is probably very busy to-day." "busy! why so?" "the dragoons may have found him much work," said i, merely my way of explaining the delay. but the words stabbed her. she laid a hand on my arm and cried gaspingly, "dragoons! what do you mean? quick!" "the duke of cumberland is marching north from lichfield against the stuart, and lord brocton's dragoons are in the village." "brocton! o god! brocton! my father is taken! and by brocton!" she spoke aloud in her agitation, and i saw that she was cut to the quick. and i rejoiced, so strange is the human heart, that it was lord brocton's name that came in anguish off her tongue. oh for one blow at the man whose father had harried mine into an untimely grave! in sharp, frosty air sound travels far across the meadows of the hanyards. the hills that hem the valley to the west perhaps act as a sounding board. anyhow, further inquiry as to her trouble was stopped by the rattle of distant hoofs. we were standing now less than a dozen paces from the bridge. a straggling hedge, on a low bank, crossed flush up to the bridge by a stile, cut the field off from the road. i rushed to the stile, and cautiously pushed my head through near the ground. half a mile of level road stretched to my right towards the village, and along it, and now less than six hundred yards away, a squad of dragoons was galloping towards us. the hedge was thin and leafless, and there was not cover enough for a rabbit. i ran back. "dragoons," said i. "after me," she replied carelessly, and i saw that danger for herself left her cold. i kicked the great jack motionless, flung him to the foot of the bank under the hedge, and the rod after him, hurried her up to the stile, leaped into the water, took her in my arms, and carried her under the bridge. in less than a minute after i stopped wading, the dragoons clattered overhead. not an hour ago i had been aching for life and adventures, and here i was, up to the loins in water, with a goddess in my arms. her right arm was round my neck, and her cheek so near that i felt her sweet, warm breath fanning my own. as the sounds died away, i turned and looked at her face, and i had my reward. her eyes told me that she thanked and trusted me. "well done, fisherman!" she said for the second time. "you're heavier than the jack," replied i, hitching her as far from the water as possible before wading back. a minute later i put her down on the bank with tumbled, yellow hair and face flaming red. i examined her critically, and cried triumphantly, "not a stitch wet!" chapter ii the sergeant of dragoons i threw the jack across my shoulder and we started for the hanyards. madam offered no explanations, and i made no inquiries. it was obvious to me that the dragoons had gone on to the little hedge ale-house, a good, long mile away, where the road from the village struck into a roundabout road to stafford. here, in the "bull and mouth," mother braggs ruled by day and master joe by night, and here beyond a doubt the stranger lady had tarried while her father had gone on with the horses to the nearest smithy at milford. there was ample time to get to the hanyards, but still, for safety's sake, we kept behind hedges as far as possible. she walked ahead, and i followed behind, water oozing out of my boots and breeches at every step, and the jack's tail flopping against my legs. never had i gone home from fishing with such prizes. what pleased me most was her silence. it matched the trust in her eyes. except for brief instructions as to the direction, no word passed until we gained the hanyards from the rear, and i led her into the house-place unobserved by anyone. "there is little time to talk," i began. "the dragoons are certain to come here, as this is the only house between the inn and the village. your father is, you fear, a prisoner, and indeed it seems the only explanation of his absence. i do not ask why. i gather that there is no purpose to be served by your sharing his fate." "free, i may be able to help him. a prisoner, i should...." she stopped, hesitating. "my lord brocton?" said i interrogatively. for the second time her face burned, and i saw in it shame and distress and fear. my lord was piling up a second account with me, and for humbling this proud beauty he should one day pay the price in full. but it was time to act. i ran to the porch and roared out, "jane! jane! where are you? come here quick!" jane came running in from the kitchen. she stopped dead with surprise when she saw my companion, and could not even cackle on about the jack. "now, jane, do exactly what i say. take this lady upstairs and dress her as nearly like yourself as you can. it's good you are much of a height. pack her own clothes carefully out of sight. off, quick!" they disappeared upstairs, and i watched the yard gate with eager eyes. no dragoons appeared, and in a short time madam and jane were back in the house-place. jane had done her work well. the great lady was now a fine country serving-wench, her shapeliness obscured in a homespun gown that fitted only where it touched, her feet in huge, rough boots, her yellow hair plastered back off her forehead and bunched into one of jane's 'granny caps,' and indeed totally hidden by the large flap thereof, which in jane's case served the purpose of "keepin' the draf out'n 'er neck-hole" when she was at work in the dairy. for my share of disguising, i now rubbed together some ruddle and dry soil, and the mixture gave a necessary touch of coarseness to her hands. altogether she was changed out of recognition, even if, which was not the case, any of her pursuers had seen her previously. "jane," said i, "her name is molly brown. she has served here two years. her mother lives at colwich. have you both got that?" "molly brown--two years--mother at colwich," said madam with a smile, and jane repeated it after her. "now, molly," said i, with an answering smile, "jane will start you churning. it's an easy job. you just turn a handle till the butter comes. do not flatter yourself that you'll get any butter, but i'll forgive you that. and, having learned from jane how to pretend to do it, you need not churn in earnest till the dragoons ride into the yard. listen to jane, and you, jane, for the next ten minutes, teach the lady how to talk staffordshire fashion." "rate y'are, master noll," said jane, who was plainly bursting with the importance of her task. "first lesson, madam," said i. "'rate y'are,' not 'right you are!' it was not mr. pope's manner of speech, but it will suit your circumstances better. off to the dairy, and leave the dragoons to me!" "rate y'are, master noll," said madam, and, our anxieties notwithstanding, we both joined in jane's rattle of laughter. they went off to the dairy, and i began my own preparations. i displayed the great jack in full view on the table, forestalling kate's housewifely objections by disposing him on an old coat of mine, so that he should not mess the table. in the house-place he looked much finer and longer than in the open air, and i gloated over him as he lay there. i longed to change my clothes, not so much for comfort's sake as to cut a better figure in her eyes; but i dared not run the risk of not being at hand when the dragoons arrived. i drew a quart jug of ale, threw most of it away, got down a horn drinking-cup, drank a little, spilled some down my clothes, slopped some on the table, made up the fire, and sat down to wait. it was now about half-past three, the straw-coloured sun was perching on the hill-tops, and darkness would soon be drawing on apace. for perhaps a quarter of an hour i sat there, living over again the precious minutes under the bridge, when the clatter of hoofs awakened me to the realities of the situation. peeping cautiously past the edge of the blind, i saw the dragoons--there were six of them--ride up to the gate. sharp orders rang out, and three of the men dismounted, including him who had given the orders, and came up the yard. one stayed at the gate to mind the horses, and the other two trotted off on the scout round the fields near the farm. i slipped back to my chair, and let my chin drop on my chest, as if i were dozing in drink. some one said at the porch door, "in the king's name!" i took no notice, and they crowded, jingling and noisy, into the porch. again sharp commands were given; the two men grounded their arms with a clang on the stone floor of the porch, and waited there. the man in command stepped forward into the firelight and said crisply, "in the king's name!" it was idle to pretend any longer. i raised my head and blinked drunkenly at him. then i filled the horn, sang thickly and with beery gusto, "here's a health unto his majesty," and said, "fill up and drink, whoever you are, and shut the door. it's damned cold." he had little, red, ferrety eyes, and they looked fiercely at me--fiercely but not suspiciously, i thought. he waved my hospitality aside, and said, "you are oliver wheatman?" "oliver wheatman of the hanyards, esquire, at his majesty's service to command," i replied with great gravity, and filled another horn of ale. i might pretend to be drunk, but i could not, unfortunately, pretend to drink, and it was strongish ale. he made a motion to stop me--welcome proof that he believed me tipsy in fact--and said, "master wheatman, the less drunken you are, the better you will answer my questions." "sir," said i, draining off the horn, "i can drink and talk with any man living, and, drunk or sober, i only answer the questions of my friends. so get a horn off the dresser--i'm a bit tired--fill up, and tell me what you want. d'you happen to be of my lord brocton's regiment?" "i am." "then you'll be as drunk as me before you've finished with the hanyards. our ale goes to the head most damnably quick, let me tell you. you tell my dear old butty, the worshipful master jack dobson, that i've caught a jack half as thick and more than half as long as himself. here it be. fetch a horn, i tell you, and drink to me and the two jacks--jack dobson and this jack beauty here." he was getting no nearer to the object of his visit, and, perhaps thinking it would be well to humour me, he fetched a horn and tried our hanyards ale. this gave me a chance of taking stock of him. he was a thin, wiry man of middle height and middle age. such a face i had never seen. the first sight of it made me suck in my breath as if i had touched the edge of a razor. the bridge half of his nose had gone, or he had never had it, and the lower half was stuck like a dab of putty midway between mouth and eyebrows. his little, beady eyes were set in large, shallow sockets, giving him an owl-like appearance. a mouth originally large enough, and thickly lipped like a negro's, had been extended, as it seemed, to his left ear by a savage sword slash which had healed very badly. he had an air of mean, perky intelligence, as of one of low rank and no breeding who had for many years been accustomed to cringe to the great and domineer over smaller fry than himself. some sort of military rank he had, judging by his stained and frayed but once gaudy jacket. he carried a tuck of unusual length, stretching along his left side from heel to armpit, and a couple of pistols were stuck in his belt. he put down the horn, smacked his lips, and began: "master wheatman, i am searching for a jacobite spy--a woman. we took her father up at the 'barley mow,' and i learned from a man of yours that the daughter was at his mother's ale-house down the road. she is not there, and left to walk to meet her father, she said. she has certainly not done that, and i have called to see if she is hiding here or hereabouts." "by gad, we'll nab her if she is," said i heartily. "she's not been through that gate in the last half-hour, for it takes me that to drink yon jug dry, and i started with it full. but i'll ask the maids. mother and our kate are at the parson's yonder, gaping at you chaps. i dare say you saw them." "no," said he doubtingly. one of the men stepped out of the porch, saluted, and, being bidden to speak, informed his officer that he had seen lord brocton and mr. cornet dobson talking to two ladies. "that'd be they," i said, and going with unsteady steps to the door, i vigorously shouted, "jin, moll, jin, moll, come here! they're in the dairy," i added by way of explanation. the crucial moment came. jane and 'moll' scurried across the yard like rabbits, but stopped at the porch door with well-simulated surprise at the sight of the dragoons. "gom, i thawt 'e'd set the house a-fire," said jane thankfully, addressing the company at large, and she bravely bustled through and shrilled at me, "at it again, when your mother's out; y'd better get off to bed afore she comes in. she'll drunk yer." jane's acting was so much better than mine that i nearly lost my head at being thus crudely accused before 'moll,' but she went on remorselessly, addressing the dragoon, "dunna upset him for god's sake, master squaddy. 'e'm a hell-hound when 'e'm gotten a sup of beer in'im." "don't trouble, my good girl. i'm used to his sort. leave him to me and answer my questions. the truth or the jail, my girl." "yow," sniffed jane, "he'd snap yow in two like a carrot. bed's best place for 'im. he's as wet as thatch with his silly jacking." "jane," said i, "never mind me. i'm neither dry enough nor drunk enough to go to bed yet. captain here wants to ask you and moll some questions. stop clacking at me like a hen at a weasel and listen to him." jane went through the ordeal easily, appealing to 'moll' for verification at every turn, and so cleverly that the latter appeared to be as much under examination as herself. moreover, jane stood square in the firelight, but so as to keep 'moll' shouldered behind the chimney in comparative gloom. they'd been churning all afternoon, the butter was there to be seen, stacks of it; nobody had been in or near the yard; the gate had never clicked once, and nobody could open it without being heard in the dairy. she overwhelmed the dragoon with her demonstrations of the impossibility of anybody coming up the yard without her or 'moll' knowing it. "that's all right, jane," said i, at length. "but she could easily have got into the house or into the stables without you or moll seeing her. let's all have a look for her. unless she's small enough to creep into a rat-hole, we'll soon find her." sergeant radford--to give him his name and rank, which i learned later from jack dobson--agreed to this, and in my joy at knowing that the ordeal was over, i was on the point of forgetting that i was drunk till i caught the clear eyes of madam fixed in warning on me. jane acted as leader to the two dragoons in overhauling the barns and stabling, while 'moll,' the sergeant, and i searched the house as closely as if we were looking for a lost guinea. of course our efforts were futile, slow as we were so as not to outpace my drunken footsteps, and careful as we were so as to satisfy the keen eyes of the sergeant, who was very evidently on no new job so far as he was concerned. 'moll' too seemed jealous of jane's laurels, and went thoroughly into the business. she and the serjeant peeped together under beds and into closets, and she laughed brazenly at certain not very obscure hints of his as to the great services i should render to the search-party if i kept my eye on the house-place. she even said, "master noll, don't 'e think as 'ow th' ale be gettin' flat downstairs? it wunna be wuth drinkin' if y'ain't sharp." the result was, that in about half an hour a thoroughly satisfied and rather tired assembly filled the house-place, for the two scouts rode up to the porch with the news that they, too, had found no trace of the fugitive. with the sergeant's leave i sent the five dragoons into the kitchen with the two maids to have a jug of ale apiece, while he stayed with me in the house-place, to crack a bottle of wine. i hoped, but in vain, that he would tell me news of the stranger's father, but he was too wary for that, and i did not dare to ask him. he made close inquiries as to the lie of the land hereabouts, and i pointed out that there was a field-path leading plainly to the village from the other side of the bridge and coming out at an obscure stile at the back of the "barley mow." the spy might have taken that and become alarmed. she could then avoid the village by another plain path, and so get ahead of the troops on the stafford road. "but what for? who's to help her there, master wheatman?" "ask me another, captain," said i. "but a wise woman would know where to find friends, and stafford's full of papishes, burn 'em!" "ah!" "there's bulbrook and pippin pat and ducky bellows; there's old sack-face, the parson there, as good as a papist, very near. you keep your eyes on those big houses in the east gate. as for me, look at that back and breast and good broad-sword there. damn me if i don't rub 'em up and come and have a ding with 'em at these rebels. on naseby field they were, captain, long before your time and mine, but they did good work against these same bloody stuarts. crack t'other bottle, there's a good fellow. i'm dry with talking and wet with fishing, and it'll do me good." i pressed him to stay and 'have a good set to,' but he refused, and after drinking enough to keep me dizzy for a week, he nipped out and ordered his men to horse. i walked to the gate with him. he thanked me for my help and good cheer, and said it was quite clear that the spy was nowhere in or near the hanyards. i renewed my greetings to cornet dobson and even sent my respects to his lordship. off they rode, and it was with a thankful heart that, remembering my happy condition in time, i stumbled back up the yard to the house-place, where madam and beaming jane were awaiting me. chapter iii mistress margaret waynflete jane had taken the lady back to the house-place and was hovering around her, with little of the grace of a maid-of-honour to be sure, but with a heartiness and zeal that more than atoned for any lack of style. from mother's withdrawing-room i fetched our chief household god, a small ancient silver goblet, and, filling it with wine, offered it to the stranger with what i supposed, no doubt wrongly, to be a modish bow. she drank a little, and then, at my urging, a little more. "madam," i said, "i think you do not need to be 'molly brown' any longer. yon dragooner is quite certain that you are not here, and we can safely take advantage of his opinion. as for you, jane, you've done splendidly, and i heartily thank you." i re-filled the goblet and handed it to jane, saying, "drink, jane, to madam's good luck." the honest girl blushed with joy at my words, and as for drinking wine out of the famous silver goblet of the hanyards--such a distinction, as she conceived it, was reward enough for anything. "thanks are payment all too poor for what you have done, sir," said madam, "and any words of mine would make them poorer still. but, sir, i do thank you most heartily. and you, too, jane, have done me splendid service. you are as brave and clever as you are bonny and pretty." "madam," said i, bowing low, "you are too kind to my services, which have, indeed, been rather crudely performed." "not so," she replied, "but with shrewd, ready wit and certain judgment. i cannot imagine myself in a tighter corner than at the bridge, and your device had the effective simplicity of genius. your plan here was, to be sure, commonplace, but it, too, required caution and good acting, and you and jane supplied both. it was nicer than popping me into some musty priest's hole, though i expect this ancient building has one." i looked at the wall as half expecting the sword of captain smite-and-spare-not wheatman to rattle to the ground under this awful insinuation. "the only use our family has found for priests, madam," i said, "has been, i fear, to hunt them like vermin. as a wheatman of the hanyards, i'm afraid i'm a degenerate." "you'll not even be that much longer if i keep you from getting into some dry clothes. and, if jane is willing, i will make myself myself. i would fain be on." with a sweet smile and a gracious curtsy, she followed the ready jane upstairs. i removed all traces of what had taken place, and carried my precious jack into the pantry, where i hung him in safety. he should be set up by master whatcot of stafford as a trophy and memento in honour of this great day. i then hurried off to my room to attend to my own appearance, and indeed i needed it, for i was caked with mud up to my knees and soaking wet up to my waist. for the first time in my life i was grieved to the bone at the inadequacy of my wardrobe, and even when i had donned my sunday best my appearance was undoubtedly villainous from the london point of view. i feathered myself as finely as my resources permitted, but it was a homely, uncouth yeoman that raced downstairs and awaited her coming. i drew the curtains, lit the candles, kicked the fire into a blaze, and built it up with fresh logs. it would be impossible for me to set down the hubbub of thoughts and ideas that filled my mind. i had been plunged into a new world, and floundered about in it pretty hopelessly, i can tell you. the days of knight-errantry had come over again, and chance, mightier even than king arthur, had commanded me to serve a sweet lady in distress. but i had had no training, no preliminary squireship, in which i could learn how things were done by watching brave and accomplished knights do them. i had lived among the parts of speech, not among the facts of life. i could hit a bird on the wing, snare a rabbit, ride like a saddle, angle for jack and trout, strike like a sledge-hammer, swim like a fish--and that was all. i knew, too, every turn and track and tree for miles round; and that might be something now, and indeed, as will be seen, turned out my most precious accomplishment. some people said i was as proud as lucifer, others that i was as meek as a mouse, and i once overheard our kate tell priscilla dobson, jack's vinegary sister, that both were right--which confounded me, for our 'copper nob,' as i used to call her, was a shrewd little woman. still, such as i was, the stranger lady should have me, an she would, as her squire, to the last breath in my body. only let me get out of my cabbage-bed, only give me a man's work to do, and i would ask for no more. neither for love nor for liking would i crave, but just for the work and the joy of it. the yard gate clicked, and a moment later mother and kate came in. "oh, noll, it's been grand!" burst out kate. "i wish you'd been there. there were hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, horse and foot, and guns and wagons without end. lord brocton was there, and sir ralph sneyd, who is just a duck, and a nasty-looking major with his face all over blotches. and they saw us, and crowded into the vicar's to talk to us." "and what about jack dobson?" "oh, oliver, what have you got your best clothes on for?" "because i got wet through catching a great jack. but never mind my best clothes. how did jack look in his uniform?" "a lot better than lord brocton, or anyone else there, if you must know," she said, jerking the words at me, with her cheeks near the colour of her hair. "can he talk sense yet?" "he talked like the modest gentleman he is," said my mother, "and looked nearly as handsome as my own boy. he sent his loving greetings to you, and would fain have come to see you but his duties would not allow of it." of course my gibes at jack were all purely foolish and jealous, and, moreover, i could now afford to be truthful; so i said, "if jack doesn't do better, as well as look better, than my lord brocton, i'll thrash him soundly when he gets back. but he will. he's a rare one is master jack, and by a long chalk the pluckiest soul, boy or man, i've ever come across. and he'll learn sense, of the sort he wants, as fast as anybody when the time comes." "of course the lad will," said mother, taking off her long cloak, and kate, when mother turned to hang it on its accustomed hook, gave a swift peck at my cheek with her lips, and whispered, "you dear old noll!" all this time i had been listening with strained ears for footsteps on the stairs. now i heard them, and waited anxiously. the door opened, and jane came in, upright and important. she curtsyed to my mother, announced, "mistress margaret waynflete," and my goddess came into the room. straight up to my mother she walked,--a poor word to describe her sweet and stately motion, _et vera incessu patuit dea_, as the master has it,--curtsied low and nobly to her and said, "mistress wheatman, i am a stranger in distress, and should have been in danger but for your son, who has served me and saved me as only a brave and courteous gentleman could." i had ever loved my mother dearly, but i loved her proudly now, for the greatest dame in the land could not have done better than this sweet, simple mother of mine. without surprise or hesitation, she took mistress waynflete's hands in her own, and said, "dear lady, anyone in distress is welcome here, and oliver has done just as i would have him do. and this is my daughter, kate, who will share our anxiety to help you." and then i was proud of our kate, kate with the red hair and the milk-white face, the saucy eye and the shrewd tongue, kate with the tradesman's head and the heart of gold. she shook madam warmly by the hand, and led her to my great arm-chair in the ingle-nook as to a throne that was hers of right. thus was mistress waynflete made welcome to the hanyards. mother and kate took their accustomed seats on the cosy settle beside the hearth. i sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, and jane flitted about as quietly as a bat, laying the table for our evening meal. never had the house-place at the hanyards looked so fair. the firelight danced on the black oak wainscot which age and polishing had made like unto ebony, and the row of pewter plates on the top shelf of the dresser glimmered in their obscurity like a row of moons. our special pride, a spice-cupboard of solid mahogany, ages old, glowed red across the room, and from the neighbouring wall the great sword and back-and-breast with which smite-and-spare-not wheatman, captain of horse, had done service at naseby, seemed to twinkle congratulations to me as one not unworthy of my name. not an unsuitable frame, perhaps, this ancient, goodly house-place, for the beautiful picture now in it, on which i looked as often as i dared with furtive eyes of admiration. she told her story with simple directness. her father's name was christopher waynflete, a soldier by profession, who had seen service in many parts of the continent and had attained the rank of colonel in the swedish army. her mother she had never known, for she had died when mistress margaret was but a few months old, and her father had maintained an unbroken reticence on the subject. some six months ago, colonel waynflete had returned to england to settle, desiring to obtain some military employment, a plan which his long service and professional knowledge seemed to make feasible. in london he made the acquaintance of the earl of ridgeley, to whom, indeed, he bore a letter of introduction from a swedish diplomat in paris. through the earl he had met lord brocton, the earl's only son and heir. the colonel's hope of employment in the army had not been realized, and this and certain other reasons, which she did not specify, had embittered him against the government. not having any real allegiance to king george, whom he had never served, and who now refused his services, he easily entered into the plans of certain influential jacobites in london whose acquaintance he had made. three days previously he had set out from london to join prince charles. for certain reasons (again she did not give details) she was unwilling to be separated from her father, at any rate not until circumstances made it necessary for them to part, and then the plan was that she should go to chester, with which city she was inclined to think her father had some old connexion, and stay there with the wife of a certain cathedral dignitary of secret but strong jacobite inclinations. colonel waynflete's connexion with the jacobite cause had, naturally, been kept secret, but she was almost certain that lord brocton had discovered it through a certain spy and toady of his, one major tixall. "pimples all over his face?" broke in kate. "yes," said mistress waynflete, with a little shudder. "he was in the village this afternoon with lord brocton," returned kate. "peace, dear one," said mother, "our turn is coming. be as quiet as oliver." "oliver, mother dear, hasn't seen major tixall, whose face is enough to make an owl talk, let alone a magpie like me." her right ear was near enough to me, the stool being big and i bigger, so i pinched the pretty little pink shell, and whispered in it, "shut up, kit, and think of jack," which effectually silenced her. mistress waynflete had little more to tell. they had travelled rapidly, avoiding coventry and lichfield, where the royal forces had assembled, but bending west so as to get by unfrequented roads to stafford, and so on to the main north road along which the prince was now reported to be marching. just outride the "bull and mouth" her horse had cast a shoe. leaving her to rest in the ale-house, the colonel had gone on with the horses to the nearest smithy at milford. he was quite unaware of the northward movement of troops from lichfield, and was under the impression that he was now well beyond the danger zone. we had heard from the serjeant of his capture. kate, at mother's request, took up the tale here. the road past the hanyards to the village enters the main road abruptly, and clumps of elms prevent anyone travelling along it from seeing what is happening in the village. the vicarage is opposite the smithy and the inn, and when mother and kate got there, only a few dragoons were about. they watched the colonel ride up, leading his daughter's horse, and saw him turn round at once and attempt to go back as soon as he caught sight of the dragoons; but a larger body, under the command of major tixall, cantered in at the moment and, trapped between the two bodies, the colonel had been compelled to surrender. he was kept until my lord brocton's arrival nearly an hour later, and had then been sent on to stafford under a strong guard. this was the only fresh piece of information that was of any importance. there is a jail at stafford, and no doubt the colonel was by now lodged in it. "i fear that my views, or at any rate my father's views, make me a dangerous guest," said mistress waynflete, "though your kindness has made me a welcome one." "madam," i said coldly, "the only politics i know is that my lord brocton is fighting against the stuart, and if by fighting for the stuart i can get in a fair blow at my lord brocton, i fight for the stuart." "oliver," said mother, "it is wrong--i say nothing about its wisdom--to choose sides in such matters on grounds of personal enmity." "lord brocton's a beast," said kate shortly. mistress waynflete had turned a richer colour at the mention of brocton's name, but at kate's words she became scarlet, and for that i vowed i would knock him on the head as ruthlessly as if he were a buck rabbit as soon as i got the chance. she recovered and continued her story, but as it only concerned my share in the day's doings, it is unnecessary to repeat it here. she told it, however, in such kind terms, that i made an end to my discomfort by going to fetch the great jack for mother and kate to look at. when returning, however, i could not help hearing kate say to mistress waynflete, "without a 'by your leave'?" "as indifferently as if i had been a bag of flour," was the cool reply. and i had dithered like an aspen leaf! "i suppose he half drowned you?" "on the contrary, there was not a wet stitch on me." "oliver," added my mother, "has not many things to do that are worth his doing, but what he finds he does well." "such as catching jack," said i, staggering in with my heavy load. it was admired unstintingly, and was indeed worthy of all praise. "supper is ready, mam," said jane; "and joe says he knowed it wor as big as a gate-post." "and where is joe?" "in the kitchen, master noll." "give him a good supper, not much ale, and that small, and tell him to stop there. i shall want him." then, turning to mistress waynflete, i went on: "there's one way, and only one, into stafford that's perfectly safe to-night. joe and i will row you there. now, mother, i'm hungrier than the great jack ever was." chapter iv our journey commences i have already said that the river was the boundary of the hanyards on the side towards the village. about a hundred yards above the pocket of deep water where the jack had lain, i had built a little covered dock, and here i kept a craft, half boat and half punt, which i used for my fishing, and in which mother and kate could lie on cushions while i rowed them on the river on warm summer nights. it was heavy and ungainly, but very comfortable, and as safe as the ark. joe received the information that he was to row to stafford as cheerfully as an invitation to a jug of beer, and went off whistling to get the boat ready. everything that care could suggest was done for mistress waynflete's comfort. jane carried down to the boat two huge stone beer bottles, filled with boiling water. mother insisted on madam taking her thick hooded cloak, shaped like a fashionable domino, and covering her from head to ankles. kate slipped into my pocket a pint flask of her extra special concoction of peppermint cordial, the best possible companion on a night like this. jane came back and returned again laden with rugs and cushions, and soon reported that the boat was ready. mother and kate, with jane behind them, came to the garden gate to bid us farewell. little was said, for mistress waynflete was too moved by their kindness to say much, and i was too preoccupied. madam kissed them all in turn and murmured a good-bye. i kissed mother and kate, and they wished me a good voyage and a safe return. we turned our faces riverward and started. it was now nearly eight o'clock. the night was pitch-dark, the sky star-studded and moonless. it was freezing hard, the keen air stung our faces, the tiniest twig was finger-thick with hoar-frost, and the grass crunched under our feet at every step. i went ahead as guide, and in five minutes we arrived at the dock, where joe, the boat out, cushioned and trim for the voyage, was vigorously slapping his hands crosswise round his waist to keep them warm. he held the boat up to the bank, i stepped in, handed in mistress waynflete, bestowed her with all possible comfort, settled by her side, and took the ropes. then joe, clambering in, pushed off and the voyage began. it was up-stream, but fortunately the current was gentle, though there was a fair amount of water coming down. there was, or rather would have been on an ordinary night, no danger of discovery, since the river was half a mile from the main road at our starting-place, and ran still farther away from it for nearly two miles. then came the one possible danger-spot on such a night as this, with the road occupied by troops on the march. a long bend in the river took it so close to the road that the yard of a wayside inn ran right down to the water. if we got safely past this, all danger would be over till we ran sheer up to the ruined wall of the town. the moon would not rise for two hours, so there was ample time for our row of about five miles. "i trust you are comfortable, madam?" i said. "comfortable and warm and cosy," she replied. "but for my fears for my father i should even be happy, for it has never before been my lot, and i have wandered far and wide over half europe, to experience such and so much kindness in one day from perfect strangers." "i am, indeed, happy in my mother and sister. they are pearls of great price." "none better in all staffordsheer," said joe. "you have rendered me a greater service than you know of, and i must not let you leave yourself out." to hide a note of wistfulness in her voice, she added mischievously, "must i, joe?" "yow could find wus'n' wheatman o' th' 'anyards," said joe, with sturdy precision of praise. "is he really a hell-hound, joe, when he's got a sup of beer in him? i've no clear notion what a hell-hound is, but clearly it means something as bad, say, as a janissary--the worst animal i ever came across." "sup o' beer in 'im," snorted joe contemptuously. "he dunna really know what beer is, my lady. it's a grand thing is beer, if y'll only tak' enough of it to do y' good, but there's no vartue in half a pint of it. i've told 'im that lots of times. but it's god's truth, my lady, 'e dunna want no beer, dunna master noll, to mak 'im 'it like the kick of a 'oss. i on'y brought 'im a few daceys up t'ouse this mawnin', an'--" "you row harder, joe, and yawp less," said i, interrupting him. "between you and jane i shan't have a rag of character left." "sup o' beer in him," he growled, and spat loudly on his hands. joe looked at all men as potential customers of the "bull and mouth," and judged them accordingly. "i know the worst about you now, master wheatman, and by way of providing you with a less embarrassing topic of conversation, you might tell me what we shall do when we get to stafford." "we are going to marry-me-quick's." she started so abruptly that i laughed outright, and joe rumbled like an overloaded wagon. i explained. "we shall approach the town on the south side where the wall comes down to the river. 'marry-me-quick' is not, as you seem to suppose, a disagreeable process, but an agreeable old woman who lives in a cottage which backs on to the river. every schoolboy in the town knows her by that name, which is also the name of a kind of toffee she makes, and by the sale of which she earns a modest living. i cannot tell you how the name originated, but there it is. i went to the grammar school in the town, and in my time i must have bought and consumed some hundredweights of her 'marry-me-quick.' in her tiny cottage you may rest in safety while i hunt up jack dobson and learn what has been done with your father." "an' if i'd got a shilling," said the irrepressible joe, "for every pat of butter i've taken owd marry-me-quick, i'd--i'd--" he seemed lost for words, so i assisted him, and paid him back at the same time, by saying, "pluck up courage enough to speak to jane." "that's rate, master noll." "is jane so very fond of money, joe?" asked mistress waynflete curiously. "no," said joe. "she ain't grasping, ain't jin. she told me t'nate, she c'd 'ave 'ad a mint of money if she'd liked, but she wouldna tak' it. said it would 'a' burnt 'er fingers. 'more fool yow,' says i; 'it'd 'a' soon gotten cowd weather like this'n.' but jin's all rate. er'll never bre'k 'er arm at church door, wunna jin." i explained to mistress waynflete that a woman who broke her arm at the church door was a housewifely maiden who became a slatternly housewife after marriage. "there's no fear of jane doing that," she replied; "she's as good as the guineas she would not take." for a space silence fell on us. all my attention was required to keep the boat clear of the banks, for the little river turned and twisted through its meadows like a hunted hare. there was only the starlight to steer by, but i had fished every yard of the river, and knew it so well that i gave joe a clear channel to row in. not a sound jarred on the rhythmic purr of the oars in the rowlocks and the gentle lapping of the stream against the bow. this day had god been very good to me. this was life as i would have it; work to do for brain and brawn, and a woman to do it for who was worth the uttermost that was in me. romance had flushed the drab night of my life with a rosy dawn, and my heart was lifted up within me. if it faded away, there would at least be the memory of it. but it might not fade. i was under no illusions as to the stiffness of my task. i was matched against the powers that be, against my lord brocton, whose ability to work this maiden ill was increased a thousandfold by his military authority. i saw my way into stafford, and i saw no more, not even my way out of it, and least of all my way out of it with the colonel rescued and restored to his daughter. mistress waynflete had been so determined in her decision to follow her father that perhaps she had some plan in mind. she said nothing if she had, and if she had, it would, i supposed, depend on her woman's power of influencing brocton. the future was as black as the outlook along the river, but i faced it eagerly. she broke the silence: "the last boat i was in was a gondola. it was on a perfect night in a venetian june, the sky a sapphire sprinkled with diamonds, the warm, scent-laden air filled with murmurings and snatches of song. and there was no danger." "romance, perchance," said i. "you cannot have a one-sided romance. romance is an atmosphere breathed by two, not an emotion felt by one. to be sure, he was the most appallingly in earnest lover woman ever had. he wept for a kiss with his fingers twiddling on the hilt of his stiletto. dear heart, these italians!" "i should like to meet his countship," said i energetically. "yes, he was a count, with a pedigree as long as the rialto, and he had not two silver piastres to rub against each other. he was the handsomest man i have even seen. fortunately, we left venice before he had quite decided that it was time to dig his knife into me." "you speak lightly of your danger, madam," i said coldly. "a hot-blooded italian with a stiletto in his hand is a much more desirable creature, let me tell you, than a cold-blooded englishman with the devil in his heart. that fiery little count, conceited and poverty-stricken, did at any rate pay me the compliment of thinking for at least a fortnight that i was a patch of heaven fallen in his way, whereas to your cold-livered english lord i am no more than an appetizing dish." she was not speaking lightly now, but with cold, concentrated anger. i remembered the reticencies of her statement at the hanyards, and began to see dimly some of the connecting links in her story. my lord brocton's character was well enough known to be the subject of common talk at our market ordinaries. my very manhood shamed me in the presence of this queenly woman, marked down by a titled blackguard as his quarry, and i sat still, fists tightly clenched on the tiller-ropes, and said nothing, waiting for her to speak again. "i have seen to-day, master wheatman," she said, "a sight i have never seen before--a beautiful english maiden growing up to womanhood in the calm and safety of an english country home. you will be tempted, i know, to envy me my wanderings, my experiences, my freedom, but, believe me, i would rather be your sweet kate in the quiet of the hanyards." "it isn't as quiet as it might be when jack's about," said i, seeking to change the current of her thoughts. then i had to tell her all about jack, and our boyish escapades and fightings and friendings, and because i had earlier in the day though evil of dear jack, i now could say nothing good enough about him. it was time to relieve joe at the oars. at first he would not agree, for, he said, he'd been "lagging a bit during the day 'long o' them squaddies," and wanted to put in a day's work. "you will, before you've done, joe, for you've got to pull the boat back. so have a swig of beer and we'll change over. and madam shall acknowledge the virtues of our kate's peppermint cordial." joe shipped his oars and reached out for his bottle of beer. i got out the flask and said in a sing-song voice: "take two gallons of the best hollands money can buy, and add thereto, first, four pounds of choice barbados sugar, and, secondly, two bushels of freshly gathered leaves of the plant peppermint. steep together for a whole moon, stirring the concoction every four hours during the daytime, and as often as you wake o' nights. strain through a piece of linen, if you've got one; if not, do what our kate did this year, use a fair maiden's silk stocking. the result is a drink fit for the gods, and, indeed, one which may even be offered to goddesses. drink, madam!" she was laughing merrily before i had finished. "kate's stocking sounds the most innocent ingredient in it, master wheatman, but i must try her skill in brewing." she did so, and pronounced it excellent but strong. i tried it too, rather more copiously, i confess. indeed, it was good, but to me, i know, the charm of the cordial this time lay in the thought of the rich red lips that had touched the flask before mine. joe and i then changed places, and i kept hard at the oars until we came to the reach which ran close up to the "why not." here joe resumed the oars and i the ropes. "this is the only danger-spot," i said. "yonder are the lights of the ale-house. on an ordinary night there would be no one about, even if it mattered if there were, but to-night, when it does matter, there are thousands of soldiers on the march, and there is some risk of our being observed." in another five minutes or so we heard faint snatches of song and bursts of applause, and shouting and laughing. the "why not" was now about a hundred yards ahead on our left. on the right the bank was lined with willows which, not having been pollarded for many years, stretched their long, thin branches well over the river. i ran the boat as far under them as i could. joe pulled with short, soft strokes, and we crept slowly along. for a minute the lighted windows were obscured by the outhouses, and just as i caught sight of them again, a door was flung open, and the jumble of noises swelled into a roar of jeering laughter. a young woman flew out, heedlessly and noisily as a flustered hen, and a burly soldier lurched after her down the yard. at a whisper, joe shipped his oars, and i ran the boat right into the bank. i grabbed in the dark for a hold-to, and luckily seized the roots of a willow. at his end joe did the same. we hardly dared to breathe as we watched the doings on the other bank. lust, of blood or worse, and the fear of it, were there. the lighted windows and the open door made every movement of the man and the girl clearly visible. no one followed them. it was so ordinary an event to the company, perhaps that it was not worth while leaving mirth and beer to see the issue. but all serious elements in their affair changed abruptly and to our instant jeopardy. on the very edge of the water the girl, knowing her whereabouts to an inch, turned cleverly. the man, a stranger obviously, ran on and pitched clean and far into the river, while she, laughing and triumphant, scuttled back to the house. her tale brought out at once a spurt of men, yelling with joy, to watch the fun. some of them had snatched up lanterns and lighted candles, and they were followed later by a fresh, older, shrieking woman who carried a huge, burning brand plucked from the hearth. happily for us the river was shallow, for a couple of strokes would have brought the man clean into us. the shock of the icy water sobered him. he splashed and spluttered to his feet, climbed up the bank like a giant water-rat, and would have slunk towards the house; but the rabble were on him before he had taken a dozen paces, and tormented him till he roared like a wounded bull. the woman with the brand cried out on him with vile words that made my face burn in the dark, and belaboured him about the head with her blazing cudgel. at every blow a shower of sparks flew out that drove his rollicking mates into a ring around them at a safe distance away. the man must have been set afire had he not been soused in the river beforehand. none of his fellows tried to help him, just as before none had tried to hinder him. it was his look out either way, and they enjoyed his discomfiture with all the gusto of children. at last the breathless woman and the cowed man came to a parley, the result of which was that, with a whoop of "pots round," they all crowded back into the ale-house, and we were once more alone on the river. "the ordeal by water and by fire," i said. "push out, joe." "gom! owd bess give 'im sock," he replied, and levered the nose of the boat into midstream again. although there was no real need for it, the escape kept us all quiet. i persuaded mistress waynflete to lie down, so as to avoid the biting wind that was sweeping across the river, and joe and i by turns made such progress that in less than an hour we drew up to the town meadow. the greatest caution was now necessary, since we saw that the bridge leading into the town was thronged with people, many carrying lanterns or torches. the town wall ran parallel to the river, on our right, with a narrow fringe of meadow between them. here the wall was for the most part tumbled into ruins, and in the gaps stood little cottages, built in part of the stones that had once formed the wall. in one of these lived little old marry-me-quick, mistress martha tonks, to give her her christening name, and we ran up to the bank level with her place without being observed from the bridge, although it was only a few boat-lengths distant. i stepped cautiously out and tiptoed to her back window. there the ancient maiden was, busily engaged in the manufacture of her staple, no doubt in anticipation of a greater demand for it in these stirring days, when much extra money would be passing around in the town, and many pennies thereof would dribble into the pockets of the youngsters. i lifted the latch and stepped in. she squeaked with affright till she saw who it was, and then turned her note into a gurgle of astonishment. "are you alone?" i asked. she nodded. "just a minute then, and i'll be back again, with a visitor. keep quiet!" i returned to the boat, and as i was obliged to move as stealthily as a cat, i could not help, as i approached, hearing joe say emphatically, "i wunna." i cursed him silent, without troubling to ask what he was objecting to, and handed mistress waynflete out. "now, joe," i whispered, "off you go back! the moon will be up in a few minutes, and you ought to do it in an hour. you can sit in the kitchen all to-morrow to make up for this." "jin said 'er'd sit up for me," he said, and i was glad he had such a good motive to keep him up to his hard task. "good-bye, joe," said mistress waynflete, shaking the good fellow warmly by the hand. "give my loving remembrances to your mistresses and to jane. say how grateful i am." "good-bye, my lady," he said simply, "and god bless you." so that only i could hear him, he added, "tak' good keer on 'er, master noll. jin's awful sot on 'er, and wunna luk at me if any 'arm 'appens 'er." i gripped his hard hand, gave him my parting message home, and then crouched and pushed the boat into and down the stream. as i lifted my hand from her and she glided into the blackness, i felt in my heart that the last link with the old life was broken. then, as i rose to my feet, a hand was placed on my arm, and i tingled in every fibre at this sweet link with the new life. chapter v the ancient high house i had found mistress tonks in her little back room, where she manufactured marry-me-quick by day and slept by night. her cottage contained only one other room, serving as shop and living room, and fronting on a narrow lane which turned abruptly from the main street at the bridge-end to follow the curve of the walls. by the time i returned with mistress waynflete she had shuttered the window of the shop, snuffed the candles, and stirred the fire into a blaze. marry-me-quick was an ancient, wizened, little woman, so small that she hardly escaped being a dwarf, humpbacked, and inexpressibly ugly. in times not so long gone by she would assuredly have burned as a witch, and many supposed her to be in league with the evil one. but in actual fact she was a cheery, voluble, and warm-hearted little body, and one on whom i could rely to serve us in this pinch. "mistress tonks," i said, "i want you to shelter this lady for the night." "to be sure," chirped the little woman. "luckily i've kept the sojers off. every house in the town is full of 'em, and the mayor's at his wits' end to know how to stuff 'em all in. i should think a score of 'em have come here, in ones, and twos, and threes; and when i stood bold up to them and said, 'do you want any marry-me-quick?' they were off like scared rabbits. a great, sweet lady like you wouldn't think it, of course, but it's a godsend at times for a lone woman when she's ugly enough to turn cream sour, and somedeal crooked o' the body into the bargain." "i shall certainly desire some marry-me-quick," said mistress waynflete, deftly evading the awkward conclusion of this speech, "for master wheatman has described it in terms that make my mouth water. and though you do not want to billet soldiers, you will, i know, befriend a soldier's daughter." "i should befriend the devil's dam, asking your ladyship's pardon, if master wheatman brought her here. i'm a little, lone, ugly woman, but master noll always stood by me. the lads, drat 'em, were for ever pinching master dobson's bull's-eyes and gingerbread, and him mayor of the town, though he's got lots grander than that since, but they never pinched any marry-me-quick, not in master noll's time. but he's gone now, and i'm not as nimble as i used to be. jesus help me, how he had used to fight! he used to put my heart in my mouth, coming in here all blood and muck to wash himself afore he went home. but take your things off and make yourself at home." "i'm afraid you'll hear a too full and too true account of me, madam, while i am away," said i. "soldiers are likely to call, but you can leave mistress tonks to deal with them. still, please discard your own jacket and hat, and wear mother's domino. it's homely and country-like, and you must pull the hood over your head, since, if your hair has been described, and any soldier who calls has heard of it, he will have to be blind not to notice it." "yes, it's dreadful stuff," she said, with amusing meekness. "so dreadful, madam," said i soberly, "that all england cannot match it. therefore you must hide it, lest it should shock some poor soldier who comes seeking a billet and finds it." she took off her hat, preparing to do what i asked, and the wondrous yellow hair, coils upon coils of it, was revealed. "jesus help me," said little marry-me-quick in a hushed voice, "the back of her head looks like a harvest moon. if the same god that made her ladyship made me, we shall begin life in heaven with a row, that's all i've got to say." i smiled at the quaint conceit of the little woman, which lost its irreverence towards god in its reverence for his handiwork. "now mother tonks," said i, "i leave this lady in your charge for a time while i go into the town to see master dobson. i may be away some time, and you'll get us some supper. anything you have will do." "anything i have?" she echoed scornfully. "i've got one of them rabbits you sent me last market day by that lozzicking joe braggs, but he's a good gorby is joe"--here her voice softened, and madam smiled agreement--"and this frost has kept it as sweet as a nut. if you're not too hungry to wait, i'll make you some rabbit-stew." "rabbit-stew? i'll wait for that, and i'm sure mistress waynflete will," said i. "i'll live on marry-me-quick in the meantime," she replied, laughing. "i leave you then in good hands, and hope to come back with cheerful news," i said, bowing low, and stepped forth on my errand. i turned to the left and fifty paces brought me into the main street. a gun and a train of wagons were rumbling over the bridge, convoyed by a handful of dragoons and a riff-raff of noisy lads and lasses. late and cold as it was, the main street was thronged as on a fair day at noon. most of the shops, especially those that dealt in provisions, were open and full of vociferous customers, while every alehouse was a pandemonium. the street was choked with townspeople and soldiery; lanterns flickered and torches flamed; oath and jest, bravado and buffoonery, filled the air. i pushed my way to the market-place. here about a dozen guns were parked, and at least a hundred horses tethered. at each corner a huge fire cracked and roared. the town hall was a blaze of light, and i heard from passersby that the mayor and council had been in session since noon. the current rumour was that the stuart, with fifty thousand highlanders, savages who disembowelled women for sport and roasted children for food, had sacked manchester and was now marching south, with hell in his heart and desolation in his train. if one-hundredth of it were true, the worthy mayor had his work cut out, for the town was so ill-found that it would have fallen to a bombardment of turnips. i took my stand on the town-hall steps to scan the scene and collect my thoughts. and here i had the best of luck, for who should come clanking down the steps but jack dobson. i had no need to envy him now, having better work on hand than his, but even if the mood of the midday had been prevailing, it would have disappeared before his hearty greeting. "noll, by gad, noll," he cried, wringing my hand joyously. "i am glad to see you, bully-boy; i thought you were sulking in your tent like--like, you know his name, the fellow old bloggs was always yarning about." "iphigenia," said i. "was that the chap?" he said cheerily. "and now i've got you, come along to the house. i've more to tell you than there is in all your silly old virgil, and it's alive, man, alive, alive. that's why it suits me. come along, noll. lord brocton's supping and staying with dad, so's sneyd, and a lot more, and you'll hear all the news. brocton's a beast, and i'm glad i'm an officer, if it's only a cornet in his rotten dragoons. there'll be one beast less in the world, i'm thinking, before long." "what's he done to upset you?" "i say, noll," was his reply, "kate did look sweet this afternoon. i was glad to have her come and see me off to the wars. i only had a few snatches of talk with her. brocton was for ever finding me something to do, rot him, but she did look sweet." "all right, if she did. never mind our kate." "never mind your kate, you barbarian, you one-eyed anthropathingamy! oh, noll, old friend"--there was a catch in his voice as he dragged me into the entry at the side of old comfit's shop,--"she's your kate now, but if i come back, i want her to be my kate. don't breathe a word to her, noll, unless i never come back,--war has its risks, noll, and i'm going to take 'em all,--but if i never come back, noll, just tell kate that i loved her." a plump of townspeople yelled their way past the entry, and their torches lit up his fresh, boyish face, all alight with the enthusiasms of war and love. i clasped his hand, and we looked into each other's eyes. "i'm glad to tell you, noll." "i'm glad to hear it, jack. come back, for kate's sake." the good fellow bubbled with joy at the meaning in my words, and we continued our way up the entry, intending a detour where we could talk in quiet, but before we had got out of the glare of the torches, he stopped me, looked searchingly at me and said, "old noll, there's more in your head now than virgil." this confirmed my suspicion that master jack dobson was learning in his way more than i had learned in mine. "farming," said i. "tell me why brocton is a beast." "he thinks every pretty woman a butterfly for his filthy fingers to crush the beauty out of. but if he rolls his beast's tongue round one name, either he or i will want that ferryman chap. what's his name?" "charon," said i, forgetting to tease him. "that's him, charon, i'm sure you're right this time. i wasn't sure about the sulky old boy in the tent. i always thought iphi-something was the one that got his throat--abram and isaac sort of tale without any ram and thicket at the end of it--but of course you'll be right." "and what sort of dragoons are you cornet of?" i asked. "they give me the bats, noll. there's about two hundred town-sweepings, not worth powder and shot, who want tying on their horses, and hardly know butt from bayonet, and there's another two hundred better men, got together coming along, or in the country around lichfield. sneyd, a rattling good fellow, and i have tossed for stations, and when it comes to a battle he's to lead the yokels and i'm to follow behind, kicking the scum of london into the firing-line. damn 'em. but i'll kick 'em right enough. then there's major tixall--major, by gad--a slinking cut-throat, with a face the colour of pigs' liver. what he's majoring it for, brocton and the devil alone know. the only good thing is we've got a first-rate drill sergeant. he's brocton's toady, and for that i don't like him, but he does know his business, i must say that for him." "big-headed man, with a mouth slit up to his left ear?" said i, seizing the welcome opportunity. "how the deuce do you know?" asked jack, astonished. "he came searching the hanyards this afternoon for a jacobite spy, a woman. but he didn't find her. she slipped through his fingers somehow. i understood from big-mouth that you'd caught her father. what have you done with him? is he crow's meat yet?" "no, for some reason or other, which is a mystery to me, brocton sent him on with the van." "here?" "no, farther on. their orders are to push into stone to-day, and newcastle to-morrow. they ought to be in touch with the enemy there. of course it's not certain which way they'll come, and if they come this way, noll, mark you, we've made a mistake. we ought to have waited for 'em at milford. we could have blown 'em to bits from the top of the hills, long before they could have got at us." our talk had brought us to an alley containing a side entrance to master dobson's fine, old, timbered house, the pride of the town and known there as the "ancient high house." it stood on the main street of the town, which led from the bridge to the market-place. for a moment i was undecided, since i had obtained the news that mattered most, but i had only been out a short time, the rabbit-stew would not be ready, mistress waynflete was safe and comfortable, and might prefer to be alone, it was possible that i might learn something further--and on these grounds i decided that it would be well worth while to accept jack's invitation. i therefore followed him into the withdrawing-room. here i paid due courtesies to buxom mistress dobson and mistress priscilla dobson, jack's oldest sister, a wasp-waisted bundle of formalities, for ever curtsying and coquetting, after the london mode as she fondly imagined. my back fairly ached with answering bobs and bows before we had drunk our part of a dish of tea, which mistress dobson had brewed wherewith to refresh herself after the toils of hospitality, but at last i jerked my way out at jack's heels, and we climbed to the stately barrel-roofed room where the great ones were assembled. horseshoe-wise round a mighty fire of logs, with a small table covered with decanters and glasses between each pair, some dozen men sat at their wine. there was, of course, master dobson, his meagre body all a twitter with importance, sitting in the centre of the bend, opposite the fire, whence he could survey all his guests at once, and urge them on with their carousing. "my son returneth, my lord," he said, "with news from the worshipful the mayor, and he hath brought with him a worthy yeoman, one master wheatman, who--" "of the hanyards, esquire," said i in a testy whisper. "ha, yes," he corrected and compromised, "master wheatman of the hanyards, a loyal subject of his gracious majesty." "the best friend and hardest hitter in broad staffordshire," added jack heartily. i stepped into the horseshoe and made a bow general to the company, and a lower one for the benefit of my lord brocton, who sat next to the hearth in pride of place and comfort. some years older than i, but not yet thirty, handsome as a god carved by phidias, but with drink and devilment already marking him out for a damned soul, he sat there, the idol of that lord-worshipping company. the only vacant chair was on his left. it was jack's place, earned by his father's guineas, which had remained vacant during his absence. the good lad, i record it with pride, notwithstanding a forbidding glance from his father, motioned me towards it, and fetched a glass and poured out wine for me. as i was stepping forward his lordship was good enough to address me. "ha, master wheatman of the hanyards,"--there was a sneer in his voice,--"it is well i see thee on the right side, or, by gad and his gracious majesty, we'd have that other five hundred acres of yours." he tossed off a bumper of wine and added, "or a solatium, master wheatman, a solatium." i caught jack's eye as i stepped right into the middle of the group. to my astonishment it was glowing with anger. did he not think i could take care of myself? really jack was becoming mysterious, but i supposed that as i was kate's brother he was feeling unusually interested in my welfare. for my own part i was quite comfortable, and i replied easily, "as a matter of fact, my lord, i have chosen my side expressly on account of the well-known propensities of your lordship's family." for a full minute nothing was heard in the room but the cracking and sputtering of the fire. this was not because of what i had said, though no one present, and he least of all, could be fool enough to misunderstand it, but because of its effect on him. then, as now, blood flowed like water on far lighter occasions than this, and brocton, with all his faults, was a ready fighter. for once, however, his fingers did not seek his sword hilt, but fumbled with his empty glass, and his face went white as the ashes at his feet. at length he recovered himself somewhat. "the loyal propensities of my family are well known to all men," he said. "and its determination to profit by them," i retorted coldly, and plumped me down at his side. right opposite me was the rector, a gross, sack-faced, ignorant jolt-head, jowled like a pig and dew-lapped like an ox. nature had meant him for a butcher, but, being a by-blow of a great house, a discerning patron had diverted him bishopward. in a voice husky with feeling and wine, he said, "surely it is the part of a gracious king to reward such faithful service as that of the noble earl of ridgeley and my lord brocton." "decidedly, your reverence," i answered briskly, "and of others too, and if, as seems likely, the highlanders have left a vacant deanery or two behind them, i hope your loyal services and pastoral life will be suitably rewarded with one." here jack drew up another chair and i moved to make more room, so that he could sit next to brocton, to whom he was soon detailing in eager whispers the result of his visit to the town hall. the others took up the broken links of talk, and this gave me an opportunity of inspecting the company. there could be no doubt about the man on my left. his vicious, pimply face manifested him major tixall, and mistress margaret's shudder was easily accounted for. he turned his shoulder to me and talked to another officer, who, so far, was only in his apprenticeship at the same game. beyond were two other officers of a wholly different stamp, and the one who smiled at me with his eyes i took to be sir ralph sneyd, a young staffordshire baronet of high repute. then came master dobson, separating the military sheep from the civilian goats. there was the friday-faced clothier and mercer, master allwood, strange company here since he was the elder of a dissenting congregation in the town, and therefore well separated from his reverence. the worthy mercer's dissent did not extend, so rumour had it, to the making of hard bargains, and doubtless he was for once hob-nobbing with the great in respect of his long purse rather than of his long prayers. other townsmen, whose names i did not know or cannot recall, separated deacon from rector. the last man in the company, sitting opposite to his lordship, was a stranger, and by far the man best worth looking at in the room. he had drawn back a little, either out of the heat of the fire or to avoid his reverence's vinous gossip as much as possible. except that he was certainly neither soldier nor parson, and probably not a lawyer, i could make nothing of him. he had a massive head and a resolute and intelligent face. he wore no wig and his hair was grey and closely cropped. i judged him to be a man nearing sixty, but he appeared strong and vigorous. he was dressed with rich unostentation, in grey jacket and breeches, with a lighter grey, silver-buttoned waistcoat, and stockings to match. there was only one thing to be talked about in any company in stafford that night. what was going to happen? what of truth and substance was there in the rumours that filled all mouths? at master dobson's two currents of opinion ran violently in opposite directions. the soldiers on my left were of course certain that the stuart prince and his highland rabble would be driven back. the towns-people opposite were equally impressed with the fact that so far he had not been driven back but had carried all before him. sir ralph had been stoutly maintaining that the rebellion was hopeless. "there's no getting away from it, sir ralph," squeaked master dobson, summing up for the doubtful townsmen; "between the rebels and us this night there's not thirty miles nor three hundred men, and you've so far only got about two thousand men in stafford. i'm as loyal a man as any in england, but there's no getting away from that." "nobody wants to get away from it, master dobson," replied sir ralph. "any body of men with arms in their hands and the knack of using them, can march much farther than the highlanders have come, if no other body of armed men stands in their way. the stuart prince's march will come to an end just as soon as he is opposed, and we're here to oppose him." master dobson was still gloomy. "what sort of men have you got? raw militia lads, young recruits, and newly raised dragoons form at least half of your force in stafford." "agreed," said sir ralph, "but we're rapidly licking 'em into shape, and the duke will be after us to-morrow with the regulars." "my good sir ralph," put in the mercer, "fifty thousand savage highlanders will cut through stafford as easily as if it were a cheshire cheese. i fear the worst." "my worthy sir," said his lordship, and in his dulcet tones i heard the tinkle of the mercer's guineas, "you need fear nothing. neither stick nor stone in stafford will be disturbed. we are at least strong enough to make good terms." "and mistress allwood," said the rector with a leer, "will be spared the wastage of her charms on a ragged highlander." the mercer's wife had all the charms of a withered apple, but here was opening for discord, and our twittering host staved it off by appealing to the stranger: "what do you think, master freake, of the way things are going?" "i have not formed an opinion as to what is likely to happen here, good master dobson," he replied, "but, speaking generally, i should feel much easier in mind if the duke's horses were not so utterly worn out." there was a distinct note of patronage in the tone in which this shrewd and sensible remark was uttered, nor was this affected, i thought, but rather the natural manner of a strong man speaking to a weak one. "egad, you're right there, sir," cried jack. "nineteen out of twenty of them couldn't be flayed into doing another five miles. i was over an hour getting them from milford, under five miles." "the highlanders would march it in less," replied master freake, "and this is not a campaign, but a race." "where to?" it was brocton who spoke. "london," was the prompt reply. "that's the heart of england, my lord, and if prince charles gets into the heart he need not be concerned over wade marking time in the heels or the duke sprawling about in its belly." "your speech is light, master freake," said the rector with drunken sense and gravity. "i trust it savoureth not of treasonable hopes." i turned during this absurd remark to glance at brocton to see what effect this excellent summary of the situation had had on him. to my surprise i caught him looking so meaningly at the pimple-faced major, that i felt sure something was going to happen, and i was right. "god rot the man," said the major thickly. "does he say that i'm sprawling about in somebody's belly?" he staggered to his feet, hand on sword, and made to cross to the stranger, shouting, "damnation to you, i'll thrust something into your belly!" brocton, not in the least to my surprise, made no attempt to interfere. jack couldn't, for i was in the way. his father began to splutter helplessly. i shot out my foot, and swept the major heavily to the floor. i plucked him up by his collar as if he were a rabbit, and choked him till his face was nearly black. then i put him back in his chair, where he sat huddled up and gasping. "sir," said i to him, with much politeness, "you are tired by the exertions of the evening. but i like a man who sticks up for his commander, and desire to have the honour of drinking your health." and i toasted him complacently, smiling the while into his little pig's eyes. this terminated the trouble, which master freake had watched with quiet amusement. for my own part i was now anxious to go, for i was learning nothing. accident favoured me, for a servant came in and whispered something to brocton which took him out of the room. i seized the opportunity to follow, declining to allow jack to accompany me, and wishing him good-bye and good luck. "remember about kate," were his last words, whispered eagerly as he loosed my hand and opened me the door. several rooms opened on the landing, and i noticed that one door was ajar. as i passed the slit of light i caught sight of the sergeant of dragoons, and stopped beyond the door to listen. i heard brocton's voice, and caught the words, "egad, i'll e'en try her. take the best horse available. there's no danger, but speed is everything." he dropped his voice to a whisper and for a moment or two i caught nothing. then, raising his voice again, he said, "and now for your prize." i heard him move to go, and darted ahead, silent as a bat in a barn, and a moment later was in the noisy street. there was nothing to keep me now, and a few minutes later i quietly lifted marry-me-quick's latch, stepped into the room, and observed at once that mistress waynflete's look imported news. "now, little mother," said i to mistress tonks, "supper's the blessedest word i know." "and the rabbit-stew's as good as done by now," she said, and went into the back room to dish it up. "the man with the slit face has been," said mistress waynflete composedly. "he came hunting for quarters, but mistress tonks frightened him off. at any rate, he soon left." "did he recognize you as 'moll' of the hanyards?" "i'm quite sure that he did not. i turned my back the moment he entered, and my hood was up. moreover, i did not speak a word. mother tonks said that i was staying here for the night because my father's house was full of soldiers. she couldn't and wouldn't, she said, have a soldier here for all the worshipful mayors in england. i was quite amused at the way she talked him back to the door and through it." the little woman bustled in to lay the supper things. she was bubbling over with elation. "it'll be another ten or fifteen minutes, will the rabbit-stew. the lady will have told you about ugly mug, master oliver. i got him out in no time. his head was all mouth like a cod-fish. i'll soon be back. i expect you're both hungry." off she bustled again, and we again settled down to our talk. i was anxious to see if she could throw any light on brocton's dealing with her father. his conduct was to me wholly inexplicable. then, too, there was his obvious understanding with major tixall in the matter of the latter's attack on master freake. who was this stranger and why had he incurred brocton's enmity? here was a whole string of puzzles awaiting solution. but before i could start the conversation we were again interrupted. the latch clicked, the door opened, and in walked my lord brocton. chapter vi my lord brocton i was as new to a life of action as an hour-old duckling is to water, and this ironical upset of all my plans left me helpless. the very last man whom i wanted to see mistress waynflete was here, his plumed hat sweeping to the floor, triumph on his handsome face and in his easy, languid tones. indeed, more astonishing than his being here, was his manner and bearing. at master dobson's, a natural remark of mine had beaten all his wits out of him. here his assurance was such that it puzzled me out of action. "my sergeant, madam," he began, "no mean judge, since he has seen the reigning beauties of half the capitals of europe, told me to expect a prize, but it is the prize. master wheatman, you are not, i am told, as good a judge of cattle as turnip townshend, but you are, let me tell you, a better one of women. i understand you know. both acres and solatium shall be mine in any event. and, dear margaret, though i do not understand what your haughtiness is doing here alone with my farmer friend, i need hardly say that your devoted servant greets you with all humility." again his hat curved in mockery through the air. he replaced it on his head, drew his rapier, with quick turns of his wrist swished the supple blade through the air till it sang, then flashed it out at me like the tongue of an adder, and said, "sit you still, farmer wheatman, sit you still. move but your hand and i spit you like a lark on a skewer. so, little man, so!" the contempt in his words stirred the gall in my liver, but i neither spoke nor shifted, and he continued, addressing her, but with cold, amused eyes fixed on me, "you see, sweet margaret, how yokel blood means yokel mood. your turnip-knight freezes at the sight of steel." in part at least he spoke truth. i had rarely seen a naked sword, other than our time-worn and useless relic of the doughty smite-and-spare-not, and had never sat thus at the point of one drawn in earnest on myself. it is easy to blame me, and at the back of my own mind i was blaming and cursing myself, as i sat helpless there. i was keen as the blade he bore to help her, for here was her hour of uttermost need, but i did not see that i should be capable of much service with a hole in my heart, and he had me at his mercy beyond a doubt, so long as he had me in his eye. no, galling as it was, there was nothing to do but to wait the turn of events. something might divert his attention. one second was all i wanted, and i sat there praying for it and ready for it. meanwhile the scene, the talk, and she were full of interest. marry-me-quick's cottage was no hovel, either for size or appointments. brocton was standing with his back to a dresser. on his left was the outer door, and on his right, between him and mistress waynflete, the door in the party wall leading to the back room where the rabbit-stew was now being dished up. madam and i sat on opposite sides of the large hearth, a small round table, drawn close to the fire for comfort and covered with the supper things, occupied part of the space between us, but there was plenty of room for action. when brocton had stretched out his rapier towards me in threat and command, the point was perhaps three feet from my breast, and he could master my slightest movement. and mistress waynflete. at the bridge in the afternoon i had noticed that while danger for her father had stirred her heart to its dearest depth, danger for herself troubled her not one whit. when i looked at her now there was no fear in her face, which was calm as the face of a pictured saint, but i saw questionings there and knew they were of me. plainly as if she spoke the words, her great blue eyes were saying, "am i leaning on a broken reed?" as she caught my look she turned to brocton, and i gritted my teeth and listened. "so your lordship has found me!" she spoke easily and lightly. "how small the world must be since it cannot find room for me to avoid you!" "say rather, dear mistress, that my love draws me unerringly towards you." "i thought i gathered that there was another motive for your coming here to-night." "margaret, believe me, i am distraught," he said, not wholly in mockery it seemed to me. "so distraught, it seems, that you neglect your plainest duty as an officer in order to corrupt, if you can, a supposed country maiden, of whom you have heard by chance. his grace of cumberland will be glad to hear of such devotion." "won't you listen to me, margaret? you know i love you." "if you were offering me, my lord, the only kind of love which an honourable man can offer, i should still refuse it. your reputation, character, and person are all equally disagreeable to me, and that you should imagine that there is even the smallest chance of your succeeding, is an insult for which, were i a man, you should pay dearly." "on the contrary, dear margaret," he replied, in his most silken tones, plainly shifting to more favourable ground, "i fancy that the chance is by no means small." "your fancy does not interest me," was the cold reply. "every woman has her price, if i may adapt a phrase of the late sir robert's, and i can pay yours. excuse my frankness, margaret. it would be unpardonable if we were not alone. yon cattle-drover hardly counts as audience, i fancy, for he is already as good as strung up as a rebel." after a long silence, so long that i tried to find an explanation of it, she said, "you refer to my father?" there was a quaver in her voice which all her bravery could not suppress. "exactly, margaret, to your dear father." "in times like this, no doubt, your conduct in arresting him will pass for legal, but fortunately some evidence will be required, and you have none. the fact is that in your loyal zeal you have acted too soon." "i thought your daughterly instincts would be aroused," he answered, scoffing openly as he saw his advantage. "they have lain dormant longer than i expected. believe me, margaret, for my own purposes i have acted in the very nick of time, and you will do well to drop your unfounded hopes of the future. your father's fate is certain if i act, for i can call a witness--you remember major tixall, a beery but insinuating person--whose evidence is enough to hang him fifty times over. whether or not i produce it depends, as i say, on the depth of your affection for him." "i shall know how to save my father, my lord, when the time comes. now, perhaps, having played your last card, you will leave me." "my dear margaret," was the cool reply, "your innocence amazes me. my last card! not at all, sweet queen. you are my last card." "i? how so?" "you, too, are a rebel, if i choose to say the word, and a dangerous one to boot. so here's your choice: come where love awaits you or go where the gallows awaits you." "and if i could so far forget my nature as to come where love of your sort, the love of a mere brute beast, awaits me, you would forget everything?" "everything, margaret." "your duty to your king included?" "certainly. there's nothing i will not do, or leave undone, at your behest for your fair sake." "you flatter me, my lord, far above my poor deserts. and now, if your lordship will excuse me,"--she arose at the words, pale and determined as death,--"i will e'en go and give myself up to some responsible officer and acquaint him with your conduct." "he would not believe you, my sweet margaret." "you forget i have a witness, my lord." for the first time during the conversation she looked across at me. "he would not be there to witness, margaret. surely you suppose that i am wise enough to prevent that move. keep on sitting still, farmer oliver. i'm glad, believe me, to see you so interested. a difficult piece of virtue she is, to be sure, and if you could only escape a hanging, which you will not, you might have learned to-night a useful lesson in the art of managing a woman. it's an art, sir, a great, a curious art, and i flatter myself i am somewhat of a master therein." all this time he had kept me in his eye, and the point of his rapier was ready for my slightest move. it had grieved me to the heart to hear him shame this noble woman so, bargaining for her honour as lightly as a marketing housewife chaffers for a pullet. how she had felt it, i could judge in part by the deathly paleness of her face, and the tight hold she was keeping on herself. she dropped into her chair again and buried her face in her hands. he only smiled as one who presages a welcome triumph. i kept still and silent, never moving my eyes from his, praying and waiting for my second. she raised her head and spoke again: "if i did not know you, my lord, i would plead with you. two men's lives are in my hands, you say, and there is"--she paused--"but one way"--another terrible pause--"of saving them." "you want me to throw in the cattle-drover?" he asked gaily. "yes," she replied, in a scarcely audible whisper. "it's throwing in five hundred acres of land each of which my father values at a jew's eye, let me tell you, but, egad, margaret, you're not dear even at that. run away home, farmer wheatman, and don't be fool enough to play the rebel again." i sat still and silent. speech was useless, and action not yet possible. that keen swordsman's eye must be diverted somehow. there was a god in heaven, and the rabbit-stew would be ready soon. it was useless to attempt to force matters. and as for his taunts, well, he was but feathering my arrows. so i sat on like a stone. "go, master wheatman," she urged faintly, but i did not even turn to look at her. my heart was thumping on my ribs, my nerves tingling, my muscles involuntarily tightening for a spring. "these yokels are so dull and lifeless, margaret. he cannot understand our impatience." out of the corner of my eye i saw her crimson to the roots of her hair at this vicious insult. "off, my man," he added to me, "or i'll prick your bull's hide." he thrust out his rapier to give point to the threat. nothing moved me. my eyes were glued to his. and now the door on his right hand opened, and little mistress marry-me-quick appeared with our supper. she saw the sword directed at the breast of the one man on earth she loved with all the fervour of her honest, womanly heart. the sight scattered her senses. with a nerve-racking shriek she flopped heavily to the floor, and the rabbit-stew flew from her hands and crashed loudly at his feet. it was too much for his wine-sodden nerves. his eyes turned, his body slackened, the point of his rapier flagged floorward. god had given me my second. i bounded at him, not straight, but somewhat to his left. he recovered, but, anticipating a straight rush, thrust clean out on the expected line of my leap. his blade ran through between my coat and waistcoat, and the guard thumped sore on my ribs. then he was mine. i struck hard on heart and belt and knocked the wind out of his body. he sucked for breath like a drowning man. now he could not call for help, and i finished him off, quickly, gladly, and smilingly. his twitching fingers fumbled at his belt as if seeking a pistol. finding none, he made no further attempt to defend himself, and covered his face with his arms to keep off my blows, but i struck him with such fierce strength on his unprotected temples that he weakened and dropped them. his ghastly, bleeding face turned upwards, his dazed eyes pleading for the mercy he had denied her a moment ago. it was brute appealing to brute in vain, and with one last blow on the chin that drove his teeth together like the crack of a pistol and nearly tore his head off his shoulders, i knocked him senseless to the floor. his rapier hung in the skirt of my coat, so close had i been to sure and sudden death. i drew it out and tossed it to the floor at his side. "i wish, madam," said i, reaching out for mother's domino, "that we could have saved the rabbit-stew." "is he dead?" she whispered, with white lips, coming forward and looking shudderingly down on him with troubled eyes. "no such luck," said i. "he may be round in five minutes, but that's enough, though poor little marry-me-quick will have to be left to fend for herself." i helped her into the domino, pulled the hood over the wonderful hair, and seized my own hat. "now, mistress waynflete," said i, "the northern halt of staffordshire is before us, and the sooner some of it is behind us the better." with these words i led her to the door, which i closed carefully behind me, and into the street. a little explanation will make our subsequent movements clearer. the eastern side of stafford is roughly bow-shaped. the main street is the straight string and the wood is the curve of the wall, now mostly fallen down and in ruins, the line of which was followed by the street we were in, and only some fifty yards from the southern end of the string. the marksman's thumb represents the market square, and the arrow the line of the east gate street. no cat in the town knew it better than i did, or could travel it better in the dark. indeed, our only danger now came from the moon, but, fortunately, she had not yet climbed very high. mistress waynflete placed her arm in mine and we turned to the right, away from the still noisy and crowded main street. we passed an ale-house bursting with customers, the central figure among whom, plainly visible from the street, was pippin pat, an irishman with so huge a head that he had become a celebrity under this name for miles around. he had made himself rolling drunk and, suitably to the occasion, had been made into a highlander by the simple process of robbing him of his breeches and rubbing his head with ruddle. he was a sorry sight enough, but, the main thing, he had attracted an enormous company. i rejoiced to see him, for it meant that the wicket of his master's tanyard, half a stone's throw ahead, would be unbolted. this would save us a longish detour and lessen the danger of being observed. arrived at the tanyard gate, i tried the wicket. it was unbolted, as i had anticipated, and we were soon in the quiet and obscurity of the tanyard. the far side of the yard was separated by a low stone wall from the end of a blind alley leading into eastgate street. i guided my companion safely by the edges of the tan-pits, and on arriving at the wall, i made no apology but lifted her on to it. as she sat there a shaft of moonlight lit up her fine, brave face. i feasted my eyes upon it for a moment, and then made to leap over to assist her to the other side, but she stayed me with a hand on each shoulder. "i will go no farther, master wheatman," she said in a low, troubled voice, "till you forgive me." "forgive you?" i cried, astounded. "forgive you? what for?" "for thinking meanly of you. i thought you were afraid of brocton. not until that lion leap of yours did i realize how cleverly and nobly you had sat there through his insults, foreseeing the exact moment when you could master him. my only explanation, i do not offer it as an excuse, is that the utter beast in brocton makes it hard for me to think well of any man. oh, believe me, i am ashamed, confounded, and miserable. say you forgive me!" "madam," i said laughingly, "the next time i play the knight-errant, may god send me a less observant damsel. there's nothing to forgive. the plain truth is that i was frightened, a little bit. but i'm new to this sort of thing, and i hope to improve." then, after a pause, i met her eyes full with mine and added, "as we go on." "frightened," she said scornfully, "you frightened, you who leaped unarmed on the best swordsman in london? no, don't mock me, master wheatman, forgive me." "of course i do, and thank you for your kind words. and we've both got some one to forgive." she smiled radiantly--"whom? and what for?" i leaped over the wall, and put my arms around her to lift her down. "marry-me-quick, for dropping the rabbit-stew." chapter vii the results of losing my virgil we slipped down the blind alley and came out in the street leading to the east gate. there was still great plenty of people strolling up and down, for night had not yet killed off the novelty and excitement caused by the arrival of the army. the smaller houses were crowded with soldiery, hob-nobbing with the folk on whom they were billeted, and all were yelling out, "let the cannakin clink!" and other rowdy ditties in the intervals of drinking. at the east gate itself, a fire blazed, and pickets warmed themselves round it, while along the street late-coming baggage and ammunition wagons were trailing wearily. it was idle to expect to pass unseen, so we plunged into the throng, threaded through the wagons, and skirted leftward till we arrived at a quieter street running down to the line of the wall. here every brick and stone was as a familiar friend, for the little grammar school backed on to the wall at the very spot where the main street led through the old north gate of the town. old master bloggs lived in a tiny house on the side of the school away from the gate. there were the candles flickering in the untidy den in which the old man passed all his waking hours out of school-time, and there, i doubted not, they would be guttering away if the highlanders sacked the town. i led the way across the little fore-court, paled off from the street by wooden railings, gently opened the door, and walked in to the dark passage. the study door was ajar, and we peeped in. there the old, familiar figure was, eyesight feebler, shoulders rounder, hair whiter, and clothing shabbier than of yore, crumpled over a massive folio. he was reading aloud, in a monotonous, squeaky half-pitch. latin hexameters they were, for even his voice could not hide all the music in them, and as i listened it became clear that the old man had that night been moved to select something appropriate to the occasion, for he was going through the account of the fall of troy in the second aeneid. i put my fingers on my lips and crept on, followed by mistress waynflete. in the little back room i whispered, "my old school and schoolmaster. we will not disturb the old man. poor little marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. he's happy enough over the fall of troy. nothing that he can do can help us. let him be." she nodded assent and i looked round. opening a cupboard, i found half a loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "eat," said i, "and think it's rabbit-stew." i made her take all the milk, but shared the bread and cheese. troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon i once more led the way, and we passed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice i could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over. from the bridge at the hanyards onwards, mistress waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. i felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. my work was new, but at any rate i had sometimes dreamed that i could do a man's work when i got my chance, and i had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. my thoughts, however, were newer still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. moreover, things had gone with such a rush that i had had no time to shake and sift them into order. at the foot of that wall all i knew, and that but dimly, was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth living for. "get your breath, madam," said i. "you want it all now, and there's no need to hurry." she leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. the only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for herself, she only said: "and this was your school?" "for many years, seven or more." she was silent for a time and then went on. "you have led a quiet life, master wheatman?" "ha," thought i, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "the life of a yokel, madam." "you have read much?" "yes, i'm fond of reading. it passes the long winter nights." "and no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of robin hood and the admirable exploits of claude duval?" i felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that i could see the blue glint in them. "no such rubbish, indeed," said i hotly. it was a slight on master bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of troy, not to say the sweet old vicar. "what then?" "livy and caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly virgil." "then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically. no doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of virgil, and i sourly asked, "what's curious, madam? old bloggs has nothing to teach except latin, and i happened to take to it. why curious?" "really, master wheatman, not curious? here we are in a narrow yard at the foot of a high wall. i'm perfectly certain that within five minutes i shall be whisked over to the other side. and you got that out of virgil?" "straight out of virgil, madam. stafford was our troy, and this the wall thereof. i've got in and out thousands of times." she peered comically around the dark playground and said gaily, "i see no wooden horse. there should be one, i know. master dryden says so, and he knows all about virgil." "poof," said i. "if old bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black and blue." "he couldn't now i've got my breath again," she laughed. "i'm glad of that. let me explain. here is a ladder of notches in the wall, left and right alternately. feel for them." she did so, and i went on: "they are roughly three feet apart on each side. i'll climb up first and assist you up the last few. your skirts will trouble you, i fear." "not much, for i'll turn them up." she promptly did so, and fastened the edges round her waist. she also discarded the long, cumbrous domino, and i took it from her. "watch me," said i, "and follow when i give the word. i'll have a look round first." up i went, hand over hand, as easily as ever i had done it. i crouched down on the top of the wall, which, fortunately, lay in the shadow of the schoolhouse. i saw in the sky the reflected glare of a fire at the north gate, another picket i supposed, but there were houses without the gate, and these were dark and silent. there was no fear of our being observed. "come!" i whispered. she started boldly and came up with cheering swiftness. i spread the domino in readiness, then stretched down to help her, and in another moment she was sitting the wall as a saddle. "splendid, for a novice," i said. "and a novice in skirts, short ones." she went first down the other side, and i nearly pitched headlong in assisting her as far down as possible. she lowered her skirts while i followed and then i helped her into the domino, rejoicing in the silken caress of her hair on my hands as i arranged the hood, a pleasant piece of officiousness for which i got thanks i did not deserve, and off we started. again she asked nothing as to what we were going to do and whither we were bound. the blazing windows of a comfortable inn might have been in sight for aught she cared to all outward seeming. yet here she was, close on midnight, in bitterly cold weather, stepping out into rough and unknown country in company with a man she had only known a few hours. i went ahead and thought it over. for ten minutes we picked our way in the deep shadow along the foot of the wall, _per opaca locorum_, as the great weaver of words puts it, and then i turned outwards into the open field and the clear moonlight. of her own accord she placed her arm in mine, and we stepped it out bravely together. "we are in unenclosed land here," i explained. "on our right is a patch which varies between bog and marsh and pool, according to the rains. the townsmen call it the king's pool, whatever state it is in. just ahead, you can see the line of it, is a little stream, the pearl brook. if it isn't frozen over yet, i can easily carry you across, as it's not more than six inches deep. the freemen of the ancient borough--yon little town has slumbered there nearly eight hundred years--have, by immemorial custom, the right of fishing in the pearl brook with line and bent pin." "they do not catch many thirty-pound jack, i suppose?" "dear me, no. but it was here i learned to like fishing, and i went on from minnows and jacksharps to pike." "and wandering damsels," she interrupted, with a laugh that sounded to me like the music of silver bells. a minute later, on the edge of the brook, she said vexedly, "and it's not frozen over." but i had already noticed that fact with great elation. "not more than six inches, you say," she muttered, and made to step in. "and if it were not so much as six barley-corns," i said, "i would not suffer you to wade it. what am i for, pray you, madam?" without more ado, i lifted her once more in my arms--the fourth time that day--and started. i cursed the narrowness of the pearl brook. i could almost have hopped across it, but by dawdling aslant the stream i had her sweet face near mine in the moonlight, and my arms round her proud body, for a couple of minutes. "yokel blood or not," i thought, "this is something my lord brocton will never do." a quarter of an hour later, after helping her up a short, steep scarp, we stood and looked back on the little town. its roofs were bathed in moonlight, and the great church tower stood out in grey against the blue-black sky. patches of dull, ruddy glow in the sky marked the sites of the picket-fires, and there came to us, like the gibbering of ghosts in the wind, the dying notes of the day's excitement. to our left, bits of silver ribbon marked the twistings of the river, and that darker line in the distant darkness was the hills of my home and boyhood. at their feet was the hanyards, and kate and mother. there was a little mist in my eyes, and the eyes i turned and looked into were brimming with tears. "and now, mistress waynflete," said i, "let us on to our inn." "our inn!" she echoed, and there was dismay in her voice. "our inn, and i haven't a pennypiece. for safety, i put my hat, my riding jacket, and my purse under the bed at marry-me-quick's, and the fight and hurry drove them out of my mind completely." "and i'm in the same case exactly," said i, and laughed outright. i had little use for money at the hanyards, least of all in the pockets of my sunday best, and not until she told me her plight did i realize the fact that in the elation of starting from home, i had forgotten that money might be necessary. though i laughed, i watched her closely. now she would break down. no woman's heart could stand the shock. "my possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one of madame du pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famous marry-me-quick." i had been mistaken. she made no ado about our serious situation, but spoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly. "quite a lengthy inventory," i replied. "my contributions to the common stock are--" and i fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item, a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, one flask, two-thirds full of mistress kate wheatman's priceless peppermint cordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and the humours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hip and is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one of kate's pasties." i pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as i drew forth my dumpy little virgil. "item," i concluded, "the works of the divine master, p. vergilius maro, hidden in my pocket by that mischievous minx and monkey, kate wheatman of the hanyards." and i told the story. "then if kate had not hidden your beloved virgil, you would not have gone fishing?" "i'm sure i shouldn't." "life turns on trifles, master wheatman, and to a pretty girl's sisterly jest i owe everything that has happened since i first saw you on the river bank." "we owe it, madam," i corrected gently, and i turned to go on, for i saw that she was moved and troubled at the evil she thought she had brought on me. evil! i was enjoying every breath i drew and every step i took, and my heart was like a live coal in the midst of my bosom. "have no fear, mistress margaret," said i cheerfully, sweeping my hand out. "there's broad staffordshire before us, a goodly land full of meat and malt and money, and we'll have our share of it." "but you'll have to steal it for me." "'convey the wise it call," "i quoted. "that's better," and she smiled up at me in the moonlight. "virgil puts you right above my poor wits, but say you love shakespeare too, and we shall have one of the great things of life in common." "i do, madam, but you must learn to rate things at their true value. you speak french?" "oh yes." "and italian?" "yes." "and play the harpsichord?" "yes." "then, madam, i am a half-educated boor compared with you, for i know none of these things. but though i do not know the french or italian for marry-me-quick, if you will get it out of your pocket, i'll show you the staffordshire for half of it." we marched on gaily for another quarter of an hour, eating the sweet morsel. then i said, "even an old traveller and campaigner like you will be glad to learn that our inn is at hand." "very glad, but i see no signs of it." "well, no," said i, "it's not exactly an inn, but just a plain barn. you shall sleep soft and safe and warm, though, and even if we had money and an inn was at hand, it would be foolish to go there. your case is hard, madam, and i wish i could offer you better quarters." under the shelter of a round knoll clumped with pines, lay an ancient farmhouse. we were approaching it from the front, and its sheds and barns were at the rear. we therefore turned into the field and fetched a circuit, and soon stood at the gate leading into the farmyard. no one stirred, not even a dog barked, as i softly opened the gate and crept, followed by mistress waynflete, to the nearest building. i pushed open the door, we entered a barn, and were safe for the night. the moon shone through the open door, and i saw that the barn was empty, probably because the year's crops, as i knew to my sorrow, had been poor indeed in our district. the fact that the barn was bare told in our favour, as no farm hand would be likely to come near it should one be stirring before us next morning. a rick stood handy in the yard, and on going to it i found that three or four dasses of hay had been carved out ready for removal to the stalls. i carried them to the shed, one by one, and mighty hot i was by the time i dumped the last on the barn floor. starting off again, i poached around in another shed, and was lucky enough to find a pile of empty corn sacks. spreading these three or four deep in the far corner of the barn, i covered them thickly with hay, and having reserved a sack on purpose, i stuffed it loosely with hay to serve for a pillow. all this busy time mistress waynflete stood on the moonlit door-sill, silent as a mouse, and when i stole quietly up to tell her all was ready, i saw that her hands were clasped in front and her lips moved. i bared my head and waited, for she had transformed this poor barn into a maiden's sanctuary. she turned her face towards me. "madam," said i, very quietly, "your bed is ready, and you are tired out and dead for sleep. pray come!" still silent, she stepped up and examined my rude handiwork. then she curled herself up on the hay, and i covered her with more hay till she lay snug enough to keep out another great frost. "good night, madam, and sweet sleep befall you," and i was turning away. "ho!" she said, "and pray where do you propose to sleep?" "i shall nest under the rick-straddle." "sir," and her tone was almost unpleasant, "for the modesty you attribute unto me, i thank you. for the gratitude you decline to attribute unto me, i dislike you. but pray give me credit for a little common sense. i shall desire your services in the morning, and i do not want to find you under a rick, frozen to a fossil." "no, madam." she sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions. "master wheatman, i will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, i thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so that we can talk without raising our voices. i am much more willing to sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my lord brocton. where's your share of the sacks?" i did without sacks, but i fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me strew a bed for myself close up to her own. i tucked her up once more, and then made myself cosy. i was miserable lest i should snore. yokels so often do. joe braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled. i remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. i felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it. "it certainly does warm you up," she said. "i feel all aglow without and within." "then i may take it that you are comfortable?" "if it were not for two things, i should say this was a boy-and-girl escapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment." "naturally you are uneasy about your father, but i cannot think he will come to any immediate harm. why brocton should send him north instead of south is, i confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. and what else makes you uneasy?" "you," she replied, very low and brief. "i? and pray, madam, what have i done to make you uneasy?" "met me." still the same tone. "i am not able to talk to you in the modish manner, nor do i think you would wish me to try to ape my betters, so i say plainly that our meeting has not made me uneasy. why then you?" "had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the hanyards, a free and happy country gentleman. instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, an outlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you are caught, and then--" she broke off abruptly, and i think i heard a low sob. "and then?" "perhaps the gibbet." "it's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. we are here, safe and comfortable. let that suffice. and to-day, so far from doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle." "wrought a miracle? what do you mean?" "you have found a cabbage, and made a man. good night, mistress waynflete." "good night, master wheatman." i imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping man. in a few minutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and i pretended no longer, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon slept like a log. chapter viii the conjurer's cap i awoke between darkness and daylight. mistress waynflete still slept peacefully and there was as yet no need to rouse her. i had slept in my shoes, but now, i drew them off, lifted the bar of the door, and stole out to look around. not a soul was stirring about the farm, and the only living creature in sight was a sleepy cock, which scuttled off noisily at my approach. i entered a cowshed, where a fine, patient cow turned a reproachful eye on me, as if rebuking me for my too early visit. i cheerily clucked and slapped her on to her hoofs, and then, failing to find any sort of cup or can, punched my hat inside out and filled it with warm foaming milk. with this spoil i hurried back to our quarters. i had to leave the door open, and this gave me light enough to look more closely at my companion. she was still sleeping, her face calmly content, and so had she slept through the night, for the coverlet of hay was rising and falling undisturbed on her breast. it was now time to wake her, and, having no free hand, i knelt down to nudge her with my elbow. as i did so, her face changed. a look of concern came over it, then one of hesitation, then a sweet smile, chasing each other as gleam chases gloom across the meadows on an april day. she was dreaming, dreaming pleasantly, and it was to a hard world that i awakened her. at my second nudge she half-opened her eyes and murmured, "it's very wide." then my greeting aroused her fully, and she blushed wondrous red and beautiful. "good morrow, mistress waynflete," said i. "i grieve to disturb you, and, pray you, do not move too abruptly or over goes the breakfast." "good morrow, master oliver," she replied. "i have slept well. i feel as if i've quite enjoyed it. we do enjoy sleep, i think, sometimes." "or the dreams it brings, madam." she glanced quickly at me, as if afraid that i had the power of reading dream-thoughts, and gaily said, "and breakfast ready! this is even better than the paris fashion. what is it? more of dear kate's cordial?" i did not know what the paris fashion of breakfast was, and she did not enlighten me. anyhow, i, the yokel, had improved on it, and that was something. "a far better brewage, madam," i said, "but you must pardon the staffordshire fashion of serving it." she sat up, took the cap, and drank heartily, the dawn still in her eyes and cheeks, and masses of yellow hair tumbling down from under her hood on throat and bosom. when she handed back the cap, i could not forbear from saying, "you look charming after your night's rest, and i profess that tear of milk on the tip of your nose becomes you admirably." with the rim of my cap at my lips, i added with mock concern, "have a care, mistress waynflete, or you'll rub off tip as well as tear." "i suppose you thought 'as a jewel of gold' and the rest of it," she said, squinting comically down to examine her nose. "really, no, madam; i thought of nothing so scandalous, from the bible though it be. i thought of--of...." "i'm all ears," she said archly. "i'm a poor hand at turning compliments to ladies," said i. "on the contrary, you turn them admirably. see!" she held up my sopping cap, and laughed merrily. "it's ruined for best," said i, "but it will do for market days. and now, madam, it's cold enough to freeze askers, as joe braggs says, and for toilet you must e'en be content with first a shiver and then a shake. i will await you at the yard gate, and pray close the door behind you. the quicker the better." she rejoined me in two or three minutes. i closed the gate cautiously behind me, and we started our journey. from the farm we got away quite unobserved, but i looked behind me at every other step to make surer, till we turned the top of the knoll, and it was with great relief that i saw the chimney-pots sink out of sight. for a time we walked along briskly and in silence. so far i had carried everything with a high hand and successfully, but the cold grey of the morning began to creep into my thoughts as i looked ahead over miles and miles of dreariness and danger. houses were few and far between; every village was a source of danger; the high roads were closed to us by our fear of the troops. further, the object we had in view was vague and unformed, if not impossible of achievement, for even if we arrived at the very place where colonel waynflete was held prisoner, what could we do to help him? we should be safe from immediate need and danger if we could reach the prince's army, but where that was, and which way it was travelling, were unknown to us. certain it was that between us and any real help ranged some thirty miles of cold, bleak country packed with enemies for miles ahead. and here we were, on foot, penniless and hungry. i had longed for a man's work; this was a regiment's. a sidelong look at my companion drove all the mist and frost out of my heart. something about her made me feel a sneak and a traitor even for harbouring such thoughts. from the first she had asked for no help of mine. i had forced it on her, or circumstances had forced me to help her in helping myself, as when i cut our way from marry-me-quick's cottage. the more i was with her, the better i began to understand brocton's madness. it was the madness of the mere brute in him to be sure, and a man should kick the brute in him into its kennel, though he cannot at times help hearing it whine. her majestic beauty had dazzled him as a flame dazzles a moth, but at this stage, at any rate, it was not her beauty that made me her thrall. that i could have withstood. because she was so beautiful, so stately, so compelling, she made no appeal to me. what i mean is, that i did not fall in love with her at first sight, simply because the mere stupidity of such a thing kept me from doing it. glow-worms do not fall in love with stars or thistles with sycamores. she was something to be worshipped, served at any cost, saved at any sacrifice, but not loved. no, that was for some lucky one of her own class and state, not for a simple squireling like me. her comradeship, her graciousness, her sweet equalizing of our positions, were, i felt, just the simple, natural adornments of the commanding modesty which was her spiritual garment. manlike, however, i had an evil streak in me, and thence, later, came madness. in any company i must be top dog. i had been head of the school, not because of any special cleverness, but because i would burst rather than be second to anybody in anything. i had fought and fought, at all hazards, until not a boy in school or town dare come near me. so now, since my lord brocton--and many a lord beside, i doubted not--had failed, i must needs step in and say, "i will please her, whether she like it or not." and so, plain countryman as i was, i had done my work ungrudgingly but not, i feared, too modestly, and since i could not speak court-like, i had been over-masterful, and given her mood for mood, and turned no cheek for her sweet smiting. and as i had of old time licked every lad in stafford, so now neither staffordshire nor all the king's men in it should turn me back. through she should go, and in safety and comfort, so that when the time came for me to hand over my precious charge to a worthier, she should say that the yokel had done a man's work and done it gentlemanly. therefore, when mistress waynflete looked up to me from the bleak uplands with serious, questioning eyes, i said, as calmly as if we were pacing the garden at the hanyards, with kate and jane active in the kitchen behind us, "ham and eggs for breakfast!" "i don't see any," she said, in answering mood, scanning the fields around us. "not that that matters. i didn't see the steps, but they were there. you make me think, master wheatman, of a turk i saw in a booth at vienna, who drew rabbits and rose-bushes out of an empty hat. staffordshire is your conjurer's hat. and i do like ham and eggs." my assurance and her comfortable belief in it made us both brighter, and we stepped out merrily. she gave me an entertaining account of vienna, where she had spent some months, and which was then the great outpost of christendom against the turk. when this talk had brought us on to the field of hopton heath, i gave her the best account i could of the battle there in the civil war time, and of the slaying of the marquis of northampton. and this led me on to my pride of ancestry, and i told her of captain smite-and-spare-not wheatman, a tower of strength to the parliament in these parts, who fought here and later on naseby field itself. many tales i told of him that had been handed down from one generation of us to another, and how so greatly was he taken with his incomparable lord-general that he had named his first-born son oliver, and ever since there had been an oliver wheatman of the hanyards. then i told how one of these later olivers, which one a matter of no consequence, had written verses and put them into the mouth of the doughty smite-and-spare-not, sitting his horse, stark and strong, at the head of his men on naseby field, and gazing with grim, grey eyes on the opening movements of the fight. and, nothing loth, i trolled them out roundly across the meadows, till the peewits screamed and a distant dog began to bay: "princelet and king, and mitre and ring, earl and baron and squire, oliver worries 'em, harries and flurries 'em, with siege and slaughter and fire. with the arm of the flesh and the sword of the spirit, push of pike and the word, smiting and praying, and praising and slaying, oliver fights for the lord. with the sword he brought the work is wrought, we finish here to-day. when yon rags and remnants of babylon are blown and battered away. hurrah for the groans of 'em, soon shall the bones of 'em, _steady!_ hell-rakers at large, rot under the sod. _pass the word: 'god_ _is our strength?'_ there goes oliver. _charge!_" when i had done she applauded so that my face burned until i was discommoded and fell into her trap. "i wish you'd written them, master wheatman." "well, i did," said i grumpily, not liking to be bereft of any little glory in her eyes. "what, you?" her eyebrows arched and her lips curled. "you, oh, never. 'smiting and praying'? 'the arm of the flesh and the sword of the spirit.'" she mouthed the words deliciously. "but, doubtless, when you see my lord brocton again, you'll put in the word and the praying." here her sweet voice trailed off into a dainty snuffle: "'my dear lord, since out of the mouths of babes and sucklings proceedeth wisdom, hearken, i pray you, unto me, oliver wheatman, to wit of the hanyards, and amend ye your ways lest i hit you over your cockscomb again, and very much harder than before. repent ye, my lord, for the hour is at hand, and if you don't, i'll thump you into one of our kate's blackberry jellies.' and here endeth the goodly discourse of that saintly rib-roaster, master hit-him-first-and-then-pray-for-him wheatman of the hanyards." it was simply glorious to be so tormented by this witch with the dancing blue eyes. "for this scandalous contempt of the muses," said i soberly, "i shall punish you by frizzling your share of the ham to a cinder." during my schoolboy days i had roamed the countryside till i knew it as an open book, and this minute knowledge was our salvation now. the immediate need was food, and food obtained without price and without our being observed by anyone. at seven o'clock on a hard winter morning in open country, this seemed to require a miracle. as a matter of fact, it was as easy as shelling peas. since crossing the heath we had been travelling nearer to one of the main roads, that leading out of the east gate to the town, and now we got our first glimpse of it lying like a broad, brown ribbon half-way down the slope of a very steep hill. in the upper half, this hill was pretty well wooded and the road cut clean through the wood, but between us and the wood there lay the level crest of the hill, cut by hedges into several fields, and crossed by a rough cart-track leading past a roomy, one-storied cottage, grey-walled and brown-thatched, and on through the wood into the main road. the cottage, with its outbuildings, made a little farmstead, and here lived dick doley and his wife sal, who did a little farming, but mainly lived by huckstering. today was market-day at stafford, and unless they had broken the routine of half a lifetime, they would now be packing their little cart with marketables and soon be off for the town. they had neither chick nor child, lad-servant nor lassie, and they would leave the cottage empty and at our disposal. at this time of the day i could, of course, have trusted both, but they were very human bodies of a sort to rejoice the business side of the heart of joe braggs, and it was best not to give them the chance of blabbing later in the day when, for a moral certainty, they would both be market fresh. besides, it was unfair to thrust myself on the kindness of anyone. i had more than once wondered what had happened to poor little marry-me-quick. i scrambled through the hedge and peeped down the road. i was right. dick and his wife were busy loading up. so we waited behind the hedge till they had cleared off, and indeed did not move till i saw them and their cart pass along the road at the foot of the hill. time has not blurred the memory of a single detail of our stay in this welcome house of refuge, but the telling of what was moving and charming to me would, i fear, bore others. there was a ham, two indeed, and flitches beside, in the rack hanging from the ceiling, and there were eggs--three, to be precise--in the larder, to which, by equal good luck considering the time of the year, i added two more by a raid into the hen-house. it was all natural and simple enough, but mistress waynflete hailed their production almost as amazedly as if i had indeed drawn them out of my hat. but how i fetched and carried, chopped wood and drew water, swept the floor and laid the table, fried ham and boiled eggs, doing all these things with music in my heart and a noisy song on my lips--is everything to me and nothing to my tale. mistress waynflete had disappeared into one of the three or four rooms of which the house consisted, to make herself presentable, as she absurdly put it. when the table was laid and the ham cooked, i halloed the news to her, and rushed off to the shed to attend to my outward appearance. i did want it, being indeed not far short of filthy. perhaps i hurried unexpectedly. at any rate, on returning i found mistress waynflete bending over something on the hearth. straightening herself hastily, and with a pretty confusion, at my approach, she cried, "oh, master oliver, the ham was burning, and you threatened my share of it, you know!" i could not reply. down to her hips her rich amber hair flowed like a bridal veil, and from amid a wealth of snowy lace, fluttering on the orbed glory of perfect womanhood, her neck rose smooth and stately as a shaft of alabaster. her cheeks crimsoned with maiden shamefastness, but the blue eyes met mine without a hint of maiden fear, and for that thanks as well as reverence filled my heart as i bowed to her. maidenlike, she drew her golden veil more closely over her bosom, and tripped back to finish her toilet, leaving me amated and abashed by the vision i had beheld. i think it was from that moment that my joy in my work began to be mingled with the despair of my love. certainly it was a chastened oliver wheatman who placed a chair for her when she came in again for breakfast, and helped her to the good things a kindly fortune had provided. it is my belief that each of us was secretly amused at the steady zeal with which the other attacked the meal. we wrangled over the odd egg, each insisting on the other having it, she because i was strong, and needed it, i because i was strong and could do without it, and finally adopted the usual compromise. we had more than gone round the clock with barely a mouthful, and we ate as those who know not where the next meal's meat is to come from. frankly, i, at any rate, gave myself a fair margin before the pinch should come again, and mistress waynflete averred that she had never in her life before eaten so much or so toothsomely. our meal over, i stacked the fire with fresh logs, asked and obtained permission to smoke a pipe, and made my sweet mistress cosy in the chimney-corner. then we began to take stock of our position. "there's no good to come of hurrying," said i. "here we are both snug and safe, and your night's rest was but short. let us see where we stand." i did not really believe that any amount of talking would help much, but repose would do her good, and i had a big idea running in and out of my mind. our first difficulty, food and rest, had been overcome, and i was bent on mastering the next. no amount of discussion gave us any key to the one great mystery. when brocton had captured colonel waynflete at milford, the obvious thing to do with him was to send him prisoner to the duke at lichfield. though the colonel carried no papers which made his purpose clear, brocton knew well what the object of his journey was, and the suspension of the habeas corpus act put the colonel in his power. or, he might have carried him before a justice of the peace, his friend master dobson for choice, and had him committed to the town jail. the course actually taken, that of sending him ahead, under guard, in the very van of the royal army, was to us utterly inexplicable. his mad lust for mistress margaret explained the separation of father and daughter. the thought did occur to me, though i took great care not to hint at it, that he intended to make away with the colonel, and looked to finding tools among his blackguardly dragoons and an opportunity when in actual conflict with the highlanders. i hesitated, however, to believe that brocton was such a villain as to commit an unnecessary murder. the plan he had adopted had, anyhow, this advantage to us that, when we did come into touch with the prisoner, our chances of assisting him were far greater than if he were in jail in stafford or lichfield. whatever my lord's motives were, it was clear that he was not acting in the plain, straight-dealing manner to be expected of one in his position. there were other signs of crookedness, slight but not without weight. i could understand his joy on finding me at marry-me-quick's. it meant that i was a rebel, and as a loyal man, who had gone to expenses to prove his loyalty, he might easily get the hanyards as a reward, and thus round off the family property in our neighbourhood. his reference to a "solatium" puzzled me, but it did not seem anything of consequence. what had i but the hanyards to solace him with? a more important puzzle had been his behaviour at master dobson's. to find me on the royal side, as he then supposed, and to hear my reason for it, had clean dazed him. then there was the look, a signal-look beyond a doubt, which i had surprised him giving his bully, major pimple-face, and which was followed by the latter's attempt to embroil the stranger from london in a row. "it is useless, master wheatman, to speculate further on what lord brocton is doing," said my mistress at last. "he has his ends. i am one of them. another is, no doubt, to fill his pockets, somehow or other. it was common talk in town that he was head over ears in debt." while we had talked and had rested, i had not been idle. dick doley's roomy kitchen had two windows, one overlooking the cart-track, and another the slope of the hill. the hill was so made and the house so placed that from this second window we could see the strip of road at the bottom of the hill where it curved on to the level again. i had kept a sharp look out on that bit, but had seen no one pass along it either way as yet. in one corner of the room dick kept an ancient fowling-piece, more of a tool of husbandry than a weapon, since his only use for it was to scare birds. it was a heavy, unhandy thing, with a brass barrel down which i could have dropped a sizable duck egg, and round its thick-rimmed nozzle some one had rudely graven, "happy is he that escapeth me." i fetched it out of its corner, and cleaned and oiled it. i now loaded it, for powder-horn and shot-bag hung near it on the wall, putting in a handful of the biggest sort of shot, swan-shot as i should call them. during this task, mistress waynflete watched me narrowly, but made no reference to it. "now," said i, "our main requisite is the stuff, the ready, the rhino, the swag--call it what you will. how do you fancy me as a knight of the road? the first copper-faced farmer i come across shall surely stand and deliver. here's an argument he cannot resist." at last my scrutiny of the road was rewarded. a solitary horseman came in sight from the direction of the town. "mistress waynflete," said i, picking up the fowling-piece, "there's a traveller yonder coming from stafford. it will be well if i go and ask him a few questions." she almost leaped at me, red anger flashing in her eyes but her face white as milk. "sir," she said, "you shall not turn thief for me. i will not have it." "pray, madam," replied i huffily, "expound the moral difference between stealing ham and stealing guineas. i'm all for morality." "i cannot, master wheatman, but you must not, shall not go." she caught hold of my sleeve. "say you won't! if you are found out it means--" "i shall not be found out. you may take that for sure. think you that i cannot pluck yon chough without being pinched? it's no more robbery than our eating dick's ham and eggs. we are soldiers in enemy's country, and we plunder by right of the known rules of war. as a concession to your prejudices in favour of the jog-trot morality of peace, i will e'en ask him whether he be for james or george, and borrow or command his guineas in accordance with his reply. loose my sleeve, madam!" i loosened the grip of her fingers, and led her back to her chair. "you overrate my danger, sweet mistress, and under rate our need. without money, we might as well lie under the nearest hedge and leave jack frost to settle matters his way, and a cold, nasty way it would be. your guinea is a good fighter, and we need his help. it must be done, and, never fear, i'll carry it through safely." so i left her, white hands grappling the arms of her chair, and white face turned away from me. chapter ix my career as a highwayman i left the cottage from the rear and struck slantwise across the fields to reach the shelter of the trees and undergrowth that covered the slope down to the road. i ran hard so as to shake irresolution out of my mind, for i found myself half wishing that mistress waynflete had pleaded with me at first instead of trying to thrust me out of my plan. after all the highwayman's was hardly my calling in life. so i ran hard, saying to myself that it must be done, and the sooner it was over the better. then i laughed. with my rusty old birding-piece i was as ill-equipped for highwaymanship as i was for farming with my georgics. "stand and deliver," quoth i to myself, "or i'll double your weight with swan-shot." were the unknown horseman a resolute man armed with a hair-trigger, i was as good as done for. arrived in the shelter of the wood, i began picking my way through the thick undergrowth towards the road. fallen branchlets snapped beneath my heedless feet and the sounds rang in my ears like pistol-shots. a saucy robin cocked his care-free eye on me from the top of a crab-tree, and i could have envied him as i stumbled by. it was perhaps fourscore yards through, and half-way i stopped to listen. yes, there came to my ear the slow trot-ot-ot of hoofs on the hard road. i went on again until, through the leafless tangle, i began to get glimpses of the highway. my fate was dragging me on. in a month's time my shrivelling carcase might be swinging in chains on the top of wes'on bank, an ensample to evil-doers. the thought made me shiver, and i jerked out a broken prayer that my intended victim might turn out some fat, unarmed farmer, as easy a prey as an over-fed gander. then i cursed myself for a fool. no man can mortgage past piety for present sin. who was i that i should be allowed to steal on good security? trot-ot-ot. trot-ot-ot. he was within easy shot now, and i stopped to make sure of my rickety old weapon. a dragoon's musket would not have needed such constant care. "life turns on trifles," said mistress waynflete. in lifting my eyes from the priming to move on again, something in the line of vision made me start. on my left, less than a dozen paces from me, there lay on the ground, on a clean patch beneath a conspicuously-forked hawthorn, a man's jacket and plumed hat. a lion playing with a lamb would not have given me pause more abruptly. i stole silently up to them. they were fine but somewhat faded garments, modish and even foppish, and, so far as i could distinguish any peculiarity, military in appearance, and evidently belonged to a person of some quality. nor had they been flung there in haste, for the coat was neatly folded and the hat disposed carefully on top of it. how long had they been there? i picked up the hat, and there was still the gloss of recent sweat on its inside brim. this, however, was no time for idle problems, a very urgent one being on hand. forward i crept to the side of the road, and, lying flat down on the ground, pushed the stock of my gun on to the short grass, and peeped cautiously to my right down the hill. i was about thirty or forty yards from a bend in the road, and had intended to be much less, but my discovery and my confused, half-conscious thinking about it, had deflected me a little from my course. trot-ot-ot. he would be in sight in a few seconds. trot-ot-ot, plainer than ever, and there he was. the moment that he was in full view i made an astonishing discovery, and saw an astonishing sight. the discovery was that the solitary horseman, walking his powerful grey with a slack rein, and lost in thought, was master freake. the sight was the rush of three men from their lurking-places in the brushwood. two of them were soldiers, and brocton's dragoons at that, a sample of the town-sweepings jack had complained of. one seized the reins, the other held a carbine point-blank at the horseman's head. these were plainly deserters or freebooters, acting after their kind, and they had picked up a strange partner during their foray. he wore a yokel's smock much too big for him, and yet not big enough to hide his bespurred riding-boots. on his head he had a dirty tapster's bonnet, and his face was completely hidden by a rudely-cut crape vizard. this singular person was evidently the leader of the gang. he threatened master freake with a glittering, long-barrelled pistol, and in gruff, curt tones ordered him to dismount on pain of instant death. here was a strange overturn to be sure. here again fate had rudely upset my plans, and no fat purse would there be for me in this coil. however, though i would have robbed master freake willingly enough, my blood being up and he a manifest hanoverian, i was not going to see brocton's ruffians rob him, much less kill him. the purse must wait, and when i took it--for take it i must--god would perchance balance one thing against the other. all that i had seen and thought took place in a mere fraction of time, and even before master freake had pulled up, i was creeping like a ferret from bush to bush to get nearer. then, just as in his quiet, measured tones he was asking what they wanted, i burst out into the wood, shouting, "forward, my men, here the villains are!" with the words, i fired my handful of swan-shot clean into the group, and then charged at them yelling, in boyish imitation of a knight of old, "happy is he that escapeth me." the two dragoons instantly fled with yelps of pain and terror, and the horse, squealing with fright, began to rear and plunge madly about the road. black vizard turned on me, his pistol rang out, and the bullet hissed by my ear. i sprang at him with clubbed gun, and struck hard for his head, but caught him on the neck as he too turned to flee. he went down, spinning and sprawling, in the road, right under the plunging horse. with a squeal that curdled my blood, she rose in the air, kicking viciously. her hoofs came down with sickening thuds on the squirming man's skull, cracking it like an egg-shell. his body twitched once or twice, and then settled into the stillness of death. i seized the horse's rein and soothed her. she let me pat her neck and rub her nose, and soon stood quiet, her neck flecked with foam, her flanks reeking with sweat. master freake, who had not spoken a word, dismounted, and i led the mare into the wood and hitched her reins over a bough. then i returned to the man i had saved, and found him looking calmly down on the man i had killed. the black vizard was now soaking in a horrid pool of blood and brains. i stooped, and with trembling fingers moved it aside and revealed the features of the dead man. it was the pimple-faced major. i turned to my intended victim, and found him looking calmly and impassively at me. "master wheatman of the hanyards, unless i am mistaken," he said. "your servant, sir," said i, rather sourly. but for that dead rascal at our feet i could beyond a doubt have plucked him like a chough, and here i was, still penniless. "master wheatman, i am not a man of many words, but what i say i stand by. i am your very grateful debtor for a very fine and courageous action. three to one is long odds, but you won with your brains, sir, as much as by your bravery. your shout was an excellent device, happily thought on." he held out his hand. i shook it heartily and then burst out laughing, and laughed on till tears stood in my eyes. and this was the end of my highwaymanship! "since the danger is, thanks to you, over, master wheatman," he said, "i would e'en like to share your mirth--if i may." "sir," i replied, "i am laughing because i have saved you from robbers." "but why laugh?" "because i set out ten minutes ago to rob you myself." master freake gazed casually up and down the hill, and then, fixing his quiet grey eyes on me, said whimsically, "i am a man of peace, and unarmed; the road is of a truth very lonely, and i have considerable sums of money on me." "yes, i'm quite vexed. this fire-faced scoundrel has upset my plans finely. i may not get as good a chance for hours." now it was his turn to laugh. "master wheatman," he said, "you are not the stuff highwaymen are made of. as you are in need of money, you need it for some good purpose, and i shall--" he stopped short. as we stood, he was facing the wood from which the robbers had burst on him, while i had my back on it. as he stopped, his strong, calm face changed, and his eyes were fixed on something in the wood. wonder, amazement, delight, awe--not one, but all of these emotions were visible in his face. he looked as one who sees a blessed spirit. i turned. it was margaret, leaning, pale and spent and breathless, against the trunk of a tree, looking and shuddering at the dread object in the road. i bounded up to her and touched her on the arm. "all's well, mistress waynflete," said i. "i am as yet no gallows-bird." "but--" her eyes were still staring wide on the road, and she trembled violently, so i stepped between her and the ghastly sight, and said, "courage, dear lady. the dead man is your father's worst enemy, major tixall, and yon horse killed him, not i." by this, master freake had come nearer to us, and i turned to greet him. "madam," said i, "this is my friend, master freake, whom i set out to rob." to him i added, "this is mistress waynflete, whom i have the honour to serve." he bared his head and bowed. "and whom i hope to have the honour of serving too." i looked at him curiously. all other emotions had faded from his face now, but it was clear that her peerless and now so helpless beauty had appealed home to him. "sir," she said, recovering herself with a great effort, "i am pleased to make your acquaintance. and now,"--speaking to me,--"since you have given me a great fright and made me behave like a milkmaid rather than a soldier's daughter, perhaps you will tell me what has happened, and how it"--she looked over my shoulder--"comes to be lying there. i heard shots and shrieks that turned me to stone. what has happened?" "master wheatman," said our new acquaintance, taking my words out of my mouth, "is hardly likely to give you a reasonably correct account. allow me to be the historian of his fine conduct." he told the story with overmuch kindness to me, and as he told it the colour came back to her face, and she was herself again. while he was telling it, i noticed for the first time, or rather for the first time gathered its meaning, that she had run out after me without the domino, and in the biting air she might easily catch a chill. so while master freake was making a fine sprose about me, much more applicable to achilles or the chevalier bayard, i slipped off and fetched the hat and coat. he was just concluding his story on my return, and without interrupting him, i clumsily thrust the hat on her head and flung the coat over her shoulders. "master freake," she said, in her sweetest bantering tones, "my servant, as he absurdly calls himself, is really an artist in helping people. i told him this morning that his native shire was his conjurer's hat, when he fetched ham and eggs out of it for poor hungry me. now he observes that i am coatless and a-cold, and lo, a hat is on my head and a coat on my shoulders. it is marvellous and nothing short of it. nay, i shall shun him as one in league with the powers of darkness if there's much more of it. if i be saved, you remember master slender,"--this in a sly aside to me,--"i'll be saved by them that have the fear of god." "ingrate!" i cried, half angry and yet wholly delighted; "what of marvel or devilment is there in picking up a hat and coat one has found lying under a tree?" "major tixall's," said master freake. "ass that i am, of course they are. steady, mistress margaret, while i go through the pockets. the odds are we shall find something useful in checkmating my lord brocton." in this i was wrong, for there was not a single scrap of writing in any of them. i did, however, fish out two small but heavy packets, wrapped in paper. they were easily examined, and each contained a roll of ten guineas. "the hire of the two rascals," explained master freake. "really, mistress margaret," said i, "there's something in what you said just now. i do have his nether highness's own luck. i came out for guineas, prepared to rob for them, and here's twenty of the darlings lying ready for me to pick up. now we can go ahead in comfort." through all this talk i was turning over in my mind what account, if any, we were to give master freake of our being here. if i had had only myself to consider i should have trusted him without hesitation. he was the sort of man that inspires confidence, his grave, serene, intelligent face having strength and steadfastness written in every line of it. but i had mistress waynflete to consider, and if any appeal was to be made for his assistance, she must make it. i'm afraid that i hoped she wouldn't, since i was jealous of any interference in my temporary responsibility for her welfare. "master freake," i said, "some account will, i suppose, have to be given of yon ruffian's death. the two runaways are scarcely likely to appear as witnesses, so, for mistress waynflete's sake, i must ask you, should an explanation become necessary, to conceal my share in the matter." "the manner of his death is fortunately quite obvious, and if it were not, any account i choose to give of it will pass unquestioned." "then it will be easy for you, i hope, to forget me when giving it. and now, madam, i think we must be moving." "before you go," said master freake, "let me say again that if i can help you, you have only to ask. you, master wheatman, because your twofold signal service is something it would shame me for ever not to be allowed to return, and you, madam, because," he paused, and the curious rapt expression came over his face again, "because you are very beautiful and need help. your father's politics will make no difficulty, so far as i am concerned." "you know my father?" she asked, surprised. "know of him. my lord brocton was boasting last night of his capture--and of other things," he lamely concluded. "is he boasting this morning?" i asked. "i have not seen him," he said, "but mistress dobson told me she thought he'd been rooks'-nesting and had fallen off the poplar." "i met him again," said i, "and did not like his conversation." "master wheatman means," explained mistress waynflete, "that he saved me from my lord brocton's clutches at the imminent risk of his own life." she stretched out her hands and touched the holes in my coat with her white, slender fingers. "my lord's rapier made these," she said. "an inch to the left, my friend," quoth master freake, "and you'd have been as dead as mutton. his lordship, it seems, is busily piling up a big account with both of us. well, in my own way, i'll make the rascal pay as dearly as you have in yours. if you will be pleased to accept my help, madam, i will do all i can for you. there are, fortunately, other means than carnal weapons of influencing such persons as lord brocton." "like master wheatman, sir, you are too good to a poor girl." she said it gratefully and humbly, and indeed so she felt, but no man could listen to her meek words without pride. "i'm glad i turned footpad, in spite of you," said i to my dear mistress. "i can never thank you enough," was the simple reply. "it was wicked in me to accept the sacrifice, but in god's good providence it was not made in vain." "then i come into the firm," said master freake smilingly, and when, catching the meaning of his metaphor, she smiled brightly back at him, and held out her hand, he bowed over it formally, but very kindly, and kissed it. she blushed prettily, and then, after a moment's hesitation, stretching it out to me, said, "but i must not forget the original partner." i took the splendid prize in my rough, red, farmer's hand, and kissed it reverently. the touch of my lips on her sweet, smooth flesh made me tremble, and i knew the madness was creeping over me, but i gritted my teeth, and our eyes met again. the blush had gone, but not the smile. it was not now, however, the smile of a frank maiden but of an inscrutable and dominating woman. i knew the difference, for instinct is more than experience, and i chilled into the yokel again and wondered. "in one sense, at any rate," said master freake, "i am the senior partner, and as such may, without presumption, speak first. i must go on to stone, but that will, i think, be best for our purpose. as i view the situation, two things are requisite, first that you, master wheatman, should get mistress waynflete in advance of all the royal troops, and so out of danger, and secondly that we should learn precisely what has become of colonel waynflete." "exactly," i agreed. "the action of lord brocton in sending the colonel north instead of south, or at least of lodging him in jail at stafford, is inexplicable. true, his plan separates father and daughter, which is what he wants, but either of the other methods would have served equally well for that." of course i said nothing of the other idea that was haunting my thoughts, the idea that brocton was scheming to get rid of the colonel altogether. in his lust and anger he might not stick at that, and any kind of encounter with the enemy would serve his turn. the rascals under him were worthy of their commander, a fact of which we had already ample proof. "it looks crooked, i confess," was his reply, "but there is this to be said for it, that the duke is following north along with the bulk of his army, and, i hear, intends to make stone his head-quarters." "that seems absurd," said i, "but of course he knows best." "the movements of the prince's army are uncertain. the plan of their leaders is never to say where the next halt will be. they will be to-day, i know, in or near macclesfield, and i learn that it is possible they may turn off for wales, where they believe they will find many recruits. the farther north the duke can safely go, the better placed he will be for checking them if they do that, and his advance guard is posted at newcastle. the question is, how are you to get there first and without being taken?" "by travelling the by-roads," said i. "we'll go through eccleshall." "how long will it take you to get there?" he asked. "about three hours," said i, "if mistress waynflete can stand the pace." "very good," he replied. "i will join you there, and do my best to get horses for you in the meantime, and bring them along with me." "that's splendid," said i, "but i'd rather we met outside the village. not more than a mile and a half beyond it on the newcastle road there's a little wayside ale-house called the 'ring of bells,' at the foot of a steep hill, with a large pool ringed with pines, known as cop mere, in front of it. it's a lonely place and will serve better. small place as eccleshall is, i shall skirt round it, and so get to the 'ring of bells.' you cannot miss it if you ride through the village on the newcastle road. whoever's there first will await the other." "then in about three hours we'll meet at the 'ring of bells,' and i hope i shall bring good news of the colonel. believe me, dear lady, short of foul play on brocton's part, and we have no reason to suspect that, your father will be all right. plain john freake is not without influence. as for the ruffian lying dead in the road, think no more of him." so saying he unhitched his horse, led her into the road, and mounted. he bowed and smiled, said cheerily, "a pleasant walk to the 'ring of bells,'" and cantered off. i stepped between madam and the dead man. "we've found a good friend there, mistress waynflete. now we'll put the hat and coat as we found them, save for the guineas, and go back to the cottage for your domino." she gave them to me, and stepped out briskly towards the cottage. i folded up the coat, put the hat on it, looked again at the still, stiff horror in the road, soaking in its own blood, and silently followed her. chapter x sultan the lie of the land was as follows: to get to the "ring of bells," master freake would have to ride over the hill to the main road at weston, thence some six miles north-west to stone, thence another six or seven miles south-west to the inn. mistress waynflete and i had a stiff walk of about nine miles in front of us. for the first three miles our way ran east by north, and then bent almost due east to the ale-house. our difficulty would come at the bending point, for there we should have to cross the main road from stafford along which the troops would be filtering north to get into touch with the prince and his highlanders. if the duke had heard of the supposed intention of the jacobites to turn off for wales, he would, i imagined, send a scouting party through eccleshall to look out for them, and we should, for the second time in our journey, be on dangerous ground in the neighbourhood of that village. the "ring of bells," however, lay north of that village, off his obvious line of march in that direction, so that we stood a good chance of passing unchecked to our goal, provided that we got across the main road north in safety. fortunately, at the place where i intended to cross, it climbed over a fairly steep hill, and we could, if need were, lie and watch the road till it was safe to venture out. it was ticklish work at the best and any break in our run of luck might ruin us. how ticklish was vividly brought home to me within a few minutes of our getting safe under cover in the cottage. i had, of course, brought back the birding-piece and, after once more helping in the blissful task of getting mistress waynflete into the domino, bungling as usual over arranging the hood because my fingers lost control of themselves at the touch of her hair, i sat down to reload it, intending to carry it with me. i had settled matters with the absent gaffer, doley, by putting one of my guineas conspicuously on the table, and was just finishing my task when mistress waynflete, who had stepped to the rear window and was looking back on the scene of my recent exploit, suddenly called out, "oliver! come here!" my heart leaped within me at that 'oliver.' true, it was the familiarity of one born to command, one who had last night icily desired my services in the morning, and, womanlike, knew that she could queen it over me as she listed, but still, and this was the main thing, it was familiar and friendly, and seemed to lift me a shade nearer to her. "what is it, madam?" i asked respectfully, and ran toward her, but not so swiftly that i had not time to see the blue eyes fixed hard on mine. for answer, she turned and pointed down the hill, and there i saw the patch of brown road covered with wagons and soldiers. in five minutes they would come across the dead body of the major. "good," said i indifferently, "they save me a guinea," and i put the coin back in my pocket. the soldiers didn't matter, but that look in her eyes did. "isn't that rather mean?" for some reason she spoke quite snappily. the soldiers clearly didn't matter to her, and something else did. "which of the soldiers provided our breakfast, madam? we might as well leave a note asking them to pick us up at the 'ring of bells.' and, madam, you can trust me to make dick doley content enough some day." she smiled, with her characteristic touch of chagrin. i liked her best so, for she never looked daintier. "with a bit of luck, master wheatman," she said whimsically, "there will surely come a time when you'll be wrong and i right. then, sir, look out for crowing. i've never been so unlucky with a man in my life. but you'll slip some day!" "surely, madam," i said, and smiled, "and then i'll abide your gloating. now, pray you, let us be off. we've hardly a minute to spare." without losing another second we started on our long walk. it was now about ten of the clock. the sun was shining cheerily, with power enough to melt the white rime off every blackened twig it lit upon, and it was still so cold that sharp walking was a keen delight. "eight miles and more of it, mistress waynflete. i hope you can stand the pace and the distance." "i'm a soldier's daughter, not an alderman's," she replied curtly. the vicar was right. "oliver," he said to me one day, "what is the difference between the hebrew bible and a woman?" "sir," said i, gaping with astonishment, "i know not, but of a truth it seems considerable." "it is, oliver," replied the sweet old scholar. "man can understand the one in a dozen years, if he try, but the other not in a lifetime, strive he as earnestly as he may." this fragment of my dear friend's talk came back to me now as we walked in silence side by side. out of the corner of my eye i could see her sweet face set in earnest thinking, her rich lips compressed, her speaking eyes fixed resolutely ahead. not having to trouble about finding the road, and there being no sign of anyone, either enemy or neutral, stirring on the countryside, i let her go on thinking, and set myself the pleasant but impossible task of accounting to myself for her mood. i went over all we had said and done together that day, and at last, after perhaps half an hour of unbroken silence, fell back on what seemed the only possible explanation. she was thinking of her father. but why that suspicion of asperity on her face? was this explanation correct? the vicar was right. she suddenly slipped her hand round my arm, looking at me with laughing lips and dancing eyes, and said, "isn't it splendid to be alive on a day like this?" "yes, indeed it is," i replied, "but from your looks and your long silence, i should hardly have judged that you were thinking so." "you have been taking stock of me, sir!" "certainly i have been wondering why you were so silent, and looked so ... grave." "be honest and fear not, master wheatman. you were not going to say 'grave.'" "at the expense of many whippings from old bloggs, i learned to be precise in the use of words." "i know, hence you were not going to say 'grave.'" "you will allow me to choose my own words, madam." "certainly, so long as you choose the right ones." she unhooked her hand, and we walked a minute or two without another word, she frowning, and i fuming. then she said wistfully, "why did you think i was cross?" "i feared i had offended you," said i hastily and innocently. she laughed long and merrily. "old bloggs taught you the silly rigmarole you men call logic, but he didn't teach you woman's logic, that's plain. don't you see what i've made you do, master wheatman?" "not yet, mistress waynflete." "poof, slow-coach! i've made you admit that you were going to say 'cross' but altered it, too late, to 'grave.'" "you outrun me with your nimble and practised wit," said i, smiling. "and when did you offend me, think you?" "i answered you rather roughly when you took me up about the guinea." "oh, then? not at all. you snibbed me, but i richly deserved it." another silence. "well?" she said. "go on! i say i richly deserved it. go on!" "go on where?" i asked testily. "you're not expecting me to say you didn't, are you?" "no, i'm not," she said, "but it was good practice trying to make you." so saying, she slipped her hand under my arm again, and we stepped it out together. the current of her thoughts now ran and glittered in the opposite direction. she made me for the moment her intimate, lifting up the veil over her past life, and giving me peeps and vistas of her wanderings and experiences. she jested and gibed. she sang little snatches of song in some foreign tongue. "you're sure you don't understand italian?" she demanded, stopping short half-way through a bar, and quizzing me with her eyes, now blue as sapphires in the bright sunshine. "not a word of it," said i. "a grave disadvantage," she said airily. "it's the only language one can love in." and off she struck again. now she sang something soothing and sad, with a wistful lilt in it that died into a low wail. it needed no italian to be understood, for it was written in the language of human experience. a woman's heart throbbed in the lilt and broke in the wail. this sweet interval of intimacy verging on friendship was ended by our close approach to the main road. we had been travelling, heedless of roads and tracks, across a champaign country, and the slope up to the top of yarlet bank now lay before us. i led the way, skulking behind such poor cover as the gaunt hedgerows provided, and, when only a hundred paces from the top, i asked her to crouch down, awaiting my signal to advance, while i crept forward on my hands and knees to the edge of the road which here climbed the brow of the hill through a deep cutting, along either margin of which ran a straggling hedge. to my relief, the road down the hill, both to right and left, was completely deserted. i joyfully waved my arm to mistress waynflete, who was soon by my side, looking down the road. to the right we could see for nearly a mile. on the left our view was cut short by a bend, and i walked a score of yards in that direction and shinned up a stout sapling. our luck was absolute. not a soldier, not a living soul, was in sight. "we might have had to skulk here for hours, waiting for an opportunity to cross unseen," said i, on rejoining her, "but our gods above are victorious, and we share their victory. so now for the 'ring of bells.' there's a gate at the bottom of the hill. come along, mistress waynflete!" she followed me down the hedge-side. i turned once or twice to look at her, carefully pretending that it was only to see how she was getting on. the last time i thus stole another memory of her splendid presence we were only a few paces from the gate, and when my reluctant eyes turned again to their rightful work, they looked straight into a pair of fishy eyes set in a face as blank and ugly as a bladder of lard. face and eyes belonged to a big, sleek, sly man, perched on the top bar of the gate. he had a notebook in his hand in which he had been entering some jottings. he suspended his writing to examine us, picking his nasty, yellow teeth meanwhile with the point of his pencil. his horse was hitched to the post on the stoneward side of the gate, where the stile was. he was well enough dressed, and, as far as i could see, unarmed. it was a most exasperating thing to have pitched into him, whoever and whatever he was, and indeed i much disliked the look of him, and would gladly have knocked him on the head. true, travellers were not rare on this road, since it was part of the great highway from london to chester, and the little thoroughfare town of stone, some three miles ahead, had a noted posthouse. however, i kept, or tried to keep, my feelings out of my face and voice, and accosted him cheerily. "good day, friend! what may be the price of fat beeves in stafford market to-day?" "dearer than men's heads will be at the town gates after the next assizes," he replied, stroking his notebook and grinning evilly. "you'll never light on a scotsman, dead or alive, that's worth as much as a staffordshire heifer," said i, leading the way past him to the stile, over which i handed mistress margaret into the road. "they won't all be scotsmen, my friend," he replied, still stroking his notebook. "no?" said i, eager at heart to knock him off his perch. "nor men," he added, leering at margaret. "come along, sal," said i to her laughingly, "before the good gentleman jots you down a jacobite." so we left him, and when, fifty paces down the road, i looked back at him, he was jotting in his notebook again. "i think he knows something about us," said i. "very likely," she replied calmly. "i've seen him once before in london, talking to major tixall. who could forget a face like that?" "he's uglier than the big-mouthed dragoon." "the dragoon was at any rate a soldier." "and the worst of soldiers has, no doubt, some savour of grace in him." "quite so," she retorted. "his calling makes it necessary." "and, so reasoning, you would say, i suppose, that the best of farmers was to seek in the higher reaches of manliness." "have i not told you, master oliver, that between man's logic and woman's logic there's a great gulf fixed?" "minds are minds," said i. "and hearts are hearts," replied she, and so shut me up to my thinking again. we turned into a cart-track on our left leading in the direction of eccleshall. as we turned i saw that bladder-face had mounted his horse and was coming on toward stone. there was no doubt that we should be pursued from that quarter before long, and i grew heavy with anxiety as i saw how hardly we were being pressed. the encounter had not, however, disturbed mistress waynflete. on the contrary, she became gayer than ever, so gay that, fool-like, i got quite vexed at it, for it was clear that something had relieved her anxiety, and i knew it was nothing that i had done. i worried over it, and at last hit on the explanation. she was rejoicing in the help of the new partner. "what do you make of master freake?" said i boorishly, cutting short a lightsome trill, more italian maybe. "make of what?" said she lightly. "master freake." "forgive me, master wheatman," she replied, "but i didn't take you as quickly as i ought to have done. i like the look of him. how pretty, pluck them for me." i stopped to gather the spray of brilliant vermilion berries she fancied, saying meanwhile, "i wonder what he is? tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, or what?" she seemed much more concerned with her berries, which she praised rapturously, and placed carefully in the bosom of her riding-dress before replying. "he's no doubt a grave and prosperous citizen of london. i've seen many such, and he looks sworn brother to worthy alderman heathcoat. moreover, he talks merchantlike." it seemed pretty certain that she had hit the right nail on the head. her explanation fitted his account of the large sums he was carrying and his stay with and hold over jack's father. true, staffordshire seemed the wrong place for such a man. both he and his money would have been far safer in change alley. if her explanation was acute and probable, her manner of making it had convinced me that my explanation of her gaiety was wrong. of him she certainly had not been thinking. then there was only one thing left to account for it. what makes a maid as merry as a grig? didn't our kate sing all morning when jack was coming in the afternoon? it was no concern of mine, and as a man sometimes makes his right hand play his left hand at chess, so i now made stern oliver lecture paltering wheatman, but without doing him much good. naturally all this made me a poor companion on the road, and for a long time mistress waynflete bore with me patiently. then she turned from her tra-la-la-ing to waken me up, roundly declaring that i was bored with her company; and i had no defence, ridiculous as the charge was. "i've sung every song i know, and sung them my best, too, and you've never once praised me. you'll have to learn, you know, master oliver, to smile at a lady even when you really want to smack her. what do you do? you just write on your face as plainly as this"--and here her dainty finger toured her face, ending up where the tear of milk had trembled--"s-m-a-c-k." i roared aloud, she did it so frankly and mirthfully. what a treasury of moods she was! she had stepped across our house-place like a queen, she had fronted that devil, brocton, like a goddess, and now she was larking like a schoolmaid. long as the way was, we seemed to me to be getting over the ground too rapidly. mistress waynflete did not tire, and did full credit to her father's soldiership. we circled round the red-tiled roofs of eccleshall, and at length took shelter in the pines that ringed the great pool. across the mere lay the road, and on the far side of the road from us was the "ring of bells," standing well back, with a little green in front, in the centre of which a huge post carried a board bearing the rudely painted sign of the ale-house. i scouted ahead, dodging from tree to tree along the edge of the mere, in order to keep out of view of anyone moving on the road. over against the ale-house i crept still more warily through the wood to the edge of the road. there was no one moving in or about the ramshackle little place, but there was one unexpected thing in sight which gave me pause. hitched by the reins to a staple in the signpost was the finest horse i had ever set eyes on, a slender, sinewy stallion, champing on his bit and pawing nervously on the stone-hard ground. here was the shadow of a new trouble, though, indeed, there was nothing to be surprised at, seeing that the countryside far and near was buzzing with enemy activities. a rat in a barn might as justly complain of being tickled by straws as i of jostling into difficulties. the horse without betokened a rider within, and probably some one in the duke's horse. i beckoned mistress waynflete, and by signs indicated that extreme caution was necessary. during the moments i was awaiting her i examined the birding-piece to make sure it was in order. caution, however, she flung to the winds, for the moment she set eyes on the horse she joyously shouted 'sultan' and made a wild, happy dash to cross the road. i stopped her sternly, and in a brief whisper asked, "who's sultan?" "father's horse." "we do not know for sure that your father is in the inn because his horse is outside, and by your leave, madam, we'll make sure first. keep right behind yon thick tree, and await my return." she looked calmly at me, but even before she could glide off, there came from the ale-house an appalling volley of oaths and curses. it was a man's voice, yelling in agonized blasphemy, and a woman's shrill treble floated on the surface of the stream of virulence. i caught mistress waynflete's wrist and steadied her. "not your father, apparently?" i said in a cool voice, though my head was whirling a bit under the strain. "here," i went on, fetching a fistful out of my pocket, "are some guineas. follow me, unhitch the horse, and if i shout to you to be off, mount him from yon horse-trough, and away like lightning. that's the road to eccleshall, along which master freake is bound to come." i thrust the guineas into her hand, gripped my weapon, slipped out of the pines and across the road, circled the horse, and made to peep round the jamb of the open door into the guest-room of the ale-house. as i did so, the man yelled, "god damn, i'm on fire!" and the woman shrieked back, "burn, you foul devil, burn, and be damned!" this was enough, and i burst in on a spectacle, strange, serious, on the point of becoming terrible, and yet almost laughable. in the middle of the room, a stout, shock-headed, red-elbowed woman stood, a pikel in her strong outstretched hands. the sergeant of dragoons, with his back to a roaring fire, was pinned against the hearthstead by the pitchfork, the tines of which were stuck in the oak lintel of the chimney-piece, so that a ring of steel encircled his throat like the neckhole of a pillory, and held him there helpless and roasting. when i first caught sight of him he was making a frenzied attempt to wrench the prongs out, but, finding it hopeless, drew his tuck, and lashed out at the woman. she calmly shifted out of reach along the handle of the fork. he then hacked fiercely but without much effect on the wooden handle, and finally, in his despair and agony, poised the tuck and cast it at her javelin-fashion. the woman, cooler than he in both senses of the term, dodged it easily. how she had contrived to pin him in such a helpless manner, i could not imagine. the motive was obvious. a little girl lay writhing and sobbing on the floor amid the fragments of a broken mug and a scattering of copper and silver coins. "you've got him safe enough, mother," said i, "and it's no good cooking him since you can't eat him." "be yow another stinking robber, like this'n?" she demanded. the epithet was as apt as it was vigorous, for the stink of singeing cloth made me sniff. "if y'be," she went on, "i'll shove' im in the fire and set about yow." "not a bit of it, mother. i've come to help you, but shift him along a bit out of the heat, and then we'll settle what to do with him." to him i added, "understand, sergeant, any attempt to fight or fly, and your neck will be wrung like a cockerel's." then laying down my gun i pulled out the tines and shifted him along the lintel till he was out of danger. the woman, whose fierce determination never faltered, jammed the pikel in again and kept him trapped. i went to the door and saw mistress waynflete standing by sultan's head, and the proud beauty arching his neck in his joy at finding his mistress near him. i beckoned her. "an old acquaintance, in a fix. come in!" said i, and introduced her to the strange scene. "the sergeant, madam," i went on, "and he has been plucked like a brand from the burning." she took in the scene, judged what had happened, and then gathered up the child, who had ceased crying out of curiosity, and mothered the little one so sweetly that the red-elbowed woman cried out hearty thanks. in brief the story, as collected later from the mother and child, was that the sergeant had ridden up and asked for a meal. after he had had some bread and cheese and ale, he had taken advantage of the alewife's absence to ask the child where mother kept her money, and, receiving no answer, had twisted the poor little one's arm until in her terror and agony she had told him of the secret hole in the chimney where the money was kept in a coarse brown mug. the child's cry had brought the mother running back with the pikel, snatched up on the way, and she, taking him at unawares with the mug in his hand, had darted at him and luckily caught him round the neck, and pinned him against the fireplace as i had found him. let him go she dared not, for she was alone except for the child, and but for my arrival he would have roasted right enough till he was helpless. as it was the skirts of his coat were smouldering, and he had only just escaped serious injury. in fact, although smarting sore, he was so little damaged that after tearing away the burnt tails, he collected himself and tried to bam me. "master wheatman," he began, "i call upon you in the king's name to aid and assist me. this woman's tale is all a lie. the mug was on the chimney-top for anyone to see, and i only took it down to examine it, being struck with its appearance." "also in the king's name, master sergeant," was my reply, "i propose to have you handed over to the nearest justice as a rogue and vagabond." "and you shall explain why you are here with your--" i should have strangled him if his foul tongue had wagged one word of insult, and he saw it in my eyes. he stopped, and his face showed that he had discovered the secret. "the sergeant recognizes you again, molly," said i lightly. "bammed and beaten by a damned yokel?" he burst out. "ten thousand devils! where were my eyes yesterday?" in his anger he began to strain at his steel cravat. "virgil for ever! the first town we come to i'll buy me a latin grammar," said margaret to me, with a low ripple of laughter. "how'd on, fool," said the alewife to the sergeant. "yow wunna be wuth hangin' if y' carry on a this'n." "if you don't loose me, you old bitch," he shouted, "i'll see you hanged! loose me, for your neck's sake! these people are jacobites!" "gom, i dunna know what that be, but i wish stafford-sheer was full on 'em. 'tinna any good chokin' y'rsen, i shanna let go." this method of keeping him, however, rendered the alewife useless, so i took her place, and bade her fetch the longest and toughest rope she'd got. she brought me a beauty and with it i trussed the sergeant, tying him securely into a heavy, clumsy chair, and leaving him as helpless as a fowl ready for roasting. then a thought struck me and i went through his pockets. his very stillness made me careful in my search, but i found only some old bills for fodder and other military papers, and a heavily sealed letter addressed "to his royal highness." i was not quite jacobite enough to make me willing to steal a dispatch addressed to the royal duke, and i should have thrust it and the oddments of paper back again but for the rattle of hoofs outside. it was probably master freake, and i was particularly anxious that the sergeant should not see him, so i rushed out with all the papers in my hand to forestall him. hurrying outside i saw master freake hitching his horse to the signpost, and mistress waynflete already talking to him eagerly. when i got up he delivered his news briefly and to the point, and bad news it was. he had learned in stone that the colonel had again been taken on ahead towards newcastle in charge of a troop of brocton's dragoons under the command of captain rigby, "last night's table companion of the dead major," he explained. "whatever for?" asked mistress waynflete. master freake said nothing, but his eyes were troubled, and i knew there was something he would fain conceal. "whatever for?" she repeated. "could you learn of no reason?" "i was told," he answered slowly, "that colonel waynflete's knowledge and assistance would be invaluable to the royal troops." "told that my father had turned traitor! is that what you mean, sir?" scorn too great for anger covered her face, veiling its sweetness as with a fiery cloud. "that is the plain english of what i was told, i must admit." here was the grave, businesslike nature of the man, plainly posing awkward questions that had to be answered. "it's a wicked lie!" she burst out. she turned her face proudly to look into mine, and i saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "naturally, madam," said i. "my father's honour is mine, master wheatman, and i am your debtor for another splendid courtesy." "i argue from the flower to the tree. man's logic, and therefore necessarily imperfect, you would say, but for once i stick to it." i spoke lightly and reminiscently, so as to chase the gloom from her mind, and she was immediately herself again. master freake continued his story, which went from bad to worse. as i had expected, bladderface had ridden into stone, and the result of his communication to captain rigby had been that orders were issued for our pursuit, and master freake had left the town not very far in advance of the squad of horse sent on our track. he had thus been unable to procure horses for us, but at eccleshall he had managed to obtain a pillion for margaret's use behind him. this was awkward indeed, for though master freake had ridden hard, the pursuit could not be very far behind, and if, as was almost certain, the dragoons turned up at the "ring of bells," the sergeant would be set free, and be after us like a mad bull. there was, however, a margin of time available, and therefore i put this problem out of my mind, and attended only to the urgent one of the colonel's position. to me there was only one explanation possible. this continual shifting of the colonel, ever under the charge of those rascally dragoons, commanded now by a man whose familiarity with tixall was an evil augury, meant one thing only. soon, perhaps within an hour or two, there would be fighting, and under cover of that a stab in the back or a bullet in the head would clear the colonel out of brocton's path for ever. "take these papers, master freake," said i. "mistress waynflete will tell you what has happened here, and you can give them back to their owner if you choose. but do not, i beg you, on any account let the rascal inside see or hear you." i raced indoors, seized the sergeant's tuck and took his baldrick from him, heedless of his vile threats. i left him there, choking with foulness, unhitched sultan, sprang into the saddle, and cantered up to my friends. "now, mistress margaret," i said, "describe your father so that i shall know him when i see him." she sketched his portrait in broad, clear outlines, and i fixed the description point by point in my memory. "that's the road to newcastle," said i, pointing along the edge of the mere, "and it's fairly straight and good. follow me there as quickly as you can, and inquire for me at the 'rising sun.' i'll have news of the colonel, if not the colonel himself, when we meet again." i bowed to margaret, dug my heels into sultan, and was off like a flash. chapter xi in which i slip sultan was a horse for a man, long and regular in his stride, perfect in action, quick to obey, cat-like at need. i might have ridden him from the day on which the blacksmith drank his colt-ale, for we understood each other exactly, and i was as comfortable on his back as in my bed at the hanyards. in the open road at the mere-end, he settled down into a steady, loping trot, and i was free to think matters out to the music of his hoof-beats on the road. it was only eight or nine miles into newcastle, and as the dragoons would travel slowly and warily there was just a chance that i should be there first. further, it was wholly unlikely that i should be interfered with, since the only two enemies who knew i was aiding mistress margaret were helpless in my rear--brocton at stafford, and the sergeant in the "ring of bells." i was unknown in the town, not having been there since my schooldays, and then only on rare occasions, as a visit to the town meant a thirty-mile walk in one day. plan-making was futile. everything would depend upon chance, but if chance threw me into touch with the colonel, it should go hard if i did not free him somehow or other. the most splendid thing would be if i could free him before margaret overtook me at the "rising sun." true, i had only an hour or so to spare, but now strange things happened in an hour of my life, and this great luck might be mine. then would come my rich and rare reward--the light in her deep, blue eyes and the tremulous thanks on her ripe, red lips. and then a thought smote me like a blow between the eyes, so that i dizzied a moment, and the day grew grey and the outlook blank. the finding of the colonel meant the losing of margaret. father and daughter reunited, my work would be done; the day of the hireling would be accomplished. need for me there would be none. the old life would again claim me, justly claim me too, for was i not, though all unworthily and unprofitably, the only son of my sweet mother, and she a widow. i could see her in the house-place at the hanyards, her calm eyes fixed in sorrow on my empty chair. _a man shall leave father and mother_, yes, for one particular cause, but the only son of a widowed mother for no cause whatsoever. christ, i said to myself, would not have raised the young man of nain merely to get married. still there was the work, and i spurned my gloomy thoughts and turned to think of it. and first i took stock of my means of offence. there were loaded pistols in the holsters, fine long weapons with polished walnut stocks inlaid with silver lacery and the initials 'c.w.', the colonel's without a doubt. at the saddle-bow there hung a sizeable leathern pouch, and this i found to contain a good supply of charges. i was a sure shot, and i tried my skill on a gate as sultan flew by, splintering the latch at which i aimed to a nicety, the well-trained horse taking no more notice of the shot than of a wink at a passing market-wench. so far so good. then there was the sergeant's tuck, and i shouted with a schoolboy's glee at having for the first time in my life a sword at my side. of how to use it i knew nothing, unless many bouts at single-stick with jack should be some sort of apprenticeship in swordcraft. i practised pulling it out, and then, imitating brocton, made the forty-inch blade twist and tang in the air, which pleased me greatly. i felt quite a cavalier now, and said within myself that old smite-and-spare-not's bones should soon be rustling in their grave with envy. and so into meece, wondering if the fat host of the "black bull" would recognize in the splendidly mounted horseman the dusty schoolboy of ten years ago. there he was in the porch, grown intolerably fatter, talking to my ancient gossip, rupert toms, the sexton, now heavily laden with years and infirmities. i pricked on, having no time to spare for either prayer or provender, since every moment was precious, though a tankard of double october, mulled with spice and laced with brandy, would have been precious too, for the matter of that. at the tail of the village, where the curve of the road runs into the straight again to climb the long hill, i came for a moment into touch with my affair. a horseman was in sight, rattling down the slope, and i saw that he was an officer, a keen-featured, middle-aged man, with the set face of one who rides on urgent business. yet he checked his horse when near me, and cried curtly, "what news from stafford?" a word with him might be worth while, so i too pulled up and answered very politely, "it's market-day." "damn the market! what news of the troops, sir? is my lord brocton still there?" "i believe he is." "then damn my lord brocton! did you chance to see him?" "i had that honour late last night." "anything the matter with him?" "he'd had enough," said i simply. "that's what comes of shoving sprigs of your bottle-sucking nobility into the service. damn his nobility! there's another of them back yonder, as much use as an old tup." "if i detain you much longer," said i, with exaggerated sweetness, "you'll be damning me." "nothing likelier. i damn everything and everybody that don't suit me. that's why i'm captain at fifty instead of colonel at thirty. what of it?" "lord brocton's nine miles off, and i'm not." "think i care? damn you, too, and i'll fight you when we meet again. like a lark! wish i'd time now. good day, sir!" he dug the rowels into his horse and was off. an earnest, choleric man with his heart in his work, for which i liked him, even to his persistent damning. i put sultan to the slope and he kept bravely at it till i eased him off where the rise was steepest. my late encounter clearly meant that affairs were ripening fast farther north, and it might also mean danger behind me sooner than i had looked for. the blood danced in my veins at the prospect of the adventures that awaited me. ho, for life and work! would it be long before the blue eyes lanced me through and through again, as when i kissed her hand among the trees by the roadside? i looked at the frosty sun and judged that it was nigh on twenty-four hours since i had stood in the porch and watched mother and kate across the cobbles into the road--twenty-four hours that had done more for me than the twenty-four years that had gone before them, for they had given me a man's task, a man's thoughts, the stirrings of a man's being, the beginning of a man's agony. we were at the top now with the open country stretching for miles around us. but the dale beneath, through which the main road ran a mile away to the east, was thick with trees, and i could get no inkling of how things were going. i strained my ears to listen, but no warning sound could i hear. the countryside was still and calm as a frozen sea, and war and its terrors seemed so impossible that for a moment i felt as if it was only a dream-life that i was living and that i must wake soon and hear joe braggs trolling out his morning song in honour of jane. but sultan craned round his shapely head as if to ask me why i was loitering in the cold, bleak air; so with a cheery slap on his glossy neck, i gave him the reins and away he went, with me spitting ghostly broctons on the sergeant's tuck. through the skirts of the woodland he carried me, and then up again till on the top of clayton bank i pulled him up a second time for another survey of the situation. the little town was now in full view a mile ahead, lying on the slope and top of some rising ground. across the meadows to my right, and now plainly to be seen less than half a mile away, was the main road from stone. again i was disappointed. a long, rude post-wagon, pulled by eight horses and driven by a man on an active little nag, was groaning its way south; a solitary horseman was ambling north--and that was all i could see. what had happened to the colonel? were the dragoons in the town or not? i dug my heels into sultan's flanks and put him to it at his best, and in a few minutes was on the outskirts of the town. the town consists in the main of two streets. the high street is simply the town part of the main road from the south and stone to congleton and the north--the line along which the stuart prince was marching. it deserves its name, for it lies along the edge of the slope on which the town lies. parallel to it in the dip lies lower street, and the road i was on curls past the end of this street and climbs gently to join the upper road. i could thus get into the heart of the town through the poorer quarter of it, and soon the kidney-stones of lower street rang under sultan's hoofs. the stir and noise of stafford was completely absent. the townspeople, mainly hatters by trade, were plying their craft indoors as if no enemy were at their gate. in fact, as i learned afterwards, there was no fuss and much fun and good business when the highlanders actually came on the scene. the farther a town was from them the more it funked them, which was, as everybody knows now, truest of all of london. as i turned up the lane by st. giles', the church bells chimed two. past the church in the corner between the lane and the high street was the "rising sun." once sultan was safe in its stables i could set about getting news of the colonel before margaret and master freake arrived. it was stiff work up the last thirty yards, and sultan shook himself together after it when he drew out on the level high street. here were throngs of people and some signs of trouble toward. in particular i noticed the town fathers in their black gowns of office, and, most conspicuous of all, the crimson and fur of his worship. i judged they were coming from a council meeting in the town hall, which stood in the middle of the wide high street. there was much high debate, wagging of fingers and smiting of fist in palm, but no approach to the tumult and terror of yesternight. the mayor stood for a moment confabbing at the door of a grocery, and then shot into it. i saw him struggling out of his gown as he disappeared, and thence inferred that the chief burgess was a grocer in private life. so much i saw before pulling sultan round to pass under the archway leading into the yard of the "rising sun." i dismounted and called for an ostler. no man appearing, i was about to lead sultan farther down the yard towards the stables when there was a scurry of feet behind me as if the whole ostler-tribe of the "rising sun" was hastening to my assistance. i turned round rattily to find myself looking into the barrel of a pistol, while three or four men pounced on me and pinned me against the wall. "damn ye, horse-thief, for the black of a bean i'd blow your brains out," said colonel waynflete. "stick tight, lads; and you, good host, fetch along master mayor and the constable, and have me the scoundrel laid by the heels. if this were only my commandery on the rhine! i'd strappado you and then hang you within the next half-hour. my bonny sultan! how are you, my precious?" when a raw youth leaves farming for knight-erranting he must expect sharp turns and rough tumbles, but surely fate and fortune were overdoing it now. it was the colonel beyond doubt, and margaret had limned him to the life. the hawk-eyes, the hook nose, the leathery skin, the orange-tawny campaign-wig with the grizzled hair peeping under the rim of it, the tall, thin, supple figure, all were there. and if i had been in any doubt of it, sultan would have settled the matter, for his pleasure at finding his master was delightful to witness. in hot blood i did not mind a pistol, and in the coldest blood i could easily have kicked loose from the men who had got hold of me. but margaret kept my limbs idle and my mouth shut. there was no real danger, for that matter, unless margaret and master freake failed to turn up at the "rising sun," and there was no reason to suppose they would fail. the colonel gave me no chance to speak to him privately, and to speak to him publicly might upset his plans. how he had got here a free man, what strange turn things had taken in his favour, i could not imagine. margaret would be here in an hour and put matters right, so for her sake it would be best and easiest to say nothing. i simply made up my mind that the varlet on my right, whose dirty claws and beery breath were sickening me, should have the direst of drubbings before the day was out. mine host bustled off for the mayor, and, the news having gone around, the yard was filled with people watching the fun and making a mocking-stock of me. the colonel saw sultan off to be groomed and baited, and then, without so much as a look at me, went into the inn and sat down to his interrupted meal. i could see him plainly through the window, and hugely admired his coolness. the maids clustered around to have a peep at me. such as were old and ugly declared off-hand that i was indisputably ripe for the gallows, but a younger one with saucy eyes and cherry-red cheeks blew a kiss, and called out to beery breath to deal gentlier with me. he moved a little in turning to grin at her, and i shot my knee into his wind and doubled him up on the ground. a stouter lad took his place, but his breath was sweet and i gained much in comfort by the change. the situation had the saving grace of humour. for twenty-four hours i had been on the stretch to save colonel waynflete from his enemies. to do it i had left mother and sister, and home and lands. to do it i had come out openly on the side of rebellion and treason. the sword had been at my breast, and the wind of a bullet had stirred the hair of my head. i might have spared my pains. all this pother of mine was over the man sitting yonder, heartily enjoying his dinner. all my heroics had ended in my being arrested as a horse-thief. i closed my eyes. picture after picture came before me of margaret in her changing moods and her unchanging beauty. gad! how cheaply i had bought this gallery of precious memories! a throng of lads crowding noisily under the archway heralded the approach of the dignitaries. first came the town beadle, a pompous little fellow who wore a laced brown greatcoat many sizes too large for him, and carried a cudgel of office thick as his own arm, and surmounted by a brass crown the size of a baby's head. his office enabled him to be brave on the cheap, so by dint of digging his weapon into the ribs of all and sundry, they being, as he expressed it, too thick on the clod, he cleared a path for the grocer-mayor, who had gotten himself again into his scarlet gown. his worship was gawky, flustered, and uncertain, and listened like a scared rabbit to mine host, a man of much talk, who explained proudly what was to be done. "this is 'im, y'r worship," he said. "a dirty 'oss-thief as badly wants 'anging. copped in the act, y'r worship, of riding into this 'ere yard o' mine, as big as bull-beef, sitting on the very 'oss 'e'd stolen from his lordship 'ere." his lordship was the colonel, who had leisurely left his meal again to settle my hash. i can see him now as he stood on the step of the inn-door, carefully flicking a stray crumb or two from his waistcoat, and taking the measure of the man he had to bamboozle, with clear, amused, grey eyes. "the mayor of the town, i think," he said softly. "yes, your honour," said the good man surreptitiously wiping something, probably sugar, off his hands on the lining of his gown. "and his beadle, your lordship," added the host, and the under-strapper inside the greatcoat saluted the colonel with a flourish of his tipstaff. "i am colonel waynflete," he answered in level measured tones, "riding on important business of his majesty's, and my horse was stolen at an inn, some miles back, beyond stafford. but for the kindness of my lord brocton in providing me with another, his gracious majesty's affairs would have been badly disarranged. this fellow came riding in on my horse, sultan, a few minutes ago and i ordered his arrest. he is now in your worship's hands. i leave him there with confidence, merely remarking, on the warrant of many years' observation in such matters, that he will require a stout rope." he nodded to his dithering worship, and marched back slowly and calmly to his dinner. "this beats cock-fighting," said mine host admiringly. he spread himself, happy and conspicuous as a tom-tit on a round of beef, and the crowd, pleasantly anticipating mugs of beer later on, urged the mayor to be up and doing. "what have you to say for yourself?" said his grocer-ship to me, with a dim and belated idea, perhaps, that i might be interested in the proceedings. "the beadle's coat is much too large for him," said i. "yes, yes," he replied hurriedly. "samson salt was a big man and had only had the coat three years when he died, and we couldn't afford a new one for timothy. dear me, but this isn't a council meeting, and what's the beadle's coat got to do with horse-stealing?" "as much as i have," i replied gravely. "yow've 'ad enough, my lad," said the host, "to last y'r the rest of y'r life. the next 'oss you rides'll be foaled of an acorn. let timothy put him in clink, master mayor, and come and have a noggin of the real thing. gom, i'm that dry my belly'll be thinking my throat's cut." "arrest this man, timothy tomkins, and put him in jail till i can take due order for his trial." timothy turned up the sleeves of his coat, and arrested me by placing his hand on my arm, and flourishing the brass crown in my face. "don't hurt me, timothy," i said. "i'll come like a lamb, and i'll go slow lest you should tumble over the tail of your coat." "if you say another word about the blasted coat i'll split your head open," was his angry reply. it was evidently a sore topic with him and a familiar one with his frugal townsmen, for some man in the crowd cried out, "'tinna big enough for the missis, be it, timothy?" and while the peppery little beadle's eyes were searching the japer out, another added, "more's the pity, for 'er's a bit of a light-skirt." at this there was a roar of laughter, so i saved the frenzied officer further trouble by saying, "come along, timothy. let's go to jail." on the mayor's orders, mine host despoiled me of the sergeant's tuck, and timothy marched me off to the jail, the rabble following, as full of chatter as a nest of magpies. the jail was a small stone building, standing, like the town hall, in the middle of the street. arrived there, timothy thrust me into an ill-lit dirty hole below the level of the street, locked the door behind me, and left me to my reflections. the only furniture of the den was a rude bench. a nap would do me good, so, after a good pull at kate's precious cordial, i curled up on the bench and in a few minutes was sound asleep. and in my sleep i dreamed that two blue stars were twinkling at me through a golden cloud. chapter xii the guest-room of the "rising sun" a wisp of cloud, a long trail of shimmering gold, broke loose, swept with the touch of softest silk across my cheek, and half awakened me. i was lazily and sleepily regretting that such caresses only came in dreams, when i was brought sharply back to full life by a ripple of hearty laughter. "gloat on!" said i complacently. "i knew you'd slip some time or other. gloat! of course i shall gloat." and she laughed again. i should have borne it easily enough, coming from her, under any circumstances, but there was one circumstance which made it a pure joy. the white hands were busy with her unruly yellow hair, and i was so far gone foolward that i was in some sort hopeful that they were imprisoning the wisp of golden cloud that had awakened me. i bitterly regretted that i was not as nimble at waking as jack. he would be sleeping like a leg of mutton one second and, at the touch of a feather, as wide awake as a weasel the next. i took time--it was the latin rubbish cumbering my brain, he used to say--or i might have made sure. mistress margaret was perched on the edge of my bench. she seemed in no hurry to move, and i could not get up till she did, so i lay still, cradling my head in my hands, and looked contentedly at her. it was now so gloomy that i had evidently been asleep some time. "i knew you'd slip," she repeated with great zest. "all men do. and i'm glad you slipped, for it proved you human. i was getting quite overawed by the terrible precision with which you did exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. it made me feel so very small and inferior, and no woman likes that. it's not nice." "or natural," said i. "i see you're unmistakably awake, sir!" was the tart reply. she rose and took short turns up and down the cell and went on: "but why slip into jail, master wheatman? why did you not tell father who you were and what you had done for me?" "and so prove at once to the authorities in the town that he was not what he pretended to be!" "ho!" she said, and stopped short. "our idea was, i think, to free the colonel, if we could." "yes." she was not gloating now, but wondering. "well, madam, i found him free, and the only advantage i can see in your plan is, that i should have had him as a companion in jail. whereas now i've mended my night's sleep with a refreshing nap, and master freake has so lucidly explained things to the mayor that timothy of the long coat is kicking his heels at the top of the stairs, and wondering how much longer you're going to be. shall we once more breathe the upper air, as virgil would put it? this hole is as bad as a corner in his under-world." "and i laughed at you for slipping, master wheatman! i shall never dare to look you in the face again." "don't you believe it, madam," said i airily, leading the way to the steps. "i've heard copper nob say the same thing scores of times." "who's copper nob?" the question came like the crack of a whip, and i was glad the familiar phrase had slipped out unawares and diverted her. "our kate," i explained. "oh indeed, sir! a more beautiful head of hair no woman in this land possesses, and you glibly call her 'copper nob.' doubtless you have selected some nice expressive name for me!" "i shouldn't dare!" i protested hotly. "why not? you do it for her, brazenly and wantonly." "yes, madam, but she's my sister." "how does that assure me?" "a man's sister isn't a woman," said i, and went ahead and pushed open the door. there, sure enough, was timothy, looking very uncertain and rueful. the little man's complaisance had given me the greatest wonder of my life--margaret's silent watching over me as i lay asleep, and i gave him a guinea with much gladness. "the coat's too big for you, timothy, and it's no good denying it. i'll speak to his worship about a new one of the right length." "thank yer, sir," he said, grinning oafishly as he pouched the guinea. "i'd rather have a new coat than a new missus, and, swelp me bob, i want both." margaret joined me, and we at once made our way to the "rising sun." work for the day was over, and the street was now getting thronged and noisy. many curious looks were bent on us, but no one dared to interfere with a man of my evil reputation, a horse-thief being the last thing in desperadoes. we had only a few yards to go, but my mistress apprised me in sweet whisperings that master freake's explanation was that sultan had been innocently obtained from the real thief, that i was his servant, and, not knowing of the horse deal, had loyally kept silent lest i should make mischief--a happy and reasonably truthful rendering of the real facts. "after his private talk with master mayor," she added, "that worthy man's knees were as hard worked as the hinges of an ale-house door." "the poor cringeling is but a grocer," said i, as we turned in under the archway of the "rising sun." the host saw us through the kitchen window, and ran out to usher us in with the assurance of a brass weathercock. "sommat like a jail delivery, eh, y'r 'onour? gom, if i wudna pinch fifty 'osses to be fetched out o' clink by such a bonny lady, begging your ladyship's pardon." "she shall fetch you out," said i sourly, "when you're jailed for not stealing." "his honour's commands are a law unto his handmaiden," said margaret demurely and icily, addressing him, but aiming point-blank at me. her shot blew me clean out of the water, and i stood there guggling like a born idiot. "curse you, will you never get out of your yokel's ways?" said i to myself. it was as if i had said to the sergeant, speaking of jane, "she shall draw you a mug of beer." i was clean nonplussed, and felt as uncomfortable as a boiling crawfish, but fortunately rattle-pate came to my aid and drowned my confusion in a flood of words. "and all he said, y'r ladyship, was that timothy's coat was too big for 'im. gom, it beat cock-fighting, it did. swelp me bob it did. i never saw a man so staggered as the mayor, but he's got over it fine, and gone 'ome, good man, with a crick in his back and near on a pint of my best brandy in his belly. when these 'ere wild highland rappers and renders come, he's just primed up to make 'em a grand speech at bridge yonder, and if that dunna frighten 'em off, nuthin' wull, and my cellars will be as ill filled with beer as timothy's coat is with brawn. i'm getting the best supper on the chester road for yer, y'r honour, and that'll mike you feel as bold as sixpence among sixpenn'orth o' coppers. but come along, y'r ladyship. the colonel's upstairs. follow me!" words ran out of him like ale out of a stunned barrel. he clacked on incessantly on the way upstairs, and clacked as boldly as ever as he ushered us into the room, where the colonel was awaiting us alone. "'ere 'e is, y'r lordship," he said gustily. "'ere's the nobby gentleman as didna steal yer 'oss. but yow'd best keep yer eye on 'im, on my say so. he'll pinch sommat o' yow'n yet afore 'e's done." the colonel, who was toasting his toes at a roaring fire, rose as i followed margaret towards him. he made me a precise and formal bow, which i imitated farmer fashion. "this is master oliver wheatman of the hanyards, father," said margaret, in so low a tone that the host, lingering, hand on door-knob, nearly a dozen paces behind us, could not have heard her. "pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," he said, repeating his bow. "the honour is mine, sir," i replied, repeating mine, and wondering the while if i ever should learn to bend like a willow instead of a jointed doll. "nay, i protest, sir." this suavely to me; then, stepping sharply towards the host, he stormed, "damn ye, man, get on the landlord's side of the door, or i'll rout it down around your lazy ears. slids! i've shot an innkepeer for less in the rhineland." "them 'ere furriners--" began the host, but the colonel swamped him with something of which i could make out nothing except that it was a fairly successful attempt to talk and sneeze at the same time. it finished off the host, who retired, beaten with his own weapon. the victor, waiting till the door was closed, tiptoed up to it and listened carefully. "a rather interesting feature about dad," whispered margaret with mischief in her eyes, "is that when he's angry he curses in french, and when he's mad he execrates in german." "neatly rounding off his daughter's accomplishments," said i. "and how, sir?" "who gibes in english and loves in italian." she stabbed me with her eyes, and said, "your services give you no privileges, sir." "i know that, madam, but my yokelship does." i spoke lightly, keeping the bitterness of my heart out of my voice, though it had surged up into my speech. i may have been mistaken, misled by the flickering fire-light, but the anger seemed to melt out of her eyes. the return of the colonel ended our cut-and-thrust. "soldiering," he said, "is nine-tenths caution and one-tenth devilment. yon glavering idiot has long ears to match his long tongue. and now, sir, let me greet you as i should." he seized my hand, shook it warmly, and continued, "a father's thanks, master wheatman, for your kindness to my margaret. anon she shall tell me the whole story, but i know already that you are a gallant gentleman whom i shall have the honour of turning into a fine soldier, and neither angel, man, nor devil could make you fairer requital." praise and promise were far beyond any desert or hope of mine, but i said boldly, "i am no gentleman, but just a plain, few-acred yeoman, who has tried to serve your daughter--" "tried?" he snorted. "tried, indeed! i've been soldiering man and boy these forty odd years, and, slids, i've never known better work." he ran me up and down with his eyes and, turning to margaret, continued, "by the beard of the prophet, madge, master oliver wheatman of the hanyards is a vast improvement on the baron." margaret blushed daintily and hastily covered his mouth with her fingers. "you dare, dad, and i won't kiss you good night." "damme," he said, freeing himself and grinning at me with delight. "this is rank mutiny. prithee note, master wheatman, the prepare-to-receive-cavalry look in her eye! the last time i lost her was at hanover, and she rejoined me, if you please, at dresden." "magdeburg, you libellous old father," said margaret, pouting. "so it was," he said heartily, conceding the point. "escorted by, or escorting, i was never clear which, a fat german baron nearly five feet high, who begged me to horsewhip her into marrying him." "you shot him?" said i, so very energetically that margaret's pout turned into a smile. "dear me, no," he said, pretending to yawn. "i left him to madge, poor fellow! i hope you've given her every satisfaction, master wheatman." "that he hasn't," said margaret briskly. "he's spent far too much time putting me in what he considers my proper place." "my friend," said he to me gravely, "you're in for a dog's life." "you're right about the life, dad, but wrong about the dog. good-bye till supper, you nasty ripper-up of your daughter's character!" so saying, she kissed him on each cheek, smiled at me, and left us. "i'd like to sluice the jail feeling off myself," said i to the colonel. "right," he replied, looking at his watch. "you've just half an hour. i find england irksomely restful and law-abiding after the continent, but i'm glad of it for once. i should be damnably vexed if i'd hanged you, and madge wouldn't have liked it either." he had a grave voice, like a judge's, and a quick, pert eye, like a jackdaw's. outwardly he was as unlike margaret as the haft of a pike is unlike a lily, but i already saw her spirit in him. "sir," said i, "when i am fortified by a good supper, i will venture to indicate my preferences on the subject." he took out his snuff-box, tapped it carefully, opened it, and held it out to me. "you have begun well, sir. i hear you are a great scholar, latin and all that, quite pat. damme, sir, those ancients understood things. they knew how to honour the gods, for they made soldiers of 'em and set 'em fighting in the clouds. there's divinity for you! you've got twenty-eight minutes." i laughed and left him. the room in which my introduction to the colonel had taken place was immediately over the archway. its window opened on to a balcony which, supported on thick oak balks, stood over the causeway of the street; its door was in a passage leading from one wing of the house to the other, and in the passage were three leaded lattice-windows of greenish glass, plentifully sprinkled with blobs and nodes, giving on the long inn-yard. the room was thus admirably situated for people in our precarious position, having a look-out back and front, and a way of escape right and left. the cherry-cheeked lass who had thrown me the kiss was tripping past the door as i opened it. she told me that she had been attending on ''er ladyship,' and willingly led me to a bedroom and brought me thither the things i needed for my sluicing, among them a passable razor and a huckaback fit to fetch the hide off a horse. "give me now the kiss you threw me," said i, as she was turning to leave. "nay, sir," she said. "you're not in trouble now, and dunna need it." "lassie," said i, "that's a right womanly reply, and here's something to buy a ribbon with that shall be worthy of you." and i gave her one of the dead major's guineas. "thank yer, sir," she said. "and besides there's no need for you to be kissing the likes of me." "you're a sweetly pretty lassie," said i. "y' dunna want to be gawpin' around after pennies when there's guineas to be picked up," she replied, with a toss of her head. "struth, i wish at times i wasna quite so pretty. there's some men, bless you, i know one myself, such fools that they think a pretty wench doesna want kissin'. but, sartin sure, there's never been the like of 'er ladyship in newcastle in my time. i'll 'ave a ribbon on sunday as near the colour and shine of 'er ladyship's hair as money can buy, and sail'll wish 'er'd never been born. i'll sim 'er." with this terrible threat she flounced out of the room, and i laughed and wondered who and what 'sim' was. a decent fellow and a good tradesman, i hoped, and wished him pluck and luck. while i was tidying myself up, my mind was busy with the strange tangle things were got into. the mysterious master freake, after turning the mayor into his pliant tool, had apparently disappeared. the colonel had not breathed a word of explanation, and seemed to feel so secure that he was dawdling in the town as if no enemy were at hand. of the state of affairs in the town itself i knew nothing. the one clear thing was that i had got my neck right into the noose, and brocton could, and would, pull tight at the first opportunity. what did all this matter? what did any untoward event or result matter? i was going to be a soldier, and, after the fashion of love-lorn cherry-cheeks, i said to myself, "i'll jack him!" i was going to be near margaret, and, so rejoicing, bethought me of the hapless roman's "_infelix, properas ultima nosse mala._" and what did that matter either? i rubbed myself the colour of a love-apple, humming the while old-time ditties long since driven out of my head by the latin rubbish. jack was right. of course it was rubbish. "latin be damned," said i gleefully. "nothing counts but life and love." there was more than a pinch of swagger in me as i made my way back to the passage overlooking the yard. arrived there, i cautiously opened the nearest lattice and peered out. the inn-yard was dark and silent, and i was on the point of closing the window when i heard the clatter of hoofs on the stone-paving under the archway. a moment later a man on foot came in sight, and was followed into the yard by two men on horseback, one of them in charge of a led horse. at once all was bustle. ostlers ran up with lanterns, and the host came forward, candle in hand and a multitude of words on his tongue, to order things aright. the man afoot was master freake, and it was clear that the riders were men of his, for i heard him ask them if they were quite clear as to their instructions, and both answered respectfully that they were. i could see they wore swords and that their horses were splendid, powerful animals, not much inferior to sultan himself. who and what was this man--"plain john freake," as he called himself,--who carried large sums of money, domineered over self-important burgesses and mayors, who was served by such well-appointed horsemen, whom master dobson, a parliament man, feared, and my lord brocton had thought it worth while to attempt to put out of the way? it was a riddle i could not read, but as i stood there, peering round the half-open lattice at the scene below, i was happier than ever i had been in my life. "poor old jack," said i to myself, "sweating and swearing over your riff-raff dragooners, and here am i, who envied you yester-morn, on the top rung of life." "we shall get it if we're late," said mistress margaret playfully in my ear. "not because dad worries whether he eats or not, but because he's so strong on mil-it-ary dis-cip-line." i write the words so, as a poor, paper imitation of the mincing gait she could put into her speech, which was ever one of her delightfulnesses. "you'd have been the better," she went on, "for a bringing-up on a troop-sergeant's switch. see what it's done for me!" so she challenged me to admire her, and indeed i think that the witch was verily bent on casting a spell over me. no words can paint her as she stood in the dim-lit passage, the infinite sum of womanhood, peerless in every grace and gift; not now the tense, proud margaret of the quick rebuke and the shattering sarcasm, but the mirthful, trustful, grateful companion of our boy-and-girl escapade. "i think you're right, madam," said i. "bloggs, dear old chap, flogged the meaning of virgil into me, but i wish he had flogged in some of the meaning of life along with it. i feel as helpless as saul would have felt with david's sling and stones." "are you as one fighting a goliath?" "i am," said i, not able now to speak lightly, and not daring to look at her. could any enterprise be more hopeless than the one my heart, against all the strivings of sense and reason, was beginning to set me? through the open lattice i watched the flicker of lanterns in the yard, where the horses were being upped and whoaed stablewards. "you will favour me, sir, with your escort into supper," said margaret. this brought me to myself with a jerk. i closed the lattice, offered her my arm, and we walked towards the guest-room where the colonel was awaiting us. "i think you'd better revise your knowledge of the scriptures, master oliver," said she very quietly as i led her into the room. "in what respect, mistress margaret?" "you seem to have an imperfect recollection of the way in which goliath met his death. it's idle to say we're late, dad, when supper's not yet served." he exploded into words i did not understand. "it's all right, only french," whispered margaret mischievously. "it means 'name of a dog.' i could swear better myself." "that's right," stormed the colonel. "as fast as i curse soldiering into one ear of him, you coax it out of the other! i'll be thankful when you're under mother patterson's wing in chester." the coming of cherry-cheeks and one of the hard-favoured maids with the supper, followed by our host with the wine, followed in turn by master freake, put an end to my first lesson in soldiering and the imprecatory wealth of continental languages, and straightway the host slopped over with apologies for the delay in serving the supper. "things are a bit upset in the town, y' mun know," he said, "and every wench in the 'rising sun' 'as been a devil unknobbed all day. this red-faced hussy here, when 'er was wanted to set the table, was off to see if that spindle-shanked sim across at the mayor's was safe and sound. and besides, my lady and y'r 'onours, the famous steak-and-kidney puddin' o' the 'rising sun' must be boiled to a bubble or it's dummacked. if one got spiled, the news 'ud run down to chester and up to london in no time, and the 'red lion' 'ud get all my customers. his grace of kingston put up at the 'red lion' in all innocence until his worship, for old friendship's sake and a bottle of brandy, 'ticed 'im over 'ere to one of my puddin's. 'e started an inch off the table and ate till 'e touched, as we say in staffordsheer, and then sent for 'is baggage, and 'as lain 'ere ever since in the great bedchamber over y'r yeds, an' i'm thinking to call it the duke's room an' charge sixpence extra for it. it's worth another sixpence to sleep in the same bed as a duke's slep' in. if it ain't, by gom, i'd like to know what he is for. damn if y'r can tell by lukkin' at 'im." what i have for convenience' sake set down here as a continuous speech addressed to us all, was really a series of remarks addressed to whichever of us appeared for the moment to be listening, and broken by commands, scoldings, and threats addressed to the women. the tail-end of his remarks made me cock my ear, for it indicated that we were at the centre of the danger zone. "if i were you," interposed master freake at last, "i'd coax prince charlie to sleep in it and then charge a shilling extra. a prince, and my dislike of his ways doesn't unprince him, is surely worth twice as much as a duke." "swelp me bob," cried the delighted host, slapping his thigh in high glee, "that 'ud be better than a murder. it's wunnerful how a murder 'elps a 'ouse. tek the 'quiet woman' o' madeley. there was a murder there, and a damn poor thing of a murder it was, nothing but a fudge-mounter cuttin' a besom-filer's throat; poor wench, 'er lived up on th' higherland yonder, and i'll bet it was wuth two-and-twenty barrel of beer to owd wat. a murder's clean providential to a pub--" "damn, get out," vociferated the colonel, "or i'll provide the murder and you the corpse." the meal, be it said, was thoroughly good in every way. i'm not the man to despise my belly, and i don't hold with those that do. there are better things in life than steak-and-kidney puddings, but my experience is they want a lot of finding. the colonel would not hear of any talk about our affairs till supper was over. "i dare say you're all agog to know what i've been doing and what we are going to do," he said to me. "that's because you're a youngster at everything and a mere infant-in-arms at soldiering. when you've had a month's campaigning you'll know that the only things really worth bothering about are supper and bed." to my great content he immediately fell head over heels into argument with master freake, something about bounties on herring busses, if i remember aright, and margaret and i were left to each other, and a rare treat i had in hearing her lively talk and watching her glowing beauty. at last, with almost a sigh of satisfaction, and then with a mischief-glint in her eyes, she said, "the pudding has been very good, but i prefer ham and eggs, provided that the right person cooks them." "i should agree," i replied, "with one other proviso." "to wit," said she, with a glass of wine half-way to her lips. "that the right person saves them from frizzling to a cinder." she sipped her wine steadily, and then, leaning forward till the radiance of her yellow hair made me quiver, she whispered calmly, "oliver, you're a brute." "nay, madam," said i, "only a yokel." she looked at me again as she had looked at me when i had kissed her hand beneath the hawthorns. "hello, there," broke in the colonel, addressing himself to me, "who was right about the dog's life?" "i was, of course," said margaret promptly. the host was rung for, his supper praised to his heart's content, the table cleared, and a dish of tea ordered for margaret. bethinking me of the sergeant's tuck, which might be useful, i asked the host to bring it up, and he did so. when we were again left to ourselves, the colonel took the sword, and examined it with his skilful eyes and practised hands. "somewhat heavy," said he, "but well balanced and well made, and of the truest steel. are you a swordsman, master wheatman?" "i never had one in my hand in my life till to-day," was my reply. "gird him for the wars, margaret," said he. "so much of the ancient rules and customs of chivalry as can be observed in these mechanic days shall, by us at any rate, be observed. in strict law you ought to have spent a night in prayer and fasting, but your loyal service to margaret is a good equivalent. to labour is to pray, say the parsons, and, my lad, always remember in your soldiering that a so-minded man can offer up a powerful prayer between pull of trigger and flash of priming. kneel, oliver, and in god's sight you shall be more truly knighted than any capering and chattering of german geordie's can contrive." and so, in the guest-room of the "rising sun," i knelt to my sweet mistress, and, before god and in the presence of christopher waynflete, colonel of horse in the service of the king of sweden, and john freake, citizen of london, margaret, gravely and serenely beautiful, touched my shoulder with the sword and then girded it upon me. "sirs," she said, addressing her father and master freake, "the accolade has never been given to a worthier." then, bending swiftly as a swallow dips in its flight over the meadows, she whispered emphatically in my ears, "yokel it no more!" chapter xiii pharaoh's kine "and now to business," said master freake. "to pleasure, sir," said the colonel. "business is over." he was leisurely filling his pipe, an example which margaret, with a smile and a nod, gave me permission to follow. "tell us how you escaped," said margaret. "master wheatman cannot too soon begin to learn the tricks of the trade. sorry, dad," bending to kiss his hand; "you needn't look at me in german. i mean rudiments of the profession." "a woman who calls soldiering a trade ought to be forcibly married to a parson," said the colonel passionately. "there'll be a reasonable quantity of parsons to choose from at chester," she retorted, laughing up in his face. "chester? why chester?" demanded master freake, suddenly tense and vigilant. "i need name no name, but a certain dignitary's lady there, one of our supporters, undertook to take her in charge while this affair was on," explained the colonel. master freake, it seemed to me, was disappointed with the explanation, and, knowing that what margaret wanted was to have the rumour of her father's intended treachery blown to pieces by his own account, i said, "there's only one parson in england fit to look at mistress margaret, and he's sixty and married. let me learn, i pray you, sir, the art of slipping out of the hands of a squad of dragoons on a road crowded with soldiery." "if you think you are to hear a tale that will make you grip the arms of your chairs, you're in for a sad disappointment. yesterday and through the night, they stuck to me as if geordie had offered thirty thousand pounds for me, dead or alive, but this morning their hold on me slackened. they might have intended me to escape. i was put on a fresh horse, about the best they'd got; the dragoon in charge of me was three parts drunk when we started; we got mixed up in a crowd of foot retreating south, and separated from our main body, and finding myself alone on the road with one man, and him drunk, i just knocked him off his horse, and cleared off across the fields. "i rode on until i got a sight of this town, and the main road into it, from a hill-top, and watched for an hour or so to see what was happening. i knew by my pace that i was well ahead of my late escort, and seeing no signs of them, came on to this inn, and was enjoying a good dinner when i saw sultan and oliver on him. the rest you know. not much of a tale. madge has done better many a time." "do you really think the captain intended you to escape?" it was margaret who asked the question, looking intently at me as she spoke. i looked from her to master freake and back again, meaning to remind her that i wanted no convincing, but she still kept her eyes on mine, her chin cupped in her long white hands, and i was glad of her insistence for i could look at her without offence. i thought the mellow fire-light made her look more beautiful than ever. the lustrous yellow hair shone like molten gold, and the dark blue eyes became a queenly purple. "if it were done on purpose it was done cleverly," continued the colonel, "for the chance which set me free came quite naturally. the horse i rode yesterday was wanted in the usual way by a trooper to whom it belonged, and where so many men were more or less drunk, the choice of my particular drunkard was certainly accidental. and, besides, what possible motive could there be in letting me escape? brocton knows i'm an experienced soldier of great repute--i state plain facts--and am eagerly expected by the prince and by my old companion-in-arms, geordie murray. they couldn't have planned it better if they had wished it, but it's absurd to say they wished it. there ought to be a cashiered captain and a half-flayed dragoon somewhere south of us. damme, i merit that at least." he bent over the hearth to relight his pipe. master freake smiled and rubbed his hands gently. margaret's eyes blazed with triumph, and challenged me, still me, to share it. woman-logic was clean beyond my poor wits. i was sick for action. these glorious interludes with margaret gave me no chance. it was like setting me afire and asking me not to burn. thinking of the poor, half-flayed devil behind us, made me think of the sergeant, and i asked master freake, "did you give the sergeant his papers and letter?" "no," was the ready reply. "the papers dealt rather frankly with certain regimental accounts, and, since the sergeant is now very bitterly set against us, may be useful in my hands. i had a shrewd notion that the letter concerned the title to certain lands as to which lord brocton and i are at odds, and on opening it i found to my satisfaction that i was right. with your permission, oliver, i will keep it." "by all means do so," said i, anxious to burn again, and turning back to margaret. if this silent, capacious man, so great a stranger yet so clear a friend, had said that the letter was about a new edition of virgil, i should have believed him, and also, i fear me, have been equally uninterested. latin be damned! "something for you in oliver's magic-hat," said margaret smilingly to master freake. "he really must fetch something out for himself soon. staffordshire is by far the most delightful country i have ever been in. only one little day has gone by, and in that day staffordshire has given me more and truer friends than europe gave me in ten years. i shall cross its borders with regret. shall we make the most of it while we have it and sleep here, dad?" "unless we're routed out," was his reply, "and i do not think we shall be, for the enemy have all cleared out of the town. cumberland is, of course, doing the right thing. he had few men north of stafford, and fewer still worth powder and shot. where the prince is i've no idea." "resting for the day at macclesfield," said master freake, "and his plans are not certain, or, at least, not known. the duke of kingston has a small body of horse at congleton and is watching his movements." "damme," the colonel broke in, "i did not know we had enemies north of us. are you sure?" "certain. one of my men reported the facts to me just before supper." "it's awkward, or rather will be awkward if anyone who knows me turns up. that rascally landlord of ours must have known where kingston was, but amid all his talk he never told me that. damme, somebody's got hold of him. still, you can't take the bull by the horns till his nose is slobbering your waistcoat, so pass the wine, oliver." he refilled his glass and then, leisurely and with his eyes dreamily fixed on the fire, loaded his pipe with a new charge of tobacco, and went on smoking. "are you a jacobite?" suddenly asked margaret, looking inquiringly at master freake. "dear me, no, mistress margaret," was the frank reply. "but you need not curl those sweet lips of yours, for neither am i a hanoverian." "then what are you?" she asked again, with the same uncompromising directness. "a freakeiteian," said he with a smile. "it puzzles me," was her brief comment. "let me explain," said he simply. "a jacobite wants charles to win; a hanoverian wants george to win; a freakeiteian wants to know who is going to win." by this time margaret was no more puzzled than i was. yesterday when i stood on the river-bank watching my cork, i cared not a rap whether george or charles won, and that was an understandable position; but why a man should be spending money in handfuls, and roughing it in the wilds of staffordshire, merely in order to know who was going to win, was beyond my poor wits. "you do not understand?" he said. "no," said margaret and i together. the colonel took no notice. he was puffing away at his pipe, long-drawn-out, solemn puffs, and gazing at the fire in a brown study. "well, margaret and oliver," said master freake, "this is no time to be giving you lessons in the way the great world wags that neither knows nor cares of outs and ins and party shufflings, but is busy with rents and crops, and incomings and outgoings, and debts and credits, and wivings and thrivings. but, believe me, in being anxious to know who is going to win, i am as plainly and simply doing my duty as is the colonel who is going to do his best to help his prince to win. i am one, and, i thank god, not the least, of that great race of men who are destined to mould a mightier england than the sword could ever carve--the merchant of london whose nod is his bond." he spoke with simple dignity and his word was established. i had trusted him on sight. "his nod was his bond." you saw it in the man's clear, steady eyes and knew it by the set of his firm, square chin. after a warning glance at the silent colonel, he leaned forward, and margaret bent to meet him. "if charles loses," he murmured, "many heads will be smitten from their shoulders." the colour left her cheeks instantly and tears welled forth from her eyes. "but not the colonel's," he whispered. i was watching her with the eye of a hawk. a smile dawned on the white face, the sad eyes began to lose their gloom, and my fool of a heart began to flutter. yet once more he whispered, "and not oliver's." she leaned farther forward still and kissed him. and it was just at that moment that the door opened smartly and cherry-cheeks put her sweet head round it and swiftly and peremptorily beckoned me outside. margaret laughed. in the dim passage, cherry-cheeks caught my hand affrightedly and babbled, "oh, sir, there's the ugliest beast you ever saw spying on her ladyship. take your boots off, sir, and creep after me!" i tugged them off and we started. along the passage she flew and upstairs into the corresponding passage above. here, outside the duke's room, she stopped and whispered, "he'll think i'm that bitch sal. hide behind me!" she opened the door and stole into the room with me in tow, holding her skirt and crouching down nearly to the floor. she was somewhat broad in the beam, like a dutch hoy, and all i could see was a dull glimmer somewhere ahead in the darkness. "ssss-h, damn ye," said the beast fiercely. "stand still!" cherry-cheeks took care not to stop till near the light, and then, with wonderful ready wit, put her right hand on her hip and i peeped through between arm and waist. full length on his belly lay the man from yarlet bank. there was a small spy-hole in the floor, on the edge of the hearth, and he had his right ear against it, which was lucky, for it kept his face turned from me. the notebook lay open on the floor near a guttering tallow candle in an iron candlestick, and the stump of pencil was clenched in his dirty yellow teeth. i threw my handkerchief on the floor, took my fat little virgil in my left hand, and crept out to him. when near on top of him, i gripped him round the nape of the neck, digging my fingers in his flabby throat, and he went slimy with fright like a great, fat lob-worm. i swooped down on him with my full weight, and pinned him to the floor. his big mouth opened as he fought for breath, and i clapped the virgil hard and far into it, tying it tight in with my handkerchief, and gagging him effectually. i looked up and found, to my relief, that cherry-cheeks, like a sensible girl, had crept out of the room, and her share in the affair was never even suspected. drawing my tuck, i touched the back of his neck with the point. he flinched and squirmed, great drops of sweat larded his nasty face, and i knew the fear of death and hell was in his marrow. "do exactly what i say," i whispered, "or through it goes. understand?" he could hardly nod his ugly head for the trembling of his body, and i fairly dithered as i knelt on him. i made him rise, and then caught hold of the skirt of his coat. holding him by it at arm's length, i stuck my point to his neck again, and said, "forward." i marched him downstairs and along the passage. there was great risk of being met by some one, and it was the most anxious time i had had since the affair with the sergeant in the house-place at the hanyards. oddly enough, as i drove him along, the thought came to me of the bygone days when jack and i had played horses just like this at the hanyards, and when my prisoner stuck a trifle at the door of the guest-room, i growled at him, "come up!" it was a strange trick of the mind. to me he was just play-horse jack dawdling to look at ten-year-old kate feeding her chickens. i got him in unseen without and unnoticed within, for the colonel and master freake were again at their arguments of state, hammer and tongs, and they minded the click of the door behind them no more than the crack of a spark at their feet. indeed the colonel said "pish!" with great vehemence, and master freake's "my dear sir!" had a shake of pepper in it. as for me, i like a man who, when he gets into a thing, gets into it up to the neck. margaret added to my amusement, for as i pricked my prisoner on into the fire-light, and peeped over his shoulder, he being a good six inches shorter than i, madam leaned forward and became absorbed in the high debate. "i beg to report, sir," said i, as indifferently as i could manage to speak, "the capture of a spy." "hang him at daybreak," said the colonel, without so much as looking at him. "pish, man, the trade in salted herrings is no more a nursery of seamen than i'm--damme, what's this, oliver? damme, it's weir. your servant, mister weir, and i shall vastly relish seeing you strung up." i gave a brief account of where and how i had found him, making no mention of our helpful girl friend, but pointing out that he had co-scoundrels at work for him in the inn. "another good piece of work, oliver," said the colonel. "i like the way you use your available material. i've seen many things used as gags, but not a book before; yet it makes a very good one. keeps him quiet as a stone and withal leaves him free to lick up a few crumbs of learning." margaret had not looked at me yet, and indeed seemed bent on keeping her face, heightened in colour by the warmth and glow of the fire, turned away from me. now a rather big matter had come into my mind, so i said urgently, "name of a dog," and thus shook her into looking at me. whereupon, i pointed first to mr. freake, then to the spy, and wagged my head sagely. her quick mind saw at once that i was afraid that our friend would be compromised if we were not careful. she promptly said something to her father in an unknown tongue, and by the cock of his eye i knew he'd taken the point. "my good friend," he said, "pray step over to his worship the mayor and ask him to come over and commit this rascally spy to the town jail. say, i beg, that i am grieved to have to disturb him, but his majesty's servants must ever be at the disposal of his majesty's affairs." i grinned behind the spy's back at this masterly way of getting george's servant to do james's work. master freake started at once, and, stepping with him to the door, i whispered, "give us fifteen minutes." "right!" he whispered back again. "look in your holsters!" as soon as he had gone, the colonel ordered me to guard the door, and this gave me the chance of putting on my boots again. the colonel, cutting off with his sword a good length of bell rope, made a swift and most workmanlike job of tying the spy into a knot. he then opened the window, and, margaret taking my place meanwhile, he and i cautiously bundled weir on to the balcony, shut down the window, and left him safe and silent. "be in the porch in ten minutes, margaret, ready to start. oliver, get the horses there ready in that time. you ride the troop-horse, and freake has provided a mare for margaret. quick's the work and sharp's the motion!" margaret and i started together to carry out our orders. once in the passage we had to go different ways, and i bowed and was going mine without a word, when she put her hand on my arm and stayed me. "i'm sorry you've lost your virgil," she said. i wondered, as already so many times i had wondered, at the somersaults of feeling she was capable of. where was now the margaret of the short, disdainful laugh? not here, in the twilight between the bright room and the black yard. here was a subtle, mysterious margaret, half regret and half caprice, with one thought in her eyes and another on her lips. "so am i, madam. i wish it had been kate's cookery-book." she would have mastered me had i stayed another second. i bowed again and left her. and this is, perhaps, the best place to say that i did not lose my virgil after all. here it is on the table as i write, still the dearest of all my books. on each side of the healing an irregular curve of teeth-marks cuts into the yellowing parchment. dear, brave cherry-cheeks sent it home by the hands of a vagrom pedlar, laboriously and exactly writing on the package the inscription she found on the fly leaf: oliver wheatman, esquire, of the hanyards, staffordshire, _aetatis anno_ i routed out ostlers, and by dint of a judicious blend of cursings and bribings had the horses ready under the archway in time. margaret was there waiting, with our pretty maid fluttering around her. the colonel was within, settling with the word-warrior host. i helped margaret into the saddle and led her horse into the street, turning its head northward. in a moment, her father clattered after her on sultan. i went back to smile farewell to cherry-cheeks and deal out my bribes, but was after them before they had trotted a stone's throw. they were cantering towards the bridge by which the high street of the town crosses a tiny streamlet and again becomes the high road to the north-west. it was only a pistol-shot from the portico of the "rising sun" to the hither side of the bridge, where a group of townsmen were collected round a man with a lantern. we had ridden forth into a strangely quiet town, but before i was half-way to the bridge, and not yet settled down to my saddle, loud shrieks rang out behind me. looking back, i saw a woman leaning forth, candle in hand, from the duke's bedroom window. she waved her light and yelled as one distraught. there was no mistaking what had happened. sal, the sour-faced hussy who wanted me hanged, had learned the fate of the spy. folks rushed from all quarters to see what was the matter. the sooner we were well out of it the better, and i pricked on to overtake the colonel and margaret. i was near on them at the bridge, where the gossips had lined up to watch them pass. timothy was there, thankful for once, i thought, of his long coat, while the man who held the lantern was the man to whom i owed a drubbing. i wondered what he was doing there with a lantern, for it was a brilliant moonlight night, and, since he made to run townwards as soon as he saw who was passing, i felt in my bones that he meant mischief and was probably in league with the spy. i turned my horse at him before he was clear of the bridge and tumbled him back headlong on timothy, who yelled the most astonishing yell i ever heard, snatched the lantern out of beery breath's unresisting fingers, and with it smashed into him with such a fury that he beat him to his knees. i laughed, for the man had got his drubbing after all, through me if not by me. as for the other townies, they enjoyed it like a play. "gom!" said one. "he's trod on tim's gammy toe." "damn if he don't turn on 'is missus when 'er does that," said another. the colonel and margaret were looking back when i drew level. "anything the matter?" he asked. "the spy is discovered, sir," i said. "does that mean harm to master freake?" inquired margaret. "not it," replied the colonel. "he's got the mayor in his pocket. do you know this country, oliver?" "no, sir," was my answer. "only in broad outline. this is the main road to chester, and away on our right is an open country running up into roughish moorland and hills. leek lies that way on the derby road to london. the country to our left i know nothing about." "then we'll stick to the main road as long as possible and stop at the first inn after all danger-spots are behind us. sorry to turn you out, madge, but it was impossible to stop once weir found us out, since kingston and his men might have turned up at any moment, and then we should have been done for. all we have to do is to get north of him. from the south we have nothing to fear now. brocton's dragoons would have turned up hours ago if there was any intention of trying to recapture me. freake had sent one of his men down the road to give us time to clear off if brocton did pursue. that was why i was content to stay on at the inn." "weir knows who you are, sir, i take it?" said i. "exactly. he's a notorious government spy, and is busy here worming into our local plans. there are plenty of the honest party hereabouts, and especially over to the west there in wales." "are we still in staffordshire, master wheatman?" asked margaret. "oh yes, for quite a distance ahead," i replied. "the spirit of prophecy is upon me, gentlemen," she said merrily. "our staffordshire luck is not yet out, and this time it's master wheatman's turn." "well, then, master wheatman shall ride ahead and scout for it. about thirty yards, oliver. keep your horse well in hand, and be all eyes and ears. damn this moon! it picks us out like three crows on a field of snow, and this infernal road's as straight and level as a plank. ride in any available shadow!" i went ahead and set them an easy pace. work had begun again, the work of my heart's desire, and all along the chester road there was no blither spirit than mine that night. i was astride a flaming sorrel, no match for sultan, but still a good sound horse. he knew i was his master and so i made him a friend, patting his neck, crooning to him, and giving him a lick of sugar out of my hand. the danger we were in was like wine to my heart. enemies ahead and enemies behind, and this bare, bleak, moon-smitten road between. now and again, for remembrance' sake and the joy of it, i cocked my ear to pick out the patter of margaret's mare from the heavier, longer strides of sultan. yes, there she was, doubtless murmuring italian love-ditties to her happy inmost self and thinking of--pshaw! this was romancing, and another's romance at that, and it deadened me against my will, while here was a man's work to do. so i turned to it and lived. i examined the holsters, according to master freake's orders. i found a pair of pistols which, even in the pale moonlight, looked what they indeed were--handsome, accurate weapons, the best work of the best gunsmith in london. i was the equal of most men with the pistol, and usually had, indeed, a capital pair at the hanyards, but jack had taken them off with him on his dragooning. over and above the pistols and their ammunition i found a sizeable leathern bag, and the feel of it to my fingers showed that it was chock-full of money. when i did turn it out next day, i found near on sixty pounds, mostly in guineas and half-guineas, and a note: "dear lad, this town is very bare of guineas and many of them are lighter than the law alloweth, but you shall have more as occasion offers.--your friend, j. f." i turned to the road again with a merrier heart than ever, for i thought, as smite-and-spare-not would have thought before me, that the very handiwork of god himself was here displayed, in that the seemingly most untoward events of our journey had been turned into means of strength and assurance. had i, as i ought to have done, brought money of my own from the hanyards, i should never have started highwayman, and so never have met master freake on wes'on bank. three miles or more we made in this manner, and i had heard nothing more alarming than the hoot of an owl from an ivy-crusted elm. some distance back the road had climbed slightly for a space, then fallen into the level again, and now ran, open and unhedged, across the bleaky top of a barren upland. i chirruped to the sorrel and gave him another lick of sugar to comfort him. a moment later, i knew by the forward cock of his ears and the swift up-shake of his head that something was in the wind, and strained my own ears to listen, for there was nothing of note visible ahead or around. from far ahead came the faint rattle of hoofs on the hard road. i pulled up, and, a moment later, margaret and the colonel stopped beside me. "what is it?" asked the latter. "horse coming this way, sir," was my reply. the sounds were already plainer. for a full minute he listened carefully. "a good number of them, and making a smart pace," he said. "it can only be kingston's advance guard falling back. most likely the van of the highlanders has beaten up their quarters. once past them we shall be--hello! slids! what's that? reinforcements! egad. oliver, we're between the hammer and the anvil." he turned his head round sharply and so did margaret and i. from behind us came again the unmistakable rattle of a body of horse. we were trapped completely. "this is damned annoying," said the colonel. he looked casually around, as indifferently as he would have looked round the guest-room of the "rising sun," and added, "follow me, and ride as if the devil were at your tail." he turned off into the bare, flat country, and we after him. how we rode! he was making for a little group of trees, some dozen wind-sown pines, stuck like a forlorn picket in enemy country a stone's-throw from the road. we got there in a bunch, for there was no time for sultan's pace to count. "damn the moon!" he said, and dismounted. "but this is better than nothing. take off margaret's saddle, oliver." i got down, and assisted margaret to dismount. she thanked me, briefly and smilingly, as unperturbed as the gaunt pine beneath which she stood. the colonel and i changed the saddles, and in a few seconds margaret was on sultan. i asked him in vain to take the sorrel and leave the mare to me, for she was getting restive, and the colonel was not quite so able as i was with a strange horse. i insisted, however, in taking off my coat and wrapping it about the mare's head, and, being thus blanketed, she gave us no further trouble. by the colonel's orders, margaret, on sultan, took her place between us, heading for the open country, while he and i turned to the road. the thin, straggling pine-branches cast but little shadow, and i knew it was next to impossible for us to pass unnoticed. "now, madge," said the colonel, "it's bound to come to a fight. as soon as the fun begins, off you go like the wind into this bog-hole in front of you, and in five minutes you'll be out of danger. make a detour round to the road again, keep the moon behind your back, and push on to the nearest inn. oliver and i will join you there, if so god wills. if we don't, you're on the chester road. have you your money still?" "yes, dad." "you understand, madge?" "quite clearly." "then kiss me, sweetheart." she kissed him without a word, and turned to look goodbye to me. for a moment i went all aquiver with emotion. this wonderful new life of mine had at times to be lived in the outskirts and suburbs of death. fortunately, a thought came into my head, and i tugged out the leathern bag and thrust it into her hand. "don't leave that under the bed," said i, and, being very bold, as one may be with death at one's door, i drew her gloved hand, with the bag in it, towards me, and kissed it. she said nothing to me, but the light in her eyes was like moonlight on the dancing surface of a mountain spring. "look to your pistols, oliver," ordered the colonel briefly and crisply. "see your tuck slips easy in the scabbard. another minute will decide. you and i can easily give madge all the start sultan requires." "easily, sir," i answered stoutly. "good lad!" said the colonel. and margaret, leaning across until her lips were near my cheek as i bent to see what she wanted, said, for the third time, "well done, fisherman!" i laughed lightly and was glad, for was not this calm, brave, splendid woman thinking of how we two had met? from the first cock of the sorrel's ears to this so characteristic remark of margaret's could not have been five minutes, and now, although owing to the downward slope to our left i have mentioned, and its corresponding slope to the right, neither body was yet in sight, they were so nearly on us that differences between them became obvious. the southern troup was small, was not travelling beyond a smart trot, and was, so far as the men were concerned, absolutely quiet. the body from the north was large, was forcing a hot gallop, and much noise and shouting came from the troopers. it was plain that we were in for it. the men from newcastle were no doubt coming north as a reinforcement, but it was absurd to suppose that they had not been told of our doings and of our escape northwards. they had not overtaken us, and we must be on the road somewhere. the men from the north had not met us. never since the world began had two and two been easier to put together. there was only one place for us to be in and this was it. a short parley, a glance our way, and an overwhelming force would dash at the picket of pines. the bare road lay there in the moonlight, half a mile of it in clear view on either hand. the two bodies came in sight within a few seconds of each other, and the colonel snapped his fingers and chuckled. from the north a wild rush of spurring, flogging, shouting, cursing horsemen, about a hundred of them. no order, no discipline, no soldiership--nothing but mad haste and madder fear. the mare began to plunge, and the colonel, leaping off, nearly strangled her in the coat. the sorrel got uneasy but gave me no real trouble. sultan took not the slightest notice of the din behind him, and leisurely cropped the tough bussocks of grass at his feet. i looked to the road again. the southern body was small, not more than a score, compact, riding smartly but with military order and precision. the man at their head, the officer in command, no doubt, spurred on and began to shout at the oncoming northerners. he might as well have spoken fair words to an avalanche, and the men behind him began to waver and most of them pulled up. it was useless. the torrent swept into them and bore them backward, tumbling some of them over, men and horses together, but incorporating most of them in its own madness. in less than five minutes the last batch of dragooners had cursed and spurred themselves out of sight, and the bright moon shone down on a road once more bare and white save for a few scattered patches of black. the colonel uncovered the mare's head and nuzzled her. all he said was, but that very gleefully, "geordie, my boy, i'll be routing you out of st. james's within the fortnight. i'll learn you to neglect the king of sweden's colonels! damme, oliver, it made me think of pharaoh's kine--one lot eating the other up. now, sweetheart my madge, we'll have your pretty eyes a-bye-bye in no time." "i never saw anything so funny in my life," said margaret. "on with your coat, oliver, before you take cold." from all of which i learned to take, as they did, the fat with the lean in soldiering, and not to care a brass farthing which it was. still, i was as yet so young at the game, that, though i was careful to swagger it out and say nothing, i did wonder why the body from the south was so small. and i wonder as i write whether it was or was not the mistake of my life merely to wonder then. chapter xiv "war has its risks" i slept unsoundly and in snatches. margaret was in the room beneath me, "dreaming in italian," thought i, in unhappy imitation of her dainty gibe at her father. a problem was on my mind, and that was ever with me an enemy to sleep. i meant being the best of soldiers, and this that worried me was a military problem. to be short, i could not help asking myself, "were the dragoons from the south intended as a reinforcement to the horse from the north?" and somehow i could not think they were. as the top-dog spirit in me put it: "it was like sending jack to reinforce me. _quod est absurdum_." time the explainer permits me to be frank. there was this other side to my problem that i could not bring myself to be sure the colonel's escape had come merely by happy chance. he was no party to contriving it, of that i never doubted, but it did look like a contrivance. we had been at the "rising sun" for six hours or more. stone, the nearest head-quarters of cumberland's forces, was only nine miles south of it, yet no attempt had been made to follow the fugitive. no, thought i again, that's wrong. weir was sent on his track and actually found him. but this was as useless, so it seemed, as sending twenty dragoons, hundreds being available, to reinforce a thousand stout horse. there was no proportion between the ends proposed and the means adopted. if the handful of dragoons were not a reinforcement, it was a pursuit of us, and this posed another problem. why had the pursuit been allowed to flag all the afternoon and evening, to be taken up again far on in the night? what fresh fact, if any, had determined it? i could think of none, nor, on reflection, was one wanted, since both master freake and jack had last night witnessed to the worn-out state of brocton's horses. consequently his dragoons would have been sent after the colonel earlier had they been fit. their coming, when fit, proved their anxiety to retake him. therefore he was not allowed to escape, and the conclusion of my argument hit its major premise clean in the teeth. "oliver, my boy," said i to myself, "say a bit of virgil and go to sleep. these matters are beyond you." i picked on a passage and started mumbling it to myself. it was a lucky hit, for when i had in solemn whispers rolled off the great lines in the sixth aeneid which foretell the work and glory of rome, i thought of my lord ridgeley, thiever by cunning process of law of most of my ancient patrimony, and his blackguard son, my lord brocton, lustfully hunting the proud, gracious woman beneath, and i said grandiosely to myself, "rome's destiny is thine too, oliver wheatman of the hanyards, and these betitled scullions are the proud ones you shall war down." the notion was so soothing that i fell asleep again. i have leaped over uninteresting but by no means unimportant events. we were staying the night at a wayside hostel, called the "red bull," situated at the point where a cross-road cut the main road. we were still in staffordshire, a matter on which margaret had laughingly placed the utmost importance, though an urchin, standing by the rude signpost, could have flung a pebble into cheshire. houseroom was of the narrowest, and i was tucked away in the attics, in a room i had to crawl about in two-double, walking upright being out of the question. it was the grown-up daughter's room, and she had been bundled out to make place for me, a fact i did not learn till it was beyond need of remedy. the lass had a good pleasant woman to mother, but her father, the host, was an ill-conditioned, surly runt, whose only good point was a still tongue. margaret was in the room below, and her father next to her along a narrow gangway. from my attic i got down to this gangway by means of a staircase hardly to be told from a ladder. the gangway, just past the colonel's door, became a little landing whence three or four steps led down to a larger landing, from which one could mount up to the other and corresponding half of the house or descend to the entrance hall with which the various rooms of the ground floor connected. i awoke again in a dim dull dawn. tired of these bouts of wakefulness i got off the bed--for i was lying full-dressed even to my boots--and crept softly to the window. i would keep watch and ward for margaret, as a true knight oweth to do. then, if my obscure misgivings were unfounded, i should at any rate have done my duty. there had been a slight fall of snow, enough to cover the ground and bring everything up into sharp relief. my window was a dormant-window, its sill being about four feet from the eaves. i flung it open, careful not to make a sound, pushed out head and shoulders, and took stock. i dipped my fingers in the snow and found there was near an inch of it. the "red bull" stood back from the road, and on each side of the inn proper, outhouses and stables jutted out to the wayside. drawn up under a hovel on the left was a huge wagon piled with sacks, probably of barley bound for leek, a town renowned for its ale. without was silence and stillness, as of the grave, and it was nipping cold, but my mind was happily busy, having so many delicious moments to live over again. if by some unhappy chance i never saw her again and lived to be a hundred, i should never tire of my memories. she had as many facets as mr. pitt's diamond, as many tones as the great organ in lichfield cathedral. to know her had enriched my life and opened my mind. what propertius had said of his cynthia, i repeated to myself of my margaret, _ingenium nobis ipsa puella est_. 'my' margaret! well, it did her no harm for me to think it, and, after all, the sly, silly babblings of my under-self could be shouted down by the stern voice of common sense. here, under the stress of a new force, my thoughts flew off at a tangent, and i said to myself, "bravo, romeo! you shall find me a rare juliet." i had, indeed, much ado to keep from laughing aloud, as my situation was delicious, not to say delicate. for, on a sudden, noiselessly as the beat of a bat's wing, two feet of ladder had shot up above the eaves, and even now an ardent lover was hasting aloft, dreaming of lispings and kissings to come. i mustn't frighten him too soon or too much or he'd drop off, but as soon as he was fairly on the slope he should sip the sweetness of lips of steel. so i crept back, got a pistol, and stood to the left of the window. i waited till his body darkened the room and then took a furtive look at him. it was no village lover climbing up at peep of dawn to greet his lass. it was one of brocton's dragoons, one of the five who had been at the hanyards. in a twink i shot him. without a word, he slithered down the tiles, leaving a mush of blood-red snow. his right leg slipped aslant between two rungs of the ladder, and his body, checked in its fall, swung round and dangled over the eaves. in the room was a large oaken clothes chest. i dragged it to the light, tilted it on end, and jammed it into the gable of the window, which, luckily, it fitted completely, and so blocked any further attack from the roof. snatching up my weapons, i tumbled down the ladder, only to hear the heavy tramping of feet upstairs. standing by margaret's door, i waited until the head and shoulders of the first man came in sight. he carried a lantern, and its yellow rays lit up for me the ugly face of the sergeant of dragoons. i fired my second pistol at him, crashing the lantern to pieces. down he went, whether hit or not i did not know. in the darkness i heard the rush of a second man who came on so fearlessly and fast that he was far into the passage before i met him with a fierce thrust of my rapier. i thrilled with the zeal of old smite-and-spare-not as, for the first time, i felt the point of my rapier in a man's body, and drove it home with a yell. down he went too, with a gurgle of blood in his throat, and margaret, coming out of her room, stumbled over his body as she raced after me along the passage. the colonel was at the stair-head before me, but there was, for the moment, no work for him. the enemy had tumbled noisily downstairs into the hall, and were collecting their scattered wits after their first rout. to my regret, the raucous cursings of the sergeant showed that he had not been killed and apparently not even hit. "god damn ye!" he yelled. "ten of you driven back like sheep by a raw youth. i'll settle with ye for it. think i picked ye out of the stews and stink-holes of london to stand this? there isn't one of ye with the guts of a louse. i'll take the skin off the ribs of you for this, damn ye, and most of your pimp's flesh along with it!" "what sort of guts was it brought yow tumblin' down so quick?" put in the surly voice of the landlord. "yow cudna 'a come any faster if yer blasted yed 'ad been blown to bits instead of my lantern." some of the men laughed at this, whereon the sergeant blasphemed enough to make a devil from hell shiver. he cowed the dragoons, but the innkeeper only growled, "a three-bob lantern blown to bits! fork out three bob!" "i'll have him if i have to blow the house to bits!" vociferated the sergeant. "fork out three bob!" repeated the host. not a word had passed between us on the stair-head, and now, at the sound of preparations for a fresh assault, the colonel took each of us by the arm and led us into his room. "the stair-head cannot be held against fire from the opposite landing," he whispered. when inside, he locked the door, and i helped him pile the bed on end behind it, heaping all the other furniture against the bed-frame to hold the mattress and bedding up against the door. margaret, at a brief word of command, had meanwhile kept watch through the window. "that's a fair defence," he said contentedly. "what are these devils?" "brocton's dragoons," said i. "i've settled two of them, one on the roof and one in the passage." "good lad! ten of 'em would be long odds in the open; here we ought to have the laugh of them. load your pistols! damme, it's a bit chilly. fortunately there's some warm work ahead." he stamped up and down the room, swishing his arms round his body, and stopping every now and again to make some trifling change in our hurriedly contrived barricade. margaret stood by quietly at the window, and when i had reloaded my pistols, i joined her there. the ladder had been shifted and now lay along in the snow. there, too, lay the body of the dragoon i had shot, crumpled up in his death-agony. a brood of owls were clucking and cluttering about under the hovel, and there, too, leaning against the rear wheel of the wain, were a lumpish wagoner and our surly host. the one was stolidly smoking, the other was holding the battered lantern out at arm's length, and i could, as it were, see him growling to the lout at his side, "'ew's to fork out for this'n?" a girl went towards them from the house, circling, with averted head, far round the dead dragoon, bearing them from the kitchen a smoking jug of ale. "in england," said margaret, "snow adds the charm of peace and purity to the countryside. there's never, i should think, enough of it to give the sense of utter desolation and deadness that it gives one in russia." "it's so uncertain with us," was my reply. "i've known a whole winter without a snowflake, and i've walked knee-deep in it in may." the colonel stopped his marching and swishing and came to the window. "don't bother, madge," said he. "we'll pull through. hallo, i didn't see yon wagon last night." he took out his snuff-box and, hearing the noise of the enemy in the corridor, walked with it in his hand across to the door. he tapped his box with accustomed preciseness, but i, a step behind, having lingered for a last look into margaret's eyes, heard him mutter, "damn the wagon!" "ho, there within, in the king's name," shouted the sergeant. "ho, there without, in the devil's name," mimicked the colonel. "i want speech with colonel waynflete," shouted the sergeant. "then, seeing that colonel waynflete cannot at the moment give himself the pleasure of slitting your ruffian's throat, you may speak on," was the reply. "you and your daughter may proceed on your way unharmed if you surrender. it's only wheatman the farmer, now with you, that i want." he could be heard all over the room to the last syllable, and margaret quickly left her place at the window and came towards us, but the colonel in a stern whisper ordered her back. "how dare you leave your post! watch that wagon!" she crimsoned and returned. "if master freake were here, oliver, i think he would remark that there was no market for colonels to-day," said her father to me with a wry smile. he gave the lid of his snuff-box a final tap, opened it, and held it out to me. in the sense of the term known to fashionable london, he was not a good-looking man, but as he stood there, waiting gravely while i took my pinch, he had the irresistible charm of the highest manliness. "do you agree, colonel?" bawled the sergeant. "i do not," he shouted, and took his snuff with great relish. "by god," and now the sergeant roared like a wounded bull, "i'll have you all in ten minutes." then, as an afterthought, he added, "here, i say, you wheatman, do you agree?" "certainly," said i, "i'll come at once." and i should have gone, there and then, but for the colonel, who, as i laid a hand on the nearest piece of our barricade, promptly said, "i've only one way with deserters," and levelled a pistol at my head. "for margaret's sake, sir," i pleaded in low tones. "let me go!" she had flown like a bird across to us, and so heard me. "i had hoped you thought better of me, master wheatman," she said coldly, and went back to her watching. the sergeant heard, or at least understood, what had been said in the room. we heard him say, "you know your job. fifty guineas for wheatman, dead or alive. any man who touches the girl will be flogged bare to the bones." then we heard him walk off along the corridor. the dragoons without made no attempt on the door, and we joined margaret at the window. hardly had we got there when half a dozen dragoons dashed out of the porch and ran for the road. the colonel flung the window open and emptied both his pistols at them, but they zigzagged like hares and the shots appeared to be thrown away. in the road they halted, formed a line in open order, and levelled their carbines at the window. all three of us moved aside, the colonel tugging margaret with him to the right while i hopped to the left. "take it easy, oliver," he said very good-humouredly. "until they think of the wagon we're safe enough on this side. these walls would almost stand up to a carronade." with a clash the first bullet came through the window and knocked a huge splinter off a bedpost. there were six shots without, and six bullets spattered in a small area opposite. "that's quite good shooting," said the colonel. "much better than i expected from such poor stuff." i told him what jack had said about the mixed quality of brocton's dragoons. these good shots, i explained, were picked men off the ridgeley estates, probably gamekeepers and bailiffs. "very like," he said. "they're used to shooting but not to fighting. rabbits are more in their line." there was no stir in the passage, and i wondered what the job was these men had in hand. the fusillade at the window was kept up unceasingly, generally in single shots, sometimes in twos and threes. the barricade took on a ragged appearance. i occupied my mind in thoughts of margaret. she was in the corner, beyond her father. the bullets had by now nearly cleared the window of glass, fragments of which covered the floor of the room. through the cracking and spluttering we at last heard the noise of a wagon moving. the colonel and i leaped up and peered round the edge of the window. it was being pulled by two horses, and was shifted till it was exactly opposite the window, and to my surprise some twelve feet distant. the sacks made a firm platform level with the window-sill. flush with the window it would have made an admirable means of attack, but why the space between? while the wagon was being put in position, there was a cessation of firing. we saw the six dragoons from the road climbing on to the wagon, while as many again joined them from the inn. the colonel said, "now's our chance!" and fired carefully. one man, who was poised on the rear wheel, fell into the road and hopped round to the back of the wagon holding his right foot in his hand; another, already mounted, sprawled full length on the sacks. "that's the way," he said, with much satisfaction, and stepped aside to reload. "see if you can improve on it." by this, under orders from the sergeant, two or three dragoons were creeping under the wagon to fire from behind the wheels. i dropped a man standing at the horses' heads and then, in the nick of time and on second thoughts, made sure of the mare and hit her in the neck. she squealed, kicked, and plunged, and the other horse sharing her fears, they began to drag the wagon off. the sergeant and two or three men leaped at them and managed to quiet them, and then took them out of the traces to save further trouble of the sort. the colonel, meanwhile, having reloaded, brought down another dragoon with one shot, and ripped open a sack with another. it was barley. for perhaps a minute the window had been as safe as her corner, and margaret had been quietly watching the scene. now, with seven or eight men lying on the top of the sacks, with a stout row of them piled in front as a bulwark, it was time for us to run to cover again. this time, of her own accord, she came my side, and nestled beyond me in the nook between the wall and my body. the men in the passage still made no sign. "slids, oliver," said the colonel, "i can't see this ugly devil's game yet, but, whatever it is, you came near to spoiling it. damme, it was a good idea to pepper the horse. curse me! where were my fifty years of soldiering that i couldn't think of it?" "i suppose it comes from my being--" the sweetest and whitest fingers in the world closed my mouth, and margaret, thinking that i was on the verge of backsliding, whispered in my ear, "the readiest-witted gentleman in england." i tingled with the joy of her touch, and turned to her so that i might go on into the coming fight with her last shade of emotion burnt into my memory. a stream of lead poured through the window, but the spluttering of bullets on the walls of the room had no more effect on me than the pattering of hailstones. "may i finish my sentence, madam?" "not as you intended, sir." "i can't go back on old bloggs' teaching, madam." she pouted and frowned, both at once, and the colonel bawled through the noise of the fusillade, "being what?" "fond of virgil," roared i back again. margaret laughed. could a nightingale laugh, it would laugh as margaret laughed then. before the music of it died away the sergeant showed his hand, and death at its grizzliest grinned through the window. a great mass of damp, smouldering straw, lifted on pikels, was thrust into the window-frame, filling it completely, and thick wreaths of dense, foul smoke eddied into the room, while through the straw the rain of bullets poured on, smashing and splintering on walls and ceiling, door and barricade. the colonel slashed and poked at the straw with his rapier. telling margaret to crouch on the floor, i crawled on my belly and fetched the bed-staff, which stood in its accustomed corner of the chimney-piece. it made a much more serviceable tool for the job, and i flung it across to the colonel, who seized it and worked it like a blackamoor till he was almost the colour of one, and had, to judge by his voice and demeanour, got almost beyond his german in his rage. asking for margaret's handkerchief, i tied it loosely round her mouth, my heart near to bursting as i looked into her calm and patient face. then i lay down flat and wormed out into the room and, after a hard struggle, wrenched off one of the rods which carried the rings of the bed-curtains. i remember that, as i lay there, writhing and struggling, i counted the bullets, eleven of them, as they spattered about me. however, i got back to margaret's side untouched, and poked and thrust and slashed to make a hole near her face between straw and window-frame. our efforts were practically useless. the straw was cunningly fed from below, and the pall of smoke was now so heavy and dense that the fringe of it was settling down on margaret's tower of yellow hair, and as i watched the rate at which it was falling, i knew the end was coming. the colonel had worked with the energy of despair to tear down the vile enemy that was killing us by inches, and now suddenly collapsed and fell like a log to the floor. margaret would have crawled to him, but i kept her by main force against the wall while i wriggled out of my coat. "we have one chance left, margaret," said i. "your father is only overcome by the smoke--see, there's no sign of a wound about him--and his fall is a godsend. give me your other handkerchief and lie down flat, face to the floor and close to the window, and listen for my next instructions." she did so without a word. i wrapped my coat loosely about her head, and before i could close it in the smoke cloud was settling down on her, even as she lay. i was nearly done for, but she was safe for a few minutes. lying full length on the floor, under the window, i tied her handkerchief to the end of the curtain-rod, thrust it through the straw, and waved it about as vigorously as i could. the sergeant's voice rang out. the firing ceased. the foul masses of straw were removed. then the scoundrel came forward and leered up at me. "do your terms hold good?" i shouted. "yes," he said. "colonel waynflete and his daughter will be left at liberty to go their way, if i surrender?" "yes," he said. "then in one minute i'll be with you," said i. stepping inside the room, i first of all pulled the colonel to the window, tore loose the clothes round his neck, and laid his head on the window-sill, in the good sweet air. then crawling to margaret, i unwrapped the jacket, and said briefly, "force some of kate's cordial down your father's throat. goodbye!" i returned to the window, clambered out, hung at arm's length, and dropped to the ground. striding up to the sergeant, i said carelessly, "your turn this time, sergeant. to-day to thee, to-morrow to me--it's neater in the latin but you wouldn't understand it--and all brocton's dragoons shan't save your ugly neck." "where the hell's your coat?" he demand fiercely. a cool question, indeed, after trying to suffocate me, but it was never answered. the air was on a sudden filled with the weirdest row i had ever heard. it was as if all the ghosts in hades had suddenly piped up at their shrillest and ghostliest. this was followed by a splutter of musketry, and this again by loud yells. looking round i saw a swarm of strange figures sweep into the yard, half women as to their dress, for they wore little petticoats that barely reached their knees, but matchless fighting men as to their behaviour. on they came, with the pace of hounds, the courage of bucks, and the force of the tide. it was the highlanders. the sergeant fled into and through the inn and, with the men from the corridor, got clean away. not a man else escaped. half the dragoons on the wagon were picked off like crows on a branch. the rest, and those in or about the yard, got their lives and nothing else barring their breeches, and that not for comeliness' sake but because they were useless. every man jack of them, in less than five minutes, looked like a half-plucked cockerel, and their captors were wrangling like jackdaws about the plunder. i glanced at the window. to my relief, the colonel was already sitting up, pumping the sweet air into his befouled lungs, and margaret smiled joyously and waved her hand to me. i was waving victoriously back to her when my attention was forcibly diverted by two highlanders, who collared me, intent on reducing me to a state of nature plus my breeches. there was no time to explain, neither would they have understood my explanation. one of them, a son of anak for height and bulk, already had his hands to my pockets. him i hit, as hard-won experience had taught me, and he fell all of a heap. his fellow was struck with amazement at seeing such a great beef of a man put out of action so easily, and stood gaping over him for a while. recovering himself, he snatched a long knife out of his sock and made for me murderously, but i had meantime fished out a guinea and now held it out to him. he took it with the eager curiosity of a child, looked at it wonderingly, made out what it was, and then ran leaping and frisking up and down the yard, holding it high over his head, and shouting, "ta ginny, ta ginny, ta bonny, gowd ginny!" i was saved further trouble by the approach of one of the officers, or, to speak with later knowledge, chiefs, of these wild warriors. he informed me in excellent english that he had heard the firing, seen my parleying at the window and my subsequent surrender, and desired to know the meaning of it all. "the gentleman at the window," i explained, "is colonel waynflete, travelling to join prince charles. the lady is his daughter, and i am their servant, by name oliver wheatman of the hanyards. these king's men, belonging to my lord brocton's regiment of dragoons, attacked us; we refused to surrender, and the rascally sergeant in command smoked us out. i pray you, sir, to run the wagon up to the window that i may hand them down, since the door is heavily barricaded." it was done immediately, and he and i ran up to the window together. "you young dog," said the colonel. "you surrendered after all." "in strict accordance, sir, with military usage, i used my discretion as commander of the party." "slids!" his grey eyes had the old laugh lurking in them already. "commander of the party?" "there were only mistress margaret and i left," said i. "and the peppermint cordial," put in margaret. so in sheer wantonness of joy we sought relief in bantering one another. then i introduced the chieftain, who had stood there silent and graceful, a fine figure of a man, finely and naturally posed, and mutual compliments and thanks passed between us. yet in that first minute, with margaret and the colonel perched on the sill, and the highlander and i standing on the sacks of barley, i saw another thing happen, for the big things of life come into it with the swiftness of light and the inevitability of death. a chieftain proudly climbed the wagon; a bond-servant humbly handed margaret down. as was fair and courteous, and suitable to my real position, i let him do it, and aided the colonel, who was as yet somewhat shaky. after seeing him safe down, i rushed up again and recovered our weapons and my coat. down once more, i was getting into my coat when margaret, who was talking to the highlander, looked at me and said quietly, "pray, master wheatman, fetch me the domino from my room!" she said it simply and mistress-like, and of course i shot off to do her bidding. i supposed, as i went, that it was the white snow all around that had brought out the blue in her eyes so vividly. in the inn i found the host, the lantern still dangling from his finger, notwithstanding his greater woe, and his pleasant, placid wife weeping bitterly. of the original twenty guineas of the major's, i now had only four left, and these i thrust into her hand as i passed, and told her to be comforted. from my shooting the dragoon on the roof to my running upstairs for the domino was in all not more than twenty minutes. i skipped over the man who had fallen to my maiden sword. he was lying between the door of the colonel's room and that of margaret's, and opposite one of the doors on the other side of the passage. darting into margaret's room, i recovered the domino. i was only a moment, but in that moment some one opened the door in the passage against which the man lay and so brought him into the light, and i could not help taking a look at him. my heart stopped with the horror of it; my whole being fell to pieces at the agony of it. i remember running from it as from the gates of hell. i remember reeling on the stairs. i remember a headlong fall. i remember no more. it was jack. chapter xv in the moorlands i was in bed, there was no doubt about that, and a strange sort of bed too, for it moved lightly and deliciously through the keen, open air like the magic carpet of the eastern tale. the bedposts at my feet were most curiously carved into life-like images of warriors, so life-like, indeed, that when the one on the right turned its shaggy head and spoke to the one on the left, i was not shocked and scarcely surprised. bed it was, however, for mother's soft, smooth hand was on my cheek, and under the balm of its touch i went off to sleep again. when my eyes opened again, the mists had cleared out of them and i was no longer in the land of shadows. the carven bedposts were highlanders; the bed was a litter slung between four of them; the touch was hers. somebody spoke, the highlanders came to a halt, and margaret bent over me. her face was pale, grave, and anxious. "are you better, oliver?" she whispered. "as right as rain," i answered, pushing my new trouble behind me and speaking stoutly because of the whiteness of her face. "try to sleep again. you've had a bad fall, and there's an ugly cut in your skull." "indeed, i'll do no such thing," was my reply. "i don't want carrying like a great baby, and i do want my breakfast. i'm as empty as a drum." "can you stand?" "sure of it, and also hop, skip, jump, and, above all, eat and drink with any man alive. so, if you can make these men-women understand you, tell them i'm very grateful, but i've had enough." the four tousled warriors were easily made to understand what i wanted, and, stout and strong as they were, welcomed the end of their labours with broad grins of satisfaction. they lowered me to the ground, and immediately margaret's hands were outstretched to help me to my feet. but for the black death between us, it would have been new life indeed to see the colour and sunshine creeping back to her face, and to hear her whispered "thank god!" my head was bumming and throbbing, but nothing to speak of. the gash was behind and above my right ear, so i must have somersaulted down the stairs. margaret, as i learned later, had bathed and bandaged the wound, and after my recovery of consciousness, it only gave me the happy trouble of persuading margaret that it gave me no trouble. i stamped and shook myself experimentally, took a few strides, and jumped once or twice, margaret watching me as curiously and carefully as a hen watches her first chicken. "do mind, oliver!" she said. "it bled horribly, and you'll start it again." "i believe i needed a blood-letting," said i. "should you ever need another," she said crisply, "i hope you'll take it in the usual way. how did it happen?" i had steeled myself for the inevitable question, and so answered ruefully, "i must have tripped over the domino." "if it were not your mother's i would never wear it again," she said, plucking the skirt of it into her hand and shaking it as if it were a naughty child. "i thought you would never come round. for nearly an hour, i should think, you looked stone-dead. then you just opened your eyes, but closed them before i dared speak, and lay so at least another hour. you have given me such a fright, sir, that, now you are up and about again, i'm beginning to feel i have a grievance against you." "i'm sorry, madam," said i, very soberly. "now you're laughing at me, sir," was the brisk reply. the word made me shiver. "laughing"--over jack's body! margaret was in her stride back to her mistress-ship again yet her eye changed instantly with her mood when she saw me wince. indeed, her mind flashed after my mind like a hawk after a pigeon, but i dodged the trouble by looking casually around to examine our whereabouts. we were following a track down a dip in an open moorland. across the shallow valley, and climbing the slope ahead of us, was another small body of highlanders, whom i took to be our scouting party. the sun was a dim blob in the sky, and i saw from its position that our direction was easterly. a joyous hail from behind made me spin round, whereupon i saw the colonel on sultan and the young chief on the sorrel turning the brow behind us. it took them a few minutes to trot down to us, and before they reached us four more wild warriors, our rear-guard apparently, came in view. one of them was my son of anak, astride margaret's mare, and so looking more gigantesque than ever. "good morning, commander!" was the colonel's greeting. "slids! but i'm glad to see you on your feet again. how's the head?" "it still bumbles a bit," said i, "but, truth to tell, i'm thinking more of my breakfast than my head. i'm as empty as a drum." "it's a guid prognostick to feel hungry after sic a crack o' the head," said the chieftain, smiling, and i thought with a twinge what a handsome, wholesome sight he made. "i'm another drum," said the colonel, "but deuce take me, oliver, if i know how we're to be filled. madge would have us start off with you at once, quite rightly too, and we'd neither bite nor sup before we took the road." "and where were you taking me?" cried i. "to the doctor's," explained the colonel. "there's one in a village tucked away somewhere among these hills, and we've a lad on ahead to guide us. colonel ker, who commands the highlanders who rescued us, gave us our friend here, captain maclachlan in the prince's army, and a great chieftain among his own people"--here the chief and i bowed to one another--"and a dozen or so of his stout men as an escort. two plaids were knitted into a litter, a log of a man named wheatman was bundled into it, and off we started breakfastless, as i said before." "i'm very grateful to you, mistress margaret," said i. "don't be silly!" she answered very sharply. "it is no praise to tell me i acted with common decency. and you weren't bundled in!" "i was not praising you, madam," i retorted, quick as ever to return like for like. "i was thanking you, and i venture, with respect, to thank you again." "bother old bloggs!" she said, suddenly all of a glow. "bloggs? who's bloggs?" asked the colonel, plainly enjoying the fun. "a rascally schoolmaster," she explained, "who flogged oliver into a precision of speech which i find most trying. but i must not miscall the dear old man, for i stole his supper." "i wish he'd flogged him into precision on a staircase," said the colonel. "damme, i am hungry." "i'm thinking there'll be a dub of water in the bottom yonder," said the chieftain, "and mistress waynflete shall, if she will, take her first meal highland fashion." as i firmly declined to be carried another yard, the highlanders unmade my litter and resumed their plaids. in the trough of the valley we found a streamlet of clear sweet water, and our repast consisted of a handful of oatmeal, of which every clansman carried a supply in a linen bag, stirred in a horn of water. it was not our staffordshire notion of a breakfast, but it was better than nothing. "water-brose is a guid enough thing at a pinch," said maclachlan to margaret, "guid enough to take a big loon like yon donald to london and back." donald, it appeared, liked an addition to it, notwithstanding his chief's praise of it, for he was taking a long pull from a leather bottle. this, he explained, was usquebaugh, "ta watter of life," and the spice of poetry in the description tempted the colonel and me to try a dram. the colonel probably had had worse drink in his time, but even he made no comment. i would almost as lief have had a blank charge fired into my mouth. while we all took our brose, and maclachlan squired margaret, the colonel told me how it had happened that the highlanders chanced to come to our rescue in the very nick of time. my own trouble is to get my tale straight and simple, and i have no intention of making a hard task harder by trying to interweave with the threads of my own story a poor history of these important days. mr. volunteer ray saw much more of these things than ever i did, and the curious reader may turn to his fat, little, brown volume for particulars. he was on the other side, and is too partial for a perfect historiographer, but the account of things is there, and reasonably well done too. but as what happened to margaret, the colonel, and me, happened because of the campaign of the rival armies, i must boil down what the colonel told me if i am to make my tale clear. the colonel, to his credit, as i think, was so enthusiastic over all matters military that he was rather long-winded in his account, and, in like fashion with our housewifely kate, it behoves me, so to speak, to make a jar of jelly out of a pan of fruit, which is easier done with crab-apples than words. according to the colonel, one of the master maxims of the military art is, "find out what the enemy thinks you are going to do, and then don't do it." my lord george murray, the prince's chief adviser in military matters, had acted on this plan, and had given the go-by to the duke of cumberland in grand style. at macclesfield, the traveller to london had choice of two high roads, one through leek and derby, and the other through congleton and stafford. leaving the prince at macclesfield with the bulk of his men, murray had pushed with a big force as far as congleton on the stafford road, and the news of his advance had made cumberland withdraw all his northerly outposts to his head-quarters at stone. it was the last body of horse, routed out of congleton, which we had watched from the pines last night, racing in fear and disorder back to the main of their army. before daybreak murray had sent on a force of highlanders under colonel ker towards newcastle, to maintain the illusion that the stafford road was the one the prince would take, and the vanguard of this force, under maclachlan, had saved us at the "red bull." murray himself was marching from congleton across country to leek, while the prince was marching thither also from macclesfield. murray would be there first, and did not mean to wait for the prince, but to push on as far as possible towards derby. we, too, were bound for leek, where we should be safe at last, and the end of the colonel's explanation came, not because he had said all he could have said, but because donald was yelling to the clansmen in preparation for our retaking the road. maclachlan accepted with alacrity an offer i made to go ahead and join our advance. he ordered donald to accompany me, giving as his reason: "for he kens the english fine when the spirit of understanding is on him, and ye'll easy get it on him by raxing him a crack in the wame, same as ye did back yonder at the yill-house." the highlander maintained the expression of a wooden doll throughout this explanation, but, as i leaped hard after him across the brook, i overtook a grin on his face that promised well for my future entertainment. "she pe recovert," he said. "tat was a foine shump." before i could reply margaret was upon us. "the mare is quite frisky. she thinks me a mere _fardello_ after donald. you're sure you're all right, oliver?" "so near right, madam, that i beg you not to worry about me further," said i. "worry about you or worry you?" it hurt me to have her go so chilly all of a sudden, but i replied frankly, "both. it does indeed worry me to have you breakfastless in these wilds through my doings." "yes," she said, smiling down on me, "i ken fine the distinction between water-brose and ham and eggs." "we are still in staffordshire," i said cheerily, "and i'll go ahead and see what i can do for you. now, donald, your best foot first!" he and i started ahead again, leaving her waiting for the rest of the party, detained by some explanation on the colonel's part of the military aspects of the lie of the land. "there's a wheen foine leddies wi' ta prince, got bless him," said donald, "but when yon carline gets amangst 'em she'll pe like a muircock amangst a thrang o' craws. she'll ding 'em a'." i expected that donald would cherish ill will to me for my blow, but in this i was wrong. so far from bearing me a grudge, he quite obviously liked me for it. he had a fist, or nief, as he called it, nearly as big as a leg of lamb, and almost the first thing he did when we were alone was to hold it out, huge, dirty, and hairy, and put it alongside mine. he scratched his rough head in his perplexity. "at gladsmuir," he said, "'er nainsell did take ten southron loons wi' 'er own hant, wi' nobody to help 'er, an' now one callant had dinged 'er clean senseless wi' nothin' but a bairn's nief." "it wasn't clean fighting, donald," said i. "nothing but a sort of trick. if you were to hit me fair and square i should snap in two like a carrot. tell me how you captured the ten men!" it was a longish story, at any rate as he told it, in quaint uncertain english, intermixed with spates of his own gaelic as he got excited over the account of his prowess. one of them was an officer, and donald finished up by ferreting out of his meal-bag a magnificent gold watch, lawful prize from his point of view, taken out of the officer's fob. "ta tam t'ing was alife when i raxed 'er out of 'is poke," he said, "but 'er went dead sune after. she can 'ave 'er for a shillin'." he had no idea, nor could i make him understand, what it was and what purpose it served. when it had run down for want of winding, to his simple mind it had 'died.' he pushed it into my hand as indifferently as if it had been a turnip, and i promised to pay him at leek, for my pockets were empty again and margaret had the bag. "'er nainsell wad rather 'ave a new pair o' progues," said he. "and what for does anybody want a thing tat goes dead to tell ta time wi'? t'ere's ta sun and ta stars, tat never go dead." as we walked rapidly we overtook our party soon after settling the matter of the watch. the plough-lad who had been pressed as guide told me we were near the road to leek, and i let him return. we dropped down to a rough road running our way, and a mile or so along it the roofs of a village came in sight, and we halted till the main body came up. "what is it, oliver?" asked the colonel. "breakfast, sir," said i. we marched into the village in military array. at our head strode donald, stout of heart and mighty of hand, with two pipers skirling away at his heels, and the clansmen stepping it out bravely two abreast behind them. margaret came next, with me at her mare's head, and the colonel and maclachlan brought up the rear. our arrival created as much stir as an earthquake. the highlanders, in twos and threes, swarmed into the houses and ordered their unwilling hosts to prepare them a meal. that it was war i was engaged in was, for the first time, brought clearly home to me when i saw a fearsome highlander, with claymore, dirk, and loaded musket, posted at each end of the village. a touch of ordinary human nature was, however, added, when the children, fearless and happy in their ignorance, sidled up to the sentries and stared at them as eagerly as if they had been war-painted indians in a travelling show. at first, we, the gentry for short, intended to seek accommodation in the inn, poor and shabby though it looked, and donald was ordered thither to give instructions. the colonel and the chieftain rode along the village to observe how things were going, and this left margaret and me together, and spectators of a delightful little passage. for as donald approached the inn-door, the hostess, a sharp-nosed, vixenish woman, charged at him with a very dirty besom and routed him completely. truth to tell, donald, who had the sound, sweet nature of a child, had all the natural child's indifference to dirt, but even he, long-suffering in such matters as he was, had to stop to scrape the filth out of his eyes. this gave me the chance of making peace, and i went up and explained that we should pay for everything like ordinary travellers, good money for good fare. "oh aye!" she said. "jonnock!" said i. "you're a stafford chap," she asserted. "i am," i agreed, "and i'll see you done well by." that settled her, and donald was settled too, for his immediate wants were satisfied by a large glass of brandy, and those more remote by a bucket of water and a towel. "gom!" said the virile little woman to me, "a wesh'll do him no harm. i've got the biggest gorby of a mon," she went on, "between mow cop and the cocklow o' leek. he's gone trapesing off, with our young ted on his shoulders, to see yow chaps march into leek. there's about a dozen on 'em gone, as brisk as if they were goin' to stoke wakes. fine fools they'll lukken when they comes whom to-nate." as it happened, the "dun cow" was after all left to donald and the pipers. when i rejoined margaret, she said, "pray help me down, oliver, and we'll find the doctor, and have him dress your head. and, once out of donald's sight, i'll have the laugh that's nearly killing me to keep under." i helped her down, and said, "never mind doctor! that fine old church yonder must be well worth looking into." "you will mind, sir," she flashed. she beckoned to donald to take charge of her mare, and then waylaid a passing girl, running from one sentry to the other, and got her to show us the doctor's. so we started thither, and as we went she said, "really, oliver, you are inconsiderate at times." "nonsense," said i. "it's my head." i was angry, not at her words, for i knew she did not mean them, but at my inability to see what the fascinating jade was driving at. "inconsiderate," she repeated firmly. "you'd be content to be introduced to the prince with a great swathe of dirty, blood-stained linen round your head, regardless of how it reflected on me." "reflected on you?" i echoed blankly. "yes. we shouldn't match. i suppose dear old bloggs was a bachelor?" "he was," said i, resigning the contest in despair. the doctor lived in a fair-sized stick-and-wattle house. he was a dapper little man, with a cleverish, weakling cast of face, and was all on the jump with the turn things had taken. he had just opened the door to us, and was eyeing us uncertainly, when the colonel and the chief, returning on foot from their inspection, having left their horses to be baited under the watchful eye of a highlander, stopped beside us. "are you the doctor?" asked margaret promptly, as if to forestall any backing out on my part. if i could have joyed at anything, i should have been overjoyed at her keenness in having me seen to. "yes," he said, but very softly. "then please attend to this gentleman's wound," she said. "is he a rebel?" he asked, so loudly that he might have been talking to some one across the street, and instinctively i turned round there, sure enough, was the parson, a pasty, pursy, mean-looking rogue, coming across to see what was doing. "it's his head i want you to attend to," retorted margaret, "not his politics." "i doctor no rebels," said he, louder than ever. "man," intervened maclachlan, taking a pistol from his belt, and emphasizing his words by gently tapping its barrel on the palm of his hand, "if in ten minutes yon head isn't doctored to pairfection, it's your own sel' will be beyond all the doctoring in england." "it's against all law," said the doctor. "i'm the law in this clachan to-day," said maclachlan simply, still tapping away with his pistol. hearing the parson behind, he turned round and added drily, "and the gospel." hereupon the parson's face took on the appearance of ill-made, ill-risen dough, and he turned and slipped off with creeping, noiseless steps, like a cat. "come in," whispered the doctor. "ye're a man o' sense," said maclachlan, and pushed his pistol back into his belt. we all passed into the hall, and the doctor made the door carefully. "that damned pudding-face is a whig," said he, "and so, of course, he's a justice. the squire's a whig, and he's a justice. here am i, well-reputed in the faculty, and my wife coming of the parker putwells, one of the rare old county stocks--none of your newfangled button-men and turnip-growers--and i'm no justice, because i'm a church-and-king man of the old school." "they went out of fashion with flaxen bobs," said i. "come on, my tousled macaroni!" said he. "there's nothing the matter with the inside of your head at any rate, though the outside looks as if you'd been arguing with the parish bull." "this is a verra fine house," said maclachlan slowly and slily. "a mere dog-kennel," said the doctor, "considering she's a parker putwell." "and i'm thinking," said maclachlan, very thoughtfully "that there'll be some guid victuals in the pantry and, mayhap, a gay wheen bottles of right liquor in the cellar." "oh aye!" said he, taken aback. "then i'm thinking we'll e'en have breakfast here and try their merits. and if it's a guid ane, i'll see you a justice, whatever that may be, when the king enjoys his own again. a maclachlan has spoken it." the doctor went to an inner door and bawled, "euphemia," and a discontented wisp of a woman answered his call. "madam and gentlemen, my wife, mistress snooks, born a parker putwell. mistress snooks, like me, will bow to your will with pleasure, nor will you mislike her table, i assure you. now, my buck, let's see to this crack in your head." he took me into his druggery, unwrapped the bandage, and examined my wound. "so ho!" said he, "a right good sock on the head. how did it happen?" i told him. "it's lucky for you, my buck," he said, "that you've got a baby's flesh and a tup's skull, and some one had the sense to wash the cut clean as soon as it was done." he set to work and made a good job of it, with a pledget of lint and strips of plaister, and meanwhile i speculated as to why, in all these bottles and jars and gallipots, neither nature nor art could contrive to store a drug magistral for the blow that had riven my heart asunder. "that's better than two yards stripped off a wench's smock," he said at last. "and a damnably fine smock too, you lucky rascal." he twittered a snatch of ribaldry that made my foot twitch in my boot. behind his back, i pocketed the priceless relic, dank and red with my unworthy blood, and followed him back to the company. we made a longish stay, and fared well at his table. the doctor was a good enough fellow in himself, but his wife, a salt, domineering woman, lived in the light of the parker putwells, and he, poor devil, in the shadow they cast. he was playing a double game too, for whenever the red-elbowed serving-wench came into the room, he roared his dissent from our lawlessness, and drank to the king with his glass over the water-bottle as soon as she went out. once when she brought us a rare dish of calvered roach and, with wenchlike curiosity, lingered to pick up a crumb or two of gossip, we had a snap of comedy, for, in his play-acting, he would take none till maclachlan, to keep up the farce, thrust a pistol at his head and forced him. whereupon the maid, in plucky fashion, threw a cottage loaf at maclachlan and took him fairly in the chest. the doctor, to his credit, rose to protect her, but she braved it out. she would, she averred, lend the thingamyjig a better petticoat than the one he'd got on. "if he mun wear 'em," she added, "he mought wear 'em long enough to be dacent." the doctor bustled her out at last, palpitating but triumphant. maclachlan had sprung up like a wild cat when the missile hit him. luckily he was flustered by the bouncing of the loaf on the table and off again clean into margaret's lap, or the ready trigger would surely have been drawn in earnest. then margaret promptly took the edge off his anger by saying with menacing sweetness, "i'm sorry the fun has gone further than was desirable, but i will not have the girl blamed for what was in her a brave deed, nor suffer any unpleasantness here on account of it. pray be seated." this ended the matter, and maclachlan, with a wry smile, settled down again to his fish. "it was a verra guid thing after a' said," he explained, "that it wasna my mouth, for it was an unco' ding. i'm half hungry yet, and, to be sure, breakfast and broillerie gang ill together." it was well said, and margaret rewarded him with a smile and engaged him in merry conversation. the colonel, who had kept silent during the trouble, now plied the doctor with questions about the surrounding country. "it's a poor biding-place for a parker putwell," he replied. "if there's a drearier or lonelier stretch in england than the moorlands of leek, i would not care to see it. i go miles on end about it to visit my sick folk, and mostly in a day's riding i see nobody but a stray shepherd, a flash pedlar twanning his way across country with his gewgaws, and now and then a weaver scouring the outlying cottages for yarn." when the meal was over maclachlan insisted on paying for it, and bestowed a shilling on the loaf-thrower. in theory, i found, the clansmen paid for what they had, and donald, being quartermaster to the party, was very busy discharging his obligations up and down the village. the only cause of dissatisfaction, but that not a slight one, was his scots mode of reckoning, in which a pint was near on half a gallon, while his shilling was a beggarly penny. it always took a whirl of his dirk and a storm of gaelic to convince a cottager of his accuracy, but he got through at last, and we reformed our order of march and started for leek. this time i took the sorrel and maclachlan marched beside margaret on her mare, for the colonel wanted to give me an account, derived from the young chief, of the prince's marchings and victories. the highlanders being astonishing foot-folk, and the colonel being full of analogies and digressions, the tower of leek church came in sight before we had got the prince out of edinburgh. a halt was