this ebook was produced by jim weiler, xooqi.com two boys and a fortune or, the tyler will by matthew white, jr., preface among all my books, this one will always occupy a particularly warm spot in my heart; for listen, reader, and i will let you into a little secret. riddle creek is really ridley, and is a true-enough stream, flowing through one of the most charming regions in delaware county, pennsylvania. the railroad trestle which plays such an important part in the first chapter forms a picturesque feature of the landscape, in full view of a home where i was wont to spend many a joyous holiday-time and which i had in mind whenever i mentioned the pellery. again, the odd little house on seventh street, philadelphia, described in chapter xxvii, actually existed until pulled down some years since to make room for a big manufacturing plant. i used to visit there every time i went to the quaker city, and all the furnishings mentioned stand out vividly in my recollection to this day, even to the guitar off in one corner. i never played fish pond there, but i have eaten some of the best dinners i ever tasted in that famous kitchen below stairs, which had to serve for dining room as well. that kitchen and the great cat, who used to sun himself in the shop window, loom large in my memories of boyhood. matthew white, jr. new york city. jan. , . chapter i the man on the bridge "look there! i believe that man is actually going to try to cross the trestle." roy pell pulled his sister eva quickly toward him as he spoke, so that she could look up between the trees to the burdock side of the railway bridge almost directly above their heads. "why, it's mr. tyler!" exclaimed jess, who had a better view from where she sat on the log that spanned riddle creek. "oh, roy, something's sure to happen to him! he's awfully feeble." "and there's a train almost due," added eva. "what can he be thinking of to attempt such a thing?" "oh!" and jess gave a shrill scream. "he's fallen!" roy said never a word. he quickly passed his fishing-line to eva, ran nimbly across the tree trunk to the burdock side of the creek, and then started to climb the steep bank. the girls sat there and watched him breathlessly, now and then darting a look higher up at the spot on the trestle where the figure that had dropped still lay across the ties, as if too badly hurt to rise. the two pell girls and their twin brothers, rex and roy, had gone down to sit on the log in search of coolness on this blazing hot july afternoon. rex had been giving vent to his disgust because he wasn't able to accept the invitation to join a jolly party of friends for a trip to lake george and down the st. lawrence. cause why? lack of funds. "you ought to have known you couldn't go when scott asked you, rex," roy had told him. "you would need at least fifty dollars for the outing. and that sum will clothe you for almost a year. and clothes with you, rex, ought to be of sufficient importance to be considered." "i suppose i might as well go and tell scott about it and have it over with," rex had replied, creasing his handsome forehead into a frown. "i dare say he'll be calling me 'can't have it pell' pretty soon. it was only two months ago i asked for a bicycle and didn't get it, and there was the new pair of skates i wanted last winter." "don't be late for tea," eva called out after him as he made his way to the shore. she kept her eyes on the trim figure till it was hidden by the trees which grew thick along the road that led up to town. "well, if anybody in this world ought to have money it is that good looking brother of ours," remarked jess with a sigh. "he'd appreciate it so thoroughly. i don't wonder he's crabbed this afternoon. just think of the chance for a good time he's had to let slip just for lack of a little money." "fifty dollars isn't a little money, jess," returned roy, casting his line. "i know it isn't to us, but it is to most of the people we know, scott bowman for instance. do you suppose we shall ever be rich, roy?" "we are rich now; at least you and eva are, in my opinion." "we rich?" eva nearly slipped from her position on the log at the statement. "why, yes; haven't you both contented dispositions, and isn't that worth a small fortune?" "but why have you left yourself out, roy?" eva wanted to know. "surely you who never grumble, are satisfied with things." "no, i'm not." a flash came into the boy's eyes that made him really handsome for the moment. "i'm chafing inwardly all the while at having to be idle this way when it seems there ought to be so much i could do to help along." "but you are getting ready to do it as soon as you finish school," rejoined his sister. "and you must have a vacation, you know. besides, think how much you do to help sydney." "oh, i only do a little copying for him now and then." he was going to add more, but at this point he caught that glimpse of the man on the trestle which brought about the interruption in the talk already described. roy soon emerged from the line of shade in his climb up the embankment and the scorching afternoon sun beat down on him mercilessly. but he did not cease his exertions to reach the top as quickly as possible. he knew that a train for the city would be along very soon now; he remembered the curve just beyond the bridge; the engineer could not see whether there was an obstruction in the way, until he should be too close on it to stop. then he thought of mr. tyler, and of how nobody liked him, with all his money, which he hoarded like a miser. he was probably crossing the bridge now to take the train for the city from marley, and save the additional five cents he might have to pay if he boarded it at burdock, which was much nearer his home. but he was human, he was an old man; he was helpless now, doubtless overcome by the heat. and there was nobody about but roy to prevent what might be a tragedy. on he toiled. the loose dirt slid out from under his feet and rattled down the hillside behind him. the perspiration poured from his face in streams. what a contrast this was, he thought, to sitting there over the creek placidly fishing! he had gained the top now and, scarcely pausing to take a long breath, he ran out over the ties till he reached mr. tyler's prostrate form. he had fallen fortunately not very far from the beginning of the trestle, but he was quite unconscious and could not help himself. roy must carry him away from his dangerous position. he bent to his task, which was not such an arduous one as might be supposed. mr. tyler was little more than a bag of bones, weighing not as much as did roy himself. the latter picked him up as carefully as he could, not daring to look down lest he should grow dizzy. then he began to bear his burden back to terra firma. he had almost reached the ground when the old man stirred and opened his eyes. he started to struggle, but roy looked down at him and spoke sternly. "keep quiet, mr. tyler," he said, "or you will have us both over the trestle." the miser shuddered, but he made no reply and kept perfectly still till roy placed him on the grass in the shade of a horse chestnut tree. the boy threw himself down beside him, and began to fan himself with his straw hat. the next minute, with a shrill whistle, the train rushed by them. "you saved my life, roy pell," said mr. tyler after the skurrying dust raised from the ballast had settled into place. "you are a brave boy." roy made no reply. he was still very hot and he was thinking that his whole adventure was very much like a scene in a book. "i ought to say 'oh, it is nothing,' i suppose," he reflected with a half smile. "but then that wouldn't be the truth. from the way i feel now it was a good deal." "i've missed that train, i suppose," mr. tyler went on. at this roy wanted to laugh. it sounded so ridiculous. and yet it was quite characteristic of this singular old man. but young pell mopped his face vigorously with his handkerchief to hide his mirth and then said, rising to his feet: "do you feel all right, mr. tyler?" "oh, i guess so," was the reply, and the old man started to get up too. but he immediately fell back again and a frightened look came into his face. chapter ii in the miser's home "have you hurt yourself, mr. tyler?" asked roy anxiously. "you didn't break a limb when you fell, did you?" "no, no, it is here," and the old man put his hand up to his head. "the sun was too hot for you," went on roy. "you haven't got over it yet." "i am afraid i shall never get over it, roy pell." the miser looked at him in a steady way that would have frightened some boys. "and i don't want to die yet, not till i have made my will. i must have a lawyer. where is sydney pell, that brother of yours." "he isn't my brother. he's a boy that father adopted when he was very young, but he's better than a good many brothers. and he's a good lawyer, too. would you like to see him. he'll be back on the five-thirty train." "yes, i should like to see him if it won't be too late. what time is it now? you haven't got a watch, have you? look at mine and tell me." "quarter past five, and now you ought to be taken home right away, and have a doctor." "you think i am very bad then?" again the frightened look came into the old man's face. "no, of course not. lots of people have to call the doctor when they're not going to die." "don't speak of dying. i'm afraid to die. see, i don't mind telling you so. and i ought to be. i haven't done very much good in the world. there isn't anybody i can think of will be sorry to have me go. that isn't the way to live, roy pell. you ought to be happy, so happy, because you are young, and have your life before you to make it the way it should be made." "you have life before you, too, mr. tyler. you are not so very old. you're not much more than seventy." "i'm seventy-two. but come, let me see if i can get up with your help. i want you to take me home, so you can go for sydney. he's a good boy, you say, one i can trust?" the old man looked in roy's face closely as the latter bent over him. "sydney is the best fellow that ever lived," replied roy soberly. "he's been a staff to my mother ever since father died, and has almost taken his place to us children." "yes, yes. i've heard that what your father did for him years ago was like bread cast upon the waters that's coming back after many days. let me see, how old are you?" "fifteen. i tell you what, mr. tyler. the girls are down under the bridge. wait a minute till i call down to them to send syd over as soon as he comes. then i'll go home with you and needn't leave you." "all right. you're very good to me, roy pell." the miser sank back on the grass, while roy hurried to the edge of the bluff and making a trumpet of his hands, called down: "eva! jess!" "yes, are you all right, roy?" came back the answer in eva's tones. "all o. k., but mr. tyler's a little done up. i'm going home with him. and he wants you to send syd over as soon as he gets back. it's some business matter, quite important, and we may both be late for tea. don't wait. do you understand?" "yes, all right. we'll go to meet syd now. shall we send the doctor, too?" roy thought a minute. "yes. i think you'd better," he called down. "i told them to send the doctor to your house," he reported to mr. tyler. he half expected the latter to raise a protest, but he didn't. "all right," he said feebly. "he'll do for one of the witnesses. now." roy bent down so that the old man might lean on his shoulder. he put one arm about his back to steady him, and thus supported he was able to move slowly along the cinder path beside the track. "what did you attempt to walk across the trestle for, mr. tyler?" asked roy. "i made up my mind suddenly to go to town," was the answer. "there wasn't time to go around by the turnpike. i thought i could get across before the train came. i've seen boys go over it." "but you're not a boy," rejoined roy, with a smile. "no. i'm not a boy," and roy could feel a shudder pass through the arm that was resting on his shoulder. mr. tyler lived in a house not far from the burdock station. an old woman did the cooking for him and went home at night. for the rest he dwelt almost like a hermit, and so far as any one knew he had not a relative in the world. but the report had gone out as it always does in such cases, that he was very rich, and now his desire to see a lawyer and make a will convinced roy that for once rumor must be right. "i wonder how much he's got and to whom he'll leave it?" he asked himself, but now they were within sight of the little house and the old man leaned so heavily upon him, that all his attention was centered on getting him safely to the end of their journey. by the time this was accomplished mr. tyler was so completely exhausted that he dropped down on the first chair they reached. "after you are rested a bit," said roy, "i'll help you to get to bed." "no, no," protested the old man; "so many people die in their beds. go and tell ann to get a little more for dinner to-night. you and sydney must stay and eat it with me. it will take quite a time to have my will drawn up. you'll find her in the kitchen." the woman was not much surprised when roy told her of the condition in which her master had come home. "it's what i've been expecting every day," she said. "he doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive. i'm amazed to think he should ask you to stop to dinner. it's little enough you'll get, master roy, but i'll do my best." the house was a bare looking place, furnished only with the merest necessities. no pictures were on the walls, no books on the tables; roy wondered what the old man did to pass the time here by himself. there was not even a sofa for him to lie upon. he asked about this when he returned to the front room. "then you'd better come in and lie on the outside of your bed if you won't get in it," he suggested. to this the older man acceded and allowed roy to assist him to the adjoining apartment where he slept. "no," he murmured, "i haven't wasted much on myself, you see. that will leave still more for those who come after me. what would you do with $ , if you had it, roy pell?" the question came so suddenly and in such contrasted tones to the mumble in which the miser had heretofore been speaking that for the moment roy was too startled to make reply. "no, i'm not raving, roy pell," went on the old man. "there's a possibility--" he checked himself quickly-- "what would you do with all that money if you had it?" "i'd give it to my mother," answered roy. "good boy, of course. i didn't think of that. you're a minor, and you're not selfish. you'd rather she would have it, eh, than that it should be held by her in trust for you? but if you got it, you'd promise to see that it was spent, and not hoarded as i have hoarded mine? you'd promise that wouldn't you?" roy by this time began to think that the partial sunstroke had completely unhinged mr. tyler's brain, already a little out of plumb. "oh, yes," he laughed. "there's no danger of our hoarding money. there are too many things to spend it on for that." "then you're squeezed a little down at your place, eh?" "oh, we can get along," returned roy hastily; "but we can't do much branching out. my mother has only the income from father's insurance, and then there's the place which we own, with the taxes to pay." the old man now relapsed into silence. he seemed to be thinking, deeply. suddenly he started up and exclaimed: "it must be nearly time for sydney to be here. won't you go outside and watch for him?" roy was very glad to leave the miser. he realized that perhaps it was wrong for him to feel that way, but then, believing him to be a little unbalanced, it was but natural that he should be sensible of some constraint in his presence. "i wonder if be has got $ , put away somewhere?" he asked himself when he reached the little portico. "he talked exactly as if he was going to give it to me. i suppose for what i did for him on the bridge. that would be just like a story episode, so much like one that there's no chance of its coming true. but what would rex say if it did? ah, here comes syd." roy left the porch and hurried out to the gate to meet the fellow who had been nearer and dearer to him than a brother as far back as he could remember. "poor old chap," he said as they met and he turned around, slipping his arm within that of the tall young lawyer, "it was a shame to make you walk all that distance in the hot sun when you must be tired out from your day in town. but there's a job at the end of the walk." "and a cheerful brother, too," added the other. "poor rex! i saw him over at the station. he takes it terribly to heart that he cannot go off with the bowmans. i wish i were rich, if only for you boys' sakes. but what's this heroic deed i hear of your doing for old mr. tyler? positively, roy, i'm proud of you." "oh, the train didn't come along for a good five minutes after i'd got him off the trestle. you see that takes a good deal of the 'heroic rescue' business out of the thing. but come on inside. he's been quite anxious to see you. i've made him lie down, for i think he's in a very bad way." chapter iii mr. tyler's will "is that you, sydney pell?" called out mr. tyler as soon as he heard footsteps in the hallway. "yes, mr. tyler, what can i do for you?" and sydney followed roy into the bedroom. "you can make my will," replied the old man promptly. "that doesn't mean that i am going to die right away," he added hastily, "but i've had a warning. why, i may have time to make two or three wills before i give up the ship." he laughed hoarsely and started to get up. but he was weaker than he supposed, and fell back on the bed with a little gasp just as he had done out by the trestle. "don't exert yourself too much, mr. tyler," said sydney. "i can fix the thing up for you while you are lying right here. i think i saw a bottle of ink and some paper in the other room. roy can help me bring in that table that stands there, and then i can take down whatever you wish and you can sign it. but you will want witnesses." "there's ann, she can be one," responded the old man. "and i told the girls to send a doctor up here. he can be another," put in roy. then he added, when all was arranged: "i suppose i had better go out." "yes, you can go out and watch for the doctor," said sydney. "now then," he went on, turning to mr. tyler when they were alone, and after he had written out the regulation formal preamble, "i am ready." the miser said nothing in reply for a minute or two. he kept interlocking his wasted fingers with one another, glancing now and then out of the window, where he could see roy pacing back and forth in front of the cottage. finally he murmured so low that sydney was obliged to bend forward to catch the words: "would you be surprised to hear that i had a vast amount of money in the deposit companies in philadelphia?" "no, mr. tyler," replied sydney. "it has always been supposed that you were a man of wealth." "i am, i am," muttered the miser. "i have something like half a million. and yet what good has it done me? i have hoarded it just for the sake of hoarding. it began to come to me when i was quite young. i was surprised. some property was wanted by the city. they paid me well for it. i invested what i got and doubled it, i kept on making money till i loved it for itself alone and could not bear to part with it even on the chance of making more. so i left it all to draw interest except what little it takes to support me in the poor way in which i live." he paused and sydney adjudged it proper to inquire. "then you have no relatives, no one dependent on you?" "i have outlived them all," was the reply. "there was a boy, though, who was once in my employ and whom i came to think a good deal of. but he grew up and went into stocks and tried to bear the market against me. i never forgave maurice darley for that. and yet i loved him once. i brought him up, out of the gutter, as it were, and there was a time when he loved me. there is another brother in your family whom i see sometimes and who reminds me of him." "reginald-- rex, as we call him-- you mean?" "yes, but perhaps he would not have done for me what roy did this afternoon. you have heard of it. he risked his life for mine. he will make a good man. i am sure of it. and he is unselfish. to make him happy you must make others happy around him. yes, i will do it. quick, write down that i leave all my fortune unreservedly, to-- what is his full name?" "whose full name?" sydney had dropped his pen and sat staring at mr. tyler as if in a daze. "why your brother-- roy pell's." "royal fillmore pell," sydney repeated the name mechanically, still too amazed at the inference he must draw from the question to be really conscious of what he was saying. "thank you. a fine name it is, and fitted to a splendid boy. then write-- but no. i had determined not to leave it to him. what is his mother's name? she must have it all outright. then it can be used at once in the way to please roy best. now mrs. pell's full name?" "jessica fillmore pell. i suppose, as a lawyer, i ought not to express any surprise at what you are doing, but you can see how close home it comes to me, mr. tyler. you know the relation in which i stand to this family, with whom i am connected by no ties of blood, but who have been so good to me." "and you have deserved it, young man. i am not leaving money to a family of whom i know nothing. have you got that: all my fortune unreservedly to jessica fillmore pell?" "yes, mr. tyler." "roy knows something of this, and if people think it strange or hint that i am out of my head to leave my money in this way, you can tell them what he did for me this afternoon. that ought to satisfy them. now i want to tell you where my money is invested so that you can get at it easily, for i want you, sydney, to be one of my executors, and i will take dr. martin for the other. here he comes now. we will continue this business presently." roy came in with the doctor; a cheery man, whom everybody in the neighborhood liked. "doctor," began mr. tyler, before the physician could say anything, "i want you to witness my will. roy, run out to the kitchen and get ann to come in here." "ann," said roy, appearing in the rear regions, "mr. tyler wants you to come out and witness his will." "is the poor man dying then?" exclaimed the woman, looking frightened. "oh, no, he only--" "never mind bothering ann about that now," said the doctor presenting himself at this moment roy returned to the bedroom with the physician, where he found that mr. tyler had decided he would have sydney for a witness in place of ann. "i'd rather have a man," he explained. "i forgot that he could do it just as well as not." then the instrument was duly signed and witnessed. "i am perfectly sane, you can declare, can't you, dr. martin?" asked the miser when the thing was done. "i don't want any mistake to be made about it." "you need have no fear on that score," "dinner's ready, mr. tyler," announced ann, making her appearance at this point. "all right, you boys go out and eat it," said the old man. "the doctor wants to see me i suppose. ann can bring me a little broth in here afterwards. and about signing that, sydney, i want to add a clause leaving something to ann. i forgot about her." silently the two pells went out into the dining room, and in almost silence they ate the broth which the housekeeper placed before them. then when she had gone out sydney said: "you know how much mr. tyler is worth, roy, do you?" "he told me something like $ , . i didn't know whether to believe it or not that's a great sum of money, sydney. i feel awfully queer about the whole thing. does it seem all right to you that he should leave it all to mother just because of the little thing i did for him this afternoon? i don't want to seem to feel that she oughtn't to have it. but the whole thing seems so odd." "not nearly so queer as a great many wills that are made every day," rejoined sydney. "but don't worry over it, roy," he added with a laugh. "you look as if you had been convicted of some crime. remember you haven't got the money yet, and may not have it for a great many years to come." "it isn't my money, syd. it's to be left to mother." "well, if it hadn't been for you she wouldn't have it. but by the way, you had better get home as soon as you can. i think mother is inclined to worry about you from what jess said. i can stay with the old man as long as it is necessary." "and i shan't say anything about that will, syd. i'd rather you wouldn't either, just yet." "no, it is best to keep it as quiet as we can. it seems strange that the old man should have talked so freely about it as he did." the meal was soon finished, and the two starting to enter the bedroom, met the doctor in the doorway. "he's in a bad way," he whispered to sydney. "i shall come back again this evening. come, roy, are you going down? i'll take you along with me in the carriage." "yes, you'd better go, roy," urged sydney. "you look worn out. tell mother i'll stay here as long as i'm wanted." "good-by, mr. tyler," said roy, stepping into the bedroom and extending his hand to the old man. "good-by, roy pell. you have made me think better of my kind to-day. in fact i think you have made a changed man of me. would you-- would you mind coming up to see me to-morrow?" "no, of course i wouldn't mind. i'll come. i hope you'll be better in the morning. good-night," and roy went off with the doctor. "well, roy," said the latter, as they drove away, "you are to be congratulated. you have brought your family into a nice little inheritance if all our miserly old friend says is true." "perhaps it isn't," returned roy, "so please don't congratulate me or say anything about it just yet." roy was so tired when he got home that he did not give very spirited answers to the questions his family showered upon him. he went to bed very shortly and was asleep before rex came to take his place beside him. all in the household were locked in slumber when sydney let himself in with his key about eleven. he did not retire. he went into the library, got out some law books, and sitting down at the table, appeared as if about to do some work. but he did not pick up the pen. he sat there, his head sunk on his chest, with a look of misery on his face that was pitiable to see. chapter iv the twin brothers the pells breakfasted early so that sydney might catch the : express for the city. on the morning following the events narrated in the preceding chapter the entire family were gathered at the table with the exception of rex, who was invariably late, and sydney himself. "it's very strange," remarked mrs. pell "he is always on time. he can barely catch his train now. i wish you, roy, would run up to his room and see what is the matter. he may be ill." roy soon ascended the two flights of stairs to the apartment with the dormer window that had always been syd's. the door was open and the room was empty. the bed had been slept in, but the suit syd had worn the day before was not about. he had evidently dressed and gone. "i wonder if he can be up at mr. tyler's?" thought roy. he returned to the dining room with his report. "it is very odd," remarked mrs. pell. "it is not like sydney to go off in that way, but he will explain when he comes home to-night. he may have been obliged to go to town at seven on business for mr. tyler." "that's so; what did the old gentleman want with syd," asked jessie, turning to roy. "you were so sleepy when you came home last night that you didn't half satisfy our curiosity." "he wanted him to make his will," answered roy. "and did he?" went on jess. "yes. i say, mother, hadn't i better go and stir up rex? i'm afraid he's gone off to sleep again." "there, he's coming now. i hear his step on the stairs, so you just sit still and answer my questions. i'm not half through yet," and jess checked off on her fingers the two queries to which she had already had responses. "now then, is he as rich as we all thought him?" "richer. good afternoon to you, rex. better late than never. i'm going to keep you company, by taking a second cup of coffee. mother, may i, please?" "royal pell, what is the matter with you?" exclaimed jess. "you haven't been like the same fellow since you climbed up to that trestle yesterday afternoon. you seem to be trying to keep something back. don't you notice it, mother?" "i have," put in rex, before mrs. pell could speak. "i couldn't get a word out of him before he went to sleep last night. one would think he'd had a trouble like mine to bear," and rex sighed with the air of a martyr. roy glanced over at him quickly. what would this luxury loving brother of his say if he only knew! but roy did not dare tell yet. mr. tyler might live for years, and have ample opportunity to change his mind about his will. yes, it was better to keep the matter to himself as long as he could. "what's queer about me?" he said now. "why, you're giving such short answers to our questions about the old miser," returned jess promptly. "as a rule you'd tell us all we wanted to know without our having to draw it out as if we were pulling teeth." "well, what is it you want to know?" "oh, all about your experience over at mr. tyler's. the people up in the town will hear about your being there and will expect us to know all the details. it is quite an event for a queer old character like the burdock miser to make a will." "but people when they make their wills don't usually tell everybody in the house what they put into them. it's a sort of confidential matter, don't you understand?" "i'll wager you know all about it, roy," broke in rex suddenly, dropping the biscuit he was buttering and staring at his brother fixedly for a moment "i shouldn't be surprised if the old fellow had made you his heir for what you did for him." "well, if he did, "answered roy with a smile, "it wouldn't enable you to take that trip to canada, as he isn't dead yet and may live to be ninety." "he's just the kind that do hang on," remarked jess. "people that nobody seems to care about generally do." "that reminds me, mother," added rex, "if i don't go on this trip there'll be a lot of money saved. can't i have some of it spent for a new tennis suit? i need one badly." mrs. pell smiled, a little sadly though. "my dear boy," she rejoined, "there is your patent method of manufacturing money again. you conceive a desire for something very expensive, then when you give that up and select something much cheaper, you imagine that you have saved more than enough to pay for it." "it's a thundering grind to be decently poor any way." rex pushed back his chair suddenly, his brow clouded with a frown as it had been the afternoon before down on the log. "'decently poor!' what do you mean by that, rex?" asked eva. "oh, to have the taste and wish for nice things and the privilege of going with nice people who own them, and yet not be able to have them yourself. i sometimes wish i was like black pete. he doesn't know any better than to be contented if he makes a dollar or two a week." "oh, reggie, reggie!" murmured mrs. pell sadly. this one of her boys caused her more anxiety than all the other children combined. he was so proud, so aspiring, and yet he had not half the ability of roy, who was rather overshadowed by the other's dashing, winning manner. for rex could be charming when he so minded. he went out on the side piazza now and began to shy strawberries at two of the puppies. the berries had just been picked and left by the cook on the window sill for the girls to hull. "rex," exclaimed roy severely, coming out upon him suddenly. "aren't you ashamed to use those berries in that way?" roy hated waste above all things. rex checked the toss he was about to make, and transferred the berry to his mouth instead. "has your majesty any objections to that disposition of the fruit?" he asked with an assumption of the courtliness that became him so well. "well, it's a legitimate disposition at any rate," returned roy. then he went out to the barn to feed the chickens and look after the cow, for the pells kept no hired man. the boys attended to the kitchen garden-- at least roy did most of it, and there had been no horses kept by the family since shortly after mr. pell's death. this was another of rex's trials. "think of living in the country without a horse!" he would exclaim. "and then to have the stable on the place into the bargain! it's enough to make the horse we haven't got laugh." to be sure he had plenty of rides. the bowmans who came down to marley for the summer, were very fond of him, and nearly every day during the summer scott took him out in his cart. but rex sighed to return this hospitality. all of his friends were glad to come down to the pellery, as rex called it, for mrs. pell was a great favorite and the young people were lively and bright. rex fretted, however, because he had no "attractions" to offer them. he was feeling particularly gloomy this morning. having exhausted himself in regretting the good time he would lose in not being able to go with the bowmans, he had taken to lamenting his condition here in marley during vacation with scott away. he was not so fond of reading as was roy, and without plenty of congenial society, he was apt to find that time hung heavy on his hands. scott had gone to philadelphia this morning to make some purchases for his journey. he would not he back till afternoon. rex had not yet planned what to do with himself in the meantime. "where are you going?" he called out presently, when he saw roy walking down toward the gate. "over to mr. tyler's to see how he is. want to come?" "i believe i do," answered rex slowly. "hold on a minute till i get my cap." roy was rather surprised that his brother should wish to go. he wondered just how mr. tyler would like his bringing him. then he remembered what the miser had said about rex reminding him somewhat of maurice darley and thought perhaps he might be glad to see him on this account. it was cooler than it had been the previous day. the country about marley and burdock was beautiful, extremely rolling and rich in vegetation, so the walk was a pleasant one. "say, did mr. tyler really have syd make his will last night?" asked rex as they were crossing the covered bridge over the creek. "yes," answered roy. "did he have much to leave?" went on rex, stooping down as they emerged on the road again, to pluck a tall blade of grass which he began to munch between his white teeth. "about half a million." roy thought he might as well tell this. he knew that if he tried to evade the question his brother would be apt to think he was keeping something back. "what?" rex stopped stock still in the road to utter the exclamation. "that old bag of bones worth half a million dollars! nonsense." "i think it's more likely he should be worth that amount," returned roy, "than the bowmans, for instance, who seem to spend their income right up to the handle. you know everybody has always thought mr. tyler had money." "i know they have, but such a sum as that!" rex walked on again, knitting his brows in thought. there was silence between the boys while they ascended the hill on the opposite side of the creek. then as they reached the top, rex was about to ask another question when roy clutched his arm suddenly. "look there," he cried. "isn't that undertaker green's wagon in front of the house? mr. tyler must be dead!" chapter v breaking the news "great caesar, roy! what's come over you?" rex was staring in amazement at his brother, who had turned quite white at the sight of the undertaker's wagon standing in front of the miser's home. he had halted and gone off to one side of the road to lean against a tree, where he stood now, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "i hadn't any idea he would die so soon," he said. "it seems like an awful shock, although i do remember that dr. martin said he was in a pretty bad way. and he asked me to come and see him to-day; i mean mr. tyler did. i wonder when he died." "what luck for his heirs," remarked rex. "don't!" cried roy, starting forward as if to place his hand over his brother's mouth. "you don't know what you're saying." "well, i suppose it was a little rough when the old man's scarcely cold perhaps. i say, aren't you going on? we can find out just when he died, you know." mechanically roy followed his brother, his eyes still fixed on that black wagon. he could not realize it yet. mr. tyler dead so soon after making that will which left mrs. pell all his money. no more poverty for them. the stable need no longer be empty and-- roy checked these thoughts with a half suppressed exclamation of disgust. it seemed sacrilegious to be speculating in this fashion on the gain from the death of the old man who had been so fond of life, for all he had made such poor use of it. they were now close enough to the cottage to see that the doctor's carriage stood there just behind the ominous vehicle belonging to mr. green. the doctor himself was coming out of the house. seeing the boys he halted till they came up with him. "oh, doctor, when did it happen?" asked roy. "last night about ten," was the answer. "didn't sydney tell you?" "no, i haven't seen syd since i left him here yesterday. is he here now?" "no. he is very busy in town seeing about the arrangements there. you know he is one of the executors. things take queer turns in this world of ours, don't they? you little thought at this time yesterday morning that before twenty-four hours had passed you would be the means of bringing a great fortune into the family. but good-by. i must hurry off to do what i can for the living now." "there is nothing that i can do for him, is there?" roy stepped apart from his brother and closer to the doctor to ask the question. "no, my boy," was the answer. "nothing now. you have obeyed his last request of you. it is not your fault that you are too late." the physician drove off, leaving the two boys standing in the road in front of the silent cottage, for the undertaker was carrying on his work noiselessly. "roy," said rex suddenly, placing a hand on each of his brother's shoulders, and looking him squarely in the face, "what did dr. martin mean by what he said just now about your being the means of bringing a fortune into the family?" "don't-- don't ask anything about it just here. come, let's hurry off toward home. i'll tell you on the way." roy slipped his arm through his brother's and led him off down the hill. "now then," said rex impatiently when they had reached the marley turnpike again, "you must tell me. did mr. tyler leave you any money for what you did for him yesterday?" "no," replied roy, in a kind of burst, "but he left his whole fortune to mother." rex did not stop and throw up his hands as roy had half expected he would do. he came closer to his brother and suddenly passed one arm about his neck as they walked on together and drew him close to him. "oh, roy," he said, "we owe all this to you." then he walked off to the side of the road and dropped down on the grass. roy came over to take his place beside him. "i didn't want to say anything about it before," he explained. "it might have been years before we came into the money. and now it may not be nearly so much as i said. we only have old mr. tyler's word for it, but both syd and dr. martin seemed to think he was telling the truth." "does mother know?" asked rex in a low voice. he seemed to be quite changed since he had heard the wonderful news. his manner had become quiet, subdued, more like roy's. "no, nobody knows but you, and syd and dr. martin." "but you will tell mother as soon as you get back?" "yes, i suppose i had better." "i can't realize it yet, roy. half a million! that's five hundred thousand dollars. and now we live on an income of about two thousand!" rex brought his eyes down from the sky where he had been allowing them to soar, and fixed them on his last summer's tan shoes. they were whole yet, but had lost their freshness. he could have new ones now, he reflected, without waiting for these old ones to wear out. "how did he come to do it, roy?" he went on, "hasn't he any relatives, or anybody of his own?" "i don't know. syd can tell you more about it than i can. come, we had better be getting home." the boys rose and resumed their walk. presently rex remarked: "when shall we get hold of the money, do you suppose, roy?" "i don't know. don't talk about it in that way. it seems awful." "why, roy, one would think you wished we hadn't got it. what makes you act so queer about the thing?" "because the thing itself seems queer, i suppose." "you are not sorry about it, are you? you almost act so." "oh, no, i'm not sorry, but i can't seem to realize it yet." "well, i can, now i've had a little chance to get used to it. i can realize that it means a new tennis suit for me, unlimited pairs of shoes, horses and carriages and perhaps my trip to canada with the bowmans." "rex, don't go on in that strain with the man still unburied. if you only knew how it sounds." reginald looked a little abashed, and as they reached a fork in the road just then, announced that he was going up in the town to see his friend charlie minturn. "don't tell him about this," roy begged. "what do you take me for?" returned rex in his most dignified manner. he strode on up the hill, his head thrown back, his chin the least bit elevated in the air. "i'm afraid for reggie," murmured roy as he kept on toward the pellery. "poverty didn't suit him at all, but it seems to me riches are going to suit him too well." the girls were hulling the strawberries on the side porch when he reached the house. "where's mother?" he asked as he came up and sat down at their feet. "gone to market," replied eva. "where have you and rex been?" inquired jess. "i saw you crossing the bridge together. i thought the crawfords were away. there's nobody else you'd be likely to go and see over in burdock." "there's mr. tyler," replied roy. "he asked me to go up and see him to-day, but i was too late. he's dead." "dead! oh, roy!" both girls uttered the exclamation. death almost always horrifies. they had roy tell them in detail all about the talk he had had with the miser the previous afternoon. but he said nothing about the will. he thought his mother ought to know first. "there come mother and rex now!" exclaimed jess presently. "i suppose he's told her," thought roy. this was the case. there was a flush in mrs. pell's cheeks as she came up, and rex exclaimed as soon as he was within speaking distance: "mother knows. have you told the girls yet, roy?" a look of annoyance crossed mrs. pell's face, but before either she or roy could say anything, jess sprang to her feet, nearly upsetting the bowl of strawberries in the act. "told you what? there's been an air of mystery about you ever since you left the creek yesterday afternoon." "of course there has," exclaimed rex exuberantly. "and it's something worth being mysterious about, eh, brub? what should you say, sisters mine, if i should tell you that the magic wand of fortune has been waved over the pellery, which will transform yonder sober fowls into gallant steeds, these homely pups into expensive hounds of the hunt, and--" "reginald." rex always knew he had gone too far when his mother spoke like that. he ceased abruptly and dashed into the house, as if to cut himself off from temptation to transgress further. the next moment they heard him whistling a comic opera air up in his room. "mother, you tell me what all this means, won't you?" this from jess in almost a desperate tone. "yes, you may as well all know now," said mrs. pell, sinking into a chair. "i find that half of the town seems to be aware of it already." "it! it! quick, mother. it isn't something awful, is it?" "no, not awful for us my dears. it is just this. your brother roy touched old mr. tyler's heart by what he did for him yesterday, and in the will he made last night he left all his fortune, about half a million, to me." both girls sat there as if stricken dumb, staring at their mother as she told them the wonderful news. chapter vi rex goes to town "i'm very sorry, indeed, this came out now. it seems unfeeling to talk about it while that poor old man's body is above ground, and then the amount of the fortune he possessed may be grossly exaggerated." this was mrs. pell's summary of the matter, delivered several times during that afternoon. the girls took the thing very quietly. "i am so glad on syd's account," eva said though more than once. "he has always worked so hard for us." jess seemed dazed by the possibility of the new order of things, while roy was disinclined to talk about it at all. rex, however, made up for the apparent apathy of the others. at lunch he wanted to know when they were going to move. "of course we don't want to go on staying in a bandbox of a place like this, when mother is a millionaire," he said. "only half a one," jess corrected him with a smile. "well, no matter about that. i've been figuring up on the income that we could get without touching the principal, and i make it $ , a year." "oh, reggie, reggie, i am afraid you are incorrigible," groaned his mother. "why, i don't see anything out of the way in doing a little calculating here in the privacy of our home. i don't go up and proclaim it from the housetops." "but you may be reckoning without your host, my dear brub," interposed jess. "what if mr. tyler had only a thousand in bank instead of five hundred thousand?" "yes; we can't know anything certain till syd comes home to-night," added roy. "i can't wait for that," muttered rex, under his breath. he subsided for the rest of his meal, however, but as soon as he had finished went up to his room and proceeded to go through all the pockets of his different suits. "short by a quarter," he murmured as he finally sat down on the edge of the bed and jingled the small change he had collected, "i'll have to go to mother after all." he glanced up at a time-table stuck in the mirror, hurriedly changed his knockabout suit for his best one, and then rushed down to the dining room where mrs. pell was helping eva shell peas for dinner. he went straight up to her and put his arm affectionately about her neck. "moms," he said in his winning way, "i want to run up to the city for this afternoon. i'm a quarter short to buy my ticket. won't you please let me have it? i can pay you back out of my allowance." "what do you want to go to the city for, rex?" "oh, i can't stay here in uncertainty. i want to see syd to know for sure about things. besides, it will keep me from shocking you here if i go." "but sydney is sure to be very busy. you will bother him by going to the office." "no, i won't. he never lets me bother him. besides, i only want to see him for a minute. you know i haven't been in town since school closed. the train goes in twenty minutes, and i'll come back with syd. please, moms." "all right, rex, you may go, but remember i trust you not to annoy sydney. you will find my purse in my top bureau drawer, left hand corner." "you are the best mother a boy ever had." with a hasty kiss rex was off, secured his quarter, and then with a wave of his hand toward the family, struck out across the pasture for the path that led up over the hill in a short cut to the station. there was nobody so easy to get along with as rex-- as long as you allowed him to have his own way. "that is a crazy notion of his, wanting to go in to town just because he can't wait till syd comes out," remarked roy when he heard of it. at the same time he felt a sensation of relief to think that his impulsive brother was out of marley and away from the temptation to disquiet the family by telling his fellow townsmen what he meant to do with their money when they came into it. rex meanwhile was enjoying himself hugely. he saw nobody he knew at this unusual hour of going to town, but he lay back in his seat while the breeze, created by the swift motion of the cars, rushed refreshingly past him, and built air castles of the most luxurious description. "it must be so," he told himself, whenever the doubts suggested by jess arose in his mind to trouble him. "dr. martin congratulated roy. everybody has known that mr. tyler had lots of money somewhere." when the train reached philadelphia, rex hurried off to the law office where syd had his desk. it was some distance from the station, but having spent all his money for his excursion ticket, he had none left for car fare. "this will be the last time i'll be so short," he mused, a smile which he could not repress playing about the corners of his mouth. buoyed up by this reflection he did not so much mind the distance, nor the heat, which he found much more oppressive here in the city than it was in marley. he reached syd's place at last only to find that his brother was out and that the boy was not just sure when he would be back. "but he'll be here before he goes to the train, won't he?" asked rex. "oh yes, sure," was the reply. "his satchel is here with the books he always takes." "i'll come back again then." rex went out, thinking that now there was no danger of his ever having to step into the shoes of this office boy. syd had remarked once or twice that he thought he could get him a position in a law office when he was through school. rex wandered along the street aimlessly for a while. if it hadn't been midsummer he might have gone over to spruce and walnut and called on some of his friends, but they were either at their summer homes in marley or off traveling. he was therefore reduced to walking to kill time, choosing the shady side and watching for any incident of city life that might divert his mind. he came to a bicycle emporium presently and stood for some time in front of it, trying to decide which wheel he should select when he came to purchase as he hoped to do very shortly now. "that's the dandy kind," remarked a voice over his shoulder. "the wizard motor. you can ride over all sorts of roads with it." rex turned and saw a fellow about a year older than himself. he had a red face and wore an outing shirt that was not as fresh as it might have been. rex, who was rather fastidious as to his friends, simply said "yes," and moved on. the fellow noticed the look which accompanied the word. "the dude!" he muttered. "thinks he's too good to talk with the likes o' me. i'll get even with him." he waited an instant and then followed rex at a distance. presently something that he espied ahead caused him to scan the sidewalk and the street next it closely. then he stepped out into the roadway and picked up a piece of coal that had dropped from a passing cart. he quickened his steps and nearly caught up with rex just as the latter was passing a chinese laundry. "run for your life! runaway team behind you!" he exclaimed suddenly, darting forward and calling out the words almost in rex's ear. at the same instant he flung the piece of coal he had picked up straight into the window of the chinese laundry. there was a crash of glass and rex, connecting the sound with the warning he had received, immediately took to his heels. "there he goes!" called out the red faced youth to the chinaman who promptly appeared in the door of his shop. the celestial's almond eyes caught sight of rex's fleeing figure. it was enough. he dropped his iron and rushed after rex, the conscienceless hoodlum joining in the chase. rex, hearing no further sound to tell him that a dangerous runaway was close upon him, had just decided to slacken his pace and turn around to investigate, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. "me got you," crowed a wheezy voice in his ear. "now for pleecy man." rex was horrified to find himself in the grasp of a chinese laundryman. "let go of me! what do you want?" he cried, struggling to get free. "you breakee glass. you go to jailee. here pleecyman now." true enough, among the crowd that had hastily collected, was a blue-coated officer. "make him let me go," exclaimed rex, appealing to the representative of the law. "i didn't do anything to him." "yes, he did," called out a bystander, whose sympathies had been awakened for the much suffering heathen. "i saw him running for all he was worth. that's pretty strong evidence, isn't it?" the policeman appeared to think so, for he came up and caught rex by the arm. chapter vii reginand's humiliation rex never felt so humiliated in his life. here he was, surrounded by a crowd, captured by a policeman and accused by a miserable chinaman of breaking a pane of glass. "it's all a mistake, i tell you," he cried, starting to wrest himself loose from the officer's grasp, and then suddenly remaining passive as he reflected that this was undignified. "what did you run for then!" questioned the policeman. "because he told me to-- the fellow with the red face," and rex looked around in the throng to pick out the cause of his misfortune, but that individual had discreetly disappeared. "i don't see him now," he went on. "i guess you don't," put in the bystander who had already spoken. "do you run every time anybody tells you to?" "he said there was a runaway team behind me. then i heard the glass break. he must have thrown the stone himself." rex tried to speak calmly, but he was boiling over with rage at the trick which he now realized had been played upon him. "me wantee new glass," the chinaman insisted. "play money." how fervently rex wished at that moment that they had come into their inheritance. he would have put his hand into his pocket, drawn out a five dollar bill with a lordly air and handed it over with the words: "take this. i didn't break the glass, but i pity the poor heathen's distress." as it was, he had not a penny about him. it was difficult to keep up an air of bravado under these circumstances. the crowd was growing bigger each minute. the policeman looked somewhat perplexed. he judged from rex's appearance that he was not a hoodlum who would be likely to throw a stone at a chinaman's window, but he admitted that he had been running, and here was a man ready to swear that he saw him throw the stone. "what is your name?" he asked. "reginald bemis pell," replied rex promptly. he was proud of his name, and brought it out now with a kind of flourish. "where do you live?" went on the officer, while the crowd pressed closer to hear the replies. "at marley." "you don't look like a boy who would break windows for the fun of it." "of course i wouldn't, and when my brother hears of this outrage he'll raise a big fuss over it. he's a lawyer and knows how to do it." rex didn't feel a bit humorous when he made this assertion, but there was something in it that struck the crowd as very funny. a good many laughed, and the policeman tried to repress a smile. "where is this brother of yours?" "right here in the city," and rex gave the address. "that's not far," said the officer. "we'll go round there and see if you have told us a straight story. come along, john," he added to the laundry-man. rex glowed with a sense of triumph for a minute, and then began to reflect on what syd would say at seeing him appear in such company-- with a police officer and a chinaman. and there was the crowd that strung on behind as the three moved off! "i wish i'd stayed at home," groaned poor rex to himself. however, he tried to take some comfort from the fact that the policeman's arm was not on his shoulder. people they passed might think it was the chinaman who was under arrest. then he felt that he ought to be glad that it was midsummer, with no chance of his meeting any of his friends. he was trying to decide what he should do in case syd had not come back by the time they reached the office, when just as they turned into chestnut street a familiar voice cried out: "hello, rex, what under the sun?" it was scott bowman. he had just come out of a trunk store in time to confront the sorry procession. rex wished the manhole cover over which he was passing would suddenly give way and precipitate him under the sidewalk in theatrical trap door fashion. scott was the last person in all the world whom he wished to see. "don't you come near me, scott," he answered, "if you don't want to be disgraced. i'm under arrest." the look of utter and complete amazement on young bowman's face at hearing this did more to convince the officer he had the wrong person in custody than anything else. he allowed rex to stop and parley with his friend. the situation was explained in few words. scott was a year older than rex. his father was a city official with a salary of ten thousand a year. he was highly indignant when he heard of the outrage. "this is monstrous," he said, and announcing who he was, demanded that rex be instantly released. "but i can't do that, mr. bowman, if that is really your name," responded the officer somewhat nettled. "because this young gentleman happens to be a friend of yours, it doesn't make it any the less likely that he broke that window." "'if that is really my name?'" repeated scott, highly incensed. "you'll find out whether that is my name or not when i report this affair to my father." the officer smiled; so did a number in the crowd. rex felt that his former humiliation was nothing compared to that which he was now undergoing, having caused his friend to be treated in this insulting fashion. "come on," said the policeman, and the line of march to sydney's office was resumed, scott valiantly falling into place beside rex, vowing vengeance on the entire force of bluecoats. "don't stay with me, scott," rex implored him. "you've borne enough. i don't want to drag you down into the mire too." "do you suppose i'd desert a friend in a time of need like this?" returned scott. "i'm going to take this officer's number now while i think of it." scott fished a pencil out of one pocket and a railroad timetable out of the other, and glancing at the shield on the breast of the policeman made a record of the figures on it in a very conspicuous manner. but the officer did not tremble with apprehension. he simply turned to rex and observed, "this is the place, isn't it?" they had reached the building in which sydney had his office. "yes, this is the place," replied rex slowly. he was thinking how dreadful it would be to present himself before syd with this crowd at his heels. "i don't know whether he's in or not," he added. "will you mind going up and finding out, scott?" "of course i won't. i know just where the room is and i'll bring him down in a jiffy." the policeman motioned the crowd back and he and rex and the patient chinaman went into the marble corridor and waited, while the throng peered in at them from the doorway and a new one began to gather from among those who passed to and fro in the building. "i'm glad i never knew this was going to happen to me," reflected rex. "i'd never have known a happy day if i had." he had no fear of going to jail. he felt that there was justice enough in the world to ward that off. but the ignominy of his present position was torture enough to a proud spirit like his. ah, here was one of the elevators coming down, with scott looking eagerly out at him. and syd was with him. but was it syd, this fellow with the pallid cheeks and deep circles under the eyes? yes, it certainly was his brother, for he stepped out ahead of scott and came over at once to pass his arm about rex in gesture of protection. reginald gave an almost unconscious sigh of relief. within that embrace he felt that he was safe. "now what is all this about?" said sydney, in his business-like tone, addressing the officer. "it seems you have arrested my brother here for breaking a chinaman's windows. did you see him throw the stone?" "no, but a gentleman did," replied the officer. "where's that gentleman now?" he was not to be found. he had dropped out of the procession before it reached chestnut street. "he was a bystander. he is not here now," answered the policeman. "i didn't think the boy did it myself, but he admits that he was running when the alarm was given." "that amounts to nothing. do you arrest everybody that runs in the street? explain why you were running, rex." rex did so, as he had already done. "this fellow who told you that there was a runaway coming for you," went on sydney; "had you seen him before?" "yes; he came up and spoke to me while i was looking in a store window at some bicycles." "did you answer him?" "yes." "pleasantly?" rex hesitated a moment. "well, i didn't exactly like his looks, so i said 'yes' or 'no, ' i forget which now, and went on." "this seems like a clear case of the wrong man, officer," summed up sydney. "it was that hoodlum who broke the glass just for the sake of getting my brother into trouble. you ought to see that plainly enough. you do, don't you?" "yes, now. i didn't know all the story before. i beg the young gentleman's pardon. come, john, we'll have to look elsewhere for your tormentor," and the officer took the chinaman by the arm and walked out with him. chapter viii in sydney's office "i'm awfully sorry, syd," began rex, as soon as the three were left alone and had stepped into the elevator. "i never felt so disgraced in my life." "you did nothing wrong," replied syd, pressing his hand against his forehead for an instant as if it pained him. "but what are you doing in town?" "i came to see you," answered rex, and then looked at scott, who had said that as it was so near train time he would wait and go to the station with the pells. "but you are ill," he went on the next instant, his eyes coming back to the other's face. "what is the matter, syd?" "oh, i'm all right," responded the young lawyer. he forced a smile to his lips, and turning to scott asked when the bowmans expected to start on their trip. "monday," was the reply. "it's too bad rex can't come with us. i was counting on him. we'd have no end of fun." "oh, syd," suddenly broke in rex, "did you know that old mr. tyler was dead? or did he die before you came home last night?" a sort of spasm passed over sydney's face, but they were just stepping out of the elevator, and neither of the boys noticed it. "yes; he died before i left," he answered, as they entered his rooms, which he shared with a fellow member of the bar who was now away. "but i've got some last things to attend to before i leave. you fellows make yourselves comfortable in there and i'll be ready in five minutes." he pointed to the adjoining room, where rex and scott at once established themselves in the window and looked down on the busy street far below them. "i didn't know tyler was dead," began scott. "i heard what roy did for him on the bridge, though. by george, that was plucky! but by the way, what's the matter with your brother sydney? he looks terribly. didn't you notice it?" "of course i did and spoke about it he's working too hard, i guess. i say, scott, you won't tell anybody about my adventure this afternoon?" "of course i shan't; only father, to report how insulting that policeman was." "no, let that go. i wouldn't like even your father to hear it. i feel humiliated enough that you should know about it. say, scott!" rex paused suddenly. the recollection of his recent experience stung him whenever it came up in his mind. he felt that scott must be constantly thinking of it, too. he wanted to tell him something that would banish it from his thoughts. "well, my boy, what is it?" rejoined scott. "if i tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret till-- till everybody knows it, as they will probably in a day or two?" "of course i will. it must be something mighty important from your mysterious air, old fellow." "it is, awfully important." rex's eyes were fixed on scott's trowsers. he saw that they were a new pair, evidently purchased to be worn on the trip. what a thing it was to have money so that you could get extra things whenever you wanted them and not be obliged to wait till you could afford it! and the pells would even be richer than the bowmans. rex paused so long while he was thinking over all this that scott broke in with, "well, what is it? don't keep me on the rack so long." "perhaps i shouldn't tell you," went on rex; "but some people know it in marley already, and you are my best friend, you know. old man tyler left his money to mother and it's something like half a million!" "reginald pell!" scott brought out these words with strong emphasis, then seized his friend's hand and wrung it heartily. "don't!" said rex, seeing that syd was coming toward them. "it seems awful to be congratulated now when the old man isn't buried yet, and--" "what's that you're saying?" sydney had hastened forward and laid his hand on rex's shoulder. rex colored. syd looked so very serious, and now, as he stood there in the full glare of daylight, the signs of suffering on his face were plainly apparent. "syd, you are ill?" exclaimed rex, forgetting about what he had been saying. "you ought to be at home at once." "never mind about me, reggie. tell me what you were just telling scott." "i didn't think it was any harm. a good many people in marley know it now. i was telling him about-- about mr. tyler's will." "what about it?" sydney's eyes were looking steadily, unsmilingly down into his brother's as he put the question. rex was really frightened now. he had never seen sydney look just like this before. "i told him about leaving his money to us on account of what roy had done," he faltered. "i didn't--" sydney's eyes closed; he started to reel backwards and would have fallen had not scott sprung forward and caught him. "help me ease him down in the chair, rex," he called out. scarcely knowing what he was doing, reginald took hold of his brother's other arm and between them the two boys got him down gently into a chair that stood near the window. "he isn't dead, is he?" rex's voice was hardly more than a whisper as he put the awful question. sydney certainly looked almost like a corpse, with his pallid face and his head hanging itself lifelessly over on one side. it was a trying situation for the two boys. neither of them had had the slightest experience with cases of this sort. it was so late in the afternoon that the offices around them were all empty. "no, he is not dead, i'm sure of that," scott replied, who, as the senior of rex by some eleven months, felt that it was natural for the other to seem to rely upon him. "we ought to have a doctor at once, though." "but we can't leave him that way while i go for one. besides, i don't know where to go." "neither do i. our doctor is clear at the other end of town and besides he's down at atlantic city by this time anyway." "it's awful, isn't it? oh, what shall we do, scott?" "we might ring for an ambulance. that's the quickest way." "oh, we don't want to have him taken to the hospital. come, help me get him out of that chair. it's horrible to see his head hang over like that." "but where can we put him? there's no lounge about, is there?" "no, but we might let him lie on the floor, on that rug yonder. see, we can take this cushion out of this chair for a pillow." with much difficulty, for they felt that they must go about the work of transfer with the greatest care, the unconscious man was removed and placed in what both boys considered would be an easier position for him. but when he was stretched out at their feet, the spectacle was such an ominous one that rex almost wished that they had left him where he was. "don't you think we ought to throw water in his face or fan him or something?" he asked helplessly. "i don't know what we ought to do, rex, except i think we ought to have a doctor the first thing. i tell you! you stay here with him and i'll go down and find a drug store. they'll know where i can get a doctor there." "all right; be as quick as you can." scott was off on the instant and rex was left alone with the unconscious sydney. his mind was filled with a multitude of thoughts in regard to the strange seizure. was he, reginald, responsible for it? what if he had not come to philadelphia, would it have happened? he tried to console himself with the reflection that the thing was bound to occur any way, and that it was providential that he and scott were present to give aid. then he remembered how the attack had come on at the very moment when sydney learned that he (rex) had told of their inheritance from the miser, and he felt more dismal than ever. it was very quiet in that great office building at this time of the day. the noise of the car bells and traffic that came in through the open windows from the street far below only made the stillness within more marked. the office boy had taken the mail and gone home just before rex and scott arrived. rex glanced up at the clock. they would not be able to catch the express now. how good scott was to stay with him. he would pay him back for it all when they came into their fortune. but he seemed to be a long while gone. rex left his position by sydney and went to the window. by leaning very far out he could just see over the heavy stone still to the street below. but it was quite impossible to recognize any one at that distance. he wriggled back till his feet touched the floor again, and then returned to take up his watch by sydney once more. he wished that roy was with him. though they were twins he felt that his brother possessed twice the self reliance in emergencies that he did. "i wonder if i ought to telegraph to mother," was his next thought. then he heard the door of the elevator slide back, and the next instant scott bowman appeared, accompanied by a short man with side whiskers and spectacles. chapter ix the mystery about sydney the boys stood by in anxious suspense while the doctor made his examination. "it is utter collapse from severe mental strain," he said after a minute. "he will come around presently." he wrote out a prescription and gave it to scott to take out for him and then turned to rex. "you are mr. pell's brother, i believe?" he said. "yes," answered rex, for the fact that there was no blood relation between them was one that very seldom recurred to the boys' minds. "then perhaps you will be able to assign some cause for this seizure. was mr. pell excited by anything in particular when it took him?" rex hesitated. remembering how sydney had been affected by learning that he had revealed the facts about mr. tyler's will to scott, he felt that he ought not to speak of the matter to any one else. "yes, he was excited by a-- a family affair," he replied, hoping this was all he need say on the matter. "humph!" muttered the physician, and he not only took another critical look at sydney's face, but favored rex with a long stare, too. "will he be well enough to go down to marley to-night?" asked the latter. "you live out of town then?" returned the doctor. "there's no place where you could take him here in the city?" "none, but a hotel," rejoined rex. "and i'm sure my mother would rather have him home." at this point sydney stirred and opened his eyes. he looked first at the doctor, frowned deeply, and then as rex came forward within his range of vision, he beckoned the boy to him. rex hurried over and knelt by his side. "who is that?" asked sydney. "it's a doctor. you fainted or something and scott went out to get him. how do you feel?" "pretty weak, but ask him to step into the next room a minute. i want to speak to you." "doctor, will you mind waiting in the next room a minute? my brother wants to see me about something." rex was afraid the physician might feel offended or else object to leaving his patient, but he said, "why, certainly," and then came over to take a close look at the young lawyer before leaving him. as soon as he had gone sydney put out one arm and passing it around rex's neck, drew the boy's ear close to his mouth. "did i say anything while i was unconscious?" he whispered. "no," replied rex, mystified. "nothing at all. but what does all this mean, syd? what is worrying you so terribly?" "don't let it worry you and then it will worry me less. what time is it?" "half past five." "then we ought to catch the six o'clock train." "but you're not strong enough to go now," objected rex. "you're as pale as a ghost." "am i?" a wan smile lit up sydney's face for an instant "well, then, exercise will perhaps bring some of the color back. you can call the doctor in now and we'll see what he says." scott arrived with the filled prescription just as rex brought the physician back into the room. sydney objected to lying on the floor any longer and they helped him to a chair. "yes, you can go home if you don't do any walking," said the doctor after another examination. "all right, i can go down in the elevator, get a carriage from the hotel across the street and ride right up to the station. you rush down and engage one, rex. scott will stay here and help the doctor down with me. then he can go along with us. don't lose any time, reggie." with an immensely relieved mind rex hurried off to execute the commission. he had really feared at one time that sydney was going to die. he was rallying rapidly now. when he entered the coach he took out his pocketbook and paid the doctor for his services. "we owe you something, scott," he added after they had started, "for what you got at the drug store." scott protested, but was in the end obliged to take what he had paid out. "it's been an exciting afternoon for you fellows," remarked sydney, and rex could not help but notice that while his tone was light, his face was still pale and that be did not look at them while he was speaking. "i want you to promise me one thing, though. that you will not speak of my fainting spell at home, or you either, scott. i have a particular reason for asking that favor." both boys promised to respect his wishes, and then sydney quickly changed the subject to the bowmans' trip, asking at what hotels they were going to stop, and so on until the carriage reached the station. he seemed so much better by this time that when he met a friend on the train and took a seat with him, rex and scott almost forgot that he had been ill. they found places together near by, but neither said much during the short ride. rex felt that scott must be thinking of how sydney had broken in upon his revelation of their inheritance, and wondering what it could mean. he couldn't explain it, so he thought best not to broach the subject. and as this filled so large a part of his thoughts there was nothing else he cared to talk about. after all his trip to philadelphia had not been productive of any results. he knew no more now than when he started about the extent of mr. tyler's fortune. when they reached marley, sydney took a hack that always waited at the station, and he and rex rode down to the pellery, scott living close to the station in the other direction. "do you feel all right, syd?" asked rex during the ride. sydney nodded without making any reply, and soon they reached home. rex was unusually silent during dinner. he looked up in surprised fashion when he learned that sydney had gone off without his breakfast that morning. sydney explained that it was due to urgent business in town. rex wondered what the family would think if they knew about the scene at the office that afternoon. nobody said anything about mr. tyler after sydney had admitted that he died before he left him the previous night. rex was the one most likely to discourse on the subject, but now he had his reasons for not broaching it. the next morning sydney did not go to the city. he devoted himself to making arrangements for mr. tyler's burial. the death was published in all the philadelphia papers, and the pells expected that some one might come down, claiming to be a relative. but no one appeared, and on saturday the funeral was held in the little house in burdock. all the pells were present, and a great number of people from marley. the news that the miser was very wealthy and had left all his money, except a small legacy to his servant, to mrs. pell, spread rapidly and created a great sensation. everybody connected it with roy's act of rescue on the trestle, and so many spoke to him about it that he was almost afraid to show himself in public. "what do you care?" said jess, when he complained to her about it. "it certainly isn't a thing you are ashamed of." "but i don't know what to say," he returned. "it sounds silly to tell them it wasn't anything, and i can't say, yes, i think it was a very brave act. so there i am." "you poor boy. what do you do, usually?" "try to get around it by telling them that i'm not the heir but mother. i suppose that's kind of mean, too, for i know she hates to be spoken to about it as much as i do." the pells were the observed of all observers at the funeral. eva had declared at first that she thought they ought not to go. "we'll just make a show of ourselves," she said. "it was very unfortunate all this got out before mr. tyler was buried." but mrs. pell announced that respect for the dead demanded their presence, so they went. every one remarked on the pallor of sydney. his mother had worried over it considerably. "you must be the first to take advantage of our altered circumstances, my dear boy," she had told him. "i want you to give up work for a while and go away for a good long rest." "oh, no, no!" he cried out in such terror that the poor woman was startled. he noticed it and tried to smile as he went on: "of course all this business about the tyler will has been an extra strain on me, but that will soon be off now. it is you and the children who must benefit by the money that has come so unexpectedly. you will make me, oh, so much happier, if you will not count me in on it. you will not need my help now, and my income will be abundant for my own wants." seeing that he felt so strongly on the matter, mrs. pell said no more at the time, but she often thought of that talk later and shivered as she recalled it. chapter x roy makes a new acquaintance it was just a month after our story opened that july afternoon. roy was fishing from the tree trunk over the creek again, but he was alone this time and the expression on his face was almost as discontented as reginald's had been on that former occasion. his float bobbed under two or three times, but he paid no attention to the fact. he was too deeply absorbed in thought. now and then he would glance up at the trestle far above him, and something very like a sigh would pass his lips. there was a snapping of twigs on the marley end of the log and roy turned his head quickly to find a young man regarding him attentively. he might have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty. he had a small brown mustache and rather a dark complexion. he held a small oblong box in both his hands. roy at once recognized it as a camera and realized at the same instant that it was pointed at him. as their eyes met, the stranger flushed slightly, but said in a pleasant voice: "i hope you don't mind being taken?" roy did mind. he was in a mood just now to object to everything, but the other's voice was such an agreeable one, the glance of his eye so kindly that the boy's real self came to the surface through his temporarily baser one, and he replied: "oh, i s'pose not, but i haven't got the pleasant look the photographers tell you to put on. aren't you afraid i'll break your camera?" the answer was a quick snap and then the young man slung the camera over his shoulder and stepping out on the tree trunk slipped down to a seat beside roy. "you have a very cozy retreat here," he remarked, "how's the fishing?" "i don't know. to tell the truth i wasn't thinking of my line at all and i'm almost sorry i let you take that picture. i don't see what you wanted it for any way, i hope you won't show it around much. you don't live in marley, do you?" "no." "i'm glad of that" "why?" with a smile. "because nobody i know will be apt to see the picture." "you're quite a modest young man." "oh, it isn't that, but i must have looked so disagreeable at that particular moment. at least i must have done so if my looks were anything like my feelings." "no, if i remember rightly you were smiling at the instant i pressed the button. you know you were saying something about fearing you would break the camera, and a smile usually goes with that remark." roy looked up quickly. the stranger was an odd one. he had a queer way of putting things. roy began to be interested. "have you taken many pictures around here?" "quite a number. it's a very pretty place." "isn't it?" "that bridge quite adds to the attractiveness of the landscape. in fact that is the reason i am here. i was coming through on the train and as we crossed, the prospect of this little valley was so tempting that i decided to stop off and explore. i am very glad i did now, for it gave me the added pleasure of meeting you." "that sounds as though you were talking to a girl," said roy. "does it? well, as i am particularly fond of boys i suppose i may be allowed to say the same sort of things to them." "you're fond of boys? that's queer. i didn't know any one liked boys except their mothers and now and then a girl or two." roy laughed a little as he added this last, and the stranger joined in heartily. "you're very frank," he remarked; "but that's what boys usually are, and it's one of the reasons i like them. they generally say right out just what they think." "what's another reason?" the man with the camera hesitated an instant before replying. then he said: "well, i'm going to be frank, too. another reason i like boys is because i find them useful to me." "useful to you?" repeated roy, perplexed. "yes, as a matter of study. you see, i write about them sometimes." "why, are you an author?" roy turned full around on the log as he put the question, his face all aglow with animation. "i suppose that's what i must call myself even if i'm not a particularly famous one." "please tell me the names of some of your books. perhaps i've read them." the young man smiled at his companion's eagerness and mentioned a story which had been roy's christmas present two years before. "did you write that?" he exclaimed. "why, then you are mr. charles keeler!" "yes, i am mr. keeler. i suppose you are disappointed in me. most people are when they see the people who write books they have read." "that was a splendid story," roy drew in a long breath before he made this reply. he was still looking at mr. keeler as if he could not yet quite comprehend the thing. "i'm awfully glad to meet you and i'd like to shake hands." "with the greatest of pleasure. i'm very glad you liked my book; i know you wouldn't say so if you didn't. that's where boys are superior to grown people. they are almost always sincere in the expression of their opinions." "do you know i've never seen an author before?" went on roy, who had wound up his line and had given himself over to a full enjoyment of this unexpected opportunity. "i don't see how you do it. i hate to write compositions at school. nearly every boy i know does. did you?" "yes, when i had to write on subjects that were assigned by the teacher i used to count the lines then just the same as the rest of the fellows. but when they let me write a story i didn't mind." "i don't see how you can. i should think you'd never know what to say next." mr. keeler smiled, showing his white teeth which contrasted so strongly with the deep tan on his complexion. "oh, that all comes when you have your scheme arranged," he said. "but of course you have to possess a natural taste for the work. you can't suddenly decide that you would like to be an author and then study for it as you might learn to be a carpenter or a mason." "oh, it's like poets, then, who are 'born, not made,'" returned roy. "precisely, and that being the case it comes natural to write, although there is a great deal of hard work about it." "you said you studied boys. how do you mean?" "well, take yourself for example. when i saw you sitting here fishing i wanted your picture so i could look at it some day and perhaps make up a story about you." "a story about me!" exclaimed roy. then he added in a sober tone, "i don't believe you could make up a more wonderful story than something that has really happened to me." "is that so? i remember now you said you were very much disturbed over something that you thought would make you look disagreeable." "yes, i came down here because i was at odds with myself and everybody else, i wonder what you'd do with a hero who was just in my position. i've half a mind to tell you all about it. you don't know who i am, so it won't matter. do you live in philadelphia?" "no, in new york just at present." "good, then i believe i'll tell you, but you must promise you won't use it in a book unless i tell you you can." "here's my hand on it," and once more hands were clasped over the tree trunk. "and you must promise, too, to believe everything i tell you. some of it will seem pretty steep." "oh, well, you know, that fact is stranger than fiction, so don't worry about that." "i won't tell you everything," began roy, with a quick glance up at the trestle, "but first i'll have to go back a little and say that almost as far back as i can remember we've lived in that house you can see down yonder with the peaked roof. we had only about enough money to keep us comfortable, for father died when i was a little fellow, and there were five of us children. but we had good times and i was looking forward to the future when i would be a man and rex and i-- that's my twin brother-- could give mother some of the luxuries with what we should earn, for i expected that by that time sydney would be married and have a home of his own. you're not bored listening to all this, are you? there's a more exciting part coming?" "i never was so absorbed in a story in my life, my dear fellow. go on, please." "well, over yonder, not far from the end of the trestle, lived an old man-- but never mind the name. at any rate he was sort of a miser, or rather he had lots of money which he never spent and when he died he left it all to my mother." "you've left something out i think," interrupted mr. keeler, and there was a smile about the corners of his mouth that caused roy to flush deeply. chapter xi mr. charles keeler "well, why don't you go on?" asked mr. keeler, as roy paused. "you've heard something about the affair. i can see you have by the way you look. please tell me what it was." "only a very little," was the reply. "as i was crossing the trestle in the train a while ago i heard a lady behind me telling a gentleman who was with her that this was the place where roy pell rescued the old miser. so now you see i know who you are, but i hope that won't make any difference about your telling the story. you left off in the most interesting place. it would be worse than the serials in the weekly papers, for i couldn't look forward to getting the continuation next saturday." roy smiled and then said "all right, you've promised not to use it unless i give you leave, you know. but i don't want you to think of me as a regular hero because i lugged that old man off the bridge. there would have been plenty of time for me to have run down to burdock and stopped the train and got help there, but i really didn't think of it." "oh, no, that isn't the part i'm interested in at all. what i want to know is the reason you seemed so glum over having come into a fortune. was it much, may i inquire?" "about half a million, but i haven't been one mite happier since we've had it. in the first place my oldest brother has been sick ever since. we don't know what's the matter with him and he won't give up his law business and go away for rest as mother wants him to. he says he has got too much to do looking after the investing of her money. then there's rex, he wants so many things that he can't settle on any one. he got a bicycle almost the first thing, and now he's tired of it and wants a horse, and jess says there's no good of getting that because we ought to go to europe and take syd with us." "and eva, she wants to go to vassar, and mother doesn't want to give her up, and the worst of it all is we've sold the place and we are going to move into the city next month, and i hate to leave marley, although the rest all want to go. so we're all pulling different ways, and nobody a bit happy, for if he's got what he wanted he has to remember that it's what the rest didn't want. i had a fling out about the whole thing just before i left the house and i came down to grumble to the creek. why, that's funny!" "what's funny?" inquired mr. keeler, as roy looked up with a half smile. "why, it's just a month ago to-day since rex came down here to mope because we didn't have money enough to let him go on a trip to canada, and now i've come here to do the same thing because we're come into a fortune." "then you don't care for the money?" remarked the author. "not if it's going to break up a family the way it has ours. jess used to be awfully lively and full of fun, and now she's all the time talking about new clothes and the places she wants to go, and how she's going to have her room decorated in the new house." "but i thought you said she wanted to go to europe." "so i did. that's one of the troubles. she don't know what she wants. it's one thing one minute and another the next." "but your mother? doesn't she have something to say about it?" "yes, but she's so fond of us all, she wants to do what will give us the most pleasure. and of course when we all want different things that's pretty hard to do." "and the 'different thing' that i want is to stay right here in marley. i'd graduate at the academy here next june, and then all my friends are here, and i like the country. now if your hero in a story was in a fix like this what would you do with him?" "it depends on the sort of story i was writing. if it was one with a motive, a moral, so to speak, i'd have him give up his own desire and say he'd be perfectly willing to do what the rest wanted to do." "but if the rest wanted to do different things? here's rex wanting to live in philadelphia, and eva thinking it would be ever so much nicer to live in boston, and jess divided half of the time between new york and europe, and sydney looking as if he'd drop into the grave right off if we didn't do something quick-- what then?" roy spoke very earnestly, and mr. keeler did not smile this time. he began to pick at the bark on the tree trunk and did not reply for some little time after roy had paused. "i think," he said finally, "that in that case i should have had my hero try to make himself contented with whichever decision was arrived at. half a million ought to atone for a great many drawbacks." "oh, i know a lot of people envy us," broke in roy. "charley minturn says i ought to be the happiest fellow going. but i'm not. that's because i'm going-- to leave marley. i s'pose you think it's queer for me to tell all this to a stranger. but it's just because you are a stranger that i feel that i can do it. you can understand how that can be, can't you, mr. keeler?" "yes, perfectly. but i think you attach too much importance to your feeling for marley. of course you think now that you will not be contented elsewhere because you do not yet know the attractions of other places. i remember when i was in my teens, living abroad, i thought i could not be happy anywhere but in paris. i had been there all winter, and when spring came and we were to go to germany i felt just as you do over leaving marley. but when we were settled in our german home i grew to like it just as i had paris. that is the way it is sure to be with you." "why, you've done me lots of good," exclaimed roy. "i should never have thought of looking at things that way. so you've lived in europe? rex only wants to travel there." "he's your twin brother, you say? does he look like you?" "no; only the least bit. he is the good looking member of the family. there he goes now on his wheel. would you like to meet him?" "indeed i should," replied mr. keeler heartily. "it would seem exactly like a character out of a story." roy put his fingers between his lips and gave a peculiar whistle, composed of three distinct notes. rex, who was just passing under the trestle, turned around in his saddle, and when he saw some one beside his brother on the tree trunk, he made a half circle in the road and came scudding back on his machine. he ran this in a little distance among the trees, left it leaning against one of them and then came on foot to the edge of the creek. his bicycle suit was very becoming to him. roy watched mr. keeler's face and saw that he was favorably impressed at once. he accomplished the introduction, mentioning the book both boys had read. rex seemed immensely pleased at meeting the author, and put on his most charming manner. "won't you come over to the house, mr. keeler?" he said. "we can give you some lemonade and i'd like you to see the view of the trestle from our piazza." "you are very kind," returned the young man, looking at his watch, "but i am afraid i shall not have time. i had planned to take the next train in to town. i have only about twenty minutes in which to catch it now." "stay to tea then and go up some time this evening," went on rex. "i am sure our mother would be delighted to meet you, and so would the girls. wouldn't they, roy?" "yes, indeed, please stay, mr. keeler." roy would not have dared to make this request if he had been left to himself. that was the difference in character of the two brothers. one was impulsive, ready to do anything on the spur of the moment: the other cautious, shrinking sometimes. he was just as anxious as rex to extend the hospitality of the pellery to their new acquaintance, but felt that he had not known the other long enough to warrant him in doing so. mr. keeler hesitated. he was in his element now in the society of two boys of such contrasted temperaments, making admirable studies. "i was going back to new york to-night," he said. "but i suppose i could put it off till morning." "do; then you can stay to tea at the pellery," exclaimed rex. "that's what we call our house. it makes it seem like a nest, you know. if you don't mind i'll mount my wheel and run on ahead to tell them you are coming, so that we can receive you in proper state." there was no opportunity given mr. keeler to decline. rex rushed ahead, mounted his wheel and was off before he could answer. "you will stay, won't you?" asked roy. "with pleasure if you think it will not inconvenience your mother. that is decidedly important. you do not know but i may be some moonshiner from the cumberland, or a bandit from italy. my complexion certainly answers to the latter description. you see, you have only my word for who i really am." "i guess that's good enough," laughed roy, "how do you like rex?" "immensely." "everybody does. i suppose we ought to be very proud of him, and we are, but then we are afraid for him at the same time. what a boy he is! see, he's hunted up our big flag and hung it from syd's window in honor of your coming. you'll have to make a speech now." chapter xii an alarming discovery rex come down to the gate to meet them. "i'm sorry that mother isn't home," he said. "she's just had a telegram from syd that takes her to town and will keep her there with him all night some business connected with the new house," he added with a glance at roy. "but the girls are home and will be delighted to receive you with fitting honors," he went on. he did not say that he had had quite a time to induce them to appear at all. he had rushed into the house in his impetuous way announcing that roy was coming along with a young man they had met down at the creek who was a famous author and was so nice, and whom they had invited to tea. "but we don't know him, rex," eva had exclaimed in considerable dismay. "you oughtn't to bring strange people to the house in that way." "oh, but it's just the same thing as if we did know him," and rex went on to explain about the story he had written, which they had all read and admired. "but is he nice and respectable himself?" jess inquired. "you know some of these writers are horribly poor and go about with threadbare clothes. he might not be the right sort of man for us to know at all." "jess!" eva exclaimed severely. "the idea of your thinking that because people are poor they can't be respectable! we shall be very glad to meet your friend, rex," and jess felt that she was in such disgrace that when mr. keeler was presented she tried to redeem herself by being excessively friendly. and this was not difficult for her to do. he was certainly very different from what she had expected. he had neither long hair like the traditional poet, nor trousers fringed around the bottom like the literary hireling of grub street. indeed, she found him quite handsome; he dressed almost as well as rex did, and he was a most interesting talker. and all the while she was sensible of having seen his face somewhere before. she thought at first it might have been in a portrait painted as a frontispiece to his book. at the first opportunity she slipped off to the boys' room and looked it up. but there was no portrait there. finally she decided that she must have passed him in the street in the city some time and resolved to think no more about it. eva was pleased with the visitor too. they had a very merry supper party. the clash of opinions about what to do with their money was stilled for the time while they all listened to the very entertaining stones told by their guest. he was, it seemed, on his way home from the oil regions of pennsylvania whither he had gone to secure the local color for a new story. in fact he had traveled very extensively in his short life, for he was not yet thirty. at one time he had lived among a tribe of blacks in africa; at another been a member of a party of exiled russians, on tramp to the mines of siberia. he was telling of an exciting adventure he had had among the arabs when the twinkling lights in a train crossed the trestle caused him to come to a sudden pause. "i must be thinking of the time," he said taking out his watch, and trying to see the figures on its face by the moonlight. "i don't want to miss the last train in to town." "oh, do, please," pleaded rex. "you can stay here just as well as not. syd won't be home and you can have his room. the last train goes in half an hour; you won't nearly have exhausted your stock of stories by then. please stay." "we should be very glad to have you do so, mr. keeler," said eva. "but this is trespassing altogether too much on your hospitality," he returned. "besides, you scarcely know me and i didn't come prepared. i left philadelphia this morning, meaning to be back there by night." "oh, we'll fix you out," said rex with an air of finality, "so go on with your arab story." it was most comfortable on that porch with its southern exposure, the fireflies dancing to the chirp of the crickets, the span of the railroad trestle looking like a fairy bridge against the background of the sky. mr. keeler decided to stay. roy wondered what the others would think if they knew that their guest was aware of what had recently befallen the family. he should most decidedly not have told all he had if he had foreseen what was coming. at ten o'clock eva suggested that mr. keeler was probably tired from his journey, so the boys went up stairs with him. "i'll come down and lock up," roy called back to his sisters. when he returned in a few minutes, leaving rex talking bicycle with their guest, he found the girls standing in the library, over a large book which they had open on the table before them. "look there!" exclaimed jess, almost in a tragic tone, just as he entered. she was pointing at something in the upper left hand corner of the page. eva started as she looked at it and then turned a frightened face toward roy. "roy, come here," she said. "why, what's the matter with you girls?" he exclaimed. "you look as if you'd each seen a ghost." "it's worse than that!" answered jess in a sepulchral tone. "look here." she pointed to the spot on which eva's gaze had been riveted. "why, it's mr. keeler's picture!" exclaimed roy. "read what it says underneath," went on jess in the same tone. roy let his eyes drop to the printed lines beneath the portrait, which was one of six which adorned the page. this is what he read: martin blakesley, alias "gentleman george," "lancelot marker" etc., confidence man. "what book is this?" asked roy. his voice was hard. he hardly recognized it himself when he heard it. "'noted criminals of the united states,'" replied jess. "syd brought it home last week to look up something or other he wanted to use in a case. i was glancing through it this morning and saw this picture then. i knew i'd seen mr. keeler somewhere before as soon as i laid eyes on him this afternoon." "perhaps it's only somebody that looks like him," said eva faintly. "he has a larger mustache than that now." "it's had plenty of time to grow," rejoined jess significantly. "this book was published two or three years ago. see, here is his history. no. ," and she began to look over the pages till she came to the paragraphs of description accompanying the portrait. the three heads bent over the page eagerly, while roy, in a low voice, read the facts about no. . he had been in jail twice, it seemed, his last term having expired, as roy figured, some four months previous. he was noted for his suave manners and the facility with which he imposed on strangers. "that's the man," murmured jess. "what are we going to do?" eva stepped back to the sofa and sank down upon it as if every bit of strength had gone away from her. "it doesn't seem possible," was all roy could say for the moment. then he turned back to the picture and studied it long and intently. meanwhile the steady murmur of voices could be heard from above. rex was showing mr. keeler the treasures in their room. "i had better go up and ask him to leave," then said roy suddenly. "oh, no, no, that will precipitate a quarrel," exclaimed jess. "he may murder us all." "what do you want me to do then?" asked roy. "i don't see that you can do anything except sit up with eva and me down here till morning. i'm sure i should never sleep a wink if i went to bed." "i'm hoping yet there'll be some way to prove we are mistaken in thinking him the same person," put in eva. "you might take this book up, roy, and show it to him, then if he didn't flush when he saw this picture we'd know it was all right." "and if it wasn't, poor roy might be stabbed where he stood," added jess cheerfully. "i tell you! we might cry fire and scare him out that way." "don't be silly, jess," roy admonished her, and then he returned once more to the study of the face of the criminal. there was a sudden crash up stairs. jess uttered a half stifled scream. "oh, roy," she cried, "do go and see! he may have killed poor rex!" chapter xiii discussion of ways and means roy bounded up the stairway two steps at a time. he was conscious that both his sisters had walked to the foot of it and were looking after him fearfully. then he heard rex's voice. evidently his brother was not hurt. "oh, it didn't matter in the least," rex was saying. "it was an old thing, we shouldn't have taken it with us to the new house." he and mr. keeler were bending over a heap of fragments on the floor. roy stepped into the room and saw that they had once been the clock that stood on a bracket near the foot of the bed. "i was reaching up to get that wasp's nest we stuck behind it," rex explained. "my coat sleeve caught on the clock and pulled the whole thing over." roy. gave a sigh of relief and then almost smiled as he recalled what he and his sisters had thought for a minute had really happened. he bent down and helped the others to pick up the pieces. "i think this should be a warning to me to go to bed at once," said mr. keeler with a laugh. "good-night, boys, i shall be on hand for eight o'clock breakfast." he went out into the hall and up the stairs to the third floor, where roy had already lighted the lamp for him in syd's room. "an awfully nice fellow, isn't he, roy?" remarked rex, rolling the fragments of the clock up in an old newspaper. roy did not make any reply. he had sat down on a chair by the bureau, on which he was resting his elbow. his eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the book rack opposite in which stood the volume of which mr. keeler was the author. "rex," he said suddenly, "come on downstairs." "i've got to go down any way with this rubbish. but what's come over you, roy? you look as sober as a judge in a criminal case." "i'll show you in the library," was all roy's reply, then recollecting that the girls would be anxious to hear his report, he hurried out and down the stairs. eva and jess were still standing by the newel post. "well?" they asked in a breath. "it was only the old clock rex knocked down. mr. keeler has gone up to bed." "did you tell rex?" "no, not yet. here he comes now." eva went out and showed her brother where to deposit the contents of the newspaper. then she brought him back into the library and pointed out the portrait of martin blakesley. rex understood at once what it meant, for he had been looking at the book. "whew!" he brought out this low whistle and then glanced from one to the other of his companions. "you think it is the same man then?" said roy. "it looks exactly like him, and i suppose it would be as easy for him to take the name keeler as any other alias." "but there is a charles keeler," went on roy, "i didn't know these men would dare masquerade around the country as such famous people. they would be sure to be found out." "what are you going to do about it?" asked rex. it was characteristic of him that, though he had himself invited keeler to the house, he was now putting all the responsibility on his brother. "let's sit down and talk it over calmly," replied roy. "i've been thinking the thing over and i can't see what harm it can do to let mr. keeler stay." "what, a confidence man!" exclaimed rex and jess in a breath. "he may have reformed," continued roy. "he didn't plan deliberately to come to this house, nothing he has said or done since he has been here has made us suspect him of being anything else than what he claimed to be." "but if he has reformed what would he be going around pretending to be what he wasn't for?" interrupted jess, "you don't suppose that martin blakesley and charles keeler, the author, are one and the same person, do you?" roy did not answer for a minute. he had plainly not thought of this side of the matter. "ugh! it makes me creep," went on jess, "to feel that a man who has been in state's prison twice is in this very house and going to stay here all night. i'm going to stay up until morning. i think i'll sit down here and read the lives of these criminals. it will be an appropriate occupation." "you girls needn't stay up at all," said rex. "roy and i will stand guard." "oh, i couldn't sleep if i went to bed," declared jess. "i don't know as i can ever sleep again so long as we are in this house. think how he must know all the ins and outs of it by this time!" "how silly you talk, jess," interposed eva. "one would think to hear you that mr. keeler was a common burglar. as roy says, he didn't plan to come here, and like as not he'll go away in the morning without having disturbed us in the least." "you're standing up for him, are you, eva? well, i thought his good looks were making an impression on you." "jessie, you have no right to talk in that way. i'm not standing up for him at all. i'm only trying to get you to look at the facts of the case in a sensible way." "but there's nothing sensible in inviting a jail bird to the house, and having him stay all night. it isn't the sort of thing you can prepare yourself to bear up under in dignified fashion." "shall i go up to town and get the constable to come down and arrest him?" asked rex. "you can't do that!" returned roy promptly. "he hasn't committed any crime." "but if we wait till he does commit one, it will be like locking the stable door after the horse has been stolen." "you might go over to the burtons', roy, and get will to come and stay with us," eva suggested. "and rouse them up at this hour of the night? it's getting on to be eleven o'clock. and it would be a pretty reason to give, wouldn't it: 'if you please, mr. burton, we invited a convict to spend the night with us, and now we're afraid.'" eva couldn't resist smiling at roy's way of putting it. rex yawned heavily. "i'm awfully sleepy," he said. "yes; and you and rex were the ones who were to stand guard," jess reminded him promptly. "well, i'm beginning to agree with eva now," rex returned. "i haven't an idea that man intends to harm any of us. perhaps there is some mistake after all and he isn't martin blakesley, only somebody that looks like him." "i don't go to bed on any such uncertainty as that," declared jess. "what would we do if we stayed up and we heard him coming down stairs to burglarize the house?" rex wanted to know. "if you and roy weren't shaking in your boots too much to take aim you might bring him to a halt by pointing syd's pistol at his head." "i suppose we could ask him to wait first till we ran up to syd's bureau drawer and got it," retorted rex with fine irony. "mercy sakes! there he is right in the room with the only weapon we've got in the house!" and jess looked really terrified now. "why didn't one of you think to take it out?" "why didn't you think to tell us who mr. keeler was before we asked him to stay all night?" eva retorted. "you said you knew all the time you had seen him somewhere before." "the boys had no business to pick up a stranger and bring him to the house in this way," jess replied. "what do you suppose mother will say when we tell her?" "you needn't tell her," said rex. "needn't tell her!" exclaimed jess. "when she finds half the silver gone and syd's pistol missing i suppose we can say that the cat carried them off." "well, i didn't pick the fellow up," affirmed rex. "it was roy. he called to me to come and meet him." "and you invited him to the house," roy couldn't resist adding. "come," interposed eva, "stop quarreling over what is past and decide what we must do in the present. for my part i can't think we are in any personal danger. if the man up stairs is the same one described in the book he has evidently reformed." "but remember what it says about his smooth ways," interjected jess. "that is just where he has made his reputation, by his easy way of crawling into people's confidence." "i tell you what to do," said roy. "you and rex, eva, go up to bed. jess and i will stay up all night and stand watch." "but what good will that do you if you haven't any weapons?" rex wanted to know. "we can run, any way," answered jess. "that will be better than lying still to be murdered in our beds." after some further discussion the matter was settled in this way. chapter xiv what happened at midnight when rex and eva had gone up stairs, and jess and roy were left to themselves in the parlor, the brother and sister looked at each other rather soberly for the first few minutes. "are you very sleepy, roy?" asked jess presently. she sat by the table still, with that book about criminals open before her, but she had not looked at it for some time now. "no, not a bit. shall i read you something? there's that book of mark twain's we haven't finished yet." "i couldn't put my mind to listen to anything. i never was so nervous in my life. and i'm getting worse." "there's really nothing to be nervous about, jess. i have no doubt that mr. keeler is in bed sound asleep by this time, with no thought of burglarizing the house." "i wish i could think so, but i can't." "think of something else then. when are we going to leave marley?" "the first of september. the new house is a beauty. you haven't seen it yet, have you?" "no, and i don't know as i ever want to." "oh come, roy, it is ridiculous your being so set or staying in marley. we can come out here in the summer perhaps, although i'd prefer to go abroad." "it must have been nice to live in europe for a while as mr. keeler did, you get so well acquainted with the people." "i wonder if they got well acquainted with him," remarked jess significantly. "oh, i forgot," returned roy, and then he remembered what mr. keeler had said to him down by the creek about trying to make himself contented with whatever was for the good of the greatest number. it could not be possible that a man who could give such excellent advice had a record behind him like martin blakesley. "then you don't want me to read to you," roy added. "what shall we do then? what do you say to a game of authors?" "all right. mr. keeler isn't represented, so i guess i can stand it." roy took the cards from the drawer of the bookcase and they began to play. but jess's thoughts wandered and roy was obliged to remind her to take her turn many times. suddenly she held up a finger hushing him to silence. "don't you hear something?" she asked in a tremulous whisper. "nothing but the crickets outside and the splash of the water over the dam," he replied. "no, it's something in the house up stairs. hear it now; like the creaking of a board." roy did hear it this time plainly. "it's rex or eva," he said reassuringly. "no, it isn't. see, it's nearly midnight. they were asleep long ago. oh, roy, that man may stop on the way down and murder them both." jess had risen and stood there, staring toward the doorway into the hall, her eyes filled with terror. roy rose, too. he realized that the noise was not likely to be made by his brother or sister, and the servant slept in the rear of the house and always used the back stairs. he had often wondered whether he would be brave in a time of real danger as fellows in the books he read were. he did not feel by any means comfortable now. but he was not actually terrified. "i'll go up and see what it is, jess," he said, and started toward the door. but his sister flung herself upon him, the tears starting from her eyes. "don't leave me or i shall die," she moaned. she drew him back toward a sofa in the far corner of the room, and held him tightly by the wrist. the noise from above drew nearer. they made it out to be the creaking of the stairs. jess was trembling frightfully. roy could almost hear her teeth chatter. he wished that he could think of something to say to make her feel less terrified. he was sure if he had been a boy in a book he could have thought of something. he determined to ask mr. keeler in the morning what would be the proper thing under the circumstances. then he laughed out half hysterically as he realized that it would hardly be the thing to mention the matter to mr. keeler. jess heard the laugh and it frightened her more than ever. she thought roy was more terrified even than she and was losing control of himself. nearer and nearer came the creak of descending footsteps. roy started to go to the door. he felt that he could not remain in suspense an instant longer. but jess held him back. "don't, roy," she whispered. "he will kill you." and at that instant a man's form passed the doorway. it was mr. keeler. he had on his trousers, shirt and shoes, but nothing else. his hair was all rumpled and one hand was stretched out in front of him as though he had been feeling his way. he halted for an instant at the foot of the stairs and turned his face toward the library. then roy saw that his eyes were closed. "he's walking in his sleep," he whispered to jess. "i must go and wake him or he may do himself some damage." "let him alone. he may go out and then we can lock the door against him." "jess, would you be as cruel as that?" "perhaps he isn't asleep. he may be only shamming." "i'm going to find out at any rate. there, he's fumbling with the lock. you'd better take the opportunity to go up stairs." jess still held on to her brother's wrist, but now she suffered herself to be led across the floor to the hall, reaching which, she let go and sped up stairs. roy turned at once and laid bis hand on the shoulder of their guest. some way his fears and suspicions of the man had all departed. "mr. keeler," he said, in a firm tone. the other left off his working with the lock and a tremor ran through him. roy slipped his hand down till it rested under the other's elbow. "come into the library and sit down a moment," he said gently. "where am i? what have i been doing?" roy knew that the man was awake now. "you have been walking in your sleep," he replied. "i beg your pardon. did you dress and come down after me?" "oh, no, i haven't been to bed yet." roy flushed as he made this answer, and at this moment the clock on the mantel chimed out twelve strokes. "are you in the habit of sitting up till midnight?" asked mr. keeler. "i suppose--" he paused suddenly. his gaze had fallen on that book of criminals jess had left lying open on the table. what appeared to be his own portrait stared back at him from the corner of the right hand page. roy's heart almost stood still for a second as he saw that the whole thing was out. mr. keeler dropped into a chair by the table still keeping his eyes fixed on that picture. finally he raised them and looked at roy. "you have discovered the likeness then?" he said. there was a depth of misery in his tone that went straight to the boy's heart. "yes," he said. "my oldest brother is a lawyer, you know. he brought this book home yesterday." "and you thought i was this man?" went on mr. keeler. "we didn't know what else to think," answered roy in a low voice. "and you were going to sit up all night to make sure that i didn't run off with the silver?" the smile that accompanied these words was a very sad one. then the face grew suddenly grave again and without waiting for roy to make a response to his awkward question, mr. keeler continued: "i don't blame you for thinking that brother martin and i were one and the same person. he is only a year younger than i and people could never tell us apart when we were boys. i remember we used to help them out by wearing sleeve buttons, an m on his and a c on mine. "we were left orphans when very young, and mart began to go to the bad at once. it commenced with robbing birds' nests and orchards, and ended with the confidence game for which he was last sent to jail. that is the reason i use my pen name always. i wonder if you believe what i am telling you." "yes, mr. keeler, i do," responded roy heartily. "i am sorry i stayed," went on the author. "i should not have run the risk. i had had nobody to vouch for me here, you see. i will go away now if you say so." "oh, no, no! i am so sorry it happened. it was only the merest chance we found out anything about it. it's all right now." involuntarily roy put out his hand. the other took it with a glad light in his eyes. then roy turned out the lamp and they both went up stairs. it was many a week before the young people of the pell family ceased to talk among themselves over their singular experience with mr. charles keeler. he left on the nine o'clock express the next morning, and everybody had been pleasant to him at the breakfast table except jess, who did not come down. roy told the true state of the case before he went to bed that night, and the explanation was very gladly received by both rex and eva. "it may be so," jess replied; "but i'll take my breakfast after he is gone." roy told sydney about the occurrence, and thought at first, from his brother's looks, that he was going to give him a severe rating for what he had done. a sort of convulsive tremor shook his frame, and he hastily took out his handkerchief to wipe away the beads of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead. but he uttered no word of reproof; merely said that the boys should be careful about the friends they made. "don't you think mr. keeler is all right, syd?" asked roy. "yes, as it turned out, certainly i do," was the reply. "but it might have been otherwise." for his part, roy was very glad of the meeting. since he had had that interview down by the creek he had been much more reconciled to leaving marley. "what if i had the burden to carry about with me that mr. keeler has!" he often told himself. "the consciousness that my brother was a scoundrel, a jailbird!" chapter xv dudley harrington the family moved into their city home early in september. and a beautiful one it was, with enough ground about it to give windows on all sides. of course a small army of servants was necessary to the running of such a dwelling, and roy, eva and jess had many laughable experiences at first in accustoming themselves to being waited on. but rex took to luxury as naturally as a duck to water. he seemed to be growing up terribly fast since a fortune had come into the family. he insisted on having a latch key as soon as they moved to town, and felt very much aggrieved because his mother would not buy him a dog cart. "but you are too young, my son," mrs. pell said in response to this request. "remember you are not yet sixteen." "well, i shall be next month," he replied, "and i know perfectly well how to manage a horse, i've been out with scott so much." he had had scott and charlie minturn to visit him just as soon as they were settled and took solid satisfaction in entertaining them in the style to which he had been accustomed at their homes. but they did not seem to have any better time than they used to do down at "the pellery" at marley. in fact they had enjoyed it there because things were different. now it was rex who was different they could not state in just what the difference lay, but they felt it. and when they had gone rex realized that he had not enjoyed their visit as much as he had expected to. to be sure, the "solid satisfaction" was there at the thought of having entertained them as he had long wished to be able to do, but then there had seemed a constraint which had not existed before. the trouble was here: he had relied on externals to please them this time, and had not exerted himself personally as he had been wont to do. in fact rex was not at heart as contented as he had expected to be. to be sure, he had now all the clothes he wanted, shoes galore, and more spending money than any boy of fifteen ought to have, but all the while he was thinking that he was missing something. and he was not exactly sure what this was. he thought he had discovered one of the things toward the latter part of september, when the people who occupied the adjoining house to the pells returned to town. they were evidently a family of great wealth-- the harringtons. rex found what their name was from the servants. there was a young man in the household-- dudley harrington. he was about twenty, and affected the sharpest crease to his trousers, the highest puffs to his neckties, carried his cane with the handle down and was altogether a dude of the latest type. to become acquainted with this splendid youth now grew to be reginald pell's one absorbing ambition. he had always preferred to associate with boys older than himself; to be on terms of intimacy with a young man out of his teens, and who sported a mustache that was far advanced in the budding stage-- that would be a triumph indeed. but would he be able to accomplish his purpose? although he was tall for his age, rex could not hope that the object of his admiration would look upon him as anything else than a schoolboy. but he did not see him go out with many fellows of his own age. he seemed to be the only child. the parents were elderly people, and the son was a good deal by himself. rex saw him sometimes in his own room, his feet on the table, a cigarette between his lips, the floor around him strewn with newspapers. "i wonder if he doesn't ride a wheel," he asked himself one day. "i've half a mind to ask him to go out with me. we're neighbors. there can't be anything out of the way in my speaking to him." the school which rex and roy were to attend did not open till the first of october, so the boys had a good deal of time on their hands just at present roy spent much of it at marley visiting his friends there; rex was thus left to his own devices. on one of these days of roy's absence rex was riding his wheel in the park when he passed dudley harrington, also mounted on a silent steed. instinctively almost rex half bowed. it seemed natural to do so, when this fellow lived right next door and was so frequently in his thoughts. he was half alarmed at his temerity, when some one rode up by his side and said: "fine day for wheeling, isn't it?" it was harrington. he had circled about and caught up with him. rex was so overwhelmed that he nearly lost his balance. but he recovered himself in an instant, and his natural repose of manner asserted itself. "yes, indeed," he answered. "i was wondering if you had a wheel. most fellows have one nowadays." "oh, this isn't mine. it's one i hired. i keep mine at new haven." "oh, you're a yale man then," exclaimed rex, prouder than ever at having formed this acquaintance. "yes, go back next week," was the answer. "and glad enough i'll be, too. it's fearfully slow here at this time of year. nobody back in town i know. wouldn't have been myself, only the governor fell sick and i didn't want the mater to come on alone with him." what are you-- senior?" inquired rex respectfully. "oh, bless you no, only sophomore. by the way, you have just moved into that house next door, haven't you?" "yes, about three weeks ago." "well, there was a stupid lot enough there before you. a set of old maids, most of 'em. you must be sociable and come in to see a fellow. we've a pool table. you play-- look out there!" rex was glad a man in a buggy stopped suddenly in front of him just then, calling for this diversion in subject. he did not know how to play pool and did not care to confess the fact just then. when they were riding on unhindered again, he begun to talk about yale and led the other on to relate several of his first year experiences. by the time they struck the pavements again they were quite well acquainted. "let me see-- your name's pell, isn't it?" said harrington, as they dismounted between the two houses. "yes, and i'm reginald." harrington put out his hand. "well, i'm awfully glad to have met you, pell. i say, come in to-night and see a fellow, won't you? that is if you haven't anything better to do." rex privately thought that he couldn't possibly have this, but he only said, "i'll be most happy to come." the friendship thus begun, progressed very rapidly. rex speedily learned how to play pool, but of this he said nothing at home. harrington seemed to have taken a decided fancy to the fellow who did not conceal the fact that he was proud to be acquainted with him. rex's one source of regret was the fact that they were so soon to be separated. "i say, reggie," said harrington suddenly on the day before his departure, "suppose you come over to new haven with me. just on a visit, i mean. i'll give you no end of a good time. we'll stop a night in new york on the way. oh, you must come." chapter xvi rex determines to take matters into his own hands rex's cup of joy was full when dudley harrington asked him to go to new haven with him. it would be pleasure indeed to go anywhere in company with that fascinating young gentleman, but to visit a college town in his company, to be introduced as his friend-- this would be bliss indeed, thought rex. but on top of this realization of how much he wanted to go, came the fear that he could not obtain permission to accept. it was a humiliating reminder of his youth, rex felt, to reflect that he must ask his mother before coming to any decision. "i'd love to go, harrington," he said. "i'll let you know about it in the morning. that will be time enough, won't it?" "plenty. i'll leave on the limited, at five, i think. get our dinner on board and be ready for fun in new york when we get there. i say, why don't you decide now, reggie?" "oh, i guess i can go," stammered rex. he hated to confess that he must first ask leave. "when can i get back?" he asked. "oh, by saturday, or you can stay over till monday with me if you will. we never do much the first of the term, and i've got plenty of room in my quarters." the pells knew that rex had formed the acquaintance of "the harrington fellow." they also knew that he was to go to college in a few days, so, if mrs. pell feared any evil influence over reginald, she consoled herself with the thought that this would be removed in a very short time. now when rex came with the request that he be allowed to go to new haven with his new friend, her answer was a prompt and decided "no." "but i've as good as told him i'd go. mother," he pleaded. "you had no right to do that," rejoined mrs. pell. "you wouldn't be in your element at all in the company of his friends, and of course you are sure to meet a great many of them." "i'm in my element in his company. he's had me over there every day since we got acquainted. besides, just think, i've never been to new york in my life since i was a baby, and this will be a splendid chance for me to see it. i can pay all my own expenses, so i needn't be under obligations to him. please, mother; i didn't go on that trip with the bowmans and now after school commences i shan't have another chance." but mrs. pell was firm. she was a woman quick to discern character and she had seen enough of dudley harrington through the windows to conclude that he was not the sort of person to whom she wished to intrust an impulsive boy like rex for two or three days. she chided herself now for having permitted the intimacy to go as far as it had. rex knew that it was useless to say more, and presently went to his room. here he threw himself on his sofa and brooded over his troubles. it seemed to him that he was the most unlucky fellow that ever lived. he never could have what he wanted. even the money that he imagined was going to bring so much happiness failed to keep to the agreement, as he looked upon it. "but just wait till i'm a little older," he told himself. "i'll make up for lost time then." still, this would not help him out of his present slough of despond. he thought of how lonesome he should be after harrington went away the next day. he could have scott or charlie minturn up to see him, to be sure, but somehow, since he had known harrington, these old friends had not seemed so entertaining to him as they once had. "and that trip to new haven would bridge over the time nicely till school opens," he told himself. "i don't see why mother won't let me go." but he knew perfectly well what the reason was. he realized that harrington had habits which none of his associates had ever had. but what of it? "i needn't smoke or drink if i don't want to," he argued. "i haven't done it yet. besides, it will do me good to see a little of the world." he rose from the sofa, lighted the gas, and just as he had done that day when he had heard who was mr. tyler's heir, he collected the money from his different pockets and counted it up. his allowance was a liberal one, and he had been saving up to buy a birthday present for his mother. "seven dollars and forty cents," he repeated to himself. "i wonder how much the fare will be." he put on his hat and went down stairs. "where are you going, rex?" asked his mother, as he passed the group who were sitting on the front porch, for it was a sultry evening. "only down the street a little way. i'll be right up," he replied. "i wonder if harrington's people ask him where he's going every step he takes," he muttered to himself as he strode off. he forgot the five years' difference in their ages; thought only of the surveillance under which he chafed. he kept on till he reached the hotels, and entering one of them, he hunted around till he found a railway guide. a short consultation of this apprized him of the fact that he had enough to pay his fare to new haven and back, but very little more. "i suppose i shall have no expense while there," he mused, "being harrington's guest. i think i may risk it, and if i get stuck he'll help me out, though i'd hate to ask him." for rex had formed a resolution. he had determined to go on the coveted trip without his mother's consent. he could leave a note explaining where he was. it would not be half as terrible a thing, he argued, as for a fellow to run away from home and not mean to come back. there would be a great row raised about it, he supposed, but meanwhile he would have had a good time and the worst that they would do to him would be to send him away to boarding school, and he shouldn't mind that very much. he thought all this out on his way back from the hotel. to be sure, he would have to use the money he had been saving up for his mother's present, but then he was in no mood to give her anything now. he felt some twinges as his thoughts touched on this point, but at that moment some one took his stand in front of him and exclaimed: "surrender or give the countersign." it was harrington. "yale," answered rex promptly. "you've decided to go, then," said harrington. turning around to walk back with him. "that's right. we'll have oceans of fun. we'll meet stout and cheever in new york, and we can just paint the town, i tell you." rex was not certain that he would do any town painting. he would be quite content to be in harrington's company. "i can go if it doesn't cost too much," he replied, thinking it best to be frank on that point on the start. "you see, my allowance isn't a big one as yet, and i don't dare ask for any more." "oh, ten dollars will squeeze through easy enough." harrington said this as though ten dollars was no harder to get than ten cents. rex's heart sank. where was he to obtain the two dollars and forty cents he still lacked? "won't you come in?" harrington asked, as rex stopped in front of the pells'. "no; not to-night, i'll meet you at the station to-morrow at a quarter to five." "what's the matter with my calling here for you and our going up together?" "oh, i'll have to go down town first and start from there." rex felt that this was a very lame excuse. he was not accustomed to telling untruths. but harrington seemed not to notice. "all right, just as you say," he replied. "but i'll see you in the morning any way." "good night," rex called after him. he felt that his not going home with harrington was a good stroke of policy. he decided to add another to it by sitting with the family a while before he went up to his room. "scott wanted to know if you can't come down and see him to-morrow, rex," began roy, as his brother seated himself on the top step and began fanning himself with his hat. "he told me to tell you to come down on the : prepared to stay all night." rex's heart gave a sudden leap. circumstances seemed to favor his plan. if he only had three dollars more now! "i guess i'll go" he said. "are you going, roy?" "no, i'm going to that ratification meeting with syd to-morrow night, you know. if you don't go down to marley, rex, you'd better come with us. there are to be some fine speeches." "perhaps i will," responded rex. he was turning over in his mind how he was going to get that money. the matter of his getting off to the station was simple enough now. he could even go with harrington without exciting suspicion. it would be supposed he was bound for marley. what a web of deceit he was planning to wind about himself. but he forcibly put this thought out of his mind whenever it obtruded itself. he would have time enough to repent when he came back. chapter xvii rex arrives in new york "i say, roy, can you lend me three dollars?" rex had crossed the hall to his brother's room some time after the family had come up stairs. "why, where's all your money gone to, rex? i thought you were saving up to get mother a present." "so i was, but-- but i've bought it and now i haven't got enough left to take me down to marley to-morrow night. just let me have three dollars. i'll pay you back when i get my next allowance on monday," "you've bought mother's present!" exclaimed roy. "what did you get? let me see it," "no, i want to keep it a secret till i give it to her," replied rex quickly. "now about that three dollars, can you let me have it, old fellow?" "certainly i can, but be sure to give it back to me monday, as i haven't enough to get the present i have set my heart on. i'll-- but there, if you won't tell about yours, i shan't say anything about mine. then we'll have a grand surprise party all around on the third." roy stepped to his dressing case and took out a two dollar and a one dollar bill, which he handed to rex. "thanks, ever so much," murmured the latter. "good night," and he hurried back to his own room. he had never felt so mean in his life. not only had he just obtained money under false pretenses, but he had told two or three falsehoods of the most unblushing description. roy's very readiness to oblige him added to his weight of remorse. he sat down on the edge of the bed and began to tuck the money away in his pocket book. was he really a criminal? he asked himself. how horrified they had all been when they thought mr. charles keeler had been an inmate of jails. was it any worse to have committed a crime and have been punished for it, than to commit the crime and not be found out? for a moment or two he was-- shall i call it tempted?