called to discuss what was to be done. the colonel dismounted, and we followed his example. margaret, i noticed, coloured slightly as maclachlan lifted her down. she had been as cool and unfluttered as a marble image when she lay in my arms. maclachlan was for marching on into the town, and the doubt on the colonel's face rather nettled him. "the considerable town of manchester," he said, "was entered, and in part seized, by one scots sergeant and his drummer. of a certainty near a score of maclachlans can intake yon little clachan." "of a certainty," retorted the colonel, "margaret and one of your pipers would be enough if we only had the townspeople to consider. there's no game much easier than walking into a lion's den when the lion isn't there, but it's pure foolishness to play the game till you're sure he's not at home." "lion! what's to do here wi' lions?" asked maclachlan. "as i'm only a volunteer," answered the colonel, "and not yet a man of authority under the prince's commission, which you are, i must ask your leave to explain that our getting into leek is a military problem. i grant ye it's a little problem, since it wouldn't matter a pinch of snuff if we marched in and every one of us was promptly hanged in the market-place. but i undertook to make oliver here a soldier, and, damme, what you want to do isn't soldiership, and he'll only learn soldiership by mastering the little problems first." "like sums at school," said i, whereat margaret laughed aloud. "damme, you young rascal," stormed the colonel, "if i'd got my commission in my pocket, i'd put you under arrest for impertinence." "with great respect, sir," i answered, "i beg to say that i understand that, at a council of war, the youngest officer gives his opinion first." "that's bowled you over, dad," said margaret cheerfully. "damme, i'll bowl you off to chester to-night," he retorted. "as sure as a gun's a gun, you'll ruin oliver. stop grinning like an ape, sir, at that jade's tricks, and listen to me." "i'm thinking, sir," said maclachlan, "that in my present responsible position i would greatly value your observations on the matter in hand." this was a clever remark so far as the colonel was concerned, for he would have talked to a viper about soldiering, but maclachlan did not see, and i did, the delicate little mouth that margaret made. "my observations are simply these," said the colonel: "we do not know where murray is, we do not know where the prince is, and we do not know where the duke of devonshire is. any one of them may be in leek." "and who may be the duke of devonshire?" asked the chief. "i've never heard of him." "one of geordie's dandiprats, who has got together a big force of militia at derby, and who, if he's any pluck, may have forestalled us all by marching to leek." "it's sair awkward," said maclachlan, completely taken aback by the news. "it is so," said the colonel, "and seeing that oliver knows the rules and procedures of courts martial, he shall deliver his judgment first." "sir," said i, bowing low, "i would, with respect, suggest...." i got no further, for donald, who was within a yard of my elbow, suddenly bounded into the air and let off a most astonishing yell. then he ran up and down, like a foxhound after a lost scent, gabbling away in gaelic. the clansmen put their hands to their ears, and their ears to the wind, listening intently, whereon donald ceased his capering and chattering, and called out to us, "ta pipes! ta prunce! ta pipes! ta prunce!" "whist, ye auld fule," said the chief. "ye're enough to deafen a clap of thunder." "i'm telling it ye, ta pipes! ta prunce!" he babbled, and then fell still, and we all listened. the clansmen must have had ears like the bucks of their own mountains. i could hear nothing but the soft sough of the breeze as it swept o'er the rank grass of the moorlands, but they, maclachlan as madly as any of them, yelled their slogan, and the pipers filled their bags and blew fit to burst. like was calling to like across the wilds. margaret glowed with enthusiasm, and the colonel's eyes sparkled as he handed me the box for the customary pinch--a courtesy, i found by later experience, he conferred on very few. indeed, in my new trouble, the kindness and affection of the colonel were becoming my best stand-by. "the great game's afoot, oliver," he said. "and we'll play it to the end, sir." "good lad," said he. "donald, ye auld skaicher," said maclachlan, "get your bairns agait. the maclachlans are going to be last, where they should be first, at the intaking of a town, but the prince, god bless him, will think me balm in gilead when he sees the reinforcements i bring." he was in high feather, and it interested me to watch in another the tonic effect of margaret's presence. i took no advantage of my capacity as her body-servant, but leaped into my saddle and sat the sorrel like a wooden image as he dodged about to get her horsed again and ready for the road. he was, indeed, fit to serve a queen; the highland fashion marvellously well set off the clean, strong lines of his body, and the single eagle's feather in his bonnet was the right sign to be waving over him. the top-dog spirit was fast oozing out of me, and i sat there sourly dusting the skirts of my poor country-tailor-made coat. the men were lined up on the rough moorland track, donald at their head, and the two pipers filling their bags and fingering their chanters behind him. maclachlan took margaret's rein and began to lead her mare up the slope of the path, but the colonel called to him and diverted his attention, and she stopped beside me. "oliver," she said, "you must let me have your coat for half an hour when we are settled in the town, so that i can mend it. the holes in it make me shiver every time i see them." "you are very kind, madam," said i, still dusting away, lest she should see how my hand trembled. "oliver!" she forced me to look at her now, she spoke so peremptorily, and when the blue eyes met mine they were so clear and intent that i feared she might read my secret. "smile!" smile! i was to smile, was i? and when our kate got the news at the hanyards, the smile would die out of her eyes for ever, for jack, dear, splendid jack, was the weft that had been woven into the warp of her being. "i do not smile to order, madam," said i. she flicked the mare sharply and cantered up to the level, whither maclachlan raced after her with the speed of a hound. chapter xvi bonnie prince charlie on our way into the town a thing happened which greatly shook me, being, as i was, nothing in the world but a small farmer who had never seen the wars. at a point where the rough road cut across a fold in the moorlands we saw, half a mile to our right, a herd of cattle being lashed and chivvied away to the remoter crannies among the hills by a throng of sweating hinds and fanners. had it happened our way, thought i broodily, joe and i would be there among the like, saving our own stock from the marauders. donald looked at them longingly, but our haste brooked no delay, and besides, as he put it to me later, "it's a puir town, but, after a' said, better than a wheen lousy cattle, for i've come by a fine pair o' progues for a twa-three bawbees." leek was as full of highlanders as a wasp-cake is of maggots, and still they were swarming in. donald and the clansmen, indifferent to the crush and hubbub, clave a way for us to the market-place, where, on the colonel's advice, they were dismissed to beat for billets. i then took charge and led my companions across to the "angel," where the throng was so dense that they might have been giving the ale away. to get the horses stabled and baited was easy enough, for few of the highlanders rode south, although it was different going north again. then, leading my companions into the yard, i pushed into the inn and, by good hap, lighted on the host, nearly out of his five wits with trying to understand one word of english in a score of gaelic. "hello, surry!" said i. "gom!" said he, "staffordsheer at last." "i've heard a lot about leek ale," said i. "draw me a mug of it!" he brought it in a trice, and his face beamed with honest pride as he said, holding it up between my eyes and the light, "what do you think o' that for colour and nap? damn my bones! none of your london rot-gut, master, but honest staffordsheer ale. damme, you can fairly chew the malt in it." "i'll bet you a guinea i've drunk better," said i, with the aleyard at my lips. "i'd bet on my own ale," said he, "if the 'angel' was full of devils let alone petticoats. an', as between friends, y'r 'onour, win or lose, dunna tell my missus you've 'ad better ale than ourn." i drank off his ale and said judiciously, "no, i haven't. that's the best ale i've ever drunk," and handed him his guinea. "this'n's a bit of fat along with the lean," said he, spinning the guinea up in the air, and, countrywise, spitting on it for luck. "be there owt i can do for y'r, sir? a gentleman as knows good ale when he drinks it shudna be neglected for a lot of bare-legged savages that 'anna as much judgment in beer as a sow 'as in draff." he leaned towards me and added in a whisper, "i'm giving 'em bouse i wudna wesh my mare's fetlocks in, an' they're neckin' it as if it was my rale october." "it was thundery in the summer," said i gravely, whereat he grinned intelligently. "y'r 'onour's up to snuff," said he. "be there owt i can do for y'r, sir?" "fetch the missus," said i, "and we'll talk." the hostess came. her cheeks were brown as her own ale, and we talked, nineteen to the dozen, for at least ten minutes. in the end i snapped up the best parlour overlooking the square for margaret's use, and bedrooms for each of us, paying a substantial bargain-penny, for mistress waynflete had handed me back the bag of gold master freake had given me. it would be necessary, i found, to oust two or three bare-knees who had marked them for their own, but that could easily be done, if, as was unlikely to be the case, they were sober enough at night to crawl bedwards. these arrangements made, i pushed out and fetched in margaret, who was very grateful for what i had done, and went off to her room, while we three men took our stand on the bricked causeway and watched the doings in the square. we saw two or three battalions swing into the square from the macclesfield road, and the colonel scanned them keenly, and, as i thought, anxiously. even to my untrained eye they were a mixed lot; the bulk of them, to be sure, were stout, active, well-armed fighting men, who marched in fair order, six or eight abreast; but there were numbers of oldish men and boys among them, and many were but indifferently armed. "what do you number all told?" asked the colonel. maclachlan answered in french. there was now no mistaking the gravity in the colonel's face, and he took snuff so thoughtfully that, for the first time, he forgot me. "excuse me, my dear lad," said he, recovering himself and thrusting out the box towards me. "i hope there's a tobacco-man in the town who sells right strasburg. i'm running out, and rappee and brazil are mere rubbish to the cultivated palate." then, looking around the square, he added cheerily, "quite a show for the townsmen!" just in front of us, standing on the edge of the gutter, was a little, ancient, distinguished dame, who had been watching the scene with quick, avid eyes. she turned her fierce, scornful face up to the colonel, and said, "yes, sir! you are right. it's a show, just a show, for the townsmen. yet i remember that, thirty years ago, the fathers of these spiritless curs were as eager for the cause as is the eagle for his quarry." "so, madam," said the colonel very gently. "so, indeed," she returned. "but now, in their accursed grubbing for money, they have rooted up every finer instinct, and they think only of their tradings in silks with the court ladies of london. better a fine gown sold to godless caroline than a stout blow struck for god-anointed james." she was beyond doubt a lady of quality, but fallen on poverty and now, worst of all to her, on evil, faithless days. as she stopped, short of breath with her sharp speaking, for she was very ancient, a mean lout of a man edged himself up against her to get a better position for watching the arrival of another body of clansmen. in a fierce access of rage she struck him with the ebony stick on which she leaned and, almost hissing the words at him, said, "back to your buttons and your tassels, thomas ashley, and get grace by thinking on your worthy father!" the man sidled off, and she continued, addressing the colonel, "in the fifteen his father was one of us, and suffered worthily." "for what, madam?" i asked. "for the cause," she replied. "for what particular service to the cause, madam?" i persisted. "he was zealous against the schismatics, sir," she said boldly. "madam," was my reply, "if the zeal of any one of us, townsman or clansman, takes the same form this day, i shall certainly wring his neck. we can fight for charles without burning chapels." "smite-and-spare-not would subscribe to that doctrine," said margaret, thrusting her way gently between the colonel and me, and hooking a hand round an arm of each of us. putting her lips to my ear, she whispered merrily, "_push of pike and the word_," and then looked so winningly at me that the black shadow lifted, and i smiled back at her. and now the craning of necks at the angle where the great road curved into the square, betokened something out of the ordinary, which turned out to be the arrival of the prince's life-guards. they were splendid, well-mounted fellows, clothed in blue, faced with red, and scarlet waistcoats heavy with gold. with them were the leading chiefs of the army, and i heard maclachlan reeling off their names and qualities in the colonel's ear. the guard, in number some sixscore, formed three sides of a square and sat their horses, while one of the leaders proclaimed james and took possession of the town. the cheers of the clansmen died away, only to be renewed more loudly and proudly when another column swept into the square. here, indeed, were men apt for war and the battle, six abreast and a hundred files deep, with a dozen pipers piping their mightiest, and a great standard flinging to the breeze its proud _tandem triumphans_. at their head strode a tall young man, very comely and proper, with a frank, resolute, intelligent face. he was dressed in the highland fashion, with a blue bonnet topped with a white rosette, a broad, blue ribbon over his right shoulder, and a star upon his breast. the thronging thousands of clansmen burst into thundering volleys of gaelic yells, the waiting leaders bared their heads and bowed, and i knew it was the prince. after a short consultation with his intimate counsellors, charles walked almost directly towards us, making, as it seemed, for the fine house that neighboured the "angel." even the townsmen, as he approached, raised their hats and cheered a little, for he was on sight a man to be liked. when i hear sad tales of him now, i think of him as i saw him then, and as i knew him in those few stirring days when hope spurred him on, and the star of his destiny had not yet climbed to its zenith. i come of a stock that sets no value on princes, and i would not now lift a hand to snatch the stuarts out of the grave they have dug for themselves, but it is due to him, and, above all, due to the chiefs and clansmen who followed and fought and died for him, to say that the bonnie charlie i knew was every inch of him a man and a prince to his finger-tips. maclachlan darted out and dropped on his knee before charles, who, with kindly impatience, seized the shoulder-knot of his plaid, haled him to his feet, and plied him with a throng of questions. at some reply made by the young chief, charles turned his eyes on us, and, easily picking out the colonel, made for him with eager outstretched hands. for his part, the colonel stepped clear of the crowd on the causeway and stood at the salute. he was, i thought, the most self-possessed person in the square, and, indeed, was taking a pinch of snuff as soon as the formality was over, while margaret was red and white by turns, and i shook at the knees as if expecting the prince, in the manner of old bloggs, to call me out and thrash me soundly. the joy of the prince at being joined by colonel waynflete was overflowing. "my lord murray has talked of you," i heard him say, "until i felt that you were the one man in england that mattered, and now here you are. i must tell sheridan and all of them the good news." he turned off and called to a group of men near him, and several of them came up and were made known to the colonel. after more handshaking and chatting, the eager prince caught the colonel by the arm and was for dragging him off into the house destined for his lodging, but the colonel in his turn resisted and led him towards margaret. "my daughter, sir," he said, briefly and proudly. off came the bonnet, and charles bowed low and greeted her with very marked courtesy. "your prince, madam," he said, "but also your very humble servant. my court is a small one, and you are as important and welcome an addition to it as is your distinguished father to my army. swounds, colonel," turning to him with a merry smile, "i shall put a flea in his lordship's ear when i see him at derby. he never so much as mentioned your daughter. man, one might as well talk of stars and forget venus!" "there is this excuse for him, sir," said the colonel, very sedately, "that on the only occasion on which my lord murray saw her, which was at turin in , she was a whirlwind of arms and legs, long plaits and short petticoats." "whereas now she--but i will reserve my opinion for the shelter of a fan in a secluded corner at my next little court." then, very abruptly, fixing his eyes on me, all of a swither, with my milk-stained cap in my hand, "and whom have we here?" whereupon, strangely enough, forgetting all courtliness, margaret, the colonel, and maclachlan fell over one another, so to speak, in telling the prince who i was. for a few seconds there was a gabble of introductions, which made me feel hot and foolish. "one at a time," laughed the prince, "and, of course, mistress waynflete first." "your royal highness," said margaret, "this is my splendid friend and gallant comrade, oliver wheatman." "enough, and more than enough, for a poor prince adventurer. give me but the leavings of your friendship and comradeship, master wheatman, and i shall be beholden to you. and now, excuse us, madam, i have much to say to your father." "sir," said i, "i crave a little boon." "you begin well," he said, and added, after a little laugh, "with all my heart." "here at hand," said i, "is an ancient lady who has faced this rough crowd and this bitter weather to see the prince of her heart's desire. she is brave as a lion for you, but too modest to do more than stand and pray for you." and then he did one of those princely things that made rough men willing to be cut down in swathes for him. he strode up to her and seized her trembling hands. "nay, kneel not, dear lady," he said, putting an arm around her to restrain her. "god bless your royal highness, and give you victory," she said brokenly. "this is the hour i have prayed for daily these thirty years, and i thank god for giving us a prince so worthy of an earthly throne. the lord shall yet have mercy upon jacob." "i thank god," said charles, "for giving me a friend like you." his green plaid was looped up at his shoulder by a fine brooch, a cairngorm set in a silver rim. this he took off, and pinned it on the trembling woman's breast. "wear this from me and for me," he said, speaking with great feeling. tears were standing in margaret's eyes, there was a big lump in my throat, and the colonel was wasting precious strasburg on the cobbles in the square. when the prince had pinned it there, he doffed his bonnet, bent gracefully down, kissed her on the lips, and so left her. the standers-by now cheered in earnest, and the ancient dame fell on her knees in prayer. when she rose she plucked her robe around her, safeguarding her royal gift in her withered hands, and was for timidly stealing away. "madam," said i, "i think you are alone." "yes, sir," she whispered. i offered her my arm, saying, "allow me to escort you to your home?" the sharp eyes swept over me from my belt upward, and then, without a word, she placed her arm in mine. i looked around to bow to margaret before starting, but she had disappeared. we soon reached her house or, rather, cottage, which was in a street behind the west side of the square. she was too tottery, too dazzled, too afflated to speak on the way thither, but, at the door, when with a bow i was intending to leave her, she bade me, in a madam-like way that cut off debate or refusal, to enter with her. plain to the casual eye, it was the home of decayed gentility. here would be refined eating of a dinner of herbs, solaced by talk of prideful yesterdays. you saw it in the few things that still kept their grip on the past: on the wall an old, black painting of a knight in ruff and quilted doubtlet; a pounce-box and a hawking-glove on the chimney-piece, and above it an oval scutcheon, with a golden eagle _naissant_ from a _fesse vert_. and hope was ever new-born here, but it was the hope centred in the virgin-mother, posed in ivory over a wooden _prie-dieu_. nor did i feel that i had shifted from my familiar moorings as i bowed my head when she knelt in prayer. "madam," said i, when, with a happy face, she rose and turned and thanked me, "it is in your power to do me a great kindness." "i shall, then, most surely do it." "i ask you to pray for the soul of john dobson." "he was your friend?" she said gently. "my friend from boyhood, madam, and this morning i slew him." there was silence for a space. then she said, "i will pray daily for the soul of your friend, and for you that god will have mercy upon you and give you peace. we women, who can only pray, do not, i fear, realize how, for our men, the facts of life seem to make havoc of our creeds." "you are right, madam," i said sombrely. "for me to-day there is no god in heaven." "yet the morrow cometh," she replied confidently. "it has come for me. my mind goes back to the time when the evil began that our glorious prince is now uprooting. in eighty-eight, when i was a maid of some twenty junes, not uncomely as i remember myself in my mirror, though not comparable with your sweet and splendid mistress, we, then the ancient hardys of hardywick, gave our all and lost our all for the cause. yon scutcheon then hung in a noble hall. i have looked at it with pride and, god be thanked, without regret, during nearly sixty years of loneliness and poverty, but i shall die rich and friended in the possession of this." she lifted the brooch to her lips and kissed it, and then, poor soul, broke into a fit of coughing that racked her thin frame. a comely serving-woman rushed in to her aid, and together we seated her near the fire and wrapped a shawl around her. she seemed as one who slept with half-shut eyes and dreamed. "she's of'n tuk like this'n," whispered her woman. "as lively as a lass at a wedding for an hour maybe, and then dreamy and dead-like for hours at a stretch. she's seventy-six come june, but i dunna think she'll live to see it, and to be sure, god bless her, i shall be glad to see her broken heart at rest." she put a smelling-bottle to her mistress's nose, and bathed the white lips with eau-de-luce. "i love her no end," she said simply. it was time to go. i dropped on my knee and kissed the fair, thin, wrinkled hand. at the touch of my lips she spoke again: "good-bye, harold, my beloved! the god of all good causes go with thee!" she was back in the long-ago with her lover at her knee, sending him off to fight for the cause, and the ringless finger showed that he had never come back. i stole out of the room with a mist in my eyes. when i got on the corner by the prince's lodging, the first thing that caught my eye was a calash drawn up in the middle of the square, with two very elegant ladies in it, and a sprig of a blackamoor in green breeches and yellow doublet at the horse's head. margaret and maclachlan were standing by, and a merry rattle of conversation was going on between them and the new-comers, though margaret, her quick mind interested in the vivid scenes around, kept turning her head to sweep the square with her eyes. i had always felt and, for the most part i trust, observed the difference between us, but it struck me now like a blow between the eyes. it was easy to see that margaret, for all her grey domino, was the mistress of the gay, courtly group; easy, too, to catch the meaning of the eyes the stranger ladies made at one another as they noted with amusement the young chief's infatuation. well, he was there, and i was here, by right. i said so to myself very savagely, that there should be no mistake about it, but i must admit to a sour taste in my mouth as i pushed into a passing group of clansmen, and then dodged behind a clump of ammunition wagons, and so got into a side-alley unseen by those searching eyes. i came to an ale-house where i managed very well, for all that it had its full share of clansmen stuffed into it, making a square meal of bread and cheese and cold bacon, washed down with excellent ale. i made a point of marking myself off as an englishman by paying for my meal in the english fashion. sallying forth, and still avoiding the square, i roamed round the little town, distracting my mind by forcing an interest in what was going on. the highlanders were happy, noisy, and full of confidence--not unjustly, for so far they had played ninepins with the royal troops. everywhere they were hard at it, sharpening dirks and claymores and furbishing muskets, and such of their talk as i could understand was all of battle imminent. in the churchyard i found a number of them practising shooting, with a grand old cross as a target. they had chipped it somewhat already. i cursed them roundly and then bargained it off at the price of a few shillings. they turned their attention, with hopeful grins, to the brass weathercock on the church tower, which i did not deem worth saving. moreover, it was a better mark, and good shooting was to be encouraged. i mooned around for an hour or so, very miserable. if my mind was idle a moment, i saw jack's body lying in the dim-lit passage and the calash in the market-square. tired of watching the highlanders, i suddenly struck out for the "angel," intending to see how the horses were doing, a necessary task which i was to blame for neglecting so long. i was going at a great pace along by the shops on one side of the square and, in heedlessly passing a mercer's, had to skip aside to avoid a finely dressed lady coming out of the door, with the shopmaster, his nose nearly at his knees, bowing behind her. she was a stranger to me and, moreover, i had my eye on the spot where the calash had stood, so that, having clean avoided her, i was for striding on, but she said sharply, "what do you mean by such conduct, sir?" i cannot remember any other occasion in my life when i have been so completely taken aback. the elegant lady who stood there, a quizzing smile on her face and a roguish twinkle in her eyes, was margaret. "i've waited and waited your honour's convenience till i could wait no longer," she said. there was still the delightful mock anger in her voice, but the smile and twinkle changed their meaning, so to speak. at least i, who delighted to watch the varying shades of expression sweep over her exquisite face, thought so as i stood there, twizzling my cap in my hand, and feeling an utter fool. "you cannot expect a perfect match in this light," she went on, plainly enjoying my discomfiture, "especially as i have had to carry the colour in my eye." "no, madam," said i desperately, having to say something, but not having the faintest idea of what she was driving at. "i disclaim all responsibility if it's a bungle. it will be your fault entirely. your arm, sir!" i offered her my arm, into which she slipped hers, jammed on my wretched hat, and together we made for the "angel." of course we must meet maclachlan, to complete my misery i suppose, and he was keen on joining us, but margaret disposed of him in a way that reminded me of kate shooing a turkey off from her feeding chickens. arrived at the "angel," she led the way to her parlour overlooking the square, dragged me hurriedly to the window, and undid the packet. from it she took a patch of cloth and a hank of silk thread. these she first dabbed on my sleeve, and then flourished before my eyes. "quite a good match after all! do they suit me, oliver?" she was dressed in a cinnamon-brown joseph, buttoned at the waist, and showing, above and below, an under-dress of supple woven material, creamy in colour and flowered in golden silk. a hat of a military cast, made of some short-napped fur and set off with a great white panache, half hid and half revealed her masses of yellow hair. "you look perfect," i said emphatically. "for my prince," she replied softly. "off with your coat, and let me show you what sort of a housewife i am." i did as she bade me, and she doffed hat and joseph. she set me comfortably before the fire in an elbow-chair, and handed me a new pipe and a fresh paper of tobacco, and insisted on my smoking. then, sitting almost at my feet in a squat rush-bottomed chair, with quaint bow legs and a back like a yard of ladder, she set to work on the holes brocton's rapier had made in my coat. i felt very cubbish as i sat feeding my soul on the picture she made as she bent over her stitchery. a rare hobbledehoy i was in my villainous coat, but what i looked like in my shirt-sleeves, good linen enough but home-made and with never a shred of cuff or ruff to them, was past imagining. she was quite silent too, and though talk of any sort would have been distasteful to me then, for the picture was enough, i could not help remembering how she had rattled on with maclachlan. here was another cursed deficiency. my conversation was as country-like and poverty-stricken as my clothes. i had always ruled the roast at our market ordinaries, where i was looked upon as a bit of a fop and a miracle of learning, and even my farming was solemnly respected because i was so hard and ready a hitter. here, in a parlour and with her, so beautiful that even her beautiful dress scarce attracted a passing glance, i was dull and ill at ease. the only thing i did, except to look at her, was to let my pipe out and light it again, time after time. "the man in the shop told me," margaret said, "that was the best tobacco that comes from the americas." "i should think it is," said i; "i've never smoked better." "it gives you a lot of trouble," she answered, and stayed her stitching for a moment to look at me. "did you get some right strasburg for the colonel?" i asked. "no. is he running short?" "yes," said i. "and no marvel, either. he puts his snuff-box under his pillow, and when i take him his chocolate of a morning, he takes a long, affectionate pinch, and then says, 'good morrow, sweetheart!'" i laughed, and then fell silent and wondered. while i had been loafing about the town, she had been attending to my small whims and needs. and now, after a smart rap at the door, in flounced a sprightly, elegant lady, very gay and very certain of herself. "what a charming, domestic picture!" she broke out. "i fear i intrude, margaret dear, but i'm going to stay. the girl is bringing up the tea, and i'm positively dying for a cup and a sit-down. of course this"--turning gaily round on me, standing there like a great gawk, volubly cursing my shirt-sleeves under my breath--"is the incomparable oliver! charmed to meet you, sir!" i bowed, and margaret said staidly, "yes, my lady. this is master oliver wheatman of the hanyards. oliver, i have the privilege of introducing you to the lady ogilvie." i bent in the middle again and gabbled something. it was suitable to the occasion, i hope. lady ogilvie eyed me up and down carefully, much as i should overlook a bullock i had a mind to buy. "when davie left me at macclesfield i told him i'd be guid, and i will be guid, but i wish he hadn't asked me," she said. "never mind! at derby, when we meet again, my promise will be lapsed, and i shall flirt with you, sir, most furiously." "really, my lady," i replied, "my knowledge of the art of flirtation is merely rudimentary, but i always understood that it required two." "naturally," she retorted, "that's its great charm." "i see my mistake now," said i, as if thoughtfully. margaret sat with her needle poised for a stitch, and waited. "you're learning already, you see! what is it?" said lady ogilvie. "one and a bit would suffice when your ladyship was the one," i said boldly. margaret laughed and resumed the swift play of her needle. "indeed so, and i've struck sparks out of turnips in my time," she replied, with much complaisance. "there's a glisk of intelligence about ye now that was sair to seek when i came into the room. men are like diamonds, you must know, margaret darling, all the better for being cut and rubbed. i'll teach ye things, sir, at and after derby, that is. till then i'm to be verra guid." the bringing in of the tea interrupted us. over the cups, though margaret stuck to her work, there was gay talk about the main business of the day--the supper and ball to come. "the men will simply rave over you, dear," she said to margaret. "there's only six of us, seven with you added, you see, for no town ladies wait on his royal highness nowadays, and i'm danced off my feet. maclachlan will want you every time, and you'll be wise to have him as often as possible, for he dances like a fairy. davie's none so bad, but maclachlan is just grand. and the incomparable one," grimacing prettily at me, "will foot it trippingly by the look of him." "i dance like a three-legged bear," said i, grim enough at having my defects brought home to me. "is it that you're telling me?" she replied. "legs like yours and no music in them! well, well, i'll take you in hand, that's flat. at derby, of course." "now, oliver, pray attend to the simpler matters that i deal with," said margaret, cutting off the last needle of silk. "i've done the best i can for you. come and appraise my work!" she held the coat up by the collar, and i stepped forward and examined it. "marvellous!" said i. "it's as good as new." her ladyship screeched with laughter. "oh, you courtier!" she said. "i never saw anything better done at the tuileries. look a foot higher, you rogue!" still even there the job was neatly and thoroughly done, and i thanked margaret for it heartily. with my coat on, i brightened up, and indeed i had need to, for most of their talk was in and about a world of which i knew nothing. thanks to margaret's hints and half-lights, i did well enough. there came a gentle rap at the door and then, without further ceremony, the colonel bowed in a visitor. in the twilight at the door there was no seeing who the new-comer was, but as he stepped forward the full light revealed him. it was prince charles. "stir not, ladies, on your allegiance!" he said gaily. i rose, bowed him into my chair, and stood behind him. "oddsfish, as my great uncle used to say, i've come to save your life, master wheatman!" "you need not trouble, sir," said i, "to save what is freely yours to throw away." "very well said, sir," he answered, "and i shall not forget it." "good lad, oliver!" said the colonel, dipping for his snuff-box. "still, i must prove my point!" said charles, smiling merrily. "my court consists of precisely seven ladies and an unlimited number of gentlemen, the latter, for the most part, fiery chiefs who slash off men's heads as if they were tops of thistles. yet here are you, sir, keeping two of them all to yourself. and such a two! lady ogilvie, whose charms are without blemish--" "nay, sir," said i. "may i pull his ears, your highness?" asked her ladyship tartly. "you may," said charles, "unless he proves his point. a prince must be just, you know!" "that's fair," said margaret. "of course," retorted lady ogilvie. "he'll be right if he says i've an eye like an ox and a mouth like a frog." "save your ears, master wheatman!" said charles, grinning at me. "what's the blemish?" "davie!" said i. the prince rocked with laughter, and her ladyship enjoyed it quite as fully. "it's the smartest hit i've heard since i left paris," said the prince. "sir," said i, "be good enough to explain. who is davie?" "her ladyship's husband," he replied. "damme!" i ejaculated. "i thought he was only an ordinary scotchman." whereat everybody laughed. "a most delightful interlude in a heavy day's work," said the prince. "i am unfeignedly vexed, ladies, at having to rob you of so agreeable a cavalier, but i need master wheatman myself." * * * * * half an hour later the colonel stood with me at the town's end to give me my final instructions. i was on sultan, with urgent letters in my pocket and important work on hand. we took a pinch of snuff together very solemnly. then he snapped his box, rubbed sultan's velvet nose, shook my hand, said good-bye gruffly, and strode back townward. i cantered on into the open road and the night. chapter xvii my new hat here was what i had dreamed of. here was the dearest wish of my heart gratified. i was twenty-three, and i had three-and-twenty's darling equipment--a magnificent horse, a pair of unerring pistols, a fine rapier, a pocket full of guineas, the memory of a woman's grace and beauty, and a tough job in hand. the only material thing i really wanted was a new hat, for yester morning's milk and subsequent bashings and bruisings had ruined my old one. i had not bothered about it as long as it had bobbed alongside the grey woollen hood of margaret's domino, but, cheek by jowl with her new hat, it had become an offence, and must be remedied. the black shadow flitted in and out of my mind. i was clean and clear of all blood-guiltiness. i had struck for margaret as he would have struck for kate. fate had been too strong for us, but whatever penance life should lay upon me should be paid to the uttermost farthing. i had this comfort that, could jack ride up to me now, there would be no change in him. there would be for me the old hearty hand-grip and the boyish, affectionate smile, just as when he had run in to me on the town-hall steps. i had been commissioned by the prince to do three things: first, to deliver a dispatch to my lord george murray, wherever i should find him, which would probably be at ashbourne, twelve miles ahead along a good road; second, to carry a letter to sir james blount at his house called ellerton grange, somewhere near uttoxeter; third, to make a wide circuit west and south of derby, picking up all the information i could as to the feeling of the populace and the disposition of the enemy's forces, and to report on this to the prince in person at derby at six o'clock the following night. on this third commission the prince and colonel waynflete had laid great stress. an independent and trustworthy report was, it appeared, of the utmost importance. finally, as a dependent commission arising out of the first of the duties imposed on me by the prince, i bore a letter to my lord ogilvie from her ladyship. she had summoned me willy-nilly to her room privily. "tell davie yonder that i'm very well and very, very guid," she said, as she handed me the letter. "with infinite pleasure, my lady," i replied. "it will be true, ye ken," she asserted, as if there was a corner for dubiety in her own mind regarding the matter. "solemnly and obviously true, my lady," i agreed. "oh, thou incomparable oliver, i wish you were a lass," she said, lifting her merry, girlish face level with mine, and putting a hand on each of my shoulders. "why, my lady?" i said, straightening at her touch. "then you could give davie this as well!" which said, she pecked lightly at me with her sweet lips and kissed me. it had flustered me greatly, but she only laughed ringingly and delightsomely as i backed out of the room. and when, door-knob in hand, i made my last bow, she had wagged her finger at me for emphasis and said, "dinna forget to tell davie i'm very guid." good she was, as beaten gold, and she kept her spirits up to this high pitch to the very end. you can read in mr. volunteer ray's history of the whole affair of the 'forty-five' how, after culloden, she was taken prisoner while dressing for the ball which was to crown the expected victory. i smiled a young man's smile as i thought of it. experience was writing some items on the credit side of my new account with life. i had met a winsome lady of title and she had kissed me. margaret, behind my back and to a third party, had called me an "incomparable" something. what, i knew not,--"servant" probably, but i cared not what. mile after mile passed without incident of any kind until, at a second's notice, i rode into a ring of muskets which closed round me out of vacancy as if by magic. it was the outermost picket of the army at ashbourne. i gave the parole, "henry and newcastle," and demanded a guide to my lord george murray's quarters. there came a gaelic grunt out of the gloom; men and muskets disappeared, with the exception of a single clansman, who seized sultan's bridle and led me into the town. the general was quartered at the "swan with two necks," a very respectable hostelry, where my first care was to have a cloth thrown over sultan, and to order for him a bucket of warm small beer with three or four handfuls of oatmeal stirred into it. while this was adoing, and i was awaiting a summons to his lordship's presence, i took a nip of brandy in the public room of the inn, and over it amused myself by reading a crude fly-sheet nailed on the wall, offering a reward of fifty guineas to anyone giving information leading to the arrest of one samuel nixon, commonly called 'swift nicks,' a notorious highwayman, six feet high, of very genteel appearance, well-spoken, but a cruel, bloody ruffian with it all. the highlander interrupted my reading by beckoning me to follow him. upstairs we went, and he ushered me into a room where were two gentlemen seated on opposite sides of a table on which were a small map and two large glasses containing a yellowish liquid. the younger of them was of much the same general appearance as maclachlan, though by the look of him a simpler and sweeter man. the other, a middle-aged, domineering man with a powerful face, looked angrily at me as i handed him my dispatch. he read it impatiently, threw it down beside the map, and said, "they're coming on to-night, davie." then, curtly to me, "your name, sir?" "wheatman of the hanyards." "hanyards? humph! are you an irishman?" "no, my lord. not even a scotchman!" he glared at me, but his companion laughed, and said, "that's one under your short ribs, geordie!" "damn the irish!" cried murray. "they're the ruination of the whole business, davie, and ye know it." "of course they are," he replied, "but that's no reason for telling it to an english loon who thinks less of a scotchman than he does of a pickelt herring." "that may be, my lord," said i to him, "but i think so well of one scottish lady that i'm proud to be her humble courier." and i handed him his letter. "man! man!" he said ecstatically, as he ripped it open, "ye're welcome as sunshine in december. it's from ishbel. god bless her pretty face!" he read the letter eagerly and then thrust it into his bosom. "i am, further," i went on, "entrusted with a message from her ladyship." "god bless her! out with it, man, out with it!" "i was to inform you that she was very, very good," said i, soberly as a judge passing sentence. "what do you think of that, geordie murray? very, very guid! eh, man, isn't she a monkey? god bless her!" "i'll send the whole lot of 'em packing off back to edinburgh," said murray. "women are a nuisance on a campaign. your ishbel, be hanged to her, wants a carriage all her own and another for her fineries." "ye ken a lot about soldiering, geordie," retorted ogilvie, "no man more, but ye ken less about soldiers than a lad of ten. at gladsmuir i said to macintosh, 'let's get the damn thing over, sandy, and be back to breakfast wi' the leddies!' and we did." "you did so," acknowledged murray. "now, davie, take our courier out and feed him. i thank you, sir! you have ridden speedily. your pace is faster than your tongue." "my lord," said i, "although i am doing his royal highness such poor service as lies in me, i am not yet duly acting under his commission and authority." "what of it?" he asked. "hence i am not an officer under your command, my lord!" "excellent logic! and the therefore, my beef-eating friend, is....?" "that i would as lief knock your head off as look at you!" "when you are an officer," cried he, "by gad, sir, i'll teach ye the manners of an officer. till then, my birkie," rising and holding out his hand, "guid luck to ye!" we shook hands heartily and so parted. "he's a grand man is geordie murray," said ogilvie, as he led me to another room across the landing. "just a wee bit birsy, maybe, but these damned irish have got his kail through the reek. they're o'ermuch on his spirits of late." all his other talk was of his lady, though he looked well enough after me, and i made a good meal of the better half of a cold chicken, a cottage loaf, and a tankard of poor ale. ashbourne is noted, say the wise in such matters, for the best malt and the poorest ale in england. i am overmuch english, as is often the case with us who live in the very heart of england. the famous mr. johnson is a shire-fellow of mine, and very proud i am of it, and reckon it among the greatest events of my life that he has bullyragged me soundly for differing from him, and being right, about a line of virgil he had misquoted in my hearing. like mr. johnson, i love men and loathe dancing-masters, and these scotsmen were men indeed, my lord ogilvie, as i came to know later, one of the choicest. he was a spare-built man, in years thirty or thereabouts, with a face all lines and angles, and dotted with pock-marks. for a lord, his purse was very bare of guineas, and nature had made up for it by giving him a belly full of pride. for him, the highland line had been the boundary of the known world, so that his mind was a chequer-work of curious ignorance and knowledge. from the first i liked him for his joy in his dainty lady. she was the daughter of a cadet of a distant branch of the famous bobbing john's family, and had spent nearly all her life in france till, on a chance visit to scotland, she had been snapped up by ogilvie. they were a strangely matched pair, she from the gay _salons_ of paris, he from the misty mountains of the north; but mutual love had assorted them to admiration, for the heart of each was sound as a bell. between bites i answered questions as to how she had looked, what she'd said, done, and so forth. "was she wearing her brown riding-coat with the pretty wee shoulder capes?" he asked. "no," said i, becoming more interested. "or her creamy dress with the gold flowers all over it?" "no," said i again, smiling at my discoveries. "she's keeping 'em for london," he explained. "gosh, man! she will look divine in 'em." "she won't," said i, clipping away at the sweet bits still hanging on the carcass of my chicken. "it'll take your logic all its time to keep six inches o' cauld steel out of your brisket," he said very fiercely. "never had better chicken in my life," said i, watching him out of one eye--quite enough for any scotsman. "damn the chicken!" he roared. "why won't she?" "because she's given 'em away," i explained in my airiest tones. "the blue blazes of hell!" gasped his lordship. "given 'em away, and they cost me twenty pounds english! given 'em away!" he whined, utterly lost for words, "given 'em away! the callack's clean dawpit. twenty pounds good english money!" "nothing like enough!" said i. "you'll be sorry it wasn't two hundred." two hundred pounds english was, however, something too stupendous for his mind to grasp, and the gibe had no effect on him. while i finished my ale he chuntered away in his own gaelic. "i'll mak' it up in london," he said at length, "but it'll be the deil's own job." "it will indeed," i agreed, and drained my tankard dry. a look at my watch told me it was time to set about my second commission. sultan was brought from the stable, fit as a fiddle and eager to be going. i examined my pistols, ran the tuck up and down in its scabbard, leaped on sultan, and asked for the uttoxeter road. my lord ogilvie parted from me on the fairest terms, bringing me with his own hands a great stirrup-cup, or "dock-an-torus," as he called it. "man," said he, "i'm right glad to be acquent wi' ye. i was thinking i'd gang all the way to london without coming across a man worth fighting, much less friending, but i was in the wrang of it. here's to ye!" "my lord," said i, "you match your sweet lady. both of you have been wondrous kind to a hard-hit man." we gripped hands, saluted, and parted. it was all but pitch-dark, and the moon was not due to rise for more than an hour, but the sky was clear and the stars were out in masses for company and guidance. ellerton grange was near uttoxeter, and uttoxeter was a sizeable townlet just inside my own county, and some fifteen miles from ashbourne. the road was the usual cross-road, all of it bad and most of it vile. i left the going to sultan, who did the best he could, like the gallant and experienced creature he was. there was nothing for me to do except to keep a good look out and the north star just behind my right hand. my mind was busy going over all the memories of the last three days. i tried hard, but in vain, to skip the black part, the thought of which made me flinch as if the branding-iron was white-hot against my cheek. mentally i saw double--jack's red blood with one eye and margaret's amber hair with the other. as i rode i fought memory with memory, mingling gall and honey, now mumbling broken prayers and now singing snatches of country love-songs, and so got on as best i could. in the journey of life a man pays for what he calls for. life had given me what i wanted, and the price thereof had been death. not only was the night dark but the countryside was empty. i rode past dim outlines of houses and through vague, dreamlike villages without seeing a soul or hearing a sound. once i saw a light ahead by the roadside, but out it went as the rattle of sultan's hoofs told of my coming. it was no wonder, for these poor folk were living between two armies and wanted neither, friend nor foe. for them it was only a choice between the upper and the nether millstone. at last i came to a wayside ale-house where lights were showing. i rode up, dismounted, ran the reins over the catch of the shutter, and went in. in the low, untidy room i found a man and a woman, bent over a miserable fire, with their backs to a table whereon were set out mug and platter and other things useful for a meal. they rose to greet me, and their faces told me that they were expecting some one and supposed that i was he. when they saw their mistake, the woman stepped smartly in front of the man and said, "lord, sir, how you frighted us! what can i get for your worship?" "a mug of good mulled ale," said i. "give me good mulled ale and a little information, and you shall have a crown for your pains." i spoke pleasantly, having no need, as a mere passer-by, to do otherwise, but if i had been obliged to have dealings with them, i should have begun by distrusting them outright. the man was of the common sort of ale-house keeper, ugly, beery, and stupid, and old enough to be the father of his wife, as i call her on account of the wedding ring on her finger. she was, for the place and post, a complete surprise, being a jaunty, townish, garish woman, dressed in decayed finery. he would have slit my throat for a groat, she for a grudge. they looked that sort. the woman went into another room, beyond the little bar where the drinkables were stored, to get the spices for the mulling, and the man shuffled grumpily after her. hanging on the wall behind the bar was a fly-sheet, the very same i had read in the "swan with two necks" at ashbourne. "swift nicks" was a much-wanted gentleman, and evidently a tobie-man with a wide range of activities. out of mere vacancy of mind i walked near to read the fly-sheet again, and, by a curious chance, among the drone of words from the other room, the only one my quick ear could pick out distinctly was "nicks." this made me wary, and when the woman came out and busied herself at the fire, and called me to see what a prime mull she was brewing, i stood over her, to all intent watching the process but ready for anything. and not without need, for her dirty husband crept softly out after her, thinking to catch me unawares. i flashed at him like a jack at a minnow, wrenched a wretched old blunderbuss out of his hands, and with the butt of it knocked him sprawling back into the other room. the prime muller merely cackled with false laughter and went on with her mulling. i fetched him in by the scruff of the neck, stood him up against the bar, and said, "i think you're in for the soundest thrashing you've ever had in your life." "sarves yer right, sawney," said the woman. "plase let him off, sir. he thought yow was swift nicks." "yow bitch!" he growled. "yow set me on!" "yow'm a ligger!" she retorted. "i towd yow the gen'leman was nowt like swift nicks." "how do you know that?" i asked. "by the print," was the quick reply. "it tells yow all about him." i fetched the fly-sheet down, held it out to her, and said sharply, "read it to me!" i thought this would clean beat her, but she said, simply enough, "i canna rade it mysen, but i've heard it read lots o' times." "have you heard it read?" i asked the man. "lots o' times," he echoed surlily, and i saw the woman's fingers twitch as if she longed to furrow his ugly face with her nails. "then why didn't you know?" i spoke to him but turned sharp on the woman, and saw hell in her face. she was almost too quick for me, and answered fawningly, "the thought o' the money made a fool on 'im, sir. plase let him off. i've mulled th' ale prime for her honour." this was true and i enjoyed it greatly. i sent the man out to rub sultan down while she prepared for him under my eyes a warm drench of ale and meal. "be y'r honour going far?" she asked. "that depends how far it is to ellerton grange. do you know it?" "oh aye, y'r honour. sir james blount lives there. it's three miles out'n tutcheter on the burton road." "is it a straight road to uttoxeter?" "half a mile on yow'll come to a fork. tek the road on the right and just ride after y'r nose. fetch the drench, bob!" she carried it off well, but i felt there was a deep strain of roguery in her. still, willing to part on a lighter note, i gave her the crown, saying, "you deserve a better trade." "it's none so bad," she said. "and a better husband." "oddones! d'ye think...." she stopped abruptly, plainly caught out for the first time. a minute later i was off again. at the fork sultan made for the left, and i had to pull him sharply to the right. the road got steadily worse, but orion was clear in view ahead of me, dropping down behind uttoxeter, and i pushed on. if a man is to turn back because of a bad road, he'll not travel far in the shires. soon, however, there was no road at all, and i was plump in open country. sultan stopped and sniffed, and then turned his head round as if to tell me, what i already felt was the truth, that i had been an ass for not leaving it to him. "so ho! sultan!" said i, patting his warm neck. "i deserve all you say, my beauty! i've put you in for a nice job." the right road must lie somewhere to my left. i turned him that way and he walked on suspicious and sniffing. fortunately the moon had risen, and the jezebel's lie would only cost me a trifling delay. she would have lied with a purpose, and i puzzled myself in trying to reason it out. in a few minutes we came to the side of a spinney with a low wall of rough stones cutting it off from the field. i was intently looking ahead, when on a sudden sultan swerved so powerfully that i rocked in the saddle. i wouldn't have touched him with the spur, short of utter necessity, for a fistful of guineas, and i soothed him, and then turned to look for what had upset him. to be candid i swerved myself. most of us in these days are pleased to laugh at superstitions, provided we are in good company round a roaring fire. i was here alone in a lonely field, at nine of the clock on a winter night, and there, flittering and gliding through the spinney was a something in white. virgil believed in ghosts, and so did joe braggs, and i, by oft reading the one and listening to the other, had preserved an open mind. apparently sultan had his doubts, for he shivered and whinnied. i pulled his head round away from the ghost, drew out a pistol, and watched the unchancy thing's movements. it was evidently meant for me, for it made a slight turn and came straight towards me. then my man's logic, as margaret twittingly called it, came to my aid. gloomy as it was, i saw the outlines of some steps by which the low wall could be crossed, and ghosts, both my authorities being in agreement on this, were independent of such purely human contrivances. so, waiting till the ghost was climbing down on my side, i said sternly, "stop, or i fire!" whereon it heaved a great sob and tumbled full length to the ground. i jumped down, slipped the reins over sultan's head, and pulled him up to the spot. the ghost was a well-grown girl, dressed in nothing but a white night-gown, for i could see her bare feet beyond the hem of it. "don't be afraid, dear," said i soothingly, for she was dumb and half dead with fright. "what can i do for you? say it, and it's done. come now, be brave!" she sat up, leaning on her right hand, and turned her pallid, quivering face up to mine. "robbers, sir!" she gasped. "they're murdering father and mother. for god's sake, sir, go and stop them." "of course," i replied cheerfully, slipping off my jacket. "come on, my brave lass!" i helped the lass to her feet, put her into my jacket, jumped into the saddle, and lifted her astride behind me. "clip me tight! which way?" "round the spinney first, sir!" off we went, and this time i touched sultan with the spur and he flew along. round the spinney; slantways across a field; up and over a gate, the girl clinging to me like a leech; down a lane; up and over another gate; and then the girl's shaking right arm was thrust over my shoulder. "there's th' ouse! ', god, if we anna in time!" "how many are there?" "two, sir." i pulled sultan up at the farmyard gate, helped her down, and jumped after her. hitching the horse, we started across the yard. luckily the low-down moon was on the far side of the house, and we could run softly up in the pitch dark. as i write i feel that brave girl's hard grip of my hand as we raced on. at a half-open door we halted; she loosed hold of me, and i tiptoed on alone. from within i heard the crash of one pot and then another on the brick floor of the kitchen, as the villain, searching for hidden money, smashed them to the ground. bitten to the vitals by his want of success, he yelled, "i'll burn the sow's eye out! that'll open her mouth." with wrath flaming in my heart i stepped into the doorway leading to the kitchen. my eyes lit on a poor woman bound hard and fast in a chair, and a masked beast, his big white teeth showing through lips thrust wide apart in a grin of hellish rage, approaching a red-hot poker towards her face. i shot him, and he tumbled into a squirming heap. the other villain raced for dear life through the open front door. my second bullet got him on the very threshold, for he yelped and sprang into the air like a stricken buck, but he held on. i e'en let him go, not daring to leave the unkilled scoundrel on the floor, for he had a regular battery of pistols in his belt. the girl was already untying her mother, and her father, bound and gagged in his chair in the ingle-nook, could bide a while. so i plucked the pistols out, there were six of them, and rattled them down on the table. the man was bleeding like a stuck pig, and his purpling face and heaving throat showed that he was choking. as i destined him for the gallows, i picked him up, flung him face down on the table, and thumped him violently in the back, whereupon he coughed up a tooth. my bullet had stripped out all his grinning front teeth clean and clear, just as our kate's dainty thumb strips the row of peas out of a peascod. once the tooth was up he was not greatly hurt, and, holding one of his own pistols to his head, i bade him unstrap the farmer. as soon as the latter was free, i ordered him to strap the robber to a kitchen chair, which he did very thoroughly. the instant this job was done, he leaped to fondle and hearten his wife. she kissed him back and, without a word, feebly pointed to me, whereupon he turned and thanked me. "thank your brave daughter," said i, and then he jumped at her and hugged her in his big arms, blubbing out, "my bonny, bonny nance!" at my wish he lit a lantern, and we went out and stabled sultan. we went back through the kitchen to make a search of the front of the house. a pretty sight awaited me within doors. the good wife was sipping at a cup of parsnip wine, and the girl was again wearing nothing but her nightdress. with crimson face and downcast eyes, she stood there holding my coat out. "hallo, ghostie!" said i, smiling at her. "you want to frighten me again, do you?" too confused to say a word, she lackeyed me into my coat and then ran upstairs. to cut short her mother's tearful thanks, i led the way to the door, and we started our examination. some two yards from the door-sill the feeble rays of the lantern were reflected from something on the ground. to my great satisfaction it was fair booty to me, nothing less than my closest need, a rare good hat made of the finest beaver. the band was buckled with gold, and there was a taking and surely very fashionable cock to the brim. i sent my old one spinning into the blackness and clapped my new treasure on my head. now i could walk side by side with margaret and not be ashamed, at any rate not of my hat. "the rogue jerked it off when i winged him," said i. "gom! he did jump, that's sartin," said the farmer, whose name, i ought to say, i had learned was job lousely. it was quite a step down to the road, and we made no further discovery till we got to the gate. here it was his turn to be lucky, for there was an excellent nag hitched to a rail. it was on job's ground and he gave it a home in his stable. "it'll mak up for the crockery," he said, with great delight. back in the kitchen we found nance fully dressed and busy laying a meal on the table. she was so taken aback when i declared i was not hungry and couldn't stay if i had been, that, to save her distress, i had a bite and a sup of ale, while job fetched sultan round to the door. she was a sweet, comely maiden, and it did my heart good to see her put a horn of ale to the bleeding lips of the robber. he drank ravenously, like a dog after a hard run. he was where he deserved to be, with his feet in the short, straight path to the gallows, and i pitied him not. nance did, and it's good for the world that women are made that way. "how far is it to ellerton grange?" i asked job, who came in to tell me sultan was ready. "a matter of six miles, sir. three from here to tutcheter, and three more on to the grange." "how funny, father," interposed nance. "this is the second time tonight a gentleman has asked the road to ellerton grange." it would hardly have struck job as funny if it had been the twenty-second, but nance was quick and shrewd. "ho! ho!" said i. "tell me about it, little woman!" "i was wishing my jim good night at the gate, just before father came home, when a man riding by pulled up and asked the road to ellerton grange." "did you make him out, nance?" i asked. "not much of him, sir, but the moon shone on his face when he took his hat off to wipe his forehead, and it looked for all the world like an addled duck-egg." "well put, nance," said i, laughing. "first time i saw that face i thought it was like a bladder of lard." "you know him, sir?" "i think i do, nance, and i must be after him." out of the robber's string of pistols i selected a pair for myself. they were lawful prize, and equal in quality to those master freake had given me, so that the rascal had probably stolen them. i saw that all the others were loaded, and advised job to watch him all night and to lift him, chair and all, into a cart the next morning and drive him off to the nearest justice. job and his wife renewed their thanks when i was in the saddle. nance insisted on coming to open the gate, and on the way there she gave me full and careful directions as to the way to tutcheter and thence to the grange. she swung the gate open and let me through. then she came to my sword side and held up her face to be kissed. "good-bye, ghostie!" "good-bye, sir! god bless you!" kissing and blessing were reward enough for my service, and i rode on lighter at heart for them. chapter xviii the double six the time had not been wasted. i had had a stirring experience and got a hint of dangers and uncertainties ahead. moreover, and on this i plumed myself most, i had acquired a handsome hat. it was a trifle roomy, but a wisp of paper tucked within the inside rim would remedy that defect. the moon was getting higher and brighter, and i pulled my new treasure off again and again to admire it. it had belonged to a rascal with an excellent taste in hats. i was very content with it, and looked forward eagerly to catching the glint in margaret's eyes when she saw it. after all it behoved me to look well in her presence, and i regretted that the rogue had not shed his coat and breeches as well. no doubt they were equally modish and becoming, and would have set me up finely, though all the tailors in london town couldn't make me a match for maclachlan. a man has to be born to fine clothes, like a bird to fine feathers, before he looks well in them. the thought made me rueful. i jammed my hat on fiercely, and slapped sultan into a longer stride. the man ahead of me was, out of question, the government spy, weir. it was now a full day and more since i had crammed my virgil into his maw, and he had had time to get into these parts. thirty years before there had been much feeling for the honest party hereabouts, and among the gentry along the border of the shires there would be some in whose hearts the old flame still flickered. indeed, my own errand proved so much, and a noser-out like weir would be well employed in rooting up fragments of gossip over the bottle and memories of beery confidences at market ordinaries--sunken straws which showed the back-washes of opinion beneath the placid surface flow of our rural life. i dug my fingers into my thigh and imagined i was wringing the rascal's greasy neck, and the feeling did me good. i began to ride past scattered houses and then between rows of cottages. sultan was tiring a little, but, being an experienced horse, pricked up at the sight and cantered down the dead main street of the town. the shadows of the houses on my left ended in an irregular line on the cobbled causeway on my right. near the town end i came on an exception to the black-and-white stillness of the houses--an inn on my right ablaze with light and full of noise. a merry liquorish company it held, some quarrelling, some rowdily disputatious, and a few stentors trying to drown the rest by roaring a tipsy catch. i pulled sultan towards the verge of the shadows to see if i could make anything out, and he, supposing, no doubt, that i was guiding him towards bait and stable, made a half-turn towards the portico that ran on pillars along the face of the inn. i checked him at once, but, in that trice of time, a man leaped from behind a pillar, laid one hand on the pommel of my saddle, and raised the other in warning. he was a little man, and in his eagerness he stood on tiptoe and whispered, "ride on, master wheatman! one second may cost you dear!" even as he spoke, some movement within startled him, and he leaped back into the shadow before i could question him. i urged sultan onward, and once out of footfall of the inn, pricked him into a gallop. out of the town he fled, past the end of the stafford road, along which two hours of sultan's best would bring me to the hanyards and mother and kate, and i kept him at it for a full two miles before i gave him a breather and settled down to think out what it meant. i did not know the man from adam, but he had me and my name quite pat. he was obviously a friend, for his bearing and his warning alike bespoke his goodwill towards me. he must be waiting there for some purpose, and he must have seen me somewhere and learned enough about me to know from what source danger to me was certain to come. in this case it was plain that the danger was within the inn. the carousers might be, nay, almost certainly were, soldiers, though there had been none in the town when job lousely had left it less than two hours ago. the news of my escapade might well have leaked into stafford by now; i was very well known in the town, and the stranger might be some stafford chap benighted at uttoxeter after his business at the market. as i say, i did not know the man, but he might very well know me; he was, perhaps, some old schoolfellow, grown out of recollection by moonlight, and still willing to serve an old butty. this seemed the likeliest solution of the difficulty, and it made me very sad. the news about jack would be whispered round by now, and i could never walk the old streets again without seeing nods and shudders everywhere. _see him? that's him! killed his best friend! wheatman of the hanyards! never held his head up since! and hadn't ought to!_ the chatter of the townsfolk crept into my ears between the hoof-beats, and made me sick and dizzy. it would not have happened but for the bladder-faced scoundrel ahead of me, now creeping around like a loathsome insect to sting a man of ancient name and fame, and i was eager to be at him again. sultan, without more urging, had made the furlongs fly in gallant style, and it was time to be looking out for my landmarks. nance had made me letter-perfect in them. here, on the right, was the woodward's cottage where the road began to run downhill into a bottom dark with ancient elms: there, on my left, in an open space among the boles, the moon showed up a worn, grey column which marked the spot where, in the wild days of the roses, a parker putwell had slain a blount in unfair fight for a light of love not worth the blood of a rabbit. nance had very earnestly told me the old, sad tale, to impress the spot on my mind, for the long lane up to ellerton grange began in the shadows just beyond the monument, and wound away up the slope to the right. the road carried us up where the moon-light fell on meadows that were almost lawns, and across them to a maze of buildings. a minute later, i leaped off sultan and hammered away at the studded oaken door of ellerton grange. no man came to my summons, and i sent a second volley of rat-tats echoing through the house before i heard a shuffling of feet within and a drawing of big bolts. the door crept open for a foot or so, and an old man's head, with a lantern trembling over it, appeared in the gap. "who's there?" he quavered. "wheatman of the hanyards," i answered; "but my name is nothing to the purpose and my business is. i must see sir james blount." "he's abed," said he, "hours ago!" "then fetch him out!" the old man pushed his lantern close to my face and straightened himself to take a fair look at me. he had sunken cheeks and toothless gums, and hairless eyes with raw, red lids, and out of all question was some ancient, rusty serving-man, tottery and slow, but quick-minded enough, and of a dog-like faithfulness to the hand that fed him. "young and masterly," he muttered, "and o'er young to be so o'er masterly. but i mind the day when i would 'a' raddled his bones with my quarterstaff." "i won't naysay it, grandad," i answered, seeking to humour him. "in your time you've been a two-inch taller lad than i am. not so big o' the chest, though, grandad." "who're you grandadding? i was big enough o' the chest when i could neck meat and drink enough to fill me out. now!" as he spoke he gripped a handful of the waistcoat that hung loosely about him, and added, "once it was a fair fit, my master. it's cold and late for my old bones to be creaking about, but trusty's the dog for the tail-end of the hunt, and a blount's a blount and mun be served." "fetch him out!" i repeated. "i've ridden hard and far to serve him." the ancient took another look at me and said to himself in a loud whisper, after the manner of old and favoured serving-men, "a farmering body all but his hat, and none o' your ride-by-nights." "fetch him out!" said i again, not for want of fresh words to say to the candid old dodderer but to keep him to the point. "oh-aye," said he, and shuffled off. he left me fuming, for his last mutteration, as he shook his lantern to stir the flame up a bit, was, "knows a true man when he sees one. more used to a carving-knife than a sword, i'll be bound. what did he say? wheatman o' sommat! reg'lar farmering name!" i kicked the door wide open and watched the lantern bobbing along the hall. the light made pale shimmerings on complete suits of mail hanging so life-like on the high, bare, stone walls, that it seemed for all the world as if the knights had been crucified there and, little by little, age after age, had dropped to dust, leaving their warrior panoplies behind--empty shells on the shore of time from which the life had dripped and rotted. the old man toiled up the grand staircase at the far end of the hall and turned to the right along a gallery. the friendly light disappeared, leaving me darkling and alone. sultan sniffed his way to the door, pushed in his head and neck, and rubbed his nose against my breast in all friendliness. i flung my arms round his neck and caressed him, and in those anxious minutes in the doorway of ellerton grange he was comrade and sweetheart to me, and comforted my spirit greatly. footsteps and a voice within made me turn my head. a man came at a run down the stairs and along the hall. after him the old serving-man hastened, lantern in hand, as best he could. "sir james blount?" said i. "the same," said he curtly and confusedly. "i bring you a letter from a very exalted person, sir james," i explained. he took it from me much as he would have taken a bowl of poison. "the light! the light! you slow old fool! the light!" he said, jerking the words out as if his soul was in distress, and the ancient, barely half-way down the hall, quickened his poor pace up to his master. he, tearing the lantern out of the feeble hands, and rattling it down on a table, ripped open the letter and devoured its contents. the light of the lantern revealed the face of a man still young, but at least a half-score years my elder. he had a thin-lipped, sensitive mouth, a great arched nose, and quick, eager eyes. his mind was running like a mill-race, and his fine face twitched and wreathed and wrinkled under the stress of the flow. another thing plain enough was that the old man had lied when he said his master was abed, for he was fully and carefully dressed and his wig had not in it a single displaced or unravelled curl. this was no half-awakened dreamer, but a man with the issues of his life at stake. he crushed the letter in his hand and paced up and down the hall, muttering to himself. i turned and rubbed sultan's nose to keep him quiet and happy. the old servant took charge of the lantern again, and followed his master up and down with his eyes. "a year ago, yes! a year ago, yes!" i heard sir james say. he quickened his steps and the words came in jerks, mere nouns with verbs too big with meaning for him to utter them. "a word! a dream! a dead faith! yes, father! the devil! sweetheart!" there is a great line in the aeneid which i had tried in vain a hundred times to translate. three days agone i would have tilted at it once more with all the untutored zeal of a verbalist. i should never need to try again. there are some lines in the master that life alone can translate. _sunt lachrymae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt._ after a turn or two in silence, sir james broke off his pacing and came to me. "sir," he said, "you will know enough to excuse my inattention to a guest. i must make it up if i can. give me the lantern and wait for us here, inskip. come with me, sir, and stable your horse. gad so, sir," holding up the lantern, "you ride the noblest animal i have ever seen. woa, ho, my beauty! all my men are abed, so we must do it ourselves, but, by heaven, it will be a pleasure, master--what may i call you, sir?" "just the plain name of my fathers--oliver wheatman of the hanyards." "a good strong name, sir, though my fathers liked it not." "and you, sir james?" "frankly, it is a name which to me has ceased to be a symbol. a good fellow can call himself 'oliver' without setting my teeth on edge. i had a grand foxhound once, and called him 'noll,' just because he was grand. my dear old father consulted a london doctor as to the state of my mind. it made him anxious, you see! the great man said, gruffly enough, that i was as sane as a jackdaw. thereupon my dear dad, one of the best men that ever lived, had the dog shot!" he laughed, reminiscently rather than merrily, and was to my mind bent on getting a grip on himself again. we made sultan comfortable for the night, and then sir james courteously said it was high time to be attending to me. he made no further indirect reference to the situation, until, as he was leading me along the hall, he stopped opposite a great dim picture, hanging between two sets of mail, and held the lantern high over his head to give me a view of it. with a strange mixture of resentment and pathos, he said, "a man's ancestors are sometimes a damned nuisance, sir!" "they are indeed!" i replied. "there's one of mine shaking his fist at me over the battlements of the new jerusalem." he laughed heartily, and, with inskip trailing patiently behind us, led me upstairs, and through the gallery into a long corridor, lit by lanterns fixed in sconces on the walls. we stopped opposite a door, and he was about to lead me in when another door farther along the corridor opened and a lady came out. she was all in white with dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders, and there was a something in her arms. down went the lantern with a bang, and sir james flew like a hunted buck along the corridor. he whipped his arms around the lady and kissed her passionately, and then flung on his knees and held out his arms. she put the something in white into them and there was a little puling cry. "married a year come christmas," whispered old inskip, "and the babby's five weeks old to-morrow." a serving-woman bustled out of another room, and the lady and child were affectionately driven off to bed under her escort. sir james came slowly back. "my wife and son, mr. wheatman," he said. "you must meet them to-morrow. the young rascal cries out whenever i desecrate him with my touch. it would have served him right to have christened him 'oliver.'" i laughed heartily, for he was fighting himself again by gibing at me. he sent off the old man to scour the pantry for a supper for me, and then pushed open the door and led me into the room. for size and dignity, it was a room to take away the breath of a poor yeoman. it seemed to me a sabbath day's journey to the great blazing hearth, where two men were sitting; the high white ceiling was moulded into a wondrous design, with great carved pendants hanging from it like icicles from the eaves of the hanyards. many bookcases ran half-way up the walls round the greater part of the room, filled with stores of books such as my heart had never dreamed of, great leather-bound folios by platoons, and quartos by regiments. if i could get permission i would steal an hour or two from sleep to eye them over, and as we walked towards the hearth i got behind my host in my slowness and had to step up smartly to get level with him to make my bow of introduction. i gasped with the shock as i stepped into the arms of master john freake. "my dear lad," he cried, "what luck! what luck! how are you? how are they?" he made me sit down beside him, for here as elsewhere he was easily the most important man present, though his bearing was ever quiet and modest. he spoke of me to sir james in warm and kindly phrases, and it soon became manifest that his good word was a passport into my host's confidence and regard. the three gentlemen filled their glasses and toasted me with grave courtesy, and i easily slid out of the uneasy mood into which inskip's candour and my unaccustomed surroundings had driven me. the third man present was a welsh baronet, sir griffith williams, a far-away cousin and close friend of sir watkin wynne, whose name i remembered to have heard on the colonel's lips at leek. sir griffith was a brisk, apple-cheeked man of forty or thereabouts, very fluent of speech in somewhat uncertain english, with fewer ideas in his head than there are pips in a codlin, but what there were of them singularly clear and precise. he reminded me of joe braggs, who could only whistle three tunes, but whistled them like a lark. inskip brought me a rare dish of venison-pie and various other good things, and laid out the table for me. i left master freake's side to eat my supper and listen to their talk. they made various false starts, followed by dead silences. it was clean useless for sir james to talk about his baby. sir griffith had had a long family and so had exhausted the topic years ago, whilst master freake, a bachelor, knew nothing about it. there had been a great flood in the welshman's valley in the autumn and he harangued upon it in style, and not without gleams of native poetry, but sir james had never seen a flood and master freake had never been to wales, so the flood soon dried up. there was a silence for some minutes, busy minutes for me with an apple tart that was sublime with some cream to it, and i was settling down to the sweet content of the well-fed when sir james broke out. "mr. wheatman has brought me an invitation, hardly to be distinguished from a command, to meet his royal highness at the poles' place tomorrow." the eager welshman bounced on to his feet, raised his glass and said, "to the prince, god bless him." sir james had to follow his example, though he was in no mood for it, and it would have looked ill had i not joined in, and moreover the wine was excellent. "you will excuse me, gentlemen," said master freake. "i am not clear which royal highness is referred to, and besides i have no politics." "god bless him," bubbled the welshman. "i shall join him when he has crossed the trent." again there was silence for a space. "so the question is put, and i must give my answer," said sir james, breaking the stillness. "i must put my hand to the plough or draw back. i must keep my word or break it. can i be loyal to my father's creed and also to my child's interests? i've got to be both if i can. if i can't be both, which is to have the go-by? fate has put me in a cleft stick, master wheatman. on his death-bed my father handed on to me his place in the old faith. he was a devoted adherent of the exiled house, the close friend and associate of honest shippen, and even more intimately concerned than he in the underground network of intrigue and preparation which was constantly being woven, ruined, and re-woven up to his death ten years ago. he left me poor and encumbered with debt, for he had been prodigal in his sacrifices for the cause. it is a wonder that he died in his bed rather than on the block, but he was as wary as he was zealous. for nine years i lived here the life of a hermit, alone with my debts and my books. then i met a young girl"--his voice broke badly--"who became to me the all-in-all of my life. by good fortune i also met master freake, who took my affairs in hand for me and has helped me wisely and generously." "for ten per cent, oliver," interrupted master freake. "nonsense! wisely and generously, i repeat," said sir james warmly. "for ten per cent on good security, i repeat," answered master freake gravely. "damn your ten per cent!" "looks like it, and the security into the bargain!" said master freake very quickly. "swounds! that's just it!" said sir james. he rose and paced backwards and forwards between me and the hearth. "a year ago, sir,"--he addressed me in particular--"i should have shouted with joy at the summons to take the place among the adherents of the cause which my father would have held had he lived, and which it was his heart's wish on his death-bed that i should take for him. the cause and the creed are nothing to me as such, for i place no value on either. your talk about the right divine of old mr. melancholy, mumming and mimicking away there at rome, makes me smile. he's an old fool, that's the long and short of it. but a blount's a blount after all. i owe something to my ancestors. my word to my father ought not to be an empty breath. yet here i am, with all the interests of life pulling one way--wait till you've a boy five weeks old by a wife you'd be cut in little pieces for, and you'll know, sir,--and a dead father and a dead creed pulling the other. i knew what was coming, and i've talked about it and thought about it till my head's like a bee-hive. now, sir, give me your advice!" "i have joined the standard of your prince," i said. "damme, sir, you mock me. that's not advice. that's torture." "i have turned my back on the creed of my life and on every sound instinct in me," i continued. he stopped his walk and looked intently at me. "i have ancestors whose memory i cherish, and i have torn up their work as if it were a scrap of paper covered with a child's meaningless scribble." sir james stepped up to the table, his fine face alive with emotion. "for what?" he asked. i rose and looked straight into his eyes. "for a woman," i whispered, very low but very proudly. our hands met across the table in a hard grip. "you have done well, sir!" he said. "i asked you to give me advice. you have set me an example." he sat down again, and looked hopefully at the fire and then moodily at master freake. "there is this unfortunate difference between mr. wheatman's case and mine. i have, and he has not, given my plain word to a father." "i admit that is a striking difference," said master freake. "i am no jesuit, however, and cannot decide cases of conscience. i deal with business problems only, which are all cut and dry, legal and formal. when i make a promise in the way of business i always keep it precisely and punctually, for the penalty of failure to do so is a business man's death--bankruptcy." "there's such a thing as moral bankruptcy," said sir james gloomily. "very likely," replied master freake. "this is all nothing whatefer but words, words, words," said the welshman. "and words, my goot sirs, are indeed no goot whatefer. sir james's head is wrapped up in a mist of words, words, words, and indeed he cannot see anything whatefer. i am not a man of words, and what you call 'em--broblems." "very good," said i. "indeed it is goot," said he. "to hell with your words and your broblems. they are of no use whatefer, whatefer. our good friend, sir james, is up to his neck in broblems like a man in a bog, and he cannot move. now i have not your broblems. to hell with your broblems. my cousin wynne is full of 'em, and he's still gaping up at the cloud on snowdon, while i'm here, ready. i say plain: if the prince cross south of the trent i will join him." "why the trent?" said i. "it is my mark. it is my way of knowing what i will do. it is all so simple. indeed i am a simple man, not a broblem in my brain, none whatefer, i tell you plain. it is as this--so. if the prince cross the trent, say i to myself, well and goot. he do his share. it is time for me to do mine. it is better indeed, i tell you plain, to have it settled by a simple thing like the trent than to have it all muddled up by your broblems. i can sing you off my ancestors by dozens, right back to the standard-bearer of the great llewellyn, but they're all dead, and indeed i'm not going to poke about among their bones to find out what to do. i look at your pretty river, and i wait." sir james had looked at him during this harangue with unconcealed impatience. "i sent a letter to chartley of chartley towers," he said, "one of us, and a strong one by all accounts. at any rate, my father always reckoned him as such. so i asked him guardedly what he thought, and his reply was, 'the chestnut is on the hob. i am waiting to see whether it jumps into the fire or into the fender.' i cannot decide by appealing to rivers or nuts. there's much more in it than that." fate snatched the problem out of his hands. without a tap, without a word, the door of the room was flung open, and a dozen troopers filed swiftly and silently in, and covered us with their carbines. an officer, sword in hand, pushed through a gap in their line and stepped half a dozen paces towards us. he saluted us ceremoniously with his sword and said, "in the king's name!" behind the line a man in citizen clothes hovered uncertainly, and dim as the light was i made him out only too plainly. it was the government spy, weir. my goose was cooked. i had played for life's highest stake, and thrown amb's ace. it was good-bye to margaret. the welshman stuck to his chair, stolid as his native hills. master freake, whose back was to the new-comers, made a swift half turn, and then he, too, settled down again as indifferently as if the interruption had only been old inskip with the bedward candles. blount leaped to his feet, livid with rage, and strode up to the officer. "my lord tiverton, what does this intrusion mean?" he demanded. "it means," was the composed reply, "that if any one of you makes the slightest attempt to resist, he will be shot out of hand. close up, lads, and cover your men!" the order was obeyed briskly and exactly. the three on the left of the line attended to me, and i sat there, toying with a wine-glass for appearance sake, though the three brown barrels levelled straight and steady at my head made my heart rattle like a stone in a can. these were none of brocton's untrained grey-coats, but precise, disciplined veterans in blue tunics and mitre-shaped hats, white breeches and high boots, belted, buttoned, and bepouched. it was almost a compliment to be shot by such tall fellows. seeing we were all harmless, the officer dropped his military preciseness as if it were an ill-fitting garment. he was the daintiest, handsomest wisp of a man i had ever set eyes on, and looked for all the world like an exquisite figure in dresden china come to life. he could not have had much soldiering--the air and aroma of the london _salon_ still hung closely around him--and he was so very self-possessed that he was play-acting half his time, doing everything with a grace and relish that were highly diverting. it took all my pride in my new hat out of me to see this desirable little picture of a man. "i assure you, my dear sir james," he said, "that it's a damned annoying thing to me to have to act so unhandsomely. stap me! i shouldn't like it myself, but law's law and duty's duty, and so on, you know the old tale, and i'm obleeged to do it." he opened his snuff-box and offered it to sir james, who brusquely waved it aside, saying, "your explanation, if you please, my lord!" "damme, don't be peevish! smoke the venus in the lid? isn't she a sparkler? wish i'd lived in the times when ladies lay about on seashores like it! i hate these damned crinolines. saw somerset in 'em in the pantiles. could have pushed her over and trundled her like a barrel." "my lord," reiterated blount, "i await your explanation." "boot's on the other leg," he chirped. "a'nt i pouched you all cleverly, stap me, seeing the ink on my commission's hardly dry? didn't think it was in me!" "i will take the authority of your commission as sufficient, my lord, the times being what they are. but will you be good enough to tell me why you come?" "gadso! certainly! there's a dirty rascal in pewter buttons behind there--come here, sir, and let sir james see your ugly face!--who says you're a disloyal person, a traitor, and so forth. i don't believe him. i wouldn't crack a flea on his unsupported testimony, but he's in the know of things, and showed me a commission from mr. secretary, calling on his majesty's liege subjects, etc., you know the run of it, and i was bound to look into it. charges are charges, stap me if they a'nt. don't come too near, pig's eyes! out with your tale!" his lordship plainly disliked the whole business, and it was a very awkward thing for sir james that i was here, a circumstantial piece of evidence against him. i looked straight into weir's eyes as he came forward, ungainly and uncertainly, smiling half his dirty teeth bare, and mopping his yellowy face with a dirty handkerchief. to my astonishment he made not a single sign of recognition. i was his trump card, and he left me unplayed. "sir james is a known jacobite, my lord!" he quavered. "quite right, mr. weir, and if you propose to keep me out of bed these cold nights calling on known jacobites, stap my vitals, mr. weir, if i don't have you flung into a pond with a brick tied round your sweaty neck like an unwanted pup. anything else?" "this is a jacobite plot, my lord. there's scheming and plotting against our gracious lord the king agoing on here, my lord." "i'll e'en have a closer look at 'em. plots are damned interesting things, stap me if they a'nt, and i'm glad to see one. here's a likely young fellow," striding up and examining me. "his is a plot in a meat-pie, it seems. there was one in a meal-tub once, i remember, so the meat-pie does look mighty suspicious, mr. weir. we're getting on. and here's a plotter toasting his toes. not an intelligent member of the cabal. stap me, if he a'nt asleep! i must circumambulate and have a quiz at him." he walked gaily in his play-acting way round master freake's chair on to the hearth and then turned and took a peep at him. as soon as he had done so he gave a great shout, and then, recovering himself, burst into a roar of laughter. he clapped his hands on his knees and fairly swayed with merriment. master freake looked at him with a sedate half-smile, and said, "how d'ye do, my lord?" "very well, thankee!" cried his lordship gaily, too gaily. "damme! it's the funniest thing that's happened since noah came out of the ark. come here, spy! mean to tell me this is a jacobite?" as the spy crept near, master freake stood up, wheeled round on him smartly, and said, "how d'ye do, turnditch?" "stap me!" cried his lordship. "his name's weir!" "he will know me better if i call him turnditch," said master freake icily. he spoke unmistakable truth. i could see the shadow of the gallows fall across the man's face. what stiffening there was in him oozed out, and he stood there wriggling in an agony of apprehension, like a worm in a chicken's beak. master freake knew him to the bottom of his muddy soul. my lord tiverton was a man of another mould, but he too was in the hands of his master. plain john freake, citizen of london, had taken a hand in this game of fate, and had thrown double six. this noble room had seen the agonizings and rejoicings of a dozen generations of the sons of men, but nothing to surpass this scene in living interest. they come back to me now--the line of blue-and-white troopers, still with levelled carbines; the stolid welshman, as indifferent as snowdon; the dapper nobleman, still polished and lightsome, no longer play-acting but rather vaguely anxious; the high-minded troubled jacobite, fear for his wife and babe gnawing at his heart; the spy, weir or turnditch, with the noose he had made for another drawn round his own neck; master john freake, the quiet, quakerlike merchant, whose power was rooted deep in those far haunts of the world's trade, so that we were here shadowed and protected by the uttermost branches thereof. last of all i remember myself, with my heart thrumming good-morrow to margaret. "come now, houndsditch, or turndish, or whatever it is," said his lordship. "precisely what have you to say?" the poor devil had nothing to say. he was aflame to be off and out of master freake's eyesight. he choked up something about mistakes, and zeal, and forgiveness. "that's enough! out you go, the whole damn lot of you!" cried my lord. these not being familiar military words of command, the men stuck there like skittles. "ground arms, or whatever it is!" he continued. "about turn! quick march!" their sergeant took charge of them and they filed out. sir james followed them and became their host, routing out servants to wait on them. as soon as the door was closed on sir james, his lordship hastened to master freake's side, and entered into low and earnest conversation with him. i walked across to the folios, hoping to find amongst them an _editio princeps_ of virgil, but was recalled by a loud "oliver" from master freake. "oliver," he said, when i reached his chair, "i should like you to know the most noble the marquess of tiverton!" i bowed, and his lordship bowed in reply, and said light and pleasant things about our meeting. then, vowing he was monstrous hungry, he tackled the venison pasty, summoning me to sit opposite him. "gadso! i am sharp-set," he said, and indeed he ate with the zeal of a plough-lad. he pushed me over his snuff-box, which nearly made me sneeze before i took the snuff. "it really is a masterpiece," he said, in a pause between pasty and pie. "i shall never hear the last of it at the 'cocoa tree' and white's. stap me, i shan't want to! it's too good. the tale will keep my memory green when that old mummy, newcastle, is dust at last." "what tale?" said i. "d'ye know why, a month ago, i badgered newcastle into getting me a company in the blues?" "not the faintest idea!" he leaned across the table and, from under cover of me, nodded towards master freake, now talking with the welsh-man. "to get out of his way!" he whispered. i looked incredulous, whereupon his lordship tapped his pocket significantly. "he's a damned good fellow. he gave me another six months without a murmur. wish i'd known! there'd have been no campaigning for me. i prefer the mall!" so he said now, yet he was as steady as a wall and as bold as a lion at culloden. he came of a great stock, and greatness was natural to him. the play-acting and gaming was only the fringe that society had tacked on to him. it lessoned me finely to see him when sir james came back into the room. tiverton knew the position by instinct. "sir james," he said, "i crave a word with you." "at your service, my lord." "i will be frank," continued his lordship. "i ask no questions. i make no inferences. i simply point out that the spy fell to pieces because he found mr. freake here." "i observed so much, my lord!" "i don't know why," said the marquess dubiously. "i could hang him at the next assizes," interrupted master freake. "i see. he doesn't want to be hanged, of course. no one does. it's a perfectly natural feeling. so he crumpled up at the prospect." "yes, my lord," said sir james. "i allowed him to crumple up, and i took full advantage of the fact. you saw so much?" "i did." "now, sir james, you, as a blount, that is, as a man bearing an honoured name, are under the strictest obligation to me to see that i can say, if my conduct is challenged, that i saw nothing here because there was nothing to see. i have put myself absolutely in your power, sir james. whoever else joins the prince, you must not, or you take my head along with you." it was well and truly said, and there was no posing about it. sir james blount's problem was settled. he taught me something too, for all he did was to put out his hand. "there's an end of tundish!" said tiverton, grasping it firmly. "and it's the best end too, for the highland army hasn't a snowball's chance in hell." he turned at once to banter me on my indifference to art, seeing that i had sniffed at a miniature by one of the most famous artists at the french court. i let him rattle on, for my eye was on sir james, who was rolling something in his hands. a moment later the prince's letter went up in a tongue of flame and burnt along with it the jacobitism of the blounts. a knock at the door interrupted his lordship's valuation of art and artists of the french school, and his sergeant entered to say that his men were in the saddle. "campaigning be damned!" said his captain wearily. "beg pardon, my lord," added the sergeant, "but mr. what's-his-name has cut off." "good riddance. he's gone back to his crony at the 'black swan.'" "yes, my lord. t'other's a sergeant in my lord brocton's dragoons." "ah, i saw they were hob-and-nob together. a fellow with a ditch in his face you could lay a finger in!" fortunately for me, the marquess was busy with a last glass of wine. here was ill news with a vengeance. i had got out of the smoke into the smother. "my lord," said master freake, "there is a man of mine, one dot gibson, at the 'black swan,' and i shall be greatly beholden to you if you will let your sergeant carry him a note of instructions from me." "stap me! i'll take it myself," cried his lordship heartily. master freake went to a table to write the note. i knew now who it was that had given me the warning. my lord pocketed the note and we all crept quietly down to the main door to see him off. the guards made a gallant show in the brilliant moonlight, and master freake, taking my arm, dragged me out to watch them canter across the stretch of meadow, and drop out of sight down the hill. "sleep in peace, oliver," he said. "dot gibson will give us early news of the movements of the enemy." then we strolled back, talking of the colonel and margaret. chapter xix what came of foppery it was eight by the clock next morning before i set about my third commission. to begin with, the bed pulled, and small wonder, since i had not slept in a bed since leaving home. then i took my fill of the books, finding among them no less a prize than the _editio princeps_ of virgil, printed at rome in , which it was hard to let go. next there was baby blount to be waited upon, and his mother, a pretty, appealing lady, with the glory of motherhood about her like a fairy garment. part of the ceremonial was the putting of master blount into my arms, which was done very gingerly, with abundant cautions and precautions against my crushing or dropping him. he had a skin like white satin and a silvery down on his charming little head. altogether i thought him a most desirable possession for a man to have, and wished he was mine, particularly when, to his father's outspoken chagrin, instead of puling he stared steadily at me with big blue eyes and smiled. "precious ikkle ducksy-wucksy," said his mother. "ugly ikkle monkey-wonkey," cried his father. "why the deuce can't he smile at me?" "try him!" said i, handing him over to sir james, glad to be free of the responsibility. baby blount looked at his father and smiled again, and it was a revelation to me of the deepest and finest feelings of a man's heart to see how ravished sir james was with this first smile of his baby boy's. "it's you that's changed, james, not our little darling," said his wife. "he'll always smile at a face as happy as yours is this morning." i lingered through these delightful moments over an old book and a new baby with an easy conscience, for master freake had brought me news which made my third task much easier. i had not told him what i had in hand to do, thinking it unfair to force the knowledge on him, but he must have made a good guess at it, for he came to tell me that the latest news from stone was that the duke was moving south again at top speed, with the intention of getting between the prince and london if he could. he told me further that charles had joined murray at ashbourne in the small hours, and that their reunited forces had started out for derby. in all these important matters he was, as is obvious enough now, fully and exactly informed, and i expressed my admiration of his thoroughness. "business, my dear oliver, nothing but business. some great man of old time has said 'knowledge is power.' i'm expanding that a little to fit these modern days. that's all." "how does the maxim run now, sir?" "knowledge is money and money is power," said he, with a dry smile. then, as to matters small in themselves but of more immediate concern to me, he told me that his man, dot gibson, had reported that the spy, weir, had at an early hour ridden off towards stafford, while the sergeant of dragoons was still lurking at the "black swan." there had been long consultations between them as if they were acting in concert. this was likely to be the case. it was a noteworthy fact that the spy had seen me, and had had an opportunity of denouncing me, before master freake had bowled him over. there was, therefore, reason to suppose that he would in any case have remained silent about me--the one man against whom his evidence was overwhelming. the sergeant of dragoons would, of course, be only too glad to see me out of action, dead for choice, but in jail as a useful alternative, yet the opportunity of putting me there had been let slip. i could not, try how i would, work out any reasonable explanation of their conduct. i bade good-bye to the grange, going off with a pressing invitation in my ears to return as soon as possible. master freake walked at my saddle till we were out of earshot of the group in the open doorway. "we meet again at derby, oliver," he said, holding out his hand. "that's good news, sir. i shall be there by six o'clock to-night." "keep a good look out for the sergeant. he and his precious master mean to have you if they can. they've a heavy score against you, lad." "it will be heavier before the account's settled, sir." "you shall have your tilt at 'em, oliver. you'll enjoy it, and i've no fear as to the result. but take care! ride in the middle of the road, and keep your eye on every bush. brocton has half a regiment of thorough-paced blackguards at his service and will compass hell itself to fetch you down. what about money?" "i've plenty and to spare," i answered, "thanks to your generous loan." "no loan, lad, but my first contribution to the expenses of--what shall we say for safety? your tour. how will that do?" "nay, sir--" "yea. oliver, and no more said. my favourite rate is ten per cent. you've let me off with a paltry two." "i do not like joking in money matters, sir." "john freake joking in money matters?" said he, smiling. "tell it not when you get to town, oliver, or you'll be the ruin of a hard-won reputation. i sent you sixty guineas odd." "yes, sir." "which is, to be precise, slightly less than two per cent of what you saved me when you snatched me out of the dirty grip of brocton's rascals. i had a good thick slice of his lordship's patrimony in my pocket. off you go, lad! sultan is impatient at my trifling. so ho! you beauty! good-bye!" "good-bye, sir!" i cried heartily, swinging my new hat in a grand bow. * * * * * at three o'clock in the afternoon, having ridden hard and far without bite or sup, i came out in a little hamlet huddled about the great london road where it ran along the hem of a forest, and drew rein before the "seven stars." i was to be in presence with my report at six o'clock, and, as derby was only fifteen miles off and the road one of the best, there was ample time for sultan and me to take the rest and refreshment we both stood in need of. i was, too, in need of quiet and leisure to get my report straightened out in my mind ready for delivery. the largeness and looseness of my commission left everything to my discretion, with the vexatious result that i had discovered nothing. i had, indeed, carried out my orders. i had been so far west of derby that i had seen the famous spires of lichfield cutting into the sky like three lance-heads, and had learned on abundant and trustworthy evidence that the duke's forces there were leaving for the south, under orders to march with all speed to their original camp at merriden heath. this squared exactly with master freake's news, and was all the stock of positive information i had got together. of the kind of news the prince would best like to hear there was none. of preparations to join him, none. of open well-wishers to his cause, none. the time when the stuart banner could rally a host around it had gone beyond recall. there was no violent feeling the other way. people simply did not care. the old watchwords were powerless. the old quarrel had been revived in a world that had forgotten it, and would not be reminded of it. it was charles and his highlanders against george and his regiments, and as the latter were sure to win, nobody bothered. it is the strange but exact truth that the only sign i discovered of the great event in progress, was to come across a group of four respectable men of the middle station in life bargaining with an innkeeper for the hire of a chaise, in which they meant to drive to watch the highlanders march by. they were very keen to bate him a shilling, and as indifferent as four oysters to the issues at stake. riding into the inn-yard, i shouted to the host to get me his best dinner, and, while it was preparing, i overlooked the grooming and baiting of sultan. i left him comfortable and content, and strolled indoors to look after my own needs. though on the london road, and only fifteen miles from the scene of action, the inn was quiet. i learned from the host that a courier had galloped through an hour before, spurring southwards, and cried out from the saddle that the bare-legs were only five miles from derby when he left. earlier in the day a cart had driven through loaded up with the gowns of the town dignitaries, "going to leicester to be done up," explained the host, delighted with his own shrewdness. a hunger-bitten traveller with a good dinner in front of him commonly pays no attention for the time being to anything else. i found two men in the guest-room, and, after a civil greeting, which made one of them open his eyes and mouth very uncivilly, i sat down to eat, very content with the fare set before me. as my hunger steadily abated before a steady attack on a cold roast sirloin of most commendable quality, i began to take more interest in the two men. in fact, more interest in them was forced on me by the beginnings of a pretty quarrel between them, and by the time i had got to the cheese, they, utterly regardless of my presence, were at it hammer and tongs. the row was about a horse-deal lately passed between them, and there are few things men can quarrel about more easily or more vigorously. the yokel who had gaped at me, had been cheated by his companion, and was accordingly resentful. two men more at odds in outward appearance could not easily have been found. the gaper was plain country, a big, bulky man, with a paunch that, as he sat, sagged nearly to his knees, a triple chin, and a nose with a knobly end, in shape and colour like an overripe strawberry. his companion was a little fellow, lean and sharp-cut, with a head like a ferret's. we country-siders know your londoner. many an hour i had sat under the clump of elms at the lane-end and watched the travellers. hence, doubtless, my taste in fashionable head-gear, like this of mine, lately belonging to swift nicks, now disposed carefully on the table at my side. i would have wagered it against joe braggs' frowsy old milking-cap that the little man was a londoner. little as he was, his cold, calculating anger overbore his antagonist, who was no great hand at stating his case, good as it was. "the landlord knows me and knows the gelding," said the little man. "you know less about horses than a mile end tapster. fetch him in, and let him decide. i suppose you rode him!" "what a god's name, d'ye think i bought him for, mr. wicks? to look at?" "by the look of you i should think you bought him as a present for a baby. sixteen stone six if you're an ounce, and riding a two-year-old! damme, no wonder he throws out curbs! fetch the landlord, i tell ye!" out burst the fat man in a great fury, and in a minute or two came back with the landlord and an ostler. then the wrangle became hotter and more amusing than ever. finally, the little man, losing all patience, drew a pistol, whereon the big man ran backwards, shrieking "murder!" not heeding where he was going, he tumbled up against my table, and jammed it hard against my midriff. i attempted to rise but was too late. the fat man seized my wrists, the landlord and the ostler ran round, and pinned me to the chair, and the little man held the barrel of the pistol to my forehead. "good afternoon, mr. swift nicks!" said he. i dare say my liver was turning the colour of chalk, but, though i'm too easily frightened, i'm always too proud to show it, which has unjustly got me the character of being a brave man. "good afternoon, mr. too-swift wicks!" i retorted. "what d'ye mean?" he asked, plainly disconcerted. "i mean," said i, "that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up." "what the hell does he mean?" he asked, appealing to the company. "damn my bones if i know," answered the host. "i've 'eerd parson say sommat like it in church a sundays. he's one of these 'ere silly scholards." "they do say as how swift nicks is a scholard," put in the ostler wisely. "there's no time for chattering," said i. "take me at once before a justice. that's the law, and you know it. i warn you that any delay will be dangerous. my cocksure friend here is already in for actions for assault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the lord knows what. my gad, sir, i'll give you a roasting at the assizes. take me off at once to the nearest magistrate. i'll have the law on you before another hour's out." my energy flustered the londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on. "he's swift nicks right enough, master wicks," he said. "pocket full of pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd; hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme, i saw swift nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's swift nicks' hat or i'm a dutchman; i know'd it again the minute he walked into the room." "damn the hat!" cried i heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at this telling piece of evidence against me. the little man snatched it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a thing i had never done, being wrapped up in its outside. "there y'are!" he cried triumphantly. "'s. n. his hat.' what more d'ye want?" "i want the nearest magistrate," cried i. "well, mr. wicks," said the fat man, "he can easily have what he wants. it's only a matter o' two mile to the squire's." "squire'll welly go off 'is yed," remarked the host. "he's that sot on seeing swift nicks swing." "then he'll very likely go bail for mr. wicks," said i. "will he?" said mr. wicks sourly. "if he don't," i retorted, "you'll spend the night in leicester jail." "they do say as 'ow swift nicks is a rare plucked 'un," said the ostler. "then they're liars," said i. i was handcuffed and put on sultan, with my feet roped together under his belly. then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in peace with the highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and joyously to see swift nicks. the landlord left his guests, and the ostler his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. once or twice we met a man who cried, "what's up?" and at the response, "swift nicks," he added himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an account of the affray at the inn. my capture was exceedingly popular, and they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. the majority fixed it at the copt oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, i had murdered poor old bet o' th' brew'us for a shilling and sixpence. it was a relief to hear the host shout to master wicks, "yon's th' squire's!" we trooped up to a fair stone house of ancient date with a turret at the tip of each wing. my luck was clean out. the squire was not yet back home from hunting, for he went out with the hounds every day the scent would lie. he had ridden far, or was belated, or his horse had foundered, and there was no telling, said his ruddy old butler, when he would be back. so the villagers were driven off like cattle, sultan was stabled, and we five were accommodated in the great hall, for the host and the ostler stayed on the ground that so dangerous a villain as swift nicks wanted a strong guard. they put me under the great chimney and sat round me, in a half circle, each man with a loaded pistol in one hand and a jug of ale in the other. the squire's lady came in and stood afar off examining me, and i saw that she was in deadly fear of me, handcuffed and guarded as i was. over an hour crawled by, taking with it my last chance of getting into derby, with my task accomplished, by six o'clock. what would margaret think of me? her obvious pride in the honour the prince had conferred upon me by selecting me as his personal helper, had been a great delight to me, and now i had failed him and disquieted her. the thought made me rage, and i gave my captors black looks worthy of any tobie-man on the king's highway. at last relief came in the shape of the squire's youngest son, a stout lad of some twelve years old, who raced in, rod in hand, and made up to me without a trace of fear. he was in trouble about his rod, having snapped the top joint in unhandily dealing with a fine chub. after some wrangling, i got my hands freed, and set about splicing the joint. "they do say," said i mockingly, "as how swift nicks is a good hand at splicing fishing-rods." "i never 'eerd tell of that'n," said the stolid ostler. "are you really swift nicks, sir?" asked the lad, looking steadily at me with frank, innocent eyes. "no more than you are jonathan wild or prester john, my son," i answered. "then who are you?" he persisted. "i'm a poor splicer of fishing-rods. i get my living by riding about the country on a fine horse, with one pair of pistols in my holsters and another pair in my pocket, looking for nice little boys with broken fishing-rods, and mending 'em--the rods, not the boys--so that father never finds it out and the rod's better than ever it was. how big was the chub?" "that big!" said he, holding his hands about two feet apart. "the great advantage, my son, of having your rod mended by me is that ever afterwards you'll be able to tell a chub from a whale." "sir," said he proudly, "a chartley never lies." "of course," said i, "it's hard to say exactly how big a fish is when you've missed him. so your name's chartley. is this chartley towers?" "it is," said he, with a taking boyish pride ringing in his voice. "we are the chartleys of chartley towers. we go back to edward the third." did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? i had been as hard beset as a nut in the nutcrackers. to prove that i was not swift nicks i should have to prove that i was oliver wheatman. the bow street runner would see to that, for, as swift nicks, i was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge. cross or pile, i should lose the toss. drive away the cart! such had been my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had snatched me out of danger. i grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young chartley all about my fight with the great jack. the job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without, and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and a brown scratch bob-wig. "dinner! dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "the best run o' the year, lass! thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out! there was only me and parson and young bob eld o' seighford in at the death. dinner, dinner, my lass! i could eat the side of a house. hallo, damme! what art doing here, jack grattidge?" the question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet him. the squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the reply. "please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped swift nicks." "by g--! you a'nt!" "we 'an," declared the host. "hurrah!" roared the squire. "that's news! i owe you a guinea for it, jack." he clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "show me the black, bloody scoundrel! i'd crawl to london on my hands and knees to watch him turned off." seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod, with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took mr. wicks for the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an oak-tree. he was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before his mistake could be brought home to him. by the time he realized that the man mending the rod was swift nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and only stared at me with wide-open eyes. "i suppose," said i, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the chestnut is still on the hob." "i'm damned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair. * * * * * in the end we made a treaty, to mr. wicks' great disgust, who saw the guineas slipping through his fingers. nor was the squire less aggrieved at first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail swift nicks. "what's it matter to us here who's got a crown on his head in london?" he said. "london-folk care nothing for us, and we care nothing for them. but swift nicks does matter. we want him hung. no man about here with any sense bothers about your politics except at election-times, when politics means a belly full of beer and a fist full of guineas for every damned tinker and tallow-chandler in leicester. but you, or that bloody villain swift nicks, if you a'nt him, keep us sweating-cold o' nights. to hell with your politics! hang me swift nicks!" the terms of our treaty were that i was to remain peaceably and make a night of it, giving my word to make no attempt to escape or harm anyone. in the meantime, and at my proper charges, a post was to be sent to fetch nance lousely and her father to give evidence on my behalf. "dear ghostie,"--i wrote to her,--"i am in great danger because a red-nosed man vows i am swift nicks. i want you and your father to come and prove he's an ass. if you don't i am to be hung on a gibbet at a place called the copt oak, and i can't abide gibbets, for they are cold and draughty. so come at once, my brave nance!--your friend, "o. w." a groom was fetched and i told him how to get to job lousely's. he was well mounted from the squire's stables and set off. however quickly he did his business, it would be many hours before he could be back. so i settled down to make a night of it. there was nothing original in the squire's way of making a night of it. the parson who had been in at the death and who, during the settlement of my affair, had been busy in the stables, now joined us at dinner. he was but lately come from cambridge, at which seat of learning the chief books appeared to be bracken's _farriery_ and gibson on the _diseases of horses_, with hoyle's _whist_ as lighter reading for leisured hours. he was a hard rider, a hard swearer, and a hard drinker, and, after being double japanned, as he called it, by a friendly bishop, had been pitchforked by the squire into a neighbouring parish of three hundred a year in order that the squire's dogs and hounds, and the game and poachers on the estate, might have the benefit of his ministrations. he had, however, sense enough to buy good sermons. "at any rate the women tell me they're good," explained the squire. "i can't say for myself, for joe's a reasonable cock, and always shuts up as soon as i wake up." the bow street runner, mr. wicks, and the red-nosed petty constable of the hundred, who answered to the name of pinkie yates, were of the party. i ate little and drank less, but the others emptied the bottles at a great pace and were soon hot with drink. one brew, which the huntsmen quaffed with much zest, i insisted, out of regard for my stomach, on passing round untouched, though the men of law took their share like heroes, and, i doubt not, thought they were for once hob-nobbing with the gods. the manner of it was thus. the parson drew from his pocket a leg of the fox they had killed that day, and, stinking, filthy, and bloody as it was, squeezed and stirred it in a four-handled tyg of claret. in this evil compound the squire solemnly gave us the huntsman's toast: "_horses sound. dogs hearty, earth's stopped, and foxes plenty_." the parson then hiccoughed a song for which he should have been put in the stocks, after which mr. wicks, with three empty bottles and three knives to stand for the gallows, gave us a vivid account of the turning-off of the famous captain suck ensor, who kicked and twitched for ten minutes before his own claimed him. it was five o'clock next morning before my courier returned with nance lousely and her father. i had gone to sleep in the squire's elbow-chair before the hall fire, with the zealous thief-takers in attendance, turn and turn about, as sentries over me, fifty guineas being well worth guarding. the butler watched at the door, wakefully anxious to earn the crown i had promised him. the noise he made in unchaining and unbolting the door awakened me, and it warmed my heart to see nance standing timidly just inside the hall, her hand in her father's, till she spied me, when she broke away and ran up to me. "you knew i'd come, sir, didn't you?" she said, appealing to me more with her pretty anxious face than by her words. "of course, ghostie!" i replied promptly. "thank you, sir!" she said, with evident relief. at a trace of doubt in my words or face, she would have broken down. "don't be a goose, ghostie," said i. "sit down and get warm! and how are you. job? much obliged to you both." "we'n ridden main hard to get here, sir. your mon didna get t'our 'ouse afore one o'clock, an' we wor on the way afore ha'f-past. gom! we wor that'n. our nance nearly bust. gom, she did that'n." "your nance is a darling," said i, stroking her disordered hair. at my request backed by a promise to turn the crown into half a guinea, the butler got them some breakfast. fortunately the squire and the parson were due at a duck-shooting ten miles off by seven o'clock, and so were stirring early. my matter was soon settled. the squire sat magisterially in his elbow-chair, and nance and her father told their tale, precisely as i had told it before them. it cleared me and made the thief-catchers look mightily confused and sheepish, and very relieved they were when, as a politic way of staving off awkward questions, i grandly accepted their apologies. "i knew you weren't swift nicks," said the squire, "when i saw you mending my lad's fishing-rod. damme, we'll get him though, before we've done." he invited me to join him at breakfast, where we were alone for the first time. "is it into the fire or into the fender?" he asked meaningly. i was ready for him and, stopping with the carving knife half-way through a fine ham i was slicing, said, as if amazed, "is what into the fire or into the fender?" "the chestnut," said he. "the chestnut!" i retorted. "well, well! i don't blame you for your caution, sir. sir james blount sounded me and i know you know my reply. whether fire or fender will make no difference to me, and i wouldn't miss to-day's duck-shoot to make it either." "i hope there'll be plenty of birds, and strong on the wing," said i. this ended all the talk that passed between us on the great event that had so strangely brought us together. he, the squire of half a dozen villages, went duck-shooting while the destiny of england was being settled just outside his own door. for the second time nance walked a space by my side to wish me good-bye. "nance, my sweet lass," said i, pulling sultan up, "do you know that dirty little ale-house near your home?" "where the painted woman lives, sir?" "that very place! now swift nicks is hiding there. go back and tell the squire you can find swift nicks for him, and they'll fill your pinner with guineas. you'll kiss me for a pinnerfull of guineas, won't you?" "no, sir," said she very decidedly. "then kiss me, nance, because, though we shall never meet again, we've helped one another when we did meet." she put her foot on mine, and i lifted her up in my arms and kissed her red young lips and tear-stained cheeks. "good-bye, nance!" "good-bye, sir. god bless you!" at a bend in the road i turned to look at her again. she was standing there, looking after me, and waved her bonnet in farewell. i took off my hat and waved back, and then she was gone from sight. "she's a good girl is nance," said i aloud, "and you, curse you, are the cause of all my troubles"--this to my new hat. my foppery had cost me dear. what would the prince say to my failure? what would margaret say? there would once more be questionings in her eyes, and the shadow of doubt on her face. "curse you!" i said again to the hat, and then, with a swift, strong sweep of my arm, sent it spinning into a brook. sultan showed his points. he did ten miles in fifty minutes by my watch, accurate timing and counting from one milestone to another. at last the broad trent came in sight and i rattled over swarkston bridge, only to be pulled up on the other side by a strong post of highlanders. my luck still held, however, for donald was amongst them, and, on his explaining who i was, the chief in command let me pass. donald trotted by my side for half a mile to give me all the news. the prince had lain all night at derby in the earl of exeter's house. there had been many rumours and wranglings among the chiefs at night, a council of war was fixed for this morning, and no one knew what it was all about. there had been great doings overnight in the town, and he, donald, had stood guard at the prince's lodging. "she dinged 'em a', as i tell't ye she would," he said. "losh, man, it was a grand sight to see her an' the bonny maclachlan gliding ower ta flure in ta dancin'. they were like twa gowden eagles gliding in the air ower a ben wi' ta sun shinin' on it. losh, man, i tell it ye, they're a bonny, bonny pair. got pless 'em." "good-bye, donald! i'll push on. damn swift nicks!" i cried, and gave sultan such a dig in the flanks that he shot ahead like an arrow from a bow. i was sorry immediately, but it was more than i could stand. chapter xx the council at derby it was a relief to get into the chock-full streets of the town, where thinking was impossible and good round cursing indispensable. even with its aid in clearing a course for him, sultan tumbled over a brace of highlanders, two of a swarm of maclachlans and macdonalds who were disputing possession of a cutler's shop on the corner of bag street. after their native fashion, they immediately suspended their quarrel to unite against a common foe, but on a maclachlan recognizing me as a friend, went at one another again with infinite zest, and i saw them hard at it as i turned into the market-square. our meagre collection of cannon had been packed here with their appendancies, and i was threading my way through them to the far side of the square, where stands exeter house, and was within a flick of a pebble of it, when the colonel ran out, bareheaded and eager, and came up to me. "you young dog! what's happened?" said he. "i've lost my hat, sir," i replied. "lost your--damme! i'll have you court-martialled yet before i've done with you. off you come! hello, my precious. hitch him to the tail of yon wagon and come along. the prince saw you from the window. steady, my beauty! come along, noll! fancy a town the size of this and not a damned pinch of strasburg in it!" i hurried after him through the hall and up the stairs. something big was in hand beyond a doubt, for hall and stairs were thronged with groups of highland leaders, and in one set, somewhat apart, i saw murray and ogilvie. the colonel took no notice of the curious looks that were cast upon us, particularly me, but, after a word with the chief on duty, ushered me unceremoniously into the presence. charles was taking short turns up and down near the hearth, but stopped as i bowed before him. "you've failed me!" he said bitterly. "i have carried out your royal highness's commands exactly, though, to my deep regret, not punctually, but every hour i am late has been spent under arrest. in riding on your business, sir, i have ridden up to the foot of the gallows." i spoke quietly but crisply, for i would not be girded at unjustly, no, not by a prince. he took my meaning, and answered generously, "as i knew you would, master wheatman, if need were." the noble panelled room in which we were was set out with a long table and many chairs. at the head of the table a mean-looking man was busily writing. at the window two other men stood in earnest conversation, and these, as i learned later, were the irishmen, sir thomas sheridan and colonel o'sullivan. "leave your dispatch, mr. secretary, and come hither. and you, too, gentlemen!" said charles. so, with the prince sitting near the fire and the four leaders ranged behind him, i stood and told my tale, cutting out all that was meaningless from their point of view. as i had expected, there was no mistaking its effect on him. i had indeed, come back empty-handed. yet he pulled himself together and said lightly, "well, gentlemen, if the men of the midlands are not for me, they are certainly not against me." "that is a strong point in your favour, sir," said o'sullivan. "when i've thrashed the duke and got into london," said charles, buoyed up at once by any straw of comfort, "they'll be round me like wasps round a honey-pot. i wasn't clear last night, but master wheatman has decided me. i ride into london in highland dress." "i applaud the decision of your royal highness," said the foxy secretary. "it is a merited compliment to your brave clansmen." he afterwards ratted and so helped to hang some of the best of them. "now for your dispatch to the marquis," said charles, going towards the secretary's papers. "there's time to look at it before murray and his supports arrive." o'sullivan walked softly to one of the windows overlooking the square, and we followed him. "faith, colonel," said he. "the game's up if we go on." "it is," said the colonel, tapping at his box. "damn this rappee, oliver. i'd as lief sniff at sawdust." "but if the prince wants to go on, i back him up," added o'sullivan. "so do i," said sir thomas. "so do i," echoed the colonel, "but, damme, i shall tell him the precise truth about the military aspect of the situation. one's my duty as a soldier just as much as the other. i haven't the least objection to dying, but be damned if i want my reputation to die with me. the most you can say of rappee, oliver, is that it's better than nothing." "that's just what i've been thinking, sir," said i, with equal gravity, "about my old hat." "you're keeping that story for margaret, you young dog, but she's bound to tell me. i was out of bed till two o'clock this morning, listening to her clatter about getting married quick, and walls of troy, and ham and eggs. she nearly prated the top of my head off, and did not kiss me good-night till i'd told her for the seventeenth time that there was no need to worry about you. seventeen times"--a vigorous sniff and a merry twinkle--"i counted 'em." it was obvious nonsense, but it pained me. "it was very kind of her, sir," i said at last. "humph!" said he, and turned to talk with the irishmen. i kept a sharp look out on the square below, hoping for a glimpse of margaret, paying no heed to the earnest conversation buzzing in my ear. princes and dominions, and marches and battles, were nothing to me as i stood there fighting for mastery over myself. i was pulled back from these slippery tracks of thought by the colonel, who gripped my arm and whispered, "here they come, oliver." i looked to the door and saw the chiefs filing into the room, led by murray, with the greater ones immediately behind him and the others in due degree, till the room was fairly crowded. charles continued his colloguing with mr. secretary while they disposed themselves according to their rank in council, though the duke of perth was pleased to take his stand on the hearth among some of the smaller sort. sir thomas sheridan and colonel o'sullivan left us and seated themselves nearer the prince, and when they had done so, and while there was still some noisy settling down to be done, i whispered to the colonel, "oughtn't i to go out now, sir?" "i'm for going on to london," said he, grinning at me with his eyes, though he kept the face of a wooden image. "and first thing we do, oliver, we'll lead a desperate attack, you and i, on a tobacco-man's. damme! there's wagon-loads of strasburg in london!" "suppose i start off now, sir, and mark down one or two of the primest." "suppose you stay where you are, lad," he replied. "you're here by rights: first, because the prince asked ye here and has not dismissed you, and you never leave the presence of royalty till royalty kicks you out; secondly"--pausing to take a pinch of rappee that would have lifted the roof of my head off--"because you can't have less sense than some of these chatterers. council of war! mob of parliament-men!" thus it came about that, thanks to swift nicks, i was present at the great council which was to decide the fate of the stuarts. i pushed behind the colonel, so that i could now and again steal a peep for margaret. just at the last minute, with charles lifting his eyes up to begin, the door opened again to admit maclachlan, red with the haste he had been making. it made me grit my teeth to see him, for i knew why he was so hot. he had been fluttering around margaret, and so had lost count of time. then i stopped my gritting and started grinning. much margaret would think of a man who neglected his soldiering to dangle at her apron-strings! his royal highness, after his usual habit, opened the council by stating his own opinion. "i have called you together, gentlemen," he said, "to consider our next step. the question is: shall we march west, cut the duke's forces in two, and so beat him, or, shall we take advantage of the fact that we are nearer london than he is, press on, and take possession of the capital? i am strongly for the second plan." "damme, sir! well put!" said the colonel under his breath. and indeed it was so well put that the chiefs looked rather hopelessly at one another, for this was by no means the alternative that they had in mind. it was to them, as soon appeared, no choice between south and west that they had come to discuss, but the much more important choice between south and north. for a minute or two there was a muttering of gaelic, which the prince did not understand, at any rate, so far as the words were concerned. then lord george murray rose, bowed profoundly to the prince, and began the case for the chiefs. "the duke of cumberland," he said, "was that night at stafford with an army of ten thousand foot and two thousand horse. mr. wade was coming by hard marches down the east road and could easily get between his royal highness's army and scotland. they had authentic news that an army was being encamped on the north of london. if, then, they marched to london they would have two armies in their rear and one in front of them, and, high as he rated the valour and prowess of the army he had the honour, under his royal highness, of commanding, it was vain to suppose that they could defeat three armies each at least twice as numerous as they. none of the advantages on which they had relied when they agreed to enter england had been realized. they had received no accession of strength worth considering from the english jacobites; the population were not friendly but at all times surly and neutral, and on all possible occasions openly hostile; the promised french invasion had not even been attempted. scotland they had won for his majesty and could and should keep it for him. to do this required them to return with all speed and with undiminished forces. on all these grounds he, and those for whom he spoke, implored his royal highness to return thither and consolidate his forces for a fresh attempt under more favourable conditions." his lordship had spoken calmly and with no outward sign of feeling except that, as he got toward the end of his speech and his drift became open and manifest, his voice gained more and more emphasis as he saw the undisguised impatience and growing anger of charles. the prince paid no courteous attention to the arguments of his chief military adviser, but shot eager glances round the ring of faces, and particularly at his grace of perth, who was visibly flattered by this mute appeal. the colonel, who noted all this by-play, was nettled by the prince's indifference to military authority, and whispered, "well done, geordie murray! right as a trivet!" the speech done, the prince struck his clenched fist on the table and said, "i am for marching on london." it was plain, however, that the chiefs were against him almost to a man. murray was clearly in the right, and his military skill and experience gave him great authority. as yet there was no open murmuring against the prince; nothing but manifest determination not to be won over by his cajoleries or threats. "why should we not go on?" demanded the prince passionately. "here we are, masters of the heart of england. a quick, bold stroke, and london is ours. the game is in our hands." "game?" cried a rugged, headstrong chief, macdonald of glencoe. "the game's up, sir, thanks to these beer-swilling english friends of your house, who are jacobites only round a cosy fire with mugs in their hands." "they are only awaiting an earnest of victory," said charles. "waiting for us to do the work," said glencoe bitterly, "and then blithe they'll be to hansel the profits. we can gang back to scotland as quick as we like when we've ance got london for 'em!" there was a growl of assent from the chiefs, but silence fell again when the venerable tullibardine, too racked with gout to stand, took up the word. he spoke as one who had grown old and weary and poor in the service of the exiled house. the conditions of success, he said, had always been the same: the highland adherents of his majesty could never hope to be more than the centre around which the real sources of strength, english support and french aid, might gather; and these had failed now as they had failed in ' . "i dare not," he concluded, "lift my voice to urge men to take risks which i am too feeble to share." charles put up a stout fight, but it was no use. chief after chief had his say, and then said it again and again. maclachlan shifted from his place near the door to the corner of the hearth and, after whispering a while with the duke of perth, confusedly gave his opinion in favour of going back. he was no sort of a speaker, being ill at ease, and plainly occupied in rummaging about in his mind. having wits, however, he stumbled on a new line of argument. "then, sir," he said, "there is the great port of glasgow to be taken in. there's more ready wealth there than in any other town in scotland, and its moneys, public and peculiar, will give you the means of raising a great army for the spring." "any port in a storm," said the prince, scowling at him. being a stuart, charles did not realize that every one of these chiefs was a king-in-little, accustomed to unfettered independence of action. there were curious contrasts in him, for he was as blundering and incapable in dealing with an assembly as he was sure and brilliant in dealing with a man by himself. feeling began to run high. one of the chiefs jerked himself on to his feet and harangued the prince like a master rating an apprentice. he was almost as long and thin as one of jane's line-props, and had high, jutting cheek-bones and jaws that snapped on the ends of his sentences like a rat-trap. "i'm for gaein' back while the road's open behint us," he said. "if we dinna, and i get back at a', which is dootfu', i shall gae back wi' barely a dozen loons to my tail, an' the cawmbells, be damned to every man o' the name, will ride on my back for the rest of my days." "ye're in the right of it, strowan," said my lord ogilvie. "there's too few of us for this work, but a little peat will boil a little pot. let us gang back and raddle the glasgow bodies. ye hae my advice, sir!" here the prince, to my mind, made a fatal mistake. he had begun by trying to carry matters merely by the weight of his royal authority. this was ever his plan in council, and as long as things went well it served, since the chiefs, looking forward as they then did to ultimate triumph, were not willing to risk his displeasure by standing out against him. now that they were in a tight corner this cock would fight no longer, and he made matters worse by appealing to the irishman, o'sullivan, for his opinion. he briefly gave it in favour of going on. one tale will hold till another's told. o'sullivan had a great reputation as a master of the irregular mode of fighting, which must be adopted by an army composed, like ours, of untrained men not equipped according to the rules and requirements of soldiership. but my lord george murray was ready for him. "great as colonel o'sullivan's reputation is, sir," he said sweetly, "we have with us in colonel waynflete another soldier of great distinction. his views would be welcome, sir." "yes, indeed," said the prince eagerly. "for myself, sir," said the colonel, snuff-box open in hand, for he had been surprised with the rappee between his fingers, "i am ready to go on. i came to serve your royal highness, and i serve my commander as he chooses, not as i would choose myself. but when you ask me as to the military result of going on, i tell you frankly, as becomes a soldier of experience asked in council to deliver his opinion, that it is idle to expect this present force to get to london. as you get nearer london, sir, the country becomes of a kind which your army could not successfully operate in. it would be confined to roads lined with hedges and passing through many defendable towns and villages. your short, powerful charges would be out of the question. the english as a whole fight well, no men better; we can't rationally expect all of them to run off at a highland yell, and with the country in their favour and london behind them, a source of constant fresh supplies to them, we should be wiped out in detail. your royal highness wishes to go on, and therefore i am willing to go on, but your royal highness cannot capture london with the force at your disposal." he finished and took his snuff with zest, seeing that it was still rappee, and handed me the box with great composure. in all they talked and wrangled for three hours, and i got very tired of it all and spent my time looking through the window for margaret. there would be no profit in setting down more of what was said. indeed, no fresh point was raised until the prince argued vehemently in favour of turning off for wales, where his adherents were supposed to be very strong. this produced a fresh crop of speeches, all on one note--the necessity of starting back for scotland. the duke of perth had been silent so far. he had stood on the hearth, near the fire, the warmth of which he stood greatly in need of, being slight and weakly. he had turned his eyes from one speaker to another as the debate went on, and had gently rubbed the back of his head against the panelling, as if to stimulate thought. the speech of colonel waynflete plainly had a great effect on him, and i could see that he was making up his mind, for he continued the gentle rubbing of his head but took no note of the wrangling and jangling about the welsh project. the storm lulled, for it had blown itself out. everything sayable had been said times out of number. "i am for marching back at once," he declared in a loud voice. i was heartily sorry for the prince. in his mind's eye he had seen himself in the palace of his fathers with a nation repentant at his feet. he did not know england,--no stuart ever did,--or he would have known that the wave of chivalry that had carried him so far was bound to spend itself on the indifferent english as a wave spends itself on the indifferent sands. yet it was hard to go back, hard to know that he had done so much more than his grandfather in ' or his father in ' , and done it in vain. his standard was proudly flaunting in the heart of england over the grave of his cause. but he died well. "rather than go back," he cried, "i would wish to be twenty feet under ground!" with a wave of his hand he dismissed the council. "slip out and look after sultan," whispered the colonel. "i am aide-de-camp to the prince and cannot come. take him to the 'bald-faced stag' in the irongate, to your right across the square. you should find margaret there, and mr. freake." i was edging out in the tail of the procession when mr. secretary, moved thereto by the prince, sidled up to me, his sly eyes overrunning the outgoing chiefs as he came. he laid his hand on my arm, which gave me the creeps, and said, "his royal highness would speak with you, sir." he sidled back again with me behind him, wondering how far one fair kick would lift him. i stood stiff and awkward before the prince, who, however, addressed the colonel. "your speech was a shrewd blow to me, colonel. nay, don't protest! you did a soldier's duty by me in council as you will do it in battle. i ask no more." "and i shall do no less, sir," said the colonel. "well, give me a pinch of snuff, and i'll ask your advice on another military point." this was the straight way to the colonel's heart, taking snuff and talking soldiership being to him the twin boons of life. charles took his rappee thoughtfully and then said, "what is the best way of dealing with a solid body of the enemy with inferior forces?" "split 'em up and smash 'em in detail, sir." "what d'ye say to that, tom sheridan?" asked charles. "the oracle of delphi could not have spoken better, sir," replied sir thomas. "damn your oracle of delphi, you old rascal," cried the prince, with great good-humour. "that's a crumb of the mouldy bread of learning you used to cram down my throat in the old days. it makes master wheatman writhe to hear it. the only advantage i ever got out of being a prince was that old tom here never dared thrash me for gulping up his rubbish." "master wheatman knows latin enough to stock a couple of bishops, sir," said the colonel. "the devil he does!" said charles admiringly. "he'll come in handy for writing me a letter to his holiness." "it's not such bad stuff as all that, sir," said i, glad of a chance of saying something, for i had been hurt to the quick by talk that reminded me of how i had quizzed jack's classics in old comfit's entry. "to come back to the colonel's advice," said charles. "i've split 'em up and now i'm going to smash 'em in detail. we're not going back, sirs, if i can help it. master wheatman,"--and here he naturally and unaffectedly took on a princely tone--"we appoint you our assistant aide-de-camp, and desire your attendance on our person during the day, under the more immediate authority of our excellent friend, colonel waynflete." at a sign from the colonel, which i was lucky enough to see the meaning of, i dropped on my knee before the prince. "thank you, master wheatman," said charles, in his ordinary frank way, when i rose. "you're worth a hundred rats like young maclachlan." i coloured, partly with the praise and partly because i was wondering how many smite-and-spare-nots i was worth. i was then closely questioned about the lie of the land to the south of stafford and derby. after a long consultation, the prince dismissed me, with a gracious invitation to be one of the royal party at dinner, promising me, with a sly smile, that the company should be to my liking. the colonel and i withdrew. in the corridor he put me in charge of an upper servant of the household, and went to see to sultan. my new acquaintance was an elderly man of a solemn, soapy aspect, set off by a sober black livery and a neat wig. he took me up to a bedroom, and saw to my comfort. "william, or whatever it is," i began. "william it is, sir," said he. "do i look like an assistant aide-de-camp to a prince?" he took stock of me, from my dirty boots to my bare head, and then said solemnly, "no, sir!" "william," said i, "but that's precisely what i am." "yes, sir," he replied. "therefore this is precisely your opportunity, william." "yes, sir," said he. "william," i went on insinuatingly, "i think you could, knowing this house so intimately as you do, make me look something like an assistant aide-de-camp to a prince. it's a tough job, william, but you'll do it. i can see it in your eye. by virtue of the power adherent to the assistant aide-de-camp of a prince, we hereby authorize you to do all things that may be necessary for the accomplishment of our purpose, and, when your task is over, you will, by a curious coincidence, find five guineas under yon candlestick. life, william, is full of coincidences." "yes, sir." "but not as full of guineas, william, as it should be. set to work!" instead of going he stood there, gently washing his hands with imaginary soap and water, and finally said, "you will of course, sir, be very angry if i do not do as you bid me." "i shall, william," said i, lathering away at my chin. "i may take it, sir, that you'll blow my brains out if i don't." "blow your--oh, i see! certainly!" said i, tailing off from astonishment into understanding. the quiet humour of the man was delightful. i fetched a pistol out of my pocket and added gravely, "william, unless i am, in appearance as well as in fact, a prince's assistant aide-de-camp in half an hour, i'll blow your brains out. now clear out, while i have a bath!" "thankee, sir. it'll be all right now. my lord is, i should say, just of a size with your honour." william was an artist and fitted me out with the nothing-too-much of exact taste. there were garments by the score that would have made a popinjay of me, but he knew better, and turned a sober young yeoman into a sober young gentlemen, and there's no harder task, as i have frequently observed since. "sir," said he at length, stepping back a few paces to con me over, "in any other man i should deplore the obstinacy-excuse my plainness, sir--which declines to wear a wig, but the general result, the _tout ensemble_, as my lord would put it, is agreeable." "william," i replied, "you err through ignorance--excuse my plainness, william. the best wheatman of the hanyards that ever lived would have burned at the stake rather than wear a wig. i've done most of the other things he would have burned for, but i'll stick by him to this extent that i'll be damned if i'll wear a wig." i never have, and it is no small measure due to me that the wearing of wigs is being left to lawyers and doctors, who, i understand, find it pays to look old and old-fashioned. "quite so, sir! a very proper sentiment," said william, with his eye on the candlestick. "it's family pride that keeps the great families agoing, sir, and they're the backbone of the constitution, sir!" after this high sentence, as i was ready to go, he gravely escorted me to the door and bowed me out. i dropped my ear to the keyhole and heard the chink of the guineas. william clearly had a very pretty appreciation of the best means of keeping himself agoing. a suaver, defter rascal i have never set eyes on. i had already so much of soldiership as to know that it is well to master the ins and cuts and roundabouts of a strange house. if an emergency comes it may be the best guide to action. "know your ground and win your fight," the colonel used to say, and it's as true of a house as of a province. so i walked softly and watchfully about, and in doing so had turned sharp to the right to gain a view of the river and the gardens, when i came on the lady ogilvie. she was kneeling on a cushioned settle, resting her chin in her hands, and her elbows on the high back of the seat. she turned to see who it was. her face was clouded over, but the sun of her smile broke through in a flash, and she darted joyously at me. "it's the incomparable one!" she cried, bubbling over with merriment. "nay, i vow, it's the still more incomparable one. losh, man, and ye look bonny! i'm telling it ye, and i've seen more bonny men than you've seen bullocks. sit down and tell me where you've been and what you've done. davie says you tell't him i was very, very guid. and so i am," she ended complacently, "and if any man says the differ...." "he'll do well to keep out of davie's road and mine," i cut in, as i was building up the cushions into a soft corner for her. "you're an unco' guid lad," she said, wriggling into her nest, "an' if it werena for some one i ken i'd gie ye anither kiss." i willingly admit that i wished davie far enough, for she was a very dainty lady, with a mouth like an open rose-bud. we had a long talk, for i told her all about my doings with ghost, thieves, thief-catchers, and baby blount. she enjoyed it to the top of her bent. then, when i had come to the end of my tale, she sobered all of a sudden, and said, "oliver, what's going to happen to us?" "i don't know," said i. "there's something in the wind i dinna like. davie's a' for ganging back. we women ought never to have come. davie can think o' naething but me. as if i mattered a tup's head, the silly gomeril, bless him! now there's your maclachlan. he'd go to london if it was full o' deevils to fetch a stay-lace for margaret, but he's a' for the homeward gait too!" "the best military opinion is that it is hopeless to go on," said i. "and i dinna think it's much better to gae back, laddie. it's a retreat. ca' it what you like, you can mak' nae ither thing of it, and these highland bodies, ance they retreat, will break to bits. naething will keep the main of 'em taegither, ance they cross the highland line again. sae it's a black look out, oliver, but i dinna mind ane wee bit. if i'd no been a jacobite, i'd never hae met my davie yonder. he's worth it a', is davie." "it's a hard task for any man to be worthy of your ladyship," said i, "but davie's worthy if any man is." "and davie reckons you're fine," she replied, smiling. "margaret pit him doon for three dances, and sat in a corner with him through 'em a'. i wonder the incomparable one's lugs"--i knew what she meant because she pinched one--"arena burnt off his head. you should hae seen maclachlan ranting and raving like an auld doited tup!" "it is pleasant to learn that mistress waynflete is so interested in my doings," said i, with as much coolness and aloofness as i could muster. i would at least keep my foolishness on my own side of my teeth. "unco pleasant, i hae nae doot," was her dry comment. and she set her red lips aslant as if she were swallowing vinegar. i remembered my new function, and looked at my watch. i had long overrun the hour the colonel had given me. "your ladyship will pardon me," said i, springing up, "but i'm overdue for duty." "duty?" "yes. his royal highness has appointed me assistant aide-de-camp to himself." i spoke with much impressiveness but, to my chagrin, instead of the congratulations that were my due on such an occasion, she looked concerned and almost angry, and cried, "the very deil's in it!" "i am sorry your ladyship is displeased," i said coldly. scot clings to scot, and she did not like it. "displeased, ye daft gomeril!" she retorted. "and i suppose you'll be pleased, and margaret will shout for joy, if ye get a dirk in your assistant aide-de-camp's ribs ane o' these fine nights. just understand ance for a', my friend, that a highlander kills a man wi' as little compunction as an englishman squashes a beetle. there's nane o' your law-and-order bodies beyont the highland line." "nothing but common murderers!" said i hotly. "i have heard much of the virtues of the highlanders of late, but this surprises me." "hoots! murderers?" she cried. "no such silly saxon whimsies. they've got as many virtues as any englisher that ever snivelled prayer and shortened yardstick. murderers! hoots, my mannie! just removers of difficulties!" so she turned it off with a jest in her pretty way, and got up and jigged along the corridor with me after her, longing to jig it with her, but hobbled by my new dignity. i had no clear notion of an assistant aide-de-camp's duties, but felt that they required a certain solemnity of manner inconsistent with her ladyship's grasshopper ways. in the end, she dancing and i lumbering along, we came on a cheerful group collected in the corridor below. there was the prince, the duke of perth, the lord ogilvie, the two irishmen, mr. secretary, the colonel, a strange lady or two, and margaret. "i thought your ladyship was lost," said charles, smiling. "on the contrary, sir," she retorted, "i was found." "the usual explanation," he commented lightly. "a most unusual explanation, sir," she countered deftly, "for mr. wheatman has been explaining how it came to pass that he kissed a ghost." "i never said any such thing," cried i, vexed to the bone. "it wasna necessary," she said airily. "was it the ghost of a lady?" asked the duke, who had been greatly amused by the dialogue. "the question could only be asked," said charles, "by one who has not the advantage of knowing master wheatman." he laid a hand on my arm and drew me nearer. "my lord duke," he went on, "i present to you the latest addition to my army, mr. oliver wheatman of the hanyards, the first-fruit, i am convinced, of a rich harvest from the gentry of his shire." it was no plan of mine to cry stinking fish to a prince who had engentried me in such distinguished company. "i'll have two blue stars and a jack in my coat-armour," thought i, as i bowed to the duke, who made himself singularly graceful. there was now a general movement down the corridor, headed by the prince with one of the unknown ladies on his arm. there was no other formal pairing though lady ogilvie deftly snapped up the duke as he was coming for margaret, and thus left her to me. she let the last pair get a yard or two ahead of us, and then looked at me, her eyes full of laughter, curtsied, and said, "good morrow, sir kiss-the-ghost!" "good morrow, madam," said i stoutly. she put her arm in mine and, as we moved off, whispered mockingly, "sensible ghost!" chapter xxi master freake knows at last dinner was a success from the prince's point of view. the duke was completely won over to the idea of our going on, and even the lord ogilvie at one time wavered before the prince's onslaught. the irishmen were strongly in favour of it, and mr. secretary, when thawed by wine, grew expansive over its advantages. i incline to think that the rascal had ratted already, and was anxious to get all he could out of the government by leading the prince into a trap. trap it would have been, as culloden plainly showed. against english regular soldiers, resolutely led, the highlanders would work no more miracles. so for a space the chatter and laughter went on. charles was already in st. james's, and the ladies were already queening it in the new court over the renegade beauties of the old one. even margaret caught some of the enthusiasm, so that i whispered to her, "you beat our kate at counting your unhatched chickens." whereat she sobered all of a sudden, and whispered, "maybe you are right, oliver!" "i hope for your sake they are true prophets," i said. "i should dearly like to see you a marchioness before i go back to my farming." "that's one of the chickens i've not counted," she said. she looked at me very steadily, and then turned and plunged into the stream of conversation flowing around her. her father had steered clear of all awkward topics, taking for granted that we were going on. charles got less cautious as he got surer, and moreover, as i could not but observe, he was mellowing somewhat under the brandy he was drinking. princes commonly have no judgment of men, having never the need of noting their humours in order to mould them to their will. so now charles bluntly attacked the colonel again on the military aspect of the situation, which was merely butting against a stone wall. "you must remember, colonel," he said, "that my highlanders have driven the english soldiery before them like sheep. they wiped out an army of them at gladsmuir in less than fifteen minutes, and only lost thirty men killed in doing it." "sir," said the colonel, "give me one thousand english soldiers for a week and i'll pit them against any thousand highlanders you like to bring against 'em." "then it's a good job you're on my side," said charles. "it is indeed, sir," said the colonel, very quietly, "and under favour, sir, you will be well advised to have your troops exercised in the best ways of charging men who don't mean to run from them. there's no military science wanted to beat men who run away from you as soon as you attack. as i understand it, your highlander fires his piece from a good distance, throws it away, and then rushes to the attack. if the enemy stands, he catches the bayonet of the man in front of him in his leather shield, where it sticks, and so has him at mercy, and through you go like a knife through a cheese." "that's just how it's done, colonel," said charles merrily. "well, sir, that's just how it wouldn't be done if i was in command against you." there was neither eating nor drinking going on now, except that the prince poured out his third glass of brandy. everybody was intent on the dialogue. ogilvie, his hand clasping his wife's under the skirt of the napery, looked so intently at the colonel that his face was like a figure in a euclid book. "how would you stop it, sir?" it was mr. secretary who spoke, for charles was sipping at his brandy. "we're all friends here?" said the colonel brusquely. "all loyal to the last drop of our blood," replied mr. secretary fervently. "i dare say," was the colonel's dry comment, "but it's much more important at times to be loyal to the last wag of your tongue." "then i only answer, as in the presence of god, for myself," said he piously. "leaving god to look after mr. secretary," said charles, banging his empty glass on the table. "i'll answer for the rest. so get on with your plan, colonel." "his royal highness has selected the easier task," whispered margaret in my ear. "well, sir," began the colonel, "i should say to my men: 'when the highlanders charge, take no notice of the man who is coming straight at you. keep your eye on his left-hand man, who is coming at your right-hand man. don't fire at him till you can see the whites of his eyes, and if you don't bring him down with the bullet, have at him and thrust your bayonet into his right ribs. there's no buckler there, and his right arm will be up to strike. the man coming at you will be attended to in the same way by your left-hand man.' after a week's practice in that little trick, sir, i should face any charge your highlanders liked to make, and would bet a thousand guineas to this pinch of rappee--poor stuff as it is--on stopping 'em dead in their tracks." "by gad! and so you would, sir!" said my lord ogilvie explosively. "it sounds feasible," said old sir thomas, "but fortunately colonel waynflete is with us, and can teach us new tricks." "of course he can," said charles. "what do you say, master wheatman? you know him." "that old poachers make the best gamekeepers, sir," i answered. "_nom de chien_," cried the colonel, twirling fiercely round on me. margaret, who sat between us, laughingly pretended to protect me from him, and he thrust his snuff-box across at me. the prince rose, and, followed by murray, left the room. we all stood gossiping together. ogilvie and o'sullivan talked very earnestly about the colonel's trick. his grace of perth ogled margaret off towards the window on pretence of showing her some sight of interest in the square. "did they leave him in the lurch?" twittered a voice mockingly in my ear. it was my lady ogilvie. "it must be nice to be with a duke," said i, very glum and miserable again all of a sudden. "it's a great deal nicer to be with a man," she answered. "come and help me throw crumbs to the pretty wee birdies in the garden." in his attempt to 'smash 'em in detail' the prince was acute enough to use the colonel, and condescending enough to use me, as supporters. the unrivalled military skill which the colonel would devote to the winning of london was dwelt upon until even the colonel, in no wise inclined to under-estimate it, got restive, and snuffed and pshawed with great vigour. i, of course, was the early, strong-winged swallow that announced the flights of laggards behind. there were some dozen chiefs of considerable position in the prince's army, and he tackled them one by one, and tried to argue them into his way of thinking. some he sent for to his lodging; others he visited in theirs--a special but wasted mark of distinction. on the whole they would not budge. they were courteous and respectful, for they were gentlemen, and he was their prince, but their minds were made up and they would not surrender their wills to his. mostly, in their talk, they simply chewed over again the morning's cud. mr. secretary went off as envoy to fetch the chiefs to exeter house, where the prince received them in his little private chamber overlooking the gardens. he would stand, silent and moody, glowering out of the window, with the colonel and me standing silent and thoughtful behind him. i felt keenly for him, for he was indeed a gracious, likeable young fellow, born to purple poverty and a shadowy princedom, and now, as he thought, with the reality of wealth and power snatched out of his grasp. "if we go back," said he, turning his eyes on me, so that i saw how life and light had quite gone out of them, "it's all over with my house." "i hope not, sir," said i. "i know it is," he cried bitterly, almost rudely. "all over with us--and all over with me. if we go on, i shall at the worst go to my grave strong and sweet. if we go back--" he paused and looked moodily out of the window. i think now, as i picture him to myself standing there, that he knew himself well enough to know what was coming. for another picture of him comes to my mind, as i saw him in rome many years later, and shuddered as i saw him. he turned and smiled at me, as one smiles who sips sour wine. "if we go back, friend wheatman, i shall just rot into it." he spoke truth. i saw him rotting. and then, because he had more stuff in him than any other royal stuart that ever lived, he turned round, proud and princely, as the door opened and in came mr. secretary with macdonald of glencoe, a short-horned bull of a man. "and when was it," said he, rapping the words out like hammer-strokes on an anvil, "that the macdonalds got feart?" the chief pulled up short, hit clean and hard between the eyes. "ye'll never see a feart macdonald," he said, "if ye live to be as auld as ben nevis." "ye're in the wrong, glencoe," said charles. "i saw one this morning, and he was frightened of the english." "i'll gie ye the lie o' that," roared glencoe, "if i hae to scrat my way into london wi' ma nails." "i'll be glad of the lie from you on those terms," replied charles calmly, "and you shall ride into london at my right hand while i take my words back." the prince went to a table and filled a silver-gilt tass with brandy. he sipped it and then, handing it to the chief, said, "we'll share the same glass to-day, glencoe, as a pledge that we'll share the same victory to-morrow." i did not like his brandy-drinking, but he did it well this time. as i have said, he was at his best in dealing with a single man face to face. it is only the rarest and finest spirits that can dominate a crowd. at a sign from the prince the colonel and i escorted the chief to the door, bestowing on him, as was due and politic, every courtesy. he looked like a man who, after days of doubt, had newly found himself. "we've got him!" cried charles gleefully as the door closed behind him. "now, gentlemen, i crave your attendance on a progress round the town. mr. wheatman, bear our compliments to my lord elcho, and bid him call out some score or so of our guards to escort us." we made a gallant show as we walked the streets of derby in the early grey of that december evening. ahead of us went a dozen dismounted life-guards to clear the causeways. then followed mr. secretary with a brace or two of town notables unwillingly yoked to the task of giving an appearance of local support; then followed the prince, between o'sullivan and the colonel, with young clanranald and me at their heels; and another dozen life-guards in the rear. as we passed along the causeways, a score or so of mounted guards, with lord elcho at their head, kept level with us in the roadways. volleys of slogans greeted us wherever we went, for the town was full to bursting of the clansmen. the townsmen crowded to doors and windows to watch us pass. the prince doffed to them every other yard, but he and all of us were mere curiosities to most of them. the progress was stayed at the "white horse" in sadler-gate, and the prince, with us, his immediate attendants, turned into the inn-yard, with its long uneven lines of stables and coach-houses, all packed with camerons. at the news of the prince's coming they trooped out, yelling lustily. some sort of order was formed, and the prince walked up and down among the swaying, uncouth masses, with a cheery smile on his face, and with now and again a phrase of their own gaelic on his lips. "the men are keen enough," he said to the colonel apart. "let us go within and see what mood young lochiel is in now." lochiel, 'young' only by way of distinction from a lochiel still older, wanted no digging out, for, the news having been carried to him, he ran out bareheaded and breathless. he was, in fact, a middle-aged gentleman, broody and melancholy at times, as these men of the mountains are apt to be when they've got brains. at the council he had been silently set on going back. "your men are in fine fettle, lochiel," said charles, "and as keen as their claymores to be at it." "they dinnae see the hoodie-craws gathering for the feast," said lochiel sombrely. "they see the battle won and the spoils of victory, after the usual way with the camerons," replied the prince. "they havenae the gift of far-seeing," said the chief, gloomily proud of his own prophetic powers. charles started impatiently, and there would have been a wrangle but for the colonel. "sir," said he, addressing the prince, "you will forgive an old campaigner for being a stickler for the rules and procedures of military operations. an inn-yard, with soldiery around and townsfolk gaping through doors and windows, is no place for a council of war. the gentleman is pleased to dream, of birds, as i gather. let him back to the fireside and dream of them in peace." without another word the prince turned on his heel and strode out of the yard. i attended him at first, but missed the colonel, and turned back to him, for lochiel was all a highlander, seer one minute and savage the next. indeed, i found him, all his moodiness gone, as mad as a hatter. "i'll hae the heart's blood o' ye for this, prince or no prince," he bawled at the colonel, who, precisely as i expected, was seizing the welcome opportunity of having a pinch of snuff. "good lad!" said he, holding out the box, as indifferent to the crowding camerons as if they were sheep. "make it pigeons next time, mr. lochiel. damme, oliver, this rappee gets unendurable." his coolness took lochiel off the boil, and he and i passed out without another word into sadler-gate and hurried after the prince. we found the progress somewhat ragged, and, as we were only a few yards from the corner of rotten row, which forms the side of the square opposite exeter house, it was, i suppose, hardly worth while to trim it into shape again. in those few yards, however, an incident much more to my liking occurred, for just as we turned round the leading file of the rear of guards, we found that the prince had again halted, in the light of a shop-window, and this time it was to talk to margaret, who was standing there with master freake. it was a large shop with two well-stocked bow-windows. the doorway between them, and half the inwards of the shop, were filled with the shop master, his apprentices, and customers, crowding and craning to get a sight of the prince. over the door was a shield-shaped sign, bearing the derby ram for cognizance, and the legend, "martin moyle, grocer and italian warehouseman." i noted it then, because the word 'italian' carried me back to margaret's tirra-lirring, and i note it down now because, having looked at it, my eyes ranged over the heads of the gapers in the doorway to where maclachlan, on the fringe of the group, was dodging about to find a place where he could see margaret without being seen by the prince. master freake was talking with the prince as composedly as if they had been friends of old standing. we had missed the beginning of their talk, but it was plain that charles had expected a recruit and was disappointed. "and why do you stand aside from us both?" he asked. "sir," said the sedate merchant, "i am not interested in making kings." "what then?" "kingdoms, sir." "kingdoms!" cried the prince. "kingdoms!" reiterated master freake, with pride and emphasis. "but for me, and men like me, this country would be a waste not worth fighting for." the prince looked with astonishment at the calm, solid man who made this strange announcement. after a minute's reflection, he said, "mr. freake, i would talk with you in private, if you will." "with pleasure, sir," replied master freake. "and, naturally, mistress waynflete will not be cruel," continued the prince, offering his arm. margaret took it, and the procession moved on again. master freake linked his arm in mine, and we walked on together. "you've had adventures, i hear, since we parted, oliver." "i fell into the claws of poetic justice," i answered, "and, having failed as a real highwayman, nearly hanged as an imaginary one." he laughed. "well, keep out of the sergeant's claws. he's only five miles off with a brace of his dragoons, but little dot is watching him. the time to deal with him is not yet. wait till his lordship of brocton joins him. what do you think of the prince?" "i would not have believed a prince could be so likeable, sir." "i am, and shall remain, a mere observer," he said, "a mere tracker-down of ten per cent on good security, but i don't mind admitting that, prince for prince, i prefer this young gentleman to the fat, snuffy, waddling, little drill-sergeant he's trying to displace." "you know the king, sir!" "well, and i know his weak spot, too, which is more important for our purposes. if his gracious majesty went to bed to-night with as many guineas in his pocket as that"--he jingled his loose coin vigorously--"he'd sleep in his breeches." on the way to exeter house the prince recovered his high spirits, and even kept us waiting in the hall while he continued some lightsome argument margaret had led him into. at last he broke it off, laughing. "mr. freake will think me an idle princeling for this, madam," he said. "for your offence in thus hindering our matters of state we commit you to ward, and straightly charge our loyal subject, master wheatman, to hold you safe in keeping till after supper, when we will undertake to show you that our highland reel can be as graceful as your italian fandango." so, in great good humour, he went off with the colonel and master freake. "your aide-de-camp's commission runs so far, i trust," said margaret demurely, "as to permit me to choose my own cell." "i think that might be allowed, madam," i replied, with answerable gravity, "but of course i must sit outside the door and keep strict watch over you." "you would, i suppose, feel surer of me if you sat inside the door?" "naturally, madam." "then come along! i must know all that's knowable about that ghost. 'i never said any such thing,' quoth he! you're the cleverest man with your tongue i ever met, oliver. and with what a pretty heat he said it! just as, beyond a doubt, he did it with that pretty way he has." if words were tones, and smiles, and eye-flashes, and lip-curlings, i could tell you not only what margaret said but how she said it, and how, in saying it, she made mad sweet music ring within me. we were out in the square again now, threading our way among people i hardly saw for being so wrapt up in her. "was she a pretty ghost?" "very," said i decidedly. "how old was she?" "eighteen, or thereabouts." "eighteen! oh, dear! i never dreamed it was as bad as that. i think kiss-giving and kissable ghosts over thirteen ought not to be allowed. eighteen! it's a clear incitement to suicide!" i was laughing at her whimsical sally when one particular item in the crowd demanded attention, for it obtrusively barred our way. it was maclachlan, once again hot and red with haste, waving a small package he had in his hand. "ye left me, mistress margaret," he said. "i've been searching high and low for ye." "and i'm glad you've found me, for i see you've got me the olives. you are indeed kind, mr. maclachlan." "ye left me!" he repeated passionately. "that's true," she said lightly. "i forgot all about you till i saw a hand with an obvious bottle of olives dangling from it." now this was not margaret, or at least it was another strange side of her. with me she had been almost absurdly grateful for such little services as i had rendered. i had got her eggs, as he had got her olives, but i and my eggs had not been received like this. i looked from one to the other curiously. she was cool and smiling, as befitted some small social occasion. he was just as clearly throbbing with passion. he, the maclachlan, had been neglected, and neglected for me! i wondered why margaret did not tell him that the prince had commanded her company. that should have satisfied even him; but no, she left him in his error, and merely took the olives out of his hand, saying, "i hope they'll be fresh, though it's hardly to be expected in a little town in the middle of england." maclachlan had paid not the slightest attention to me and, while ready enough to deal with him, i paid none to him, and began to think him somewhat of an ass to be standing in the market-place of derby airing his passions. fortunately, perhaps, lord george murray, striding by towards exeter house, caught sight of us and stopped abruptly. "ha' ye made a' right at the bridge yonder, maclachlan?" the young chief's face supplied the answer. "ye havenae!" stormed murray. "by gad, sir," lugging out his watch, "if you don't, in two hours from now, report all arrangements made, i'll hae ye shot by a squad of the manchester ragabushes. aff wi' ye, ye jawthering young fule!" maclachlan went off without so much as a bow to margaret. "have you taken out your commission, sir?" said murray to me, snapping the words out as though he would have them shear my head off. "i have, my lord," i answered, forestalling the words with a correct military salute. "then what the blazes are you doing here?" "my lord," i answered firmly, "by the direct commission of his royal highness, given to me personally, i am escorting this lady to jail." "then i'll forgive ye!" he retorted, and his strong face lost all its anger and found the wraith of a smile. "dinnae be too hard on the lassie! she's ane of the right sort." he returned my salute, bowed courteously to margaret, and strode on "good lad!" said margaret, happily mimicking her father. "you shall have some of the olives in a minute or two." "olives seem to me precisely the right thing for us," said i. "and why, sir?" it was very curious to me to see how, in her speech to me, she whipped about from the familiar "oliver" to the stately "sir." there was always a reason for it, and i would have given much to know it. "your olives come from italy, and i have been thinking of your italian count." "so have i," she said very soberly, and never said another word till we were safe and quiet in her day-room at the "bald-faced stag." for over two hours i had margaret to myself, and we were as happy and companionable as we had been in dick doley's cottage. and at this i marvelled. our kate was the only woman i had to judge by, and when our kate got into her very best sunday gown she got into her tantrums along with it, and poor jack, what with awe of her finery and anxiety lest he should anger the minx, commonly had a thorny time of it. with margaret it was just the opposite. when we got in, she excused herself and went off to her own room, coming back, after a weary time, in such a glory of silks and satins that i blinked my eyes before her dazzlements. what made it worse was that there was a comb--as she called it, though i should in my ignorance have thought it some rich and rare work in filigree belonging to an empress--which, owing to the smallness of her mirror and the poor light, she could not get to sit perfectly in its golden cushion, and i was bidden to put it where and as it ought to be. i was a long time over the task, in part because i was really clumsy, but mainly because i was in no hurry. i got it right at last, and even ventured, very craftily and lightly, to kiss it as it lay there. "it's quite right now," said i. "at last! i'm afraid it's been a trouble to you. now, oliver, open the bottle of olives, and, while we eat them, tell me all about the ghost." many a time in the hard days that came to me later, i refreshed my soul by thinking those happy hours over again. they are part of me, but no part of my story, and i make no record of them here. we had long talks, with long silences between them, as can only happen with very real friends who are company for one another without a clatter of words. at last this golden time came to an end, for in walked the colonel and master freake to supper. "i am thankful," said the colonel to margaret. "murray told me you'd been taken to jail." "you heard the news with great content, i suppose," said margaret. "i did, because--" he stopped to frown into the snuff-box. "because of what? pray observe, gentlemen, what an affectionate father i have!" "because he also told me the name of your jailer!" "you don't deserve to have a daughter," declared margaret, with such a pretence of vehemence that her cheeks, between and beneath her coils of yellow hair, blazed like two poppies in a wheat-shook. "i've made up for it by deserving something even better, and that's a good supper. pull the bell, oliver!" * * * * * arrived in the great chamber at exeter house, we found charles making his last stand. feeling ran riot; there was little regard for the regentship of the prince; true to itself to the end, the stuart cause was dying in a babel of broken counsels. the ladies of the party were collected, uncertain and disquieted, on the hearth, where margaret joined them, while the colonel and i made our way and stood behind the prince. "his grace of perth desires to go on," said charles. "so does glencoe. so do my faithful irish friends. your men, as you well know, expect to go on. to get them to go back, you must start in the dead of night and lie to them, telling them they are going on. only you, their chiefs and fathers, want to go back." "to hell with the irish!" cried one from the background. "they're no' worth the dad of a bonnet." "it's no matter to them," said another man by him. "they've neither haid nor maid to lose." this fetched o'sullivan to his feet in a tearing rage. "we've got lives to lose," he cried, "and, by g--, we're not afraid to lose 'em!" at this the yelling must have been heard in the square, and the gesticulating and grimacing would have been amusing on a less serious occasion. at last, in a lull in the gale, the colonel, addressing the prince, curtly demanded, "who is the chief military commander of your army, sir?" "my lord george murray," answered charles bitterly. "then it's time your commander commanded. this spells disaster whether we go on or go back." "it's the plain truth you're telling, colonel waynflete," said lord ogilvie loudly. in an undertone i heard him say, "oot wi' it, geordie!" when murray arose, everybody knew the finishing touch was to be put to the business, and a strained silence fell on the assembly. "i have advised ye to go back, sir," he said, "because, in the complete absence of the support we were led to expect, it is foolish to go on. your royal highness wants to go on, and there's not a man here who does not honour you for your courage. now, sir, i will go on, and so shall every man here i can command or influence, if those who hae tell't ye behind my back that they think we ought to go on will put their opinion down in writing and subscribe their names to it, here and now. one condition more, sir. that writing, so subscribed, shall be sent by a sure hand direct from this town to his majesty in rome, so that he may judge each man justly." "i agree," said charles eagerly. "pen and paper, mr. secretary!" it at once became clear, however, that murray had taken the measure of the men he had to deal with. "why make flesh of one and fish of another?" asked o'sullivan, and old sir thomas nodded approval of the question. "the decision should be the decision of the council," said the duke of perth. "will ye write your names to it, or will ye not?" demanded murray. no one spoke. "that settles it, sir," said murray. "but i desire you, mr. secretary, to make a note of my offer and its reception." "have your way!" said charles, in sullen anger. "but it settles another thing for ye. i call no more councils." he turned and strode out of the room. the stuart cause was in its coffin, and it only remained for us to give it a fair burial. when the door closed behind the prince, the colonel whispered in my ear, "slip off and tell freake!" i did the journey at a run, and found master freake sitting, quietly meditative, but booted and spurred for his journey. "well, oliver?" "we go back to-night." in five minutes i was standing in the ironmarket at his grey mare's head. "i'm not deserting you, lad," said he, gripping my hand heartily. "of course not, sir. good-bye, and good luck!" "my love to margaret. look out for the sergeant. good-bye!" chapter xxii a brother of the lamp two days afterwards, towards six o'clock on a bitter evening, i rode wearily into leek. i was having a hard apprenticeship in soldiering under a master who had no idea of sparing either me or himself. for the colonel had accepted the post of second, under murray, in command of our rear-guard, and had made it a condition of acceptance that i should be with him. some thirty highlanders, mostly macdonalds, picked dare-devils, had been mounted and turned into dragooners, and i, thanks to the colonel, had been made captain over them. "the lad's no experience, but he's got sense," he said to my lord george murray. "i ken him weel aneugh," said his lordship. "he threatened to knock my head off. d'ye ca' that sense, kit waynflete?" "since your head's still on your shoulders," said the colonel, fumbling for his snuff, "i do. he knocked maclachlan's donald into a log of timber, and, damme, i hardly saw his hand move." "that's only a trick, sir," i protested. "weel, captain wheatman," said murray, "keep your ugly english tricks to y'rsel. mind ye, colonel or no colonel, i'll break ye first chance ye gie me." maclachan was, i must say, very obliging and complimentary over my promotion. he gave me donald to be my sergeant and personal servant, finding him, how i knew not, a horse strong enough to carry him easily. "it is ferra guid," said donald to his chief. "er shall pe lookit to as if her were ma mither's own son." to me, captain wheatman, clinking about in the corridor waiting for the colonel, comes william, suave and confidential as ever. "well, william," said i. "any more coincidences?" "yes, sir," said he, and began his hand-washing. "you'll die a rich man, william." "no, sir. this particular coincidence made me the poorer by, i should say," suspending his washing to calculate, "some five shillings." "the devil it did! how was that?" "your honour's clothes that you left behind, sir, when you were transmuted, as my lord would say, were stolen." "and you value them at five shillings! i ought to crack your head for you." "yes, sir. cast-offs sells very cheap, sir. but the coincidence, sir! i've not really come to that yet." "go on, william! you interest me deeply." "i found them, sir, at the bottom of the garden, torn to rags, sir!" "and sold 'em for fivepence! eh, thrifty william?" "sixpence, to be exact, sir!" the colonel rushed me off, but i found time to give the rascal a crown, which put him sixpence in pocket. a servant ought to have his vails, and, besides, william's concern amused me a good crown's worth. this was late on in the night after the final decision to go back, and since then i had been scouting miles behind the main body of our rear-guard, so as to make sure that the duke's horse were not on our track. i had slept by driblets as opportunity offered. now, my purpose accomplished, i was looking forward to supper and bed, having left a patrol of fresh men some six miles back to watch the southern road. there was one thing in my mind, however, that must be attended to first. i must see mistress hardy of hardiwick. my heart ached for her, for i knew how sorely she would feel the retreat of the prince. moreover, the clansmen were not likely to discriminate between her and other townsfolk, and i would save her from disturbance. so, jumping off the sorrel, and giving him in charge to one of my men, i started for the little cottage. i was turning the corner out of the square when some one, running lightly behind me, placed a hand on my arm and detained me. it was margaret. "you've no need to trouble, oliver," she said. "i've kept a room for you at the 'angel.'" "thank you," i replied. "you are very kind, madam." "poof! come along! you're so tired that you can hardly keep your eyes open to look at me. come along, sir!" she was merrily pulling at my arm as she spoke. "i don't want to be obliged to return you every service, you know, sir!" "no, madam! certainly not." "no, indeed, sir! i'm not going to put you to bed, except as the very last resource." "fortunately, madam, i'm a long way from needing that. in a few minutes i shall gladly take advantage of your care for me. first, however, i must see to our old friend to whom the prince gave the brooch." "we'll go together!" said margaret, putting her arm in mine. the cottage was dark and silent, welcome proof that she was undisturbed. i knocked gently, and, after a short delay, the door opened, and her woman appeared, candle in hand. "i knew you'd come, sir," she said simply. "and this is your lady! come in!" candle in hand, she paced ahead of us to the door of the room, and then stood aside, erect and solemn, to let us pass in. i looked at her closely. the worried, anxious look on her comely face had gone, and she was subdued, calm, and happy. "thank god!" she whispered. "she's at peace!" i stepped ahead of margaret into the fine old room, with its pleasant memorials of ancientry. there they were, just as i had seen them--scutcheon, portrait, glove, and pounce-box. there was no change in them; they were the abiding elements on which a strong soul had kept itself strong. but change there was. at the _prie-dieu_, kneeling in a rapture before the virgin mother, was a solemn, black-robed priest. a narrow white bed was in the room. two large candles burned steadily at its head, two at the foot; and on the bed, the linen turned down to reveal the thin, frail hands crossed below the prince's brooch, lay the still, white form of our lady of the square. god had taken her to himself. death had caught her with a welcoming smile on her face, and, in pity and ruth, had left it there. the hardys of hardiwick had given their last gift to the cause. tears were streaming down margaret's cheeks. with shaking hands she removed her hat and, kneeling down at the bedside, clasped her hands in prayer. "she talked no end about you, sir," whispered the serving-woman, "and about the beautiful lady with you. that standing in the cold square to see the prince was the death of her. she would have her bed put down here, sir. she wanted to die here, with the old shield in her eyes, for she was proud of her blood, as well she might be." "yes," i whispered back. "she was the last of a great race." "aye, sir. she was that. she was a bit moithered in her mind, dear heart, just afore she went. the last words she said were a prayer for his soul,--her sweetheart you know, sir, that she lost sixty years ago,--just as i'd heard her pray thousands of times. but, poor thing, she got his name wrong. she called him 'john.'" choking, i threw myself on my knees beside margaret, and prayed and fought, and fought and prayed again. here, before me, i saw death in the only shape in which it can give no sorrow--sinless age that had gently glided into immortality; and, with equal vision, i saw the black passage ... and the still twisted thing lying there in a patch of gloom ... my friend, gone in the pride of his youth ... his life spilt out in anger and agony ... and by me. then the innocent hand of her for whom, though all unwittingly, i had done this thing, crept on to my shoulder, and i turned to look at her. "thank god we came, oliver!" she whispered. before we could rise, the black-robed priest lifted his tall, gaunt frame slowly from the _prie-dieu_. standing on the opposite side of the bed he raised his hands in blessing. "our sister is with god," he said, his deep voice vibrant with emotion. "my children, you are, as i think, those who were much in her prayers at the last. i know not who you are, but, in her memory and in god's name, i give you in this life his peace, and in the life to come the assurance of his everlasting blessedness. amen." he ceased. gravely, and in a solemn silence, he knelt again at the _prie-dieu_. we rose. first margaret, and then i, kissed the prince's brooch and the folded hands, and then stole out of the room. we were too awe-stricken to speak, or even to look at each other, but, as we went, she placed her hand in mine. weary days, full of hard riding and scouting, passed before i saw margaret again. i was always in the rear, generally far in the rear, while she and the other ladies were, very properly, kept well ahead. she now rode in the calash with lady ogilvie,--the two being inseparable,--and maclachlan was with them. my work was hard and anxious but it kept me from thinking overmuch. i put all my soul into it so that it should. "the lad does very well, as i told you he would," said the colonel to murray one night when i rode in to make my report. "i see no signs of my chance of breaking him," said his lordship grimly, but he would have me sup with him that night, and was very unbending and helpful. there is nothing i need say about this stage of the retreat. it was well managed, and is, i am told, a very creditable piece of soldiership. it does not belong to my story but to history, to which i leave it. things did happen, however, that do concern me. the first was laughable though vexatious. this was the manner of it. while the prince was making the stage from macclesfield to manchester, and murray and the colonel were in force a few miles in his rear, i had to keep the country behind them well observed. i had one patrol within sight of macclesfield, and others stretching out along an edge of upland country running westward to the next main road. i spent the night in a little wayside ale-house, and was having my breakfast next morning when i was disturbed by a succession of yells from without. i ran into the yard and there was donald, the rough head of one of my dragoons in each hand, banging them together, varying his bangs with kicks at any accessible spot, and shrieking at them in gaelic, while they shrieked back and wriggled to escape. he stopped when he saw me, but still held them by the pow. "what's it all about, donald?" i asked. "the loons! it's glencoe 'erself sail hang 'em," he said breathlessly. "what for? out with it, donald!" "yes, you gomeril"--shoving one of the men sprawling into the stable--"oot wi' it! bring your tarn rogues wark 'ere!" the man came sheepishly out with my saddle, cut and ripped and gutted till it wasn't worth a sou. strict and stern inquiry threw little light on the matter. i had my own suspicions, namely, of two licorous raffatags in the so-called manchester regiment, whom i had handsomely kicked out of a roadside cottage where they were for behaving after their kind. they had been seen prowling about the curtilage of the ale-house the night before. i went back to my breakfast. for a few hours i had to make shift with the saddle of one of my dragoons, but, after a short halt later on, donald brought out the sorrel with a fine, and nearly new, saddle. "tat's petter," said he. "'er sail ride foine now." "this cost you a twa-three bawbees, i'll be bound," i remarked. donald grinned intelligently and i made no closer inquiry. the good fellow made me uncomfortable, for he would have slit the throat of the greatest squire along the road to get me a shoe-lace. early next morning his lordship sent me ahead into manchester with a dispatch for the prince, who had spent the night there. it was a welcome task, for it would, i hoped, give me at least a sight of margaret. instead of this sweet meat, however, i got sour sauce. when i got there our army was beginning its onward march, and there were thousands of people about to watch the clansmen fall in, and little disguise they made of their feelings. as it happened, when i rode into the square, ogilvie's large regiment was lining up, and he left it in charge of his major to come and talk to me. "i'm wishing you'd come half an hour ago," he began. "ishbel would ha' given much to see you, and so wad some one else, i'm thinking." "have the ladies started already?" i asked, with painful carelessness. "losh, man, maclachlan has 'em up and away the morn in fine style. he's getting a very attentive chiel is maclachlan, and i wonder ma ishbel disna like him better than she does. there's too damn few of us to be spitting and sparring among ourselves." "this is so, my lord," i said. "i'm just plain davie to ma friends," he said simply. "i'm no exactly a man after god's ain heart, like my bible namesake, but i hae no speeritual pride where a guid man's concernit, and it ill becomes men who are in the same boat, and that only a cockle-shell thing, to be swapping off court terms wi' ane anither. they're aff, an' we mun step it out. an' i'm no really a lord." "i want the prince's lodging, davie," i explained, as we walked on the causeway level with the head of his column. "we march past it, an' i'll drop ye there. the young man takes it verra ill. the heart's clean melted oot of him. an' sma' wonder! see the sour, mum bodies in this town! when we came down there were bonfires an' bell-ringings, an' cheerings, an' mostly every windie wi' a lit candle, maybe twa-three, in it. the leddies, an' they're nae bad-lookin' lassies either, had bunches o' plaid ribbons in their bosoms an'--this i hae from maclachlan--plaid gairters to their stockings." in such talk we spent the way to the prince's lodging, where i charged him to carry my greetings to the ladies. he wrung my hand in parting and, his major having halted the regiment, stepped proudly to the head of his men. i stood on the edge of the causeway, drew my sword, and stood at the salute, according to the courtesy of the wars. he returned the honour in like soldierly fashion, rapped out a command, and so passed on into the hungry north. it was the last i was to see of davie, commonly called the lord ogilvie. to my astonishment the prince was not yet risen, and it was some time before he came to me in his day-room, where i was awaiting him. i rose and bowed as he entered, and gave him the dispatch. "curse your foul english weather, captain wheatman. it's getting into my bones." this was, i fancy, only his way of excusing to me the nip of brandy he was pouring out. "that's better!" he said, putting down the empty glass. "i have something to thank france for after all." he laughed at his own poor joke, but there was no ring of merriment in his laughter, and added, "now for what my runaway general has to say." he read the letter impatiently and sneeringly. "i suppose mr. secretary must write something back," was his comment. "it doesn't matter much what, since we're running away as fast as our legs can carry us. any fool, or rogue, or murray can run away." he paced up and down the room with long angry strides, muttering words i did not understand. suddenly he stopped, and turned on me with the smiling, princely face of the greater charles i knew and liked. "curse me for an ingrate! i am heartily obliged to you, captain wheatman, for your pains. my lord speaks of you in high terms of praise. and i must not keep you. murray must have his answer. come with me, and mr. secretary shall take it down while i have my breakfast." i followed him out and along a passage with doors on either side, outside one of which stood a servant or sentry, who had eyed me furtively on my coming inward. when he saw the prince, he opened the door and thrust in his head, to announce our visit. he was clumsy, too, and, keeping his head round the edge of the door too long, bumped into the prince, who rapped out an oath and flung him aside. as i followed charles in, i caught a glimpse of the back of a man in a heavy mulberry wrap-rascal, guarded with tarnished silver braid at the cuffs and pockets, who was hastily leaving the secretary's room by an inner door. "ha!" said charles sneeringly. "more plots and politics! if i could be schemed into a crown, you'd be the man to do it." "i must be acquent wi' what gaes on in the toun, your royal highness, an' ma man yonder's a rare ferret, but i didna think him worthy to be in the presence, sae i just bundled him oot." "all your plotting and contrivings will not do you as much good as a glass of brandy. the climate's getting at you." indeed mr. secretary was all of a shake, and looked in a scared manner from the prince to me and back again. "it's naething but a little queasiness, such as we elder, bookish men are apt to get by ower-much application. your royal highness is gracious to note my little ailments," said he smoothly. he had recovered already. "try brandy!" said charles. "it settles the stomach fine. well, come and take down a reply to this while i have some breakfast!" the queasiness seemed to return, for mr. secretary was slow, captious, and argumentative, though the matter of the dispatch was only as to where the army should halt for a day's rest. at last preston was decided on, and the dispatch written accordingly. i bowed myself out, jumped on the sorrel, and started for the stockport road. our rear was closer up than usual this morning. manchester, being a considerable town, was not to be cleared of our main of troops until the first column of the rear was in the southern skirts of the town. outside the prince's lodging, his escort of life-guards was now drawn up. as i rode along the edge of the market-square the camerons were massing, and the streets adjacent were seething with clansmen. i put the sorrel to it and was soon out in the low open country. after cantering a mile or so, i caught sight of two horsemen, well ahead of me, riding south at a round gallop. one of them wore a big mulberry wrap-rascal. it is no uncommon garment to see along a turnpike on a biting december day, but, ten minutes later, after they dropped to a walk to ease their horses up a slope, i saw the silver guarding round the pockets. if this were the man i had seen hurrying out of mr. secretary's room, a look at him would be worth while, so i spurred after them. the clatter i made had the desired effect. at the top of the slope, wrap-rascal turned round. it was weir, the government spy. he squealed to his companion, who looked back in turn. my heart leaped fiercely at the sight of his seamed leathery face and dab-of-putty nose. it was the sergeant of dragoons. down the slope they raced, with me after them full tilt, proud as a peacock to be driving two men headlong before me, and one of them an old campaigner. it was my undoing. the road was lined with straggling hedges, and a long pistol shot ahead, a cross-track cut it. the sergeant was giving orders to the spy as they rode, and at the crossway the sergeant, shouting, "shoot low!" turned sharp to the left while the spy made for the right. it was a pretty trick, for it put me between two fires. i was on the spy's pistol hand as he turned, and he let fly at me, not out of calculated bravery, as his face plainly showed, but in a flurry of despair. the motive behind a shot, however, does not matter. it's the bullet that counts, and his got me just above the left elbow. i was up in my stirrups, aiming at the sergeant, who was pulling his horse round to be at me. i saw splinters fly from a bough to his right. i had not looked to the spy. now a shot rang out down the lane on his side. it was followed by a piercing shriek, and this by another shot. in between the shots, the serjeant wheeled round, and raced off down the lane for dear life, spurring and flogging like a maniac. it was useless to follow. my rein hand had lost its grip, my arm felt aflame, and blood was already dripping fast from my helpless fingers. looking down the lane, i saw weir lying in the road, and a strange horseman climbing down from his saddle. i rode up to him. "how d'ye do?" he said affably. "sorry i could not get the other chap for you, but i meant having turnditch. the dirty rascal has sent his last lad to the gallows. faugh! i could spit on his carrion." a glance to the road showed that he was right. the spy's blank, yellow face was turned upwards; his eyes, with the horror of hell still in them, stared wide-open at the sky. just above his right eyebrow there was a hole i could have put my finger in. "damn my silly eyes!" cried the stranger. "you're winged, sir, and badly. it must be seen to at once." he helped me down, took off my coat and waistcoat, and turned up my shirt-sleeve, doing all this deftly and almost womanly. "hurrah! missed the bone and gone clear through! put you right in no time! plug down your finger there, sir, while i cut a stick. that's excellent. you won't mind if i keep you while i reload my barkers? the safe side, you know!" with his handkerchief and my own, and a length of hazel for a tourniquet, he bound up the wound, and with much skill, for he at once reduced the flow of blood to a mere trickle. while he was busy over me, i took stock of him. he was a man of about my own age and height, but slimmer and wirier. his features were rather irregular, but an intelligent, humorous look atoned for this defect, and his bright grey eyes were the quickest i have ever seen. though an utter stranger, there was a puzzling familiarity about him, and i tried hard to recall which of my acquaintance featured him. his horse, now cropping at the roadside, was a splendid brown blood mare, the best horse, barring sultan, i had seen for many a day. the last thing i noted was that the man was singularly well dressed. "that's patched you up till you can get to a regular doctor. there's a first-class man at stockport, opposite the west door of the church, bamford by name. you can't miss his place, and he'll pocket his fee like a wise man ind ask no questions." "you've done very well, sir," said i. "the blood has almost ceased to flow. i'm greatly beholden to you." "say no more!" he cried earnestly. "it's a boon you've conferred on me, if you only knew it. _nemo repente turpissimus_, as we say." "_video proboque_, as we also say," i countered, smiling. "oddones! a brother of the lamp!" he cried, laughing shortly, and suddenly sobering. "i must be on. sorry to leave you, sir, but i think you're all right. take care, however. i was touched myself t'other day, and the damned hole in my ribs still bleeds if i exert myself too much." "you should surely be in bed, if there's a hole in your ribs." "in bed!" he sniffed. "i took to bed, egad, and nearly got pinched. now i've no need for exertion. in this gap between the highlanders, i'm as snug as a flea in a blanket." after helping me into my clothes and on to my horse, he strolled up to the dead man. "well, turnditch," he said, "you know everything now, or nothing." then, dropping lightly on his knee, he turned gaily to me, and said, "always plunder the egyptian, dead or alive." he rifled the spy's pockets with the easy indifference of an expert, singing as he turned them out: "the priest calls the lawyer a cheat; the lawyer beknaves the divine; and the statesman because he's so great, thinks his trade is as honest as mine." he stopped his singing and, tossing a well-stuffed leather bag up and down in his hand, said, "there's really no objection to virtue when the jade is not her own reward. chunk! chunk! there's alchemy for you! half an ounce of lead into half a pound of gold!" he stowed the bag in his pocket, jumped on his mare, and together we walked our horses to the turnpike, where we halted side by side, our horses' heads to their respective destinations. "sir," said i, holding out my hand, "i am greatly in your debt. my name is oliver wheatman, of the hanyards, staffordshire. may i have the pleasure of learning yours?" he took my hand, looked at me intently, with his grey eyes very thoughtful and steady, and then said quietly, "samuel nixon, bachelor of arts, sometime demy of magdalen college, oxford." "commonly called 'swift nicks,'" i added, smiling. "right first time," he cried gleefully, and shot off like an arrow towards manchester. so nance lousely had not got her pinnerfull of guineas after all. chapter xxiii donald i got my wound in the early forenoon of december the th. about eight o'clock on the night of the th i sat down in a deserted shepherd's hut to the meal donald had got ready for me. the week had been in one respect a blank, for i had not seen margaret. in every other respect it had been laborious, strenuous, and exciting, and we had just seen the end of the toughest job so far. we, meaning my dragoons and myself, were on the top of shap. some ammunition wagons had broken down on the upward climb, bunging up the road at its stiffest bit and delaying us for hours. his lordship and the colonel, with the infantry of the rear-guard, were in shap village a mile or two ahead. the prince was still farther on, probably in penrith. the delay was dangerous. our army had rested one full day at preston and another at lancaster. even at preston the colonel and i, with my dragoons, had barely ridden out of the town when a strong body of enemy horse rode in from the east, sent by wade to reinforce the duke. our margin of safety was being cut down daily. we should have to fight before long, and i was posted here, on the top of shap, to see that no surprise was sprung upon us. the shieling, as donald called it, was about a hundred yards past the highest point of the road, where a picket was on the watch. across the road was a bit of a dip, and here my dragoons were making themselves comfortable round a roaring fire, fuel for which was provided by the smashed-up carcass of a derelict wagon. the country was as bare as a bird's tail, but by a slice of great good luck one of them had shot a stray sheep on the way up, and the air was thick with the smell of singed mutton. here i must say of my dragoons that they were men i loved to command. after twelve days' work of a sort to knock up an elephant they were as fresh as daisies. donald they all feared, and as donald, for my behoof, made no bones about telling them how the laddie's nief, sma' as it lookit, 'ad dinged 'im, donald, oot o' his seven senses, they feared me. i think they even liked me. anyhow, i never had an ugly look or a glum word from one of them. some people express surprise at the splendid highland regiments now, thanks to mr. pitt's politic genius, serving in our army. it is no surprise to me who have commanded a body of clansmen for a fortnight in the back-end of a retreat. donald was a very jewel of a man. he was servant, sergeant, nurse, and companion, and unbeatable in all capacities. my wound had given me more trouble than i expected, even though mr. bamford had told me that one of the larger arteries was injured. once or twice since, as occasion served, a doctor had dressed it, but it was donald's incessant care that did most for it. i still wore my left arm in a sling. he had made me a fire of wood and turfs; given me roast mutton, a slice of cheese sprinkled with oatmeal, and good bread to eat, and a pint of milk laced with whisky to drink. refinements which he would have scouted for himself in any place, he had taken thought to provide for me in these wilds--a pewter plate and a silver beaker, both stolen. the only furnishing in the hut was a squat log, almost the size of a butcher's block, which served as a table. for seat, donald rigged up half the tail-board of the wagon across two heaps of turfs. he completed his work by producing a tallow candle stuck in a dab of clay by way of candlestick. donald had left me to my food and gone over to the camp to get his own. i made a nourishable meal and then sat down before the fire to smoke and think. i had not seen margaret since leek, and had not been alone with her since, her hand in mine, we had crept out of the gracious presence of the dead. and i had got into a mood in which i felt that it was well i did not see her. some day i should have to do without her altogether, and this was a chance of learning how to do it. though i had not seen her, i had heard of her. while our army stayed the day in lancaster i had been watching the road within sight of the spires of preston, wondering why the duke's horse, after their accession of strength, did not come after us. the marquess of tiverton has since told me that the duke had been kept a day at preston by rumours of a french landing on the south coast. being far behind, i had ridden through lancaster without drawing rein, but in the main street a stranger--one of us, however, as his white cockade showed--had stepped up to my saddle and handed me a letter. it was plainly of a woman's writing, and i burned to think that it was margaret's hand that had penned the direction to "oliver wheatman, esquire, captain of dragoons in the army of his royal highness the prince regent." i tore it open, and found it was from the lady ogilvie. she would understand and forgive if she could ever know how disappointed i was. it had been written that morning before leaving the town, and bore traces of hasty composition. it ran as follows:-- "sir,--this is to let ye know, dear oliver, that i'm sure m. has got a bee in his bonnet. i'm thinking that some one we know has tell't him she will hae no trokings with him in the way he wants. i dinna ken for certain, mark ye, but they were taegither last night, and this morning he's not hanging round to pit us in ye carriage, as he ordinarily does, and she is pale and quiet, and says she wishes her father was at hand, and i like it not, dear oliver. i call you dear oliver because y'are such a guid laddie, just as i'm a guid girl. davie tell't me how you stood up and saluted him, and i was glad i'd kissed ye ance upon a time, though it was only to plague ye. remember what i tell't ye about these highland boddys. m. is like all the rest of 'em, and moreover the prince made ye his aide-de-camp, and it was to have been him, tho' he didna mind at the first because it left him free to be courting his leddy, but noo he'll hae it rankling in his heart like poison. and keep your eye on that chiel, donald. he's foster-brother to m., and wad stick his dirk in the prince himself if m. tell't him to. they're not bad boddys, but that's how they are. she says naething about ye, and that's a guid sign, i'm thinking. i wish ye knew the french instead of that silly lattin, for then i cud write ye a propper letter wi' nice words in it, but she says yell hae to learn italian first to suit her, but that's only her daffery. excuse this ill-writ note, for the paper is bad and i'm no sure o' my english when it's guid.--your obedient servant and loving guid friend, "ishbel ogilvie" i pulled the dab of mud close to my elbow and read it again. in part it was plain enough. that maclachlan was madly in love with margaret had become almost a matter of common gossip. my lord george murray had hinted at it more than once, as he had at my displacing the young chief in the prince's favour. maclachlan was son and heir to a chief of considerable power and reputation. that he should fall in love with margaret was natural, and had she fallen in love with him i should not have been surprised. even after the event, i still say that he was a fine, upstanding man, delightful to look on, and, so far as i knew, worthy of any woman, even of such a one as margaret. but the heart is master not servant, and cannot be commanded. she loved him not and there was an end of it. next, lady ogilvie hinted at danger to me from him. well, if he wanted a fight, a fight he should have. there's no englishman living thinks more of scotsmen than i do, but i have never thought enough of the best scot breathing to run away from him. as for donald, unless i was an idiot and he a better actor than mr. garrick, he would far sooner have driven his dirk into himself than into me. that matter could rest. there would be no fighting that night, and i never put on my breeches till it's time to get up. where her ladyship was wrong was in supposing, as clearly she did, that margaret's love affairs interested me otherwise than as being margaret's. i loved her, loved her dearly, all the more dearly because hopelessly. i had no qualifications which would enable me to speak my love. at my best nothing but a poor yeoman, i was now not even that, i was a declared rebel in a rebellion that had failed. and if i had had every qualification that rank and wealth could give me, it would still have been the same. between her and me was the dead body of my friend and the widowed heart of my sister. i was meditatively refilling my pipe when i heard donald's voice without, raised in earnest explanation. "an' if i didna think it wass auld nick comin' for me afore ma reetfu' time, may i never drink anither drap whisky as lang as i live." some one laughed at the explanation, and donald, still explaining, pushed open the door and made way for margaret, who, before i could rise, was glowering over me, in the delightful way she had, girlish pretence just dashed with womanly earnest. "i shall never forgive you, nor father, nor donald, nor anybody else. and you're not to move, sir!" "i'm sorry, madam," said i. "you always are. it's your favourite mood. you live on sorrow," she said, pelting me with the terse, sharp sentences. then, for i twitched at her telling me i lived on sorrow, she melted at once, and said, "oh, oliver, i'm so sorry. why did you not send for me and let me nurse it better? surely that was my right as well as my duty." there was no contenting her till she had seen and dressed my wound. she had brought lint and linen with her, some kind of balsam which nearly made me glad she had not had the daily dressing of my arm, and even a basin and a huge bottle of clear spring water, which were brought in from the calash by bimbo, lady ogilvie's little black coachman. the hut looked like a surgery, and donald and bimbo got mixed up in the most laughable way in dodging about to wait on her. "com' oot of it!" said donald desperately, unwinding the little black out of his plaid for the second time. "you one big elephant in pekkaloats!" he retorted, grinning bare his big white teeth. "you tread on bimbo, bimbo go squash." "how does it feel now?" asked margaret, when her task was over. "i shall be able to clout donald with it in the morning," i answered. "tat's petter," said he, grinning with delight. "i'm thinkin' i'd suner be dinged wi' 'er again than see 'er hinging there daein' naethin'." he took bimbo off to the camp-fire and left us alone. we wrangled about the seating accommodation of the hut, for the cart-tail was but short, and i wanted her to have it to herself. she flouted the idea, and in the end we shared it, and i minded its shortness no longer. she would fill my pipe for me, and held a burning splinter to the bowl while i got it going. over her doctoring she had been very pale and quiet. now she got her colour back in the light and warmth of the fire, but she quietened down again as soon as i was smoking in comfort. she told me briefly that she had stayed in shap to see her father. lady ogilvie had insisted on her keeping the calash, so that she could come on in comfort in the morning. from her father she had learned of my wound, and had come on at once to see for herself how i was. she would start back for shap shortly, where she was to stay the night with her father. she told me this and then leaned forward, cupping her chin in her hands, and went quiet again. i was glad of her silence, glad that she was hiding her face from me, for i needed to pull myself together. that something had happened was clear, and, whatever it was, it had struck home. in some way of deep concernment there was a new margaret by my side, but in another way it was the old familiar margaret as well, for she was wearing mother's long grey domino. she had unclasped it so that it now hung loosely on her, and flung back the hood so that the firelight made lambent flickerings in her hair. "i have not seen you for twelve days," she said at last. "no, madam." "have you been neglecting me, sir?" just a touch of vigour was in her voice, but she still gazed at the fire. "you are a soldier's daughter, not an alderman's," i said quietly, and the retort brought her head round with a jerk. "and how does that excuse your neglect?" "by giving you the chance of ascertaining from your father whether my military duties have left me any opportunity of neglecting you," i answered steadily. as usual with me, since i could not woo, i would be master where i could. it was a source of mean delight to me. "more logic," she said briefly, and turned to the fire again. apparently she tested the logic in her mind and came to the conclusion that it was sound. she got up, threw some wood on the fire, thrusting me back playfully when i tried to forestall her, and then said merrily, "what do you think dad said to-night?" "it would take hours to guess, i expect, so tell me at once, since i see it hipped you." "it did," she said, with playful emphasis. "i fear i've not trained him up as fathers should be trained, for he coolly told me that if i had not had the misfortune to be a girl, i might perhaps have turned out as good a lad as you." "misfortune!" i echoed almost angrily. "the exact word," she replied. "misfortune! to be the most beautiful woman in england, with the world at your feet--he calls that a misfortune?" i spoke energetically as the occasion demanded, being, moreover, glad of an outlet. before i had finished, however, she was back in her old position, with her face hidden from me by her hands. she puzzled me more than ever, for, after a long silence, she burst out, "not my world, oliver!" the phrase shot up like a spout of lava from some deep centre of molten thought. i pitied and loved her, but i was helpless. to make a diversion i looked at my watch and luckily it was the time when the picket at the top should be changed, so i went to the door and opened it. a splendid blare of piping came in from the camp-fire as i did so, and margaret tripped to the door to listen. "who is it?" she asked. "donald," said i. "he's one of the great masters of the pipes. i believe in the tale of amphion and the walls of thebes now, for this afternoon i saw donald pipe some broken-down wagons out of the road." i went across to see to the change of picket, and when i got back into the hut i saw that the tension was over. i relit my pipe, sat down again at her side, and started a rapid series of questions as to what she had seen and heard during the retreat. try how i would, nay, try as we would, we did not get back to our old footing. we were afraid of silences, and skipped from topic to topic at breakneck speed. we two who had sauntered together in the sunlight, now stumbled along in a mist. at last she said she must be going, and i went out and shouted to donald to get bimbo and the calash ready, and four men as an escort. when i got back to her, she arose, somewhat wearily, and i put the domino on fully and fitted the hood round her head. "you see i've gone back to the domino, oliver," she said. "it's the very thing for a cold night and a dirty road," i replied cheerfully, stepping in front of her, a couple of paces off, to take my last look at her in the light. "i have never met a man who understands so much about women as you do," she said. "thank you, madam," i cried boisterously, and bowed so as to avoid her eyes. but when i was upright again, they caught mine once more, and something in them made me tremble. "or so little," she whispered, and she was pitifully white and miserable. if it had not been for what i saw between us--there, on the floor of crazed and trampled mud, i should have flung my arms around her. but i could not step over _that_. "ta carrish iss ready," cried donald from the door-sill. i packed her snugly in the calash and started two dragoons ahead. bimbo clucked to his horse and was off. i walked a hundred yards by the side of the carriage till it was time to whistle for the other dragoons to start. then i made bimbo pull up. the young moon was battling with great stacks of clouds, but just at that moment won a brief victory, and gave me a clear view of margaret. she put out her hand, which she had not yet gloved, and i took it in mine, bowed my head over it, and kissed it. "good night, oliver," she whispered. "good night, margaret," i replied, and whistled shrilly to hide my emotions. something sent her away with her eyes ashine and her face glorious with a smile. the dragoons clattered by, and i stood for a few minutes staring downhill. _and so little. not my world. and so little. not my world_. the words rang in my ears like a peal of bells. then, by one of the odd tricks the mind plays us, i remembered that i had left the hanyards for the work's sake, and that my love for margaret could only be justified to myself--the only one who could ever know it--by my work. over the black top there, down in the blacker valley, was the enemy, her enemy, nibbling up the space between us as a rabbit nibbles up a lettuce leaf. i closed my mind to the maddening chime, and started forthright to visit my picket. the road was flush with the bare windswept summit. the crumpled ground was matted with coarse grass, almost too poor for sheep-feed. the camp-fire still blazed; near it a bagpipe crooned; now and again a horse shook in its harness. the moon whipped out for a moment, and then it was pitch dark again. as i stepped it out there was a rush at me from the grass, behind and to my left. down i dropped full length, and a man shot over me and sprawled in the road, but he was quick and lithe as a cat, and was up before me, for my slung arm disadvantaged me. i could just see his sword poised for a cut as he fairly pounced on me. i dived outward as he jumped, and he missed me, but before i could get behind him he was round and at me again like a fury. i was weaponless and crippled, but if i could once get past his sword, it would be all over with him. the pace was so hot, and my mind was so bent on the work, that i did not call for aid. at last i tricked him, for in jumping aside i flung my hat hard in his face, and in a flash had my right hand at his throat. he jabbed at me with his left, and i twisted round to his right side, pressing his sword-arm against his body, and digging my fingers into his windpipe. i heard his sword drop, and felt him feeling for a pistol. he was as hard as a nail, and i began to dream that he would get me before i had choked him. donald ended the matter. he, doglike in his fidelity, came striding down the road after me. the moon outpaced the clouds again. he saw us at our death-grips, and came on with a rush and a yell. he drove his dirk into the nape of the man's neck and twisted the blade in its ghastly socket. a sharp, sickening click--and the man dropped out of my fingers like a stone. the moon went in again, and hid the evil thing from us. "pe she hurtit?" asked donald anxiously. "not a scratch!" i replied. "tat's goot! carry 'er up to the fire," he added to three or four men who had run up on hearing his yell. "she's english and, maybe, she sall hae fine pickins on 'er." he stooped down, careless of a dead man as of a dead buck, and stropped his dirk clean and dry on the man's breeches. then the men, equally indifferent, picked up the body and started off. "d'ye ken wha the chiel is?" asked donald, as we walked after them. "a certain sergeant of dragoons, or one of his men," i answered. "he winna fash ye ony more," said he. "tat's a fine way of mine, when i can get behint a mon. i've killt mony a stot like it, shoost t' keep in the way of it." and he stabbed the air, twisted his wrist, and clicked delightedly. the men dumped the body near the fire. one of them stooped down and was for putting his hand in the man's pocket, but drew it back as if he had thrust it by mischance into the flames. then i knew. i have heard a mare squeal in a burning stable, but i have never heard agony in sound as i heard it there, on the top of shap, when donald flung himself across the dead body of his chief and foster-brother. there is one tender memory of this distressing scene. neither by look, word, nor tone did donald attach blame or responsibility to me. he recovered himself in a few minutes, and then stood up, and gave a brief command in gaelic. four awe-struck men spread a plaid on the ground, placed the dead body on it, and carried it into the hut. donald, gravely silent, took the pipes from the man who had been playing, and followed them. i bared my head and went after him miserably. maclachlan's body lay on the floor of the hut. the eyes were wide open, but on his fine composed face there was no trace of the agony and passion in which he had gone before his god. it was as if, in that last terrible second, some vision of beauty had swept his soul clean. i knelt down and reverently closed the staring eyes. "donald," said i, when i arose, "i would to god that you had killed me instead." "it's weird," said he solemnly, "and weird mun hae way." i looked at him closely. that he was struck to the heart was plain to see, but, the first uprush of grief over, he had become sober, steadfast, almost business-like, as if he had something great in hand to do, and would be doing it. he took the candle, now only the length of my ring-finger, and stuck it on the narrow window-ledge. again he spoke to the men in gaelic, and they moved out of the hut. turning to me, he said, "com in when ta licht gaes oot!" he had the right to be alone with his dead. i wrung his hand and left him. when i looked back from the doorway, he was filling his bag with wind, but stopped to say, "weird mun hae way." and as he said it he smiled. i crossed the road to the edge of the dip. more wood had been piled on the fire, which now blazed cheerfully. most of the men lay asleep in their plaids, but a few stood guard over the horses, and the men who had carried the body into the hut were squatting on the grass by the roadside. i took my stand near them, and looked and listened. the terrible similarity of donald's case to mine appalled me. each of us, in saving another, had struck down in the darkness a man near and dear to him. two good men and true had gone when the lust of life is sweetest and the will to live strongest. i, who three weeks ago had never seen human life taken, had taken it, and seen it taken, as if men were of no more account than cattle. between the house-place of the hanyards and the top of shap, death had become my familiar. for maclachlan i had nothing but pity. he had thought that i stood between him and margaret. clearly he had learned of her coming back to me, and the thought had maddened him. he had disguised himself as an englishman and come after me, and this was the end of it. these were my thoughts as i watched the flickering flame dropping nearer and nearer to the window-ledge, and listened to the pipes. donald was inspired. he and the pipes were one. in his hands they became a living thing. what he felt, they felt. they wept as he wept, they gloried as he gloried, they triumphed as he triumphed. he began with a murmur of grief that grew into a wail, became a passionate tempest, and died into a prolonged sob. then he changed his note as memory wandered backward. the music became tenderly reminiscent, subduedly cheerful. they were again boys together at their play, youthful hunters swinging over the mountains after the red deer; young men with the maidens; warriors on their first foray. the threads of life ran in and out through the pattern of sounds he was weaving, and the older days of fighting and victories followed as i listened. there was hurrying, marching, charging; the groan of defeat; the mad slogan of final victory. "he's fechtin' the macleans noo," cried out one of the men, who had some english, and the others chattered vigorously for a minute in their own gaelic. the candle was now guttering on the window-ledge. these glories over, donald came hard up against the end of them all--the chief dead at his feet, slain by his own hand. for a time he faltered, playing only in little, melancholy snatches. then he got surer, and the music began to come in blasts. he was seeing his way, learning what it all meant to him and the maclachlans. weird mun hae way. destiny must work itself out. we children of a day are helpless before it. the flame fell to a golden bead as the music grew in strength and purpose. there was a burst of light, a peal of triumph, and the music and the flame went out together. across the road i raced, threw open the door, and rushed in. everything was dark and still. "donald!" i called passionately. there was no reply. i crept on tip-toe to the fire and kicked the embers into a flame. donald was lying dead across the dead body of his chief, his dirk buried to the hilt in his own heart. * * * * * at daybreak we buried them side by side in one grave on the top of shap, their feet pointing northward to their own mountains. when the last clod had been replaced, and a great boulder reverently carried up to mark the spot, i turned, covered my head, and prepared to go, but the men stood on. i looked back. they were loath to go. something that should be done, had been left undone. i divined what they had in mind, turned back, bared my head as they uncovered, and repeated the lord's prayer aloud. i am thankful to this day to those men whom fools and bigots call savages. they taught me to pray again. "man captain," said the one who had english, as we walked away in a body, "ye wad mak' a gran' meenister." i could not withhold a smile, but before i could reply there was a scattered rattle of shots from the dip. looking around, i saw a body of enemy horse on the lower hill across the valley to my left. we were overtaken. we should have to fight. chapter xxiv my lord brocton piles up his account on the tenth day of my captivity, hope glimmered for the first time. when a man has been penned up in a dull room for ten days, with half-a-hundred-weight of rusty iron shackling his wrists and ankles, with poor food, and little of it at that, to eat, he can extract comfort out of a trifle. in my case the trifle was a smile, her first smile in ten days. so far she had been as sulky as she was shapeless, bringing me my poor meals either without saying a word or, at best, snapping me up and saying that i got far better treatment than a rebel deserved. she never told me her name, and i never learned it from any other source, so 'she' she must remain for me and my tale. she was perhaps thirty, perhaps five feet high, the shape of a black pudding, with stony, rather than ugly, features, and cruel, cat-like eyes. i hated her handsomely till she smiled at me. she was, i suppose, my jailer's daughter, or servant, or something of the sort. i never knew, and my ignorance does not matter. she brought me my food, spake or spake not, according to the degree of vileness in her prevailing humour, and went off, leaving me to my thoughts and my painful shamblings round my prison-chamber. my ignorance was limitless. i was a prisoner, and my prison was a room in a sizable farm-house with thick stone walls. where the house was i had no idea other than that it could not be far from the place where i was taken, which, again, could not be far from the town of penrith. there was one window in my cell, the sill of which was as high from the ground as my chin when standing upright. but i never stood upright, being jammed into a cross made of good, solid iron, foul with rust, and having bracelets at the tips for my ankles and wrists. it kept me a foot short of my full stretch. i could get my eye to the edge of the window and no farther, and then i saw much sky and a little desolate moorland running up into a gauntly-wooded hill country. i spent my waking hours thinking of margaret and the others dreaming of her. now was my chance to learn to do without her altogether. it would not be for long. i was in the duke's clutches, and he would not let me go till my head rolled off my shoulders. had i been free and with her, we should have been farther apart than before--by the width of donald's grave. but here, parted for ever, with the block or the gallows just ahead of me, there was no bar to my lonely love. time and time again she was so near to me, so vividly present to my imagination, that i stretched out my arms to grasp her. the shackles clanked, and i cursed myself for a fool, but i never cured myself of the habit. because this is the dreariest time of my life, i have plumped right into the middle of it to get it over. and, indeed, there is little worth the telling between the top of shap and her smile. i was in jail because i was no soldier. that, apparently, should go without saying, and if i had come to grief over some piece of important soldier-craft, no one would have been surprised and i should not have been to blame. it galls me, however, to have to confess that i was very properly caught, jailed, and ironed for not knowing what a dragoon was. a man ought to know that after being captain of a troop of the best for a fortnight, but i didn't. being all for logic, the least useful thing in life, i had arrived at the conclusion that a soldier on horseback is a horse-soldier. so he is, except when he's a dragoon, as i found to my cost. if the bold turnus or mr. pink-of-propriety aeneas had hit upon the dragoon idea, i should have known all about it, because it would have been in virgil. even the master has his deficiencies. my lord george murray elected to fight at clifton, a defendable place between shap and penrith. just south of the bridge the road ran off the moor into the outskirts of the village, with a stone wall on one side and a high edge on the other. the enclosures on either side were packed with clansmen, and our wings stretched beyond on to the moor, here dissected into poor fields by straggling hedges. the colonel, the happiest man in england that day, had posted me across the road, right out on the moor, ready to gallop back at once with news of the enemy's approach. it was now quite dark, except when the moon rode free of the dense blotches of clouds that filled the sky. in one such glimpse of light, i caught sight of several bodies of horse on the moor to the east of the road. the regiment nearest to me wheeled to the left, and trotted obliquely across the road. its direction made its purpose clear. it was feeling its way across our front to our flank on the west of the village. i rode back at once to report. "good lad!" said the colonel, offering me his snuff-box. "it's just what we want 'em to do. go where there's a bellyful for you! fine soldiering that! the fool duke ought to pound us out into the open with his guns. hope you'll enjoy your first fight, oliver! it's a glorious game. pity of it is the counters are so costly. good luck, my dear lad!" i went back to my men whom i had left in the covered way between the wall and the hedge. it being clear that the exact whereabouts of the regiment i had particularly observed was of great consequence, i rode out again with a couple of men, at the request of one of the chiefs, to see if i could make out what was happening. there was no trace of it. it should by now have been visible on my right, the moon being out again, but there was not a single trace of it. i could see the line of one hedge and beyond that another. the other regiments had not advanced and this one had disappeared. perplexed, i halted my men, pulled the sorrel's head round and cantered slowly towards the nearer hedge. then i learned that dragoons are horse-soldiers who fight on foot, behind hedges for choice. half a dozen carbines rang out, the sorrel rolled over, and though i escaped the bullets and jumped clear of my horse, i was pounced on by a body of men and pulled ignobly through the hedge. i did everything doable, but they swarmed over me like ants, bore me down by weight of numbers, and sat on me. "it's him right enough," i heard one of them say. "fetch the sergeant! there's a bit of fat in this, lads!" a minute later, i was hauled on to my feet. a seared face, with a dab-of-putty nose on it, leered delightedly into mine. "got you, by g--!" he said. i had been captured by brocton's dragoons. now we should come to points. without another word to me, and after a savage injunction to the men to see i did not escape on peril of their lives, he went off and fetched his lordship. they came running back together as if the greatest event imaginable had happened. "ha! master wheatman," cried my lord very happily, "this is indeed a sight for sore eyes." "to be sure," said i, "your lordship's were pretty bad the last time i saw them." he made no retort, being indeed too excited to notice pin-pricks, but ordered the sergeant to take me to the rear under a strong guard. "make sure of him!" he cried, and added in a lower tone, as i moved off under the combined pull and push of my captors, "make sure of it." he then went off to his own place in the line. the sergeant did not come with us, and i had been tugged nearly to the second hedge before he overtook us. to my astonishment he was carrying my saddle on his head, where, in the dim light, it looked like a gigantic bonnet. he swore at the men for loitering, and on we went to the second hedge. we struck it at a point where there was neither gate nor gap, but the dragoons bashed it down with their carbines and trampled it down with their boots, and so made a way. two of the men were through, and i was being hauled through, when there was a spattering of shots from behind. over the noise a stentorian voice called out "claymores!" it was the highland warcry, and, with reverberating yells, the clansmen poured out of the nearer enclosure to attack the dragoons lining the hedge. the sergeant drew his sword, and, as we raced on again, struck viciously with the flat of it at his men to make them run faster. a queer figure he cut in the moonlight as he raced along, swearing and slashing, with the skirts of the saddle flapping against his lean ribs. at last we got out on a poor road lined with trees and turned south along it. there was urgent need for him to haste now, for brocton's dragoons had been cut out of their cover and were being pushed back to the hedge we had just left. the sergeant halted a moment to take stock of the situation, and then we hurried on again. every time he struck a man for lazy running, the man in his turn paid me with punch or kick. after a mile or so, the avenue made an abrupt turn to the east and brought us out on the main road in the rear of the duke's army. the moon showed us a little cottage, standing off from the road in a poor plot of ground. the sergeant led the way up to it, turned the cottager and his family out of it into a shed, and set two men without as sentries. he then made the others strip me to the skin and examined every shred of clothing, ripping out the linings and even cutting my boots to pieces. finding nothing, he flung me the rags to put on again, and then cut the saddle to pieces and searched that. i knew now why william had so nearly lost his vail and donald had been obliged to steal me another saddle. the sergeant wanted, the letter and papers i had taken from him at the "ring of bells." he was so keen that he omitted to pouch any of my belongings, and i retained my money, donald's watch, and the priceless strip of bloodstained linen. my tuck and pistols were naturally taken from me on my capture. "any luck?" i asked quizzingly, when he at last gave over the search. too furious or too cautious to reply, he brutally kicked a dragoon whom he caught smiling. after a miserable drag of some two hours, a fresh dragoon came with a message, whereon the sergeant conducted me to the presence of the duke, who was quartered in a large house in the village. the lord brocton, the lord mark kerr, and other officers were with him, and also several ladies who would have been more at home in vauxhall. for a minute or two i was unheeded, and the sergeant could hardly keep himself sufficiently stiff and awkward. his grace was in the sourest of humours for, as the talk showed, he had been beaten. the claymores had taken the conceit out of him finely. he finished the subject with a string of oaths and then made an unprintable inquiry of brocton concerning me. the ladies tittered profusely, and the most powdery one vowed that his grace was a great wag. in further proof of this he snatched a feather near a yard long out of her pompom, and fanned himself with it while he examined me. this ducal waggishness gave me time to observe that the sergeant's uneasiness was icy coldness in comparison with his lordship's. he was uncertain of speech; his face was the colour of pea-soup; he looked anxiously, almost affrightedly, at me. he grew plainly more comfortable as the duke failed to get any information out of me beyond the fact that the weather was cold. finally, when the sergeant was ordered to keep me at his peril till such time as i could be lodged in carlisle jail, brocton greedily tossed off a bumper of wine and laughed aloud at some vulgar sally from a lady in a green paduasoy. on leaving i bowed to the duke. he was a vigorous, able man with the manners and morals of a bull. brocton followed the sergeant out. there was a consultation between them of which i heard nothing, but the result was that the sergeant picked up a man as guide who was waiting at the front door, obviously for the purpose, and took me through and beyond the village to a house on the roadside. the place was of fair size, built of rough slabs of stone, and evidently a farm-house. the owner was a lumpish, ungainly fellow, astonishingly bow-legged. he had a little yapping dog, which jumped backwards and forwards between his knees like a trick-dog through a hoop. preparations had been made for my coming, "by his lordship," as the farmer blabbed out. i was taken upstairs to a back room, ironed, in the way i have described, by the parish constable, who had been prayed in aid for the job, and locked in in the dark. i heard a sentry posted without the door and another beneath the window. it was some consolation, and i needed all i could get, to know i was so prized. there was a rough bed in the room. i tumbled on it, wondered for a few minutes what margaret would be thinking of it all, and then went to sleep. next morning i made her acquaintance to this extent that she brought me a jug of thin ale, a lump of horse-bread and a slab of cheese. her looks froze my affability, but she does not become important till she smiled, and i need say no more about her at present. i saw no other person till nightfall of the third day, when the door opened and the little dog hopped through his accustomed gap into the room, and was followed by his master carrying a lighted tallow candle in a rusty iron candlestick. this imported something unusual, as i was not allowed a light, and it turned out to be a visit from my lord brocton. he ordered the sentry to follow the farmer downstairs, and examined the door carefully to see if it was closed thoroughly. i sat on the edge of the bed and hummed a brisk air with a fine pretence of indifference. he sat down on the one chair there was, placed his hat on the table, and said, "i am sorry to see you in this place and condition, mr. wheatman." "thank you," said i. "of course you know there's only one end of it." "yes," i replied, and hummed a stave of "lillibullero." he leaned forward and said impressively, "the gibbet, mr. wheatman!" "draughty places!" said i, smiling, as i thought of nance lousely. "i can feel the wind whistling through my bones." "you are pleased to be facetious, sir. it does credit, i must say, to your nerves." "you are pleased to be sympathetic, my lord," i riposted, "whereby you do no credit to my common sense." he took short breaths and then reflected a minute or two, during which i clinked a soft tattoo with my iron wristlets, and eyed him joyously. he was there--a free lordling, i was here--a chained rebel, but i had him set. "i have a proposal to make to you, mr. wheatman," he said at length. "i am indeed honoured, but be careful, my lord! it's not in the least likely, i fear, to be a proposal which you would like the sentry beneath the window to overhear." "you are plain and blunt," he said, leaning forward and speaking in a low tone, "and i will be the same. return me all the papers you took from my sergeant at the 'ring of bells,' and i will see that you escape and get clear of the country." "the different personal ends for which you are anxious to turn traitor seem innumerable, my lord!" he met the taunt as if it had been a flip with a straw, and only said, "is it a bargain?" "it is not," i replied emphatically. if his life rather than his lands had depended on the recovery of the letter he could not have been more eager. for a long time he pleaded and wrestled with me; arguing, bullying, imploring, threatening, turn and turn about, but to no result. i would not go back on my casual word to master freake. the letter was important to him, and he would save margaret and the colonel, and me too, when the inevitable hour of need should come at last. money was power, and lands were more than money. acres meant votes, and with votes at your command you had ministers at your beck. i was sure of master freake. why bother about my lord brocton? at last he played his last card. "you shall have the upper hanyards back again, master wheatman," he quavered. the rascal earl, his father, had juggled more than a thousand acres of the hanyards away from my father by some musty process of law and a venal bench. the reference angered me, and i cried loudly, "you shall not have it back at any price!" he looked at the window, and paled as he thought of the sentinel ears without. then he went off, vomiting curses. that day week, she brought me a shepherd's pie for dinner, very well made too, and a mug of ale not wholly unworthy of the name. she put them down, looked at me in a measure womanly, and smiled. it was a root of promise and fruit would follow. any change would be welcome. i was ragged, dirty, galled, cramped, and bearded with a red stubble. she called me 'carrots' in derision. i was right. at evening she brought me up a dish of tea, and when i lifted it off the table to take a drink of it, there was beneath it a paper folded letter-fashion. i steadied myself, drank my tea with only moderate haste, and then cautiously palmed my treasure and walked to the window. standing with my back to the door, so that the sentry, who was given to popping his head in to have a look at me, could not catch me unawares, i opened the paper. it was a letter. it was written by a woman. the woman was margaret. "you will be taken to-morrow to carlisle. on the way friends will rescue you and bring you to me. fear nothing, say nothing, and all will be well. till to-morrow, dear oliver. destroy this. marg. w." it went hard against the grain to destroy this precious missive. i hid in the corner, and kissed it ravenously a hundred times. how straight and true the pen had ploughed its way across the paper! it was just such writing as i had expected of her, the resolute escription of her sweet, resolute self. nor was the problem of destroying it easy to solve, since i had no fire, and there was no sure hiding-place accessible to my manacled hands. i mastered the difficulty heroically by eating the letter with my bread and butter. it was even harder to pretend to be dull and sluggish with such a whirl of happy thoughts in my mind. i was her "dear oliver," dear enough to make her risk her own life in saving mine. that she would plan wisely and execute swiftly, there was no shadow of doubt. this time tomorrow we should be together again. the night dragged through at last, and the first glimmer of dawn found me alert and hopeful. she brought my usual breakfast at the usual time, and smiled again, but put her finger on her lips to warn me to be silent and careful. she went downstairs, and left to myself again, i grew furious to think that margaret would see me so, a regular wild man of the woods--_quantum mutatus ab illo hectare_. but my ravings ceased at the sound of preparations without. my room was at the back of the house, but i heard the noise of wheels, and hoof-beats, and the harsh swearing of the sergeant. by and by he came noisily upstairs, burst into my room, and curtly ordered me downstairs. blithely i followed him. try how i would i could not hide my joy, and, seeing that he noted it, i said in explanation, "anything for a change, sergeant!" "you'll wish yourself back here soon enough, blast ye!" he growled. "we'll stretch your neck for you till your eyes drop out, you swine!" "you dear, good, christian soul!" i simpered. for answer, he kicked me savagely, and then bundled me downstairs, out of the house, and into the road. here a two-horsed coach was in waiting, with two dragoons and a corporal in front and two more behind. one of the rear men was holding a horse, and to my annoyance the sergeant got into the coach after me, bawled out a command, and off our party started. i stumbled into a corner and sat huddled up, straining my eyes ahead to catch what was to come. margaret's information was clearly correct. we took the road north, passed through penrith without a halt, and out again, still on the turnpike, proof that carlisle was to be our destination. the city was obviously now in the duke's power. mile after mile we covered apace, and at every curve and cross-road i peered ahead and around with my heart in my mouth. one point in my favour was the desolate nature of the country, exactly fitted for such a stratagem as was in hand. on the right the gloomy sky was blotted out by jagged masses of gloomier hills. on the left the country varied between flat and upland, but was hardly less uninviting. "where d'ye think y're going?" asked the sergeant, joggling me with his spurred heel to make me look at him. "no idea," said i. "blast ye. i wish y'had," he growled viciously, and i turned away to smile. we passed through a village littered with the duke's baggage wagons and pretty full of soldiery. this chilled my spirit somewhat, for it looked as if we were about to run into the rear of the royal army. outside the village, however, we again had the road to ourselves, and a mile farther on dropped to a walk to climb a long slant of road. whenever the road curved my way i had seen the corporal and his two men riding from fifty to a hundred yards ahead of us. not very far up the slope we came on a farmstead lying flush on the roadside. in the yard were some thirty head of shaggy black cattle, of the northern kind seldom seen in our parts and therefore attractive to a farmer's eye. a farm-hand leaning over the gate had some noisy gossip with the dragoons as they passed, and bawled his news to a group of men sitting at meat under a hovel. it was a poor enough place to support so many men, for the farm-wife, who came to her kitchen door to see what the clatter was about, was of no better seeming than a yokel's wife with us. my eyes were on her curiously when the man on the gate skipped off and flung it open right across the muzzles of our horses. in the tick of a clock the whole scene changed. the men under the hovel rushed out, fell on the cattle, thrashed them mercilessly with great battoons, yelled at them like maniacs, and drove them in a shoving, bellowing, maddened mass into the road, which here had a stone wall on the side opposite the farm. when the torrent was fairly going, two of the supposed yokels snatched up carbines, climbed on to the hovel, and opened fire on the dragoons in our rear. the master hand of the colonel was in this beyond a doubt. with a loud curse, the sergeant, who was on the side away from the farm, opened the door and was for leaping out. he bethought himself and half turned, one hand on the door and one foot on the step, to look an evil inquiry at me. that half-turn was his undoing. part of the living, struggling torrent of cattle was shoved round our way and came sweeping by. one beast brushed the door open even as he glared at me and tumbled him outwards. as he twisted in his fall another drove her sharp horns clean into him, and shook and twirled him off again like a terrier playing with a rat. the rearguard turned tail and fled. the vanguard had simply been swept off the scene, and i saw them spurring up the slope with the cattle surging after them. the plan had been thought out to a nicety and had worked to perfection. i was free, free for margaret. i sat down again dizzied and happy. my rescuers took no notice of me but ran down the road in a body and stood round the sergeant. after some excited talk they carried him back, called on me to aid, and rammed him into the coach, where he lay huddled on the seat in front of me. without so much as a word to me, the commander pulled our driver off the box, ordered a man up in his place, climbed after him, and said briefly, "go like the devil!" the carriage turned up a rough lane which ran eastward out of the high road opposite the farm, leaving most of my rescuers standing uncertain in a group. the driver cut his horses savagely with his whip, and we went at a hard gallop. the jolting tumbled me about in the coach, and i had hard work, shackled as i was, to keep the sergeant on the seat. he was still alive, though so hideously injured that death could only be a question of minutes. where we were going and why they were carrying him along with us, were questions it was useless to bother about. margaret would explain everything when we met. i could make little of the men who had rescued me. they were clearly not farm-hands, for they were well armed, the guns i had seen looked to me to be military carbines, and they had carried through their business briskly and intelligently. i heard the men on the box talking, but their speech was only about the road and the speed. the country got rougher and wilder; the distant hills were losing their clear-cut, rolling outlines, and becoming neighbours and obstacles. the horses were thrashed unmercifully, but at times even the well-plied whip could get no more than a crawl out of them. the sergeant's end was at hand. he rallied, as men commonly do before they put foot in the black river, and looked at me unrecognizingly. he closed his eyes again, and began to writhe and mutter strange words. suddenly he cried plainly, "curse the swine! another wedge, ye damned chicken-heart!" he looked at me again, and this time made out who i was, and cursed loathsomely in his disappointment. "d'ye know where y're going?" he ended, leering wickedly. "no," said i. "blast ye! i wish ye did!" he gurgled this almost jocosely, as if it were a pet bit of humour. "do you know where you are going?" i asked solemnly. "to hell," he cried, and, after a spout of blood that spattered me as i leaned over him, went. the carriage stopped and, before i could rise to see why, the door was opened and some one without said politely, "this is indeed a pleasure, master wheatman!" it was my lord brocton. * * * * * it would be foolish to pretend that i was not bitten to the bone, and i can only hope that i did not give outward expression to a tithe of the chagrin and dismay that possessed me. being commanded to do so, i got out of the coach without a word and looked around. the rough road along which we had been travelling ran on through a slit in the hills. where we stood a bridle-path parted from it at a sharp angle and made its way over the lower skirts of the hill country. it was a desolate, dreary spot where, as i suspected, the king's writ ran not and where, therefore, a man might be done to death with all conveniency. master freake would be useless to me now, and my chiefest enemy had me at his will. there was no delay. a long cloak was put over me, so disposed as to hide my fetters, and i was lifted on a spare horse led by one of the new-comers. the skill with which the affair had been planned was shown by the fact that this horse, to accommodate my shackled legs, had been saddled as for a lady. "you know exactly what to do?" asked his lordship of the men on the coach. "yes, my lord," said one of them, "but what about--" he finished the sentence by a jerk of his thumb towards the dead sergeant. "leave him there! egad, master wheatman, is not that a touch of the real artist?" "the key of these things is in his breeches' pocket," said i, speaking for the first time, and waggling my fetters as i did so. "get it out, tomlins!" the man who had asked the question climbed down and obeyed the order with the callousness of a dog nosing a dead rabbit. then our parties separated. the coach continued along the main road, if so it may be called, and we took to the track. i looked curiously after the coach, wondering where it was bound, and with what object. "more art," said his lordship. "a coach is a seeable, trackable thing, and it will throw everybody off the scent. i'm glad the ruffian's dead. he was overmuch wise in my affairs." as we rode on into the interminable wastes, he rallied me gleefully, but soon tired of my moroseness. "his arrival will make an affecting picture," he said mockingly to his men. he was feverishly excited, and must boast to some one. "no pliant damsel to rush into his longing arms! he is to be embraced though, my masters, if need be." what this obscure threat might portend, i could not see, but it chimed in with the delirious cruelty of the dead sergeant. threats for the future mattered not, the present being so unendurable. a man in brocton's position must be hard put to it to turn traitor in this strange fashion. he had "rescued" me with his own men, and, lord or no lord, he would hang for it were it once known to a lover of the gibbet like the duke's grace of cumberland. what on earth was the letter about? master freake had definitely said lands, and therefore lands it must be, though nothing less than the whole ridgeley estates could be in question. the thousand and more acres of the upper hanyards, sweet meadows stretching a mile along the river and a snatch of the chase at its wildest and loveliest, the prize that had fallen to the rascal earl in the great lawsuit, had been promised me as readily as a pinch of snuff. i gloated over the revenge i was winning for my race, a race rooted in those darling hanyards a century before the ridgeleys were heard of, for the first earl, the grandfather of the old rogue, started as an obscure pimp to charles the second, and was enriched and ennobled for his assiduity. but no familiary pride could cheer me for long. the dead landscape around chilled me. the chiefest misery was to remember the hope with which i had started that morning. margaret was the fancied end of my journey, and the real end was this! i had to bite my lips till i felt the trickle of blood in the stubble on my chin to keep back unmanly revilings. at last we came out on what was by comparison a made road, and now his lordship grew plainly anxious and haggard. we rode madly along it, so that, riding shackled and woman-fashion, i had hard work to keep my seat. brocton's head was incessantly on the turn to see if we were observed, but his luck was absolute. we saw no one on the road, and, after a hard stretch, we turned up a gully to our left and were once more buried among the hills. after much turning and twisting we came in sight of a small house of grey stone which, from its appearance and situation, i judged to be some gentleman's shooting lodge. we cut across the valley, on one slope of which it stood, and i caught a glimpse of cottage roofs beyond it. we worked round to the rear of the house, and, in a favouring clump of trees, his lordship called a halt. the horses were tethered, and i was lifted down, and the rings round my ankles were unlocked. the men took one each, and carried their carbines in their free hands. brocton drew his rapier, and said, "forward! make a sound, show the slightest sign of resistance, and i run you through." there was no sense in disobeying, and i accommodated myself to his design, which was clearly to get into the house unobserved from without. in this he was successful, or at any rate i saw no one during our crawl from one point of vantage to another up to the back entrance. now his lordship skipped gaily from behind me and opened the door. he stepped softly in, and i was pushed after him by his dragoons. "'friends will rescue you and bring you to me,'" he quoted, jeering me. "there's no margaret for you, farmer wheatman. i shall have her yet!" then, beast as he was, while the men kept me back, nearly tearing my arms out of their sockets, he stuck the point of his rapier over my heart and babbled half-delirious beastliness. we were in a big, bare kitchen, the other door of which was closed. there was no sign of anyone about, and brocton, still with his sword ready for me, bawled out, "where are you, you old hag?" the door opened at once. brocton dropped his sword in his fright and i clapped my foot on it. the two men fled like rabbits. familiar as the picture is to my mind, it is hard to find words to fit this crowning moment of my adventures. margaret walked into the room. for a second she was minded to rush at me, but thought better of it, and walked up to his lordship. she towered over his limp, cringing figure, and said coldly, "you are too poor a cur to be struck by a woman or i would strike you." she was not alone. master freake was now wringing my shackled hands delightedly, and a little, deft man, whom i knew on sight to be dot gibson, was searching his unresisting lordship's pockets for the key of the irons. a minute later he banged them on the floor and said, "and how do you find yourself, sir?" there's no more to be said about brocton. he was as good as dead for the remainder of the business, and no one heeded him any more than if he had been a loathsome insect that a man's foot had trodden on. and what killed him was the presence of a third man, a perfect stranger to me. he was an old-looking rather than an old man, with rheumy eyes that looked through narrow slits, and a big unshapely nose; the skin of his face was brown and crinkled like a dried-up bladder; his whole appearance as a man was mean and paltry. what distinction he had was given him by gorgeous clothing and the attendance of a pompous ass in a flaming livery. yet brocton dared not look at him again, as he shuffled forward on his man's arm to speak to master freake. "mr. freake," he piped, laying an imploring hand on the merchant's arm, "you will not be too hard on my foolish son?" it was the old rascal earl of ridgeley. i had not seen him since the trial, when i was but a lad. in the meantime vice had eaten out of him such manliness as had ever been in him. rascaldom was still stamped on him, but he was now in a state of abject terror. he and his son were indeed, as jane puts it to this day, two to a pair. "your lordships will be pleased to wait on me in the room yonder," said master freake, in his grave, decisive way, "and i will tell you my will on the matter." he bowed ironically towards the door. their unlordly lordships went off together, and he followed and closed the door behind him. dot sensibly hustled off the lackey, and so we were alone together. as ever, i had my full reward. she turned to me, took my hands in hers, and whispered, "my splendid oliver!" "what, madam?" said i, laughing lest i should do otherwise and most unbecomingly. "in a red beard?" "you look like a cossack!" she declared, laughing in her turn. so, in the way we had, we kept ourselves at arm's length from each other and dropped at once into our old footing. then, bit by bit, and unwillingly, and mainly in answers to my questions, she told a tale that made my heart bound within me. this is the mere skeleton of it, for i have no skill to give body and soul to such devotion. the colonel brought the news of my capture by brocton, pieced together from the stories of my men, who got back unhurt, and of one of brocton's dragoons who was luckily taken prisoner in order to be questioned. margaret had immediately started on horseback for london, with one english servant in attendance, going by appleby to evade the duke's army, and across the mountains to darlington. there she had travelled flying post down the great north road, getting to london in five days thirteen hours after her start from penrith. master freake had started back with her within five hours of her arrival. they travelled post through leicester and derby, and then on over ground that was familiar. no wonder i had thought her near, since she had passed within fifty paces of me as i shambled about dreaming of her. part of the five hours' delay in london was taken up by a visit paid by master freake to the earl of ridgeley. he had gone forth stern and resolute. what had happened she did not know, but as they sped north the earl sped north a mile behind them, as if they were dragging him along by his heart-strings. at carlisle, now in the hands of the duke, they drew blank, for brocton was unaccountably absent from military duty. fortunately margaret, from the window of her room, saw the sergeant ride by. dot was sent on his track and learned that brocton was here, the house being a hunting-lodge belonging to a crony of his who was an officer in the cumberland militia. they had ridden out that morning to see him, at which point her tale linked up with mine and ended. "i am greatly indebted to you, margaret," said i, very lamely, slipping out her name at unawares. "nonsense!" she cried. "may i not do as much as your pet ghostie did for you without being a miracle? do not you dare, sir, to offer me a pinnerfull of guineas!" she looked at me with a merry twinkle in her eyes, and i feel sure i knew what she was thinking of. but nance lousely was a simple country maiden, such as i was born and bred amongst, and at that time i had no vile red stubble, rough as a horse-comb, on my chin. we were interrupted by the lackey, who came with mr. dot gibson's respects to his honour, and would his honour like the refreshment of a shave and a bath as both were at his service? like master, like man. this resplendent person was for the nonce humility's self. i went with him and was made clean and comfortable, and my rags trimmed a little. this was preliminary to being summoned by master freake to a discussion with their lordships, with whom was margaret, aloof and icy. "at the 'ring o' bells,'" began master freake, addressing me, "you took from my lord brocton's sergeant, now dead, a bundle of papers?" "yes, sir." "among them a letter addressed simply, 'to his royal highness'?" "that is so, sir." "you gave that letter to me, unopened, in the presence of mistress waynflete?" "i did," said i, and margaret nodded agreement. "several attempts have been made to recover the letter from you?" "at least three such attempts were made by the late sergeant, and two by my lord brocton," i replied. "their lordships' urgent need of recovering the letter is thus proven, and the court will attach due weight to the facts," said master freake. brocton turned white as a sheet, and the old rogue shook as a dead leaf shakes on its twig before the wind strips it off. there was in them none of the family pride which keeps the great families agoing. "i opened the letter. i mastered its contents. i still have it," continued master freake, every sentence, like the crash of a sledge-hammer, making these craven bystanders shake at the knees. "it is deposited, sealed up again, with a sure friend, who has instructions, unless i claim it in person on or before the last day of this year, to deliver it in person to the king. at present no one knows its contents except my lord brocton who wrote it, and i who read it." "thank god!" ejaculated the rascal old earl fervently. "egad," thought i to myself. "it's the ridgeley estates no less." "we will call it, for the purposes of our discussion," said master freake soothingly, "a letter about certain lands." "yes! yes! certainly! a letter about lands! so it was!" cried the earl eagerly, and brocton began to look less like a coward on the scaffold. "would you prefer any other designation or description, my lords?" inquired master freake. "i'm quite satisfied, my good master freake," babbled the earl. "what lands?" i burst out, unable to hold in my curiosity any longer. "the lands known as the upper hanyards in the county of staffordshire," replied master freake. "well i'm ----," cried i, in amazement, but pulling up in time, and margaret's blue eyes were as wide open as mine. "you are, master oliver wheatman," said master freake, "the future, rightful owner of the ancient estate of your family in all its former amplitude; and all arrearages of rents and incomings as from the thirteenth of april, one thousand seven hundred and thirty-two, with compound interest at the rate of ten per cent per annum, together with a compensation for disturbance and vexation caused to you and yours, provisionally fixed in the sum of two thousand pounds. the earl of ridgeley, smitten to the heart by the remembrance of his roguery and knavery, has agreed to make this full restitution. am i right, my lord?" "absolutely, master freake, if you please," whined the rascal old earl. "my god, i'm a ruined man!" "well, my lord," said master freake, "if you lose your lands and moneys, and i will not bate an acre or a guinea of the full tale, you and your son will at least retain what, as i see, you both value more highly. the restitution is to be made by you to me personally, so that we can avoid quibbles about oliver's legal position, he being a rebel confessed, and the day after he is inlawed i will in my turn convey the property in both kinds to him. when the restitution has been fully and legally made, without speck or flaw in title, and passed as such by my lawyers, the letter will be returned to you sealed as now, and of course i shall be rigidly silent on the matter. your lordships," he ended coldly, "may start for london at once to see to the matter." the old earl started for the door eagerly, calling down on his son dire and foul curses. brocton looked poisonously at me before following, and i knew i had not done with him yet. "i've got you your lands, oliver, but there has been no time to get you pardoned. the king was at windsor; every moment was precious; and there was no use, in the temper of the town, in dealing with underlings. it will not do to run any risk of your being retaken, for cumberland loves blood-letting, and is no friend of mine. we shall take you to a little fishing village on the solway and get you a cast over to dublin, whither my good ship, 'merchant of london,' jonadab kilroot, master, outward bound for the americas, will pick you up. when we all meet again in london, in a few months, you will be pardoned. margaret and i must now follow her father. the stuart cause is smashed to pieces." * * * * * late that night i stood with margaret on the end of a jetty in a little fishing village on the cumberland coast. master freake was giving final instructions to the owner of a herring-buss that was creaking noisily against the side of the jetty under the swell of the tide. dot was busily handing to one of her crew of two certain packages for my use. we stood together, and she had linked her arm in mine. we who had been so close together for a month were now to have an ocean put between us. not that that mattered to me, already separated from her by something wider than the atlantic, a lonely unnamed grave away there in staffordshire. suddenly she called to dot, and he, as knowing just what she wanted, brought her a box. she loosed her arm from mine and took it from him, and when i would in turn have relieved her of it, she gently refused. "oliver," she said, in quiet, firm tones, "you met me when i was in grave danger and immediately, like the gallant gentleman you are, left mother and home to do me service." "it was the privilege of my life, madam," i said earnestly. "you have sweetened your service by so regarding it, giving greatly when you gave. and, sir, that service put me in your debt. you see that?" "it is like you to say so. what of it?" "the time came when you were in danger, and i, in my turn, left my father and rode hard to save you. i am not boasting, you understand, sir. i am merely stating a fact. i rendered service for service, like for like, did i not, sir?" "you did, madam, and did it splendidly," said i. "then, sir, when we meet again," she said, and she was now speaking very clearly and sweetly, looking me full in the eyes, potent in all her beauty and queenliness, "when we meet again, we meet on level terms." "are you ready, lad?" called master freake. "coming, sir!" i cried, almost glad at heart of the escape. "one moment, oliver!" said margaret. "so anxious to be rid of me? nay, i jest of course! i've a little present for you here, oliver. it will, i hope, make you think of me at times." "it will not," i replied, smiling. "it will make me think oftener of you, that's all." she handed me the box, and we walked up to the boat. the half-moon was bright in an unclouded sky, and it showed me tears on margaret's cheeks, as i bent to clasp and kiss her hand. then i said good-bye to master freake and dot, and was helped into the boat. so we parted, and i set my face toward the new world. for ten weary months there is nothing to be said that belongs of right and necessity to my story. except this: the first thing i did when i was alone in my cabin on the good ship, the "merchant of london," was to open margaret's box. it contained a full supply of books wherefrom to learn "the only language one can love in," and on the fly-leaf of a sumptuous "dante" she had written, "from margaret to oliver." chapter xxv i settle my account with my lord brocton of how i fared the seas with jonadab kilroot, master of the stolid barque, "merchant of london," i say nothing, or as good as nothing. master kilroot was a noisy, bulky man, with a whiff of the tar-barrel ever about him and a heart as stout as a ship's biscuit. he feared god always, and drubbed his men whenever it was necessary; in his estimation the office of sea-captain was the most important under heaven, and master john freake the greatest man on earth. the ship remained at anchor in dublin harbour while tailors and tradesmen of all sorts fitted me out, for master freake had given me guineas enough for a horse-load. i did very well, for dublin is a vice-regal city, with a parliament of its own and reasonable society, so that the modes and fashions are not more than a year or so behind london, which did not matter to a man going to the americas. from dublin i wrote home. i had laid one strict injunction on margaret. she was not to go to the hanyards, or write there, or allow anyone else to do either. i would not suffer her to know, or to run any chance of knowing, about jack. she was greatly troubled over the matter, but i was so decided that she consented to my demand. it cost me a world of pains to write. i wrote, rewrote, and tore up scores of letters. finally i merely sent them word that i was going to america to wait till the trouble was blown over, and that i should be with them again as soon as possible. i gave them no address. it was cowardly, but i could not bring myself to it. the nightmare that haunted me was my going home, home to our kate, the sweetest sister man ever had, with her young heart wrapped for ever in widow's weeds. i used to dream that i rode up to the yard-gate on sultan, and every time, in my dream, the hanyards looked so desolate and woebegone, as if the very barns and byres were mourning for the dear dead lad who had played amongst them, that i pulled sultan round and spurred him away till he flew like the wind, and i woke up in a cold sweat. on a wednesday morning in the middle of february the "merchant of london" swung into boston harbour on a full tide and was moored fast by the long wharf. master kilroot hurried me ashore to the house of the great boston merchant, mr. peter faneuil, to whom i carried a letter from master freake. it was enough. my friend's protecting arm reached across the atlantic, and if it were part of my plan to tell at length of my doings in the new world, i should have much to say about this worthy merchant of boston. he was earnest and assiduous in his kindness, and so far as my exile was pleasant he made it so. mr. faneuil was urgent that i should take up my abode with him, but this i gratefully declined, and he thereon recommended me to lodge with the widow of a ship-captain who had been drowned in his service. so i took lodging with her at her house in brattles street, and she made me very comfortable. she had a daughter, a pretty frolic lass of nine, who promoted me uncle the first day, and one negro slave, who was the autocrat of the establishment till my coming put his nose out of joint, as we say in staffordshire. master kilroot unshipped most of his inward cargo and sailed away for carolina and virginia to get rice and tobacco. then he would come back here to make up his return cargo with dried fish, to be exchanged at lisbon for wine for england. this was his ordinary round of trade, and a very profitable traffic it was. when he had left, i settled down to make my exile profitable. by a great slice of luck there was at this time in boston an italian, one signor zandra, who gave lessons in his native tongue openly and in the art of dancing secretly. the wealth of the town was growing apace; there was a leisured class, and, speaking generally, the bostonians were alert of mind and desirous of knowledge above any other set of men i have ever lived among. in the near-by town of cambridge there was a vigorous little university with more than a hundred students. moreover, there was a rising political spirit which gave me a keen interest in the men who breathed the quick vital air of this vigorous new england. in many respects i found myself back in the times of smite-and-spare-not wheatman, captain of horse in the army of the lord-general. the genuine, if somewhat narrow, piety of the bostoneers reminded me of him, and still more their healthy critical attitude towards rulers in general and kings in particular. they had the old puritan stuff in them too, for some eight months before they had captured louisberg from the french, a famous military exploit which the great lord-general would have gloried in. my days were all twins to each other. every morning, after breakfast, i went abroad and always the same way: past the quaint town house, down king street, and so on to the long wharf to see if a ship had come in from england, and to ask the captain thereof if he had brought a letter for one oliver wheatman at mr. peter faneuil's. i got no letter and no news. then, always a little sad in heart, i strolled back, and looked in at wilkins' book-shop, where some of the town notables were always to be found, and where, one may morning, as i was higgling over the purchase of a fine virgil, i made the acquaintance of a remarkable young gentleman, mr. sam adams, a genius by birth, a maltster by trade, and a politician by choice. we would discuss books together in master wilkins', or slip out to a retired inn called "the two palaverers" and discuss politics over a glass of wine and a pipe of tobacco. i liked him so much that i was afraid to tell him i had been fighting for the stuarts, and was content to pass in the role mr. faneuil had assigned to me of an ingenuous young english gentleman who had come out to study colonial matters on the spot before entering parliament. our talk over, i went on to signor zandra's and worked at italian for two hours. most days i took him back to my lodging for dinner and read and talked italian with him for another hour or two. the rest of the day i gave to reading, exercising, and, thanks to the good merchant, to the best society in boston. occasionally, when i knew for certain that no ship would clear for home for two or three days, i made little shooting journeys inland, but in the main this is how i spent my days, filling them with work and distraction so as not to have idle hours for idler thinking. spring passed, summer came and went, and the leaves were turning from gold to brown when one morning, as i was at breakfast, mr. faneuil's man came in with a letter. it was from master freake, summoning me home as all was put right. it contained a few lines from margaret, written in italian. a ship was sailing for london that day, and i went on her. * * * * * jonadab kilroot had found his way across the atlantic into boston harbour much more easily than i was finding mine across london to master freake's house in queen anne's gate. it was after nine at night, at which late hour, of course, i did not intend to arouse the inmates, but i meant to find the place so that i could stand outside and imagine margaret within, perchance dreaming of me. at last i observed that men with torches were clearly being used as guides through this black maze of streets, and i stopped one such and offered him a guinea to do his office for me. he was a lean, shabby, hungry-looking man, who might be forty by the look of him. he stared vacantly at me for a few seconds, and then hurriedly led the way, holding his link high over his head. this trouble over, another began, which put me in a towering rage. a gaudy young gentleman bumped into me and, though it was clearly his fault, i apologized and passed on, leaving him hopping about on one foot and nursing the other, which i had trodden on. he swore at me worse than a boatswain at a lubber, and but for the exquisite pain i had caused him i should have gone into the matter with him. i found my linkman leaning against a post and laughing heartily. "never you mind, sir. he'll not take the wall of you again in a hurry." "take the wall?" i said. "done on purpose, sir, to pick a quarrel with you. the young sparks do it for a game." not much farther on, we met a sedan, with an elegant young lady in it, and an elegant gentleman walking along by her close up to the chains, she being in the roadway. there was ample room for me to pass between him and the wall, which was also the courteous thing to do; but as soon as my linkman had passed him, he shot clean in my way. i gave him all the wall he wanted and more, bumping his head against it till he apologized humbly through his rattling teeth. the lady shrieked viciously at me, and one of her chairmen, my back being turned, pulled out his pole and came to attack me. my man, however, very dexterously pushed the link in his face as he was straddling over the chains, and he dropped the pole and spat and spluttered tremendously. i stepped across to the lady and apologized for detaining her, and then my man and i went on, easy victors. arrived at queen anne's gate, another surprise awaited me. master freake's windows were ablaze with light, and the door was being held open by a man in handsome livery to admit an exquisite gentleman and a more exquisite lady who had just arrived there in chairs. i gave my man his guinea, and after dousing his link in a great iron extinguisher at the side of the door, he sped happily away. after watching the arrival of three or four more chairs and one carriage, i summoned up all my resolution and gave a feeble rat-tat with the massive iron lion's-head which served as knocker. the man in livery opened to me, and i was inside before he could observe that i was an intruder. true, i was in my best clothes--my sunday clothes, as i should have called them at home--and they were none so bad; but they had been made in boston, where fashions ranged on the sober side. here i looked like a sparrow in a flight of bull-finches. "can i see master freake?" said i. "no," said he, with uncompromising promptness. "is he at home?" "no," he retorted. "this is his house, i think?" "it is," he assented. "then i suppose all these people are coming to see you--and cook," said i gravely. the sarcasm might have got through his thick skin perhaps but for the intervention of another liveried gentleman, who briefly asserted that i was "off my head," and proposed a muster of forces to throw me out. my own feeling distinctly was that i was on my head, not off it; but his suggestion interested me, as i do not take readily to being thrown out of anything or anywhere. luckily, a fresh arrival took their attention off me for a minute or two, and while i was standing aside to admire the lady, who should come statelily down the grand staircase into the hall but dot gibson. he too was in livery, but of a grave, genteel sort. "hello, dot," said i, accosting him quietly. it bounced all the gravity out of him. he shook my outstretched hand vigorously, and then apologized for doing so, saying he was so glad to see me. "jorkins, you great ass," cried he to the first servant, "what do you mean by keeping his honour waiting?" jorkins looked apprehensively at dot and the suggester of violence looked apprehensively at jorkins; but dot was too full to bother with them, and went on: "mr. freake will be delighted, sir, and so will miss waynflete. they're always talking of you. come along, sir! allow me to precede you." he took me upstairs into the library, and left me there alone. in a few seconds master freake burst in on me. "my dear lad," he cried, wringing my hand heartily, "welcome--a thousand times welcome!" "thank you, sir. i'm glad to be back," was all i could say. he put a hand on each shoulder and stood at arm's length to examine me. "and we're glad to have you back, looking as fit and brown as a bronze gladiator. come along to your room! it's been ready for you this three months, for that silly margaret set to work on it the very day we sent off your letter." "how is mistress waynflete, sir?" "you'll see in five minutes if you'll only bestir yourself. the wits say that there's no need for george to furnish the town with a new queen as i have provided it with an empress." he hurried me off to my room, as he called it, and it was so grand that i crept about it on tiptoe for fear of damaging something. there was everything a young man could want except clothes, and master freake laughingly assured me that they (meaning margaret and himself) had puzzled for hours to see if they could manage them, but had given it up in despair. "i declared you'd pine and get thin," he said, "and she vowed you'd get lazy and fat." i felt very doltish and unready as i followed him to the drawing-room. it was very clear to me that no meeting on level terms was in front of me, and when i got into a large, brilliant room where some dozen splendid ladies and as many elegant, easy-mannered gentlemen were assembled, i felt inclined to turn tail. "empress." it was the exact word. master freake put his arm in mine and led me towards her. she was sitting throned in one corner of a roomy, cushioned sofa, with half a dozen young men--the least of them an earl, i thought bitterly--bending round her as the brethren's sheaves bent round joseph's. and, as if she were not overpowering enough of herself, everything that consummate skill and the nicest artistry could do to enhance her beauty had been done. juno banqueting with the gods had not looked more superb. "on level terms," i whispered to myself mockingly, as master freake led me on, for one of the circling sheaves, with whom she was exchanging easy, lightsome banter, was my finely chiselled acquaintance, the marquess of tiverton. except that she cut a quip in two when she saw who it was that master freake was bringing, margaret gave no sign of surprise. she neither paled nor reddened, nor gushed nor faltered. empress-like she simply added me to her train. "i bring you an old friend, margaret," said master freake, for whom, as i saw, the worshippers round the idol made way respectfully. "and my old friend is very welcome, sir," she answered, holding out her hand. i bowed over it and kissed it. i thought that it trembled a little as it lay in mine, but it is at least probable that i was the source of what fluttering there was. "i trust you have had a good voyage, mr. wheatman?" she questioned easily. "excellent, madam," i replied, with imitative lightness of tone. "it was like rowing on a river." for a moment her eyes steadied and darkened, then she said with a smile, "that being so, even i, who am no sailor, should have enjoyed it along with you." this was how we met. whether on level terms or not, who shall decide? "i say, mr. wheatman," broke in the pleasant voice of the marquess, "you don't happen to have any venison-pasty on you, i suppose? i've got some rattling good snuff, and i'll give you a pinch for a plateful, as i did up in staffordshire. i vow, miss waynflete, it makes me hungry to see him." this speech caused much laughter, and margaret said it was fortunate supper was ready. she then introduced me to the company around, and when this was done, master freake fetched me to renew the acquaintance of sir james blount and his lady, so that i was soon full of talk and merriment. supper and talk, wine and talk, basset and talk--so the time went by till long after midnight. then one by one the guests dropped off. the marquess lingered longest, and on going, pledged me to call on him next morning. "at last," said margaret. "beauty sleep is out of the question to-night, oliver, so tell us everything about everything. it's glorious to have you back." it is not my purpose to dwell on my life in london. after a few days it became one long agony because of, but not by means of, margaret. she did her best for me, and was all patience, kindness, and graciousness, and was plainly bent on living on level terms with me according to her promise and prophecy. it only required a day or two to show me that she had many a man of rank and wealth in thrall. as wealth went then, the marquess of tiverton was, by his own fault and foolishness, a poorish man, but he was lost in love of her, and he was only one of the many exquisites who were for ever in and out of master freake's fine mansion. it did not become a wheatman of the hanyards to cringe or be abashed in any company, and with the best of them i kept on terms of ease and intimacy. i dressed as well, and perchance looked as well, as they did, and if my accomplishments differed from theirs they differed for the better in margaret's eyes, which were the only eyes that mattered. brief as i intend to be, i must set down a few jottings on things that belong to the texture of my story. to begin with, the colonel, though pardoned, was still in france, looking after his affairs there, for before starting to join the prince he had wisely shifted all his fortune over to paris. davie ogilvie had got clear away after culloden, and his sweet ishbel, though taken after the battle, had been permitted to join him there. it was a great comfort to know they were safe, for there were sad relics of my escapade in london--the row of ghastly, grinning heads over temple bar. soon after my arrival, master freake had sent for his lawyers and delivered to me in full possession the upper hanyards and the huge tale of guineas which the rascal old earl had disgorged as the price of the letter. master freake kept a rigid silence over the contents of that famous document "about lands," and i had no wish to know. it was worth a thousand acres and near ten thousand guineas to the earl. i was satisfied if he was. i put my guineas in a bank of master freake's choosing. what a dowry i could have given kate if-- my lord brocton was in town. i saw him several times, in the street or at the play, but took no notice of him. he was said to be eagerly hunting after a lady of meagre attractions but enormous fortune. twice when i saw him he had with him the fellow i had bumped against the wall, a notorious shark and swashbuckler, by name and rank sir patrick gee. tiverton, who had his own reasons for being interested in brocton, told me they were hand and glove together. in a little while a month may be, a change came over the relation in which margaret and i stood to each other. we both fought against it but in vain. we could not travel on parallel lines, we two. we must either converge or diverge, and fate had given me no choice. i used to pretend i was going out, to ride or lounge with the marquess or some other acquaintance, and then slip upstairs to the quiet old library, bury myself in a windowed recess cut off by curtains, and try to forget it all in a book. fool-like i thought i could solve my problem so. the hanyards was calling me and i dared not go. i should leave margaret, and i could not leave her. why, i asked myself a thousand times, was i so poor a cur compared with donald? he had done what i had done, and he had seen his way at once and followed it. he would not live, having, in all innocence and with the most urgent of all reasons, killed his friend. not that i felt that his solution was my solution. my duty was to leave margaret and to go to kate, to help her, to the best of my ability, to live down her sorrow, and to show by my life and conduct that i would pay the price. and here i was, hovering moth-like round the flame. then again i would say that i would wait till the inevitable had happened, and margaret was married to tiverton. anything to put it off, that was really all i was capable of. to me, in my recess, margaret came one morning. "i thought you'd gone out, oliver," she began. "no," said i. "i altered my mind, and thought i'd like reading better." "you puzzle me. are you quite well?" "as fit as a fiddle," said i cheerily, and rose to give her my seat, for the recess would only hold one. "you're not to move, sir." she fetched a couple of cushions, flung them by the window, and curled up on them. i wished she wouldn't, for she made a glorious picture. "now, sir, i am going to have it out with you," she said severely and smilingly. i smiled back, and pulled myself together. "i hope 'it' is not a very serious 'it,' madam," i replied. "it may be. does your head ever trouble you?" "my head ever trouble me?" i gasped, taken aback. "yes, your head, sir. when you fell down those stairs you received a very serious wound on the head. it gaped open so that i could have laid a finger in the hole. are you sure it doesn't trouble you, oliver? blows on the head are dreadful things, you know." "look at it," said i, popping my head down, and very glad of the chance. her beautiful fingers parted my thick, short, bristly hair and found the spot. "there's nothing wrong with the skull, is there?" i asked. "no," very doubtfully. "it's healed splendidly." "now, madam," said i, "talk to me in italian!" it was the first time, by chance, that i had thought of it. for ten minutes she questioned and cross-questioned me in italian on all sorts of subjects, and i came out of the ordeal pretty well--thanks to signor zandra. "point one," said i in english. "the outside of my head is all right. point two: are you satisfied with the inside?" for a full minute she gazed in silence at her feet, twisting them about swiftly and somewhat forgetfully. it was trying, almost merciless, for she was very beautiful. "yes," she said at length, but without looking at me. "you've done marvellously well." "in the only language one can love in," i said bitterly. the words had no apparent effect. she still stared at her twinkling feet. suddenly she lifted her eyes up to mine and said, almost sharply, "then what did happen to you between the hanyards and leek to change you?" it was clean, swift hitting, and made me gasp, but i managed to escape. "madam," said i, "i set out with you from the hanyards to serve you and for no other purpose whatsoever. in my opinion, speaking in all modesty, i served you as well after leek as before it. at least, i tried to." she leaped up, and, with great sweeps of her arm, flung the cushions into the library. she said briefly, "and you succeeded, sir!" then she left me. swiftly and passionately, without another word or look. after this, the gap between us became obvious. meanwhile the marquess of tiverton was doing his best to give me a competent knowledge of the court-end of the town. he had a spacious mansion in bloomsbury square, but this was now let to a great nabob, and he himself lived in close-shorn splendour in a small house in st. james's. here i saw much of him, for commonly i would stroll round late in the forenoon and rout him out of bed. by an odd turn we took to each other greatly, and while he drank chocolate in bed or trifled with his breakfast we had many talks on the few subjects that mattered to him. our favourite theme was margaret, whom he outspokenly worshipped. he rhapsodized over her in great stretches, calling me to testify with him to her divineness, and rating me soundly if, in the bitterness of my heart, i was a little laggard in my devotions. and, at irregular intervals, like selah in the psalms, he would intone dolefully, "and i can't marry her!" it was no use my protesting that an unmarried man could marry any woman he liked if she would have him. "a man can," he would reply, "but a bankrupt marquess can't. i've got to marry that jade. pah! she's as lank as a hop-pole and as yellow as a guinea. but what's a marquess to do, noll? they say she could tie up the neck and armholes of her shift and fill it with diamonds. damn her! i wish brocton would snap her up, but he can't. he'll never be more than an earl and i'm a marquess. curse my luck! fancy me a marquess! i'm a disgrace to my order and as poor as a crow." the 'jade' referred to was the nabob's only daughter and heiress, who was, as all the town knew, to make a great match. my lord brocton was keenly in pursuit of her, but she inclined to the marquess, who could have had her and her vast fortune any day for the asking. she was certainly not overdone with charms, but tiverton in his anger had made her out worse than she was. the morning after my encounter with margaret in the recess, tiverton was more than usually talkative, the fact being not unconnected, i imagine, with an unsuccessful bout at white's the night previous. we got through our usual talk about margaret and the nabobess, and then he struck out a new line. "now if the divine margaret," he said, "rightly so named as the pearl of great price among women, were only freake's daughter and heiress, i'd be on my knees before her in a jiffy. they say he made cartfuls of money over that jacobite business. everybody here was selling at any price the stocks would fetch, and he was buying right and left on his own terms. he was back here, knowing of the retreat from derby, over twenty-four hours before the courier came, and the old fox kept the news to himself. he's the first man out of the city to set up house in the court-end. old borrowdell shifted his tabernacle as far west as hatton gardens in my father's time, and that was thought pretty big and bold, but here's freake right in the thick of it, and holds his own like a lion among jackals. fact is, he's a right-down good fellow. being a marquess, i ought to despise him, 'stead of which i feel like a worm whenever he comes near me, and that, mark ye, noll, not because i owe him close on ten thousand. i used to owe a rascal named blayton quite as much, and every time he came whining round here i either wanted to kick him out or did it. heigh-ho! i'm in the very devil of a mess but i'll cheat scraggy-neck yet. i'll reform outright, noll. i'll never touch a card again as long as i live." "that's the talk!" said i heartily. "eat something and let's have the horses out for a gallop across putney heath." next evening, early, being very miserable, i went round to the blounts, with whom i was very friendly. i forgot myself for a time, it being impossible to think of anything while lying on my back on the hearth, with baby blount trying to pull my hair out by the roots and cutting a stubborn tooth on my nose. he was a delightful, pitiless, young rascal and would leave anything and anybody to maul me about. i had, however, for once mistaken my billet, for while thus engaged who should come in with his mother but margaret? "aren't you afraid to trust baby with such an inexperienced nurse?" asked margaret, smiling at my discomfiture, for i had to lie there till i was rescued from the young dog's clutches. "not at all. when he's with a baby, he becomes a baby, which is what they want. he'll make an ideal father, don't you think?" said her ladyship happily. "i think he will," said margaret in a very judicial tone, but she coloured as she said it. while lady blount disposed of baby, margaret beckoned me aside. "oliver, you'll do me a favour, won't you?" she asked. "certainly," said i. "as i came here in a chair, i saw the marquess going into white's. i fear he may be gambling again. he easily yields to the temptation, and soon becomes reckless. will you call in, as if by chance, and coax him out? i would have him saved from himself, and you have great influence over him." "if he won't come out," said i, smiling, "i'll lug him out!" i excused myself to lady blount and set forth on my errand, willingly enough, since she desired it and i liked him, but all the way i thought of her anxious face as she asked me. at white's i found tiverton playing piquet with brocton. a heap of guineas was by his side, and he was flushed and excited with success. the bout had attracted some attention, for the stakes were running high, and eight or nine men were gathered round the players, among them sir patrick gee. i waited while the hand was played out. tiverton repiqued his opponent, and joyously raked over to his side of the table four tall piles of guineas. it was my first meeting with brocton. chance and margaret had brought us together again. "egad, tiverton," said i to the marquess, who now first observed me, "you had the cards that time with a vengeance. are you playing on? what about your engagement with me?" the marquess coloured slightly at my veiled rebuke. he looked doubtfully at his watch, then at me, and finally at brocton. "have you had enough?" he asked. "enough?" cried brocton. "since you took up with farmers you've got chicken-hearted at cards. play on, my lord!" "i have told you," said i quietly to brocton, "that his lordship has an engagement with me. that should be enough. if you want your revenge, which is natural, there are other nights available." "i want my revenge now, and will have it," he said meaningly, "and this is how i serve men who come between me and my revenge." he was shuffling a pack of cards as he spoke, and, with the words, he flung them in my face. at most of the tables play stopped, and the players there became silently intent on this new game where the stakes ran highest of all. it meant a fight, a fight between an expert swordsman and a man who knew nothing of the craft. to such a fight there could be but one end. tiverton was beside himself. "she'll never forgive me!" he muttered, and i looked amusedly at him and whispered, "who? the nabobess?" he was the highest in rank there, and as such a court of appeal and a sort of master of the ceremonies. "my lord tiverton," said i aloud, "i am, as you know, a recent arrival in town from the americas and other outlandish places, and, naturally enough under these circumstances, i am not clear on some points." "it's clear you've been swiped across the face," broke in sir patrick gee. "hold your tongue, sir!" said tiverton, looking quietly at him. "proceed, mr. wheatman!" it made me smile again, tight as the corner was, to see the play-acting spirit creeping over him. he was beginning to enjoy himself. "therefore, my lord, i should like to ask you a few questions," i continued. "certainly, sir," he replied, with great impressiveness, taking snuff in great style while he awaited my questioning. "is there any doubt that i am the insulted person?" "none whatever," he replied. "my lord brocton insulted you wantonly and deliberately." "then, my lord marquess, i may be wrong, but i think i have the right of choosing the place, the time, and the weapons." "certainly, mr. wheatman," he answered. "then if i choose to say, 'on the banks of the susquehanna, ten years hence, with tomahawks,' so it must be?" a wave of scornful laughter went round the room as the question passed from mouth to mouth. even the most ardent gamblers left their play to join the circle around us. english even in their vices, they took a fight for granted, but were up in a moment to see some fun. the marquess was disconcerted. he obviously felt that i was about to reflect on him in the gravest way; that, in short, i was backing out. he would be tarnished by the dishonour that had driven me out of the world of gentlemen. "i think," said he, "that would be overstraining the privileges of an insulted gentleman." "run away, farmer!" bellowed sir patrick raucously. tiverton looked disdainfully at him. "you may like to know, my lords and gentlemen," he said, as grandly as if he were reciting a set piece from the stage, "that on the night of his arrival from boston my friend was rudely insulted in the strand by a certain person." here he stopped, whirled round on the hulking scoundrel, and added grimly to him, "i shall finish the story unless you leave the room at once." gee thought better of it and slipped off like a disturbed night-prowler. "thank you, my lord," said i very humbly, "for your decision. i hope my unavoidable ignorance entitles me to try again." "certainly," said he, but with unmistakable uncertainty. i looked round the intent curious circle of faces and then at brocton. on his face and in his cruel eyes there were the same gloating anticipations that were there when, in marry-me-quick's cottage, he thought he was bending margaret to his foul will. you could have heard a card drop in that crowded room. my time had come to the tick. stretching myself taut, i said slowly and distinctly, "here. now. fists." brocton went limp and ghastly. i strode up to him, took him, unresisted, by the scruff of the neck, and then said curtly, "open the door, tiverton." the willing little marquess ran delightedly to do my bidding, and i kicked my lord brocton into the kennel and out of my life. next morning i went round to tiverton's as usual, and while he was at breakfast, and we were starting our usual round of talk, in came sir james blount, a stranger at such an hour. "have you heard the news?" he asked abruptly. "what news?" asked tiverton, rather sour at being cheated out of his morning's consolatory grumble with me. "mr. freake has declared that miss waynflete is to be his sole heiress," he replied. i had to thump tiverton to prevent him being choked by something that went the wrong way. we had an excited talk about the news, which sir james had received direct from master freake, which settled it as a fact beyond dispute or change. margaret was now the most desirable match in london from every point of view. blount went away quite pleased with the stir he had made. "henry! henry!" yelled tiverton as soon as we were alone, and in came his man hastily. "henry! what the devil do you mean by putting me into these old rags? damme! i look like a chairman. go and get some decent things out, you old rascal! i'm to call on the greatest lady in london town." he hurried off after his servant, and i heard him singing and shouting over his second toilet. i crept miserably out of the house and made my way to the mews. the ostler saddled my horse, a beautiful chestnut mare which master freake had given me, and i rode out of town, deep in thought. mechanically, i went the way we had intended to go, and found myself at last on the heights that overlook london from the north. then i pulled up. the towers of the abbey stood out nobly against the steel-blue sky. within their shadow was master freake's house where, by now, tiverton would not have pleaded his love in vain. i saw her there, in the splendid room she always dimmed with her greater splendour, the exquisite marquess at her feet, happy in possession of the pearl of great price. over this vision a shadow came, and i saw the house-place at the hanyards, with our widowed kate alone in her sorrow. her flame-red hair was white as snow and tears of blood were on her cheeks. donald's farewell, _weird mun hae way_, boomed in my ears like a dirge. with a sigh that was near of kin to a sob, i pulled the mare round and urged her northwards, northwards and homewards. in my fear and trembling i shirked everything, doing childishly and more than childishly. i was not on sultan, and when i rode out of lichfield i hugged that simple fact to my heart. so much of my dream had at least not come true, and i gave the lie to more of it by leaving the high road and wandering devious ways till, within four or five miles of home, i left even the by-ways and kept to the fields. so keen was i on my little stratagems that i rode over the upper hanyards without once recalling the fact that it was now mine as it had been my father's before me. about four o'clock on a december day, just over a year since leaving home, i leaped the mare over a hedge and was at the old gate. more of the dream was untrue. the winter sun was dropping down to the hill-tops like a great carbuncle set in gold, and the hanyards was all aglow in its flaming rays. the gate was open, so that i could at least begin by pitching into joe braggs for his negligence, and the windows of the house-place shimmered a welcome because of the cheerful blaze within. not a soul stirred. i jumped down, threw the reins over the gate-post, and walked stealthily into the yard and up to the window. still not a soul stirred. i peeped in. there was our kate, leaning lovingly over my chair, pillowed as she had never pillowed it for me, and in the chair was clearly a man, for i could see his stockings and breeches stretching comfortably past her skirts. she laughed merrily at something said, and then stooped and kissed the person in the chair. this was woman's faith! with a great clatter, i strode into the porch, thrust open the door, and stepped in. there was a shout of delight, a babble of, "it's our noll! it's our noll!" and kate leaped into my arms and rained kisses on me. the man followed her, slowly and feebly, leaning heavily on a stick. when he turned his face so that the firelight showed him up, my legs sank beneath me and my knees knocked together. it was jack, dear old jack, nothing but the shadow of himself, but still jack right enough, and his hand was in mine. "run, kit!" he cried. "get some wine! the lad's overcome. god bless you, old noll, how are you?" kate ran off into the parlour, where our wine was stored. "jack!" "hello, noll!" "i thought i'd killed you." "was it you?" he asked, all amazed at my self-accusation. "yes," i faltered. "by gom, noll, you did give me a sock!" he heard kate tripping back with the wine, and put his finger on his lips for a warning. and that was the first and last remark jack dobson made on the subject. chapter xxvi the way of a maid with a man it took me to cure jack. i administered one dose of medicine and he at once began to fill out and get strong and chesty in a manner almost absurd, whereon there was much twitting of our kate who, in her old way, rated me soundly in public and crept up to me in private, and kissed me and wept gladly in the most approved maiden-like style. this was the way of it. i sent joe braggs into stafford the day after i got home to fetch out master dobson, and had him alone in my room. true he was as near and grasping as ever, but i saw even this side of him in a new light now, for he had been near and grasping for jack. he was rather uncertain when we met; glad enough, of course, to see an old friend back again safe and sound, but dubious on the main point. "master dobson," said i, "your jack desires to wed our kate." "so he tells me," said he dolefully, rubbing his thin finger under the edge of his bob-wig to scratch his perplexed head. "she is an excellent young woman, and a comely," said i, grinning at him. "undoubtedly," he conceded. "but, as the head of the family, master dobson, i offer no objection to the proposal." much it would have mattered if i had, but i always take credit when and while i can. "it's very kind of you, ol ... mr. wheatman," said he, "but...." "yes," said i encouragingly. "but there's what i may call the material side of the matter to be considered. my son's bride should be suitable from the business point of view." "i've been considering that point, master dobson. it is undoubtedly important. jack's a careless young dog, and i'm sure our kate is just the woman he wants from a business point of view. she'll keep an eye on every meg in his pockets." "tut, tut!" said he, stirred to action, as i knew he would be. "you mistake me completely. my son will not be wanting in this world's gear and he must have a wife to match." "i see," said i. "one with something substantial in her pocket." "precisely," said he. "well, master dobson, if our kate is willing to marry your jack, a point on which i can offer only a conjecture, she will marry him with five thousand pound in her pocket." he sat bolt upright and stared at me with his mouth wide open. we fetched them in, mother coming with them, and the old man there and then gave them his blessing. kate ran into mother's arms, while jack wrung my hand and danced for joy. afterwards he ate the most astonishing dinner imaginable, loudly asseverating that he was as right as nine-pence and sick of slops. my coming back made a great noise all over our countryside. of what i had actually done there was no knowledge whatsoever. the tale went that i had been to america and found a goldmine, and come home and bought back the lost hanyards. acute sceptics in barbers' shops and market ordinaries advanced the opinion that it must have been a very little goldmine, but they were unable to substitute any other explanation and so fell into contempt. the tale suited me and i never contradicted it. in a world where a man who has travelled to london is a person of consideration and renown, i, who had been to america, was as a god. my first visit to stafford put the sleepy old town into commotion. every night around the fire in the house-place i told them of my adventures. jack, the sly fox, sat among his cushions, which he had not been fool enough to discard along with his slops, with kate on a low stool at his knees. the vicar sat by mother's side on the settle. i drew a chair close to her, so that her hand could clasp mine as i talked, and very helpful i found it, for she understood in silence and in silence comforted me. jane laid supper, taking a long time over it, for between journeys to and from the kitchen she would stand behind the settle and listen wide-eyed to a spell of my talk. every night the vicar said grace, adding, in his simple, apostolic way, a special thanksgiving to the good god who had brought the young lad safe home again, through perils by sea and perils by land, and out of the very hands of evil men who had compassed him about to destroy him. then, after supper, i escorted the good man home and came back through the moonlit lanes; and every night, without fail, i went and stood on the very spot where the gaff had slipped out of my collar, and i had turned round to see margaret. the only discontented person in our little circle was joe braggs, who had caught the dace that caught the jack, and so started me out of my jog-trot yeoman's round into the great world of life and adventure. joe had done well while i had been away; our fields had yielded fruitfully under his care as bailiff; and, having had a favourable harvest, we were much money in hand on the year's working. i had thanked him heartily, confirmed him as my bailiff now that i was back, and given him fifty guineas, a sum which to him was wealth untold. still the rascal was not satisfied, and went about with a bear on his back, as jane had it, so that i was greatly tempted to clip his ear for him. the day before christmas, he was busy all morning under jane's garrulous command, getting in bunches of holly and other evergreens from the hedgerows. his last journey had been to one of the farms on the upper hanyards in quest of mistletoe, which grew abundantly there in an ancient orchard. on getting back he had held a sprig over jane's head for a certain familiar and laudable purpose, and had been rewarded with a smack that sounded like the dropping of an empty milk-pail. a little later i found him glowering in a cowhouse, and had it out with him. "look here, joe, my lad," said i, "tell me straight what's the matter with you or i'll break your head." "what d'ye want to come back 'ere for, upsettin' jin like this'n?" he blurted. "what the blazes have i done to upset jin?" i asked. "why didna y' bring 'er back wi' ye, then?" "who's her, you jolt-head?" i demanded angrily. "that leddy o' yourn. jin's that upset 'er wunna luk at me, an' we wor gettin' on fine." it was no use talking to joe. i explained that she was a great lady and was to marry a marquess, that is a much more important person than an earl. he knew what an earl was, for of course he had heard of the 'yurl,' meaning that old rascal ridgeley. a marquess, however, was outside his ken, and the information was wasted. "why didna y' marry 'er y'rsel', master noll, and bring 'er back 'ere, then jin wud 'a' bin all rate?" "i couldn't," said i. "did y' ask 'er?" "no." "more fule yow," said he bitterly. "she'd 'a' 'ad y', rate enough. jin says so, an' 'er knows." what could be done with such a silly fellow? i left off discussing and took him indoors with me. in front of jane i pledged him in a mug of ale and told him he was one of the best lads breathing, and i was greatly beholden to him. in front of him i kissed jane under the mistletoe and told her that, bonny lass as she was, she was lucky to have the best lad in staffordshire. i left them in the kitchen, and heard no more crashes. later on, joe whistled his three tunes with admirable skill and intolerable persistency while, under jane's orders, he took in charge the boiling of the christmas puddings in a vast iron pot hung over the kitchen fire. it was growing dark. everybody was happy. mother was out and round the village with her christmas gifts, attended by one of our men and a cart packed with good things. nothing could have made her happier. jack and kate were in the house-place busy with all sorts of housewiferies, in which he was as interested as she. joe and jane were in the kitchen, as merry as grigs. i went into my own room, across the passage from the parlour, sacrosanct to me, my books and my belongings. there, too, was the great jack, set up to the very life by the skilful hand of master whatcot. he appeared to be cleaving a bunch of reeds to pounce on a dace, just as he had done once too often on that memorable day. brothers of the angle had made pilgrimages to see him from thirty miles round, and it was an added charm to fancy that the monster had been caught in a spot where izaak walton had fished as a boy, he having been born and bred in these parts. my jack is a famous jack, for the curious reader will find an account of him, with his dimensions and catching weight exactly given, in master joshua spindler's folio volume entitled "rudimenta piscatoria, or the whole art of angling set forth in a series of letters from a nobleman to his son," london, . no one who has yet seen him has seen a bigger, though most of them have heard of one. i lit my candles, got my pipe going, and drew my chair near the fire to read and smoke. it was, however, early days yet for me to read for long. moreover, by habit i had picked up my virgil, and it was as yet impossible for me to feel the tips of my fingers in the teeth-marks without thinking of the poor wretch who had made them. i could see in exactest detail his dead body lying in the road and swift nicks beside it, pitching the bag of guineas up and down in the air, and smiling gleefully and yet wistfully at me. from that grim event, whether my mind travelled backwards or forwards, it traversed scenes such as few men are privileged, or fated, to pass through. it was, again, too soon for me to realize the full effect of my experiences on myself. i was not moody, as in the days aforetime. i neither loathed my lot nor cursed my destiny. i had seen warfare and bloodshed, i had had my heart wrung and my nerves racked, and now the peaceful meadows winding along the river and stretching up to the purple hills were dear to eyes from which the scales had fallen. this was the life and labour on which the world was based, and it was worthy of any man. i had seen death the harvester at work, and he was a less alluring figure than joe braggs with a flashing sickle in his hand and a swathe of golden grain under his arm. i should never be really alone again. i had company of which i should never tire as i sat here with my memories. margaret was rarely absent from my mind, and every memory of her was a blessing and an inspiration. i did not regret my love, foolish and vain as it had been. the thing that really mattered was that jack was alive. i could now look back on everything without bitterness. if margaret came for me now, to call me forth to another hard round of struggle and adventure, i should be off with her like a shot. she had made a splendid companion. she would make a splendid marchioness. some day, when the pain would not be unendurable, i would go to london and steal another peep at those matchless eyes and that tower of golden, gleaming hair. i did not hear the door open, but i heard mother's calm voice, gently reproving jane for an unseemly giggle. a pair of arms crept round my neck, and slim white fingers cupped my chin. kate did not know that it was i who had so nearly sent her sweetheart to an untimely grave, for jack had sternly forbidden me to mention the subject to anyone, and, as i have said, it might never have happened so far as he was concerned. therefore kate, always a loving and attentive sister, was now more loving and attentive than ever because she knew in her heart that, though i had gained much in my wanderings, i had lost the one thing she had found in the quiet sickroom where, during long weary months, she had lured jack back to life. it was always her task to fetch me from my books and my thoughts to the beloved circle in the house-place, when, as now, she had prepared a dish of tea for us. the soft resolute hands raised my chin, and i gasped as i looked into margaret's eyes. she lightly held me down, and, as if we had only parted five minutes before in the house-place, began to speak, quietly but rapidly. "oliver, do you remember waking me in the barn?" i nodded. i was too amazed to speak, and there was that in her eyes which made me tremble. "i was dreaming," she said, and i nodded again and remembered how she had flushed like the dawn. "because you are the greatest goose of a man that ever lived, i am going to tell you my dream. i dreamed that you were carrying me across the pearl brook, and as you carried me the brook got wider and wider--you had made it as wide as you could, you know--until it seemed as if we should never get across it. and you would not put me down, though i begged you to do so, but carried me on and on. you grew tired and weary, and your face went white and drawn, as i find it now, but you would not let me go. was it not a curious dream, oliver?" again i nodded. "why can't you speak, oliver? anything would make it less hard. then, because you were so weary, and so good to me, and so faithful, and long-enduring, i did in my dream ... in my dream, you mark ... something very un-maidenly ... and immediately we were both on the other side; and i awoke as you put me down at last and found you by my side, having, in your knightly unselfishness, ruined your hat to give me a drink of milk. and because you are the best man on earth, and also a blind silly goose, oliver, and i must take some risk or lose my all, i am going ... to do the unmaidenly thing i did in my dream ... and ... you ... must not misjudge me, oliver." she stopped, smiled as only margaret can, and bent her head until a loose coil of amber hair fell on my face then she brushed it aside and, after a little gasping cry, kissed me on the lips. epilogue the little jack at the hanyards staffordshire _august th, _ margaret and i had a hot dispute this morning. true she went away, singing happily, to rebuild the masses of yellow hair that had fallen all over her shoulders and mine, for the dreadful stuff seems to tumble down if i look at it, but still we had disputed, and vigorously, too. the plain fact is she had sniffed at aristotle. the trouble arose out of this story of mine which i have been busy writing for the last twenty months. it has been hard work, for i was new to the business, and had to learn how to do it, but it has been a pleasant task and a labour of love. now we disputed about it. i said it was finished. she said it wasn't. i said i ought to know. she replied not necessarily, since i was such a great goose. then i loaded my big gun and thought to blow her clean out of the water. "my dear margaret," said i, "aristotle lays it down that every work of art has a beginning, a middle, and an end. the beginning of our story was the catching of the great jack, the middle of it was the fight at the 'red bull,' and the end of it was the kiss you gave me. you see, dear, how exactly i have done what aristotle says i ought to do." "bother aristotle! what does he know about us?" it was here that she sniffed, not figuratively but actually. that is to say she held up her nose, on pretence of looking at me, and audibly ... well, sniffed. there's no other word for it. then she cried triumphantly, "what is the use, noll, of telling our story and not saying a single word about the most important people in it?" to this question i made no reply. i was beaten. aristotle, had he been in my place, would have been beaten too. if we had been in town i would have run round to mr. johnson's and asked him to assist me, but i feel sure he would have been as helpless as i was. there was no reply, so i contented myself with playing with her gorgeous hair till it was all a-tumble to the floor. bother aristotle! i must do as margaret bids. * * * * * the colonel and master freake were in the house-place when, at last, that memorable christmas eve, i proudly took my margaret there. "sir," said i to the former, before he had ceased his hearty handshake, "i love margaret dearly and margaret loves me. may we be married?" "you young dog! what d'ye say to that, john?" he said. "nothing is nearer to my heart," said the great merchant of london, giving me his hand in turn. "nor to mine, so that settles it," cried the colonel, fishing out his snuff-box, while i led margaret up to mother. we spent a happy christmas as lovers, and were married on new year's day by the vicar. jack and kate were married in the spring, by which time he was as well and strong as ever. for years i feared lest his severe wound should have left some permanent source of weakness, but happily my fears were ill-founded. jack, having had enough of soldiering, took to business at master freake's suggestion. he has developed all his father's shrewdness while retaining all his own boyish charm. he is now master freake's right hand, in the great london house of freake & dobson. kate is kate still, ardent, busy, level-headed, and loving, and the happy mother of three girls and a boy. jack and i are as twins to one another. in the summer after our wedding, margaret and i went our journey over again. we saw cherry-cheeks, and made sure that sim should have not only a good wife but a good business of his own to keep her on. we found out sweet nance lousely, and filled her pinner full of guineas after all, and left her tearful and happy. we knelt together by a simple grave in the catholic burial-ground at leek, and on the top of shap we stood, with tears in our eyes, beside the great stone that marked the resting-place of donald and his chief. i did become a parliament man, as master faneuil had said i should, and am a strong supporter of mr. pitt. we spend part of each year in london, where the marquess is our great friend. he married the nabobess after all, and she loved him well enough to make it her business to reform him. he vows she is the finest woman in england, with a head on her shoulders as good as mr. freake's. she makes a good marchioness, too, for she always had sense, and has developed dignity. but most of our time we spend at the hanyards, which i have made into a fine house by careful changes. master joe braggs and mistress jane braggs are our loyal, willing servants and our friends, and are as happy as sandboys together. they have now quite a large family. to-day we are all together again for a long stay at the hanyards. the archdeacon of lichfield, once our beloved vicar, is with us, simple, fatherly, and learned as of old. i can see his white head when i lift mine up from my writing. he is sunning himself in the garden and talking with mother, who turns her eyes now and again to look at the road, for kate and jack are coming in from stafford with their children. all these are familiar names, but it is fit that the record should be given before i go back to margaret's sniff at aristotle. for while i was busying myself with her hair, who should come in sight, walking through the orchard from the river, but the colonel and master freake. they stopped to join mother and the archdeacon in their talk, and we, looking at them, were proud and happy in the knowledge of their love for us. then there was a great clatter and chattering and excited shouting without. margaret had left the door of my study open, and in raced the most important people in our story. they had a tale too big for coherent talk, and they gabbled away, one after the other or both together, to tell us all about it. it was oliver who had done it. he held up with a pride that made him splutter a little jack about fourteen inches long, which he had just caught. they say he is his father over again. at any rate, he will fish morning, noon, and night, if he can coax one of us elders to go with him to take care of him. there he stood, the fish dangling at arm's length, telling his mother exactly how he had done it. i do not pretend to be impartial, but a finer boy than mine is not to be found. he drops the fish to the floor to rush into his mother's arms to be kissed and praised. i am busy, too; busy as i love best of all to be. for on my knee, her arms round my neck and her great mane of glorious wheat-coloured hair tickling my face, is the dearest little creature on god's earth, my other margaret. if you want to see me when i am intensely proud and happy, you must see me with her at my side walking in the park or down the green gate at stafford, with all eyes turning on her because of her surpassing childish beauty. "i helped him catch it, daddy," she says, lifting up her face to be kissed. so does history repeat itself, and it is settled at once that noll's jack is to be put by master whatcot in the same case as dad's, for all the world to know that he is as good a fisherman as his father before him. joe is to send it to stafford at once, and the two rush off eagerly to give it to him, leaving us alone. to the glowing beauty of her maidenhood margaret has added the serene beauty of motherhood. that is all the change i can see in her, as i put my arms round her and draw her to me. when she could speak she said happily, "well done fisherman!" proofreaders the angel of lonesome hill a story of a president by frederick landis author of "the glory of his country" [illustration: those who passed by night were grateful for the lamp] it was a handful of people in the country--a simple-hearted handful. there was no railroad--only a stage which creaked through the gullies and was late. once it had a hot-box, and the place drifted through space, a vagrant atom. time swung on a lazy hinge. children came; young folks married; old ones died; indian creek overflowed the bottom-land; crops failed; one by one the stage bore boys and girls away to seek their fortunes in the far-off world; at long intervals some tragedy streaked the yellow clay monotony with red; january blew petals from her silver garden; april poured her vase of life; august crawled her snail length; years passed, leaving rusty streaks back to a dull horizon. the sky seemed higher than anywhere else; clouds hurried over this place called "cold friday." a mile to the east was "lonesome hill." indians once built signal fires upon it, and in this later time travellers alighted as their horses struggled up the steep approach. at the top was a cabin; it was whitewashed, and so were the apple-trees round it. a gourd vine clung to its chimney; pigeons fluttered upon its shingles, and june flung a crimson rose mantle over its side and half-way up the roof. one wished to stop and rest beneath its weeping willow by the white stone milk house. those who passed by day were accustomed to a woman's face at the window--a calm face which looked on life as evening looks on day--such a face as one might use to decorate a fancy of the old frontier. those who passed by night were grateful for the lamp which protested against nature's apparent consecration of the place to solitude. this home held aloof from "cold friday"; many times curiosity went in, but conjecture alone came out, for through the years the man and woman of this cabin merely said, "we came from back yonder." nobody knew where "yonder" was. but the law of compensation was in force--even in "cold friday." with acquaintanceships as with books, the ecstasy of cutting leaves is not always sustained in the reading, and the silence of this man and woman was the life of village wonder. it gave "friday's" chimney talk a spice it otherwise had never known; the back log seldom crumbled into ashes till the bones of these cabin dwellers lay bleaching on the plains of "perhaps." john dale was seventy-five years or more, but worked his niggard hillside all the day, and seldom came to town. his aged wife was kind; the flowers of her life she gave away, but none could glance upon the garden. she seemed to know when neighbors were ill; hers was the dignity of being indispensable. many the mother of that region who, standing beneath some cloud, thanked god as this slender, white-haired soul with star shine in her face, hurried over the fields with an old volume pasted full of quaint remedies. she made a call of another kind--just once--when the "hitchenses" brought the first organ to "cold friday." she remained only long enough to go straight to the cabinet, which the assembled neighbors regarded with distant awe, and play several pieces "without the book." on her leaving with the same quiet indifference, mrs. ephraim fivecoats peered owlishly toward mrs. rome lukens and rendered the following upon her favorite instrument: "well! if that woman ever gits the fever an' gits deliriums, i want to be round, handy like. i'll swan there'll be more interestin' things told than we've heerd in our born days--that woman is allus thinkin'!" in this final respect, the judgment of the lady of the house of fivecoats was sound. how gallant the mind is! if the past be sad, it mingles with diversion's multitude till sadness is lost; if the present be unhappy, it has a magic thrift of joys, and unhappiness is hushed by memory's laughter; if both past and present have a grief, it seeks amid its scanty store for some event, for instance, whose recurrence brings some brightness; to greet this it sends affectionate anticipations--and were its quiver empty, it would battle still some way! so the wife of dale looked forward to doctor johnston's visits, yet there were so many doors between her silence and the world, she did not turn as he entered one eventful day. doctors are nature's confessors, and down the memory of this one wandered a camel of sympathy upon which the sick had heaped their secret woes for years, though one added naught to the burden. it was the tale he wished to hear, and when some fugitive phrase promised revelation, he folded the powders slowly; but when it ended in a sigh, he strapped up bottles and expectations and went away, reflecting how poor the world where one might hear all things save those which interested. but time is a patient locksmith to whom all doors swing open. "i always sit by this window," she began as he removed the fever thermometer; "i've looked so long, i see nothing in a way--and at night i always put the light here. if he should come in the dark i want him to see--here is a letter." the doctor read and returned it with a look of infinite pity. "i had a dream last night; i may be superstitious or it may be the fever--but it was so real. i saw it all; it was just like my prayer. i believe in god, you know." she smiled in half reproach. "yes, in spite of all. "in that dream something touched my hand and a voice whispered the word, 'now.' oh, how anxious it was! i awoke, sitting up; the lamp had gone out, yet it was not empty--and there was no wind." john dale stumbled into the room, his arms full of wood, and an old dog, lying before the fireplace, thumped his tail against the floor with diminishing vigor. she arose. "i'll get you a bite to eat, doctor." "never mind! i must be going." he made a sign to dale, who followed to the gate. "john, i've been calling here a long time--" "i know i ought to pay somethin'," dale started to say. "it isn't that--i've just diagnosed the case; only one man can cure it." "would he--on credit?" dale anxiously inquired. "he never charges." johnston smiled sorrowfully at the old man's despair. "who is he?" "the president; the president of the united states," he added as dale's eyes filled with questions. "i came out of college a sceptic, john, and i'd be an infidel outright but for that wife of yours--she's nearer the sky, somehow, than any other mortal i've seen. i don't believe in anything, of course--but that dream--if i were you i'd trust it--i'd follow where it led." with his foot on the hub, the farmer slowly whetted his knife on his boot. "i'll go with you, doctor." * * * * * "i called at the office, but it was locked, and so i'm here," apologized dale as judge long opened the door of his old-fashioned stone house in point elizabeth, the county seat. "glad to see you--had your supper?" hearing voices in the dining-room, he answered in the affirmative. "then have a cigar and wait in the library; the folks are having a little company." the old man surveyed the room; the books alone were worth more than his earthly possessions. from a desk loomed a bust of webster. shadows seemed to leap from it; the sombre lips bespoke the futility of striving against stern realities. there was gayety in the dining-room; judge long was a fountain of mirth, a favorite at taverns, while riding the circuit--before juries--wherever people gathered. a gale of laughter greeted his last anecdote and the diners protested as he arose. dale told his story excitedly, and at the conclusion judge long slowly brushed away the tobacco smoke. "i'm sorry, john, but we did all we could last month--and we failed; there's just one thing to do--face the matter. it's hard, but this world is chiefly water, and what isn't water is largely rock--it's for fish and fossils, i suppose." "but we will win now!" the old man's hand fell with decision. "why do you say that?" "mother had another dream last night." "but, you know, she had one a month ago," quietly protested long. "yes--and it came true--we didn't do our part just right. we can't fail this time; there must be a day of justice!" "well, as to that, john, this game of life is strange; we bring nothing with us, so how can we lose? we take nothing away, so how can we win? we think; we plan; we stack these plans with precision, but chance always sits at our right, waiting to cut the cards. you speak of 'justice.' it's a myth. the statue above the court-house stands first on one foot, then on the other, tired of waiting, tired of the sharp rocks of technicality, tired of the pompous farce. why, dale," he waved a hand toward an opposite corner, "if old daniel webster were here he couldn't do anything!" when an american lawyer cites that mighty shade it is conclusive, but the effect was lost on dale. he was not a lawyer, neither had he read the "dartmouth college case" nor the "reply to hayne." in fact his relations with the "sage of marshfield" were so formal he believed his fame to rest chiefly on having left behind a multitude of busts. besides, he was impatient; the judge's peroration having lifted his head so suddenly that cigar ashes fell upon the deep rug at his feet. "you won't go again, judge?" he leaned forward perplexed. "it's no use." "well, mebbe you can't do anything--mebbe dan'l webster couldn't--but john dale can!" long arose, astonished. "how foolish! reason for a moment--any presentation of this matter calls for the highest ability; it involves sifting of evidence; symmetry of arrangement; cohesiveness of method, logic of argument, persuasiveness of advocacy, subtleties of acumen, charms of eloquence--all the elements of the greatest profession among men!" dale leaned heavily against the table, his eyes following the judge as he walked back and forth. "well, i've got 'em--i can't call 'em by name, but i've got the whole damned list--and i'm goin'!" long stood at bay, his hand on the door, his face glowing with animation. "dale, you're old enough to be my father, but you shall listen. you'd fail before a justice of the peace, and before the president of the united states--it's absurd. you'd go down there, get mad, probably be arrested and kill any hope we might have; why, you're guilty of contempt of court right now. i had a strong influence, yet i failed." the old farmer of "lonesome hill" would listen no more. "then wait, john. this letter may at least save you from jail--and you haven't any money; will this do?" "it's more than i need, judge." "no, keep it all--and keep your temper too." as the judge stood in the doorway, watching the venerable figure disappear in the drizzling night, a young woman from the dining-room stole to his side and heard him muse: "after all, who knows? a briton clad in skins once humbled a roman emperor." "is he in trouble?" she asked. "yes, great trouble, and it isn't his fault. fate's a poor shot. she never strikes one who is guilty without wounding two who are innocent." * * * * * dale was an admirable volunteer and strangely resourceful; he had something more than courage. the train did not leave for two hours. he sat in the station till the clatter of the telegraph drove him out, when he walked toward the yards with their colored lights, and through his brain raced speculation's myriad fiends, all brandishing lanterns like those before him. when, at last, the train did start, it seemed to roll slowly, though it could suffer delay and reach the capital by daybreak. he read the letter of introduction several times, and wondered what kind of man the president was; he thought of what he would say--and how it would end. at intervals a ghost would extend a long, bony hand and wring drops of blood from his heart; at such times the president was hostile--the trip very foolish--he regretted his anger at judge long's house; and once, had the engine been a horse, he might have turned back. at other times gleams of victory came from somewhere and yet from nowhere, and routed the gypsies from his brain, and the president stood before him, a sympathetic gentleman. once he knew it, and through excess of spirits walked up and down the aisle, studying the sleeping passengers; for john dale travelled in a common "day coach." at last he yielded to fatigue, and far off on the horizon of consciousness dimly flashed the duel of his hopes and fears. rest was impossible, and after a long time the dawn drifted between his half-closed lids; a glorious dome floated out of the sky and the porter shouted, "all out for washington!" the cabmen who besieged the well-dressed passengers paid scant homage to the old man, who walked uncertainly out of the smoky shed and stood for a moment in pennsylvania avenue--on one hand the capitol, on the other the treasury and white house. a great clock above him struck the hour of six; he hesitated, then went toward the scene of conflict. the waking traffic, the great buildings, the pulse of this strange life filled him with depression. he came to a beautiful park and gazed upon lafayette and rochambeau, then the equestrian statue of jackson. as he sat facing the snow-white building with columned portico, the magnolia blossoms were as incense. then he could wait no longer and crossed to the president's office. a policeman stopped him at the steps. he explained that he had a letter from judge long. what! did this policeman not know judge long? he sat under a tree, and the policeman walked a few paces away to turn anon and survey the waiting pilgrim. when the doors opened he entered. the president would not come for another hour; he would be busy--possibly he might see him by noon--provided he had credentials. with a sigh he sank into a chair and was soon asleep. "come--this is no cheap lodging house!" the greeting was shaken into him by a clerk with hair parted in the middle, who disdainfully surveyed the sleeper's attire. he who has much on his mind little cares what he has on his back, and when the youth exploded, "who are you?" the old fellow's self-reliance came forth. leading the way to the door dale pointed a trembling finger. "see that buildin', 'bub'--and that one yonder, and that patch over there with andy jackson in it? well, i'm one of the folks that made it all--and paid for it; and you're one of my hired hands. i've got to keep so many of you down here i can't afford one on the farm. i want to see the president--give him this letter--it's from judge sylvester long, of point elizabeth!" the youth vanished and dale resumed his chair. he was looking across the lawn when a sudden alertness came into the scene; the silk-hatted line of callers stepped aside; those who were seated arose; newspaper correspondents turned with vigilant ears. a nervous voice inquired, "where is mr. john dale?" the president stood before him, dressed in white flannel, then smilingly grasped his hand with a blast of welcome: "i'm delighted to meet the friend of judge long!" taking his arm the executive escorted him through the cabinet room thronged with senators, representatives, and tourists. they entered the private office. "take the sofa, mr. dale--it's the easiest thing in the place. i hope your business is such that you can excuse me for a little while." a smile came over dale's white face. could the poorest farmer of the "cold friday" region wait for the most powerful character in the world? nor was the old man in the linen duster the only one who smiled. a member of the russian embassy turned to his companion--a distinguished visitor from the court of st. petersburg: "what would a peasant say to the czar?" the president now entered the cabinet room, shaking hands with the many, guiding a few into his private office. dale listened; now it was an introduction and a message to an old friend in the west. then a decisive "no" dashed some hope of patronage; again, it was a discussion of poetry, aerial navigation, or the relics of the aztecs. it was a long stride from "lonesome hill," and for the time dale was novelty's captive. he glanced round the room. it was not as fine as the director's office of the point elizabeth bank! above the mantel--the place of honor--was the painting of a martyr. he wondered whether another stroke of the brush would have brought a smile to the face, or an expression of sadness. the hands were very large--they had once broken iron bands. in one corner was a shot-gun; tennis rackets in another; on a chair were snow-shoes and on the desk a sheaf of roses. those whom the president had sifted into his office from the crowd outside engaged in conversation. a senator discussed the ball game with a supreme court justice; a general advised an author to try deep breathing. the president returned more animated than before. he placed a hand on dale's shoulder: "be comfortable--and stay for lunch; nobody but us." the crowd paid sudden respect to the homespun citizen of an older day, and a great happiness came into his heart--it was like the unfolding of one of the roses. not that he was to lunch with the president, though dale's was the village estimate of human greatness. a vaster issue was before him, and this was a token of success--a success which would bind up his remaining years with peace, and give glorious recompense to the companion of his few joys and many griefs. the president hurriedly signed his name to parchments. "i'm making a few postmasters." he smiled toward the sofa. "it's no trouble here--that's all at the other end of the line." without stopping the pen, he discussed matters with one statesman after another, his lips snapping with metallic positiveness. a member of the senate committee on foreign relations protested against the course pursued in santo domingo. "if i were making a world, senator, i'd try to get along without putting in any santo domingos, but as things stand, we must make her be decent or let somebody else do it." another brings up the question of taxing incomes and inheritances. "i favor them both," declared the president. "they are taxes on good luck; bad luck is its own tax." a statesman from the pacific slope protests against federal interference in the school question. "it is a local matter as you say, senator, and yours is a 'sovereign state'--they all are till they get into trouble. if we should have war with japan, your state would speedily become an integral part of the union." a group of gentlemen now object to an aspirant for a federal judgeship on the ground that he has not a "judicial temperament." "as i understand it," the president begins, "judicial temperament is largely a fragrance rising from the recollection of corporate employment; it is the ability to throw a comma under the wheels of progress and upset public welfare; i am glad to learn that mr. l---- has _not_ a 'judicial temperament'; i shall send his name to the senate to-day." the gentlemen retired. "come, mr. dale, let us go." this president had been accused of a lack of dignity. is it a less valuable trait which puts the john dales of our land at instant ease in the "state dining-room" of the white house? "well, sir, no man ever had a better friend than judge long," said the president when they were seated. "'ves' long, i mean," he added with a smile. "i met him in the west; he had a ranch; mine was near it. we saw much of each other; we hunted together--and that's where you learn a man's mettle. he never complained of dogs, luck, or weather. we saw rough times; it was glorious. we'd wake up with snow on the bed, and when 'ves' introduced me at point elizabeth in my first campaign he said we often found rabbit tracks on the quilts--but then 'ves' had a remarkable eye. "some say, 'blood is thicker than water.' that depends somewhat on the quality of the water; i like him; there's nothing i wouldn't do for him!" dale grew suddenly sick at heart. if long had only come! recalling his discouraging words, a shadow crept over the old man's mind. could it be possible he had not tried the month before? such misgivings soon vanished. "this is a trying office, mr. dale. with all my feelings i had to hold in abeyance the only favor he ever asked; it was about a pardon in a murder case over thirty-five years ago. he said it was the most cruel case of circumstantial evidence in the books--possibly you may know about the case." the old man struggled back in his chair, then arose, his rough hand brushing thin locks back from a temple where the veins seemed swelling to the danger point. he was unable to summon more than a whisper from his shrunken throat. "yes, mr. president, i do--he's my boy!" "your--boy! yes--that's the name--how stupid of me--i beg your pardon, mr. dale--a thousand times." they stared a long while at each other and dale felt the fears which had fled before his gracious reception returning to grip him by the heart; the speech he had prepared had fled; it had all happened so differently. at last the president spoke: "congress is just going out; it's the busy season, but i'll go through the papers to-night myself." dale walked to the window; perspiration was on his face, but he was very cold. he stood with locked brain, and into his eyes came filmy clouds; then through these he saw, with sudden strangeness, a cabin far away, and a woman with pallid cheeks looked straight at him. the president gazed intently as the old man wiped the window pane, nodded his head, and turned to face the table. he cleared his throat, then opened a flannel collar, already loose, and his eyes glistened. "you're sick!" exclaimed the president rising. "waiter--some brandy!" "no--just a little dizzy. "mr. president," he slowly began, "this is a case that all the papers in the world can't tell--nor all the men--there's none just like it. "it's not for the boy--it's not for me. i took her from her folks against their will, and i've not panned out lucky--but that's not to the point. she's sick; the doctor can't help her--nobody can but you--i wish you might have seen her from the window yonder." the half-finished luncheon was disregarded; the president had sunk into his chair, and the keen discrimination of a king of affairs was struggling with a strange fascination. "long ago, mr. president, i had an enemy--bill hartsell--we shot each other." he held up a withered hand. "it's been a feud ever since. his boy and mine went to war in the same company--both as brave as ever wore the blue. when they were waitin' to be mustered out bill's boy was murdered in his tent--in his sleep. bill was there and swore he saw my richard do it. "one night, a month ago, my woman--she's a great woman, mr. president--the sick folks down in my country call her 'the angel of lonesome hill'--well, she had a dream that bill hartsell wanted to see me. i hadn't laid eyes on him for years. i strapped on my six-shooter and she said, 'no--it isn't that kind of a trip--it's peace.' "i put down the shootin' iron and went--it was a long way--two days on horseback. i got to bill's cabin at night; i went in without a knock; i wasn't afraid. bill's folks were round the bed. he arose and cried out: 'john, i sent for you; it was a damn lie i told--your boy didn't do it'--and then bill died." for the moment the old man's agitation mastered him. "i remember, mr. dale. 'ves' told me; he brought the statements of the family--and yours. i've been thinking of it ever since--and a great deal these last two days. tell me, why did you happen to come?" "mother had a dream that said the time was up." dale spoke as calmly as though delivering a message from a neighbor. fear was not even a memory now. he stood erect; the stone he had slowly pushed up many steep years was near the summit--one mighty effort might hurl it down the past forever. "just a word about that boy, mr. president. at cold harbor his regiment stood in hell all day; he was one of those who pinned his name to his coat so his body could be identified--after the charge. well, in that charge the flag went down, and a man went out to get it--and he fell; then another--and he fell; and then a thin, pale fellow that the doctors almost refused sprang forward like a panther--and he fell. they were askin' for a volunteer when a staff officer called out: 'good god! he's alive! he's got it! he's crawlin' back!' "they had to lift him off the colors; he didn't know anything, . . . and that was my boy, mr. president--that was dick! "funny how he enlisted," dale resumed after a moment. "he'd been tryin' to get in, but i kept him out. one night his mother sent him for a dime's worth of clothes-line--and he never came back. he's not bad, mr. president; he's good--he gets it from his mother." dale lifted his head with pride: "when i was on the jury i heard judge long say no one could be punished if their name wasn't written in the indictment. now, they didn't only convict dick--they convicted his mother--this whole world's her prison--and it's illegal, mr. president--her name wasn't written in that indictment--and it's her pardon i want." the president arose and walked the floor. "how could the man who saved those colors shoot a comrade in his sleep? mr. dale, my faith in human nature tells me that's a lie!" he stood for an instant at the window, looking over the fountain, the river, the tall white washington needle which pierced the sky, then quickly stepped to the table and lifted a glass: "mr. dale, i propose a toast--'the angel of lonesome hill' . . . her liberty!" * * * * * as they returned to the office there was nothing extraordinary in the president's vigorous step--that was known the world around. there was something most unusual, however, in the radiant soul--the splendid ancient youth of the quaint figure by his side. at the door where the policeman had watched the waiting pilgrim the president shook the old man's hand. "come again, mr. dale, and tell 'ves' long i'll go hunting with him this fall and bring along a man he'll like--a man who catches wolves with his hands." * * * * * john dale knew every fence corner in that region, but the night was so dark he stopped at times to "feel where he was." the man with him could not aid him; he was a stranger--a strange stranger who spoke but once--"how far is it?" long habit had made him silent; he was in the upper fifties, but long absence from the sun had pinched his face into the white mask of great age. at the village store the stranger entered, returning with a package. when the road turned there was a light high ahead and a moment later the two men entered the cabin. the stranger paused. "mother, you sent me for a clothes-line--i've been delayed--but here it is." her hand trembled as she raised the lamp from the table. "my boy--my dream--the president!" * * * * * when she lifted her face it was glorified. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction january . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. the world that couldn't be by clifford d. simak illustrated by gaughan _like every farmer on every planet, duncan had to hunt down anything that damaged his crops--even though he was aware this was--_ * * * * * the tracks went up one row and down another, and in those rows the _vua_ plants had been sheared off an inch or two above the ground. the raider had been methodical; it had not wandered about haphazardly, but had done an efficient job of harvesting the first ten rows on the west side of the field. then, having eaten its fill, it had angled off into the bush--and that had not been long ago, for the soil still trickled down into the great pug marks, sunk deep into the finely cultivated loam. [illustration] somewhere a sawmill bird was whirring through a log, and down in one of the thorn-choked ravines, a choir of chatterers was clicking through a ghastly morning song. it was going to be a scorcher of a day. already the smell of desiccated dust was rising from the ground and the glare of the newly risen sun was dancing off the bright leaves of the hula-trees, making it appear as if the bush were filled with a million flashing mirrors. gavin duncan hauled a red bandanna from his pocket and mopped his face. "no, mister," pleaded zikkara, the native foreman of the farm. "you cannot do it, mister. you do not hunt a cytha." "the hell i don't," said duncan, but he spoke in english and not the native tongue. he stared out across the bush, a flat expanse of sun-cured grass interspersed with thickets of hula-scrub and thorn and occasional groves of trees, criss-crossed by treacherous ravines and spotted with infrequent waterholes. it would be murderous out there, he told himself, but it shouldn't take too long. the beast probably would lay up shortly after its pre-dawn feeding and he'd overhaul it in an hour or two. but if he failed to overhaul it, then he must keep on. "dangerous," zikkara pointed out. "no one hunts the cytha." "i do," duncan said, speaking now in the native language. "i hunt anything that damages my crop. a few nights more of this and there would be nothing left." * * * * * jamming the bandanna back into his pocket, he tilted his hat lower across his eyes against the sun. "it might be a long chase, mister. it is the _skun_ season now. if you were caught out there...." "now listen," duncan told it sharply. "before i came, you'd feast one day, then starve for days on end; but now you eat each day. and you like the doctoring. before, when you got sick, you died. now you get sick, i doctor you, and you live. you like staying in one place, instead of wandering all around." "mister, we like all this," said zikkara, "but we do not hunt the cytha." "if we do not hunt the cytha, we lose all this," duncan pointed out. "if i don't make a crop, i'm licked. i'll have to go away. then what happens to you?" "we will grow the corn ourselves." "that's a laugh," said duncan, "and you know it is. if i didn't kick your backsides all day long, you wouldn't do a lick of work. if i leave, you go back to the bush. now let's go and get that cytha." "but it is such a little one, mister! it is such a young one! it is scarcely worth the trouble. it would be a shame to kill it." probably just slightly smaller than a horse, thought duncan, watching the native closely. it's scared, he told himself. it's scared dry and spitless. "besides, it must have been most hungry. surely, mister, even a cytha has the right to eat." "not from my crop," said duncan savagely. "you know why we grow the _vua_, don't you? you know it is great medicine. the berries that it grows cures those who are sick inside their heads. my people need that medicine--need it very badly. and what is more, out there--" he swept his arm toward the sky--"out there they pay very much for it." "but, mister...." "i tell you this," said duncan gently, "you either dig me up a bush-runner to do the tracking for me or you can all get out, the kit and caboodle of you. i can get other tribes to work the farm." "no, mister!" zikkara screamed in desperation. "you have your choice," duncan told it coldly. * * * * * he plodded back across the field toward the house. not much of a house as yet. not a great deal better than a native shack. but someday it would be, he told himself. let him sell a crop or two and he'd build a house that would really be a house. it would have a bar and swimming pool and a garden filled with flowers, and at last, after years of wandering, he'd have a home and broad acres and everyone, not just one lousy tribe, would call him mister. gavin duncan, planter, he said to himself, and liked the sound of it. planter on the planet layard. but not if the cytha came back night after night and ate the _vua_ plants. he glanced over his shoulder and saw that zikkara was racing for the native village. called their bluff, duncan informed himself with satisfaction. he came out of the field and walked across the yard, heading for the house. one of shotwell's shirts was hanging on the clothes-line, limp in the breathless morning. damn the man, thought duncan. out here mucking around with those stupid natives, always asking questions, always under foot. although, to be fair about it, that was shotwell's job. that was what the sociology people had sent him out to do. duncan came up to the shack, pushed the door open and entered. shotwell, stripped to the waist, was at the wash bench. breakfast was cooking on the stove, with an elderly native acting as cook. duncan strode across the room and took down the heavy rifle from its peg. he slapped the action open, slapped it shut again. shotwell reached for a towel. "what's going on?" he asked. "cytha got into the field." "cytha?" "a kind of animal," said duncan. "it ate ten rows of _vua_." "big? little? what are its characteristics?" the native began putting breakfast on the table. duncan walked to the table, laid the rifle across one corner of it and sat down. he poured a brackish liquid out of a big stew pan into their cups. god, he thought, what i would give for a cup of coffee. * * * * * shotwell pulled up his chair. "you didn't answer me. what is a cytha like?" "i wouldn't know," said duncan. "don't know? but you're going after it, looks like, and how can you hunt it if you don't know--" "track it. the thing tied to the other end of the trail is sure to be the cytha. well find out what it's like once we catch up to it." "we?" "the natives will send up someone to do the tracking for me. some of them are better than a dog." "look, gavin. i've put you to a lot of trouble and you've been decent with me. if i can be any help, i would like to go." "two make better time than three. and we have to catch this cytha fast or it might settle down to an endurance contest." "all right, then. tell me about the cytha." duncan poured porridge gruel into his bowl, handed the pan to shotwell. "it's a sort of special thing. the natives are scared to death of it. you hear a lot of stories about it. said to be unkillable. it's always capitalized, always a proper noun. it has been reported at different times from widely scattered places." "no one's ever bagged one?" "not that i ever heard of." duncan patted the rifle. "let me get a bead on it." he started eating, spooning the porridge into his mouth, munching on the stale corn bread left from the night before. he drank some of the brackish beverage and shuddered. "some day," he said, "i'm going to scrape together enough money to buy a pound of coffee. you'd think--" "it's the freight rates," shotwell said. "i'll send you a pound when i go back." "not at the price they'd charge to ship it out," said duncan. "i wouldn't hear of it." they ate in silence for a time. finally shotwell said: "i'm getting nowhere, gavin. the natives are willing to talk, but it all adds up to nothing." "i tried to tell you that. you could have saved your time." shotwell shook his head stubbornly. "there's an answer, a logical explanation. it's easy enough to say you cannot rule out the sexual factor, but that's exactly what has happened here on layard. it's easy to exclaim that a sexless animal, a sexless race, a sexless planet is impossible, but that is what we have. somewhere there is an answer and i have to find it." * * * * * "now hold up a minute," duncan protested. "there's no use blowing a gasket. i haven't got the time this morning to listen to your lecture." "but it's not the lack of sex that worries me entirely," shotwell said, "although it's the central factor. there are subsidiary situations deriving from that central fact which are most intriguing." "i have no doubt of it," said duncan, "but if you please--" "without sex, there is no basis for the family, and without the family there is no basis for a tribe, and yet the natives have an elaborate tribal setup, with taboos by way of regulation. somewhere there must exist some underlying, basic unifying factor, some common loyalty, some strange relationship which spells out to brotherhood." "not brotherhood," said duncan, chuckling. "not even sisterhood. you must watch your terminology. the word you want is ithood." the door pushed open and a native walked in timidly. "zikkara said that mister want me," the native told them. "i am sipar. i can track anything but screamers, stilt-birds, longhorns and donovans. those are my taboos." "i am glad to hear that," duncan replied. "you have no cytha taboo, then." "cytha!" yipped the native. "zikkara did not tell me cytha!" duncan paid no attention. he got up from the table and went to the heavy chest that stood against one wall. he rummaged in it and came out with a pair of binoculars, a hunting knife and an extra drum of ammunition. at the kitchen cupboard, he rummaged once again, filling a small leather sack with a gritty powder from a can he found. "rockahominy," he explained to shotwell. "emergency rations thought up by the primitive north american indians. parched corn, ground fine. it's no feast exactly, but it keeps a man going." "you figure you'll be gone that long?" "maybe overnight. i don't know. won't stop until i get it. can't afford to. it could wipe me out in a few days." "good hunting," shotwell said. "i'll hold the fort." duncan said to sipar: "quit sniveling and come on." he picked up the rifle, settled it in the crook of his arm. he kicked open the door and strode out. sipar followed meekly. ii duncan got his first shot late in the afternoon of that first day. in the middle of the morning, two hours after they had left the farm, they had flushed the cytha out of its bed in a thick ravine. but there had been no chance for a shot. duncan saw no more than a huge black blur fade into the bush. through the bake-oven afternoon, they had followed its trail, sipar tracking and duncan bringing up the rear, scanning every piece of cover, with the sun-hot rifle always held at ready. once they had been held up for fifteen minutes while a massive donovan tramped back and forth, screaming, trying to work up its courage for attack. but after a quarter hour of showing off, it decided to behave itself and went off at a shuffling gallop. duncan watched it go with a lot of thankfulness. it could soak up a lot of lead, and for all its awkwardness, it was handy with its feet once it set itself in motion. donovans had killed a lot of men in the twenty years since earthmen had come to layard. with the beast gone, duncan looked around for sipar. he found it fast asleep beneath a hula-shrub. he kicked the native awake with something less than gentleness and they went on again. the bush swarmed with other animals, but they had no trouble with them. sipar, despite its initial reluctance, had worked well at the trailing. a misplaced bunch of grass, a twig bent to one side, a displaced stone, the faintest pug mark were sipar's stock in trade. it worked like a lithe, well-trained hound. this bush country was its special province; here it was at home. with the sun dropping toward the west, they had climbed a long, steep hill and as they neared the top of it, duncan hissed at sipar. the native looked back over its shoulder in surprise. duncan made motions for it to stop tracking. the native crouched and as duncan went past it, he saw that a look of agony was twisting its face. and in the look of agony he thought he saw as well a touch of pleading and a trace of hatred. it's scared, just like the rest of them, duncan told himself. but what the native thought or felt had no significance; what counted was the beast ahead. duncan went the last few yards on his belly, pushing the gun ahead of him, the binoculars bumping on his back. swift, vicious insects ran out of the grass and swarmed across his hands and arms and one got on his face and bit him. * * * * * he made it to the hilltop and lay there, looking at the sweep of land beyond. it was more of the same, more of the blistering, dusty slogging, more of thorn and tangled ravine and awful emptiness. he lay motionless, watching for a hint of motion, for the fitful shadow, for any wrongness in the terrain that might be the cytha. but there was nothing. the land lay quiet under the declining sun. far on the horizon, a herd of some sort of animals was grazing, but there was nothing else. then he saw the motion, just a flicker, on the knoll ahead--about halfway up. he laid the rifle carefully on the ground and hitched the binoculars around. he raised them to his eyes and moved them slowly back and forth. the animal was there where he had seen the motion. it was resting, looking back along the way that it had come, watching for the first sign of its trailers. duncan tried to make out the size and shape, but it blended with the grass and the dun soil and he could not be sure exactly what it looked like. he let the glasses down and now that he had located it, he could distinguish its outline with the naked eye. his hand reached out and slid the rifle to him. he fitted it to his shoulder and wriggled his body for closer contact with the ground. the cross-hairs centered on the faint outline on the knoll and then the beast stood up. it was not as large as he had thought it might be--perhaps a little larger than earth lion-size, but it certainly was no lion. it was a square-set thing and black and inclined to lumpiness and it had an awkward look about it, but there were strength and ferociousness as well. duncan tilted the muzzle of the rifle so that the cross-hairs centered on the massive neck. he drew in a breath and held it and began the trigger squeeze. the rifle bucked hard against his shoulder and the report hammered in his head and the beast went down. it did not lurch or fall; it simply melted down and disappeared, hidden in the grass. "dead center," duncan assured himself. he worked the mechanism and the spent cartridge case flew out. the feeding mechanism snicked and the fresh shell clicked as it slid into the breech. he lay for a moment, watching. and on the knoll where the thing had fallen, the grass was twitching as if the wind were blowing, only there was no wind. but despite the twitching of the grass, there was no sign of the cytha. it did not struggle up again. it stayed where it had fallen. duncan got to his feet, dug out the bandanna and mopped at his face. he heard the soft thud of the step behind him and turned his head. it was the tracker. "it's all right, sipar," he said. "you can quit worrying. i got it. we can go home now." * * * * * it had been a long, hard chase, longer than he had thought it might be. but it had been successful and that was the thing that counted. for the moment, the _vua_ crop was safe. he tucked the bandanna back into his pocket, went down the slope and started up the knoll. he reached the place where the cytha had fallen. there were three small gouts of torn, mangled fur and flesh lying on the ground and there was nothing else. he spun around and jerked his rifle up. every nerve was screamingly alert. he swung his head, searching for the slightest movement, for some shape or color that was not the shape or color of the bush or grass or ground. but there was nothing. the heat droned in the hush of afternoon. there was not a breath of moving air. but there was danger--a saw-toothed sense of danger close behind his neck. "sipar!" he called in a tense whisper, "watch out!" the native stood motionless, unheeding, its eyeballs rolling up until there was only white, while the muscles stood out along its throat like straining ropes of steel. duncan slowly swiveled, rifle held almost at arm's length, elbows crooked a little, ready to bring the weapon into play in a fraction of a second. nothing stirred. there was no more than emptiness--the emptiness of sun and molten sky, of grass and scraggy bush, of a brown-and-yellow land stretching into foreverness. step by step, duncan covered the hillside and finally came back to the place where the native squatted on its heels and moaned, rocking back and forth, arms locked tightly across its chest, as if it tried to cradle itself in a sort of illusory comfort. the earthman walked to the place where the cytha had fallen and picked up, one by one, the bits of bleeding flesh. they had been mangled by his bullet. they were limp and had no shape. and it was queer, he thought. in all his years of hunting, over many planets, he had never known a bullet to rip out hunks of flesh. he dropped the bloody pieces back into the grass and wiped his hand upon his thighs. he got up a little stiffly. he'd found no trail of blood leading through the grass, and surely an animal with a hole of that size would leave a trail. and as he stood there upon the hillside, with the bloody fingerprints still wet and glistening upon the fabric of his trousers, he felt the first cold touch of fear, as if the fingertips of fear might momentarily, almost casually, have trailed across his heart. * * * * * he turned around and walked back to the native, reached down and shook it. "snap out of it," he ordered. he expected pleading, cowering, terror, but there was none. sipar got swiftly to its feet and stood looking at him and there was, he thought, an odd glitter in its eyes. "get going," duncan said. "we still have a little time. start circling and pick up the trail. i will cover you." he glanced at the sun. an hour and a half still left--maybe as much as two. there might still be time to get this buttoned up before the fall of night. a half mile beyond the knoll, sipar picked up the trail again and they went ahead, but now they traveled more cautiously, for any bush, any rock, any clump of grass might conceal the wounded beast. duncan found himself on edge and cursed himself savagely for it. he'd been in tight spots before. this was nothing new to him. there was no reason to get himself tensed up. it was a deadly business, sure, but he had faced others calmly and walked away from them. it was those frontier tales he'd heard about the cytha--the kind of superstitious chatter that one always heard on the edge of unknown land. he gripped the rifle tighter and went on. no animal, he told himself, was unkillable. half an hour before sunset, he called a halt when they reached a brackish waterhole. the light soon would be getting bad for shooting. in the morning, they'd take up the trail again, and by that time the cytha would be at an even greater disadvantage. it would be stiff and slow and weak. it might be even dead. duncan gathered wood and built a fire in the lee of a thorn-bush thicket. sipar waded out with the canteens and thrust them at arm's length beneath the surface to fill them. the water still was warm and evil-tasting, but it was fairly free of scum and a thirsty man could drink it. the sun went down and darkness fell quickly. they dragged more wood out of the thicket and piled it carefully close at hand. duncan reached into his pocket and brought out the little bag of rockahominy. "here," he said to sipar. "supper." the native held one hand cupped and duncan poured a little mound into its palm. "thank you, mister," sipar said. "food-giver." "huh?" asked duncan, then caught what the native meant. "dive into it," he said, almost kindly. "it isn't much, but it gives you strength. we'll need strength tomorrow." * * * * * food-giver, eh? trying to butter him up, perhaps. in a little while, sipar would start whining for him to knock off the hunt and head back for the farm. although, come to think of it, he really was the food-giver to this bunch of sexless wonders. corn, thank god, grew well on the red and stubborn soil of layard--good old corn from north america. fed to hogs, made into corn-pone for breakfast back on earth, and here, on layard, the staple food crop for a gang of shiftless varmints who still regarded, with some good solid skepticism and round-eyed wonder, this unorthodox idea that one should take the trouble to grow plants to eat rather than go out and scrounge for them. corn from north america, he thought, growing side by side with the _vua_ of layard. and that was the way it went. something from one planet and something from another and still something further from a third and so was built up through the wide social confederacy of space a truly cosmic culture which in the end, in another ten thousand years or so, might spell out some way of life with more sanity and understanding than was evident today. he poured a mound of rockahominy into his own hand and put the bag back into his pocket. "sipar." "yes, mister?" "you were not scared today when the donovan threatened to attack us." "no, mister. the donovan would not hurt me." "i see. you said the donovan was taboo to you. could it be that you, likewise, are taboo to the donovan?" "yes, mister. the donovan and i grew up together." "oh, so that's it," said duncan. he put a pinch of the parched and powdered corn into his mouth and took a sip of brackish water. he chewed reflectively on the resultant mash. he might go ahead, he knew, and ask why and how and where sipar and the donovan had grown up together, but there was no point to it. this was exactly the kind of tangle that shotwell was forever getting into. half the time, he told himself, i'm convinced the little stinkers are doing no more than pulling our legs. what a fantastic bunch of jerks! not men, not women, just things. and while there were never babies, there were children, although never less than eight or nine years old. and if there were no babies, where did the eight-and nine-year-olds come from? * * * * * "i suppose," he said, "that these other things that are your taboos, the stilt-birds and the screamers and the like, also grew up with you." "that is right, mister." "some playground that must have been," said duncan. he went on chewing, staring out into the darkness beyond the ring of firelight. "there's something in the thorn bush, mister." "i didn't hear a thing." "little pattering. something is running there." duncan listened closely. what sipar said was true. a lot of little things were running in the thicket. "more than likely mice," he said. he finished his rockahominy and took an extra swig of water, gagging on it slightly. "get your rest," he told sipar. "i'll wake you later so i can catch a wink or two." "mister," sipar said, "i will stay with you to the end." "well," said duncan, somewhat startled, "that is decent of you." "i will stay to the death," sipar promised earnestly. "don't strain yourself," said duncan. he picked up the rifle and walked down to the waterhole. the night was quiet and the land continued to have that empty feeling. empty except for the fire and the waterhole and the little micelike animals running in the thicket. and sipar--sipar lying by the fire, curled up and sound asleep already. naked, with not a weapon to its hand--just the naked animal, the basic humanoid, and yet with underlying purpose that at times was baffling. scared and shivering this morning at mere mention of the cytha, yet never faltering on the trail; in pure funk back there on the knoll where they had lost the cytha, but now ready to go on to the death. duncan went back to the fire and prodded sipar with his toe. the native came straight up out of sleep. "whose death?" asked duncan. "whose death were you talking of?" "why, ours, of course," said sipar, and went back to sleep. iii duncan did not see the arrow coming. he heard the swishing whistle and felt the wind of it on the right side of his throat and then it thunked into a tree behind him. he leaped aside and dived for the cover of a tumbled mound of boulders and almost instinctively his thumb pushed the fire control of the rifle up to automatic. he crouched behind the jumbled rocks and peered ahead. there was not a thing to see. the hula-trees shimmered in the blaze of sun and the thorn-bush was gray and lifeless and the only things astir were three stilt-birds walking gravely a quarter of a mile away. "sipar!" he whispered. "here, mister." "keep low. it's still out there." whatever it might be. still out there and waiting for another shot. duncan shivered, remembering the feel of the arrow flying past his throat. a hell of a way for a man to die--out at the tail-end of nowhere with an arrow in his throat and a scared-stiff native heading back for home as fast as it could go. he flicked the control on the rifle back to single fire, crawled around the rock pile and sprinted for a grove of trees that stood on higher ground. he reached them and there he flanked the spot from which the arrow must have come. he unlimbered the binoculars and glassed the area. he still saw no sign. whatever had taken the pot shot at them had made its getaway. he walked back to the tree where the arrow still stood out, its point driven deep into the bark. he grasped the shaft and wrenched the arrow free. "you can come out now," he called to sipar. "there's no one around." the arrow was unbelievably crude. the unfeathered shaft looked as if it had been battered off to the proper length with a jagged stone. the arrowhead was unflaked flint picked up from some outcropping or dry creek bed, and it was awkwardly bound to the shaft with the tough but pliant inner bark of the hula-tree. "you recognize this?" he asked sipar. the native took the arrow and examined it. "not my tribe." "of course not your tribe. yours wouldn't take a shot at us. some other tribe, perhaps?" "very poor arrow." "i know that. but it could kill you just as dead as if it were a good one. do you recognize it?" "no tribe made this arrow," sipar declared. "child, maybe?" "what would child do way out here?" [illustration] "that's what i thought, too," said duncan. * * * * * he took the arrow back, held it between his thumbs and forefingers and twirled it slowly, with a terrifying thought nibbling at his brain. it couldn't be. it was too fantastic. he wondered if the sun was finally getting him that he had thought of it at all. he squatted down and dug at the ground with the makeshift arrow point. "sipar, what do you actually know about the cytha?" "nothing, mister. scared of it is all." "we aren't turning back. if there's something that you know--something that would help us...." it was as close as he could come to begging aid. it was further than he had meant to go. he should not have asked at all, he thought angrily. "i do not know," the native said. duncan cast the arrow to one side and rose to his feet. he cradled the rifle in his arm. "let's go." he watched sipar trot ahead. crafty little stinker, he told himself. it knows more than it's telling. they toiled into the afternoon. it was, if possible, hotter and drier than the day before. there was a sense of tension in the air--no, that was rot. and even if there were, a man must act as if it were not there. if he let himself fall prey to every mood out in this empty land, he only had himself to blame for whatever happened to him. the tracking was harder now. the day before, the cytha had only run away, straight-line fleeing to keep ahead of them, to stay out of their reach. now it was becoming tricky. it backtracked often in an attempt to throw them off. twice in the afternoon, the trail blanked out entirely and it was only after long searching that sipar picked it up again--in one instance, a mile away from where it had vanished in thin air. that vanishing bothered duncan more than he would admit. trails do not disappear entirely, not when the terrain remains the same, not when the weather is unchanged. something was going on, something, perhaps, that sipar knew far more about than it was willing to divulge. he watched the native closely and there seemed nothing suspicious. it continued at its work. it was, for all to see, the good and faithful hound. * * * * * late in the afternoon, the plain on which they had been traveling suddenly dropped away. they stood poised on the brink of a great escarpment and looked far out to great tangled forests and a flowing river. it was like suddenly coming into another and beautiful room that one had not expected. this was new land, never seen before by any earthman. for no one had ever mentioned that somewhere to the west a forest lay beyond the bush. men coming in from space had seen it, probably, but only as a different color-marking on the planet. to them, it made no difference. but to the men who lived on layard, to the planter and the trader, the prospector and the hunter, it was important. and i, thought duncan with a sense of triumph, am the man who found it. "mister!" "now what?" "out there. _skun!_" "i don't--" "out there, mister. across the river." duncan saw it then--a haze in the blueness of the rift--a puff of copper moving very fast, and as he watched, he heard the far-off keening of the storm, a shiver in the air rather than a sound. he watched in fascination as it moved along the river and saw the boiling fury it made out of the forest. it struck and crossed the river, and the river for a moment seemed to stand on end, with a sheet of silvery water splashed toward the sky. then it was gone as quickly as it had happened, but there was a tumbled slash across the forest where the churning winds had traveled. back at the farm, zikkara had warned him of the _skun_. this was the season for them, it had said, and a man caught in one wouldn't have a chance. duncan let his breath out slowly. "bad," said sipar. "yes, very bad." "hit fast. no warning." "what about the trail?" asked duncan. "did the cytha--" sipar nodded downward. "can we make it before nightfall?" "i think so," sipar answered. it was rougher than they had thought. twice they went down blind trails that pinched off, with sheer rock faces opening out into drops of hundreds of feet, and were forced to climb again and find another way. they reached the bottom of the escarpment as the brief twilight closed in and they hurried to gather firewood. there was no water, but a little was still left in their canteens and they made do with that. * * * * * after their scant meal of rockahominy, sipar rolled himself into a ball and went to sleep immediately. duncan sat with his back against a boulder which one day, long ago, had fallen from the slope above them, but was now half buried in the soil that through the ages had kept sifting down. two days gone, he told himself. was there, after all, some truth in the whispered tales that made the rounds back at the settlements--that no one should waste his time in tracking down a cytha, since a cytha was unkillable? nonsense, he told himself. and yet the hunt had toughened, the trail become more difficult, the cytha a much more cunning and elusive quarry. where it had run from them the day before, now it fought to shake them off. and if it did that the second day, why had it not tried to throw them off the first? and what about the third day--tomorrow? he shook his head. it seemed incredible that an animal would become more formidable as the hunt progressed. but that seemed to be exactly what had happened. more spooked, perhaps, more frightened--only the cytha did not act like a frightened beast. it was acting like an animal that was gaining savvy and determination, and that was somehow frightening. from far off to the west, toward the forest and the river, came the laughter and the howling of a pack of screamers. duncan leaned his rifle against the boulder and got up to pile more wood on the fire. he stared out into the western darkness, listening to the racket. he made a wry face and pushed a hand absent-mindedly through his hair. he put out a silent hope that the screamers would decide to keep their distance. they were something a man could do without. behind him, a pebble came bumping down the slope. it thudded to a rest just short of the fire. duncan spun around. foolish thing to do, he thought, to camp so near the slope. if something big should start to move, they'd be out of luck. he stood and listened. the night was quiet. even the screamers had shut up for the moment. just one rolling rock and he had his hackles up. he'd have to get himself in hand. he went back to the boulder, and as he stooped to pick up the rifle, he heard the faint beginning of a rumble. he straightened swiftly to face the scarp that blotted out the star-strewn sky--and the rumble grew! * * * * * in one leap, he was at sipar's side. he reached down and grasped the native by an arm, jerked it erect, held it on its feet. sipar's eyes snapped open, blinking in the firelight. the rumble had grown to a roar and there were thumping noises, as of heavy boulders bouncing, and beneath the roar the silky, ominous rustle of sliding soil and rock. sipar jerked its arm free of duncan's grip and plunged into the darkness. duncan whirled and followed. they ran, stumbling in the dark, and behind them the roar of the sliding, bouncing rock became a throaty roll of thunder that filled the night from brim to brim. as he ran, duncan could feel, in dread anticipation, the gusty breath of hurtling debris blowing on his neck, the crushing impact of a boulder smashing into him, the engulfing flood of tumbling talus snatching at his legs. a puff of billowing dust came out and caught them and they ran choking as well as stumbling. off to the left of them, a mighty chunk of rock chugged along the ground in jerky, almost reluctant fashion. then the thunder stopped and all one could hear was the small slitherings of the lesser debris as it trickled down the slope. duncan stopped running and slowly turned around. the campfire was gone, buried, no doubt, beneath tons of overlay, and the stars had paled because of the great cloud of dust which still billowed up into the sky. he heard sipar moving near him and reached out a hand, searching for the tracker, not knowing exactly where it was. he found the native, grasped it by the shoulder and pulled it up beside him. sipar was shivering. "it's all right," said duncan. and it _was_ all right, he reassured himself. he still had the rifle. the extra drum of ammunition and the knife were on his belt, the bag of rockahominy in his pocket. the canteens were all they had lost--the canteens and the fire. "we'll have to hole up somewhere for the night," duncan said. "there are screamers on the loose." * * * * * he didn't like what he was thinking, nor the sharp edge of fear that was beginning to crowd in upon him. he tried to shrug it off, but it still stayed with him, just out of reach. sipar plucked at his elbow. "thorn thicket, mister. over there. we could crawl inside. we would be safe from screamers." it was torture, but they made it. "screamers and you are taboo," said duncan, suddenly remembering. "how come you are afraid of them?" "afraid for you, mister, mostly. afraid for myself just a little. screamers could forget. they might not recognize me until too late. safer here." "i agree with you," said duncan. the screamers came and padded all about the thicket. the beasts sniffed and clawed at the thorns to reach them, but finally went away. when morning came, duncan and sipar climbed the scarp, clambering over the boulders and the tons of soil and rock that covered their camping place. following the gash cut by the slide, they clambered up the slope and finally reached the point of the slide's beginning. there they found the depression in which the poised slab of rock had rested and where the supporting soil had been dug away so that it could be started, with a push, down the slope above the campfire. and all about were the deeply sunken pug marks of the cytha! iv now it was more than just a hunt. it was knife against the throat, kill or be killed. now there was no stopping, when before there might have been. it was no longer sport and there was no mercy. "and that's the way i like it," duncan told himself. he rubbed his hand along the rifle barrel and saw the metallic glints shine in the noonday sun. one more shot, he prayed. just give me one more shot at it. this time there will be no slip-up. this time there will be more than three sodden hunks of flesh and fur lying in the grass to mock me. he squinted his eyes against the heat shimmer rising from the river, watching sipar hunkered beside the water's edge. the native rose to its feet and trotted back to him. "it crossed," said sipar. "it walked out as far as it could go and it must have swum." "are you sure? it might have waded out to make us think it crossed, then doubled back again." he stared at the purple-green of the trees across the river. inside that forest, it would be hellish going. "we can look," said sipar. "good. you go downstream. i'll go up." an hour later, they were back. they had found no tracks. there seemed little doubt the cytha had really crossed the river. they stood side by side, looking at the forest. "mister, we have come far. you are brave to hunt the cytha. you have no fear of death." "the fear of death," duncan said, "is entirely infantile. and it's beside the point as well. i do not intend to die." they waded out into the stream. the bottom shelved gradually and they had to swim no more than a hundred yards or so. they reached the forest bank and threw themselves flat to rest. duncan looked back the way that they had come. to the east, the escarpment was a dark-blue smudge against the pale-blue burnished sky. and two days back of that lay the farm and the _vua_ field, but they seemed much farther off than that. they were lost in time and distance; they belonged to another existence and another world. all his life, it seemed to him, had faded and become inconsequential and forgotten, as if this moment in his life were the only one that counted; as if all the minutes and the hours, all the breaths and heartbeats, wake and sleep, had pointed toward this certain hour upon this certain stream, with the rifle molded to his hand and the cool, calculated bloodlust of a killer riding in his brain. * * * * * sipar finally got up and began to range along the stream. duncan sat up and watched. scared to death, he thought, and yet it stayed with me. at the campfire that first night, it had said it would stick to the death and apparently it had meant exactly what it said. it's hard, he thought, to figure out these jokers, hard to know what kind of mental operation, what seethings of emotion, what brand of ethics and what variety of belief and faith go to make them and their way of life. it would have been so easy for sipar to have missed the trail and swear it could not find it. even from the start, it could have refused to go. yet, fearing, it had gone. reluctant, it had trailed. without any need for faithfulness and loyalty, it had been loyal and faithful. but loyal to what, duncan wondered, to him, the outlander and intruder? loyal to itself? or perhaps, although that seemed impossible, faithful to the cytha? what does sipar think of me, he asked himself, and maybe more to the point, what do i think of sipar? is there a common meeting ground? or are we, despite our humanoid forms, condemned forever to be alien and apart? he held the rifle across his knees and stroked it, polishing it, petting it, making it even more closely a part of him, an instrument of his deadliness, an expression of his determination to track and kill the cytha. just another chance, he begged. just one second, or even less, to draw a steady bead. that is all i want, all i need, all i'll ask. then he could go back across the days that he had left behind him, back to the farm and field, back into that misty other life from which he had been so mysteriously divorced, but which in time undoubtedly would become real and meaningful again. sipar came back. "i found the trail." duncan heaved himself to his feet. "good." they left the river and plunged into the forest and there the heat closed in more mercilessly than ever--humid, stifling heat that felt like a soggy blanket wrapped tightly round the body. the trail lay plain and clear. the cytha now, it seemed, was intent upon piling up a lead without recourse to evasive tactics. perhaps it had reasoned that its pursuers would lose some time at the river and it may have been trying to stretch out that margin even further. perhaps it needed that extra time, he speculated, to set up the necessary machinery for another dirty trick. sipar stopped and waited for duncan to catch up. "your knife, mister?" duncan hesitated. "what for?" "i have a thorn in my foot," the native said. "i have to get it out." duncan pulled the knife from his belt and tossed it. sipar caught it deftly. looking straight at duncan, with the flicker of a smile upon its lips, the native cut its throat. v he should go back, he knew. without the tracker, he didn't have a chance. the odds were now with the cytha--if, indeed, they had not been with it from the very start. unkillable? unkillable because it grew in intelligence to meet emergencies? unkillable because, pressed, it could fashion a bow and arrow, however crude? unkillable because it had a sense of tactics, like rolling rocks at night upon its enemy? unkillable because a native tracker would cheerfully kill itself to protect the cytha? a sort of crisis-beast, perhaps? one able to develop intelligence and abilities to meet each new situation and then lapsing back to the level of non-intelligent contentment? that, thought duncan, would be a sensible way for anything to live. it would do away with the inconvenience and the irritability and the discontentment of intelligence when intelligence was unneeded. but the intelligence, and the abilities which went with it, would be there, safely tucked away where one could reach in and get them, like a necklace or a gun--something to be used or to be put away as the case might be. duncan hunched forward and with a stick of wood pushed the fire together. the flames blazed up anew and sent sparks flying up into the whispering darkness of the trees. the night had cooled off a little, but the humidity still hung on and a man felt uncomfortable--a little frightened, too. duncan lifted his head and stared up into the fire-flecked darkness. there were no stars because the heavy foliage shut them out. he missed the stars. he'd feel better if he could look up and see them. when morning came, he should go back. he should quit this hunt which now had become impossible and even slightly foolish. but he knew he wouldn't. somewhere along the three-day trail, he had become committed to a purpose and a challenge, and he knew that when morning came, he would go on again. it was not hatred that drove him, nor vengeance, nor even the trophy-urge--the hunter-lust that prodded men to kill something strange or harder to kill or bigger than any man had ever killed before. it was something more than that, some weird entangling of the cytha's meaning with his own. he reached out and picked up the rifle and laid it in his lap. its barrel gleamed dully in the flickering campfire light and he rubbed his hand along the stock as another man might stroke a woman's throat. "mister," said a voice. * * * * * it did not startle him, for the word was softly spoken and for a moment he had forgotten that sipar was dead--dead with a half-smile fixed upon its face and with its throat laid wide open. "mister?" duncan stiffened. sipar was dead and there was no one else--and yet someone had spoken to him, and there could be only one thing in all this wilderness that might speak to him. "yes," he said. he did not move. he simply sat there, with the rifle in his lap. "you know who i am?" "i suppose you are the cytha." "you have done well," the cytha said. "you've made a splendid hunt. there is no dishonor if you should decide to quit. why don't you go back? i promise you no harm." it was over there, somewhere in front of him, somewhere in the brush beyond the fire, almost straight across the fire from him, duncan told himself. if he could keep it talking, perhaps even lure it out-- "why should i?" he asked. "the hunt is never done until one gets the thing one is after." "i can kill you," the cytha told him. "but i do not want to kill. it hurts to kill." "that's right," said duncan. "you are most perceptive." for he had it pegged now. he knew exactly where it was. he could afford a little mockery. his thumb slid up the metal and nudged the fire control to automatic and he flexed his legs beneath him so that he could rise and fire in one single motion. "why did you hunt me?" the cytha asked. "you are a stranger on my world and you had no right to hunt me. not that i mind, of course. in fact, i found it stimulating. we must do it again. when i am ready to be hunted, i shall come and tell you and we can spend a day or two at it." "sure we can," said duncan, rising. and as he rose into his crouch, he held the trigger down and the gun danced in insane fury, the muzzle flare a flicking tongue of hatred and the hail of death hissing spitefully in the underbrush. "anytime you want to," yelled duncan gleefully, "i'll come and hunt you! you just say the word and i'll be on your tail. i might even kill you. how do you like it, chump!" and he held the trigger tight and kept his crouch so the slugs would not fly high, but would cut their swath just above the ground, and he moved the muzzle back and forth a lot so that he covered extra ground to compensate for any miscalculations he might have made. * * * * * the magazine ran out and the gun clicked empty and the vicious chatter stopped. powder smoke drifted softly in the campfire light and the smell of it was perfume in the nostrils and in the underbrush many little feet were running, as if a thousand frightened mice were scurrying from catastrophe. duncan unhooked the extra magazine from where it hung upon his belt and replaced the empty one. then he snatched a burning length of wood from the fire and waved it frantically until it burst into a blaze and became a torch. rifle grasped in one hand and the torch in the other, he plunged into the underbrush. little chittering things fled to escape him. he did not find the cytha. he found chewed-up bushes and soil churned by flying metal, and he found five lumps of flesh and fur, and these he brought back to the fire. now the fear that had been stalking him, keeping just beyond his reach, walked out from the shadows and hunkered by the campfire with him. he placed the rifle within easy reach and arranged the five bloody chunks on the ground close to the fire and he tried with trembling fingers to restore them to the shape they'd been before the bullets struck them. and that was a good one, he thought with grim irony, because they had no shape. they had been part of the cytha and you killed a cytha inch by inch, not with a single shot. you knocked a pound of meat off it the first time, and the next time you shot off another pound or two, and if you got enough shots at it, you finally carved it down to size and maybe you could kill it then, although he wasn't sure. he was afraid. he admitted that he was and he squatted there and watched his fingers shake and he kept his jaws clamped tight to stop the chatter of his teeth. the fear had been getting closer all the time; he knew it had moved in by a step or two when sipar cut its throat, and why in the name of god had the damn fool done it? it made no sense at all. he had wondered about sipar's loyalties, and the very loyalties that he had dismissed as a sheer impossibility had been the answer, after all. in the end, for some obscure reason--obscure to humans, that is--sipar's loyalty had been to the cytha. but then what was the use of searching for any reason in it? nothing that had happened made any sense. it made no sense that a beast one was pursuing should up and talk to one--although it did fit in with the theory of the crisis-beast he had fashioned in his mind. * * * * * progressive adaptation, he told himself. carry adaptation far enough and you'd reach communication. but might not the cytha's power of adaptation be running down? had the cytha gone about as far as it could force itself to go? maybe so, he thought. it might be worth a gamble. sipar's suicide, for all its casualness, bore the overtones of last-notch desperation. and the cytha's speaking to duncan, its attempt to parley with him, contained a note of weakness. the arrow had failed and the rockslide had failed and so had sipar's death. what next would the cytha try? had it anything to try? tomorrow he'd find out. tomorrow he'd go on. he couldn't turn back now. he was too deeply involved. he'd always wonder, if he turned back now, whether another hour or two might not have seen the end of it. there were too many questions, too much mystery--there was now far more at stake than ten rows of _vua_. another day might make some sense of it, might banish the dread walker that trod upon his heels, might bring some peace of mind. as it stood right at the moment, none of it made sense. but even as he thought it, suddenly one of the bits of bloody flesh and mangled fur made sense. beneath the punching and prodding of his fingers, it had assumed a shape. breathlessly, duncan bent above it, not believing, not even wanting to believe, hoping frantically that it should prove completely wrong. but there was nothing wrong with it. the shape was there and could not be denied. it had somehow fitted back into its natural shape and it was a baby screamer--well, maybe not a baby, but at least a tiny screamer. duncan sat back on his heels and sweated. he wiped his bloody hands upon the ground. he wondered what other shapes he'd find if he put back into proper place the other hunks of limpness that lay beside the fire. he tried and failed. they were too smashed and torn. he picked them up and tossed them in the fire. he took up his rifle and walked around the fire, sat down with his back against a tree, cradling the gun across his knees. * * * * * those little scurrying feet, he wondered--like the scampering of a thousand busy mice. he had heard them twice, that first night in the thicket by the waterhole and again tonight. and what could the cytha be? certainly not the simple, uncomplicated, marauding animal he had thought to start with. a hive-beast? a host animal? a thing masquerading in many different forms? shotwell, trained in such deductions, might make a fairly accurate guess, but shotwell was not here. he was at the farm, fretting, more than likely, over duncan's failure to return. finally the first light of morning began to filter through the forest and it was not the glaring, clean white light of the open plain and bush, but a softened, diluted, fuzzy green light to match the smothering vegetation. the night noises died away and the noises of the day took up--the sawings of unseen insects, the screechings of hidden birds and something far away began to make a noise that sounded like an empty barrel falling slowly down a stairway. what little coolness the night had brought dissipated swiftly and the heat clamped down, a breathless, relentless heat that quivered in the air. circling, duncan picked up the cytha trail not more than a hundred yards from camp. the beast had been traveling fast. the pug marks were deeply sunk and widely spaced. duncan followed as rapidly as he dared. it was a temptation to follow at a run, to match the cytha's speed, for the trail was plain and fresh and it fairly beckoned. and that was wrong, duncan told himself. it was too fresh, too plain--almost as if the animal had gone to endless trouble so that the human could not miss the trail. he stopped his trailing and crouched beside a tree and studied the tracks ahead. his hands were too tense upon the gun, his body keyed too high and fine. he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. he had to calm himself. he had to loosen up. he studied the tracks ahead--four bunched pug marks, then a long leap interval, then four more bunched tracks, and between the sets of marks the forest floor was innocent and smooth. too smooth, perhaps. especially the third one from him. too smooth and somehow artificial, as if someone had patted it with gentle hands to make it unsuspicious. duncan sucked his breath in slowly. trap? or was his imagination playing tricks on him? and if it were a trap, he would have fallen into it if he had kept on following as he had started out. now there was something else, a strange uneasiness, and he stirred uncomfortably, casting frantically for some clue to what it was. * * * * * he rose and stepped out from the tree, with the gun at ready. what a perfect place to set a trap, he thought. one would be looking at the pug marks, never at the space between them, for the space between would be neutral ground, safe to stride out upon. oh, clever cytha, he said to himself. oh, clever, clever cytha! and now he knew what the other trouble was--the great uneasiness. it was the sense of being watched. somewhere up ahead, the cytha was crouched, watching and waiting--anxious or exultant, maybe even with laughter rumbling in its throat. he walked slowly forward until he reached the third set of tracks and he saw that he had been right. the little area ahead was smoother than it should be. "cytha!" he called. his voice was far louder than he had meant it to be and he stood astonished and a bit abashed. then he realized why it was so loud. it was the only sound there was! the forest suddenly had fallen silent. the insects and birds were quiet and the thing in the distance had quit falling down the stairs. even the leaves were silent. there was no rustle in them and they hung limp upon their stems. there was a feeling of doom and the green light had changed to a copper light and everything was still. and the light was _copper_! duncan spun around in panic. there was no place for him to hide. before he could take another step, the _skun_ came and the winds rushed out of nowhere. the air was clogged with flying leaves and debris. trees snapped and popped and tumbled in the air. the wind hurled duncan to his knees, and as he fought to regain his feet, he remembered, in a blinding flash of total recall, how it had looked from atop the escarpment--the boiling fury of the winds and the mad swirling of the coppery mist and how the trees had whipped in whirlpool fashion. he came half erect and stumbled, clawing at the ground in an attempt to get up again, while inside his brain an insistent, clicking voice cried out for him to run, and somewhere another voice said to lie flat upon the ground, to dig in as best he could. something struck him from behind and he went down, pinned flat, with his rifle wedged beneath him. he cracked his head upon the ground and the world whirled sickeningly and plastered his face with a handful of mud and tattered leaves. he tried to crawl and couldn't, for something had grabbed him by the ankle and was hanging on. * * * * * with a frantic hand, he clawed the mess out of his eyes, spat it from his mouth. across the spinning ground, something black and angular tumbled rapidly. it was coming straight toward him and he saw it was the cytha and that in another second it would be on top of him. he threw up an arm across his face, with the elbow crooked, to take the impact of the wind-blown cytha and to ward it off. but it never reached him. less than a yard away, the ground opened up to take the cytha and it was no longer there. suddenly the wind cut off and the leaves once more hung motionless and the heat clamped down again and that was the end of it. the _skun_ had come and struck and gone. minutes, duncan wondered, or perhaps no more than seconds. but in those seconds, the forest had been flattened and the trees lay in shattered heaps. he raised himself on an elbow and looked to see what was the matter with his foot and he saw that a fallen tree had trapped his foot beneath it. he tugged a few times experimentally. it was no use. two close-set limbs, branching almost at right angles from the hole, had been driven deep into the ground and his foot, he saw, had been caught at the ankle in the fork of the buried branches. the foot didn't hurt--not yet. it didn't seem to be there at all. he tried wiggling his toes and felt none. he wiped the sweat off his face with a shirt sleeve and fought to force down the panic that was rising in him. getting panicky was the worst thing a man could do in a spot like this. the thing to do was to take stock of the situation, figure out the best approach, then go ahead and try it. the tree looked heavy, but perhaps he could handle it if he had to, although there was the danger that if he shifted it, the bole might settle more solidly and crush his foot beneath it. at the moment, the two heavy branches, thrust into the ground on either side of his ankle, were holding most of the tree's weight off his foot. the best thing to do, he decided, was to dig the ground away beneath his foot until he could pull it out. he twisted around and started digging with the fingers of one hand. beneath the thin covering of humus, he struck a solid surface and his fingers slid along it. with mounting alarm, he explored the ground, scratching at the humus. there was nothing but rock--some long-buried boulder, the top of which lay just beneath the ground. his foot was trapped beneath a heavy tree and a massive boulder, held securely in place by forked branches that had forced their splintering way down along the boulder's sides. * * * * * he lay back, propped on an elbow. it was evident that he could do nothing about the buried boulder. if he was going to do anything, his problem was the tree. to move the tree, he would need a lever and he had a good, stout lever in his rifle. it would be a shame, he thought a little wryly, to use a gun for such a purpose, but he had no choice. he worked for an hour and it was no good. even with the rifle as a pry, he could not budge the tree. he lay back, defeated, breathing hard, wringing wet with perspiration. he grimaced at the sky. all right, cytha, he thought, you won out in the end. but it took a _skun_ to do it. with all your tricks, you couldn't do the job until.... then he remembered. he sat up hurriedly. "cytha!" he called. the cytha had fallen into a hole that had opened in the ground. the hole was less than an arm's length away from him, with a little debris around its edges still trickling into it. duncan stretched out his body, lying flat upon the ground, and looked into the hole. there, at the bottom of it, was the cytha. it was the first time he'd gotten a good look at the cytha and it was a crazily put-together thing. it seemed to have nothing functional about it and it looked more like a heap of something, just thrown on the ground, than it did an animal. the hole, he saw, was more than an ordinary hole. it was a pit and very cleverly constructed. the mouth was about four feet in diameter and it widened to roughly twice that at the bottom. it was, in general, bottle-shaped, with an incurving shoulder at the top so that anything that fell in could not climb out. anything falling into that pit was in to stay. this, duncan knew, was what had lain beneath that too-smooth interval between the two sets of cytha tracks. the cytha had worked all night to dig it, then had carried away the dirt dug out of the pit and had built a flimsy camouflage cover over it. then it had gone back and made the trail that was so loud and clear, so easy to make out and follow. and having done all that, having labored hard and stealthily, the cytha had settled down to watch, to make sure the following human had fallen in the pit. * * * * * "hi, pal," said duncan. "how are you making out?" the cytha did not answer. "classy pit," said duncan. "do you always den up in luxury like this?" [illustration] but the cytha didn't answer. [illustration] something queer was happening to the cytha. it was coming all apart. duncan watched with fascinated horror as the cytha broke down into a thousand lumps of motion that scurried in the pit and tried to scramble up its sides, only to fall back in tiny showers of sand. amid the scurrying lumps, one thing remained intact, a fragile object that resembled nothing quite so much as the stripped skeleton of a thanksgiving turkey. but it was a most extraordinary thanksgiving skeleton, for it throbbed with pulsing life and glowed with a steady violet light. chitterings and squeakings came out of the pit and the soft patter of tiny running feet, and as duncan's eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the pit, he began to make out the forms of some of the scurrying shapes. there were tiny screamers and some donovans and sawmill birds and a bevy of kill-devils and something else as well. duncan raised a hand and pressed it against his eyes, then took it quickly away. the little faces still were there, looking up as if beseeching him, with the white shine of their teeth and the white rolling of their eyes. he felt horror wrenching at his stomach and the sour, bitter taste of revulsion welled into his throat, but he fought it down, harking back to that day at the farm before they had started on the hunt. "i can track down anything but screamers, stilt-birds, longhorns and donovans," sipar had told him solemnly. "these are my taboos." and sipar was also their taboo, for he had not feared the donovan. sipar had been, however, somewhat fearful of the screamers in the dead of night because, the native had told him reasonably, screamers were forgetful. forgetful of what! forgetful of the cytha-mother? forgetful of the motley brood in which they had spent their childhood? for that was the only answer to what was running in the pit and the whole, unsuspected answer to the enigma against which men like shotwell had frustratedly banged their heads for years. * * * * * strange, he told himself. all right, it might be strange, but if it worked, what difference did it make? so the planet's denizens were sexless because there was no need of sex--what was wrong with that? it might, in fact, duncan admitted to himself, head off a lot of trouble. no family spats, no triangle trouble, no fighting over mates. while it might be unexciting, it did seem downright peaceful. and since there was no sex, the cytha species was the planetary mother--but more than just a mother. the cytha, more than likely, was mother-father, incubator, nursery, teacher and perhaps many other things besides, all rolled into one. in many ways, he thought, it might make a lot of sense. here natural selection would be ruled out and ecology could be controlled in considerable degree and mutation might even be a matter of deliberate choice rather than random happenstance. and it would make for a potential planetary unity such as no other world had ever known. everything here was kin to everything else. here was a planet where man, or any other alien, must learn to tread most softly. for it was not inconceivable that, in a crisis or a clash of interests, one might find himself faced suddenly with a unified and cooperating planet, with every form of life making common cause against the interloper. the little scurrying things had given up; they'd gone back to their places, clustered around the pulsing violet of the thanksgiving skeleton, each one fitting into place until the cytha had taken shape again. as if, duncan told himself, blood and nerve and muscle had come back from a brief vacation to form the beast anew. "mister," asked the cytha, "what do we do now?" "you should know," duncan told it. "you were the one who dug the pit." "i split myself," the cytha said. "a part of me dug the pit and the other part that stayed on the surface got me out when the job was done." "convenient," grunted duncan. and it _was_ convenient. that was what had happened to the cytha when he had shot at it--it had split into all its component parts and had got away. and that night beside the waterhole, it had spied on him, again in the form of all its separate parts, from the safety of the thicket. "you are caught and so am i," the cytha said. "both of us will die here. it seems a fitting end to our association. do you not agree with me?" "i'll get you out," said duncan wearily. "i have no quarrel with children." * * * * * he dragged the rifle toward him and unhooked the sling from the stock. carefully he lowered the gun by the sling, still attached to the barrel, down into the pit. the cytha reared up and grasped it with its forepaws. "easy now," duncan cautioned. "you're heavy. i don't know if i can hold you." but he needn't have worried. the little ones were detaching themselves and scrambling up the rifle and the sling. they reached his extended arms and ran up them with scrabbling claws. little sneering screamers and the comic stilt-birds and the mouse-size kill-devils that snarled at him as they climbed. and the little grinning natives--not babies, scarcely children, but small editions of full-grown humanoids. and the weird donovans scampering happily. they came climbing up his arms and across his shoulders and milled about on the ground beside him, waiting for the others. and finally the cytha, not skinned down to the bare bones of its thanksgiving-turkey-size, but far smaller than it had been, climbed awkwardly up the rifle and the sling to safety. duncan hauled the rifle up and twisted himself into a sitting position. the cytha, he saw, was reassembling. he watched in fascination as the restless miniatures of the planet's life swarmed and seethed like a hive of bees, each one clicking into place to form the entire beast. and now the cytha was complete. yet small--still small--no more than lion-size. "but it is such a little one," zikkara had argued with him that morning at the farm. "it is such a young one." just a young brood, no more than suckling infants--if suckling was the word, or even some kind of wild approximation. and through the months and years, the cytha would grow, with the growing of its diverse children, until it became a monstrous thing. it stood there looking at duncan and the tree. "now," said duncan, "if you'll push on the tree, i think that between the two of us--" "it is too bad," the cytha said, and wheeled itself about. he watched it go loping off. "hey!" he yelled. but it didn't stop. he grabbed up the rifle and had it halfway to his shoulder before he remembered how absolutely futile it was to shoot at the cytha. he let the rifle down. "the dirty, ungrateful, double-crossing--" he stopped himself. there was no profit in rage. when you were in a jam, you did the best you could. you figured out the problem and you picked the course that seemed best and you didn't panic at the odds. he laid the rifle in his lap and started to hook up the sling and it was not till then that he saw the barrel was packed with sand and dirt. he sat numbly for a moment, thinking back to how close he had been to firing at the cytha, and if that barrel was packed hard enough or deep enough, he might have had an exploding weapon in his hands. he had used the rifle as a crowbar, which was no way to use a gun. that was one way, he told himself, that was guaranteed to ruin it. * * * * * duncan hunted around and found a twig and dug at the clogged muzzle, but the dirt was jammed too firmly in it and he made little progress. he dropped the twig and was hunting for another stronger one when he caught the motion in a nearby clump of brush. he watched closely for a moment and there was nothing, so he resumed the hunt for a stronger twig. he found one and started poking at the muzzle and there was another flash of motion. he twisted around. not more than twenty feet away, a screamer sat easily on its haunches. its tongue was lolling out and it had what looked like a grin upon its face. and there was another, just at the edge of the clump of brush where he had caught the motion first. there were others as well, he knew. he could hear them sliding through the tangle of fallen trees, could sense the soft padding of their feet. the executioners, he thought. the cytha certainly had not wasted any time. he raised the rifle and rapped the barrel smartly on the fallen tree, trying to dislodge the obstruction in the bore. but it didn't budge; the barrel still was packed with sand. but no matter--he'd have to fire anyhow and take whatever chance there was. he shoved the control to automatic, and tilted up the muzzle. there were six of them now, sitting in a ragged row, grinning at him, not in any hurry. they were sure of him and there was no hurry. he'd still be there when they decided to move in. and there were others--on all sides of him. once it started, he wouldn't have a chance. "it'll be expensive, gents," he told them. and he was astonished at how calm, how coldly objective he could be, now that the chips were down. but that was the way it was, he realized. he'd thought, a while ago, how a man might suddenly find himself face to face with an aroused and cooperating planet. maybe this was it in miniature. the cytha had obviously passed the word along: _man back there needs killing. go and get him._ just like that, for a cytha would be the power here. a life force, the giver of life, the decider of life, the repository of all animal life on the entire planet. there was more than one of them, of course. probably they had home districts, spheres of influence and responsibility mapped out. and each one would be a power supreme in its own district. momism, he thought with a sour grin. momism at its absolute peak. nevertheless, he told himself, it wasn't too bad a system if you wanted to consider it objectively. but he was in a poor position to be objective about that or anything else. * * * * * the screamers were inching closer, hitching themselves forward slowly on their bottoms. "i'm going to set up a deadline for you critters," duncan called out. "just two feet farther, up to that rock, and i let you have it." he'd get all six of them, of course, but the shots would be the signal for the general rush by all those other animals slinking in the brush. if he were free, if he were on his feet, possibly he could beat them off. but pinned as he was, he didn't have a chance. it would be all over less than a minute after he opened fire. he might, he figured, last as long as that. the six inched closer and he raised the rifle. but they stopped and moved no farther. their ears lifted just a little, as if they might be listening, and the grins dropped from their faces. they squirmed uneasily and assumed a look of guilt and, like shadows, they were gone, melting away so swiftly that he scarcely saw them go. duncan sat quietly, listening, but he could hear no sound. reprieve, he thought. but for how long? something had scared them off, but in a while they might be back. he had to get out of here and he had to make it fast. if he could find a longer lever, he could move the tree. there was a branch slanting up from the topside of the fallen tree. it was almost four inches at the butt and it carried its diameter well. he slid the knife from his belt and looked at it. too small, too thin, he thought, to chisel through a four-inch branch, but it was all he had. when a man was desperate enough, though, when his very life depended on it, he would do anything. he hitched himself along, sliding toward the point where the branch protruded from the tree. his pinned leg protested with stabs of pain as his body wrenched it around. he gritted his teeth and pushed himself closer. pain slashed through his leg again and he was still long inches from the branch. he tried once more, then gave up. he lay panting on the ground. there was just one thing left. he'd have to try to hack out a notch in the trunk just above his leg. no, that would be next to impossible, for he'd be cutting into the whorled and twisted grain at the base of the supporting fork. either that or cut off his foot, and that was even more impossible. a man would faint before he got the job done. it was useless, he knew. he could do neither one. there was nothing he could do. * * * * * for the first time, he admitted to himself: he would stay here and die. shotwell, back at the farm, in a day or two might set out hunting for him. but shotwell would never find him. and anyhow, by nightfall, if not sooner, the screamers would be back. he laughed gruffly in his throat--laughing at himself. the cytha had won the hunt hands down. it had used a human weakness to win and then had used that same human weakness to achieve a viciously poetic vengeance. after all, what could one expect? one could not equate human ethics with the ethics of the cytha. might not human ethics, in certain cases, seem as weird and illogical, as infamous and ungrateful, to an alien? he hunted for a twig and began working again to clean the rifle bore. a crashing behind him twisted him around and he saw the cytha. behind the cytha stalked a donovan. he tossed away the twig and raised the gun. "no," said the cytha sharply. the donovan tramped purposefully forward and duncan felt the prickling of the skin along his back. it was a frightful thing. nothing could stand before a donovan. the screamers had turned tail and run when they had heard it a couple of miles or more away. the donovan was named for the first known human to be killed by one. that first was only one of many. the roll of donovan-victims ran long, and no wonder, duncan thought. it was the closest he had ever been to one of the beasts and he felt a coldness creeping over him. it was like an elephant and a tiger and a grizzly bear wrapped in the selfsame hide. it was the most vicious fighting machine that ever had been spawned. he lowered the rifle. there would be no point in shooting. in two quick strides, the beast could be upon him. the donovan almost stepped on him and he flinched away. then the great head lowered and gave the fallen tree a butt and the tree bounced for a yard or two. the donovan kept on walking. its powerfully muscled stern moved into the brush and out of sight. "now we are even," said the cytha. "i had to get some help." duncan grunted. he flexed the leg that had been trapped and he could not feel the foot. using his rifle as a cane, he pulled himself erect. he tried putting weight on the injured foot and it screamed with pain. he braced himself with the rifle and rotated so that he faced the cytha. "thanks, pal," he said. "i didn't think you'd do it." "you will not hunt me now?" duncan shook his head. "i'm in no shape for hunting. i am heading home." "it was the _vua_, wasn't it? that was why you hunted me?" "the _vua_ is my livelihood," said duncan. "i cannot let you eat it." the cytha stood silently and duncan watched it for a moment. then he wheeled. using the rifle for a crutch, he started hobbling away. the cytha hurried to catch up with him. "let us make a bargain, mister. i will not eat the _vua_ and you will not hunt me. is that fair enough?" "that is fine with me," said duncan. "let us shake on it." he put down a hand and the cytha lifted up a paw. they shook, somewhat awkwardly, but very solemnly. "now," the cytha said, "i will see you home. the screamers would have you before you got out of the woods." vi they halted on a knoll. below them lay the farm, with the _vua_ rows straight and green in the red soil of the fields. "you can make it from here," the cytha said. "i am wearing thin. it is an awful effort to keep on being smart. i want to go back to ignorance and comfort." "it was nice knowing you," duncan told it politely. "and thanks for sticking with me." he started down the hill, leaning heavily on the rifle-crutch. then he frowned troubledly and turned back. "look," he said, "you'll go back to animal again. then you will forget. one of these days, you'll see all that nice, tender _vua_ and--" "very simple," said the cytha. "if you find me in the _vua_, just begin hunting me. with you after me, i will quickly get smart and remember once again and it will be all right." "sure," agreed duncan. "i guess that will work." the cytha watched him go stumping down the hill. admirable, it thought. next time i have a brood, i think i'll raise a dozen like him. it turned around and headed for the deeper brush. it felt intelligence slipping from it, felt the old, uncaring comfort coming back again. but it glowed with anticipation, seethed with happiness at the big surprise it had in store for its new-found friend. won't he be happy and surprised when i drop them at his door, it thought. will he be ever pleased! --clifford d. simak * * * * * +------------------------------------------------------+ | | | the | | soldier | | turned | | farmer. | | | | | | [illustration] | | | | | | portland: | | bailey & noyes. | | | +------------------------------------------------------+ the soldier turned farmer. [illustration] portland: bailey & noyes. a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z & a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z [illustration] this globe you see is almost round, as the earth on which you live, and like the stars that shine above you every night. [illustration] _a mortar._ this is made of iron, or of wood, or of stone, and is used to pound spice in for puddings. [illustration] boot and shoes for my father. when you grow a gentleman, you shall have white-top boots and silk strings in your shoes. [illustration] a black hat which is made of wool and fur, and then worn by men and boys. we will go to the hatter's and buy one. [illustration] wool sack is a large bag, filled with wool from the back of the sheep that have already come from the pasture to be sheared. [illustration] this great tree stands in the common, and is feet high, feet girth or circumference, feet through, and feet across the branches or about feet round, and covering sq. ft. [illustration] a horse is a fine fellow to ride on. horses are of all colours, bay and black, grey and white, and chesnut and sorrel. [illustration] a barrel of cider that the farmer has brought us from the country. i hope the barrel was sweet and clean before he put the cider in it. [illustration] here is the pretty house that daniel's father built, and where he now lives with all his little boys. it has trees before it, and the children are playing in the parlour. [illustration] this sheep is one of the flock, who is going home because he has eaten grass enough to-day. [illustration] chest of tea from the chinese. little boys and girls must not have tea, because milk, which you can have from this cow is much better. [illustration] this cow belongs to the farmer whose history i am now going to tell you, and who brings milk here every day. _story of the boy who would be a soldier._ there was a little boy who was just four years old when i knew him, and he lived in this house, [illustration] and when he grew up he did not wish to be a scholar, and learn the letters, but wanted to be a soldier and follow the drum. here you can see one, [illustration] pretty enough to look at, but of a very noisy sound. well, this boy would become a soldier, and he was drest in a suit of fine clothes every day, and he strutted about, but if he did any thing wrong, he was sure to be whipped. see him march before the sentry-box, which i think is very hard work, because he must keep going, whether it rains hard or shines hot. in his hand is a heavy gun, on his back a knapsack, and on his head a great cocked hat. look at him, and see besides the tents or huts in which a soldier sleeps. [illustration] well, after a little time he had to go to a great distance from home, into another part of the world, and one night while he was lying under the tent on his straw bed, he was very much startled by hearing this lion roar, [illustration] for he was in that part of the globe where lions live, and he was so frightened that he said he would not be a soldier any longer, but get to his home again as fast as he could. so in the very first ship that sailed for his own country he came home. here is the ship. [illustration] when he left off his coloured clothes, and his gun and belts, he wore a round hat, and went to be a farmer, and he soon bought him a bay horse, and here he has him by the bridle. [illustration] if you are a good child to-day, he will put him in a chaise and give you a pleasant ride. i think it much better for him to be a farmer, and to keeps pigs, and sheep, and cows, and horses, than to be shooting men with his black powder and leaden balls, and i wish him success in his new labour. [illustration] the buccaneer farmer by harold bindloss published in england under the title "askew's victory" contents part i--at ashness chapter i the lease ii the otter hounds iii a council of defense iv the peat cutters v railton's tally vi bleatarn ghyll vii the reckoning viii grace finds a way ix the plan works x janet meddles xi osborn's pride gets hurt xii osborn interferes part ii--on the caribbean i the old buccaneer ii the presidio iii the gold onza iv the president's ball v olsen's offer vi the president's watchers vii adam resumes control viii the mangrove swamp ix adam's last request x the road to the mission xi kit keeps his promise xii the last cargo part iii--kit's return i kit's welcome ii a dangerous talent iii the horse show iv the flood v kit tells a story vi thorn makes a plan vii gerald's return viii grace's confidence ix kit goes to the rescue x grace's choice xi osborn's surrender part i--at ashness chapter i the lease the morning was bright after heavy rain, and when osborn looked out of the library window a warm, south-west breeze shook the larches about tarnside hall. now and then a shadow sped across the tarn, darkening the ripples that sparkled like silver when the cloud drove on. osborn frowned, for he had meant to go fishing and it was a morning when the big, shy trout would rise. his game-keeper was waiting at the boathouse, but the postman had brought some letters that made him put off his sport. this was annoying, because osborn hated to be balked and seldom allowed anything to interfere with his amusements. one letter, from a housemaster at a famous public school, covered a number of bills, which, the writer stated somewhat curtly, ought to have been paid. another announced that hayes, the agent for the estate, and a tenant would wait upon osborn, who knew what they meant to talk about. he admitted that a landlord had duties, but his generally demanded attention at an inconvenient time. osborn was fifty years of age. he had a ruddy skin and well-proportioned figure, and was, physically, a rather fine example of the sporting country gentleman. for all that, there were lines on his forehead and wrinkles about his eyes; his mouth was loose and sensual, and something about him hinted at indulgence. his manner, as a rule, was abrupt and often overbearing. the library was spacious, the furniture in good taste but getting shabby. in fact, a certain look of age and shabbiness was typical of the house. although the windows were open, the room had a damp smell, and the rows of books that osborn never read were touched with mildew. rain was plentiful in the north-country dale, coal was dear, and mrs. osborn was forced to study economy, partly because her husband would not. by and by osborn turned his glance from the window and fixed it on his son, who stood waiting across the big oak table. gerald was a handsome lad, like his father, but marked by a certain refinement and a hint of delicacy. although he felt anxious, his pose was free and graceful and his look undisturbed. osborn threw the bills on the table. "this kind of thing must stop," he said. "i haven't grumbled much, perhaps not as much as i ought, about your extravagance, but only a fool imagines he can spend more than he has got." "we have had such fools in our family," the boy remarked, and stopped when he saw osborn's color rise. "it's a pity it's true," the latter agreed, with a patience he did not often use. "i'm paying for it now and you will pay a higher price, if you go on as you promise. you must pull up; i've done enough and am getting tired of self-denial." gerald's smile faded. he had inherited his extravagance from his father, but felt he must be cautious, although osborn sometimes showed him a forbearance he used to nobody else. "i'm sorry, sir," he said. "perhaps i was extravagant, but if you don't want to be an outsider, you must do like the rest, and i understood you expected me to make friends among our own set. we can't be shabby." he struck the right note, for osborn was not clever and perhaps his strongest characteristic was his exaggerated family pride. "you had enough and i paid your debts not long since," he said. "in fact, you have had more than your share, with the consequence that grace gets less than hers." he knitted his brows as he indicated the house-master's curt letter. "then, you have given a stranger an opportunity for writing to me like this." gerald, knowing his father's humor, saw he was getting on dangerous ground. "brown's a dry old prig, sir. nothing sporting about him; he's hardly a gentleman." osborn was seldom logical and now his annoyance was rather concentrated on the master who had written to him with jarring frankness than on the extravagant lad. "his letter implies it," he agreed and then pulled himself up. gerald was clever and no doubt meant to divert his thoughts. "after all, this doesn't matter," he went on. "i'll pay these bills, but if you get into debt at woolwich, you had better not come home. i have enough trouble about money, and your allowance is going to be a strain. there's another thing: carter, who hasn't had your advantages, got in as a prize cadet." gerald smiled. "he hasn't got his commission. old harry means well, but he's not our sort, and these plodding, cramming fellows seldom make good officers." "an officer must pay his mess bills, whether he's good or bad," osborn rejoined. "if you go into the horse artillery, there won't be much money left when you have settled yours, so it might be prudent to begin some self-denial now. anyhow, if you get into debt again, you know the consequences." he raised his hand in dismissal and walked to the window when the lad went out. he had not taken the line he meant to take, but gerald often, so to speak, eluded him. the lad had a way of hinting that they understood one another and osborn vaguely suspected that he worked upon his prejudices; but he was a sportsman. he had pluck and knew what the osborn traditions demanded. in fact, gerald might go far, if he went straight. then osborn thought he needed a drink, and after ringing a bell he sat down by the window with the tray and glass a servant brought. it was significant that he had given no order; the servants knew what the bell meant. when he had drained the glass he vacantly looked out. boggy pasture and stony cornfields ran back from the tarn. here and there a white farmstead, surrounded by stunted trees, stood at the hill foot; farther back a waterfall seamed the rocks and yellow grass with threads of foam; and then a lofty moor, red with heather, shut off the view. the land was poor at the dale head, but there was better below, where the hills dropped down to the flat country, and, with the exception of ashness farm, all was osborn's, from force crag, where the beck plunged from the moor, to the rich bottoms round allerby mill. unfortunately, the estate was encumbered when he inherited it, and he had paid off one mortgage by raising another. he might perhaps have used other means, letting his sporting rights and using economy, but this would have jarred. the only osborn who bothered about money was his wife, and alice was parsimonious enough for both. money was certainly what his agent called tight; but as long as he could give his friends some shooting and a good dinner and live as an osborn ought to live, he was satisfied. still, gerald must have his chance at woolwich and this needed thought. osborn felt he would like another drink, but glanced at his watch and saw that his visitors would arrive in a few minutes. they were punctual and osborn got up when his agent and another man came in. hayes was tall, urbane, and dressed with rather fastidious neatness; bell was round-shouldered and shabby. he had a weather-beaten skin, gray hair, and small, cunning eyes. osborn indicated chairs and sat down at the top of the big table. he disliked business and knew the others meant to persuade him to do something he would sooner leave alone. this would have been impossible had he not needed money. "mr. bell wishes to know if his tender for the slate company's haulage is approved," hayes began. "his traction engine is suited for the work and he is prepared to buy a trailer lurry, which we would find useful in the dale. mechanical transport would be a public advantage on our hilly roads." "it needs a good horse to bring half a load from station," bell interposed. "t'lurry would move as much in yan day as farmers' carts in four." osborn agreed. he was not much of an economist, but it was obvious that time and labor were wasted when a farmer took a few sacks of potatoes to the railway and another a sack of wool. there was no difficulty about the tender, because osborn was chairman of the small slate company; the trouble was that the contract would help bell to carry out another plan. the fellow was greedy, and was getting a rather dangerous control; he had already a lease of the limekilns and allerby mill. but his rents were regularly paid, and it was an advantage to deal with one prosperous tenant instead of several who had not his punctuality and capital. "the trailer would be useful if you decided to make the new terrace you thought about," hayes suggested. "the cost of carting the gravel and the slabs for the wall would be heavy; but i have no doubt mr. bell would undertake the work with the trailer on very reasonable terms." "i might forget to send in t' bill. yan good turn deserves another," bell remarked. hayes frowned. he had meant to imply something like this, but bell was too blunt. for all that, osborn was not very fastidious and had long meant to make the terrace when funds permitted. in fact, he hardly saw the thing as a bribe; it was rather a graceful recognition of his authority. "very well," he said, "i'll sign the contract." "there is another matter," hayes resumed. "mr. bell is willing to take up harkness' tenancy of the coal yard and seed store at the station. he hopes you will grant him a long lease." osborn pondered. harkness had been drunken, careless, and often behind with his rent. he had let his business fall away and it was understood that bell, who managed the opposition coal yard, had lent him small sums and until recently kept him on his feet. this was not because bell was charitable, but because if harkness came down while he had any trade left, a capable rival might take his place. in the meantime, his customers gradually went to bell, and now harkness had failed there was no business to attract a newcomer. "i don't know," said osborn, "i had thought of advertising the yard and store." "you'll get nobody to pay what i'm offering," bell replied. "a stranger would want to see harkness' books and there's nowt in them as would tempt him to pay a decent rent. then, with trailer going back from station, i could beat him on the haulage up the dale. he'd niver get his money back if he bowt an engine like mine." this was plausible, but osborn hesitated. he saw that bell wanted a monopoly and had a vague notion that he ought to protect his tenants. "it's sometimes an advantage to have two traders in a place," he remarked. "a certain amount of competition is healthy." "i don't know if it would be an advantage to the estate, and imagine you would not get a tenant to pay what bell offers," hayes replied. "besides, rival traders sometimes agree to keep up prices, and competition does not always make things cheap." "that's one of the ridiculous arguments people who want the government to manage everything sometimes use," said osborn with a scornful gesture. hayes smiled, "it is very well known that i am not an advocate of state ownership. all the same, unnecessary competition would be wasteful in the dale. for example, if you have two tenants at the station, the farmers who deal with the new man must use their carts, each coming separately for the small load a horse can take up redmire bank, while bell's trailer, after bringing down the slate, would go back empty. then i hear some talk about a fresh appeal to the council to make the loop road round the hill." for a moment or two osborn did not answer. redmire bank was an obstacle to horse traffic, and the road surveyor had plans for easing the gradient that would necessitate cutting down a wood where osborn's pheasants found shelter. he had refused permission, and the matter had been dropped; but, if the farmers insisted, the council might be forced to use their powers. he was obstinate, and did not mean to let them have the wood unless he could get his price. "you know my opinion about that?" he said. "yes," said hayes; "i imagine it would be prudent not to have the matter brought up. however, if bell can send back his lurry full, the economy is plain. it will enable him to sell his coal and seed at a moderate price and pay a higher rent." "that's so," osborn agreed, and knitted his brows. he doubted if bell would give his customers the benefit of the cheaper haulage, but the advantage of getting a higher rent was obvious. osborn knew he was being persuaded to do a shabby thing and hesitated. money, however, was needed and must be got. "very well," he said, "mr. bell can have the lease." they talked about something else, and when osborn went fishing after the others left the wind had dropped, the sun was bright, and the trout would not rise. he felt rather injured, because he had paid for his attention to duty, when he joined his wife and daughter at tea on the lawn. a copper beech threw a cool shadow across the small table and basket chairs; the china and silver were old and good. beyond the belt of wavering shade, the recently mown grass gave out a moist smell in the hot sun. the grass grew fine and close, for the turf was old, but there were patches of ugly weeds. the borders by the house were thinly planted and the color plan was rude, but one could not do much with a rheumatic gardener and a boy. there used to be two men, but mrs. osborn had insisted on cutting wages down. across the yew hedge, the tarn sparkled like a mirror and on its farther side, where a clump of dark pines overhung a beach of silver sand, the hillslopes shone with yellow grass, relieved by the green of fern and belts of moss. the spot was picturesque; the old house, with its low, straight front and mullioned windows, round which creepers grew, had a touch of quiet beauty. osborn was proud of tarnside, although he sometimes chafed because he had not enough money to care for it as he ought. by and by he glanced at his wife, who had silently filled the cups and was cutting cake. she was a thin, quiet woman, with a hint of reserve in her delicately molded face. sometimes she tactfully exercised a restraining influence, but for the most part acquiesced, for she had found out, soon after her marriage, that her husband must not be opposed. grace, who sat opposite, had recently come home from school, and was marked by an independence somewhat unusual at tarnside. she argued with osborn and was firm when he got angry. then she had a fresh enthusiasm for change and improvement and a generous faith in what she thought was good. since osborn was obstinately conventional, this sometimes led to jars. "after all, i'm going to have the terrace made," he remarked, and waited for his wife's approval. "is it prudent?" she asked hesitatingly. "if i remember, you thought the work would cost too much when we talked about it last." "it will cost very little. in fact, i imagine the haulage of the gravel and the slabs for the wall will cost nothing," osborn replied. "bell has promised to bring me all the stuff we'll need with his new trailer." "oh," said grace, rather sharply, "i suppose this means you have given him the lease of the station coal yard? no doubt he offered to bring the gravel before you agreed. he's cunning and knew you wanted the terrace." "i can't remember if he offered before or afterwards," osborn replied, with a touch of embarrassment. "anyhow, i don't think it's important, because i did not allow his offer to persuade me. for all that, it's some satisfaction to get the work done cheap." grace pondered. she was intelligent; contact with her school companions had developed her character, and she had begun to understand osborn since she came home. she knew he was easily deceived and sometimes half-consciously deceived himself. "no," she said, "i don't think the work will really be cheap. it's often expensive to take a favor from a man like bell. he will find a means of making you pay." "ridiculous! bell can't make me pay." "then he will make somebody else pay for what he does for you, and it's hardly honest to let him," grace insisted. mrs. osborn gave her a warning glance and osborn's face got red. "it's a new thing for a young girl to criticize her father. this is what comes of indulging your mother and making some sacrifice to send you to an expensive modern school! if i'd had my way, you would have gone to another, where they teach the old-fashioned virtues: modesty, obedience, and respect for parents." grace smiled, because she knew the school osborn meant and the type it produced. she was grateful to her mother for a better start. "i'm sorry," she said quietly, but with a hint of resolution. "i don't want to criticize, but bell is greedy and cunning, and now he has got both coal yards will charge the farmers more than he ought. he has already got too large a share of all the business that is done in the dale." "it's obvious that you have learned less than you think," osborn rejoined, feeling that he was on safer ground. "you don't seem to understand that concentration means economy. bell, for example, buys and stores his goods in large quantities, instead of handling a number of small lots at different times, which would cost him more." "i can see that," grace admitted, "but i imagine he will keep all he saves. you know the farmers are grumbling about his charges." osborn frowned. "you talk too much to the farm people; i don't like it. you can be polite, but i want you to remember they are my tenants, and not to sympathize with their imaginary grievances. they're a grumbling lot, but will keep their places if you leave them alone." he got up abruptly and when he went off across the lawn mrs. osborn gave the girl a reproachful glance. "you are very rash, my dear. on the whole, your father was remarkably patient." grace laughed, a rather strained laugh, as osborn's angry voice rose from behind a shrubbery. "he isn't patient now, and i'm afraid jackson is paying for my fault. however, i really think i was patient, too. to talk about people keeping their places is ridiculous; in fact, it's piffle! father's notions are horribly out of date. one wonders he doesn't know." "things change. perhaps we don't quite realize this when we are getting old. but you mustn't argue with your father. he doesn't like it, and when he's annoyed everybody suffers." "it's true; but how illogical!" grace remarked, and mused while she looked dreamily across the grass. she was romantic and generous, and had learned something about social economy at the famous school; in fact, osborn would have been startled had he suspected how much she knew. nevertheless, she was young; her studies were half digested, and her theories crude. she had come home with a vague notion of playing the part of lady bountiful and putting things right, but had got a jar soon after she began. her father's idea of justice was elementary: he resented her meddling, and was sometimes tyrannical. when it was obvious that he had taken an improper line he blamed his agent; but perhaps the worst was he seldom knew when he was wrong. then the agent's main object was to extort as much money from the tenants as possible. grace did not see what she could do, although she felt that something ought to be done. she had a raw, undisciplined enthusiasm, and imagined that she was somehow responsible. yet when she tried to use some influence her father got savage and she felt hurt. well, she must try to be patient and tactful. while she meditated, mrs. osborn got up, and they went back to the house. chapter ii the otter hounds grace's tweed dress was wet and rather muddy when she stood with gerald on a gravel bank at the head of a pool, where the beck from the tarn joined a larger stream that flowed through a neighboring dale. there had been some rain and the water was stained a warm claret-color by the peat. bright sunshine pierced the tossing alder branches, and the rapid close by sparkled between belts of moving shade. large white dogs with black and yellow spots swam uncertainly about the pool and searched the bank; a group of men stood in the rapid, while another group watched the tail of the pool. somewhere between them a hard-pressed otter hid. a few of the men wore red coats and belonged to the hunt; the rest were shepherds and farmers whom custom entitled to join in the sport. all carried long iron-pointed poles and waited with keen expectation the reappearance of the otter. grace was perhaps the only one to feel a touch of pity for the exhausted animal and she wondered whether this was not a sentimental weakness. there was not much to be said for the otter's right to live; it was stealthy, cruel, and horribly destructive, killing many more fish and moorhens than it could eat. indeed, before she went to school, she had followed the hunt with pleasant excitement, and was now rather surprised to find the sport had lost its zest. the odds against the otter were too great, although it had for some hours baffled men who knew the river, and well-trained dogs. it had stolen up shallow rapids, slipping between the watchers' legs, dived under swimming dogs, made bold dashes along the bank, and hidden in belts of reeds. its capture had often looked certain and yet it had escaped. at first grace had noticed the animal's confidence, beauty of form, and strength; but it had gradually got slack, hesitating, and limp. now, when it lurked, half-drowned, in the depths of the pool while its pitiless enemies waited for it to come up to breathe, she began to wish it would get away. thorn, the master of the hounds, was talking to his huntsman not far off. he was a friend of osborn's, and grace had once thought him a dashing and accomplished man of the world, but had recently, for no obvious reason, felt antagonistic. alan was not as clever as she had imagined; he was smart, sometimes cheaply smart, which was another thing. then he was beginning to get fat, and she vaguely shrank from the way he now and then looked at her. on the whole, it was a relief to note that he was occupied. for a few moments grace let her eyes wander up the dale to the crags where the force leaped down from the red moor at malton head. belts of dry bent-grass shone like gold and mossy patches glimmered luminously green. the fall looked like white lace drawn across the stones. a streak of mist touched the lofty crag, and above it a soft white cloud trailed across the sky. then she turned as her brother spoke. "alan has given us a good hunt and means to make a kill. he's rather a selfish beast and a bit too sure of himself; but he runs the pack well and knows how to get the best out of life. no woolwich and sweating as a snubbed subaltern for him! he stopped at home, saw his tenants farmed well, and shot his game. that's my notion of a country gentleman!" "father can look after tarnside and a duty goes with owning land," grace remarked. "a landlord who need not work ought to serve the state. that idea was perhaps the best thing in the feudal system and it's not altogether forgotten yet. father was right when he decided to make you a soldier." "he can send me to woolwich, but after all that's as far as he can go. you're not at your best when you're improving," gerald rejoined; and added with a grin, "you don't like old alan, do you? i thought you snubbed him half an hour since." grace colored, but did not answer. she had hurt her foot by falling from a mossy boulder and thorn had come to help as she floundered across a shallow pool. she was draggled and her hair was loose, and thorn's faint amusement annoyed her. somehow it hinted at familiarity. she would not have resented it once, for they had been friends; but when she came home and he had tried to renew the friendship she had noted a subtle difference. alan was forty, but now she had left school the disparity of their ages was, in a sense, much less marked. then a shout roused her and she looked round. where the smooth, brown water ran past the alder roots, a very small, dark object moved in advance of a faint, widening ripple. grace knew it was the point of the otter's head; the animal's lungs were empty since it remained up so long. next moment plunging dogs churned the pool into foam, the object vanished, and men ran along the bank to the lower rapid, while those already there beat the shallow with their poles. the dogs bunched together and began to swim up stream; gerald and one or two more plunged into the water, and for a few moments the otter showed itself again. it looked like a fish and not an animal as it broke the surface, rising in graceful leaps. then it went down, with the dogs swimming hard close behind, and grace thought it must be caught. it was being steadily driven to the lower end of the stopped rapid, where the water was scarcely a foot deep. the animal reappeared, plunging in and out among the shallows but forging up stream, and the men who meant to turn it back closed up. there was one at every yard across the belt of sparkling foam. they had spiked poles to beat the water and it seemed impossible that their victim could get past. yet the otter vanished, and for a minute or two there was silence, until the dogs rushed up the bank. then somebody shouted, the huntsman blew his horn, and a small, wedge-shaped ripple trailed, very slowly across the next pool. the otter had somehow stolen past the watchers' legs and reached deep water, but its slowness told that its strength had gone. the dogs took the water with a splash, and grace turned her head. she felt pitiful and did not want to see the end. the animal had made a gallant fight, and she shrank from the butchery. the clatter of heavy boots on stones suddenly stopped; there was a curious pause, and grace looked up as somebody shouted: "'gone to holt! ca' off your hounds. wheer's t' terrier?" the hunt swept up the bank, smashed through a hedge, and spread along the margin of the neighboring pool. a few big alders grew beside its edge, sending down their roots into deep water; but for the most part the bank was supported by timbers driven into the soil, and freshly laid with neatly-bedded turf. grace knew this had been done to protect the meadow, because the stream is thrown against the concave side when a pool lies in a bend. as she stopped at the broken hedge a man ran past carrying a small wet terrier, and two or three more came up with spades. the otter could not escape now, since the hounds would watch the underwater entrance to the cave among the alder roots, while the terrier would crawl down from the other side. if a hole could not be found, the men would dig. they were interrupted soon after they began, for somebody said, "put down your spade, tom. hold the terrier." grace studied the man who had interfered. he was young and on the whole attractive. his face was honest and sunburned; he carried himself well, and was dressed rather neatly in knickerbockers and shooting jacket. she knew christopher askew was the son of a neighboring farmer, who owned his land. then, as the men stopped digging, thorn pushed past. "what's this?" he asked haughtily. "why have you meddled?" askew looked hard at him, but answered in a quiet voice, "it cost us some trouble to mend the bank, and if you dig out the otter the stream will soon make an ugly gap." "then it's a matter of the cost!" said thorn. "how much?" "not altogether," askew replied, coloring. "it's a matter of the damage the next flood may do. we had an awkward job to strengthen the bank and i'm not going to have it cut." "noo, kit, dinna spoil sport," the old huntsman urged. "it's none a trick for a canny lad to cheat the hounds." "put terrier in an' niver mind him!" shouted another, and there were cries of approval. "stop digging, tom," askew said with quiet firmness. "pick up the dog." "we are wasting time," thorn remarked. "i don't like bargaining; you had better state your price." grace, looking on across the broken hedge, sympathized with the farmer. for one thing, she wanted the otter to escape; besides, she approved the man's resolute quietness. he had pluck, since it was plain that he was taking an unpopular line, and he used some self-control, because thorn's tone was strongly provocative. in fact, she thought thorn was not at his best; he was not entitled to suggest that the other was trying to extort as much money as he could. "no more do i like bargaining," askew replied. "there will be no digging here. you have smashed the hedge, and that's enough. call off your dogs." "so you mean to spoil sport, even if the damage costs you nothing? i know your kind; it's getting common." "oh, no," said askew. "i won't have the bank cut down, but that is all. if you like, you can look for another otter on our part of the stream." thorn gave him a searching glance, and then, seeing he was resolute, shrugged contemptuously. the huntsman blew his horn, the dogs were drawn off, and gerald followed the others across the field. grace, however, sat down on a fallen tree to rest her foot and for a minute or two thought herself alone. then she rose as askew came through the gap in the hedge. he began to pull about the broken rails and thorns, but saw her when he looked up. "they have left you behind, miss osborn," he remarked with a smile. "i think i had enough; besides, i hurt my foot." "badly?" "no," said grace. "i have only begun to feel it hurt, but i wish it wasn't quite so far to the bridge." askew looked at the water, measuring its height. "the stepping stones are not far off. one or two may be covered, but perhaps i could help you across and it would save you a mile." grace went on with him and they presently stopped beneath the alder branches by a sparkling shallow. tall brush grew up the shady bank and briars trailed in the stream. a row of flat-topped stones ran across, but there were gaps where the current foamed over some that were lower than the rest. grace's foot was getting worse, and sitting down on a slab of the slate stile, she glanced at her companion. "i imagine it needed some pluck to stop the hunt," she said. "for one thing, you were alone; nobody agreed with you." askew smiled. "opposition sometimes makes one obstinate. but do you think it's hard to stand alone?" "yes," said grace, impulsively. "i know it's hard. yet, of course, if you feel you are taking the proper line, you oughtn't to be daunted by what others think." she stopped, remembering that the man was a stranger; and then resumed in a different tone, "but why did you really stop the hunt? are you one of the people who don't believe in sport?" "no," said askew good humoredly. "it's curious that mr. thorn hinted something like that. anyhow, i'm not a champion of the otter's right to destroy useful fish. i think they ought to be shot." "oh!" said grace with a touch of indignation; "you would shoot an otter? well, i suppose they must be killed; but to use a gun!" "it's better for the otter. which do you imagine it would choose--a mercifully sudden end, or two or three hours of agony, with men and dogs close behind, until the half-drowned, exhausted animal is torn to pieces or mangled by the poles?" "i suppose one must answer as you expect." "you're honest," askew remarked. "i imagine it cost you something to agree!" "it did," grace admitted. "after all, you know our traditions, and many people, not cruel people, like the sport." "that is so; but let's take the hunt to-day, for an example. there were three or four men without an occupation, and no doubt they find following the hounds healthy exercise. the others had left work that ought to be done; in fact, if you think, you'll own that some were men we have not much use for in the dale." "yes," said grace, with some reluctance; "i know the men you mean. all the same, it is really not our business to decide if they ought to work or hunt." askew looked amused and she liked his twinkle. he was obviously intelligent, and on the whole she approved his unconventional point of view. conventional insincerities were the rule at tarnside. besides, although it was possible she ought not to talk to the man with such freedom, her foot hurt and the stile made a comfortable seat. she liked to watch the shadows quiver on the stream and hear the current brawl among the stones. this was an excuse for stopping, since she would not acknowledge that the young farmer's society had some charm. after a moment or two he resumed: "it is not my business, anyhow, and i don't want to argue if otter-hunting is a proper sport; it's an advantage, so to speak, to stick to the point. all i objected to was the hunt's breaking down the mended bank. there are not many good meadows at the dale-head, and grass land is too valuable to be destroyed. don't you think this justifies my opposition?" "i suppose it does," grace agreed, and then decided that she had talked to him enough. "well, i must go on," she added with a doubtful glance at the stream. "but it doesn't look as if one could get across." "you can try," askew replied, and jumping down stood in the water, holding out his hand. "come on; there's not much risk of a slip." since it was too late to refuse, grace took his hand and he waded across, steadying her, while the current rippled round his legs. some of the stones were covered, but with his support she sprang across the gaps and the effort did not hurt her foot as much as she had thought. he was not awkward. she liked his firm grasp, and his care that she did not fall; particularly since she saw he was satisfied to give her the help she needed and knew when to stop. after she got across she thanked him and let him go. when she crossed the field askew went home in a thoughtful mood, though he was conscious of a pleasant thrill. he had felt the girl's charm strongly as he stood near her at the stile, and now tried to recapture the scene; the dark alder branches moving overhead, the sparkle of the water, and the light and shadow that touched his companion. her face was attractive; although he was not a judge of female beauty, he knew its molding was good. mouth, nose, and chin were finely but firmly lined; her color was delicate pink and white, and she had rather grave blue eyes. her figure was marked by a touch of patrician grace. askew smiled as he admitted that patrician was a word he disliked, but he could not think of another that quite expressed what he meant. anyhow the girl's charm was strong; she was plucky and frank, perhaps because she knew her value and need not to pretend to dignity. in a sense, this was patrician, too. all the same, askew, though young and romantic, was not a fool. he had had a good education and had then spent two years at an agricultural college; but he was a farmer's son and he knew where he stood, from the osborns' point of view. he had been of help, but this was no reason miss osborn should recognize him when they next met; yet he somehow thought she would. in the meantime, it was rash to think about her much, although his thoughts returned to the stile beneath the alders where he had watched the sun and shadow play about her face. chapter iii a council of defence the sun had sunk behind the moors when peter askew sat by an open window in his big, slate-flagged kitchen at ashness. all was quiet outside, except for the hoarse turmoil of the force and a distant bleating of sheep. in front, across a stony pasture, the fellside ran up abruptly; its summit, edged with purple heath, cut against a belt of yellow sky. the long, green slope was broken by rocky scars and dotted by small herdwick sheep that looked like scattered stones until they moved. the kitchen was shadowy, because the house was old and built with low, mullioned windows to keep out snow and storm, and a clump of stunted ash trees grew outside the courtyard wall. a fire of roots and peat, however, burned in the deep hearth, and now and then a flickering glow touched old copper and dark oak with red reflections. collectors had sometimes offered to buy the tall clock and ponderous meal chest, but askew would not sell. the most part of his furniture had been brought to ashness by his great-grandfather. peter's face was brown and deeply lined, and his shoulders were bent, for he had led a life of steady toil. this was rather from choice than stern necessity, because he owned the farm and had money enough to cultivate it well. as a rule, he was reserved and thoughtful, but his neighbors trusted him. they knew he was clever, although he used their homely dialect and lived as frugally as themselves. in the dale, one worked hard and spent no more than one need. yet peter had broken the latter rule when he resolved to give his son a wider outlook than he had had. kit had gone from the lonely farm to a good school where he had beaten, by brains and resolution, the sons of professional and business men. his teachers said he had talent, and although peter was often lonely since his wife died, he meant to give the lad his chance. somewhat to his relief, kit decided to return to the soil, and peter sent him to an agricultural college. since kit meant to farm he should be armed by such advantages as modern science could give. it was obvious that he would need them all in the struggle against low prices and the inclement weather that vexed the dale. now he had come home, in a sense not much changed, and peter was satisfied. kit and he seldom jarred, and the dalesfolk, who did not know how like they were under the surface, sometimes thought it strange. four or five of their neighbors sat in the kitchen, for the most part smoking quietly, but now and then grumbling about the recent heavy rain. this was not what they had come to talk about, and peter waited. he knew their cautious reserve; they were obstinate and slow to move, and if he tried to hurry them might take alarm. by and by one knocked out his pipe. "how are you getting forrad with t' peat-cutting?" he asked. "we have cut enough to last for three or four months." "you'll need it aw. coal's a terrible price," another remarked. "it will be dearer soon," said peter. "since bell has t' lease o' both coal yards, he can charge what he likes." "a grasping man! yan canna get feeding stuff for stock, seed, an' lime, unless yan pays his price. noo he has t' traction-engine, kilns, and mill, he'll own aw t' dale before lang." "it's very possible, unless you stop him," kit interposed. "landlord ought to stop him," one rejoined. kit smiled. "that's too much to expect; it's your business to help yourselves. mr. osborn takes the highest rent that's offered, and you missed your chance when you let bell get allerby mill." "neabody else had t' money," another grumbled. "two or three of us could have clubbed together and made a profit after selling feeding stuff at a moderate price." the others were silent for a minute of two and kit let them ponder. he had learned something about the wastefulness of individual effort, and on his return to ashness had urged the farmers to join in bidding for a lease of the mill. they had refused, and would need careful handling now, for the old cooperative customs that had ruled in the dale before the railway came had gone. "poor folks willunt have much left for groceries when they have paid bell's price for coal," said one. "since he gets his money for hauling in t' slate, it costs him nowt to tak' a big load back on t' lurry; but, with redmire bank to clim', it's a terrible loss o' time carting half a ton up dale." "you won't be able to buy the half-ton unless you deal with bell. i think you'll find he has a contract for all the coal that comes down the line." they pondered this and another remarked, "peat's terrible messy stuff and bad to dry at back end o' year." "it can be dried," said an old man. "i mind the time when iver a load o' coals went past allerby. aw t' folk clubbed togedder to cut and haul t' peat from malton. browt it doon on stane-boats by the oad green road. howiver, i reckon it cost them summat, counting their time" kit gave him a paper. "this is what our peat has cost us; i've charged our labor and what the horses would have earned if we had been paid for plowing." they studied the figures, passing the paper around, and then one said, "but peat costs you nowt. malton moor is yours and i ken nea ither peat worth cutting. mayhappen yan could find some soft trash on the back moor, but i doot if osborn would let yan bring it doon." "osborn does what his agent says, and it's weel kent hayes is a friend o' bell's," another agreed. peter smiled and gave kit a warning glance. he suspected the agent had a private understanding that was not to his employer's benefit with bell; but this was another matter. peter had taught his son to concentrate on the business in hand. "weel," he said, "you can have aw t' peat you want and we willunt fratch if you pay me nowt. there's acres o' good stuff on malton moor, and the value o' peat t' labor it costs to cut. aw t' same, it willunt pay to send a man or two noo and then. you must work in a gang; ivery man at his proper job." "it was done like that in oad days," said one. peter looked at kit, who did not speak, for both knew when enough was said. indeed, although he was hardly conscious of it yet, kit had something of a leader's talent. for a few minutes the others smoked and thought. they were independent and suspicious about new plans, but it was obvious that the best defense against a monopoly was a combine. in fact, they began to see it was the only defense they had. then one turned to peter. "if you're for stopping bell robbing us and starving poor folk at allerby, i'm with you." one after another promised his support, a plan was agreed upon, and peter was satisfied when his neighbors went away. they were patient, cautious, and hard to move; but he knew their obstinacy when they were roused. now they had started, they would go on, stubbornly taking a road that was new to them. bell, of course, would make a cunning fight, but peter doubted if he would win. "i reckon your plan will work," he said to kit, with a nod of satisfaction. kit nodded and picking up his hat and some letters went out. as he walked down the dale the moon rose above a shadowy fell, touching the opposite hillside with silver light that reached the fields at the bottom farther on. tall pikes of wet hay threw dark shadows across a meadow, and he heard the roar of a swollen beck. there was too much water in the dale, but kit knew something might be done to make farming pay in spite of the weather. land that had gone sour might be recovered by draining, and a bank could be built where the river now and then washed away the crops. osborn, however, was poor and extravagant, and his agent's talents were rather applied to raising rents than improving the soil. kit stopped when he got near allerby, where the dale widens and a cluster of low white houses stands among old trees. the village glimmered in the moonlight and beyond it rolling country, dotted by dark woods, ran back to the sea. a beck plunged down the hillside with a muffled roar, and a building, half in light and half in shadow, occupied the hollow of the ghyll. kit, leaning on the bridge, watched the glistening thread of water that trickled over the new iron wheel, and noted the raw slate slabs that had been recently built into the mossy wall. a big traction engine, neatly covered by a tarpaulin, and a trailer lurry stood in front of the sliding door. osborn had spent some money here, for allerby mill, with its seed and chemical manure stores, paid him a higher rent than the best of his small farms. it was obviously well managed by the tenant, and kit approved. modern machines and methods, although expensive, were good and were needed in the dale. the trouble was, they sometimes gave the man who could use them power to rob his poorer neighbors. kit saw that concentrated power was often dangerous, and since unorganized, individual effort was no longer profitable, he knew no cure but cooperation. although young, he was seldom rash. enthusiasm is not common in the bleak northern dales, whose inhabitants are, for the most part, conservative and slow. wind and rain had hardened him and he had inherited a reserved strength and quietness from ancestors who had braved the storms that raged about ashness. yet the north is not always stern, for now and then the gray sky breaks, and fell and dale shine in dazzling light and melt with mystic beauty into passing shade. kit, like his country, varied in his moods; sometimes he forgot to be practical and his caution vanished, leaving him romantic and imaginative. he went on, and as he reached the first of the white houses a girl came out of a gate and stopped where the moonlight fell across the road. she had some beauty and her pose was graceful. "oh," she exclaimed, with rather exaggerated surprise, "it's kit! i suppose you'll take this letter? i was going to the post." kit did not know much about young women, but hesitated, because he doubted if she wanted him to post the letter. "if you like," he said. "i expect the causeway at the water-splash will be wet." she gave him a curious smile. "oh, well; here's the letter. jim nixon had to help me across the water when i went last night, and i don't suppose you're afraid of wetting your feet. you are used to it at ashness." "yes," said kit. "my boots are stronger than yours." "canny lad!" she answered, with a mocking laugh. kit felt embarrassed, for he thought he saw what she meant. janet bell was something of a coquette. "i heard people coming down the road not long since," she resumed. "have you had a supper party? tell your father i think he's shabby because he left me out." "it wasn't a supper party and there were no women. three or four neighbors came in." "to grumble about the weather or argue about the sheep?" "they did grumble about the weather," kit replied. janet looked amused. "you're very cautious, my lad; but you needn't take it for granted i'm always on father's side. do you think i don't know why your neighbors came?" "you don't know altogether." the moonlight was clear enough to show that janet colored. "and you think i stopped you to find out?" "i don't," said kit, rather awkwardly. "still, perhaps it's better that you shouldn't know." "oh," said she, with some emotion, "i can't tell if you mean to be nice or not. it's the lazy, feckless people who dislike father, because they're jealous; and they try to make things hard for me. why should i suffer because he's cleverer than them?" "you oughn't to suffer. i really don't think people blame you." "they do blame me," janet insisted. "you doubted if you could trust me just now." this was true enough to embarrass kit, but he said, "i didn't see why i should talk to you about our business; that was all. in fact, i don't mean to talk about it to anybody." "now you're nicer. i didn't like to feel you were taking particular care not to let me know. well, of course, father's no friend of yours and perhaps he'll like you worse by and by. but, after all, does that matter?" "not in a way," said kit, pretending to be dull. "you have nothing to do with the dispute and we don't want to quarrel with your father, although we mean to carry out our plans." janet looked rather hard at him and there was some color in her face, but she forced a smile. "oh, well! good-night! i've stopped you, and expect you want to get home." she went back through the gate and kit resumed his walk, struggling with an annoyance he felt was illogical. he knew something about bell's household and imagined that janet's life was not smooth. he was sorry for her, and it was, of course, unjust to blame her for her father's deeds. all the same, the favor she had sometimes shown him was embarrassing. he was not a philanderer, but he was young and she had made him feel that he had played an ungallant part. jane was a flirt, but, after all, it would not have cost him much, so to speak, to play up to her. perhaps he had acted like a prig. this made him angry, although he knew he had taken the proper line. by and by he came to the water-splash, where a beck crossed the road. its channel was paved, so that one could drive across, and at the side a stone causeway had been made for foot passengers. sometimes, when the beck was unusually swollen, shallow water covered the stones, and kit saw the significance of a statement of janet's as he noted the width of the submerged spot. it looked as if jim nixon had carried her across. then his annoyance vanished and he laughed. gallant or not, he was satisfied to carry janet's letter. as he went on in the moonlight he began to see that there were some grounds for his reluctance to indulge the girl. he had thought about miss osborn often since he helped her across the stepping stones. he had not hesitated then, and although the things were different, to dwell upon the incident was perhaps rasher than indulging janet. miss osborn had, no doubt, forgotten, but he had not. the trouble was, he could not forget; his imagination pictured her vividly, sitting beneath the alders talking to him. with something of an effort kit pulled himself up. he was a small farmer's son and the osborns were important people. he knew osborn's family pride, which he thought his daughter had inherited. in osborn, it was marked by arrogance; in the girl by a gracious, half-stately calm. for all that, the pride was there, and kit, resolving that he would not be a fool, went to the post office and put janet's letter in the box. chapter iv the peat cutters osborn was dissatisfied and moody when, one afternoon, he stood, waiting for the grouse, behind a bank of turf on malton moor. to begin with, he had played cards until the early morning with some of his guests and had been unlucky. then he got up with a headache for which he held his wife accountable; alice was getting horribly parsimonious, and had bothered him until he tried to cut down his wine merchant's bill by experimenting with cheaper liquor. his headache was the consequence. the whisky he had formerly kept never troubled him like that. moreover, it was perhaps a mistake to invite jardine, although he sometimes gave one a useful hint about speculations on the stock exchange. the fellow went to bigger shoots and looked bored when osborn's partridges were scarce and wild; besides, he had broken rules in order to get a shot when they walked the turnip fields in line. osborn imagined jardine would not have done so had he been a guest at one of the houses he boasted about visiting. as they climbed malton head another of the party had broken dowthwaite's drystone wall and the farmer had said more about the accident than the damage justified. in fact, dowthwaite was rather aggressive, and now osborn came to think of it, one or two others had recently grumbled about things they had hitherto borne without complaint. in the meantime, osborn and thorn, who shared his butt, looked about while they waited for the beaters. the row of turf banks, regularly spaced, ran back to the force crags at the head of the dale. the red bloom of the ling was fading from the moor, which had begun to get brown. sunshine and shadow swept across it, and the blue sky was dotted by flying, white-edged clouds. a keen wind swept the high tableland, and the grouse, flying before it, would come over the butts very fast. in the distance, one could distinguish a row of figures that were presently lost in a hollow and got larger when they reappeared. they were beaters, driving the grouse, and by and by osborn, picking up his glasses, saw clusters of small dark objects that skimmed and then dropped into the heath. it was satisfactory to note that they were numerous. although the birds were rather wild, he could now give his friends some sport. after a time, however, the clusters of dark dots were seen first to scatter and then vanish. osborn frowned as he gave thorn the glasses. "what does that mean? looks as if the birds had broken back." "some have broken back," said thorn. "if they've flown over the beaters, we have lost them for the afternoon." he paused and resumed: "i think the first lot are dropping. no; they're coming on." picking up his gun, he watched the advancing grouse. they flew low but very fast, making a few strokes at intervals and then sailing on stretched wings down the wind. in a few moments they were large and distinct, but there were not enough to cross more than the first two butts. when they were fifty yards off thorn threw up his gun and two pale flashes leaped out. osborn was slower and swung his barrel. the sharp reports were echoed from the next butt and a thin streak of smoke that looked gray in the sunshine drifted across the bank of turf. two brown objects, spinning round, struck the heath and a few light feathers followed. the grouse that had escaped went on and got small again. "missed with my right," said osborn. "had to shoot on the swing. don't know about the other barrel." thorn did know, but used some tact. "i may have been a trifle slow; my last bird was going very fast." "i expect you saw whose bird it was," osborn said to the lad who took their guns. "yes, sir; mr. thorn's, sir." "oh, well," said osborn, forcing a smile as he turned to thorn, "you have youth upon your side. anyhow, i don't imagine the others have done much better, and it looks as if we might as well go home. when the birds broke back we lost the best chance we'll get. i wonder what spoiled the drive?" "something on the old green road, i think. the grouse turned as they crossed the hollow." a short distance off there was a fold in the moor, and while osborn wondered whether he would walk to the top a man came over the brow, leading two horses that hauled a clumsy sledge. another team followed and presently four advanced across the heath. "now you know what spoiled the drive," thorn remarked with some dryness. "you can't expect a good shoot on the day your tenants move their peat." osborn, who was very angry, picked up the glasses. "the first two are not my tenants. they're the askews, and the boundary of their sheepwalk runs on this side of the green road." "then i suppose there's nothing to be said!" in the meantime, osborn's friends had left the other butts and come up, with jardine in front. he was a fat, red-faced man, and as he got nearer remarked to his companions: "i call it wretched bad management! somebody ought to have turned the fellows off the moor." osborn heard and glanced at thorn as he left the butt. "there is something to be said; i'm going to relieve my mind." he went off and signaled the farmers to stop. they waited, standing quietly by their horses. on the open moor, their powerful figures had a touch of grace, and their clothes, faded by sun and rain, harmonized with the color of the heath. peter askew's brown face was inscrutable when he fixed his steady eyes on osborn. "you turned back the grouse and spoiled the beat. do you call that sporting?" osborn asked. "i'm sorry," peter replied. "if i'd kenned you were shooting, mayhappen we could have put off loading the peat." "you knew we were shooting when you saw the beaters." "aw, yis," said peter. "it was over late then. i wadn't willingly spoil any man's sport, but we had browt up eight horses and had to get to work." "you have plenty of work at ashness." "it's verra true; but the weather's our master and we canna awtogether do what we like. the peat's mair important than a few brace of grouse." "important to you!" osborn rejoined. "but what about me and my friends? one has come from london for a few days' sport." "then i'm sorry he has lost the afternoon," kit interposed quietly. "but you well know the wages laborers get in the dale, and there are old folks and some sick at allerby who need a good fire. the winter's hard and some of the cottages are very damp." "the farmers pay the wages." "none of them make much money. they pay what their rent allows." "i don't force up the rents. they're fixed by the terms new tenants are willing to offer when a lease runs out." "that is so," kit agreed. "i don't know that my neighbors grumble much because the rule works on your side. but peat is plentiful and we don't see why it can't be used when coal is dear." "i imagine you can see an opportunity of selling the right to cut it," osborn sneered. "we are willing to sell at the buyers' price. anybody who can't pay may have the peat for nothing. none of the day laborers has paid us yet and none shall be forced to pay." osborn did not know whether he could believe this statement or not, but he said ironically, "then it looks as if you were generous! however, you are not a friend of my agent's and no doubt see a chance of making trouble. when you meddle with my tenants you play a risky game, and they may find they were foolish to join you." one of the farmers who had stood quietly by peter askew looked up with a slow smile; another's weather-beaten face got a little harder. they were seldom noisily quarrelsome, but they were stubborn and remembered an injury long. peter, however, interposed: "we won't fratch; there's not much in arguing. you can beat moor t'ither side o' green road. good day to you!" he spoke to the horses and the sledge lurched forward with its chocolate-colored load. the other teams strained at the chains; there was a beat of hoofs, and the row of sledges moved noisily away. osborn waited for a few moments, but his face was very red when he went back to the butts. the farmer's refusal to dispute with him was galling. for all that, he must try to find his friends some sport, and after consulting with his gamekeeper sent the beaters on across the moor. the new drive was not successful, and in the evening the party came down the hill with a very poor bag. when they reached the redmire wood osborn stopped beside a broken hedge. red beeches shone among the yellow birches and dark firs, the sun was low and its slanting rays touched the higher branches, but the gaps between the trunks were filled with shadow. a few bent figures moved in the gloom, and osborn frowned when three or four children came down a drive, dragging a heavy fallen bough. an elderly woman with a sack upon her back followed them slowly, and it was obvious that cottagers from allerby were gathering fuel. "confound them! this is too much!" he exclaimed and beckoned his gamekeeper. "if that is mrs. forsyth, tell her to come up." the woman advanced and rested her sack upon the hedge. her wrinkled face was wet with sweat, but she did not look alarmed. "eh!" she said, "sticks is heavy and i'm none so young as i was." "you have no business in the wood," said osborn sternly. "there's nea place else where we can pick up sticks." "that is your affair. you know you're not allowed to gather wood in my plantations." "we canna gan withoot some kindling; when you canna keep it dry, peat is ill to light. terrible messy stuff, too, and mak's nea end o' dirt." the children came up and when they stood, open-mouthed, gazing at the party one of the sportsmen laughed. "then burn coal and the dirt won't bother you," osborn rejoined. "hoo can we burn coal?" the woman asked. "noo tom bell has lease o' baith yards, he's putten up t' price, and when you've paid what he's asking there's nowt left for meal. i canna work for mrs. osborn as i used, and with oad jim yearning nobbut fifteen shilling--" she paused for breath and wiped her hot face, and osborn signed to the keeper. the woman was making him ridiculous. "turn them all out, holliday," he said and went on with his friends. "the old lady's talkative," one remarked. "quite frank, but not at all angry; i thought her line was rather dignified. i've met country folks who'd have been servilely apologetic, and some who would have called you ugly names." "these people are never apologetic," osborn said dryly. "as a rule, they're not truculent, but they're devilish obstinate." "i think i see. after all, it's possible to stick to your point without abusing your antagonist. i suppose you turned them out because of the pheasants?" "yes; good cover's scarce, and if the birds are disturbed they move down to rafton woods. for a sporting neighbor, hayton hardly plays the game. to put down corn is, of course, allowable, but he uses damaged raisins!" "then you don't feed?" "very little," osborn replied. "corn's too dear. the tarnside pheasants live on the country." "i expect that really means they live on the farmers!" osborn frowned. it was jardine's habit to make stupid remarks like that; osborn wondered whether the fellow thought them smart. "the farmers knew my rules when they signed the lease," he said. "anyhow, pheasants do much less damage than ground game, and i don't think my tenants have left a hare in the dale." jardine began to talk about something else, and no more was said about osborn's grievances until the party met on the new terrace in the twilight. the tarn glimmered with faint reflections from the west, but thin mist drifted across the pastures, and the hills rose, vague and black, against the sky, in which a half moon shone. osborn, sitting at the top of the shallow steps that went down to the lawn, grumbled to his wife about the day's shooting. "i don't think i'm an exacting landlord," he remarked. "in fact, since i ask for nothing but a little give-and-take, it's annoying when people spoil my sport. dowthwaite made himself unpleasant about his broken wall, the askews turned the grouse back, and then i found the allerby cottage children, ransacking redmire wood when the pheasants were going to roost." grace, who stood close by with thorn, indicated the smooth gravel and the low, wide-topped wall on which red geraniums grew. "this," she said, "is a great improvement on the old grass bank. the wide steps and broad slate coping have an artistic effect. however, you can't often get the things you like without paying." "very true, but rather trite," osborn agreed. "i don't see how it applies." "well, i'm really sympathetic about your spoiled day, but it looks as if all your disappointments sprang from the same cause." "ah!" said osborn, sharply; "i suppose you mean the coal yards' lease?" "i think i mean bell's greediness. if he didn't charge so much for his coal, askew would not have cut the peat, and the children would not have been sent to gather wood. then dowthwaite might not have grumbled about his wall; he feels the farmers have not been treated justly, and i imagine he blames you." osborn knitted his brows. "then it's an example of the fellow's wrong-headed attitude! he and one or two others are treated better than they deserve, and would not be satisfied with anything i did. if you had to manage the estate, pay extortionate taxes, and make the unnecessary repairs the farmers demand, it would be interesting to see the line you would take." "perhaps the right line isn't easy," grace admitted. "still, if i wanted a guide, there's the motto of our county town: 'be just and fear not.'" osborn looked at her with indignant surprise, and then shrugged scornfully. thorn smiled. "it's an excellent motto; but they chose it some time since. one imagines it's out of date now." grace colored and moved away, feeling embarrassed. she had made herself ridiculous, and perhaps sentiment such as she had indulged was cheap; but it hurt to feel that she, so to speak, stood alone. although she had, no doubt, been imprudent, she had said what she felt, and thorn had smiled. she turned to him angrily when he followed her along the terrace. "i daresay i am a raw sentimentalist, but i'm glad i'm not up to date," she said. "i hate your modern smartness!" thorn, noting the hardness of her voice, stopped with an apologetic gesture and let her go. chapter v railton's tally winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew across the dale when grace went up the muddy lonning to mireside farm. railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at tarnside, and grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him. it was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. the lamp had not been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for cooking pots hung above the blaze. a bright glow leaped up and spread about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she shut the massive door. grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said anything for a moment or two. railton sat in an old oak chair by the fire, with a stick near his hand; tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle of the floor; and kit askew leaned against the table, at which mrs. railton and lucy sat. grace wished she could see them better, but the blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and tall brass candlesticks. as a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from father to son. then mrs. railton began to talk, rather nervously, and grace turned to the farmer as the light spread about the room again. he had a thin, lined face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. sickness no doubt accounted for something, but grace imagined his attitude hinted at dejection. "how are you to-day?" she asked. "no varra weel. i'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with my oad bones. mayhappen i'll be better soon, but noo when i'm needed i canna get aboot." "he'll not can rest," mrs. railton interposed. "he was oot in sleet, boddering among t' sheep aw day." "and weel you ken i had to gan," the farmer rejoined. mrs. railton's silence implied agreement and grace's curiosity was excited because of something she had heard at home. railton's lease of the sheepwalk ran out in a few days, but he was by local custom entitled to its renewal after a review of the terms. moreover, it was usual for the tenant to take the sheep with the farm, and leave them equal in number and condition when he went. the landlord could then demand a valuation and payment of the difference, if the flocks had fallen below the proper standard. "why are you forced to go out in this bitter weather?" she asked. railton hesitated, and then saw his daughter's meaning glance. lucy was clever, and he thought she wanted him to be frank. "i had to see how sheep were," he answered dully. "not that it was o' mich use. t' lambs niver get over wet spring and t' ewes is poor. then flock is weel under tally; i've lost two score swinset herdwicks, and the mak-up's next thursday." "but how did you lose forty sheep?" grace asked. "there was a hole in fell dyke and swinset sheep are thief sheep, varra bad to hoad. i bowt ewes there and t' lambs followed when they wandert back to their heaf." grace pondered. she had noted some reserve in railton's manner when he mentioned the broken dyke and knew the flockmasters were careful about their dry walls. the rest was plain; the _heaf_ is the hill pasture where a lamb is born, and swinset was fifteen miles away. it was a very large sheepwalk and much time would be needed to find the sheep on the wide belt of moor. "if you know the sheep are at swinset, they would be allowed for in the count," she said. "i have my doubts. mr. hayes sent me notice tally would be taken on thursday and he's a hard man." grace colored. although she did not like hayes, he was osborn's agent. there was much she wanted to know, but she could not ask. "mr. hayes cannot do exactly as he likes; he must get my father's consent," she said. "however, as i am going home by the field path, i had better start before it's dark." "there's a broken gate that's awkward to open. i will come with you until you reach it," kit remarked. they went out together. the sleet had stopped, but leaden clouds rolled across the hills that glimmered white in the dusk. as they struck across a wet field grace said: "i suppose railton's flock is below the proper standard and the count is short?" "yes; the two or three wet years have hit flock-masters hard and railton had to sell more stock than was prudent, in order to pay his debts." "then if he can't pay the difference in number and value, the lease can be broken?" kit made a sign of agreement and grace asked: "but do you think hayes would break the lease and turn him out?" "it's possible," kit answered cautiously. grace gave him a sharp glance. "what do you really think, mr. askew? i want to know." "then, my notion is hayes would like to get mireside for jim richardson." "richardson is his nephew." "just so," said kit, with some dryness. "all the same he'd make a good tenant. his father is rich enough to start him well." grace's eyes sparkled, for she saw where the hint led, but she hid her resentment, because, after all, she had doubts. osborn needed money and hayes was cunning. "i imagine it would hurt railton to leave." "it would hurt him much. he was born at mireside and his father took the farm from your grandfather, a very long time since. then he's an old man and has not enough money to begin again at another place." "ah," said grace, "it would be very hard if he had to go! but if he hasn't money, he couldn't carry on, even if we renewed the lease." "we have had remarkably bad weather for two or three years and the cold rain killed the young lambs, but a change is due. a dry spring and fine summer would put the old man straight." grace was silent for a few moments and then looked at kit with some color in her face. "thank you for making the situation plain. you were not anxious to do so, were you? i think you don't trust us!" "i don't trust hayes," kit said awkwardly. "but hayes is our agent. we are accountable for what he does." "in a way, i suppose you are accountable. for all that, when a landlord has a capable agent it is not the rule for him to meddle. i understand mr. osborn leaves much to hayes." grace pondered. kit's embarrassment indicated that he was trying to save her feelings, but he must know, as she knew, that a landlord was rightly judged by his agent's deeds. although she rather liked kit askew, he had humiliated her. "well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. if the strayed sheep could be found, it would help." "yes," said kit. "tom and i start for swinset to-morrow to try to bring them back. but if you'll wait a moment, i'll open the gate." he walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the broken gate, pushed it back so that grace could cross a drier spot. then, as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped. "don't start for swinset until you hear from me," she said. "thank you. good night!" grace went on and kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that made his heart beat. in a way, the girl had given him her confidence; she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. her proud calm was only on the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. then she had pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. she was loyal to her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. all the same, he had noted that when she spoke of osborn renewing the lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him cause to think. it was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself accountable. in a sense, this was rather fine; but kit, knowing osborn's pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. still he had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his thoughts upon the search for the sheep. grace obviously meant to talk to osborn, but kit did not believe the latter would be moved by her arguments. when kit returned to the farm kitchen railton was sitting moodily by the fire and his wife's face was sternly set. they are not an emotional people in the dales, and her trouble was too deep for useless tears, but as she glanced about the room all she saw wakened poignant memories. the old china in the rack had been her mother's; she had brought it and the black oak meal-chest to mireside thirty years since. the copper kettles and jelly-pan were wedding presents, and tom, her son, who died in australia, had sent the money to buy the sewing machine. now it looked as if her household treasures must be sold, and to leave mireside would mean the tearing up of roots that had struck deep. besides, while she would suffer it would hurt her husband worse. when kit came in she gave him a keen glance. "weel, what had miss osborn to say?" "she didn't say much; i think she means to talk to osborn." railton looked up gloomily. "t' lass has a good heart, but talking to osborn will be o' nea use. hayes is real master and he wants mireside for jim richardson." kit made a sign of agreement. "the fellow's getting dangerous and must be stopped. i suspect he's backing bell and now he means to use his nephew; it's not altogether for richardson's sake he wants to break your lease. some day i imagine osborn will find his agent owns the estate; but that's not our business. well, peter told me to remind you that you and he are old friends, and if a hundred pounds would be some help--" "it would be a big help," said railton, and kit turned to the shepherd when mrs. railton awkwardly began to thank him. "about the broken dyke, tom? what d'you think brought it down?" "i canna tell. dyke's good and there was nea wind." they were all silent for a few moments, and then kit said, "well, richardson is a cunning hound." he paused and picked up his hat before he turned to railton. "i've a job at ashness that must be finished to-night. there's not much time, but if it's possible tom and i will find the sheep." in the meantime, grace walked home thinking hard. kit was railton's friend, but he had used some tact, until she forced him to tell her the truth. this, however, was not important, because she had got a jar. it looked as if osborn had consented to a cruel plot; a landlord ought to help his tenants and not take advantage of their need. she tried not to blame him; he had a bad agent, who used a dangerous influence. she must try to protect him from the fellow and, in a way, from his own carelessness. after all, it was, for the most part, carelessness, because he did not know hayes as she knew him. still, she had not undertaken an easy thing and she braced herself as she went up the steps of the new terrace. grace hated the terrace. it was the price they, the osborns, had taken for a shabby deed, and for which poor people and hard-worked women paid. grace knew about the extra dust that peat fires caused and how often the bread was spoiled. when she entered the library osborn was studying some documents. he looked up impatiently, and she said, "i was at mireside. railton's no better and is much disturbed about his lease." "not more disturbed than he deserves!" osborn rejoined. "the fellow has been getting slack for some time; he sold his store sheep imprudently and let the flock run down." "he has been ill and the weather has been bad for some years." "exactly. a cautious man provides for bad years; he knows they will come." grace was surprised her father did not see that his statement had a humorous touch, since improvident extravagance was his rule; but it was obvious that he did not. "one cannot save much money when rents are high and prices are low." "do you know much about these matters?" osborn asked. "i have heard the farmers talk. sometimes i ask them questions." osborn frowned. "you talk too much to the farmers. i don't like it. you know this." "well," said grace, "i think you ought not to break railton's lease." "why?" grace hesitated. she began to see that osborn could not be moved, but she had undertaken to plead railton's cause. "he's an old man and has been at mireside all his life. he has worked hard and always paid his rent. now he's ill and in trouble, it would be shabby to turn him out because there's a risk--it's only a risk--that we might lose something by letting him stay." "you don't seem to understand a landlord's duty," osborn rejoined. "he is, so to speak, the steward in charge of the estate; it belongs to the family and is not his. he must hand it on in good order and this means he cannot indulge his sentimental impulses. if he keeps a bad tenant from pity, or because he's afraid to seem harsh, he robs his heir." grace knew there were other, and perhaps worse, ways of robbing one's heir; but she said, "aren't you taking hayes's view that railton is a bad tenant? after all, we are responsible." "then you suggest that hayes is mistaken?" osborn asked ironically. "i don't know if he's mistaken or not," said grace, with a steady look. "i know he's greedy and unjust. but there's a thing you ought not to let him do. railton has lost forty sheep, that have strayed back to swinset, and hayes doesn't mean to count them in the tally." osborn's face got red and he knitted his brows. "i have tried to be patient; but this is too much! do you know more about managing an estate than a clever agent? or do you think i'm a fool and hayes leads me like a child? anyhow, you are much too young to criticize my actions. let us have no more of it! an unmarried girl is not entitled to opinions that clash with her parents'." grace went out silently. to know that she had failed hurt her pride, and it hurt worse to suspect that her father had got angry because he knew she was right. besides, she felt strangely alone; as she had often felt since she came home. gerald was careless and thought about nothing but his extravagant amusements; her mother's main object was to avoid jars and smooth over awkward situations. then, she had household cares; money was scarce, and since osborn hated self-denial, she must economize. grace could not tell her her troubles; but there was a way by which railton might save his lease and kit could help. getting a pencil and paper, she wrote him a very short note: "you must find railton's sheep." then, knowing that she was rash, she went to look for the gardener's boy, and sent him to ashness. chapter vi bleatarn ghyll it was getting dark when kit and tom, the shepherd, stopped to rest behind a cairn on the summit of swinset moor. close by, the two score sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs. they were herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season. when he had lighted his pipe, kit thoughtfully looked about. on one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to the edge of the low country. here and there patches of melting sleet gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown. these were the only touches of color in the dreary landscape, except for the streak of pale-yellow sky that glimmered above a long black ridge. on the other side, a line of rugged fells with summits lost in snow clouds, rose dark and forbidding. it was very cold and a biting wind swept the heath. kit was tired, for he had been on the moor since morning and had not eaten much. it was an awkward matter to find the sheep, and then the men and dogs had some difficulty to keep the ewes moving, because the herdwick never willingly leaves the neighborhood where it was born and will, if possible, return. the lambs, now grown large and fat, gave less trouble, and when they sometimes stopped irresolutely while the ewes tried to break away kit understood their hesitation. two instincts were at work: it was natural to follow their dams, but mireside was their native heath and they knew they were going to be taken home. now they had gone some distance, kit had to make a choice. one could reach mireside by a rough moor-land road, but it went round the hills and there was a shorter way across the range. if he went round, he might arrive late for the reckoning and some of the lambs would get footsore and stop. on the other hand, he knew the fells and shrank from trying to find his way among the crags in the dark. it was, however, important that he should not be late. hayes was hard, and the herdwicks must arrive in time to be tallied with the rest of railton's flock. in the dale, a tenant had a traditional right to have his sheep valued by a jury of his neighbors and hayes had fixed the time at eight o'clock next day. the animals, however, must be sorted and penned before this, and the work would begin early in the morning. "we had better try the fells, tom," said kit. the shepherd looked at the threatening sky and fading line of rugged heights. "aw, yes. it's gan t' be a rough neet, but we'll try 't. we can rest a bit at oad mine-house this side bleatarn ghyll." now their route was fixed, kit mused about something else. railton was his neighbor, but, except for this, kit had no particular grounds for helping him; he had obviously nothing to gain. then, the peat-cutting was his plan; he had, without altogether meaning to do so, allowed himself to become the leader of the revolt against osborn. in a way, of course, he was the proper man, because ashness belonged to his father, and hayes could not punish him for meddling. still, hayes could punish the tenant farmers and kit knew they ran some risk. on the whole, he thought the risk worth while. he had a talent that was beginning to develop for leading and saw when one could negotiate and when one must fight. he did not want to fight osborn, but was being forced into the conflict, and it was comforting to feel that miss osborn was not against him. her note, telling him he must find the sheep, was in his pocket, and he thought it had cost her something to write. she was generous and plucky and he must not hesitate. after all, the job was his and since he had accepted it, he must, if needful, bear the consequences. knocking out his pipe, he got up. "we'll make a start, tom," he said. the shepherd shouted to the dogs, the flock broke up and trailed out across the heath. the ewes moved slowly, turning now and then, and kit thought it ominous that they met other flocks coming down. the herdwicks knew the weather and were heading for the sheltered dales. for all that, he pushed on, with a bitter wind in his face, and by and by cold rain began to fall. it changed to sleet and the night had got very dark when they crossed the shoulder of a stony fell. one could not see fifty yards, but the steepness of the slope and the click of little hoofs on the wet rock told kit where they were. two hours afterwards, he stopped for breath at the bottom of a narrow valley. the sleet had turned to driving snow, the wind howled in the rocks above, and a swollen beck brawled angrily among the stones. tom was hardly distinguishable a few yards ahead and kit could not see the sheep, but the barking of the dogs came faintly down the steep white slope. the herdwicks were strung out along the hillside, with a dog below and above, and it was comforting to know they could not leave the valley, which was shut in by rugged crags. for a time, driving them would be easy; but it would be different when they left the water and climbed the rise to bleatarn ghyll. "how far are we off the mine-house, tom?" he shouted. "i dinna ken," said the shepherd. "mayhappen two miles. ewes is travelling better; t'lambs is leading them." kit agreed, and they pushed on through the snow. after a time, the ground got steeper, and when they crossed the noisy beck and scrambled up a shaly bank, kit was glad to see a broken wall loom among the tossing flakes. this was the shaft-house of an abandoned mine, and there was a sheep-fold, built with pulled-down material, close by. he shouted and waited until he heard the dogs bark and a rattle of stones. the herdwicks were coming down and presently broke out from the snow in a compact, struggling flock. tom shouted and threw a hurdle across the entrance when the dogs had driven the sheep into the fold. "i dinna ken if snow'll tak' off or not, but it's early yet and we must have a rest before we try ghyll," he said. they went into the shaft-house and kit struck a match. one end of the building had been pulled down and the snow blew in through holes in the roof, but a pile of dry fern filled a corner and rotten beams lay about. with some trouble, they lighted a fire and, sitting down close by, took out the food they had brought. the wind screamed about the ruined walls, the smoke eddied round them, and now and then a shower of snow fell on their heads, but they had some shelter and could, if forced, wait for morning. "miss osborn's a bonny lass and kind; but i reckon she couldn't talk her father round," tom presently remarked. "no," said kit. "i believe she tried." "favors her mother," tom resumed. "mrs. osborn's heart is good, but at tarnside women dinna count. it's a kind o' pity, because t' osborn menfolk are lakers and always was." a _laker_ is a lounging pleasure-seeker and kit admitted that the remark was justified. "i sometimes think osborn means well," he said. "mayhappen! for aw his ordering folks aboot, he's wake; like his father, i mind him weel. might mak' a fair landlord if he was letten and had t' money; but oad hayes is grasping and always at his tail." "the rent-roll's good. the estate could be managed well." "there's t' mortgages and osborn canna keep money. when he has it he must spend. there would be nea poor landlord's, if i had my way. i'd let them putten rents up if they had money and spent it on the land. low rent means poor farming." kit knew this was true on the tarnside estate. dykes that had kept the floods off the meadows were falling down, drains were choked, and land that had grown good crops was going sour. the wise use of capital would make a wholesome change, but kit did not altogether like centralized control. although it was economical, the landlord got the main advantage, and there was much a farmer could do, in cooperation with his neighbors, to help himself, if his lease was long enough. then, joint action was once common in the dale. men pooled their labor and implements at hay time and harvest, and combined for their mutual benefit in other ways. now it looked as if they might combine again. "are they grumbling much at allerby about burning peat?" he asked. "t' women grumble," tom said dryly. "but they willunt stop, for aw the dirt peat maks an' they canna get ovens hot. i reckon bell has mair coal coming in than he can get shut of. when i was at station last t' yards was nearly full." "i rather think bell has been too greedy. he must pay for the coal as it arrives and his money is probably getting short; the traction engine and trailer cost a good sum, and he has spent something on the lime-kilns. in fact, if we hold on, he's bound to give way." "then we'll brek him. our folks are slow to fratch, but they're not quick at letting go," said tom, who paused and added: "i wunner where bell got his money; he had none when he took a job at mill in oad osborn's time." this started kit on another line of thought. bell had, no doubt, saved something, for he was parsimonious, and was too keen a business man to leave his money in the bank. all he made by one speculation was sunk in another; but, after allowing for this, it was hard to see where he got the capital for his numerous ventures. kit wondered whether hayes helped; if he did, it was not from friendship. the agent was clever and might be playing a cunning game, in which he used both osborn and bell. in fact, kit thought if he were osborn he would watch hayes. this, however, was not his business, and getting up he went to a hole in the wall. it was snowing very hard; he could see nothing but a haze of tossing flakes, and the wind filled the valley with its roar. he could hardly hear the beck a few yards off. "the drifts will be getting deep, but we can't start yet," he said. "if we miss the track at the top, there's nothing to stop us falling over the ling crag." tom agreed, and kit shivered when he sat down again. he was cold and tired, and the worst part of the journey must yet be made. looking at his watch he resigned himself to wait, and leaned back with eyes closed against the wall while a wet dog crouched at his feet. an hour or two passed and then tom got up. "snow's takin' off," he said. "we must try it." kit, pulling himself together, went out and faced the storm. the snow was thinner, but the wind had not dropped and buffeted him savagely as he struggled through a drift to the fold. the dogs had some trouble to drive out the sheep, and when they straggled through the opening kit imagined the lambs went in front. in a few moments the flock vanished, and he breathed hard as he followed their track up hill. now and then the dogs barked, but for the most part he heard nothing except the roar of the wind in the crags. he hoped the dogs could find the path across the narrow tableland between two branching ghylls, because it was obvious that his judgment might be at fault. however, there were the lambs; one could trust a herdwick to return to its heaf. when he reached the top the wind had blown away the snow, and he stood near the middle of a narrow belt of heath, with his feet sinking in a bog. on each side, he got a glimpse of dark rocks, streaked with white where the wind had packed the snow into the gullies. in front there was a gulf, down which his path led. scattered snowflakes and rolling mist streamed up from the forbidding hollow. at first he could see nothing of the sheep, but as he floundered across the bog the dogs barked and he found them presently, guarding the flock in a hollow among the crags. the sheep broke away and kit pushed on across the narrow belt of bog that was dotted by the marks of little feet. sometimes he slackened his pace to wait for tom; the shepherd was getting old and the long climb had tired him. both stopped for some moments when they reached the brow of the descent, and kit, bracing himself against the storm tried to look about. he thought he saw the flock close in front. "they seem doubtful where to go," he said. "we can do nowt but leave them to find t' ghyll," the shepherd remarked. kit agreed. bleatarn ghyll was beneath him, but there was another hollow and it is hard to walk straight down hill in the dark. he must trust the sheep, and, huddling close together, they refused to leave the crag. when the dogs drove them out they vanished, and since the ground was bare of snow they left no tracks. he stumbled on, falling into pools and stumbling across banks of stones, and soon stopped again. he had come down the slope, so to speak, blindly, and now stood on the edge of a vast, dark pit. one could not see beyond the edge, but the confused noises that came up hinted at profound depth. the gale shrieked, but he heard the roar of falling water and the rattle of stones the wind dislodged. "do you think this is beatarn ghyll?" he asked. "i dinna ken," tom answered; and added hopefully, "if it's t'ither, we'll mayhappen find oot before we step over ling crag." they went down at a venture, whistling vainly for the dogs. the drop was very sharp, and now they were leaving the wind-swept pass, the snow had begun to pack among the stones and boggy grass. still, so far as they could see, there were no marks of little feet and they wondered what had happened to the flock, until a faint bark came out of the mist. the noise got louder and kit knew the dogs were running round the stopping sheep. "we're right," he said. "they've gone through the broken wall and the dogs are holding them at the top of the force." a few minutes afterwards he scrambled over a pile of fallen stones, shouted to tom, and began to run, for he understood what had happened. the broken wall marked the boundary of the mireside heaf and the sheep were now on familiar ground. it was his business to drive them to the farm, but they were trying to turn off to look for shelter among the crags. at the force, where the bleatarn beck leaps in linked falls to the valley, one could get down between the water and the rocks; on the other side, a path about a foot wide led across the face of a precipice. in daylight, if the stones were dry, a man with steady nerves could use the path, but when slab and scree were packed with snow nothing but a herdwick could cross it safely. the dogs knew this and were trying to hold the flock. when the men came up they saw an indistinct, woolly mass on the other side of the beck. the mass was not level but slanted sharply, and the sheep at the bottom sent down showers of stones as they surged to and fro, with heads turned to the dogs. it was obvious that they did not mean to go down the ghyll, and herdwicks born among the crags can climb where no dog can follow. "the dogs canna turn them," gasped tom. "they'll be away ower eel scar; they're brekkin' noo." the flock began to open out and three or four sheep straggled forward, but kit's bob-tailed dog slid down a snowy slab and fell upon the first. the sheep ran back, but the others stood and kit saw the dog could not stop them long. the herdwicks knew the advantage was theirs on ground like this. jumping from a boulder, he fell into the swollen beck and made his way up the nearly perpendicular slab. at the top he found a dangerous ledge and advanced upon the sheep, which had their backs to the stream. twining his fingers in a lamb's wool, he picked up the animal and balancing himself precariously threw it as far as he could. it fell into the beck and scrambled out on the other side, where the track led down the ghyll. the effort had cost him much, for his heart beat and he gasped for breath, but he doubted if he had done enough. dragging another lamb from the flock, he hurled it into the water, and then his foot slipped and he rolled down the slab and fell in the snow. he got up, badly shaken, and saw that his plan had worked. sheep will follow a leader and the flock was straggling down the ghyll behind the lambs. kit recrossed the beck and descended cautiously, keeping close to the rocks. the ghyll is a rough climb in daylight, and summer tourists, trying to cross the fells, often turn back at the bottom. there is no path and one scrambles over large, sharp stones, some of which are loose and fall at a touch. in places, banks of treacherous gravel drop to the beck, which plunges over ledges into deep, spray-veiled pools. now the stones were slippery with snow, the wind raged, and mist and tossing flakes hid the ground a few yards ahead. somehow he got down, but he was exhausted and breathless when he reached the bottom, where he was forced to wait before he could whistle to his dog. he heard its bark and stumbling forward, found the flock bunched together in a hollow. then he sat down in the snow while tom counted the sheep. "they're aw here," said the shepherd. "a better job than i thowt we'd mak! weel, let's gan on." kit was tired, and bruised by his fall, but he went forward behind the dogs. his troubles were over, for a broad smooth path led along the hill-foot to mireside. chapter vii the reckoning the morning was dark, and although the gale had dropped, a raw, cold wind blew up the valley past mireside farm, where three or four farmers' traps and some rusty bicycles stood beneath the projecting roof of a barn. the bleating of sheep rose from a boggy pasture by the beck, and lights twinkled as men with lanterns moved about in the gloom. now and then somebody shouted and dogs barked as a flock of herdwicks was driven to the pens. in the flagged kitchen, mrs. railton and lucy bustled about by the light of a lamp and the glow of the fire. the table was covered with used plates and cups. the men outside had breakfasted, but one or two more might come and mrs. railton wondered when kit would arrive. she had lain awake for the most part of the night, thinking about him and the strayed herdwicks while she listened to the gale. now and then lucy went to the door and looked up the dale to the glimmering line of foam that marked the spot where bleatarn beck came down. a path followed the water-side, but she could not see men or sheep in the gloom, and if kit did not come soon he would be too late. railton sat gloomily by the fire. he had had rheumatic fever, and the damp cold racked his aching joints; besides, there was nothing for him to do. he had called in his neighbors to value his flock, but he knew, to a few pounds, what their judgment would be. hayes would presently arrive, and railton would be asked to pay, or give security for, the shortage, which was impossible. hayes knew this and meant to break his lease. perhaps the hardest thing was that the shortage was small; if the next lambing season were good, he could pay. but hayes would not wait. although railton was too proud to beg for help from his neighbors, he had gone to the bank. osborn, however, used the same bank, and it looked as if hayes had given the manager a hint, because he refused a loan. askew had offered a hundred pounds, but this was not enough, and even if kit arrived with the sheep from swinset, railton could not find the rest of the money. however, the arrival of the herdwicks would make a difference, and he did not altogether give up hope. by and by he tried to get up, and sitting down again with a groan, beckoned his wife. "martha, you might gan to door." mrs. railton, knowing what he meant, went to the porch. it was lighter outside and the hillside was growing distinct. she thought something moved on the path beside the beck, and turned to her daughter, who had followed. "what's yon by the water, lucy?" lucy was silent for a few moments and then said quietly, "i think it's sheep!" she watched the path. the mist made a puzzling background and her eyes were getting dazzled; but there was something. then she heard a chair jar on the flags and glanced at railton, who leaned forward. "weel?" he said. "canna you speak? is neabody coming yet?" lucy threw another glance up the dale and her heart beat. an indistinct row of small dark objects moved along the path, with two tall figures behind. "kit's coming down the beck; he's brought the herdwicks!" she cried. "canny lad!" said railton, and leaning back limply, wiped his face. his forehead was wet with sweat, for he was weak and the suspense had been keen. the sheep vanished behind a wall, and lucy began to put fresh food on the table. mrs. railton hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, and then turned with a start as a girl came into the porch. "miss osborn!" she exclaimed. grace advanced calmly, although there was some color in her face, because she knew the others were surprised that she had come. "is mr. hayes here?" she asked. "mayhappen he's at the pens," lucy replied. "i thought i heard his car." "then i missed him at the cross-roads," said grace. "i was going to allerby, and my father asked me to give him a note when he stopped at lawson's." she hesitated, and then resumed impulsively: "perhaps i oughtn't to have come on; but i wanted to do so." they knew what she meant, but nobody answered, and grace sat down on a bench by the table. "will you give the note to mr. hayes? has kit askew brought the swinset sheep?" "he's coming now," said lucy, picking up the note, and grace's eyes sparkled. "i knew he would bring them; i told him he must." lucy went out and grace asked railton about his pains. while they talked somebody shouted outside, and the old man, getting up with an effort, hobbled to the door. "hoad on; dinna close t' pen," a man called. "here's kit and t' lot fra swinset." three of four more shouted and grace, who had followed railton, thought there was a note of triumph in their cries. then dogs began to bark, somebody opened a gate, and a flock of herdwicks, leaping out with wet fleeces shaking, and hoofs clicking on stone, ran across a shallow pool where the beck had overflowed. a few minutes afterwards, kit came in. he looked tired, his face was rather haggard, and his clothes were wet. tom, the shepherd, followed and sat down by the fire. "it was nea an easy job, but we manished it," he said. "swinset sheep is thief sheep, but they're none a match for kit's oad dog." kit stopped abruptly as he crossed the floor and his heart beat. "ah!" he said. "miss osborn?" grace smiled as she got up and gave him her hand. "well done! have you brought them all? but of course you have!" "they're in the pen," kit answered, with some embarrassment. then railton stood up, leaning awkwardly on his stick. "i've misdoubted your new-fashioned plans, and ken that i was wrang. there's nea ither lad in aw t' dale could ha' browt herdwicks doon bleatarn ghyll last neet. weel, t' oad ways for t' oad men, but i'se niver deny again that the young and new are good." he sat down and while mrs. railton began to bustle about the table grace stole away. she knew she ought not to have come, and had done so with a feeling of rebellion against her father's harshness, although she tried to persuade herself that hayes was most to blame. now she was glad the note made a pretext for the visit; she had shown the railtons her sympathy and had thanked kit. after all, he had perhaps gone to look for the sheep because she told him; she rather hoped he had, and rejoiced with the others at his success. grace admitted that she liked kit askew. he was resolute but modest, and had just done a bold deed by which he had nothing to gain. railton's praise had moved her, because she knew the dalesfolk's reserve and that the farmer would not, without good grounds, have spoken as he did. moreover, she knew the fells, and it was something of an exploit to bring the sheep from swinset in the storm. kit was, of course, a farmer's son, but he was plucky and generous; besides, she approved his steady look, well-balanced, muscular figure, and clean brown skin. then she blushed and began to wonder what she would say about her visit to mireside when she went home. in the meantime, kit ate his breakfast, and soon afterwards peter askew came in and began to talk to railton. until the valuation was agreed upon there was nothing for them to do, and it was some time before the men returned from the pens. they were plain farmers with rather hard, brown faces, and stood about the fire in half-embarrassed silence while hayes sat down at the table and opened his pocket-book. "we have made up the tally," he began, and railton interrupted. "counting in the lambs and ewes fra swinset?" "they are counted," hayes replied. "i'll give you particulars of the different lots." he read out some figures and then turned to the group by the fire. "i think we are all agreed?" "aw, yis," said one. "it's as near as yan can mak' it, withoot sending flock to auction." hayes turned to railton. "are you satisfied?" "we willunt fratch. mayhappen two or three lots would fetch anither pound or two, but we'll ca' it fair." "then we must thank these gentlemen," said hayes, who shut his pocket-book and took out a document. "as there is some other business and they have given us some time, we need not keep them." the men looked at one another and peter askew said, "if railton doesn't mind, we'd sooner stop." "stop if you like," railton agreed. "you've got me a just reckoning and you're neebors aw." "it's not necessary," hayes objected. "the business we have to transact is private." "they ken it," railton replied in a stubborn voice. "i've bid them stop and the hoose is mine until mr. osborn turns me oot." "very well. you know the sum due to the landlord. are you ready to pay?" "i canna pay. it's weel you ken." "then, can you give security for the debt?" "i canna and wadn't give it if i could. there's ways a cliver agent can run up a reckoning, and when you want mireside i'll have to gan." "then, i'm afraid we shall be forced to break the lease and take measures to recover the sum due." "hoad on a minute!" said one of the group, who turned to railton. "would you like to stop?" "i would like; i've lived at mireside sin' i was born. there's another thing: it's none too good a time for a sale o' farming stock, and when i've paid osborn, i'll need some money to mak' anither start. then may-happen a dry spring wold put me straight." "it ought to; you're not much behind," peter agreed. "weel, you ken i'm generally willing to back my judgment, and noo it seems there's others think like me." "in a sense, the lease does not run out yet," kit interposed. "it has rather reached the half-term, because by our custom railton is entitled to take it up again for an equal period if he and the landlord agree about the necessary adjustment. our leases really cover a double term." hayes turned to him with an ironical smile. "do you know much about tenant law?" he asked. "no," said kit, rather dryly. "i made some studies when i could get the books, but they didn't take me far. in fact, i imagine that in this neighborhood there's very little law and much precedent, which has generally been interpreted for the landlord's advantage. there are old barony laws and manor rights, and my notion is that nobody knows exactly how he stands. but we'll let this go. if railton pays his fine, you will have some trouble to get rid of him." hayes agreed and railton looked up with a puzzled air. "but i canna pay," he said dully. the farmer who had interrupted hayes took out a bulky envelope and crossed the floor. "well," he said, "i think you're wrang. your friends have been talking aboot the thing and wadn't like t' see you gan." he gave railton the envelope, adding: "it's a loan." railton's hand shook as he took out a bundle of bank-notes. "you're good neebors," he said in a strained voice. "but i dinna think i ought to tak' your money. there's a risk." "not much risk in backing an honest man," the other rejoined, and taking the notes from railton gave them to hayes. "noo, if you'll count these--" hayes' face was inscrutable as he flicked over the notes. "the total's correct. it's an awkward bundle; a check would have been simpler." "a check has the drawback that it must be signed," kit remarked with a meaning smile. "we're modest folk, and nobody was anxious to write himself down the leader." "i see!" said hayes. "i don't know if you're modest; but you're certainly cautious." "anyhow, we're aw in this," said one of the others. "so it seems. i hope you won't lose your money," hayes rejoined dryly and took out a fountain pen. "well, here's your receipt, mr. railton. i don't think there is anything more to be said." he put the receipt on the table and when he went away a farmer laughed. "o'ad hayes is quiet and cunning as a hill fox, but my lease has some time to go and he canna put us aw oot." railton tried to thank them, while mrs. railton smiled with tears in her eyes, but the dales folk dislike emotion and as soon as it was possible the visitors went away. an hour or two afterwards grace heard about the matter from the sick wife of a farmer, whom she had gone to see, and when she went home thought she had better not confess that she had taken hayes' note to mireside. when osborn joined his wife and daughter at the tea-table in the hall after some disappointing shooting, his remarks about his tenants were rancorous. grace thought it prudent not to talk and left the table as soon as she could. when she had gone, osborn frowned and getting up savagely kicked a log in the grate. "i got a nasty knock this morning," he said. "it's not so much that i mind letting railton stop; i hate to feel i've been baffled and made the victim of a plot." "after all, wasn't it rather hayes's idea than yours that railton ought to go?" mrs. osborn ventured. "it was; there's some comfort in that! you don't like hayes much." "i don't know that i dislike him. i'm not sure i trust him." "well," said osborn thoughtfully, "i sometimes feel he's keenest about my interests when they don't clash with his, and this last affair was a pretty good example of nepotism. for all that, his nephew would have been a better tenant and have paid a higher rent." he paused and knitted his brows angrily as he resumed: "however, it's done with, and one can't blame railton for holding on to his lease. what i hate to feel is, the others plotted to baffle me. the land is mine, but i'd sooner get on well with my tenants." "one cannot, so to speak, have it both ways," mrs. osborn remarked timidly. "oh, i know what you mean! but i don't think i'm a harsh landlord. if money was not quite so scarce, i might be generous. in fact, i don't know that i'd have agreed to turning railton out if it hadn't been for gerald's confounded debts and his allowance at woolwich. that's a fresh expense." mrs. osborn thought the expense did not count for much by comparison with her husband's extravagance; but he had been rather patient and she must not go too far. "well," she said, "you have got railton's fine." "it is not a large sum," osborn answered with a frown. "i need the money, but in a sense i'd sooner it had not been paid. anyhow, i'd sooner it had not been paid like that. the others' confounded organized opposition annoys me." "they were forced to subscribe to a fund if they wanted to help." "just so; but they probably wouldn't have thought about subscribing if askew hadn't suggested it. they're an independent lot and believe in standing on their own feet. for a time after i got tarnside, they used a sensible, give-and-take attitude; it's only recently they've met with stupid, sullen suspicion." "perhaps it was rather a mistake to give bell the coal yards' lease." "the coal yards had nothing to do with it," osborn declared. "the trouble began earlier, and i've grounds for believing it began at ashness. if i was rich enough, i'd buy the askews out. they know i've no power over them and take advantage of the situation. the old man was a bad example for the others, but his son, with his raw communistic notions, is dangerous. if i could get rid of the meddling fool somehow, it would be a keen relief." he came back to the table and picked up a cup of tea. then, grumbling that it had gone cold, he put it down noisily and went out. chapter viii grace finds a way soon after the reckoning at mireside, the snow melted off the fells and for a month dark rain clouds from the sea rolled up the dale. they broke upon the hill tops in heavy showers, gray mist drifted about the wet slopes, the becks roared in the ghylls, and threads of foam that wavered in the wind streaked the crags. in the bottom of the valley it was never really light, water flowed across the roads, and the low-standing farmsteads reeked with damp. all this was not unusual and the dalesfolk would have borne it patiently had fuel not been short. large fires were needed to dry the moisture that condensed in the flagged kitchens and soaked the thick walls, but coal could not be got at a price the house-wives were willing to pay. some would have had to stint their families in food had they bought on bell's terms, and the rest struggled, for the common cause, against the mould that gathered on clothing and spoiled the meal. they grumbled, but their resolution hardened as the strain got worse, while bell waited rather anxiously for them to give way. his yards were full and more coal was coming in, but he saw that if he let the farmers beat him his power to overcharge them another time would be gone. the new combine was dangerous, since the cooperative plan might be extended to the purchase of chemical manures, seed, and lime. in the meantime, there was plenty of peat, stacked so that it would escape much damage, on malton head; but askew and his friends could not get it down. carts could not be used on the fells and the clumsy wooden sledges the farmers called stone-boats would not run across the boggy moor. the few loads kit brought down at the cost of heavy labor were carried off by anxious house-wives as soon as they arrived. the weather was helping the monopolist, but he could not tell if a change to frost would be an advantage or not. although it would make the need for coal felt keenly, it might simplify the transport of peat. when bell thought about it, and the colliery company's bills came in, he felt disturbed, but he was stubborn and would not lower his price yet. at length the rain stopped, and after a heavy fall of snow keen frost began. the white fells glittered in cold sunshine that only touched the bottom of the dale for an hour or two. the ice on the tarn was covered, so that skating was impossible, and thorn, feeling the need for amusement, had a few sledges made. he had learned something about winter sports in switzerland, and one afternoon stood with a party of young men and women at the top of malton head. they had practised with a pair of skis farther down the hill, where one or two were sliding on a small swiss luge, but thorn wanted to find a long run for his canadian-pattern toboggan. grace stood near him; her face touched with warm color and her eyes sparkling as she looked about. she did not altogether approve of alan thorn, but she was young and vigorous and enjoyed the sport. besides, she loved the high fells and now they looked majestic in the pale sunshine. they were not all white; dark rocks with glittering veins edged the snowfield, and the scarred face of force crag ran down where the shoulder of the moor broke off four hundred feet below. where the sun did not strike, the snow was a curious delicate gray, and the bottom of the dale was colored an ethereal blue. the pale-gray riband, winding in a graceful curve round the crag, marked the old green road that was sometimes used for bringing down dry fern, and grace's face got thoughtful as she noted a row of men and horses some distance off. she imagined they were askew and his helpers. in the meantime, thorn studied her with artistic satisfaction. he had an eye for female beauty and the girl looked very well in her rather shabby furs. her pose was light and graceful, her figure finely modeled, and he liked the glow the cold had brought to her skin. moreover, he liked her joyous confidence when they tried the luge on a risky slide. she was as steady-nerved and plucky as a man, and was marked by a fine fastidiousness that did not characterize other girls he knew. "i think this is about the best spot we have seen," he said. "the drop is steep but regular, although i expect we'll be breathless when we get to the bottom. would you like to try? if not, perhaps somebody else will come." he looked at the others, and they looked at the white declivity. it was much longer than any they had gone down, and a girl laughed. "to begin with, we'll watch you. i was upset on the last slide and it's rather a long way to roll down to the dale." grace lay down on a cushion with her head just behind the toboggan's curved front; thorn found room farther back, with his legs in the snow, and amidst some laughter and joking the others pushed; them off. the surface was hard, and for a time the toboggan ran smoothly and steadily; then the pace got faster, and showers of snow flew up like spray. it beat into grace's eyes and whipped her face, until she bent her head in the shelter of the curled front. the sharp hiss the steel runners made was louder, the wind began to scream, and she got something of a shock when she cautiously looked up. it was hard to see through the snowy spray, but the top of the crag looked ominously near. glancing down hill with smarting eyes, she thought the slope, which, from the top, had seemed to fall evenly to the dale, was also inclined towards the crag. she could not see much of the latter, but there was a fringe of dark rock where the white declivity broke off. "aren't we getting too near?" she shouted. "nearer than i thought," thorn gasped. "not sure i can swing the sledge. can you get back and help?" grace braced herself. alan's nerve was good, but there was a disturbed note in his voice; besides he would not have asked her help unless it was needed. wriggling back cautiously, she got level with thorn, although there was not much room for them side by side. her feet and the seam of her short dress brushed in the snow and tore up the surface. she felt the looser stuff beneath foam about her gaiters, but this was an advantage. the drag would help to stop the sledge, and if she could put an extra pressure on one side, to some extent direct it. still they were going very fast and at first she was nearly pulled off. she tightened her grasp with her hands until she felt her gloves split, and then risked another glance ahead. the rocks were very close, but the sledge had passed the top, and she could see a few yards down the dark side as they followed the curving edge of the crag. the sledge was now running nearly straight down the hill, but the curve bent in towards them, and she could not tell if they would shoot past the widest spot or plunge over. "perhaps you had better let go," thorn said hoarsely. grace shook her head. if she dropped off, it was uncertain whether she would stop until she had rolled some distance; perhaps she might not stop before she reached the edge of the crag. anyhow, she did not mean to let go, and tried to catch the snow with her toes in an effort to help thorn to steer the sledge. it swerved a little but rushed on again, and she saw that the edge of the rock curved in yet. she doubted if they were far enough off to get past the bend. then she saw that thorn had slipped farther back in order to increase the drag of his legs. his face was dark with blood and she heard his heavy breathing as he tried to change their course. she helped all she could while the snow rolled across her dress, and then for a moment lifted her head. powdered snow beat into her face and nearly blinded her, but she thought there was now an unbroken slant in front. they must have passed the middle of the bend, although thorn was between her and the side on which it lay and she was not sure yet. she remembered with horrible distinctness how she had once stood at the bottom of the crag and seen a stone that rolled over the top smash upon the rocks. "try again!" thorn gasped. "swing her to the right!" grace let her body slip back. the thrust and drag were telling, for the sledge had swerved, and then there came a few seconds of keen suspense. after this she heard thorn draw a labored breath and felt his hand on her waist. "we're past. hitch yourself up before you're pulled off," he said. with some trouble grace got back to her place and lay still, while her heart thumped painfully and something rang in her ears. the reaction had begun and she knew she could not move if thorn wanted help again. it looked, however, as if he did not, and some moments afterwards she saw that the way was clear ahead. she wondered whether they would stop before they reached the bottom of the dale and how far it was. the round sheepfold in the first field looked no larger than a finger ring. she was getting numb and the rush of bitter air took away her breath. "hold tight!" thorn shouted presently and she noted that the hillside broke off not far in front. since there were no crags near the spot, it was obvious that they had come to an extra steep pitch, the brow of which prevented her from seeing the bottom. next moment the sledge seemed to leave the ground and leap forward. grace thought that for some yards they traveled through the air, and then the hiss of the runners that had suddenly stopped became a scream. the speed was bewildering and a haze of fine snow streamed past. by and by, however, this began to thin, the speed slackened, and thorn gave a warning shout. she felt him try to turn the sledge, but they were going too fast; the light frame canted and turned over, and they rolled off into the snow. when grace got up and shook herself, fifty yards lower down, she saw thorn standing by the righted sledge. he came to meet her as she toiled back and his eyes sparkled. "by george!" he said, "you are fine. you're a thorough sport!" grace colored. the compliment was obviously frank and not premeditated; perhaps she deserved it, but she did not want thorn to praise her. his manners were good, but somehow he often jarred. he had not, within her memory, said anything that could justly offend her, and although he was a neighbor and there were no secrets in the dale, she had not known him do a shabby thing. yet, on the whole, he rather repelled than attracted her. she studied him as he came down the hill. he was a big, handsome man, and it was, of course, ridiculous to dislike him because he was older than she and was getting fat. he was an amusing talker and a good sportsman, but now and then one got a hint of hardness and cunning. somehow, so to speak, he did not ring true. "i held on because i thought i might fall over the crag if i let go," she said with a laugh. "then as i did hold on, it was merely prudent to try to steer the sledge." "oh, yes," thorn agreed. "but the important thing is you saw this and didn't lose your nerve. anyhow, if you had lost it, i couldn't have blamed you; i blame myself for my confounded thoughtlessness that let you run the risk. in fact, i'm dreadfully sorry and don't mind owning that i got a fright." grace noted that he was rather shaken, and felt vaguely disturbed. she had seen him following the foxhounds among the crags, for they hunt on foot in the rugged dales, and knew his steadiness and pluck. he had not been afraid for himself, and she did not want him to be afraid for her. "after all," she said, "the hill seemed to run down evenly when we stood at the top. if the little slant towards the crag deceived you, it deceived me." "i know more about tobogganing and oughtn't to have been deceived. it hurts to feel i didn't take proper care of you." "it really doesn't matter," grace replied with a smile, and thorn gave her a steady look. "oh, but it does matter! you ought to see that!" "i don't see it," grace insisted quietly, although her heart beat. "you were not accountable, and we got down quite safe. let's talk about something else." thorn's eyes rested on her for another moment, and then he made a sign of acquiescence and they went back up the hill. at the top he marked a new line for the next day's sport, and then as the sun was getting low the party started home by the old stone-boat road. near the bottom they overtook the askews, and one or two others walking at their horses' heads as they cautiously descended a steep pitch. grace noted that although they were not bringing much peat there was a risk of the sledges running down upon the teams. "you have not got on very fast," she said to peter. "if we're no verra careful, we'll gan faster than we like." "i suppose that's why you're only taking half a load?" "just that," peter agreed. "it wadn't suit for load to run ower the team. better safe than sorry, though it's a terrible loss o' time." "then, why don't you look for an easier way down?" "there's only the oad green road. fellside's ower steep for horses." "well, if i can think of a better way i'll tell you," grace replied, smiling, and hurried on after the others. they left her at the tarnside gate and she stopped abruptly as she went up the drive. it had obviously taken askew a long time to bring down half a load because of the risk to his horses; but she had found a better plan. it was not needful to use horses, after they had pulled the sledges up. the latter could be heavily loaded and left to run down alone. she must tell kit askew when she saw him next, but she did not reflect that it was curious she meant to tell kit and not peter. chapter ix the plan works although the air was bracingly keen the afternoon was calm and the scattered clouds scarcely moved across the sky. the snow in the valley shone a delicate gray, and soft lights and shadows rested on the hills. a peak that rose above the edge of the lofty moor gleamed pale-yellow against a background of deep blue. grace noted the tranquil beauty of the landscape, but hesitated now and then as she climbed the steep road out of the dale. she had come to meet kit askew, and now she reviewed her reasons for doing so they did not look very sound. in fact, if kit approved the plan she meant to suggest, she would perhaps be meddling unjustifiably with her father's business. after all, however, it was really not his business. he had allowed himself to be persuaded to help hayes and the latter's accomplice, bell, without quite understanding what this implied. her plan would prevent his doing an injustice he did not really mean to do. she suspected that there was a touch of sophistry about her arguments, but would not own that she had come because she wanted to meet kit. it was necessary that she should meet him; yet when she stopped at a gate and heard the tramp of horses' feet behind, her color came and went. for all that, she looked very calm, when kit pulled up his team, and went forward to open the gate. he made an abrupt movement as he recognized her, but his eyes shone with satisfaction. "i suppose you are going for some peat," she said. kit said he was, and added that peter and two or three neighbors were loading the stone-boats on the moor. "then, i wonder whether you could let me have a small quantity when you come down?" "you can have a load if you want." grace laughed. "two or three basketsful would be enough, and i don't want them for myself. i went to see mrs. waite and found her old father crippled by rheumatism. the kitchen was cold and damp, but she had a very little fire. she said her coal was nearly gone and she had got no peat." "thank you for telling me; i didn't know," said kit. "i'll take her a sack as i go down the dale." he paused and hesitated, with his hand on the open gate. "but it's rather cold. am i keeping you?" grace noted with some satisfaction that he did not seem to think it remarkable she had met him at the lonely spot. "oh, no," she said. "i am going up the hill. i like the view from the crag and sometimes go to watch the sunset. when it shines over the shoulder of the pike it throws wonderful lights on the snow." kit agreed, and after he started his horses they went on together. by and by grace resumed: "when i met you yesterday, your father said the sledges often ran down too fast and you could not put up a proper load." "that is a drawback. you see, there's plenty peat cut; the trouble is to bring it down. after the heavy rain, we couldn't drag the stone-boats across the boggy moor, and although the snow has made this easy, it hasn't helped much otherwise. if we put up a big load, there's some danger of the sledges overtaking and knocking down the horses where the track is steep." "and you can't see a way of getting over the difficulty?" kit said he could not and grace's eyes twinkled. "then i can. i'll show you a way, if you're not too proud to take advice from a girl." "certainly not," kit said, smiling. "i don't know why you think i'm proud." "then perhaps you're obstinate; some of the dalesfolk are." "we're slow. we like to try things properly; and then, perhaps we stick to them longer than is needful if we find them good. but caution's prudent." "you're very cautious now," grace rejoined. "you don't seem curious about my plan. are you afraid it isn't practical?" "no," said kit, rather earnestly; "since it's yours, it's no doubt good." then he pulled himself up and added with a twinkle: "but i haven't heard it yet." "well, while your difficulty is that the peat comes down too fast, i think it does not go fast enough. you are afraid about your horses, but you needn't use them. the stone-boats would run down alone. do you understand now?" kit started. "i expect you have found the way, miss osborn, and we owe you some thanks. in fact, you're cleverer than the lot!" "the admission doesn't seem to hurt you," grace rejoined. "but i imagine to feel you had to make it was something of a shock." "no," said kit, with a laugh she liked. "we're often dull and our womenfolk have helped us much. but somehow i did not expect--" he stopped, and grace gave him a level glance. "you mean you did not expect help from me?" "well," he said, "i suppose i did mean something like that" "then i'm glad you owned it, because it allows me to clear the ground. i don't want poor people to be cold in winter in order that bell may get rich. neither does my father want it--you must believe this! he doesn't know all that goes on; hayes hides things from him. there is no reason i shouldn't help you to spoil _bell's_ plot." kit was silent for a few moments. the girl had pluck and he liked her frankness. she was trying to persuade herself osborn was not unjust, and, although he imagined she found it hard, he did not mean to make it harder. one must respect her staunchness. "bell is our real antagonist and he's an awkward man to beat," he said. "however, the hint you have given us ought to be useful. i'll look for a way down when we get to the top." grace warned him about the inclination of the hillside to the rocks and stopped at the bottom of the crag. "i think i'll go across the hill and watch the first sledge come down, if you're not too long," she said and paused for a moment. "perhaps you needn't tell the others it was my plan." kit said he would not do so and was strangely satisfied as he went on with his horses. he understood her hesitation; it was delightful to feel that she had given him her confidence and they shared a secret. at the top, he found the others had loaded the sledges and were ready to start. since the dales folk are conservative, he had expected some opposition to his plan, but they listened attentively and an old man supported him. "i mind hearing my father say that yan hard winter after a wet back end o' year, they let peat run doon t' fell. what has been done yance can be done again." kit said nothing; for the other, by using a favorite motto, had banished his companions' dislike of novelties. "it was deeun no' so long sin'," another remarked. "in my time, they browt slate doon on t' stane-boats across the fleet-pike scree. pushed them off at top and let them go." there was some further talk and when they resolved to make the experiment kit went down the hill. he said he wanted to see how the first sledge crossed an awkward pitch, but it counted for much that he saw a small figure below. grace looked satisfied with his excuse for joining her and they waited for a time while the men above moved the first load to the edge. the sunshine had gone and it was getting cold; the shadows in the dale had faded from blue to dusky gray and the frost was keen. all was very quiet, but now and then distant voices and the musical rattle of chains came down through the nipping air. "it will be dark before they're ready if they're not quick," said kit, and grace looked up the hill. "i think they're starting the sledge. if there had been nobody about, i would have liked to come down with the peat. you can't imagine how exciting it is." they watched the sledge slip over the brow of the descent. it got larger as it came down, but it did not run as fast as the toboggan. one could see it rock and swerve, shaking off loose peats, where the ground was broken, and grace glanced at the steep pitch kit had come to watch. "it will go down there with a splendid rush, but i don't think it will upset," she said. "my plan is going to work." the sledge got nearer. they saw the snow fly up about its front and heard the scream the runners made. there was something fascinating about its smooth but fast descent, and as it approached the top of the dip they moved back rather unwillingly to let it pass. when it was nearly level with them it slowed on the changing incline and grace noted that there was a narrow space between the back of the frame and the peat. she gave kit a quick look as she said, "if one wanted, i think one could jump on." "let's try!" said kit impulsively, and they ran forward. he reached the sledge first, and throwing himself down held out his hand to grace, who fell upon the runner log. kit pulled her up and although the light was going saw her face glow after the effort she had made. her eyes sparkled with excitement, but kit felt half embarrassed because he did not know whether he had persuaded her to venture on an undignified adventure or she had persuaded him. it was a relief to hear her laugh. "this is rather ridiculous, and i don't know if we can hold on," she said as she tried to grasp the shaking peat. the sledge ran faster and lurched violently as it plunged over the edge of the steep drop. a shower of peat fell on them, the speed got furious, and they heard the runners scream, but they were sheltered from the rush of wind and could not see ahead. after a few moments grace looked up with twinkling eyes. "you could drop off if you liked. are you, sorry you came?" "no," said kit. "i came because i wanted, and now i'm here i'll stop." "i really think you mean to be nice," grace rejoined with amusement and kit understood; she saw he did not mean to admit that she had suggested the adventure, but this was not important. it was something of an adventure for a girl like miss osborn, although her having embarked on it gave him a delightful feeling of partnership in a harmless folly. "i hope there's nothing in the way," he said. "we're going very fast and hindbeck farm can't be far off. i ought to have looked before we jumped." "it is too late now," grace answered with an excited laugh. "i imagine you're not as cautious as you think; but we won't talk. it's hard to hold on and i haven't much breath." kit moved nearer and, seizing the edge of the frame, put his arm round her waist. she did not seem to resent this, and for a time they sped down hill with their feet plowing through the snow. kit did not care how long the swift rush lasted, but by and by he began to get anxious. the sledge had gone a long way since they jumped on, and the hillside was steep to the bottom, where it met the hindbeck pastures. while he wondered whether grace would slide far and get shaken if he made her let go, the sledge tilted up. it stopped with a violent shock, he heard stones fall, and was thrown off amidst a shower of peat. when he got up grace was sitting in the snow some distance off and he ran towards her. she had lost her small fur cap and her hair was loose, but to his relief she laughed. "oh," she said, "it really was ridiculous! but the plan will work. the peat will run down!" "that is so," kit agreed, with a breathless chuckle. "i think it would have run into the hindbeck kitchen but for the wall." "then it was a wall that stopped us. it felt like a rock." "come and see," said kit, holding out his hand to help her up. "i think," she said, "i'd rather you looked for my hat." he went off and it was two or three minutes before he found the hat among the scattered peat. when he came back it was nearly dark, but grace's hair was no longer untidy, and the snow that had smeared her clothes had gone. she walked with him to where the sledge rested on a pile of stones, and looking through the gap, they saw a woman with a lantern cross a narrow pasture between them and a house. "what's t' matter?" the woman shouted and turned round. "janet, gan on and see what's brokken t' wa'." another figure came out of the gloom and grace looked at kit. "i don't know who janet is, but i do know mrs. creighton. she talks," she said. "if you'll stop and explain matters, i'll go down the lonning. it was a glorious adventure! good-night!" she stole away round the corner of the wall and kit, who understood that he was, so to speak, to cover her retreat, waited until the two women came up. the one who carried the lantern was fat and homely; the other was slender and looked like janet bell. "it's kit, an' stane-boat stucken in t' wa'!" said the first as she held up the light "but where's team? an' hoo did you get here? there's nea road this way." kit laughed. "it's lucky i left the horses at the top. this is a new plan for bringing down the peat and it certainly works, although next time we must try to stop a little sooner." mrs. creighton asked him some questions before she understood what had happened. he was in the light, because she had put the lantern on the wall, and although he could not see her companion's face, he suspected from janet's quietness that she was studying him. "then you left the others on the moor," the girl remarked. "i did," said kit. "we sent the stone-boat off by itself, and it was half-way down when i jumped on." "then none of the men came with you?" "no," said kit, who felt annoyed because he saw janet suspected something. "i went down to watch the sledge and see if we had hit the best track." "it's strange!" said janet. "i thought there was somebody else when i first came out. still, of course, it was nearly dark." kit was puzzled because he could not tell how much janet had really seen, and thought the situation needed careful handling. if she knew miss osborn had been with him, it would be a mistake to make the thing look significant by pretending that she had not; but it was possible that janet did not know. then grace had hinted that she did not want their adventure talked about. "i don't expect you could see very well if you had just come out from the light in the kitchen," he replied. "anyhow, none of the men came with me and i must go back and tell them not to send off another lot. we'll see about mending your wall to-morrow, mrs. creighton." he went off to a gate that opened into the lonning. this was the wisest plan, because he did not want to talk to janet. he was half afraid of her, but not because he thought she sympathized with her father's plots; it was known that bell and his daughter quarreled. the girl was a dangerous coquette and had tactfully hinted that she rather approved kit. this had alarmed kit, who knew she was clever and resolute. when he reached the lane he stopped abruptly as he remembered something, and took out his pipe, although he did not mean to smoke. he must be cautious, since he was not sure if janet had gone in. striking a match, he held it between his hands as if he were going to light his pipe and stooped in the shelter of a wall. the light shone on the ground and he knitted his brows as he saw sharp footsteps in the snow. the farm people did not wear boots that would leave marks like these; moreover, the footsteps would lead anybody who thought it worth while to follow them to the spot where the sledge upset. kit threw down the match, and frowned as he went on again. chapter x janet meddles bright moonlight sparkled on the snow when kit left ashness to post some letters he had written ordering new machines. he was young, but since he came home peter had allowed much of the business of the farm to fall into his hands. kit's judgment was sound; he had studied modern methods at the agricultural college and was progressive without being rash. for the most part, his experiments had paid, and peter sometimes thought the lad's talents were wasted in the quiet dale. kit had ability, particularly for management. then, although he was rather reserved, people trusted him and often asked his advice. peter knew kit was satisfied to stay at ashness; but, for all that, if the lad felt he wanted a wider field for his energies later, he would not stand in his way. the time might come when he must let him go, for peter had a brother who had got rich in america and was willing to give his nephew a start. indeed, adam had written again not long since, asking if peter was going to send him. it was a relief when kit laughed and declared that he did not mean to leave ashness yet. when he passed allerby mill kit looked about. icicles covered the idle wheel, a snow cornice hung over the flagged roof, and water splashed softly in the half-frozen race. farther on, the snowy road was checkered by the shadows of hedges and bare trees. low roofs, touched by hoar-frost, rose behind the trunks, and here and there a gleam of yellow light shone out. the road, however, was empty, as kit was relieved to note. he had once or twice recently, when he went to the post in the evening, met janet bell coming from the little shop in the village. in fact, the thing began to look significant. kit was sorry for janet, because bell's rule was harsh and his neighbors extended their dislike for him to his family. all the same, kit did not trust the girl and would sooner she left him alone. he might be taking too much for granted, but romantic pity was a treacherous guide; janet was pretty and clever, and he was human. he had thought about changing the time he went to the post, but felt it would be cowardly. besides, he was occupied all day and letters could not be written until the outside work was done, while a postman called at allerby early in the morning. there was, however, nobody about and for a minute or two kit went on at a quick pace. he passed bell's house, and then hesitated with a frown as a figure he thought he knew came round a bend in front. close by, the tall hedgerow was broken by a stile, from which a path led across a field and joined the road farther on. he was in the moonlight and if he vanished the thing would look too marked. moreover, there would be something ridiculous about his running away. kit went forward, wondering whether janet had noted his hesitation, and she stopped him near a big ash-tree. the shadow of the branches made a black, open pattern on the snow and a belt of gloom lay behind the wide trunk. kit would sooner janet had stopped in the moonlight, since the villagers often went to the shop and post in the evening, and his standing in the shadow gave a hint of secrecy to the accidental meeting. he thought it strange that janet did not see this. "you were walking fast," she said. "i believe you'd have gone by if i hadn't spoken." "the frost is sharp enough to make one move briskly and i've something to do when i get back." "busy lad!" said janet, in a mocking voice. "you're always in a hurry, kit i suppose peter works you hard?" "he says i work him harder than he likes," kit replied, smiling. "perhaps the truth is he lets me have my way." "you're lucky," janet remarked with a sigh. "it's nice to be able to do what you like. there's only one way at the mill house, and that's father's. but i suppose you agree with him that women's ideas don't count?" "i daresay their ideas are as sound as ours, but i don't know much about it. we have no women except old bella and the dairymaid at ashness." "and you never miss them? in that big, lonely house!" kit mused for a moment. sometimes, particularly on summer evenings when they did not light the lamps and the shadows of the fells rested on the old building, ashness was lonely and drearily quiet. he had thought now and then the difference would be marked if a woman's laugh rang through the dim rooms and a graceful figure sat by the hearth. still, his imagination had not pictured janet there. "oh, well," he said, "we're out all day and when we come home there are letters to write and books to read." "letters and books!" said janet. "kit, i wonder if you're quite alive." then she laughed, provocatively. "anyhow, you don't seem to know when you're given a chance of being nice." kit did not answer and wished she would let him go. he felt awkward and thought janet knew this, for she resumed: "however, one mustn't expect too much and you want to get back. it's a habit of yours. you were in a hurry to get away the last time i saw you, when the stone-boat broke creighton's wall." "i'd been at work since morning in the snow." "and miss osborn was waiting for you in the lonning?" "no," said kit sharply; "she was not." "anyhow she was with you, before she stole away." "she didn't steal away," kit began indignantly, but hesitated. now he came to think about it, grace had gone as quietly as possible. "you mean miss osborn does nothing undignified? for all that, she didn't want mrs. creighton to see her. i don't suppose osborn would be pleased to know his daughter and you went for moonlight walks on the fells." kit knew osborn would not like it, and since the dales folk are fond of gossip saw he must stop the story going round. "i had not gone for a walk with miss osborn. i met her as i came down from the moor. she didn't know i was coming." "so she wasn't waiting for you?" janet remarked, with a hint of mockery. she stopped, and putting her hand on kit's arm, pushed him nearer the hedgerow as a man and woman came round a neighboring corner. kit was annoyed, but he waited and watched the people as they passed. the shadow was not very dark and he thought the woman give him a curious glance. he knew her and imagined that she knew him. when the people went through a gate janet laughed. "that was very unlucky, kit! old nanny's fond of talking; i'm afraid your character is gone." kit frowned. he did not see much humor in the situation, although janet was amused. "oh," she said, "you are dull! i expect you couldn't be nice if you tried. but we were talking about miss osborn. you were not riding on the stone-boat when you met her. i don't suppose you could have stopped it." "no," said kit, shortly, "i was not." "but i saw you and somebody else hardly a minute after the stone-boat hit the wall." "you saw _me_." "i did," said janet. "the snow was sticking to your clothes as if you had fallen, and you looked angry when mrs. creighton put the lantern on the wall." she paused for a moment, and went on: "i begin to see; you did come down on the stone-boat and miss osborn came with you. you were both thrown off by the upset at the wall. well, if you persuaded her to join you in an adventure like that, it looks as if you were pretty good friends." kit said nothing. in a sense, miss osborn had persuaded him, and it was difficult to explain that both had really given way to a rash impulse. somewhat to his surprise, janet gently touched his arm. "be careful, kit! i wouldn't like to see you hurt. miss osborn's friends are not your kind of folk; she only wants to amuse herself when they are not about." "that's ridiculous," kit declared. "miss osborn is not amusing herself with me." "perhaps you ought to know," janet rejoined with some dryness. "now i come to think of it, you're not always very bright. anyhow, when she finds the game tiresome, she'll soon get rid of you." "i meet miss osborn now and then and sometimes she stops and speaks. that is all," kit said sternly. "i imagine it's enough," janet remarked. "well, i don't want to see you made to look a fool; you're rather a good sort, kit, if you're not very clever. be careful and remember you have been warned." she gave him a friendly nod and went off, but after a few moments turned and looked back. kit was walking down the road with swift angry strides. janet smiled, but when she entered the mill-house kitchen her face was flushed. soon after she sat down by the fire, bell came in and leaned against the table with an angry frown. "there's two mair trucks o' coal, and i canna find room for t' stuff," he said. "yards is full and i only sold three or four car loads last week." janet knew silence was prudent when her father was disturbed, but he had given her a lead. kit was a fool, and although she doubted if he were as dull as he pretended, she was angry with him. anyhow, it might be possible to stop his ridiculous infatuation for miss osborn. "you can't sell coal when the askews are giving peat away," she said. "looks like that," bell agreed. "i'd ha' broke the others before noo if i hadn't had peter and kit against me. hooiver, if i canna sell coal, i canna pay the rent and landlord will have to do something. mayhappen it will be easier for him if he kens the askews started the plot. osborn's none too fond of them." "he wouldn't like them any better if he knew what i know," janet remarked with a malicious smile. "what do you ken about them?" bell asked scornfully. "i don't imagine osborn wants kit for his son-in-law." bell started and then laughed harshly. "old wives' crack! kit's not such a fool!" "you know best," said janet. "if you like, i'll tell you what i've seen." she did so and bell's mean face got thoughtful. on the whole, janet did not exaggerate much, although she now and then made a rather unwarranted implication. she threw a fresh light on matters the gossips already talked about; among others were grace's visit to mireside the morning railton's sheep were counted and her meeting with kit before he went to look for the herdwicks. when she stopped bell knitted his brows. "if it was used right, i might mak' some use o' this," he observed. "we'll see what osborn says about coal yards and the alterations at mill." he went to his office and janet sat quietly by the fire. her plot would work; miss osborn should not have kit. bell made some calculations. his money was getting short; he had bills to pay, and his stock of coal was large. he could not hold it much longer, and since the askews were bringing down large quantities of peat, there was no ground for imagining the dalesfolk would give way. it looked as if he must meet them and he wrote a notice that coal would be delivered by the trailer lurry at a reduction of two-and-six a ton. when he had put this in an envelope for the printers, bell knitted his brows. although his neighbors would sooner burn coal than peat, he was not sure the reduction would stimulate the demand for the former and he must look for relief in some other direction. he paid a high rent for the yards and the landlord ought to help. osborn would, no doubt, be reluctant, but he might be forced. bell's lease of the mill would soon run out; nobody else could pay as much as he paid, and he would demand certain expensive alterations. furthermore, osborn did not like the askews, and bell imagined he saw how to strike a blow at kit; janet had shown him the way. it would be some satisfaction to punish the meddlesome fellow. two days afterwards the notice was fixed on the gateposts, but a week went by without its attracting fresh customers. then a bill from the colliery arrived and bell put down his price another two-and-six. for a day or two, no orders came in, and he resolved to wait until the week was out and then, if needful, get hayes to arrange for a meeting with osborn. on the last evening of the week, a number of the co-operators met in the kitchen at ashness and for a time talked about the weather and the price of sheep. askew let them talk and kit was too preoccupied to give them a lead. he had been thoughtful since he met janet bell, for she had banished the self-deception he had unconsciously used and thrown a new and disturbing light on his friendship with grace. ridiculous as it was in many ways, he was falling in love with grace osborn. moreover, he had met her an hour since and she had talked with a friendly confidence that made his heart beat. the girl liked and trusted him, and although he durst not look for more, this in itself was much. it was plain that he ought to conquer his infatuation, but he doubted if he could. listening to the others mechanically, he was silent and absorbed until one asked, "weel, what's to be done aboot coal noo? are we gan t' buy?" "i dinna ken," said another. "my womenfolk are grumelling an' it's lang sin' we had good light bread, but they're none for letting bell have his way." "he's come doon five shillings, and we've peat enough to fall back on if he puts up price again," somebody else remarked. "hooiver, i reckon he's forced to sell and we might get anither half-croon off if we wait." peter took his pipe from his mouth. "it's a kittle point. t' womenfolk have been patient and bell canna rob us much if we buy from him noo. aw t' same, we can beat him doon some shillings if we hoad on." "then hoad on and break the grasping skinflint!" said one of the younger men. "i doot if we can break him and wadn't say it's wise to try. if he'll come down anither shilling, i think we might tak' his coal. that wad be a just price and we ought to be satisfied." "let him smart!" urged the other. "he's robbed us lang enough." "well," said peter thoughtfully, "i dinna ken if that's a reason for robbing him, and it's sometimes safer no to push your enemy over hard when he's willing to give in. you must choose. if you hoad on and force him to sell at a big loss, the fight can only end in yan o' two ways. he'll mak' you pay top price for cattle food, lime, and patent manures; or you'll drive him oot o' dale. you must reckon if you're strong enough." "we'll hear what kit says," one of the rest remarked. kit's mood was hardly normal. he was not often rash, but he felt sore and rebellious and this had a stronger influence than he knew. miss osborn liked him, but her father's rank and traditions were daunting obstacles. kit felt this was unjust, and raw passions and prejudices that he was, as a rule, too sensible to indulge, got the mastery. "my father is right," he said. "we have started a fight with bell; he's a dangerous man to rouse and will make us pay, unless we beat him. besides, he has made some pay already. old rheumatic men and young children starved by half-empty grates when the snow stopped us getting the peat, and you have seen the profits you worked hard for melt before the price bell charged for cattle-meal. he's been getting greedier, until he imagined he could rob us as he liked, and since he has forced us into the quarrel, my notion is we ought to fight it out." peter looked surprised, but did not speak, and there was silence for a few moments. then one said: "i'm with kit. we'll hoad on until bell comes doon seven-and-six. if he does, we'll talk aboot it again." after some argument, the rest agreed, and when they went away peter turned to his son. "mayhappen you've sent them t' right road, but i dinna ken! i'm none fond o' fratching, unless i'm forced." "we are forced," kit answered moodily. peter gave him a keen glance and then spread out his hands. "it's possible. for aw that, it wadn't ha' done much harm to give t' man his chance o' makin' peace." kit did not answer, but went out, and askew sat by the fire with a thoughtful look. something had happened to the lad, and peter wondered what it was. he felt vaguely disturbed, but could see no light. chapter xi osborn's pride gets hurt soon after the farmers met at ashness, bell, feeling sore and resentful, sat one evening in the tarnside library. osborn, after fixing a time for his visit, had kept him waiting twenty minutes, and bell had come to think himself a man of a little importance. the spacious library was very cold and the end of a small log smouldered among the ashes in the grate. bell knew he had been brought into the library because it was osborn's business room; but the latter might have ordered the fire to be made up. his neglect rankled, although bell had something else to think about. he had lowered his price for coal another shilling, without attracting buyers, and now admitted that the dales folks' resistance was getting dangerous. to some extent, the askews were accountable for this, but osborn got a large share of the profit bell had hoped to make. one did not pay a high rent for nothing. by and by bell looked at hayes, who stood by the hearth. "the next time i come to tarnside mr. osborn will wait for me," he remarked. hayes made a warning gesture, there were steps in the passage, and osborn came in. he sat down at the end of the table and looked at his watch. "i can give you about a quarter of an hour," he said. "perhaps we had better begin." the big room was nearly dark, but the men sat in the light a shaded lamp threw across the table. osborn looked half bored and half impatient, hayes was urbanely inscrutable, while bell's mean face was marked by greed. "mr. bell finds his stock of coal accumulating faster than he likes," said hayes. "he must pay on delivery, and since his customers have combined against him, feels he's entitled to some relief." "i don't see how that is my business," osborn rejoined. "bell might get over the difficulty by lowering his price." "i've putten it doon," bell broke in. "the price i can sell at is fixed by my rent." "to some extent, the argument is logical," said hayes. "then am i to understand that mr. bell expects me to reduce his rent?" "not to begin with," hayes answered, giving bell a warning glance. "he imagines he might gain his object almost as well if we stopped askew cutting peat." "you cannot stop him. the peat is his." "we might embarrass him. while the snow lasts, it saves some awkward labor to cross creighton's field and use his lonning. a tenant is not entitled to grant a way-leave." "allowing a friend to use the lane for a week or two can hardly be called a way-leave." "well, although askew owns the moor, it's doubtful if he is entitled to remove peat for sale, unless by arrangement with the lord of the manor. i have seen sir gordon's agent and he is not unwilling to dispute the point." "at my cost?" said osborn with a sarcastic smile. "enforcing the old manorial rights, which nobody knows much about, would be an expensive business, and i have no money to risk. however, if bell is willing to pay the lawyers--" "i'll pay nowt but rent. it's high enough," bell declared. osborn shrugged. "very well! it would cost too much to try to frighten askew off. he's confoundedly shrewd and obstinate." bell was silent for a few moments, but his face got hard as he fixed his eyes on osborn. "there's another matter. t' mill lease will soon fall in and i canna tak' it on again, unless i get the repairs and improvements done. mr. hayes has t' list." the agent took out the list with some builders' and millwrights' estimates, and osborn frowned as he studied the documents. it was obvious that bell meant to use pressure. "i don't like to be threatened," he replied. "it's not a threat," said bell, with a cunning smile. "if i'm to lose my money at coal yards, i must earn some at mill, but unless i get t' repairs and new machines, mill willunt pay to run." he paused and studying osborn's face resumed: "there'll be nea peace for either o' us while the askews gan aboot makin' trouble." "i suppose that is so, to some extent," osborn agreed. "then is it fair to leave me to fratch wi' them? after aw, they're mair your enemies than mine." "i don't understand you; i have no coal to sell." bell looked up with a sour grin. "there's worse ways o' hurting a proud man than touching his pocket. if you dinna ken what's going on, it's time you watched young kit. i'll say nea mair, but aw t 'oad wives are cracking and you can ask mr. hayes. he kens!" osborn's face got red, but he gave bell a haughty look. "anything that touches me personally is my private concern--and we are talking about the lease of the mill. i cannot make all the improvements you ask for, but perhaps something can be done. when we have studied the matter mr. hayes will let you know." bell got up and when he went out osborn turned to hayes. "what did the fellow mean? he said you knew!" "it's dangerous ground and i frankly wish he'd told you to ask somebody else. however, there is some gossip--" "go on," said osborn sternly. "whom are they gossiping about?" "miss osborn, since you insist." osborn clenched his fist and the veins rose on his forehead as he said, "and young askew?" hayes made a sign of agreement and osborn, getting up, walked across the floor. he came back with a savage sparkle in his eyes and stood in front of hayes. "tell me what you know." with a pretense of reluctance, hayes obeyed. he told osborn about grace's visit to railton's and hinted that she had gone to find out if kit had brought the sheep. then he narrated their meeting in the dark near creighton's farm and stated his grounds for imagining she had ridden down the hill on the first load of peat. hayes was tactful and apologetic, but he made it plain that the girl was in kit's confidence and had known his plans. osborn stopped him with a savage gesture. his face was deeply flushed and his voice was hoarse as he said: "that is enough. the thing looks impossible! i must try to find out what foundation there is for the ridiculous tale." "i shall be relieved if you do find it is ridiculous," said hayes, who went off soon afterwards. for some minutes osborn leaned against the mantel with his hands clenched, for he had got a shock. he admitted that the osborns had some faults, but they were the tarnside osborns and had ruled the dale for a very long time. it was something to spring from such a stock, and the wilful girl had disgraced them all. osborn had suspected grace of holding dangerous modern views, but it was unthinkably humiliating that she had engaged in a flirtation with a farmer's son. he had declared the thing impossible, but he feared it was true. hayes had been very clear about her visit to railton's, and her coming down malton head on askew's sledge was ominous. she must have been strongly attracted by kit since she had done a thing like that. besides, she had obviously sympathized with, and perhaps helped, his plans. this was treachery, because it was a tradition of the osborns that they stood together. by and by he heard voices in the hall and braced himself. he must go down to receive his guests and was glad that they had come, since he did not want to tell his wife about the matter yet; in fact, he did not think he would talk to grace. the thing was humiliating, and there was a possibility that hayes had been mistaken. osborn resolved to watch the girl and then insist on a reckoning if she gave him grounds for doing so. he went down and carried out his hospitable duties. next morning he arranged for a day's shooting; the snow had nearly gone and there were a few pheasants left in redmire wood. the party started early, taking their lunch, and in the afternoon grace left tarnside and walked down the dale. she had no particular object, but the day was fine and she wondered whether kit had brought all the peat from malton head. there was no wind and the frost was not keen. gray clouds trailed across the sky that was touched with yellow in the west, and soft, elusive lights played about the dale. patches of snow on the fellsides gleamed and faded; mossy belts glowed vivid green, red berries in the hedgerows shone among withered leaves and fern, and then the light passed on and left the valley dim. something in its calm beauty reacted on the girl and made her thoughtful. she loved the dale and felt that she might be happy there if it were not for her father's poverty and overbearing temperament. after all, they were not really poor; they had enough to satisfy their needs. their clinging to out-of-date traditions caused the strain. one gained nothing by pretending to be rich and important; there was no logical reason for trying to live like one's ancestors, and the effort cost the osborns much. it meant stern private economy, public ostentation, and many small deceits. grace was getting tired of this pretense; she wanted something simpler and dignified. for the most part, the dalesfolk looked happy and she had come to envy them. they had their troubles, but they were troubles all mankind must bear, and they had joys one did not properly value at tarnside: human fellowship and sympathy, and freedom to follow their bent. a shepherd's daughter, for example, could marry whom she liked and was not forced to accept a husband who had wealth enough to satisfy her parents. grace blushed as she thought of alan thorn and contrasted him with kit. she did not want to marry yet; but perhaps, if kit were not a working farmer's son--she pulled herself up, with a smile, for it looked as if she had not broken free from the family traditions. after all, it did not matter if kit were a farmer's son. he was honest and generous; he had a well-modeled figure, bright eyes, and a clean brown skin. but since kit was not her lover, she was indulging in idle sentiment; and then she admitted that he might love her, although she did not yet love him. indeed, if she must be honest, the thing was possible--she had seen his face brighten and remarked his satisfaction when they met. then she stopped abruptly as she saw him coming down the road. there was a path across a field close by, but it would be admitting too much if she tried to avoid him, and she went on. kit came up, dressed in rough working clothes, with muddy leggings, and a hedge stick in his hand. two dogs ran before him and it looked as if he had been driving sheep. grace was very calm when he took off his cap and he thought the hint of stateliness he sometimes noted was rather marked. it did not daunt him; he, felt it was proper grace should look like that. she noted that he was hot and breathless. "i saw you as i was bringing the sheep down burton ghyll," he said. "then you must have good eyes," grace remarked. "it's a long way, and i don't wear conspicuous clothes." kit laughed. "i'd have known you much farther off. there's nobody in the dale who walks like you." grace gave him a quiet glance that he met without embarrassment. she saw that he had not meant to offer her a cheap compliment; yet the compliment was justified. a dancing master had told her that she walked and carried herself well. "but where are the sheep?" she asked. "i left them in the field at the beckfoot," he answered with a touch of awkwardness. "we can bring them down afterwards; i remembered i wanted something at allerby." grace turned her head to hide a smile. it was obvious that he had remembered he wanted to go to allerby when he saw her. "oh, well," she said, "i am going part of the way. however, i mustn't stop you if you want to get back to the sheep." "it isn't at all important," kit declared. then he paused and grace thought he was studying his old and rather muddy clothes. "but, of course," he resumed, "it's possible you'd sooner go on alone." she laughed. "don't be ridiculous, mr. askew! i think you know what i mean. i didn't want to keep you from your work." he looked relieved. "yes. although i'm not very clever at this sort of thing, i generally do know what you mean. i can't tell if it's strange or not." "it certainly is not worth while puzzling about. i expect i'm rather obvious--for that matter, so are you." "frankness often saves you some trouble and i don't know if it gives your opponent the advantage some folks imagine. however, it's not our rule in the dale to say all we feel." "it's not bell's, for example. how is the coal campaign getting on?" "well," said kit, thoughtfully, "so far as that goes, i believe we have beaten him. there's a new notice that lowers the price seven-and-six altogether, and last night we advised folks to buy. but i don't know if the fight's over. bell may find another way of putting on the screw." "i hope he will give it up," grace replied. "i tried to help, because i felt i must; but of course you see i can't help again." kit made a sign of understanding. "yes; you showed us how to bring the peat down. now i don't know what to say. it's awkward ground." they were silent for some time afterwards, for both had said enough and knew that osborn's resentment must be reckoned on. it made them feel like accomplices and drew them together. they were young and not given to looking far ahead, but they saw the threat that the friendship both valued might be broken off. by and by three or four reports rang through the calm air and grace came near to stopping, but did not. she had forgotten osborn was shooting in redmire wood and she and kit must pass its edge. for all that, she could not turn back. kit would guess why she did so; it would be an awkward admission that she was afraid of being seen with him by osborn or his friends. she was afraid, but she was proud, and went on, hoping that kit had not noted her hesitation. he had not, but was puzzled by her resolute and half-defiant look. the guns were silent when they came to the wood, which rolled down the hillside below the road. here and there a white birch trunk and a yellow patch of oak leaves shone among the dark firs; the beech hedge was covered by withered brown foliage. a belt of grass ran between the wood and road and grace took the little path along its edge. her feet made no noise and her tweed dress harmonized with the subdued coloring of dead leaves and trunks. the light was not good and she thought she would not be visible a short distance off; besides the sportsmen might be at the other side of the wood. she hoped they were, since she vaguely perceived that if osborn saw her it would force a crisis she was not yet ready to meet. then her thoughts were disturbed, for somebody in the wood shouted: "mark cock flying low to right!" a gunshot rang out close by and a small brown bird, skimming the top of the hedge, fluttered awkwardly across the road. next moment dry twigs rustled and a young man leaped on to the grass with a smoking gun in his hand. as he threw it to his shoulder, kit ran forward and struck the barrel. there was a flash and while the echoes of the report rolled across the wood a little puff of smoke floated about the men. grace stood still, trembling, for she knew she had run some risk of being shot. "why don't you look before you shoot?" kit shouted in a strange, hoarse voice. "you've no business to use a gun on a public road. it's lucky i was quick." "that is so; my fault!" gasped the other, who took off his cap as he turned to grace. "very sorry, miss osborn; didn't see you. wanted to get the woodcock. hope you're not startled much." grace forced a smile. she had physical courage and was shaken rather by what she saw in kit's face than the risk she had run. kit looked strangely white and strained. he had obviously got a bad shock, but she thought he would not have looked like that had he saved anybody else from the other's gun. "my dress is hard to see against the trees. you really needn't be disturbed," she said. the young man renewed his confused apologies, and when he pushed through the hedge and they went on again grace looked at kit. he had not got his color back, his lips were set and his gaze was fixed. the shock had broken his control and brought her enlightenment. he loved her, but she needed time and quietness to grapple with the situation. her heart beat and her nerves tingled; she could not see the line she ought to take. yet he must be thanked. "you were very quick," she said as calmly as possible although she was conscious of a curious pride in him. "somehow i knew if there was need for quickness you would act like that. i believe i was stupid enough to stand still until you jumped. well, of course, you know i thank you--" she stopped, for kit, who turned his head for a moment turned it back and looked straight in front. he durst not trust himself to speak, and they went on silently. chapter xii osborn interferes when grace and kit had gone a short distance they heard voices and a rattle of sticks in the wood, but the noise got fainter and she imagined the beaters were moving the other way. ferrars, who shot at the woodcock, had probably not had time to tell osborn about his carelessness, and it looked as if nobody else had been posted near the road. this was something of a relief, but grace felt anxious. a gate not far off led to a drive in the wood, and she thought she had heard osborn's voice. she kept on the belt of grass, which got narrower, so that