-- to go back to his brother's room, return the three dollars and confess the whole thing. then he thought of new york, of his induction to a college town, of his promise to harrington to meet him at the station. "no; i must go now," he reflected. "i can call it sowing my wild oats," and he undressed as quickly as possible and got into bed, as if fearful that his repentant tendencies would conquer in spite of him. he was very quiet the next day. about ten o'clock harrington came in to see him. it was the first time he had ever been to the house. rex had not asked him, thinking he had no special attractions to offer him. mrs. pell and the girls were out shopping. roy was down at the office with syd. rex asked harrington if he would like to come up in his room. "of course i would. a fellow's generally curious about the inside of a house when he's been looking on the outside of it half the days of his life." so rex took him up stairs. he admired the "den," as he called it, immensely. "wait till you see mine at yale," he added, as he struck a match to light his inveterate cigarette. "i don't do much fixing up at home here, i'm here so little. by the way, you don't mind me smoking, do you?" "oh, no," replied rex faintly. nevertheless, he was wondering what his mother would say if the odor still lingered when she came. sydney did not smoke at all, and the entire family abominated cigarettes. mrs. pell did come home shortly after harrington had taken his departure. she came up to the third floor to put away some flannels she had bought for the boys. "reginald," she said, as soon as she entered the room, "you have been smoking." rex was reading by the window, and he turned around in startled disquiet. "no, i haven't, mother," he replied quickly. "where does that smell of cigarette smoke come from, then?" and mrs. pell coughed and then came up close to look her son in the eye. "dudley harrington has been here," he replied. "he was smoking." "you are sure you were not smoking with him?" went on mrs. pell, adding with a sudden bending down over him, "kiss me." rex complied, glad indeed that this time, at any rate, there was nothing he wished to conceal. "forgive me for doubting you, reggie," said his mother, as she lingered an instant to stroke the hair back from his forehead. once more rex weakened in his purpose, if one can be said to weaken when he is really stronger for the moment to resist an impulse for evil. but then he reflected that now he had the money and the opportunity of getting off to the station without being questioned. the facts seemed to will that he should go. and he went, stopping for harrington at half past four. when they reached the station he found that he had to pay a dollar extra for the privilege of riding over to new york in the chicago limited. but it was very select to travel on such a train, and the dinner that he and harrington ate en route was one long to be remembered. in fact there were so many new and novel sensations and impressions received from this first stage of his trip, that rex was surprised he did not derive more solid enjoyment from it. it was impossible for him to keep out of his mind, however, the fact that he was now supposed to be at marley with scott bowman. he had come away without leaving behind him the note he had at first planned to write. "you must come to yale sure, reggie," harrington told him. "can't you get ready to enter next fall? i'll be a junior then, and can look out for you, you know." "i wish i could," returned rex, rather more soberly than the nature of the subject seemed to warrant. he was thinking that it would be so much pleasanter to go to new haven legitimately than in his present stolen fashion. when they arrived at new york, harrington said he would go at once to the hotel where he was to meet some of "the boys." rex wondered whether they were going to stop at this hotel over night, and if to, how much it would cost. but he decided he would not ask, but wait and find out. it was nearly eight when harrington sent up his card to j. ashley stout in one of the plainer looking hotels on upper broadway. word came back that mr. stout was in his room on the fifth floor and would be glad to have mr. harrington come up. "come on, reggie," said the philadelphian. rex was not sure whether he liked harrington to call him reggie. sometimes it seemed to place him on a more familiar footing with the collegian, and at other times he had a suspicion that the name was employed merely to recall to the younger the fact of the difference in their ages. mr. stout proved to be a young man with a red face, a very unpleasant complexion, and an abnormally weak voice. he had neither coat, vest nor collar on, and his eyes looked as if the bell boy's knock had awakened him from a sound sleep. "glad to see you, harri, old boy," he said, shaking harrington vigorously by the hand. "excuse appearances. was just taking a snooze to prepare for the evening." "no apologies, jack. let me introduce my friend, reginald pell. he's a neighbor of mine at home. he's going up to yale with me to see if he likes it well enough to be one of us next year." "proud to know any friend of harri's, i'm sure," and mr. stout gave rex a hand that was so disagreeably clammy that the younger lad could scarcely resist the impulse to take out his handkerchief and wipe off the touch of it. from the conversation that ensued he ascertained that stout came from somewhere up in new york state and that for some reason or other he appeared to be quite a favorite with his classmates. one or two others were expected in the course of the evening, and the hope that they might go to the theater was now quenched in rex's breast. harrington and stout talked volubly of things in which he was not the least interested-- other college men. new haven girls, fraternity affairs, and the like. rex sat there listening, trying to look as if he were having a good time, but failing signally. however, this made no difference, as neither harrington nor stout paid any attention to him. presently stout began to complete his dressing, talking all the while. although he was not angry, he seemed to find it necessary to interlard his conversation with some very strong and unpleasant sounding expressions, and once or twice harrington followed his example. in fact the latter did not appear to be the same fellow here in new york that he was at home. once in a while he looked at rex and smiled as if mutely reminding the latter that he owed the good time he was having to him. but rex found it harder and harder to smile back, and he welcomed a knock that by and by came at the door as signalizing a. change of some sort. chapter xviii rex sees a horrible spectacle three new fellows followed the knock into the room. they were noisily greeted by stout and harrington. in the confusion it was some time before rex was introduced. tom cheever was a tall youth, continually feeling of his upper lip as if to see if his mustache had arrived; dan tilford had a narrow face, pallid from much cigarette smoking, and an eye that never seemed fixed on any object he gazed at; harry atkins was a handsome fellow of eighteen, who seemed of quieter temperament than the others. stout gave an order to the boy who had shown the last callers up, and the lad presently appeared staggering under a big bowl of what stout declared was the "rummest punch" new york could brew. "help yourselves, fellows!" he cried. "remember that the last night of vacation only comes once a year." the room was already filled with cigarette smoke. two or three of these cigarettes had been offered to rex, but he had declined with a vacillating "not now, thank you." when the punch was passed around he took the glass that was handed to him, but only pretended to drink. he did not care for liquor; he knew that it would give him a headache. he was having a terribly stupid time as it was. it was not worth while to aggravate it by the addition of physical suffering. he was appalled at the swiftness with which the others tossed off the drink. it seemed scarcely five minutes before stout was calling out: "fill 'em up again, men! here's to the coming year. may none of us be plucked and ponies be plentiful." he took up glass after glass and refilled it. rex saw what was coming and tried to be prepared for it. "why, pell!" exclaimed the hospitable host," you haven't drunk a drop. what does this mean?" "i don't drink, thank you," stammered rex, conscious that he ought to look the other straight in the eye as he made this response, but dropping his handkerchief so that he might have an excuse to stoop down and pick it up instead. "oh, yes you do, when you are among gentlemen like us, reggie." harrington came forward hastily to say this. the others held their glasses half way to their lips and watched for the outcome with interest. if rex were the hero of this tale it would doubtless be my pleasant duty to record the fact that he lifted the glass from the table, poured the contents into the bowl, and said that he could not go back on his principles. but rex unfortunately is not of the stuff of which heroes are made. he felt that he would rather endure a headache than the jeers of those five fellows. "of course," he said feebly, and drank off the glassful at one draft. "and now for another," said stout, promptly filling it up again. rex had never signed the pledge, but he knew that his mother did not want him to touch liquor. and it had been no deprivation for him to refrain, as he did not like it. what he had just drunk burnt his throat like fire. it seemed as if he could not possibly swallow any more. his misery showed itself in his face. atkins, who was standing just opposite on the other side of the table on which the punch bowl had been placed, saw it. "i say, pell," he called out softly, "come here a minute." he stepped over to the open window, which looked out on an airshaft. wondering what he wanted, rex followed him. the others were busy with the punch. "you don't want that, i know," whispered atkins. "i don't want any more either. look here." as he spoke, he dexterously emptied his glass out of the window. rex was quick to follow his example. "those fellows don't know when they've had enough," he said, "and somebody ought to keep a level head on his shoulders to look out for them." rex's heart sank within him. and it was for this that he had spent the money he had been saving for his mother's birthday gift! for this he had deceived this mother! for this told those falsehoods to roy! "are you fellows ready for another round?" called out stout, looking over at them. "slip up to the captain's office and get a settler." his voice already began to sound thick. "we must go and pretend to join them," atkins whispered. so glasses were filled for the third time, and on this occasion atkins retired with rex to the other side of the room, and watching his opportunity, poured his punch into the water pitcher. rex, in trying to do likewise, let slip the glass, and it fell with a crash into the basin. a roar of laughter greeted the incident. "good for you, pell," cried tom cheever. "trying to infuse a little life into the party. that's right, my boy, that's right." the fellow came over toward rex, walking a little unsteadily, and with such a leer in his eye that rex shrank back against the wall. at that moment harrington came up and put his arm around rex's neck. "i always said that reggie pell was a gentleman," he mumbled. "now you can see it for yourselves." "and his clothes fit him," added dan tilford, as a special mark of approval. "oh, they imagine they're having no end of sport," whispered atkins. "look at harrington. he's half seas over, too." he was so far over, indeed, that he was very ill for a time. it was a fearful scene. "here, pell," atkins called to him from the bed where he had gone to look after cheever. "see what you can do for your friend." and rex went over to harrington and tried to pilot him to a seat. then he held the other's head and shut his eyes, while he wondered if there was ever such a donkey on the face of the earth as he, reginald pell, to do all that he had done for this. if it hadn't been close on to midnight he would have gone home there and then. but now harrington was well nigh helpless, and rex knew nothing about new york. where was he going to sleep that night? harrington was in no condition to have questions put to him now. a fixed look came over rex's face. "i must go now," he said, looking around for his hat and valise. "what, you're not going off and leave harrington, are you?" asked atkins. "i can't do anything more for him and i must get out of this place. perhaps i'll call in the morning to see how he is. good night. i'm much obliged to you." "well, i suppose you are better off out of here, but aren't you going to hire a room in the hotel?" "no, i want to get as far away from the place as possible." rex noticed that stout was looking around at him. he shut the door quickly and hurried off. he breathed a great sigh of relief when he reached the open air. he turned down a side street to collect his thoughts before deciding what to do. he wandered till he reached the middle of the block, then, finding his valise heavy, he set it down on the sidewalk to rest a minute. it was after midnight and very quiet. suddenly he felt something hit him in the face, and then for a minute or two all was a blank to him. chapter xix a memorable night when rex came to his senses again he found himself leaning against a brown stone stoop. his head felt very queer. "i wonder if it can be the effect of that glass of punch i drank?" he asked himself. then he glanced down at the sidewalk and saw that his valise-- a handsome new one-- was missing. a terrible fear came to him. he put his hand to the breast pocket of his coat. yes, it was true. he had been assaulted and robbed in the street. his money, his return ticket to philadelphia, were gone, to say nothing of his satchel and the clothes that were in it. he looked helplessly up and down the street. all was quiet as it had been before. a man was coming toward him on the other side of the way. but that individual could have had nothing to do with robbing him. no, the thief had made his escape long since, and it was hopeless to try to overtake him. rex had one thing with which to console himself. his watch-- a silver one syd had recently given him-- had not been taken. he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. yes, there was some loose change there. he took it out and anxiously counted it under a lamp. there were seventy-three cents all told. and now the question arose, what was he to do? for one instant the expedient of returning to the hotel and throwing himself on the good will of those he had left there suggested itself to him. but only for an instant. the recollection of the scene he had quitted came back with all its vividness. no, he would not go back there. he deserved all that had befallen him. he had been a fool ever to take up with harrington. the fellow had only encouraged him because it flattered his vanity to be looked up to the way rex had looked up to the collegian. but he had no time now for self reproaches. he must decide what he should do. he looked at his watch. it was ten minutes to one. he did not remember to have been up so late in his life. but he did not feel sleepy. he was far too excited for that. "if i could only get back to philadelphia," was his thought. he knew that the single fare was two dollars and a half. what if he bought a ticket to a place as far as his seventy-three cents would carry him? he would be that much nearer home at any rate. but there were no trains at this time of night, what should he do with himself in the meantime? to pay for a night's lodging would only still further deplete his scanty stock of cash. poor rex felt as destitute, as desolate as any waif in all that great city. he had been cared for all his life, and now that he was suddenly thrown upon his own resources, he felt helpless, like a rudderless bark on a tossing sea. for all he was much more ready to express an opinion than roy, he had not half the push and energy of the latter, who, although quieter, was nevertheless the more determined character of the two. rex walked on now rapidly till he reached the lighted avenue. he had had all the experience he wanted of lingering in the side street. he halted on the corner and looked up and down in search of an elevated railroad station. he thought he had better get down to where the train started, so that he might be ready to take the first one. the idea of telegraphing home had already occurred to him, but he dismissed it at once. "no," he said, "i've done enough harm as it is. some one would have to come on for me, and mother would worry. they'll think now till noon to-morrow, and perhaps later, that i'm with scott. perhaps i can even get back before they know i haven't been there." if he only had his wheel! he had no clear idea of just how far the two cities were apart. he only knew that it hadn't taken him very long to come over in the chicago limited. he found the station of the elevated, and after waiting a long time he boarded a train. the people scattered through the cars were nearly all asleep. rex dropped off himself almost as soon as he sank into a seat. he was utterly worn out. the next thing of which he was conscious was that the train was at a standstill and that the guard was shaking him, with the words: "here, wake up, young man. we're at the battery. the train doesn't go any farther." rex rubbed his eyes. it took him an instant or two to realize where he was. the guard was not rough with him. "where do you want to go?" he asked. "to the pennsylvania station," answered rex. "then you've come too far. you ought to have got off at cortlandt street." "is it too far to walk back?" asked rex, mindful of his small supply of money. "about three stations. you can keep along the river. it'll be nearer that way." "thank you," returned rex. he wasn't in a hurry. he might as well walk. but he was terribly sleepy, and when he got to the foot of the stairway, he became rather confused. he heard the water washing against the sea wall. he walked on in the direction of the sound and found himself standing at the very end of manhattan island looking toward the bay. it was very quiet except for the light splash of the waves and the soft sound of escaping steam from an engine overhead. rex was not certain in which direction he ought to go to reach the ferry. there seemed to be water on both sides of him. there was nobody around of whom to inquire except a tramp or two asleep on one of the benches, and he did not wish to go near them. he turned away from the river and walked off through battery park till he saw a policeman. the latter directed him how to go, looking at him pretty sharply. rex hurried off, but presently stopped under a lamp post to glance at his watch. it was a quarter to two. there was no need to hurry. but he was afraid to walk slow. it was very quiet along the water front at this time of night. he did not want to be "held up" again and lose his watch and what little money he had left. here was a man coming toward him now. but he was drunk. rex was not afraid of him. he was only filled with a shame that sent the color to his cheeks. why was dudley harrington any better than this reeling sailor? and harrington had been his ideal. he reached the ferry just as a boat went out. he fell asleep while waiting for the next one. he was awakened by one of the attendants. the company evidently did not intend to allow the ferry rooms to be turned into a free lodging house. the ticket office was not open on the new york side, so rex just paid his ferriage. on reaching jersey city he found that there was to be no train till : a. m. he could not sleep in the waiting room. he walked out in the streets of the city a little distance, but was so tired he could scarcely drag one foot after the other. he was so sleepy, too, that his eyes kept closing every minute. then he was afraid of meeting a footpad. he did not know where to go. to hire a room at a hotel would take all his money. and yet he could not walk the streets all night. ah, he was being well punished for all his sins! and where had been the "good time" for which he had been willing to commit them? he thought of roy asleep in his comfortable bed at home. when should he (rex) ever be able to feel as cosy in mind as this twin brother of his must? for even if he did succeed in getting home without something terrible befalling him, there remained his confession to make. for he must tell everything. he had made up his mind to that. but this was in the future. meantime the present must be provided for. he turned and walked back to the ferry. if he could only lie down somewhere, he thought. there was a boat just starting out. he paid his three cents and went aboard. he fell asleep almost as soon as he touched the seat. a man came through when they reached new york, woke him up and made him get off. but he was reckless now. he walked out to the street, but immediately turned about again, paid another ferriage and walked on the boat, where he instantly fell asleep once more. and he kept this up till half-past five, when it began to grow light. then he went ashore to the station in jersey city and bought some fruit, which he ate for his breakfast. by that time the ticket office was open and he went up to the agent and asked how far he could ride for fifty cents. the man looked at him closely for a minute. "which way?" he inquired then. "i want to go to philadelphia," rex answered frankly. all his pride had gone now. "i've only got fifty cents to spend on the ride, though. i want to get as close to it as i can." the agent named a town and passed out a ticket. when the cars were opened rex lost no time in settling himself in a seat. he put his ticket in his hat and went to sleep at once. the result was that he was carried past his stopping place, and the station at which he was set off was a few miles nearer philadelphia than he had hoped to get. but the brakeman told him that the quaker city was still fifty miles away. chapter xx the crisis "fifty miles!" rex repeated these words to himself as he stood on the platform of the station and looked after the swiftly vanishing cars. how soon that train would cover them! it seemed such a simple thing to stay on board and be carried there, so cruel to be left behind simply for the lack of a little more money. it was still quite early in the morning. people were coming down to take the train to the city. they had all been in their beds and had a good night's sleep doubtless. they were much better fitted for a long tramp than was he, who had not been to bed at all. but he must set off at once. he asked the baggage man to tell him the road to philadelphia. "sure, there it is, in front of you," replied the other, pointing to the gleaming steel rails. "no, no; i mean the carriage road," returned rex. the man looked surprised, but gave him directions how to find it, and presently rex was tramping down its dusty length. "but i can never get there by to-night, nor by to-morrow night either," he kept saying to himself. "and i shall have to eat, and my money will not hold out till then." again he thought of telegraphing-- this time to sydney. but where should he stay while he was waiting for the answer? then he remembered how ill syd still looked, and he recalled the doctor's inquiry that afternoon in the office as to whether he had had a shock. no; he must leave telegraphing as the very last resort of all. he trudged on, and presently saw a tramp coming towards him. "good morning," said the fellow, halting where he came up. "what time is it, boss?" rex had just looked at his watch, so without taking it out he told the time. the man took a step closer to him, but just then a cloud of dust appeared in the road, and a buggy came into view. the tramp moved on without a word. this incident did not tend to make rex any more comfortable in mind. and now his body was beginning to rebel. his stomach felt light, his heart heavy, and his limbs appeared to be weighted with lead. coming to a spot where trees grew by the roadside he halted and stretched himself on the grass to rest. he was no longer sleepy, but so tired. he felt that he was going to be ill. the thought terrified him. sick out here on the highway, only a few cents in his pockets, and not a friend anywhere about! it was growing hot and he was getting hungry. his breakfast had been a very light one. the last regular meal he had eaten was on the chicago limited. how long ago that seemed now! he took out his money and counted it over. there was but sixteen cents left. he felt that he could eat that much worth for his very next meal. there seemed to be no way out of it but to telegraph home, and he had better do it, he decided, before he was too ill to attend to it. but there was no place now from which to send a message. he must keep on till he came to the next town. he rose to his feet and had taken but a few steps when some one came up from behind and touched him on the shoulder. he turned quickly, in fear of another tramp. it was a tramp truly, but a mere boy, not much older than himself. he was very pale and sickly looking, his clothes were torn in two or three places and his shoes were worn clear down to the uppers. he did not speak. he stood there looking at rex, amazement depicted in his gaze. "i-- i made a mistake," he stammered out at last "i thought you were one of us. i saw you lying down there under the tree. your shoes were all dusty. i knew you'd been tramping." but rex did not feel astonished. he felt so ill and faint that his head swam, and he began to totter. "i'll have to lie down again, i guess," he said weakly. he had just time to move aside out of the dust when he fell like a log. "what's the matter? are you sick?" the shabby looking youth had dropped to one knee beside rex and was looking down at him with pitying eyes. "yes," was all rex had strength to murmur. then he closed his eyes and did not care what became of him. the strange lad let his other knee sink to the earth and remained in this attitude for several minutes, gazing earnestly at rex. "poor chap," he muttered. "i can't make out what he's doing tramping the country this way. he don't look poor. what'll i do with him?" the first thing to be done, evidently, was to get him out of the sun, which beat down on the spot where he had fallen with fierce intensity. the stranger bent over, and exerting all his strength lifted rex in his arms and bore him back along the road to the grassy strip under the trees where he had recently been lying. rex opened his eyes for an instant when he felt himself raised from the ground. then, when he saw the pity in the plain face looking down into his, he closed them again with a little sigh. and now once more the strange youth sat contemplating the boy, who seemed to be a tramper like himself, but who, in every other respect, was so vastly different. he noted the fine, delicately chiseled features, the smallness of his feet, the whiteness and smoothness of his hands. he had seen boys like this before, but he had never before touched one, never had one of them dependent on him, as it were, as this fellow appeared to be now. miles harding did not know just what to do with the responsibility. and yet he was happy at having it; he felt glad that he had been able to do that little thing of carrying the boy from the sun into the shade. it was not often that he was able to do anything for anybody. he was always in need of having something done for himself. he tried to think of something else he might do. he noticed that rex's head did not seem to rest very comfortably. he took off his coat and started to make a roll of it for a pillow. but he stopped when he had it half finished. "maybe he wouldn't like that," he muttered, looking down at the garment as he unrolled it again. it had been made for a man. there were rents in two places and plentiful sprinklings of grease spots. the day was growing steadily warmer. even under the tree one felt the heat. "he wouldn't catch cold without his own," miles murmured, and he bent over rex and lifted him gently while he tried to take off his coat. rex opened his eyes and looked at him again as if in protest. "i was going to make a pillow for you out of your coat," miles explained. "you don't feel able to walk till we get to a house, do you?" rex slowly shook his head. he was in that condition which sometimes comes to those in seasickness, when he didn't care whether he lived or died. "have you got pain?" went on miles. "only when i walk," answered rex; then, as if talking, too, hurt him, he closed his eyes and sank back upon the pillow the other made for him out of his coat. meantime clouds had been gathering in the west. miles had been too much occupied with his unexpected charge to notice them. but now he looked up and saw the threatening aspect of the heavens with troubled countenance. he rose to his feet and strode out into the middle of the road, looking first in one direction, then the other. his eye brightened as he saw a buggy coming from the westward. he watched impatiently, till it came up, and then saw that it contained two men. he held up his hand as a signal for them to stop. but the driver, who had been talking earnestly with his companion, cut the horse with his whip, shook his head and drove on. miles remained there, standing in the road, a hopeless droop coming over his whole figure. "they think i want to beg of them, i suppose," he told himself. "what shall i do?" already the sun had gone under the cloud masses and the air was much cooler. the wind rose and began to rustle the leaves. quite a distance off down the road, in the direction whence the buggy had come, the red tops of two chimneys could be seen peeping above the trees. "he can't stay here in the rain," miles muttered. "i must try to get him to that house." he turned to rex again. he took the coat from under his head and made him put it on. "it's going to storm," he said, "i'm going to carry you to that house." "you can't," was all rex had strength to say. "i'm going to try," returned miles, and he gathered rex up in his arms just as the wind came sweeping down upon them in a gust that was ominous of that which was to follow. chapter xxi miles harding it was physically impossible for miles harding to carry rex very far without stopping to rest. the life of a tramp, with insufficient nourishment, was not calculated to strengthen the long arms which could easily wrap themselves about the other boy, but had little power to retain him in their embrace. but miles fought to do his best. he only consented to stop and deposit his burden on the grass when he felt that, did he not do so, he would be compelled to drop it. then, after resting a moment or two, he would be off again. "don't; you will strain yourself," rex whispered once, protestingly. but miles's only answer was, "i must. you can't be out here in the storm." in this way they progressed until they had nearly reached the house. then the rain began to come down in torrents. miles made a last desperate effort. picking rex up, he ran the intervening distance, although it was twice as far as he usually bore his burden without stopping. he dashed in at the gate and then, so exhausted was he that he sank down beside rex when he deposited the latter on the floor of the piazza. he lay there breathing hard, while the rain came down in sheets. he had not even strength to turn his head when he heard the screen door behind him open and some one come out. "who-- who are you and what do you want?" the question was put by a very sweet girlish voice. and the girl who put it was herself exceedingly pretty. she had opened the door that led out from the wide, breezy hall, and stepped upon the piazza. she now looked down upon the two boys lying there with undisguised astonishment. then she came around so that miles could see her. "i beg your pardon, miss," he said, stopping between every three or four words to take breath; "i wanted to get-- him out of the-- rain. this was the nearest-- house. i hope you don't mind." "is he ill?" she asked. rex's face was turned partly towards her. it was very pale now, but florence raynor was thinking also how very handsome it was and in what contrast to that of the fellow who had answered her. "yes, he's very sick, i'm afraid," replied miles. "is he your brother?" went on florence. "oh, no; just-- a friend." miles hesitated before he added the last word; then when he had said it a look of pride came into his eyes for an instant. "i'll call mother," said the girl, and she hurried off to the kitchen, where mrs. raynor was making cake. "oh, mama," she exclaimed, "the noise i heard was two tramps who had come in on our piazza out of the rain. at least one of them is a tramp, and the other is the nicest looking boy, about the age of our bert. he's sick and just as pale! but he's dressed very well, and i can't understand how they came to be together. won't you come out and see them, please?" mrs. raynor scraped the dough from her lingers and followed her daughter to the front porch. miles had gone over to take rex's head on his knee and was softly stroking the hair back from the damp forehead. "oh, yes; the poor fellow is very ill," mrs. raynor exclaimed as soon as she saw him. she scarcely gave a glance at miles. she stood for one instant as if thinking deeply. then with a resolved tone, she turned to harding. "can you help me get him up stairs and in bed?" she asked. "i guess so, ma'am," miles replied. "i've got my breath back now. i have to carry him, you know. you're awfully good to take him in this way." "one must be terribly hard hearted to turn away one in his condition. come." between them they lifted rex and bore him into the house and up the broad, easy stairs to a little room at the head of them. "we must get these wet clothes off at once," said mrs. raynor, and miles stayed there to help her. they put him to bed, and then the good lady declared that they ought to have a doctor. "let me go for one," miles exclaimed. "i want to do something for him." mrs. raynor, now that rex no longer absorbed her entire attention, turned her gaze on his companion. miles colored beneath it. "perhaps you don't think i'm fit to go?" he said slowly. it was mrs. raynor's turn to color now. she saw that this fellow, so shabbily dressed, was of very sensitive nature. a happy way of turning the thing off occurred to her. "you are wet, too," she said. "and it is raining still. i will have the man from the barn go." she hurried off down stairs to call him. miles lingered, looking toward the bed, where lay the fellow who had attracted him so strongly. "i s'pose they don't want me hanging around here any longer," he mused. "they can do everything for him there is to be done. but i don't want to leave him." miles harding's nature was a singular one for a boy brought up as he had been. thrown upon his own resources when he was hardly more than twelve, he had received some pretty hard knocks from the world. but the hardness of these had not cultivated, a like hardness in him whom they struck. his temperament had always been a sympathetic one. he had many times received harsh treatment that would never have come to him, by seeking to protect some persecuted cat or dog. thus far the recipient of his kindly ministrations had always been some dumb animal. now that the opportunity had offered to extend these to a human being, miles was loath to put it aside. "what a nice fellow he is!" he murmured. "i wonder where he belongs!" just then florence came to the door. the thought instantly flashed into miles's brain that she had been sent there to see that he did not steal anything. but he was accustomed to being the object of such suspicions. and yet, somehow, the idea that he should be, hurt him more than usual on the present occasion. "my mother would like to see you down stairs," said florence. "i will stay here with him." miles went down and found mrs. raynor at the foot of the stairway. "it has just occurred to me," she said, "that you may think it best to send to the home of this young man. who is he?" a troubled look came over miles's face. he feared that what he was about to say would settle the matter once for all about his being allowed to stay with the fellow up stairs. but he had to tell the truth. "i don't know his name," he answered. "i fell in with him on the road. but i'd so much like to do something for him. you are sure there is nothing i can do?" "you have already done a great deal for him," returned mrs. raynor, "if, as i understand, you carried him in here out of the rain. and you haven't any idea where he belongs?" "no, i saw him lying on the grass as i was walking along the road. i was going to trenton to try and get a job in the potteries there. but i'd like to find out how he gets along." "you shall. sit down on the porch here while i take your coat in and hang it by the stove to dry. i'll send tim for the doctor at once." when mrs. raynor returned up stairs a little later, florence met her at the door of her brother's room, where rex had been carried, bert being away at boarding school. "he's very sick, don't you think, mama?" she asked. "i'm afraid so, my dear. i want to do all i can for him. i can't help thinking how grateful i should be to have any one do as much for our bert." "and see what nice clothes he wears," went on florence in the same whispering tone. "how do you suppose he ever got into association with that fellow down stairs?" "hush, dear, "cautioned her mother. "behind those poor clothes is a very warm heart." "but is he going to stay, too?" went on florence. "he wants to. perhaps we can find something for him to do about the garden." "do you think he's honest, though?" "we must run our chances on that. he is certainly very different from most fellows of his appearance." the doctor arrived inside of an hour. he made an examination and then reported that rex was in for a bad case of intermittent fever. "he may not be able to be moved for six weeks," he added. and rex knew nothing of it, but began to toss in the delirium of his fever, living over again some of the bitter experiences of the past few hours. chapter xxii searching for rex "what train did rex say he would be back on, roy?" this was the question asked by mrs. pell at the breakfast table on the morning that rex was trudging along the dusty road between new york and philadelphia. "he didn't say," replied roy. "he'll surely be home by lunch, though. scott is going to west chester with his mother at noon." lunch hour arrived and still no reginald. but mrs. pell did not worry. he had so many friends in marley that there were plenty of places where he might have gone from the bowmans'. but when dinner time came and he had not yet appeared, the entire family began to speculate on the reasons for it. "he's probably at the minturns," said sydney, when informed of the facts. "charlie may have persuaded him to stay over another night with him." "rex should have sent us word then," rejoined his mother. another day passed, and by this time mrs. pell began to grow seriously alarmed. "you must go down to marley the first thing in the morning, roy," she said. and roy went, repairing first to the bowmans'. he found scott just about to take his mother out in his cart. "what have you done with that brother of mine?" roy began when greetings had been exchanged. "and i'd like to know why that brother of yours doesn't permit himself to be heard from," returned scott promptly. "he didn't show up wednesday night nor send me any message explaining why he didn't come." "didn't come?" echoed roy. "do you mean to say that rex hasn't been here?" "of course he hasn't, and i think it mighty shabby of him." "why, that's the queerest thing i ever heard of," said roy slowly. "why is it?" "because he started to come down here wednesday afternoon by the : express." "he did?" it was now scott's turn to look astonished. "and you say he never got here?" went on roy. "of course he didn't. you don't suppose we have him smuggled away somewhere, do you?" "haven't you any idea where your brother is?" here interrupted mrs. bowman. "we were sure he was here, somewhere in marley," answered roy. "but he can't be, if he didn't come to you first." "what could have happened to the fellow?" said scott, beginning to see that the matter was more serious than he had at first supposed. "i can't imagine. it's the strangest thing i ever heard of." roy looked really worried. "i thought he might possibly be at the minturns', but he wouldn't have gone there till he had been here." "let down that seat behind, jump in, and i'll drive you over there," said scott. but charlie had not seen or heard from rex in ten days, nor was news to be obtained of him from any other of his marley friends. roy went home seriously alarmed. he hated to bring such a report to his mother, but he knew it would be better that she should be informed of all the facts. she was somewhat stunned at first at the tidings, but quickly rallied. "we must find him," she said. "something has happened to him. did you think to ask apgar if he remembered seeing rex on his train wednesday night?" apgar was the conductor on the : express. "no, i'll go down to the station and ask him this afternoon before he goes out." roy returned with the announcement that apgar was sure rex had not been on his train. "then there is only one other theory." mrs. pell looked very grave as she spoke. "what is that, mother?" she did not reply at once. reginald was very dear to her. she hated to expose his failings even to his own brother. but it must be done. "you remember, roy," she went on, "how he teased me to let him go to new haven with young harrington? it is possible he may have gone after all. i wish you would go in next door and see if you can find out." roy instantly recalled the three dollars rex had borrowed from him, but he said nothing of it. he went at once to make his call next door. he asked for mrs. harrington, telling the servant that he wished to see her on a matter of importance. he sent up his name, roy pell. "you are the young man my son speaks of," said mrs. harrington when she appeared in the great drawing room, and put up her lorgnette to survey her caller. "no, that is reginald, my brother. i called in to find out if he went off to new haven with your son." "what! you know nothing of his whereabouts yourselves?" mrs. harrington did not seek to conceal her surprise. roy felt humiliated, but there was nothing for it but to admit the fact. "we are afraid he may have gone off without my mother's leave," he said. "he was very anxious to go with your son. he had an invitation to go down to marley the same day. we thought he had gone, but we find now that he has not been there." "your mother did not wish him to go with dudley, you say?" there was a trace of severity in mrs. harrington's tones. "she thought he had better not. he is much older than rex. do you know whether or not they went off together?" "i heard dudley say something about having invited young pell to go to new haven with him. they went to the station together." "then rex must have gone. i am very sorry to have troubled you, mrs. harrington." roy now made a little bow, and he hurried off. "then he wanted that three dollars from me to spend on the trip," he was saying to himself. "but that wouldn't have been enough. he must have used the money he said he was saving up for mother's present. ah, reggie, i didn't think it of you!" when he told the news at home there was a good deal of discussion concerning what ought to be done about it. "let him alone," suggested jess. "he feels bad enough about it by this time." "but i don't know when he will be back," said mrs. pell. eva suggested that they write him a letter in care of young harrington and request him to come home at once, but it was sydney's idea that was acted on. a telegraphic dispatch was sent to dudley harrington, yale, new haven. "is reginald pell with you?" it ran. the answer came duly, "no, he is not." the family looked at one another, consternation depicted in their faces. sydney tried to comfort them by explaining that doubtless harrington was inclined to be very literal under the circumstances and that rex was not with him because he had just started for home. but mrs. pell was not content to rest under this uncertainty. another message was sent to new haven reading thus: "did reginald pell start away from philadelphia with you?" the response to this was one word, "yes." the pells were now really alarmed. it was decided that sydney should start the first thing: saturday morning for new haven, but friday night he was seized with another of his bad turns, which had been growing more and more frequent of late. roy offered to go in his place, and mrs. pell consented to the substitution. so roy set out and reached new haven in the course of the afternoon. he would have enjoyed the trip if his mind had not been so worried about rex. he found harrington's room with little trouble. he heard the notes of the banjo issuing from inside. he had to knock hard before he could make himself heard. there were three fellows there, two of them in the luxuriously cushioned window seat. roy was a little dazzled by the unexpected splendor of the room. he knew harrington, of course, the fellow in the blue striped blazer. he went up to the collegian at once. "i guess you know me," he said. "i'm roy pell, rex's brother. i came up to find out what you could tell me about him." the three fellows exchanged glances. "why, isn't he home?" answered harrington. "no. when did he leave new haven?" "he hasn't been to new haven," replied harrington slowly. "not been here!" exclaimed roy. "where did you leave him, then?" "in new york." "when?" "wednesday night" "was he going home?" "i don't know," and harrington looked confused as he made this unsatisfactory answer. chapter xxiii a telegram roy saw at a glance that something was being concealed from him. "how is it you don't know where rex went when he left you?" he inquired. "well, i didn't see which way he went when he left the hotel," answered harrington. "i supposed though, he went home, and am surprised to hear he isn't there. atkins, here, may be able to tell you more than i can. mr. atkins, this is roy pell, reggie's brother." the pleasantest faced fellow in the room came forward and put out his hand. "i'm glad to meet you, pell," he said, "and wish i could give you some definite information about your brother. i thought with harri here that he was certainly at home." he glanced over at the other two, who were softly strumming their banjoes in the window seat. "come across the hall into my room," he added. "good day, mr. harrington," called out roy, and followed atkins. he could see that harrington was relieved to have him go. "now i'll tell you the straight of it, pell," began atkins, when he had invited his visitor to make himself comfortable in one of the many lounging chairs with which the apartment abounded. "you see, harrington brought your brother to one of the pre-term time jollifications some of the fellows think they must have before coming up here. i was there. i didn't care about going very much, but my room mate would go, and i went to take care of him more than anything else. "well, all the fellows except your brother and myself were more than half seas over before midnight. he became disgusted and got out. i was busy with cheever, and didn't have time to question him. naturally harrington feels a little sore over the thing. but he hadn't any idea your brother hadn't gone home till he got your telegrams." "but rex-- where do you suppose he is all this time?" roy was terribly anxious. the whole affair was much worse than he had anticipated. he was glad of one thing, though; that rex had been disgusted with the orgy. "i wish i could tell you," answered atkins. "i managed to get cheever over to our house before morning. i don't know what harrington said about young pell's disappearance when he came to himself." "what did reggie want to go with such fellows for?" groaned roy. "but the wonder to me is why harrington ever took him up. there must be at least five years' difference in their ages." "oh, harri appeared to be quite fond of him. i guess your brother flattered him some. dudley can stand a deal of that." "but i must find rex. i'm sure he hadn't money enough to keep him all this while. and i don't know where to look first." "i wish i could help you," returned atkins. "i tell you what i'll do. i'll get ready now and go down to new york with you. you can come to our house and stay over sunday with me. my father is a lawyer. he may be able to tell us what to do. what do you say?" "you're awfully kind," returned roy. "but i don't like to intrude." "it won't be intruding. the pater likes me to bring fellows with me. i wasn't going this week, but that won't matter. he'll be glad to see me. you'll come, won't you?" roy thanked him again and accepted. he liked the genial hearted fellow as much as rex had done. on the way down atkins told him of the devices for disposing of the punch. "you don't suppose the glass he drank went to his head so as to do him any injury, do you?" asked roy. atkins reassured him on this point, and then suggested that they had better go to the hotel where the jollification had been held to see if any trace of rex could be obtained there. but the clerk informed them that no such person had hired a room. that evening they discussed the matter with judge atkins without telling the details of the jollification, which doubtless he was astute enough to guess at. the result was that messages were sent to all the police precincts, and a detective was put on the case. roy sent a telegram to his mother saturday night making it as hopeful as he could, but his own heart was growing heavier and heavier. atkins did his best to cheer him up, and under other circumstances roy would have had a most enjoyable time. but he could not keep his thoughts from rex. he went home on monday, fearful of the meeting with his mother. he felt at times as if the worst news, if it might be but definite, would be better to carry home than those tidings he must take, which would keep them all in such awful suspense. sydney had recovered, but the shock of roy's announcement threw him back into a relapse. and yet he insisted on seeing roy. "mr. tyler's money has not made us happy after all, has it, roy?" he said, after the sad affair had been talked over. "i was afraid that it wouldn't, syd. still, this might have happened just the same. you have not been well though, old fellow, since that night you came over to burdock to make the old man's will." "have you noticed that, roy?" said sydney quickly. "yes, it seems, as you say, that we must pay up for having the money in some way. but where can poor rex be? i wonder if he is ashamed or afraid to come home?" anxiously the reports from the detectives were awaited. but when they came they were only depressing. positively no trace of the missing boy could be found. advertisements were inserted in the new york and philadelphia papers, but nothing came of them. the family were by this time well nigh distracted. they had not even the poor satisfaction of mourning the lost as one dead. they could only wait and hope, but as the days passed into a week, this last seemed futile. the time came for school to open, but roy had little heart to go alone. still, he must attend to his education. the first week of it dragged slowly by. some of his marley friends wanted him to come down there and spend his saturday. he had not yet decided friday night whether he wanted to go, when the door bell rang, and a messenger appeared with a telegram for roy pell. it was dated at some town in jersey of which he had never heard, and was very brief, but the one word signed to it was worth a hundred lines, for that name was "rex." "all safe. will write soon." that was all, and when he read it to the family, the wild exclamations of joy were succeeded by perplexed impatience. "why didn't he tell us where to find him?" eva wanted to know. "why didn't he send word to mother?" added jess. "why does he not explain his long silence?" said mrs. fell fearing the worst. sydney was away at harrisburg, and roy decided that instead of going to marley the following day, he would find out where this new jersey town was and hunt up rex at once. mrs. pell wanted to go with him, but roy reminded her that he might have considerable difficulty in tracing rex, so it was decided that she wait until she heard from him. from a railroad time table roy ascertained where he must go, and by the first train he could get in the morning he set out. "be very gentle with him, roy," his mother said at parting. "by his sending to you he evidently thinks i am greatly displeased with him." "trust me, mother," roy assured her with a smile. he felt very happy this morning, happier than he had, it seemed to him, since they had come into their fortune. of such worth is sorrow sometimes, to make a contrast by which to intensify joy. on arriving at his destination he went to the man in the ticket office and put the following inquiry: "do you know anybody in the place named reginald pell?" "no," was the reply. "has he lived here long?" "no, he doesn't really live here. he's my twin brother, you see, and i have a telegram from him, but he didn't say where he was staying. is this a very big place?" the ticket agent smiled. "well, it isn't exactly a metropolis," he said. "thank you," responded roy, and he walked out of the rear door toward the dusty road, thinking he was not going to have such an easy job to find rex after all, if he was in the town where he was supposed to be. the station was built at a little distance from the town proper. roy walked on along a board walk until he came to the first house, one of those white, green shuttered affairs whose number is legion in the rural districts. a woman without a hat on was sweeping the leaves from the path that led down to the gate. the lines about her mouth were rather stern, but roy made up his mind to begin with her. chapter xxiv found at last "excuse me," began roy, leaning over the gate and taking off his broad brimmed straw hat, "do you know a boy named rex pell?" he had decided that this would be the shortest way of getting at things. the woman looked up quickly, resting her chin on the top of her broom handle. "do you think i look as if i knew much about boys?" she replied. "well, i don't and i don't want to." "excuse me," said roy, and he hurried on, glad to get away. the next house was a larger one. there was a good deal of piazza around it and some pretensions were made at keeping the lawn in good condition. roy's knock at the door was answered so promptly that he was fain to believe that some one must have been peeping through the shutters watching his approach. a tall woman with light hair received him very effusively. "i've been expecting you," she said, with an expansive smile. "i thought you'd come on that train." "this must be the place," thought roy. "she knows rex sent the dispatch and thought some of us would come on." "i suppose you'd like to go straight up stairs?" she continued, when she had taken his hat and hung it on the stand in the hall. "yes, i would," and roy's heart sank. rex must be sick, he decided, and not able to leave his bed. he followed the light haired woman to the floor above, where she threw open the door of a room with a sort of flourish. roy halted on the threshold. there was a double bed inside, but nobody on it nor was anybody to be seen in the apartment. "where is my brother?" he asked. "your brother?" exclaimed the woman. "i did not understand that there were two of you. your father's letter mentioned only one son. wait, i will get--" "no, there must be some mistake," roy interposed. "i thought my brother, rex pell, might be here." "what, you are not eric levens, then?" "no, indeed, and don't you know anything about my brother? i am so sorry." "i thought you were the young gentleman i expected who was to look at this room to see whether he liked it well enough to stay while his father went to europe. but why are you sorry that i do not know anything about your brother? have you lost him?" "in a sort of a way, yes," and roy told his story, or as much of it as he could, without bringing in the fact of rex's having run away from home. "oh, i guess i can help you," exclaimed the woman, when he had finished. "maybe he is the young fellow who is staying at the raynors'. i heard about it last sunday at church." "about it? about what?" roy's face grew pale. the woman looked a little uncomfortable. "don't be too anxious," she replied. "he must be better now if he could send a message. but he's had the intermittent fever. he was found on the piazza of the house one rainy evening about ten days ago by florence raynor. a trampish looking young fellow had carried him in out of the wet, and they say he's been devoted to him ever since." "where do the raynors live?" asked roy, already impatient to be off. "come here to the window and i can show you the house. it is clear at the end of this street beyond all the others. you can just see the chimneys above the trees." roy was soon hurrying away in the direction pointed out. although he feared that rex might have been ill, the certainty of it made his heart very sore for his brother. "sick among strangers!" was his thought. "i wish mother had come with me." a young girl was reading on the piazza when he opened the gate and walked up the path between the box hedges. "is my brother rex here?" he said, pausing at the foot of the steps, his hat in his hand. she had raised her head as the gate latch clicked, and now their eyes met. even in that moment roy noted how very pretty she was. "you are the roy that he sent the telegram to?" she exclaimed. then paused suddenly, and blushed. "yes, i'm roy, and i've had a hard time to find him. how is he?" "he's better. he was asleep just now. if you will come in i will call mother." "rex has certainly fallen into good hands," thought roy when he was left alone. mrs. raynor came out in a moment and greeted roy most cordially. "i'm glad you came," she said. "it will do your brother good to see you," "you've been very, very kind to him," answered roy. "no; it wasn't any trouble, because we all took to him so. it was a pleasure to do for him." "but why didn't he let us know before where he was?" asked roy. "bless you, he only knew himself yesterday. he's had a hard tug of it, and not a scrap or a card could we find about him, only the letters r. b. p. p, on his linen." "then he's been out of his head?" "yes; and you must be prepared to find him greatly changed. but he'll come around again all right, the doctor says. i'll go up now and see if he is awake and call you." the summons to ascend came a few minutes later, and presently roy found himself standing by his brother's bedside. mrs. raynor considerately withdrew and left the two together, warning them that she should be back in ten minutes to prevent her patient from becoming unduly excited. rex had changed. there was no longer any plumpness in his cheeks, and his face was very white. but so were his teeth, and his eyes were as lustrous as ever. "roy!" he uttered the one word in a weak voice, and held tightly in both of his the hands that his brother extended to him. a moment of the precious ten was lost to silence as the two looked at each other, but in that look was that which hours of speech could not have expressed. roy read in it true repentance, a pleading for forgiveness, and rex saw that there was no chiding for him from those at home, only love and pity. "do you know all, roy; the very worst?" rex then whispered. "don't think of that now, reggie. it is all right. i want to talk about yourself-- your sickness." "but i must think of it. i have been thinking of it ever since i came to my senses yesterday. did you know that i told you lies, that i acted them, that i took the money i had been saving up for mother's present to pay the expenses of this wretched trip?" "but you didn't go all the way, reggie. i found that out. you turned back. what happened to you then?" rex told the terrible tale of the robbery, of the awful night he had passed riding back and forth across the river, and had got as far as his falling asleep on the train when mrs. raynor appeared and smilingly announced that time was up. "miles will tell you the rest, roy," said rex. "he's the best fellow. i don't know what would have become of me if it hadn't been for him. and mrs. raynor, too. when i get well they must all come to philadelphia and we'll give them the very best time." there was a touch of his old self in the heartiness with which he uttered these words. roy's coming and comforting words had lifted a heavy burden from his heart. they left him to try to get to sleep again. roy went down stairs with mrs. raynor. "i ought to go home at once and tell my mother about rex," he said. "why not send a message and stay with him?" suggested the other. "we should be very glad to have you. there is plenty of room in the house. or send word for your mother to come on. i know she must be anxious to see her son." roy hesitated. he scarcely knew what to do. then he remembered sydney's absence and reflected that the girls could not very well be left alone. he decided to stay himself till monday, and to send word that rex was all right now. he hurried off to the station to write his dispatch and came back as quickly to the raynors'. he recollected that he had not yet seen the miles of whom rex spoke, the fellow who could tell him the continuation of his brother's adventures. he asked florence, whom he found on the lawn, where he could find miles. "he's out in the field now," she replied, "digging potatoes. but it's almost twelve. he'll be in then for his dinner. he just adores that brother of yours." "but who is he?" roy persisted. "well, he hasn't told us his story yet. we took him on trust, and he's turned out all right so far. but there he comes now." "excuse me," said roy. "i'll go and see him." and he hurried off around the corner of the house. the next minute he stood face to face with the youth who is destined to play a highly important part in the remainder of this tale. chapter xxv miles harding's story miles knew roy at once. "this is miles, isn't it?" said roy in his pleasant way, and he put out his hand. "yes, but wait a minute." miles hurried to the pump near the kitchen door. he gave his hands a douse of water, dried them quickly on a roller towel in the woodshed, and then came back to greet the brother of the boy of whom he was so fond. "you got the telegram all right then?" he said. "rex was so weak when he told me where to send it, i wasn't sure i'd get it quite right." "i want to thank you for all you did for him," went on roy. "he's told me about it, except the details. he said you'd do that-- about what happened to him after he got out of the train. but don't let me keep you from your dinner." "i'd rather talk to you than eat," said miles frankly. mrs. raynor appeared at this moment and compromised matters by bringing miles' dinner to him out on the side porch. roy sat by and listened to the recital, most modestly given, of the facts with which the reader is already acquainted. it was time for miles to return to his work when it was finished, and florence came to summon roy to their own dinner. "isn't he queer?" she said, referring to miles. "he seems so quiet and talks so well for a man who was-- well, a tramp. i don't know what else you could call him. you ought to have seen the clothes he had on when he first came. mamma made him burn them." "he looks as if he might have an interesting story to tell," commented roy. "we'll get him to tell it to-night if your brother is well enough," said mrs. raynor. "he promised that we should hear it as soon as rex was able to listen too." roy took rex's dinner up to him, and the twins had an hour to themselves, during which rex went more into detail concerning his experiences with harrington and his crowd. they compared notes on harry atkins, and then fell to talking of miles harding. "he's something more than a common tramp," rex insisted. "he can read a little and write some. isn't it funny how much he thinks of me, when i haven't done a thing for him? mrs. raynor lets him come up and sit with me every evening when his work is done. of course i didn't know this till yesterday, when i came to my senses." after the doctor's visit about three, rex went to sleep and roy played a game of tennis with florence. "i don't want to seem glad that your brother is sick," she said, "but it's awfully nice to have company. i get so lonely when bert is away." that evening they all assembled in rex's room-- mrs. raynor was a widow, so the family at home consisted only of herself and florence-- and miles, seated at the foot of the bed, told the story of his life. "i don't know where i was born," he began. "the first thing i can remember is living in a tenement house in new york, where i had to sleep three in a bed with the two morrisey boys. mr. morrisey was a truckman, and there was five children of them, and i made six. i always thought i was a morrisey, too, till one day jimmy, he got mad at me, and told me i needn't talk so big because i was only living on charity. "i went to his mother and asked her about it, and she told me that it was true, that i wasn't really her child, but that she thought as much of me as if i was, and that there wasn't any charity about it. but i wanted to know all about myself, and at last she said that i'd been given to mr. morrisey when i was a wee baby by a friend of his who couldn't afford to keep me and who made him vow that he'd never tell where i came from. "jimmy only found it out by accident one night, listening to his father and mother talking when they thought he was asleep. she said i wasn't to feel bad about it; because they thought everything of me. "but i did feel bad about it. it seemed too hard when the morriseys had all they could do to get along they should have one more mouth-- and that not a morrisey one-- to feed. "i studied as hard as i could at school, so as to try and get through sooner and go to work and begin to pay them back, but when i was twelve mr. morrisey was kicked to death by a horse and the next year mrs. morrisey married a man who took her and the children out to dakota to live. "she wanted me to go along, but i knew mr. rollings didn't like me, and besides i wanted to stay east where there was some chance of my finding out who my parents were. i got a place as cash boy in a japanese store and boarded with some people who lived across the hall from where the morriseys had their rooms. "but mr. benton used to get drunk and when he was that way he'd beat me, just for the fun of it, it seemed to me. then when they cut down the number of boys employed in the store and i couldn't find another place right away, he growled so about my not paying my board that i did my things up in a bundle one night and hid myself on a canal boat down at the east river docks. "the captain was awful mad when he found me after we had got clear up the north river. he gave me a good thrashing and then said he was going to drop me overboard. but he didn't and i stayed on board all that season, driving mules and being sworn at and kicked and trounced like any other boy on the canal. i sometimes wonder why i didn't wear out. "when navigation closed i was set adrift, and had a hard scrub of it to get along for a time. i almost starved for a while in albany, trying to pick up odd jobs. then i came near freezing to death. "finally i got a place as errand boy in a grocery store and kept that till some money was missing and they said i took it. i never stole in my life. mrs. morrisey brought me up too well for me to do that. but i couldn't prove i didn't and i had to go. the man said i ought to consider myself lucky i wasn't sent to jail. "after that i had a worse time of it than ever. whenever i applied for a position they wanted to know why i had left my last place. and when i told them, they wouldn't have anything to do with me. "then came the days when sometimes i thought i might as well steal, i was suffering because i was accused of doing it. when i was very hungry and saw chances of sneaking apples out of grocery-men's barrels, it seemed as if i had almost a right to do it. but i never did. "something always turned up to keep me from starving. once a woman stopped me in the street and gave me a dollar. she said i looked so hungry she couldn't go by me without doing it. "another time i was taken sick in one of the parks, something like rex. i fell down in a kind of faint, and when i came to i was in a hospital and i stayed there quite a little while. "after i got out it was spring and i thought i'd try the country. i didn't beg; only asked for work. sometimes i got it; many more times i didn't. "now and then if they didn't give me work they'd offer me milk or a cup of coffee, so i managed to pull through somehow. "at last i got back to new york. i'd been wanting to get there again ever since the thought came to me one day that perhaps some friends of mr. morrisey's might know something about the man who had given me to him when i was a baby. "with a good deal of trouble i found one of them. he was a bricklayer, and he told me as near as he could remember the man who gave me to tim morrisey was from philadelphia, and that's all he knew. "then i wanted to go to philadelphia. "'but what good will that do you, miles?' mr. beesley asked. 'you can't find out any more there, nor as much, as you can here.' "'no,' i told him, 'but if i'm there maybe somebody else'll find out something from passing me in the street.' "'that's an idea, sure enough,' he said, so i started for philadelphia, and that's how i came to fall in with rex." miles finished his story with this word. it almost seemed as if he had done it on purpose, planning for it, as it were. he always spoke the name with a little pause before it, as if it were something sacred. rex had told him to call him by it the day before when he had started in to address him as "mr. pell." all of reginald's striving after premature manhood had been left in that past which preceded his experiences in the hotel at new york. chapter xxvi in winter days miles's story had been listened to with the closest attention by all the little party. "it's just like a chapter out of a book," florence whispered to roy. "i wonder if he'll ever find out who he really is?" "but how did you come by the name harding?" roy inquired. "weren't you miles morrisey once?" "yes, but when they went away, and i got to having such hard knocks from the world, i didn't want to drag the name down with me, and so i thought harding would suit me pretty well, and took it." rex seemed inclined to grow excited over the theme, so mrs. raynor proposed an immediate adjournment. "to-morrow is sunday," she said, "and miles can have a long day with you." in the course of this long day, the wanderer told roy why he had been so drawn to rex. "i'd seen lots of nice looking fellows like him," he said, "but they always looked down on me and kind of kept off, as if they didn't want me to touch them with my dirty clothes. but i had to touch rex when he fell over, and he didn't seem to mind it." rex flushed when roy told him this. "i'm afraid i didn't seem to mind because i was too far gone to mind anything," he said. "but i do like miles and would like to do all i can for him." roy returned home monday morning, and mrs. pell went out to rex that night. he improved rapidly, and within a fortnight was able to be moved to philadelphia. it was pitiable to see the effect of the parting on miles. the raynors had found him very capable and were anxious to keep him. there was no reason why he should not stay, except his desire to be where rex was, and his quixotic notion that he might meet his father or mother should he go to philadelphia. "keep a look out for me, rex," he said, "and if you hear of any position you think i could fill, let me know." rex promised, and after he got home told his mother that when she could make up her mind to completely forgive him for all he had done, he wished that she would think of something they could do for miles. "i have forgiven you already, reggie," was the reply. "i know that you have suffered enough not to need any other lesson. now, why not make miles a present of a complete outfit? wouldn't he take it all right? then when he is properly fitted out you can invite him on here for thanksgiving day." rex talked over the idea with roy and then they wrote to mrs. raynor about it. the end of the matter was that they procured miles's measure, and sent him the things as a present from rex. the invitation for thanksgiving was in the letter that accompanied them. the young fellow's gratitude was beyond the power of expression, and over and over again he asked mrs. raynor if she thought it was right for him to accept the invitation. "of course it is right," she told him. "they would not have asked you if they had not wanted you." his happiness seemed to shine out of every feature of his face when he boarded the philadelphia train wednesday afternoon. rex met him at the station, and was surprised to see what a good looking fellow he made when he was properly rigged out. "maybe i'll make some awful blunders," miles confided to him on the way to the house. "remember i've never been with swell folks before." "we're not swell," rex laughed. he had half a mind to let him know then and there where they got their money, but decided that he wouldn't. that night he took his guest to the theater, and the next day sydney had a long talk with him. his manners were much easier among the unaccustomed surroundings than rex had dared to hope they would be. mrs. pell was very much attracted by him, and both girls declared he was "so interesting." in his talk with him sydney sought to draw out all the facts he could about the morriseys. "that boy you had the fight with, miles," he said-- "jimmy, i think you told rex his name was-- did you never ask him any questions about what he overheard that night?" "no. mr. morrisey seemed not to want me to talk about it, and besides, i never would have asked jimmy after what had happened." "but you'd ask him now, wouldn't you?" went on sydney. "you say that you heard his mother was dead. he seems to be the only person left from whom you can get a clew." "yes, i'd ask him now if i had the chance," miles admitted "but i don't know just where he is. you see, i've lost track of the morriseys lately." "but you could find it again couldn't you? write to the place where you heard they were last. where was that?" "bismarck." "very good. do that, and when you have found out all you can from jimmy, let me know." miles promised to attend to this, but since he had fallen in with rex, his desire to hunt up his parents seemed not as strong as it had been. he went back to the raynors enthusiastic over his visit, and talked of it for weeks afterward. meanwhile roy and rex settled down to their school life. the change made in rex by his new york experience was quite noticeable. while retaining all his dignity of manner, he was more thoughtful of the feelings of others than he had been. he worried a good deal at first about the opinion scott bowman must have of him, and truth to tell scott did feel a little sore over the way he had been treated. the two boys did not write or see each other till they met accidentally in the street at christmas time. rex saw scott coming and grew red in spite of himself. there was a chance, he felt, that the other might go by without speaking to him. but scott halted and put out his hand. "hello, rex," he said, "you are a stranger." and at these words a great burden was lifted from reginald's mind. the truth of the matter was, it was very difficult to keep at odds with a fellow with the fascinating personality of rex pell, and now since the recent change in him he was more attractive than ever. he took scott home to lunch with him, and related in detail his adventures on his memorable trip. "where the fun in being 'tough' comes in," he concluded, "i don't see." at christmas time mrs. pell had mrs. raynor and florence in for a visit. "has miles heard from jimmy morrisey yet?" rex inquired. "no," florence replied. "he didn't write till about three weeks ago." "you'll let him come in and see us new year's, won't you?" rex went on. "yes indeed, if you would like to have him." miles came for new year's and brought the information that he had heard from jimmy morrisey at last. he was a hall boy in a new york hotel, and said that as near as he could remember the name he had heard his father mention that night in his talk with his mother was darley. rex wrote the name down on a piece of paper and put it away to show to sydney on his return from his florida trip, for his health had been growing steadily poorer and mrs. pell had persuaded him finally to go south with a friend for a while. "you know he isn't really my own brother," rex confided to miles. "but he's a distant relative. his father and mother died when he was very little." miles was much interested on hearing this. it served in some way to establish another bond between himself and the pells. "i'll let you know what syd finds out about this as soon as he finds out anything," rex told miles at parting. miles had begun to attend school. he had not had an opportunity to study since leaving the morriseys. he was naturally quick, and made good progress. "he'll know too much by spring to be put to garden work again," mrs. raynor had said when she was in. "i hardly know what to do with him then." "oh, don't worry about that," laughed jess. "by that time he may have found his parents and be a millionaire." "how you talk, jess," interposed her sister. "if he ever does find his people, it doesn't follow that they will be wealthy. indeed, he'd probably never have been given to the morriseys if his father hadn't been too poor to support him." eva took a deep interest in the case. she was of a literary turn of mind, and wove many a romance in her busy brain about the early history of this strange youth, who seemed so extraordinarily gentle, considering his rough bringing up. sydney came home just before the twins' vacation ended. "oh, syd!" rex suddenly exclaimed, that first evening as they were all seated in the library, listening to florida experiences. "miles has heard from this morrisey boy." "well," replied sydney, "did he learn anything of importance?" "yes, he found out the name his father and mother used when they were talking about the man who brought miles to them." "and what was it?" "darley." sydney fell back in his chair and grew as white as a ghost. chapter xxvii sydney goes on a mysterious expedition the family were greatly alarmed at sydney's collapse. mrs. pell had fondly hoped that his southern trip would be of permanent benefit to him, and here he was breaking down on the first night of his return. not one of them associated his seizure in any way with the subject on which they had been talking except rex. he could not but recall a somewhat similar attack, when sydney had fainted in his office while he (rex) was telling scott bowman of their inheritance. but miles harding's affairs had nothing to do with this. what did it all mean? rex asked himself, as he sped off for the doctor. when he got back, sydney had come to, but seemed to be suffering severely. and yet when asked if he was in pain, he would shake his head and beg so imploringly that they would leave him to himself, that the fears of the family were intensified many fold. the doctor was utterly nonplused. he prescribed a quieting potion, and went away, promising to return again in the morning. "and perhaps you had better humor him in his desire to be left alone," he said to mrs. pell. "but of course arrange to be near in case another collapse occurs." the household separated for bed that night with sober faces. "syd hasn't been like himself since mr. tyler died," remarked roy, lingering at the door of rex's room. rex did not reply immediately. he stood looking at his brother intently for an instant, then he put a hand on roy's shoulder, gently pulled him into the room and closed the door behind him. "sit down a minute, roy," he said gravely; "i want to tell you something." "what is it? what makes you look so solemn, reggie? is it anything about syd?" "yes, it's about syd. something that happened last summer, and which he told me not to tell; but it seems to me that i ought to tell now." in a few words then, rex related what he and scott bowman had witnessed, adding an account of what sydney had said to him when he asked to have the doctor sent out of the room. "it's queer, isn't it, roy?" rex added. "yes, but i can't connect it with the present case." "neither can i. that makes it queerer still. perhaps you'd better not say anything about what i told you." "no, i shan't," and the boys sat quiet a while longer, discussing the mystery of this affair in lowered tones. meanwhile sydney in his room across the hall, was lying in his bed with his eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. now and then he passed his hand across his forehead, on which the perspiration kept gathering. "it is nemesis," he murmured over and over. "i have felt that it would come, and now at last it has appeared, and through rex, of all the others!" all through that night he remained thus wakeful. he watched, helplessly, the gradual breaking of the dawn, knowing that he had not slept a moment and feeling that he must have this physical ill to bear in addition to the mental one which already weighed him down to the earth. but he had come to the turning point now. in some way this was a relief, even though the prospect immediately ahead of him was such a fearsome one. he wished that he could go up to the office without seeing any of the family, as he had done that other morning in marley. but he could not do this now. they would worry and send after him. he must try and get through the ordeal of facing them as best he could. he rose at the usual time, but before he had finished dressing there was a knock at the door and roy's voice wanting to know how he was. "all right," he replied, and then, as his brother asked if he might come in, he opened the door. "all right!" exclaimed roy, after one look at his face, "oh, syd!" "it's only because i haven't slept," sydney hastened to assure him. "then what are you getting up for?" roy went on. "i must go down town. i have that to do which will ease my mind, and make me all right again, i trust." the last words were added in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible. "oh, syd, what is it? what is worrying you? can't i help you in any way?" "no, roy, you cannot now. perhaps-- later-- i will need-- need your pity." "pity! oh, syd, you do not know what you say." "don't, roy. i have a hard task to perform; do not, i beg of you, make it harder." roy said no more; he would not after this. he went back to his own room and went over in his mind all that had befallen them since they had been what the world called wealthy. "not one bit happier, though; no, not as happy," he added for himself. at the breakfast table sydney insisted that he felt plenty well enough to go to the office. "can't you see, mother," he said at last, "that it is a matter of the mind and not of the body. let me have the opportunity of easing that, and-- you will see the result." but when he left the house he did not go at once to his office. he stopped at the first drug store he passed, and walked up to the little stand on which the city directory was kept. he turned the pages to d, and then looked up darley. there were several of the name, and a frown contracted his brow. but he took out his pencil and memorandum book, and made a note of the various addresses. then he went on, but soon turned into a street that would not take him to the office. he boarded a car and rode off in the direction of south street. in the course of twenty minutes he was waiting for his ring to be answered at the door of a very modest little house near the baltimore tracks. but after he had been admitted, he did not remain long inside. "i must try another," he muttered, consulting his memorandum. he tried several others, but with equal ill success. the quest seemed hopeless. "there may be nothing in it after all," he murmured. "but that does not lighten my load here;" and he pressed his hand over his heart. all that day he kept up his hunt, scarcely stopping to get a little lunch at noon. toward nightfall he called at an address on seventh street next to the last on his list. it was an odd looking house-- apparently a store, for there was a regular shop window, but there was nothing in it but curtains that screened off the interior, and no sign, and the door when he tried it, was locked. but there was a bell handle close beside it, and this he pulled. the door was opened after quite an interval, to a mere crack, and the voice of an aged woman wanted to know who was there. "a gentleman to see mr. david darley," sydney answered. "you can't see him," came back the reply, "he's been dead these five months." "well, then," went on sydney, pushing against the door to prevent any possibility of its being shut in his face, "i want to see some of his relations-- his wife, or daughter, or somebody." "there ain't any of them either," was the reply. "there's only me." "well, then, i'd like to see you," sydney rejoined, feeling that this, too, was to be a wild goose chase, but determined, nevertheless, to leave no stone unturned. "what do you want to see me about?" went on the old lady. "i don't know you." "i just want to ask you some questions about mr. darley. are you any relation of his?" "i'm his mother-in-law," and the door was slowly opened, but only wide enough to admit sydney, when it was closed behind him with great rapidity. he looked with some curiosity at the person who admitted him. she was very small, not much above his waist in height, and quite old, with snow white hair and a very peaceful expression of face that contrasted markedly with her evident fear of strangers. she did not ask sydney to be seated, and remained standing herself, taking up her station in the doorway that led into the room beyond, as if seeking to bar out any intrusion there. the apartment in which sydney found himself was a very pleasant one, well lighted from the large window, whose upper portion was undraped. there were some pictures on the walls, a piano stood at one side, and a guitar could be seen off in one corner. but sydney was not in the mood to take many notes of his surroundings. he proceeded at once with the business in hand. "was mr. david darley any relation to maurice darley?" he inquired. "will it hurt david if i answer?" replied the old lady cautiously. "how can it, since you say he is dead?" sydney responded with the flicker of a smile. "well, then," answered the other, heaving a little sigh, "i don't see as it can do any harm for me to say that david was his brother." "at last," burst forth sydney with something between a shout and a groan. he put his hand against the wall as if to steady himself. chapter xxviii the strange conduct of mrs. fox all the suspicions of the little white haired old lady seemed to be revived by sydney's manner of receiving the intelligence she gave him. "maybe i've made a mistake about it," she said, pinching nervously at the edges of a white apron she wore. "it may be another man of the same name." "is this maurice darley dead?" asked sydney, paying no attention to her disturbed equanimity. "i don't know. maybe he is," was the reply. "when did you see him last?" went on sydney. "how do you know i ever saw him?" asked the old lady quickly. sydney began to lose his patience. "you seem to think i mean you some harm," he said. "you are quite wrong there. it is a matter of money, of a fortune that belongs to mr. maurice parley, if i can find him." the old lady looked at him keenly. "that's what caused all his trouble," she said slowly. "fortunes. he was always thinking of them." "can't you tell me where he is now?" sydney went on in a coaxing tone. "you appear to know a good deal about him." "oh, mr.-- i? do i show it?" a terrified look came into the old lady's eyes. her fingers clutched tightly at each side of the doorway over which she had mounted guard. sydney was by this time convinced that there was some mystery about maurice darley, which the woman before him was seeking to conceal. "what if he is dead?" the old lady brought this out with a sort of triumphant tone. "but he isn't dead," sydney returned, with almost the same manner. "if he was you would have said so long ago. you see i can understand some things. but why are you so secret about him? tell me, did you ever hear him speak of a mr. tyler?" "hush, hush!" the old lady put her fingers over her lips and advanced to sydney as if to thrust him out of the door. "not now. not here," she added in an imploring tone. sydney was compelled to back out of the door into the street, but he held it open partially to say: "i must find out about maurice darley. it is for his good, not mine. where can i see you about him? will you come to my office on chestnut street?" "no, no. i can't go away," the old lady replied. she was glancing backward over her shoulder every instant or two. "will you give me your name, then, so i can write to you?" sydney went on. "or if i write to mr. darley here will you give it to him?" "no, only write to me, mrs. hannah fox," and with that the door was closed in his face. sydney lingered in front of it a second. he had a blind impulse to ring the bell and compel her to open it again. but he knew that it would be useless, so he turned his steps slowly toward chestnut street and went to his office. he found that his absence all day had been productive of not a little harm. "but this is a part of the expiation," he murmured to himself. he put aside the letters waiting to be answered, and set himself to the task of composing the one to mrs. fox. it took him a long while to write it. he tore up several completed ones. the usual hour for closing the office arrived. the boy hovered about his desk, seeming to hope that his presence would remind his employer that it was time to go home. sydney looked up at last. "you may go, john," he said. "i will mail this." but when the boy had gone he read over what he had written, then tore it into very small pieces and dropped them in the waste paper basket. then he took a fresh sheet and began again. he was half way down the first page when the door opened and rex came in. "syd," he exclaimed, "aren't you coming home to dinner? we waited till seven o'clock, then mother grew so worried that i came down to see if anything had happened." "how good you are to me, reggie," said the other. "and how little i deserve it." his head went down on his two arms upon the desk. his frame shook as if with sobbing. "syd, you dear old fellow, don't talk that way. what is troubling you?" rex had put his arm about his brother's neck; his forehead pressed close against the bowed head. "don't, reggie. if you only knew you would not want to touch me." sydney lifted his head suddenly, but his arms were still crossed over the half written letter. "syd, what do you mean?" rex looked at his brother in deep perplexity, his handsome brow wrinkled with the anxiety sydney's appearance and demeanor were causing him. "you will know soon enough, reggie, and then promise me that you will try to think of me as friendly as you can; not give away utterly to your contempt. it was partly for y--. no, i will not say that. no, go home, rex. tell mother i am all right, and will be back some time to-night, and not to worry." "but you ought not to stay here and work, syd," rex persisted. "you are not fit to do it." "i must do what i've set out to do." sydney's voice was almost stern as he made this reply. rex saw that it was useless to linger, and went sadly home. something dreadful had evidently come over sydney. what it was he did not pretend to know. but he made up his mind not to tell the family all that sydney had said. it was nearly nine that night before the young lawyer finished the letter to mrs. fox to suit him. he dropped it in the corner letter box on his way home, and then stepped in at a restaurant to at least go through the form of eating something. "when shall i tell them at home about it?" was his one thought, and the ever recurring echo to it was, "not yet! not yet!" almost his greatest trial of the day was forcing himself to remain in the library a half hour after he reached the house, and trying to appear himself. he was conscious that rex was watching him closely. but it was natural for him to plead fatigue after a hard day's work. he locked himself in his room after he reached it. with hands tightly pressed against his forehead, he sank into a chair. "i foresaw all this," he muttered. "i knew that i must always suffer. that what i did was done for others is no excuse; and now they must suffer, too." he slept this night from sheer exhaustion, but the sleep was much disturbed by dreams, in all of which a white haired old lady with the face of a fox seemed to be trying to do him some bodily injury. the next day he seemed to exist for nothing but the arrival of the mails. but night came, and no response to his letter to mrs. fox. the following morning he tried to get up, but his head was so dizzy that he was forced to drop back on the pillow again. fortunately he had not locked his door this time, so that when they came to inquire about him, they were able to get in. it was roy who came first. "my mail from the office," was all sydney had strength to say when he saw him. "yes, i will bring it for you," replied roy, and he decided to give up school for the day. the doctor was summoned again, and prescribed perfect quiet, but after he had gone, sydney asked so persistently if roy had come with his letters, that when he did arrive, mrs. pell thought that the quickest way to quiet the patient was to let him come in with them. "i only want to see one of them," sydney whispered quickly, as rex took a seat by the bedside, some dozen letters in his lap. "which one, syd?" asked roy, gently. "it is from an old lady-- a mrs. fox. it will probably be in a plain envelope." "perhaps this is it, then. shall i open it and see?" "no, no. give it to me," replied sydney quickly. he took the envelope and the knife roy handed to him, but his fingers trembled so that he could do nothing. "i shall have to let you open it after all, roy," he said, and handed them both back. roy slit the end of the envelope in a second, and once more put it into his brother's hands. with dilated eyes and breath coming in brief gasps, sydney drew out the inclosure. he unfolded it and looked eagerly at the signature. "i can't see quite clearly, rex," he said after an instant. "is that fox signed to this?" "yes. hannah m. fox." "thank you." sydney turned to the front page and began to read. suddenly he gave a little cry. "i can't see the words, roy," he said. "something is the matter with my sight. you will have to read it to me. never mind if some of the things it says sound strange to you. i will explain them by and by. here." roy took the letter, and read as follows: mr. sydney f. pell. dear sir:-- come tomorrow night at midnight. don't ring. knock lightly on the door. yours truly, hannah m. fox. "and that is to-night," murmured sydney. "how can i go?" chapter xxix a midnight visit "do you want me to write a note for you saying you can't come?" said roy. "no, no. i must go," replied sydney. "but you can't," roy was about to answer. then he checked himself, and said instead: "well, perhaps you will be well enough to go to-night. is it far?" for there was no address given in the letter. "no, not very. it is right in the city here. but you can't write for me. the old lady mustn't know that you've seen her letter. she'd notice the difference in the handwriting. but midnight! what a queer time to appoint. it's just like her, though. now i will try and get some sleep so as to help prepare myself for to-night." the receipt of the letter appeared to have eased sydney's mind somewhat, for he slept until well on in the afternoon, and then he woke feeling somewhat better. "i can go to-night, roy, after all," he said to his brother cheerfully. but roy did not see how he could go. still he thought it was best not to say anything till the time came. just before night, sydney called roy to the bedside. "order a coupé for me to be here at half past eleven to-night," he said. "but you are not fit to go, syd," the other could not help but respond. "i will be when the time comes," was the reply. "you will see. say nothing to the others about it." "then let me go with you," suggested roy. "well, perhaps you may, but you will sit in the carriage. now go out and order it, please." roy felt somewhat burdened with a secret to keep from the family. but he trusted sydney fully, so he felt that it was all right the patient grew a little better in the evening. at half past eight he called roy to him and whispered: "you had better lie down and get some rest now. take my alarm clock and put it at quarter past eleven." but roy knew it was no use to take the clock. he was sure he could not sleep. he was far too anxious and excited for that. he lay down on the sofa in his own room and tried to read. but he did not see a word on the page. he was thinking of sydney. presently rex came in. he flung himself down on the bed, exclaiming: "roy, i feel exactly as if something was going to happen. i can't get to sleep, so there's no use in my going to bed. i'm worried about syd. there is something mighty queer about him." "oh, he's much better to-night," roy responded encouragingly. "yes, i know; but it's his actions all through this thing that i'm worried about. do you know that i sometimes think, roy--" here rex sat up on the bed and lowered his voice impressively--"i sometimes think that perhaps there was a touch of insanity in syd's family. you know we are always forgetting that he isn't one of us." "is it anything in particular makes you think that, reggie?" said roy, wondering what rex would say if he knew about that night's expedition. "well, yes, one thing taken with a lot of other things," and he proceeded to tell of what sydney had said to him at the office when he went down there the previous night. "he seems to have the idea that he has committed some crime," rex went on. "i really think that we ought to watch him carefully." "it doesn't seem to me to be as serious as that," responded roy. "but as you say, we ought to watch him carefully." rex lay quiet for a time. roy's thoughts were disturbing ones. reginald, too, was worrying over sydney's condition. but that note from hannah fox was something tangible. there was no chimera of the imagination about that. perhaps it was a real anxiety that was preying on syd's mind. very likely something connected with his parentage. roy had not thought of this before. he was about to suggest it to relieve his brother's mind when he looked up and saw that rex was asleep. then he glanced at the clock on the bureau and saw that it pointed to five minutes to eleven. "i'll let him sleep on now," he decided, "or he'll be sure to be around when we go, and i'm sure syd doesn't want him to know." roy went across the hall to his elder brother's room. he found him sitting on the side of the bed, looking very pale. "i guess you'll have to help me dress, roy," he said with a sorry sort of smile. "perhaps you'd better send a telegram," roy rejoined. "there won't be any handwriting to recognize on that." "no, no, i must go myself. you will understand some day, very soon, why i feel this way, and then, roy, you may pity me and forgive me if you can." roy thought of his brother's theory. sydney's talk was very strange, but not stranger than this midnight proceeding. well, he would wait until he had seen this last through before deciding whether or not he ought to report to his mother. he helped sydney on with his clothes, then went to the window to see if the carriage was there. he saw it standing in the glare of a street lamp. it was just half past eleven. he started to his own room to get his coat. "be careful to make no noise, roy," sydney cautioned him. but when roy entered his own apartment, there was rex sitting up on the bed, rubbing his eyes. roy hoped he would go at once to his room, but he began to talk about the strangeness of his having fallen asleep in that way, and then when he saw what time it was, wanted to know why roy hadn't gone to bed. "how could i when you were in the way?" roy answered smilingly, and just then sydney called to him softly from down the hall, "roy, aren't you coming?" there was no help for it. roy went to the closet and took down his overcoat. "why, where are you going this time of night, roy pell?" demanded rex. "just out for a little while; good night, old fellow. you'd better go straight to bed." "but look here, roy." rex was following him out into the hall. "this is mighty queer, your going off this way. does mother know about it?" rex ceased abruptly. he had come face to face with sydney, all dressed for the street. "reggie, what are you doing up?" sydney asked, and to rex his voice sounded cold and stern. "i fell asleep on roy's bed. but where are you two going? you're not fit to be out of bed, syd," as the latter reeled and made a quick clutch at the bannisters. "rex, help me down stairs with him and don't make any noise." roy spoke in an authoritative tone, and rex meekly obeyed. "perhaps rex had better come along, too. i ordered a coach, so that you could put your feet up. there'll be plenty of room." roy whispered this in sydney's ear as they went slowly down the stairs. "all right; just as you say. i suppose it won't make much difference how soon you all know now." "rex, you may come along if you like," said roy, when they reached the lower hall, and sydney was sitting on the settee. "run up quickly and get your coat." rex eagerly seized the opportunity, and in five minutes they were all in the carriage, and the driver had started for seventh street. sydney was considerably exhausted by the effort he had already made. he lay back in the seat breathing heavily. "do you know where we are going and what for?" rex leaned forward to whisper in roy's ear. "it's a mystery to me, too, but we want to watch out carefully that no harm comes to syd," roy whispered back. when the carriage halted before the little dwelling where mrs. fox lived roy started to get out, but sydney drew him back. "no, i must be alone," he said. "have the carriage wait here till i come out." but he had scarcely taken a step from the carriage when his weakness overpowered him. he tottered, and would have fallen had not rex sprung out and caught him. roy was at his other side in an instant, and together the two boys supported him. "you will have to help me up to the door, i guess," he whispered faintly; "but don't ring; knock lightly." there was no one passing at the moment, nor did any light shine from the interior of the place, roy knocked against the glass in the door, and the latter was opened on the merest crack. "who's there?" came the demand in a quivering old woman's voice. "sydney pell. i am ill, but i was bound to come. my two brothers are with me. can't they help me in to a seat? they will then go away again." "no, no; they can't come in," was the quick response. "there must be no noise. it's a risk to have you here." "then can you open the door wide enough to help me in?" returned sydney. the answer was the swinging back of the door and the reaching out of the old lady's arm. "go back to the carriage, boys, and wait," said sydney, and the next instant he had disappeared within the mysterious dwelling. chapter xxx sydney frees his mind "you're pretty weak, aren't you?" this was mrs. fox's remark as she eased sydney down into a rocking chair in the little parlor. it was quite dark, save for the faint light that came in from the street lamp over the curtain pole in the window. "i suppose i was too weak to venture to come," sydney answered, "but i felt that i must. did you understand all that i meant to say in my note?" "i understand that you know of a great sum of money that is coming to maurice darley. it's strange, very strange." "why is it? did you know anything about it? did you expect it?" there was a note of alarm in sydney's tones. "no, not that in particular. but you must tell me all the details before i dare to tell any more." the old lady seated herself on a low chair close to sydney's side. it was extremely weird, this confidential talk in the darkness. "what details do you want?" sydney asked. "why, proofs that there is really something to this fortune. maurice has talked too much about others that have nothing to them." "you see him often, then," exclaimed sydney eagerly. "he's here, perhaps." "s'h!" commanded the old lady in a stern whisper. "yes, he is here. he is in the back room yonder. i am so afraid he will hear us. that is why i had you come at midnight, when he would be sound asleep." "but why can i not see him?" "because he is weak-- weak in his mind. he is all the while fancying that he is rich. a talk about money would excite him so that i fear the consequences." "and you say he knew mr. tyler?" sydney remembered and spoke this name very softly. "yes, he talks of him continually now." "was he in his office once?" "yes, i believe so." "one more question. has this mr. darley any children?" "he had one once-- a boy. but it must have died when a baby, soon after mrs. darley did. and now do you know why i do not want you to come here with stories of riches for maurice darley? he's daft on the subject already. i do not want him to go so far that they will take him away from me." "you are fond of him, then?" asked sydney. "he is all i have. if he goes i must live alone. it is my delight to care for him. the little money david left me is enough for my simple wants, maurice lives like a lord in his fancies. why do you want to come and disturb us in our content?" "because i must," sydney broke out, as passionately as he could in restrained tones. "don't you understand that the money which belongs to maurice darley i have been diverting to other uses? it was left to him by mr. tyler, but i tore up the will. he made it about three hours after another one, in which he had left everything to the woman who had acted as a mother to me for twenty years. "he was a vacillating old man. i felt that he might change his mind back again if he should live three hours longer, so when he was dead i tore up the last will. i alone knew what it contained, and i have been a miserable man ever since." sydney bowed his head on his hands, and there was silence in the little room for a moment or two. "you-- you are a criminal, then?" said the old lady presently. sydney winced at the term, but at the same time he felt a sense of relief, as one does after taking a plunge into cold water. at any rate the shock of the first contact was over. "yes, i suppose i am," he answered. "and i am ready to suffer the penalty. the only excuse i have to offer is the fact that what i did, i did not for myself, but for those i love, who have done so much for me. and now it is not joy, but misery, i shall bring them." "you are repentant, though," murmured the old lady softly. "it is not as if you were hardened and only gave up when some one else found it out and forced you to. there is hope for you in that. but how much money is there?" "nearly half a million. but some of it has been used, put into a house, which of course will be given up to mr. darley." "then you will take him away from me?" it was almost a wail with which the old lady said this. "no, you can come with him, of course." "no. it will be his taking care of me then, and that will be so different. oh, why did you come to disturb us?" she seemed quite forgetful for the time of the presence of any one else in the room, of her own caution to sydney to speak quietly. suddenly she appeared to recollect this latter necessity. she ceased the half moaning she had begun and clutched sydney's arm tightly. "i suppose," she whispered, "that it would not be right to ask you to keep this money?" "i can't keep it," sydney replied. "i have suffered enough from it already." "but how can you give it to a man who is not in his right mind? he thinks he is a wealthy man. i have given him a quantity of gilt paper to play with. he is like a child, you know. the possession of real money will not make him any happier." "but there is the son," suggested sydney. "i told you he was dead." "i am not so sure of that. i think i have seen him. would he not be about seventeen now?" "yes, and you have seen him?" it was with difficulty the old lady kept her tones within bounds. "but you cannot be sure it is the same," she went on. "no. i cannot be certain, but i am pretty sure." "perhaps he looks like his father. wait, i think i can find a picture of him in the dark." "but i cannot see it in the dark." "by holding it close to the window you can get the ray from the lamp on it there! here it is, i think." mrs. fox took the portrait to the front of the room, and parting the curtains a little, held it for sydney to look at. "yes, it is very like," he said. "this picture must have been taken when mr. darley was quite young." "he sat for it before he was married. but where is this boy?" "living at a little town out in new jersey. he wants to find his father." "how comes it he isn't dead?" the old lady wanted to know. sydney told the story of miles harding as he had heard it from rex. "do you know why he was compelled to give up the child?" he added. "poverty, i suppose. you know he was very sick once, and he lost everything. that was what unsettled his reason. but to think he should have given out that the child was dead!" "did you ever hear him speak of the morriseys?" "no, i never heard the name before. but i should like to see this boy. does he know that his father is living?" "no, not yet; you see i did not hear of it until tonight. but i must not stay longer. my brothers are waiting for me in the carriage. we must arrange what we are going to do." "i don't know what to say. the boy ought to have his rights. can't we fix it all quietly some way? i don't think you meant to do wrong." "yes, i did. i did everything with my eyes open. i ought to suffer for it. the only trouble is that those i love will suffer with me. but don't you think the restoration of fortune will bring back mr. darley's mind?" "i don't know. i can't tell about that. he is very queer." "do you have a doctor for him?" "oh, no. i'd be afraid they'd want to take him away. i expect i'm selfish about it. but bring the boy here. he is old enough. we can talk it over with him, and maybe his father will recognize him." "i can come any time, then?" said sydney. "yes, now i know who you are." "good night, then. i shall see you soon again. i feel better than when i came." sydney rose and walked to the door without assistance. as soon as the boys saw him they hurried out to help him into the carriage. within three minutes they were driving towards home and a church clock near by chimed one-- for half past twelve. "boys," began sydney, "i have something to tell you. i was not glad before that i was not your own brother. i am glad of it now, because-- i am a criminal." there was a pause. no one spoke. there was no sound but the rattle of the wheels. it was too dark to see the expression on the faces of the twins. rex was leaning partly forward, one hand gripping roy's knee. he could think of nothing save the night mr. keeler had spent with them and the horror they had had of him before they found out that it was his brother whose picture was in that book. chapter xxxi the confession to the boys the carriage had gone two squares before the silence in it was broken. then roy spoke. "what is it, syd?" he said. "i am sure you are worrying yourself needlessly over something-- are magnifying it from a molehill into a mountain." "needlessly? oh, boys, would that i were! but as soon as i tell you, you will understand it all. and i shall tell you now-- in a minute. but just give me your hand, each of you, that i may feel the warm pressure of your confidence before-- before you know the worst of me." roy and rex instantly put out their hands. syd took one in each of his and held them tight for an instant. then he dropped them quickly and began to speak rapidly. "do you remember, roy, the night last july you went home in dr. martin's carriage and left me alone with mr. tyler? the will that left all his money to mother had been signed and witnessed; you know what it contained. i felt so rejoiced for you all, although i had no idea then that there was a chance of your so soon coming into possession. "i sat talking to the old man for an hour or so, about his investments and the various savings banks in which his money was deposited. finally he appeared to grow restless. "'have you got that will i made, sydney?' he asked. "i pointed it out to him where it lay on the table. "'i can make another one, can't i?' he went on. "'as many as you please,' i told him. "'then write out this one and i'll sign it,' he said, and he dictated a document that left every penny of his fortune, except the five thousand to ann and a thousand he left to you, roy, to maurice darley, if living, or his heirs if dead. "'you and ann can witness it,' he told me, and i called her in, and she wrote her name under mine. "he named myself and dr. martin as executors just as before, and said that i could probably find maurice darley without much trouble. he turned over in bed then and i asked him where darley was when he last heard from him, but he did not answer. i went over to the bed and looked at him, and found that he was dead. "then the temptation flashed into my mind. "'what a shame,' i thought, 'that owing to the caprice of a foolish old man these people who have been so good to me should be deprived of the fortune which had just been left to them. this darley is undoubtedly rich. he has behaved contemptibly to the man who did so much for him. why should he get the money?' "then i recollected that you had gone into the kitchen, roy, earlier in the evening, to get ann to sign the first will, and then the doctor had told you that it was not necessary. i reasoned that she would undoubtedly suppose that the will she did sign was the only one that had been made, because i was sure she had not read it. "all these things flashed into my mind within a few seconds of time as i stood by the bedside of the dead man. my determination was quickly taken. i knew that ann had gone home, that there was no one near to see the deed. "i took the new will and held it in the flame of the candle till it was entirely consumed. then i blew the cinders, so that they scattered about the room and would not attract attention." "oh, syd!" this in a kind of gasp from roy. rex said nothing. he was sitting upright now, still seeming to see before him the face of "no. ," mr. keeler's criminal brother. "yes, i knew you would all shrink from me when you knew," went on sydney. he spoke in a voice that was almost hard now. it was as if it had become so from the spurring that was necessary to enable him to make his confession. "i shrank from myself as soon as the last piece of tinder had vanished from the candlestick. i could not bear to stay in the house. i hurried off to the undertaker's, and then stopped at dr. martin's to tell him that the miser was dead. "he said something about the good fortune that had come to us so quickly. i shuddered and hurried home. but i could not sleep. i seemed to have become an old man in that one instant while i held that sheet of paper in the flame of the candle." "that's the reason we did not see you at breakfast the next morning?" said roy softly. "yes, i felt that i could not face you all just yet." "and that is why you looked so terrible and fainted away when i told scott bowman about our inheritance at your office?" added rex. "yes; i was planning all sorts of ways to fix things, so we needn't take the money. then i saw it was too late. now you know what has been on my mind all these months. i knew that my health was being undermined by the strain. but i did not care for that. i even hoped at times that i might die, because then i felt that you need never know." "and-- and was it anything in particular that made you tell us to-night?" asked rex. "yes. it seems very strange how things come about, but then it often happens so. do you remember, reggi-- rex, telling me the name of the man who left your friend miles with the morriseys'?" "yes, and it was darley, the same name you mentioned just now. and you fainted then, just as you did that time at the office. you don't mean that miles--" "yes, i am almost certain that miles morrisey is really a darley, the son of maurice darley, to whom all this money belongs. when i suspected this i knew that the end had come-- that i must trace the thing down and confess." at this point the carriage halted before the door of the house. rex sprang out, then roy, and both boys waited to help sydney. but he made no movement to follow them. "aren't you going to get out, syd?" asked roy. "no; i have no right to live among you any more. now that you know, it will seem like having a convict in the house. i can go to some hotel. you can send my things to me and i will stay there till-- till this is settled up and they put me away." roy stepped into the carriage and put his face so close to sydney's that the latter felt the smooth flesh against his day's growth of beard. "dear old fellow," whispered roy, "you must come. we haven't cast you off. and-- and besides, we want you with us to help us decide what to do." "don't be so good to me, roy. i can't bear it." but as he spoke, sydney got out, and the three went up the steps. nothing was said as they ascended the stairs. there was danger of disturbing the household. "good night, syd," said roy, when they reached the top. he put out his hand, but sydney did not see it in the darkness. "good night, roy," he responded. rex said nothing, but when sydney's door closed behind him, he drew roy into his room with him. "you must stay with me to-night, roy, "he said, and he began taking off his coat. "why didn't you speak to syd before we came in, reggie?" "i couldn't, roy. i feel awfully sorry for him. but he's committed a crime, and i can't help but think all the while of mr. keeler's brother." "it's terrible-- awful." roy's face was pale; he looked almost as sydney had looked at one time. "what are we going to do?" rex sat down on the edge of the bed, a despairing droop to the shoulders that he usually carried so squarely. "we must give up everything to the rightful heir." "but where shall we go then? we've sold our house in marley and spent the money we got for it. we'll be worse off than we were before, roy. oh, dear, why did you ever look up at that trestle and see that old man crawl out on it?" "i've wished i hadn't before now," replied roy gravely. "the money hasn't made us happy as you expected it would, and now see what misery it has brought. but i suppose it's wrong for me to regret doing what i did. and don't think so hard of syd, reggie. remember that he did what he did, not for himself, but for us." "i'll try my best, but i don't feel now as if i could ever touch him again. and think what he has brought us to! poverty, after just giving us the taste of wealth." the twins did not sleep much that night. chapter xxxii a hard day for the twins roy and rex slept far into the morning, which was saturday. they were awakened finally by a persistent knocking on the door and jess's voice: "are you boys going to sleep all day? have you forgotten we were all going to marley at eleven o'clock? and here's a note syd left for you, rex. he's much better and gone to the office. get up now or we shan't save breakfast" "all right," responded roy, and he shook his brother and told him about syd's note. "i wonder what it's about," murmured rex. then he saw it on the carpet, where jess had poked it under the door. he snatched it up eagerly and read: "i am going to telegraph for miles to come in and stay over sunday. he must be told while he is here. he will get to the house in time for dinner." "i wonder if he expects me to tell him?" muttered rex. "great scott, it'll be mighty queer to entertain a fellow in a house that really belongs to him!" "and i wonder when mother and the girls are to be told," added roy. "do you suppose syd could have told mother already?" but there was no sign that mrs. pell knew from her demeanor when she poured the coffee for them. "i must go down and see syd about it," said roy as they went out into the hall together. "you'll have to go to marley without me." "and i'm sure i don't want to go," added rex. their decision carried dismay to the hearts of the girls. "you must go, boys," said eva. "the minturns have invited us to lunch, we have accepted, and it would be very impolite for you not to go now. besides, jess and i can't come home after dark alone." "if you knew what i do you wouldn't feel like going either," returned rex, not heeding the warning glance cast at him by his brother. "what do you know, rex?" asked jess, looking from one twin to the other with a keen gaze. "there is something between those two," she added, turning to her sister. "you take roy, eva, and i'll take rex, and we'll make them up and confess." the method of "making" employed was to tickle the boys, who were each very susceptible to this form of torture. this was terrible. to have the thing turned into a joke when it was so fearfully serious. roy spoke up quickly: "we'll tell you in a little while now, girls," he said. "but seriously, i think you had better give up this trip to marley." "but what excuse will we send the minturns?" roy hesitated. this was a poser. "can't you put it off?" he said finally, as a makeshift. "of course we can't, without giving a reason for it," returned jess. "i think you boys are just as mean as you can be. because you've got up some scheme between you that you'd rather do than go with us, you just won't go." "ah, jess, it isn't that. it's-- but i can't tell you now. come, rex, we'd better go after all. one day won't make any difference." rex objected a little longer, but was at last won over. "i don't suppose we could tell them without syd's consent," he said when he and roy had gone up stairs to get their coats. "but it'll seem exactly like dancing on our own graves." "oh, not so bad as that, reggie," returned roy. the day was a terribly hard one to both boys. all sorts of plans were discussed and adopted for future good times. charlie and ethel minturn were invited up for a week from that day to take lunch and go to a matinee. "they'll never be able to take them," rex found opportunity to whisper to his brother. "i wish we'd told the girls about it this morning." "so do i, but i didn't like to till syd said he was ready." the minturns could not fail to notice that the twins had something on their minds. ethel spoke of it. "oh, it's some piece of boys' mischief, i'll be bound," exclaimed jess, whereupon roy and rex exchanged glances and their hearts sank lower still. on the way home in the train rex announced that miles morrisey was coming that evening to spend sunday with them. "but i thought you and roy were going to a meeting of your school society," returned jess. "if it hadn't been for that we could have stayed to dinner at the minturns'." "great scott, i forgot all about the stylus!" exclaimed rex. "well, it don't matter; we'll have to give it up any way." the coming of night seemed to bring with it to reginald a realizing sense of all that the new order of things would mean. he relapsed into thoughtfulness, in the midst of which he half sprang from his seat with an inarticulate exclamation. "what's the matter, rex?" inquired eva. "oh, nothing," he responded. but the color deepened slightly in his cheek, and he looked furtively at roy. the cause of his start was the remembrance of what sydney had said about the name darley having caused him to determine to confess. "if i had not gone off with harrington that time," was rex's inference, "miles would not have come into my life, and we would not now be facing poverty." but the blush was the shame at the idea that he would be willing to enjoy the fruits of sydney's crime provided he did not know about it. "i always feel sorry for miles when he comes to see us," remarked eva. "why?" asked rex quickly. "because he seems to feel embarrassed, as though he were out of place. he isn't in the least. he has very nice manners, and i'm sure is a perfect gentleman. but what he needs is a little more self assurance." "oh, he'll get that fast enough now," said rex, and then looked fixedly away from the scandalized glance he knew roy was directing at him. "i'll go home with the girls if you'll wait at the station for miles, rex," and reginald was glad to be left alone for a few minutes. "it doesn't seem as if it could be so," he mused, as he walked up and down the pavement opposite the public buildings. "miles and i to change places!" people hurrying to catch outgoing trains jostled him; the clang of the cable car bells sounded every few seconds; the noises of the city life he loved were all about him. "where shall i be a year from now?" he asked himself. but it was nearly time for miles's train. rex turned and went up the stairway to the left of the station building. as he did so, he passed a familiar face coming down. it was the boy who got him into trouble with the chinaman that july afternoon six months before. but rex felt no resentment now. "if that was the only trouble i had to think about!" he told himself enviously. of such power is comparison. miles's train was on time. rex saw miles standing on the step of the forward car, ready to spring off at the first opportunity. his face lighted up to a still greater radiance at sight of rex waiting for him. "i didn't think you'd come to meet me," he said, as he shook hands. "it is awfully good of you. i'm so glad to see you." there was no doubt of this. one could read it at once in the way he looked at his companion. "i suppose you were surprised to get syd's telegram," remarked rex. "what did he say in it?" "come and spend sunday with rex," answered the other. "i was here only a little while ago, but i was glad enough to come again. it is ever so kind in you to send for me." "didn't you think there might be any other reason for our sending for you?" asked rex, after an instant's pause. a troubled look crossed miles's face. "no; what do you mean, rex?" "don't you remember what you found out a little while ago-- about the man who left you with the morriseys?" "oh, my father. has your brother heard anything about him? is that what you want me for?" "it's about that; yes. i'm not sure whether your father has been found, but something else has been found that belongs to you." "and what is that?" asked miles eagerly. "a fortune." chapter xxxiii a queer fish pond party miles stared at rex as though he did not comprehend the meaning of the word. "a fortune?" he repeated. "what fortune?" "why, your fortune, to be sure," returned rex. "but i don't understand," went on miles. "how can i have a fortune?" "easy enough, since your father has one. syd knows all about it. you're a lucky fellow, miles. it's somewhere about half a million." miles looked very grave for half a minute, then a smile broke out over his face. "come, rex," he said, "i see through your joke, so you might as well drop it. you oughtn't to have made the sum so high if you expected me to believe it." "it's true, all the same, miles." but miles still shook his head and declared he should wait to believe till mr. sydney told him all about it. "i wonder if syd will tell him the whole thing tonight?" rex asked himself, but sydney was not home to dinner. there was a note from him to rex, however, asking that he and roy and miles should meet him at the continental hotel that night at eight. this threw rex into a great state of excitement. he knew that the crisis was at hand. roy took things more quietly, but inwardly he was none the less excited. "syd wants us to meet him down town," he said as they rose from the table. he had been waiting for rex to tell miles, but the other had not yet brought himself to do it. "where are you going?" jess wanted to know. "to the theater?" "no, indeed," responded rex. then he folded up his napkin quickly and left the dining room. "has this visit got anything to do with my father?" miles whispered to roy, as they went out into the hall together. "i think it has, miles, but i don't know much more about it than you do." there was not much said by the three boys on their way down town. rex was in one of his silent moods, and made no effort to get out of it. roy tried to talk, but there was such a weight on his mind that he made but poor success of the attempt. miles was far too excited, however, to notice the difference in manner of the twins compared with their usual cordiality. they found sydney waiting for them in the corridor of the hotel. he was looking very haggard, but he seemed very glad to see miles. "i have good news for you, my boy," he said; "good and bad, too. i have found your father, but he is not quite himself." "what do you mean?" exclaimed miles, while roy and rex looked their interest. "his mind is affected," sydney went on. "we hope the sight of you may have a favorable effect, but be careful not to be excited yourself when you see him. take it quite as a matter of course." miles drew in a long breath. it was going to be rather a difficult matter for him to take easily a meeting with the father he had thought never to see. "where is he?" he asked in a faint tone. "not far from here. come, we will go there at once." on the way to mrs. fox's sydney explained that he and the old lady had arranged that she should give a sort of boys' party at which mr. darley should be present. he would then have an opportunity to study miles quietly, while the latter was engaged in playing games. "you look so much like him," sydney added, "that we hope he may recognize you." miles appeared to be somewhat astonished when they halted before the odd little home in seventh street. but he said nothing, and the next moment they were all being warmly welcomed by mrs. fox. the old lady was so excited that both her hands and voice trembled. she came near crying when she first saw miles, but she greeted him exactly as she had the twins. there was a game of fish pond on the center table. "now, boys," she said, "try your luck." they all drew up to the table, sydney taking a rod, too. the old lady stood looking on behind miles's chair. presently she went out into the back room and in a few minutes returned, accompanied by a gentleman who did not look to be over thirty-seven. he was dressed very handsomely and his resemblance to miles was striking. "mr. darley, boys," said mrs. fox, as the two came up to the table. "go right on with your fishing; we will watch you." she had taken up her stand this time behind rex, who was sitting just opposite miles. "glad to meet you, boys," remarked mr. darley, in a pleasant voice. "how is the market?" rex, with an effort, collected himself sufficiently to answer, "oh, pretty fair, sir." "only pretty fair, eh?" went on the other. "keep at it, though. you're bound to win some time, as i have. look here." he put his hand in the side pocket of his coat and drew forth a great mass of chips, all covered with gilt paper. a look of agony was on miles's face. it was almost worse than finding no father at all, to find such a one as this. "don't you want to take my rod and fish a while, sir?" he said, feeling that it would be impossible for him to longer sit still. "thank you; you are very kind. i might take a single flyer." mr. darley stepped around to take miles's seat, but as the other rose they were face to face, and very close to each other for an instant. mr. darley put out both hands and grasped the boy by the shoulders. "what is your name?" he said in a tone that was quite different from the one in which he had hitherto spoken. it was much more decided, and firmer. "miles," answered the other, trying his best to keep his excitement down. he could see mrs. fox standing just behind his father, her hands clasped together in an agony of suspense. "miles, eh! well, you look as if your name ought to be maurice. great caesar! doesn't he look like me, mrs. fox?" he wheeled around so suddenly that the poor old lady was taken quite unawares. she dropped her hands quickly to her sides and had not a word to say. "don't he look like me?" mr. darley now appealed to sydney, who managed to stammer out: "i certainly see a strong resemblance, sir." "what is your last name, young man?" went on the other. miles hesitated an instant. he was about to say darley, but some happy instinct prompted him to substitute "morrisey." mr. darley started. "morrisey, you say?" he exclaimed. a swift change passed over his features. he had dropped his hand from miles's shoulders, but now reached forth and caught him by the arm. "come with me," he said quietly, and led him into the back room. the others looked at one another without speaking. no one thought of the game. the fish lines, tangled up, were lying in the pasteboard pond. mrs. fox had sunk down on the sofa, her head covered with her apron. from the inner room came the subdued sound of voices. "do you suppose he has recognized him?" it was rex who at length broke the silence, and he spoke in an awed whisper. nobody made any reply, for footsteps were heard approaching from the rear. it was miles. his face was handsomer than rex had ever seen it. it was lighted up with joy. he came straight to rex and put a hand on his shoulder, while he leaned over till his chin rested on the other's head. "i want to tell you first, rex," he said, "who have been the means of bringing me to this happiness. he knows me. his mind has come back to him. he called me maurice, and he remembers giving me to the morriseys to take care of for a while. then his brain went back on him, and he thought i was dead." "where is he?" asked rex. "lying down on the bed. he is utterly exhausted. i must go back to him now," and miles hurried off again. chapter xxxiv rex rises to the occasion "it's wonderful. i never heard anything like it." this was mrs. fox's exclamation when the four were left alone in the front room again. "all the credit belongs to you, mr. pell," she went on, turning to sydney. "it was you thought of this way of doing things." "oh, he might have recognized him any other way just as quickly," returned sydney. "and now some one must tell him about mr. tyler's legacy," he added. "i want to get that off my mind." "i guess he can't stand that to-night, mr. pell," returned the old lady. "you'd better leave it till tomorrow. i'll keep miles here with him to-night-- there's room-- and then they can both go to see you to-morrow." "yes, that will be the best way," sydney agreed. "but i had hoped to get it off my mind by this time. come, boys." "i trust i shall see you both again," said mrs. fox, as she shook hands with the twins. then the three pells went out and homeward. it was only nine o'clock. "mother ought to know, don't you think so, syd?" said roy. "yes, she must know to-night. but i don't see how i can tell her. i don't see how i can. she trusts me so fully." "then let me tell her," suggested roy. "no, no. i must confess myself. i shall do it now as soon as we get home. then i can be ready to put myself in mr. darley's hands to-morrow." "do you think he will-- will--" rex began and came to a sudden stop. "send me to jail?" syd finished for him. "he may. he has a right to do it. i deserve to go. oh, boys, i wonder how you can bear to be with me." "you did it for our sakes, syd," responded roy. but rex said nothing. when they reached the house they found eva and jess in the parlor, entertaining company. "come in, boys," eva called as they passed the door. roy and rex obeyed the summons, leaving sydney to go up to mrs. pell in the library. they found mr. keeler to be the caller. rex started when he saw who it was. "why, where is miles?" asked jess. "he stayed with his father," replied rex. "his father!" echoed both girls. "why, has he found him?" "yes," answered roy, "syd found him. there's a story for you, mr. keeler, a regular romance." rex began to look nervous. he feared that his escapade with harrington was about to be related. but roy skillfully told the main points in miles's career without encroaching on this. mr. keeler stayed until ten o'clock, and while they were talking and laughing in the parlor, the twins were thinking of what was going on in the room above. when they went to kiss their mother good night they saw that she knew. the girls exclaimed at once at sight of her face. "you are ill," cried eva. "no, eva," rejoined mrs. pell, "it is worse than illness." the tears welled up in her eyes. she could say no more. sydney was not with her, neither was he in his room. the girls were clamorous to know what was the matter. "tell them, roy, i can't," mrs. pell at last found voice to say. rex could not stay to hear. and roy never suffered as he did in the few moments it took him to relate his foster brother's crime. it seemed as though it were as cruel as to drive nails into the fair flesh of the young girls. and yet they must know. "how could he do it, how could he?" eva murmured again and again. "perhaps he didn't," jess suddenly exclaimed. "he's nothing to show for it-- the second will, i mean. perhaps there's something wrong with his brain, and he only imagines there was one and he destroyed it." but roy shook his head. there was ann to prove, if necessary, that she had signed the other document. for a long while they sat there. it seemed as if black despair had settled upon them and there was no way out. for years mrs. pell had leaned upon sydney. in an emergency like the present, he would be just the one to whom she would go for counsel. and now-- he had failed her utterly. "what did you say to him, mother?" asked roy after a while. "were-- were you kind to him?" "i tried to be. i tried to remember that he had done all for our sakes, but i feel like a ship without a rudder." roy left his seat near eva and slipped into a chair next his mother, who had bowed her head on the desk in front of her. she had been writing a note to a charitable society of which she was a member. the check she was to send them lay all signed, ready to be inclosed. "moms," whispered roy, using the pet name rex had invented and pressing one of his mother's hands tightly in his, "you have us. we are growing fast. i am sure we shall get along." "bless you, my boy." his mother kissed him on the forehead, then lifted her eyes reverently, as she added: "yes, and i must not forget that there is one who is always a friend to the needy. and now, children, we must go to bed. to-morrow we will decide what to do." roy stopped at rex's door, went in and found his brother tossing in bed. "have you told the girls?" he asked. "yes." "how did they take it?" "better than i expected they would." "but what are we going to do, roy?" rex went on. "we can't stay here." "no, of course not." "but what will people say? won't there be a terrible scandal?" "you mustn't talk that way, rex. remember that you and i are the ones mother must depend on now. if she sees us looking on the dark side it'll make it so much the harder for her." "that's it," returned rex. "life is something you must go ahead with. you can't lay it down when you get tired. all right; i'll remember what you say, roy, but it's an awful come down." rex, however, "came up to the scratch," as he himself would have expressed it, nobly the next day. nobody went to church, and about half past eleven the door bell rang and "mr. darley and son" were announced. miles, as we shall continue to call him, sent up word to know if he could come up to rex's room. "do you know?" asked reginald, as he met him in the doorway. "yes; mr. sydney came around to us this morning. i can't understand it. but i don't want you to feel--" miles hesitated. it was very embarrassing for him to express just what he wanted to say. rex helped him out. "i'm awfully glad for you, old fellow," he said heartily. "and i don't want you to worry about us. we'll get along some way." "but that won't do," miles persisted. "if it hadn't been for you i might have been a common tramp now and never found my father." "and if it hadn't been for you i would probably have been dead long ago," rex retorted. "so you see we're quits." "no, we're not, and i don't want that we should, till i give you what i think you ought to have. father says i may and--" "miles harding-- darley, i mean, if you do that i'll-- i'll never speak to you again. there, take your choice-- quits or my friendship." rex's pride conquered. miles was still his slave. "i'll never say another word about it, rex," he replied meekly, and for the first time reginald felt that he could face poverty bravely. chapter xxxv a fistic encounter it is summer again, but in batemans the town in which we now find our friends, the pells, this banner season of the year, does not deck itself with all the attractions that caused it to be eagerly looked forward to in marley. there are no creek, no hills, no trees, nothing but board walks, board houses, board fences, and the "boarders we take," as rex would conclude the sentence. and these are the same in summer as they are in winter, except that they are all hotter and more unpleasant than ordinary. batemans is a far western town. a friend of mrs. pell's was putting up a hotel there at the time of her trouble. he had appealed to her for some woman to run it. "i don't want a man," he wrote. "there are too many men out here now. i want somebody who will give home comforts which i want to make a speciality of, in place of a bar." mrs. pell considered it a providential opportunity. she replied stating that she would take it herself if she could have her children to help her. and they had gone out there in february. mr. darley had been kindness itself. he not only refused to prosecute sydney, but wanted to settle a portion of his fortune on the pells. "you are fully entitled to this," he said. "it is through you that my boy has been restored to me." but mrs. pell was firm as rex had been firm. "it is enough that you allow us the time in which to make our plans," she returned. rex never murmured at the prospect of batemans. not even when the dreary aspect of the place, with mud two feet deep in its streets, first dawned upon him. he felt that he ought to rejoice rather that his new lot was to be cast so far away from all his old friends. there were no educational facilities in batemans; at least none of which the twins could avail themselves. then they found plenty to do in helping their mother. rex acted as clerk, made out the bills and received the guests; roy saw to the purchasing of supplies, and aided his brother in keeping objectionable characters out of the house. there were no amusements and no society except that which they furnished themselves in the family circle, roy often thought if he had had this life to look forward to, his whole previous existence would have been embittered. but now that he was living it, strength seemed given him in some way to bear the burden. sydney had gone to england. they asked him to write and let them know how he was getting along, but he would not promise. miles wrote regularly to rex, even when the latter did not reply. he and his father had moved into the handsome home next the harringtons', with mrs. fox as housekeeper. "i wonder what people think of the thing," rex said once to roy. there had been no publicity about the transfer. only a few people knew of it and the cause. on this july day on which we are writing, it was unusually hot. the heat seemed to be frying in the air. it was a day of all others on which to keep quiet and calm. but this was the day on which the waiters of the homestead house had chosen to go out on strike for an increase of wages which mrs. pell was not empowered to give them. they threw down their aprons just before the dinner hour at one o'clock. "never mind, mother," said roy. "rex and i will pitch in and help." and they did, they and eva and jess. rex was just carrying a tray of dishes into the pantry when he heard a louder voice than usual coming from one of the tables. he looked around. he saw jess, flushed to her hair, standing behind a young man who had come in with one of the regular guests, and whom he had not noticed before. "come now, i'll give you a nice tip if you'll do it for me," rex heard the fellow say. he thought he recognized the voice. he put his tray down and hurried to his sister's side. she had started to walk away, but the man had caught her by the dress and held her fast. "he wants me to go to the saloon across the street and bring him a bottle of beer," said jess. rex stooped quickly and disengaged the fellow's hand with no gentle touch. in doing so he looked him straight in the face. it was ashby stout. "great scott, it's little pell," exclaimed stout. then he added quickly: "look here, youngster, what right have you to send that girl away from here?" "a brother's right," replied rex promptly. "whew!" whistled stout under his breath, and he turned to driscoll, the friend with whom he had come in. "say, sammy," he whispered, "what position does this chap hold in the place?" "he's the manager's son," was the reply. having accomplished his purpose rex went on, took up his tray and carried it into the pantry. his eyes still flashed from anger. "jess," he said, going up to his sister, "you must not go into that dining room again." "but i'll have to," she replied, "i've got lots of orders to fill." "never mind. i'll attend to yours and mine, too. i'm not going to have that ruffian ogling you, i know who he is." "you do? who is he?" "never mind. it is enough that i know everything bad about him and nothing good. give me your orders." and jess complied. of course this compelled rex to wait on stout. but he gritted his teeth and went through with the process in dignified silence, taking no notice of the attempt stout made to draw him into conversation. when dinner was over and rex was back in his place behind the desk, making up accounts, stout strolled in, a cigarette between his lips. he affected to be examining the register for a little while, then suddenly looked up to remark: "i say, pell, that's a deuced pretty sister of yours." i won't say that rex did right, i can't say that he did wrong, but on the instant and without a word he leaned forward and hit j. ashby stout a blow on the chin that sent him staggering backward over a chair that stood just behind him. there happened to be no one else in the office just at that moment. so mr. stout was obliged to pick himself up, which he did, muttering wrathfully under his breath, while rex, very white, went on with his work. "if you're not a coward, sir, you'll come out here and give me satisfaction for that insult, sir." so spoke mr. stout. rex closed his books and came out in front of the desk. "i allow no one to speak of my sister in that tone," he said. "and i allow no one to strike me," blustered mr. stout, launching out a blow directly at rex's face. rex dodged and planted another blow on mr. stout's chin. then they both went at it. sometimes one was struck, sometimes the other. i am aware that this is contrary to all precedents in story writing. following out these, j. ashby stout should have gone down under the first blow, and then been glad to slink off without risking another encounter with the redoubtable hero. but then as i think i have remarked once before, rex is not the hero of this story. he is a boy of very impulsive nature, as often wrong as right in his motives. perhaps he might have taken a wiser method of standing up for his sister on the present occasion. be this as it may, he did not regret the black eye he went up to his room to bathe a little while later. and while the battle did not result in a decisive victory for either side, it was noticeable that mr. j. ashby stout did not again accompany driscoll to the homestead. but some one else appeared the next day to whom rex found it necessary to explain how be came by his battered visage. chapter xxxvi miles breaks the news a compromise had been effected with the striking waiters, and the heat had lessened a little in its intensity. the two things, together with the nonappearance of ashby stout were blessings for which rex had to be grateful. but when the stage came in and he recognized among the passengers miles darley and the latter's father, he did not know whether he was glad or not. they were links connecting him with that past life which he was trying his best to forget. now it seemed to him that only by forgetting it and thus doing away with the power of contrast, could he be happy in the present. "you dear old fellow!" miles rushed forward with this exclamation and fairly took rex in his arms. he had grown much in the past few months and the clothes he wore set off his figure to great advantage. "i won't say where on earth did you come from," said rex, "but where in the world are you going to, that you should take in this forsaken place?" "well, that's polite, i'm sure," laughed miles, "can't you imagine that batemans may be our objective point?" "no, because i'm certain you can't be interested in saw mills, and that's the only thing that brings people here." "but i can be interested in you, can't i, rex? i've missed you terribly. that great house seems so lonely with only three of us in it." "but you needn't have stayed there in the summer. there's the white mountains or the sea coast-- lots of places you could have gone to." "if we choose to come here instead, it's all right, isn't it, rex?" "of course it is, old fellow, and now i see that the best way in which i can entertain you is to tell you right off how i came by this black eye," which rex proceeded at once to do. "good for you, my little game cock!" exclaimed miles, when he had heard the story. "speaking of stout, your friend harrington has tried to scrape acquaintance with me, but he hasn't got beyond the scraping stage yet. i wonder what stout was doing out here." "his father's in the lumber business, i believe. but i'm afraid you'll find it pretty hot, miles." "well, i've had so many cold days in my time i guess i can stand a little heat." rex was not the only one of the pells who was astonished by the advent of the darleys. their coming was a complete surprise to the entire family. and a still greater cause of astonishment was the prolongation of their stay. they rented two of the best rooms in the house, had awnings put up at the windows and wicker furniture sent on from denver. mr. darley took frequent trips to neighboring towns. it was understood by the gossips at batemans that he was a large eastern capitalist, looking about for profitable mining investments. july, august and half of september passed, and still the darleys remained. miles was supremely content, for he was with rex, for whom his admiration appeared to increase with each day's added intimacy. miles had brought his books, and they studied together some. and in spite of the forlornness of the place, the five young people managed to have a pretty good time. one afternoon roy and rex were washing the omnibus out at the stable. the driver, hearing of a big strike that had been made at a mine some sixty miles away, threw up his position at once and started off to try to get rich at a hand stroke. and the boys were forced to throw themselves into the breach until another man could be obtained in his place. this is the sort of thing they had trained themselves to expect since coming to batemans. "where's miles?" asked roy, as he brought a fresh pail of water and set it down beside his brother. "he was coming out but his father called him into his room." "we'll miss them when they go, won't we, reggie? it has been jolly good fun to have miles with us all summer. you ought to feel quite proud to think you are a strong enough magnet to keep him here." "i can't understand it at all, why they should have stayed," returned rex. he did not speak very cheerfully. the darleys were to leave the very next week. it was impossible but that rex should realize vividly to what they were returning. he did not tell roy so, but he wished they had not come. there was only one wheel of the omnibus to finish when miles came hurrying toward them. there was an expression on his face which neither of the twins could comprehend. it was a blending of fear, joy and stupefaction. "here, let me help," he said, as he came up. "i want you fellows to hurry and get through. i've something to tell you." but they had so nearly finished that there was nothing left for him to undertake. "what have you got to tell us?" asked rex, throwing his sponge back into the bucket. "i wish i knew how you fellows would take it," returned miles, a flush creeping over his face. "try us and find out," rejoined roy with a smile. "i'm simply delighted myself," went on the other. "i wonder how i can keep my two feet on the ground. it seems too good to be true." "then why are you in doubt how we'll take it," said rex. "what pleases you ought certainly to please us." "but perhaps this won't. it's so-- so, unexpected and altogether jolly." "well, miles darley, you are certainly the most incomprehensible fellow this afternoon," exclaimed roy. "what's it about?" "well, it's about the pells and the darleys," explained miles, the color still surging in his cheeks. "in union there is strength, you know, and-- haven't you guessed it yet?" "no, indeed, we haven't and just you tell us right out what it is without any more fooling," and rex made a playful dab at his friend with the big sponge. "all right, here goes then," and miles drew in his breath. "your mother has told my father that she will be mrs. darley, and that makes us brothers, rex, don't you see, and we're all going back to philadelphia together-- well, don't you like it?" miles checked himself suddenly, for roy and rex stood staring at him as if struck dumb, too amazed to allow any expression to appear on their faces. but it was all true; they were to have another test of fortune, and though its bringing about seemed in some sense to deprive the boys of their mother, they knew that not only was this not so, but that they were to gain a father thereby. "and a brother, too, don't forget that," miles adds at my side. the end. scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. [illustration: book cover] the old pincushion or aunt clotilda's guests [illustration: 'i don't believe you care one bit.'--(_page_ .)] the old pincushion or _aunt clotilda's guests_ by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'the palace in the garden,' etc. _illustrated by mrs. adrian hope_ [illustration] london griffith farran okeden & welsh successors to newbery and harris and sydney to three dear though unknown little friends bertha hilda lesley contents. chap. page i. the letter with bad news, ii. philippa's idea, iii. aunt clotilda's reply, iv. at ty-gwyn, v. a grave predicament, vi. the white house at last, vii. breakfast in bed, viii. news from philippa, ix. the cottage near the creek, x. a plague of feathers, xi. the pincushion manufactory, xii. found, list of full page illustrations. 'i don't believe you care one bit,' _frontispiece_ 'let's sit quietly in the old arbour,' the after-dinner play-time in the garden, 'there's your work for you, so to speak, miss,' he sat down on the floor of the cart, and took kathie half into his arms, a figure was standing in the doorway, 'it is delicious,' said kathleen, 'look, it's never been posted at all!' 'where are the caves, neville?' what _was_ the matter? they found a nook ... to eat their dinner in, 'that is all,' said neville, chapter i. the letter with bad news. [illustration: decorative n] o, kathie, i don't believe you care one bit; i really don't,' said neville reproachfully. kathie was seated as she loved to be--on the edge of a rather high table. her skirts were short and her legs were long; from her present elevation she could swing the latter about delightfully. she gave them an extra energetic fling before she replied to her brother, and then, trying her best to look concerned and distressed, and only succeeding in giving to her funny little face an expression of comical demureness, she turned to neville,-- 'i do care. you haven't any right to say i don't. if i didn't care for myself, i'd care because you do, and because _they_ do. i'm not a--a--unnatural monster. i'd cry if it was my way, but you know it isn't; and a good thing too. a nice life i'd have had _here_,' with great contempt, 'if i'd been a crying child like little philippa harley. she's tired everybody out. but what's more, i do care for myself too. i've been looking forward to them coming home, and nice proper holidays, like other children. yes, indeed, i should just think i had.' 'holidays only!' neville repeated. 'it would have been much better than holidays--for you, any way. they wouldn't have left you here. i'd have stayed at school, i suppose--boys must; but i don't mind school. i'd like it very well if i had a home besides.' kathie did not seem to have noticed his last words. a new expression had come into her face, as she repeated softly to herself, 'they wouldn't have left me here. i never thought of that.' 'you'll begin to care really now, i suppose,' said her brother, rather bitterly. 'i didn't think you were so selfish.' the little girl faced about at that. 'i'm not selfish--at least, if selfish means only caring about oneself and not about other people. i don't pretend not to care about myself _too_. i'm one of the people in the world as well as being myself. i should care for myself. but i care for others too. i'm sorry for you, and for _them_, though not as sorry as for you, because i know you and i don't know them. that's natural. i can't pretend to care for them the same as if i knew them. people who want their children to care a lot for them shouldn't leave them when they're too little to remember, and never see them again for years and years.' 'it isn't much "shouldn't" about it,' the boy replied. 'it's nothing but "can't." papa and mamma would be only too glad to come home if they could. i'm sure you might know that, kathie.' 'well, i've been looking forward to their coming as well as you,' said kathie, rather grumpily. 'i'm sure i've thought about it ever since last year, when mamma wrote they'd be _sure_ to come before this next summer. i don't see but what if that hor--' she stopped; 'if that old aunt wouldn't leave papa anything else, she might at least have left him money enough to come home on a visit, as she had promised to pay it.' 'kathie,' said neville, in a rather awe-struck tone, 'you shouldn't speak that way when she is dead.' 'i don't see any harm in it,' the little girl replied, undauntedly. 'she should have settled things properly, and then we could have felt nicely sorry about her. i don't understand you, neville--i don't think you're fair to me. first you scold me for not being sorry and not caring, and then when you've regularly worked me up, you turn upon me for saying what i feel.' neville looked rather at a loss. 'i don't mean to do that,' he said. 'i suppose the truth is, i'm so dreadfully disappointed that i don't know what to say. but i must be going, kathie. i suppose you don't want me to leave you the letter?' and as he spoke he half held out to her an envelope he held in his hand. kathie shook her head. 'no, you'd better keep it. you'll answer it at once, i suppose. i shouldn't know what to say. you tell them from me that i'm awfully sorry, and i'll write next week.' 'and,' neville went on, 'about writing to aunt clotilda? can't you write to her, kathie? mamma says one of us should.' 'well, you'd do it far better than i. i shouldn't like to send it without you seeing it first, any way. i don't feel inclined to write to her--i think she's been very stupid--she might have managed better if she really cares for them as she makes out.' 'kathie!' said neville--this time with real displeasure in his tone, 'i do think that's too bad of you. poor aunt clotilda! you see, papa says she is almost the most to be pitied of anybody. and there's another thing, kathie: i don't think it's right of you always to speak of papa and mamma as "they" or "them." it's not--not respectful; not as if you cared for them.' 'oh, bother!' said kathie; 'if you're going to begin again about my not caring, neville, i just wish you'd go. i'm tired of explaining to you, and--there; _i_ must go. miss eccles is sending for me;' and as the footsteps her quick ears had heard coming along the passage stopped at the door, kathleen slid down from the table, and stood erect and demure, as a girl of seventeen or so, with a sharp, dark face looked in. 'miss powys,' she said, 'it is time to get ready for dinner. you must be up-stairs in five minutes;' and so saying, disappeared. 'good-bye, kathie,' said neville, as he kissed her. 'it was kind of mr. fanshaw to let me come, wasn't it? and--oh! i forgot--mrs. fanshaw's going to write to miss eccles to ask if you may spend next wednesday with us--all day: that's to say, to come to dinner and stay till the evening. i'm to fetch you walking, and bring you back in a hansom.' 'that will be _splucious_!' said kathie, her eyes sparkling. 'oh! i say, i do hope old eccles will let me go.' a slight look of annoyance crossed the boy's face. he disliked to hear his little sister talking slang, or any approach to it. 'old eccles!' he repeated. 'i wish you wouldn't say that, kathie. "splucious" i don't mind--it was our own nursery word.' 'neville, you _are_ a prig!' said kathie. 'however, i'll forgive you in return for the good news. good-bye till wednesday, and do thank them awfully. i do wish old eccles was like them.' [illustration] and already, in the prospect of the immediate pleasure, more than half forgetting the important bad news which her brother had come to tell her, kathleen flew along the passage, and up-stairs two steps at a time, by way of working off some of her excitement. she was only twelve years old, though, to judge by her height, she might have been older. but she had the thin, lanky look of a fast-growing child; there was nothing the least precocious about her. 'she is such a baby still,' thought neville, as he made his way soberly along the street. 'i suppose she can't help it,' he went on, with a vague idea of excusing her to himself for he scarcely knew what. 'but i do wish, oh! how i do wish they were coming home! five years more, papa says; five years more it will be. it won't matter for me so much. i've been so fortunate in being with the fanshaws; and any way, i'd have had to be going to a big school by now. but for kathie, she'll be seventeen, and she won't have been with mamma for eleven years. it doesn't seem _right_, somehow. and just now, when everything might have been easy. oh dear! i wonder why things go wrong when they might just as well go right!' neville powys was only thirteen and a half, barely eighteen months older than kathleen. but in mind and temperament he was twice her age. and he seemed to himself to have grown years older since that very same morning when the indian mail had brought the letter which had been the reason of his visit to his sister. it had been a terrible disappointment to him, and he had hoped for thorough sympathy from kathie. yet again, perhaps it was well that she had not taken it to heart so acutely as he. she was less happily placed under miss eccles' trustworthy, but cold and unloving care, than he in the fanshaw family. and had she been of a more sensitive or less buoyant nature, she might have been in some ways dwarfed and crushed painfully. but she was strong and elastic; so far, her six years of stiff and prim school life had done her no harm beyond leaving her, in several ways, as much of a 'baby' as when they had first begun. still, neville's instinct that it was more than time that kathie should be in other hands, that the 'womanliness' in her would suffer unless there were some change, was a correct one. 'if only mrs. fanshaw could have had her too,' he said to himself, as he had often said before. but that he knew was impossible. the fanshaws had four boys of their own, and no daughter, which had naturally led to their taking only boy boarders. 'i don't like to make things worse by writing to mamma that i don't think kathie is improving,' he went on, thinking. 'i know it must be very difficult for them to pay what they do for us. and mrs. fanshaw always says that miss eccles' school is far better, though it is old-fashioned and prim, than many of those great, big, fashionable, girls' schools, which cost twice as much.' suddenly a thought struck him. 'i don't see why i shouldn't write about kathie to aunt clotilda,' he said to himself. 'she is free now, even though she's poor. she might surely have kathie with her if papa gave what he does to miss eccles. and she's often said she would have had us every holiday if mrs. wynne hadn't been so old and queer. i think aunt clotilda must be nice--she is so fond of papa. she might at least have kathie there on a visit.' and with a rather more hopeful feeling about things in general since this idea had struck him, poor neville rang at mr. fanshaw's door, which he had now reached. he had met with plenty of sympathy from his kind friends in his disappointment. it was mrs. fanshaw who had suggested to her husband to give the boy an hour or two's holiday to go off to see his sister, though not an orthodox day for the two meeting, and who had furthermore promised the invitation which had so delighted kathleen. but a feeling of loyalty prevented neville's telling how slightly the bad news seemed to have affected the little girl, and besides this, a sort of instinct that the less family matters are talked of out of the family the better, made him resolve not to say very much more about the matter in the fanshaw household. what the bad news was it is quite time to explain. neville and kathleen powys were the children of an officer in the army. captain powys was poor, but not without reasonable hopes of becoming much richer before his boy and girl should have reached the age at which education and the other many advantages which good parents desire for their children, grow expensive and difficult to obtain for those who have very small means. one disadvantage--a disadvantage at all ages--that of separation from their parents, had to be submitted to, however, when neville and kathleen were only five and six years old. for at that time captain powys's regiment was ordered to india, and he had, of course, to accompany it. 'never mind--or, at least, mind it as little as you can,' he said to his wife. 'let us be thankful they are still so young. by the time they are at an age when it really would matter greatly, we may quite hope to be settled at home again.' and in this hope the last few years had been passed. it was not an unreasonable hope by any means, as you shall hear. captain powys had an old cousin, who was also his godmother, by name mrs. wynne. and for many years this lady had openly announced her intention of making him her heir. only last year she had written to beg him to try to get leave to come home for some months, as she felt she had not long to live, and there were many things she wished to say to him. she undertook to pay all the expenses of this visit for himself and his wife, and the little girl vida, who had been born since their return to india. and as a reason the more for it, she reminded him that it was high time neville and kathleen should see their parents again. captain powys, as may be imagined, was only too glad to agree to her proposal, and for the last few months the parents in india and the children at home had been counting the weeks--in neville's case, indeed, almost the days--till they should meet, when, alas! all these plans were dashed to the ground! mrs. wynne died suddenly, and after her death no will was to be found. in consequence of this, all her property would go to a nephew of her husband's, already a rich man, who did not need it, and, to do him justice, scarcely cared for it. this was the news which miss clotilda powys, the children's aunt, who had lived with the old lady and helped to manage her affairs, had to write to her brother in india. and this too was the news contained in the letter from his father which had so distressed poor neville. it was a curious story altogether. clotilda was completely puzzled. mrs. wynne was a careful and methodical person, not likely to have delayed seeing to business matters, and just the sort of woman to have prided herself on leaving everything in perfect order. and a day or two before her death she had given her cousin a sealed envelope, on which was written, 'directions where to find my will;' saying to her at the same time, 'you will see--all will be right for david.' so miss clotilda's mind had been quite at rest, till on opening the envelope, a few hours after the old lady's death, she drew forth a blank sheet of note-paper! even then, however, she was not completely discouraged. that the will was somewhere in the house she felt certain, for she had often heard mrs. wynne say that she would trust no important papers to any one's keeping but her own. and in the presence of the lawyer, mr. jones, and of mr. wynne-carr, the nephew, a thorough search was made. every cupboard, every bookcase, every wardrobe, every chest of drawers was turned out--nay, more, the walls were tapped, the planks of the floors examined, for it was a very old and quaintly contrived house, to see if there was any secret place where the will could have been concealed. but all in vain. every other paper or document of importance was found in its place, neatly labelled in the old lady's own handwriting, in her private _secrétaire_ in the library. but no will! and even though poor miss clotilda went on for days and weeks searching, searching, thinking of nothing else by day, dreaming of nothing else by night, all was useless, and it became evident that there would not much longer be any pretext for preventing mr. wynne-carr's taking possession. mr. wynne-carr behaved well. he had never expected to succeed, and was not eager about it. he could not, however, help himself--he had a son and grandson--he could not give up the property even if captain powys could have been brought to accept it from him. but he told miss clotilda to take her time. he gave her leave to stay on in the house as long as she liked, and to continue searching. but as weeks went on, her last hopes faded, and she wrote again to her brother, advising him to make up his mind that the will would never be found. then captain powys wrote to neville--he had put off doing so as long as he could--telling him all, and saying that even the visit to england must be given up, as he had no money to spare for it, and no hopes of gaining anything by it. if miss clotilda had not succeeded in finding the will, there was no chance that any one else would. neville was old enough, and thoughtful enough, thoroughly to understand the whole. no wonder he was troubled and distressed, and disappointed by kathie's childishness. he wished his aunt clotilda had written to him. it would have made it much easier for him to have confided to her his feelings about his sister. it was many years since miss clotilda had seen the children, for she had not left wales for long, and mrs. wynne had never invited the children to visit her. she was too old for it, she said, and she had never had children of her own, and did not understand their ways. so neville and kathleen had been entirely left to the care of strangers, though neville had once or twice been asked to spend some holidays at a companion's house, and kathie was taken every year to the seaside with two other 'little indians,' for three weeks by miss eccles. but of real happy home-life neither knew anything, except by hearsay. and kathleen was not the sort of child to trouble herself much about anything which did not actually come in her way. chapter ii. philippa's idea. [illustration: decorative k] athleen was met at the schoolroom door by a little, pale-faced, fair-haired girl, who was just coming out. 'oh, kathie!' she said anxiously, 'do be quick if you're not ready for dinner. the bell's just going to ring. have you washed your hands? no? then let's go at once.' 'why, are you not ready, either?' said kathie. 'there's no excuse for you, philippa; you've not been called downstairs to see your brother.' 'i am ready,' said philippa. 'i've been ready ever so long. but when you didn't come at once after miss fraser went for you, i was so frightened that i asked if i might go to fetch a handkerchief, and i thought i'd run along the passage to see if you were coming, and to hurry you.' 'you're a good little soul,' said kathleen condescendingly, 'but you really needn't bother about me. i've had scoldings enough by this time not to mind, i should rather think.' philippa looked up at her doubtfully. kathie's hard, careless way of speaking distressed her vaguely, much as it did neville, though she scarcely understood it. she was new to school life, and she had had the happiness till a few months ago of never being separated from her mother. so, though she was three years younger than kathleen, there were some things she knew more of. 'i don't think you should speak that way,' she said. 'it can't be a good thing not to mind. i do think they scold us too much. _mamma_ never scolded at all, though of course she was sometimes vexed with me, only there was always sense in it. but i think there's _generally_ some sense in miss eccles' scolding. i try to find it out, only it's rather hard,' and her soft eyes filled with tears. 'come now, philippa,' said kathleen, 'don't begin to cry. you'd be ever so much nicer if you wouldn't. there, now; i'm all ready,' and she flung the towel, with which she had been wiping her hands, on to the rail as she spoke. 'let's race back; see if you can run as fast as i without making any noise. don't i do it splendidly? there now; the bell hasn't sounded. won't miss fraser be disappointed not to have to scold?' and it was true that a rather sour look overspread the under-teacher's face as the two children demurely entered the room. [illustration] 'did your brother bring you any letters, kathie?' whispered philippa, as they filed downstairs to dinner with the seven or eight girls who made up miss eccles' school. 'i do so want to know.' 'yes; i have lots to tell you,' said kathie, 'and no good news either. if i were _you_, philippa, i should be crying my eyes out by this time.' philippa covered her ears with her hands. 'oh! don't tell me, then, please don't,' she said. 'if it's anything sad about your mamma, or anything like that, i shall begin crying: i know i shall, whether you do or not, and then they'll all see. don't tell me till after dinner, kathie.' 'i've no intention of doing so,' said kathleen, smiling rather importantly. 'i'll tell you in the garden this afternoon.' her smile somewhat reassured the tender-hearted little friend; still more so the fact that kathleen's appetite was in no way affected by the news, whatever it was, that she had just heard. there was a gooseberry pudding for dinner that day, and philippa marvelled to herself when she saw kathie's plate sent up for a second allowance. 'i can't finish my first helping even,' she whispered, disconsolately. 'i can't help wondering if your mamma's ill, and it makes me think of _my_ mamma. oh, kathie!' she went on, 'do just tell me it isn't that your mamma's ill, is it? do tell me, or i'll never be able to finish my pudding, and they will so scold me!' 'you goose!' whispered kathie. 'no; of course it isn't that my mamma's ill, or your mamma's ill, or anybody's mamma's ill.' 'miss powys and miss harley _whispering_! i am surprised at you,' said miss eccles' voice from behind the now diminished gooseberry pudding at the other end of the table. 'there, now,' muttered kathie; and philippa, feeling that her friend's reproaches as well as her teacher's disapproval would be more than she could bear, subsided, and set to work to clear her plate in earnest. the friendship between these two was rather an odd one. it had been brought on in the first place by a sort of half-contemptuous, half-pitying curiosity, with which kathleen had seen philippa's agony of distress on having to part with her mother. and poor mrs. harley, in her bewilderment, had credited kathie with more feeling and sympathy than the girl was really conscious of. 'you will be good to her--you look as if you were sorry for her,' she said, struck by the interest in kathleen's pretty bright eyes. '_you_ know what it is to be separated from your mother.' 'i--i haven't seen mamma for a long time,' kathie replied, too honest to 'sham,' and yet feeling rather ashamed of herself. 'there are several girls here whose mothers are in india. but i will be good to philippa. we'll all be sorry for her. i suppose it's worse when one's as big as she is. i was very little.' and mrs. harley thanked her, and philippa clung to her, and having given the promise, kathleen kept it, even though it was sometimes a little tiresome to have to forsake the society of the merry, hearty, older girls, in order to devote herself to the poor little home-sick child. but during the last few months things had changed. two or three of the older girls had left, and kathleen did not care much for those that remained. and by degrees philippa had grown to some extent reconciled to her new life, and had transferred to kathleen some considerable share of the devotion with which her loving little heart was running over. and philippa, young as she was, was a friend worth having; in after-years kathleen came to see how much she owed to the child's unconscious influence. the hour in the garden after dinner, and before lessons began again, was the hour of all the twenty-four during which miss eccles' pupils were the most at liberty. before philippa came it had usually been spent by kathleen in playing; she was so tall and nimble that she was in great request among the older girls for lawn-tennis, or any other games, and it had been one of her small acts of self-denial--acts showing that, for all her heedless talking and surface indifference, her heart was in the right place--to give up joining in these for the sake of talking or listening to the disconsolate little stranger. but now that philippa had learnt to understand things better, she would not allow kathleen to make such sacrifices. though not strong enough herself for much active exercise, she loved to watch her friend's successes, and her pale face would glow with excitement when kathie specially distinguished herself. but to-day was to be an exception. 'you're going to play lawn-tennis, aren't you, kathie?' said philippa. 'i don't want to play anything; and miss fraser doesn't mind, when it's so hot that i won't catch cold. i'll sit near and watch you.' [illustration: 'let's sit quietly in the old arbour.'] 'no, you just won't,' said kathie. 'i'm not going to play. i know you are dying to hear what neville came about, and i want to tell it to somebody, and you're the only person i can tell it to. so let's sit quietly in the old arbour--nobody will want us, and i'll tell you everything. you'll be sorry enough for me, philippa, when you hear the first bit of it, even though it isn't nearly the worst. just fancy'--by this time the two children were settled in the summer-house--'papa and mamma are not coming home this year, after all.' philippa's blue eyes opened very widely, and a look of consternation spread over her face. 'your papa and mamma aren't coming home?' she repeated, as if she could not take in the sense of the words. 'oh, kathie!' and the corners of her mouth went down, and her eyelids began to quiver in a suspicious way. 'now, phil, no crying,' said kathleen, sharply. 'if i don't cry for myself, i don't see that you need to do it for me.' 'i'm so--so dreadfully sorry for you,' said philippa apologetically. 'thank you. i knew you'd be. but though their not coming's a dreadful disappointment, there's worse than that. it isn't only that it's put off, philippa: it's given up altogether. i don't hardly think they'll _ever_ come home now. i believe they'll stay out there always, till i'm grown up, and then when i'm seventeen or so, i'll be sent out to them--to a father and mother i shan't know a bit. isn't it _horrid_, philippa?' 'but why is it? what's made them change so?' asked the little girl. 'i'll tell you. only you must listen a great deal. it's really rather hard to understand: just like a story in a book, phil, about wills, and heirs, and lawyers, and all that.' and in her own fashion, as intelligibly as she could, kathleen proceeded to narrate the contents of her father's letter to neville, and all neville's comments thereupon, to her most interested and attentive listener. 'what a shame it seems!' was philippa's first remark. 'all to go to somebody that doesn't need it. how unfair it is! kathie, if he was really a very good, nice man, don't you think he'd give it all back to your father?' 'papa wouldn't take it, not from _him_,' said kathie indignantly, though, truth to tell, her own first idea on hearing the story had been a similar one; 'and besides--that other man's got children, and neville says there's some law that you can't give away what comes to you if you've got children.' 'oh,' said philippa, meekly. 'i didn't know.' 'of course not. how could you know, a little girl like you? why, _i_ didn't till neville told me,' said kathie condescendingly. 'but, all the same, that part of it doesn't matter. papa wouldn't take anything from anybody like that.' philippa sat silent for a little while. but though silent, she was thinking deeply. her eyes were gazing before her, though seeing but little of the objects in view--the prim bit of london garden, with the evergreen shrubs bordering the gravel-walk, and the figures of the girls darting backwards and forwards in their light-coloured frocks, while they called out to each other in the excitement of the game. and the child's lips were compressed as if she were thinking out some knotty problem. kathie looked at her in surprise and with growing impatience. she did not fully understand philippa, for in reality the nine years old maiden was in some respects older than kathleen herself. her thoughtfulness and powers of reflection had been brought out by living in close companionship with her mother, and the dearth of playfellows of her own age had made her what servants call 'old-fashioned,' quaint, and in a sense precocious. 'what are you going to sleep about philippa?' said kathleen at last, irritably. 'i thought you'd have had lots of questions to ask. it's not every day one hears anything so queer and interesting as what i have been telling you.' philippa slowly unfastened her eyes, so to speak, from staring at vacancy, and turned them on her friend. 'it's not that i don't care, kathie; you might know that, i'm sure. i think it's _dreadful_! i can't bear to think of how unhappy your papa and mamma must be, _'specially_ your mamma, just when she'd been planning about coming home and having you with her. i daresay she made a day list--you know what i mean--and that she'd been scratching out every day to see the long rows get shorter. i know,' she added mysteriously, 'i know mammas _do_ do that sometimes, just as well as children.' 'i don't think mine would be quite so silly,' said kathleen disdainfully. 