the path ran close to the hedge. on the opposite side, a clump of silver-firs threw a shadow across the road, and a patch of pale-yellow sky shone behind an opening in the trees. the stiff fir-branches cut sharply against the glow, but where she and kit were the light was dim. for all that, she stopped abruptly when a man came out of the wood and turned, as if to look up the road. it was osborn and she thought she knew for whom he was looking. grace's judgment failed her. she pushed kit towards the beech hedge and they stepped into a small hollow among the withered leaves. kit like grace, had not had time for thought, but as osborn, looking straight in front, went past, he felt he had done wrong. for one thing, it was rather shabby to hide and his doing so reflected on his companion. the feeling got stronger as osborn went up the road, and kit was sorry he had given way to a cowardly impulse. yet since he had hidden, he must wait. after a few moments, grace turned her head and kit saw her face was flushed. it was obvious that she felt much as he felt. she had prompted him to hide, but she had done so in sudden alarm and he ought to have kept cool and thought for both, particularly since it was getting plain that osborn was looking for them. the latter stopped, hesitated, and came back, and grace turned sharply to kit. her look was strained, but he got a hint of haughtiness and resolve. he made a sign that he understood, and knew he had done well when he moved back from the hedge. a moment's hesitation would have cost him the girl's respect. they waited in the road and kit's heart beat fast, but not with fear. osborn stopped a yard or two off and looked at them with sternly controlled rage. "it's obvious that i passed you just now," he said. "you did; i ought to have stopped you," kit agreed. "for a moment, it did not strike me that you were looking for miss osborn." osborn glanced at the hollow in the hedge. "it's curious you stopped at a spot where there was not much chance of your being seen." grace turned, as if she meant to speak, but kit resumed: "after all, i don't know that you are entitled to question what i do on a public road." "certainly not," said osborn, with forced quietness. "i have, however, a right to question my daughter's choice of her acquaintances, and it looks as if i had some grounds for using my authority." he paused and turned to grace. "your mother is waiting for you. you had better go home." grace hesitated, glancing at kit. it was her fault that they had hidden and she would have waited had she thought he wanted her. kit's face, however, was hard and inscrutable, and with something of an effort she went away. it was a relief to kit that she had gone; he had meant to keep her out of the quarrel and now he was ready to talk to osborn. "the matter doesn't end here," the latter remarked. "there's something to be said that your father ought to know. i am going to ashness and expect you to come with me." "you must wait. i have some sheep at the beckfoot and it will take me half an hour to drive them home," kit said coolly. osborn looked at him with savage surprise. it was unthinkable that he should be forced to wait while the fellow went for his sheep, but he saw that kit was not to be moved and tried to control his anger. "very well. i will meet you at ashness in half an hour." kit braced himself as he went up the road. in a sense, he was not afraid of osborn, but he had now to meet a crisis that he ought to have seen must come. in fact, he had seen it, and had, rather weakly, tried to cheat himself and put things off. he loved grace, and osborn would never approve. kit knew osborn's pride and admitted that his anger was, perhaps, not altogether unwarranted. for that matter, he doubted if grace knew how far his rash hopes had led him. then he thrilled as he remembered that when she pushed him back to the hedge, and afterwards when they left their hiding place, something had hinted that she did know and acknowledge him her lover. in the meantime, it was a relief to drive the sheep down the dale; he could not think while he was occupied and thought was disturbing. he put the sheep into a field and overtook osborn as he went up the farm lonning in the dark. a lamp burned in the kitchen, and when they went in peter got up and put his pipe on the table. he looked at them with some surprise, but waited without embarrassment. indeed, kit thought his father was curiously dignified. "mr. osborn has something to say he wants you to hear," kit remarked. "although the thing's really my business, i agreed." osborn refused the chair peter indicated and stood in a stiff pose. his face was red and he looked rather ridiculously savage. "i found your son and my daughter hiding from me in the hedge at redmire wood," he said. "i imagine i'm entitled to ask for an explanation." "hiding?" said peter, who turned to kit. "that was wrong." "it was wrong," kit admitted. "i told mr. osborn so. in fact, i must have lost my head when i made a mistake like this. since i had the honor of miss osborn's acquaintance--" "who presented you to my daughter?" osborn interrupted. "nobody," kit admitted, with some embarrassment. "the day the otter hounds were hunting the alder pool miss osborn wanted to cross the stepping stones. some of them were covered and i--" "ah!" said osborn. "then the thing began as long since as that?" he turned to peter. "the girl is young and foolishly proud of being unconventional, or she would have known that she could make use of your son's help without an obligation to speak to him again. it's obvious that he has worked on her rebellious humor until she forgot what is due to herself and her parents." "stop a bit," said peter. "she was doing her parents no discredit by speaking to my son." "no discredit!" osborn exclaimed, losing his self control. "when i find her and the fellow skulking out of sight, like a farm hand and a dairy-maid!" kit raised his head and his eyes sparkled. "in a sense, i am a farm hand; but it would be better if you kept your hard words for me." "there are verra good dairymaids; modest, hardworking lasses," peter remarked. "it's rather late to play the part of a rustic cavalier, if that is what you meant," osborn said to kit with a sneer, and then turned to peter. "i am forced to own that the girl deserves some blame. although she's impulsive and unconventional, she ought to have seen it was ridiculous to let your son imagine they could be friends." "you think that was ridiculous?" "of course," said osborn, with haughty surprise. "the absurdity of the thing is obvious." "weel," said peter dryly, "i reckon they might be friends without much harm, though i wadn't have them gan farther. although the lass is yours, the lad is mine." osborn laughed scornfully. "if i understand you, your attitude is humorous. but do you wish me to believe you didn't know what was going on? you have made my tenants dissatisfied and plotted against me, and now, no doubt, you saw another means." "stop," said peter, with stern quietness. "we have not been good neebors, though i dinna ken that's much fault o' mine; but if you thowt i'd use a foolish girl to hurt a man i didn't like, you're varra wrang. hooiver, you came for an explanation, and i want one, too." he turned to kit. "you had better tell us why you kept up miss osborn's acquaintance withoot her father's consent." "very well," said kit, standing very straight and holding up his head. "i met miss osborn, so to speak, by accident, and afterwards we sometimes talked. her beauty and talent were plain to me at first, but it was some time before i knew i loved her, and then it was too late. i knew my folly--it was a folly i couldn't conquer, and now i think i never shall. well, i suppose i hoped that some day things might change." "do you imply that grace knew what you hoped?" osborn asked. "no," said kit, quietly. "i gave her no hint. it was plain that she was willing we should meet and talk like friends. this was not wrong." "not wrong that my daughter should meet you secretly!" osborn exclaimed with sudden rage. "are you foolish enough to imagine you and a member of my family could meet like equals?" "i have not pretended to be miss osborn's equal. but the inequality i acknowledge is not what you mean." osborn shrugged with scornful impatience. "pshaw! we'll let that go. you said you hoped things might change. do you think any change of fortune could give you the tastes and feelings of a gentleman? make you a proper husband for my daughter? you know the thing's impossible." kit colored and hesitated, and peter signed him to be quiet. "these meetings must be stopped. i'm as much against such a match as i think you are." "ah," said osborn, who looked puzzled, "you hinted something of the kind! i don't know that your point of view's important, but i can't understand." "my meaning's no varra hard to see," peter answered. "the lass is bonny and, so far as i ken, weel-meaning and kind; but she has been badly browt up at an extravagant hoose. she'll not can help her husband, except mayhappen to waste, and she has niver learned to work and gan withoot. weel, it seems we are agreed. miss osborn is no the lass i would welcome for my son's wife." osborn looked at him with frank surprise. then he said, "we'll make an end," and turned to kit. "if you speak to my daughter again, she will be forbidden to leave the tarnside grounds; if you write to her, your letter will be burned. she cannot resist my control for the next three or four years. there's nothing more to be said." he went out and peter, who walked to the porch with him, came back and looked quietly at kit. "a proud and foolish man, but he's hit hard!" he said. "mayhappen it will hurt, my lad, but you must be done wi' this. osborn's daughter is none for you." kit looked straight in front, with his hands clenched. "so it seems, for some years. it does hurt. i cannot give her up." peter lighted his pipe and there was silence for a few minutes. then as kit did not move he remarked: "i ken something o' what you're feeling; aw t' same you've got to fratch. there's nowt against the lass except that she's osborn's child, but she's none o' our kind and it's sense and custom that like gans to like." "it would be easier if i could get away. i can't stop in the dale, knowing she's about and i mustn't see her." peter went into the next room and opened an old desk. he had for some time expected that the moment he now shrank from would come and his heart was sore, but he knew his son's steadfast character and meant to save him pain. going back he gave kit his brother's last letter. "mayhappen it's better that you should gan," he said quietly. kit read the letter and looked up with a strained expression. "i never thought i'd want to leave ashness and i feel a selfish brute! all the same it would be a relief." "just that!" said peter. "i'll miss you when you've gone, but it's no' my part to stand in your way. we'll write adam to-morrow and tell him you'll come." kit crossed the floor and put his hand on his father's arm. "thanks; i think i know what this means to you. it will cost me something; but i must go." he went out and peter sat still, looking gloomily at the fire. he felt old and knew he would be very lonely soon. the fire burned low and the kitchen got cold, but kit did not come back and when peter heard his housekeeper's clogs on the stones outside he got up and crossed the floor, to get his hat. old bella was curious and he did not want to talk, but there was something to be done in the barn and when his heart was sore it was a relief to work. part ii--on the caribbean chapter i the old buccaneer it was about four o'clock in the afternoon and kit askew lounged in a chair on the bridge-deck as the _rio negro_ steamed slowly across the long swell of the caribbean. the wrinkled undulations sparkled with reflected light in a dazzling pattern of blue and silver, and then faded to green and purple in the shadow of the ship. a wave of snowy foam curled up as the bows went down and the throb of the propeller quickened as the poop swung against the sky. then the lurching hull steadied and the clang of engines resumed its measured beat. the _rio negro_ was old and ugly, with short iron masts from which clumsy derricks hung, tall, upright funnel, and blistered, gray paint. her boats were dirty and stained by soot, and a belt of rust at her waterline hinted at neglect, but no barnacles and weed marred the smoothness of the plates below. her antifouling paint was clean, and her lines beneath the swell of quarter and bows were fine. in fact, the _rio negro_ was faster than she looked when she carried her regular load of two thousand tons and her under-water body was hidden. she traded in the gulf of mexico and the caribbean, and at certain ports customs officials carefully scrutinized her papers. at others, they smiled and allowed her captain privileges that strangers did not get. kit wore spotless white clothes, a black-silk belt, and a panama hat of the expensive kind the indians weave, holding the fine material under water. a glass occupied a socket in his chair, and when the _rio negro_ rolled a lump of ice tinkled against its rim; a box of choice cigars lay on the deck. kit, however, was not smoking, but drowsily pondered the life he had led for the last three years. he was thinner and looked older than when he left ashness. he had lost something of his frankness and his raw enthusiasm had gone. his face was quieter and his mouth set in a firm line. he remembered his surprise when he first met his uncle at a luxurious florida hotel. adam askew wore loose white clothes, a well-cut tuxedo jacket, a diamond ring, and another big diamond in his scarf. his skin was a curious yellowish brown and his eyes were very black; he rather looked like a spanish creole than an englishman. he had nothing of his brother's quiet manner. although he was getting old, he walked with a jaunty step; he had a humorous twinkle, and his laugh was careless. in fact, he had an exotic, romantic look that harmonized with kit's notions of the pirates who once haunted the gulf of mexico. when kit afterwards learned why adam's friends called him the "buccaneer," he saw that his first impression was not extravagant. now he remembered that when they sat behind the imitation moorish arches on the hotel veranda adam studied him and laughed. "you're certainly peter's son," he remarked. "i can imagine i'd just left him at the end of the ashness lonning thirty years since. except that he's got older, i reckon he hasn't changed, and for that matter, peter was never young. well, you are surely like him, but if you stop in this country we'll put a move on you." "if i'm like my father, i am satisfied," kit rejoined. adam's black eyes twinkled. "now i see a difference; there's red blood in you. but don't take me wrong. peter's a white man, straight as a plumb-line, one of the best; he's a year the younger of us, but when the old man died he brought me up. there are two kinds of askews and i belong to the other lot. i don't know why they called you after roystering kit." it was obvious that adam knew the family history, for christopher askew was a turbulent jacobite who lost the most part of his estate when he joined prince charlie's starving highlanders in the rearguard fight at clifton moor. afterwards the sober quietness at ashness had now and then been disturbed by an askew who inherited the first kit's reckless temperament. three years had gone since kit met adam, and he had learned much. to begin with, adam sent him to an american business school, and made him study castilian and french. then he sent him to mexico and countries farther south, where he studied human nature of strangely varied kinds. he met and traded with men of many colors: french and spanish creoles, negroes, indians, and half-breeds with some of the blood of all. he knew the american gulf ports and their cosmopolitan hotels and gambling saloons, but adam noted with half-amused approval that while he was not at all a prig he developed peter's character and not kit the jacobite's. now they were going south across the caribbean on a business venture. by and by adam came slowly along the bridge-deck. the three years had marked a change in him and kit thought he did not look well. adam suffered now and then from malarial ague, caught in the mangrove swamps. he was thin, his yellow face was haggard, and his shoulders were bent. sitting down close by, he lighted a cigar and turned to kit. "we ought to raise the coast before it's dark and i reckon mayne will get his bearings," he remarked. "the lagoon's a blamed awkward place to enter and i'd have waited until to-morrow only that don hernando is expecting us." "it will save us a day if we can get in, since you want to land the b. f. cargo in the dark," kit said thoughtfully. "we pay high wages and the _rio negro_ is an expensive boat to run." "that's so," adam agreed with a smile. "you talk like a cumberland flock-master. counting every cent you spend is a safe plan, but i don't know that this trip will pan out much of a business proposition." "do you feel better for your sleep?" kit asked. "some, though i've got a headache and a pain in my back. guess they'll shake off when i get to work." "i was surprised when you said you meant to sail with us." "so i imagined," adam rejoined dryly. "you wondered why i didn't, as usual, trust you to deliver the goods? well, there's rather more to this job than that, and i meant to put you wise before we landed. you have heard me called a pirate, but i don't reckon on taking home much plunder now." kit mused while adam beckoned a mulatto steward, who brought him a glass and some ice. his uncle's character was complex. sometimes he was hard and exacted all that was his; sometimes he was rashly generous. ostensibly, he was a merchant, shipping tools and machines, particularly supplies for sugar mills, to the countries round the caribbean, and taking payment in native produce. kit, however, knew the cases landed from the _rio negro_ did not always hold the goods the labels stated, and that adam's money sometimes helped to float an unpopular government over a crisis and sometimes to turn another out. it was a risky business, carried on with people who had a talent for dark revolutionary intrigue. "since don hernando alvarez is president of the republic, i don't quite see why we need smuggle in his machine-guns," kit remarked. "on the surface, the reason isn't very obvious. alvarez is president now, but mayn't be very long. it depends on whether he or his rival, galdar, gets his blow in first. i reckon the chances are against alvarez if galdar puts up a fight, but the latter's not ready yet and alvarez means to arm his troops before the fellow knows. i imagine about half the citizens are plotters and spies." "alvarez has been honest so far. i suppose if he wins he'll pay?" "that's so," said adam dryly. "if he goes down, we get nothing. although i don't know much about his ancestors and suspect that one was an indian, alvarez is white, but the other fellow's a blamed poor sample of the half-breed nigger. well, when alvarez found things were going wrong, he sent for me." "ah," said kit in a thoughtful voice, "i begin to understand." he did understand, although he would not have done so when he met his uncle first. he had known adam play the part of a merciless creditor, and thought few men could beat him at a bargain, but he kept his bargain when it was made, and now and then risked his money on lost causes. it looked as if he had inherited something from christopher the jacobite. "you have known alvarez long, haven't you?" kit resumed. "when i met him first, he was a customs officer with some perquisites and a salary that paid for liquor and tobacco. vanhuyten and i ran the old _mercedes_ then, and van made a mistake that put us at the fellow's mercy. there was a good case for confiscating the schooner, which would have given alvarez a lift while we went broke. in fact, the night of the crisis, i dropped van's pistol overboard; he'd got malaria badly and was feeling desperate. well, all we had given alvarez didn't cover that kind of a job, but he'd promised to stand our friend and kept his word like a gentleman. guess it needed some nerve and judgment to work things the way he did, and when we stole out to sea at daybreak past the port guard, i knew there was one man in the rotten country i could trust with my life. now he's in a tight place, he knows he can trust me." adam got up and crossing the deck leaned against the rails. in the distance, where the glitter faded, there was a long gray smear that seemed to float like a smoke-trail above the water. higher up, a vague blue line ran across the dazzling sky. the first was a fringe of mangrove forest; the other lofty mountains. a minute or two later, the fat, brown-faced captain came down from his bridge. "looks like the punta; we've hit her first time," he remarked. "in about an hour i ought to get my marks. when d'you want her taken in?" "soon as it's dark," adam replied. "you'll have to trust your lead and compass. can't have you whistling for a pilot, and i'd sooner you put out your lights." "it's your risk and not the first time i've broken rules. i guess i can keep her off the ground. we'll get busy presently and heave the hatches off. the b.f. cases are right on top." adam nodded, and beckoned kit when the captain went away. "you haven't been in the santa marta lagoon yet. stand by and watch the soundings and compass while mayne takes her across the shoals. you may find it useful to know the channel." kit understood. malaria and other fevers are common on low-lying belts of the caribbean coast and skippers and mates fall sick. moreover, the _rio negro_ did not always load at the regular ports. sometimes she crept into mangrove-fringed lagoons, and sometimes stopped at lonely beaches and sent loaded boats ashore when her captain saw the gleam of signal lights. when it was getting dark, kit and adam went to the bridge and the former noted that his uncle breathed rather hard and seized the rails firmly as he climbed the ladder. the red glow of sunset had faded behind the high land and a gray haze spread across the swampy shore, but the water shone with pale reflections. on one side, a long, dingy smear floated across the sky. it did not move and kit thought it had come from the funnel of a steamer whose engineer had afterwards cleaned his fires. captain mayne studied the fleecy trail with his glasses. "i don't know if that's a coffee-boat going north; i can't make out her hull against the land," he said. "sometimes there's a _guarda-costa_ hanging round the point." "better take no chances," adam replied, glancing at the _rio negro's_ funnel, from which a faint plume of vapor floated. mayne signed to the quartermaster in the pilot house and the bows swung round. half an hour afterwards, he rang his telegraph and the clang of engines died away while the throb of the propeller stopped. in what seemed an unnatural silence, a few barefooted deck-hands began to move about, and one stood on the forecastle, where his dark figure cut against the shining sea. the rest went aft with a line the other held, and when mayne raised his hand there was a splash as the deep-sea lead plunged. a man aft called the depth while he gathered up the line, and mayne beckoned another, who climbed to a little platform outside the bridge and fastened a strap round his waist. "we're on the santa marta shelf, but i'm four miles off the course i set," mayne remarked. "i want to work out the angle from the first bearing i got." kit went with him into the chart-room, for he knew something about navigation. they had taught him the principles of land-surveying at the agricultural college, and this had made his studies easier. when he came back the moon was getting bright, but the haze had thickened on the low ground and the heights behind had faded to a vague, formless blur. the trail of smoke had vanished, there was no wind, and the smooth swell broke against the bows with a monotonous dull roar as the _rio negro_ went on. she was alone on the heaving water and steaming slowly, but the noise of her progress carried far. by and by a light twinkled ahead, leaped up into a steady glow that lasted for some minutes, and then went out. "that's a relief," remarked adam, who had struck a match and studied his watch. "the ground's clear and don hernando has somebody he can trust waiting at the lagoon. you can let her go ahead, captain." mayne rang his telegraph and kit went into the pilot house. the dim light of the binnacle lamp touched the compass, but everything else was dark and the windows were down. kit could see the quartermaster's dark form behind the wheel, and the silver shining of the sea. there was a splash as the man on the platform released the whirling hand-lead. when he called the depth mayne gave an order and the quartermaster pulled round the wheel. the swell was not so smooth now. it ran in steep undulations and in one place to starboard a broad, foaming patch appeared between the rollers. kit knew the water was shoaling fast as the _rio negro_ steamed across the inclined shelf. it was risky work to take her in, because the fire had vanished and there were no marks to steer for. mayne must trust his compass and his rough calculations. "tide's running flood," he said to adam. "she'd have steered handier if we'd gone in against the ebb; but there's a better chance of coming off if she touches ground." "you don't want to touch ground and stop there with the b.f. goods on board," adam replied. after this, there was silence except when mayne gave an order. white upheavals broke the passing swell on both sides of the ship. she rolled with violent jerks and at regular intervals the bows swung up. when they sank, a dark mass with a ragged top cut off the view from the pilot-house, and kit knew it was a mangrove forest. he could see no break in the wall of trees that grew out of the water, but they were not far off when there was a heavy jar, and the rio negro stopped. the floor of the pilot-house slanted and kit and the quartermaster fell against the wheel. then there was a roar as a white-topped roller came up astern and broke about the vessel's rail in boiling foam. she lifted, struck again, and went on with an awkward lurch. "port; hard over!" mayne shouted hoarsely, and kit helped the quartermaster to pull round the wheel. the order disturbed him, since it looked as if mayne was off his course. the swell broke angrily ahead, but in one place, some distance to one side, the wall of forest looked less solid than the rest. a roar came out of the mist and kit knew it was the beat of surf on a hidden beach. this told him where he was, because a sandy key protected the mouth of the lagoon; but he doubted if mayne could get round the point. the tide was carrying the vessel on and there was broken water all about. she went on, with engines thumping steadily; the hollow in the forest opened up until it became a gap and kit could not see trees behind it. mayne gave another sharp order, and kit and the quartermaster pulled at the wheel. the dark bows swung, the speed quickened, and the rolling stopped. the throb of the screw and thump of engines echoed across misty woods and there was a curious gurgling noise that kit thought was made by the tide rippling among the mangrove roots. the air got damp and steamy and a sour smell filled the pilot-house. kit knew the odors of rotting leaves, spices, and warm mud. in the meantime, he was kept occupied at the wheel for mayne changed his course as the trees rolled past, until the telegraph rang and the engines stopped. then there was silence until he heard the splash of the anchor and the roar of running chain. as the _rio negro_ slowly swung round, the winches rattled and her boats were hoisted out. kit got into one with adam and landed on a muddy beach. dark figures came down to meet them, horses were waiting at the edge of the forest, and a few minutes later they mounted and plunged into the gloom. chapter ii the presidio dazzling sunshine flooded the belt of sand where the shadows of dusty palmettos quivered beyond the moorish arch; the old presidio smelt like a brick-kiln and the heat outside was nearly intolerable. in the middle of the dirty patio a fountain splashed in a broken marble basin, and it was dim, and by contrast cool, under the arcade where kit sat among the crumbling pillars. the presidio was a relic of spanish dominion and its founders had built it well, copying, with such materials as they could get, stately models the moors had left in the distant peninsula. a part had fallen and blocks of sun-baked mud lay about in piles, but the long, white front, with its battlemented top and narrow, barred windows stood firm. in spite of the ruinous patio, the presidio was the finest building in the town. the others, so far as kit could see, were squares of mud, for the most part whitewashed, although some were colored pink and cream. the glare they reflected was dazzling, but a row of limp palmettos ran between them and the space in front of the presidio, and here and there kit noted rounded masses of vivid green. except for the splash of the fountain, all was very quiet, and although the shadows had lengthened it looked as if the half-breed citizens were still enjoying their afternoon sleep. now and then a barefooted sentry noiselessly passed the arch. he wore a dirty white uniform and ragged palm-leaf hat, but carried a good modern rifle, and kit knew where the latter had come from. the country was rich with coffee, rubber, sugar, and dyewoods. its inhabitants, however, for the most part, preferred political intrigue to cultivation; its government was corrupt, and prosperity had vanished with the spaniards' firm rule. a table carrying some very small glasses and coffee-cups stood in the arcade. don hernando alvarez occupied the other side, and kit imagined it was not by accident he sat with his back to a whitewashed pillar, since he was in the shadow and as he wore white clothes could not be seen a short distance off. don hernando's hair was coarse and his skin dark. his face was well molded, although the cheek-bones were prominent; his black eyes were keen and his thin lips firm. he wore a plain red sash, with no other touch of color except a bit of riband on his breast. it was obvious that he was not a peninsular, as pure-blooded spaniards call themselves, but he looked like a man who must be reckoned on. just then his dark face was moody. "you have come in good time," he said to adam askew, in castilian. "i think the curtain will soon go up for the last act of the drama, but the plot is obscure and i do not know the end." "i imagine the action will be rapid," adam replied. "unless you have changed much, you are cut out for your part." "ah," said alvarez, "one gets cautious as one gets old. one loses the young man's quick, sure touch." "that is so, to some extent," adam agreed, and indicated kit. "it explains why i have a partner; my brother's son. still, perhaps one sees farther when one is old." alvarez bowed to kit. "you have a good model, señor; a man who seldom hesitates and whose word goes. a rare thing in this country; i do not know about yours." then he turned to adam with a hint of anxiety. "how far do you see now?" "i see what i have to do and that is enough. the consequences come afterwards." alvarez's face cleared. "you were always a gambler, but you run some risk if you bet on me." he was silent for a moment and then resumed: "in a sense, i envy you; you have a partner you can trust, but i stand alone. my son was found in the plaza with a knife in his back, and the man who killed him goes unpunished." "galdar was somewhere behind that deed, although i do not see his object yet," adam remarked. "the people liked maccario and his removal cleared the ground. my enemy is cunning and, i think, did not mean to force a conflict until my friends had gone. now there are not many left and the time has come. morales died of poison, diaz of snake-bite, and vinoles was shot by a curious accident. so far, i have escaped; perhaps because i was lucky, and perhaps because it was not certain the people would choose galdar if i followed my friends." "i have wondered why you hold on. for a president of this country, you have had a good run. i think i would have left after a few prosperous years and located at havana, for example." alvarez smiled. "there was a time when we had money in the treasury and i might have gone; but it was too late afterwards. part of the revenue stopped in galdar's hands--that was one way of embarrassing me--and i was forced to use the rest to undermine his plots. now i am drawing on my small private estate." "but why didn't you go while there was something left? you are not extravagant and do not need much." kit thought adam's remark was justified. alvarez lived with indian frugality and looked ascetic; besides he had been long in power and had no doubt had opportunities for enriching himself at his country's expense. kit liked alvarez, but did not think him much honester than other spanish-american rulers he had met. "it was partly for my daughter's sake i remained," alvarez replied. "she is at a spanish convent and i would not leave her poor. then i had my son's death to avenge." he paused and added with a deprecatory smile: "moreover i have thought i can rule this country better than my rival." "that's a sure thing," adam agreed, in english. "well, you had better tell me how you think matters are going. if i'm to help you properly i want to know." alvarez looked about. all was very quiet; there was nobody in the patio, and it was some distance to the nearest window in the wall that faced the pillars. for all that, he lowered his voice and answered in hesitating english with an american accent. "it is hard to tell; a gamble in which one takes steep chances! perhaps half the people with an object are for galdar, and half for me. those who have none will wait and back the man they think will win. so far, i have the soldiers, but their pay is behind and they are badly armed and drilled. they will stand by me if i can give them machine-guns and pay off arrears. but this must be done soon, without galdar knowing. the next president will be the man who strikes before the other is ready." "what will the thing cost altogether?" adam asked. he looked thoughtful when alvarez told him, and then nodded. "all right. you'll get some of the guns to-morrow and another lot is on the way. go ahead; i'll help you put the business over." alvarez filled the little glasses with a liquor that had a strong spicy smell and when his guests lifted them touched theirs with his. "it is what i had hoped, my friend. if i live, you will not lose." he drank and then held his glass slackly poised while he mused. kit, who was nearest the arch, turned and glanced out. he saw the reflected light quiver across the trampled sand and the dusty green of the limp palmettos. then, below the latter, there was a pale-yellow flash and the president's glass fell with a tinkle. a pistol-shot rang out and kit, swinging round, saw that a flake of plaster had dropped on the table. there was some dust on alvarez' brown face and on his clothes, but he looked unmoved. next moment adam leaned on the table, steadying a heavy automatic pistol, and three quick flashes streamed from the perking barrel. three small puffs of dust leaped up about the roots of a palmetto and as the empty cartridges rattled on the floor kit thought an indistinct figure stole through the shadow of the fan-shaped leaves. he was not certain, because the light was dazzling and thin smoke drifted about his head. he threw his chair back and plunging through the arch ran across the sand and stopped at the top of a narrow street. men and women of different shades of color came out of the doors and began to talk excitedly, but there was nobody who looked like a fugitive. kit went back after he got his breath and met two or three untidy, barefooted soldiers who ran past. when he entered the arch adam was coolly reloading his pistol while the president dusted his clothes. "it is nothing--they have tried again," the latter remarked. "still, it looks as if galdar felt himself stronger than i thought. now, with your permission, i will go and give some orders." he smiled as he added: "there will be some prisoners by and by, men my guards do not like, but the fellow who fired the shot will not be caught." "what about the sentry?" adam asked. alvarez shrugged. "it is hot, and perhaps he was half asleep. i think the man is faithful, and just now i am the soldier's friend." he went off and adam filled his glass and looked at kit. "i feel i'm getting old and want another drink. i got the bead on the fellow's dark head and missed him by a yard. well, i guess you can't expect to have steady fingers when you've got malarial ague. it's a dramatic kind of country, anyhow." kit lighted a maize-leaf cigarette and mused. he had been startled, but his nerve was good and he knew something about the dark-skinned, reckless people of the south. they were robbed by their rulers, who spent the most part of the revenue to keep themselves in power; and sometimes, when the vote was useless, assassination seemed the only remedy. but it was on his uncle's promise kit's thoughts dwelt. although adam was rich, the sum alvarez needed was large. the latter was honest, in a sense, and kit thought would not rob his friend, but he might be unable to make repayment. in fact, he had warned adam that there was a risk and the bullet that struck the pillar was a significant hint. the venture looked rash, but adam had stated that it was not a business proposition. he and the president were friends and this counted for much. the old buccaneer had a sentimental vein. then kit's thoughts strayed and he wondered what peter was doing in the north country dale. kit had prospered since he joined adam and the latter had hinted that he might be rich, but he was tired of intrigue and excitement and the glare of the south. he wanted the bracing winds, and the soft lights that chased the flying shadows across the english hills. he smiled as he reflected that he was like the herdwicks that never forgot their native heaf; but while he longed for the red moors and straight-cut valleys he felt a stronger call. he was young and had seen the daughters of the south; louisiana creoles with a touch of old french grace; dark-haired habaneras with languid eyes, whose movements were a delight to watch; octoroons ready to welcome a lover who was altogether white, and half-breed indian girls. all had charm and some had shown him favors that meant much, but their charm had left kit cold. he thought about grace osborn, steady-eyed and marked by english calm. she was frank and sometimes impulsive, but even then one got a hint of proud reserve. there was no touch of southern coquetry about grace, she was not the girl to attract a lover and let him go, but if he came and proved his worth, she would go forward with him steadfastly through the storms of life. kit sighed and pulled himself up. grace was not for him and he must not be a romantic fool. he looked round and saw that adam was quietly studying him. "what are you thinking about, partner?" he asked and kit knew the epithet meant much. adam had not called him partner at first. "i was thinking about ashness," he replied. "ah," said adam softly, "i often think about it too; the old house among the ash trees, and the herdwicks feeding on the long slope behind. the red heath on the fell-top and the beck bubbling in the ghyll. everything's clean and cool in the quiet dale, and the folk are calm and slow." he paused and resumed with a curious smile: "once i reckoned i'd go back when i got rich and make things hum, but when i had the money i saw that plan wouldn't work. those quiet folk would have beaten me with their unchanging ways, and ashness is too good to spoil. for all that, i allowed i'd see it again before i died, but now i don't know." his smile faded and he gave kit a keen glance. "why did you pull out? it wasn't for my money. you haven't told me yet." "no," said kit, with some embarrassment. "i hardly think it's much of a story, but if you like i'll tell you now." after a few moments he stopped awkwardly, and adam raised his hand. "go on. i want to get the girl properly fixed." kit was not skilled at sketching character, but he drew grace's portrait well and when he stopped adam made a sign of sympathy. "you have helped me place her. don't know i'd have trusted another man's judgment when he talked about his sweetheart, but you're not a fool. well, it seems to me the girl's worth getting." "miss osborn is not my sweetheart. it is possible i shall never see her again." "but you can't forget her?" "no," said kit quietly; "i can't forget." adam was silent for some moments and then looked up. "you're like peter, slow and staunch, but that's one reason you're my partner. well, i know osborn's kind; folk we have no use for in the united states. white trash, we call them; men with no abilities, whose foolish pride makes them think it's mean to work. reckon they've first claim on the soft jobs and don't belong to the world of fighting men. but i guess they listen when money talks." kit said nothing, although he thought adam's concluding remark significant, and the old man went on: "don hernando helped me on my feet when vanhuyten and i first came along this coast, with about a thousand dollars and a worn-out schooner. he's been my friend ever since and now he's hard up against it i've got to see him out. guess it's going to cost me high, but when the job's put over there ought to be some money left and i don't know that you need forget the girl if she hasn't forgotten you. well, perhaps i've said enough, and now i'll go and see where don hernando is." adam got up and as he crossed the patio kit noted that his shoulders were bent and his movement slack. adam had changed much since their first meeting at the florida hotel. he had some very obvious faults, but kit knew what he owed him and felt disturbed. chapter iii the gold onza kit paused as he wound the long silk sash round his waist, and looked out of the window of his room at the presidio. square blocks of houses, colored white and yellow, ran down the hill. here and there a palm rose from an opening, and the dusty green of the alameda broke the monotony of the flat roofs and straight, blank walls that gave the town an eastern look. kit noted the strength of the presidio's situation. the old building stood high, its battlemented roof commanded the narrow streets, and there was a broad open space all round. he thought a few machine-guns would make it impregnable, since a revolutionary mob was not likely to be provided with artillery. kit tucked the end of the sash under the neatly-arranged folds. some time is required to put on a spanish _faja_ and at first kit had thought the trouble unnecessary, but had found it is prudent to protect the middle of the body in a hot climate. when he was satisfied, he turned and looked about the room. there were no curtains or carpets, and two very crude religious pictures were fixed to the wall. although the air was not yet hot, it was not fresh and a smell of spices, decay, and burnt oil came in through the window that opened on the patio. a sunbeam touched a small earthen jar, holding a bunch of feather flowers. the jar was harshly colored, but the outline was bold and graceful, and kit knew no pottery like that had been made in the country since the spaniards came. he had bought it with the flowers for a few dollars, and remembered that the shopkeeper had included its contents when he offered it to him. "_todo loque hay,_" he said in uncouth castilian. kit, turning over the jar carelessly, took out the flowers and as he did so something inside rattled and a large coin fell into his hand. the coin was old and heavy; indeed, he thought it weighed about an ounce. taking it to the window, he rubbed its dull face and when the metal began to shine sat down with a thoughtful look. unless he was mistaken, the coin was gold and did weigh an ounce. when he finished dressing he went to the little dark shop. the shopkeeper was making coffee with a handful of charcoal on the doorstep, for the sake of the draught, and took off his hat politely as kit came up. "i found a piece of money in the jar i bought from you," kit said in castilian. "then your worship is lucky," the other remarked. "but the money was not mine." the shopkeeper shrugged. "what matter? it is yours now. was the coin worth much?" "it was worth finding." "well," said the shopkeeper, "i do not know where the money came from, and it may have been there a very long time. the jar is old and i bought it from an indian some years since." he paused and gave kit a keen glance. "you will remember that i offered you the jar with all there was inside." "you did; it held some feather flowers. still, as you did know about the money--" "then you want to give it back, if the owner can be found!" "certainly," said kit. the shopkeeper bowed. "i will make enquiries. if you should need anything i sell, señor, perhaps you will remember that i am an honest man." kit went away, feeling puzzled and somewhat surprised. it looked as if the fellow was honest, but kit thought he had studied him and there was something curious about his manner. besides, a remark he made implied that he knew the coin was old. when he ate his eleven o'clock breakfast with adam and the president in the arcade, he took out the coin and told them about the shopkeeper's refusal to take it back. "a spanish onza," adam remarked. "worth nearly five pounds in english money, but a collector might give you more if it's as old as it looks. one used to see onzas in cuba, and native merchants in central america, who hadn't much use for banks, liked to get them. now, however, they're getting scarce." "in this country, all gold coins are scarce," alvarez said dryly. "i agree with the shopkeeper that don cristoval is fortunate, and expect he feels that my people are honester than he thought." "i was puzzled--" said kit and stopped, for he saw the president's smile and began to understand. "you are shrewd, señor; but that was to be expected from my old friend's nephew. to begin with, the man who keeps the shop is not a supporter of the government." "ah," said kit, "i think i see!" alvarez bowed. "one can trust your intelligence, and you can keep the coin. it looks as if my antagonists were curious about your character--the honor of a man who would take money that does not belong to him is open to doubt. the experiment was cheap." kit said nothing and the president filled a little glass with scented liquor. "i know my friends, don cristoval, and your uncle has stood much harder tests." he touched kit's glass with his. "well, i am lucky, because i may need friends soon." he got up and when he went down the long arcade adam looked at kit with a smile. "when i was your age i wouldn't have taken the onza back. i'd have kept the money and my faith with the president; in fact, in those days, i kept anything i could get. now the other fellow knows what you're like, i reckon he'll find the owner of the coin." adam went off after the president, and kit pondered. a few days later, he sat one evening at a small table outside the café bolivar. the café was badly lighted, hot, and full of flies. there was no door or window, and a few wooden pillars divided the low room from the pavement, which was strewn with cigarette ends and cardboard matches. in front, small palms, and eucalyptus lined the dusty alameda, where groups of citizens walked up and down. inside the café somebody sang a spanish song and played a guitar. it was not cool on the pavement, although a faint breeze made the palms rustle. the air was heavy and a smell of aniseed and new rum hung about the spot. presently a man who had been playing dominos got up and came to kit's table. he was a white man, with pale blue eyes and yellow hair, and although rather fat he carried himself well. kit had met olsen before, and he nodded when he sat down. "nothing doing at the casino and the place was very hot," he said. "besides, i don't quite trust the man who runs the bank. taking them all round, these folks are clever crooks." kit agreed languidly and noted the order olsen gave the half-breed landlord. the fellow did not look as if he indulged much, but kit thought a large glass of the strong liquor was not often asked for. as a rule, the americans he had met on the caribbean coast were abstemious, while the half-breeds and spaniards were satisfied with small _copitas_ of fiery spirits distilled from the sugar cane. the english, german, and scandinavian adventurers consumed them freely, and perhaps the germans drank the most. "how do you like it here?" olsen resumed when he put down his glass. "it's a country that soon palls. are you staying long?" "i can't tell," said kit, who decided not to state that he knew the country. "you see, i'm not in command." "no," said olsen. "i suppose you're a relation of the buccaneer?" "a poor relation. he gave me a lift when i needed it." olsen laughed. "well, i guess he makes you hustle. a pretty lively old pirate, if all one hears is true! i reckon they don't call him the buccaneer for nothing, but it's hinted that he's beginning to lose his grip. i see your copita's empty. will you take another drink?" "no, thanks; i've had enough," said kit, who distrusted olsen. he thought the fellow's careless remarks covered some curiosity and had tried to leave him in doubt. olsen probably imagined he was adam's clerk. "you're cautious, but one soon gets reckless here," olsen resumed. "we are all adventurers, out for what we can get, and the chances against our making good are pretty steep. my notion is to have the best time i can, pick up as much money as possible, and quit before fever, intrigue, or a revolution knocks me out." "it's an exciting life," kit agreed. "money doesn't seem plentiful." "you have got to hustle and back the right man. since you're stopping at the presidio, it's obvious that askew's on the president's side. well, i suppose everybody knows my employers have put their money on galdar." "then, i imagine you run some risk." "sure," said olsen, smiling. "alvarez doesn't like me, and if i wasn't an american citizen, i'd feel scared. showed his secretary my naturalization papers when i put up my shingle. took them out as soon as i reached the united states from norway." kit pondered. olsen spoke english and castilian well, but his accent was not american, nor, kit thought, scandinavian. there were a number of germans in the country, engaged in extensive but rather dark commercial schemes, whom the united states consuls watched with jealous eyes. kit knew that no one could transact much business without to some extent meddling with native politics, but while the other adventurers were satisfied with the money they could get, it looked as if the germans wanted something else. it was perhaps significant that olsen had, so to speak, insisted that he was a naturalized american and came from norway. kit doubted. "askew's judgment is generally pretty good, but he's getting old," olsen remarked. "i don't see why he's backing the president; my notion is, galdar's surely going to win." he paused and looked at kit thoughtfully. "in fact, if i was holding a clerk's job on the other side, i'd consider if it wouldn't pay me to change." kit imagined this was a cautious feeler, made to find out if he could be bought, but he smiled. "if galdar does win, he won't have much to give his friends." "he certainly won't have much money," olsen agreed. "it's going to cost him all he can raise to turn alvarez out, but he'll have something to give at the country's expense; sugar and coffee concessions, and perhaps monopolies. if i can get my share, it will pay my employers well and i allow they're generous." he stopped, as if he thought he had said enough, and after ordering another drink looked up with a grin. two girls in light dresses had passed the café once or twice with a male companion and a fat old woman who wore black clothes. kit had not noticed them particularly, because other groups were moving about, but he now remarked that the man had gone and the _dueña_ was a yard or two in front. one of the girls looked round and he thought her glance searched the café and then stopped at his table. "the señorita's a looker," said olsen. "i wonder which of us she fancies. she's been round this way before." "i'm not remarkably handsome and there are other people in the café," kit replied. "anyhow, i don't want to get a jealous señorita's knife in my back." "you're a blamed cautious fellow," olsen rejoined in a meaning tone. "however, you'll find me at the casino evenings if you feel you'd like a talk, and now i'll get along." he went off and kit smoked another cigarette. he thought olsen had, so to speak, been sounding him; the fellow had certainly given him some hints. kit imagined he had taken a prudent line by keeping the other in the dark about his partnership with adam and their plans. when he had smoked his cigarette he crossed the street to the alameda and went up a broad walk beneath the trees. the sky had cleared, the moon was high, and in front of the openings pools of silver light lay upon the ground. by and by kit saw the group he had noticed a few yards ahead. they were moving slowly and although he walked no faster he soon came up with them. the girl who had looked into the café was nearest and the moonlight touched her face as she turned her head. kit gave her a half curious glance and felt some surprise, for he could see her better now and thought her a pure-blooded spaniard. the _peninsulares_ were aristocrats, the girl had a touch of dignity, and her dress was rich. it was strange if a girl like that was willing to defy conventions and risk an intrigue with a stranger. yet he imagined he had seen her smile, and she carried a little bunch of purple flowers in the hand nearest him. he looked again and saw that she was beautiful and moved with the grace that generally marks the _peninsulares_ when they are young. the path was broad and he could keep level with the group without exciting curiosity, but he thought it curious that the fat old woman, who ought to have guarded the others, was in front. he resolved to go past, and just before he did so the girl gave him a glance that he thought was half amused and half provocative. then she turned her head and next moment he saw a flower near his feet. he noted a faint smell of heliotrope and knew she had dropped the flower for him. this meant something, although it would not have much significance unless he picked up the heliotrope. he did not, and walking past with a quicker step, heard a soft laugh. when he reached the presidio he sat down on the balcony that overlooked the patio outside his room. there was nobody about and he began to muse. it was rash to take things for granted, but he thought he had been made the subject of three experiments. somebody had put a gold onza in the indian jar; olsen had tried to find out if he was ambitious; and the girl in the alameda meant to learn if he could be moved by beauty. well, they ought to know something about him now, but they were not very clever or they would have extended their experiments over a longer time. it looked as if they thought him something of a fool, and this was, perhaps, an advantage. kit smiled as he remembered that when janet bell tried to flirt with him he had been rather humiliated and felt himself a prig. he was older now and had not been much embarrassed in the alameda, although he nearly picked up the flower. his curiosity was excited and he wanted to find out the girl's object. indeed, it was hard to see why he had left the flower alone, but he had a vague feeling that it was unfair to use a charming girl in a dark intrigue. since he had known grace osborn, he had given women a higher place. for her sake, he would not try to gain an advantage against his and the president's antagonist by embarking on an adventure with the spanish girl. then he began to wonder whether he would see grace again, but presently got up with an impatient shrug. grace, in all probability, had forgotten their friendship and married thorn. anyhow, she was not for him and it was futile to indulge a barren sentiment. chapter iv the president's ball breakfast was over and alvarez, sitting at a table in the arcade, smiled as he indicated the transformed patio. the broken pavement had been swept, the fountain scrubbed until the marble showed white veins, and the old brass rails of the balconies gleamed with yellow reflections where the sunshine fell. small palms and flowering plants in tubs stood among the pillars, flags hung from crumbling cornices, and barefooted peons were fastening up colored lamps. "when the people are discontented they must be amused," the president remarked. "in rome, they gave them circuses and i had thought of a bull-fight. there is a spanish quadrilla in cuba but i found it would cost too much to bring the company across. besides, i do not know if strong excitement would be good for the citizens." "a ball is safer," adam agreed. "while they have the function to talk about they'll forget to plot." "for a week, perhaps! well, it ought to be some help, if your agents are prompt." "they're hustlers and know they've got to get busy. i expect the _rio negro_ back in fourteen days, and then it will be your business to rush her cargo up. mule transport's slow on your swamp tracks, and it's perhaps unfortunate you didn't give my friends the concession for the light railroad. you might have found it useful now." alvarez shrugged. "a railroad can be cut, and locomotives break down at awkward times when their drivers are bribed. then, i have granted so many concessions that there is not much that foreigners think worth getting left in the country. one must keep something to bargain with." "governing a people like yours is an expensive job. however, since they make it expensive, they oughtn't to grumble if you tax them high." "they do not always pay the taxes," alvarez rejoined with a twinkle. "if they run me out, they will probably disown their debts, and then there will be trouble with the foreigners. still, that is not very important, because i shall be gone and the americans will not let the others' consuls use much pressure. the speculators understand the risks." "that's so," said adam and added meaningly: "some of the speculators are american." alvarez put his finely-shaped hand on adam's arm. "my friend, if it is possible, you will be paid. if not, it will be because i am dead." "i know," said adam. "i'm not scared to take chances and when they go against me i don't grumble. anyhow, time is important and if you work this ball properly it ought to give us another week. you'll get the money for your soldiers shortly afterwards and mayne will land your guns." the president's dark face softened and he smiled. "i know whom i can trust," he said and went away. "if it's possible for a half-breed to be an honest man, don hernando meets the bill," adam remarked. "anyhow, he's a better president than these folks deserve, and they'll be blamed fools if they turn him down." he was silent for a few moments and then resumed: "i gave you a share in my business, kit, and now, if you are willing, i'll buy you out." "but i'm quite satisfied; i'd much sooner stick to our agreement," kit said with surprise. "well, i guess you're rash. your share isn't large but it would go some way to buy an english farm. raising herdwick sheep is a pretty tame occupation, but i reckon it's safer than backing alvarez." kit thought hard and imagined he saw adam's object. "of course," he said, "if you want to get rid of me--" "i don't know that i'm keen. you're some help, but you came out to forget the girl in england, and not to stay. well, if you mean to go, now's your time." "the trouble is i haven't forgotten her," kit answered quietly. adam's eyes twinkled. "if you go home, you may get her, and i allow she's probably worth the effort, but you're not going to side-track me like that. if you quit now, i can buy you out and you'll have something to help you make another start; afterwards i mayn't be able. you needn't hesitate about taking the money; i guess you've earned it." "i suspected where you were leading. still you see, i'd sooner stay. for one thing, i hate leaving an awkward job half finished. you're beginning to feel the job is bigger than you thought it was when you undertook it?" "it certainly is," adam agreed. "however, since you insist, i'll talk plain. alvarez has no claim on you, although he has a claim on me, and i pay my debts. the last to fall due is going to strain my finances, but it must be paid, a hundred cents for every dollar. all the same, the liability is not yours. there's no reason why you shouldn't pull out while you're safe." kit shook his head. "i see a reason. i don't know if it's sound, but after all one's self-respect is worth something." "oh, well!" said adam, "we won't quarrel. you're very like peter and he's the staunchest man i know." he got up and when he went off, kit, feeling somewhat moved, lighted a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. it looked as if adam did not think the president would win, but for all that meant to stand by him. although not fastidious about his business methods, adam had his code and was not afraid, when friendship demanded it, to fight for a lost cause. moreover, kit meant to fight with him. then he got up and smiled. adam meant well, but he was clumsy; if he had wanted to save kit from sharing his risk, he might have made a better plan. when evening came kit entered the arcade and sat down in a quiet spot to look about. the moon was nearly full and flooded half the patio with silver light; the rest was in shadow and rows of colored lamps twinkled in the gloom. a band played behind the pillars, the rattle of castanets breaking in on the tinkle of the guitars when the beat was sharply marked. the music was seductive, unlike any kit had heard in england, and he thought it tinged by the melancholy the moors had brought, long since, from the east to spain. at one end of the patio, groups of young men and women moved through the changing figures of an old spanish dance. their poses were strangely graceful, and some had a touch of stateliness. this vanished when the music changed and the well-balanced figures, raising bent arms, danced with riotous abandon. in a minute or two the melancholy note was struck again and the movements were marked by dignified reserve. kit got a hint of southern passion and, by contrast, of the austerity that often goes with indian blood. in the meantime, he noted the play of moving color, for the women wore white and pink and yellow. some had flowers in their dark hair and some covered their heads with a lace mantilla. the men's clothes were varied, for a number wore shabby uniforms, and others white linen with red silk sashes, while a few had chosen the plain black, and wide sombrero, of the spanish don. at the other end of the patio, portly señoras with powdered faces sat among the pillars, and grave, dark-skinned citizens moved about the pavement in talking groups. a heavily-built man with a very swarthy color and thick lips went to and fro among them, bowing and smiling, and kit knew this was galdar, the president's rival. kit did not like the fellow and thought his negro strain was marked. he looked sensual, cruel, and cunning. for the most part, the president stood outside the crowd, although now and then a group formed about him. he was tall and thin, his face was inscrutable, and kit thought he looked lonely and austere. by and by an officer kit had met told him he must dance and took him along the arcade. the officer stopped where two girls sat under a string of lamps, with a man in black clothes and a fat old woman behind. at first, kit could not see them well, but when they got up he started as he recognized the girl who had dropped the flower. then he tried to hide his embarrassment as he was presented to señorita francisca sarmiento. she was handsomer than he had thought and as she made him a stately curtsey her eyes twinkled. kit imagined the other girl studied him carefully and wondered whether she knew about the flower. it was, however, his duty to ask the señorita to dance, and after a few moments they crossed the pavement. kit had some misgivings, because the dance was involved and one used a number of different steps, but the girl guided him through its intricacies and when he took her back signed him to sit down. he obeyed, for francisca sarmiento had an imperious air. other young men came up when the music began again, but passed on, and kit imagined the girl had made them understand they were to do so since one or two frowned at him. "well," she said, looking at him across her fan, "how do you like this country?" "it has many attractions," kit replied. "but some drawbacks?" "the drawbacks are not very obvious now." "ah," she said, giving him a mocking glance, "for an englishman, you are polite, but it looks as if you were as cautious as i thought." "i'm flattered that you thought about me at all." kit rejoined. she laughed and played with her fan. "oh, well; we are curious about strangers, particularly when they are friends of the president's. one wonders why they come." "i imagine most of us come to get money." "in this country, one gets nothing unless one runs some risk, and you are cautious," francisca remarked. kit noted her insistence on this trait of his. he thought her remarks had a meaning that did not appear on the surface. "i wonder what grounds you have for thinking so," he said. "are they not obvious?" she answered. "not long since you hesitated to pick up a sprig of heliotrope." "i durst not think the compliment was meant for me." francisca glanced at him with quiet amusement. "you are modest, señor; it looks as if you had a number of virtues. for one thing, i imagine you are honest, and honesty is not very common here." she paused and resumed in a meaning tone: "it is a drawback, if one wants to get rich." "i don't know that my character is worth your study," kit replied carelessly. "you are of some importance, señor. although i have admitted that you are modest, it is strange you do not know." "why should i know?" kit asked. francisca studied him over her ebony fan, which hid half her face and emphasized the curious glow of her black eyes. "i do not think you are as dull as you pretend. have you not been experimented on recently?" "i think i have," said kit. "after all, a gold onza is not a great temptation. i found another--a spray of heliotrope--harder to resist." "but you did resist!" she replied in a quiet voice. "yes," said kit, fixing his eyes on her face. "i am an adventurer like the rest, but it is rather a shabby thing to try to gain an advantage in a battle with a woman. besides, as i'm not clever, i might have failed." with a languid movement of her head francisca looked round and kit imagined she saw the others were too far off to hear. then she made him a half mocking bow. "we need not quarrel, señor, and i will give you a hint. since you are incorruptible, this town is not the place for you. strangers from the north sometimes get fever. and i would not like you to suffer because you are honest, and have chosen the losing side." "ah," said kit, "you think our side will lose?" francisca moved her fan, as if to indicate galdar, who stood in the moonlight near the fountain. he was smiling urbanely and a number of men and women had gathered about him. kit knew they were people of importance. at the end of the patio, the president stood alone in the advancing gloom. "you see!" she said. "well, i am engaged for the next dance. you have my leave to go." kit left her and sat down in a quiet spot. on the whole, he thought the president's antagonists had been foolish when they tried to use the girl; she was, so to speak, too good, and perhaps too proud, for the part they expected her to play. this, however, was not important; he imagined she had meant well when she gave him a hint, although the hint was not worth much, because kit thought adam saw how things were going. then he reflected with some amusement that he need not bother much about deceiving the enemy, since galdar's friends would not suspect that buccaneer askew had knowingly chosen the losing side. presently kit joined adam, who sat near a lamp. his face was damp and looked pinched. "let's go and get a drink," he said. "i'm thirsty; got a dose of intermittent fever again." some tables behind the pillars were laid out with wine and fruit, and adam beckoned a mulatto waiter. "_tinto and siphon_. bring some ice." "there is no _siphon_, señor. we have sherry, vermouth, and some very good anisado." "you have plenty _siphon_" adam declared. "go and look." the waiter went away and adam frowned. "i can't stand for their scented liquors; i want a long, cool drink." after a few minutes, the waiter came back with a large glass, in which a lump of ice floated in red wine and mineral water. adam, sending him away, remarked: "that's a stupid fellow. i wanted to mix the stuff myself." he drank thirstily and put down the glass. "tastes bitter; too much resin in the wine, or perhaps it's imagination." he lifted the glass but stopped and threw the rest of the liquor on the pavement. "reckon i've had enough. about the meanest drink i've struck. give me a cigar. the taste stops in my mouth." kit gave him a cigar, but after a few minutes he threw it away. "i don't feel much better and think i'll go to my room. you might come along; the stairs are steep." he got up awkwardly and leaned upon the table, breathing rather hard while big drops of sweat started from his forehead. "this confounded ague grips me tight. don't know when i've felt so shaky. better give me your arm." they started, and keeping in the shadow, reached the outside stairs without exciting much curiosity, but kit felt disturbed. adam went up slowly, stopping now and then, and stumbled across the balcony at the top. bright moonlight shone into the bare room, where a small lamp burned, and kit saw that adam's face was wet. "leave me alone," he said. "you can come back by and by and see how i'm getting on." kit did not want to go, but gave way when adam insisted. he met the president soon afterwards. "where is don adam?" the latter asked. kit told him and added that his uncle had seemed to get worse after drinking some wine. "ah," said alvarez thoughtfully. "fresh lime-juice is better when one is feverish. did he drink anything else?" "no," said kit. "the waiter wanted to bring some anisado, but he insisted on the wine." alvarez took him to the table where the refreshments were served and clapped his hands. a waiter came up, but kit said, "that is not the boy." "where are your companions?" the president asked. "one is washing the glasses, señor. i do not know where the other has gone." alvarez opened a door and kit saw a man putting small _copitas_ into a pail. "it was another fellow who brought the wine," he said, and alvarez beckoned the waiter. "call the mayor-domo." a man dressed in plain black clothes came in, and alvarez asked: "how many of these fellows did you send to serve the wine?" "two, señor. it was enough." "three came. it will be your business to find the third," said the president sternly and turned to kit. "what was the fellow like?" kit described the waiter and alvarez said to the mayor-domo, "you will be held accountable if the man has got away. send doctor martin to the bottom of the stairs." the mayor-domo went away and alvarez knitted his brows. "galdar's friends are bold, but i had not expected this. however, don adam's drinking wine may have balked them and martin is a good doctor." kit asked no questions, for he could trust the president and thought there was no time to lose. they crossed the patio and found a man waiting in the shadow at the bottom of the steps. alvarez said a word or two and they went up. when they entered the room adam glanced up from the bed. "i see you have brought the doctor," he said with an effort. "in this country, one takes precautions," alvarez replied. "you look ill, my friend." "i'd have looked worse if i'd drunk anisado," adam remarked. "anyhow, you had better light out and let señor martin get to work." the doctor, who felt adam's pulse, made a sign of agreement, and then writing on a leaf of his pocketbook gave it to the president. "will you send that to my house? i need the things at once." alvarez moved away and adam looked at kit with a forced smile. "you needn't be anxious, partner. i didn't drink all the wine; reckon they haven't got me yet." then they went out and left adam with the doctor. chapter v olsen's offer for a time, kit wandered about the arcade, talking now and then to people he knew. the doctor had forbidden him to return to adam's room and the president said it was important the guests should not know that anything unusual had happened. although kit watched the stairs anxiously, nobody came down, but he saw the mayor-domo going quietly about and servants came and went on mysterious errands. when he looked out he found the sentries had been doubled on the terrace and one stopped when, for a few moments, kit left the arch, but the soldier knew him and marched on. while it was obvious that the waiter was being looked for, kit thought the search had begun too late. at length, alvarez sent for him, and although his heart beat as he followed the messenger he felt some relief when he saw the president. "i have good news," the latter said. "the doctor is no longer anxious and you may see your uncle in the morning. it looks as if don adam's caution saved him." "you mean when he refused the anisado?" alvarez nodded. "it is a strong-smelling liquor and one drinks a small quantity, taking water afterwards, if one wants. don adam knows the country, and after all my enemies have not much imagination. to offer him anisado was a rather obvious trick." "i'm thankful they failed," kit said sternly, and clenched his fist with sudden passion. "if they had not--" "one understands, don cristoval; i have felt like that when the plotters did not fail," alvarez answered with grim sympathy. he was silent for a moment or two and kit imagined he was thinking about his murdered son. then he resumed: "well, we shall have a reckoning and it will be bad for the dogs when i send in my bill. but that must wait, and i would like you to dance. i see señorita sarmiento is not engaged and she dances well." "i doubt if dona francisca would care to dance with me again." "ah," said alvarez, "one should not be too modest! francisca is a politician, but she is a woman. perhaps you found she is not on my side?" "i imagined she was not." alvarez shrugged. "well, i do not fight with women, although they are sometimes dangerous. try again, my friend. just now we are all playing at make-believe." kit obeyed and found francisca gracious. she danced with him and afterwards allowed him to sit by her. by and by she remarked: "i have not seen señor askew for some time." "he was not very well," said kit. francisca studied his face. "i hope his illness is not serious. i thought i saw doctor martin." "fever. my uncle gets it now and then." "i think i warned you against our fevers," francisca replied meaningly. "there are two or three kinds, but all are not dangerous." "some are?" kit suggested. "yes; to foreigners. we others take precautions and are acclimatized." "well," said kit in a thoughtful voice, "i have not had fever yet, but i suppose an unacclimatized adventurer runs some risk." francisca played with her fan and kit imagined she was pondering. "a risk that leads to nothing is not worth while," she remarked. "i think it would be prudent if you left the country while you are well." "i should be sorry if i thought you wanted me to go," said kit. "that is cheap, señor. i gave you good advice." "oh, well," said kit, "i really think you did. there are matters about which we do not agree; but i believe you are too kind to let a rather ignorant antagonist get hurt." franciscans eyes twinkled as she rejoined: "i like the compliment better than the other. but i am engaged for the next dance and as you are intelligent there is not much more to be said." kit went away, thinking rather hard. the girl had some part in the intrigue against the president, and it would obviously be an advantage to her friends if he could be persuaded to leave the country now adam was ill. admitting this, he thought her warning sincere. on the whole, he liked francisca sarmiento and believed she did not want him to be hurt. if adam did not get much better and he had to look after things, he would certainly run some risk of a cunning attack by the president's enemies. when the guests began to leave, kit went to his room and after some hours of broken sleep was told that adam wanted him. he found alvarez in the room and adam lying, with a flushed face and wet forehead, in a big cane chair. when kit came in adam gave him a friendly smile and turned to alvarez. "if i'd taken that drink at a wineshop, i'd have deserved all i got," he said. "i allowed i was safe at the presidio." "it is a stain on my hospitality for which somebody shall pay." "that's all right," said adam; "you're not accountable. looks as if the other fellow was too smart for both of us; but i had a feeling i'd better stick to _tinto_ and _siphon_. you can generally taste anything suspicious in that mixture and i've been doped before. but, as i'm an american citizen and american influence is powerful, i didn't expect they'd be bold enough to get after me." alvarez smiled. "our climate is unhealthy, but if you had died and suspicion was excited, your countrymen would have made the president responsible. that would have been another embarrassment and i have enough." "galdar's friends are a cunning lot," adam replied. "well, i think your doctor has fixed me up for a time. what about your plans?" "i had some talk with my supporters last night and we agreed to strike when the _rio negro's_ cargo arrives. we need the guns and money to pay my troops, and when we get them we will arrest the leading conspirators. this will start the revolution, but it will fail if my blow is struck before galdar is ready." "yes," said adam. "we can trust mayne; he knows he's got to hustle. i've fixed it for him to get the spanish money at havana and that will mean losing a day or two, but the old _rio negro_ can hit up a pretty good pace and mayne won't spare his coal. i reckon we'll hear from him soon." adam stopped and kit, seeing that it cost him an effort to talk, took the president away. they met the doctor on the stairs and kit waited at the bottom until he came down. señor martin was a fat, dark-skinned, spanish creole. "your uncle is an obstinate man and will not take a hint," he remarked. "i had some trouble to save him and he may not escape next time." "then you imagine there will be another time?" señor martin shrugged expressively, "i am a doctor not a politician, but in this country much depends upon the risk of being found out. señor askew is old and not strong. one must pay for leading a strenuous life and he has had malaria for some years. he ought to remain in the north. it is your business to persuade him, but do not disturb him yet." "i will try," kit said doubtfully. "you think it needful?" "if he does not go soon, he will not go at all," the doctor replied in a meaning tone. he went away and some time afterwards kit returned to his uncle's room. the shutters were pushed back from the balcony window and the strong light, reflected by the white wall, showed the thinness of adam's figure and the deep lines on his face. his skin was a curious yellow color and his eyes were dull. "you haven't been well for some time and the stuff you got last night has shaken you rather badly," kit remarked with a touch of embarrassment. "i think you ought to go back with mayne." "you imagine you can manage things better without me?" adam rejoined. "no," said kit, coloring. "it's a big and awkward job, but perhaps i can manage. i feel you ought to go." "it looks as if the doctor had put you on my track. he's been arguing with me. what did he say?" kit hesitated and adam smiled. "i can guess, partner, and perhaps he was right. well, i'm getting old and have a notion i won't live long, anyway. don't see that it matters much if i go or stay, and i've a reason for staying you don't know yet. besides, i hate to be beaten and mean to put over my last job." he paused and gave kit a steady look. "there's one drawback; putting it over may cost you something." "that doesn't count," kit said quietly. "what you have is yours; i expect you earned it hard." "i certainly did," adam agreed. "i earned part of what i've got by jobs that cost me more than my health. i'd wipe out some of my early deals, if i could. well, i don't know if playing a straight game on a losing hand will cancel past mistakes, but i feel i've got to play it out. my wad and yours are in the pool." "it's not my wad," kit objected. "you have treated me generously." "oh, well!" said adam. "perhaps i'll ask you to remember that by and by. in the meantime, i've no use for arguing and am going to stop. we'll say no more about it, but if i'm too sick to handle things, you'll take control. you know my plans, and that's enough; i don't need your promises that you won't let me down. now you can get out. i'm going to sleep." kit went away, feeling moved, but anxious. his uncle trusted him and he had got strangely fond of the buccaneer. adam had his faults and his career had been marked by incidents that were hard to justify, but he was staunch to his friends. kit did not know how far alvarez deserved his staunch support, and suspected that adam was, to some extent, moved by pride. he meant to make good before he let things go. kit resolved that when the old man's hands lost the grip he would take firm hold. next day adam was obviously worse and when two or three more had passed the doctor looked anxious. then, one hot evening, the president brought kit a letter addressed to his uncle. "don adam is asleep and must not be disturbed," he said. "perhaps you had better read this. it may be about the _rio negro_." kit opened the envelope and frowned. the letter was from mayne, who stated that he had met bad weather soon after leaving port and the racing of the engines in a heavy sea had caused some damage. he had, however, reached havana, where he had received the spanish money, and did not know what to do. some time would be required to repair the damage, but it would be risky to resume the voyage with disabled engines. kit gave the letter to the president, whose dark face flushed, and for a few moments he stormed with spanish fury. "this dog of a sailor has been bought!" he cried, clenching his hands as he walked about the floor. "if the money does not arrive soon, it will be too late; my soldiers will not take our notes. galdar has paid him to ruin me." kit, knowing the emotional character of the half-breeds, let him rage. alvarez did not often lose his self-control and he had some grounds for feeling disturbed. when he stopped, kit said quietly, "the captain is honest, but if he loses his ship with the guns and money on board, it will not help us much. if my uncle is better in the morning, i will see what he thinks; if not, i will decide about the orders to send." when alvarez left him he went into the town and after walking about the alameda sat down at a table in front of the café and ordered some wine. this was safer than the black coffee and scented cordials the citizens drank, but he tasted it carefully and gave himself up to anxious thought without draining his glass. the insurance on the _rio negro_ did not cover all the risks mayne would run if he left port with disabled engines, and the coast was dangerous. the loss of the ship would be a blow, but if mayne did not leave havana soon the freight might arrive after the president's fall. kit, feeling his responsibility, shrank from the momentous choice, and while he pondered olsen came up and occupied a chair opposite. "drinking _tinto_!" he remarked. "well, i guess that's prudent. but how's the buccaneer? he's been looking shaky and i heard he was ill." kit wondered how much olsen knew. he said adam's fever came and went and he would, no doubt, be better soon. olsen smiled and shook his head. "there's no use in giving me that stuff; i know the climate! askew's going under fast and will never be fit again. i reckon the old man knows he's got to let up, if you don't. what are you going to do when he pulls out?" "it will need some thought," kit answered cautiously, since he had grounds for believing the other imagined he was adam's clerk. olsen ordered some vermouth, and then remarked in a meaning tone: "i don't have to be careful about my drinks. there's an advantage in taking the popular side." "are you sure yours is the popular side?" "wait and see," olsen rejoined, "though that plan's expensive, because it may be too late when you find out. my employers don't often back the wrong man and i trust their judgment now. if you'll listen, i'll show you." kit signed him to go on and olsen resumed: "the buccaneer will drop out soon and you'll be left to do the best you can for yourself. well, i don't suppose you'll get another chance like this; we'll pay you ten thousand dollars if you can keep the _rio negro_ back for a week." "that doesn't indicate that you're sure of winning," kit remarked dryly. "besides, i wouldn't trust galdar to put up the money." "i don't ask you to trust galdar; my people will find the money. in a sense, it doesn't matter to us who is president, except that we want the concessions galdar promised, and they're worth an extra two thousand pounds. we'll give you american bills for the sum if your steamer lands her cargo too late to be of use." kit thought hard. it looked as if olsen knew the _rio negro_ had broken down. if so, he was obviously well informed and his employers were persuaded that the probability of the president's downfall was strong enough to justify the bribe. two thousand pounds would go some way to making ashness a model farm, while it was plain that adam might lose the money he had hinted he meant to leave kit. kit, however, did not feel tempted, although he wanted to find out something about olsen's plans. "you seem to take my agreement for granted," he remarked. "you must see that i could embarrass you by telling alvarez." olsen laughed. "you could put him wise; but you couldn't embarrass us. the president knows whom he's up against. the trouble is he isn't strong enough to get after us." "well, suppose i refuse?" "you'll be a blame fool. that's all there is to it." kit doubted. he knew what had happened to adam, and, in spite of olsen's statement, imagined galdar's friends would not let him warn the president. "anyhow, you must give me until the morning. i want to think about it," he said, in order to test his suspicions. "we can't wait; the thing must be put over now. there's no use in trying to raise my offer. you know our limit." "oh, well!" said kit, "i'm afraid i'll have to let it go. there are difficulties, and if you can't wait--" olsen looked at him with surprise, and kit saw he had not expected his offer to be refused. the fellow had a cynical distrust of human nature that had persuaded him kit could not resist the temptation; his shallow cleverness sometimes misled him and had done so when he took it for granted that kit was adam's clerk. "you don't mean you're going to turn my offer down?" olsen said sharply. "you force me. i can't decide just yet." olsen hesitated, knitting his brows. "oh!" he exclaimed, "that's ridiculous! the thing will cost you nothing, and i'll come up a thousand dollars. you ought to see you must accept." "i don't see," kit replied as carelessly as he could, and got up. "since you can't wait, i understand the matter's off." he went away, and glancing back as he crossed the street, saw that olsen's pose was curiously fixed and he seemed to be gazing straight in front. some of the customers now left the café and kit lost sight of him. the moon was high and clear, but the black shadows of the trees fell upon the walk through the alameda and there were not many people about. kit would sooner not have crossed the alameda, although this was his nearest way, but thought he had better do so. olsen might be watching, and kit did not want the fellow to imagine he was afraid, since it would indicate that he knew the importance of his refusal. yet he was afraid, and it cost him something of an effort to plunge into the gloom. chapter vi the president's watchers when kit was half way across the alameda he stopped and looked about. dark trees rose against the sky; he could smell the eucalyptus and their thin shadows covered the ground with a quivering, open pattern. there was a pool of moonlight, and farther on the solid, fan-shaped reflections of palms. nobody was near him, although he heard voices across the alameda, and he stood for a few moments, thinking, while his heart beat. since he had refused olsen's offer, caution was advisable, because kit felt sure the fellow had expected him to agree, and it was obvious that he knew enough to make him dangerous. he distrusted olsen, who was not a native american, and probably not a norwegian, as he pretended. there was a mystery about his employers, but kit suspected that they were germans, and as a rule the latters' commercial intrigues were marked by an unscrupulous cunning of which few of their rivals seemed capable. this was admitting much, since the foreign adventurers did not claim high principles. on the surface, it was obviously prudent to take the shortest line to the presidio, but kit reflected that olsen would expect him to do so. it might be better to put him off the track by going another way and kit was anxious to know if he had left the café. stepping back into the shadow, he made for another path and a few minutes afterwards returned to the street. he glanced at the café as he walked past and saw that olsen was not there. he thought this ominous, since it indicated that the fellow had gone to consult his revolutionary friends and kit imagined they would try to prevent his reaching the presidio. he seldom carried a pistol, which was difficult to hide when one wore thin white clothes. on the whole, he had found a suspicious bulge in one's pocket rather apt to provoke than to save one from attack; but he was sorry he had not a pistol now. kit went back across the alameda, hoping he had put olsen's friends off the track. if so, he would be safe until he got near the presidio, when he must be cautious. he passed two or three groups of people, and now and then heard steps behind, but the steps were followed by voices that relieved his anxiety. for all that, he was glad to leave the alameda and turn up a street. the street was narrow, hot, and dirty. there was a smell of decaying rubbish and the rancid oil used in cooking. one side was in shadow, and almost unbroken walls rose from the rough pavement. for the most part, the outside windows were narrow slits, since the houses got light from the central patio. here and there an oil-lamp marked a corner, but that was all, and kit kept in the moonlight and looked about keenly when he passed a shadowy door. perspiration trickled down his face and he felt an unpleasant nervous tension. yet nobody came near him and when he cautiously glanced round nobody was lurking in the gloom. he began to think he had cheated olsen, but admitted that it was too soon to slacken his watchfulness. at one corner, he saw two figures in shabby white uniform, and hesitated. in spanish-american countries, the government generally maintains a force of carefully picked men, entrusted with powers that are seldom given to ordinary police. they patrol in couples, carry arms, and are sometimes called _guardias civiles_ and sometimes _rurales_. kit knew he could trust the men, but doubted if they could leave their post; besides he did not want olsen to know he thought it needful to ask for protection. now he came to think of it, he had seen the _rurales_ outside the café and at another corner. perhaps this was why he had been left alone. he went on, rather reluctantly, and by and by reached the broad square in front of the presidio. the old building was clear in the moonlight; kit could see a sentry on the terrace and a faint glow in the slit in the wall that marked adam's room. it was hardly two-hundred yards off and he would be safe before he reached the arch, but a grove of small palms and shrubs ran between him and the square. there were rails behind the trees and the nearest opening was some distance off. a high blank wall threw a dark shadow that stretched across the road by the rails and met the gloom of the trees. kit looked about, without stopping or turning his head much. there was nobody in sight, but he somehow felt that he was not alone. it was a disturbing, and apparently an illogical, feeling that he must not indulge, and pulling himself together he went on, with his fist clenched. he was not far from the gate, and although he listened hard could only hear his own steps and voices in a neighboring street. yet his nerves tingled and his muscles got tense. in front, a thick, dark mass that looked like a clump of euphorbia or cactus stood beside the path, and just beyond it a bright beam of moonlight shone between the drooping branches of the palms. he thought the spot the beam touched was dangerous. as he crossed it his figure would be strongly illuminated and he would have his back to the dark bush. he wanted to move aside and go round the bush, but this might give somebody time to spring out and get between him and the gate. the gate was close by and he was strangely anxious to reach it. for all that, he was not going to indulge his imagination. he plunged into the gloom, without deviating from his path, and conquered a nervous impulse that urged him to run. when he had nearly passed the bush he thought he heard a movement and a thick stalk of the cactus shook. half instinctively, kit leaped forward and felt something soft brush against his shoulder. as he swung round, in the moonlight, with his mouth set and his hand drawn back to strike, he saw a blanket on the ground. there was nothing else and he breathed hard as he searched the gloom. the blanket had not been there before. next moment, a dark figure sprang from the shadow and a knife flashed in the moonlight; then he heard a heavy report and a puff of smoke blew past his head. the figure swerved and, staggering awkwardly, fell with a heavy thud. it did not move afterwards, and while kit gazed at it dully a man in white uniform ran past and stooped beside the fellow on the ground. kit vacantly noted that a little smoke curled from the muzzle of his pistol. "one cartridge is enough," he said coolly. "your worship did not escape by much." another _rural_ came out of the bushes and when they turned over the body kit saw a dark face and a long, thin knife clenched in a brown hand. he understood now that the blanket had been meant to entangle his arm or head; half-breed peons often carry a rolled-up blanket of good quality on their shoulder. "it is gil ortega," the _rural_ remarked. "a good shot that will save us some trouble, comrade!" "how did you come here when you were wanted?" kit asked as calmly as he could. the _rural_ smiled. "by the president's order, señor. we were watching the café." "but it looks as if you had got in front of me." "it is so, señor. we thought it best to follow this fellow. he lost you when you turned back." kit nodded, for he remembered that he had instinctively avoided one or two dark lanes that would have given him a shorter line than the streets. ortega and the _rurales_ had taken the shorter way. he thought it curious the report had not drawn a crowd, but although he heard voices nobody came near and he imagined the citizens were used to pistol shots. giving the _rurales_ some money, he crossed the square to the presidio and going to his room lighted a cigarette. he thought a smoke might be soothing, for he had got a jar. after a time, he went to look for alvarez and found him sitting in front of a table in the patio. a soldier stood not far off, but the president was alone and the light of a shaded lamp fell upon a bundle of letters and documents. alvarez worked hard and had inherited a rather austere simplicity from his indian ancestors. kit thought his plain white clothes and quiet calm gave him dignity. "it looks as if my enemies meant to lose no time," he said, in english, when kit told him about his adventure. "it's their third try in a few weeks," kit agreed. "don't you find the uncertainty about where they'll strike next rather wearing?" alvarez shrugged. "one gets used to these affairs; a custom of the country, and there is something to be said for it. if the plot succeeds, it is an easy way of turning out a president and changing the government. perhaps it is better to kill a man or two than fight round barricades and burn the town." "in the north, we find it possible to change our government by vote." "you are cold-blooded people and don't understand the passions of the south," alvarez rejoined with cynical humor. "we have tried your plan, but one must be rich to buy the votes. besides, if one is beaten at the polls, there remains the last appeal to the knife. but you will let this go. we have something else to talk about." "that is so," said kit. "to begin with, i must thank you for sending your _rurales_ to look after me." "it is nothing," alvarez replied in a deprecatory tone. "you are my guest and we try to take care of foreigners, because if they meet with accidents their consuls ask embarrassing questions. besides, watching them serves two objects." "then, i expect you know i met olsen at the café?" kit suggested dryly. alvarez smiled. "yes; i know. but i was not suspicious." "after all, one doesn't generally conspire in a public place. in fact, i don't understand why olsen met me there." "he may have meant to compromise you; to put doubts in my mind." "it's possible, now i think of it," kit assented. "i hope he didn't succeed." "i know my friends, don cristoval. but what did the fellow want? i do not know all." "your spies are pretty smart, but i expect our colloquial english puzzled them," kit remarked, smiling. "however, i was going to tell you--" he narrated what olsen had said and alvarez looked thoughtful. "galdar must be nearly ready; he has been quicker than i imagined. what are you going to do about the steamer?" "i'll wait until tomorrow. if my uncle is well enough, he must decide." "but if he is no better?" alvarez asked. kit gave him a level glance. "then i will send mayne orders to run all risks and start, whether his engines are repaired or not." "ah," said alvarez with a bow, "olsen was foolish when he tried to bribe you! i suppose this is your answer! well, it is lucky that a fast schooner sails to a port from which a telegram can be sent. when your orders are ready i will see that they go." next morning kit found adam lying half awake after a night of delirium. the old man's eyes were heavy, his brain was dull, and the doctor, who came in, made kit a sign not to disturb him. kit went out and spent some time writing a message to mayne. it was necessary that the captain should know what he must do, but kit was anxious to give no hint about the importance of speed that others would understand. he meant to guard against his orders being read by spies in olsen's pay. when he had sealed the envelope and addressed it as the president had told him, he went down to the patio and found a peon talking to a guard. "this man is the mate of the catalina and wants to see you," said the guard, and when he went off kit turned to the other, who looked like a sailor. "my wife lives in the town and i have been at home for a day or two," said the man. "i am going back to the schooner now and was told you had a letter for the patron." kit put his hand in his pocket. although he had expected the mayor-domo would come for the message, there was not much formality at the presidio, and the fellow was obviously a sailor. yet kit hesitated and as he stood with his hand on the envelope thought the other's eyelids flickered. the flicker was almost too slight to notice, but it hinted at nervousness and kit dropped the message back. "very well," he said. "wait a few minutes." he went along the arcade and stopping near the end looked back. the sailor had sat down on a bench and was lighting a cigarette. this looked as if he did not mind waiting, and kit wondered whether it was worth while to disturb the president, who was occupied. he went on, however, and alvarez signed him to sit down when he entered his room. after a minute or two, he put down the document he was reading to his secretary. "well," he said, "have you written your message for captain mayne?" "it is here. the _catalina's_ mate is waiting." alvarez turned to the secretary. "my order was that the _patron_ should come." "that is so, señor. i sent him word." "the man told me his wife lived in the town and he was starting back," kit interposed. "the _patron_ has a house here," alvarez replied. "we will see the man. but first send an order to the guard to let nobody go out." he waited for a minute after the secretary went off and then beckoned kit, who followed him downstairs and into the arcade. when they reached it kit stopped and alvarez turned to him with a meaning smile. there was nobody on the bench. "it looks as if my order was sent too late," alvarez remarked. "you had better tell me exactly what happened?" kit complied and alvarez sent for the guard and asked: "how did you know the sailor was the _catalina's_ mate?" "he told me he was, señor. afterwards, when don cristoval did not come back, he said it was not important and he would not wait." alvarez dismissed the man and shrugged as he turned to kit. "the plotters are clever, but they made a mistake. the fellow was too modest; he ought to have said he was the _patron_. well, we must try to find him, although i expect we are late. now give me the message for captain mayne. it looks as if our antagonists knew its importance." kit gave him the envelope and went back to adam's room. chapter vii adam resumes control although the shutters on the balcony window were open, no draught entered the small, bare room and the heat that soaked through the thick walls was nearly intolerable. there was not a sound in the presidio and a drowsy quietness brooded over the dazzling town. it was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the citizens were resting in their darkened houses until the sun got low and work and intrigue began again. adam and kit, however, had been talking for some time when the former, leaning back in a big cane chair, frowned at his nephew. his thin face was wet with sweat, but he shivered and his hands shook. "you can quit arguing; i've got to go," he said. "i don't get much better, anyhow, and can't stand for lying off when there's a big job to be done." "i believe i could see the job through," kit answered quietly. adam's dull eyes sparkled. "you might; i guess you're anxious to try your powers, but so long as i can get about i'm in command." "it's doubtful if you can get about," kit insisted. "i'm going to try. you'll have a quiet mule ready when it's getting dark, and i'll ride out of town; then, if the saddle shakes me, i'll go in a hammock. you can cut out your objections. the thing's fixed." "very well," said kit. "we had better make for corrientes, since the point commands the port and the lagoon. mayne will stop for an hour or two, looking for a signal, when he picks up his marks." "we'll start for the port and take the other track afterwards. there's no use in telling the opposition where we're going. i imagine they don't know if the _rio negro_ has sailed or not." "for that matter, we don't know," kit remarked. "oh, shucks!" adam exclaimed. "mayne understands what we're up against and he'd pull out when he got your telegram. if he can't use his damaged engine, he'll disconnect and bring her along with the other." he stopped kit with a frown. "if you're going to tell me the _rio negro_ can't steam across on one cylinder, you can cut it out. i've taught the men i put in charge that when a job's needful it has got to be done." he paused and when kit said nothing, went on quietly: "well, i reckon galdar's crowd will expect the boat to make for the port. it's easier to land cargo there and there's a better road. with good luck, we'll have the goods delivered before they know she's gone to the lagoon. now you can go along and get busy." kit went away in a thoughtful mood. he agreed with adam that secrecy and speed were essential, because if the rebels got a hint of their plans they might strike before alvarez could ensure the loyalty of his troops by distributing their back pay. much depended upon which party got in the first blow. in fact, if the guns and money reached the town before the rebels knew they were landed, kit thought the president's chance of winning was good. all the same, he imagined that adam, whom the doctor had forbidden to get up, would run a dangerous risk. at dusk a few barefooted soldiers paraded on the terrace, with two mules and three or four peons. since it was impossible to evade the watchfulness of galdar's spies, adam had resolved to set off openly and not to give them a hint that his journey had an important object by trying to hide it. he mounted awkwardly, with an obvious effort, and when he was in the saddle set his lips for a moment or two. then he turned to alvarez and smiled. "i'm not a back-number yet, but it's lucky the opposition don't know how hard it was for me to get up." alvarez made a sign of understanding. "you must dismount as soon as possible. you are very staunch, my friend." "i've got to make good. if everything is fixed, we'll pull out." "_adios, señores_," said alvarez, taking off his hat. "much depends on you." somebody gave an order, there was a rattle of thrown-up rifles, a patter of naked feet, and the party moved away. kit, turning after a few moments, looked back. he saw the long, straight building, pierced here and there by lights, rise against the orange sky, and the president's tall figure, conspicuous in white clothes, in front of the arch. his attendants had vanished, he stood motionless, as if brooding, and kit thought he looked pathetic and lonely. he afterwards remembered his glance at the old presidio. they rode down a hot street. the moon had not risen and the place was dark except for the feeble gleam of an oil-lamp at a corner. the clatter of the mules' feet on the uneven stones echoed along the walls, and here and there indistinct figures looked out from shadowy doors. for the most part, the watchers let them pass in silence, and although kit imagined news of their departure would travel fast, he was glad they passed none of the lighted cafés and open squares. it would be hard to see who was riding the mules, and while galdar's spies would probably find out this would need time and time was important. after leaving the streets, they followed the road to the port for some distance, and then turned into a track that wound along a dark hillside among clumps of trees. when they entered it, adam stopped his mule and got down awkwardly. "i've had about as much as i can stand for," he remarked, breathing hard. "looks as if we had got a start, but i reckon the other lot will try to track us to the port when the moon gets up." then with a sigh of relief he lay down in a hammock the peons had got ready, and when two of the latter took up the poles they went on again. on the second night after leaving the presidio, kit sat on the coaming of a small steam launch that lurched across the long undulations rolling in from the caribbean. it had been blowing fresh, and although the wind had dropped the swell ran high. when the launch swung up, a vague, hazy smear rather suggested than indicated land astern; the sea ahead was dark, but in one place a faint reflection on the sky told that the moon would soon rise. although the beach was some distance off, a dull monotonous rumble, pierced now and then by the clank of the launch's engines, hinted at breaking surf. the furnace door was open and the red light touched adam's face as he sat, supported by a cushion, in a corner of the cockpit. he looked very haggard and kit thought him the worse for his journey. "the light's in my eyes, but there was nothing on the skyline a minute or two ago," kit remarked. "it will be awkward if mayne doesn't get across. you seem persuaded he'll come." "i know he'd start. we can't tell what may have happened afterwards and there was more wind than i liked. he'll be here on time, if he's been able to keep the old boat off the ground." "time is getting short. i expect the rebels have found out we're not at the port and galdar will have the road watched when the news gets to the town. it might pay him to risk forcing a conflict if he could seize the convoy, and i'll feel happier when the guns and money are off our hands. it will be the president's business to look after them then." "that's so," adam agreed. "our part of the job's to land the goods and it's unlucky the tides are small. there won't be much water on the shoals and although we'll have an extra few inches tomorrow, i don't want mayne to wait." kit pondered, for he had taken some soundings when coming out. they were probably not correct, because the launch had rolled among the white combers that swept the shoals while he used the lead, but the average depth was about the steamer's draught in her usual trim. mayne, however, ought to know what depth to expect, and kit hoped he had loaded the vessel to correspond. by and by the mulatto fireman shut the furnace door, the puzzling light was cut off, and kit searched the horizon. for some minutes, he saw nothing; and then a trail of red fire soared into the sky. "he's brought her across," said adam. "get our rocket off." the rocket swept up in a wide curve and burst into crimson lights. after this there was darkness for a time until an indistinct black object appeared against the brightening sky. then the launch sank back into the trough, where the gloom was only broken by the glimmer of the phosphorescence that spangled the water. when she swung up on the top of the next swell the steamer was plainer and kit blew the whistle as he changed their course. when the moon rose slowly out of the sea he stopped the clanking engine and the launch reeled up and down, some fifty yards off the steamer. the _rio negro _carried no lights, but the phosphorescence shone upon her wet plates as she rolled them out of the water. her side rose high and black, and then sank until her rail was nearly level with the spangled foam. indistinct figures scrambled about her deck, and when kit sheered the launch in, her ladder went down with a rattle. a half-breed on board the launch caught it with his boat hook, and adam stood at the bow, waiting for a chance to jump upon the narrow platform that lurched up above him and then plunged into the sea. kit felt anxious. he did not think adam was equal to the effort and dreaded the consequences of the shock if he missed and fell. "stand by!" he shouted to the seaman on the ladder when the _rio negro_ steadied after a violent roll; and then touched adam. "now; before she goes back!" adam, jumping awkwardly, seized the seaman's hand, and kit, leaning out, pushed him on to the platform as it began to sink. then he jumped and coming down in a foot or two of water helped adam to the deck. mayne met them at the gangway and took them to his room, where adam sat down and gasped. when mayne poured out some liquor he clutched the glass with a shaking hand. after he drained it he was silent for a moment or two; and then asked in a strained voice: "have you brought the goods?" "got them all. we hadn't a nice trip. don't know how finlay kept her going and i thought i'd lost her on tortillas reef; but we can talk about that afterwards." adam made a sign of satisfaction and leaned back feebly. "it's some relief to know the goods are here." "finlay can drive her seven knots and has plenty steam," mayne said to kit. "i'm bothered about the water; there won't be too much." kit asked the vessel's draught and looked thoughtful when he heard what it was. "i can't guarantee my soundings, but imagine she won't float across and an ugly sea is running on the bar." "she'll certainly hit the bottom and the chances are she hits it hard," mayne remarked when kit told him the depth he had got. "i expect, too, the mist will drift off from the mangroves with the land-breeze and hide our marks." he paused and glanced at adam, who leaned back in a corner with his eyes half shut. "but i reckon we have got to take her in?" "yes," said adam dully. "leave me alone; you can fix things with kit." mayne beckoned kit and they went to the bridge. the moon had risen and threw a belt of silver light across the sea, but it was a half moon and would not help them much. ahead, in the distance, gray haze obscured the water, and the dull roar that came out of the mist had become distinct. mayne rang his telegraph to reduce the speed. "so far as i can reckon, it won't be high-water for most two hours, and on this coast you can't calculate just how much the tide will rise. there's going to be trouble if we find it shoaler than we expect and i had plenty trouble coming along. finlay could hardly drive her four knots in last night's breeze and the current put us on tortillas reef. she stopped there twenty minutes, jambed down on her bilge while the sea came on board." kit noted two boats that had obviously been damaged while the steamer hammered on the reef, and the white crust of salt on the funnel; but mayne resumed: "say, the old man looks shaky; never seen him like that. you want to get him home." "he won't go. however, he's rather worse tonight. i think he was anxious about your turning up in time to catch the tide. the journey tried him and now a reaction has begun." "well, i allow there's not much use in arguing if he means to stay; but he needn't have bothered about my getting across. when the orders came, i knew i had to bring her or pile her up. what askew says goes." they were silent for a time while the _rio negro_, with engines throbbing slowly, crept towards the coast. the land breeze brought off a steamy heat and a sour smell. the long undulations were wrinkled by small waves, and a thin low haze that obscured the moon spread across the water. kit, looking up now and then, could see the mastheads swing across the sky. there was, however, nothing to be seen ahead but a gray line that moved back as the steamer went on. "it's sure a blamed bad night for our job," mayne remarked as he gazed towards the hidden land. "i'm glad i told your dagos to burn a flare when they hit the channel." kit said nothing. the launch had vanished, and there was no guiding light in the mist. the turmoil of the surf had got louder and rang through the dark like the roar of a heavy train. presently mayne ordered a sounding to be taken and looked at kit when the leadsman called the depth. "a foot less than we reckoned, and there won't be much rise. i don't like it, mr. askew, and if my employer was not your uncle, i'd heave the old boat round." kit nodded sympathetically. he felt he hated the smothering haze that rolled in front and hid the dangers, but they must go on and trust to luck. he knew adam's plans and no arguments would shake his resolve. half an hour later a twinkle broke out some distance ahead and mayne rang his telegraph. "i'm thankful for that, anyhow," he remarked. "we'll let her go, but i have my doubts about what will happen next." the throb of engines quickened, the gurgle of water got louder at the bows, and the _rio negro_, lurching sharply, went shorewards with tide and swell. the twinkle vanished and reappeared, to starboard now, and chains rattled as the quartermaster pulled round the wheel. then the light faded and they were left without a guide in the puzzling haze. ten minutes afterwards there was a heavy shock, and a rush of foam swept the rail as the steamer listed down. she lifted and struck again with a jar that tried kit's nerve. a hoarse shout came from the forecastle and men ran about the slanted deck as a frothing sea rolled on board. mayne, clutching his telegraph, beckoned kit. "bring mr. askew up. he's got to tell me what i am to do." kit met adam clumsily climbing the ladder and when he helped him to the bridge mayne remarked: "she's on the tongue shoal. don't know if i can back her off and steam out to deep water, but, if you consent, i want to try." "i won't consent," said adam. "we're going in! what's that light to starboard?" "the launch; she's in the channel. i doubt if there's water enough for us, if we can get there." "then, shove her across the sand or let her go to bits." mayne rang the telegraph and touched his cap. "very well! she's your ship, and we have some sound boats left." for the next ten minutes kit clung to the bridge. he wanted to help adam into the pilot-house, but the old man waved him off. clouds of spray swept the vessel and made it hard to see her rail where the white combers leaped. now and then one broke on board and poured in a foaming torrent across the slanted deck; she trembled horribly as she struck the sand. it looked as if she were driving sideways across the shoal, but the flare on the launch had gone out and kit doubted if mayne knew where he was. sometimes the tall, black forecastle swung in a quarter-circle; sometimes the stern went round. for the most part, however, she lay with her side to the rollers and it was plain that the struggle could not last long. if they did not get off in a few minutes, rivets would smash and butts open, and one must take one's chances in the boats. two were damaged, but others might be launched, and kit was relieved to note that two or three deck-hands moved about as if engaged in clearing the davit-tackles. he sympathized with the men, although he did not think mayne had given them orders. in the meantime, adam clung to the rails, swaying when the bridge slanted, but looking unmoved, and kit knew that so long as the _rio negro's_ engines turned he would go on. it was not for nothing men called him the buccaneer, and now that he was staking his life and fortune on a hazardous chance there was something daunting about his grim resolve. a sea rolled up astern and buried the poop. kit felt the steamer lift and turn, as if on a pivot at the middle of her length. the after-deck was full of water, but the bows were high and going round, and he was conscious of a curious shiver that ran through the straining hull as she shook herself free from the sand. she crawled forward, stopped, and moved again with a staggering lurch. the next sea swept her on, but she did not strike, and after a few moments kit knew she had crossed the top of the shoal. her whistle shrieked above the turmoil of the sea, a light blinked in the spray, and she lurched on before the tumbling combers. by and by the water got smooth and an indistinct dark mass grew out of the mist. mayne, who was pacing up and down his bridge, stopped near kit with a reckless laugh. "this is the kind of navigation they break skippers for! if those are the mangroves on false point, i may take her in; if they're not, we'll make a hole in the forest." kit looked about, but could not see the launch. the dark mass was a thick belt of trees, but he did not know, and did not think mayne knew, where they were, and the easy motion indicated that the tide was carrying the steamer on. much to his relief, the indistinct wall of forest seemed to bend back, away from the sea. it looked as if they were entering the lagoon; and then he heard the telegraph and the rattle of rudder chains. the screw shook the vessel as it spun hard-astern, and the bows began to swing. it was, however, too late; the forecastle would not clear the mangroves, and kit knew the water was deep among their roots. shouting to adam, he seized the rails and waited for the shock. it came, for there was a crash, and a noise of branches breaking. the steamer rolled, recoiled, and forged on into the forest. some minutes later, mayne stopped his engines and there was a curious quietness as he came up to adam. "we are fast in the mud, sir. although she'll take a list when the tide falls, we may be able to work cargo. i'll lay out an anchor in the morning and try to heave her off, but i calculate it will be full moon before she floats." chapter vii the mangrove swamp early next morning, kit went on deck. although it was hot, everything dripped with damp, and sour-smelling mist drifted past the ship. her masts and funnels slanted and kit could hardly keep his footing on the inclined deck. when he looked over the rail, the rows of wet plates ran up like a wall above broken mangrove roots and pools of slime. smashed trunks and branches were piled against the bows and dingy foliage overhung the vessel's lower side. kit walked aft. the screw was uncovered, and shallow, muddy water, dotted by floating scum, surrounded the stern, which projected into the lagoon. in one place, however, a mud-bank touched the bilge, and three or four men, standing on planks, cautiously tried its firmness. they were wet and splashed, and one who ventured a few yards from the plank sank to his waist. the others pulled him out and then they climbed a rope ladder. kit thought the experiment proved that nothing useful could be done until the tide flowed round the ship. another gang was moving a kedge-anchor across the deck, while a few more coiled heavy ropes beside the winch. mayne obviously meant to try to heave the vessel off, but kit thought he would not succeed until the moon was full. in the meantime, cargo could only be landed when there was water enough to float boats up to the ship, and kit glanced across the lagoon. there were no mangroves on the other side, although thick timber grew close down to a belt of sand. below this was mud, across which he imagined heavy goods could not be carried. the heat and steamy damp made him languid, and he went to adam's room. adam had got up and sat, half-dressed, on the lower berth with a glass on the floor close by. his hands shook and there was no color in his lips. "it's rather early for a strong cocktail, but i felt i needed bracing," he said. "what do you think about our chance of getting her off?" "i imagine it's impossible for another week and don't see how we'll get the cargo out." "don't you?" said adam grimly. "it has got to be done. if mayne finds the job too big, i'll put it through myself." "you ought to leave before the malaria knocks you down," kit rejoined. "if i had the power, i'd make you go." adam smiled. "you mean well, boy, but you don't understand, and if you plot with mayne to bluff me, i'll surely break you both. now go and see if the president's men have arrived. then you can tell mayne to rig his derricks and take the hatches off." kit went out and after a time three or four figures appeared among the trees across the lagoon. they came down to the mud, but when kit shouted, asking if they could launch a canoe, one shrugged and they turned back. "i reckon the old man means us to get busy with the cargo," mayne remarked. "yes," said kit. "i understand he's ready to undertake the job if we find it too much for us." "he's a hustler, sure! so far as i can see, the thing can't be done, but if askew wants it done, i guess we've got to try. we'll carry out the kedge and make fast a warp or two when the tide flows. he'll expect it, though i don't reckon much on our chance of floating her." by degrees the muddy water crawled up the plates and the _rio negro_ rose upright; the haze melted and it got fiercely hot when the sun shone. a canoe, manned by half-breed peons, crossed the lagoon, and with heavy labor the kedge-anchor was hoisted out and hung between two boats. half-naked men toiled at the oars until the lashings were cut and the boats rocked as the anchor sank. then their crews, dragging large stiff warps, forced their way among the mangrove roots and made the ropes fast where they could. they came back exhausted, dripping with water and daubed by slime, and mayne went to the bridge. the sun pierced the narrow awning and there was not a breath of wind. the lagoon shone with dazzling brightness and the iron deck threw up an intolerable heat. kit felt the perspiration soak his thin clothes, and big drops of moisture trickled down adam's yellow face as he sat with half-shut eyes, in a canvas chair. by and by he took out his watch, and kit noted that he moved it once or twice before he could see the time. "hadn't you better get busy?" he asked mayne. the telegraph clanged, the engines panted, and the _rio negro_ began to shake as the screw revolved. there was no movement but the racking throb, until mayne raised his hand and winch and windlass rattled. puffs of steam blew about, the cable rose from the water with a jar, and the warps ran slowly across the winch-drums, foul with greasy scum. "hold on to it!" mayne shouted. "get in the last inch!" his voice was drowned by the rattle of chain and hiss of steam, but the uproar began to die away and the sharp clatter of small engines changed to spasmodic jars. then somebody shouted, there was a crash, and the end of a broken warp, flying back, tore up the dazzling water. the windlass stopped, and a few moments later a clump of mangroves swayed. kit heard green wood crack, as a rope that had stretched and strained began to move. then mayne raised his hand. "let go; stop her! you're pulling up the trees." there was a sudden quietness except for the insistent throb of the screw, and mayne turned to adam. "if the cable holds, i can smash the windlass, but i can't heave her off." "very well. you quit and get the cargo out. better hustle while she's upright." mayne went down the ladder and when he unlocked the iron door of the after wheel-house a gang of men brought out a row of small-boxes. a mulatto from the beach, who wore neat white clothes and an expensive hat, counted the boxes and then gave adam a receipt. "don hernando will be glad to get these goods and we will start at once," he said. "although i have a guard, it will be safe to reach the town before the president's enemies know." "that would be prudent, señor," adam agreed, and turned to kit when the mulatto went away. "i have done my part and it's alvarez's business to see the chests get through. well, we have both taken some chances since he was a customs-clerk and i a _contrabandista_ running the old _mercedes_, but i reckon this is my rashest plunge. anyhow, if i get my money back or not, i've put up the goods. now you can tell mayne to break out the guns." mayne gave orders, derrick-booms swung from the stumpy masts, pulleys rattled, and heavy cases rose from the holds. the boats, however, could not get abreast of the forward hatch and the cases had to be moved across slippery iron plates to the after derrick that hoisted them overboard. it was exhausting work, and the heat was intolerable. the white crew threw off their soaked clothes and toiled half-naked in the sun that burned their skin, but adam left the awning and went about in the glare. at first, the mates grumbled with indignant surprise. their employer was breaking rules; working the cargo was their business and nobody else must meddle. besides, they had not met a shipowner able to superintend the job. one who ventured a protest, however, stopped in awkward embarrassment when adam gave him a look, and the others soon admitted that few captains knew more about derricks and slings. nevertheless, kit was anxious as he watched his uncle. he knew adam would pay for this and wondered how long he could keep it up. at noon, the peons refused another load and when adam addressed them in virulent castilian, coolly pulled the boats away from the ship. when they had rowed a short distance they stopped and one got up. "more is not possible, señor," he said. "to work in this sun is not for flesh and blood. after we have slept for an hour or two, we will come back." adam felt for his pistol, but hesitated, with his hand at his silk belt, and kit thought he looked very like a buccaneer. "it might pay to plug that fellow, and i'd have risked it when i came here in the _mercedes_. still, i guess don hernando has enough trouble." mayne, standing behind him, grinned. "i reckon that fixes the thing. don't know i'm sorry the dagos have lit out; my crowd are used up and ready to mutiny." for two hours the tired crew rested while the water sank and the steamer resumed her awkward list. then the boats came back and the men crawled languidly about the slanted deck, until adam went among them with bitter words. the sea breeze was blowing outside, but no wind could enter the gap in the trees, and foul exhalations from warm mud and slime poisoned the stagnant air. kit's head ached, his eyes hurt, and his joints were sore; he felt strangely limp and it cost him an effort to get about. all the while the winches hammered and pulleys screamed as the cases came up and the empty slings went down. the heat got suffocating and the slant of masts and deck made matters worse, because the men must hold the derricks back with guys while the heavy goods cleared the coamings of the hatch. much judgment was needed to drop them safely in the boats. men gasped and choked, quarreled with each other, and growled at the mates, but somehow held on while the tide ebbed and the sun sank nearer the mangroves' tops. it dipped when the breathless peons pushed the last boat away from the _rio negro's_ side, and the noisy machines stopped. darkness spread swiftly across the lagoon and a white fog, hot and damp as steam, rose from the forest and hung about the ship. everything was very quiet, for the men were too limp to talk, but a murmur came out of the distance where the long swell beat upon the shoals. kit and mayne sat in the chart-room, with a jug of iced liquor on the table in front. sometimes they spoke a few words and sometimes smoked in silence, while adam lay on the settee, saying nothing. at length, he got up and a steward helped him to his room. somehow the others felt it a relief that he had gone. "i can hustle, but your uncle makes me tired," mayne remarked. "if you get what i mean, it's like watching a dead man chase the boys about; you feel it's unnatural to see him on his feet. well, one has to pay for fooling with a climate like this, and i'm afraid the bill he'll get will break him. can't you make him quit?" "i can't; i've tried." "the curious thing is he knows the cost," mayne resumed. "knows what's coming to him unless he goes." "yes," said kit in a thoughtful voice, "i believe he does know and doesn't mind. this makes it rough on me. i'm powerless to send him off and i'm fond of the old man." mayne made a sign of agreement. "he's a pretty tough proposition and was worse when he was young; but i've risked my life to serve him. the buccaneer holds his friends." kit said nothing. he was anxious and depressed and soon went off to bed. when work began next morning, adam was on deck and superintended the landing of the cargo in spite of kit's protest. kit thought the day was hotter than the last, and after an hour or two's disturbed sleep in his stifling room, found it hard to drag himself about. when the exhausted peons stopped at noon, he lay under the awning and kept close to adam when they resumed. he did not like his uncle's fixed frown and thought it was caused by the effort he made to keep at work. if not, it was a hint of pain he stubbornly tried to overcome. besides, his step was dragging and his movements were awkward. about the middle of the afternoon, adam stood near the noisy winch while a case was hoisted. the winch-man looked up when the heavy load, hanging from the derrick, swung across the slanted deck. "hold her while they steady the boom!" adam shouted and seized the rope that slipped round the drum. the winch-driver was watching the others who struggled with the guy, and perhaps forgot it was not a strong man who had come to his help. for a moment or two, adam kept his grip, and then his hands opened and he staggered back. somebody shouted, a pulley rattled, and the case, running down, crashed against the steamer's rail. kit ran forward, but reached the spot a moment too late, for adam lay unconscious on the iron deck. they picked him up and carried him to the bridge, where it was a little cooler than his room, but for some time he did not open his eyes. then he looked about dully and seeing kit gave him a feeble smile. "you're in charge now, partner; keep the boys hustling," he said. "there's the coffee to load up when you have put the guns ashore. looks as if i had got to leave the job to you." he turned his head, drew a hard breath, as if it had hurt him to speak, and said nothing more. the work, however, went on until it got dark, and when the mist rose from the mangroves and a heavy dew began to fall they carried adam to his room. he slept for part of the night while kit watched, but now and then tossed about with delirious mutterings. when morning came he did not wake and kit, looking at his pinched, wet face, went on deck with a heavy heart. he had sent for the spanish doctor, but thought it did not matter much if señor martin came or not. in another day or two he would be alone. chapter ix adam's last request it was nearly full moon, the night was calm, and the flowing tide rippled among the mangrove roots. clammy vapor drifted about the ship and big drops fell from the rigging and splashed upon the deck. a plume of smoke went nearly straight up from the funnel, and now and then the clang of furnace-slice and shovel rose from the stokehold, for mayne hoped to float the vessel next tide. for the most part, however, the men were asleep and it was very quiet in the room under the poop. a lamp tilted at a sharp angle gave a feeble light that touched adam's face. kit sat on a locker opposite, looking anxious and worn. "you loaded up some of the coffee," adam remarked in a strained voice. "half of it, i think; the rest's on the beach," said kit. "it's doubtful if we'll get the next lot, since señor martin understands the fighting has begun." "the lot you have shipped will be something to score against the account; it's prime coffee and ought to sell well. i'd like you to get the rubber, but alvarez can't wait long for the goods mackellar has ready for the boat. another voyage and you can pull out for the old country. i'd reckoned on going with you, but that's done with." kit said nothing. the doctor had come and gone, for he was needed elsewhere and could not help the sick man. one could indulge him and make things comfortable for a few days but that was all, he said, and kit saw that adam knew. by and by the latter resumed: "i've been thinking about peter and ashness. i'd have liked to see the old place and the fells again, and when i was half asleep i thought i heard the beck splash among the thorns and the pee-wits crying. well, you are going back, and you'll marry that girl. though it will cost you something to see alvarez through, you ought to be rich enough." "you mustn't talk too much," said kit. "señor martin told you to rest." adam smiled. "it doesn't matter now if i rest or not. my brain's clearer and i'll talk while i can. i never told you much about my early life, but i'm going to do so, because there's something i want to ask." "then, you have only to ask it," kit replied. "i know," said adam, feebly. "you're staunch. well, you have seen the despatch-box in the office, marked _hattie g._, though i lost the old boat long before you came out. she was a coal-eater and didn't pay to run, but i kept her going until she hit the reef. my first steamboat--i got her when she was going cheap; but she was bought with my wife's money, and called after her. "i met hattie in florida about the year you were born. she was vanhuyten's cousin and the finest thing that ever wore a woman's shape. northern grit and southern fire, for she sprang from new england and good virginia stock; i've seen no woman with her superb confidence. well, i was a _contrabandista_ with some ugly tales against my name, but i fell in love with hattie and married her in a month." adam was silent for a few minutes, and while kit mused, shovels clinked in the stokehold and the vessel began to lift. the tilted lamp straightened and its light rested on adam's wasted form. his silk pyjamas rather emphasized than hid his gauntness; he looked strangely worn and weak, but kit could picture the strong passion of his love-making. there was something fierce and primitive about the old buccaneer, and it was not hard to see how he had, so to speak, swept the romantic girl off her feet by the fiery spirit that had burned him out. yet he had never talked about other women, and though he knew the south, kit thought he had cared for none. "i left her in a few weeks," adam went on. "alvarez was putting up for president and my savings were at stake. hattie went home to virginia while i helped alvarez on the coast. he was hard up against it, though he's been president three times since. well, when things looked blackest, i was knocked out in salinas swamps, by fever and a bullet that touched my lungs. they took me to the old indian mission--we were cut off from the ship--and father herman put the _rurales_ off my track. i've sent him wine and candles, he's at the mission yet; it stands between thick forest and swamps like this, and the padre's the only white man who has lived there long. get down the chart and i'll show you the landing place." kit did so, feeling that he ought to indulge a sick man's caprice, and adam, after giving him clear directions, was quiet for some minutes. then he began again, with an effort: "vanhuyten told hattie, and i found out afterwards, that she had had trouble at home. her folks had never trusted me and wanted to keep her back, but she had rich friends who sent her out, like an american princess, on a big steam yacht. she got to the mission when i was at my worst, and finding i could not be moved, sent the yacht away. it was some days before i knew she had come. there was no doctor to be got. alvarez could not send help, and the government soldiers were hunting for his friends, but father herman knew something about medicine and hattie helped him better than a trained nurse. i can see her now, going about the mud-walled room in her clean, white dress, without a hint of weariness in her gentle eyes. that was when she thought i was watching, but sometimes at night her head bent and her figure drooped. "it was blisteringly hot and when the sun went down the poisonous steam from the swamps drifted round the spot. sometimes i begged her not to stay, and sometimes i raged, but hattie could not be moved and my weak anger broke before her smiles. she was strong and would not get fever, she said; she had come to nurse me, and, if i insisted, would go home when i was well." adam stopped and asked for a drink, and afterwards kit hoped he had gone to sleep, but he presently roused himself again. "i have got to finish, partner, because there's a reason you should hear it all. by and by father herman had to nurse us both, and when i got better hattie died. we buried her by torchlight in the dusty mission yard--she was a catholic--you'll see the marble cross. i've been lonely ever since, and that's partly why i sent for you; peter came next to hattie and you are peter's son. now i'm ready to pull out and somehow i think hattie will find me when i'm wandering in the dark. love like hers is strong. but i want you to listen when you have given me another drink." kit held the glass to adam's cracked lips. he drank and lay still, breathing hard, and kit heard the ripple of the tide. the _rio negro_ was getting upright and as the lamp turned in its socket the light moved across the wall. after a time, adam resumed in a clearer voice: "all i have is yours; mackellar will prove the will, but you'll see alvarez out, as i meant to do. another thing; mayne will get the old boat off tomorrow, and when he's loaded up i want you to take me out and land me on the creek i marked behind salinas point. he can fly the flag half-mast; i'll have started on the lone trail then. you'll hire some half-breed boys at the _pueblo_ in the swamp, and take me to the mission and lay me beside my wife. hattie was a catholic and you can tell father herman that what she believed was good enough for me. afterwards, you'll send him now and then the box of candles he will tell you about. they're to burn in the little chapel before our lady of sorrows, where hattie used to pray i might get well. you'll do this for me?" "i will," kit answered with forced quietness. "then i've finished," said adam. "i'm going to sleep now and mayn't talk much again." he turned his head from the light and presently kit, hearing him breathe quietly, went out on deck. at high-water next day, the _rio negro_ floated off the mud and when she swung to her anchor kit went into adam's room. adam was very weak, but looked up. "get the coffee on board; i'm afraid you won't have time for the next lot and the rubber," he said. "tell finlay to bank his fires. you'll want steam to take me out." kit understood, and nodded because he could not speak, and adam, giving him a quiet smile, went to sleep again. some hours later, mayne joined kit, who had gone on deck for a few minutes. "that's the last of the _hacienda luisa_ coffee," he said, indicating a boat alongside. "the peons tell me the next lot's coming down, but if we ship it, we'll miss the tide." "you can close the hatches. the coffee must wait." "it's high-grade stuff and brings top price. i sure don't like to leave it to spoil." "we must risk that," kit said quietly. "there's another thing; pedro, the clerk, reckons they're fighting near salinas and the president's not popular in that neighborhood. looks as if you might have some trouble to take the old man to the mission." "it's possible," said kit. "i'm going to try. have everything ready for us to get off to-night." mayne lifted his hand to his cap. "very well, sir. we'll start as soon as there's water enough." he went away, but kit knew what he meant. the captain had done his duty by indicating obstacles, but he approved his new master's resolve and owned his authority. kit was persuaded he would have mayne's loyal help and went back to adam's room. when it was getting dark, adam moved his head as the engines began to throb and the propeller churned noisily in the shallow water. it stopped after a few turns and steam blew off. "finlay's giving her a trial spin," adam remarked, in a very faint voice. "i see you've got things fixed and i'm ready to start." he stopped and shut his eyes for a minute or two, and kit did not know if he was conscious or not. then he resumed in a strained whisper: "all's ready; ring for full-speed. i'm going to meet my wife." he drew a hard breath, sighed, and did not speak again. an hour afterwards, mayne met kit coming out of the room, and glancing at his face took off his cap. "i guess it hits you hard and i'll miss him, too," he said. "i'll not get another master like the buccaneer." he went off to give some orders and kit sat down, feeling very desolate. when the tide had risen and flowed past, oily smooth, under the full moon, the windlass began to rattle and the cable clanged. the anchor came up and when the engines shook the ship mayne pulled the whistle-line and a long blast rolled across the woods. next moment a rocket soared and burst in a shower of colored lights. "vanhuyten and askew's signal! the head of the house is making his last trip," the captain remarked. the echoes sank, the colored lights burned out, and the measured beat of engines jarred upon the silence as the _rio negro_ went to sea. for a time the land breeze blew the steam of the swamps after her, and masts and funnels reeled through a muggy haze as she lurched across the surf-swept shoals. she floated high and light, her muddy side rising like a wall as she steadied between the rolls that dipped her channels in the foam. outside, the swell was regular and the roll long and rhythmical; the haze thinned, the air got sweet and cool, and the hearts of the crew got lighter as she steamed out to open sea. for all that, men lowered their voices and trod quietly when they passed the poop cabin where her dead owner lay. at sunrise, mayne hoisted the house-flag, and the stars and stripes drooped languidly half way up the ensign staff, until the glassy calm broke and the sea breeze straightened the blue and silver folds. by and by he changed the course and mountains rose ahead, although a bank of cloud hid the plain and mangrove forest at their feet. in the afternoon, he searched the haze with his glasses, and getting a bearing stopped the engines near salinas point at dusk. "if the weather's good, i'll wait three days," he said. "then, if you send no word, i'll pull out for havana and get the engines properly fixed. better take this bag of spanish money; minted silver goes and you may find the dagos shy of the president's notes." kit took the money, a boat was swung out, and four sailors carried the plain, flag-wrapped coffin down the ladder. they were rough men, but kit imagined he could trust them. another crew picked up the oars, greasy caps were lifted, the _rio negro's_ whistle screamed a last salute, and the boat stole away. mayne steamed off to anchor on good holding ground, and kit sat at the tiller, with his eyes fixed on the misty coast. it was dark when he heard breakers and saw the glimmer of surf. there were shoals all round him, but he had been told about a bay where a creek flowed through a sheltered channel. he did not know if he could find the channel, and if not the boat might be wrecked, but something must be left to luck and they pulled on before the curling swell. she struck, and stopped until a comber rolled up astern. it broke and half buried her in rushing foam, but she lifted, lurched ahead, and did not strike again. the men were nearly knee-deep as they baled the water out and one was afterwards idle because his oar had gone. in spite of this, they made the creek and drifted quietly into the gloom of the mangroves with the flowing tide. after a time, the water got shallow and they pushed her across the mud while leaves and rotting branches floated up the creek. no light pierced the forest, and the feeble beam of kit's lantern scarcely touched the shadowy trunks that moved past until they came to an opening. kit thought this was the spot he had been told about and turned the boat. she would not float to the bank and he and his four men got out and lifted the coffin. they sank in treacherous mud, but reached a belt of sand riddled by land-crab's holes. all was very quiet except for the ripple of the tide and the noise made by the scuttling crabs. the sand, however, was dry and warm and they sat down to wait for morning when the boat went away. chapter x the road to the mission the sun was high when kit and his tired men reached the village. he was wet with sweat and the moisture that had dripped upon him from the leaves in the early morning, and the men gasped when they put down their load. two wore greasy engine-room overalls, and two ragged suits of duck; their soft hats were stained and battered and they looked like ruffians. although mayne paid good wages, respectable seamen avoided the _rio negro_ and her crew were, as a rule, accustomed to fight with knives and sandbags on disorderly water-fronts. now they carried pistols, hidden as far as possible, but ready for use. small, square mud houses occupied the hole in the forest. where the plaster had not fallen off, their white fronts were dazzling, but they were dirty and ruinous and the narrow street was strewn with decaying rubbish. although the _pueblo_ had once prospered under spanish rule, it was now inhabited by languid half-breeds of strangely mixed blood, engaged in smuggling and revolutionary plots. they stood about the doorways, barefooted and ragged, watching kit with furtive black eyes. "i want porters and a guide to the mission," he told the _patron_, who lounged against a wall smoking a cigar. "it is a long way, señor, and the road is bad. besides, one cannot travel when the sun is high." "the road is, no doubt, safer then than in the dark." "that is true," agreed the other with a philosophic shrug. "the country is disturbed." "i must start at once," kit said firmly. "i am willing to pay for the risk." the _patron_ spoke to the others in a harsh dialect, but none of the loafing figures moved. "they say the risk is great," he remarked. "there has been fighting and the president's soldiers are in the woods." "the president's soldiers will not meddle with us," kit answered, incautiously. for a moment the half-breed's eyes were keen, but his dark face resumed its inscrutable look. "then the señor is a friend of the president's?" "if we meet his soldiers, they will let me pass." "the soldiers are not the worst. there are the _rurales_; men without shame, who shoot and ask no questions. however, we will see if i can find porters, if the señor will wait until the afternoon." kit distrusted the fellow and thought he had an object for putting off the start. he had been warned that the _meztisos_ sympathized with the rebels, and imagined that his party's safety depended on its speed. but he did not want to look impatient, and, imitating the other's carelessness, sat down and lighted a cigarette while he pondered. to begin with, he suspected that the _patron_ would prevent his meeting any of the president's soldiers who might be about, and it would be prudent to finish his business and get back to the ship before galdar knew he was in the woods. his men claimed to be american citizens and mayne knew where he had gone, but the latter's statements might be doubted if the party disappeared. it was known that askew was engaged in a risky trade and the captain's story would look more romantic than plausible. kit saw he must depend upon his own resources and presently noted that a man was leaving the village. the fellow kept behind the group in the street as far as he could and moved quickly. there was something stealthy about his movements and when he looked back, as if to see if kit were watching, the latter got up. "stop that man," he said. "but he is going to his work, señor," the _patron_ objected. "in this country, one does not work while the sun is high," said kit, who rather ostentatiously pulled out his pistol. "call him back!" the _patron_ shouted and the man returned, but kit kept his pistol in his hand. "nobody must leave the _pueblo_ until i start," he said. "i want porters and am willing to pay." "very well," the patron agreed, shrugging. "perhaps i can find a few men, but they will want the money before they go." for a time, kit bargained. the sailors were tired, and few white men are capable of much exertion in the tropic swamps. he must have help, and doubting if the _meztisos_ could be trusted, thought it best to offer a sum that would excite their greed, but stipulated that half would not be paid until they returned. when the _patron_ was satisfied kit turned to the sailors. "you'll have to hustle, boys," he said. "the sooner we make the mission, the sooner we'll get back, and i reckon nobody wants to stop in these swamps. there's something beside your wages coming to you." "that's all right, boss," one replied. "the old man drove hard, but he paid well and he was white. you can go ahead; we'll put the job over." the peons took up the stretcher-poles lashed to the coffin, a relief party went behind and they set off. nobody spoke and the _meztisos'_ bare feet fell silently on the hot sand, although kit heard the dragging tramp of the sailors' muddy boots. in the open space round the village, the sun burned their skin and they pushed on as fast as possible for the twilight of the woods. here and there a bright gleam pierced the gloom, but for the most part deep shadow filled the gaps between the trunks. creepers laced the great cottonwoods, tangled vines crawled about their tall, buttressed roots, and hung in festoons from the giant branches. some of the trees were rotten and orchids covered their decay with fantastic bloom. the forest smelt like a hothouse, but the smell had an unwholesome sourness. growth ran riot; green things shot up, choked each other, and sank in fermenting corruption. kit did not know if it was a relief to escape from the glare of the clearing or not. the sun no longer burned him, but he could hardly breathe the humid air, and effort was almost impossible. all the same, he pushed on, floundering in muddy pools and sinking in belts of mire. the road had been made long since, by slave labor, when the spaniards ruled, and had fallen into ruin, like the country, when their yoke was broken. kit could trace the ancient causeway across the swamps and wondered when another strong race would put their stamp on the land. the descendants of the conquerors had sunk into apathetic sloth; the blood of the dark-skinned peoples that ran in their veins had quenched the old castilian fire. when the light was fading, the porters declared the swamps in front were dangerous and put down their load, and after some trouble the white men lighted a fire. a heavy dew began to drip from the leaves and the blaze was comforting in the gloom that swiftly settled down. kit had brought a piece of tarpaulin and spread it between the roots of a cottonwood. he did not mean to go to sleep, but his head ached and he was worn out by physical effort and anxious watching. by and by his eyes got heavy and he sank down in a corner of the great roots. the fire had burned low when he looked up and a bright beam that touched a neighboring trunk indicated that the moon was high. all was very quiet but for the splash of the falling dew; the glade was a little brighter, and rousing himself with an effort, he glanced about. he saw the white men's figures, stretched in ungainly attitudes on a piece of old canvas. they were all there, but he could not see the _meztisos_. getting up, he walked into the gloom and then stopped with something of a shock. there was nobody about. for a few moments, kit thought hard. to begin with, he had been rash to pay half the porters' wages before they started. the money was a large sum for them and they had stolen away; perhaps because they were satisfied and afraid of meeting the president's soldiers, or perhaps to betray the party to the rebels for another reward. if the latter supposition were correct, kit thought he ran some risk. galdar's friends knew he could not be bribed and that adam was ill, although it was hardly possible they knew he was dead. they would see that kit had now control and since his help was valuable to the president might try to kill him. his best plan was to push on. he wakened the sailors, who grumbled, but picked up the coffin when he tersely explained the situation. wet bushes brushed against them, soaking their thin clothes, trailers caught their heads, and the road got wetter and rougher until they came to a creek. kit could not tell how deep it was; the forest was very dark and only a faint reflection marked the water. "we must get across, boys," he said, and the others agreed. they were hard men, but the dark and silence weighed them down and excited vague superstitious fears. it was a gruesome business in which they were engaged and they did not like their load. they plunged in and one called out hoarsely when he stumbled and the lurching coffin struck his head. another gasped, as if he were choking, while he struggled to balance the poles. the current rippled round their legs; it was hard to pull their feet out of the mud, and when there was a splash in the dark they stopped, dripping with sweat that was not altogether caused by effort. one swore at the others in a breathless voice. "shove on, you slobs!" he said. "the old man's getting heavier while you stop. i want to dump him and be done with the job. guess i've had enough." splashing and stumbling, they went forward and when they struggled up the bank kit wiped his wet face. for a moment or two he had thought the men would drop their load and as it jolted, vague and black, on their shoulders, the creaking of the poles had jarred his nerves. he was going to keep his promise, but he sympathized with the man who had had enough. after they left the creek, the road got very bad and in places vanished in belts of swamp. they sank in mud and stagnant water and no light pierced the daunting gloom, but it was not hard to keep the proper line, because one could not enter the jungle without a cutlass to clear a path. at length, when the men were exhausted, the trees got thinner and the moonlight shining through touched the front of a ruined building. the rest was indistinct, but the building was large and had evidently belonged to a sugar or coffee planter. the sailors stopped and kit studied a gap in the wall. the gap did not look inviting and there were, no doubt, snakes and poisonous spiders inside, but he could go no farther and the broken walls offered some protection. perhaps kit was moved by an atavistic fear of the dark forest, and he owned that he was influenced by the civilized man's longing for the shelter of a house. they went in, and after putting down the coffin in a room where vines crawled about the ruined wall, the sailors entered the next. one frankly stated that they wanted to get away from the coffin; kit could stop and watch it if he liked, but it bothered them to have the thing about. kit let them go, and sitting down in a corner among the rubbish lighted a cigar. a moonbeam rested on the opposite wall and the room was not dark. some light came in through holes, although there was impenetrable gloom beyond the door by which the men had gone. he could see the wet leaves of the vines, and the black coffin, covered by the flag. but he was not afraid of it; the man who lay there had been his friend and claimed the fulfilment of his promise. at the same time, it was soothing to hear the sailors' voices, until they got faint and stopped. afterwards the silence was burdensome, although a small creature began to rustle in the wall. kit did not know if it was a snake or a spider, and was too tired to feel disturbed. by and by his cigar fell from his mouth. he picked it up, but it fell again and his head drooped. the moonbeam had moved some distance when he opened his eyes and straightened his body with a jerk. the room was nearly dark, and when he thought about it afterwards, he imagined he was only half awake, for his heart beat and he was conscious of an enervating fear. a dark object, indistinct but like a man, stood beside the coffin. with something of an effort, kit recovered his self-control as the figure turned and came towards him. it moved with a curious stealthy gait, making no noise, and this was enough for kit. he had no grounds for distrusting the sailors, and they wore heavy boots. trying not to change his position, he felt for his automatic pistol. the butt caught a fold of his sash and he was forced to bend his elbow in order to get it out. it looked as if he would be too late, and he slipped as the movement dislodged the rubbish on which he sat. then, as he shrank with an instinctive quiver from the prick of the knife, the figure swerved and leaped back. kit threw up the pistol and pulled the trigger. there was a flash that dazzled his eyes and a little smoke curled up, but when he leaned forward his antagonist had gone. he heard no movement when he sprang to his feet and almost imagined he had been dreaming, until the sailors shouted and their boots rattled on the broken floor. they ran in and when kit told them what had happened went to the hole in the wall. the moonlight touched the front of the building and part of the road was bright, but the shadow of the forest had crept across the rest. all was very quiet; there was no sound in the gloom. then a flake of plaster fell close behind kit's head and a sharp report rolled across the trees. one of the men shot at a venture and two of his companions ran savagely along the road, until kit called them back. "come in," he said when they returned. "you're a plain mark in the moonlight and can't see the other fellow among the trees." "looks as if it was you he wanted," one replied. "well, i guess we have no use for being left without a boss, and since we don't like our camping ground, you have got to come with us. we'll draw cuts for who's to watch." kit went with them. he felt shaken, for the man who had brought down the plaster was obviously a good shot. he imagined it was another who had intended to stab him; in fact, a number of his enemies might be lurking about. he was not, as a rule, vindictive, but the stealthy attack had induced a dangerous mood and he was sorry he had missed the man. it was hard to see why he had done so, but he had, perhaps, been half asleep. now, however, he resolved to watch until day broke. chapter xi kit keeps his promise it was getting light when the man on watch called kit, who went to the gap in the wall. thin mist drifted about the trees and trailed across the road. there was some open ground in front of the building, but behind this the forest loomed in a blurred, shadowy mass. "i reckon i saw something move where the fog's on the road," the man remarked. kit saw nothing. his eyes were keen, for he had searched the hillsides for sheep, but it looked as if they were not as keen as the sailor's, and standing in the shadow he watched the indicated spot. after a minute or two, a figure came out of the fog and signaled with a lifted hand. "more of them around!" said the sailor grimly. "there's trouble coming to them if they mean to corral us. jake's at the side window, and he had to get out of mobile because he was too handy with his gun. not often had to pull mine, but i can shoot some." "quit talking!" kit rejoined, and his mouth set firm when the figure vanished. he thought the rebels meant to surround the building. if so, they were probably numerous, and the rifle shot some hours before justified the supposition. they had first tried to kill him quietly and, finding this impossible, had resolved to seize the party. well, there was good cover behind the broken walls, his men were a reckless lot, and he meant to fight. he wished the others would begin, for standing, highly-strung, in the dew was nervous work. the light had got clearer when he noted a movement in a festoon of trailing vines. the wet leaves shook as if somebody were cautiously pulling them back, and kit stiffened his muscles. it was a comfort to feel his hand was steady, and although he had not used a pistol much he was a good shot with a gun. he thought he could send a bullet through the moving leaves, but wanted his lurking enemy to begin the fight. a face appeared at an opening and an arm pushed through. the man was coming out and kit felt his nerves tingle. then, as the fellow's body followed his arm, the sailor said quietly, "don't move, boss. i'll fix him." next moment, kit swung round, for the man who stepped out into the road wore a white uniform. the sailor leaned against the wall to steady his aim, and his tense pose and rigid hand indicated that he was pressing the trigger. "hold on!" kit shouted. "don't shoot!" the sailor lowered his pistol and kit, springing out of the shadow, waved his hat. "come forward. we are friends." the _rural_ turned and called to somebody, and then joining kit glanced at the sailor's pistol with a dry smile. "it looks as if i had run some risk. you did not mean to be surprised." "no," said kit; "one takes precautions. i came very near being surprised last night." "so the _galdareros_ are about? we suspected something like this." "i suppose it was why you meant to search the _hacienda_. but did you see us?" the _rural_ indicated a plume of smoke that curled up from behind the ruined wall. "we saw _that_. when one takes precautions it is prudent to see they are complete." kit nodded. there was no use in getting angry; his men were rash and careless, but, to some extent, this was why he had chosen them. they had, no doubt, lighted the fire to cook breakfast. "where is your companion?" he asked. "there are three of us; you will see the others in a few moments. they watch the road farther on. it is usual for us to patrol in twos, but of late some have not returned. a revolution is a bad time for _rurales;_ one pays old reckonings then." kit smiled. "i imagine it would have been bad for any _galdarero_ who had tried to steal away down the road. but i expect you know me?" "we have orders about you, señor; you see a servant of yours," the _rural_ answered with a bow. "but it might be better if you told us your plans." after giving him a cigarette, kit sent the sailor to tell the others and when the _rurales_ came up offered them a share of the breakfast his men had cooked. while they ate he told them what had brought him there and where he was going. "so the american is dead? i have seen him at the presidio," one remarked. "well, señor, it would be prudent to finish your business at salinas to-night. after that, i do not know. there has been fighting and some of the president's soldiers have been killed in the swamps." "i must finish the business," kit replied. "it does not matter what happens afterwards." the _rural_ nodded. "the american talked like that. quick and short, but what he said went. however, we will go to salinas with you when you are ready." kit got up and gave his men an order. "i am ready now." they set off soon afterwards and reached the mission as the light was fading. two small, mud buildings and a little church stood among some ruins in an opening, and a frail old man met the party at the gate. he took off his hat when the sailors put down the coffin, and then listened to kit's quiet narrative. "this poor place is yours; it was a prosperous mission long since," he said. "in this country, men no longer build, but plot and destroy--it is easier than the other. now we will put the coffin in the church and then i will give you food." father herman drew back an old leather curtain and the smell of incense met kit as he stood at the door while the sailors went forward with their load. the church was nearly dark, but kit saw it had some beauty and there were objects that hinted at more prosperous days. at the other end, a ruby lamp glimmered and a wax candle burned with a clear flame before a statue of the virgin. kit knew whence the candle came and that hattie askew had knelt on the stones, beneath it, praying that her husband might get well. then he looked at father herman, with a doubt in his mind. the other met his glance and smiled. "the greatest of these is charity," he said in latin, and resumed in fine castilian: "he was our benefactor, a man who kept his word, and with such a wife i think our faith was his. it is a gracious sentiment that they should not be parted." "in a sense," kit said quietly, "i think they have not been parted yet. at the last he said, with confidence, he was going to meet his wife." "who knows?" said father herman. "there is much that is dark; but one felt that his spirit reached out after hers. well, i knew he would come back; i have long expected him." he went forward and lighted more candles when the sailors put down the coffin, and the noise their boots made jarred kit's nerves as they came back. the light spread, touching the bare walls and tawdry decorations about the shrines. it was a poor little church, falling into ruin, and the beauty its pious builders had given it was vanishing. yet something redeemed it from being commonplace, and kit felt a strange emotional stirring as his eyes rested on the dim ruby lamp and the rude black coffin. he thought the light of love could not be quenched and knew the tender romance that had burned in the heart of the old buccaneer. it was with something of an effort he turned away, and followed father herman across the corral. two hours later, red torches flared in the dark as they laid adam in his grave, and kit, worn by anxiety and physical strain, listened dully to the solemn latin office. then, when the old priest's voice died away, he went back to the mission, where he fell asleep and slept twelve hours. in the morning, he sat beneath a broken arch that had once formed part of a cloister. outside the patch of shadow, the sun beat upon dazzling sand, and a few vivid green palm-fronds hung over a ruined wall. beyond this the forest rose, dark and forbidding, against the glaring sky. although the rest had refreshed kit, he felt as if he had got older in the last few days and now the strain had slackened he was lonely. so far, he had obeyed orders and when doubtful looked to adam for a lead, but adam had gone and left him control. all that belonged to his youth had vanished; he was a man, with a man's responsibilities, and a man's problems to solve. presently father herman came up and sat down opposite. although he looked feeble, his glance was clear and kind. "this house is yours, señor, and i am your servant," he said. "yet i cannot hope that you will remain long and the times are disturbed. if i can help--" "since the rebels know i am here, it would not be safe to stay, but i cannot reach salinas point before the steamer sails," kit replied. "i must get to havana as soon as possible." father herman thought for a few minutes and then resumed: "a small schooner is loading at a beach not far off and i know the _patron_. he would take you to arenas, where the president has supporters and you might get a ship. i think he sails to-night, but i will send a message." kit thanked him and went on: "you were my uncle's friend, and now i have taken his place, you are mine. as you let him send you things the mission needed, perhaps you will not refuse me." "i had not hoped for this," father herman answered with a grateful look. "the generous gifts meant much to us, for we are very poor." "friendship has privileges. besides, it was my uncle's wish, and will be something i can do for his sake." father herman's worn face got very soft and he gave kit an approving glance. "you are his kinsman, señor; one cannot doubt that. like him, you are staunch and do not forget, but in some ways you are different. i will take your gifts and pray that yours may be a less stormy life." "thank you," kit said gently and went off to look after his men. in the afternoon he left the mission, and a week later reached havana, where he found a cablegram waiting. he got a shock when he opened it, and stood for a time with the message crumpled in his hand, for it told him that peter askew was dying at ashness. then he sat down on the long, arcaded veranda of the hotel, with a poignant sense of loss, for the last blow was heavier than the first. it would be too late when he got home; andrew, his english relative, would not have sent the message had there been any hope. after a time, kit began to pull himself together. he felt dull and half stunned, but saw that he must brace up. although one duty was denied him, another was left. he could not bid his father good-by, but he could keep his promise to adam, and there was much to be done. getting up with a resolute movement, he went to the telegraph office. although peter had not hinted that he was ill, kit felt he ought to have gone home before, and now blamed alvarez for keeping him. he knew this was not logical, but he hated the country, with its turmoils and plots. it was not worth helping, and in very truth he did not know if by supporting the president he were helping it or not. after all, however, this was not important; alvarez needed a last supply of munitions that adam had agreed to send. kit doubted if they would be paid for, but the doubt did not count for much. adam knew the risk when he agreed and his engagements bound his nephew. the goods must be delivered and then kit would let the business go. when he reached the office he wrote a cablegram to andrew at ashness and another to mayne, who had left havana before kit arrived. chapter xii the last cargo dusk was falling and kit urged his tired mule up the winding road. his skin was grimed with dust, for he had ridden hard in scorching heat, and was anxious and impatient to get on. the _rio negro_ was in the lagoon and some cargo had been landed, but kit stopped the work when nobody came to take the goods. it looked as if the message he had sent through a secret channel had not reached the president, and this was ominous. he had heard rumors of fighting when he was in cuba and the united states, but the newspapers gave him little information and he had driven the _rio negro_ across at full speed in order to finish the contract before the revolution spread, which was all he wanted. adam's staunch loyalty had cost him his life, but the president had no claim on kit. besides, his stopping in the country had kept him away from ashness when he was needed there. he smiled as he admitted that he was hardly logical, since he was stubbornly pushing on when almost exhausted in order that alvarez might get the goods he required; but after all, this was for adam's sake. as he rode up the hill the sky got brighter and a flickering illumination was reflected on the clouds that hung about the mountains. it looked as if the town were lighted up and kit wondered whether this was to celebrate a victory. he struck the mule, but the tired animal came near throwing him when it stumbled and he let it choose its pace. the jolt had shaken him and he was very tired. for a time he skirted a belt of trees, and when he came out on the open hillside the illumination was ominously bright. now he was getting nearer, the clouds looked different from the mist that rolled down the mountains in the evening; they were dark and trailed away from the range. still, he could go no faster and he waited with growing anxiety until he reached a narrow tableland. it commanded a wider view and he raised himself in the stirrups as he saw that the light was the reflection of a large fire. he sank back and pulling up the mule let the bridle fall on its drooping neck. it looked as if a number of houses were burning in the town, which indicated that there had been a fight. the trouble was he did not know who had won and this was important. if the president were badly beaten, he would not need the supplies at the lagoon, although they might be useful to the rebels. kit imagined it would be prudent to turn back, but he must find out what had happened and sent the mule forward. half an hour afterwards he rode into the town. the small square houses were dark and there was nobody in the narrow street, but he heard a confused uproar farther on. although the glare in the sky was fainter, it leaped up now and then and a cloud of smoke floated across the roofs. a red glow shone down the next street and he saw the pavement was torn up. broken furniture lay among piles of stones, the walls were chipped, and when kit got down he had some trouble to lead the mule across the ruined barricade. although he saw nobody yet, the shouts that came from the neighborhood of the presidio were ominous. kit remounted and rode slowly up to the edge of the sandy square where the palms grew along the rails. the square was occupied by an excited crowd, but the presidio had gone. a great pile of smoking rubbish and a wall, broken by wide cracks, marked where it had stood. flames played about the ruin and kit turned his mule. he thought the crowd was waiting to search for plunder, and did not expect to find anybody calm enough to answer his questions. besides, he needed food and drink and might learn what had happened at the café. the small tables stretched across the street and were all occupied, but when kit had tied the mule to the alameda railings opposite he found a chair and ordered an omelette and wine. the waiter looked at him with some surprise and kit wondered whether it was prudent for him to stay. "you have been burning the presidio," he remarked. "we have got rid of a tyrant," the waiter replied. "you may get another worse," said kit, as coolly as he could. "what happened to the president?" somebody shouted "_mozo_" and when the waiter went away kit rested his arms on the table. he was very tired, and it was obvious that he had come too late. since the president was overthrown, he had lost a large sum of money and wasted the efforts he had made to carry out adam's engagements. he must get back to the lagoon as soon as possible, but he needed food and wanted to find out if alvarez had escaped. there was, however, some risk in asking questions, because the café seemed to be occupied by triumphant rebels. presently the men at the next table got up and their place was taken by another group, among which kit noted francisca sarmiento and her relations. he thought they looked surprised, but they saluted him politely, and soon afterwards the girl, who was nearest, looked round. "you have courage, señor," she remarked in a meaning tone. "i do not know if courage is needed," kit replied, forcing a smile. "it looks as if i could no longer meddle with politics." "then, since you could not help alvarez, why did you come?" "i imagined i could help him, until i saw the presidio was burnt," kit replied. "in fact, i haven't found out what has happened yet." the girl studied him with some curiosity, but kit felt that he had nothing to fear from her. "if one did not know that you were incorruptible, one could understand your rashness," she said, in a mocking tone. "i suppose your steamer is in the lagoon?" kit looked round. the café was crowded, but the people were talking excitedly, and nobody seemed to notice him and the girl. the noise would prevent their talk being heard. "there is no use in denying it, because galdar's spies have, no doubt, seen her. i would be glad if you can tell me what has become of the president." francisca gave him a keen glance. "you do not know alvarez is dead?" "ah!" said kit. "i did not know. was he killed?" "he died soon after the fighting began. the doctors say it was apoplexy; he had been hurrying about in the burning sun." "i wonder--he was a strong man and used to the sun." francisca smiled. "one does not ask questions at a time like this. it is prudent to believe what one is told. when the soldiers lost their leader they ran away." kit was silent for a few minutes. he had had a faint hope that the president might rally his supporters and begin the fight again, but the hope was gone. he knew all he wanted, and must leave the town as soon as he had had some food. "alvarez was a friend of mine, and the news you have given me is something of a shock," he said. "i think the country will feel its loss, but that is not my business, and since there is nothing to keep me here, i shall be glad to get away." "it would be prudent to go soon," francisca remarked in a low voice. "i do not see why. i am no longer important enough for your friends to meddle with me." "you are very modest, señor, if you are not rather dull. you have goods that would be useful to the new president, who has a rival he did not expect. don felix muñez has turned traitor, and there are people who support him in the coast province." "another president!" kit exclaimed with a soft laugh, and then bowed to the girl. "i think you mean well. you have given me a useful hint and you have my thanks. i will be rash and tell you that galdar shall not have the goods i brought." franciscans eyes got soft and a touch of color crept into her olive skin. "one does not often meet a man who puts honor before money. _adios, señor!_ i wish you well." then she turned to her companions, who presently left the table and soon afterwards kit's omelette was brought. while he ate, olsen came in and sitting down opposite, lighted a cigarette. "you'll allow that the buccaneer backed the wrong man," he said. "i warned you and reckon your obstinacy has cost you something." "that is so," kit agreed. "one must run risks in a business like this, but i don't expect you to sympathize." olsen smiled. "i don't pretend i'm not satisfied, but i can show you how to get some of your money back. i've learned much about you and askew since we had our last talk, and am willing to buy part of the _rio negro's_ cargo." "you seem to know she has arrived?" "oh, yes; i knew some hours since. i've been looking out for you." "to whom do you mean to sell the goods?" kit asked. "does that matter?" "yes; it's rather important." "the important thing is you'll get paid," olsen rejoined. kit frowned. he imagined he could demand a high price, and now alvarez was dead, there was perhaps no reason for refusing to bargain; but he did not mean to let galdar have the goods. he thought adam would not have done so, and he held the new president, to some extent, accountable for adam's last illness. "the cargo is not for sale," he said. "oh, shucks!" olsen exclaimed. "i reckon you want to put up the price." "no," said kit, rather grimly, "i don't want to sell." "don't be a fool. the man you backed is dead. you carried out your contract, and it doesn't matter to him now who gets the truck." "that's true," kit replied. "but i won't help his rival." olsen looked hard at him and saw he was resolute. "oh, well! if you're determined, there's no use in arguing! you're something of a curiosity; i haven't met a man like you before." he went away and kit ordered more wine, for he was thirsty after his long ride and had borne some strain. he had to wait for the wine, but had expected this since the café was crowded, and in the meantime he got up and looked across the street. nobody had meddled with the mule, which stood quietly by the railings with drooping head. kit wondered where he could get it some food and if he could hire a fresh animal. then a waiter brought the wine and when he had drunk some and lighted a cigarette kit, listening to the talk of the men at the next table, got a hint that threw some light on olsen's offer. alvarez had used the vaults under the presidio for a munition store, and when he was dead the mayor-domo had blown up the building as the rebels forced their way in. now there was a new president in the field, it was obvious why galdar wanted fresh supplies. this, however, was not important, and kit drained his glass and then tried to rouse himself. he must look after the mule and if it was not fit for the journey get another animal. he felt strangely reluctant to move; the fatigue he had for a time shaken off returned with puzzling suddenness and threatened to overpower him. his head was very heavy, he could hardly hear the people talk, and every now and then his eyes shut. he could not keep them open, but after a few minutes he straightened his bent shoulders with a resolute jerk and clenched his fist. it was not fatigue that was mastering him; the wine was drugged. he had not noted a suspicious taste, but he was thirsty and the omelette was strongly flavored with garlic and red pepper. holding himself stiffly upright, he tried to think. olsen had, no doubt, ordered the wine to be drugged, and his object was plain. he meant to prevent kit reaching the lagoon until he had removed the cargo on the beach and tried to persuade mayne to land the rest. well, the plot would fail, and with an effort kit got up and crossed the street. he suspected that he was watched, but nobody tried to stop him and he mounted the mule. the animal moved off at a better pace than he had hoped and he tried to brace himself. his head ached and his brain was very dull, but somehow he stuck to the saddle, and although he could hardly guide the mule the animal avoided the people in its way. after a time, the street became empty, the noise behind was fainter, and the houses were dark. nobody seemed to follow him and kit began to hope he might be able to leave the town. he did not know what he would do then, and hardly imagined he could keep up the effort much longer. perhaps, when he got away from the houses he could tie up the mule in a quiet place and rest. when he rode down a rough track into open country he rocked in the saddle and would have fallen but for the high peak and big stirrups. the hillside was blurred; distorted objects that he thought were rocks and cactus lurched about in the elusive moonlight, and the sweat ran down his face as he fought against the drug. he knew it would conquer him, but he was going on as long as possible. at length the mule stepped into a hole, kit's foot came out of the stirrup and he fell. for a moment or two, the mule dragged him along; then he got his other foot loose and for a time knew nothing more. the moonlight was fading when he opened his eyes and saw that he was lying beside a clump of cactus. indistinct objects moved along the road not far off and he heard the click of hoofs on stones. a mule train was passing and was, no doubt, going to the lagoon. he could not get up and was glad he was in dark shadow. the muleteers had probably been told to look out for him and a blow from a heavy stone would prevent his interfering with the rebels' plans. the indistinct figures, however, went on and kit relapsed into unconsciousness. it was daylight when he wakened and saw a man bending over him. kit was cold and wet with dew; his head ached horribly and he did not try to get up. his pistol was underneath him and if the fellow meant to kill him he could not resist. "what do you want?" he asked. the man said he had seen him lying there and imagined he was ill. then he held out his hand and asked if kit could get up. kit was surprised when he found himself on his feet, although he swayed as he tried to keep his balance. "i suppose you are a liberator?" he said dully. the other clenched his dark fist. "no, señor! those dogs, the _galdareros_, are no friends of mine! but you were for the president; it was known in the town." kit admitted it. the fellow's scornful denial was comforting and after some talk, walking with a painful effort, he went with him down the hill to a small mud house. a few minutes after he got there he went to sleep, but in the meantime the man had promised to help him to reach the lagoon. he kept his promise, and before it was light next morning kit dismounted on the sandy beach. there was no moon and mist drifted about the trees, but the water shone faintly and the tide was nearly full. the steamer loomed in the gloom and when kit shouted there was a rattle of pulley blocks and a splash of oars. ten minutes afterwards mayne met him at the gangway and gave him his hand. "it's some relief to see you back," he said. "finlay has his fires banked and can get steam to take us out in an hour or two." kit went with him to his room and sat down limply. he was covered with dust and wet with dew; his face was haggard and his eyes were dull. "i'll tell you about my adventures later," he said. "what about the cargo?" "some dagos came along with a mule train and loaded up part of the truck on the beach. they had an order that looked as if it had been signed by you, and as they were a pretty tough crowd and had their knives loose, i let them take the goods. when i studied the order i wasn't sure about the hand and brought off all they had left. by and by another gang came along, but i refused to send a boat until i'd seen you." "you were prudent," kit remarked. "the order was forged. let me see the mate's cargo-lists." he studied the book mayne gave him and then pondered. olsen had, no doubt, forged the order and kit imagined he would have some trouble to get payment for the goods. the manufacturers might be persuaded to take back the rest of the cargo at something less than its proper price, but kit thought the value of the munitions supplied to alvarez would be lost. the new president would certainly try to disown the debt. kit, however, had known that adam's staunchness might cost him much, and something might, perhaps, be saved. he had had enough of the country, and as soon as he could straighten out the tangle in which the revolution had involved adam's business he was going back to ashness. "heave your anchor when you're ready," he said to mayne. "we'll call at havana and then steam for new orleans." at high-water he stood on the bridge, watching the mangroves fade into the mist. ahead, the sun was rising out of a smooth sea, the air was fresh, and kit's heart was lighter. he had done with plots and intrigue and was going back to ashness and the quiet hills. at the same time, he felt a tender melancholy as he thought about the little church at salinas and the marble cross in the sandy yard. then he lifted his head and the melancholy vanished as he looked across the sparkling water. the clang of engines rose and fell with a measured beat and there was a noisy splashing at the bows. bright streaks of foam eddied about the _rio negro's_ side, and a long smoke cloud trailed astern as she steamed to the north. part iii--kit's return chapter i kit's welcome kit was comfortably tired when he sat down by the beck at the head of the dale. he had been at ashness for a week, and finding much to be done had occupied himself with characteristic energy. it was a relief to feel that the heat of the tropics had not relaxed his muscles as much as he had thought, and that the languidness he had sometimes fought against was vanishing before the bracing winds that swept his native hills. the ache in his arms had come from using the draining spade and his knees were stiff after a long walk through the heather to examine the herdwick sheep. his vigor was coming back and he was conscious of a keen but tranquil satisfaction with the quiet dale. filling his pipe lazily, he looked about. the sun was near the summit of the fells and the long slopes were turning gray in the shadow. the yellow light touched the other side of the valley, and the narrow bottom, through which shining water ran, was a belt of cool dark-green. a faint bleating of sheep came down the hill, and the beck splashed softly among the stones. kit found the quiet soothing. he had had enough excitement and adventure, and had half-consciously recognized that the life he had led in the tropics was not for him. on the whole, he thought he had made good. one did one's best at the work one found, but intrigue was not his proper job. for all that, he did not mean to philosophize and had something to think about. when he sold the _rio negro_ and paid his debts he found a larger surplus than he had hoped. moreover, his agents had not yet enforced all business claims and might be able to send him a fresh sum. the money he brought home would not have made him a rich man in america, but it would go a long way in the dale, and the soil and flocks at ashness could be improved by modern methods and carefully spent capital. kit had begun at once and found his task engrossing, but when the day's work was over he felt a gentle melancholy and a sense of loneliness. adam and peter had gone and he had loved them both; he knew he would not meet their like again. yet he had not lost them altogether. they had, so to speak, blazed the trail for him, and he must try to follow, fronting obstacles with their fearless calm. then he took his pipe from his mouth and his heart beat as a figure came round a bend of the road. the girl was some distance off and he could not see her face, but he knew her and braced himself. he had known the meeting must come and much depended on her attitude. grace was no longer a romantic girl, and though he had not forgotten her, she might have been persuaded that she had nothing to do with him. now she must choose her line, and he sat still, half prepared for her to pass him with a bow. while he waited, his dog got up and ran along the road. old bob knew grace, and it looked as if she had spoken to, and perhaps petted, him while his master was away. she stopped, and kit felt ashamed when he got up, for she gave him her hand with a friendly look and he saw she had not changed as much as he had thought. the proud calm he approved was perhaps more marked, but he imagined the generous rashness he had liked as well still lurked beneath the surface. he had met attractive girls in the tropics who knew they were beautiful and added by art to their physical charm. grace, however, used hers unconsciously; he thought she was too proud to care if she had such charm or not. "i am glad to see you back," she said and stroked the dog that leaped upon her. "bob and i are friends. he knew me when i came round the corner." "so did i," kit rejoined quietly. he thought he noted a touch of color in her face, but she smiled. "you did not get up. perhaps you were not sure, like bob?" "i think i was sure. but i have been away some time and it was not my part to force you to acknowledge me." "if i didn't want to?" grace suggested. "well, i do not forget my friends, and now, if you are satisfied, we can let that go." she paused and resumed when he went on with her: "the dalesfolk have missed you, particularly since your father died. it must have been a shock--i felt it, too, because i saw him now and then. we were friends in spite of all." kit was grateful for her frank sympathy, and felt he could talk to her about his father. "he did not tell me this, but he liked you." "he was just," grace replied. "people knew, and trusted him. he had none of the rancor that often leads us wrong. when he was firm he did not get angry. that kind of attitude is hard, but it makes things easier. but you were in america with his brother, were you not?" "i was in the united states, and afterwards in some of the countries on the caribbean." "ah," said grace with curiosity, "that must have been interesting! one understands that is a beautiful and romantic coast, with its memories of the great elizabethan sailors and the pirates." "it is romantic, and dangerous in parts. you can land at some of the towns from modern mail-boats and find smart shops and cafés; others have fallen into ruin and lie, half-hidden by the forest, beside malaria-haunted lagoons. you steal in through the mist at the top of a high tide, much as the old pirates did, and when you land, find hints of a vanished civilization and the spaniards' broken power. but you seem to know something about the coast." grace smiled. "you look surprised! there is a library at tarnside, although it is not often used, and we have books about the voyages of the buccaneers. one book is rather fascinating. but what were you doing in the lagoons?" "sometimes we loaded dyewoods and rubber; sometimes we lent money to ambitious politicians in return for unlawful trading privileges, and now and then engaged in business that was something like that of the old adventurers." "after that, you must find the dale very tame," grace remarked, and quietly studied kit. she had liked his honesty and resolution before he went abroad, but he had gained something she had not noted then. although he wore rough working clothes and had obviously been digging, he had an elusive touch of distinction, and there was a hint of command in his quiet look. he had seen the world, confronted dangers, and used power, and this had put a stamp on him. "it is hard to imagine you a pirate," she remarked with a twinkle. "you don't look the part, and, no doubt, like other occupations, it requires some study." kit laughed. "one does the best one can! i rather think taking trouble and a determination to make good are as useful as specialized training." "perhaps that's true. it's curious, in a way, but i expect a good farmer, for example, might make a successful buccaneer. one understands, though, that the last pirate was hanged a hundred years since." "there are a few left, although their methods have changed with the times. some day i would like to tell you about my uncle. he was, so to speak, a survival, and i think you would appreciate him. but how have things been going in the dale?" grace's twinkle vanished, her look became serious, and kit thought he noted signs of strain. after all, she had changed since he left ashness. it was not that she looked older, although she was now a rather stately woman and not an impulsive girl; he felt that she had known care. "on the whole," she said, "things have not gone very well. we have had wet summers and heavy snow in spring. the flocks are poor and rents have come down. bell has gone; he quarreled with hayes about some new machinery for the mill. all is much the same at tarnside, though my father is not so active. gerald left woolwich--perhaps you knew--and is in a london bank." kit hid his surprise. gerald was not the stuff of which good bank clerks are made, although osborn's influence with the local manager had, no doubt, got him the post. kit imagined the lad had been forced to leave woolwich, but money must be scarce at tarnside, since he had gone into business. this threw some light on the hint of weariness he had noted about grace. if fresh economy was needful, she and mrs. osborn must carry the load. "hayes is still your agent. i met him yesterday and he gave me a sour nod," kit remarked. "yes," said grace, and added quietly: "i sometimes wish he were not!" "well, i never liked the man. all the same, he's a very good agent, from the landlord's point of view, and your father's interests ought to be safe with him." "i suppose so," grace agreed, but her look was doubtful, and they reached the ashness lonning a few minutes later. when kit stopped she gave him her hand. "i hear you are going to make a number of improvements, and wish you good luck!" kit went up the lonning and sitting down in the porch lighted his pipe. grace had not forgotten; she had given him his real welcome home and he thrilled as he thought about her quiet friendliness. perhaps the meeting was awkward for her, but she had struck the right note, with the dignified simplicity he had expected. it said something for her pluck that she had met him as if the interview at ashness, when osborn had driven him away, had never taken place. all this was comforting, but kit was vaguely disturbed on her account. he had noted a hint of anxiety and she had implied that things were not going well for the osborns. he meant to marry grace; his longing for her was keener than he had felt it yet, but it was not altogether selfish. she must be removed from surroundings in which she could not thrive. tarnside, with its rash extravagance, pretense, and stern private economy, was not the place for her. but he felt he must be patient and cautious; there were numerous obstacles in his way. in the meantime, grace met thorn farther along the road and tried to hide her annoyance as he advanced. perhaps it was the contrast between him and kit, whose thin, brown face had a half-ascetic look, for alan was fat and getting coarse. grace had noted this before, but not so plainly as she did now. his manners were urbane and he belonged to her circle; to some extent, his code was hers and she had his prejudices and tastes. all the same, she did not like him; for one thing, he was a type her father approved, a man of local importance and strictly local ideas, and osborn had forced her into rebellion. alan managed the otter hounds well and knew much about farming, but he was satisfied with this. although he belonged to a smart london club, grace imagined he only went there because he thought he ought. yet he was cunning and patient, and knowing why he bore with osborn, she was sometimes afraid. "was that askew?" he inquired when he turned and went on with her. grace said it was and he gave her a careless look. "i heard he had come back. might have been better if he had stayed away. a fellow like that is rather disturbing." "i don't think he could do much harm, when you and hayes are on your guard," grace rejoined. "that is so," thorn agreed and she could not tell if he knew she had meant to be ironical. "anyhow, i don't suppose he wants to do much harm; i was thinking about his example." "is it a dangerous example to improve one's land? i thought you advocated scientific farming?" "so i do. i don't mean that, although i don't know if askew's farming is scientific or not. one can't judge yet. his independence and habit of taking his own line might be dangerous." "mr. askew's independence is justified. ashness is his." "yes," said thorn thoughtfully, "that's the trouble. if he was a farming tenant, things would be easier." grace laughed. "you are delightfully naïve! i'm afraid you'll have to leave mr. askew alone, but i don't expect he'll do anything alarming. i think you know he is a friend of mine." "i knew he was, before he went abroad. if you have renewed the friendship, it means you're satisfied about him and perhaps we needn't be disturbed. your judgment is generally sound." "thank you," said grace. "i have relations who would not agree! but why do you dislike people who take their own line?" "it would be awkward if one's tenants did so; but perhaps my feeling springs from envy. the rest of us can't do what we want. you can't, for example!" grace gave him a keen glance, and then laughed. "on the whole, that is true. we have a number of rules at tarnside, but one now and then gets some satisfaction from breaking them." "rebellion doesn't pay," thorn rejoined with a touch of dry humor. "you are young and adventurous, but you'll find it prudent, so to speak, to accept your environment and submit. some people call submission duty, but that's really cant; they mean it saves them trouble. anyhow, you cannot make your own code; when you're born at a place like tarnside, it's made for you." "ah!" said grace, "i wonder--well, you know i am sometimes rash." then she was careful to talk about something else, for she thought alan had not philosophized without an object and it was not difficult to see where his hints led. when they reached the lodge, she firmly sent him away, although he looked as if he wanted to come to the house. chapter ii a dangerous talent dinner was nearly over at tarnside. the meal was served with some ceremony, although the bill of fare was frugal except when game could be shot and, as a rule, nobody but osborn talked much. now he had satisfied his appetite he looked about the spacious room. the handsome, molded ceiling was dark from neglect and the cornice was stained by damp. the light of the setting sun streamed in through the long casement window which commanded the shining tarn and the woods that melted into shadow at the mouth of the dale. it was a noble view, but it did not hold osborn's eyes, for the quivering sunbeams searched out the faded spots on the curtains and the worn patches on the rugs on the polished floor. "we need a number of new things and i don't know how they're to be got," he remarked, and when mrs. osborn said nothing knitted his brows. he had put away some money for renovations, but it had gone. one could not keep money at tarnside; it vanished and left nothing to show how it had been spent. "i understand young askew is back at ashness," he resumed, looking hard at grace. "yes," said grace. "i met him not long since." osborn frowned. he knew she had met kit, but did not know if he liked her candor. the girl was independent, but he thought she now understood the responsibilities of her rank. "the fellow is obviously prosperous, since he's spending a large sum on draining. i saw a big stack of pipes and a number of men at work. my opinion is it's a ridiculous waste of money." "perhaps there are worse extravagances," grace rejoined. "i expect he has some hope of getting his money back by growing better crops. ours goes and never returns." mrs. osborn gave her a warning glance. osborn hated contradiction and grace and he often jarred, but the girl smiled. "father and i are not going to quarrel about mr. askew's farming; it is not worth while," she said and studied osborn with half-penitent sympathy. the strong light touched his face, forcing up the deep lines and wrinkles, and she thought he was getting older fast. his eyes were dull and his shoulders were slightly bent. she knew about some of his troubles and suspected others, but the stamp of indulgence that had got plainer in the last year or two disturbed her. "the askews seem fated to give me trouble," he went on. "now the fellow has begun to drain, his neighbors will expect me to do so. in fact, black and pattinson bothered hayes about some plans for buying pipes when they paid their rent. besides, the contrast hurts; i don't see why a fellow like askew should be able to waste money on rash experiments when we have not enough. however, this leads to another matter; gerald comes back tomorrow, and will no doubt, grumble about his poverty. if he does, you must give him nothing. he has his pay and i make him an allowance. i won't have his extravagance encouraged." grace smiled as mrs. osborn got up with a disturbed look. "mother cannot have much to give and i have nothing at all. i'm afraid gerald's talent for begging will be used in vain." she went out with mrs. osborn and when they had gone osborn, crossing the floor to the sideboard, filled his glass to the top. this was his regular habit and its futility escaped him, although he knew his wife and daughter knew. he felt he did enough if he exercised some self-denial when they were about. in the meantime, mrs. osborn sat down on the terrace and looked across the untidy lawn. "we need a new pony mower; jenkins cannot keep the grass in order with the small machine. he was very obstinate about the bedding plants he wanted to buy and the borders look thin, but i felt i must be firm," she said and added drearily: "i wonder when we shall be forced to get a sporting tenant and live in a smaller house." "father would not leave tarnside. i suppose you don't know how things are really going?" "i know they are not going well and suspect they get worse; but he will not tell me. one could help if one did know." "i'm afraid i have disappointed father and given you anxieties you need not have had," grace replied with some bitterness. "after all, however, the fault is hardly mine. i wanted to make my own career, but was not allowed; to work at a useful occupation, would somehow have humiliated our ridiculous pride, and there was, of course, only one hope left for you." she paused, and colored as she resumed: "well, although i am not sorry, it looks as if that hope had gone." "it would have been a relief if you had made a good marriage," mrs. osborn admitted. "still, since you met nobody you like--" "the men i might perhaps have liked were poor. father would, no doubt, think it my natural perversity, or our bad luck; but i don't believe in luck. it's an excuse for weak makeshifts and futilities; one can conquer bad fortune if one is resolute." "none of us, except you, has much resolution," mrs. osborn remarked and sighed. "so far, your firmness has not helped much; i imagine you know your father has not given up hope." "yes," said grace, rather harshly. "i do know, and that is why i am often impatient. he will not be persuaded the thing's impossible." "after all, alan has some advantages." "he has many drawbacks," grace rejoined, and then her face softened and she gave her mother an appealing look. "i thought you were on my side!" "i am on your side where you feel strongly. perhaps i am reserved and you do not often give me your confidence." "i'm sorry. we are seldom quite honest at tarnside; somehow one can't be oneself, but now we must be frank. i don't like alan thorn; i never liked him. it's impossible." "then, my dear, there is no more to be said." grace made a sign of disagreement. "there may be much; that is why i am disturbed. you and i don't count, mother; we are expected to submit. it isn't that i don't like alan; i shrink from him. he is cunning and knows how to wait. sometimes his patience frightens me." "but why should his patience frighten you?" "oh!" said grace, "can't you understand? you know father's habits and that gerald is following him. you know our debts are mounting up and this can't go on. some day we may be ruined and then i think alan will seize his chance. perhaps i'm imaginative--but such things happen." mrs. osborn put her hand on the girl's arm and her touch was unusually firm. "you may be alarmed for nothing, my dear. but if the time should come when my help is really needed, it will be yours." grace kissed her. "i can trust you. i was weak--i'm sometimes a coward--but now i'm comforted." they were silent for a few minutes and then mrs. osborn looked up. "is it prudent for you to meet christopher askew again?" grace colored, but met her mother's glance and answered with a thoughtful calm; "i see no danger. i liked kit before he went away, but our friendship was really not romantic. when father met us in redmire wood, a horribly silly impulse made me hide. i blush when i think about it and imagine i forgot i had grown up--gerald and i used to hide when father was angry. anyhow, i made kit askew hide and he was first to remember and step into the road." "but this happened long since and he is older." "yes," said grace, "he's different, although one feels that he has kept a promise made in his half-developed stage. he has been out in the world and done strenuous things, while i stayed at home and played at make-believe. he talks like a man who knows his value and there's a touch of distinction in his look; a stupid word, but it comes near what i mean." mrs. osborn glanced at her sharply, but grace smiled. "don't be disturbed, mother; i am trying to tell you all i think. we were friends, but i imagine kit knows his drawbacks from our point of view. besides, after father quarreled with peter askew i never sent kit a message, and he must have thought i acquiesced. in a way, i did acquiesce; it was the best thing to be done. you see what this implied? if i had loved him, it meant i had no pluck and was ashamed to acknowledge a farmer's son. but he knew i did not love him and understood that our friendship would not bear the strain of father's disapproval. either way, it hinted that i was weak and not worth pursuing. well, he met me without embarrassment and we talked about nothing important. i may meet him now and then, but that, i think, is all." "very well," said mrs. osborn, who looked relieved. "perhaps it would be prudent not to meet him often." grace smiled and was silent for a time. she had tried to be frank and thought she had stated things correctly--so far as she knew. then she remembered kit's look when she stopped and spoke, and began to wonder. perhaps she had not told all and the little she had left out was important. by and by she got up and went into the house. gerald osborn came home next day and not long afterwards kit found him lying on the gravel beside a tarn on the ashness moor. heavy rain had fallen, but the clouds had rolled away and the water shone with dazzling light. the sky was clear except for a bank of mist floating about the round top of a fell, and a swollen beck sparkled among the heather. the wind had dropped and it was very hot. when he heard kit's steps gerald looked up. he was a handsome young man, with some charm of manner, although it was obvious now and then that he had inherited a touch of his father's pride. his glance was keen and intelligent, but his mouth and chin were weak. gerald had talent, but was very like osborn, since he was sometimes rashly obstinate and sometimes vacillating. "hallo!" he said. "i expect i ought to have asked your leave before i came to fish. i hope you don't mind." "i don't mind. nobody asks my leave," kit replied. "have you had much luck?" gerald opened his creel and showed him a number of small, dark-colored trout. "pretty good. they rose well until the light got strong. then i thought i'd take a rest. will you smoke a cigarette?" kit sat down and looked across the shining water at the silver bent-grass that gleamed among vivid green moss on the side of the hill. "you must find this a pleasant change from town. are you staying long?" "a fortnight; that's all i get. i wish i could stop for good. it's rot to spend one's life working in a bank." "i suppose one must work at something," kit remarked. "i don't see why, unless you're forced. the only object for working is when you must work to live, and it isn't mine, because i can't live on my pay. in fact, the futility of the thing is plain." kit laughed. gerald's humorous candor was part of his charm, but kit thought it deceptive. "why did you go to the bank, then?" "because my father thought i ought. i expect you know he believes in the firm hand. i wanted to stop at tarnside, which would have cost him less. besides, i could have looked after the estate. it will be mine sometime; that is, as much as is left." "but hayes transacts the business." "just so," said gerald, rather dryly. "what do you think about hayes?" "he's your father's agent and has nothing to do with me. i imagine he's a capable manager." "i sometimes think he's too capable." gerald rejoined. kit let this go. before he went away he had suspected that hayes had plans his employer would not approve, and he knew gerald was shrewd. it was, however, not his business and he remarked: "you wanted to go to woolwich, didn't you?" "i did not," gerald declared. "as a matter of fact, i said so, but my objections didn't count. i might have made a good farmer or land-steward, but a number of us had been soldiers and that was enough. i don't know if it was a logical argument, but i had to go, and on the whole it was a relief when they turned me out. too many regulations for my independent taste! rules are good, perhaps, so long as they're made for somebody else." he was silent for a few minutes and kit mused. he thought there was some bitterness in gerald's humor; it looked as if osborn had not been wise when he planned his son's career without consulting him. this, however, was typical. osborn was satisfied to give orders and expected others to accept his point of view. "well," said gerald, getting up, "i must be off. rather a bore to walk to tarnside, and the trout will probably rise again if there's wind enough to make a ripple, but i forgot to ask for sandwiches." "if you lunch with me, you could come back afterwards," kit suggested, and they set off down the hill. when they reached ashness, gerald tried to hide his surprise. kit had made some changes in the old house and so far kept to the spanish rule of meals. lunch was a late breakfast, well served in china and silver that were seldom used in peter askew's time. the low room had been cleverly painted and a casement commanding a view of the dale replaced the original narrow windows. specimens of ancient indian pottery stood on the sideboard, and there were curtains of embroidered silk, feather-flowers, and silverwork that kit had brought from spanish america. the things gave the lonely farmstead an exotic touch, but they implied the command of money and cultivated taste. "you have a beautiful room," gerald remarked, when the meal was over. "don't know that i'm much of a connoisseur, but some of the things look rather fine." "i'll show them to you presently," kit replied and gave gerald a small, dark cigar. "i wonder how you'll like the flavor." "our club cigars are dear and good, but the best is nothing like this," gerald declared after a minute or two. "where did they come from?" "they were given me in cuba; i believe the make is not offered for public sale. in a general way, cuban tobacco is not what it was, but there are belts of soil that grow a leaf that can't be equaled anywhere else." "i suppose they keep the crop for presidents and dictators. the quality indicates it," gerald suggested, and kit smiled. gerald tasted his black coffee. "if it's not bad form, where did you get this? there's nothing of the kind in cumberland, and it's better than the turkish they give you in london." "it came from a costa rican _hacienda,_ and was a gift. i'll get no more when the bag is done. if you come back in a month, you'll find me living in plain north-country style." "i imagine you made up for that while you were away," said gerald, who rose and went to the side-board. "a curious little jar and obviously old! is this the kind of thing the aztecs made?" "i rather think it is aztec, though i didn't buy it in mexico. i gave about a pound for the jar and found a gold onza inside." "an _onza?_ oh, yes, an ounce! the kind of coin some countries mint but very seldom use. something of a bargain!" "i suppose it was," kit replied incautiously. "for all that, the onza wasn't mine, and in a sense my efforts to find the owner cost me a very large sum." gerald gave him a keen glance. askew was not boasting; he had enjoyed the command of money. "well," he said, "i think i'd have kept the onza, whether it was mine or not." he paused and pulled a knife from its sheath. the handle was ornamented and the narrow blade glittered in the light, although its point was dull. "but what is this? has it a story?" "take care!" said kit "it may be poisoned; the _meztisos_ use a stuff that will kill you if a very small quantity gets into your blood. the fellow who owned that knife came near burying it in my back." "it looks as if you had had some adventures," gerald remarked, and leaning against the sideboard he lighted a cigarette. kit crossed the floor and stood by the open window. the shadow of a cloud rested motionless, a patch of cool neutral color, on the gleaming yellow side of the hill. a wild-cherry tree hung over a neighboring wall, and bees hummed drowsily among the flowers. he was strangely satisfied to be at home, and it was hard to realize that not long since he had been engaged in a dangerous trade among the fever-haunted swamps. "have you any more curiosities?" gerald asked. kit opened a drawer in his big desk, where he kept specimens of featherwork. as he took them out he moved some documents and gerald indicated one. "_cristoval askew_? your name in castilian, i suppose. you write a curious hand." "a matter of precaution! anyhow, i didn't sign this order, and that's why i kept it. the thing was rather important and we were lucky to find out the cheat in time, particularly as i imagined nobody could imitate my hand. you'll see my proper signature on the next document." "it's not a very good counterfeit," said gerald, who compared the writing with the other, "this is a subject i know something about. penmanship is one of my few talents and i keep the customers' signature book at the bank. yours is an uncommon hand, but it could be forged. let's see! may i use this paper?" kit nodded and gerald, knitting his brows, wrote the name three or four times and then looked up. "i think i've got it. hard to tell which is genuine, if you put them side by side?" "yes," said kit. "i'm not sure i could tell which is mine." gerald laughed. "one has to study these things; part of my job, you see, and banks are cheated oftener than people think. however, i expect you want to get to work and i'll go back to the tarn." he went out and kit tore up the paper. he thought a talent like gerald's might be dangerous if it were used by an unscrupulous man. chapter iii the horse show it was a calm evening and osborn sat on the terrace, studying a printed notice. mrs. osborn poured out coffee at a small table, and gerald and grace occupied the top of the broad steps to the lawn. the sun was low, the air was cool, and except for the soft splash of a beck, a deep quietness brooded over the dale. "it will be a good show," osborn remarked, reaching for a cup. "i insisted on the rather early date, because if we had waited until the hay was in, we might have got wet weather. two or three objected, but i'm satisfied i took the proper line. one must be firm with an argumentative committee." gerald's eyes twinkled as he looked at grace. osborn generally was firm with people who gave way, and gerald had heard some grumbling about his changing the date for the horse show. "it's the last time i'll be president," osborn resumed. "i had meant to resign, but thorn could not take the post, sir george is away, and a well-known local man is needed to give the thing a proper start." "rather an expensive honor!" gerald observed. "the president's expected to make up the shortage if the day is wet." "that was one reason for my fixing the meeting early, when we often get it fine," osborn replied naïvely. "the expense is a drawback, but the committee would not let me drop out." "mother and grace will want new hats and clothes, and i expect the job will cost you more than you think. you'll have to give them a lead by bidding for the chapel sheep." "if that meddlesome fellow drysdale is going to send his sheep to the show, the arrangement was made without my knowing," osborn replied angrily. mrs. osborn looked disturbed, but gerald laughed. he rather enjoyed provoking his father when he thought it safe. drysdale was treasurer for a body of nonconformists, who wanted to build a new chapel and, finding the farmers reluctant to give money, had asked for contributions from their flocks and herds. "the idea was that the sale would be an extra attraction," gerald went on. "still, i admit it's hard for you, because you hate chapels and will have to bid. in fact, you'll, no doubt, have to buy the sheep at a sentimental price and sell them at their value." "i believe in liberty of conscience and do not hate chapels," osborn rejoined. "for all that, i own to a natural prejudice against people who attend such places, largely because they mix up their religious and political creeds. it would be strange if i sympathized with their plans for robbing the landlords." "anyhow, drysdale means to bring his flock, and i'm afraid you'll have to pay. the situation has some humor." osborn knitted his brows. hayes had been talking to him about the estate accounts and he had resolved to practise stern economy. economy was needful, unless he gave a fresh mortgage to pay the interest on his other debts; and here was an expense he had not bargained for. "if i'd known about drysdale, i'd have resigned," he said. "i took the post again because there was nobody else." "they might have tried askew," gerald suggested. "askew? a fellow of no importance, unknown outside the dale!" "i imagine he'll be better known soon, and he's rather a good sort. gave me a very good lunch not long since and has obviously spent something on the farm. his room is like a museum, and he has a number of valuable things. seems to have had some adventures abroad, and found them profitable." "you mean he tried to impress you by vague boasting?" "no," said gerald, "i don't think he did; the fellow's not that kind. in fact, he's rather good form, and has somehow got the proper stamp." grace looked at her brother, as if she agreed; but osborn remarked ironically, "you imagine yourself a judge?" "oh, well," said gerald, smiling, "i've had the advantage of being brought up at tarnside, and belong to a good london club. anyhow, askew's much less provincial than some of our exclusive friends." he strolled off and osborn went to the library, where he spent some time studying his accounts. the calculations he made were disturbing and he resented the possibility of his being forced to help drysdale's fund. nevertheless, the president of the show would be expected to lead the bidding and the osborns did things properly. a week or two afterwards, mrs. osborn opened the show in a field by the market-town, which stood in a hollow among the moors. the grass sloped to a river that sparkled in the sun and then vanished in the alders' shade. across the stream, old oak and ash trees rolled up the side of the moot hill, and round the latter gray walls and roofs showed among the leaves. a spire and a square, ivy-covered tower rose above the faint blue haze of smoke. a few white clouds floated in the sky and their cool shadows crept slowly across the field. the horses were not very numerous, but the show had other attractions and was an excuse for a general holiday. the crowd was larger than usual, mrs. osborn's nervous speech was cheered, and for a time osborn forgot that the office he had taken might cost him something. he was carrying out a duty he owed the neighborhood and felt that he could do so better than anybody else. he did not admit that he liked to take the leading place. his first annoyance came with the sheep-dog trials. he had not known askew was a competitor and frowned as he saw grace go up to him when a flock of herdwicks entered the field. the girl ought to have seen that it was not the proper thing for his daughter to proclaim her acquaintance with the fellow. then gerald followed her, and began talking to askew as if he knew him well. gerald, was of course, irresponsibly eccentric, but his folly jarred. grace had found it needful to get a new dress and hat, and kit thrilled and tried to hide his delight in her beauty as she advanced. his rough-coated dog ran to meet her and she stroked its shaggy head. "i hope bob is going to win," she remarked. "it's doubtful," kit replied. "he's clever, but they don't give us much time and he's getting slow. one or two of his rivals are very good." "you'll do your best, old bob," said grace, and the dog, looking up at her with friendly eyes, beat his tail on the ground. then gerald came up, and soon afterwards the judges tied a string to a farmer's leg and fastened the other end to a post. this allowed him to run a short distance, after which he must direct his dog by voice. "first trial, mr. forsyth's merry lad," a steward announced, and the crowd gathered round when the judge took out his watch. furze bushes had been stuck into the ground to simulate a broken hedge. beyond these was a row of hurdles with an open gate, and then a number of obstacles, while a railed pen occupied a corner of the field. kit gave grace a card showing the way the sheep must be driven round the different barriers. "it's a good test, particularly as we can't follow the dogs and they must take each obstacle in its proper turn." "they are wonderfully clever to understand," said grace, and stopped when the judge shouted, "time!" the farmer called his dog, a handsome smooth-haired collie, that set off with a bound and drove the sheep at full speed towards the furze. as they came up, with fleeces shaking and a patter of little feet, the man ran to the length of the string and waved his stick. "away back! gan away back! t'ither slap, ye fule!" people laughed when the dog in desperate haste stopped the sheep as they packed outside a hole, but it drove them to the next gap, through which they streamed. "forrad! gan forrad!" cried the farmer. "head them, merry lad!" the dog turned the sheep and brought them back through another opening, after which they raced towards the hurdles, and the collie hesitated as if puzzled by its master's shouts. the sheep were near the end of the rails, but it was not the end the card indicated. then the dog seemed to understand what was required, and circling round the flock with swift, graceful leaps, drove them along the hurdles and round the other end. there was some applause from the crowd and afterwards good-humored banter when the dog ran backwards and forwards at a loss. the animal obviously knew the flock must be taken round the remaining obstacles, but had only its master's shouts for guide to the order in which they must be passed. sometimes the farmer got angry and sometimes laughed, but except for a mistake or two the collie drove the sheep in and out among the barriers as the card required and put them in the pen. two or three more trials took place, and for the most part, the unoccupied dogs strained at their leads and whimpered, but old bob sat at kit's feet, watching, with his head on one side. "one can see he's thinking; i believe he wants to remember the right way round," grace remarked, and smiled when a steward beckoned kit. "it's your turn," she said. "i wish you good luck!" kit went off with his heart beating and felt half amused by his keenness when the steward tied the string to his leg. after his adventures on the caribbean and the stakes he and adam had played for, it was strange he should be eager to win a box of plated forks at a rustic show. yet, he was eager; grace had wished him luck. "number four; mr. askew's old bob!" the steward announced. kit called, and bob, trotting away deliberately, got the sheep together and drove them correctly through the holes. he was doing well, in one sense, and kit knew he would make few mistakes, but time counted and old bob was slow. he had trouble at the hurdles, where the sheep seemed resolved to go the wrong way, but he stopped them and took them back to the proper end. kit gave very few orders, although he looked at his watch rather anxiously. bob understood and could be trusted to do his work, the trouble was he might not finish it in time. at length, kit drew a deep breath, and put back his watch. the sheep were in the pen and there was a minute left. kit went back to grace, and bob trotted up, panting, with his tongue hanging out. he looked at kit, as if for approval; and then, after wagging his tail when his master spoke, held up his paw to grace. "hallo!" said kit. "i haven't known him to do that before. it's not a sheepdog's trick." "i taught him," grace replied, with a touch of color. "he has not forgotten, and really deserves to be stroked." she went away, but she gave kit a smile across the railing, behind which she stood with mrs. osborn, when the judge called out: "first prize, number four; mr. askew's bob!" when lunch was served in a big tent osborn sat at the top of the table, but his satisfaction had vanished. for one thing, everybody had applauded when askew won the prize; the fellow was obviously a favorite and this annoyed him. then, drysdale's sheep were to be sold by auction after lunch and the committee had hinted that the president was the proper person to buy the flock. drysdale sat next to kit at the bottom of the table. he was a little, shabbily-dressed man, with a brown face, and a twinkling smile. "where are the sheep?" kit asked. "we'll send t' band for them presently. are you gan t' bid?" "i don't know until i've seen them. what about their quality?" "weel, it might be better; they're gifts, you ken. there's a young ram might suit you; he's true carlside strain." "i don't know how you got him then. i can't see mayson giving away good breeding stock." drysdale grinned. "some big stanes fell on t' ram when mayson was bringing flock doon barra ghyll. he looks a bit the waur o' it, but you can tell the carlside blood." "i'll see what i think about the animal," kit said with a laugh. "do you expect a good sale? the rich people, as a rule, go to church." "they'll bid aw t' same. when you canna stir their generosity, you can try their pride. if you look at it one way, the thing's humorsome. they dinna want to help me, but they will." "it's possible," kit agreed. "i don't know if the plan's above suspicion, but you need the money." "it will be weel spent. hooiver, i must be off and see the band dinna get ower much to drink." drysdale went away and soon afterwards a strange procession headed by the band and guarded by children, entered the field. a row of geese, waddling solemnly in single file, came first, and then turkeys stalked among their broods; a boy led a handsome goat and long-legged calf, and in the rear straggled a flock of sheep. when all were driven into pens the sale began and the crowd laughed and bantered the men who bid. in the meantime, kit examined the sheep. some had faults and the ram had obviously suffered from its accident. it was clear, though, that it sprang from a famous stock, and kit knew an animal transmits to its offspring inherited qualities and not acquired defects. he recognized the stamp of breeding and resolved to buy the sheep. the ram was worth much more than he imagined the shepherds thought. he went back to the stand and by and by the auctioneer praised the flock. when he stopped, there was silence for a few moments until osborn nodded. "a cautious beginning often makes a good ending, but we've a long way to go yet," the auctioneer remarked. "who'll say five pounds more?" thorn made a sign, and the auctioneer raised his hammer. "we've got a start, but you must keep it up. the opportunity's what folks call unique; you'll save money by buying, and help a good cause. don't know which will appeal to you, but you can pay your money, and take your choice." he looked about while the crowd laughed, and after two or three flockmasters advanced the price, caught kit's eye. "mr. askew's a judge of sheep. we'll call it ten pounds rise!" kit nodded, and osborn glanced at thorn, who shrugged. the latter had helped to start the bidding, which was all he meant to do, and osborn would have tried to draw out after making another offer, had he not seen kit. he did not want the sheep, although he was willing to buy them at something above their proper price. now, however, askew was his antagonist, the fellow must be beaten. "we must finish the sale before the driving-matches," he said. "go up twenty pounds." "they'd not sell near it if you sent them to the market," a farmer remarked. "do you sell pedigree stock to butchers? the ram's worth the money," the auctioneer rejoined. on the whole, kit agreed, although he saw that others did not. moreover he was willing to run some risk by helping drysdale, whom he liked, and he signed to the auctioneer. the farmers stopped, but osborn went on. he had not liked peter askew and liked kit worse. father and son had opposed him, and now the young upstart was proud of the money he had, no doubt, got by doubtful means. he would not let the fellow balk him, and his face got red as he answered the auctioneer's inquiring glance. presently he turned with a frown as hayes touched his arm. "it's an extravagant price," the agent remarked. "they'll want a check and your account is getting very low." "you'll have to cut down expenses, then," osborn answered haughtily. "this is not a matter about which i need your advice." hayes shrugged and osborn nodded to the auctioneer when kit made another bid. he felt hot and savage and wanted a drink, but could not leave the stand. askew meant to humiliate him and he must hold out. he was the most important man in the neighborhood, and must not be beaten by a small farmer. for all that, the sum he would have to pay would be a drain. after the next bid the auctioneer looked at kit, who smiled and shook his head. "mr. osborn takes the lot," the auctioneer remarked. "he has paid a high price to help a good object, but i think we all hope the next lambing season will give him his money back." osborn's savage satisfaction was spoiled by a chilling doubt and he went off to look for hayes. "give the fellow a check for the sheep on the estate account," he said. "how much?" hayes asked, and looked thoughtful when osborn told him. "there are a number of bills to meet and we'll have no money coming in until term-day." "can't you put off the bills?" "i think not," hayes answered, meaningly. "it mightn't be prudent. our credit is not too good." osborn was silent for a moment or two. "very well," he said. "i'll try to sell the sheep to somebody who'll give me what they're really worth. come over to-morrow and we'll talk about the new mortgage." then he went back, moodily, to join the judges for the driving-match. chapter iv the flood on the morning after the show, osborn walked up and down the terrace, waiting moodily for hayes. it was a rash extravagance to buy the sheep and he blamed kit for this. the fellow had gone on bidding in order to force him to pay a high price; besides, the money would help an object osborn did not approve. there were enough chapels in the neighborhood and any legislation that interfered with the landlords' privileges got its warmest support at such places. the sum he had spent was not remarkably large and he had cut his loss by selling the flock to a farmer at their market price, but this was about half what he had given and he had some urgent debts. although he had hoped to hold out until term-day, when the payment of rents would ease the strain on his finances, he must have money and did not know where it could be got by prudent means. in the meantime, he looked about gloomily. the weather had changed, a moist west wind drove heavy clouds across the sky and the fell-tops were hidden by mist. it threatened a wet hay-time and hay was scarce in the dale, where they generally cut it late after feeding sheep on the meadows. osborn farmed some of his land and had hoped for a good crop, which he needed. the grass in the big meadow by the beck was long and getting ripe, but the red sorrel that grew among it had lost its bright color. the filling heads rolled in waves before the wind, but there was something dull and lifeless in the noise they made, and osborn knew what this meant. rain was coming and when rain began in the dale it did not stop. his glance rested on the green embankment along the beck. his father had made the dyke at a heavy cost but in places the stones and soil had gradually washed away. if the dyke broke at one spot, the beck would return to its old channel and much damage might be done, particularly if the floods rolled across the turnip fields. osborn had meant to strengthen the dyke, but had put it off because of the expense. a little later hayes came up the steps. osborn did not ask him to sit down, although there was room on the stone bench, and the agent leaned against the terrace wall. his face was inscrutable but he remarked his employer's rudeness. "i have seen fisher and he is willing to take a mortgage on ryecote," he said. "the interest is higher than i thought, but the money would pay off urgent bills and cover the cost of the farmstead repairs." "how much does fisher want?" osborn asked and frowned when he was told. "it's unjust; two per cent above the proper interest." "i can't borrow for less. however, if we use the money judiciously, we ought to get something back by higher rents. lang and grey, for example, would pay a little more for the improvements they require." osborn pondered. he was in a suspicious mood and thought hayes wanted to negotiate the mortgage. "when i have satisfied the other tenants there won't be much left for lang and grey," he rejoined. "my experience is that the money you sink in improvements is gone for good." "they must be made, for all that; particularly just now when a dissatisfied spirit is spreading among the farmers. askew is showing them what can be done by the proper use of capital." "askew!" osborn exclaimed. "father and son, the askews have been the origin of the worst trouble i've had." hayes was willing to indulge osborn's rancor and derived a rather malicious satisfaction from seeing him annoyed. besides, he did not want to dwell upon the mortgage. "i wonder whether you know askew has bought drysdale's sheep?" "i did not know. i sold the flock to graham." "then askew must have bought them soon afterwards, unless he sent graham to make the deal with you." osborn's face got red. "a shabby trick! unthinkably shabby, after he forced up the price." he paused, and tried to control his anger. "but why did he buy that second-class lot?" "there was a carlside ram." "only fit for mutton; i studied the animal." "oh, well! askew, no doubt, thinks he is a judge. i imagine he bought the others in order to get the ram." "he cheated me," said osborn, with a savage frown. "the fellow's a cunning rogue. i wish he hadn't come back--confound him!" he pulled himself up and added: "however, about the mortgage. i suppose i must agree to fisher's terms. see him and arrange the thing as soon as possible." hayes went away and osborn lighted a cigar. he had a disturbing feeling that he had been rash. the money would not last long and if he had not borrowed it, he might have paid the interest on other loans. buying the sheep had really decided him to give the mortgage, since it had made him feel keenly the embarrassment of having very little money at command. there was another thing; hayes wanted him to borrow the fresh sum, although a prudent agent would try to keep the estate out of debt. he could not see hayes' object and felt suspicious, but while he pondered it began to rain and he went into the house. it rained all day and at dusk the mist had crept down the hills. the long grass in the meadow bent before the deluge and slanted from the wind. the becks began to roar in the gyhlls, and threads of foam glimmered in the mist. a hoarse turmoil rose from the stream that fed the tarn, and an angry flood, stained brown by peat, rose steadily up the dyke. there was no promise of better weather when osborn went to bed, and he had known rain like that last for a week. in fact, he had known all the hay crop and the most part of the young turnips washed down the valley. the rain was heavier when, early next morning, kit went out to move some sheep from a spot where the rising water might cut them off. he came back along the meadow dyke and stopped for a few minutes when he reached its weakest place. reeds and tufts of heather whirled down the brown flood. wide patches of turf and soil had fallen away, uncovering the foundation of boulders and gravel, and while kit looked down a heavy stone rolled out of its place and plunged into the stream. others were ready to go; the water was rising ominously fast and would rise for some time after the rain stopped. there was, however, nothing to indicate that it would stop, and kit, knowing his native climate, looked about with some uneasiness. a hollow across the meadow to a hedge, behind which were two large turnip fields, and he knew this marked a former channel of the beck. it was long since the water had flowed that way, but his father had told him that in heavy floods it had some times spread across the fields and joined the other stream at allerby. if this happened again, the bottom of the dale would be covered and the crops ruined. when he was going away, three or four men with picks and spades came up. "are you going to mend the dyke?" he asked. "we're gan to try," said one. "i reckon we'll not can hoad her up if beck rises much." "she'll rise three or four feet," said kit. "is nobody else coming?" "neabody we ken aboot. mr. osborn sent to allerby first thing, but miller wadn't let him have a man." kit thought hard. bell had given up the mill and his successor had a dispute with hayes. to repair the dyke properly would be a long and expensive business, since there were a number of weak spots, but a dozen men, working hard, might perhaps strengthen the threatened part sufficiently to bear the strain. clearly, if they were to be of use, they must be found and set to work at once. in a sense, the risk was osborn's, who would pay for his neglect, but the flood might damage his tenants' fields, and even if the damage were confined to osborn's, kit hated to see crops spoiled. "you had better begin," he said. "i'll try to get help." "mayhappen folks will come for you, though they wadn't for t' maister," one replied. "we'll need aw you can get before lang." kit set off as fast as he could walk and, stopping for a minute at ashness, sent his men. then he went on to allerby and at first found the farmers unwilling to move, but after some argument they went with him to the mill. "we'll hear what miller has to say," one remarked. "he kens maist aboot the job, sin' he had t' mend t' lade when hayes refused. for aw that, mending dyke is landlord's business." "i'll not stir a hand to save osborn's crops," the miller declared when he met them at the door. "his oad rogue o' an agent promised me he'd build up brocken lade, but when time came i had to do't mysel'." two of the others grumbled about promises hayes had not kept, and then kit said, "all this is not important. i don't ask you to mend the dyke for osborn's sake but yours. if the beck breaks through and runs down to allerby, it will spoil all the hay and fill the mill-lead with rubbish." "then we'll get compensation. landlord's bound to keep dyke in order." kit smiled. "you'll get nothing, unless you go to law and i don't know if you'll get much then. hayes is clever and the dispute would be expensive. you'll certainly find it cheaper to mend the dyke." they pondered this, until the miller made a sign of agreement. "i'll not can say you're wrang. i'm coming with my two men." kit told him to bring a horse and cart and the party set off for the threatened bank. the beck had risen while kit was away and stones and soil slipped down into the flood. an angry turmoil indicated that the current had rolled the rubbish into a dam. "we've gotten our job," said the miller as he drove in his spade. they got to work, but the current that undermined the bank brought down the turf and soil with which they tried to fill the holes. it was plain that a stronger material was needed and kit sent some men to a roadmaker's quarry at the bottom of the fell while he rearranged some harness. when he had finished he fastened an extra horse outside the shafts of the carts and two men drove the teams across the field. they went off fast, jolting the carts by their clumsy trot, but kit knew the extra horse would be needed when they returned. soon afterwards, osborn came up the other bank and stopped opposite with the rain running off his mackintosh. "has anybody given you leave to meddle with the dyke?" he asked. "no," said kit. "we'll let it alone, if you like, but there won't be much of your hay left when the flood breaks through, and i imagine you could be made responsible for other damage." osborn hesitated and kit, seeing his frown, began to wonder whether he would send him away. then he resumed: "who engaged these men?" "i don't know that they are engaged. anyhow, if there's a difficulty about their getting paid, i'm accountable." "bring them to tarnside when you have finished," osborn answered and went off. kit resumed his work with savage energy. he thought osborn did not deserve to be helped, but this did not matter much. others would suffer unless he finished the job he had undertaken and it almost looked as if the flood would beat him. the trench from which they dug the soil they needed filled with water, the spades got slippery with rain and mud, and the horses sank in the trampled slough. kit, however, had made his plans while he looked for help and had forgotten nothing that he might want. hammers, drills, and a can of powder had been brought, and now and then a dull report rolled across the dale and heavy stones crashed in the quarry. when he had stone enough he and one or two others stood on the front of the bank with the water washing round their legs while they built up the ragged blocks. the pieces were hard to fit and sometimes the rude wall broke when the men on top threw down the backing of soil. kit tore his hand on a sharp corner, but persisted while the blood ran down his fingers and his wet clothes stuck to his skin. the others supported him well and he only stopped for breath and to wipe from his eyes the water that trickled off his soaked hat. the loaded cart, ploughing through the mire, met the other going back; the men at the quarry kept him supplied, and when he had made a foundation the bank began to rise. for all that, the beck rose almost as fast, and at noon they had not gained much on the flood. kit was doubtful, but on the whole thought it prudent to let the men stop. they had worked hard and could not keep it up without a rest. when they collected with their dinner cans under a dripping hedge, one remarked: "mayhappen we'd better wait for osborn to send cold meat and ale. i'll mak' a start with bread and cheese." the others grinned, but kit got up as he heard a rattle of wheels. "don't begin just yet. two of you go to the gate." the men came back with a big jar and a basket, and the others gathered round when kit took off the clean, wet cloth. "yon lunch niver came fra tarnside; it's ower good and liberal," said one. "ashness folk dinna believe in sending a half-empty jar." when they had eaten and drunk, one or two tried to light their pipes but gave it up and they got to work again. kit's hand hurt; it was long since he had undertaken much manual labor, and his muscles felt horribly stiff. he knew, however, that the men needed a leader, not a superintendent, and he would not urge them to efforts he shirked. and a leader was all they needed. they had no liking for osborn, but they were stubborn and now they had begun they meant to finish. shovels clinked, stones rattled from the carts, and the pile of earth and rock rose faster than the flood. in the meantime the mist got thicker and the rain swept the valley. the long grass near the trench was trodden into pulp where the turf was cut, the surface of the bank melted, and the men stumbled as they climbed it with their loads. the wheelbarrows poured down water as well as sticky soil, and kit's clothes got stiff with mud. despite this, he held out until, in the evening, the strengthened dyke stood high above the stream. then he threw down his spade and stretched his aching arms. "i think she'll hold the water back and we can do no more," said kit. the others gathered up their tools and climbing into the carts drove down the dale. when they reached the tarnside lodge kit pulled up. "you have done a good job for osborn and there's no reason you shouldn't get your pay," he said. two or three jumped down, without much enthusiasm, and the old gardener came out and gave one an envelope. "for mr. askew," he remarked. "is that all?" the other asked, and the gardener grinned. "that's all. what did you expect?" the man took the envelope to kit and the rest waited with some curiosity. they were very tired and big drops fell on them as the wind shook the dripping trees. kit opened the envelope and his face flushed as he took out a note addressed to hayes. "pay c. askew and the men whose names follow one day's wages, on estate account," it ran. this was all and the sum noted at the bottom represented the lowest payment for unskilled labor. kit handed the note to his companions and while some laughed ironically two or three swore. "next time beck's in flood osborn can mend his dyke himsel'," said one. "if five minutes' digging wad save tarnside hall, i'd sooner lose my hay than stir a hand!" then they got into the carts, and drove off in the rain. chapter v kit tells a story the rain stopped at night, the next day was fine, and in the afternoon kit went up the dale to look at the mended dyke. it had stood better than he had thought, the beck was falling, and osborn's fields were safe until another flood came down. kit did not know if he was pleased or not. there was some satisfaction in feeling that he had done a good job, but he did not think osborn deserved the help his neighbors had given. following the dyke until he came to the road, he sat down on the bridge and lighted his pipe. the sun was hot and he was glad of the shade of a big alder whose leaves rustled languidly overhead. the bent-grass on the hillside shone a warm yellow, wet rocks glittered like silver in the strong light, and the higher slopes, where belts of green moss checkered the heather, were streaked by lines of snowy foam. all was very quiet, except for the noise of running water and the joyous notes of a lark. kit was not much of a philosopher; action was easier to him than abstract thought, but he vaguely felt that the serenity of the dale was marred by human passion. man was, no doubt, meant to struggle, but nature was his proper antagonist, and while the fight against floods and snow was bracing, one gained nothing by shabby quarrels that sprang from pride and greed. kit was human, however, and owned that he had felt savage when he read osborn's note. the fellow had meant to humiliate him, and he got hot again as he thought about it. moreover, osborn had, so to speak, for his sake, insulted the men he had persuaded to help. they had not worked for wages, when they fought the swollen beck, and some kindly acknowledgment, such as a supper at the hall, would have gone far to gain for osborn a good will that money could not buy. anyhow, since he offered pay, the sum ought to have been a just reward for their toil. osborn had been led by personal rancor, and there was no use in kit's pretending he did not resent it. the fellow seemed to think he had a right to command, and got savage when people would not obey. kit felt he had done nothing to deserve his hatred, but since osborn did hate him, he must brace himself for a struggle, and he meant to win. then, as he knocked out his pipe, he saw grace. for a few moments kit hesitated. if grace knew how osborn had rewarded him, the meeting might be awkward, but there was nothing to be gained by putting it off. he meant to marry grace, whether osborn approved or not, and to some extent frankness was needful. he waited until she reached the bridge and got up when she stopped. there was some color in her face, but she gave him a steady look. "i have been to see the mended dyke," she said, and he knew that she had pluck. "it's a rough job. there was no time to finish it neatly." "i'm surprised you were able to finish it at all." "i mustn't claim all the credit," kit rejoined, smiling. "there were a number of others as well as the tarnside men." grace made an impatient gesture. "our men could have done nothing useful if they had been left alone, and the others wouldn't have helped if you had not persuaded them. why did you?" "to some extent, my object was selfish. if the flood had broken through, it might have done much damage to all the crops, besides your father's." "it could not have damaged yours." "oh, well," said kit, "i hate to see things spoiled, and am afraid i'm meddlesome." grace's color rose, but she fixed her eyes on him. "that is not kind; i hardly think it's just. i have not accused you of meddling." "no," said kit; "i'm sorry! it was a stupid remark. but i expect you know what your father thinks." grace was silent for a few moments. she did know and would rather not have met kit, but was too proud to turn back. besides, she felt her father was prejudiced, and although it was a family tradition that the osborns stood together, she rebelled and wanted to be just. the situation was embarrassing, but there was no use in pretense. "i think you were generous and imagine my mother agrees," she said. "she wanted to send some lunch to the beck, but the rain was very heavy and there was nobody to go." then, remembering something osborn had said, she hesitated. "i understand your helpers were paid." "oh, yes," said kit, not with malice, but because he saw he must be frank. "i was not left out." grace turned her head. this was worse than she had thought. she was angry, and would not let kit think she approved. her eyes sparkled as she looked up. "ah," she said, "you deserved something very different! i wish you had not told me!" "i didn't tell you because i was hurt," kit replied with grave quietness. "it looks as if we had got to face things. your father thinks me his enemy. i'm not; i have never tried to injure him, and if the dyke was threatened by another flood, i believe i'd mend it. but, whatever happens, i mean to do what i think proper, and it's possible we may clash again." "yes," said grace. "i am afraid this may happen." "well, i value your friendship and don't mean to give it up, but i can't pretend, and think you wouldn't be deceived if i tried." "you mean you would not do what you thought was shabby in order to avoid a clash?" "i mean something like that. now you know how things are, you must choose your line. i can't judge how far your duty to your parents binds you; you can." grace felt her heart beat and was silent for a moment or two. "i cannot criticize my father's deeds and agree with people who are opposed to him," she said. "all the same, unless he expressly orders it, i cannot give up my friends." kit tried to hide his satisfaction. "we'll let it go; i understand!" he expected her to move away, and wondered whether it was tactful for him to stop, but to his surprise she smiled and sat down on the bridge. "very well. suppose we talk about something else? the shade is nice, and i need not go home yet. you promised to tell me about your adventures and your uncle. i think you called him a survival from the old romantic days when the pirates haunted the gulf of mexico." kit pondered as he leaned against the alder trunk. he thought grace meant to banish the strain; anyhow, she was willing to stay and he wanted her to do so. it was strangely pleasant to loiter on the bridge with her while the shadows trembled on the road and the beck murmured in the shade. but if he meant to keep her, he must talk, and although he did not want to say much about his adventures he had a story to tell. the story was moving, if he could tell it properly. "i'm not clever at drawing a portrait, but i'd like to try," he said. "for one thing, my subject's worth the effort; and then, you see, i was fond of adam. in some ways, he was not romantic; in fact, he was remarkably practical. his bold strokes were made deliberately, after calculating the cost; but now and then one got a hint of something strangely romantic and in a sense extravagant. yet human nature's curious. when he played out a losing game, knowing he would lose, it was not from sentimental impulse but a firm persuasion it was worth while." he paused, and gave grace an apologetic glance. "i'm afraid this is rather foggy. perhaps i'd better begin where i met him, at a florida hotel--if i'm not boring you." grace said she was not bored and kit, gaining confidence, narrated how they bumped the _rio negro_ across the surf-swept shoals, landed the guns, and met alvarez. his own part in their adventures was lightly indicated, but the girl's imagination supplied what he left out. she felt strangely interested as kit's portrait of his uncle grew into shape, although her thoughts dwelt largely on the artist. then the background--the steamy swamp, old presidio, and dazzling town--had a romantic fascination, and when he told her about the journey to the mission and the church where the candles that adam sent burned before the virgin's shrine, her eyes shone. "ah," she said, "i am glad you told me! one thinks better of human nature after hearing a tale like that. in a way, it's a rebuke. are such men numerous?" "i have known two. perhaps it's a coincidence that both were my relations. they're commoner than people think." "you're an optimist, but one likes optimists," grace remarked with a gentle smile. "however, what had the president done to deserve the sacrifice your uncle made?" "i never knew, but suspect it was something against the laws of his country. if i told my story properly, you would understand that both were buccaneers." "but they had their code! i like the president and your uncle was very fine. one feels moved when one thinks about the shabby little altar and the candles love had lighted that never went out--all those years! adam's wife loved him. she went to nurse him, although her friends warned her and she knew the risk." grace mused for a time and kit thought her face disturbed. then she looked up quietly. "one needs courage to know the risk and not to hesitate. but you will keep those candles burning?" "yes," said kit, "i promised. besides, i like to think they're burning. it means something." "it means much," grace agreed, and after a pause resumed: "you had no doubt about taking up your uncle's engagement with the president, although you saw what it might cost?" "of course not," kit replied. "there was nothing else to be done." grace smiled and got up. "no," she said, "there was nothing else you could do. well, i must go home." kit went back with her for some distance. they talked but little on the way, but when she left him she gave him her hand and a look that made his heart beat. soon after grace reached tarnside, osborn crossed the lawn to the tea-table where she and mrs. osborn sat beneath a spreading copper-beech. his face was thoughtful when mrs. osborn gave him a cup. "i met the post as i was driving home," he said. "there's a letter from gerald." "has he any news?" mrs. osborn asked. "nothing important. he's well and says he's kept occupied, which is fortunate. in fact, the harder they work him, the better; i'd sooner gerald did not have much time on his hands." "then, why did he write?" grace asked, because gerald's letters were by no means regular. "i hope he did not want money," mrs. osborn remarked. "no," said osborn. "that is, he did not want it for himself." he hesitated, and then resumed: "he states that if i could raise a moderate sum, he knows how we could make a very satisfactory profit in a short time. it seems he has got a useful hint." grace laughed. "about a racehorse? gerald is always hopeful, but his confidence in his ability to spot the winner is dangerous. it has been so often misplaced." "this has nothing to do with racing," osborn rejoined angrily. "gerald knows the consequences of indulging his folly again. there's a difference between betting and buying shares." "i don't know if the difference is very marked," said grace, with a curious feeling of annoyance, for there was a note in osborn's voice that jarred. he was, like gerald, a gambler, greedy for money he had not earned, and she thought about the story kit had told. its hero had risked and lost his life, and kit had paid in health and fortune, because they put honor before gain. for all that, she knew she had said enough when she saw osborn's frown. "gerald is young, but he holds a responsible post and has opportunities of meeting important stock-brokers and business men," osborn went on, turning to his wife. "he is, of course, optimistic and has been rash, but after all he may have found out something useful. he declares the venture is absolutely safe." "but you have no money to invest," mrs. osborn insisted anxiously. "as a matter of fact, i have some. you see, i borrowed a sum not long since on ryecote." "oh!" said mrs. osborn, with a resigned gesture, and then braced herself. "but if you have got the money, it ought not to be used for speculation. there is much that needs to be done on the estate." "that is so; it was my reason for borrowing. all the same, it would be a very long time before i got back what i meant to spend on drains and steadings. besides, the repairs and improvements need not be made just yet, and i might be able to use the money and earn a good profit first." "you might lose it all," mrs. osborn insisted. "gerald is rash and business men don't tell young bank-clerks important secrets. then, although it was a shock to hear you had mortgaged ryecote, the money is so badly needed that it must not be risked." she paused and resumed with some color in her face, "it is hard to own, but perhaps gerald is not altogether to be trusted." osborn moved abruptly. his wife had touched the doubt that made him hesitate; in fact, this was a matter upon which he wanted her advice. she knew her son and had judged right when osborn had been deceived. "well," he said, knitting his brows, "i haven't quite decided. i had thought about asking for particulars, but after all gerald's hint may not be worth much and unless one is really well informed speculation is dangerous." he looked round and saw thorn. the latter had come up without disturbing the group and now joined them with a smile. "i heard your last remark," he said. "my opinion is your views are sound. it is very rash to speculate on shares you don't know much about." mrs. osborn felt disturbed, because she wondered how much he had heard, but he went on carelessly: "gerald's too young for one to trust his judgment. my advice is, leave the thing alone." grace gave him a grateful glance. she did not like alan thorn, but he was cautious and she saw that osborn was hesitating. it would not need much persuasion to move him one way or the other, and she felt that to let gerald have the money would be a dangerous mistake. "you really think i had better keep out of it?" osborn asked. "certainly," said thorn. "only a few of the big jobbers can form an accurate notion how prices ought to go. for people like us speculation is a plunge in the dark." osborn was silent for a few moments, but grace saw that he was pulled in different ways by caution and greed. then, to her relief, he made a sign of agreement. "oh, well! i'll let the thing alone." thorn sat down and when mrs. osborn had given him some tea they talked about other matters. presently grace got up and he walked with her across the lawn. "were you satisfied with the advice i gave your father?" he asked. "yes," said grace frankly. "i think he was tempted; i was glad you came." "after all, a hint that he'd better be prudent did not cost me much. you know i'd do more than that to help you." "you did all that was necessary," grace replied. "you have my thanks." thorn glanced at her keenly, but there was something chilling in her calm. "well, i'm going to london in a day or two and it might be advisable to look gerald up. i will, if you like." "yes," said grace. "if it doesn't give you much trouble." she left him and thorn stood still, frowning. grace was always like that, friendly but elusive. no matter how he tried, he could not break down her reserve. chapter vi thorn makes a plan thorn went up to town and one evening loitered about the hall of his club. london rather bored him, but he went there now and then, because he felt one ought to keep in touch with things. it was, in a sense, one's duty to know what was going on, and the news he picked up helped him to look well informed. thorn had not much imagination, but he was cautious, calculating, and generally saw where his advantage lay. his small estate was managed well, in general his tenants liked him, and his investments were sound. nevertheless, he was dissatisfied; he had waited long for grace osborn, and feared that in spite of her father's approval he got no nearer her. alan thorn was not romantic but his love for grace was, to some extent, a generous emotion. he knew osborn's poverty, and it was plain that if he married grace he might have to help him out of his embarrassments. he was fond of money and had grounds for imagining that the daughter of a rich neighbor would not refuse him; but he wanted grace and saw he could not wait much longer. he was fastidious about his clothes, and their color and loose cut prevented people remarking that he was getting fat; his dark hair was carefully brushed. he knew, however, that he was getting heavier fast and that he would soon be bald. he had meant to go out, but had no particular object and the streets were hot; besides, after the quiet country, he liked the bustle in the hall. people were beginning to come in and one could see the crowd stream past the glass doors. sitting down in a corner he began to muse. although he had been in town some time, he had not seen gerald. he had called at the latter's lodgings and found him not at home, while when he went to the bank he was told that gerald had been sent to manage a small branch office. thorn thought it strange that osborn had said nothing about this and wondered whether he knew. gerald was extravagant and much less frank than he looked; he might have had an object for hiding his promotion. thorn understood that osborn made him some allowance, but it was hard to see how the young man was able to belong to his rather expensive club. after a time, gerald came in and glanced at two or three men who stood about. at first, thorn imagined he was looking for him, but saw he was not. gerald went into the telephone box close by and shut the door with a jerky movement. it jarred and then swung back a few inches as if the shock had jolted the spring. thorn, whose curiosity was excited, listened and heard the number gerald asked for. then he heard him say: "yes--osborn! is that sanderson? yes--i said _ermentrudes_. any chance of a recovery? what--none at all? can't hear--oh, sell at once! margin's gone." next moment gerald obviously saw that the door was open, for he banged it noisily and thorn heard nothing more. he had, however, heard enough to give him food for thought and waited until gerald came out. the young man stood still with his mouth firmly set and his eyes fixed on the wall as if he saw nobody. his clothes were in the latest fashion, but the look of fastidious languidness that generally marked him had gone. turning abruptly, he went up the stairs, and thorn entered the telephone box and opened the directory. when he came out he went up to a man he knew. "can you tell me anything about short and sanderson, stockbrokers?" he asked. "not much," said the other. "they're outside brokers. i imagine they're trustworthy, but it's better to do business through a member of the exchange. you'll find it a good rule." "thank you," said thorn, who went upstairs to the smoking-room and found gerald sitting in front of a table, with a newspaper that dealt with financial matters. "hallo!" said thorn. "i have been expecting you for some days. i suppose you got my message?" gerald looked up and his smile was strained. "i did, but have been much engaged. sit down and join me in a drink." "what have you ordered?" thorn asked, and shrugged when gerald told him. "that goes better after dinner. i'd sooner have something cool and light." "oh, well," said gerald. "i felt i needed bracing. the fact is, i've had a knock--" he stopped as a waiter came up and said nothing until the man had gone. then he drained his glass and turned to thorn. "i'm in a hole. can you lend me two thousand pounds?" thorn hid his surprise. he thought urgent need had forced gerald to make his blunt request; it was not his way to plunge at things like that. "you asked your father for a smaller sum." "they told you about my letter? well, things have changed since; changed for the worse." "they must have changed rather quickly," thorn remarked, for his suspicion was excited and he thought he saw a light. gerald had been embarrassed when he wrote to osborn, and had not wanted the money to invest but to help him to escape the consequences of some extravagance. "that has nothing to do with it," gerald rejoined. "will you let me have the money? you can, if you like." "to begin with, you had better tell me why you want so large a sum." gerald hesitated and his eyelids twitched nervously, but he pulled himself together and thorn wondered how far he would stick to the truth. he knew gerald and did not trust him. "very well; i bought some shares. there was good ground for expecting they'd go up--" "they went down? when did you buy?" "your meaning's plain," said gerald sullenly. "if you insist, it was before i wrote home." "i suspected something like that. however, you have the shares and they may go up again." "i haven't got the shares. i bought on a margin, and the margin's gone." "then, you're rasher than i thought," thorn rejoined with a searching look. "well, you have lost your money and it's something of a surprise to hear you had so much. anyhow, it was yours, and although the loss is serious, i don't understand how you're embarrassed." "i borrowed," said gerald, rather hoarsely. "you can wait; the other fellow won't. then, of course, if i renewed the margin, the shares might recover and put me straight." thorn pondered. gerald's statement was plausible, but he doubted if he had told him all. "two thousand pounds is a large sum," he said. "i don't know yet if i can lend it you." gerald gave him a steady look. his face was haggard and the sweat ran down his forehead. it was obvious that he was desperate. "if you hope to marry my sister, you had better help me out." "i haven't much ground for thinking your sister will agree," thorn rejoined with some dryness. "anyhow, it's doubtful if your influence would go far with her, if that is what you mean." "it is not what i mean," gerald answered in a hoarse voice. "i have given you a useful hint. you can spare two thousand pounds, and if you let me have the money, you'll be glad you did." "i must think about it. you can call me up on the telephone at noon to-morrow." gerald hesitated, and then made an abrupt movement as a man came into the room. the latter crossed the floor and gerald got up. "very well," he said, and went off. soon after gerald had gone, the man thorn had met in the hall came in and he asked: "do you know anything about _ermentrudes_, norton? i suppose they're mining shares?" "i wouldn't advise you to invest," the other replied. "the company has seldom paid a dividend, but not long since a rumor got about that a new shaft had bottomed on rich ore." he paused and shrugged. "nobody knows how such tales are started, but they appeal to optimistic outsiders who like to think they've got a secret tip. anyhow, there was some reckless buying by people who expected developments at the shareholders' meeting. they were disappointed, and are knocking prices down by their anxiety to sell out." thorn thanked him and began to think. he wondered where gerald had managed to get two thousand pounds, since he imagined that nobody would lend him the sum. he did not know much about banking, but it was possible that gerald had used his employers' money, hoping to replace it before he was found out. then, since two thousand pounds, used for a margin, would cover a large number of shares, it looked as if gerald had lost part of the sum by previous speculations. while he pondered, the man whose entry had seemed to disturb gerald came to his table and sat down opposite. "you obviously know young osborn," he remarked. thorn said nothing for a moment or two. hallam was not a public money-lender, but sometimes negotiated private loans for extravagant young men about town. one meets such people now and then at smart london clubs, and thorn imagined the fellow could throw some light on gerald's difficulties. "we come from the same neighborhood," he replied. "his father is a large landowner, i believe?" "he has some land," said thorn, who began to see his way. he had not yet decided to help gerald, but if he did, his help must be made as valuable as possible. "the rents are low and the estate is encumbered," he resumed. "on the whole, i don't think you would consider it good security." "thank you for the hint. osborn looked as if he had got a jar." "i think he had. he bought some shares that have gone down sharply, and since he's a bank-clerk i expect the loss is a serious thing for him." hallam nodded carelessly. "no doubt! do you know a man called askew?" "i know something about him. he owns a farm in the dale and has recently spent some money on improvements, although it's doubtful if he'll get much return. i can't tell you if he has any more or not, but imagine he's not worth your bothering about. besides, he's not the man i'd expect to get into debt." "mr. askew has not been trying to borrow," hallam answered with a smile. "well, i promised to meet a friend and mustn't stop." he went away and thorn sat still, pondering. the other men went out by and by and the room was quiet except for the rumble of traffic in the street and the rattle of an electric fan. a waiter pulled down a blind to shut out a bright sunbeam and thorn found the shade and softened noises from outside helpful to thought. gerald had used money belonging to the bank and borrowed from hallam in order to pay it back; although thorn could not see what had persuaded the latter to lend. it was strange, certainly, that hallam had inquired about askew, but in the meantime he could let this go. gerald was threatened by a danger money could avert, and thorn could help. if he did help, it would give him a claim to osborn's gratitude, although he could not tell how far this would influence grace. the osborns cherished the old-fashioned traditions of their class, and anything that touched one touched all. grace, however, was modern and rebellious, and thorn knew she did not like him much. he was not afraid to risk his money, but he must not waste an opportunity he might not get again, and the opportunity could be used in one of two ways. he could free gerald from his entanglements and, using no pressure, leave her parents' gratitude to work on grace. this was the proper line and would enable him to play a generous part; had he been younger, he would not have hesitated, but he saw a risk. he was beginning to look old and unless grace married him soon, must give her up. the other line, although not attractive, promised greater security. before he helped he must state his terms and force osborn to agree. grace could not struggle, because her refusal would involve the family in gerald's disgrace. thorn saw the plan had drawbacks, but grace was young and, if he indulged and petted her, she would, no doubt, get to like him and forget his hardness. he had heard of marriages made like this that turned out happily. for a time he sat with his brows knitted and his mouth set. he would have liked to be generous, but he loved the girl and could not force himself to run the risk of losing her. nevertheless, he honestly tried, and afterwards remembered with strange distinctness the soft rattle of the electric fan and the dull roll of traffic that throbbed in the quiet room while he fought the losing fight. the sunbeam the waiter had shut out crept on to another window and shone on the fluted pillars before he got up. his face was very hard, for he had chosen his line and knew he must take it without doubt or pity. going down to the hall, he called up gerald's branch bank. a clerk who was working late replied that mr. osborn had gone. "i know," said thorn, giving his name. "make a note to tell him he need not call on me to-morrow. i find i am unable to do what he requires." "very well," said the clerk. "i'll give him the message in the morning." thorn rang the bell and, leaving the box, asked for a railway guide. there was nothing to be gained by stopping in london and he looked up the best train for the north. chapter vii gerald's return thorn went home and waited, confident that osborn would presently send for him. the estate was heavily mortgaged, osborn had no rich friends, and when the blow fell would look to thorn for the aid nobody else could give. in the meantime, osborn, enjoying a short relief from financial strain, squandered in personal extravagance part of the sum he had borrowed, and then set drainers, carpenters, and builders to work. he liked spending and now tried to persuade himself that the money he was laying out would give him some return. it ought to last until he had finished the renovations his tenants demanded, and although difficulties might arise afterwards, he would wait until they did. indeed, his wife and daughter found him better humored than he had been for long. then, one evening when the hay was harvested and the corn was ripening, his satisfaction was rudely banished. grace had gone to the lodge with a message and stopped for a few minutes by the gate. the evening was calm and one side of the placid tarn glittered in the light; the other was dark, and soft blue shadows covered the fells behind. she heard the languid splash of ripples on the stones and the murmur of a beck in a distant ghyll. a strange restful tranquillity brooded over the dale. grace felt the calm soothing, for her thoughts were not a little disturbed. she had met thorn in the afternoon and noted a puzzling change in his manner. so far, she had been able to check his cautious advances, but she now remarked a new confidence that seemed to indicate he had some power in reserve. she admitted that she might have imagined this, but it troubled her. afterwards she had met kit and the comfort the meeting gave her had forced her to think. their friendship had gone far; in fact, it had reached a point friendship could not pass. kit was not yet her lover, but she thought he waited for a sign that she would acknowledge him when he made his claim. she liked kit; she had not met a man she liked so much. this, however, did not imply that she was willing to marry him. although she now and then rebelled against conventions, she had inherited some of osborn's prejudices, and her mother sprang from old-fashioned land-owning stock. kit belonged to another class; the life he led was different. she had been taught to enjoy cultivated idleness, broken by outdoor sports and social amusements; but kit was a worker, farming for money and resolved to make his efforts pay. his wife must help and grace did not know if this daunted her or not. moreover, if she married kit, she must quarrel with her parents. she knew what osborn thought about him. had she been sure she loved kit, the choice would have been easier, but although she blushed as she mused, this was too much to own. yet he loved her, and after all-- she let the matter go and looked up, for there were steps in the shadowy road. then a figure came into the fading light, and she started and ran to the gate. "gerald!" she exclaimed. "why have you come home?" "somehow you don't feel flattered when people ask you why you came," gerald rejoined with a forced smile. "it rather indicates surprise than satisfaction." "i am surprised," grace admitted, trying to hide her vague alarm. "we did not expect you. how did you getaway?" "i took a week's leave. i haven't been very fit." grace gave him a sharp glance and thought he looked ill. his face was pinched, his eyes were furtive, and his mouth was slack. "what has been the matter?" she asked. "nothing very much," gerald replied. "mental strain, i expect. managing a bank is a big job and i'm not used to responsibility." it looked as if his carelessness cost him an effort and grace said nothing. when they reached the house gerald resumed: "you'll hear all about it later. is the chief at home?" grace nodded. they had seldom called osborn father, but chief and head of the clan, and she thought it significant that gerald used the name he often falteringly employed after boyish escapades. she began to feel that there was something wrong. "he's in the library," she said. "that's satisfactory, as far as it goes," gerald remarked, climbing the steps. "the sooner i see him, the sooner i'll get through the thing." he paused and gave grace an anxious glance. "you'll stand by me? you generally did." "i suppose so," grace agreed. "but i don't know your difficulties and what you want." "you will know soon," gerald rejoined and shrugged his shoulders. "well, it's an awkward business; i've got to brace up." he left her and went to the library, where osborn sat at the big oak table with some letters and a wine glass in front of him. the spacious room was mostly in shadow, but a ray of fading light shone in through the tall west window. gerald avoided the illumination as he advanced, and stopped in the gloom opposite osborn, who straightened his body with a jerk and upset the glass. "well?" he said harshly. "why have you left the bank?" "the wine is running across the table and on to your clothes. shall i ring?" "no," said osborn, pushing his chair back noisily. "let it run! stand still or sit down. tell me why you came." "to begin with, i have left the bank for good." "ah," said osborn grimly, "i suspected something like this! you mean they turned you out? well, you are consistent in your habits. you left school in similar circumstances, you left woolwich, and now--" "i was not turned out, sir. they gave me a week's leave, but i can't go back." osborn frowned. things had been going well and he had thought himself free from trouble for a time, but it looked as if he would get his worst jar. he tried to preserve his calm and said with a touch of weariness: "tell me what has happened and keep as near the truth as is possible for you." gerald told him, standing back in the shadow and not pausing to choose his words. it was an ugly story that could not be toned down and he knew if he stopped he could not go on again. although osborn said nothing, his face got red and the veins on his forehead swelled, and gerald found his silence strangely daunting. when the latter stopped, osborn got up and stood, rather shakily, with his hand clenched. "get out of my sight, you despicable thief!" he cried. "my control is going. if you stand and fidget there, i'll knock you down!" "there wouldn't be much use in that, although i deserve it," gerald replied. "it's too late for excuses. the situation's dangerous. you have got to help me out." "i can't help," said osborn in a strained, hoarse voice. "why didn't you leave the country instead of coming home?" gerald forced a nervous smile. "the reason ought to be obvious, sir; i might be brought back. we must get over the need for me to go. you see, the bill must be met. if it's dishonored, everybody who knows us will have something to talk about." "i thought you a fool," said osborn bitterly. "you are a fool, but you have a vein of devilish cunning. you steal and forge; and then expect to shuffle off the consequences on to your relatives!" he pulled himself up, for gerald's coolness was steadying. "however, i must understand. what will happen when the lender finds you cannot pay?" "the usual course would be for him to go to the endorser," gerald replied and added with some awkwardness: "i mean the man whose name i used. his signature's a guarantee and makes him liable. still, as hallam's a tactful fellow, it's possible he'll first come to you." "do you mean he's suspicious?" "i don't know. he took off an extortionate discount for a very short loan." "how much did he lend you?" "the bill was for two thousand pounds." osborn made a helpless gesture. "i can't pay. the money i borrowed is partly spent and the rest must go for wages and material. you can't put wages off--" he stopped and sat down limply. the shock was beginning to tell. he felt dull and had no reserve of moral strength to sustain him now his fury had gone. gerald saw this and knew that guidance must come from him. he waited, however, and osborn went on: "it's ridiculous that we should be ruined for two thousand pounds; but there it is! if i try to borrow from my friends, i must tell why i need the money. and i don't know who would lend." "thorn might," gerald suggested meaningly. "i asked him and he wouldn't, but i don't think his refusal was final." "ah!" said osborn, with a start. "why do you think it was not?" "i imagine he has another plan; he means to wait until it's obvious we must have his help. then he can ask what he likes." for a moment, osborn's anger blazed up again. "i see where you are leading, you contemptible cur! you expect your sister to pay for you!" "it would be a good marriage," said gerald, awkwardly. "i thought you wanted it." "stop!" exclaimed osborn, and rested his elbows on the table, with his shoulders bent. he had wanted grace to marry thorn, but his domineering temper did not carry him as far as gerald thought. he had hoped that by and by grace would consent; it was ridiculous to imagine she would long refuse to see the advantages that were plain to him, but to force her to pay for her brother's fault was another thing. although grace was rebellious, he had some love for her. in fact, he revolted from the plan and felt he hated thorn for the pressure he could use. he was nearly resigned to letting things go and facing the threatened disaster. for a minute or two, he did not move and gerald got horribly cramped as he stood opposite. the room was getting dark and osborn's figure was indistinct, but his quietness hinted at a struggle, gerald began to feel anxious, because he had not expected his father to hesitate. at length osborn looked up. "you haven't told me whose name you used." "askew's," said gerald, with a tremor. he knew he could use no stronger argument, but felt afraid. "askew's!" shouted osborn, straightening his bent shoulders with a savage jerk. "this is more than i can bear. was there nobody you could rob but the man who has plotted against me since he came home from school?" he stopped and gasped as if his rage were choking him and it was some moments before he went on: "you have given the fellow power to humble us and drag our name in the mud. can't you imagine how he'll exult? our honor in askew's hands! it's unthinkable!" "if the bill isn't met, the holder will apply to askew," gerald said as coolly as he could. osborn's muscles relaxed and he sank back into his limp pose. his hand shook as he wiped his wet forehead. "you have said enough. leave me alone. i must try to think." gerald went out and drew a deep breath when he reached the landing. he felt shaky and ashamed, but knew he had won. the shutting of the door gave osborn some relief. the anger and disgust gerald excited had confused his brain, but now the lad had gone he saw no light. there was but one way of escape, and this a way it was almost unthinkable that he should take. the strange thing was he should hate it so much, for he had never indulged his children or thought about their happiness. yet he shrank from forcing his daughter to marry thorn, whom he approved while she did not. he might, perhaps, for the girl's sake, have sacrificed his pride; but there was an obstacle before which his courage melted. if thorn did not help, askew would know his disgrace and osborn did not expect him to be merciful. his rancor against askew had by degrees become a blind, illogical hate that made it impossible for him to see anything kit did in its proper light. feeling as he did, he imagined kit would rejoice in the opportunity for humbling him. all the same, knowing the fight was hopeless, he struggled against the conviction that he must beg help from thorn. in many ways, he liked alan, but he was hard and osborn dreaded his firmness now. yet he could help and there was nobody else. it got dark, but osborn did not move. a faint breeze came up and moaned about the house, and presently a moonbeam stole into the room. osborn sat still, with his head bent and his arms spread out across the table. sometimes he burned with anger against gerald and sometimes he scarcely felt anything at all. at length, he got up, and with an effort went upstairs. half an hour later, a heavy sleep that came as a reaction after the shock closed his eyes and banished his troubles for a time. chapter viii grace's confidence on the day after gerald's return osborn shut himself up in his library. if he could raise two thousand pounds, it would save him from agreeing to the demand thorn would, no doubt, make, and although he really knew the thing was impossible, he sought desperately for a way of escape. he was careless about money, and, for the most part, left his business to his agent, but he wanted to find out how he stood before he went to hayes. there was no obvious reason for his doing so, but he had begun to suspect that hayes was not as devoted to his interests as he had thought. his wife and grace distrusted the fellow, and although they knew nothing about business, osborn admitted that the advice they had sometimes given him had been sound. the involved calculations he made gave him fresh ground for disturbance. it was plain that he could borrow no more money and the sum he had received for the last mortgage had nearly gone. he might perhaps get together three or four hundred pounds, at the risk of letting builders and drainers go unpaid, but this was not enough. after a time, he put away his books in a fit of hopeless anger and drove across to see hayes at the market town. the interview was short and disappointing. osborn could not tell hayes why he needed money and found him unusually firm. he proved that the estate was heavily overburdened, fresh loans were impossible, and stern economy must be used if it was to be saved from bankruptcy. to some extent, osborn had expected this, but had cherished a faint hope that hayes might lend him enough to satisfy gerald's creditor. he could not force himself to ask for a loan outright, and hayes had been strangely dull about his cautious hints. osborn believed the fellow could have helped him, but as he had shown no wish to do so there was nothing to be said. he drove home in a downcast mood and sent for gerald. "i can't get the money," he said. "you know the man you dealt with. is there any hope of his renewing the bill?" "i'm afraid there is none, sir," gerald replied. "when he made the loan he knew you were a bank-clerk and had no money." "i expect he did know, but thought you had some." osborn sighed. his anger had gone and a dull, hopeless dejection had taken its place. he felt as if he and gerald were accomplices in a plot against grace, and did not resent the lad's insinuation that they stood together. the osborns did stand together, and he hoped grace would see her duty. "well," he said, "the payment is not due just yet. i'll wait a little and then write to the fellow." it was a relief to put the thing off, but he found no comfort as the days went by, and although he shrank from taking mrs. osborn into his confidence, his moody humor gave her a hint. besides, he was not clever at keeping a secret and now and then made illuminating remarks. mrs. osborn, although reserved, was shrewd and she and grace, without consulting each other, speculated about the trouble that obviously threatened the house. by degrees, their conjectures got near the truth and at length mrs. osborn nerved herself to ask her husband a few blunt questions. he had not meant to tell her all until he was forced, but was taken off his guard and told her much. afterwards she sent for grace. when grace heard the story her face got very white and she looked at her mother with fear in her eyes. "i suspected something, but this is worse than i thought," she said in a low strained voice. "but alan is an old friend; it is not very much for him to do and perhaps he will be generous." mrs. osborn was sitting rather limply on the stone bench on the terrace, but she roused herself. "he is hard and i think will understand what his help is worth. he knows there is nobody else. besides, if we accept this favor, we cannot refuse--" "oh," said grace, "it's unbearable! i never liked alan; i feel i hate him now." she paused and gave mrs. osborn an appealing glance. "but you cannot think i ought to agree, mother? there must be another way!" mrs. osborn shook her head. "i cannot see another way, and many girls in our class have married men they did not like, though i had hoped for a better lot for you. with us, women do not count; the interests of the family come first." "that means the men's interests," grace broke out. "father has been reckless all his life and now gerald has dragged our name in the mud. he is to be saved from the consequences and i must pay!" "it is unjust," mrs. osborn agreed. "so far as that goes, there is no more to be said. but when one thinks of the disgrace--gerald hiding in america, or perhaps in prison!" her voice broke. she was silent for a few moments and then resumed: "your father's is the conventional point of view that i was taught to accept but which i begin to doubt. i must choose between my daughter and my son; the son who carries on the house. if gerald escapes, his punishment falls on you. the choice is almost too hard for flesh and blood." "i know," said grace, with quick sympathy. "it is horrible!" "well," said mrs. osborn, "the line i ought to take is plain--tarnside will be gerald's; our honor must be saved. but i do not know. if you shrink from alan--" "if he insists, i shall hate him always. yet, it looks as if there was no use in rebelling. i feel as if i had been caught in a snare that tightens when i try to break loose. i understand why a rabbit screams and struggles until it chokes when it feels the wire. it's like that with me." mrs. osborn bent her head. "my dear! my dear!" then she looked up irresolutely with tears in her eyes. "i cannot see my duty as i thought. the convention is that my son should come first, but you are nearer to me than gerald has been for long. i feel numb and dull; i cannot think. perhaps to-morrow i may see--" grace got up and kissed her. "then, we will wait. if no help comes, i suppose i must submit." she went away with a languid step and mrs. osborn, sinking back in a corner of the bench, looked across the lawn with vacant eyes. in a sense, she had shirked her duty and failed her husband, but she had long given way to him and was now beginning to rebel. grace afterwards looked back with horror on the disturbed evening and sleepless night, and the morning brought her no relief. she could not resign herself to the sacrifice she thought she would be forced to make, and her mother told her that osborn had sent a note to thorn and a man from london would arrive in the evening. it was plain that alan must be persuaded to help gerald before the other came. in the afternoon she walked up the dale, without an object, because it was impossible to stop in the house. after a time she heard a dog bark and, stopping by an open gate, saw kit swinging a scythe where an old thorn hedge threw its shadow on a field of corn. he was cutting a path for the binder and for a minute or two she stood and watched. kit had taken off his jacket and his thin blue shirt harmonized with the warm yellow of the corn and the color of his sunburnt skin. the thin material showed the fine modeling of his figure as his body followed the sweep of the gleaming scythe. the forward stoop and recovery were marked by a rhythmic grace, and the crackle of the oat-stalks hinted at his strength. his face was calm and grace saw his mind dwelt upon his work. he looked honest, clean, and virile, but she turned her head and struggled with a poignant sense of loss. she knew now what it would cost her to let him go. then his dog ran up and kit, putting down his scythe, came to the gate. he gave her a searching glance, but she was calm again and began to talk about the harvest. he did not seem to listen, and when she stopped said abruptly: "you are standing in the sun. come into the shade; i'll make you a seat." she went with him, knowing this was imprudent but unable to resist, and he threw an oat-stook against the bank and covered it with his coat. grace sat down and he studied her thoughtfully. "i want you to tell me what's the matter," he said. "how do you know i have anything to tell?" "perhaps it's sympathy, instinct, or something like that. anyhow, i do know, and you may feel better when you have told me. it's now and then a relief to talk about one's troubles." grace was silent. her heart beat fast and she longed for his sympathy, and his nearness gave her a feeling of support; but she could not tell him all her trouble. he waited with a patience that somehow indicated understanding, and she looked about. the tall oats rippled before the wind and soft shadows trailed across the hillside. when the white clouds passed, the dale was filled with light that jarred her hopelessness. "as you haven't begun yet, i'll make a guess," said kit. "things have been going wrong at tarnside since gerald came home? well, if you can give me a few particulars, it's possible i can help." his steady glance was comforting and grace's reserve gave way. it was humiliating, and in a sense disloyal, to talk about gerald, but her pride had gone and she was suddenly inspired by a strange confidence. perhaps kit could help; one could trust him and he was not the man to be daunted by obstacles. "yes," she said vaguely; "it's gerald--" "so i thought," kit remarked. "very well. you had better tell me all you know, or, anyhow, all you can." she gave him a quick glance to see what he meant, but his brown face was inscrutable, and with an effort, talking fast in order to finish before her courage failed, she narrated what she had heard. she could not, of course, tell him all, and, indeed, mrs. osborn's story left much to be explained. "ah," said kit, "i begin to see a light, although the thing's not quite plain yet. anyhow, your father needs money and must ask his friends." he paused and resumed in a voice he tried to make careless: "has he asked thorn?" grace hesitated and turned her head as she felt the blood creep into her face. "yes; you see, there is nobody else." "i'm not sure about that. however, it looks as if thorn had not sent his answer yet and there's not much time to lose. you expect the man from london to-night?" grace said they did and studied kit while he pondered. his preoccupied look indicated that he was working out some plan and did not understand how bold she had been. he did not seem at all surprised that she had come to him. she had broken the family traditions by giving him her confidence, but she felt happier. "i'd like to see gerald," he said. "it's important, and i'll be at ashness at four o'clock. if he will not come, you must let me know." "i'll send him if i can," said grace, who got up. then she hesitated and looked away across the field. "perhaps i ought not to have told you, but i felt i must, and i'm glad i did." kit smiled and after walking to the gate with her went on with his mowing. her story left out much he wanted to know, but he thought he saw where it led and would get the rest from gerald. this might be difficult, but he meant to insist. when grace reached tarnside she met gerald on the lawn and took him to the bench under the copper-beech. "mr. askew wants you to go to ashness at four o'clock," she said. "askew wants me!" gerald exclaimed, with a start, and grace thought he looked afraid. "why?" "i don't know. he said it was important." gerald looked hard at her. "well, i suppose it is important. but how does he know about the thing?" "i told him," grace answered with forced quietness. "you told him?" gerald gasped, and then laughed harshly. "i knew you had pluck, but didn't expect this! you don't seem to realize what an extravagant thing you've done." "i don't; it doesn't matter. will you go?" gerald pondered for a few moments and then looked up. "you owe me nothing, grace. in fact, you and mother have often had to pay for my folly; but i want you to be honest now. i imagine you understand what alan expects if he helps me out?" "yes," said grace in a strange hard voice. "it would be a good marriage; the kind of marriage you ought to make. alan's rich and can give you the things you like and ought to have. but with all that, i imagine you'd sooner let it go?" "i hate it," grace said quietly. "i don't like alan; i never shall like him." "he has some drawbacks," gerald remarked, and was silent. he had not often a generous impulse, but he was moved by his sister's distress and thought he saw a plan. the plan was extravagant, and risky for him. "i wonder whether you'd sooner marry askew?" he resumed. grace moved abruptly and her face got red. she had not expected the question and was highly strung. gerald saw her embarrassment and went on: "of course, he's an outsider, from our point of view, but he's a good sort. in fact, he's much better than alan. besides, there's some ground for believing you are pretty good friends." "stop!" grace exclaimed. "this has nothing to do with you. it's unthinkable that you should meddle!" gerald smiled. "i'm not going to give askew a hint, if that is what you mean. i wanted to find out if you'd shrink from him as you shrink from alan, and i think i know." "you don't know," grace declared, and then stopped and blushed as she met his steady look. after all, there was no use in pretending; gerald would not be deceived. still, when he quietly got up she asked with alarm: "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to ashness," gerald replied. "i've made things hard for you and mother, but i won't bring you fresh embarrassment now. in fact, i think you can trust me, and, indeed, it's obvious that you must." he turned and looked back with a smile. "if askew's the man i think, the chief will shortly get a jar." grace wanted to call him back, but somehow could not, and sat still while he crossed the lawn. so long as she could see him, he moved carelessly, but when he went down the drive behind a clipped hedge his step got slow and his face was hard. the thing he meant to do would need some pluck, and might be dangerous if he had not judged askew right. in the meantime, kit went back to ashness and smoked a cigarette while he pondered what grace had told him. he had seen that she did not altogether know her brother's offense, but since money was needed, kit could guess; gerald had been betting or speculating and had used money that was not his. undoubtedly, kit did not think he had robbed his employers, because, if he had done so, he would not have stayed at tarnside. he had, however, robbed somebody, and as kit remembered his skill with the pen he saw a light. gerald had used somebody else's name, on the back of a bill or promissory note, and now the bill must be met. presently he heard steps in the passage and looking up as gerald came in indicated a chair. gerald sat down and for a few moments kit studied him quietly. it was obvious that he felt some strain, but his look was resolute and kit owned that he had more pluck than he had thought. the room was very quiet and the shadow of a big ash tree fell across the open window. the musical tinkle of a binder working among the corn came faintly down the dale. "well?" said gerald, conscious of a sense of relief in askew's presence. "you sent for me." "i did. your sister told me something; all she knew, perhaps, but not enough. anyhow, you are in trouble about money and i promised to help." "for my sake?" gerald asked. kit frowned. "not altogether, but we'll let that go. if i am to be of use, you had better state the trouble plainly. i must know how things are." "i suppose if you find the money i need, it will give you a claim on us," gerald remarked meaningly. "yes," said kit, with a steady look. "but that won't make any difference. i don't mean to urge my claim. i expect this clears the ground?" "it does; it's some relief. as a matter of fact, nobody can help quite as much as you." "ah," said kit, "i think i see! you used _my_ name. what was the sum for which you made me responsible?" gerald told him and waited anxiously when kit knitted his brows. the sum was not so large as the latter had thought and osborn's inability to raise it indicated that he was seriously embarrassed. "i understand your father applied to thorn," said kit. "does he know you have come to me?" "he does not; nobody knows but grace. i'd better state that i did come because i thought you'd take a generous line, and i'm doubtful about thorn." kit made a sign of understanding. "thorn hasn't arrived yet?" he said. "he sent a note he'd come across, but when i left he hadn't arrived. my notion is he's waiting until the last moment, with the object of making us realize we must have his help." "it's possible," said kit, who approved gerald's handling of the matter. the lad was a wastrel, but he had run some risk in order to save his sister from being forced to pay for his fault. "we won't bother about thorn's object," he resumed. "tell me about your difficulties. i don't want a half confidence." gerald hesitated and then began his tale. he had used the bank's money to speculate with and had lost. plunging again, in the hope of getting straight, he had got alarmed when the margin shrank, and had gone to hallam, the money-lender. the latter had insisted on a guarantee for the bill and gerald had used kit's name. he replaced the bank's money and had hoped the shares would go up before the bill fell due, but they had not. "well," said kit quietly, "i expected something like this, and when the fellow brings the bill to your father it must be met." he stopped and picking up a newspaper studied the steamship advertisements. then he turned to gerald. "there's another thing. you can't get a post in england, and for your mother's and sister's sakes, had better leave the country. a fast new york boat sails from liverpool to-morrow. you must get off by to-night's train." gerald looked at him with surprise. "but i'm not going to new york. i've no money and don't know what to do when i get there." "i'll fix that," kit said dryly. "you are going, anyhow. if you deliver the letter i'll give you to some people in mobile, they'll find you a job. the rest will depend upon yourself." for a few moments gerald hesitated, and then got up. "very well! perhaps it's the best chance i'll get, and i'll take it. but i must go back and pack." "i think not," said kit. "there's not much time. i must see the bank manager at his house first of all, and start soon. you'll come with me to the town. sit down and write to your mother; i'll see she gets the note." gerald did as he was told and not long afterwards kit and he drove out of the ashness lonning and took the road to the town. chapter ix kit goes to the rescue as the sun got lower an apathetic gloom began to replace the anxiety that had kept the osborns highly strung. mrs. osborn went dejectedly about the house, sometimes moving an ornament and putting away a book, for her brain was dull and she felt incapable of the effort to rouse herself for her daughter's sake. thorn had not arrived and if he did not come soon he would be too late. on the whole, this was some relief, although it meant that there was no escape from the disaster that threatened her home. torn by conflicting emotions, she had since morning struggled against the binding force of her traditions. in a sense, it was grace's duty to save the family honor, but the duty would cost the girl too much. yet, if grace failed them, gerald must suffer, and she doubted if her husband could bear the shame that must fall on all. now, however, she was conscious of a numbing resignation that blunted feeling and dulled her brain. in the meantime, grace stood at the lodge gate, watching the road to ashness while the shadows crept across the dale. gerald had not come back and she had not told her mother where he had gone. the delay was worrying, particularly since kit had sent no message. he had said he could help and one could trust him, but he did not come and the confidence she had felt was vanishing. if it was not well placed, there was no escape for her, and she shrank with horror from meeting thorn's demand. the shadows got longer, but nothing moved on the road that ran like a white riband across the fields until it vanished among the trees at ashness. presently, however, she heard the throb of a car coming up the valley and a cloud of dust rolled up behind a hedge. it was thorn's car; she knew its hum and as she watched the dust get nearer her face went white. then, as the hum became loud and menacing, she clenched her hand and ran in nervous panic up the drive. she was breathless when she reached the house, but pulled herself together and went to a quiet room where she would be alone. osborn, sitting in the library, heard the car, and got up with a sense of relief and shrinking. he had been afraid that thorn would fail him, and now he almost wished that the fellow had not come. he was not in the mood to be logical, and although it was obvious that thorn alone could save him from disaster, knowing what grace must pay hurt him more than he had thought. yet she must pay; he could find no other plan. now he was acquiescent but not resigned, and his hopelessness gave him calm. thorn's face was hot when he came in, and he glanced at osborn with an effort for carelessness when the latter indicated a chair. osborn looked old and broken, but he had a touch of dignity that was new. "i'm sorry if i'm late," thorn remarked. "i had to go to swinset and had trouble with the car." osborn wondered dully whether this was the real ground for his delay, but he said, "oh, well, it does not matter now you have arrived. i gave you a hint about my object in sending for you, but you don't know all yet." "i imagine i know enough. gerald's in trouble; he or you must meet the bill hallam will bring. you see, the fellow belongs to my club and i had a talk with him when i was in town." "so you knew what threatened us?" osborn remarked, rather sharply. "if so, it's curious you waited until i sent for you." thorn hesitated. he had meant to be tactful, but it looked as if he had been rash. osborn's suspicions were obviously excited. "the matter is delicate, and i knew you would send for me if you thought i could be of use." "you can be of use. unless i take up the fellow's bill, gerald will go to jail." thorn made a sign of sympathy. he was surprised by osborn's bluntness, which implied that the latter was desperate. "that must be prevented. i'll give you a cheque." he took out his cheque book, and then stopped, and osborn asked: "is this a free loan, alan? i mean, is it made without conditions?" "a gift, if you like. anyhow, i won't bother you about repayment. we can't talk about _conditions_; but i have something to ask." "grace?" said osborn, rather hoarsely. "yes," said thorn, with a hint of embarrassment. "i want grace. it's an awkward situation. i don't want to urge that i deserve my reward, but i've waited a long time and thought you approved." "i did approve. i hoped she'd marry you, but i imagined she could be persuaded and would do so willingly. however, it looks as if i was mistaken." thorn leaned forward, fixing his eyes on osborn. "grace is young, and perhaps i don't make a strong appeal to her romantic feelings, but i belong to her rank and her views and tastes are mine. that is much. also, i can indulge and give her all she likes; the refinements and comforts to which she is, in a sense, entitled. after all, they count for something. i'm trying to be practical, but i love her." "if you really love her, i think you would do well not to urge her just now," osborn remarked quietly. "ah," said thorn, "i can't wait. waiting has gained me nothing and there is a risk. if i were young, i'd use all the patience i could control, but i'm getting old and farther away from grace. in another year or two i shall be bald and fat. perhaps the argument's humorous, but it has a cruel force for me." "there are other girls, brought up as we have brought up grace. they might be flattered--" thorn spread out his hands. "you don't understand. i'm not looking for a wife! i love her, and if she cannot be persuaded, will never marry anybody else." he paused and resumed with some emotion: "i know the shabbiness of using this opportunity; but it's the last i'll get. i don't want to work on her gratitude, but i see no other plan. i would like to be generous--but i can't let her go." "yet you seem to realize that she does not like you." "she will get over that. her likes and dislikes haven't yet hardened into their final mold. she's impulsive and generous; i can win her by patience and kindness." "it is a rash experiment. if you are disappointed, grace would have to pay." thorn was silent for a few moments. he had talked with sincere passion, but now began to think. osborn's firmness was something of a surprise; thorn had not expected he would weigh his daughter's feelings against the danger that threatened his house. his opposition must be broken down. "i had hoped for your consent," he said and his face got hard. "to some extent, i took it for granted." osborn's head sunk forward. he had struggled, but saw that he was beaten. to beg would be useless and he could not fight. pulling himself together with an effort, he looked up. "you mean you knew i could not refuse?" "yes," said thorn, awkwardly, "i suppose i do mean something like that." osborn gave him a long, steady look. thorn's face was set and his mouth was firm. there was no hint of yielding and osborn got up. "very well; i must tell my wife." he rang a bell and a minute or two afterwards mrs. osborn came in. she sat down and osborn stood opposite. "alan has done us the honor of asking my consent to his marrying grace," he said, with ironical formality. "if we approve, he is willing to help gerald." he turned to thorn. "i think i have stated your terms?" thorn colored as he saw that mrs. osborn's eyes were fixed on him. "you exaggerate. i am willing to do you a service that nobody else can render and think i'm justified in counting on your gratitude." "very well," said osborn. "i don't see much difference, except that you want to save our pride." he paused and looked at his wife. "you know grace best. will she consent?" something in his manner moved mrs. osborn. it was long since he had asked what she thought, and she felt encouraged. besides, now the crisis had come, her irresolution had vanished. she had thrown off her reserve and meant to defend her daughter. "no," she said, with a determined note in her quiet voice. "even if she were willing, i should protest. the fault is gerald's and he must suffer." osborn felt some surprise, but his humiliation had made him gentle. "gerald cannot suffer alone. his disgrace will reflect upon us all and if he has a son it will follow him. we have been reckless and extravagant, but we have kept our good name and now, when it is all that is left us, it must be protected." "that was gerald's duty," mrs. osborn rejoined and was silent for a few moments. to some extent, her husband's point of view was hers and she knew his finest quality was his exaggerated family pride. but she would not force her daughter to marry thorn. "i will not consent," she resumed. "grace has long suffered for her brother's extravagance, but she shall not pay for his folly now. it is unjust; the price is too high!" then she gave thorn an appealing glance. "alan, can you not be generous?" "i'm not brave enough; it might cost me too much," thorn answered in a strained voice. "i cannot let grace go. she would be happy with me after a time." mrs. osborn made a scornful gesture and there was silence. osborn moved irresolutely and it looked as if he were hesitating; then steps echoed along the landing and he started as kit came in. thorn's face got very dark, but mrs. osborn looked up with a strange sense of relief. "i didn't stop to ask if you were at home," kit remarked. "as you know, time is getting short. i understand a man from london will bring you a document about a loan." "that is so," said osborn, hoarsely. "what are you going to do about the document?" "take it up," kit answered, with a look of surprise. "my name's on the back." he paused and glanced at thorn. "still, this is a matter i'd sooner talk about with you alone." thorn got up, making an effort for self-control. "since mr. askew has arrived i needn't stay." he bowed to mrs. osborn. "it looks as if i had not understood things. you won't need my help." he went out with a curious heavy step, and when the door shut, osborn sat down and looked at kit as if he had got a shock. "then, you haven't come to humble me?" "certainly not," said kit. "i should have come before, but had to find my bank manager, who had left his office." "where is gerald? what have you done with him?" mrs. osborn asked, for she began to see a light. "gerald's at the station hotel, waiting for the train to liverpool. he sails for new york to-morrow and takes a letter to some friends of mine who will give him a good start. he sent a note." mrs. osborn read the note and her eyes shone as she turned them on kit. "it is perhaps the best plan. i would have liked to see him; but i thank you." "what i have done cost me nothing, and i imagine gerald will have as good as chance of making progress as he had at the bank, while the excitement he'll probably get will suit him better. but hallam will be here soon if the train is punctual, and before he comes i want to know--" at this moment they heard a car come up the drive, a servant knocked at the door, and hallam was shown in. he sat down in front of the table where osborn told him, and glanced at kit. "this is mr. askew," osborn said. "mrs. osborn will stay; she knows your business." hallam bowed and tried not to look surprised. "very well. i have brought the document about which you wrote. i am sorry i find it impossible to renew the loan." "let me see the bill," said kit, who took it from him and afterwards nodded. "yes; that's all right! cancel the thing and i'll give you a cheque." "you admit your liability, then?" hallam asked. "of course! what did you expect? my name's here. it's not my habit to disown my debts." hallam did not state what he had expected. he was tactful and was satisfied to get his money. pulling out a fountain pen, he cancelled the bill and put kit's cheque in his pocket. "that is all, i think, and i can get a train if i start at once," he said. "if you should require help to extend your farm or improve your stock, i should be glad if you would apply to me." "i'm afraid your interest is too high," kit rejoined with a smile, and hallam bowed to the others and went out. when he had gone, osborn turned to kit, who gave mrs. osborn the cancelled bill. "i don't understand," he said dully. "why have you come to my rescue?" "to some extent, it was for miss osborn's sake." "ah!" said osborn. "i suppose you have a demand to make now i am in your power?" "you are not in my power. mrs. osborn has the bill, and if you cannot repay me, i won't urge the debt. but there is, so to speak, a stipulation. you must use no pressure to persuade miss osborn to marry mr. thorn." "i am not likely to do so," osborn remarked, dryly. he paused and his face got red as he struggled with his deep-rooted dislike for kit. "you have taken a very generous line, mr. askew," he resumed. "we have not been friends, but i must confess it looks as if i had been unjust." kit smiled. "luck made us antagonists. however, i hope the antagonism has gone for good, because after all i have something to ask. i must go to london on some business to-morrow, but with your leave i will again call in a week." "you will find us at home when you do come," osborn answered with grave politeness, and when kit got up mrs. osborn gave him her hand. he went out and osborn, who felt limp now the strain had slackened, leaned back heavily in his chair and looked at his wife. "the fellow is a working farmer, but he struck just the right note. well, he has beaten me, and it's easier to be beaten by him than i thought. but he states he's coming back--" "yes," said mrs. osborn. "i think he means to ask for grace." osborn knitted his brows. "i imagined that was done with. it is one thing to take his help and another to give him grace. after all, there is not much difference between his plan and thorn's." "i expect you will find the difference important," mrs. osborn replied with a smile. "he has broken down your unjustified prejudice, and if he is the man i think, he will leave grace free to refuse--if she likes." then she went out, for the strain had been hard to bear, and osborn sat at the table with his hand tightly closed. he admitted that he had from the beginning been wrong about kit, but his prejudices were not altogether banished yet. chapter x grace's choice a week after hallam's visit, kit, one afternoon, started for tarnside. he had been forced to go to london about some american business, but this was a relief, since it gave him an excuse for delay. at his interview with osborn he had left the most important thing unsaid, because it might have jarred mrs. osborn, whom he thought his friend, had he asked for grace at the moment he had put her father in his debt. in fact, he saw it would be tactful if he waited for some time, but he did not mean to do so. to some extent, he distrusted osborn and resolved to make his request before the latter's gratitude began to cool. grace must have full liberty to refuse, but he did not owe her father much. he wondered how she would choose and his step got slower until he stopped and, sitting on a broken wall, looked up the valley. the day was calm and the sun shone on smooth pasture and yellow corn. the becks had shrunk in the shady ghylls and a thin white line was all that marked the fall where the main stream leaped down the force crag. on the steep slopes the heather made purple patches among the bent-grass and malton moor shone red. kit loved the quiet hills; he had known intrigue and adventure and now saw his work waiting in his native dale. the soil called him; his job was to extend the plow-land and improve his flocks. this was important, because he could not tell how far grace would sympathize. her father liked the leading place; an effort for display and such luxury as could be cheaply got were the rule at tarnside. it was possible that grace had unconsciously accepted a false standard of values. kit might, for her sake, have changed his mode of life, had he thought it good for her, but he did not. she must have inherited something of osborn's tastes and to copy the tarnside customs might encourage their development. it was better to remove her from insidious influences to fresh surroundings where she would, so to speak, breath a bracing air. but this could not be done unless she were willing to go. kit knitted his brows as he mused, because there was not much to indicate whether he would find grace willing or not. she liked him well enough, but he had not ventured to pose as her lover. he was too proud and jealous for her; knowing what osborn thought, he would not involve her in a secret intrigue. yet she had been kind and he had now and then got a hint of an elusive tenderness. moreover, in her distress, she had come to him. she was proud and he thought would not have asked his help unless she was willing to give something in return. after a time he got up with a quick, resolute movement. he would soon know if he had set his hopes too high, and would gain nothing by indulging his doubts. crossing a field where the binders were at work, he went up the tarnside drive with a firm step and saw osborn and mrs. osborn sitting under the copper-beech. it looked as if they were waiting for him, and he braced himself as he advanced. mrs. osborn smiled as she gave him her hand and osborn indicated a box of cigarettes. "sit down. mrs. osborn will give you some tea presently," he said, with an effort for hospitable politeness, because he could not yet resign himself to the demand his wife expected kit would make. "you have been to town on business," he resumed, feeling that silence would be awkward. "i hope you found things satisfactory." "i did," said kit, who was glad that osborn had, no doubt unconsciously, given him a lead. he had gone to visit the agents of his american bankers, and had learned that adam's estate had turned out to be worth more than he had thought. "it was a relief, because it helps me to get over some of the hesitation i felt," he resumed. "i want your permission to ask miss osborn if she will marry me." osborn tried to hide his disturbed feelings and answered with forced quietness: "my wife warned me that i might expect something like this, but i must own that i find agreement hard. however, after the help you have given us, it is plain that i must try to overcome my reluctance." "that is all i ask in the meantime," said kit. "i don't expect you to influence miss osborn. in fact, she must understand that i have no claim and feel herself free to refuse." "you are generous," mrs. osborn remarked. "of course, it is obvious that her gratitude must count for much." "i don't want her gratitude to count," kit declared, and osborn gave him a puzzled glance. "there is something else that must be said. grace has been indulged and knows nothing of self-denial. frugality that you think proper and usual would be hardship to her. can you give your wife the comforts and refinements she has had at home?" kit noted mrs. osborn's faint smile and wondered whether it hinted at ironical amusement, but he put a document on the table. "you are entitled to ask and i have brought a short draught of the arrangements i am ready to make if i am fortunate enough to win your daughter." osborn picked up the paper and gave it to his wife. then he looked at kit with surprise. "this alters things; you are almost a rich man! if you wanted, you could buy a house like tarnside." "no," said kit firmly; "it alters nothing and leaves me where i was. i'm satisfied with ashness." "ah," said osborn. "you mean you would sooner be a working farmer than a country gentleman? the preference is somewhat remarkable!" "i know where i belong. the important thing is that if miss osborn marries me, she will be a farmer's wife." "exactly," said osborn. "from my point of view, it's an awkward drawback. i doubt if my daughter is suited for the part." he looked at mrs. osborn and resumed: "but this is a matter grace must decide about and you insisted that no pressure should be used. i imagine you were afraid of my influence and do not know if i am afraid of yours or not. if you agree, i will send for her." kit said he was willing and was silent when osborn went away. although he imagined mrs. osborn was sympathetic, he could not force himself to talk. since he had insisted that persuasion must not be used, he could not demand to meet grace alone and she might find it hard to accept his plans without some explanation, which would be awkward to give when her parents were there. he could, if he wanted, change his mode of life, but if they were to be happy, she must be removed from influences he thought dangerous and he must use his energy in useful work. he saw this very clearly; but whether grace would see it was another thing. he felt some strain while he waited and watched the trembling shadows move upon the grass. the rays of light that pierced the dark foliage flickered about mrs. osborn's dress and when he glanced at her he thought her look encouraging, but she did not speak. by and by osborn returned and said grace was coming, and kit found the suspense hard to bear. at length she came and his heart beat as he watched her cross the lawn. she wore a plain white dress and when she stopped in front of the others her face was pale but calm. "mr. askew has asked my permission to marry you and i cannot refuse if you agree," osborn said in a formal tone. "he stipulates that i must not persuade you one way or the other, and declares that he does not want to work upon your gratitude." some color came into grace's face as she looked at kit. "then, you don't value my gratitude?" "i value it very much," kit replied with forced quietness. "but i feel it ought not to count." he stopped awkwardly, for he noted a sparkle in grace's eyes and felt that he was badly handicapped. she was proud and probably did not understand his disinterested attitude. it was a relief when mrs. osborn interposed: "mr. askew is trying to be just. we have agreed that you are not to be influenced." "ah," said grace, "i think i see--" she waited and osborn went on: "since you are to make a free choice, i must state things as plainly as i can. mr. askew is not poor; he is able to give you all we think you ought to have. in fact, there is no very obvious reason he should not leave ashness, but he does not mean to do so, and although i cannot follow his argument, imagines that it would be better for you both if he carries on his farming. it looks as if he did not approve our rule." kit frowned, and colored when grace turned to him. on the whole, osborn had not stated things incorrectly, but the situation was embarrassing; grace would, no doubt, resent the stipulation he felt forced to make and expect a more lover-like attitude from the man who asked her to be his wife. "grace," he said appealingly, "i'm afraid you don't understand. but when you must give up so much i durst not hide the drawbacks. besides, it's agreed that i must not urge you." she studied him for a moment. "i do understand," she said, and then turned to osborn. "i suppose you are trying to guard me, but i am not afraid. one gets tired of pretense and secret economy, and forced idleness has not much charm. well, if mr. askew, knowing what he knows about us, is willing to run the risk--" "grace!" said kit, moving forward, but she stopped him with a proud gesture. "there is a risk. i think we shall both need courage, but if you are willing i need not hesitate. i will try to make a good farmer's wife." she turned and went away, and the blood came into kit's face as he looked at osborn. "i have played fair, but it was hard. now you have heard her answer, i'm at liberty to plead my cause." osborn said nothing, but his wife gave kit a friendly smile and he went off with a resolute step in pursuit of grace. he came up with her in a shrubbery, but it looked as if she did not hear him, for her head was bent. "grace," he said, putting his hand on her arm. "i'm embarrassed and, in a way, ashamed." she turned and confronted him with her wonted calm. "i don't see why you are ashamed. you were just--i think i mean quite impartial. you wanted me to weigh things and would have been resigned if i had found the drawbacks too much." "it wasn't as easy as you think," said kit grimly. "in fact, i was burning with anger and suspense. but, you see, i had promised your father--" "yes," said grace; "that was plain. you were firm when you thought i might be forced to marry thorn, and when father agreed not to use his influence, i suppose you could not use yours. well, i'm glad you were angry; it was human, and your scrupulous fairness was not flattering." she paused and, to kit's relief, gave him a smile. "after all, it would not have hurt to be urged to marry the man i did like." "you mean me?" said kit and boldly took her in his arms. she drew back from him, blushing, after a few moments, but kit was content. there was something fascinatingly elusive about grace and he could wait. they went on quietly down the path until they came to a bench in a shady nook. kit leaned against a tree and grace sat down. "kit," she said, "i didn't know you were rich. it really doesn't matter, but i'm glad i fell in love with you when i didn't know." "then, you were in love with me?" she smiled. "of course! i must have been, when i came to you because i was afraid of thorn. love gave me confidence; i knew you would help. in a way, i did an extravagant thing, because you were not really like a lover at all." "the control i used often hurt," said kit. "i was afraid i might alarm and lose you; it was much to see you now and then." he paused, feeling there was something to be said that must be said now. "however, about ashness--" "oh," said grace, "i suppose it cost you an effort to be firm and i hope it did. you needn't be afraid, though. when my father told me, i understood, and it won't hurt to leave tarnside; i'm anxious to get away." "my dear!" said kit. "ashness has some charm and we will try to make it a proper home for you." "it is a home; i sometimes went to see your father--i liked him so much, kit. one feels the old house has sheltered sincere men and women who loved each other and something they left haunts the quiet spot. i don't want you to alter it much." "you shall alter it as you like. the only rule at ashness will be what pleases you." "now you're very nice! i'm going to be happy because i can be myself. so far, i've been forced to be reserved. you don't really know me, kit." "perhaps that's true," kit remarked. "you're wonderful, because there's always some fresh charm to learn. i thought i knew you before i went away, but when i came back i saw how foolish i was. i wonder whether you knew i loved you then?" grace blushed. "i think i knew, and felt cheated." "why did you feel cheated?" "oh," said grace, "i liked you! i was young and felt i was entitled to love a man who loved me, if i wanted, but couldn't use my right. then, not long since, when you were so grave and just, i felt i had been cheated worse." "i see," said kit and came nearer the bench. "i was cheated, too. but look at me, dear, and i'll try to tell you all i think." he told her with fire and passion and when he stopped, bending down to her, she put her arm round his neck. "now you're ridiculously romantic, but you're very charming, kit," she said. chapter xi osborn's surrender by degrees osborn accepted his daughter's choice philosophically. kit was not the son-in-law he had wanted, but he was forced to admit that the fellow jarred less than he had thought. for one thing, he never reminded osborn of the benefit he had conferred, and the latter noted that his country-house neighbors opened their doors to him. they could not, of course, altogether ignore the man grace had promised to marry, but osborn soon had grounds for imagining that they liked kit for himself. the wedding had been fixed and osborn, although not satisfied, was resigned. in the meantime, it began to look as if the gloom that had long ruled at tarnside was banished. mrs. osborn's reserve was less marked, she smiled, and her step was lighter. grace, too, had changed, and developed. she had often been impatient but now was marked by a happy calm. osborn found her gentler and sometimes strangely compliant, although he felt he must make no rash demands. the girl indulged him, but she could be firm. her new serenity had a charm. moreover, gerald wrote cheerful letters and declared that he was making better progress than would have been possible for him at home. osborn had seldom thought much about the happiness of his family, but he felt a dull satisfaction because things were going well with the others. it was a set-off against his troubles, which were getting worse. the improvements his tenants and hayes had forced him to make cost more than he calculated and he met stubborn resistance when he talked about putting up the rents. the money he had got by the last mortgage had gone; he could not borrow more, and his creditors demanded payment of his debts. he put off the reckoning, however, until, one day when he drove to the market town to consult his agent, he got a rude jar. in the first place, hayes kept him waiting in a cold room, and he stood for a time by the window, looking out drearily at the old-fashioned square. the day was bleak and wet, and the high moors that shut in the little town loomed, blurred and forbidding, through drifting mist. the square was empty, the fronts of the tall old houses were dark with rain, and the drops from a clump of bare trees fell in a steady shower on the grass behind the iron rails. the gloom reacted upon osborn's disturbed mood, and he frowned when hayes came in. "i sent you word that i would call," he said. "you did," hayes agreed. "i was occupied when my clerk told me you were here." osborn looked at him with some surprise. hayes was very cool and not apologetic. "well," he said, "you know what i want to talk about. i suppose you have seen forsyth and langdon about the renewal of their leases?" "yes. both state they'll go sooner than pay you extra rent." "then they must go," osborn rejoined, trying to hide his disappointment, since he had spent some money on the steadings in the hope of raising the rent. now he came to think of it, hayes had held this out as an inducement when he urged the expenditure. "it looks as if your judgment wasn't very good, but by comparison with other things the matter's not important," he resumed. "you know the sum i'll need between now and the end of the term?" "i do know. in fact, i imagine you will need more than you suspect," hayes rejoined. "you'll find it impossible to borrow the money on satisfactory terms." osborn looked hard at him. the fellow's manner was rather abrupt than sympathetic; but hayes went on: "before we advertise for new tenants, there is something i want to suggest. although the farms are mortgaged, i might be able to find a buyer--at a price." "no," said osborn firmly. "the buyer would have to undertake the debt and the sum he would be willing to pay would not last me long. when it was spent i'd have practically nothing left." "the situation's awkward; but there it is! of course, if you were able to carry on until your rents come in--" "you know i can't carry on. i came to you, hoping you might suggest a workable plan. who is the buyer?" "i am," said hayes. osborn's face got red and he struggled for self-control. the fellow was his servant, but it looked as if he had cunningly involved him in entanglements an honest agent would have avoided. osborn remembered that he had sometimes vaguely suspected hayes. now he knew him, it was too late. "i may be forced to sell, but not to you," he said haughtily. hayes shrugged. "that must be as you like, but i'm able to give you a better price than anybody else. i have an object for buying the farms and, if necessary, would pay something near their proper value, without taking off much for the debt. anyhow, you had better look at this statement of your liabilities." osborn studied the document with a hopeless feeling. things were worse than he had feared and it cost him an effort to pull himself together when he looked up. "why do you want to buy?" he asked. "well, you see, the land between forsyth's and the dale-head is heavily mortgaged, and, taking the two farms with the others, would make a compact block that could be economically worked. the new estate would run down to tarnside, and since you may find it needful to sell the house, i might make you an offer." "but the consolidation wouldn't help _you_," osborn remarked with a puzzled look. "it would, perhaps, be an advantage for the mortgage holders." "i hold the mortgages," hayes said quietly. osborn started. "but," he stammered, "i got the money from somebody else." "that is so. i bought the other debts, and supplied the funds when you raised new loans." "you bought the debts with my money!" osborn exclaimed. "you used your post to rob me of my estate!" "i suppose one must make allowances, but you are unjust. you got the proper value for the land you pawned, and squandered the money. the consequence was inevitable and it's futile to complain. for that matter, it is not altogether unusual for a landlord and his steward to change places." "i trusted you and you cheated me," osborn resumed with poignant bitterness. "you lived in false security and refused to think. you knew the reckoning must come, but were satisfied if you could put it off. now you must bear the consequences, it is not my fault. however, this is not important. will you sell?" "no," said osborn hoarsely. "i will not sell to _you_." hayes smiled. "you must sell to somebody and will not get as good a price." osborn got up and went out with a dragging step. the blow had left him numb, but as he drove home in the rain he had a hazy notion that hayes' statements were to some extent justified. he had lived in false security; seeing how things were going and yet refusing to believe. somehow, it had looked impossible for him to lose tarnside. the estate was his by the sacred right of inheritance; for a hundred years there had been an osborn at the hall. yet the estate had gone, and he was to blame. it had, so to speak, melted in his careless hands. he felt old and broken when he told his wife and daughter about the interview. mrs. osborn did not look as much surprised as he had thought and grace, although sympathetic, was calm. they had known the blow was coming and were ready for the shock. after a time, osborn left them and grace looked at her mother. "i must tell kit." "yes," said mrs. osborn. "i think he ought to know, though this is not a matter in which he can help." "it looks like that," grace agreed and then paused with a confident smile. "but kit's rather wonderful; you don't really know him yet. he always finds a way when there is something hard to be done." "ah," said mrs. osborn, "there is comfort in our troubles since they have given you a man you can trust." grace went to ashness and found kit studying some accounts in the room she called his museum. "put the books away, come to the fire and talk to me," said grace, and stopped him when he moved a chair. "i think i'll take the low stool. it's wretchedly cold and i really came to be comforted." she sat down, leaning against his chair with her head turned so that she could look up, and held her hands to the fire. kit's heart beat, for grace had developed recently; her reserve had gone and a curious, frank tenderness had come instead. "this is very nice," she resumed. "there's something very homelike about ashness. perhaps i'm romantic, but i sometimes feel as if your father was still at the old house. it's kind and quiet--like him. don't you think people can leave an influence, kit?" "yours will last. so far, i haven't had much quietness." "i'm afraid i've come to bother you again. i hate to bother you, but somehow trouble seems to follow me." "your troubles are mine," kit said and stroked her head. "tell me about it." grace told him, and although he said nothing, waited calmly. his face was thoughtful but the silence was not awkward; she felt that it was marked by an intimate confidence. "kit," she resumed at length, "i don't know if you can help, or if you ought. you must decide, dear. i just wanted to tell you, and i'm comforted." "i can help," kit answered quietly. "people abroad have paid some debts i didn't expect to get and i'm richer than i thought." he paused and mused for a moment or two. "it's strange the thing should happen now. when i came home i imagined ashness would occupy all my time, but i soon began to feel i hadn't scope enough. you see, i'd been with adam and he was a hustler. well, it looks as if i had found a new field." "you mean you might buy tarnside?" "yes. i think the estate might be made to pay. high farming's a risky business in our climate and we have been satisfied to spend little and get a small return. i think there's a better plan than that; if one uses modern methods and can invest the capital. however, i see an obstacle to my buying tarnside." "father?" grace suggested. "well, i'm afraid he would never be economical and he likes to rule. but i didn't mean, kit, that you should give him money to squander." "i know," said kit gently, although his face was rather stern. "adam's legacy must not be wasted in extravagance. then, you see, tarnside ought to have been gerald's; but he's ruled out--" grace looked up. "yes, kit. now you have given him a fresh start, he may make a useful man, but tarnside is not for him." she paused and blushed, but her glance was steady as she went on: "it must be ours, if you buy it, for us to hold in trust--" she turned her head and kit quietly touched her hair. they were silent for a few moments and then he said, "if the estate is to be properly managed, my part will need much tact and i'm impatient now and then. but, we would live at ashness and your mother would understand my difficulties." "she would help. father's old, kit, and might be indulged. you would try not to hurt him, and could consult him about things that didn't matter. i think he'd be satisfied if you let him imagine he had some control." kit smiled. "very well; we will make the plunge. tell your father to do nothing until hayes moves. the fellow's cunning and it might be better if he didn't know what we mean to do." he bent down and kissed her and she pressed her face against his hand. "kit, you're wonderful. things get done when you come on the scene, but perhaps you're nicest when they're done for me. after all, i am an osborn and would have hated to let tarnside go; let's plan what we can do when it belongs to us." for a time they engaged in happy talk, but kit reopened his account books when grace went home. it looked as if he were about to make a rash plunge, because he would not have much money left when he had carried out his plans. however, he could guard against the worst risks and on the whole imagined the venture ought to pay. some weeks later, osborn sent for him and on reaching tarnside he was shown into the library. mrs. osborn was with her husband and there was a bundle of papers on the big table. "i have got the particulars you wanted," osborn said. "hayes will arrive in half an hour, but that should give us time enough." kit nodded. "yes, i want a few minutes." when he had studied the documents he looked up. tarnside would soon be his and he glanced about the library with a new curiosity. although the day was dark and rain beat upon the high windows, the light was strong enough to show the fine modeling of the old and shabby furniture. it was a noble room and with well used money could be given a touch of stateliness; but there was something cold and austere about tarnside, while ashness was homelike and warm. his short survey strengthened kit's half-conscious feeling that he belonged to the farm and not the hall. "two things are obvious," he remarked. "the mortgages must be wiped off; and when other debts have been paid, the rents of the land i'm willing to redeem ought to keep you going, if they're economically used." "i doubt it," osborn rejoined. "so far, the rent of the whole estate have failed to do so." "they will do so now," kit said rather dryly, "that is, if i'm to free the land. but you must decide if you will help or not." he looked at mrs. osborn, who made a sign of agreement "there will be enough, kit. indeed, in some ways, we shall be better off than we were." "you have pluck," said kit, and turned to osborn, knowing he must be firm. "the house and grounds will be yours to use as you like and the farmers will bring their complaints and requests first to you. you will be the acknowledged landlord and i shall be glad of your advice; but the expenditure will be controlled by me." osborn did not reply, but mrs. osborn said, "it is a generous offer." kit waited, conscious of some suspense, for he doubted if osborn's pride was quite humbled yet. he did not want to humble him, but, for the sake of grace and her mother, did not mean to let him wreck his plans. after a few moments osborn looked up. "it is a hard choice, but you have taken the proper line and i'm resigned," he said. "after all, i have had my day, and although luck has been against me, cannot claim that i have used it well. besides, i'm not robbing gerald by agreeing to your plan; gerald robbed himself and me." he paused and went on with some emotion: "very well, i'm ready to abdicate, and thank you for trying to save my feelings by giving me nominal control." there was nothing more of much importance to be said, and with the object of banishing the strain, kit began to talk about improving some of the farms. osborn did not help him much, but he kept it up until hayes arrived. the latter seemed surprised to see kit and hesitated when osborn indicated a chair. "mrs. osborn will stay, and i brought mr. askew to meet you." "as you like," said hayes, who looked annoyed, but sat down and took out some documents. "you have had formal notice that repayment of these loans is due, and it would be an advantage to make arrangements for taking up the other mortgages that will soon run out. some time since, i made you an offer that you refused." "that is so," osborn agreed. "your offer is still unacceptable. what are you going to do?" "i must advertise the mortgaged farms for public sale, and when arrears of interest, various charges, and smaller loans are deducted, there will probably be nothing left. the rest is not my business, but i have managed the estate and do not see how you can carry on." "it is not your business, and mr. askew has a plan." hayes smiled as he turned to kit. "you may perhaps resent my advice, but i think it's sound; you would be rash to meddle. a small sum would be swallowed up and make no difference. you would be poorer and mr. osborn would not gain." "that's obvious, if the sum were small," kit agreed. "but how much do you expect to get if you sell the farms?" he nodded when hayes told him. "a fair estimate! i think we can take it as the proper price. you mean to buy the farms in, but i want them too, and if you force a sale, i'll bid higher." "can you bid against me?" hayes asked with something of a sneer. "i'll answer that afterwards. in the meantime, let me state that i want the other farms when the mortgages run out. you can fight me, if you like, but i don't think it will pay you, and if we run prices up mr. osborn will gain. very well, here's my offer to buy up all his debts." he gave a document to hayes, who studied it with surprise. "i presume you're serious?" the latter said with an effort. "you are rasher than i thought if you can make this offer good." "i can certainly make it good. you had better apply to the bank manager if you have doubts." for a few moments hayes studied kit, who looked quietly resolute. then he said, "you are determined to oppose me if i don't consent?" "yes," said kit. "i mean to buy all the land mr. osborn has pawned. if you want it, you'll have to pay the price i fix, since it must be a public sale. don't you think it would be prudent to accept my offer?" hayes clenched his fist, but with an effort preserved his self-control. "i am forced to agree." "very well. take the documents to my lawyers and as soon as they are satisfied i'll give you a check." hayes nodded silently, and bowing to mrs. osborn went out. when he had gone, osborn got up. "we have not been good friends--kit," he said with some emotion. "old prejudices are hard to conquer, but mine have broken down at last--you have beaten me. well, i suppose i would not admit that the code i clung to had gone for good, but now i'm dropping out, i don't know that i could find a better man to step into my place." he paused and gave kit his hand. "after all, tarnside is not lost to us. grace will follow me--she belongs to the new school, but i think your children will rule the old house well." then mrs. osborn advanced and kissed kit, who went out with her and found grace waiting in the hall. "hayes has gone," mrs. osborn remarked. "kit has forced him to agree, and your father is reconciled. we have had much trouble, but i think we shall all be happy yet." grace looked up and her eyes shone. "ah," she said, "i knew long since that kit was wonderful! in one way, it wouldn't have mattered if he had saved tarnside or not; but now you and father know what a dear he is!" the end harding of allenwood [illustration: "'pick up your skirt,' he said bluntly; 'it gets steeper.'"--page ] harding of allenwood by harold bindloss author of prescott of saskatchewan, winston of the prairie, etc with frontispiece in color [illustration] grosset & dunlap publishers new york copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved contents chapter page i the pioneers ii portents of change iii at the ford iv the opening of the rift v the spendthrift vi the mortgage broker vii an accident viii an unexpected escape ix a man of affairs x the casting vote xi the steam plow xii the enemy within xiii the traitor xiv a bold scheme xv harvest home xvi the bridge xvii a heavy blow xviii covering his trail xix the blizzard xx a severe test xxi the day of reckoning xxii the price of honor xxiii a woman intervenes xxiv a great triumph xxv the rebuff xxvi drought xxvii the adventuress xxviii fire and hail xxix a brave heart xxx the inheritance harding, of allenwood chapter i the pioneers it was a clear day in september. the boisterous winds which had swept the wide canadian plain all summer had fallen and only a faint breeze stirred the yellowing leaves of the poplars. against the glaring blue of the northern sky the edge of the prairie cut in a long, straight line; above the southern horizon rounded cloud-masses hung, soft and white as wool. far off, the prairie was washed with tints of delicate gray, but as it swept in to the foreground the color changed, growing in strength, to brown and ocher with streaks of silvery brightness where the withered grass caught the light. to the east the view was broken, for the banks of a creek that wound across the broad level were lined with timber--birches and poplars growing tall in the shelter of the ravine and straggling along its crest. their pale-colored branches glowed among the early autumn leaves. in a gap between the trees two men stood resting on their axes, and rows of logs and branches and piles of chips were scattered about the clearing. the men were dressed much alike, in shirts that had once been blue but were now faded to an indefinite color, old brown overalls, and soft felt hats that had fallen out of shape. their arms were bare to the elbows, the low shirt-collars left their necks exposed, showing skin that had weathered, like their clothing, to the color of the soil. standing still, they were scarcely distinguishable from their surroundings. harding was thirty years old, and tall and strongly built. he looked virile and athletic, but his figure was marked by signs of strength rather than grace. his forehead was broad, his eyes between blue and gray, and his gaze gravely steady. he had a straight nose and a firm mouth; and although there was more than a hint of determination in his expression, it indicated, on the whole, a pleasant, even a magnetic, disposition. devine was five years younger and of lighter build. he was the handsomer of the two, but he lacked that indefinite something about his companion which attracted more attention. "let's quit a few minutes for a smoke," suggested devine, dropping his ax. "we've worked pretty hard since noon." he sat down on a log and took out an old corncob pipe. when it was filled and lighted he leaned back contentedly against a friendly stump. harding remained standing, his hand on the long ax-haft, his chin slightly lifted, and his eyes fixed on the empty plain. between him and the horizon there was no sign of life except that a flock of migrating birds were moving south across the sky in a drawn-out wedge. the wide expanse formed part of what was then the territory of assiniboia, and is now the province of saskatchewan. as far as one could see, the soil was thin alluvial loam, interspersed with the stiff "gumbo" that grows the finest wheat; but the plow had not yet broken its surface. small towns were springing up along the railroad track, but the great plain between the saskatchewan and the assiniboine was, for the most part, still a waste, waiting for the tide of population that had begun to flow. harding was a born pioneer, and his expression grew intent as he gazed across the wilderness. "what will this prairie be like, fred, when those poplars are tall enough to cut?" he said gravely, indicating some saplings beside him. "there's going to be a big change here." "that's true; and it's just what i'm counting on. that's what made me leave old dakota. i want to be in on the ground-floor!" harding knit his brows, and his face had a concentrated look. he was not given to talking at large, but he had a gift of half-instinctive prevision as well as practical, constructive ability, and just then he felt strangely moved. it seemed to him that he heard in the distance the march of a great army of new home-builders, moving forward slowly and cautiously as yet. he was one of the advance skirmishers, though the first scouts had already pushed on and vanished across the skyline into the virgin west. "well," he said, "think what's happening! ontario's settled and busy with manufactures; manitoba and the dakotas, except for the sand-belts, are filling up. the older states are crowded, and somebody owns all the soil that's worth working in the middle west. england and germany are overflowing, and we have roughly seven hundred miles of country here that needs people. they must come. the pressure behind will force them." "but think what that will mean to the price of wheat! it's bringing only a dollar and a half now. we can't raise it at a dollar." "it will break the careless," harding said, "but dollar wheat will come. the branch railroads will follow the homesteads; you'll see the elevators dotting the prairie, and when we've opened up this great tableland between the american border and the frozen line, the wheat will pour into every settlement faster than the cars can haul it out. prices will fall until every slack farmer has mortgaged all he owns." "then what good will it do? if the result is to be only mortgages?" "oh, but i said every _slack_ farmer. it will clear out the incompetent, improve our methods. the ox-team and the grass trail will have to go. we'll have steam gang-plows and graded roads. we'll have better machines all round." "and afterward?" harding's eyes sparkled. "afterward? then the men with brains and grit who have held on--the fittest, who have survived--will come into such prosperity as few farmers have ever had. america, with her population leaping up, will have less and less wheat to ship; england will steadily call for more; we'll have wheat at a price that will pay us well before we're through. then there'll be no more dug-outs and log-shacks, but fine brick homesteads, with all the farms fenced and mechanical transport on the roads. it's coming, fred! those who live through the struggle will certainly see it." harding laughed and lifted his ax. "but enough of that! if we're to get our homesteads up before the frost comes, we'll have to hustle." the big ax flashed in the sunshine and bit deep into a poplar trunk; but when a few more logs had been laid beside the rest the men stopped again, for they heard a beat of hoofs coming toward them across the prairie. the trees cut off their view of the rider, but when he rounded a corner of the bluff and pulled up his horse, they saw a young lad, picturesquely dressed in a deerskin jacket of indian make, decorated with fringed hide and embroidery, cord riding-breeches, and polished leggings. his slouch hat was pushed back on his head, showing a handsome face that had in it a touch of imperiousness. "hello!" he said, with a look of somewhat indignant surprise. "what are you fellows doing here?" harding felt amused at the tone of superiority in the youngster's voice; yet he had a curious, half-conscious feeling that there was something he recognized about the boy. it was not that he had met him before, but that well-bred air and the clean english intonation were somehow familiar. "if you look around you," harding smiled, "you might be able to guess that we're cutting down trees." the boy gave an imperious toss of his head. "what i meant was that you have no right on this property." "no?" "it belongs to us. and logs large enough for building are scarce enough already. as a matter of fact, we're not allowed to cut these ourselves without the colonel's permission." "haven't met him yet," said devine dryly. "who's he?" "colonel mowbray, of allenwood grange." "and who's colonel mowbray? and where's allenwood grange?" the boy seemed nettled by the twinkle in devine's eyes, but harding noticed that pride compelled him to hide his feelings. "you can't cut this lumber without asking leave! besides, you're spoiling one of our best coyote covers." "kyotes!" exclaimed devine. "what do you do with 'em?" the youngster stared at him a moment in disdain. "we have a pack of hounds at the grange," he then condescended to answer. "hunt them! well, now, that's mighty strange. i'd have thought you'd find arsenic cheaper. then if you were to lie out round the chicken-house with a gun----" the boy cut him short. "if you want these logs, you must ask for them. shall i tell the colonel you are coming to do so?" "well, sonny," drawled devine, "you just run along home and send somebody grown-up. we might talk to him." "as it happens," the boy said with great dignity, "kenwyne is in the bluff. i must warn you not to touch a tree until you see him." without another word he turned and rode off. during the conversation harding had been studying him closely. the well-bred reserve in his manner, which, while peremptory, was somehow free from arrogance, compelled the man's admiration. "from the old country," he said with a laugh, "and a bit high-handed, but there's sand in him. do you know anything about allenwood?" "not much, but i heard the boys talking about it at the railroad store. it's a settlement of high-toned britishers with more money than sense. they play at farming and ride round the country on pedigree horses." "the horse the boy rode was certainly a looker!" harding commented, swinging his ax once more. as it sliced out a chip with a ringing thud, and another, and yet another, the boy returned, accompanied by a well-mounted older man with a sallow face and very dark eyes and a languidly graceful air. the man was plainly dressed but he wore the stamp harding had noticed on the youngster; and again there flashed through harding's mind the half-indistinct thought that these people were familiar to him. "i understand that you insist upon cutting this timber," kenwyne began. "yes," harding replied. "and i was surprised when your friend here said it belonged to colonel mowbray." "he went too far, but it does belong to him in a sense. the colonel founded the settlement when very few other people thought of leaving manitoba, and he had the usual option of cutting all the wood he wanted on unoccupied land. we have always got it here, and as we have done all the road-making and general improvements in the neighborhood, we have come to look upon it as our own." "is that your bridge across the creek?" "yes; and it's not a bad job, i think. we had a good deal of trouble digging out the grade in the ravine." "well, interfering with bridges is not a habit of mine; so we'll let your trail stand. but i could make you divert it to the proper road reserve." "ah!" exclaimed kenwyne. "that sounds significant." "precisely. this bluff and the section it stands on belong to me; the transfer was registered at the land office a week ago." "then i think there's nothing more to be said." "oh," harding responded with a smile, "you might tell your colonel that when he wants any lumber he may cut it if he'll let me know!" kenwyne laughed. "thanks!" he said. "it's a generous offer, but i can't promise that colonel mowbray will avail himself of your permission. i wish you good afternoon." he rode away with his companion, and an hour later harding and devine threw their axes on their shoulders and struck out across the prairie. the sun had dipped, the air was getting cool, and on the clean-cut western horizon a soft red flush faded beneath a band of vivid green. at the foot of a low rise the men stopped. "i'll be around the first thing in the morning," devine said. "then you're not coming to supper?" "no," devine answered reluctantly; "i guess not. i've been over twice this week, and hester has enough to do without extra cooking for me." "as you wish," said harding, and they separated in a friendly manner. when he was alone harding went on briskly, walking with an elastic step and looking far ahead across the shadowy plain. it was a rich land that stretched away before him, and a compact block of it belonged to him. it was virgin soil, his to do with as he liked. he thought that he could make good use of it; but he had no illusions; he knew all about prairie farming, and was prepared for a hard struggle. crossing the rise, he headed for a glow of light that flickered in the gloom of a small birch bluff, and presently stopped at a tent pitched among the trees. two big red oxen were grazing by the edge of the bluff, a row of birch logs lay among the grass beside a pile of ship-lap boards, and some more of the boards had been roughly built into a pointed shack. in front of this a young girl bent over a fire that burned between two logs. all round, except where the wood broke the view, the wilderness rolled away, dim and silent. hester harding looked up with a smile when her brother stopped. she resembled him, for she had his direct, thoughtful glance and fine proportions. her face and hands were browned by sun and wind, but, although she had worked hard from childhood, she wore no coarsening stamp of toil. her features were good, and the plain print dress she had made in her scanty spare time became her. "tired, craig?" she asked in a pleasant voice. "not quite as fresh as i was at sun-up," harding smiled. "we got through a good deal of work to-day and i'll soon be able to make a start with the house. we'll have to rush the framing to get finished before the frost." while they ate their simple supper they talked about his building plans, and he answered her questions carefully; for hester had keen intelligence, and had shared his work and ambitions for the past few years. for the most part, their life had been hard and frugal. until craig reached the age of eighteen, he had helped his father to cultivate his patch of wheat-soil in an arid belt of north dakota. then the father had died, leaving about a thousand dollars besides his land and teams, and the lad had courageously taken up the task of supporting his mother and sister. two years afterward, mrs. harding died, and craig, at the age of twenty, set himself to consider the future. during his management of the farm he had made more money than his father had ever made, but the land was poor and incapable of much improvement. on the other hand, dakota was getting settled and homesteads were becoming valuable, and craig determined to sell out and invest the money in a larger holding in a thinly populated part of manitoba. hester went with him to canada; and when the advancing tide of settlement reached their new home, craig sold out again, getting much more than he had paid for his land, and moved west ahead of the army of prairie-breakers which he knew would presently follow him. it was a simple plan, but it needed courage and resourcefulness. he spoke of it to hester when he lighted his pipe after the meal. "it was a notion of father's that one should try to anticipate a big general movement," he remarked. "'keep a little in front; the pioneers get the pickings,' he once told me. 'if you follow the main body, you'll find the land swept bare.' he had a way of saying things like that; i learned a good deal from him." "he knew a good deal," said hester thoughtfully. "he was more clever than you are, craig, but he hadn't your habit of putting his ideas into practise. i've sometimes thought he must have lost heart after some big trouble long ago, and only made an effort now and then for mother's sake. it's strange that we know nothing about him except that he came from the old country." craig had often wondered about his father, for the man had been somewhat of an enigma to him. basil harding had lived like his neighbors, who were plain tillers of the soil, and he never spoke of his english origin, but now and then he showed a breadth of thought and refinement of manner that were not in keeping with his environment. mrs. harding was the daughter of a michigan farmer, a shrewd but gentle woman of practical turn of mind. "i wonder," craig said, "how much mother knew?" "she must have known something. once or twice, near the end, i think she meant to tell us, for there was something troubling her, but the last stroke came so suddenly, and she never spoke." hester paused, as if lost in painful memories, and then went on: "it was very strange about that money you got." craig nodded. when he was twenty-one a winnipeg lawyer had turned over to him five thousand dollars on condition that he remain in canada, and make no attempt to communicate with his father's relatives. "yes," he said. "and something happened this afternoon that puzzled me." he told hester about his meeting with the men from allenwood. "the curious thing about it," he added, "is that as i watched the boy sitting on his fine blooded horse and heard him speak, i felt as if i'd once lived among high-toned english people and could somehow understand what he was thinking. but of course i never had a horse like his, and we were born in a rough shack on a poor dakota farm. can one inherit one's ancestors' feelings and memories?" "it's very strange," mused hester. harding laughed. "well, anyway, i'm a farmer," he said. "i stand upon my own feet--regardless of ancestors. what i am is what i make of myself!" he moved off toward the tent. "it's getting late," he called back to her. but for a long time hester sat beside the sinking fire. her brother, whom she loved and admired, differed slightly, but noticeably in one or two respects, from any of the prairie farmers she had known. though it was hard to procure books, he had read widely and about other subjects than agriculture. odd tricks of thought and speech also suggested the difference; but she knew that nobody else except her mother had noticed it, for, to all intents, craig was merely a shrewd, hard-working grower of wheat. then the girl's face grew gentle as she thought of fred devine. he had proved very constant and had several times made what was then a long and adventurous journey to see her. now, when his father had given him a few hundred dollars, he had followed craig, and she was ready to marry him as soon as he could make a home for her. at present he was living in a dug-out in a bank, and must harvest his first crop before he could think about a house. when the fire had died down to a few smoldering coals, hester got up and looked about her. the moon hung, large and red, above the prairie's rim; the air was sharp and wonderfully exhilarating. behind the tent the birch leaves rustled softly in the bluff, and in the distance a coyote howled. there was no other sound; it was all very still and strangely lonely; but the girl felt no shrinking. on her mother's side she sprang from a race of pioneers, and her true work was to help in the breaking of the wilderness. chapter ii portents of change the moon was above the horizon when kenwyne pulled up his horse to a walk opposite allenwood grange. the view from this point always appealed to the artist in kenwyne. the level plain was broken here by steep, sandy rises crowned with jack-pines and clumps of poplar, and a shallow lake reached out into the open from their feet. a short distance back from its shore, the grange stood on a gentle slope, with a grove of birches that hid the stables and outbuildings straggling up the hill behind. as kenwyne saw it in the moonlight across the glittering water, the house was picturesque. in the center rose a square, unpretentious building of notched logs; but from this ship-lap additions, showing architectural taste, stretched out in many wings, so that, from a distance, the homestead with its wooded back-ground had something of the look of an old english manor house. it was this which made the colonists of allenwood regard it with affection. now it was well lighted, and the yellow glow from its windows shone cheerfully across the lake. the foundations of the place had been laid in unsettled times, after the hudson bay fur-traders had relinquished their control of the trackless west, but before the dominion government had established its authority. the farmers were then spreading cautiously across the manitoban plain, in some fear of the metis half-breeds, and it was considered a bold adventure when the builder of the grange pushed far out into the prairies of the assiniboine. he had his troubles, but he made his holding good, and sold it to colonel mowbray, who founded the allenwood settlement. on the whole, the colony had succeeded, but kenwyne saw that it might become an anachronism in changing times. he had noted the advance of the hard-bitten homesteaders who were settling wherever the soil was good, and who were marked by sternly utilitarian methods and democratic ideas. before long allenwood must cast off its aristocratic traditions and compete with these newcomers; but kenwyne feared that its founder was not the man to change. as he rode slowly past the lake, a man came toward him with a gun and a brace of prairie-chickens. "hello, ralph!" he said. "have you forgotten that it's council night?" "i'm not likely to forget after the rebuke i got for missing the last meeting," kenwyne replied. "do you happen to know what kind of temper the colonel is in, broadwood?" "my opinion is that it might be better. gerald mowbray has turned up again, and i've noticed that the old man is less serene than usual when his son's about. in fact, as we have to bear the consequences, i wish the fellow would stay away." while broadwood and kenwyne were discussing him on the hillside, colonel mowbray sat in his study at the grange, talking to the elder of his two sons. the room was small and plainly furnished, with a map of the territory on the matchboarded wall, a plain table on which lay a few bundles of neatly docketed papers, and a stove in one corner. account-books filled a shelf, and beneath there was a row of pigeonholes. the room had an air of austere simplicity with which colonel mowbray's appearance harmonized. he was tall, but spare of flesh, with an erect carriage and an autocratic expression. his hair was gray, his eyes were dark and keen, and his mouth was unusually firm; but the hollowness of his face and the lines on his forehead showed advancing age. he was a man of some ability, with simple tastes, certain unchangeable convictions, and a fiery temper. leaving the army with a grievance which he never spoke about, and being of too restless a character to stay at home, he had founded allenwood for the purpose of settling young englishmen upon the land. he demanded that they be well born, have means enough to make a fair start, and that their character should bear strict investigation. though the two latter conditions were not invariably complied with, his scheme had prospered. mowbray was generous, and had taken the sons of several old friends who did not possess the capital required; while the discipline he enforced had curbed the wayward. for the most part, the settlers regarded him with affection as well as respect; but he had failed most signally with his own son, who now stood rather awkwardly before him. after serving for a year or two in india as an engineer lieutenant, gerald mowbray met with an accident which forced him to leave the army. he made an unsuccessful start on another career, and had of late been engaged upon a government survey of the rugged forest-belt which runs west to the confines of the manitoban plain. he was a handsome, dark-complexioned man, but looked slacker and less capable than his father. "i think five hundred pounds would clear me," he said in an apologetic tone. "if i could pay off these fellows, it would be a great relief, and i'd faithfully promise to keep clear of debt in future." "it seems to me i've heard something of the kind on previous occasions," mowbray returned dryly. "there's a weak strain in you, gerald, though i don't know where you got it. i suppose a thousand pounds would be better?" gerald's eyes grew eager; but the next moment his face fell, for he knew his father's methods, and saw his ironical smile. "well," he said cautiously, "i could straighten things out if i had five hundred." "with what you got from your mother!" gerald winced. his mother never refused him, even though he knew that it often meant sacrifice on her part. "to save our name," mowbray said sternly, "and for that reason only, i am going to let you have three hundred pounds. but i warn you, it's the last you'll get. you may as well know that it is hard to spare this." gerald looked his surprise. "i thought----" mowbray interrupted him. "my affairs are not so prosperous as they seem; but i rely on you not to mention the fact. now you may go. but, remember--there's to be no more money thrown away!" when gerald closed the door, mowbray took down one of his account-books, and sat still for a long time studying it. he had never been rich, but he had had enough, and as the settlement grew up he had felt justified in selling to newcomers, at moderate prices, land which he had got as a free grant. now, however, the land was nearly all taken up. for a time he bred cattle, but this had scarcely paid; then the development of the milling industry and the building of elevators rendered wheat-growing possible, and though the grain had to be hauled a long way, mowbray made a small profit. prices, however, were falling, and land nearer the railroad was coming into cultivation. with a gloomy air, mowbray closed the book and went down to preside over the council which was held periodically and, as a rule, ended in an evening of social amusement. the hall was large and square, with matchboarded walls and a pointed roof. in an open hearth a log fire burned cheerily, although two large windows were opened wide to let in the september air. bunches of wheat and oats of unusual growth hung upon the walls, suggesting the settlers' occupation; but it was significant that the grain was surmounted by a row of the heads of prairie antelope, as well as moose and caribou from the north. they were farmers at allenwood, but they were sportsmen first. about a dozen men were sitting round a table when mowbray entered, but they rose and waited until he took his place. they varied in age from twenty to forty, and in their easy manners and natural grace one recognized the stamp of birth. evening dress was not the rule at allenwood, and while some wore white shirts and city clothes, others were attired picturesquely in red-laced blue vests and fringed deerskin. their brown faces and athletic figures indicated a healthy life in the open, but they had too gallant and careless an air for toilers. a few suggestions for the improvement of the trails were made and discussed; and then mowbray turned to kenwyne, who had spent the afternoon looking for suitable logs for the bridge-stringers. "did you and lance find anything?" mowbray asked. kenwyne was waiting for this opening to make what he felt was an important announcement. "we went to the bluff," he said. "what we found was two homesteaders cutting down all the best trees." "homesteaders!" mowbray frowned and the others looked interested. "you warned them off, of course!" "lance did. but one of the fellows retorted that the timber was his." "impossible!" mowbray said sharply. "the nearest preemption is six miles off--and that's too close!" "it appears that the man has just bought the section on our western range-line. he referred me to the land register, if i had any doubt. i'm afraid you must take it for granted, sir, that we are going to have neighbors." "never!" mowbray brought his fist down on the table with a resounding blow. "we may not be able to turn out these intruders, but i decline to consider them neighbors of ours." he turned to the others. "you must see that this is disturbing news. we came here to live in accordance with the best english traditions, and although we had to put up with some hardships, there were compensations--abundant sport, space, and freedom. in a sense, the country was ours, with its wood and water, as far as we cared to ride. now every homestead that is built restricts what we have regarded, with some justice, as our rights. we took heavy risks in settling here when people believed it was economically impossible to farm at allenwood." there was a murmur of approval. "these fellows will put an end to our running range horses and cattle," one man said. "if many of them come into the district, we may have to put down the coyote hounds, and ask permission before we course a jack-rabbit. then they could make us divert our trails to the road reserves." "something of that kind may happen," kenwyne interposed. "but the fellow i met seemed inclined to be friendly. said he'd let our trail stand and we might cut what wood we wanted, provided we get his permission." mowbray drew himself up haughtily. "although you recognize the lesser drawbacks," he said, "i'm afraid you miss the most important point. i must remind you that this settlement was founded to enable a certain stamp of englishmen to enjoy a life that was becoming more difficult without large means at home. a man with simple tastes could find healthy occupation out of doors, keep a good horse, and get as much shooting as he wanted. so long as his farming covered, or nearly covered, his expenses, that was all that was required. we have not discouraged the making of money, but i must frankly say that this was not our object. now i see threats of change. we may be brought into contact, and perhaps into opposition, with men whose motives are different. their coming here has to me a sinister meaning." "allenwood has been a success," said broadwood; "one can't deny it--but i think we owe a good deal to our having settled in a new and undeveloped country. the experiment turned out well because we got the land cheap and wheat was dear. now i foresee a sharp fall in prices, and it seems to me that we may have to revise our methods to suit the times. in future, we may find it difficult to live upon our farms unless we work them properly. i'm afraid we can't stand still while canada moves on--and i'm not sure that it's a great misfortune." "do you admire modern methods?" somebody asked. "if you do, you'd better study what things are coming to in america and england. there is not a hired man at allenwood who is not on first-rate terms with his master; do you want to under-pay and over-drive them or, on the other hand, to have them making impossible demands, and playing the mischief by a harvest strike? i agree with our respected leader that we don't want to change." "but tell us about these intruders," mowbray said to kenwyne. "what sort of men are they?" "well, first of all, they're workers; there's no mistaking that. and i'd judge that they came from the states--dakota, perhaps." "that is to say, they're hustlers!" a lad broke in. "couldn't we buy them out before they get started, sir?" "it would cost us something to buy a section, and we would have to work part of it to pay the new taxes. then the fellows would probably find out that it was an easy way of getting a good price; and we couldn't keep on buying them out. we have all the land we want, and must be careful whom we allow to join us." "i think we should try to keep an open mind," kenwyne suggested. "it might pay us to watch the men and see what they can teach us. sooner or later we shall have to improve our farming, and we may as well begin it gradually. after all, it's something to gather two bushels of wheat where only one grew." mowbray looked at him sternly. "i'm sorry to see you and broadwood taking this line, ralph; but i've long suspected that your views were not quite sound. frankly, i'm afraid of the thin end of the wedge." he turned to the others. "you will understand that there can be no compromise. we shall continue to live as english gentlemen and have nothing to do with the grasping commercialism that is getting a dangerous hold on the older countries. i will do my best to keep allenwood free from it while i have the power." "whatever my private opinions are, i think you know you can rely on my loyal support in all you do for the good of the settlement, sir," kenwyne replied. "now that we have the matter before us, it might be well if you told us how we are to treat these americans. we're bound to meet them." "i cannot suggest discourtesy, since it would be foreign to your character and against our traditions; but i do not wish you to become intimate with them." when the meeting broke up an hour later, broadwood walked home with kenwyne. it was a small and unpretentious house that perched on the hillside beyond the lake, but the room the men entered was comfortably furnished. a few photographs of officers in uniform, the football team of a famous public school, and the crew of an oxford racing boat, hung on the pine-board walls. "we must have a talk," said kenwyne. "i feel that these fellows' settling here is important; it's bound to make a difference. i know the type; one can't ignore them. they'll have to be reckoned with, as friends or enemies." "in spite of the colonel's opinion, i believe their influence will be for good. what allenwood needs most is waking up." broadwood laughed. "it's curious that we should agree on this. of course, my marriage is supposed to account for my perversion; but one can understand mowbray's painful surprise at you. your views ought to be sound." "what is a sound view?" "at allenwood, it's a view that agrees with mowbray's." "let's be serious," kenwyne replied. "there's something to be said for his contention, after all. we have got along pretty well so far." "yes; but the settlement has never been self-supporting. mowbray got the land for nothing and sold it in parcels, as he was entitled to do, spending part of the price on improvements from which we all benefit. then a number of the boys got drafts from home when they lost a crop. we have been living on capital instead of on revenue; but the time is coming when this must stop. our people at home can't keep on financing us, and the land is nearly all taken up." "well, what follows?" "allenwood will shortly have to earn its living," broadwood answered, laughing. "this will be a shock to some of our friends, but even with wheat going down the thing shouldn't prove insuperably difficult." "we may have wheat at less than a dollar. look at the quantity of good land that's available, and the character of the men who're coming in. they'll live on revenue, in dug-outs and fifty-dollar shacks, and all they don't spend on food will go into new teams and implements. they don't expect an easy time, and won't get it, but we'll have to meet their competition. personally, i don't think that's impossible. i believe we're their equals in brain and muscle." "we used to think we were superior," broadwood smiled. "our conservative sentiments will be our greatest difficulty." "i'm afraid we'll have to get rid of them." "mowbray will never throw his traditions overboard." "no. i see trouble ahead," said kenwyne. "it's an awkward situation, i'll admit. instead of mowbray's leading us, we'll have to carry him along, so to speak, without his knowing it. as he's not a fool, the thing may need more tact than we're capable of. for all that, he must remain leader." "of course," said kenwyne simply. "he made allenwood. we must stick to him." long after broadwood had gone, kenwyne stood at the door of his house, looking out over the lake. there was no wind, and the prairie was very silent. stretching back in the moonlight to the horizon, its loneliness was impressive; but kenwyne was not deceived. he knew that the tide of population and progress had already passed its boundaries and was flowing fast up every channel, following the railroad, the rivers, and the fur-traders' trails. it would wash away the old landmarks and undermine every barrier that mowbray could raise. kenwyne wondered what would happen when allenwood was surrounded by the flood. after all, it depended upon the settlers whether the inundation proved destructive or fertilizing. chapter iii at the ford a few days after the council, beatrice, colonel mowbray's only daughter, sat talking with her mother in the drawing-room at the grange. beatrice had returned on the previous evening from a visit to england, and it struck her, perhaps by contrast with the homes of her mother's friends, that the room had a dingy, cheerless look. the few pieces of good furniture which mowbray had brought with him had suffered during transport and showed signs of age; the others, sent out from toronto, were crudely new. rugs and curtains were faded, and there were places that had been carefully mended. the matchboarded walls looked very bare. more than all, it struck the girl that her mother seemed listless and worn. mrs. mowbray was a gentle, reserved woman. she was still beautiful, but the years she had spent upon the prairie had left their mark on her. she had lost her former vivacity and something of her independence of thought; and, except to those who knew her well, her character seemed colorless. mowbray was considerate of his wife, but there was no room under his roof for two directing wills or more than one set of opinions. for all that, mrs. mowbray wore an air of quiet dignity. beatrice had a trace of her father's imperious temper. she looked very fresh, for a life spent largely out of doors had given her a vigorous, graceful carriage as well as a fine, warm color, and had set a sparkle in her deep-blue eyes. there was a hint of determination about her mouth, and her glance was often proud. she was just twenty-two, and the fashionable english dress set off her gracefully outlined and rather slender figure. as she looked at her mother her face grew thoughtful. "you are not looking well, mother dear," she said. "i am not ill," mrs. mowbray answered in a tired voice. "it has been a very hot and trying summer, and the crop was poor. that had its effect upon your father. then you have heard that gerald----" there was a quick, indignant flash in beatrice's eyes. "yes, i know! of course, i stand up for him to outsiders, but i'm getting ashamed of gerald. his debts must have been a heavy tax on father. i think that too much has been done for the boys. i have nothing to complain of; but we're not rich, and i'm afraid you have had to suffer." "my dear, you mustn't question your father's judgment." beatrice smiled. "i suppose not, and my criticism would certainly be wasted; still, you can't expect me to have your patience." she went to one of the long windows in the drawing-room and threw it open wide. "how i love the prairie!" she exclaimed, looking out over the vast plain that stretched away to a sky all rose and purple and gold. a tired smile crept into her mother's face. "it has its charm," she said; "but, after all, you have been away at school, and have not seen much of it. one has to do without so much here, and when you have gone through an unvarying round of duties day after day for years, seeing only the same few people and hearing the same opinions, you find it dreary. one longs to meet clever strangers and feel the stir and bustle of life now and then; but instead there comes another care or a fresh responsibility. you don't realize yet what a bad harvest or a fall in the wheat market means; for, while the men have their troubles, in a settlement like allenwood, the heaviest burden falls upon the women." "you must have had to give up a good deal to come here," beatrice said. "i loved your father, and i knew that he could not be happy in england," was the simple answer. beatrice was silent for a few moments. it was the first time she had understood the sacrifice her mother had made, and she was moved to sympathy. then, in the flighty manner of youth, she changed the subject. "oh, i must tell you about dear mr. morel!" catching an alert look in her mother's eyes, beatrice laughed. then, with a quick, impulsive movement, she crossed the floor, took her mother's face between both her hands, and kissed it. "no," she answered the question that had not been spoken; "mr. morel is a lovely old man who lives all alone, with just his servants, at ash garth, in a fine old house full of art treasures that seem to have been collected from all over the world. and there's a rose garden between the lawn and the river, and a big woods all round. mr. morel is charming, and he was particularly kind to me, because he and uncle gordon are such great friends." "did you see much of him?" "oh, yes; and i like him. but, mother," beatrice lowered her voice dramatically, "there's a mystery in his life. i'm sure of it! i asked uncle gordon; but if he knew he wouldn't tell. then i tried to question mr. morel----" "why, beatrice!" the girl laughed at her mother's shocked tone. "don't worry, mother dear. he didn't know i was questioning him. and i do love a mystery! all i learned was that it has something to do with canada. whenever i talked about the prairie he looked so sad, and once i even thought i saw tears in his eyes." beatrice's brows came together in a perplexed frown; then she laughed gently. "mysteries have a fascination for me," she said; "i like to puzzle them out. but i must leave you now; for i promised to go see evelyn this afternoon. i may not get home until late." half an hour later beatrice was in the saddle riding across the bare sweep of prairie to one of the distant homesteads. when she reached the river, the stream was turbid and running fast, but a narrow trail through the poplars on its bank led to the ford, and she urged her horse into it fearlessly. on the other side the trail was very faint, and a stake upon a rise indicated where the crossing was safe. a large grass fire was burning some miles away, for a tawny cloud of smoke trailed across the plain. beatrice spent a pleasant hour with her friend and started home alone as dusk was falling. the sky was clear, and the moon hung some distance above the horizon. a cold breeze had sprung up, and the grass fire had grown fiercer. beatrice could see it stretching toward the river in a long red line; and after a while she rode into the smoke. it grew thicker and more acrid; she could not see her way; and her horse was getting frightened. when an orange glare leaped up not far away, the animal broke into a gallop, pulling hard, and after some trouble in stopping it beatrice changed her direction. she was not afraid of prairie fires, which, as a rule, can be avoided easily, but this one would necessitate her making a round. she found it difficult to get out of the smoke, and when she reached the river it was at some distance above the stake. she could not ride back, because the fire was moving up from that direction, cutting her off. she glanced dubiously at the water. it ran fast between steep, timber-covered banks. she did not think she could get down to it, and she knew there was only one safe ford. still, she could not spend the night upon the wrong bank, and the fire was drawing closer all the time. worse still, her horse was becoming unmanageable. she rode upstream for a mile; but the river looked deep, and the eddies swirled in a forbidding way; the bank was abrupt and rotten, and beatrice dared not attempt it. in front, the moon, which was getting higher, threw a clear light upon the water; behind, the smoke rolled up thickly to meet her. the fire was closing in upon the stream. with his nostrils filled with the sting of the smoke, the horse reared and threatened to dash over the crumbling bank. beatrice, realizing her danger, turned him back downstream and gave him the rein. she did not hope to reach the ford--there was a wall of impenetrable fire and smoke between her and the stake; she could not attempt the river where the bank was so steep and the current so swift. with her own eyes smarting, and her breathing difficult, beatrice suddenly leaned forward and patted the trembling horse. he had not been able to run far with his lungs full of smoke, and he had now stopped in a moment of indecision. "good boy!" she coaxed, in a voice that was not quite steady. "go a little farther, and then we'll try the river." "_hello!_" came out of the darkness; and through the acrid haze she saw a man running toward her. she hailed him eagerly; but when he reached her she was somewhat disconcerted to notice that he was not, as she had expected, one of the allenwood settlers. she saw that he was waiting for her to speak. "i want to get across, and the fire has driven me from the ford," she said. "where are you going?" "to the grange." "by your leave!" he took the bridle and moved along the bank, though he had some trouble with the frightened horse. when they had gone a few yards he turned toward an awkward slope. "is this crossing safe?" beatrice asked in alarm. "it's not good," he answered quietly. "i can take you through." beatrice did not know what gave her confidence, because the ford looked dangerous, but she let him lead the stumbling horse down to the water. the next moment the man was wading knee-deep, and the stream frothed about the horse's legs. the current was swift and the smoke was thick and biting, but the man went steadily on, and they were some distance from the bank when he turned to her. "pick up your skirt," he said bluntly; "it gets steeper." beatrice laughed in spite of her danger. the man certainly did not waste words. when they were nearly across, the moon was suddenly hidden behind a dark cloud, and at that moment the horse lost its footing and made a frantic plunge. beatrice gasped. but her fright was needless, for her companion had firm control of the animal, and in another few moments they were struggling up the bank. as they left the timber and came out of the smoke, into the broad moonlight, she told him to stop, for the saddle had slipped in climbing the bank. then, for the first time, they saw each other clearly. he was a big man, with a quiet brown face, and beatrice noticed his start of swift, half-conscious admiration as he looked up at her. it caused her no embarrassment, because she had seen that look on the faces of other men, and knew that she was pretty; but she failed to estimate the effect of her beauty on a man unaccustomed to her type. sitting with easy grace upon the splendid horse, she had a curiously patrician air. he noticed her fine calm, the steadiness of her deep-blue eyes, and the delicate chiseling of her features; indeed, he never forgot the picture she made, with the poplars for a background and the moonlight on her face. "thank you; i'm afraid you got very wet," she said. "i know my way now." "you can't ride on," he answered. "the cinch buckle's drawn." "oh!" "you'd better come on to my place. my sister will look after you while i fix it." he smiled as he added: "miss mowbray, i presume? you may have heard of me--craig harding, from the section just outside your line." "oh!" beatrice repeated. "i didn't know we had neighbors; i have been away. have you met any of the allenwood people?" "a sallow-faced man with dark eyes." "kenwyne," said beatrice. "he's worth knowing. anybody else?" "there was a lad with him; about eighteen, riding a gray horse." "yes; my brother lance." harding laughed softly. "that's all," he said; "and our acquaintance didn't go very far." beatrice wondered at his amusement, and she gave him a curious glance. he was dressed in old brown overalls, and she thought he had something of the look of the struggling farmers she had seen in manitoba, hard-bitten men who had come from the bush of ontario, but there was a difference, though she could not tell exactly where it lay. harding's clothes were old and plain, and she could see that he worked with his hands, yet there was something about him which suggested a broader mind and more culture than she associated with the rude preemptors. then, though he was curt, his intonation was unusually clean. she asked him a few questions about his farm, which he answered pleasantly. they were walking side by side along one of the prairie trails, and he was leading the horse. the breeze had fallen and the night was unusually still, broken only by a coyote calling insistently to his mate; the wide, bare prairie ahead of them lay bathed in moonlight. presently a light twinkled across the plain; and beatrice welcomed it, because, in spite of the precautions she had taken, her long skirt was wet and uncomfortable. when they reached the camp they found hester busy cooking at a fire. behind her stood a rude board shelter and a tent, and farther off the skeleton of a house rose from the grass. beatrice studied hester harding with interest. though she found her simply dressed, with sleeves rolled back and hands smeared with flour, the prairie girl made a favorable impression on her. she liked the sensitive, grave face, and the candid, thoughtful look. while the girth was being mended, the girls talked beside the fire. then harding saddled his own horse, and he and beatrice rode off across the prairie. when the lights of the grange were visible he turned back; and soon afterward beatrice was laughingly relating her adventure to her mother and lance. "so it was harding who helped you!" lance exclaimed. "i made a rather bad blunder in talking to him the other day--told him he mustn't cut some timber which it seems was his. but, i must say, he was rather decent about it." he looked at his sister curiously, and then laughed. "on the whole," he added, as she started up the stairs, "it might be better not to say anything about your little experience to the colonel. i'm inclined to think it might not please him." beatrice saw that her mother agreed with lance, and she was somewhat curious; but she went on up to her room without asking any questions. she began to feel interested in harding. chapter iv the opening of the rift a week after his meeting with beatrice mowbray, harding went out one morning to plow. he was in a thoughtful mood, but it was characteristic that he did not allow his reflections to interfere with his work. his house was unfinished, and the nights were getting cold; but neither hester nor he placed personal comfort first, and there was a strip of land that must be broken before the frost set in. it was a calm morning and bright sunshine poured down upon the grass that ran back, growing faintly blue in the distance, until it faded into the mellow haze that shut in the wide circle of prairie. here and there the smooth expanse was broken by small, gleaming ponds and wavy lines of timber picked out in delicate shades of indigo and gray, but the foreground was steeped in strong color. where the light struck it, the withered grass shone like silver; elsewhere it was streaked with yellow and cinnamon. the long furrows traced across it were a rich chocolate-brown, and the turned-back clods had patches of oily brightness on their faces. the leaves in a neighboring bluff formed spots of cadmium; and even the big breaker plow, painted crude green and vermilion, did not seem out of place. it was a new implement, the best that harding could buy, and two brawny red oxen hauled it along. oxen are economical to feed and have some advantages in the first stages of breaking land, but harding meant to change them for clydesdale horses and experiment with mechanical traction. he used the old methods where they paid, but he believed in progress. as he guided the slowly moving beasts and watched the clods roll back, his brown face was grave; for he had been troubled during the past seven days. when he looked up at beatrice mowbray on the river bank something strange and disturbing had happened to him. he was not given to indulgence in romantic sentiment and, absorbed as he had been, first by the necessity of providing for his sister and himself, and afterward by practical ambitions, he had seldom spared a thought to women. marriage did not attract him. he felt no longing for close companionship or domestic comfort; indeed, he rather liked a certain amount of hardship. true, his heart had once or twice been mildly stirred by girls he had met. they were pretty and likable--otherwise he would not have been attracted, for his taste was good. in some respects, harding was primitive; but this, perhaps, tended to give him a clearer understanding of essential things, and he had a vague belief that he would some day meet the woman who was destined to be his true mate. what was more, he would recognize her when he saw her. and when he had looked up at beatrice in the moonlight, standing out, clear cut, against the somber background of poplars, the knowledge that she was the one woman had rushed over him, surging through him as strong as the swift-running river through which he had brought her. but, now that the thing had happened, he must grapple with a difficult situation. he knew his own value, and believed that he had abilities which would carry him far toward material success; but he also knew his limitations and the strength of the prejudices that would be arrayed against him. that he should hope to win this girl of patrician stock was, in a sense, ludicrous. yet he had read courage in her, and steadfastness; if she loved him, she would not count too great any sacrifice she made for his sake. but this was only one side of the matter. brought up as she had been, she might not stand the strain of such a life as his must be for a time. a deep tenderness awoke within him; he felt that she must be sheltered from all trouble and gently cared for. harding suddenly broke into a grim laugh. he was going much too fast--there was no reason to believe that the girl had given him a passing thought. with a call to the oxen he went on with his plowing, and the work brought him encouragement. it was directly productive: next fall the prairie he ripped apart would be covered with ripening grain. he had found that no well-guided effort was lost: it bore fruit always--in his case, at the rate of twenty bushels of wheat, or fifty bushels of oats, to the acre. when the seed was wisely sown the harvest followed; and harding had steadily enlarged his crop. now he had made his boldest venture; and he looked forward to the time when his labor should change the empty plain into a fertile field. a jolt of the plow disturbed him, and as he looked up the oxen stopped. the share had struck hard ground. on one side, a sinuous line of trail, rutted by wheels and beaten firm by hoofs, seamed the prairie; on the other, the furrows ran across and blotted it out. it was a road the allenwood settlers used, and harding knew well what he was doing when he plowed into it. still, the land was his and must produce its proper yield of grain, while to clear the trail with his implements would entail much useless labor. he had no wish to be aggressive, but if these people took his action as a challenge, the fault would be theirs. it was with a quiet, determined smile that he called to the oxen and held down the share. at noon he turned the animals loose, and going back to camp, felt his heart throb as he saw beatrice mowbray talking to hester. a team stood near by, and the boy he had met in the bluff was stooping down beside a light four-wheeled vehicle. beatrice gave harding a smile of recognition and went on talking, but her brother came up to him. "the pole came loose," he explained; "and i thought you might lend me something to fasten it with." "certainly," harding said, stooping to examine the damaged pole. "it won't fasten," he added. "it's broken between the iron straps, and there's not wood enough to bolt them on again." lance frowned. "that's a nuisance!" "i will give you a pole," harding said. "there is some lumber here that will do." he picked up a small birch log as he spoke, and, throwing it upon two trestles, set to work with an ax. when he had it about the right size, lance interrupted him. "that's good enough. i'll get it smoothed off when the carpenter comes out from the settlement." "that is not my plan," harding smiled. "i like to finish a job." he adjusted a plane, and beatrice watched him as he ran it along the pole. it had not struck her hitherto that one could admire the simple mechanical crafts, but she thought there was something fine in the prairie farmer's command of the tool. she noticed his easy poise as he swung to and fro, the rhythmic precision of his movements, and the accurate judgment he showed. as the thin shavings streamed across his wrist the rough log began to change its form, growing through gently tapered lines into symmetry. though he had only his eye to guide him, beatrice saw that he was skilfully striking the balance between strength and lightness, and it was a surprise to find elements of beauty in such a common object as a wagon-pole. she felt that harding had taught her something when he turned to lance, saying: "there! i guess we can put that in." the irons were soon refitted, and while lance harnessed the team, beatrice came to harding with a smile. "thank you!" she said. "it's curious that you should help me out of a difficulty twice within a week." harding flushed. "if you should happen to meet with another, i hope i'll be near," he returned. "you like helping people?" he pondered this longer than she thought it deserved. "i believe i like straightening things out. it jars me to see any one in trouble when there's a way of getting over it; and i hate to see effort wasted and tools unfit for work." "efficiency is your ideal, then?" "yes. i don't know that it ever struck me before, but you have hit it. all the same, efficiency is hard to attain." beatrice looked at him curiously. "i don't believe you are really a carpenter," she said. "unless you have plenty of money when you start breaking prairie, you have to be a number of things," he answered, smiling. "difficulties keep cropping up, and they must be attacked." "without previous knowledge or technical training?" he gave her a quick, appreciative glance. "you have a knack of getting at the heart of things!" he said in his blunt way. "it's not common." beatrice laughed, but she felt mildly flattered. she liked men to treat her seriously; and so few of them did. somehow she felt that harding was an unusual man: his toil-roughened hands and his blunt manner of speech were at variance with the indefinite air of culture and good-breeding that hovered round him. there was strength, shown plainly; and she felt that he had ability--when confronted with a difficult problem he would find the best solution. it was interesting to lead him on; but she was to find him ready to go much farther than she desired. "i hope making the new pole for us wasn't too much trouble," she said lightly. "it gives me keen pleasure to be of any use to you," he said. the color swept into beatrice's face, for he was looking at her with an intent expression that made it impossible to take his remark lightly. she was angry with herself for feeling confused while he looked so cool. "that sounds rather cheap," she replied with a touch of scorn. "my excuse is that it's exactly what i felt." composure in difficult circumstances was one of the characteristics of her family, yet beatrice felt at a loss. harding, she thought, was not the man to yield to a passing impulse or transgress from unmeaning effrontery; but this made the shock worse. lance saved the situation by announcing that the team was ready. as the buggy jolted away across the plain, beatrice sat silent. she felt indignant, humiliated, in a sense; but thrilled in spite of this. the man's tone had been earnest and his gaze steadfast. he meant what he said. but he had taken an unwarrantable liberty. nobody knew anything about him except that he was a working farmer. her cheeks burned as she realized that she had, perhaps, been to blame in treating him too familiarly. then her anger began to pass. after all, it was easy to forgive sincere admiration, and he was certainly a fine type--strong and handsome, clever with his hands, and, she thought, endowed with unusual mental power. there was something flattering in the thought that he had appreciated her. for all that, he must be given no opportunity for repeating the offense; he must be shown that there was a wide gulf between them. lance broke in upon her thoughts. "i like that fellow," he said. "it's a pity he isn't more of our kind." beatrice pondered. harding was not of their kind; but she did not feel sure that the difference was wholly in favor of the allenwood settlers. this struck her as strange; as it was contrary to the opinions she had hitherto held. "why?" she asked carelessly. "we might have seen something of him then." "can't you do so now, if you wish?" "i'm not sure. it might not please the colonel--you know his opinions." beatrice smiled, for she had often heard them dogmatically expressed. "after all, what is there he could object to about harding?" she asked. "not much in one sense; a good deal in another. you can't deny that the way one is brought up makes a difference. perhaps the worst is that he's frankly out for money--farming for dollars." "aren't we?" "not now. we're farming for pleasure. but kenwyne and one or two others think there'll have to be a change in that respect before long." "then we'll be in the same position as harding, won't we?" "i suppose so," lance admitted. "but the colonel won't see it; and i can't say that he's wrong." "it seems rather complicated," beatrice said dryly. she was surprised to find herself ready to contend for harding, and rather than inquire into the cause of this, she talked about allenwood affairs until they reached home. harding, back at his plowing, was thinking of beatrice. he knew that he had spoken rashly, but he did not regret it. she now knew what he thought of her, and could decide what course to take. he smiled as he imagined her determining that he must be dropped, for he believed the mood would soon pass. he did not mean to persecute the girl with unwelcome attentions, but it would not be easy to shake him off. he was tenacious and knew how to wait. then, the difference between them was, after all, less wide than she probably imagined. harding had kept strictly to his compact not to try to learn anything of his father's people in england; but, for all that, he believed himself to be the girl's equal by birth. that, however, was a point that could not be urged; and he had no wish to urge it. he was content to stand or fall by his own merits as a man; and if beatrice was the girl he thought her, she would not let his being a working farmer stand in the way. this, of course, was taking it for granted that he could win her love. he was ready to fight against her relatives' opposition; but, even if he had the power, he would put no pressure on the girl. if he was the man she ought to marry, she would know. a breeze got up, rounded clouds with silver edges gathered in the west, streaking the prairie with patches of indigo shadow, and the air grew cooler as the sun sank. the big oxen steadily plodded on, the dry grass crackled beneath the share as the clods rolled back, and by degrees harding's mind grew tranquil--as generally happened when he was at work. he was doing something worth while in breaking virgin ground, in clearing a way for the advancing host that would people the wilderness, in roughing out a career for himself. whatever his father's people were, his mother sprang from a stern, colonizing stock, and he heard and thrilled to the call for pioneers. as the sun sank low, a man pulled up his horse at the end of the trail and beckoned harding. there was something imperious in his attitude, as he sat with his hand on his hip, watching the farmer haughtily; and harding easily guessed that it was colonel mowbray. he went on with his furrow, and only after he had driven the plow across the grass road did he stop. "are you mr. harding, the owner of this section?" demanded the head of allenwood. "yes." "then i must express my surprise that you have broken up our trail." "it was necessary. i dislike blocking a trail, but you can go round by the road." "you can see that it's soft and boggy in wet weather." "five minutes' extra ride will take you over gravel soil inside the allenwood range." "do you expect us to waste five minutes whenever we come this way?" "my time is valuable, and if i let your trail stand it would cost me a good deal of extra labor. i must have a straight unbroken run for my machines." "so, sooner than throw an implement out of gear while you cross the trail, you take this course! do you consider it neighborly?" harding smiled. he remembered that in manitoba any help the nearest farmer could supply had been willingly given. at allenwood, he had been left alone. that did not trouble him; but he thought of hester, enduring many discomforts in her rude, board shack while women surrounded by luxury lived so near. "i can't see any reason why i should be neighborly," he replied. mowbray glanced at him with a hint of embarrassment. "have you any complaint against us?" "none," said harding coolly. "i only mentioned the matter because you did so." he imagined that mowbray was surprised by his reserve. "you may be able to understand," the colonel said, "that it's rash for an intruding stranger to set himself against local customs, not to speak of the discourtesy of the thing. when a new trail is made at allenwood, every holder is glad to give all the land that's needed." "land doesn't seem to be worth as much to you as it is to me, judging from the way you work it. every rod of mine must grow something. i don't play at farming." mowbray grew red in the face, but kept himself in hand. "do you wish to criticize our methods?" he demanded. "i've nothing to do with your methods. it's my business to farm this section as well as it can be done. i've no wish to annoy your people; but you do not use the trail for hauling on, and i can't change my plans because they may interfere with your amusements." "very well," mowbray answered coldly. "there is nothing more to be said." he rode away and harding started his oxen. it might have been more prudent to make a few concessions and conciliate the colonel, but harding could not bring himself to do so. it seemed a shabby course. it was better that the allenwood settlers should know at the beginning how matters stood and of what type their new neighbor was. from all that harding had learned of colonel mowbray, he felt that this stretch of grassland would not be turned into a glowing sea of wheat without more than one conflict between himself and the head of allenwood. chapter v the spendthrift kenwyne felt pleasantly languid as he lounged in a basket-chair after his evening meal. he had been back-setting land since daybreak. holding the plow was an occupation almost unknown to the allenwood settlers, who left all the rougher work to their hired men. kenwyne, however, was of a practical turn of mind; and, having invested all his money in his farm, he meant to get some return. he occasionally enjoyed a run with the coyote hounds, or a day's shooting when the migrating geese and ducks rested among the sloos; but for the most part he stuck steadily to his work and, as he bought the latest implements, he was considered richer than he really was. though thirty, he was unmarried; an elderly scottish housekeeper looked after him. one of the obstacles to allenwood's progress was that the bachelors outnumbered the married men; and the difficulty seemed insuperable. the settlers belonged to an exclusive caste, and few young englishwomen of education and refinement had shown themselves willing to face the hardships of the prairie life; though these were softened at allenwood by many of the amenities of civilization. moreover, it was known to the rasher youths, who occasionally felt tempted by the good looks of the daughters of the soil, that colonel mowbray sternly discountenanced anything of the nature of a _mésalliance_, and that the married women would deal even more strictly with the offenders. broadwood, for example, had broken the settlement's traditions, and he and his canadian wife had suffered. while kenwyne was reading an old newspaper, gerald mowbray sauntered in. he had a careless, genial manner that made him a favorite, but there was a hint of weakness in his face, and kenwyne had never trusted him. it was known that he had been wild and extravagant; but at allenwood that was not generally regarded as a grave drawback. they were charitable there; several of the younger men, who now made good settlers, had left england at their relatives' urgent request, after gaining undesirable notoriety. gerald selected a comfortable chair and passed his cigar-case to kenwyne. "they're good," he said. "i had them sent from montreal." "no, thanks," replied kenwyne. "i've given up such extravagances, and stick to the labeled plug. i don't want to be officious, but it might be better if you did the same." gerald smiled. "you're rather a sordid beggar, ralph; but as that's often a sign of prosperity, it makes me hopeful. i want you to lend me two hundred pounds." "impossible!" said kenwyne firmly. "one hundred and fifty, then?" "equally out of the question. all i have is sunk in stock, and earmarked for next year's operations." kenwyne paused and considered. he knew the chances were slight that the money would ever be returned; yet he respected colonel mowbray, and his loyalty extended to the family of the head of allenwood. "why do you want the money?" he asked. "i suppose i'll have to tell you. it goes back to india--what you might call a 'debt of honor.' i borrowed the money in london to square it; and thought when i came to canada i'd be too far away for the london fellow to put undue pressure on me. oh, i meant to pay sometime, when i was ready; but the fellow transferred the debt to a man at winnipeg, who has sent me a curt demand with an extortionate bill of expenses. now i have to pay." "i suppose you have been round the settlement?" "yes; but i haven't collected much. in fact, i'm afraid i'll have to pledge my farm." "you can't do that. our foundation covenant forbids a settler to alienate his land without the consent of a majority in the council, subject to the president's veto. your father would certainly use his veto." "very true," gerald agreed. "however, i don't propose to alienate my land--only to pawn it for a time." "it's against the spirit of the deed." "i've nothing to do with its spirit. the covenant should say what it means, and it merely states that a settler shall not sell to any person who's not a member of the colony. i'm not going to sell." "you're going to do a dangerous thing," kenwyne warned him. "then the remedy is for you to let me have a thousand dollars," gerald said quickly. "it is impossible; but i will try to raise five hundred. i suppose the colonel does not know you have come to me?" "i rely upon your not letting him know." gerald smiled in that ingratiating way that won him many friends. "i'm deeply grateful, and you're a good sort, ralph, though in some ways you differ from the rest of us. i don't know where you got your tradesman's spirit." "it won't be so singular before long," kenwyne answered with dry amusement. "even now, broadwood and one or two others----" "broadwood doesn't count. he married a girl of the soil." "he loves her, and she makes him a good wife." "yes, but it was a mistake. you know our traditions." kenwyne laughed, and nodded toward the open window, through which they heard the sound of cheerful whistling approaching them along the trail. "i suspect that's broadwood now," he said. "well, i must be going. i will call for the check to-morrow." gerald left as broadwood entered. "i can guess what he wanted. he was at my place," broadwood said, as he took the seat gerald had vacated. "ah! i'll wager he didn't go away empty-handed," kenwyne smiled. "perhaps i'm betraying a confidence in admitting it. anyway, i felt that one ought to help him for the family's sake, lest he get into worse trouble; and i could afford the loan. since i married i've been making some money. but i want to ask you about this harding. what kind of fellow is he?" "i like what i've seen of him. why?" "effie has been talking about his sister. seemed to think it was unkind to leave the girl alone--in want, perhaps, of odds and ends a woman could supply. i think she has made up her mind to go see her." "i'm not sure that would meet with general approval. what did you say?" "i seldom give my opinion on these matters," broadwood answered with a laugh. "on the whole, i think effie's right; and i suspect that knowing the thing won't please the others gives it a charm. after all, she hasn't much reason for respecting their prejudices. at first, they nearly drove us out of allenwood." "i'm glad you didn't go. your wife is steadily gaining ground, and the others will be glad to copy her after a while." "that's my idea; we'll have to work our land. have you ever thought what the colonel could do with his big block, if he had the capital?" "_and_ the wish!" said kenwyne. "the obstacle is his point of view. besides, all of it isn't really his: mrs. mowbray, beatrice, and the boys have a share. of course, his taking the lots as one gives him a solid vote in the council, and with the veto he has on certain points makes him an absolute ruler." "so long as his family support him!" "can you imagine their doing the contrary?" "i've thought the colonel's position was least secure from an attack within," broadwood answered thoughtfully. "it doesn't follow that a man's family is bound to agree with him. gerald's a dark horse, and one can't predict what he'll do, except that it will be what suits himself. lance is young and headstrong; and beatrice has a mind of her own.... but i really came to ask your opinion about this sketch of a new stable. i must buy another team." they discussed the plan for the new building until it grew late and broadwood went home. the following day gerald mowbray left allenwood for winnipeg. it was a dismal, wet evening when he arrived; and winnipeg was not an attractive city at that time. there were a few fine stores and offices on main street; portage avenue was laid out, and handsome buildings were rising here and there; but, for the most part, the frame houses had a dilapidated, squalid look. rows of pedlers' shacks stretched back from the wooden station, the streets were unpaved, and the churned-up prairie soil lay in sticky clods upon the rude plank sidewalks. dripping teams floundered heavily through the mire. although the city was beginning to feel the stir of commercial activity, the dark corners were devoted to questionable amusements. gerald had supper at his hotel, and afterward found the time hang upon his hands. the general lounge was badly lighted, and its uncovered floor was smeared with gumbo mud from the boots of the wet men who slouched in to the bar. the door kept swinging open, letting in cold draughts; and gerald could find nobody to talk to. he had not enough money to pay off his debt, but thought he had sufficient to enable him to make some compromise with his creditor, and so had determined to see what could be done. it was, however, impossible to spend the dismal evening at the hotel, and he knew where excitement might be found at a moderate cost--that is, if one were cautious and lucky. going out, he made his way toward a side street running down to the river, and noticed the keen glance an armed northwest policeman gave him as he turned the corner. gerald thought it a desirable spot to station the constable. a ramshackle frame house down the street was glaringly illuminated, and gerald, entering, found a number of men and one or two women in two gaudily furnished rooms. there was another room at the back where refreshments were dispensed without a license. for the most part, the men were young, brown-faced fellows who had spent the summer on the lonely plains; but a few had a hard and sinister look. the girls were pretty and stylishly dressed, but they had a predatory air. in one corner of the room an exciting poker game seemed to be in progress. at the other end a roulette table was surrounded by a crowd of eager players. gerald was fond of games of chance, and he saw ahead of him a pleasant evening. leaning against the bar, he was merely an onlooker for a while. the glare of light and the air of excitement, the eager faces of the players and the click of the balls fascinated him. he had not been drinking heavily; yet to his annoyance he felt a trifle unsteady when at last he strolled over to the roulette table. his first mistake was to take a five-dollar bill from the wallet which contained the money to pay his debt. more than one pair of greedy eyes saw the thick wad of paper currency; and from that moment gerald was a marked man in the room. * * * * * in the gray hour preceding daybreak, when, sick and dizzy, gerald stumbled back to his hotel, he found that he had only ten dollars remaining of the amount that had been entrusted to him to settle his debt. ten dollars would not pay his hotel bill, even. he woke about noon, his head aching severely. he could form no definite idea as to what was best to be done. one thing, however, was certain: no one at allenwood must know how he had spent the preceding evening. his relatives had no reason for believing his conduct irreproachable, but so long as he did not thrust his failings upon their notice they ignored them. then, the revelation of how he had lost the money given him would no doubt lead to his banishment from allenwood; and except for a small allowance from his mother's english property, he had no resources. the survey he had been engaged upon was abandoned for a time, and he could find no other employment. he must hold on at allenwood, trusting that something would turn up, and augmenting his income by the small sums he might win from the younger men at cards. first of all, however, he must call upon his creditor; it was a disagreeable task, but one that could not be shirked. chapter vi the mortgage broker davies sat at his desk sorting a bundle of papers. his office, a large room in a smart, new building, was elaborately furnished; but the furnishings spelled expense rather than taste. the walls were hung with maps of the canadian territories, plans of new town sites, and photographs of buildings. davies was one of a class that was, for a time, to exercise a far-reaching influence on the western prairie. his business was to sell the new settlers land--which was seldom paid for on the spot; the agent being willing to take what he could get and leave the balance on mortgage. he also lent money to farmers who had suffered from bad seasons, or who rashly determined to extend their operations with borrowed capital. interest was then very high, and the scratch-farming generally practised was not productive. crops on the half-worked soil suffered from drought and blight, and often ripened too late to escape the autumn frost; yet, in spite of these disadvantages, the influx of new settlers forced up the price of land. as a rule, the unfortunate farmer soon became indebted to local storekeepers as well as to the man from whom he had bought his holding. when he harvested a good crop, he paid off some arrears of interest, and perhaps kept a few dollars to go on with; but he seldom got out of debt, and so toiled on, living with stern frugality, while the money-lender pocketed his earnings. shylock ran no risk, since the security was good and he could sell up the defaulter. for a time, many of the small homesteaders struggled with dire poverty, in spite of legislation intended to protect them; and it was not until a succession of good harvests and the gradual development of the country enabled them to break the yoke of the usurer that a tide of prosperity flowed across the plains. davies was an unfavorable specimen of his class. there were some land and mortgage agents who dealt fairly with their clients and even ran some risk in keeping them on their feet; but davies was cunning, grasping, and pitiless. when gerald entered he gave him a curt nod, snapped a rubber band around the papers, placed them carefully in a pigeonhole in his desk, and then turned to his caller. "mr. mowbray! i expected to see you sooner. guess you have come to settle your account." gerald found it hard to keep his temper. he had an aristocratic contempt for all traders, and had, even in canada, generally been treated with some deference. "in the first place, i don't see what you have to do with this debt," he began. "i borrowed from parties in london, and i'm responsible to them." "here's my authority," davies said, handing him a letter. "whether the lender instructed me to collect the money for him, or made other arrangements doesn't matter to you. i can give you a receipt that will stand good as soon as you put up the money." "unfortunately, that is more than i can do." davies did not look surprised. "what's your proposition?" he asked. "i'll think over yours," gerald answered as coolly as he could. davies studied him for a moment or two. gerald's expression was supercilious, but his face did not indicate much strength of character. besides, the only justification for arrogance that davies recognized was the possession of money. "you're the son of colonel mowbray of allenwood, aren't you? your people hold a good piece of land there." "you seem to know all about me. i'd better warn you, however, that you won't find my relatives willing to pay my debts." davies smiled. "i could try them. they might do something if i stated my claim." this was what gerald had feared, and he could not hide his alarm. "it will save you trouble if you realize that you wouldn't get a dollar," he said hastily. davies was silent for a few moments. as a matter of fact, he was by no means anxious to be paid. allenwood was isolated as yet, and the land accordingly not worth much, but the homesteads were unusually good and the advance of cultivation and settlement would largely increase their value. davies wanted a hold on allenwood which might be turned to advantage later, and he now saw an opportunity for getting it. young mowbray obviously objected to having his friends learn how he was situated, and this would make him easier to manage. "well," davies said, "you have some land there, haven't you? what's the acreage, township, and range?" gerald named them, and davies made some calculations on a piece of paper before he looked up. "if i find this all right in the land register, i'll cancel your london debt, and take a mortgage on your holding," he said, handing gerald the paper he had been writing on. "here's an outline of the terms." "the interest's extortionate!" "if you think so, go round the town and see if you can find anybody who'll be more liberal. if not, you can come back to-morrow and we'll fix up the deal." davies felt safe in making the suggestion. he did not think gerald had much business ability, and trusted to his reluctance to make his embarrassments known. besides, the mortgage brokers had their hands full and were not all so confident of the rapid advance of settlement as davies was. indeed, there were men who declared that the country was being opened up too rapidly, and predicted a bad set-back. gerald left davies' office with a faint hope of being able to find a safer way out of the difficulty. to give his land in pledge would be a violation of the covenant that bound the allenwood settlers. it was an offense that his father and his neighbors could not forgive. he shrank from the dangerous course; but the day went by without his finding any escape, and the next morning he called on davies and the mortgage was signed. while gerald was at winnipeg, mrs. broadwood startled the settlement at allenwood by calling on harding's sister. the visit was prompted by sympathy for the lonely prairie girl; but, coupled with that, mrs. broadwood delighted in the feeling that all the allenwood women would disapprove of her course. she was small and pretty, with plenty of determination and an exuberant cheerfulness which contact with her husband's friends had somewhat toned down; and there was about her an air of homely western frankness that was charming. when she reached harding's camp, hester sat sewing in the sun. the girl made a remarkably pretty picture, she thought, seated beside a pile of prairie hay, with a few purple asters springing up at her feet and, behind her, a ragged pine-tree drooping its branches to the ground. and over all the gold of sunshine. "you look like a priestess of the sun!" mrs. broadwood greeted her, laughing. hester smiled in response. "i'm sitting outside because it's rather damp and cold in the shack," she said. "as you see, our house isn't finished yet." she rose as she spoke, and came forward, and mrs. broadwood looked at her admiringly. hester was tall and naturally dignified, and her characteristic expression was grave composure. besides, her visitor remarked the excellent taste and fit of her simple dress. "i'm sure we're going to be friends," said mrs. broadwood. "i hope so," hester answered simply. the visitor found a seat in the prairie hay, and sinking down in the soft grass, she breathed the smell of wild peppermint with delight. she noticed the hearth of parallel logs, with a big kerosene can, used as a washing boiler, hanging from a tripod at one end; the camp oven; the sawing frame; and the scented cedar shingles strewn about beside the framework of the house. all these things were familiar, for she was one of the pioneers. "my!" she exclaimed. "this _is_ nice! makes me feel homesick." "it must be a change from allenwood," hester answered with a smile. "that's why i like it! i'm quite happy there; but this is the kind of place where i belong. twice before i met my husband i helped make a new home on the plains, and this spot reminds me of the last time. we fixed camp by stony creek in early summer, when the grass was green and all the flowers were out. there were rows of the red prairie lilies. i never saw so many!--and i remember how the new birch leaves used to rustle in the bluff at night. thinking of it somehow hurts me." she laughed prettily. "i'm what tom calls a sentimentalist." "so am i," said hester; "so you needn't stop." "well, i remember everything about the night we put in our stakes--sally baking bannocks, with the smoke going straight up; the loaded wagons in a row; the tired horses rolling in the grass; and the chunk of the boys' axes, chopping in the bluff. though we'd been on the trail since sun-up, there was work for hours, bread to bake and clothes to wash; and when we went to sleep, a horse got his foot in a line and brought the tent down on us. it was all hard in those days, a hustle from dawn to dark; but now, when things are different, i sometimes want them back. but i needn't tell you--i guess you know!" "yes; i know," said hester. "perhaps it's the work we were born for." she was silent for a few moments, looking far out over the prairie; then she asked abruptly: "what are the allenwood people like?" "they're much the same as you and i, but they wear more frills, and when you rub against those who use the most starch you find them prickly. then, they've some quaint notions that walter raleigh or jacques cartier must have brought over; but, taking them all round, they're a straight, clean crowd." she looked intently at hester. "somehow you make me feel that you belong to them." hester smiled. mrs. broadwood was impulsive and perhaps not always discreet, but hester thought her true. "i don't understand that," she replied. "though i think my mother was a woman of unusual character, she came from the michigan bush. my father was english, but he had only a small farm and didn't bring us up differently from our neighbors. still, he had different ideas and bought a good many books. craig and i read them all, and he would talk to us about them." "craig's your brother? i've seen him once or twice. tell me about him." hester nodded toward the trail that wormed its way across the prairie. a girl was riding toward them. "beatrice mowbray," mrs. broadwood said; "the best of them all at allenwood, though sometimes she's not easy to get on with." when beatrice joined them, mrs. broadwood repeated her suggestion. she was frankly curious, and hester was not unwilling to talk about her brother. indeed, she made the story an interesting character sketch, and beatrice listened quietly while she told how the lad was left with a patch of arid soil, and his mother and sister to provide for. hester related how he braved his neighbors' disapproval of the innovations which they predicted would lead him to ruin, and by tenacity and boldness turned threatened failure into brilliant success. then losing herself in her theme, she sketched the birth of greater ambitions, and the man's realization of his powers. beatrice's eyes brightened with keen approval. she admired strength and daring, and hester had drawn a striking picture of her brother. when the visitors rose to go, harding appeared. he had come, he explained, for an ox-chain clevis. "i have another visit to make," beatrice said, when he had helped her to mount. "the shortest way is across the ravine and there used to be a trail, unless you have plowed it up." "no," he laughed; "i mean to improve that one. however, as it's not very good, and there's an awkward place, i'll show you the way down." they left the camp together, and harding was not pleased to notice no difference in the girl's attitude to him. he had not expected her to show embarrassment, but he would not have minded a dignified aloofness. it looked as if she had not thought it worth while to resent his boldness when they last met. for all that, it made his heart beat fast to be near her. beatrice glanced toward the dark-brown line of the fall plowing. "do you know what our people are saying about you? you haven't shown much regard for your neighbors' feelings." "i'd try to respect their needs." "well, that is something. still, the trail was at least convenient, and it had stood for a number of years." "i'm afraid some more of the old landmarks will have to go. these are changing times." "and i suppose there's satisfaction in feeling that you are leading the way?" "i can't claim that," harding answered with a smile. "as a matter of fact, we're following a plain trail; the fur-traders blazed it for us before the railroad came; and i dare say your father had broken ground at allenwood when i was learning to harness a team." "it doesn't seem to make you diffident. now, i agree with my friends that there's a good deal to admire in the old order." "that's so. all that's best in it will stay; you can't destroy it. in a way, it's a comforting thought because we can't stand still, and progress means a fight." "and yet some people believe in throwing away the weapons our fathers have used and proved." harding laughed. "when they're fine steel, that's foolish; but we might be allowed to rub off the rust and regrind them." beatrice liked his half-humorous manner, which she suspected covered a strong sincerity. besides, she had asked for his opinions; he had not obtruded them. she gave him a quick glance of scrutiny as he led her horse down the steep, brush-encumbered trail into the ravine; and she admitted to herself that he improved on acquaintance. one got used to his rough clothes and his line of thought which differed so widely from the views held at allenwood. yellow birch leaves shone about them, the pale-tinted stems were streaked with silver by the sinking sun, and the ravine was filled with heavy blue shadow. there was something strangely exhilarating in the light, glowing color and the sharp wind; and beatrice felt her senses stirred. then she noticed harding's set lips and the concentrated look in his eyes. he seemed to be thinking earnestly and perhaps exercising some self-restraint. she suddenly recalled his presumption the last time they were together. she had not carried out her plan of avoiding him, but she thought it might be better to run no risk. "i mustn't take you any farther," she said. "the trail is good up the other side." "all right," he acquiesced. "turn out at the big poplar." he stood there in the sunset, his rough felt hat in his hand, the slanting rays playing through his fair hair, watching her until she and her horse coalesced with the blue shadows of the hillside. it would not be easy to win her, he knew. first, there was the life she had led, in what a different environment from the rough, pioneer one that he had known! then there were the prejudices of her relatives to consider. she must come to him happily, without one regret. harding sighed; but his jaws set determinedly. he had been taught, as a child, that the sweetest apples hang on the highest branches: they are not easy to reach, but, once secured, they are worth the having. chapter vii an accident with the help of men from the railroad settlement harding finished his house and made it weather-proof before the frost struck deep into the soil. plowing was now impossible, but there was much to be done. the inside of the dwelling had to be fitted up, and logs were needed for the stables he must build in the spring. trees large enough for the purpose were scarce; and where coal is unobtainable, cutting wood for fuel keeps the settler busy during the rigorous winter. harding might have simplified his task by buying sawed lumber, but the long railroad haulage made it expensive, and he never shrank from labor which led to economy. he was not a niggard, but he had ambitions and he saw that his money must be made productive if those ambitions were to be gratified. he was coming home one evening with devine, bringing a load of wood on his jumper-sled. it had been a bitter day, and the cold got keener as a leaden haze crept up across the plain. there was still a curious gray light, and objects in the immediate foreground stood out with harsh distinctness. the naked branches of the poplars on the edge of the ravine they skirted cut sharply against the sky, and the trail, which ran straight across the thin snow, was marked by a streak of dingy blue. the wind was fitful, but when it gathered strength the men bent their heads and shivered in their old deerskin jackets. as the oxen plodded on, devine looked round at the sled rather anxiously. "hadn't you better throw some of these logs off, craig?" he suggested. "it's a heavy load, and i'm afraid there's a blizzard working up. we want to get home before it breaks." "the oxen can haul them," harding replied. "we'll get nothing done for the next few days, and we have our hands plumb full this winter." "i used to think i was a bit of a hustler," devine said, "but you sure have me beat." "if i'm not mistaken, we'll get a lie-off to-morrow." harding struck one of the oxen with his mittened hand. "pull out, bright, before you freeze!" the big animals moved faster, and the tired men plodded on silently. there is no easy road to wealth on the wheatlands of the west; indeed, it is only by patient labor and stoic endurance that a competence can be attained. devine and his comrade knew this by stern experience, and, half frozen as they were, they braced themselves for the effort of reaching home. they must adapt their pace to the oxen's, and it was not quick enough to keep them warm. as they approached a bluff, harding looked up. "somebody riding pretty fast!" he said. a beat of hoofs, partly muffled by the snow, came down the bitter wind, and a few moments later a horseman appeared from behind the trees. he was indistinct in the gathering gloom, but seemed to be riding furiously, and harding drew the oxen out of the trail. "one of the allenwood boys. young mowbray, isn't it?" said devine. the next moment lance mowbray dashed past them, scattering the snow. the horse was going at a frantic gallop, the rider's fur coat had blown open, his arms were tense, and his hands clenched on the bridle. his face was set, and he gazed fixedly ahead as if he did not see the men and the sledge. "it's that wild brute of a range horse," harding remarked. "nearly bucked the boy off the last time he passed my place. something in the bluff must have scared him; he has the bit in his teeth." "looks like it," devine agreed. "young mowbray can ride, but i'm expecting trouble when he makes the timber." they turned and stopped to watch, for the allenwood trail ran down the side of the ravine among the trees not far away. horse and rider rapidly grew indistinct and vanished over the edge of the hollow. then there was a dull thud and the beat of hoofs suddenly broke off. the deep silence that followed was ominous. "throw the load off, and bring the oxen!" cried harding as he started to run along the trail. he was breathless when he reached the edge of the declivity; but he saw nothing when he looked down. a blurred network of trunks and branches rose from the shadowy depths with a pale glimmer of snow beneath; that was all, and there was no sound except the wail of the rising wind. plunging straight down through the timber, harding made for a bend of the trail where there was a precipitous bank, and on reaching it he saw a big, dark object lying in the snow some distance beneath him. this was the horse; its rider could not be far away. when he scrambled down he found the boy lying limp and still, his fur cap fallen off and his coat torn away from his body. his face looked very white, his eyes were closed, and he did not answer when harding spoke. kneeling down, he saw that the lad was alive but unconscious. nothing could be done until devine arrived. it was a relief when he heard the oxen stumbling through the brush. presently devine came running up, and after a glance at the boy turned and felt the horse. "stone dead! what's the matter with mowbray?" "some ribs broken, i suspect," said harding. "bring the sled close up. we've got to take him home." they laid lance on the jumper, and harding stripped off his own skin coat and wrapped it round the boy. "the shock's perhaps the worst thing, and he feels cold." both had had some experience of accidents in a country where surgical assistance could seldom be obtained, and devine nodded agreement. "guess we'll have trouble in hauling up the grade and getting to allenwood before the blizzard, but we've got to make it." the opposite slope was rough and steep, and the jumper too wide to pass easily between the trees. they had to lift it, and help the oxen here and there; but they struggled up and then found that their difficulties were not over when they reached the open plain. the wind had risen while they were in the hollow and was now blowing the dry snow about. it had grown dark and the trail was faint. "might be wiser to take him to your homestead," devine suggested; "but they'll be able to look after him better at the grange. get a move on the beasts, craig; we've no time to lose." harding urged the oxen, which stepped out briskly with their lighter load, but he had some difficulty in guiding them, though devine went ahead to keep the trail. it was impossible to see any distance, and there was no landmark on the bare white level; the savage wind buffeted their smarting faces and filled their eyes with snow. the cold struck through harding's unprotected body like a knife, but he went on stubbornly, keeping his eyes on devine's half-distinguishable figure. he was sorry for the unconscious youngster, but he did not glance at him. this was a time when pity was best expressed in action. they had gone about two miles when the blizzard broke upon them in a blinding cloud of snow and the cold suddenly increased. though he wore a thick jacket, harding felt as if his flesh had changed to ice; his hands were numb, and his feet seemed dead. he knew the risk he ran of being crippled by frostbite; but to take his coat back might cost lance his life. they had been struggling forward for a long time when devine stopped and came back. "we've been off the trail for the last ten minutes," he said. "guess it's got snowed up." it was a bald statement of an alarming situation. their only guide had failed them, and unless they could soon find shelter all must perish. it might, perhaps, be possible to keep moving for another hour or two, and then they would sink down, exhausted, to freeze. yet, having faced similar perils and escaped, they were not utterly dismayed. "the long rise can't be very far off," harding said hopefully. "if we could make it, there's a little coulée running down the other side. then we ought to see the grange lights when we strike the lake." his voice was scarcely audible through the roar of the icy gale, but devine caught a word or two and understood. "then," he shouted back, "you want to keep the wind on your left cheek!" it was the only guide to the direction of the blast, for the snow whirled about them every way at once, and sight was useless amid the blinding haze. feeling, however, to some extent remained, and although their faces were freezing into dangerous insensibility, so long as they kept their course one side was still a little more painful than the other. they struggled on, urging the jaded oxen, and dragging them by their heads where the drifts were deep. the snow seemed to thicken as they went. they could not see each other a yard or two apart, and the power that kept them on their feet was dying out of them. both had been working hard since sunrise, and weary flesh and blood cannot long endure a furious wind when the thermometer falls to forty or fifty below. nothing broke the surface of the plain except the blowing waves of snow that swirled across their course and beat into their faces. it seemed impossible that they could keep on. hope had almost left them when devine suddenly called out: "it's surely rising ground!" harding imagined by the oxen's slower pace, and his own labored breathing, that his comrade was right, but the rise was gradual and extensive. they might wander across it without coming near the lake; but they could take no precautions and much must be left to chance. "get on!" he said curtly. by the force of the wind which presently met them he thought they had reached the summit. somewhere near them a watercourse started and ran down to the lake; but the men could not tell which way to turn, although they knew that the decision would be momentous. one way led to shelter, the other to death in the snowy wilds. "left and down!" harding cried at a venture. they trudged on, devine a few paces in front picking out the trail, and harding urging forward the snow-blinded oxen. they had not gone more than a few yards when devine suddenly disappeared. there was a rush of loosened snow apparently falling into a hollow, and then his voice rose, hoarse but exultant. "we've struck the coulée!" he scrambled out and it was comparatively easy to follow the ravine downhill; and soon after they left it the surface grew unusually level, and no tufts of withered grass broke the snow. "looks like the lake," said devine. "we'll be safe once we hit the other side." harding was nearly frozen, and he began to despair of ever reaching the grange; but he roused himself from the lethargy into which he was sinking when a faint yellow glimmer shone through the swirling snow. it grew brighter, more lights appeared, and they toiled up to the front of a building. with some trouble devine found the door and knocked. it was opened in a few moments by gerald mowbray, who stood looking out in surprise. devine briefly explained. "if it's likely to scare his mother, get her out of the way," he added. "we have to bring him in at once. send somebody for the oxen, and show us where to go!" "wait a moment and i'll meet you," said gerald, hastening into the house. when he disappeared, devine turned to harding. "get hold! you don't want to shake him, but the coats will keep him pretty safe." with some trouble they carried him in, passed through a vestibule, and came with shuffling steps into a large hall. it was well lighted, and so warm that harding felt limp and dizzy from the sudden change of temperature. his skin burned, the blood rushed to his head, and he stopped for fear he should drop his burden. gerald, it seemed, had not had time to warn the people in the hall, and beatrice rose with a startled cry. one or two women sat with white faces, as if stupefied by alarm, and two or three men got up hurriedly. harding indistinctly recognized colonel mowbray among them. "be quick! get hold of him!" he called to the nearest. he was replaced by two willing helpers, and, half dazed and not knowing what to do, he slackly followed the others up the middle of the floor. all who were not needed stood watching them, for they made a striking group as they moved slowly forward, carrying what seemed to be a shapeless bundle of snowy furs. devine was white from head to foot, a bulky figure in his shaggy coat and cap, though the bent forms of the other men partly concealed him; harding came alone, walking unsteadily, with the snow falling off him in glistening powder, his face haggard, and his frost-split lips covered with congealed blood. as the little group passed on, following gerald, harding suddenly reeled, and, clutching at the back of a chair, fell into it with a crash. after that he was not sure of anything until some one brought him a glass of wine, and soon afterward devine came back with gerald. "my mother begs you will excuse her, but she'll thank you before you go," he said. "the colonel hopes to see you shortly, but he's busy with lance, and we're fortunate in having a man who should have been a doctor. now if you'll come with me, i'll give you a change of clothes. your oxen are in the stable." "we can't stay," remonstrated harding. "it's impossible for you to go home." "that's true," said devine, touching harding's arm. "better get up, craig, before the snow melts on you." gerald gave them clothes, and then, saying that he was needed, left them alone. after they had changed, devine found his way to the stable to see if the oxen were any the worse, and harding went back to the hall. a group of men and women were talking in low voices, but no one spoke to him, and he sat down in a corner, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in his borrowed garments. evidently the mowbrays had been entertaining some of their neighbors who, to judge by scraps of conversation he overheard, thought they would better take their leave but doubted if they could reach home. harding knew that he could not do so, but he felt averse to accepting mowbray's hospitality, and he feared that hester would be anxious about his safety. he was still sitting in the corner when beatrice came up to him. "i'm afraid you have been neglected, but you can understand that we are rather upset," she said. "how is your brother?" harding asked. "better than we thought at first. one of our friends has bandaged him. there are two ribs broken, but he declares he now feels fairly comfortable." "i'm afraid he's exaggerating, but it's a good sign. anyway, i'm glad to hear he's conscious." "he was conscious before you brought him home. he says he tried to speak to you, but you didn't hear him." "that's possible," harding replied. "the trail wasn't very good--and we were busy." beatrice gave him a strange look. "so one would imagine! there was probably no trail at all. two of our friends who live half a mile off don't think they can get back. it's fortunate for us that you and your partner had the strength and courage----" "what could we do?" harding asked. "you wouldn't have expected us to leave him in the bluff?" beatrice's eyes sparkled, and a flush of color crept into her face. harding thought she was wonderfully beautiful, and feared it was unwise to look at her lest he should make a fool of himself. "i can't say that i wouldn't have expected you to give him your coat; but that was very fine of you," she said. "you must have known the risk you took. when you came in you looked worse than he did." it struck harding as significant that she should have noticed his appearance in the midst of her alarm; but it might not mean much, after all. women were often more observant than men. "then i ought to have been ashamed. it was the shock we were afraid of. you see, after a bad accident there's often a collapse, and when one's in that state even moderate cold is dangerous." "how do you know these things?" beatrice asked. "when you live as we do, you learn something about accidents," he answered. beatrice gave him a look that thrilled him. "i promised lance that i would not stay but a minute," she said; "but i will send mr. kenwyne to look after you." she added in a lower voice: "i have not attempted to thank you, but you must believe that we're very, very grateful." harding's eyes followed her across the room and lingered on her when she stopped a moment to speak with one of the neighbors. kenwyne's voice at his elbow roused him. "colonel mowbray expects you to remain here, but on the whole i think you'd better come with me," kenwyne was saying. "they're naturally in some confusion, and my farm isn't very far. i think my team can make it." harding was glad to get away quietly, but he left a message that he hoped to call in the morning for his oxen and for news of lance. chapter viii an unexpected escape on the morning after the accident colonel mowbray sat at breakfast with his wife and daughter. the gale had fallen in the night, and although the snow lay deep about the house, gerald had already gone out with a hired man to see how the range horses, which were left loose in the winter, had fared during the storm. lance was feverish, but there was nothing in his condition to cause anxiety, and he was in charge of a man whom some youthful escapade had prevented from obtaining a medical diploma. there were one or two others of his kind at allenwood whose careers had been blighted by boyish folly. breakfast had been well served, for everything went smoothly at the grange; in spite of the low temperature outside, the room was comfortably warm, and the china and the table appointments showed artistic taste. colonel mowbray looked thoughtfully stern. "perhaps it was as well kenwyne took the americans home last night," he remarked. "you asked them to stay," beatrice said, with more indignation than she cared to show; "and after what they did----" mowbray cut her short. "i cannot deny that we are heavily in their debt, and i shall take the first opportunity for thanking them. in fact, if i can make any return in the shape of practical help, i shall be glad. all the same, to have had them here would have meant our putting them on a more intimate footing than might be wise." beatrice smiled, but said nothing. she respected her father, but the thought of his helping such a man as harding was amusing. "from what i've heard about mr. harding, i don't think he would have presumed upon it," mrs. mowbray replied. "besides, it looks as if we owed lance's life to him and his companion and i really don't see why you object to the man. of course, it was tactless of him to plow up our trail, but he was within his rights." mowbray looked at her sharply. his wife was generally docile and seldom questioned his decisions, but she now and then showed an unexpected firmness. "i don't object to him, personally. for that matter, i know very little about him, good or bad," he said; and his tone implied that he was not anxious to learn anything more. "it is rather what he stands for that i disapprove of." "what does he stand for?" "what foolish people sometimes call progress--the taint of commercialism, purely utilitarian ideas; in short, all i've tried to keep allenwood free from. look at england! you know how the old friendly relations between landlord and tenant have been overthrown." "i wonder whether they were always friendly?" beatrice interposed. "they ought to have been friendly, and in most of the instances i can think of they were. but what can one expect when a rich tradesman buys up a fine estate, and manages it on what he calls 'business lines'? this must mean putting the screw of a merciless competition upon the farmer. on the other hand, you see men with honored names living in extravagant luxury without a thought of their duty to their land, gambling on the stock exchange--even singing in music halls. the country's in a bad way when you read of its old aristocracy opening hat shops." "but what are the poor people to do if they have no money?" beatrice asked. "the point is that they're being ruined by their own folly and the chaotic way things have been allowed to drift; but the other side of the picture's worse. when one thinks of wealth and poverty jostling each other in the towns; oppressive avarice and sullen discontent instead of helpful cooperation! the community plundered by trusts! industries wrecked by strikes! this is what comes of free competition and contempt for authority; and the false principle that a man must turn all his talents to the making of money is at the root of it all." it was a favorite hobby of the colonel's, and mrs. mowbray made no remark; but beatrice was pleased to see that he had forgotten harding. "you would have made a good feudal baron," she said with a smile. "your retainers wouldn't have had many real grievances, but you would always have been on the king's side." "the first principle of all firm and successful government is that the king can do no wrong." "we don't challenge it at allenwood, and it really seems to work well," beatrice answered lightly; and then, because mowbray insisted on formal manners, she turned to her mother. "and now, with your permission, i had better go to lance." when she left them mowbray frowned. "there's another matter i want to talk about," he said. "i'm inclined to think we'll have to do away with the card tables when the younger people spend the evening with us." "but you're fond of a game!" "yes. i'll confess that a close game of whist is one of my keenest pleasures, and if i finish two or three dollars to the good it adds to the zest. for all that, one must be consistent, and i've grounds for believing there has been too much high play of late. the offenders will have to be dealt with if i can find them out." mrs. mowbray knew that her husband's first object was the good of the settlement, and that he would make any personal sacrifice to secure it. "we can have music, or get up a dance instead," she suggested; and added anxiously: "you don't think that gerald----" "i'd have grave suspicions, only that he knows what to expect," mowbray answered grimly. "something might be learned from lance, but it would not be fair to ask." "he wouldn't tell," mrs. mowbray said stoutly, knowing her husband's sense of honor. "do you think it's serious enough to be disturbed about?" "i'm afraid so, although at the moment i can hardly judge. a game of cards in public, for strictly moderate points, or a small wager on a race, can do the boys no harm; but as soon as the stake gets large enough to be worth winning for itself, it leads to trouble; and systematic, secret gambling is a dangerous thing. as a matter of fact, i won't have it at allenwood. at present i can do nothing but keep a careful watch." an hour later mrs. mowbray was sitting with lance, when word was brought her that harding had called. "let him come up here, if only for a minute," lance begged. "well, but it must not be longer," his mother consented. harding bowed to her respectfully when he entered the room; then he turned to lance with a smile. "glad to see you looking much better than i expected." lance gave him his hand, though he winced as he held it out, and his mother noticed harding's quick movement to save him a painful effort. there was a gentleness that pleased her in the prairie man's face. "i don't want to embarrass you, but you'll understand how i feel about what you did for me," said lance. "i won't forget it." "pshaw!" returned harding. "we all get into scrapes. i wouldn't be here now if other people hadn't dragged me clear of a mower-knife, and once out of the way of a locomotive when my team balked in the middle of the track." "i don't suppose any of the fellows gave you his clothes with the thermometer at minus forty. but i won't say any more on that point. was my horse killed?" "on the spot!" lance looked troubled. "well, it was my own fault," he said slowly. "i was trying a new headstall, and i wasn't very careful in linking up the bit." he began to talk about the latest types of harness, and listened with obvious interest to harding's views on the subject, but after a while his voice grew feeble, and his mother interrupted. "you'll come back and see me when i'm better, won't you?" he asked eagerly. harding made a vague sign of assent, and left the room with mrs. mowbray. when they reached the hall, she stopped him. "you did us a great service last night--i can find no adequate way of expressing my gratitude," she said. harding saw that she had not spoken out of mere conventional politeness. "i think you make too much of it. certainly, it was fortunate we happened to come along; the rest followed. but i can understand how you feel--i had a good mother." she was pleased by his reply, and she had watched him closely while he talked to lance. the man was modest and yet quietly sure of himself. he had shown no awkwardness, and his rather formal deference to herself was flattering. she somehow felt that he would not have offered it solely on account of her station. "i'm glad to see your son looking pretty bright," harding went on. "you roused him. he was very listless and heavy until you came." "i'm afraid i talked too much; it's a way i sometimes have." harding smiled. then he looked at her directly. "he asked me to come back." mrs. mowbray knew he was shrewd enough to take a hint, and that she could without discourtesy prevent his coming; still, she did not wish to do so. she had heard her husband's views, to which she generally deferred; but she liked harding, and he had saved her son's life. moreover, she had a suspicion that his influence would be good for the boy. "i hope you will come whenever it pleases you," she said with quiet sincerity. "it will please me very much. i'll make use of the privilege as long as he finds that i amuse him." harding went home with a feeling of half-exultant satisfaction. lance, for whom he had a rather curious liking, had been unmistakably glad to see him and, what was more important, mrs. mowbray was now his friend. for all that, he knew that tact was needed: the colonel, while no doubt grateful, did not approve of him, and he must carefully avoid doing anything that might imply a readiness to take advantage of the slight favor he had been granted. harding was not an adventurer, and the situation was galling to his pride, but he was shrewd and was willing to make some sacrifice if it gave him an opportunity for seeing beatrice. when harding returned a week later he met the girl for a few moments, and had to be content with this. lance brightened up noticeably when he talked to him, and as he was leaving pressed him to come again; but the unqualified doctor, whom he met in the hall, did not seem satisfied with the patient's progress. harding waited for a while before he went back. he found mrs. mowbray alone on his arrival, and thought she looked anxious when he asked how lance was getting on. "he doesn't seem to improve as quickly as he ought, and mr. carson's puzzled," she said. "he tells me the injury is not serious enough to account for my boy's low condition, but he keeps restless and feverish, and doesn't sleep." then, after a moment, she added confidentially: "one could imagine that he has something on his mind." "have you any suspicion what it is?" "no--" she hesitated. "that is, nothing definite; and as he has given me no hint, it's possible that i'm mistaken in thinking that he is disturbed. but you may go in; you seem to cheer him." harding pondered this. he had been used to people who expressed their thoughts with frank directness, but he saw that mrs. mowbray was of a different stamp. she was most fastidious, yet she had taken him into her confidence as far as her reserve permitted. after all, there were things which a boy would confess to a man outside his family sooner than to his mother. "well," he said as meaningly as he thought advisable, "i'll do what i can." on entering the sick room he thought her anxiety was justified. lance did not look well, although he smiled at his visitor. "i'm glad you came," he said. "it's a change to see somebody fresh. the boys mean well but they worry me." "you'd get tired of me if i came oftener," harding answered with a laugh. they talked for a few minutes about a sheep dog that had been given to lance; and then, during a slight pause, the boy closed his eyes with a sigh. harding looked at him keenly. "i'm told you're not sleeping well," he said; "and you don't look as fit as you ought. i guess lying on your back gets monotonous." "yes," lance answered listlessly. "then i'm worried about losing my horse." "one feels that kind of thing, of course; but it wasn't an animal i'd get attached to. hard in the mouth, i guess, a bad buck-jumper, and a wicked eye. on the whole, you're better off without him." "perhaps you're right, and i meant to sell him. i'd had offers, and the warrior blood brings a long price." "ah! that means you wanted the money?" lance was silent for a few moments, and then he answered half resentfully: "i did." it was obvious to harding that delicacy was required here. mrs. mowbray was right in her suspicions, but if he made a mistake lance would take alarm. harding feared, however, that tact was not much in his line. "i am an outsider here," he said with blunt directness; "but perhaps that's a reason why you can talk to me candidly. it's sometimes embarrassing to tell one's intimate friends about one's troubles. why did you want the money?" lance flushed and hesitated, but he gathered confidence from harding's grave expression. "to tell the truth, i'd got myself into an awkward mess." "one does now and then. i've been fixed that way myself. perhaps i can help." "no; you can't," lance said firmly. "all the same, it's a relief to take somebody into my confidence. well, i owed a good deal of money; i'd been playing cards." "do you pay debts of that kind at once?" "of course. it's a matter of principle; though the boys wouldn't have pressed me." "i'd have let them wait," said harding. "but i don't play cards. i suppose you borrowed the money from somebody else, and he wants it back. now the proper person for you to go to is your father." lance colored and hesitated again. "i can't!" he blurted out with evident effort. "it's not because i'm afraid. he'd certainly be furious--i'm not thinking of that. there's a reason why it would hit him particularly hard. besides, you know, we're far from rich." having learned something about gerald mowbray, harding understood the lad's reticence. indeed, he respected his loyalty to his brother. "very well. if you'll tell me what you owe, and where you got the money, i may suggest something." he had expected lance to refuse; but, worn by pain and anxious as he was, the boy was willing to seize upon any hope of escape. he explained his affairs very fully, and harding made a note of the amount and of a name that was not unfamiliar to him. when lance finished his story and dropped back among his pillows with a flushed face, there was a short silence in the room. harding was not, as a rule, rashly generous; but he liked the boy, and lance was beatrice's brother--that in itself was a strong claim on him. then, mrs. mowbray had been gracious to him; though he was a stranger and in a sense an intruder, she had taken him into her confidence, and he felt a deep respect for her. there was in his mind, however, no thought of profiting by the situation; indeed, he was frankly reluctant to part with money which could be better employed than in paying gambling debts. "so you went to davies, of winnipeg--a mortgage broker?" he remarked. "who told you about him? these fellows don't lend to people they know nothing about." "a man introduced me," lance said awkwardly; and harding again suspected gerald. "when you signed his note for the sum you wanted, how much did you really get?" lance smiled ruefully as he told him. "you seem to know their tricks," he added. "some of them," harding replied dryly. "now, if you'll give me your word that you won't stake a dollar on a horse or card again, i'll take up this debt; but i don't want your promise unless you mean to keep it." lance's eyes were eager, though his face was red. "i've had my lesson. it was the first time i'd really played high, and i was a bit excited; the room was hot and full of smoke, and they'd brought in a good deal of whisky." then he pulled himself up. "but i can't let you do this; and i don't see----" "why i'm willing to help?" harding finished for him. "well, one's motives aren't always very plain, even to oneself. still--you can take it that i've a pretty strong grievance against all mortgage brokers. they've ruined one or two friends of mine, and they're going to make trouble in this country. i'll give you a few instances." he meant to frighten the lad, but there was no need to overstate the truth, and his face grew stern as he related how struggling farmers had been squeezed dry, and broken in spirit and fortune by the money-lender's remorseless grasp. lance was duly impressed, and realized how narrow an escape he had had. "are you willing to leave the thing entirely to me?" harding concluded. "you must understand that you're only changing your creditor." "i can trust you," lance said with feeling. "i can't tell you what a relief it is to get out of that fellow's hands! but i ought to warn you that he's tricky; you may have some trouble." harding laughed as he stood up. "oh, i can deal with him. now you go to sleep and don't worry any more." after he left, lance lay for a while thinking over the conversation. he was puzzled to know what had prompted harding to come to his rescue. the allenwood settlers had certainly been none too friendly to the prairie man, who was considered an outsider because he believed in work and in progress. lance thought that there was no selfish motive in harding's offer. what, then? he suddenly shook off the thoughts and, reaching out to a table by his bedside, rang a small handbell there. beatrice answered it. "i want something to eat," he said petulantly. "not slops this time; i'm tired of them." his sister looked at him in surprise. "why, you wouldn't touch your lunch!" "all the more reason i should want something now. you ought to be glad i'm getting better!" beatrice laughed. "it's a very sudden improvement," she said. "mr. harding must be a magician. what has he done to you?" "harding knows a lot," lance answered somewhat awkwardly; then added impulsively: "in fact, i think he's a remarkably fine fellow all round." beatrice opened her eyes wide. such an opinion from the son of colonel mowbray was pure heresy; but she made no comment. she kissed lance lightly on the forehead and tripped off downstairs to order some food for him. somehow, she was inclined to agree with her brother in his opinion of the prairie man. chapter ix a man of affairs the warmth of the big stove, which glowed a dull red in places, had melted holes in the frost that obscured the double windows of davies' office, but icy draughts flowed round the room, and the temperature of the passage outside was down to zero. from where the stove-pipe pierced the wall, drops of a black distillate trickled down, and the office was filled with the smell of tar and hot iron. rents gaped in the pine paneling, and the door had shrunk to a remarkably easy fit. the building was new, pretentious, and supposed to be centrally heated, but winnipeg was then passing through the transition stage which occurs in the history of most western towns: emerging from rude disorder with bold but badly guided striving toward beauty and symmetry. civic ambition was poorly seconded by builder's skill, and the plans of aspiring architects were crudely materialized. from where davies sat he could look into the snowy street; the view was far from pleasing. the blackened wreck of a burnt-out store confronted the office block, and behind it straggled a row of squalid shacks. farther on rose a wall of concrete with rusty iron framing sticking out of it; and a mound of cut stone and sawed lumber, left as it lay when the frost stopped work, encroached upon the plank sidewalk. davies, however, was not engrossed in the view, though he had lent money upon some adjacent building lots. a survey map of the allenwood district lay on his table, and he alternately studied it and gazed out of the window with a thoughtful air. the allenwood soil was good, consisting, as it did for the most part, of stiff black gumbo; it was well watered and fairly well wooded; and it occupied the center of a fertile belt. its position had other natural advantages, and the configuration of the country made it probable that with the first railroad extension a line would run past the settlement to the american frontier. davies had reason to believe that his view was shared by far-seeing railroad directors; but, whether the line were run or not, the allenwood farms would rise in value. davies wanted a hold on the settlement; and he had, to some extent, succeeded in getting it. he held a mortgage on gerald mowbray's homestead; it seemed possible to get the younger brother into his power; and he was negotiating with another embarrassed settler. on the other hand, money was tight just then, and davies' schemes were hampered by a lack of capital. he had written to lance mowbray, pressing for some interest that was overdue, and when the lad begged for time had curtly summoned him to winnipeg. now he was expecting him, for the east-bound train had arrived. he heard steps in the passage and looked up with some surprise as two men entered his office. their bronzed faces and their cheap skin coats suggested that they worked upon the land, but there was something in the expression and bearing of the taller man that contradicted this. davies was a judge of character, and he read that something as a sense of power. "good-morning, gentlemen," he said, with a suave smile. "i don't believe i have an appointment with you, but i'm always open for business." "my name is harding," said the taller man; "and this is my partner, mr. devine. you were expecting lance mowbray, of allenwood; i've come instead." davies would have preferred dealing with young mowbray himself; this substitute made him feel somewhat uneasy. after careful inquiries into mowbray's affairs, davies did not expect to get the overdue interest. what he wanted was to renew the loan at a higher rate as the price of waiting. harding got down to business at once. "mowbray owes you some interest; i've come to pay it." davies' eyes narrowed. "rather a long and expensive journey, if that was all that brought you," he said with a sneer. "a check would have done." "you seemed to think an interview needful; and i don't propose to bear the cost," harding answered quietly. "anyway, now that i'm here i'll pay up the principal, if we can come to terms." "there are no terms to be arranged. i'll settle the account on receipt of the sum mowbray borrowed and the interest." "i'll give you what he got," said harding coolly. davies pondered a moment. the offer had been a shock to him, for it suggested that mowbray had found a way of escape. that meant that his hold on allenwood would be weakened. harding looked shrewd and businesslike; there was little possibility of hoodwinking such a man. "do you expect me to abandon my rights?" he asked. "i'm here to look after mowbray's. you charged him what you call expenses, which you didn't incur. guess you'll have to prove them if you take the case to court." "one has to make inquiries about the security when lending money." "as a matter of fact, you knew the security was bad. mowbray told you that his land was held in trust until he was twenty-one. what you traded on was his fear of the deal coming to his people's knowledge. i guess his brother gave you all the information you required." davies' start indicated that the shot, made at a venture, had reached its mark. he grew angry, but he quickly saw that this was no time to lose his temper. "it's a pretty cool proposition you make," he said. "it's fair, and i don't press you to agree. stick to your full claim, if you like, and you'll get your interest on what you actually lent, but on nothing more until payment of the principal is due. then we'll give you all the trouble we can. but your hold on the boy is gone now that you know the money's ready." davies was forced to recognize that his debtor had escaped him; and, as it happened, he was pressed for money. "well," he conceded, "it's a small matter, after all. i'll give you a receipt if you'll put down the amount." "i'd rather my bank paid this; it keeps a record. then i want mowbray's note as well as the receipt." harding handed him a check, and davies looked at it in surprise. "you have made another deduction!" "certainly. you demanded an interview, and i've knocked off my fare to winnipeg. now where's the note?" davies produced it, and then looked at him with an ironical grin. "it's all straight, and i hope you're satisfied. a farmer, aren't you? may i suggest that you have mistaken your profession?" harding laughed good-naturedly as he pocketed the papers. "i don't know. my belief is that a farmer doesn't lose anything by studying business methods." when they reached the street, harding turned to devine. "i've learned something i wanted to know," he said. "that fellow has a mortgage on gerald mowbray's land. he's playing a deep game." "i don't see what he's getting after." "allenwood. it's worth plotting for." "i guess he'd find the colonel a pretty big obstacle. anyway, it's not our business." "no," harding replied with a thoughtful air. "as far as i can see at present, it's not my business.... now we'll look up the steam-plow man." they found the implement dealer disengaged, and spent the afternoon in his store before harding, who insisted upon several variations in the standard design, finally ordered a steam gang-plow. the agent was struck by the aptness of many of harding's suggestions about improvements, and he invited the men to his hotel for the evening. when they parted he frankly admitted that he had picked up some useful hints. he also surmised that harding had learned all that was worth knowing about new machines. the two men left winnipeg the next day, and devine went to report to hester while harding stopped at the grange to see lance. the boy greeted him eagerly, and his eyes glistened with relief when harding handed him the papers. "i'll square it off, every dollar, as soon as i can," he said. "in fact, i feel so much about it that i can't express myself--if you'd been in my place, you would understand. i see he didn't claim all my note called for. how did you beat him down?" "i knew the man i had to deal with," harding smiled. "what you have to do is to keep clear of debt in future." "i've given you my word; but i can't get out of debt to you." lance looked at him with frank admiration. "you beat the fellow at his own game!" he exclaimed. harding held out his hand. "i must go now," he said; "i promised to meet kenwyne and broadwood. we'll settle how you're to pay me the next time i come." mrs. mowbray was waiting for him in the hall below. "i want to thank you," she said to him. "i don't know what you have done to my boy, but he is so very much better." harding met the gaze she quietly fixed on him. he saw that she knew there was some secret between him and her son, but had confidence enough to ask no questions. "for one thing," he answered lightly, "i've given him some good advice, which i think he'll act on." "he seems to have a respect for your judgment--and i feel he's not mistaken." "that's very kind," said harding. "i hope i shall be able to keep your good opinion; though you may find it shaken by and by." mrs. mowbray looked at him keenly, and then laid her hand gently on his arm. "you have helped my boy to get better and, whatever may happen, that goes a long way," she said. when harding left her he felt that in mrs. mowbray he would have a staunch ally in his fight for beatrice. he returned to the grange one afternoon about a week later, and found beatrice alone. lance, after his long confinement, had gone for his first drive, and his mother had accompanied him to see that he kept the robes properly wrapped about him. the colonel and gerald were at a neighbor's. beatrice gave him her hand cordially. "i am glad of this opportunity for seeing you alone, because there's something i want to ask of you," she said. "i shall do anything i can to please you." "it's really something i want you not to do." "ah!" harding smiled. "that's often harder." they had entered a room which beatrice and her mother used. it was not large, and it was scantily furnished, but most of the articles it contained, though worn and battered, were good. curtains, rugs, and chairs were of artistic design, and their faded coloring was harmonious. by contrast with the rude prairie homesteads he had lived in, all that harding saw struck a note of luxurious refinement. what was more, the room seemed somehow stamped with its occupants' character. colonel mowbray, he knew, seldom entered it; it was the retreat of the two delicate, high-bred women he admired. he felt it was a privilege to be there. the unusual surroundings reacted upon him, and emphasized in a curious way his companion's grace and charm. for a few moments after they were seated, beatrice was silent, gazing thoughtfully before her. her hair shone where the light touched it, and reminded harding of the glitter of a prairie lake on a breezy, sunny day; her face was in profile, its fine chiseling forced up by a faded purple curtain behind her, which harmonized agreeably with the straw-colored dress that fell about her figure in graceful lines. as it happened, beatrice was feeling somewhat embarrassed. she had a favor to ask, and she shrank with unusual timidity from placing herself in the man's debt. she believed that he had saved her brother's life and afterward rendered him some valuable service; but he had done this of his own accord, and it would be different were he to comply with her request. "you have been urging some plans on kenwyne and broadwood," she began. "you have heard about that! however, they didn't need urging; they agreed with me about the necessity for the thing." "it's possible." there was a touch of haughtiness in beatrice's tone. "ralph kenwyne has always been something of a revolutionary; and we know where broadwood gets his ideas." "from his wife? you can't expect me to condemn them. she was brought up as i was and thinks as i do." beatrice saw she was not beginning well and changed her ground. "after all, that's not an important point. i suppose you know my father is bitterly opposed to your plans?" "i was afraid so. it's unfortunate." "then can't you see that it would be better to give them up?" harding felt disturbed but determined. he was keenly anxious to please the girl, but to yield in this matter would be to act against his principles. she did not know what she was asking. "no," he said; "i can't see that." "do you consider it good taste to encourage our friends to thwart their acknowledged leader?" "it looks bad, as you put it," harding replied. "for all that, a leader's business is to lead. he can't keep his followers standing still when they want to move on. their wishes must be respected. despotic authority's out of date." "what is the use of choosing a ruler if he isn't to be obeyed?" she said haughtily. "it sounds logical," harding replied; "but it doesn't always work." beatrice was struggling hard with her wounded pride. although on the whole broadminded, she had inherited some of the convictions of her caste; and, being the only daughter of the head of the settlement, she had been treated with more deference by the men at allenwood than was perhaps good for her. it had cost her an effort to ask a favor from harding, but she had not doubted the result, and his refusal was a shock. that the man who now proved obdurate had boldly shown his admiration for her, made it worse. yet, because she believed her cause was good, she determined to disregard her injured feelings. "if you persist in your plans, it will hurt colonel mowbray, and lead to dissention here," she argued. "why must you try to bring in these changes? we have done very well as we are." he rose and stood with his hand on a chair-back, looking steadily at her; and she noticed with half-grudging approval the strength of his figure and the resolution in his quiet, brown face. "the trouble is that you can't continue as you are. allenwood's threatened from outside, and i'm not sure it's safe within." "is that your business?" the cold pride in her tone hurt, for it implied that she regarded him as an intruding stranger. "in a way, yes; but we'll let that drop. if i could have pleased you by giving up a personal advantage, i'd have gladly done so; but this is a bigger thing. it isn't a matter of being content with a smaller crop; it's letting land that was meant to be worked lie idle, wasting useful effort, and trying to hold up a state of things that can't last. if i give way, i'll be going back on all i believe in and betraying a trust." beatrice laughed scornfully; and saw him wince. "i want you to understand what's behind this movement," he continued gravely. "your people can't keep allenwood for a place of amusement much longer, and some of those who see this have asked my help. i've promised and i can't draw back. besides, to break new soil and raise good wheat where only the wild grasses grow is the work i was meant for; the one thing worth while i'm able to do. i'd feel mean and ashamed if i held off and let the waste go on." "of course, it would be too great a sacrifice to make for a prejudiced old man, who has nevertheless always placed the good of allenwood first, and an inexperienced, sentimental girl!" harding flushed at the taunt. it was very hard to displease her, but he would not be justified in giving way, and he thought that later, when she understood better, she would not blame him for being firm. moreover, his temper was getting short. "that's neither kind nor fair," he said. "separate or together, your people and i must move on. we can't stand still, blocking the way, and defying nature and the ordered procession of things. this land was made for the use of man, and he must pay with hard work for all it gives him." "i am sorry you take that view; but there seems nothing further to be said." she rose as she spoke. "i'm afraid it's impossible that we should agree." he left at once, and drove home in a downcast mood. no doubt, he had disappointed her badly. he had not even had the tact to make his refusal graceful; she must think him an iconoclastic boor, driven by a rude hatred of all that she respected. still, he had tried to be honest; he could not shirk the task he was clearly meant to do. the struggle, however, had tried him hard, and he drove with set lips and knitted brows across the great white waste, oblivious of the biting cold. chapter x the casting vote it was a bitter evening. the snow on the crests of the rises glittered like steel; the hollows were sharply picked out in blue. the frost was pitiless, and a strong breeze whipped up clouds of dry snow and drove them in swirls across the plain. a half moon, harshly bright, hung low above the western horizon, and the vast stretch of sky that domed in the prairie was sprinkled with stars. harding and devine were on their way to attend a council meeting at the grange. wrapped, as they were, in the thick driving-robe, with their fur caps pulled well down, they could not keep warm. the cold of the icy haze seemed to sear the skin. harding's woolen-mittened hand was numbed on the reins, and he feared that it was getting frostbitten. "it's fierce to-night," devine remarked. "do you think there'll be a good turn-out of the allenwood boys?" "the cold won't stop them. i expect the colonel has sent round to whip them up." "i guess you're right. do you know, now that i've met one or two of them i see something in you and hester that's in them. can't tell you what it is, but it's there, and it was plainer in your father. what are they like when you get to know them?" "much the same as the rest of us." "the rest of us! then you don't claim to be different from the general prairie crowd?" harding frowned. "i suppose i wouldn't mind being thought the best farmer in the district," he said; "but that's all the distinction i care about." "you'll get that easy enough. you've gone ahead fast, craig, and you're going farther; but you may have some trouble on the way. when a man breaks a new trail for himself and leaves other men behind, it doesn't make them fond of him." "oh, i have no delusions on that point. to attain success, one cannot hope to travel a balmy road." "why do you want to rope in the allenwood boys?" devine asked curiously. "the reason's plain. you and i might make the steam-plow pay, but the price is high, and we can't do much more alone. if you want the best economy in farming, you must have cooperation. it's easier to buy expensive tools if you divide the cost." "i see that. but have you no other reason? you don't feel that you'd like to make friends with these people and, so to speak, have them acknowledge you?" "no," said harding firmly. since his talk with beatrice he had felt a curious antagonism to the whole allenwood settlement. it was too cold to talk much, and the men drove on in silence until the lights of the grange twinkled out across the plain. ten minutes later they entered the big hall, and harding cast a quick glance about. he noticed the clusters of wheat-ears and the big moose-heads on the wall, the curious eastern weapons and the english sporting guns that glistened beneath them, and the fine timbering of the pointed roof. he did not think there was another homestead to compare with this between winnipeg and the valleys of british columbia; but it was the company that seized his attention. it looked as if every man in the settlement were present; and they were worth the glance he gave them. dressed with picturesque freedom, they were, for the most part, handsome men, with powerful frames and pleasant, brown faces. harding knew they had courage and intelligence, yet he felt that there was something lacking--something hard to define. he thought of them as without the striving spirit; as too content. one or two gave him a welcoming smile, and there was a slight general movement when he sat down. mowbray, however, looked up with some surprise from the head of the long table. "after certain favors mr. harding has done me, it would be singularly inappropriate if i questioned his coming here as my guest. on the other hand, the presence of any outside person at our council is irregular." "may i explain?" kenwyne said. "mr. harding and his partner came by my invitation to give us some information about matters of which he knows more than any one else. they will, of course, take no other part in the proceedings." mowbray bowed. "i am satisfied. mr. harding will understand that a president must show due regard to form." his manner was courteous, yet harding was conscious of a subtle antagonism between them. to some extent, it was personal, but its roots struck deeper; it was the inevitable hostility between the old school and the new. mowbray was a worthy representative of the former. fastidiously neat in his dress, though his clothes were by no means of the latest cut, and sitting very upright, he had an air of dignity and command. he might be prejudiced, but it was obvious that he was neither dull nor weak. "we have," he said, taking up a paper, "a motion of some importance before us. it is proposed that we consider the advisability of cooperating with messrs. harding and devine: first, in the purchase and use of a steam-plow; second, in the organization of a joint creamery; and, third, in opening a sales office in winnipeg or other convenient center for the disposal of stock and general produce." putting down the paper he looked round with an ironical smile. "you will observe that the scheme is by no means modest; indeed, it strikes me as the most revolutionary project that has ever been suggested in this place. it is nevertheless my duty to ask those responsible for it to say what they can in its favor." kenwyne rose with a composed expression. "briefly, the advantages are these. with mechanical power we can plow more land than at present and at a reduced cost." "that is far from certain," mowbray declared. "we cannot take it for granted. these machines go wrong." "with your permission, i will ask mr. harding to give us some figures later. we are missing opportunities by being content with rearing only a limited number of beef cattle. winnipeg and brandon are growing fast; new towns are springing up along the railroad, and there will soon be a demand for dairy produce that will counterbalance the rather frequent loss of a wheat crop." "it will mean more paid hands and working all the land," some one objected. "exactly. i may add that this is our aim. the land must be developed." there was a murmur of disapproval, but kenwyne went on. "then there is reason to believe that we seldom obtain the prices we ought to get. stockbuyers' profits and salesmen's charges are high, and we can't expect these gentry to look after _our_ interests. we could best secure these by setting up an agency of our own, and hiring trained assistance. i'm afraid we cannot claim to be successful business men." "if that claim is ever justified, you will have to choose another leader," mowbray remarked. "this settlement was not founded with the object of making money. now, broadwood!" broadwood rose with a smile. "we must all agree, sir, that there's not much danger of the object you mention being realized. no doubt, there are some to whom this doesn't matter, but the rest are confronted with the necessity for making a living, and i suspect that one or two have the trouble i've experienced in paying my storekeepers' bills." "don't be personal!" some one called out. "that strikes me as foolish," broadwood retorted. "one can't help being personal. we all know one another; we use one another's horses and borrow one another's cash; and it's the necessity for doing the latter that i wish to obviate. we all know our neighbors' needs, and i want to show you how they can be supplied." he had struck the right note with his easy humor; but harding saw that mowbray was not pleased. "_you_ don't need much," one cried amid laughter. "you got a bumper harvest, and cut down your subscription to the hounds." broadwood smiled. "i came out of the rut and worked. a rash experiment, perhaps, but it didn't prove so harrowing as i feared; and there's some satisfaction in having no debts. but my point is that you can't do much without proper implements, and i feel that we'll have to get them. the proposal i've the pleasure of seconding, shows you how." he sat down, and mowbray looked up with a sarcastic smile. "broadwood's remarks don't take us much farther; he seems careful to avoid practical details. now the first thing i notice about this scheme is that it is founded on combination. its proposers are right in assuming the necessity for this, if their purpose is to secure economical success; but such success can be bought at too high a price. carry the cooperative idea out to its logical conclusion, and a man becomes a machine. he must subordinate his private judgment, he cannot choose his course, all his movements must be regulated by central control. then you may get efficiency, but you destroy character, independence, personal responsibility, all the finest attributes of human nature. you may object that i am exaggerating; that nobody wants this. the danger is that if you decide to go some distance, you may be driven farther than you think. then, allenwood was founded to encourage individual liberty--that settlers here might live a healthy life, free from economic pressure; on their own land, farming it like gentlemen, and not with bitter greed; enjoying the wind and sunshine, finding healthy sport. we demand a high standard of conduct, but that is all. we are bound to one another by community of ideals and traditions, and not by the hope of dividends." there was an outbreak of applause; then kenwyne rose. "the difficulty is that to lead our own lives, regardless of changing times and in defiance of commercial principles, needs larger means than most of us possess. the plain truth is that allenwood has been living upon its capital, drawing upon resources that cannot be renewed, and we must presently face the reckoning. some of us see this clearly, and i think the rest are beginning to understand. if you have no objections, sir, i will ask mr. harding to give us some figures." harding got up and stood silent for a moment or two, conscious that all present were watching him. he felt that they were keeping the ring, and that the affair had developed into a fight between himself and mowbray. harding regretted this, because the colonel's hostility would make the secret hope he cherished very difficult to realize; but he could not act against his convictions. he stood for progress--blundering progress, perhaps--and mowbray for the preservation of obsolete ways and means; the conflict was inevitable. harding might lose the first round, but he knew that the result was certain. vast, insuperable forces were arrayed against his antagonist. "to begin with, what do you expect to gain by persuading us to join you?" mowbray asked. "a saving of expense and the help of the only neighbors i have at present," harding answered. "my partner and i are ready to go on alone, but we can't hope to do much unassisted." opening the papers he had brought, he read out particulars of the cost of plowing by horses and by steam; then statistics of american and canadian grain production and the fluctuations of prices. "where did you get the figures about the mechanical plowing?" mowbray asked in an ironical tone. "from the makers?" "in the first place. i afterward checked them by information from farmers who have used the machines." "very wise! these implements are expensive. can you guarantee that they will work satisfactorily?" "that would be rash. i expect a certain amount of trouble." "skilled mechanics' wages are high. do you recommend our keeping a man here in case things go wrong?" "certainly not! if you buy a steam-plow, you must learn to keep it in order." broadwood, picturing the colonel sprawled under an oily engine, battling with obstinate bolts, laughed aloud. mowbray frowned. "granting the accuracy of your statistics," he said, "you seem to have proved the economy of mechanical power, when used on a large scale. but we are not agreed upon the necessity for such a thing." this was the opening harding had waited for and he seized it quickly. "at present wheat is your mainstay. how many of you will find it profitable to grow at the current price?" "not many, perhaps," mowbray admitted; and the disturbed expression of others bore out the statement. "but is there adequate ground for concluding it will remain at an abnormally low price?" "it will not remain there. for the next few years it will go down steadily." there was a murmur of disagreement; and mowbray smiled. "i presume you are willing to justify this gloomy forecast?" he said. "i'll try," answered harding. "you have seen what one railroad has done for western canada. it has opened up the country, brought wide tracts of land into cultivation, and largely increased the wheat crop. that increase will go on, and you will presently see rival lines tapping new belts of fertile soil." "but do you imply that the grain output of western canada can force down prices?" a man asked with a scornful laugh. "we have all europe for a market. i imagine they'll use what we can send them in a few big english towns." it was obvious that the question met with approval, and harding quietly searched the faces turned toward him. he belonged by right of birth to these men's caste, but he did not want them to own him. he asked their help, but he could do without it, though they could not dispense with his. their supineness irritated him; they would not see the truth that was luminously clear. he felt a strange compulsion to rouse and dominate them. "the canadian output will soon have to be reckoned with," he said. "in the meantime, it's the effect of a general expansion throughout the world that i'm counting on. what has been done in canada is being done everywhere. look abroad and see! the american middle west linked up with new railroads, grain pouring out to new york and baltimore; californian wheat shipments doubling, and the walla country in oregon all one grain belt. they're tapping new soil in argentina; australia and chile are being exploited wherever they get rain; and british irrigation works in egypt and india will have their effect." gerald mowbray spoke for the first time. "one feels tempted to inquire where mr. harding secured this mass of information?" he said, with a slight curl of his lips. "you can get a good deal for a few dollars' subscription to new york papers," harding answered dryly. "when the snow's deep, men with no amusements have time to read. but that's beside the question. i must now ask you to consider the improvement in transport. locomotives are doubling their size and power; you have seen the new grain cars. the triple-expansion engine is cutting down ocean freight, making distance of no account. all countries must compete in the world's markets with the cheapest grower. to survive in the struggle that's coming, one must use efficient tools." "and what will happen after the markets have been flooded?" a man asked derisively. "then," said harding gravely, "when the slack and careless have been killed off there will be a startling change. the farming expansion can't last; there's not enough accessible virgin land to draw upon. american shipments will fall off; the demands of the world's growing population will overtake the supply. those who live through the fight will find riches thrust upon them." "we are losing sight of the general produce and dairy scheme," mowbray remarked. "have you anything to tell us on this point?" "not much. winnipeg is growing, so is brandon, and they'll provide good markets for farming truck; but the country that will ask for most is british columbia." "rather a long way off!" somebody commented. "wait and see," said harding. "they're opening new mines and sawmills all over the province; columbia's aim is industrial, not agricultural, and most of the land there is rock and forest. they're cut off from the pacific states by the tariff, and naturally they'll turn to us across the rockies. i foresee our sending general produce west instead of east. now, although i've taken up too much time, will you give me a minute to read some figures?" he paused, and with an almost involuntary burst of applause they bade him go on. the statistics he gave were telling, clinching his arguments, and when he sat down there was a deep murmur of approval from opponents as well as friends. the breadth of his views and his far-reaching knowledge appealed to them. it was the first time they had heard anything like this at allenwood. after waiting a few moments for silence, mowbray turned to devine. "have you anything of interest to tell us?" "well," devine said with simple earnestness, "i was raised at a prairie homestead. i began to drive horses soon after i could walk, and ever since i've been living on the soil. that's how i know that in the long run scratch-farming will never pay. with nature up against us, we can take no chances when we break new land, for she's mighty hard to beat, with her dry seasons, harvest frost, blight, and blowing sand. we've got to use the best of everything man can invent and, if we're to stand for a run of bad times, get the last cent's value for every dollar. any machine that won't give you the top output must be scrapped: you must get your full return for your labor. slouching and inefficiency lead you straight into the hands of the mortgage man." when he sat down, mowbray smiled. "our visitors have certainly given us food for thought," the colonel said. "i offer them our thanks, and should now be glad to hear any fresh opinions." several men spoke; some with warmth and some with careless humor. "as we don't get much further, we will take a vote," mowbray suggested. "i will move the resolution as it stands. though this has not been our usual custom, you are entitled to a ballot." there was silence for a moment. mowbray's views were known, and the men shrank from wounding him, for he did not bear opposition well. for all that, with a fastidious sense of honor, they disdained the shield of the secret vote. "i think we will stick to the show of hands," kenwyne replied. "very well," said mowbray. "for the motion!" harding, glancing round the room, was surprised and somewhat moved to notice that lance's hand went up among the rest. the boy had voted against his father. so far as harding could judge, half the men were in favor of the scheme. "against the motion!" the hands were raised, and mowbray counted them with care. "equal, for and against," he announced. "i have a casting vote, and i think the importance of the matter justifies my using it. i declare the motion lost." there was an impressive silence for a few moments; then broadwood spoke. "although we have decided against going on with the scheme, as a body, i take it there is nothing to prevent any individuals who wish to do so joining in mr. harding's venture?" "i must leave you to decide how far such action is in good taste, or likely to promote the harmony which has been the rule at allenwood. now i think we can close the meeting." when the company dispersed, harding, devine, and broadwood drove home with kenwyne. the scotch housekeeper opened the door for them, and handed kenwyne the mail which had been brought in his absence. he tore open a newspaper and turned to the quotations. "wheat down sixpence a quarter at liverpool," he said. "it will have its effect in chicago and winnipeg." he dropped the paper and took off his fur coat. "i suppose you're going on with the plan, harding?" "the plow's ordered." "you're a hustler," broadwood laughed; "but you mustn't make the pace too hot. we've been used to going steady. what did you think of the meeting?" "it went better than i expected." "we'd have had a majority only that they were afraid of the colonel; and i don't blame them. in a way, he made a rather pathetic figure, trying to sweep back the tide. the old man has courage; it's a pity he won't see that his is a lost cause." "he can't," said kenwyne gravely; "and we must realize that." "then are you going to let him ruin you?" devine asked. "i hope not; but we all feel that we can't disown our leader," broadwood answered. "i dare say you can understand that we have a hard row to hoe." "well, the creamery scheme will have to be dropped," kenwyne said; "but there'll be plenty of work for the new plow." "yes," harding replied. "if all the rest stand out, devine and i can keep it busy." "how much land do you intend to break?" harding told him, and kenwyne looked astonished. "you're a bold man. if it's not an impertinence, can you finance the thing?" "it will take every dollar i have." "and if you lose? the spring rains are sometimes hard enough to uproot the young blades; or a summer hailstorm or drought may come and ruin the crop." harding shrugged his shoulder. "those things must be considered, of course. but one never gets very far by standing still and waiting for a disaster that may never occur. 'nothing ventured, nothing gained,'" he quoted with a smile. chapter xi the steam plow the winter passed quickly. harding was kept fully occupied; for there was cordwood to be cut, there were building logs to be got ready, and the fitting up of the new house kept him busy at his carpenter's bench. he was used to the prairie climate, and he set off cheerfully at dawn to work in the snow all day, returning at dark, half-frozen and stiff from swinging the heavy ax. now and then he drove hester to mrs. broadwood's, or spent an evening with one or two others of the allenwood settlers. he went partly for his sister's sake, but also because he sometimes met beatrice at his new friends' houses, and since lance had recovered he no longer had an excuse for visiting the grange. mrs. mowbray had always been gracious, but he knew that the colonel now regarded him as a dangerous person. beatrice's manner puzzled him. as a rule, she was friendly, yet he could not flatter himself that he was making much progress, and sometimes she was distinctly aloof. he might have placed a favorable interpretation upon her reserve, but unfortunately it was tinged with what looked very much like hostility. harding imagined that she was influenced by her father; and he was troubled. there were, however, days when his homestead rocked beneath the icy blast, while the snow lashed the ship-lap walls, and to venture out involved serious risk. the blizzards were often followed by bitter evenings when the prairie lay white and silent in the arctic frost, and no furs would protect one against the cold. at such times, harding sat quietly by the red-hot stove, sometimes with a notebook in his hand, and sometimes merely thinking hard. many barriers stood between him and the girl he loved, and, being essentially practical, he considered how he could remove the worst. beatrice had been luxuriously brought up, and he must have material advantages to offer her; although if she were what he believed, she would not attach undue importance to them. he was ambitious and generally ready to take a risk, but now he was staking his all on an abundant crop. it could not be done rashly. adverse contingencies must be foreseen and guarded against; all the precautions that experience dictated must be taken. he would be ruined if he lost. the days were lengthening, though the frost still held, when his steam-plow arrived at the railroad settlement. no one seemed willing to undertake its transport to allenwood; and when a thing was extremely difficult harding believed in doing it himself. the machine had been dismantled, but some of the engine-castings were massive, and the boiler, with its large, wood-burning firebox was of considerable weight. it must, however, be moved at once, because the frost might break, and the prairie is impassable by loaded vehicles for a few weeks after the thaw. as a rule, the snowfall is light on the western plains, and jumper-sleds are not in general use. in this instance harding found the long, high-wheeled wagon suit his purpose best, and he carefully strengthened one before he set off to bring home the plow. it was not an easy task. the high plain sloped to the railroad in wave-like undulations, with sandy crests and timber in the hollows. in summer, it would hardly have been possible to haul the plow across this belt of broken country, but the few inches of beaten snow on the trail simplified the task. for all that, harding spent several days on the road, moving the machine in detachments, until he came to the boiler, which must be handled in one piece. when, with the help of several train-men, he got it into his wagon, he knew his troubles had begun. leaving the settlement at dawn with devine, they camped at sunset by a frozen creek and got a few hours' sleep beside a fire until the cold awakened them. after this, harding lay thinking over the next day's work until the sky began to whiten in the east, and it was time to get breakfast. they set off in the stinging cold while the crimson sunrise glared across the snow, but it was afternoon and the teams were worn out when they approached the ravine a few miles from home. this, they knew, presented their greatest obstacle. the frost held, sky and air were clear, and a nipping wind had risen. as they drew near the wavy line of trees that marked the edge of the dip, harding was not pleased to notice a group of people. he had arranged for two of the allenwood men to meet him with some tackle, but he saw that hester, beatrice, mrs. broadwood, and several more had accompanied them. he was not often self-conscious, but when he had anything difficult to do he did not like onlookers. they embarrassed him. for all that, he felt a keen thrill of pleasure when beatrice, with mrs. broadwood, came toward him when he stopped his team on the edge of the hollow. the sides of the ravine were clothed with leafless poplars, and the snow shone a soft gray-blue in their shadow. in places, the slope was very steep, and the trail, with several awkward bends, ran down diagonally to the bridge at the bottom, shut in by rows of slender trunks except where the ground fell away on its outer edge. a thin cloud of steam hung over the jaded horses. except for the sparkle in his eyes, harding had a very tired look when beatrice stopped beside him. "it will not be easy getting down," she said. harding smiled. "i suppose i deserve some trouble?" "i really think you do," beatrice answered with a laugh. "i would have stopped you if i could; but now the plow's here, it's too late to be disagreeable about it--so i don't wish you any difficulty in getting down!" "it's a sensible attitude. fight against a thing you don't like, but make the best of it when it's an accomplished fact." "i don't like steam-plows at allenwood," said beatrice with a flush of color. "allenwood is hifalutin," mrs. broadwood put in. "they're trying to run it on ideals." "is it necessary to separate ideals from practical efficiency?" harding asked. "they don't often go together," beatrice answered scornfully. "there's some truth in that. but it's the fault of human nature; you can't blame the machines." "the machines are to be admired," the girl returned. "one blames the men who use them with the wrong object." harding smiled; but before he could answer, broadwood came up with kenwyne to announce that everything was ready. "you'll have to be careful," he warned harding. "we'll lock the back wheels before we hook on the tackles. will you let the front team loose?" "no; i may want them to swing me round the bends. first of all, i'll take a look at what you've done." he walked down the trail with them and examined the fastenings of a big iron block through which ran a wire rope with a tackle at one end. "the clevis is rather small, but it's the strongest i could find," kenwyne said. a little farther on they stopped where the bank fell nearly perpendicularly for some distance below the outer edge of the road. "we banked the snow up here and beat it firm," he pointed out. "for all that, it would be wise to keep well to the inside." "we'll shift the tackle when i get to the bend above," harding replied, and went down to the bridge. it was rudely built of logs and had no parapet. "i found the turn awkward the last time, but i see you have made it a bit easier," he said. "well, we'd better make a start." lance and one or two others joined them when they reached the top. harding examined the wagon and harness, and beatrice watched him with interest. he certainly lived up to his belief in efficiency, because she did not think he omitted any precaution he could have taken. there was something to admire in him as he quietly moved about beside the horses and the ponderous mass of iron. it would not be an easy matter to transport the load to the bottom of the gorge, but beatrice felt that he was at his best when confronting a difficulty. "the locked wheels won't hold her if anything goes wrong," he said. "keep all the strain you can upon the rope." they hooked it to the back axle, and harding cautiously led the team down the incline while devine went to the leading horses' heads, and the others checked the wagon with the tackle. the teams were obviously nervous, and the pole-horses now and then lifted their haunches to hold back the load, although they did not feel much of its weight. after some trouble harding got the wagon round the first turning, taking the leaders up the side of the ravine in order to do so; but the trail ahead was steeper, and the big drop not far below. they chocked the wheels with logs while they moved the tackle, and harding stood for a few moments, breathing heavily, as he looked down into the gorge. he could see the snowy trail wind for a short distance among the trees, and then it dipped out of sight beyond a turn. it was beaten hard, and here and there its surface caught a ray of light and flashed with an icy gleam. they were half-way down; but the worst was to come. "it's an ugly bit," he cautioned devine. "hold the leaders in to the side of the hill." they started, and as the weight came upon them the blocks screamed, and the men began to strain against the drag of the rope. foot by foot they let it slip round the smooth trunk of a tree, while the women stood watching the tall figure at the pole-horses' heads. the powerful animals braced themselves back, slipping a yard or two now and then, while harding broke into a run. the cloud of steam that hung over them grew thicker as the trees closed in; the tackle was running out and those who held it were panting hard, but they had rope enough to reach the next bend. then there was a crash and kenwyne, reeling backward with those behind him, fell heavily into the snow while the broken wire struck the trees. a shout from devine came up the hollow, and hester clenched her hand as she saw him flung off by a plunging horse and roll down the trail. he dropped over the edge, but the wagon, lurching violently, went on, and for a few moments harding, running fast, clung to the near horse's head. then he let go; but instead of jumping clear, as the watchers had expected, he grasped the side of the wagon as it passed and swung himself up. they saw him seize the reins, standing upright behind the driving-seat; and then the wagon plunged out of sight among the trees. devine, scrambling to his feet, ran madly after it and vanished; and the men who had held the tackle picked themselves up and looked down in dismay. there was nothing they could do. the disaster must happen before they could possibly reach the scene. it seemed impossible that harding could get round the next turn. beatrice cast a quick glance at hester, and felt braced by her attitude. they were not emotional at allenwood; but the prairie girl bore herself with a stoic calm which beatrice had never seen equaled there. her fiancé had narrowly escaped with his life, her brother was in imminent peril, yet her eyes were steady and her pose was firm. his danger could not be made light of, but the girl evidently had confidence in him. beatrice imagined that hester had her brother's swiftness of action, nevertheless she could wait and suffer calmly when there was nothing else to be done. after all, stern courage was part of the girl's birthright, for she was a daughter of the pioneers. beatrice did not know that her own face was tense and white. the accident had been unexpected and unnerving. she was shaken by its suddenness and by a dread she could not explain: it was no time for analysis of feelings. she was watching the trail with desperate concentration, wondering whether the wagon and its reckless driver would break out from the trees. in a moment they did appear--the team going downhill at a mad gallop, harding lashing them with a loop of the reins. there is not often a brake on a prairie wagon, and as the chain that locked the wheels had obviously broken, harding's intention was plain. he meant to keep the horses ahead of the iron load that would overturn the wagon and mangle the animals if it overtook them. this warranted his furious speed. but the trail was narrow and tortuous, and with the heavy weight spread over a long wheel-base, the wagon was hard to steer. beatrice realized this, but in spite of her horror she felt a thrill of fierce approval. the man was standing upright now; he looked strangely unmoved. beatrice supposed this was a delusion; but she could see the nerve and judgment with which he guided the team. they were passing the spot where the bank fell away. the wheels on one side were on its edge. beatrice turned dizzy. she felt that they must go over, and man and horses and wagon be crushed to pulp beneath the heavy load. they passed; but there was a turn not far off, and room was needed to take the curve. as they rushed on, half hidden by the trees, she felt her breath come hard and a contraction in her throat as she wondered whether he could get round. if not, the load of iron would rush headlong over the fallen horses, leaving in its path a mass of mangled flesh and pools of blood. to her excited imagination, the boiler was no longer a senseless thing. it seemed filled with malevolent, destructive power; she felt she hated it. there was a tense moment; then the leading horses plunged from the trees with the pole-team behind them, all still on their feet. harding had somehow steered them round. but the danger was not yet over, for the trail shelved to one side and there was an awkward curve near the bridge. the wagon seemed to beatrice to be going like the toboggans she had seen on the long slide at montreal. it was more difficult to see as it got farther off and the trees were thicker. her eyes filled with water from the intensity of her gaze, and she feared to waste a moment in wiping them. something terrible might happen before she could see again. she wanted to shriek; and she might have done so only that, even in such a moment, she remembered what was expected of the mowbray strain. horses and wagon were still rushing on. then there was a thud and a harsh rattle: harding was on the bridge. another moment and the mad beat of hoofs slackened and stopped. lance, waving his fur cap, broke into a harsh, triumphant yell, and the rest of the allenwood men set up a cheer. in the midst of it devine appeared, scrambling up the hill through the brush. "he's done it! he's done it!" he cried excitedly, running up to hester. "it's great! she was going like an express freight on a downgrade when he jumped up." hester smiled at him proudly, and he turned and started off at top speed down the trail. they all followed, and, crossing the bridge, found harding standing by his blowing team. the horses' coats were foul with sweat, and harding's face was badly scratched, but he did not seem to know it, and except that he was breathless he looked much as usual. "this is quite ridiculous!" mrs. broadwood panted, with a keen glance at beatrice. "there's some excuse for hester, but i can't see why you and i should go running after a man who doesn't belong to either of us and seems to feel a good deal cooler than we do!" beatrice flushed, but she did not answer. "you were lucky in getting down," kenwyne said to harding. "we thought you were going over the bank." "so did i, at first," harding answered. broadwood and lance made some remarks about the accident, and hester watched them with a smile. there was a hint of strain in their voices, but their manner was very matter-of-fact. she surmised that they wished to forget their relapse into emotional excitement. she contented herself with giving her brother a quick, expressive look. harding unhooked the broken wire from the back of the wagon. "well," he said, "we must set about getting up." the ascending trail had a gentler slope, and there was not much risk in climbing it; though it cost them heavy labor. with the help of a yoke of oxen, they got the wagon up, and when the top was reached kenwyne came up to harding. "you and devine have done enough," he said. "there should be no trouble now. we'll lead the teams home while you take it easy." harding was glad to comply. he followed with hester and mrs. broadwood, because beatrice seemed so evidently trying to avoid him. the girl felt disturbed. when she thought that harding could not escape, a curious sense of personal loss had intensified her alarm. terror, of course, was natural; the other feeling was not to be explained so readily. although she disliked some of his opinions, she knew that he attracted her. his was a magnetic nature: he exerted a strong influence over every one; but she would not admit that she was in love with him. that would be absurd. and yet she had been deeply stirred by his danger. lance and devine had lingered in the rear, and the little group stopped in the middle of the trail and waited for them. then, when they moved forward again, beatrice and harding were somehow thrown together, and she checked the impulse to overtake the others when she saw that she and the prairie man were falling behind. to avoid being alone with him would exaggerate his importance. "you must have known you were doing a dangerous thing when you got up on the wagon," she said. "i suppose i did," he replied. "but i saw that i might lose the boiler if it went down the bank. the thing cost a good deal of money." "you were able to remember that?" "certainly! then there were the teams. it would have been a pity to let them be killed." beatrice thought he might have offered a better explanation. he had implied that anxiety about the boiler had influenced him more than regard for his horses. she felt that she must give him an opportunity for defending himself. "i wonder which consideration counted most?" he looked at her with amusement; and she flushed as she suddenly recalled that he was sometimes very shrewd. "well," he said, "the main thing was to get hold of the reins--and i don't know that it matters now." "i suppose not," beatrice agreed, vexed that he did not seem anxious to make the best impression. "after all, breaking land on a large scale must be expensive, and i understand that your plans are ambitious." harding glanced across the prairie: it ran back to the blue smear of trees on the horizon, covered with thin snow, and struck a note of utter desolation. "yes," he said with a gleam in his eyes. "all this looks lifeless and useless now, but i can see it belted with wheat and oats and flax in the fall. there will be a difference when the binders move through the grain in rows." "in rows!" "we'll want a number, if all goes well. devine's land follows my boundary, and we must drive our plows in one straight line. we begin at the rise yonder and run east to the creek." the boldness of the undertaking appealed to the girl as she glanced across the wide stretch of snow. "it's a big thing," she said. "a beginning. two men can't do much, but more are coming. in a year or two the wheat will run as far as you can see, and there'll be homesteads all along the skyline." they walked on in silence for a moment; then he gave her an amused glance. "i guess colonel mowbray doesn't like what i'm doing?" "he doesn't go so far. it's to what you are persuading our friends to do that he objects." "that's a pity. they'll have to follow--not because i lead, but because necessity drives." "you're taking it for granted that it does drive; and you must see my father's point of view." "that i'm encouraging your people to rebel? that's not my wish, but he can't hold them much longer--the drift of things is against him." beatrice's eyes sparkled. he thought she looked very charming with her proud air and the color in her face; but he must keep his head. he was readjusting his opinions about sudden, mutual love, and he saw that precipitation might cost him too much. if he could not have the girl on his own terms, he must take her on hers. "colonel mowbray founded the settlement," beatrice said, "and it has prospered. can't you understand his feelings when he sees his control threatened?" "the time when one man could hold full command has gone. he can be a moral influence and keep the right spirit in his people, but he must leave them freedom of action." "that is just the trouble! it's the modern spirit which you are bringing into the settlement that disturbs us. we managed to get along very well before we ever heard of mr. harding and his steam-plow and his wheat-binders and his creameries." she could not keep the slight scorn out of her voice; indeed, she did not wish to do so. but he took it good-naturedly. "do you know what i see?" he questioned with a smile. "a time when colonel mowbray--and colonel mowbray's daughter," he added teasingly--"will look with pride upon the vast acres of allenwood turned from waste grassland into productive fields of wheat and oats and flax; when the obsolete horse-plow will be scrapped as old iron and the now despised steam-plow will be a highly treasured possession of every settler; when----" "never!" beatrice interrupted emphatically. "you must understand that my father's views and yours are as widely different as the poles--and my father is the head of allenwood!" harding looked down at the haughty face turned up to him; and a great longing suddenly surged through him. he had never desired her more than at that instant. his admiration showed so strongly in his eyes that the blood swept into beatrice's face. "bee!" lance called back to them. "mrs. broadwood wants you to verify what i'm telling her about the collie pup." beatrice loved her brother for the interruption. chapter xii the enemy within it was getting late, but the allenwood sports club prolonged its sitting at the carlyon homestead. the institution had done useful work in promoting good fellowship by means of healthful amusements, but recently its management had fallen into the hands of the younger men, and the founders contented themselves with an occasional visit to see that all was going well. some, however, were not quite satisfied, and mowbray entertained suspicions about the club. he was an autocrat, but he shrank from spying, or attempting to coerce a member into betraying his comrades. some allowance must be made for young blood; and, after all, nothing that really needed his interference could go on, he felt, without his learning about it. nevertheless, he had a disturbing feeling that an undesirable influence was at work. carlyon's room was unusually well furnished, and several fine london guns occupied a rack on the matchboarded wall. the cost of one would have purchased a dozen of the massachusetts-made weapons which the prairie farmers used. the photograph of a horseman in english hunting dress with m.f.h. appended to the autograph was equally suggestive, and it was known that carlyon's people had sent him to canada with money enough to make a fair start. unfortunately, he had not realized that success in farming demands care and strenuous work. he sat with a flushed, excited face at a rosewood table, upon which the cigar ends, bottles, and glasses scarcely left room for the cards he was eagerly scanning. gerald mowbray leaned back in his chair, watching him with a smile. emslie, the third man, wore a disturbed frown; opposite him, markham sat with a heavy, vacant air. "your luck's changing, carlyon," gerald said; "but we must stop at this round. markham's half asleep--and i'm not surprised, considering what he's drunk; and the colonel will wonder where i've been, if i stay much longer." carlyon drained his glass. "very well," he consented, with a harsh laugh and a glitter in his eyes. "as i've a good deal to get back, i'll double and throw my percheron team in. does that take you?" markham immediately became alert. "i think not. go on, gerald!" gerald put down a card, emslie followed with a deepening frown, but markham chuckled as he played. carlyon started, and then with an obvious effort pulled himself together. for the next few moments all were quiet, and the stillness was emphasized by the patter of the falling cards. then carlyon pushed his chair back noisily and looked at the others, his face pale and set. "i thought it was a certainty; there was only one thing i forgot," he said in a strained voice. markham leaned forward heavily. "fellows who play like you can't afford to forget, my boy. know better next time; let it be a lesson." carlyon glanced at a notebook and took out a wad of bills which he tried to count. "sorry, but i seem to be five dollars short; don't know when you'll get it, but i'll send the horses to the next brandon sales. i dare say somebody will help me with my plowing." "don't be an ass!" said gerald. "throwing in the team was a piece of silly bluff. we're not going to take advantage of it." emslie nodded agreement; and markham drawled: "don't want his splay-footed beasts, and won't lend him my good clydesdales to spoil. count out the bills, gerald; his hand is shaking." carlyon protested that he was a sportsman and paid his debts, but they overruled him. "silly thing to do, unless you're made," markham declared. then he turned to gerald. "what's become of the younger brother? never see him now." "oh, he's reformed. on the whole, it's just as well, for there's not room for two gamblers in the family. besides, the americans seem to have got hold of him: they live like methodists." "you mean the girl has? devilish handsome; has a grand way of looking at you. ask carlyon; he knows." carlyon colored under markham's broadly humorous gaze. "miss harding won't trouble herself about lance," he said. "i may add that she doesn't appreciate a graceful compliment." "smacked your face?" suggested markham with a chuckle. "must be going. give me my coat." a newspaper and some letters fell out of a pocket as he put it on, and he picked them up. "quite forgot. met the mail-carrier as i was driving in. better look what wheat is doing." carlyon eagerly opened the paper. "down again two cents at chicago! winnipeg will follow." "there's a certain cure," said markham thickly. "all stop plowing. if you do nothing long enough, 'must send the market up. call it a brilliant idea; wonder nobody else thought of it. you look sober, emslie. come and help me into my rig." they went out, and a few minutes afterward a furious beat of hoofs and a rattle of wheels rang out across the prairie. "i hope he will get home without breaking his neck," carlyon said to gerald. "oh, markham can take care of himself. but we have something else to think about now." "that's true," carlyon agreed with a depressed air. "i took your advice and told that fellow in the pit to buy wheat; but i wish i'd heard harding's speech at the council before i made the deal. now it's clear that i'm dipped pretty deep." he picked up the letters that were scattered among the cards and started as he saw the embossed stamp on one of them. "it's from my broker; i'll soon know the worst." gerald, lighting a cigarette, watched the tense expression of the boy's face as he read the letter, and for a few moments nothing was said. carlyon looked crushed, but gerald's position was too serious to allow of his sympathizing much. taking advantage of his friends' love of excitement, he had won a number of small sums at cards, but this was of no account against what he owed. after a moment carlyon laid a statement of account before him. "you can see how much i'm out." "can't you carry it over?" "impossible," carlyon answered dejectedly. "i didn't actually buy the grain; i've got to find the difference. besides, what would be the use of holding on, if wheat's still going to drop?" "it's awkward," gerald agreed. "you might get some exemption under the homesteads act, but this broker could sell you up. would your people do anything?" "they won't be asked. things were not going well with them when i left, and i guess they find it hard enough to keep dick at college and provide for the girls. they gave me a good start, but it was understood that i'd get nothing more." "then the only remedy is to borrow the money here." carlyon laughed. "who'd lend it to me? besides, if the colonel knew how i was fixed, he'd turn me out of the settlement." "i know a man in winnipeg who does this kind of business, but he'd charge you high and want a bond. that means he'd seize your land in a year or two if you couldn't pay." "the other fellow would seize it now," carlyon said with eagerness. "if i could get the money, i'd have time to see what could be done, and something might turn up. will you introduce me?" the matter was arranged before gerald left; and two days later they were in winnipeg. they found davies willing to do business. indeed, after making a few difficulties as an excuse for raising the interest, he supplied carlyon with the money he needed, and when the men left his office he lighted a cigar with a satisfied smile. he now held two mortgages on land at allenwood, and he thought that he could make good use of them if, as he expected, the loans were not repaid. then it was possible that mowbray might bring him another customer. he saw a big profit for himself, and trouble for the allenwood settlers, when the reckoning came. shortly after gerald's visit to winnipeg, one of his neighbors returned from england, where he had gone to look into matters connected with some property he had recently inherited. his absence had been a relief to beatrice, and she was especially disturbed to learn that on his arrival he had spent an hour in private talk with her father. brand had continually shown strong admiration for her, which she by no means reciprocated. she did not actually dislike the man; but his attentions annoyed her. she knew, however, that he enjoyed colonel mowbray's full approval. he came of good family and his character was irreproachable; moreover, being past forty, he had outgrown all youthful rashnesses. of rather handsome person and polished manners, brand was generally characterized by staid gravity, and mowbray considered his views exceptionally sound. beatrice was keenly curious about what he had said to her father. she imagined that her mother knew, but no hint was given to her, and when she met brand it was always in the company of others and there was nothing to be gathered from his manner. it was, however, not often that he displayed his sentiments. the thaw had begun when she walked home from the broadwood farm one afternoon. the snow had vanished as if by magic, and shallow lagoons glittered among the bleached grass. the sky was a brilliant blue, and rounded clouds with silver edges rolled across it before the fresh northwest breeze which would blow persistently until summer was done. their swift shadows streaked the plain and passed, leaving it suffused with light. there was a genial softness in the air. beatrice picked her way cautiously toward a straggling bluff, for the ponds along its edge had overflowed and the ground was marish. on reaching the woods she stopped in a sheltered nook to enjoy the sunshine. the birches and poplars were bare, but their stems were changing color and the twigs had lost their dry and brittle look. the willows in a hollow were stained with vivid hues by the rising sap, and there was a flush of green among the grass. small purple flowers like crocuses were pushing through the sod. from high overhead there fell a harsh, clanging cry, and the girl, looking up, saw a flock of brent geese picked out in a wedge against the sky. behind came a wedge of mallard, and farther off, gleaming snowily, a flight of sandhill cranes. spring was in the air; the birds had heard its call, and were pressing on toward the polar marshes, following the sun. beatrice felt a curious stirring of her blood. it was half pleasant, half painful, for while she responded to the gladness that pervaded everything the sunshine kissed, she was conscious of a disturbing longing, a mysterious discontent. she would not try to analyze her feelings, but she felt that her life was narrow and somehow incomplete. she was startled presently by a drumming of hoofs; and she frowned as brand rode out of the bluff. he had seen her, and she decided not to try to avoid him by walking on. if she must face a crisis, it was better to get it over. brand got down and turned to her with a smile. he looked well in his wide, gray hat and his riding dress, for the picturesqueness of the fringed deerskin jacket, which was then the vogue at allenwood, did not detract from his air of dignity. his features were regular, but his expression was somewhat cold. "i'm glad we have met, and i'll confess that i expected to find you here. in fact, i came to look for you," he said with a smile. beatrice knew what was coming. while she felt that it would be better to meet the situation frankly, she nevertheless shrank from doing so. "i have seen so little of you since you came home," she said, partly to defer his declaration, "that i haven't had an opportunity for expressing my sympathy." "it was a shock," he answered. "i hadn't seen either of my cousins since they were boys, but we were good friends then, and i never expected to succeed them. their yacht was run down at night, and when the steamer got her boat out only the paid hand was left." "will you go back to england now to live?" "i think i'll stay at allenwood. one gets used to western ways--although there's a good deal to be said for either course, and it doesn't altogether depend on me." beatrice hesitated a moment, then: "there is some one else to please?" she asked with charming innocence. brand drew a quick breath as he gazed at the young face so near him. she was leaning against a poplar trunk, the sun fretting her with gold between the bare branches, the wind caressing a few loose strands of hair that were blown across her cheek. "i will please the girl i hope to marry," he said in a strained voice. "she loves the prairie, and she shall have her choice. i think you know, beatrice, that i have long been waiting for you." beatrice was annoyed to find herself blushing. "i'm sorry," she faltered. "you know i tried to show you--you must see it was difficult." "it is not your fault that i wouldn't take a hint," he answered quietly. "but you are very young; and i knew that i would never change." "you thought i might?" "i hoped so. i was afraid that after the romantic admiration you have had from the boys, you might find me too matter-of-fact and staid. but there was a chance that you might get used to that, and i made up my mind to be patient." "i'm sorry, for your sake, that you waited." her glance was gently regretful, and he read decision in it, but he was a determined man. "it seems i haven't waited long enough," he returned with a faint smile. "but while you will grow more attractive for a long time yet, i have reached my prime, and inheriting the english property rather forced my hand. after all, our life here is bare and monotonous--you would have a wider circle and more scope in the old country." beatrice liked his terseness and in some ways she liked and respected him. moreover she was offered a beautiful english country house, a position of some influence, and friends of taste and rank. "you were very considerate," she said. "but i'm afraid what you wish is impossible." "wait!" he begged. "i haven't said much about myself, but i believe i appreciate you better than any of the boys is capable of doing; i could carry your wishes further and take more care of you." he paused with a grave smile. "i'm not a romantic person, but i think i'm trustworthy. then, it would please your father." "ah! you have told him?" "yes; and he was good enough to express his full approval." beatrice's face was disturbed, but she answered frankly: "though i know you won't take an unfair advantage of his consent, i wish you hadn't gone to him. it may make things more difficult for me. and now, please understand that i cannot marry you." brand's lips came together in a straight line. he did not have a pleasant look; but his voice was unusually suave when he answered: "it looks as if i must face my disappointment. i'll do nothing that might embarrass you. all the same, i warn you that i shall not despair." "you must not think of me," beatrice said firmly. "i'm very sorry, but i want to save you trouble." he quietly picked up his horse's bridle. "you are going home? may i walk with you as far as the trail-forks?" beatrice could not refuse this, and he talked pleasantly about allenwood matters until he left her. she went on alone in a thoughtful mood. she wished that brand had not made his offer, because she knew that her refusal had been a blow, and she did not like to think that she had wounded him. moreover, his quiet persistence might still prove troublesome. perhaps it was unfortunate that she could not return his affection; for brand had many good qualities, and her father approved of him. then, with a thrill of perplexing emotion, she thought of harding. in some respects, he was too practical and matter-of-fact; but she knew that his character had another side. while he worked and planned, he had dreams of a splendid future which she thought would be realized. he was a visionary as well as a man of affairs; virile, daring, and beneath the surface generous and tender. it was curious how she knew so much about him, yet she felt that she was right. harding was, however, barred out, so to speak; divided from her by conventions and traditions that could not be broken, unless, indeed, love warranted the sacrifice. but she would not admit that she loved him. he loved her, she knew; but that was not enough. it was all complicated; nothing seemed right. she no longer noticed the sunshine or the bracing freshness of the wind as she moved on across the plain with downcast eyes. nerving herself for the encounter, she told her father that evening, and he sat silent for a few moments, looking hard at her while she stood by his writing table with an embarrassed air. "it seems to me you are very hard to please," he said. "perhaps i am," she answered. "but i don't like him enough." "i suppose that's an adequate reason, but i regret it keenly. it would have been a relief to know your future was secure, as it would have been with brand." beatrice was touched. he had not taken the line she expected, and she saw that he was anxious. "perhaps it's better that you should learn the truth," he went on. "for the last few years my affairs have not gone well. gerald's extravagance has been a heavy drain; lance is young and rash; and i feel now that the prosperity of allenwood is threatened. the american made me realize that. in fact, the fellow has brought us trouble ever since he came." "perhaps it might be wise to take a few of the precautions he recommended," beatrice suggested, eager to lead him away from the subject of brand. mowbray's eyes flashed with anger. "no! if we are to be ruined, i hope we'll meet our fate like gentlemen--and it may not come to that. we have struggled through critical periods before, and can make a good fight yet without using detestable means." beatrice was troubled. she admired her father's pride and courage, but she had an uncomfortable suspicion that he was leading a forlorn hope. unflinching bravery was not the only thing needful: one could not face long odds with obsolete weapons. "but they are not all detestable," she urged. "you could choose the best--or, if you like, the least offensive." "compromise is dangerously easy; when you begin, you are apt to go all the way. i didn't expect this from you. i believed my own family staunch, and i must say it's a shock to find the tradesman's spirit in my children. even lance shows the taint. he actually is planning to sell his riding horses and buy some machine that will save a hired man's wages!" beatrice smiled. "perhaps that is better than following gerald's example. but you mustn't be unjust. you know that none of us would think of thwarting you." she crossed over to the back of his chair and put her arms around him. "i'm sorry you are disappointed about mr. brand," she said softly; "but i know you'll forgive me." before he could answer, she had slipped out of the room. she went at once to find her mother. "your father would never force you to marry a man you do not care for," mrs. mowbray assured her. "so far as that goes, you have nothing to fear." "what do you mean?" beatrice asked in alarm. her mother's eyes were anxious, and there was a warning in the look she gave the girl. "my dear, you would not find him compliant if you wished to marry a man he did not approve of." beatrice stooped to flick an imaginary piece of lint off of her skirt. she did not want her mother to see her face just then. "after all," she answered, far more confidently than she felt, "that may never happen." chapter xiii the traitor the prairie was bright with sunshine, and the boisterous west wind was cut off by a bluff where harding sat amid a litter of dismantled machinery. behind him the newly opened birch leaves showed specks of glowing green, and a jack-rabbit, which had put off its winter coat and was now dappled white and gray, fed quietly, with a watchful eye turned toward the unconscious man; in front, the vast sweep of grass that flashed with a silvery gleam as it bowed to the wind was broken by the warm chocolate hue of a broad strip of plowing. the rows of clods, with their polished faces, stretched across the foreground; and on their outer edge devine, dressed in overalls the color of the soil, drove a team of big, red oxen. harding, however, was absorbed in the study of several brass rings and coils of packing that had formed the gland of a pump. near by stood a giant plow with a row of shares, looking out of place among the earth and grass with its glaring paint, its ugly boiler, and its sooty stack, though the work that it had done was obvious. something had gone wrong, and harding was trying to locate the trouble. the delay was embarrassing, for he had a wide stretch of land to break, and the loss of even an hour was serious. there was not a trained mechanic in the neighborhood; and if the plow were likely to give him trouble, the sooner he learned to master it the better. every part of the machine seemed to be perfect; yet the steam had gone down on the previous evening, and he must find out the reason. it was exasperating work. while harding was struggling with the pump, beatrice came along the trail through the bluff. her companion, banff, one of lance's many dogs, had trailed off through the bushes, his nose to the ground, and she was, for the moment, alone. when she caught sight of harding she stopped irresolutely. she felt that it might be wiser to pass on without disturbing him; yet something compelled her to wait. she stood watching him. he attracted her--that much she admitted; but she persuaded herself that it was only because he was interesting to talk to and, unlike the other men she knew, he said things that made one think. harding was so deep in his machinery problem that he did not see her. he was once more fitting the different parts together, when banff came bounding out of the bushes with a glad bark and the little gray rabbit scuttled off through the briars. harding turned quickly; and beatrice saw his eyes light up. "i'm glad you've come," he said, emptying a box of tools and turning it upside down. "that isn't a bad seat--and the sun's pleasant here." beatrice noticed that he took it for granted that she would remain; but, after all, he had some reason for this, for they seldom passed without stopping to speak when they met. "has the machine gone wrong?" she asked, sitting down where the sunlight fell upon her. "yes, pretty badly. i can't find out what's the matter. i suppose you think it's a just punishment for bringing such things to allenwood?" she laughed. "well, you gave our friends some offense when you brought your plow over and broke kenwyne's land." "i expected that. there'll no doubt be more remarks when i break the piece of stiff gumbo on lance's holding." beatrice looked up sharply. "you mean to do that? you must know it will cause trouble," she said with a frown. "i'm sorry to displease you; but this is something that must be done." "why must it? do you wish lance to offend his father?" "no; but colonel mowbray has no cause for complaint. he gave the land to lance on the understanding that he worked it; there's no reason why he should object to his using the best implements. then, lance is your brother and i don't want to see him ruined." beatrice blushed under his frank gaze; and because she was annoyed at doing so, she flung out a taunt: "do you think the only way of escaping ruin is to copy you?" harding laughed. he loved her in that mood. she looked so alluring with a little frown between her brows and just the suspicion of a pout on her lips. "you see," he explained, in a voice that he might have used to an offended child, "your allenwood friends will have to make a change soon, or they'll suffer. and their attitude is not logical. your father doesn't ask them to cultivate with the spade; they've dropped the ox-teams and bought clydesdales; they've given up the single furrow and use the gang-plow. why not go on to steam? after all, you're not standing still: you're moving forward a little behind the times. why not keep abreast of them, or push on ahead?" "it sounds plausible," she admitted. "in a way, perhaps, you're right; but----" "i know. there's much that's fine and graceful in the customs of the past. but you can't preserve them without some adaptation. we're a new nation working in the melting pot. all the scum and dross comes to the top and makes an ugly mess, but the frothing up clarifies the rest. by and by the product will be run out, hard, true metal." "you're an optimist." harding laughed. "i'm talking at random; it's a weakness of mine." beatrice sat silent a moment, looking out over the stretch of brown furrows. "do you intend to continue the breaking to where your partner is at work?" she asked, putting her thoughts into words. "i'm going farther back. you can see our guide-poles on the top of the last ridge." "but isn't it rash to sow so much, unless you have a reserve to carry you over a bad harvest? suppose the summer's dry or we get autumn frost?" "then," said harding grimly, "there'll be a disastrous smash. i've no reserve: i'm plowing under every cent i have--staking all upon the chances of the weather." "but why do you take such a risk? doesn't it daunt you?" he saw a gleam of sympathetic approval in her eyes. she had courage: it was in the blood of those who stood for lost causes. suddenly swept off his feet, he determined to follow the lead she unconsciously had given him. "well," he said, leaning forward on the big plow, "i'll tell you." he paused with a smile, for he saw that the position he accidentally had taken was unfortunate. he had associated himself with the machine which, in a sense, materialized the difference between her people and him. he did not change his position; instead, one hand moved caressingly over the clumsy plow while he spoke. "one gets easily nothing that's worth having; it must be worked and schemed and fought for. i took the risk for you!" beatrice started and an indignant flush suffused her face. she was alarmed and angry, and yet the shock she felt was not surprise. he had once given her a plain warning, and she had continued to see him. her traditions took arms against him, old prejudices revived, and her pride was wounded, but something in her turned traitor, and she felt a strange responsive thrill. "you do not know what you are saying," she said haughtily, rising from the tool-box and turning toward a spot of bare ground where the dog was digging energetically. "here, banff!" then, obeying some impulse which she did not understand, she added to harding: "you scarcely know anything about me!" "when i met you that night at the river and saw your face in the moonlight, i knew all that was needful." the answer moved the girl. she wondered whether one could fall in love that way. but she must end the interview and escape from an embarrassing position. "i am sorry our acquaintance has led to this; i would have prevented it if i could," she said. "and now, good-afternoon!" harding straightened up, and one hand clenched. "stop! we're going to thrash this matter out." his manner was commanding and beatrice waited, although she was not used to obeying. "you were angry at first," he said. "you are rather angry now; but i did you no wrong." "i admit that. but i wish this hadn't happened. it has spoiled everything." "then you liked me as a friend?" "yes," beatrice answered hesitatingly; "i'll be frank. you are different from the men i know." "then what have you against me as a lover? character, person, manners, or opinions?" she was silent a moment, feeling that she ought to go away. in staying she was trifling with danger; but after all he had a right to be heard. "oh, i know your people's point of view," he went on; "but i think it is not altogether yours. in one respect, they're wrong. my mother was the daughter of a bush pioneer, and in all that's most important i'm her son; but my father belonged to your own rank. he was brought up as an english gentleman. i'll show you the evidence i have of this some day, though it makes no difference." "it must make a difference," beatrice insisted with a surprised look. "it can make none. for some reason his relatives cast him off, and declined to claim me. i don't know why, and i shall never trouble to find out. i tell you this because i think you ought to know. it is as craig harding, the prairie farmer, that i stand or fall; my own faults and merits are the only things that count." "it's a bold claim you make." "well," he said, "so far, i've been clearing the ground. the sure foundation is the bed-rock of human nature, and we must settle this as man and woman. i know what you are; i knew when i first saw you; and i want you. i need you, beatrice. my love is great enough to master any doubt you may have, and to hold you safe from all harm. then, if all goes well, i can give you what you wish, and put you where you want to be. the woman i marry will have a wider influence than the wife of any man at allenwood; a small matter in the real scale of things, but with so much against me i must urge all i can." he paused and stretched out his hands. "you are not afraid, beatrice. it is not too great a venture for you?" she stood still, with a tense expression, struggling against something that drew her toward him. prudence, training, and prejudice, urged her to resist, and yet she was on the point of yielding. "i _am_ afraid," she said. "only one thing could justify such a risk." "that's true; it's what encourages me. you couldn't have made me love you as i do, unless you were able to give love in return." she was silent, knowing that what he said was true. he took a step nearer her, and his own face was tense. "if you can declare you care nothing at all for me, that it would cause you no regret if you never saw me again, i'll make the best fight i can with my trouble and leave you alone for good. you will answer honestly?" the color swept into her face, for she felt compelled to speak the naked truth. "i can't go so far as that," she said in a low voice. "i should feel regret." "then the rest will follow! why do you hesitate?" she smiled, for the matter was too serious for trivial embarrassment, and she knew the man would force her to deal frankly with plain issues. "you seem so sure?" "i am, of myself." "the difficulty is that i'm not an isolated individual, but a member of a family, and belong to a race that has its code of rules. i must think of the shock to my parents and my friends; all the pain that any rash act of mine might give to others. they may be wrong, but what they think i feel, in a half-instinctive way, that reasoning can't change. i should have to stand upon defense against my subconscious self." "i know," he said gently. "but the choice is one that many have to make. one must often stand alone. it's true that i have all to gain and you all to risk; but, beatrice----" he broke off, and held out both hands appealingly to her. "beatrice!" the girl was deeply stirred. she had not expected him to plead like this. in her world one took things for granted and implied instead of asserting them. at allenwood he was spoken of as a rude, materialistic iconoclast, but she had found him a reckless idealist; although he made her feel that instead of being impractical he was dealing with stern realities. she would have made the great adventure only that she was not sure of her own heart yet. the consequences were too serious for one to risk a mistake. she stood motionless, her eyes veiled by her dark lashes, and he knew the struggle that was going on within her. in his own eyes there was a great yearning; but a birthright of the pioneer is patience. "i'm afraid you ask too much," she said at last. "if you like, you may think i am not brave enough." she raised her eyes to his; and winced at the pain she saw there. but she went on bravely: "had things been different, i might perhaps have married you, but i think our ways are separate. and now you must let me go, and not speak of this again." he bowed, and it struck beatrice that there was a great dignity in his bearing. "very well," he answered gravely. "i will not trouble you again unless, in one way or another, you give me permission." she turned away, and he stood still until long after she and the dog had disappeared in the bluff. then he roused himself with a laugh. "i won't get her this way!" he said half aloud, and picked up some of the fittings of the pump. beatrice went straight to her mother, for there was strong confidence between the two. "so you refused him!" mrs. mowbray said, after listening silently while beatrice was telling her of the interview. "did you find it hard?" "yes," she answered slowly; "harder than i thought. but it was the only way." "if you felt that, dear, it certainly was so." beatrice looked up in surprise, but her mother's face was quietly thoughtful. "you can't mean that i did not do right?" "no; there's a heavy penalty for leaving the circle you were born in and breaking caste. it would have hurt me to see you suffer as you must have done. only the very brave can take that risk." the girl was puzzled. her mother agreed with her, and yet she had faintly reflected harding's ideas. "well," beatrice said, "i shrink from telling father." "i'm not sure that he need know. it would disturb him, and he might do something that we should regret. on the whole, i think you had better visit our friends in toronto as you were asked. they would be glad to have you for the summer." "do you wish me to run away?" beatrice asked in surprise. "it might be better for both. harding is not one of us, but i think he feels things deeply, and his is a stubborn nature. in a sense, it is your duty to make it as easy as you can for him." beatrice looked at her mother curiously. "you seem more concerned about mr. harding than i expected." "he gave your brother his coat in the blizzard and saved his life," mrs. mowbray answered. "that counts for something." the girl hesitated a moment. "well, i'll go to toronto," she promised. chapter xiv a bold scheme one morning a week or two after his meeting with beatrice, harding drove his rattling engine across the plowed land. his face was sooty, his overalls were stained with grease, and now and then a shower of cinders fell about his head. behind him devine stood in the midst of a dust-cloud, regulating the bite of the harrows that tossed about the hard, dry clods. it was good weather for preparing the seedbed, and the men had been busy since sunrise, making the most of it. spring comes suddenly in the northwest, the summer is hot but short, and the grain must be sown early if it is to escape the autumn frost. when they reached the edge of the breaking, harding stopped the engine, and, taking a spanner from a box, turned to look about. the blue sky was flecked with fleecy clouds driving fast before the western breeze. the grass had turned a vivid green, and was checkered by clusters of crimson lilies. the ducks and geese had gone, but small birds of glossy black plumage with yellow bars on their wings fluttered round the harrows. "looks promising," harding said. "the season has begun well. that's fortunate, for we have lots to do. i'd go on all night if there was a moon." "then i'm glad there isn't," devine replied; "i want some sleep. but this jolting's surely rough on the machine. i wasn't sure that new locomotive type would work. she's too heavy to bang across the furrows with her boiler on board." "she'll last until i get my money back, which is all i want. the rope-haulage pattern has its drawbacks, but the machine we're using won't be on the market long. they'll do away with furnace and boiler, and drive by gasoline or oil. i'd thought of trying that, but they haven't got the engine quite right yet." "you look ahead," devine commented. "i have to; i must make this farm pay. now if you'll clear the harrows, i'll tighten these brasses up." he set to work, but while he adjusted the loose bearing devine announced in a whisper: "here's the colonel!" harding saw mowbray riding toward them, and went on with his task. beatrice had no doubt told her mother about his proposal, and he could imagine the colonel's anger if he had heard of it. pulling up his horse near the harrows, mowbray sat silent, watching harding. fastidiously neat in dress, with long riding gloves and a spotless gray hat, he formed a marked contrast to the big, greasy man sprinkled with soot from the engine. "i regret, mr. harding, that after the service you did my son, i should come with a complaint when i visit you." "we'll let the service go; i'll answer the complaint as far as i can." "very well. i was disagreeably surprised to learn that you have persuaded my friends to take a course which the majority of our council decided against, and to which it is well known that i object." harding felt relieved. mowbray did not seem to know of what he had said to beatrice, and his grievance did not require very delicate handling. harding was too proud to conciliate him, and as he could expect nothing but uncompromising opposition, he saw no necessity for forbearance. "the majority was one, a casting vote," he said. "if you are referring to my plowing for some of your people, i did not persuade them. they saw the advantage of mechanical traction and asked me to bring the engine over." "the explanation doesn't take us far. it's obvious that they couldn't have experimented without your help." "i hardly think that's so. there are dealers in winnipeg and toronto who would be glad to sell them the machines. if three or four combined, they could keep an engine busy and the cost wouldn't be prohibitive." "our people are not mechanics," mowbray said haughtily. "i'm not sure that's a matter for congratulation," harding answered with a smile. "but i never drove a steam-plow until a few weeks ago, and there seems to be no reason why your friends shouldn't learn. you don't claim that they're less intelligent than i am." "your talents run in this direction," mowbray retorted with a polished sneer. "in a way, that's fortunate. when you're farming for a profit, you want to be able to do a little of everything. some of the allenwood boys are pretty good horse-breakers, and you approve; why managing an engine should be objectionable isn't very plain." "it is not my intention to argue these matters with you." "then what is it you want me to do?" "to be content with using these machines on your own land. i must ask you to leave allenwood alone." "i'm afraid you ask too much," harding replied. "i can't break off the arrangements now without a loss to your friends and myself, and i see no reason why i should do so." "do you consider it gentlemanly conduct to prompt men who acknowledge me as their leader to thwart my wishes?" "hardly so. where you have a clear right to forbid anything that might be hurtful to the settlement, i'd be sorry to interfere." mowbray's eyes glinted. "do you presume to judge between my people and me?" "oh, no," harding answered with good humor. "that's not my business; but i reserve the right to do what's likely to pay me, and to make friends with whom i please, whether they belong to allenwood or not." mowbray was silent a moment, looking down at him with a frown. "then there's nothing more to be said. your only standard seems to be what is profitable." mowbray rode away, and devine laughed. "guess the colonel isn't used to back talk, craig. if he wasn't quite so high-toned, he'd go home and throw things about. what he wants is somebody to stand right up to him. you'll have him plumb up against you right along; where you look at a thing one way, he looks at it another. it's clean impossible that you should agree." "i'm afraid that's so," said harding. "and now we'll make a start again." the ribbed wheels bit the clods, and the engine lurched clumsily across the furrows, with the harrows clattering as they tore through the tangled grass roots and scattered the dry soil. harding was violently shaken, and devine half smothered by the dust that followed them across the breaking. it was not a dainty task, and the machine was far from picturesque, but they were doing better work than the finest horses at allenwood were capable of. the sun grew steadily hotter, the lower half of harding's body was scorched by the furnace, and the perspiration dripped from his forehead upon his greasy overalls, but he held on until noon, with the steam gradually going down. the boiler was of the water-tube type and the water about allenwood was alkaline. "she must hold up until supper, and i'll try to wash her out afterward," he said. "you were at it half last night," devine objected. "that's the penalty for using new tools. they have their tricks, and you've got to learn them. i don't find you get much without taking trouble." "i believe you're fond of trouble," devine answered, laughing. they went home together, for devine often dined with the hardings. they had just finished the meal of salt pork and fried potatoes when there was a rattle of wheels. hester was putting the dessert--hot cakes soaked in molasses--and coffee on the table, but she went to the door. "a stranger in a buggy!" she announced. harding was surprised to see the winnipeg land-agent getting down, but he greeted him hospitably. "come in and have some dinner," he invited. davies entered and bowed to hester. "no, thanks. as i didn't know where i'd be at noon, i brought some lunch along. but if it won't trouble miss harding, i'll take some coffee." he sat down and the men lighted their pipes; and hester studied the newcomer as she removed the plates. he was smartly dressed and had an alert look, but while there was nothing particular in his appearance that she could object to, she was not prepossessed in his favor. davies had already noticed that the room was of a type common to the prairie homesteads. its uncovered floor was, perhaps, cleaner than usual when plowing was going on, and the square stove was brightly polished, but the room contained no furniture that was not strictly needed. there was nothing that suggested luxury; and comfort did not seem to be much studied. on the other hand, he had noticed outside signs of bold enterprise and a prosperity he had not expected to find. davies was a judge of such matters, and he saw that his host was a man of practical ability. "what brought you into our neighborhood?" harding asked. davies smiled. "i'm always looking for business, and i find it pays to keep an eye on my customers. some of them have a trick of lighting out when things go wrong, and leaving a few rusty implements to settle their debts. financing small farmers isn't always profitable." "they can't take their land away," devine said. "i guess you don't often lose much in the end." "land!" exclaimed davies. "i've money locked up in holdings i can't sell, and have to pay big taxes on." "you'll sell them all right by and by, but of course you know that," harding replied. he gave the land-agent a shrewd look. "you have a call or two to make at allenwood, and would rather get there in the afternoon?" "true! the boys might find it embarrassing if i showed up just now. they're willing to do business with me, and when they're in winnipeg they'll take a cigar or play a game of pool; but asking me to lunch is a different matter." he continued smiling, but hester, who was watching him closely, thought there was something sinister in his amusement as he added: "they stick to the notions they brought from the old country, and i don't know that they'll find them pay." "i shouldn't imagine all the business you'd get at allenwood would have made a trip from winnipeg worth while," harding said. "that's so," davies agreed, as if eager to explain. "i'd a call in brandon, and wanted to look up some customers in the outlying settlements. when i got so far, i thought i'd come on and see how this country's opening up. i notice the boys are doing pretty well." "you don't mean at allenwood? you haven't been there yet." "no; this is my first trip, and i expect it will be my last. is there much doing yonder?" "the land's all right. they hauled out some fine wheat last fall. stock's better than the usual run, and they've the finest light horses i've seen." "that's more in their line than farming," davies replied. "you wouldn't call raising horses a business proposition just now?" hester thought the men were fencing, trying to learn something about each other's real opinions. craig looked careless, but hester was not deceived. she knew him well, and saw that he was thinking. "prices are certainly low; but it strikes me you had better keep out of colonel mowbray's way," harding said. "if he suspected that any of the boys had dealings with you, he'd make trouble, and probably insist upon paying you off." davies looked hard at him. he was not prepared to admit that he had lent money at allenwood, but he could not tell how much harding knew. "one seldom objects to being paid a debt. has the colonel much money to spare?" "i don't know; i can't claim to be a friend of his." "well, it doesn't matter, as i've nothing to do with him. now that i'm here, i'll say that i'd be glad to accommodate you and your partner if you want to extend your operations or hold on for better prices at any time. you're putting in a big crop." "thanks; i don't think we'll make a deal," devine drawled. "we don't farm for the benefit of another man. when i haul my wheat to the elevators i want the money myself, and not to turn it over to somebody else, who'll leave me a few pennies to go on with." davies took his leave soon afterward, and devine and harding went back to the plow. they had some trouble in keeping steam, and after a little the heavy engine sank into the soft soil as they crossed a hollow where the melting snow had run. the ribbed wheels went in deeper as they crushed down the boggy mold, and ground up the fence posts the men thrust under them. before long they were embedded to the axle, and harding turned off the steam. "bring the wagon and drop me off a spade as you pass," he said. "i'll dig her out while you drive to the bluff and cut the biggest poplar logs you can find." when devine hurried away he sat down and lighted his pipe. until he got the spade there was nothing to be done and much to think about. to begin with, davies' visit had turned his attention upon a matter that had already occupied his thoughts, and proved it worth consideration. the allenwood homesteads were the best in the country, the settlement was fortunately located, and its inhabitants were people of intelligence. their progress had been retarded by customs and opinions out of place on the prairie, but they might go a long way if these were abandoned. they were farming on the wrong lines, and wasting effort, but harding did not think this would continue. already some among them were pressing for a change. harding was ready to work his big farm alone, but he looked to allenwood for help that would benefit all. the matter, however, had a more important side. although beatrice had refused him he did not despair; she had shown that she did not regard him with complete indifference. it was not his personal character, but his position and her father's hostility that stood in the way, and these were obstacles that might be overcome. he could expect nothing but the colonel's stern opposition, and he must carefully arm himself for the fight; he did not undervalue the power of his antagonist. devine returned and threw him down a spade, and for the next hour harding worked steadily, digging a trench to the buried wheels and beating its bottom flat. when his comrade came back they lined it with the logs he brought, and harding started the engine. the machine shook and rattled, straining and panting under a full head of steam, but the wheels churned furiously in the soil and smashed the ends of the logs they bit upon. one big piece shot out of the trench and narrowly missed devine, who fell among the harrows when he jumped. harding stopped the engine as his friend got up. "this won't do," he said. "we'll cut a log into short billets." they packed some, split into sections, under the wheels, and harding restarted the engine. "now," he said, "you can shove the rest in as she grinds them down." the wheels spun, splintering the timber, rising a few inches and sinking again, while the big machine shook and tilted in danger of falling over. harding, standing on the slippery plates, opened the throttle wide, and after a while the front rose to a threatening height while the logs groaned and cracked. "stand clear!" he cried. "she's climbing out!" the engine straightened itself with a dangerous lurch, rolled forward, gathering speed, and ran out on to firmer ground. they had no further trouble, and when dusk settled down and the air grew sharp, harding drew the fire and blew the water out of the boiler. "after all, we have done pretty good work to-day," he said. "i'll come back and tend to those tubes as soon as she cools." they went home together, and after supper was finished, they sat smoking and talking in the kitchen. it was now sharply cold outside, but the small room was warm and cheerful with the nickeled lamp lighted and a fire in the polished stove. "the mortgage man was trying to play you," devine remarked. "he certainly didn't learn much. do you reckon he has been lending money to the allenwood boys?" "i think it's very likely." "then, with their way of farming and wheat going down, they won't be able to pay him off." "no; and he doesn't want them to pay him off," harding answered. "you mean he wants their farms?" "yes; he'll probably get them, unless somebody interferes." "ah!" exclaimed devine. "who's going to interfere? ... now _you_ have been thinking of something all afternoon." harding smiled. "it's possible i may see what i can do," he admitted. "you're a daisy!" devine exclaimed. "it wouldn't surprise me if you thought of buying up the canadian pacific. all the same, i don't see where you're going to get the money. what do you think, hester?" hester laid down her sewing. "isn't it too big a thing, craig? you have a great deal of land now, and even if you get a good harvest, you'd hardly have money enough to sow another crop and leave enough to carry you over a bad season." harding quietly lighted his pipe, and there was silence for a few minutes. his sister and her fiancé knew him well and had confidence in his ability; he had so far made good, but the boldness of this last scheme daunted them. "farming has two sides," he said presently. "you want to raise the best and biggest crop you can; and then you want to handle your money well. that's where many good farmers fail. bank your surplus and you get market interest, but nothing for your knowledge and experience. the money ought to be put into new teams and the latest machines, and after that into breaking new land. if you make a profit on two hundred acres, you'll increase it by a third when you break a hundred acres more, not to mention what you save by working on a larger scale. well, i see what could be done with a united allenwood where every man worked jointly with the rest, but the settlement needs a head." "it has one. colonel mowbray is not likely to give up his place," hester answered. "he may not be able to keep it. there's another claimant--this fellow davies, and he's not a fool. i can't tell you yet whether i'll make a third. it wants thinking over." the others did not reply. they agreed that the matter demanded careful thought. after a short silence, hester changed the subject. "i saw mrs. broadwood to-day, and she told me that miss mowbray had gone east for the summer. as she had spoken about staying at allenwood all the year, mrs. broadwood was surprised." harding betrayed his interest by an abrupt movement, yet he made no answer. on the whole the news was encouraging. he would miss beatrice, but, on the other hand, it looked as if she had gone away to avoid him, and she would not have done so had she been unmoved by what he said to her. he regretted that he had driven her away; of course he might be mistaken, but there was hope in the suspicion he entertained. "well," he said, after a minute or two, "i'll go along and fix that boiler." chapter xv harvest home it was a good summer at allenwood, for the june rains were prolonged. the mornings broke cool and breezy, but, as a rule, at noon the clouds which had sailed eastward singly began to gather in compact banks. then would come a roll of thunder and a deluge that might last an hour, after which the prairie lay bright in the sunshine until evening fell. the grass rippled across the waste in waves of vivid green, with flowers tossing beneath the gusts like wreaths of colored foam. wild barley raised its spiky heads along the trails, and in the hollows the natural hay grew rank and tall. no sand blew from the bare ridges to cut the tender grain, which shot up apace and belted the prairie with its darker verdure. harding found full scope for his energies. he worked late and early in the fierce july heat. he had bought heavy horses because he could not reap by steam, and he had to build barns and stables of ship-lap lumber. then there was prairie hay to cut, and after stripping the nearer hollows he must drive far across the plain to seek grass long enough in the sloos where the melted snow had run in the spring. this brought him into collision with mowbray, who came upon him one morning driving a mower through dusty grass which the colonel had marked down for his own. perhaps what annoyed the old man most was to see the american using an extra horse and a knife that would cut a wider swath than any at allenwood. he thought this a sign of the grasping spirit of the times. mowbray contended that the grass was his, because it had long been cut for use at the grange; and harding replied that, as the land was unoccupied, neither had any prescriptive right and the hay could be harvested by the firstcomer. when the colonel grew angry, harding yielded the point and suggested that the sloos be mown turn about. to this mowbray agreed reluctantly, because he saw he could not keep in front of a rival who had with perverse unfairness provided himself with better implements. after the hay was gathered harding's new buildings had to be roofed, and when the house grew insufferably hot hester baked and cooked and washed in a lean-to shed. in the meanwhile, the grain was ripening fast, and when the riotous northwest wind began to die away the oats turned lemon and silver, and the wheat burnished gold. the mornings were now sharply cold, and as the green sunset faded the air grew wonderfully bracing. harding and devine had been working steadily for fourteen hours a day, but they must nerve themselves for a last tense effort. after the great crop had been hauled to the elevators there would be time to rest, but until this was done the strain both were feeling must be borne. the new binders were got out when the ontario harvesters, who had been engaged by harding's agents, began to arrive, bringing with them a chinese cook. western harvesters are generously fed, and harding would not have his sister overtaxed. soon after he started his harvest, beatrice returned from toronto. it was late afternoon when she drew near allenwood. she was tired with the long journey, but she did not object when lance made a round which would take them past harding's farm. he said the longer trail was smoother. the sun hung large and red on the horizon; the air was clear; and the crimson light raked the great field of grain. in the foreground the stooked sheaves, standing in long ranks, cast blue shadows across the yellow stubble; farther back the tall wheat ran, it seemed, right across the plain, shining in the sunset like burnished copper. above the crimson on the prairie's edge the sky was coldly green. at first it was the magnitude of the field and its glow of color that struck the girl. harvest scenes were not new to her, and, indeed, she seldom gazed on one without feeling stirred; but she had never seen a harvest like this. it filled her with a sense of nature's bounty and the fruitfulness of the soil, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the glaring light she noticed signs of human activity. the splendid crop had not sprung up of itself. it was the reward of anxious thought and sturdy labor, and she began to appreciate the bold confidence of the man who had planted it. along the wall of wheat moved a row of machines, marshaled in regular order and drawn by dusty teams. she could see by the raw paint that most of them were new; and, leaning back in her seat, she listened to their rhythmic clink. noting their even distance, and the precision with which the sheaves they flung aside rose in stooks behind them, she saw that there was nothing haphazard here. the measured beat of this activity showed the firm control of a master mind. no effort was wasted: action had its destined result; and behind this thought she had a half-conscious recognition of man's working in harmony with nature's exact but beneficent laws. duly complied with, they had covered the waste with grain. glancing across it, the girl felt a curious thrill. the primeval curse had proved a blessing; seed-time and harvest had not failed; and here, paid for by the sweat of earnest effort, was an abundance of bread. moved as she was, she had a practical as well as an imaginative mind, and she noted the difference between harding's and the allenwood methods. what he had told her was true: her friends could not stand against such forces as he directed. "it's worth looking at," lance remarked. "i wanted you to see it because harding's being talked about just now. i can't explain how he has broken so much ground with the means at his command, but it's a triumph of organization and ability." "i suppose father isn't pleased?" lance laughed as he flicked up his horses. "that hardly expresses it. i rather think he regards our friend's industry as a dangerous example; but he's most of all surprised. he fully expected to see harding ruined." just then one of the binders stopped, and its driver raised his hand. the machines behind swung round him as they came up and fell into line again while he busied himself with his team. a few moments later he mounted a big, barebacked clydesdale that came at a clumsy gallop through the stubble and passed on down the trail. "it's harding," said beatrice. "he must have run out of twine." "i don't think so," lance answered. "harding's not the man to run out of anything. it's more likely a bolt has broken, and he's going for another; he'll have duplicates on hand." beatrice did not wish to appear curious about their neighbor, but she asked one or two cautious questions as they drove on. "well," said lance, "though our experiments are not exactly popular, several of us are trying to copy him in a modest way, and i'm glad i let him do some breaking for me by steam. the colonel was disagreeable about it, but he admitted my right to do as i liked; and the result is that i have a crop partly stooked up that will make it easy to pay harding off, and leave me some money in hand." "what do you mean by paying harding off?" beatrice asked sharply. lance looked confused. "i didn't intend to mention it--you'll keep it to yourself. i'd got into a bit of a mess shortly before i was hurt at the ravine, and harding paid up the money-lender i'd gone to in winnipeg. what's more, he beat the fellow down, so that i only had to account for what i actually got." "ah!" said beatrice. "now i understand your restlessness when you were ill. but on what terms did harding lend you the money?" "he made only one condition: that i wouldn't take another bet until i was free again. of course, i shall insist on paying him interest. harding's a remarkably fine fellow, and i mean to stick to him." beatrice felt troubled by the keenness of her gratitude. she was fond of lance, but she knew his weaknesses, and she saw that harding had rendered him a great service. moreover, she thought lance's admiration for the man was justified. he had turned the lad out of a path that led through quagmires and set him on firm ground; his influence would be for good. lance gave her the news of the settlement; and when the lights of the grange shone out through the creeping dark, everything else was forgotten in the pleasure of reaching home. three weeks later, when the thrasher had gone and the stooked sheaves had vanished, leaving only the huge straw wheat bins towering above the stubble, harding drove to the grange one evening with hester and devine. he had not entered the house for several months, and felt diffident about the visit, but lance had urged him to come. the allenwood harvest home was, he said, a function which everybody in the neighborhood was expected to attend. besides, they had been fortunate in getting a clergyman from a distant settlement to take the service, and he was worth hearing. the days were shortening rapidly, and when the party reached the grange a row of lamps were burning in the hall. the moose heads had gone, and in their place sheaves of grain adorned the walls. between the sheaves were festoons of stiff wheat ears and feathery heads of oats, warm bronze interspersed with cadmium and silver, and garlands of dry, blue flax. all had been arranged with taste, and the new flag that draped the reading desk made a blotch of vivid crimson among the harmonies of softer color. a tall, silver lamp behind the desk threw its light on the ruddy folds, and harding, glancing at it, felt a certain admiring thrill. that symbol was honored at allenwood, standing as it did for great traditions, and peace and order and justice had followed it to the west, but it was not for nothing that the new country had quartered the beaver of industry on its crimson field. he was shown a place with his companions, and mowbray gave him a nod of recognition. harding felt that the colonel had proclaimed a truce while they met for thanksgiving. lance and several others smiled at him as he quietly looked about in search of beatrice, whom he could not see. the hall was filled with handsome, brown-skinned men, and there was something fine, but in a sense exotic, in their bearing and in the faces of the women. all rose respectfully when a young man in white surplice and colored hood came in. he had a strong, clean-cut face, and carried himself well, but his manner was quietly reverent. harding felt that these people from the old country knew how things should be done, and he had a curious sense of kinship with them. it was as if he were taking part in something familiar; though this was the first anglican service he had attended. a man at the rather battered grand piano struck a few chords, and harding saw beatrice when the opening hymn began. she stood a few yards away, but her voice reached him plainly. it was, he recognized, singularly sweet and clear, though he knew nothing of the training and study that had developed it. he could pick it out from the others, and as he listened his lips quivered and a mistiness gathered in his eyes. harding was not, as a rule, particularly imaginative or sensitive, but he was capable at times of a strange emotional stirring. "the sower went forth sowing, the seed in secret slept." he had heard it sung before, and it had meant little to him, but now he saw how true it was in a stern, practical sense. "through weeks of faith and patience!" well, there was need of both, when glaring skies withheld all moisture and withering winds swept the dead, gray waste. this year, however, the prairie had blossomed under the genial warmth and rain. bounty was the note that the tall green wheat had struck. but the voice he loved sang on: "within an hallowed acre, he sows yet other grain." the emotion he felt grew keener; memories awoke, and a line from longfellow ran through his mind, "her mother's voice, singing in paradise." he heard the hymn, grasping its impressive analogy while he thought of the strong, brave, patient woman who had upheld his easy-going father at his uncongenial task. harding knew now what he owed his mother. he had, indeed, known it long, but love had quickened all his senses and given him a clearer vision. when the music stopped, he set himself to listen, with beatrice's face seen now and then in delicate profile. he saw that psalm and lesson and collect were chosen well, and that the order of these people's prayers, with all its aids of taste and music, was not a mere artistic formula. it was the embroidered sheath that held the shining sword. harding, however, was not the only one to feel an emotional quickening, for there were those at allenwood whose harvest thanksgiving was poignant with regret. it reminded them too keenly of the quiet english countryside where autumn mists crept among the stubble; of an ancient church with stained glass windows and memorial brasses to those who bore their name; of some well-loved, now sleeping beneath the sod. after all, they were exiles, and though they had found a good country, the old one called to them. mrs. mowbray's face was sad, and her husband, who sat beside her, looked unusually stern. beatrice, with all the rich imagery of harvest before her eyes and in her ears, was thinking of one great wheatfield, and of the man who had reclaimed it from the wilderness. she had seen him come in, and had noticed that he looked worn. his figure was somewhat fined down and his face was thin. it was a strong face and an attractive one; the character it reflected was wholesome. there was nothing about the prairie man to suggest the ascetic, yet beatrice vaguely realized that strenuous toil and clean ambition had driven the grosser passions out of him. the clergyman walked to the flag-draped pulpit, and beatrice tried to collect her wandering thoughts. as he read out the text she started, for it seemed strangely apposite. "he that soweth little shall reap little; but he that soweth plenteously shall reap plenteously." she suspected him of no desire to attack the customs of his congregation, for he must be ignorant of the line they took at allenwood, but his words were edged with biting truth. at first he spoke of the great lonely land they had entered: a land that was destined to become one of the world's granaries and, better still, a home for the outcast and the poor. they, the pioneers, had a special duty and a privilege--to break the way for the host that should come after them; and of them was demanded honest service. to sow plenteously; to be faithful in the minor things--choosing the wheat that ripened early and escaped the frost, filling the seeder with an open hand, sparing no effort, and practising good husbandry; and withal blazing the trail by marks of high endeavor, so that all who followed it could see. then he spoke of the fruitful season and the yield of splendid grain. the soil had returned them in full measure what they had sown, and he pleaded that of this bounty they should give what they could spare. in the old country which they loved there were many poor, and now in time of stagnant trade the cities heard the cry of hungry children. there was one institution which, sowing with generous recklessness, sent none away unfed, and he begged that they would give something of their surplus. he stopped, and hester looked at harding as the closing hymn began, showing him the edge of a dollar in her glove. "craig," she whispered, "have you any money?" he pressed three bits of paper into her hand, and, noticing the figures on the margin of one, she gave him a surprised glance. his face was unusually gentle, and there was a smile on it. she made a sign of approval and softly doubled up the bills as she joined in the singing. five minutes later the congregation went out into the open air, and harding heard mowbray press the clergyman to remain. "i'm sorry, but as i'm to preach at poplar on sunday, i must make sandhill lake to-night," he answered. "in fact, i must get away at once; there's no moon and the trail is bad." he climbed into his rig, and harding, knowing there was a twenty-mile journey before him with a dangerous ford on the way, watched him drive off into the dark with a feeling of admiration. when he next heard about the man it was that he had been found in winter, returning from a distant indian reservation, snow-blind and starving, with hands and feet frozen. while harding was looking for hester, mrs. mowbray came up to him. "you must stay with the others for our supper and dance," she said. "i have made your sister promise. i think we can sink all differences to-night." harding smiled. "i can't refuse. somehow i feel that the differences aren't so great as i once supposed." "perhaps that's true," mrs. mowbray answered thoughtfully. "though i dare say you and my husband must disagree about the means you use, you have, after all, a good deal in common. one's object is the most important thing." she left him as kenwyne came up, and went to speak to one of her neighbors. mowbray had called beatrice into his study. "count this for me," he said, giving her a brass tray filled with paper currency and silver coin. "i promised i'd send it to the bank, and i may as well make out the form before i lock the money up." he went away to get a pen, and on coming back he looked surprised when beatrice told him the amount. "there must be a mistake," he said. "we have never collected so much before." "i've counted it twice." beatrice indicated three bills. "though i think everybody was generous, these perhaps explain the difference." "consecutive numbers and all fresh; from the same person obviously," mowbray said and put down the bills. "bad taste on my part and, in a way, a breach of confidence, but you had seen them and i was surprised." then he counted and sealed up the money. the supper was served in a big, wooden barn, which was afterward cleared for dancing, and it was some time before harding had an opportunity for speaking to beatrice. she could not avoid him all the evening, and she did not wish to do so, but she was glad that he met her without embarrassment. "i've learned that you got lance out of trouble," she said after they had talked a while. "one way and another, he's deeply in your debt." "did he tell you?" harding asked with a slight frown. "no; that is, it slipped out, and i took advantage of the indiscretion." beatrice looked at him steadily. "it has made a difference to the boy; i imagine he was at a dangerous turning, and you set him straight." "you must tell nobody else." "do you always try to hide your good deeds?" "i can't claim that they're numerous," harding answered with a smile. "anyway, i had a selfish motive on this occasion; you see, i enjoy beating a mortgage man." beatrice knew the explanation was inadequate, but she was grateful for his reserve. he was very generous, as she had another proof, for she knew who had given the three large bills which had surprised her father. there was, however, nothing more to be said, and she chatted about indifferent matters until she was called away. before the gathering broke up, harding found himself seated in a corner of the big hall talking quietly to mrs. mowbray. she was interested in his farming plans and the changes he wanted made, and she listened carefully, noting how his schemes revealed his character. now and then she asked a question, and he was surprised at her quick understanding. moreover, he felt that he had her sympathy, so far as she could loyally give it. when, at length, he went away mrs. mowbray sat alone for some minutes quietly thinking. she could find no opening for hostile criticism. the honesty of the man's motives and his obvious ability appealed to her. chapter xvi the bridge there had been rain since harvest, and the ground was soft when harding and his comrade stood beside their smoking teams on the slope of the ravine. pale sunshine streamed down between the leafless trees, glistening upon the pools and wet wheel-ruts that marked the winding trail. the grade was steep and the torn-up surface was badly adapted for heavy loads. harding frowned as he glanced at the double span of foul-coated horses harnessed to a wagon filled with bags of grain. they were powerful, willing animals, and it jarred on him to overdrive them, as he had been forced to do. besides, except for the steep ascent, he could have taken his load to the elevators with a single team. "i hate to abuse good horses, but we must get up," he said when he had recovered breath. "watch out the wagon doesn't run back when we make a start." devine drove a birch log behind the wheels and then ran to the leaders' heads and cracked his whip, while harding called to the pole-team. for a few moments the battering hoofs churned up the sloppy trail and the wagon groaned and shook, the horses floundering and slipping without moving it. then with a harsh creak the high wheels began to turn and they slowly struggled up the hill. harness rattled, chain and clevis rang, the steam from the toiling animals rose in a thin cloud, and white smears streaked their coats as they strained at the collar. the men were red in face and panting hard, but as they fought the grade they broke into breathless shouts. harding was sparing of the whip; but this was not a time to be weakly merciful, when the load might overpower his teams and, running back, drag them over the edge. nor dare he stop again and subject the animals to the cruel effort of restarting. they must get up somehow before their strength gave out. running with hand upon the bridle, and splashing in the pools, he rushed the horses at the last ascent; and then threw himself down with labored breath in the grass. "this won't do," he panted after a few moments. "we'll have to put up five or six bags less, and you can figure how many extra loads that will make before we empty the bins. then, i hate to keep a man and team standing by here when they could be hauling another load." "it's one of the things a prairie farmer runs up against," devine remarked. "just so. when they can't be put right, you have got to make the best of them; but this grade can be altered." "it might," devine agreed with a doubtful air. "do you think you can persuade the colonel to join you?" "no; but it's my duty to try. when you have helped frank up, you can take the extra team and haul in the cordwood. i'll be back from the railroad about dark to-morrow." in the meanwhile, kenwyne, broadwood, and lance mowbray stood among the trees about three miles farther down the ravine, looking at the trail to allenwood, which led along its edge. near it the ground fell sharply to the creek, but the slope was regular, and small trees, blazed with the ax at intervals, marked a smooth descending line. on the opposite side, a gully offered an approach to the prairie at an easy gradient. "we must have the bridge here; but it isn't a job we can manage without assistance," said kenwyne. "i don't want to be disrespectful, lance, but i hope your father enjoyed his lunch." lance grinned. "as a matter of fact, he did; but unfortunately he read the paper afterwards and the market report seemed to upset him. to make things worse, i rashly mentioned that it bore out harding's prognostications. in consequence, i expect you'll need all the tact you've got." "i wish harding had a little more," broadwood remarked. "i can be meek, when it's for the good of the settlement, but our friend's too blunt." "if he's blunt to-day, there'll be trouble," lance replied with a chuckle. "i imagine the colonel's in fighting form. here he comes!" it was in an unusually thoughtful mood that mowbray rode toward them. the steady fall in the price of wheat was sufficient to cause him anxiety, but he had further grounds for feeling disturbed. there was an unsettling influence at work at allenwood; plans were being mooted which he thought originated with harding; and, worse than all, he suspected that his household was not altogether with him. gerald certainly showed unexpected sense in denouncing the innovations; but mowbray had doubts about beatrice, who seemed to be cultivating miss harding's acquaintance; and even his wife now and then took the part of the offender. besides, there were, so to speak, portents of change in the air, and mowbray felt that he was being driven where he did not mean to go. he blamed harding for this, and thought it was time he put a stop to the fellow's encroachments. for all that, he greeted the waiting men pleasantly when he dismounted. "the days are getting colder, but it's a bracing afternoon," he said. "now, perhaps we'd better walk over the line of the proposed trail." they took him along the side of the ravine, and kenwyne, stopping now and then, drew his attention to a plan he carried. "we'll need about forty feet of log underpinning at this point, and you'll see that it's provided for," he said. "on the next section there's a good deal of soil to move; i have an estimate of the number of wagon loads." farther on he stopped again. "from here to the bridge it will come to only a ton for every three or four yards." mowbray studied the plan and some sheets of figures. "you seem to have thought the matter out very carefully," he commented. "it needed close attention," said broadwood. mowbray looked at the men keenly. "there's a comprehensiveness about these plans and calculations that i did not expect from you," he said dryly. "to tell the truth, i'm somewhat surprised by them." they did not answer this, and kenwyne frowned in warning as he saw lance's amused expression. "the trail would be useful, sir," broadwood urged. "i think so. do you feel competent to make it? the scheme is bolder than anything of the kind we have undertaken." "we couldn't attempt it alone. our idea is to ask for a general levy." mowbray nodded, for when they improved the roads at allenwood the settlers were called upon to supply labor or money according to the size of their farms. "by making an effort we might get the trail cut and the bridge built before the frost stops us," kenwyne said. "we couldn't finish the grading, but the snow would give us a pretty good surface for hauling our wheat over. the new crossing would save us nearly three miles on the journey to the railroad, and we ought to get a good load up the easier incline without doubling the teams." mowbray's suspicions grew. "we have not found the longer distance an insurmountable disadvantage so far. why should it trouble you so much now?" "some of us have bigger crops this year," broadwood said. "do you think this justifies your taxing your neighbors?" "no," broadwood answered incautiously. "we expect they'll follow our example, and have as much grain as we have next season." "i see!" mowbray frowned. "you are working for a change. the system we have followed so far doesn't satisfy you." "but you cannot imagine, sir, that there's any danger to the settlement in our growing better crops." "of course not. it's the taint of commercialism i object to. however, let me look at those estimates again." they had now nearly reached the top of the hill on the opposite side and mowbray, sitting down on a birch log, opened the papers. the others looked at one another dubiously as they heard a beat of hoofs and a rattle of wheels. "i notice no allowance for unexpected difficulties, which are bound to crop up," mowbray presently remarked. "the work will, as usually happens, prove harder than it looks. i do not see how you can finish it before the frost comes." "we expect to get it done, sir," kenwyne replied. "in fact, we ventured to ask mr. harding, who has helped us to work the scheme out, to meet you here. he will be able to give you any information." "ah!" looking up, mowbray saw harding coming down the trail, and the loaded wagon and the fine clydesdale horses standing among the trees. the sight angered him. harding had not been ruined by his rash experiment, as mowbray had honestly believed would happen. on the contrary, he had prospered, and mowbray suspected him of a wish to flaunt his success in the faces of his less fortunate neighbors. it was in a very uncompromising mood that he waited for him to speak. "if i can get the help i want from allenwood, i'll engage to cut this trail on the terms of the estimates," harding said. "if extra labor is required, i'll provide it. you can see the advantages, colonel mowbray: three miles saved on the journey to the elevators, besides doing away with the need for using an extra team on the grade. you'll save a dollar or two a load; on a big crop the difference will be striking. the trail will pay for itself in one season." "i notice that you confine yourself to the monetary point of view," said mowbray. "i think not. there are other advantages, but i won't speak of them