'she must be pretty well used to being at the other side of the world from us by now. for my part, i don't think people should marry if they know they're going to have to live in india--not, at least, till doctors find out some sort of medicine that would keep children quite strong and well there. i do think doctors are too stupid. but still, of course,' she went on, 'i _am_ very sorry for mamma, and i'm very sorry for us all. not quite so sorry for myself, perhaps. i don't think i do mind so very much. i'd feel more disappointed if i couldn't go to the fanshaws on wednesday, and come home in a hansom with neville. i'm made so, i suppose.' and she flung herself back on her seat with a would-be 'miller of the dee' air, which, however, was rather lost on philippa, who just glanced at her calmly. 'i don't believe you,' she said. 'you're not as bad as you would make yourself out. but i do wonder you haven't thought of one thing, kathie, you that are so quick and clever. it came into my head the moment i heard it all.' 'what?' said kathleen carelessly. 'why, it's what i'd do in your place. i'd settle to _find the will_!' 'to find the will!' repeated kathie, sitting bolt upright, and staring at philippa as if she thought the little girl was taking leave of her senses. '_me_ find the will! you little goose! how could i find it when that stupid miss clotilda and all the lawyers and people haven't been able to find it? why, even neville never thought of such a thing.' 'perhaps he will, though; and if he doesn't, if i were you, i'd put it into his head. if miss clotilda is really stupid'-- 'oh! i don't know that she is--it's just my way of speaking.' philippa looked rather disappointed. 'i don't know anything about her except that she's an old maid, and old maids are either crabbed or stupid; and they say she's not crabbed,' said kathie. 'but seriously, phil, what do you mean? how could i find the will, or even look for it? it isn't here in london, and very likely it's nowhere at all. very likely old mrs. wynne never wrote it.' 'oh, kathie!' exclaimed philippa, 'i do think you can't have a very good mind to fancy such things. she would have had to be a really naughty old lady to have pretended so, and tricked everybody for nothing. of course she must have written it; you told me the letter with nothing in it was marked "directions where to find my will."' 'ye-es,' said kathleen, 'so it was. but what then? it seems to me the first thing to do would be to find the paper that should have been in that envelope.' 'of course,' said philippa, her face flushing. 'i never thought of that. you see, kathie, you are quick and clever when you really think.' 'i never said i wasn't,' kathleen replied composedly. 'but that's the beginning and end of my thinking about this thing. let's talk about something else now, phil.' 'no,' said the little girl decidedly. 'i don't care to talk of anything else. just _think_, kathie, how lovely it would be if you did find it, and all came right, and your papa and mamma came home to that beautiful place in wales; you'd invite me sometimes for the holidays, wouldn't you?' 'of course,' said kathie heartily. 'i never thought of that. but by-the-by, phil, you should be glad of this going wrong if you care for me. i'd have been leaving school if it had been all right.' 'i know, said philippa quietly. 'i did think of that, and of course it would break my heart for you to go. but i'd rather it did break--_quite_,' she went on, as if she understood thoroughly all about the process, 'rather than that your poor papa and mamma shouldn't be able to come home, and you all be happy together at that lovely place.' 'i don't know that it's lovely,' observed kathie. 'i fancy it's just a funny old-fashioned place. but it's in the country and near the sea--i love the country and the sea--of course it would be awfully nice. it's very good of you, phil, to care about it all so much. i only wish it would come right. if i _could_ find that paper or the will! it wouldn't matter which. if i were _there_, i'd hunt. i'd poke into all sorts of corners, that perhaps aunt clotilda has never thought of.' 'well, i think you should manage to go there,' said philippa. 'i don't see why your aunt shouldn't ask you to pay her a visit while she's still there, now that the old lady is dead.' 'yes; i think she might,' kathleen agreed. 'any way, it would be a change from that going to bognor for three weeks that i dislike so. i am so sick of bognor. and you won't be there, phil; you're going to your grandmother's.' 'yes,' said philippa; 'i didn't much want to go while i thought you were to be here. but if you were going away, i shouldn't mind.' 'i'll ask neville about it,' said kathie. 'he has said something once or twice about wishing i could go to aunt clotilda, but i always told him i shouldn't like it, and that unless papa and mamma regularly _ordered_ me to go, i wouldn't. i do so dislike old maids.' 'why, who do you know that's old maids?' asked philippa. 'why do you dislike them?' 'oh! there's miss eccles--and, after all, i'm not sure that i do dislike her. no, i don't think i do,' she went on, meditatively. 'but there's miss fraser; there now, philippa, we _may_ dislike her--nasty, spying, sharp, spiteful thing!' philippa considered. it never occurred even to her to dispute the right of all the school to dislike miss fraser--her mind was considering another aspect of the question. 'but are you sure she is an old maid?' she said. 'she can't be more than twenty. when do old maids begin?' 'i don't know,' kathie replied vaguely. 'i don't think there's any settled age. i suppose it's just that some are always going to be old maids. but let's talk of something nicer, phil. let's plan that place in wales--ty--tig--i can't say the name of it in welsh, but i know it means the white house. let's plan all about it, how the rooms go, and everything, and fancy you're coming to stay with us there. let me see--shall it be haunted?' 'no, no,' cried philippa, with a little scream, putting her hands over her ears, relapsing suddenly into the sort of plaintive childishness which made her such an inconsistent little person. 'no, no, kathie. it's very unkind of you to frighten me. i'll _never_ come to stay with you if you're going to plan that it's haunted.' 'then it shan't be,' said kathie reassuringly. 'don't be silly, phil.' chapter iii. aunt clotilda's reply. [illustration: decorative w] ednesday came in due course, and as mrs. fanshaw's invitation had been received, and graciously accepted by miss eccles for kathleen, the young lady was ready and waiting when her brother called for her. [illustration] 'good-bye, kathie darling,' whispered a little voice over the balusters, 'and don't forget.' 'no, dear, and good-bye,' kathleen replied. 'who was that on the stairs?' neville asked, when the two were making their way down the street. 'philippa--philippa harley,' kathie answered. 'the little girl who cries so?' inquired neville. 'oh, she's rather left off crying. she's very sensible in some ways,' said kathleen. '_that's_ sensible,' said neville. 'still i don't know that i don't like her for having cried a good deal. i like people to _mind_ things.' he spoke quite naturally, but kathleen was rather porcupinish on this subject. she stood quite still, and faced round upon her brother. fortunately the street was not at all a crowded one. 'now, neville,' she said, 'i'm not going to have you go on again like that about my not caring. i know it's that you mean, and i just won't have it. i care a great deal more than if i sat down and cried about it.' neville stared at her. 'kathie,' he said, 'i wasn't thinking about you when i said that. i wasn't indeed. i know you do care when you really think about things. and if you didn't, it wouldn't in a way be your fault. you've been so alone as it were; nobody except me, and we've not been much together after all, to talk about home things to. but don't be vexed with me, kathie.' kathleen's face had softened while neville spoke. she turned and walked on quietly beside him. 'yes,' she said, 'it's true what you say. i've felt it still more since philippa's been there. she's been so much with her mother, and she is so fond of her. it must be dreadfully nice to have a mother you know so well that you can love her like that. neville,' she went on, 'it does seem hard that i should just be getting to feel more like you about it, when there's no chance of them coming home, and our being with them.' neville sighed. 'yes,' he said, 'it does seem hard. all the same, kathie, i'm very glad you're getting to feel more that way. philippa must be a nice little girl.' 'she's a _very_ nice little girl,' said kathie heartily. 'but she's funny--she's such a queer mixture of babyishness and old-for-her-age-ness.' and then, as her own words recalled some of her conversation with philippa, she suddenly exclaimed-- 'neville, are you sure, quite sure, that there's no chance of things coming right for papa?' 'what do you mean?' asked neville in surprise. 'do you think there's no chance of the will ever being found--or the paper telling where it is? the paper that should have been in the envelope?' 'i should think _that's_ the least likely thing of all--a little sheet of paper! a will's rather a big thing--at least, generally. mr. fanshaw says it's written on parchment, and that even a short will is rather a bulky thing. that's why it seems so queer it should be lost. but the bit of paper could easily have been lost. aunt clotilda thinks that the blank bit was put in by mistake, you know, so most likely the right bit was torn up long ago. mrs. wynne was getting a little blind.' 'still,' persisted kathleen, 'as the _will_ can't be found, _i_ think they should have a hunt for the paper. you see, if the will's rather a big thing, it's pretty sure they'd have found it unless it had been really hidden. and, besides, mrs. wynne's meaning to leave directions where to find it, shows it wasn't anywhere to be found easily.' 'yes, of course,' said neville, surprised at kathleen's reasoning powers. 'well then,' she went on, 'i'd look for the paper. it might be in ever so many places where the _will_ couldn't be. i wonder if they've hunted through mrs. wynne's desk and blotting books, and places like that?' 'i wonder too,' said neville. 'but they'd only laugh at us if we said anything, you see, kathie, because we're children.' 'yes,' kathleen agreed. 'people are very stupid about children, often.' neville did not answer for a moment. then, 'kathie,' he said half hesitatingly. 'well.' 'i think i'll tell you something'--but he was interrupted. they had got into a crowded part by this time, and neville had to catch hold of kathleen and make a sudden rush for it, to avoid being knocked down by an unexpected hansom appearing round a corner which they had not been observing. 'there now,' neville went on, 'it would have been very nice if i had got you run over, kathie. we mustn't talk where it's so crowded. wait till we get into mayhew street.' but when they reached mayhew street, at the farther end of which was neville's present home, they were overtaken by mr. fanshaw himself. so there was no more opportunity for talking privately. and kind mrs. fanshaw had arranged a sight-seeing expedition in the afternoon for the two powys children and two of the other boys. from this they did not get home till tea-time, and after tea there were games in the schoolroom, and then music in the drawing-room when mr. and mrs. fanshaw and the elder boys came up from dinner. it was all very delightful, and kathleen enjoyed it thoroughly. but it drove other thoughts out of her head, and gave her endless subject for chatter in the hansom on her way home. it was not till they drew up at miss eccles' gate that she suddenly remembered neville's unfinished sentence. 'what was it you were going to say to me just when that cab came up, this morning?' she asked. neville hesitated. 'i'll tell you the next time. it would take too long now. perhaps it will never come to anything; perhaps you wouldn't like it if it did, and perhaps you'd be disappointed if it didn't. and it's best to say no more about it yet.' and this oracular reply was all kathie could extract from neville before they had to bid each other good-night. philippa was a good deal disappointed the next day that kathleen had no more to tell her. 'you promised to speak to your brother about looking for the paper,' she said. 'well, so i did,' said kathie. 'yes; but what you said was no good. you should have planned with him about going there. it'll be too late soon; once your aunt has left the house you'd never have a chance of going there.' 'oh, bother!' said kathleen; 'i've no chance as it is. i don't believe it'll ever be found--the paper or the will either. it's no good thinking any more about it.' philippa's face flushed. 'i think you're a very silly girl, and a very selfish one too,' she said. 'i'm sure if there was the least little tiniest bit of a chance of my finding any paper that would do _my_ papa and mamma any good, i'd--i'd--' 'what would you do, miss unselfish?' said kathie teasingly. 'i'd run away and dress myself like a little servant so as to get into the house, or--or--anything,' said philippa. 'and get put into prison for poking about among other people's things. that would be _very_ nice for papa and mamma! your head's far too full of fanciful stories and rubbish!' said kathleen. and for some days there was a decided coolness between the friends. but on the fourth day something happened which quickly set this unusual state of things to rights. a rather thick letter arrived for 'miss powys' by the morning post. it was addressed in neville's clear, boyish handwriting; and as this was at once recognised by miss eccles, she gave it to kathleen without any remark or inquiry. and though there was only a quarter of an hour between breakfast and morning lessons beginning, kathie managed to gain a pretty fair idea of its contents before taking her place in the schoolroom. but it was not till the after-dinner play-time in the garden that she was able to tell what the letter contained to her little confidante. all she had time to whisper to her--for it was a very busy morning--was, 'i _have_ got something to tell you, phil, so you're not to look cross at me any more. you will open your eyes when you hear it.' philippa opened her eyes wide enough only to know she was _going_ to hear it! what could it be? kathie looked so pleased and excited that philippa almost fancied news must have come of the will having been found. of course it would be very nice, she said to herself, _very_ nice, if it were so; but still she was conscious of a little feeling of disappointment at the idea. she was rather what is called a romantic little girl; she liked to make up wonderful stories in her head; but this was the first time that she had ever come across in actual life anything to make a really good one about, so, naturally, she felt that it would be quite a pity for it to come to an end too soon. it would be like a book finishing up all in a hurry in the middle. she thought so much about it that she was very sharply reproved by miss fraser for inattention and carelessness, which forced her out of her dreams, though the pleasant feeling of having something out of the common to look forward to prevented her taking the scolding much to heart. [illustration: the after-dinner play-time in the garden.] and at last--at last, though really it did seem as if the morning would never come to an end--the two friends found themselves together in the arbour again, and kathleen drew the fat-looking letter out of her pocket. 'oh, kathie,' philippa exclaimed, 'i'm all trembling to know what it is! only just tell me quick! is it that the will's found?' she could hardly for the moment have said whether she wished the answer to be 'yes' or 'no,' but she was not long left in suspense. 'you goose!' said kathleen, which was answer of itself; 'of course not. i do believe you thought it was in this letter. i don't believe, for my part, it ever will be found. but that's not the question. what i've got to tell you is just what you've been wishing for. i--we--neville and i--are to go to aunt clotilda's for the holidays.' 'oh!' exclaimed philippa, in a tone of deep satisfaction. 'then _did_ you speak of it to your brother, kathie? were you only teasing me when you said you hadn't?' 'no, no. it was done before. i mean neville had thought of it before. he began to tell me something, and then he stopped; i think he wasn't sure if i'd like it. he's not sure now; you'll see when you read what he says. and to tell you the truth, phil, if you hadn't put it into my head about hunting for that paper'-- 'no,' interrupted philippa; 'it was your own thought about looking for the _paper_. i said the will.' 'never mind,' said kathie impatiently; 'it's the same thing. you put the hunting into my head. and, as i was saying, if you hadn't, i don't believe i would have wanted to go there. you see, it's left to my own wishes principally,' she went on importantly. '_that's_ sensible of aunt clotilda, anyway. there,' and she held out the letter to philippa, 'you may read it all. can you make out the writing? if not, i'll read it to you. neville's writing is plain enough; read it first.' philippa eagerly obeyed. neville's letter was just a short one, sending on to his sister a larger one which he had received from their aunt, and saying how much he hoped kathleen would like the idea of the visit miss clotilda proposed, and which he frankly said he had written to suggest. 'i've read neville's,' said philippa; 'but the writing of the other is rather difficult. please read it to me, kathie.' kathleen unfolded it, and made philippa come quite close to her. 'i don't want to speak loud,' she said. 'i don't care for the other girls to hear.' 'my dear neville,' the letter began, 'i am very glad you wrote to me. i have thought a great deal about you and dear kathleen since the terrible disappointment which you heard all about from your father. it is very sad for both of you, and perhaps especially so for kathleen, to be so long separated from your dear parents, and to have now--alas!--such a very uncertain prospect of seeing them again for long. i had already been considering if it would not be possible for you both to spend your next holidays with me here. mr. wynne-carr has--i suppose i must say _kindly_, but i think you are old enough to understand that it is difficult for me to feel grateful under the circumstances--given me leave to stay here till october, when i must go i know not where. but i am very poor. i have for the time a house in which to receive you, but that is about all. all the servants are dismissed already, except old martha. and i am obliged to live in the simplest way. then, again, i had a feeling that it would be painful and tantalising for you to come here, and to get to know and love the dear old place which should have been by now your own home. i should like you and little kathleen'-- '_little_ kathleen, indeed!' said kathie, with a snort. 'to think it over'-- 'yes; that's sensible of her, isn't it?' 'and to let me know what you feel about it before i do anything in the matter. i am quite sure your dear papa and mamma'-- 'did you ever see such a lot of "dears" as she sticks in? i'm afraid she must be rather a kissey-cry-ey sort of person, phil.' 'would have no objection to your coming, and if you both think you would like it, and will let me know as soon as possible, i will write to miss eccles and to mr. fanshaw, and try to get all arranged. i think you could safely make the journey alone, as there is no change from paddington to frewern bay, where you leave the railway, and where i should meet you by the coach. of course, had things been as we hoped, i should have sent some one to town to escort you, but that, alas! is now out of the question. with love to kathleen, and hoping to hear from you very soon--believe me, my dear neville, your affectionate aunt, 'clotilda wynne powys.' 'she writes as if she would have sent a couple of powdered footmen for us, doesn't she?' said kathie. 'i say, phil, it won't be very cheerful if she's going to go on groaning all the time over departed grandeur, will it? and i'm rather afraid about the'--kathleen hesitated. she was in an excited, mischievous mood, and she wanted to shock philippa by using slang. but she wasn't sure whether the proper expression for what she wanted to say was 'tuck,' or 'grub,' or 'prog,' or no one of the three, so she discreetly changed the form of the sentence. 'i've just a little misgiving that we shall not have enough to eat,' she went on. 'do you suppose she'll give us porridge three times a day? i always think of porridge when people speak of living very simply.' 'porridge is very good,' said philippa; 'with _cream_ i think it's'-- 'heavenly!' put in kathie. 'yes, so do i. for breakfast, that's to say. but for dinner and tea too! i warn you, phil, if we go, and if we're starved, it'll all lie on your shoulders.' her voice was so solemn, and she put such an alarming expression into her face, that philippa looked really frightened, and half ready to cry. 'i don't understand you, kathie,' she said. 'i wish you wouldn't open your eyes at me like that. _i_ think it's a very nice, kind letter, and i don't see why you turn everything into mocking. i can't think what makes you do it.' kathleen's face grew grave. 'i'm very sorry for vexing you, poor little phil,' she said. 'i won't do it any more. but you needn't be vexed at my saying seriously, that i don't think i'd have wanted to go to aunt clotilda's but for your idea of hunting for the will. i'm sure she's very unhappy, and i daresay she'd rather not be bothered with us.' 'you should try to make her happier, then. it's for all of you she's so unhappy, poor thing.' 'yes, that's true. and anyway, it's better than bognor. i'll promise to be very good, phil; i really will. but you _mustn't_ be disappointed if i don't find the will, for i'm very much afraid i shan't.' 'you haven't patience enough,' said the little girl. 'i wish _i_ was going there.' 'i'm sure i wish you were. but it will be nice to see the place, and to find out if our plans about it are something like. i'll write you long letters to your grandmamma's, and tell you all about it.' chapter iv. at ty-gwyn. [illustration: decorative h] is aunt's letter, though so kind, had caused neville some disappointment. it was evident to him that there was no hope of her being able to have kathleen to live with her. and indeed, these coming holidays were probably the only ones they could ever hope to spend with her. 'poor aunt clotilda!' thought the boy. 'it is really very sad for her. papa has always told us what a good sister she was to him, and of course if they had come home and gone to live there she would always have stayed with us. i wonder what she will do? i wish i were old enough to earn money, somehow, so that we three, aunt and kathie and i, could live together till papa and mamma come home. it seems a shame for her to have to work, and yet i suppose she'll have to do something like being a governess or a companion; perhaps she's too old to be a governess. she's much older than papa.' the thought of his aunt seemed to bring out all the chivalry in his nature. 'when i'm a man,' he went on thinking to himself, 'if kathleen and little vida are not married, and poor, i won't marry till i've got enough for them to be comfortable. of course it was different for papa, for he was so sure of mrs. wynne's money. it's very kind of aunt clotilda to want me too to go. i should like to see the place, though it will be rather horrid too to know it should have been ours. i do hope kathie will like the idea of going.' all fears on this score were soon put an end to. the very next morning brought him back his aunt's long letter enclosed in a rather scrawly note from kathleen, condescendingly expressing her approval of the scheme, the reason of which was, to tell the truth, principally contained in the postscript. 'we'll have a good hunt for the will ourselves. i'm sure aunt clotilda is rather a goose. i don't believe she's half hunted for it. just think, neville, _if_ we found it!' and neville's face flushed with a momentary enthusiasm as he pictured to himself the delight of such a possibility. but the glow quickly faded again. 'no, there's no use thinking of it,' he said to himself; 'better not. kathie mustn't get it into her head, though i'm glad in one way to see that she has thought about it seriously. but i'm quite sure aunt clotilda has done everything that could be done. kathie has no business to say she's a goose. now i can write to her and say we should like very much to go to her. i hope it won't bother her much.' [illustration] his letter was sent that very afternoon. but it was not till nearly noon on the following day that it reached its destination. in what miss clotilda powys herself and many of her neighbours, not to speak of old martha, were already beginning to call 'the old days,' a groom used regularly to be sent from mrs. wynne's to the two miles distant post-office, where the letters arrived by mail-cart early in the morning. now-a-days the white house had to take its turn with the rest of the world in the out-of-the way village, and to wait the good pleasure of old john parry, who stumped along at his own sweet will, the canvas bag slung across his shoulders, seeing no reason why he should hurry. nay, more, if there happened to be any piece of work at his own cottage that he was anxious to get finished betimes, the letters might wait--half an hour or so couldn't make such a mighty difference, and he was quite secure that no one in the village would ever notice it or complain if they did. miss clotilda powys was perhaps the only person the least likely to mind whether her share of the post-bag's contents reached her at ten o'clock or twelve. and lately, since the excitement that immediately followed mrs. wynne's death had subsided, since there were no more lawyer's letters of advice or inquiry to look for--for everybody by this time had come to believe that either the will would never be found or did not exist--miss clotilda cared little more about post-time than anybody else. she had no heart left to feel interest in the outside world, and she was a woman whose chief interests would always be those of her own belongings. for she had lived in a small sphere all her life--her one great affection had been for her younger brother, david powys, the father of neville and kathleen; like a stream, dammed on all sides but one, this affection had deepened and strengthened till it had become the one idea of her life. it is easy, therefore, to understand that captain powys was right when he said that his sister was perhaps the most to be pitied of all concerned. old martha had been many years in mrs. wynne's household. she knew miss clotilda well--better, probably, than did any one else. she had admired her patience with the old lady, her self-denial and gentleness, and she sympathised almost more than any one in the terrible disappointment. and lately she had begun to feel very unhappy about miss clotilda. since she had come to lose hope, the poor lady had grown listless and low-spirited, so that martha sometimes almost feared she would fall ill, and not care to get well again. 'i must have deserved it,' she would say sometimes to the old servant. 'i fear i have been selfish--caring too much for my own dear brother, and thinking of nothing else.' 'oh, miss,' martha would remonstrate, 'how could you ever think so? i'm sure no lady could have been kinder than yourself to all the poor folk about. you've never been one to turn a deaf ear to anybody's troubles.' 'but in my heart,' said her mistress, 'in my heart my one thought has been david, and that cannot be right, for now it seems as if there was nothing left, now that i can no longer plan for his happiness. i don't know what to do with myself, martha. i'm getting old, and i am useless; at least, i feel that i shall be useless away from here. i should like to become a sister, and work among the poor, but i am afraid i should not understand it, away from here.' 'never fear, miss,' martha would say consolingly. 'a way will show for those as really wishes to do right. you've done what was your duty well till now. i'm sure no lady knows better how to see to a garden or a dairy; and for poultry, miss, you've quite a special calling. don't you worry, miss.' and this she would say, though her own heart was sad. she feared she would have to leave miss clotilda, and it was hard to think of going to work among strangers at her age. but she was a truly good and faithful-hearted old woman. she believed that, as she said, no one really anxious to do right will ever be left for long at a loss. many a night had martha lain awake, thinking about the lost will. she turned over in her head every possible, or impossible, place in which mrs. wynne could have hidden it. more than once, indeed, she had got up in the dark, and lighted a candle to go peeping into some cupboard or drawer which it had struck her had not been thoroughly turned out. but all in vain. and now she, too, like miss clotilda herself and the rest of the world, had begun to think all hope was over. she was very delighted when the boy neville's first letter came, for of course she was at once told of its contents. and she saw that it brought a light to miss clotilda's eyes, and a colour to her cheeks, that had not been there since mrs. wynne's death. [illustration: 'there's your work for you, so to speak, miss.'] 'there now, missy dear,' said the old servant, for clotilda, whom she had known for more than thirty years, still seemed a child to her sometimes, 'didn't i tell you it would be shown you what to do? there's that dear little girl, by her brother's account--and an uncommon well-thinking young gentleman he must be--sorely in need of a mother's care; and who could do so well instead of a mother as her own aunt, i'd like to know? there's your work for you, so to speak, miss.' 'but, martha,' said miss clotilda, 'i can't have her to live with me, as neville hints. even if david were to give me what he pays for her now--and it would go hard with me to take it--i have no house. and i am not clever enough to teach her;' and again miss clotilda's face fell. 'wait a bit, miss,' said martha again; 'there's no telling how things may turn out yet. the first thing to do is to have the young lady and her brother for the holidays, so you'll get to know them, and they you. and maybe a way will be shown for you to have them more with you after that.' 'but, martha,' said clotilda again, '_can_ i have them with me even for the holidays? i've so very little money left. and children have good appetites, and it would be dreadful not to give them nice things and plenty.' 'we'll manage it,' said martha. 'we've still the use of the garden, and some of the poultry's your very own, miss. and the cow is still giving milk. mr. wynne-carr said nothing about that.' 'no. i think if i wrote to him about the children he would tell me i might use all there is in the place. and we don't need much, you and i, martha--we need hardly anything that has to be bought, and i can be even more careful till my half-year's money comes,' for she had fifty pounds a year of her own, but that was all. 'if i can make the children happy these holidays, i don't care what happens afterwards,' she added brightly. 'i can always go to one or other of my old friends for a few weeks till i find some kind of situation.' 'to be sure,' martha agreed. so the letter was sent which we have read. and then miss clotilda and the old servant went into all sorts of discussions as to ways and means. mr. wynne-carr was written to, and in reply he, as martha expressed it, 'made miss clotilda free of the cow and the garden,' and told her to consider _all_ the poultry as hers, to eat or sell, as she preferred. that was grand. martha disposed of several couple almost at once, and proceeded to fatten up others. and when the news of the 'captain's children' coming to visit their aunt was told to some of the neighbours, several substantial proofs of goodwill were forthcoming. old thomas evans, the principal tenant, begged miss clotilda to allow him to send her a forequarter of mutton every time he killed a sheep, while the young people should be with her; and mary jones, the village schoolmistress, humbly presented a beautiful dish of honeycomb. old martha was triumphant, and maintained that troubles are often blessings in disguise, as they show us good points in our neighbours which otherwise might never be suspected. and the next day or two were much more busy and cheerful than their predecessors, though miss clotilda felt anxious to hear again from neville, and in the day or two which had to pass before the boy's reply could possibly come she had time enough to worry herself with all sorts of fears and misgivings. 'it would be too disappointing if they decided they did not care to come now that we have settled all so nicely, would it not, martha?' she kept repeating. 'i hope my letter was not too discouraging, so to say. what i said about being so poor now. i trust that will not make them afraid of coming.' 'what you said, miss, was just the plain truth--that you'd do your best for them, and give them a hearty welcome. you couldn't pretend things would be as in the old days, or as they _should_ be if the captain had his rights. but don't worry, miss; master neville's a sensible young gentleman and his father's own son, or i'm much mistaken, and the little girl is just a child. it'll be all right, you'll see.' it was, however, very provoking, that the morning neville's letter was on its way, the very first day that there could possibly have been an answer from him, old john should have been particularly late. twenty times that morning did miss clotilda open the front door, and stand gazing along the drive in hopes of perceiving the familiar figure of the old letter-carrier, and at least half as many times was martha despatched to the cottage at the corner of the road which he _must_ pass, to make sure that he had not already done so. to tell the truth, martha only went once, and there would have been no use in her going oftener, for she explained the matter to her namesake, martha price, the owner of the said cottage, and made her promise to send the old man, 'anyways,' to say so, even if there were not a letter. but nevertheless, every time miss clotilda's voice was heard calling 'martha, you might just run to the cottage,' the cunning old body called out, 'to be sure, miss, to be sure.' and when the inquiry came down the kitchen passage--'well, martha?'--'not yet awhile, miss. old john's not in sight just yet,' she would reply. the longest lane has its turning, however, and the longest waiting comes to an end. it was nearly one o'clock when parry at last appeared, smiling and complacent, so that miss clotilda found it impossible to meet him with the scolding she felt sure he deserved. he'd have been sharper, to be sure, if he'd known the lady was in a hurry for her letter--there was but the one for the white house--another time if she'd give him a hint a day or two before, he'd see to it she wasn't kept waiting. but she had no patience to listen to his polite speeches, she seized the letter and hurried off with it to her own room to read it in private. poor loving-hearted miss clotilda! her nerves had been sadly tried of late. she really felt that if the letter were to say they were not coming after all, she might be guilty of bursting into tears, and that it would not do even for martha to see! it was all right, however. the first word or two reassured her. 'my dear aunt,' wrote neville, 'kathie and i thank you very much for your kind letter. i have not seen kathie, but i wrote to her, and we are both sure we should like very much to come. i am very sorry about all the trouble. i am so sorry it should make you poorer too. i should like to be grown-up, and to work hard to help papa and mamma and my sisters and you. it will not make us unhappy to see the place. we shall like to see it. please write to mr. fanshaw and miss eccles. kathie's holidays begin in three weeks, and i could come then too. i am sure we should be all right to come third-class. a boy here, whose people are very rich, goes third with his sister, because his father says it's better than second. mr. fanshaw can find the trains if you'll fix the day.--your affectionate nephew, 'neville w. powys.' again miss clotilda's voice sounded along the kitchen passage. 'it's all right, martha,' it said joyfully. 'the dear children are coming. i think i'll just slip on my bonnet and run up to mr. parry's' (_this_ mr. parry was the vicar), 'and see if he's got a--a clergy list--oh, dear me! what am i saying? i mean a railway-guide, and then if i mark down the best train i can write at once to miss eccles and to mr. fanshaw. it will save them all trouble, and of course i must choose a train which will arrive in good time at frewern bay, on account of the long drive, you see, martha.' 'to be sure, miss, to be sure,' martha agreed. 'but you'll have some luncheon first, miss. they'll be at theirs at the vicarage.' 'very well, martha,' said miss clotilda submissively. she felt far too excited to eat, but still she did not want to delay martha's own dinner. the calling this mid-day repast 'luncheon' was a pious fiction, for, for many years past, even in the so-called 'old days,' it had been the real dinner. mrs. wynne had been too delicate to take a substantial meal late in the day, and now, alas! there were serious reasons why miss clotilda should be content with but one such. and with her present economical intention, i am afraid even her luncheon was not a luxurious meal. but the thought of the little visitors for whom they were made sweetened and cheered her self-sacrifices. 'i've been thinking, miss,' said martha, as she waited upon her mistress, 'that if i was a little saving with the milk this week or two, we might get a pound or so of butter to sell at the market with the chickens next week. i've spoke to widow jones about it, and she'll be pleased to sell whatever we like with hers.' 'a very good idea,' said miss clotilda approvingly. 'of course, it's nonsense for me and you to use all the milk. for my part, i don't care about cream in my tea at all. i meant to have told you so. nor do i care about butter--just now, in the hot weather too. you may save all the milk you can for churning, as far as i'm concerned, only don't stint yourself, martha, mind.' martha murmured something like 'no fear of that.' but all the same it was scanty milk and no butter that fell to the share of the old servant's tea. miss clotilda, too, was satisfied that she herself was practising the utmost economy, though more than once she remarked to martha that the red cow's milk seemed nicer than ever. 'in my tea i should really not tell it from cream.' and silly little kathie all this time never thought and seldom spoke of her aunt except as 'that stupid old maid,' and thought herself, i rather suspect, very condescending for having made up her mind to spend the holidays at the white house. chapter v. a grave predicament. [illustration: decorative i] t was a hot, close morning in july when neville and kathleen found themselves at paddington, waiting to start by the ten o'clock train for frewern bay. they had rather a long journey before them, longer than it need have been in one sense, for they could not travel by the express as they were to go third-class. it had been decided by all the authorities concerned that as little as possible must be spent upon the railway fares, for there had not, of course, been time to write to captain powys, and have his instructions. up to the last there had been some uncertainty as to the day of their going. miss clotilda had named wednesday or thursday in her last letter, saying that if she did not hear to the contrary she would not expect them till thursday, and would arrange to meet them that day at frewern bay. but late on monday evening came a note from neville to ask if kathie could be ready for wednesday. mr. fanshaw, who was to see them off, had an unexpected engagement on thursday, and if wednesday would not do, their leaving must be delayed till friday. but this would not at all have suited kathleen. she was eager to be off, and even twenty-four hours more at school seemed intolerable to her. and to miss eccles, one day or the other, provided miss fraser could guarantee the young lady's packing being completed in time, was the same. miss fraser, to tell the truth, was quite as eager to get rid of kathie as kathie was pleased to say good-bye to her. poor miss fraser! her sharp face had looked a little more amiable of late, and her voice had had a softer ring. she had the prospect of a holiday at last, after two years' incessant work, for so many of the girls were this year disposed of among their various relations that miss eccles had given up the usual visit to bognor, and the young governess was in consequence to have three weeks to herself. and philippa harley was to travel down to cheltenham this same thursday under miss fraser's convoy. 'of course i can be ready for wednesday!' kathleen exclaimed, when she read neville's note. 'wait till friday, indeed! and you leaving on thursday, phil. i should die of dulness before friday morning.' 'it'll be rather horrid for me on wednesday,' said philippa. 'i wish we had been going the same day, as it was settled.' 'oh, poor phil,' said kathleen, ashamed of her thoughtlessness. 'i quite forgot. never mind, dear; you are so good, you know. you wouldn't have liked to think of me alone here all thursday.' and philippa's impending tears were thus warded off. thoughtful neville had enclosed a note, ready addressed and stamped, for kathie to post at once to miss clotilda if wednesday was decided upon. she was also to let him know at once, which she did. [illustration] so on wednesday morning a four-wheeler with some luggage on the top drew up at miss eccles' door, and neville jumped out. kathleen was ready, of course; she had been ready for half an hour at least. there was nothing more to do except to give philippa a last hug for the twentieth time, and to tell her not to cry, and to be sure, quite sure, to write. 'and, kathie, don't, _promise_ me you won't, give up looking for the will,' whispered philippa at the very last moment. 'oh, how i wish i were going with you! how i would hunt!' 'i won't forget, i promise you,' kathie replied. 'but don't fancy there's any chance of it, phil. there isn't, i'm afraid, and you'd only be disappointed. but i'll write to you, darling, i promise you.' the first part of the journey was performed to the children's entire satisfaction, for they had the carriage to themselves. 'after all,' said kathie, 'third-class isn't so bad, is it, neville? and i'm sure papa and mamma will think it _awfully_ good of us to have saved the money.' 'i don't know that they will,' said neville. 'they will think it sensible--as we're going to be poor it's best to get accustomed to it. but besides that, if we hadn't come third, we couldn't have come at all.' kathleen sat silent for a minute or two. 'do you really think we are going to be poor always, neville?' she said. 'do you think there's no chance of the will ever being found?' neville shook his head. 'i don't believe there's the least,' he said. 'i'm sure aunt clotilda has looked everywhere.' kathleen sighed. 'it does seem too bad,' she said. 'things don't often happen like that--in that story-book sort of way. i don't see why it should have come to us.' 'i don't see why it should have come to poor papa and mamma--staying out there in india just to get money for us when they'd gladly be at home, or to poor aunt clotil'-- 'oh, bother aunt clotilda!' said kathleen impatiently. 'you'll really make me dislike her, neville, if you keep on pestering so about her. i'm much more sorry for ourselves than for her--she's an old maid, and i don't suppose _she_ was forced to travel third-class when she was a little girl.' 'a minute or two ago you thought third-class was very comfortable,' said neville. 'you change about so, kathie. i don't understand you.' kathleen did not always quite understand herself. she looked about eagerly as if in search of an excuse for her bad temper. 'i'm hot,' she said, 'and--yes--i'm almost sure i'm rather hungry. i didn't eat much breakfast, neville, i was in such a fuss.' neville opened the little basket in which their provisions were packed. miss eccles--or miss fraser rather--had contented herself with some rather thick sandwiches made of cold beef, and a few albert biscuits. but kind mrs. fanshaw had given neville a little parcel of toast sandwiches--toast and egg--which are much nicer for children and don't get nearly so dry in hot weather as meat ones; and besides this, she had given him some slices of home-made plum-cake and a few grapes and a little bottle of lemonade, not too sweet--so there was really quite a nice little railway dinner. and when neville had spread it all out, kathleen's spirits got up again, and she did full justice to mrs. fanshaw's good things. after this refreshment they both got out their books and began to read, but before they had read very long kathie's head gave a great bump, and half opening her eyes she discovered she had been asleep. so she shut up her book and propped her head against the corner as well as she could, and settled herself for a little nap, for by a glance at the opposite corner she had seen that this was what neville had done. they slept comfortably enough for an hour or more, and very likely, taking into account the sultry weather, they would have slept on still longer had they not been awakened by the train stopping and some one--or more than one--getting in. 'what a bore!' said kathie to herself. 'dear me, the carriage will be quite full,' and in they continued to come. two women with big baskets, another with two babies, and then two oldish men, of a class above the women apparently, for the latter were evidently simple peasants, returning from market very likely, and chattering to each other in welsh. the sound of their queer talk made kathie a little forget her ill temper at being disturbed; she sat up and listened, and neville, opposite to her, did the same. but after a while they grew tired of listening to what they could not understand a word of, and they took out their books and read for half an hour or so. at the end of that time the train stopped again, and to their great relief the three women, the two babies, and the two baskets all got, or were got out, and the brother and sister were left alone with the two elderly men. when the train went on again these two began talking to each other in english, though with a curious accent, and now and then some words of what they were saying fell on the children's ears, though without catching their attention. suddenly, however, kathleen heard a name and then another which made her listen more closely, and looking across at neville, she saw that he too was on the alert. the names were those of 'miss wynne,' and 'ty-gwyn.' 'yes,' one of the old worthies was saying to the other, 'it is a strange story. she was--was mrs. wynne, a good old lady, though she had her ways, but she was not one to play a trick on nobody.' 'no, surely,' said the other. 'that was what i always heard. and she was careful and exact.' 'she had not her match for that. she never forgot a promise, she never but paid all she owed, to a day. no--no--there was no carelessness about her. why, last christmas as ever was she came down to see my wife, who was very bad with her rheumatiz just then; couldn't stir hand nor foot, and now she's hearty enough and the poor old lady gone! well, she came down with a present she had made for her; she was wonderful handy with her fingers, and my wife and she was very old friends. "here, ellen," says she, "here's a pincushion i've made for you my own self. you'll keep it, ellen, and show to your great-grandchildren maybe, as the work of an old woman of eighty-three. it may be the last christmas i'll be here." and that was a true word, surely.' 'dear, dear,' said the other old man. then after a moment's silence he spoke again. 'you don't think now, as she could have had any reason for changing at the last? the captain's a right sort of a young man by all accounts--he can't have done anything to displease the old lady?' at this point kathie and neville looked at each other. neville grew very red and kathie's eyes flashed. suddenly, before kathie knew what he was going to do, neville stood up and went a step or two towards the two old men, who were at the other end of the carriage. they stopped talking and looked at him. 'i--i think you should know,' he began, growing redder still, 'before you say any more of captain powys, that i am his son. and if anybody were to say anything against him'-- he had no time to finish his sentence. the older of the two farmers, for such they appeared to be, interrupted him eagerly. 'say aught against him! bless you, little master, if you'd waited a minute you'd have heard what i was a-going to say to my friend here. not that he was a-going to say any wrong, but he's not from our part, and he doesn't know master david. and so you're master david's boy, to be sure, and missy there?' and he nodded his head towards kathleen inquiringly. 'yes, i'm his daughter,' said kathie; 'you wouldn't expect to see us travelling third-class, i daresay, but it's because of what you were speaking about, our papa's not getting the property, you know.' the old man's face grew very sympathetic. 'to be sure,' he said, 'to be sure. and you and master here,' he went on, 'you'll be going to ty-gwyn--to miss powys's? to be sure.' 'to miss clotilda powys,' kathleen corrected. '_i'm_ miss powys.' 'oh, indeed,' he said, looking rather mystified. 'and miss--the lady from ty-gwyn--she'll be meeting you at the station, at frewern bay, no doubt. it's a long ride from there to ty-gwyn.' 'is it?' said neville. 'i thought the village--hafod--was quite near frewern bay.' the farmer shook his head. 'it's a good sixteen mile,' he said, 'and it's going to be a wet evening. but if miss--the lady from ty-gwyn, meets you, it'll be all right. she'll have got a fly.' a very slight misgiving came over neville. he began to hope aunt clotilda _would_ meet them. it would have certainly been more satisfactory had there been time to have had another letter from her after their deciding on wednesday. 'are we near frewern bay now?' he asked the farmer. 'in half an hour we should be there,' said he. then he went on to tell them that he had been away for a day or two about a horse he was going to buy, and that he was going to stay the night at frewern bay with his daughter, who was married to the principal grocer there, and the next morning he should be going home to hafod. 'oh, do you live there?' exclaimed the children, with fresh interest. 'to be sure,' he said. 'not a mile from ty-gwyn. a pretty place it is, and many a time i've seen master david when he used to be there as a boy.' 'and a sad pity it shouldn't be his own now he's a man,' said the other old farmer, by way of making amends for the speech which had so nearly given offence to master david's children. 'mr. wynne-carr will never live there. he has a fine place already. 'twill be a pity to see ty-gwyn let to strangers.' in this opinion, it is needless to say, neville and kathleen thoroughly concurred. kathleen began to look upon their two old fellow-travellers more indulgently, and to allow to herself that there might be decent people to be met with in a third-class carriage. but they had not time for much more conversation before the train began to slacken in preparation for coming to a stand-still in frewern bay station. neville's head was poked out of the window long before this, of course. he had never seen his aunt since he was a baby, and could not possibly have recognised her, but he expected to identify her somehow. and in a little country station this is not so difficult. but he looked in vain. there was nobody who could by any possibility be supposed to be miss clotilda powys. and he drew his head in again, for the train had quite stopped by now, and it was time to be getting kathleen out and to be seeing after her luggage. 'do you see her?' asked kathie, as he handed her down. neville shook his head. 'it's raining so awfully,' he said. 'she may be in the waiting-room'--for the station was only a half covered-in one--'or, she may not have come herself on account of the weather, and may have sent some one. i'll see in a minute. just you get under shelter while i look after the luggage.' but when the luggage was got, and the train had moved on again, leaving the little station all but deserted, the two children looked round in bewilderment and perplexity. it was too evident that no one had come to meet them. what was to be done? the terribly heavy rain seemed to make it much worse, and above all, the information the old farmer had given them as to the distance of ty-gwyn from the station. it was impossible, quite impossible to think of waiting; but yet again, where were they to get the fly, or how were they to pay it if they did get one? 'i have only five shillings over our fares,' said neville. 'mr. fanshaw thought it was quite enough, as we were sure to be met. and i should not like aunt clotilda to have to pay any extra for us when we know she has so little.' 'but we can't stay here all night,' said kathleen impatiently; which was certainly true enough. 'and it's her own fault for not coming to meet us. neville, you must do something.' [illustration] neville looked round in a sort of despair. there were two or three vehicles still standing just outside the gate of the station. a cart or two, and a queer sort of canvas-hooded van, into which the porter was hoisting some parcels, though it seemed already pretty full of sacks of flour or grain of some kind. neville opened his umbrella and went to where these carts were standing, looking about him for some promising sort of person to apply to in his distress. 'can you tell me,' he began to the porter, but the porter was shouting in welsh to the man in the van, and did not hear him. neville thought he had better wait a minute, and he stood still, shivering with cold and vexation, the rain pouring down as surely never before rain had poured. suddenly a voice beside him made him turn round; it was that of the old farmer, who had till now been engaged in the stationmaster's room, talking about the horse which was coming the next day. 'is the lady not come? is there no one to meet you?' he asked. 'no, indeed,' said neville, 'and i don't know _what_ to do.' the old man looked sorry and perplexed, but neville's face brightened at having found a friend. just then the porter emerged again from the van. 'hi, john williams!' the farmer called out, and then followed some colloquy in welsh, amid which neville distinguished the words 'hafod' and 'ty-gwyn.' the farmer turned to the boy. 'this is the hafod carrier,' he said. 'he is going there now. he is very full, but he says as it is for ty-gwyn he will make a push and take you and the young lady. but he can't take your boxes, not to-day. still, it's a chance to get him to take yoursel's, and if you can make shift to do till to-morrow'-- 'of course,' said neville; 'it's the only thing to do, and thank you very much indeed, mr.'-- 'john davis, sir, john davis of dol-bach, if you please.' 'mr. davis,' continued neville. 'kathie,'--for by this time kathie's anxiety had drawn her out into the rain too,--'you hear?' and he rapidly explained the state of matters. 'if it hadn't been for mr. davis, the carrier wouldn't have taken us.' 'no,' said the farmer, looking pleased. 'i can't say as i think he would.' but kathleen could not join in thanking him. she was tired and cross, and not a little annoyed at having to make their appearance at ty-gwyn in such ignominious fashion. 'it's really a _shame_ of aunt clotilda,' she said. 'i do wish we hadn't come. i hate wales already.' chapter vi. the white house at last. [illustration: decorative n] eville and the old farmer and the carrier all helped kathleen up into the van, where john williams had made her as comfortable a place as he could on the bench that was fixed at one end, with some of the sacks to lean against, and some to put her feet upon. neville undid his railway rug and wrapped it round her, for the rain had made the air very chilly. the trunks were given into the charge of the porter to be fetched the next day, as miss clotilda might direct, and with repeated thanks from neville to the old farmer, and a cordial shake of the hand at parting, off they set. at another time, on a fine day perhaps, and not at the end of a tiring railway journey, kathleen might have found it amusing. and as a rule, she was far merrier and high-spirited than neville, though, to see them now, one would scarcely have believed it. but neville had learnt to think of others more than of himself. _there_ was the difference. kathleen could be bright and laughing when all went well with her, but it never occurred to her that it may be a duty to be cheerful and even merry when one is _not_ inclined to be so, so she just yielded to her feelings of fatigue and depression, and sat silently in her place, thinking herself, to tell the truth, very good indeed not to grumble aloud. neville did his best. _he_ was tired too--tired and cold, for he had given his rug to kathie, and hungry, perhaps hungrier than kathie, for she had had the lion's share of their dinner. he was anxious and uneasy as well,--blaming himself for not having decided to wait till friday, by which day there would have been time for an answer from their aunt,--blaming himself vaguely for the whole affair, which he felt from first to last had been his doing. and he was afraid as to what might yet be before them. it seemed impossible that miss clotilda should not have got the letter fixing for wednesday. so what could be the matter? had she fallen ill? had mr. wynne-carr suddenly changed his mind, and turned her out of the house? what might they not find when they got to ty-gwyn? if, indeed, they ever got there! it did not seem very like it just then, certainly. they were going up a hill at a foot's pace, and they seemed to have been doing so, with very rare intervals, ever since they left the station. how the van lurched and jolted! and, oh, how it did rain! 'kathleen,' said neville timidly. 'well,' she replied, in a very unpromising tone. it was so dark in the depths of the van--and, indeed, it was getting dusk outside already--that they could scarcely see each other's faces. 'i'm so very sorry for you, kathie,' neville went on. 'i'm afraid it's somehow my fault.' 'it's no good saying that now,' kathleen replied, and her voice sounded a little mollified. 'of course it isn't your fault. it's all aunt clotilda. neville, i'm sure she can't be nice. if she had had anything to gain by hiding it, i declare i should have believed she herself had hidden the will--or burnt it, or something. just _fancy_ her letting us--her brother's own children--arrive like this! i daresay it was just selfishness, because it was such a bad day, that kept her from coming.' 'oh, kathie!' said neville. he felt sure in his heart that miss clotilda was not the least like what kathleen said, but in her present humour he knew that it was worse than useless to contradict or even disagree with his sister. 'i wish there was something to eat,' he said. 'if we could but have had some tea at the station, but there was no sort of refreshment-room.' 'wales is horrid,' said kathleen, with great emphasis. 'if papa had got that place i should have made him sell it.' 'i do wish the man would drive a little faster,' said neville, rather with a view to changing the subject, as he could not agree with kathie. the wish in this case proved father to the deed. scarcely had the words passed his lips when, with a crack of his whip and some mysterious communication to his horse in welsh, mr. john williams's van began to move forward at what, in comparison with their former rate of progression, seemed to the children break-neck speed. for a minute or so their spirits rose. 'we've got up the hill now, i suppose,' said neville cheerily. 'if we go on like this we'll soon be there.' but an exclamation from kathie--'oh, neville! i shall die if we go on like this. it does shake me, and knock me about so. i'm all black and blue already!'--made him change. 'i'm _so_ sorry, kathie,' he repeated. 'stay; is there nothing i can put on the seat to make it softer? or supposing you sit right down among the sacks? i do think that would be better.' it did seem so for a little while. but, after all, there was not much need for the precautions. scarcely was kathie settled among the sacks when the jogging and rattling came to an untimely end, and the slow grind and creak began again. another hill, doubtless. alas! it was so--another and yet another; the bits of level road seemed so few and far between, that long before the end of the journey kathie would have borne the jolts and the bruises with philosophy, just for the sake of feeling they were getting over the ground. it grew into a sort of nightmare--the still pouring rain, the darkness, just rendered more visible by the faint flicker from the lantern which john williams had now lighted, and which hung from the top of the van in front, the creaking and groaning of the wheels, the queer sounds williams addressed from time to time to his horse--it came to seem at last to the children, as they every now and then fell asleep in a miserable half-awake kind of way, only to start up again giddy and confused--it came to seem as if they had _always_ been grinding along like that, and as if it would never come to an end. 'neville,' whispered kathie more than once,--a very subdued kathie now, far too worn out to be cross even,--'neville, i feel as if i should _die_ before we get there.' [illustration: he sat down on the floor of the cart, and took kathie half into his arms.] neville did all he could. he sat down on the floor of the cart, and took kathie half into his arms, so that she could lean her head on his shoulder and not be so bumped, for every now and then they would go quickly for a few minutes, and kathie was too weak and stiff now to be able to hold on to anything. in this way she managed to get a little sleep, and at last, _at last_, john williams grunted out from the front of the van, 'close to, now, master. i've come round by ty-gwyn a-purpose, afore going through the village.' and in a few minutes he drew up, and got down to open a gate. then on they went again, slowly and softly. neville could feel they were on a gravel drive, though it was far too dark to see anything. how williams had found his way in the pouring rain, with only the flickering light of the lantern, was really wonderful. the drive seemed to be a long one, and the wheels made very little sound on the soft slushy gravel. when they stopped altogether, neville would not have known they were near a house at all, but for what the man had said. there was no light visible, no sound, not even the barking of a dog to be heard, nothing but the drip, drip of the rain. kathleen sat up--the stopping had awakened her. 'where are we?' she said. 'are we, oh, are we there?' but before neville had time to reply she began to tremble and shake. 'oh, neville,' she said, 'we can't be there. it's all dark. oh, i believe we're in some dreadful forest, and that the man's going to murder us.' fortunately, john williams was out of the van by this time. he had got down and was fumbling about to find a bell or a knocker; but when he reached up to unhook the lantern, finding it impossible to see anything without it, kathie almost screamed. it was all neville could do to quiet her, and at last he had to speak quite sharply. 'be quiet, kathie,' he said. 'they will be opening the door and will hear you. it's all right. don't be silly.' and gradually she grew calm, and sat anxiously listening. it was some minutes before john williams's loud knocking brought any response. and no wonder--miss clotilda and martha had been comfortably asleep for the last three if not four hours, for it was now one o'clock, the heavy roads having made the journey from frewern bay quite a third longer than usual for the carrier's cart, and their dreams were undisturbed by visions of any such arrival as had come to pass. 'i do trust it will be fine to-morrow,' were miss clotilda's last words ere she went off to bed. 'it would be such a cheerless welcome for the dear children if it were such a day as this has been, even though mr. mortimer is kindly sending the covered waggonette. wake me early, martha. there are still several little things to see to, and i must start by twelve. it will take more than three hours to frewern station with the roads so wet--and the horses should have three or four hours' rest, he said. the train is due at seven.' 'but it's often late, miss. you mustn't worry even if it's half an hour or more late. i'll wake you in good time, never fear.' they were both tired and slept soundly, for they had been working hard at all the preparations for the expected guests. it was miss clotilda who first heard through her sleep the loud knocking at the door. she sat up in bed and listened; then, as john williams had for a minute or two desisted, to wait the effect of his last volley, she lay down again, thinking her fancy had deceived her. 'a small sound seems so loud through one's sleep,' she said. 'i daresay it was only the tapping of the branches against the window. besides, what else _could_ it be? dear, dear, how it does rain!' but scarcely had her head touched the pillow, when she again started up. there was no mistake this time--somebody was knocking, _banging_ at the front door. miss clotilda's heart was in her mouth, she could scarcely speak for trembling when she found her way to martha's door! good old martha--she had heard it too now, and in an incredibly short space of time made her appearance in a much less eccentric costume, by the way, than miss clotilda. 'i'll see who it is. don't ye be frightened, miss. just stay you at the stairs-top till i call out.' but miss clotilda, in her old-fashioned flowered muslin-de-laine dressing-gown, and lace-frilled nightcap, followed tremulously behind; she was only half-way downstairs, however when martha was at the door. 'who's there? speak out, and say who you are and what you want--waking up decent folk at this hour of the night,' shouted the old woman, as if the unseen person behind the door, _could_ have told their business before. 'it's me, john williams, carrier,' a gruff voice replied. 'and you should know what i've brought you--a young gentleman and lady for ty-gwyn.' he spoke english, as martha had done so. the question and reply were therefore quite intelligible to poor miss clotilda. 'oh, martha!' she exclaimed, with something between a scream and a sob, 'the children! _what_ an arrival!--oh dear, dear--what a disappointment!' she stood there half wringing her hands, till martha gently pushed her towards the stairs. 'up with you, miss--get yourself dressed as well as you can, not to let them see you like you are--you make yourself look sixty with them caps. i'll take them into the kitchen and make up a fire, and then i'll call you. it'll be all right; but bless me,'--'_pless_ me,' she really said with her funny welsh accent,--'how ever has there been such a mistake?' she was busy unbolting and unbarring by now, and miss clotilda had disappeared. there was but one candle in the hall, but to the children's dazzled eyes it looked at first like a blaze of light. neville was already on the doorstep, and somehow or other kathleen was got out of the van without falling. both started when they caught sight of martha. 'can _she_ be aunt clotilda,' whispered kathie, feeling that if it were so it would but be of a piece with everything else. and for a moment or two even neville felt some misgiving. 'are you--? we are'--and again he hesitated. 'to be sure, to be sure. your aunty'll be down in a moment, sir; but to be sure there has indeed been some great mistake. now, john williams, good-night to you, and off with you. 'tis no time for talking.' she added something to the effect that he might call the next day to be paid, but as she spoke welsh, the children did not understand. 'i can't have him bothering about,' she said, as she closed the door. 'but our trunks,' said neville. 'they're left at the station;' on which martha opened the door again, and began scolding the poor man for not having told her so. 'it wasn't his fault,' said neville, who could tell by her tone that poor john williams was getting small thanks for his good-nature in bringing themselves, though without their luggage; 'he only brought us because we didn't know what else to do.' and in the end it was settled that the carrier should call the next morning for orders about the trunks. then martha led the children into the kitchen. 'you'll excuse it,' she said. 'the fire will soon light up again, and you must be near dead with cold--dear--dear!' [illustration: a figure was standing in the doorway.] she bustled about and soon got a little blaze to show. kathie had sunk down on one of the old-fashioned wooden chairs, too tired to speak, almost to think, when a little sound made both her and neville look round. a figure was standing in the doorway, peering in with anxious face and short-sighted eyes,--a tall, thin figure in a dark dress and with smooth dark hair, and a gentle voice was saying-- 'are they here, martha? my poor dear children! are they really here?' neville darted forward. 'aunt clotilda!' he exclaimed. in a moment her arms were round him, and she was kissing him fondly. 'neville,' she said, 'my own dear boy! david's boy! and where is little kathleen? oh, my poor children! what an arrival!--what a journey! how can i have made such a mistake?' 'kathie,' said neville, and kathleen slowly got up from her seat and came forward. 'she is half dead, aunt clotilda,' said neville apologetically. but miss clotilda wanted no apologies. her heart was far too unselfish and tender to think of anything but the children themselves. 'kathleen!' she exclaimed. 'can this be little kathie? why, my darling, you will soon be as tall as your old aunt. but all the more you must be dreadfully tired--you cannot be very strong, my dear, growing so fast. oh, i shall never, never forgive myself. what can we give them to eat, martha?' martha was already concocting something in a little pan on the fire. 'i'm heating up some milk, miss, and i'll have an egg beat in a moment, and we'd better add a spoonful of sherry wine. and there's the plum-cake, or some nice bread and butter.' 'which would you rather have, dear children?' said miss clotilda. neville decided in favour of bread and butter, and though kathleen said she was too tired to eat, she succeeded in the end in getting through two good slices of the delicious home-made bread and fresh butter. thanks to this and the cup of hot milk, her spirits began to revive, and she even got the length of smiling graciously when poor miss clotilda's self-reproaches grew too vehement, and assuring her aunt that she would be all right again to-morrow. indeed, it would have required a much harder heart than childish, impulsive kathie's to have resisted any one so affectionate and devoted as their father's sister, and already neville's eyes sparkled with pleasure as he said to himself it felt almost like having a mother again. then old martha, who had been busy up-stairs, came back to say the rooms were ready,--so far ready, that is to say, as they could be on such short notice. 'not but that they were _nearly_ ready,' said miss clotilda, as she led the way; 'we were looking for you to-morrow without fail. but it was all my fault for saying i would expect you on thursday if i did _not_ hear to the contrary. i should have asked you to write again.' 'but i did write,' cried neville. 'i wrote at once, and sent on the letter to kathie to post. you should have had it yesterday morning.' 'yes,' said kathie, 'i--i gave it to miss fraser with my note to neville, saying, that i could be ready on wednesday. you got my note, of course, neville. and i--yes, i am sure i gave the one for aunt clotilda to be posted at the same time.' but aunt clotilda had never got it. so, _she_, at any rate, was undeserving of all the blame kathleen had been heaping upon her in the last few hours. 'it must be that careless old john parry,' said miss clotilda. 'i must speak to him in the morning. no doubt he will be bringing the letter, and say it had been overlooked or something. and, my dear children, you must forgive all deficiencies. i had arranged all so nicely. our neighbour, mr. mortimer, was to lend me his covered waggonette to go to meet you in. it is too provoking!' there were no deficiencies, however, so far, that the children were conscious of, excepting the want of their luggage. their rooms were charming--so quaint and country-like, with a pleasant odour of lavender and dried rose leaves pervading everything. and miss clotilda got out her keys and opened an old wardrobe in kathie's room, whence she chose a little nightdress of the finest material trimmed with 'real' lace, which martha aired at the kitchen fire by way of precaution against damp, though the whole house was so dry, she assured them, that such care was really not necessary. 'it is one of mrs. wynne's--one of a set that she never wore,' explained miss clotilda, 'and it will be just about right for you, kathie dear, for, tall as you are, you will have to grow some inches yet to be up to _me_. mrs. wynne was quite one of the old school; she had linen enough laid by to have lasted her another twenty years. and mr. wynne-carr wishes all such things to be considered mine,' she added, with a little sigh, 'so i am free to give you the use of it, you see.' this was the first allusion to the great disappointment. tired as she was, kathie could not help thinking of it as she was falling asleep. and her dreams were haunted by fancies about the lost will--it turned up in all sorts of places. the queerest dream of all was that she found it boiling in the pan in which martha had heated the milk! chapter vii. breakfast in bed. [illustration: decorative n] otwithstanding her great fatigue, it was very early the next morning when kathleen woke. at first she could not remember where she was, then a slight aching in her head and stiff pains in her legs reminded her of the long and trying journey of the day before. now that it was over, however, it really seemed like a dream. and one glance towards the window, of which the blind had only been half drawn down, made it almost impossible to believe in the darkness and dreariness of their arrival the night before. the rain was gone; the sun, though it could not be more than six o'clock, was shining brilliantly in an unclouded sky. from where kathie lay she could see the fresh green leaves of the trees as they moved gently in the soft summer air; she could faintly hear the birds' busy, cheerful twitter, as they flew from branch to branch. 'oh, i do love the country!' thought the little girl, with a sudden feeling of warmth and joyfulness in her heart. 'i do wish--oh, how i do wish it were going to be our home!' then there returned to her the remembrance of miss clotilda's last words the night before. the cupboard door had not been quite shut, and it had gradually swung open, revealing piles of linen neatly arranged on one shelf, on another various dresses folded away, and on a lower shelf, which kathie could see into more clearly, some rolls of canvas, bundles of berlin wool, and in one corner two or three square-looking objects of various colours, which puzzled her as to what they could be. 'i will ask aunt clotilda,' she thought. 'i daresay she will show me mrs. wynne's things. some of them must be very old and curious. what a funny room this is!--all corners, and the window such a queer shape! i feel quite in a hurry to see all the house. i daresay it is very nice--the hall and the staircase seemed beautifully wide last night, and the steps were so broad and shallow. but, oh dear! i wish my legs didn't ache so! poor aunt clotilda! i am very sorry i called her stupid, and all that. she is so kind.' but in the midst of all these thinkings she fell asleep again, and slept for more than two hours. when she woke she heard a cuckoo clock outside her room striking eight. 'dear me!' she said to herself; 'how late it is! and i meant to be up so early;' and she was just beginning to get out of bed when a soft tap came to the door. 'come in,' said kathleen; and in came aunt clotilda, her kind face and gentle eyes looking brighter and younger by daylight, and behind her, martha, carrying a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, on which was arranged a most dainty little breakfast for the young lady, whom miss clotilda evidently intended to pet a great deal to make up for yesterday's misfortunes. 'oh, aunty,' said kathie, 'i was just going to get up. i am so sorry to give you so much trouble,' and she lifted up her face to kiss miss clotilda. 'no, no, my dear,' her aunt replied. 'you are to rest to-day as much as you like. neville is up, and he and i have had our breakfast. he peeped in an hour ago, and saw you were fast asleep, as i was glad to hear. it is just nine o'clock, so i thought you must be getting hungry.' 'nine o'clock!' kathleen repeated. 'why, i thought the cuckoo struck eight.' 'he is a lazy bird,' said miss clotilda smiling. 'he is always an hour behind. i must get him put right--at least,' she went on, correcting herself, 'i meant to have done so. it is not worth while now. now, dear, see if we have brought you what you like for your breakfast. [illustration: 'it is delicious' said kathleen.] 'it is delicious!' said kathleen. 'i could live on the bread and butter alone, without anything else. and honey! oh, how lovely! aunt clotilda, i have never been so petted before,' she burst out, 'never in all my life. how very good you are! do you know i've been more than six years at school without ever having what _i_ call a holiday till now? do kiss me, aunty.' kathie's heart was fairly won. there were tears in miss clotilda's eyes as she stooped to kiss her. 'but they are not unkind to you at school, dear?' she said. 'if you are ever ill, for instance.' 'oh, no, they are kind enough; but it's different--not the least like _home_. i can understand better already what other girls who can remember their homes meant when they said so. philippa harley, you know, aunty--oh no, of course you don't know; but i'll tell you about her. she has always been with her mother till lately, and she was always saying how different _home_ was.' martha had by this time disappeared. miss clotilda sat down by the bed-side, while kathie proceeded to eat her breakfast, chattering in the intervals. 'you make me very happy, dear kathie, when you say you have already a home feeling with me,' said miss clotilda--'very happy, and,' with the sigh that kathleen was at no loss to translate, 'very unhappy.' for a few moments neither spoke. then kathleen began again. 'aunty, even though the house isn't going to be yours any more, or ours, you'll show us all the things in it, won't you?' 'certainly, my dear. i want you to know it well, and to remember it always,' miss clotilda replied. kathie's glance just then fell on the lace frills of her night-gown, and thence strayed to the half-open cupboard. 'what are those queer-looking square things of different colours in there, aunty?' she asked. miss clotilda's glance followed hers. just at that moment neville put his head in at the door, and asked if he might come in. his face beamed with pleasure when he saw kathleen and his aunt chatting together so 'friendlily.' 'those things in the cupboard?' said miss clotilda. 'oh! they are some of mrs. wynne's pincushions. i wrapped up the new ones--one or two she had just finished, poor dear, when she was taken ill--and those are some old ones that were to have been fresh covered. i have lots of beautiful pieces of old-fashioned silk.' 'oh, how nice!' said kathleen. 'i hope you will let me see them, aunty. but please tell me'-- at that moment, however, martha came to the door to say that john williams had called for orders about fetching the trunks from the station. 'he must have some writing to show, he says,' said the old woman. 'but he's so stupid--maybe he doesn't understand.' 'it's better, perhaps, to give him a note to the station-master,' said miss clotilda. 'i'll come and speak to him.' 'i'll write the note,' said neville running off. 'aunty,' said kathie, as miss clotilda was preparing to follow him, 'mayn't i get up now? i'm only a little stiff, but i'm not at all tired; and i'm in such a hurry to see the house, and the garden, and everything.' 'very well, dear,' her aunt replied. 'martha will get your bath ready. can you manage with the things you have till your trunk comes this evening?' 'oh, yes,' said kathleen. 'my frock did not get wet at all. it's only rather crushed. and i brought my house shoes in my hand-bag. philippa made me; she said it was such a good plan.' 'she must be a very sensible little girl,' said miss clotilda. 'she's a dear little girl every way,' said kathie. 'i'm sure you'd like her _dreadfully_, aunty.' she was feeling very cordial to philippa this morning, thinking how much the little girl had tried to influence her to come to ty-gwyn. 'but for her,' thought kathleen, 'i'm not at all sure that i would have come. i was so sure i shouldn't like aunt clotilda.' as soon as she was dressed she ran off in search of neville, who was 'somewhere about,' old martha told her. she found him in the garden, and together they began their explorings. by daylight the white house was far from the desolate-looking place they had fancied it the night before. it was a long house, built half-way up a gentle slope, and the entrance was, so to speak, at the back. you did not see anything of the pretty view on which looked out the principal rooms till you had crossed the large, dark-wainscoted hall, and made your way down the long corridor from whence opened the drawing-room, and library and dining-room, all large and pleasant rooms, with old-fashioned furniture, and everywhere the same faint scent, which kathleen had noticed more strongly up-stairs, of lavender and dried rose-leaves. this part of the house was more modern than the hall and kitchens, and two other rooms, in the very old days the 'parlours,' no doubt--now called the study and the office. for the house had been added to by a mr. wynne, the late owner's father, a grand-uncle to david and clotilda powys. 'then the old part is very old indeed, i suppose?' said neville to his aunt, who by this time had joined them. 'very old indeed,' she said. 'and up-stairs it seems very rambling, for there are good rooms built over the pantry and dairy and the other offices, all of which are very large. i had it all planned in my head,' she went on, 'and even mrs. wynne herself used often to talk of what rooms would suit you all best when it came to be your father's. up this little stair'--for by this time they were on the first floor again--'there are two rooms which would have made such nice nurseries for little vida, and the "office," as we call it, could easily have been turned into a very pleasant schoolroom.' the children were delighted with it all. up-stairs, indeed, it was precisely the sort of house to captivate young people. it was so full of mysterious passages and unexpected staircases, and corner windows and queer doors, and steps up and steps down, that it seemed larger than it really was, and of course the usual praise was pronounced upon it, that it would be 'just the place for a game at hide-and-seek.' then when the house had been seen, miss clotilda sent them out, with directions not to wander too far, as they must be home for dinner at two o'clock. 'you cannot lose your way,' she said, 'if you take a good view all round. the sea is only a mile off on two sides--west and south--and this house therefore faces the sea, though the little hill in front hides it.' 'the sea!' exclaimed kathie. 'why, aunty, if i had known we were so near the sea, i should have been in such a hurry to see it, i wouldn't have slept all night. did you know, neville?' 'i didn't know it was _so_ near,' said neville. 'go up the little hill, and then you will understand where you are,' said miss clotilda. 'there is the old church, too, and the ruins of the abbey beside it. you will find there is plenty to see at hafod.' 'i don't care much for churches,' said kathie, 'but i'd like to see the ruins.' 'then set off at once; it is fine and sunny just now, but i don't think the weather is very settled. near the sea we have to expect sudden changes,' said miss clotilda. [illustration] the children eagerly followed her advice. they climbed up the hill, which they reached by a path through the garden, and then they were well rewarded for their trouble. the view before them was a beautiful and uncommon one. at their feet, so to speak, lay the wide-stretching ocean, sparkling and gleaming in the sunshine, and further inland stood the grand old church and ruins, with the white cottages of the scattered village dotted about in various directions. 'how queer it is to see that great church in such a little place!' said kathleen. 'it doesn't seem to belong to it, and yet it looks grander than if it was in the middle of a town; doesn't it, neville?' 'i suppose there was a great monastery, or something like that, here once,' said neville; 'perhaps before there was any village at all. i think i have read something about it. we must ask aunt clotilda. isn't it a beautiful place, kathleen? oh, don't you wish dreadfully it was going to be our home?' kathleen sighed. she had not before understood _how_ much she should wish it. 'look there, neville,' she said, pointing to a white thread which wound over the hills, sometimes hidden for a little, then emerging again, 'that must be the road from frewern bay that we came along last night. don't we seem far away from london and from everywhere? do you like the feeling? i think i rather do, except for poor old phil.' but neville did not at once answer her. he was standing with his eyes fixed on the sea. 'i don't feel so far from papa and mamma here as in london,' he said; 'i like it for that.' kathleen's gaze followed his. 'poor papa and mamma!' she said. 'oh, neville, _how_ i wish we could find the will!' they spent the rest of the morning, greatly to their own satisfaction, in visiting the ruins, and, as by a fortunate chance the door was open, the church also. it was so unlike anything they had ever seen, that even kathie was full of admiration, and determined to learn all she could of its history. 'we must ask aunt clotilda to tell us all about it,' she said. 'i daresay she has books where we can read about it, too. papa and mamma would be pleased if we--oh dear! there it comes in about that will to spoil things again! i suppose it's best not to write much about things here to them; it would only make it seem worse to them.' 'perhaps it would,' said neville; 'but we can say lots about aunt clotilda, and that will please papa and mamma. oh, kathie, _don't_ you like her?' kathie grew rather red. 'yes,' she said, 'i do. i like her awfully. i _love_ her, neville, and--and--i'm very sorry i called her stupid, and all that.' 'dear kathie,' said neville, 'you didn't know her.' 'well, no more did you,' said kathleen; 'but you're much better than me, neville. so is philippa.' 'dear kathie,' said neville again, 'it's only that you've not had mamma with you, or anybody like that. i was older than you, you know, when they left us. and philippa's always had her mother. but now you have aunty.' 'yes,' said kathleen; but she sighed as she said it. [illustration] they turned to go home again, for they had not yet half explored the garden, which bid fair to be quite as delightful as the house. a little door in the wall was standing half open, and peeping in, they saw that it led by a footpath to the front door. there miss clotilda was standing talking to a funny-looking old man with a canvas bag slung over his back. miss clotilda seemed rather annoyed, and was speaking very earnestly. 'you are sure, then, john parry, quite sure, you have not dropped or left it at the wrong house, or anything like that?' the old man only smiled amiably in a sort of superior way. 'sure, miss? to be sure i am. you'll see miss, the letter has never been posted. good-day to you, miss. indeed, i am glad the young gentleman and lady's got safe here;' and he trotted off. 'it's about your letter, neville,' said his aunt. 'i was certain it would turn up this morning. but it has not come, and it makes me uneasy. just think, if one of your dear papa's letters was to be lost. i have got fidgety about letters and papers, i suppose.' 'it's very queer,' said neville. 'all our other letters have come quite rightly.' 'yes,' said miss clotilda. 'however, my dears, as i've got you safe here i must not grumble.' she went back into the house to fetch her garden-hat, in which, kathie could not help whispering to neville, she _did_ look a funny old dear. for the hat was about the size of a small clothes-basket, and miss clotilda despised all such invisible modes of fastening as elastic and hat-pins. she secured her head-dress with a good honest pair of black ribbon strings, firmly tied, for ty-gwyn was a blowy place, as might have been expected from its nearness to the sea. the three spent the rest of the morning most happily in the garden, visiting, too, the now disused dairy, and the poultry-yard, where miss clotilda's cocks and hens, in blissful ignorance of the fate before them, were clucking and pecking about. 'i must fatten and kill them all off before the autumn,' she said; 'at least, nearly all. i could not have the heart to kill my special pets. i will give some to the neighbours.' 'aunty,' said kathleen, as they were returning to the house, 'there is something i wanted to ask you, and i can't remember what it is.' miss clotilda's memory could not help her. 'perhaps you will think of it afterwards,' she said. and probably kathie would have done so, had it not happened that her aunt had that morning, while the children were out, closed and locked the old cupboard in the little girl's room. so there was nothing to remind her of what she had been on the point of asking miss clotilda about mrs. wynne's old pincushions. chapter viii. news from philippa. [illustration: decorative t] he next two or three days passed most pleasantly. the weather, as if to make up for its bad behaviour on the day of their journey, was particularly fine, and the children were out from morning till night. old martha thought privately to herself that it was a good thing the neighbours were so kind, for they were even 'better than their word,' in sending all sorts of good things to ty-gwyn for the captain's children, as neville and kathleen's appetites, thanks to the change of air and the sea breezes, were really rather alarming. and miss clotilda was so perfectly happy to see them both so bright and well, that she tried to banish all painful thoughts as much as she could. still they were _there_; and when the poor lady was alone in her room at night, it was often more than she could do to restrain her tears. for the happier the children were, the more she learned to love them, the more bitterly, as was natural, did she feel the disappointment of not being able to hope to see much more of them. but she said little or nothing of her feelings, and the children--kathie especially--little suspected their depth. kathie was living entirely in the present; she but rarely gave a thought to the ideas philippa had suggested. and neville, though less carelessly light-hearted and forgetful, was slower both of thought and speech. he could see nothing to be done, and for some time he rather shrank from coming upon the subject with his aunt. it came to be spoken of at last, however, and this was how it happened. one morning, about the fourth or fifth of their visit, old john parry, with a great air of importance, as if he were doing her a special service, handed to kathleen a rather fat letter, addressed to herself. 'you see, miss, to be sure i never make no mistakes,' he said. for he was quite aware that miss clotilda still in her heart, somehow or other, associated him with the mysterious loss of neville's letter, and he wished to keep up his dignity in the eyes of the stranger young lady. 'oh yes, thank you,' said kathie, not quite knowing what else to say. for in london one's personal acquaintance with the postman--or post_men_, rather--is necessarily of the slightest. 'what a comical old fellow he is!' she said to herself, as she ran off. 'i daresay he did lose the letter, after all. how amused phil would be at the people here, and the funny way they talk! dear old phil! i wonder what she has got to say, and what she has written such a long letter about?' for the moment she got it in her hand she recognised little philippa's careful, childish handwriting on the envelope. 'aren't you coming out, kathie?' neville called out from some mysterious depths, where he was absorbed in arranging his fishing-tackle. 'not yet. i've got a long letter from philippa. you'll find me in the library if you look in in a few minutes.' [illustration] and in a comfortable corner of the deep window seat kathie established herself to enjoy philippa's budget. it was in the library that miss clotilda and the children spent most of their time. the drawing-room was a more formal and less cosy room, and the library gave old martha less to do in the way of dusting and daily putting to rights. it was a dear old room, filled with books from floor to ceiling, many of them doubtless of little value, others probably of great worth in a connoisseur's eyes--had connoisseurs ever come to ty-gwyn--for all were old, very old. 'how philippa would like this room!' thought kathie to herself. 'phil is like neville; she's far more sentimental and poetical, and all that sort of thing, than i am. i do hope she's enjoying her holidays.' she opened the envelope as she spoke. out tumbled another letter, closed, addressed, and stamped, but which had evidently never been through the post. it was neville's letter to miss clotilda! 'oh!' kathie ejaculated. then she turned to philippa's own letter. it was dated, 'cheltenham,' and she began, child fashion, by telling that she had got there safe, and she hoped kathleen and her brother had got to ty-gwyn safe, and that they were both quite well. then she went on with rather doleful news. her poor grandmother was ill; she had been taken ill the very night philippa came, and though she was a little better the doctor said she would not be well for a long time, and she was to go away somewhere for change of air. philippa was not allowed to see her, and her uncle did not know what to do, but he had told philippa he was afraid she would have to go back to school, and stay there for the rest of the holidays. 'uncle is kind, but he doesn't know how awful it will be,' wrote the poor little girl; 'and i don't like to tell him, because he is so troubled about grandmamma. it is most because you won't be there, dear kathie. that wednesday was as long as a week, when you had gone. i am afraid i am to go in three or four days. uncle will take me. do write quick to poor little phil, _and don't' forget your promise_.' then came a postscript, philippa having evidently been too absorbed by her own woes to think of anything else while she was writing the letter. 'i found this letter in your old serge frock pocket--the one that was too shabby to take with you. i meant to send it to you before, but i wasn't sure how to write the address; you wrote it on such a scrap of paper. i will keep this till to-night, and ask uncle to help me. i hope it won't matter, for as you are there your aunt won't need letters from you. i was feeling in your pocket for my new bit of india-rubber that i lent you, but it wasn't there.' kathie sat quite still for a minute or two after reading all this. then she took up neville's letter and looked at it vaguely. 'yes,' she said to herself, 'i must have slipped it into my pocket, meaning to have it posted with my own note to neville. how careless of me! and to think how i went on about aunty not meeting us at the station.' it was a good lesson for kathie. the softening process had begun, and she was already ashamed to remember the way in which she had spoken of miss clotilda. and she was not a little mortified at now finding that she, and she alone, had been to blame. but kathleen was courageous and honest. after a moment or two's hesitation, she got up and marched off, letters in hand, to the dining-room, where she knew she should find her aunt at that time of day. [illustration: 'look, it's never been posted at all!'] 'aunty,' she said, and miss clotilda looked up from the fine old damask tablecloth she was carefully darning--she prided herself on her darning, and though the table-linen, as well as everything else, was mr. wynne-carr's now, she would not on that account relax in her carefulness--'aunty, i've got something to tell you. it wasn't old john parry's fault about that letter, nor anybody's but mine. look,' and she held it up, 'it's never been posted at all;' and she went on to explain to miss clotilda how it had been found. 'i am so sorry,' she said at the end. just then neville came in. 'i have been looking everywhere for you, kathie,' he said; and then the story had to be told to him again. 'i am sorry,' kathie repeated, 'and ashamed,' she added, in a lower voice, and neville saw that the tears were quivering on her eyelids. he understood. 'poor dear child,' said miss clotilda, 'you shouldn't take it to heart so. it'll be a little lesson to you to be more careful about such things; will it not, dear?' 'yes, indeed,' said kathleen. she could not tell her kind aunt why she felt it so much--it would have been wrong to pain her by repeating the naughty, foolish things she had said of her--and this in itself made the impression still deeper. 'and the little girl--your friend who has written to you--is she not the same one you were speaking of the other day?' asked miss clotilda, to change the subject. 'yes, aunty; and oh, i am so sorry for her! may i tell you what she says?' and kathie read aloud philippa's letter. 'poor little girl!' said miss clotilda. 'what does she mean by asking you at the end not to forget your promise?' 'oh,' said kathleen, 'she's a little silly about that. she--i told her about the will, aunty--you don't mind? i didn't tell any one else'-- 'it matters very little,' said miss clotilda. 'there is no secret about it. everybody here knows the whole story. but what was your promise?' 'phil had an idea that nobody had looked enough--for the will, or for the letter telling where it was to be found,' said kathleen. 'she said she was sure _she_ would think of new places to look in if she were here, and she made me promise to try. but--i am sure you have looked everywhere, aunty--it would seem impertinent of neville and me to try to look.' 'not that, my dear,' said miss clotilda, 'but really and truly there is nowhere else to look. do you know we have taken down and shaken every book in the library? a man, accustomed to such things, came on purpose. i have thought about the letter of directions too, but it is much less likely to be found than the will itself. it would be so small. if mrs. wynne had not given me the envelope containing the blank paper, so very shortly before her death, i should have begun to think that she had changed her mind and made no will at all. and yet--it was so unlike her. no, i feel sure the blank paper was put in by mistake.' miss clotilda had left off her darning in the interest of the conversation. for a minute or two no one spoke. then with a little effort miss clotilda seemed to recall her thoughts to the present. 'she must be a very nice child--that little philippa,' she said, 'and very unselfish. it is not many children who would be able to think of anything but their own affairs in her place just now. i do feel for her, poor dear, having to go back to school, and all her companions away.' she hesitated, as if on the point of saying more, but no words came. then she took up her darning again. 'i wish'--kathie began, and then she too stopped short. neville glanced at her. 'i believe i know what you wish,' he said. 'and,' he went on boldly, 'i believe aunty is thinking of the very same thing.' again the poor tablecloth came off badly. miss clotilda let it fall, and in her turn she looked at both the children. 'i daresay you do know what was in my mind, neville,' she said. 'it would be almost unnatural not to think of it.' 'you mean,' said kathie, half timidly, 'if we could ask poor phil to come here--if _you_ could, i should say, aunty.' 'yes,' said miss clotilda, 'that was what i was thinking. i do feel so for the poor dear child. i know so well, so sadly well, what it is to be alone in that way. my mother, you know, dears, your grandmother, died when i was thirteen, and till her death i had never been separated from her. and then i was sent to school altogether, holidays and all, for three years, for your grandfather went abroad. i did not even see my little brother--dear little david--for all that time, for one of our aunts who had children of her own took care of him. it did not so much matter to him, for he was only a year old when our mother died, and so he was only four when we were together again. and it seems to him--i do like to feel that--that i was always with him. but for me those three years were--really--dreadful. even now i can scarcely bear to think of them;' and miss clotilda gave a little shiver. 'philippa cried awfully when she first came,' said kathleen. 'she really did nothing but cry. 'and you were good to her--i am sure you were, as she is so fond of you,' said her aunt. kathie blushed a little. 'her mother asked me to be kind to her,' she said, 'and i tried to be because i promised. but i didn't care much for her at first, aunty. i didn't understand her caring so dreadfully, and you mustn't think me horrid, for i do understand better now--it bothered me. but she got so fond of me--she fancied i was so much kinder than i really was, that--that i got very fond of her. and i think i've learnt some things from her--the same sort of things you make me feel, aunty.' this was a wonderfully 'sentimental' speech to come from thoughtless kathie. but both her hearers 'understood.' 'she must be a dear little girl,' said miss clotilda again. 'i should love to have her here, if--' 'i know, aunty,' neville interrupted. 'it is the expense. i know it is already a great deal for you to have _us_.' 'no, dear,' said miss clotilda, 'it really is not so. people--my old neighbours and friends--are so kind. they are always sending presents just now. and one other little girl could not make much difference. it is more a sort of shrinking that i have from explaining things to strangers--a sort of false shame, perhaps. it _should_ all have been so different.' 'dear aunty,' said both the children, 'we wouldn't like you to do it if you feel that way.' but miss clotilda was evidently not satisfied. 'she is a simple-minded child, is she not?' she asked in a little. 'not the kind of child to be discontented with plain ways--our having only one servant, and so on, you know?' '_of course_ not,' said kathleen. 'she would think it all lovely. and, aunty,' she went on, 'it _is_ lovely. you don't know how it all looks to us after school. everything is so cold and stiff, and--and--not pretty there. and the things to eat here are so delicious; aren't they, neville? the fruit and the milk and the bread and butter. oh, aunty!' 'what, my dear?' '_don't_ you think you could? what room would phil have?' 'i was thinking of the one next yours. it is small, but we could make it look nice. there is no dearth of anything in the way of linen and such things in the house. mrs. wynne had such beautiful napery--that is the old word for it, you know--and she took such a pride in it. i must show you the linen-room some day, kathie. i have taken great pleasure in keeping it in perfect order for your mother.' again the sad feeling of disappointment. 'kathie,' said, neville, a minute or two later when their aunt had left the room, 'i want you to come out with me. you're not going to write to philippa to-day, are you? 'no,' said kathleen, 'not to-day. but i should like to send the letter to-morrow, for fear of her leaving her grandmother's. i will write to her this afternoon or this evening. i've lots to tell her--all about the journey, and the funny old farmer, and the carrier's cart.' 'yes,' said neville. 'if she comes here, kathie, we'll manage better than that. i wonder if aunty would let us go to hafod to meet her. any way, i might go. perhaps you'd rather stay to welcome her here--to put flowers in her room, and that sort of thing. girls do so like all that.' 'so do boys too--at least, some boys. you _always_ bring me a nosegay on my birthday. i am sure you like flowers as much as any girl could,' said kathie. 'i didn't mean flowers only. i meant--oh, fussing,' said neville vaguely. but kathleen was too much taken up by the idea of philippa's coming to be in a touchy humour. 'do you really think, neville,' she said,--'do you really and truly think aunty is going to ask her?' 'i don't know. i'm sure she'd like to--if she can. she's so awfully good and kind.' 'yes,' kathleen heartily agreed. 'i never even thought before that anybody _could_ be so kind.' chapter ix. the cottage near the creek. [illustration: decorative k] athleen was just finishing a long letter to philippa that afternoon in the library, when miss clotilda came into the room with her usual quiet step. kathleen did not hear her till her aunt laid her hand on her shoulder. the little girl started. 'oh, aunty,' she said, 'i've been writing to poor phil. such a long letter!' 'and long as it is, i'm afraid you will have to make it still a little longer,' said miss clotilda. something in the tone of her voice made kathleen look up. miss clotilda was smiling, and her pale cheeks were a little pinker than usual. 'listen to me, dear,' she said. 'i have thought it over, and it seems to me really right, only right and kind, to ask that poor child to come to us here. i have written to her uncle to propose it, and i have explained things just a little, saying that i am only here for a short time more, and that things are not as they used to be, but that we shall make her most welcome. i thought it best to write to the uncle, as her grandmother is so ill. you can give me the exact address, i suppose, and the uncle's name?' [illustration] kathie held up philippa's letter. 'yes, aunty,' she said. 'you see, it is written at the top. she told me to put "care of" to her uncle, because her name is not the same as his and her grandmother's. he is her mother's brother. but oh, dear aunty, i can scarcely believe you are really going to let her come! it is _too_ delicious.' 'it does not rest only with me, however, dear, you must remember,' miss clotilda said. 'you must not count upon it too surely till we hear from her friends. they may not approve of it, or there may be difficulties in the way of bringing her. it is rather a long way from cheltenham, and an expensive journey.' 'i don't think that would matter,' said kathleen. 'i'm almost sure phil's relations are rich, and she is an only child.' 'well, let us hope they will let her come,' said miss clotilda. 'i will send my letter separately; but i wanted to ask you what you thought of telling the little girl herself about it. do you think it best to say nothing to her till we hear from her uncle, and to leave it to him to tell her?' kathie considered. 'no, aunty,' she said. 'i think we needn't do that. philippa is such a _very_ sensible little girl, i'm sure her uncle would talk to her about it immediately. so may i write and tell her? oh dear, how lovely!' 'yes, certainly. you haven't very much time. the letters must go in half an hour, but as you are hoping now to see her soon, you won't need to say so very much.' kathie's pen flew along the paper. she could have filled pages with the anticipated delights of philippa's visit, and it was just as well her time was limited. one argument she brought to bear with great force in favour of the visit. 'be sure to tell your uncle,' she wrote, 'that your mamma gave you into my charge at school, and that i promised her to try to make you happy. so i am sure, if there was time to ask her, that _she_ would like you to come.' 'i think that's very clever of me,' she said to herself, as she folded up the letter, 'and i'm sure it's quite true. but how shall i get through the next two or three days till we can hear if she is coming? i must get neville to take me tremendously long walks.' the next day, fortunately, was very fine. 'aunty,' said kathleen at breakfast, 'i do feel in such a fidget about philippa coming that i'm afraid i shall get quite unbearable. don't you think the best thing would be for neville and me to go a very long walk to calm me down?' 'do very long walks generally have that desirable effect?' asked miss clotilda. 'i have no objection, provided you don't lose your way.' 'oh! we won't lose our way,' said neville. 'i have a pocket compass. besides, as you said yourself, aunty, it is a very easy country to find one's way in. there's always a hill one can climb, and once you see the sea, you can easily make out where you are.' 'and any of the cottagers about can direct you to ty-gwyn,' said miss clotilda. 'well, then, if you ask martha to make you some sandwiches, and to give you some rock cakes for "pudding," you might take your dinners with you, and not come back till the afternoon. and,' she added, glancing out of the window as she spoke, 'i think you would do well to make hay while the sun shines, at present--that is to say, to go a long walk while it is fine, for i don't think this weather is going to last above a day or two.' 'oh!' kathie exclaimed, 'i do hope it won't rain all the time philippa is here.' 'kathie,' said neville, 'you are too silly. aunty only meant that we might have _some_ rain. she never said it would rain for weeks.' 'that it seldom, indeed never, does here,' said miss clotilda. 'but, you know, in a very hilly district you must expect uncertain weather. i think there is no fear for to-day, however.' and an hour or two later the children set off. 'which way shall we go?' said kathleen. 'to the sea?' neville looked round. 'suppose we go over there, towards that hill,' he said. 'there's a sort of creek between two little hills there--or more perhaps as if it was cut in the middle of one--that must be very pretty. martha told me about it. i forget the name she called it in welsh. she said the smugglers used to run their boats in there, for there are caves they could hide things in.' 'oh, what fun!' said kathie. 'do let us go! are there no smugglers now, neville? what a pity!' she went on, as her brother shook his head. 'it would be so romantic to find a smugglers' cave.' 'i don't think it would be romantic at all--at least, it wouldn't be at all pleasant,' said sensible neville. 'in the days when there were smugglers, if they had found us poking about their caves they wouldn't have been very amiable to us.' 'what would they have done to us?' asked kathleen. 'pitched us into the sea, or--or gagged us, and tied our hands behind us, and left us among the rocks on the chance of any one finding us,' said neville grimly. kathleen shuddered. they were soon at the entrance to the little creek which martha had described, coming upon it suddenly, as a turn in the path brought them sharply down to a lower level. it was very picturesque. against the strip of blue sky seen through the fissure or cleft which formed the creek, stood out clearly the outline of a small fishing craft, drawn up on the shingly beach; while down below, the water, darkened by the shade of the rocks on each side, gleamed black and mysterious. [illustration: 'where are the caves, neville?'] 'what a queer place!' said kathleen. 'where are the caves, neville? i don't see any.' 'i suppose they are facing the sea. we must make our way round over the stones at the edge of the water if we want to see them. it isn't deep, though it looks so dark. you needn't be afraid,' said neville, beginning the scramble. but kathleen hung back. 'neville,' she said, 'you're quite sure there aren't any smugglers now?' 'of course not,' said neville, rather disdainfully. 'kathie, you shouldn't be so boasting about never being frightened, and all that, if you are really so babyish.' 'i'm not babyish. neville, you're very unkind. you never were so unkind in london,' said kathie, looking ready to cry. 'i don't mean to be unkind,' said neville, stopping short in his progress, one foot on a big stone, the other still on the grass near the edge of the water. 'but if you're the least afraid, kathie, either of smugglers or of the scramble--it will be a scramble, i see--you'd better not come. supposing you go up to that little cottage--there's quite a nice old woman living there--while i go on to the caves? i'll come back for you in ten minutes or so.' 'very well,' said kathie; 'i think i'd better, perhaps. it isn't for the smugglers, neville. i wouldn't let _you_ go if there was any chance of there being any. but i'm rather afraid of tumbling. are you sure it's safe for you, neville?' 'oh, yes. aunty told me i might go any day. she explained all about it to me.' 'well, then, don't be long;' and so saying, kathleen began making her way up the slope to the little cottage neville had pointed out. it was a very tiny place. there was no garden, but a little patch of grass had been roughly railed in, and on this two or three chickens were pecking about. a very old woman came to the door on seeing kathleen approaching, with a smile on her brown, wrinkled, old face. 'good morning, miss,' she said in very good english. 'would you like to rest a bit?' 'thank you,' said kathie; 'i'd like to wait a few minutes, if you don't mind, till my brother comes to fetch me. he's gone down to see the caves.' 'to be sure,' said the old woman. 'perhaps you'd like best to wait outside; it's pleasant in the air this morning;' and she quickly brought out a chair, and set it for kathie against the wall of the cottage. 'and you'll be the young lady and gentleman from ty-gwyn? dear, dear!' 'what do you say that for?' asked kathie, not quite sure if she was pleased or vexed at the state of the family affairs being evidently understood by this old woman. 'no offence, miss,' said the dame. 'i'm not of this country, miss, though i've lived here nigh thirty years, and i've seen a deal in my time. i was kitchen-maid when i was a girl in london town.' 'indeed,' said kathleen; 'that must have been a _very_ long time ago;' which was perhaps not a very polite speech. 'and so it is--a very long time ago. a matter of fifty years, miss.' 'indeed,' said kathleen, opening her eyes; 'that is a very long time.' [illustration] 'and yet i can remember things as happened then as if they'd been yesterday,' said the old woman. 'there was a queer thing happened in the house of my missis's father. he was a very old man, not to say quite right in his head, and when he died there was papers missing that had to do with the money some way. and would you believe, miss, where they was found? in his pillow, hid right away among the feathers! there's many folk as'll hide money and papers in a mattress, but i never heard tell before or since of hiding in a pillow; and it's been in my mind ever since farmer davis told me of the trouble at ty-gwyn to ask the lady if she'd ever thought of looking in the pillows.' 'who is farmer davis?' asked kathleen, for the name seemed familiar. 'him who lives at dol-bach,' said the old woman. 'he travelled in the railway with you and the young gentleman. you should go to see him some day, miss. he'd be proud; and the old lady thought a deal of him and his wife.' 'yes,' said kathleen, 'i'd like to go to see him. he was very kind to us. there's my brother coming,' she went on, as she caught sight of neville coming up the hill. 'thank you very much for letting me wait here,' and she got up to go. 'and you won't forget about the pillows, miss?' said the old body. 'no, i won't,' kathleen replied. 'she's such a funny old woman, neville,' she said, when they met. and then she went on to repeat what the dame had told her about the pillows. 'oh,' said neville, 'they are all gossiping about it. it is nonsense--mrs. wynne wasn't out of her mind'. 'then do you think it's no use looking anywhere?' said kathleen. 'certainly not in the pillows,' said neville, laughing. 'i think we'd better have our dinner now, kathie, don't you? over there, just between this hill and the next, i should think there would be a nice place.' and having found a snug corner, they established themselves comfortably. 'were the caves nice?' asked kathleen. 'not very--at least, i didn't like to go very far alone. there was one that looked as if it would be very nice--a great, deep, black place, but one would need a light. i'll try to go again some day, if i can get anyone to go with me. it's not fit for girls.' suddenly kathleen gave a deep sigh. 'what's the matter?' asked neville. 'it's only what that old woman said. it's put it all into my head again,' said kathleen. 'i should have liked to tell phil we had searched _somewhere_.' 'wait till she comes,' said neville. 'she'll soon see for herself that there's _nowhere_ to search. i've thought and thought about it, and i'm sure aunty has done everything anybody could.' so no more was said about it, and they finished their dinner comfortably. then they set off again, and climbed the hill from whence they had been told the view was so beautiful. nor were they disappointed--the day was unusually clear, with the clearness that tells of rain at no great distance, and on all sides they could see over many miles. 'how lovely the sea is!' said kathleen. 'the only fault i can find with ty-gwyn is that you can't see the sea from the house. now that house over there, neville--over towards the sea, but a good way from it--on the side of a hill,' and she pointed towards it, 'must have a lovely view of the sea. i wonder what house it is? it looks so pretty.' 'i know,' said neville. 'it is the old farmer's. it is dol-bach.' 'old farmer davis's?' said kathleen. 'oh, that reminds me the old woman at the cottage said we should go to see him, and thank him for being so kind the day we came. indeed, we should have gone already.' 'did she say so?' said neville; 'she must be rather an impertinent old woman. it's no business of hers.' 'oh no, she isn't impertinent at all,' said kathleen. '_she_ didn't say we should have gone already. that was only my own thought. she said he'd be "proud" to see us--i think that sounds very nice, neville--and that mrs. wynne thought "a deal" of him and his wife. supposing we go now, neville, on our way home?' 'no,' said neville. 'i don't think it would be right to go anywhere without asking aunt clotilda. but i daresay she'll let us go. i remember old davis said something about knowing mrs. wynne very well.' 'we'll ask her,' said kathie. 'it would be something nice to do, to keep my mind off phil's coming. and we might dress nicely, neville. it would be more of a compliment to them, you know, if we went nicely dressed--like paying a real call.' they met miss clotilda coming to meet them, when, after a good long ramble among the hills, they made their way home. 'i have come along the road two or three times to look for you,' she said. 'have you had a nice walk, and any adventures?' 'oh, yes,' said kathie, and she launched at once into an account of her old woman. but neville noticed that she did not mention the anecdote about the pillow. 'perhaps it is better not to keep reminding aunty of it,' he thought. 'i am glad kathie is so thoughtful.' 'and may we go to see farmer davis, aunty?' asked kathie eagerly. 'oh, certainly,' said miss clotilda. 'i was thinking of proposing it. it would have been no use going to-day, as both he and his wife were at hafod market, i know. there are many of our neighbours i should have liked to take you to see, both the gentlepeople and others; but it is impossible to go about much without a horse of any kind,' she ended, with a little sigh. 'may we go to dol-bach to-morrow?' asked kathie. 'i want to keep myself from fidgeting.' miss clotilda could not help smiling at her. 'i have no objection,' she said, 'if the weather holds up; which, however, i have my doubts of.' [illustration] and her doubts proved well founded. 'to-morrow' proved a very rainy day--a thoroughly and hopelessly rainy day, such as seldom is to be seen in the middle of summer, and kathleen's spirits sank to zero. she was sure they were not going to have any more fine weather; sure a letter would come from philippa's uncle refusing the invitation; and very angry with neville for remarking that if the first prediction was fulfilled, it was almost to be hoped the second would come to pass also. and when the morning after broke again dull and gloomy, miss clotilda felt really distressed at kathie's gloom. 'my dear,' she said, 'you must make an effort to be cheerful and patient. you cannot, at soonest, have an answer from philippa till to-morrow, and you cannot go to dol-bach to-day; even if the rain leaves off, the roads will be terribly bad. try to think of something to do in the house that will occupy and interest you. i am almost sure that to-morrow will be fine.' kathleen listened respectfully enough, but with a most depressed look in her face, to the beginning of this speech. half-way through it, however, her face suddenly cleared, and a light came into her eyes. 'thank you, aunty,' she said. 'yes, i have something i should like to do up in my own room. i won't grumble any more,' and off she set. 'she is a dear child,' thought her aunt. 'a word suffices with her.' poor miss clotilda! she scarcely knew her volatile, flighty little niece as yet. chapter x. a plague of feathers. [illustration: decorative a] n hour or two later, miss clotilda, having completed her housekeeping arrangements for the day, went up to kathie's room to see what she was about. neville had gone off for a walk, as the rain was now slight, and of course, as he said himself, 'for a boy it was different.' 'poor, dear child!' said miss clotilda, as she reached kathleen's door; 'i hope she isn't feeling dull, all alone.' the door was locked. 'kathie,' she called, 'it is i--aunty.' a scattering inside, and then kathleen's voice, sounding rather odd, replied, 'in a moment, aunty. oh dear, oh dear! i wish i'-- 'what is the matter, kathie? open at once, my dear; you alarm me!' miss clotilda exclaimed. thus adjured, kathleen had no choice. she drew the bolt; miss clotilda entered. [illustration: what _was_ the matter?] what _was_ the matter? for an instant or two she was too bewildered to tell. the room seemed filled with fluff; a sort of dust was in the air; kathie's own dress and hair looked as if they had been snowed upon; every piece of furniture in the room was covered with what on closer inspection proved to be feathers! and kathleen herself, the image of despair, stood in helpless distress. 'oh, aunty,' she said, reminding one of the merchant in 'the arabian nights,' when he had let the genii out of the bottle, 'i _can't_ get them in again.' poor kathie--her genii were to be reckoned by thousands! 'what is it? what _have_ you been doing? feathers!' exclaimed miss clotilda, stooping to examine a whitey-grey heap on the floor, which, disturbed even by her gentle movements, forthwith flew up in clouds, choking and blinding her. '_feathers_--my dear child!' 'oh, aunty,' said kathleen, bursting into tears, 'i never knew they were such horrid things. it's my pillow, and one off neville's bed, and two off yours, and one off the big green-room bed, and--i got them all in here;' and then amidst her sobs she went on to tell her aunt of the old woman's story and the search it had suggested. 'i didn't mean to empty the pillows, but they kept coming out so when i put my arm in to feel, and i thought at last it would be easier to shake them all out and fill the covers again, so that i couldn't have missed even a small piece of paper. but it's no good; and oh, i've made such a mess!' there was no denying this last fact. miss clotilda hurried kathie out of the room--for, as everybody knows, the fluff of feathers is really injurious to the throat and lungs--and hurried martha up to see what could be done. it ended in a woman having to be sent for from the village to re-imprison the flighty feathers in their cases; but even after this was done, kathleen could not sleep in her room that night. 'i am so sorry, aunty,' she said, so humbly that kind miss clotilda could not but forgive her, though she made her promise for the future to attempt no more 'searches' without consulting her elders. 'of course i'll promise that and more than that,' said kathie, as she dried her eyes; 'i won't search _at all_ for that nasty will. i didn't want to, only i thought philippa would say i should have tried to find it. but i'll just show her it's no use.' and neville was so sorry to see her distress that he did not even remind her of _his_ having told her that searching the pillows would be no use; which, in my opinion, was truly generous of him. all troubles were, however, cast into the shade when the next morning brought a letter from mr. wentworth, philippa's uncle, most heartily thanking miss clotilda for her kindness, and eagerly accepting her invitation. mr. wentworth wrote that he had been quite distressed at the idea of sending the poor child back to school, but till miss clotilda's proposal came he had seen no help for it. he went on to say that he would bring philippa himself to hafod if miss clotilda could send to meet her there, but that he could only make the journey _at once_. if 'thursday' were too soon for philippa to come, would miss powys telegraph to say so--in that case he feared the visit would have to be put off till he could hear of an escort. 'thursday!' miss clotilda exclaimed, 'that is to-morrow. telegraph! it is plain mr. wentworth does not know much of this part of the country. there is no telegraph office nearer than boyneth, and that is half-way to hafod.' 'but, aunty,' said kathleen, looking up from the little scrap to herself which philippa had slipped into her uncle's letter, 'need you think of telegraphing? mayn't she come to-morrow? she is so happy--oh, aunty, do read her dear little letter.' aunty did not need much persuasion. 'if we can get things ready, and if mr. mortimer can lend us his waggonette,' she said hesitatingly. 'there is your room still upset, you know, kathie,' at which kathleen grew very red; 'and i don't know'-- 'can't i go to mr. mortimer's and ask him?' said neville. 'it isn't very far, and i can find the way, i'm sure.' 'that might do,' said his aunt; 'and if the waggonette is not to be had, perhaps he would lend us the pony-carriage. that would do for two, besides the one driving.' so it turned out. the waggonette was required to meet friends of the mortimers themselves, arriving to-morrow, but miss clotilda was welcome to the pony-cart, and the strong pony which drew it would be quite able for the two journeys, with a good rest between. and the little girl's luggage might come up with that of the mortimers' friends, and be left at ty-gwyn on the way. there was only one drawback; kathleen could not go to the station. miss clotilda would drive, and neville must go with her to open gates, etc., in case of need. and kathleen must content herself for staying at home by adorning philippa's room with flowers, as neville had suggested. 'only, whatever you do, please leave the pillows alone my dear,' said miss clotilda, as they drove off the next morning. kathie was quite cured of searching for the lost will, though not sorry to be able to assure her eager little friend that she really _had_ done so. the day passed quickly enough, however; for, to make up for the trouble she had given the day before, she set herself to be particularly useful to martha. and by seven o'clock, the time at which the pony-carriage might be _begun_ to be looked for--for philippa was to come by a much earlier train than the london express--kathleen, having helped to set the tea-table and bake the cakes, and having given the last touch to philippa's little room, was hopping about in front of the house, looking very neat and nice in a clean white frock, her face and eyes, indeed her whole little person, in a perfect glow of happy expectation. [illustration] nor was her patience long put to the test. it was not more than twenty minutes past seven when approaching wheels were to be heard. kathie scuttered back into the house; she wanted to be standing just within the door, not outside, when they arrived; and in another half minute there they were. neville had jumped down and was helping out a little familiar figure, while miss clotilda smiled brightly at the sight of the children's delight. 'my dear old phil!' 'my darling kathie!' and for a moment or two hugs and kisses had it all to themselves. then miss clotilda got out, and neville got in again to drive the pony home, with many charges to be quick. 'tea is quite ready,' kathie called after him; 'and i'm so hungry that i can fancy what you must all be.' 'take philippa up to her room, kathie,' said her aunt. 'her luggage won't be here for an hour or two, but you can lend her a pair of slippers, i daresay.' 'oh, mine would be far too big, aunty; but you may be sure phil has got a pair in her bag,' said kathie, laughing. 'she's a regular old maid, you know;' and she held up the bag in question for her aunt to see. 'your room will just suit you, phil,' she ran on; 'it's as tiny as yourself and as neat as a pin.' and philippa's exclamations of delight when they entered it, well rewarded kathleen for all the trouble she had taken. 'oh, kathie,' said the little girl, 'what a _perfect_ place ty-gwyn is! and how kind and sweet your aunt is, and how good of you all to have me; and oh, kathie, have you hunted well for the will?' 'don't speak of it--horrid thing!' said kathleen with a grimace. 'yes, i have hunted for it--all to please you, phil. i'll just tell you what i did,' and she proceeded to relate the unfortunate experience with the pillows. philippa was deeply interested. 'i don't think it's likely she hid it in a pillow,' she remarked. 'but i have such a feeling that it is somewhere in the house. i am sorry you don't mean to look any more, kathie.' 'oh well, don't talk about it any more just now,' said kathleen. 'we want to be as happy as ever we can be. if only the weather is fine, and it does look better to-day,--oh, you don't know how it rained yesterday, and the day before worse still,--we can go such lovely walks. you know we're quite near the sea here--up there from that hill we can see it,' and she pointed out of the window. 'can we really?' said philippa. 'how nice! i do think it is the loveliest place i ever saw, kathie. how i do wish it was going to be your home for always!' 'ah well! there's no use thinking of that,' said kathleen, 'though of course we can't help wishing it. it's worst for aunty--isn't she sweet, phil? come now, are you ready? we'll just take a peep into my room on the way down--isn't it a jolly room, the very next door to yours, do you see? and afterwards i'll show you all the house--there are such lots of rooms, and all so nice and queer. don't you smell that nice old-fashioned sort of scent, phil? like lavender and dried rose-leaves; and it's partly the scent of the wood of the wainscoting, aunty says.' 'yes,' said philippa, sniffing about with her funny little nose; 'it's very nice, and everything is so _beautifully_ clean, kathie. grandmamma's house is very nice, but it hasn't the same sort of look and feeling this dear old house has.' 'i am so glad you like it, dear,' said kathie, very amiably. 'but we must run down. i am sure you must be _very_ hungry.' 'i think i'm too happy to be very, very hungry,' said philippa. she managed, however, to do justice to the good things martha had prepared, and miss clotilda told her she would be very disappointed indeed if three weeks at ty-gwyn did not make her both fatter and rosier. 'but she's looking much better than she did at school, aunty,' said kathleen. 'last spring she was a miserable little object.' 'but that was because i was so very unhappy about mamma going away,' said philippa, getting rather red. 'poor, dear child!' said miss clotilda. 'ah, well! i can sympathise in that. but you will be able to send your mother a very cheerful letter from here, i hope.' 'yes, indeed,' said the little girl. 'and i'm so glad now that we didn't write last week to tell her of grandmamma being ill, and my having to go back to school. uncle and i talked it over, and we thought we might wait till this week, and now she'll hear of grandmamma's being better and me coming here, at the same time, so it won't make her unhappy.' 'your uncle seems very kind indeed,' said miss clotilda. 'i was quite sorry for him to have to make such a long journey, and to go straight back again.' 'yes,' said philippa. 'but, you see,' she went on, in her funny little prim way, 'he wouldn't have felt happy to have left grandmamma longer alone. he will be home by eleven to-night.' this first evening was not a very long one, for after tea philippa's box arrived, and kathleen had, of course, to go up-stairs with her little friend to help her to unpack her things and put them away. and miss clotilda told the children that they must go to bed early, as philippa would be tired. 'have you been very tidy, kathie, without me?' asked philippa. 'i'm sure you must often have wanted me to put your belongings neat, and to find your pencils and gloves, and all the things you lose.' 'no; i've got on very well indeed, thank you, miss conceit,' said kathie, laughing. 'it's much easier here than at school. there's so much more room, and one isn't so hurried.' 'still, it would show a good deal if you were very untidy,' said philippa. 'the house does look so neat all over. have you done any work, kathie? i am in such a fuss about what i can make to send to mamma for her birthday. i've always made her something every year as long as i can remember, and i wouldn't like to miss this year, the first i've been away from her.' 'we'll have to think of something. aunt clotilda is very clever at work,' said kathie. 'you should see her darning.' 'grandmamma was going to have helped me to get something pretty to work for mamma, only then she got ill,' said philippa. 'uncle is going to send out a box soon, so it needn't be a very little thing, not like for going by post. i shall be so glad if your aunt can think of anything.' 'i'm sure she will,' said kathleen. but just then martha tapped at the door with some hot water for 'the young lady,' which was a broad hint that it was time for philippa to go to bed. 'good-night, dear,' said kathleen. 'i think it's going to be fine to-morrow--the sky looks nice and reddy--and we shall be out nearly all day. you like going long walks, don't you, dear?' 'yes, of course i do; at least, if it isn't _too_ far. but we could always have nice rests, couldn't we? it isn't like going out walks in town, where one has to go on and on, however tired one is.' 'no, indeed. there are lovely places to rest. and, by-the-by, that reminds me--but i won't keep you up, phil. i'll tell you to-morrow.' for suddenly there had flashed into kathie's flighty head the remembrance of the visit she had been eager to pay to the old farmer at dol-bach. it would be such a nice expedition for philippa's first day. 'i'll ask aunty early to-morrow morning if we mayn't go,' she thought, as she fell asleep. but to-morrow morning brought fifty other ideas to volatile kathie. there were so many things to show philippa; the house, and the garden, and the poultry, and the dairy absorbed the morning, and in the afternoon miss clotilda went out with them herself to show the little guest some of the prettiest views, ending up by a visit to the beach. 'isn't _this_ sea different to the beach at bognor, philippa?' said kathleen. 'all crowded with people, and miss fraser scolding, and no hills or trees. oh, i forgot! you hadn't been long enough at school to have been at bognor. that's a pleasure to come for next year. oh dear! how i wish'-- but she stopped herself, and said no more. everybody knew _what_ she wished, but they all knew too that there was no use in speaking about it. 'kathie,' said neville, partly to change the conversation, 'what's become of our visit to dol-bach? you were in such a fuss about it two or three days ago.' 'oh,' said kathie, 'i forgot. aunty,' she went on, 'may we go there to-morrow? if it's as fine as it is to-day, mightn't we take our dinner with us, like the other day? and then we could go to dol-bach on our way home in the afternoon, and very likely they'd give us some milk, and perhaps some cake.' aunty had no objection, and so it was settled. by the next day philippa had quite got over her tiredness, though miss clotilda warned neville and kathleen that they must remember she was not quite as strong as they. and the three children set off on their expedition in high spirits. 'you don't want to see your old woman in the cottage near the creek, do you, kathie? don't you think, perhaps, you should tell her about the results of searching the pillows?' said neville mischievously. kathleen looked at him indignantly. 'i think you are very unkind,' she said, 'and very mean. you know i don't want to quarrel just as philippa's come, and you're just taking advantage of it.' 'come now, kathie,' said neville good-humouredly. 'i don't think really you need be so touchy.' 'i only did it to please _you_, phil,' kathie went on. philippa opened her eyes at this. 'to please me?' she repeated. 'well, you know you said you were sure you'd find _it_ if you were in the house, and i didn't want you to think i hadn't looked at all.' 'i didn't say i was sure i'd find it,' said philippa. 'if i thought that, i'd ask miss clotilda's leave to look now i am in the house. but i _have_ a very queer feeling that it _is_ in the house; and last night--now don't laugh at me, kathie--i had such a queer dream.' 'do tell it to us,' said both neville and kathleen. but philippa was a little out of breath with climbing. 'let's wait till we sit down to eat our dinner, and then i'll tell it you,' she said. so they agreed to wait till then. chapter xi. the pincushion manufactory. [illustration: decorative a] [illustration: they found a nook ... to eat their dinner in.] fter a while the three children had had enough of climbing and scrambling about, besides which they began to feel hungry. they found a nook which, as philippa said, 'seemed made on purpose to eat their dinner in,' and there they comfortably established themselves for that purpose. dinner over, kathleen reminded philippa of her dream. 'oh yes,' said the little girl, 'it really was a very funny one. i thought i was at school, and miss fraser was calling to kathie and me to be quick, and just as we ran out of the room--which had turned into kathie's room at ty-gwyn, only that there were seats all round like a railway-carriage, and the door was like a railway-carriage door--kathie's frock tore, and she called to me for a pin. i put my hand into my pocket to feel for my little pincushion, which i always keep there, and my pocket was all full of some sort of stuff like--like'-- 'like feathers,' said kathie; 'it was my telling you about the pillows.' 'no,' philippa went on, 'it wasn't like feathers--it was more powdery.' 'like dried rose-leaves?' again suggested kathie. 'what aunty calls "pot-pourri." we were talking of the scent of it last night.' 'oh, kathie, do be quiet!' said neville. 'you can't always explain dreams like that--indeed, you very seldom can.' 'bits of them you very often can,' kathleen maintained. 'but it wasn't dried rose-leaves either,' said philippa. 'i remember the feeling of it in my fingers. if i remember afterwards what it was like, i'll tell you. well, i pulled my hand out again, and i found i was holding something--not my pincushion. the thing was a little book, only it wasn't made of paper, but of lovely bits of silk, all fastened together, for the leaves. and the funniest thing was that though they were of all sorts of patterns and colours, there seemed to be words on them all, which you could read through the patterns somehow. i fancied that the words on the first page were, "for dear mamma, from her loving philippa;" and immediately i called out, "oh, kathie, see! it's a present for me to send to mamma, only i haven't made it myself." still i went on turning the leaves. i can't remember any of the words on them till i came to the last, and on it i read, "look in the----" and then it seemed all a muddle, only i knew it meant the place where the will was. i tried and tried to read it, but i couldn't; and then i called to kathie to try, and i suppose i must have really made a little squeak in my sleep, for just as i thought i was calling her very loud, i woke.' 'and all the time i was waiting for the pin,' said kathleen. 'well, yes, it was a very queer dream, though i could explain a good deal of it. you see, you'-- but neville put his fingers in his ears. 'we don't want it explained,' he said. 'it's much more interesting to fancy what it could mean--like--like the dreams in the bible, you know.' 'you're very irreverent, neville,' said kathie. 'i'm not,' said neville. 'dreams do come sometimes that mean things.' 'but i _can't_ think what the stuff in my pocket could be,' said philippa; and neither of the others could help her to an idea. 'i think,' said neville, 'we'd better be going on to old davis's. it's about twenty minutes' walk from here.' 'very well,' said the little girls; and they set off, philippa declaring that she was now 'quite, quite rested.' they were heartily welcomed at dol-bach. mr. davis introduced his wife, who was as pleasant-looking for an old woman as he for an old man. he had been 'hoping they'd look in some of these days,' he said; and mrs. davis had evidently heard all about them, though she, and mr. davis too for that matter, looked puzzled as to where philippa had come from. they were very much interested to hear all about her, and congratulated her on having had a pleasanter ending to her journey than had fallen to the share of her friends. 'it didn't seem so far a way from hafod to ty-gwyn yesterday as in the carrier's cart, did it, sir?' said davis to neville. 'but the road's a deal better than in my young days; and mrs. wynne, she's many a time told us how her mother--the captain's great-aunt she'd be--never went to hafod but once a year, and thought a long time about it before she did that. she was a clever lady too--you'll have seen the chairs she worked--wasn't it chairs?' he added, turning to his wife. 'yes, indeed,' she said. 'your aunty's not showed them to you? ah, well, she must feel it hard, things being as they are. but our lady,--that's what we call mrs. wynne,--she was handy with her fingers too. i can show you the present she brought me last christmas as ever was.' 'oh, yes!' kathie exclaimed. 'the pincushion! mr. davis told us of it.' it was duly fetched and exhibited. it was rather a new-fashioned kind of pincushion, being one of those made out of a small cigar-box, which served for box and pincushion at once. it was most neatly made, covered with rich and uncommon-looking brocaded satin, which mrs. davis eyed with great approval, and edged with a narrow frill of old thread lace. [illustration] 'such a useful shape, too,' said mrs. davis; 'i'd never seen one like it before, but mrs. wynne told me she'd covered a many. the old silk was a piece of a gown of her mother's. i believe there's some fine things of the old lady's still at ty-gwyn.' 'yes, aunty has some lovely pieces; she's promised to show us them,' said kathie. 'perhaps she'll give us some, phil.' philippa looked up eagerly at this. she had been examining the pincushion with the greatest attention. 'do you think she would perhaps, really?' she asked, when they were on their way home, having promised mr. and mrs. davis to come to see them again some day soon. 'i daresay she would,' said kathleen. 'why are you in such a fuss about it, phil?' 'oh, because--because,' said the little girl, 'i _have_ got such an idea into my head. if i could but manage it! do you think, kathie, i could possibly make a pincushion like that to send to mamma for her birthday? it would be so beautiful!' 'i don't see why you shouldn't,' said kathie; 'i don't think it would be so very difficult. and i'm almost sure aunty would give you some bits.' 'if i had one very pretty piece for the top,' said philippa, 'a plainer kind would do to frill round it, and _quite_ plain would do to line it--just silk that one could get in any shop. and i could get some lace that would do very well. i have some money, you know. couldn't we write to some shop in london?' 'i should think so. and you'd have to get some stuff to scent it--that one was scented, didn't you notice? what fun it would be to make it! if i had anybody to make one for, i'd like to make one too.' 'kathie!' philippa exclaimed, 'you have your own mamma!' 'oh, but,' said kathleen, blushing a little, 'i don't remember her, you see. i've never made her anything. it's different from you. still--if i thought she'd like it. she's often written about my learning to sew and to be neat-handed, and i don't like that sort of thing, so i never answer that part of her letters.' 'it would be _very_ nice for you to make her something, to show her you are neat-handed. wouldn't it, neville? don't you think so too?' asked philippa. 'yes,' neville replied. 'i think it would be very nice. only there's one difficulty--where are you to get the boxes? there must be a box for that kind of pincushion.' philippa's face fell; but kathie's, on the contrary, brightened up. 'i know,' she said. 'i have an idea. but i won't tell you just yet. leave it to me, philippa--you'll see.' 'but, kathie,' said the little girl plaintively, 'you won't forget, will you? you so often do, you know. i've only a fortnight before the box goes. uncle and grandmamma had got it nearly all ready before she got ill; there are books and lots of things going out to papa, that can't wait. and if i can't do the pincushion, i must think of something else.' 'oh, i won't forget,' said kathie confidently. 'the first wet day--and it's sure to be rain again soon; that's how it does in these hilly places; it's never long the same thing. well, the first wet day, it would be a capital way of getting through the time to make pincushions.' philippa said nothing, but neville noticed that her little face still looked dissatisfied. 'never mind, philippa,' he whispered; 'she's only teasing you. i'll see that she doesn't forget. and if she can't get a box for you, i'll try if i can't.' 'thank you, neville! oh, thank you so much!' said philippa fervently, drawing a deep breath. 'how i wish you were my brother!' kathleen caught the last word. 'that's always the way,' she said. 'perhaps if he was your brother, he wouldn't be so nice to you as he is.' kathie was in one of her mischievous, teasing moods, and when this was the case she said things she did not really mean. but philippa was rather matter-of-fact. she looked quite distressed. 'oh, kathie!' she began. 'well?' said kathie. 'you don't really mean that, do you? i know you've often told me that neville was a _very_ good brother to you. i'm sure she doesn't really mean it, neville.' neville smiled at her anxious little face. 'no, i'm sure she doesn't,' he said. 'it is a shame of you to tease phil, kathie. you've made her look quite troubled, poor child.' 'i'm very sorry,' said kathleen. 'phil isn't to look troubled _once_ the whole time she's here. tell me, dear, what can i do to make up for teasing you?' philippa slipped her hand through kathie's arm. 'kathie,' she said, 'if you would but see about the pincushions without waiting for a wet day. now i've got it into my head, i do so want to do it. and i think it would take a good while to make, do you know--longer than you think, to do it quite neatly.' 'very well, you little fusser,' said kathie. 'i'll see what i can do. but mind, i'm not going to be mewed up sewing and bothering at pincushions all day, if it's beautiful, fine weather like this.' 'i don't want you to do anything of the kind,' said philippa. 'that's why it's so much better not to put off about it. we can take several days to them, and do a little every day.' 'humph!' was kathleen's reply. 'why do you say that?' asked philippa. 'oh,' said kathie, 'i know what your "doing a little bit every day" means. i know it of old. when she gets a thing in her head, neville, she fidgets at it till it's done, and won't give herself any peace.' 'well, then, kathie,' said philippa, 'i just promise you i won't do that way about the pincushion, if only you'll set my mind at rest by helping me to get it begun.' and she looked so pitiful, speaking in her quaint, earnest way, that kathleen could not help kissing her, and promising to do what she could at once. that evening, after tea, kathie touched her aunt's arm as they were leaving the dining-room. 'i want to speak to you a moment, aunty,' she said, and miss clotilda turned back with her. 'do you remember, aunty,' she said, 'that one day, when i first came, you said you would show me some of the pieces of old silk and things of mrs. wynne's? and i think you said you'd give me one or two. would you let us see them? and do you think you could give phil some? she's taken such a fancy in her head;' and kathie went on to explain about the box going out to india, and the pincushion old mrs. davis had shown them, which philippa so much wished to copy for her mother. 'and,' kathie went on, 'i've another idea too. we were thinking it would be very difficult to get a box to make it with. that morning when the cupboard was left open in my room, i saw several old pincushions that you said you had meant to cover fresh. might, oh! _might_ we have two of them? we could easily get some plain thin silk for lining them with--phil has some money, and i have a very little--if some of the nice old pieces would do for the outside.' miss clotilda looked a little bewildered. 'two, my dear?' she said. 'i thought it was philippa who wanted to make one. do you want one too?' kathie blushed a little. 'they said,' she began, 'neville and phil said, it would be so nice if i made one for mamma too. i've never made her anything--i don't like sewing, you know, aunty, and she's always writing about things like that.' miss clotilda patted kathie's head. 'yes, dear,' she said; 'i do think it would be very nice indeed. i am sure it would please your mamma. i am almost sure i can give you two of the soiled ones that you can undo and cover and line freshly. if you undo them carefully, you will see exactly how they are made without my helping you. you would rather make them all by yourselves, would you not?' 'yes,' said kathie, 'if we can. it would be much nicer, as they are to be presents to our mothers. thank you _so_ much, aunty.' 'i will bring down the bundle of old pieces this evening, if you like,' miss clotilda went on. 'i know exactly where they are; i can put my hand upon them in a moment. it will amuse us to look them over and choose which will do.' and the kind creature set off up-stairs at once to fetch them, while kathie, overjoyed, ran to tell philippa the success of her application. the pieces of silk proved quite as interesting as they expected. 'it reminds me,' said miss clotilda, with a smile, 'of mrs. goodrich in "the fairchild family," a story i read when i was little, when she gave bessy and lucy and emily each two pieces of old brocaded silk or satin as a test of their neat-handedness. you have never seen the book, but it was a very favourite one of mine as a child.' and she went on to tell them the rest of the story of the patches of silk, how the good little girls turned theirs to purpose, and how the poor naughty girl threw a bottle of ink over hers. 'poor naughty girl!' said kathie. 'i am afraid i must be rather like her, aunty. and philippa is like all the good little girls rolled into one. oh, aunty! what a lovely piece that is!' [illustration] it was a narrow satin and silk stripe of a curious salmon colour, and here and there were little daisies embroidered in gold thread. there was another pale grey satin, with wreaths of flowers running all over it, which was greatly to philippa's taste; and as there was enough for the purpose of each of these, miss clotilda gave them to the children. then a letter had to be written to be sent by the carrier to the draper's at hafod, where mrs. wynne had always dealt, to order a yard of plain rose-coloured silk for philippa, and the same quantity of white for kathie, as linings for both pincushions. a contrast would be best, miss clotilda told them, as it was all but impossible to match the strange and delicate shades of the old silks, except perhaps in very rich and expensive materials. bedtime had come before all this was done, and the children went off to dream of 'flowered padusoy,' and pearl-grey satins 'that would stand alone.' miss clotilda had some difficulty the next morning in persuading them to go for a walk early and not to set to work till later. 'it will be very hot this afternoon,' she said. 'indeed, i think there is thunder not far off. you will have a nice quiet time for getting to work after dinner, and i will look out the old pincushions this morning.' they set off, though rather reluctantly, for kathie, now that she had taken up the idea, was more full of it than even philippa. and she was much less ready than philippa to yield her wishes and opinions to those of others. it did not rain that afternoon, but, as miss clotilda had foreseen, it was very hot. and the children, all three--for neville too seemed bitten by the pincushion mania--found it very pleasant to sit round a table in the nice cool library, busy with their work. there was not much they could do at first beyond unpicking and measuring. miss clotilda had given them two of the pincushions out of the cupboard, and, as philippa had foreseen, when they came to take them carefully to pieces, they found that there would really be more work to do than they had expected. 'what patience mrs. wynne must have had,' said kathie, 'to do them so beautifully! did you ever see anything so neat? just look at the hemming of this frill, phil.' philippa took it up to admire. 'we might hem our frills this afternoon,' she said, 'and then to-morrow, when we have the silk from hafod, we can go on with the linings.' 'i do hope to-morrow will be a wet day,' said kathie. 'we could get on so splendidly if it were.' neville looked up suddenly from one of the now uncovered pincushions which he had been examining. 'you've forgotten about the scent,' he said. 'no, we haven't,' said kathleen. 'aunty has some sachet-powder she is going to give us.' 'and i'll tell you what,' he went on, 'you'd better get some fresh bran. this cushion does smell a little musty, and it won't be much trouble to unfasten it from the top of the box, and fill it fresh. look, it's only tacked down at the corners. the silk top keeps it in its place. mrs. wynne must have been a faddy old lady. just see--there's a sheet of note-paper under the cushion--and the date she made it.' he drew out the paper as he spoke. on it was written, as he said, the date, 'ty-gwyn, january th, .' 'what a good plan!' said philippa; 'the thick paper keeps it all so nice and even--perhaps she did it for that too. let us put papers in ours with the date, kathie. perhaps our great-grandchildren will find them some day. we'd better put our names too.' kathie had no objection. and neville very good-naturedly went off to the 'shop' to get some nice bran, to be ready for to-morrow. chapter xii. found. [illustration: decorative i] t actually rained the next day! 'who would have thought it?' said kathie, with a face of great content. 'the weather so seldom does what one wants.' 'we can set to work immediately after breakfast,' said philippa. for the rose-coloured silk and the white had come from hafod the evening before, 'just what one wanted,' and miss clotilda had given them the satchet-powder, and had promised to look out some lace that would do for edging. 'we have got everything right now,' the little girl went on, her eyes sparkling. so they established themselves in the library, with a newspaper spread out on the table to catch all the shreds and cuttings. 'and the bran,' added neville, as he brought in a paper bag filled with the article in question. 'bran's awfully messy stuff.' he opened the bag as he spoke, and plunged his hand in. 'i like the feeling of it,' he said. philippa stood gazing at the paper bag. 'is that bran?' she said, 'let me feel it too. i didn't know bran was like that,' she went on; 'i thought it was something like cotton-wool.' 'oh, you silly girl,' said kathie, but neville checked her. 'how should she know?' he said. 'she's never been in england till this year.' but philippa was not attending. she had pulled back her sleeve, and had plunged her arm into the bag. 'kathie,' she said, '_that's_ the stuff my pocket was filled with in my dream. _isn't_ it funny? for i didn't know about making the pincushions then--and i didn't know till this minute what bran was like.' she was quite excited about it, and the others agreed it was very curious. but the work soon engrossed them all. neville had something to do too this morning. he took charge of emptying the cushions of the old bran, and re-filling them, and most interesting work he found it, the first part especially. he shook out the cushions on to another newspaper, and for some minutes did not speak. then kathie looked round and asked him what he was doing. 'oh,' he said, 'this is such jolly fun! just look here, kathie and phil,' and he pointed to a row of needles and a few pins at the side of his newspaper. 'i've found all these in the bran. and i expect there are a lot more, and some ends of old brooch pins--looks like real gold,' he went on, holding up one--'it's as good as a hunt. you have to spread the stuff out quite thin and flat, and even then you've no idea how the needles hide. hullo! here's another.' [illustration] kathie and philippa watched him for a few moments. 'yes,' said kathie, 'it's very interesting. but we must get on with our work. and when are you going to fill the cushions with the new bran for us, neville? i can stitch them up as soon as they are filled, and we must put a little bag in near the top with the scent-powder, phil.' 'they won't take five minutes to do,' said neville. 'will you fetch me a big spoon, kathie? it'll make less mess.' and in a very few minutes, as he said, the cushions were filled. then neville went back to his needle-hunt, and for a quarter of an hour or so he was quite silent. then he began to fidget. 'i wish i had some more to do,' he said. 'kathie, hasn't aunty any more to be made over?' kathie shook her head. 'no; the other two she wants to keep as they are for the present, she says,' kathie replied. 'i've finished this stuff,' said neville. 'here--you may divide the needles among you. there are more than thirty. i'm going to keep these brooch pins to test if they're pure gold. oh, i wish it would leave off raining!' suddenly he jumped up and ran out of the room. in about ten minutes he was back again, another old pincushion and two or three pieces of silk in his hand. 'aunty says i may undo this one,' he said, waving it over his head. 'it's the one out of my own room. i just remembered it was very shabby, and aunty says i may undo it and fill it fresh, if one of you girls will help me to cover the top again. the frill isn't the same silk, you see, and it isn't dirty--the top's all pin-holed. i expect there'll be a jolly good lot of needles in this one. here goes!' and he took the scissors and began to unpick it. 'how funny you are, neville!' said kathie. 'you're quite excited over your needle-hunting. now just see here, phil; should we turn in the inside lining or tack it down _outside_?' and a discussion ensued between the two girls, and they paid no more attention to neville. on his side he was very quiet for some minutes. neither kathleen nor philippa heard a curious sound--a sort of smothered exclamation--which escaped him. nor did his sister notice that he had left his seat and was standing beside her, till he touched her on the arm. 'kathie,' he said, and his voice sounded strange and almost hoarse, and kathie, looking up, saw that he was deadly pale. 'oh, neville,' she exclaimed, 'what is the matter? have you swallowed a needle?' he could scarcely help smiling. 'nonsense, kathie,' he said. 'nothing's the matter. it is this,' and he held out a sheet of note-paper, with some writing on it. the paper looked rather yellow, and was marked here and there at the edges as if it had been stitched. 'this is the paper that was in my pincushion, just like the others. it was meant to have the date upon it, i suppose. but it isn't that--look what it is instead. i can scarcely believe it. i feel as if i was dreaming. i want you to read the words.' and kathie read--though with some difficulty, for she too felt as if she were dreaming, and the lines danced before her eyes. they were very few, however, and very legible, in mrs. wynne's clear, precise handwriting. 'my will, and some other papers of less importance, will be found in the plate-chest--containing the best silver--underneath the lining of green baize in the bottom of the box. the lining is only tacked in and will be easily removed. 'davida wynne.' kathie, without speaking, turned the sheet of paper round. on the other side was written, what neville had not noticed, a date, 'ty-gwyn, may th, ,' just as there had been in the other pincushions, only this was an older one. kathie's eyes sparkled, and the power of speech seemed to return to her. 'yes,' she said, 'she had thought this was a blank sheet, and she put the blank sheet in the envelope of "directions," and sealed it up, by mistake. neville, neville, phil, it's _it_!' neville was trembling so, he could scarcely stand. 'what shall we do?' he said. 'i can't bear to risk any more disappointment for aunty. if we could look ourselves, first, but we can't. suppose it isn't there after all--or suppose it doesn't leave things as they think. she may have changed--mrs. wynne, i mean.' 'no,' said kathleen, 'i'm not afraid of the will _if it's there_. mrs. wynne told aunty almost the last thing that it would be all right. but she may have changed the place of keeping it--though it's not likely. i'll tell you what, neville--i'll ask aunty if she has ever looked in that plate-chest, and see what she says.' 'yes,' said neville, who was recovering his composure by now. 'we might do that. it would make it less of a disappointment if it _weren't_ there.' 'oh,' said kathie, 'we could get her to show us the plate-chest even without that. yes--that will be best. i'm sure i can manage it.' 'but then,' said neville, 'we'd have to tell her about this paper all the same. we couldn't conceal it.' 'no; but don't you see that there would be no _disappointment_ about it. she would know at once that it wasn't there before she could hope or wonder about it. i don't think she could bear any more "hoping," neville.' 'no,' he agreed, 'i don't think she could.' and he felt both pleased and surprised at kathie's womanly thoughtfulness for her aunt. 'we _can't_ work any more till we know for sure about it,' said little phil. 'oh, kathie, do settle something quickly.' 'i'm going to,' said kathie. 'put all our things together neatly, phil. i'll be back in a minute.' and in less than five she was back. 'phil, neville,' she called out, 'you're to come up-stairs to the locked-up room where aunty keeps the best linen, and the best china, and the best silver. aunty's going to show it all to us because it's a wet day, and we don't want to work any more.' 'it is better not to tire yourselves over the pincushions,' said miss clotilda's gentle voice behind her, 'and you will have all the afternoon for them. i am sure it is not going to clear. so come along. i have got my keys. it is a very good idea of yours, kathie.' up jumped neville and phil. kathie was already nearly at the top of the staircase, miss clotilda following more slowly. from the long passage which ran almost the length of the house on the first floor, she led the way down a shorter one, then up a little flight of steps ending in a small landing where there were two doors. miss clotilda pointed to one on the right. 'that was the old butler's room,' she said. 'he left last year, for he was too old to work and he would not rest while here.' 'is he dead?' asked neville. 'yes,' she replied; 'he died a week or so before mrs. wynne did. i have often thought,' she added, with a sigh, 'that he might have known something had he been alive.' she chose a key and opened the other door. it led into a fair-sized room. all round three sides were large cupboards; one or two big cases stood on the floor, and at one side were two strongly-made wooden chests. 'the linen is in those cupboards,' miss clotilda went on, 'and the best china near the window. in those boxes there are some new blankets and counterpanes that mrs. wynne never saw. they had just been ordered. and those are the two plate chests. nearly all the silver is laid away.' kathie looked at neville. 'best and every-day silver all together?' 'oh, no,' said miss clotilda. 'the _best_ is in this one,' and she touched it; 'the other was only brought up here for greater security when mrs wynne died, and i had to stay on here alone with martha. now, what shall i show you first, children? the china, perhaps, would please you the most?' 'no, thank you, aunty,' said neville and kathleen; 'please show us the best silver first.' miss clotilda looked a little surprised. 'well, i daresay, it _is_ interesting,' she said. 'there are some very curious old things.' she chose another key as she spoke, and in another moment the lock, which was an excellent one, though very old, was opened. inside, the chest was divided into several compartments, all lined with green baize; all filled with every kind of silver articles, carefully enveloped in tissue paper. 'you may lift out a tray at a time,' his aunt said to neville; 'it is astonishing how many there are, and what that box will hold.' neville obeyed, indeed he did more than obey; he went on lifting out tray after tray, and placing them in rows on the floor. 'stop, my dear boy,' said miss clotilda, 'let us look at one at a time. you will cover the floor with them--and'-- 'let me take all out,' said neville. 'i want to get to the bottom of the box. i know how to put them back again.' miss clotilda said no more. kathie and philippa came to neville and peered into the chest. [illustration: 'that is all,' said neville.] 'that is all,' said neville. he had grown very pale again, but his aunt did not notice it. kathie leant over and felt at the bottom. 'it is soft down here,' she said. 'is there nothing underneath, aunty?' 'there is a thin cushion. the baize is lined with cotton-wool,' miss clotilda replied. 'some of the trays are the same.' but kathie kept feeling about. 'neville,' she whispered, 'try if you can't pull up one corner. it seems loose. i'll keep aunty from looking.' she turned to miss clotilda, who was already unwrapping some of the papers, with some little question about their contents. neville bent down over the chest without speaking. [illustration] suddenly he gave a sort of smothered cry, and the little girls looking round saw that he held something in his hand--two things indeed--two packets, not very thick, but long and flat, both sealed and both labelled in clear writing--the one 'various papers, inventories, &c., to be looked over by david and clotilda powys,' and the other--oh, the other! 'my last will and testament.' neville could not speak. kathie flew forward. 'tell her!' he half whispered. _how_ they told her they could not afterwards recollect. the wits and perceptions are strangely sharpened on some occasions. i suspect very little 'telling' was required, though of course when their aunt had somewhat recovered from the first overwhelming surprise and joy, she was deeply interested in the history of the sheet of paper, and touched by the children's thought for her. some hours of suspense had still to be endured, for miss clotilda would not open the precious packet except in presence of the lawyer, and neville was sent off at once to boyneth to telegraph for him to hafod, and to beg him to come at once. he came that very afternoon, and then indeed all doubts were set at rest. all proved to be as had been expected, and as mrs. wynne had always led her relations to believe would be the case. everything was provided for, nobody was forgotten; the legacy which mr. wynne-carr had reason to look for was to be his, so that no ill-feeling would be caused to any one. 'yes, it is most fair and satisfactory in every particular,' said mr. price, the lawyer, 'if only my respected friend, mrs. wynne, had been less obstinate and eccentric in insisting on keeping the document in her possession! what trouble it would have saved!' 'but,' said kathie, whom even mr. pryce's presence did not overawe, 'i don't think we should have cared about it at all as much as we do if we had never known what it was to lose it;' and in this miss clotilda and neville, and philippa, who seemed to have become quite one of them, agreed, though as for mr. pryce's opinion i cannot take upon myself to answer. he was honestly delighted, however, and went off that evening laden with directions of all kinds, among them a telegram to be despatched to india at once, 'regardless of expense':-- 'from clotilda powys, to captain powys, th regt. 'will found. all right. arrange to come home as soon as possible.' those, i think, were the words it contained. 'and oh, aunty,' said kathie, dancing with delight, 'just _fancy_ what papa and mamma will think when they read it. phil, why don't you look happy? what are you so grave about?' the little girl blushed. 'i don't mean to be selfish,' she said, 'but--i would so like to go on making my pincushion. you know i've only about ten days more to make it in.' 'of course you shall, my dear,' said miss clotilda. 'selfish! no indeed, that you are not. and but for you, i do not believe we should ever have found the will at all.' philippa looked intensely pleased. 'i always had a feeling it was in the house,' she said. 'and then my dream was very queer. but it wasn't much good, for it was such a muddle.' 'dreams generally are,' said miss clotilda. 'no, i wasn't thinking of your dream. it was your wishing to make something for your mother in the first place'-- 'and our going to dol-bach and seeing the pincushion there, and our travelling with the farmer, and my seeing the old ones in the cupboard--_that_ came of my not posting the letter to aunty, so that our trunks hadn't come, and aunty had to open the cupboard to get out a night-gown for me--and--and--oh, dear, how strange it seems! really as if it was a good thing i forgot to post the letter.' miss clotilda could not help smiling. 'don't let that encourage you to think carelessness of any kind "a good thing," my dear kathie,' she said, 'even though good does sometimes come of ill.' 'and it was a _sort_ of carelessness that caused all the trouble, you see. if the old lady--old mrs. wynne--had only looked at the paper before she put it in the envelope, there wouldn't have been any, would there?' said philippa, in her little prim way. 'poor mrs. wynne!' said miss clotilda. 'she would have been the last to wish to cause any of us any trouble.' 'well, all's well that ends well, aunty,' said neville cheerily. 'we have nothing but nice and jolly things to think of now. do let us talk about how soon papa and mamma can possibly get home.' 'all's well that ends well,' as neville said, and what is more, when 'all is well,' there is very little to tell about it. sooner almost than could have been hoped for came a telegram in reply from captain powys, announcing the date at which he and the children's mother and little sister might be expected. the leaves were still on the trees, and ty-gwyn looking _almost_ as pretty as in full summer when the travellers arrived to find kathleen still with her aunt, though poor little philippa had had to go back to school at the end of the holidays. but she came to see her friends again before long, and this time for more than a visit, for it had been arranged that during the three years of her parents' absence she was to live with the powyses altogether, and share kathie's lessons. so miss clotilda's pleasant castles in the air came to be realized. i doubt if any happier family was to be found _anywhere_ than the good people, big and little, in the old white house near the sea, that christmas when neville came home for his holidays, to find them all there together. and in one corner of the library, under a glass shade and on a little stand all to itself, is a queer old-fashioned-looking sort of box, covered in faded silk, and seemingly rather out of place among the pretty things with which the room is adorned. but no one thinks it out of place when its history is told, and it is known to be the old pincushion, the _very_ identical old pincushion, which for so many years had held the secret of the missing will! [illustration] generously made available by the internet archive.) legal recreations. vol. ii. curiosities of wills. the curiosities and law of wills. by john proffatt, ll.b., counsellor-at-law, author of "woman before the law." "wills, and the construction of them, do more perplex a man than any other matter; and to make a certain construction of them exceedeth _jurisprudentum artem_."--coke. san francisco: sumner whitney & co. . copyright , by john proffatt. table of contents. introduction chapter i. origin and history of wills chapter ii. form and requisites of wills section . nuncupative wills. . written wills. chapter iii. testamentary capacity section . incapacity as to age. . physical or mental incapacity. . senile dementia. . coverture. chapter iv. legacies section . as to their quality. . legacies vested or contingent. . conditional legacies. . payment of legacies. . the person who may take. chapter v. limits to testamentary disposition chapter vi. revocation of wills chapter vii. wills as affected by domicile chapter viii. construction of wills preface. it is far from the thoughts of the publishers or the author of this book to provide a work merely for entertainment; it is hoped the title will not mislead so as to suggest this idea. while it is sought to make it entertaining and the style animated, in the selection of such apt and striking cases as will illustrate and expound the principles and rules of law relating to wills, the main idea has been to make it useful and reliable as a systematic, clear, and concise summary for the student and lawyer, and interesting to all classes of readers. it is not expected that it will be used as a work of reference on the various subjects connected with wills; but it is hoped it will be found so accurate and practical as to make it serve advantageously for a manual on this subject, so that a careful reading of it will give a correct knowledge of the law relating to this interesting and important subject. it could not be expected that, in a work of a somewhat general character, the details of the statute law of the several states would be given; but, as far as practicable, the law has been noticed, so far as it affected the formalities of execution, attestation, and proof. many of the principles of the law relating to wills are of such a general and well established character as to be adapted to every locality, and therefore it is believed this work will not have a mere local utility. as far as possible, every effort has been made to have it accurate; that there may be some minor inaccuracies is inevitable, but none, it is hoped, of a serious character. introduction. the making of a last will and testament is one of the most solemn acts of a man's life. few are so frivolous and indifferent as not to realize the importance of an act which is to live after them, and survive long after the hand that traced it has mingled with its kindred dust. they feel that, however regardless people have been of their sayings and doings, however trivial and unimportant have been their acts in the eyes of others, a certain attention, respect, and weight will be given to so deliberate and serious an act as a man's will. they realize, when making it, that they are exercising one of the highest and most important privileges society has granted to the individual--the right to speak and order as to the disposition of his effects and property after he has ceased to live. accordingly, men who have been rudely treated by the world, whose infirmities and eccentricities have subjected them to its ridicule, whose words would command no hearing from their fellow-men, have eagerly availed themselves of this last and important opportunity to freely speak their mind, to vent their spleen on ungrateful friends, to deride an unfeeling world, and in a cynical manner to express without reserve opinions about persons and things, which could have no hearing while they lived, but in a last will and testament will command the attention due to the solemnity of the occasion. in a word, they take this method to give a parting hit to an unfriendly and unsympathizing world. it will be instructive, as well as interesting, as a phase of human nature, to refer, by way of introduction, to some curious wills, which may form an inviting prelude to a more serious treatment of the subject. as might be anticipated, many wills reflect the singular notions, the eccentricities and prejudices of the makers. in many cases, the testator speaks his mind so freely that his opinion of others really amounts to a libel; again, his antipathies or his affections are as freely exhibited; while the instances are not rare in which he bequeaths to posterity the benefit of his religious opinions. testators often give directions as to the place and manner of their burial, as well as the expenses of their funeral pageant. in one case, a testator desired to be buried in a space between the graves of his first and second wives.[ ] mr. zimmerman, whose will was proved in , in england, accompanied the directions for his funeral with something like a threat in case they were not carried out. in his will he says: "no person is to attend my corpse to the grave, nor is any funeral bell to be rung; and my desire is to be buried plainly and in a decent manner; _and if this be not done, i will come again--that is to say, if i can_." the countess dowager of sandwich, in her will, written by herself at the age of eighty, proved in november, , expresses her wish to be buried decently and quietly--_no undertakers' frauds, or cheating; no scarfs, hatbands, or nonsense_. in a similar manner, mrs. kitty jenkyn packe reading, whose will was proved in april, , gives explicit directions as to avoiding useless expense at her funeral. she died abroad, and directed that her remains be put into a leaden coffin, then enclosed in a wooden coffin, and to be taken as freight to her residence, branksome tower, in england. she foresaw that in this way the remains could not enter the house through the door, and directed a window to be taken out of a certain room, in order to permit her remains to enter. the memory of the jars and ills of domestic life has so embittered a man's mind, that if the strife was unequal during his lifetime, he hopes to turn the scale in his favor when dying, and in his will have a last word, and in this way cut off his spouse from her inalienable prescriptive right of having the last word. a man, then, has been known to call his wife "jealous, disaffectionate, reproachful, and censorious." and again, a wife's faults and shortcomings have been published to the world, and children must be mortified to know that in the public documents of the country allusion is conspicuously made to the failings of their mother, as when a husband perpetuates his wife's "unprovoked, unjustifiable fits of passion, violence, and cruelty." the following words are used by an individual who died in london in june, , in reference to his wife: "seeing that i have had the misfortune to be married to the aforesaid elizabeth, who ever since our union has tormented me in every possible way; that not content with making game of all my remonstrances, she has done all she could to render my life miserable; that heaven seems to have sent her into the world solely to drive me out of it; that the strength of samson, the genius of homer, the prudence of augustus, the skill of pyrrhus, the patience of job, the philosophy of socrates, the subtlety of hannibal, the vigilance of hermogenes, would not suffice to subdue the perversity of her character; that no power on earth can change her, seeing we have lived apart during the last eight years, and that the only result has been the ruin of my son, whom she has corrupted and estranged from me. weighing maturely and seriously all these circumstances, i have bequeathed, and i bequeath to my said wife, elizabeth, the sum of _one shilling_, to be paid unto her within six months after my decease."[ ] happily, the ills and strifes of conjugal life are not the most frequently remembered incidents of a man's life; its felicities, its joys and tender experiences, the fidelity and devotion of a true partner, are often most vividly and fondly cherished at death, and touchingly alluded to in a man's last will. in this manner, sharon turner, the eminent author of the "history of the anglo-saxons," and other works, who died in london in , at the age of seventy-nine, and whose will was proved in that year, delights to speak of his wife's affection, and is particularly solicitous that she should not suffer in her personal appearance by the unskillfulness of the persons who had taken her portrait. speaking of his wife, who was dead, he says: "it is my comfort to have remembered that i have passed with her nearly forty-nine years of unabated affection and connubial happiness, and yet she is still living, as i earnestly hope and believe, under her saviour's care, in a superior state of being.... none of the portraits of my beloved wife give any adequate representation of her beautiful face, nor of the sweet, and intellectual, and attractive appearance of her living features, and general countenance, and character." too often testators place all the obstacles they can in the way of their widows marrying again, as will appear more fully in another part of this work. the following instance is one of the few exceptions, and it contains, besides, the most graceful tribute to a wife's character, as given in a will, that we know of. mr. granville harcourt, whose will was proved in march, , thus speaks of his wife: "the unspeakable interest with which i constantly regard lady waldegrave's future fate induces me to advise her earnestly to unite herself again with some one who may deserve to enjoy the blessing of her society during the many years of her possible survival after my life. i am grateful to providence for the great happiness i enjoy in her singular affection; and i pray and confidently hope she may long continue to possess the same esteem and friendship of those who are intimate with her, and can appreciate her admirable qualities, and the respect of all with whom, in any relation of life, she is connected."[ ] ladies have not the same opportunity and privilege of restraining their husbands from marrying again, and we cannot call to mind a single case of a married woman attempting to do so in a will, but on the contrary, we have the case of a lady recommending marriage to her husband. mrs. van hanrigh, whose will was proved in december, , leaves all her property, which appears to have been considerable, to her husband. endorsed on the back of the will is a memorandum, stating that she wishes her clothes to be sold to pay her funeral expenses, which are to be as small as possible, and after commending her husband to the care of her brother, she adds: "it is also my earnest wish that my darling husband should marry, ere long, a nice, pretty girl, who is a good housewife, and above all, to be careful that she is of a good temper." theologians have speculated and differed upon the nature of heaven's happiness, but john starkey, whose will was proved in november, , had no doubt of its character, for he states: "the remainder of my wealth is vested in the affection of my dear wife, with whom i leave it in the good hope of resuming it more pure, bright, and precious, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where there are no railways or monetary panics or fluctuations of exchange, but the steadfast though progressive and unspeakable riches of glory and immortality." the disappointments of life, the inconstancy of friends, and the slights of the world have so wrought upon some minds as to cause them to record in a will their estimate of all earthly things, and enlighten posterity by revealing to it the last impressions of either a cynic or a philosopher. soured and chagrined, they rail at what they deem the folly and hypocrisy of the world, and in a last utterance freely express themselves upon subjects upon which, perhaps, the proprieties of life made them silent while they lived. the following document, penned by an earl of pembroke who lived during the political turmoils of the seventeenth century, testifies to a singular shrewdness and knowledge of character, with a considerable amount of dry humor. as a literary and historical curiosity, we may be justified in giving it at length. the copy from which it is taken bears the signature of the keeper of the records in doctors' commons, nathaniel brind, beneath the words "_concordat cum originali_." it is as follows: "i, philip v, earl of pembroke and montgomery, being, as i am assured, of unsound health, but of sound memory, as well i remember me that five years ago i did give my vote for the despatching of old canterbury, neither have i forgotten that i did see my king upon the scaffold, yet as it is said that death doth even now pursue me, and, moreover, that it is yet further said that it is my practice to yield under coercion, i do now make my last will and testament. "imprimus: as for my soul, i do confess i have often heard men speak of the soul, but what may be these same souls, or what their destination, god knoweth; for myself, i know not. men have likewise talked to me of another world, which i have never visited, nor do i know even an inch of the ground that leadeth thereto. when the king was reigning i did make my son wear a surplice, being desirous that he should become a bishop, and for myself, i did follow the religion of my master; then came the scotch, who made me a presbyterian; but since the time of cromwell, i have become an independent. these are, methinks, the three principal religions of the kingdom. if any one of the three can save a soul, i desire they will return it to him who gave it to me. "item: i give my body, for it is plain i cannot keep it, as you see the chirurgeons are tearing it to pieces. bury me, therefore; i hold lands and churches enough for that. above all, put not my body beneath the church porch, for i am, after all, a man of birth, and i would not that i should be interred there where colonel pride was born. "item: i will have no monument, for then i must needs have an epitaph and verses over my carcass--during my life i had enough of these. "item: i desire that my dogs may be shared among all the members of the council of state. with regard to them, i have been all things to all men; sometimes went i with the peers, sometimes with the commons. i hope therefore they will not suffer my poor curs to want. "item: i give my two best saddle-horses to the earl of denbigh, whose legs, methinks, must soon begin to fail him. as regards my other horses, i bequeath them to lord fairfax, that when cromwell and his council take away his commission, he may still have some _horse_ to command. "item: i give all my wild beasts to the earl of salisbury, being very sure that he will preserve them, seeing that he refused the king a doe out of his park. "item: i bequeath my chaplains to the earl of stamford, seeing he has never had one in his employ, having never known any other than his son my lord gray, who, being at the same time spiritual and carnal, will engender more than one monster. "item: i give nothing to my lord saye, and i do make him this legacy willingly, because i know that he will faithfully distribute it unto the poor. "item: seeing that i do menace a certain henry mildmay, but did not trash him, i do leave the sum of fifty pounds sterling to the lacquey that shall pay unto him my debt. "item: i bequeath to thomas may, whose nose i did break at a masquerade, five shillings. my intention had been to give more; but all who have seen his history of the parliament will consider that even this sum is too large. "item: i should have given to the author of the libel on women, entitled 'news of the exchange,' threepence, to invent a yet more scurrilous mode of maligning; but, seeing that he insulteth and slandereth i know not how many honest persons, i commit the office of paying him to the same lacquey who undertaketh the arrears of henry mildmay. he will teach him to distinguish between honorable women and disreputable. "item: i give to the lieutenant-general cromwell one of my words, the which he must want, seeing that he hath never kept any of his own. "item: i give to the wealthy citizens of london, and likewise to the presbyterians and nobility, notice to look to their skins, for, by order of the state, the garrison of whitehall hath provided itself with poniards, and useth dark lanterns in the place of candles. "item: i give up the ghost." one of the most interesting old wills, the first will registered in the english language in doctors' commons, is the will of lady alice west, proved in the year . the first will recorded there is in the year , and is in latin, as most of the very early wills are. she was the widow of sir thomas west. she begins thus, in the old-fashioned style: "in dei nomine, amen. on thursday, that is to sey, the xv day of the moneth of jul, in the yer of the incarnacion of our lord ihu crist, a thousand and thre hundred and fourescore and fiftene--i, alice west, lady of hynton martel, in hool estat of my body and in good mynde beynge, make my testament in the maner as hit folweth hereafter: in the begynnyng, i bequethe my soule to god almighty and to his moder, seynt marie, and to al the seyntis of heuene, and my body to be beryed in crischerche in the priorie of the chanones in hamptschire by the newe forest wher as myne auncestres leggeth." the wills of persons of distinction were, in spirit, much the same in the fourteenth century as at present; there are pecuniary and specific legacies to relatives, legacies to old and present servants, legacies for charitable purposes, and particular directions about the funeral and place of burial. dame alice west's will is too long to give at length, but some extracts, showing the articles which at that period were so valuable as to be specifically bequeathed, the amounts of the legacies, and the persons to whom they were left, may prove interesting. the lady commences the disposition of her property as follows: "also, i devyse to thomas, my sone, a bed of tapicers werk with alle the tapices of sute, red of color, ypouthered with chapes and scochons in the corners of myn auncestres armes, with that i bequethe to the same thomas the stoffe longyng thereto--that is to seye, my best fetherbed, and a blue canevas and a materas and twey blankettys and a peyre schetes of reynes and sex of my best pilwes." it is an unusual thing in the present day to dispose of bedding by will; and the reason is, that feather-beds, mattresses, pillows, blankets, and sheets are comparatively cheap; but in lady alice's time they must have been articles of luxury and a considerable item in the dower of a bride. the testatrix next thinks of her daughter-in-law: "also i bequethe to johane my sone is wyf, a masse book and alle the bokes that i have of latyn, englisch, and frensch out take the forsayd matyns book, that is bequethe to thomas my sone." we wonder what books she had, and particularly what english books; a list of them would be most interesting. she could not have had many, and we cannot suggest what they were. it should be remembered that this will was made more than five years before the death of chaucer, and nearly eighty years before the first book was printed in english, and books in english must consequently have been few indeed. their scarcity made them of great value; they were carefully treasured, and their future ownership specially provided for by will. something might be said as to the education of ladies of the highest class at that time. here was a lady possessing books in english, latin, and french, which, it is presumable, she could read. latin, however, was the language of her religion; french was probably the tongue she was brought up in, and was the language of the court; and english was the language of her dependents; so that, as a matter of course, every lady of rank may have been familiar with the three languages. she further gives certain gifts to members of her family: "to sir nichol clifton, knyght, and to alianore his wif, my doughter, and to thomas clifton here sone, £ , euenliche to be departed betwix ham thre; and if thomas here sone forsayd deyeth, i wol that it torne to profet of his fader and his moder." we should not expect to find any will previously to the reformation without a legacy to say masses. lady west gives £ _s._, "for to synge and seye masses for my lord sir thomas west is soule, and for myne, and for alle cristene soules," and they are to be "done" within "fourteen night after her deces." there is another bequest to christ church, where she was to be buried, "to bidde and to rede, and synge for my lordes soule forsayd, and myne, and alle cristene soules, while the world schal laste." having given all the legacies she desires, the testatrix then disposes of the remainder of her property: "an al the residue of my godes, after the dettys that i owe ben quyt, and after my testament is parfoned, i bequethe to the forsayd thomas my sone"; and after all these directions and legacies, the good lady finishes her will by ordering the manner of her own interment; when she dies her body is to be carried to the "forsayd priorie of crischerch, and with right litel cost" buried at the first mass, with a taper of six pounds of wax burning at her head, and another taper of six pounds of wax burning at her feet. the will of shakspeare, executed on the th march, , not quite a month previous to his death, forms a most interesting document for the scholar, as well as the lawyer. it is registered in doctors' commons _verbatim_, as it was written, and is prized as a unique and interesting document relating to the poet. it is written in the usual clerical hand of the period, on three sheets of paper, fastened at the top. each sheet is signed by the poet, the final signature, "by me, william shakspeare," being the most distinct. these three autographs, with two appended to deeds relating to his property in london, constitute the only undoubted signatures of shakspeare which we at present possess. it commences in the old way, thus: "in the name of god, amen! i, william shackspeare of stratford upon avon, in the countie of warr. gent, in perfect health and memorie, god be praysed! doe make and ordayne this my last will and testament in manner and forme followeing; that ys to saye, first, i comend my soule into the handes of god my creator, hoping and assuredlie beleeving, through thonelie merites of jesus christe my saviour, to be made partaker of lyfe everlastynge, and my bodye to the earth whereof yt ys made." it would be tedious to give _in extenso_ the various items of this celebrated will; we shall only refer to a few such items as are sufficiently remarkable. in one item he gives a bequest to his sister joan: "i gyve and bequeath unto my said sister jone xx pounds, and all my wearing apparrell, to be paied and delivered within one yeare after my deceas; and i doe will and devise unto her _the house_ with thappurtenaunces in stratford wherein she dwelleth, for her natural lief, under the yearlie rent of xij{d}," or twelve pence. he gives various specific and general legacies; and, if we judge by the number of such, he must have had numerous friends. in another item he gives to the poor of stratford "tenn poundes "; to mr. thomas combe his sword; to his daughter judith his "broad silver gilt bole." the most remarkable item in the will is the following: "_i give unto my wief my second best bed with the furniture._" he devised to his daughter, susanna hall, his landed property in stratford, limited to the first or other sons of her body after her life. it is said the object of the poet in leaving the bulk of his property to mrs. hall was evidently to found a family, the darling object of shakspeare's ambition. one clause interlined in the will has occasioned a good deal of marvel and censorious criticism--the bequest to his wife, who has been represented as cut off by him, not indeed with a shilling, but with an old bed. but, as she was entitled in law to dower out of his real estate, shakspeare may not have deemed it necessary to make any further bequest to his wife than that of the second-best bed, as a special mark of affection. this is the explanation now tendered of what must otherwise have appeared a most extraordinary procedure on the part of the poet. it must be admitted, however, that, making full allowance for her provision by right of law, there still remains a feeling of dissatisfaction with the total exclusion of anne shakspeare from all parts of her husband's will, with the exception of an interlined clause of a dozen words. it is also a significant fact that, with the exception of the bed, no household furniture is bequeathed to the widow; so that she must have been left dependent on her daughters for lodging and residence. the will of henry viii in some of its provisions is well worth the attention of the scholar, as it reflects the state of the distinguished testator's religious opinions, which, contrary to general impressions, were not entirely in harmony with the views of the reformers in england. this will was the subject of judicial examination, in the house of lords, in . ( h. l. cas. .) it appears that, by the foundation of edward iii, when he instituted the order of the garter, and created the poor knights, a certain obligation had been cast upon the dean and canons of windsor to provide for the poor knights, the king having promised the dean and canons lands to enable them to do so. but, by an act of parliament, passed in the edw. iv, reciting that "the possessions given to the said dean and canons suffice not to sustain all other charges, and also to bear the charges of the poor knights," it was enacted "that the same dean and canons, and their successors forever more, be utterly quit and discharged from all manner of exhibition or charge of or for any of the same knights." down to the end of the reign of henry viii, the poor knights appear to have been fed only with promises, and no permanent provision was made for them. in the hen. viii, the dean and canons having, at his request, granted to a poor knight, named peter narbonne, an annuity of twenty marks for his life, the king wrote them a letter of thanks, in which he acknowledges that they were not bound to find anything for the poor knights since the edw. iv; thanks them for their bounty to peter narbonne; promises them favor in their suits hereafter as a recompense, and assures them "that they shall not be burthened with the maintenance of any other poor knights till such time as he should have provided lands for their exhibition, which not only should be sufficient to discharge the dean and canons of such knights, but also of the said annuity." the promise was not fulfilled; and when henry's end approached, the breach of it lay heavily upon his conscience, and hence the following provision in his will, which was dated december th, , about three weeks before his death. one of the directions was: "that, as soon as may be after our departure from this world, the dean and chapter shall have manors, etc., to the yearly value of £ over all charges, made sure to them and their successors, forever, upon the conditions hereafter ensuing." among the other provisions were the following: "and for the due and full accomplishment and performance of all other things conteined with the same in the form of an indenture, signed with our own hand, which shall be passed by way of covenant for that purpose between the said deane and cannons and our executors, if it pass not between us and the said deane and cannons in our liefe; that is to say, the said deane and cannons and their successours forever shall finde two prestes to say masses at the said aulter to be made where we have before appointed our tomb to be made and stand; and also after our decease kepe yerely four solemne obites for us within the said college of windesour, and at every of the same obites to cause a solemne sermon to be made, and also at every of the said obites to give to poor people in almes tenne poundes. "and also to give forever yerely to thirtene poor men, who shall be called poor knightes, to every of them twelf pens every daye, and ones in the yere yerely forever, a long joune of white cloth, with the garter upon the brest, embrodered with a sheld and cross of sainte george within the garter, and a mantel of red cloth, and to such one of the said thirtene poor knightes as shall be appointed to be hed and gouvernour of them, £ s. d. yerely forever, over and besides the said twelf pennes by the daye. "and also to cause, every sonday in the yere, forever, a sermon to be made forever at windesour aforesaid, as in the said indenture and covenant shall be more fully and particularly expressed, willing, charging, and requiring our son prince edwarde, all our executors and counsaillors which shall be named hereafter, and all other our heirs and successours which shall be kinges of this realme, as they will answer before almighty god at the dredful day of judgment, that they and every of them do see that the said indenture and assurance to be made betwene us and the said deane and cannons, or between them and our executours, and all thinges therein conteined, may be duly put into execution, and observed and kept forever, perpetually, according to this our last will and testament." the archbishop of canterbury and the lord chancellor, and a great many other eminent persons, and councillors of the privy council, with "our son prince edwarde," were appointed "executors," and, "as they must and shall answer at the day of judgment," they were required, "truly and fully to see this my last will performed in all things with as much speed and diligence as may be." in , a meeting of the executors and privy councillors, with the lord protector at their head, was assembled, and a document was drawn up which recited the material parts of the will relating to this matter, and directed that "the barons of the exchequer, the king's sergeants, the attorney and solicitor, should deliberately peruse the whole will, and frankly declare their opinions what the executors may lawfully do, and how and in what form the said will may be lawfully executed and performed." this was done, and a special report was afterwards made, declaring that the will might be carried into effect, and stating how that might be done. chapter i. origin and history of wills. jurists do not quite agree as to the full extent of a man's interest in, and control of, the property he acquires. there are different theories as to the real title to property; most all, however, agree that occupation, united with labor, is the best ground of a title to exclusive ownership of property. but how long will this ownership or control continue? during lifetime, or for a longer period? some maintain that, by the law of nature, it only lasts during the life of the owner, and after his decease the property again becomes merged with the general stock of the public--it becomes _publici juris_; and that to permit one to order and control its disposition after he has ceased to live, is a privilege or a concession of society, and not any inherent natural right. for a large amount of property is owned in societies advanced in civilization before the right of testamentary disposition is exercised, which would show that this right is not coeval with the foundation of society or the acquisition of property, and therefore nations are not impelled to it by a natural instinct and impulse. it is claimed that the _jus disponendi_ is a necessary incident of property--an inseparable quality; but if, by this term, we understand a right of disposal while a man lives, we can admit that it belongs to ownership; but it is quite a different thing when a man ceases to live; for then, naturally, he ceases to have dominion; and if he has a natural right to dispose of his goods for a short time after death, why not for millions of years?[ ] it is not a natural inherent right of the individual to dispose of his property after his decease; it is no more or less than a right given by positive law--a right which is founded on convenience and concession. for a very obvious reason, we do not find this right in the early constitution of society, either given or exercised. society, in early times, was founded on the family as the initial unit or group, which was only recognized by the state as entitled to maintenance. naturally, by right of this principle in early society, the property acquired by an individual went into the general stock of the family, as a necessary _appanage_, and was in the name of the head of that family, and at his decease, by a principle of early law, devolved in due course upon the successor, or the _hæres_ of the roman law, who took it with all the obligations of the deceased. society had not yet so advanced as to make the individual an object of its care and government, and recognize him as a distinct unit apart from the family; and succession--"universal succession," as it was called--to the property in the family, was the usual disposition of property. it took a long while before society permitted the individual to dispose of his property _out of his family_, because this was so abnormal and unnatural as to be only dictated by caprice, passion, or prejudice, insomuch that whenever attempted among the romans, the will was set aside as _inofficious_, and it was not permitted at all in the early english law; and even now is a presumed ground of imbecility or insanity in a testator. the will, as we understand it, is unquestionably of roman origin--it is purely a creature of that law, the _corpus juris_, "the public reason of the romans." the laws of solon only permitted wills when the testator had no children.[ ] among the hindoos, the right of adoption as a succession to property effected the same purpose as a will,[ ] while among the teutonic nations wills were unknown, and the children inherited.[ ] at first, among the romans, a will was neither secret, revocable, nor of effect, until after death--characteristics which we necessarily associate with a will in modern times. a will then was more like a conveyance in a man's lifetime--a sale of the family rights, property, and obligations, in the presence of witnesses, to a person known as the _emptor familiæ_, who assumed the place of the testator as head of the family. he might be compared to an assignee under our law, with this difference, that the latter is only liable as far as he has assets. wills were usually witnessed by seven witnesses, who sealed outside upon a thread, and after some time, deposited in the archives during the life of the testator, and opened in the presence of the prætor or other officer, after decease, and any person might have a copy, being matter of record.[ ] the roman law did not permit the entire disposition of property by will, if a man had a family. by a law of justinian, one-fourth, at least, was required for the children, and when there were four children, they could claim one-third, which became a general law throughout europe.[ ] the roman influence, connection, and dominion in great britain necessarily introduced roman laws and usages. it was a connection lasting fully three hundred years, during which time the country was visited by roman jurists, and the people became familiarized with the administration of the civil law, both through the civil courts and the churches. accordingly, while wills were not in use among kindred teutonic people in the north of europe, they were well known and general in the saxon period in england, where an unlimited and absolute right of devise was given. in the laws of king canute, provision is made for the disposition of property in cases of _intestacy_, which makes it evident that testamentary dispositions were recognized;[ ] and canute himself left a will.[ ] there are notices of some twenty-five anglo-saxon wills extant. nearly all of the testators were people of prominence and distinction, and these wills are preserved in monastic houses to which they devised property. king alfred's will, from its antiquity and its formal character, is one of the most interesting ancient documents existing. (he died a. d. .) it opens thus: "i, alfred, king by god's grace, and with ethered's the archbishop's counsel, and all the west saxon wights, witness, have considered about my soul's thrift, and about the inheritance that to me, god and mine ancestors did give, and about the inheritance that ethulf, king, my father to us, three brothers, bequeathed, ethelbold, etherad and me." he provides for masses thus: "and so divide for me and my father, and for the friends that be interceded for, and i intercede for, two hundred of pounds, fifty to the mass priests over all my kingdom, fifty to god's poor ministers, fifty to the distressed poor, fifty to the church that i at shall rest; and know not certainly whether the money so much is, nor i know not but of it more may be, but so i ween." it appears that king alfred's will was prepared by the archbishop's counsel, and published in the presence of the west saxon wights, or wise men. this gives us a glimpse at the interference of the clergy in such important affairs, and leads us on a most interesting and important inquiry as to the connection of wills with ecclesiastical courts. the clergy of that time possessed a monopoly of the learning of the day, and especially of the learning of the civil law, having made it a matter of study. reasonably they would be consulted on subjects on which the civil or roman law had such a bearing; and as a matter of fact, they soon became presiding judges with the civil magistrate in cases of probate of wills. in the early saxon period, the bishop sat with the earl in the county court in the administration of testamentary matters; and this was the case up to the time of the normans. but the clergy had occasion to interfere on other grounds, at a very early period. at a very early day, they sought jurisdiction in probate matters. the practice was probably favored by the sanction given by the civil law to the intervention of the bishop to compel the execution of a will where there were legacies _in pios usus_--to pious uses.[ ] when any legacy was disposed of to pious uses, for the use of the church, for monasteries, or for the poor, the bishops were to sue for the same, and see to the administration thereof.[ ] but justinian would not allow further than this, and he prohibited the bishops interfering generally in the probate of wills.[ ] upon which a writer remarks: "here we see the clergy in those days had set their foot upon the business, and i suppose since that time they never pulled it wholly out again." the popes, as their power increased, endeavored to obtain the jurisdiction over testaments. pope innocent the fourth claimed for the bishop the power to dispense property left to a charity, if there be no executor appointed by the will, and if there be an executor, and he does not discharge the duty faithfully, the bishop may assume administration.[ ] as a matter of history, in european countries, except england, the church did not pretend that wills were of ecclesiastical cognizance _sua natura_, but only such wills as were made for pious uses.[ ] so that the origin of the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical courts touching testamentary matters is by the custom of england, and not by ecclesiastical law. blackstone says: "the spiritual jurisdiction of testamentary causes is a peculiar constitution of this island; for in almost all other (even in popish) countries all matters testamentary are under the jurisdiction of the civil magistrate."[ ] we have seen that during the saxon period the bishop presided with the earl in the administration of testamentary matters; but in the eighteenth year of william the conqueror, a separate court was organized for the bishop, who no longer sat with the civil authorities. this was the beginning of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction; though at first power was granted only to adjudicate on such matters as were for the good of the soul, an expression which the bishops subsequently made very elastic and comprehensive. the clergy did not acquire the exclusive jurisdiction till the reign of henry i, who by charter first established this jurisdiction.[ ] in the time of richard i, when he was in confinement, the clergy were more fully established in this right, for they obtained from him a confirmation of the ecclesiastical immunities.[ ] the proof of wills was thus well settled and established, for it is spoken of as an ordinary and undisputed usage, and through all the animated disputes in the reign of henry ii, as to the civil and ecclesiastical jurisdiction, it is observable that nothing is advanced against the authority of the spiritual courts in testamentary causes. in the reign of richard ii the county courts were prohibited to infere with the probate of wills.[ ] by the early common law of england, if a man had a wife and children, he had only a testamentary disposition of one-third of his property; the remainder, the shares of the widow and children, were called _rationabiles partes_, which must be intact. the personal attendance of the clergy on the dying would ordinarily lead to the disposition of the third which a person was privileged to bequeath by testament; and, from ancient wills, it is very evident this power was liberally and generally exercised in favor of religious uses, such as were deemed for the soul's health of the testator. whenever, by accident or extreme feebleness, the exercise of this right was prevented, the third thus left at the disposal of a person was of right claimed by the clergy, as the "dead man's part," to be appropriated for his benefit, _pro animæ salute_. this would lead to the intervention of the spiritual courts in the distribution of an intestate's estate, especially as they had full power over the probate. so it became the invariable custom to take the third of an intestate's goods for pious uses, which were, to assist in paying for masses for the benefit of the "defunct's soul," to assist the poor and infirm, to pay for church lights, religious services, and anniversaries. if a man died without wife or children, the ordinary, as the bishop was termed, had the administration of the whole of an intestate's property, subject to the payment of the debts of the deceased. it is easy to see what immense power and revenue accrued to the church in consequence of the establishment of these privileges; and the influence gained thereby, and the flagrant abuses resulting from this prerogative, caused just alarm to the civil power, and led to a struggle to curtail such powers in the reign of edward iii,[ ] when a law was passed providing that the ordinary should grant the administration to the next of kin. the statute of distribution, in the reign of charles ii, destroyed the old common-law right to the _pars rationabilis_, and made the estate distributable among the widow and next of kin, leaving still, however, in the hands of the administrator, for his own use, the third formerly retained by the church; and finally, by statute, in the first year of james ii, it was provided that this third should also be distributed. so, after a struggle of many years, the administration of the goods of an intestate was taken out of the hands of the spiritual courts, and rightfully given to the family of the deceased. the long, slow process is an interesting phase of history for the general reader, as it is for the lawyer, who finds it necessary to follow it, because the rules and decisions of the ecclesiastical courts as to the probate of wills and the administration of personal property have become incorporated into the body of our law, and form a part of it.[ ] up to the thirty-second year of henry viii, there was no power to make a will of real estate. in his reign the statute of wills was passed, which first gave this power, and after that time a person had the right to make wills of real as well as personal property; but the ecclesiastical courts had only cognizance of the wills of personal property; the common-law courts had the jurisdiction of wills relating to real estate. the next statute that affected wills was the _statute of frauds_, in the twenty-ninth year of charles ii, which required wills affecting real estate to be in writing, _signed_ by the testator, and attested in the presence of three or four credible witnesses. this statute had an immense influence on our jurisprudence, and is substantially adopted in all our states, with slight variations.[ ] in that statute certain formalities were insisted upon, but only in regard to a will of real estate; a will of personal property was not required to be executed in the same manner and with the like formalities.[ ] before the statute of frauds, according to henry viii, it was only necessary for the will to be in writing; and accordingly, where a man beyond the sea wrote a letter, in which he declared his will to be that his land should go in a certain way, it was adjudged a good will.[ ] and a will written without the appointment of the testator, if read to him and approved by him, was held good, signing and sealing not being necessary.[ ] now, by statute i vict., ch. , in england, there are required the same formalities in a will of personal estate as by the statute of frauds are required in a will of real estate, and the same is now the case in nearly all our states; and, by the same statute, a person has a full testamentary disposition of all real estate, as well as personal, to which he is entitled, either in law or in equity, at the time of his death. our american states generally, after the revolution, adopted the english common law, as it was at certain periods--some taking one date, and others a different one; but in all substantially the common law was taken as the foundation of our municipal law, with the exception of louisiana. hence the law relating to the execution and probate of wills, as administered in the ecclesiastical courts, was engrafted here, subject to certain statutory modifications suitable to our polity and circumstances. but we, having no recognition of an established religion, have given this jurisdiction to special civil courts, denominated probate courts in some states, as in california; the orphan's court, as in new jersey; the surrogate's court, as in new york. the name surrogate again brings to our mind a reminiscence of the former ecclesiastical jurisdiction; it was the name given to the bishop's deputy. however, in all, no matter by what name known, the precedents, the decisions, and rules, as established in the ecclesiastical courts in england, in regard to testamentary matters, have authority and force; and it is for this reason the history and adjudication of these courts are so necessary to the lawyer of the present day.[ ] chapter ii. form and requisites of wills. a will, from its nature, is the declaration of a man's mind as to the proper disposition of his property after death. this declaration, as any other fact, is established by evidence, oral or written. it is not the essence of a will that it shall be in writing; the essence is the declared purpose or intention, and this is established, as any other fact in law, by witnesses, or by the written declaration of the testator. in bacon's abridgement, a will, therefore, is defined to be, "a declaration of the mind, either by word or writing, in disposing of an estate; and to take place after the death of the testator."[ ] a distinction was formerly made between a will and a testament; when lands or tenements were devised in writing, it was by will, and when goods and chattels were disposed of, it was by testament; but this distinction is now lost sight of, and the words are used indiscriminately, and we speak of the posthumous disposition of an estate, of whatever kind, as by last will and testament. since peculiar perils and obstacles beset a man in his last hours; as much uncertainty and contention have arisen as to his precise purpose and declaration; and as there is a strong and very unusual temptation and opportunity given to designing and evil persons who may surround him, to falsify his intention to their advantage, it has seemed politic and wise to legislatures to prescribe a mode by which wills shall be evidenced and proved, to guard against fraud, imposition, and uncertainty. hence, in the statutory enactments of every state, there are precise and strict rules laid down on the subject; and as writing is the most reliable and permanent mode of conveying the proof of a person's intention; and as it is now an acquirement possessed by almost every one, it is now the mode insisted on for embodying the declaration of a man's last will and testament, with rare exceptions as to verbal wills. we may, therefore, speak of wills in two great classes, viz., _verbal_ and _written_. section .--nuncupative wills. a nuncupative will is a verbal declaration of a person's intention as to the manner of disposition of his property after death. formerly, at an early period, this must have been the usual kind of will in general use, when writing was a rare acquirement. before the statute of frauds, it was of as great force and efficacy (except for lands, tenements, and hereditaments) as a written testament.[ ] but as wills of this kind were found liable to great impositions and frauds, and occasioned many perjuries, that statute placed them under several restrictions, except when made by "any soldier in actual military service, or any mariner or seaman being at sea."[ ] the imminent dangers, the diseases and sudden death which constantly beset soldiers and sailors; the utter inability oftentimes to find the time or the means to make a deliberate or written testamentary disposition of their effects, seem at all times to have made them a proper exception to the operation of a rule which the wisdom of later times has found it expedient, if not absolutely obligatory, to apply to all others. hence, almost all governments grant this immunity to this class of persons. it was a peculiar privilege of the roman soldiers, who were exempt when on a military expedition from complying with the strict testamentary law; the privilege, however, was only well established under the empire, and after a time it was extended to the naval service, and officers, rowers, and sailors were, in this respect, esteemed as soldiers.[ ] another class of persons formerly permitted to make this kind of will were those who were at the point of death, or as it was termed, _in extremis_. and in many states this privilege is still granted this class. for a long period, as far back as a little before the time of henry viii, this kind of will was confined to this class of persons.[ ] a writer of the time of henry viii says: "this kind of testament is made commonly when the testator is now very sick, weak, and past all hope of recovery." chancellor kent says: "this has been the uniform language of the english law-writers from that time to this day, so that it has become the acknowledged doctrine, that a nuncupative will is only to be tolerated when made _in extremis_."[ ] the danger of collusion and conspiracy among those who surround a feeble dying person has taught legislatures to be very strict in placing adequate safeguards around such a one. it was a gross abuse of such an opportunity, in a remarkable case in the twenty-eighth year of charles ii, that led, it is supposed, to the enactment of the statute of frauds in the next year. the case was this:[ ] mr. cole, at a very advanced age, married a young woman, who during her lifetime did not conduct herself so as to make the old man's life a placid or a happy one. after his death she set up a nuncupative will, said to have been made _in extremis_, by which the whole estate was given to her, in opposition to a will made three years before the testator's death, giving £ , to charitable uses. the nuncupative will was proved by nine witnesses; and after examination in the course of a trial, it appeared most of the witnesses were perjured, and mrs. cole was found guilty of subornation. it was then that lord nottingham said: "i hope to see one day a law that no written will should be revoked but by writing." he was gratified in seeing such a law the succeeding year. upon this, chancellor kent observed: "i should hope to see one day a law that no nuncupative will should be valid in any case."[ ] the case in which these words were used was a very curious one, and will be worth while to be stated somewhat fully. we can give no better statement of it than the admirable summary given by that eminent jurist in his opinion, where the subject of nuncupative wills received a thorough discussion. the will was made by a william jones on the th april, , and was as follows: "i now say, as i have repeatedly said before, that i leave all the property i am possessed of to mary hazleton; i do this in consequence of the good treatment and kind attention i have received from her during my sickness. she is worthy of it. no other person shall inherit my property. i wish you all in the room to take notice of this." the will was witnessed by four witnesses. it was finally declared invalid, because it did not appear the testator made it in his last extremity, and as there were so many evidences of undue influence. the facts were as given by kent: "william jones was an irishman by birth and a religious catholic by profession. he was born in the county of dublin, in ireland, and received a school education about thirty years before his death, and which carries us back to the year . he had then living parents, brothers, and sisters, and he was the youngest of the family. he was apprenticed to a house carpenter in the city of dublin, and served a regular apprenticeship of seven years. when this service expired, he worked as a journeyman for nine or twelve months, and then emigrated to the united states. this brings us in the history of his life to the year , and perhaps that fact may enable us to give some probable solution of the only circumstance that seems (if we except the will) to cast any shade over the memory of this man. i allude to the change of his paternal name, _o'connor_, for that of _jones_. it does not appear precisely when he changed his name, but i refer it back to that period as the probable time, and presume that he and his family were more or less implicated in the rebellion in ireland in , in consequence of an ill-fated attempt to effect a revolution in that kingdom. it is probable that he may have emigrated for safety; and, for greater safety, laid down the name of _o'connor_, which was then memorable in the irish annals, on the side of the unfortunate. but be this conjecture as it may, we find him first at new york, then for two years at savannah, then living for twelve or fourteen years in cuba, and learning the spanish language, and where he probably made his fortune. he is next traced on his return to the united states to the cities of baltimore, philadelphia, and new york; and in all of them he seems to have had business, pecuniary concerns, and friends. these are the few and imperfect sketches of his biography to be selected from the case, before we find him rich in the fruits of his enterprise, but sick with a disease of the liver, at the boarding-house of mrs. fox, in cherry street, in new york, the latter end of march, . "jones, while at the house of mrs. fox, claimed to be worth altogether $ , in property existing in new york, philadelphia, baltimore, and the island of cuba; and to show that this claim had pretty fair pretensions to truth, there were actually found at his lodgings, at his death, bank-books showing deposits to his credit in one or more banks of new york to between thirteen and fourteen thousand dollars. "he had been sick at mrs. fox's about five weeks when he is said to have made the will now under consideration. during that time he had one ellen taylor, a colored woman, for his hired nurse; and there was a mrs. hazleton, who had rooms and boarded in the same house, who also acted as his nurse. whether jones ever saw or heard of mrs. h. before he came to board there, does not appear, nor have we in the case any distinct lineaments of the character which mrs. h. sustains, or the business or purpose of her life. she was able, all at once, and without any remarkable display of goodness or any adequate cause, to gain a wonderful ascendancy over the affections of this sick man. if her story be true, and the will genuine, she obliterated from jones' breast the sense of friendship, the charities of religion, the deep-rooted traces of national affection, every tender recollection of the ties of blood, of his natal soil, of the school-fellows of his youth, of father and mother, brother and sister, relative and friend. he was persuaded at one nod to pour the accumulated treasures of his varied life into the lap of this mysterious woman--the acquaintance of a day!" from the manifest evils arising from this kind of wills, legislatures are not disposed to favor them; they seem only adapted to a ruder condition of society than the one we now live in. so, in the statute of wills in england, passed in ,[ ] such wills are declared invalid, except as to soldiers and sailors; and the same is the case in nearly all our american states. but a few states still permit such wills made by persons _in extremis_, and bequeathing a limited amount of property. they are not permitted in new york, except, as in the english statute, to soldiers and sailors on actual service.[ ] they are in california of property to one thousand dollars, and then must be proved by two witnesses, one of whom is requested by the decedent to be a witness; and the will must be reduced to writing within thirty days after death, and proved within six months after the same was uttered.[ ] even as to soldiers and sailors great strictness is required. in the first place, soldiers must be on actual military service. the military testament was first conceded by julius cæsar to all soldiers, but it was subsequently limited by justinian to those engaged on an expedition;[ ] and our courts in modern times have invariably adhered to the principle that there must be actual warfare. in this country, the cases upon the subject of nuncupative wills are considerably numerous since the last civil war. in a late case, where the deceased, a soldier, had been duly mustered into the united states service during the late civil war, and while in camp wrote a letter to a friend, directing the disposition of the amount due upon certain securities left in his hands among the brothers and sisters of the deceased, as the holder should think proper, and that all his other property should go to his wife, naming her, she paying his debts, and soon after started on an expedition or raid against richmond, in which he was made prisoner, and soon after died in prison, the will was held good as a nuncupative one, and entitled to probate.[ ] sailors must be actually serving on shipboard. thus, in the case of lord hugh seymour, the commander-in-chief of the naval force at jamaica, but who had his official residence on shore, it was held that he did not properly come within the exception, for that he was not "at sea" within the meaning of that expression, and that a nuncupative will made by him was not valid.[ ] it was held in new york that a person employed as cook on board of a steamship should be classed as a mariner at sea, and therefore entitled to make a nuncupative will.[ ] section .--written wills. the statute law of almost every civilized state at the present time requires a will of real and personal property to be in writing, with the exceptions noticed in the first section of this chapter. a will, wholly written by the testator, signed and dated by him, is called a _holographic will_, and is, in some states, valid, without the usual formalities required to prove wills.[ ] the law has not made requisite to the validity of a will that it should assume any particular form, or be couched in language technically appropriate to its testamentary character. it is sufficient that the instrument, however irregular in form, or inartificial in expression, discloses the intention of the maker respecting the posthumous destination of his property; and if this appears to be the nature of its contents, the instrument is regarded as a will, if otherwise witnessed according to the mode pointed out in the statute. professional practice, and long-continued custom, however, have established some technical forms of expression. as if to appropriately mark the solemnity of the act, and to declare a consciousness of it, it was the usual way to commence a will, and it is still observed, with--"in the name of god, amen"; but this expression is now considered too formal and quaint, and of late the practice is to introduce a will in a less formal manner, thus: "i, john doe, of ----, in the state of ----, do hereby make and publish this my last will and testament, hereby revoking all former wills by me at any time made." it was also customary to refer to the bodily and mental condition of the testator, as, "i, a b, being of infirm health, but of sound mind and disposing memory, and aware of the uncertainty of life, do now make, etc."; but this, to a great extent, is abrogated. usually, the first direction given is as to the payment of debts and funeral expenses; but this is merely formal and unnecessary, as the law would have this done in any event; but it may be of use to show that the subject of the testator's debts was brought distinctly to his mind, and may thus aid in the construction of the will.[ ] a very general clause in a will, without many exceptions, is one appointing one or more executors. formerly, it was considered indispensable to the validity of a will that an executor should be named in it;[ ] but that opinion no longer obtains either here or in england;[ ] and now where the appointment of an executor is omitted in a will, administration is granted to a person with the will annexed. many may have an idea that a formal will requires a seal, no doubt from the ordinary phraseology at the close of a will, "signed, sealed, and published," but there is no state we know of where a seal is now necessary except in new hampshire.[ ] the use of a seal, however, will be required when a testator exercises a power of appointment in a will derived from any prior will or settlement;[ ] but if the seal be omitted it will not render the will void; it will only render the execution void as far as the power is concerned. for instance: if, by an instrument under seal, a power is given to a married woman in the nature of an appointment to devise certain real estate, in such a case she will be required to execute the will with a seal, if the appointment is to be a valid one. the ecclesiastical courts in england and the courts here do not confine the testamentary disposition to a single instrument, but they will consider papers of different nature and forms, if not inconsistent, as constituting altogether the will of the deceased.[ ] it is immaterial in what language a will is written, whether in english, or in latin, french, or any other tongue.[ ] while a will is to be in writing,[ ] the law insists upon certain solemnities in its execution to properly evidence the testator's act and intention, without which the will is absolutely void; and courts very strictly construe these requirements, because they are remedial, in order to guard against very grave perils and mischief. the statute of frauds required that all devises and bequests of any lands or tenements should be in writing, signed by the testator, or by some other person in his presence, and by his express direction, and subscribed in his presence by three or four credible witnesses. this statute has been the model on which all our statutes, relating to the proof of wills in the different states, were framed. some have copied it literally, others have adopted it with certain necessary modifications. questions had arisen under this statute as to what the legislature meant by the word "signed"; namely, whether it should be construed in its strict sense, and by analogy to other instruments, or whether it should be liberally expounded and left open as a question of construction upon intention to be inferred from the facts and circumstances attending each particular case. the construction had been, as well in the courts of england as here, that the writing of the name of the testator in the body of the will, if written by himself, with the intent of giving validity to the will, was a sufficient _signing_ within the statute.[ ] thus the old law stood, and the mischief of it was, that it was not necessary for the testator to have adopted the instrument after it was finished, by actually signing the same at the close of the will, and it did not denote clearly that he had perfected and completed it. to remedy this evil, and to prevent future controversy as to whether a will signed by the testator in any other part of the instrument than at the _end_, denoted a complete and perfect instrument, statutes have been passed in some states requiring the will to be _subscribed_ by the testator at the end thereof. the statute passed in england in the first year of victoria, requires that the will "shall be signed at the foot or end thereof by the testator, or by some other person, in his presence and by his direction." notwithstanding the language of the statute of frauds as to _signing_, without indicating how or where, is still retained in the statutes of the majority of our states, except in arkansas, california, connecticut, kentucky, and new york, where it is to be _subscribed_ at the end, and in ohio, pennsylvania, and west virginia, where it is to be _signed at the end_ of the will. the requirements of the new york statute are as strict, if not the strictest, of any of our states; and those of california are substantially the same by the recent civil code of that state.[ ] the statute is in its terms perfectly explicit. four distinct ingredients must enter into and together constitute one entire complete act, essential to the complete execution of the instrument as a will. . there must be a signing by the testator at the end of the will; . the signing must take place in the presence of each of the witnesses, or be acknowledged to have been made in their presence; . the testator at the time of signing and acknowledging the writing shall declare it to be his last will; and . there must be two witnesses who shall sign at the end, at the request of the testator.[ ] there must be a concurrence of all these four requisites to give validity to the act, and the omission of either is fatal. neither of the four, which united make a valid execution of a will, may be done at a different time from the rest. if the instrument has in fact been signed at a previous time, then the signature must be acknowledged to the subscribing witnesses, which is deemed to be equivalent to a new signing of the instrument.[ ] they cannot all be done at the same instant of time, for that is impracticable; but at the same interview, one act immediately following the other, without any interval, and without any interruption to the continuous chain of the transaction.[ ] we shall now refer to cases bearing on each of these requisites; and it will be seen that while the courts have with commendable firmness insisted upon a rigid compliance with the formula prescribed by the statute, they have never held that a literal compliance was necessary. no particular form of words is required to comply with the statute. the only sure guide is to look at the substance, sense, and object of the law, and with the aid of these lights endeavor to ascertain whether there has been a substantial compliance. it is sometimes still a matter of controversy as to what may be considered a subscription or signing of the will at the end or foot thereof. in tonnele v. hall,[ ] the writing of the instrument propounded for probate commenced on the first of several sheets of paper stitched together immediately below a margin, in this form: "in the name of god, amen. i, john tonnele, of the city of new york being of sound mind and memory, and considering the uncertainty of life, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, in manner and form following, that is to say,"--and was continued on that and the four succeeding sheets. at the end of one of the sheets was the signature, and following was the usual attestation clause, signed by three witnesses. the next sheet was entirely blank, and was succeeded by a sheet on which was written, "map of the property of john tonnele in the ninth and sixteenth wards, etc." and also written on the same, "reduced map on file in the register's office in the city of new york." the map indicated the position, by numbers, etc., of various lots of land in the city of new york which the will purposed to dispose of, but it was not signed by the testator nor by the witnesses. in several clauses of the will devising the real estate, reference was made to the aforesaid map; but not to the _copy_ of the map annexed. the point taken in opposition to the will was, that the execution of the instrument was not in conformity to the first and fourth requisites of the statute; because, as was insisted, it was neither _subscribed_ by john tonnele, nor signed by the witnesses at the _end_ of it. it was contended, that as the map annexed should be regarded as a component part of the instrument, at the time of its execution, and as it was written on the last sheet of the papers composing the instrument, it was necessarily the end of the instrument, where the subscription by the testator and the signing of the witnesses should have been made. it was held by the court of appeals that the will was subscribed by the testator _at the end of the will_, within the meaning and intent of the statute, and that the execution thereof was valid. in the case of the will of catharine kerr before the surrogate of new york,[ ] the closing portion of the will and the signature were as follows: "to the children of mary dow, residing in ireland in county kilkenny, give and bequeath two hundred dollars to be equally divided between them. if there be a balance, my executors will divide it among my relations that are not herein mentioned. cathe{rin} keer. "i hereby appoint mich'{l phelan} of nd st., and john kelly of th. st., as my executors to this my last will and testament. witnesses, r. kein, matthew m. smith." "i hereby order my executors to pay all my lawful and debts & funeral expenses--should it please the almighty now to call me. this they will do before paying any legacy above mentioned. cath{e} keer." there was a question as to the genuineness of the subscription, the two witnesses calling her keer, and the two subscriptions being of that name, her christian name, catherine, being abbreviated, whilst her real name was kerr; and several previous papers were produced, in which her name, proved to have been signed by herself, was invariably written catherine kerr, in full. the surrogate held that the form of the will was fatally defective, because the will was not subscribed by the testatrix and signed by the attesting witnesses at the end, in conformity with the requirements of the statute. the next requisite is that the testator shall sign the will in the presence of the witnesses, or acknowledge his signature to them, if it has been signed previously. the new york statute does not require the witnesses to sign in the presence of the testator, as the california statute does.[ ] hence, a difference of opinion has arisen as to whether the new york statute is satisfied if a testator signs a will at one time, and afterwards acknowledges it to the witnesses separately at different times. there is an opinion that the witnesses must be present at the same time, and when the testator subscribes or acknowledges the instrument;[ ] but it has been laid down, in the case of butler v. benson,[ ] that a separate acknowledgment is sufficient. however that may be, no careful practitioner will ever have a will executed except when both the witnesses are present; and the attestation clause generally expresses that the witnesses signed in the presence of each other. in whitbeck v. patterson,[ ] william patterson, the testator, signed the will in the presence of one hughes, who had prepared it for him, but who did not sign it as a witness. the two then went to a store, where they found the three persons who signed as witnesses. these witnesses agreed in the facts that patterson and hughes came into the store together, and, as they came in, hughes spoke to them, saying that he had a paper that he wished them to sign; that it was patterson's last will and testament; that hughes thereupon read the attestation clause in the hearing of patterson, as well as the witnesses, and then asked patterson if that was his last will and testament, to which he replied that it was. one of the witnesses further swore that he thought the question was then asked him (the testator) about his signing the will, and the reply of hughes was, that "he signed it up to my house"; to which patterson said "yes." this, however, was not recollected by the other witnesses, and hughes declared, with a good deal of confidence, that nothing was said in the store about his having signed it. the surrogate refused to admit the will to probate, on the ground that the testator had not subscribed the will, or acknowledged the subscription thereto in the presence of the attesting witnesses; but, on appeal, the decree of the surrogate was reversed, and the court held the acknowledgment was sufficient, because the testator was present and assented when hughes said he signed it. the third subdivision of the statute provides that the testator, at the time of making the subscription, or at the time of acknowledging the same, shall declare the instrument so subscribed to be his last will and testament. this safeguard was considered necessary, in view of the fact that persons had been imposed upon, believing they were executing a different paper, when they had been induced to sign a will. only a few states, however, insist on this formality; besides, new york, california, new jersey,[ ] and north carolina require a publication. there cannot be any uniform, precise mode to make this declaration; it is sufficient if the testator fully and intelligently communicate his knowledge of the instrument being his will to the witnesses; so that he cannot be mistaken as to its nature, and that it shall be so understood by the witnesses.[ ] the minds of the parties must meet; each must understand the particular business he is engaged in. and this mutual knowledge must arise from something said, done, or signified contemporaneously with the execution of the instrument.[ ] it will not suffice that the witnesses have elsewhere, and from other sources, learned that the document which they are called to attest is a will; it must be a clear and unequivocal communication of the fact from the testator himself in some manner to them at the time.[ ] the leading case on this provision of the statute is that of remsen v. brinckerhoff,[ ] determined in the court of last resort in . this case arose in the surrogate's court in new york, on a proceeding to prove the will of dorothea brinckerhoff. the will was signed by the testatrix in the presence of two witnesses. the attestation was the usual one signed by the witnesses, showing that the full requirements of the statute were observed. one of the witnesses, on the trial, testified that the testatrix executed the will in his presence by writing her name, and acknowledging it to be her hand and seal for the purpose therein mentioned; that he subscribed in the presence of the testatrix; that the will was not read to the testatrix, nor did he read it; he read the last line of the attestation. nothing passed between her and him as to its being a will. the other testified that he saw the testatrix sign the instrument. she did not say it was her will; but acknowledged her signature for the purposes therein mentioned. she requested him to sign his name as a witness, and directed him to write his place of residence. he testified further that he never saw the testatrix before that time, and remained in the room only no more than ten or fifteen minutes. on this evidence the surrogate admitted the will to probate. some of the heirs and next of kin appealed to the circuit judge, who confirmed the decree of the surrogate. they then appealed to the chancellor, who reversed the decree of the surrogate. finally, the case was taken to the court of errors, and the decision of the chancellor was affirmed, that the instrument was invalid, for want of a declaration, at the time of subscribing or acknowledging the subscription, that the instrument was a will. a late case, decided in the new york court of appeals in , will henceforth be an authority on this point. it was the case of thompson v. seastedt.[ ] the case arose on an appeal from the supreme court, reversing a decree of the surrogate of new york city, refusing to admit to probate the will of eliza seastedt, on the ground that it was not formally declared by her. it appeared that the will was drawn by direction of the testatrix as her will, and read over to her as such; that she appeared to read it over herself, remarked it would do, and signed her name to it, and procured two of the witnesses to subscribe their names to it. the witness who drew the will testified that he was asked to go to the house to draw it, and was a witness to it, although not directly asked to sign it. the second witness said that he heard the decedent ask the first witness to sign it as a witness; and her husband swore that she asked both of the other witnesses to sign it. the second witness also said that she asked him to witness the signing of her name, and the making of her will, and her husband said she took it after all had signed it, and put it in an envelope. it also appeared that the testatrix signed the will in the presence of the witnesses, and that they signed it in her presence, and in the presence of each other; also, that the wording of the instrument declared it to be her last will and testament, and that she declared it to be such at the time of her subscribing. the supreme court held that the proof as to the execution, witnessing, and publication was sufficient to entitle the will to probate; that, although the testatrix did not, in words, declare the instrument to be her will, she treated it as such, and designed the witnesses to understand it to be such, and that this was equivalent to such a declaration, and was sufficient to satisfy the requirements of the statute. on appeal, the court of appeals affirmed this judgment, in an opinion by folger, j. this must be deemed a satisfactory and equitable decision, and will have a tendency to check the vexatious and expensive litigation so ruinous to heirs and to an estate, whenever contestants think there was a disregard of the slightest technical requisites in the execution of a will. the fourth and last requirement of the statute in new york is, that there must be two witnesses who shall sign at the end at the request of the testator. in the majority of our states, only _two_ witnesses are required to properly attest a will. there are, as far as we can make out, about ten states that require _three_ witnesses. the new england states require three witnesses, and so do florida, georgia, maryland, south carolina, and mississippi, but in the last only one witness is required for a will of personal property. it is observed that the new york statute does not in terms require the witnesses to sign in the presence of the testator or in the presence of each other, as the most of our states do: as, for instance, california, connecticut, georgia, massachusetts, and many others. the former statute in the state required a signing _in the presence of the testator_, but these words having been omitted from the revised statutes, it has been decided in two adjudicated cases that it is not necessary that the attesting witnesses should sign their names in the presence of the testator in the strict sense of the requirement of the former law.[ ] in ruddon v. mcdonald, the testatrix subscribed the will in a small bedroom, and the witnesses signed in an adjoining room. the door between the two rooms was open, but the place where the witnesses signed was in a part of the room where the testatrix could not see the witnesses signing without putting her head down to the foot of the bed, if she could then; and they did not look to be able to say whether they could see her face at the time or not. in such states as require a signing in the presence of the testator these wills would not be entitled to probate. even in these states, a strict literal compliance is not required; the courts adopt what is termed a doctrine of a constructive presence; which in plain language is just this--if a testator could see, and won't see, he should see, and must be supposed to have seen. there never were finer distinctions made on any matter in law than just on this point; indeed, they are more nice than wise, and hair-splitting was never carried to a finer point. thus, where a testator lay in a bed in one room, and the witnesses went through a small passage into another room, and there set their names at a table in the middle of the room, and opposite to the door, and both that and the door of the room where the testator lay were open, so that he might see them subscribe their names if he would, and though there was no positive proof that he did see them subscribe, yet that was sufficient under the statute, because he might have seen them; it shall therefore be considered in his presence.[ ] but where the attesting witnesses retired from the room where the testator had signed, and subscribed their names in an adjoining room, and the jury found that from one part of the testator's room a person, by inclining himself forward, with his head out at the door, might have seen the witnesses, but that the testator was not in that part of the room, it was held that the will was not duly attested.[ ] it would almost seem, from these and other decisions, that the validity of the act depended upon the range of the organs of sight of the devisor, or upon the agility of his movements; whether he were able to turn his body to the foot of the bed, or stretch his neck out of the door. in georgia, the testator must have been in such a position as to be able to see the witnesses sign, to constitute presence.[ ] and where the witnesses did not sign in the same room where the testator was, it raises a presumption that it was not in his presence; but if the jury find that he might have seen it, and knew it was going on, and approved it, it is good.[ ] the whole requirements of the statute are generally embodied in an attestation clause which is signed at the end by witnesses. this is no part of the will, and might be omitted without endangering the will, provided the witnesses, whose names are subscribed, can testify as to the observance of the various requirements; but it is unsafe to trust to the memory of witnesses, and almost always the attestation clause is appended. in those states where no subscribing is required, the following is a good form: "signed, sealed, published, and declared, by the said a b, the said testator, as and for his last will and testament, in the presence of us, who, in his sight and presence, and at his request, and in the sight and presence of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses thereto." the following is suited to the requirements of the revised statutes of new york: "subscribed and acknowledged by the testator, a b, in the presence of each of us, who have subscribed our names as attesting witnesses thereto at the request of the said testator. and the said testator, a b, at the time of making such subscription and acknowledgment, did declare this instrument so subscribed to be his last will and testament." a more general form is the following: "signed, sealed, published, and declared by the testator, to be his last will and testament, in the presence of us, who, at his request, and in his presence, and in the presence of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses." chapter iii. testamentary capacity. as a general rule, this capacity exists; but there are certain conditions which preclude the exercise of this privilege, because of an inability to exercise it either safely, wisely, or intelligently; and these conditions may be, with respect to age, physical or mental incapacity, and coverture. section .--incapacity as to age. the age at which a person is permitted to exercise this right varies with the nature of the property, whether it be real or personal property. under the old common law, a male was qualified to make a will of personal property at fourteen, and a female at twelve;[ ] and this was the rule in england until .[ ] this was the rule of the roman law; but now it is changed by statute both in england and in this country. in new york, males require to be of the age of eighteen, and females of the age of sixteen, before they can make a will of personal property.[ ] in many of our states, the same age is required for making a will of personal as for real property; and as a general rule, the age required is twenty-one; but in three of our states, california, connecticut, and nevada, a person of the age of eighteen is qualified to make a will of personal and real estate. in some, a female attains her majority for this purpose earlier than a male person, as in illinois, maryland, and vermont, where a female is qualified at eighteen. with regard to the reckoning of the period of a person's majority, there is a novel and exceptional mode in law. thus, if a person be born on the first of february, at eleven o'clock at night, and the last day of january, in the one-and-twentieth year, at one o'clock in the morning, he makes his will and dies, it is a good will, for he, at the time, was of age. this rule, first laid down by lord holt,[ ] is well established by sound authority.[ ] with regard to which, redfield remarks: "we feel compelled to declare that the rule thus established in computing the age of capacity, seems to us to form a very singular departure, both from all other legal modes of computing time, and equally from the commonly-received notions on the subject."[ ] section .--physical or mental incapacity. the physical incapacity of the deaf and dumb formerly disqualified them from making a will. blackstone lays down the rule:[ ] "such persons as are born deaf, blind, and dumb, as they have always wanted the common inlets of understanding, are incapable of having _animum testandi_, and their testaments are therefore void." and in bacon's abridgment,[ ] it is said: "a man who is both deaf and dumb, and is so by nature, cannot make a will; but a man who is so by accident may, by writing or signs, make a will." but since this class of persons have, of late, been brought to a considerable intelligence by the humane efforts of worthy men to communicate knowledge to them, there is no longer any reason or sense in excluding them from the testamentary privilege. however, in their cases, greater circumspection is needed in communicating with them as to their intention, and a stricter regard is paid to the observance of the requirements of execution. the question was carefully examined by the surrogate of new york,[ ] with the following results: the law does not prohibit deaf, dumb, or blind persons from making a will. defects of the senses do not incapacitate, if the testator possesses sufficient mind to perform a valid testamentary act. the statute does not require a will to be read to the testator in the presence of the witnesses; but it is proper to do so when the testator is blind and cannot read. in such cases, the evidence must be strong and complete that the mind accompanied the will, and that the testator was in some mode made cognizant of its provisions. this may be established by the subscribing witnesses, or by other proof. so, also, it seems a drunken man, who is so excessively drunk that he is deprived of the use of his reason and understanding, cannot make a will during that time; for it is requisite, when the testator makes his will, that he be of sound and perfect memory; that is, that he have a competent memory and understanding to dispose of his estate with reason.[ ] we come now to treat of that incapacity which gives rise to most frequent and difficult litigation, and upon which judicial discrimination is most generally exercised--the incapacity of those who are of unsound mind, or persons _non compos mentis_. there is no investigation in the whole domain of law that is attended with so many lamentable phases, where the foibles, indeed, the ludicrous side, of human nature, are more exposed; for it happens that those who will most carefully and tenderly screen a man's weaknesses, vagaries, and eccentricities whilst he is living, will, if a contest takes place in which they are interested, after his death, most readily reveal, in all their nakedness and boldness of outline, the infirmities and superstitions of the deceased.[ ] as a principle of law of universal application, a person of unsound mind is incompetent to make a valid disposition of his property, either before or after his decease, except during a lucid interval. the only difficulty is, to determine exactly and unerringly the particular persons who may be thus classed, and to agree upon some mode or standard by which we can class such unfortunate people. here is the difficulty; for all men do not view a person's acts in the same manner, and are not similarly impressed by them. what, to some, would infallibly be the exhibitions of a diseased mind, may, to others, be the harmless frolics of a person of odd and eccentric manners. and, just for this reason, the decisions of courts have fluctuated, and, on this subject, have been the least satisfactory. when we lay down a definition of insanity, and agree upon it, we are next met with the further difficulty, to bring the facts of a person's life or actions within it, and so to classify them. what is the definition of a person _non compos mentis_? the law has to depend on medical writers for this information. taylor, in his medical jurisprudence, gives us a definition as follows: "the main character of insanity, in a legal view, is said to be the existence of _delusion_; _i. e._, that a person should believe something to exist which does not exist, and that he should act upon this belief." another definition is this: "where there is delusion of mind, there is insanity; that is, when persons believe things to exist which exist only, or, at least, in that degree exist only, in their own imagination, and of the non-existence of which neither argument nor proof can convince them: these are of unsound mind."[ ] the rule of the common law, until within the last hundred years, was, that it required that a person should be absolutely a lunatic, that there should be entire alienation of mind, in order to incapacitate him from making a will; and there was no such theory then as partial insanity, or _monomania_, which the law takes notice of in modern times. the rise and acceptance of this theory mark an epoch in legal adjudications; it is certainly an advance in the science of law in the last century. the germ of this theory was first broached in the celebrated case of greenwood.[ ] in that case, mr. greenwood, a barrister, whilst insane, took up an idea that his brother had administered poison to him, and this became the prominent feature of his insanity. in a few months he recovered his senses, and was able to attend to his business, but could never divest his mind of the morbid delusion that his brother had attempted to poison him, under the influence of which (so said) he disinherited him. on a trial in the court of king's bench upon an issue _devisavit vel non_, a jury found against the will; but a contrary verdict was had in another court, and the case ended in a compromise. on the theory of the common law, as it then stood, this will being made in a lucid interval should have been valid.[ ] the case in which the law first sanctioned the view of partial insanity, which is also one of the landmark cases therefore, was the case of dew v. clark,[ ] which excited great interest, and received a very thorough examination by one of the ablest judges of modern times, sir john nicholl. it was proved that the testator regarded his daughter as invested with singular depravity, a peculiar victim of vice and evil, the special property of satan from her birth, and in consequence disinherited her. the syllabus of the case presents in so clear and concise manner the pith of the decision, that it will be useful to quote it: "partial insanity is good in defeasance of a will founded immediately (so to be presumed) in or upon such partial insanity. if a, then, makes a will, plainly inofficious in respect to b, and _is proved, at the time of making it, to have been under morbid delusion_ as to the character and conduct of b, the court will relieve by pronouncing this will to be invalid, and holding a to have died intestate." it is from this case, as a starting point, has arisen the theory of monomania, as applied to testamentary capacity. henceforth a valuable and practicable rule was established, subsequently recognized and enforced in the best considered cases both in england and america--a rule not so much depending on precedent as it does on sound reason and argument. there must be two elements, co-existing, to afford sufficient ground for pronouncing a will invalid at the instigation of relatives and others, who deem themselves cut off from the bounty of a testator by his monomaniacal delusions. _first._ there must be a plainly inofficious will; or a will wanting in natural affection and duty. _second._ there must be morbid delusion actually existing at the time of making, in respect to the persons cut off, or prompting the provisions of the inofficious instrument. this theory is now consistently followed in the courts of this country, and an examination of a few remarkable and historical cases will illustrate the application. it is thus adopted as a principle of decision in seaman's friend society v. hopper,[ ] by judge denio: "if a person persistently believes supposed facts, which have no real existence except in his perverted imagination, and against all evidence and probability, and conducts himself, however logically, upon the assumption of their existence, he is, _so far as they are concerned_, under a morbid delusion, and delusion in that sense is insanity. if the deceased, in the present case, was unconsciously laboring under a delusion, as thus defined, in respect to his wife and family connections, who would have naturally been the objects of his testamentary bounty _when he executed_ his will, or when he dictated it, and the court can see that its dispository provisions were or might have been caused or affected by the delusions, the instrument is not his will, and cannot be supported as such in a court of justice." the same was the ruling in leach v. leach.[ ] still, there needs to be a careful limitation of this theory. if we were to undertake to class all those who exhibit aberrations of conduct in various directions of life, who labor under hallucinations, and a wild imagination in regard to certain matters, whose credulity or whims provoke our mirth as much as our astonishment, as possessing a diseased mind, we should class among such some of the most singularly gifted and acute minds of the world. we all know of numerous cases in which "some one peculiar quality doth so possess a man, that it doth draw all his effects, his spirits and his powers in their confluxions all to run one way." hence we must distinguish between mere eccentricity and monomania. in monomania, a man is not conscious of entertaining opinions different from the mass of men, and refuses to be convinced of laboring, in any degree, under mental unsoundness; the eccentric man is aware of his peculiarity, and persists in his course from choice, and in defiance of the popular sentiment. a remarkable case of eccentricity, as the court determined, bordering very close on monomania, was in the case of morgan v. boys,[ ] where the will was upheld, on the ground that there was no satisfactory proof of actual unsoundness of mind. the testator devised his property to a stranger, thus wholly disinheriting the heir, or next of kin, and directed that his executors should "cause some parts of his bowels to be converted into fiddle strings--that others should be sublimed into smelling salts, and the remainder of his body should be vitrified into lenses for optical purposes." in a letter attached to the will, the testator said: "the world may think this to be done in a spirit of singularity, or whim, but i have a mortal aversion to funeral pomp, and i wish my body to be converted into purposes useful to mankind." the testator was shown to have conducted his affairs with such prudence and ability, that, so far from being imbecile, he had always been regarded by his associates, through life, as a person of indisputable capacity.[ ] some wills have been refused probate upon the ground of a disgusting fondness for animals, evinced by the testators during their lives or in the testamentary act. in one case, the testatrix, being a female, unmarried, kept fourteen dogs of both sexes, which were provided with kennels in her drawing-room.[ ] in another case, a female, who lived by herself, kept a multitude of cats, which were provided with regular meals, and furnished with plates and napkins. this strange fondness for animals, in solitary females, is not altogether unusual, and is not to be regarded as any certain indication of insanity.[ ] we will now refer to three cases with some particularity, originating in the surrogate's court in new york, each of which is very curious and instructive, and in which we can perceive the application of the rule regarding monomania. the first is the case of thompson v. quimby.[ ] there were several reasons assigned by the contestants for their attack upon mr. thompson's will. among them was the allegation "that the decedent was laboring under delusions amounting to insanity, and had not a disposing mind during the preparation, or at the time of the execution of the will." the instrument was drawn and executed during his last illness, and but a short time before his death. it was a voluminous document, and in it some provision was made for many of his descendants and kinsfolk, but the bulk of his large estate (about $ , ) was left for charitable or religious purposes. the testimony established that the testator was a believer in many superstitions of a vulgar character, and had held them with great pertinacity for many years. among other delusions, it was claimed he believed in the black art; that he read and experimented upon the teachings of magic; was familiar with disembodied spirits; that he could work spells by formula or incantation; that he could cure diseases by amulets, or by papers bearing certain cabalistic inscriptions, which were to be worn about the person of the sufferer. he professed to know where captain kidd's treasures were secreted at montauk point, and actually, in company with another, undertook, by the aid of a divining rod, to locate the exact spot where the riches were buried. the experiment was a failure, because, as he declared, the charm under which he worked was broken by the inopportune remarks of his attendant. on one of these occasions he beheld the apparition of the devil (it seems, he had a belief in that personage) in the shape of a large bull, and spoke of this taurine manifestation of the father of evil with great seriousness. it was also alleged that he claimed to see ghosts; that he believed in the supernatural character and significance of dreams, in the philosopher's stone, in clairvoyance, spiritualism, mesmerism, magic glasses, and that he owned a whistle with which he could get everything he wanted. this, and much more to the same effect, was adduced as testimony to prove the insanity of the testator. on the other side, it was shown that the testator was a shrewd and intelligent man of business, clear and firm in his judgments. he was largely engaged in affairs; was connected with moneyed institutions; had succeeded in accumulating wealth by his own efforts; was associated in large and responsible enterprises of commerce, and was a regular attendant at dr. spring's presbyterian church. while the surrogate did accredit all that was deposed to, to sustain his insanity, he did arrive at this conclusion: "after making every possible reasonable allowance, i have no doubt that mr. thompson's mind was impressed with a sincere belief in many absurd notions. there seems sufficient evidence to show that he believed in mesmerism, clairvoyance, divining and mineral rods, dreams, and spiritual influences. he searched for the supposed deposits of kidd, and ascribed his failure in two instances to the utterance of certain words by the operator. that he said he saw the devil in the shape of a bull seems to be well established. he believed likewise in the efficacy of cures for rheumatism, and fever and ague." now, there was nothing whatever to connect any of these aberrations or infatuations of the testator with the provisions of his will, or with any one of them; they did not affect his testamentary disposition of his property; and there could not, therefore, have been a successful impeachment of his will on the ground of monomania, or partial insanity. the surrogate decreed in favor of the will, and the supreme court sustained his decree. the next case we allude to, to further furnish an illustration of the rule, is the recent case of the bonard will. this case is of the very greatest importance, because it was argued with unusual skill and ability, and the testimony of the medical experts was sifted with a thoroughness and minuteness which elicited much instruction upon the more obscure phenomena of mental disease, and the facts revealed being such as to present very distinctly the question of the testamentary capacity of one who entertained singular tenets of a so-called faith. it will be advisable to state the facts somewhat fully. louis bonard, a native of france, died at the city of new york, in the roman catholic hospital of st. vincent, on the th day of february, . his life had evidently been an eventful one; for, while the testimony leaves in doubt much, and fails altogether to account for more of his antecedent history, it was known that he had been a traveler and a trader in south and central america, and that he had been a dealer in sham jewelry; that he came to this country some time prior to the year , and had brought with him money; that he had had losses, but at length became successful, and made investments in real estate, which enabled him to accumulate a fortune amounting, at the time of his death, to about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. during the period of his residence in new york, he lived as a miser. he preferred the society and companionship of artisans and mechanics. he had no relatives in america nor in europe, so far as was ascertained at the time of the trial, although it has since transpired that he has kindred in france. he was a man of erratic habits and singular beliefs, the latter of which seemed to intensify as his age advanced. he was a misanthrope; but was possessed of an unbounded affection for the brute creation. the evidence shows that he was a believer in metempsychosis; that he expressed the opinion that there might be an emperor in any animal he beheld; that he remonstrated with a person who suggested it would be humane to kill an injured kitten, because, he averred, there was a human soul in the animal's body. but he was a man dextrous and cunning in mechanical arts. he constructed machines for various purposes; he had mental resources likewise, and was a reader of books. the testimony, fairly viewed, showed that he railed at religion and priests; yet he died in the peace of the roman catholic church, and in full communion.[ ] there appeared also the fact that mr. bonard combined with his ardent love of animals an unbounded admiration for the benevolence of mr. henry bergh. memoranda were found among his papers which plainly showed he had some ulterior purpose concerning that gentleman. on the th of february, , and while he was very ill, he made a will, bequeathing a portion of his property to two of his friends. on the th he made another, revoking the former, and left all his estate, real and personal, to the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, of which mr. bergh was then, as now, the honored president. here was a case, bold in its outlines, and presenting the salient features of a dogma of a heathen creed, constituting the avowed belief of a man who was born and who died in the catholic faith. the opinion of the learned surrogate is very able and interesting. he declares that the belief which mr. bonard held did not constitute insanity; that "if a court is to ascribe insanity to a man, or a class of men, constituting a sect according to his or their opinion or belief as to a future state, the logical deduction would necessarily be, that a major portion of all mankind, comprised in all other and different sects, were of unsound mind, or monomaniacs on that subject." the learned surrogate then proceeds to consider the facts of this case, not as presenting one of general insanity, but as one in which the only appearance of unsoundness of mind consisted in the alleged monomania concerning the transmigration of souls. but he adverts to the fact that there was no connection necessarily of this belief with the terms of the will--that there was nothing _in the will_ to show that he held the opinions alleged any more than he was impressed with a belief in utter annihilation after death; nor was there any testimony to associate any provision of the will with a belief respecting the future condition of the human soul. these considerations, coupled with the further fact that "the testator had neither wife nor child, father nor mother, nor any known, near, or remote relatives living, or others on whom he was or felt himself under obligation to bestow his property," induced the court to sustain the will and overrule the allegation of mental incapacity. but let us suppose that, actuated by this belief, so uncommon in the present day, mr. bonard, having before his mind the fate of an itinerant cur running around the city, yelled and hooted at by idle lads, or stunned by a policeman's baton, had feared that his soul after death might pass into the body of such a hapless vagrant, and, under the impression of this possible fate, had provided a safe asylum where such unfortunates might find shelter from the pelting storm; and still further, that there were relatives who would appear and contest the will. then we introduce quite a different and a new element into the consideration of the case. this would have indicated that the dispository provisions were intended by the testator for his own physical comfort and benefit in another sphere of physical existence, and would have furnished one and the principal element of that quality of unsoundness of mind which the law recognizes as such in cases of disputed wills. a late case in new york, decided in june, , by the surrogate, is another illustration. this was the case of the will of harriet douglas cruger, made when the decedent was seventy-nine years of age, and in which she disposed of the bulk of her very large estate to the american bible society, and the board of foreign missions of the presbyterian church. the history of the lady's life is an eventful and interesting one. belonging to a family of wealth and standing, possessed of a large private fortune, and endowed by education and training with rare personal and mental accomplishments, she married early in life, and met with disappointment and misfortune; for it was soon followed by a separation, and a law suit which continued for over eight years, between herself and her husband. she had some nephews and nieces, to whom, at one time, she expressed an intention of leaving her property. in the year , she suffered an injury which affected her mind, and then, at times, was undoubtedly a raving, excited lunatic. her pastor, the rev. dr. paxton, and her physician, dr. parker, testify to her condition then as one of undoubted lunacy. she had on her mind a delusion that the devil was bodily present under her bed, and because of this was in the greatest anxiety and terror. she told her pastor of it, and further communicated to him her intention to give, as a means for her soul's salvation, the most of her property to the religious and charitable societies of her church. he very prudently dissuaded her from this, properly instructing her that her salvation could not depend on such an act, and endeavoring to reason her out of her delusion, but to no purpose. in the fall of , a will was prepared by charles o'connor, who was deceived as to her condition, giving her property to the societies named. the will was contested, and rejected, according to the established rule, that her insane delusion, acting on her mind at the time, affected the disposition of her property, and her will was clearly the offspring of such a delusion. in the case of austen v. graham,[ ] the testator was a native of england, but had lived in the east, and was familiar with eastern habits and superstitions, and professed his belief in the mohammedan religion. he died in england, leaving a will, which, after various legacies, gave the residue to the poor of constantinople, and also towards erecting a cenotaph in that city, inscribed with his name, and bearing a light continually burning therein. the court pronounced the testator to be of unsound mind, principally upon the ground of this extraordinary bequest, which sounded like folly, together with the wild and extravagant language of the testator, proved by parol. but on appeal it was held that as the insanity attributed to the testator was not monomania, but general insanity, or mental derangement, the proper mode of testing its existence was to review the life, habits, and opinions of the testator, and on such a review there was nothing absurd or unnatural in the bequest, or anything in his conduct at the date of the will indicating derangement, and it was therefore admitted to probate. section .--senile dementia. the imbecility and feebleness of mind resulting from extreme old age is another cause of testamentary incapacity. not that the law fixes a limit beyond which it is presumed a testator cannot exercise the testamentary disposition of his property intelligently; but it takes into account the well known, familiar instances of the loss of a person's memory and mental capacity, owing to the decrepitude of old age, and it accepts evidence in those instances where senile decay is alleged, as to the ability of an aged person to rightly and understandingly make his will. it was said, in a case in the ecclesiastical court in england, that "extreme old age raises some doubt of capacity, but only so far as to excite the vigilance of the court."[ ] but if a man in his old age becomes a very child again in his understanding, and becomes so forgetful that he knows not his own name, he is then no more fit to make his testament than a natural fool, a child, or a lunatic.[ ] courts are not disposed to accept every statement regarding the eccentric or weak movements of an old person as incapacitating such a one from making a will; on the contrary, there is every disposition to permit such a one, if not unmistakably enfeebled in intellect, or unduly influenced, to exercise a right that throws around one, at such a period, a dignity and power entitling them to the respectful regards of those who otherwise might not bestow upon them the attention due to the helplessness of old age. chancellor kent well expressed this leaning of courts, in the case of van alst v. hunter.[ ] he says: "a man may freely make his testament, how old soever he may be.... it is one of the painful consequences of old age, that it ceases to excite interest, and is apt to be left solitary and neglected. the control which the law still gives to a man over the disposal of his property is one of the most efficient means which he has, in protracted life, to command the attention due to his infirmities. the will of such an aged man ought to be regarded with great tenderness, when it appears not to have been procured by fraudulent acts, but contains those very dispositions which the circumstances of his situation and the course of the natural affections dictated." in the case of maverick v. reynolds,[ ] it appeared that mrs. maverick, at the time of making the will offered for proof, was ninety years of age, and the probate was contested on the ground of testamentary incompetency and undue influence. it was shown that though the old lady did not remember the decease of her son and his wife, that she had sufficient intelligence to inquire about a certain one of her houses, its repairs, and the collection of the rent. one witness stated, as instances of her bad memory, that she forgot to pay her a dollar she had borrowed (a defect of memory not confined to old age); that she was in the habit of making statements, and afterwards denying she had made them, (not confined to old age, by any means) and that she would repeat the same questions after they had been answered. as an instance of the popular belief as to the capacity of old age, one witness said: "she had a bad memory; she was like other old people eighty years old; we consider them childish." another witness, a lady, testified: "as long as i can bring my memory to bear, (a considerable time, it appeared) she has been childish. in my opinion, she was childish twenty-five years ago. she would sing childish and foolish songs, and tell foolish stories, which i considered unbecoming for a woman of her years, and the people would all laugh at it. she would talk sometimes of getting married, and would fancy she was making ready to be married." against all this was the testimony of her pastor, rev. dr. berrian, that her conversation was devout and pertinent, and he considered her a rather remarkable person for her age. her physician also testified that he never observed any indication of unsound mind. surrogate bradford, in an able opinion, examined the evidence carefully and at length, and came to the conclusion to admit the will to probate. about her levity, he remarks: "it is worthy of remark, that persons attaining great age often possess a large degree of that cheerful and lively manner which characterizes youth, and which probably in them contributes greatly to a green old age, when others, not so old, and possessing less of this sprightliness and vivacity, appear more decrepid and stricken in years." as a principle of such cases, he announces: "great age alone does not constitute testamentary disqualification, but, on the contrary, it calls for protection and aid to further its wishes. when a mind capable of acting rationally, and a memory sufficient in essentials, are shown to have existed, and the last will is in consonance with definite and well settled intentions, it is not unreasonable in its provisions, and has been executed with fairness." section .--coverture. the incapacity arising from coverture is to a great extent removed, and is gradually disappearing by remedial legislation, and for this reason it will not be necessary to treat of it at much length. there has been a tendency, for many years past, to remove the various property disabilities attaching to a married woman, and which were only to be justified, if then at all, by quite a different state of social organization from the present. perhaps in no branch of the law have there been so many radical changes as in that part pertaining to the status of a married woman. a lawyer who had only in his mind the old common-law theory and rules, and had neglected to make himself familiar with modern legislation on this subject, would find himself strangely bewildered to define a married woman's rights and powers at the present time. still, testamentary power did not come as soon as other rights. even when the right to a separate and independent ownership of property was granted, the right to a testamentary disposition did not accompany it; as, for instance, in the state of new york, the right to retain for her own use any personal or real property coming to her during marriage, free from any control of the husband, was granted in , but it was not until the next year she was empowered to dispose of it by will. married women were excepted from the statute of wills of the reign of henry viii, which first allowed the disposition of real estate by will in england; but they frequently exercised testamentary disposition under a power given them when an estate was conferred upon them to their separate use.[ ] they had what was called a _power of appointment_ by will, given by the donor of the estate, who was presumed to make the will through them as an instrument. they could only make a will of personal property by the consent of the husband under the old law,[ ] and this is the case yet in a few states. in massachusetts, a married woman can dispose of only half of her personal property by will without the consent of her husband;[ ] and some such restriction exists in many of our states. the law of the american states in regard to the separate estate of the wife being exclusively under her control, and subject to any disposition on her part, is fast verging towards the rules of the roman civil law, which allowed a married woman the same testamentary capacity, in all respects, as a _feme sole_.[ ] in most of the more important and commercial states, the wife's right to dispose of her estate by will, both real and personal, is recognized to the fullest extent by statute.[ ] the only general restriction is, that she cannot defeat, in her will of her real estate, her husband's right of curtesy. in some states, where the estates by dower and curtesy are abolished, this restriction, of course, cannot exist, as, for instance, in california. in new york, the power to dispose of her separate real estate by will seems to be unrestricted, for there is no limitation mentioned. but opinions differ on this question: some hold that the husband's right of curtesy is not cut off by the statute, while others hold that the whole unrestricted disposition of her property is given, and that she can defeat her husband's curtesy, even if issue be born and the estate become vested. the matter is in a little uncertainty, because we have not as yet an authoritative opinion of the highest court on the subject, since the remedial statutes were passed. we are inclined to think, however, that the wife can defeat her husband's right of curtesy by a disposition of her estate by will.[ ] it would be impracticable to give the various statutes of the states on this subject, and, besides, it would be useless, as the changes are very frequent, and what would be correct for a state today may to-morrow be obsolete; we have only endeavored to give some general information on the subject. chapter iv. legacies. people generally understand quite well what is meant by a legacy in a will; but there is a popular meaning attached to the word, which differs from the strict legal meaning. popularly, we suppose a legacy to be anything--property of any kind, whether real or personal--left to a person in a will; whereas, the strict legal meaning is, that it is a gift of money, or some particular thing, left to a person in a will. when real estate is given, we then term it a _devise_, in a legal point of view; but the word _bequest_ is a more general term, as it may designate either a legacy or a devise. in this chapter, we shall treat of legacies: . _as to their quality_; . _vested or contingent_; . _conditional_; . _payment_; and . _the person who may take_. section .--as to their quality. of legacies, there are two kinds--a general legacy, and a specific legacy; with the former is classed what is termed a pecuniary legacy. a legacy is general when it is so given as not to amount to the giving of some particular thing, or money, belonging to the testator. a legacy is specific when it is a bequest of a specified part of the testator's personal estate, which may be distinguished from all others of the same kind. thus, for example, "i give a diamond ring" is a general legacy, which may be satisfied by the delivery of any ring of that kind; while "i give the diamond ring presented to me by a" is a specific legacy, which can only be fulfilled by the delivery of the identical ring mentioned; for the object is accurately referred to and described, and the legacy can only be satisfied by a delivery in _specie_.[ ] again, if the testator have many brooches and horses, and bequeath "a brooch" or "a horse" to b, in these cases it is a general legacy; for it is uncertain, from the description, whether any _particular_ brooch or horse was intended; so that the bequest may be satisfied by the delivery of something of the same species as that mentioned.[ ] but a bequest "of such part of my stock of horses as a shall select, to be fairly appraised, to the value of $ ," or "of all the horses which i may have in my stable at the time of my death," is specific.[ ] a bequest to a wife in the following words: "i give and bequeath to my wife, a, the annual sum of £ sterling each and every year during her natural life, in order that she may live in quiet and easy circumstances," and which, with other legacies afterwards given to her, was expressed to be in lieu of dower, was held to be specific. if there be an error in the description of the chattel intended to be specifically given, the mistake may be of such a nature as not to permit a failure of the specific bequest. if, therefore, a, having _one_ horse only, which is white, bequeath it to b by the words "my _black_ horse," the mistake is obvious and easily remedied, and the legatee will be entitled to the specific horse, although it be not of the color described; for there can be no doubt of that being the horse _intended_ for him, and the legacy will be specific.[ ] if the testator had _two_ white horses of different values, and, intending one of them in particular for b, bequeathed it to him by the words, "my white horse," it is presumed that evidence is admissible to show which of the two horses was intended.[ ] as respects the doctrine of specific bequests, the intention of testators upon this subject, as in every question of the construction of wills, is the principal object to be ascertained; and it is, therefore, necessary that the intention be either expressed in reference to the thing bequeathed, or otherwise clearly appear from the will. the intention must be clear, and courts in general are averse to construing legacies to be specific.[ ] with respect to legacies for money, securities for money, debts, etc., under some circumstances even pecuniary legacies are held to be specific, as of a certain sum of money in a certain bag or chest;[ ] or of £ , the balance due the testator from his partner on the last settlement between them;[ ] but a legacy of "£ to be paid to a," in cash, is a general legacy.[ ] stock or government securities, or shares in public companies, may be specifically bequeathed, where, to use the expression often applied, there is a clear reference to the "corpus" of the fund. thus, the word "my," preceding the word stock or annuities, has been several times adjudged sufficient to render the legacy specific; as where the bequest is of "_my_ capital stock of £ , in the india company's stock."[ ] so a bequest of all the testator's right, interest, and property in thirty shares of the bank of the united states of america is a specific legacy.[ ] the distinction between these two sorts of legacies is of the greatest importance; for, in the settlement of an estate by executors or administrators, articles not specifically bequeathed are first to be sold to pay debts and other legacies; and, if there be a deficiency to pay debts, the general or pecuniary legatees have first to abate ratably, or contribute in proportion to the value of their individual legacies.[ ] the principle on which this is done is, the presumed intention of the testator to give a preference to those legatees, by severing particular parts of his personal estate from the rest. but another distinction between them is, that, if the particular thing bequeathed happens, during the lifetime of the testator, to become extinguished, or in some way disposed of by him, which, in law, is called an _ademption_, the legacy fails, which cannot be the case with a general legacy; so that, though specific legacies have, in some respects, the advantage of those that are general, yet, in other respects, they are distinguished from them to their disadvantage.[ ] the bequest of all a man's personal estate generally is not specific; the very terms of such a disposition demonstrate its generality.[ ] but if a man, having personal property at a and elsewhere, bequeath all his personal estate _at_ a to a particular person, the legacy is specific; and, if there is a deficiency of assets to pay other legacies, such a legatee shall not be obliged to abate with the other legatees.[ ] so, where the testator bequeaths the residue of all his personal estate _in the island of jamaica_, this is a specific legacy.[ ] it has been held in pennsylvania that a pecuniary legacy may be exempt from abatement, as in the case of a wife or child destitute of other provision, or where a legacy is given in lieu of dower.[ ] section .--legacies vested or contingent. a legacy is said to be _vested_ when the right to it, either in the present or in the future, is absolutely given to a person, and does not depend upon the happening of some event. it is _contingent_, if the payment of it is dependent upon the happening of some event; as, if a person shall marry, or attain a certain age. the cases establish the principle that contingent or executory interests, though they do not vest in possession, may vest in right, so as to be transmissible to the executors or the administrators of the party dying before the contingency on which they depend takes effect; but where that contingency is the endurance of life of the party till a particular period, the interest will obviously be altogether extinguished by his death before that period.[ ] the general principle as to the lapse of legacies by the death of the legatee may be stated to be, that if the legatee die before the testator's decease, or before any other condition precedent to the vesting of the legacy is performed, the legacy lapses, and is not payable to the executors or the administrators of the legatee.[ ] but this general rule may be controlled by the manifest intention of the testator appearing upon the face of the will, that the legacy shall not lapse, and by his distinctly providing a substitute for the legatee dying in his lifetime. the authorities appear to have settled that a testator may, if he thinks fit, prevent a legacy from lapsing; though, in order to effect this object, he must declare, either expressly or in terms from which his intention can with sufficient clearness be collected, what person or persons he intends to substitute for the legatee dying in his lifetime. in ascertaining the intention of the testator, in this respect, the courts of equity have established two positive rules of construction: . that a bequest to a person _payable_, or _to be paid_, at or when he shall attain twenty-one years of age, or at the end of any other certain determinate time, confers on him a vested interest immediately on the testator's death, as _debitum in præsenti solvendum in futuro_, and transmissible to his executors or administrators; for the words _payable_, or _to be paid_, are supposed to disannex the time from the gift of the legacy, so as to leave the gift immediate, in the same manner, in respect to its vesting, as if the bequest stood singly, and contained no mention of time. . that if the words _payable_, or _to be paid_, are omitted, and the legacies are given _at_ twenty-one, or _if_, _when_, _in case_, or _provided_, the legatees attain twenty-one, or any other future definite time, and make the legatee's right to depend on his being alive at the time fixed for its payment, consequently, if the legatee happens to die before that period arrives, his personal representatives will not be entitled to the legacy.[ ] the application of this rule was well illustrated in the case of patterson v. ellis,[ ] and the doctrine discussed and maintained in an opinion by chief justice savage, in the court of errors, in new york. it was there held, that where the gift of a legacy is absolute, and the time of payment only postponed, as where the sum of $ , is given to a, to be paid when he shall attain the age of twenty-one, the _time_ not being of the substance of the gift postpones the payment, but not the vesting of the legacy; and if the legatee die before the period specified, his representatives are entitled to the money. but where the legacy is given _when_ the legatee shall attain the age of twenty-one, or _provided_ he attains that age, time is of the substance of the gift, and the legacy does not vest until the contingency happens. but even where the legacy is given _when_ the legatee attains the age of twenty-one, if the devisor directs the _interest_ of the legacy to be applied, in the meantime, for the benefit of the legatee, there being an absolute gift of the _interest_, the principal will be deemed to have vested.[ ] the giving of interest before the payment has been considered as evidence of an intention to vest the legacy. hence, when a portion was devised to a child with interest, but not to be paid or payable until the child should attain twenty-one years, or be married, and the child died under twenty-one, and unmarried, it was decreed that the portion should go to the administrator of the child.[ ] the rule with respect to the vesting of legacies payable out of real estate is somewhat different. it is this: where the gift is immediate, but payment is postponed until the legatee attains the age of twenty-one years, or marries, there _it is contingent, and will fail if the legatee dies before the time_ of payment arrives; but where the payment is postponed in regard to the convenience of the person, and the circumstances of the estate charged with the legacy--and not on account of the age, condition, or circumstances of the legatee--in such a case it will be vested, and must be paid, although the legatee should die before the time of payment.[ ] the rule in question is always liable to the operation of the more general and powerful rule, namely, that the intention of the testator, to be gathered from the words of the will, must prevail. as an illustration of the rule in regard to the vesting of legacies on personal estate, the following is in point: a testator bequeathed to his daughters the sum of £ , , five per cent. navy annuities, and all the dividends and proceeds arising therefrom, to be equally divided between them, and all his estate at s, to be equally divided between them _when they should arrive at twenty-four years of age_. one of his daughters died before she attained the age of twenty-four years. the court was of opinion that, according to the true rule of construction, the word _when_ could not be otherwise considered than as denoting the _period of payment_, and must not be deemed as a condition precedent upon which the legacy was to vest, but merely postponing the payment of this £ , , with the dividends thereon, till twenty-four.[ ] a legacy of £ was given to an infant to bind him an apprentice. the infant died before he attained a proper age to be bound an apprentice. it was decreed that this legacy was vested, and the infant being seventeen years old, and having made a will, and named an executor, it was allowed to be a good disposition of the £ .[ ] as to charging legacies on real estate, and observing the rule above laid down, the following is in point: t s, by will, gave his daughter £ , , to be paid by his executor at her age of twenty-one, or marriage, which should first happen, willing the same to be raised out of the rents and profits of the lands; and further willed, that in case his son should die before the age of twenty-one, or without heirs of his body lawfully begotten, then from and after the death of his son, he gave all his said lands, etc., to the defendant, he making up his daughter's portion to £ , ; and the daughter died soon after the testator's death, an infant, unmarried, upon which her mother took out letters of administration and claimed the £ , ; it was decreed that she was not entitled to any part of it, for it appears that the intention of the testator was that it should be for a portion, and it is expressly called a portion in the will; it is no personal legacy, but money to be raised out of the rents and profits of lands, and the payment is expressly to be at twenty-one years, or marriage.[ ] section .--conditional legacies. by the bestowal of legacies a rare opportunity is offered to testators either to gratify some peculiar desire, or to restrain or control some one who is the beneficiary. it is on the legal principle of _quid pro quo_, a consideration for a consideration. accordingly, we find that testators, in bestowing their bounty by way of legacies, avail themselves of the opportunity to effect various objects--some to regulate and restrain a wayward, errant child, some to curb the eager readiness of a widow to find a new partner, some to check a child rashly rushing into wedlock, and some to gratify a whim or a prejudice. the law allows conditions to be annexed to a legacy, provided they are not against public policy or good morals. a conditional legacy is defined to be a bequest whose existence depends upon the happening or not happening of some uncertain event, by which it is either to take place or be defeated.[ ] no precise form of words is necessary to create conditions in wills; wherever it clearly appears that it was the testator's intent to make a condition, that intent shall be carried into effect. conditions are subject to the well-known division, into conditions precedent and conditions subsequent. when a condition is of the former sort, the legatee has no vested interest till the condition is performed; when it is of the latter, the interest of the legatee vests, in the first instance, subject to be divested by the non-performance or breach of the condition. whether a condition be precedent or subsequent, that is, whether it must be performed before the legatee can be entitled to an absolute interest in the bequest, or not till after, of course depends upon the words and intention of the testator. but a testator, in making a bequest, may use words of condition, which, however, shall not be construed as such, if it clearly appear that they do not involve the _motive_ and _reason_ of the bequest.[ ] any consideration exacted from the beneficiary, or any duty imposed on him, unless it is spread over a very unusual period of time, is a condition precedent. a condition that the beneficiary shall cease to resort to public houses is a condition precedent, and is not void for uncertainty.[ ] in the case of tattersall v. howell,[ ] a legacy was given, provided the legatee changed his course of life, and gave up all low company, and frequenting public houses. and sir william grant held that this was a condition such as the court could carry into effect, and directed an inquiry whether the legatee had discontinued to frequent public houses, keeping low company, etc. had this been a devise of land, it would have been a void condition, as will appear in the next chapter.[ ] in dunstan v. dunstan, the executors were required by the will to pay to the legatee annually $ , and also one-fifth of the testator's estate, in case the legatee should refrain from vicious habits, and conduct himself with sobriety and good morals. about two years after the testator's death, the legatee filed his bill against the executors, insisting that he had reformed, and claiming the payment of his share of the estate. the defendants had refused to pay over to the claimant his one-fifth of the estate, not being satisfied of his complete reformation. the provision of the will was supported, and as the complete reformation of the legatee was not distinctly proved, and a sufficient time had not elapsed between the death of the testator and the filing of the bill to enable the executors to form a sound opinion as to the permanency of the legatee's good conduct, it was held that the executors were right in refusing to place the whole property in his hands at that time, and it was referred to a master to ascertain and report whether there had been such a permanent reformation in his character and habits as to entitle him to receive the whole amount bequeathed to him at that time. if the condition is at all capable of being construed as subsequent, it will be deemed to be such. thus, in page v. hayward,[ ] lands were devised to a and b in case they married a person named s. they married each a person of a different name, yet they were held to take vested interests, the condition being subsequent, and being capable of being performed, as their husbands might die, and they might then marry persons of the coveted name. a testator declared that if either jane or mary married into the families of prudence or resignation, and had a son, then he gave all his estate to such son; but if they did not marry, then the estate was to go to a. jane and mary married, but not into the families mentioned, and a claimed the estate; but it was held that during the lives of jane and mary the claim was premature, for one of them might afterwards satisfy the condition.[ ] the race as well as the religious antipathy of a testator sometimes crops out in his will.[ ] the testator in the following instance must have had as much dislike to scotchmen as the celebrated dr. johnson. he devised his real and personal estate to trustees, out of which to pay an annuity to his wife for life, and out of the residue to pay sufficient for the maintenance, education, and support of his only daughter until she should attain the age of twenty-one years, or marry, and then in fee, with a proviso that if either his wife or daughter should marry a scotchman, then his wife or daughter so marrying should forfeit all benefit under his will, and the estates given should descend to such person or persons as would be entitled under his will in the same manner as if his wife or daughter were dead. it was held that such partial restraint of marriage was legal, and that, the daughter having while under age married a scotchman, and died leaving a son, the son could not inherit.[ ] the most interesting inquiry in connection with conditional legacies, is, as to how far conditions annexed to legacies which restrain marriage are to be performed, and in what case the neglect or non-performance of them will forfeit the legacy. the roman civil law made absolutely void all such conditions in restraint of marriage, as against the policy of the state; but our law has not evinced the same impatience of nuptial restrictions, for a condition inhibiting marriage until majority, or any other reasonable age, or requiring consent, or restraining marriage with any _particular_ individual, and in the case of a widow, even a general restraint, is lawful.[ ] thus, if an annuity be bequeathed by a man to his wife for so many years, if she shall remain so long a widow, it is a good conditional bequest, because of the particular interest every husband has in his wife remaining a widow, for thereby she will the better take care of the concerns of his family.[ ] but if a stranger gives a legacy upon such condition, it is not a good condition, for there is no more reason restraining a widow from marrying than a maid.[ ] in the american states, we permit such a condition to be annexed to a legacy, as well as in england.[ ] a restraint of this sort, annexed as a condition, occurred in a case in pennsylvania,[ ] in connection with the will of william geigley, and, as a singular instance of a testator's forethought and exactness, together with an unusual effusion of sentimental argument, very seldom met with in the sober, well considered decisions of courts, it will be interesting to refer to it. the testator provided as follows: "i will and bequeath to my loving wife, susan geigley, all my real and personal estate that i am possessed of, (with a few exceptions, that i will afterwards bequeath to my brother george) provided my wife susan remains a widow during her life. but in case she should marry again, my will is, she then shall leave the premises, and receive all the money and property she had of her own, or that i received of hers.... it is my will and desire, that if my wife remain a widow during her life on the premises, that after her death all the money or property that i got or had of my wife's shall be paid to her friends, whomsoever she wills it to; and all property belonging to me as my own at my death (not including my wife's part) i will and bequeath to my father and mother, if living. but if they are both deceased, my will is that my brother, george geigley, and my sister, catharine geigley, shall have the whole of that share or part that was my own, to them, their heirs and assigns, forever." this condition was held to be good, and, the widow having married, the mother became entitled to the proceeds of the real estate. the language of the judge before whom the case was at first heard is deserving of a place in legal literature, as something rare in these matter-of-fact, prosaic days. he thought it shocking to his sense of personal liberty that any such restraint should be valid, and concludes his decision with the following beautiful effusion: "the principle of reproduction stands next in importance to its elder-born correlative, self-preservation, and is equally a fundamental law of existence. it is the blessing which tempered with mercy the justice of expulsion from paradise. it was impressed upon the human creation by a beneficent providence to multiply the images of himself, and thus to promote his own glory and the happiness of his creatures. not man alone, but the whole animal and vegetable kingdom are under an imperious necessity to obey its mandates. from the lord of the forest to the monster of the deep--from the subtlety of the serpent to the innocence of the dove--from the celastic embrace of the mountain kalmia to the descending fructification of the lily of the plain, all nature bows submissively to this primeval law. even the flowers which perfume the air with their fragrance, and decorate the forests and fields with their hues, are but curtains to the nuptial bed. the principles of morality--the policy of the nation--the doctrines of the common law--the law of nature and the law of god--unite in condemning as void the condition attempted to be imposed by this testator upon his widow." it may be considered an unfair partiality in our law that wives are not allowed the same privilege to prohibit their husbands from marrying again; for it has just been lately decided in england, in the case of allen v. jackson,[ ] that while a restraint of a _widow_ is a good condition and valid as such, a similar restraint of a _widower_ in regard to his marriage is invalid, and of no effect. it would seem at first blush that the same rule should govern in each case; but vice-chancellor wood, in newton v. marsden,[ ] suggested a reason which he thinks justifies the distinction, namely, that a condition restraining the marriage of a widow is valid, because it is not an arbitrary prohibition of marriage, but the condition of a gift, made to the widow because she was a widow, and because the circumstances would be entirely changed if she entered into a new relation.[ ] while the law sanctions, in this case, the restraint of a second marriage, it does not tolerate a general restraint of a first marriage; as swinburne says:[ ] "a prohibition of the first marriage is much more odious in law than the second." the utmost privilege it has given in this respect is to permit a restraint as to time, place, or person, as not to marry before twenty-one, not to marry at york, not to marry a papist. still, the law is not indulgent of such conditions, and in some cases will not permit a forfeiture if the condition is not observed. thus, if a legacy be given on condition of asking consent to marriage, if the person marries without such consent, he does not lose the legacy. such a condition is said to be _in terrorem_ only--something like an idle threat, to prevent persons exercising an imprudent choice. in bellasis v. ermine,[ ] a suit was brought for £ , , given to the plaintiff's wife. the defendant pleaded that it was given her provided she married with the consent of a, and, if not, that she should have but £ per annum; and that she married without the consent of a. it was ordered that the plea be overruled. and the court all declared that this proviso was but _in terrorem_, to make the person careful, and that it would not defeat the portion. but it was said that if the party who gave the portion had limited it to another, in the case of her marriage without the consent of a, there it would have been otherwise. we, in this country, follow the same law.[ ] so long, therefore, as the legacy does not go to another named in the will, in case of a breach of the condition, the legatee will be entitled, notwithstanding a marriage without consent. the reason of this is said to be, that the courts cannot relieve against the forfeiture without doing an injury to the person to whom it is limited over.[ ] thus, a bequeathed £ , to his daughter, the plaintiff garret's wife, at twenty-one or marriage, and recommended her to the care of s, provided that, if she married without the consent of s, her legacy of £ , was to cease, and she was to have but £ , and made the defendant, his son, executor. the plaintiff married the daughter without the consent of s, yet the court decreed her the whole £ , , with interest from the marriage, and principally because it was not expressly devised over.