now; i'd be glad to explain anything about the work." mowbray's face hardened. the intruding fellow had insolently declined to talk over any but the material benefits to be expected. it looked as if he attached no importance to his opinions; and in one respect mowbray was not mistaken. harding had ideas of progress, mutual help, and good fellowship with which he did not expect the colonel to sympathize. "i do not propose to ask any questions," mowbray said, getting up and giving kenwyne the plans. "i needn't keep you; this work will not be undertaken with my sanction." "but it can't be undertaken without it!" broadwood protested. "i agree with you. on such matters as a general levy i have power of veto, and i must warn you that it will be used." harding turned away, somewhat red in face, and went back up the trail. he recovered his good humor, however, when he started his horses and walked beside them across the withered grass. the prairie was bright with sunshine, and the wide outlook was cheering. faint wavy lines of trees and glistening ponds checkered the great plain; there was not a house or trail of smoke on it. it was all raw material, ready for him and others to make good use of. presently a buggy appeared over a rise, and harding felt a thrill of pleasure as he recognized the team and the driver. when beatrice reached him she checked the horses. "you're going to the elevators with your grain?" she said. "how is it you came by the long bluff?" "i went round by willow gulch in the ravine." "then you went to meet kenwyne and broadwood where the new trail is to cross? i've heard something about the matter." "i did. and i'm afraid i offended colonel mowbray." "so he has stopped the undertaking! i expected it." "no," said harding, with a half-humorous air. "the trail will be made, though i won't be able to begin this season." beatrice looked thoughtful. "i'm sorry about this," she said; "it may cause more trouble. why can't you leave us alone?" "i'm afraid i am meddlesome. but it's hard to leave things alone when you know they ought to be done." "that sounds egotistical. are you never mistaken?" "often, but it's generally when i get to planning what i'd like to do." "i don't quite understand." "it would certainly be egotistical if i bored you with my crude ideas," he answered, smiling. "never mind that. i want to know." "well," he said, "sometimes you look about to see how you can alter matters and what plans you can make; but when they're made they won't always work. it's different when you don't have to look." beatrice had a dim perception of what he meant, but she would let him explain. his point of view interested her; though she knew that she ran some risk in leading him into confidential talk. "i don't think you have made it very clear yet." "i meant that there are times when you see your work ready laid out. it's there; you didn't plan it--you simply can't mistake it. then if you go straight ahead and do the best you can, you can't go wrong." "but when you don't feel sure? when you haven't the conviction that it is your task?" "then," he said quietly, "i think it's better to sit tight and wait. when the time to act comes, you certainly will know." beatrice pondered this, because it seemed to apply with some force to herself. he had once urged her to take a daring course, to assert her freedom at the cost of sacrificing much that she valued. though she had courage, she had shrunk from the venture, because she had not the firm conviction that it was justified. she felt drawn to harding; indeed, she had met no other man whom she liked so well; but there was much against him, and nothing but deep, unquestioning love would warrant her marrying him. that she felt such love she would not admit. it was better to take the advice he had given her and wait. this was the easier for her to do because she believed that he had no suspicion of her real feeling for him. "after all," she said, smiling, "your responsibility ends with yourself. i don't see why you should interfere with other people. you can farm your land as you think fit, without trying to make us copy you." "that sounds all right; but when you come to think of it, you'll see that neither of us can stand alone." "we got along pretty well before you came." "i don't doubt it. the trouble is that what was best a few years ago isn't best now. i wish i could make your father realize that." "does it follow that he's mistaken because he doesn't agree with you?" harding laughed. "if i were singular in my way of thinking, i'd be more modest, but all over the country farmers are getting ready for the change. there's a big expansion in the air, and your people can't stand out against it." "then i suppose we'll be crushed, and we'll deserve our fate." beatrice smiled at him as she started the horses. "but at least it will not be from lack of advice!" chapter xvii a heavy blow snow was drifting around the grange before a bitter wind when mowbray sat in his study with a stern, anxious face. the light of the lamp on his writing table fell upon a black-edged letter that lay beside a bundle of documents; the big stove in a corner glowed a dull red, and acrid fumes of burning wood escaped as the icy draughts swept in. mowbray's hands and feet were very cold, but he sat motionless, trying to rally his forces after a crushing blow. the sound of music reached him from the hall, where some of his younger neighbors were spending the evening, and he frowned when an outbreak of laughter followed the close of a song. he had left his guests half an hour before, when the mounted mail-carrier had called, and he could not force himself to rejoin them yet. he must have time to recover from the shock he had received. since he left the hall he had been trying to think; but he had no control of his mind and was conscious of only a numbing sense of grief and disaster. he looked up as his wife came in. her movements were generally quiet, and when she sat down her expression was calm. "i got away as soon as i could," she said. "i am afraid you have had bad news." "very bad. godfrey's dead!" mrs. mowbray started. godfrey barnett was her husband's cousin. he had been the managing director of an old-established private bank in which mowbray's relatives were interested, and the dividend upon some of the shares formed an important part of the colonel's income. "i'm very sorry," mrs. mowbray said softly. "godfrey was always a favorite of mine. but it must have been sudden; you did not know that he was ill." her heart sank as she saw her husband's face turn grim. the blow had been heavier than she thought. "he said something about not being up to his usual form when he last wrote, and alan alludes to a cablegram that should have prepared me, but i never got it. no doubt it was overlooked. he mentions that the strain was almost unbearable--the crisis at the office--and the inquest." "the inquest!" the colonel took up an english newspaper. "it's all here; alan says there's nothing to add. i've been trying to understand it, but i can't quite realize it yet. the paper and the letter came together. i suppose he waited a few days, thinking he had cabled." the colonel paused, and mrs. mowbray gave him a sympathetic glance, for she knew what his forced calm cost. the mowbrays were stern and quiet under strain. "well?" she said. "they found godfrey dead, with a bottle of some narcotic beside him. the doctor gave evidence that he had prescribed the drug; it seems godfrey couldn't sleep and his nerves had gone to bits. the man was obviously tactful and saved the situation. the verdict was that godfrey had accidentally taken too large a dose." "ah! you don't think----" "i dare not think--he was my cousin." mowbray shivered and pulled himself together. "now for the sequel. you haven't heard the worst yet, if one can call what follows worse." "don't tell me. give me the paper." he handed her the journal published in an english country town and she read the long account with a feeling of deep pity. it appeared that when news of godfrey's death spread there had been a run on the bank. barnett's business was for the most part local; and struggling shopkeepers, farmers, small professional men, and a number of the country gentry hurried to withdraw their money. the firstcomers were paid, but the bank soon closed its doors. then came the inquest, and mrs. mowbray wondered how the merciful verdict had been procured. it was all very harrowing, and when she looked up her eyes were wet. "he must have known!" she said. "it seems heartless to talk about the financial side of the matter, but----" "it must be talked about, and it's easier than the other. i think i know why the bank came down, and perhaps i'm responsible to some extent. when one of the big london amalgamations wanted to absorb barnett's, godfrey consulted me. i told him i wasn't a business man, but so far as my opinion went he ought to refuse." "why?" "barnett's was a small, conservative bank. godfrey knew his customers; he was their financial adviser and often their personal friend. the bank would take some risk to carry an honest client over bad times; it was easy with the farmers after a poor harvest. godfrey could give and take; he managed a respected firm like a gentleman. in short, barnett's was human, not a mere money-making machine." "i can imagine that," mrs. mowbray responded. "would it have been different if he had joined the amalgamation?" "very different. barnett's would have become a branch office without power of discretion. everything would have had to be done on an unchangeable system--the last penny exacted; no mercy shown a client who might fall a day behind; one's knowledge of a customer disregarded in favor of a rule about the security he could offer. i warned godfrey that so far as my influence could command it, every vote that went with the family shares should be cast against the deal; although the amalgamation had given him a plain hint that they meant to secure a footing in the neighborhood, whether they came to terms with barnett's or not." mrs. mowbray thought his advice to his cousin was characteristic of her husband, and, in a wide sense, she agreed with him. he was a lover of fair play and individual liberty; but the course godfrey had taken was nevertheless rash. barnett's was not strong enough to fight a combination which had practically unlimited capital. the struggle had no doubt been gallant, but the kindly, polished gentleman had been disastrously beaten. what was worse, mrs. mowbray suspected that her husband was now leading a similar forlorn hope at allenwood. "i suppose it means a serious loss to us," she said. "that's certain. alan has not had time to investigate matters yet, but i gather that my relatives do not mean to shirk their responsibility. barnett's, of course, was limited, but the name must be saved if possible and the depositors paid. i will tell alan that i strongly agree with this." it was rash and perhaps quixotic, but it was typical of the man, and mrs. mowbray did not object. "i'm sorry for you," she said caressingly. "it will hit you very hard." mowbray's face grew gentler. "i fear the heaviest burden will fall on your shoulders; we shall have to cut down expenses, and there's the future---- well, i'm thankful you have your small jointure. things are going hard against me, and i feel very old." "it's unfortunate that my income is only a life interest. the boys----" "gerald must shift for himself; he has had more than his share. i don't think we need be anxious about lance. the boy seems to have a singularly keen scent for money." "but beatrice!" "beatrice," said mowbray, "must make a good match. it shouldn't be difficult with her advantages. and now i suppose i'd better go down. i think the effect of this disaster must remain a secret between us." he locked up the papers and shortly afterward stood talking to brand in a quiet corner of the hall. "if it wouldn't be an intrusion, i'd like to offer you my sympathy, sir," brand said. "the mail-carrier brought me a letter from my english steward." "thank you; it has been a shock. did you deal with barnett's?" "i understand they have handled the estate accounts for many years." "then you will be relieved to hear that it's probable all the depositors will be paid." brand made a gesture of expostulation; but mowbray's mind had taken a sudden turn. "so you haven't disposed of your english property!" he commented. brand's glance rested on beatrice, who was standing near, talking to one of the younger men. her eyes sparkled with amusement and there was warm color in her face. her pose was light and graceful; she seemed filled with eager gaiety, and brand's expression hardened. "no," he replied in a meaning tone; "i may want the place some day. perhaps i'd better warn you that i haven't given up hope yet, in spite of my rebuff." "i wish she'd taken you," mowbray said frankly. "it would have been a relief to me; but i cannot influence her." glancing back at beatrice, brand was seized by a fit of passion. he was a strong, reserved man, who had cared little for women--he had, indeed, rather despised them. now he had fallen in love at forty-two, and had been swept away. hitherto he had generally lived up to a simple code of honor; but restraints were breaking down. he would have the girl, whatever it cost him or her. he knew the strength of his position. it might be necessary to exercise patience, but the odds were on his side. "this is a matter i must fight out for myself," he said in a hard voice. "and i mean to win." mowbray looked at him in surprise. there was something new and overbearing in the man's expression which the colonel resented, but he supposed he must make allowances. "you have my good wishes," he said; "but you must understand that that's as far as i can go." he moved away and soon afterward brand joined beatrice. "i must congratulate you on your cheerfulness," he smiled. "you seem to cast a ray of brightness about the place to-night. it drew me. being of a cold nature i felt i'd like to bask in the genial warmth." beatrice laughed. "that sounds stilted; one doesn't expect such compliments from you." "no," brand said with a direct glance. "i'm old and sober; but you don't know what i'm capable of when i'm stirred." "i'm not sure that i'm curious. to tell the truth, it costs me rather an effort to be gay to-night. somehow, there's a feeling of trouble in the air." brand thought she had no knowledge of her father's misfortune--it was unlikely that mowbray would tell her; but she was clever enough to see the other troubles that threatened the grange in common with most of the homesteads at allenwood. "so you face it with a laugh!" he said. "it's a gallant spirit; but i dare say the boys make it easier for you. trouble doesn't seem to touch them." he looked about the hall, noting the careless bearing of the handsome, light-hearted young men and the three or four attractive girls. their laughter was gay, their voices had a spirited ring, and the room was filled with warmth and brightness; yet he felt the presence of an ominous shadow. this afforded him a certain gloomy satisfaction, the meanness of which he recognized. he knew that he could not win the girl he desired by his personal merits, but the troubles he thought were coming might give him his opportunity. beatrice was presently glad of an excuse for dismissing him, and when the others had gone she went to her father, who was standing moodily by the hearth. "you don't look well to-night," she said. "i'm not ill." "then you're anxious." "i must confess that i have something to think about." "i know," said beatrice. "things look black just now. with the wheat market falling----" "what do you know about the market?" mowbray asked in surprise. "i read the newspapers and hear the boys talk. they're brave and take it carelessly, but one feels----" mowbray gave her a keen glance. "well, what do you feel?" "that i'd like to help you in any way i can. so far, i've taken all you have given me and done nothing in return." "you can help," he answered slowly. "it would ease my mind if you married brand." "oh!" she exclaimed. "not that! i'm sorry, but it's impossible." he made a gesture of resignation. "well, i can't force you." beatrice was silent a moment. "it's hard to refuse the only big thing you have ever asked," she said hesitatingly. "i really want to help, and i feel humiliated when i see how little i can do. mrs. broadwood and hester harding can manage a farm; broadwood says he only began to make money after he married." she paused, seeing mowbray's frown, and went on with a forced smile: "however, i can at least cease to be an expense. i have cost you a great deal one way and another, and now you must give me nothing more." "i'm afraid i may have to cut down your allowance," he answered gloomily. "that's one thing i can save you." she looked at him with diffident eagerness. "i've been thinking a good deal lately, and i see that if wheat keeps getting cheaper it may be serious for us all. couldn't we take precautions?" "what kind of precautions?" "oh, i can't tell you that--i don't know enough about farming. but perhaps we could make some changes and economies; break more land, for example." "if we lose on what we have broken already, how shall we economize by plowing more?" "it sounds logical; but can't you save labor and reduce the average expense by working on a large scale?" "perhaps. but it needs capital." "a few new horses and bigger plows wouldn't cost very much. we are spending a good deal of money on other things that are not directly useful." mowbray looked at her with an ironical smile and beatrice felt confused. she remembered that she had staunchly defended her father's conservative attitude to harding, and now she was persuading him to abandon it. "this is a new line for you to take," he said. "i should like to know what has suggested it. has mrs. broadwood converted you, or have you been talking to the americans?" "i meet mr. harding now and then, and he generally talks about farming." "i suppose you can't avoid the fellow altogether, but politeness is all that is required. he has a habit of exaggerating the importance of things, and he can only look at them from his point of view." beatrice felt guilty. her father had not forbidden her speaking to the man; he trusted her to remember what was due to her station. she could imagine his anger were he to suspect that she had allowed harding to make love to her. "kenwyne and broadwood seem to agree with him," she urged. "they're rank pessimists; you mustn't listen to them. try to be as economical as you can; but leave these matters alone. you don't understand them." she went to her room, feeling downcast. she had failed to influence him, but it was partly her fault that she had been unable to do so. she had wasted her time in idle amusements, and now she must take the consequences. nobody except harding would listen when she wished to talk about things that mattered. she felt ashamed of her ignorance and of her utter helplessness. but perhaps she might learn; she would ask hester harding to teach her. chapter xviii covering his trail it was bitterly cold in the log-walled room at the back of the settlement store where gerald mowbray sat by the red-hot stove. his deerskin jacket and moccasins were much the worse for wear, and his face was thin and darkened by the glare of the snow. for the past month he had been traveling with a survey party through the rugged forest-belt of northern ontario, living in the open in arctic weather, until the expedition had fallen back on the lonely settlement to get fresh supplies. all round the rude log-shacks, small, ragged pines, battered by the wind, and blackened here and there by fire, rose from the deep snow that softened the harsh contour of the rocky wilderness. this is one of the coldest parts of canada. the conifers that roll across it are generally too small for milling, and its penetration is remarkably difficult, but a silver vein accounted for the presence of a few hard-bitten miners. occasionally they ran some risk of starving when fresh snow delayed the transport of provisions, and it was only at irregular intervals that a mail reached them. an indian mail-carrier had, however, arrived shortly before the survey party, and gerald had a letter in his hand, and a montreal newspaper lay beside him. the letter troubled him. he was thankful to be left alone for a few minutes, for he had much to think about. hardship and fatigue had no attractions for him, but he had grown tired of the monotony of his life at the grange, and as qualified surveyors were not plentiful in the wilds, the authorities had been glad to obtain the services of an engineer officer. though he was only an assistant, the pay was good, and he had thought it wise to place himself out of his creditors' reach. unfortunately, some of the more persistent had learned where he had gone, and the letter contained a curt demand for the settlement of an account. gerald could not pay it, but the newspaper brought a ray of hope. he had speculated with part of the money his father had once given him to pay his debts, and the mining shares he bought had turned out worthless. now, however, they were unexpectedly going up; it seemed that the company had at last tapped a vein of promising ore. if he could hold out, he might be able to liquidate his most pressing debts. but this creditor's demand was peremptory and he could not see how he was to gain time. he wished the men whose harsh voices reached him from the store would stop talking. they were rough choppers, of whose society he had grown very tired; and the taciturn surveyor was not a much better companion. the surveyor came in before gerald found a solution of his difficulties. he was a big, gaunt man. throwing off his ragged furs he sat down in a broken chair and lighted his pipe. "thermometer's at minus fifty, but we must pull out at sun-up," he remarked. "now, as i have to run my corner-line as ordered and the grub we've been able to get won't last long, i can't take all the boys and hunt for that belt of farming land." "supposititious, isn't it?" gerald suggested. "we've seen nothing to indicate there being any soil up here that one could get a plowshare into. still, the authorities have rather liberal ideas of what could be called cultivatable land." "that's so," the surveyor agreed. "where i was raised they used to say that a bushman can get a crop wherever he can fire the seed among the rocks with a shotgun. anyway, the breeds and the indians talk about a good strip of alluvial bottom, and we've got to find out something about it before we go back." "it will be difficult to haul the stores and camp truck if you divide the gang." "sure; but here's my plan." the surveyor opened a rather sketchy map. "i take the sleds and follow the two sides of the triangle. i'll give you the base, and two packers. marching light, by compass, you'll join me where the base-line meets the side; but you'll do no prospecting survey unless you strike the alluvial bottom." "what about provisions?" "you can carry enough to see you through; the cache i made in advance is within a few marches of where we meet." it was not a task that appealed to gerald. it would be necessary to cross a trackless wilderness which only a few of the hudson bay half-breeds knew anything about. he must sleep in the snow with an insufficient camp outfit, and live on cut-down rations, with the risk of starving if anything delayed him, because the weight he could transport without a sledge was limited. he would have refused to undertake the journey only that a half-formed plan flashed into his mind. "suppose i miss you?" he suggested. "well," said the surveyor dryly, "that might mean trouble. you should get there first; but i can't stop long if you're late, because we've got to make the railroad while the grub holds out. anyhow, i could leave you rations for two or three marches in a cache, and by hustling you should catch up." gerald agreed to this, and soon afterward he went to sleep on the floor. it was early in the evening, but he knew that the next eight or nine days' work would try him hard. it was dark when the storekeeper wakened him, and after a hasty breakfast he went out with the surveyor. dawn was breaking, and there was an ashy grayness in the east, but the sky was barred with clouds. the black pines were slowly growing into shape against the faint glimmer of the snow. the cold was piercing and gerald shivered while the surveyor gave him a few last directions; then he slung his heavy pack upon his shoulders and set off down the unpaved street. there were lights in the log shacks and once or twice somebody greeted him, but after a few minutes the settlement faded behind and he and his companions were alone among the tangled firs. no sound but the crunch of snow beneath their big shoes broke the heavy silence; the small trees, slanting drunkenly, were dim and indistinct, and the solitude was impressive. gerald's lips were firmly set as he pushed ahead. theoretically, his task was simple; he had only to keep a fixed course and he must cut the surveyor's line of march, but in practise there were difficulties. it is not easy to travel straight in a rugged country where one is continually forced aside by natural obstacles; nor can one correctly allow for all the divergences. this, however, was not what troubled gerald, for the plan he had worked out since the previous night did not include his meeting the surveyor. it was the smallness of the quantity of provisions his party could transport that he was anxious about, because he meant to make a much longer march than his superior had directed. his companions were strong, stolid bushmen, whose business it was to carry the provisions and camp outfit. they knew nothing about trigonometry; but they were at home in the wilds, and gerald was glad the weather threatened to prove cloudy. he did not want them to check his course by the sun. properly, it was northwest; and he marched in that direction until it was unlikely that anybody from the settlement would strike his trail; then he headed two points farther west, and, seeing that the packers made no remark, presently diverged another point. traveling was comparatively easy all day. wind and fire had thinned the bush, cleaning out dead trees and undergrowth, and the snow lay smooth upon the outcropping rock. here and there they struck a frozen creek which offered a level road, and when dark came they had made an excellent march. gerald was glad of this, because all the food he could save now would be badly needed before the journey was finished. for all that, he felt anxious as he sat beside the camp-fire after his frugal supper. a bank of snow kept off the stinging wind; there was, fortunately, no lack of fuel, and, sitting close to the pile of snapping branches, the men were fairly warm; but the dark pines were wailing mournfully and thick gloom encroached upon the narrow ring of light. the eddying smoke leaped out of it and vanished with startling suddenness. gerald's shoulders ached from the weight of his pack, and the back of one leg was sore. he must be careful of it, because he had a long way to go, and men were sometimes lamed by snowshoe trouble. the two packers sat, for the most part, smoking silently. gerald now and then gave them a pleasant word, but he did not wish their relations to become friendly, as it was not advisable that they should ask him questions about the march. indeed, he shrank from thinking of it as he listened to the savage wind in the pine-tops and glanced at the surrounding darkness. the wilderness is daunting in winter, even to those who know it best; but gerald with his gambler's instincts was willing to take a risk. if he went home with the surveyor, ruin awaited him. for a time he sat drowsily enjoying the rest and warmth, and then, lying down on a layer of spruce-twigs, he went to sleep. but the cold wakened him. one of the packers got up, grumbling, and threw more branches on the fire, and gerald went to sleep again. starting shortly before daylight, they were met by blinding snow, but they struggled on all day across a rocky elevation. the snow clogged their eyelashes and lashed their tingling cheeks until the pain was nearly unbearable; still, that was better than feeling them sink into dangerous insensibility. they must go on while progress was possible. the loss of a day or two might prove fatal, and there was a chance of their getting worse weather. it overtook them two days later when they sat shivering in camp with the snow flying past their heads and an icy blizzard snapping rotten branches from the buffeted trees. twigs hurtled about their ears; the woods was filled with a roar like the sea; the smoke was blinding to lee of the fire, and its heat could hardly reach them a yard to windward. gerald drank a quart of nearly boiling black tea, but he could not keep warm. there was no feeling in his feet, and his hands were too numbed to button his ragged coat, which had fallen open. when he tried to smoke, his pipe was frozen, and as he crouched beneath the snow-bank he wondered dully whether he should change his plans and face the worst his creditors could do. by altering his course northerly when he resumed the march he might still strike the surveyor's line, but after another day or two it would be too late. still, he thought of his father's fury and the shares that were bound to rise. if he were disowned, he must fall back upon surveying for a livelihood. it was unthinkable that he should spend the winter in the icy wilds, and the summer in portaging canoes over rocky hills and dragging the measuring chain through mosquito haunted bush. he could not see how he was to avoid exposure when davies claimed his loan; but something might turn up, and he was sanguine enough to be content if he could put off the day of reckoning. the blizzard continued the next morning and no one could leave camp; indeed, gerald imagined that death would have struck down the strongest of them in an hour. but the wind fell at night, and when dawn broke they set out again in arctic frost. one could make good progress in the calm air, though the glitter was blinding when the sun climbed the cloudless sky as they followed a winding stream. then a lake offered a smooth path, and they had made a good march when dark fell. in the night it grew cloudy and the temperature rose, and when they started at daybreak they were hindered by loose, fresh snow. at noon they stopped exhausted after covering a few miles; and the next day the going was not much better, for they were forced to flounder through a tangle of blown-down trees. it was only here and there that the pines and spruces could find sufficient moisture among the rocks, and they died and fell across each other in a dry summer. on the seventh day after leaving the settlement the three men plodded wearily through thin forest as the gloomy evening closed in. their shoulders were sore from the pack-straps, the backs of their legs ached with swinging the big snowshoes, and all were hungry and moody. provisions were getting low, and they had been compelled to cut down rations. now the cold was arctic, and a lowering, steel-gray sky showed between the whitened tops of the trees. the packers had been anxiously looking for blaze-marks all afternoon; and gerald, knowing they would not find them, felt his courage sink. he was numb with cold, and he dully wondered whether he had taken too great a risk. presently one of the men, who had been searching some distance to the right, joined his comrade. they spoke together and then turned back to meet gerald. "say, boss, isn't it time we struck the boys' tracks?" one asked. "yes," said gerald, recognizing that much depended on how he handled the situation. "we should have picked them up this morning." the men were silent for a moment. "looks as if we'd got off our line," one of them then said resolutely. "how were you heading?" "northwest, magnetic." "no, sir. you were a piece to the west of that." "you think so?" the man laughed harshly. "sure! i was raised among the timber; guess i've broken too many trails not to know where i'm going." "well," said gerald in a confidential tone, "i didn't mention it before because i didn't want to make you uneasy, but i'm afraid this compass is unreliable. it hasn't been swiveling as it ought; oil frozen on the cap, perhaps, or the card warped against the glass. i tried to adjust it once or twice, but my fingers were too cold." he held it out awkwardly for them to examine, and it dropped from his mittens. clutching at it, he lost his balance and crushed the compass beneath the wooden bow of his shoe. then he stepped back with an exclamation, and the packer, dropping on his knees, groped in the snow until he brought out the compass with its case badly bent. "you've fixed her for good this time; there's an old log where she fell," he said; and he and his comrade waited in gloomy silence while gerald watched them. they did not suspect him: the thing had passed for an accident; but gerald felt daunted by the deadly cold and silence of the bush. his companions' faces were indistinct and their figures had lost their sharpness; they looked shaggy and scarcely human in their ragged skin-coats. one of the packers suddenly threw down his load. "we're going to camp right here and talk this thing out," he said, and taking off his net shoe began to scrape up the snow. half an hour later they sat beside a snapping fire, eating morsels of salt pork and flinty bannocks out of a frying-pan, with a black pannikin of tea between them. the smoke went straight up; now and then a mass of snow fell from the bending needles with a soft thud, though there was scarcely a breath of wind. "i reckon we've been going about west-northwest since we left the settlement," one of the men said to gerald. "where does that put you?" "some way to the south of where i meant to be. twenty degrees off our line is a big angle; you can see how it lengthens the base we've been working along while mccarthy makes his two sides. that means we've lost most of our advantage in cutting across the corner. then we were held up once or twice, and we'll probably be behind instead of ahead of him at the intersection of the lines. tell me the distances you think we have made." after some argument, they agreed upon them, and gerald drew a rude triangle in the snow, though its base stopped short of joining one side. "if you're right about course and distance, our position's somewhere here," he said, indicating the end of the broken line. this placed the responsibility for any mistake upon his companions; but one of them had a suggestion. "if we head a few points north, we'll certainly cut mccarthy's track." "yes; but we'd be behind him and he can't wait." "then if we stick to the line we're on, we'll join." "if we run it far enough, but we'll have to go a long way first. it's difficult to catch a man who's marching as fast as you are when you have to converge at a small angle upon his track." this was obvious as they looked at the diagram. "what are you going to do about it?" one of the packers asked. gerald hesitated, because his plan might daunt them; moreover he must be careful not to rouse their suspicion. "we want food first of all, and we'll have to sacrifice a day or two in finding the cache. to do so, we'll cut mccarthy's line; this won't be hard if he's blazed it." "you'll follow him after you find the grub?" "no," said gerald, "i don't think so. he can't leave us much, and we'd probably use it all before we caught him up. the best thing we can do is to strike nearly north for the hudson bay post. we might get there before the food runs out." there was silence for a few moments, and he waited for the others to speak, for he had carefully ascertained the position of the factory before he left the settlement. if they missed the remote outpost, or did not get there soon enough, they could not escape starvation. "well," said the first packer, "i guess that's our only plan, but we'll certainly have to hustle. better get to sleep now. there'll be a moon in the early morning, and we'll pull out then." gerald made a sign of agreement. his companions had taken the direction of affairs into their own hands, and he was glad to leave it to them. it relieved him of responsibility, and they were not likely to blunder where error would be fatal. when they reached the factory he must find an excuse for remaining until mccarthy arrived at the settlements and reported the party missing. it would be mentioned in the papers, a relief expedition might be despatched, and gerald's creditors would wait until the uncertainty about his fate was dissipated. he meant to delay his reappearance as long as possible; but he knew there was a possibility of its never being made. one took many chances in the frozen north. chapter xix the blizzard six weeks had passed since gerald broke his compass. with head lowered against the driving snow, he plodded slowly across the plain behind a team of exhausted dogs. a hudson bay half-breed lashed the animals, for the sledge was running heavily, and, with the provisions all consumed, the party must reach shelter before night. there was no wood in the empty waste, the men were savage with hunger, and a merciless wind drove the snow into their faces. though scarcely able to drag himself along, gerald pushed the back of the sledge, and the two packers followed, each carrying a heavy bundle of skins to ease the load upon the dogs. the white men had tried to persuade their guide to make a cache of his freight, but he had refused. he had served the hudson bay from his youth in the grim desolation of the north, and he proudly stated that he had never lost a skin. gerald, finding argument useless, would have tried a bribe, only, unfortunately, he had nothing to offer. he had reached the factory scarcely able to walk from snowshoe lameness; and one of the packers had a frozen foot. the scottish agent, who was short of stores, had not welcomed them effusively. it was, however, impossible to turn them away; he promised them shelter, but he declined to supply them with provisions to continue their journey. they might stay, he said, though they must put up with meager fare, and when fresh stores arrived from the railroad he would see what could be done. the delay suited gerald; he limped contentedly about the rude log-house for some time; but when he and the packer recovered, they found that they were expected to take part in the work of the post. when the weather permitted, gerald was despatched long distances with a half-breed to collect skins from the indian trappers; and when snow-laden gales screamed about the log-house and it might have been fatal to venture out of sight of it, he was employed in hauling cordwood from the clearing. at last some dog-teams arrived with stores, and the agent, seizing the opportunity of sending out a load of furs, gave his guests just food enough to carry them to the settlements and let them go with a half-breed. the journey proved arduous, for during most of it they struggled through tangled forest filled with fallen pines, and when at length they reached the plains an icy wind met them in the teeth. now, however, they were near the end, and gerald, stumbling along, pinched with the bitter cold, speculated dully about the news awaiting him. his creditors could have done nothing until they learned what had become of him. that was something gained; and there was a probability of his being able to pay them off. the shares he owned were going up; there would be developments when the new shaft tapped the main body of the ore. the tip he had got from a safe quarter when he made the purchase was to be trusted after all. mining companies were not run solely for the benefit of outside investors, and the directors were no doubt waiting for an opportune moment for taking the public into their confidence about their long-delayed success. the last newspaper gerald had read, however, indicated that some information had leaked out, and he hoped that an announcement which would send up the price had been made while he was in the wilds. the lashing snow gained in fury. when gerald looked up, the dogs were half hidden in the cloud of swirling, tossing flakes. beyond them lay a narrow strip of livid white, dead level, unbroken by bush or tuft of grass. there was, however, no boundary to this contracted space, for it extended before them as they went on, as it had done without a change since the march began at dawn. gerald felt that he was making no progress and was with pain and difficulty merely holding his ground. the half-breed struggled forward beside the dogs, white from head to foot, but gerald could not see the packers, and felt incapable of looking for them. snow filled his eyes and lashed his numbed cheeks, his lips were bleeding, and his hands and his feet felt wooden with the icy cold. lowering his head against the blast, he stumbled on, pushing the back of the sledge and seeking refuge from bodily suffering in confused thought. after all, he had no hope of getting free from debt. the most he could expect was to pay off the men who pressed him hardest; but that would be enough for a time. gerald could not face a crisis boldly; he preferred to put off the evil day, trusting vaguely in his luck. looking back, he saw that he might have escaped had he practised some self-denial and told the truth to his father and his friends. instead, he had made light of his embarrassments and borrowed from one man to pay another; to make things worse, he had gambled and speculated with part of the borrowed sums in the hope that success would enable him to meet his obligations. money had to be found, but gerald would not realize that for the man who does not possess it, the only safe plan is to work. sometimes he won, but more often he lost; and the winnipeg mortgage broker watched his futile struggles, knowing that they would only lead him into worse difficulties. then gerald began to wonder whether the half-breed, who had nothing to guide him, could find the settlement. it seemed impossible that he could steer a straight course across the trackless waste when he could see scarcely fifty yards ahead. they might have wandered far off their line, though, so far as one could judge, the savage wind had blown steadily in front. it was a question of vital importance; but gerald was growing indifferent. his brain got numb, and his body was losing even the sense of pain. the only thing he realized plainly was that he could not keep on his feet much longer. at last, when it was getting dark, there was a cry from the half-breed, and one of the packers stumbled past. he shouted exultantly, the dogs swerved off their course, and gerald felt the sledge move faster. the snow got firm beneath his feet and he knew they had struck a trail. it must lead to the settlement, which could not be far ahead. half an hour later, a faint yellow glow appeared, the worn-out dogs broke into a run, dim squares of houses loomed out of the snow, and lights blinked here and there. they were obviously moving up a street, and when they stopped where a blaze of light fell upon them gerald leaned drunkenly upon the sledge. the journey was over, but he was scarcely capable of the effort that would take him out of the deadly cold. he saw the half-breed unharnessing the dogs, and, pulling himself together, he struggled up a few steps, crossed a veranda with wooden pillars, and stumbled into a glaring room. it was filled with tobacco smoke and the smell of hot iron, and its rank atmosphere was almost unbreathable. gerald began to choke, and his head swam as he made his way to the nearest chair. the place, as he vaguely realized, was a hotel, and the packers had already entered because he heard their voices though he could not see them. there was a stove in the middle of the room, and a group of men stood about it asking questions. some one spoke to him, but he did not understand what the fellow said. reeling across the room, he grasped the chair and fell into it heavily. exhausted as he was, it was some time before he recovered from the shock caused by the change of temperature. some one helped him to throw off his furs, which were getting wet, and to free him of his big snowshoes. his sensations were acutely painful, but his head was getting clear, and, after a while, he followed a man into a colder room where food was set before him. he ate greedily; and feeling better afterward he went back to the other room and asked for a newspaper. he turned to the financial reports; but he could not see the print well, for he was still somewhat dizzy and the light was trying. the figures danced before him in a blur, and when he found his shares mentioned it cost him some trouble to make out the price. then he let the paper drop, and sat still for some minutes with a sense of confused indignation. the shares had gone up, but only a few points. the rogues in the ring were keeping information back until weak holders were forced to sell. it was a swindle on the public and, what was more, it meant ruin to him. the shares would be taken from him before they rose, because he could not hope to hide his return from his creditors. the safe arrival of his party would soon be reported in the newspapers; and to disappear again would result in his being regarded as a defaulter and a statement of his debts being sent to the grange. he had borne all the hardship and danger for nothing! he was no nearer escaping from his troubles than he had been when he broke his compass in the wilds. there was, however, one hope left. he must see davies in winnipeg. the fellow was clever, and might think of something, particularly as it was to his interest to keep gerald on his feet. he thought he could count on davies' support until the loan on mortgage fell due. his thoughts carried him no farther. he was dazed by fatigue and the shock of disappointment. after vacantly smoking for a while, gerald went off to bed. his room was singularly comfortless, but a hot iron pipe ran through it and it struck him as luxurious by contrast with the camps in the snowy waste. ten minutes after he lay down he was sound asleep. the snow had stopped the next morning, and reaching the railroad after a long and very cold drive, he arrived in winnipeg the following day and went straight to davies' office. the broker looked up with a curious expression as gerald came in. "this is a surprise," he said. "we thought you were lost in the timber belt." "it ought to be a relief," gerald answered, sitting down. davies looked amused. "oh, so far as my business interests go, it doesn't make much difference. i have good security for what you owe me." "but i suspect you're not quite ready to prove your claim to my farm." for a few moments davies studied gerald's face. he wondered how much he knew about his plans concerning allenwood, and, what was more important, whether he might try to thwart them. young mowbray was not a fool, and these people from the old country had a strong sense of caste; they stood by one another and were capable of making some sacrifice to protect their common interests against an outsider. if mowbray had such feelings, he would need careful handling; but davies was more inclined to think him a degenerate who placed his own safety before any other consideration. "i don't want to prove it yet. it will be time enough when the mortgage falls due. but what has this to do with things?" "the trouble is that you may not be able to wait," said gerald coolly. "if you will read this letter, you will understand, though i'm not sure it will be a surprise to you." he gave davies the letter demanding payment of his debt, and the broker saw that he was shrewder than he thought. as a matter of fact, davies had been in communication with the other creditors. "well," he remarked, "you certainly seem to be awkwardly fixed." "i am; but i suspect the situation's as awkward for you. this leads me to think you'll see the necessity for helping me out of the hole. if these fellows come down on me, their first move will be to try to seize my land, and you'll have to produce your mortgage. this will make trouble at allenwood." davies pondered. though he had long been scheming for a hold on allenwood, his position was not very strong yet. he had spent a good deal of money over his plans and, although he was sure of getting it back, if he were forced into premature action he would fail in the object he aimed at. it might accordingly be worth while to spend a further sum. on the other hand, money was getting scarce with him. wheat was falling, trade was slack, and land, in which he had invested his capital, was difficult to sell. still, it was undesirable to spoil a promising scheme for the sake of avoiding a moderate risk. "i understand your father's unable to pay the debt for you," he said. "yes; he'd probably disown me if he heard of it. i don't expect this to interest you, but some of his neighbors have money, and when they saw the settlement was threatened they'd raise a fund to buy you out. you might, of course, make them wait, but if they were ready to find the cash, you'd have to give up your mortgages when they fell due." "if these men are so rich, why don't you ask them to lend you the money?" "because i've bled them as much as they will stand, and they'd think the matter serious enough to hold a council about. this would have the result i've just indicated. i think you see now that you had better help me to settle my most pressing claims." davies regarded him with a grim smile. "it strikes me that your talents were wasted in the army. you might have made your mark in my business if you'd gone into it before you took to betting. that's your weak spot. a gambler never makes good." "perhaps. but what about the loan?" "your name wouldn't be worth five cents on paper," said davies dryly. "however, if you could get somebody with means to endorse it, i might be able to discount it for you. the rate would be high." "men who wouldn't lend me money would be shy of giving me their signature." "that's so; but there's the chance that they might not be called upon to make good. you'll have to persuade them that things are sure to change for the better in, say, three months. can you do so? i must have a solid man." gerald sat quiet for a while, with knitted brows. he had been frank with davies because frankness would serve him best; but he understood that the fellow wanted the signature of one of the allenwood farmers because this would strengthen his grasp on the settlement. gerald saw ruin and disgrace ahead, but by taking a worse risk than any he had yet run, he might put off the disaster for three months. procrastination and a curious belief that things could not come to the very worst were his besetting weaknesses. he shrank from the consequences that might result; but he could see no other way of escape, and he looked up with a strained expression. "all right. i will get you a name that you can take. i shall have to go to allenwood." davies had been watching him keenly. "very well," he said. "sign this, and look in again when you have got your friend's signature." three days later gerald was back in the broker's office. "can you negotiate it now?" he asked nervously, producing the paper. "yes," said davies. "the name's good enough. i know harding." after deducting a high rate of interest, he gave gerald the money, and then locked the note away with a look of great satisfaction. harding's name was forged, and davies knew it. chapter xx a severe test winter ended suddenly, as it generally does on the plains, and rain and sunshine melted the snow from the withered grass. then the northwest wind awoke, and rioting across the wide levels dried the spongy sod, while goose and crane and duck, beating their northward way, sailed down on tired wings to rest a while among the sloos. for a week or two, when no team could have hauled a load over the boggy trails, harding was busy mending harness and getting ready his implements. the machines were numerous and expensive, but he had been forced to put off their adjustment because it is risky to handle cold iron in the canadian frost. he had been unusually silent and preoccupied of late; but hester, knowing his habits, asked no questions. when he was ready, craig would tell her what was in his mind, and in the meantime she had matters of her own to think about. all the work that could be done went forward with regular precision, and, in spite of harding's reserve, there was mutual confidence between the two. hester was quietly happy, but she was conscious of some regret. in a few more months she must leave her brother's house and transfer to another the care and thought she had given him. she knew he would miss her, and now and then she wondered anxiously whether any other woman could understand and help him as she had done. craig had faults and he needed indulging. then, too, he sometimes gave people a wrong impression. she had heard him called hard. although in reality generous and often compassionate, his clear understanding of practical things made him impatient of incompetence and stupidity. he needed a wider outlook and more toleration for people who could not see what was luminously plain to him. life was not such a simple matter with clean-cut rules and duties as craig supposed. grasping its main issues firmly, he did not perceive that they merged into one another through a fine gradation of varying tones and shades. rather late one night hester sat sewing while harding was busy at his writing table, his pipe, which had gone out, lying upon the papers. he had left the homestead before it was light that morning to set his steam-plow to work, though nobody at allenwood had taken a team from the stable yet. devine had told her of the trouble they had encountered: how the soft soil clogged the moldboards, and the wheels sank, and the coulters crashed against patches of unthawed ground. this, however, had not stopped harding. there was work to be done and he must get about it in the best way he could. at supper time he came home in very greasy overalls, looking tired, but as soon as the meal was finished he took out some papers, and now, at last, he laid down his pen and sat with knitted brows and clenched hand. "come back, craig!" hester called softly. he started, threw the papers into a drawer, and looked at his watch. "i thought i'd give them half an hour, and i've been all evening," he said, feeling for his pipe. "now we'll have a talk. i told fred to order all the dressed lumber he wanted, and i'd meet the bill. the house he thought of putting up wasn't half big enough; in a year or two he'd have had to build again. then we want the stuff to season, and there's no time to lose if it's to be ready for you when the harvest's in." hester blushed prettily. "you have given us a good deal already, craig. we would have been satisfied with the smaller homestead." "shucks!" returned harding. "i don't give what i can't afford. you and fred have helped to put me where i am, and i'd have felt mean if i hadn't given you a good start off when i'm going to spend money recklessly on another plan. now that all i need for the summer's paid for, i've been doing some figuring." "ah! you think of buying some of the allenwood land?" "yes," he said gravely. "it will be a strain, but now's the time, when the falling markets will scare off buyers. i hate to see things go to pieces, and they want a man to show them how the settlement should be run. they have to choose between me and the mortgage broker. it will cost me a tough fight to beat him, but i think i see my way." "but what about colonel mowbray?" "he's the trouble. i surely don't know what to do with him; but i guess he'll have to be satisfied with moral authority. i might leave him that." hester felt sorry for the colonel. he was autocratic and arbitrary, his ways were obsolete, and he had no place in a land that was beginning to throb with modern activity. she saw the pathetic side of his position; and, after all, the man was of a finer type than the feverish money makers. his ideals were high, though his way of realizing them was out of date. "craig," she said, "it may be better for allenwood that you should take control, but you're running a big risk, and somehow your plan looks rather pitiless. you're not really hard----" she paused and harding smiled. "i'm as i was made, and to watch allenwood going to ruin is more than i can stand for. it would be worse to let the moneylender sell it out to small farmers under a new mortgage and grind them down until they and the land were starved. broadwood and one or two more will help me all they can, but they haven't the money or the grip to run the place alone." "and you feel that you can do it. well, perhaps you can, but it sounds rash. you are very sure of yourself, craig." "how can i explain?" he said with a half amused, half puzzled air. "the feeling's not vanity. i have a conviction that this is my job, and now that i begin to see my way, i have to put it through. i'm not swaggering about my abilities--there are smarter men in many ways at allenwood; my strong point is this: i can see how things are going, and feel the drift of forces i didn't set in motion and can't control. all i do is to fall into line and let them carry me forward, instead of standing against the stream. the world demands a higher standard of economical efficiency; in using the best tools and the latest methods i'm obeying the call." "what was it that first fixed your thoughts on allenwood?" she asked. "beatrice mowbray. i'm going to marry her if i make good." "you have no doubts about that either?" "oh, yes; i have plenty. i know what i'm up against; but human nature's strongest in the end. she likes me as a man." hester understood him. she was to marry a man of her own station, which would save her many perplexities, but craig, respecting no standard but personal merit, would have married above or beneath him with equal boldness. it was not because he was ambitious, but because he loved her that he had chosen beatrice mowbray. yet hester was anxious on his account. "it's a big risk," she said. "the girl is dainty and fastidious. there's nothing coarse in you, but you have no outward polish. perhaps the tastes you have inherited may make things easier." "well, sometimes i have a curious feeling about these allenwood people. i seem to understand them; i find myself talking as they do. there was something kenwyne said the other night about an english custom, and i seemed to know all about it, though i'd never heard of the thing before." he got up and knocked out his pipe. "all that doesn't matter," he said whimsically. "what's important now is that it's late, and i must have steam up on the plow by daybreak." for the next week harding was very busy; and then, coming back to the house one afternoon for some engine-packing, he found beatrice alone in their plain living-room. she noticed the quick gleam of pleasure in his eyes and was conscious of a response to it, but she was very calm as she explained that hester had gone to saddle a horse on which she meant to ride with her to mrs. broadwood's. "that should give us ten minutes," harding said. "there's something i once promised to show you and i may not have a better chance." unlocking a drawer, he took out a small rosewood box, finely inlaid. "this was my father's. hester has never seen it. i found it among his things." "it is beautiful." harding opened the box and handed her a photograph. "that is my mother," he said. beatrice studied it with interest. the face was of peasant type, with irregular features and a worn look. beatrice thought the woman could not have been beautiful and must have led a laborious life, but she was struck by the strength and patience the face expressed. harding next took out a small prayer-book in a finely tooled binding of faded leather and gave it to her open. the first leaf bore a date and a line of writing in delicate slanted letters: _to basil, from his mother._ "my father's name was basil," harding explained, and taking up another photograph he placed it with its back beside the inscription in the book. it was autographed: _janet harding_. "i imagine it was sent to him with the book, perhaps when he was at school," harding resumed. "you will note that the hand is the same." this was obvious. the writing had a distinctive character, and beatrice examined the faded portrait carefully. it was full length, and showed a lady in old-fashioned dress with an unmistakable stamp of dignity and elegance. the face had grown very faint, but on holding it to the light she thought she could perceive an elusive likeness to hester harding. "this lady must have been your grandmother," she remarked. "yes," said harding. "i have another picture which seems to make the chain complete." he took it from the box and beckoned beatrice to the window before he gave it to her, for the photograph was very indistinct. still, the front of an english country house built in the georgian style could be made out, with a few figures on the broad steps to the terrace. in the center stood the lady whose portrait beatrice had seen, though she was recognizable rather by her figure and fine carriage than her features. she had her hand upon the shoulder of a boy in eton dress. "that," said harding, "was my father." beatrice signified by a movement of her head that she had heard, for she was strongly interested in the back-ground of the picture. the wide lawn with its conventionally cut border of shrubbery stretched beyond the old-fashioned house until it ended at the edge of a lake, across which rounded masses of trees rolled up the side of a hill. all this was familiar; it reminded her of summer afternoons in england two or three years ago. surely she had walked along that terrace then! she could remember the gleaming water, the solid, dark contour of the beechwood on the hill, and the calm beauty of the sunlit landscape that she glimpsed between massive scattered oaks. then she started as she distinguished the tower of a church in the faded distance, its spires rising among the tall beech-trees. "but this is certainly ash garth!" she cried. "i never heard its name," harding answered quietly. beatrice sat down with the photograph in her hand. her curiosity was strongly roused, and she had a half disturbing sense of satisfaction. "it looks as if your father had lived there," she said. "yes; i think it must have been his home." "but the owner of ash garth is basil morel! it is a beautiful place. you come down from the bleak moorland into a valley through which a river winds, and the house stands among the beechwoods at the foot of the hill." "the picture shows something of the kind," agreed harding, watching her with a reserved smile. beatrice hesitated. "perhaps i could find out what became of your father's people and where they are now." "i don't want to know. i have shown you these things in confidence; i'd rather not have them talked about." "but you must see what they might mean to you!" beatrice exclaimed in surprise. he moved from the window and stood facing her with an air of pride. "they mean nothing at all to me. my father was obviously an exile, disowned by his english relatives. if he had done anything to deserve this, i don't want to learn it, but i can't think that's so. it was more likely a family quarrel. anyway, i'm quite content to leave my relatives alone. besides, i promised something of the kind." he told her about the money he had received, and she listened with keen interest. "but did he never tell you anything about his english life?" "no," said harding. "i'm not sure that my mother knew, though hester thinks she meant to tell us something in her last illness. my father was a reserved man. i think he felt his banishment and it took the heart out of him. he was not a good farmer, not the stuff the pioneers are made of, and i believe he only worked his land for my mother's sake, while it was she who really managed things until i grew up. she was a brave, determined woman, and kept him on his feet." beatrice was silent for a few moments. the man loved her, and although she would not admit that she loved him, it was satisfactory to feel that he really belonged to her own rank. this explained several traits of his that had puzzled her. it was, however, unfortunate that he held such decided views, and she felt impelled to combat them. "but you need ask nothing from the people except that they should acknowledge you," she urged. "think of the difference this would make to you and hester. it would give you standing and position." "hester is going to marry a man who loves her for herself, and the only position i value i have made. what would i gain by raking up a painful story? the only relatives i'm proud to claim are my mother's in michigan, and they're plain, rugged folks." there was something in his attitude that appealed to beatrice. he had no false ambitions; he was content to be judged on his own merits--a severe test. for all that, she set some value upon good birth, and it was distasteful to see that he denied the advantages of his descent. then she grew embarrassed as she recognized that what really troubled her was his indifference to the opinion of her relatives. he must know that he had a means of disarming her father's keenest prejudice, but he would not use it. "i understand that hester knows nothing about these portraits," she said. "no; i've never mentioned them. it could do no good." "then why have you told me?" "well," he answered gravely, "i thought you ought to know." "i have no claim upon the secrets you keep from your sister." harding was silent, and beatrice felt annoyed. after all, she understood why he had told her and she recognized that he had acted honestly in doing so. still, if he really loved her, she felt, he should not let pride stand in the way of removing every obstacle to get her. hester came in and announced that the horses were ready; and soon afterward she and beatrice were riding together across the prairie while harding went doggedly back to his work. chapter xxi the day of reckoning as the spring advanced, business men in winnipeg and the new western towns began to feel an increasing financial pressure. money was tight, and the price of wheat, upon which the prosperity of the country depended, steadily fell. it was the beginning of a sharp set-back, a characteristic feature of the sanguine west, during which all overdrafts on the natural resources of the prairie must be met. the resources are large, but their development is slow, depending, as it does, upon the patient labor of the men who drive the plow, while those who live upon the farmer are eager to get rich. the tide of industrial progress is often irregular. there are pauses of varying length, and sometimes recoils, when reckless traders find their ventures stranded and in danger of being wrecked before the next impulse of the flood can float them on. they borrow and buy too freely; trafficking produce not yet grown; building stores and offices in excess of the country's needs. a time comes when this is apparent, speculation ceases, credit fails, and the new cities must wait until expanding agriculture overtakes them. in the meanwhile, the fulfilment of obligations is demanded and, as often happens, cannot be made. davies suffered among the rest. he had foreseen a set-back, but it proved more severe than he expected. he had bought land he could not sell, had cooperated in erecting buildings which stood empty, and had made loans to men unable to repay them. one morning he sat in his office, gloomily reading a newspaper which made a bold attempt to deal optimistically with the depressing situation. among other news there was a report of a meeting of the shareholders in a mining company; and this davies studied with interest. it was what is termed an extraordinary meeting, called to consider the course to be adopted in consequence of the engineer's failing to reach the ore after sinking a costly shaft; and davies, glancing at another column, noted that the shares had sharply fallen. gerald mowbray had speculated in this stock, and davies was then expecting a call from him. instead of mowbray, carlyon came in. the boy looked anxious, but he was calm. "i suppose you know what i've come about," he began. "yes; you're behind with your interest." carlyon's ease of manner was perhaps overdone, but he hid his feelings pluckily. "then, as i can't pay, what are you going to do? i must know now; when you're farming, you have to look ahead." "i'm going to sell you up when the mortgage falls in. you have some time yet." "can't you renew the loan upon any terms?" "no," said davies truthfully. "i would if i could. i have to meet my engagements and money's scarce." carlyon got up, turning an unlighted cigar in nervous fingers, but there was a smile in his eyes that showed he could face ruin with dignity. "then, if that's your last word, i needn't waste your time; and it wouldn't be fair to blame you for my foolishness. i dare say i can find a job as teamster; it seems the only thing that's left." "you have grit. i'm sorry i can't keep you on your feet," davies answered with more feeling than carlyon had expected. "thanks. mowbray's waiting outside; i'll send him in." davies looked up when the door opened a few moments later. gerald's careless manner had gone; he showed obvious signs of strain. indeed, there was something in his face that hinted at desperation. davies was not surprised at this. after a curt greeting he took up the newspaper. "i expect you have seen the report of the company's meeting." "i have," said gerald. "it doesn't leave much to the imagination. at last, the directors have treated us with brutal frankness. i've filled up my proxy in favor of appointing a committee to investigate." "it can't do much good. the fellows can investigate until they're tired, but they can't find ore that does not exist." "it would be some comfort if they found out anything that would put the rogues who deluded us into jail," gerald answered savagely. davies smiled in a meaning way. "rather too drastic a proceeding." he gave the other a direct glance. "people who play a crooked game shouldn't appeal to the law." the blood crept into gerald's face and he wondered with dire misgivings what the man meant and how much he knew. he had counted on a report from the mining engineer that would send up the value of his shares, and had rested on this his last hope of escaping from a serious danger. instead, he had learned that the mine was barren. it was a crushing blow, for he must find a large sum of money at once. the consequences would be disastrous if he failed. "well," he said, "the most important point is that my shares are worth next to nothing, and i've very little expectation of their ever going up. i don't suppose you'd take them as security for a loan at a quarter of their face value?" "i would not," davies answered firmly. "very well. my note falls due in a few days. what are you going to do?" "present it for payment." gerald looked at him keenly, to see if he meant it; but he could read in the broker's imperturbable face nothing to lead him to doubt this. he tried to pull himself together, and failed. gerald had not inherited the stern, moral courage of the mowbray stock. "you can't afford to let me drop," he pleaded in a hoarse voice. "as soon as you take away your support the brutes i've borrowed from will come down on me like wolves, and, to protect your interests, you'll have to enforce your mortgage rights. i needn't point out that this will spoil your plans. you're not ready to make your grab at allenwood yet." davies heard him unmoved. he was comparing his attitude with that of the ruined lad he had just dismissed. carlyon was, of course, a fool who deserved his fate, but his pluck had roused the moneylender's sympathy. he did not mean to let it make him merciful, but he had some human feeling, and it inspired him with contempt for mowbray. the fellow was clever enough to see that davies' plans were directed against his relatives and friends, but this had not prevented his falling in with them for the sake of a temporary advantage. his pride was a sham; he forgot it when it threatened to cost him something. moreover he had not been straight with davies in several ways. he had a rogue's heart, but was without the rogue's usual nerve. "i often have to change my plans," davies said calmly. "just now i'm short of money, and must get some in. anyway, there's no secret about the mortgage; it had to be registered." "of course; but i don't suppose anybody knows about it, for all that. people don't spend their time turning up these records." "it would be a wise precaution, when they dealt with you," davies answered pointedly. gerald did not resent the taunt. "but you can't get your money for the note," he urged. "it's impossible for me to meet it now." "or later, i guess. well, i'll have to fall back on the endorser; he's a solid man." a look of terror sprang into gerald's face. "you can't do that!" "why not?" "well," gerald faltered, "he never expected he'd have to pay the note." "that's his affair. he ought to have known you better." gerald roused himself for a last effort. "renew it on any terms you like; i'll agree to whatever you demand. i have some influence at allenwood, and can get you other customers. you'll find it worth while to have my help." davies smiled scornfully. "you can't be trusted. you'd sell your friends, and that means you'd sell me if you thought it would pay. i'm willing to take a risk when i back a sport; but one can't call you that. you have had your run and lost, and now you must put up the stakes." he took a pen from the rack and opened a book. "there doesn't seem to be anything more to be said. good-morning." gerald left, with despair in his heart; and when he had gone davies took the note from his safe and examined the signature on the back with a thoughtful air. after all, though money was tight, he might retain his hold on allenwood if he played his cards cleverly. during the afternoon carlyon and gerald took the westbound train, and the next evening gerald reached the grange. there had been a hard rain all day, and he was wet after the long drive, but he went straight to the study where his father was occupied. it was not dark outside yet, but the room was shadowy and heavy rain beat against its walls. mowbray sat at a table by the window, apparently lost in thought, for although there were some papers in front of him the light was too dim to read. he glanced up with a frown when his son came in. "if you had thought it worth while to let me know you were going to winnipeg, i could have given you an errand," he said, and added dryly: "one would imagine that these trips are beyond your means." gerald was conscious of some shame and of pity for his father, whom he must humble; but his fears for his own safety outweighed everything else. "i want you to listen, sir. there's something you must know." "very well," said mowbray. "it is not good news; your voice tells me that." it was a desperately hard confession, and mowbray sat strangely still, a rigid, shadowy figure against the fading window, until the story was finished. then he turned to his son, who had drawn back as far as possible into the gloom. "you cur!" there was intense bitterness in his tone. "i can't trust myself to speak of what i feel. and i know, to my sorrow, how little it would affect you. but, having done this thing, why do you slink home to bring disgrace on your mother and sister? could you not hide your shame across the frontier?" it was a relief to gerald that he could, at least, answer this. "if you will think for a moment, sir, you will see the reason. i don't want to hide here, but it's plain that, for all our sakes, i must meet this note. if it's dishonored, the holder will come to you; and, although i might escape to the boundary, you would be forced to find the money." gerald hesitated before he added: "it would be the only way to save the family honor." "stop!" cried mowbray. "our honor is a subject you have lost all right to speak about!" for a moment or two he struggled to preserve his self-control, and then went on in a stern, cold voice: "still, there is some reason in what you urge. it shows the selfish cunning that has been your ruin." "let me finish, sir," gerald begged hoarsely. "the note must be met. if i take it up on presentation, the matter ends there; but you can see the consequences if it's dishonored." "they include your arrest and imprisonment. it's unthinkable that your mother and sister should be branded with this taint!" mowbray clenched his hand. "the trouble is that i cannot find the money. you have already brought me to ruin." there was silence for the next minute, and the lashing of the rain on the ship-lap boards sounded harshly distinct. gerald saw a possible way of escape, but, desperate as he was, he hesitated about taking it. it meant sacrificing his sister; but the way seemed safe. his father would stick at nothing that might save the family honor. "there's brand," he suggested, knowing it was the meanest thing he had ever done. "of course, one would rather not tell an outsider; but he can keep a secret and might help." "ah!" mowbray exclaimed sharply, as if he saw a ray of hope. then he paused and asked with harsh abruptness: "whose name did you use on the note?" "harding's." mowbray lost his self-control. half rising in his chair, he glared at his son. "it's the last straw!" he said, striking the table furiously. "how the low-bred fellow will triumph over us!" "he can't," gerald pointed out cunningly, using his strongest argument in an appeal to his father's prejudice. "he will know nothing about the note if i can take it up when due." mowbray sank back in his chair, crushed with shame. "it must be managed somehow," he said in a faltering voice. "now--go; and, for both of our sakes, keep out of my way." gerald left him without a word, and mowbray sat alone in the darkness, feeling old and broken as he grappled with the bitterest grief he had known. there had, of course, been one or two of the mowbrays who had led wild and reckless lives, but gerald was the first to bring actual disgrace upon the respected name. the colonel could have borne his extravagance and forgiven a certain amount of dissipation, but it humbled him to the dust to realize that his son was a thief and a coward. chapter xxii the price of honor it was very quiet in the drawing-room of the grange, where mrs. mowbray sat with an exhausted look, as if she had made an effort that had cost her much. she had just finished speaking, and was watching beatrice, whose face was white and strained. "but what has gerald done? i think i have a right to know," the girl broke out. "he wrote somebody else's name on the back of a promise to pay some money, which meant that the other man, who really knew nothing about it, guaranteed that the payment would be made." "but that is forgery!" beatrice cried, aghast. "yes," said mrs. mowbray with a shudder; "i'm afraid it's forgery of a very serious kind, because it enabled him to obtain a good deal of money which he could not otherwise have got." "oh, how dreadful!" beatrice impulsively crossed the floor and, kneeling down beside her mother, put her arm round her. "i know how you must feel it. and now i can understand father's troubled look. he has been very quiet and stern since gerald came home." "your father has more trouble than you know. perhaps i'd better tell you about it, as you must grasp the situation. you heard that godfrey barnett was dead, but you don't know that he died ruined by the failure of the bank." "ah! all our money was in barnett's, wasn't it?" "yes," said mrs. mowbray. "it has all gone." she stopped in distress. the task of influencing the girl to take a course she must shrink from was painful to her; but she had promised her husband and must go on with it. there was no other way, and it was in accordance with her traditions that the threatened honor of the family should come before her daughter's inclinations. "now you can see why it's impossible for your father to save gerald by paying the money. it explains why he has been forced to ask help from brand." beatrice drew back from her, as if overwhelmed. "blow after blow! how has he borne it all? and yet he is very brave." "you are his daughter," said mrs. mowbray meaningly, though she felt that what she was doing was cruel. "you must be brave, too. i think you see how you can make things easier for him." "oh!" the girl drew a quick breath. then she rose with a hot face, burning with fierce rebellion. "the fault is gerald's, and he must suffer for it! why should i! he has always brought us trouble; everything has been given up for the sake of the boys. don't i know how you have had to deny yourself because of their extravagance? it's unjust! not even my father has the right to ask this sacrifice from me!" "gerald cannot suffer alone. if he is arrested for forgery, it will crush your father and be a stain on lance's name as long as he lives. lance has been very steady since his accident, and i dare not think of his being thrown back into his reckless ways. then the disgrace will reflect even more seriously on you--a girl is condemned for the sins of her relatives. i do not speak of myself, because the worst that could happen to me was to learn that my son had done this thing." beatrice's mood changed suddenly. her high color faded and she made a hopeless gesture. "it's true! i feel as if i were in a trap and could not get out. it's horrible!" she sank down again by her mother's side and struggled for composure. "let us face the matter quietly," she said. "brand is our friend; he cannot be so ungenerous as to ask a price for his help." "he is a hard man, and very determined." "yes; i know. i have been afraid of him. he made me feel he was waiting until his opportunity came. but, for all that, i can't believe----" mrs. mowbray gave her a glance of compassionate sympathy. "even if brand does not claim his reward, we know what would persuade him to do us the great service your father must ask. can we take this favor from him, and then deny him what he longs for? there is nobody else who can help us, and our need is pressing." "but i am not asking the favor!" beatrice urged in desperation. "the debt is not mine! it would be different if i were in gerald's place." "you must see that you are using a false argument," mrs. mowbray answered gently. "a girl cannot separate herself in this way from her father and brother: the family responsibilities are hers. it may sound very harsh, but you cannot repudiate the liability gerald has incurred. when he did wrong, he made us all accountable." beatrice could not deny this. she had been taught that the family was not a group but a unit and its honor indivisible, and she had always been made to feel that it was her duty to reflect credit upon her name. it was a comfortable doctrine when things went well; when things went wrong, however, it became very cruel. seeing no hope at all, she fell into mute despair, and it was some time before she could rouse herself. at last she got up with a quietly resolute expression. "well," she said slowly, as if it cost her a great effort, "i must try not to disgrace you by any foolish weakness. since this is our debt, i must pay it. one understands that women have often done such things. it seems as if all the burdens were laid on our shoulders--and men call us weak!" she paused a moment, and then asked in a dead, indifferent voice: "whose name did gerald forge?" "i don't know. your father didn't tell me. i thought he tried to avoid it." moving calmly to the door, beatrice was surprised to find gerald waiting in the passage outside. she gave him a steady look. her face was white and hard, and there was scorn in her eyes. gerald drew back, almost as if she had struck him. "you have been talking to mother?" he asked awkwardly. "yes," she said; "and you know what we talked about. so far as anything i can do may count, you are safe. that, of course, was all you wanted to know." she saw keen relief in his face. "after all," he urged, "brand is a very good fellow and has many advantages to offer." she turned upon him with burning indignation. "don't be a hypocrite! you know it would not have mattered if he had been the meanest rogue in canada--so long as you got free." she swept past him and left him standing in the passage with a downcast air. seeking refuge in her room, she locked the door and tried to think. she must face the situation and not let futile anger and horror overcome her. growing calm after a time, she began to wonder why the prospect of marrying brand was so repugnant. he belonged to her own station, they had much in common, and, in a way, she liked him. then, she had long known that she would be expected to make a good match, and brand had kept his beautiful english house waiting for her; his wife would have the position and social influence beatrice had been taught to value. but these things seemed worthless now. she looked out through the open window at the prairie. it had grown green with the rain, though clumps of bleached grass still checkered it with silvery gray. red lilies were opening here and there, and as she gazed the blue shadow of a cloud swept across the plain and vanished, leaving it bright with sunshine. its vastness and the sense of freedom it conveyed appealed to the girl. there was a charm in the wide horizon; one never felt cramped upon the plains. she loved the spacious land, and did not want to live in england. but this was a deceptive argument. brand would stay at allenwood if she wished. indeed, she knew that he would make many a sacrifice to please her if she married him. she must look for a better reason. it was not hard to find, for in this crisis she must be honest with herself. the blood crept to her face as she realized that she could not marry brand because she loved some one else. now that such love was hopeless and must be overcome, the disturbing truth was plain. she had fenced with and tried to deny it, but when it was too late, it had beaten her. by way of relief, she tried to occupy her mind with another thought. her father had been reluctant to tell whose name gerald had forged. beatrice knew that her brother would choose a man of wealth, otherwise the name would have no weight, and she did not think he had fixed on brand. her father's reticence made her feel that it must be harding. beatrice thought her father unjust and foolish. harding would not take a shabby advantage of his position; he was generous, but, unfortunately, no help could come from him. she could not tell her lover that her brother was a thief; besides, this was a secret that must be carefully hidden from everybody outside the family. brand, she reflected with a shudder of repugnance, would soon belong to it. there was no help anywhere. beatrice leaned against the window-frame, her head buried in her arms. the soft air from the prairie swept over her caressingly, the hot sunshine bathed her; but her heart was black with despondency. she was in a trap--a trap set by her own brother--and no escape was possible. she threw her head up with a sudden resolve. at least she would make the sacrifice bravely, without murmur, as befitted the daughter of the house of mowbray. her mood changing again as quickly, she threw herself across the bed and burst into a fit of passionate sobbing. and while she lay there, worn with crying, her father sat in his study talking to brand. he related with candor what had happened, making no attempt to hide the ugliest facts; and brand grasped at the opportunity opened for him. he recognized that it would give him a strong claim on mowbray's gratitude. it might be mean to take advantage of it; but he had waited a long time for beatrice, and might lose her altogether if he let this chance slip. "you have my sympathy, sir," he said suavely. "it must have been a great shock; but i am glad you have taken me into your confidence, because i can be of help. you can repay me whenever you find you can do so without trouble." mowbray gave a sigh of great relief. "thank you, brand. you cannot understand how you have eased my mind. i know of no one else who would, or could, have done so much." the colonel sank back in his chair, and brand noticed how worn he looked. the younger man was conscious of a slight feeling of pity; but he could not afford to indulge it: he must strike while the iron was hot. "now that things are going so hard for you, in a financial way, it would be some satisfaction to feel that your daughter's future was safe," he said. mowbray was silent a moment. then he answered slowly. "yes. i wish indeed that she could see her way to marry you." "i will speak plainly. i have been waiting patiently, but, so far as i can judge, i have gained nothing by this. i'm afraid i may lose all if i wait much longer. beatrice likes me, we agree on many points, our tastes are similar, and i think there's every reason to hope she could be happy with me. i could give her all that a girl brought up as she has been could desire." "do you suggest that i should urge her to marry you?" mowbray asked with some asperity. brand hesitated. he knew that he was doing an unchivalrous thing, but the passion he hitherto had kept in check mastered him. "well," he said, "i suppose that is what i really meant." mowbray looked at him in haughty surprise. "you know i cannot refuse you; but i hardly expected you to take this line. it might have been better if you had relied upon my gratitude and my daughter's recognition of the service you have done us. we are not in the habit of forgetting our debts." "the trouble is that i cannot afford to take a risk; there is some danger of beatrice's becoming estranged from me. i would not press you if i saw any strong reason why she should not be happy as my wife, but i know of none, and i feel that this is my last chance." "then you mean to insist upon your claim?" "very reluctantly, sir." mowbray was silent for a moment or two, and then he looked up with a strained expression. "you place me in a helpless position. you make me and my family your debtors, and then----" he broke off abruptly. "did you mean to hint there was some particular danger of my daughter's becoming estranged from you?" "since you force me to be candid, i believe she is attracted by another man; perhaps i ought to say interested in him. i cannot suspect any attachment yet; but i am afraid." "who is he?" brand hesitated a moment before answering. "i cannot give you his name, because i may be mistaken. still, he is a man you would strongly disapprove of." there was suspicion in mowbray's eyes and his face hardened. "what you hint at surprises me, brand; but i cannot compliment you upon your conduct to-night. however, as beatrice is the most interested person, it is, i think, only right that she should be allowed to speak." he rang, and the servant who promptly answered was sent for beatrice. when the door opened a few moments afterward, mowbray was surprised to see not his daughter but the maid. "miss mowbray is ill," she announced, "and begs you to excuse her." the maid withdrew, and mowbray frowned. "when must my daughter pay this debt?" he asked. "when is the forged note due?" "i understand that the winnipeg fellow will bring it to me here on friday night." "then there are two days yet. i will leave miss mowbray free until friday night. in the meantime i shall expect you to use your influence with her." he hesitated a moment, feeling that he might not be taking the right line. "i must urge you again, sir, to consider," he finished, "that it will be only for your daughter's good, in every way, to marry me." when he left, mowbray sat motionless in his chair for a long while, looking out over the prairie but seeing nothing in front of him. then with an effort he roused himself. after all, he tried to believe, it would not be so bad for the girl. she was young; she might yet learn to love brand, even though she married him under compulsion. as for harding---- mowbray dismissed the thought. he had no fear that his daughter would so far forget her station: the pride of caste had been drilled into her too strongly. chapter xxiii a woman intervenes the following afternoon beatrice rode moodily across the plain. after another talk with her mother, she had passed a sleepless night and spent the morning wandering restlessly to and fro. it was horribly degrading to her to feel that brand had bought her; but it was true, and it destroyed the hope that time might reconcile her to her lot. she could not forgive him that, but after all it was only part of an intolerable situation. on a long gradual rise her horse began to slacken speed, and she pulled up when she reached the top. sitting still for a time, she vacantly looked about. the hill commanded a wide view: she could see the prairie roll back, changing as it receded from vivid green to faint ethereal blue on the far horizon. white clouds swept across the sky, streaking the plain with shadows. there was something exhilarating in the picture, but beatrice felt that she hated it for its mocking suggestion of space and freedom. there was no freedom at allenwood; she was to be sold into shameful bondage. a gray streak of smoke that moved across the waste caught her eye. it was harding, harrowing by steam or perhaps bedding down his seed-wheat with the land-packer. beatrice thought of him with a poignant sense of regret. he loved her, and she had deceived herself in thinking she could not love him. she had been bound by foolish traditions and had not had the courage to break loose. it was too late now and she must pay the penalty of her cowardice. she longed to call harding to her help; he was strong enough to save her. but the family disgrace must be kept secret. there was no way out; she seemed to be turning round and round in a narrow cage and beating herself vainly against the bars. as she started her horse she saw in the distance the broadwood homestead rising, a blur of gray buildings, and she rode toward it. she needed sympathy, and her mother had nothing but resignation to urge. effie broadwood was kind and fond of her; it would be some comfort to tell her that she was in trouble--though of course she could not go into particulars. mrs. broadwood at once noticed the girl's troubled face, and knew that something had gone wrong. she led beatrice into her plain little sitting-room and made her comfortable on a sofa. then, sitting down beside her, she took her hand affectionately. "now, dear," she said, "we can have a quiet talk. i know that something is troubling you." beatrice was moved by her unaffected sympathy. she had friends at allenwood but she could not go to them. they would think her rather to be envied than pitied; but this warm-hearted, unconventional woman would understand. she longed to take her into her confidence, and although this was impossible, the numbing despair in her heart began to melt. "i can't tell you much; but--i suppose i shall be married soon." mrs. broadwood looked keenly interested. "is it an allenwood man?" "brand. i must tell him definitely to-morrow evening." "ah!" mrs. broadwood exclaimed. there was a pathetic note in the girl's voice that touched her. "but if you don't want the man you have only to let him know." "i wish it were as easy as that!" beatrice answered hopelessly. mrs. broadwood was silent for a few moments, but her fingers clasped the small hand under them with a comforting pressure. "i think i understand. your father and mother are on his side; but if you'd hate to have him for a husband you must not sacrifice yourself." "but i must!" said beatrice desperately, and her forced calm suddenly broke down. her companion's gentleness had destroyed it, and now a reaction from the strain she had borne had begun. "no," she added in a broken voice, "there's no way out! i've been trying to find one and i can't." she buried her face in one of the pillows and broke into choking sobs. it was weak, she felt, and not what was to be expected from a mowbray, but there was comfort in the bitter tears. for a while mrs. broadwood let her cry, but when she began to soothe her, beatrice roused herself. she could not remember afterward what she said, but her confused excuses for her emotion and her fragmentary half confidences left a disturbing impression on mrs. broadwood's mind. beatrice rode home feeling slightly comforted, though she was no nearer a solution of her difficulties. she had, of course, been very weak and perhaps had said more than was wise, but she had not betrayed her brother; and effie broadwood was a true friend. beatrice was justified in thinking so, for mrs. broadwood was to prove a better friend than she suspected. when the girl had gone, mrs. broadwood spent some time in thinking over what she had heard. although she had keen intelligence, there were points that puzzled her; she had been given several clues, but they broke off before they led her far. then she decided that something might be learned by tactfully questioning her husband, and she went about her work until he came home in the evening. she let him finish his supper and light his pipe before she began. "the mowbrays are in trouble just now, aren't they, tom?" "i dare say; they certainly have their difficulties. why?" "beatrice rode over this afternoon and she had something on her mind. what do you think's the matter?" "for one thing, the colonel must have lost a good deal since wheat began to go down. then i heard something about the failure of an english bank; lance once told me the family had shares in it. i expect the stoppage made a difference in their income." "that doesn't quite account for it. do you know of anything else?" "gerald may have been giving them trouble again. i know he has borrowed a good deal of money which he'd find it difficult to pay, and i'm afraid he's been mortgaging his land." this confirmed some of mrs. broadwood's suspicions; but the matter was still far from clear. "the colonel would be very mad about the mortgage," she said. "still, it's gerald's land, and he can do what he likes with it." "not altogether. he's bound by the settlement covenant, and, as his father gave him the land, he ought to respect his opinions. mowbray's convinced that to let in strangers would be hurtful to allenwood." while feeling sure that gerald was the cause of the mowbrays' troubles, mrs. broadwood did not think that beatrice would marry a man she did not care for in order to benefit the settlement. there must be another reason. "suppose gerald had already mortgaged his farm and wanted some more money, how would he borrow it?" "he'd find it hard, as he has no security to offer," broadwood answered with a smile. "i don't know much about these matters, and don't want to know anything more, but i believe the usual plan is something like this: you give the lender a note, an engagement to pay in, we'll say, three months, and get somebody to endorse it. his putting down his name makes him liable for the amount, and if the lender was satisfied about him, he'd give you the money at once and take off as much interest as he could." "but who'd guarantee gerald in that way?" "i don't know. i certainly would not." "he would have to be a man who was known to have money," she persisted. "i suppose so; it would naturally make the transaction easier. but it's not our business to pry into the mowbrays' affairs." "oh, no," said mrs. broadwood. "still, i was sorry for beatrice and it made me curious." she changed the subject and after a time took up a book as an excuse for silence. she wanted to think, because she now felt sure that gerald's financial difficulties accounted for the pressure that was being put upon beatrice. the girl was being forced to marry brand because he would supply the money to save her brother from disgrace. mrs. broadwood felt that it must be disgrace and not an ordinary debt. there would, however, be no great difficulty if he had given some one a note, for the man who endorsed it must have known that he might be called upon to pay. but suppose he had not heard about the transaction at all? mrs. broadwood dropped her book, for she saw that she had guessed the riddle. gerald had not asked the man to guarantee him; he had forged his name. taking this for granted made everything plain. then she began to wonder whose name gerald had forged. it could not be his father's, for mowbray was known to be far from rich. the only man with much money at allenwood was brand, but mrs. broadwood thought it could not be brand, because she knew mowbray's pride and believed that in spite of his anxiety to keep the matter quiet he would not force his daughter to marry a man his son had robbed. admitting this, she must look for some one else. then it dawned upon her that the man was harding. "what did you say?" broadwood asked, looking up from his paper. "i was thinking," his wife replied. "s'pose i must have thought aloud. anyway it wouldn't interest you. how's wheat going?" "down," said broadwood, and there was silence again. mrs. broadwood saw what she could do. she admitted that she might make a deplorable mess of things if she were mistaken, but the need was serious enough to justify some risk. she had courage and she was fond of beatrice. the next afternoon she drove across the prairie to the spot where she thought harding was at work. she found him busy with his engine at the end of a wide belt of plowing which the land packer had rolled down hard and smooth. "craig!" she called, pulling up her horse. "i want you a minute." he came to the step of the buck-board, dressed in greasy overalls, with an oil smear on his hand, but she felt that he was to be trusted as she gave him an approving glance. she liked his level look and his steady eyes; there was force in his quiet face. he was the type of man she admired: swift in action, free from what she called meanness, and determined. indeed, she felt inclined to hesitate as she thought of his resolute character. it would be easy to set him in motion, but once that was done he could not be stopped, and there might be startling developments. it was rather like firing the train to a mine; and there was a disturbing possibility that she might, after all, be wrong in her surmises. but she gathered up her courage; and she knew that there was no time to be wasted. "craig," she said, "do you want beatrice mowbray?" he started and his brown face flushed. "i want her more than anything else in the world." mrs. broadwood gave him a quick, approving nod. "do you know how she feels about you?" "no. i only know what i hope." "well," said mrs. broadwood thoughtfully, "i believe she'd rather take you than brand." "brand!" "i expect she'll be engaged to him to-night, unless you act." mrs. broadwood checked him as he was about to speak. "this is your chance, craig; you'll never get another half as good. listen quietly for a few minutes." he stood very still, without asking a question, until she had finished. "i guess you're right," he said with set jaws; "and i know the man who holds the note. if beatrice is to give brand her answer to-night, it means that davies is coming here to squeeze the colonel, and if his train's on time, he ought to make the grange in about three hours." "and you'll be there to meet him?" harding smiled. "when i'm wanted i like to be on hand, and i guess i'm wanted pretty badly now." "you certainly are. i suppose you see what you must do?" "if there's a note out with my name on it, it has got to be taken up. you can leave the thing to me. i meet my obligations." mrs. broadwood saw that he had found a more effective way of dealing with the situation than had yet occurred to her. "craig," she exclaimed with frank admiration, "you're a wonder!" he held out his hand with a twinkle of rather grim amusement. "anyway, i have to thank you for putting me on the track, and i'm not going to forget it. now i have several matters to fix up before i start for the grange." she touched the horse with the whip and he stepped back. "good luck!" she called. "you deserve it!" chapter xxiv a great triumph it was getting dark when brand reached the grange. he found beatrice in the hall, for she had not heard his arrival in time to get away. she met him calmly, but after a word of greeting she did not speak, and he hesitated. "well," he said with an effort, "i have come for your answer." "isn't it too soon?" she asked. "you haven't carried out your part of the bargain yet." brand frowned in embarrassment. "you are very bitter; but i dare say it must be hard for you to see my conduct in a favorable light." "i'm afraid it's impossible." beatrice moved toward the broad stairway. "my father is waiting for you in the library," she said. taking this for a dismissal, brand joined mowbray in his study. he was sorry that the lamp was lighted, because he felt disturbed, and the colonel's constrained manner did not set him at ease. for all that, they forced themselves to talk about matters of no importance until davies was shown in. "i came to see your son, but i meant to ask for an interview with you before i left," the money-lender said to mowbray, and then glanced at brand. "i imagine that our business had better----" "mr. brand is acquainted with it, and i prefer him to remain. my son has informed me that you hold a note of his. no doubt, you have brought it with you?" "you propose to pay it for him?" "certainly," said mowbray with a trace of haughtiness. "since he was foolish enough to give you such a document it must be met." davies felt surprised; but he took out the paper. he had not expected it to be met, and as he stood with it in his hand, hesitating, he was strangely irritated by mowbray's smile. then he put the note on the table, and, after examining it, mowbray gave it to brand, who made a sign indicating that he was satisfied. "yes," he said, "it seems to be in order." then he turned to davies. "we'll keep this paper; i'll give you a check." "presently." davies picked up the note. when he spoke, he addressed mowbray. "i'll give you the note canceled in return for payment of half the amount; the rest to stand against a purchase i want to make." "you can have it all. i have no wish to defer payment. and i don't understand what your purchases have to do with me." "i'll explain. one of your young neighbors is giving up his farm. he hasn't broken much land and the buildings are small. the place ought to go cheap, and i'm open to buy it. then there's a section of vacant land, and i'm willing to pay a small sum for an option of taking it up at a fixed price in a year's time." mowbray looked at him in cold surprise. "to begin with, i cannot sell you my neighbor's property; nor can i give you an option on the vacant lot." "in a sense that's true, but you can fix things as i want it if you like. your word goes a long way in these matters." "i see no reason why i should use my influence in your favor." "it's impossible!" brand interposed bluntly. "we are very careful whom we let in at allenwood." "in short, you mean to keep me out," davies suggested with an ugly smile. "take it for granted that we cannot sell you the land you want." "very well," said davies. "i must try to convince you that you had better indulge me." he fingered the note. "i have not parted with this document yet. it seems to me that there's something unusual about mr. harding's signature." as a rule, both brand and mowbray were capable of self-control, but the attack was so unexpected that they showed their alarm. it had not occurred to them that the moneylender might suspect the forgery. indeed, there was terror in the colonel's face before he recovered himself, and brand's grew angrily red. "you scoundrel! what do you mean?" he cried. "only that i'm not sure mr. harding would know his own writing if i showed it to him." mowbray motioned brand to be silent, and for a few moments both sat still, feeling overwhelmed. brand saw that it was now out of his power to protect his companion; and the colonel realized that the sacrifice of his daughter might prove useless. he was in the moneylender's hands, and to comply with his exactions would not end them. the honor of the mowbrays was at the rascal's mercy. there was a knock at the door. "mr. harding!" a servant announced. "i can't see him at present," said mowbray with a start as he heard a quick, resolute step in the passage. before he finished speaking, harding entered. "this must look like an intrusion, and you'll have to excuse my not waiting your leave," he said. "the fact is, i was determined to get in." "so it seems," mowbray answered. "since you have succeeded, may i ask if you came here by this gentleman's request?" "why, no!" harding looked at davies with a twinkle. "i guess my turning up is a surprise to him." davies' crestfallen air bore this out, but he waited silently, and for a moment or two neither brand nor mowbray spoke. the colonel, to his astonishment, was conscious of some relief. after all, he would rather fall into harding's hands than the moneylender's. "perhaps you will explain the object of your visit," mowbray said, when the silence threatened to become awkward. "certainly; though it ought to be plain. mr. davies holds a note with my name on it, which i understand mr. gerald mowbray cannot meet." he leaned forward and took the note. "it's due to-day." baffled rage shone in davies' eyes. "you admit your liability?" he cried indignantly. "of course! my name's here; i don't go back on my obligations." mowbray looked at him with dull astonishment; and brand, whose wits were clearer, with reluctant admiration. he thought the farmer was playing his part well; but davies would not give in yet. "am i to understand that you acknowledge this as your signature?" he asked in a calmer tone. "do you mean to tell me that you doubted it?" harding returned. "you haven't the reputation of being a fool. would you have lent money on a note you suspected was forged?" davies saw the game was up. brand was mowbray's friend, and harding was an obviously hostile witness. unless he were very careful he might lay himself open to a charge of conspiracy; and he was powerless to attack mowbray so long as harding acknowledged his signature. "well," resumed harding, taking out his wallet, "i guess i'll keep this paper and give you a check." brand saw his last hope vanishing. "stop a minute!" he interposed. "you're taking too much for granted in concluding that gerald cannot pay. the debt is his in the first place, and with the help of a friend he is able to find the money." mowbray looked up with a curious expression in which there was relief and shame. though he would have forced his daughter into a marriage she shrank from, the necessity for doing so had preyed upon his mind and he seized the chance of freeing himself of his debt to brand. he did not stop to reason, but acted on the vague feeling that harding, whom he had distrusted, would prove an easier creditor. "gerald cannot pay this note," he said firmly. brand turned to him in surprise; but he saw that mowbray was not to be moved, and he understood what had prompted the colonel's sudden change. brand had not played a straight game, and he had lost. at the last moment the prairie man had beaten him. all that he could do now was to bear his defeat with dignity. "very well, sir," he answered, getting up. "since i cannot be of service, i will leave you to arrange matters with these gentlemen." mowbray went to the door with him, and closing it behind them laid his hand on brand's arm. "you pressed me hard, but you were willing to help when i needed it badly. i shall remember that with gratitude." "i wish you could forget the rest, but it's too much to hope," brand replied; and when mowbray went back into the room he walked moodily down the passage. reaching the hall, he found beatrice waiting there. she had seen davies come in and had heard of harding's arrival, and she now wondered with tense anxiety what was going on. she could form no conclusion and could not ask gerald, because he had carefully kept out of her way. looking up at brand's step, she felt her heart beat with returning hope, for his lips were set and his brows knit. he had rather the air of a man who had received a heavy blow than that of a rejoicing lover. something unexpected had happened to humble him and set her free. "well," he said with an effort, "i have lost you. still, i want you to believe that i loved you." beatrice was trembling from the shock of relief, but she knew that it would be cruel to show what she felt. "i never doubted that," she answered quietly; "but you took the wrong way." "there was no other available. now that i have lost, perhaps you will forgive me. i'm going to england in a week or two; i haven't the courage to stay here." "i'm sorry," she said. "but to go away may be best." brand left her, and she leaned against the big newel-post and tried to keep calm. the thing she dreaded most was not to happen. in some miraculous way she was free! she wondered with keen anxiety what her father and harding were talking about. davies, she knew, had left the house a few moments after brand. as a matter of fact, the moneylender was promptly dismissed, with a check for the full amount of the note; and when mowbray returned after closing the door behind him, harding laid the note on the table. "this is yours, sir," he said with a smile. "you may destroy it." "mine!" mowbray showed his surprise. "you mean--you----" he stumbled over the words. "you admit your responsibility?" he finally ended. "of course!" harding picked up the note, tore it across twice, and threw the pieces into the open fire. "there's an end of that," he smiled. "since it bore my signature i don't know that i have any claim, but you can pay me when you like. i won't press you." mowbray did not answer for a moment. he felt overcome and could not collect his thoughts. his prejudices against harding were strong, but they were, in a sense, impersonal. it was not the man he objected to, but what he stood for. the fellow's generosity humbled him. "i'm afraid i have done nothing to warrant this great kindness," he said awkwardly. "am i to understand that you offer it to me without conditions, asking nothing in return?" "no; not altogether. i guess i might choose a better time, but i feel that you should know what i want. i'm going to ask a favor. i suppose you no longer think of compelling miss mowbray to marry brand?" "you can take it that i do not. but what is this to you?" "well," harding said with a slight unsteadiness in his voice, "i want to ask you if you will give her to me?" mowbray straightened himself in his chair. "so you, too, mean to make terms, when you know i cannot refuse!" "no," harding answered shortly, "i make none. if you had insisted on miss mowbray's marrying brand, i might have had something to say. all i ask is that you give her a free choice; if she uses it to take somebody else, i won't complain." "that is remarkably generous," mowbray conceded. "we'll let that go. perhaps my request is something of a shock, but i want you to hear me out. if things go well with me this year, i can give my wife every comfort you have at allenwood, and she can lead the life she likes best--except that i can't leave the prairie. then there is nothing that need separate your daughter from you. many of her friends are mine; they'll welcome me into the settlement. i did not go to them; they came to me." mowbray knew this was true. his own younger son firmly believed in harding. kenwyne, who had fastidious tastes, was his friend. there were others mowbray could think of, and all were men of character and standing. "may i ask how long you have entertained these views about my daughter?" "since the first time i saw her, and that was very soon after i came to this neighborhood. i knew as soon as she spoke to me that i would never marry any one else." mowbray studied him. he had not suspected harding of romantic tendencies, but the man was obviously serious. "has she any reason to suspect your feelings?" he asked. "the best of reasons; i have told her on more than one occasion. still, i can't claim that she approves of me." had harding made his proposal earlier, it would not have been entertained for a moment, but mowbray had suffered during the last few days. he had found that it cost him more than he had expected to disregard his daughter's inclinations, and he shrank from doing so again. then he owed much to harding, who had behaved with somewhat surprising good taste. after all, if beatrice were fond of him--mowbray stopped here, feeling that the matter must be settled at once. he determined to confront the girl with harding and learn the truth. "i hope to give you an answer in a few minutes," he said, and left the room. somewhat to his surprise, mrs. mowbray agreed to his plan, and when he went back to his study he and harding waited until beatrice entered. she was highly strung but calm, though a trace of color crept into her face as she glanced at harding. "gerald is safe," mowbray told her. "mr. harding, who has acted very generously, has ensured that. now he asks that i should allow you to marry him." beatrice look startled; her face grew dead-white and her expression strained. "after what he has learned about us he is very rash. but this is not generosity!" mowbray stopped harding, who would have spoken. "i see that i did not make his meaning clear. he merely asks that i withdraw my objections, and not that i try to influence your decision. i am willing to do the former, but you must make your choice." beatrice gave harding a swift, grateful look. "i am sorry i misunderstood. i should have known you better," she said in a very low voice. then she was silent for a moment, with downcast eyes, and the two men waited tensely. when she looked up her eyes glistened with tears; but behind the tears there shone a great happiness. "it is not hard to decide," she murmured, reaching her hand out timidly toward harding. he grasped it eagerly, and mowbray forced himself to smile. in spite of the colonel's prejudices, he felt that his daughter's quiet confidence in the prairie man was justified. "i sincerely wish you well," he said. he laid one hand on harding's arm, and there was a tremor in his voice as he continued: "we have not agreed on many points, but i have learned that you can be trusted. i am glad to remember it now." "thank you, sir," said harding. "i know the value of what you have given me." after a few more words mowbray let them go, and when they sat together on the large black settle in a corner of the hall, the girl was conscious of a calm tenderness for her lover that was stronger than anything she had yet felt. "craig," she said softly, "i wasn't brave enough when you first urged me, but the hesitation i then felt has gone, and i am ashamed of it. i know that i am safe with you." "thank you for that," he answered and his face grew compassionate. "but you look very tired and distressed." "i am tired--but i'm happy." a faint flush tinted her cheeks and she smiled shyly. "the last few days have been very trying, craig; and when there seemed to be no way out, then i knew that i wanted you. now i am still half dazed; my escape seems so wonderful!" "i know," harding said gently. "i was sorry for you all. it must have been hard for your father, but one can see his point of view. you must forget about it, dear. i am starting for winnipeg to-morrow, and may be there a week. you will have time to get used to things before i come back." "you are very considerate, and even kinder than i thought." he smiled into her eyes. "i am going to leave you now, because i feel that i ought to. but you know i want to stay!" he lifted the hand she gave him and kissed it tenderly. then a swift flood surged through him. "beatrice!" he breathed. "oh, beatrice! you don't know what it means to me!" the little fingers were nearly crushed in his strong grasp; but he released them quickly and turned away. "good-by, dear!" he said. beatrice let him go, but her look was strangely tender and her heart beat fast. he had shown a fine unselfishness, and a tact that was perhaps remarkable. she had no hesitation about him now. chapter xxv the rebuff harding spent a busy week in winnipeg, carrying out a scheme he had agreed upon with broadwood, kenwyne, and one or two others, though he feared it would again bring him into conflict with colonel mowbray. he regretted this, but he could not allow it to influence him. allenwood, in which he now had a strong interest, must not be allowed to suffer because of the colonel's old-fashioned opinions. harding saw what ought to be done; and he felt that to leave it undone, in order to save himself trouble, would be weak and, in a sense, treacherous to those who now looked to him for a lead. he could not act against his convictions; he must do what he thought best, and take the consequences. the storekeepers and implement dealers in the small settlements had many bad debts, and their charges were proportionately high, but harding did not see why he and his friends should pay for the defaulters. expensive machines were needed; and new wheat was being produced which would resist drought and ripen soon enough to escape the autumn frost; but local dealers were unable, or perhaps too careless, to obtain the seed. then, harding saw that a time was coming when mixed farming produce, which he called truck, would be in strong demand; and it was his custom to anticipate a need. kenwyne and the others recognized the desirability of this, and had agreed to open a joint agency in winnipeg. harding was not sure that the expense could be recouped for a time, but he believed the undertaking would pay in the end. after finding a suitable office, he called on a number of business men and the flour-millers who were then beginning what was to become the leading industry of the city. he wanted to learn their views about the kind of wheat best suited to their use, and to enter into direct relations with them. on the whole, he succeeded better than he had hoped, and had now only to appoint an agent. two or three suitable men had offered their services, and it was difficult to decide. he was thinking over the matter in the newly opened office, when gerald came in. the mowbray black sheep seemed to feel no embarrassment in meeting him, for his manner was inclined to be patronizing. sitting down, he lighted a cigarette. "this is a new venture. i don't know that it will meet with general approval at allenwood," he remarked. "one mustn't expect too much," harding answered. "i guess the people who object now will come round by and by." "i wonder how long you think it will be before my father falls into line," said gerald with a careless laugh. "everything considered, i rather admire your pluck." harding let this pass. it was not a tactful allusion to his engagement to beatrice, and he was annoyed by gerald's manner. he had not expected much gratitude, but the fellow did not even seem to realize that harding had saved him from jail. "i suppose you know i have been turned out of allenwood," gerald resumed. harding admitted that he had been told so. "since then i've heard from the government people that they're not likely to want me for the new survey. as a matter of fact, i'm not sorry. the last man i went into the woods with was a sour, exacting brute." "they've got to be hard. it isn't easy to run a line through a rough country." "nobody knows that better than i do," gerald replied with feeling. "well, i've been here a week, and can't find any congenial occupation." "you don't look worried about it." gerald laughed. "oh, i'm not, as a rule, despondent; and i knew that i could as a last resort fall back on you. this explains my call. i believe you want an agent to manage your office." harding's expression indicated ironical amusement. "do you think what you have just told me is a recommendation for the job?" "it seems to prove my need of it." "but not your suitability. i'm not looking for a man whom nobody else will have." gerald looked at him in astonishment. though he had not given the matter much thought, he had imagined that harding would be glad to do him a favor for his sister's sake. it was something of a shock to be refused. and the manner of the refusal was mortifying. the fellow was a coarser brute than he had thought; but gerald did not mean to let his resentment run away with him. "i have a few useful qualifications," he said. "some of the bigger implement dealers and the heads of the milling firms are men of taste and education. it's possible they might rather deal with me than with a drummer fellow, or a raw farmer fresh from the soil." "i'm fresh from the soil, but i guess i could run this end of the business," harding returned. gerald saw that he had blundered; but he did not feel beaten yet. "perhaps i'd better mention that i spoke to kenwyne and broadwood, and they were willing that i should have the agency." "that's so. i have a letter from kenwyne, who says he'd like to give you a lift, but leaves me to decide." "then his wishes ought to count. you must see that your position at allenwood won't be easy; it will need some tact to make it comfortable, and your giving me the post would go a long distance in your favor. you can't afford to disregard our people's feelings until you've made your footing good." "can i not?" harding's patience was exhausted. "have i ever tried to gain your friends' favor by indulging any of their crank notions? if necessary, i'll put my plans through in spite of the crowd!" he checked himself. "but this has nothing to do with the matter. you're not the man i want." "may i inquire what kind of a man you do want?" "first of all, one i can trust." gerald colored, but he got up with some dignity and moved toward the door. "you may regret your decision," he said threateningly. harding sat silent until the door closed, and then he went over to the window and looked out at the narrow street with a frown. he was angry, but he did not think he had been too severe. it was plain that he might have made things easier for himself by falling in with gerald's suggestion; the fellow was a favorite at allenwood, where his last offense was known only to one or two people. harding had no doubt that mowbray would have appreciated his giving his son another chance; and beatrice would have thought it generous. for all that, the business of the settlement could not be done by wastrels; and harding felt that he could not secure a personal advantage by a breach of trust. gerald's feelings about the matter were far from pleasant. returning to his second-class hotel he endeavored to solace them with a drink before he sat down in the untidy lounge to consider. he had been grossly insulted; but he persuaded himself that this did not trouble him most. the worst was that harding was a coarse, low-bred brute, and was, unfortunately, going to marry beatrice. gerald had not hesitated about sacrificing his sister to save himself, but it was easy for him now to feel that she was making a grave mistake. it was perhaps curious that he had preserved a keen sense of family pride, and a belief that people of his station must keep up their dignity; but he was honest as far as he went. he knew that he had by no means lived up to his creed; but, while some allowances must be made for men, this did not apply to women. it was essential that they should remember what was due to their birth and rank. on no account should a well-bred girl marry beneath her. he went to the bar for another drink, and afterward became convinced that beatrice's marriage to harding could only end in disaster. it must, therefore, be prevented. he could not see how this was to be done, but chance might provide a means. in the meanwhile he was confronted by the stern necessity for earning his living. taking up a newspaper, he studied the advertisements; but unfortunately there seemed to be no demand for people with refined tastes and polite accomplishments in canada. farm teamsters were wanted, and shovel hands for a branch railroad; but these occupations did not appeal to gerald. a clerk was required at a new hotel. well, that was more in his line, and he set off to interview the proprietor. after a few curt questions the man dismissed him, and gerald spent the next day or two moodily walking about the town, until it occurred to him that he had better see what davies could do. the fellow, who knew the worst of him, owed him something. he felt much less bitter against the moneylender, who had helped to ruin him, than he did against harding, whom he had injured. davies was disengaged when gerald entered. "so you're up against it!" he remarked. "your friends at allenwood have no use for you?" "it looks like that. otherwise i wouldn't have come here." "i see they're opening an office in this city." "harding's in charge. i don't get on with him." "well, perhaps that's natural." davies was keen enough to notice the rancor in gerald's tone. he was afraid his plans about allenwood might have to be abandoned, but if he were able to go on with them, harding would prove his most dangerous opponent. "i guess mr. harding talked pretty straight to you?" he suggested. "he took an unfair advantage of my position!" "so you thought you'd strike me for a job? i guess you know you're not worth much." gerald winced at this, but he could not resent it. his father had disowned him, and, except for a surreptitious gift from his mother, he had no resources. "it's plain that i can't insist upon good terms," he replied. "i quite expected you to see it." davies considered. he did not suspect mowbray of any fondness for steady work, and he thought his services as a clerk would be dear at five dollars a week; but the fellow was shrewd and plausible, and had what davies called tone. well-brought-up young englishmen and a few americans of the same stamp were coming into manitoba looking for land, and mowbray, who understood these people, might act as a decoy. then, he knew all about allenwood, and this knowledge might be useful later. on the whole, davies thought he would take the risk of employing him. "well," he said, "i'll make you an offer." it was not an advantageous one for gerald, but after some objections he accepted it, and the next day reluctantly set to work. his occupation, however, proved less unpleasant than he had feared, and at the end of a few weeks davies thought he had acted wisely. mowbray was intelligent and unscrupulous, his judgment was good, and davies began to take him into his confidence. harding, in the meanwhile, appointed an agent and went home. he hired a horse at the railroad settlement, and the first of the allenwood farmsteads were rising above the edge of the plain when a mounted figure appeared near a bluff that the trail skirted. the figure was small and distant, but it cut sharp against the evening light, and harding's heart beat fast as he recognized it. touching his horse with the quirt, he rode on at a gallop and pulled up near beatrice with an exultant gleam in his eyes. "this is very kind!" he cried. she looked at him shyly, with some color in her face. "didn't you expect me to meet you? how far have you ridden at that furious pace?" "since i saw you quite a way back. the horse wouldn't come fast enough!" she smiled at him. "if you are not in a great hurry to get home, let's walk as far as the ridge," she suggested. harding, springing down, held out his hand, and when she slipped from the saddle he caught her in his arms and held her fast while he kissed her. beatrice was not demonstrative, but he felt her arms tighten about his neck, and the soft pressure of her cheek upon his face, and it gave him a thrill of triumph. now he realized all that he had won. for a long while they did not speak. then beatrice freed herself with a soft laugh, and they walked on across the prairie. but harding would not release one little hand, which he clung to as they climbed the trail together. the red sunset burned in front of them with the edge of the plain cutting against it in a hard, straight line. above the lurid glow the wide arch of sky shone a vivid green, and the great sweep of grass ran forward steeped in deepening shades of blue. there was something mysteriously impressive in the half light and the riot of color. "what a glorious evening!" beatrice could not help exclaiming. "i am glad i shall not have to leave the prairie." the crimson flush on the skyline merged into rose and magenta and mauve. "it is lighted up in your honor," harding said. "you have a pretty imagination; but i fear the gray days are more in keeping with the life i've led. it was often rather dreary at the grange, and i felt that i was objectless--drifting on without a purpose." she smiled at harding. "you can't understand the feeling?" "no," he said. "all my life i've had too much to do. one gets self-centered through thinking only of one's work. it may be better to stop now and then and look about." "it depends upon what you see. if your surroundings never change, you come to know them too well and begin to think that nothing different is possible. it makes one narrow. we may both need patience, craig, before we learn to understand each other's point of view." harding realized the truth of this. they looked at many things differently, and there were points on which their convictions were opposed. she gave the strong hand that held hers a slight pressure of caress. "i wonder what would have happened if i hadn't been driven out of my way by the grass fire that night?" she questioned, woman-like. "nothing would have been different. i was bound to meet you sooner or later." she laughed contentedly, and they walked on in silence for a while. harding felt that he ought to tell her about gerald, but he hesitated. "tell me what you have been doing in winnipeg," she said, as if she had divined his thoughts. he explained his business there carefully, and beatrice was pleased that he took her interest and comprehension for granted. "gerald wanted me to make him our agent, and i refused," he ended. she was conscious of disappointment, though she appreciated his candor. "i'm afraid he will find things hard. of course, it's his own fault, but that won't make his difficulties lighter. couldn't you have taken the risk of giving him another chance?" "no," said harding. "i wanted to help him, for your sake, but i couldn't give him the post. you see, i was acting for others as well as for myself." he hesitated before he added: "i felt that we must have the best man we could get." "and you could get more reliable men than my brother! unfortunately, it's true. but the others were willing; kenwyne told me so." he looked at her in surprise, for there was a faint hardness in her voice. "i don't think they quite understood how important the matter is. anyway, they left it to me and i felt forced to do what seemed best for all." "well," she said, as if puzzled, "gerald certainly wronged you." "that didn't count; not the wrong you mean. the greatest injury he could have done me would have been in giving you to brand. however, it was not this, but his unfitness for our work that made me refuse him." he had blundered, and beatrice felt hurt. she could have forgiven him for bitterly resenting gerald's attempt to separate them, but he seemed to consider that comparatively unimportant. there was a hard strain in him; perhaps her father had been right in thinking him too deeply imbued with the commercial spirit. he helped her to the saddle, and the misunderstanding was forgotten as they rode in confidential talk across the shadowy plain until the lights of the grange twinkled out ahead. harding left her at the forking of the trail, but he was thoughtful as he trotted home alone. he must exercise care and tact in future. beatrice was proud, and he feared that he had not altogether won her yet. chapter xxvi drought the wheat was growing tall and changing to a darker shade; when the wind swept through it, it undulated like the waves of a vast green sea, rippling silver and white where the light played on the bending blades. harding lay among the dusty grass in a dry sloo, and hester sat beside him in the blue shadow of the big hay wagon. since six o'clock that morning harding and devine had been mowing prairie hay. they had stopped long enough to eat the lunch hester had brought them; and now devine had returned to his work, and sat jolting in the driving-seat of a big machine as he guided three powerful horses along the edge of the grass. it went down in dry rows, ready for gathering, before the glistening knife, and a haze of dust and a cloud of flies followed the team across the sloo. harding's horses stood switching their tails in the sunshine that flooded the plain with a dazzling glare. "it was rough on fred that you wouldn't let him finish his pipe," harding said. "he went obediently," hester answered with a smile. "i wanted to talk to you." "i suspected something of the kind; but i can't see why you must stop me now." "you are away at daybreak and come home late." "very well," said harding resignedly. "but i've got to clean up this sloo by dark." "then you're not going to the grange? you haven't been since sunday." "beatrice understands that i'm busy." "that's fortunate. it's not nice to feel neglected. can't you take your mind off your farming for a little while, craig?" "it's my job. what's more, sticking to it seems the best way of making things easier for beatrice. i'm an outsider at allenwood and have got to justify my unorthodox notions by success. i haven't much polish and i'm not a good talker, but i can grow wheat--and luckily that comes into the scheme." "it may, perhaps. when are you to be married, craig?" "i don't know. beatrice puts it off. i had hoped it might be after harvest, but nothing's settled yet." "then you ought to be firm and insist upon fixing the wedding soon." "i wish i could. but why?" "because it might be better not to leave beatrice among her friends too long." harding looked surprised. "since the colonel's given in, and gerald's gone, i don't think there is anybody who would try to turn her against me." "no," agreed hester. "her parents would be angry if she broke her engagement. now that they have accepted you, you can count on their support, even if they're not quite satisfied with the match. the trouble is that you and they belong to very different schools. they'll try to make the best of you, but beatrice will see how hard they find it." "hurrying on the wedding won't help much." "it might. beatrice will try to accept her husband's views, and she'll probably find it easier than she thinks; but at present all she sees and hears will remind her of the changes she will have to make. things you do will not seem right; some of your ideas will jar. then the other women will let her see that they feel sorry for her and think she's throwing herself away. she'll deny it, but it will hurt." "perhaps that's true," said harding. "but talking of the wedding raises another question. i want a better house, and when i build i may as well locate at allenwood." "then you are still determined on getting control there?" "i don't want control, but i may have to take it," harding answered. "the settlement will fall to bits if it's left alone, and i suspect that i'm the only man who can hold it up. i'm glad you have talked to me. what you've said makes it clear that i've not time to lose. now, however, this hay must be cut." he led his team into the grass when hester went away, but although he worked hard until dark fell, his mind was busy with many things beside the clattering machine. a few days later he had occasion to visit winnipeg, and after some talk with his agent there, he asked him: "do you know how davies is fixed just now, jackson?" "i don't know much about him personally, but men in his line of business are feeling the set-back. they've bought options on land there's no demand for, and can't collect accounts; farmers with money seem to have stopped coming in; and the small homesteaders are going broke. doesn't seem to be any money in the country, and credit's played out." "then it ought to be a good time to pick up land cheap, and i want you to find a broker who'll ask davies what he'll take for two or three mortgages he holds on allenwood. my name's not to be mentioned; you must get a man who can handle the matter cautiously." "i know one; but, if you don't mind my asking, could you put a deal of that kind through?" "i must," said harding. "it will be a strain, but the crop's coming on well and i ought to have a surplus after harvest." "isn't the dry weather hurting you?" "not yet. we can stand for another week or two if the wind's not too bad. anyhow, you can find out whether davies is inclined to trade." when harding went out into the street, he was met by a cloud of swirling dust. he wiped the grit from his eyes and brushed it off his clothes with an annoyance that was not accounted for by the slight discomfort it caused him. the sun was fiercely hot, the glare trying, and the plank sidewalks and the fronts of the wooden stores had begun to crack. sand and cement from half-finished buildings were blowing down the street; and when harding stopped to watch a sprinkler at work on a lawn at the corner of an avenue where frame houses stood among small trees, the glistening shower vanished as it fell. there were fissures in the hard soil and the grass looked burnt. but it was the curious, hard brightness of the sky and the way the few white clouds swept across it that gave harding food for thought. the soil of the western prairie freezes deep, and, thawing slowly, retains moisture for the wheat plant for some time; but the june rain had been unusually light. moreover, the plains rise in three or four tablelands as they run toward the rockies, and the strength of the northwest wind increases with their elevation. it was blowing fresh in the low red river basin, but it would be blowing harder farther west, where there are broken, sandy belts. after a period of dry weather, the sand drives across the levels with disastrous consequences to any crops in the neighborhood. this, however, was a danger that could not be guarded against. the next day jackson reported about the mortgages. "davies was keen on business and offered my man improved preemptions in a dozen different townships," he said. "pressed him to go out and take a look at them; but when he heard the buyer wanted an allenwood location he wouldn't trade." "what do you gather from that?" "the thing seems pretty plain, and what i've found out since yesterday agrees with my conclusions. davies is pressed for money, but he means to hold on to allenwood as long as he can. a good harvest would help him because he'd then be able to get in some money from his customers." "a good harvest would help us all; but there's not much hope of it unless the weather changes. in the meanwhile, we'll let the matter drop, because i don't want to give the fellow a hint about my plans." nearing home on the following evening, harding pulled up his horse on the edge of the wheat as he saw devine coming to meet him. "what's the weather been like?" he asked, getting down from the rig. "bad," said devine gloomily. "hot and blowing hard." harding looked about as they crossed a stretch of grass that had turned white and dry. the sunset was red and angry, but above the horizon the sky was a hard, dark blue that threatened wind. everything was very still now, but the men knew the breeze would rise again soon after daybreak. they said nothing for a time after they stopped beside the wheat. the soil was thinly covered with sand, and the tall blades had a yellow, shriveled look, while the stems were bent and limp. harding gathered a few and examined them. they were scored with fine lines as if they had been cut by a sharp file. "not serious yet, but the grain won't stand for much more of this." "that's so," devine agreed. "the sand hasn't got far in, but i guess it will work right through unless we have a change. if not, there'll be trouble for both of us this fall." "sure," said harding curtly. "bring the horse, fred, and we'll drive on to the rise." they presently alighted where the plain merged into a belt of broken country, dotted with clumps of scrub birch and poplar. it rolled in ridges and hollows, but the harsh grass which thinly covered its surface had shriveled and left bare banks of sand, which lay about the slopes in fantastic shapes as they had drifted. harding stooped and took up a handful. it was hot and felt gritty. the broken ground ran on as far as he could see, and the short, stunted trees looked as if they had been scorched. glowing red in the dying sunset, the desolate landscape had a strangely sinister effect. "the stuff's as hard and sharp as steel," he said, throwing down the sand. "there's enough of it to wipe out all the crops between allenwood and the frontier if the drought lasts." "what we want is a good big thunderstorm. this blamed sand-belt's a trouble we never reckoned on." "no," said harding. "i took a look at it when i was picking my location, but there was plenty of grass, and the brush was strong and green. guess they'd had more rain the last two or three years. i figured out things pretty carefully--and now the only set-back i didn't allow for is going to pull me up! well, we must hope for a change of weather; there's nothing else to be done." he turned away with a gloomy face, and they walked back to the rig. harding had early seen that beatrice would not be an easy prize. it was not enough, entrancing as it was, to dream over her beauty, her fastidious daintiness in manners and thought, her patrician calm, and the shy tenderness she now and then showed for him. the passionate thrill her voice and glance brought him--spurred him rather--to action. first of all, he must work and fight for her, and he had found a keen pleasure in the struggle. one by one he had pulled down the barriers between them; but now, when victory seemed secure, an obstacle he could not overcome had suddenly risen. all his strength of mind and body counted for nothing against the weather. beatrice could not marry a ruined man; it was unthinkable that he should drag her down to the grinding care and drudgery that formed the lot of a broken farmer's wife. he was helpless, and could only wait and hope for rain. when he had finished his work the next evening he drove over to the grange, feeling depressed and tired, for he had begun at four o'clock that morning. it was very hot: a fiery wind still blew across the plain, although the sun had set, and beatrice was sitting on the veranda with her mother and mowbray. they had a languid air, and the prairie, which had turned a lifeless gray, looked strangely dreary as it ran back into the gathering dark. "not much hope of a change!" mowbray remarked. beatrice gave harding a sympathetic glance, and unconsciously he set his lips tight. she looked cool and somehow ethereal in her thin white dress and her eyes were gentle. it was horrible to think that he might have to give her up; but he knew it might come to this. "you're tired; i'm afraid you have been working too hard," beatrice said gently. "the weather accounts for it, not the work," he answered. "it's depressing to feel that all you've done may lead to nothing." "very true," mowbray assented. "you're fortunate if this is the first time you have been troubled by the feeling. many of us have got used to it; but one must go on." "it's hard to fight a losing battle, sir." "it is," said mowbray grimly. "that it really does not matter in the end whether you lose or not, so long as you're on the right side, doesn't seem to give one much consolation. but your crop strikes me as looking better than ours." "i plowed deep; the sub-soil holds the moisture. of course, with horse-traction----" harding hesitated, but mowbray smiled. "i can't deny that your machines have their advantages," the colonel said. "they'd be useful if you could keep them in their place as servants; the danger is that they'll become your masters. when you have bought them you must make them pay, and that puts you under the yoke of an iron thing that demands to be handled with the sternest economy. the balance sheet's the only standard it leaves you--and you have to make some sacrifices if you mean to come out on the credit side. your finer feelings and self-respect often have to go." "i'm not sure they need go; but, in a way, you're right. you must strike a balance, or the machines that cost so much will break you. for all that, it's useful as a test; the result of bad work shows when you come to the reckoning. i can't see that to avoid waste must be demoralizing." "it isn't. the harm begins when you set too high a value on economical efficiency." harding did not answer, and there was silence for a time. mrs. mowbray had a headache from the heat, and beatrice felt limp. she noticed the slackness of harding's pose and felt sorry for him. he differed from her father, and she could not think he was always right, but he was honest; indeed, it was his strong sincerity that had first attracted her. she liked his strength and boldness; the athletic symmetry of his form had its effect; but what struck her most was his freedom from what the canadians contemptuously called meanness. beatrice was fastidiously refined in some respects, and she thought of him as clean. unconsciously she forgave him much for this, because he jarred upon her now and then. her father's old-fashioned ideals were touched with a grace that her lover could not even admire, but, watching him as he sat in the fading light, she felt that he was trustworthy. mosquitos began to invade the veranda, and mrs. mowbray was driven into the house. the colonel presently followed her, and beatrice, leaving her chair, cuddled down beside harding on the steps. "craig," she said, "you're quiet to-night." "this dry weather makes one think; and then there's the difference between your father and myself. he wants to be just, but there's a natural antagonism between us that can't be got over." "it isn't personal, dear." "no," said harding; "we're antagonistic types. the trouble is that you must often think as he does--and i wouldn't have you different." "that's dear of you, craig. but, even if we don't agree always, what does it matter? i like you because you're so candid and honest. you would never hide anything you thought or did from me." they sat there in the gathering gloom. an early owl ventured out and hooted from his sheltered tree-top; a chorus of frogs down in the lake sent back an indignant reply; a honeysuckle vine that climbed over the veranda flaunted its perfumed blossoms to the hot, night air, luring pollen-bearers. to harding, the worries of the day were, for the moment, forgotten: a great peace filled him. and over the girl, as she felt his strong arm around her, there rested a deep, satisfying sense of security and trust. chapter xxvii the adventuress before the wheat had suffered serious damage, a few thunder showers broke upon the plain, and harding and his neighbors took courage. the crop was not out of danger; indeed, a week's dry weather would undo the good the scanty rain had done; but ruin, which had seemed imminent, was, at least, delayed. then harding got news from his agent that necessitated his return to winnipeg, and mrs. mowbray and beatrice, who wished to visit the millinery stores, arranged to accompany him. it was hot and dry when they reached the city, but harding was of sanguine temperament and, being relieved from fear of immediate disaster, proceeded with his plans for the consolidation of allenwood. he could not carry them far, because even if he secured an abundant harvest, which was at present doubtful, he would have some difficulty in raising capital enough to outbid his rival. acting cautiously with jackson's help, however, he found two men who had lent davies money and were now frankly alarmed by the general fall in values. one, indeed, was willing to transfer his interest to harding on certain terms which the latter could not accept. he was thinking over these matters one morning when, to his surprise, he saw brand crossing the street toward him. they had not met since the evening of their encounter with davies at the grange, and harding was sensible of some constraint. brand was a reserved man whom he had neither understood nor liked, but he had thought him honorable until he learned the price he had demanded for helping mowbray. there was no embarrassment in brand's manner. he looked as cool and inscrutable as usual. "i'm rather glad we have met," he said. "i thought you had gone back to the old country," harding replied. "no; i find it harder to sell my farm than i imagined. the settlement covenant's the trouble, and i don't feel inclined to give the land away. i want a talk with you. will you come to my hotel?" harding agreed, and a few minutes later they sat down in a quiet corner of the hotel lounge. "how's your campaign against the moneylender progressing?" brand began abruptly. "then you know something about it?" "i'm not a fool. i've been watching the game with interest for some time. i have a reason for asking; you can be frank with me." harding knew when to trust a man and, in spite of what had happened, he trusted brand. when he had given him a short explanation, brand seemed satisfied. "very well; now i have something to say. my prejudices are against you; they're on mowbray's side, but i'm beginning to see that his position is untenable. it seems i can't get a fair price for my farm, and after spending some happy years on it, i have a sentimental affection for the place. don't know that i'd care to see it fall into the hands of some raw english lad whose inexperience would be a danger to allenwood. the drift of all this is--will you work the land for me if we can make a satisfactory arrangement?" harding hesitated. "i don't know that i could take a favor----" "from me? don't make a mistake. i'm not acting out of any personal regard for you. on the whole, i'd rather see you in control of allenwood than a mortgage broker; that's all." "thanks! on that understanding we might come to terms." "then there's another matter. managing my farm won't help you much, and i feel that i owe something to the settlement. if it looks as if the moneylender would be too strong for you, and you're short of funds, you can write to me. i can afford to spend something on allenwood's defense." they talked it over, and when harding left the hotel he had promised, in case of necessity, to ask brand's help. moreover, although he had not expected this, he felt some sympathy and a half reluctant liking for his beaten rival. during the same day davies had a confidential talk with gerald. "do you know that your mother and sister are in town with harding?" he asked. "yes; but i haven't seen them yet." "rather not meet harding? are you pleased that the man's going to marry your sister?" "i'm not!" gerald answered curtly. he stopped writing and frowned at the book in which he was making an entry. he felt very bitter against harding, who had insulted him, but he was moved by a deeper and less selfish feeling. it jarred upon his sense of fitness that his sister should marry a low-bred fellow with whom he was convinced she could not live happily. beatrice had lost her head, but she was a mowbray and would recover her senses; then she would rue the mistake she had made. she might resent gerald's interference and would, no doubt, suffer for a time if he succeeded in separating her from her lover; but men, as he knew, got over an irregular passion, and he had no reason to believe that women were different. "she will marry him unless something is done," davies resumed cunningly. "what is that to you?" "well, i think you can guess my hand. his marrying your sister would give harding some standing at allenwood, and he's already got more influence there than suits me. the fellow's dangerous; i hear he's been getting at one or two of the men who backed me. but we'll quit fencing. do you want to stop this match?" although he had fallen very low, gerald felt the humiliation of allowing davies to meddle with the mowbray affairs; but he overcame his repugnance, because the man might be of help. "yes," he answered shortly; "but i don't see how it can be stopped." "you knew coral stanton in your more prosperous days, didn't you?" gerald admitted it. miss stanton described herself as a clairvoyante, but although there were then in the western cities ladies of her profession who confined themselves to forecasting the changes of the markets and fortune-telling, the term had to some extent become conventionalized and conveyed another meaning. coral had arrived in winnipeg with a third-rate opera company, which she left after a quarrel with the manager's wife; and although it was known that gambling for high stakes went on in her consulting rooms, she had for a time avoided trouble with the civic authorities. the girl was of adventurous turn of mind and was marked by an elfish love of mischief. "i can't see what my knowing coral has to do with the matter," gerald replied. "then i'll have to explain. things have been going wrong with her since the ontario lumber man was doped in her rooms. the police have given her warning, and i guess she wouldn't stick at much if she saw a chance of earning a hundred dollars easily." "what d'you suggest that she should do?" "if you'll listen for a few minutes, i'll tell you." davies chuckled as he unfolded a plan that appealed to his broad sense of humor; but gerald frowned. although likely to result to her ultimate benefit, the plot was, in the first place, directed against his sister. it was repugnant in several ways, but he thought it would work, for beatrice, like his mother, had puritanical views. besides, he could think of nothing else. "well," he said, "will you talk to coral?" "certainly not," davies answered cautiously; "that's your part of the business. i'll put up the money." the following day harding was lunching with beatrice and her mother at their hotel, when the waitress brought him a note. beatrice, sitting next to him, noticed that it was addressed in a woman's hand and was heavily scented. indeed, there was something she disliked in the insidious perfume. she watched harding as he opened the envelope and saw that what he read disturbed him. this struck her as curious, but she did not see the note. he thrust it into his pocket and began to talk about something of no importance. beatrice thought over the incident during the afternoon, but by evening she had banished it from her mind. after dinner they sat in the big rotunda of the hotel. harding was unusually quiet, but beatrice scarcely noticed it, for she was interested in watching the people who sauntered in and out through the revolving glass door. they were of many different types: wiry, brown-faced plainsmen; silent, grave-eyed fellows from the forest belt; smart bank clerks and traders; mechanics; and a few women. one or two seemed to be needy adventurers, but they came and went among the rest, though it was obvious that they could not be staying at the hotel. beatrice's attention was suddenly attracted by a girl who came in. she was handsome, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and marked by a certain rakish boldness that was not unbecoming. beatrice was struck by the darkness of her hair and the brilliance of her color, until she saw that something was due to art; then she noticed a man smile at another as he indicated the girl, and two more turn and look after her when she passed. thereupon beatrice grew pitiful, ashamed and angry, for she could not tell which of the feelings predominated; and she wondered why the hotel people had not prevented the girl's entrance. she was pleased to see that harding was talking to a man who had joined him and had noticed nothing. her life at the grange had been somewhat austere, and her relatives were old-fashioned people of high character who condemned what they called modern laxity. for all that, the adventuress roused her curiosity, and she watched her as she moved about the room. she drew near them, and beatrice thought her eyes rested strangely on harding for a moment. a strong scent floated about her--the same that had perfumed the note. beatrice was startled, but she tried to persuade herself that she was mistaken. the adventuress passed on; but when harding's companion left him she came up at once and gave him an inviting smile. he looked at her in surprise, but there was some color in his face. it was unthinkable that he should know the girl, but she stopped beside him. "craig," she cooed, "you don't pretend that you've forgotten me?" harding looked at her coldly. "i have never seen you before in my life!" he said emphatically. coral laughed, and beatrice noticed the music in her voice. "aw, come off!" she exclaimed. "what you giving us? guess you've been getting rich and turned respectable." harding cast a quick glance round. beatrice and mrs. mowbray sat near, and it would be difficult to defend himself to either. the girl had made an unfortunate mistake, or perhaps expected to find him an easy victim; now he began to understand the note. the blood filled his face and he looked guilty in his embarrassment and anger, for he saw that he was helpless. the hotel people would not interfere; and to repulse the woman rudely or run away from her was likely to attract the attention he wished to avoid. "you have mistaken me for somebody else," he replied uneasily. she gave him a coquettish smile. "well, i guess you're craig harding unless you've changed your name as well as your character. i reckoned you'd come back to me when i heard you were in town. you ought to feel proud i came to look for you, when you didn't answer my note." there was something seductive and graceful in her mocking courtesy, but harding lost his temper. "i've had enough! you don't know me, and if you try to play this fool game i'll have you fired out!" "that to an old friend--and a lady!" she exclaimed. "you've surely lost the pretty manners that made me love you." harding turned in desperation, and started to the door; but she followed, putting her hand on his shoulder, and some of the bystanders laughed. beatrice, quivering with the shock, hated them for their amusement. even if he were innocent, harding had placed himself in a horribly humiliating position. but she could not think him innocent. all she had seen and heard condemned him. harding shook off the girl's hand and, perhaps alarmed by the look he gave her, she left him and soon afterward disappeared, but when he returned to the table beatrice and her mother had gone. he was getting cool again, but he felt crushed, for no defense seemed possible. he could only offer a blunt denial which, in the face of appearances, could hardly be believed. he left the hotel and spent an hour walking about the city, trying to think what he must do. when he returned a bell-boy brought him word that mrs. mowbray wished to see him in the drawing-room. harding went up and found the room unoccupied except by beatrice and her mother. the girl's face was white, but it was stern and she had her father's immovable look. rising as he came in, she stood very straight, holding out a little box. "this is yours," she said. "i must give it back to you. you will understand what that means." harding took the box, containing the ring he had given her, and steadily met her accusing eyes, though he could see no hope for him in them. "i suppose there's no use in my saying that it's all a mistake or a wicked plot?" "no; i'm afraid the evidence against you is too strong." she hesitated a moment, and he thought he saw some sign of relenting. "craig," she begged, in a broken voice, "do go. i--i believed in you." "you have no reason to doubt me now." he turned to mrs. mowbray. "can't you be persuaded? i give you my solemn word----" "don't!" beatrice interrupted. "don't make it worse!" "i'm sorry i must agree with my daughter's decision until i see more reason to change it than i can hope for at present," mrs. mowbray replied. "it would be better if you left us. we return to-morrow." her tone was final; and, with a last glance at beatrice, harding went out dejectedly. chapter xxviii fire and hail on the morning after her return from winnipeg, beatrice sat in her father's study, with mowbray facing her across the table. he looked thoughtful, but not so shocked and indignant as she had expected. "so you are determined to throw harding over!" "yes," beatrice said in a strained voice. "it seems impossible to do anything else." "a broken engagement's a serious matter; we mowbrays keep our word. i hope you're quite sure of your ground." "what i heard left no room for doubt." "did you hear the man's defense?" "i refused to listen," said beatrice coldly. "that he should try to excuse himself only made it worse." "i'm not sure that's very logical. i'll confess that harding and i seldom agree, but one must be fair." "does that mean that one ought to be lenient?" beatrice asked with an angry sparkle in her eyes. mowbray was conscious of some embarrassment. his ideas upon the subject were not sharply defined, but if it had not been his daughter who questioned him he could have expressed them better. beatrice ought to have left her parents to deal with a delicate matter like this, but instead she had boldly taken it into her own hands. he had tried to bring up his children well, but the becoming modesty which characterized young women in his youth had gone. "no," he answered; "not exactly lenient. but the thing may not be so bad as you think--and one must make allowances. then, a broken engagement reflects upon both parties. even if one of them has an unquestionable grievance, it proves that that person acted very rashly in making a promise in the first instance." "yes," said beatrice; "that is my misfortune. i was rash and easily deceived. i made the bargain in confiding ignorance, without reserve, while the man kept a good deal back." "but your mother tells me that he declared he had never seen the woman; and harding is not a liar." "i used to think so, but it looks as if i were mistaken," beatrice answered bitterly as she turned away. leaving him, she found a quiet spot in the shadow of a bluff, and sat down to grapple with her pain. it had hurt more than she had thought possible to cast off harding, and she could bear her trouble only by calling pride to her aid. there was, she told herself, much about the man that had from the first offended her, but she had made light of it, believing him steadfast and honorable. now she knew she had been deceived. she had been ready to throw away all the privileges of her station; she had disregarded her friends' opinion--and this was her reward! the man for whom she would have made the sacrifice was gross and corrupt; but nobody should guess that she found it strangely hard to forget him. lance came upon her, there at the edge of the woods; but her head was buried in her arms and she did not see him. the boy turned at once and went to have a talk with his father. his expression was very resolute when he entered mowbray's study. "what are you going to do about bee's trouble, sir?" he asked abruptly. his father gave him an amused smile. "i haven't decided," he said. "have you anything useful to suggest?" "i feel that you ought to put it right." "can you tell me how?" "no. of course, it's a delicate matter; but you have a wider knowledge and experience." "umh!" the colonel grunted. "why do you conclude that your sister's wrong?" "i know the man. he's not the kind she thinks." "your mother saw the woman, and heard what she said." "there's been a mistake," lance persisted. "i've a suspicion that somebody may have put her up to it." "made a plot to blacken harding, you mean? rather far-fetched, isn't it? whom do you suspect?" lance turned red, for his father's tone was sarcastic, and he thought of gerald; but he could not drop a hint against his brother. "i don't know yet, but i'm going to find out." "when you have found out, you can tell me," mowbray answered, and gave the boy an approving smile. "you're quite right in standing by your friend, and you certainly owe harding something. if you can prove him better than we think, nobody will be more pleased than i." lance had to be satisfied with this. he did not know how to set about his investigations, but he determined to visit winnipeg as soon as he could. for the next week or two there was quietness at the grange. the dry weather held, and boisterous winds swept the sunburned plain. the sod cracked, the wheat was shriveling, and although in public men and women made a brave pretense of cheerfulness, in private they brooded over the ruin that threatened them. to make things worse, three or four days a week, heavy clouds that raced across the sky all morning gathered in solid banks at noon, and then, as if in mockery, broke up and drove away. few of the settlers had much reserve capital, and the low prices obtained for the last crop had strained their finances; but harding was, perhaps, threatened most. he had, as had been his custom, boldly trusted to the earth all he had won by previous effort, and this year it looked as if the soil would refuse its due return. still, his taking such a risk was only partly due to the prompting of his sanguine temperament. while he had hope of winning beatrice he must stake his all on the chance of gaining influence and wealth. he had lost her; but after a few black days during which he had thought of abandoning the struggle and letting things drift, he quietly resumed his work. what he had begun must be finished, even if it brought no advantage to himself. the disaster that seemed unavoidable braced him to sterner effort; but when dusk settled down he stood in the dim light and brooded over his withering wheat. being what he was, a man of constructive genius, it cut deep that he must watch the grain that had cost so much thought and toil go to waste; but the red band on the prairie's edge and the luminous green above it held only a menace. one day harding drove with devine to a distant farm, and they set out on the return journey late in the afternoon. it was very hot, for the wind had died away, and deep stillness brooded over the lifeless plain. the gophers that made their burrows in the trail had lost their usual briskness, and sat up on their haunches until the wheels were almost upon them. the prairie-chickens the horses disturbed would not rise, but ran a few yards and sank down in the parched grass. the sky was leaden, and the prairie glimmered a curious, livid white. harding's skin prickled, and he was conscious of a black depression and a headache. "if this only meant rain!" he exclaimed dejectedly. "but i've given up hope." "something's surely coming," devine replied, glancing at a great bank of cloud that had changed its color to an oily black. "if this weather holds for another week, the crop will be wiped out, but somehow i can't believe we'll all go broke." harding had once thought as his comrade did, but now his optimistic courage had deserted him. the future was very dark. he meant to fight on, but defeat seemed certain. it would be easier to bear because he had already lost what he valued most. presently the wagon wheels sank in yielding sand, and that roused him. "our hauling costs us high with these loose trails. i'd counted on cutting more straw with the crop this year and using it to bind the road. but now we may not have any grain to send out." the plan was characteristic of him, though his dejection was not. as a rule, straw has no value in a newly opened country, and not much is cut with the grain, the tall stubble being burned off; but harding had seen a use for the waste material in improving the means of transport. "well," said devine, "we'd better hustle. the team won't stand for a storm." harding urged the horses, and as the wheels ran out on firm ground the pace grew faster, and a distant bluff began to rise from the waste. when they were a mile or two from the woods there was a rumble of thunder and the light grew dim. the dark sky seemed descending to meet the earth, the bluff grew indistinct, but the burned grass still retained its ghostly whiteness. then the temperature suddenly fell, and when a puff of cold wind touched his face harding used the whip. he knew what was going to happen. throwing up their heads in alarm as a pale flash glimmered across the trail, the team broke into a gallop, while the light wagon rocked and swung as the wheels jolted over hummocks and smashed through scrubby brush. harding did not think he could hold the horses in the open when the storm broke, and he did not wish to be hurled across the rugged prairie behind a bolting team. springing down when they reached the trees, he and devine locked the wheels and then stood waiting at the horses' heads. all was now very still again, but a gray haze was closing in. now and then leaves stirred and rustled, and once or twice a dry twig came down. the faint crackle it made jarred on the men's tingling nerves. harding found it difficult to keep still. he slowly filled his pipe for the sake of occupation. the match he struck burned steadily, but its pale flame was suddenly lost in a dazzling glare as the lightning fell in an unbroken fork from overhead to a corner of the bluff. then the pipe dropped and was trodden on, as the men swayed to and fro, using all their strength to hold the plunging team. it was only for a moment they heard the battering hoofs, for a deafening crash that rolled across the heavens drowned all other sound, and as it died away the trees began to moan. a few large drops of rain fell, and then, as the men watched it, gathering a faint hope, the rain turned to hail. a savage wind struck the bluff, the air got icy cold, and the hail changed from fine grains to ragged lumps. harding could hear it roar among the trees between the peals of thunder, until the scream of wind and the groan of bending branches joined in and formed a wild tumult of sound. though the men stood to lee of the woods, the hail found them out, bruising their faces and cutting their wet hands; even their bodies afterward felt as if they had been beaten. it raked the bluff like rifle-fire, cutting twigs and shredding leaves, and the wild wind swept the wreckage far to leeward. light branches were flying, and harding was struck, but his grapple with the maddened horses demanded all his thought. the lightning leaped about them and blazed through the woods, silhouetting bending trees and the horses' tense, wet bodies, before it vanished and left what seemed to be black darkness behind. then, when the men were getting exhausted, the thunder grew fainter and the bitter wind died away. there was a strange, perplexing stillness in the heavy gloom, until the cloud-ranks parted and a ray of silver light broke through. the grass steamed as the beam moved across it, and suddenly the bluff was warm and bright, and they could see the havoc that had been made. torn branches hung from the poplars, slender birch-twigs lay in heaps, and banks of hail, now changing fast to water, stretched out into the wet, sparkling plain. harding's face was very stern as he picked up a handful of the icy pieces. "with a strong wind behind it, this stuff would cut like a knife," he said. "well, it has saved our putting the binders into the grain." devine made a sign of gloomy agreement. there was no hope left; the crop they had expected much from was destroyed. they clambered into the wagon and drove for some time before the first farmstead began to lift above the edge of the plain. in the meanwhile the hail that glistened in the grass tussocks melted away, and only a few dark clouds drifting to the east marred the tranquillity of the summer evening. the men were silent, but devine understood why his comrade drove so hard, holding straight across dry sloos where the tall grass crackled about the wheels, and over billowy rises where the horses' feet sank deep in sand. he was anxious to learn the worst, and devine feared that it would prove very bad. at last they crossed a higher ridge and harding, looking down, saw his homestead lying warm in the evening light. he had often watched it rise out of the prairie, with a stirring of his blood. it was his; much of it had been built by his own labor; and he had won from the desolate waste the broad stretch of fertile soil that rolled away behind it. but he now gazed at it with a frown. as the buildings grew into shape, dark patches of summer fallow broke the gray sweep of grass, and then the neutral green of alfalfa and clover, running in regular oblongs, appeared. behind, extending right across the background, lay the wheat, a smear of indefinite color darker than the plain. that was all they could see of it at that distance. they were going fast, but harding lashed the horses in his impatience. devine, however, looked more closely about, and it struck him that the ground had dried with remarkable rapidity; indeed, if he had not felt the hail, he could hardly have believed the plain had been wet. for all that, not venturing to hope for fear of meeting a heavier shock, he said nothing to his comrade, and presently they dipped into a hollow. they could not see across the ridge in front, and harding urged his horses savagely when they came to the ascent. the animals' coats were foul, spume dripped from the bits, and their sides were white where the traces slapped, but they breasted the hill pluckily. the men were grim and highly strung, braced to meet the worst. to harding it meant ruin and the downfall of all his plans; to devine his wedding put off. it might be some years before he made good, and he feared that he could no longer count on his comrade's help. if harding were forced to give up his farm, he might leave the prairie. at last, when the suspense was telling upon both, they reached the summit and harding stood up to see better. "why, the ground has not been wet!" he exclaimed, unbelieving. "the hail has not touched us!" it was true; the fire and the ragged ice had passed over that belt of prairie and left its wake of ruin farther on. still, though the wheat was none the worse, it was none the better. it stood as when they had seen it last, limp from drought and cut by blowing sand. disaster was only suspended, not removed. but there was hope. "things don't look half so bad as they might!" said harding cheerfully. "i don't deserve it. i got savage and bitter; and bitterness is a bad substitute for grit. now i'll brace up, and face the future the way a man ought!" chapter xxix a brave heart three days passed, and still no rain fell to save the withering grain. on the evening of the fourth day, beatrice was walking home alone from one of the neighboring farms. she was lost in painful thought and scarcely noticed where she was until she passed a clump of prominent trees which she knew was at the edge of harding's place. then she stopped and looked about her. the sun had dipped, but an angry orange glow flushed the wide horizon and the sky overhead was a cold dark blue. the great sweep of grain caught the fading light, and beatrice knew enough about farming to see how it had suffered. she could not look at it unmoved; the sight was pitiful. the wheat had cost long and patient labor, and she knew with what hope and ambition the man who had sown it had worked. it was only after years of strenuous toil, careful thought, and stern economy, that he had been able to break the broad belt of prairie, and in doing so he had boldly staked his all. now it looked as if he had lost, and she was grieved to see so much effort thrown away. harding had transgressed, but the work he did was good, and beatrice began to wonder how far that might atone for his lack of principle. human character was mixed; men might be true in many ways, and yet fall victims to a besetting sin. but it was a sin beatrice could not forgive. harding had sought the other woman while he professed his love for her. in beatrice, pride, fastidiousness, and puritanical convictions converged. letting her eyes travel farther along the grain, she started as she saw him. he had not noticed her, for he stood looking at his crop. his figure was outlined against the last of the light, and his pose was slack and stamped with dejection. it was obvious that he thought himself alone, for harding was not the man to betray his troubles. beatrice's heart suddenly filled with pity. he must be very hard hit; and she believed that it was not the loss of fortune he felt most. everything had gone against him. one could not refuse a man compassion because his sin had found him out. to her surprise, she felt that she must speak to him. she did not know what she meant to say, but, half hesitating, she moved forward. harding looked round at her step, and the fading glow struck upon his face. it was brown and thin, and marked by a great physical weariness. the toil he had borne since the thaw came and the suspense he had suffered had set their stamp on him; he looked fined down, his face had an ascetic cast. beatrice caught her breath. by some strange inward power she grasped the truth. this man had done no wrong; there was no deceit in him. what she had believed of him was impossible! all that she had seen and heard condemned him; there was no weak point in the evidence of his guilt; but she trusted the prompting of her heart. calm judgment and logical reasoning had no place in this matter. she had wronged him. and how she must have hurt him! she held out both her hands, and there were tears in her eyes. "craig," she said, "i've come back. i couldn't stay away." harding could not speak. he took her into his arms--and suddenly the earth seemed to be giving way under his feet; his brain reeled and a great blackness settled down over him. "why, you're ill!" beatrice exclaimed. "oh, i have brought you to this!" the anguish in her cry cut through him as he was losing consciousness, and he pulled himself together. "no," he smiled, "i'm not ill; but you must give me a moment to realize that i really have you again." they walked back the few paces to the trail. an old log lay beside it, half buried in grass and wild flowers, and here they sat together, in the cool stillness of the dusk, until the darkness came down and hovered round them. out of the early night sky, one star shone down on them, like a blessing. for the time being, it was nothing to them that the prairie sod was cracked and parched, and that the destroying wind would rise again at dawn. * * * * * on the way back to the grange, beatrice brought up the subject which she felt must be talked of and then dropped for good. "how dreadfully mistaken i was about--the girl!" she said, hesitatingly. "how did you find it out?" "i haven't really found out anything; i'm afraid i can't explain. i suddenly saw the truth, and wondered why i had been blind." "do you mean----" "i mean that i should never have left you, craig dear. i know that you never saw that girl before in your life--but i did not know it until i saw you standing there, in the wheat, this evening." harding dropped the hand he was holding, and caught her to him. "dear!" was all he said. "can you explain what happened in winnipeg?" she asked as they walked on again. "no; i'm puzzled. but, for your sake, i shall not rest until i've cleared myself." then, with a sudden shock, he remembered the wheat they had left. "but i was forgetting--i may be a ruined man." "and i the daughter of another," beatrice answered with a smile. "that could make no difference, craig; and we're not ruined yet. still, because i was hard and unjust at first, i should like you to remember that i came to you when you were in trouble, and didn't ask whether you were innocent or not." "i'll remember it," said harding, "as long as i live." when they reached the house, mowbray and his wife were sitting on the veranda, and lance came down the steps to meet them with his hand held out. neither spoke, but harding was touched by the sincerity of his welcome. beatrice ran up the steps to her mother, and harding, after a word of greeting turned away. he felt that, until he had cleared himself, it would be more becoming in him to keep away from the colonel and mrs. mowbray. the next morning mowbray called beatrice into his study. "i am glad that your confidence in harding has returned," he said. "you must, however, understand that the situation is still awkward." "yes; craig and i talked it over last night." "you talked this matter over!" mowbray exclaimed. "of course," said beatrice calmly. "it's of some importance to me. are you surprised?" "i must admit that i am. when i was young, a well-brought-up girl would hardly have ventured to mention such subjects to her mother, much less discuss them with her lover." beatrice smiled at him. "i'm afraid your feelings must get many a rude jar in these degenerate times. still, you know things are changing." "that's true," said mowbray. "i've had cause to realize it of late. for example, your brother lance goes off to winnipeg on some mysterious business without consulting me, and only tells me in a casual manner that he may have to go again. respect for parents is not a characteristic of your generation. but i want to speak about harding." he talked very kindly and shrewdly, and when beatrice left him she sought her favorite place in the shadow of a nearby bluff to think over what he had said. there was less wind for the next two days, and driving sand no longer raked the grain. from early morning dingy clouds rolled up slowly from the west, and though not a drop of rain fell the distance grew blurred. the horses on the range were restless and galloped furiously now and then; the gophers scurried up and down the trails; men at work grew impatient over trifling obstacles, and often stopped to watch the clouds. these rolled on and vanished in the east, while many an anxious farmer wondered when the last would rise from the horizon and leave the pitiless sky uncovered again. thirsty wild creatures stirred in the shadow of the bluffs and rustled through the withered grass beside the dried-up creeks. leaves fluttered and hung still again with a strange limpness, their under sides exposed. it was as if the sun-scorched waste and all that lived on it were panting for the rain. and still the clouds that never broke rolled slowly on. at dusk on the second evening, beatrice and harding walked across the prairie, speaking in low voices, anxious and yet serene. "what are you thinking of, craig?" beatrice asked presently. "of the weather," harding answered. "wondering if these clouds will break or clear away again. it looks as if our future hung upon the chance of a storm. if it doesn't come, there's a long uphill fight before us; and i hate to think of what you may have to bear." "i'm not afraid," said beatrice. "if i stayed at allenwood, i should not escape. perhaps i have missed something by getting through life too easily. i really don't think i'm much weaker, or less capable, than effie broadwood, and she's not cast down." harding kissed the hand he held. "a brave heart like yours carries one a long way, but training and experience are needed. grit alone is not much use when you're up against a thing you don't know how to do." "it helps you to learn. am i so very stupid? don't you see, dear, that i want to prove that i can be useful?" "to carry heavy pails, bake, and mend old overalls? that would be an unthinkable waste of fine material. it's your business to be your beautiful and gracious self, a refining influence, a light in the home!" beatrice laughed. "i'm afraid when you think about me you lose your usual sense. i should be as useful if i were made of painted wax, and you'd get tired of your goddess some day and want to break me up. i'm alive, you know. i want to be in the midst of the strife. i hear the bugles call." harding kissed her tenderly. "i'm afraid we'll have to fall in with the firing line, but it will be my business to shield you from harm," he said. "it's a good fight," she answered with sparkling eyes; "you have taught me that. the flag goes steadily forward with the pioneers in the van. there are great alkali barrens, rocks, and muskegs to be overcome, arid plains to be watered, forests cleared, the waste places to be made fruitful. that's why we have painted the beaver of industry in the field. but we have our camp-followers--and i might have been one--useless idlers, grafters, and dishonest contractors who rob the fighting men." "when we've broken the wilderness, we'll have time to deal with them; but i'm afraid many a pioneer will go down before we march much farther." "ah!" said beatrice softly. "but whether the fight is hard or not, you must teach me to do my part." she stopped, holding out her hands with an excited cry: "the rain, craig; the rain!" her hands felt wet, something drummed upon her broad straw hat, and the dust leaped up from the grass; then the quick patter ceased, and there was stillness again. it lasted for several minutes while both stood tense and still, scarcely venturing to hope. then there was a roar in the distance and a puff of cool wind, and harding, touching the girl's arm, hurried her forward. "it's coming!" he said hoarsely. "coming in earnest!" "oh, let's stay!" cried beatrice. "i want to feel it's true!" harding laughed, but led her on, and presently they met the advancing rain. it beat, wonderfully refreshing, on their hot faces, and soon beatrice's thin dress was soaked. steam rose from the parched earth; there was a hothouse smell, a dull roar, and a rustle among the beaten grass, and the fading light was shut off by a curtain of falling water. alternating between happy laughter and silence, during which their thankfulness became too deep for speech, they hurried toward harding's farm, and beatrice threw her arms round hester's neck when she met her at the door. "oh!" she cried. "our troubles are over! the rain! the rain!" chapter xxx the inheritance the rain lasted several days and saved the crops: the wheat, although somewhat damaged, was ripening fast. as lance drove home from one of his mysterious absences from the grange, he looked out over the rippling fields with a sense of thankfulness in his boyish heart. harding was not to be ruined after all! the rain had saved his fortune; and in lance's pocket there was a paper that would clear his name. beatrice met him on the steps, but he brushed past her with a smile and hurried to his father's study, where he knew he would find the colonel. "i've been away several times, and now i must tell you why, sir," he said. "you will remember that i've declared my belief in harding all along." "i've no doubt he feels properly grateful," mowbray remarked. "i'm grateful to him. and now i have some satisfaction in being able to prove his innocence. read this." he gave his father a note, and mowbray read it aloud: "'_i hereby declare that craig harding of allenwood is a stranger to me. i met him for the first and only time at the rideau hotel, winnipeg, and i regret that i then claimed his acquaintance._'" "it sounds conclusive. i see it's signed 'coral stanton, clairvoyante.' may i ask how you came to meet this lady and get the document?" "both things needed some tact, sir," lance answered with a grin. "so i should imagine. rather a delicate business for one so young. you must have seen that your motives were liable to be misunderstood." lance colored. "i had to take the risk. as a matter of fact, things threatened to become embarrassing at first. however, i got the statement." "what did you give for it?" "a hundred dollars; what miss stanton was promised." "then she was hired to act a part? but what made her willing to betray her employers?" "they deserved it," lance answered in a curious tone. "it seems she got into difficulties with the police and had to leave the town; the clairvoyante business was only a blind, and somebody was robbed after gambling at her rooms. the men who made the plot took a shabby advantage of the situation." "do you know their names?" "yes," said lance, hesitatingly. "if you don't mind, sir, i'd rather not mention them." mowbray looked at him keenly, and then made a sign of stern agreement. "perhaps that's best." he was silent for a few moments, grappling with this new pain that seared him to the heart. so gerald had sunk to this! "leave the paper here, and send beatrice to me," he said slowly. lance was glad to escape. he found beatrice with her mother, and she and mrs. mowbray went at once to the colonel's study. "your brother took some trouble to get this for you," mowbray said, handing her the statement, which she read in silence. "i will thank lance; but this note really makes no difference," she declared. "that's hard to understand." "i had craig's word. if i had doubted him, would i have believed this woman? but there's another matter i want to speak of. craig didn't want me to, but he gave me permission." taking out the photographs harding had shown her, she handed them to mowbray. mrs. mowbray, looking over his shoulder, uttered an exclamation. the colonel, too, was startled. "that's ash garth, with janet harding on the steps! where did you get them? what does it mean?" instead of answering, the girl glanced at her mother. "i think it's quite plain," mrs. mowbray said. "beatrice is engaged to basil harding's son." "why was i not told before?" mowbray asked excitedly. "he's as well born as you are! can't you see how it alters things?" "craig declares it makes no difference--and i'm beginning to agree with him." "that's absurd!" mowbray exclaimed. "false pride; mistaken sentiment! we know the advantage of springing from a good stock. now i understand why i sometimes felt a curious sympathy with harding, even when i hated his opinions." "you gave us no reason to suspect it," beatrice answered with a smile. "do you know his father's history?" "yes; but i don't know that i ought to tell it without his son's permission." "then we'll wait," said beatrice. "craig will be here soon." harding came in a few minutes afterward, and mowbray, giving him a friendly greeting, handed him the letter lance had brought, and the photographs. "your father was a comrade of mine," the colonel said. "we were both stationed at an outpost in northern india." "then you may be able to tell me something about his early life," replied harding quietly. "it's a subject he never spoke of." "i can do so. are you willing that beatrice and her mother should hear?" "yes; i don't wish to hide anything from them." "very well. your father was an infantry captain and well thought of in his regiment. his worst faults were a quick temper and a rash impulsiveness, but he suffered for them. before coming to india, he married beneath him, a girl of some beauty but no education. his relatives strongly opposed the match, and there was a quarrel with them. "after a time basil was ordered to a station where there was some european society and his wife was out of her element there. the other women of the post objected to her, and openly insulted her. basil had one quarrel after another on her behalf, and finally, after an unusually stormy scene with the artillery major, basil sent in his papers. "his relatives refused to receive him, they cut off his allowance; but he clung to his wife until she died a couple years later. then he came to canada and vanished. "his mother died; and one by one the others followed--all except basil morel, his mother's brother." "ah!" beatrice interrupted. the colonel glanced at her a moment, and then went on: "morel had a very strong affection for basil--he was his namesake and only nephew. feeling that they had been too hard on him, morel traced basil in canada, wrote him a long letter, and enclosed a draft for a thousand pounds, as part of back allowances. basil wrote a brief and bitter note in answer, then deposited the money in a winnipeg bank, to be given to his son after his death, on condition that the son never question where it came from. this son was by the second wife; there were no children by the first. "well, basil died; the bank reported to morel that the money had been paid to the son; and then--the old man, living alone at ash garth, was getting very lonely; he had time to brood over the injustice done basil, and, before he died, he wanted to make it up to basil's son. but the son had completely disappeared. he had left dakota and gone to manitoba; from there all trace of him had vanished. morel is now a broken old man; but, because basil and i were comrades, he confides many things to me, and i know that deep down in his heart there is still a hope that he will live long enough to find basil's son." the colonel's voice was husky, and he paused a moment before he said: "with your permission, mr. harding, i should like to send him a cable." harding nodded assent. beatrice was crying softly. "now i understand why mr. morel always looked so sad when i talked of the prairie," she said brokenly. "mother, you must have known!" she added as an afterthought. "yes, but i didn't feel that it was my secret, dear," mrs. mowbray answered gently. at the colonel's request, harding told them of his early life; and then he and beatrice drove across the prairie to tell the story to hester. beatrice felt that it was the girl's right to know. harvest came, and although the crop was lighter than he had hoped, harding saw that he would have a satisfactory margin. it was not so with most of his neighbors, and when the strain of forced effort slackened, and the smoke of the thrasher no longer streaked the stubble, there were anxious hearts at allenwood. even the buoyant courage of the younger men began to sink; hitherto they had carelessly borne their private troubles, but now they felt that the settlement was in danger. those who had never taken thought before asked what must be done, and nobody could tell them. harding and his friends had a surprise to spring on their neighbors, and on davies as well, but they waited until the time was ripe. then one evening mowbray rode over to kenwyne's homestead. "you and broadwood have opposed me, but i have never doubted your sincerity," he said. "in fact, since brand has gone, i feel i'd rather trust you and harding than the boys who have given me their thoughtless support. we are threatened with grave trouble." "we must try to justify your belief in us, sir," said kenwyne. "what is the trouble?" "carlyon, webster, and shepstone came to me, and confessed that they have mortgaged their farms. to make things worse, i have a letter from the man in winnipeg they borrowed from, informing me that he would seize gerald's land unless a large sum is paid. you must see that this means disaster to allenwood." mowbray looked harassed and worn, and kenwyne felt sorry for him. "i suggest that you let the fellow produce his mortgages and receive him at a council meeting. the matter's of interest to everybody." "then you have some scheme?" mowbray asked eagerly. "as it's far-reaching, we'd rather put it before the council. i'm half afraid we can't expect your approval until you know everything; but you should be able to command a majority if we don't convince you." "i can do nothing to save the settlement," mowbray said with dignity; "and i dare not refuse to let others try, even if their ways are not mine. we'll leave it at that. i'll call the meeting." it was a calm, clear evening when all the allenwood settlers assembled in the hall at the grange. the days were getting shorter, and a lamp or two was lighted; but, outside, the last of the sunset glowed in a red band along the prairie's rim. mowbray sat at the head of the table; harding, broadwood, kenwyne, and lance were close together; the rest scattered about the spacious room, some half hidden in the shadow, some where the partial illumination touched them. all were silent and expectant; they felt it would prove a memorable night for allenwood. there was a rattle of wheels outside, and soon afterward davies was shown in. he was smartly dressed in well-cut city clothes, and his aggressive, self-conscious air contrasted with the easy grace of the brown-faced men in shooting jackets and fringed deerskin. "i came here expecting a private interview," he said to mowbray. "i do not understand why i'm asked to meet these gentlemen, most of whom i have not the pleasure of knowing." "i cannot tell what you expected," mowbray answered haughtily. "your business is, however, of interest to us all, and to state it now will save some time, because nothing can be done until our council is informed of it." davies' glance wandered round the room, as if in search of somebody, but he did not notice harding, who was in the shadow. "very well," he said, undoing a bundle of documents. "i hold mortgages on land and property belonging to gerald mowbray, carlyon, webster, and shepstone." he read out particulars of the sums lent and interest due, and then put the papers on the table. "you are at liberty to examine them." carlyon turned to mowbray, with a flushed face. "they can't be contested, sir. speaking for the others, as well as myself, i must say that we feel our position, and are very sorry that we have brought this trouble upon you and our friends." harding moved forward and picked up the mortgages, and davies showed his surprise. after examining the documents carefully, harding passed them to broadwood, who looked over them in a silence that was accentuated by the rattle of a loose blind as puffs of wind swept into the room. "all right," broadwood said, and handed a sheet of paper to each of the debtors. "will you agree to these terms? yes or no?" he asked. one of the young men laughed hoarsely, as if from unexpected relief; another made a glad sign of assent; and carlyon's eyes were bright as he turned to broadwood. "agree?" he exclaimed. "we never hoped for such a chance as this!" broadwood put one of the papers in front of mowbray. "they consent, sir. we'd like your sanction." "i cannot give it unreservedly. but as i cannot suggest anything better, i must not refuse." mowbray addressed davies. "as the farms were mortgaged against the provisions of our settlement covenant, i believe your claim might be disputed, but i won't urge that point. the money was borrowed and must be paid." "with your permission, sir!" harding took the big inkstand and placed it before davies. "write a formal discharge for these debts, and i'll give you a check." davies' face was hot with baffled fury, but he asked in a sneering tone: "will the bank make it good?" "here's their letter," said harding dryly. davies glanced at the letter, and threw it down. then he pulled himself together. "it seems," he said to mowbray, "that you have made some arrangement to finance these gentlemen, and they have agreed; but mr. gerald mowbray owes a much larger sum, and i have his word that he is unable to pay. he left the matter in my hands, and before going any further i should like to suggest that we might arrive at some understanding----" mowbray cut him short. "we can make no terms with you, if that is what is meant. my son owes you money; you must take what you are entitled to." "but the debt is his. he must decide." "he has decided," harding said quietly. "here's a telegram from him, answering a letter of mine which he probably got after you left. he agrees to transfer the mortgaged property to his father and another, on terms that don't concern you. read it." "ah!" cried davies, hoarse with anger. "mowbray has gone back on me. i was a fool to trust him!" colonel mowbray flushed, but did not answer, and harding turned to davies. "this has nothing to do with our business. write your receipts, including gerald mowbray's debt, and take your money." davies did so, and carefully examined the check harding gave him. then he got up and made mowbray an ironical bow. one of the men opened the door, and he went out surlily. there was a general movement and a murmur throughout the room, expressing relief and a slackening of tension. "it's a satisfaction to see the last of the fellow," one man said, voicing the feelings of all. "the settlement has escaped a danger; but we must be careful not to let it fall into another. may i inquire about the agreement which mr. harding has made with our friends?" harding explained that they were to farm their land under his instructions, paying a moderate rate of interest. a fixed sum was to be set aside every year to redeem the loan, so that in time the debtors would again acquire possession, and any surplus would belong to them. "mr. harding's position is now very strong," the man contended. "he can, if he wishes, dictate to the rest of us, and i think we ought to know his plans and how he expects to profit." there was deep silence when harding got upon his feet and glanced round the room. a few of the men were obviously suspicious, and one or two hostile, but some looked willing to give him fair play and some quietly confident in him. "to begin with, i expect no direct profit from allenwood," he said. "the advantage i shall gain will be the keeping down of my working expenses by your cooperation. with better trails we'll need fewer teams to bring out supplies and haul in our grain; and we can avoid using two half-empty wagons when one will take both loads. we can buy and sell on joint lines, saving all round, and can use the latest and biggest machines. singly, we cannot afford them; combined, we can buy and, what is more, keep the implements employed. but we can work out details later. you have reached a turning-point to-night. those of you with private means, if there are any such, may continue to farm as a pastime, but for the man who must live by his farming, it is serious work. there is a time of low prices before us that will weed out the slack; but with care and effort we can hold out until the flood of prosperity which is coming sweeps our difficulties away. we must perfect our methods, fall in with modern practise, and study economy. that i have now some power here is true; i ask your help, and value it, but if needful i can do without it. i and several more are going on, working together on the best plan we can find, as we have begun." a murmur of applause greeted the close of the speech, for harding's blunt candor had gained him the respect of his antagonists and strengthened the loyalty of his friends. then mowbray leaned forward, holding up his hand. "we have heard mr. harding's intentions declared with the straightforwardness one expects from him; and it must be clear to all that he has freed allenwood from a peril." he paused, and his voice was strained as he resumed: "for a while we prospered here, and i like to think i led you well; but the times began to change without our recognizing it. i cannot change, but you must, for you are young; the future lies before you. i am old, and i feel my age to-night. the burden of rule gets heavy; i want to lay it down. you must choose another leader who understands these times, and i think you see where a wise choice lies." for a moment nobody spoke, and then a unanimous cry of protest broke out. it rang with feeling, and when it died away man after man urged mowbray to keep control. he listened with a faint smile. "i am honored by this mark of confidence," he said quietly. "but if i consent, you must give me the helper i need, and you must follow him with the loyalty you have always shown me. to some extent we shall counterbalance extremes in each other, which may be for the good of all, because i have much to learn from the present, and my helper something from the past. i could not ask you to obey an outsider, but the man i choose will soon become a member of my family. i nominate mr. harding, who has saved the settlement." there were cries of agreement that swelled into a storm of satisfaction, and harding said a few words in a voice that shook. this was a turn of affairs he had not expected, and he was moved by mowbray's confidence and the number of friends he had made. then the council broke up, and when the last had gone mowbray joined his wife on the veranda, where he sat looking with tired eyes toward the pale red glow on the skyline left by the setting sun. the prairie was formless and shadowy, but darkness had not quite closed in. "i feel that all this is symbolical, my dear," he said. "my day is over, but the night has not yet come. though it will not be by the way i would have chosen, i may still see allenwood safe and prosperous." mrs. mowbray took his hand caressingly. "you have led the boys well, and taught them much; they will not forget it. you never shrank from a sacrifice that was for their good--and i know the cost of the one you have made to-night." "i knew i could trust to your sympathy; you haven't failed me yet," he said gently. "i wonder why gerald broke away from the rascal at last. i may be wrong, but i'd like to believe that when the time came he found he could not betray his friends; that his heart spoke, and a trace of the honor we tried to teach him awoke to life." "i think you're right," mrs. mowbray answered. "i am sure there is hope for him." then she turned and her eyes rested on the dark figures of beatrice and harding, who had left the house and were walking slowly across the plain. moving side by side, with love and confidence in their hearts, they looked toward the east, where the dawn would rise. the end john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains =may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list.= =the trail of the lonesome pine.= illustrated by f. c. yohn. [illustration] the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." =the little shepherd of kingdom come.= illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad." the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. =a knight of the cumberland.= illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history =may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list.= =within the law.= by bayard veiller & marvin dana. illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. =what happened to mary.= by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. =the return of peter grimm.= by david belasco. illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david warfield, as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. =the garden of allah.= by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit, barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. =ben hur.= a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. =bought and paid for.= by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are making theatrical history. madame x. by alexandre bisson and j. w. mcconaughy. illustrated with scenes from the play. a beautiful parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. a tremendous dramatic success. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. an unconventional english woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the sahara. staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. the prince of india. by lew. wallace. a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an oriental romance. as a play it is a great dramatic spectacle. tess of the storm country. by grace miller white. illust. by howard chandler christy. a girl from the dregs of society, loves a young cornell university student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. the dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season. young wallingford. by george randolph chester. illust. by f. r. gruger and henry raleigh. a series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a state's prison offence. as "get-rich-quick wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage. the intrusion of jimmy. by p. g. wodehouse. illustrations by will grefe. social and club life in london and new york, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. dramatized under the title of "a gentleman of leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york four timely books of international importance i accuse (_j'accuse!_) by a german. a scathing arraignment of the german war policy. at this vital time in the nation's history every patriotic american should read and reread this wonderful book and learn the absurdity of the german excuse that they wanted a "place in the sun." learn how the german masses were deluded with the idea that they were making a defensive war to protect the fatherland. let the author of this illuminating book again show the sacrilege of claiming a christian god as a teutonic ally and riddle once more the divine right of kings. pan-germanism. by roland g. usher. the clear, graphic style gives it a popular appeal that sets it miles apart from the ordinary treatise, and for the reader who wishes to get a rapid focus on the world events of the present, perhaps no book written will be more interesting. it is the only existing forecast of exactly the present development of events in europe. it is, besides, a brisk, clear, almost primer-like reduction of the complex history of europe during the last forty years to a simple, connected story clear enough to the most casual reader. the challenge of the future. by roland g. usher. a glance into america's future by the man who, in his book pan-germanism, foretold with such amazing accuracy the coming of the present european events. an exceedingly live and timely book that is bound to be read and discussed widely because it strikes to the heart of american problems, and more especially because it hits right and left at ideas that have become deep-seated convictions in many american minds. the evidence in the case. by james m. beck, ll.d., formerly assistant attorney-general of the united states, author of the "war and humanity." with an introduction by the hon. joseph h. choate; late u. s. ambassador to great britain. no work on the war has made a deeper impression throughout the world than "the evidence in the case," a calm, dispassionate, but forceful discussion of the moral responsibility for the present war as disclosed by the diplomatic papers. arnold bennett says that it "is certainly by far _the most convincing indictment of germany_ in existence." grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york transcriber's note: the following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected. in chapter ii, "might become an anachorism" was changed to "might become an anachronism". in chapter x, a comma was changed to a period after "a council meeting at the grange", and a period was changed to a comma after "if all the rest stand out". in chapter xviii, a comma was changed to a period after "he was a big, gaunt man". in chapter xx, a missing quotation mark was added after "i'm obeying the call." in chapter xxv, a missing period was added after "in keeping with the life i've led". in chapter xxvi, "brought him spurred him rather to action" was changed to "brought him--spurred him rather--to action". in addition, numerous spelling and punctuation errors were corrected in the advertisements at the back of the book. waihoura, the maori girl, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ waihoura, the maori girl, by w.h.g. kingston. chapter one. the new colony. arrival of the families of mr pemberton, farmer greening and others, in new zealand.--inspect land.--encamp near the port till they can settle on the land they have selected. a fine emigrant ship, her voyage happily terminated, had just entered her destined port in the northern island of new zealand. her anchor was dropped, the crew were aloft furling sails, and several boats were alongside ready to convey the passengers to the shore. all was bustle and excitement on board, each person anxious to secure his own property,--and people were running backwards and forwards into the cabins, to bring away any minor articles which might have been forgotten. the water was calm and bright, the sky intensely blue. on either hand were bold picturesque headlands running out into the sea, fringed by dark rocks, while beyond the sandy beach, which bordered the bay, on a partially cleared space, were seen numerous cottages, interspersed with tents and huts, many of the latter rudely constructed of boughs. further off arose forests of tall trees, reaching to the base, and climbing the sides of a range of high mountains, here and there broken by deep ravines, with sparkling streams rushing down them, finding their way into a broad river which flowed into the bay. beyond the first range appeared others--range beyond range, the summits of several towering to the sky, covered with mantles of snow shining with dazzling whiteness in the bright rays of the sun. in several places the forest gave way to wide open tracts, clothed with fern or tall waving grass. "here we are safe at last," exclaimed valentine pemberton, a young gentleman about eighteen, as he stepped from one of the first boats on to the ledge of rocks which formed the chief landing-place of the settlement. "father, let me help you," he added, extending his arm towards a middle-aged fine-looking man who followed him. "now, lucy, take my hand; the rocks are somewhat slippery. harry, you can look out for yourself." he addressed his young sister, a fair sweet-looking girl of about fifteen, and his brother, a fine active boy, who sprang on to the rock after him. "take care of betsy, though," said lucy, not forgetful of her faithful maid, whose attachment to her young mistress had induced to leave home for a strange land. "paul greening is helping her," answered harry. mr pemberton, with his daughter and two sons, soon made their way to the more even beach, followed by betsy and paul greening. paul's father, farmer greening, a sturdy english yeoman, with his wife and two younger sons, james and little tobias, as the latter was called, though as big as his brothers, were the next to land. "my boys and i will look after your things, mr pemberton," shouted the farmer. "do you go and find lodgings for miss lucy and betsy." "thank you, my friend," said mr pemberton, "but we have made up our mind to rough it, and purpose camping out under tents until we can get a roof of our own over our heads. before we begin work, however, i wish to return thanks to him who has guided and protected us during our voyage across the ocean. will you and your family join us?" "aye, gladly sir," answered farmer greening. "we are ready enough to be angry with those who are thankless to us when we have done them a kindness, and i have often thought how ungrateful we are apt to be to him who gives us everything we enjoy in this life." mr pemberton led the way to a sheltered spot, where they were concealed by some high rocks from the busy throng on the beach. he there, with his own children and the farmer's family, knelt down and offered a hearty thanksgiving to the merciful god who had heretofore been their friend and guide, and a fervent prayer for protection from future dangers. then, with cheerful hearts and strong hands, they returned to the boat, to assist in landing their goods and chattels, while valentine and paul went back to the ship to bring off the remainder of the luggage. mr pemberton and farmer greening, meantime, set off to get the surveying officer to point out a plot of ground on which they might encamp, the rest of the party remaining on the beach to look after their property. while they were thus employed, a bustling little man, in a green velveteen shooting coat, approached lucy, who, with betsy and mrs greening were removing the lighter articles of their baggage. underneath a broad-brimmed hat, which he wore far back on his bullet-like head, covered with short cropped hair, appeared a pair of round eyes, and a funny turned up nose. "oh, miss pemberton, i am shocked to see you so employed!" he exclaimed. "let me assist you. my own things will not be brought on shore to-day, i am told, and i have no wish to go on board the ship again to look for them." "thank you, mr nicholas spears," said lucy, who had already discovered that the little man was never happy unless attending other people's concerns, to the neglect of his own, and had no wish to encourage him in his bad habit. "my brother harry and our friends here can do all that is necessary." "oh, i beg ten thousand pardons, miss lucy, but i thought that i could be of use to you. it would be such a pleasure, believe me." mr nicholas spears rolled his round eyes about, and twitched his mouth in such a curious manner when he spoke, that lucy could scarcely refrain from laughing outright. "if you don't look after your own property, mr spears, i don't think anybody else will," observed mrs greening. "just let me advise you to go back in the first boat, and see if any of your goods have been got out of the hold, or they may be sent on shore, and you will not know what have become of them." the little man seemed very unwilling to follow this wise counsel, but hearing his name called by some of the other emigrants, he hurried away to join them, and was seen running up and down the beach, carrying their boxes and parcels. most of the other passengers had now come on shore, and were busily employed in looking after their property, and conveying it from the beach. valentine and paul had just returned with the remainder of their goods, and soon afterwards mr pemberton and farmer greening returned, accompanied by four dark-skinned men, dressed in shirts and trousers, the few tattoo marks on their faces, and the shaggy state of their black hair, showing them to be of the lower order of natives. they brought also a small dray, drawn by bullocks, with which to transport the heavier articles of their luggage. "wherever you go, mr pemberton, with your leave, i and mine will go too," said farmer greening, as they walked along. "we have been neighbours in the old country, and you have ever been a kind friend to me, and if i can be of any use to you in choosing land, which i ought to know something about, why, you see, sir, it's just what i shall be glad to do." mr pemberton knew the value of the farmer's friendship and assistance too well to decline it, and thanked him heartily. he had himself gone through many trials. after enjoying a good fortune derived from west indian property, and living the life of a country gentleman, he found himself, at the time he was about to send his eldest son to the university, and his second boy into the navy, deprived of nearly the whole of his income. soon afterwards he lost his wife, a far greater blow to his happiness, and believing that he could best provide for his children by emigrating to one of the colonies, with the small remainder of his fortune, he had embarked with them for new zealand. a cleared space on some rising ground overlooking the harbour had been selected for encamping. to this the property of the party was soon conveyed. mr pemberton had brought with him two tents, the largest of which served as a store-house for his goods, and there was also space in it for beds for himself and his sons, while a much smaller one was appropriated to the use of lucy and betsy, which lucy had invited mrs greening to share with them. the farmer and his sons, with the assistance of the maoris, as the new zealanders are called, were putting up a hut in which they might find shelter till the land they had purchased had been fixed on. it was composed simply of stakes driven into the ground, interwoven with branches of trees, beams being secured to the top, while other branches were placed on them and thatched with long grass, an operation quickly performed by the maoris. before dark it was in a sufficiently forward state to afford shelter to the farmer and his sons,--some heaps of fern, brought in by their active assistants, serving them for beds. while the pakehas, the strangers, as the natives call the english, slept at one end, the four maoris occupied the other. before they lay down to rest mr pemberton invited them into his tent to join in family worship, a practice he had kept up during the voyage, and hoped in future to maintain under all circumstances. "it's a great blessing and advantage, miss lucy, to be associated with a gentleman like the squire," said mrs greening, when they returned to their tent. "my boys especially might be inclined to run wild in this strange country, if they hadn't the good example he sets before them." "we, i am sure, shall be a mutual help to each other, mrs greening," answered lucy. "your husband's practical experience in farming will greatly assist my father and brothers, and i was truly thankful when i heard that you wished to settle near us." "we know what it is to have bad land, with a high rent to pay," observed mrs greening with a sigh, "and i hope, now that we are to have a farm of our own, with a kind soil, we shall get on better than we did in the old country. few are ready to work harder than my good man and our boys, and i have never been used to be idle since i was big enough to milk a cow." the following day mr pemberton and the farmer, accompanied by valentine and paul, prepared to set off, with one of the maoris as a guide, to inspect a block of land lately surveyed, about ten miles from the coast, with a fine stream flowing through it. before starting they surveyed from the hill the road they were to take. at a short distance appeared the outskirts of the forests, composed of the lofty kauri, or yellow pine, kahikatea, or white pine, the rimu, with its delicate and gently weeping foliage, and several others, interspersed by the shade-loving tree-fern, the most graceful of all forest trees. from the boughs hung parasites and creepers of brilliant hues,--some, like loose ropes from the rigging of a ship, others, in festoons winding from stem to stem, uniting far-off trees with their luxuriant growth. "how shall you be able to pass through that thick forest?" asked lucy, of her father. "we shall have to make good use of our axes, i suppose," said valentine. "we shall find but little difficulty," observed mr pemberton. "although the foliage is so dense overhead, there is no jungle or underwood to obstruct our passage, and in this hot weather we shall have the advantage of travelling thoroughly shaded from the rays of the sun. we shall find it far more fatiguing walking over the fern land, which, at a distance, looks so smooth and even." mr pemberton took his fowling-piece; but the only weapons carried by the rest of the party were their axes, to mark the trees round the land they hoped to select. they expected not to be absent more than three days. lucy and harry accompanied them a short distance. they found, on their return, mrs greening busily employed with her sons in arranging the hut,--indeed, the good woman was never idle, and set an example of industry which some of the other settlers would have done wisely to follow. leaving her boys to go on with the work, she commenced making preparations for dinner. "you must let me act as your cook, miss lucy," she said. "you and betsy will have enough to do, and it's what i am used to." the cooking, however, was of necessity somewhat after the gipsy fashion, a pot being hung from a triangle over a fire on the ground, and when the pot was removed the tea-kettle took its place. they had no difficulty in procuring provisions, as there were several bakers in the village, and the maoris brought in pigs and wild-fowl, and various roots and vegetables to the market. chapter two. waihoura. natives arrive at mr pemberton's camp.--they bring with them on a litter a young girl--waihoura apparently very ill.--a doctor is sent for, and a hut is built for her accommodation. "oh mother! mother! miss lucy! betsy! do look at the strange savages who are coming this way," exclaimed little tobias, as he rushed up to the door of the tent the following morning. "i never did see such wild creatures, except once at the fair, and they were white men painted up to make believe they had come from foreign parts. there's no doubt about these, though." lucy and her companions being thus summoned, hurried from the tent and joined harry and the two young greenings, who were standing on the brow of the hill, watching a band of twenty or thirty maoris, who, emerging from the forest, were coming towards where they stood. at their head stalked a tall savage-looking warrior. his face, as he drew near, was seen to be thickly covered with blue lines, some in spirals, others in circles and curls of various devices. his black hair was gathered in a knot at the top of his head, and secured with a polished bone, while several large rings hung from his ears. over his shoulders was thrown a large mat cloak, which almost completely enveloped his form. in one hand he carried a musket, more on the present occasion to add to his dignity than for use, as swords were formerly worn by gentlemen in europe. his companions had their faces tattooed, though in a much less degree than was that of their leader. some wore merely long kilts round their waists, but many had cloaks of matting. the hair of most of them was cut short, looking like a black mop at the top of their heads. savages though they looked, they walked with a dignity and freedom that showed they felt their own consequence and independence. they were followed by several women, also clothed in mats, though of a finer texture than those of the men. their hair hung loosely over their shoulders, and several wore a wreath of flowers or shells, which assisted to keep it off their eyes. their faces were but slightly tattooed, the chin, and lips only being marked, giving the latter a curious blue look, which lucy thought detracted much from their otherwise comely appearance. they were walking on either side of a small litter, covered with boughs, and carried by four young men. the party of natives advanced as if about to ascend the hill; but when the chief saw that it was occupied by the tents, he ordered them to halt at its base, and they immediately began to make preparations for encamping, while the young men were sent off towards the woods to collect fuel for the fires and materials for building huts. the litter having been placed on the ground, the women gathered round it, as if much interested in whatever it contained. the chief himself then approached, and the boughs being partially removed, lucy perceived that its occupant was a young girl. the chief seemed to be speaking to her with tender interest. at length, on seeing lucy and her companions watching him, he advanced towards them. "oh! miss lucy, let's run away--the savage is coming, and i don't know what he will do," cried betsy, in great alarm. "i am sure he will not hurt us, from the gentle way he was speaking to the young girl," said lucy, holding her ground, though she felt a little nervous. "he looks terribly fierce, though," observed mrs greening. "but it won't do to run away, as if we were afraid." the chief, whose eye had been fixed on lucy, now approached her, and pointing to the litter, seemed to invite her to come down and speak to his daughter, for such she felt the girl must be. "oh miss, don't go," cried betsy. "you don't know what they will do;" but lucy, struck by the appearance of the occupant of the litter, was eager to learn more about her, and overcoming any fears she might have felt, at once accompanied the chief. the women made way for her as she got close to the litter. on it reclined, propped up by matting, which served as a pillow, a girl apparently of about her own age. her complexion was much fairer than that of any of her companions, scarcely darker, indeed, than a spanish or italian brunette. no tattoo marks disfigured her lips or chin; her features were regular and well-formed, and her eyes large and clear, though at present their expression betokened that she was suffering pain. she put out her hand towards lucy, who instinctively gave her her's. "maori girl ill, berry ill," she said. "tell pakeha doctor come, or waihoura die--pakeha doctor make waihoura well." although the words may not have been so clearly pronounced as they have been written, lucy at once understood their meaning. "oh yes, i will send for a doctor," she answered, hoping that dr fraser, the surgeon who came out with them in the ship, would be found on shore. she beckoned to harry, and told him to run and bring dr fraser without delay. the chief comprehended her intentions, and seemed well pleased when harry and tobias, who also offered to go, set off towards the village. as no one addressed her, lucy guessed rightly that the maori girl was the only person of her party who could speak english, and curious to know how she had learned it, she asked the question. "waihoura learn speak pakeha tongue of missionary," she answered, "but near forget now," and she put her hand to her brow, as if it ached. "the doctor will come soon, i hope, and give you medicine to make you better," said lucy, taking the young girl's hand, which felt hot and feverish. waihoura shook her head, and an expression of pain passed across her countenance. "we will pray to god, then, to make you well," said lucy. "he can do everything, so be not cast down, but trust him." the maori girl fixed her large eyes on her as she was speaking, evidently trying to understand her meaning, though apparently she did not entirely comprehend it. savage in appearance as were the people who surrounded her, lucy did not feel afraid of them, while they evidently regarded her with much respect. betsy having at length gained courage, came down the hill with mrs greening. "poor dear," said the farmer's wife, when she saw the maori girl. "what she wants is good food, a comfortable bed, and a little careful nursing. if we had our house up, i'll be bound we would bring her round in the course of a few weeks, so that that painted-faced gentleman, her father, would not know her again." "we would make room for her in our tent," said lucy. "or, perhaps, her friends would build a hut for her close to it; they probably would soon put one up, and it would be far better for her to remain with us than to return to her home." the chief had been watching them while they were speaking, and seemed to understand that they were discussing some plan for his daughter's benefit. he spoke a few words to her. "what say?" she asked, looking at lucy, and then pointing to her father. "we wish you to stop here and let us nurse you," said lucy, trying still further to explain her meaning by signs. the young girl's countenance brightened, showing that she understood what lucy had said, and wished to accept her offer. perhaps the remembrance of her stay with the missionary's family brought some pleasing recollections to her mind. while they were still speaking, a person was seen hurrying along the somewhat dusty road which led from the village, and lucy soon recognised mr nicholas spears. "has not he come yet?" he exclaimed, as he drew near. "dr fraser, i mean. i met master harry, and that big lout tobias. i beg your pardon, mrs greening. i did not see you were there, and so i told them i would find him and send him on; so i did, for i understood from them that a princess, or some great person, wanted his services. if he has not come i must go back and hurry him. is that the princess? she don't look much like one, however, she may be a princess for all that. your servant, miss, and that old gentleman, with the curious marks on his face, is her father, i suppose? your servant, sir," he added, making the chief a bow with his broad-brimmed hat. the chief bent his head in acknowledgment, and seemed somewhat inclined to rub noses with the little man as a further sign of his good-will; but mr spears sprang back in alarm, evidently thinking it safer to keep at a distance from the savage-looking warrior; observing, however, the confidence shown by lucy and her companions, he walked round them once or twice, gazing at them as if they had been wild beasts at a show. as he passed again near lucy, she reminded him of his promise to look for dr fraser, and much to her satisfaction, off he set at full speed. in a short time the doctor was seen coming along the road, followed by harry and tobias. "oh, dr fraser, i am so glad you are come," said lucy. "here is a sweet interesting maori girl, and she is very ill, i fear. can you do anything for her?" "i am afraid, miss lucy, unless she can speak english, or we have an efficient interpreter, there may be some difficulty in ascertaining her disease, but i will do my best." "oh, she understands a little english," said lucy, "and seems very intelligent." the doctor approached the litter, and stooping down, remained some time by the girl's side, asking her questions, and endeavouring to comprehend her answers. "unless i can have her for some time as my patient, i fear, miss pemberton, that i cannot do much for her," he said at length. "my lodgings are very small, and i suspect that among the settlers there are none who would be willing to receive her." lucy then told him of the plan she and mrs greening had proposed. "that would certainly afford the best prospect of her recovery," he answered. "if we can explain that to her friends, perhaps they would be willing to allow her to remain." lucy was very glad to hear this, for she already felt a deep interest in the young maori girl. "there is her father," said lucy, pointing to the chief, "perhaps you can make him understand what we propose." "i will try," said dr fraser, "but, if not, i must get mr clifton, the surveyor, who speaks their language, to explain it to him." the chief, who had been looking on all the time with an expression of anxiety visible on his stern countenance, now drew near, and with the assistance of his daughter, was made to comprehend what their new friends proposed. he stopped some time, apparently considering the matter, and then having consulted with several of his companions, he returned, and taking lucy's hand, placed it in that of waihoura, as if confiding her to her care. "but we must make them understand that they must build her a comfortable house," said lucy. this the doctor managed to do without much difficulty, and leading the chief up the hill, showed the position in which he wished it to be placed. the natives, who appeared to render implicit obedience to their chief, immediately went off to cut timber. the doctor, meantime, marked the dimensions of the building, and showed the height he desired to have it, which was nearly three times that of the ordinary native huts. "we must have a proper door and a couple of windows, too," he remarked. "the poor girl requires fresh air more than anything else, probably she has been shut up in the smoke and heat of a native hut, and unless we have one of a very different character, she will have little chance of recovery." idle and averse to work, as lucy heard that the maoris were, she was pleased to see the rapid way in which they erected the hut. while some dug the holes for the posts, and others cut them down, a third party brought them up the hill. they were evidently surprised at the size of the building, and uttered numerous exclamations of astonishment when the doctor made them understand that it must be in no respect smaller than he proposed. harry, with james and tobias, got their spades and levelled the ground for the floor, rendering considerable assistance also in digging the holes. among the articles mr pemberton had brought were several doors and window sashes, intended for his own cottage. lucy suggested that these should be unpacked, and a door and two windows be used for the hut. "i am sure that my father will not object," she said, "and it will make the house much more comfortable." "i wish that all our countrymen had as much consideration for the natives as you show, miss lucy," observed the doctor, "and i feel sure mr pemberton will approve of what you propose doing." the door and two windows were accordingly fixed, the maoris showing themselves very expert carpenters. the doctor having seen that the plan he proposed for the house was likely to be properly carried out, returned to the town to get some medicine, while mrs greening arranged a comfortable english bed, in which his patient might be placed. before nightfall the hut was completely finished. mrs greening removed her own bedding to it, that, as she said, she could be at hand to attend to the young native girl; and dr fraser having given her some medicine, took his departure, promising to come back, early the next morning. the chief showed by his manner the perfect confidence he placed in his new friends, and leaving his daughter in their charge, he and his companions retired to the foot of the hill, where they spent the night round their camp fire. lucy sat for some time by the side of waihoura, who showed no inclination to go to sleep; she evidently was astonished at finding herself in an english bed, and watched over by a fair pakeha girl instead of her own dark-skinned people. she talked on for some time, till at length her words grew more and more indistinct, and closing her eyes, to lucy's satisfaction, she fell asleep. "now, do you go back to your tent," said mrs greening. "i'll look after the little girl, and if i hear any noise i'll be up in a moment and call you or betsy; but don't be fancying you will be wanted, the little girl will do well enough, depend on that." lucy very unwillingly retired to her tent, and was much surprised when she awoke to find that it was already daylight. chapter three. in camp. dr fraser arrives with mr marlow, a missionary, who recognises waihoura.--he persuades her father to allow her to remain.--return of mr pemberton, who has selected his land, and begins to settle on it.-- the farm described.--he leaves them again for it accompanied by mr spears.--waihoura recovers and learns english, while lucy learns maori.--a vessel arrives with sheep, some of which the doctor buys, and are looked after by toby.--lucy tries to explain the gospel to waihoura. "i am not quite happy about her, miss lucy," said mrs greening, when lucy, as soon as she was dressed, went into the hut. "if she was an english girl i should know what to do, but these natives have odd ways, which puzzle me." the young maori girl lay as she had been placed on the bed, with her eyes open, but without moving or speaking. there was a strange wild look in her countenance, so lucy thought, which perplexed her. "i wish the doctor were here," she said; "if he does not come soon, we will send harry to look for him." "little tobias shall go at once, miss," answered mrs greening. "the run will do him no harm, even if he misses the doctor." tobias was called, and taking his stick in hand, the young giant set off at a round trot down the hill. lucy sat watching the sick girl, while mrs greening and betsy made preparations for breakfast. every now and then she cast an anxious glance through the open doorway, in the hopes of seeing the doctor coming up the hill. "oh! how sad it would be if she were to die in her present heathen state; when should she recover, she may have an opportunity of learning the blessed truths of the gospel," thought lucy. "how thankful i should feel could i tell her of the love of christ, and how he died for her sake, and for that of all who accept the gracious offers of salvation freely made to them. i must try, as soon as possible, to learn her language, to be able to speak to her." such and similar thoughts occupied lucy's mind for some time. at length, turning round and looking through the open doorway, she saw several natives coming up the hill. she recognised the first as waihoura's father. the party approached the hut, and stopped before the entrance. "dear me, here comes some of those savage-looking natives," exclaimed mrs greening. "what shall we say to them? i hope they are not come to take the poor little girl away." "i will try and make them understand that we have sent for the doctor, and that if they wish her to recover, they must let her remain under his charge," said lucy, rising and going to the door. though still feeling somewhat nervous in the presence of the maoris, her anxiety to benefit waihoura gave her courage, and she endeavoured, by signs, to make the chief understand what she wished. she then led him to the bedside of his daughter, who lay as unconscious as before. he stood for some time gazing down at her, the working of his countenance showing his anxiety. lucy felt greatly relieved on hearing toby's voice shouting out, "the doctor's a-coming mother, i ran on before to tell you, and there's a gentleman with him who knows how to talk to the savages." in a short time the doctor arrived, accompanied by an englishman of middle age, with a remarkably intelligent and benignant expression of countenance. "mr marlow kindly agreed to come with me," said dr fraser. "he understands the maori language, and i shall now be able to communicate with my patient, and to explain to her friends what is necessary to be done to afford her a prospect of recovery." "i am afraid she is very ill," said lucy, as she led the doctor and mr marlow into the hut. the latter addressed the young girl in a low gentle voice. at first she paid no attention, but at length her eyes brightened and her lips moved. mr marlow continued speaking, a smile lighted up her countenance. she replied, and taking his hand, pressed it to her lips. "i thought so," he said, turning to lucy, "we are old acquaintances. when still a child, she was for a short time at my missionary school, but her father resisted the truth, and took her away. through god's providence she may once more have an opportunity of hearing the message of salvation. we must endeavour to persuade ihaka, her father, to allow her to remain. he loves his daughter, and though unconscious of the value of her soul, for the sake of preserving her life, he may be induced to follow our advice." dr fraser, through mr marlow, put several questions to waihoura, and then administered some medicine he had brought, leaving a further portion with mrs greening, to be given as he directed. mr marlow then addressed ihaka the chief, who seemed to listen to him with great attention. he told him what the english doctor had said, and urged him, as he loved his daughter, to leave her under his care. ihaka at first hesitated, unwilling to be separated from his child. mr marlow pressed the point with great earnestness, and at length the chief signified his readiness to comply with the doctor's advice. "tell him if he restores my daughter, i and my people will be friends to him and the pakehas, for his sake, for ever," he said, pointing to dr fraser. "the life of your daughter, as well as that of all human beings, is in the hands of the great god who rules this world, and allows not a sparrow to fall to the ground without knowing it," answered mr marlow. "the doctor is but his instrument, and can only exert the knowledge which has been given him. to that loving god we will kneel in prayer, and petition that she may be restored to health." saying this, mr marlow summoned the english lads; and betsy, who had hitherto kept at a distance, and kneeling on the ground, offered up an earnest prayer to god, that if it was in accordance with his will, and for the benefit of the young maori girl, he would spare her life. all present earnestly repeated the "amen," with which he concluded his prayer. the savages, during the time, stood round in respectful silence; and, though not understanding the words uttered, were evidently fully aware of the purpose of what had been said. ihaka once more entering the hut, waihoura recognised him. taking her hand, he beckoned lucy and mrs greening to approach, and placed it in theirs, as if confiding her to their charge. "please, sir," said mrs greening to mr marlow, "tell the chief we will do the best we can for his little girl. she is a sweet young creature, and i little expected to find such among the savages out here." "they have hearts and souls, my dear lady, as we have, and though their colour is different to ours, god cares for them as he does for us." the chief seemed content, and after again addressing the missionary, he and his people took their departure. "the savages are all going, mother," exclaimed little tobias some time afterwards, as he came puffing and blowing up the hill. "i could not feel quite comfortable while they were near us, and i am glad that we are rid of them." "we should not judge from outside looks, tobias," remarked mrs greening. "as the good missionary said just now, they have hearts and souls like ours, and i am sure that chief, fierce and savage as he looks, loves his daughter as much as any english father can do." dr fraser and mr marlow had before this returned to the town, promising to come back in the evening to see how their patient was getting on. the consumption of firewood in the camp was considerable, as mrs greening kept up a good fire in the open air for the cooking operations. harry and tobias had brought in a supply in the morning, and harry's hands and clothes gave evidence how hard he had laboured. "we shall want some more wood before morning," observed mrs greening, turning to her sons. "i am ready to go again," said harry, "if james will stay in the camp." "no; master harry, its my turn to go if you will stop behind," said james. "if you wish it i'll stay," replied harry. "one of us ought to remain, or strangers coming up to the camp might be troublesome, and i would not permit that." while james and tobias set off with axes in their hands, and pieces of rope to bind their faggots, harry got his gun, and began to march up and down on guard. he evidently considered himself like a sentinel in the presence of an enemy. now he looked on one side of the hill, now on the other. no person could have entered the camp without receiving his challenge. he had thus been passing up and down for some time, when he caught sight, in the distance, of some persons emerging from the forest. "here they come," he shouted out, "papa and valentine, mr greening and paul, and the two natives who went with them." he was examining them with his spy-glass. "yes, it's them, and they will soon be here. pray get supper ready, mrs greening; depend upon it they will be very hungry after their long march." mrs greening, aided by betsy, at once got her pots and saucepans on the fire. harry, though feeling much inclined to run down and meet the party, restrained his eagerness. "a sentry must not quit his post," he said to himself, "though no harm will happen, i'll keep to mine on principle." in a short time mr pemberton, with his companions, appeared at the foot of the hill. lucy ran down to meet them, eager to welcome her father, and to tell him about waihoura. "i am glad you can be of assistance to the young girl, and it is most desirable that we should be able to show our friendly disposition towards the natives," he observed. "oh, i do so hope she will recover," said lucy. "but i am afraid that some time must pass before she is well enough to be moved." "that would decide me in a plan i propose," said mr pemberton. "greening and i have settled our ground, and i hope that we may be put in possession of it in a day or two; we will then leave you here with harry and tobias, while we go back and build our houses, and make preparations for your reception." lucy had expected to set out as soon as the ground was chosen; but as she could not hope that waihoura would be in a fit state to be moved for some time, she felt that the arrangement now proposed was the best. mr pemberton and farmer greening were highly pleased with the ground they had selected. "we propose to place our houses on the slope of a hill, which rises within a quarter of a mile of the river," he observed. "greening will take one side and i the other. our grounds extend from the river to the hill, and a little way beyond it; when the high road is formed, which will, from the nature of the country, pass close to our farm, we shall have both land and water communication. close also to the foot of the hill, a village probably will be built, so that we shall have the advantage of neighbours. among other advantages, our land is but slightly timbered, though sufficiently so to afford us an ample supply of wood for building, and as much as we shall require for years to come for fencing and fuel. from the spot i have chosen for our house, we have a view over the country in this direction, so that, with our telescope, we can distinguish the vessels, as they come into the harbour, or pass along the coast." "we shall have plenty of fishing too, harry," exclaimed valentine. "and we may, if we go a little distance, fall in with wild boars and plenty of birds, though there are none which we should call game in england." "oh! how i long to be there, and begin our settlers' life in earnest," said harry. "i hope the little savage girl will soon get well enough to move." "i wish we could be with you also to help you in the work," said lucy. "how can you manage to cook without us?" "valentine and paul have become excellent cooks, and though we shall miss your society, we shall not starve," observed mr pemberton. "our camp life is a very pleasant one," remarked valentine. "for my part i shall be rather sorry when it is over, and we have to live inside a house, and go to bed regularly at night." this conversation took place while they were seated at supper on the ground in front of the large tent. it was interrupted by the arrival of mr fraser, accompanied by mr marlow, to see waihoura. "she is going on favourably," said the doctor, as he came out; "but she requires great care, and i feel sure that had you not taken charge of her, her life would have been lost. now, however, i trust that she will recover. mr marlow will let her father understand how much he is indebted to you, as it is important that you should secure the friendship a chief of his power and influence." in two days mr pemberton and farmer greening were ready to start for their intended location. each had purchased a strong horse, and these were harnessed to a light dray, which mr pemberton had bought. it was now loaded with all the articles they required, and sufficient provisions and stores to last them till their cottages were put up, and they could return for the rest of the party. by that time it was hoped that the young maori girl would be in a fit state to be moved. "i will not let her, if i can help it, go back to her own people," said lucy. "she will become, i am sure, attached to us. i may be of use to her, and she will teach me her language, and it will be interesting to learn from her the habits and customs of the natives." "yes, indeed, it would be a pity to let the poor little girl turn again into a savage," observed mr greening. "i can't fancy that their ways are good ways, or suited to a christian girl, and that i hope, as miss lucy says, she will turn into before long." it had been arranged that lucy and betsy should take up their abode in the large tent, in which there was now sufficient room for their accommodation, the small one being packed up for mr pemberton's use. the dray being loaded, the farmer went to the horses' heads, and the young men, with the two maoris, going on either side to keep back the wheels, it slowly descended the hill. "we shall not make a very rapid journey," observed valentine. "but we shall be content if we come to the end of it in time without a break down." harry felt very proud at being left in charge of the camp, and tobias promised that there should be no lack of firewood or water, while he could cut the one, and draw the other from the sparkling stream which ran at the foot of the hill. "we shall do very well, never fear, sir," said mrs greening to mr pemberton, "and as soon as you and my good man come back, we shall be ready to start." just as her father had wished lucy good-bye, mr spears, with a pack on his back, and a stout stick in his hand, was observed coming up the hill. "just in time, neighbour," he exclaimed, as he came up to mr pemberton. "i found out, at the surveyor's office, where you had selected your land, and i made up my mind at once to take a piece of ground close to it. as i am all alone, i have only bought a few acres, but that will be enough to build a house on, and to have a garden and paddock. with your leave i'll accompany you. there are several more of our fellow passengers who will select land on the same block when they hear that you and i have settled on it, and we shall soon have, i hope, a pleasant society about us. we shall all be able to help each other; that's the principle i go on." mr pemberton told mr spears that he was very willing to have him as a companion on the journey, and that he was glad to hear that a settlement was likely soon to be formed near him. he was well aware that the differences of social rank could not be maintained in a new colony, and he had made up his mind to be courteous and kind to all around him, feeling assured that all the respect he could require would thus be paid him by his neighbours. he at once gave a proof of his good intentions. "your pack is heavy, mr spears, and we can easily find room on our waggon for it," he said, and taking off the pack, he secured it to the vehicle which they had just then overtaken. "thank you, good sir, thank you," answered mr spears, as he walked forward, with a jaunty elastic step, highly pleased at being relieved of his somewhat heavy burden. "one good turn deserves another, and i hope that i may have many opportunities of repaying it." mr pemberton had promised lucy to send over, from time to time, to let her know what progress was made, and to obtain intelligence in return from her. notwithstanding this, she looked forward eagerly to the day when he would come back to take her and the rest of the party to their new abode. though she did her best to find employment, the time would have hung somewhat heavily on her hands had she not had waihoura to attend to. the maori girl, in a short time, so far recovered as to be able to sit up and try to talk. she seemed as anxious to become acquainted with english as lucy was to learn her language. they both got on very rapidly, for though waihoura had some difficulty in pronouncing english words, she seldom forgot the name of a thing when she had once learned it. she would ask lucy to say the word over and over again, then pronouncing it after her. at the end of a week she could speak a good many english sentences. lucy made almost as rapid progress in maori, she having the advantage of several books to assist her, and at length the two girls were in a limited degree able to exchange ideas. no one in the camp, however, was idle. harry, who always kept guard, was busy from morning to night in manufacturing some article which he thought likely to prove useful. betsy either went with tobias to cut wood, or bring up water, or assist mrs greening, and frequently accompanied her into the town when she went marketing; and sometimes tobias, when he was not wanted to cut wood, went with his mother. one day he came back with the information that a vessel, which had come to an anchor in the morning, had brought over from australia several head of cattle, and a large flock of sheep. "i wish father were here, he would be down on the shore, and buying some of them pretty quickly," he exclaimed. "could we not send to let him know," said lucy. "harry, i heard papa say, too, that he wished to purchase a small flock of sheep as soon as he could find any at a moderate price. i should so like to have charge of them. i have always thought the life of a shepherd or shepherdess the most delightful in the world." harry laughed. "i suspect when it began to rain hard, and your sheep ran away and got lost in the mountains and woods, you would wish yourself sewing quietly by the fireside at home, and your sheep at jericho," he exclaimed, continuing his laughter. "still i should be very glad if we could get the sheep, though i am afraid they will all be sold before we can receive papa's answer." while the conversation was going on, dr fraser arrived to see waihoura. harry told him that he would very much like to send to his father to give notice of the arrival of the sheep. "would you like to turn shepherd?" asked the doctor. "i should like nothing better, for i could take my books with me, or anything i had to make, and look after the sheep at the same time; it would suit me better than lucy, who has a fancy to turn shepherdess, and have a crook, and wear a straw hat set on one side of her head, surrounded with a garland, just as we see in pictures." "i suspect miss lucy would find home duties more suited to her," said the doctor; "but if you, harry, will undertake to look after a small flock of sheep, i think i may promise to put one under your charge, and to give you a portion of the increase as payment. i was thinking of buying a hundred sheep, but hesitated from not knowing any one i could trust to to keep them. from what i have seen of you, i am sure you will do your best; and as your father and farmer greening will probably purchase some more, they will run together till they are sufficiently numerous to form separate flocks. if you will write a letter to your father i will send a messenger off at once," said the doctor. "indeed, so certain am i that they would wish to purchase some, that i will, when i go back, make an offer for a couple of hundred in addition to mine." the next day the doctor told them that he had purchased the sheep as he had proposed, and he brought a letter from mr pemberton thanking him for doing so, and saying that they had made such good progress in their work, that they hoped, in another week, to come back for the rest of the party. "i am rather puzzled to know what to do with the sheep in the meantime," said the doctor. "i cannot entrust them to natives, and there is not a european in the place who has not his own affairs to look after. what do you say, harry, can you and tobias take care of them?" "i cannot quit my post," answered harry, though he was longing to go and see the sheep. "if they were sent up here, i could watch them, but i am afraid they would not remain on the hill while there is better pasture below." "tobias could take charge of them, sir," said mrs greening. "and if we had our old dog `rough,' i'll warrant not one would go astray." "rough," who had accompanied farmer greening all the way from england, had mysteriously disappeared the morning of their arrival; he could not be found before they had quitted the ship, and they had since been unable to discover him. "that is curious," said the doctor; "for this morning, when i bought the sheep, a man offered me a shepherd's dog for sale. i told him that should he not in the meantime have found a purchaser, i would treat with him in the evening after i had seen the dog. should he prove to be `rough,' i will not fail to purchase him." tobias, on hearing this, was very eager to accompany dr fraser. "the old dog will know me among a thousand, and the man will have a hard job to hold him in," he observed, grinning from ear to ear. the doctor, after he had seen waihoura, told lucy she need have no further anxiety about her friend, who only required good food and care completely to recover. "i must get mr marlow to see her father, and persuade him to allow her to remain with you, and he may assure him very truly that she will probably fall ill again if she goes back again to her own people," he said. tobias accompanied the doctor into the town in the hopes of hearing about his favourite "rough." he had not been long absent, when back he came with his shaggy friend at his heels. "here he is mother, here he is master harry," he shouted. "i know'd how it would be, the moment he caught sight of me, he almost toppled the man who held him down on his nose, and so he would if the rope hadn't broken, and in another moment he was licking me all over. the doctor gave the man a guinea; but i said it was a shame for him to take it, and so did everybody, for they saw that the dog knew me among twenty or thirty standing round. the man sneaked off, and `rough' came along with me. now i must go back and bring the sheep round here to the foot of the hill. there's some ground the surveyor says that we may put them on till we can take them to our own run, but we must give `rough' his dinner first, for i'll warrant the fellow has not fed him over well." "rough" wagged his stump of a tail to signify he understood his young master's kind intentions, and mrs greening soon got a mess ready, which "rough" swallowed up in a few moments, and looked up into toby's face, as much as to say, "what do you want with me next?" "come along `rough,' i'll show you," said toby, as he set off at a round trot down the hill. the party at the camp watched him with no little pleasure, when a short time afterwards, he, with the aid of "rough," was seen driving a flock of sheep from the town past the hill to a meadow partly enclosed by a stream which made its way into the sea, a short distance off. "rough" exhibited his wonderful intelligence, as he dashed now on one side, now on the other, keeping the sheep together, and not allowing a single one to stray away. it was a difficult task for toby and him, for the sheep, long pent up on board ship, made numberless attempts to head off into the interior, where their instinct told them they would find an abundance of pasture. without the assistance of "rough," toby would have found it impossible to guide them into the meadow, and even when there, he and his dog had to exert all their vigilance to keep them together. harry was sorely tempted to go down to assist. "i must not quit my post though," he said. "as soon as i am relieved, then i'll try if i cannot shepherd as well as toby. it seems to me that `rough' does the chief part of the work." the doctor had engaged a couple of natives to assist toby in looking after the sheep, but he was so afraid of losing any, that he would only come up to the camp for a few minutes at a time to take his meals, and to get "rough's" food. the maoris had built him a small hut, where he passed the night, with the flock lying down close to him, kept together by the vigilant dog. the maoris were, however, very useful in bringing firewood and water to the camp. waihoura was now well enough to walk about. lucy had given her one of her own frocks and some other clothes, and she and betsy took great pains to dress her in a becoming manner, they combed and braided her dark tresses, which they adorned with a few wild flowers that betsy had picked, and when her costume was complete, mrs greening, looking at her with admiration, exclaimed, "well, i never did think that a little savage girl could turn into a young lady so soon." waihoura, who had seen herself in a looking-glass, was evidently very well satisfied with her appearance, and clapped her hands with delight, and then ran to lucy and rubbed her nose against her's, and kissed her, to express her gratitude. "now that you are like us outside, you must become like us inside," said lucy, employing a homely way of speaking such as her maori friend was most likely to understand. "we pray to god, you must learn to pray to him. we learn about him in the book through which he has made himself known to us as a god of love and mercy, as well as a god of justice, who desires all people to come to him, and has shown us the only way by which we can come. you understand, all people have disobeyed god, and are rebels, and are treated as such by him. the evil spirit, satan, wishes to keep us rebels, and away from god. god in his love desires us to be reconciled to him; but we all deserve punishment, and he cannot, as a god of justice, let us go unpunished. in his great mercy, however, he permitted another to be punished for us, and he allowed his well-beloved son jesus christ, a part of himself, to become the person to suffer punishment. jesus came down on earth to be obedient in all things, because man had been disobedient. he lived a holy pure life, going about doing good, even allowing himself to be cruelly treated, to be despised and put to shame by the very people among whom he had lived, and to whom he had done so much good. then, because man justly deserves punishment, he willingly underwent one of the most painful punishments ever thought of, thus suffering instead of man. when nailed to the cross, his side was pierced with a spear, and the blood flowed forth, that the sacrifice might be complete and perfect. then he rose again, to prove that he was truly god, and that all men will rise from the dead; and he ascended into heaven, there to plead with the father for all who trust him, and to claim our freedom from punishment, on the ground that he was punished in our stead." "jesus sent also, as he had promised, the holy spirit to dwell on earth with his people, to be their comforter, their guide and instructor, and to enable them to understand and accept his father's loving plan of salvation, which he had so fully and completely carried out." "do you understand my meaning," said lucy, who felt that she had said more than waihoura was likely to comprehend. she shook her head. "lucy not bad woman;" pointing to mrs greening, "not bad; maori girl bad, maori people very bad," she answered slowly. "god no love maori people." "but we are all bad when compared to him--all unfit to go and live in his pure and holy presence," exclaimed lucy. "and in spite of their wickedness, god loves the maori people as much as he does us; their souls are of the same value in his sight as ours, and he desires that all should come to him and be saved." "why god not take them then, and make them good?" asked waihoura. "because he in his wisdom thought fit to create man a free agent, to give him the power of choosing between the good and the evil. why he allows evil to exist, he has not revealed to us. all we know is that evil does exist, and that satan is the prince of evil, and tries to spread it everywhere throughout the world. god, if he chose, could overcome evil, but then this world would no longer be a place of trial, as he has thought fit to make it. he has not left man, however, without a means of conquering evil. jesus christ came down on earth to present those means to man; they are very simple, and can very easily be made use of; so simple and so easy that man would never have thought of them. man has nothing to do in order to get rid of his sins, to become pure and holy, and thus fit to live in the presence of a pure and holy god. he has only to put faith in jesus christ, who, though free from sin, as i have told you, took our sins upon himself, and was punished in our stead, while we have only to turn from sin, and to desire not to sin again. we are, however, so prone to sin, that we could not do even this by ourselves; but christ, knowing our weakness, has, as he promised, when he ascended into heaven, sent his holy spirit to be with us to help us to hate sin, and to resist sin." lucy kept her eyes fixed on her friend to try and ascertain if she now more clearly understood her. waihoura again shook her head. lucy felt convinced that her knowledge of english was still too imperfect to enable her to comprehend the subject. "i must try more than ever to learn to speak maori," she said, "and then perhaps i shall better be able to explain what i mean." "maori girl want to know much, much, much," answered waihoura, taking lucy's hand. "maori girl soon die perhaps, and then wish to go away where lucy go." "ah, yes, it is natural that we should wish to be with those we have loved on earth, but if we understand the surpassing love of jesus, we should desire far more to go and dwell with him. try and remember, waihoura, that we have a friend in heaven who loves us more than any earthly friend can do, who knows how weak and foolish and helpless we are, and yet is ever ready to listen to us, and to receive us when we lift up our hearts to him in prayer." "maori girl not know how to pray," said waihoura, sorrowfully. "i cannot teach you," said lucy, "but if you desire to pray, jesus can and will send the holy spirit i told you of. if you only wish to pray, i believe that you are praying, the mere words you utter are of little consequence, god sees into our hearts, and he knows better than even we ourselves do, whether the spirit of prayer is there." "i am afraid, miss lucy, that the little girl can't take in much of the beautiful things you have been saying," observed mrs greening, who had all the time been listening attentively. "but i have learned more than i knew before, and i only wish tobias and the rest of them had been here to listen to you." "i am very sure my father will explain the subject to them more clearly than i can do," said lucy, modestly. "i have only repeated what he said to me, and what i know to be true, because i have found it all so plainly set forth in god's word. my father always tells us not to take anything we hear for granted till we find it there, and that it is our duty to search the scriptures for ourselves. it is because people are often too idle, or too ignorant to do this, that there is so much false doctrine and error among nominal christians. i hope mr marlow will pay us a visit when we are settled in our new home, and bring a maori bible with him, and he will be able to explain the truth to waihoura far better than i can. you will like to learn to read, waihoura, and we must get some books, and i will try and teach you, and you will teach me your language at the same time." lucy often spoke on the same subject to her guest; but, as was to be expected, waihoura very imperfectly understood her. with more experience she would have known that god often thinks fit to try the faith and patience even of the most earnest and zealous christians who are striving to make known the truth of the gospel to others. the faithful missionary has often toiled on for years among the heathen before he has been allowed to see the fruit of his labours. chapter four. settling down. return of waggon to the camp for lucy and the rest of the party, who set off for the farm.--scenery on the road.--arrival at farm.--mr spears again.--plans for the future. "here comes the waggon," shouted harry, as he stood on the brow of the hill waving his hat. "there's farmer greening and val. papa has sent for us at last." harry was right, and val announced that he had come for all the lighter articles, including lucy and her companions, who were to set out at once with farmer greening, while he, with a native, remained to take care of the heavier goods. the waggon was soon loaded, leaving places within it for lucy and waihoura, mrs greening and betsy insisting on walking. "now val, i hand over my command to you, and see that you keep as good a watch as i have done," said harry, as he shook hands with his brother. "i must go and take charge of the sheep." valentine smiled at the air of importance harry had assumed. "there's the right stuff in the little fellow," he said to himself, as he watched him and young tobias driving the sheep in the direction the waggon had taken. lucy was delighted with the appearance of the country, as they advanced, though she could not help wishing very frequently that the road had been smoother; indeed, the vehicle bumped and rolled about so much at times that she fully expected a break down. waihoura, who had never been in a carriage before, naturally supposed that this was the usual way in which such vehicles moved along, and therefore appeared in no degree alarmed. she pointed out to lucy the names of the different trees they passed, and of the birds which flew by. lucy was struck with the beauty of the fern trees, their long graceful leaves springing twenty and thirty feet from the ground; some, indeed, in sheltered and damp situations, were twice that height, having the appearance of the palm trees of tropical climates. the most beautiful tree was the rimu, which rose without a branch to sixty or seventy feet, with graceful drooping foliage of a beautiful green, resembling clusters of feathers; then there was the kahikatea, or white pine, resembling the rimu in foliage, but with a light coloured bark. one or two were seen rising ninety feet high without a branch. there were numerous creepers, some bearing very handsome flowers, and various shrubs; one, the karaka, like a large laurel, with golden coloured berries in clusters, which contrasted finely with the glossy greenness of its foliage. some of the fruits were like large plums, very tempting in appearance; but when lucy tasted some, which the farmer picked for her, she was much disappointed in their flavour. the best was the poro poro, which had a taste between that of apple peel and a bad strawberry. birds were flitting about from tree to tree; the most common was the tui, with a glossy black plumage, and two white feathers on the throat like bands, and somewhat larger than an english blackbird, which appeared always in motion, now darting up from some low bush to the topmost bough of a lofty tree, when it began making a number of strange noises, with a wonderful volume of tone. if one tui caught sight of another, they commenced fighting, more in sport, apparently, than in earnest, and ending with a wild shout; they would throw a summer-set or two, and then dart away into the bush to recommence their songs and shouts. there was a fine pigeon, its plumage richly shaded with green purple and gold, called the kukupa. occasionally they caught sight of a large brown parrot, marked with red, flying about the tops of the tallest trees, and uttering a loud and peculiar cry; this was the kaka. waihoura pointed out to lucy another bird of the parrot tribe, of a green plumage, touched with gold about the head, and which she called the kakarica. as the waggon could only proceed at a snail's pace, they had made good but half the distance, when they had to stop for dinner by the side of a bright stream which ran through the forest. the horses, which were tethered, cropped the grass, and mrs greening unpacked her cooking utensils. while dinner was getting ready, waihoura led lucy along the bank of the stream to show her some more birds. they saw several, among them an elegant little fly-catcher, with a black and white plumage, and a delicate fan-tail, which flew rapidly about picking up sun-flies; this was the tirakana. and there was another pretty bird, the makomako, somewhat like a green linnet. several were singing together, and their notes reminded lucy of the soft tinkling of numerous little bells. they had seen nothing of harry and tobias with the sheep since starting, and farmer greening began to regret that he had not sent one of his elder sons to drive them. "never fear, father," observed mrs greening, "our little tobias has got a head on his shoulders, and so has master harry, and with `rough' to help them, they will get along well enough." mrs greening was right, and just as the horses were put too, "rough's" bark was heard through the woods. in a short time the van of the flock appeared, with a native, who walked first to show the way. though "rough" had never been out in the country before, he seemed to understand its character, and the necessity of compelling the sheep to follow the footsteps of the dark-skinned native before them. "it's capital fun," cried harry, as soon as he saw lucy. "we have to keep our eyes about us though, when coming through the wood especially, but we have not let a single sheep stray away as yet." "well, boys, our fire is still burning, and my missus has cooked food enough for you all," said farmer greening. "so you may just take your dinner, and come on after us as fast as you can." "we will not be long," answered harry. "hope, mother, you have left some bones for `rough' though," said toby. "he deserves his dinner as much as any of us." "here's a mess i put by for him to give when we got to the end of our journey," answered mrs greening, drawing out a pot which she had stowed away in the waggon. she called to "rough," who quickly gobbled it up. the waggon then moved on, while harry and his companions sat round the fire to discuss their dinner. "rough," in the meantime, vigilantly keeping the sheep together. the remainder of the journey was found more difficult than the first part had been. sometimes they had to climb over steep ranges, when the natives assisted at the wheels, while mrs greening and betsy pushed behind; then they had to descend on the other side, when a drag was put on, and the wheels held back. several wide circuits had to be made to avoid hills on their way, and even when over level ground, the fern in many places was so very thick that it was rather hard work for the horses to drag the waggon through it. "this is a rough country," observed mrs greening, as she trudged on by her husband's side. "i didn't expect to see the like of it." "never fear, dame," answered the farmer. "in a year or two we shall have a good road between this and the port, and a coach-and-four may be running on it." at length the last range was passed, and they reached a broad open valley, with a fine extent of level ground. in the distance rose a hill, with a sparkling river flowing near it, and thickly wooded heights. further on beyond, it appeared a bold range of mountains, their highest peaks capped with snow. "this is, indeed, a beautiful scene," exclaimed lucy. "that's our home, miss," said the farmer, pointing to the hill. "if your eyes could reach as far, you would just see the roof of your new house among the trees. we shall come well in sight of it before long." the waggon now moved on faster, as the fern had been cut away or trampled down, and the horses seemed to know that they were getting near home. mr pemberton and the farmer's sons came down to welcome them, and to conduct them up to the house. lucy was surprised to find what progress had already been made. the whole of it was roofed over, and the room she was to occupy was completely finished. the building was not very large. it consisted of a central hall, with two bed-rooms on either side, and a broad verandah running entirely round it; behind it were some smaller detached buildings for the kitchen and out-houses. in front and on one side a space was marked off for a flower garden, beyond which, extending down the side of the hill to the level ground, was a large space which mr pemberton said he intended for the orchard and kitchen garden. on that side of the house were sheds for the waggons and horses, though now occupied by the native labourers. "they consider themselves magnificently lodged," said mr pemberton. "and they deserve it, for they worked most industriously, and enabled me to put up the house far more rapidly than i had expected. i believe, however, that they would have preferred the native wahre, with the heat and smoke they delight in, to the larger hut i have provided for them, and i have been sometimes afraid they would burn it down with the huge fire they made within." farmer greening's cottage, which was a little way round on the other side of the hill, was built on a similar plan to mr pemberton, but it was not so far advanced. "you must blame me, mrs greening, for this," said mr pemberton. "your husband insisted on helping me with my house before he would begin yours, declaring that he should have the advantage of having mine as a model. i hope, therefore, that you will take up your abode with us till yours is finished, as harry and i can occupy the tent in the meantime." mrs greening gladly accepted the invitation; she thought, indeed, that she should be of use to lucy in getting the house in order. the sitting-room was not yet boarded, but a rough table had been put in it, and round this the party were soon seated at tea. "beg pardon, i hope i don't intrude, just looked in to welcome you and my good friend mrs greening to `riverside.' glad to find that you have arrived safe. well, to be sure, the place is making wonderful progress, we have three families already arrived in the village, and two more expected tomorrow, and i don't know how many will follow. i have been helping my new friends to put up their houses, and have been obliged to content myself with a shake-down of fern in the corner of a shed; but we settlers must make up our minds to rough it, mr pemberton, and i hope to get my own house up in the course of a week or two." these words were uttered by mr nicholas spears, who stood poking his head into the room at the doorway, as if doubtful whether he might venture to enter. "i thank you for your kind inquiries, mr spears," said mr pemberton, who, though he could not feel much respect for the little man, treated him, as he did everybody else, with courtesy. "if you have not had your tea come in and take a seat at our board. we have but a three-legged stool to offer you." this was just what mr spears wished; and sitting down he began forthwith to give the party all the news of the settlement. from his account lucy was glad to find that two families, one that of a naval, the other of a military officer, who had just arrived in the colony, had taken land close to theirs, and were about to settle on it. although the midsummer day was drawing to a close, harry and toby, with the sheep, had not yet made their appearance. paul and james went off to meet them, and take the flock where they were to remain for the night, so as to relieve the boys of their charge. there was a fine bright moon, so they would have no difficulty in finding their way. not long afterwards harry's voice was heard, echoed by toby's, shouting to the sheep, and the two boys rushed up to the house. "here we are, papa," cried harry. "we have brought the sheep along all safe, and now paul and james have got charge of them, we may eat our supper with good consciences." mrs greening quickly placed a plentiful meal before the two young shepherds, who did ample justice to it. "we must get some cows, farmer, if we can procure any at a moderate price, when you next go back to town," said mr pemberton. "that's just what i was thinking," answered the farmer. "and some pigs and poultry," added mrs greening. "i should not think myself at home without them, and miss lucy and betsy will be wanting some to look after." "and a few goats, i suspect, would not be amiss," observed the farmer. "i saw several near the town, and i hear they do very well." waihoura, who was listening attentively to all that was said, seemed to comprehend the remark about the goats, and made lucy understand that she had several at her village, and she should like to send for some of them. supper being over, mr pemberton, according to his usual custom, read a chapter in the bible, and offered up evening prayer; and after mr spears had taken his departure, and the rest of the family had retired to their respective dormitories, heaps of fern serving as beds for most of them, mr pemberton and the farmer sat up arranging their plans for the future. the latter agreed to return to town the next day to bring up the remainder of the stores, and to make the proposed purchases. although they all knew that at no great distance there were several villages inhabited by savages, till lately, notorious for their fierce and blood-thirsty character, they lay down to sleep with perfect confidence, knowing that the missionary of the gospel had been among them, and believing that a firm friendship had been established between them and the white occupants of their country. chapter five. ihaka's visit. life at riverside.--waihoura begins to learn the truth.--her father, accompanied by several chiefs, comes to take her to his pah, and she quits her friends at riverside. the settlement made rapid progress. in the course of a few weeks mr pemberton's and farmer greening's houses were finished, their gardens dug and planted; and they had now, in addition to the sheep, which harry and toby continued to tend, several cows and pigs and poultry. lucy, assisted by betsy, was fully occupied from morning till night; she, however, found time to give instruction to waihoura, while mr pemberton or valentine assisted harry in his studies. he seldom went out without a book in his pocket, so that he might read while the vigilant "rough" kept the sheep together. several other families had bought land in the neighbourhood, and had got up their cottages. some of them were very nice people, but they, as well as lucy, were so constantly engaged, that they could see very little of each other. the maoris employed by mr pemberton belonged to ihaka's tribe, and through them he heard of his daughter. he had been so strongly urged by mr marlow to allow her to remain with her white friends, that he had hitherto abstained from visiting her, lest, as he sent word, he should be tempted to take her away. lucy was very glad of this, as was waihoura. the two girls were becoming more and more attached to each other, and they dreaded the time when they might be separated. "maori girl wish always live with lucy--never, never part," said waihoura, as one evening the two friends sat together in the porch, bending over a picture-book of scripture subjects, with the aid of which lucy was endeavouring to instruct her companion. lucy's arm was thrown round waihoura's neck, while betsy, who had finished her work, stood behind them, listening to the conversation, and wondering at the way her young mistress contrived to make herself understood. "god does not always allow even the dearest friends to remain together while they dwell on earth," replied lucy to waihoura's last remark. "i used to wish that i might never leave my dear mother; but god thought fit to take her to himself. i could not have borne the parting did not i know that i should meet her in heaven." "what place heaven?" asked waihoura. "jesus has told us that it is the place where we shall be with him, where all is love, and purity, and holiness, and where we shall meet all who have trusted to him while on earth, and where there will be no more parting, and where sorrow and sickness, and pain, and all things evil, will be unknown." "maori girl meet lucy in heaven?" said waihoura, in a tone which showed she was asking a question. "i am sure you will," said lucy, "if you learn to love jesus and do his will." waihoura was silent for some minutes, a sad expression coming over her countenance. "maori girl too bad, not love jesus enough," she said. "no one is fitted for heaven from their own merits or good works, and we never can love jesus as much as he deserves to be loved. but he knows how weak and wayward we are, and all he asks us is to try our best to love and serve him, to believe that he was punished instead of us, and took our sins upon himself, and he then, as it were, clothes us with his righteousness. he hides our sins, or puts them away, so that god looks upon us as if we were pure and holy, and free from sin, and so will let us come into a pure and holy heaven, where no unclean things--such as are human beings--of themselves can enter. do you understand me?" waihoura thought for some time, and then asked lucy again to explain her meaning. at length her countenance brightened. "just as if maori girl put on lucy's dress, and hat and shawl over face, and go into a pakeha house, people say here come pakeha girl." "yes," said lucy, inclined to smile at her friend's illustration of the truth. "but you must have a living faith in christ's sacrifice; and though the work and the merit is all his, you must show, by your love and your life, what you think, and say, and do, that you value that work. if one of your father's poor slaves had been set free, and had received a house and lands, and a wife, and pigs, and many other things from him, ought not the slave to remain faithful to him, and to try and serve him, and work for him more willingly than when he was a slave? that is just what jesus christ requires of those who believe in him. they were slaves to satan and the world, and to many bad ways, and he set them free. he wants all such to labour for him. now he values the souls of people more than anything else, and he wishes his friends to make known to others the way by which their souls may be saved. he also wishes people to live happily together in the world; and he came on earth to show us the only way in which that can be done. he proved to us, by his example, that we can only be happy by being kind, and gentle, and courteous to others, helping those who are in distress, doing to others as we should wish they would do to us. if, therefore, we really love jesus, and have a living active faith in him, we shall try to follow his example in all things. if all men lived thus, the gospel on earth would be established, there would be really peace and good will among men." "very different here," said waihoura. "maori people still quarrel, and fight, and kill. in pakeha country they good people love jesus, and do good, and no bad." "i am sorry to say that though there are many who do love jesus, there are far more who do not care to please him, and that there is much sin, and sorrow, and suffering in consequence. oh, if we could but find the country where all loved and tried to serve him! if all the inhabitants of even one little island were real followers of jesus, what a happy spot it would be." waihoura sighed. "long time before maori country like that." "i am afraid that it will be a long time before any part of the world is like that," said lucy. "but yet it is the duty of each separate follower of jesus to try, by the way he or she lives, to make it so. oh, how watchful we should be over ourselves and all our thoughts, words and acts, and remembering our own weakness and proneness to sin, never to be trusting to ourselves, but ever seeking the aid of the holy spirit to help us." lucy said this rather to herself than to her companion. indeed, though she did her best to explain the subject to waihoura, and to draw from her in return the ideas she had received, she could not help acknowledging that what she had said was very imperfectly understood by the maori girl. she was looking forward, however, with great interest, to a visit from mr marlow, and she hoped that he, from speaking the native language fluently, would be able to explain many points which she had found beyond her power to put clearly. the work of the day being over, the party were seated at their evening meal. a strange noise was heard coming from the direction of the wahre, which the native labourers had built for themselves, a short distance from the house. harry, who had just then come in from his shepherding, said that several natives were collected round the wahre, and that they were rubbing noses, and howling together in chorus. "i am afraid they have brought some bad news, for the tears were rolling down their eyes, and altogether they looked very unhappy," he remarked. waihoura, who partly understood what harry had said, looked up and observed-- "no bad news, only meet after long time away." still she appeared somewhat anxious, and continued giving uneasy glances at the door. valentine was about to go out to make inquiries, when ihaka, dressed in a cloak of flax, and accompanied by several other persons similarly habited, appeared at the door. waihoura ran forward to meet him. he took her in his arms, rubbed his nose against hers, and burst into tears, which also streamed down her cheeks. after their greeting was over, mr pemberton invited the chief and his friends to be seated, fully expecting to hear that he had come to announce the death of some near relative. the chief accepted the invitation for himself and one of his companions, while the others retired to a distance, and sat down on the ground. ihaka's companion was a young man, and the elaborate tattooing on his face and arms showed that he was a chief of some consideration. both he and ihaka behaved with much propriety, and their manners were those of gentlemen who felt themselves in their proper position; but as lucy noticed the countenance of the younger chief, she did not at all like its expression. the tattoo marks always give a peculiarly fierce look to the features; but, besides this, as he cast his eyes round the party, and they at last rested on waihoura, lucy's bad opinion of him was confirmed. ihaka could speak a few sentences of english, but the conversation was carried on chiefly through waihoura, who interpreted for him. the younger chief seldom spoke; when he did, either ihaka or his daughter tried to explain his meaning. occasionally he addressed her in maori, when she hung down her head, or turned her eyes away from him, and made no attempt to interpret what he had said. mr pemberton knew enough of the customs of the natives not to inquire the object of ihaka's visit, and to wait till he thought fit to explain it. lucy had feared, directly he made his appearance, that he had come to claim his daughter, and she trembled lest he should declare that such was his intention. her anxiety increased when supper was over, and he began, in somewhat high-flown language, to express his gratitude to her and mr pemberton for the care they had taken of waihoura. he then introduced his companion as hemipo, a rangatira, or chief of high rank, his greatly esteemed and honoured friend, who, although not related to him by the ties of blood, might yet, he hoped, become so. when he said this waihoura cast her eyes to the ground, and looked greatly distressed, and lucy, who had taken her hand, felt it tremble. ihaka continued, observing that now, having been deprived of the company of his daughter for many months, though grateful to the friends who had so kindly sheltered her, and been the means of restoring her to health, he desired to have her return with him to his pah, where she might assist in keeping the other women in order, and comfort and console him in his wahre, which had remained empty and melancholy since the death of her mother. waihoura, though compelled to interpret this speech, made no remark on it; but lucy saw that the tears were trickling down her cheeks. mr pemberton, though very sorry to part with his young guest, felt that it would be useless to beg her father to allow her to remain after what he had said. lucy, however, pleaded hard that she might be permitted to stay on with them sometime longer. all she could say, however, was useless; for when the chief appeared to be yielding, hemipo said something which made him keep to his resolution, and he finally told waihoura that she must prepare to accompany him the following morning. he and hemipo then rose, and saying that they would sleep in the wahre, out of which it afterwards appeared they turned the usual inhabitants, they took their departure. waihoura kept up her composure till they were gone, and then throwing herself on lucy's neck, burst into tears. "till i came here i did not know what it was to love god, and to try and be good, and to live as you do, so happy and peaceable, and now i must go back and be again the wild maori girl i was before i came to you, and follow the habits of my people; and worse than all, lucy, from what my father said, i know that he intends me to marry the rangatira hemipo, whom i can never love, for he is a bad man, and has killed several cookies or slaves, who have offended him. he is no friend of the pakehas, and has often said he would be ready to drive them out of the country. he would never listen either to the missionaries; and when the good mr marlow went to his pah, he treated him rudely, and has threatened to take his life if he has the opportunity. fear only of what the pakehas might do has prevented him." waihoura did not say this in as many words, but she contrived, partly in english and partly in her own language, to make her meaning understood. lucy was deeply grieved at hearing it, and tried to think of some means for saving waihoura from so hard a fate. they sat up for a long time talking on the subject, but no plan which lucy could suggest afforded waihoura any consolation. "i will consult my father as to what can be done," lucy said at last; "or when mr marlow comes, perhaps he can help us." "oh no, he can do nothing," answered waihoura, bursting into tears. "we must pray, then, that god will help us," said lucy. "he has promised that he will be a present help in time of trouble." "oh yes, we will pray to god. he only can help us," replied the maori girl, and ere they lay down on their beds they together offered up their petitions to their father in heaven for guidance and protection; but though they knew that that would not be withheld, they could not see the way in which it would be granted. next morning waihoura had somewhat recovered her composure. lucy and mrs greening insisted on her accepting numerous presents, which she evidently considered of great value. several of the other settlers in the neighbourhood, who had become acquainted with the young maori girl, and had heard that she was going away, brought up their gifts. waihoura again gave way to tears when the moment arrived for her final parting with lucy; and she was still weeping as her father led her off, surrounded by his attendants, to return to his pah. chapter six. among the maoris. riverside.--mr marlow the missionary, visits the pembertons.--lucy and her friends visit ihaka.--a native pah described.--a feast--native amusements.--return to riverside. the appearance of riverside had greatly improved since mr pemberton and farmer greening had settled there. they had each thirty or forty acres under cultivation, with kitchen gardens and orchards, and lucy had a very pretty flower garden in front of the cottage, with a dairy and poultry yard, and several litters of pigs. harry's flock of sheep had increased threefold, and might now be seen dotting the plain as they fed on the rich grasses which had sprung up where the fern had been burnt. there were several other farms in the neighbourhood, and at the foot of the hill a village, consisting of a dozen or more houses, had been built, the principal shop in which was kept by mr nicholas spears. the high road to the port was still in a very imperfect state, and the long talked of coach had not yet begun to run. communication was kept up by means of the settlers waggons, or by the gentlemen, who took a shorter route to it on horseback. mr marlow at length paid his long promised visit. lucy eagerly inquired if he had seen waihoura. "i spent a couple of days at ihaka's pah on my way here," he replied, "and i am sorry to say that your young friend appears very unhappy. her father seems resolved that she shall marry hemipo, notwithstanding that he is a heathen, as he has passed his word to that effect. i pointed out to him the misery he would cause her; and though he loves his child, yet i could not shake him. he replied, that a chief's word must not be broken, and that perhaps waihoura's marriage may be the means of converting her husband. i fear that she would have little influence over him, as even among his own people he is looked upon as a fierce and vindictive savage." "poor waihoura!" sighed lucy. "do you think her father would allow her to pay us another visit? i should be so glad to send and invite her." "i am afraid not," answered mr marlow. "ihaka himself, though nominally a christian, is very lukewarm; and though he was glad to have his daughter restored to health, he does not value the advantage she would derive from intercourse with civilised people. however, you can make the attempt, and i will write a letter, which you can send by one of his people who accompanied me here." the letter was written, and forthwith despatched. in return ihaka sent an invitation to the pakeha maiden and her friends to visit him and his daughter at his pah. mr marlow advised lucy to accept it. "the chief's pride possibly prevents him from allowing his daughter to visit you again, until, according to his notions, he has repaid you for the hospitality you have shown her," he observed. "you may feel perfectly secure in going there; and, at all events, you will find the visit interesting, as you will have an opportunity of seeing more of the native customs and way of living than you otherwise could." mr pemberton, after some hesitation, agreed to the proposal, and valentine undertook to escort his sister. harry said he should like to go; "but then about the sheep--i cannot leave them for so long," he said. james greening offered to look after his flock during his absence. a lady, miss osburn, a very nice girl, who was calling on lucy, expressed a strong wish to accompany her. "i think that i am bound to go with you, as i have advised the expedition, and feel myself answerable for your safe conduct," said mr marlow. "i may also prove useful as an interpreter, and should be glad of an opportunity of again speaking to ihaka and his people." a message was accordingly sent to the chief, announcing the intention of lucy and her friends to pay a visit to his pah. the road, though somewhat rough, was considered practicable for the waggon, which was accordingly got ready. they were to start at daybreak, and as the pah was about twelve miles off, it was not expected that they would reach it till late in the afternoon. two natives had been sent by ihaka to act as guides, and as they selected the most level route, the journey was performed without accident. about the time expected they came in sight of a rocky hill rising out of the plain, with a stream running at its base. on the summit appeared a line of palisades, surmounted by strange looking figures, mounted on poles, while in front was a gateway, above which was a larger figure, with a hideous countenance, curiously carved and painted. the natives pointed, with evident pride, at the abode of their chief. as the path to it was far too steep to allow of the waggon going up it, lucy and her friend got out to ascend on foot. as they did so, the chief and a number of his people emerged from the gateway, and came down to meet them. the usual salutations were offered, and the chief, knowing the customs of his guests, did not offer to rub noses. lucy inquired anxiously for waihoura. she was, according to etiquette, remaining within to receive her visitors. after passing through a gateway, they found a second line of stockades, within which was a wide place occupied by numerous small wahres, while at the further end stood two of somewhat larger size, ornamented with numerous highly carved wooden figures. on one side was a building, raised on carved posts, with a high-pitched roof--it was still more highly ornamented than the others, in grotesque patterns, among which the human face predominated. this latter was the chief's store-house, and it was considerably larger and handsomer than his own abode. the dwelling-houses were of an oblong shape, about sixteen feet long and eight wide, with low walls, but high sloping roofs; the doors were so low that it was necessary to stoop when entering. the roofs were thatched with rampo, a plant which grows in the marshes; and the walls were of the same material, thickly matted together, so as to keep out both rain and wind. as the party advanced, waihoura appeared from her wahre, and throwing her arms on lucy's neck, began to weep as if her heart would break. she then conducted her friends into the interior, while the chief took charge of mr marlow, valentine, and harry. waihoura's abode was clean and neat, the ground on each side covered thickly with fern, on the top of which mats were placed to serve as couches. here the maori girl begged her guests to be seated, and having recovered her composure, she thanked lucy warmly for coming, and made inquiries about her friends at riverside. she smiled and laughed, and became so animated, that she scarcely appeared like the same person she had been a few minutes before. she became very grave, however, when lucy asked if her father still insisted on her marrying hemipo. "he does," she answered, in a sad tone. "but i may yet escape, and i will, if i can, at all risks." she pressed her lips together, and looked so firm, that lucy hoped that she would succeed in carrying out her resolution. their conversation was interrupted by a summons to a feast, which the chief had prepared, to do honour to his guests. in the centre of the pah a scaffold was erected, with bars across it, on which were hung up various fish, pieces of pork, and wild-fowl, while on the top were baskets full of sweet and ordinary potatoes, and a variety of other vegetables; and a number of women were employed in cooking, in ovens formed in the ground. these ovens were mere holes filled with hot stones, on the top of which the provisions were placed, and then covered up with leaves and earth. in deference to the customs of their white friends, the natives had prepared seats for them, composed of fern and mats, in the shade of the chief's wahre, while they themselves sat round, at a respectful distance, on the ground, in the hot sun. when all were arranged, the chief, wrapped in his cloak, walked into the centre, and marching backwards and forwards, addressed the party, now turning to his guests, now to his countrymen, the rapidity of his movements increasing, till he appeared to have worked himself into a perfect fury. waihoura, who sat by lucy's side, begged her and her friend not to be alarmed, he was merely acting according to custom. suddenly he stopped, and wrapping his cloak around him, sat down on the ground. mr marlow considered this a good opportunity of speaking to the people, and rising, he walked into their midst. his address, however, was very different to that of the chief's. he reminded them that god, who rules the world, had given them all the food he saw there collected; that he desires to do good to the bodies of men, and to enable them to live in happiness and plenty; but that he loves their souls still more, and that he who had provided them with the food was ready to bestow on them spiritual blessings, to feed their souls as well as their bodies: that their bodies must perish, but that their souls must live for ever--he had sent the missionaries to them with his message of love, and he grieved that they were often more ready to accept only the food for their bodies, and to reject that which he offers for their souls. much more he spoke to the same effect, and explained all that god, their father had done for them when they were banished for their sins, to enable them again to become his dear children. earthly fathers, he continued, are too often ready to sacrifice their children for their own advantage, regardless of their happiness here and of their eternal welfare. ihaka winced when he heard these remarks, and fixed his eyes on the speaker, but said nothing. other chiefs, who had come as guests, also spoke. lucy was glad to find that hemipo was not among them. the feast then commenced, the provisions were handed round in neat clean baskets to each guest. ihaka had provided plates and knives and forks for his english friends, who were surprised to find the perfect way in which the fish and meat, as well as the vegetables, were cooked. after the feast, the young people hurried out of the pah towards a post stuck in the ground, on one side of a bank, with ropes hanging from the top; each one seized a rope, and began running round and round, now up, now down the bank, till their feet were lifted off the ground, much in the way english boys amuse themselves in a gymnasium. in another place a target was set up, at which the elder boys and young men threw their spears, composed of fern stems, with great dexterity. several kites, formed of the flat leaves of a kind of sedge, were also brought out and set flying, with songs and shouts, which increased as the kite ascended higher and higher. a number of the young men exhibited feats of dancing, which were not, however, especially graceful, nor interesting to their guests. when the sun set the party returned to the pah. mr marlow, accompanied by val, went about among the people, addressing them individually, and affording instruction to those who had expressed an anxiety about their souls. ihaka had provided a new wahre for his visitors, while waihoura accommodated lucy and miss osburn in her hut. lucy had hoped to persuade ihaka to allow his daughter to return with her, but he made various excuses, and waihoura expressed her fears that she was not allowed to go on account of hemipo, who objected to her associating with her english friends. next morning the party set out on their return, leaving waihoura evidently very miserable, and anxious about the future. they had got a short distance from the pah, when a chief with several attendants passed them, and lucy felt sure, from the glimpse she got of his features, that he was hemipo, especially as he did not stop, and only offered them a distant salutation. mr marlow again expressed his regret that he had been unable to move ihaka. "still, i believe, that he is pricked in his conscience, and he would be glad of an opportunity of being released from his promise," he remarked. "the chief considers himself, however, in honour bound to perform it, though he is well aware that it must lead to his daughter's unhappiness. i do not, however, suppose that he is biased by any fears of the consequences were he to break off the marriage, though probably if he did so hemipo would attack the fort, and attempt to carry off his bride by force." when the party got back to riverside, their friends were very eager to hear an account of their visit, and several regretted that they had not accompanied them. "who would have thought, miss lucy, when we first came here, that you would ever have slept inside one of those savage's huts!" exclaimed mrs greening. "my notion was, that they would as likely as not eat anybody up who got into their clutches; but i really begin to think that they are a very decent, good sort of people, only i do wish the gentlemen would not make such ugly marks on their faces--it does not improve them, and i should like to tell them so." chapter seven. the beginning of trouble. prosperous condition of the settlement--mr pemberton and his sons go out shooting.