[ ] however, courts do not permit this doctrine of _in terrorem_ to apply, in case the marriage is to be with consent _during minority_. in such a case the condition is enforced, as it is deemed a safe and proper one for the protection of youth. the reason of the application of the doctrine _in terrorem_, is, that if a consent be withheld after a person has attained majority, it may be for a long period, either from caprice, willfulness, or some other cause, and would practically restrain marriage, which is what the law will not permit.[ ] if a portion be given on condition that the daughter should never marry, such a condition should be rejected as repugnant to the original institution of mankind.[ ] so, if a condition be illegal, or contrary to the policy of the law, as, if a legacy be given to a woman if she does not cohabit with her husband and lives apart, such a condition is void, and the legatee is entitled absolutely.[ ] section .--payment of legacies. attention is now to be given to the payment of legacies. it is evident that an executor cannot safely pay a legacy until he ascertains that the personal estate of the deceased is sufficient to pay the debts, and for this reason the law generally allows the space of a year to satisfy himself as to the condition of the personal estate.[ ] and should an executor, acting under the impression that the condition of the assets was such as to entitle him to pay a legacy before the end of the year, pay it before, and if, afterwards, a deficiency arises, he is responsible for the payment of any claim or demand against the estate. sometimes the exigencies of a person may require an earlier payment of a legacy, and in this case an executor may pay such legacy, provided he gets a bond, with two good sureties, to refund in case of any deficiency; this is the case by statute in new york,[ ] and in many other states. even if a testator desires a payment of a legacy before the expiration of a year, an executor is not bound to make payment.[ ] as regards the time of payment, the law makes no difference between general or specific legacies. the next inquiry may be as to when a legacy is to be paid, where a legatee is to become entitled at twenty-one, or at some other age, and dies, having a vested interest, before he attains the specified age. in this case, it is a rule that no payment is to be made until the time arrives when the deceased, if living, would become entitled.[ ] but if interest be given during minority, the representative of the deceased may claim the legacy immediately.[ ] a legacy of £ was given to the eldest son of a to be begotten, to place him out apprentice; a had a son born after the death of the testator; and on a bill brought by him for the legacy, it was decreed to be paid, though it was before the time when he was fit to be placed out an apprentice.[ ] the following case brings up a reminiscence of a state of society that is now very unfamiliar to us at the present day: the testator by his will emancipated his slave, and devised to him two hundred dollars, "to assist him in buying his wife." the specification of the object of the bequest does not qualify it, nor affect the legatee's right to it. the executors, it was decided, cannot compel him to use the two hundred dollars in the matrimonial market, nor delay him payment until he makes a purchase there.[ ] a testator devised as follows: "i lend to my wife the plantation whereon i now live, and after her decease i give and bequeath the said land to my child that my wife is now pregnant with, if a boy; and if it should be a girl, i give the said land to my son h, upon his paying to the said child, if a girl, one hundred pounds." the child proved to be a girl; and it was held that the legacy of one hundred pounds was not payable until the death of the testator's widow.[ ] if a legacy be given to a, with a bequest over if he succeed to a certain estate, or upon condition that it shall be void in that event, the legacy must be paid to a, notwithstanding.[ ] if a legacy be devised generally, it is regularly to carry interest from the expiration of the first year after the death of the testator; but if it be a specific legacy upon which interest can accrue, the interest will be given from the death of the testator, and it is immaterial whether the enjoyment of the principal is postponed by the testator or not.[ ] even if there be a direction to pay a general legacy as soon as possible, interest only begins at the end of a year.[ ] but if the legatee, being of full age, neglects to demand it at that time, he cannot have interest but from the time of the demand, because a legacy differs from a debt.[ ] while this was formerly the rule, it is not now in force, for it has been held that, no matter whether the legatee demands or not, the legacy will draw interest. it was so decided in a case in new york.[ ] the general rule is, that a legacy payable at a future day does not carry interest before the time of payment; and the rule applies to an infant payable at twenty-one, unless in the case of an infant having a right to demand maintenance from the testator, or of the legacy to him being a residue, or there are special circumstances showing clearly an intention to give interest.[ ] and if a legacy is given in lieu of dower, or is decreed to be a satisfaction of a debt, the court always allows interest from the death of the testator.[ ] a legacy to a child whose support and maintenance is otherwise provided for by the bounty of the testator, like a legacy to a more distant relative, or to a stranger, is not payable and does not draw interest until one year after the death of the testator, where no time of payment is prescribed by the will.[ ] an annuity bestowed by will, without mentioning any time of payment, is considered as commencing at the death of the testator, and the first payment as due at the expiration of one year; from which latter period interest may be claimed in cases where it is allowed at all.[ ] the rule as to interest being reckoned on a specific legacy from the death of the testator was strictly applied in the case of churchill v. speake,[ ] where a testator made a specific bequest of a mortgage for £ , to his wife, and desired her to give the sum of £ to m c, his grandchild; "but, for the time and manner of doing it, i leave it freely to herself, and as she shall see it best for her"; and the wife exercised this freedom so well as to live twenty years after the testator, and never paid the £ ; and the court decreed payment of it to m c, with interest from the testator's death. the inquiry to whom legacies are to be paid is one of great importance to the executor, who must be careful to pay legacies into the hands of those who have authority to receive them. it is a general rule that, where the legatee is an infant, and would be entitled to receive a legacy if he were of age, the executor is not justified in paying it either to the infant, or to the father, or any other relation of the infant, on his account, without the sanction of a court of equity.[ ] and even in the case of a child who has attained majority, payment to the father is not good, unless it be made by the consent of the child, or confirmed by his subsequent ratification. it may happen that an executor has, with the most honorable intentions, paid the legacy to the father of the infant; nevertheless, he will be held liable to pay it over again to the legatee on his coming of age. and although such cases have been attended with many circumstances of hardship to the executor, yet he has been held responsible, on the policy of obviating a practice so dangerous to the interests of infants, and so naturally productive of domestic discord.[ ] many of our states regulate the payment of legacies to infants by statute, as in new york, where a legacy of $ may be paid to the father of the legatee, to the use and for the benefit of such minor; but, if it exceeds $ , it must be paid to the general guardian of the infant, who will be required to file a bond to pay it over to the infant.[ ] it was formerly the law that, if a legacy was given to a married woman, it should be paid to the husband. so, where a legacy was given to a married woman living separate from her husband, with no maintenance, and the executor paid it to the wife, and took her receipt for it; yet, on a suit instituted by the husband against the executor, he was decreed to pay it over again, with interest.[ ] it was also adjudged that, if the husband and wife were divorced _a mensa et thoro_, and a legacy was left to her, the husband alone could give a proper receipt for it, and consequently to him alone was it payable.[ ] but now, by statutes in almost all of our states, a married female may take by devise and bequest, and hold to her sole and separate use, real and personal property, or any interest or estate therein, in the same manner, and with the like effect, as if she were unmarried. section .--the person who may take. the only person generally disqualified to receive a legacy is the witness to a will. the law has thought fit to guard a deceased from all imposition, and it is thought if a person took any beneficial interest under a will to which he was one of the witnesses, he could not be a disinterested person to attest its due execution. in new york, he is disqualified, if such will cannot be proved without his testimony;[ ] and, in a case on this head, caw v. robertson,[ ] where there were _three_ witnesses to the will, each of whom took legacies under it, the surrogate called the first two, whose names appeared first, which were sufficient, and omitted calling the third. it was decided that he only became entitled to the legacy, as the will could be proved without his testimony. an executor is not disqualified from receiving a legacy; but in his case, it seems, it will not carry interest.[ ] in wills, legatees are sometimes designated under a general name or class, and a difficulty often arises to determine what individuals shall be included in such a designation. where a testator uses such general terms, without defining or limiting them, they have a meaning given them by the general rules of construction in law. indeed, the testator's intention may be frustrated by using certain terms, which may appear to him to include or exclude certain individuals in his bounty, but which may be so enlarged or restricted by the rules of law as to defeat their object. as in the instance where a lady, dying, and intending to give her personal wearing apparel to her servant maid, bequeathed to her _all her personalty_, which under the rules of law meant all her personal estate, which was valued at $ , , and which under such a term must necessarily go to the servant. in general, no rule is better settled than that legatees must answer the description and character given them in the will, but it will presently appear, from the cases, that there are many important exceptions to it. we shall refer to some of these general names or classes, sometimes met with in a will, by which individuals belonging to such classes become entitled to a legacy. when a testator leaves a legacy to "children,"[ ] it is a general rule, that those within that designation _at the time of the testator's death_ become entitled; but if, from the expressions and context of the will, it is ascertained that he intended only those who answered that description _at the date of the instrument_, such intention will be observed.[ ] a court of equity, however, is careful that a liberal construction be placed upon such a term, and always, if possible, will hold that it shall include children in existence at the death of the testator, and especially if the testator stood in _loco parentis_ to the legatees.[ ] the general rule, it is claimed in collin v. collin,[ ] is, that in a will of personal estate the testator is presumed to speak in reference to the time of his death, and not to any previous or subsequent period. a child in _ventre sa mere_, at the time of the testator's death, is held to be in _esse_, if it is afterwards born alive, and to be equally entitled as those children who were born in the lifetime of the testator.[ ] if there be a postponement of the division of a legacy given to a class of individuals until a certain time after the testator's death, every one who comes under the description at the time when the distribution is made will be entitled, no matter if he was not in _esse_ at the time of the testator's death, unless from the will it be gathered that the testator intended to limit his bounty to those only who were living at the time of his decease.[ ] and where the legacy in the will indicates a present bequest of a fund which is to be distributed at a period subsequent to the death of the testator, those who are in _esse_ at the time of his death will take vested interests in the fund, but subject to open and let in others who may come into being, so as to answer the description and belong to the class at the time appointed for the distribution. where, however, a fund is bequeathed to children or others as a class, to be divided equally among the persons composing the class, when they arrive at the age of twenty-one, or marriage, only those who shall have been born or begotten when the oldest arrives at the age of twenty-one, or when the first of the class is married, are entitled to share in the fund.[ ] although, as a general rule, a devise to children, without any other description, means legitimate children, and if the testator has such children, parol evidence cannot be received to show that a different class of persons was intended; still, in these cases, as in all others, it is proper to look into circumstances _dehors_ the will, to see whether there are any persons answering the description of the legatees in the legal sense of the term used; and if it appear that there are not any such persons, it is then allowable to prove the situation of the testator's family, to enable the court to ascertain who were intended by the testator as the object of his bounty. thus, in gardner v. heyer,[ ] where the testator died a bachelor, but had for a long time lived and cohabited with m. smith, by whom he had and left four children, a son and three daughters, who had been by him placed at school and acknowledged as his children, and were generally reputed as such by his friends; and by his will he gave to his son john $ , , to be paid to him when he arrived at the age of twenty-four, the interest in the meantime to be applied to his maintenance and education; and he also gave to each of his daughters $ , , payable at the age of twenty-one, and the interest in the meantime to be applied to their education and support; and he directed his executors and trustees to pay $ to m. smith, the mother of the children, quarterly, during her life, if she remained single and had no more children; and he devised and bequeathed all the residue of his estate, real and personal, to his executors and trustees, and the survivor of them in fee, in trust, to pay two-thirds of the income thereof to his son john, and one-third to his daughters during their lives, with remainder to their issue; and he gave cross-remainders to the survivors in case any of the children should die without issue; and he also appointed the executors and trustees, guardians of the children during their minority, and earnestly requested that the utmost care should be taken _of their morals and education_. the court declared that there was no doubt as to the legal and equitable rights of the children of m. smith under the will. a bequest to an unborn, illegitimate child, the mother being described, is valid, unless the child be pointed out as having a certain father, for then it is void, the bastard being in point of law nobody's child--_filius nullius_.[ ] a bequest by a husband to his "beloved wife," not mentioning her by name, applies exclusively to the individual who answers the description at the date of the will, and is not to be extended to an after taken wife.[ ] a testator was betrothed to a lady, and by a codicil to his will, after mentioning her name, and alluding to his intended marriage with her, he gave £ , _to his wife_. before the marriage he died, and it was held that the lady was entitled to the legacy.[ ] a gift to "my servants," it is thought, will extend to those in testator's service at the date of the will, though they leave it before his death.[ ] redfield prefers to comprise, by such a phrase, only those who are in the testator's service at the time of his decease, no matter whether they were his servants at the time of his making his will or not.[ ] the best rule would be not to admit those who entered the testator's service recently before his death, nor those who left before that time, but to hold only those entitled who were in his service when the will was made as well as at his death. difficulties sometimes arise from the want of explicitness in pointing out a legatee by a testator, and again from a mistake in naming or designating him. the general rule upon the subject is, that when the name or description of the legatee is erroneous, and there is no reasonable doubt as to the person who was intended to be named or described, the mistake will not disappoint the bequest. the error may be rectified and the true intention of the testator ascertained in two ways: . by the context of the will; . to a certain extent by parol evidence. . the mistake may be rectified by the context. thus an error in the _name_ of the legatee may be obviated by the accuracy of his _description_: as where a legacy is given to "my namesake _thomas_, the second son of my brother," and the testator's brother had no son named thomas, but his second son is named _william_, there is sufficient certainty in the description to entitle the second son. and again, where the testator bequeathed to his brother, cormac connolly, and to his two sisters, mary and ann, a certain residue, and afterwards by a codicil bequeathed as follows: "to my nephew, cormac connolly, the son of my brother, cormac connolly, the sum of five hundred dollars for his ecclesiastical education, which sum is to be taken from what i have bequeathed to my brother cormac, and to my sisters mary and ann." and it appeared the testator never had a brother named cormac, but that he had a nephew, cormac, who was the son of his only surviving brother james, who was pursuing classical studies in ireland with a view to an ecclesiastical education, and who was the only nephew of that name; it was held that the legatee intended by the testator by the name of his brother, cormac, was the father of his nephew, cormac, and that his brother james was the person entitled to share in the residuary estate.[ ] so, an error in the _description_ may be obviated by the certainty of the _name_; as, where a legacy was given to "charles millar standen and caroline eliz. standen, _legitimate_ son and daughter of charles standen, now residing with a company of players," and it appeared they were _illegitimate_ children, their claim was nevertheless supported.[ ] the mistake may, to a certain extent, be rectified by parol evidence. the admissibility of parol evidence in these cases has given rise to much discussion; it forms one of the exceptions to the general rule, not to admit parol evidence where a will is void for uncertainty. this is treated of under the _seventh proposition_ of wigram on wills,[ ] in a very exhaustive manner, and the cases fully examined. we will merely here point out when such evidence is admissible and when it is rejected. the rule is thus laid down: where the object of a testator's bounty, or the subject of disposition, is described in terms which are applicable indifferently to more than one _person_ or _thing_, evidence is admissible to prove which of the persons or things so described was intended by the testator. thus, when a _blank_ is left for the christian name of the legatee, parol evidence is admissible to supply the omission, as in the case of price v. page,[ ] in which the testator bequeathed "to ---- price, the son of ---- price, the sum of £ ." no person but the plaintiff claimed the legacy, and he produced evidence from which it appeared that he was the son of a niece of the testator; that his father and grandfather's names were price; that the testator had no other relation of that name, and that he had been before frequently the object of the testator's care; that the testator said he had and would provide for the plaintiff. upon this evidence, lord alvanley determined in favor of the claim. when the omission consists of the _entire_ name of the legatee, parol evidence cannot be admitted to supply the blank; for that would amount to a bequest by oral testimony. thus, in winne v. littleton,[ ] a bequeathed all his personal estate to his executor, leaving a blank, and died without naming _any_ person executor. the legacy was adjudged to be void. and in hunt v. hort,[ ] a woman devised her houses in the city and at richmond to her niece, dame margaret hort, and richard baker, her attorney, in trust to sell. she then gave some pictures specifically, and thus proceeded: "my other pictures to become the property of lady ----." the testatrix then made her niece, harriet hunt, her residuary legatee, and appointed lady hort and richard baker her executors. lord thurlow was of opinion that he could not supply the blank by parol evidence, and observed that, where there was only a title given, it was the same as a total blank. if, however, a legatee be described by initials of his name only, parol evidence may be given to prove his identity. this was done in the case of abbott v. massie,[ ] where the bequest was: "pint silver mug and all my china to mrs. g., and £ for mourning." mrs. gregg claimed the legacies, and (the master having refused to admit testimony) offered to show that she was the person intended. exception was taken to his ruling, upon which the court declared that he ought to receive evidence to prove who mrs. g. was. the principle upon which parol evidence is admitted in these cases is a presumption of possible ignorance in the testator of the christian name of the legatee, or of his being accustomed to calling a person by the name of mrs. b, a presumption which, being raised upon the face of the will, may be confirmed and explained by extrinsic evidence. upon this ground, it is consistent with the established doctrine that such evidence is admissible to remove _latent_ ambiguities, but cannot be admitted to explain _patent_ ambiguities in a will. this is founded on lord bacon's well-known maxim: "_ambiguitas verborum latens verificatione suppletur._" chapter v. limits to testamentary disposition. while the law has generally granted the privilege of testamentary disposition, it has not deemed it expedient or politic to give the absolute and unrestricted power, so that a person can make a posthumous disposition of his property in _any_ way he thinks proper. for the public welfare, it has seemed judicious to impose certain restrictions on the right exercised by a person in distributing his property after his decease. it is well known that if an uncontrolled, absolute power were given, that individuals would sometimes disregard the claims of those who have a natural right to their bounty, and gratify their pride, their whims, or their vagaries in disposing of their property by will. the possession of a large amount of property during a man's lifetime gives him such a consciousness of power and authority, that it is difficult to disabuse his mind of the idea that he cannot perpetuate his name, his influence and control, after his death, by distributing and disposing of his property according to his pleasure. the law is full of instances where men have attempted, by schemes in devising their property, to establish a name and an influence that would abide long after the mind that conceived them had ceased to act or control. this has been the ambition, we may call it the infirmity, of some great minds; indeed, it seems sometimes a special characteristic of such persons to desire to live thus in the memory of posterity, by some remarkable and striking mode of disposing of their property after their decease, so as to leave some visible token of their influence and prestige, either in an institution or in a family,[ ] either in a charity or a monument. when properly and judiciously exercised, this desire has led to the foundation of those noble institutions for the relief of the indigent and helpless, for the promotion of knowledge and education, for the development of science and art, and for the furtherance of various benevolent designs, which are the boast and glory of our modern civilization, and which have done so much to foster and advance that civilization. but at an early period this desire or infirmity was made use of by the clergy, who wielded such vast influence over the dying, to induce testators to dispose of property for enriching churches and monasteries, and various other institutions. so great did the evil become, and so many grievous abuses sprung up, that the public welfare was threatened and endangered, and in consequence of this, a bitter and determined struggle ensued between the civil and spiritual powers, lasting through centuries and giving a peculiar bias to certain legislation. as soon as some means would be devised to check the abuses, and to limit the power of the clergy, some new device would be contrived by their ingenuity to evade the rules or nullify a law. the establishment of the law of uses and trusts is a good example of these ingenious devices to evade a statute. the several statutes of mortmain had their origin in this effort of the civil power to curb the influence of the spiritual power, and check a dangerous tendency to enrich corporations of a religious or eleemosynary character. these several acts occupy a prominent place in english history, and characterize a very important epoch of that history. their influence has extended to us, who have gathered experience from the past, and this is plainly evinced in our statutes of wills in the different states, which disqualify corporations from taking by devise unless expressly authorized.[ ] it was found, however, that an indiscriminate prohibition would prevent the foundation of many worthy and useful institutions, which, instead of being a menace, would be a safeguard to the welfare of the state; and hence a distinction arose between such bequests as were for charitable uses, and those for superstitious uses, the latter of which were so obnoxious to the law, and forbidden by it. a superstitious use is thus defined in bacon's abridgement.[ ] it is, "where lands, tenements, rents, goods, or chattels are given secured, or appointed for and towards the maintenance of a priest and chaplain to say mass; for the maintenance of a priest or other man, to pray for the soul of any dead man, in such a church, or elsewhere; to have and maintain perpetual obits, lamps, torches, etc.,[ ] to be used at certain times, to help to save the souls of men out of purgatory; these and such like uses are declared to be superstitious." devises to charitable uses were supported in england at an early period in the common law, which is supposed to have derived its maxims on this head from the civil law. lord nottingham says, in the case of the attorney-general v. tancred,[ ] that devises to corporations, though void under the statute of wills, were good in equity _if given_ to charitable uses.[ ] the statute of the d of elizabeth enumerates what charitable uses were. they were, according to this statute, gifts for the relief of aged, impotent, and poor people; for maintenance of sick and maimed soldiers and mariners; for ease of poor inhabitants concerning payment of taxes; for aid of young tradesmen, handicraftsmen, and persons decayed; for relief, stock, and maintenance of houses of correction; for marriages of poor maids;[ ] for education and preferment of orphans; for schools of learning, free schools, and scholars in universities; for relief or redemption of prisoners or captives; for repair of bridges, ports, havens, causeways, churches, sea-banks, and highways. but as it was found that persons "dying and languishing"--_in extremis_--were frequently unduly influenced to dispose of their property to such charitable purposes, against the rights of their family or kindred, it was enacted by the statute of mortmain, george ii, that no property in land, or arising out of land, could pass to such purposes, unless by deed indented, sealed, and delivered in the presence of two or more credible witnesses, twelve calendar months before the death of the donor or grantor.[ ] of course, these statutes have no operation in this country, unless by special enactment. the statute of elizabeth not being in force in new york, it was therefore insisted that no devise to charitable uses was, in consequence, valid. the fluctuations of the law on this point present a remarkable and not a very satisfactory example of varying judicial opinion in that state. the earlier decisions of its highest court have lately been overruled, and the earlier doctrines on the subject discarded. thus, in williams v. williams,[ ] it was held that the law of charitable uses was not founded on the statute of elizabeth, but was a part of the common law, which is still in force here, so far as conformable to our polity and adapted to our institutions; and that a court of equity, exercising the chancery jurisdiction of the english courts, will carry out the purpose of a testator; and that, notwithstanding the statutory prohibition against devises of lands to corporations, a devise of a charity, not directly to a corporation, but in trust for a charitable corporation, would be good. subsequent cases followed this decision of williams v. williams; but later cases have altered the law in new york. the case which effected a change, and finally determined the law, is of historical as well as legal importance, and deserves a detailed statement. it is the case of levy v. levy,[ ] most learnedly and ably argued and examined in the various courts of the state. commodore uriah p. levy, the testator, was an eminent and wealthy officer of the united states navy, of the jewish religion, who became the owner of the famous farm of jefferson, at monticello, in virginia, and who died in new york in march, , leaving property valued at over half a million dollars. in his will, after making various bequests, he provided: "after paying the above legacies and bequests, or investing for the same, and subject to my wife's dower and use of furniture, i give, devise, and bequeath my farm and estate at monticello, in virginia, formerly belonging to president thomas jefferson, together with all the rest and residue of my estate, real, personal, or mixed, not hereby disposed of, wherever or however situated, to the people of the united states, or such persons as congress shall appoint to receive it, and especially all my real estate in the city of new york, in trust, for the sole and only purpose of establishing and maintaining at said farm of monticello, in virginia, an agricultural school, for the purpose of educating as practical farmers, children of the warrant officers of the united states navy whose fathers are dead. said children are to be educated in a plain way in the ordinary elementary branches to fit them for agricultural life, and to be supported by this fund, from the age of twelve to sixteen, and each of them to be brought up to do all the usual work done on a farm; the said farm to be so cultivated by the said boys and their instructors as to raise all they may require to feed themselves, and the schoolmaster and one other teacher, and one superintendent of the said farm. i also give and bequeath, for the purpose of giving such fuel and fencing for said monticello farm-school, two hundred acres of woodland of my washington farm, called the bank farm, in virginia, the said two hundred acres to be taken from said farm hereby devised to my nephew ashel, and to be designated by said ashel. "in establishing said farm-school, i especially require that no professorships be established in said school, or professors employed in the institution; my intention in establishing this school is charity and usefulness, and not for the purpose of pomp. in proportion to the smallness of number of the teachers, so will industry prevail. "the institution must be kept within the revenue derived from this endowment; and under no circumstances can any part of the real or personal estate hereby devised be disposed of, but the rent and income of all said estate, real and personal, is to be held forever inviolate, for the purpose of sustaining this institution. the estate and lands in new york can be leased to great advantage for that purpose. "should the congress of the united states refuse to accept of this bequest, or refuse to take the necessary steps to carry out this intention, i then devise and bequeath all the property hereby devised to the people of the state of virginia, instead of the people of the united states. provided they, by acts of their legislature, accept and carry it out as herein directed. and should the people of virginia, by neglect of their legislature, decline to accept this said bequest, i then devise and bequeath all of my said property to the portuguese hebrew congregation of the city of new york, the old portuguese hebrew congregation in philadelphia, and the portuguese hebrew congregation of richmond, virginia: provided, they procure the necessary legislation to entitle them to hold said estate, and to establish an agricultural school at said monticello for the children of said societies who are between the ages of twelve and sixteen years, and whose fathers are dead, and also similar children of any other denomination, hebrew or christian. "i direct my executors hereinafter named, or such of them as shall qualify, to invest the funds arising from said estate in some safe, paying stocks as fast as they accumulate, and to hold the whole of the property and estate hereby devised and bequeathed for said school, and in their hands, until the proper steps have been taken by congress, or the legislature of virginia, or the said hebrew benevolent congregations, to receive the same and discharge said executors." the court, in its decision, extensively reviewed preceding cases, and held that, at common law, the trust would be void for want of a certain donee or beneficiary of the use or trust, whom the law could recognize. that it was uncertain which class of beneficiaries would be the parties in interest, and if the class were ascertainable, that the individuals thereof were indeterminate and unascertainable, and there was no ascertained beneficiary in whose favor performance might be enforced. the court determined that the law of charitable trusts, as existing and enforced in england, being based on the statute of elizabeth, was abrogated and annulled in the state by the act of , which repealed the statute of elizabeth; and that the legislature by that act intended to abrogate the entire system of indefinite trusts, which were understood at the time to be supported by that statute alone, as being opposed to the general policy of our government and to the spirit of our institutions. the court also determined that the trustees named, viz., the people of the united states, or the state of virginia, were incompetent to take as trustees, they being created for certain determinate political purposes, and having no other function or existence.[ ] nor could the hebrew congregations, it was held, so act, as the trust was not within the acts or province of their incorporation; the one in new york could only take property for its own use, and the foreign corporations could not take and act as trustees of lands in this state. the court was further of opinion that the whole of the peculiar system of english jurisprudence, for supporting, regulating, and enforcing public or charitable uses, is not the law of the state of new york when in conflict with statutory prohibitions relative to uses and trusts.[ ] this case was afterwards followed by bascom v. albertson,[ ] holding and approving the views of levy v. levy, which may now be considered as finally settling the law on this head in new york. the statement of the law, as decided in new york, is not in harmony with the decisions in a large majority of the states. there is unquestionably a difference of opinion on this subject. the gist of inquiry is: does the law of charitable uses exist in those states where the statute of elizabeth is not in force, or has been repealed? or, is the law appertaining to this subject founded on the common law, or is it the creation of the statute? there is no question that the weight of judicial opinion is greatly in favor of the doctrine that the law is not a creation of the statute, but is founded on the common law jurisdiction in the court of chancery, and as such can be administered by the courts in the absence of any special statute.[ ] the statute of elizabeth is in force in massachusetts, pennsylvania, north carolina, and kentucky. it is not in force in maryland, virginia, california, and new york. in some of the states, corporations are specially empowered by statute to take a certain amount of property by devise.[ ] in new york, there is a statute, passed in , which prohibits a person having a husband, wife, child, or parent, from devising or bequeathing to any charitable or literary corporation more than half of his or her estate, after payment of debts. the most frequent and dangerous propensity which law has to check and guard against in testators is that of perpetuating in their family for generations vast property and estates. the desire of founding a family of vast wealth and influence to preserve one's property is not an uncommon one; it appeals to some of the dearest and most personal feelings of a man's nature; it is peculiarly gratifying to pride and pomp, and, if not limited and checked, would be dangerous to the public welfare, as it withdraws from the channels of trade and enterprise a large extent of property. hence, every civilized country finds it necessary to define the extent of a man's control over his property, how long his volition can regulate its use after death, and to what purposes it shall be put. the common law permitted a control in this respect which would be entirely incompatible with our republican institutions and equality of our citizens. under that law, a man had the power to tie up his property and suspend the power of alienation, as it was termed, for any number of lives in being, and twenty-one years and a fraction afterwards. he could order the accumulation of the rents, income, or profits for a similar period. the case which first drew attention to the danger of such a power was one of the most famous in english law, and one that has since been a warning and an incentive to legislation both here and in england. perhaps, for the amount involved, the tediousness and length of the litigation, and the singularity of the provisions, there has never been a more famous case than that of thellusson v. woodford,[ ] tried before lord chancellor loughborough, in the year . the case afforded a remarkable instance of the unnatural meanness and ostentation of the testator, in depriving his immediate descendants of their just share of his fortune, not to found any noble charity, but that his fortune might accumulate in the hands of trustees, for the miserable satisfaction of enjoying in anticipation the wealth and aggrandizement of a distant posterity who should bear his name. peter thellusson was born at paris, of swiss parentage, his father being a minister from geneva to the french court. he settled in london as a merchant at an early age, was naturalized, and, on the foundation of a fortune of £ , , raised the princely possessions which afterwards became the subject of litigation. it is said that he was generally respected, and, though a severe economist, lived in a style suitable to his wealth. his three sons were all members of parliament. in the sixty-first year of his age, being at the time in perfect health and legal sanity, he made and executed his last will, bearing date april d, , and thereby disposed of his property upon trust during the natural lives of his three sons, and of the sons of each of these then in being, and of any such issue as any of his grandsons might have as should be living at the time of his decease. during the lives of the survivors or survivor of these persons mentioned, the trustees were to collect and receive the rents and invest them, and, upon the decease of the last survivor, all the accumulated estates should be divided into three lots, of equal value, and settled upon the eldest male lineal descendant then living of each of his three sons; and, if there should be a failure of male descendants of two of his said three sons, the sole male lineal descendant of the testator should become entitled to the whole three lots, consolidated into one huge mass of landed property. the property was thus tied up in the hands of trustees, and kept from enjoyment for three generations. shortly after executing this extraordinary will, on st july, , mr. thelusson died. the money which the will sought to accumulate was estimated at £ , . an accountant of that time calculated the accumulation--limiting it to seventy-five years, the shortest possible period during which the property would be tied up--at £ , , , an immense sum, but which he deemed would be considerably less than the sum it would be likely to reach when the improvement of money at a higher rate and the lengthened duration of the last survivor were taken into account. it was estimated, by one of the counsel in the case, that if there were three descendants to take, each would have an income of £ , a year; if only one, he would have an income of £ , , a year, more than double the revenue of the king's civil list, and surpassing the largest territorial fortune then known in europe. chancellor kent, regarding it from his time, has said that if the limitation should extend to upwards of one hundred years, as it might, the property will amount to upwards of one hundred millions sterling. the children brought an action to have the will set aside, but the court decided against them, and gave judgment confirming the trusts. the case attracted wide and deep attention from the magnitude of the fortune sought to be reared, and from the important principle of public policy involved. it was argued on both sides by the most eminent counsel at the bar, but nevertheless the chancellor was compelled to hold the will valid, much, it is said, against his inclination. next year, he was instrumental in getting statute and geo. iii passed, restraining dispositions by way of accumulation to the life of the grantor, or twenty-one years after his decease, or the minority of any party living at the time of his decease.[ ] the property was accordingly left to accumulate; but the ambitious and vain visions of the testator and the alarm of the public were destined to disappointment. the structure which threatened even to overshadow the land in its ascending greatness has not risen to a disproportionate size. the operation of the trusts has proved practically a failure, as the accumulated mass of wealth is likely to fall far short of the amount which fanciful calculators had predicted. it has shared the inevitable fate of all such vast estates that get into the grist-mill of the lawyers. the litigation has been so expensive, that what with fees of lawyers, fees of courts, commissions to trustees, and the expense of management, the _corpus_ of the estate has been pretty well eaten up. the expenses of management from january, , to , exceeded £ , . the only increase in respect of income was £ , , and an accumulation of capital of £ , . the extent of time to which property is allowed to accumulate is very carefully and strictly defined in our statutes. it is generally only during a person's minority, as in new york and california, and the same is believed to be the rule in general.[ ] the power of suspending the alienation of property by a devise is limited to lives in being in some states, or in others to _two_ lives in being,[ ] and no matter how short may be the duration, the suspension will be invalid if it is not made to depend on _life_ as the condition of the limitation.[ ] on this account, some very worthy and benevolent schemes of testators have failed. the two lives must be designated. this may be done either by naming two persons in _particular_, or else by describing a _class_ of persons, and bounding the suspense of alienation by the lives of the _two first_ who shall die out of the class. the limitation may be restricted for a shorter period than two lives--it may be for a single life. the estate may also be limited so as to depend on some event besides life, provided it must vest within two lives; as an estate to a for ten years, if b and c, or either of them, shall so long live; here, the estate may determine either by the lapse of the ten years, or by the death of b and c; but it can in no event exceed two designated lives. so, an estate during minority, widowhood, or other stage of existence, through which _two_ individuals may pass, would be good, because it could not by any possibility extend beyond two designated lives.[ ] these technical rules have rendered many a noble scheme abortive, and frustrated the benevolent and reformatory intentions of many a testator. in the following instance, a testator's paternal solicitude for the reform of a wayward son, and his disapproval of his mode of life, were emphatically expressed; and an unfortunate oversight of this inflexible rule hindered the restraint the parent thought to place on his son after his decease. the father, however, with the usual confidence of a parent, had not abandoned all hope as to his ultimate recovery, for he thought fit to make him one of his executors, and thus placed him in the rather novel position of being a censor of his own conduct. in the seventh clause of his will, after certain clear devises and bequests to other persons, was this recital and provision, viz: "whereas, my son p, to whom sundry bequests are made in the following will, has unfortunately contracted habits of inebriation, and in consequence of which, i fear he would squander or misuse the bequests to him made, i do, therefore, annul and make void this will as to him, unless he reforms and continues a sober, industrious, and moral man, for the space of two years after my decease, giving to my executors satisfactory evidence and assurance of a thorough reformation. and, therefore, it is my will, that the property so willed to him should be held in trust for him, not to exceed three years after my decease; and if within that time such reformation does not take place, i desire my said executors to divide his portion among such of my heirs as may seem to them most to need and deserve the same."[ ] it was held that this provision of the will was void, both as a _trust_, and as a _power in trust_; and that the son took the bequest notwithstanding. the court deemed it "an unusual and extraordinary provision"; and as the period of suspension was measured by time alone, and not by _life_, this of itself rendered the provision nugatory. it has been decided that if a bequest be made to certain trustees, to hold during the life of two persons designated, or until the legislature incorporate a hospital during the lifetime of the said persons, it is good.[ ] it was in this way the will of mr. roosevelt was drawn, through which the roosevelt hospital in new york was founded. he bequeathed the residue of his estate, after other bequests, to nine trustees, five of whom were presidents of certain charitable institutions, for the establishment of an hospital for the reception and relief of sick and diseased persons, and directed them to apply to the legislature for a charter to incorporate the same, and in case the legislature should refuse to grant this within two years next after his death, _provided two lives named in his will should continue so long_, then the trustees were to pay over the same to the united states for a similar purpose. it was held that this provision did not violate the statute of perpetuities, but that the corporation could take only in case the charter was granted within the two lives named. there was no need to consider the validity of the devise to the united states. the charter was granted in february, , and now the hospital stands conspicuous among the charities of new york city. an oversight in the observance of this rule against perpetuities caused the failure of a grand and meritorious scheme conceived by the late mr. rose of new york. he died in , and left a large amount of property--estimated at two millions of dollars--to found an institution called the "rose beneficent association,"[ ] whose object it was to educate and train waifs picked up on the streets, and make them useful citizens. he gave the bequests upon the contingency of raising $ , from other sources within _five years_. if that sum was not so raised, the estate was given to other charitable beneficiaries. the utmost limit of the suspension was five years, but it was not circumscribed by lives as the statute of perpetuities requires, and it was adjudged to be void. it should be stated as a warning that this will of mr. rose was drawn by himself. the case occupied a long time in litigation, and the subject of charitable bequests was most exhaustively examined.[ ] chapter vi. revocation of wills. it is one of the well-understood qualities of a will, at the present time, that it is revocable during the testator's lifetime. it was shown, in a former part of this work, that this quality did not in early times attach to a will; that a will, at first, was in the nature of an executed contract; a conveyance, in fact, and irrevocable.[ ] however, as a will has no effect until death, it necessarily follows that a person has full control of the subject-matter, and can change his mind as he pleases regarding its disposition so long as he lives. this is now accepted as a postulate in the law of wills.[ ] the only inquiry, therefore, will be as to what acts or occurrences shall be deemed sufficient to revoke a will previously made. there are two modes in which a will may be revoked: _first_, it may be revoked by the happening of some events subsequent to the making as, in the judgment of law, will amount to a revocation. we may term this an implied revocation. _secondly_, it may be revoked by a certain deliberate act of the maker, intending to cancel a previous will, or with _animo revocandi_, as the legal phrase is. the events which would operate to produce an implied revocation of a will were formerly a subject of wide and constant discussion. the courts in england, and until lately in this country, occupied themselves very frequently in discussing this subject of implied revocation, and, for a long time, there was no general agreement on the precise events that would, in the judgment of law, amount to a revocation. at an early period in the english law, it was determined that the marriage of a _feme sole_ was sufficient to revoke a will made by her previous to her marriage. it was expressed thus, in the quaint language of the time: "it was adjudged, on great deliberation, that the taking of a husband, and the coverture at the time of her death, was a countermand of the will."[ ] this enunciation of the law has ever since prevailed as a principle in the law of wills. but a similar marriage in the case of a man did not have the same effect. the courts were at first not agreed as to whether the birth of a child after the making of a will would be sufficient to effect a revocation. in one case, it was decided that this event alone did not amount to a revocation;[ ] but in another case, where there were _four_ children born subsequently to the making of the will, this, combined with other circumstances, was held to be a revocation.[ ] it came to pass that the courts became finally agreed on the question that marriage, together with the birth of issue, was sufficient to effect a revocation of a will.[ ] in the application of this rule, cases of great hardship have sometimes occurred; but it has been steadily adhered to, even under circumstances in regard to real estate, at least; as where the testator left his wife _enceinte_ without knowing it, as was the case in doe v. barford, above, where lord ellenborough held that the birth of a child _alone_, even under these circumstances, was not sufficient to revoke the will which was made after marriage. he said: "marriage, indeed, and the having of children, where _both_ these circumstances have occurred, has been deemed a presumptive revocation; but it has not been shown that either of them _singly_ is sufficient. i remember a case some years ago of a sailor who made his will in favor of a woman with whom he cohabited, and afterwards went to the west indies, and married a woman of considerable substance; and it was held, notwithstanding the hardship of the case, that the will swept away from the widow every shilling of the property, for the birth of a child must necessarily concur to constitute an implied revocation. in doe v. lancashire, t. r. , it was adjudged that marriage and the pregnancy of the wife, with the knowledge of the husband, and the subsequent birth of a posthumous child, came within the rule, the same as if the child had been born during the parent's life." this subject was elaborately examined by chancellor kent, in the case of brush v. wilkins,[ ] where the authorities from the earliest times were quoted and examined, and the same conclusion reached. this inquiry is not of much practical importance now, either here or in england, for statutory enactments have laid down the law precisely and satisfactorily as to what circumstances shall be deemed sufficient to produce the revocation of a will. and this is very desirable, since much uncertainty and discussion is thereby avoided, and the devolution of property exactly determined.[ ] there is scarcely a state we know of where statutes have not been passed, setting the matter at rest, and fixing the law on the subject. by the recent english statute, wills are held absolutely revoked by the subsequent marriage of the testator, whether made by a man or woman, unless such will be made in execution of certain powers; and it is further provided that no will shall be revoked, by any presumption of intention, on the ground of an alteration of circumstances. in the statutes of the different states there is this difference: in some, the birth of a child after making a will, where such child is unprovided for, will work a revocation; while in others, it will only revoke it _pro tanto_, that is, so as to allow the child to have the same share as if the parent died intestate. in ohio, indiana, illinois, and connecticut, the birth of a child avoids the will _in toto_.[ ] by the statute laws of maine, vermont, new hampshire, massachusetts, new york, new jersey, pennsylvania, delaware, and california, children born after the making of the will inherit as if the parent died intestate, unless the will comprises some provision for them, or they are particularly referred to in it. the will is thus revoked _pro tanto_.[ ] in virginia and kentucky, the birth of a child after the will, if there were none previously, revokes the will, unless the child dies unmarried or an infant.[ ] the statute law of some states goes further, and entitles not only children but their _issue_ to claim portion of testator's estate, if such children were unprovided for, and unmentioned in the will. this is the case in the california code,[ ] and in maine, new hampshire,[ ] rhode island, and massachusetts. by the new york revised statutes, if a will disposes of the whole estate, marriage and the birth of a child revoke the will, if either the wife or child survive the testator.[ ] parol evidence is not admissible to rebut this presumption. wherever the question has arisen, it has generally been held, even in the states where by statute children omitted in the will of the parent are entitled to the same share of his estate as if he had died intestate, that marriage and the birth of issue, after the making of a will, do amount to an implied revocation of the will.[ ] in many of the states, marriage alone, after making the will, amounts to a revocation. in virginia, it is revoked by marriage;[ ] also, in west virginia; so in california, unless a provision be made for the wife.[ ] in others, it only revokes the will _pro tanto_, as in pennsylvania and delaware.[ ] in the state of illinois, where the husband and wife are made heirs to each other, marriage by the testator after making his will, wherein no provision in contemplation of such new relation exists, amounts to a revocation.[ ] the marriage of a woman after making her will, will produce a revocation in general. it is so in new york and california;[ ] and in california it is not revived by death of the husband. this provision is in harmony with the early cases in england.[ ] it must not be inferred from the previous statement that a testator has no power to disinherit or cut off a child. the law does not withhold this power; it only presumes, by the omission to mention the name of a child in a will, that the claim of that child was overlooked by the testator, and the court, exercising its equitable power, interferes on behalf of such child to see it gets its due share of the property. but where the intention is expressed, and much more so where a reason is given, for cutting off a child from a participation in a testator's property, the courts cannot interfere in behalf of such disinherited child, unless on some imputation of insanity or undue influence. another, and a more usual mode in which a will may be revoked, is by an express deliberate act of the testator. this may be done by a subsequent testamentary document, or by some physical destruction or cancelation of the will. a very common phrase used in a will is: "and i hereby revoke all former and other wills and testamentary dispositions by me at any time heretofore made." however, the insertion of a clause like this is not of much importance, as a will professing to dispose of the _whole_ of a testator's property necessarily displaces and supersedes all antecedent testamentary instruments.[ ] such a clause might be useful in those instances in which the intention to dispose of the entire estate was not so clearly manifested as to preclude attempts to adopt, wholly or partially, the contents of former wills as part of the testator's disposition; since a will may be composed of _several_ papers of _different_ dates, each professing to be such when they are capable of standing together.[ ] mere proof of the execution of a subsequent will, therefore, is not sufficient to invalidate a prior will. there must be proof of a clause of revocation, or there must be plainly contrary or inconsistent provisions.[ ] and where the contents of the last will cannot be ascertained, it is not a revocation of the former will. this was decided by the court of king's bench in england, more than one hundred and fifty years ago, in the case of hutchins v. bassett;[ ] and that decision was subsequently affirmed upon a writ of error in the house of lords. in the subsequent case of harwood v. goodright,[ ] which came before the court of king's bench in , it was held that a former will was not revoked by a subsequent one, the contents of which could not be ascertained; although it was found by a special verdict that the disposition which the testator made of his property by the last will was different from that made by the first will, but in what particulars the jurors could not ascertain. this case also was carried to the house of lords upon a writ of error, and the judgment was affirmed. as these two decisions of the court of _dernier resort_ in england were previous to the revolution, they conclusively settle the law on this subject here.[ ] again, where there are several codicils or other testamentary papers of different dates, it is a question of intention upon all the circumstances of the case, which and how far either is a revocation of another, or whether the dispositions of the latter are to be considered as additional and cumulative to those of the prior. parol evidence, however, is not to be admitted in order to investigate the _animus_ with which the act was done, unless there is such doubt and ambiguity, _on the face of the papers_, as requires the aid of extrinsic evidence to explain it.[ ] in a late case,[ ] the subject of receiving parol evidence in regard to the fact and intent of the revocation of wills, is very carefully examined, and the principle declared, that where the testator executed a will, and subsequently executed another, which he took away with him, and which on his decease could not be found, the earlier one being found, that the solicitor who drew the will, or any other witness familiar with its contents, might give evidence thereof; and it appearing that the provisions of the later one were inconsistent with those of the former, it was held to amount to a revocation. the practice, in the american courts, of receiving parol evidence of the contents of a lost will, seems to be universal, and without question, notwithstanding the stringent statutory requirements in regard to the mode of executing wills.[ ] the evidence must come from witnesses who have read the will, and whose recollection of its contents is trustworthy.[ ] but in cases of fraud, more indulgence is allowed to the proof, and in jones v. murphy,[ ] the court said: "it is better, surely, that a person should die intestate than that the spoliator should be rewarded for his villainy." the english courts do not grant the same indulgence to admit alleged lost wills to probate. in a late case, where the contents of the will were propounded for probate after a delay of seven years, and no sufficient explanation given of the manner or cause of the loss, and when no draft of the will could be produced, but only oral proof of its contents, due execution, and that it could not have been revoked, probate was denied.[ ] the question as to what extent a codicil shall control the provisions in the will is not always easy of solution. each case depends almost exclusively upon its own peculiar circumstances, and will not, therefore, be much guide to others, unless the facts are very similar. but the general rule of construction is that already stated, to allow all the provisions of the will to stand which are not inconsistent with those of the codicil, and in determining this, to seek for the intention of the testator, as far as practicable.[ ] where a codicil refers to the former of two inconsistent wills, by date, as the last will of the testator, it has the effect to cancel the intermediate will, and evidence of mistake cannot be admitted.[ ] where a codicil named the wife as "sole executrix of this my will," it was held that the appointment of other executors in the will was revoked.[ ] it has been held that a revocation is not valid, in most of the american states, unless done with the same formality required in the execution of the will itself.[ ] thus, writing the word "obsolete" on the margin of his will by the testator, but without signing the same in any of the modes allowed by law, will not amount to a revocation.[ ] in a somewhat recent case in pennsylvania, the question of revocation arose, in regard to a bequest to charity.[ ] the court held that, where there are two wills, in some respects inconsistent, the latter revokes the former only so far as they are inconsistent with each other, unless there is an express clause of revocation. but where the property given specifically in the first will is, in the second, contained in a general devise to the same objects, and for the same purpose, and the appointment of other executors, there is a manifest inconsistency, and it evinces an intention that both wills should not stand. many times it happens that a testator, dissatisfied with an executor or devisee named in his will, erases the name of such executor or devisee; but this will not always effect his purpose, as it should be done by a subsequent codicil, properly executed. thus, where a testator (without a republication of his will) made alterations and corrections in it, with the intent, not to destroy it, but to enlarge and extend a devise already made, it was held not a revocation of the devise.[ ] the physical destruction or cancelation of a will by a testator is the most palpable and unmistakable mode of its revocation. in what manner or in what different modes this may be done was first laid down in the statute of frauds, where revocation was to be effected by "burning, canceling, tearing, or obliterating" the will. these four phrases have been generally adopted and inserted in our statutes, with either some modification or enlargement. the enumeration of these several modes for the destruction of a will by a testator, to amount to its revocation, has not prevented controversy and uncertainty; for law cannot define acts in words so precisely and unmistakably as to preclude all doubt and quibbling. there are sure to be some who will play upon words--a mental recreation to which legal minds are somewhat given--and who will insist upon an exact literal conformity when a revocation is sought to be maintained under this provision. it would seem to an ordinary mind hardly possible to admit of a doubt that _cutting_ a will was, in effect, equivalent to _tearing_; yet a legal quibble went so far as to question this, when it became necessary to decide that cutting was, in effect, the same as tearing.[ ] probably, the legislature of west virginia took into consideration a knotty question of this kind, and took good care to save a legal luminary stumbling over a question of this sort; for, by the statute of that state, it is provided that a revocation in this manner may be effected by "_cutting_, tearing, burning, obliterating, canceling, or destroying the same." to avoid any limited construction of the words as used in the english statute of frauds, it is generally provided in our statutes that a revocation may be made as in that statute, or by _otherwise destroying_ the will.[ ] this cuts off a great deal of uncertain construction, and removes a great temptation for fine legal distinctions. in the new york statute, a revocation is effected in this way, if the will is _burnt, torn, obliterated, canceled, or destroyed_, with intent and for the purpose of revoking the same.[ ] the statute very wisely requires two things to be combined before it concludes that a will is revoked. there must be the _act_ of destruction with the _intent_, or the _animo revocandi_, as the law terms it. under the english statute, it had been determined that the mere acts named will not constitute a valid revocation unless done with the intent to revoke.[ ] lord mansfield here explains very graphically the acts which might often occur, which would destroy the writing, but would not amount to a revocation of the will; as, if a man were to throw ink upon his will instead of sand; or, having two wills, of different dates, should direct the former to be destroyed, and by mistake the latter is canceled. in neither case would it amount to a revocation of the will, although the writing were irrevocably gone. revocation is an act of the mind which must be demonstrated by some outward and visible sign. the statute prescribes what those signs are. if any of these are performed in the slightest manner, joined with a declared intent to revoke, it will be an effectual revocation.[ ] it would be manifestly a harsh and an unjust construction to place upon the statute, that because a will was destroyed in any one of the modes pointed out, that a strict interpretation required a revocation. hence, where the destruction was done unadvisedly, or by some other casualty, it was held, it could not amount to a revocation. thus, where a will was gnawed to pieces by rats, but the pieces, being collected, were afterwards put together, the will was admitted to probate.[ ] and in perkes v. perkes,[ ] a testator having quarreled with a person who was a devisee in his will, in a fit of passion took the will out of the desk, and, addressing some words to a bystander, tore it twice through, but was prevented from proceeding further by the interference of the other person and the submission of the devisee; and he then became calm, put up the pieces and said: "it is a good job it is no worse"; and after fitting the pieces together, added: "there is nothing ripped that will be any signification to it." the jury found that the act of canceling was incomplete at the time the testator was stopped; and the court was of opinion that that conclusion was right, and that the will was not revoked. where a testator, with an intent to revoke his will, endeavors to destroy it in some of the modes pointed out, but through the fraud, imposition, or other deception of a person; the act is prevented being completed, it shall not prevent a revocation. the following case is a striking one, and illustrates this principle. a testator, (who had for two months declared himself discontented with his will) being one day in bed near the fire, ordered m w, who attended him, to fetch his will, which she did and delivered it to him, it being then whole, only somewhat erased. he opened it, looked at it, then gave it something of a rip with his hands, and so tore it as almost to tear a bit off, then rumpled it together, and threw it upon the fire, but it fell off. it must soon have been burnt, had not m w taken it up, which she did, and put it in her pocket. the testator did not see her take it up, but seemed to have some suspicion of it, as he asked her what she was about, to which she made little or no answer. the testator, several times afterwards, said that was not and should not be his will, and bid her destroy it. she said at first, "so i will, when you have made another"; but afterwards, upon his repeated inquiries, she told him that she had destroyed it, though in fact it was never destroyed, that she believed he imagined it was destroyed. she asked him who his estate would go to when the will was burnt; he answered, to his sister and her children. he afterwards told a person that he had destroyed his will, and should make no other until he had seen his brother, j m, and desired the person to tell his brother that he wanted to see him. he afterwards wrote to his brother, saying, "i have destroyed my will, which i made, for upon serious consideration, i was not easy in my mind about that will," and desired him to come down, saying, "if i die intestate, it will cause uneasiness." the testator, however, died without making another will. the jury, with the concurrence of the judge, thought this a sufficient revocation of the will, and on a motion for a new trial it was so held, and that throwing it on the fire, with an intent to burn, though it was only very slightly singed and fell off, was sufficient within the statute.[ ] the english courts are more strict in requiring a substantial compliance with the statute than our courts are. in the american cases, the intention is looked upon as the most material and controlling element: as where a testator asked for his will on his sick bed, and was handed an old letter, which he destroyed, supposing it to be his will, it was held to be a good revocation.[ ] and where a testator threw his will upon the fire, _animo revocandi_, and it was taken off and preserved, before any words were burned, and without the testator's knowledge, it was decided, by a very able court, that it did amount to revocation.[ ] so, where a testatrix burns a paper, which she supposes to be her will, and by mistake or the fraud of others burns a different paper, and remains under this misapprehension during her life, it amounts, in law, to a revocation.[ ] but in a case in vermont it was held that the mere intention or desire to revoke one's will, until carried into effect in the manner prescribed in the statute, can have no effect; however, if such intention is defeated by fraud, a court of equity will prevent a party moving from any benefit of such fraud.[ ] the two words "canceling" and "obliterating" have occasioned more uncertainty than the others used in the statute, because it is not so easily or exactly determined what acts shall amount to a cancelation and what to an obliteration of the will. in one case, the will was found with another testamentary paper, but the place in which the names of the attesting witnesses should have appeared, upon the latter, was scratched over with a pen and ink, so that no letter of a name could be deciphered: it was held that this paper was thereby revoked, and the will was admitted to probate alone.[ ] it seems to be settled, that from the fact of interlineations and erasures appearing upon the face of a will, no such presumption arises, as in the case of deeds and other instruments, that they were made before execution. but in regard to a will the case is different. hence, where the testator makes an alteration in his will by erasure and interlineation, or in any other mode, without authenticating such alteration by a new attestation in the presence of witnesses, or other form required by the statute, the will, therefore, stands in legal force the same as it did before, so far as it is legible after the attempted alteration,[ ] but if the former reading cannot be made out by inspection of the paper, probate is decreed, and such illegible portions are treated as blanks. in a case in pennsylvania,[ ] where the will was found in the testator's private desk, with the seals of the envelope broken, and a black line drawn through the name of the testator, and there was no evidence how or with what intent it was done, it was held a sufficient revocation. vice-chancellor wood, in a case in new york,[ ] decided that where a testator, having torn off the signature from the first four sheets of his will, and struck his pen through the signature upon the remaining sheet, the _animus revocandi_ being proved, it was a sufficient revocation. the clearest statement of the law on this head was made by an eminent judge, whose language very clearly sums up the law. chief justice ruffin, in a case in north carolina,[ ] says: "the statute does not define what is such a cancelation or obliteration as shall amount, conclusively, to a revocation of a will. burning, or the utter destruction of the instrument by any other means, are clear indications of purpose which cannot be mistaken. "but obliterating may be accidental, or may be partial, and therefore is an equivocal act, in reference to the whole instrument, and particularly to the parts that are unobliterated. so, canceling, by merely drawing lines through the signature, leaving it legible, and leaving the body of the instrument entire, is yet more equivocal, especially if the instrument be preserved by the party, and placed in his depository as a valuable paper. it may be admitted that the slightest act of cancelation, with intent to revoke absolutely, although such intent continue but for an instant, is a total and perpetual revocation, and the paper can only be set up as a new will. but that is founded upon the intent. without such intention, no such effect can follow; for the purpose of the mind gives the character to the act. when, therefore, there appears a cancelation, it becomes necessary to look at the extent of it, at all the conduct of the testator, at what he proposed doing at the time, at what he did afterwards.... for, although every act of canceling imports, _prima facie_, that it is done _animo revocandi_, yet it is but a presumption which may be repelled by accompanying circumstances." there seems to be no question, according to jarman,[ ] that, under the statute of frauds and other similar statutes, as _parts_ of an entire will may be revoked, in the same mode the whole may be so revoked. the same rule has been adopted in this country, to some extent. the question was ably examined by surrogate bradford, in a case in new york.[ ] in that case, a testator, after his will had been prepared and executed, becoming dissatisfied with one of the devisees, his own daughter, struck out the devise to her, which was contained in these words: "to my beloved and only daughter, sarah ann mcpherson, i give and bequeath," etc. in a note to the foot of the page, he gave as a reason for striking out this devise, the bad treatment of his daughter, and afterwards altered a phrase in his will where "children" was used, and substituted "sons" instead, so as to exclude the said daughter. in examining this question, the learned surrogate assumed that a _part_ of a will might be obliterated in the same mode as the whole, and referred to various decisions in support of this view. he, however, held that, as the subsequent alteration, substituting "sons" for "children," was invalid, not having been re-witnessed, as is required, that the obliteration of the devise was not effectual as to that part, and could not be treated as a revocation. in kentucky, in the case of brown's will,[ ] it was declared that a cancelation of a portion of the devises, the testator's signature being left untouched, did not affect the residue of the dispositions, which remained unaltered, the testator's intention not to revoke them being clearly established. chapter vii. wills as affected by domicile. there is a certain respect paid by the laws of one nation or community to those of another, which is termed international comity, which, for general convenience and utility, is observed and regarded by tribunals when certain acts done in one place are to be construed in another. of course, such comity is merely conventional--there is no binding obligation to enforce it; but from long observance, and the customary regard tribunals have given to certain rules of international comity, these rules have been so long sanctioned by precedent and authority as now to have the force of law. the law relating to wills as affected by domicile is, to a great extent, founded on such rules of international comity, or _leges gentium_. the principles of law appertaining to this subject are well settled and recognized, and are now invariably acted upon. the language of wills is supposed to speak the sense of the testator according to the received laws or usages of the country where he is domiciled, by a sort of tacit reference to them, unless there is something in the language which repels or controls such a conclusion. in regard to personalty, (in an especial manner) the law of the place of the testator's domicile governs in the distribution thereof, and will govern in the interpretation of wills, unless it is manifest the testator had the laws of some other country in his own view. this is usually expressed by the legal formula, that, with regard to personal property, the _lex domicilii_ governs.[ ] the law on this subject has never been more clearly expressed, or better summarized, than by the lord chancellor, in the case of enohin v. wylie.[ ] his lordship there says: "i hold it to be now put beyond the possibility of a question, that the administration of the personal estate of a deceased person belongs to the court of the country where the deceased was domiciled at his death. all questions of testacy or intestacy belong to the judge of the domicile. it is the right and duty of that judge to constitute the personal representative of the deceased. to the courts of the domicile belong the interpretation and construction of the will of the testator. to determine who are the next of kin, or heirs of the personal estate of the testator, is the prerogative of the judge of the domicile. in short, the court of the domicile is the _forum concursus_ to which the legatees under the will of a testator,[ ] or the parties entitled to the distribution of the estate of an intestate, are required to resort." as a will is governed in its interpretation according to the law of the place where the testator had his domicile, therefore, if a testator, born and domiciled in england during his whole life, should, by his will, give his personal estate to his heir-at-law, that the _descriptio personæ_ would have reference to, and be governed by, the import of the terms in the sense of the laws of england.[ ] the import of them might be very different if the testator were born or domiciled in france, pennsylvania, or massachusetts. to ascertain what the testator means, we must first ascertain _what was his domicile_, and whether he had reference to the laws of that place or the laws of any foreign country.[ ] the law of the domicile governs as to the proper mode of execution and attestation of wills of personal property; hence it is accepted as a rule of universal application, that a will of personal property, duly admitted to probate where a person has his domicile, is conclusive on all other courts, and is sufficient to pass personal property, wherever situated.[ ] it has been a subject of discussion, whether a will, made by a person according to the law of his domicile at the time when made, will be operative if he subsequently changes his domicile, and dies in his new domicile. this is a question of grave importance, and one on which there is a serious conflict of authority. the question is then presented, as to what law should govern, whether the law of the domicile _at the time the will was made_, or the law of the domicile _at the time of decease_. this question arose in new york, in a case which passed through all the subordinate courts, and was finally determined by its highest court, after very thorough and learned examination. it was the case of moultrie v. hunt.[ ] the testator, benjamin f. hunt, resided at charleston, and there made his will, in august, , conformable to the laws of south carolina. he subsequently removed to new york, where he established his domicile, and where he died. his will was attested, at his request, by three witnesses; but mr. hunt did not state to the witnesses the nature of the paper which he requested them to attest, and, therefore, omitted to comply with one of the requisites of the statute in new york, which requires a publication of the will, to be a valid execution thereof. the surrogate, when the case came before him, decided to admit the will to probate, and made a decree accordingly. this decree was affirmed by the supreme court, whence it was taken on appeal to the court of appeals, and it was there reversed, a very able judge (denio) writing the opinion of the court. his opinion was very able and elaborate, and a thorough examination was made of all the authorities. he holds that a will cannot operate so as to confer rights of property until the death of the testator, until which event it is, in its essence, ambulatory and revocable. therefore, it is the law in force _at the death of the testator_ that should govern as to the due execution of a will and the capacity of a testator. he illustrated this in the case of the legislature making laws that would have the effect of invalidating wills already made, and shows that where a will was witnessed by but two witnesses, three being required at the time it was made, that it was subsequently validated by a law in force at the decease of the testator, allowing two witnesses to attest a will. he quotes from story[ ] to show that it is the law of the domicile _at the time of death_ that should govern as to the proper execution, and he approves that doctrine, and holds it applicable to this case; which, it was held, should be governed by the law of new york, the law of the domicile of the testator at the time of his death, and therefore mr. hunt was considered as dying intestate in respect to personal property in new york. judge redfield, in his work on wills, approves of this doctrine,[ ] and the same point has been decided in missouri.[ ] the question, however, is not free from doubt, as very able jurists differ on it. as far as new york is concerned, it has settled the law there. the case of the will of general kosciusko, before the supreme court of the united states, in december, , was in many respects the most notable and interesting case on this subject ever examined. in that case, it was necessary to examine, carefully and strictly, the law of wills as affected by domicile, and the manner of acquiring a domicile, and the mode of proving it. this case, besides its importance in a legal point of view, is of much public interest, as bringing up some memorable incidents connected with our revolutionary struggle and the eminent personages who participated in that struggle. it is found in the case of ennis v. smith,[ ] and we will be justified in stating the facts somewhat in detail. kosciusko made four wills, one in the united states in , another in paris in , the third and fourth in switzerland, whilst sojourning there during the years and . in his third will there was a revocation clause, canceling the first and second wills, in these words: "je revoque tous les testaments et codiciles que j'ai pu faire avant le présent auquel seul je m'arrète comme contenant mes dernierès volantes." the object of the suit in the supreme court was as to the disposition of a fund belonging to kosciusko in the united states, which, it was claimed, was undisposed of by his will, and to which the descendants of his sisters laid claim if he died intestate as to this property in the united states. the origin of this fund is full of interest. kosciusko came here in , entered our army as a volunteer in the engineers, participated in all the struggles of our revolutionary war, and retired at its close with the rank of brigadier general, poorer than when he came, and actually a creditor of our government for his military pay. during his absence in europe, participating in the heroic struggle of his native land, he became entitled, under a military certificate, to the sum of $ , . , and not being able to receive it then, congress passed a law in giving him interest from the st of january, , to st december, . when the money was paid it was invested in american stocks, and placed under the care of jefferson. by judicious care and management the fund increased to the sum of $ , . , which was the subject of the suit in . before his departure from the country, in , he made his will in his own handwriting, directing this fund to be laid out in the purchase of young negroes, who were to be _educated and emancipated_. in regard to this, he wrote to jefferson, september th, , as follows: "we all grow old, and for that reason, my dear and respectable friend, i ask you, as you have full power to do, to arrange it in such a manner, that after the death of our worthy friend, mr. barnes, some one as honest as himself may take his place, so that i may receive the interest of my money punctually; of which money after my death, you know the fixed destination. as for the present, do what you think best." as the will of revoked the two previous wills, the disposition of the fund became canceled. but in the will of , by the second clause, he provided: "je léque tous mes effets, ma voiture, et mon cheval y comprise à madame et à monsieur zavier zeltner, les hommes ce dessus." it was on this clause the dispute arose; because it was claimed that by the words "mes effets," the property in the united states passed, that it was a residuary devise, and that all went to the two persons named. on the other hand, it was claimed, that as kosciusko, having been domiciled for fifteen years in france, and was only temporarily sojourning in switzerland, that the law of france should control, and that the proper interpretation of such a phrase was that it referred to property as belonging at the time and which was attached to his person, and that the subsequent words restricted its meaning, and prevented it having a general signification. it was held that as to this property in the united states kosciusko died intestate; and that, on the principle that personal property, wherever it may be, is to be distributed, in case of intestacy, according to the law of the domicile of the intestate, that the disposition of this property should be governed by the law of france, the proper domicile of kosciusko. there was some difficulty to ascertain the domicile, but it was shown that he did not leave poland compulsorily, which would be an important consideration in determining his _intent_; but he left voluntarily to obtain a civil status in france, which he conscientiously thought he could not enjoy in poland whilst it continued under a foreign dominion. with regard to real estate, a different rule prevails. it would not comport with the dignity or independence of one country to allow real property, which by its nature is fixed and immovable, to be controlled and affected by foreign laws. hence it is the law of the place where the real estate is situated that governs in its distribution, and as to the proper execution of a will devising it. this is expressed by the formula that the _lex locus rei sitæ_ governs. thus, a devise of lands in england, though made abroad, must be executed pursuant to the english statute. thus, where c made his will abroad, devising lands in england, but the same was executed in the presence of _two_ witnesses, (three being necessary, at the time of its execution, to devise lands in england) in accordance with the law where he was domiciled, it was held that the will must be void as to lands in england, which lands can only pass by such a will as the laws of england require, and that the _lex rei sitæ_ should govern.[ ] and if a testator, by his will, direct personal property to be invested, in another state, in certain trusts of real estate there lawful, but not lawful by the law of the state where the testator is domiciled, the trusts will be declared void. this was the case where a testator, a resident of the state of new york at the time of his death, who, by his will, directed his personal property and the proceeds of his real estate there situated to be invested in real estate in the state of ohio, upon trusts which were invalid by the law of new york, it was held that the devise in trust was invalid, as it was inconsistent with the law of the testator's domicile.[ ] jarman[ ] considers that a will of realty is construed according to the law of the country where the land is situated; but story,[ ] greenleaf,[ ] and others are of opinion that this doctrine of the _lex rei sitæ_ does not apply to the construction, as distinguished from the execution, of wills. there are several american authorities on either side, the balance, however, being in favor of the law as stated by jarman. a will has always been presumed, in england, to speak only from the death of the testator as to personalty, but before , from its date as to realty. by vict., ch. , devises and bequests were to be from _death_ of the testator, unless a contrary intention appears. the rules thus settled by this act have long been adopted in most of our states.[ ] a will is presumed in the following states to speak only from the testator's death, as regards the subject-matter (as distinguished from the objects) of the testator's bounty: california, maryland, missouri, new york, and pennsylvania. in virginia, wills of land speak from the making of the instrument, unless it discloses an intention to the contrary.[ ] it is so in massachusetts, new hampshire, vermont, maine, indiana, illinois, north carolina, connecticut, and kentucky; though a testator may, in these states, convey by his will any after-acquired land, provided he declares his intention to that effect. the construction, however, on these statutes virtually raises a presumption that wills speak only from the death of the testator, if there is nothing in the context to the contrary.[ ] it seems the better opinion, that the law of the domicile of the testator will govern as to what shall be regarded as personal estate, and what real. thus, in kentucky, shares in the capital stock of railroad companies are considered as real property,[ ] and, according to this rule, a will made by a person domiciled there must be executed as a will of real estate, to convey such shares. and the law of the place of domicile must govern as to what ought to be regarded as testamentary capacity. thus, in england, administration was granted upon the probate of the will of a married woman, domiciled in spain, she being also a native of that country, it appearing that by the law of that country a _feme covert_ may dispose of her property by will, with certain limitations, the same as a _feme sole_.[ ] chapter viii. construction of wills. it is obvious that within the scope of the present work it is inexpedient to treat of this subject extensively; it is considered only necessary to advert to a few of the leading and generally recognized rules followed in the construction of wills, both here and in england. the main purpose, in this direction, is to ascertain the true intention of the testator, from the language used in the instrument, and this intention shall prevail above every other construction which might be placed on the language. this is the cardinal rule of all construction, but it is to be taken with this limitation, that the intention will govern only so far as it is consistent with the rules of law. the general intent overrides all mere technical and grammatical rules of construction. this intention is to be ascertained from the whole will taken together, from a full view of everything contained within "the four corners of the instrument,"[ ] and not from the language of any particular provision when taken by itself; and, for the purpose of construction, a will and codicil may be considered together, and construed as different parts of the same instrument.[ ] but where several parts are absolutely irreconcilable, the latter must prevail.[ ] the rule as to intention, governing in all cases, is somewhat liable to misconception, because it is susceptible of, and may be taken in, two senses. for by intention, it may be inferred that we are to seek for some probable purpose as existing in the testator's mind at the time; or may seek to extract that intention from the meaning of the language which he has used. it is in this latter sense alone in which construction is employed. the will must be in writing, and the only question is, what is the meaning of the words used in that writing? and to ascertain this, every part of it must be considered, with the help of those surrounding circumstances which are admissible in evidence to explain the words, and to put the court as nearly as possible in the situation of the writer. this was well expressed in cole v. rawlinson,[ ] by lord holt when he said: "the intent of a testator will not do, unless there be sufficient words in the will to manifest that intent; neither is the intent to be collected from the circumstances of his estate, and other matters collateral and foreign to the will, but from the words and tenor of the will itself." the rule was well illustrated in the case of doe v. dring,[ ] where a testator, intending, no doubt, to dispose of _all_ his property for the benefit of his family, used these words: "all and singular my _effects_ of what nature and kind soever." lord ellenborough said, that if he were asked his private opinion as to what the testator really meant when he used these words, he would reply, that he must be supposed to have meant that which his duty prescribed to him, to convey _all_ his property for the maintenance of his family; but as a _judge_, he was not at liberty to collect his meaning from matters _dehors_, but only from expressions used on the face of the will, and that the expression "effects" had always a meaning, in the absence of anything in the context, which necessarily excluded real estate. however, if the context shows that by the expression, "all my personal estates," the testator meant to include real property, it will be so held by reason of the clear intention manifested on the face of the will.[ ] an introductory clause expressing a testator's desire to dispose of all the property he should "leave behind him" may be referred to, to construe the will as passing all lands belonging to the testator at the time of his death.[ ] it is one of the most troublesome questions in law, as to how far parol evidence can be admitted to ascertain the intention of a testator. the principle was early established, that parol evidence should not be admitted to vary, contradict, or enlarge the terms of a will, and this is still rigidly adhered to. this was well established in what is known as lord cheney's case,[ ] where it is said that "otherwise it were great inconvenience that not any may know by the written words of the will what construction to make, if it might be controlled by collateral averment, out of the will." chancellor kent, in mann v. mann,[ ] examined this subject with much industry and learning, and declared the result to be: that from cheney's case down to this day, it has been a well-settled rule that parol evidence cannot be admitted to supply or contradict, enlarge or vary the words of a will, nor to explain the intention of the testator, except in two specific cases: st. where there is a latent ambiguity arising _dehors_ the will, as to the person or subject meant to be described; and d. to rebut a resulting trust. what is a latent ambiguity is thus described in the quaint but expressive language of lord bacon: "_latens_ is that which seemeth certain, and without ambiguity for anything that appeareth upon the deed or instrument; but there is some collateral matter out of the deed that breedeth the ambiguity; as, if i grant my manor of s to j f and his heirs, here appeareth no ambiguity at all; but if the truth be that i have the manors both of north s and south s, this ambiguity is matter in fact, and, therefore, it shall be holpen by averment, whether of them was that the party intend should pass." a patent ambiguity is one that is apparent on the face of the will, and is only to be remedied, by construction of the language, if possible. as, for example, if the devise is to one of the sons of j s, who has several sons, such an uncertainty in the description of the devisee cannot be explained by parol proof.[ ] as a general rule, courts do not admit parol evidence in cases of patent ambiguity; but on this head there is a difference of decision in this country. we have no uniform rule throughout the united states, either by statute or construction, as to the extent to which parol testamentary evidence is admissible. in some states, the english rules will be followed in the main, which is to admit no extrinsic evidence except to explain a latent ambiguity. but in many of the states, undoubtedly, extrinsic evidence of the testator's circumstances, as distinguished from his intention, will be admitted in aid of the construction of any expression left ambiguous by the context.[ ] in new york, the courts adhere to the english rule, and admit no extrinsic evidence, except to explain a latent ambiguity.[ ] in maryland, the strict rules of construction prevail, and no parol evidence is admitted except as in england.[ ] the same is the rule in ohio.[ ] it seems to be a universally received doctrine in the american courts, that extrinsic evidence of the declarations of the testator, made at the time, before or after the execution of the will, cannot be received to show the intention of the testator by the use of particular words therein, or by its general scope; as, that by the use of the word "children" he meant to include step-children;[ ] or that a bequest to the parent was intended for the children of such parent, who was known by the testator to have died; or that the term "children" was intended to include illegitimate children;[ ] or in any sense to vary the express provisions of the will, or to show in what sense he used a well-settled term of law.[ ] nor are the declarations of the testator admissible to show the existence of a will at the time they were made.[ ] but, in a case in michigan, it was held, where, after the death of the testator, a will twenty-five years old was discovered in a barrel among waste papers, and either torn or worn into several pieces, which were scattered loose among the papers in the barrel, that the declarations of the testator, made after the date of the will, were admissible, not as separate and independent evidence of revocation, but as tending to explain whether the instrument was thus torn accidentally, or with intent to revoke.[ ] the code of california has settled this question for that state; it excludes all declarations of the testator's intention.[ ] to ascertain the intention of the testator from the language of the instrument, certain rules of construction have been established, which have obtained the acquiescence and authority of the courts. if technical words are used by the testator, he will be presumed to have employed them in their legal sense, unless the context contain a clear indication to the contrary.[ ] courts, therefore, have no right or power to say that the testator did not understand the meaning of the words he has used, or to put a construction upon them different from what has been long received, or what is affixed to them by the law.[ ] there can be no place for construction, for the discovery of the testator's intention, when he has used words of an unequivocal, definite sense in law, and, however it may frustrate any presumed worthy designs, the import of the terms as used must prevail.[ ] in hicks v. salitt,[ ] the court said: "when a testator uses a word which has a well-known, ordinary acceptation, it must appear very certain that he has said, on the face of the will, that he uses it in another sense, before the ordinary sense can be interfered with.... in order to alter the meaning of a word, it must appear, not that the testator _might_ have meant it in a different sense, but that he _must_ have meant it in a different sense." the right of every testator to use words in a sense different from the technical legal sense, provided it is apparent, is well established and acknowledged. thus, in deference to the context, the word "money" has been held to pass stock in the funds;[ ] though its technical meaning, according to coke, only implies gold and silver, or the lawful circulating medium of a country.[ ] this technical meaning of the word was applied in mann v. mann,[ ] where a testator bequeathed "all the rest, residue, and remainder of the _moneys_ belonging to his estate at the time of his decease," which was held not to comprehend promissory notes, bonds and mortgages, and other securities, there being nothing in the will itself to show that the testator intended to use the word in that extended sense. and the words "nephews and nieces" have been held to include great-nephews and great-nieces, different from the import of these terms as settled in law;[ ] and the word "family" has been held to include a husband.[ ] in the case of hussey v. berkeley,[ ] lord nottingham, upon the question whether the testatrix intended to include great-grandchildren under the term grandchildren, considered the fact that she had, in another part of the will, called a great-grandchild her granddaughter, as conclusive evidence of her intention to include such great-granddaughter in the residuary clause of the will, under the general description of her grandchildren. the court is bound to give effect to every word of a will without change or rejection, provided an effect can be given to it not inconsistent with the general intent of the whole will taken together.[ ] thus, if one devises land to a b in fee, and afterwards in the same will devises the same land to c d, for life, both parts of the will shall stand; and in the construction of the law, the devise to c d shall be first.[ ] but when it is impossible to form one consistent whole, the separate parts being _absolutely_ irreconcilable, the latter will prevail.[ ] thus, where the testator, by one clause of his will, bequeathed a slave to his son, remainder to his issue, remainder over; and by a subsequent clause bequeathed the same slave to his daughter, with like limitations, it was held that the clauses were inconsistent, and the last revoking the first, that the daughter was entitled to the legacy.[ ] if a testator's intention cannot operate to its full extent, it shall take effect as far as possible.[ ] and where a will contains different trusts, some of which are valid, and others void or unauthorized by law; or where there are distinct and independent provisions as to different portions of the testator's property, or different estates or interests in the same portions of the property are created, some of which provisions, estates, or interests are valid, and others are invalid, the valid trusts, provisions, estates, or interests created by the will will be preserved, unless those which are valid and those which are invalid are so dependent upon each other that they cannot be separated without defeating the general intent of the testator.[ ] words, in general, are to be taken in the ordinary and grammatical sense, unless a clear intention to use them in another can be collected.[ ] thus, in young v. robertson,[ ] it is laid down: the primary duty of a court of construction, in the interpretation of wills, is to give to each word employed, if it can with propriety receive it, the natural ordinary meaning which it has in the vocabulary of ordinary life, and not to give words employed in that vocabulary an artificial, a secondary, and a technical meaning. thus, a testator, in a clause of his will, provided that the share of the estate of any of his children dying without issue should be equally divided among the survivors of his children or grandchildren, and it was held that a step-daughter was not a surviving _child_ of the testator, within the intent and meaning of this clause of the will, so as to entitle her to a portion of the shares of one of the testator's daughters, who died without leaving issue, even though this step-daughter was acknowledged to be of the family, and treated there as a child.[ ] and the word "children" does not, ordinarily and properly speaking, comprehend grandchildren or issue generally; these being included in that term is only permitted in two cases, viz., from necessity which occurs where the will would remain inoperative unless the sense of the word "children" were extended beyond its natural import, and where the testator has clearly shown by _other_ words that he did not intend to use the term "children" in its proper, actual meaning, but in a more extensive sense. in osgood v. lovering,[ ] the word was held to include grandchildren, it being apparent from the context, that this was the meaning given by the testator.[ ] this term imports legitimate children only;[ ] but if it is notorious that a testator had no such legitimate children, but had others who went by reputation, and were acknowledged as his children, these can take under this term.[ ] in lord woodhouslee v. dalrymple,[ ] a legacy was given "to the _children_ of the late c k, who shall be living at my decease"; c k being dead at the date of the will leaving illegitimate children, (of whom three were living at the testator's death) and not having had at the date of the will, nor having ever had, any _legitimate_ children, the three illegitimate children were held to be entitled. the word "issue" is a term of more general signification than children; it includes not only children, but all lineal descendants, however remote, for successive generations. it has been called by lord holt a _nomen collectivum_;[ ] but this word has frequently been construed to signify children, where it was so apparent from the context.[ ] the phrase, "dying without issue," in wills, for a long time occasioned much obscurity, and was a fruitful source of litigation. thus, if an executory devise were limited to take effect on a dying without _heirs_, or on a failure of issue, or "without leaving issue," or "without _issue_," the limitation was held to be void, because the contingency was _too remote_, as these phrases being interpreted to mean an _indefinite failure of issue_, the vesting of the estate would thus be suspended beyond the period allowed by law. but other words used in the will might control this construction, as to show that the testator intended to limit the vesting of the estate to issue living at the time of the death of the first taker. this contrary intent would be inferred by the use of the words "living," or "leaving issue behind," or "without children." unless such qualifying words, however, were used, the words "_dying without issue_" were construed as meaning an indefinite failure of issue.[ ] the statute law of new york, and many of the states, has settled the construction of this term, as it is provided under these statutes that it shall be construed to mean _heirs_ or _issue_ living at the death of the person named as ancestor.[ ] gifts and devises are sometimes made to a "family," and the decisions have given to the word the same construction as "kindred," or "relations."[ ] in robinson v. waddelon,[ ] a testator gave all the residue of his effects to be equally divided between his two daughters and their husbands _and families_; the court rejected the words "husbands and families," and held that the two daughters took the residue equally and absolutely as tenants in common. roper has the following observations on devises and bequests to a _family_: "the word _family_, when applied to personal property, is synonymous with "kindred" or "relations." if it be asked, of what family is a, the question will be answered by being informed from what person he is descended, and whoever is related by blood to that stock is related to, and of, the family of a. this being the _ordinary_ acceptation of the word, it may nevertheless be confined to particular relations by the context of wills; or the term may be enlarged by it, so that the expression may in some cases mean _children_, or _next of kin_, and in others may even include relations by marriage."[ ] personal chattels are not unfrequently described by reference to locality, as where a testator bequeaths the "household goods," "things," "property," or "effects" which are in or about a house. these words, it seems, in general, will not pass cash, bank notes, bonds, notes, or other _choses in action_ being in the house.[ ] in woolcomb v. woolcomb,[ ] a testator bequeathed to his wife all his household goods, and other goods, plate, and stock, within doors and without, and bequeathed the residue of his estate to j s. it was held that the ready money and bonds did not pass by the word _goods_, for then the bequest of the residue would be void. bequests of "chattels and effects" are clearly adequate to pass the whole personal estate, yet where these words are collocated with household goods, they may be, and frequently are, restrained to articles _ejusdem generis_.[ ] a testator, after several legacies of bank stock and other stock and money, concluded his will as follows: "the remainder of my worldly substance, consisting of furniture, bedding, carpets, china, kitchen furniture, looking-glasses, crockery, etc., i give to my two daughters, etc.; these, with all money of mine that may remain in bank at the time of my death, with all claims or demands of whatever nature, i give to my two daughters, etc." the testator had several shares of bank stock and other stock, not specifically bequeathed. it was held that this bank stock and other stock did not pass under the above bequest.[ ] the courts of equity, even in england, do not seem disposed to apply the rule _ejusdem generis_ with so much strictness as formerly. in the late case of swinfen v. swinfen,[ ] it was decided that in a bequest particularized by one word, followed by general words, the latter was not to be restricted to things _ejusdem generis_; as where the bequest was, "all my estate at s or thereto adjoining, also all furniture, or other moveable goods here," it was held that the live-stock and implements of husbandry in and about the premises passed by the bequest. it was also held that money in the house at the time of the testator's death passed to the legatee. in brown v. cogswell,[ ] where the bequest was of "all my household furniture, wearing apparel, and all the rest and residue of personal property, saving and excepting one feather bed," it was held to carry the entire residuum of personal property. a bequest of furniture in a particular house (except plate) will include plated articles in use in the house, the word "plate" meaning solid plate only. such a bequest embraces only the articles permanently in use in the house.[ ] words, however, in a will, which if allowed to stand would produce repugnant and inconsistent results, may be rejected.[ ] others may be supplied where there is no doubt in regard to the words intended, and others may be transposed and changed to carry out the sense and intention of the testator.[ ] the will must be most favorably and benignly expounded to pursue and effectuate, if possible, the intention of the testator,[ ] and of two modes of construction, that is to be preferred which will prevent a total intestacy.[ ] the strict rules of construction adopted in england, when strictly and unflinchingly applied, had often the effect of invalidating wills; but there has, of late, been evinced a tendency to relax this stringency of construction, and the proportion of wills and bequests which have been declared void for uncertainty has been constantly diminishing; and, at present, it is becoming more rare, unless through some fatal accident or miscarriage in the preparation of the instrument. the same tendency is observable in the decisions of the american courts. construction with the aid of precedents and analogies is only resorted to to ascertain the intention of a testator; all construction is subordinate to that single purpose; and analogy and precedent should have no further influence when they lead one side of the intention. they should only be used as our assistants to this end. it will be found useful and appropriate, at the conclusion of this chapter, to give the seven propositions of sir james wigram, in his approved and reliable work respecting the admission of extrinsic evidence in aid of the interpretation of wills. he divided the subject into seven propositions, as follows: proposition i.--a testator is always presumed to use the words in which he expresses himself according to their strict and primary acceptation, unless from the context of the will it appears that he has used them in a different sense, in which case the sense in which he thus appears to have used them will be the sense in which they are to be construed. proposition ii.--where there is nothing in the context of a will from which it is apparent that a testator has used the words in which he has expressed himself in any other than their strict and primary sense, and where his words, so interpreted, are _sensible with reference to extrinsic circumstances_, it is an inflexible rule of construction, that the words of the will shall be interpreted in their strict and primary sense, and in no other, although they maybe capable of some popular or secondary interpretation, and although the most conclusive evidence of intention to use them in such popular or secondary sense be tendered. proposition iii.--where there is nothing in the context of a will from which it is apparent that a testator has used the words in which he has expressed himself in any other than their strict and primary sense, but his words, so interpreted, are _insensible with reference to extrinsic circumstances_, a court of law may look into the extrinsic circumstances of the case, to see whether the meaning of the words be sensible in any popular or secondary sense, of which, _with reference to these circumstances_, they are capable. proposition iv.--where the characters in which a will is written are difficult to be deciphered, or the language of the will is not understood by the court, the evidence of persons skilled in deciphering writing, or who understand the language in which the will is written, is admissible to _declare_ what the characters are, or to inform the court of the proper meaning of the words. proposition v.--for the purpose of determining the object of a testator's bounty, or the subject of disposition, or the quantity of interest intended to be given by his will, a court may inquire into every _material_ fact relating to the person who claims to be interested under the will, and to the property which is claimed as the subject of disposition, and to the circumstances of the testator, and of his family and affairs, for the purpose of enabling the court to identify the person or thing intended by the testator, or to determine the quantity of interest he has given by his will. the same (it is conceived) is true of every other disputed point, respecting which it can be shown that a knowledge of extrinsic facts can, in any way, be made ancillary to the right interpretation of a testator's words. proposition vi.--where the words of a will, aided by evidence of the material facts of the case, are insufficient to determine the testator's meaning, no evidence will be admissible to prove what the testator intended, and the will (_except in certain special cases in proposition vii_) will be void for uncertainty. proposition vii.--notwithstanding the rule of law which makes a will void for uncertainty where the words, aided by evidence of the material facts of the case, are insufficient to determine the testator's meaning, courts of law, in certain special cases, admit extrinsic evidence of _intention_, to make certain the _person_ or _thing_ intended, where the description in the will is insufficient for the purpose. these cases may be thus defined: where the object of a testator's bounty, or the subject of disposition, (_i. e._, the _person_ or _thing_ intended) is described in terms which are applicable indifferently to more than one _person_ or _thing_, evidence is admissible to prove which of the persons or things so described was intended by the testator. index. a. =abatement=--of legacies, p. . =accumulation=--how far allowed in common law, p. . extraordinary case of, p. . limits to, p. . =acknowledgment=--of signature to will, p. . =ademption=--of legacy, p. . =age=--of person making will, pp. , . manner of reckoning, p. . extreme, not an incapacity, pp. , . =alienation=--suspension of power in will, how limited, p. . utmost period permitted, p. . =alfred, king=--will of, pp. , . =ambiguity=--latent, definition of, p. . latent, parol evidence admitted to explain, p. . patent, what it is, p. . =animals=--singular regard for in wills, pp. , . regard of louis bonard for, p. . =annuity in will=--when to commence, p. . =attestation=--of will, p. . forms of, p. . b. =bacon, lord=--maxim of, in regard to parol evidence, p. . =bastard=--not classed in law as a child, p. . =bequest=--meaning of, p. . =blind persons=--their capacity to make will, p. . =bonard, louis=--will of, p. . singular life and belief of, pp. - . =bradford, surrogate=--his principles in admitting will of aged persons, p. . =brinckerhoff, dorothea=--will of, p. . =burial=--directions for, in will, pp. , , , . =burning will=--a mode of revocation, p. . c. =cancelation of will=--a mode of revocation, p. . what shall amount to, p. . =canute=--will of, p. . =capacity=--to make will, as to age, pp. , . physical and mental, pp. - . =charitable uses=--devises to, formerly allowed, pp. , . doctrine of, derived from civil law, p. . doctrine of, existed in common law, pp. , . this denied in levy v. levy, p. . law of, has varied in new york, p. . researches of prof. dwight on, p. . what are, p. . ="chattels and effects"=--what shall pass by in will, p. . =child=--does not include step-child, p. . illegitimate, when a bequest to is good, p. . in _ventre sa mere_ can take interest in will, p. . =children=--meaning of term in will, pp. , , . imports legitimate only, p. . =clergy=--early connection of with wills, p. . exclusive jurisdiction over wills, p. . intervention in probate matters, p. . their influence over the dying, pp. , . =codicil=--how far will control provision in will, p. . when it will cancel a will, p. . how several are to be construed, p. . =concanen, edward=--will of, p. . =conditions=--in will, how far legal, p. . illegal, p. . precedent and subsequent, what are, pp. , . =construction=--of will, purpose of, pp. , . =constantinople=--bequest to poor of, p. . =corporations=--prohibited from taking by devise, p. . what are allowed to take by devise in new york, p. . =coverture=--formerly incapacitated woman making will, p. . not now generally an incapacity, p. . =cromwell=--singular bequest to, p. . =cruger, harriet douglas=--will of, p. . her history and singular delusion, p. . =curtesy=--married woman cannot defeat right in will in some states, p. . married women may defeat in new york, p. . =cutting=--a will equivalent to tearing, p. . d. =deaf and dumb=--their capacity to make will, pp. , . =declarations=--of testator, not admitted to show intention in a will, p. . =delusion=--what it is, pp. , . of harriet douglas cruger, p. . =denbigh, earl of=--singular bequest to, p. . =devise=--meaning of term, distinguished from legacy, p. . =domicile=--how determined, p. . law of relating to wills part of leges gentium, p. . law of governs in interpretation of wills, p. . law of at time of decease governs, p. . =drunken men=--when incapable of making will, p. . e. =eccentricity=--difference between and monomania, p. . remarkable case of, p. . =ecclesiastical=--jurisdiction over wills, rise of, p. . courts' decisions binding in law of wills, p. . ="effects"=--meaning of in will, pp. , . meaning of in will of kosciusko, p. . =emptor familiæ=--position of in roman law, p. . =erasures=--and interlineations in a will, effect of, p. . =executor=--appointment of in will, p. . allowed a year to settle estate, p. . duty of in paying legacy to child, p. . not disqualified to receive legacy, p. . responsibility of in paying legacies, p. . when to pay legacy, pp. , . f. ="family"=--construction of term in will, pp. , . explanation of term by roper, p. . =female=--able to make will earlier than male in some states, p. . =females=--their fondness for animals, p. . =fraud=--preventing revocation of a will, pp. , . =funeral expenses=--provided for in will, pp. , . directions for payment not necessary, p. . g. =geigley, william=--will of, p. . =grandchildren=, construction of term in will, p. . =greenwood=, singular delusion of, p. . h. =harcourt, mr. granville=--will of, p. . =hæres=--of roman law, description of, p. . =henry viii=--will of, providing for dean and canons of windsor, p. . =hindoos=--no will among, p. . =holographic will=, p. . singular example of in california, p. . =hunt, benjamin f.=--will of, illustrating law of domicile, p. . i. =insanity=--definition of, p. . partial not recognized in early law, p. . partial, how far invalidates a will, p. . =interest=--on legacies, when to commence, p. . on specific legacies, p. . on legacy before payment causes legacy to vest, p. . =in terrorem=--doctrine of, pp. , . =in extremis=--persons in allowed to make nuncupative wills, p. . persons in frequently unduly influenced, p. . =intention=--governs in the construction of a will, pp. , , . most considered in revocation of will, p. . governs so far as consistent with rules of law, p. . how ascertained, p. . to operate as far as possible, if not wholly, p. . ="issue"=--meaning of term in a will, p. . ="issue, dying without"=--former construction of, p. . meaning now by statute, p. . j. =jefferson=--farm of, at monticello, devised by commodore levy, p. . given charge of fund belonging to kosciusko, p. . =justinian=--law of as to portion reserved for children, p. . limited bishop's interference in probate matters, p. . limited military testament to those actually on an expedition, p. . k. =kensett, william=--singular disposition of his body, p. . =kerr, catharine=--will of, p. . =kidd, captain=--treasures of, superstition regarding, p. . =kosciusko=--will of before united states supreme court, p. . interesting facts regarding his career, p. l. =latent ambiguity=--what is, p. . =legacy=--abatement of, p. . ademption of, when takes place, p. . contingent, definition of, p. . conditional, and variety, pp. - . conditional, what conditions are valid, p. . conditional, in restraint of marriage, p. . general, examples of, pp. - . general, importance of distinction, p. . in lieu of dower draws interest from death of testator, p. . interest on, when to begin, pp. , . payable out of real estate, pp. , . payment of, pp. , . payment of, to whom, p. . pecuniary sometimes held specific, p. . specific, definition of, p. . specific, various examples of, p. . to infants, to whom paid, p. . to a class, who shall take, p. . vested, when becomes, pp. , . =legatee=--how ascertained in some cases, p. . error in description of, how remedied, p. . who may be, p. . =levy, commodore=--remarkable will of, p. . =lex domicilii=--governs will of personal property, p. . =lex rei sitæ=--governs will of real property, p. . m. =marriage=--revokes will previously made by a woman, p. . of children, attempt to control, p. . restraint of, how far legal, p. . of poor maids, provisions of henry raine for, pp. , . =married women=--capacity to take legacy or devise, p. . legacy to, formerly paid to husband, p. . power of to make will of personal property, p. . law of american states is giving more enlarged privileges to, p. . power of, by will in new york, p. . =masses=--legacy to say, pp. , . =may, thomas=--singular bequest to, p. . ="money"=--strict meaning of, in a will, p. . may include stock in funds, p. . held to include real and personal property, p. . =monticello=--devised by commodore levy, p. . =monomania=--what it is, recognition of in law, p. . when will avoid will, p. . rise of theory in dew v. clark, p. . different from eccentricity, p. . n. =nephews and nieces=--who are meant by, p. . =non compos mentis=--incapacity of to make will, p. . who are, p. . =nuncupative will=--its nature, p. . limitations of in statute of frauds, p. . generally limited to soldiers, sailors, and persons in extremis, p. . decision on in cole v. mordaunt, p. . cases on numerous, since civil war, p. . opinion of kent in relation to, p. . was in general use before statute of frauds, p. . how limited in new york and california, p. . limitations of, by statute in england, p. . o. =ordinary=--his privileges in early english law, p. . p. =parol evidence=--when admissible, pp. , , , . of contents of lost will is received, p. . is not so readily in england, p. . not admitted to vary, contradict, or enlarge the terms of a will, p. . in what cases is admitted, p. . =pembroke, earl of=--curious will of, p. . =perpetuities=--statute against, p. . =personal estate=--when a bequest of may be specific, p. . may include real estate sometimes, p. . =personal property=--age at which will of may be made, p. . ="personalty"=--meaning of term in will, p. . law of domicile governs in wills, p. . ="plate"=--meaning of term in will, p. . =power=--execution of, in a will, p. . =power of appointment=--given married women to make will, pp. , . =publication of will=--and in what states required, pp. - . r. =raine, henry=--will of, p. . =rationabiles partes=--meaning of in early english law, p. . =reading, mrs. kitty jenkyn packe=--will of, p. . =real estate=--legacy payable out of, rule as to, p. . will of, pp. , . =restraint of marriage=--in will, p. . curious case of, p. . not permitted in roman law, p. . of widow allowed in our law, p. . of widower not allowed, p. . in general not permitted, p. . =revocation of will=--may take place in two modes, p. . an implied revocation a subject of discussion, p. . by marriage of feme sole, p. . implied not by birth of child, p. . by marriage and birth of child implied, p. . by subsequent will, when, pp. , . not effected by writing "obsolete" on will, p. . by burning, canceling, tearing, etc., p. . what acts amount to in new york, p. . requires two things--act and intent, p. . =ridley, hon. araminta monck=--will of, p. . =robbins, james=--will of, p. . =roman will=--nature, and manner of making, p. . =roman catholic=--not to marry a, a condition in will, pp. , . =roosevelt=--will of, founding hospital in new york, p. . =rose=--will of declared void, founding "rose benevolent institution," p. . s. =salisbury, earl of=--singular bequest to, p. . =sandwich, countess dowager=--will of, p. . =scotchman=--not to marry a, a condition in a will, p. . =seal=--not required in will, except in new hampshire, p. =seastedt, eliza=--will of, p. . =senile dementia=--what it is, p. . when an incapacity to make will, p. . ="servants"=--meaning of term in a will, p. . =shakspeare=--will of, p. . his singular provision for his wife, p. . =signature=--to will, effect of tearing off by a testator, p. . =society for prevention of cruelty to animals=--bequest to, p. . =solon=--laws of relating to wills, p. . =specific legacy=--defined, p. . interest on begins from testator's death, p. . =starkey, john=--will of, p. . =statute=--of distributions, p. . of frauds, pp. , , . of frauds, influence of in jurisprudence, p. . of mortmain, pp. , . of wills, p. . of elizabeth in regard to charitable uses, p. . of elizabeth not in force in new york, p. . of elizabeth, where in force, p. . =subscription=--to will, p. . =succession, universal=--among romans, p. . =superstitious use=--definition of, pp. , . =surrogate=--derivation of term, p. . t. =testament=--meaning of term, p. . =testamentary capacity=--generally exists, p. . as to age, p. . =testamentary disposition=--law places limits on, pp. , . limits to, in early english law, p. . =thelusson, peter=--extraordinary will of, p. . =thompson, mr.=--singular habits of, p. . =tonnele, john=--will of, p. . =trusts=--what are valid in a will, p. . =turner, sharon=--will of, p. . u. =united states=--bequests to, pp. , , . =uses and trusts=--law of, to avoid statute of mortmain, p. . v. =van hanrigh, mrs.=--will of, p. . =virginia=--bequest to, in trust, by commodore levy, p. . w. =west, lady alice=--curious will of, p. . =wife=--who will answer for in a will, p. . reproachful allusions to in a will, pp. , . affectionate allusions to in a will, pp. , . =will=--acknowledgment of signature to, p. . appointment of executor in, p. . attestation of, p. . definition and nature of, p. . destroying, what it signifies, p. . directions in as to burial, pp. , , , . directions in as to debts, p. . divided into two classes, verbal and written, p. . duplicate, effect of destroying, p. . erasures in, p. . holographic, and where valid, p. . importance of, p. . inofficious, pp. , . introductory clause in, p. . language of, immaterial, p. . making, solemnity of act, pp. , . may consist of many instruments, pp. , . mode of writing, p. . nature of, among romans, pp. , . not of effect until death, pp. , . opinions of others in, freely expressed, pp. , . of personal property, pp. , . of real estate, p. . of real estate, must conform to law where real estate is situated, p. . power of disposition by, in early law, p. . publication of, where required, pp. - . qualities of, p. . references to wives in, pp. , , . restraints on marriage in, pp. , - , . requisites as to execution of, p. . right to make did not exist in early society, p. . seal not required in, p. . signing of, how under statute of frauds, p. . signing of, illustrated in cases, pp. , . what it is necessary to contain, pp. , . witnesses to, number required, p. . =widow=--prohibited remarrying by will, p. . recommended to marry, p. . =widower=--cannot be prohibited remarrying by will, p. . =witnesses=--manner of signing by, pp. - . number required in different states, p. . cannot take interest by the will, p. . cutting out names of in will, effect of, p. . z. =zimmerman=--will of, p. . footnotes: [ ] illustrated london news, october th, . i have selected from this reliable journal many of the examples of curious wills i give in this introduction, taken from doctors' commons, london. [ ] illustrated london news, february st, . [ ] illustrated london news, november th, . [ ] black. ii, . [ ] thirlwall: hist. of greece, . [ ] dwight's introd. to maine's ancient law. [ ] tac. germ. . [ ] dig. lib. , tit. . [ ] spence: eq. juris. i, . [ ] selden: orig. prob. juris., . [ ] milton, p. . [ ] selden, pp. , . [ ] code: lib. i, tit. , leg. . [ ] idem, leg. . [ ] decret. lib. , tit. , c. . [ ] marriot v. marriot, strange . [ ] black. iii, . [ ] matt. paris, fo. . [ ] idem, fo. . [ ] strange . [ ] black. ii, ch. . [ ] hale, hist. of com. law, . [ ] greenleaf, evid., vol. i, § . [ ] lord hardwicke, in ross v. ewer, atk. , said: "there is nothing that requires so little solemnity as the making of a will of personal estate. there is scarcely any paper writing that will not be admitted as such." [ ] moore, . [ ] cro. eliz. . [ ] it should be observed that the ecclesiastical jurisdiction over wills is now abolished in england; and, since , the jurisdiction is given to the court of probate and divorce. [ ] wills--a. [ ] swinb. pt. i, sec. . [ ] car. ii, ch. , sec. . [ ] dig. lib. , tit. , sec. . [ ] redfield on wills, i, p. . [ ] johns. . [ ] cole v. mordaunt, ves. . [ ] prince v. hazleton, johns. . [ ] vict. ch. . [ ] r. s. . [ ] civil code, - . [ ] code, lib. , tit. . [ ] leathers v. greenacre, maine . [ ] curteis . [ ] bradf. . [ ] such a will is valid in california, louisiana, tennessee, and north carolina. in the case of clarke v. ransome, decided in the supreme court, california, october, , the following document was on this ground held to be testamentary in its character: "dear old nance:--i wish to give you my watch, two shawls, and also $ , . your old friend, e. a. gordon." it appeared in evidence that for some years mrs. gordon and miss ransome, who was the person meant by "dear old nance," had been on terms of intimacy. mrs. gordon had previously executed a will, by which she had devised to her brother the whole of the estate, with the exception of several specific legacies, one of which was to miss ransome for $ , . it further appeared that after the will had been duly made and executed, mrs. gordon desired to make a further provision for miss ransome, and for that purpose drew up, wholly in her own handwriting, and delivered to miss ransome, the paper above propounded as a will. the court held that this paper should be admitted to probate as a testamentary instrument; but against this chief justice wallace gave a dissenting opinion, on the ground that the paper was the mere expression of a wish, and was not intended by the decedent to operate as a will. vide pacific law rep., nov. , . [ ] redfield on wills, i, p. . [ ] swimb. pt. i, sec. . [ ] redfield on wills, i, p. . [ ] n. h. rev. stat. ch. , sec. . [ ] hight v. wilson, dall. ; arndt v. arndt, s. & r. . [ ] campbell v. logan, bradf. . [ ] swimb., pt. , sec. . [ ] the statute of pennsylvania requires every will to "be in writing," and the curious question was recently presented to the court of common pleas of chester county, whether a writing on a slate, intended by the decedent to be her last will and testament, came within the statute. the court thought the case not within the spirit of the statute, because a slate was neither intended for nor adapted to writing of a permanent character. the rule has been carried quite far enough by the admission to probate of wills written with lead pencils, as was done in dyer's estate, ecc. e. , and in dickson v. dickson, id. . in p. f. smith, , it was thought that a will should not be written or signed in pencil, on account of the facility of alteration; but the point was not decided. in merritt v. clason, johns. , a memorandum required by the statute of frauds, written with a lead pencil, was held sufficient, and in clason v. bailey, johns. , this point was affirmed. in rymes v. clarkson, phillim. , it was ruled that a codicil written in pencil was valid. see also geary v. physic, barn. and cress. , and mcdowell v. chambers, strobh. eq. . [ ] jarman on wills, . [ ] civil code, . [ ] rev. stat. . [ ] doe v. roe, barb. . [ ] seguine v. seguine, barb. , . [ ] comst. . [ ] mcguire v. kerr, bradf. . [ ] civil code, . [ ] dayton on surrog. p. . [ ] barb. . it is claimed he may subscribe in presence of one, and acknowledge it separately to the other. kent, ; n. y. . [ ] barb. . [ ] den v. mitton, halst. . [ ] torrey v. bowen, barb. . [ ] lewis v. lewis, kern. . [ ] denio, . [ ] wend. . [ ] not yet reported; may be in n. y. [ ] ruddon v. mcdonald, bradf. ; lyon v. smith, barb. . [ ] davy v. smith, salk. . [ ] doe v. manifold, m. & s. . [ ] reed v. roberts, ga. . [ ] lamb v. girtman, ga. . [ ] black. ii, . [ ] redfield on wills, i, . [ ] rev. stat. . [ ] salk. . [ ] black. i, ; kent, . [ ] wills, i, . [ ] com. ii, . [ ] wills, b. [ ] weir v. fitzgerald, bradf. . [ ] swinb. pt. ii, secs. and . [ ] no better illustration of this ever took place than the case of the will of captain ward, over whose will a remarkable contest is taking place [ ] in detroit. [ ] sir john nicholl, in dew v. clark, add. . [ ] white v. wilson, vesey, . [ ] the case of lucas v. parsons, ga. , was very similar to this case of greenwood. there, the testator's delusion was in respect to his eldest son, whom he disinherited. the will was set aside. [ ] add. . [ ] n. y. . [ ] penn. l. i. . [ ] taylor, med. jur. p. . [ ] mr. william kensett, whose will was proved in doctors' commons, london, in , left his body to the directors of the imperial gas company, london, to be placed in one of their retorts, and consumed to ashes; if not, he directed it to be placed in the family grave in st. john's wood cemetery, _to assist in poisoning the neighborhood_. generally the curious wills are home-made, but this of mr. kensett was made by a solicitor. [ ] taylor, p. . [ ] redfield on wills, i, p. . in june, , the london papers recorded the singular will of a testator named garland, containing the following clause: i bequeath to my monkey, my dear and amusing jacko, the sum of £ sterling per annum, to be employed for his sole use and benefit; to my faithful dog shock, and my well-beloved cat tib, a pension of £ sterling; and i desire that, in case of the death of either of the three, the lapsed pension shall pass to the other two, between whom it is to be equally divided. on the death of all three, the sum appropriated to this purpose shall become the property of my daughter gertrude, to whom i give the preference among my children, because of the large family she has, and the difficulty she finds in bringing them up.