--waihoura is observed flying from hemipo, who fires and wounds her.--rescued by mr pemberton and taken to riverside.--val goes for dr fraser.--on their return, rahana, a native chief, saves their lives.--ihaka arrives with his followers to defend the farm, as also do rahana's, but no enemy appears, and they, with waihoura, return to ihaka's pah. the little settlement went on prosperously, the flocks and herds increased, and more land was brought under cultivation; the orchards were producing fruit, and the kitchen gardens an abundance of vegetables. there had been outbreaks of the natives in the northern part of the island, but those in their immediate neighbourhood were supposed to be peaceably disposed, and friendly towards the english. lucy had been for some time expecting to hear from waihoura, and she feared, from the last account she had received from her, that the marriage the poor girl so much dreaded with hemipo, might soon take place. "i am afraid it can't be helped," observed mrs greening, who was trying to console her. "after all, he is her own countryman, and maybe she will improve him when they marry." "oh, but i mourn for her because he is a heathen, and a cruel bad man," said lucy, "and i am sure she is worthy of a better fate." mr pemberton and valentine had shortly after this gone out with their guns to shoot some wild-fowl which had visited the banks of the river. the young pembertons and greenings had built a boat, and as the birds appeared more numerous on the opposite side, harry, who met them, offered to paddle them across. while harry remained in the canoe, they proceeded up a small stream which ran into the main river. they were approaching the border of the forest. although the foliage, entwined by creepers, was so dense towards the upper part of the trees that the rays of the sun were unable to penetrate through it, the lower part was open and free from underwood, thus enabling them to pass among the trees without difficulty, and to see for a considerable distance into its depths. "we shall find no birds there," observed val. "had we not better turn back and continue along the bank of the main stream?" they were just about to do as val proposed, when they caught sight of a figure running at full speed through the forest towards them. "it is a woman, i believe," exclaimed val. "yes, and there is a man following her. she is endeavouring to escape from him. she is crying out, and making signs for us to come to her assistance. she is waihoura!" as he spoke, the savage stopped, then levelled his rifle and fired. waihoura shrieked out, and running a few paces further towards them, fell. "i must punish the villain," exclaimed val, dashing forward. "stay, my boy," said mr pemberton, "he deserves punishment, but not at our hands,--let us try and assist the poor girl." they hurried to where waihoura lay. the bullet had wounded her in the shoulder. meantime the savage had retreated, and when they looked round for him, he was nowhere to be seen. "we must take the poor girl to the house and endeavour to obtain surgical assistance for her," said mr pemberton. they lifted her up and bore her along towards the river. valentine shouted for harry, who quickly came up with the canoe. waihoura was too much agitated to speak, or to tell them by whom she had been wounded. still her countenance exhibited an expression rather of satisfaction than of alarm. harry having secured the canoe, ran on before his father and brother to prepare lucy for the arrival of her friend. waihoura was carried into the house, and placed on the bed she had formerly occupied, while harry ran on to get mrs greening to assist in taking care of her. left with lucy and betsy, waihoura soon recovered her composure. "i have escaped from him," she said, in her broken english. "i have done what i long intended. hemipo came for me to my father's pah, and i was delivered in due form to him, and so my father's honour was satisfied. i went quietly for some distance, as if i was no longer unwilling to accompany him, and then, watching my opportunity, i ran off, hoping to make my escape without being discovered. he saw me, however, and followed, though i was already a long way off. i hoped to reach the river and swim across to you, when he was nearly overtaking me. just then, as he caught sight of your father and brother, in his rage and disappointment he fired at me, and would have killed me had they not come up to prevent him." such was the meaning of the account waihoura gave lucy, as she and betsy were endeavouring to staunch the blood which continued to flow from the wound. as soon as mrs greening arrived, she advised val to set off and obtain dr fraser's assistance. "we may be able to stop the blood, but the hurt is a bad one, and if the bullet is still in the wound, will need a surgeon to take it out," she observed. valentine required no second bidding. harry, indeed, had already got a horse ready. he galloped away, taking the shortest cut across the country to the fort. valentine had to spend some time in searching for dr fraser, who had gone off to a distance, and when he returned he had a patient to whom it was absolutely necessary he should attend. "i'll not be a moment longer than i can help," exclaimed the doctor. "i felt great interest in that pretty little native girl. there's one comfort, that the natives seldom suffer from fever through injuries. you ride back and say i am coming." "i would rather wait for you," answered valentine. though he was sorely annoyed at the delay, it enabled him to give his horse a feed, and to rest the animal, so that there was not so much time lost as he supposed. at length the doctor was ready, and they set off to take the way by which valentine had come. they had gone rather more than half the distance, and were approaching a defile between two high hills, covered thickly with trees, and wild rugged rocks on either side. they were just about to enter it when a maori, who, by the way he was dressed, appeared to be a chief, was seen hurrying down the side of the hill towards them, and beckoning to them to stop. "he wishes to speak to us," said valentine, "shall we wait for him?" "i hope that his intentions are friendly," observed the doctor. "these fellows have been playing some treacherous tricks to the settlers in the north, and it is as well to be prepared." "his manner does not appear to be hostile," observed valentine. "i will ride forward to speak to him." valentine had not gone many paces before he met the native, who hurriedly addressed him in broken english. "go back and take another path," he exclaimed. "if you go forward you will be killed, there's a bad chief, with several men, lying in wait to shoot you. i have only just discovered their intentions, and hurried forward to give you warning." "can you tell us who the chief is?" asked valentine, not feeling very willing to believe the stranger's statement. "his name does not matter," answered the young stranger. "he supposes me to be his friend, and begged me to assist him, so that i do not wish further to betray him, but i could not allow you to suffer." "there may be some truth in what the young man says, and we should be unwise not to take his advice," observed the doctor. valentine warmly thanked the stranger, who offered to lead them by a path he was acquainted with, which would enable them to escape the ambush and reach the river side with little loss of time. he accordingly led them back for some distance, and then striking off to the right over the hills, conducted them through another valley, which in time took them out on to the open plain. "you are safe now," he said. "ride on as fast as you can, so that your enemy may not overtake you." "i should like to know who you are, that we may thank you properly for the benefit you have done us," said valentine, "and i am sure ihaka's daughter, on whose account dr fraser is going to our settlement, will desire to express her gratitude. she is sorely wounded, and i fear in much danger." "wounded and in danger," exclaimed the young stranger. "how has she received an injury?" "she was basely shot at by a maori," answered val. "the chief told me that it was your sister who was ill, and that you having grossly insulted him, he was determined to revenge himself on you." he stopped for a few moments as if for consideration. "i will accompany you," he said. "if i go back i shall not be able to resist accusing him of his treachery, and bloodshed may be the consequence." "come along then, my friend," said the doctor, "you are fleet of foot, and will keep up with our horses." the stranger, a fine young man, one of the handsomest natives valentine had as yet seen--his face being, moreover, undisfigured by tattoo marks,--on this ran forward, and showed by the pace he moved at, that he was not likely to detain them. it was dark when they reached riverside, but lucy had heard the sound of their horses' feet, and came out to meet them. "i am so thankful you have come, doctor," she exclaimed. "waihoura is, i fear, suffering much pain, and we have been able to do little to relieve her." the doctor hurried into the house. his report was more favourable than lucy had expected. he quickly extracted the bullet, and promised, with the good constitution the young girl evidently possessed, that she would soon recover. valentine invited the young stranger to remain, and he evidently showed no desire to take his departure. "i wish to stay for your sakes as well as my own," he said, "and i would advise you to keep a vigilant watch round the house during the night. the man who has committed so foul a deed as to shoot ihaka's daughter, must from henceforth be rahana's foe, and i now confess that it was hemipo who intended to waylay and murder you. i am myself a rangatira, chief of a numerous tribe. my father ever lived on friendly terms with the english, and seeing the folly of war, wished also to be at peace with his neighbours, and i have desired to follow his example. among our nearest neighbours was hemipo, who, though one i could never regard with esteem, has always appeared anxious to retain my friendship. hitherto i have, therefore, frequently associated with him, but from henceforth he must be to me as a stranger. he is capable, i am convinced, of any treachery, and when he finds that you have escaped him on this occasion, will seek another opportunity of revenging himself." this was said partly in english and partly in maori. mr pemberton, following the advice he received, sent to farmer greening and several other neighbours, asking their assistance in guarding waihoura, thinking it possible that hemipo might attack the place and attempt to carry her off. among others who came up was mr spears, with a cartouche-box hanging by a belt to his waist, and a musket in his hand. "neighbours should help each other, mr pemberton," he said as he made his appearance, "and so i have locked up the shop, and shall be happy to stand sentry during the night at any post you may assign me. place me inside the house or outside, or in a cow-shed, it's all the same to me. i'll shoot the first man i see coming up the hill." valentine suggested that mr spears was as likely to shoot a friend as a foe, and therefore placed him, with a companion, in one of the sheds, strictly enjoining him not to fire unless he received an order to do so. from the precautions taken by mr pemberton, it was not likely that hemipo would succeed even should he venture on an attack, especially as every one in the settlement was on the alert. the night passed off quietly, and in the morning dr fraser gave a favourable report of waihoura. a messenger was then despatched to ihaka, to inform him of what had occurred. he arrived before sunset with several of his followers, well-armed, and at once requested to have an interview with his daughter. on coming out of her room he met mr pemberton, and warmly thanked him for having again preserved her life. "from henceforth she is free to choose whom she will for a husband," he observed. "i gave her, as i was bound to do by my promise, to hemipo; but she escaped from him, and as he has proved himself unworthy of her, though war between us be the result, i will not again deliver her to him." lucy, who overheard this, was greatly relieved. not knowing the customs of the maoris, she was afraid that the chief might still consider himself bound to restore waihoura to her intended husband. "i must go at once and tell her," she said. "i am sure that this will greatly assist her recovery." "she knows it. i have already promised her," said ihaka. "and i will remain here and defend her and you, my friends, from hemipo,--though boastful as he is, i do not believe that he will venture to attack a pakeha settlement." rahana, who had hitherto remained at a distance, now came forward, and the two chiefs greeted each other according to their national custom, by rubbing their noses together for a minute or more. they then sat down, and the young chief gave ihaka an account of the part he had taken in the affair. "we have ever been friends," answered ihaka, "and this will cement our friendship closer than ever." they sat for some time talking over the matter, and rahana agreed to send for a band of his people to assist in protecting their friends, and afterwards to escort waihoura to her home. till this time, the only natives who frequented the settlement were the labourers employed on the farm, but now a number of warriors might be seen, with rifles in their hands, some seated on the hillside, others stalking about among the cottages. they all, however, behaved with the greatest propriety, declining even to receive provisions from the inhabitants, both ihaka's and rahana's people having brought an abundant supply. though scouts were sent out in every direction, nothing was heard of hemipo, and it was supposed that he had returned to his own village--either being afraid of meeting those he had injured, or to hatch some plan of revenge. dr fraser, who had gone home when he considered waihoura out of danger, returned, at the end of a fortnight, and pronounced her sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey home, to which ihaka was anxious to convey her, as she would be there safer from any design hemipo might entertain, than in the unprotected cottage at riverside. lucy, although she would gladly have had her remain longer, felt that this was the case. the maori girl warmly embraced her before taking her seat on the covered litter constructed for her conveyance, and willingly gave a promise to return to riverside as soon as her father considered it safe for her to do so. the young chief had constituted himself her chief attendant, and when they set out placed himself by her side, which he showed no intention of quitting. it appeared that they had hitherto been strangers to each other, but lucy, having observed the admiration with which he had regarded waihoura the first time they met, pleased with his manners, could not help hoping that he might become a christian, and a successful suitor of her friend. she watched the party as they took their way along the road, till they were lost to sight among the trees; and from the judicious precautions they took of throwing out scouts, she trusted that they would, escape being surprised even should hemipo be on the watch for them, and would reach their destination in safety. as soon as they were gone the settlement returned to its usual quiet state. after the character they had heard of hemipo, mr pemberton considered it prudent to keep a watch at night, and to advise the greenings, as well as his own sons, to carry arms in their hands, and never to go singly to a distance from the house. day after day passed by, till at length they began to feel that such precautions were unnecessary, and by degrees they abandoned the habit, only occasionally taking their guns when they went out to shoot birds, or when the traces of a wild pig, which happened to stray from the mountains, were discovered in the neighbourhood. few countries in the world are so destitute of game or animals of any description, or of noxious reptiles, as new zealand; the only reptile, indeed, being a harmless lizard, while the only wild beasts are the descendants of pigs originally introduced by europeans, which having escaped from their owners to the forests where they roam at large. unhappily, although many of the natives lived on the most friendly terms with the english, and had made considerable advancement in civilisation, a large number still, at that period, retained much of their former savage character, and, instigated perhaps by evilly-disposed persons, from time to time rose in aims against the english, and though inferior in numbers to the settlers, were enabled, in their mountain fastnesses, to resist the attacks of well-trained troops sent against them. they sometimes descended on the unprepared settlements, murdered the inhabitants, and committed many fearful atrocities. of late years, however, finding resistance vain, they have submitted to the english government, and as they possess equal rights and privileges with the settlers, and are treated in every respect as british subjects, it may be hoped that they will become, ere long, thoroughly civilised and contented with their lot, so infinitely superior to that of their former savage state. at the time, however, that the occurrences which have been described took place, although cannibalism and their more barbarous customs were almost abandoned, still a number of the tribes were hostile to the english, and also carried on a fierce warfare among themselves. our friends at riverside were destined shortly to feel the ill effects of this state of things. chapter eight. carried off. disturbance among the natives.--volunteers from the settlement.--mr pemberton and val called away.--the settlers, to their dismay, discover that the young pembertons have been carried off. lucy had made tea, and her father and brother, who had come in from their work, had just taken their seats, when mr spears, announced by betsy, popped his head in at the door. "beg pardon, mr pemberton, for intruding, but i thought you would like to have this letter at once," he said, handing an official-looking envelope. "i have sent several others of similar appearance to a number of gentlemen in our neighbourhood, and i suspect they mean something." lucy observed that her father's countenance assumed a grave expression as he read the document; after requesting the bearer to sit down and take a cup of tea. "more disturbances among the natives?" asked mr spears. "i hope, though, that they will keep quiet in these parts." "yes, i am sorry to say that they have risen in much greater numbers than heretofore, and matters look very serious," answered mr pemberton. "the governor has requested me to assist in organising a body of volunteers to co-operate with the loyal natives in this district, and to keep in check any of the maoris who may be inclined to rebel, while the troops are engaged with the main body of the insurgents. i am afraid this will compel me to be absent from home for some time." "may i go with you?" exclaimed harry. "i should so like to have some soldiering." "no, you must stay at home to take care of lucy and the farm," answered mr pemberton. "val, you are named, and though i would rather have left you in charge, we must obey the calls of public duty. farmer greening will assist harry; paul and james will probably accompany me." "put my name down as a volunteer," exclaimed mr spears. "i'll have my musket and cartouche-box ready in a trice. i shall be proud to go out and fight my country's battles." "take my advice, mr spears, and stay at home to look after your shop and the settlement--some must remain behind to guard it," said mr pemberton. "i am ready for the field, or for garrison duty," answered the little man, rising, and drawing himself up. "i must go back with the news to the village; the people are suspecting that there is something in the wind." mr pemberton and valentine soon made the necessary preparations for their departure, and early the next morning, in company with several other settlers, set out on their expedition. as the natives in their immediate neighbourhood had always appeared very friendly, they had no anxiety about the safety of riverside. time passed on; news reached the settlement that the volunteers had on several occasions been engaged, and that the insurgents still made head against them. lucy could not help feeling anxious at the prolonged absence of her father and brother; but as they wrote word that they were well, she kept up her spirits, hoping that the natives would soon be convinced of the uselessness and folly of their rebellion, and that peace would be established. she also received visits from mary osburn and other friends, and mrs greening never failed to look in on her two or three times in the day, while her husband kept his eye on the farm, and assisted harry in managing affairs. lucy had hoped that by this time it would be safe for waihoura to pay her a visit, and she had sent a message inviting her to come to riverside. in reply, waihoura expressed her thanks for the invitation, but stated that as her father was absent with many of his people, taking a part in the war, she could not venture to quit home. she also mentioned that hemipo was supposed to have joined the rebels, as he had not for some time been seen in the neighbourhood. a short time after this, as harry was standing on the bank of the river, near which his sheep were feeding, he observed a small canoe gliding down the stream. a single native was in it, who, as soon as he saw him, paddled up to where he stood. the stranger leaped on shore, and asked harry, in maori, pointing to the hill, whether he did not belong to that place. as harry understood very little maori, he could but imperfectly comprehend what the man, who appeared to be delivering a message, was saying. the stranger, perceiving this, tried to help his meaning by dumb show, and harry heard him repeat the name of hemipo several times. the man placed himself on the ground, and shut his eyes, as if he was asleep, then he jumped up, and, moving away, ran up to the spot, and pretended to be lifting up a person whom he carried to the canoe. he did this several times then he flourished his arms as if engaged with a foe, leaping fiercely about from side to side, and then jumped into his canoe and began to shove it off, as if he was going to paddle up the stream. he returned, however, again coming up to harry, and, with an inquiring look, seemed to ask whether he was understood? harry asked him to repeat what he had said, and at length made out, as he thought, that the stranger wished to warn him that the settlement would be attacked at night, while the inhabitants were asleep, by hemipo, whose object was to carry them off as prisoners, but when this was likely to take place he could not discover. the stranger, who was evidently in a great hurry to be off again, seemed satisfied that he was understood, and, getting into his canoe, paddled rapidly up the river. "i wish that i understood the maori better," thought harry, "i should not then be in doubt about the matter; however, it will be as well to be prepared. we will fortify our house, and keep a bright look out, and i'll tell the other people to be on the watch." he soon after met toby, and telling him to look to the sheep, hurried homewards. lucy listened calmly to his account. "there is, i fear, no doubt that some harm is intended us," she observed. "but we must pray that it may be averted, and do what we can to guard against it. i think our six native labourers are faithful, and we must place three of them in the house, and send the other three out as scouts to give us notice of the approach of an enemy. i propose also that we have a large pile of firewood made above the house, that, as soon as danger threatens it may be lighted as a signal to our friends in the neighbourhood. you must tell them of our intention, and ask them to come to our assistance as soon as they see the fire blazing up." "you ought to have been a man, and you would have made a first-rate soldier," exclaimed harry, delighted at lucy's idea. "it is the wisest thing that could be done; i'll tell everybody you thought of it, and i am sure they will be ready to help us." "but perhaps they will think that the whole place is to be attacked, and if so, the men will not be willing to leave their own homes and families," observed lucy. "oh, but i am sure the maori intended to warn us especially, for he pointed to our hill while he was speaking," said harry. "then he mentioned hemipo, who probably has a spite against us for rescuing waihoura from him. however, there's no time to be lost. i'll tell the men to cut the wood for the bonfire, and go on to let mr osburn and our other friends know about the matter." having charged lucy and betsy to close the doors and windows, and not to go out of the house, he went to tell the other people. the farmer was out, but he told mrs greening what he had heard. "oh, it would be terrible if any harm was to happen to miss lucy, and the squire and master val away," exclaimed the good woman; "i'd sooner our place were all burned down than that--i'll go round to her and persuade her to come here--then, if the savages go to your house they will not find her, and if they come here, the farmer and tobias, i'll warrant, will fight for her as long as they have got a bullet or a charge of powder remaining." harry warmly thanked mrs greening for her generous intentions, though he doubted very much whether lucy would consent to leave the house. he then hurried on to the village. mr spears, at whose house he first called, was thrown into a great state of agitation on hearing of his apprehensions. "i'll go round and tell all the other people, and we will see what can be done," he exclaimed, getting down his musket. "we will fight bravely for our homes and hearths; but dear me, i wish all the people who are away would come back. these savages are terrible fellows, and if they were to come suddenly upon us at night, as you fancy they will, we may find ourselves in a very unpleasant predicament." while mr spears went off in one direction, harry continued on to the house of their friend mr osburn, which was at no great distance. he, though expressing a hope that the stranger had been amusing himself at harry's expense, undertook to collect the rest of the neighbours, and to make preparations to go to his assistance should the signal-fire give them notice that the house had been attacked. "i would offer at once to go up and assist in guarding you," he said. "but i am afraid that our other friends will not be willing to leave their own cottages undefended; indeed, i think we shall more effectually assist you by following the plan you propose. still, i would advise you not to be over anxious about the matter, though you will do wisely to take the precautions you propose." harry, feeling somewhat proud of himself, and tolerably well satisfied with the arrangements he had made, returned home. he found the farmer and mr greening at the house. they had in vain attempted to persuade lucy to pass the night at their house--she would not leave harry, who said that, as he had charge of the place, nothing would induce him to desert his post, and they hoped, with the precautions taken, they might escape the threatened danger. "depend upon it, if the savages really come and find us prepared they will not venture to attack the house," said harry. "well, well, i like your spirit, master harry," said the farmer. "i'll be on the watch, and if i hear the sound of a musket i shall know what it means, and will be quickly round with my four natives." at length the farmer and mrs greening took their departure. harry had spoken to the native servants, who seemed fully to understand what was expected of them, and promised to be vigilant. betsy had undertaken to keep a lantern burning, and to run out at the back-door at the first signal of danger, and light the bonfire. harry tried to persuade lucy to go to bed. "of course i shall sit up myself and keep watch for anything that happens," he said; "and if you fall asleep, lucy, i'll awaken you if necessary." after commending themselves to the care of god, and reading together, as usual, a chapter in the bible, the two young people sat down with their books before them to wait the issue of events, harry, however, every now and then got up and ran to the door to listen, fancying he heard some sounds in the distance. hour after hour passed by, and neither foe nor friend appeared. the night seemed very long, but at length the morning light streamed through the openings above the shutters. harry opened the door, the air was pure and fresh, and the scene before him appeared so calm and peaceful, that he felt much inclined to laugh at his own fears. the native servants, who had been on the watch, came in also, and declared that they had seen no one, nor heard the slightest sound during the night to alarm them. in a short time farmer greening arrived, and expressed his satisfaction at finding that they had had no cause for alarm. "perhaps after all, master harry, the man was only passing a joke on you, though it was as well to be on the safe side, and to be prepared." lucy had several visitors during the day, who appeared much inclined to consider they had been unnecessarily alarmed. "we may or may not have been," observed harry, "but i intend to keep the same look out tonight as before." the second night passed over like the former, and harry himself now owned that unless the stranger purposely intended to deceive him, he must have misunderstood his meaning. the evening came on, the cows had been milked, the pigs and poultry fed, and other duties attended to. they were in their sitting-room reading, when betsy came in and announced mr spears. "i hope i don't intrude, miss lucy," he said, putting his head in at the doorway in his usual half-hesitating manner, "but i could not shut up my house for the night without coming to inquire how you are getting on. well, master harry, the maoris who were to attack us have turned out to be phantoms after all, pleasanter foes to fight with than real savages. however, you behaved very well, my young friend, and i hope you will get a quiet night's rest, and sleep free from alarm." "thank you for your kind wishes," answered lucy, "but still i hope that you and our other friends will be on the watch, for i cannot feel altogether secure till our father and brother return." "never fear, miss lucy, we will be ready if your phantom foes come. pardon me, master harry, for calling them phantom foes, but such they are, i suspect. ah! ah! ah!" and mr spears laughed at his own conceit. as lucy did not wish to encourage the little man, she did not invite him to sit down, and, somewhat to her relief, he soon went away. mr spears had reached home, and was shutting up his cottage, when, looking towards the hill, he saw the beacon fire blazing up. he rushed back for his musket, and began to load it in great haste; but in vain he pulled the trigger, it would not go off--no wonder, for he had forgotten to put on a cap. not discovering this, having knocked at the doors of his immediate neighbours, and told them that the settlement was attacked, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to mr osburn. though that gentleman turned out immediately, it was sometime before he could collect the rest of the inhabitants, when some with firearms, and others with pitchforks, or any weapons they could lay hands on, rushed up the hill towards mr pemberton's farm. they were joined on the way by farmer greening and tobias. all round the house seemed quiet, and not a sign of a maori could be discovered. "there's been some trick played," said farmer greening, "for all my servants went off this evening, and i should not be surprised that mr pemberton's have done the same; but i hope master harry has kept the door shut, and not let the enemy inside." as may be supposed, on reaching the house, their consternation and grief was very great when they discovered that the inmates had gone; and from the overturned chairs, and the back and front doors being open, their alarm for the safety of their young friends was greatly increased. "the savages have undoubtedly come and carried them off, but we may yet be in time to overtake them, if we can ascertain in what direction they have gone," said mr osburn. "see, the orchard gate is open," said farmer greening. "they must have gone this way, by the path which leads to the river." they went on a little farther, when tobias picked up a handkerchief. "that must be miss lucy's," he exclaimed, "and probably dropped on purpose," observed mr osburn. on reaching the river, no signs, however, of the savages nor their captives were to be seen; and though they hurried along the bank for some distance, they were at length compelled to return, in a state of increased anxiety for their young friends, to the settlement. chapter nine. the rescue. lucy and harry carried off by hemipo, who takes them to his pah.--lucy explains the truth to a native girl who attends her.--waihoura appears, and assists them to escape.--encounter hemipo, who is conquered by rahana.--hemipo allowed to go free.--happy return to riverside with waihoura and her party.--great rejoicings.--hemipo becomes a christian.--waihoura marries rahana, and the settlement flourishes. lucy and harry were spending their evening, as was their usual custom, harry reading aloud while his sister sat by his side working. mr spears had not long gone away, when a slight knock was heard at the door. "i do believe it must be that mr spears come back again," observed betsy, getting up to open it. as she did so, what was her horror to see the figure of a tall maori warrior, his face painted red, with his merai or axe in his hand. "run, miss lucy! run, master harry, and hide yourselves!" she exclaimed, attempting to push back the door. her efforts were vain, the savage dashed it open and stalked in, followed by a dozen or more maoris. "light the bonfire!" exclaimed lucy,--and betsy, springing by her, made her escape at the back-door. harry tried to drag off lucy in the same direction, but they were both instantly seized by the maoris, two of whom sprang after betsy. scarcely a word was spoken by any of the natives, and lucy had been too much agitated and alarmed to shriek out. the leader, in whom, by his sinister features and fierce looks, lucy recognised hemipo, had raised his weapon as if to strike harry, but he restrained himself on finding that there was no opposition. he and one of his companions now bound harry's arms, making signs to him that if he made any noise his brains would be dashed out. two others then lifted up lucy, and taking a cloak which hung on the wall, threw it round her. plunder did not appear to be their object; for, although numerous articles were lying about which would have been of value to them, none were taken. the savages now lifted up lucy and harry in their arms and carried them out of the house. harry looked round, hoping to see some of the native servants. no one appeared. "i hope, at all events, that betsy may have set light to the signal-fire, that if we are carried away our friends will come in pursuit of us," he said to himself. great was his disappointment when directly afterwards he saw betsy brought along in the arms of two of the savages. "i have done it though, master harry," she exclaimed, loud enough for him to hear. "i had just time to throw the candle in among the sticks and paper before they caught me,--i do not think they saw what i had been about, or they would have stopped and put it out." a savage growl, and the hand of one of her captors placed over her mouth, prevented betsy from saying any more. the whole party now moved down the hill at a rapid rate towards the river. on reaching the bank the young captives were placed on board a canoe, several of which were collected at the spot. harry felt a little relieved when his arms were unbound, and he was allowed to sit at his ease beside lucy. the savages evidently supposed that he would not attempt to leap out and swim on shore. the flotilla shoved off. the night was very dark, but the maoris, well acquainted with the river, navigated dexterously amid the rocks and occasional rapids in their course. now and then the water could be seen bubbling up on either side, and sometimes leaping over the gunwale, and once or twice so much came in that harry feared the canoe would be swamped. "if we are upset, stick to me, lucy," he whispered. "i'll swim with you to the shore, and we will then run off and try and make our escape." lucy felt confident of her young brother's courage, but feared that there was little prospect of his succeeding in the attempt. poor betsy shrieked out with alarm. a threatening sound from the man who steered the canoe warned her to keep silence. there had been for sometime a strong wind, it now increased, and blowing directly against them, greatly impeded the progress of the canoes. still the maoris persevered. at length a loud clap of thunder burst from the sky. it was succeeded by several terrific peals, while vivid flashes of forked lightning darting forth showed that they were passing between high rugged cliffs which rose on either side of the stream, overhung with trees, amid which the wind roared and whistled as they waved to and fro above their heads, threatening every instant, torn up by the roots, to fall over and crush them. the thunder rattled louder than ever, reverberating among the cliffs. just then a flash, brighter than its predecessors, which came hissing along close to the canoe, showed harry the savage features of hemipo, who was sitting in the stern steering. still the canoe went on, indeed, as far as harry could see there was no place on either side where they could have landed, and he earnestly prayed that, should any accident happen, it might be further on, where there would be a hope of reaching the shore. lucy sat with her hands clasped in his, and her calmness and self-possession gave him courage. "oh, what a dear brave little sister mine is," he thought to himself. "i would willingly give up my life to save her's. i wonder what these savages will do with us. they surely cannot be so barbarous as to intend to kill her,--they may knock me on the head very likely, and i only wonder they did not do so at first, it would have been more like their usual custom." the rain was now falling in torrents. harry drew the cloaks which had been thrown over lucy and betsy closer round them. he was himself quickly wet through, but for that he cared little. though it was evident that the paddlers were straining every nerve to urge the canoe onwards, he could judge by the appearance of the cliffs that they were making but slow progress, sometimes, indeed, they were almost brought to a standstill, then again they would redouble their efforts, and the wind lulling for a short time, they would stem the rapid current and get into calmer water. it was difficult to judge, under the circumstances, how time went by, but it seemed to harry that the whole night was thus spent. still the darkness continued, and hour after hour passed. at length the banks came more clearly into view, and he could distinguish the other canoes in company. suddenly the cliffs on either side ceased, and he found that they had entered a lake. covered, however, as it was with foaming waves stirred up by the storm, it seemed scarcely possible for the canoes to make their way across it. after they had in vain attempted to do so, and several of them had been nearly swamped, harry perceived that they were steering towards the shore. they made their way up a small inlet, where, sheltered from the gale, the canoes at length floated quietly, and their crews set to work to bail them out. this being done, harry observed that they were examining their muskets, and fresh priming them, lest they should have become damp with the rain. he hoped from this that they had not yet reached hemipo's district, and were still in that of some friendly tribe. meantime a man was sent on shore, who ran to the summit of a neighbouring height, where harry saw him looking round, as if to ascertain whether any one was approaching. on his return, after he had given his report, hemipo landed, and with scant ceremony dragged his prisoners out of the canoe, and signed to them that they were to accompany him. eight of the savages immediately landed and closed round them. having issued orders to the remainder, he led the way towards the entrance of a valley which extended up from the water. lucy and betsy could with difficulty walk after having been so long cramped up in the canoe. harry begged his sister to lean on him, that he might help her along, and poor betsy did her best to keep up with them, for the savages showed no inclination to slacken their pace. every now and then, indeed, one of them gave her a rough push to make her move faster. harry felt very indignant, but knew that it would be useless to expostulate, and dreaded lest lucy might be treated in the same way. the valley through which they were proceeding he found ran parallel with the lake, and concluded, as was the case, that it would at length conduct them to an upper part of the stream, which, had it not been for the storm, hemipo intended to have reached in the canoes. the chief stalked on ahead, every now and then turning round to order his followers to move faster. the valley, as they proceeded, narrowed considerably; the sides, composed of wild rugged rocks with overhanging trees crowning their summits, rising precipitously on either hand. harry observed that the chief, as they advanced, looked cautiously ahead, as if he thought it possible that an enemy might appear to intercept him. suddenly he stopped altogether, and addressed a few words to his followers, while he pointed up the valley. what he said harry could not understand, but several of the savages directly afterwards drew their merais from their belts, and cast fierce looks at their captives, which too clearly indicated their cruel designs. "oh, our dear father, my poor brother," murmured lucy, as her eye glanced at the savages' weapons, and she clung closer to harry, thinking of those she loved more than of herself. "yet they cannot be so cruel." "are they going to kill us?" cried betsy. "dear, dear miss lucy," and she stretched out her arms as if to protect her young mistress. after waiting a short time hemipo ordered two of his men to go ahead, apparently to ascertain if the road was clear. they seemed satisfied that such was the case, for at a sign from them he and the rest proceeded as before. harry, as they advanced, could not help looking up frequently at the cliffs on either side, and more than once he fancied he saw some person moving among the rocks as if observing them, while at the same time endeavouring to remain concealed. if such was the case, the person managed to escape the keen eyes of the maoris, for hemipo went on, evidently not supposing that he was watched. at length they emerged from the defile, and proceeding over a more open, though still a hilly and picturesque country, till they again came in sight of the river. by this time lucy and betsy were nearly dropping with fatigue, and even harry, though accustomed to exercise, felt very tired, but the savages still urged them on, regardless of their weary legs. harry felt very indignant, but lucy entreated him not to show his resentment. at last a hill, round the base of which the river made its way, rose directly before them, with a stockade on its summit, similar to that surrounding ihaka's village. hemipo led the way towards it, and ascended a narrow path, at the top of which appeared a gateway, with a huge hideous figure above it. as he approached a number of women and children and old men issued forth eyeing his captives with no pleasant looks. scarcely a word, however, was exchanged between the inhabitants and him till they entered the pah, when the whole party seated themselves on the ground, each of them singling out one of the new comers, and began rubbing their noses together, howling and weeping, while the tears, in copious torrents, flowed down their brown cheeks. under other circumstances, harry, who with his sister and betsy, were left standing alone, would have felt inclined to laugh heartily at the odd scene, but matters were too serious to allow him to do so now. after the savages had rubbed their noses, howled, and shed a sufficiency of tears to satisfy their feelings, they got up with dry eyes and unconcerned looks, as if nothing of the sort had occurred. they then came round their captives, who were allowed to stand unmolested, while hemipo was apparently giving an account of his adventures. lucy and betsy trembled as they saw the fierce glances cast at them during the chief's address; their lives seemed to hang on a thread, for any moment his auditors, whom he appeared to be working into a fury, might rush forward and cut them down with the merais, which, ever and anon, they clutched as if eager to use them. at length he ceased, when another orator got up, and appeared to be endeavouring to calm the angry feelings of the assembly. others spoke in the same strain, and at last the orator, who had opposed hemipo, having gained his object, so it seemed, came up to the captives and signed to them to accompany him. leading them to a large wahre on one side of the pah, he told them to enter. lucy, overcome with fatigue, sank on a heap of fern, which covered part of the floor. "cheer up," said harry, "they do not intend to kill us, and i hope that chief, who looks more good-natured than hemipo, will think of bringing us some food. i'll let him know that we want it." harry went back to the door at which the chief was still standing, and made signs that they were very hungry. the chief evidently understood him, and in a short time a girl appeared with a basket of sweet potatoes, some baked fish, and a bowl of water. lucy thanked her warmly in maori, saying that she might some day have the opportunity of rewarding her, adding-- "our people will be grateful for any kindness shown us, and though we have been most cruelly carried away from our home, yet they will not revenge themselves on the innocent." the girl, whom lucy supposed from her appearance to be a slave, looked very much surprised. "our religion teaches us that we should forgive our enemies, and do good to those who injure us, and therefore still more should we be grateful to all who do us good," she continued. "do you understand that?" the girl shook her head, and made signs to lucy and her companions to eat while the food was hot; they needed, indeed, no second bidding, the girl standing by while they discussed the meal. lucy feeling the importance of gaining the good-will of any person in the village, again spoke to the girl, much to the same effect as before. the latter evidently understood her, and made a sign that if discovered in helping them to escape she would be killed. lucy's words had, however, it seemed, made an impression on her mind, for when she stooped down to take up the basket and bowl, she whispered that she would do what she could to be of use to them. they were now left alone. harry entreated his companions to go to sleep, declaring that he was able to sit up and keep watch; and in spite of their anxiety, they were so weary, that in a few minutes their eyes closed, and they happily forgot all that had occurred. harry kept awake as well as he could, and every now and then he observed women and children, and sometimes men, peering at them through the open door of the hut. discovering, however, a chick mat spread on a framework leaning against the side of the hut, he conjectured that it was intended to use as a door, and, accordingly, placing it across the entrance, shut out the intruders. having now nothing to distract his attention, he very soon dropped off to sleep. it was dark when he awoke, and as there were no sounds in the village he concluded that it was night, and he hoped that they might therefore be allowed to rest in quiet. he went to the door of the hut and looked out. no one was stirring, the storm had ceased, and the stars were shining brightly overhead. he again carefully closed the entrance, securing it with some poles, so that it could not be opened from the outside, and throwing himself on the fern at lucy's feet, was soon fast asleep. he was awakened by hearing some one attempting to open the door--the daylight was streaming in through the crevices--on pulling it aside the slave girl, who had brought their supper, appeared with a basket of food and a bowl of water, as before. the light awoke lucy and betsy, who seemed refreshed by their slumbers, though their faces were still pale and anxious. the girl pointed to the food and bade them eat, but seemed unwilling to stay. "let us say our prayers, harry, as we should do at home, before breakfast," said lucy, "though we have not a bible to read." they knelt down, and lucy offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to god for having preserved them, and for further protection, while the maori girl stood by wondering what they were about. she then hurried away, as they supposed, from having received orders not to remain with them. they were left alone all the morning, and at noon the girl brought them a further supply of food. "this looks as if the maoris did not intend to do us any harm, perhaps they expect to get a ransom for us," observed harry. "i trust so," said lucy, "and i am sure our friends would pay it should our father and val be still absent from home; but, perhaps, hemipo has some other object in carrying us off." "what can that be?" asked harry. "the idea came into my mind, and i fear it is too likely that he has done so, in order to get waihoura into his power. if she believes that our lives are in danger, she will, i am sure, be ready to do anything to save them," answered lucy. "how should she know that we have been carried away," asked harry. "she will suspect something when our labourers suddenly return to her village, and will send to ascertain what has occurred," observed lucy. "if it was not for your sake, lucy, i would run every risk rather than let the poor girl fall into the power of the savage," exclaimed harry. "i hope that our father and val, and the volunteers, will find out where we have been carried to, and will come to attack the pah and rescue us." "that would cause great loss of life, and, perhaps, seal our fate," answered lucy. "i have been praying, and he who does not allow a sparrow to fall to the ground without knowing it, will arrange matters for the best. the knowledge that he does take care of us should give us confidence and hope." "i am sure you are right," observed harry, after a few minutes reflection. "still we cannot help talking of what we wish." in the afternoon, harry going to the door of the hut, heard voices as if in loud discussion at a distance, and observing no one about, he crept on among the huts till he came in sight of a number of people seated on the ground, apparently holding a debate, for one after the other got up and addressed the rest. keeping himself concealed behind the hut, he watched them for some time, at length he saw hemipo and a body of armed men issue out by the gate. he crept back to the hut with this information. as far as he could ascertain, only the old men, and women, and children, were left in the pah. late in the evening the slave girl again visited them, and, as she appeared less anxious than before to hurry away, lucy spoke to her. at last she answered-- "what manima can do she will do for the pakehas, but they must wait-- perhaps something will happen." she said this in a very low voice, and taking up the basket and bowl, hurried away. harry found that no one interfered with him as he walked about outside the hut; but he did not like to go far from lucy and betsy, and darkness coming on, he returned. after he had closed the door, they offered up their prayers as usual, and lying down, soon fell asleep. lucy was awakened by feeling a hand pressed on her shoulder. she was inclined to cry out, when she heard a low voice saying in maori-- "don't be afraid, call your brother and betsy." lucy, to her astonishment, recognised the voice of waihoura, and without waiting to ask questions, awakened harry and betsy. a few words served to explain what she had heard, and they at once got up and followed waihoura out of the hut. she led the way among the wahres the inmates of which, they knew from the sounds which issued forth, were fast asleep. they soon reached the inner end of the pah, behind the public store-house, the largest building in the village, when waihoura pointed to an opening in the stockade. it was so narrow that only slight people could have passed through it. waihoura, taking lucy's hand, led her through it, but betsy almost stuck as she made the attempt. with some assistance from harry, she however succeeded in getting on the other side, when he following, found that they were standing on the top of a cliff. waihoura again taking lucy's hand, showed them a narrow and zigzag path which led down it. they followed her, as she cautiously descended towards the river, which harry saw flowing below them. on reaching the edge of the water waihoura stepped into a canoe, which had hitherto been hidden by a rock. the rest of the party entering it, two men who were sitting with their paddles ready, immediately urged the canoe out into the stream, down which they impelled it with rapid strokes, while waihoura, taking another paddle, guided its course. not a word was spoken, for all seemed to know exactly what was to be done. they had entirely lost sight of the hills on which the pah stood, before waihoura uttered a word. she then, in a whisper, addressed lucy, who was sitting close to her, apparently considering, even then, that great caution was necessary. they were passing between high cliffs, amid which the slightest sound, harry rightly guessed, might be carried, and heard by any one posted on them. the paddlers redoubled their efforts, till at length they got into a broader part of the river. lucy then, in a low voice, told harry that waihoura had heard of their capture from the labourers, who had returned home, and had immediately formed a plan for their rescue. she had friends in hemipo's pah, for all were not as bad as he was, and among them was manima, who belonged to a friendly tribe, and had been carried off some time before by hemipo, with others, as a slave. she had herself, with a party of her people, immediately set out, and knowing the route they would have to take, had remained in ambush with the intention of rescuing them; but fearing that hemipo would put them to death should he find himself attacked, she resolved to employ stratagem to set them at liberty. she had at once sent a message to manima, and on finding that hemipo had set out on another expedition, she had herself that very night entered the pah in disguise, and arranged the plan which had thus far been carried out. "she tells us," added lucy, "that her only fear arises from the possibility of meeting hemipo, who has gone down the river in his war canoes, though for what object she could not ascertain. she advises us to keep very silent, as should he be anywhere near, he is certain to have scouts on the watch, though we may hope to escape them in the darkness of night." "as i said of you, lucy, she would make a first-rate general," observed harry, "and i hope for her sake, as well as ours, that she will prove herself a successful leader." scarcely had harry spoken when a loud voice hailed them from the shore, and a bullet whistled close to them. "don't cry out," whispered waihoura. "the man will take some time to load again, and we may get beyond his reach." her hopes were, however, vain, for directly afterwards several canoes darted from behind some rocks, and surrounding them, their canoe was towed to the shore. "they are hemipo's people," said waihoura. "but keep silence, he is not among them, and they will merely keep us prisoners till he comes, and something may happen in the meantime." the country was tolerably level beyond the bank where the canoes lay. there was sufficient light from the stars to enable harry to see for some distance inland, and he recognised the spot as the same place at which they had been taken on shore on their way up the river. after waiting a considerable time, he observed a party of men moving along from the direction of the valley, and coming towards the canoes. he was afraid that they were hemipo and his band. "how will the savage treat us, and those who have been trying to aid our escape?" he thought. just then he caught sight of another and very much larger party coming from nearly the opposite direction. the first stopped and seemed trying to hide themselves behind some rocks and bushes, but the others had seen them, and uttering loud cries, rushed forward, then came the flashes and rattle of musketry, with reiterated cries for a few minutes, when the smaller party giving way, attempted to fly, but were quickly surrounded. the people in the canoes, on seeing this, shoved off from the bank, and endeavoured to drag waihoura's canoe with them. the crew resisted; a blow on his head, however, struck down one of the men, and it appeared too probable that their enemies would succeed in their object. they had got out into the middle of the stream, when several more canoes were seen rounding a point below them. waihoura uttered a loud cry, and the canoes came rapidly paddling towards them. their captors, on seeing this, allowed her to go free, and began making their way as fast as they could up the river. "who are you?" asked waihoura, as the strangers' canoes approached. "we are rahana's people, and he ordered us to come here to stop hemipo from descending the river, while he proceeded on by land," was the answer. "then it is rahana who has gained the victory," exclaimed waihoura, and, escorted by her friends, she guided her canoe towards the shore, harry taking the paddle of the poor man who had been struck down. they quickly landed, when a messenger despatched to rahana brought him to where waihoura and her english companions were seated on some rocks by the bank of the river. he spoke earnestly for a few minutes to waihoura. lucy, from what he said, learned that she had sent to ask his assistance, and that ascertaining the proceedings of hemipo, he had set out with all his followers to meet him and compel him to restore the prisoners he had carried off. "he and many of his people are now in my hands, for before they could escape we surrounded them and captured them all," he said, addressing lucy and harry. "they deserve death,--do you wish that we should kill them, or give them into the hands of your countrymen?" "oh no, no, spare their lives," exclaimed lucy. "we should do good to our enemies, and we would far rather let them go free. we are thankful to have been rescued from their power, but more than that we do not desire." "that is a strange thing the pakeha girl says," remarked rahana to waihoura. "is it according to the religion you desire to teach me?" "oh yes, yes," exclaimed waihoura. "i know that lucy is right. she has told me that he who came to die and be punished that men might enjoy happiness hereafter, blessed his enemies, and did good to those who injured him." "then they shall live," said rahana. "i will set hemipo free, and tell him that it is by the wish of the pakehas, and that he must henceforth be their friend and ally, and abandoning the cruel customs of our people, learn the good religion, which has made them act thus towards him." lucy and harry knowing the alarm their disappearance must have caused to mrs greening and their other friends, were anxious to return home immediately. waihoura offered to accompany them, and begged rahana that he would allow one of his canoes to convey them down the river. "i will myself take charge of them, and i shall be proud to deliver them in safety to their friends," he answered. "i will, however, first obey their wish, and set hemipo and his followers free, after i have deprived them of their arms, which belong to my warriors." while the canoes were getting ready for the voyage down the river, fires were lighted, and fish and other provisions were cooked, some of which were presented to waihoura and her friends, greatly to harry's satisfaction, who declared that he had seldom felt so hungry in his life; though lucy and betsy, still scarcely recovered from their agitation, partook of the repast but sparingly. meantime rahana had gone back to where he had left his warriors and their prisoners. he shortly returned, accompanied by another person. as they approached the spot where waihoura and her friends sat, the light of the fire showed that rahana's companion was hemipo. he looked greatly crestfallen, but recovering himself, he addressed waihoura. neither lucy nor harry could clearly understand him; but they gathered from what he said that he desired to express his gratitude for having his life spared, and sorrow for his conduct towards her, as also for having carried off her friends, and that if they would send a missionary to him he would gladly listen to his instruction. it evidently cost him much to speak as he did. she was glad when the interview was over, and rahana told him that he might now depart in peace. waihoura and her friends were now conducted to the largest canoe, in which rahana also took his seat. they had not proceeded far down the river when day broke, and the neighbouring woods burst forth with a chorus of joyful song, the sky overhead was blue and pure, the waters bright and clear, and the grass and shrubs, which grew on the banks, sparkled with bright dewdrops. "see, see," exclaimed harry. "there's a whole fleet of boats coming up the river." rahana, on observing them, went ahead of his flotilla with a flag waving at the bow of his canoe. "there is our father, there is val," exclaimed harry. the canoe was soon alongside one of the largest boats. a few words explained all that had occurred. mr pemberton and his companions had returned home the day after his children and servant had been carried off, when an expedition had immediately been organised to sail up the river and attack hemipo's pah, it being at once suspected that he had committed the outrage. as there was now no necessity to proceed further, the boats' bows were turned down the stream, harry, with his sister and betsy, having gone on board mr pemberton's. accompanied by the canoes, a strong current being in their favour, they soon reached "riverside," where the safe return of the young people caused almost as much satisfaction as the news which had just before arrived of the termination of the war. waihoura soon afterwards became the wife of rahana, who built a house after the english model, on some land which he owned in the neighbourhood near the river, and receiving instruction from their friends, both became true and earnest christians. they had the satisfaction also of hearing that hemipo, who had gladly received mr marlow and other missionaries, had, with all his people, become christians, and he showed by his changed life and peaceable conduct, that he was one in reality as well as in name. "riverside" continued to increase and prosper, and protected by the friendly natives who surrounded it, escaped the disasters from which many other places in subsequent years suffered. honest mr spears must not be forgotten. though still showing a readiness to help everybody, having learned the necessity of attending to his own affairs, he became one of the leading tradesmen in the place. both mr pemberton and farmer greening had, in course of time, the satisfaction of seeing their children married, and settled happily around them. the end. [illustration: they reached quite a high branch in the apple tree. _page _] tales of a poultry farm by clara dillingham pierson author of "among the meadow people," "dooryard stories," etc. new york e. p. dutton and company west twenty-third street copyright e. p. dutton & co. published, september, the knickerbocker press, new york to my little sons harold and howard this book is affectionately dedicated contents page the farm is sold the new owner comes the first spring chickens are hatched the man builds a poultry house the pekin duck steals a nest the new nests and the nest-eggs the white plymouth rocks come the turkey chicks are hatched three chickens run away the three runaways become ill the young cock and the eagle the guinea-fowls come and go the geese and the baby the fowls have a joke played on them the little girls give a party illustrations page "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock returned with the baby in his arms she followed, quacking anxiously took the new-comers out, one at a time the happy turkey mother paused on her way a large dark bird swooping down they reached quite a high branch in the apple tree--_frontispiece_ "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander introduction my dear little readers:--i have often wondered why there were not more stories written about chickens and their friends, and now i am glad that there have been so few, for i have greatly enjoyed writing some for you. did i ever tell you that i cared for my father's chickens when i was a little girl? that was one of my duties, and the most pleasant of all. it was not until i was older that i became acquainted with ducks, geese, and turkeys, and i always wish that i might have lived on a poultry farm like the one of which i have written, for then i could have learned much more than i did. you must not think that i understand no language but english. i learned chicken-talk when i was very young; and in the fall, when the quails wander through the stubble-fields near my home, i have many visits with them, calling back and forth "bob white! bob white!" and other agreeable things which they like to hear. my little boys can talk exactly like chickens, and sometimes they pretend that they are chickens, while i talk turkey to them. when you have a chance, you must learn these languages. they are often very useful to one. my friend, who drives in his hens by imitating the warning cry of a cock, had been a teacher in a college for several years before he studied poultry-talk, and it helped him greatly. you see, one must learn much outside of school, as well as inside, in order to be truly well educated. you should never look at poultry and say, "why, they are only hens!" or "why, they are only ducks!" quite likely when they look at you they may be thinking, "why, they are only boys!" or "why, they are only girls!" yet if you are gentle and care for them, you and they will learn to think a great deal of each other, and you will win new friends among the feathered people. your friend, clara d. pierson. stanton, michigan, _march , ._ the farm is sold "you stupid creature!" cackled the brown hen, as she scrambled out of the driveway. "don't you know any better than to come blundering along when a body is in the middle of a fine dust bath? how would you like to have me come trotting down the road, just as you were nicely sprawled out in it with your feathers full of dust? i think you would squawk too!" the brown hen drew her right foot up under her ruffled plumage and turned her head to one side, looking severely at bobs and snip as they backed the lumber wagon up to the side porch. "i say," she repeated, "that you would squawk too!" the brown hen's friends had been forced to run away when she did, but they had already found another warm place in the dust and were rolling and fluttering happily there. "come over here," they called to her. "this is just as good a place as the other. come over and wallow here." "no!" answered the brown hen, putting down her right foot and drawing up her left. "no! my bath is spoiled for to-day. there is no use in trying to take comfort when you are likely to be run over any minute." she turned her head to the other side and looked severely at bobs and snip with that eye. the brown hen prided herself on her way of looking sternly at people who displeased her. she always wished, however, that she could look at them with both eyes at once. she thought that if this were possible she could stop their nonsense more quickly. snip could not say anything just then. he was trying to be polite, and it took all his strength. he was young and wanted to have a good horse laugh. he could not help thinking how a horse would look covered with feathers and sprawling in the middle of the road. of course the brown hen had not meant it in exactly that way, but was as unlucky as most people are when they lose their tempers, and amused the very people whom she most wanted to scold. bobs was a steady old gray horse, and he was used to the brown hen. "i am sorry that we had to disturb you," he said pleasantly. "you looked very comfortable and i tried to turn out, but the farmer held the lines so tightly that i could not. the bit cut into my mouth until i could not stand it. you see he wanted to back the wagon up right here, and so he couldn't let us turn out. we'll do better next time if we can." the brown hen let both her feet down and took a few steps forward. "if you couldn't help it, of course i won't say anything more," she remarked, and walked off. "p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p!" said snip, blowing the air out between his lips. "why did you bother to tell her that? she is so fussy and cross about everything that i wouldn't tell her i was sorry. why doesn't she just find another place, as the other hens do?" "snip," said bobs, "i used to talk in that way when i was a colt, but i find that it makes things a good deal pleasanter around the place if i take a little trouble to say 'i am sorry' when i have to disturb people. you know how the farmer does at noon? he comes into the stall when i have finished my dinner, and he gives me a pat and says, 'come along, old fellow. we'd rather be lazy, but we have to work.' do you think i'd hang back then? i tell you when i want to balk. it is when the hired man leads me out with a jerk. that makes me kick." "i wonder if she will take her dust bath now?" said snip. "oh no," answered bobs. "any other hen on the farm would, but the brown hen will not. she will stalk around all day thinking what a hard time she has and talking about it, but she won't take her dust bath, not although every other fowl on the place should wallow beside her." "then i don't see what good it did for you to tell her you were sorry," said snip, who never liked to confess that he was wrong. "it did a lot of good," said bobs, steadily. "before that she was fussy and cross. now she is only fussy. besides, i really had to say something to her, and if it had not been pleasant it would have had to be unpleasant, and then there would have been two cross people instead of one. quite likely there would have been even more before the day was over, for if each of us had gone on being cross we would have made more of our friends cross, and there is no telling where it would have ended. i'd feel mean, anyhow, if i lost my temper with a hen. imagine a great big fellow like me getting cross with a little creature like her, who has only two legs, and can't get any water into her stomach without tipping her head back for each billful." snip had wanted to ask many more questions, but so much began to happen that he quite forgot about the brown hen. the farmer and the hired man had gone into the house, and now they came out, carrying a cook-stove between them. this they put into the wagon, covering it with rag carpet. the farmer's wife came to the door with rolled-up sleeves and a towel tied over her head. she looked tired but happy. in her hands she carried the legs of the stove, which she tucked into the oven. this was a great event to happen on the quiet farm. brown bess and her new calf came close to the fence which separated their pasture from the driveway, and stood looking on. the pigs and their mother pressed hard against the walls of their pen on the two sides from which anything could be seen. each of the nine pigs thought that he had the poorest place for peeping, so he wriggled and pushed and pushed and wriggled to get a better one, and it ended in none of them seeing anything, because they were not still long enough. their mother, being so much taller than they, had a crack all to herself and could see very well. "i don't understand why they want to do that," she sighed, as she lay down for another nap. "it was after the snow came that they brought the stove out here. but you can never tell what the people who live in houses and wear clothing will do next! they really seem to like to pick things up and carry them around. they are so silly." the gander came along with his wife and the other geese. he ate grass while they visited with the hens in the road. the hens told him all they knew, even what the barred plymouth rock hen had seen when she walked along the porch and peeped in at the open kitchen door. then the geese waddled back to where the gander was and told him all the hens had told them. he listened to it, asking a good many questions, and then said that it was just like geese to be so interested in other people's business. that made them feel quite ashamed, so they ate a little grass to make themselves feel better, and then stood around to watch the loading of the wagon. besides the stove, the kitchen and dining-room furniture was put in, with a few of the largest plants from the sitting-room, and when the farmer drove off he had the clock beside him on the seat, the churn between his knees, and a big bundle of some sort on his lap. it suddenly seemed very dull on the farm. one of the doves flew along above the team for a while and brought back the news that they had turned toward town. there was nothing now to be done but to wait until they returned and then ask as many questions as possible of the horses. "i believe that the family is going to move into town," said the white cock, who always expected sad things to happen. even when there was not a cloud in the sky, he was sure that it would rain the next day. that was probably because he was careless about what he ate. the shanghai cock said that he did not take half gravel enough, and any sensible fowl will tell you that he cannot be truly happy unless he eats enough gravel. "what will ever become of us," asked the hens, "if the family moves to town? it is their business to stay here and take care of us." "cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed the young cock. "let them go. i can have a good enough time in the fields finding my own food." the pullets looked at him admiringly. "but who will take care of us?" they asked. "i will," said he, holding his head very high. and that was exactly what they wanted him to say, although each of them would rather have had him say it to her alone. "there will be nobody left to set traps for the rats and the weasels," said an old hen, who had seen much of the ways of poultry-yards. "and if our chickens have the gapes, who will make horse-hair loops and pull the little worms out of their throats? i have always said that it was well to have people living in the farmhouse." "well," said the brown hen, "i hope that if they go they will take the horses with them. there is no pleasure in life when one is all the time afraid of being run over. you know what happened this morning, when i had started to take my dust bath. i spoke to the horses about it afterward, and bobs was very polite, but that didn't give me the bath which he and that silly young snip had spoiled. and i do not feel at all like myself without a bath." "take it now then," said the shanghai cock, who never bothered to be polite. "you ought to be able to get it in while the team is going to town and back." "no," said the brown hen, firmly, "it is too far past the time when i should have taken it. i was never one of those hens who can wallow from morning until night. i need my bath and i ought to have it, but when i have been kept from it so long i simply have to go without it." the other hens said nothing. in nearly every poultry-yard there is one fowl who is so fussy as to make everybody else uncomfortable. the rest become used to it after a while and do not answer back when she talks so. in the house, the farmer's wife was hurrying to and fro, showing the hired man where to put this or calling him to lift that, and every little while something else would be brought out and placed on the side porch. once a basket of wax fruit was set on a table there. the glass which usually covered it was put to one side, and the young cock who had promised to care for the pullets flew up to peck at it. he knew it was not right, but he got one hurried billful from the side of the reddest peach just as the hired man threw an old shoe at him. "how does it taste?" cried the geese, who were still hanging around to find out what they could. the young cock did not reply, but wiped his bill on the grass for a long time. he feared he would never be able to open it again. the peaches which he had eaten the fall before had not stuck his bill together in this way, and he was now more sure than ever that the people who lived in houses did not know very much. "such fruit should be thrown away," he said. "it must be eating such peaches as this which keeps the boy chewing so much of the time. i have watched him, and he carries something in his mouth which he chews and chews and chews, but never swallows. once his mother made him throw it away, and i should think she would. he waggled his jaws very much like a cow." then he strolled off toward the woods to get away from the other fowls. in the middle of the afternoon the team came back drawing the empty wagon. all the poultry came sauntering toward the barn, making excuses as they came. "too hot out in the sunshine," said the brown hen. "i really cannot stand it any longer." "the geese would come up to the barn," said the gander, "so i thought i might as well come along." "shouldn't wonder if they would throw out some corn when they get through unharnessing," said the gobbler. the ducks never kept up with the others, and they were close to the house when bobs and snip stopped there. "how very lucky!" they quacked, for they were a truthful family and not given to making excuses. "we hope you will tell us what all this means. are the farmer's people moving away?" "they are," replied bobs, who was always good about giving a direct answer to a direct question. "you know the children have been staying in town to go to school ever since last fall, and now their father has sold the farm and is moving into town to be with them." "will they take us into town?" asked the drake. "guess not," said snip. "they are to live over a store." by this time the disappointed ones who had been waiting in the barn came hurrying along toward the house, where the wagon was being filled once more. it did not take long for the ducks to tell the news, and then there was great excitement, very great indeed. brown bess heard it and licked her calf more tenderly than ever. she knew that they could not live over a store, and she wondered what would become of them both. in the pig-pen the little pigs were teasing their mother to tell who would bring them their food. it was enough to make her lose her patience to have nine children all asking questions at the same time, and each saying "why?" every time that he was given an answer. so it is not to be wondered at that she finally became cross and lay down in the corner with her back to them, pretending to be asleep. to tell the truth, she herself was somewhat worried. she had often called the farmer's family silly, but she had not minded their habit of carrying things around, when the things that they carried were pails full of delicious food and they were carrying them to the pig-pen. it was the poultry who talked the longest about the change, and perhaps this was partly because there were so many of them to talk. poultry have a very happy time on small farms like this one. it is true that they did not have a good house of their own, and they had but little attention paid to them, yet when the cold winter was once past, there was all the lovely spring, summer, and fall weather in which to be happy. they were not kept in a yard, going wherever they chose, finding plenty to eat, and having no cares, excepting that when a hen felt like it she laid an egg. she laid it wherever she chose, too, and this was usually somewhere in the barn or woodshed. sometimes hens wanted to sit, and then they came off after a while with broods of chickens. when a hen had done that, she was usually caught and put under a coop for a few days. she never liked that part of it, and the others always told her that if she would hatch out chickens she might know what to expect. the winters were bad, but then the poultry spent their whole time in trying to be comfortable and hardly ever bothered to lay eggs, so it was an easy life after all. no wonder that they talked about the change until after they went to roost. although the farmer was not a thrifty man, he had been kind enough to the creatures on the farm, and they did not want to go away or belong to any one else. the last word spoken was by a black hen. she was not black spanish or black anything-in-particular. in fact, there was only one of the hens who knew to what breed she belonged. that was the barred plymouth rock hen, and it made her very proud. the black hen had a temper, and had even been known to peck at the farmer's wife. "do you know what i will do if a new farmer tries to make me lay my eggs where he wishes?" she said. "i may have to lay the eggs there, but i will smash every one of them if i do." the new owner comes on the morning after the family left, a pale and quiet man, wearing glasses, came out in a platform wagon to look over the farm. he had been there but a short time when two great loads of furniture appeared down the road. then the man took off his coat and helped the drivers carry it all into the little farmhouse. the fowls, who happened to be near enough, noticed that the man never lifted anything which seemed to be heavy. they noticed, too, that his hands were rather small and very white. still he acted as though he expected to live on the place. with the others helping him, he put down two carpets and set up two stoves. the other men drove away, leaving the single horse and the platform wagon. the man washed his hands, put on his coat, and brought a pasteboard box out onto the side porch. he opened it carefully, took out a glass, and drew up a bucketful of water at the well. he filled his glass and carried it back to the porch. then he began to eat his dinner. all the farm people had been properly cared for that morning by the farmer from across the road, and felt sure that he would not see them wanting food, so it was not just a wish for something to eat which made every creature there come quietly to a place near the side porch. they were certain that they belonged to this man, and they wanted to find out what he was like. "i hope he isn't expecting to milk me," said brown bess. "i don't believe he could draw a drop from my udders, and he would probably set the stool down on the wrong side anyhow." bobs and snip were no longer on the farm, having gone to town, to work there with their old master, so the hog was the next to speak. "i hope he won't eat that kind of dinner every day," said she. "it looks to me as though there would be no scraps left to go into my pail." "ugh! ugh! stingy!" grunted the little pigs. "he wants it all for himself!" they did not stop to think that every time food was emptied into their trough, each of them acted as though he wanted every drop and crumb of it for himself. the gobbler strutted up and down near the porch, with his feathers on end and his wings dragging. "there is just one thing i like about the man," said he. "he does _not_ wear a red tie." "i can't tell exactly what is the matter," said the gander, "but he is certainly very different from any man i ever saw before. i think he must belong to a different breed. the things he has on his feet are much blacker and shinier than the men around here wear, and that stiff and shiny white thing around his neck is much higher. i hope he is not stupid. i cannot bear stupid people." "neither can we," murmured the geese. "we really cannot bear them." "i fear he does not know very much," said the drake, sadly, "although i must say that i like his face. he looks good and kind, not at all as though he would ever throw stones at people for the fun of seeing them waddle faster. what i do not like is the way in which he acted about getting his water. any duck knows that you can tell most about people by the way they take water. the old gourd which the farmer and his family used so long, hung right on the chain-pump, and yet this man got a glass and filled it. he did not even drink from it as soon as it was full, but filled and emptied it three times before drinking. that is not what i call good sense." "did you notice how he put on his coat before he began to eat?" asked the white cock. "i never saw our farmer do that except in very cold weather, and i have been close to the kitchen door a great many times when they sat down to the table." "it must be that he was not very hungry," said one of the hens, "or he would never have taken so much time to begin eating. besides, you can see that he was not, by the size of his mouthfuls. he did not take a single bite as big as he could, and you will never make me believe that a person is hungry when he eats in that way." this was the hen who usually got the largest piece from the food-pan and swallowed it whole to make sure of it, before any of the other fowls could overtake her and get it away. then the barred plymouth rock hen spoke. "i like him," she said. "i am sure that he belongs to a different breed, but i think it is a good one. i remember hearing somebody say, when i was a chicken, that it was well for fowls to have a change of ground once in a while, and that it would make them stronger. i believe that is why he is here. you can tell by watching him work that he is not strong, and he may be here for a change of ground. i shall certainly befriend him, whatever the rest of you do. we people of fine families should stand by each other." then she strolled over toward the man, lifting her feet in her most aristocratic way and perking her head prettily. the man smiled. he broke a piece from the slice of bread which he was eating, and sprinkled it lightly with salt from a tiny bottle. this piece he divided into two portions and held one out at arm's length toward the barred plymouth rock hen. she had never before been invited to eat from anybody's hand, and she was really afraid to do it. her skin felt creepy, as though her feathers were about to stand on end. still, she had just said that she meant to befriend the new man, and that he and she were of finer breeds than most people. here was her chance to prove her words, and she was not the sort of hen to show the white feather. she stood erect in all her plymouth rock dignity, and ate the bread in five pecks. then she stooped and wiped her bill daintily on the grass at the man's feet before strolling away again. you can imagine what excitement this made among the poultry. the gobbler, the gander, and the drake did not wish to appear too much interested, and some of the cocks acted in the same way, but the mothers and sisters of the families talked of nothing else for a long time. it is true that the barred plymouth rock hen had not been very popular on the farm, most of the hens insisting that she put on airs, but now they could not help admiring her courage and grace. two or three of them even thought she might be right in saying that it was a good thing to come from a fine family. the cocks had never thought her airy. they always told the other hens that it was just their notion, and that she was really a very clever and friendly hen. as for the man, he seemed much pleased by what had happened. he put his hat on the back of his head and smiled. "that is a good beginning," he said to himself. "to eat bread and salt together means that we will always be friends, and i would rather break bread with respectable poultry than with some men that i know." late in the afternoon, the man harnessed his horse, whom he called brownie, to the same platform wagon in which he had come, gave one parting look all around the house and yard, turned the key in the side door, and drove off toward town. "what next?" asked all the poultry. if you had ever been a hen or a duck or a turkey or a goose (for although you may have acted like a perfect goose, you probably never have been one), you would know just how worried the poultry on this particular farm were, after the new man had driven away in the platform wagon. it seemed quite certain that he had gone to town to bring out his family, and it mattered a great deal to them what his family were like. a single boy of the wrong kind could make all the fowls on the place unhappy, and the others agreed with the gobbler when he said, "there is one thing worse than a girl in a red dress, and that is a boy who throws stones." it was a very sad company which wandered around the farmyard, picking here and there, and really eating but little. the white cock would keep talking about the dreadful things which might happen, and reminded his friends that there might be two boys, or three, or four, perhaps even five in the family! the other fowls soon tried to get away from him, and then they were often so unfortunate as to meet the brown hen, who was fussing and worrying for fear the man would shut her up in a small yard. at last the shanghai cock lost his temper, as he was very apt to do, and said that there were some fowls he would like to have shut up. this displeased both the white cock and the brown hen, because the shanghai cock had looked at both of them when he spoke, using one eye for each, and they did not know what to say. they thought from the mean little cackling laugh which the others gave, that he might have wished them to shut up their bills. then they did the very best thing that they could have done, going off together to the pasture, where each could talk gloomily to the other without annoying anybody else. when brownie came jogging back to the farm, the platform wagon looked very gay. on the back seat sat a pleasant looking woman with a fat baby on her lap. beside her sat a little girl with brown hair. on the seat beside the man sat another little girl, dressed exactly like the first one and just as large as she, but with golden hair. they were all laughing and talking and pointing at different things as they drove into the yard. "it is not much like our other home," said the man, as he set the baby on his feet beside the steps, and turned to help the woman out. "that does not matter if we can be comfortable and well here," she answered with a smile. "it will be a lovely place for the children, and i believe it will make you strong again." "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock from the top rail of the fence. he did it only to show off, but the children, who had never lived on a farm, and so could not understand poultry-talk very well, felt sure that he said, "how-do-you-all-do?" and thought him exceedingly polite. the baby started after him at once, and fell flat before he had taken six steps. [illustration: "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock. _page _] the man, the woman, and the two little girls all started to pick up the baby, who was so wound up in his long cloak that he could not rise. brownie looked around in a friendly way and stood perfectly still, instead of edging off toward the barn as some horses would have done, while the baby just rolled over on his back and laughed. "gobble-gobble-gobble!" said the gobbler. "i think this family will suit us very well." the barred plymouth rock hen was too polite a fowl ever to say "i told you so," but she stood very straight and chuckled softly to herself, so the rest could know that she was pleased with what she saw, and felt more certain than ever that the man and his family were no common people. all the family went to the barn with the man while he unharnessed brownie and gave him his supper. the children had a happy time on the hay, and, before they went into the house together, the man put some corn in a pan and let them scatter it by the door for the poultry. "they have been running loose in the fields," he said, "and they may not need it all, but we will give it to them anyway, and to-morrow i will study my book of directions and see how they should be fed at this season." the children scattered the corn, the woman kneeling down with her arm around the baby, to keep him from falling over each time that he threw a few kernels. the barred plymouth rock hen was the first to come forward to pick it up, and the man told his wife how he and she had eaten bread and salt at noon. then the woman said: "come, we must go into the house! i should have been there working long ago, but i wanted to see the children make friends with the poultry." as the door of the house closed behind its new inmates, the barred plymouth rock hen could not help looking at the shanghai cock. "yes," he said, for he knew what she meant, "i like your friends very much. they seem to have some sense." then the barred plymouth rock hen was satisfied, for she was fond of the shanghai cock, and praise from him was praise indeed. the first spring chickens are hatched it was only a few days after the new family settled in the house that the man drove out from town with a queer-looking box-like thing in his light wagon. this he took out and left on the ground beside the cellarway. when he had unharnessed brownie and let him loose in the pasture, he came back and took the crate off from the box. then the poultry who were standing around saw that it was not at all an ordinary box. indeed, as soon as the man had fastened a leg to each corner, they thought it rather more like a fat table than a box. while the man was examining it, he kept turning over the pages of a small book which he took from some place inside the table. the geese thought it quite a senseless habit of the man's, this looking at books when he was at work. they had never seen the farmer do so, and they did not understand it. when geese do not understand anything, you know, they always decide that it is very silly and senseless. there are a great many things which they do not understand, so, of course, there are a great many which they think extremely silly. the little girls and their mother stood beside the man as he looked at the book and the fat new table. he said something to one of them and she went into the house. when she came out she had a small basketful of eggs. the man took some and put them into one part of the table. then he took them out again and put them into the basket. that disgusted the brown hen, who was watching it all. "i am always fair," she said, "and i am willing to say that i have been treated very well by this man, very well indeed, but it is most distressing and unpleasant to a sensible fowl like myself to have to see so much utter foolishness on a farm where i have spent my life." "then why don't you shut your eyes?" asked the shanghai cock, with his usual rudeness, and after that the brown hen could say nothing more. this was a great relief to the barred plymouth rock hen, who did not at all understand what was going on, but would have tried to defend the man if the brown hen had asked her about it. after a while the woman helped the man carry the queer-looking object into the cellar, and then the poultry strolled off to talk it all over. they heard nothing more about the fat table until the next morning. then the gander, who had been standing for a long time close to the cellarway, waddled off toward the barn with the news. "they use that table to keep eggs in," said he. "now isn't that just like the man? i saw him put in a great many eggs, and he took them all out of little cases which he brought from town this morning. i don't see why a man should bring eggs out from town, when he can get plenty in the barn by hunting for them. do you?" "he won't find any of mine in the barn," said a hen turkey. "i lay one every day, but i never put them there." when she had finished speaking, she looked around to see if the gobbler had heard her. luckily he had not. if he had, he would have tried to find and break her eggs. "that was not the only silly thing the man did," said the gander, who intended to tell every bit of news he had, in spite of interruptions. "probably not," said the white cock, who was feeling badly that morning, and so thought the world was all wrong. "no indeed," said the gander, raising his voice somewhat, so that the poultry around might know he had news of importance to tell. "no indeed! the man marked every egg with a sort of stick, which he took from his pocket. it was sharp at both ends, and sometimes he marked with one end and sometimes with the other. he put a black mark on one side of each egg and a red mark on the other." "red!" exclaimed the gobbler. "ugh!" "yes, red," said the gander. "but the worst and most stupid part of it all was when he lighted a little fire in something that he had and fastened it onto the table." "what a shame!" cried all the geese together. "it will burn up those eggs, and every fowl knows that it takes time to get a good lot of them together. he may not have thought of that. he cannot know very much, for he probably never lived on a farm before. he may think that eggs are to be found in barns exactly as stones are found in fields." all this made the barred plymouth rock hen very sad. she could not help believing what she had heard, and still she hoped they might yet find out that the man had a good reason for marking and then burning up those eggs. she was glad to think that none of hers were in the lot. she was not saving them for chickens just then, but she preferred to think of them as being eaten by the little girls or the fat baby who lived in the house. she decided to begin saving for a brood of chickens at once. she wanted to say something kind about the man, or explain what he was doing when he lighted that fire. however, she could not, so she just kept her bill tightly shut and said nothing at all. this also showed that she was a fine hen, for the best people would rather say nothing at all about others than to say unkind things. it was a long time before the friendly barred plymouth rock hen knew what was going on in the cellar. she was greatly discouraged about the man. she had tried as hard as she could to make the other poultry believe in him, and had thought she was succeeding, but now this foolishness about the fat table and the eggs seemed likely to spoil it all. she found a good place for laying, in a corner of the carriage house on some old bags, and there she put all her eggs. she had decided to raise a brood of chickens and take comfort with them, leaving the man to look out for himself as well as he could. she still believed in him, but she was discouraged. several of the other hens also stole nests and began filling them, so on the day when the man hunted very thoroughly for eggs and found these stolen nests, taking all but one egg from each, there were five exceedingly sad hens. you would think they might have been discouraged, yet they were not. a hen may become discouraged about anything else in the world, but if she wants to sit, she sticks to it. that very day was an exciting one in the cellar. when the man came down after breakfast to look at the eggs in the fat table he found them all as he had left them, with the black-marked side uppermost. he took them out to air for a few minutes, and then began putting them back with the red-marked side uppermost. as he lifted them, he often put one to his ear, or held it up to the light. he had handled the eggs over in this way twice a day for about three weeks. a few of them had small breaks in the shell, and through one of these breaks there stuck out the tiny beak of an unhatched chicken. when he found an egg that was cracked, or one in which there seemed to be a faint tap-tap-tapping, he put it apart from the others. [illustration: returned with the baby in his arms. _page _] when this was done, the man ran up the inside stairs. in a few minutes he returned with the baby in his arms and the rest of the family following. the woman had her sleeves rolled up and flour on her apron. the little girls were dressed in the plain blue denim frocks which they wore all the time, except when they went to town. then all five of them watched the cracked eggs, and saw the tiny chickens who were inside chip away the shell and get ready to come out into the great world. the woman had to leave first, for there came a hissing, bubbling sound from the kitchen above, which made her turn and run up-stairs as fast as she could. then what a time the man had! the baby in his arms kept jumping and reaching for the struggling chickens, and the two little girls could hardly keep their hands away from them. "let me help just one get out of his shell," said the brown-haired little girl. "it is _so_ hard for such small chickens." "no," said the man, and he said it very patiently, although they had already been begging like this for some time. "no, you must not touch one of them. if you were hens, you would know better than to want to do such a thing. if you should take the shell off for a chicken, he would either die or be a very weak little fellow. before long each will have a fine round doorway at the large end of his shell, through which he can slip out easily." some of the chickens worked faster than others, and some had thin shells to break, while others had quite thick ones, so when the first chicken was safely out many had not even poked their bills through. as soon as the first was safely hatched, the man took away the broken shell and closed the fat table again. then he waved his hat at the little girls and said "shoo! shoo!" until they laughed and ran out-of-doors. all that day there were tiny chickens busy in the incubator (that was what the man called the fat table), working and working and working to get out of their shells. each was curled up in a tight bunch inside, and one would almost think that he could not work in such a position. however, each had his head curled around under his left wing, and pecked with it there. then, too, as he worked, each pushed with his feet against the shell, and so turned very slowly around and around inside it. that gave him a chance, you see, to peck in a circle and so break open a round doorway. as they came out, the chickens nestled close to each other or ran around a bit and got acquainted, talking in soft little "cheep-cheep-cheeps." they were very happy chickens, for they were warm and had just about light enough for eyes that had seen no light at all until that day. it is true that they had no food, but one does not need food when first hatched, so it is not strange that they were happy. it is also true that they had no mother, yet even that did not trouble them, for they knew nothing at all about mothers. probably they thought that chickens were always hatched in incubators and kept warm by lamps. the next morning, when the barred plymouth rock hen was sitting on her one egg in the carriage house, thinking sadly of her friend, the man, that same man came slowly up to her. the little girls were following him, and when they reached the doorway they stood still with their toes on a mark which the man had made. they wanted very much to see what he was about to do, yet they minded, and stood where they had been told, although they did bend forward as far as they could without tumbling over. the man knelt in front of the sitting hen, and gently uncovered the basket he held. the hen could hardly believe her ears, for she heard the soft "cheep-cheep-cheep" of newly hatched chickens. she tried to see into the basket. "there! there!" said the man, "i have brought you some children." then he lifted one at a time and slipped it into her nest, until she had twelve beautiful downy white chickens there. "well! well! well!" clucked the hen. and she could not think of another thing to say until the man had gone off to the barn. he had taken her egg, but she did not care about that. all she wanted was those beautiful chickens. she fluffed up her feathers and spread out her wings until she covered the whole twelve, and then she was the happiest fowl on the place. the man came back to put food and water where she could reach both without leaving her nest, and even then she could think of nothing to say. after he went away, a friend came strolling through the open doorway. this hen was also sitting, but had come off the nest to stretch her legs and find food. it was a warm april day, and she felt so certain that the eggs would not chill, that she paused to chat. "such dreadful luck!" she cackled. "you must never try to make me think that this man is friendly. he has left me only one of the eggs i had laid, and now i have to start all over for a brood of chickens, or else give up. the worst of it is that i feel as though i could not lay any more for a while." "don't be discouraged," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "i had only one egg to sit on last night, and this morning i have a whole brood of chickens." "where did they come from?" asked the visiting hen, in great excitement. "that is what i don't know," replied the happy mother. "the man brought them to me just now, and put food and water beside my nest. i have asked and asked them who their mother was, and they say i am the first hen they ever saw. of course that cannot be so, for chickens are not blind at first, like kittens, but it is very strange that they cannot remember about the hen who hatched them. they say that there were many more chickens where they came from, but no hen whatever." the white cock stood in the doorway. "do you know where my chickens were hatched?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "do i know?" said he, pausing to loosen some mud from one of his feet (he did not understand the feelings of a mother, or he would have answered at once). "i saw the man bring a basketful of chickens over this way a while ago. he got them from the cellar. the door was open and i stood on it. of course i was not hanging around to find out what he was doing. i simply happened to be there, you understand." "yes, we understand all about it," said the hens, who knew the white cock as well as anybody. "i happened to be there," he repeated, "and i saw the man take the chickens out of the fat table. there was no hen in sight. it must be a machine for hatching chickens. i think it is dreadful if the chickens on this farm have to be hatched in a cellar, without hens. everything is going wrong since the farmer left." the barred plymouth rock hen and her caller looked at each other without speaking. they remembered hearing the white cock talk in that way before the farmer left. he was one of those fowls who are always discontented. "i am going back to my nest," said the visiting hen. "perhaps the man will bring me some chickens too." the barred plymouth rock hen sat on her nest in the carriage house, eating and drinking when she wished, and cuddling her children under her feathers. she was very happy, and thought it a beautiful world. "i would rather have had them gray," she said to herself, "but if they couldn't be gray, i prefer white. they are certainly plymouth rock chickens anyway, and the color does not matter, if they are good." she stood up carefully and took a long look at her family. "i couldn't have hatched out a better brood myself," she said. "it is a queer thing for tables to take to hatching chickens, but if that is the way it is to be done on this farm, it will save me a great deal of time and be a good thing for my legs. it is lucky that this man came here. the farmer who left would never have thought of making a table sit on eggs and hatch them." the man builds a poultry-house it would be wrong to say that all the poultry on the farm really liked the man. the white cock and the brown hen had never been known really to approve of anybody, and the shanghai cock was not given to saying pleasant things of people. however, the man certainly had more and more friends among the fowls on the place, and when the white cock and the brown hen wanted to say what they thought of his ways, they had to go off together to some far-away corner where they could not be overheard. if they did not do this, they were quite certain to be asked to talk about something else. the five hens who had had chickens given to them were his firmest friends. it is true that each of them had really been on the nest long enough to hatch out chickens of her own, yet they saw that another time they would be saved the long and weary sitting. they remembered, too, the man's thoughtfulness in putting food and water where they could reach it easily on that first day, when they disliked so much to leave their families. they had spoken of this to the gander, and had tried to make him change his mind about the fat table in the cellar. they might exactly as well have talked to a feed-cutter. "i hear what you say," he replied politely (ganders are often the most polite when they are about to do or say mean things). "i hear what you say, but you cannot expect me to change my mind about what i have seen with my own eyes. it was certainly quite wrong for him to get ready to burn those eggs, and the marking of them was almost as bad. as for this nonsense about the table hatching out chickens, that is quite absurd. you could not expect a gander to believe that. it is the sort of thing which hens believe." so the man's friends had to give up talking to the gander. even the geese were not sure that it was all right. "we would like to think so," they often remarked, "but the gander says it cannot be." now the fowls had something new to puzzle them, for the man spent one sunshiny morning in walking to and fro in the fields which had always been used for a pasture, stopping every now and then to drive a stake. sometimes he walked with long strides, and then when his little girls spoke to him he would shake his head and not answer. afterward he seemed to be measuring off the ground with a long line of some sort, letting the little girls take turns in holding one end of it for him. after all of the stakes had been driven, the man harnessed brownie to the old stone-boat and began to draw large stones from different parts of the farmyard and pasture. he even went along the road and pried out some which had always lain there, right in the way of every team that had to turn aside from the narrow track. all these were drawn over to the stakes and tumbled off on the ground there. in the afternoon the farmer from across the road brought a load of lumber, which he left beside the stone and stakes, and then the work began. the farmer, who was used to building barns and sheds, began to help the man lay stone for some sort of long, narrow building. for days after that the work went on. sometimes the two men worked together, and sometimes the farmer drove off to town for more lumber, after showing the man just what to do while he was gone. the man seemed to learn very easily, and did not have to take out or do over any of his work. that was probably because he listened so carefully when the farmer was telling him. people always make mistakes, you know, unless they listen carefully to what they are told. the poultry strolled around and discussed the new building every day. they could not imagine what it was to be. at first, when only the foundation was laid, it looked so long and narrow that the gander declared it must be for a carriage house. "don't you see?" he said. "there will be plenty of room for the platform wagon, the light lumber wagon, and the implements. when they are all in, there will be room for the man to walk along on either side of them and clean them off. it is about the most sensible thing that i have known the man to do." the farmer always left his implements out in all kinds of weather, and sometimes one of his wagons stood out in a storm too. nobody except the geese agreed with the gander, and they would have agreed with him just as quickly if he had said that the building was for barn swallows. you see the gander was always ready to tell what he thought, and as the geese never even thought of thinking for themselves, it was very easy for them simply to agree with him. brown bess looked at the long lines of stone all neatly set in cement, and said that she would not mind having one end of the building for herself and the calf. "it would be much snugger than my place in the barn," said she, "although that is all right in warm weather." brownie may have known what it was for, because he had a great deal of horse sense, but if he knew he did not tell. being the only horse on the place, and so much larger than any of the other people, he had not made friends very quickly, although everybody liked him as well as they had bobs. it was not until the barred plymouth rock hen saw that the long space was to be divided into many small rooms that she guessed it might be for the poultry themselves. even then she dared not tell anybody what she thought. "in the first place," she said to herself, "they may prefer to run all over the farm, as they always have done, laying their eggs wherever they can. if any of them feel that way, they won't like it. if they really want a good house to live in, i might better not tell them what i think, for if i should be mistaken they would be disappointed." in all of which she was exactly right. it is much better for people not to tell their guesses to others. there is time enough for the telling of news when one is quite sure of it. as the work went on, the barred plymouth rock hen noticed that at each end of the long space there was a sort of scratching-shed with an open front. the distance between these end sheds was filled by two closed pens, two more scratching-sheds, two more pens, and so on. there were doors from one room to another all the way along, big doors such as men need, and there were little doors from each pen to its scratching-shed just large enough for fowls. the barred plymouth rock hen grew more and more sure that her guess was right, and still she said nothing, although she was happy to see how warm and snug the man was making the pens. "why," she said to herself, "if he will let me live in that sort of house i will lay eggs for him in the winter." she had hardly got the words out of her bill when the other poultry came up. it was growing late, and they came for a last look at the house before going to roost. "i declare," said the gobbler, "i believe that house is for the hens!" "surely not," said the gander. "you don't mean for the _hens_, do you?" "that is what i said," replied the gobbler, standing his feathers on end and dragging his wings on the ground. "why not? the man knows that turkeys do not care much for houses, else we might have a place in it. i really wouldn't mind staying in a quiet home sometimes, but in pleasant weather my wives will go, and of course i cannot let them walk around the country alone, so that is how i have to spend my days." the turkey hens looked at each other knowingly. they wished that he would leave them and their children quite alone. he was not fond of children, and the year before the turkey mothers had had dreadful times in trying to keep theirs out of his sight. "let us go inside and see what it is like," said the little speckled hen, leading the way. not until they reached the very last pen did they see enough to make them sure that the gobbler was right. there they found the perches in place, the nest-boxes ready, and a fine feeding-trough just inside the large front window, where they could stand in the sunshine in winter and eat comfortable meals. the cocks flew up at once to try the perches. "fine!" said the shanghai cock. "fine! these perches exactly fit my feet. i am glad that he made them large enough. low, too, so that we cannot hurt ourselves in flying down." "i like this," said the white cock. "the perches are all the same height from the floor. i like a low perch, but not if other fowls are above me. now you larger fellows can't roost any higher than i do. cock-a-doodle-doo!" it is not strange that he crowed over it, because every night the fowls had been fighting for the highest roosting places, and the strongest were sure to win. "nests!" cackled the hens. "nests! how pleasant this will be! they are all in a row, so we can visit with each other while we are laying." "that is a good plan," said the brown hen, who really seemed pleased at last. "i am always thinking of things to say when i am laying, and there is hardly ever any other fowl near enough to hear. it has been very annoying." "i don't care so much about that," said a very sensible white hen. "i can stand it not to talk for a while. what i want is a warm nest where the rain cannot strike me, and where i shall have quite room enough for my tail." "that is what we want, too," said three or four others. "there have always been so many unpleasant things," said the brown hen. "i have tried many places. i find a warm one where the wind cannot blow upon me, and usually there is not enough room for my tail. no hen can lay comfortably in a nest when her tail is pushed to one side. i have tried laying under the currant bushes in warm weather, and there one has all out-of-doors for her tail, but on rainy days one has to change. i do not like changes." "you do not?" asked the shanghai cock. "i thought all fowls liked changes. if you live here in winter, you will be walking from the pen to the scratching-shed half of the time." "you know very well what i mean," said the brown hen. "i like the changes that i like, of course. any fowl does. what i do not like is the changes that i don't like." she said this in a dignified and truly hen-like manner, and then she walked off. "all i hope," said the white cock, sadly, "is that we shall not be shut up in these places during the summer. one cannot tell what may happen. one must expect the worst. when i see the wire front of the scratching-shed, i fear that we shall be kept in." "nonsense!" cried the shanghai cock. "don't be a goose. the man has begun to put a wire fence around a great yard outside, and there will be plenty of room to run there if we are to live here. i do not believe that we shall be shut in, in pleasant weather." "come," clucked the barred plymouth rock hen to her brood. "come with me to the carriage house. it is time all good little chickens were asleep." she was very happy over the pleasant things which she had heard said about the man. only a truly polite hen could have kept from saying "i told you so," all this time, but she had shut her bill tightly and kept back the words she wanted to say. you remember that the shanghai cock had always liked the barred plymouth rock hen, and now he thought she should be told how they had come to feel about her friend, the man. he was not used to saying pleasant things, but having praised the perches made it a little easier for him. you know saying one kind thing always makes it easier to say another. so he ran after her. "er-er! i don't want the farmer to come back," he said. then he thought that did not sound quite right and he tried again. "i'm not sorry he went away. i mean i'm glad that the man came. all of us are now, except the gander and the white cock, and you don't really care for them, do you?" he looked at her lovingly with his round eyes, and the wind waved his drooping tail feathers. the barred plymouth rock hen thought that she had never seen him look so handsome. "i don't care at all about them," she replied quite honestly, "and i am glad that you and the others like the man." she said "you" much more loudly than she said "the others," and the shanghai cock must have known what she meant, for he stretched his neck, opened his bill, and gave such a crow as he was never known, before or since, to give at that hour of the day. the barred plymouth rock hen went happily to her nest, and stayed awake long after her last chicken was fast asleep. even if one is grown-up and the mother of a family, even if one comes of a finer breed than one's neighbors, he cannot be truly happy without their hearty liking. this hen felt that she had it at last, and that just by doing the thing which she thought right, but which the other poultry had not liked at all at first. it is often so. the pekin duck steals a nest the ducks were not much interested in the new poultry-house. to be sure the hens talked of hardly anything else now, and several had said that they would be glad to lay in the new nest-boxes as soon as they should be lined with hay for them. so the ducks heard enough about the house, but did not really care for it at all. "it is too far from the river," said they. "we are quite contented with the old pig-pen. since the hog and her children were taken away and the man has cleaned it out, we find it an excellent place. there is room for all of us in the little shed where the hog used to live, and the man has thrown in straw and fixed good places for egg-laying. besides, there is no door, and we can go in and out as often as we choose." that was exactly like the ducks. they seemed to think that to go where they wished and when they wished was the best part of life. the best part of sleeping in the old pigpen, they thought, was being able to leave it whenever they chose. they knew perfectly well, if they stopped to think about it, that a weasel or rat could get in quite as easily as they, and it was only their luck which had kept them safe so long. the ducks were very pleasant people to know. they never worried about anything for more than a few minutes, and had charmingly happy and contented ways. there were only a few of them on the farm, and no two exactly alike in color and size. the farmer had never paid much attention to them, and the boy, who bought and kept them for pets, had tired of them so soon that they had been allowed to go wherever they pleased, until they expected always to have their own way. they took their share of the food thrown out for the poultry, and then went off to the river for the day. during the hot weather they stayed there until after all respectable hens had gone to roost. even the geese left the water long before they did. when they went to sleep, they settled down on the floor and dozed off. "it is much easier than flying up to roosts and then down again," they said. "find a place you like, and then stay there. we see no reason why people should make such a fuss about going to sleep." when the shanghai cock heard these things, he shook his head until his wattles swung. "that is all very well for the ducks," said he, "but from the way this man acts, i think there may be a change coming for them by and by. i notice that things are more different every day." the ducks soon began to see that it was different with them. ducks, you know, are always very careless about where they lay their eggs. some of these were so old that they seldom laid eggs, only the pekin duck and her big friend, the aylesbury duck, laid them quite often after the middle of winter. at first the man looked in the old pig-pen for them, but after he had looked many days and found only one, he drew a book out of his pocket and read a bit. then he called the little girls to him and talked to them. "i want you to watch each of those white ducks," said he, "and for every one of their eggs which you find i will give you a penny." each morning for some days after that, the two ducks were followed by two hopeful little girls. "i don't mind it so much now," the pekin duck said to her friends on the third day, "but at first i didn't know what to do. i would no sooner sit down to lay under a bush or in some cosy corner than a little girl would sit on the ground in front and watch me. then i would move to another place, and she would move too. i must say, however, that they are very good children. the boy who lived here often threw stones at us. these children never do. i sometimes think there may be as much difference in boys and girls as there is in ducklings." when the little girls tired of watching for eggs to be laid, the pekin duck decided to do something she had never tried before. she was the youngest of the flock, and she wanted ducklings. the older ducks tried to discourage her. "have a good time while you can," said the aylesbury duck, who was about her age, and thought ducklings a bother. "i don't want to be troubled with a lot of children." the old ducks advised her not to try it. "you think it will be very fine," said they, "but you will find that you cannot go wherever you want to, and do whatever you please with ducklings tagging along. the sitting alone is enough to tire a duck out." "oh, i think i could stand it," remarked the pekin duck, quietly. "didn't some duck stand it long enough to hatch me?" "hatch you? no indeed," laughed an old rouen duck, who could remember quite distinctly things which had happened three years before on the farm from which they had all come to this. "hatch you? a shanghai hen hatched you and half a dozen other ducklings in a box with hay in it and slats across the front. i remember quite well how cross she became when she thought it time for her chickens to chip the shell, and they did not chip. she never dreamed that she was sitting on ducks' eggs, although every duck on the place knew it and thought it a good joke. she was a stupid thing, or she would have known without being told. any bright hen knows that ducks' eggs are larger, darker, and greasier looking than her own." the pekin duck remembered very little of her life before coming to the farm, so she was glad to hear of it from the old rouen duck. "what did my mother do when her eggs didn't hatch?" said she. "do?" repeated the rouen duck. "do? why she did the only thing that any sitting fowl can do. she kept on sitting." "how long?" asked the pekin duck. "you don't suppose i can remember that, do you?" replied the rouen duck, twitching her little pointed tail from side to side. "besides, i never count things. all i know is that she said one of the cocks, who was a friend of hers, declared that the moon was quite new when she began sitting, and that she sat there until it was quite new again. he was roosting in a tree just then, and knew more about the moon because he always awakened to crow during the night. she thought it was dreadful to have to sit so long." the pekin duck saw that the rouen duck was still trying to discourage her. "i suppose it was harder for her because her legs were longer," she said. "if they were longer they would ache more, wouldn't they?" the rouen duck smiled all around her bill "your mother had her worst time later on, though," she said. "when you and your brothers and sisters were hatched, she could not understand why you were so different from all the other children she had ever raised. she said that not one of you looked like her family, and the shanghai cock was very disagreeable to her about it. he said she should be more careful whose eggs she hatched. and when you children went into the water, your mother would walk up and down the bank of the pond, clucking as hard as she could, and begging you to come ashore at once. at night, too, there was trouble, for you would never go to bed as early as she thought proper. after a while she learned to march off at a time that suited her, and let you come when you were ready." "thank you ever so much for telling me," said the pekin duck, sweetly. "it must be horrid to have the wrong kind of children. i promise you that i will not sit on hens' eggs." then she waddled away. "i want some ducklings," said she, putting her pretty webbed feet down somewhat harder than usual. "i want ducklings, and i am going to steal a nest at once." she was a duck of determination, and made a start by finding a cosy spot under some burdock plants and laying an egg before she went in swimming. she was in such haste to make a beginning that she had actually to come back later to finish her nest, which she did by adding more dried leaves and grass and lining it with down which she plucked from her breast. after that, of course, all her friends knew that it was useless to talk to her about it, for when a duck goes around at that season of the year with her breast all ragged from her plucking it, people may be very sure that she is planning to hatch a brood. it is not at all becoming, but it is a great help, for when the sitting duck is tired or hungry, she can pull the down over the eggs and leave her nest, knowing that the down will keep them warm for a long time. of course the other ducks talked about her a good deal when she was not around, and said she would be sorry she had undertaken all that work and care, and that it was exactly as well to drop one's eggs anywhere and let the man pick them up to put under some sitting hen. "yes," said the aylesbury duck, "or else give them to the fat table for hatching." then they all laughed. it seemed such a joke to them that a table should take to hatching eggs. nearly every day the pekin duck laid an egg, and she soon had enough to begin sitting. after that, she did not go up to the pig-pen at night with her friends. it was quite lonely in the clump of burdocks, and if the pekin duck had been at all timid she might have had some bad nights, for weasels, rats, and skunks were out after dark, looking for something to eat. yet they must always have found food before they reached the burdocks, for the duck was not disturbed. during the day her friends came along for a chat, and often the drake waddled up for a visit. he seemed to think her a very sensible sort of duck. he had not the gobbler's dislike of children, although he never shared the labor of hatching them, like his friend the gander. he thought one could be a good father without going quite as far as that. the days were long and the nights seemed longer to the tired pekin duck, but her courage never failed. when her legs cramped so that she could hardly step off the nest, she smiled and said to herself, "suppose i were a thousand-legged worm!" she fancied it made her feel better to think of such things, and she never remembered that thousand-legged-worms do not sit on nests and hatch out their children in that way. it is probably better that she did not. if it does one good to think of thousand-legged-worms, it is wise to think about them, even if one does make a slight mistake of this sort. when the rain came, the burdock leaves kept off most of it, and the few drops which fell between the leaves rolled off the duck's back without wetting her at all. that was because her feathers were so oily that the rain could not stay on them. ducks, you know, always have on their water-proofs, and can slip in and out of the water at any time without getting really wet. the pleasure which she missed most was seeing the changes which the man was making in the upper end of the pasture. the drake told her how great yards had been fenced in with wire netting, and how the fronts of the scratching-shed had been covered with somewhat finer netting of the same kind. "not even a weasel could get through it," he said. and then the pekin duck wished that the man would fix a place for her ducklings where weasels could not get them. she had never feared such creatures for herself, but when she thought of her children she was afraid. that is always the way, since it is much easier for a mother to be brave for herself than for her children. on a beautiful morning in the last of may, the pekin duck was repaid for all her patience and courage by having seven beautiful ducklings chip the shell. they were even more beautiful than she had thought they would be, and she could not understand why her friends seemed no more impressed. to be sure they said that they were fine ducklings and that they looked like their mother, and admired their dainty little webbed feet and their bills. they spoke of the beautiful thick down which covered them, and said that they were remarkably bright and strong for their age. and yet the pekin duck could see that they had not properly realized what wonderful creatures the ducklings were. it was when all the ducks were gathered around to look at the ducklings that one of the little girls came along with her doll. when she also saw the ducklings, she was so excited that she hugged her doll tightly to her heart and ran off to find her father. a few minutes later the pekin duck saw her precious babies lifted into a well-lined basket and carried off toward the house. she followed, quacking anxiously, and keeping as close to the man as possible. twice he lowered the basket to let her see that her children were quite safe. the man carried the basket to a place beside the new poultry-house, now all done, and quickly fixed the old down-lined nest, which the little girl had been carrying in another basket, into a fine coop. next he put the nestlings into it and let the pekin duck cover them with her wings. he stretched fine wire netting across the front of the coop, and then the pekin duck was perfectly happy. indeed it was not until the middle of the following night that she remembered she had not looked at the poultry-house at all. [illustration: she followed quacking anxiously. _page _] it was rather disappointing not to be able to take her children in swimming for two days, but when she saw how carefully the man fed them on bread and milk and other soft food, and how particular he was about having plenty of clean water for them to drink, she quite forgave him for keeping them there. the other ducks came to tell her how to care for the ducklings, to shake their sleek heads, and to tell her how unfortunate it was that she could not take the ducklings in swimming at once. "you will need to know many things," said the old rouen duck, "and i will tell you if you will come to me every time that you are perplexed." "thank you," said the pekin duck. but she never went. she thought it just as well that a duck who had never hatched out children should not be giving advice to people who had. when the ducklings were three days old, they were let out and started at once for the river. when their mother had to stop to speak to her friends on the way, they did not wait for her, but marched on ahead. all the fowls spoke admiringly of them, and the pekin duck was truly happy as she looked at her seven proper little ducklings. they were such bright children, too, waddling right down to the edge of the brook and slipping in without a single question as to how it should be done. their mother followed after and showed them how she fed from the bottom, reaching her head far down until she could fill her orange-colored bill with the soft mud from the bottom. there were many tiny creatures in the mud which were good to eat, and these she kept and swallowed, letting the mud pass out between the rough edges of her bill. if the water had been deeper, she could have showed them how she dived, staying long under water and coming up in a most unexpected place. when they came out of the water and stood on the bank, their mother stretched herself up as tall as she could and preened her feathers. the seven little ducklings stood as tall as they could and squeezed the water out of their down with their tiny bills, which seemed so much longer for them than their mother's did for her. the pekin duck was much amused to see how the other ducks flocked around her children. indeed, she laughed outright once, when she heard the old rouen duck say to the white cock, "don't you think that our ducklings are growing finely?" of course the pekin duck was ashamed of having laughed at any one so much older than she, so she stuck her head under her wing and pretended to be arranging the feathers there. when she drew it out again she was quite sober, but she was thinking "our ducklings! our ducklings! they may all call them that if it makes them happy to do so, but really they are my ducklings, for i earned them, and they love me as they love nobody else." the new nests and the nest eggs as might have been expected, the new poultry-house was no sooner finished than the fowls began to discuss who should live in the different parts. they could see no reason why they should not all run together, as they always had done. "perhaps," the black hen had said, "the man may put us all together and let the table's chickens have pens to themselves." "what?" said the barred plymouth rock hen, "put me in one pen and my chickens in another? that would never do." "you forget," said the shanghai cock very gently, "that by winter-time they will not need your care any more, and you will not wish to be with them so much." and that was true, for no matter how fond a hen may be of her tiny chickens, she is certain to care less for them when they are grown. all the fowls were quite sure that they should have the best pen and yard, because they had been the longest on the place. after they had spoken of that, they had a great time in deciding which was the best pen. part of the fowls wanted to be in the end toward the road, so that they could see all that went on there and look across to the other farm to watch their neighbors. the cocks all preferred this. they liked excitement. some of the hens wished to live in the pen next to the barn. "we are fond of the barn," they said. "we have been there so much, and have laid so many eggs there that it seems like home. we know that it is not so comfortable, but it seems like home." however, the cocks had their wish, and on the day when it was granted there was such a crowing from fence-tops as greatly puzzled the man. he could not find anything in his books and papers to explain it, although he looked and looked and looked. at last one of the little girls told him what she thought, and she was exactly right. "it sounds to me as though they were just happy," she said. you see the man had not lived long enough on a farm to understand the language of poultry very well, so he had much to learn. there are many people who think themselves quite wise and yet cannot tell what one of a tiny chicken's five calls means, and there are some men, even some fathers (and fathers need to know more than anybody else in the world, except mothers) who do not know that a cock can say at least nine different things with the same cry, "cock-a-doodle-doo!" this man was a father and had been a school-teacher, too, so he was not an ignorant man, and after his little girl said that he decided to learn poultry-talk. it took some weeks, but you shall hear by and by how well he succeeded. the man wanted to teach the hens to lay in the new nests, so that he would not have to spend much time in egg-hunting, and because he wished to be sure of finding the eggs as soon as they were laid. people should grow good as they grow old, you know, but it is not so with the eggs. the man did not want to shut the fowls in during the warm weather, for then he would have to feed them more, and that would cost too much money, yet he opened this front pen with its scratching-shed and yard, and fed them there every night. while they were feeding he closed the outer gate, so that they could not go back to roost on the trees or wherever they chose. the perches were comfortable, with room enough for all, and far enough apart so that those in the back rows did not have their bills brushed by the tails of those in front. the hens who had chickens were now kept in the second pen from this, and so were quite safe from prowling weasels and other hunters. in the front pen, you see, there were only full-grown fowls, and morning was a busy time for most of the laying hens. the gate was not opened until the sun was well up, and by that time many of the hens had laid in one of the cosy nests under the perches, nests which were so well roofed over that not even a pin-feather could have dropped into them from above. they were so very comfortable that even the hens who did not lay before leaving the pen were soon glad to come strolling back to it, instead of fluttering and scrambling to some lonely corner of the hayloft in the barn. on the first morning that the fowls were shut in there, a very queer thing happened. the first hen to go on a nest exclaimed, "why, who was here ahead of me?" nobody answered, and the hen asked again. at last the speckled hen said, "i think you are the first one to lay this morning." "the first one!" exclaimed the black hen, for it was she, as she backed out onto the floor again. "you must not expect me to believe that i am the first when there is an egg in the nest already." as she spoke she pointed in with her bill, and the others came crowding around. there lay a fine, large, and quite shiny egg. while they were still looking and wondering which hen had laid it, the brown hen discovered that there was an egg in each of the six other nests. she was so excited that for a minute she could hardly cackle. the black hen began to look angry, and stood her feathers on end and shook herself in a way that she had when she was much displeased. she was not a good-natured hen. "you think that you are very smart," she said, "but _i_ think that you are very silly. every fowl here knows that i always like to be the first on the nest in the morning, and yet seven of you must have laid in the night to get ahead of me. i don't mind having an egg in the nest. every hen likes to find at least one there. it is the mean way in which you tried to prevent my getting ahead of the rest of you." the hens insisted that they never took their feet from the perches all night long, and the speckled hen, who was a very kind little person, tried to show the black hen that it was all a mistake of some sort. "perhaps they were laid in there yesterday," said she, "only we did not notice them when we came in." the cocks kept still, although they looked very knowing. they did not want to offend any of the hens by taking sides. at last the brown hen spoke. it always seemed that she made some trouble every time she opened her bill. "i remember," said she, "that there was not an egg there when i went to roost last night. the last thing i did before flying up onto my perch was to look in all the nests and try to decide which i preferred." then there was more trouble, and in the midst of it the speckled hen hopped into one of the nests. "sorry to get ahead of you," she said politely to the black hen, "but the truth is that i feel like laying." she gave a little squawk as she brushed against the egg there. "it is light!" she cried. "it is light and slippery! none of us ever laid such an egg as that." "of course not," said one of the cocks, who now saw his way to stop the trouble. "of course none of you lay that sort of eggs. i could have told you that long ago, if you had asked me." when the fowls were all looking at each other and wondering what sort of creature it could be who had slipped in and laid the eggs there, a tiny door in the outside wall, just back of one of the nests, was opened, and the man peeped in. all he saw was a number of fowls standing around and looking as though they had been very much surprised. half of the hens stood with one foot in the air. he dropped the door, which was hinged at the top, and then the fowls looked at each other again. it was a great comfort to them at times like these to be able to look both ways at once. "the man opened those little doors while we were asleep, and put those eggs in," they said. "they are not hens' eggs at all. probably they are some that his table laid." it was only a minute before all the nests were in use, and soon the noise of puzzled and even angry clucking was replaced by the joyous cackling of hens who felt that they had done their work for the day. "of course," said the speckled hen, "those eggs cannot be so good as the ones we lay, but i do not mind the feeling of them at all. and i must say that finding them already in a strange nest makes it seem much more homelike to me. this man acts as though he really understood hens and wanted to make them happy." the white plymouth rocks come only a few days after the new poultry-house had been opened to the fowls on the place, the man came home from town with a crate in his light wagon. in the crate were a cock and ten hens. all were very beautiful white plymouth rocks, and larger than any of the fowls on the place would have supposed possible. you can imagine what a scurrying to and fro there was among those who had always lived on the place, and how many questions they asked of each other, questions which nobody was able to answer. "are they to live on this farm?" said one. "it must be so," answered another. "don't you see that the man is getting ready to open the crate?" "where do you suppose they came from?" asked a third. "why, they are almost as big as turkeys." "altogether too large, i think," said a bantam. "it makes fowls look coarse to be so overgrown." "what is that?" asked the shanghai cock, sharply. he had come up from behind without the bantam's seeing him, and she hardly knew what to answer. she lowered her head and pecked at the ground, because she did not know what to say. she dared not tell the shanghai cock, who was very tall, that she thought large fowls looked coarse. so she kept still. it would have been much better if she had held up her head and told the truth, which was that she disliked to have large fowls around, since it made her seem smaller. "i think," said the shanghai cock, "that if a fowl is good, the more there is of him the better. if he is not good, the smaller he is the better." he looked over towards the wagon as he spoke, but the bantam knew that he meant her, and then she was even more uncomfortable. she thought people were all looking at her, and she felt smaller than ever. the man backed the wagon up to the outer gate of the second poultry-yard, which was just between the one where the chickens were with their mothers and the one into which the older fowls were allowed to go. then he loosened the side of the crate very carefully and took the new-comers out, one at a time. he had to hold the side of the crate with his hand, so the only way in which he could lift the fowls out was by taking them by the legs in his other hand and putting them, head downward, into the yard. one would think that it might be quite annoying to a fowl to have to enter his new home in that fashion, with all the others watching, but the white plymouth rocks did not seem to mind it in the least. perhaps that was because they had been carried so before and were used to it. perhaps, too, it was because they felt sure that the fowls who were standing around had also been carried by the legs. perhaps it was just because they were exceedingly sensible fowls and knew that such things did not matter in the least. at all events, each hen gave herself a good shake when allowed to go free, settled her feathers quickly, and began to walk around. the cock did the same, only he crowed and crowed and crowed, as much as to say, "how fine it is to be able to stretch once more! a fellow could not get room to crow properly in that crate." [illustration: took the new-comers out, one at a time. _page _] now everybody knows that the poultry who had been long on the place should have spoken pleasantly to the white plymouth rocks at once. it would have made them much happier and would have been the kind thing to do. they did not do it, and there were different reasons for this. the shanghai cock was so used to saying disagreeable things every day to the fowls whom he knew, that now, when he really wanted very much to be agreeable, he found he did not know how. there are many people in the world who have that trouble. the bantam hen was cross, and walked away, saying to herself, "i guess they are big enough to take care of themselves." and that was a mistake, as you very well know, for nobody in this world is big enough to be perfectly happy without the kindness and friendship of others. as for the rest of the fowls, some of them didn't care about being polite; some of them didn't know what was the best thing to say and so did not say anything; and some thought it would not do to talk to them, because they were not so large and fine-looking as the white plymouth rocks. they really wanted to do the kind thing, but were afraid they did not look well enough. as though kindness were not a great deal more important than the sort of feathers one wears! the white plymouth rocks did the best that they could about it. they chatted pleasantly among themselves, saying that it was a fine day, and that it seemed good to set foot on grass once more, and that they had sadly missed having a bit of grass to eat with their grain and water while they were in the crate. it was at this time that the barred plymouth rock hen in the next yard came over to the wire netting which separated the two. she would have come sooner if it had not been for her chickens. two of them had been quarrelling over a fat bug which they found, and she stayed to settle the trouble and scold them as they deserved. now she came stepping forward in her very best manner to greet the strangers. she knew that she was not so large as they, and that her barred gray feathers were not nearly so showy as their gleaming white ones, but she also knew that somebody should welcome them to the farm, and she was ashamed that it had not been done sooner. "good-morning," said she. "i am very glad that you have come here to live." "oh, thank you," replied all the white plymouth rocks together. "we are very glad to meet you. we hope to be happy here." "have you come far?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "very far," said they. "unless you have taken such a journey you can have no idea how glad we are to be free again." "i have never taken any journey," said she, "except the time i came here to live, and that was when i was only a chicken. i do not remember much about it. i fluttered out of a crate that was being carried in a wagon, and ran around alone until i happened to find this place." "how sad!" exclaimed the cock. "i hope you have had no such hard time since. they seem to have a good poultry-house here, although i have not yet been inside." "it is a good one," said the barred plymouth rock hen, "but i do not sleep in it these warm nights. i stay in a coop in my yard with my children." as she spoke she looked lovingly down at the white flock around her feet. they were growing finely and already showed some small feathers on their wings. "oh!" exclaimed the hens in the other yard. "oh, what beautiful chickens! so strong! so quick! so well-behaved! how long is it since you hatched them?" "well," replied their mother, "i suppose i did not hatch them. i sat long enough on the nest and laid enough eggs, but the man who owns the farm took away my eggs and brought me these chickens. he has a sort of table down in his cellar which hatches out all the chickens on the farm. i might just as well have saved myself all those tiresome days and nights of sitting if i had known how it would be." "that is a good thing to know," said one of the new-comers. "on the farm from which we came, all the chickens are hatched in that way. we never had a mother who was alive." "not until after you were hatched i suppose," remarked the barred plymouth rock hen, who thought the other did not mean exactly what she had said. "we had no real mother then," said the white plymouth rock hen. "there were so many of us that we had to get along without. the man who owned us had a lot of things to take the place of mothers. they were made of wood and some soft stuff and he used to set them around in the yards on pleasant days. we ate the food and drank the water that were brought to us, and then we played around in the grass near the make-believe mothers. when we were tired or cold we crawled under them and cuddled down, and when we were scared we did the same way. we were very well cared for by the men, and we all grew to be strong and healthy fowls, but i sometimes wish that we could have had a live mother to snuggle under and to love." the barred plymouth rock hen was greatly surprised. "i think it is well to save the hens having to hatch out the broods," she said, "but they should be willing to care for the chickens. there is nothing quite so good as a live mother." another plymouth rock hen strolled up. "i have been in the pen and the scratching-shed," said she, "and i think them delightful." "are they at all like what you had before coming here?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "very much the same," was the reply. "only on the farm from which we came there were a great, great many more pens. it took four men to care for us all. most of us were white plymouth rocks. what are those fowls outside? we never saw any that looked just like them." "oh," replied the barred plymouth rock hen with a little smile, "they don't know exactly what they are. the shanghai cock is a shanghai, as any one can tell by looking at his long and feathery legs, but he and i are the only ones who belong to fine families. he is really an excellent fellow, although, of course, being a shanghai is not being a plymouth rock." "of course not," agreed all the new fowls, speaking quite together. "we understand perfectly. you mean that he is a very good shanghai." "exactly," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "the other fowls think him rather cross, but he never has been cross to me. i think he gets tired of hearing some of them quarrel and fuss, and then he speaks right out." "one has to at times," said the cock, politely, for he saw that the barred plymouth rock hen wished him to like her friends. "when you can," he added, "tell him that i would like to meet him. i suppose we shall not be allowed to go out of our own yard, but he can come up to the fence. and send the others also. we would like to meet our new neighbors." "i will," replied the barred plymouth rock hen, as she clucked to her chickens. "good-by. i see that we have fresh food coming." while her children were feeding she pretended to eat, pecking every now and then at the food, and chatting softly with them as they ate. there was always much to say about their manners at such times, and she had to use both of her eyes to make sure that they did not trample on the food. she also had to remind them often about wiping their bills on the grass when they had finished. she could not bear to see a chicken running around with mush on the sides of his bill. when they had eaten all they wished and ran away to play, she ate what was left and sat down to think. "i would like to be white," she said to herself. "i would certainly like to be white, and live in style with those fowls who have just come. it must be lovely to be so important that one is taken riding on the cars and lifted around carefully in crates." then she remembered how they had spoken of their legs aching, and how glad they were to be free on the grass once more. "i don't know that i would really care about travelling," she added, "but i would like to live in such style with a lot of fowls of my own family." she remembered what the cock had said about their having to stay in their own yard, and she added, "but i would not want to have to stay always in the same place." she thought a little while longer and laughed aloud. "i believe that i would really rather be just what i happen to be," said she. "i don't know why i never thought of that before." you can see that she was a most sensible hen. many fowls never stop to think that if they were to change places with others, they would have to stand the unpleasant as well as the pleasant part of the change. the little white chickens came crowding up to their gray mother. "tell us what made you laugh," they said. "please tell us." her small round eyes twinkled. "i was laughing," she said, "just because i am myself and not somebody else." "we don't see anything very funny about that," they exclaimed. "who else could you be?" the barred plymouth rock hen sent them off to chase a butterfly, and went to call on her nearest neighbor. "i would like to tell them," she said, "but they are too young to understand it yet." the turkey chicks are hatched spring was always an anxious time for the hen turkeys who wanted to raise broods. raising children is hard work and brings many anxieties with it. the mother is so much afraid that they will take cold, or eat too much, or not get enough to eat, or take something that is not good for children. there is also the fear that they may be careless and have some dreadful accident. and, worst of all, there is always the fear that they may be naughty and grow up the wrong sort of people. these cares all mothers have, but the turkey mothers have another care which is really very hard to stand, for the gobblers do not like their children and will try in every way to prevent the eggs from hatching. if a gobbler sees one of the hen turkeys laying an egg, he will break the egg, and if he meets a flock of tiny turkey chicks he will peck and hurt, perhaps even kill, all that he can of them. that is why the hen turkeys on the farm had always been in the habit of stealing away to lay their eggs in some secret place. one had even raised a fine brood in the middle of a nettle-patch the year before. she had slipped away from her friends and from the gobbler day after day until she had laid thirteen eggs, and then had begun sitting. she had to sit as long as the ducks do, and that is for twenty-eight days. you can imagine how tired she became, and how many times she had kept very still, hardly daring to move a feather, because she heard the gobbler near and feared he would find and break her precious eggs. now she began to feel like laying, and walked off to the nettle-patch once more. she thought that having had such good luck there before was a reason for trying it again. she had hardly laid her fine large egg there when the man came softly along and picked her up by the legs. she flapped her wings and craned her head as far upwards as she could, yet he did not loosen his hold on her. he carried her carefully, but he carried her just the same. when he reached the poultry-house, he put her in a pen by herself. then he went off to the farmhouse with her newly laid egg in his pocket. you can imagine how sad she felt. if there is one thing that a hen turkey likes better than taking long walks, it is raising turkey chicks. in spite of the weariness and the anxiety, she is very fond of it. and now this one found herself shut in and without her egg. it is true that, besides the pen, she could go into the scratching-shed and the big yard, yet even then there was the wired netting between her and the great world, and her friends were on the other side of the fence. she was just wondering if she could not fly over the fence and be free, when the man returned and cut some of the long feathers from her right wing. then she knew that she could not fly at all. the man next made a fine nest of hay in a good-sized box, placing it in the shed and putting an egg into it. the hen turkey first thought that it was her own egg, but when the man left and she could come nearer, she found that it was not. instead, it was different from any she had ever seen. she tried sitting on it. "it feels all right," she said in her gentle and plaintive voice. "if i am still here when i want to lay another, i will use this nest." in spite of her loneliness and sadness, the hen turkey managed to keep brave during the days that followed. the man gave her plenty of good corn and clean water, and she had many visits with the hens and their chickens who lived in the pen next to hers and ran about all day in their yard. of course she did not think them so interesting as turkey chicks, yet she liked to watch them and visit with them between the wires. it made her want a brood of her own even more than ever. she still laid eggs right along, and the man took each away soon after it was laid. she feared that he took them to eat, but the barred plymouth rock hen said that he might be giving them to the table to hatch, and that she should not worry. "i had just such a time myself," she added, "and it all came out right. you see if he does not bring you some fine turkey chicks soon." this always cheered the hen turkey for a time, but even if it were to be so, she thought, she would prefer to hatch her own eggs. she did not know that the man had every one of hers in a basket in a dry, warm place in the house, and was turning each over carefully every day. this he did to keep them in the best possible way until there should be a nestful for her to sit on. sometimes the gobbler and the two other hen turkeys came up to the fence to visit with her. they never stayed long, because they came of a restless and wandering family, yet it did her good to have chats with them, even if they walked back and forth part of the time as they talked. the gobbler paid very little attention to her. he told her once that the hen turkeys who were foolish enough to try to raise broods deserved to be shut up and have their wings clipped. she had better visits with her sisters when he was not there to listen. one of them told her that she had several eggs hidden under a sumach bush in a fence corner. the other said that she was trying to decide on a nesting-place; she couldn't choose between a corner of the lower meadow and the edge of the woods. both of them spoke very softly, and frequently looked over toward where the gobbler was strutting in the sunshine. they were much afraid that he would hear. when her sisters walked away, the hen turkey in the yard felt sadder than ever. she strolled back into the shed and tried to think of something pleasant to do. she had not laid an egg for two days, and she was very lonely. you can imagine how pleased and happy she was to see eleven fine turkey eggs lying in her nest. the queer egg which she had not laid was gone, and she felt certain that those there were all her own. she got on the nest at once, and found that she could exactly cover them. "how lucky!" she thought. "if there were another one it would be too many and i could not keep it warm." she did not know she had laid fifteen eggs, and that the man had taken the other four down cellar to be hatched by the incubator. she thought it just luck that there were precisely enough. she did not know the man had read in one of his books that a hen turkey can safely cover only eleven eggs. there are several things better than luck, you see. willingness to study is one and willingness to work is another. this man had both kinds of willingness, and it was well for his poultry that he had. there is not much to be told about the days that passed before the first turkey chick chipped the shell. the sun shone into the open front of the shed for twenty-eight days, and the patient hen turkey was there, sitting on her nest. the moon shone into the shed for many nights, and she was still there. the moon could not shine in for twenty-eight nights for two reasons. sometimes it set too early, and sometimes the nights were cloudy and wet, although none of the days were. when it rained the turkey was the happiest. she did not like wet weather at all. it was for this reason she was happy. every shower reminded her how wet it must be out in the nettle-patch, and made her think how cosy and happy she was in the place which the man had made ready for her. then came the joyous day on which ten little turkey chicks chipped the shell. they were very promising children, quite the finest, their mother thought, that she had ever seen. there was only one sad thing about the day, and that was not having the eleventh egg hatch. the turkey hen was too happy with her ten children to spend much time in thinking of the other which she had hoped to have, but she could not help remembering once in a while, and then she became very sad. it was not until the next morning that the ten little ones began to eat and to run around. young turkeys do not eat at all the first day, you know, but they always make up for it afterwards. when the hen turkey walked out of the shed with her family, the hens in the next yard crowded to the fence to see them. the little white plymouth rocks could not understand for a long time why the turkey chicks should be so large. "it isn't fair," they said. "those turkey chicks will be grown up long before we are!" they thought that to be grown up was the finest thing in the world. the hens were very friendly and chatted long about them, telling the fond mother how very slender their necks were and how neat their little feet looked, with the tiny webs coming half-way to the tips of their toes. "i am very glad for you," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "i was sure that it would all come out right in the end. this man takes excellent care of his poultry." after a while the gobbler came strutting past. when he saw his children, he stood his feathers on end and dragged his wings on the ground. he was exceedingly angry, and would have liked it very well if they had been on his side of the fence. "ugly little things!" he said to their mother. "they will tag around after you all the rest of the summer." "very well," she replied. "i shall like to have them." "silly--silly--silly!" said the gobbler, as he strutted off. the hen turkey's sisters came walking slowly toward her. both of them were sitting on eggs, and had left their nests for a few minutes to find food. of course they could not make a long call. "i built in the edge of the woods after all," said the one who had been so undecided. "i wanted you to know, but don't tell anybody else, or the gobbler may hear of it and find the nest." then she spoke of the ten turkey chicks and asked the other sister to notice how much they looked like their mother. after that they had to hurry back to their nests. when the hen turkey called her chicks to cuddle down for the night, she found four already in the shed, eating from the food-dish. "i thought you were all outside with me," she remarked. "why did you come in here?" "we couldn't help ourselves," said they. "some very large creature brought us here just now. we came from a darker place than this." the mother was very much puzzled. she knew that she had not hatched them, and that they could not belong to her sisters, who had begun sitting after she did. there was no way of taking them to any other place for the night, so she decided to do the kind thing and care for them herself. she was quite right in this. one is never sorry for having done the kind thing, you know, but one is very often sorry for having done the unkind thing. "crawl right under my wings," said she, "and cuddle down with these other turkey chicks. i will try to cover you all." she managed very well and the night was warm, so that although a few of the chicks were not wholly covered all the time, they got along very comfortably indeed. by the next morning the mother loved the four as much as she did her own ten. "it really doesn't matter in the least who hatched them," she said, "or even who laid the eggs. they need a mother and i can love them all. it would be a shame if i couldn't stretch my wings a little more for the sake of covering them." she never knew that they had been hatched in the incubator from the four eggs which she had laid, but which the man had thought she could not cover. you see she was really adopting her own children without knowing it. turkey mothers are hungry creatures, and do not understand that they should not eat the hard-boiled eggs which are the best food for their chicks when very small. so the man had either to shut this mother in the shed and place the food for the chicks outside, where she could not reach it, or else find some other way of keeping it from her. he thought a turkey who had sat so closely on her nest for four weeks should be allowed to stretch, so he put the food for the children in a coop and left the mother free. the little ones could run in and out whenever they wanted to eat, and the mother had plenty of corn and water outside, so they were all well cared for and happy. the gobbler said unkind things to them each time he passed, but they were too happy and sensible to mind that very much, and it did not seem long before the chicks' tail-and wing-feathers were showing through their down, and they were given porridge and milk instead of hard-boiled egg. this made them feel that they were growing up very fast indeed, and they kept stretching their tiny wings and looking around at their funny little tails to watch their feathers lengthen. on the day when they had their first porridge, their aunts and their newly hatched cousins were brought in to share their yard with them. you can imagine what happy times they all had, playing together and visiting through the wire fence with their next-door neighbors, the white plymouth rock chickens. the gobbler used to pass by and try to make them and their mothers unhappy by telling them of the pleasure they missed by being shut up. "there is fine food in the lower meadow," he said, "and the upper one is even better. there are delicious bugs to be found by the side of the road. but these are for me, and not for silly hen turkeys and their good-for-nothing chicks." one day the outer gate of the empty yard next to theirs was left open and some fine corn strewn inside, just as the gobbler came along. he strutted in to eat the corn, thinking a little of it would taste good before he started for the meadow. he stood with his back to the gate while eating, and quite often he stopped between mouthfuls to tell the hen turkeys how fine it was outside. soon he noticed the man opening the gate of their yard and letting the oldest flock pass through with their mother. he took one hurried last mouthful and turned to leave. the gate of his yard was shut, and he was too fat and old to fly over the fence. [illustration: the happy turkey mother paused on her way. _page _] the happy turkey mother paused on her way to the meadows with her flock. she was a very patient creature, and would never have dared say anything of the sort to the gobbler when he was free, but now she decided to say what she wished for once. "thank you very much for telling us about the fine food outside," said she. "we shall soon be enjoying it. we shall first try the lower meadow and then the upper one. after that we shall hunt for those delicious bugs which you say may be found by the roadside. probably we shall find plenty of dandelion, cress, and mustard leaves, with a few ants or nettles to give flavor. it is really very fine outside." three chickens run away one would think that with such a good mother as the barred plymouth rock hen, chickens should have been contented to mind her and follow wherever she went, and usually hers did. one day, however, two of the brothers coaxed their good little sister to go with them to visit the chickens at the farm across the road. the brothers had teased and teased their mother to let them go there, but she had always refused. "why?" they said. "because," answered the barred plymouth rock hen, "you have enough room and enough playmates right here at home, and i know that you are safe and well here. i do not know what might happen to you there." "oh, _why_ can't we go?" teased the brothers, who had just been given an answer to that same question, and were very rude to keep on asking it. of course the barred plymouth rock hen had had too much experience with chickens to reply again to a question which should not have been asked the second time, and might better not have been asked the first. so she just turned her back and walked off, clucking to her brood as she went. the brothers who had been teasing did not like that at all, and they put their naughty little heads together and decided to run away. "let's get little sister to go along," said older brother. "why?" asked younger brother. "she can't run as fast as we can, and she's so good that it wouldn't be much fun anyway. we wouldn't get across the road before she'd want to come back and be afraid our mother would worry about us." "that is just why i want her to go along," said older brother. "we'll get her to go, and then our mother will think that we are not any worse than she is, and perhaps she won't peck us so hard when we get back." "all right," said younger brother, fluttering his wings with impatience. "let's get her right now. i know our mother won't scold her." you see both of the brothers forgot that the reason why their mother had never scolded little sister was that little sister had never done anything wrong. she was really the best chicken in the brood, and she had such a sweet way of running to the barred plymouth rock hen during the day and cuddling close to her for a short rest, that it was not strange her mother was especially fond of her. now the two naughty brothers found little sister and began talking to her. "ever been across the road?" asked older brother, carelessly, as he snapped off a blade of grass. "no," said little sister. "mother never goes." "there are some very jolly chickens on that farm," remarked younger brother. "one of them asked us to come over a little while ago." "wouldn't it be fun!" exclaimed little sister. "let's ask mother if we can't all go." "aw, they won't want the whole brood at once," said older brother. "besides, our mother is way over in the edge of the pasture now, and there isn't any use in bothering her. i tell you what let's do. let's just go down to our side of the road and see if those other chickens are there now. then we can ask them if they don't want us to come over some other day." you see the brothers knew that it would never do to ask their sister to run away with them at first, for she would have said "no," and run off to tell the barred plymouth rock hen, and that would have spoiled all their naughty fun. the three little white plymouth rocks put down their heads and scurried along as fast as they could toward the road. older brother planned it so that the fence should hide them from their mother as they ran, but he said nothing of this to little sister, for she was not used to being naughty, and he knew that he would have to go about it very carefully to get her to run away. when they reached the road they saw the chickens on the other side, but they were well within their own farm-yard. "oh, isn't that too bad!" exclaimed little sister. "now you can't ask them what you wanted to." "we might run over and speak to them about it now," said younger brother. "mother won't care. after we have come so far to see them, it seems too bad to miss our chance. come on and we can be across before that team gets here." both the brothers put down their heads and ran as fast as they could, and little sister followed after them. when they were on the other side she began to cry and wanted to go back. "i n-n-never did such a thing in all my l-l-life," she sobbed, "and i know our mother won't like it. let's go right back." "oh, don't act like a gosling," said older brother. "you're over here now and you might as well have a good time. what if our mother does scold when we get back? she never wants us to have a bit of fun, and we're just as safe here as we were at home." little sister did not feel at all happy, still, you know how hard it is to stop being naughty when you have once begun, and she found it hard. she would gladly have returned at once if her brothers had been willing to go with her, but when she found that they were going to stay, she stayed with them. the chickens whom they were visiting were very jolly and full of fun, although they were of common families and had not been carefully brought up. they did many things which the little white plymouth rocks had never been allowed to do, and in a short time the visitors were doing just the same as they. these chickens even made fun of each other when they had accidents, and little sister heard them laughing at three or four who were acting as though they were sick and opening their bills very wide. "what is the matter with those chickens?" she asked. "oh, they have the gapes," answered one of the chickens who lived there, and then he began speaking of something else. it is very sad to have to tell such a thing, but the truth is that the three white plymouth rock chickens did not return to their home until nearly roosting-time. even little sister pecked and squabbled and acted like the rest. they walked up the tongue of a hay wagon that stood in the yard, and scrambled and fluttered until they were on the edge of the rack. "dare you to fly down into the old hen-yard," said one of the chickens who lived on the place. "we used to live in there until a few days ago, and then the farmer turned us out and shut the gate after us." "why did he do that?" asked older brother. "i don't know," was the answer. "nobody knows why farmers do things. i think he did it just to be mean. there were fine angleworms in there, and now we can't get one of them. dare you to fly down there! you can get out somehow." older brother was not brave enough to refuse, so over he flew, and younger brother came after him. the other chickens fluttered along with them and younger brother gave little sister a shove that sent her over the fence when he went. they found a great many angleworms there, and ate and ate and ate, and tried to get the largest ones away from each other; but after a while the farmer's wife saw them and came running to shoo them out with her apron. little sister was really glad when this happened, for she had found no place where she could crawl through the fence. she would have told her brothers about it if she had not feared that they would laugh at her and call her a coward. she did not know that each of them was thinking the same thing and dared not speak of it for the same reason. of course the chickens who lived on that farm all the time did not care so much. naughty chickens, like the three little run-aways, are almost sure to think about their mothers when the sun begins to set and the shadows on the grass grow long. then they begin to think about home, too, and wish that they did not have to be ashamed of themselves. when these brothers and their sister got out of the hen-yard, they started straight for home. at first they ran, and quite fast too, but as they got nearer they began to go more slowly, and once in a while one of them would stop to peck at something or other. you see they were thinking of what the barred plymouth rock hen would be likely to say to them. they thought that they would find her in the old coop where they had lived when first hatched. they ran the fields now, yet always went back there to spend the nights. they were trying so hard to find excuses for themselves that they did not notice the barred plymouth rock hen behind the stone-pile in the lane. she had got the rest of her brood settled in the coop for the night and then started out in search of the wanderers. as soon as they passed the stone-pile, she ducked her head and ran after them as fast as she could, dragging the tips of her wings on the ground and pecking at them hard and fast. you should have seen them run. they fluttered their wings wildly and never thought of making excuses. the one thing they remembered was that if they only reached the coop they could crawl in under their good brothers and sisters and be safe from their mother's bill. little sister got punished as well as her brothers, and that was perfectly right. for she need not have gone with them, even if they did ask her. it may be that her mother did not peck her quite so hard as she did the others, but it was hard enough to make her glad to reach the coop at last. the good chickens were almost asleep when these three dived in under them, and it took some time for them all to get settled again. the barred plymouth rock hen sat down beside the pile of her children and looked very hot and severe, yet she did not scold them then. the rest of the brood were sound asleep when little sister slipped out from under them to cuddle close to her mother. she could not sleep until she had confessed it all, and that shows that she was a good chicken at heart. when she told about their getting into the closed hen-yard, and how they had been driven out of it, the barred plymouth rock hen looked very much startled. "did any of your playmates over there go around with their mouths open?" said she. "oh yes," replied little sister. "a good many of them did, and the rest of us laughed at them." then she drooped her head because she felt ashamed of having been so rude. "i am afraid the punishment i gave you will be only a small part of it," said the barred plymouth rock hen; "but now you must go to sleep, and we will not talk any more of your naughtiness. you did quite right to tell me all about it." the three runaways become ill nobody can tell just how long it was after the chickens ran away, but it was certainly some little time, when older brother began to have trouble about breathing. "there seems to be something stuck in my throat," said he to his mother. "i can't breathe without opening my mouth a good deal." "there is something stuck in my throat too," said younger brother. "and in mine," added little sister. the barred plymouth rock hen looked very sad. "it is just as i expected," said she. at that moment another brother ran up. "what's the matter with these chickens?" he asked his mother. "they've been running around all morning with their mouths open, and it makes them look too silly for anything. i don't want to play with them if they can't keep their bills shut. i wish you'd tell them to stop." "they can't stop," said the barred plymouth rock hen, sadly. "they have the gapes." "what is that?" cried all the four chickens together, while three of them looked badly scared. "that is a kind of illness," answered their mother. "i have been expecting it all along." "what did you let us be sick for then?" asked older brother. "why didn't you tell us to eat more gravel or something? i don't think it is taking very good care of us to let us get sick." "now," said the barred plymouth rock hen, and she spoke very firmly, "you are not to speak again until you can speak properly. on the day you ran away you played with chickens who had the gapes, and you went with them into a closed hen-yard and ate angleworms. that is what gave you the gapes. there were tiny gapeworms in the angleworms, and you swallowed them. now the gapeworms are living in your throats and you cannot get them out. the farmer had shut the poultry out of that yard because he knew that they would become ill if they fed in there. now you are ill and i can't help you." older brother looked scared. "how did she know what we did over there?" he whispered to younger brother. "i don't know," answered younger brother, while he watched his mother to be sure that she did not overhear. "mothers always seem to find out what a chicken is doing, anyhow." little sister began to cry. "i'm afraid we are going to die," she sobbed. "i feel so very, very badly." "shall we die?" asked the sick brothers, and they were so scared that their bills chattered. their teeth would have chattered, you know, if they had had teeth, but none of their family ever do have them. "yes," answered their mother, sadly. "you will die unless something is done to get the gapeworms out of your throat. i cannot help you, for they cannot be taken out by creatures who have only wings and feet. there are times when hands would be handy. the only thing for you to do is to find the man and keep near him until he sees that you are ill and does something to cure you. i will go with you." you can imagine how sad the whole brood felt when they heard the news. the brother who had not wanted to play with them was much ashamed of himself, and kept scratching up fine worms for the sick chickens to eat. he thought that a good way of showing how sorry he felt. "i tell you what," said older brother to younger brother. "if i ever get well again, i'll mind my mother every time, even if i just hate to!" "so will i," said younger brother. "i wish we hadn't coaxed little sister to go along." by this time they had reached the place where the man was working. it seemed a long while before he noticed that three of them were sick. when he did, he put his hat on the back of his head and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. his handkerchief was white. the farmer had always carried red ones, and the gobbler was much pleased when he found that the man did not. "i wonder what is the matter with those chickens," said the man. "they must be sick in some way. i will look it up in one of my books." that was why, soon after this, the man came from the house with a small book and seated himself on the wheel-barrow to read. he would look at the page for a few minutes, then put his finger on a certain part of it and watch the sick chickens. at last he arose and put the book in his pocket. then he got a box and a piece of burlap. he also had a pan with some white powder in it. he set these down close together and threw grain to the chickens. when they came to pick it up he caught the sick ones and put them into the box. "oh! oh!" they cried. "mother! mother! the man has caught us! the man has caught us!" "keep still! keep still!" clucked the barred plymouth rock hen. "the man has to catch you before he can cure you." she spoke as though she was not in the least frightened, but the truth is that she was very badly scared. she could not stand still, and kept walking to and fro, clucking as fast as she could. she had never seen anybody use a box and powder for chickens that had the gapes. the farmer had always made loops of horse-hair and put them down the chickens' throats to catch and draw out the tiny worms. that was bad enough, and always hurt the chickens, but she had never told them beforehand that it would hurt. you can see that she was a very brave hen, for she made her children stand the hard times that would make them better, and a hen needs to be very brave for that. now the man covered the open top of the box with burlap and began to sift the white powder through it. "ow!" said older brother, coughing as though he would never stop. "ow! ow! i can't breathe! i am stifling!" "ow!" said younger brother. "ow! ow! i can't stop coughing!" "ow!" said little sister. "ow! ow! isn't this dreadful!" the three chicks staggered around in the box, coughing just as hard as they could. the dust which came down through the burlap seemed to bite and sting their throats, and very soon they were coughing so hard that they could not speak at all. the man was coughing too, but he did not stop for that. the chickens who were well could not understand what the man was doing to the sick ones, and it was a very sad time for the whole family. at last the man uncovered the box and lifted the chickens out. they could not stop coughing all at once, yet they managed to get over to where their mother was. then she spread her wings and tried to cover them, as she had done when they were first hatched. she could not do it, because they were so big; still, it comforted them to have her try, and after a while they were able to speak. "why," said older brother. "i must have coughed up some of the gapeworms! i can breathe with my mouth shut." "so can i," said younger brother. "so can i," said little sister. "then come down to the meadow for the rest of the day," said their mother. "we can find good feeding there." "we will come," answered the three, and they were hardly away from their mother's side during the rest of that day. once they got near the fence that separated the meadow from the road, and a couple of chickens from the other farm called to them to come across. "uh-uh!" they answered. "our mother doesn't want us to." they did not even ask their mother what she thought about their going, and there was no reason why they should, for they knew perfectly well that they ought not to go. when they had walked so far away that they were sure of not being overheard, they looked each other in the eye and said solemnly, "you don't catch us going where our mother thinks we should not!" the young cock and the eagle this is a sad story. it is not pleasant to tell sad stories, but if they were not told once in a while, people would never know what really happens in the world. and surely you would not wish to miss hearing of what was really the most exciting happening of all, during that first summer after the man bought the farm. you remember having heard something about the young cock. before the coming of the white plymouth rocks, there had been only three cocks on the farm. the shanghai cock was the oldest, and a very grumpy fowl, but quite sensible in spite of that. the white cock was somewhat younger than the shanghai, and was not a very strong fellow. he was always unhappy about something, and it was said that he did not eat enough gravel. if that was true, he should not have expected to be well, since his stomach would then have no way of grinding up his food and getting the strength out of it. the young cock was a strong and exceedingly conceited fellow. you probably know what conceited people are. they are the people who think themselves very clever, but who are not really so. this last one was always called the young cock, because the other two were so much older than he, although by this time he was old enough to be over such foolishness as bragging and picking quarrels with others. he had feathers of many colors in his coat, and thought that one of his great-great-great-grandfathers had been a game cock. game cocks, you know, are often very beautiful to look at, and are great fighters. he was not really sure about any of his family except his mother, who had died the year before, and was a very common-looking hen of no particular breed. however, he had thought and talked so much about game cocks that he had come really to believe in this great-great-great-grandfather. it is good to have fine grandparents, and it is good to remember them and try to be the right sort of grandchildren for their sakes, but having fine grandparents does not always make people themselves equally fine, and it is not wise to talk too much about what they have been. it is better to pay more attention to being what one should. all summer the young cock had been growing more and more annoying in his ways. he made fun of everybody whom he did not like, and sometimes even of those whom he did. he crowed and strutted and strutted and crowed. he called the barred plymouth rock hen "an old fogy," and the brown hen "an old fuss." the barred plymouth rock hen was not an old fogy, but a middle-aged and very sensible fowl, and although the brown hen was quite fussy, she was older than the young cock, and he should not have spoken of her in that way. he did not always go to roost quite as soon as the other fowls and, if he found one of them in the place which he wanted, he often pushed and shoved until he had the place and the other fowl landed on the floor. "get off of there," the young cock would say. "i want that place. move along or get off!" when he was really very young, the older fowls had hoped that he would outgrow his rude and quarrelsome ways, so they stood it much longer than they should. now he was older and there was not a single excuse to be found for him. he might better have been punished for it when young, because then he would have been well-behaved when grown up. one morning he fluttered down from his perch in a very bad temper. some of the pullets, or young hens, had been making fun of him the night before and comparing him with the white plymouth rock cock. they meant only to tease him, but it had made him cross, and he awakened even more cross after his night's sleep. he decided to show those pullets that he was not to be laughed at. he was thinking of this when he stalked out into the yard. some of the white plymouth rock chickens ran along on the other side of the wire fence, peeping prettily and wanting to talk with him. "go back to your mother," he said. "what business have you to be tagging me around like this? i don't want to talk to you. chickens should not speak until they are spoken to. run!" of course they ran. you would if you were a chicken and a cock should speak to you in that way. they ran to their mother, and it took her a long time to comfort them. next the young cock stepped directly across the path of the shanghai cock, stopping him in his morning walk. the hens who saw it done expected the shanghai cock to fight him on the spot, but they saw nothing of the sort. the shanghai cock did not think it worth while. the saucy pullets were eating in a corner of the yard and chattering over their corn. "wouldn't it be fun to see the young cock get punished by the shanghai?" one of them said. "why don't you like him?" asked another. "i do like him," answered the first. "i like him very much, but he is conceited and brags so that i wish somebody would teach him a lesson." "look!" cried another. "he is picking a quarrel with the white cock." they looked and saw him standing in front of the white cock with his head lowered, staring steadily at him. the white cock looked as though he did not care to fight, but being no coward, he would not turn his tail toward the other and run away. he simply stood where he was, and whenever the young cock lowered his head the white cock lowered his. whenever the young cock gave a little upward jerk to his head, the white cock did the same. at first he was only trying to protect himself and be ready for a blow if the young cock should begin to fight in earnest. pretty soon he began to think that he would beat him if he could. he thought it might be a good time to teach him something. after that both fought as hard as they could, staring, ducking, bobbing, fluttering, pecking, and striking with their bills and the sharp spurs that grew on their legs. it ended by the white cock staggering and running away from the blows, while the other stood proudly where he was and crowed and crowed and crowed. the young cock did not beat because he understood the movements to be made any better than the other. he beat only because he was younger and stronger. he did not look toward the pullets, feeling quite sure that they were looking toward him and admiring him. he flew onto the top rail of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "i have beaten him! i have beaten him!" the shanghai cock looked at him with great displeasure. "something will happen to that young fellow some day," said he, "and after that he will not crow so much." the pullets heard him say this and were scared. they did not wish anything dreadful to happen to him. one of them wanted to tell the young cock what they had overheard, but the others would not let her. it was not long after this, in fact it was before the hens had come out of the large open gate of their yard, that the young cock picked up and ate a grain of corn which the shanghai cock had already bent over to eat. the older cock did not like this, and he said so very plainly. the young cock lowered his head and looked the shanghai cock squarely in the eye. "if you don't like my way of eating," he said in his rudest tone, "you can try to punish me." "i will try it with pleasure," replied the shanghai cock, and they stared and ducked and hopped and fluttered and jumped and struck at each other with feet and bill, until the young cock had really beaten the shanghai. it should have been the other way, yet it was not, for the shanghai was growing old and fat, and could not get around so quickly as the young cock. of course the pullets were glad, but nobody else was. "there will be no getting along with him at all after this," the hens said. "if he had been well beaten for once, he might have learned manners." they paid no attention to the cocks who were beaten, for that would not be thought polite among fowls. instead, they walked about as usual, pretending that they had not noticed what was going on, and twisting their necks, lifting their feet, and dusting themselves in the most matter-of-fact way. the young cock flew onto the fence again. "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "cock-a-doodle-doo! i can beat them all! i can beat them all!" he strutted back and forth there for a time, and then flew to the top of the old carriage-house. here he strutted and crowed and crowed and strutted, while the fowls in the pasture below looked at him and wondered how he dared go so high. suddenly the shanghai cock, who had been quietly trying to arrange his feathers after the fight, saw a large, dark bird swooping down from the sky and gave a queer warning cry. "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he said. "run! run!" [illustration: a large dark bird swooping down. _page _] the white cock spoke at almost the same time. "er-ru-u-u-u-u! run! run!" then all the hens and pullets put down their heads and ran as fast as they could for the poultry-house, which was near. the shanghai cock and the white cock waited to let them pass, and then followed in after them. it is a law among fowls that the cocks must protect the hens from all danger. because these two had to wait so long for the hens and pullets to get inside, they were still where they could see quite plainly when the bird, a large eagle, swooped down to the roof of the carriage-house and caught the young cock up in his talons. the young cock had not seen him coming until he was almost there. he had been too much interested in watching the fowls on the ground below. when he saw the eagle it was too late to get away. as the eagle flew upward once more, all the fowls ran out to watch him. they could see the young cock struggling as the sharp talons of the eagle held him tightly. "poor fellow!" said the pullets. the cocks were wise enough to keep still. the hens murmured something to themselves which nobody else could understand. only the plymouth rock hen said very much about it, and that was because she had children to bring up. one of the young cock's tail-feathers floated down from the sky and fell into their yard. "leave it right there," she said. "leave it there, and every time you look at it, i want you to remember that the cock to whom it belonged might now be having a pleasant time on this farm, if he had not been quarrelsome and bragged." the guinea-fowls come and go it was only a few days after the young cock had been carried away by the eagle, that the man drove back from town with a very queer look upon his face. a small crate in the back end of the light wagon contained three odd-looking fowls. the little girls left their mud pies and ran toward the wagon. when they saw the crate, they ran into the house and called their mother to come out also. "what have you now?" said she, as she stepped onto the side porch. "guinea-fowls," answered the man. "just listen to this letter." he drew it from his pocket and read aloud: "i send you, by express, a guinea-cock and two guinea-hens. they were given to me, and i have no place for keeping them. i remember hearing that they are excellent for scaring away crows, so i send them on in the hope that they may be useful to you. if you do not wish to keep them, do what you choose with them." as he read three small and perfectly bald heads were thrust through the openings of the crate and turned and twisted until their owners had seen everything around. "i don't know anything about guinea-fowls," said the man, "but i will at least keep these long enough to find out. i have seen the crows fly down and annoy the hens several times, and it may be that these are just what we need." he took the crate down and opened it carefully. the three fowls that walked out looked almost exactly alike. all had very smooth and soft coats of black feathers covered with small round white spots. they were shaped quite like turkeys, but were much smaller, with gray-brown legs, and heads which were not feathered at all. the skin of their faces and necks was red, and they had small wattles at the corners of their mouths. bristle-like feathers stood out straight around the upper part of their necks, and below these were soft gray feathers which covered the neck and part of the chest. they walked directly toward the barnyard, where some of the farm fowls were picking up an early dinner. "ca-mac!" said they "ca-mac! ca-mac! we want some too." now the farm fowls were not especially polite, not having come of fine families or been taught good manners when they were chickens, yet they did not at all like to have newcomers speak to them in this way. they noticed it all the more, because when the white plymouth rocks came they had acted so very differently. they stepped a little to one side, giving the guinea-fowls enough room in which to scratch and pick around as they had been doing, but they did not say much to them. the gobbler was strutting back and forth among the smaller fowls. he disliked living with them as much as he had to now, but the hen turkeys would have nothing to say to him because he annoyed their chicks. they went off with their children and left him alone, and, as he wanted company of some sort, he took what he could get. he thought it might be a good plan to make friends with the guinea-fowls. "good-morning," said he. "have you come here to stay?" "we shall stay if we like it," answered the guinea-cock. "we always do what we like best." "humph!" said the shanghai cock to himself. "remarkable fowls! wonder what the man will think about that." "i hope you will like it," said the gobbler, who was so lonely that he really tried hard to be agreeable. "i understand quite how you feel about doing as you like. i always prefer to do what i prefer." "we _do_ it," remarked one of the guinea-hens, as she chased the brown hen away from the spot where she had been feeding, and swallowed a fat worm which the brown hen had just uncovered. "yes," said the other guinea-hen, "i guess we are just as good as anybody else." "is there plenty to eat here?" asked the guinea-cock. "plenty," answered the gobbler. "it is much better than it used to be. there is a new man here, and he takes better care of his fowls than the farmer did. he doesn't carry red handkerchiefs either." "i don't care what kind of handkerchiefs he carries," said the guinea-cock. "what makes you talk about such things?" "you would know what makes me speak of them if you were a gobbler," was the answer. "i cannot bear red things. i cannot even eat my corn comfortably when anything red is around. you see it is quite important. anything which spoils a fellow's fun in eating is important." "nothing would spoil my fun if i had the right sort of food," remarked the guinea-cock. then he turned to the guinea-hens. "come," he said. "we have eaten enough. let us walk around and see the place." all three started off, walking along where-ever they chose, and stopping to feed or to talk about what they saw. anybody could tell by looking at them that they were related to the turkeys, but the gobbler had not cared to remind them of that. he was looking for more company during the time when his own family left him so much alone. he knew that before very long the turkey chicks would be too large to fear him, and that when that time came, their mothers and they would be willing to walk with him. then he would have less to do with the other poultry, and might not want three bad-mannered guinea-fowl cousins tagging along after him. whenever the three met another fowl, they talked about him and said exactly what they thought, and if they passed a hen who had just found a choice bit of food, they chased her away and ate it themselves. sometimes they even chased fowls who were not in their way and who were not eating things that they wanted. it seemed as though they had simply made up their minds to do what they wanted to do, whenever and wherever they wished. they did not make much fuss about it, and if you had seen them when they were doing none of these mean things, you would have thought them very genteel. you would never have suspected that they could act as they did. the gander and the geese passed near the guinea-fowls and the guinea-fowls did not chase them. they were not foolish enough to annoy people so much larger than they. it is true that the hens were larger than they, yet the guinea-fowls could make them run every time. if they had troubled the geese, it might have ended with the guinea-fowls doing the running. and the guinea-fowls were cowards. they would never quarrel with people unless they were sure of beating. "s-s-s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander. "are we to have that sort of people on this farm? if we are, i would rather live somewhere else. i do not see why there should be any disagreeable people anyway." "there should not be," said the geese, who always agreed with everything the gander said, and who really believed as he did about this. "disagreeable people should be sent away, or eaten up, or something." both the gander and the geese thought themselves exceedingly agreeable, and so they were--when everything suited them. at other times they were often quite cross. many people act like this, and seem to think it very sweet of them not to be cross all the time. truly agreeable people, as you very well know, are those who can keep pleasant when things go wrong. "ca-mac!" said the three guinea-fowls together. "there are some of those stupid geese, who are always walking around and eating grass that is too short for anybody else. they eat grass, and grow feathers for farmers' wives to pluck off. when we have gone to the trouble of growing a fine coat of feathers, we keep them as long as we wish, and then they drop out, a few at a time. if anybody wants our feathers, he must follow around after us and pick them up." before night came, the guinea-fowls had met and annoyed nearly all the poultry on the place. they had even made dashes at the smallest chickens and frightened them dreadfully. the man had been too busy to see much of the trouble that they made, but his little girls noticed it, for they had been watching the guinea-fowls and hoping to find some of their beautiful spotted feathers lying around. when the little girls were eating their supper of bread and milk, they told their father about it. "they walk around and look too good for anything," said the brown-haired one, "but whenever they get a chance they chase the hens and the chickens." "yes," said the golden-haired little girl, "i even saw one of them scare the barred plymouth rock hen, the one who ate bread and salt with you." "that is very bad," said the man, gravely. "any fowl that troubles the barred plymouth rock hen must be punished." "what will you do to them?" asked the golden-haired little girl. "i think you will have to shut them up. you couldn't spank them, could you? not even if you wanted to ever so much." "i shall decide to-night how to punish them," said the man, "and then in the morning we will see about it." when he spoke he did not know how much time he would spend in thinking about the guinea-fowls that night. when it was time for them to go to roost, the guinea-fowls fluttered and hopped upward until they reached quite a high branch in the apple-tree by the man's chamber window. then, instead of going to sleep for the night, as one would think they would wish to do, they took short naps and awakened from time to time to visit with each other. it is true that they had seen much that was new during the day, and so had more than usual to talk about, but this was really no excuse, because they had the habit of talking much at night and would have been nearly as noisy if nothing at all had happened. the man was just going to sleep when they awakened from one of their naps and began to chat. "ca-mac! ca-mac!" said one. "i suppose those stupid fowls in the poultry-house are sound asleep, with their heads tucked under their wings. what do you think of the company here?" "good enough," said another. "i don't like any of them very much, but you can't expect geese and ducks to be guinea-fowls. we don't have to talk to them. the gobbler is trying to be agreeable, and when the hen turkeys can think of any thing besides their children we may find them good company." "it is a good thing that there are so many hens here," said the third. "the man throws out their grain and then we can scare them away and eat all we want of it. what fun it is to see hens run when they are frightened!" after this short visit they went to sleep again, and so did the man. but they went to sleep much more quickly than he did, and he was very tired and disliked being disturbed in that way. he had just fallen asleep when one of the guinea-hens awakened again. "ca-mac!" said she to the others. "ca-mac! ca-mac! i have thought of something to say. how do you like the idea of living on this place?" "we like it," answered the guinea-cock and the other guinea-hen. then they went on to tell why they liked it. they said that there were no children of the stone-throwing kind, no dog, and no cat. they had plenty of room for the long walks which they liked to take, and there were many chances to get the food which the man threw out. when they had spoken of all these things the guinea-cock said: "it is decided then that we will stay here instead of running away to another farm. this is a good enough place for any fowl. now let us take another nap." while they were thinking this, the man was thinking something quite different. in the morning while the guinea-fowls were eating grain which had been strewn in one of the yards, the man closed the gate, and, helped by the little girls, drove the three guinea-fowls into a corner and caught them. then he put them into the crate in which they had come, and took them across the road to the farmer who lived there. when this was done there were many happy people left behind on the poultry-farm. the little girls were happy, because they had found four feathers which the guinea-fowls lost in trying to get away from the man. the hens were happy, because they could now be more sure of eating the food which they found. the other poultry were glad to think that they would not have to listen to new-comers saying such dreadful things about them, and perhaps the man, when he came back, was the happiest of all. "i gave them to the farmer over there," he said, "and he will give them to a poor family far away. i have stopped keeping guinea-fowls to scare away the crows. i would rather keep crows to scare away the guinea-fowls, but i think we can get along very comfortably without either." and the poultry thought so too. the geese and the baby the little girls had gone to play with a new friend who lived down the road, and the man was working in the farthest field of the farm. the baby had been laid in the crib for his afternoon nap, and his mother went up-stairs to work at her house-cleaning. she thought that she might possibly finish two closets if the baby did not awaken and call her too soon. she felt sure that she would know when he awakened, because she left the staircase door ajar, and he usually cried a little as soon as he got his eyes open. this time, however, the baby slept only a few minutes and did not cry at all. he had grown a great deal since he came to live on the farm, and was becoming very strong and independent. when he opened his eyes he made no sound, but lay there quietly staring at the ceiling until he heard one of the cocks crowing outside. he had always wanted to catch that tallest cock and hug him--he looked so soft and warm--and now was the time to try it. when his mother was around she sometimes held his dress or one of the shoulder-straps of his little overalls and would not let him catch the cock. he would crawl out of his crib alone and go out very quietly to try it. the baby pulled himself up by the rounds of his crib, and tumbled over its railing onto his mother's bed, which stood beside it. from that he slid to the floor. it took him only two minutes more to get out of the side door and down the steps. it did not take at all long for the steps, because he fell more than half the distance. if he had not been running away, or if there had been anybody around to pity him, he would have cried, but to cry now might spoil all his fun, so he picked himself up without making a sound and started for the shanghai cock. the shanghai cock was on the ground when the baby began toddling toward him. as the baby came nearer he began to walk off. "i don't want to be caught," said he. "it is bad enough to have grown people catch me, but it would be worse to have a baby do so, for he might choke me." "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "baby want oo." then he tried to run, and fell down instead. the barred plymouth rock hen looked at him pityingly. "just the way my chickens used to act when trying to catch a grasshopper," said she. "it is so hard for children to learn that they cannot have everything they want." when the baby tumbled, the shanghai cock stood still, and even picked up a couple of mouthfuls of food. when the baby got up again, the shanghai cock moved on. at last the cock decided to put a stop to this sort of game, in which the baby seemed to be having all the fun, so he flew to the top of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. the baby's mother heard him as she worked busily upstairs. "how loudly that cock does crow!" said she. "i am glad that such noises do not wake the baby. he is having a fine nap to-day." then she unrolled another bundle of pieces and paid no more attention to the crowing. when the baby saw that he could not reach the cock, he thought he would try for some of the other fowls. the gobbler came in sight just then and he started after him. luckily he had no red on, or it might have been the gobbler who did the chasing. "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "tum, pitty chickie! tum to baby." it was the first time the gobbler had ever been been called a "pitty chickie," but that made no difference. he did not want to be petted and he did not want to be caught. baby might open and shut his tiny fat hands as many times as he pleased, beckoning to him. the gobbler would not come. "gobble-gobble-gobble!" said he. "nobody can catch me in daylight, not even with corn; and surely nobody can catch me without it." then he strutted slowly away. the baby followed, but when the gobbler pretended to lose his temper, stood all his feathers on end, spread his fine tail, dragged his wings on the ground, and puffed, the baby turned and ran away as fast as he could. brown bess was no longer in the pasture, and the gate stood open. it was through this gate that the baby ran, not stopping until he came within sight of the river along the lower edge of the pasture. the water looked so bright and beautiful that he thought he would go farther still. perhaps he could even catch some of the ducks and geese that were swimming there. he had seen his sisters wade in the edge of the river one day, while his father was mending a fence near by. he would wade, too. you see baby was only two years old, and did not understand that rivers are very dangerous places for children to visit alone, and worst of all for babies who toddle and tumble along. he did not know that if he should tumble in that beautiful shining water he might never be able to get up again, or that if he should chase one of the ducks too far out, he could not turn around and come back to the shore. these things he was not old enough to know. he did know that when he came into the pasture with his father or mother and went toward the river's edge, he was always told, "no-no!" this he remembered, but that made it seem all the more fun to go there when there was nobody by to say it. the baby stood on a little knoll near the water. "here, pitty chickie!" he said. "tum to baby, pitty chickie!" the ducks paid no attention to him, unless it were to swim farther from shore and keep their heads turned slightly toward him, watching to see what he was about. with the geese, however, it was different. geese do not like anything strange, and if they cannot understand a thing they think that there is certainly something wrong. as there is much which they do not understand, the geese are often greatly excited over very simple and harmless things, hissing loudly at those who are strangers to them. now they could not understand why the baby should stand on the river-bank and talk to them. "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander. "there must be something wrong about this. let us get out of the water to see." he scrambled up onto the bank, with his wife and the other geese following closely behind him. he was a very stately fellow, and looked as though he could win in almost any fight. the geese were stately too, but their legs and neck did not look so strong as his, and they let him go ahead and speak first. the gander marched toward the baby and stood between him and the river. "s-s-s-s-s!" said he. "what are you doing here?" "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "tum to baby." "i cannot understand you," said the gander, severely. "children should speak so that they can be understood. i can always understand my own children." he was very proud of the brood of goslings which he and his wife had hatched. perhaps he was even more fond of them because he had done almost as much for them as she, sitting on the eggs part of the time and standing beside her while she was sitting on them. ganders are excellent fathers. "go way, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "baby goin' in de watty." "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander, and this time his wife hissed also. "go back to the place where you belong. this place is for web-footed people. i have seen your feet uncovered, and you have no webs whatever between your toes. you do not belong here. go away!" the baby did not go away, for he was having a lovely time. the gander did not come any nearer to him or act as though he meant to peck him, so he just laughed and waved his hands. "why don't you go?" asked the geese. "the gander told you to go away, and you should mind the gander. we always mind him, and so should you." still the gander and the geese did not come nearer to him, and still the baby was not afraid. "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander. "we do not want you to swim in our river. your body is not the right shape for swimming with geese and ducks. your neck is not long enough for feeding in the river. you could never get your mouth down to the river-bottom for food without going way under. go away! you will get wet if you go into the water. i feel quite sure that you will, for you have not nicely oiled feathers like ours. you will try to catch our children and will make us much trouble. go away!" just then the baby's mother called from the door of the house. she had come downstairs and found the baby gone. "baby!" said she. "baby! where are you?" baby did not answer, but he turned to look at her. "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander and the geese together. "s-s-s-s-s! s-s-s-s-s!" then they walked straight for him, and the baby started home at last. his mother heard and ran toward him in time to see it all. she understood, too, that if it had not been for the gander and the geese, her baby would have gone into the river. that was why she looked so gratefully at them when she reached him and picked him up in her arms to hug and kiss. [illustration: "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander. _page _] perhaps it was because she had been so frightened that she had to sit right down on a little hillock and rest. the gander and the geese stood around and wondered why she made such a fuss over the baby. "he is nothing remarkable," they said to each other. "he certainly could not swim if he had a chance, and we saw how often he fell down when he tried to run. why does she put her mouth up against his in that way? there is simply no understanding the actions of people who live in houses." there was one sort of action which they could understand very well indeed. the little girls came home just then and their mother had them bring oats from the barn to scatter on the river. then the gander, with his wife and the other geese, gladly went back to the river to feed, for there is nothing which pleases geese better than to eat oats that are floating on the water. the fowls have a joke played on them when the man first bought the farm and came to live there, he could not understand a thing that his poultry said. this made it very hard for him, and was something which he could not learn from his books and papers. you remember how the little girls understood, better than he, what the cocks meant by crowing so joyfully one day. it is often true that children who think much about such things and listen carefully come to know what fowls mean when they talk. the man was really a very clever one, much more clever than the farmer who had lived there before him, and he decided that since he was to spend much of his time among poultry, he would learn to understand what they were saying. he began to listen very carefully and to notice what they did when they made certain sounds. it is quite surprising how much people can learn by using their eyes and ears carefully, and without asking questions, too. that was why, before the summer was over, the man could tell quite correctly, whenever a fowl spoke, whether he was hungry or happy or angry or scared. not only these, but many other things he could tell by carefully listening. he could not understand a hen in exactly the way in which her chickens understand her, but he understood well enough to help him very much in his work. then he tried talking the poultry language. that was much harder, yet he kept on trying, for he was not the sort of man to give up just because the task was hard. he had been a teacher for many years, and he knew how much can be done by studying hard and sticking to it. the man was very full of fun, too, since he had grown so strong and fat on the farm. he dearly loved a joke, and was getting ready to play a very big joke on some of his poultry. anybody who has ever kept hens knows how hard it is to drive them into the poultry-house when they do not wish to go. people often run until they are quite out of breath and red in the face, trying to make even one hen go where she should. sometimes they throw stones, and this is very bad for the hens, for even if they are not hit, they are frightened, and then the eggs which they lay are not so good. sometimes, too, the people who are trying to drive hens lose their temper, and this is one of the very worst things that could happen. the poultry had not paid much attention to the man when he was learning their language. they were usually too busy talking to each other to listen to what he was saying. once the shanghai cock said what he thought of it, however: "just hear him!" he had said. "hear that man trying to crow! he does it about as well as a hen would." you know a hen tries to crow once in a while, and then the cocks all poke fun at her, because she never succeeds well. all this happened before the man had been long on the farm, and before the shanghai cock had learned to like him. the shanghai cock would have been very much surprised if anybody had then told him that he would ever be unable to tell the man's voice from that of one of his best friends. throughout the summer the fowls who had always lived on the farm were allowed to run wherever they wished during the day, and were not driven into the pen at night. there was always some corn scattered in their own yard for them just before roosting-time, and they were glad enough to stroll in and get it. when they finished eating they were sure to find the outer gate closed, and then they went inside the pen to roost. now, however, the days were growing much shorter and the nights cooler, and a skunk had begun prowling around after dark. the man decided that if he wanted to keep his poultry safe, he must have them in the pens quite early and shut all the openings through which a night-hunting animal might enter to catch them. he liked to attend to this before he ate his own supper, and the poultry did not wish to go to roost quite so early. they often talked of it as they ate their supper in the yard. "i think," said the brown hen, "that something should be done to stop the man's driving us into the pen before we are ready to go. it is very annoying." "annoying?" said the white cock, who was a great friend of hers. "i should say it is annoying! i hadn't half eaten my supper last night when i heard him saying, 'shoo! shoo!' and saw him and the little girls getting ready to drive us in." "well, you might better eat a little faster the next time," said the black hen. "i saw you fooling around when you might have been eating, and then you grumbled because you hadn't time to finish your supper." "i would rather fool around a little than to choke on a big mouthful, the way you did," replied the white cock, who did not often begin a quarrel, but was always ready to keep it up. "i was hungry all night," he added. "it is so senseless," said the brown hen. "he might just as well drive us in after we have had time enough for our supper, or even wait until we go in without driving. i have made up my mind not to go to-night until i am ready." "what if they try to drive you?" asked the white cock. "i will run this way and that, and flutter and squawk as hard as i can," replied the brown hen. the black hen laughed in her cackling way. "i will do the same," said she. "it will serve the man right for trying to send us to roost so early. i think he will find it pretty hard work." the white cock would make no promises. he wanted to see the hens run away from the man, but thought he would rather stand quietly in a corner than to flutter around. he was afraid of acting like a hen if he made too much fuss, and no cock wishes to act like a hen. the shanghai cock felt in the same way. "i am too big for running to and fro," said he, "but i will keep out of the pen and watch the fun." he had hardly spoken these words when the man and the little girls came into the yard and closed the gate behind them. the poultry kept on eating, but watched them as they ate. suddenly the brown hen picked up a small boiled potato that she had found among the other food, and ran with it in her bill to the farthest corner of the yard. the black hen ran after her and the other hens after them. the cocks remained behind and watched. the man and the little girls tried to get between the hens and the farthest side of the fence. the hens would not let them for a while, but kept running back and forth there, until the potato had fallen to pieces and been trampled on without any one having a taste. when the man and the little girls finally got behind the hens, the little girls spread out their skirts and flapped them and the man said, "shoo! shoo!" then the hens acted dreadfully frightened, and the cocks began to turn their heads quickly from side to side, quite as though they were looking for a chance to get away. they were really having a great deal of fun. whenever the man thought that he had them all ready to go into the open door of the pen, one of the hens would turn with a frightened squawk and flutter wildly past him again to the back end of the yard, and then the man would have to begin all over. several of the hens dropped loose feathers, and it was very exciting. "well," said the shanghai cock, as the man went back the fifth time for a new start, "i think that man will leave us alone after to-night." "yes," said the white cock, who was standing near him, "i think we are teaching him a lesson." he spoke quite as though he and the other cock were doing it, instead of just standing by and watching the hens. but that is often the way with cocks. after the man had tried once more and failed, he certainly acted as though he was ready to give up the task. he walked to the back end of the yard, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. the little girls stood beside him, and he picked up a feather to show them. it was a wing-feather, and he was showing them how the tiny hooks on each soft barb caught into those on the next and held it firmly. the poultry watched him for a while and then began eating once more. they thought him quite discouraged. the shanghai cock and the white cock were standing far apart when somebody called "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" which is the danger signal. as soon as he heard it, each cock thought that the other had spoken, and opened his bill and said, "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" in the same tone, even before he looked around for a hawk or an eagle. every hen in the yard ducked her head and ran for the door of the pen as fast as her legs would carry her. the cocks let the hens go ahead and crowd through the doorway as well as they could, but they followed closely behind. they were hardly inside when the door of the pen was closed after them and they heard the man fastening it on the outside. "wasn't that a shame!" said the brown hen, who always thought that something was a shame. "we didn't finish our supper after all!" "i know it," said the white cock. "it happened very badly, and all that running had made me hungry." "what was the danger?" asked the shanghai cock. "i had no time to see whether it was an eagle or a hawk coming." "what do you mean?" cried the white cock. "if i had given the alarm which took all my friends from their supper into the pen, i think i would take time to see what the danger was. can't you tell one kind of bird from another?" "i can if i see them," answered the shanghai cock, rather angrily. "i did not see this one. i looked up as soon as you gave the cry, but i saw nothing. i repeated the cry, as cocks always do, but i saw nothing." "now see here," said the white cock, as he lowered his head and looked the shanghai cock squarely in the eyes, "you stop talking in this way! you gave the first warning and you know it. i only repeated the call." "i did not," retorted the shanghai cock, as he lowered his head and ruffled his feathers. "_you_ gave the warning and _i_ repeated it." "he did not," interrupted the brown hen. "i stood right beside him, and i know he did not give the first call." "well," said the barred plymouth rock hen, "i was standing close to the shanghai cock, and _i_ know that _he_ did not give the first call." (her chickens were now so large that they did not need her, and she had begun running with her old friends.) then arose a great chatter and quarrel in the pen. part of the hens thought that the white cock gave the first warning, and part of them thought that the shanghai cock did. everybody was out of patience with somebody else, and all were scolding and finding fault until they really had to stop for breath. it was when they stopped that the speckled hen spoke for the first time. she had never been known to quarrel, and she was good-natured now. "i believe it was the white plymouth rock cock in the other yard," said she. "why didn't we think of that before?" "of course!" said all the fowls together. "it was certainly the white plymouth rock cock in the other yard." then they laughed and spoke pleasantly to each other as they began to settle themselves for the night. "we might as well go to roost now," they said, "even if it is a bit early. all that running and talking was very tiring." but it was not the white plymouth rock cock who had said "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he and his hens had run into their pen at the same time, and had been shut in. only the man and the little girls knew who it really was, and they never told the poultry. the little girls give a party late in the fall, when the man began to talk of shutting the poultry into their own yards for the winter, there came a few mild and lovely days. the little girls had been playing out-of-doors in their jackets, but now they left them in the house and ran around bare-headed, as they had done during the summer. all the poultry were happy over the weather, and several said that, if they thought it would last long enough, they would like to raise late broods of chickens. the fowls had finished moulting, and had fine coats of new feathers to keep them warm through the winter. the young turkeys looked more and more like their mothers, for they were already nearly as large as they ever would be. the goslings and the ducklings had grown finely, and boasted that their legs and feet began to look rougher and more like those of the old geese and ducks. the chickens were all white plymouth rocks this year, and the tiny red combs which showed against the snowy feathers of their heads made them very pretty. even the hens who had cared for them since they were hatched would not have had them any other color, although at first they had wished that their chickens could look more like them. in the barn all was neat and well cared for. the man had made brownie a warm box-stall, so that he need not be tied in a cool and narrow place whenever he stood in the barn, but might turn around and take a few steps in any direction he chose. there was plenty of fine hay in the loft for him, and the place where brown bess and her calf were to stand had also been made more comfortable. there were great bins filled with grain for the poultry, and another full of fine gravel for them to eat with their meals. they had no teeth and could not chew their food, you know, so they had to swallow enough gravel, or grit, for their stomachs to use in grinding it and getting the strength out. in another place was a great pile of dust for winter dust-baths. everything was so well prepared for cold weather that it seemed almost funny to have warm days again. and just at this time the little girls had a birthday. not two birthdays, you understand, but one, for they were twins and were now exactly six years old. they were plump and rosy little girls, and very strong from living so much out-of-doors. each had a new doll for a birthday gift, and the funniest part of it was that the brown-haired little girl had a brown-haired doll and the golden-haired little girl had a golden-haired doll. that made it easy to tell which doll was which, just as the difference in hair made it easy for their parents to tell one twin from the other. when they first awakened they were given birthday kisses instead of birthday spanks, six apiece for the years they had lived, a big one on which to grow, and another big one on which to be good. after the breakfast dishes were washed and put away, their mother made two birthday cakes for the little girls and put six candles on each. with all this done for them, one would certainly expect the little girls to be perfectly happy. but, what do you think? they could not be perfectly, blissfully happy, because they were not to have a party. every year before this, as far back as they could remember, they had been allowed to have a party, and this year they could not have it, because they were living on a farm and there were no other children who could come. it is true that there were two others living quite near, but these two had the measles and could not go to parties. by the time they were over the measles, the birthday would be long past, and so the little girls were disappointed. it was when the brown-haired little girl was telling her doll about the last year's party, and the golden-haired little girl's eyes were filling with tears, that their mother had a bright idea. she would not tell them what it was, but asked them to care for the baby while she went out to talk with the man in the barn. when she came back she told them that they might have a party after all and invite the poultry to come. "i think it will be great fun," said she, "and i am sure they have never been to a birthday party in their lives." how happy the little girls were then! the man had put a very large box just in front of the poultry-yards where the white plymouth rocks were kept, so that, by crowding into the corners, the chickens on one side of the separating fence and the cock and hens on the other could come quite near to the box. inside the big box was another which was to be their table, and a couple of milking stools on which they were to sit. the baby's chair was to be brought when he came. of course it seemed a long time to wait until afternoon, when the party was to come off. if there had not been so much to do, the little girls certainly could not have been patient. it was wonderful how many things their mother could suggest. in the first place, they had to write a few invitations to pin up where the fowls could see them. then they had to go over to the edge of the woods and hunt all along the roadside to find late flowers, bits of brake, and autumn leaves, with which to trim their box and the table. after that they took pans and got grain for their guests from the bins in the barn. these they carried to the big box and placed on the table inside. it was not long afterward that the brown-haired little girl found the black hen and the white cock eating from these pans. "oh, shoo!" she cried, running as fast as she could toward them and flapping her skirts. "shoo! shoo! it isn't time for you to come, and you mustn't eat up the party yet." the other twin feared that, after being frightened away in this fashion, these two fowls would not want to come at the proper time, but she need not have worried. fowls are always glad to come to a good supper, and there is much more danger of their coming too early and staying too late than there is of their not coming at all. after that the pans of grain were carried into the house to wait until the right time. in the afternoon the twins and their dolls came out to the big box which they pretended was their house. the open side of it was toward the poultry-yards, and there was plenty of room between for the fowls who were running free to come in and get their food. the little girls had wanted to put on their sunday dresses, but their mother told them that she did not think it would be really polite to the poultry, who had to wear the very same feathers that they had on every day. so the little girls contented themselves with having their hair done up on top of their heads and bows of yellow tissue paper pinned on the knots. this made them feel very fine indeed, and as though being six years old were almost the same as being grown up. they had some beautiful red tissue paper which they wanted to use, but when they remembered how the gobbler felt about red, they decided to use the yellow instead. and that was both wise and kind. one should always try to make guests happy. the baby was not to come out until supper-time, so the little girls and their dolls played quite alone for a while. there was much to tell and to show the dolls, for it was the first time they had ever been on a farm, and everything must have seemed strange to them. "do you see that tall white plymouth rock cock over there?" said the brown-haired twin to hers. "my father says he is the most vallyoobol fowl on the farm. he cost a lot of money. i asked father if he paid as much as ten cents for him, and he said he paid a great deal more. just think of that! more than ten cents! you must be very polite to him." "i will show you our kindest hen," said the golden-haired twin to her doll. "she is coming this way now. she is the barred plymouth rock hen, and she is a peticullar friend of my father's. she didn't cost so much as some of the others, but she is very good." "and there comes the speckled hen," said the brown-haired twin. "she doesn't lay many eggs, but my father says that she is the best hen on the farm about taking care of lonely or sick chickens. she is very small, but she spreads herself out so she can cover a lot, and then she cuddles them until they are happy again, and can run around with her and eat the worms she scratches up for them." there is no telling how much more the dolls might have learned about their new neighbors, if the baby and the mother of the little girls had not come out just then. the baby was put in his chair in the big box and given a cracker to eat, while the little girls stood outside and called to their company. "come, chick, chick, chick!" they called. "come, chick, chick, chick!" from far and near the hens came running, with lowered heads and hurrying feet, to seize the food which they knew would be given them after that call. the shanghai cock and the white cock followed more slowly, as was their habit. the gander waddled gravely along from the farthest corner of the pasture in which the poultry-house stood, with his wife and the other geese following solemnly behind him. the turkeys, all together once more since the children were so large, came with rather more haste from the roadside, where they had been hunting acorns. and down by the river the ducks and their children could be seen scrambling up onto the bank and shaking themselves. all were glad enough to come to the party as soon as they were sure it was time, but whether they had understood the invitations which had been pinned around for them to read--well, who can tell about that? the man came from the barn to see the fun, and he and the woman set the two birthday cakes from her basket onto the table. after she had done that, she had to pay more attention to the baby, who kept trying to reach them with his fat little hands. the man handed a pan of corn to each of the little girls. "wait until the ducks get here," he said. "they must have their share and there is plenty of time." the brown-haired little girl felt that those who were waiting should be amused in some way, so she began to talk to them. "this is our birthday party," she said, "and we are very glad you didn't have the measles, so you could come. a party is something to eat when you are dressed up and have company. we have some corn for you because you like that best, but if you are good and polite you may have some of our cake, too." by this time the ducks were there, and each little girl began flinging handfuls of corn out to the poultry. some of it was thrown into the yards where the white plymouth rocks were kept, and the rest fell between the yards and the big box. one cannot say very much for the manners of the company, yet it is quite certain that they had a good time. when they had settled down to eating quietly, the man lighted the candles on the birthday cakes and the woman passed a plate of bread and butter sandwiches to the three happy children around the table. the dolls did not seem to be hungry, but they must have enjoyed it very much, for they smiled all the time, even when nobody was speaking to them. the man and the woman sat on a couple of old chicken-coops by the open side of the big box, and said what a fine day it was, and how good everything tasted, and what a very large party it was. the baby laughed a great deal and said "pitty! pitty!" every time a soft breeze made the candle-flames dip and waver. the most exciting time came when the candles burned low and had to be blown out by the little girls, with the baby helping. then the cakes were cut, and the man and the woman and the three children in the box all had a share. the dolls were not forgotten, but even after they had been fed there was much remaining. the barred plymouth rock hen stepped daintily up to the box and stood with her left foot lifted. "my friend, the hen, is hinting that we should pass the cake to the other guests," said the man, "and i think we should." the little girls helped to cut it into small pieces, and then the whole family, baby, and all, stood in the sunshine and threw the fragments to the eager poultry, while the dolls looked on. the barred plymouth rock hen walked inside the box and picked up the many crumbs around the table, while the other fowls fluttered and ran for the pieces outside. the black hen always picked for the largest, and the rest chased her. their manners were certainly bad, but it was the first birthday party they had ever attended, and perhaps it is not strange that they were excited and greedy. when the last crumb had been thrown out and not even the black hen could find another scrap, the man and his family turned toward the house. the sun was already low in the sky, and the air grew cooler as night drew near. it reminded the man that winter was coming. "it has been a happy summer," he said, "a busy and happy summer. i am strong again, and the work has gone well. i have a fine lot of fowls, and i am fond and proud of them. i think they deserve a party once in a while." "it was the very nicest party we ever had," said the little girls. "we ought to invite the poultry every time." the barred plymouth rock hen murmured softly as she walked along behind them. "she thinks so too," said the man. breakdown by herbert d. kastle illustrated by cowles [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine june . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] how are you going to keep them down on the farm--after they've seen the truth? he didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past dugan's farm, but he refused. he point-blank refused to admit he was sick _that_ way--in the head! of course, a man could grow forgetful. he had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. and sometimes--like right now, lying in bed beside edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows--he began sweating with fear. a horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing. the chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. there were chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. but it just didn't seem right, all that land going to waste.... _davie. blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school._ he turned and shook edna. "what happened to davie?" she cleared her throat, mumbled, "huh? what happened to who?" "i said, what...." but then it slipped away. davie? no, that was part of a dream he'd had last week. he and edna had no children. he felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. "like hotcakes for breakfast?" "eggs," he said. "bacon." and then, seeing her face change, he remembered. "course," he muttered. "can't have bacon. rationed." she was fully awake now. "if you'd only go see dr. hamming, harry. just for a checkup. or let me call him so he could--" "you stop that! you stop that right now, and for good! i don't want to hear no more about doctors. i get laid up, i'll call one. and it won't be that hamming who i ain't never seen in my life! it'll be timkins, who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and...." she began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. they had no son, never had a son. and timkins--he'd died and they'd gone to his funeral. or so edna said. he himself just couldn't remember it. he went to the bed and sat down beside her. "sorry. that was just a dream i had. i'm still half asleep this morning. couldn't fall off last night, not till real late. guess i'm a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. i never meant we had a son." he waited then, hoping she'd say they _had_ had a son, and he'd died or gone away. but of course she didn't. * * * * * he went to the bathroom and washed. by the time he came to the kitchen, edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. he sat down and ate. part way through the meal, he paused. "got an awful craving for meat," he said. "goddam those rations! man can't even butcher his own stock for his own table!" "we're having meat for lunch," she said placatingly. "nice cut of multi-pro." "multi-pro," he scoffed. "god knows what's in it. like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. can't hardly taste any meat there." "well, we got no choice. country's on emergency rations. the current crisis, you know." the way she said it irritated him. like it was scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to hell. he finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn. he milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. he stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. "why, this ain't the way i had my barn...." he heard his own voice, and stopped. he fought the flash of senseless panic. of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it _was_ his barn! he rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, "get down to the patch. them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang." he walked outside and took a deep breath. air was different, wasn't it? sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. maybe sharper. or was sharp the word? maybe.... he went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen--he'd had twelve pigs, hadn't he? now he had four--behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. he got to work. sometime later, edna called to him. "delivery last night, harry. i took some. pick up rest?" "yes," he shouted. she disappeared. he walked slowly back to the house. as he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. _the car._ he hadn't seen the old chevvy in ... how long? it'd be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers. no. it was against the travel regulations. he couldn't go further than walt and gloria shanks' place. they couldn't go further than his. and the gas rationing. besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed. * * * * * he whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house! no, he'd torn it down. the tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. he was leaving it there until he had use for it. he went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? edna was worried. the shanks had noticed it too. he was at the supply bin--like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. you wrote down what you needed, and they left it--or whatever they allowed you--with a bill. you paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. and almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn. it came out just about even. he hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar edna had ordered, some dried fruit, a new homekit medicine shelf. he carried it into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. a television program guide. edna hustled over excitedly. "anything good on this week, harry?" he looked down the listings, and frowned. "all old movies. still only one channel. still only from nine to eleven at night." he gave it to her, turned away; then stopped and waited. he'd said the same thing last week. and she had said the films were all new to her. she said it now. "why harry, i've never seen this movie with clark gable. nor the comedy with red skeleton. nor the other five neither." "i'm gonna lie down," he said flatly. he turned and stepped forward, and found himself facing the stove. not the door to the hall; the stove. "but the door...." he began. he cut himself short. he turned and saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. he went there and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right) and into the bedroom and lay down. the bedroom was wrong. the bed was wrong. the windows were wrong. the world was wrong! lord, the whole damned world was wrong! * * * * * edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. then he went back to the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the pastures. then he checked to see that edna had fed the chickens right. they had only a dozen or so now. when had he sold the rest? and when had he sold his other livestock? or had they died somehow? a rough winter? disease? he stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a face that had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long and lean. he blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned and went to the house. edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according to regulations--one sinkful of dishwater a day. and one tub of bath water twice a week. she was looking at him. he realized his anger and confusion must be showing. he managed a smile. "you remember how much we got for our livestock, edna?" "same as everyone else," she said. "government agents paid flat rates." he remembered then, or thought he did. the headache was back. he went upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them, and all confused and all frightening. he was glad to get up. and he was glad to hear walt and gloria talking to edna downstairs. he washed his face, combed his hair and went down. walt and gloria were sitting on the sofa, edna in the blue armchair. walt was saying he'd gotten the new tv picture tube he'd ordered. "found it in the supply bin this morning. spent the whole day installing it according to the book of directions." harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked about tv and gardens and livestock. then harry said, "how's penny?" "fine," gloria answered. "i'm starting her on the kindergarten book next week." "she's five already?" harry asked. "almost six," walt said. "emergency education regulations state that the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on kindergarten book." "and frances?" harry asked. "your oldest? she must be starting high...." he stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because he couldn't remember frances clearly. "just a joke," he said, laughing and rising. "let's eat. i'm starved." * * * * * they ate in the kitchen. they talked--or rather edna, gloria and walt did. harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. walt and gloria went home at ten-fifteen. they said goodbye at the door and harry walked away. he heard gloria whispering something about doctor hamming. he was sitting in the living room when edna came in. she was crying. "harry, please see the doctor." he got up. "i'm going out. i might even sleep out!" "but why, harry, why?" he couldn't stand to see her crying. he went to her, kissed her wet cheek, spoke more softly. "it'll do me good, like when i was a kid." "if you say so, harry." he left quickly. he went outside and across the yard to the road. he looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. it was a bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. the road was empty. it was always empty, except when walt and gloria walked over from their place a mile or so south. but once it hadn't been empty. once there'd been cars, people.... he had to do something. just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't help him. he had to go somewhere, see someone. he went to the barn and looked for his saddle. there was no saddle. but he'd had one hanging right behind the door. or had he? he threw a blanket over plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of wash line. he used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find that either, and didn't bother making a bit. he mounted, and plum moved out of the barn and onto the road. he headed north, toward town. then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. he'd be reported. breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. he didn't know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. he cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. his headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. his entire head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against plum's mane. the mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved forward. he lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to leave his headache and confusion behind. he didn't know how long it was, but plum was moving cautiously now. he raised his head. they were approaching a fence. he noticed a gate off to the right, and pulled the rope so plum went that way. they reached the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. "phineas grotton farm." he looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his head, and nodded. he'd started north, and plum had continued north. he'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the franklins. now he was leaving the franklin farm. north of the franklins were the bessers. who was this phineas grotton? had he bought out lon besser? but anything like that would've gotten around. was he forgetting again? * * * * * well, no matter. mr. grotton would have to excuse his trespass. he opened the gate, led plum through it, closed the gate. he mounted and rode forward, still north, toward the small pangborn place and after the pangborns the biggest farm in the county--old wallace elverton's place. the fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. seemed as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get along without crops for years more. he looked around. somehow, the country bothered him. he wasn't sure why, but ... everything was wrong. his head weighed an agonized ton. he put it down again. plum went sedately forward. after a while she stopped. harry looked up. another fence. and what a fence! about ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by three feet of barbed-wire--five separate strands. what in the world had sam pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this? he looked around. the gate should be further west. he rode that way. he found no gate. he turned back, heading east. no gate. nothing but fence. and wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? he looked back. yes, there _was_ a slight inward curve. he dismounted and tied plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured the best way to get to the other side. the best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they used to say back when he was a kid. it took some doing. he tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. the earth changed beneath his feet. he stooped and touched it. sand. hard-packed sand. he'd never seen the like of it in this county. he walked on. a sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. he listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure he was heading in the right direction. and the sand ended. his shoes plunked over flooring. flooring! he knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. he rose, and glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. then he laughed. it was a sick laugh, so he stopped it. he took another step. his shoes sounded against the wood. he walked. more wood. wood that went on, as the sand had. and the roaring sound growing louder. and the air changing, smelling like air never had before in cultwait county. * * * * * his entire body trembled. his mind trembled too. he walked, and came to a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat. he looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under the night sky. crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the moon. pounding water, filling the air with spray. he put out his hands and grasped the railing. it was wet. he raised damp fingers to his mouth. salt. he stepped back, back, and turned and ran. he ran wildly, blindly, until he could run no more. then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him, and shut his eyes and mind to everything. much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. he came down on the other side and looked around and saw plum. he walked to her, mounted her, sat still. the thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing him again. it was getting light. his head was splitting. davie. his son davie. fourteen years old. going to high school in town.... _town!_ he should've gone there in the first place! he would ride east, to the road, then head south, back toward home. that would bring him right down main street. regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find out what was happening. he kicked plum's sides. the mare began to move. he kept kicking until she broke into a brisk canter. he held on with hands and legs. why hadn't he seen the pangborns and elvertons lately--a long time lately? _the ocean. he'd seen the ocean. not a reservoir or lake made by flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. an ocean, where there could be no ocean. the pangborns and elvertons had been where that ocean was now. and after the elvertons had come the dobsons. and after them the new plastics plant. and after that the city of crossville. and after that...._ he was passing his own farm. he hadn't come through town, and yet here he was at his own farm. could he have forgotten where town was? could it be north of his home, not south? could a man get so confused as to forget things he'd known all his life? he reached the shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. then he was beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. he stayed on the road. he went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard. there'd been no colored folks here. there'd been eli bergen and his family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. the colored folks heard plum's hooves and looked up and stared. then a man raised his voice. "mistah, you breakin' regulations! mistah, the police gonnah get you!" * * * * * he rode on. he came to another house, neat and white, with three children playing on a grassy lawn. they saw him and ran inside. a moment later, adult voices yelled after him: "you theah! stop!" "call the sheriff! he's headin' foah piney woods!" there was no place called piney woods in this county. was this how a man's mind went? he came to another house, and another. he passed ten all told, and people shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three or four sounded like easterners. and their houses looked like pictures of new england he'd seen in magazines. he rode on. he never did come to town. he came to a ten-foot fence with a three-foot barbed-wire extension. he got off plum and ripped his clothing climbing. he walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood, and came to a low metal railing. he looked out at the ocean, gleaming in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. he felt the earth sway beneath him. he staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. then he got up and went back to the fence and heard a sound. it was a familiar sound, yet strange too. he shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. then he saw it--a car. _a car!_ * * * * * it was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at all. it stopped beside him and two men got out. young men with lined, tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. "you broke regulations, mr. burr. you'll have to come with us." he nodded. he wanted to. he wanted to be taken care of. he turned toward plum. the other officer was walking around the horse. "rode her hard," he said, and he sounded real worried. "shouldn't have done that, mr. burr. we have so very few now...." the officer holding harry's arm said, "pete." the officer examining plum said, "it won't make any difference in a while." harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear. "take the horse back to his farm," the officer holding harry said. he opened the door of the little car and pushed harry inside. he went around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away. harry looked back. pete was leading plum after them; not riding him, walking him. "he sure must like horses," he said. "yes." "am i going to jail?" "no." "where then?" "the doctor's place." they stopped in front of the new house two miles past dugan's farm. except he'd never seen it before. or had he? everyone seemed to know about it--or was everyone only edna and the shanks? he got out of the car. the officer took his arm and led him up the path. harry noticed that the new house was big. when they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen or heard of. there was this long central passageway, and dozens of doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in at least three places that he could see, and at the far end--a good two hundred yards away--a big ramp led upward. and it was all gray plaster walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital, or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. except that he didn't see or hear people. he did hear _something_; a low, rumbling noise. the further they came along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. it seemed to be deep down somewhere. * * * * * they went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless room. a thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there, putting on a white coat. his veiny hands shook. he looked a hundred years old. "where's petey?" he asked. "pete's all right, dad. just leading a horse back to burr's farm." the old man sighed. "i didn't know what form it would take. i expected one or two cases, but i couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence." "no violence, dad." "fine, stan." he looked at harry. "i'm going to give you a little treatment, mr. burr. it'll settle your nerves and make everything...." "what happened to davie?" harry asked, things pushing at his brain again. stan helped him up. "just step this way, mr. burr." he didn't resist. he went through the second door into the room with the big chair. he sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let them lower the metal thing over his head. he felt needles pierce his scalp and the back of his neck. he let them do what they wanted; he would let them kill him if they wanted. all he asked was one answer so as to know whether or not he was insane. "what happened to my son davie?" the old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the insides of a dozen big radios. he turned, his hand on a switch. "please," harry whispered. "just tell me about my son." the doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the switch. "dead," he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. "like so many millions of others. dead, when the bombs fell. dead, as everyone knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. dead. perhaps the whole world is dead--except for us." harry stared at him. * * * * * "i can't take the time to explain it all. i have too much to do. just three of us--myself and my two sons. my wife lost her mind. i should have helped her as i'm helping you." "i don't understand," harry said. "i remember people, and things, and where are they now? dead? people can die, but farms, cities...." "i haven't the time," the doctor repeated, voice rising. "i have to run a world. three of us, to run a world! i built it as best i could, but how large could i make it? the money. the years and years of work. the people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me more money, and the work going on. and those few caught like everyone else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to reach my world. so they died. as i knew they would. as they should have known they would." harry felt the rumbling beneath him. engines? "you survived," the doctor said. "your wife. a few hundred others in the rural areas. one other family in your area. i survived because i lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the catastrophe every minute. i survived because i gave up living to survive." he laughed, high and thin. his son said, "please, dad...." "no! i want to talk to someone _sane_! you and petey and i--we're all insane, you know. three years now, playing god, waiting for some land, any land, to become habitable. and knowing everything, and surrounded by people who are sane only because i made sure they would know nothing." he stepped forward, glaring at harry. "now do you understand? i went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. most were farmers, and even where some weren't i picked the farmers anyway. because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later. i put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. i gave you back your old lives. i couldn't give you big crops because we don't need big crops. we would only exhaust our limited soil with big crops. but i gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, _sanity_! i wiped the insane moments from your minds. i gave you peace and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife...." he choked and stopped. stan ran across the room to the switch. harry watched him, and his brain struggled with an impossible concept. he heard the engines and remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to check south and east; on _all_ sides if that fence continued to curve inward. ocean, and there was no ocean in iowa. and this wasn't iowa. _the explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to save davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife and his two sons...._ * * * * * suddenly, he understood. and understanding brought not peace but the greatest terror he'd ever known. he screamed, "we're on...." but the switch was thrown and there was no more speech. for an hour. then he got out of the chair and said, "sure glad i took my wife's advice and came to see you, doctor hamming. i feel better already, and after only one.... what do you call these treatments?" "diathermy," the little doctor muttered. harry gave him a five-dollar bill. the doctor gave him two singles in change. "that's certainly reasonable enough," harry said. the doctor nodded. "there's a police officer in the hall. he'll drive you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations." harry said, "thanks. think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?" "you will, mr. burr." harry walked to the door. "we're on an ark," the doctor said. harry turned around, smiling. "what?" "a test, mr. burr. you passed it. goodbye." harry went home. he told edna he felt just great! she said she'd been worried when an officer found plum wandering on the road; she thought maybe harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations. "me?" he exclaimed, amazed. "break travel regulations? i'd as soon kill a pig!" [illustration] [illustration: that which had come out of the east on this bright june morning was a ship's lifeboat about eighteen feet long.--page .] jack the hunchback; a story of adventure on the coast of maine. by james otis, _author of "the castaways," "a runaway brig," "search for the silver city," "the treasure finders," "with lafayette at yorktown," "with washington at monmouth," "the treasure of cocos island," "wrecked on spider island," etc., etc._ new york: a. l. burt, publisher copyright, , by bradley & woodruff. _all rights reserved._ contents. chapter page i. adrift ii. at aunt nancy's iii. learning to milk iv. pursued v. an encounter vi. a mental struggle vii. farmer pratt viii. a second warning ix. the alarm x. sickness xi. gardening xii. louis's adventure xiii. the sewing circle xiv. after the storm xv. brother abner xvi. a hurried departure xvii. camp meeting xviii. a disaster xix. jack's proposition xx. bill dean xxi. startling information xxii. the arrival _jack the hunchback._ chapter i. adrift. tom pratt firmly believed he was the most unfortunate boy in maine when, on a certain june morning, his father sent him to the beach for a load of seaweed. tom had never been in love with a farmer's life. he fancied that in any other sphere of action he could succeed, if not better, certainly more easily, than by weeding turnips or hoeing corn on the not very productive farm. but either planting or digging was preferable to loading a huge cart with the provokingly slippery weeds which his father insisted on gathering for compost each summer. therefore, when the patient oxen, after much goading and an unusual amount of noise from their impatient driver, stood knee-deep in the surf contentedly chewing their cuds and enjoying the cool footbath, tom, instead of beginning his work, sat at the forward part of the cart gazing seaward, thinking, perhaps, how pleasant must be a sailor's life while the ocean was calm and smiling as on this particular day. so deeply engrossed was he in idleness that his father's stern command from the hillside a short distance away, "to 'tend to his work an' stop moonin'," passed unheeded, and the same ox-goad he had been using might have been applied to his own body but for the fact that just as farmer pratt came within striking distance a tiny speck on the water attracted his attention. "it looks to me as if that might be a lapstreak boat out there, tommy. can you see anybody in her?" "i reckon that's what it is, father, an' she must be adrift." farmer pratt mounted the cart and scrutinized the approaching object until there could no longer be any question as to what it was, when tom said gleefully,-- "it must be a ship's boat, an' if she hasn't got a crew aboard, we'll make a bigger haul than we could by cartin' seaweed for a week." "yes, them kind cost more'n a dory," the farmer replied dreamily, as he mentally calculated the amount of money for which she might be sold. "i reckon we'll take her into portland an' get a tidy--" "i can see a feller's head!" tom interrupted, "an' it shets off our chance of sellin' her." that the boat had an occupant was evident. a closely shaven crown appeared above the stem as if its owner had but just awakened, and was peering out to see where his voyage was about to end. nearer and nearer the little craft drifted until she was dancing on the shore line of the surf, and the figure in the bow gazed as intently landward as the farmer and his son did seaward. "it's a boy, father, an' he ain't as big as me!" tom cried. "well, that beats anything i ever saw!" this last remark probably referred to the general appearance of the young voyager. he was an odd-looking little fellow, with a head which seemed unusually small because the hair was closely cropped, and a bent, misshapen body several sizes too large for the thin legs which barely raised it above the gunwales. the face was by no means beautiful, but the expression of anxiety and fear caused it to appeal directly to tom's heart, if not to his father's. farmer pratt was not pleased at thus learning that the boat had an occupant. empty, she would have been a source of profit; but although there was apparently no one save the deformed lad aboard, he could make no legal claim upon her. the craft was there, however, and would speedily be overturned unless he waded out into the surf at the risk of a rheumatic attack, to pull her inshore. although decidedly averse to performing any charitable deed, he did this without very much grumbling, and tom was a most willing assistant. that which had come out of the east on this bright june morning was a ship's lifeboat about eighteen feet long, and with the name "atlanta" painted on the gunwales. she was a much more valuable craft than mr. pratt had ever seen ashore on scarborough beach, and yet he failed to calculate her value immediately, because as the bow grated on the sand the misshapen boy, from whose white lips not a word had escaped during all this time, suddenly lifted what at first appeared to be a bundle of cloth. this act in itself would not have caused any surprise, but at the same moment a familiar noise was heard from beneath the coverings. farmer pratt stepped back quickly in genuine alarm and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt as he exclaimed,-- "well, this beats anything i ever seen!" "it's a baby, father!" tom cried, starting forward to take the burden from the crooked little sailor's arms; but the latter retreated as if afraid the child was to be carried away, and the farmer replied testily,-- "of course it's a baby. haven't i heard you cry often enough to know that?" "but how did it come here?" "that's what beats me"; and then, as if suddenly realizing that the apparent mystery might be readily solved, he asked the stranger, "where did you come from, sonny?" "from savannah." "sho! why, that's way down in georgy. you didn't sail them many miles in this 'ere little boat?" "no, sir. we broke adrift from captain littlefield's ship yesterday when she blowed up, an' the baby's awful hungry." "ship blowed up, eh? whereabouts was she?" "out there"; and the boy pointed eastward in an undecided manner, as if not exactly certain where he had come from. "what made her blow up?" tom asked curiously. "i don't know. there was an awful splosion like more'n a hundred bunches of firecrackers, an' the captain put louis an' me in the lifeboat to wait till his wife got some things from the cabin. while all the sailors was runnin' 'round wild like, we got adrift. i hollered an' hollered, but nobody saw us." then he added in a lower tone, "louis cried last night for somethin' to eat, an' he must be pretty hungry now." "well, well, well!" and as the thought of whether he would be paid for the trouble of pulling the boat ashore came into the farmer's mind, he said quickly, "'cordin' to that you don't own this boat?" "she belongs to the ship." "an' seein's how the vessel ain't anywhere near, i reckon i've as much right to this craft as anybody else. where do you count on goin'?" "if we could only get back to new york i'm sure i would be able to find the captain's house." "it's a powerful long ways from here, sonny; but i'll see that you are put in a comfortable place till somethin' can be done. what's your name?" "john w. dudley; but everybody calls me jack, an' this is louis littlefield," the boy replied as he removed the coverings, exposing to view a child about two years old. master tom was delighted with the appearance of the little pink and white stranger, who was dressed in cambric and lace, with a thin gold chain around his neck, and would have shaken hands with him then and there if jack had not stepped quickly back as he said,-- "he's afraid of folks he don't know, an' if you get him to cryin' i'll have a worse time than last night. what he wants is somethin' to eat." "take 'em right up to the house, tommy, an' tell mother to give them breakfast. when i get the boat hauled around (for i've got every reason to consider her mine), i'll carry both out to thornton's." jack clambered from the craft, disdaining tom's assistance, and, taking the child in his arms, much as a small cat might carry a very large kitten, stood waiting for his guide to lead the way. farmer pratt's son was in no especial hurry to reach home, for while escorting the strangers he certainly could not be expected to shovel seaweed, and jack said as tom walked leisurely over the hot sand,-- "if you don't go faster, the baby'll begin to cry, for he's pretty near starved." "why not let him walk? he's big enough; his legs are twice as large as mrs. libby's baby, an' he went alone a good while ago." "i'd rather carry him," jack replied; and then he refused to enter into any conversation until they were at the foot of the narrow, shady lane leading to the house, when he asked, "who's mr. thornton?" "he keeps the poor farm, an' father's goin' to take you out there." "what for? we want to go to new york." "well, you see i don't reckon you'll get as far as that without a slat of money, an' father wants to put you fellers where you'll be took care of for a while." jack stopped suddenly, allowed the baby to slip from his arms under the shade of an apple-tree whose blossoms filled the air with perfume, as he said angrily,-- "louis sha'n't be taken to the poorhouse! i'll walk my feet off before anybody but his mother shall get him." "you couldn't go as far as new york, an' if he's so hungry you'd better let him have some bread an' milk." "how long before your father'll be back?" "it'll take him a couple of hours to carry the boat down to the neck, an' that's the only place where she can lie without gettin' stove." "then we'll go into your house long enough to feed the baby, an' i'll leave before he comes." "all right," and tom took up the line of march once more. "i don't know as i blame you, for thornton's ain't the nicest place that ever was, an' i'd rather haul seaweed for a month than stay there one night." jack looked wistfully at the little farmhouse with its beds of old maid's pinks and bachelor's buttons in front of the muslin-curtained windows, thinking, perhaps, that shelter should be given him there rather than among the town's paupers; but he made no remark, and a few moments later they were standing in the cool kitchen while tom explained to his mother under what circumstances he had made the acquaintance of the strangers. mrs. pratt was quite as economical as her husband; but the baby face touched her heart fully as much as did the fact that the boat in which the children had drifted ashore would amply repay any outlay in the way of food and shelter. she accepted the statement made by tom, that the children were to be sent to thornton's, because the town provided such an asylum, and there was no good reason, in her mind at least, why it should not be utilized in a case like this. thus, with the pleasing knowledge that her involuntary guests would remain but a short time and cost her nothing, she set out a plentiful supply of fresh milk and sweet home-made bread, as she said,-- "fill yourselves right full, children, for it will rest you to eat, and after you've had a nice ride, mrs. thornton will give you a chance to sleep." jack looked up quickly as if about to make an angry reply, and then, as little louis went toward the table eagerly, he checked himself, devoting all his attention to the child by waiting until the latter had finished before he partook of as much as a spoonful. then he ate rapidly, and after emptying two bowls of milk, asked,-- "may i put some of the bread in my pocket?'" "certainly, child; but it won't be needed, for there is plenty to eat at thornton's, and most likely in a few days the selectmen will find some way to send word to the baby's relatives." jack put three slices of bread in his pocket before replying, and then, as with an effort he lifted louis in his arms, said,-- "we're not goin' to the poor farm, ma'am. we are bound to get to new york, an' thank you for the bread an' milk." just at that moment mrs. pratt was intent on carrying the dishes from the table to the pantry, therefore she did not see the deformed boy leave the house quickly, tom following close behind. jack heard her call after him to wait until mr. pratt should return; but he shook his head decidedly, and trudged out from the green-carpeted lane to the dusty road, bent only on saving his little charge from the ignominy of the poorhouse. "say, hold on for father!" tom cried. "you can't walk even so far as saco, an' where'll you sleep to-night?" "i'd rather stay in the woods, an' so had louis," jack replied; and then in reply to the child's fretful cries, he added, "don't fuss; i'll find your mother." "but how can you do it if the ship has blowed up?" tom asked, quickening his steps to keep pace with the deformed boy. "perhaps mother'll let you sleep in my bed to-night, an' you won't have to go out to the poor farm." "and then again she mightn't, so i guess we won't risk it." "have you got any money?" "not a cent." tom halted irresolutely for a moment, and then his charitable impulses gained the mastery. "here's half of what i've got, an' i wish it was more." involuntarily jack extended his hand for the gift. four marbles were dropped into it, and then tom turned and ran like a deer as if afraid he might regret his generosity. the dusty road wound its way among the fields like a yellow ribbon on a green cloth, offering no shelter from the burning rays of the sun, and stretching out in a dreary length. the hunchback plodded steadily on with his heavy burden, and as he walked the good people in the neighboring city of portland were reading in their morning papers the following item:-- a singular explosion. the ship "atlanta" anchored inside the breakwater just before midnight, and her master reports a remarkable accident. the "atlanta" loaded at savannah last week with cotton and turpentine, bound for bremen. owing to baffling winds she was eighty miles off wood island yesterday afternoon when an explosion occurred which blew off the main hatch, and was followed by dense volumes of what appeared to be smoke. believing the ship to be on fire, capt. littlefield's first thought was of his wife and child, who were on board. the lifeboat was lowered, and in her were placed the captain's son and the cabin boy, a hunchback. before mrs. littlefield could be gotten over the side, the sailors reported no fire in the hold, and the vapor supposed to be smoke was probably the gases arising from the turpentine stored in porous barrels of red oak. in the excitement no particular attention was paid to the children for some time, since the boat was believed to be firmly secured, and the consternation of the captain can be imagined when it was discovered that the craft had gone adrift. the ship stood off and on several hours without discovering any signs of the missing ones, and was then headed for this harbor. as a matter of course the captain will be obliged to proceed on his voyage without delay; but mrs. littlefield is to remain in town several days hoping to receive some news of her child, and it is believed that the revenue cutter "cushing" will cruise along the shore until the boat is found. it is understood that a liberal reward will be offered for any information which may be given regarding the whereabouts of the children, and until that has been done the editors of this paper will thankfully receive tidings of the missing ones in case they have been seen or sighted. it is particularly desirable that masters of vessels should keep a sharp lookout for a drifting boat. chapter ii. at aunt nancy's. jack toiled manfully on, running until his breath came in such short gasps that he was forced to walk slowly, and then pressing forward once more as if expecting farmer pratt was in full pursuit, urged to rapid travelling by the fear that little louis would be taken to the poor farm. up the long, steep hill, past the railroad station, until three roads stretched out before him: one straight ahead, another to the right, and the third to the left. he believed there was no time for hesitation. the one leading toward the south was the most inviting because of the trees scattered here and there along its edges, and into this he turned, going directly away from the city where louis's mother awaited tidings of her darling. the child grew fretful because of the heat and the dust, and the little hunchback heeded not his own fatigue in the effort to quiet him. on he went, literally staggering under his heavy burden, until the yellow road seemed to mellow into a mist which danced and fell, and rose and danced again before his eyes until further progress was wellnigh impossible. they had arrived at a tiny stream, the banks of which were fringed with alders, and overhead a wooden bridge afforded a most pleasing shelter from the sun's burning rays. wiping the perspiration from his face, jack looked back. no one was in sight. if farmer pratt had come in pursuit he might have mistaken the road, or turned homeward again some time previous, believing the boat not of sufficient value to warrant the journey which, if successful, would only end at the poorhouse. "here's where we're goin' to stop, louis," jack said, lowering the child to the ground. "it'll be cool among these bushes, and if we turn into the fields a bit no one can see us from the road." then jack took off his shoes and stockings, holding them on one arm as he raised the child with the other, and, wading through the shallow water, made his way among the bushes a distance of forty or fifty feet to where the leafy screen would prevent passing travellers from seeing them. "i tell you what, the water feels good around a fellow's feet. i'm goin' to give you the same kind of a dose, an' then you'll be ready to go to sleep." louis, sitting on the grass at the edge of the stream, offered no objection to the plan, and jack soon made him ready for the partial bath. as the child's feet touched the water he laughed with glee, and jack's fatigue was forgotten in his delight at having been able to afford this pleasure. after a few moments of such sport the misshapen guardian wiped the pink feet carefully with his handkerchief, replaced the shoes and stockings, took from his pocket the bread which was crumbled into many fragments, moistened them in the brook, and fed his charge until the latter's eyes closed in slumber. not before he had arranged a screen of leaves in such a manner that the sun would be prevented from looking in upon the sleeping child did jack think of himself and then he too indulged in the much-needed rest. the hours passed until the sun began to sink in the west. the birds came out from among the leaves and peeped down curiously at the sleeping children, while a colony of frogs leaped upon a moss-covered log, croaking in chorus their surprise at these unfamiliar visitors. one venerable fellow seemed to think this a most fitting opportunity to read his sons a homily on the sin of running away, and after the lengthy lesson was concluded he plunged into the water with a hoarse note of disapprobation, making such a splash that jack leaped to his feet thoroughly awake and decidedly frightened. the hasty departure of the other frogs explained the cause of the disturbance, and he laughed to himself as he said,-- "i reckon my hump frightened them as much as they did me." he made a hurried toilet, bathed louis's face with his wet handkerchief until the little fellow awoke, and then continued what was at the same time a flight and a journey. "we've got to run the risk that somebody else will try to send us to the poor farm," he said when they had trudged along the dusty road until the child became fretful again. "at the next nice-lookin' house we come to i'm goin' to ask the folks if they'll let me do chores enough to pay for our lodging." fully half an hour passed before they were where this plan could be carried into effect, and then jack halted in front of a small white cottage which stood at the head of an arm of the sea, partially hidden by the trees. "here's where we've got to try our luck," the boy said as he surveyed the house intently, and almost as he spoke a tiny woman with tiny ringlets either side her wrinkled face appeared in the doorway, starting back as if in alarm on seeing the newcomers. "goodness me!" she exclaimed as she suddenly observed jack staring intently at her. "why don't you come out of the sun? that child will be burned brown as an injun if you stand there long." jack pressed louis closer to him as he stepped forward a few paces, and asked hesitatingly,-- "please, ma'am, if you'll let us stay here to-night i'll do up all the chores as slick as a pin." the little woman's surprise deepened almost into bewilderment as she glanced first at louis, who had by this time clambered down from his guardian's arms, and then at jack's boots, which were covered thickly with dust. "oh, i'll brush myself before i come in," the boy said quickly, believing her hesitation was caused by the dirt on his garments, "an' we won't be a mite of trouble." the mistress of the cottage took louis by the hand and led him, with jack following close behind, into the wide, cool hall, the floor of which was covered with rugs woven with representations of impossible animals in all the colors of the rainbow. "now tell me where you came from, and why it is necessary to ask for a home?" jack hesitated an instant. the fear that she too might insist on sending louis to the poor farm caused him to question whether he had better tell the whole truth, but another look at the kindly face decided him. he related his story with more detail than he had to farmer pratt, and when he concluded the little woman said in a motherly tone,-- "you poor children! if the ship exploded there's no one for you to go home to, and what _will_ become of such a helpless pair?" "i can't tell i'm sure, ma'am; but i know we ain't helpless"; and jack spoke very decidedly now. "i'm big an' can work, so i'll take care of louis till we find his father." "but if the ship was blown all to pieces?" the little woman continued. "that don't make any difference," jack interrupted. "we're goin' right to his house in new york some time, no matter how far it is." "but it's a terribly long distance, and you children will surely be sun-struck before you get even to boston!" then she added quickly, "here i am forgetting that you must be hungry! come straight away into the kitchen while i see what there is in the cupboard, for aunt nancy curtis never lets any one, much less children, want for food very long in her house." "are you aunt nancy?" jack asked. "i'm aunt to everybody in the neighborhood, which ain't many, and two or three more nephews won't make any difference. set right up to the table, and after you've had a glass of cool milk, a piece of chicken and some cake i baked to put away for the summer boarders, we'll see what can be done." jack was disposed to be just a trifle jealous of louis's evident admiration for this quaint little aunt nancy. he had already taken her by the hand, and, in his baby fashion, was telling some story which no one, probably not even himself, could understand. "you are a dear little boy," the old lady said as she led him into the kitchen; "but neither you nor jack here is any more calculated to walk to new york than i am to go to china this minute." "if you'll let me have a brush i'll get some of this dust off," jack said as he glanced at the well-scoured floor and then at his shoes. "i'm not fit to go anywhere till i look more decent." "here's a whisk-broom. be careful not to break the handle, and don't throw it on the ground when you're done," aunt nancy said as she handed the brush to jack. "there's the pump, and here's a towel and piece of soap, so scrub yourself as much as you please, for boys never can be too clean. i'll comb the baby's hair while you're gone, and then we'll have supper." louis made not the slightest protest when his misshapen little guardian left him alone with aunt nancy. he had evidently decided that she was a woman who could be trusted, and had travelled so much during the day that even a journey to the pump was more than he cared to undertake. jack brushed and scrubbed, and rubbed his face with the towel, after holding his head under the pump, until the skin glowed red, but cleanly. when he entered the kitchen again where the little woman and louis were seated cosily at the table, he was presentable even to aunt nancy, in whose eyes the least particle of dirt was an abomination. he took the vacant chair by louis's side, and was considerably surprised, because it was something so unusual in his experience, to see the little woman clasp her withered hands and invoke a blessing upon "the strangers within her gates," when she had thanked her father for all his bounties. "i went to meetin' once down in savannah," jack said; "but i didn't know folks had 'em right in their houses." aunt nancy looked at him with astonishment, and replied gravely,-- "my child, it is never possible to give too much praise for all we are permitted to enjoy, and one needn't wait until he is in church before speaking to our father." jack did not exactly understand what she meant, but he knew from the expression on the wrinkled face that it was perfectly correct, and at once proceeded to give his undivided attention to the food which had been put upon his plate with a liberal hand. how thoroughly enjoyable was that meal in the roomy old kitchen, through which the summer breezes wafted perfume from the honeysuckles, and the bees sang at the open windows while intent on the honey harvest! when the children's hunger was appeased, it seemed as if half their troubles had suddenly vanished. louis crowed and talked after his own peculiar fashion; jack told stories of life on board the "atlanta," and aunt nancy appeared to enjoy this "visiting" quite as much as did her guests. the housework was to be done, however, and could not be neglected, deeply interested though the little woman was in the yarns jack spun, therefore she said as she began to collect the soiled dishes,-- "now if you will take care of the baby i'll have the kitchen cleaned in a twinkling, and then we'll go out under the big oak-tree where i love to sit when the sun is painting the clouds in the west with red and gold." "louis can take care of himself if we put him on the floor," jack replied, "and i will dry the dishes for you; i've done it lots of times on the 'atlanta.'" the little woman could not refuse this proffered aid, although she looked very much as if she fancied the work would not be done exactly to her satisfaction, and after glancing at jack's hands to make certain they were perfectly clean, she began operations. much to her surprise, the deformed boy was very apt at such tasks, and aunt nancy said as she looked over her spectacles at him while he carefully dried one of her best china cups,-- "well i declare! if you ain't the first boy i ever saw who was fit to live with an old maid like me. you are handier than half the girls i have here when the summer boarders come, and if you could only milk a cow we should get along famously." "it wouldn't take me long to learn," jack said quickly; for he was eager to assist the little lady as much as possible, having decided in his own mind that this would be a very pleasant abiding place for himself and louis until the weather should be cooler, when the tramp to new york could be continued with less discomfort. "if you'd show me how once i'm sure i'd soon find out, and--" "it won't do any harm to try at all events," aunt nancy replied thoughtfully; "but the cow hasn't come home yet, and there's plenty of time." when the dishes were washed and set carefully away in the cupboard, the little woman explaining to her assistant where each particular article of crockery belonged, jack began to sweep the already painfully clean floor. aunt nancy wiped with a damp towel imaginary specks of dirt from the furniture, and louis, as if realizing the importance of winning the affections of his hostess, laid his head on the rag rug and closed his eyes in slumber before the work of putting the kitchen to rights was finished. "dear little baby! i suppose he's all tired out," aunt nancy said as she took him in her arms, leaving to jack the important duty of folding one of her best damask tablecloths, a task which, under other circumstances, she would not have trusted to her most intimate friend. "i'm not very handy with children, but it seems as if i ought to be able to undress this one." "of course you can. all there is to do is unbutton the things an' pull them off." aunt nancy was by no means as awkward at such work as she would have her guest believe. in a few moments she had undressed louis without awakening him, and clothed him for the night in one of her bedgowns, which, as a matter of course, was much too long, but so strongly scented with lavender that jack felt positive the child could not fail to sleep sweetly and soundly. then laying him in the centre of a rest-inviting bed which was covered with the most intricate of patchwork quilts, in a room on the ground-floor that overlooked the lane and the big oak-tree, they left him with a smile on his lips, as if the angels had already begun to weave dream-pictures for him. aunt nancy led the way out through the "fore-room," and, that jack might see the beauties it contained, she opened one of the shutters, allowing the rays of the setting sun to fall upon the pictures of two of the dead and gone curtis family, an impossible naval engagement colored in the most gorgeous style, two vases filled with alum-encrusted grasses, and a huge crockery rooster with unbending feathers of every hue. this last-named ornament particularly attracted jack's attention, and during fully five minutes he stood gazing at it in silent admiration, but without daring to ask if he could take the brilliantly painted bird in his hands. "handsome, isn't it?" aunt nancy asked, turning her head slowly from side to side while she critically viewed the combination of colors much as if she had never seen them before. "its perfectly splendid!" "i'm glad you like it. i think a great deal of him; too much to allow a live rooster on the place crowing around when he can't. it was presented to me in my girlhood days by a young gentleman whom every one thought was destined to be an ornament in the world; but--" aunt nancy paused. her thoughts had gone trooping down the dusty avenues of the past, and after waiting fully a moment jack asked,-- "where is the young gentleman now?" "i don't know," was the reply sandwiched between two sobs, and then aunt nancy became her old self once more. she closed the shutters carefully, waved her apron in the air to frighten away any overbold dust specks, and the two went out on the long, velvety lane that the little woman might admire the glories of the setting sun. chapter iii. learning to milk. a low bench painted green and fastened against the trunk of the old oak, that there might be no possibility of its being overturned, was the place where aunt nancy told jack she spent the pleasant summer evenings. "except where there are caterpillars around," she added, "and then i carry the rocking-chair to the stone doorstep. if you could kill caterpillars, jack, you would be doing the greatest possible favor, for they certainly make my life wretched at times, although i don't know why a person should be afraid of anything god has made." "oh, i can kill 'em," jack replied confidently. "bring on your caterpillars when you want 'em killed, an' i'll fix the job. there ain't any trouble about that." "but i don't want to bring them on," aunt nancy said, hesitatingly. "i never like to touch the little crawling things, and you will have to do that part of the work." "i'll see to it," jack replied, and believing she would be free in the future from the pests which interfered with her twilight pleasures, aunt nancy's face took on an expression of complete satisfaction. "now let's talk about yourself and the baby," she said. "you must not attempt to walk to new york while this hot weather lasts, and it would cost a power of money to go there on the cars." "i know it," jack replied with a sigh, "but so long as there isn't a cent between us, i guess we'll have to foot it." "i've been thinking why you shouldn't stay here a spell. you make yourself so handy about the house that i sha'n't mind the extra trouble with the baby, and there are times while the summer boarders are here when i do need a boy very badly." "that's just what i'd like," and jack spoke emphatically. "if you'll let us stay two or three weeks i'll pay my way in work, an' see that louis don't bother you." "i believe that will be the best way out of it. the summer boarders are to come in two or three weeks. before then i'll write to my brother abner, in binghamton, who'll be sure to know about capt. littlefield, and perhaps he can make some arrangement for your passage." "where's binghamton?" jack asked in perplexity. "why, it's in york state. i ain't certain how near to the big city, but of course it can't be very far away. abner's a master hand at readin', so if he don't happen to know capt. littlefield as a friend, he'd be sure to have heard of him. when he was home here he was acquainted with everybody for fifty miles around. he could tell you who each man married, how many children they had, and kept the run of everything that happened in the neighborhood. i used to say abner minded other people's business better than his own, and that _was_ his fault," she added with a sigh. "but we all of us have our faults, and it's never right to speak about those of another before we have fairly weighed our own. he's the one, though, to find the baby's father, so you needn't have any further trouble regarding it; but wait till we get a letter from him." jack was not as confident as aunt nancy appeared to be that this "brother abner" would know all the people in new york; but he was more than content to remain where he was for a certain length of time in the hope of being able to reach the city in some less laborious way than by walking. then aunt nancy told him about herself, and of the farm which had belonged to her father, but descended to her at his death, because abner was unwilling to spend his time on land so unproductive that the severest labor failed to bring forth a remunerative crop. "it isn't very good, i'll admit," she said reflectively; "but by taking a few summer boarders i've been able to make both ends meet, and that's all an old maid like me ought to expect." "have you always lived alone?" "it's nigh on to twelve years since father died, and, excepting in the summer, i've had neither child nor chick here. an old woman ain't pleasant company at the best, and if abner's daughters don't like to visit their aunt, i can't say i blame them." "well i do!" jack said decidedly. "i think you're the nicest old lady i ever saw, and i'd be willin' to stay here all the time if i could." aunt nancy was not accustomed to flattery; but it must be admitted, from the expression on her wrinkled face, that it was far from unpleasant, and by way of reward she patted jack on the head almost affectionately. "perhaps you won't think so after a while," she said with a smile; and then as jack was about to make protestations, she added, "it's time to go after the cow, and then i'll give you the first lesson in milking." the farm was not so large that it required many moments to reach the pasture, for the old lady had only to walk to the rear of the barn where the crumple-horned cow was standing at the end of a narrow lane awaiting her coming. as the animal stepped carefully over the bars after they had been let down, jack could not help thinking she was just such a cow as one would fancy should belong to aunt nancy. she walked in a dainty manner, acting almost as if trying not to bring any unnecessary amount of dirt into the barnyard, and behaving in every way as one would say her mistress might under similar circumstances. "while i go for the milking pail you pull some clover from under the trees, for she always expects a lunch while being milked," aunt nancy said; and in a few moments jack had gathered such a feast as caused the sedate animal to toss her head in disapprobation at the unusually large amount she was expected to devour after having been cropping pasture grass all day. with a pail which had been scoured until it shone like silver, and a tiny three-legged stool, white as the floor of her kitchen, the little woman returned. then with many a "co, bossy! so, bossy!" as if the quiet-looking animal was expected to give way to the most violent demonstrations of wrath, aunt nancy placed the stool in the most advantageous position, and said, as she seated herself,-- "now watch me a few minutes, and you'll see how easy it is after getting the knack." jack gazed intently at every movement, his eyes opened wide with astonishment as the streams of milk poured into the pail with a peculiar "swish," and before the creamy foam had fully covered the bottom he was quite positive it would be no difficult matter for him to perform the same operation. "i can do it now, if you'll get up." aunt nancy vacated the stool without hesitation, for milking seemed such a simple matter that there was no question in her mind but that it could be learned in one very short lesson, and jack sat down. the cow looked around at this change of attendants, but was too well-bred to express any great amount of surprise, and the hunchback took hold of what appeared like so many fat fingers. fancying that strength alone was necessary, he pulled most vigorously. not a drop of milk came; but he accomplished something, for the animal tossed her head impatiently. jack pulled harder the second time, and then, as aunt nancy screamed loudly, the cow started at full speed for the other side of the yard, facing about there at the boy whom she believed was tormenting her wilfully, while she shook her head in a menacing manner. fortunately the milk-pail was not overturned; but in preventing such a catastrophe, jack rolled from the stool to the ground with no gentle force, terrified quite as much by aunt nancy's screams as by the sudden movement of old crumple-horn. "why, what's the matter?" he asked, as he scrambled to his feet, looking first at his hostess, and then at the frightened animal. "i ought to have known a boy couldn't milk," aunt nancy said impatiently and almost angrily. "it seems as if they have a faculty of hurting dumb beasts." "but i didn't mean to," jack said apologetically. "i worked just as you did, and pulled a good deal harder, but yet the milk wouldn't come." aunt nancy made no reply. taking up the pail and stool she walked across the yard, trying to soothe the cow in the peculiar language she had used when beginning the task; and jack, understanding that he had hurt the feelings of both his hostess and her pet, followed contritely, as he said coaxingly,-- "please let me try it once more. i am certain i can do it if you'll give me another chance." it was not until aunt nancy had led the cow back to the pile of clover, and there stroked her head and ears until she was ready to resume the rudely interrupted feast, that any attention was paid to jack's entreaties. "i'll show you once more," she finally said, "and you must watch to see exactly how i move my fingers. it isn't the pulling that brings the milk, but the pressure of the hand." this time jack paid strict attention, and in a few moments began to fancy he had discovered what aunt nancy called the "knack." but she would not relinquish her seat. "take hold with one hand while i stay here, and be careful not to hurt the poor creature." very tenderly jack made the second attempt, and was so successful as to extract at least a dozen drops from the well-filled udder. this was sufficient, however, to show him what should be done, even though he was at first unable to perform the task, and, thanks to aunt nancy's patience, and the gentleness of the animal, before the milking was brought to a close, he had so far mastered the lesson as to win from his teacher a limited amount of praise. "i don't know as i should expect you to learn at once," she said; "but you are getting along so well that by to-morrow night i wouldn't be surprised if you could do it alone. now i'll go and strain the milk, and you may split me a little kindling wood if you will. somehow i have never been able to use an axe without danger of cutting my feet, and it's almost like tempting providence to take one in my hands." jack did as he was bidden, and although the axe was decidedly rusty and very blunt, to say nothing of its being shaky in the helve, before she finished taking care of the milk he had such a pile of kindlings as would have cost her a week's labor to prepare. "well!" the little woman said as she came from the cool cellar and surveyed the fruits of his industry, "if you can't do anything else on a farm but that, it'll be a wonderful relief to me. an axe is such a dangerous instrument that i always tremble when i touch one." jack looked at the ancient tool (which could hardly have inflicted any injury unless one chanced to drop it on his toes) with a smile, but said nothing, and after aunt nancy had shown him how to fasten the woodshed door with a huge latch that any burglar over four feet tall could have raised, she led the way into the house. the milking pail was to be washed, a solitary moth which had found its way into the kitchen was to be killed lest he should do some damage to the rag carpet, and aunt nancy lighted a candle with a solemn air. "this is the last work of the day," she said, "and perhaps i attach too much importance to it, but i never allow myself to go to bed without making sure there's no one hidden in the house. we'll examine the upper part first, and after that has been done i will show you a chamber which you can have until the summer boarders come. then we must make different arrangements, for the house is so small that i'm terribly put to it for room." jack followed the little woman up the back stairs, and each of the four apartments was subjected to the most rigid scrutiny, the boy holding the candle while aunt nancy not only peered under the beds and behind the bureaus, but even opened the tiniest closets in search of a supposed intruder. "we are safe for another day," she said with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "and after looking through the fore-room once more i'll lock the doors." there was such an air of responsibility about the little woman that jack, not fully understanding what she expected to find, immediately conceived the idea that peaceful though this portion of the country appeared, it must be a very dangerous neighborhood, for his hostess could not have taken more precautions had it been known positively that a band of indians were lurking in the vicinity. nothing more alarming than the moth was found, however, and after the window fastenings had been carefully examined, aunt nancy led the way back to the kitchen, where she once more surprised her guest by taking down the well-worn bible. in a thin, quavering voice she read therefrom a certain number of verses in which she seemed to find the greatest satisfaction, and then replaced the book reverentially on the stand appropriated to its keeping. then, to jack's further surprise, she knelt by the side of the chair and began a simple but heartfelt prayer, while the boy nestled around uneasily, not certain whether it was proper for him to stand up, or follow her example, therefore he remained where he was. when the evening devotions had been brought to a close, he felt decidedly uncomfortable in mind, but did not think it advisable to expose his ignorance by asking the little woman what he should have done. "now we'll go to bed," aunt nancy said as she arose to her feet with such a look of faith on her wrinkled face as reminded the boy of pictures he had seen. without a word he followed her upstairs to a small room directly over the kitchen, which, however contracted it might seem to others, was twice as large as he needed when compared with his quarters on board the "atlanta." then, as if her aim was to astonish and bewilder him on this first evening, aunt nancy kissed him on both cheeks as she said "good night," and left him to his own reflections. chapter iv. pursued. it was a long while before slumber visited jack's eyelids on this first night spent at the farm. to have found such a pleasant resting place after his experience at farmer pratt's, and when the best he had expected was to be allowed to remain until morning, was almost bewildering; at the same time the friendly manner in which the kindly faced old lady treated him made a deep impression on his heart. during fully an hour he speculated as to how it would be possible for him to reach new york with louis, and, not being able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion, he decided that that matter at least could safely be left in aunt nancy's care. then, all anxiety as to the immediate future having been dissipated, he thought of various ways by which he could lighten the little woman's labors. he laid plans for making himself so useful about the farm that she would be repaid for her care of louis, and these ideas were in his mind when he crossed the border of dreamland, where, until nearly daybreak, he tried to milk diminutive cows, or struggled to carry enormous tin pails. despite his disagreeable dreams, the sleep was refreshing, and when the first glow of dawn appeared in the eastern sky he was aroused by the sound of aunt nancy's voice from the foot of the stairs. jack's first waking thought was a continuation of the last on the night previous, and, dressing hurriedly, he ran down to the kitchen to begin the labor which he intended should make him a desirable member of the family. to his great disappointment the fire had been built, louis dressed, and the morning's work well advanced when he entered the room. "why didn't you call me before?" he asked reproachfully. "i meant to have done all this while you were asleep; but i laid awake so long last night that it didn't seem possible for my eyes to open." "i am accustomed to doing these things for myself," aunt nancy replied with a kindly smile, "and don't mind it one bit, especially when the kindlings have been prepared. i got up a little earlier than usual because i was afraid there might be some trouble about dressing the baby; but he's just as good a child as can be, and seems right well contented here." "it would be funny if he wasn't," jack replied as he took louis in his arms for the morning greeting. there was a shade of sorrow in his heart because the child evinced no desire to remain with him, but scrambled out of his arms at the first opportunity to toddle toward aunt nancy, who ceased her work of brushing imaginary dirt from the floor in order to kiss the little fellow as tenderly as a mother could have done. "it seems as if he'd got all through with me," jack said sorrowfully. "i believe he likes you the best now." "don't be jealous, my boy. it's only natural the child should cling to a woman when he can; but that doesn't signify he has lost any affection for you. it is time old crumple-horn was milked, and we'll take louis with us so he won't get into mischief. i'm going to give you another lesson this morning." jack made a vain effort to repress the sigh which would persist in coming to his lips as the baby crowed with delight when the little woman lifted him in her arms, and taking the milking pail, he led the way out through the dewy grass to the barnyard, where the cow stood looking over the rails as if wondering why aunt nancy was so late. jack insisted that he could milk without any further instructions, and, after gathering an armful of the sweet-scented clover, he set boldly to work while aunt nancy and louis watched him from the other side of the fence. this time his efforts were crowned with success, and although he did not finish the task as quickly as the little woman could have done it, by the aid of a few hints from her he had drawn the last drop of milk into the pail before the cow began to show signs of impatience. then aunt nancy and louis returned to the house while jack drove the meek-eyed animal to the pasture, and when this was done he searched the shed for a rake. he succeeded in finding one with not more than half the teeth missing, and began to scrape up the sticks and dried leaves from the lane, a work which was well calculated to yet further win the confidence of the neat little mistress of the farm. when the morning meal was served, jack had so far become accustomed to aunt nancy's ways that he bowed his head without being prompted, while she asked a blessing. after breakfast was concluded the hunchback proceeded to put into execution the plan formed on the night previous. "if you'll tell me what to do i'll go to work as soon as the lane is cleaned, an' that won't take a long while. i s'pose there's plenty to be done." "yes," aunt nancy replied with a sigh, "there's a great deal of work which a woman can't do; but i don't know as a boy like you would be able to get along any better than i." "there won't be any harm in tryin'," jack said manfully. "tell me what it is you want." "well, the pasture fence is broken in several places, and i was thinking of getting daniel chick to come an' fix it; but perhaps you might patch the breaks up so's a cow couldn't get out." "of course i can. it ain't much of a job if you've got nails an' a hammer. i'll tackle it as soon as the lane is finished." aunt nancy explained that the fence to which she referred bordered the road a short distance above the house, and jack was so impatient to begin the labor that, contrary to his usual custom, he took a hurried leave of louis. an hour was sufficient in which to finish the self-imposed task on the lane, and then, with a very shaky hammer and a handful of rusty nails, he set out to repair the fence, leaving louis playing in the kitchen with the gorgeous crockery rooster, while aunt nancy was busily engaged setting the house to rights generally. the scene of jack's first attempt at fence building was fully an eighth of a mile away, and in a clump of alder-bushes which shut off all view of the house. it was by no means a simple task which he found before him. the posts had so far decayed that an expert workman would have considered it necessary to replace them with new timbers; but since this was beyond his skill, he set about mending it after his own fashion. it must not be supposed that jack loved to work better than does any other boy; but he believed it was necessary for him to remain with aunt nancy until such time as he could find an opportunity of continuing the journey in some more rapid manner than by walking, and the desire to make himself useful about the farm was so great that labor ceased to be a hardship. he had been engaged in this rather difficult task fully an hour, paying little or no attention to anything save the work in hand, when the rattle of wheels on the hard road attracted his notice. up to this time no person had passed in either direction, and it was from curiosity rather than any idea the approaching travellers might be connected with his fortunes, that he peered out from among the alder-bushes. immediately he drew back in alarm. he had seen, coming directly toward him in a lumbering old wagon and hardly more than a hundred yards away, farmer pratt and his son tom. "they're huntin' for me!" he said to himself as he crept farther among the bushes to conceal himself from view, and a secure hiding place had hardly been gained when the travellers came to a full stop at the little brook which ran on the opposite side of the road, in order to give their horse some water. as a matter of fact farmer pratt _was_ in search of the two who had left his house so unceremoniously; but now he had no intention of taking them to the poorhouse. quite by accident a copy of a newspaper containing an account of the explosion on board the "atlanta," and the information that mrs. littlefield would remain in portland in the hope of gaining some information regarding her child, had come into his hands, and it did not require much study on his part to understand that in the greed to possess himself of the boat by ridding himself of the children, he had lost the opportunity of earning a valuable reward. there was a stormy time in the pratt household when this fact became known, and even master tom came in for more than his full share of the scolding because the children had been allowed to go away. "it would have been as good as a hundred dollars in my pocket if i could have lugged them youngsters into town," the farmer repeated over and over again as he blamed first his wife and then his son for what was really his own fault. "i thought a boat worth twenty dollars would be a mighty big haul for one mornin', but here was a show of gettin' five times as much jest by holdin' them two over night, an' you had to let 'em slip through your fingers." farmer pratt dwelt upon this unpleasant fact until he finally convinced himself that he would have acted the part of a good samaritan had the opportunity not been denied him, and very early on this same morning he started out for the purpose of earning the reward by finding the castaways. jack, crouching among the bushes where he could distinguish the movements of those whom he considered his enemies, heard the farmer say, while the half-fed horse was quenching his thirst,-- "i reckon we've got a day's work before us, all on account of you an' your mother, for that hunchback couldn't have walked as far with the baby. most likely he found some one who gave him a lift on the road. the chances are he's in biddeford by this time, other folks have heard the whole story." tom made no reply, probably because he feared to say anything which might again call forth a flood of reproach, and his father added,-- "i reckon our best way will be to push right on to town instead of huntin' along the road as we've been doin'. time is gettin' mighty short if we want to catch him before people know what has happened." the farmer was so impatient to arrive at the city that the horse was urged on before his thirst was fully quenched, and as the noise of the wheels told that the briefly interrupted journey had been resumed, jack crept cautiously out from among the bushes to where he could watch the movements of the travellers until they should have passed aunt nancy's farm. as may be supposed, he was thoroughly alarmed. that which he heard convinced him beyond a doubt the farmer was searching for him, and there was no question in his mind but that it was for the sole and only purpose of carrying him and louis to the poor farm. "i s'pose aunt nancy would up an' tell the whole story if they should ask her," he muttered, "an' then i'd have to come out an' go along with 'em, 'cause i wouldn't let that man carry louis off alone." the color came back to his cheeks, however, and the throbbing of his heart was lessened as he saw the wagon wheel past the lane without either of its occupants making any move toward calling at the house. most likely neither aunt nancy nor louis were in the yard, and farmer pratt was so eager to reach the town where he believed the children to be, that, as he had intimated, there was no further stop to be made along the road. but jack's mind was far from being relieved even after the clumsy vehicle had passed out of sight, for he knew the farmer would return, failing to gain any information of those he was so anxious to find, and he might think it worth his while to call at aunt nancy's. jack had now lost all interest in his work, and seated himself near the fence trying to decide whether he would be warranted in leaving the temporary home he had found, to take refuge in flight. this he might have done on the impulse of the moment but for the restraining thought that it would be in the highest degree dangerous to travel in either direction on the road, and to make his way through the fields and woods was a matter of impossibility, since he had no idea of the proper course to be pursued. "i don't s'pose aunt nancy'd lie even to save us from goin' to the poor farm," he said aloud to himself; "but if she would, i'd hide out in the bushes with louis till i was sure that man had got through huntin' after us, 'cause he can't keep this thing up all summer." this was by far the best plan jack could devise for the baby's safety, and yet it seemed hardly possible it would be carried into execution because of the probable unwillingness of aunt nancy to so much as equivocate. after thinking the matter over fully twenty minutes without arriving at any other conclusion which promised the slightest hope of escape from his pursuers, he decided to boldly ask the little woman if she would promise, in case mr. pratt should call upon her, to say that she had seen neither of her guests. "she can't any more'n get mad at it, an' if she won't agree then i'll take the risk of startin' off once more, but it's goin' to be pretty tough on both of us." there was yet considerable work to be done in the way of fence building; but now jack had no idea of continuing the labor. he was so agitated that the shaky hammer lay unheeded on the ground where it had fallen when he first saw the travellers, and the nails were left to gather a yet thicker coat of rust as he made his way up through the line of bushes to approach the house from the rear, not daring to go boldly around by the road. chapter v. an encounter. believing his only enemies were those whom he had seen driving up the road, jack paid no attention to anything in front of him, save when it was absolutely necessary in order to guide his footsteps, but kept his eyes fixed upon the dusty highway. owing to the straggling line of bushes, he was forced to make a wide detour to reach the barn unseen by any travellers, and he had not traversed more than half the required distance when a loud cry from a clump of alders which bordered the duck pond caused him to come to a full stop. "hello, hunchie! what are you doin' here?" jack looked up quickly in alarm, fancying the voice sounded like tom pratt's, and for an instant believed his pursuers had apparently continued their journey only for the purpose of taking him by surprise in the rear. there was no person in sight, however, and during a few seconds he stood motionless, trying to decide whether it would be safest to run directly toward the farmhouse, or attempt to make his escape through the fields. then the question was repeated, and before jack could have fled, had he been so disposed, three boys came out from among the alders, approaching very near as if to prevent flight on the part of the hunchback. "who are you?" one of the strangers asked, "an' where did you come from?" "i'm jack dudley." "where do you live?" "i'm stayin' over to aunt nancy curtis's awhile," jack replied hesitatingly, doubtful if it would be well to give these not over-friendly looking boys all the information they desired. "what are you doin' there?" another of the party asked. "helpin' 'round at whatever she wants done till the summer boarders go away." "oh! so you're the hired man, are you?" the first boy said in a sneering tone. "i ain't so very much of a man; but i reckon i can do her work, an' i mustn't fool 'round here, for i'm pretty busy this mornin'." "you'll stay till we find out what right you've got to run across this field," the boy who had first spoken said decidedly. "we've always done aunt nancy's chores, an' you're makin'a big mistake by takin' our job away." jack looked once more toward the road to make certain farmer pratt and his son were not returning. then he glanced in the direction of the house, hoping aunt nancy might be in sight, for he understood from the tone and attitude of the strangers that they were bent on mischief. not a person could be seen, and he had no other alternative save to remain where he was until such time as the boys should be willing to let him pass. any attempt at flight could have been easily checked, since, owing to his deformity, he was not able to run as fast as others of his age. probably he felt just a trifle frightened; but he stood his ground boldly, determined not to let the strangers see a show of weakness, as he said,-- "i didn't come here to take any feller's job. aunt nancy gave me a chance to stay this summer, an' i jumped at it, 'cause there's no boy needs a home more'n i do jest now." "well, see here, hunchie," the elder of the party replied in a threatening tone, "we don't know how much you need a home, nor we don't care; but there's one thing certain, you ain't goin' to stay 'round here this summer." "us fellers can do all aunt nancy's chores an' a good deal more. the job belongs to us. if you say you'll leave before night, it'll be all right, an' if not, we'll thump the life out of you." [illustration: "does that mean you ain't goin' to leave?" and the boy advanced threateningly with clinched fists, until he stood within a few inches of the deformed lad.