--ill. london news, march d, . [ ] bradf. . [ ] i am indebted to an admirable essay by edward patterson, esq., of the new york bar, for the full facts in this case. [ ] eng. l. and eq. . [ ] kinleside v. harrison, phillm. . [ ] wms. exrs. ; potts v. house, ga. . [ ] johns. ch. . [ ] bradf. . [ ] kent . [ ] tucker v. inman, m. & g. . [ ] gen. stat., . [ ] black. ii, . [ ] redfield on wills, i, . [ ] lans. (n. y.) . [ ] toucht. . [ ] atk. . [ ] richards v. richards, price . [ ] toucht. . [ ] selwood v. mildmay, ves. ; bro. c. c. . [ ] ellis v. walker, amb. ; kirby v. potter, ves. ; tifft v. porter, n. y. . [ ] atk. . [ ] bro. c. c. . [ ] richards v. richards, price, . [ ] barton v. cooke, ves. . [ ] walton v. walton, johns. . [ ] ves. sen. . [ ] wms. exrs. . [ ] roper, . [ ] sayer v. sayer, vern. . [ ] ves. . [ ] duncan v. alt, penn. . [ ] wms. exrs. . [ ] idem. . [ ] bacon's ab. leg. (e); vent. ; moore v. smith, watts, . [ ] wend. . [ ] vern. ; van wyck v. bloodgood, bradf. . [ ] collins v. metcalfe, vern. . to avoid the lapse of a legacy by the death of the legatee during the lifetime of the testator, the following states have provided against it, if any issue of the legatee be living at the death of the testator: pennsylvania, south carolina, virginia, maryland, massachusetts, connecticut, vermont, new jersey, mississippi, maine, rhode island. ( kent, .) [ ] roper, ; paige, ; harris v. fly, paige, ; sweet v. chase, n. y. . [ ] may v. wood, bro. . [ ] barlow v. grant, vern. . [ ] duke of chandos v. talbot, p. wms. ; smith v. smith, vern. . [ ] roper, . [ ] bacon's ab. leg. (f.) [ ] miss. . [ ] meriv. . [ ] moore v. moore, barb. . [ ] salk. . [ ] randall v. payne, bro. c. c. . [ ] a legacy was sometimes given on condition that the legatee should not marry a roman catholic. as late as april, , the hon. araminta monck ridley, in london, left a clause in her will that "if any or either of my said children, either in my lifetime, or at any time after my decease, _shall marry a roman catholic_, or shall join or enter any ritualistic brotherhood or sisterhood, then in any of the said cases, the several provisions, whether original, substitutive, or accruing, hereby made for the benefit of such child or children, shall cease and determine, and become absolutely void." [ ] perrin v. lyon, east. . [ ] scott v. tyler, bro. c. c. . this is a leading case, and the arguments of the leading counsel engaged contain much of the law on the subject. see amb. . [ ] godolp. leg. . [ ] godolp. . [ ] redfield, . [ ] commonwealth v. stauffer, penn. . [ ] l. r. eq. . [ ] j. and h. . [ ] in the following instance, a testator is not content only to have his wife remain a widow--he must have her display the appropriate _insignia_ of her situation. mr. james robbins, whose will was proved in october, , in london, declares: "that, in the event of my dear wife not complying with my request, _to wear a widow's cap after my decease_, and in the event of her marrying again, that then, and in both cases, the annuity which shall be payable to her out of my estate shall be £ per annum and not £ ." as there was no stipulation as to the time the widow's cap was to be worn, probably mrs. robbins found it easy to comply with the letter of the request in her husband's will, and yet indulge her own taste in the matter. in contradistinction to this was the will of mr. edward concanen, proved in . he says: "and i do hereby bind my said wife that she do not, after my decease, offend artistic taste, or blazon the sacred feelings of her sweet and gentle nature, by the exhibition of a widow's cap." [ ] wills, pt. , sec. . [ ] ch. ca. . [ ] parsons v. winslow, mass. . [ ] ves. . [ ] garret v. pritty, vern. . [ ] the case of bayeaux v. bayeaux, paige, , is a curious example of an attempt made by a testator to regulate and control the choice of his children in marriage. the testator died at the city of troy, in march, , leaving a widow and three infant children. by his will, made a few months before his death, and evidently without the aid or advice of counsel, he placed the following condition on a legacy to his children: "i charge upon my children, in every possible case, and under all circumstances, never to make a matrimonial engagement, or bind themselves to any individuals by promise of marriage, without full parental approbation and consent as it regards the favored individual. and while i consider it unjust as well as unwise for a parent to coerce, or to attempt forcibly to induce a child to marry an object it cannot love, so do i also deem it without any possible excuse on the part of the child to marry without the full consent of the parents. and in the event of disobedience on the part of my child, in this respect, my wish, desire, and intention is to cut that child off from any participation of the benefits arising from any property i may leave at my decease, of every kind and description whatever." the provisions of the will were in many respects so vague and indefinite, that chancellor walworth remarked: "it is very evident that this will was drawn by the decedent himself, or by some other person equally ignorant, not only of legal language, but of legal principles." he held that the children took the same shares as if their father died intestate. [ ] lord comyns' rep. . [ ] brown v. peck, eden. . [ ] ves. . this was the time allowed in the civil law, salk. . [ ] rev. stat. . [ ] benson v. maude, madd. . [ ] vern. . roden v. smith, amb. . [ ] cricket v. dolby, ves. . [ ] nevil v. nevil, vern. . [ ] joe v. hart's executors, j. j. marsh. . [ ] hawks . [ ] fawkes v. gray, ves. . [ ] wms. exrs. ; bradf. . [ ] ves. . [ ] poph. . [ ] marsh v. hague, edw. ch. . [ ] ves. . [ ] wms. exrs. . [ ] williamson v. williamson, paige, . [ ] binney . [ ] vern. . [ ] johns. ch. . [ ] wms. exrs. - . [ ] rev. st. . [ ] palmer v. trevor, vern. ; toller . [ ] wms. exrs. . [ ] rev. st. . so in california: civil code . [ ] seld. . [ ] morris v. kent, edw. ch. ; preston on leg. . [ ] the word "children" includes only the immediate legitimate descendants, and not a step-child: cromer v. pinckney, barb. ch. ; mowatt v. carrow, paige, . nor does it include grandchildren: radcliff v. buckley, ves. ; watts, . [ ] sherer v. bishop, bro. c. c. ; ves. . [ ] doe v. clark, h. bl. ; balm v. balm, sim. . [ ] barb. ch. ; wms. exrs. . [ ] rawlins v. rawlins, cox's ca. ; marsellis v. thalheimer, paige, . [ ] jenkins v. freyer, paige, . [ ] collin v. collin, barb. ch. . [ ] paige, . [ ] pratt v. flamen, har. & johns. . [ ] garrett v. niblock, r. & m. ; lady lincoln v. pelham, ves. . [ ] schloss v. stiebel, sim. . [ ] jarman, . [ ] vol. ii, . [ ] connolly v. pardon, paige, . in thomas v. stevens, johns. ch. , a legacy to cornelia thompson was held a good bequest to caroline thompson, it appearing that she was the person intended. [ ] standen v. standen, ves. jr. . [ ] see chap. viii. [ ] ves. . [ ] cha. ca. . [ ] bro. c. c. . [ ] ves. . [ ] vide the case of shakspeare, introduction, p. . [ ] n. y. rev. st. ; civil code cal. . in indiana, massachusetts, and pennsylvania, there is no mortmain act. [ ] charitable uses (d). the doctrine of superstitious uses cannot be to much extent applicable here, as we have no religion recognized and established by the state. [ ] vide will of lady alice west, p. . [ ] ch. prec. . eyre v. countess of salisbury, p. wms. . [ ] lord hardwicke, in jones v. williams, amb. , defines a charitable use as "a gift to a general public use, which extends to the poor as well as the rich." [ ] it may be thought a singular purpose of charity to provide for the "marriages of poor maids," and one that would accomplish but little in a field where the objects would be so numerous; nevertheless, the benevolent designs of men have been turned in that channel, as well as in other various directions mentioned in the statute. by the will of mr. henry raine, a wealthy london brewer, a fund was established for just such a purpose. among the notable charitable institutions of london, there is none more novel in inception or more unique in management than raine's asylum, established by him in , for clothing, educating, and properly training for domestic service forty young girls, taken from a lower school previously established by him. on arriving at the age of twenty-two, any girl who has been educated in the asylum, and who can produce satisfactory testimonials of her conduct while in service, may become a candidate for a marriage portion of one hundred pounds, for which six girls are allowed to draw twice in each year, on the first of may and the fifth of november. the drawing is in this manner: the treasurer, in compliance with the explicit directions of mr. raine, takes a half sheet of white paper and writes thereon the words, "one hundred pounds." next, he takes as many blank sheets as, with the one written on, will correspond with the number of candidates present. each of these half sheets is wrapped tightly round a little roller of wood, tied with a narrow green ribbon, the knot of which is firmly sealed. the rolls are then formally deposited in a large canister placed upon a small table in the middle of the room. this being done, the candidates, one at a time, advance towards the canister, each drawing therefrom one of the small rolls. when all have drawn, they proceed to the chairwoman, who cuts the ribbon which secures each roll, and bids the candidates unfold the various papers. there is no need to ask which of them has gained the prize--the sparkling eyes of the fortunate "hundred-pound girl" reveal the secret more quickly than it could be spoken by the lips. the scene seems to be one in which mr. raine took deep interest, for in his will, after appointing his nephews to purchase £ , stock in order to make a permanent provision for these marriage portions, he says: "i doubt not but my nephews would cheerfully purchase the said stock if they had seen, as i have, six poor innocent maidens come trembling to draw the prize, and the fortunate maid that got it, burst out in tears with excess of joy." the portion drawn in may is given after a wedding on the fifth of november; the november portion being given in like manner on may day. the author witnessed one of these marriage ceremonies in the church of st. george's-in-the-east. the number of marriage portions given since the opening of the asylum is said to exceed three hundred. [ ] this statute has been adopted in massachusetts, north carolina, kentucky, indiana, pennsylvania, and several other states. kent . in pennsylvania, the will, to make a valid devise to charitable uses, must be made a month before the testator's decease. price v. maxwell, penn. . [ ] n. y. . [ ] n. y. , reversing barb. . [ ] the case of the smithsonian institute was adduced as an argument to show that the united states could take by devise. in that case mr. smithson, an englishman by birth, and a citizen of that country, bequeathed to the united states all, or nearly all, of his property, to be applied to the establishment of an institution for the increase and diffusion of useful knowledge. but wright, j., said that this furnished no evidence of capacity, simply as a political organization, to take and hold property for charitable purposes. that was an english charity, and the case was determined by the law of the domicile. it was a charity under the statute of elizabeth, and administered as such, and took effect only on a law of congress organizing the institution in the district of columbia. [ ] in new york, as in many if not all the states, the law relating to trusts as it formerly existed in england in its intricate details, has been abolished, and only express, active trusts are permitted, where the trustee has some active duty to perform in the management of the estate. these express trusts are of four kinds: . to sell land for the benefit of creditors; . to sell, mortgage, or lease lands, to pay legacies or other charges; . where the trustee is authorized to receive the rents and profits, and apply them to the use of some person during his life, or for a shorter period; . to receive rents and income to accumulate for the benefit of minors, to cease at majority. the same trusts only are allowed in california: civil code . it is therefore held that all trusts, for any purpose whatever, not coming under one of these four classes, are void, as it was apparent in the enumeration of these the legislature intended to exclude all others. hence, in the drawing of wills, attention is most particularly needed to see that no trusts are created other than those above. [ ] n. y. . it is not uncommon for persons to devise property to the united states government. the last case in new york was somewhat singular. it is in the case of united states v. fox, in n. y. . the testator there devised "to the government of the united states at washington, district of columbia, for the purpose of assisting to discharge the debt contracted by the war for the subjugation of the rebellious confederate states." it was held that the government had no capacity to take. this case is now appealed to the federal courts, but with little prospect of reversal. [ ] burbank v. whitney, pick. ; beall v. fox, ga. ; griffin v. graham, hawks, ; vt. ; vidal v. gerard, how. . the doctrine was elaborately argued and examined in the gerard will case, penn. , and it was maintained that it was founded on the common law. [ ] there are many institutions permitted by statute in new york to take property by devise or bequest. by laws , ch. , benevolent, charitable, literary, scientific, missionary, or sabbath-school societies can take a devise or bequest, the clear annual income of which shall not exceed $ , ; but, to be valid, the will must be executed two months before testator's death. by laws , ch. , colleges and literary incorporated institutions are allowed to take for certain purposes. and, by laws , the state can take a devise for benefit and support of common schools. for these reasons, it is held the law of charitable uses is not so much required in new york; and, by special enactment, the legislature will incorporate societies to take a devise for pious, benevolent, or charitable purposes. [ ] ves. . [ ] in case the trust exceeds this term, it is void _in toto_, and not merely _pro tanto_; griffiths v. vere, ves. , penn. st. . [ ] a direction to accumulate all the testator's estate for fifteen years by investment and reinvestment in bonds is valid in illinois. rhoads v. rhoads, ill. . but in new york an accumulation for three years, and also ten years, was held invalid: sandf. ; barb. . [ ] in new york it is _two_ lives; in california, _any_ lives in being: civil code, . [ ] schettler v. smith, n. y. . [ ] the maximum period during which alienation may be suspended may, in one instance, under the new york statutes, and those of a great many other states, be suspended for two lives in being, and twenty-one years and a fraction afterwards, in certain cases of minority. for example, an estate to a for life, remainder to b for life, remainder to his children in fee, but in case such children shall die under the age of twenty-one years, then to d in fee. here, it will be observed, the ownership may be legally suspended for the lives of a and b, and the actual infancy of b's children; but in no event can such suspension exceed that length of time before the remainder becomes vested. if one of the children reach twenty-one, d's remainder is cut off. in the example just given, suppose the children of b die before attaining twenty-one, and that b, at his death, leaves his wife _enceinte_, there would then be a suspension of alienation for a few months more than twenty-one years. the extent to which variation from the ordinary term of gestation may take place in women, whether the birth be premature or protracted, is one of the difficult problems involved in medical jurisprudence. on this subject the highest medical authorities are at issue; some adhering closely to the regular period of forty weeks as the extreme term; while others extend their indulgence even to the utmost verge of eleven calendar months. see long v. blackall, term r. ; cadell v. palmer, cl. & finn. . [ ] moore v. moore, barb. . [ ] burrill v. boardman, n. y. . [ ] rose v. rose, abb. ct. app., dec., . [ ] the argument of prof. dwight, one of the counsel, in two volumes, presents a marvelous and most scholarly amount of research upon the law of charitable uses, from the earliest times. [ ] see page . [ ] swinburne, part , sec. , says: "concerning the making of a latter testament, so large and ample is the liberty of making testaments that a man may, as oft as he will, make a new testament, even until his last breath; neither is there any cautel under the sun to prevent this liberty; but no man can die with two testaments, and therefore the last and newest is of force; so that, if there were a thousand testaments, the last of all is the best of all, and makes void the former." [ ] co. rep. . [ ] doe v. barford, man. & s. . [ ] johnston v. johnston, phillim. . [ ] wellington v. wellington, burr. . [ ] johns. ch. . of course, this rule was only good where the issue of the marriage were otherwise unprovided for, or had no means of maintenance. [ ] the law respecting implied revocations was a fruitful source of difficult and expensive litigation, and often defeated the intention of testators, instead of carrying it into effect. lord mansfield has said that some of the decisions on this head had brought "a scandal on the law"; and, on another occasion, he remarked "that all revocations not agreeable to the intention of the testator are founded on artificial and absurd reasoning." burr. . [ ] ash v. ash, ohio, ; stat. ohio, ( ) p. ; stat. ind. ; stat. ill. ; g. laws, conn. p. , last edition. [ ] kent, ; cal. civ. code, . [ ] kent, . [ ] sec. . [ ] gage v. gage, foster, . [ ] rev. stat. . [ ] redfield, i, . [ ] rev. stat. , ch. . [ ] civil code, . so in rhode island, rev. stat. ch. . [ ] tomlinson v. tomlinson, ashm. . [ ] tyler v. tyler, ill. . [ ] n. y. rev. stat. ; civil code, . [ ] cotter v. layer, p. wms. . [ ] in re fisher, wis. ; simmons v. simmons, barb. ; smith v. mcchesney, n. j. ch. . [ ] campbell v. logan, bradf. . [ ] cutto v. gilbert, moore, p. c. c. . [ ] mod. . [ ] cowp. . [ ] nelson v. mcgiffert, barb. ch. . in some states this is settled by statute. thus, in california, an antecedent will is not revived by the revocation of a subsequent will unless an intention appear: civil code, . the same in new york: rev. stat. . [ ] wms. exrs. and cases cited. the general effect of a subsequent will in revoking one of an earlier date, by reason of its inconsistent provisions, is very extensively discussed in the late and important case of colvin v. warford, md. . [ ] brown v. brown, el. & bl. . [ ] howard v. davis, binney, ; jackson v. betts, cow. ; steele v. price, b. mon. ; met. . [ ] b. mon. . [ ] watts & serg. . [ ] wharram v. wharram, jur. n. s. . a will and codicil were torn to pieces by a testator's eldest son, after the death of his father; the pieces were saved, by which, and by oral evidence, the court arrived at the substance of those instruments, and in effect pronounced for them. foster v. foster, addams, . [ ] patch v. graves, denio, ; vt. . [ ] ves. . [ ] sw. & tr. . [ ] mass. ; hine v. hine, penn. . [ ] lewis v. lewis, w. & s. . [ ] price v. maxwell, penn. . [ ] howard v. halliday, johns. r. . if two wills, in duplicate, were in possession of the testator, and he destroyed one, did this, in effect, work a revocation? this was in some doubt. the california code has set at rest this question for that state, in sec. , where it is provided that a destruction of one of the copies shall amount to a revocation. see onions v. tyrer, vern. . [ ] hobbs v. knight, curteis, . and the cutting out of the principal part, as the signature of the testator, or of the witnesses, will be a revocation of the whole will: jarman, . [ ] where the word "destroying" is used in the statute, as one mode of revocation, it is generally held to include all modes of defacing not specifically enumerated in the statute, and does not require an absolute and entire destruction. johnson v. brailsford, nott & mccord, . [ ] rev. stat. . it is the same in california: civil code, . [ ] burtenshaw v. gilbert, cowp. . [ ] dan v. brown, cow. . [ ] etheringham. v. etheringham, aleyn, . [ ] b. & ald. . [ ] bibb v. thomas, w. bl. . [ ] pryor v. coggin, ga. . [ ] white v. carter, jones (n. c.) law, . [ ] smiley v. gambill, head, . [ ] blanchard v. blanchard, vt. . [ ] jur. n. s. . [ ] jarman, . [ ] bap. church v. roberts, penn. . [ ] johns. ch. . [ ] bethell v. moore, dev. & batt. . [ ] jarman, . [ ] mcpherson v. clark, bradf. . [ ] b. mon. . [ ] doug. (mich.) . [ ] jur. n. s. . [ ] legatees are entitled to be paid in the money of the country in which the testator is domiciled and the will is made. atk. ; bro. c. c. . [ ] harrison v. nixon, peters, . [ ] to determine a person's domicile is sometimes a matter of some difficulty. it is determined on two principles: the _fact_ of one's residence, and the _intent_ of remaining there as at one's home; or it depends upon _habitation_ and the _animo manendi_. residence and domicile are not convertible terms, because they are not the same things. the roman definition has been admired for its expressiveness and force. it is there defined: "it is not doubted that individuals have a home in that place where each one has established his hearth, and the sum of his possessions and fortunes; whence he will not depart if nothing calls him away; whence if he has departed he seems to be a wanderer, and if he returns he ceases to wander." (code, lib. , tit. .) it must be assumed as a fact that every person has a domicile, or home, and the domicile of origin remains until another is obtained, not by merely moving or changing, but by leaving it with no intention of returning, without _animo revertendi_. but an intention to change is not sufficient to alter a domicile until it is actually changed. therefore, death _en route_ does not alter domicile. (state v. hallet, ala. .) one who goes abroad, _animo revertendi_, does not change his domicile, because only the fact of residence is changed, and not the intent. but if he remains very long abroad, and in one place, the intent may be inferred from the fact. the supreme court of the united states have intimated that an exercise of the right of suffrage would be the highest evidence, and almost conclusive against the party. (shelton v. tiffin, how. .) [ ] the doctrine was well settled in a very early case in pennsylvania, decided by judge tilgham, in : the case of desasbats v. berquier, binn. ; and this case has ever since been quoted and approved as a good statement of the law on this point. there, a will was executed in st. domingo by a person domiciled there, and sought to be enforced in pennsylvania, where the effects of the deceased were. it appeared not to have been executed according to the laws of st. domingo, though it was conceded that it would have been a good will if executed by a citizen of pennsylvania. the alleged will was held to be invalid. [ ] n. y. . [ ] confl. laws, sec. ; adams v. wilbur, sumner, . [ ] wills, i, . [ ] nat v. coons, mo. . [ ] how. . [ ] coppin v. coppin, p. wms. . this was accepted as an indisputable proposition, in lynes v. townsend, n. y. . [ ] wood v. wood, paige, ; wheat. . [ ] vol. i, . [ ] conf. laws, sec. . [ ] evid. . [ ] gold v. judson, conn. . [ ] cranch, ; g. stat. (mass.) c. ; met. ; n. h. . [ ] cushing v. aylwin, met. . [ ] washburne, real prop. i, . [ ] re maraver, hagg. . [ ] hoxie v. hoxie, paige, . [ ] hone v. van schaick, barb. ch. . [ ] w. bl. . [ ] salk. . [ ] mau. and sel. . [ ] roe v. pattison, east. ; wheeler's heirs v. dunlap, b. mon. . [ ] youngs v. youngs, n. y. . [ ] co. b. [ ] johns. ch. . [ ] vern. . [ ] brownfield v. brownfield, penn. ; johnson v. johnson, ala. . where there is no ambiguity on the face of a will, evidence is inadmissible to explain it: hill v. alford, ga. . [ ] jackson v. sill, johns. . [ ] walston v. white, md. . [ ] worman v. teagarden, ohio n. s. . [ ] asay v. hoover, penn. . [ ] sneed, . [ ] allen v. allen, how. (u. s.) . [ ] betts v. jackson, wend. . [ ] lawyer v. smith, mich. . [ ] civil code, ; estate of garraud, cal. . [ ] vesey, ; salk. . [ ] hodgson v. ambrose, doug. . [ ] theall v. theall, la. . [ ] jur. . [ ] dowson v. gaskoin, kee. . the word "money" used in making a devise in a will, will be construed to include both personal and real property, if it appears from the context, and on the face of the instrument, that such was the intention of the testator. estate of miller, cal. . [ ] co. litt. . [ ] johns. ch. . [ ] james v. smith, sim. . [ ] vesey, . [ ] eden, . [ ] thus, in a case in california, norris v. henley, cal. , a testator devised his real estate upon a particular street, one-third to each of three persons by name, "to have and to hold their lifetime, and then to go to their heirs and assigns, _but never to sell_." it was held to create a fee, and these words, "never to sell," had no effect. [ ] cro. eliz. . [ ] sims v. doughty, ves. : parks v. parks, paige, . [ ] frazer v. boone, w. r. hill, . [ ] p. wms. ; cal. civ. code, . [ ] parks v. parks, paige, ; williams v. williams, seld. ; hawley v. james, wend. . [ ] chrystie v. phyfe, n. y. . [ ] jur. n. s. . [ ] matter of hallet, paige, . [ ] maine, . [ ] hughes v. hughes, b. mon. . [ ] metham v. duke of devon, p. wms. . [ ] cartwright v. vawdry, vesey, ; gardner v. heyer, paige, . [ ] meriv. . [ ] vent. ; moore v. moore, b. mon. . [ ] sibley v. perry, ves. ; pope v. pope, beav. . [ ] hopkins v. jones, barr, ; moore v. moore, b. mon. . [ ] n. y. rev. stat. vol. iii, p. . [ ] vesey, . [ ] sim. . [ ] legacies, ch. ii, sec. . [ ] jones v. sefton, vesey, . [ ] p. wms. . [ ] timewell v. perkins, atk. . the word "estate" in a will carries everything, unless restrained by particular expressions: turbett v. turbett, yeates, . [ ] delamater's estate, wharton, . [ ] beav. . [ ] allen, . [ ] holder v. ramsbottom, jur. n. s. ; nichols v. osborn, p. wms. . [ ] pond v. bergh, paige, ; mass. ; estate of wood, cal. . [ ] wootton v. redd, gratt. . [ ] burr, . [ ] vesey, . transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. [transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] penny nichols and the knob hill mystery _by_ joan clark the goldsmith publishing company chicago copyright mcmxxxix by the goldsmith publishing company manufactured in the united states of america contents chapter i. a cottage at knob hill ii. helping a stranger iii. a queer old man iv. inside information v. a night visitor vi. the attic door vii. penny's discovery viii. the toy lantern clue ix. herman crocker's visit x. searching the loft xi. aid from michael xii. the matron's story xiii. a bolt of cloth xiv. a conversation overheard xv. the missing letters xvi. a lost handkerchief xvii. a new clue xviii. inside the gabled house xix. michael's admission xx. alias jay kline penny nichols and the knob hill mystery chapter i a cottage at knob hill penny nichols, hair flying in the wind, came running up the steps of the altman porch. she did not need to ring the bell, for just at that moment susan, her dark-haired chum, appeared in the open doorway. "why, hello, penny," greeted the altman girl. "you're all out of breath." "i ran most of the way from home," replied penny. "i was hoping you'd drop in today. come on into the house." "no, i can't, susan," said penny hurriedly. "i just ran over to say good-by." "good-by?" echoed susan blankly. "you're not going away, penny?" "yes, dad took a sudden notion he wanted to spend a quiet vacation at a place called knob hill. we're motoring down there this afternoon." "well, i like that!" exclaimed susan. "you didn't say a thing about it when we were playing tennis yesterday." "how could i when i didn't know anything about it myself until an hour ago? that's the way dad does things, susan." "i suppose you're going off on another one of those exciting mystery cases," susan said enviously. "i only wish we were," sighed penny. "this vacation won't be a bit exciting. dad just wants a complete rest at a quiet place. he says he'll not even think about work while we're gone." "what sort of place is knob hill?" "from all i can learn it's just a dead spot on the map," penny declared. "and we've rented a cottage sight unseen." "oh, it may not be half bad," said susan encouragingly. "you'll probably be able to do a lot of interesting things--swim, hike or ride." "not at knob hill," replied penny, shaking her head. "it isn't a summer resort place at all. there will be absolutely nothing to do except eat, sleep, and grow fat." susan laughed as she glanced at her chum's slender figure. penny was too active and athletic ever to be plump. she had sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and a natural smile. it was very easy for her to make friends. "i haven't finished my packing yet," said penny. "i'll have to get back home or i'll keep dad waiting." "i'm terribly sorry to see you go," susan told her. "don't forget to send me a postcard now and then." penny promised that she would write often, and then, aware that time was slipping away, said a hurried farewell. reaching her own home, a large white house on hilburn street, she found her father washing the car in the back yard. christopher nichols was a tall, slim man with graying hair. for many years he had been in charge of the nichols detective agency and was well known not only in belton city but throughout the state. many persons believed that penny had inherited her father's sleuthing ability, for even at the age of fifteen she had shown remarkable talent in solving mystery cases. as penny paused for a moment to chat with her father before going into the house, she noticed the tired lines of his face. "dad really needs a long rest," she thought. "i ought to be glad we're both running off to a quiet place like knob hill." "hello, penny," mr. nichols greeted his daughter. "i'll have this cleaning job done in another ten minutes. then i'm ready to start whenever you are." "you seem anxious to get away from belton city," penny smiled. "you're not trying to escape from any creditors?" "nothing like that," laughed mr. nichols. "i'm just sick and tired of the nichols detective agency. for two weeks i intend to forget everything remotely connected with investigation work. why, if a thief broke into the house tonight and stole our diamonds, i'd not interest myself in the case!" "that's what you say now," chuckled penny. "anyway, we haven't any diamonds." "inspector harris tried to tempt me with a case only today," the detective went on, his face becoming serious again. "i told him i couldn't take it." "you've earned the right to your vacation," penny declared. mr. nichols glanced quickly at his daughter. "you're not very anxious to go to knob hill, are you, penny?" he asked. "why--what makes you think that?" penny stammered. the question had caught her off guard. "i pride myself that i've learned a few simple things during my twenty years as a detective. faces aren't hard to read--especially yours." "dear me," said penny, "i didn't suppose i was an open book. just what does my face tell you?" "that you're bored at the thought of going to a dull place such as knob hill. it's selfish of me to drag you along----" "no, it isn't, dad!" penny broke in. "you've needed this rest for years and i'd not think of letting you go off by yourself. why, for all your wonderful detective ability, you can never find your own slippers!" "that's so," mr. nichols chuckled. "well, i hope the two weeks won't turn out to be too monotonous for you." penny left her father to finish cleaning the car and ran into the house. mrs. gallup, the kindly housekeeper who had looked after the girl since the death of her mother, was preparing luncheon in the kitchen. "i've laid out all your things on the bed," she told penny. "and your suitcase is down from the attic." "thank you, mrs. gallup," said penny. "i'll soon have everything packed." by the time she had completed the task, the housekeeper announced luncheon. throughout the meal mr. nichols laughed and carried on in a high mood, declaring that he felt like a youngster let out of school. "what shall i do about your mail, sir?" inquired mrs. gallup when it was time for penny and her father to leave. "forward letters to me at knob hill in care of judd kilkane," the detective instructed. "but don't give anyone my address unless it is a matter of great importance." "i'll be careful about that," mrs. gallup promised. "and i do hope you have a good rest in the country, mr. nichols." she watched from the doorway until the car disappeared down the street. penny settled herself for a long ride. she switched on the radio and from force of habit turned the dial to the police station broadcast. "not that station," said mr. nichols. "i forgot, dad," laughed penny. "my mistake." she tuned to a program of band music and they both listened to it as they drove along. an hour's ride brought them into high hills. from then on they went more slowly, enjoying the view. approaching dusk found penny and her father still several miles from knob hill. "i thought we'd be settled in our cottage by this time," said mr. nichols, frowning. "perhaps we ought to spend the night at a hotel." "we can decide about that when we reach knob hill," penny replied. "but let's stop somewhere for an early supper. otherwise, we'll have to buy supplies and carry them with us." mr. nichols turned in at the next roadside cafe. he and penny enjoyed an excellent meal and then went on once more toward knob hill. it was nearly dark by this time. as they rounded a sharp curve, mr. nichols reached down to switch on the headlights. at the same moment penny gave a little cry of alarm. "oh, dad! there's a car in the ditch!" mr. nichols slammed on the foot brake, for he had seen the wreck at the same instant. a high-powered blue sedan lay on its side in the rain-gutted ditch to the right of the road. one tire was down, and mr. nichols judged that a blow-out had caused the accident. "i wonder if anyone was hurt?" penny gasped. just then a short, squat little man in a long gray overcoat and felt hat stepped out from behind the overturned car. he held up his hand as a signal to mr. nichols. "i see you've had an accident," said the detective as he brought his own car to a standstill at the side of the road. "anything we can do to help?" penny could not see the stranger's face clearly, for his soft felt hat was pulled low over his eyes. his voice, when he spoke, was husky. "sure, you can give me a lift if you will. my tire blew out when i was doing seventy. first thing i knew i was in the ditch." "you're lucky it wasn't a worse accident," replied the detective. "what's lucky about it?" demanded the stranger irritably. "your car doesn't appear much damaged," replied mr. nichols, studying the man curiously. "and you don't seem to be hurt. you easily might have been killed traveling at that speed." "what is this--a lecture in motor safety?" asked the man angrily. "not at all," said mr. nichols. "did you say you wanted a ride?" "yes; how far are you going?" "only to knob hill." "i'll ride along that far anyway," said the stranger. "my name is christopher nichols," the detective introduced himself, "and this is my daughter, penny." "pleased to meet you," muttered the man, without looking directly at either of them. he hesitated, and then added: "i'm walter crocker." "the name sounds familiar," commented mr. nichols. "you may be thinking of my uncle, herman crocker. he's well known in these parts." "i don't believe i know him," replied the detective. "i'm on my way to see him now," said the man. his voice was bitter. "herman crocker is a disreputable crook, even if he is my uncle. he's been stealing from me for years, but it's at an end now! i'll force him to give me my inheritance even if i have to tear him limb from limb----" "i'd not get so excited if i were you," interrupted mr. nichols calmly. "you're probably upset because of the accident." "it did shake me up a bit," replied crocker, with an abrupt change of tone. "just climb in and we'll take you to town with us," mr. nichols invited. penny started to move over so that the man could sit beside her. "never mind," he said quickly. "i'll ride in the rumble." "it's not very comfortable," mr. nichols warned. "no matter. i'd rather sit back there." he climbed into the rumble and mr. nichols drove on down the road. now and then when penny would glance back through the glass she could see the man gazing intently at her. his scrutiny made her feel very uncomfortable. she wondered if her father shared the feeling. mr. nichols was paying close attention to the road, and his masklike face revealed none of his thoughts. soon the car drove into the little sleepy village of kendon which had been settled at the foot of knob hill. "look for judd kilkane's real estate office," the detective told penny. "there it is!" she cried a moment later. "on the north side." mr. nichols parked the car in front of the building. "i'll be back in just a minute," he said to walter crocker. "i want to get the key to our cottage from judd kilkane." the man in the rumble made no reply. he sat hunched over in the seat, head bent low. "wait a minute, dad," called penny. "i'll go with you." they entered the building, which was little more than a one-story frame shack. the door had been left unlocked, yet judd kilkane's office appeared to be deserted. "this is annoying," said mr. nichols. "he's probably out to supper, but it means we may have a long wait." "we ought to tell walter crocker," returned penny. "dad, i don't like that fellow. he gives me the creeps." "he is a bit queer," the detective admitted with a short laugh. "dad, do you suppose----" "no," interrupted mr. nichols, "i don't think he's an escaped crook or anything of the sort. even if he were, i'd not be interested. this is my vacation." "oh, all right," laughed penny. "i was just thinking aloud." mr. nichols opened the door and they walked toward the car together. suddenly penny halted, staring toward the rumble seat. "why, dad!" she exclaimed. "walter crocker has gone!" chapter ii helping a stranger christopher nichols saw for himself that the rumble seat was empty. he looked quickly up and down the village street. walter crocker was nowhere to be seen. "well, that fellow certainly did a speedy disappearing act," the detective commented. "we weren't inside the real estate office five minutes." "he might at least have thanked us for the ride," said penny. "dad, i suppose you'll say this is silly, but i thought he acted as if he were afraid we'd recognize him." "what made you think that?" "in the first place he insisted upon riding in the rumble seat. and he kept pulling his hat down over his eyes." "i'll agree he did act queerly," the detective admitted. "but he's gone now, so we'll just forget about him." "oh, all right," laughed penny. "i keep forgetting that this is your vacation." a well dressed gentleman in gray came walking leisurely down the street. he gazed curiously at penny and her father, and they immediately guessed that he might be the missing judd kilkane. "you weren't looking for me by any chance?" the man asked. "we are if you're mr. kilkane," replied the detective. "that's my name all right. come on into the office. i stepped out for a minute to buy an evening paper at the drugstore. say, you're not nichols from belton city?" "yes," agreed the detective. "you rented me a cottage." "old man crocker's cottage," the real estate agent said as he opened the office door. "i have the key for you." "did i understand you to say we are renting the crocker cottage?" questioned mr. nichols quickly. "yes, it's owned by old herman crocker up on knob hill. do you know him?" "oh, i've merely heard his name mentioned," replied the detective carelessly. "i guess just about everyone has heard tell of herman," chuckled the real estate man. he sat down at his desk and motioned penny and her father into near-by chairs. "he's an eccentric character." "i trust that his cottage is at least habitable," said mr. nichols. mr. kilkane looked puzzled. then his face lighted and he declared heartily: "oh, you'll find the place to your liking. there's nothing wrong with the cottage. if everything isn't perfectly satisfactory i'll have herman crocker fix it right up for you." "and shall we pay our rent to him?" "no, i'll take care of that," replied the agent. "herman said he'd rather not have you coming to the house with the money. as i say, he's something of a recluse." "we met his nephew this evening." "his nephew?" asked mr. kilkane raising his eyebrows. "that's a new one on me. i didn't know herman had one. but then, he's close mouthed." "we gave this fellow a ride in our car," mr. nichols said. "then he went off somewhere. i suppose he's on his way to see his uncle." "did you say that herman crocker's home is close to our cottage?" inquired penny. "yes, miss. they're about a quarter of a mile apart on the knob hill road." "will we have many other neighbors?" asked the detective. "none at all," replied the agent, staring at him. "oh, you'll find it lonely up on knob hill. but you said in your letter that you wanted a quiet, isolated place----" "that's right, mr. kilkane. i'm not complaining, merely inquiring. however, it might be wise for us to spend the night at a hotel and pay our first visit to the cottage by daylight." the real estate agent tapped his pen against the desk and frowned. "we never had but one hotel here and it went out of business three years ago. i could put you up at my house----" "no, we don't wish to cause you any trouble," mr. nichols said quickly. "penny and i will just drive on to the cottage." "you can't miss the place," declared mr. kilkane eagerly. "i'll loan you my lantern too." "will we need a lantern?" gasped penny. "well, you might, miss. the cottage is wired for electricity but sometimes the company is slow about getting it turned on." penny and her father exchanged a quick glance but offered no comment. mr. nichols wrote out a check for the rent and in return received the key to the cottage. mr. kilkane carried the lantern out to the car for them and told mr. nichols how to reach the place. "remember now," he said in parting, "if everything isn't right at the cottage, just let me know." mr. nichols drove through the village and turned up a dark, narrow road which led to the summit of knob hill. the highway was densely lined with tall trees whose branches crashed in the wind. penny and her father could see only a short distance beyond the headlights. "i don't see how you ever found such an isolated place as this, dad," penny remarked as the car labored up the steep incline. "we'll practically be hermits up here." "so much the better," laughed the detective. the car rounded a curve in the road, and penny saw a large, rambling old house with many cupolas, set back amid a grove of evergreen trees. "that must be herman crocker's home," she remarked, turning her head to stare at it. "a gloomy old place." "young walter crocker had quite a walk if he came up here tonight," said the detective. "too bad he didn't wait. we could have hauled him right to his door." "i'm just as glad he went off," declared penny. "somehow i felt very uneasy when he was riding with us." the car bumped on until mr. nichols saw a narrow lane leading to a tiny cottage on a knoll. "this must be our little nest," he said, turning in. the cottage was a plain white frame building with a cobblestone chimney overgrown by vines. even at night the grounds appeared unkempt. several loose shutters flapped in the wind. penny and her father stepped from the car and stood staring at the cottage. the low whistle of the wind in the evergreens added to the depressing effect. "how much rent are we paying for this mansion, dad?" "fifteen a week. but everything is supposed to be furnished." "including cobwebs and atmosphere," laughed penny. "well, any sum for this tumble-down, antiquated wreck would be robbery! why, the cottage looks as if it hadn't been occupied in a dozen years." "i may have been stung," the detective admitted ruefully. "but let's hope it's better inside." mr. nichols carried the suitcases up the weed-choked path. he fumbled in his pockets for the key and finally found it. mr. kilkane had told them to enter by the kitchen door. as it swung back on squeaking hinges, penny and her father caught a whiff of stale air. "just as i thought!" exclaimed penny. "the place hasn't been opened up in weeks." mr. nichols passed through the doorway into the dark kitchen. he groped about for the electric light switch and could not find it. "wait here," he told penny. "i'll have to go back and get mr. kilkane's lantern." "i'll wait outside the door. it's too stuffy in here." penny stood on the sagging porch until her father returned with the lighted lantern. the bright beam illuminated a wide circle of barren kitchen. an old cook stove occupied one corner of the room; there was a plain table with four chairs and a make-shift sink with old-fashioned pump. the floors were without carpet or linoleum. every piece of furniture was covered by several inches of dust. "wait until i see that man kilkane!" said mr. nichols indignantly. "why, the electricity hasn't even been turned on. we can't live in a place like this!" "let's look at the other rooms, dad." there was no dining room, as the builder evidently had intended that the occupants should eat in the kitchen. the living room had a large fireplace but no other item of comfort. the three chairs were all straight-backed, the carpet was moth-eaten and dusty, and a small table still bore a vase filled with shriveled flowers which someone had forgotten to throw away. "come along, penny," said mr. nichols starting toward the door. "we'll not stay here." "but where will we go?" penny placed a detaining hand on his arm. "there's no hotel in the village." "it would be more pleasant sleeping in the car." "you know we'd be stiff in every muscle if we tried that, dad. let's open a few windows. it won't seem so bad then." mr. nichols raised several windows and they were then able to breathe more freely. an inspection of the adjoining bedrooms left them somewhat encouraged. the mattresses were fairly soft, and penny found clean linen in one of the bureau drawers. "i can have these beds made up in just a few minutes," she said cheerfully. "and we can bring in our own blankets from the car." "maybe that would be best," the detective agreed. "but we'll leave in the morning." penny was abroad at daybreak the next morning. while her father still slept, she explored the grounds, discovering a deep and rather lovely ravine not far from the cottage door. to the right stretched a dense wood and only a short distance on up the road was the summit of knob hill. "this place really isn't half bad by daylight," she told herself. "dad would be certain to get a complete rest here." penny went back into the house and set about cleaning up the kitchen. she had just finished the task when mr. nichols appeared in the doorway. "are there any mirrors in this place?" he asked irritably. "i'd like to know how i'm to get my whiskers cut off!" "why not let them grow?" giggled penny. "i think you'd look real cute with a beard!" "oh, you do?" demanded her father. "there's a looking glass over the sink," penny told him. "and plenty of water if you like it cold." "why not heat some on the stove?" "that would be a good idea," penny admitted, "only i can't find any matches. and apparently one is expected to cut down a tree for wood!" "we're starting right back to belton city as soon as i've shaved," said mr. nichols firmly. "no, i've changed my mind about this place, dad," penny replied quickly. "if our landlord, mr. crocker, will only fix things up, it won't be half bad." "the cottage would need to be rebuilt to make it comfortable. i doubt that mr. crocker will consent to do that." "he might clean it up for us, furnish wood and clean bedding, and see that the lights are turned on," penny said. "we could get along then. it wouldn't hurt us to rough it for a few weeks." "i guess i am too much attached to my comforts," mr. nichols smiled. "so you really are willing to stay?" "i think you'd have a grand rest here." "and what would you do, penny?" "oh, cook and hike. i'd manage to keep occupied." "you're being a good sport about this," the detective said gravely. "for myself, i'd not mind staying here. it's a change and that's what i need." "then it's settled," laughed penny. "while you're shaving, i'll run down and see our landlord. perhaps i can borrow a few supplies from him too." mr. nichols tossed her the car keys. "no, i'll walk," penny called over her shoulder as she left the cottage. "i need the exercise." by daylight the old crocker home was nearly as gloomy as when viewed amid the shadows. penny paused at the entrance of the narrow, rutty lane and stared at the place. everything was quiet. the blinds were all drawn and she could see no one moving about. "it looks almost as if no one were here," she thought. the winding lane led through the trees to the house and on either side were rows of tall, uncut privet hedge. suddenly as penny walked hurriedly along, she was startled to see a lean, yellow hound hurl itself over the top of the hedge directly in her path. she stopped short. the animal bared his fangs, growling low. penny was not afraid of dogs as a usual thing, but she had never seen a more vicious looking hound. she had every reason to believe that if she tried to go on up the lane he would attack. penny reached down and seized a stout stick. she did not know whether to try to advance or retreat. as she was eying the hound speculatively, penny heard another sound directly behind her. she whirled about to see an old man with intent dark eyes watching her from beyond the hedge. only his face was visible for the dense green foliage completely screened his body. "what do you want here?" asked the old fellow in a harsh voice. "who are you?" chapter iii a queer old man "my name is penelope nichols," the girl introduced herself after she had recovered from astonishment. "are you mr. crocker?" "i am," replied the old man grimly. "what do you want here?" "why, my father and i rented your cottage," penny told him quickly. "would you mind calling off your dog? he acts as if he'd enjoy chewing me to pieces." "rudy has been trained to attack anyone who tries to come up the lane," herman crocker said evenly. he stepped through a gap in the hedge and spoke sharply to the hound. rudy went reluctantly to the side of his master. penny could not help but stare at the old man. he was short and stooped and his clothes were not very clean. she saw that he was carrying a shotgun. herman crocker studied the girl shrewdly. "what is it you want of me?" he asked gruffly. "i told kilkane he was to handle everything about the cottage. i don't want to be bothered." "well, i'm sorry, mr. crocker, but there are a few details which must be settled if my father and i are to remain." "what's your complaint?" "the electricity hasn't been turned on, mr. crocker. the cottage needs cleaning. there is no wood. i can't find half enough dishes or cooking pans. we'll need more linen and blankets." "you can't expect me to fix up the place like it was a palace," complained the old man. "you're only paying fifteen dollars a week." "if you're unwilling to do anything about it then we'll leave this morning." penny turned to walk away. "here, wait," called the old man. "i'm willing to do anything that's reasonable. come up to the house and i'll give you some clean linen." penny walked with mr. crocker up the lane, trying not to show that she felt uneasy. the old man caught her staring at his shotgun. "i was hunting squirrels early this morning," he explained. "isn't this out of season?" penny asked before she stopped to think. herman crocker glanced at her with an expression which she was unable to fathom. "seasons make no difference to me," he answered shortly. "i go hunting when i please." they walked on in silence. when they were near the house penny said casually: "oh, by the way, my father and i met your nephew last night." "my nephew?" "why, yes, walter crocker. he told us he was on his way to visit you." penny saw the old man glance quickly toward her. she could tell that her words had disturbed him. "oh, i couldn't think who you meant at first," he muttered. "yes, walter was here last night. but he's gone back to the city." penny allowed the subject to drop, yet she wondered if herman crocker were telling the truth. had the younger man really visited his uncle for the purpose of claiming an inheritance? he had seemed very bitter toward the old fellow. from her observation of walter crocker she did not believe that he was a person who would be easily discouraged in his ambitious designs. penny had learned from past experience that if one wished to avoid trouble it did not pay to ask too many questions. more than once an inquiring turn of mind had involved her in strange adventures. not so many months before this same trait of curiosity had drawn her into a detective case which had baffled the belton city police. her clever work, which resulted in the capture of a daring group of auto thieves, is recounted in the first volume of this series, "penny nichols finds a clue." even more recently, penny had solved a mystery which concerned a queer sculptured figure called the black imp. by exposing an unscrupulous dealer in paintings who sought to betray his patrons, she saved many persons from being swindled and at the same time gained honor for herself. at the moment, penny was not eager to involve herself in trouble. she determined to say no more about walter crocker unless the old man reopened the subject. "i'll get the things for you," said herman crocker as they reached the kitchen door. "just wait here." penny was a little surprised because the old man did not invite her into the house. "it won't take me long," he said, deliberately closing the door behind him. penny seated herself on the steps of the sagging porch and kept her eye upon herman crocker's dog which had stationed himself only a few feet away. "that animal is vicious," she thought uneasily. "i don't see why crocker keeps him around." hearing a slight sound penny gazed toward the right and was surprised to observe a small boy peering at her from the corner of the house. he was tall and very thin but did not appear to be more than nine or ten years of age. "hello there," said penny in a friendly voice. "hello," answered the boy. he moved slowly toward her, staring rather blankly. "you're not mr. crocker's little boy?" penny asked, hoping to draw him into conversation. "i'm his grandson." "oh, his grandson," repeated penny, studying the lad with interest. he bore slight resemblance to herman crocker. "and is rudy your dog?" "no!" replied the lad bitterly. "i hate him. if i tried to go away from here he'd attack me. my grandfather has trained him to do that." penny was not certain that she had understood correctly. she could not believe that herman crocker deliberately kept his grandson a prisoner on the property. "you don't mean----" she began, but the words died away. the kitchen door had opened. herman crocker stood scowling at his grandson. "perry!" he said harshly. "get inside! there's work to be done!" "yes, sir," replied the boy meekly. with a frightened glance directed toward penny he scuttled into the house. mr. crocker closed the door again. "i do believe that old man was afraid to have me talk with his grandson!" penny thought shrewdly. "how strange!" she did not have long to reflect upon the queer actions of her new landlord, for in a very few minutes he reappeared with an armload of linen and blankets. "i've telephoned the electric company for you," he told her. "your lights ought to be on before night." "and will you have the cottage cleaned for us?" penny requested. "i can't do the work myself," scowled the man. "but if you want to get mrs. masterbrook, i'll pay the bill." "who is she?" inquired penny. "i'll give you her address. she does cleaning work by the day." penny was not very well pleased with the arrangement because it meant that she must make a special trip to find mrs. masterbrook. however, there seemed no other way since the landlord had proved himself to be such an unaccommodating person. "you'll likely be going in to town sometime to-day?" ventured mr. crocker as penny turned to leave. "why, i imagine so. we'll need supplies." the man hesitated, and then said in a tone which he tried to make sound casual: "it might be just as well for you not to mention to folks that you saw my nephew. not that i have any secrets to keep. i just don't like folks nosing into my affairs. anyway, walter's gone now and it's no one's business but my own." "i am a stranger in the community," replied penny. "i'd have no occasion to speak of your nephew." "that's what i thought," said herman crocker in a tone of relief. "well, if there's anything more you need, let me know. and i'll see that you get a supply of wood before nightfall." "thank you," penny responded. she permitted herself a smile as she walked down the lane with the arm load of bedding. it was easy enough to see why mr. crocker had become so obliging. he expected a favor in return--her silence regarding walter crocker. "he acts almost as if he is ashamed of his nephew," she thought. "i wonder why he doesn't wish folks to learn about him." mr. nichols had finished shaving by the time penny reached the cottage. "well, i hope you rounded up some breakfast for us," he remarked. penny shook her head as she dropped the pile of linen on the table. "no such luck, dad. i asked mr. crocker for so many things i didn't try to get any food. he's the strangest man!" "what's so strange about him?" "i suspect he's a miser or something of the sort. anyway, he keeps a wicked looking dog and goes around the premises with a shotgun. he won't let his grandson talk with strangers, either." "you didn't learn much, did you?" "well, i didn't have a very good chance," penny grinned. "you see, he wouldn't let me into the house. i had to wait on the porch while he brought the things." "penny, are you making all this up?" "of course not!" she retorted indignantly. "wait until you meet mr. crocker. he's a very mysterious character." "then i'd just as soon not meet him," laughed the detective. "in my present mood he'd not interest me a bit." "i'll tell you about the practical results of our talk," smiled penny. "we're to have all the wood we need and our electric lights should be hooked up by nightfall. mr. crocker has promised to pay for having the cottage cleaned. he gave me the name and address of a woman who will do the work." "that's fine," said the detective. "if she's any good as a housekeeper, why not hire her ourselves by the week? then you'd be free to roam around and have a good time." "the idea sounds all right to me," penny declared quickly. "to tell you the truth, i don't know much about cooking on an old-fashioned stove." "let's drive down to the village now," suggested the detective. "we'll have breakfast and then find the cleaning woman." penny and her father rode down knob hill to the little town of kendon. fortified by an excellent meal at the florence cafe they set forth to find the home of anna masterbrook. they were told that she was a spinster who lived two miles from the village. "why, this is the same road we came over last night," penny observed as they drove along. "yes, it is," agreed mr. nichols. "for half a cent i'd keep right on going until we reached belton city." "oh, we'll both like it after we get the cottage in order," penny said cheerfully. "mrs. masterbrook may easily turn out to be a diamond in the rough." "i hope so," sighed mr. nichols. "but our luck isn't running very well." the car rolled over a low hill and penny observed a curve just ahead. "dad, didn't we pick up walter crocker at just about this point?" she asked. "i think this was the place," he agreed. the car swung slowly around the bend. both penny and her father turned their heads to glance toward the ditch. they were surprised to see walter crocker's automobile still tipped over on its side. apparently it had not been greatly damaged. "well, that's certainly odd," said penny as they drove on past the scene of the accident. "meaning just what, penny?" "why, it seems queer to me that the car hasn't been towed to a garage," she replied thoughtfully. "mr. crocker told me his nephew had gone back to the city. if that is true, why did the man abandon a good automobile?" chapter iv inside information "the garage may be slow in towing the car into town," replied mr. nichols. "i've noticed that things don't move at lightning speed around kendon." "i suppose that could be the reason," penny admitted reluctantly. "but wouldn't you think that walter crocker would want to find out how much damage had been done to his car before he left?" "oh, he may have so much money that it doesn't matter." "i doubt that, dad. you remember he told us he was coming here to claim an inheritance. after meeting old herman i'd guess that he didn't get it. would you think----" "i'm not thinking at all these days," chuckled mr. nichols. "i've padlocked my brain for two weeks. please, penny, don't try to stir up imaginary cases for me to solve." penny made no reply, for just then they came within view of an old farmhouse which answered the description provided by herman crocker. a tin mailbox by the roadside bore the name anna masterbrook. "this is the right place," mr. nichols declared. they went up the front walk, observing that it had been swept that morning. the porch was freshly scrubbed, too, and clean curtains hung in the windows. "mrs. masterbrook must be a good housekeeper," the detective said. "i think we'll employ her if her price is right." he rapped on the door. after a moment it was opened by a tall, gaunt-looking woman of middle age. her black hair had been drawn back tightly from her face, accentuating the high cheek bones. "mrs. masterbrook?" inquired the detective, lifting his hat. "that's my name," said the woman. her voice was high pitched and unpleasant. "if you're selling anything----" "i am not a salesman," mr. nichols assured her. "mr. crocker sent us to you. i understand that you do cleaning work." "i worked for herman crocker seven years," the woman said. "precious little pay or thanks i ever got for it too!" "we are staying in his cottage," penny explained. "mr. crocker said we were to have you clean it up for us, and he would pay the bill." "how do i know he'll keep his promise?" "does mr. crocker usually break his word?" asked the detective. "well, he's close," mrs. masterbrook replied. "a dollar looks as big as a mountain to herman." "if mr. crocker fails to settle the bill, i'll look after it myself," mr. nichols promised. "and another thing. would you be willing to take a position as housekeeper for a couple of weeks?" "what would it pay?" mrs. masterbrook demanded quickly. "well, i might let you name your price." "five dollars a week," the woman said firmly after a moment of thought. "i wouldn't come for a cent less." penny and mr. nichols glanced at each other. they had expected mrs. masterbrook to ask double the amount. "you are hired, mrs. masterbrook," said the detective gently. penny and her father went back to the car to wait while the woman collected a few things to take with her. "i think we've found a jewel, penny," the detective declared enthusiastically. "if i'm any judge of character, she's a good housekeeper." "and if i'm a judge of it, she's a chronic grumbler and a gossip," replied penny. "but we're only paying five dollars, so we can't be too particular." mrs. masterbrook soon came down the walk with a small handbag. she crowded into the front seat of the car and even before they were well on their way to kendon, began to question her new employer. she asked his name, his business, where he was from, why he had come to kendon and how long he meant to stay. penny glanced impishly at her father, who was growing slightly annoyed. she had warned him that mrs. masterbrook would prove to be a gossip. "i met mr. crocker's grandson this morning," she remarked, hoping to switch the conversation to a less personal topic. "he seems like a fine lad." "yes, but it's a shame the way herman brings him up," replied mrs. masterbrook, shaking her head sadly. "perry has never had much schooling and he's kept at home all the time." "i should think the school authorities would see that the boy attended classes," remarked mr. nichols. "they don't like to cross herman," mrs. masterbrook explained. "at least that's how i figure it." "mr. crocker doesn't actually mistreat the boy?" penny questioned. "herman couldn't be very good to anyone even if he tried. perry was his daughter ella's son, and i guess old herman thought more of ella than he did of any other member of his family. when she died he took the boy to raise." "i judge his own wife isn't living," remarked mr. nichols. "no, poor ida went to her rest come twelve years ago this fall. folks said she wouldn't have taken down with pneumonia if herman had given her enough to eat." neither penny nor her father encouraged mrs. masterbrook to talk, but all the way to the cottage she chattered about first one person and then another. with no effort on her part, penny gathered many items of interesting information concerning herman crocker. "folks around here call him a miser," the woman revealed. "when his sister jenny died, she left quite a tidy little fortune. some people don't think herman ever inherited very much of it, but i could tell 'em a few things about that matter if i were minded to do it." "i'm sorry," interrupted mr. nichols, "but the crocker family isn't of great interest to us. suppose we forget about it." "i thought you wanted to hear," retorted mrs. masterbrook indignantly. she subsided into hurt silence. penny felt sorry that her father had discouraged the woman from talking. although she did not approve of idle gossip, she had been eager to learn more about herman crocker and his queer relatives. she wondered too if mrs. masterbrook could tell her anything about mr. crocker's nephew, walter. penny and her father left the housekeeper at the cottage and then drove back to the village for supplies. "i'm afraid i made a great mistake in hiring her," confessed the detective. "she'll talk us crazy." "at least you must admit it's interesting to have all the inside information about our landlord." "i'm not concerned in crocker's affairs," mr. nichols rejoined. "anyway, i'd not believe a word that woman said about him. obviously, she bears a grudge." penny and her father made their purchases in one of the grocery stores, finding the owner a pleasant, genial individual. during the course of the conversation he remarked upon the automobile accident which had occurred the previous night. "it's a funny thing about it," he said. "the owner of the car disappeared and no one seems to know the driver." "why, my daughter and i brought him to town last night," declared mr. nichols quickly. "he was herman crocker's nephew, or so he told us." "you don't say! well, that's the first time i ever heard that herman had a living nephew. shall i carry these packages out to the car for you?" "yes, please," requested the detective. the storekeeper deposited the grocery order in the automobile and then went back into his shop. "dad, mr. crocker asked me not to tell anyone about his nephew's having been here," penny said as they started up knob hill. "well, i didn't make any such promise," replied her father. "i can't see why there should be any mystery about it. anyway, it will be fairly easy for the police to learn the man's name by tracing the license plates of his abandoned car." "yes, that's true," penny agreed. "i can't for the life of me understand why walter crocker would go back to the city without trying to salvage his car." "i'd not worry about it too much," smiled the detective. "for all we know he may have left orders at one of the garages to have it hauled in and repaired." upon arriving at their cottage, mr. nichols and penny were pleasantly surprised to find mrs. masterbrook hard at work. she had cleaned up all the rooms, and she came out to the car to help carry in the groceries. "the electric company man was here while you were gone," she told mr. nichols. "the lights are on now." "fine," replied the detective. "and how about our supply of wood?" "herman sent over enough for today and to-morrow. he said he'd get busy and cut more. but i'd not count on it. herman is as lazy as all get out." mr. nichols laughed and told the housekeeper that he and penny were going for a little walk before lunch. "it will be ready at one o'clock sharp," mrs. masterbrook warned. "i hope you'll be back on time, because i don't like to keep victuals waiting." "we'll be here," promised the detective. when he and penny were beyond hearing, he added: "i'm afraid we made a big mistake in hiring that woman. i can see right now that she means to be the boss of the show." "oh, well, if the weather is nice we can stay away from the cottage most of the time," laughed penny. after exploring the ravine, they went back to the cottage to find that luncheon was nearly ready. in justice to mrs. masterbrook, the detective admitted that the meal was excellent. she had made biscuits, cake, and gravy, besides preparing the usual vegetables and meat. however, without being requested to do so, the housekeeper seated herself at the head of the table. penny and her father had assumed that she would take her meals alone, but neither of them had the courage to make the suggestion. they were a little afraid of the woman's sharp tongue. conversation was difficult in mrs. masterbrook's presence. penny and mr. nichols did not wish to say anything of a personal nature lest the housekeeper repeat it to her acquaintances. mrs. masterbrook talked enough for everyone. she prattled on about the gossip of the town until penny and her father were thoroughly bored. they were relieved when the meal was over. "i believe i'll drive back to town this afternoon," the detective announced. "i want to buy a newspaper, and i'll order a telephone installed." "i thought you were eager to lose contact with the world," laughed penny. "to a certain extent--yes," replied mr. nichols. "bui i also like to keep informed." "you don't need to worry about that part," chuckled penny. "mrs. masterbrook will see to it that you're up to date on all the news." "she'll probably appropriate the telephone too," said the detective ruefully. "but i think i'll put one in anyway. coming with me, penny?" "no, i'd rather stay here, dad. i thought i'd write a letter to susan." after her father had driven away, penny unpacked her suitcase. then she carried her writing materials to a pleasant nook not far from the ravine, finding a flat rock which served as a desk. the letter was soon finished. penny sealed it and then sat for a long time gazing at the distant trees which were waving gently in the breeze. "it's nice here," she thought dreamily, "but rather dull. i wish susan could visit me. together we might stir up a little excitement." after a while penny dozed off. when she awoke she gathered up her writing things and walked back to the house. she chanced to be wearing tennis shoes and so made very little noise as she entered. penny had no intention of trying to spy upon mrs. masterbrook. in fact, she had forgotten all about the housekeeper as she made her way toward her own bedroom. the kitchen and living rooms were in order but quite deserted. the significance of this did not dawn upon penny. then she came to the doorway of her father's bedroom. she might have passed it without a glance had she not heard a startled cry. "oh, i didn't hear you come in!" muttered mrs. masterbrook in confusion. the woman had been caught in the act of examining letters and papers contained in mr. nichols' suitcase. she straightened up quickly, a deep flush spreading over her cheeks. "mrs. masterbrook!" said penny sternly. "kindly explain the meaning of this! why are you prying into my father's private papers?" chapter v a night visitor "how dare you accuse me of such a thing!" exclaimed mrs. masterbrook angrily. "i merely came into this bedroom to do the work for which i was hired." "did my father employ you to read his private letters?" asked penny coldly. "i was cleaning the room and i thought i would unpack the suitcase. i had just come upon these letters when you walked in." "i'll relieve you of them now," said penny. "hereafter, please don't touch anything either in father's suitcase or my own." mrs. masterbrook did not trust herself to reply. with an angry toss of her head she marched back to the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. "i don't care if she is out of sorts!" penny thought. "dad ought to discharge her for a trick like this." she returned the letters to the suitcase and after locking the bag took the key with her. later in the afternoon when mr. nichols came back to the cottage in company with one of the telephone men, she drew him aside to reveal what the housekeeper had done. "it's nothing so very serious," the detective said. "of course the trick was a contemptible one, but i doubt that she learned anything of interest. the letters all dealt with matters of routine business." "but if mrs. masterbrook reads our letters she'll pry into other things too." "we could discharge her," the detective said, frowning thoughtfully. "the point is--where would we get another housekeeper on short notice? especially one who can cook." "mrs. masterbrook does do her work well," penny admitted grudgingly. "i'll discharge her if you say the word, penny." "no, let her stay," the girl decided. "but we'll have to be very careful about what we do and say around her." with a telephone installed, the electric lights connected, and the house stocked with groceries, penny and her father felt that they were fairly well established in the cottage. as was to be expected, mrs. masterbrook acted very distant during the remainder of the day. she went about the house with an injured air which was amusing to penny and mr. nichols. toward evening the telephone rang. "why, that was a long and two short!" exclaimed penny, springing up from her chair. "that's our ring." "must be a mistake," replied mr. nichols. "no one would be calling us so soon." before penny could reach the telephone, mrs. masterbrook answered it. she appeared in the doorway and said primly to mr. nichols: "long distance is calling." "long distance!" exclaimed the detective. "that's queer. how did anyone get my number so soon?" "i'm sure you can't blame _that_ on me," replied the housekeeper maliciously. mr. nichols went to answer the call. penny noticed that mrs. masterbrook lingered not far away, evidently listening. upon seeing that the girl was watching, she retreated to the kitchen. in a few minutes mr. nichols returned to the living room. "i hope nothing is wrong at home," penny said in a low tone. she was afraid the call had been from mrs. gallup. "no, everything is all right," returned the detective. "that was inspector harris who telephoned me." "but how did he get your telephone number?" "oh, he plagued mrs. gallup into revealing our address, and then he found that we had a telephone installed today. worse luck!" "mrs. gallup was instructed not to tell where we were unless something of great importance arose." "the inspector evidently convinced her that this was a vital matter." "what is it all about anyway?" penny inquired curiously. "inspector harris wants me to take a new case. last night a big robbery was committed at hannibal, which is the nearest town to kendon. the inspector thought that since i was on the scene it would be convenient for me to conduct the investigation." "convenient for him." "obviously." penny glanced quickly at her father. "and what did you tell him, dad?" "i said i wouldn't do it. this is my vacation and i mean to enjoy it." "good for you, dad," penny said approvingly. "the inspector didn't like to take 'no' for an answer," mr. nichols went on. "he claimed that this was not an ordinary robbery case and that i'd be sorry if i turned it down." "what was so unusual about it, dad?" "nothing that i could tell. a private home was entered and the thieves escaped with about a thousand dollars' worth of jewelry. the owner, a man of wealth, insists upon private detectives taking over the case. he's not satisfied with the local police talent." while penny and her father were discussing the robbery, mrs. masterbrook announced dinner. to their relief, she did not talk during the meal but maintained an aloof air. "i don't like the look of the weather," remarked mr. nichols, glancing out the window. "i shouldn't be surprised if we have a storm tonight." "the wind does appear to be rising," penny agreed. "just listen to it whistle in the grove of evergreens--it gives one a creepy feeling." "i hope we have a good roof over us," mr. nichols declared. "one that doesn't leak." as he spoke, the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. "mercy on us!" screamed mrs. masterbrook in terror. "what's happened to the lights?" "probably the current has been turned off, or the high wind may have broken a wire," said the detective calmly. "or a fuse may have blown out," penny added. "i'll get my flashlight from the car and take a look," said mr. nichols. "i don't know if i can locate the fuse box or not." "it's in the cellar," contributed mrs. masterbrook. "the only way to get down there is from the outside of the cottage," penny added. "those strange-looking double doors with the iron rings pull up, and beneath them is a stone stairway which leads into the cellar. be careful, for it's easy to fall. i took a tumble myself this afternoon when i was prowling around." mr. nichols groped his way to the door and disappeared into the night. a few minutes later penny saw the beam of his flashlight playing over the lawn. then the cellar doors were thrown back and the light vanished. "you'd not catch me going down into that dark, damp hole at night!" mrs. masterbrook said in a low voice. "why not?" asked penny. "isn't it just as dark here?" "something might happen. if you knew what i do about this place----" "what do you mean?" questioned penny quickly. "oh, i don't tell everything i know," the housekeeper retorted. penny felt certain that the woman was trying to plague her, but nevertheless she was greatly relieved when her father returned to the kitchen. "it was only a blown fuse after all," he reported. "but i can't find any extra ones." "i'll telephone mr. crocker!" penny announced. "he's our landlord and he ought to work at the job." "i'll bet a cent you don't get any," the detective rejoined. after a lengthy telephone conversation, penny faced her father triumphantly. "you lose your cent," she laughed. "mr. crocker was provoked, but he promised to come right over with a new fuse." twenty minutes later an ancient automobile was heard laboring up knob hill. mr. crocker came up the walk, carrying a lighted lantern. "seems like you folks are having a lot of trouble here," he said crossly as mr. nichols met him at the door. "we're sorry to trouble you," replied the detective. "if the cottage had been better equipped----" "i'll put in the fuse for you to be sure it's good," mr. crocker interrupted. he and mr. nichols went down into the cellar together. from the doorway of the kitchen penny noticed that someone was sitting in mr. crocker's car. "is that you, perry?" she called softly. there was no answer, so she walked down to the car. mr. crocker's grandson sat hunched down in the front seat. "aren't you going to say hello to me?" asked penny. "i do believe you're shy." "i'm not shy," replied the little boy quickly. "but my grandpa says he'll whip me if i talk with you." penny was silent for a moment. "of course i don't wish you to get into trouble, perry," she said quietly, "but why doesn't your grandfather like me?" "because you'll ask too many questions," the boy answered. "please go away now, before grandpa finds you talking with me." the cottage became flooded with light as mr. nichols and herman crocker replaced the old fuse. penny knew that they would be coming up the steps in a moment. she did not wish perry to be punished so she slipped back into the house. however, as soon as herman crocker had driven away penny ran back outside to meet her father. she told him what perry had said. "herman crocker is a queer old duck," the detective replied. "i don't doubt he abuses the boy." "we ought to do something about it, dad," penny said earnestly. "now don't get worked up over the affair. we haven't any proof that the boy is mistreated. if the local authorities aren't interested in the case, we have no call to interfere. we'd only stir up a tempest in a teapot." "i suppose you're right," penny admitted reluctantly. "you usually are." "i'd forget the crocker family if i were you. try to enjoy your vacation." penny did not wish to forget about perry. she felt that he deserved a better fate than life with a queer old man like herman crocker. later in the evening as she sat with a book, she kept thinking of the boy. she could not keep her mind on anything she read. at nine o'clock it began to rain. the wind, steadily growing stronger, rattled the windowpanes. "i'm afraid this will be a noisy place tonight," commented mr. nichols. "but i'm drowsy enough to sleep through anything." mrs. masterbrook had retired soon after the dishes were washed. after getting himself a drink in the kitchen, mr. nichols announced that he too was going to bed. "i'll be coming along in a few minutes," penny said. "how about the doors? shall i lock them?" "oh, it wouldn't do any harm," replied the detective carelessly. "but on a night like this there's no chance anyone will visit us----" mr. nichols' voice trailed slowly away. as if in contradiction to his words, there came a sharp rap on the door. chapter vi the attic door "it seems that you are wrong, dad," commented penny dryly. "already we have a visitor." mr. nichols went to the door and flung it open. the light revealed a bedraggled young man who might have been in his early twenties. he was not very well dressed and his clothes were rain soaked. penny and her father regarded the stranger a trifle suspiciously until he spoke. "i beg your pardon," the young man said apologetically, "but i am looking for the herman crocker place. would you be kind enough to direct me?" "why, certainly," replied the detective. "come in out of the rain, won't you?" "thanks, but my shoes are covered with mud." "you can't harm anything in this cottage," said penny. "come right in." the young man stepped over the threshold, removing his limp felt hat. he had sandy hair, penny observed, and penetrating blue eyes which roved swiftly about the room. "it's a nasty night," said mr. nichols. "have you walked far?" "all the way from kendon." "then you went right past herman crocker's place. it's a large house to the left of the road." "the rain is coming down so fast i couldn't see very far ahead of me," the young man replied. "this was the first light i saw along the way." "it may be that mr. crocker has gone to bed," penny remarked. "i imagine he retires early." "will he be expecting you?" inquired the detective. "why, no, he won't," the young man replied after a slight hesitation. "i suspect he'll be very much surprised to see me." "we have a telephone," penny said. "if you like, i'll call mr. crocker for you. he might be willing to drive up and get you." "oh, please don't go to any bother," returned the young man quickly, edging toward the door again. "it won't be any trouble at all." "please, i'd rather you wouldn't. i'll not mind the walk." penny glanced sharply at the young man. it was plain to see that he had some special motive for not wishing to give herman crocker advance notice of his arrival in the community. without having any real reason for such a belief, it suddenly struck penny that the young man's visit might have some connection with the mysterious call which walter crocker had made upon his uncle. "i take it you're a stranger in these parts," remarked mr. nichols. he too was studying the young man curiously. "well, yes, i am. i'm here to see mr. crocker on rather important business." "you'll be his second out-of-town visitor this week," penny commented in a casual tone. "mr. crocker's nephew was here, but i understand he has gone back to the city." "mr. crocker's nephew?" asked the young man quickly. "yes," said penny, watching him closely. "walter crocker." a strange look came into the young man's eyes. an expression of astonishment gave way to one of wariness. "you are acquainted with walter crocker perhaps?" asked penny, ignoring her father's warning glance. "i have heard of him," replied the young man after a brief hesitation. he turned once more toward the door. as he opened it a strong gust of wind blew a sheet of rain into the room. "see here, you can't go out in that," said mr. nichols firmly. "let me telephone crocker and tell him you're here." the young man shook his head. "then i'll put on chains and take you down there in my car." "no, i'd rather not have you go to any bother on my account. i don't mind a little rain." "it's blowing a gale and the storm is getting worse every minute," the detective insisted. "herman crocker keeps a vicious dog too. if you walk in there without being expected, you may receive an unpleasant reception." "i wasn't looking for a very cordial one anyway," the young man said slowly. "but thanks for the tip about the dog. maybe it would be just as well to go back to town for the night." "there's no need to do that," said mr. nichols. "you're welcome to stay here if you like. our quarters aren't very luxurious, but at least it will be better than walking back to the village." "i'll get mrs. masterbrook to help me fix up one of the bedrooms right away," penny added quickly. "it's very kind of you," said the young man, looking troubled. "you know nothing about me----" "we're not worried upon that score," replied mr. nichols with a smile. "but you might tell us your name." "oh, yes, to be sure----" stammered the young man. "just call me michael--michael haymond." "i am very glad to know you, mr. haymond," returned the detective. "may i take your coat and hat? i'll build up the fire so that your things will dry out." penny crossed the room intending to call mrs. masterbrook. as she opened the door leading into the hallway she saw the housekeeper hastily retreating into her own bedroom. obviously she had been listening to the conversation. "mrs. masterbrook!" called penny. "well, what is it?" asked the housekeeper, re-opening her door. "a guest is spending the night. will you please help me prepare the east bedroom?" "this is a nice time to start making up beds," the housekeeper complained. "i was just ready to undress." "i'm sorry to bother you, mrs. masterbrook. i'll do it myself." "i didn't say i wasn't willing to help," the housekeeper said quickly. "only if you ask me, you're making a big mistake to take a perfect stranger into the house." "what makes you think he's a stranger?" asked penny quickly. "i couldn't help hearing what he told you," mrs. masterbrook returned with a toss of her head. "i don't believe for a single minute that his name is michael haymond. anyone could tell that he was lying." "who do you think he is?" asked penny. "a 'g' man in disguise?" "he looks more like a young criminal to me," mrs. masterbrook replied soberly. "his face is very familiar." "dear me, how did you manage to see him? not through the keyhole?" the housekeeper had not meant to betray herself. she flushed and made no answer. "if you care to meet mr. haymond, come into the living room," penny invited. "i think you'll find him to be a very nice young man." "no, thank you, i don't wish to meet him," said the housekeeper coldly. "and if the cottage is robbed during the night, kindly don't blame me." "all right, i won't," laughed penny. the bedroom which the guest was to occupy adjoined mr. nichols' sleeping quarters. long after the house had settled down for the night, penny could hear sounds from that part of the cottage. either her father or mr. haymond was very restless. "it may have been unwise to take a stranger into the house," the girl reflected, "but he seemed honest enough. i don't see why mrs. masterbrook had to act so hateful about it." for some time penny remained awake thinking over the information which michael haymond had given about himself. he had not told where he lived nor had he mentioned the nature of his business with herman crocker. she had fancied that the young man had seemed somewhat shaken by her reference to walter crocker. "i may have imagined that part," she told herself. "dad didn't seem to notice anything wrong." shortly penny fell asleep. several hours later she found herself wide awake again. she did not know what had aroused her. although penny had left the curtains up, the room was dark. she could still hear the rain pattering against the tin roof. then the girl became aware of another sound. she heard a floor board creak. someone was moving softly down the hallway. "i wonder who is up at this hour?" she thought. for a minute penny lay perfectly still, listening. then she crept noiselessly from bed. drawing on her dressing gown, she tiptoed to the door. the hall was dark. at first she could distinguish nothing; then she made out a shadowy figure at the far end. someone was trying to open the door which led up to the attic. chapter vii penny's discovery "is that you, father?" penny asked. when there was no answer, she reached up and pressed the electric switch. the hallway became flooded with light. penny and michael haymond stood blinking at each other, both deeply embarrassed. "oh, i'm sorry," stammered the young man. "i didn't mean to disturb anyone. i was just after a drink of water." "i'm afraid you won't find it in the attic," replied penny. "not unless the roof is leaking." "the attic?" michael haymond repeated. "i must be turned around then. i thought this door led to the living room." penny could not be certain whether or not the young man was telling the truth. it was entirely possible that he had become confused in the dark hallway. she could not imagine any reason why he would have wished to investigate the attic. before penny could frame a reply mr. nichols' door opened and the detective peered out. "anything wrong?" he asked. "i am afraid i have disturbed the entire household," the young man apologized. "i was only looking for a drink of water." "there's no harm in that, i'm sure," replied mr. nichols pleasantly. "i'll get you one." "it really doesn't matter," the young man murmured. just then mrs. masterbrook's door swung open. the housekeeper, garbed in an old-fashioned nightgown and with her hair done up in curlers, looked out into the hall. "dear me, what is going on here?" she asked crossly. "after working hard all day i'd like to get a little sleep." "it was all my fault," michael haymond apologized again. the housekeeper turned to gaze at him. as their eyes met, mrs. masterbrook made a strange rasping sound in her throat. her hand moved instinctively toward her face as if to ward off a blow. "mrs. masterbrook, i don't believe you have met our guest," mr. nichols began. the housekeeper gave him no opportunity to finish. she moved back into her bedroom and closed the door. "did i offend your housekeeper?" asked michael haymond anxiously. "don't give it a thought," replied mr. nichols, lowering his voice. "mrs. masterbrook is a very odd character. she may have felt embarrassed because she wasn't dressed up for the occasion. come along now and we'll get that drink of water." penny went back into her room and sat down on the bed. apparently her father had not distrusted michael haymond's motives nor had he considered mrs. masterbrook's rude action as anything out of the way. "dad takes everything casually," penny thought. she could hear her father and michael haymond in the kitchen laughing and talking together. the icebox door slammed shut. evidently they were indulging in a snack of food. "mrs. masterbrook will be furious in the morning," penny chuckled. "she seems to detest michael haymond anyway. for a moment i thought she appeared to recognize him, but i suppose she was merely trying to be dramatic. that's the trouble with mrs. masterbrook--she's usually acting a part." penny allowed her thoughts to ramble at will until she heard her father and michael haymond enter their rooms. the hall light was switched out. once more the house quieted down. penny crept back into bed, but she could not sleep. she felt strangely excited. throughout the night there was no further disturbance. after a few hours the rain ceased and stars began to straggle through the clouds. the wind died down. penny tossed restlessly upon her pillow. now and then she could hear mrs. masterbrook's bed creak in the next room as if the housekeeper also were spending a sleepless night. at dawn penny arose and, quietly dressing, let herself out of the cottage. the grounds were muddy, but everything seemed fresh and green. birds chirped and the earth gave off a pleasant odor. at breakfast time penny returned to the house, feeling none the worse for her sleepless night. as she approached the porch she saw her father and the guest talking earnestly. they turned to greet her. "aren't you an early bird this morning, penny?" inquired her father. "oh, i just went for a little walk before breakfast, dad." mrs. masterbrook appeared in the doorway. "you're lucky to get anything to eat this morning," she said stiffly. "there's something the matter with the stove. it doesn't draw properly and we're practically out of wood." "anything else wrong about the place?" mr. nichols asked with a sigh. "there are enough odd jobs around here to keep a man busy for a week," replied the housekeeper. "the water pump isn't working well and someone ought to put on the screens." "i'll be glad to do that for you," offered michael haymond. "and i'm good at cutting wood too. is there an ax around here anywhere?" "i think i saw one in the basement," mr. nichols told him. "but see here--you're our guest." "i'll be glad to do a little to earn my breakfast. i like to work." "i can see you do," mr. nichols smiled. he studied the young man for a moment. then he asked abruptly, "how would you like a steady job for a few days?" "doing what?" "all the odd jobs i'm supposed to do. can you drive a car?" "yes." "then you could drive to town for our groceries, see that we have a daily wood supply, and repair all the things around here that are falling to pieces." "our landlord is expected to see that the place is in livable condition," penny said quickly. she felt a little troubled because her father wished to engage the strange young man. "if we wait for him to take care of things, we'll never be comfortable here," returned mr. nichols. he turned again to michael haymond. "perhaps i have spoken out of turn. probably you aren't in need of a job." "but i am," replied the young man quickly. "i'll be glad to work for my board and room." "i think we can do better than that for you," smiled mr. nichols. "your salary won't be large, but we'll keep you in spending money at least." "what shall i do first? chop the wood?" "you might look at the stove and see if you can discover what is wrong with it." "o.k.," laughed the young man. "i know a little about cook stoves. we had one at the----" he stopped abruptly and then finished in confusion: "we had a cook stove at the place where i lived." "and where was that, young man?" asked mrs. masterbrook tartly. "it doesn't matter in the least," interposed mr. nichols smoothly. "mr. haymond's affairs are his own." "there's no great mystery about my past," said the young man. "i came from the west. my parents are dead." "i'm sorry to hear that," replied mr. nichols sympathetically. michael haymond stood gazing thoughtfully toward the ravine for a moment. then, recovering himself, he followed mrs. masterbrook into the house to look at the cook stove. "now penny--don't say it," declared mr. nichols when he was alone with his daughter. "don't say what, dad?" "that i'm making a big mistake to hire young haymond. i can see you feel that way." "well, yes, i do," penny admitted. "i like michael a lot, but i don't exactly trust him. he hasn't told us much about himself----" "that's his own business. i haven't any patience with folks who go prying into other persons' private affairs." "i thought that was the work of a detective," penny said teasingly. "when a man commits a crime, then his actions become a matter of public concern," mr. nichols replied. "i had a long talk with michael last night and if i'm any judge of character, he's a decent sort. i don't intend to pry into his personal affairs just for the pleasure of it." "well, if the tin spoons disappear don't blame me," penny laughed, imitating the housekeeper's shrill voice. "young michael will save me a great deal of petty annoyance," mr. nichols went on. "i mean for him to serve as a buffer between me and mrs. masterbrook." "for some reason she's taken an intense dislike to him, dad." "i noticed that, penny. mrs. masterbrook isn't happy unless she is reading the law to someone. with young michael here, she'll vent her spite on him and leave us to enjoy our vacation." "how marvelously your mind works, dad!" "i do think of a smart idea now and then." "wouldn't it be wiser to discharge mrs. masterbrook?" "she bakes wonderful biscuits," the detective answered. "besides, she amuses me. i'm curious to see how she gets on with young michael." "you're beyond my depth," penny said with a shrug. "i don't understand your whims at all." she was forced to admit that from the standpoint of work her father had made no mistake in hiring the young man. michael put the cooking stove in good order again, chopped a day's supply of wood and repaired the pump. he worked quietly, yet effectively. even the housekeeper could find no complaint to voice. "michael, i suppose you'll be wanting to see herman crocker sometime today," mr. nichols remarked to the young man. "why, yes, sir, i guess so," he replied uncertainly. "you said that was why you came here," the detective reminded him. "yes, sir. i do want to see mr. crocker on a matter of business." "feel free to run down there whenever you like," mr. nichols told him. "you've done enough work around here for one day." "thank you, sir." mr. nichols went for a long walk in the woods but penny chose to remain at the cottage with a magazine. michael worked about the yard, washing the automobile. he did not seem in any hurry to make his call upon herman crocker. "i don't believe he's anxious to go there at all," penny thought. "i wonder if he didn't make up the entire story?" she was somewhat surprised to observe that for the most part mrs. masterbrook left the young man entirely alone. the housekeeper seemed more subdued than usual as if she were brooding over some matter. the day passed quickly. penny knew very well that michael had not visited herman crocker for she had kept watch of him the entire time. she had a theory that he did not wish to go there at all, and to test it she called the young man. "michael," she said, "mrs. masterbrook tells me that we need fresh eggs. i'm driving down to crocker's place after supper to get some. don't you wish to ride along with me?" the young man hesitated, his eyes dropping before penny's steady gaze. "why, i thought i'd wait until tomorrow before i see mr. crocker. thanks just the same." when supper was over, penny drove down to the crocker place. no lights were visible in the window. either the owner had gone away or was trying to save electricity. penny parked the car in the lane. she looked carefully about for the yellow hound. to her relief he was nowhere around the place. quickly she walked across the yard and pounded on the door. penny waited a few minutes and then turned back to the car. she halted as she heard a rap on one of the windows. glancing up, she saw perry looking out at her. "oh, hello, perry," penny called. "open the door." "i can't," shouted the boy through the glass. "it's locked." "isn't your grandfather here?" the lad shook his head. "he's been gone all day. i'm locked up in here." "can't you open a window?" penny called. again perry shook his head. "i haven't had anything except bread to eat all day," he told her. "i'm getting real hungry." "well, i should think so," said penny grimly. she observed that the lower floor windows were all high from the ground, beyond the reach of anyone in the yard. "aren't any of the upstairs windows unfastened?" she called to the boy. "yes, but i can't get out there." "does your grandfather have a ladder?" "i think there's one somewhere in the barn." "i'll find it," penny said encouragingly. "just you wait until i come back, perry." she hurried off to the barn, well aware that in taking matters into her own hands, she was certain to incur the wrath of herman crocker. "i don't care if i do get into trouble," she thought indignantly. "he has no right to shut perry up in the house without anything to eat. it's cruel." penny opened the barn doors and stepped inside. she stopped short to stare at an automobile which stood on the floor beside the granary. one glance assured her that it was not herman crocker's ancient car. this was an expensive model with a streamline design, shiny and new save that one fender was slightly battered. "why, it's walter crocker's automobile!" penny thought in amazement. "how did it get here?" chapter viii the toy lantern clue penny stood staring at the car. she knew she could not be mistaken. it was the same automobile which walter crocker had upset in the ditch. she had last seen it there when she and her father had gone after mrs. masterbrook. "i suppose walter crocker might have instructed his uncle to bring the car here," penny mused. "but it seems very odd. old herman didn't want me to tell anyone about seeing his nephew here. i wonder----" the girl's thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of a car coming up the lane. glancing out the barn doors penny saw herman crocker arrive in his battered old automobile. he parked beside her own car. "of course he'll know i am here," penny told herself. "i must act as if i've noticed nothing out of the way." she slipped out of the barn without being observed. as she approached the house, old herman climbed from the car, holding fast to rudy's chain. the hound began to growl and tried to get away from his master. "good evening, mr. crocker," said penny pleasantly. "i don't seem to be very popular with your dog." "i thought that was your car standing here in the lane," replied mr. crocker gruffly. "did i see you coming from the barn?" "i had started that way," said penny. "then i heard your car coming." mr. crocker seemed to relax. "what's wrong down at the cottage now?" he asked in the tone of one who had deeply suffered. "nothing at all, mr. crocker. i came to ask if i might buy some fresh eggs." "i don't make a practice of selling them," the man frowned. "then i suppose i'll have to drive in to town." "maybe i can let you have a dozen this time." mr. crocker started toward the house but as penny followed he turned and said pointedly: "i'll bring them out to the car." penny had hoped that she would have an opportunity to speak with perry. she wished to warn the boy to say nothing about her plan to help him escape from the house. she could only hope that he would be wise enough to remain silent concerning her presence near the barn. mr. crocker did not unlock the front door. instead he went around to the back porch and from a box which was stored there, counted out a dozen eggs into a paper sack. he returned to the car. "how much do i owe you, mr. crocker?" asked penny. the man named a price fifteen cents above the town market. she paid it without a protest. "how is your grandson, perry?" penny asked casually as she prepared to drive away. mr. crocker glanced at her sharply but the girl's face disclosed only polite interest. "oh, the boy's fine," he answered gruffly. "he's somewhere around the place." penny said goodbye and drove away without disclosing that she knew perry had been locked in the house during his grandfather's absence. such treatment seemed nothing short of cruel to her. she could not understand why the townspeople would show such indifference to the lad's fate unless they were unaware of existing conditions. upon reaching the cottage, penny drew her father aside and reported everything she had learned. "you're sure that the boy told the truth about having no food?" the detective inquired. "i can't be absolutely certain," penny admitted. "i've never been inside the house." "always there are two sides to every question," mr. nichols said slowly. "folks around here with the exception of mrs. masterbrook, seem to think that crocker isn't a bad sort." "i'm positive he's not the right person to have entire control of a child, dad." "that may be. however, he gave the boy a home when no one else came forward to take him in." "how do you account for walter crocker's car being in herman's barn?" "i don't see anything so mysterious about that, penny. they are relatives. walter probably asked herman to have the car hauled there until he came back from the city." "how do we know he ever went to the city, dad?" "what?" asked mr. nichols blankly. penny repeated her question. "you're not hinting that something may have happened to walter crocker?" "yes, i am, dad. herman crocker is a sinister character." "in your imagination." "in any one's imagination," penny said firmly. "we know that walter crocker came here to collect money from herman. that old man is a miser. what would be more natural than to have the nephew conveniently disappear?" "penny, you've been reading entirely too many wild stories." "dad, you are laughing at me!" "pardon me, but i can't help it," smiled the detective. "herman crocker is an eccentric character but i don't think he's quite as black as you paint him." before penny could reply, mrs. masterbrook came to the porch. "you're wanted on the 'phone," she told mr. nichols. "now what?" asked the detective, frowning. "i hope it's not inspector harris again." he went into the house and was gone several minutes. penny could hear him arguing with someone on the wire. finally he returned to the porch. "well, i've done it now," he told her gloomily. "what is wrong, dad?" "oh, it was inspector harris again. there's been another robbery." "near here?" penny asked quickly. "yes, about twenty miles away at a place called benton. unknown persons broke into the home of a wealthy family and made off with money and jewels valued at several thousand dollars." "why, that sounds almost like the other robbery case, dad." "inspector harris thinks that the same gang may have pulled both of them. he's after me to take the case." "and you told him you would?" "i finally agreed that i'd drive over to benton and make an inspection. but unless the case is a particularly interesting one i'll have nothing of it. this was supposed to have been my vacation." "are you going to benton now?" questioned penny eagerly. "yes, i'll be back in a few hours." "take me with you, dad," penny pleaded. "all right," the detective agreed, "but i don't care to be influenced by any of your wild theories as to who committed the robbery." "i'll be as quiet as a mouse," penny promised. during the ride to benton mr. nichols told her what little he had learned about the case. "it was the james kirmenbach home which was robbed," he revealed. "you may have heard of the man. he formerly was the head of the kirmenbach chemical company but retired a few years ago to live quietly in the country. the thieves broke into a wall safe, taking a box of money and jewels. the most valuable item was a diamond necklace." "i suppose the local police made a routine investigation?" "yes, but they found no clues. kirmenbach appealed to inspector harris and that's how i'm rung in on the deal." it was a few minutes after nine o'clock when mr. nichols drew up in front of an imposing brick house at the outskirts of benton. penny and her father presented themselves at the door and upon giving their names to the maid were promptly admitted. mr. kirmenbach, a bald headed man in his early sixties, came to greet the detective. "mr. nichols?" he asked, extending his hand. "inspector harris telephoned that you would take the case." "i only promised to make an inspection," the detective replied. "tell me exactly what happened please." "i'll call my wife," said mr. kirmenbach. "she'll be able to give you a better account than i." while penny and her father were waiting they glanced quickly about the living room. it was lavishly furnished and in excellent taste. mrs. kirmenbach, a gray haired lady, only a few years younger than her husband, smiled graciously as she bowed to penny and the detective. "i do hope that you'll be able to recover my necklace for me," she said to mr. nichols. "the other things do not matter, but the diamonds were left me by my father years ago. i prized them for sentimental reasons as well as their actual value." "when did you discover your loss?" questioned the detective. "early this morning ellen, our maid, noticed that the window of the study had been pried open. she called me at once. the wall safe had been forced and my box of jewels was missing. my husband sent for the police at once." "and they learned nothing," mr. kirmenbach said in a tone of disgust. "there were no finger-marks, no evidence of any kind." "how many servants do you employ?" asked the detective. "only three," answered mrs. kirmenbach. "ellen is the maid, and we have a colored woman who does the cooking. jerry, a young college boy, serves as our chauffeur. i can vouch for them all." "i'll talk with them later," mr. nichols said. "i'd like to look at the study now, please." "this way," invited mr. kirmenbach. "i had the room locked up again after the police were here this morning. nothing has been disturbed." "good," said mr. nichols. "i'll just look around for a few minutes." "we'll leave you alone," mrs. kirmenbach declared politely. "if you want us for anything, we'll be in the living room." "it will not take me long," replied the detective. penny glanced about the study with keen interest. it was a small paneled room, lined high with book shelves. there was a comfortable davenport, several chairs and a table. mr. nichols first turned his attention to the wall safe. next he carefully examined the window sill. "find anything, dad?" asked penny. "not yet," he answered. as her father continued his inspection, penny became a trifle bored. she sat down on the davenport and began idly to play with a toy lantern which had been dropped there. it was a child's toy such as one often saw in candy stores filled with sweets. the red isinglass had been broken in one place and the original string wick had been replaced by a tiny bit of cloth. "dad," said penny presently, "do the kirmenbachs have any children?" "they didn't mention any," mr. nichols replied absently. "they probably have grandchildren," penny went on. "does it make any difference?" asked the detective. he was feeling irritated at his failure to find clues. "not particularly, dad. i was just wondering about this toy lantern." mr. nichols turned around and looked quickly at the object in her hand. "where did you get that?" he asked sharply. "why, it was right here on the davenport, dad." mr. nichols took the toy from her hand. penny was surprised by the intent expression of his face as he examined the lantern. "come along, penny," he said quietly, dropping it into his coat pocket. "we'll talk with mr. and mrs. kirmenbach again. it's just possible that we've found a vital clue!" chapter ix herman crocker's visit "you really believe this toy lantern has a connection with the jewel theft?" penny asked in amazement. "and you say my theories are wild!" "wait until we have talked with the kirmenbachs," replied mr. nichols tersely. "i may be on the wrong track but i think not." penny and her father found mr. and mrs. kirmenbach awaiting them in the living room. the elderly couple had never seen the toy lantern before and scarcely could believe that the detective had picked it up in the study. "it may have been dropped there by some child," mr. nichols remarked. "but no child has been in the house in weeks," mrs. kirmenbach said quickly. "i can't understand it at all." "may i speak with your servants now?" requested the detective when the toy lantern had been fully discussed. "certainly," replied mrs. kirmenbach. "i will call them in." in turn mr. nichols questioned the chauffeur, the cook, and the maid. when he displayed the toy lantern, ellen's face lighted. "why, i saw that toy this morning when i first went into the study," she said. "it was lying on the floor. i picked it up so that no one would stumble over it and fall." "you dropped it on the davenport?" "yes, sir." "i'd like to have you show me exactly where you found the lantern." "certainly, sir." the maid led mr. nichols back to the study and indicated a place not far from the wall safe. "mr. nichols, you don't think that the toy was left by the jewel thieves?" mr. kirmenbach asked in amazement. "do you know of any other way the lantern happened to be in this room?" "no." "then we will go upon the assumption that the toy lantern is a clue left by the thief--a very interesting clue." "it seems unbelievable!" exclaimed mr. kirmenbach. "what would a jewel thief--a grown man be doing with a toy lantern?" "it does appear a bit unusual," mr. nichols admitted, "but i feel certain there is a logical explanation." "i have great faith in your ability, mr. nichols," said mr. kirmenbach. "however, i must say that i am unable to see where this clue will lead." "at the moment i have no idea myself," replied the detective, smiling. "but i think that this may develop into something." he declined to amplify his statement further, and a few minutes later left the house with penny. they drove slowly back toward knob hill. "dad, i'm inclined to agree with mr. kirmenbach," penny remarked. "i don't see what good that toy lantern will do you." "first i'll have it examined for finger prints," the detective explained. "however, so many persons have handled it that i don't look for anything on that score. next i'll get in touch with inspector harris and have him check on the manufacturers of toy lanterns. i'll try to find out who bought it." "but there must be hundreds of toys just like this," penny protested. "it doesn't have a single distinguishing feature." "you're wrong there, penny. did you notice the wick?" "why, it was just an old piece of cloth." "exactly. when the old wick tore away, some ingenious child fashioned another from a piece of clothing." "and you hope that it will be possible to trace the cloth?" penny asked in amazement. "that is what i shall try to do." "you surely don't think that a child committed the robbery, dad?" "hardly, penny. but the thief may have a child of his own or a small brother. there is a slight chance that the lantern was left deliberately, but i rather doubt such a possibility." turning in at their own cottage, penny and her father noticed a strange car standing by the picket fence. "it looks as if we have a visitor," the detective observed. penny saw a man in a light overcoat standing by the porch talking with the housekeeper. as she and her father came up the walk, he turned to stare at them. "this is mr. erwin madden from chicago," the housekeeper said. "he wishes to see you, mr. nichols." "i hope i haven't kept you waiting," remarked the detective pleasantly. "no, i arrived only a few minutes ago. may i talk with you?" "certainly," replied mr. nichols. he turned toward the housekeeper who was loitering in the doorway. "that will be all, mrs. masterbrook." after the woman had gone, mr. nichols offered the visitor a chair on the porch. penny started to go into the house but mr. madden indicated that it was unnecessary for her to leave. "my business isn't of a confidential nature," he said pleasantly. "in fact, i am trying to broadcast my mission here in kendon." "if i had known that i should have invited our housekeeper to remain," smiled mr. nichols. "the town has few secrets unshared by her." "i came here in search of my business partner, a man by the name of jay kline," the visitor went on. "he left chicago some days ago, coming to kendon to attend to a private business matter which did not concern the firm. he has not been heard from since." "indeed?" inquired mr. nichols politely. "you think that he has met with a mishap?" "yes, that is my belief," returned mr. madden gravely. "mr. kline gave me to understand that his mission here was a dangerous one. if something had not gone wrong i know i should have heard of him before this." "whom did your friend plan to visit here?" "i don't know," the visitor admitted. "mr. kline was very secretive." "have you inquired for him in the village?" "yes, no one has heard of the man. it is all very bewildering." "are you actually sure that he came to kendon?" inquired mr. nichols. "i have no proof, but neither have i any reason for thinking that he would go elsewhere. i am convinced that my partner met with foul play." "you wished to consult me professionally?" mr. nichols asked. he wondered who had sent the man to him. "professionally?" mr. madden questioned in a puzzled tone. "i am a detective, you know," mr. nichols smiled. "on vacation at the present." "oh," murmured the visitor in surprise. "no, i wasn't aware of your calling. the grocery store man sent me to you. he told me that you had picked up a stranger in your car several nights ago, and i thought that by some chance the man might have been my missing partner." "we did give a young man a lift to town," mr. nichols said. "but his name was walter crocker." "then i'll not trouble you further," said the visitor, arising. "thank you for your time." he bowed to penny and her father and drove away in his car. "he was afraid to tell me any more about the case for fear i'd charge him a fee," chuckled mr. nichols. "very likely by the time mr. madden gets back to chicago his partner will be there too." "dad," said penny thoughtfully, "maybe the man we picked up really was jay kline." "what was that?" mr. nichols demanded. "i said, perhaps the fellow who rode to town with us wasn't walter crocker at all but merely told us that name--" "i can't keep up with your theories," mr. nichols laughed. "you have a new one every minute." "that's because there are so many new developments, dad. i wonder if it's too late to stop mr. madden?" "he's a mile down the road by this time. and i'm glad of it because i don't want you to make yourself or me look ridiculous. what gave you the idea that jay kline and walter crocker are one and the same person?" "i don't know," admitted penny. "it just came to me all at once. walter crocker mysteriously disappeared--" "you mean he went back to the city." "we don't know that at all," penny argued. "did anyone except you and me see walter crocker? no! he went to talk with his uncle, herman crocker, and was seen no more. his automobile mysteriously appears in crocker's barn--" "not so loud!" mr. nichols warned. "i think mrs. masterbrook is standing by the dining room door." penny subsided into hurt silence. she felt that her theories were logical and she did not like to have her father tease her. "well, anyway i didn't think up the toy lantern clue!" she muttered under her breath. "that reminds me, i must telephone inspector harris," said mr. nichols. "i hope he thinks more of my theory than you do." penny could tell that her father was growing deeply interested in the kirmenbach robbery case and following his talk with inspector harris, he admitted that he had promised to do further work. "it's likely to be a tough case," he told penny the next morning. "harris thinks we'll have no luck in tracing the toy lantern. i'm driving over to the kirmenbach place again this morning." "i believe i'll stay here this time," she replied. penny was glad that she elected to remain, for a short time after her father left, herman crocker drove into the yard. he greeted her in a more cordial tone than usual. "is everything all right here?" he asked. "oh, yes, we're getting along very well," penny answered, glancing shrewdly at the old man. she felt certain that his real purpose in coming to the cottage was not to inquire for their comfort. "mrs. masterbrook at home?" mr. crocker questioned casually. "i saw her walking down toward the road a few minutes ago. shall i call her?" "no, i didn't want to see her anyway," he answered quickly. "just thought i'd take a look around. i have some things stored up in the attic that i'd like to get." "just go right in," said penny. she fell into step with him. "oh, by the way, do you know michael haymond, our new hired man?" "never heard of him." "i thought he might have been to see you." "why should he?" herman crocker demanded, looking at penny suspiciously. "i'm sure i don't know," she laughed uneasily. when the man made no comment penny waited a moment and then decided upon a bold attack. "for some reason michael reminds me of your nephew," she said. "i suppose he'll be coming back one of these days." "walter?" asked the old man gruffly. "i don't look for it." "but won't he wish to get his car which is stored in your barn?" penny asked with pretended innocence. herman crocker's expression became guarded. the girl's words startled him but only a slight twitch of his eye muscles disclosed that he had been taken unawares. "i suppose walter will get the car sometime," he answered slowly. "he told me he didn't have the money to pay a repair bill just now." "you had it towed to your place for him?" "that's right," replied herman crocker irritably. "any more questions? if not i'll go on up to the attic." "oh, i'm sorry," said penny apologetically. she had intended to go along with the old man to the attic, but there was something about the look he gave her which made her change her mind. she was afraid she had made her questions too pointed. it would not do for mr. crocker to suspect her motives. "i guess you know your way," she said evenly, opening the screen door for him. "i ought to," snapped the old man. "i lived in this cottage for eight years." he entered the house alone and penny heard him tramping up the stairs to the attic. "i wonder what he's doing up there?" she thought. "i'd give a lot to find out." chapter x searching the loft while penny stood listening to the sounds in the attic she saw mrs. masterbrook coming up the path to the cottage. the housekeeper paused by the gate to stare at mr. crocker's car and then glanced quickly about. "what is herman doing here?" she asked abruptly as penny met her on the porch. "i'm sure i don't know," replied the girl. "he said he wanted to get something from the attic." "the attic!" repeated mrs. masterbrook. "oh!" and for no apparent reason she began to laugh. "what do you find so funny?" "oh, nothing," replied the housekeeper, passing quickly into the cottage. penny stared after the woman, thoroughly bewildered by her actions. she felt certain that mrs. masterbrook knew why old herman crocker had come to the cottage. penny sat down on the porch steps to wait. fifteen minutes elapsed before she heard mr. crocker coming down the attic stairway. as he stepped out on the porch she noticed that he had nothing in his hands and he seemed somewhat disturbed. "did you find what you were after?" asked penny. "oh, yes--yes," replied the old man absently. mrs. masterbrook had emerged from the kitchen in time to hear the remark. "did you really?" she inquired with a slight smirk. the words were spoken casually enough but penny thought she detected a note of triumph in the woman's voice. mr. crocker noticed it too for he glanced sharply at the housekeeper. her face was expressionless. "well, i'll have to be getting back," the old man said. he walked slowly to the car. mrs. masterbrook waited on the porch until he had driven down the road. the housekeeper was highly pleased about something. penny thought that she looked exactly like a cat which had drunk its fill of rich cream. "mrs. masterbrook knows what herman came here for," the girl reflected. "i'd question her only it wouldn't do a bit of good." penny hoped that if she showed no interest the housekeeper might offer a little information. she was disappointed. without a word mrs. masterbrook walked back into the cottage. "i'd like to find out what is in the attic," penny thought. "when the coast is clear i'm going up there and look around." throughout the morning she lingered near the cottage, but it seemed that always either the housekeeper or michael haymond was at hand to observe her actions. when mr. nichols returned from his walk penny did not tell him about herman crocker's mysterious visit to the attic for she felt certain that he would not consider it mysterious at all. he was deeply absorbed in his own case and would sit for an hour at a time lost in thought. "are you worrying about toy lanterns, dad?" penny asked mischievously. "that's right," he agreed with a smile. "i talked with inspector harris this morning from the village store. he's not progressing very well in tracing down the lantern clue. it seems there are dozens of companies which manufacture toys exactly like the one you found at kirmenbach's place." "then you've reached a dead end?" asked penny. "for the time being, yes. but i've not given up. i still believe that it may be possible to trace the thief by means of the clue. after all, the toy lantern had one distinguishing feature--the cloth wick." "it's too bad all this had to come up on your vacation," penny said sympathetically. she could see that the lines of worry had returned to her father's face. "i wish i had kept out of the case," he returned. "but now that i'm in it, i'll have no peace of mind until it's solved. there's something about that toy lantern clue which challenges me!" "i feel the same way regarding herman crocker," penny nodded. "what was that?" mr. nichols looked up quickly. "i meant that our landlord's queer personality fascinates me. he's always doing such strange things." "let me see," mr. nichols said jokingly. "how many queer characters have you discovered since we came here?" "only three, dad. mrs. masterbrook, michael and old herman. unless you count walter crocker and mr. madden." "how about the postman? i noticed you were talking with him yesterday." "purely upon a matter of business," penny laughed. "his name isn't down on my list of suspects yet." she said no more for just then michael haymond came up the path with an armful of wood. after carrying it to the kitchen he returned to the porch. mr. nichols motioned him into a rocker. "i'm afraid i'm not doing very much to earn my wages," the young man said apologetically. "my chief occupation around here seems to be eating and sitting." "i'm well satisfied," replied the detective. although penny had thought that her father was unwise to hire michael she liked the young man a great deal. he was quiet, unassuming, and did his tasks willingly. whenever he had a spare moment he usually spent it with a book. penny had read the titles with surprise. michael devoted himself to volumes of philosophy and history and he studied textbooks of mathematics and french. "rather deep stuff," mr. nichols had commented, looking at one of the philosophy volumes. "i never had a chance to attend college, sir," michael had replied, flushing. "i'm trying to educate myself a little." during the afternoon both mr. nichols and michael absented themselves from the cottage. mrs. masterbrook decided that she would walk down to the village. penny was delighted to be left alone in the house. the moment that everyone was gone she hastened to the attic. it was a low-ceiling room, dimly lighted by two gable windows. dust and cobwebs were everywhere. the attic contained an old chest of drawers, the footboards of a bed, two trunks, a chair with a broken leg, and several boxes of dishes. as penny's gaze roved over the objects she observed that a faint scratch on the floor showed where the trunks had been recently moved. some of the dust had been brushed off from the lids. "herman must have been looking at the trunks," the girl thought. "i wonder what he expected to find?" she lifted the lid of the nearest one and was pleased that it was unlocked. there was nothing in the top tray but beneath it she found old fashioned clothing which had belonged to a woman. the garments had been very carefully packed in moth balls. penny opened the second trunk. it too was filled with clothing in a style worn some fifteen years before. in the bottom she came upon an old picture album and a packet of letters. all were addressed to herman crocker and appeared to be of a business nature. penny was tempted to read the letters, but she put aside the thought. after all it was not very honorable of her to pry into mr. crocker's personal affairs without a stronger motive than curiosity. "if there is any occasion for learning more about the man, i can read the letters later," penny reflected. "dad would be ashamed of me if he knew what i was doing." she replaced the packet in the trunk and closed down the lid. then after making certain that the chest of drawers contained nothing of interest, she hastened down stairs again and washed the grime from her hands. later in the afternoon mrs. masterbrook came back from kendon and it seemed to penny that she was more subdued than usual. even mr. nichols noticed a change in the woman. "i wonder what is the matter with her?" he remarked. "she seems to be losing her fire!" "i guess she's just tired from the long walk to town," penny replied. however, she watched mrs. masterbrook closely, and was inclined to agree that something had gone amiss. the housekeeper looked worried. "aren't you feeling well, mrs. masterbrook?" she inquired kindly. "of course i'm feeling well," the woman snapped. after supper that night michael haymond left the house, but penny did not know whether or not he went to call upon herman crocker. she went to bed about ten, and heard the young man return to the cottage shortly after that hour. by eleven o'clock everyone had gone to bed. penny went off to sleep soon after her head touched the pillow. it was hours later that she awoke to hear the kitchen clock chiming three o'clock. in the hallway a board creaked. penny sat up and listened. she was certain that someone was tiptoeing down the hall. for a moment she was frightened. then she crept out of bed and flung open the door. at the end of the hall she saw the figure of a man. he fled before she could speak or make an outcry. penny heard the outside door slam shut. she hurried to a window and was in time to see someone running swiftly toward the woods. "dad!" she screamed excitedly. "wake up! wake up!" and to emphasize her words, penny ran to her father's bedroom and pounded on the door with her clenched fist. chapter xi aid from michael "what's the matter, penny?" cried mr. nichols as he opened the door of his room. "are you having nightmares?" "dad, someone broke into the cottage!" she told him tensely. "when i stepped out into the hall he ran away. i saw him disappear into the woods." by this time the detective was thoroughly awake. "are you sure, penny?" "of course i am! i didn't imagine it this time and it wasn't someone after a drink either!" "let me get dressed," said her father. "then i'll look around." penny ran back to her own room. she was amazed that mrs. masterbrook and michael had not been aroused. in the next room she could hear the housekeeper snoring contentedly. there seemed no reason to awaken her. penny quickly dressed and was ready first. "we'll take a look around the place," mr. nichols said, "but it's probably too late to catch the prowler." "yes, he'll be a long way from here by this time," penny agreed. armed with a flashlight, they slipped outside and after making a tour of the house walked as far as the edge of the timber. they found no one. "it's no use going on," the detective declared. "we'd never catch the fellow now. he may have been a tramp who noticed that our door was unlocked." "i wonder if michael haymond is in his room?" penny asked abruptly. "why wouldn't he be?" "it seems odd he didn't awaken with me screaming all over the place." "mrs. masterbrook slept through it," mr. nichols replied. "just the same i'm curious to know if michael is in his room. dad, why don't you----" "penny, i'll not do it," the detective interrupted. "i like that young man and i'm not going to barge into his room in the middle of the night and ask him a lot of stupid questions." "all right," penny returned with a sigh. "but how easy it would be just to peep in the door and see if he's there." "i'll not do that either," replied mr. nichols. "you may have been mistaken about the prowler. you've taken such an imaginative turn this summer." "thanks, dad," penny drawled. she added mischievously: "let me know when you've found the owner of the toy lantern." "there's good common sense behind my theory," said mr. nichols seriously. "inspector harris seems to think i'm on the wrong track but i have a hunch----" "in that case you should be generous with your daughter," penny laughed. "she has a hunch too." "we'll call a truce," mr. nichols smiled. "you're free to trace down all the mystery you can find at kendon providing that you don't ask me to discharge michael." "seriously, dad, i think something is going on here that would bear investigation," penny said soberly. "i'd like to delve into it but i need a sympathetic helper." "i'm sorry, penny, but i haven't time to play around." "i didn't mean you at all, dad," penny laughed. "i was thinking about susan altman. would you mind if i invited her down here for a few days?" "go ahead if you like. she'll be company for you while i'm working on the kirmenbach case." "i'll send a letter right away," penny declared eagerly. the next morning after writing to her friend she walked down to the village to post the letter. dropping in at the grocery store for a loaf of bread she deliberately drew the genial owner into conversation, seeking information regarding herman crocker. "i feel rather sorry for him," she remarked. "i'm sure that he hasn't enough money to feed himself and his grandson properly." "don't you worry about that," replied the storekeeper with a quick laugh. "old herman has more money than anyone in this town. he inherited plenty when his sister jennie died in the east. herman was her only heir, and when he dies the money probably will go to his grandson, perry." "doesn't mr. crocker have any other living relatives?" penny questioned. she was thinking of walter crocker. "not to my knowledge," answered the storekeeper. "the crocker family has just about died out." penny paid for the bread and walked slowly back toward the cottage. she glanced curiously at the crocker homestead as she passed it, but as usual the blinds were drawn and the place seemed deserted. "how unhappy perry must be there," she thought. "he should go to school and have playmates his own age. i can't see why someone doesn't take an interest in his welfare." during the next two days penny found time heavy upon her hands. mr. nichols frequently was absent from the cottage and mrs. masterbrook and michael proved very poor company. the housekeeper talked entirely too much about nothing while michael scarcely spoke a word unless penny asked him a direct question. on the afternoon of the second day, for want of another occupation, penny wandered up to the attic to look around once more. "if i really mean to learn anything about herman crocker i'll have to examine those letters," she reflected. "i don't know whether to do it or not." penny opened the trunk and noticed that the layer of clothing had been disturbed. she did not remember having left the garments so carelessly. she refolded the clothes and then felt down in the bottom of the trunk for the packet of letters. it did not seem to be there. not until penny had removed all the clothing piece by piece could she realize that the letters were gone. the only papers remaining in the trunk were old receipts for bills paid. many of them were stamped tax statements. "someone has taken the letters," she told herself. "how foolish i was not to examine them when i had a chance." penny could only speculate upon what had become of the missing packet. she did not believe that herman crocker had taken the letters, for to her knowledge he had not returned to the cottage since his first visit. it was possible that the night prowler had opened the trunk, but a more likely supposition seemed to be that mrs. masterbrook had decided to get more "inside information." "that woman is a natural born snooper," the girl thought. "she knew that herman crocker was up here in the attic too, so it's quite possible she took the letters after he went away." although she was disappointed, penny did not believe that the missing letters had contained anything of vital significance. it was logical to assume that had they served as damaging evidence against herman crocker, the man would have destroyed them upon his visit to the attic. as penny was reflecting upon the problem, the stairway door opened and mrs. masterbrook called her name. "there's someone here to see you!" the housekeeper reported. penny was annoyed at having been caught in the attic. she had not known that mrs. masterbrook was anywhere about the premises. it was just another proof that nothing seemed to escape the vigilant eye of the woman. "i'll be there in a minute," penny said. she closed the lid of the trunk, wiped her dusty hands and went quickly down the stairs. reaching the front door, she gave a cry of amazed delight. "susan altman!" "i thought you'd be surprised," laughed the other girl, as penny gave her a welcome hug. "when your letter arrived i didn't stop to debate. i just jumped on the train and came." "i'm tickled pink!" penny declared slangily. "when you didn't write, i had started to believe you weren't coming. but why did you walk from town? why didn't you telephone?" "i didn't know you had one." "oh, yes, we have all the modern conveniences," laughed penny. "you must be dead tired. come on in." "i'm not a bit tired," susan insisted, "but i'd like to wash a few of the cinders out of my eyes. such a dirty old train." "let me take your suitcase," cried penny. the girls went inside and while susan freshened herself from the journey, they talked as fast as they could. "what's all this mystery you wrote me about?" susan asked in an undertone. "who is mrs. masterbrook, and where is that old house you mentioned?" "you'll hear all about it," penny promised eagerly. "but let's wait until we're away from the cottage." "even the walls have ears?" laughed susan. "no, but our housekeeper has," penny replied. the girls soon left the cottage, walking down by the ravine where they would be alone. penny told her chum everything that had happened since she and her father had arrived at kendon. susan did not feel that her friend had placed an imaginative interpretation upon any of the events. "i'm glad you're in sympathy with me," penny laughed. "i'm hoping that together we may be able to help little perry crocker. and incidentally, we might stumble into a mystery which would rival dad's toy lantern case." "you know i want to help," said susan eagerly. "but i'm an awful dub. i never have any ideas." "i'm a little short of them myself just now," penny admitted. "but first we'll go down to the crocker place. i'm anxious for you to meet the main characters of our melodrama." "i think i noticed the house on the way up the hill," susan replied. "is it that ancient, vine-covered mansion?" "yes, mrs. masterbrook told me old herman moved in there after his sister died. he used to live in this cottage." "and where is this young man named michael haymond?" "i don't know what became of him," penny admitted. "he should be somewhere around." "is he good looking?" "you would ask that," teased penny. "no, michael isn't handsome, but he's nice." "you said in your letter that you thought he might be a crook----" "well, he acted mysteriously at first," penny said defensively. "but after you get to know him, he seems like anyone else, only he's very reserved." "perhaps mr. crocker will turn out that way." "i don't think so," penny smiled. "he's really an eccentric character. do you mind walking down knob hill?" "not at all. i need a little exercise." the distance between the cottage and mr. crocker's house was only a quarter of a mile. penny intended to use as a pretext for calling upon the old man that she wished to buy more eggs. however, as the girls drew near the mansion they saw mr. crocker's car coming down the lane. "there goes herman now!" penny exclaimed. "and perry is with him." the car reached the end of the lane and turned down the main road toward kendon. "well, it looks as if i'll not get to meet the old gentleman after all," commented susan. "no, but this will be a good time to see the house at close range. with mr. crocker away, we can look around as much as we please." as the girls walked on up the lane penny told susan about the automobile which she had seen parked in mr. crocker's barn. "what do you think became of the owner?" asked susan. "you're not intimating that walter crocker never went back to the city?" "i've asked myself that question a great many times. i know that mr. crocker's nephew came here to claim an inheritance, yet the people of kendon are under the impression that old herman has no living relatives except perry." "you're making a very serious accusation against mr. crocker." "oh, i'm not saying that he had anything to do with his nephew's disappearance," penny said quickly. "i'm just speculating about it. for that matter, i'd not tell anyone else my thoughts." "it wouldn't be wise----" susan began. her words ended in a gasp of alarm for at that moment mr. crocker's hound came around the corner of the house. both girls stopped short. "rudy is vicious!" penny warned. "and he's been left unchained." "let's get away from here." the girls turned and started hurriedly back down the lane, but the hound had made up his mind that they were intruders. with a low growl he leaped toward them. "run!" cried susan in terror. instead of fleeing, penny stooped to snatch up a stick. rudy sprang at her, and the force of his powerful body knocked her to the ground. susan screamed in terror. help was closer at hand than either of the girls suspected. a man had been crouching behind the hedge. as penny struggled to regain her feet, he came running toward her. it was michael haymond. chapter xii the matron's story "stay where you are!" commanded the young man sternly. he seized the stick from penny's hand and used it to beat off the dog. rudy showed very little fight. when he felt the sting of the switch he ran off whining toward the barn. penny picked herself up and dusted off her linen dress. "thank you, michael," she said soberly. "it wasn't anything," the young man replied. "the dog is mostly bluff." "he bluffs too realistically to suit me," penny returned ruefully. "you're not hurt?" "no, the dog knocked me over but his teeth missed me. i'm glad you happened to be here at the right time, michael." "so am i." the young man glanced quickly at penny and then looked away. he seemed to realize that she was expecting him to offer an explanation for his presence at the crocker place. the thought had occurred to penny, but in view of the service which michael had rendered, she decided not to question him. instead she graciously introduced the young man to susan. "since mr. crocker isn't at home we may as well be walking back to the cottage," penny remarked after the three had chatted for a moment. "rudy may muster his courage and take after me again." "i'll go along with you," said michael falling into step with the girls. "i came to see herman crocker too." neither penny nor susan offered any comment. they were quite sure that the young man had been crouching behind the hedge. they believed that he had observed mr. crocker drive away, and they thought that probably he had been watching their own movements. during the walk back to the cottage, the girls chatted pleasantly with michael. susan, unaware that the young man had been uncommunicative regarding his past history, began to ask him casual questions about his home town. "you were born in the west, penny tells me," she commented. "that's right," the young man agreed uneasily. "i'd never have suspected it," susan went on. "you don't talk like a westerner. did you live on a ranch?" michael shook his head. he hesitated and then said in a low tone: "i spent most of my early life in an orphan's home. it was a place called glenhaven." "why, there's a home in this state by that name!" cried penny. "well, that's certainly odd," replied michael, avoiding her gaze. "but i suppose glenhaven is a common name." "tell us more about yourself," urged susan. "there's nothing to tell. i don't know very much about my parents. i was just turned over to the home until i was eighteen years of age. i worked hard there but i was well treated. then i left and got a job in a factory, but times turned hard and i was laid off. that about brings me up to date." penny thought: "but it doesn't explain why you came to kendon to see herman crocker." however, her serene countenance gave no hint that she doubted any of michael's story. alone in penny's bedroom, the girls discussed the young man. "i like him a great deal," said susan. "and so do i," penny agreed, "but that doesn't alter facts. i feel certain he's not telling us a straightforward story. he may have been born in the west but i believe he's spent a great deal of his life right herein this state." "what makes you think so, penny?" "because in talking with him i've noticed that he's always well versed in local history and state politics. and another thing--i doubt that glenhaven is a common name for an orphan's home." "he did act embarrassed about that." "do you want to know what i think?" asked penny earnestly. "i suspect michael haymond spent most of his life in the glenhaven home which is in this state--not out west." "but why should he try to hide the fact?" "i couldn't guess. it's remotely possible he's been mixed up in trouble, but michael seems like a decent sort." "if we were really prying we could write to the glenhaven officials," susan said slowly. "i don't consider it prying to try to find out more about the man," returned penny. "a good detective always investigates every angle of a case. i could send a letter off tonight only it will take so long to get a reply." "a week at best, i'd judge." "glenhaven isn't far from here!" penny cried. "let's drive over there tomorrow. i think dad would let me have the car if he doesn't need it himself." "why, i'd enjoy the trip," susan declared promptly. "we could start early and take our lunch," penny planned enthusiastically. when mr. nichols came home she asked him if they might use the car the following day. the detective readily agreed. he was delighted that susan had arrived to visit penny for he felt that the girls would have an enjoyable time together. "any news about your toy lantern?" penny asked her father teasingly. "none worth mentioning," the detective replied. "i'm getting a little discouraged." "don't hesitate to call upon me if you need my sleuthing services," penny laughed. "i'm doing very well with my own case." early the next morning penny and susan set off for glenhaven, telling no one save mr. nichols of their destination. they did not wish either mrs. masterbrook or michael to gain an inkling of their mission. noon found the girls within view of the orphan's home. it was a private institution and from the outside at least, a pleasant looking place. the brick building had several long wings and there was a wide expanse of bent grass lawn. "did you ever see such a beautiful yard?" asked susan admiringly. "it looks as smooth as a floor." "it's almost too pretty," said penny. "i'd rather see the grass worn thin in places. then i'd know that children had been playing on it instead of being cooped up inside." the girls turned in at the grounds and drove up to the front door. upon asking to see the matron they were shown into mrs. barker's office. "what may i do for you?" the woman inquired pleasantly. under her intent scrutiny, penny found it difficult to state her mission. she managed to say that she was trying to learn if an orphan named michael haymond had ever lived at the home. "one moment and i will see," replied the matron. she rang a bell and instructed an attendant to check over the institution records. in a short while the report came back. no person by the name of michael haymond had ever resided at the glenhaven home. "it's barely possible the young man took the name of haymond after leaving the institution," penny said slowly. "i wonder if you would recognize him by description?" "how long has he been away?" questioned the matron. "i am only guessing but i should say at least two years." "then i'd not remember him. you see i took charge of the glenhaven home only nine months ago. the person for you to see is mrs. havers. she was matron here for over twenty years." "do you know where i could find her?" inquired penny. "i will give you her address." mrs. barker reached for pencil and paper. "does she live close by?" penny asked. "yes, only a short distance away in the town of ferndale. mrs. havers left her duties here upon account of serious illness, but i understand she is considerably improved now." penny thanked the matron and accepting the slip of paper, left the institution in company with susan. outside the building the girls paused to consider their next move. "it shouldn't take us long to find mrs. havers," penny declared. "let's go to her place." "all right, we have plenty of time," susan agreed. "only it looks useless because if michael had ever lived here his name would have been on the records." "yes, unless he changed his name," penny admitted, "but let's go anyway." the girls drove on to the town of ferndale and had little difficulty in locating the address given them by mrs. barker. they were admitted to an overly heated brick cottage by an elderly woman with white hair and kind gray eyes. the living room was so warm and stuffy that penny had trouble in breathing but mrs. havers apparently did not notice. "you wish to see me concerning a former inmate of the glenhaven home?" the old lady asked after penny and susan had stated their mission. "i'll be glad to answer any of your questions." "we are trying to trace a young man by the name of michael haymond," penny explained. "would you remember him?" "i have never forgotten a single child who was ever placed under my care," replied mrs. havers with a smile. "but i am certain that no one by that name ever lived at the home." "then i am afraid we were mistaken in our facts," penny said in disappointment. "you are sure you have the right name?" "why, i think so," penny replied doubtfully. "the reason i ask is that we did have an orphan by the name of michael in our institution," mrs. havers declared reflectively. "he was one of my favorites. there was some mystery about his parentage, but he seemed to come from a good family." "do you recall his full name?" penny questioned. "oh, yes, it was michael gladwin." "that sounds a trifle like haymond," susan commented. "michael was brought to the institution when he was two years old," mrs. havers recalled. "his parents had been killed in an auto accident we were told, but while the facts were officially recorded, i always doubted the story." "may i ask why you doubted it?" penny inquired. "i consider myself a fairly good judge of character," mrs. havers replied. "the man who brought michael to our home was a very peculiar person. he claimed to be no relation to the boy, yet he had taken a deep liking to him and was willing to pay for his keep at the institution." "that would seem very generous," penny remarked. "so i thought. from his appearance, one would never suspect that the man had such a character." "didn't you investigate him?" asked susan. "it is not the policy of the glenhaven home to probe deeply into the parentage of the children placed there," mrs. havers replied. "babies left on our doorstep receive the same treatment as those brought by parents unable to keep their offsprings. in this case, the man paid michael's way for five years in advance." "after that i suppose you never heard from him again?" penny inquired. "to the contrary, money came regularly for ten years. however, during that period, no one ever visited the boy." "can you tell us the name of the person who brought michael to the home?" penny questioned. "it has slipped my mind for the moment. let me see--the name began with a k. it seems to me it was keenan or very similar. the money always came from a place by the name of fairfax." "what became of michael?" inquired susan curiously. "he lived at the home until he was eighteen years of age," mrs. havers answered. "then we found a position for him. after that our record ceases." "did you never make any attempt to trace the boy's parentage?" penny asked thoughtfully. "yes, a number of years ago i wrote to fairfax. it was a strange thing--the letter was never answered. and from that day, funds ceased to come for michael's support." "it appeared as if the man who had been paying for the boy's keep feared an investigation," penny commented. "yes, that is what i thought. i would have probed deeper into the matter but at that time i was taken ill. i went to a hospital for over a year, then i resumed my duties, only to give them up again a few months ago." mrs. havers began to talk of her own ailments and the girls had little opportunity to ask additional questions about michael. "i am sorry that i've not been able to help you," the woman said regretfully as she escorted the girls to the door. "of course the michael of my story has no connection with the young man you are trying to trace." "probably not," penny agreed. "thank you for giving us so much of your time." when the door had closed behind them, she turned eagerly to her chum. "susan, i didn't like to say so in front of mrs. havers, but why couldn't michael haymond and michael gladwin be the same person?" "michael is a common name." "yes, but many of the facts in michael haymond's life dovetail with those told us by mrs. havers." "there may be a slight similarity," susan acknowledged. "but we can never prove anything." penny stared at her chum for an instant. then her face relaxed into a broad smile. "susan, i have a dandy idea!" she cried. "fairfax isn't far from here. let's drive there right now and see if we can't locate that mysterious mr. keenan!" chapter xiii a bolt of cloth susan instantly approved of penny's idea, so the girls drove on toward fairfax, a small city of several thousand inhabitants. they stopped at a corner drugstore to consult a telephone directory. at least fifteen families by the name of keenan were listed. "this isn't going to be as easy as i thought," penny said in disappointment. "i suppose we could telephone every keenan in the book," susan ventured. "what could we say?" penny asked. "'i beg your pardon, but are you the person who took michael gladwin to the orphan's home?' we'd receive nothing but rebuffs." "i guess it would be silly," susan agreed. "let's give it up." "we might try the postoffice," penny said after a moment's thought. they located the government building in the downtown section of fairfax only to meet disappointment once more. the postmaster listened politely enough while penny told him that she was seeking a certain mr. keenan who for many years had regularly mailed letters to the glenhaven orphan's home, but she could tell that he considered her request for information rather ridiculous. "we handle hundreds of letters a day here," he explained. "it would be impossible for me to remember any particular one." penny and susan went back to the car, convinced that they could do no more. "we may as well go home," penny declared gloomily. "our day has been wasted." "oh, i'd not say that," replied susan cheerfully. "we've had an interesting time, and we learned quite a few facts from mrs. havers." "we don't know a bit more about michael haymond than we did before. he may be the same person as michael gladwin but we'll never be able to prove it." "not unless he breaks down and admits it, i fear." "i'd not want michael to think i was prying into his past life," penny said hastily. "after all, it's really none of my affair where he spent his early years. i'll just forget about it." the girls might have been unable to dismiss the affair completely from their minds had it not been that the following day another development crowded all else into the background. susan had started to knit a sweater. finding that she was in need of more wool, she asked penny to walk down to the village dry goods store with her. while susan was trying to match her sample, penny roved about the store, gazing at the various objects. she had never seen such a strange mixture in any one establishment before. there was a grocery section, a candy department, one devoted to books and stationery, a shoe section, and sundry articles too numerous to mention. suddenly penny's attention was drawn to a bolt of cloth lying on the counter. it was white material of a curious weave. the girl crossed over to examine it. "are you thinking of buying yourself a dress, penny?" asked susan. she had come up behind her chum. "oh! you startled me!" exclaimed penny with a little laugh. "susan, i wish you'd look at this cloth!" "i don't like it at all if you want my honest opinion," replied susan. "the material is too coarse." "i don't intend to buy it for a dress," penny explained quickly, lowering her voice. "do you remember that broken toy lantern which i showed you?" "of course i do. you mean the one which your father believes to be a clue in the kirmenbach case?" "yes." "i still don't understand what you are driving at," susan said a trifle impatiently. "what connection does it have with this bolt of dress goods?" "look at the cloth very closely," penny urged. "now don't you see?" "no, i don't." "have you forgotten the wick of the toy lantern?" "the wick----" repeated susan slowly. "oh! the cloth is the same!" "it's the very same weave," penny nodded. "at least that would be my guess. the wick of that toy lantern might have been made from a scrap of cloth sold from this very bolt of goods!" "i'd never have noticed a thing like that in a million years," susan murmured in awe. "penny, you've uncovered an important clue in your father's case." "i may be wrong about it," penny admitted. she lowered her voice for the storekeeper was coming toward the girls. "may i show you something in yard goods?" he inquired. "that bolt on the counter is one of our popular pieces." "have you sold very much of it?" penny asked quickly. "oh, yes, indeed. a great many women in kendon have had suits made from this particular pattern. it is very reasonably priced too--only thirty-nine cents a yard." "could you give me a list of the persons who have bought material from this bolt?" penny questioned eagerly. the storekeeper regarded her rather blankly for the request was a strange one. "well, no, i'm afraid i can't," he replied. "half the women in town buy yard goods from me. but i'm sure you can't go wrong in making this selection." "i'll take a quarter of a yard," penny told him. "only a quarter of a yard?" "yes, that will do for a sample. i may want more later on." the storekeeper cut off the material and wrapped it up. penny and susan left the store with their purchases. "i'm going straight back to the cottage and compare this cloth with the wick of the toy lantern!" penny exclaimed when they were beyond the storekeeper's hearing. "it's a pity so many persons bought the material," susan commented. "otherwise it might be possible to trace the buyers." "yes," agreed penny, "but the clue may prove to be a valuable one anyway. if this cloth is the same as the toy lantern wick, it's very possible that the thief who stole the kirmenbach jewels lives right in this town." "aren't you forgetting that other stores may have the same kind of material for sale," susan remarked. "that's possible of course. oh, dad may not consider the clue of much value, but at least it's worth reporting." mr. nichols was sitting on the front porch when the girls reached the cottage. making certain that mrs. masterbrook was not within hearing, penny told him of her important discovery in the village. mr. nichols examined the cloth very closely and then compared it with the wick of the toy lantern. "the material looks exactly the same to me, dad!" penny declared excitedly. "it is identical," her father agreed. "where did you say you bought the goods?" "at hunters store. unfortunately, every woman in kendon seems to have bought this same material." mr. nichols reached for his hat. "i'm going down there now and talk with the storekeeper," he declared. "then you think the clue is important, dad." "yes, i do, penny. it may not lead to anything, but one can never be sure." "didn't i tell you to call on me if you needed help with the case?" laughed penny. "you certainly did," her father agreed good-naturedly. "as a detective i'm afraid you're showing me up in a bad light." before leaving the cottage mr. nichols was careful to lock the toy lantern in his room. considering its value in the kirmenbach case he did not wish to run any risk of having it stolen. mr. nichols was absent from the cottage a little over an hour. when penny saw him coming up the road she ran to meet him. "did you learn anything, dad?" she asked eagerly. the detective shook his head. "i'm satisfied that the material is the same," he replied, "but the storekeeper couldn't remember anyone who had bought the goods from him. he seems to be a stupid fellow." penny walked along with her father for some distance without making any response. then she said half apologetically: "dad, i have an idea, but i suppose it's a very silly one." "what is it, penny?" the detective asked soberly. "i have a theory that the thief who took the kirmenbach jewels may have been some person living in this locality." "that is possible," mr. nichols agreed. "in that case the toy lantern probably belonged to some child who may reside in or near kendon." "true." "this is my idea," penny explained. "why not display the lantern in some prominent place where children will be likely to see it--for instance the candy department of hunter's store. take mr. hunter into your confidence and have him on the lookout for the original owner of the toy lantern. a child seeing it on the store shelf would be almost certain to identify the property as his." mr. nichols did not laugh. instead he remained thoughtfully silent for a moment. "there may be something in your idea, penny," he said gravely. "if we could locate the owner of the toy lantern it should prove fairly easy to trace the thief. but the chance that the right child would enter the store and recognize the toy is a very slim one." "would it do any harm to try?" "no, we've nothing to lose," mr. nichols declared. "i've tried all the sensible ways of tracing the thief, and have met with no success. we may as well test out your theory." "when will you see mr. hunter?" penny asked eagerly. "we'll get the toy lantern and go right back there together," mr. nichols promised. he smiled down at his daughter. "and by the way, there's a new development in the kirmenbach case which i forgot to mention." "what is that, dad?" "mr. kirmenbach has offered a five hundred dollar reward for the capture of the jewel thief. so you see, if your idea should lead to anything, it will prove a very profitable one." chapter xiv a conversation overheard penny had scant hope that ever she would win the reward offered by mr. kirmenbach. she knew as well as did her father that there was not one chance in fifty that her unique plan would bring results. mr. hunter, upon being taken into the detective's confidence, was very willing to cooperate. he placed the broken toy lantern on a prominent shelf near the candy counter and promised to report at once if any child appeared to claim the trinket. susan and penny fell into the habit of dropping into the store whenever they were in the village. they saw many children come to buy candy and all-day-suckers, but days passed and no child took the slightest interest in the broken lantern. "i'm afraid it was just another dud idea," penny admitted ruefully. "you are entirely too impatient," said her father. "cases aren't solved in a week. the idea hasn't been thoroughly tested yet." "i've lost confidence in it," penny declared. "it was a long shot at best," returned mr. nichols. "however, we'll leave the toy lantern at mr. hunter's store for another week at least." temporarily losing interest in her father's case, penny remembered that as yet susan had never met old herman crocker. "we might go back there this afternoon," she suggested. "i don't care for mr. crocker's dog," susan said uneasily. "michael may not be around to help us out of trouble again." "oh, we can be careful," penny replied. "anyway, i think that rudy is mostly bluff. i doubt he would bite." "i notice you had a different opinion when he was coming at you!" teased susan. "but if you're brave enough to go i suppose i'll tag along even if we do get bit." "i have a great curiosity to learn if walter crocker's car is still in the barn," penny confessed. "somehow i keep feeling that there's some mystery about that fellow's disappearance." "if the dog is around we'll probably never get within a mile of the barn. but come on! you'll never be satisfied until we're chewed to bits." the girls did not choose their usual route which led along the road. instead they cut through the woods, intending to approach mr. crocker's place from the direction of the barn. when susan and penny emerged from the trees they were on mr. crocker's farm. they could see two men standing by the barn. "there is herman crocker now!" exclaimed penny as they halted. "but who is with him?" "it looks a little like michael haymond," said susan. "it's not michael," penny corrected. "why, i do believe it's walter crocker!" "old herman's nephew!" "yes, i'm sure it is he." "but penny, you said he disappeared," susan protested. "you thought old herman was responsible----" "it seems i was wrong," penny admitted ruefully. "i may have misjudged herman crocker completely. i thought he was an unscrupulous person, but it doesn't look so much like it now." "they're having some sort of argument," susan observed. "i wish we could hear what they're saying." "let's try to get closer. we can move behind the barn and probably hear everything without being observed." the two men were so engrossed in their conversation that they failed to see the girls moving stealthily across the clearing. a moment more and they were protected by the barn. penny and susan crept as close to the men as they dared and then stood listening. they could hear walter crocker speaking. "this is the last warning i'll give you," he told the old man. "will you fork up the money or shall i go to the authorities?" "give me time," herman replied in a whining voice. "i've already given you all the cash i have in the bank." "i know better," said walter crocker grimly. "you have plenty of money but you're too miserly to part with it. but maybe you'd rather keep your stolen gold and go to jail!" "you can't send me to jail--i've done nothing wrong." "no?" asked the other mockingly. "i suppose you consider it perfectly legal to appropriate the inheritance of your nephew and lead townfolks to believe that your sister died without leaving a child." "you have no proof that you are jenny's child. i'm not going to pay you another cent. it's blackmail!" "call it what you like," replied walter crocker with a sneer. "i am your sister jenny's child whom you thought to be safely out of the way. and i do have proof." "i don't believe it," retorted the old man. "there could be no proof." "you've already given me five hundred dollars hush money which is indication enough that you accept my story as the truth." "i did that merely to get rid of you." "well, you'll not escape so easily this time, mr. crocker. either you turn over a good portion of the estate to me or i'll go to law." "your case would be thrown out of court. without proof----" "my proof will stand up in any court," walter crocker interrupted. "it happens that i have a certain packet of letters which were written to you by my mother before her death. and there is another communication from a woman named hilda frank----" "so you are the one who stole the letters from the trunk of my cottage!" herman crocker cried in rage. "i could have you arrested for house breaking!" "i'd not act too hastily if i were you," returned the nephew coolly. "however, i didn't steal the letters. they came into my possession in a perfectly legitimate way." "i know better. you could have obtained those letters only by stealing them!" "i'll not argue with you," replied walter crocker evenly, "for after all it is immaterial. the point is that i have the letters. now will you come to terms or shall i tell my story around kendon?" there was a long silence and then the girls heard old herman say in a weary voice: "how much do you want?" "i thought you would be reasonable in the matter," the other returned triumphantly. "i understand that my mother left an estate of eighty thousand dollars." "it was a great deal less than that," old herman muttered. "not wishing to be too hard on you i'll settle for an even fifty thousand dollars," walter crocker went on. "fifty thousand dollars," the old man groaned. "it's robbery." "you forget that i am entitled to the entire estate. it was you who robbed me. well, do you agree?" "you must give me time to raise the money." "i'll expect a first installment in exactly one week from today," walter crocker said firmly. "i'll pay it only on one condition," replied the old man with rising spirit. "you must deliver to me the packet of letters. otherwise i'd be blackmailed out of every penny i own." "you'll get the letters all right." "show them to me now." "i can't do that," walter crocker replied, and penny thought she detected a trace of uneasiness in his voice. "perhaps you haven't the letters at all," herman crocker said quickly. "oh, yes, i have. but i don't carry them around with me. i'll bring them a week from today." "all right, but remember, no letters, no money. and another thing, i can't have you coming here. already folks are talking about your car being in my barn. i shouldn't have towed it here for you." "would you have wanted me to take it to a kendon garage?" "no," answered herman crocker shortly. "i thought not. well, where shall i meet you if you don't want me coming here?" "at the footbridge by the ravine." "where is that?" walter crocker asked. "a quarter of a mile below my cottage. be there next thursday night at ten o'clock." "i'll be waiting," returned the young man. he started to walk away. "are you taking your car?" herman crocker called after him. "i fixed the wheel." "yes, i'll get it now," the young man replied. as the girls saw old herman walk toward the house alone they felt a trifle sorry for him. there was no question as to his misdeeds, yet their sympathies went out to him rather than to walter crocker who evidently had been deprived of his rightful inheritance. penny and susan heard the barn doors open and knew that the young man was getting out his car. as he remained in the building longer than seemed necessary, they moved around to a dust covered window and peered curiously inside. "why, he's searching for something!" penny whispered. walter crocker had removed the seat cushions and was examining every inch of the automobile. his face was twisted with worry. the girls could hear him muttering angrily to himself. "what do you imagine he has lost?" susan asked in an undertone. "you can tell by the way he acts that it's something important." "i don't know, of course," penny replied with a chuckle. "but i have a sneaking idea it may be herman crocker's packet of letters!" chapter xv the missing letters "what makes you think he has lost the letters?" susan whispered to her chum. "didn't he tell herman crocker that he would positively deliver them next thursday night?" "yes," nodded penny, "but obviously he had to say that. i thought he acted very uneasy as if he might not have the evidence in his possession." the girls did not peep into the barn again for they were afraid that herman crocker might see them. quietly they stole back to the woods and started for the cottage. "well, penny, you were right about old herman being a mysterious character," susan commented as they walked along. "i feel a little disappointed though," penny returned. "now that everything is explained so nicely we'll not have any more fun." "there are a great many things i don't understand." "i'm not clear on every point," penny admitted, "but in general i have an idea of the trouble." "then i wish you'd explain it to me." "well, from the conversation we overheard, it's evident that walter crocker is trying to blackmail his uncle. only legally i suppose it wouldn't be blackmail because walter is entitled to the entire fortune." "then you believe herman crocker really did cheat him out of the money?" susan asked. "mr. crocker practically admitted it, didn't he? i gathered that sometime during his life he had received letters from his sister, jenny, and another woman--letters which probably mentioned the boy, walter. herman made a bad mistake when he kept those communications." "but what became of walter after jenny's death?" susan questioned in deep perplexity. "why didn't his claim to the fortune come up at that time? and how did he get the letters?" "in some manner old herman must have kept walter in ignorance," penny replied thoughtfully. "i have no idea how he finally learned the truth. as for the letters, i believe they were stored in the trunk of the cottage attic." "think what an opportunity you missed!" susan exclaimed. "i'm not sure how long the letters have been there. i remember that several days ago old herman came to the cottage and went to the attic. at the time i couldn't imagine what he was after. now i feel certain he was alarmed because walter crocker had attempted to extort money from him. undoubtedly, he came to find the letters which he knew would stand as damaging evidence against him." "you think the letters already had been taken?" susan questioned. "herman didn't find what he was after, i know. you remember he accused walter of stealing the letters." "yes, but he denied the charge." "walter might have been lying, but he acted sincere," penny said slowly. "anyway, when i looked in the trunk--that was after herman had visited the cottage--a package of letters was still there. however, i doubt that it was the right packet or herman would have taken it with him." "yet you told me that when you went to the attic the second time, the letters were gone," susan reminded her chum. "that is right. if the letters wouldn't stand as damaging evidence against herman i don't see who would want them." "mightn't it have been that man who tried to break into your cottage at night?" "it could have been all right," penny admitted, "but i didn't hear the fellow in the attic. i was under the impression that he had just entered the cottage when i awoke." "it seems to me that there is a great deal which isn't explained." "the part about the letters is still a deep mystery," penny acknowledged. "but we do know that old herman cheated his nephew out of a fortune, and that fate has caught up with him at last." "i suppose the old man deserves everything he gets," susan commented. "i don't like him a bit, but for that matter there's something about walter crocker that gives me the creeps too. he has such a snakey look!" the girls emerged from the woods close to the nichols' cottage. observing that an automobile stood by the fence, they both halted. "why, that is walter crocker's car!" susan exclaimed in an undertone. "he must have driven straight over here from herman's place," penny added. "now what do you suppose he wants?" the girls walked slowly on. as they drew near the automobile, walter crocker alighted and tipped his hat politely. "how do you do, miss nichols," he said with a forced smile. "i'm not sure if you remember me or not." "i remember you perfectly," replied penny, hiding her uneasiness. she was afraid that the man might have seen susan and herself peeping through the window of the barn. "i feel very grateful for the ride which you and your father gave me some nights ago," said walter crocker. "i must apologize for running off the way i did without thanking you. i was in such a hurry to reach my uncle's home." penny and susan drew a breath of relief. they were glad that the man did not intend to question them concerning their latest actions. "oh, that was quite all right," penny replied. "we assumed that you had gone on to mr. crocker's place." the young man shifted his weight uneasily. "oh, by the way," he said, "i don't suppose you found a package of letters in the rumble seat?" "letters?" repeated penny. "i thought perhaps they might have dropped from my pocket while i was riding with you." "were they valuable?" asked penny very innocently. "only to me," answered walter crocker shortly. "but i must have them back. do you mind if i look in the back end of your car?" "you'd be welcome to search if it were here." "where is the car?" demanded the man, in his anxiety forgetting to be polite. "i couldn't say right now, mr. crocker. my father has the automobile." "when will he return?" "probably not before evening," penny replied, thinking quickly. "you might drop back after supper. he should be here by then." "thank you," said walter crocker shortly. he climbed into the car and drove away. "that's a good one!" laughed penny, highly amused. "he has lost the crocker letters all right, and he thinks they may be in our car!" "don't you expect your father home before night?" asked susan. "of course i don't know exactly when he'll come," chuckled penny. "but i'd not be surprised to see him driving in any minute. i wanted to give myself plenty of time to examine the car before mr. crocker returns." "what would you do if you found the letters, penny?" "i haven't thought that far," penny admitted. "but the chance that they're in our car is a very slim one." the girls stationed themselves on the front porch so that they would not miss mr. nichols when he drove in. two hours later they glimpsed the car coming up knob hill. penny meant to tell her father everything that had happened during the day, but the detective seemed to have important matters on his mind. when the girls ran down to the car to meet him, he responded absent-mindedly to their greetings and went on into the cottage. "penny!" exclaimed susan. "there's another auto coming up the hill!" "and it looks like walter crocker's car!" penny cried in alarm. "quick! we've no time to lose!" the girls darted to mr. nichols' automobile and lifted up the rumble seat. while susan anxiously watched the road, penny climbed up and peered into the bottom of the car. "susan, they're here!" she squealed in delight. "and so is walter crocker," susan muttered in an undertone. "he's looking right this way." with her back turned to the approaching automobile, penny deftly slipped the package of letters into the front of her dress. she pretended to keep on searching in the bottom of the car. "act as if everything is perfectly natural," she warned susan in a whisper. mr. crocker stopped his car with a jerk and sprang out. he glanced suspiciously at the girls as he came toward them. "oh, how do you do, mr. crocker," penny said, climbing slowly down from the rumble. "dad just drove in a minute ago. i was looking for your letters." "are they there?" the man asked sharply. "perhaps you ought to look," penny replied, avoiding susan's glance. "i had just started to search when you drove up." walter crocker climbed up on the step and made a careful examination of the interior of the automobile. penny and susan stood watching him with perfectly innocent faces. they knew that he would not find the letters. the man did not like to give up. "they may have been pushed up forward out of sight," he said. "do you have a flashlight?" "i'll get one from the garage," penny offered. she and susan went into the building, lingering there while they enjoyed a good laugh at the expense of walter crocker. they were just ready to return with the flashlight when penny suddenly placed a restraining hand on susan's arm. "wait!" she whispered. unaware that the girls were in the garage, mrs. masterbrook came hurrying from the cottage. she went directly toward walter crocker, her face convulsed with anger. "why did you come here?" she demanded. "you should have known better!" "i had to come," retorted the man in an undertone. he cast an anxious glance toward the garage. "now get away from here unless you want to give everything away!" "i didn't know anyone was around," the housekeeper muttered. she turned and fled into the house. penny and susan waited a minute or two before emerging from the garage with the flashlight. "sorry i was so long," apologized penny. "it doesn't matter," replied walter crocker crossly. "i've looked everywhere. the letters aren't here." "you must have dropped them some other place," said susan innocently. "yes," nodded penny, "you might have left them at mr. crocker's place. have you inquired there?" "no, i haven't," the man replied shortly. without another word he climbed into his own car and drove away. "that was a good quip--telling him to inquire of herman crocker!" susan laughed after the man was out of sight. "i thought he would explode with rage!" penny was staring thoughtfully toward the house. "susan," she said, "mrs. masterbrook evidently knew walter crocker." "yes, that was queer, wasn't it?" "she seemed to be afraid of him," penny went on in a low voice. "or rather, she appeared to fear that someone would find him here at the cottage. what do you make of it?" "i think," drawled susan, "that the mystery is a long way from explained." "and i agree with you," said penny, "but these letters may help a little. come on, let's go down to the ravine and read them." chapter xvi a lost handkerchief the girls ran down the path to the ravine, selecting a sunny spot by a large rock. from where they sat they could look far down the valley and see the swinging footbridge which herman crocker had designated as a meeting place with his nephew. "well, here are the letters," penny said gaily, removing them from her dress. "wouldn't walter rave if he knew we had them!" "they're worth fifty thousand dollars!" susan laughed. "at least that's the price walter expects to make his uncle pay for them. penny, what would happen if we just kept these letters?" "i suppose old herman would refuse to pay over the money. i know i should in his case." "then why wouldn't that be a good solution of the matter?" "it would from old herman's standpoint," penny said dryly. "but you're forgetting that walter isn't actually a blackmailer. the money really belongs to him." "then by keeping these letters we might be depriving him of his rightful inheritance?" "it seems that way. i don't like walter any better than you do--he appears to be a rather unscrupulous fellow even if he does have the law on his side. however, we can't let our personal feelings enter into the matter." "that being the case, why did we interfere at all?" susan asked. "wouldn't it have been better not to have taken the letters? now if we decide to give then back, we'll have a lot of explaining to do." "you are perfectly right, of course, susan. my curiosity simply got the best of me again. i felt as if i had to read these letters." "then let's read them," susan laughed. penny untied the cord which bound the letters into a neat package. there were eight of them all addressed to herman crocker. return notations in the corners showed that five of the letters were from the old man's sister, jenny. the others were from the woman named hilda frank and were postmarked, belgrade lakes, maine. "that is a summer resort place," penny commented as she opened the first letter. "if herman's sister had plenty of money she may have been staying there." susan crowded close beside her chum so that they might read the communications together. the letter from hilda frank disclosed several facts of interest. the woman, evidently a housekeeper for herman's sister, had written to say that her mistress had passed away following a sudden illness. she wished herman to come at once to take charge of funeral arrangements and to look after jenny's young son, walter. "jenny thought that no one would take care of him as well as you," the housekeeper wrote, "and the money she left will be more than enough to keep him. it is her wish as expressed in her will that if anything should ever happen to the boy, you are to be the sole heir--otherwise the money is to be kept in trust. "this will signed by my mistress on the day before her death is now in my possession. i await your arrival before filing it with the court." the two additional letters from hilda frank had been written weeks later, and inquired after the welfare of the boy, walter, indicating that herman crocker after going east to attend his sister's funeral had brought the lad home with him. "but we're quite certain herman never arrived here with walter," penny commented thoughtfully. "the only boy who has ever been seen at the crocker place is the old man's grandson." "what do you think happened?" susan asked. "obviously, from all we have learned, herman must have decided that he wanted all the money for himself. he then had the boy conveniently disappear." "how could he hope to get away with anything as crude as that?" "i don't know, but his plan seemed to work for many years. i suppose there weren't many persons who ever suspected that jenny had a child." "mrs. frank did." "yes, but herman probably quieted her with some simple story. anyway, she lived in maine and that's a long way from here." "it's inconceivable that he could get by with such high-handed robbery! stealing from a child!" "it is disgusting," penny agreed. "we don't know what became of walter, but probably he was brought up by some strange person in complete ignorance of his heritage." "then how did he learn his true name and that he had a right to the fortune? how did he know about these letters in the trunk?" "my theory collapses right there," penny admitted ruefully. "i can't figure that part out at all." "let's read the other letters," susan suggested. "we may learn something from them." the remaining communications were of no help at all. they were merely friendly letters written by jenny to her brother telling him how much she and her son were enjoying their stay at the lakes. she spoke at some length of her declining health and in one paragraph mentioned that if anything ever happened to her she trusted herman would take good care of walter. "after receiving a letter like that how could the old man be mean enough to act the way he did?" susan asked angrily. "it serves him right to lose the fortune! i'm glad that walter finally learned the truth." "so am i," penny agreed. "only it's too bad the young man couldn't have turned out to be a nicer type." "he may not have had the advantage of a good home." "i realize that, but aside from breeding, i don't like him." "the point is--what shall we do with these letters?" "oh, i guess i'll have to give them back," penny sighed. "i'll do it sometime before thursday night." she retied the letters and slipped them into her pocket. before the girls could leave the ravine, they heard someone coming through the woods. a moment later michael haymond appeared along the path. he was whistling a tune but broke off as he noticed penny and susan. "hello," he said pleasantly. "it's another warm day, isn't it?" penny and susan had been too busy to notice the weather, but they agreed that it was unpleasantly humid. michael paused to chat for a minute or two, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. "have you been cutting more wood?" penny asked with a smile. "yes, i didn't know what else to do." "we have enough wood to last longer than we'll remain at the cottage," penny said. "why don't you try resting now and then?" "i'm not paid to do that." "you more than earn your salary," penny told him. "dad doesn't care whether you keep busy or not." "your father has been very good to me," michael said soberly. "i don't feel right about it. i think he's keeping me on because he knows i'd have trouble getting any other job." "nonsense, michael." "i don't feel right about drawing pay for nothing," the young man repeated. "you let him worry about that," penny laughed. "anyway, i suppose we'll be going back to the city soon." her words seemed to startle michael, but after a moment of silence, he nodded. "well, i'll be getting on up to the cottage," he said. "mrs. masterbrook probably has a job for me. when she can't think of anything else she has me peel potatoes." "that's her work, not yours," penny told him. "you're altogether too easy, michael." "your father said that part of my job was to keep mrs. masterbrook quiet," the young man grinned as he turned away. "i've discovered that the best way is to do exactly what she wishes with no argument!" michael bowed again to the girls and walked on up the path. "i like him better every day," susan declared in an undertone. "i think it's a great joke on you, penny! when he first came here you thought he might be a questionable character." penny did not pay very much heed to her chum's words for she was staring at an object lying on the path. "michael dropped his handkerchief," she said. "so he did," susan agreed indifferently, turning to look. "we can take it to him." penny picked up the handkerchief, noticing as she folded it that the linen was not a very expensive grade. she suspected that michael did not have very much money to spend upon clothing. turning the handkerchief over in her hand, penny saw that it bore a monogram. "why, that's odd!" she murmured aloud. "now what have you discovered, little miss detective?" susan asked teasingly. "look at the markings on this handkerchief," penny commanded. "the initials are 'm. g.'" chapter xvii a new clue "'m. g.'", susan repeated slowly, staring at the handkerchief. "what's so startling about that?" "michael dropped this handkerchief," penny said significantly. "and his last name is haymond!" susan cried as light dawned upon her. "why would he have a handkerchief marked 'm. g.'?" "why indeed? the simple answer is that maybe his name isn't michael haymond after all!" "maybe he happened to pick up some other person's handkerchief." "he'd not be apt to be using it." "once one of yours got into our washing somehow," susan defended her theory. "don't you remember i was using it for one of my own until you happened to notice it?" "that was different," penny replied. "i'll venture this is michael's handkerchief all right." "oh, you're too suspicious," laughed susan. "remember that wild chase we had to glenhaven just because you thought michael might be hiding something about his past." "i'm not sure that it was a wild chase at all," penny answered soberly. "if you recall, michael fitted into mrs. havers story quite nicely--everything except his last name. and now the initials of this handkerchief could stand for michael gladwin." "why, that's so," susan murmured in astonishment. "but it doesn't seem reasonable! what has michael done that he's ashamed to have his true name known?" "i may be jumping at another one of my false conclusions," penny admitted. "anyway, i think i'll keep this handkerchief." "if only we had a picture of michael we might send it to mrs. havers for identification," susan said thoughtfully. "i was thinking of that," penny nodded. "we'll get a picture today." "how? by telling michael that you've suddenly taken a great fancy to him?" "we'll take a snapshot. fortunately i brought my camera along when we came to kendon." "do you have a film?" "yes, it's all loaded ready to go." "then let's get our prey!" laughed susan. "but michael may refuse." "he shouldn't unless we make him suspicious. mind, not a word about the handkerchief." the girls went directly to the cottage for penny's camera. first they flattered mrs. masterbrook by requesting her picture. the housekeeper posed on the porch steps. "we'd like your picture too," penny said to michael who was standing near. "i'd break your camera," the young man laughed good-naturedly. "oh, don't be silly," susan cried, and catching him by the hand, pulled him up on the porch. penny snapped the picture. to make certain that she would have a good one, she took still another. "that's enough," declared michael moving away. mrs. masterbrook lingered on the porch, hoping that the girls would take another picture of her. however, they had no intention of wasting any film. "let's get it developed right away," susan declared. "there's one more picture i'd like to take just to make the record complete," penny announced as she and her chum walked away from the cottage. "whose?" asked susan. "herman crocker's." "it would be interesting to keep it as a souvenir of your vacation," susan agreed. "but try to get it!" "i believe i could." "you'd try anything." "we'll have an hour before the sun is low," penny declared, glancing toward the western horizon. "come on, let's go there now." "i don't like the idea a bit," susan complained but she allowed her chum to lead her down the road. "i'll have to think up a new excuse for calling on herman," penny remarked as they drew near the house. "that one about wanting to buy eggs is getting pretty thread bare." "you're inviting trouble to go there again," susan warned darkly. "herman will suspect something is wrong the minute you ask for his picture." "i don't mean to ask," penny chuckled. "perhaps i'll just snap it and run." there was no sign of activity about the crocker premises. they did not see the dog, and when they rapped on the door there was no response. "mr. crocker and his grandson are gone," susan said in relief. "i guess i'll have to give up the picture then," penny sighed. "i had a particular use for it too." "why don't you snap one of the house?" susan suggested. "i might do that just to finish out the roll. then we can take the film down to kendon and have it developed." "you mean now?" "yes, i'm in a hurry to get the prints. dad may take it into his head to leave this place any day and i have considerable unfinished business on my calendar." "it seems as if i've walked a million miles today," susan grumbled good-naturedly. "it's good for your figure," penny laughed. "you don't want to get fat." "no chance of it around you," susan retorted. penny took the picture and removed the roll of exposed film from her camera. walking down knob hill, the girls left it at one of the drugstores in kendon. "how soon may we have the prints?" penny asked. "tomorrow afternoon," the clerk promised. when the girls had left the drugstore, penny suggested that they drop in for a moment at turner's. "are you still hopeful that someone will claim the toy lantern?" susan inquired with a trace of amusement. "no, i gave up long ago," penny admitted. "i just keep asking as a matter of routine." "mr. turner would let you know if anything develops." "he might forget," penny insisted. "let's drop in for just a minute." susan sighed wearily and followed her chum into the store. mr. turner did not look very pleased to see them. he had grown tired of their frequent calls. "nothing new?" penny asked pleasantly. the storekeeper shook his head. "i think you may as well take the lantern with you," he said. "i'm convinced it doesn't belong to any child around here." "it begins to look that way," penny admitted. she was debating what to do when she felt susan pluck her sleeve. glancing quickly up she was surprised to see that perry crocker had entered the store. the boy did not notice the girls but walked toward the candy department. "i didn't know old herman ever let him go any place alone," susan whispered. "neither did i," penny agreed. "probably perry's grandfather is waiting outside." susan started toward the boy, but penny restrained her. "wait!" she whispered. the boy had gone directly to the candy counter. "good afternoon, perry," said the storekeeper. "i don't see you very often." "today is my birthday," the boy explained in an excited voice. "i'm eleven years old. my grandfather gave me ten cents to spend." "that's fine," said the storekeeper. "what kind of candy will you have?" "i want some of those caramels and lemon drops. or would i get more----" perry broke off to stare at the broken toy lantern which stood on the storekeeper's shelf directly behind the candy counter. "why, where did you get my lantern?" he asked quickly. "give it to me." "is this your lantern?" the storekeeper questioned, glancing toward penny and susan who had remained some distance away. "of course it's mine," said perry. "please give it to me." "but how do i know it is yours?" asked mr. turner. he had been coached carefully by mr. nichols. "a great many boys have lanterns exactly like this." "it's really mine, mr. turner," perry insisted. "i can tell because i made a new wick for it out of an old piece of white cloth. someone has smashed the isinglass." mr. turner again glanced inquiringly toward penny. she nodded her head as a signal that he was to give the lantern to the boy. "very well, perry, here you are," the storekeeper said, handing him the toy. "now what kind of candy do you want?" he filled the order and perry left the store without observing penny and susan. through the plate glass window the girls saw him show the toy lantern to his grandfather. then he climbed into the car and they drove away. "i hope i did right to let him take the toy," said the storekeeper anxiously. "yes, you did," said penny quietly. "the lantern has served its purpose now." "i was very much surprised that it belonged to perry," went on mr. turner. "it was somewhat of a shock to me too," penny acknowledged. "your father told me a little about the case," the storekeeper continued. "i fear that this clue has no significance for perry's grandfather is an upstanding man in the community." "i quite understand," replied penny gravely. "thank you for going to so much trouble to help my father. i'm sure that he'll not wish you to speak of this matter to anyone." "i'll keep it to myself," mr. turner promised. "if there is anything more i can do, let me know." the instant that the girls were outside the store they lost their serene attitude. "now what's our move?" asked susan tensely. "we must get home as fast as we can and tell dad," penny replied. "this clue has a lot more significance than mr. turner believes. it probably means that herman crocker is the man who took the kirmenbach jewels!" chapter xviii inside the gabled house penny and susan ran nearly all of the way back up knob hill. they were quite out of breath by the time they reached the cottage. "is there a fire somewhere?" inquired mr. nichols, who was reading the evening paper on the porch. "or are you girls running a race?" penny cast a quick glance about to be certain that neither michael nor mrs. masterbrook were near. "dad," she announced impressively. "the toy lantern has been claimed." the detective dropped his paper and quickly arose. "by whom?" he asked. "it was perry crocker who took the lantern away, dad. susan and i were in the store when he came in for candy." "he made a positive identification?" "oh, yes, dad," penny declared. "perry told mr. turner that he had constructed the wick from an old piece of cloth in the house." "then it looks as if herman crocker may be mixed up in the robbery." "don't you remember that from the very first i said he was a suspicious character," penny reminded her father. "yes, i remember," mr. nichols replied dryly. "what will you do now, dad? have mr. crocker arrested?" "not without more evidence against him," returned the detective. "our clue is an important one but it may not lead where we expect. it's a serious matter to arrest a man on a false charge." "but it must be herman crocker," penny argued. "we know perry couldn't have committed the robbery." "you say that you saw herman in town?" mr. nichols inquired. "yes, he waited for perry in the car and then drove away." "toward home?" "why, i didn't notice," penny admitted. "i did," susan declared, eager to make a contribution. "he was driving the opposite way." "then there is a chance he may not have returned home yet," mr. nichols said. "i'm going down there and look around." "may i go along, dad?" penny asked eagerly. "you both may come," mr. nichols said after a slight hesitation, "but you must do exactly as i say." at that moment mrs. masterbrook appeared in the doorway. "supper is ready," she announced. "you'll have to keep it waiting," the detective told her. "i've just remembered an important engagement." "i always serve at exactly six o'clock," mrs. masterbrook said primly. "the food won't be good if it stands." "that doesn't matter to me," mr. nichols returned impatiently. "we'll hash up our own supper when we get back." as he and the girls walked away, the housekeeper stood watching them with keen displeasure. penny wondered if the woman guessed that they were going to the herman crocker place. during the hike down knob hill, the girls told mr. nichols everything they had learned about herman crocker and his nephew, walter. this time the detective did not term penny's ideas wild. he listened in a manner which was most flattering. "it's all a mix-up," penny finished. "i feel sure that mrs. masterbrook is acquainted with walter crocker because she warned him to keep away from our cottage." "mrs. masterbrook seems to have her finger in every pie," commented mr. nichols. "but i'm not much concerned with her affairs, or whether or not old herman has cheated his nephew. i'm only interested in learning if he is the one who stole the diamond necklace." "if he'd rob his nephew it follows that he'd be the type to take jewels too." "not necessarily," answered the detective. "house breaking is a different sort of crime entirely. the fact is, herman crocker doesn't impress me as being the kind of person who would commit such an act." "the evidence is all against him," penny argued. "it is," mr. nichols agreed. "but one can't put too much faith in circumstantial proof. we must investigate first and draw our conclusions later." the three were close to the crocker premises by this time. there was no sign of the old man's car, and mr. nichols felt hopeful that he had not yet returned from town. at the entrance of the lane, mr. nichols paused. "susan," he said, "i'd like to have you remain here. if you see crocker's car coming up the road, run to the house as fast as you can and call out a warning." "i'll keep a careful watch," susan promised. mr. nichols and penny hurried on up the lane. they were quite certain that mr. crocker and his grandson had not returned from kendon, but taking no chance, they pounded several times on the door. "the place is empty all right," mr. nichols declared. he tried the door and found it locked. nor could they enter by either the side or rear entrance. "how are we going to get in?" penny asked in disappointment. "one of the windows should be unlocked," mr. nichols said, looking up speculatively. "here, i'll give you a boost." he lifted penny on his shoulders so that she could reach one of the high windows. "locked," she reported. "all right, we'll try another," said the detective. the second window likewise proved to be fastened, but when penny tried the third one it opened. "good!" exclaimed mr. nichols. "jump down inside and open the door!" penny found herself gazing into an untidy living room. the rug was moth eaten and there was dust everywhere on the old fashioned victorian furniture. the walls were heavy with family pictures in wooden frames, and penny's attention was drawn to a curious feather wreath. "hurry!" warned mr. nichols from below. "i'll be there in a jiffy," penny called back. she jumped lightly down and ran to unfasten the door. mr. nichols entered and closed it behind him, turning the night lock. "we'll have to work fast," he said crisply. "old herman may come back any minute." "what do you expect to find?" asked penny. "perhaps the necklace or at least some evidence which will attach herman to the crime. i'll start searching in the upstairs bedrooms. you might go through that desk." with a nod of his head, the detective indicated an old fashioned secretary which stood in one corner of the living room. the desk was filled to overflowing with papers of all sorts. a quick inspection satisfied penny that the diamond necklace was not there, but if she had time she meant to examine the papers carefully. "when you finish with the desk, start looking through the kitchen cupboards," mr. nichols called down from upstairs. penny was working swiftly at her task when the detective came down to assist her. "there's nothing in the bedrooms," he reported. "i thought old herman might have hidden the jewels in one of the mattresses. having any luck here?" "none yet, but there are a lot of papers in the desk." "we'll get to those later," mr. nichols nodded. the detective made a swift but thorough inspection of the kitchen. he examined the floor boards to see if any had been pried loose and even poked into the rag bag. "here's something!" he said triumphantly, pulling out a piece of white cloth. "why, that is the same material i saw in turner's store!" penny exclaimed. "yes, it was used to make the wick of the lantern. we'll keep it for evidence." mr. nichols stuffed the cloth into his coat pocket. "i've looked all through the cupboards," penny reported. "i'm going back and examine some of those papers now." "all right," her father agreed. penny had never seen such a disordered desk. apparently, herman crocker had kept every letter, receipt, and paper which ever came into his possession, tossing all together in one untidy heap. penny thumbed rapidly through the letters, discarding all which were of a strictly business nature. suddenly she came upon a photograph which had turned yellow with age. a glance assured penny that it was a likeness of herman crocker when he had been some years younger. "just what i need!" she thought triumphantly. "this will be a great deal better than a snapshot!" slipping the photograph into her pocket she went on with her search. in one drawer of the desk she found nothing but old tax receipts showing payments paid by herman crocker for both the cottage property and his farm. penny knew she would not have time to examine each receipt in turn so she opened a second drawer. it was crammed with old checks and bank statements. in the very bottom was a thick green book. penny opened it up and saw that it was a detailed expense account running back many years. she was about to toss the book carelessly aside, when a notation on one of the pages caught her eye. the item read: "paid to the glenhaven orphan's home--$ . for keep of michael gladwin." penny stared at the notation for an instant, and then turned toward her father. "dad, i've found something important!" she exclaimed. "this account book--" before she could finish, there was a loud pounding on the door. "herman crocker is coming up the road!" susan altman called excitedly. "hurry or he'll be here!" chapter xix michael's admission "bring the book and come on, penny," mr. nichols ordered tersely. "we don't want crocker to catch us here." penny snatched up the account book, slammed shut the desk and followed her father to the door. susan was waiting there, nervously watching the entrance to the narrow lane. a car was just coming into view. "duck into the pine grove," commanded the detective. the three disappeared behind the trees just as herman crocker's battered old car wheezed up the lane. mr. nichols and the girls remained motionless until the old man and his grandson had gone into the house. then they moved noiselessly away, keeping to the evergreen grove until they reached the main road. "penny, what were you starting to tell me about an account book?" questioned mr. nichols as they paused. "i'll show you," offered penny. she opened the account book to the item which had drawn her attention, but in the dim light it was difficult for mr. nichols to make out the fine writing. "michael gladwin," he read slowly aloud. "i seem to be thick headed----" "oh, susan and i didn't tell you that part!" penny cried. "we think gladwin is michael haymond's real name! he dropped a handkerchief bearing the initials 'm. g.', and when we were over at glenhaven we learned from the former matron of the institution that a strange person who might have been herman crocker, brought a boy who was named michael gladwin to the home." "there seems to be quite a bit going on that i know nothing about," mr. nichols remarked dryly. "suppose you start at the beginning, penny, and tell me everything." "are you sure you'll not think my ideas wild?" penny asked teasingly. "i am quite willing to retract my words," mr. nichols said. "your ideas and theories are proving remarkably sound." penny and susan were only too glad to relate everything they had learned about michael gladwin. "i'll question the young man just as soon as we reach the cottage," promised mr. nichols. "we'll get at the bottom of this matter and see if it can be straightened out." "michael may deny everything," penny said thoughtfully. "he has some particular reason for wishing to keep his past a secret. dad, i have an idea!" "what is it, penny?" "why couldn't we drive over to ferndale to-night and take michael with us? he'd have no suspicion that we were calling upon mrs. havers until he met her face to face!" "confronted with the former matron you believe that he would break down and confess the truth?" "yes, i think he might, dad. at any rate, mrs. havers could establish definitely whether or not he is michael gladwin." "your plan is a good one," mr. nichols said after a moment's reflection. "we'll start right away if we can locate michael." "he usually walks down to the village after supper," penny declared anxiously. "i hope he hasn't left yet." michael was just starting away from the cottage when mr. nichols and the girls arrived. the detective stopped him, explaining that they would like to have his company on a motor trip to a distant town. "i don't enjoy changing a tire at night," mr. nichols said. "while i'm not looking for trouble, i'd like to have a handy man along just in case something happens." "i'll be very glad to go, sir," replied michael. "you might be getting the car from the garage," mr. nichols directed. "i'll be along in a minute." he started for the cottage after his light overcoat. mrs. masterbrook sat rocking back and forth on the porch. "i hope you're ready for your supper now," she said tartly. "i've not time to eat it, mrs. masterbrook. i am sorry to have annoyed you this way." "i've kept it warming for over an hour," the housekeeper said crossly. "i declare, i can't understand your comings and goings." paying no heed to mrs. masterbrook's grumblings, the detective found his coat and hastened back to the car. "what shall i say if anyone telephones?" the housekeeper called after him. "where shall i say you are?" "tell them you don't know," shouted the detective. it was evident to penny and susan that michael had no suspicion where he was being taken. even when the automobile drew near ferndale he did not appear to grow uneasy. he was so calm and undisturbed that they began to wonder if they had made another mistake. "of course the orphan's home isn't at ferndale," penny told herself. "he probably doesn't know that mrs. havers has left the glenhaven home." it was after nine o'clock when the car finally drew up in front of the former matron's home. the girls were afraid that mrs. havers might have retired early and so were greatly relieved to see a light burning on the lower floor. "michael, why don't you come in with us?" penny asked as she alighted from the car. "oh, i'll wait out here," he replied. "no, come along," mr. nichols invited. he took michael by the arm and steered him up the walk. penny and susan went on ahead to ring the doorbell. they were a little worried for fear that mrs. havers would not wish to receive them so late in the evening. after a long wait, the door slowly opened. mrs. havers, her face hidden by the shadows, did not readily recognize the girls. however, after they had spoken, she urged them to come inside. penny and susan entered the cottage and waited for mr. nichols and michael. mrs. havers turned to face the newcomers. for an instant she stared blankly at michael and then she gave a cry of delight. "michael gladwin! how glad i am to see you again!" "mrs. havers!" exclaimed the young man. then he became confused and glanced quickly toward mr. nichols. "we've known for some time that you were michael gladwin," said mr. nichols. "of course he is michael gladwin," declared mrs. havers. "who else could he be?" "i have a great deal to explain," said the young man, looking again at the detective. "i know you surely must be thinking that i have deceived you----" "i am sure you had a very good reason," replied mr. nichols kindly. mrs. havers was deeply troubled by the conversation which she could not understand. she urged her visitors to seat themselves. mr. nichols, always restless in moments of stress, found it impossible to remain in a chair. he annoyed his hostess exceedingly by moving about the room, appearing to examine books, bric-a-brac and objects of furniture. "before we ask michael to tell his story, i should like to have you look at this picture, mrs. havers," said penny. she offered the photograph of herman crocker. "have you seen the man before?" "let me turn up the light. my eyes aren't as strong as they were." mrs. havers studied the picture intently for a minute. "this is a photograph of mr. keenan," said the former matron. her gaze wandered to michael. "he is the man who brought you to the orphan's home." "you are certain?" asked mr. nichols eagerly. "of course i am," answered the old lady firmly. "i seldom forget a face. this is a very good likeness of mr. keenan as i remember him." "mr. keenan and herman crocker were one and the same person!" cried penny. "i am beginning to understand everything now!" "then i wish you'd explain it to me," said michael. "i have known for some time that crocker was supposed to be my uncle, but until now i rather doubted that there was any truth to the story." "how did you learn that he was related to you?" penny asked quickly. "through an anonymous letter," michael replied. "it was forwarded to me after i left the glenhaven home. the writer informed me that my true name was walter crocker and that i would find evidence to support my claim to the crocker fortune at your cottage." "so your visit to kendon was made for the purpose of claiming crocker's money," mr. nichols said musing. "what did you expect to find in our cottage?" "i don't know, sir," michael returned soberly. "i thought possibly there might be letters or photographs which would establish my true identity." "were you the person whom i mistook for a robber a few nights ago?" penny questioned. "yes," michael admitted. "i shouldn't have been prowling about the house, but in the day time i never had a chance to search. when you heard me in the living room i ran out the door and hid in the woods." "and i suppose it was you who took a package of letters from the attic trunk," penny went on. "i did take some letters, but they were valueless. to tell you the truth, i haven't a scrap of evidence to support my claim." "i think we may be able to help you," mr. nichols said slowly. "but you must answer several questions. i recall that when you first came to our cottage you told us you intended to see mr. crocker on business. yet to my knowledge you never went to see him." "i don't wonder that my actions appear contrary, sir. i intended to visit herman crocker immediately, but while i was at your cottage, a remark was dropped which led me to believe that another person who claimed to be walter crocker already had called upon my uncle." "that is true," the detective nodded. "there is another young man who claims to be walter crocker." "you see my position, sir. i had no proof of anything. i was afraid that someone had played a joke on me. for that reason i gave a false name and said nothing of the matter. i thought i would wait a few days until i had gained more information." "you acted wisely," mr. nichols declared. "obviously, walter crocker is an imposter," penny said. "but who is he? what is his true name and how did he obtain the evidence against herman crocker?" "we may be able to answer all those questions before we finish with the case," returned the detective. "if mrs. havers will testify that michael is the same boy who was brought to the glenhaven home by mr. keenan and that keenan and crocker are the same person, it will be a simple matter to establish a claim to the fortune." "the man of this photograph is the same individual who came to the home years ago," declared mrs. havers. "i will be glad to sign papers to that effect." "the masquerading walter crocker is merely a blackmailer," the detective continued. "undoubtedly, he knew that he could never establish a court claim to the fortune. but with the letters in his possession, he was able to frighten herman crocker into dealing with him privately." "what finally became of the letters?" inquired michael. "dad has them," said penny. "and we have other evidence which should help your cause. at crocker's house we found an account book showing that the old man paid the glenhaven home various amounts of money." "i can't understand why a man would do such a thing," michael said slowly. "why did my uncle hate me?" "probably he didn't," replied the detective. "you merely stood in mr. crocker's way. greed leads many a person astray." "it was queer that for years herman crocker fooled everyone in kendon," penny remarked. "and then someone must have discovered his secret." "i am puzzled by the anonymous letter," mr. nichols admitted, turning to michael again. "i don't suppose you have it with you?" "yes, i do. you may read it if you wish." michael took a crumpled envelope from his inside coat pocket and offered it to the detective. mr. nichols scanned it briefly. "the letter was postmarked at kendon," he said. "may i see it, dad?" requested penny. he gave the letter to her and she studied it for a moment in silence. the communication contained no new information. as michael had said, it merely hinted that he was the true heir to the crocker fortune, and that he would find evidence to support his claim at the knob hill cottage. penny was more interested in the handwriting than in the message. it seemed to her that it looked strangely familiar. "why, i've seen this writing before!" she exclaimed. "do you know who sent the letter?" asked her father quickly. "i can make a very shrewd guess," replied penny. "it was our all-wise housekeeper, mrs. masterbrook!" chapter xx alias jay kline "it would be in keeping with mrs. masterbrook's character to send an anonymous letter," mr. nichols agreed quickly. "i am just sure this is her handwriting," penny insisted. "i'd not be mistaken for she has made out so many grocery lists." mr. nichols took the letter and put it in his pocket. "then mrs. masterbrook is the one person who should be able to clear up this tangle," he said. "we'll go to the cottage and question her." thanking mrs. havers for the aid she had offered, the party left ferndale and made a swift trip back to kendon. unaware that she was under suspicion, mrs. masterbrook had retired when mr. nichols and the young people arrived. the detective pounded on her door. "what is it?" called the housekeeper. "please come out here a minute," requested mr. nichols. "i am ready for bed. can't you tell me what you want from there." "no, i cannot, mrs. masterbrook. come out unless you prefer to tell your story to a policeman." "a policeman!" echoed the housekeeper with a little shriek. "oh, my goodness! i'll come right out." she was dressed in five minutes but did not take time to remove the curlers from her hair. "just what is it that you wish?" she asked tartly as she gazed from one person to another. everyone was watching her soberly. "look at this letter," said mr. nichols, placing the anonymous communication in her lap. a flush spread over the housekeeper's face but she threw back her head defiantly. "well, what about it?" "we know that you wrote the letter," said the detective sternly, "so you may as well admit the truth." mrs. masterbrook hesitated, and for a moment penny thought that she meant to deny the charge. then the woman said coldly: "well, what if i did write it? you can't send me to jail for trying to do a good turn." "no one has any intention of causing you trouble--providing you tell us everything," replied mr. nichols significantly. "what do you wish to know?" "first, how did you learn mr. crocker's secret?" "i worked for him a great many years," returned the housekeeper with a slight toss of her head. "both at this cottage and later when he lived at his present home. not being stupid, i suspected a fly in the ointment so to speak when he came into his fortune." "you did a little investigation work?" prompted the detective. "exactly. i read the letters in the attic, and i thought it was time someone knew about the great injustice which had been done walter crocker." "that was very kind of you, i'm sure," said the detective dryly. "what did you do when you found the letters?" "i didn't do anything at first. then mr. crocker discharged me----" "i see," interrupted mr. nichols. "his high-handed ways made you remember the letters in the cottage attic. thinking that the nephew should learn of them you no doubt entered the cottage and secured the evidence." "i did," the housekeeper nodded grimly. "but how did you know where to find walter crocker?" "i suspected that he was a certain boy named michael gladwin," mrs. masterbrook answered. "from various bits of evidence which came my way while i worked for herman, i gathered that jenny's child had been placed in the glenhaven orphan's home under that name." "i must say you have shown a distinct talent for detective work," mr. nichols told her dryly. "you sent the anonymous letter to michael at that address. then what happened?" "nothing. there was no reply. that's all i know of the matter." "mrs. masterbrook, i think you can tell us a great deal more," said penny quietly. "for instance when did you first meet the man who calls himself walter crocker." "i don't know what you're talking about," stammered the housekeeper. "either you explain everything or we'll take you to the police station," interposed mr. nichols. "all right, i'll tell you exactly what happened," mrs. masterbrook agreed after a long moment of thought. "the man is a lawyer--his name is jay kline." "mr. madden's missing partner!" exclaimed the detective. "i don't know anything about him being missing," said the housekeeper crossly. "but he's made me plenty of trouble. i wish i had never set eyes on him." "tell us how you came to meet jay kline," the detective ordered. "it was this way. i waited months to hear from the letter which i sent to the glenhaven home. when none came i decided that michael gladwin must be dead. i saw no reason in that case why i shouldn't profit a little myself. after all, i worked like a slave for old herman and he never paid me a living wage! i took the letters to a city law firm." "so mr. madden is mixed up in this affair too?" asked the detective. "i don't know anything about him," replied the housekeeper. "i met only jay kline. he told me to leave everything to him and that he would force old herman to pay me a good sum to get the letters back again." "there is an ugly name for that sort of thing," said mr. nichols. "blackmail." "i only meant to make herman pay me a hundred dollars." "the principle was exactly the same. i judge that jay kline being an unscrupulous rascal took matters out of your hands." "yes, the next thing i knew he came here and pawned himself off as walter crocker. i tried to make him go away but he wouldn't. i didn't mean to do wrong, mr. nichols. you'll not send me to jail, will you?" "that remains to be seen," replied the detective tersely. "for the time being you are to remain here in the cottage. talk with no one." "yes, sir," murmured the housekeeper meekly. the detective did not bother to tell the woman that michael gladwin and michael haymond were the same individual for he felt that the less she knew the easier it would be to carry out a plan which was forming in his mind. penny had supposed that her father would go directly to herman crocker, confronting him with the evidence. instead, mr. nichols bided his time. he held several conferences with the kendon police force. during his frequent absences from the cottage, penny, susan and michael were left to keep watch of mrs. masterbrook. the housekeeper was never allowed to talk with anyone by telephone or to greet persons who chanced to come to the door. while she had given her promise not to disclose anything, mr. nichols preferred to take no chance. "this is the set-up," he told penny as they held secret session. "i have arranged so that jay kline mysteriously recovered his package of letters----" "but dad----" "it is the only way to trap him, penny. with the letters in his possession, he'll meet herman crocker tonight by the footbridge. when crocker pays over the hush money, police will arrest them both." "i'd love to see the big roundup," said penny eagerly. "you shall," mr. nichols promised. "you've earned the right." that night long before the appointed hour, penny, her father and several plain-clothes men were waiting in the bushes for the arrival of kline and herman crocker. jay kline was the first to reach the footbridge. he appeared to be very nervous and smoked one cigarette after another. now and then he would light a match and glance at his watch. after a fifteen minute wait herman crocker's car was heard coming down the road. the automobile stopped some distance from the bridge, and penny, who had keen eyes, saw that the old man had brought his grandson with him. however, he left the boy in the car and came toward the bridge alone. "well, did you bring the money?" asked jay kline. "i could raise only half the sum you demanded," the old man whined. "you have the letters with you?" jay kline produced the packet. "oh, no you don't," he laughed as herman tried to take the letters from him. "you'll get them only when you've paid over all the money." "i'll give you what i have. don't be too hard on me." at a nod from mr. nichols, the plain-clothes men stepped from the bushes surrounding the pair. "tricked!" shouted jay kline. believing that old herman had betrayed him to the police, he struck savagely at the man and then brushing past one of the officers, ran down the ravine. two policemen took after him and soon dragged him back. herman crocker had not attempted to escape. "take kline down to kendon," mr. nichols ordered tersely. "i'll look after crocker myself." "you've nothing on me," the old man muttered. "i was being blackmailed, that's all." "it's no use trying to put up a front," the detective told him. "we know everything. this man was a blackmailer right enough, but the real walter crocker has a just claim to a large portion of your estate. a more serious matter is that you are wanted for the robbery of the kirmenbach residence." "i'm wanted for what?" gasped the old man. "you are under suspicion for stealing a diamond necklace." until this moment herman crocker had been calm and quiet, but suddenly he flew into a violent rage, denying any part in the robbery. "it's nothing but a frame-up!" he shouted. "maybe i did keep money that wasn't mine, but i never broke into anyone's house in all my life!" "did you or did you not have a toy lantern in your house?" asked mr. nichols. "a toy lantern?" the old man repeated. "perry had one i guess. he lost it and found it again." "it happens that perry's toy lantern was discovered at the scene of the robbery. perhaps you can explain that." "i don't know anything about it," said old herman dully. "that's the truth." "we'll see what perry has to say about it," returned mr. nichols. "come along." he led the old man back to the automobile where the boy was waiting. "perry," said the detective kindly, "do you remember a toy lantern which mr. turner gave you the other day?" "he didn't give it to me," the lad corrected. "it was mine." "you had lost it?" mr. nichols prompted. "do you recall how long ago you missed the lantern?" "it was the night walter crocker came to see my grandfather," perry answered instantly. "i was playing with it then and i think maybe i dropped it into his pocket." "you put the toy lantern into walter crocker's coat pocket?" the detective asked in amazement. "why did you do that?" "i don't know," answered perry with a shrug. "i guess i thought he might sit down on it and the glass would go bang! that would have been funny." "i take it that walter didn't discover the lantern in his pocket?" "no, he went off in a hurry and i couldn't even get my toy back." "this puts an entirely different light on the matter," said mr. nichols, speaking slowly. "if perry is telling the truth, then probably jay kline went off without suspecting that the lantern was in his coat. he may have pulled the kirmenbach job." "and the toy lantern probably fell from his pocket while he was working at the wall safe," penny added eagerly. "can we prove it, dad?" "it may be possible to make kline confess," the detective replied. "i'll go down to kendon right away and question him." with herman crocker in custody there was no one to look after perry, so penny took the lad back to her cottage. he was tucked into bed with no inkling of the unfortunate fate which had befallen his grandfather. penny and susan sat up until late awaiting the return of mr. nichols from kendon. he came in around midnight and the girls saw at once that he was highly elated. "well, penny, you've won the reward!" he called out gaily. "not really!" exclaimed penny. "yes, the case is closed," mr. nichols declared, "and kirmenbach's reward will go to you." "tell us all about it," pleaded penny eagerly. "jay kline broke down and admitted everything. he committed the kirmenbach robbery and several others as well. however, it was a shock to him when he learned that his conviction came about through perry's toy lantern. he never dreamed it was in his coat." "what will become of herman crocker?" penny inquired. "he has agreed to turn over the major part of his estate to the rightful heir--michael." "will he be sent to prison, dad?" "that hasn't been determined, but i imagine he may escape a sentence. however, in any case, perry is to be taken from him and turned over to someone who will give him better care." "i'm glad of that," said penny. "did herman offer any reason for doing what he did?" "only that he hoped to keep the fortune for himself. then too, it seems he wished to pass it on to his own grandson, perry. you remember he was the child of herman's daughter, ella--the only person whom the old man ever loved." "yet he mistreated perry." "in a way, yes, but he probably thought more of the boy than any other living person." "and what is to become of mrs. masterbrook?" penny questioned, lowering her voice. "i didn't bring her name into the case at all. at heart i doubt that the woman is bad--she is merely a natural born trouble maker. as far as i'm concerned she's free to go on living in this community. i imagine she has learned her lesson." "there's no question that michael will get the money, dad?" "not the slightest. and he'll owe all his good fortune to you, penny. come to think of it, i owe you quite a bit myself." "you?" asked penny, smiling. "yes, you practically solved my case for me," declared the detective. "not to mention digging up one of your own." "i had good fun doing it," laughed penny. then her face fell. "i suppose now that all the mystery is solved we'll be going back home again." "we'll certainly pack up and leave this place," answered mr. nichols. "but we're not starting for home." "then where are we going?" asked penny in surprise. "i don't know," replied mr. nichols, smiling broadly, "but it will be to some nice quiet place where i can have a vacation." the end the will of samuel appleton; with remarks by one of the executors. boston: printed by john wilson & son, , school street. . remarks. samuel appleton was born at new ipswich, n.h., june , , and died, without issue, at his residence in boston, on tuesday, july , ; having just entered on the eighty-eighth year of his age. in november, , he married mrs. mary gore, who was much younger than himself. this union has been marked, on his side, by the most unvarying confidence and sincere affection. he has ever found his own delight in gratifying each wish of his wife with an almost boundless indulgence. and she--the brilliant and happy mistress of his hospitable mansion--has been alike admirable, when presiding over its social circle, or its more public gayeties; and when, in its private recesses, she has devoted herself to what she has ever felt to be her highest duty and her chief privilege,--that of guarding the declining years of her husband with the most kind and thoughtful care; cheering his pathway to the tomb by those considerate attentions, which, both in life and in death, he so gratefully appreciated and acknowledged. on the last morning of his life, he enjoyed his usual health. during the day, however, he suffered pain and uneasiness, apparently the result of indigestion. mrs. appleton, therefore, remained constantly with him, but without feeling any serious apprehensions. he at length seemed to be entirely relieved by the means used, and said, "i will now try to go to sleep." in a few moments, mrs. appleton was alarmed by hearing him breathe once or twice much more loudly than usual. she ran to his bedside, and his favorite female attendant was immediately summoned. he was still lying in the same attitude of repose. the sleep that had fallen upon him so gently was the sleep of death! this event at once called forth a universal and spontaneous expression of regard for the deceased from the community in which he had so long lived. it was unrestrained by any differences of political opinion or of religious sentiment. thus, in the "boston post," the organ of the democratic party of boston, there appeared the following communication:-- "samuel appleton is dead! never has there been summoned from among us a purer man or a more public-spirited citizen. possessing strong natural sense and the most plain and unaffected manners, he was truly simple-hearted and noble-minded. there was nothing about him of ostentation or pretence. all his _acts_, during a long life, praise him. beginning with humble prospects, by industry and intelligence he became one of our wealthiest merchants. as a country schoolmaster, during the winter months, he was once, when a young man, '_put up at auction_, to be boarded out in the family that would consent to take him at the lowest rate.'[ ] latterly, for many years, probably not a day has passed without the performance of some deed of kindness great or small,--some act of public or private munificence; and each evening saw him sink to rest, happy in the consciousness that he had made others happy. in a notice of him, as a benefactor of one of our chief charitable institutions, published not long since, it is said: 'in advanced age, and unable to walk from his house, he continues in the highest and best sense to enjoy life. he has, indeed, no children; but a numerous band of nephews and nieces look up to him with truly filial regard. indeed, the community itself ventures to apply to him _their_ familiar and affectionate appellation of "uncle sam." this name, in the abstract so dear to every patriot, could not be more worthily bestowed.'[ ] that life, so honorable and so useful, rendered sweet by the daily blessings of those whose necessities or sufferings have been relieved by his bounty, has been fitly closed by a calm and peaceful death." obituary notices of a like favorable character, and characteristic anecdotes, &c., were inserted in the "daily evening transcript," the "boston courier," and the "christian register," and also in various other journals. public funeral services were held at the stone chapel, on friday afternoon, at four o'clock. the hon. thomas h. perkins, and a few other surviving contemporaries of the deceased, were present among the assemblage of relatives and friends by which the church was filled. he was buried at mount auburn, in a lot which he had purchased many years ago, and on which he had erected a costly monument. designing to embellish that field of the dead, he had authorized an artist in a foreign country to execute this work without regard to expense. when completed, it was not in accordance with the simple tastes of mr. appleton. he even desired that he might be buried in his tomb, under a church in boston, rather than in the beautiful spot which he had thus selected and adorned. the existing ordinance of the city rendered it impossible to comply with this suggestion; and indeed it seemed to be, on other grounds, inexpedient. at a stated quarterly meeting of the trustees of the massachusetts general hospital, held on the same day, the following preamble and votes, as proposed by the chairman, were unanimously adopted, viz.:-- "the funeral of the late hon. samuel appleton takes place this afternoon; and the bells of the city are now tolling as a public expression of respect for one of its worthiest sons and its noblest benefactors, who, at the advanced age of eighty-seven years, has died universally beloved and regretted. "formerly a trustee of this institution, and ever cherishing a lively interest in its welfare, we are happy to acknowledge our indebtedness to him, alike for his valuable personal services, and for a large share of that bounty which he has always so wisely and so liberally bestowed. "this board would present to the widow of the deceased, by whose affectionate attentions and devoted care his life has been for so many years prolonged and rendered happy, the assurances of their profound sympathy, now that she has lost a companion and friend by whom she was most tenderly beloved. "_voted_, that this board do now adjourn to attend the funeral of the deceased." mr. appleton left a will and codicil, of which a few copies are printed for the use of his executors and legatees. these documents were opened and read in the presence of the widow and some of the relatives, on saturday, july ; and the following anecdote was then related by one of the executors:-- the late isaac appleton jewett was a favorite nephew of the deceased, and, as such, had a bequest of $ , , and was eventually to receive besides one-tenth part of the residuary property. he died in january last, leaving as his heir-at-law a half-sister, who, by the terms of the will, became entitled to these bequests. there was no blood-relationship between her and the testator. _a comparative stranger would thus be a larger legatee than any one of his own kindred._ the executor called mr. appleton's attention to this fact. his reply was: "i am much obliged for the suggestion: it was a proper one for you to make. i will consider, and let you know my decision to-morrow." the next day he said: "i have been thinking of what you mentioned to me; and if, in the other world, there is any knowledge of what is done in this, i should not like to have my nephew, whom i so loved and trusted, find that my first act, on learning his death, is the revocation or curtailment of a bequest made in his favor, and which, if he had survived me, would have eventually benefited her who was nearest and dearest to him. _the will must stand as it is._" this confirmation of a private bequest is no less honorable to the memory of mr. appleton, than are those other two provisions of his will by which he so bountifully remembers the servants of his household, and appropriates to public uses so large a part of his princely fortune. n.i.b. * * * * * footnotes: [ ] "history of the massachusetts hospital," . [ ] "history of the massachusetts hospital," . * * * * * will of samuel appleton. the last will and testament of samuel appleton. be it remembered, that i, samuel appleton, of boston, in the county of suffolk and state of massachusetts, merchant, being of sound disposing mind and memory, and in good health, but aware of the uncertainty of life, and desirous of making a disposition of such property as i may leave at the time of my decease, do make, publish, and declare this my last will and testament, in manner and form following, to wit:-- [sidenote: to his wife, $ , .] i give and bequeath to my beloved wife, mary appleton, one hundred and thirty thousand dollars, in the manner following, to wit:-- [sidenote: viz. $ , .] st. the sum of one hundred thousand dollars in cash, to be paid to her by my executors. [sidenote: house, , beacon-street, at $ , ;] d. my land and house in beacon-street, boston, numbered fifty-three, now occupied by mrs. goodwin, and valued by me at fourteen thousand dollars, to hold to her and her heirs. [sidenote: and $ to put said house in order.] d. the sum of six thousand dollars in cash to be paid to her by my executors for the purpose of putting said house in good order and condition. [sidenote: or the $ , in cash, if she prefers.] if, however, my wife do elect to accept the sum of twenty thousand dollars in cash, instead of said land and house in beacon-street, and said six thousand dollars, then and in that case it is my will that the sum of twenty thousand dollars in cash be paid to her by my executors. [sidenote: a clause revoked by the codicil.] [ th. any of the plate and furniture belonging to me at the time of my decease, at the appraised value thereof, to the amount of eight thousand dollars.] [sidenote: pew, horses, &c., shares in athenæum, $ .] th. my pew in king's chapel in boston, numbered two; also two shares in the boston athenæum; also the horses and carriages belonging to me at the time of my decease,--all valued by me at two thousand dollars. [sidenote: all in lieu of dower.] the provision thus made for my beloved wife is designed to be in full satisfaction of her right of dower, or thirds, in my estate. [sidenote: to the children of isaac appleton, $ , ; viz.:--] i give and bequeath to the heirs of my brother isaac appleton, of dublin, state of new hampshire, the sum of sixty thousand dollars, to be distributed among them in the manner following, to wit:-- [sidenote: to mrs. todd, $ ;] st. to mrs. sarah todd, of byron, state of new york, daughter of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: and to each of her six children, $ .] to the six children of the said sarah todd, grandchildren of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars to each and every one of them. [sidenote: to mrs. mary davis, $ ;] d. to mrs. mary davis, of lee county, state of illinois, daughter of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: and her son, $ .] to cyrus a. davis, son of the said mary davis, grandson of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: to mrs. kendall, $ .] d. to mrs. harriet g. kendall, of dublin, state of new hampshire, daughter of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: to her three children, each $ .] to the three children[ ] of the said harriet g. kendall, grandchildren of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars to each and every one of them. [sidenote: to david appleton, $ .] th. to david appleton, of dublin, state of new hampshire, son of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: to joseph's four children, each $ ; viz. joseph b., eugene, mrs. bagley, mrs. preston.] th. to joseph b. appleton, of lee county, state of illinois; to eugene appleton; to mrs. celestia bagley; to mrs. mary preston; being the four children of joseph appleton deceased, and grandchildren of my brother isaac appleton,--the sum of three thousand dollars to each and every one of them. [sidenote: to mrs. sarah davis, $ .] th. to mrs. sarah davis, of ashby, state of massachusetts, daughter of mrs. emily eastabrooks deceased, and granddaughter of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: to mrs. marr, $ .] th. to mrs. mary jane marr, of scarboro', state of maine, daughter of samuel appleton deceased, and granddaughter of my brother isaac appleton, the sum of three thousand dollars. [sidenote: to the children of dr. moses appleton, $ , ; viz.:] i give and bequeath to the four children of my late brother, doctor moses appleton, of waterville, state of maine, the sum of sixty thousand dollars, to be distributed among them in the manner following, to wit:-- [sidenote: samuel, $ , .] st. to samuel appleton, of waterville, state of maine, son of my late brother, doctor moses appleton, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: moses l., $ , .] d. to moses l. appleton, of bangor, state of maine, son of my late brother, doctor moses appleton, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. wells, $ , .] d. to mrs. ann louisa wells, of portland, state of maine, daughter of my late brother, dr. moses appleton, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. plaisted, $ , .] th. to mrs. mary jane plaisted, of waterville, state of maine, daughter of my late brother, doctor moses appleton, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: to eben appleton's children, $ , ; viz.:--] i give and bequeath to the three children of my deceased brother eben appleton, the sum of sixty thousand dollars, to be distributed among them in the manner following, to wit: [sidenote: s.a. appleton, $ , .] st. to samuel a. appleton, of boston, son of my deceased brother eben appleton, the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. [sidenote: wm. s. appleton, $ , .] d. to william s. appleton, of baltimore, state of maryland, son of my deceased brother eben appleton, the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. blatchford, $ , .] d. to mrs. caroline f. blatchford, of auburn, state of new york, daughter of my deceased brother eben appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: to the children of nathan appleton, $ , ; viz.:] i give and bequeath to the six children of my brother nathan appleton, of boston, the sum of sixty thousand dollars, to be distributed among them in the manner following, to wit:-- [sidenote: mrs. mackintosh, $ , .] st. to mrs. mary mackintosh, daughter of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. longfellow, $ , .] d. to mrs. fanny e. longfellow, daughter of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: thomas g., $ , .] d. to thomas g. appleton, son of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: harriot, $ , .] th. to harriot appleton, daughter of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: william s., $ , .] th. to william s. appleton, son of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: nathan, $ , .] th. to nathan appleton, son of my brother nathan appleton, the sum of ten thousand dollars. [sidenote: to mrs. barrett's children, $ , , viz.:] i give and bequeath to the two children of my sister, mary barrett, of new ipswich, state of new hampshire, the sum of thirty thousand dollars, to be distributed between them in the manner following, to wit:-- [sidenote: mrs. bent, $ , .] st. to mrs. mary narcissa bent, daughter of my sister mary barrett, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. spalding, $ , .] d. to mrs. dora e. spalding, daughter of my sister mary barrett, the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. [sidenote: to mrs. jewett's son, isaac a. jewett, $ , .] i give and bequeath to isaac appleton jewett, son of my deceased sister emily jewett, the sum of thirty thousand dollars. [sidenote: to maria goodwin, $ .] i give and bequeath to miss maria goodwin, niece of my beloved wife, who has for many years resided in my house as one of my family, the sum of seven thousand dollars. [sidenote: mrs. goodwin, $ .] i give and bequeath to mrs. maria goodwin, sister of my beloved wife, the sum of one thousand dollars. [sidenote: mary goodwin, $ .] i give and bequeath to miss mary goodwin, daughter of the said mrs. maria goodwin, the sum of one thousand dollars. [sidenote: delia goodwin, $ .] i give and bequeath to miss delia goodwin, daughter of the said mrs. maria goodwin, the sum of one thousand dollars. [sidenote: rev. e. peabody, $ .] i give and bequeath to my friend and pastor, the rev. ephraim peabody, of boston, the sum of five thousand dollars. [sidenote: the servants, $ .] i give and bequeath to the servants who may be living with me at the time of my decease the sum of five thousand dollars, to be distributed among them in the manner and according to proportions fixed upon by my beloved wife. [sidenote: to his executors, $ , for public uses.] and i do also hereby give and bequeath to my executors hereinafter named--or such of them as shall accept the trust, the survivors or survivor of them, to be by them applied, disposed of, and distributed, for scientific, literary, religious, or charitable purposes--the following manufacturing stocks at their par value, estimated at two hundred thousand dollars, and situated as follows, to wit:-- st. _at manchester, state of new hampshire._ fifty shares in the amoskeag manufacturing company. forty shares in the stark mills. ten shares in the manchester print works. d. _at lowell, state of massachusetts._ twenty shares in the merrimac manufacturing company. twenty shares in the appleton manufacturing company. twenty shares in the hamilton manufacturing company. twenty shares in the suffolk manufacturing company. twenty shares in the massachusetts cotton mills. my wishes in regard to the particular institutions or objects to which the aforesaid manufacturing stocks are to be applied, and also the time and mode of the application thereof, i intend to make known to my executors; and i feel sure that they will strictly comply with the same; and, in default of any such directions from me, i have confidence in their making such a disposition and distribution of said property as they will think would be most likely to meet my approbation. [sidenote: powers of sale, &c.] [sidenote: estate to be settled in years.] i hereby fully authorize and empower and direct my executors hereinafter named, or such of them as shall accept the trust, the survivors or survivor of them, or any administrator on my estate, to sell and convey at public auction, or by private sale, at such times and on such conditions as they shall judge best, any and all estate and property, real, personal, and mixed, of which i may die seized or possessed, saving and excepting only such as herein is specifically given to my beloved wife; and likewise the said land and house devised to my beloved wife, in case she shall elect not to take the same; and to make and deliver good and sufficient conveyances and transfers thereof; the purchasers to be in nowise bound to see to the appropriation of the purchase-money: it being my wish that my estate should be settled as soon as convenient after my decease, and, if practicable, within two years thereafter. [sidenote: residue to his nephews, nieces, &c. in sums corresponding to their specific bequests respectively.] if, after the conversion of the residue of my estate into money, and the payment of all my debts, and the distribution and payment of all the bequests in this my will, contained in accordance with the foregoing dispositions, any residue should remain, it is my will that the amount of said residue be distributed among the children and grandchildren of my brother isaac appleton, and among the children of my late brother doctor moses appleton, and among the children of my deceased brother eben appleton, and among the children of my brother nathan appleton, and among the children of my sister mary barrett, and of my deceased sister emily jewett, hereinbefore named, in proportions corresponding to the amounts or sums which said heirs are respectively entitled to receive by virtue of the original dispositions in this my will. [sidenote: no legacy to lapse by death of legatee.] if any of the legatees named in this will should die in my lifetime, then and in that case, whatever is herein given to such legatee i give to and among those who at my decease may be heirs-at-law of such legatee by the statute of distributions of this commonwealth, as to any real estate of which said legatee should then have died seized. [sidenote: liability of executors.] i direct that my executors shall each be liable only for his own actual receipts and his own wilful defaults, and not the one for the other or others. [sidenote: executors named.] i appoint nathan appleton, william appleton, nathaniel ingersoll bowditch, and isaac appleton jewett, to be the executors of this my last will and testament, hereby revoking all wills by me heretofore made. in witness whereof, i have hereunto set my hand and seal on this twenty-eighth day of february, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty-one. (signed) saml. appleton [and a seal]. signed, sealed, published, and declared by said testator to be his last will and testament, in presence of us, who, at his request, and in his presence, and in presence of each other, have hereunto set our names as witnesses. joseph tilden. moses l. hale. franklin h. story. * * * * * footnotes: [ ] one of these children died before the testator. the father, as his heir, is entitled to his share, by a subsequent provision of the will. * * * * * codicil. i, samuel appleton, of boston, in the county of suffolk, and state of massachusetts, merchant, having further considered my last will and testament, bearing date the twenty-eighth day of february, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty-one, do think proper to make and publish the following as a codicil thereunto. [sidenote: revokes a clause of the will;] i do hereby revoke and cancel that clause in said last will and testament, giving unto my beloved wife "any of the plate and furniture belonging to me at the time of my decease, at the appraised value thereof, to the amount of eight thousand dollars;" and in lieu thereof i do make the following dispositions:-- [sidenote: and gives to widow his mansion-house, , beacon-street,] i give and devise unto my beloved wife the dwelling-house, with the stables, lands, and appurtenances thereunto belonging, now occupied by me, being the dwelling-house numbered thirty-seven in beacon-street, boston, to have and to hold the same to her, her heirs and assigns for ever. [sidenote: and all the plate, &c. therein.] and i do also give and bequeath unto my beloved wife all the plate, furniture, pictures, statuary, books, stores, and other household articles, belonging to me at the time of my decease; and it is my wish that no inventory be taken of the same. [sidenote: legatees may take property at appraisement, &c.] and it is also my wish that each and every of the legatees, in said last will and testament named, may, with the advice and consent of my executors, take, in lieu of the money to which they are entitled by said last will and testament, any of the property, left by me at the time of my decease, at the appraised value thereof. [sidenote: bonds of executors to be only in a penalty adequate to protect creditors.] and i do also direct that the executors of my said last will and testament shall give bonds in such sum only as the judge of probate may consider sufficient for the payment of the amount of my debts. in witness whereof, i have hereto set my hand and seal, this eighth day of october, in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty-two. (signed) saml. appleton [and a seal]. signed, sealed, published, and declared by said testator to be a codicil to his last will and testament, in presence of us, who, at his request, and in his presence, and in presence of each other, hereto set our names as witnesses. joseph tilden. franklin h. story. francis c. lowell. recapitulation. recapitulation. to the widow (by the will), $ , in personal property, and $ , in real estate; or all in personal property, at her option; and (by the codicil), his mansion-house, and all in it; of the value of $ , to the descendants of each of his four brothers (isaac, moses, eben, and nathan appleton), $ , . to the descendants of each of his two sisters (mary barrett and emily jewett), $ , . in all , to maria goodwin, $ ; her mother and two sisters, $ each , to rev. ephraim peabody, $ ; and to the servants in the family, $ , to public uses , all the residue to the said descendants of his brothers and sisters, in sums corresponding to their respective specific bequests. the residuary legatees will be therefore entitled to claim in the following proportions, viz.:-- isaac apppleton's descendants, $ , out of $ , , or / ; viz.:-- . mrs. sarah todd, wife of james b. todd, of byron, n.y., a legatee of $ , has / . isaac a. todd, of byron, n.y. / . mrs. rachel d. moore, wife of tom moore, of medina, michigan / . mrs. emily a. hall, wife of alfred d. hall, of sheridan, calhoun county, michigan / . dr. daniel todd, of canandaigua, lenawee county, michigan / . samuel a. todd, a minor, of byron, n.y. / . francis james todd, a minor, of byron, n.y. / . mrs. mary davis, now wife of asa holt, of ashby, mass. / . her son, cyrus a. davis, of palestine grove, lee county, illinois / . mrs. harriet g. kendall, wife of rev. henry a. kendall, of concord, n.h. / . her husband, as heir of a deceased daughter / . their minor son, henry kendall / . their minor son, samuel kendall / . david appleton, of dublin, n.h. / . joseph b. appleton, of palestine grove, lee county, illinois / . eugene f. appleton, fifteen years old, of new ipswich, n.h. / . mrs. celestia bagley, wife of gilman bagley, of sharon, n.h. / . mrs. mary preston, wife of edward f. preston, of new ipswich, n.h. / . mrs. sarah davis, wife of john u. davis, of new ipswich, n.h. / . mrs. mary jane marr, wife of dennis w. marr, of portland, maine / moses appleton's children, $ , out of $ , , or / ; viz.:-- . samuel appleton, of waterville, maine, a legatee of $ , , has / . moses l. appleton, of bangor, maine / . mrs. ann louisa wells, wife of hon. samuel wells, of portland, maine / . mrs. mary jane plaisted, wife of dr. samuel plaisted, of waterville, maine / eben appleton's children, $ , out of $ , , or / ; viz.:-- . samuel a. appleton, of boston, being a legatee of $ , , has / . william s. appleton, of baltimore, m.d. / . mrs. caroline f. blatchford, wife of samuel blatchford, of auburn, n.y., a legatee of $ , / nathan appleton's children, $ , out of $ , , or / ; viz.:-- . mrs. mary mackintosh, wife of his excellency robert james mackintosh, governor of the island of antigua, &c. a legatee of $ , , has / . mrs. fanny e. longfellow, wife of prof. henry w. longfellow, of cambridge, mass. / . thomas g. appleton, of boston / . harriot appleton, of boston, a minor / . william s. appleton, of boston, a minor / . nathan appleton, of boston, a minor / mrs. barrett's and mrs. jewett's children, $ , out of $ , , or / ; viz.:-- . mrs. mary narcissa bent, wife of samuel w. bent, of middlebury, vt., a legatee of $ , , has / . mrs. dora e. spalding, wife of dr. edward spalding, of nashua, n.h. / . isaac appleton jewett's half-sister and heir-at-law, mrs. harriet e. ide, wife of dr. william e. ide, of columbus, ohio, a legatee of $ , / * * * * * the lost heir by g. a. henty author of "sturdy and strong," "rujub, the juggler," "by england's aid," etc., etc. the mershon company rahway, n. j. new york contents. i. a brave action ii. in the south seas iii. a deaf girl iv. the gypsy v. a gambling den vi. john simcoe vii. john simcoe's friend viii. general mathieson's seizure ix. a strange illness x. two heavy blows xi. a startling will xii. dr. leeds speaks xiii. netta visits stowmarket xiv. an advertisement xv. very bad news xvi. a fresh clew xvii. netta acts independently xviii. down in the marshes xix. a partial success xx. a dinner party xxi. a box at the opera xxii. nearing the goal xxiii. walter xxiv. a new barge xxv. a crushing exposure xxvi. a letter from abroad [illustration: simcoe ran in with his knife and attacked the tiger. _--page ._] the lost heir. chapter i. a brave action. a number of soldiers were standing in the road near the bungalow of brigadier-general mathieson, the officer in command of the force in the cantonments of benares and the surrounding district. "they are coming now, i think," one sergeant said to another. "it is a bad business. they say the general is terribly hurt, and it was thought better to bring him and the other fellow who was mixed up in it down in doolies. i heard captain harvey say in the orderly-room that they have arranged relays of bearers every five miles all the way down. he is a good fellow is the general, and we should all miss him. he is not one of the sort who has everything comfortable himself and don't care a rap how the soldiers get on: he sees to the comfort of everyone and spends his money freely, too. he don't seem to care what he lays out in making the quarters of the married men comfortable, and in getting any amount of ice for the hospital, and extra punkawallahs in the barrack rooms during the hot season. he goes out and sees to everything himself. why, on the march i have known him, when all the doolies were full, give up his own horse to a man who had fallen out. he has had bad luck too; lost his wife years ago by cholera, and he has got no one to care for but his girl. she was only a few months old when her mother died. of course she was sent off to england, and has been there ever since. he must be a rich man, besides his pay and allowances; but it aint every rich man who spends his money as he does. there won't be a dry eye in the cantonment if he goes under." "how was it the other man got hurt?" "well, i hear that the tiger sprang on to the general's elephant and seized him by the leg. they both went off together, and the brute shifted its hold to the shoulder, and carried him into the jungle; then the other fellow slipped off his elephant and ran after the tiger. he got badly mauled too; but he killed the brute and saved the general's life." "by jove! that was a plucky thing. who was he?" "why, he was the chap who was walking backwards and forwards with the general when the band was playing yesterday evening. several of the men remarked how like he was to you, sanderson. i noticed it, too. there certainly was a strong likeness." "yes, some of the fellows were saying so," sanderson replied. "he passed close to me, and i saw that he was about my height and build, but of course i did not notice the likeness; a man does not know his own face much. anyhow, he only sees his full face, and doesn't know how he looks sideways. he is a civilian, isn't he?" "yes, i believe so; i know that the general is putting him up at his quarters. he has been here about a week. i think he is some man from england, traveling, i suppose, to see the world. i heard the adjutant speak of him as mr. simcoe when he was talking about the affair." "of course they will take him to the general's bungalow?" "no; he is going to the next. major walker is away on leave, and the doctor says that it is better that they should be in different bungalows, because then if one gets delirious and noisy he won't disturb the other. dr. hunter is going to take up his quarters there to look after him, with his own servants and a couple of hospital orderlies." by this time several officers were gathered at the entrance to the general's bungalow, two mounted troopers having brought in the news a few minutes before that the doolies were within a mile. they came along now, each carried by four men, maintaining a swift but smooth and steady pace, and abstaining from the monotonous chant usually kept up. a doctor was riding by the side of the doolies, and two mounted orderlies with baskets containing ice and surgical dressings rode fifty paces in the rear. the curtains of the doolies had been removed to allow of a free passage of air, and mosquito curtains hung round to prevent insects annoying the sufferers. there was a low murmur of sympathy from the soldiers as the doolies passed them, and many a muttered "god bless you, sir, and bring you through it all right." then, as the injured men were carried into the two bungalows, most of the soldiers strolled off, some, however, remaining near in hopes of getting a favorable report from an orderly or servant. a group of officers remained under the shade of a tree near until the surgeon who had ridden in with the doolies came out. "what is the report, mcmanus?" one of them asked, as he approached. "there is no change since i sent off my report last night," he said. "the general is very badly hurt; i certainly should not like to give an opinion at present whether he will get over it or not. if he does it will be a very narrow shave. he was insensible till we lifted him into the doolie at eight o'clock yesterday evening, when the motion seemed to rouse him a little, and he just opened his eyes; and each time we changed bearers he has had a little ice between his lips, and a drink of lime juice and water with a dash of brandy in it. he has known me each time, and whispered a word or two, asking after the other." "and how is he?" "i have no doubt that he will do; that is, of course, if fever does not set in badly. his wounds are not so severe as the general's, and he is a much younger man, and, as i should say, with a good constitution. if there is no complication he ought to be about again in a month's time. he is perfectly sensible. let him lie quiet for a day or two; after that it would be as well if some of you who have met him at the general's would drop in occasionally for a short chat with him; but of course we must wait to see if there is going to be much fever." "and did it happen as they say, doctor? the dispatch told us very little beyond the fact that the general was thrown from his elephant, just as the tiger sprang, and that it seized him and carried him into the jungle; that simcoe slipped off his pad and ran in and attacked the tiger; that he saved the general's life and killed the animal, but is sadly hurt himself." "that is about it, except that he did not kill the tiger. metcalf, colvin, and smith all ran in, and firing together knocked it over stone dead. it was an extraordinarily plucky action of simcoe, for he had emptied his rifle, and had nothing but it and a knife when he ran in." "you don't say so! by jove! that was an extraordinary act of pluck; one would almost say of madness, if he hadn't succeeded in drawing the brute off mathieson, and so gaining time for the others to come up. it was a miracle that he wasn't killed. well, we shall not have quite so easy a time of it for a bit. of course murdock, as senior officer, will take command of the brigade, but he won't be half as considerate for our comfort as mathieson has been. he is rather a scoffer at what he calls new-fangled ways, and he will be as likely to march the men out in the heat of the day as at five in the morning." the two sergeants who had been talking walked back together to their quarters. both of them were on the brigade staff. sanderson was the paymaster's clerk, nichol worked in the orderly-room. at the sergeants' mess the conversation naturally turned on the tiger hunt and its consequences. "i have been in some tough fights," one of the older men said, "and i don't know that i ever felt badly scared--one hasn't time to think of that when one is at work--but to rush in against a wounded tiger with nothing but an empty gun and a hunting-knife is not the sort of job that i should like to tackle. it makes one's blood run cold to think of it. i consider that everyone in the brigade ought to subscribe a day's pay to get something to give that man, as a token of our admiration for his pluck and of our gratitude for his having saved general mathieson's life." there was a general expression of approval at the idea. then sanderson said: "i think it is a thing that ought to be done, but it is not for us to begin it. if we hear of anything of that sort done by the officers, two or three of us might go up and say that it was the general wish among the non-coms. and men to take a share in it; but it would never do for us to begin." "that is right enough; the officers certainly would not like such a thing to begin from below. we had better wait and see whether there is any movement that way. i dare say that it will depend a great deal on whether the general gets over it or not." the opportunity did not come. at the end of five weeks mr. simcoe was well enough to travel by easy stages down to the coast, acting upon the advice that he should, for the present, give up all idea of making a tour through india, and had better take a sea voyage to australia or the cape, or, better still, take his passage home at once. had the day and hour of his leaving been known, there was not a white soldier in the cantonments who would not have turned out to give him a hearty cheer, but although going on well the doctor said that all excitement should be avoided. it would be quite enough for him to have to say good-by to the friends who had been in the habit of coming in to talk with him daily, but anything like a public greeting by the men would be likely to upset him. it was not, therefore, until simcoe was some way down the river that his departure became known to the troops. six weeks later there was a sensation in the cantonments. general mathieson had so far recovered that he was able to be carried up to the hills, and the camp was still growling at the irritating orders and regulations of his temporary successor in command, when the news spread that staff pay-sergeant sanderson had deserted. he had obtained a fortnight's furlough, saying that he wanted to pay a visit to some old comrades at allahabad; at the end of the fortnight he had not returned, and the staff paymaster had gone strictly into his accounts and found that there was a deficiency of over £ , which he himself would of course be called upon to make good. he had, indeed, helped to bring about the deficiency by placing entire confidence in the sergeant and by neglecting to check his accounts regularly. letters were at once written to the heads of the police at calcutta and bombay, and to all the principal places on the roads to those ports; but it was felt that, with such a start as he had got, the chances were all in his favor. it was soon ascertained at allahabad that he had not been there. inquiries at the various dak-bungalows satisfied the authorities that he had not traveled by land. if he had gone down to calcutta he had gone by boat; but he might have started on the long land journey across to bombay, or have even made for madras. no distinct clew, however, could be obtained. the paymaster obtained leave and went down to calcutta and inspected all the lists of passengers and made inquiries as to them; but there were then but few white men in the country, save those holding civil or military positions and the merchants at the large ports, therefore there was not much difficulty in ascertaining the identity of everyone who had left calcutta during the past month, unless, indeed, he had taken a passage in some native craft to rangoon or possibly singapore. on his arrival at calcutta he heard of an event which caused deep and general regret when known at benares, and for a time threw even the desertion of sergeant sanderson into the shade. the _nepaul_, in which john simcoe had sailed, had been lost in a typhoon in the bay of bengal when but six days out. there was no possible doubt as to his fate, for a vessel half a mile distant had seen her founder, but could render no assistance, being herself dismasted and unmanageable and the sea so tremendous that no boat could have lived in it for a moment. as both ships belonged to the east india company, and were well known to each other, the captain and officials of the _ceylon_ had no doubt whatever as to her identity, and, indeed, the remains of a boat bearing the _nepaul's_ name were picked up a few days later near the spot where she had gone down. "it's hard luck, that is what i call it," sergeant nichol said with great emphasis when the matter was talked over in the sergeants' mess. "here is a man who faces a wounded tiger with nothing but a hunting-knife, and recovers from his wounds; here is the general, whose life he saved, going on first-rate, and yet he loses his life himself, drowned at sea. i call that about as hard luck as anything i have heard of." "hard luck indeed!" another said. "if he had died of his wounds it would have been only what might have been expected; but to get over them and then to get drowned almost as soon as he had started is, as you say, nichol, very hard luck. i am sure the general will be terribly cut up about it. i heard major butler tell captain thompson that he had heard from dr. hunter that when the general began to get round and heard that simcoe had gone, while he was lying there too ill to know anything about it, he regularly broke down and cried like a child; and i am sure the fact that he will never have the chance of thanking him now will hurt him as bad as those tiger's claws." "and so there is no news of sanderson?" "not that i have heard. maybe he has got clean away; but i should say it's more likely that he is lying low in some sailors' haunt until the matter blows over. then, like enough, he will put on sea-togs and ship under another name before the mast in some trader knocking about among the islands, and by the time she comes back he could take a passage home without questions being asked. he is a sharp fellow is sanderson. i never quite liked him myself, but i never thought he was a rogue. it will teach captain smalley to be more careful in future. i heard that he was going home on his long leave in the spring, but i suppose he will not be able to do so now for a year or so; three hundred pounds is a big sum to have to fork out." the news of the loss of the _nepaul_, with all hands, did indeed hit general mathieson very heavily, and for a time seriously delayed the progress that he was making towards recovery. "it's bad enough to think," he said, "that i shall never have an opportunity of thanking that gallant fellow for my life; but it is even worse to know that my rescue has brought about his death, for had it not been for that he would have by this time been up at delhi or in oude instead of lying at the bottom of the sea. i would give half my fortune to grasp his hand again and tell him what i feel." general mathieson's ill luck stuck to him. he gained strength so slowly that he was ordered home, and it was three years before he rejoined. four years later his daughter came out to him, and for a time his home in delhi, where he was now stationed, was a happy one. the girl showed no desire to marry, and refused several very favorable offers; but after she had been out four years she married a rising young civilian who was also stationed at delhi. the union was a happy one, except that the first two children born to them died in infancy. they were girls. the third was a boy, who at the age of eight months was sent home under the charge of an officer's wife returning with her children to england. when they arrived there he was placed in charge of mrs. covington, a niece of the general's. but before he reached the shores of england he was an orphan. an epidemic of cholera broke out at the station at which his father, who was now a deputy collector, was living, and he and his wife were among the first victims of the scourge. general mathieson was now a major-general, and in command of the troops in the calcutta district. this blow decided him to resign his command and return to england. he was now sixty; the climate of india had suited him, and he was still a hale, active man. being generally popular he was soon at home in london, where he took a house in hyde park gardens and became a regular frequenter of the oriental and east indian united service clubs, of which he had been for years a member, went a good deal into society, and when at home took a lively interest in his grandson, often running down to his niece's place, near warwick, to see how he was getting on. the ayah who had come with the child from india had been sent back a few months after they arrived, for his mother had written to mrs. covington requesting that he should have a white nurse. "the native servants," she wrote, "spoil the children dreadfully, and let them have entirely their own way, and the consequence is that they grow up domineering, bad-tempered, and irritable. i have seen so many cases of it here that herbert and i have quite decided that our child shall not be spoilt in this way, but shall be brought up in england as english children are, to obey their nurses and to do as they are ordered." as mrs. covington's was a large country house the child was no trouble; an excellent nurse was obtained, and the boy throve under her care. the general now much regretted having remained so many years in india, and if an old comrade remarked, "i never could make out why you stuck to it so long, mathieson; it was ridiculous for a man with a large private fortune, such as you have," he would reply, "i can only suppose it was because i was an old fool. but, you see, i had no particular reason for coming home. i lost my only sister three years after i went out, and had never seen her only daughter, my niece mary covington. of course i hoped for another bout of active service, and when the chance came at last up in the north, there was i stuck down in calcutta. if it hadn't been for jane i should certainly have given it up in disgust when i found i was practically shelved. but she always used to come down and stay with me for a month or two in the cool season, and as she was the only person in the world i cared for, i held on from year to year, grumbling of course, as pretty well every anglo-indian does, but without having sufficient resolution to throw it up. i ought to have stayed at home for good after that mauling i got from the tiger; but, you see, i was never really myself while i was at home. i did not feel up to going to clubs, and could not enter into london life at all, but spent most of my time at my own place, which was within a drive of mary covington's, who had then just married. "well, you see, i got deucedly tired of life down there. i knew nothing whatever of farming, and though i tried to get up an interest in it i failed altogether. of course there was a certain amount of society of a sort, and everyone called, and one had to go out to dinner-parties. but such dinner-parties! why, a dinner in india was worth a score of them. most of them were very stiff and formal, and after the women had gone upstairs, the men talked of nothing but hunting and shooting and crops and cattle; so at last i could stand it no longer, but threw up six months of my furlough and went out again. yes, of course i had jane, but at that time she was but fourteen, and was a girl at school; and when i talked of bringing her home and having a governess, everyone seemed to think that it would be the worst thing possible for her, and no doubt they were right, for the life would have been as dull for her as it was for me. "of course now it is different. i feel as young and as well as i did twenty years ago, and can thoroughly enjoy my life in london, though i still fight very shy of the country. it is a satisfaction to me to know that things are pretty quiet in india at present, so that i am losing nothing that way, and if i were out there i should be only holding inspections at barrakpoor, dumdum, or on the maidan at calcutta. of course it was pleasant enough in its way, for i never felt the heat; but as a man gets on in life he doesn't have quite so much enjoyment out of it as he used to do. the men around him are a good deal younger than himself. he knows all the old messroom jokes, and one bit of scandal is like scores of others he has heard in his time. "i am heartily glad that i have come home. many of you here are about my own standing, and there is plenty to talk about of old friends and old days. you were a young ensign when i was a captain, but bulstrode and i got our companies within a few days of each other. of course he is only a lieutenant-colonel, while i am a major-general, but that is because he had the good sense to quit the service years ago. there are scores of others in the club just about my own standing, and one gets one's rubber of whist in the afternoon, and we dine together and run down the cooking and wines, although every one of us knows at heart that they are both infinitely better than we got in india, except at the clubs in the presidency towns. "then, of course, we all agree that the service is going to the dogs, that the sepoys are over-indulged and will some day give us a lot of trouble. i keep my liver all right by taking a long ride every morning, and altogether i think i can say that i thoroughly enjoy myself." the general, on his first visit to england, had endeavored, but in vain, to find out the family of john simcoe. he had advertised largely, but without effect. "i want to find them out," he said to his niece; "i owe that man a debt of gratitude i can never repay, but doubtless there are some of his family who may be in circumstances where i could give them a helping hand. there may be young brothers--of course i could get them cadetships in the indian army--maybe portionless sisters." "but if he was traveling in india for pleasure he must have been a well-to-do young fellow. men cannot wander about in the east without having a pretty full purse." "yes, no doubt; but i don't fancy it was so in his case, and he said casually that he had come in for some money, and, as he had always had a great desire to travel, he thought that he could do nothing better than spend a year or two in the east, but that he hoped before it was gone he should fall on his legs and obtain some sort of employment. he did not care much what it was, so that it was not quill-driving. he thought that he could turn his hands to most things. i laughed at the time, for i was by no means sure that he was in earnest, but i have felt since that he must have been. if it had not been so, my advertisements would surely have caught the eye of someone who knew his family. a family wealthy enough for one of the sons to start on two years' travel must be in a fair position, whether in town or country. had it been so i should have heard of it, and therefore i think that what he said must have had some foundation in fact. he was certainly a gentleman in manner, and my idea now is that he belonged to a middle-class family, probably in some provincial town, and that, having come into some money at the death of his father or some other relative, he followed his natural bent and started on a sort of roving expedition, thinking, as many people do think, that india is a land where you have only to stretch out your hands and shake the pagoda tree. "he would have found out his mistake, poor fellow, if he had lived. the days are long past when any dashing young adventurer can obtain a post of honor in the pay of an indian rajah. still, of course, after what he did for me, had he remained in india, and i found that he really wanted a berth, i might have done something for him. i know numbers of these indian princes, some of them intimately, and to some i have been of very considerable service; and i fancy that i might have got him a berth of some kind or other without much difficulty. or had he made up his mind to return to england i would have set him up in any business he had a fancy for. he has gone now, and i wish i could pay someone he cared for a little of the debt of gratitude i owe him. well, i have done my best and have failed, from no fault of my own; but remember that if ever you hear of a family of the name of simcoe, i want you to make inquiries about them, and to give me full particulars concerning them." but no news ever reached the general on this head, and it was a frequent cause of lamentation to him, when he finally settled in town, that although he had again advertised he had heard nothing whatever of the family of which he was in search. chapter ii. in the south seas. an island in the pacific. the sun was shining down from a cloudless sky, the sea was breaking on the white beach, there was just sufficient breeze to move the leaves of the cocoanut trees that formed a dark band behind the sands. a small brig of about a hundred tons' burden lay anchored a short distance from the shore. the paint was off in many places, and everywhere blistered by the sun. her sails hung loosely in the gaskets, and the slackness of her ropes and her general air of untidiness alike showed the absence of any sort of discipline on board. in front of a rough shanty, built just within the line of shade of the cocoanuts, sat three men. two drunken sailors lay asleep some fifty yards away. on the stump of a tree in front of the bench on which the three men were sitting were placed several black bottles and three tin pannikins, while two gourds filled with water and covered with broad banana leaves stood erect in holes dug in the sand. "i tell you what it is, atkins, your men are carrying it on too far. bill here, and i, were good friends with the natives; the chief gave us wives, and we got on well enough with them. what with the cocoanuts, which are free to us all, and the patches of ground to cultivate, we had all we wanted, and with the store of beads and bright cotton we brought here with us we paid the natives to fish for pearls for us, and have collected enough copra to trade for rum and whatever else we want. you have got all our copra on board, and a good stock of native trumperies, and i should recommend you to be off, both for your own sake and ours. your men have been more or less drunk ever since they came here. i don't mind a drinking bout myself now and again, but it does not do to keep it up. however, it would be no odds to us whether your men were drunk all the time or not if they would but get drunk on board, but they will bring the liquor on shore, and then they get quarrelsome, use their fists on the natives, and meddle with the women. now, these fellows are quiet and gentle enough if they are left alone and treated fairly, but i don't blame them for getting riled up when they are ill-treated, and i tell you they are riled up pretty badly now. my woman has spoken to me more than once, and from what she says there is likely to be trouble, not only for you but for us." "well, sim," the man that he was addressing said, "there is reason enough in what you say. i don't care myself a snap for these black fellows; a couple of musket-shots would send them all flying. but, you see, though i am skipper, the men all have shares and do pretty much as they like. at present they like to stay here, and i suppose they will stay here till they are tired of it." "well, atkins, if i were in your place i should very soon make a change, and if you like, bill and i will help you. you have got six men; well, if you shot three of them the other three would think better of it; and if they didn't i would settle them too." "it is all very well talking like that, sim. how could i sail the brig without hands? if i only kept three of them i should be very short-handed, and if i ever did manage to get to port they would lay a complaint against me for shooting the others. it is all very well for you to talk; you have lived here long enough to know that one can only get the very worst class of fellows to sail with one in craft like this and for this sort of trade. it pays well if one gets back safely, but what with the risk of being cast ashore or being killed by the natives, who are savage enough in some of the islands, it stands to reason that a man who can get a berth in any other sort of craft won't sail with us. but it is just the sort of life to suit chaps like these; it means easy work, plenty of loafing about, and if things turn out well a good lump of money at the end of the voyage. however, they ought to have had enough of it this job; the rum is nearly gone, and if you will come off to-morrow i will let you have what remains, though if they are sober i doubt if they will let you take it away." "we will risk that," the third man said. "we are not nice about using our pistols, if you are. i was saying to simcoe here, things are going a lot too far. enough mischief has been done already, and i am by no means sure that when you have gone they won't make it hot for us. we are very comfortable here, and we are not doing badly, and i don't care about being turned out of it." "the pearl fishing is turning out well?" atkins asked quietly. "it might be worse and it might be better. anyhow, we are content to remain here for a bit. "i don't like it, jack," he said, as the skipper, having in vain tried to rouse the two drunken men, rowed himself off to the brig. "my woman told me this morning that there had been a big talk among the natives, and that though they did not tell her anything, she thought that they had made up their minds to wipe the whites out altogether. they said that if we hadn't been here, the brig would not have come; which is like enough, for atkins only put in because he was an old chum of ours, and thought that we should have got copra enough to make it worth his while to come round. well, if the niggers only wiped out the crew, and burned the ship, i should say nothing against it, as long as they let atkins alone. he has stood by me in more than one rough-and-tumble business, and i am bound to stand by him. but there aint no discrimination among the niggers. besides, i am not saying but that he has been pretty rough with them himself. "it makes all the difference whether you settle down and go in for making a pile, or if you only stop to water and take in fruit; we agreed as to that when we landed here. when we stopped here before and found them friendly and pleasant, and we says to each other, 'if we can but get on smooth with them and set them fishing for us we might make a good thing out of it.' you see, we had bought some oysters one of them brought up after a dive, and had found two or three pearls in them. "well, we have been here nine months, and i don't say i am not getting tired of it; but it is worth stopping for. you know we reckoned last week that the pearls we have got ought to be worth two or three thousand pounds, and we agreed that we would stay here till we have two bags the size of the one we have got; but unless atkins gets those fellows off, i doubt if we shan't have to go before that. there is no reasoning with these niggers; if they had any sense they would see that we can't help these things." "perhaps what the women tell us is untrue," the other suggested. "don't you think that," simcoe said; "these black women are always true to their white men when they are decently treated. besides, none of the natives have been near us to-day. that, of course, might be because they are afraid of these chaps; but from this shanty we can see the canoes, and not one has gone out to-day. who is to blame them, when one of their chiefs was shot yesterday without a shadow of excuse? i don't say that i think so much of a nigger's life one way or another; and having been in some stiff fights together, as you know, i have always taken my share. but i am dead against shooting without some reason; it spoils trade, and makes it unsafe even to land for water. i have half a mind, bill, to go on board and ask atkins to take us away with him; we could mighty soon settle matters with the crew, and if there was a fight and we had to shoot them all, we could take the brig into port well enough." "no, no," said bill, "it has not come to that yet. don't let us give up a good thing until we are sure that the game is up." "well, just as you like; i am ready to run the risk if you are. it would be hard, if the worst came to the worst, if we couldn't fight our way down to our canoe, and once on board that we could laugh at them; for as we have proved over and over again, they have not one that can touch her." "well, i will be off to my hut; the sun is just setting and my supper will be ready for me." he strolled off to his shanty, which lay back some distance in the wood. simcoe entered the hut, where a native woman was cooking. "nothing fresh, i suppose?" he asked in her language. she shook her head. "none of our people have been near us to-day." "well, polly,"--for so her white master had christened her, her native appellation being too long for ordinary conversation,--"it is a bad business, and i am sorry for it; but when these fellows have sailed away it will soon come all right again." "polly hopes so," she said. "polly very much afraid." "well, you had better go to-morrow and see them, and tell them, as i have told them already, we are very sorry for the goings on of these people, but it is not our fault. you have no fear that they will hurt you, have you? because if so, don't you go." "they no hurt polly now," she said; "they know that if i do not come back you be on guard." "well, i don't think there is any danger at present, but it is as well to be ready. do you take down to the canoe three or four dozen cocoanuts and four or five big bunches of plantains, and you may as well take three or four gourds of water. if we have to take to the boat, will you go with me or stay here?" "polly will go with her master," the woman said; "if she stay here they will kill her." "i am glad enough for you to go with me, polly," he said. "you have been a good little woman, and i don't know how i should get on without you now; though why they should kill you i don't know, seeing that your head chief gave you to me himself." "kill everything belonging to white man," she said quietly; and the man knew in his heart that it would probably be so. she put his supper on the table and then made several journeys backwards and forwards to the canoe, which lay afloat in a little cove a couple of hundred yards away. when she had done she stood at the table and ate the remains of the supper. an hour later the man was sitting on the bench outside smoking his pipe, when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps among the trees. he knew this was no native tread. "what is it, bill?" he asked, as the man came up. "well, i came to tell you that there is a big row going on among the natives. i can hear their tom-tom things beating furiously, and occasionally they set up a tremendous yell. i tell you i don't like it, simcoe; i don't like it a bit. i sent my woman to see what it was all about, but though she had been away three hours, she hadn't come back when i started out to talk it over with you." "there has been a biggish row going on on board the brig too," the other said. "i have heard atkins storming, and a good deal of shouting among the men. i suppose you have got your pearls all right in your belt? things begin to have an awkward look, and we may have to bolt at short notice." "you trust me for that, simcoe; i have had them on me ever since the brig came in. i had no fear of the natives stealing them out of my hut, but if one of those fellows were to drop in and see them he would think nothing of knifing the woman and carrying them off." "i see you have brought your gun with you." "yes, and my pistols too. i suppose you are loaded, and ready to catch up at a moment's notice?" "yes; my girl has been carrying down cocoanuts and plantains to the canoe, so, if we have to make a bolt, we can hold on comfortably enough until we get to the next island, which is not above three days' sail, and lies dead to leeward, as the wind is at present. still, bill, i hope it is not coming to that. i think it is likely enough they may attack the brig in their canoes, but they have always been so friendly with us that i really don't think they can turn against us now; they must know that we cannot help these people's doings." "that is all very well," the other said, "but you and i know half a dozen cases in which the niggers have attacked a ship, and in every case beachcombers were killed too." simcoe made no answer; he knew that it was so, and could hardly hope that there would be an exception in their case. after thinking for a minute he said, "well, bill, in that case i think the safest plan will be to take to the canoe at once. we can stay away a few weeks and then come back here and see how matters stand." "but how about atkins?" "well, we will shout and get him ashore and tell him what we think of it, and give him the choice of either stopping or going with us. nothing can be fairer than that. if he chooses to stop and harm comes of it we cannot blame ourselves. if we come back in a few weeks of course we should not land until we had overhauled one of their canoes and found out what the feeling of the people was. they will have got over their fit of rage, and like enough they will have said to each other, 'we were better off when the two white men were here. they paid us for our fishing and our copra, and never did us any harm. i wish they were back again.'" "that is reasonable enough," the other agreed. "what about the trade things?" "well, we have only got some beads and small knick-knacks left. polly shall carry them down to the canoe; we shall want them for trading till we come back here again." he said a few words to the woman, who at once began to carry the things down to the canoe. then he went down to the beach and shouted, "atkins!" "hullo!" came back from the brig. "come ashore; we want to talk to you about something particular." they saw the dinghy pulled up to the ship's side, then atkins rowed ashore. "i have been having a row with the crew," he said. "i thought it was coming to fighting. two or three of them took up handspikes, but i drew my pistols and things calmed down. what do you want me for?" "bill here has brought news that there is a row among the natives. they are beating their drums and yelling like fiends, and we expect it means mischief. at any rate it comes to this: we are so convinced that there is going to be trouble that we mean to cut and run at once. we have got enough grub put on board our canoe to take us to the next island, but we did not want to leave you in the lurch, to be speared by the niggers, so we have called you to offer you a seat in the canoe." "that is friendly," atkins said, "but i should lose the ship and cargo; and pretty near all that i have got is in her. why should not you two bring your canoe off alongside and hoist her up? then we could get up anchor and be off. three of the fellows are dead-drunk and the other three half stupid. i would give you each a share in the profits of the voyage." "well, what do you think of that, simcoe?" bill said. "i tell you straight i don't care for it. you and i are both good paddlers, and the canoe sails like a witch in a light wind. once afloat in her and we are safe, but you can't say as much for the brig. i have sailed in her before now, and i know that she is slow, unless it is blowing half a gale. it is like enough that the natives may be watching her now, and if they saw us get under way they would be after her, and would go six feet to her one. as to fighting, what could we three do? the others would be of no use whatever. no, i like our plan best by far." "well, i don't know what to say," atkins said. "it is hard to make a choice. of course if i were sure that the natives really meant mischief i would go with you, but we cannot be sure of that." "i feel pretty sure of it anyhow," bill said. "my girl would be safe to follow me here when she got back and found the hut empty, but i am mightily afraid that some harm has come to her, or she would have been back long before this. it wasn't half a mile to go, and she might have been there and back in half an hour, and she has been gone now over three hours, and i feel nasty about it, i can tell you. i wish your crew were all sober, atkins, and that we had a score of men that i could put my hand on among the islands. i should not be talking about taking to a canoe then, but i would just go in and give it them so hot that they would never try their pranks on again." "have you got all the things in, polly?" simcoe asked the woman, as she crouched down by the door of the hut. "got all in," she said. "why not go? very bad wait here." "well, i think you are about right. at any rate, we will go and get on board and wait a spear's-throw off the shore for an hour or so. if bill's susan comes here and finds we have gone she is pretty safe to guess that we shall be on board the canoe and waiting for her. what do you say to that, bill?" "that suits me; nothing can be fairer. if she comes we can take her on board, if she doesn't i shall know that they have killed her, and i will jot it down against them and come back here some day before long and take it out of them. and you, atkins?" "i will go straight on board. like enough it is all a false alarm, and i aint going to lose the brig and all that she has got on board till i am downright certain that they----" he stopped suddenly, and the others leaped to their feet as a burst of savage yells broke out across the water. "by heavens, they are attacking the ship!" simcoe cried; "they will be here in a moment. come on, polly! come on, atkins! we have no choice now." taking up his arms, he started to run. "quick, quick!" he cried; "i can hear them." they had gone but some thirty yards when a number of natives burst from the wood. had they arrived a minute sooner at the hut none of its occupants would have lived to tell the tale, but the impatience of those in the canoes lying round the brig had caused the alarm to be given before they had placed themselves in readiness for a simultaneous rush on the hut. there was no further occasion for silence; a wild yell burst out as they caught sight of the flying figures, and a dozen spears flew through the air. "don't stop to fire!" simcoe shouted; "we shall have to make a stand at the boat and shall want every barrel." they were three-quarters of the way to the boat and the natives were still some twenty yards behind them. suddenly bill stumbled; then with a savage oath he turned and emptied both barrels of his fowling-piece into the natives, and the two leading men fell forward on their faces, and some shouts and yells told that some of the shots had taken effect on those behind. "are you wounded, bill?" simcoe asked. "yes, i am hit hard. run on, man; i think i am done for." "nonsense!" simcoe exclaimed. "catch hold of my arm; i will help you along." one native was in advance of the rest. he raised his arm to hurl his spear, but the native woman, who had all along been running behind simcoe, threw herself forward, and the spear pierced her through the body. with an exclamation of fury simcoe leveled his musket and shot the native through the head. "throw your arms round my neck, bill; the poor girl is done for, curse them. can you hold on?" "yes, i think so," he replied. simcoe was a very powerful man, and with his comrade on his back he ran on almost as swiftly as before. "now, atkins, give them every barrel that you have got, then lift bill into the boat, and i will keep them back. i am not going until i have paid some of them out for poor polly." atkins fired his pistols, and with so steady an aim that each shot brought down a savage; then he lifted bill from simcoe's shoulders and laid him in the canoe. "get up the sail!" simcoe shouted. "they will riddle us with spears if we paddle." he shot down four of the natives with his double-barreled pistols, and then clubbing his gun threw himself with a hoarse shout upon them. the loss of seven of their leaders had caused their followers to hesitate, and the fury of simcoe's attack and the tremendous blows he dealt completed their discomfiture, and they turned and fled in dismay. "now is your time!" atkins shouted; "i have cut the cord and got the sail up." turning, simcoe was in a moment knee-deep in the water; pushing the boat off, he threw himself into it. "lie down, man, lie down!" he shouted to atkins. but the warning was too late; the moment simcoe turned the natives had turned also, and as they reached the water's edge half a dozen spears were flung. two of them struck atkins full in the body, and with a cry he threw up his arms and fell over the side of the canoe. then came several splashes in the water. simcoe drew the pistols from his companion's belt, and, raising himself high enough to look over the stern, shot two of the savages who were wading out waist deep, and were but a few paces behind. the sail was now doing its work, and the boat was beginning to glide through the water at a rate that even the best swimmers could not hope to emulate. as soon as he was out of reach of the spears simcoe threw the boat up into the wind, reloaded his pistols and those of his comrade, and opened fire upon the group of natives clustered at the water's edge. like most men of his class, he was a first-rate shot. three of the natives fell and the rest fled. then with a stroke of the paddle he put the boat before the wind again, and soon left the island far behind. "this has been a pretty night's work," he muttered. "poor little polly killed! she gave her life to save me, and there is no doubt she did save me too, for that fellow's spear must have gone right through me. i am afraid that they have done for bill too." he stooped over his comrade. the shaft of the spear had broken off, but the jagged piece with the head attached stuck out just over the hip. "i am afraid it is all up with him; however, i must take it out and bandage him as well as i can." a groan burst from the wounded man as simcoe with some effort drew the jagged spear from the wound. then he took off his own shirt and tore some strips off it and tightly bandaged the wound. "i can do nothing else until the morning," he said. "well, polly, i have paid them out for you. i have shot seven or eight and smashed the skulls of as many more. of course they have done for those drunkards on board the brig. i did not hear a single pistol fired, and i expect that they knocked them on the head in their drunken sleep. the brutes! if they had had their senses about them we might have made a fair fight; though i expect that they would have been too many for us." just as daylight was breaking bill opened his eyes. "how do you feel, old man?" "i am going, simcoe. you stood by me like a man; i heard it all till atkins laid me in the boat. where is he?" "he is gone, bill. instead of throwing himself down in the boat, as i shouted to him directly he got up the sail, he stood there watching, i suppose, until i was in. he got two spears in his body and fell overboard dead, i have no doubt." "look here, sim!" the latter had to bend down his ear to listen. the words came faintly and slowly. "if you ever go back home again, you look up my brother. he is no more on the square than i was, but he is a clever fellow. he lives respectable--rose cottage, pentonville hill. don't forget it. he goes by the name of harrison. i wrote to him every two or three years, and got an answer about the same. tell him how his brother bill died, and how you carried him off when the blacks were yelling round. we were fond of each other, tom and i. you keep the pearls, sim; he don't want them. he is a top-sawyer in his way, he is, and has offered again and again that if i would come home he would set me up in any line i liked. i thought perhaps i should go home some day. tom and i were great friends. i remember----" his eyelids drooped, his lips moved, and in another minute no sounds came from them. he gave one deep sigh, and then all was over. "a good partner and a good chum," simcoe muttered as he looked down into the man's face. "well, well, i have lost a good many chums in the last ten years, but not one i missed as i shall miss bill. it is hard, he and polly going at the same time. there are not many fellows that i would have lain down to sleep with, with fifteen hundred pounds' or so worth of pearls in my belt, not out in these islands. but i never had any fear with him. well, well," he went on, as he took the bag of pearls from his comrade's belt and placed it in his own, "there is a consolation everywhere, though we might have doubled and trebled this lot if we had stopped three months longer, which we should have done if atkins had not brought that brig of his in. i can't think why he did it. he might have been sure that with that drunken lot of villains trouble would come of it sooner or later. he wasn't a bad fellow either, but too fond of liquor." chapter iii. a deaf girl. "yes, lady moulton, i will undertake the gypsy tent business at your fête; that is to say, i will see to the getting up of the tent, provide a gypsy for you, and someone to stand at the door and let in one visitor at a time and receive the money. do you mean to make it a fixed charge, or leave it to each to pay the gypsy?" "which do you think will be best, hilda? of course the great thing is to get as much money for the decayed ladies as possible." "i should say that it would be best to let them give what they like to the gypsy, lady moulton." "but she might keep some of it herself." "i think i can guarantee that she won't do that; i will get a dependable gypsy. you see, you could not charge above a shilling entrance, and very likely she would get a good deal more than that given to her." "well, my dear, i leave it all to you. spare no expense about the tent and its fitting up. i have set my heart upon the affair being a success, and i think everything else has been most satisfactorily arranged. it is a very happy thought of yours about the gypsy; i hope that you will find a clever one. but you must mind and impress upon her that we don't want any evil predictions. nothing could be in worse taste. it is all very well when a girl is promised a rich husband and everything to match, but if she were told that she would never get married, or would die young, or something of that sort, it would be a most unpleasant business." "i quite agree with you, and will see that everything shall be 'couleur de rose' as to the future, and that she shall confine herself as much as possible to the past and present." "i leave it in your hands, and i am sure that it will be done nicely." lady moulton was a leading member of society, a charming woman with a rich and indulgent husband. her home was a pleasant one, and her balls were among the most popular of the season. she had, as her friends said, but one failing, namely, her ardor for "the society for affording aid to decayed ladies." it was on behalf of this institution that she was now organizing a fête in the grounds of her residence at richmond. hilda covington was an orphan and an heiress, and was the ward of her uncle, an old indian officer, who had been a great friend of lady moulton's father. she had been ushered into society under her ladyship's auspices. she had, however, rather forfeited that lady's favorable opinion by refusing two or three unexceptionable offers. "my dear," she remonstrated, "no girl can afford to throw away such chances, even if she is, as you are, well endowed, pretty, and clever." the girl laughed. "i am not aware that i am clever at all, lady moulton. i speak german and french perfectly, because i have been four or five years in hanover; but beyond that i am not aware of possessing any special accomplishments." "but you are clever, my dear," the other said decidedly. "the way you seem to understand people's characters astonishes me. sometimes it seems to me that you are almost a witch." "you are arguing against yourself," the girl laughed. "if i am such a good judge of character i am not likely to make a mistake in such an important matter as choosing a husband for myself." lady moulton was silenced, but not convinced; however, she had good sense enough to drop the subject. general mathieson had already told her that although he should not interfere in any way with any choice hilda might make, he should make it an absolute condition that she should not marry until she came of age; and as she was at present but eighteen, many things might occur in the three years' interval. on her return home, after arranging to provide a gypsy for lady moulton's fête, hilda related what had occurred to a girl friend who was staying with her. "of course, netta, i mean to be the gypsy myself; but you must help me. it would never do for me to be suspected of being the sorceress, and so you must be my double, so that i can, from time to time, go out and mix with the crowd. a few minutes at a time will do." the other laughed. "but what should i say to them, hilda?" "oh, it is as easy as a b c. all that you will have to do is to speak ambiguously, hint at coming changes, foresee a few troubles in the way, and prophesy a happy solution of the difficulties. i will take upon myself the business of surprising them, and i fancy that i shall be able to astonish a few of them so much that even if some do get only commonplaces we shall make a general sensation. of course, we must get two disguises. i shall have a small tent behind the other where i can change. it won't take a moment--a skirt, and a shawl to go over my head and partly hide my face, can be slipped on and off in an instant. of course i shall have a black wig and some sort of yellow wash that can be taken off with a damp towel. i shall place the tent so that i can leave from behind without being noticed. as we shall have the tent a good deal darkened there will be no fear of the differences between the two gypsies being discovered, and, indeed, people are not likely to compare notes very closely." "well, i suppose you will have your way as usual, hilda." "i like that!" the other said, with a laugh. "you were my guide and counselor for five years, and now you pretend that i always have my own way. why, i cannot even get my own way in persuading you to come and settle over here. i am quite sure that you would get lots of pupils, when people understand the system and its advantages." "that is all very well, hilda, but, you see, in the first place i have no friends here except yourself, and in the second it requires a good deal of money to get up an establishment and to wait until one gets pupils. my aunt would, i know, put in the money she saved when you were with us if i were to ask her, but i wouldn't do so. to begin with, she regards that as my fortune at her death. she has said over and over again how happy the knowledge makes her that i shall not be left absolutely penniless, except, of course, what i can get for the house and furniture, and i would do anything rather than sell that. she admits that i might keep myself by teaching deaf children, but, as she says, no one can answer for their health. i might have a long illness that would throw me out. i might suddenly lose a situation, say, from the death of a pupil, and might be a long time before i could hear of another. she said to me once, 'i do hope, netta, you will never embark one penny of the little money that will come to you in any sort of enterprise or speculation, however promising it may look.' we had been talking of exactly the plan that you are now speaking of. 'the mere furnishing of a house in england large enough to take a dozen children would swallow up a considerable sum. at first you might have to wait some time till you could obtain more than two or three children, and there would be the rent and expenses going on, and you might find yourself without money and in debt before it began to pay its way; therefore i do hope that you will keep the money untouched except to meet your expenses in times of illness or of necessity of some kind. if you can save up money sufficient to start an establishment, it will, i think, be a good thing, especially if you could secure the promise of four or five pupils to come to you at once. if in a few years you should see your way to insure starting with enough pupils to pay your way, and i am alive at the time, i would draw out enough to furnish the house and will look after it for you.' that was a great concession on her part, but i certainly would not let her do it, for she is so happy in her home now, and i know that she would worry herself to death." "well, netta, you know i am still ready to become the capitalist." both girls laughed merrily. "why not, netta?" the speaker went on. "i know you said that you would not accept money as a loan even from me, which, as i told you, was very stupid and very disagreeable, but there is no reason why we should not do it in a business way. other women go into business, why shouldn't i? as you know, i can't absolutely touch my money until i come of age, and it is nearly three years before that; still, i feel sure that the general would let me have some money, and we could start the institute. it would be great fun. of course, in the first place, you would be principal, or lady superintendent, or whatever you like to call yourself, and you would draw, say, five hundred pounds a year. after that we could divide the profits." again both girls laughed. "and that is what you call a business transaction?" the other said. "i know that your guardian is very kind, and indeed spoils you altogether, but i don't think that you would get him to advance you money for such a scheme." "i am really in earnest, netta." "oh, i don't say that you would not do it, if you could. however, i think, anyhow, we had better wait until you come of age. there is plenty of time. i am only twenty yet, and even in three years' time i doubt whether i should quite look the character of professor or lady superintendent." "well, directly i get of age i shall carry out my part of the plan," hilda said positively, "and if you are disagreeable and won't do as i want you, i shall write to the professor and ask him to recommend a superintendent." the other laughed again. "you would have a difficulty, hilda. you and i are, so far, the only two english girls who have learned the system, and either your superintendent would have to learn english or all her pupils would have to learn german." "we will not discuss it further at present, miss purcell," hilda said with dignity. "oh, dear, those were happy days we had in that dear old house, with its pretty garden, when you were thirteen and i was eleven. i have got a great deal of fun from it since. one gets such curious little scraps of conversation." "then the people do not know what you learned over with us?" "no, indeed; as you know, it was not for a year after i came back that i became altogether the general's ward, and my dear mother said to me just before she died, 'it would be better for you, dear, not to say anything about that curious accomplishment of yours. i know that you would never use it to any harm, but if people knew it they would be rather afraid of you.' uncle said the same thing directly i got here. so of course i have kept it to myself, and indeed if they had not said so i should never have mentioned it, for it gives me a great deal of amusement." when hilda covington was ten years old, she had, after a severe attack of scarlet fever, lost her hearing, and though her parents consulted the best specialists of the time, their remedies proved of no avail, and at last they could only express a hope, rather than an opinion, that in time, with added health and strength, nature might repair the damage. a year after her illness mr. covington heard of an aurist in germany who had a european reputation, and he and mrs. covington took hilda over to him. after examining her he said, "the mischief is serious, but not, i think, irreparable. it is a case requiring great care both as to dieting, exercise, and clothing. if it could be managed i should like to examine her ears once a fortnight, or once a month at the least. i have a house here where my patients live when under treatment, but i should not for a moment advise her being placed there. a child, to keep in good health, requires cheerful companions. if you will call again to-morrow i will think the matter over and let you know what i recommend." mr. and mrs. covington retired much depressed. his opinion was, perhaps, a little more favorable than any that they had received, but the thought that their only child must either make this considerable journey once a month or live there altogether was very painful to them. however, on talking it over, they agreed that it was far better that she should reside in hanover for a time, with the hope of coming back cured, than that she should grow up hopelessly deaf. "it will only be as if she were at school here," mr. covington said. "she will no doubt be taught to talk german and french, and even if she is never able to converse in these languages, it will add to her pleasures if she can read them." the next day when they called upon the doctor he said, "if you can bring yourself to part with the child, i have, i think, found the very thing to suit her. in the first place you must know that there is in the town an establishment, conducted by a professor menzel, for the instruction of deaf mutes. it is quite a new system, and consists in teaching them to read from the lips of persons speaking to them the words that they are saying. the system is by no means difficult for those who have still, like your daughter, the power of speech, and who have lost only their hearing. but even those born deaf and dumb have learned to be able to converse to a certain degree, though their voices are never quite natural, for in nine cases out of ten deaf mutes are mutes only because they have never learned to use their tongue. however, happily that is beside the question in your daughter's case. i hope that she will regain her hearing; but should this unfortunately not be the case, it will at least be a great mitigation to her position to be able to read from the lips of those who address her what is said, and therefore to converse like an ordinary person. i can assure you that many of herr menzel's pupils can converse so easily and rapidly that no one would have the least idea of the misfortune from which they suffer, as in fact they feel no inconvenience beyond the fact that they are not aware of being addressed by anyone standing behind them, or whose face they do not happen to be watching." "that would indeed be a blessing!" mrs. covington exclaimed. "i never heard of such a system." "no, it is quite new, but as to its success there can be no question. i called upon professor menzel last evening. he said that as your daughter did not understand german the difficulties of her tuition would be very great. he has, however, among his pupils a young english girl two years older than your daughter. she lives with a maiden aunt, who has established herself here in order that her niece might have the benefit of learning the new system. here is her name and address. the professor has reason to believe that her income is a small one, and imagines that she would gladly receive your daughter as a boarder. her niece, who is a bright girl, would be a pleasant companion, and, moreover, having in the two years that she has been here made very great progress, she would be able to commence your daughter's education by conversing with her in english, and could act as her teacher in german also; and so soon as the language was fairly mastered your daughter could then become a pupil of the professor himself." "that would be an excellent plan indeed," mrs. covington said, and her husband fully agreed with her. the doctor handed her a slip of paper with the name, "miss purcell, nd etage, koenigstrasse." hilda had already been informed by the finger alphabet, which had been her means of communication since her illness, of the result of the conversation with the doctor on the previous day, and although she had cried at the thought of being separated from her father and mother, she had said that she would willingly bear anything if there was a hope of her regaining her hearing. she had watched earnestly the conversation between the doctor and her parents, and when the former had left and they explained what was proposed, her face brightened up. "that will be very nice," she exclaimed, "and if i could but learn to understand in that way what people say, instead of watching their fingers (and some of them don't know the alphabet, and some who do are so slow that one loses all patience), it would be delightful." before going to see miss purcell, mr. and mrs. covington talked the matter over together, and they agreed that, if miss purcell were the sort of person with whom hilda could be happy, no plan could be better than that proposed. "it certainly would not be nice for her," mrs. covington said, "to be living on a second floor in a street; she has always been accustomed to be so much in the open air, and as the doctors all agree that much depends upon her general health, i am sure it will be quite essential that she should be so now. i think that we should arrange to take some pretty little house with a good garden, just outside the town, and furnish it, and that miss purcell and her niece should move in there. of course we should pay a liberal sum for board, and if she would agree, i should say that it would be best that we should treat the house as ours and should pay the expenses of keeping it up altogether. i don't suppose she keeps a servant at present, and there are many little luxuries that hilda has been accustomed to. then, of course, we would pay so much to the niece for teaching hilda german and beginning to teach her this system. i don't suppose the whole thing would cost more than three hundred pounds a year." "the expense is nothing," mr. covington said. "we could afford it if it were five times the amount. i think your idea is a very good one, and we could arrange for her to have the use of a pony-carriage for two or three hours a day whenever she was disposed. the great thing is for her to be healthy and happy." ten minutes after they started with hilda to see miss purcell, after having explained to her the plan they proposed. at this she was greatly pleased. the thought of a little house all to themselves and a girl friend was a great relief to her, and she looked brighter and happier than she had done since she had lost her hearing. when they knocked at the door of the apartment on the second floor, it was opened by a bright-faced girl of thirteen. "this is miss purcell's, is it not?" mrs. covington asked. "yes, ma'am," the girl replied, with a slight expression of surprise which showed that visitors were very rare. "will you give my card to her and say that we shall be glad if she will allow us a few minutes' conversation with her?" the girl went into the room and returned in a minute or two. "will you come in?" she said. "my aunt will be glad to see you." miss purcell was a woman of some fifty years old, with a pleasant, kindly face. the room was somewhat poorly furnished, but everything was scrupulously neat and tidy, and there was an air of comfort pervading it. "we have called, miss purcell," mrs. covington began, "in consequence of what we have learned from dr. hartwig, whom we have come over to consult, and who has been good enough to see professor menzel. he has learned from him that your niece here is acquiring the system of learning to understand what is said by watching the lips of speakers. the doctor is of opinion that our daughter may in time outgrow the deafness that came on a year ago, after scarlet fever, but he wishes her to remain under his eye, and he suggested that it would be well that she should learn the new system, so that in case she does not recover her hearing she would still be able to mingle with other people. hilda is delicate, and it is necessary that she should have a cheerful home; besides which she could not begin to learn the system until she had become familiar with german. the doctor suggested that if we could persuade you to do us the great kindness of taking her under your charge it would be the best possible arrangement." "i should be glad to do so, madam, but i fear that i could not accommodate her, for it is a mere closet that my niece sleeps in, and the other apartments on this floor are all occupied. were it not for that i should certainly be glad to consider the matter. it would be pleasant to netta to have a companion, for it is but dull work for her alone with me. we have few acquaintances. i do not mind saying frankly that my means are straitened, and that i cannot indulge her with many pleasures. she is a grandniece of mine; her father died some years ago, her mother three years since, and naturally she came to me. shortly after, she lost her hearing through measles. just at that time i happened to hear from a german workman of the institution which had been started in this town, of which he was a native. i had no ties in england, and as i heard that living was cheap there, and that the fees were not large, i decided to come over and have her taught this new system, which would not only add greatly to her own happiness, but would give her the means of earning her livelihood when she grew up; for although i have a small pension, as my father was an excise officer, this, of course, will expire at my death." "happily, miss purcell, we are in a position to say that money is no object to us. hilda is our only child. we have talked it over, of course, and will tell you exactly what we propose, and i hope that you will fall in with the arrangement." she then stated the plan that she and her husband had discussed. "you see," she went on, "you would, in fact, be mistress of the house, and would have the entire management of everything as if it was your own. we are entirely ignorant of the cost of living here, or we might have proposed a fixed monthly payment for the expenses of servants and outgoings, and would still do that if you would prefer it, though we thought that it would be better that you should, at the end of each month, send us a line saying what the disbursements had been. we would wish everything done on a liberal scale. hilda has little appetite, and it will, for a time, want tempting. however, that matter we could leave to you. we propose to pay a hundred a year to you for your personal services as mistress of the house, and fifty pounds to your niece as hilda's companion and instructor in german and in the system, until she understands the language well enough to attend professor menzel's classes. if the house we take has a stable we should keep a pony and a light carriage, and a big lad or young man to look after it and drive, and to keep the garden in order in his spare time. i do hope, miss purcell, that you will oblige us by falling in with our plans. if you like we can give you a day to consider them." "i do not require a minute," she replied; "my only hesitation is because the terms that you offer are altogether too liberal." "that is our affair," mrs. covington said. "we want a comfortable, happy home for our child, and shall always feel under a deep obligation to you if you will consent." "i do consent most willingly and gratefully. the arrangement will be a delightful one for me, and i am sure for netta." netta, who had been standing where she could watch the lips of both speakers, clapped her hands joyously. "oh, auntie, it will be splendid! fancy having a house, and a garden, and a pony-chaise!" "you understand all we have been saying then, netta?" "i understand it all," the girl replied. "i did not catch every word, but quite enough to know all that you were saying." "that certainly is a proof of the goodness of the system," mr. covington said, speaking for the first time. "how long have you been learning?" "eighteen months, sir. we have been here two years, but i was six months learning german before i knew enough to begin, and for the next six months i could not get on very fast, as there were so many words that i did not know, so that really i have only been a year at it. the professor says that in another year i shall be nearly perfect and fit to begin to teach; and he has no doubt that he will be able to find me a situation where i can teach in the daytime and still live with my aunt." in a week the necessary arrangements were all made. a pretty, furnished house, a quarter of a mile out of town, with a large garden and stables, had been taken, and netta and hilda had already become friends, for as the former had learned to talk with her fingers before she came out she was able to keep up her share of the conversation by that means while hilda talked in reply. "the fingers are useful as a help at first," netta said, "but professor menzel will not allow any of his pupils to use their fingers, because they come to rely upon them instead of watching the lips." chapter iv. the gypsy. mr. and mrs. covington remained for a week after hilda was installed with the purcells in their new home. to her the house with its garden and pretty pony-carriage and pony were nothing remarkable, but netta's enjoyment in all these things amused her, and the thought that she, too, would some day be able to talk and enjoy life as her companion did, greatly raised her spirits. her father and mother were delighted at hearing her merry laugh mingled with that of netta as they walked together in the garden, and they went home with lighter hearts and more hopeful spirits than they had felt since the child's illness began. every three or four months--for a journey to hanover was a longer and more serious business in than it is at present--they went over to spend a week there. there could be no doubt from the first that the change was most beneficial to hilda. her cheeks regained their color and her limbs their firmness. she lost the dull look and the apathy to whatever was going on around her that had before distressed them. she progressed very rapidly in her study of german, and at the end of six months her conversations with netta were entirely carried on in that language. she had made some little progress in reading from her companion's lips and had just entered at herr menzel's academy. she could now take long walks with netta, and every afternoon, or, as summer came on, every evening, they drove together in the pony-chaise. with renewed health and strength there had been some slight improvement in her hearing. she could now faintly distinguish any loud sounds, such as those of the band of a regiment marching past her or a sudden peal of bells. "i think that we shall make an eventual cure," dr. hartwig said. "it will be slow, and possibly her hearing may never be absolutely good; but at least we may hope that she may be able to eventually hear as well as nine people out of ten." in another year she could, indeed, though with difficulty, hear voices, and when she had been at hanover three years her cure was almost complete, and she now went every morning to school to learn french and music. she herself was quite content to remain there. she was very happy in her life and surroundings, and could now read with the greatest facility from the lips, and indeed preferred watching a speaker's mouth to listening to the voice. it was a source of endless amusement to her that she could, as she and netta walked through the streets, read scraps of conversation between persons on the other side of the street or passing in carriages. another six months and both the doctor and professor menzel said that they could do nothing more for her. she was still somewhat hard of hearing; but not enough so to be noticeable; while she could with her eyes follow the most rapid speaker, and the professor expressed his regret that so excellent an example of the benefit of his system should not be in circumstances that would compel her to make a living by becoming a teacher in it. netta was now a paid assistant at the institution. the end of what had been a very happy time to hilda came abruptly and sadly, for three weeks before the date when her parents were to come over to take her home, miss purcell, on opening a letter that came just as they had finished breakfast, said, after sitting silent for a few minutes, "you need not put on your things, hilda; you cannot go to school this morning; i have some bad news, dear--very bad news." the tone of voice in which she spoke, even more than the words, sent a chill into the girl's heart. "what is it, aunt?" she said, for she had from the first used the same term as netta in addressing her. "your father has had a serious illness, my dear--a very, very serious and sudden illness, and your mother wishes you to go home at once." hilda looked at her with frightened, questioning eyes, while every vestige of color left her cheeks. "is he--is he----" she asked. "here is an inclosure for you," miss purcell said, as she got up, and taking hilda's hand in one of hers drew her with the other arm close to her; "your mother wrote to me that i might prepare you a little before giving it to you. a terrible misfortune has happened. your dear father is dead. he died suddenly of an affection of the heart." "oh, no, no; it cannot be!" hilda cried. "it is true, my dear. god has taken him. you must be strong and brave, dear, for your mother's sake." "oh, my poor mother, my poor mother!" hilda cried, bursting into a sudden flood of tears, "what will she do!" it was not until some time afterwards that she was sufficiently composed to read her mother's letter, which caused her tears to flow afresh. after giving the details of her father's death, it went on: "i have written to your uncle, general mathieson, who is, i know, appointed one of the trustees, and is joined with me as your guardian. i have asked him to find and send over a courier to fetch you home, and no doubt he will arrive a day or two after you receive this letter. so please get everything ready to start at once, when he comes." two days later general mathieson himself arrived, accompanied by a courier. it was a great comfort to hilda that her uncle had come for her instead of a stranger. "it is very kind of you to come yourself, uncle," she said as she threw herself crying into his arms. "of course i should come, dear," he said. "who should fetch you except your uncle? i had to bring a courier with me, for i don't understand any of their languages, and he will take all trouble off my hands. now let me look at your face." it was a pale, sad little face that was lifted up, but two days of sorrow had not obliterated the signs of health and well-being. "whiter than it ought to be," he said, "but clear and healthy, and very different from what it was when i saw you before you came out. you have grown wonderfully, child. really, i should hardly have known you again." and so he kept on for two or three minutes, to allow her to recover herself. "now, dear, you must take me in and introduce me to your kind friends here." hilda led the way into the sitting room. "i have heard so much of you and your niece, miss purcell," he said as he shook hands with her, "that i do do not feel that you are a stranger. you certainly seem to have worked wonders between you for my niece, and i must own that in the first place i thought it a mistake her being here by herself, for i had no belief that either her hearing would be restored or that she would ever be able to follow what people were saying by only staring at their lips." "yes, indeed, hanover has agreed with her, sir, and it is only a small part of the credit that is due to us." "i must differ from you entirely, madam. if she had not been perfectly happy here with you, she would never have got on as she has done." "have you any luggage, sir? of course you will stay with us to-night." "no, thank you, miss purcell. we have already been to the kaiserhof, and long before this my courier will have taken rooms and made every preparation for me. you see, i am accustomed to smoke at all times, and could not think of scenting a house, solely inhabited by ladies, with tobacco. now, if you will excuse me, i will ask hilda to put on her bonnet and take a stroll with me." "i shall be very glad for her to do so. it is just getting cool and pleasant for walking, and half an hour in the fresh air will do her good." it was an hour before they returned. general mathieson had gently told her all there was to tell of her father's death, and turning from that he spoke of her mother, and how nobly she was bearing her troubles, and erelong her tears, which had burst out anew, flowed more quietly, and she felt comforted. presently she said suddenly: "what is going to be done here, uncle? i have been thinking over that ever since it was settled that i was to come home next month, and i am sure that, although she has said nothing about it, miss purcell has felt the change that is coming. she said the other day, 'i shall not go back to the apartments where you found us, hilda. you see, we are a great deal better off than we were before. in the first place i have had nothing whatever to spend, and during the four years the ridiculously liberal sum paid to netta and myself has been all laid aside and has mounted up to six hundred pounds. my pension of eighty pounds a year has also accumulated, with the exception of a small sum required for our clothes, so that in fact i have nearly a thousand pounds laid by. netta is earning thirty pounds a year at the institute; with that and my pension and the interest on money saved we shall get on very comfortably.' i should not like, uncle, to think of them in a little stuffy place in the town. having a nice garden and everything comfortable has done a great deal for miss purcell. netta told me that she was very delicate before, and that she is quite a different woman since she came out here from the town. you cannot tell how kind she has always been. if i had been her own child, she could not have been more loving. in fact, no one could have told by her manner that she was not my mother and netta my sister." "yes, dear, i ran down to your mother before starting to fetch you to help in the