--page .] "perhaps that can't be done," jack said calmly, with an assumption of courage which was far from natural. "last summer there was a feller come snoopin' 'round to help on the summer-boarder business, but he soon found it wasn't safe to steal jobs from them as lives here the whole year. we jest about killed him." "why didn't you stuff his skin an' set it up on the road here, so's other fellers would know enough not to stop?" jack asked in a sarcastic tone as he stepped back a few paces toward a thicker clump of bushes, where it would be impossible for the strangers to make an attack from the rear. "you can't be any tougher than you look, an' i guess i'll be able to keep on livin' till summer's over, even if i do stay." "does that mean you ain't goin' to leave?" and the boy advanced threateningly with clinched fists until he stood within a few inches of the deformed lad, who now understood that a fight was inevitable. "it's pretty nigh the size of it," jack replied; and despite all efforts, his voice trembled slightly, for he knew full well it would be impossible to hold his own against three bullies. "but before beginnin' the row i want you to understand one thing: if i don't work for somebody, i've got to live out of doors, for i haven't a cent. i ain't sayin' but the three of you can lick me, of course, but you'll have to do it every day in the week before i'll leave this farm." perhaps the bully was a trifle ashamed for threatening one so much smaller than himself, and deformed, for, instead of immediately striking a blow as at first had seemed to be his purpose, he drew back a few paces to hold a whispered consultation with his companions, after which he said,-- "look here, hunchie, we're willin' to give you a show, but won't allow no fellers 'round takin' away money we could earn as well as not. aunt nancy's always hired us to do her chores when the city folks was here, till she got that feller last year, an' then the old fool said she'd never pay us another cent jest 'cause we didn't jump spry enough to please her. now we're goin' to show that it's got to be us or nobody. we're willin' to wait till to-morrow night if you say you'll go then. there's plenty of jobs up old orchard way, so there ain't any need of your feedin' on wind." "why don't you go there?" "'cause we don't want to. this is where we live, an' anything that's to be done 'round here belongs to us. now cross your throat that you'll leave before to-morrow night, an' we won't say another word." "i'll go an' see what aunt nancy thinks about it," jack replied, not with any intention of obeying these peremptory demands, but in order to escape from what was a very awkward predicament. "you won't do anything of the kind! promise before leavin' this place or we'll thump you!" "then thump away, for i won't go," jack replied determinedly as he backed still farther into the bushes and prepared to defend himself as best he might against such an overwhelming force, although knowing there was no question but that he would receive a severe whipping. "give it to him, bill!" the boys in the rear cried. "you can polish him off with one hand, so there's no need of our chippin' in." bill did not wait for further encouragement. jack's defence was necessarily very slight, and before he was able to strike a blow in his own behalf, bill had him on the ground, pounding him unmercifully, while his companions viewed the scene with evident satisfaction. jack made no outcry: first, because he feared that by bringing aunt nancy on the scene the fact of louis's being at the farm would be made known; and, secondly, he fancied farmer pratt might be near enough to hear his appeals for help. therefore he submitted to the cruel and uncalled-for punishment without a word, although every blow caused severe pain, and when bill had pummelled him for fully five minutes the other boys interrupted by saying,-- "come, let up on him! that's enough for the first, an' if he ain't out of town by to-morrow we'll give him another dose. let's cool him off in the pond." jack struggled in vain against this last indignity. it was a simple matter for the three boys to lift and throw him half a dozen feet from the bank into the muddy water. there was no danger the little fellow would be drowned, for the duck pond was not more than two feet deep, and as his assailants ran hurriedly away he scrambled out, presenting a sorry sight as he stood on the firm ground once more with mud and water dripping from his face and every angle of his garments. jack was as sore in mind as he was in body; but even while making his way toward the house he did not neglect any precautions which might prevent his being seen by farmer pratt. he skirted around through the straggling line of alders until he reached the rear of the barn, and then, coming across crumple-horn's yard, he was confronted by aunt nancy, who had just emerged from the shed. "for mercy's sake!" the little woman screamed, raising her hands in dismay as she surveyed the woe-begone jack, who looked more like a misshapen pillar of mud than a boy. "where _have_ you been, and what _have_ you done to yourself? it _is_ strange that boys _will_ be forever mussing in the dirt. i thought i'd had some bad ones here, but you beat anything i ever saw! why, you must have been rolling in the pond to get yourself in such a condition." "yes, ma'am, i have," jack replied meekly as he again tried to brush the mud from his face, but only succeeded in grinding it in more deeply. "what's the matter with your nose? it's bleeding!" aunt nancy screamed in her excitement; while louis, who was sitting on the grass near the broad doorstep, crowed and laughed as if fancying she was talking to him. "three fellers out there tried to make me promise i'd go away before to-morrow night, an' when i wouldn't, they gave me an awful poundin'. then the fun was wound up by throwin' me in the pond." "three boys!" and aunt nancy's tone was an angry one. "i'll venture to say william dean was among the party; and if he thinks he's going to drive off every decent child in the neighborhood, he is mistaken. i'd do my chores alone, and wait on the city folks too, before he should come here again!" then aunt nancy peered in every direction as if fancying the evil-doers might yet be in the vicinity where she could punish them immediately, while jack stood silent, if not quite motionless, wiping the mixture of blood and mud from his face in a most disconsolate manner. aunt nancy's anger vanished, however, as she turned again toward the cripple. all her sympathies were aroused, but not to such an extent as to smother her cleanly instincts. "did they hurt you very much?" she asked solicitously. "they wasn't any too careful about hittin'," jack replied with a feeble attempt at a smile, to show that his injuries were not really serious. "if there hadn't been more than one, i'd have hurt him some before he got me into the pond." "i wish you had flogged every single member of that party in the most severe--no, i don't either, for it wouldn't be right, jack. we are told when anybody smites us on one cheek, we must turn the other also; but it's terrible hard work to do right sometimes. i'm glad you didn't strike them, though i _do_ wish they could be punished." again aunt nancy showed signs of giving way to anger, and one could see that a severe conflict was going on in her mind as she tried to obey the injunctions of the book she read so often. as if to turn her attention from vengeful thoughts, she immediately made preparations for dressing jack's wounds. "if you can stand a little more water," she said, "we'll try to get you into something like a decent condition." "i reckon i can stand almost anything after the dose i've had," jack replied grimly; and aunt nancy led him under the pump, stationing him directly beneath the spout as she said,-- "now i'll wash the mud off; but if the water feels too cold let me know, and we'll heat it." "i'll take it as long as you can keep the handle goin'," jack replied as he bent his head and involuntarily drew a long breath preparatory to receiving the expected shock. aunt nancy could pump a long while when it was for the purpose of removing dirt; and during the next five minutes she deluged jack with the cold spring water until he stood in the centre of a miniature pond, no longer covered with mud, but dripping tiny streams from every portion of his face and garments. sitting on the grass near by, louis clapped his hands and laughed with glee at what he probably thought a comical spectacle designed for his own especial amusement. it was not until jack had been, as he expressed it, "so well rinsed it was time to wring him out," that either he or aunt nancy remembered the very important fact that he had no clothes to replace those which were so thoroughly soaked. "now what _are_ we going to do?" aunt nancy asked in dismay, as she surveyed the dripping boy, who left little rivers of water behind him whenever he moved. "you haven't got a second shirt to your back, and i can't let you remain in these wet clothes." "i might go out to the barn an' lay 'round there till they dried," jack suggested. "mercy on us, child, you'd get your death of cold! wait right here while i go into the attic and see if there isn't something you can wear for a few hours. don't step across the threshold." this last admonition was unnecessary. short a time as jack had known aunt nancy, he was reasonably well acquainted with her cleanly habits, and to have stepped on that floor, which was as white as boards can be, while in his present condition, would have been to incur the little woman's most serious displeasure. he was also forced to remain at a respectful distance from louis, who laughed and crowed as if begging to be taken, and while moving farther away he whispered,-- "it wouldn't do at all to touch you when i'm so wet, old fellow, but i'll lug you around as much as you want as soon as i'm dried off. after aunt nancy comes back, i'm goin' to talk with her about farmer pratt, an' see if she'll agree to say we ain't here in case he calls. you an' i'll be in a pretty hard box if she don't promise to tell a lie for us." chapter vi. a mental struggle. when aunt nancy returned from the attic, she had a miscellaneous collection of cast-off garments sufficient to have clothed a dozen boys like jack, providing they had been willing to wear female apparel. "i thought there might be some of father's things upstairs," she said, examining once more each piece; "but i've given them away. you won't care if you have to put on a dress for a little while, will you? here are some old ones of mine, and it will be a great deal better to use them than to stand around in wet clothes." jack was not at all anxious to masquerade as a girl, and would have preferred to "dry off," as he expressed it, in the barn; but, fearing lest he should offend the old lady at a time when he was about to ask a very great favor, he made no protest. aunt nancy selected from the assortment two skirts, a pair of well-worn cloth shoes, and a shawl, saying as she handed them to the boy,-- "now you can go out in the barn and put these on. then we'll hang your clothes on the line, where they'll dry in a little while. in the mean time i'll find some sticking plaster for your face, and a piece of brown paper to put over your eye to prevent it from growing black." jack walked away as if he were about to perform a very disagreeable task, and by the time aunt nancy had carried the superfluous wardrobe upstairs and procured such things as she thought would be necessary in the treatment of the boy's wounds, he emerged from the barn looking decidedly shamefaced. he knew he presented a most comical appearance, and expected to be greeted with an outburst of laughter; but aunt nancy saw nothing to provoke mirth in what had been done to prevent a cold, and, in the most matter-of-fact manner, began to treat the bruises on his face. a piece of court plaster fully half as large as jack's hand was placed over the scratch on his right cheek, another upon a small cut just in front of his left ear, while a quantity of brown paper thoroughly saturated with vinegar covered his eye and a goodly portion of his forehead. this last was tied on with a handkerchief knotted in such a manner as to allow the two ends to stick straight up like the ears of a deformed rabbit. during this operation louis laughed in glee. it was to him the jolliest kind of sport to see his guardian thus transformed into a girl, and even aunt nancy herself could not repress a smile when she gazed at the woe-begone looking boy who appeared to have just come from some desperate conflict. "i s'pose i look pretty rough, don't i?" jack asked with a faint attempt at a smile. "i feel like as if i'd been broke all to pieces an' then patched up ag'in." "it isn't as bad as it might be," aunt nancy replied guardedly; "but out here where we don't see any one it doesn't make much difference, and to run around this way a few hours is better than being sick for a week." "i reckon i can stand it if you can," jack said grimly, "but i don't think i want to fix fences in this rig. them fellers would think i'd put on these things so they wouldn't know me." "no indeed, you mustn't leave the house even when your clothes are dry, until i have seen that dean boy's father." "you ain't goin' to tell him about their poundin' me, are you?" jack asked quickly. "of course i am. you don't suppose for a single moment that i intend to run the chances of your being beaten to death by them! if mr. dean can't keep his boy at home i'll--i'll--i don't know what i will do." "seems to me it would be better not to say anything about it," jack replied hesitatingly. "if we go to tellin' tales, them fellers will think i'm afraid, an' be sure to lay for me whenever i go out." "i'm not going to tell any tales; but i intend to see if it isn't possible for me to have a decent, well-behaved boy around this place without his being obliged to fight a lot of disreputable characters such as some we've got in the neighborhood." this is not the time for jack to make any vehement protests, lest aunt nancy should be provoked because of his persistency, and he changed the subject of conversation by broaching the matter which occupied all his thoughts. "that mr. pratt what tried to send louis an' me to the poor farm drove past here with tom jest before them fellers tackled me, an' i heard him say he was lookin' for us." "mercy on me!" aunt nancy exclaimed as she pushed the spectacles back from her nose to her forehead and peered down the lane much as if expecting to see the farmer and his son in the immediate vicinity. "why _is_ he so possessed to send you to the poorhouse?" "that's what i don't know," jack replied with a sigh; "but he's after us, an' if he once gets his eye on me, the thing is settled." "he has no more right to bother you than i have, and not half as much. according to your story, he didn't even take the trouble to give you a decent meal, and i'll soon let him know he can't carry you away from here." "but how'll you prevent it if he starts right in an' begins to lug us off? he's stronger'n you an' me put together, an' if he's come all this distance there won't be much stoppin' for anything you'll say to him, i'm afraid. now don't you think it would be better to tell him i wasn't here?" "mercy on us, jack! how could i do that when you _are_ here?" "well, you wouldn't like to have him lug us off if you knew we'd got to go to the poorhouse, would you? 'cause neither louis nor me ever did anything to you, or to him either." "but you sha'n't go there, my dear child. so long as i am willing to keep you here, i don't see what business it is of his, or anybody else's." "it seems as though he was makin' it his business," jack replied disconsolately; for he was now beginning to despair of persuading aunt nancy to tell a lie. "if you'd say we wasn't here, that would settle it, and he wouldn't stay." "but i can't, jack; i can't tell an absolute falsehood." jack gave vent to a long-drawn sigh as he looked toward the baby for a moment, and then said,-- "well, i didn't s'pose you would do it anyhow, so louis an' me'll have to start off, 'cause i won't go to that poor farm if i have to walk every step of the way to new york an' carry the baby besides." "i don't see why you should talk like that, my child. in the first place, there is no reason for believing that hard-hearted man will come here, and--" "oh, yes, there is!" and jack repeated the conversation he had overheard while hiding in the alder-bushes. "when he finds out we haven't been to biddeford, he'll ask at every house on the way back." "do you really think he would try to take you if i said to him in a very severe tone that i would have him prosecuted for attempting anything of the kind?" "i don't believe you could scare him a bit, an' there isn't much chance you'd be able to stop him after he's come so far to find us." "but i can't have you leave me, jack," the little woman said in a quavering voice. "you have no idea how much i've been countin' on your company." "you won't feel half so bad as i shall to go," jack replied mournfully. "but it is out of the question to even think of walking all that distance." "it's got to be done jest the same, an' as soon as my clothes are dried we'll start. things will come mighty tough; but they can't be helped." aunt nancy looked thoroughly distressed, and there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes as she asked,-- "how would it do to lock the doors, and refuse to come down when he knocked?" jack shook his head. "i don't believe it would work." "no, it mustn't be thought of, for then we should be acting a lie, which is almost, if not quite, as bad as telling one." "how do you make that out?" jack asked in surprise. "we shouldn't lock the doors unless it was to give him the impression that there was no one at home, which would be a falsehood." the expression on jack's face told that he failed to understand either the argument or the spirit which prompted it, and for several moments no word was spoken. then, as a happy thought occurred to him, the boy said eagerly,-- "i'll tell you how it could be done without any lie at all, an' everything would go along as slick as grease." "how?" aunt nancy asked quickly, as a look of relief passed over her face. "i'll watch up the road a piece till i see the team comin'. then i'll run back here, get louis, an' carry him off somewhere." "well?" the little woman asked as he paused. "why, can't you see how easy it'll be then? you'll only have to tell him you don't know where we are, an' he'll be bound to leave." "but, jack dear, i should know where you were." "how do you make that out?" "you wouldn't leave the farm, an' while i--" "that's jest what you don't know. i didn't tell you where we'd go. it would be the same thing if we left for new york this minute; you might think we was on the road somewhere; but that wouldn't make it so." aunt nancy remained silent, and although he did not believe she was convinced, jack fancied there was a look of hesitation on her face as if she might be persuaded into complying with his request, therefore he added eagerly,-- "you want us to stay here, an'--" "indeed i do!" the little woman replied fervently. "i never knew a boy who seemed so much like our own folks as you do, and since last night it has been a great relief to think i should have you with me this summer." "and if mr. pratt knows we're anywhere around, he'll snake us away for certain." "i don't understand how that can be done, jack." "neither do i; but he has come to do it, an' you can't stop him. now i'll promise to go where you'd never guess of our bein', an' then there wouldn't be the least little bit of a lie in sayin' you didn't know." "i would do almost anything for the sake of keeping you here, jack, except to commit a sin." "this way you won't be doin' anything of the kind. i reckon my clothes are dry now, an' i'd better put 'em on so's to be ready to watch for mr. pratt." then jack hurried off as if the matter had been positively settled. aunt nancy gazed after him with an expression of mingled pain and perplexity on her wrinkled face, and just then louis crept to her knee, begging in his odd language to be taken on her lap. "you dear little creature!" she cried, pressing him to her bosom while he chattered and laughed. "it would be cruel to send you among the paupers, when a lonely old woman like me loves you so much!" jack looked back just in time to see this picture, and there was no longer any doubt in his mind but that aunt nancy would accede to his request. five minutes later he returned clad in his own garments, which looked considerably the worse for the hasty drying, and said as he ran swiftly past the little woman,-- "don't let louis go into the house, for i'll want to get hold of him in a hurry!" aunt nancy began to make some remark; but he was moving so swiftly that the words were unheard, and the old lady said to herself with a long-drawn sigh as she pressed the baby yet more closely,-- "i'm afraid it is wrong to do as he wishes; but how can i allow cruel men to take this dear child from me, when i know he will not be cared for properly?" then she began to think the matter over more calmly, and each moment it became clearer to her mind that by acceding to jack's request she would be evading the truth, if not absolutely telling a lie. "i can't do it," she said, kissing the baby affectionately. "much as i shall grieve over them, it is better they should go than for me to do what i know to be wrong." having thus decided, she hurried up the lane to warn jack; but before reaching the road the boy was met coming at full speed. "mr. pratt has just shown up at the top of the hill; he's stoppin' at the house over there! i'll get louis and hide." "but, jack dear, i have been thinking this matter over, and i can't even act a lie." "why didn't you say so before, when i had a chance to get away?" he cried reproachfully. "by lettin' me think you'd do it, you've got us into a reg'lar trap!" the boy did not wait to hear her reply, but ran to where louis was seated contentedly on the grass, raised him in his arms and disappeared behind the barn, leaving the little woman feeling very much like a culprit. chapter vii. farmer pratt. aunt nancy was now in a fine state of perplexity. jack's reproachful tone had cut very deeply, and she began to consider herself responsible for all which might happen because of not having warned him in time. "i'm a wicked woman," she said, wringing her hands distractedly, "and accountable for all that happens now. why was i so weak as not to give the dear boy a decided answer when he came from the barn?" then she ran to the bars and called after jack in a whisper; but if any one had asked why she wanted him to come back just at that time, she could not have explained. returning to the old oak, she was about to sit down again when the rattle of wheels told that farmer pratt was near at hand. hardly aware of what she did, the little woman went hurriedly into the house, and there awaited what must necessarily be a very painful interview. a few moments later the man whom jack looked upon as a merciless enemy knocked at the door, and aunt nancy said feebly, "come in." farmer pratt entered without very much ceremony, and as the little woman gazed at his face she fancied, probably from what jack had told her, that it was possible to see covetousness and hard-heartedness written on every feature. he did not remove his hat, but stood in the centre of the floor, whip in hand, as he said,-- "mornin' ma'am, mornin'. i'm from scarborough, an' my name is nathan pratt. p'rhaps you've heard of me." aunt nancy was about to say she never had, meaning that her neighbors never had spoken of him as a person of importance; but she checked herself on remembering this would be a falsehood because of what jack had said. "i have heard the name," she replied faintly. "i thought so, i thought so. i've lived, man an' boy, in scarborough for nigh on to fifty years, an' when that's been done without givin' anybody a chance to say a word agin me, except that i want my own, as other folks do, then it would be kinder strange if i wasn't known within a dozen miles of home." "was that all you came here to say?" aunt nancy asked. "of course not,--of course not"; and the farmer seated himself without waiting for an invitation. "the fact of the matter is, ma'am, i'm huntin' for a couple of children what drifted ashore on my place the other day. one of 'em was a hunchback, an' i must say he is bad, for after eatin' all the food in my house that he an' the young one wanted, he run away, leavin' me in the lurch." "i don't suppose they stole it, did they?" and aunt nancy spoke very sharply, for it made her angry to hear such things said about jack. "no, it wasn't exactly that," and the farmer hesitated, as if to give her the impression something equally wrong had been done by the boy; "but as a citizen of the town i don't want it said we let a couple of youngsters run around loose like calves." "what do you intend to do with them?" the little woman asked severely. farmer pratt had no idea of telling a secret which he believed would be worth at least an hundred dollars to him, and by keeping it he again defeated himself. "they oughter be carried to the poor farm till we can find out who owns 'em. you see i'm as big a tax-payer as there is in scarborough, an' if any other town takes care of the children, we're likely to be sued for the cost of keepin'. now i don't believe in goin' to law, for it's dreadful expensive, so i've come out to save myself an' my neighbors what little money i can." if farmer pratt had told the truth, aunt nancy would have done all in her power to aid him, and jack could not but have rejoiced, although the farmer received a rich reward; but by announcing what was a false proposition, he aroused the little woman's wrath. she no longer remembered that it was wrong even to act a lie, and thought only of the possibility that those whom she had learned to love were really to be taken to the refuge for paupers, if her visitor should be so fortunate as to find them. "it seems hard to put children in such a place," she said, with an effort to appear calm. "that's only prejudice, ma'am, sheer prejudice. what do we keep up sich institoots for? why, to prevent one man from bein' obleeged to spend more'n another when a lot of beggars come around." "and yet it seems as if almost any one would be willing to feed a couple of children who were lost." "there's where you are makin' a mistake ag'in, ma'am. youngsters eat more'n grown folks, an' i know what i'm talkin' about, 'cause i've raised a family. heaven helps them as helps themselves, an' when we find two like the one i'm huntin' for, then i say since heaven won't take a hand at it, the town should." aunt nancy remained silent, but those who knew her intimately would have said, because of the manner in which she moved her chair to and fro, that the little woman was struggling very hard to "rule her spirit." "i don't reckon you know anything about 'em, ma'am," farmer pratt said after a long pause, during which aunt nancy had rocked violently, with her gaze fixed upon an overbold honey bee who was intent on gathering the sweets from a honeysuckle blossom which the wind had forced through the open window. "i know this much," she replied with vehemence, "that i hope you won't find the children if it is simply to carry them to the poor farm. we are told of the reward which--" "who said anything about a reward?" the farmer asked in alarm, fearing that which he wished should remain a secret was already known. "the book tells us what shall be the reward of those who give a cup of cold water only to these his little ones--" "oh! is that it?" and the visitor appeared greatly relieved. "i count myself about as good as my neighbors, but when it comes to keepin' a parcel of children, after i've paid my taxes to run a place especially for sich as they, then i say it's a clear waste of money, an' that's as much of a sin as anything else." "we won't argue the matter," the little woman replied with dignity, "but i hope the time will never come that i, poor as i am, can count the pennies in a dollar when it is a question of giving aid or comfort to the distressed." "since you haven't seen the youngsters, there's no need of my stayin' any longer, ma'am, but it does seem funny that nobody has run across 'em, when i heard for a fact that they'd come up this road." aunt nancy knew full well that by remaining silent now, she was giving the visitor to understand she knew nothing about the missing ones; but just at the moment she would have told a deliberate lie rather than give jack and louis up to such a man, however much she might have regretted it afterward. "of course there's no harm in my askin' the questions," farmer pratt said as he moved toward the door, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in mind because of the little woman's sharp words. "certainly not; but at the same time i am sorry you came." "why, ma'am?" "because i have learned how hard-hearted men can be when it is a question of a few dollars. if the children should come to me, they would be given a home, such as it is, until their relatives could be found." "if they should come, i warn you that it is your duty to let me know, for they drifted ashore on my property, an' i've got the first claim." this was rather more than meek little aunt nancy could endure; but she succeeded in checking the angry words, and rose from her chair to intimate that the interview was at an end. farmer pratt went out very quickly, probably fearing he might hear more unpalatable truths, and the old lady watched him until he drove away. "it was wicked, but i'm glad i did it!" she said emphatically. "the idea of hunting up such children as jack and louis simply to send them among paupers!" not for many moments did the little woman remain in this frame of mind. after a time she began to realize that she had done exactly what she told jack would be impossible--acted a lie, and her conscience began to trouble her greatly. she tried to read a chapter in the book with the hope of finding something to comfort her, and, failing in this, her thoughts went out to the children who had left so suddenly. "mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "suppose jack really has gone away, believing i would tell that man all i knew about him!" this idea was sufficient to arouse her to action, and she went behind the barn, where she called softly,-- "jack! jack! where are you?" not until this very feeble outcry had been repeated half a dozen times did she receive any reply, and then the hunchback, with louis clasped in his arms, peered out from among the bushes. "has the farmer gone?" he asked in a whisper. "indeed he has." "and you didn't tell him where we was?" "he never asked the question; but all the same, jack dear, i did wrong in allowing him to suppose i knew nothing about you." "you're the sweetest aunt any feller ever had," the hunchback said heartily as he came swiftly up and kissed one of the old lady's wrinkled hands before she was aware of his intentions. "i couldn't believe you wanted us taken to the poorhouse, so i didn't go very far off." "i almost wish i hadn't done it, for--no, i don't either! after talking with that wretch it would have broken my heart to see him take you away! give me the baby this minute; it seems as if i hadn't seen him for a week." jack willingly relinquished his charge to the motherly arms extended to receive the laughing child, and said, as aunt nancy almost smothered louis with kisses,-- "you sha'n't ever be sorry for what you have done. i'll work awful hard, an' take care of the baby whenever you've got somethin' else to do." "i know you are a good boy, jack, and i wouldn't undo what's been done if i could; but at the same time my conscience will reproach me, for i realize that i acted wickedly." so far as the sin was concerned, jack did not think it of great importance, and wondered not a little that as good a woman as aunt nancy should attach so much importance to what, in his mind at least, was nothing more than a charitable act. he took care not to give expression to his thoughts, however, and led the way back to the old oak-tree, where he said,-- "you sit down here awhile, an' i'll go out to make certain that man has gone. it might be he's waitin' 'round somewhere to find whether we're really here." "i don't think there is any danger of that," aunt nancy replied as she seated herself on the bench and fondled louis until the little fellow was tired of caresses. jack could not be comfortable in mind unless positive his enemy had left the vicinity, and he walked quite a long distance up the road before convincing himself of the fact. when he returned the desire to make himself necessary to the little woman was stronger than ever, and he proposed to finish the work of fence mending at once. "better wait till after dinner now that it is so near noon," she said. "we'll have a quiet talk, and then i will start the fire." "is it about farmer pratt you want to say something?" "no, we'll try to put him out of our minds. it is the baby." "what's the matter with him?" "he must have another frock and some clothes. these are very dirty, and i'm afraid he'd take cold if i should wash them at night, and put them on again in the morning." "haven't you got an old dress like the one i wore? by pinnin' it up he'd get along all right." "indeed he wouldn't, jack. boys can't be expected to know what a child needs; but it puzzles me how to get the material from the store." "what's the matter with my goin' after it?" "it is a very long distance--more than four miles away." "that's all right; i walked a good deal farther the day i came here. jest say what you want, an' i'll go after it now." "do you really think you could get back before sunset?" "i'm certain of it, providin' i don't wait for dinner." "but you must have something to eat, jack dear." "i can take a slice of bread and butter in my hand, an' that'll last me more'n four miles." "i have half a mind to let you go," aunt nancy said as if to herself, and jack insisted so strongly that she finally decided he should do the shopping. not one, but half a dozen slices of bread were spread thickly with butter as a dinner for the messenger, and then the little woman wrote on a slip of paper the different articles she needed. "you must see that mr. treat gives you exactly what i've asked for," she said as she read the list, and explained what the texture or color of each article should be. "watch him closely, and be sure he makes the right change." then she gave him the most minute directions as to the road, the time which should be occupied in the journey, and the manner the goods were to be brought home. a basket was provided for the purchases, and aunt nancy said as she gave jack a ten-dollar note,-- "tie that in your handkerchief so's to be sure not to lose it, jack dear, for it's a great deal of money to a lone woman like me." he promised to be careful, and kissed the baby good by. aunt nancy leaned over for the same salute, and when it had been given she said in a sorrowful tone,-- "it is a deal of comfort to have you with me, jack; but i do wish i had been bold enough to tell that man the truth, and then refused to let you go with him." "it's lucky you didn't, aunt nancy, for he'd been bound to have us any way." then jack walked swiftly down the daisy-embroidered lane, thinking he was a very fortunate boy indeed in having found such a good friend as the sweet-faced old lady. chapter viii. a second warning. true to his promise, jack returned before the sun was very low in the western sky, and aunt nancy expressed the greatest surprise at seeing him so soon. "when i send william dean to the store he needs all day for the journey, and on two or three occasions it has been late in the evening before he came back." "it isn't such an awful long walk, but it makes a feller kinder tired, an' i s'pose he had to rest a good while before startin' back. i thought i'd better come the minute the things were ready, 'cause i was afraid you'd do the milkin'." "of course i shall. you don't suppose i'd let you work after that terribly long walk." "but i'm goin' to do the chores jest the same," jack replied; and to prove his words he carried in the kindlings for morning. aunt nancy was perfectly satisfied with the purchases he made, and until it was time to bring the cow up from pasture she explained her intentions in the way of making clothes for louis. "this piece of calico isn't as pretty as some i've had from treat's," she said, unfolding the goods, "but it seems to be a good quality, and that's the main thing. now, the question is whether i shall make his frock with a yoke, or plain? what do you think, jack dear?" jack hadn't the faintest idea of what she meant by a "yoke" or a "frock," but, wishing to please the little woman by giving an opinion, he answered decidedly,-- "i should make it plain." "that was just my idea. how queer it is that you should know all about such things, and have good judgment too!" jack came very near smiling because of this praise which he did not deserve, but was wise enough not to make any reply, and aunt nancy consulted him on every detail until the garment had been fully decided upon. then it was time to attend to old crumple-horn, and when jack came into the kitchen again supper was on the table. in view of the fact that he had had such a long tramp, the little woman insisted on his retiring very early, and the book was opened as soon as the supper-table had been cleared. on this day aunt nancy's evening devotions occupied an unusually long time, and she prayed fervently to be forgiven for her sin of the forenoon,--a fact which caused jack to say when she had finished,-- "it don't seem to me as if you could ever do anything wicked, aunt nancy, an' there ain't any need of fussing about what you said to farmer pratt, for god knows jest how good you are." "you mustn't talk like that, jack dear. there are very many times when i give way to anger or impatience, and there can be no question but that i as much as told a lie when that man was here." jack would have protested that no wrong had been done, but she prevented further conversation by kissing him on both cheeks as she said, "good night." on the following morning, aunt nancy's "man of all work" took good care she should not be the first one awake. he arose as the rays of the coming sun were glinting the eastern sky, and when the little woman entered the kitchen the fire had been built, the floor swept, and the morning's milk in the pail ready for straining. her surprise at what he had done was sufficient reward for jack, and he resolved that she should never have an opportunity to do such work while he was sleeping. "i begin to feel quite like a visitor," the little woman said with a cheery laugh as she bustled around in her sparrow-like fashion, preparing breakfast. "this is the first time in a great many years that the fire has been made and the milking done before i got up." thanks to jack's labors, the morning meal was unusually early, and when it had been eaten and the dishes washed, the hunchback said as he took up his hat,-- "i'll go now an' finish mendin' the fence." "wait until i have seen mr. dean. i'm afraid those dreadful boys will do you some mischief." "i don't reckon they'll be stirring so early, an' it won't take me more'n an hour longer. while i'm gone, think of somethin' else that needs to be done, for i'd rather be workin' than layin' still." "you're a good boy, jack dear, and i should be very sorry to have you go away from me now." "there's no danger of that yet awhile, unless mr. pratt takes it into his head to come this way again," jack replied with a laugh as he left the house. it required some search to find the hammer and nails he had thrown down when he was so frightened, and then the task of fence mending progressed famously until a rustling among the bushes caused him to raise his eyes suddenly. bill dean stood before him, looking particularly savage and threatening. jack took a yet firmer grasp of the hammer, resolved to defend himself vigorously providing there should be no other enemies in the vicinity. "so you're still here, eh?" bill asked sternly. "looks like it i reckon." "when are you goin'?" "i haven't quite made up my mind; but i'll write an' tell you before i pack my trunk." bill stepped forward quickly, but jack persuaded him to go back by swinging the hammer unpleasantly near the bully's head as he said,-- "don't come too near! you served me out yesterday because there was three in the gang, an' i hadn't anything to defend myself with; but now matters are a little different." "are you goin' to leave this place to-day?" bill asked, as he retreated a few paces. "no, nor to-morrow either." "then remember what i say. this is the second warnin' you've had, an' it'll be the last. look out for trouble if you're in this town to-night!" "i shall be here, an' i want you to remember that somebody besides me may get into trouble if there's any funny business. aunt nancy threatened to tell your father about what was done yesterday, but i coaxed her not to, an' i won't say a word another time." "i don't mind what she says, we'll run you out of this place before two days go by, so take care of yourself." "that's jest what i count on doin', an' if you've got any sense you'll keep away from me." bill shook his fist threateningly as near jack's nose as he thought prudent, and disappeared among the bushes, leaving the hunchback decidedly disturbed in mind despite the bold front he had assumed. "them fellers can make it hot for me, of course," he said to himself when the bully had gone, "an' i expect i shall catch it rough, but almost anything is better than leavin' here after aunt nancy has fixed it so nice with farmer pratt." he worked more rapidly after receiving this second warning, and returned to the house by the main road instead of going around past the frog pond. the little woman was under the old oak making louis's new garments when he arrived, and she saw at once by the troubled expression on his face that something had gone wrong. "what's the matter, jack dear?" she asked kindly. "matter? i guess i don't know what you mean." "indeed you do, so now tell aunt nancy all about it. have you seen that dean boy again to-day?" jack was forced to confess he had, and in a few moments the little woman succeeded in learning the whole story. she insisted that it was necessary for her to see bill's father at once; but the hunchback begged her not to do anything of the kind, and she apparently abandoned the idea. "why is it you don't want me to go?" she finally asked. "because when any fuss is raised about me, i'm afraid it'll come to farmer pratt's ears somehow, an' he'll be over here again." "i wish he would, for then i could confess to him that i the same as told a lie, and defy any one to take you children from me." "when that time comes we shall have to go," jack replied despondently; and aunt nancy endeavored to cheer him by displaying louis's frock, which was rapidly approaching completion. during the remainder of the day jack busied himself around the farm at such chores as he or aunt nancy could find, and when night came nothing had been heard of those who insisted he must leave the town. the baby sat under the old oak during the evening in all the bravery of his new dress, and aunt nancy discussed the subject matter of her proposed letter to "brother abner" until it was time to retire. then jack went into his tiny room with a heart full of thankfulness that his lines "had been cast in such pleasant places," and it seemed as if his eyes had but just closed in slumber when he was awakened by the pressure of a soft hand on his face. fear would have caused him to rise to a sitting posture very suddenly but for the fact that the same gentle pressure forced him to remain in a reclining position, and then he heard a familiar voice whisper,-- "o jack dear, burglars are trying to get into the house! what _shall_ we do?" he was now thoroughly awake, and as the hand was removed from his mouth he asked in a low tone,-- "are you certain of that?" "absolutely. i thought i heard an unusual noise, and looked out when--there! _do_ you hear that?" "it would be strange if i didn't," jack replied as the creaking of the shed door swinging back on its hinges sounded remarkably loud and harsh on the still night air. "i'll get right up; go downstairs and wait for me." "it will be better if i stay in the hall-way," aunt nancy said in a voice, the tremor of which told that she was thoroughly frightened. never before had jack dressed so quickly, and as he did he tried to think what course should be pursued. there seemed to be no question but that burglars were on the premises, and to encounter them single handed and alone would be the height of folly. as may be fancied, he had not made a very elaborate toilet when he joined aunt nancy at the head of the stairs. it was sufficient that he had on enough clothing to admit of his going out of doors without danger of taking cold. "have you got a gun or a pistol?" he asked of the little woman who was shivering with fear as if with an ague fit. "no indeed, i never would dare to sleep in the same house with such things." "what have you that i can use as a weapon?" "there isn't a single article in this house which is dangerous except the carving knife, and that is very dull." "it will be better than nothing." "but you surely don't intend to go out there when desperate men may be laying in wait to take your life!" "something must be done; we can't stay shut up here and allow them to do as they please." "but you'll be killed, jack dear"; and poor old aunt nancy clung to the boy in a frenzy of fear. "to think that i've been expecting something of the kind all my life, and it has come at last!" a sound as if the shed door had been closed told jack he was wasting what might be precious time. "get the carving knife quick," he whispered, "and when i go out lock the door after me." aunt nancy obeyed in silence. she brought the knife much as though it was the deadliest of weapons, and put it in jack's hands with something very like awe. "don't kill the men if you can help it," she whispered. "it would be better to frighten them very badly rather than stain your hands with blood." jack made no reply; but the thought came into his mind that he would stand a poor chance of frightening a burglar, with nothing but the well worn knife. he opened the door softly. aunt nancy stood ready to close and lock it instantly he was on the outside, and the decisive moment had arrived. chapter ix. the alarm. it must be confessed that jack was not at all eager to face the alleged burglars. he knew very well that if there were no more than two he would stand a slim chance of driving them away, and even one good sized man might make it very uncomfortable for him. had he been left to follow his own inclinations, the outer door would not have been opened, but he knew aunt nancy depended upon him for protection, and he must make a reputation for courage or be disgraced in her eyes. the sky was overcast with clouds, and jack could not distinguish objects ten paces away as he stepped on to the broad stone in front of the door. he heard the key turn in the lock behind him, and this was sufficient to tell him he need not expect any assistance from the little woman inside. grasping the carving knife firmly, he moved forward slowly in the direction of the shed, and saw a shadowy form dart around the corner of the building. then another, or the same one, returned, approached jack, and stooped over as if in the act of placing something on the ground. an instant later the shadow had disappeared, and jack saw before him a thin line of sparks, apparently coming from the solid earth, but not sufficiently large to cast any light. quite naturally jack's first thought was that the miscreants were trying to set the buildings on fire, and he ran forward to extinguish what seemed ready to burst into a flame, when there was a muffled report, the ground appeared to be a mass of coals, while at the same time a soft, sticky substance was thrown in a shower upon him. jack leaped back in surprise and alarm, and as he did so struck his foot against some obstruction with sufficient power to throw him headlong. the explosion, the sudden glare of light, and the shower of he knew not what, all served to bewilder the boy to such an extent that for the moment it seemed as if the same force which caused the report had knocked him down. the first idea which came into his mind was that he had been shot, for he remembered having heard that the victim does not feel pain for some time after a bullet enters his body, and the sticky substance on his face he thought must be blood. "that bill dean meant what he said, an' has commenced drivin' me out of town," he muttered to himself, making not the slightest effort to rise, because he believed it impossible to do so. the silence was almost oppressive after the loud report. jack could hear nothing to denote that there was any one in the vicinity, and was feeling of his limbs to ascertain the amount of injury done, when a shrill, tremulous voice from the doorway cried,-- "jack! jack dear! are you hurt much?" "i'm afraid i'm shot. it seems as if i was bleedin' dreadful!" "wait till i can light the lantern, my poor boy"; and the door was closed and locked again. by this time jack had fully persuaded himself he was seriously wounded, and wondered how long it would be before the pain came. two minutes later aunt nancy, partially dressed and with an odd little lantern in her hand, emerged very cautiously from the house. the fear jack might be fatally injured was greater than that of the supposed burglars. her desire to aid others conquered her timidity, and the only thought was to bring relief as speedily as possible. "mercy on us! what a dreadful thing!" aunt nancy exclaimed as she arrived at the place where jack was lying at full length on the ground. "tell me where you are hurt, my poor child." "i don't know; but it seems as if somethin' tough must have happened, for i'm bleedin' terribly." the little woman knelt by his side, and held the lantern up until its rays illumined the boy's face. "i can't see any blood, jack dear; but you seem to be literally covered with something yellow." the boy passed his hand over his face, scraping off the supposed sanguinary fluid, and examined it carefully by aid of the light. then he leaped to his feet very quickly, looking both ashamed and angry. "it's some kind of a trick bill dean's gang have been playing!" he cried, and at that instant from behind the barn came a shout of derision, followed by hearty laughter. "oh, i wish i was strong enough to flog those wicked wretches!" aunt nancy said, her eyes filling with tears of vexation. jack made no reply. he had taken the lantern from her hand, and was searching carefully in the immediate vicinity. it was not long before he and aunt nancy decided that the yellow substance was the seeds and pulp of a pumpkin, and jack said, as he picked up several pieces of red paper,-- "now i know what it means. those fellers have dug the inside out of a pumpkin, and put into it a big firecracker. they waited until i came near the shed before lighting it, an', of course, when the thing exploded it sent the stuff flyin'." "thank goodness it was no worse!" the little woman added, and jack burst into a hearty laugh. despite the suffering caused by fear, the idea that he had been scared almost into dying by an exploded pumpkin was comical in the extreme, and his mirth was not checked until aunt nancy asked quite sharply,-- "what on earth are you laughing at?" "to think how frightened we got about nothing." "i'm sure it was a good deal. here we've been forced out of our beds at this hour of the night, believing burglars were around, and then scared nearly to death because it appeared as if you were wounded, all on account of those terrible boys who wanted to have some sport!" "it can't be helped now, an' the sooner you get into the house the less will be the chances of your taking cold," jack replied, checking his mirth with difficulty as he saw how angry aunt nancy really was. although it was a practical joke which had caused a great deal of mental anxiety for a short time, he could not look upon it otherwise than as funny, except when he realized that this was the first step taken to drive him out of the town. the little woman insisted on examining the interior of the shed to learn if the boys had done any further mischief, and they found fragments of pumpkin and paper, showing that the "infernal machine" had been constructed there. nothing appeared to have been disturbed, and the two who had been so unceremoniously awakened returned to the house after the pulp was scraped with a chip from jack's face, hair, and clothing. it was a long time before the boy could induce slumber to visit his eyelids again that night, but he finally succeeded with such good effect that he did not awaken until the noise aunt nancy made while building the fire aroused him. dressing hurriedly, he went downstairs in time to do a portion of the work, and when the milk was brought into the house after old crumple horn had been driven to pasture, aunt nancy asked,-- "do you think you could take care of louis a little while this forenoon?" "of course i can. are you going visitin'?" "yes; i intend to see if something can't be done to prevent those wretched boys from carrying on in this manner." "but, aunt nancy--" "now don't say a word, jack dear. things were very much like this last summer when i hired a boy from portland, and no one can tell what might have happened if he hadn't run away. i know it is wrong to get angry, but i can't help it. seems to me i am growing more wicked every day; yesterday i just the same as told a lie, and last night i did not control my angry passions." "but, aunt nancy--" "don't try to argue with me, or i shall get worse. i am going to see mr. dean at once, and you must keep house till i come back." louis's guardian realized that words would be worse than useless at such a time, and he wisely refrained from speaking, while aunt nancy, as if trying hard to keep her temper within bounds, did the morning work in ominous silence. when the last duty had been performed, she directed jack to take the baby out under the old oak, and then disappeared for half an hour or more, at the end of which time she reappeared dressed with scrupulous neatness, but in the quaintest of fashions. "i sha'n't be away more than an hour; and if any of those boys show themselves, be sure to go into the house with louis at once." saying this, she walked swiftly down the lane, and jack muttered to himself as she turned the corner into the main road,-- "i'm mighty sorry she's bent on anything of the kind, for i'm certain there'll be trouble for me come out of it." fortunately nothing occurred to cause alarm during the little woman's absence. jack amused the baby, split more kindlings and piled them up in the shed, being thus occupied when aunt nancy returned, looking mildly triumphant. "there!" she said in a tone of satisfaction as she seated herself beneath the old oak and fanned her heated face with a tiny pocket-handkerchief, "i did control my temper, and i don't think the dean boy will trouble either of us again." "did you tell his father?" "i gave him a full account of all which had been done, both this summer and last. mr. dean has promised me nothing of the kind shall ever happen again, and we are free from that annoyance." jack thought, but did not venture to put it into words, that bill dean would not give up the struggle so easily, and felt convinced there was yet more serious trouble in store for him before the summer came to an end. "do you know, jack dear, i would give almost anything in the world if i hadn't told a lie to mr. pratt. we should have stood our ground, and defied him to take you and the baby away, rather than commit a sin." "but i can't see that you were so very wicked, aunt nancy. he would have carried us off in spite of anything you could say, an' i'm sure you didn't tell a lie." "it is on my conscience just the same, jack dear, and i shall never feel easy in mind," the little woman replied with a long-drawn sigh. jack was really distressed because aunt nancy should regret so deeply what was done in his behalf; but he could think of nothing consoling to say, since she insisted on believing a downright falsehood had been told. "i am also to be condemned for having given way to my temper; but those boys do try it so severely it is very difficult to remember that he who 'rules his spirit is better than he who taketh a city.'" jack looked up in bewilderment. he did not understand the application of the quotation, and the remark about taking a city mystified him. aunt nancy was so intent on her own sad thoughts that she paid no attention to his perplexity, and after a long silence entered the house, returning a few moments later in her home costume, which the boy thought more becoming than the antiquated finery she had been arrayed in for the call on bill dean's father. the little woman did not give jack the details of her visit to mr. dean; but he felt more confident than ever that it was an ill-advised move, so far as his own peace was concerned, and but a little time was to elapse before this was to be proven. "i believe i will send a line to brother abner now," aunt nancy suddenly said. "it is time he learned what has happened; and since we have no pressing work on hand, you can mind the baby. it isn't as easy for me to write letters as it used to be. i need a long while in which to compose my thoughts." then the little woman set about the task, and it could be seen it was a hard one by the manner in which she began. watching through the open window, jack saw her bring pens, paper, and ink from her chamber to the kitchen, and then nibble at the end of her penholder as if to derive inspiration from that source. had it been some weighty document of state she could not have been more particular, and fully two hours were spent before the labor was completed. "took me a long while, didn't it?" she asked on coming into the yard once more. "i believe i've told abner the whole story, and we'll soon know if the baby's parents are yet alive." "shall i carry it to the post-office?" "mercy! no. it is in treat's store, and i couldn't think of letting you take that long walk again to-day." "it won't hurt me a bit." "you must stay here quietly with me, and to-morrow perhaps you shall go. there is plenty of time, and who knows if abner is home now; he's a master hand at gadding about, which accounts for his being so poor. i've always told him that 'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' but he laughs it off by saying he doesn't want to be moss-grown." chapter x. sickness. now that the important letter had been written, aunt nancy was in no hurry to mail it. she acted very much as if believing the children would be lost to her immediately after abner learned the news, and it was simply a case of "deferring the evil day." during the afternoon jack further endeared himself to the little woman's heart by patching up the door of the shed in such a manner that it could not be opened readily, and fastening it with an old padlock he found in the barn. "that is just what i have been wanting for a long time," aunt nancy exclaimed in surprise when he called her to see the result of his labors. "how strange i can't do that as well as you!" "that's because you're a woman," jack replied, not a little delighted with the praise bestowed upon him. "it may be; but i'm so very much older, it seems as if i should be able to do such things properly, and yet i can't even drive a nail." "there'll be no need of your doin' it while i'm 'round." "and i hope you and louis will stay a long time; but i suppose it isn't right to say so, for although there isn't any chance his mother can be alive after the ship exploded, he has probably relatives who want to see him." during the remainder of the day, jack assisted the little woman with the housework, and at sunset the two sat in the favorite place under the old oak, until louis became unusually fretful. after trying in vain to soothe him, aunt nancy insisted they should retire, saying as she went toward the house,-- "i am afraid he doesn't feel very well. are you sure he didn't play in the sun while i was away?" "i kept him in the shade as much as i could. do you think he can be sick?" "not enough for us to worry about, jack dear. children are apt to fuss when everything don't go just right. after i undress him, we'll read the book, and then you shall go to bed." the fact that louis was not in his usual good spirits and temper worried jack considerably, despite the little woman's cheery words, and when he went to his tiny room it was impossible for him to sleep immediately. he had lain awake fully two hours, at times speculating as to how he and the baby would finally get to new york, and again wondering if it could be possible that both captain and mrs. littlefield were dead, when the stairway door was opened, as aunt nancy whispered cautiously,-- "jack! jack dear! are you awake?" the boy was on his feet in an instant. "what's the matter? is louis worse?" "he seems to be quite sick. will you dress and come down?" jack answered this summons very quickly as he tried to keep back the dry sob which came into his throat, for it seemed as if the greatest misfortune which could befall him would be to lose the baby at the time when he was in such a good home. he found aunt nancy in the kitchen with louis in her arms. a fire had been built in the stove, and the little woman was seated in front of it rocking the baby as she stirred the boiling contents of a tin kettle. "do you know what catnip is when you see it growing?" she asked as jack entered the room. "i don't; but if you'll tell me where to go, i'll hunt for it." "light the lantern, so there won't be any mistake, and run out to the lane. you'll find some growing along the fence. get as much as will fill this kettle, and come back as soon as you can." "is he very bad?" jack asked in a trembling voice as he gazed at the baby's flushed cheeks. "i never have had much experience with children, but i guess a little catnip tea will bring him around all right by morning." "hadn't we better have a doctor?" "there is no need yet, and, besides, there isn't one within six miles." "it don't make any difference how far it is, i'm willin' to walk any distance for him." "we will first see what the morning brings forth." jack delayed no longer. the lantern was lighted, and he started at once in search of an herb he did not even know by sight. ten minutes later he returned with an armful of green leaves, and aunt nancy bestowed but one hasty glance upon them when she cried,-- "o jack, jack, you've spent your time gathering burdocks! if you can hold the baby, i'll go after it myself." "i'd rather try ag'in than have you go out where the grass is wet with dew." "it won't hurt me. take louis"; and the little woman put the baby in jack's arms as she hurried away, lantern in hand. it seemed to jack as if she had but left the house before she returned with the desired herb, and the boy said in surprise,-- "is that what you call catnip? i saw plenty of it, but didn't think the leaves were big enough to do any good." "in this world it isn't the big things which are capable of working the most benefit, jack." "if i hadn't known that before, i should after seeing you, aunt nancy. you're small, but there couldn't be anybody gooder." although the little woman said nothing, it could readily be seen that the compliment pleased her. she bustled around much like a busy sparrow, putting the herbs in the kettle, making sundry mysterious decoctions, and otherwise preparing such things as she thought might be of benefit to the baby. jack held louis meanwhile, and before aunt nancy was ready to take him again he asked in a low tone,-- "do you think there is any chance he would die?" "i don't believe he is in any danger now, jack dear; but all of us should think of death as something which will come sooner or later." the boy was silent for a moment, and then he asked abruptly,-- "you pray for everything you want, why don't you do it now so he'll be sure to live?" "it wouldn't be right to ask god simply for the child's life." "why not?" "because he doeth all things well, and we do not know what his purpose may be." "but there can't be any good come of takin' louis away from me, when he's all i've got." "that is something you don't know, jack dear. what god does is right, and we must bow to his will." aunt nancy spoke in such a solemn tone, or, as jack afterward expressed it, "like as if she was in meetin'," that the boy could say no more, but watched intently every move the little woman made until she was ready to take the baby in her arms once more. this night was a long one to both, for neither thought of going to sleep. once aunt nancy insisted jack should lie down; but he pleaded so hard to be allowed to remain awake, that she said no more, and the two sat with louis until daybreak. during this long time neither spoke until the baby had fallen asleep, and jack was on the point of going out to milk the cow, when the little woman said in a tone very like that of fear,-- "wouldn't it be a dreadful thing if i should be punished for telling a lie to mr. pratt, by losing louis just now when we are living so comfortably?" "but you didn't tell a lie," jack replied just a trifle impatiently. "both you and i know i did, however much we may try to persuade ourselves that it isn't so, and i am certain some punishment will follow." jack shook his head incredulously. he began to understand that it would be useless to attempt to convince aunt nancy she had not committed a grievous sin, and was disposed to lose faith in a religion which would condemn so good a woman for having saved himself and the baby from much trouble. to avoid paining her by saying what was in his mind, he went out to milk, and on returning found the baby sleeping naturally. "he seems much relieved," aunt nancy said as she put him to bed. "he will probably sleep a long while, and you had better get some rest." jack insisted that he did not need any, and continued doing such chores as he could find around the house until breakfast was ready, after which he proposed going to the post-office. "now the letter is written it had better be mailed, an' perhaps there are some things you want from the store." "i do need a few notions; but it seems too bad to have you walk so far this hot morning." "it'll do me good. i can be back by noon, and the weather won't be very warm while i'm goin' over." aunt nancy allowed herself to be persuaded, because there really were some groceries she wanted, and after making out a list with infinite care, cautioning him not to pay more than five cents a pound for the coarse sugar and eighty cents for the tea, she gave him a lunch to be eaten during the return journey. "i don't want you to stay any longer than is necessary; but at the same time you mustn't hurry too fast," she said, as he walked rapidly down the lane; and jack replied,-- "i'll be back by noon, unless something terrible happens." although the hunchback could not move as fast as more favored boys, he "kept at it," to use his favorite expression, and by this means was able to get over the ground with reasonable rapidity. he was travelling steadily on, thinking of the baby and aunt nancy's apparently needless sorrow at having acted a lie during mr. pratt's call, when he was aroused to a sense of what was passing around him by hearing the disagreeably familiar voice of bill dean, as he shouted,-- "hold on there a minute, i want to see you." bill was coming across the fields at full speed, and, knowing he could not escape if the bully should pursue him, jack halted. "so you're tryin' to hide behind aunt nancy's apron strings, eh?" master dean cried as he reached the road. "i don't know what you mean." "oh, yes, you do. didn't you send her over to tell my father that i was goin' to drive you out of town, an' didn't she let on about the lickin' we give you?" "that was her business. i tried to stop her, for i can 'tend to my own battles." "perhaps you can; we'll see about that later. say, what of that man who was over here huntin' for you?" jack's cheeks grew pale. he understood to whom bill referred, and it seemed positive the whole story would be known, despite the sacrifice made by aunt nancy. "haven't got anything to say, eh? well, i'm goin' to see him, an' tell where you are, then we'll see how you like tattlers." jack was frightened beyond the power of speech. he had no idea but that his enemy knew exactly where to find mr. pratt, and firmly believed the time was near at hand when he and louis would be forcibly taken away from aunt nancy's kindly care. "that don't seem to strike you very well!" bill cried with a laugh of triumph. "we'll have this thing fixed up in short order, an' then i reckon old nancy will be ready to hire boys who know their business." "what makes you jump down on me?" jack asked piteously. "you know mighty well. we told you what to do, an' you thought we didn't mean business. now you'll soon find out." jack hadn't the heart to hold any further conversation with his tormentor. his only thought was to hurry on that he might be alone where the matter could be calmly discussed in his own mind, and walked swiftly away, followed by bill's jeering words. now indeed he had a cup running over with sorrow. if his enemies knew of mr. pratt, it would not be long before that gentleman learned of his whereabouts, and it surely seemed as if the time had finally come when he must start out on the long journey, leaving behind the dearest friend he had ever met since the day when his mother crossed the dark river. "there's no help for it," he said resolutely, "an' i've got to look at this thing right. bill will tell the farmer right away, an' the sooner we leave the farther we'll be off when they come to find us." thus the matter was settled in his mind that the flight should be resumed at the earliest moment it might be safe to take louis out of doors. chapter xi. gardening. it can readily be supposed jack was not inclined to linger on the road after this interview with bill dean. that the latter would inform farmer pratt of his whereabouts he had no doubt, and this was a method of driving him "out of town" for which he was not prepared. walking at full speed, running over the descending ground, and trying to keep on at a good pace when he ascended hills, the journey to treat's store was accomplished in a remarkably short time. he found many customers before him, however, and was obliged to wait until it should be his turn, although he felt quite certain every moment was precious. it was the proprietor of the establishment, who also acted as postmaster, that waited upon him, and while weighing out the "notions" aunt nancy had sent for, the gentleman said, as if answering his own question,-- "so you've been hired by aunt nancy." "i'm stayin' there a little while, sir." "you are, eh? where do you hail from?" jack hesitated an instant, and then replied with a forced laugh,-- "i s'pose i oughter say i belong to the farm, 'cause i haven't any other home." "an orphan, eh?" "yes, sir." "where did your folks useter live?" jack was not aware that mr. treat had the name of being the most inveterate gossip in the neighborhood; but felt positive there was no good reason why he should satisfy his curiosity on this point, more particularly since, in view of bill dean's threats, he wished to keep as a secret everything concerning himself, therefore said with an assumption of carelessness,-- "almost anywhere. you see i was brought up to be a sailor." "sho! is that so? well now i wouldn't think you'd make much of a fist shinnin' 'round on the riggin'." "even if i am crooked i might be as spry as other fellers." "that's a fact; but you don't look it"; and then the worthy mr. treat turned his attention to the list aunt nancy had written for jack's guidance. when the goods had been made ready the proprietor of the store would have questioned the messenger further, but the latter hurried away without replying to what he did not consider it was necessary strangers should know. jack arrived at the farm unusually early, and aunt nancy exclaimed as he came up the lane looking heated and breathless,-- "well, i declare! it does beat all how you can get over the ground! why, i've known it to take daniel chick's horse a good bit longer to go to the post-office and back." "i was in a hurry to talk with you, an' so come as quick as i could, for i'm afraid louis an' i must go away, even after all that's been done." the little woman looked up quickly in mingled alarm and surprise. "why, what has happened, jack dear?" for reply the boy repeated that which bill dean had said, and added in conclusion,-- "you see mr. pratt will be over here the minute he hears the news, an' then everything is settled the wrong way." "are you certain bill dean knows where he lives?" "of course he must, else he wouldn't have said what he did." "i'm sorry to have to doubt his word; but i couldn't put the least dependence in a thing he says, and there are more than me in this town of the same opinion. besides, he is too indolent to walk so far." "still there's a chance he might send some word." "you are right, jack; but at the same time i wouldn't borrow trouble. in case that man should come, you can find some way of keeping out of his clutches until i see the 'squire." "what good would that do?" "i don't know; but it does seem as if we might prevent him from carrying you and the baby away when i'm not only willing but anxious to have you both stay with me. i don't believe there is any law to compel children who have a good home to go to a poorhouse, and if there is the least bit more bother i'm going to have the matter settled once and for all in the 'squire's court." aunt nancy spoke in such a decided tone, and seemed so thoroughly convinced there was a legal remedy for the trouble, that jack felt relieved at once. "i could get out of his way, no matter how close he got to me; but there's the baby. it might be i was where i couldn't find louis quick enough when the farmer came, an' then he'd soon drag him away." "the baby will be with me, and i promise you there'll be no dragging when i'm around," the little woman said with considerable dignity. "keep up your courage, and i'm sure we shall come out all right, except for that miserable action of mine yesterday. if i had told the truth then and defied him, things would seem a great deal smoother now." "then i'll hold on a while longer." "certainly, and in the future stay close around the house, so those terrible boys can't make mischief. did you ever do any gardening, jack?" "do you mean plantin' seeds an' makin' 'em grow?" "i mean cultivating the ground. no one can force the seeds to grow but he who rules over all. i would dearly love to have a few string beans and some cabbages, but it's so expensive hiring the land ploughed that i haven't been able to afford it." "i could dig up a good deal with a shovel." "if you'll try it i will get the seeds, and perhaps we shall have the pleasure of harvesting our own crops." jack was so relieved in mind that he did not feel any fatigue because of the long walk, and insisted on beginning work in the garden at once. despite all aunt nancy could say against it, he labored industriously with the shovel during the next two hours, and at the end of that time as much ground had been prepared as the little woman thought necessary. "it won't do to try too much at first," she said musingly, as, with louis in her arms, she watched the deformed boy make ready the small plot between the woodshed and barn. "i'll see about the seeds to-morrow, and it does seem as if we might put in more than cabbages and beans now that we've got so much room. i didn't suppose you would care to dig up very much." "it isn't such hard work but that i'd be willin' to make one twice this size; as it is, i reckon you can plant pretty nearly all you want." then aunt nancy, looking very grave as if the task was one of the greatest importance, measured the plot into rows, putting in little bits of wood to mark where each kind of seed should be planted, and when it was finished she looked thoroughly happy. "we shall have a famous garden, jack dear, and it won't be necessary for me to spend so much money for vegetables when the summer boarders come. they always wonder why i don't raise my own green stuff." the garden and the plans concerning it gave both so much pleasure that, for the time being at least, farmer pratt was almost forgotten. the chores occupied jack's time during the remainder of the day, and when he retired it was to fall asleep almost immediately because of fatigue. early next morning aunt nancy visited one of the neighbors to procure seeds, and when another night came every row was planted. during the three succeeding days jack remained near the house, never going farther away than the main road, where he spent his spare time watching for farmer pratt. it surely seemed as if bill dean was ignorant of the gentleman's address, or, as aunt nancy had suggested, was too indolent to make the journey to scarborough, for nothing was seen or heard of tom's father, and jack began to feel a certain sense of security. louis was as contented as a child well could be, and each day claimed more of the little woman's affections until she actually began to look forward with dismay to the coming of the summer boarders, because then she could not devote to him so much of her time. never once was the nightly search for burglars omitted; and when jack asked why such a labor was necessary when it was positive no one could enter the house during the day without her knowledge, she replied with an ominous shake of the head,-- "we can't say, jack dear, what might happen. i have done this same thing for the last fifteen years, and don't intend to be careless now in my old age." "but you never found anybody, did you?" "no, and i hope i never shall; but it would be impossible to sleep if i neglected what seems like a solemn duty." on the fourth day after the garden was planted both jack and aunt nancy visited it twice to see if the seeds had sprouted, and several times did the sight of a weed cause them the greatest joy for a few moments, since it seemed certain something in the vegetable line had shown itself. like farmer pratt, bill dean remained out of sight, and the little woman was confident she had frightened him away. "we can count on being left alone this summer, jack dear, for he won't show his head around here. in all the years i have lived on the farm, when i went to his father was the first time i ever made a complaint to a neighbor, and i hope it will be the last, for i do think people should avoid troubling others with such things. we are told that we must forgive our brother seventy times seven; but there was no use in doing that by william, since it made no difference to him whether he was forgiven or not." jack was not so confident that those who threatened to drive him away had relinquished their purpose; but he said nothing regarding his fears, since no good could come of alarming the little woman. the day on which the first cabbage showed two tiny leaves above the surface was a red-letter day for the amateur gardeners. aunt nancy spent at least two hours admiring it, and the seat under the big oak was abandoned at sunset in order that she might search for further proofs of their success. "there is so much pleasure in having a garden that i shall never again be without one, that is," she added with a sigh, "if i have you with me. i can't bear to think that the time may come when we must part." "may come? why, it must come, aunt nancy. just as soon as the weather gets cool, we are bound to start." "i have been thinking perhaps louis hasn't any relatives living, and in that case what would prevent you and he from staying here until i go down into the valley of the shadow of death?" "nothing would suit me better," jack replied emphatically. "this is the first home i have ever known, and it will be hard to leave it." "if you do go, jack dear, it will be a lonely old woman you leave behind. i had gotten accustomed to living alone; but now it is different, and the house would seem deserted without you and the baby. yet i am afraid something of the kind must happen to punish me for telling mr. pratt a lie. it is through a crime that i was enabled to enjoy your company, and we know what are the wages of sin." jack was not disposed to allow the conversation to continue in this channel. he could not bring himself to believe the little woman had done anything wrong in letting farmer pratt think he and louis were not there, and it made him impatient to hear her blame herself so severely. "you see, aunt nancy, we would have to leave whether you done as you did or not, for how can we tell whether capt. littlefield or his wife are alive unless we go to find out?" "oh, abner will attend to all that! he lived in york state so long that he knows nearly every one in it by this time, and when we hear from him the whole story must be known, for interesting himself in other people's affairs is what exactly suits abner." jack could not be satisfied with this reply. he believed implicitly everything aunt nancy told him, and she was so positive that there appeared to be no chance for doubt. the little woman was called from the contemplation of the garden by that which, for a moment, caused jack the greatest alarm. the rattle of wheels was heard from the road, and an instant later aunt nancy said in surprise,-- "mercy on us! who can that be driving up the lane?" "it is the farmer comin' for us!" jack cried excitedly as he caught louis from aunt nancy's arms, and would have run off at full speed if she had not restrained him. "wait a moment, my child. i don't see any man in the wagon." jack looked quickly in the direction of the newcomers and then said,-- "there are two women, but one of them may be mrs. pratt." again he would have sought refuge in flight but for aunt nancy's detaining hand. "it is only mrs. hayes and mrs. souders. i suppose they have come to make a call, and what _will_ they think at seeing the house in such confusion?" jack, now that his fears were allayed, could not repress a smile at the idea of aunt nancy's house ever being in anything save a cleanly and orderly condition; but the little woman appeared really distressed because she had not had an opportunity to inspect it thoroughly before receiving company. "take care of louis, and stay under the oak-tree until i come out again," she said, hurrying away to receive the newcomers. jack loitered near the barn where he would not be seen until the visitors had alighted, tied securely the aged horse, whose only ambition appeared to be to remain motionless, and entered the house. then, instead of doing as aunt nancy had suggested, he took louis into the woodshed, amusing him there for nearly an hour, when the two ladies departed. "where are you, jack?" the little woman called softly when the horse had drawn the wagon and its occupants on to the highway. "what is the matter?" jack cried, as on emerging from his place of retreat he saw a look of deepest anxiety on aunt nancy's face. "did they come here to take us away?" "it's not quite as bad as that," the little woman replied with a long-drawn sigh, "but very nearly. what _do_ you suppose they wanted?" jack didn't even attempt to hazard a guess, and aunt nancy continued in a mournful tone,-- "they want to hold the monthly sewing circle here day after to-morrow!" "well?" jack asked, surprised that such a request should have caused so much distress. "well? why, jack, how can you treat it so lightly? just think of it! only one day to clean house, go to the store, and do all the cooking!" "i don't see that there'll be very much to do in the way of cleaning house. it shines like a new three-cent piece already, and how are you goin' to make it look any better?" "o jack! boys don't understand about such things. you can't see in the corners where the dirt always lodges, and the company will be sure to find everything that is slighted." "well, i can go to the store for you at least." "i wouldn't allow you to take the chances of seeing william dean even if you could do the errands, which is impossible. i must get mr. chick to carry me over in his team, and while i am away you and louis are to stay in the house with the doors locked." "i don't think there is any need of that. those fellers wouldn't dare to come here." "i can't believe they would; but at the same time it will do no harm to be careful. now what _shall_ we have for supper?" "do you mean to-night?" "of course not. it doesn't make any difference what we eat for a day or two; but we must think very seriously of what is to be cooked for the circle." "have some of your nice biscuits and a piece of cake. if folks can get anything better than that, they deserve to go hungry." "o jack! you don't understand such things. i should be mortified almost to death if i didn't do as well as mrs. souders did when the circle met at her house last month." then aunt nancy, looking as if a heavy burden of care had suddenly fallen upon her, went in to the kitchen, taking louis with her, that jack might be free to milk the cow. chapter xii. louis's adventure. on this evening, immediately after supper had been eaten and the dishes washed, aunt nancy announced that it would be necessary for her to call upon mr. daniel chick. "if i wait until morning his team may not be at home, and, besides, i want him to be ready to make an early start. we must be back by noon at the latest." "why not let me go and tell him what you want?" jack asked. "because you don't know where he lives, and then again it is necessary to pass mr. dean's in order to reach his house. william might be at home, and who knows what would happen?" then aunt nancy made a hurried toilet, clothing herself in one of those quaint costumes which jack did not think at all becoming, and said, as she entered the kitchen again,-- "you must promise not to step your foot out of doors while i am gone. keep everything well locked, and if any one should happen to call don't show yourself without first learning who they are." jack agreed, and while the little woman was absent he rocked louis to sleep, swept the floor until one would have said a broom ought to be ashamed for going over such a cleanly surface with any idea of collecting dirt, and was in the "fore-room" with a lighted candle admiring the crockery rooster when aunt nancy returned. "it's me, jack dear!" she cried as she knocked softly on the door, and when it was opened, entered with the air of one who has been successful. "i got there just in time. he was going over to henry mitchell's to tell him he'd haul gravel to-morrow; but of course he had rather go to treat's, for the work isn't so hard on either himself or his horse. now we must get to bed early, for i told him i wanted to start by sunrise at the very latest." "but, aunt nancy, you don't mean that i am to stay in the house with the doors locked all the forenoon, do you? there are lots of things i could do; but it would be pretty warm if there wasn't any chance for air." "i suppose you might have the doors open, provided you kept a sharp watch on the road, and closed them again in case that dean boy or his associates should come," the little woman replied thoughtfully. "what shall i do?" "you could clean the knives and forks, and wash all the best dishes through two waters. be careful when you wipe them, jack dear, for it would be terrible if any should be broken." after these arrangements had been made, aunt nancy remained silent a short time to free her mind from worldly thoughts, and then came the evening devotions, when the little woman prayed earnestly for the "weary and heavy laden," which jack thought was a reference to herself and the expected company. it was yet dark next morning when a noise from the kitchen aroused the hunchback, and hurrying down he found aunt nancy busily engaged preparing breakfast. "why, you must have stayed awake all night!" he exclaimed in surprise. "indeed i wasn't so foolish as to do anything of the kind; but when i have work on hand i like to be about it, and goodness knows there's plenty for me to do between now and to-morrow night." "did you wake louis?" "no; let him sleep as long as he chooses. you can dress and give him some bread and milk?" "that part of it will be all right," jack replied confidently, and then he prepared to astonish old crumple-horn by appearing before her while it was yet so dark that she could hardly see the lunch of clover to which she was accustomed during milking time. breakfast had been cooked, eaten, and the dishes washed before mr. daniel chick and his venerable horse came up the lane. aunt nancy was not only ready for the journey, but had begun to grow impatient because of the delay, when he reined up in front of the broad stone step as he said in a cheery tone, calculated to soothe any angry feelings,-- "well, i must say you're a master hand at gettin' up, aunt nancy. 'pears like as if you was allers on foot like a sparrer." "i try to do what i have on hand in good season," was the rather sharp reply. "there would be less poor folks in this world if people didn't dally round in such a shiftless manner." mr. chick knew full well that this remark was aimed especially at him; but like a wise man he made no reply lest worse should follow, and turned the wheels of the wagon that the little woman might have no trouble in clambering on board. aunt nancy stopped only long enough to give some parting advice to jack. "be sure to keep a sharp watch on the road if you have the doors open," she whispered, "and don't go out, even into the yard, unless it is absolutely necessary, for nobody knows what may happen. when you wash the best dishes be careful, jack dear, for i should feel very badly in case any were broken." "i'll attend to it in great shape, aunt nancy." "don't give louis too much milk at a time, the weather is so hot that it might curdle on his stomach; and if i don't succeed in getting home until afternoon, there is some cold meat and cake on the hanging shelf in the cellar. don't go without a lunch; it is very unhealthy to work while you are hungry." "who's dallying now, aunt nancy?" mr. chick cried as he tried to prevent his horse from nibbling at the honeysuckle-bush. "if you had come as you agreed i should have had plenty of time to attend to matters," was the sharp reply; and then with many injunctions for him to keep a firm hold on the reins, the little woman succeeded in gaining the rather shaky seat. "take good care of louis!" she cried as the horse ambled slowly down the lane; and jack re-entered the house feeling decidedly lonely at the prospect of being without aunt nancy for several hours. in order to occupy his mind he set about the work laid out, and was so industrious that before the baby made known the fact of being awake, the knives and forks had been cleaned. fully an hour was spent dressing and feeding louis, after which he was allowed to play on the kitchen floor while his crooked guardian washed the "best dishes." this was a task which required considerable time, and at eleven o'clock it was hardly more than half finished. then again louis wanted milk, and when it had been given him he insisted upon being allowed to go out on the doorstep. at first jack was disposed to keep him in the house; but when he became fretful, gave him his own way, as he said half to himself,-- "i don't s'pose there can be any harm in lettin' you stay here; but if anything _should_ happen, aunt nancy would think i had been careless." after that he kept a strict watch over the baby, going to the door every few moments, and on each occasion finding louis playing contentedly with a string of buttons the little woman had prepared for him. the fact that he showed no disposition to leave the broad stone caused jack to have less care than usual, and this, coupled with the idea of cleaning the most elaborate dishes, rendered him oblivious to the flight of time. he was brought to a realization of what was passing around by hearing the rumble of a carriage in the lane, and almost before he could reach the door, aunt nancy was in the house, while mr. chick had driven away at the full speed of his very slow horse. "did you get along all right, jack dear?" the little woman asked, as she deposited an armful of bundles on the table. "yes, indeed. you see there has been plenty of work, and it doesn't seem any time since you left." "where is the baby?" "on the doorstep. he fussed to go out, an' i thought the fresh air wouldn't do him any harm." "which doorstep?" "why here, of course"; and jack stepped forward only to give vent to a cry of alarm an instant later. "he isn't here at all! where do you suppose he could have gone?" aunt nancy was at the door before he ceased speaking, and gazed up and down the yard in bewilderment, but without seeing any signs of the missing baby. for an instant the two stood gazing at each other in perplexity, and then aunt nancy asked sharply,-- "how long since you saw him?" "it didn't seem many minutes before you came; but i s'pose it must have been, else he'd be 'round here now." "run up to the barn and see if he is there!" as she spoke the little woman went down the lane, returning just as jack came back. "he isn't there," the latter said. "nor on the road. of course he must be somewhere near, for children can't disappear entirely in such a mysterious fashion. go up the lane and i'll look back of the barn." "but then we shall be leaving the barn alone you stay here an' i'll do the searchin'." "it wouldn't make any difference if we left the house wide open for a month, i couldn't stand still while that dear little baby is wandering around nobody knows where." jack understood that it would be useless to remonstrate, and started off at full speed. up to the entire length of the lane he ran without finding that for which he sought, and then back to the house where he was met by aunt nancy on whose wrinkled face was written fear and anguish. she did not wait for him to tell her that the search had been in vain, but cried,-- "go up through the field from the shed. there is a place where he might have gotten through the fence, and it would lead directly to the duck pond if he kept on in a straight line!" there was a tone in her voice which told of the fear she had regarding the possible ending of his adventures; and jack, with a mental prayer that he would find the little fellow before it was too late, ran across the enclosure, aunt nancy going in the same direction, but at a slight angle. the little woman's anxiety gave fleetness to her feet, and she travelled even faster than jack could. both called loudly from time to time, but without receiving any answer, and jack's heart grew heavy as he thought of what might have happened while he was in the house all unconscious of impending trouble. as the two neared the pond the figure of a boy could be distinguished among the foliage of alders running at full speed toward the main road, and jack shouted to aunt nancy,-- "there goes one of bill dean's gang. they know where louis is." this caused the little woman to redouble her cries, and a few seconds later two more boys could be dimly seen as they hurried away, keeping well within the shelter of the bushes to avoid recognition. there was no longer any question in jack's mind but that he would soon find the baby, nor was he mistaken. on arriving in view of the pond both saw a rudely constructed raft of fence rails at least ten yards from the shore, and on it, crowing and laughing as if he was having the jolliest possible time sat louis. "how can we reach him?" aunt nancy cried, as she stood wringing her hands, while the big tears ran down her cheeks. "he will surely be drowned, jack! what is to be done?" the hunchback had no thought of his own safety or discomfort as compared with that of rescuing the baby. without hesitation he ran into the pond, continuing on at risk of being mired, until the water was above his waist, and the baby held out his hands to be taken. [illustration: jack ran into the pond, until the water was above his waist, and the baby held out his hands to be taken.--page .] "sit still louis, sit still an' jack will come to you!" it was impossible to run very fast through the water; and to aunt nancy, who stood on the bank in helpless grief, it seemed as if the deformed lad hardly moved, so slow was his progress. more than once did it appear as if the baby would attempt to leave the raft in order to meet his crooked guardian; but by dint of coaxing, jack succeeded in persuading him to remain seated until he gained his side. then he lifted the child in his arms, staggering ashore to where the little woman stood waiting to receive him, and the rescue was accomplished. aunt nancy alternately laughed and cried as she pressed louis closely to her bosom, and jack stood silently by, wondering whether he was to be scolded for having so grossly neglected his charge. it was several moments before she paid any attention to the older boy, and then it was to exclaim,-- "mercy on us, jack! i had entirely forgotten you! run home as soon as possible, or you will catch your death a cold!" "a wettin' won't hurt me on a warm day like this. i'm used to such things." "but you must change your clothes at once, and there's no other way but to put on one of my dresses again." jack gave no heed to this suggestion, or command, whichever it might be called. he was trying to understand how the baby could have come so far without assistance, when aunt nancy said suddenly,-- "it doesn't take one loner to realize how the dear little fellow came here. those wicked boys must have found him near the shed, and brought him to this place." several poles lying near by told how the raft was forced toward the centre of the pond, and the fact that three fellows had been seen running through the bushes was sufficient proof, at least to aunt nancy and jack, that bill dean and his friends had done the mischief. "i should forget everything i ought to remember if i had that dean boy here this minute!" the little woman said angrily as she surveyed the evidences of the cruel work. "it is a burning shame that such as he should be allowed among decent people!" "we don't know for certain that it was bill dean," jack suggested. "yes, we do, for there is no other boy in this town who does such things. i shall see his father again, and when i do it will be very hard work to rule my spirit." "it only makes them worse to complain." "then i will have him arrested!" and now aunt nancy spoke in such an angry tone that jack did not venture to reply; but he knew from past experience that she would soon be sorry for having given way to her temper. again the little woman spoke of jack's condition as if she had not noticed it before, and insisted on his coming home at once, although she could not have supposed he wished to go anywhere else. louis apparently had no idea he had been exposed to danger, but laughed and pulled at the tiny ringlets either side aunt nancy's face until her anger vanished, and she said in a tone of penitence,-- "really, jack dear, i get frightened sometimes when i realize how wicked i am growing. i can't seem to control my temper in anything which concerns the baby, and goodness knows how it is all going to end. i began by telling a lie, and now say terrible things on the slightest provocation, though goodness knows this would have stirred up almost any one. you see i took the first step, which is the hardest, and now fall before the least temptation." "you oughtent talk that way, aunt nancy. if everybody was as good as you are, this would be an awful nice place to live in." the little woman shook her head as if reproaching him for his words of praise, but did not continue the subject, because by this time they had arrived at the house, and it was necessary she should get the garments jack had worn once before. again the hunchback received a ducking under the pump, and then went out to the barn to make his toilet. "come back as soon as you can, for i want to show you what i bought, and between us we must decide what we shall have for supper to-morrow." when jack returned to the house, aunt nancy had her purchases arranged on the table that he might see them to the best advantage, and then came the discussion of what was a very important matter in the little woman's mind. "i bought citron so as to make that kind of cake if you think it would be nicer than sponge, though i have always been very fortunate in making sponge cake, and that is a good deal more than most people can say." "why not have both kinds?" "i declare i never thought of that. it is the very thing, and i'll begin at once while you finish the dishes. this time we'll see if between both of us we can't keep louis away from those wicked boys. i got a nice ham, for that is always good cold, and i engaged two chickens from daniel chick. had we better have them roasted or boiled?" "i thought this was to be only a supper." "that's what it is; but it would never do to have but one kind of cold meat. why, if you'll believe me, mrs. souders had chicken, ham, and tongue, to say nothing of soused pig's feet." "your supper'll be better'n hers if you make plenty of hot biscuit." "i shall surely do that, and have loaf bread besides. i wonder if you couldn't wait on the table?" "of course i can. that was what i did on board the 'atlanta.'" "then we shall get along famously. now help me clear off one end of this table, and i'll begin work." the little woman at once set about the task of preparing food for the members of the sewing circle, and nothing was done without first asking jack's advice. chapter xiii. the sewing circle. so deeply engrossed was aunt nancy in the work of making ready for the supper, that the indignities offered louis by bill dean and his partners passed almost unheeded for the time being. it is true that now and then she would speak of what had been done, announcing her intention of complaining again to bill's father; but the words would hardly be spoken before something in the culinary line demanded her attention, and the subject would be dropped until a more convenient season. jack labored most industriously, beating eggs, sifting flour, washing pans, and keeping the fire roaring, thus doing his full share in the important preparations. louis was forced to remain in the kitchen, despite his great desire to get out of doors; and both jack and the little woman kept strict watch over him, but happily ignorant of the fact that hidden within the friendly shelter of the alder-bushes were bill dean and his chums watching another opportunity to get hold of the baby as before. "the sewin' circle is goin' over to old nancy's termorrer," bill said in a whisper, "an' we won't be smart if we don't get a chance to square off with hunchie." "what do you count on doin'?" sam phinney asked. "that's jest what we've got to fix up. the old woman will have her hands full of company, an' it seems as if we might rig somethin' that'll pay. hunchie won't show himself outside the place, for he knows we're layin' for him, an' our only show is to sneak in while the supper is goin' on." "we can easy get in the shed an' wait for something to turn up," jip lewis suggested; and the others thought this a very good idea. "i'll cook up somethin' between now an' then," bill said confidently. "there ain't much chance they'll let that youngster out ag'in, so come, go over on the hill an' see what the fellers there are doin'." this had the effect of causing the party to adjourn without anything having been accomplished save an agreement between the three that, during the meeting of the sewing circle something should be done toward settling matters with the boy who insisted upon remaining in town after they had warned him to leave. during the remainder of the day aunt nancy and jack worked without ceasing in the kitchen, and when night came the arrangements for the company were so nearly completed that the little woman said with a sigh of relief when she and her crooked-assistant were resting under the old oak,-- "i declare, jack dear, it is surprising how much we have done since noon! i never could have gotten through without you, and don't understand what i did before you came." "i wish i could do more. it doesn't seem as if i worked half hard enough to pay for what you've done to help louis an' me." "bless you, child, i'd be paid a dozen times over if i had nothing more than your company; and as for work, why, you've done twice as much as daniel chick's daughter would in the same time, and i should have paid her fifty cents, at least, if you hadn't been here." "it doesn't seem very much anyhow; but if you're satisfied, why that settles it, of course. i wonder if bill dean's crowd will try to get hold of louis again?" "not after i've seen his father, and that's just what i intend to do when the circle meetin' is over. we had better get old crumple-horn in the yard now so we can go to bed early, for i count on being at work by sunrise to-morrow." the chores were quickly done, the house searched once more for possible intruders, the evening devotions concluded, and jack went to his tiny room happy in the thought that he had been of considerable assistance to aunt nancy. the finishing touches were completed by noon on the following day, and the little woman was arrayed in all her antiquated finery to receive the expected guests. jack had only the suit of clothes he had worn at the time of leaving the "atlanta," consequently very little could be done on his part toward "dressing up"; but his face shone from repeated applications of soap and water, his hair was combed until every portion of it looked as if it had been fastened in place, and his shoes had a very high polish. louis's white frock had been washed and ironed, therefore he was, as aunt nancy expressed it, "in apple-pie order, and as pretty a baby as ever came into maine." "i suppose we shall have to put some of the horses in the stable, jack dear, for a good many of the people will ride, and the question is whether you could unharness them?" aunt nancy said as she sat in the "fore-room" awaiting the coming of the guests. "i never did such a thing; but it can't be hard if a feller watches how the harness comes off." "you are smart enough to do almost anything. i'm certain there won't be trouble," aunt nancy said in a tone of conviction, and then the rumble of wheels on the lane told that the first of the "company" was coming. the newcomer was mrs. souders, who drove a horse jack felt confident he could unharness; and as she alighted he stood by the head of the venerable animal as he had seen regular grooms do in the city. from that time until nearly three o'clock the hunchback was kept very busy attending to the stable work. not less than ten horses were driven into the yard, and he was expected to put them in a barn where were but two stalls, including the one it would be necessary to reserve for old crumple-horn. it was some time before he could solve the problem, but it was finally done by hitching several to the fence outside, and standing the remainder on the thrashing-floor. the matter of harness and carriages troubled him considerably; but he believed the owners of the same would be able to recognize their property, therefore no attempt was made to keep them in regular order. when the visitors ceased to arrive, and aunt nancy told him she did not think any more were coming, he went to the pump for a thorough wash, and while thus engaged heard a certain portion of the conversation which came from the "fore-room" where the members of the circle were supposed to be working very hard to relieve the poor and distressed by supplying them with garments, each fashioned according to the fancy of its maker. not for a moment would jack have thought of deliberately playing the part of eavesdropper; but hearing reference made to louis and himself, it was only natural he should linger longer than was absolutely necessary. mrs. souders was speaking when he first came near the house, and he heard her say quite sharply,-- "why, nancy curtis, are you thinkin' of adoptin' a couple of children at your time of life, an' one of 'em a worthless cripple that'll always be a bill of expense? it seems as if you'd lived long enough in the world to be more sensible." "i'd like to know, sarah souders, why you think jack is 'worthless'?" the little woman asked in a tone of indignation. "because he can't be anything else. a hunchback isn't any better than a reg'lar invalid, an' besides i've always heard it said they are terribly conceited." "then this one is an exception. i never had a girl on the farm that helped me as much as he does, and as for the baby--" "that's it exactly," mrs. souders interrupted. "it seems that the cripple isn't enough, but you are determined to make your cross heavier by taking care of a baby, when it would be better to think of restin' your old bones." "if it is a pleasure to me, it would seem as if nothing should be said against it," aunt nancy replied mildly. "i only wish it might be possible for me to keep the little fellow as long as i live." then jack heard that which told him aunt nancy was kissing the baby, and he said to himself,-- "if these people think aunt nancy has no business to keep me here, i s'pose they are right, an' i oughter go away." "of course you've the privilege of doing as you please, nancy curtis," mrs. souders continued, "but i must maintain that it is wrong for you to be obliged to support two helpless children when it is hard work to make both ends meet. i am only sayin' this for your own good, nancy, an' both mrs. hayes an' myself decided it was the duty of some one to talk with you about it." the little woman made no reply to this, and jack was forced to leave the pump, since his toilet had been completed. "they've made her believe it," he said to himself as the tears would persist in coming into his eyes, "an' it's my place to tell her i'll go. then she won't have any more trouble with bill dean's crowd." he firmly believed it was necessary he and louis should leave the farm, and the knowledge that aunt nancy depended upon him during this day, at least, was a positive pleasure. it had been agreed he should wait upon the table. such dishes as could not well remain on the overladen board were to be left in the small summer kitchen, and the little woman had arranged a system of signals by which he could understand what she wanted. although it was yet too soon for supper, he went to his post of duty in order to be ready at the earliest moment aunt nancy should require his services, and there stayed, thinking mournfully of what he had heard. in the mean while the stable was unguarded, for jack had no idea danger was to be apprehended from that quarter, and at about the same time he entered the kitchen, bill dean said to his companions who had followed him into the shed,-- "i did have a plan for some fun, fellers; but now there's a bigger show than we ever struck. i don't reckon hunchie knows very much about harnessin' horses, an' even if he does we'll set him wild." "how?" sam asked in a whisper. "it ain't likely anybody will go out to the barn till after supper, is it?" "of course not." "then all we've got to do is to sneak around back of the stable. i know how to get in from there, an' we'll mix them harnesses up in sich shape that even mike crane himself couldn't put 'em together in less'n one day." "you're a brick, bill, at fixin' things. let's hurry, for it'll take quite awhile." with decidedly more care than was necessary, the conspirators crept out of the shed, and, going around by the rear of the buildings, entered the barn where jack had left the harness. there was not one in the party who would not have grumbled loud and long had he been obliged to work as rapidly and hard as was necessary in order to effect their purpose; but since it was mischief instead of useful labor, neither so much as dreamed of complaining. the harness belonging to the teams driven by mrs. souders and mrs. hayes received the greater portion of their attention. on them nearly every strap was shortened or lengthened, and other parts interchanged, until one not thoroughly familiar with both could hardly have recognized the original set. each in turn was overhauled, and when the mischief-makers left the barn there was no question but that jack would have great difficulty in untangling the snarl, even if he should ever be able to do so. "i reckon that will make all hands mad, an' hunchie's the one who is bound to get the blame," bill said with a chuckle of satisfaction as they stood for an instant at the rear of the barn. "now where'll we stay to watch the fun?" "out by the cow-yard. the grass is so tall nobody'll ever see us." this appeared to be a good idea, and the three adopted it at once, although all believed it must be several hours before jack would be called upon to harness the horses. in the kitchen the deformed boy, with a heart so heavy it seemed as if he could never smile again, waited patiently until a bustle from the "fore-room" told that the guests were making preparations to discuss aunt nancy's supper. "they are getting ready to come," the little woman said excitedly, as she entered the kitchen hurriedly. "help me fill these plates with biscuit, and then cover the rest over and leave them in the oven till they are needed. i was afraid i should have bad luck with my bread; but it seems to be all right." "them biscuit couldn't be better if the queen of england had made 'em," jack replied emphatically. "i'm sure i don't know what kind of a breadmaker she may be; but i wouldn't like to have it said that even a queen could do better than i, taking it the whole year through, an' allowing for the trouble that yeast will sometimes cause." aunt nancy was ready to go into the main kitchen, which on this occasion had been converted into a dining-room, and jack followed close behind with his hands full of plates. it so chanced that the guests had not waited to be summoned, but came from the "fore-room" under the pretence of assisting the little woman, and jack, who was walking quite rapidly, intent only on carrying the dishes without accident, ran directly into mrs. souders. that lady had never been celebrated for curbing her temper, and to-day she appeared to be in a very ill-humor, probably because of something which may have been said by her friends in the "fore-room." therefore, instead of treating the matter as an accident, and acknowledging she had no business to be standing in the way of those who were working, she wheeled suddenly and gave the cripple a resounding blow on the ear, which sent him headlong, scattering plates and biscuit in every direction. "you little beggar!" she screamed, as her face grew crimson with rage. "i didn't come here to have any of your low tricks played on me. if nancy curtis hasn't got spirit enough to give you a lesson, i'll do it myself." she stepped quickly toward poor jack, who stood silent and motionless surveying the wreck of aunt nancy's best crockery, never for a moment thinking the guest had any idea of inflicting further punishment, and seized him by the coat collar. jack involuntarily threw up his arm to ward off the blow; but the heavy hand descended twice in rapid succession, and then it was grasped from behind as the little woman's voice, trembling with suppressed rage, was heard,-- "sarah souders, aren't you ashamed to strike a cripple?" "indeed i'm not when it is one like this, whose place is at the poor farm rather than in decent people's houses"; and the lady would have repeated the blow but for the fact that aunt nancy clung to her with nervous desperation. "don't you _dare_ strike that child again, sarah souders!" she cried. "i am trying hard to rule my spirit, but the struggle may be too much for my strength, and then i shall say that which would make me sorry afterward." "you should be sorry now when you reject the advice of your best friends," mrs. souders replied; but she released her hold of jack's collar, and he began gathering up the fragments of crockery and bread. "if you mean that i ought to throw these children, who have made my life happier than it has been for many years, out on to a world of such hard-hearted people as you, then it is time you tried to understand the meaning of the word 'charity,'" the little woman said with a slight tremor of the voice as she stepped back a few paces from her angry guest. "the fault was yours, so far as his running into you was concerned. he was doing his work, and you were in his way." "i didn't suppose your foolishness had gone so far that you would uphold the crooked little beggar when he deliberately insults one who has been your best friend." "he had no intention of insulting you, and i do not want him called a beggar, for he isn't. even though he was, i have yet to learn that poverty is a crime." "i see plainly this is no place for me. the most you can do now is to turn me out of doors." "i do not wish to do anything of the kind, but feel called upon to advise that you think the matter over before speaking again." "that is sufficient, nancy curtis, quite sufficient. jane hayes, will you go with me, or do you prefer to remain?" "i shall stay here," mrs. hayes replied; and with a fling of her skirts, which was probably intended to express both indignation and injury received, mrs. souders sailed out of the room. chapter xiv. after the storm. jack who had gathered up the fragments and swept the crumbs from the floor, now looked about him in alarm. the sense of having been wrongly treated was overpowered by the thought that he was the cause, however innocent, of plunging aunt nancy into new troubles. it seemed just then as if he was pursued by some unkind fate which brought to him and those who befriended him all manner of misfortune. during fully a minute after mrs. souders drifted so majestically from the room, not a word was spoken. aunt nancy stood leaning against the table, a vivid red spot glowing on either cheek, and holding her hand over her heart as if to repress its beatings. the guests gathered around her, each trying at the same time to express her opinion of what had occurred,--a proceeding which resulted only in a perfect babel of confusion. the little woman soon recovered her composure sufficiently to remember her duties as hostess, and said to jack in a low tone,-- "do you think you can harness mrs. souders's horse? we mustn't forget the courtesy we owe a guest, no matter what has happened." "i can do it if she will show me which wagon an' harness is hers. you see there were so many teams comin' all at once i couldn't keep run of 'em." "go out and do the best you can. very likely she will be at the stable by the time you get there." jack hurried away feeling rather uncertain as to what the result would be when he was alone with the angry woman, but determined to remain silent whatever she might say. on reaching the barn he had but little difficulty in deciding upon the carriage he believed belonged to mrs. souders, and was backing it into the yard when that lady arrived. "are you so stupid that you can't tell one wagon from another?" she asked sharply. "isn't this yours, ma'am?" "no, it isn't, and you know as well as i do." "i never saw it but once, an' that was when there were a good many here. if you'll pick it out, an' show me the harness, i'll soon have the horse hitched up." "i suppose nancy curtis told you to get rid of me as soon as possible; what you did in the dining-room wasn't enough, eh?" "indeed she didn't; an', if you please, ma'am, i couldn't tell where you was goin' to step when i had my arms full of dishes." "you needn't talk to me. if nancy curtis is fool enough to put you above your place, it's no reason why you should think others haven't good sense. that is my carriage, and the sooner it is ready the better i'll be pleased." jack wheeled out the vehicle she designated, and then asked,-- "now will you tell me which is your harness an' horse?" "you're a bigger fool than i took you to be," was the reply, as the lady rushed like a small-sized tornado into the barn, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in finding the animal, which was hitched with the others on the thrashing-floor. "couldn't even find a stall for him! i don't know what's come over nancy curtis since you brats arrived at this place!" then she examined the pile of harness, expressing her opinion very forcibly because jack had laid them on the floor instead of hanging each set on pegs; but to find her own was more than she could do. "take any one of them," she finally said in an angry tone, wiping the perspiration from her flushed face. jack obeyed without a word, but, thanks to the efforts of bill dean and his partners, neither he nor mrs. souders could gear the horse. one set of harness was much too large, and another so small a goat could hardly have worn it, while all were strapped together in the oddest fashion. this mrs. souders believed was owing to jack's carelessness or ignorance while unharnessing the horses, and the more she struggled to fit one without regard to ownership the greater became her anger, until it was almost beyond bounds. "my husband shall hear of this," she said wrathfully. "put that horse right back, and he will come over to undo your wicked tricks. don't speak to me, you little pauper," she cried as the cripple was about to reply; and dealing him a blow on the ear which sent him reeling against the animal, the lady walked rapidly out of the barn. jack rubbed the injured member an instant, looked about ruefully, wondering what could have happened to the harness, led the horse back to his place, and went out of the barn just in time to see mrs. souders sailing around the corner of the lane into the main road. he walked slowly to the house, arriving there as the guests had seated themselves at the table, and aunt nancy, who looked as if she had been crying, asked,-- "why didn't mrs. souders go with her team?" jack told the story of the bewitched harness, adding in conclusion,-- "i took every piece off as carefully as i knew how, and laid them on the floor, because there wasn't any pegs or nails to hang them on. now it seems like as if nothing was right, an' in the whole lot we couldn't find a single thing which would fit." the guests looked at each other in surprise and alarm, probably thinking if mrs. souders didn't succeed in getting her team with the entire collection to choose from, their chances of leaving aunt nancy's save by walking were exceedingly slim. a flood of questions were poured forth on the hapless jack, who could only repeat his former statement. the matter was now becoming so serious that aunt nancy's inviting meal no longer had sufficient charms to command their attention, and the entire party insisted on visiting the barn at once to ascertain for themselves the true condition of affairs. with the baby in her arms, aunt nancy led the way. bill dean and his friends, seeing the procession coming, were not at a loss to divine the meaning of this sudden exodus from the house. "this is gettin' too hot for us," bill said in a whisper. "with all them old women around we'll be found for certain, an' the quicker we skin out of here the safer we'll be." his partners were of the same opinion, only a trifle more frightened, and their terror caused them to do a very foolish thing. instead of crawling under shelter of the grass until they were at a safe distance, sam and jip leaped to their feet, running at full speed toward the road. as a matter of course bill was bound to follow the example, thinking how pleased he would be to have his hands on jip for a single moment in order to punish him for his cowardice, and thus the conspirators stood revealed. "i think we can understand now what has happened to the harness," mrs. hayes said as she pointed towards the fugitives, "and i for one say it's time that dean boy was made to believe it is dangerous to play such tricks." the red spots came on aunt nancy's cheeks again as she gazed after the retreating figures, and from the nervous working of her fingers jack understood she was using every effort to "rule her spirit." as she stood silent and motionless, heeding not the fact that louis was pulling her ringlets out of shape, some of the other ladies continued on to the barn, and a single glance at the mismated harness convinced them it was useless to attempt straightening matters. "it is foolish to stand here while the biscuit are getting cold," mrs. hayes finally said. "let us go and get supper, after which there will be plenty of time to think over what should be done." the majority of the party shared this opinion, and aunt nancy was literally led back to her own home, while the guests divided their attention between the bountiful supper and a discussion as to how bill dean and his associates could best be suppressed. none of the party had had more than three cups of tea when mr. souders arrived looking very warm because of his long walk, and decidedly angry in consequence of the report made by his wife. he first demanded an interview with jack, who was sitting in the kitchen fully occupied with his mournful thoughts; but when the ladies began to explain matters relative to the mischief done, he could not but believe the hunchback was innocent of the charges brought against him by mrs. souders. "i'll take bill dean in hand myself," he said with an ominous gesture. "there is plenty of time for that; but i reckon fixing things in the barn will last longer. can you lend me the cripple for a while, aunt nancy?" the little woman called jack, explained that he was to assist the gentleman, and as the two went toward the barn she said feelingly,-- "it makes very little difference what people may say, although i would rather have the good will of a dog than his ill will; but if i can prevent it that boy shall not leave this farm unless relatives come forward to claim him." several united with aunt nancy in praising jack, and since the others remained silent there was no opportunity for a disagreeable argument. it did not require many seconds for mr. souders to see that the harness had been tampered with, and he said in a cheery tone, which was a delightful contrast to the one used a short time previous by his wife, as he pulled off his coat,-- "i reckon you an' i have a big contract ahead of us, my boy. it would puzzle a lawyer to fix all these as they should be, and the most we can hope for is to put the sets together so the old women may go home. we'll begin with mine, an' see what can be made of the job." it was a long and tedious task, and before it had been half completed jack was so well pleased with the gentleman that he said confidentially,-- "mr. souders, i don't want you to think i tried to insult your wife. it was an accident which i couldn't prevent, an' you see for yourself i wasn't to blame for this muss." "don't worry about it, my boy. mother is a leetle hot-headed with a powerful dislike to youngsters 'cause she hain't got any of her own; but i'll venter to say she's sorry as a cat this very minute for what's been said an' done. if you knowed her little ways you wouldn't mind anything about it; but i'm put out to think she laid her hands on a poor cripple like you." "it wasn't that which made me feel so bad as to have her think i would act mean." "she don't believe a word of what she said by this time, an' for that i'll go bail. there's no use talkin' 'bout it now; i allow you'll see her ag'in mighty soon. have you been havin' a great deal of trouble with bill dean?" jack was not disposed to tell very much lest it should be thought he was complaining; but mr. souders finally succeeded in drawing from him a full account of the threats made. "you sha'n't be troubled any more, my boy, that i'll answer for. bill is pretty wild, but i reckon we can tame him down a bit before another day goes by." "i wouldn't like any of the fellows to say i'd been carryin' tales, sir." "neither have you. aunt nancy's life is bein' worried pretty nigh out of her, an' that's enough to give me a right to interfere." jack did not think it proper to tell anything more regarding his experiences with the village boys, and, as a matter of fact, would have preferred saying nothing whatever to mr. souders until he had talked with aunt nancy. before the gentleman left the barn he so far sorted out the harness that it was possible to gear up his own team, and jack thought best to get each one ready while he had the opportunity to call upon such a valuable assistant. when the two returned to the house the supper was ended, and one of the ladies held louis in her arms while aunt nancy and several of the guests washed the dishes. then jack milked old crumple-horn, and when the last of the visitors departed all of the chores had been done, therefore nothing prevented he and aunt nancy from discussing the events of the day. "i can't say i'm sorry william dean cut up as he did," the little woman said, "for it has given mr. souders a chance to see what he really would do, and there is reason to believe the boy will be obliged to mend his ways." jack had very little interest in bill dean at that moment. he was thinking only of the conversation he heard from the "fore-room," and had determined the matter should be settled finally before he retired. "it seems as if most of the folks think i oughtn't to stay here makin' you feed me," he began. "bless my soul, what has put that idea into your head, my child?" "i heard what mrs. souders said in the front-room before supper." aunt nancy looked around quickly as a shade of displeasure passed over her face. "i'm sorry you did hear it, jack dear; but you must not be so foolish as to let it worry you. i am old enough to attend to my own affairs, and, even if i wasn't, sarah souders is not the one to whom i should go for advice." "but, aunt nancy, my being here makes trouble for you with your neighbors, and i have been thinking it would be better for louis an' i to go away at once." "your being here has very little to do with the trouble i may have. it is my own wicked self. i began by telling a lie to that man from scarborough, and one sin surely leads to others. you are of great assistance to me, and i should be more sorry than i can say if you went away." jack was about to make some reply, but before the words could be spoken, aunt nancy checked him by laying her hand on his shoulder as she said,-- "don't argue the matter, jack dear. we are all tired enough to go to bed, and we'll make ready by searching the house again. after what has happened since noon it wouldn't surprise me the least little mite, if we found half a dozen burglars in hiding." chapter xv. brother abner. when jack retired on this night he was far from feeling comfortable in mind. aunt nancy had literally obliged him to cease speaking of the matter, and during the evening devotions prayed so fervently that she might be forgiven for acting a lie, it really distressed him. she had done it solely for him, and he felt personally responsible for her mental trouble. it caused the little woman great anxiety as he could well understand from the fact that she referred to the subject very frequently, and never ceased to sue for pardon. as has been said, jack did not think the little woman did any great wrong; but since she believed it, the case was as serious to her as if a deadly crime had been committed. he remained awake a long while trying to decide what should be done, and more than once was he tempted to run the risk of calling upon farmer pratt to explain all the circumstances, in order to relieve aunt nancy's mind. to do this would be, as he firmly thought, neither more nor less than voluntarily condemning himself to the poor farm; but louis would be safe from the ignominy, and he would be doing the little woman a very great favor. he had decided upon nothing when sleep visited his eyelids, and on the following morning there was so much to be done around the house he could not find any opportunity to study the subject. aunt nancy believed it necessary to clean nearly every portion of the house, and as a matter of course he assisted. louis was really neglected on this day. having been allowed to play on the floor to his heart's content, neither his crooked guardian nor aunt nancy paid very much attention to him. not until late in the afternoon was the labor brought to a close, and then the tired ones sought rest under the big oak. jack was about to broach the subject which occupied the greater portion of his thoughts, when the rumble of wheels at the end of the lane caused him to look up in alarm. "who is that?" he asked excitedly, fearing lest it might be a messenger from farmer pratt. "only deacon downs. he sometimes stops on his way home from treat's store to see if anything is needed. i buy a good many vegetables of him." on this occasion the deacon had not called for any such purpose. he reined in his horse near where aunt nancy was sitting, and, refusing her invitation to "get out and visit," unbuttoned his coat in a deliberate manner, saying slowly as he did so,-- "i found this 'ere for you down to treat's, an' kinder 'lowed you'd be wantin' it." then fully a moment more was spent before the article referred to was produced, and, meanwhile, aunt nancy was in a mild state of excitement through curiosity. "something for me? what is it, deacon?" "wait till i find the pesky thing. i put it in this pocket so there shouldn't be any chance of losin' it, an' now i wouldn't be surprised if it had slipped out." aunt nancy came close to the wagon watching the old gentleman's every movement, her face expressing the liveliest impatience; but the visitor did not gratify her curiosity until having found that for which he sought. "here it is," he said, as he handed her a letter, "an' seein's how it's stamped binghamton, i wouldn't be surprised if it was from abner, for i don't reckon you know anybody but him in york state, nancy?" "of course it's from abner, and you gave me almost a shock, deacon, for i couldn't imagine what you had found of mine." "i don't allow there's any bad news, eh?" and the visitor waited as if expecting aunt nancy would open the letter at once. "it's only in regard to some business, deacon," the little woman replied in a tone which told she did not intend to read the missive until she should be alone. "i don't reckon he's thinkin' of comin' here this summer?" "dear me, no. abner's getting too old to go gallivantin' 'round the country very much, an' it's a powerful long journey from here to york state." "you're right, nancy; but you know abner allers was a master hand at travellin'." then the deacon, despairing of getting a glimpse of the letter, urged the aged horse into a slow trot, and the occupants of the curtis farm were alone once more. "the deacon is a real obliging neighbor," aunt nancy said as the rumble of wheels died away in the distance, "but terribly inquisitive. he thought i would read abner's letter so he'd know what was going on, and perhaps i might have done so if it hadn't been concerning your business, which should be kept to ourselves." "do you s'pose he has found out anything about louis's father?" jack asked, eager to learn the contents of the letter, but not feeling at liberty to hurry the little woman. "i don't think there is any doubt about it"; and aunt nancy tore open the envelope with a slowness and deliberation which was almost provoking. during the next five minutes jack waited impatiently to hear "brother abner's" reply; but nothing was said until the letter had been read carefully twice over, and then aunt nancy exclaimed as she took off her spectacles,-- "well, i declare!" "does he know the captain?" "he's never heard of him! it's so surprising when i think of how many people he used to be acquainted with when he lived here." "what does he say about it?" "nothing of any consequence, and writes as if he was provoked because i asked the question. wants to know how i suppose he can find a man who was exploded in a vessel at sea; and i can't say but there is considerable good sense in his asking that, for of course when the ship blowed to pieces that settled the whole thing." "but the captain might have been saved, and, besides, while we were in sight the 'atlanta' looked whole and sound as before the explosion." "but if she didn't go to pieces why hasn't the captain come after his son?" this was a question which jack could not answer, and had to remain silent. "according to abner's story, he don't know many of the york state folks except them as lives in binghamton. perhaps he's settling down, and isn't as newsy as when he was with me." "if he can't help us, what are louis an' i to do?" "stay here, of course." "but, aunt nancy, i must try to find louis's relations, even if his father and mother are dead." "i reckon you're bound to do that somehow; but there's no sense in trying to walk to new york while the weather is so hot." then the little woman, as if believing the matter had been finally settled, began to speak of the subject which was very near her heart, and for at least the hundredth time jack was forced to listen to her lamentations because of the equivocation when farmer pratt called. it was particularly hard for him to remain quiet during her self-accusations, for now that it was useless to expect "brother abner" could do anything in the way of learning the details concerning the fate of the good ship "atlanta," it seemed in the highest degree important to decide upon some course of action. he was well content to stay where he was a certain time; but it seemed as if he should have at least some idea of what was to be done in the future. aunt nancy did not give him an opportunity to discuss the matter, however, and when the hour came to search the house for supposed burglars he was in a fine state of perplexity. on the following morning it seemed as if the little woman had dismissed all such thoughts from her mind, for whenever she spoke to jack it was upon anything rather than how he might best accomplish that which he believed to be his duty. he noticed she was particularly tender toward louis, and gave him an unusual amount of attention when she thought he and she were alone. it was on this day mrs. souders called, and during fully half an hour was closeted with aunt nancy, after which she met jack in the yard when her greeting was more than cordial, but never a word was spoken in reference to the incidents of the day she allowed anger to overcome judgment. since jack had not expected anything in the way of an apology, he was agreeably surprised by the change in her manner toward him, and felt that ample reparation had been made. what the lady may have said to aunt nancy will never be known, for the little woman maintained the most perfect secrecy regarding it, despite the fact that jack questioned her as closely as he dared. it was on the evening of this day when they were sitting under the old oak, and louis was playing in front of them, that bill dean walked boldly into the yard, accosting aunt nancy as if he and she were on the most friendly terms. jack was so thoroughly surprised that he experienced the sensation of one who has suddenly been plunged into cold water, for the assurance of the boy was more than he could understand until master dean handed aunt nancy a printed circular, as he said,-- "i've been hired to carry these around, an' i know you allers go to camp meetin', so i stopped here first. i s'pose you think i'm kinder tough; but them as come here lookin' for jobs without wantin' to work ain't so good as you believe they are." "i don't intend to argue with you, william; but you know very well i have good reason to feel harsh toward you." "why, what have i done?" and bill looked as innocent as a lamb. "it would be better if you asked what you haven't done," and the little woman spoke in the most severe tone. "in the first place you drove away a well-disposed boy last summer, and are now trying to do the same by poor little crippled jack." "i don't see how you can say sich a thing, aunt nancy"; and bill assumed an injured expression. "didn't you mix up the harness when the circle met here, and didn't you try to drown the baby?" "me drown a baby?" bill cried in a horrified tone. "yes, it was you and your friends who carried him to the duck pond and set him adrift on a raft." "now, aunt nancy, it ain't right to talk agin me in this way"; and a stranger would have said that bill was on the point of crying. "why, william dean, i saw you running away!" "i ain't sayin' you didn't; but that's nothin' to do with the baby. when i came across the field he was at the pond, an' i didn't know what he might do to my raft. before i got up to him he was sailin' like all possessed, an' when you came i run away for fear you'd want me to wade in after him." aunt nancy's eyes opened wide in astonishment at this marvellous story, and while she felt convinced it was false, she would not accuse him of telling a lie without having something in the way of evidence against him. "at least i know you fought with jack because he wouldn't promise to go away," she said after quite a long pause. louis's guardian tried to prevent this last remark by a look, but was unsuccessful, and bill replied boldly,-- "there ain't any use sayin' i didn't, 'cause it's true; but us fellers only was doin' what we had a right." "what do you mean by that?" "why, we've got a license from the s'lectmen to do all the chores 'round this neighborhood, an' had to pay a mighty big price for it. do you s'pose we'll let any other fellers come in an' take the bread an' butter outer our mouths after we've scraped the cash together to pay the town tax for that kind of business?" this statement was rather more than even aunt nancy could credit, and she said quite sharply,-- "william dean, i won't have you standing there telling such wrong stories! you must think i'm a natural born idiot to listen." "it's the truth all the same, and if hunchie don't clear out he won't get along very easy. good by, aunt nancy, i s'pose i'll see you at camp meetin', for all the old maids will be there." bill did not linger in the lane after this last remark, but went quickly out into the highway, leaving the little woman literally gasping with surprise and indignation. "it's no disgrace to be an old maid," she said when it was once more possible for her to speak; "but i won't have an impudent boy like william dean throwing it in my face as if it was something to be ashamed about." "i wouldn't pay any 'tention to him," jack replied consolingly. "you're nicer than any woman _i_ ever saw, an' he'd be only too glad if you was as much of a friend to him as you are to me." aunt nancy leaned over and kissed the little cripple on the forehead as she said in a low tone,-- "you are a good boy, jack dear, and would be a great comfort to me if we were never to part until the good god calls me home." chapter xvi. a hurried departure. it was not until the following morning that aunt nancy paid any particular attention to the circular regarding camp meeting which bill dean had brought. then, as jack came in from milking, she said with a suddenness which caused the boy to start in surprise,-- "i have been thinking about the camp meeting. what is your opinion?" "i don't know what you mean." "you remember the paper which william dean brought last night?" "yes." "well, it was the time-table of the trains which run to the grounds. somehow your coming upset me so i had forgotten all about the meeting, and if i should miss it, it would be the first time since i was quite a young girl." "when does it begin?" "day after to-morrow." "why don't you go? i can stay here an' take care of crumple-horn and louis well enough." "bless you, child, i wouldn't think of leaving you alone three or four days." "would you be gone as long as that?" "a great many stay the whole week, and i did one year; but it was almost too tedious." "well, both of us couldn't be away at the same time, an'--" "why not?" "because the cow must be milked an' put in the barn." "daniel chick's daughters have always done that for me, and would again." "but what about louis?" "i have been wondering whether i couldn't take him with me." "it would be terrible hard work to lug a baby 'round all the time." "if you went i should be relieved of the greater portion of that care." "it seems as if you had pretty nigh made up your mind already." "there is only one thing which prevents me, and i can't figure it out," the little woman said with an air of anxiety. "what is it?" jack asked in surprise. "i don't know that it is prudent to spare the money. you see it won't be long now before the summer boarders come, and it costs a great deal to get ready for them." jack could make no reply. this was a question about which he was ignorant, and there was a certain hesitation on his part regarding the discussion of such a subject when he could do nothing to forward the matter by pecuniary aid. no more was said until after breakfast, when mrs. hayes came in, looking excited and breathless. "haven't you done anything about going to camp meeting, nancy curtis?" she cried, as she swung the big rocking-chair around and would have sat on louis had not jack called her attention to the fact by pulling the baby from his dangerous position. "i was just speaking about it, but don't know as i shall go." "but you must, nancy. the children can stay at my house." "if i went they would go with me," the little woman replied, in a tone which told she was not willing to discuss that question. "very well, there is nothing to prevent. daniel chick will take his big tent, and he says you're welcome to use as much of it as you want." "he is very good, i'm sure." "and you'll go, of course? it wouldn't seem like a camp meeting if you wasn't there; and, besides, we always look to you for the coffee. deacon downs says it's one of the pleasures of the week to drink aunt nancy's mocha." "i do try to get the best, and when that has been done any one can make it good," the little woman said as her withered cheeks flushed with pleasure at the compliment, while never for a moment did she fancy this praise might have been given only that she should supply the occupants of the tent with their morning beverage. "then it is settled, you will go?" and mrs. hayes arose to her feet. "i can't stop a minute, but felt i must run over to find out if you'd begun preparations." "i haven't, and whether you see me there or not depends. i will let you know to-morrow." "but you must go, because we won't take no for an answer." aunt nancy shook her head as if to say the matter was very uncertain, and the visitor took her departure, insisting that the townspeople "couldn't get along without their coffee maker." "i'm sure i don't know what to do," the little woman said with a long-drawn sigh when she and jack were alone. "if you haven't money enough, why not leave me an' louis here alone? i'll be awful careful with the house, an' there can't any accident happen." "i'm not afraid to trust you, jack dear; but as i told mrs. hayes, it isn't to be thought of for a minute." "ain't there some way i might earn the money?" "bless you, no, child. even if i was willing you should do such a thing, there isn't any time. the most expensive part of it is that i have always furnished the coffee for all in the tent, and it does take a powerful lot to go around. why, deacon downs himself can drink three cups of a morning, an' then look around sort of wishfully for another. i always give it to him, too, if there's enough left in the pot." jack felt very badly because he could do nothing toward helping the little woman out of her difficulty, while louis laughed and crowed as if he thought the whole affair decidedly comical. aunt nancy bustled around the house performing a great deal of unnecessary work, her forehead knitted into a frown which showed she was thinking the matter over in the most serious fashion, and jack watched her every movement. finally the problem was solved, for her face lighted up as, taking louis in her arms and seating herself in the rocking-chair, she said cheerily,-- "i don't think william dean would attempt to make trouble for you now, jack dear." "neither do i. mr. souders probably scolded him for mixin' up the harness, and he won't bother me." "do you feel quite certain of that?" "indeed i do." "then would it be too much of a walk for you to go to treat's store?" "of course it wouldn't, aunt nancy. you've only to say the word, an' i'll be off like a shot." jack had seized his hat as he spoke, and appeared to be on the point of rushing away without waiting for the message, when she stopped him by saying,-- "there's no need of such haste. it will take me some time to fix the errand so you can do it. last season daniel chick farmed the back field for me on shares, and i have quite a lot of wheat on hand. mr. treat wanted to buy it, and now i'm going to accept his offer. in case he still wants it, you must bring back some things from the store." "am i to get the coffee?" "no, that would be too large a bundle. i'll write mr. treat a letter, and the remainder of the business you can arrange." jack was delighted at being able to do something toward settling the vexed question, and waited very impatiently for the little woman to make her preparations. this was quite a long task because a letter was to be written, and after that a list of articles prepared; but finally aunt nancy completed the work, and jack set off at full speed with a generous supply of bread and butter in a neatly tied parcel. he returned before she fancied he could have more than gotten there, and brought with him the goods required. "mr. treat says he'll tell daniel chick to haul the wheat, and you shall know how much there is as soon as it can be weighed. if you want anything more you shall send for it." "did he say i could have some money?" aunt nancy asked anxiously. "he told me to tell you to call on for cash or goods up to thirty dollars, for he was certain it would amount to as much as that." "then everything will be fixed without any trouble, and i will tell mrs. hayes we shall go to the camp meeting. now, jack dear, lie down a little while and get rested so you can help me. we must do a great deal of cooking before to-morrow night." during the remainder of the afternoon and the day following, the household was in as great a state of confusion and excitement as when arrangements were being made for the sewing circle. aunt nancy, assisted by jack, cooked provisions sufficient to have kept a much larger family in food fully two weeks; but the little woman explained she "never liked to go to camp meeting without having something to give those who might come hungry." the neighbors, and, more particularly, deacon downs, had called to ascertain if "the coffee maker" was really going, and daniel chick promised to come for her with his wagon at an early hour the following morning. the deacon agreed to attend to the transportation of the mocha, and on the evening before the journey was to be made everything appeared to be in "apple-pie order," although to aunt nancy's eyes the house was far from being in a proper condition. jack was both tired and excited. the prospect of going to a camp meeting pleased him wonderfully, for he had never attended one, and fancied it was something intended for sport rather than anything serious. the baskets were packed; louis's suit of white clothes stiff with starch and without a blemish; jack's boots were polished until they shone like a mirror; and aunt nancy spent considerable time bewailing the fact that she could not afford to buy him a new coat and pair of trousers. not until late was the little woman ready to retire, and it appeared to jack as if he had just fallen asleep when she awakened him to milk the cow. after feeding the animal it seemed as if a very long time would elapse before it would be possible for him to do the same again, and he patted her sleek sides affectionately as he explained that one of mr. chick's daughters would take his place during the next three or four days. it isn't very likely the animal understood what he said, but she was perfectly willing to part with him, since it was to exchange the stuffy barnyard for the cool, inviting pasture. the milk was strained and put out on the doorsteps for miss chick, since aunt nancy could not take it with her, and then a hurried breakfast was eaten. none too soon, either, for the meal had just been finished when mr. chick drove up, fretting considerably because the party were not ready to get into the vehicle instantly he arrived. half a dozen times was jack sent to make certain this door or that was fastened securely, and the owner of the wagon worked himself into a state of profuse perspiration before aunt nancy finally announced she was ready. jack thoroughly enjoyed the ride to the depot, four miles away. the odor of the flowers and grasses was heavy on the cool air; the birds sang their hymns of thanksgiving that the new day had come; and the trees whispered together of the goodness of the creator in making for his creatures such a beautiful place in which to live. "it seems almost wicked to enjoy a scene like this when there are so many poor people who never see the country from one year's end to another," aunt nancy said, as she looked around in delight; and mr. chick replied, speaking much as if he had a cold in his head,-- "it's for us to take all the enjiment that comes in this world, an' leave others to bear the burdens which are put upon them." "if that is good doctrine, daniel chick, i'd like to know how you'd fancied a dose of it when you was down with the rheumatiz an' depended upon the neighbors to gather the crops?" "that was a different matter, nancy curtis." "in what way?" "well, you see--i--i--p'rhaps i can't explain it so's you an' the children can understand; but there was a difference." "only because you can't put yourself in the situation of others. the golden rule is good enough for me yet, and i don't think i'll change it for yours." this brief conversation had no effect on jack, nor would he have thought it an important matter if mr. chick had attempted to prove the little woman was wrong. his faith in aunt nancy was so great that whatever she said was to him a truth not to be disputed. on arriving at the depot it was learned they were fully an hour too early for the train, and jack mourned the fact that he might have remained at home long enough to put the barn in better order. it was a large party who intended to make the journey on this morning, and to jack's dismay he saw bill dean and his particular friends arrive about half an hour before the time for leaving. if it had been possible he would have remained out of sight; but the station was small, and aunt nancy insisted he should stand where she could keep her eyes on him, consequently it was not many moments before master dean recognized him. "oh, dear! _is_ he going? and _must_ we be in fear and trembling of him all the time we stay?" aunt nancy said pathetically as she saw the three boys approaching. "keep close to me, jack dear, and if he attempts any mischief i'll appeal for help to deacon downs." bill, however, did not intend to commit any overt act while there were so many around who would not hesitate about dealing out justice to him without delay. he contented himself by walking slowly around aunt nancy and jack, as he said to jip lewis,-- "i didn't think we stood so much of a chance to have a good time at camp meetin' this year. here's hunchie with the old maid, and we'll see that they don't get lonesome." fortunately aunt nancy did not hear him, otherwise she might have said something which would have provoked further and louder threats. jack, however, could distinguish every word, and before the three tormentors finished their promenade he regretted having accompanied the little woman. "i ain't afraid they'll get very much the best of me," he said to himself; "but there isn't goin' to be a great deal of fun if i've got to keep my eyes open for them all the time." chapter xvii. camp meeting. when the train drew up at the station, jack was relieved at seeing his tormentors take their places in a car far ahead of the one he and aunt nancy occupied. he anticipated no slight amount of enjoyment from this ride behind the iron horse, and it would be sadly marred if he was forced to listen to such remarks as bill dean and his friends would probably make. aunt nancy sat by the window with louis in her arms, and jack took the seat beside her, watching everything around with the most intense interest, for it was the first time he had ever journeyed so far on the cars. the little woman would have spent considerable of the money received from the sale of the wheat in buying for her crippled escort such articles as the newsboy brought, in the hope of tempting customers; but for the fact that jack prevented her by whispering more than once,-- "you've paid enough for me already in buyin' the railroad ticket, an' you must save some to get things for the summer boarders." "bless you, child, i ought to be able to take a little pleasure now and then without thinking constantly of how many pennies there are in a dollar." "but this time, aunt nancy, you are not using it for yourself. if you want any of the stuff, why, it's only right you should have it, but don't buy anything for me." then the little woman whispered as she laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder,-- "it's a comfort to have you around, jack dear, for you are always thinking of others and never of yourself." "a crooked feller like me don't need as much as other folks, an' i'm sure i get more'n i deserve." "that could never be, my child," aunt nancy replied; and jack fancied she wiped a tear from her eye, but it might have been nothing more than a cinder. judging from louis's expressions of delight, he would have been pleased had the journey continued all day, and even jack was a trifle disappointed because the tenting grounds were reached so soon. the place at which they disembarked was not a village, but only a grove of pine-trees bordering the ocean, with a broad strip of shimmering white sand between the foliage and the water. it was a little settlement of canvas houses among the pines, the gleaming white showing vividly amid the sober green, and the dusty paths here and there resembling yellow ribbons laid on to complete the harmony of color. jack would have remained a long while silent and motionless gazing in delight at the scene before him, now and then raising his eyes to view the heaving emerald bosom of the sea beyond, but that aunt nancy was impatient to "settle down" before the morning services should begin. "it looks pretty, i know, jack dear, but we mustn't stand dawdling here, because there is considerable work for us to do. i'll carry the baby, and you see what can be done with the bundles." the two were literally laden to the utmost of their strength, as they stepped from the railway platform. such generous supplies had the little woman brought for their bodily comfort that quite an amount of the belongings would have been left behind but for deacon downs, who kindly offered to take charge of the remainder of the goods. in order to find mr. chick's tent it was only necessary to follow the party with whom they had travelled, and in a few moments the little woman was arranging her provisions in one corner of the huge tent which had been reserved for her use. jack hovered around helplessly. he wanted to do something toward aiding aunt nancy, but camp life was so new to him he could do nothing more than watch her bird-like movements. after pinning a towel around louis's neck to avoid the possibility of soiling his white frock, the little woman gave him a small slice of bread and butter, offering some to jack, but the latter was not hungry. "if you don't care, i'd rather go down to the beach a little while." "you shall do that later, jack dear, but the morning services will commence very soon, and i want you with me then." "will it be a reg'lar meetin' where people preach an' pray like they do in a church?" "certainly, my child; and this is a church, for don't you remember it is said 'the groves were god's first temples'?" jack didn't remember anything of the kind, for his education had been so sadly neglected he could not read any but the smallest words, therefore made no answer, and as soon as louis had satisfied his hunger the three went to the cleared space where the services were to be held. jack watched everything around him with intense interest, and, it must also be said, to such a degree that he failed to hear a single word spoken by the preacher. aunt nancy sat with a look of devotion on her face, which to jack was very beautiful. after a time the boy saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, and listened to the words from the pulpit in order to learn what had caused such apparent sorrow. the clergyman was speaking of those who keep the word, but not the spirit of god's laws, and he failed to find in the teaching anything which could distress the little woman. when the sermon was concluded and the three were walking slowly through the grove, he understood better. "it seemed as if the minister was talking directly to me, jack dear," she said with quivering lips. "i didn't hear him say anything that sounded like it, aunt nancy, an' i listened a good deal of the time." "it was the passage about obeying the word but not the spirit which applied to my case. you see i didn't _speak_ a lie to mr. pratt, and might try to comfort myself with the idea i had not disobeyed the commandment; but the meaning of it is, i shouldn't deceive in the slightest manner." "i wish we hadn't come here if you're goin' to think of that thing again." "again, jack dear? do you fancy it has ever been out of my mind?" "i thought you'd kinder got over it." "but i hadn't, and perhaps i was led to come here that i might realize even more fully what i have done." "there isn't any need of that, aunt nancy"; and jack began to look distressed. "please put it out of your thoughts for a while, an' we'll go down on the beach." "i can't, my child. you shall stroll around an hour, after which you must come back to the tent for dinner." jack hardly thought he ought to leave the little woman while she was feeling badly, but she insisted on his doing so, and he walked slowly away saying to himself,-- "i never knew religion hurt anybody; but i think aunt nancy has too much of it if she's goin' to fuss so over farmer pratt. it won't do to let her feel as she does, an' the whole amount of the story is i'll have to leave louis here while i take the chances of gettin' into the poorhouse by explainin' things to him." so deeply engrossed was he in his thoughts that no attention was paid to anything around until he was brought to a standstill by hearing a disagreeably familiar voice cry,-- "hold on, hunchie, we want to know where you left the old maid!" jack had halted involuntarily, and now would have moved on again in the hope of escaping from master dean and his friends, but they barred his way by closing in upon him. there was a large crowd on the grounds surging to and fro, therefore the three boys had little difficulty in forcing jack to move in this direction or that as they chose, by pretending the press was so great they could not prevent themselves from being pushed against him. "we're goin' down for a swim," bill dean said as he linked his arm in the hunchback's, "an' it'll just about break our hearts if you can't come with us." [illustration: "we're goin' down for a swim," bill dean said, as he linked his arm in the hunchback's.--page .] "i don't want to do anything of the kind. you know very well a crooked feller like me couldn't swim, no matter how hard he tried." "we'll show you how, so don't be frightened"; and bill motioned for sam and jip to force the intended victim along in the desired direction. jack knew perfectly well he could not struggle successfully against his tormentors, but at the same time he did not intend allowing them to take him away from the throng where he might find assistance if necessary. "i don't want to go with you, and shall ask some of these people to help me if you don't go away." "then you'd only be makin' it all the hotter for yourself, 'cause we count on stayin' here the whole week, an' you can't be tied to the old maid's apron strings every minute of the time." "i'll take my chances of that, so keep off or i'll make a disturbance." bill had good reason to believe the cripple would carry this threat into execution, and, not wishing to come in direct contact with the guardians of the peace, concluded to bring their sport to a close. "of course if you don't feel like comin' nobody's goin' to make you, so we'll say good by." as he spoke he gave a quick twist of his foot in front of jack, at the same instant jip pushed from behind, and the result was the cripple fell forward on his face, in the gravel and sand. the three boys were off like a flash, and as jack rose to his feet after some effort, with dusty clothes and a bleeding face, his heart was filled with anger. "if i was only strong enough i'd soon show them fellers what it is to pick on a fellow they thought couldn't help himself!" he had hardly said these words when a man brushed past him with the air of one who feels he has a right to considerably more than half the road, and looking up quickly jack saw farmer pratt. for an instant he thought the man was pursuing him, and would have taken refuge in flight, had not the idea occurred to his mind that mr. pratt had come to camp meeting for the same purpose as aunt nancy. "i'm foolish to think he's still chasin' after me," he said to himself, "though i s'pose he would take louis an' me with him if he saw us." without knowing why he did it, jack followed a short distance behind the farmer, as if it was necessary to retain him constantly in sight, and while doing so thought of aunt nancy's distress concerning the alleged lie. now surely would be a good time to sacrifice his own comfort in order to ease her mind by taking upon his shoulders the blame, and he ran forward intending, for an instant, to speak with the gentleman. then it occurred to him that it would be proper to consult the little woman first, and he turned back only to doubt again. it might distress aunt nancy yet more to know the farmer was on the grounds, and jack wished he knew of some one who could give him the proper advice. deacon downs was the only person he could think of, and yet he ought not to tell him of what aunt nancy had done. "i've got to settle this thing myself," he said as he turned resolutely in the direction of the tent, "and the next thing to do is to talk with aunt nancy herself. she knows more goodness than all these people put together." his mind once made up, he was eager to reach the tent, and ran at full speed, arriving just as deacon downs summoned the occupants of this particular dwelling to dinner. the little woman was acting as cook, a post of duty to which she had been elected each year because the remainder of the party knew she would perform the arduous labors without complaint. to speak with her now would be to attract the attention of all, and jack believed he should wait until a more convenient season. therefore he seated himself at the rough table around which all the others, save aunt nancy, were gathered, and tried unsuccessfully to appear as if nothing unusual had occurred. jack's face told of some trouble, however, and when the deacon had refreshed himself with a large cup of aunt nancy's mocha, he asked in a severe tone,-- "master dudley, is it possible that after living with as good a woman as sister curtis, you allow your passions to tempt you into fighting? don't you remember what dr. watts says about letting 'dogs delight to bark and bite, for 'tis their nature,' et cetera?" perhaps jack might have understood the deacon's question, had it not been for the last word. what an "et cetera" was he hadn't the slightest idea, and instead of replying sat staring stupidly at his plate until aunt nancy came forward and asked,-- "what is it about jack? has he been doing anything out of the way?" "by the appearance of his face i should say he had. it is strange boys will fight in such a place as this!" "why, what _has_ happened to you, jack dear?" the little woman asked anxiously as she lifted the boy's head by placing her hand under his chin. jack said nothing, and aunt nancy asked, as the crimson spots appeared on her cheeks,-- "has william dean been troubling you again?" "i had rather tell you some other time," jack replied in a whisper, as he slipped down from his seat at the table and went toward the scene of the little woman's culinary operations. she followed him at once, and the good but rather inquisitive deacon craned his neck in vain to hear what passed between the two. "it was bill dean; but don't say anything about it now, for i've just seen farmer pratt," jack said in a low tone; and as aunt nancy started in surprise, a cry of distress came from deacon downs's lips. at the moment jack spoke, the little woman was in the act of removing the coffee pot from the stove, for fear its contents should boil over, when it fell to the ground. neither aunt nancy nor the hunchback paid any attention to this catastrophe; but the deacon was so angry he even threatened that jack should not be allowed near the tent again. it is doubtful if his words were heard by the two who were in such distress of mind. aunt nancy led jack to the rear of the tent, and there, where no one could overhear, he told the whole story, concluding by saying,-- "you have felt so bad i had a great mind to go right up an' tell him how it happened you acted a lie." "but, jack dear, then he might drag you off to the poor farm." "i had rather do that than have you feel as you do about it. louis could stay here, an' i wouldn't tell him where you were, no matter how hard he might try to make me." "i should go to him myself and confess all," the little woman said after a pause. "then the chances are he'd get hold of both louis an' me. if it is to be done, i oughter do it." "i declare i don't know what is best"; and aunt nancy stood with clasped hands as if expecting jack would advise. "it is only right i should atone in some way for that which i did; but the flesh is indeed weak when it comes to parting with either of you." "perhaps there might be some way for me to get clear, an' you'd feel so much better that i'd be contented to stay almost anywhere." the little woman made no reply; she remained silent so long jack began to be afraid she was ill, and as he stood watching her, the notes of a song of praise to the maker rose high above the deacon's querulous tones, while mingling with it was the murmur of the surf as it rolled up on the beach, the whole forming a sort of melody which was soothing to the little hunchback. chapter xviii. a disaster. not for several moments was aunt nancy able to decide what should be done, and then, as the song died away leaving only the deacon's words to mingle with the reverberation of the surf, she said in a voice which sounded strained and harsh,-- "it must be done. you shall bring him here, and i will tell the story myself. when he comes, take louis and walk down by the beach for a while." the little woman could say no more, for at that moment deacon downs asked in his blandest tones,-- "do you think it would be possible to make a leetle more coffee, sister curtis?" aunt nancy had never been known to refuse a request which involved only her own discomfort or labor, and on this occasion there was no exception to the rule. "it will be ready in a few minutes, deacon," she replied in a trembling voice, at the same time keeping her face turned from the party lest they should see the tears in her eyes. jack understood there was no necessity of any further conversation, therefore walked slowly away, feeling very much like a fellow who voluntarily goes to receive unmerited punishment. he now had no fear of bill dean and his friends. the present trouble was so much greater than any they could cause him that it was as if this particular trio of boys never existed. not until he had walked to and fro for half an hour did he begin to realize it might not be possible to find the farmer amid the throng. each succeeding train brought additional worshippers or visitors to the grove, and the walks were so densely lined with people that he might have passed within ten feet of mr. pratt without seeing him. having made up his mind to that which he considered a sacrifice, he was impatient to have it finished, and walked rapidly until the afternoon was more than half spent; but all in vain. it seemed more than probable he had gone home, or at least jack so argued to himself, and returned to the tent looking as if suffering from some grievous disappointment. aunt nancy was at the flap of the canvas house with an expression of anxiety on her face, but the baby was nowhere to be seen. "where's louis?" jack asked in alarm. "mrs. hayes is taking care of him. i thought it best he shouldn't be seen when mr. pratt came. will he be here soon?" "i couldn't find him; he must have gone home." the little woman's face lighted up wonderfully as she cried,-- "o jack dear, i know it is wicked to say, but i am _so_ glad! it is only right i should bear the burden i myself have caused; but the thought of losing you and the baby almost broke my heart." then she kissed him on both cheeks, and again did he feel the moisture of her tears. "well, aunt nancy, you haven't lost us yet awhile, an' if mr. pratt has gone home that settles the matter for a while." "yes, jack dear, but the sin is yet to be atoned for; it is only a postponement of the evil day." "any way there's no need of worryin' about it now. if, when we get home, you feel that he should know the truth, it won't be much of a job for me to walk over to his house, an' then," jack added with a feeble attempt at a smile, "they won't have so far to carry me when i'm taken to the poor farm." "don't talk in such a manner, my dear, for i am hoping it won't ever come to pass." jack made no reply. he felt quite confident the farmer would insist on his going to the home for paupers, but no good could be done by further distressing the little woman. "i declare i'd entirely forgotten you and i have had no dinner," she suddenly said with a nervous laugh. "i'll get some cold meat and bread, if there is any left; but it is astonishing how strong people's appetites are at the seashore, especially during camp-meeting time. we must get along without coffee, for the deacon fairly swam in that second pot i made." "i don't feel so terribly hungry," jack replied; "but i'll sit down for the sake of seeing you eat. as to the coffee, that don't trouble me; water is good enough for boys." "it is more wholesome i admit; but there's nothing good enough for a dear heart like yours." then the little woman bustled around as jack had seen her do at home, and in a few moments a most appetizing lunch was spread, the amount of food contradicting her fears that all the provisions had been consumed. the two made a hearty meal, considering all their troubles, and when it was concluded jack helped aunt nancy set the tent to rights generally, so when the remainder of the party returned from afternoon services everything was in proper order. mrs. hayes brought louis with her, and after delivering him to jack she said with a sigh of relief,-- "i declare, sister curtis, it is a real pleasure to come to camp meeting with you. it takes the care off of one entirely. i only wish i had your knack at going ahead. now look at me; i'm almost worn out looking after the baby, and don't feel as if i could do a stitch toward getting supper." the other ladies in the party appeared to be in the same condition of prostration, and the little woman, tired though she was from the labor of preparing and serving dinner for so many, meekly replied that she was perfectly willing to give them a rest by performing all the work. jack heard the compliment paid by mrs. hayes, and understood that it had been given only for the purpose of getting the little woman to continue on while the others enjoyed their leisure. "i'm goin' to help you, aunt nancy," he said in a low tone as he went toward the stove where she was making ready to bake some biscuit. "it's too bad for you to do all this work while the others are havin' a good time." "oh, i don't mind it, dear, so long as i can be of service to some one. we are put in this world to help others, and it should be a pleasure." "but you're doin' all instead of helpin'. now tell me what i can do, if you're bound to wait on the whole crowd." "take care of the baby, that will be enough." "he'll stay around here all right," jack replied as he placed the little fellow on the grass, giving him some smooth stones to play with. then he set about assisting aunt nancy, working so industriously that deacon downs said in a tone of faint approbation,-- "that there little hunchback seems right handy if he wants to, an' if he wasn't so given to fightin' it might be a good thing for aunt nancy to have him around; but when once a boy gets as quarrelsome as this one, it ain't much use trying to make anything out of him." the majority of the party were of the same opinion, and from that time forth it was believed, at least by those who were present when the deacon spoke, that jack was a boy who would fight under the slightest provocation. not until the bell had rung as a signal that the evening services were about to begin did jack and aunt nancy cease their labors. the other occupants of the tent had already departed, and the little woman and her assistant were so tired it seemed almost too great an exertion to walk to the auditorium. "why not go to bed?" jack asked. "i'll take care of louis until he gets sleepy, an' then bring him to you." "no, it would be wrong to remain here when so many truths will be presented, simply because i chance to be tired." "then we'll all go"; and jack lifted louis in his arms. aunt nancy enjoyed the services so much that jack was very glad she had come; but as for himself he believed the time would have been quite as profitably spent in sleeping. on the following morning at daybreak deacon downs aroused the hunchback with a harshly spoken command to build the fire and awaken aunt nancy when it was burning. "are you goin' to make her do all the work?" jack asked as he started to his feet. "don't be impudent!" the deacon said sternly, raising his cane threateningly. "learn to do as you are bidden, and in silence." jack made no reply, but felt that the little woman whom he loved so dearly was being imposed upon. as for aunt nancy, she appeared to have no such idea. jack awakened her as he had been told, and she arose from the bed of straw on which she had lain without undressing, uttering no word of protest. "i would have let you sleep till noon, but the deacon told me to, an' was kinder mad when i asked if you'd got to do all the work," jack said, his tones proving there was yet anger in his heart. "you shouldn't have said anything about it, my dear, for it is a pleasure to me." "you try to think it is, but i know it's nothin' more than hard work, while the others are enjoying a long nap." "we won't say any more about it, jack dear. don't you think you could get me some water?" "of course i can"; and jack labored with a will, relieving the tired-looking little woman whenever it was possible. the second day at camp meeting was spent by these two in much the same manner as the first, as regards work, and louis received very little attention. jack, in obedience to aunt nancy's request, looked again for mr. pratt, but with no better success than before; and after dinner he washed the dishes in order that the little woman might attend the afternoon services. it was a decided relief to him when the day came on which they were to return home. he knew aunt nancy had worked too hard, and the bustle and confusion tired him almost as much as the labor. gladly he helped gather up the empty baskets, and when the three were on the cars being whirled rapidly toward home, the little woman said with a sigh of relief,-- "what a comfort it will be to find ourselves on the farm once more, jack dear! i believe i am getting too old to go to such places, and a week's rest wouldn't be too much to make me feel like myself again." "if you had gone alone, without tryin' to run a boardin'-house for them who didn't care whether you had any fun or not, it would have been different." "you don't look at the matter in the proper light, my child. they've always been accustomed to having aunt nancy go at such times, and i couldn't disappoint them as long as i was able to hold up my head." jack realized it was useless to continue this conversation, so far as convincing the little woman that she had been imposed upon was concerned, and he remained silent. never before had the farm looked so beautiful, either to jack or the little woman, as when they arrived home that night, and during the evening devotions aunt nancy's thankfulness was made apparent by the fervently spoken words. the hunchback's first care, after opening the house, was to visit the barn to assure himself old crumple-horn had been well taken care of; but he could not gain much information in the darkness. the animal was lying in her stall, and appeared to be in good condition. notwithstanding the fact that the house had been closed four days, the search for burglars was made before retiring, and then jack, after seeing louis tucked snugly in aunt nancy's bed, went to his cosey little room feeling confident he would never again have any desire to attend another camp meeting. when the morning came he went out with a light heart to milk the cow, but to his great surprise still found her lying down. all in vain did he urge her to get up; she refused to move, nor would she pay any attention to the tempting lunch of sweet clover he placed in front of her. running back to the house he summoned aunt nancy, and both spent fully an hour alternately coaxing and petting the animal. "she is very sick, jack dear, there can be no question about that," the little woman said as her eyes filled with tears. "it would grieve me if she should die, for i have owned her a long while." "how many years?" "i hardly know; but it can't be less than eighteen." "then she must be dying of old age." "i will go right over to daniel chick's and ask him to come here. he's a master hand at doctoring animals." then before jack could offer to go in her steady aunt nancy started down the lane bareheaded, which showed how deeply she felt the possible loss of her pet. in a short time mr. chick arrived with the little woman, and his verdict brought no relief to aunt nancy's heart. "all you can do is to knock her in the head, for she'll never get up again. it's kinder tough on you, i'll admit, for that cow has been a powerful help, 'specially when the summer boarders are here; but it won't do any good to fret." aunt nancy made no reply, but walked slowly to the house as if desirous of being alone. "she feels mighty bad i allow," mr. chick continued, speaking to jack. "i've said many times i didn't know how aunt nancy would get along if it wasn't for the cow, an' now i reckon she'll be eatin' her bread without butter." "what will she do when the boarders come?" "that's what i don't know"; and mr. chick walked away as if he had no further concern in the matter. jack sat down where he could watch crumple-horn and at the same time think over this disaster which had come to the little woman. while he was trying to form some plan, the poor old cow laid her head on the sweet-scented clover, gave a few short gasps, and ceased breathing as if from sheer weariness. jack stood over her a moment, and then returned to the house, arriving there just as aunt nancy was emerging with louis in her arms. "i wouldn't go out there"; and he motioned toward the barn. aunt nancy looked at him an instant, appearing to understand what he meant, for she re-entered the house, leaving jack on the doorstep in a profound study. he could hear louis's voice from the "fore-room" now and then, therefore it was not necessary to tell him the little woman had gone there to hide her grief. "i must do something" he said to himself, "an' what i first thought of seems to be the only show." then going to the door of the "fore-room" and knocking gently, he said in a low tone,-- "aunt nancy, could you spare me a little while?" "where are you bound, jack?" "i'd like to run down to treat's store if you don't care." aunt nancy opened the door, and jack noticed her eyes were red from weeping. "what is your idea of going there?" she asked in surprise. "i've got some business that i'd rather not explain till i get back." "there's nothing to prevent, my child, and i can trust you not to do anything wrong." "i should hope you could," jack replied emphatically. "you shall know all about it when i come home." "don't try to walk too fast, but return as soon as your business is finished." jack promised to do so, and was hurrying up the lane when the little woman stopped him with these words:-- "i wish you would call at daniel chick's and tell him what has happened. it will be necessary to bury poor old crumple-horn, and he must attend to it." "i'll ask him to come over right away"; and jack resumed his journey, wondering whether he was on the point of doing that for which aunt nancy would censure him. "it doesn't make any difference whether she does or not," he said to himself. "if i told her she wouldn't let me go, so this is the only way to fix it." chapter xix. jack's proposition. jack called at mr. chick's house, saw that gentleman and got his promise to bury old crumple-horn at once, after which he continued on past bill dean's home, fearing no trouble from him since he was yet at the camp grounds. on arriving at the store he found mr. treat alone, and was greeted with the question,-- "hello! here's aunt nancy's young man! how's the old lady after her trip to the grove?" "she is well, but tired." "i'll warrant that. when folks want to go off for a good time they invite nancy curtis, reckonin' she'll do whatever work there is without grumblin', an' they ain't far out of the way, either. did the deacon get his full share of that mocha she bought?" "i don't know, sir; but i guess so, i didn't hear him findin' fault." "then you can count on his havin' been filled up; _he_ don't buy very much of that kind of coffee when it's him as has to foot the bills." jack had no interest in this subject, and changed it abruptly by saying,-- "aunt nancy's cow died this mornin'." "sho! how'd that happen?" "mr. chick thought it must be old age." "well i reckon it was. that cow has been in the family quite a spell." "it'll be hard on aunt nancy not to have the milk." "i 'low you're 'bout right, sonny; it helped make up a good bit of the old woman's livin', an' she hasn't so much money but that a dollar makes a big difference." "that's true, an' i've come to see if i can't help her out in some way." "you?" and mr. treat looked up in surprise. "why, i thought you hadn't any great amount of cash on hand." "and i haven't; but i thought perhaps i might make a trade with you." "want to have a dicker of some kind, eh? well, what have you got to show up?" and mr. treat selected from a pile of pine wood a convenient stick to whittle, as he assumed a more comfortable attitude preparatory to indulging in his favorite pastime of "dickering." "i haven't got anything, sir; but thought there might be work i could do around here till i'd earned enough to buy aunt nancy another cow." jack stammered and hesitated until it was a positive pleasure both to himself and the storekeeper when the speech was finally ended. "what can you do?" mr. treat asked thoughtfully as he fashioned with infinite care the bit of wood into a toothpick. "almost anything, sir. i'd be willin' to work very hard if i could get the job." "have you got any idea what the jobs 'round here might be?" "it don't make any difference; i'm not afraid of bucklin' down to them." "how much do you count on earnin'?" "i want to get enough to buy a cow for aunt nancy." "do you know what one is worth?" "no, sir." mr. treat was silent for a moment as if revolving some very weighty matter in his mind, and said slowly,-- "i've got jest sich a cow as would suit aunt nancy; she's a good one, an' i wouldn't like to part with her for nothin'. now, if you'd do the chores 'round here this summer, an' she would put in some of the money i owe for the wheat, we might strike a trade." "but i don't want her to pay anything." "thought you could do it all yourself, eh?" "i hoped so," jack replied in a tone of disappointment. "why, i don't reckon you'd earn it in a year. i'd want forty dollars at the very lowest figger for my cow, an' it would take a mighty smart boy to git that much in twelve months." jack could no longer conceal his feelings, and, seeing he was pained because of the failure of his plans, mr. treat continued in what he intended should be a soothing tone,-- "i'd be willin' to allow you twenty dollars for a summer's work previdin' you'd board yourself at aunt nancy's. then she'd only be called on to pay as much more, an' have twice as good a cow as the one that's dead." "how long do you say the summer should last?" "well, i wouldn't be hard on you, an' we'd call it quits by the middle of november." "how much of that time would it be necessary for me to stay in the store?" "from five o'clock in the mornin' till nine at night, the same as is expected of other boys." it was the last blow to jack's hopes. his duty to louis would prevent him from remaining in this section of the country such a length of time, and it was essential he should assist aunt nancy in order to pay her for the food he and louis consumed. "well, what do you think of it?" mr. treat asked, as the boy stood irresolutely for a moment. "i couldn't because i can't stay here as long as that, and, besides, i must do something for aunt nancy to earn our board." "that's right, my boy. there's no harm done because we didn't make a trade; but it shows i'm willin' to help along all i can in a case like this." "i'm much obliged to you," jack replied faintly, and then he started up the road once more, walking decidedly faster than when he came. he had counted on being able to ease the sorrow in aunt nancy's mind by buying for her a cow as good as the one she had lost. he was revolving in his mind half a dozen plans by which the desired result might be attained, when a voice from the opposite side of the road caused him to halt. "how's aunt nancy by this time?" it was mr. souders who spoke, and because that gentleman had been so kind to him on the day when the sewing circle met at the little woman's house, he decided to tell him the whole story, not from any expectation of receiving assistance, but in order to relieve his mind. mr. souders listened attentively to all he had to say, and then replied,-- "treat was trying to swindle you. his cow isn't worth ten dollars, to say nothing of forty, an' he wasn't over an' above anxious to give you too much for your work. let the matter drop a couple of days an' i'll see what can be done. we mustn't allow aunt nancy to suffer." there was a world of encouragement in the gentleman's tones, and jack felt as if half his troubles had already been removed. "i'm willin' to do anything i can towards earnin' the money to buy one; but louis an' i mustn't stay here till november, an' i don't want her to use her own money." "that will be all right, my lad. go home now, an' i'll see you later." jack's heart was quite light when he walked swiftly down the lane leading to the tiny house, but became heavy again when he saw the little woman's face. it was evident aunt nancy was mourning deeply the loss of her pet, and the cripple felt that as yet he had nothing tangible to assuage her grief. she looked up inquiringly as he approached, but he offered no explanation regarding his journey until the question had been asked directly, and then said hesitatingly,-- "i would rather not tell you, aunt nancy. i thought i might be able to do something, but it was a failure, an' the less we say about it the better." "jack dear," and the little woman was very grave, "when a boy can't tell his friends what he has been doing it looks as if there was something of which to be ashamed." "but in this case there isn't, aunt nancy; cross my throat if there is." "i believe you, my child, but would have much preferred if there had been perfect confidence between us." jack looked up in positive alarm. the little woman's tone was so different from what he had ever heard before when she was addressing him, that he actually felt frightened. "i'll tell you all about it," he said quickly; but aunt nancy held up her hand to prevent his saying anything more. "if it is something which you wish to keep a secret from me i don't want to hear it." now jack was distressed, for there could be no question but that he had displeased his best friend. "please listen to me, aunt nancy. i did say i wasn't going to tell you, because i thought perhaps you'd think i was meddlin'. that is, you might have thought so after i failed; but if the thing had gone through all right you'd been glad." then, disregarding entirely her gestures for him to remain silent, he told all the story save that relating to his interview with mr. souders. it was yet possible old crumple-horn's place would be filled, but he believed it best not to raise any false hopes. when he concluded aunt nancy took his face in her hands, bending his head over until she could kiss his cheeks, when she said in a tremulous voice,-- "jack, you are a dear, good boy, and have been a blessing to me from the hour you first came into this house; but you must not think of taking any such load upon your shoulders. i would not have permitted it even had you been able to make a satisfactory bargain with mr. treat, and that is what no person has ever done before to my knowledge. it was not right to keep from me anything you wished to do, and it is proven in this case, for if i had known what you thought of attempting, i could have explained how useless it would be." "it didn't seem so to me, aunt nancy, and i surely believed i could earn more than twenty dollars by working all summer." "not for such a man as the storekeeper. now you will be obliged to walk over to daniel chick's twice each day for milk, and that will be more labor than taking care of poor old crumple-horn." "perhaps you may get another cow, aunt nancy." "it is impossible, at least during this year. i spent more money at camp meeting than i could afford, and must now pay the penalty when the summer boarders come by being forced to buy both milk and butter. it will make a big hole in my earnings." now that there was no cow to care for, the work in jack's particular department was very light, and, as he said to aunt nancy, it seemed as if he had hardly begun before the whole was done. the walk to daniel chick's was not as pleasant as taking care of old crumple-horn, and besides, he would be forced to pass bill dean's house twice each day, a fact which caused him no little disquietude; but he said nothing regarding this to aunt nancy. the following forty-eight hours passed very quietly on the farm. the little woman was so thoroughly tired from her labors at camp meeting that she did not have the ambition to bustle around as usual, and the greater portion of her time was spent with jack in the garden. it is probable that no collection of vegetables ever received more care than was bestowed by these enthusiastic gardeners. the smallest weed was detected and instantly pulled up by aunt nancy, while jack loosened the ground around the roots of each tiny plant until it seemed certain they would be dwarfed. much to jack's discomfort, hardly an hour passed when the little woman did not make some reference to mr. pratt, and constantly bewailed the fact that she failed to see him. "but it wasn't your fault i couldn't find him, aunt nancy," jack finally said. "i suppose not; but yet it seems as if my cowardice had something to do with it." "you know that couldn't be so, aunt nancy; but if you want me to i'll walk over to his house. it ain't so terribly far." this proposition had the effect of reducing the little woman to silence, and during three or four hours louis' guardian heard nothing regarding the man whom he had every reason to consider an enemy. late on the afternoon of the third day after he had talked with mr. souders, that gentleman's wife drove up, and instead of alighting to call upon aunt nancy, said quite sharply,-- "samuel wanted me to drive over here for jack." "why, what is the matter?" the little woman asked in alarm. "nothing very serious, nancy curtis, so don't begin to fret. sam always was full of whims, an' i reckon this is one of 'em." jack fancied he knew what was wanted, and his heart was very light when he clambered into the wagon. "i'll come right back," he cried, as the carriage rolled away, and aunt nancy sat looking at louis as if speechless with astonishment. "is it about the cow?" jack asked of mrs. souders, who sat stiff as a statue and quite as forbidding looking, holding the reins tightly in both hands, and paying no attention to the cripple. she nodded her head, and jack could not but wonder if she thought her breath too valuable to be wasted in words. this was the extent of the conversation during the ride of ten minutes or more, and the hunchback felt decidedly relieved when it came to an end. mrs. souders, silent and stern, was quite as disagreeable a companion as mrs. souders angry. the cause of his having thus been summoned was, as he had hoped, a cow. in the yard, with a halter on her head and a card tied to her horn, stood a meek-eyed animal which jack thought a model of her kind. mr. souders came from the shed as the hunchback alighted, and cried in his hearty, cheery voice,-- "what do you think of that, lad? talk about treat's cow; why, she can't hold a candle side of this one, and there was a big difference in the price." "is it for aunt nancy?" "sartin, an' i sent for you to lead her over to the little woman." "but who's to pay for her?" "that part of the transaction has been settled already, an' all you have to do now, is to take the creater away." "but i wanted to do somethin' toward buyin' her." "so you have, my boy. can you read writin'?" "not very well." "then come here while i tell you what's on the card. i got one of daniel chick's daughters to fix it up so's it would be kerrect." then mr. souders, after wiping his glasses lest a single word should escape his attention, read the following:-- "to aunt nancy curtis from jack dudley, to whom this cow was presented by sarah souders, in token of her regret for the unkind treatment which he received at her hands." "you see," mr. souders explained confidentially as he finished reading the inscription, "mother has been sorry about what happened over to aunt nancy's, jest as i said she would be, an' this is kind of a peace-offerin' to you, at the same time a good turn is done the old woman." "then no one else paid for the cow? your wife did the whole thing?" "i may have chipped in a bit; but that don't count. its mother's present to you an' aunt nancy, an' i'm right glad of the chance to help the little woman along. she'd be in mighty hard lines this summer if she had to buy butter an' milk." jack hardly knew what to do or say. he was delighted almost beyond bounds at being able to take the cow to aunt nancy, and at the same time it seemed necessary he should thank mrs. souders, but was at a loss to know how it was to be done. "where is your wife?" he asked after a pause. "in the house, an' i reckon she's locked the door. better not try to say anything to her. mother's peculiar, an' flies off dreadfully sometimes, but her heart's in the right place, my boy, which makes up for a good many faults. lead the creater home now, an' i'll venter to say you'll enjoy seein' aunt nancy dance when she knows its hers." jack would have attempted to thank mr. souders, but the gentleman prevented him by unfastening the cow's halter, and insisting that the animal be led away at once. chapter xx. bill dean. jack was a very proud boy when he came down the lane to the farmhouse leading the docile animal by the halter. he hoped to reach the door before aunt nancy should see him; but the little woman was sitting under the old oak wondering what business mr. souders had on hand which required the cripple's presence. he was half way from the main road to the house when she saw him, and cried in astonishment,-- "bless my soul, jack, have you been and made a trade with mr. treat after what i said?" "indeed i haven't! jest wait till you see what's on this beauty's horn, an' then you'll know all about it." aunt nancy could not curb her curiosity until the animal was led in, but ran forward with louis in her arms, jack stopping the cow that she might read that which was written on the card. the little woman was bewildered. she could hardly realize the animal was a present until jack repeated again and again what mr. souders had said, and then it was the hunchback's turn to be bewildered, for instead of expressing her gratitude, she sat down on the grass, regardless of possible stains to her dress, and began to cry heartily. "why, i thought you'd be glad," jack said in a tone of disappointment, while louis pulled at the little woman's ringlets to show his sympathy for what seemed to be grief. "so--so--so i am--jack dear; but--but--it doesn't seem right that people should do so--so--so much for me." "it wouldn't be enough if they'd sent a thousand cows." "but for you i might never have had poor old crumple-horn replaced." "of course you would. that was wrote on the card only to make me feel better about what mrs. souders did; but she'd given you this all the same." aunt nancy refused to look at it in that light, and jack became confused at being overwhelmed with thanks. the little woman insisted on tracing the gift directly to his visit to treat's store, thus giving him nearly all the credit, until the conversation became really painful. "let's take her out to the pasture, for she must be hungry by this time," he said, as a means of putting an end to the words of gratitude which he believed were undeserved. this aroused aunt nancy to a sense of the situation as nothing else could have done, for the thought that anything around her might be suffering would always cause her to forget herself, and she followed jack, who had lifted louis to the cow's back to give him a ride. it was a sort of triumphal procession which halted at the pasture bars in order that aunt nancy might inspect more closely her new pet. "seems wrong to say anything disparaging of poor old crumple-horn after she has served me faithfully for so many years, but i must confess this cow looks as if she might be a better milker." "i'll bet she's the best in town," jack replied enthusiastically, as he pulled clover for the gentle animal to eat. "not quite that, jack dear, for deacon downs has a jersey that leads everything." "at any rate his cow can't be as kind as this one." "that may be," aunt nancy replied meditatively as she kissed the fawn colored nose. "i do really think we couldn't have found a better substitute for poor old crumple-horn." then the animal was examined critically, without a single flaw having been found, and not until half an hour was spent in this manner could she be allowed to enter the pasture. aunt nancy thought it her duty to see mrs. souders at the earliest opportunity in order to thank her for the gift, and decided to do so on the following morning when the breakfast dishes had been cleared away. jack went to clean the stall in the barn for the new cow's occupancy, and was working industriously when he fancied he heard a cry of distress coming from the direction of the duck pond. his first thought was that louis had strayed again, but on looking out, both he and the little woman were seen under the big oak, apparently as happy and contented as well could be. believing he had been deceived by his fancy, he resumed the work, but only to stop an instant later as the cries sounded more distinct. this time there could be no mistake, and he ran toward aunt nancy as he asked,-- "do you hear that noise? i'm goin' to see what it means." as he went rapidly across the fields without waiting for a reply, the little woman followed him, but her pace was slow because of having the baby in her arms. the cries continued almost incessantly, and by them jack was guided to a clump of large trees standing near one end of the pond within a few yards of the spot where louis had been set adrift on the raft. it was not necessary to search long for the sufferer. lying on the ground, held firmly down by a huge limb of a tree which had fallen across his breast in such a manner that he could not use his arms, was bill dean. his face was pale, whether from pain or fear jack had no means of ascertaining, for the boy did not wait to be questioned, but cried piteously,-- "o hunchie, help me outer this scrape an' i won't ever play tricks on you agin!" this promise was not necessary to enlist jack's sympathy. it was a boy in agony and not an enemy he saw before him; the only question in his mind was how the rescue could be effected. "lay still, an' i'll do the best i can; but it may hurt a little more when i try to lift the limb." kneeling that he might get his shoulder under one end of the heavy branch, jack tried to raise it, but in vain. he was making the second effort, bill moaning piteously meanwhile, when aunt nancy arrived, and she, like jack, thought only of relieving suffering. "where are you hurt, william?" she asked anxiously. "i don't know, but it seems as if the ache was all over my body." "how did the accident happen?" "i was choppin' this limb off to build a new raft, an' it fell on me." "can you lift it, jack dear?" "i'm afraid not; it's terribly heavy." "let me help you." the two strained and tugged all to no purpose, when, as he paused to regain his breath and wipe the perspiration from his face, jack said,-- "i could cut away part of it if i had an axe." "mine is around here somewhere," bill said with a groan. jack soon found the tool, and, working very cautiously lest he should cause the sufferer yet more pain, chopped here and there to remove the larger twigs, while aunt nancy bathed bill's pale face with her handkerchief wetted in the pond. [illustration: "where are you hurt, william?" asked aunt nancy anxiously.--page .] it required nearly half an hour of the most fatiguing labor to perform the task, and then jack said as he threw down the axe,-- "when i lift on this end you must try to pull him out, aunt nancy." the first attempt was a failure, but at the second the little woman succeeded, and bill was drawn from his uncomfortable position looking decidedly the worse for wear. "can you stand up?" aunt nancy asked solicitously as she brushed the dirt from bill's hands, and little louis patted his cheek to show he wished to take some part in the rescue, even though it only was to display sympathy. "i'll try," master dean said meekly, and, with the aid of aunt nancy and jack, the sorrowful looking bully arose to his feet. it was positive the bones of his legs were not broken, for he stood erect without difficulty, and, this having been ascertained, aunt nancy proceeded to make a careful examination of his arms and chest. "i do not believe you are seriously injured, william," she said with a sigh of relief. "there can be no doubt but that you will be very lame for a few days; you must bear with it, and thank your father it is no worse." "my father didn't have anything to do with it. he'd given me jesse if he knowed i was here cuttin' down the tree." "i mean your father in heaven, william, who watches over even the sparrow's fall." bill looked rather shamefaced at having made such a mistake, and said as he turned half away from his rescuers,-- "i told hunchie i wouldn't bother him any more if he'd help me out, an' i'm goin' to stick to my promise." "it would have been much better if you had arrived at that conclusion before you were in need of assistance," aunt nancy replied gravely. "one should do right because it is his duty, and not as a reward to others." "what's the matter now?" bill asked in surprise. "do you want me to keep on roughin' it into him?" "certainly not, and i am glad you made the promise. what i meant was that it would have been better had you done so because you wished to." "but i didn't till now." "we won't speak of it further now. go home and ask your mother to rub the bruises with liniment. when you feel inclined i would like to have you come to see jack and me." "i ain't goin' 'round to be preached at," bill replied in his old defiant tone. "there was enough of that at camp meetin' to last a feller a month." "i did not see you at the services." "once i had to go when mother caught me jest as the bell was ringin', an' its the last time i'll get in the same box." aunt nancy shook her head sadly. she was discouraged, but not so much as to give up the struggle, for it was her intention to renew it again at a more "convenient season." "we had best go back, jack dear, and william will come to-morrow to tell us how he feels. "i ain't so sure 'bout that, if you're goin' to stuff a feller with a lot of sabbath-school talk," bill said sulkily, as he picked up the axe and started across the fields without further thanks to his kind friends. "he doesn't seem like a very good boy at heart," aunt nancy said sadly, as she raised louis in her arms; "but we must not judge by outward appearances. i almost feel condemned for saying anything when my own sin has not been atoned for. my mind would be much easier if i had seen mr. pratt at the meeting." "it won't take long to fix that," jack replied, noting with sorrow the look of pain which had come over the little woman's face. "it will do jest as well if i go there an' tell him what you wanted to say." "but then you would be where they could easily carry you to the poor farm." "well, s'posen they did, what would that 'mount to side of makin' you feel good? besides, don't you believe mr. souders could make them let me out?" "perhaps he might; i never thought of that." "i'll leave here to-morrow mornin', an' by night be there." "bless your heart, child, i would never think of letting you walk that long distance. if we should make up our minds that it was best to go, and i wish i _could_ have the strength to say it, you'd ride in the cars." "why not decide now?" "because, jack dear, it nearly breaks my heart to think there is a possibility of being obliged to give you up." "well, s'posen we go home an' talk the thing over some other time," jack said with an assumption of cheerfulness which was far from natural. he had suddenly conceived a plan by which the little woman could be relieved without the pain of deciding that it should be so, and there was no more than sufficient time to put it into execution. aunt nancy walked back to the house in a meditative mood, jack talking about the cow and kindred topics to prevent her mind from dwelling upon the dreaded subject. he at once set about doing the chores in an unusually careful manner when they arrived home. a large quantity of wood was brought into the kitchen, an extra amount of water drawn, and the cow given a generous lunch of clover after she had been driven into the stable. "why do you do so much unnecessary work, jack dear?" aunt nancy asked. "there will be nothing left for morning, and it is bad to have 'idle hands.'" "i may as well fix everything now, for you know what you said about puttin' off till to-morrow. say, aunt nancy, would you lend me a lead pencil an' a piece of paper?" "of course, my child. are you going to write a letter?" "yes, aunt nancy, an' you shall see it in the mornin'." "better sit down at the kitchen table. if writing is as much of a task for you as it is for me, you'll need every possible convenience." "i had rather do it in my room, for you see i don't know very much about such things, an' it'll come mighty hard, but you won't care if it don't look very nice, will you?" "certainly not, my child. it could only annoy me because i have not taken advantage of our leisure time to teach you the little i know." "you are always blamin' yourself, aunt nancy, an' i don't like to hear it. i wouldn't let anybody else talk that way about you." for reply the little woman patted the boy on the cheek, and then proposed the nightly search for burglars be made. after the evening devotions aunt nancy gave jack the articles he had asked for, and was considerably surprised by the warmth of the boy's good-night salute. once in his room, jack set about what was for him a formidable task, and it was late before he completed the following:-- "dear aunt nancy i am goin to sea the farmer & tell him you r sorry if i dont come back u will no where i am but dont fel bad four i luv u. i carnt stop to milk jack dudley ure jack dear." when this had been done jack looked around the little room as if taking leave of all it contained, wiped a suspicious moisture from his eyes, and then dressed, but with his shoes in his hands, crept softly down the stairs. the ticking of the clock sounded strangely loud and unnatural; the silence, save for this clicking noise, was oppressive, and he felt as if he was about to commit some crime against the woman who had befriended him. "it's got to be done, an' i mustn't stand here worryin' about it, or i might back out," he said to himself. it was necessary he should think of aunt nancy's self accusations and sorrow before he could nerve himself to raise the window. he took this method of departing rather than by the door, for he feared the little woman would be alarmed on learning she had remained in the house a portion of the night without every place of egress being securely fastened. once outside he gazed around several moments, taking in all the details of the place where he had spent so many pleasant days, and then, putting on his shoes, he started up the lane with a heart so heavy it seemed a positive burden. the moon shone faintly through the clouds; the night wind murmured mournfully among the trees, and before him could dimly be seen the road he believed led him to the paupers' home by way of mr. pratt's house. chapter xxi. startling information. realizing that he had a long walk before him, jack continued on at a steady pace keeping ever in mind the good he hoped to accomplish. he did not dare dwell upon the possible ending to the journey lest he should grow faint-hearted, but tried to persuade himself there would be some way by which he might escape the threatened ignominy. by starting at midnight, he expected to arrive at scarborough early in the day, and then, in case farmer pratt did not attempt to detain him, it would be possible to return to the farm before sunset. it was not believed he would meet any travellers at that hour, and the loneliness, when the shadows danced to and fro athwart the road like fairy-land monsters, was so great as to make him repent ever having attempted the undertaking. as the curtain of night was slowly removed, and the heralds of the coming morn appeared in the sky, his drooping spirits revived. he listened with interest to the sounds which proclaimed that day was awakening. the birds in their leafy homes began to discuss the propriety of going out in search of the "early worm." the frogs from the watery dwellings called to their children that it was time to be up and doing unless they wanted to remain tadpoles forever, and the wind which came "out of the sea" whispered: awake! it is the day. the leaves bowed and courtesied, the waving grasses bent yet lower their heads, the flowers brought out their sweetest perfumes, and all nature was quivering with excitement because the kindly sun was about to show himself once more. then as the first golden rays of light shot across the sky and the birds burst forth into song, jack felt a certain sense of relief. the words which he had heard aunt nancy speak so often came to his mind, and he repeated over and over again, understanding the meaning better than ever before,-- "he doeth all things well." it was but a little past eight o'clock when he turned the corner which led to farmer pratt's house, and the first person he saw was none other than master tom. "hello! where'd you come from?" that young gentleman cried in surprise. "down the road a bit." "why didn't you git back before? father's been lookin' almost everywhere for you an' the baby." "is he still huntin'?" "no, he gave it up as a bad job a good while ago, for there's no chance of gettin' the reward now." "the reward?" jack asked in surprise. "yes; you see the baby's mother went away from portland, an' father don't allow there's anybody in town who cares very much about it after so long a time." "louis' mother in portland?" jack cried, rapidly growing bewildered. "of course; father went in to see her after he made up his mind you'd gone away; but she wasn't there, so he said it would pay him better to 'tend to the farm instead of runnin' 'round after you fellers." jack's eyes were opened wide with astonishment, and tom began to think the hunchback had taken leave of his senses. "what's the matter with you?" he asked sharply, and jack replied slowly,-- "i can't make out how mrs. littlefield happened to be in portland when the last i saw of her was on the 'atlanta.' why, the ship was goin' to bremen!" "she come inside the breakwater after you went adrift. it's all in the papers father's got." "why didn't you tell me about it?" jack asked reproachfully. "how could i when we didn't know where you was? me an' father hunted all 'round, but couldn't find hide nor hair of either you or the baby." "was your father tryin' to send us back to mrs. littlefield?" "sure, 'cause he wanted to earn the reward." "an' i've been keepin' out of his way when i might have given louis back to his mother long ago!" jack cried in dismay. "you oughter knowed better." "how could i when he'd threatened to send us to the poor farm?" "but he didn't." "he told aunt nancy so." "who's she?" "a lady we've been livin' with. say, tom, have you got the papers that tell about mrs. littlefield huntin' for us?" "there's a whole slat of 'em down to the house. father spent more'n twenty cents buyin' whatever had anything in it about you." "will you give me one?" "of course. i know they ain't any good, for i heard him say he'd thrown away jest so much money on the pesky things." "let's go right down an' get one," jack cried excitedly as he tried to quicken tom's movements by pulling at his arm. master pratt was not a boy who could be hurried; he objected to moving quickly upon any occasion, however important, and said irritably,-- "don't yank a feller 'round so; if i go back now i'm afraid father'll be there an' set me to work." "i'll help you if he does." "a feller like you wouldn't 'mount to much haulin' rock-weed," tom said scornfully. "but i'll help as much as i can. _do_ go, tom; only think what it means to louis! his mother will soon find him if i can take one of the papers back to aunt nancy." "how do you make that out?" "she'd see where to write to mrs. littlefield, an' that would settle the whole thing." "well, i'll go," master pratt said with an air such as he fancied a martyr should wear; "but it's goin' to be mighty hard if i'm set to work after gettin' so far away from home." jack hurried him along as fast as possible, which at the best was a slow pace, and, on arriving at the pratt farm, tom reconnoitred several minutes, determined not to enter the house if his father was on the premises. mr. pratt was nowhere to be seen, and tom whispered,-- "you stay here while i run in an' get it. mother may be mad if she sees you hangin' 'round after father has blowed us up so much for lettin' you go away." jack hid himself behind a clump of hollyhocks, and in a few moments tom came back with two papers which showed signs of having been subjected to hard usage. "put 'em in your pocket, an' let's skip." jack was about to act upon this suggestion when it suddenly occurred to him that, in the excitement caused by learning louis' mother was searching for her child, he had forgotten the reason for his visit. "i've got to see your father before i leave," he said. "what for? he won't be very pleasant after losin' all the money the captain's wife was willin' to pay." "i can't help that. i'm here with a message from aunt nancy, an' it must be delivered." "i guess you'll find him down in the potato patch, but i ain't fool enough to go with you. hurry up, an' i'll see you on the road, for i reckon you count on goin' back to that aunt nancy." "of course, an' i must be there as soon as possible." tom pointed out the location of the field, and jack started across the ploughed land feeling very light at heart, because it now seemed probable louis would soon find his mother. farmer pratt was not aware he had a visitor until jack had approached within a couple of yards, and said in a voice which was decidedly shaky,-- "good mornin', sir." "hello! it's you, eh?" "yes, sir," jack replied, as if believing the gentleman wished for an answer. "well, you young scoundrel, what have you to say for yourself after cheatin' me out of one hundred dollars? answer me that, you misshapen villain!" "i didn't cheat you, sir." "don't contradict me, you miserable cripple, or as sure's my name's nathan pratt i'll strike you with this hoe!" jack started back in alarm as the farmer raised the tool, and then, hoping to bring the interview to a speedy close, said timidly,-- "i came here, sir, to tell you that aunt nancy is awful sorry she acted a lie when you were at the house huntin' for us. she can't be easy in her mind till she's confessed, an' as she couldn't walk so far i've come in her place." "is that the little woman up on the saco road with a couple of curls an' a mighty sharp tongue?" "she's got two curls." "i know her! so she lied to me, eh?" "not exactly, sir, for you didn't ask straight out if we were there; but she's awful good and thinks by not tellin' everything it was the same as a lie, so i come over here to tell you she's sorry." "so she ought to be, the vixen! the idea of a little drop of vinegar like her keepin' that baby away from his mother!" "did you know, then, that louis' mother was huntin' for him?" "of course i did, or else why would i have gone gallivantin' 'round the country lookin' for him?" "then why didn't you tell her? she'd been only too glad to hear from mrs. littlefield, but you made her believe we'd got to be took to the poor farm." the farmer glared at jack for an instant, and then it flashed across his mind that the cause of his losing the reward was the lie he told to aunt nancy. this was not a consoling thought to one who had mourned so deeply over the loss of the prospective money as had mr. pratt, and the only relief he could find was in scolding jack. the cripple listened to his angry words a few seconds, and then, knowing no good could come of waiting, said as he walked away,-- "i only came over here to tell you aunt nancy was sorry, an' there's no need of stayin' any longer after you know it." "i'll have her arrested for swindlin' me outer that money!" "she didn't do anything of the kind, an' it's all your own fault you lost it," jack cried, emboldened by the knowledge that he was at a safe distance from the angry man. the farmer shook his fist at the cripple in impotent rage, and jack hurried out to the road where tom was waiting to receive him. "what was goin' on down there?" master pratt asked eagerly. "i heard him hollerin' awful." "it wasn't much. your father was kinder mad, but i guess he'll get over it pretty soon." "i hope so, for he's been scoldin' about losin' the money ever since he first saw the papers. where are you goin' now?" "home." "why don't you hold on a while an' get rested?" "it won't do to stop; aunt nancy'll be worryin' about me, an', besides, we've got to send a letter to louis' mother right away." tom insisted that after the service he had rendered it would be nothing more than a friendly act for the cripple to remain and chat a while, but jack would listen to nothing of the kind. despite his weariness he set out on the return journey at once, but with a lighter heart than when he left aunt nancy's home. it was dark when he came down the lane and found the little woman sitting under the old oak. "o jack dear!" she cried in tones of mingled joy and surprise. "it's really you, and that hard-hearted farmer didn't send you to the poor farm. but perhaps you couldn't find him," she added as the thought occurred to her. "yes i did, an' i told him you was sorry." then jack related the incidents of his journey, reserving until the last the startling news which promised to restore louis to his parents' arms. aunt nancy alternately laughed and cried when she heard the story, and at its conclusion said,-- "what a lesson that should be to us, jack dear. if i hadn't acted the lie louis would have seen his mother just so much sooner, and i have been the means of making the poor woman's heart ache longer than was necessary. you thought it wasn't a sin because i didn't _speak_ the words which formed the falsehood, and yet you can now see that increased trouble has been brought about by it." "but mr. pratt told a reg'lar lie." "that doesn't excuse me in the slightest. if every person in the world spoke falsely i couldn't plead that it gave me a right to do so. but come into the house and get something to eat. you must be nearly famished as well as tired." "a slice of bread and butter wouldn't taste bad. where's louis?" "i put him to bed an hour ago," the little woman replied as she led the way in. "after i set the table i'll read the papers you brought so we can find out what's to be done to let that poor woman know where her baby is." jack insisted there was no reason why the table should be laid for him, but aunt nancy would not listen to his proposition of taking the food in his hands. she set out some of the best crockery, and in it placed as tempting a lunch as the most fastidious boy could have asked for. then as jack ate she read the accounts of the accident on board the "atlanta." "it doesn't state here where the captain lives," she said after a while, "but i think i know how we can find mrs. littlefield. i will write a letter to the editor of the paper asking for her address, or perhaps it would save time to send one to her and get him to address it." "the last plan is the best," jack said after some thought. "then i'll write at once, and you shall take it to the post office the first thing in the morning." it was late before the little woman finished what was to her a hard task, and then she thanked her father for his wondrous goodness and mercy in allowing that her sin brought forth no other evil than the delay in restoring the baby to his mother's arms. chapter xxii. the arrival. bright and early on the following morning jack set out for the post office with the letter, and mr. treat would have resumed the "dicker" for the cow immediately after his arrival, but the hunchback prevented him by saying,-- "i don't want to buy one now. mrs. souders gave aunt nancy a handsome creature, and that is all she needs." "sho! you don't mean to tell me sarah souders gave one right out?" "that's what she did." "then all i can say is, it's a case of fool an' her money soon parted. why shouldn't aunt nancy pay for things the same as anybody else?" "she hadn't the money." "there's where you make a mistake, for we haven't settled for the wheat yet, an' i've quite a little sum in my hands belongin' to her." "but that must be used in gettin' ready for the summer boarders." "well," mr. treat said with a long-drawn sigh, as if pained because he had been prevented from performing a charitable act, "i can't help it if the old woman wants sich a cow as sarah souders would buy when she can get a good one from me by puttin' out a little money." then the worthy post master took the letter jack handed him, scrutinized it carefully, asked if aunt nancy was thinking of putting an advertisement in the papers for summer boarders, and, on receiving a non-committal answer, finally dropped it in the mail bag. jack had waited to see this last act performed, and when the missive disappeared he hurried home. it so chanced that he did not arrive there as soon as he had expected. while passing mr. dean's house bill came out and hailed him with,-- "say, hunchie, is the old maid waitin' for me to come 'round so she can talk sunday school?" "aunt nancy doesn't do anything of the kind. if you knowed her as well as i do you'd be mighty glad to be where she was." "i ain't sayin' that isn't so, an' don't be s'prised if you see me up there pretty soon." "shall i tell her so?" "no, for it might give the old woman too much of a shock. i only thought i'd let you know so's you wouldn't get frightened when i came inter the yard," and with this remark master dean re-entered the house, probably thinking he had paved the way in a very delicate manner for a visit to the little woman whom he had so often held up to ridicule. now that the important letter had really been sent both aunt nancy and jack were in a nervously expectant frame of mind. they were unable to decide whether the editor of the newspaper or mrs. littlefield would write first, and anxiously they awaited for some tidings. jack went to the post office for every mail, and the little woman actually neglected to wipe imaginary specks of dust from the furniture during three whole days. at the expiration of this time both were startled at seeing daniel chick drive up the lane with a strange lady in his wagon. it was at the close of the afternoon, and the two were sitting under the big oak while louis nestled snugly in the little woman's arms. there was no doubt in aunt nancy's mind as to who the stranger might be when she leaped from the carriage, and, seizing the baby in her arms, covered his face with kisses and tears. "it's the dear little fellow's mother," aunt nancy whispered, as she led jack away, "and it is well to leave her alone for a while. she may be hungry, and we must get supper at once. send daniel chick off while i start the fire." it was not an easy matter to dismiss the driver of the vehicle. he had been unable to extract any information from mrs. littlefield, and wanted to know why she had come to aunt nancy's at least three weeks before the summer boarders should arrive. "it's the baby's mother, and we want to leave her alone," jack replied. "i ain't troublin' of her, am i?" and mr. chick crossed one leg over the other as he gazed at the scene. "no; but aunt nancy said you were to go away now," jack persisted, and then, seeing that the gentleman evinced no disposition to leave, he joined the little woman in the house. supper was ready and on the table before mrs. littlefield could relinquish the baby long enough to ask jack for the particulars of his adventures. then when she came to the door aunt nancy said, as her ringlets, sharing the feelings of the wearer, shook with suppressed excitement,-- "i hope you will have something to eat. you must be hungry by this time, and louis shall sit with me while you are at the table." as she spoke the little woman held out her hands invitingly to the baby, and he showed every desire to go to her. "it can be plainly seen that my darling has had a good home," mrs. littlefield replied as she kissed him again and again. "he has been loved perhaps better than in a house where there were other children; but almost any one would have given him the same treatment." "i am afraid not; both he and jack have been very fortunate. now i will take a cup of tea, but had rather hold him myself." aunt nancy beckoned for jack to be seated although it was not more than two hours since he had eaten supper, and when the little woman's head was bowed in devotion she fervently thanked her father for his wondrous goodness and mercy in allowing the mother and child to meet again in this world. during the meal mrs. littlefield asked jack to tell the story of his wanderings, and he gave them in detail, not omitting an account of farmer pratt's determination to send them to the poor farm. "i shall never be able to repay you for all you have done, my boy," louis' mother said feelingly when the cripple concluded. "you are to go back with me, and i will take care that you have a good home." jack had nothing to say in regard to this. it seemed only natural he should remain with louis after all that had happened, but the idea of leaving the farm was not a pleasant one. he had known mrs. littlefield only during such time as she was on shipboard, and while she had been kind to him it was as nothing compared with what he experienced during his stay with aunt nancy. very much was said regarding the children's adventures. aunt nancy was thanked over and over again for all her kindness, and then louis' mother intimated that she would like to retire. "i wish to leave here on the first train to-morrow morning, and have travelled so long that rest seems necessary now." the little woman conducted her guest to another apartment, and then, with jack's assistance, the kitchen was made tidy once more. louis was nestling in his mother's arms in the lavender-scented bed which aunt nancy kept especially for "company," and the little woman and jack were under the big oak together for what both believed would be the last time. "you must think sometimes, jack dear, of the poor old maid who is sitting out here at this same hour wondering where in the big world her boy and baby are." "there won't come a day or evening, aunt nancy, when i sha'n't think of you, and remember you are the best friend i or any other boy ever had. you see i can't say what is in my heart, but if i could you'd know i'd never forget how good you've been to me." "the little i have done, jack dear, was only my duty, and you have paid me a thousand fold for everything. i haven't been so contented for many years as since you came here, and but for the wrong committed when mr. pratt called i should have been perfectly happy." "i'm glad you liked me," jack said half to himself, "for if you hadn't i wouldn't have known what a real home was like. it kinder seems as if i belonged here." "you _do_ act the same as own folks, and i wonder if mrs. littlefield will take as much comfort with you as i have?" "but i'm not goin' to stay at her house very long. when the captain comes home i shall get work on board the 'atlanta' again. folks won't keep me for an ornament, you know, an' i must earn my own livin'." "do you like to go to sea?" "well, there's some things about it that's pleasanter than stayin' ashore. the sailors are kinder than the boys in town, an' don't call me 'hunchie,' or names of that sort." aunt nancy remained silent, as if in deep thought, several moments, and then said abruptly,-- "you certainly ought to go to school a portion of the time, jack dear." "i s'pose i had, for i don't know scarcely anything, an' never had a chance to learn." "can you read?" "if the words ain't too long; but in printin' there are so few short ones, that i don't seem to find out what the man who made it meant." "i should have taught you instead of sitting here idle; but we couldn't have accomplished a great deal since you came." "you've had enough to do without botherin' about me." "but, jack, you can do a great deal by yourself. before you go away i want to give you a little money, and with some of it you must buy a school book. then study a certain portion of it each day, until there is no difficulty in reading any ordinary print. after that will be time enough to take up other branches, and writing must come with the reading, as i shall look very anxiously for a letter in your own hand." "i'll do the best i can, aunt nancy, but i don't want you to give me any money. you haven't much to spare, and that i know." "i shall share it with you, jack dear, and you mustn't make any objection, for after you have gone i shall feel better to know you are able to buy what little you may want." then aunt nancy drew from her pocket a small black book which she handed to the boy as she said in a low tone,-- "this was my father's bible, and the print is so faint that i can no longer read it even with glasses." "hadn't you rather keep it? it was your father's." "no, dear. i have one as you know, and this can be put to no better service than teaching you the right way. for my sake, jack, become a good man. shun evil company, and do unto others as you would they should do unto you. i haven't set a very good example in that way since you came here; but you have a better temper than i, and for that more is expected. don't be tempted to tell a lie, and then you'll never feel as i have since mr. pratt called." "i'll remember all you say, aunt nancy, and it would be a mighty ungrateful feller who'd do anything he thought would make you feel bad." then ensued another long interval of silence, during which the sun finished his work of painting the clouds, and had sunk behind the hills. "it'll come pretty hard not to see you at night," jack finally said thoughtfully. "will it, really?" the little woman asked eagerly. "of course," and jack looked up in surprise that such a question should have been asked. "i don't s'pose i'll ever find a home as nice as this." "and would you be willing to stay here?" "indeed i would if i could get work to pay my way." "don't you think it would be lonely when winter comes, and you would be obliged to remain a greater portion of the time in the house?" "not if you was here." "then, jack, i am going to say something i thought ought not to be spoken of for fear you might do it simply to please me. why not stay?" "but i can't find any work 'round here, aunt nancy." "you have contrived to get plenty from the first night i saw you. if this home seems pleasant there is no reason why you should leave it, and when the white winged messengers come to carry me to the father, the little i leave behind shall be yours. it isn't much, jack dear, but would keep you from want, and a delicate boy like you is not able to fight the hard world. if you were strong and well the case would be different." jack drew a long breath as if the pleasurable surprise was almost overpowering, and then asked slowly,-- "do you really want me to live here?" "do i want you? if you say you will stay the pain which is now in my heart will go away in an instant, and i would be the happiest old woman in the state." "then there'll be two feelin' mighty good, aunt nancy, for i'm only too glad of the chance." the little woman kissed him tenderly, which told better than words that the invitation really came from the heart. not until a late hour that night did the tiny woman and the cripple leave the bench under the old oak. aunt nancy had many plans for the future, chief among which was giving jack an education, and he speculated upon the possibility of tilling so much of the farm during the coming season as would give him a small income. all this was so interesting that for the first time in her life aunt nancy came very near forgetting to search the house for supposed burglars. "mercy on us, jack! it must be near midnight, and we haven't looked into a single room yet. i am so excited i hardly know what i'm about." "i don't believe there would be any harm done if we didn't search the place for a week," jack said with a merry laugh; "but we'll go through the motions all the same." on the following morning there was very little opportunity for a lengthy conversation upon the change in the plans as arranged by aunt nancy and jack. when she made known the fact that the cripple would remain with her, mrs. littlefield approved heartily of it. "i am positive he couldn't have a better home," she said, "and will take it upon myself to see he is not a burden. that much i owe him, if nothing more, for all he did to make my baby happy and comfortable." "i am not a rich woman, mrs. littlefield," aunt nancy said with considerable dignity, "but i can care for the dear boy while i live." this concluded the subject, for at that moment daniel chick arrived to take the visitor to the station, and aunt nancy and jack could think of nothing save the parting with the little fellow they had learned to love so dearly. louis crowed and laughed at the prospect of a ride, and aunt nancy said sadly when he disappeared around the corner of the lane,-- "it almost seems as if he was glad to go away from us, jack dear." "i reckon the farm will be kinder lonesome for a day or two, but he's with his mother, an' that's where he belongs." "yes, dear, we mustn't repine. the day will soon come for me when i go away to my father, and then you must think the same, for i shall be many times happier in the eternal city than the baby is now. it will be a lonely time for you, jack dear, but only for a short while, after which the old maid and the cripple will be in the glory and splendor of god's own light." then aunt nancy kissed jack affectionately as she drew him to the favorite seat, and, under the old oak where so many happy as well as sad hours have been spent, will we bid adieu to the hunchback and his best earthly friend. the end. a. l. burt's publications for young people by popular writers. - duarte street, new york. =bonnie prince charlie=: a tale of fontenoy and culloden. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the adventures of the son of a scotch officer in french service. the boy, brought up by a glasgow bailie, is a arrested for aiding a jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the french coast, reaches paris, and serves with the french army at dettingen. he kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of prince charlie, but finally settles happily in scotland. "ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'quentin durward.' the lad's journey across france, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. for freshness of treatment and variety of incident mr. henty has surpassed himself."--_spectator._ =with clive in india=; or, the beginnings of an empire. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the period between the landing of clive as a young writer in india and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. at its commencement the english were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. at its close they were masters of bengal and of the greater part of southern india. the author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "he has taken a period of indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_scotsman._ =the lion of the north=: a tale of gustavus adolphus and the wars of religion. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by john sch�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty gives the history of the first part of the thirty years' war. the issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in germany. the army of the chivalrous king of sweden was largely composed of scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_times._ =the dragon and the raven;= or, the days of king alfred. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between saxon and dane for supremacy in england, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. the hero, a young saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by king alfred. he is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of paris. "treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_athenæum._ =the young carthaginian=: a story of the times of hannibal. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . boys reading the history of the punic wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. that it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of carthage, that hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the romans at trebia, lake trasimenus, and cannæ, and all but took rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. to let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world mr. henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "well constructed and vividly told. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_saturday review._ =in freedom's cause=: a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. with full page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author relates the stirring tale of the scottish war of independence. the extraordinary valor and personal prowess of wallace and bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. the researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. the hero of the tale fought under both wallace and bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "it is written in the author's best style. full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_the schoolmaster._ =with lee in virginia=: a story of the american civil war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of a young virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under lee and jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. he has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "one of the best stories for lads which mr. henty has yet written. the picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_standard._ =by england's aid=; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ) by g.a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of two english lads who go to holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting veres." after many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the corsairs. he is successful in getting back to spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of cadiz. "it is an admirable book for youngsters. it overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. the illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_boston gazette._ =by right of conquest=; or, with cortez in mexico. by g. a. henty. with full page illustrations by w. s. stacey, and two maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the conquest of mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. with this as the groundwork of his story mr. henty has interwoven the adventures of an english youth, roger hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship swan, which had sailed from a devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the spaniards in the new world. he is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an aztec princess. at last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the spaniards, and after the fall of mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming aztec bride. "'by right of conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that mr. henty has yet published."--_academy._ =in the reign of terror=: the adventures of a westminster boy by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by j. sch�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry sandwith, a westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a french marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to paris at the crisis of the revolution. imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. after hairbreadth escapes they reach nantes. there the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "harry sandwith, the westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat mr. henty's record. his adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... the story is one of mr. henty's best."--_saturday review._ =with wolfe in canada=; or, the winning of a continent. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in the present volume mr. henty gives an account of the struggle between britain and france for supremacy in the north american continent. on the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of north america, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. the fall of quebec decided that the anglo-saxon race should predominate in the new world; that britain, and not france, should take the lead among the nations of europe; and that english and american commerce, the english language, and english literature, should spread right round the globe. "it is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_illustrated london news._ =true to the old flag=: a tale of the american war of independence. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which american and british soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. the historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of lake huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "does justice to the pluck and determination of the british soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against american emancipation. the son of an american loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of hawkeye and chingachgook."--_the times._ =the lion of st. mark=: a tale of venice in the fourteenth century. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. the hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. he contributes largely to the victories of the venetians at porto d'anzo and chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of venice. "every boy should read 'the lion of st. mark.' mr. henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_saturday review._ =a final reckoning=: a tale of bush life in australia. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. b. wollen. mo, cloth, price $ . . the hero, a young english lad, after rather a stormy boyhood emigrates to australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. a few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "mr. henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_spectator._ =under drake's flag=: a tale of the spanish main. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of the days when england and spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. the heroes sail as lads with drake in the pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. the historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "a book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_harper's monthly magazine._ =by sheer pluck=: a tale of the ashanti war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. his hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the english expedition on their march to coomassie. "mr. henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'by sheer pluck' will be eagerly read."--_athenæum._ =by pike and dyke=: a tale of the rise of the dutch republic. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by maynard brown, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an english boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--william the silent. edward martin, the son of an english sea-captain, enters the service of the prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. he ultimately settles down as sir edward martin. "boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure, will be students in spite of themselves."--_st. james' gazette._ =st. george for england=: a tale of cressy and poitiers. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . no portion of english history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of edward iii. cressy and poitiers; the destruction of the spanish fleet; the plague of the black death; the jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "st. george for england." the hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a london apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the black prince. "mr. henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of sir walter scott in the land of fiction."--_the standard._ =captain's kidd's gold=: the true story of an adventurous sailor boy. by james franklin fitts. mo, cloth, price $ . . there is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. a vision arises before his eyes of swarthy portuguese and spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the spanish main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. there were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than capt. kidd. perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is mr. fitts' true story of an adventurous american boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. the document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of kidd's crew. the hero of this book, paul jones garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water new england ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. =captain bayley's heir=: a tale of the gold fields of california. by g.a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . a frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. the former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves england for america. he works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with indians to the californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "mr. henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of john holl, the westminster dustman, dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_christian leader._ =for name and fame=; or, through afghan passes. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . an interesting story of the last war in afghanistan. the hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the malays, finds his way to calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the afghan passes. he accompanies the force under general roberts to the peiwar kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to cabul, whence he is transferred to candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of ayoub khan. "the best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the afghan people."--_daily news._ =captured by apes=: the wonderful adventures of a young animal trainer. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, $ . . the scene of this tale is laid on an island in the malay archipelago. philip garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of new york, sets sail for eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. the vessel is wrecked off the coast of borneo and young garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. the lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. the brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. mr. prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. =the bravest of the brave=; or, with peterborough in spain. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . there are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the earl of peterborough. this is largely due to the fact that they were over-shadowed by the glory and successes of marlborough. his career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "mr. henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. lads will read 'the bravest of the brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_daily telegraph._ =the cat of bubastes=: a story of ancient egypt. by g. a. henty. with full page illustrations. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the egyptian people. amuba, a prince of the rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer jethro into slavery. they become inmates of the house of ameres, the egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of bubastes. in an outburst of popular fury ameres is killed, and it rests with jethro and amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "the story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. it is admirably illustrated."--_saturday review._ =with washington at monmouth:= a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . three philadelphia boys, seth graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the british officers;" enoch ball, "son of that mrs. ball whose dancing school was situated on letitia street," and little jacob, son of "chris, the baker," serve as the principal characters. the story is laid during the winter when lord howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the american spies who make regular and frequent visits from valley forge. one reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the british officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. =for the temple=: a tale of the fall of jerusalem. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by s. j. solomon. mo, cloth, price $ . . mr. henty here weaves into the record of josephus an admirable and attractive story. the troubles in the district of tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of jotapata, of gamala, and of jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the temple, and after a brief term of slavery at alexandria, returns to his galilean home with the favor of titus. "mr. henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless jewish resistance to roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_graphic._ =facing death=; or, the hero of the vaughan pit. a tale of the coal mines. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . "facing death" is a story with a purpose. it is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. the hero of the story is a typical british boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "the tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. if any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_standard._ =tom temple's career.= by horatio alger. mo, cloth, price $ . . tom temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of nathan middleton, a penurious insurance agent. though well paid for keeping the boy, nathan and his wife endeavor to bring master tom in line with their parsimonious habits. the lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. as tom is heir to $ , , he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. =maori and settler=: a story of the new zealand war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse. mo, cloth, price $ . . the renshaws emigrate to new zealand during the period of the war with the natives. wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. he has for his friend mr. atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. in the adventures among the maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant new zealand valleys. "brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_schoolmaster._ =julian mortimer=: a brave boy's struggle for home and fortune. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. there is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. the scene of the story lies west of the mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. one of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of indians. our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young american in every sense of the word. he enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. harry castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of america regard him as a favorite author. ="carrots:"= just a little boy. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations by walter crane. mo, cloth, price cents. "one of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_examiner._ "a genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate walter crane's illustrations."--_punch._ =mopsa the fairy.= by jean ingelow. with eight page illustrations. mo, cloth, price cents. "mrs. ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. it requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius miss ingelow has and the story of 'jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate as a picture of childhood."--_eclectic._ =a jaunt through java=: the story of a journey to the sacred mountain. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, hermon and eustace hadley, on their trip across the island of java, from samarang to the sacred mountain. in a land where the royal bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. there is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has mr. ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. the two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. they cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. =wrecked on spider island=; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . a "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. while in his bunk, seasick, ned rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on spider island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. while thus involuntarily playing the part of a crusoe, ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. raising the wreck; a voyage to havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea life as the most captious boy could desire. =geoff and jim=: a story of school life. by ismay thorn. illustrated by a. g. walker. mo, cloth, price cents. "this is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. both geoff and jim are very lovable characters, only jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_church times._ "this is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_schoolmaster._ "the story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_standard._ =the castaways=; or, on the florida reefs. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this tale smacks of the salt sea. it is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. from the moment that the sea queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. off marquesas keys she floats in a dead calm. ben clark, the hero of the story, and jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. they determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. they take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. his style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. in "the castaways" he is at his best. =tom thatcher's fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . like all of mr. alger's heroes, tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. the story begins with tom's discharge from the factory, because mr. simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. a few days afterward tom learns that which induces him to start overland for california with the view of probing the family mystery. he meets with many adventures. ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of john simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. the story is told in that entertaining way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. =birdie=: a tale of child life. by h. l. childe-pemberton. illustrated by h. w. rainey. mo, cloth, price cents. "the story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_new york express._ =popular fairy tales.= by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "from first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_athenæum._ =with lafayette at yorktown=: a story of how two boys joined the continental army. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the two boys are from portsmouth, n. h., and are introduced in august, , when on the point of leaving home to enlist in col. scammell's regiment, then stationed near new york city. their method of traveling is on horseback, and the author has given an interesting account of what was expected from boys in the colonial days. the lads, after no slight amount of adventure, are sent as messengers--not soldiers--into the south to find the troops under lafayette. once with that youthful general they are given employment as spies, and enter the british camp, bringing away valuable information. the pictures of camp-life are carefully drawn, and the portrayal of lafayette's character is thoroughly well done. the story is wholesome in tone, as are all of mr. otis' works. there is no lack of exciting incident which the youthful reader craves, but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following the adventures of ben jaffreys and ned allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text-books has been forgotten. =lost in the canon=: sam willett's adventures on the great colorado. by alfred r. calhoun. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story hinges on a fortune left to sam willett, the hero, and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. the vigilance committee of hurley's gulch arrest sam's father and an associate for the crime of murder. their lives depend on the production of the receipt given for money paid. this is in sam's possession at the camp on the other side of the cañon. a messenger is dispatched to get it. he reaches the lad in the midst of a fearful storm which floods the cañon. his father's peril urges sam to action. a raft is built on which the boy and his friends essay to cross the torrent. they fail to do so, and a desperate trip down the stream ensues. how the party finally escape from the horrors of their situation and sam reaches hurley's gulch in the very nick of time, is described in a graphic style that stamps mr. calhoun as a master of his art. =jack=: a topsy turvy story. by c. m. crawley-boevey. with upward of thirty illustrations by h. j. a. miles. mo, cloth, price cents. "the illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children. jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find himself an inhabitant of waterworld, where he goes though wonderful and edifying adventures. a handsome and pleasant book."--_literary world._ =search for the silver city=: a tale of adventure in yucatan. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . two american lads, teddy wright and neal emery, embark on the steam yacht day dream for a short summer cruise to the tropics. homeward bound the yacht is destroyed by fire. all hands take to the boats, but during the night the boat is cast upon the coast of yucatan. they come across a young american named cummings, who entertains them with the story of the wonderful silver city, of the chan santa cruz indians. cummings proposes with the aid of a faithful indian ally to brave the perils of the swamp and carry off a number of the golden images from the temples. pursued with relentless vigor for days their situation is desperate. at last their escape is effected in an astonishing manner. mr. otis has built his story on an historical foundation. it is so full of exciting incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the novelty and realism of the narrative. =frank fowler, the cash boy.= by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . thrown upon his own resources frank fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for himself and his foster-sister grace. going to new york he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. he renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman named wharton, who takes a fancy to the lad. frank, after losing his place as cash boy, is enticed by an enemy to a lonesome part of new jersey and held a prisoner. this move recoils upon the plotter, for it leads to a clue that enables the lad to establish his real identity. mr. alger's stories are not only unusually interesting, but they convey a useful lesson of pluck and manly independence. =budd boyd's triumph=; or, the boy firm of fox island. by william p. chipman. mo, cloth, price $ . . the scene of this story is laid on the upper part of narragansett bay, and the leading incidents have a strong salt water flavor. owing to the conviction of his father for forgery and theft, budd boyd is compelled to leave his home and strike out for himself. chance brings budd in contact with judd floyd. the two boys, being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch and sell fish. the scheme is successfully launched, but the unexpected appearance on the scene of thomas bagsley, the man whom budd believes guilty of the crimes attributed to his father, leads to several disagreeable complications that nearly caused the lad's ruin. his pluck and good sense, however, carry him through his troubles. in following the career of the boy firm of boyd & floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success. =the errand boy=; or, how phil brent won success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . the career of "the errand boy" embraces the city adventures of a smart country lad who at an early age was abandoned by his father. philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper named brent. the death of mrs. brent paved the way for the hero's subsequent troubles. accident introduces him to the notice of a retired merchant in new york, who not only secures him the situation of errand boy but thereafter stands as his friend. an unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, however, brings philip and his father together. in "the errand boy" philip brent is possessed of the same sterling qualities so conspicuous in all of the previous creations of this delightful writer for our youth. =the slate picker=: the story of a boy's life in the coal mines. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . this is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of pennsylvania. there are many thrilling situations, notably that of ben burton's leap into the "lion's mouth"--the yawning shute in the breakers--to escape a beating at the hands of the savage spilkins, the overseer. gracie gordon is a little angel in rags, terence o'dowd is a manly, sympathetic lad, and enoch evans, the miner-poet, is a big-hearted, honest fellow, a true friend to all whose burdens seem too heavy for them to bear. ben burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of the kohinoor coal company. =a runaway brig=; or, an accidental cruise. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . "a runaway brig" is a sea tale, pure and simple, and that's where it strikes a boy's fancy. the reader can look out upon the wide shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with harry vandyne, walter morse, jim libby and that old shell-back, bob brace, on the brig bonita, which lands on one of the bahama keys. finally three strangers steal the craft, leaving the rightful owners to shift for themselves aboard a broken-down tug. the boys discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a buried treasure, then a storm comes on and the tug is stranded. at last a yacht comes in sight and the party with the treasure is taken off the lonely key. the most exacting youth is sure to be fascinated with this entertaining story. =fairy tales and stories.= by hans christian andersen. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "if i were asked to select a child's library i should name these three volumes 'english,' 'celtic,' and 'indian fairy tales,' with grimm and hans andersen's fairy tales."--_independent._ =the island treasure=; or, harry darrel's fortune. by frank h. converse. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry darrel, an orphan, having received a nautical training on a school-ship, is bent on going to sea with a boyish acquaintance named dan plunket. a runaway horse changes his prospects. harry saves dr. gregg from drowning and the doctor presents his preserver with a bit of property known as gregg's island, and makes the lad sailing-master of his sloop yacht. a piratical hoard is supposed to be hidden somewhere on the island. after much search and many thwarted plans, at last dan discovers the treasure and is the means of finding harry's father. mr. converse's stories possess a charm of their own which is appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that smack of salt water. =the boy explorers=: the adventures of two boys in alaska. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . two boys, raymond and spencer manning, travel from san francisco to alaska to join their father in search of their uncle, who, it is believed, was captured and detained by the inhabitants of a place called the "heart of alaska." on their arrival at sitka the boys with an indian guide set off across the mountains. the trip is fraught with perils that test the lads' courage to the utmost. reaching the yukon river they build a raft and float down the stream, entering the mysterious river, from which they barely escape with their lives, only to be captured by natives of the heart of alaska. all through their exciting adventures the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and resolution, and their experience makes one of the most interesting tales ever written. =the treasure finders=: a boy's adventures in nicaragua. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . roy and dean coloney, with their guide tongla, leave their father's indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. the boys eagerly explore the dismantled temples of an extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden away. they escape with the greatest difficulty; by taking advantage of a festive gathering they seize a canoe and fly down the river. eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. mr. otis is the prince of story tellers, for he handles his material with consummate skill. we doubt if he has ever written a more entertaining story than "the treasure finders." =household fairy tales.= by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "as a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages this work ranks second to none."--_daily graphic._ =dan the newsboy.= by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . the reader is introduced to dan mordaunt and his mother living in a poor tenement, and the lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of new york. a little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the mordaunts. at the same time the lad obtains a position in a wholesale house. he soon demonstrates how valuable he is to the firm by detecting the bookkeeper in a bold attempt to rob his employers. the child is kidnaped and dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden, and rescues her. the wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so delighted with dan's courage and many good qualities that she adopts him as her heir, and the conclusion of the book leaves the hero on the high road to every earthly desire. =tony the hero=: a brave boy's adventure with a tramp. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control of rudolph rugg, a thorough rascal, shiftless and lazy, spending his time tramping about the country. after much abuse tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel. tony is heir to a large estate in england, and certain persons find it necessary to produce proof of the lad's death. rudolph for a consideration hunts up tony and throws him down a deep well. of course tony escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act makes a rich friend, with whom he goes to england, where he secures his rights and is prosperous. the fact that mr. alger is the author of this entertaining book will at once recommend it to all juvenile readers. =a young hero=; or, fighting to win. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from the misses perkinpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. fred sheldon, the hero of this story and a friend of the old ladies, undertakes to discover the thieves and have them arrested. after much time spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward for its restoration. during the narrative a circus comes to town and a thrilling account of the escape of the lion from its cage, with its recapture, is told in mr. ellis' most fascinating style. every boy will be glad to read this delightful book. =the days of bruce=: a story from scottish history. by grace aguilar. illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "there is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity about all of grace aguilar's stories which cannot fail to win the interest and admiration of every lover of good reading."--_boston beacon._ =tom the bootblack=; or, the road to success. by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . a bright, enterprising lad was tom the bootblack. he was not at all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better himself. his guardian, old jacob morton, died, leaving him a small sum of money and a written confession that tom, instead of being of humble origin, was the son and heir of a deceased western merchant, and had been defrauded out of his just rights by an unscrupulous uncle. the lad started for cincinnati to look up his heritage. but three years passed away before he obtained his first clue. mr. grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. the plan failed, and gilbert grey, once tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. this is one of mr. alger's best stories. =captured by zulus=: a story of trapping in africa. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, price $ . . this story details the adventures of two lads, dick elsworth and bob harvey, in the wilds of south africa, for the purpose of obtaining a supply of zoological curiosities. by stratagem the zulus capture dick and bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. the lads escape death by digging their way out of the prison hut by night. they are pursued, and after a rough experience the boys eventually rejoin the expedition and take part in several wild animal hunts. the zulus finally give up pursuit and the expedition arrives at the coast without further trouble. mr. prentice has a delightful method of blending fact with fiction. he tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. =tom the ready=; or, up from the lowest. by randolph hill. mo, cloth, price $ . . this is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder--the gate of the poorhouse--to wealth and the governorship of his native state. thomas seacomb begins life with a purpose. while yet a schoolboy he conceives and presents to the world the germ of the overland express co. at the very outset of his career jealousy and craft seek to blast his promising future. later he sets out to obtain a charter for a railroad line in connection with the express business. now he realizes what it is to match himself against capital. yet he wins and the railroad is built. only an uncommon nature like tom's could successfully oppose such a combine. how he manages to win the battle is told by mr. hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. =roy gilbert's search=: a tale of the great lakes. by wm. p. chipman. mo, cloth, price $ . . a deep mystery hangs over the parentage of roy gilbert. he arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the great lakes on a steam launch. the three boys leave erie on the launch and visit many points of interest on the lakes. soon afterward the lad is conspicuous in the rescue of an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sinking yacht. later on the cruise of the launch is brought to a disastrous termination and the boys narrowly escape with their lives. the hero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed with interest. =the young scout=; the story of a west point lieutenant. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the crafty apache chief geronimo but a few years ago was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border. the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of geronimo's last raid. the hero is lieutenant james decker, a recent graduate of west point. ambitious to distinguish himself so as to win well-deserved promotion, the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life. the story naturally abounds in thrilling situations, and being historically correct, it is reasonable to believe it will find great favor with the boys. in our opinion mr. ellis is the best writer of indian stories now before the public. =adrift in the wilds=: the adventures of two shipwrecked boys. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price, $ . . elwood brandon and howard lawrence, cousins and schoolmates, accompanied by a lively irishman called o'rooney, are en route for san francisco. off the coast of california the steamer takes fire. the two boys and their companion reach the shore with several of the passengers. while o'rooney and the lads are absent inspecting the neighborhood o'rooney has an exciting experience and young brandon becomes separated from his party. he is captured by hostile indians, but is rescued by an indian whom the lads had assisted. this is a very entertaining narrative of southern california in the days immediately preceding the construction of the pacific railroads. mr. ellis seems to be particularly happy in this line of fiction, and the present story is fully as entertaining as anything he has ever written. =the red fairy book.= edited by andrew lang. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "a gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk who have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old nursery stories."--_literary world._ =the boy cruisers=; or, paddling in florida. by st. george rathborne. mo, cloth, price, $ . . boys who like an admixture of sport and adventure will find this book just to their taste. we promise them that they will not go to sleep over the rattling experiences of andrew george and roland carter, who start on a canoe trip along the gulf coast, from key west to tampa, florida. their first adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. next they run into a gale in the gulf and have a lively experience while it lasts. after that they have a lively time with alligators and divers varieties of the finny tribe. andrew gets into trouble with a band of seminole indians and gets away without having his scalp raised. after this there is no lack of fun till they reach their destination. that mr. rathborne knows just how to interest the boys is apparent at a glance, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. =guy harris=: the runaway. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . guy harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the great lakes. his head became filled with quixotic notions of going west to hunt grizzlies, in fact, indians. he is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse of the rough side of life in a sailor's boarding house. he ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. he deserts his ship at san francisco and starts out to become a backwoodsman, but rough experiences soon cure him of all desire to be a hunter. at st. louis he becomes a clerk and for a time he yields to the temptations of a great city. the book will not only interest boys generally on account of its graphic style, but will put many facts before their eyes in a new light. this is one of castlemon's most attractive stories. =the train boy.= by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . paul palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his mother and sister by selling books and papers on one of the trains running between chicago and milwaukee. he detects a young man named luke denton in the act of picking the pocket of a young lady, and also incurs the enmity of his brother stephen, a worthless follow. luke and stephen plot to ruin paul, but their plans are frustrated. in a railway accident many passengers are killed, but paul is fortunate enough to assist a chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into his employ. paul is sent to manage a mine in custer city and executes his commission with tact and judgment and is well started on the road to business prominence. this is one of mr. alger's most attractive stories and is sure to please all readers. transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. punctuation has been standardised. the word assauge was changed to assuage. variations in spelling, including dialect, have been retained as in the original publication.