arrangements, and she spoke about miss purcell. under ordinary circumstances, of course, at the end of the four years that you have been here the house would be given up and she would, as you say, go into a much smaller place; but your mother does not consider that these are ordinary circumstances, and thinks that her care and kindness have had quite as much to do with the improvement in your health as has the doctor. of course we had no time to come to any definite plan, but she has settled that things are to go on here exactly as at present, except that your friend netta will not be paid for acting as companion to you. i am to tell miss purcell that with that exception everything is to go on as before, and that your mother will need a change, and will probably come out here in a month or so for some time." "does she really mean that, uncle?" "certainly, and the idea is an excellent one. after such a shock as she has had an entire change of scene will be most valuable; and as she knows miss purcell well, and you like the place very much, i don't think that any better plan could be hit upon. i dare say she will stay here two or three months, and you can continue your studies. at the end of that time i have no doubt some plan that will give satisfaction to all parties will be hit upon." hilda returned to hanover with her mother a month later. at the end of three months mrs. covington bought the house and presented the deeds to miss purcell, who had known nothing whatever of her intentions. "i could not think of accepting it," she exclaimed. "but you cannot help accepting it, dear miss purcell; here are the deeds in your name. the house will be rather large for you at present, but in a few years, indeed in two or three years, netta could begin to take a few pupils. as soon as she is ready to do so i shall, of course, mention it among my friends, and be able to send a few children, whose parents would be ready to pay well to have them taught this wonderful method of brightening their lives, which is at present quite unknown in england." so it was arranged; but a few months after her return to england mrs. covington, who had never altogether recovered from the shock of her husband's death, died after a short illness, and hilda became an inmate of her uncle's house. since that time three years had elapsed, and hilda was now eighteen, and netta was over for a two months' visit. the scene in the grounds of lady moulton's charming villa at richmond, a fortnight after the conversation between that lady and hilda, was a gay one. everyone in society had been invited and there were but few refusals; the weather was lovely, and all agreed that even at ascot the costumes were not brighter or more varied. although the fête was especially on behalf of a charity, no admission fees were charged to guests, but everyone understood that it would be his duty to lay out money at the various picturesque tents scattered about under the trees. in these were all the most popular entertainers of the day. in one pavilion john parry gave a short entertainment every half-hour. in a larger one mario, grisi, jenny lind, and alboni gave short concerts, and high as were the prices of admission, there was never a seat vacant. conjurers had a tent, electro-biologists--then the latest rage from the united states--held their séances, and at some distance from the others richardson's booth was in full swing. the grenadiers' band and a string band played alternately. not the least attraction to many was the gypsy tent erected at the edge of a thick shrubbery, for it soon became rumored that the old gypsy woman there was no ordinary impostor, but really possessed of extraordinary powers of palmistry. everything had been done to add to the air of mystery pervading the place. externally it was but a long, narrow marquee. on entering, the inquirer was shown by an attendant to a seat in an apartment carpeted in red, with black hangings and black cloth lining the roof. from this hung a lamp, all other light being excluded. as each visitor came out from the inner apartment the next in order was shown in, and the heavy curtains shut off all sound of what was passing. here sat an apparently aged gypsy on an old stump of a tree. a fire burned on the ground and a pot was suspended by a tripod over it; a hood above this carried the smoke out of the tent. the curtains here were red; the roof, as in the other compartment, black, but sprinkled with gold and silver stars. a stool was placed for the visitor close enough to the gypsy for the latter to examine her hand by the light of two torches, which were fastened to a rough sapling stuck in the ground. hilda possessed every advantage for making the most of the situation. owing to her intimacy with lady moulton, and her experience for a year in the best london society, she knew all its gossip, while she had gathered much more than others knew from the conversations both of the dancers and the lookers-on. the first to enter was a young man who had been laughingly challenged by the lady he was walking with to go in and have his fortune told. "be seated, my son," the old woman said; "give me your hand and a piece of money." with a smile he handed her half a sovereign. she crossed his palm with it and then proceeded attentively to examine the lines. "a fair beginning," she said, "and then troubles and difficulties. here i see that, some three years back, there is the mark of blood; you won distinction in war. then there is a cross-mark which would show a change. some good fortune befell you. then the lines darken. things go from bad to worse as they proceed. you took to a vice--cards or horse-racing. here are evil associates, but there is a white line that runs through them. there is a girl somewhere, with fair hair and blue eyes, who loves you, and whom you love, and whose happiness is imperiled by this vice and these associates. beyond, there is another cross-line and signs of a conflict. what happens after will depend upon yourself. either the white line and the true love will prove too powerful for the bad influences or these will end in ruin and--ah! sudden and violent death. your future, therefore, depends upon yourself, and it is for you to say which influence must triumph. that is all." without a word he went out. "you look pale, mr. desmond," the lady said when he rejoined her. "what has she told you?" "i would rather not tell you, mrs. markham," he said seriously. "i thought it was going to be a joke, but it is very far from being one. either the woman is a witch or she knew all about me personally, which is barely within the limits of possibility. at any rate she has given me something to think of." "i will try myself," the lady said; "it is very interesting." "i should advise you not to," he said earnestly. "nonsense!" she laughed; "i have no superstitions. i will go in and hear what she has to say." and leaving him, she entered the tent. the gypsy examined her hand in silence. "i would rather not tell you what i see," she said as she dropped the hand. "oh, ridiculous!" the lady exclaimed. "i have crossed your palm with gold, and i expect to get my money's worth," and she held out her hand again. the gypsy again examined it. "you stand at the crossing of the ways. there are two men--one dark, quiet, and earnest, who loves you. you love him, but not as he loves you; but your line of life runs smoothly until the other line, that of a brown man, becomes mixed up in it. he loves you too, with a hot, passionate love that would soon fade. you had a letter from him a day or two back. last night, as he passed you in a dance, he whispered, 'i have not had an answer,' and the next time he passed you, you replied, 'you must give me another day or two.' upon the answer you give the future of your life will depend. here is a broad, fair line, and here is a short, jagged one, telling of terrible troubles and misery. it is for you to decide which course is to be yours." as she released her hold of the hand it dropped nerveless. the gypsy poured out a glass of water from a jug by her side, but her visitor waved it aside, and with a great effort rose to her feet, her face as pale as death. "my god!" she murmured to herself, "this woman is really a witch." "they do not burn witches now," the gypsy said; "i only read what i see on the palm. you cannot deny that what i have said is true. stay a moment and drink a glass of wine; you need it before you go out." she took a bottle of wine from behind her seat, emptied the water on to the earth, half filled a tumbler, and held it out. the frightened woman felt that indeed she needed it before going out into the gay scene, and tossed it off. "thank you!" she said. "whoever you are, i thank you. you have read my fate truly, and have helped me to decide it." desmond was waiting for her when she came out, but she passed him with a gesture. "you are right!" she said. "she is a witch indeed!" few other stories told were as tragic, but in nearly every case the visitors retired puzzled at the knowledge the gypsy possessed of their life and surroundings, and it soon became rumored that the old woman's powers were something extraordinary, and the little ante-room was kept filled with visitors waiting their turn for an audience. no one noticed the long and frequent absences of hilda covington from the grounds. the tent had been placed with its back hiding a small path through the shrubbery. through a peep-hole arranged in the curtain she was able to see who was waiting, and each time before leaving said a few words as to their lives which enabled netta to support the character fairly. when the last guest had departed and she joined lady moulton, she handed over a bag containing nearly a hundred pounds. "i have deducted five pounds for the gypsy," she said, "and eight pounds for the hire of the tent and its fittings." "that is at least five times as much as i expected, hilda. i have heard all sorts of marvelous stories of the power of your old woman. several people told me that she seemed to know all about them, and told them things that they believed were only known to themselves. but how did she get so much money?" hilda laughed. "i hear that they began with half-sovereigns, but as soon as they heard of her real powers, they did not venture to present her with anything less than a sovereign, and in a good many cases they gave more--no doubt to propitiate her into giving them good fortunes. you see, each visitor only had two or three minutes' interview, so that she got through from twenty to thirty an hour; and as it lasted four hours she did exceedingly well." "but who is the gypsy, and where did you find her?" "the gypsy has gone, and is doubtless by this time in some caravan or gypsy tent. i do not think that you will ever find her again." "i should have suspected that you played the gypsy yourself, hilda, were it not that i saw you half a dozen times." "i have no skill in palmistry," the girl laughed, "and certainly have not been in two places at once. i did my duty and heard jenny lind sing and parry play, though i own that i did not patronize richardson's booth." "well, it is extraordinary that this old woman should know the history of such a number of people as went into her tent, few of whom she could ever have heard of even by name, to say nothing of knowing them by sight." several ladies called within the next few days, specially to inquire from lady moulton about the gypsy. "everyone is talking about her," one said. "certainly she told me several things about the past that it was hardly possible that a woman in her position could know. i have often heard that gypsies pick up information from servants, or in the country from village gossip; but at least a hundred people visited this woman's tent, and from what i hear everyone was as astonished as i was myself at her knowledge of their family matters. it is said that in some cases she went farther than this, and told them things about the present known only to themselves and two or three intimate friends. some of them seemed to have been quite seriously affected. i saw mrs. markham just after she had left the tent, and she was as white as a sheet, and i know she drove away a few minutes afterwards." to all inquiries lady moulton simply replied: "i know no more about the gypsy than you do. miss covington took the entire management of the gypsy tent off my hands, saw to the tent being erected, and engaged the gypsy. where she picked her up i have no idea, but i fancy that she must have got her from their encampment on ham common. she turned the matter off when i asked her point-blank, and i imagine that she must have given the old crone a promise not to let it be known who she was. they are curious people, the gypsies, and for aught i know may have an objection to any of the tribe going to a gathering like ours to tell fortunes." some appeals were made to hilda personally; but lady moulton had told her the answer she had given, and taking her cue from it she was able to so shape her replies that her questioners left her convinced that she had really, while carrying out lady moulton's instructions, lighted on a gypsy possessing some of the secrets of the almost forgotten science of palmistry. chapter v. a gambling den. in a corner of one of the winding courts that lie behind fleet street stood a dingy-looking house, the lamp over the door bearing the words, "billiards and pool." during the daytime no one would be seen to enter save between the hours of twelve and two, when perhaps a dozen young fellows, after eating a frugal lunch, would resort there to pass their hour out of office in smoking and a game of billiards. of an evening, however, there were lights in every window, and the click of balls could be heard from the ground floor and that above it. in each of these there were two tables, and the play continued uninterruptedly from seven until eleven or half-past. the lights on the second floor, however, often burned until two or three o'clock in the morning, and it was here that the proprietor reaped by far the larger proportion of his profits. while the billiard-room windows generally stood open, those of the large room on the second floor were never raised, and when the lights below were extinguished, heavy curtains were dropped across the windows to keep both the light and the sounds within from being seen or heard in the court below. here was a large roulette table, while along the sides of the room were smaller tables for those who preferred other games. here almost every evening some thirty or forty men assembled. of these, perhaps a third were clerks or shop assistants, the remainder foreigners of almost every nationality. betting lists were exposed at one end of the room. underneath these a bookmaker had a small table, and carried on his trade. in there were a score of such places in the neighborhood of the strand and fleet street, but few did a larger business than this. it was generally understood that wilkinson, the proprietor, had been a soldier; but the belief originated rather from his upright carriage and a certain soldierly walk than from anything he had himself said, and he was not the sort of man whom even the most regular of the frequenters of his establishment cared to question. he was a tall man, some five-and-forty years of age, taciturn in speech, but firm in manner while business was going on. he kept admirable order in the place. he was generally to be found in the room on the second floor, but when a whistle blew, and one of the markers whispered up a speaking-tube that there was a dispute going on between the players or lookers-on, he was at once upon the spot. "now, gentlemen," he would say, interposing between them, "you know the rules of this establishment; the marker's decision on all points connected with the game is final, and must be accepted by both parties. i will have no quarrels or disputes here, and anyone making a row goes straight out into the street, and never comes in here again." in the vast majority of cases this settled the matter; but when the men were flushed with liquor, and inclined to continue the dispute, they were seized by the collar by wilkinson's strong arm and were summarily ejected from the house. in the inner room he preserved order as strictly, but had much more difficulty in doing so among the foreign element. here quarrels were not uncommon, and knives occasionally drawn; but wilkinson was a powerful man and a good boxer, and a flush hit from the shoulder always settled the business. but though stern in the management of his establishment, wilkinson was popular among its frequenters. he was acquainted with most of their callings and business. indeed, none were admitted to the upper room unless well introduced by _habitués_, or until he had made private inquiries concerning them. thus he knew among the foreigners whom he could trust, and how far, when, after a run of ill luck, they came to him and asked him for a loan, he could venture to go. with the english portion of his customers he was still more liberal. he knew that he should not be a loser from transactions with them; they must repay him, for were it known to their employers that they were in the habit of gambling, it would mean instant dismissal. there were among them several lawyers' clerks, some of whom were, in comparison with their means, deeply in debt to him. one or other of those he would often invite up to his private room on the floor above, where a bottle of good wine would be on the table, a box of excellent cigars beside it, and here they would chat more or less comfortably until the roulette room opened. mr. wilkinson made no pretense that these meetings were simply for the purpose of drinking his wine and smoking his cigars. "i am a straightforward man," he would say, "and business is business. i oblige you, and i expect you to oblige me. i have always had a fancy that there is money to be made in connection with lawyers' businesses. there are missing heirs to be hunted up; there are provisos in deeds, of whose existence some one or other would give a good deal to know. now, i am sure that you are not in a position to pay me the amount i have lent you, and for which i hold your i. o. u.'s. i have no idea of pressing you for the money, and shall be content to let it run on so long as you will let me know what is being done at your office. the arrangement is that you will tell me anything that you think can be used to advantage, and if money is made out of any information you may give me, i will engage to pay you a third of what it brings in. now, i call that a fair bargain. what do you say?" in some cases the offer was closed with at once; in others it was only agreed to after threats that the debt must be at once paid or an application would be made forthwith. so far the gambling-house keeper's expectations had not met with the success he had looked for. he had spent a good deal of time in endeavoring to find the descendants of persons who stood in the direct line of succession to properties, but of whom all clew had been lost. he had indeed obtained an insight into various family differences that had enabled him to successfully extort blackmail, but his gains in this way had not, so far, recouped him for the sums he had, as he considered, invested in the speculation. he was, however, a patient man, and felt, no doubt, that sooner or later he should be able to make a coup that would set him up for life. still he was disappointed; his idea had been the one held by many ignorant persons, that lawyers are as a class ready to resort to tricks of all kinds, in the interests of their clients or themselves. he had found that he had been altogether wrong, and that although there were a few firms which, working in connection with money-lenders, financial agents, and the lowest class of bill discounters, were mixed up in transactions of a more or less shady character, these were the black sheep of the profession, and that in the vast majority of cases the business transacted was purely technical and connected with the property of their clients. nevertheless, he took copious notes of all he learned, contending that there was no saying what might come in useful some day. "well, dawkins," he said one day to a dark-haired young fellow with a handsome face that already showed traces of the effect of late hours and dissipation, "i suppose it is the usual thing; the lawsuit as to the right of way at brownsgrove is still going on, the settlements in mr. cochrane's marriage to lady gertrude ivory are being drawn up, and other business of the same sort. you never give me a scrap of information that is of the slightest use. i am afraid that your firm is altogether too eminently respectable to have anything to do with doubtful transactions." "i told you so from the first, wilkinson; that whatever your game might be, there would be nothing in our office that could be of the least use to you, even if you had copies of every deed drawn up in it. ours is what you might call a family business. our clients have for the most part dealt with the firm for the last hundred years; that is to say, their families have. we have drawn their wills, their marriage settlements, their leases, and done everything relating to their property for years and years. my own work for the last two or three days has been drafting and engrossing the will of a general mathieson, whose father and grandfather were our clients before him." "mathieson--he is an old indian officer, isn't he, if it is the man i mean? he was in command at benares twenty years ago. he was a handsome man, then, about my height and build." "yes, i have no doubt that is the man--john le marchand mathieson." "that is him. he was very popular with the troops. he used to spend a good deal of money in improving their rations and making them comfortable. had a first-rate stable, and they used to say he was a rich man. anyhow, he spent a good deal more than his pay." "yes, he was a second son, but his elder brother died, and he came into the property; but instead of coming home to enjoy it he stopped out in india for years after he came into it." "he had a daughter, quite a little girl, in those days; her mother died out there. i suppose she inherits his property?" "well, no; she married some time back; she and her husband are both dead, and their son, a boy, six or seven years old, lives with the old man." "how much does he leave?" "something over a hundred thousand pounds. at least i know that that is about the value of the estates, for we have always acted as his agents, collected the rents, and so on." "i should like to see a copy of his will," wilkinson said, after sitting for some time silent. "i don't want all the legal jargon, but just the list of the legacies." "i can easily jot those down for you. the property goes to the grandson, and if he dies before coming of age, to a niece, hilda covington, who is his ward and lives with him. he leaves her beside only five hundred pounds, because she is herself an heiress. there are a score of small legacies, to old servants, soldiers, widows, and people of that sort." "well, you may as well give me the list entire." dawkins shrugged his shoulders. "just as you like," he said; "the will was signed yesterday, but i have the note of instructions still by me, and will bring round the list to-morrow evening; though, upon my word, i don't see what interest it can possibly have for you." "i don't know myself," the other said shortly, "but there is never any saying." after talking for a few minutes on other subjects he said, "the room is open downstairs now, dawkins, and as we have finished the bottle i will not keep you any longer. in fact, the name of that old general has called up some queer memories of old times, and i should like to think them over." when the clerk had left, wilkinson sat for a long time in thought. "it is a great idea," he murmured to himself at last; "it will want a tremendous lot of planning to arrange it all, and of course it is tremendously risky. still, it can be done, and the stake is worth trying for, even if it would be seven years' transportation if anything went wrong. in the first place i have to get some proofs of my identity. i own that i have neglected my family scandalously," and his face, which had been stern and hard, softened into a smile. "then, of course, i must establish myself in chambers in the west end, and as i have three or four thousand pounds in hand i can carry on for two or three years, if necessary. at the worst the general is likely to add me to his list of legatees, but of course that would scarcely be worth playing for alone. the will is the thing. i don't see my way to that, but it is hard if it can't be managed somehow. the child is, of course, an obstacle, but that can certainly be got over, and as i don't suppose the old man is going to die at present i have time to make my plans. when i see how matters go i can put my hand on a man who could be relied on to help me carry out anything i might put in his way. well, i always thought that i should hit on something good through these young scamps who come here, but this is a bigger thing than i ever dreamed of. it will certainly be a difficult game to play, but, knocking about all over the world as i have been for fifteen years before i came back and set up this show, i think that i have learned enough to pass muster anywhere." somewhat to the surprise of the _habitués_ of the room below it was nearly eleven o'clock before the proprietor made his appearance there, and even when he did so he took little interest in what was going on, but moved restlessly from one room to another, smoking cigar after cigar without intermission, and acknowledging but briefly the greetings of those who were the most regular frequenters of his establishment. two days later the following advertisement appeared, not only in the london papers, but in a large number of country journals: "john simcoe: any relatives of john simcoe, who left england about the year or , and is supposed to have been lost at sea in the bay of bengal, in the ship _nepaul_, in december, , are requested to communicate with j. w. thompson & co., newspaper agents, fleet street, when they will hear of something to their advantage." only one reply was received. it was dated "myrtle cottage, stowmarket," and was as follows: "sir: a friend has shown me the advertisement in the ipswich paper, which must, i think, refer to my nephew, who left here twenty years ago. i received a letter from him dated december , , from calcutta, saying that he was about to sail for china in the _nepaul_. i never heard from him again, but the rector here kindly made some inquiries for me some months afterwards, and learned that the vessel had never been heard of after sailing, but was believed to have foundered with all hands in a great gale that took place a few days after she sailed. so far as i know i am his only relative. awaiting a further communication from you, "i remain, "your obedient servant, "martha simcoe." great was the excitement caused by the advertisement at myrtle cottage. miss simcoe, who with a tiny servant was the sole inmate of the cottage, had called together all her female acquaintances, and consulted them as to what the advertisement could mean, and as to the way in which she should answer it. "do you think it would be safe to reply at all?" she inquired anxiously. "you see, my nephew john was a very wild young fellow. i do not mean as to his conduct here; no one could say anything against that. he was a clerk in the bank, you know, and, i believe, was very well thought of; but when his father died, and he came into two thousand pounds, it seemed to turn his head. i know that he never liked the bank; he had always wanted to be either a soldier or a sailor, and directly he got the money he gave up his situation at the bank, and nothing would do but that he must travel. everyone told him that it was madness; his aunt maria--poor soul, you all knew her--and i cried over it, but nothing would move him. a fine-looking fellow he was, as some of you will remember, standing six feet high, and, as everyone said, looking more like a soldier officer than a clerk at a bank. "we asked him what he would do when his money was gone, but he laughed it off, and said that there were plenty of things for a man to do with a pair of strong arms. he said that he might enter the service of some indian prince, or marry the daughter of a black king, or discover a diamond mine, and all sorts of nonsense of that sort. he bought such an outfit as you never did see--guns and pistols and all sorts of things; and as for clothes, why, a prince could not have wanted more. shirts by the dozen, my dear; and i should say eight or ten suits of white clothes, which i told him would make him look like a cricketer or a baker. why, it took three big trunks to hold all his things. but i will say for him that he wrote regular, either to me or to my sister maria. last time he wrote he said that he had been attacked by a tiger, but had got well again and was going to china, though what he wanted to go there for i am sure i don't know. he could not want to buy teacups and saucers; they would only get broken sending home. well, his death was a great blow to us." "i don't know whether i should answer the advertisement, miss simcoe," one of her friends said. "there is no saying what it might mean. perhaps he got into debt in india, and the people think that they might get paid if they can find out his relations here." the idea came like a douche of cold water upon the little gathering. "but the advertisement says, 'will hear of something to their advantage,' mrs. maberley," miss simcoe urged timidly. "oh, that is nothing, my dear. that may be only a lawyer's trick; they are capable of anything, i have heard." "but they could not make miss simcoe pay," another urged; "it seems to me much more likely that her nephew may have left some of his money in the hands of a banker at calcutta, and now that it has been so many years unclaimed they are making inquiries to see who is his heir. that seems much more likely." a murmur of assent ran round the circle, and after much discussion the answer was drafted, and miss simcoe, in a fever of anxiety, awaited the reply. two days later a tall, well-dressed man knocked at the door of myrtle cottage. it was a loud, authoritative knock, such as none of miss simcoe's usual visitors gave. "it must be about the advertisement," she exclaimed. the little servant had been enjoined to wear her sunday clothes in case a visitor should come, and after a hasty glance to see if she was tidy, miss simcoe sat down in her little parlor, and tried to assume an appearance of calmness. the front door opened, and a man's voice inquired, "is miss simcoe in?" then the parlor door opened and the visitor entered, pushing past the girl, who had been instructed how to announce him in proper form, and exclaiming, "my dear aunt martha," fairly lifted the astonished old lady from her seat and kissed her. "dear me! dear me!" she gasped, as he put her on her feet again, "can it be that you are my nephew john?" "why, don't you know me, aunt? twenty years of knocking about have changed me sadly, i am afraid, but surely you must remember me." "ye--es," she said doubtfully, "yes, i think that i remember you. but, you see, we all thought that you were dead; and i have only got that likeness of you that was cut out in black paper by a man who came round when you were only eighteen, and somehow i have always thought of you as like that." "yes, i remember," he laughed. "well, aunt, i have changed since then, there is no doubt. so you see i was not drowned, after all. i was picked up by a passing ship, clinging to a spar, but i lost all my money in the wreck of the _nepaul_. i shipped before the mast. we traded among the islands for some months, then i had a row with the captain and ran away, and threw in my lot with the natives, and i have been knocking about in the east ever since, and have come back with enough to live on comfortably, and to help you, if you need it." "poor maria died four years ago," she said tearfully. "it would have been a happiness to her indeed, poor creature, if you had come back before." "i am sorry indeed to hear that," he replied. "then you are living here all alone, aunt?" "yes, except for my little maid. you see, john, maria and i laid out the money our father left us in life annuities, and as long as we lived together we did very comfortably. since then, of course, i have had to draw in a little, but i manage very nicely." "well, well, aunt, there will be no occasion for you to stint yourself any more. as i said, i have come home with my purse warmly lined, and i shall make you an allowance of fifty pounds a year. you were always very kind to me as a boy, and i can very well afford it, and i dare say it will make all the difference to you." "my dear john, i could not think of taking such a sum from you." "pooh, pooh, aunt! what is the use of money if one cannot use it to make one's friends comfortable? so that is settled, and i won't have anything more said about it." the old lady wiped her eyes. "it is good of you, john, and it will indeed make all the difference to me. it will almost double my income, and i shan't have to look at every halfpenny before i spend it." "that is all right, aunt; now let us sit down comfortably to chat about old times. you don't mind my smoking, i hope?" miss simcoe, for almost the first time in her life, told a lie. "not at all, john; not at all. now, how was it that you did not come down yourself instead of putting in an advertisement, which i should never have seen if my friend mrs. maberley had not happened to notice it in the paper which she takes in regularly, and brought it in to show me?" "well, i could not bring myself to come down, aunt. twenty years make great changes, and it would have been horrible to have come down here and found that you had all gone, and that i was friendless in the place where i had been brought up as a boy. i thought that, by my putting it into a local paper, someone who had known me would be sure to see it. now let me hear about all the people that i knew." john simcoe stayed for three days quietly at the cottage. the news of his return spread rapidly, and soon many of the friends that had known him came to welcome him. his aunt had told her own circle of her nephew's wealth and liberality, and through them the news that john simcoe had returned home a wealthy man was imparted to all their acquaintances. some of his old friends declared that they should have known him anywhere; others said frankly that now they knew who he was they saw the likeness, but that if they had met him anywhere else they did not think they should have recognized him. john simcoe's memory had been greatly refreshed by his aunt's incessant talk about his early days and doings, and as his visitors were more anxious to hear of his adventures abroad than to talk of the days long past, he had no difficulty whatever in satisfying all as to his identity, even had not the question been settled by his liberality to his aunt, from whom no return whatever could possibly be expected. when he left he handed her fifty pounds in gold. "i may as well give you a year's money at once," he said; "i am a careless man, and might forget to send it quarterly." "where can i write to you, john?" she asked. "i cannot give you an address at present," he said; "i have only been stopping at a hotel until i could find chambers to suit me. directly i do so i will drop you a line. i shall always be glad to hear of you, and will run down occasionally to see you and have a chat again with some of my old friends." the return of john simcoe served stowmarket as a subject for conversation for some time. he had spent his money generously while there, and had given a dinner at the principal hotel to a score of those with whom he had been most intimate when a boy. champagne had flowed in unstinted abundance, and it was generally voted that he was a capital fellow, and well deserved the good fortune that had attended him. in the quiet suffolk town the tales of the adventures that he had gone through created quite a sensation, and when repeated by their fathers set half the boys of the place wild with a desire to imitate his example, and to embark in a life which was at once delightful, and ended in acquiring untold wealth. on leaving he pressed several of them, especially one who had been a fellow-clerk with him at the bank, and was now its manager, to pay him a visit whenever they came to town. "i expect to be in diggings of my own in a week or two," he said, "and shall make a point of having a spare bed, to put up a friend at any time." [illustration: "you don't remember me, general?"--_page ._] chapter vi. john simcoe. general mathieson was on the point of going out for a drive with his niece, who was buttoning her glove, when a servant entered the drawing room and said that a gentleman wished to speak to him. "who is he? did he give you his name or say what was his business?" "no, sir. i have not seen him before. he merely asked me to give you his message." "i suppose i had better see him, hilda." "well, uncle, i will get out of the way and go downstairs when he has come in. don't let him keep you, for you know that when i have put you down at your club i have an engagement to take lina crossley to do some shopping first, and then for a drive in the park." "i don't suppose that he will be five minutes, whoever he is." hilda slipped away just in time to avoid the visitor. as the manservant opened the door the general looked with some interest at the stranger, for such it seemed to him his visitor was. he was a tall man, well dressed, and yet without the precision that would mark him as being a member of a good club or an _habitué_ of the row. "you don't remember me, general?" he said, with a slight smile. "i cannot say that i do," the general replied. "your face does not seem unfamiliar to me, though i cannot at the present moment place it." "it is rather an uncommon name," the visitor said; "but i am not surprised that you do not remember it or me, for it is some twenty years since we met. my name is simcoe." "twenty years!" the general repeated. "then it must have been in india, for twenty years ago i was in command of the benares district. simcoe!" he broke off excitedly. "of course i knew a gentleman of that name who did me an inestimable service; in fact, he saved my life." "i don't know that it was as much as that, but at least i saved you from being mauled by a tiger." "bless me!" the general exclaimed, taking a step forward, "and you are the man. i recognize you now, and had i not believed that you had been lost at sea within a month after you had saved my life i should have known you at once, though, of course, twenty years have changed you a good deal. my dear sir, i am happy indeed to know that the report was a false one, and to meet you again." and he shook hands with his visitor with the greatest warmth. "i am not surprised that you did not recognize me," the latter said; "i was but twenty-five then, and have been knocking about the world ever since, and have gone through some very rough times and done some very hard work. of course you saw my name among the list of the passengers on board the _nepaul_, which went down with, as was supposed, all hands in that tremendous storm in the bay of bengal. happily, i escaped. i was washed overboard just as the wreck of the mainmast had been cut away. a wave carried me close to it; i climbed upon it and lashed myself to leeward of the top, which sheltered me a good deal. five days later i was picked up insensible and was carried to singapore. i was in hospital there for some weeks. when i quite recovered, being penniless, without references or friends, i shipped on board a vessel that was going on a trading voyage among the islands. i had come out to see the world, and thought that i might as well see it that way as another. it would take a long time to relate my after-adventures; suffice it that at last, after numerous wanderings, i became chief adviser of a powerful chief in burmah, and finally have returned home, not exactly a rich man, but with enough to live upon in more than comfort for the rest of my life." "how long have you been in london?" "i have been here but a fortnight; i ran down home to see if i had relatives living, but found that an old lady was the sole survivor of my family. i need scarcely say that my first business on reaching london was to rig myself out in a presentable sort of way, and i may say that at present i feel very uncomfortable in these garments after being twenty years without putting on a black coat. i happened the other day to see your name among those who attended the _levée_, and i said to myself at once, 'i will call upon the general and see if he has any remembrances of me.'" at this moment a servant entered the room with a little note. "my dear uncle: it is very naughty of you to be so long. i am taking the carriage, and have told them to put the other horse into the brougham and bring it round for you at once." for more than an hour the two men sat talking together, and simcoe, on leaving, accepted a cordial invitation from the general to dinner on the following day. * * * * * "well, uncle, who was it?" hilda asked, when they met in the drawing room a few minutes before the dinner hour. "you said you would not be five minutes, and i waited for a quarter of an hour and then lost patience. i asked when i came in how long he had stayed, and heard that he did not leave until five o'clock." "he was a man who had saved my life in india, child." "dear me! and have you never heard of him since, uncle?" "no, dear. i did my best to find out his family, but had no idea of ever seeing the man himself, for the simple reason that i believed that he died twenty years ago. he had sailed in a vessel that was reported as lost with all hands, so you may well imagine my surprise when he told me who he was." "did you recognize him at once, uncle?" "not at first. twenty years is a long time; and he was only about five-and-twenty when i knew him, and of course he has changed greatly. however, even before he told me who he was i was able to recall his face. he was a tall, active young fellow then, and i could certainly trace the likeness." "i suppose he was in the army, uncle?" "no; he was a young englishman who was making a tour through india. i was in command at benares at the time, and he brought me letters of introduction from a man who had come out in the same ship with him, and also from a friend of mine in calcutta. a few days after he arrived i was on the point of going up with a party to do some tiger-shooting in the terai, and i invited him to come with us. he was a pleasant fellow and soon made himself popular. he never said much about himself, but as far as i understood him he was not a rich man, but he was spending his money in seeing the world, with a sort of happy confidence that something would turn up when his money was gone. "we were out a week and had fair sport. as you have often heard me say, i was passionately fond of big-game shooting, and i had had many narrow escapes in the course of my life, but i never had so narrow a one as happened to me on that occasion. we had wounded a tiger and had lost him. we had spent a couple of hours in beating the jungle, but without success, and had agreed that the brute could not have been hit as hard as we had believed, but must have made off altogether. we were within fifty yards of the edge of the jungle, when there was a sudden roar, and before i could use my rifle the tiger sprang. i was not in a howdah, but on a pad; and the tiger struck one of its forepaws on my knee. with the other he clung for a moment to the pad, and then we went down together. the brute seized me by the shoulder and sprang into the jungle again, carried me a dozen yards or so, and then lay down, still holding me by the shoulder. "i was perfectly sensible, but felt somewhat dazed and stupid; i found myself vaguely thinking that he must, after all, have been very badly hit, and, instead of making off, had hid up within a short distance of the spot where we saw him. i was unable to move hand or foot, for he was lying on me, and his weight was pressing the life out of me. i know that i vaguely hoped i should die before he took a bite at my shoulder. i suppose that the whole thing did not last a minute, though to me it seemed an interminable time. suddenly there was a rustling in the bush. with a deep growl the tiger loosed his hold of my shoulder, and, rising to his feet, faced half round. what happened after that i only know from hearsay. "simcoe, it seems, was riding in the howdah on an elephant behind mine. as the tiger sprang at my elephant he fired and hit the beast on the shoulder. it was that, no doubt, that caused its hold to relax, and brought us to the ground together. as the tiger sprang with me into the jungle simcoe leaped down from the howdah and followed. he had only his empty rifle and a large hunting-knife. it was no easy work pushing his way through the jungle, but in a minute he came upon us. clubbing his gun, he brought it down on the left side of the tiger's head before the brute, who was hampered by his broken shoulder, and weak from his previous wound, could spring. had it not been that it was the right shoulder that was broken, the blow, heavy as it was, would have had little effect upon the brute; as it was, having no support on that side, it reeled half over and then, with a snarling growl, sprang upon its assailant. simcoe partly leaped aside, and striking again with the barrel of his gun,--the butt had splintered with the first blow,--so far turned it aside that instead of receiving the blow direct, which would certainly have broken in his skull, it fell in a slanting direction on his left shoulder. "the force was sufficient to knock him down, but, as he fell, he drew his knife. the tiger had leaped partly beyond him, so that he lay under its stomach, and it could not for the moment use either its teeth or claws. the pressure was terrible, but with his last remaining strength he drove the knife to the full length of its blade twice into the tiger's body. the animal rolled over for a moment, but there was still life in it, and it again sprang to its feet, when a couple of balls struck it in the head, and it fell dead. three officers had slipped down from their howdahs when they saw simcoe rushing into the jungle, and coming up just in time, they fired, and so finished the conflict. "there was not much to choose between simcoe and myself, though i had certainly got the worst of it. the flesh of his arm had been pretty well stripped off from the shoulder to the elbow; my shoulder had been broken, and the flesh torn by the brute's teeth, but as it had not shifted its hold from the time it first grasped me till it let go to face simcoe, it was not so bad as it might have been. but the wound on the leg was more serious; its claws had struck just above the knee-cap and had completely torn it off. we were both insensible when we were lifted up and carried down to the camp. in a fortnight simcoe was about; but it was some months before i could walk again, and, as you know, my right leg is still stiff. i had a very narrow escape of my life; fever set in, and when simcoe went down country, a month after the affair, i was still lying between life and death, and never had an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which, practically unarmed, he went in to face a wounded tiger in order to save my life. you may imagine, then, my regret when a month later we got the news that the _nepaul_, in which he had sailed, had been lost with all hands." "it was a gallant action indeed, uncle. you told me something about it soon after i came here, when i happened to ask you how it was that you walked so stiffly, but you did not tell it so fully. and what is he going to do now?" "he is going to settle in london. he has been, as he says, knocking about in the east ever since, being engaged in all sorts of adventures; he has been for some time in the service of a native chief some way up near the borders of burmah, siam, and china, and somehow got possession of a large number of rubies and other precious stones, which he has turned into money, and now intends to take chambers and settle down to a quiet life, join a club, and so on. of course i promised to do all in my power to further his object, and to introduce him into as much society as he cared for." "what is he like, uncle?" "he is about my height, and i suppose about five-and-forty--though he looks rather older. no wonder, after such a life as he has led. he carries himself well, and he is altogether much more presentable than you would expect under the circumstances. indeed, had i not known that he had never served, i should unhesitatingly have put him down as having been in the army. there is something about the way he carries his shoulders that you seldom see except among men who have been drilled. he is coming here to dine to-morrow, so you will see him." "that relieves me of anxiety, uncle; for you know you had a letter this morning from colonel fitzhugh, saying that he had been unexpectedly called out of town, and you said that you would ask somebody at the club to fill his place, but you know you very often forget things that you ought to remember." "i certainly had forgotten that when i asked him to come, and as i came home i blamed myself for not having asked someone else, so as to make up an even number." a month later mr. simcoe had become an intimate of general mathieson's house. it had always been a matter of deep regret to the general that he had been unable to thank the man who at terrible risk to his life had saved him from death, and that feeling was heightened when the news came that his preserver had been drowned, and that the opportunity of doing so was forever lost. he now spared no pains to further his wishes. he constantly invited him to lunch or dinner at his club, introduced him to all his friends in terms of the highest eulogium, and repeated over and over again the story of his heroic action. as his own club was a military one he could not propose him there, but he had no difficulty in getting friends to propose and support him for two other clubs of good standing. several of the officers to whom he introduced simcoe had been at benares at the time he was hurt. these he recognized at once, and was able to chat with them of their mutual acquaintances, and indeed surprised them by his knowledge of matters at the station that they would hardly have thought would be known to one who had made but a short stay there. one of them said as much, but simcoe said, laughing, "you forget that i was laid up for a month. everyone was very good to me, and i had generally one or two men sitting with me, and the amount of gossip i picked up about the station was wonderful. of course there was nothing else to talk about; and as i have a good memory, i think i could tell you something about the private affairs of pretty nearly every civilian and military man on the station." everyone agreed that simcoe was a very pleasant and amusing companion. he was full of anecdotes of the wild people that he had lived among and of the adventures and escapes he had gone through. although none of the benares friends of the general recognized simcoe when they first met him, they speedily recalled his features. his instant recognition of them, his acquaintance with persons and scenes at and around benares was such that they never for a moment doubted his identity, and as their remembrance of the general's visitor returned they even wondered that their recognition of him had not been as instant as his of them. as to his means, not even to the general had simcoe explained his exact position. he had taken good apartments in jermyn street, gave excellent little dinners there, kept undeniably good wine and equally excellent cigars, dressed well, and was regarded as being a thoroughly good fellow. the general was not a close observer. had he been so, he would speedily have noticed that his niece, although always polite and courteous to mr. simcoe, did not receive him with the warmth and pleasure with which she greeted those who were her favorites. on his part the visitor spared no pains to make himself agreeable to her; he would at once volunteer to execute any commission for her if she happened to mention in his presence anything that she wanted. one evening when she was going to a ball he sent her an expensive bouquet of flowers. the next day when she saw him she said: "i am very much obliged to you for those lovely flowers, and i carried the bouquet last night, but please do not send any more. i don't think that it is quite nice to accept presents from anyone except very near relations. it was very kind of you to think of it, but i would really rather that you did not do it again. uncle gives me carte blanche in the way of flowers, but i do not avail myself of it very largely, for the scent is apt to make me feel faint, and beyond the smallest spray i seldom carry any. i made an exception last night, for those you sent me were most lovely. you don't mind my saying that, do you?" "not at all, miss covington; and i quite understand what you mean. it seemed natural to me to send you some flowers. out in the pacific islands, especially at samoa and tahiti, and, indeed, more or less everywhere, women wear a profusion of flowers in their hair, and no present is so acceptable to them." "i fancy flowers do not cost so much there as they do here, mr. simcoe?" "no," the latter laughed; "for half a dollar one can get enough to render a girl the envy of all others." * * * * * "i think you were right to ask mr. simcoe not to repeat his present, hilda," the general said. "i particularly noticed the bouquet that you carried last night." "yes, uncle, there was nothing equal to it in the room; it must have cost three or four guineas." "i don't think that you quite like him; do you, hilda?" "i like him, uncle, because he saved your life; but in other respects i do not know that i do like him particularly. he is very pleasant and very amusing, but i don't feel that i quite understand him." "how do you mean that you don't understand him?" "i cannot quite explain, uncle. to begin with, i don't seem to get any nearer to him--i mean to what he really is. i know more of his adventures and his life than i did, but i know no more of him himself than i did three months ago when i first met him at dinner." "at any rate you know that he is brave," the general said, somewhat gravely. "yes, i know that, of course; but a man can be brave, exceptionally brave, and yet not possess all other good qualities. he did behave like a hero in your case, and i need not say that i feel deeply grateful to him for the service that he rendered you; still, that is the only side of his nature that i feel certain about." "pooh! pooh! hilda," the general said, with some irritation. "what do you know about nine-tenths of the men you meet? you cannot even tell that they are brave." "no, uncle; i know only the side they choose to present to me, which is a pleasant side, and i do not care to know more. but it is different in this case. mr. simcoe is here nearly every day; he has become one of our inner circle; you are naturally deeply interested in him, and i am, therefore, interested in him also, and want to know more of him than i have got to know. he is brave and pleasant; is he also honest and honorable? is he a man of thoroughly good principles? we know what he tells us of his life and his adventures, but he only tells us what he chooses." the general shrugged his shoulders. "my dear child, you may say the same thing of pretty nearly every unmarried man you meet. when a man marries and sets up a household one does get to know something about him. there are his wife's relations, who, as a rule, speak with much frankness concerning a man who has married their daughter, sister, or cousin. but as to bachelors, as a rule one has to take them at their own valuation. of course, i know no more than you do as to whether simcoe is in all respects an honorable gentleman. it is quite sufficient that he saved my life, almost at the sacrifice of his own, and whatever the life he may have led since is no business of mine. he is distinctly popular among those i have introduced him to, and is not likely in any way to discredit that introduction." that hilda was not entirely satisfied was evident by the letter she wrote when her uncle had, as usual, gone up one afternoon to his club. "my dear netta: i have told you several times about the mr. simcoe who saved uncle's life out in india, and who is so intimate at the house. i can't say that either my acquaintance with or my liking for him increases. he does not stand the test of the system, and the more i watch his lips the less i understand him. he talks fluently and quickly, and yet somehow i feel that there is a hesitation in his speech, and that his lips are repeating what they have learned, and not speaking spontaneously. you know that we have noticed the same thing among those who have learned to speak by the system but are not yet perfect in it, so i need not explain further what i mean, as you will understand it. for example, i can always tell at a public meeting, or when listening to a preacher, whether he is speaking absolutely extemporarily or whether he has learned his speech by heart beforehand. "i really strongly misdoubt the man. of course i know that he saved my uncle's life; beyond that i know nothing of him, and it is this very feeling that i do know nothing that disquiets me. i can no more see into him than i can into a stone wall. i can quite understand that it is of very great importance to him to stand well with the general. he came here a stranger with a queer history. he knew no one; he had money and wanted to get into society. through my uncle he has done so; he has been elected to two clubs, has made a great number of acquaintances, goes to the row, the royal academy, the theaters, and so on, and is, at any rate, on nodding terms with a very large number of people. all this he owes to my uncle, and i fail to see what else he can wish for. it would be natural with so many other engagements that he should not come to us so often as he used to do, but there is no falling off in that respect. he is the tame cat of the establishment. i dare say you think me silly to worry over such a thing, but i can't help worrying. i hate things i don't understand, and i don't understand this man. "another thing is, walter does not like him. he constantly brings the child toys, but walter does not take to him, refuses absolutely to sit upon his knee, or to be petted by him in any way. i always think that it is a bad sign when a child won't take to a man. however, i will not bother you more about it now; i will keep him out of my letters as much as i can. i wish i could keep him out of my mind also. as i tell myself over and over again, he is nothing to me, and whether he possesses all the virtues or none of them is, or at any rate should be, a matter of indifference to me. i can't help wishing that you had come over here two months later, then i should have had the benefit of your advice and opinion, for you know, netta, how accustomed i was for years to consider you almost, if not quite, infallible." chapter vii. john simcoe's friend. there was a great sensation among the frequenters of the house in elephant court when they were told that wilkinson had sold the business, and the new proprietor would come in at once. the feeling among those who were in his debt was one of absolute dismay, for it seemed to them certain the amounts would be at once called in. to their surprise and relief wilkinson went round among the foreigners, whose debts in no case exceeded five pounds, and handed to them their notes of hand. "i am going out of the business," he said, "and shall be leaving for abroad in a day or so. i might, of course, have arranged with the new man for him to take over these papers, but he might not be as easy as i have been, and i should not like any of you to get into trouble. i have never pressed anyone since i have been here, still less taken anyone into court, and i should like to leave on friendly terms with all. so here are your papers; tear them up, and don't be fools enough to borrow again." towards his english clients, whose debts were generally from ten to twenty pounds, he took the same course, adding a little good advice as to dropping billiards and play altogether and making a fresh start. "you have had a sharp lesson," he said, "and i know that you have been on thorns for the last year. i wanted to show you what folly it was to place yourself in the power of anyone to ruin you, and i fancy i have succeeded very well. there is no harm in a game of billiards now and then, but if you cannot play without betting you had better cut it altogether. as for the tables, it is simply madness. you must lose in the long run, and i am quite sure that i have got out of you several times the amount of the i. o. u.'s that i hold." never were men more surprised and more relieved. they could hardly believe that they were once more free men, and until a fresh set of players had succeeded them the billiard rooms were frequently almost deserted. to dawkins wilkinson was somewhat more explicit. "you know," he said, "the interest i took in that will of general mathieson. it was not the will so much as the man that i was so interested in. it showed me that he was most liberally disposed to those who had done him a service. now, it happens that years ago, when he was at benares, i saved his life from a tiger, and got mauled myself in doing so. i had not thought of the matter for many years, but your mention of his name recalled it to me. i had another name in those days--men often change their names when they knock about in queer places, as i have done. however, i called upon him, and he expressed himself most grateful. i need not say that i did not mention the billiard room to him. he naturally supposed that i had just arrived from abroad, and he has offered to introduce me to many of his friends; and i think that i have a good chance of being put down in his will for a decent sum. i brought money home with me from abroad and have made a goodish sum here, so i shall resume my proper name and go west, and drop this affair altogether. i am not likely to come against any of the crew here, and, as you see," and he removed a false beard and whiskers from his face, "i have shaved, though i got this hair to wear until i had finally cut the court. so you see you have unintentionally done me a considerable service, and in return i shall say nothing about that fifty pounds you owe me. now, lad, try and keep yourself straight in future. you may not get out of another scrape as you have out of this. all i ask is that you will not mention what i have told you to anyone else. there is no fear of my being recognized, with a clean-shaven face and different toggery altogether, but at any rate it is as well that everyone but yourself should believe that, as i have given out, i have gone abroad again. i shall keep your i. o. u.'s, but i promise you that you shall hear no more of them as long as you hold your tongue as to what i have just told you. possibly i may some day need your assistance, and in that case shall know where to write to you." it was not until after a great deal of thought that john simcoe had determined thus far to take dawkins into his confidence, but he concluded at last that it was the safest thing to do. he was, as he knew, often sent by the firm with any communications that they might have to make to their clients, and should he meet him at the general's he might recognize him and give him some trouble. he had made no secret that he had turned his hand to many callings, and that his doings in the southern seas would not always bear close investigation, and the fact that he had once kept a billiard room could do him no special harm. as to the will, dawkins certainly would not venture to own that he had repeated outside what had been done in the office. the man might be useful to him in the future. it was more than probable he would again involve himself in debt, and was just the weak and empty-headed young fellow who might be made a convenient tool should he require one. so elephant court knew mr. wilkinson no more, and certainly none of the _habitués_ could have recognized him in the smooth-shaven and faultlessly dressed man whom they might meet coming out of a west end club. dawkins often turned the matter over in his mind, after his first relief had passed at finding the debt that had weighed so heavily upon him perfectly wiped out. "there ought to be money in it," he said to himself, "but i don't see where it comes in. in the first place i could not say he had kept a gambling place without acknowledging that i had often been there, and i could not say that it was a conversation of mine about the general's will that put it into his head to call upon him, and lastly, he has me on the hip with those i. o. u.'s. possibly if the general does leave him money, i may manage to get some out of him, though i am by no means sure of that. he is not a safe man to meddle with, and he might certainly do me more harm than i could do him." * * * * * the matter had dropped somewhat from his mind when, three months later, general mathieson came into the office to have an interview with his principals. after he had left the managing clerk was called in. on returning, he handed dawkins a sheet of paper. "you will prepare a fresh will for general mathieson; it is to run exactly as at present, but this legacy is to be inserted after that to miss covington. it might just as well have been put in a codicil, but the general preferred to have it in the body of the will." dawkins looked at the instruction. it contained the words: "to john simcoe, at present residing at jermyn street, i bequeath the sum of ten thousand pounds, as a token of my gratitude for his heroic conduct in saving my life at the cost of great personal injury to himself from the grip of a tiger, in the year ." "by jove, he has done well for himself!" dawkins muttered, as he sat down to his desk after the managing clerk had handed him the general's will from the iron box containing papers and documents relating to his affairs. "ten thousand pounds! i wish i could light upon a general in a fix of some sort, though i don't know that i should care about a tiger. it is wonderful what luck some men have. i ought to get something out of this, if i could but see my way to it. fancy the keeper of a billiard room and gaming house coming in for such a haul as this! it is disgusting!" he set about preparing a draft of the will, but he found it difficult to keep his attention fixed upon his work, and when the chief clerk ran his eye over it he looked up in indignant surprise. "what on earth is the matter with you, mr. dawkins? the thing is full of the most disgraceful blunders. in several cases it is not even sense. during all the time that i have been in this office i have never had such a disgraceful piece of work come into my hands before. why, if the office boy had been told to make a copy of the will, he would have done it vastly better. what does it mean?" "i am very sorry, sir," dawkins said, "but i don't feel very well to-day, and i have got such a headache that i can scarcely see what i am writing." "well, well," his superior said, somewhat mollified, "that will account for it. i thought at first that you must have been drinking. you had better take your hat and be off. go to the nearest chemist and take a dose, and then go home and lie down. you are worse than of no use in the state that you are. i hope that you will be all right in the morning, for we are, as you know, very busy at present, and cannot spare a hand. tear up that draft and hand the will and instructions to mr. macleod. the general will be down here at ten o'clock to-morrow to see it; he is like most military men, sharp and prompt, and when he wants a thing done he expects to have it done at once." * * * * * "you are feeling better, i hope, this morning?" he said, when dawkins came into the office at the usual hour next day, "though i must say that you look far from well. do you think that you are capable of work?" "i think so, sir; at any rate my head is better." it was true that the clerk did not look well, for he had had no sleep all night, but had tossed restlessly in bed, endeavoring, but in vain, to hit on some manner of extracting a portion of the legacy from the ex-proprietor of the gambling house. the more he thought, the more hopeless seemed the prospect. john simcoe was eminently a man whom it would be unsafe to anger. the promptness and decision of his methods had gained him at least the respect of all the frequenters of his establishment, and just as he had sternly kept order there, so he would deal with any individual who crossed his path. he held the best cards, too; and while a disclosure of the past could hardly injure him seriously, he had the means of causing the ruin and disgrace of dawkins himself, if he ventured to attack him. the clerk was himself shrewd in his own way, but he had the sense to feel that he was no match for john simcoe, and the conclusion that he finally came to was that he must wait and watch events, and that, so far as he could see, his only chance of obtaining a penny of the legacy was to follow implicitly the instructions simcoe had given him, in which case possibly he might receive a present when the money was paid. * * * * * about a fortnight after he knew the will had been signed by general mathieson, simcoe went down to a small house on pentonville hill, where one of the ablest criminals in london resided, passing unsuspected under the eyes of the police in the character of a man engaged in business in the city. a peculiar knock brought him to the door. "ah, is it you, simcoe?" he said; "why, i have not seen you for months. i did not know you for the moment, for you have taken all the hair off your face." "i have made a change, harrison. i have given up the billiard rooms, and am now a swell with lodgings in jermyn street." "that is a change! i thought you said the billiards and cards paid well; but i suppose you have got something better in view?" "they did pay well, but i have a very big thing in hand." "that is the right line to take up," the other said. "you were sure to get into trouble with the police about the card-playing before long, and then the place would have been shut up, and you might have got three months; and when you got out the peelers would have kept their eyes upon you, and your chances would have been at an end. no, i have never had anything to do with small affairs; i go in, as you know, for big things. they take time to work out, it is true; and after all one's trouble, something may go wrong at the last moment, and the thing has to be given up. some girl who has been got at makes a fool of herself, and gets discharged a week before it comes off; or a lady takes it into her head to send her jewels to a banker's, and go on to the continent a week earlier than she intended to do. then there is a great loss in getting rid of the stuff. those sharps at amsterdam don't give more than a fifth of the value for diamonds. it is a heart-rending game, on the whole; but there is such excitement about the life that when one has once taken it up it is seldom indeed that one changes it, though one knows that, sooner or later, one is sure to make a slip and get caught. now, what will you take? champagne or brandy?" "i know that your brandy is first-rate, harrison, and i will sample it again." "i have often thought," went on the other, after the glasses had been filled and cigars lighted, "what a rum thing it was that you should come across my brother bill out among the islands. he had not written to me for a long time, and i had never expected to hear of him again. i thought that he had gone down somehow, and had either been eaten by sharks or killed by the natives, or shot in some row with his mates. he was two years older than i was, and, as i have told you, we were sons of a well-to-do auctioneer in the country; but he was a hard man, and we could not stand it after a time, so we made a bolt for it. we were decently dressed when we got to london. as we had been at a good school at home, and were both pretty sharp, we thought that we should have no difficulty in getting work of some sort. "we had a hard time of it. no one would take us without a character, so we got lower and lower, till we got to know some boys who took us to what was called a thieves' kitchen--a place where boys were trained as pick-pockets. the old fellow who kept it saw that we were fit for higher game than was usual, and instead of being sent out to pick up what we could get in the streets we were dressed as we had been before, and sent to picture-galleries and museums and cricket matches, and we soon became first-rate hands, and did well. in a short time we didn't see why we should work for another man, and we left him without saying good-by. "it was not long before he paid us out. he knew that we should go on at the same work, and dressed up two or three of his boys and sent them to these places, and one day when bill was just pocketing a watch at lord's one of these boys shouted out, 'thief! thief! that boy has stolen your watch, sir,' and bill got three months, though the boy could not appear against him, for i followed him after they had nabbed bill, and pretty nearly killed him. "then i went on my travels, and was away two or three years from london. bill had been out and in again twice; he was too rash altogether. i took him away with me, but i soon found that it would not do, and that it would soon end in our both being shut up. so i put it fairly to him. "'we are good friends, you know, bill,' i said, 'but it is plain to me that we can't work together with advantage. you are twenty and i am eighteen, but, as you have often said yourself, i have got the best head of the two. i am tired of this sort of work. when we get a gold ticker, worth perhaps twenty pounds, we can't get above two for it, and it is the same with everything else. it is not good enough. we have been away from london so long that old isaacs must have forgotten all about us. i have not been copped yet, and as i have got about twenty pounds in my pocket i can take lodgings as a young chap who has come up to walk the hospitals, or something of that sort. if you like to live with me, quiet, we will work together; if not, it is best that we should each go our own way--always being friends, you know.' "bill said that was fair enough, but that he liked a little life and to spend his money freely when he got it. so we separated. bill got two more convictions, and the last time it was a case of transportation. we had agreed between ourselves that if either of us got into trouble the other should call once a month at the house of a woman we knew to ask for letters, and i did that regularly after he was sent out. i got a few letters from him. the first was written after he had made his escape. he told me that he intended to stay out there--it was a jolly life, and a free one, i expect. pens and paper were not common where he was; anyhow he only wrote once a year or so, and it was two years since i had heard from him when you wrote and said you had brought me a message from bill. "ever since we parted i have gone on the same line, only i have worked carefully. i was not a bad-looking chap, and hadn't much difficulty in getting over servant girls and finding out where things were to be had, so i gradually got on. for years now i have only carried on big affairs, working the thing up and always employing other hands to carry the job out. none of them know me here. i meet them at quiet pubs and arrange things there, and i need hardly say that i am so disguised that none of the fellows who follow my orders would know me again if they met me in the street. i could retire if i liked, and live in a villa and keep my carriage. why, i made five thousand pounds as my share of that bullion robbery between london and brussels. but i know that i should be miserable without anything to do; as it is, i unite amusement with business. i sometimes take a stall at the opera, and occasionally i find a diamond necklace in my pocket when i get home. i know well enough that it is foolish, but when i see a thing that i need only put out my hand to have, my old habit is too strong for me. then i often walk into swell entertainments. you have only to be well got up, and to go rather late, so that the hostess has given up expecting arrivals and is occupied with her guests, and the flunky takes your hat without question, and you go upstairs and mix with the people. in that way you get to know as to the women who have the finest jewels, and have no difficulty in finding out their names. i have got hold of some very good things that way, but though there would have been no difficulty in taking some of them at the time, i never yielded to that temptation. in a crowded room one never can say whose eyes may happen to be looking in your direction. "i wonder that you never turned your thoughts that way. from what you have told me of your doings abroad, i know that you are not squeamish in your ideas, and with your appearance you ought to be able to go anywhere without suspicion." "i am certainly not squeamish," simcoe said, "but i have not had the training. one wants a little practice and to begin young, as you did, to try that game on. however, just at present i have a matter in hand that will set me up for life if it turns out well, but i shall want a little assistance. in the first place i want to get hold of a man who could make one up well, and who, if i gave him a portrait, could turn me out so like the original that anyone who had only seen him casually would take me for him." "there is a man down in whitechapel who is the best hand in london at that sort of thing. he is a downright artist. several times when i have had particular jobs in hand, inquiries i could not trust anyone else to make, i have been to him, and when he has done with me and i have looked in the glass there was not the slightest resemblance to my own face in it. i suppose the man you want to represent is somewhere about your own height?" "yes, i should say that he is as nearly as may be the same. he is an older man than i am." "oh, that is nothing! he could make you look eighty if you wanted it. here is the man's address; his usual fee is a guinea, but, as you want to be got up to resemble someone else, he might charge you double." "the fee is nothing," simcoe said. "then again, i may want to get hold of a man who is a good hand at imitating handwriting." "that is easy enough. here is the address of a man who does little jobs for me sometimes, and is, i think, the best hand at it in england. you see, sometimes there is in a house where you intend to operate some confoundedly active and officious fellow--a butler or a footman--who might interrupt proceedings. his master is in london, and he receives a note from him ordering him to come up to town with a dressing case, portmanteau, guns, or something of that kind, as may be suitable to the case. i got a countess out of the way once by a messenger arriving on horseback with a line from her husband, saying that he had met with an accident in the hunting-field, and begging her to come to him. of course i have always previously managed to get specimens of handwriting, and my man imitates them so well that they have never once failed in their action. i will give you a line to him, saying that you are a friend of mine. he knows me under the name of sinclair. as a stranger you would hardly get him to act." "of course, he is thoroughly trustworthy?" simcoe asked. "i should not employ him if he were not," the other said. "he was a writing-master at one time, but took to drink, and went altogether to the bad. he is always more or less drunk now, and you had better go to him before ten o'clock in the morning. i don't say that he will be quite sober, but he will be less drunk than he will be later. as soon as he begins to write he pulls himself together. he puts a watchmaker's glass in his eye and closely examines the writing that he has to imitate, writes a few lines to accustom himself to it, and then writes what he is told to do as quickly and as easily as if it were his own handwriting. he hands it over, takes his fee, which is two guineas, and then goes out to a public-house, and i don't believe that the next day he has the slightest remembrance of what he has written." "thank you very much, harrison; i think that, with the assistance of these two men, i shall be able to work the matter i have in hand without fear of a hitch." "anything else i can do for you? you know that you can rely upon me, simcoe. you were with poor bill for six years, and you stood by him to the last, when the natives rose and massacred the whites, and you got bill off, and if he did die afterwards of his wounds, anyhow you did your best to save him. so if i can help you i will do it, whatever it is, short of murder, and there is my hand on it. you know in any case i could not round on you." "i will tell you the whole business, harrison. i have thought the matter pretty well out, but i shall be very glad to have your opinion on it, and with your head you are like to see the thing in a clearer light than i can, and may suggest a way out of some difficulties." he then unfolded the details of his scheme. "very good!" the other said admiringly, when he had finished. "it does credit to you, simcoe. you risked your life, and, as you say, very nearly lost it to save the general's, and have some sort of a right to have his money when he has done with it. your plan of impersonating the general and getting another lawyer to draw out a fresh will is a capital one; and as you have a list of the bequests he made in his old one, you will not only be able to strengthen the last will, but will disarm the opposition of those who would have benefited by the first, as no one will suffer by the change. but how about the boy?" "the boy must be got out of the way somehow." "not by foul play, i hope, simcoe. i could not go with you there." "certainly not. that idea never entered my mind; but surely there can be no difficulty in carrying off a child of that age. it only wants two to do that: one to engage the nurse in talk, the other to entice the child away, pop him into a cab waiting hard by, and drive off with him." "i doubt whether the courts would hand over the property unless they had some absolute proof that the child was dead." "they would not do so for some time, no doubt, but evidence might be manufactured. at any rate i could wait. they would probably carry out all the other provisions of the will, and with the ten thousand pounds and the three or four thousand i have saved i could hold on for a good many years." "how about the signature to the will?" "i can manage that much," simcoe said. "i had some work in that way years ago, and i have been for the last three months practicing the general's, and i think now that i can defy any expert to detect the difference. of course, it is a very different thing learning to imitate a signature and writing a long letter." the other agreed, and added, "i should be careful to employ a firm of lawyers of long standing. if you were to go to shady people it would in itself cause suspicion." "yes, i quite feel that, and i want, if possible, to get hold of people who just know the general by sight, so as to have a fairly good idea of his face without knowing him too well. i think i know of one. at the club the other day colonel bulstrode, a friend of the general's, said to him, 'i wish you would drive round with me to my lawyers'; their place is in the temple. i want someone to sign as a witness to a deed, and as it is rather important, i would rather have it witnessed by a friend than by one of the clerks. it won't take you a minute.'" "i should think that would do very well; they would not be likely to notice him very particularly, and probably the general would not have spoken at all. he would just have seen his friend sign the deed, and then have affixed his own signature as a witness. well, everything seems in your favor, and should you need any help you can rely upon me." chapter viii. general mathieson's seizure. three months later john simcoe called for a letter directed to "mr. jackson, care of william scriven, tobacconist, fetter lane." the address was in his own handwriting. he carried it home before opening it. the writing was rough and the spelling villainous. "samoa. "my dear jack: i was mitely glad when the old brig came in and captain jephson handed me a letter from you, and as you may guess still more pleased to find with it an order for fifty pounds. it was good and harty of you, but you allus was the right sort. i have dun as you asked me; i went to the wich man and for twelve bottles of rum he gave me the packet inclosed of the stuff he uses. there aint much of it, but it is mitely strong. about as much as will lie on the end of a knife will make a man foam at the mouth and fall into convulsions, three times as much as that will kill him outrite. he says there aint no taste in it. i hope this will suit your purpus. you will be sorry to hear that long peter has been wiped out; he was spered by a native, who thort pete wanted to run away with his wife, wich i don't believe he did for she wernt no way a beuty. vigors is in a bad way; he has had the shakes bad twice and i don't think that he can last much longer. trade is bad here, but now i have got the rino i shall buy another cocoanut plantation and two or three more wives to work it, and shall be comfortible. i am a pore hand with the pen, so no more from your friend, "ben stokes." a week later hilda wrote to her friend: "my dear netta: i am writing in great distress. three days ago uncle had a terrible fit. he was seized with it at the club, and i hear that his struggles were dreadful. it was a sort of convulsion. he was sensible when he was brought home, but very weak; he does not remember anything about it. fortunately, dr. pearson, who always attends us, was one of the party, and he sent off cabs for two others. dr. pearson came home with him. of course i asked him what it was, and he said that it was a very unusual case, and that he and the other doctors had not yet come to any decision upon it, as none of them had ever seen one precisely like it. he said that some of the symptoms were those of an epileptic fit, but the convulsions were so violent that they rather resembled tetanus than an ordinary fit. altogether he seemed greatly puzzled, and he would give no opinion as to whether it was likely to recur. uncle is better to-day; he told me that he, mr. simcoe, and four others had been dining together. he had just drunk his coffee when the room seemed to swim round, and he remembered nothing more until he found himself in bed at home. mr. simcoe came home with him, and the doctor said, i must acknowledge, that no one could have been kinder than he was. he looked quite ill from the shock that he had had. but still i don't like him, netta; in fact, i think i dislike him more and more every day. i often tell myself that i have not a shadow of reason for doing so, but i can't help it. you may call it prejudice: i call it instinct. "you can well imagine how all this has shocked me. uncle seemed so strong and well that i have always thought he would live to a great age. he is sixty-eight, but i am sure he looks ten years younger--at least he did so; at present he might be ninety. but i can only hope that the change is temporary, and that he will soon be his dear self again. the three doctors are going to have a meeting here to-morrow. i shall be anxious, indeed, to hear the result. i hope that they will order him a change, and that we can go down together, either to his place or mine; then i can always be with him, whereas here he goes his way and i go mine, and except at meal-times we scarcely meet. if he does go i shall try and persuade him to engage a medical man to go with us. of course, i do not know whether a doctor could be of any actual use in case of another attack, but it would be a great comfort to have one always at hand." the letter stopped here, and was continued on the following evening. "the consultation is over; dr. pearson had a long talk with me afterwards. he said that it was without doubt an epileptic fit, but that it differed in many respects from the general type of that malady, and that all of them were to some extent puzzled. they had brought with them a fourth doctor, sir henry havercourt, who is the greatest authority on such maladies. he had seen uncle, and asked him a few questions, and had a talk with dr. pearson, and had from him a minute account of the seizure. he pronounced it a most interesting and, as far as he knew, a unique case, and expressed a wish to come as a friend to see how the general was getting on. of course he inquired about his habits, asked what he had had for dinner, and so on. "'the great point, dr. pearson,' i said, after the consultation was over, 'is, of course, whether there is likely to be any recurrence of the attack.' 'that is more than i can say,' he answered gravely; 'at present he can hardly be said to have recovered altogether from the effects of this one, which is in itself an unusual feature in the case. as a rule, when a person recovers from an epileptic fit he recovers altogether--that is to say, he is able to walk and talk as before, and his face shows little or no sign of the struggle that he has undergone. in this case the recovery is not altogether complete. you may have noticed that his voice is not only weak, but there is a certain hesitation in it. his face has not altogether recovered its natural expression, and is slightly, very slightly, drawn on one side, which would seem to point to paralysis; while in other respects the attack was as unlike a paralytic stroke as it could well have been. thus, you see, it is difficult in the extreme for us to give any positive opinion concerning a case which is so entirely an exceptional one. we can only hope for the best, and trust to the strength of his constitution. at any rate, we all agree that he needs absolute quiet and very simple and plain diet. you see, he has been a great diner-out; and though an abstemious man in the way of drinking, he thoroughly appreciates a good dinner. all this must be given up, at any rate for a time. i should say that as soon as he is a little stronger, you had better take him down into the country. let him see as few visitors as possible, and only very intimate friends. i do not mean that he should be lonely or left to himself; on the contrary, quiet companionship and talk are desirable.' "i said that though the country might be best for him, there was no medical man within three miles of his place, and it would be terrible were we to have an attack, and not know what to do for it. he said that he doubted if anything could be done when he was in such a state as he was the other night, beyond sprinkling his face with water, and that he himself felt powerless in the case of an attack that was altogether beyond his experience. of course he said it was out of the question that i should be down there alone with him, but that i must take down an experienced nurse. he strongly recommended that she should not wear hospital uniform, as this would be a constant reminder of his illness. "i said that i should very much like to have a medical man in the house. money was no object, and it seemed to me from what he said that it would also be desirable that, besides being a skillful doctor, he should be also a pleasant and agreeable man, who would be a cheerful companion to him as well as a medical attendant. "he agreed that this would certainly be very desirable, and that he and the others were all anxious that the case should be watched very carefully. he said that he would think the matter over, and that if he could not find just the man that would suit, he would ask sir henry havercourt to recommend us one. "he said there were many clever young men to whom such an engagement for a few months would be a godsend. he intended to run down himself once a fortnight, from saturday until monday, which he could do, as his practice was to a large extent a consulting one. i could see plainly enough that though he evidently put as good a face upon it as he could, he and the other doctors took by no means a hopeful view of the case. "it is all most dreadful, netta, and i can hardly realize that only three days ago everything was bright and happy, while now it seems that everything is uncertain and dark. there was one thing the doctor said that pleased me, and that was, 'don't let any of his town friends in to see him; and i think that it would be as well that none of them should go down to visit him in the country. let him be kept altogether free from anything that would in the smallest degree excite him or set his brain working.' i told him that no one had seen him yet, and that i would take good care that no one should see him; and i need hardly tell you that mr. simcoe will be the first person to be informed of the doctor's orders." a week later general mathieson came downstairs for the first time. the change in him was even greater than it had seemed to be when he was lying on the sofa in his room; and tom roberts, who had been the general's soldier-servant years before, and had been in his service since he left the army, had difficulty in restraining his tears as he entered, with his master leaning heavily on his arm. "i am shaky, my dear hilda, very shaky," the general said. "i feel just as i did when i was laid up with a bad attack of jungle fever in india. however, no doubt i shall pick up soon, just i did then. pearson tells me that he and the others agree that i must go down into the country, and i suppose i must obey orders. where is it we are to go?" "to your own place, uncle." "my own place?" he repeated doubtfully, and then after a pause, "oh, yes, of course! oh, yes!" there was a troubled look in his face, as if he was trying to recall memories that had somehow escaped him, and hilda, resolutely repressing the impulse to burst into a flood of tears, said cheerfully: "yes, i shall be very glad to be back at holmwood. we won't go down by train, uncle. dr. pearson does not think that you are strong enough for that yet. he is going to arrange for a comfortable carriage in which you can lie down and rest. we shall make an early start. he will arrange for horses to be sent down so that we can change every ten or twelve miles, and arrive there early in the afternoon. it is only seventy miles, you know." "yes, i have driven up from there by the coach many a time when i was a boy, and sometimes since; have i not, tom?" "yes, general. the railway was not made till six or seven years ago." "no, the railway wasn't made, hilda; at least, not all the way." hilda made signs to tom not to leave the room, and he stood by his master's shoulder, prompting him occasionally when his memory failed him. "you must get strong very fast, uncle, for dr. pearson said that you cannot go until you are more fit to bear the fatigue." "i shall soon get strong, my dear. what is to-day?" "to-day is friday, uncle." "somehow i have lost count of days," he said. "well, i should think that i shall be fit to go early next week; it is not as if we were going to ride down. i was always fond of riding, and i hope i shall soon be after the hounds again. let me see, what month is this?" "it is early in june, uncle; and the country will be looking its best." "yes, yes; i shall have plenty of time to get strong before cub-hunting begins." so the conversation dragged on for another half hour, the general's words coming slower and slower, and at the end of that time he dropped asleep. hilda made a sign to roberts to stay with him, and then ran up to her own room, closed the door behind her, and burst into a passion of tears. presently there was a tap at the door, and her maid came in. "tom has just slipped out from the dining room, miss, and told me to tell you that the general was sleeping as peacefully as a child, and he thought it was like enough that he would not wake for hours. he said that when he woke he and william would get him up to his own room." "thank you, lucy." the door closed again. hilda got up from the bed on which she had lain down, and buried herself in the depths of a large cushioned chair. there she sat thinking. for the first time she realized how immense was the change in her uncle. she had seen him several times each day, but he had spoken but a few words, and it only seemed to her that he was drowsy and disinclined to talk. now she saw how great was the mental as well as the physical weakness. "it is terrible!" she repeated over and over again to herself. "what a wreck--oh, what a dreadful wreck! will he ever get over it?" she seemed absolutely unable to think. sometimes she burst into sobs, sometimes she sat with her eyes fixed before her, but seeing nothing, and her fingers twining restlessly round each other. presently the door opened very gently, and a voice said, "may i come in?" she sprang to her feet as if electrified, while a glad cry of "netta!" broke from her lips. a moment later the two girls were clasped in a close embrace. "oh, netta, how good of you!" hilda said, after she had sobbed for some time on her friend's shoulder. "oh, what a relief it is to me!" "of course i have come, you foolish girl. you did not suppose i was going to remain away after your letter? aunt is with me; she is downstairs, tidying herself up. we shut up the house and left the gardener in charge, and here we are, as long as you want us." "but your pupils, netta?" "i handed them all over to another of the professor's assistants, so we need not bother about them. i told aunt that i should not be down for an hour. mrs. brown is looking after her, and getting her a cup of tea, and i asked her to bring two cups up here. i thought that you would prefer for us to have a chat by ourselves. now tell me all about it, dear; that is, if there is anything fresh since you wrote." hilda told her the doctor's opinion and the plans that had been formed. "dr. pearson brought a dr. leeds here with him this morning. he says he is very clever. his term as house surgeon at guy's or st. bartholomew's, i forget which, has just expired, and as he had not made any definite plans he was glad to accept the doctor's offer to take charge of my uncle. he seemed, from what little i saw of him, a pleasant man, and spoke in a cheerful voice, which will be a great thing for uncle. i should think that he is six or seven and twenty. dr. pearson said he was likely to become a very distinguished man in his profession some day. he is going to begin at once. he will not sleep here, but will spend most of his time here, partly because he wants to study the case, and partly because he wants uncle to get accustomed to him. he will travel down with us, which will be a great comfort to me, for there is no saying how uncle may stand the journey. i suggested that we should have another carriage, as the invalid carriage has room for only one inside besides the patient, but he laughed, and said that he would ride on the box with tom roberts; there will be room for two there, as we are going to post down. of course, you and your aunt will go down by train, and be there to meet us; it will make it so much brighter and more cheerful having you to receive us than if we had to arrive all alone, with no one to say welcome." "and is your uncle so very weak?" "terribly weak--weak both mentally and physically," and she gave an account of the interview that afternoon. "that is bad indeed, hilda; worse than i had expected. but with country air, and you and me to amuse him, to say nothing of the doctor, we may hope that he will soon be a very different man." "well, i will not stay talking here any longer, netta; we have left your aunt half an hour alone, and if she were not the kindest soul in the world, she would feel hurt at being so neglected, after coming all this way for my sake. you don't know what good your coming has effected. before you opened the door i was in the depth of despair; everything seemed shaken, everything looked hopeless. there seemed to have been a sort of moral earthquake that had turned everything in my life topsy-turvy, but now i feel hopeful again. with you by my side i think that i can bear even the worst." they went down to the drawing room, where they found mrs. brown, the housekeeper, having a long gossip over what had taken place with miss purcell, whom, although a stranger, she was unaffectedly glad to see, as it seemed to take some of her responsibilities off her shoulders, and she knew that netta's society would be invaluable to hilda. it was not until a week later that, after another consultation, the doctors agreed that it was as well that the general should be moved down to his country place. dr. pearson was opinion that there was some improvement, but that it was very slight; the others could see no change since they had seen him ten days before. however, they agreed with their colleague that although there might be a certain amount of danger in moving him to the country, it was best to risk that, as the change might possibly benefit him materially. "have you formed any opinion of the case, dr. leeds?" sir henry asked. "i can scarcely be said to have any distinct opinion, sir henry. the symptoms do not tally with those one would expect to find after any ordinary sort of seizure, although certainly they would point to paralysis rather than epilepsy. i should, had the case come before me in the ordinary way in the ward of a hospital, have come to the conclusion that the seizure itself and the after-effects pointed rather to the administration of some drug than to any other cause. i admit that i am not acquainted with any drug whose administration would lead to any such results; but then i know of no other manner in which they could be brought about save by some lesion of a blood vessel in the brain of so unusual a character that no such case has hitherto been reported in any work with which i am acquainted. this, i say, would be my first theory in the case of a patient of whose previous history i was entirely unaware, and who came under my charge in a hospital ward; but i admit that in the present case it cannot be entertained for a moment, and i must, during my attendance upon general mathieson, watch closely for symptoms that would aid me in localizing brain lesion or other cause." he spoke modestly and quietly in the presence, as he was, of some of the leading men of his profession. the theory he had enunciated had not occurred to any of them, but, as he spoke, they all recognized that the symptoms might under other circumstances have led them to a similar conclusion. they were silent for a minute when he ceased speaking, then sir henry said gravely: "i admit, dr. leeds, that some of the symptoms, indeed the fit itself, might in the case of a patient of whose history we were ignorant seem to point to some obscure form of poisoning, since they do not accord with what one would expect in ordinary forms of brain seizures of this kind. however, there is no doubt that we are all somewhat prone, when we meet with a case possessing unusual or altogether exceptional features, to fall back upon the theory of poisoning. in this case, fortunately, the circumstances are such as to preclude the possibility of entertaining the idea for a moment; and, as you say, you must endeavor to find, watching him as you will do, some other cause of what i admit is a mysterious and obscure case; and knowing you as i do, i am sure that you will mention this theory, even as a theory, to no one. "we are all aware that there are many cases which come before us where we may entertain suspicions, and strong suspicions, that the patient has been poisoned, and yet we dare not take any steps because, in the first place, we have no clew as to how or by whom he or she has been poisoned, and because, if after death an autopsy should prove that we were mistaken, it would be nothing short of professional ruin. here, as you said, the theory is happily irreconcilable with the circumstances of the case, and no drug known to european science would produce so strange a seizure or the after-effects. of course, as we all know, on the west coast of africa, and it is believed in india, the natives are acquainted with poisons which are wholly unknown, and will probably remain unknown, since medical men who have endeavored to investigate the matter have almost always fallen victims themselves to poisons administered by the people whose secrets they were endeavoring to discover. "however, we can happily put that altogether aside. dr. pearson tells us that he intends to go down once a fortnight, and has promised to furnish us with the results of his own observations, and his own reports of this very interesting case. if general mathieson had, in the course of his military career, ever been struck in the head by a bullet, i should say unhesitatingly that some splinter, possibly very minute, had obtruded into the brain matter; but this has, i learn, not been the case. the only serious injury that he has ever received was when he was terribly torn and nearly killed by a tiger some twenty years ago in india. it may be useful to you, dr. leeds, to keep this in your mind. there can be no doubt that scratches and bites, even of the domestic cat, occasionally give rise to violent inflammations, and probably, indeed i believe it to be the case, those of the great cats of india are still more poisonous. as is the case with the bite of a mad dog, the poison may in some cases remain latent for a considerable time, until some circumstance may arouse it into activity. i would suggest that should any scars caused at that time remain, you should examine them carefully, and ascertain whether there is any sign of inflammatory action there. i grant the improbability of any consequences arising so many years after the event, but at the same time in a case of this kind, where we are perfectly at a loss to explain what we see, it is as well to look for the cause in every direction, however improbable it may appear." "thank you, sir henry; i will certainly do so. i was not aware before of the general having suffered such an injury, and i will go this afternoon and spend a few hours in looking through the medical works at the library of the india office to see if there are any records of serious disturbance caused in the system by wounds inflicted by tigers a considerable time after they have apparently healed." the meeting then broke up, and two days later general mathieson was taken down to his seat in warwickshire. post horses were in readiness all along the road, and the journey was accomplished quickly and without fatigue to the patient, who slept the greater part of the distance. at each change dr. leeds got down and had two or three minutes' talk with hilda, and when the general was awake gave him a spoonful of restorative medicine. his presence close at hand was a great comfort to hilda, upon whom the strain of watching her uncle was very great, and she was thankful indeed when they arrived at the end of the journey, and found netta and her aunt, who had gone down by that morning's train together with the housekeeper and her own maid, waiting on the steps to receive them. chapter ix. a strange illness. for three months general mathieson remained in the country. his improvement was very gradual--so gradual, indeed, that from week to week it was scarce noticeable, and it was only by looking back that it was perceptible. at the end of that time he could walk unaided, there was less hesitation in his speech, and his memory was distinctly clearer. he passed much of his time on a sofa placed in the shade in the garden, with hilda and netta sitting by him, working and talking. netta had always been a favorite of his from the time that he first met her in hanover; and he had, when she was staying with his niece the year before, offered her a very handsome salary if she would remain with her as her companion. the girl, however, was reluctant to give up her occupation, of which she was very fond, still less would she leave her aunt; and although the general would willingly have engaged the latter also as an inmate of the house, to act as a sort of chaperon to hilda when she drove out alone shopping, netta refused in both their names. "you would not have left the army, general, whatever temptations might have been held out to you. i am happy in thinking that i am doing good and useful work, and i don't think that any offer, even one so kind and liberal as yours, would induce me to relinquish it." her presence now was not only an inestimable comfort to hilda, but of great advantage to the general himself. alone hilda would have found it next to impossible to keep the invalid interested and amused. he liked to talk and be talked to, but it was like the work of entertaining a child. netta, however, had an inexhaustible fund of good spirits. after her long intercourse with children who needed entertainment with instruction, and whose attention it was absolutely necessary to keep fixed, she had no difficulty in keeping the conversation going, and her anecdotes, connected with her life in germany and the children she had taught, were just suited to the general's mental condition. little walter was of great assistance to her. he had come down with his nurse as soon as they were fairly settled at holmwood, and his prattle and play were a great amusement to his grandfather. whenever the conversation flagged netta offered to tell him a story, which not only kept him quiet, but was listened to with as much interest by the general as by the child. dr. leeds was often a member of the party, and his cheery talk always had its effect in soothing the general when, as was sometimes the case, he was inclined to be petulant and irritable. they had been a fortnight at holmwood before the doctor discovered netta's infirmity. she happened to be standing at a window with her back to him when he asked her a question. receiving no reply, he repeated it in a louder tone, but he was still unanswered. somewhat surprised, he went up to her and touched her; she faced round immediately. "were you speaking to me, dr. leeds?" "yes, i spoke to you twice, miss purcell, but you did not hear me." "i have been perfectly deaf from childhood," she said; "i cannot hear any sound whatever. i never talk about it; people ask questions and wonder, and then, forgetting that i do not hear, they persist in addressing me in loud tones." "is it possible that you are deaf?" "it is a melancholy fact," she said with a smile, and then added more seriously, "it came on after measles. when i was eight years old my good aunt, who had taken me to some of the best aurists in london, happened to hear that a professor menzel had opened an establishment in hanover for teaching deaf mutes to speak by a new system of watching people's lips. she took me over there, and, as you see, the result was an undoubted success, and i now earn my living by acting as one of the professor's assistants, and by teaching two or three little girls who board at my aunt's." "the system must be an admirable one indeed," the doctor said. "i have, of course, heard of it, but could not have believed that the results were so excellent. it never entered my mind for a moment that you were in any way deficient in hearing, still less that you were perfectly deaf. i have noticed that, more than is common, you always kept your eyes fixed on my face when i was speaking to you." "you would have noticed it earlier had we been often alone together," she said, "for unless i had kept my eyes always upon you i should not have known when you were speaking; but when, as here, there are always several of us together, my eyes are at once directed to your face when you speak, by seeing the others look at you." "is it necessary to be quite close to you when one speaks?" "oh, not at all! of course i must be near enough to be able to see distinctly the motion of the lips, say at twenty yards. it is a great amusement to me as i walk about, for i can see what is being said by people on the other side of the road, or passing by in a vehicle. of course one only gets scraps of conversations, but sometimes they are very funny." "you must be quite a dangerous person, miss purcell." "i am," she laughed; "and you must be careful not to say things that you don't want to be overheard when you are within reach of my eyes. yesterday, for instance, you said to hilda that my aunt seemed a wonderfully kind and intelligent old lady; and you were good enough to add some complimentary remarks about myself." dr. leeds flushed. "well, i should not have said them in your hearing, miss purcell; but, as they were complimentary, no harm was done. i think i said that you were invaluable here, which is certainly the case, for i really do not know how we should be able to amuse our patient if it were not for your assistance." "hilda and i had a laugh about it," netta said; "and she said, too, that it was not fair your being kept in the dark as to our accomplishment." "'our accomplishment!'" he repeated in surprise. "do you mean to say that miss covington is deaf also? but no, that is impossible; for i called to her yesterday, when her back was turned, and the general wanted her, and she answered immediately." "my tongue has run too fast," the girl said, "but i don't suppose she would mind your knowing what she never speaks of herself. she was, as you know, living with us in hanover for more than four years. she temporarily lost her hearing after an attack of scarlet fever, and the doctors who were consulted here feared that it might be permanent. her father and mother, hearing of dr. hartwig as having the reputation of being the first aurist in europe, took her out to him. he held out hopes that she could be cured, and recommended that she should be placed in professor menzel's institution as soon as she could understand german, so that, in case a cure was not effected, she might be able to hear with her eyes. by great good fortune he recommended that she should live with my aunt, partly because she spoke english, and partly because, as i was already able to talk, i could act as her companion and instructor both in the system and in german. "in three years she could get on as well as i could, but the need for it happily passed away, as her hearing was gradually restored. still, she continued to live with us while her education went on at the best school in the town, but of course she always talked with me as i talked with her, and so she kept up the accomplishment and has done so ever since. but her mother advised her very strongly to keep the knowledge of her ability to read people's words from their lips a profound secret, as it might tend to her disadvantage; for people might be afraid of a girl possessed of the faculty of overhearing their conversation at a distance." "that explains what rather puzzled me the other day," the doctor said. "when i came out into the garden you were sitting together and were laughing and talking. you did not notice me, and it struck me as strange that, while i heard the laughing, i did not hear the sound of your voices until i was within a few paces of you. when miss covington noticed me i at once heard your voices." "yes, you gave us both quite a start, and hilda said we must either give up talking silently or let you into our secret; so i don't think that she will be vexed when i tell her that i have let it out." "i am glad to have the matter explained," he said, "for really i asked myself whether i must not have been temporarily deaf, and should have thought it was so had i not heard the laughing as distinctly as usual. i came to the conclusion that you must, for some reason or other, have dropped your voices to a whisper, and that one or the other was telling some important secret that you did not wish even the winds to hear." "i think that this is the only secret that we have," netta laughed. "seriously, this is most interesting to me as a doctor, and it is a thousand pities that a system that acts so admirably should not be introduced into this country. you should set up a similar institution here, miss purcell." "i have been thinking of doing so some day. hilda is always urging me to it, but i feel that i am too young yet to take the head of an establishment, but in another four or five years' time i shall think seriously about it." "i can introduce you to all the aurists in london, miss purcell, and i am sure that you will soon get as many inmates as you may choose to take. in cases where their own skill fails altogether, they would be delighted to comfort parents by telling them how their children may learn to dispense altogether with the sense of hearing." "not quite altogether," she said. "it has happened very often, as it did just now, that i have been addressed by someone at whom i did not happen to be looking, and then i have to explain my apparent rudeness by owning myself to be entirely deaf. unfortunately, i have not always been able to make people believe it, and i have several times been soundly rated by strangers for endeavoring to excuse my rudeness by a palpable falsehood." "really, i am hardly surprised," dr. leeds said, "for i should myself have found it difficult to believe that one altogether deaf could have been taught to join in conversation as you do. well, i must be very careful what i say in future while in the society of two young ladies possessed of such dangerous and exceptional powers." "you need not be afraid, doctor; i feel sure that there is no one here to whom you would venture to give us a bad character." "i think," he went on more seriously, "that miss covington's mother was very wise in warning her against her letting anyone know that she could read conversations at a distance. people would certainly be afraid of her, for gossipmongers would be convinced that she was overhearing, if i may use the word, what was said, if she happened to look at them only casually." * * * * * at the end of three months the general became restless, and was constantly expressing a wish to be brought back to london. "what do you think yourself, dr. leeds?" dr. pearson said, when he paid one of his usual visits. "he is, of course, a great deal better than he was when he first came down," the former replied, "but there is still that curious hesitation in his speech, as if he was suffering from partial paralysis. i am not surprised at his wanting to get up to town again. as he improves in health he naturally feels more and more the loss of his usual course of life. i should certainly have advised his remaining here until he had made a good deal further advancement, but as he has set his mind upon it, i believe that more harm would be done by refusing than by his going. in fact, i think that he has, if anything, gone back in the last fortnight, and above all things it is necessary to avoid any course that might cause irritation, and so set up fresh brain disturbances." "i am quite of your opinion, leeds. i have noticed myself that he hesitates more than he did a short time since, and sometimes, instead of joining in the conversation, he sits moody and silent; and he is beginning to resent being looked after and checked." "yes; he said to me the other day quite angrily, 'i don't want to be treated as a child or a helpless invalid, doctor. i took a mile walk yesterday. i am beginning to feel quite myself again; it will do me a world of good to be back in london, and to drive down to the club and to have a chat with my old friends again.'" "well, i think it best that he should not be thwarted. you have looked at the scars from time to time, i suppose?" "yes; there has been no change in them, they are very red, but he tells me--and what is more to the point, his man tells me--that they have always been so." "what do you think, leeds? will he ever be himself again? watching the case from day to day as you have done, your opinion is worth a good deal more than mine." "i have not the slightest hope of it," the young doctor replied quietly. "i have seen as complete wrecks as he is gradually pull themselves round again, but they have been cases where they have been the victims of drink or of some malady from which they had been restored by a successful operation. in his case we have failed altogether to determine the cause of his attack, or the nature of it. we have been feeling in the dark, and hitherto have failed to discover a clew that we could follow up. so far there has been no recurrence of his first seizure, but, with returning strength and returning brain work, it is in my opinion more than likely that we shall have another recurrence of it. the shock has been a tremendous one to the system. were he a younger man he might have rallied from it, but i doubt whether at his age he will ever get over it. actually he is, i believe, under seventy; physically and mentally, he is ninety." "that is so, and between ourselves i cannot but think that a long continuance of his life is not to be desired. i believe with you that he will be a confirmed invalid, requiring nursing and humoring like a child, and for the sake of miss covington and all around him one cannot wish that his life should be prolonged." "i trust that, when the end comes, dr. pearson, it will be gradual and painless, and that there will be no recurrence of that dreadful seizure." "i hope so indeed. i have seen many men in bad fits, but i never saw anything to equal that. i can assure you that several of the men who were present--men who had gone through a dozen battles--were completely prostrated by it. at least half a dozen of them, men whom i had never attended before, knowing that i had been present, called upon me within the next two or three days for advice, and were so evidently completely unstrung that i ordered them an entire change of scene at once, and recommended them to go to homburg, take the waters, and play at the tables; to do anything, in fact, that would distract their minds from dwelling upon the painful scene that they had witnessed. had it not been for that, one would have had no hesitation in assigning his illness to some obscure form of paralysis; as it is, it is unaccountable. except," he added, with a smile, "by your theory of poison." the younger doctor did not smile in return. "it is the only cause that i can assign for it," he said gravely. "the more i study the case, the more i investigate the writings of medical men in india and on the east and west coast of africa, the more it seems to me that the attack was the work of a drug altogether unknown to european science, but known to obi women, fetich men, and others of that class in africa. in some of the accounts of people accused of crime by fetich men, and given liquor to drink, which they are told will not affect them if innocent, but will kill them if guilty, i find reports of their being seized with instant and violent convulsions similar to those that you witnessed. these convulsions often end in death; sometimes, where, i suppose, the dose was larger than usual, the man drops dead in his tracks while drinking it. sometimes he dies in convulsions; at other times he recovers partially and lingers on, a mere wreck, for some months. in other cases, where, i suppose, the dose was a light one, and the man's relatives were ready to pay the fetich man handsomely, the recovery was speedy and complete; that is to say, if, as is usually the case, the man was not put to death at once upon the supposed proof of his guilt. by what possible means such poison could have found its way to england, for there is no instance of its nature being divulged to europeans, i know not, nor how it could have been administered; but i own that it is still the only theory by which i can account for the general's state. i need not say that i should never think of giving the slightest hint to anyone but yourself as to my opinion in the matter, and trust most sincerely that i am mistaken; but although i have tried my utmost i cannot overcome the conviction that the theory is a correct one, and i think, dr. pearson, that if you were to look into the accounts of the various ways in which the poisons are sold by old negro women to those anxious to get rid of enemies or persons whose existence is inconvenient to them, and by the fetich men in these ordeals, you will admit at least that had you been practicing on the west coast, and any white man there had such an attack as that through which the general has passed, you would without hesitation have put it down to poison by some negro who had a grudge against him." "no doubt, no doubt," the other doctor admitted; "but, you see, we are not on the west coast. these poisons are, as you admit, absolutely unobtainable by white men from the men and women who prepare them. if obtainable, when would they have been brought here, and by whom? and lastly, by whom administered, and from what motive? i admit all that you say about the african poisons. i lately had a long talk about them with a medical man who had been on the coast for four or five years, but until these other questions can be answered i must refuse to believe that this similarity is more than accidental, and in any possible way due to the same cause." "that is what i have told myself scores of times, and it would be a relief to me indeed could i find some other explanation of the matter. then, you think that he had better come up to london?" "i leave the matter in your hands, dr. leeds. i would give him a few days longer and try the effect of a slight sedative; possibly his desire to get up to town may die out. if so, he is without doubt better here. if, however, you see that his irritation increases, and he becomes more and more set upon it, by all means take him up. how would you do so? by rail or road?" "certainly by rail. i have been trying to make him feel that he is a free agent, and encouraged him in the belief that he is stronger and better. if then i say to him, 'my dear general, you are, of course, free to do as you like, and it may be that the change will be beneficial to you; if the ladies can be ready to-morrow, let us start without further delay,' i consider it quite possible that this ready and cheerful acquiescence may result in his no longer desiring it. one knows that in this respect sick people are very like fractious children. they set their minds on some special article of food, as a child does on a toy, and when it comes they will refuse to touch it, as the child will throw the coveted toy down." it turned out so in this case. the moment the general found that the doctor was willing that he should go up to town, and the ladies quite ready to accompany him at once, he himself began to raise objections. "perhaps it would be as well that we should wait another month," he replied. a little pretended opposition strengthened this view, and the return was postponed. at the end of the month he had made so much progress that, when the longing for london was again expressed, dr. leeds offered no opposition, and two days later the whole party went up. chapter x. two heavy blows. during the four months that general mathieson had remained at holmwood no one had been more constant in his inquiries as to his health than mr. simcoe. he had seen hilda before she started, and had begged her to let him have a line once a week, saying how her uncle was going on. "i will get dr. leeds to write," she said. "my own opinion will be worth nothing, but his will be valuable. i am afraid that he will find time hang heavily on his hands, and he will not mind writing. i do not like writing letters at the best of times, but in the trouble we are in now i am sure that i shall not be equal to it." dr. leeds willingly undertook the duty of sending a short weekly bulletin, not only to mr. simcoe, but to a dozen other intimate friends. "it is not half an hour's work," he said, when netta offered to relieve him by addressing the envelopes or copying out his report; "very few words will be sufficient. 'the general has made some slight progress this week,' or 'the general remains in very much the same state,' or 'i am glad to be able to record some slight improvement.' that, with my signature, will be quite sufficient, and when i said that half an hour would be enough i exaggerated: i fancy that it will be all done in five minutes." mr. simcoe occasionally wrote a few lines of thanks, but scarcely a day passed that he did not send some little present for the invalid--a bunch of the finest grapes, a few choice peaches, and other fruit from abroad. of flowers they had plenty in their own conservatories at holmwood, while game was abundant, for both from neighbors and from club friends they received so large a quantity that a considerable proportion was sent back in hampers to the london hospitals. some of mr. simcoe's presents were of a different description. among them was a machine that would hold a book at any angle desired, while at the same time there was a shelf upon which a cup or tumbler, a spare book or newspaper, could be placed. "at any rate, hilda, this mr. simcoe of yours is very thoughtful and kind towards your uncle," netta said. "yes," hilda admitted reluctantly, "he certainly is very thoughtful, but i would much rather he did not send things. we can get anything we want from warwick or leamington, or indeed from london, merely by sending a line or a telegram. one hates being under obligations to a man one does not like." "it seems to me at present that you are unjust, hilda; and i certainly look forward to seeing him in london and drawing my own conclusions." "yes, no doubt you will see him, and often enough too," hilda said pettishly. "of course, if uncle means to go to his club, it will be impossible to say that he is unfit to see his friends at home." netta, however, did not see mr. simcoe on their return, for dr. leeds, on the suggestion of hilda, stated in his last report that the general would be going up to town in a day or two, but that he strongly deprecated any visits until he could see how the invalid stood the journey. there was no doubt that he stood it badly. just at first the excitement seemed to inspire him with strength, but this soon died away, and he had to be helped from the railway carriage to the brougham, and lifted out when he arrived at home. dr. leeds saw to his being carried upstairs, undressed, and put to bed. "he is weaker than i thought," he said in reply to hilda's anxious look when he joined the party downstairs. "i cannot say that it is want of physical strength, for he has walked over a mile several times without apparent fatigue. it seems to me that it is rather failure of will power, or brain power, if you like. i noticed that he very frequently sat looking out of the window, and it is possible that the succession of objects passing rapidly before the eye has had the same effect of inducing giddiness that waltzing has to one unaccustomed to it. i trust that to-morrow the effect will have passed off. i had, as you know, intended to sleep at a friend's chambers to-night; but i should not think of doing so now, but will sit up with him. i will get roberts to take watch and watch with me. i can lie down on the sofa, and he can wake me should there be any change. i sent him off in a cab, as soon as we got your uncle into bed, to fetch dr. pearson; if he is at home, he will be here in a few minutes." it was, however, half an hour before dr. pearson came, as he was out when the cab arrived. he had on the way learned from tom roberts the state in which the general had arrived, and he hurried upstairs at once to his room. "so he has broken down badly, leeds?" "very badly." "i did not expect it. when i saw him last sunday he seemed to have made so much progress that i thought there could be no harm in his being brought up to london, though, as i said to you, i thought it would be better to dissuade him from going to his club. he might see a few of his friends and have a quiet chat with them here. his pulse is still much fuller than i should have expected from the account his man gave of him. there is a good deal of irregularity, but that has been the case ever since the attack." "i think that it is mental rather than bodily collapse," the younger man said. "a sudden failure of brain power. he was absolutely unable to make any effort to walk, or indeed to move his limbs at all. it was a sort of mental paralysis." "and to some slight extent bodily also," dr. pearson said, leaning over the bed and examining the patient closely. "do you see there is a slight, but distinct, contortion of the face, just as there was after that fit?" "i see there is. he has not spoken since we lifted him from the railway carriage, and i am afraid that to-morrow we shall find that he has lost, partially or entirely, the power of speech. i fear that this is the beginning of the end." dr. pearson nodded. "there can be little doubt of it, nor could we wish it to be otherwise. still, he may linger for weeks or even months." hilda read the doctor's opinion in his face when he went downstairs. "oh, doctor, don't say he is going to die!" she cried. "i do not say that he is going to die at once, my dear. he may live for some time yet, but it is of no use concealing from you that neither dr. leeds nor myself have the slightest hope of his ultimate recovery. there can be no doubt that paralysis is creeping over him, and that it is most unlikely that he will ever leave his bed again. "yes, i know it is hard, dear," he said soothingly, as she burst into tears, "but much as you will regret his loss you cannot but feel that it is best so. he could never have been himself again, never have enjoyed his life. there would have been an ever-present anxiety and a dread of a recurrence of that fit. you will see in time that it is better for him and for you that it should be as it is, although, of course, you can hardly see that just at present. and now i must leave you to your kind friends here." miss purcell knew well enough that just at present words of consolation would be thrown away, and that it was a time only for silent sympathy, and her gentle words and the warm pressure of netta's hand did more to restore hilda's composure than any repetition of the doctor's well-meant assurance that all was for the best could do. "would you like me to write a line in your name to colonel bulstrode?" she asked. "no, no!" hilda cried; "it would look as if we had made up your minds that uncle was going to die. if he were conscious it would be different; for i know that colonel bulstrode is his greatest friend and is named one of his trustees, and uncle might want to talk to him. oh, how one wishes at a time like this that one had a brother, or that he had a son alive, or that there was someone who would naturally step in and take everything into his hands!" "there are his lawyers," miss purcell suggested. "yes, i did not think of them. mr. pettigrew is the other trustee, and is, i know, joint guardian with me of walter. i am sorry now that we did not leave the dear little fellow down at holmwood, it will be so sad and dull for him here, and he would have been very happy in the country. but perhaps it is best as it is; if my uncle recovers consciousness he is sure to ask for him. he had come to be very fond of him, and walter has been so much with him lately." "yes, his eyes always used to follow the child about in his play," miss purcell said. "i think it is best that he should be here, and as the nursery is at the top of the house he will not be in anyone's way." there was but little change in general mathieson's condition next morning, although a slight movement, when hilda spoke to him, showed that he was dimly conscious of her presence, and when she brought the child down and he laid his hand on that of the general, and said "good-morning, grandfather," according to his custom, he opened his eyes for a moment, and there was a slight movement of the lips, as if he were trying to speak. "thank you, miss covington," dr. leeds said; "the experiment was worth making, and it proves that his state of unconsciousness is not complete." walter always took his dinner with the others when they lunched. "where is the child?" hilda asked the footman; "have you sent him up to tell nurse that lunch is ready?" "i have not sent up, miss, because nurse has not come back with him from his walk." "no doubt she will be back in a few minutes," hilda said. "she is very punctual; i never knew her late before." [illustration: the nurse was sitting on a chair, sobbing bitterly. _--page ._] lunch was half over when tom roberts came in with a scared expression on his usually somewhat stolid face. "if you please, miss, nurse wishes to speak to you." "what is the matter, roberts?" hilda exclaimed, starting up. "has walter met with an accident?" "well, no, miss, not as i know of, but nurse has come home, and she is just like a wild thing; somehow or other master walter has got lost." hilda, followed by netta and miss purcell, ran out into the hall. the nurse, a woman of two or three and thirty, the daughter of one of the general's tenants, and who had been in charge of the child since he arrived a baby from india, was sitting on a chair, sobbing bitterly. her bonnet hung down at the back of her head, her hair was unloosed, and she had evidently been running wildly to and fro. her appearance at once disarmed hilda, who said soothingly: "how has it happened, nurse? stop crying and tell us. i am sure that it could not have been your fault, for you are always so careful with him. there is no occasion to be so terribly upset. of course he will soon be found. the first policeman who sees him will be sure to take him to the station. now how did it happen?" "i was walking along queen's road, miss," the woman said between her sobs, "and master walter was close beside me. i know that special, because we had just passed a crossing, and i took hold of his hand as we went over--when a man--he looked like a respectable working-man--came up to me and said, 'i see you are a mother, ma'am.' 'not at all,' said i; 'how dare you say such a thing? i am a nurse; i am in charge of this young gentleman.' 'well,' said he, 'i can see that you have a kind heart, anyhow; that is what made me speak to you. i am a carpenter, i am, and i have been out of work for months, and i have a child at home just about this one's age. he is starving, and i haven't a bit to put in his mouth. the parish buried my wife three weeks ago, and i am well-nigh mad. would you give me the money to buy him a loaf of bread?' the man was in such distress, miss, that i took out my purse and gave him a shilling, and thankful he was; he was all but crying, and could not say enough to thank me. then i turned to take hold of walter's hand, and found that the child had gone. i could not have been more than two or three minutes talking; though it always does take me a long time to take my purse out of my pocket, still i know that it could not have been three minutes altogether. "first of all, i went back to the crossing, and looked up and down the street, but he wasn't there; then i thought that perhaps he had walked on, and was hiding for fun in a shop doorway. when i could not see him up or down i got regular frighted, and ran up and down like a mad thing. once i came back as far as the house, but there were no signs of him, and i knew that he could not have got as far as this, even if he had run all the way. then i thought of the mews, and i ran back there. master walter was very fond of horses, and he generally stopped when we got to the entrance of the mews, and stood looking for a minute or two at the grooms cleaning the horses, and i thought that he might have gone in there. there were two or three men about, but none had seen the child. still i ran on, and looked into several stables, a-calling for him all the time. when he wasn't there, i went well-nigh stark mad, and i ran up and down the streets asking everyone i met had they seen a child. then i came back here to tell you." "we shall soon hear of him, nurse. roberts, do you and william start out at once. go first to the police station and give notice that the child is missing--he cannot have wandered far--and then do you and james go all round the neighborhood and tell every policeman that you meet what has happened. you can ask in all the shops in queen's road and the streets near; he may have wandered into one of them, and as he was alone, they may have kept him until someone came to inquire after him. now, netta, will you put on your bonnet and come out with me?" "shall i come with you too, hilda?" "no, thank you, miss purcell. in the first place we shall walk too fast for you, and in the second it would be as well for you to be here to comfort him if he is brought back while we are out. we will come every half-hour to hear if there is news of him. you had better go upstairs and make yourself tidy, nurse, and then you can come out and join in the hunt. but you look so utterly worn out and exhausted that i think perhaps you had better sit quiet for a time; you may be sure that it will not be long before some of us bring him back. "i could not sit still, miss covington," the woman said. "i will just run upstairs and put myself straight, and then go out again." "try and calm yourself, nurse, or you will be taken for a madwoman; you certainly looked like one when you came in." two minutes later hilda and her friend started. "let us go first into kensington gardens, netta; he often went there to play, and if he came down into the main road, he would very likely wander in. it is probable that nurse may have been longer speaking to that man than she thinks, and that he had time to get a good way before she missed him." the gardens were thoroughly searched, and the park-keepers questioned, but there were no signs of walter. then they called at the house to see whether there was any news of him. finding that there was not, they again went out. they had no real hopes of finding him now, for hilda was convinced that he was not in any of the streets near. had he been, either the nurse or the men would have found him. "he has, no doubt, been either taken by some kind-hearted person who has found him lost," she said, "and who has either given notice to the police, or he has been taken by them to the police station. still, it relieves one to walk about; it would be impossible to sit quiet, doing nothing. the others will have searched all the streets near, and we had better go up the edgware road, search in that direction, and give notice to any policemen we find." but the afternoon went on and no news was received of the missing child. it was a relief to them when dr. leeds, who had gone off watch for a few hours at twelve o'clock, returned. he looked grave for a moment when he heard the news, but said cheerfully, "it is very annoying, miss covington, but you need not alarm yourself; walter is bound to turn up." "but he ought to have been sent to the police station long before this," hilda said tearfully. "of course he ought, if all people possessed common-sense; unfortunately, they don't. i expect that at the present moment he is eating bread and jam, or something of that sort in the house of some kind-hearted old lady who has taken him in, and the idea of informing the police has never occurred to her for a moment, and, unfortunately, may not occur for some little time. however, if you will give me the details of his dress, i will go at once with it to the printer's and get two or three hundred notices struck off and sent round, to be placed in tradesmen's windows and stuck up on walls, saying that whoever will bring the child here will be handsomely rewarded. this is sure to fetch him before long." there was but little sleep that night at general mathieson's. the master of the house still lay unconscious, and from time to time dr. leeds came down to say a few cheering words to the anxious girls. tom roberts walked the streets all night with the faint idea of finding the child asleep on a doorstep, and went three times to the police station to ask if there was any news. the first thing in the morning hilda went with dr. leeds to scotland yard, and the description of the child was at once sent to every station in london; then she drove by herself to the office of messrs. farmer & pettigrew, and waited there until the latter gentleman arrived. mr. pettigrew, who was a very old friend of the family, looked very grave over the news. "i will not conceal from you, miss covington," he said, when she had finished her story, "that the affair looks to me somewhat serious; and i am afraid that you will have to make up your mind that you may not see the little fellow as soon as you expect. had he been merely lost, you should certainly have heard of him in a few hours after the various and, i may say, judicious steps that you have taken. a child who loses himself in the streets of london is morally certain to come into the hands of the police in a very few hours." "then what can have become of him, mr. pettigrew?" "it may be that, as not unfrequently happens, the child has been stolen for the sake of his clothes. in that case he will probably be heard of before very long. or it may be a case of blackmail. someone, possibly an acquaintance of one of the servants, may have known that the child, as the grandson and heir of general mathieson, would be a valuable prize, and that, if he could be carried off, his friends might finally be forced to pay a considerable sum to recover him. i must say that it looks to me like a planned thing. one of the confederates engages the silly woman, his nurse, in a long rambling talk; the other picks the child quietly up or entices him away to the next corner, where he has a cab in waiting, and drives off with him at once. however, in neither case need you fear that the child will come to serious harm. if he has been stolen for the sake of his clothes the woman will very speedily turn him adrift, and he will be brought home to you by the police in rags. if, on the other hand, he has been taken for the purpose of blackmail, you may be sure that he will be well cared for, for he will, in the eyes of those who have taken him, be a most valuable possession. in that case you may not hear from the abductors for some little time. they will know that, as the search continues and no news is obtained, his friends will grow more and more anxious, and more ready to pay handsomely for his return. of course it is a most annoying and unfortunate business, but i really do not think that you have any occasion to feel anxious about his safety, and it is morally certain that in time you will have him back, safe and sound. now how is your uncle? i hope that he shows signs of rallying?" "i am sorry to say there was no sign whatever of his doing so up to eight o'clock this morning, and, indeed, dr. pearson told me that he has but little hope of his doing so. he thinks that there has been a slight shock of paralysis. dr. leeds speaks a little more hopefully than dr. pearson, but that is his way, and i think that he too considers that the end is not far off." "your friends, miss purcell and her niece, are still with you, i hope?" "yes; they will not leave me as long as i am in trouble. i don't know what i should do without them, especially now this new blow has fallen upon me." "well, my dear, if you receive any communication respecting this boy send it straight to me. i do not know whether you are aware that you and i have been appointed his guardians?" "yes; uncle told me so months ago. but i never thought then that he would not live till walter came of age, and i thought that it was a mere form." "doubtless it seemed so at the time," mr. pettigrew agreed; "your uncle's was apparently an excellent life, and he was as likely as anyone i know to have attained a great age." "there is nothing you can advise me to do at present?" "nothing whatever, besides what you have done. the police all over london will be on the lookout for a lost child; they will probably assume at once that he has been stolen for his clothes, and will expect to see the child they are in search of in rags. they will know, too, the quarter in which he is most likely to be found. if it is for this purpose that he has been stolen you can confidently expect to have him back by to-morrow at latest; the woman would be anxious to get rid of him without loss of time. if the other hypothesis is correct you may not hear for a fortnight or three weeks; the fellows in that case will be content to bide their time." hilda drove back with a heavy heart. netta herself opened the door, and her swollen eyes at once told the truth. "uncle is dead?" hilda exclaimed. "yes, dear; he passed away half an hour ago, a few minutes after dr. leeds returned. the doctor ran down himself for a moment, almost directly he had gone up, and said that the general was sinking fast, and that the end might come at any moment. ten minutes later he came down and told us that all was over." chapter xi. a startling will. mr. pettigrew at once took the management of affairs at the house in hyde park gardens into his hands, as one of the trustees, as joint guardian of the heir, and as family solicitor. hilda was completely prostrated by the two blows that had so suddenly fallen, and was glad indeed that all necessity for attending to business was taken off her hands. "we need not talk about the future at present," mr. pettigrew said to her; "that is a matter that can be considered afterwards. you are most fortunate in having the lady with whom you so long lived here with you, and i trust that some permanent arrangement may be made. in any case you could not, of course, well remain here alone." "i have not thought anything about it yet," she said wearily. "oh, i wish i were a man, mr. pettigrew; then i could do something myself towards searching for walter, instead of being obliged to sit here uselessly." "if you were a man, miss covington, you could do nothing more at present than is being done. the police are keeping up a most vigilant search. i have offered a reward of five hundred pounds for any news that may lead to the child's discovery, and notices have even been sent to the constabularies of all the home counties, requesting them to make inquiries if any tramp or tramps, accompanied by a child of about the age of our young ward, have been seen passing along the roads. but, as i told you when you called upon me, i have little doubt but that it is a case of blackmail, and that it will not be long before we hear of him. it is probable that the general's death has somewhat disconcerted them, and it is likely that they may wait to see how matters go and who is the person with whom they had best open negotiations. i have no doubt that they are in some way or other keeping themselves well informed of what is taking place here." * * * * * the funeral was over, the general being followed to the grave by a number of his military friends and comrades, and the blinds at the house in hyde park gardens were drawn up again. on the following morning mr. pettigrew came to the house early. he was a man who was methodical in all his doings, and very rarely ruffled. as soon as he entered, however, hilda saw that something unusual had happened. "have you heard of walter?" she exclaimed. "no, my dear, but i have some strange and unpleasant news to give you. yesterday afternoon i received an intimation from messrs. halstead & james, saying that they had in their possession the will of the late general mathieson bearing date the th of may of the present year. i need not say that i was almost stupefied at the news. the firm is one of high standing, and it is impossible to suppose that any mistake has arisen; at the same time it seemed incredible that the general should thus have gone behind our backs, especially as it was only three months before that we had at his request drawn out a fresh will for him. still, i am bound to say that such cases are by no means rare. a man wants to make a fresh disposition of his property, in a direction of which he feels that his own solicitors, especially when they are old family solicitors, will not approve, and, therefore, he gets it done by some other firm, with the result that, at his death, it comes like a bombshell to all concerned. i can hardly doubt that it is so in this case, although what dispositions the general may have made of his property, other than those contained in the last will we drew up, i am unable to say. at any rate one of the firm will come round to our office at twelve o'clock with this precious document, and i think that it is right that you should be present when it is opened. you will be punctual, will you not?" "you can rely upon my being there a few minutes before twelve, mr. pettigrew. it all seems very strange. i knew what was the general purport of my uncle's last will, for he spoke of it to me. it was, he said, the same as the one before it, with the exception that he had left a handsome legacy to the man who had saved his life from a tiger. i was not surprised at this at all. he had taken a very great fancy to this mr. simcoe, who was constantly here, and it seemed to me only natural that he should leave some of his money to a man who had done him so great a service, and who, as he told me, had nearly lost his own life in doing it." "quite so," the lawyer agreed; "it seemed natural to us all. his property was large enough to permit of his doing so without making any material difference to his grandchild, who will come into a fine estate with large accumulations during his long minority. now i must be off." there was a little council held after the lawyer had left. "they say troubles never comes singly," hilda remarked, "and certainly the adage is verified in my case." "but we must hope that this will not be so, my dear," miss purcell said. "it cannot be any personal trouble, aunt," for hilda had fallen back into her old habit of so addressing her, "because uncle told me that, as i was so well off, he had only put me down for a small sum in his will, just to show that he had not forgotten me. i feel sure that he will have made no change in that respect, and that whatever alteration he may have made cannot affect me in the least; except, of course, he may have come to the conclusion that it would be better to appoint two men as guardians to walter, but i hardly think that he would have done that. however, there must be something strange about it, or he would not have gone to another firm of solicitors. no, i feel convinced that there is some fresh trouble at hand." the carriage drew up at the office in lincoln's inn at five minutes to twelve. mr. pettigrew had not included miss purcell and netta in the invitation, but hilda insisted upon their coming with her. they were shown at once into his private room, where some extra chairs had been placed. colonel bulstrode was already there, and mr. farmer joined his partner as soon as they were seated. "this is a most singular affair, miss covington," he said, "and i need hardly say that it is a matter of great annoyance as well as surprise to pettigrew and myself. of course general mathieson was perfectly free to go to any other firm of solicitors, but as we have made the wills for his family and yours for the last hundred years, as well as conducted all their legal business, it is an unpleasant shock to find that he has gone elsewhere, and i must say that i am awaiting the reading of this will with great curiosity, as its contents will doubtless furnish us with the reason why he had it thus prepared." just at the stroke of twelve mr. halstead and mr. james were announced. "we thought it as well," the former said, "for us both to come, mr. farmer, for we can understand your surprise at finding that a later will than that which is doubtless in your possession is in existence, and we are ready to explain the whole circumstances under which it was drawn out by us. general mathieson came one day to our office. he brought with him the card of colonel bulstrode; but this was unnecessary, for some months ago the general was at our office with the colonel. he was only there for the purpose of fixing his name as a witness to the colonel's signature, as our client, like many others, preferred having a personal friend to witness his signature instead of this being done by one of our clerks." "that was so," the colonel interjected. "general mathieson," mr. halstead went on, "was only in our office a minute or two on that occasion, but of course that was sufficient for us to recognize him when he called again. he told us that he desired us to draw out a will, and that as he had determined to appoint mr. pettigrew one of his trustees and guardian to his heir, he thought it as well to employ another firm to draw up the will. "we pointed out that such a precaution was altogether needless when dealing with a firm like yours, and he then said, 'i have another reason. i am making a change in one of the provisions of the will, and i fancy that farmer & pettigrew might raise an argument upon it. here are the instructions,' i said, 'you will permit me to read them through, general, before giving you a decided answer.' had the will contained any provision that we considered unjust we should have declined to have had anything to do with the matter; but as it in no way diverted the property from the natural heir, and was, as far as we could see, a just and reasonable one, we saw no cause for refusing to carry out his instructions; for we have known, as doubtless you have known, many similar instances, in which men, for some reason or other, have chosen to go outside their family solicitors in matters which they desired should remain entirely a secret until after their death. had general mathieson come to us as an altogether unknown person we should have point-blank refused to have had anything to do with the business; but as an intimate friend of our client colonel bulstrode, and as being known to us to some extent personally, we decided to follow the instructions given us in writing. i will now, with your permission, read the will." "first let me introduce miss covington to you," mr. farmer said. "she is the general's nearest relative, with the exception of his grandson. these ladies are here with her as her friends." mr. halstead bowed, then broke the seals on a large envelope, drew out a parchment, and proceeded to read it. messrs. farmer & pettigrew listened with increasing surprise as he went on. the legacies were absolutely identical with those in the will that they had last prepared. the same trustees and guardians for the child were appointed, and they were unable to understand what had induced general mathieson to have what was almost a duplicate of his previous will prepared so secretly. the last paragraph, however, enlightened them. instead of hilda covington, john simcoe was named as heir to the bulk of the property in the event of the decease of walter rivington, his grandson, before coming of age. hilda gave an involuntary start as the change was announced, and the two lawyers looked at each other in dismay. mr. halstead, to whom the general had explained his reasons for gratitude to john simcoe, saw nothing unusual in the provision, which indeed was heralded with the words, "as my only near relative, hilda covington, is well endowed, i hereby appoint my dear friend, john simcoe, my sole heir in the event of the decease of my grandson, walter rivington, before coming of age, in token of my appreciation of his heroic rescue of myself from the jaws of a tiger, in the course of which rescue he was most seriously wounded." when he had finished he laid down the will and looked round. "i hope," he said, "that this will be satisfactory to all parties." "by gad, sir," colonel bulstrode said hotly, "i should call this last part as unsatisfactory as possible." "the will is identical," mr. farmer said, without heeding the colonel's interjection, "with the one that general mathieson last executed. the persons benefited and the amounts left to them are in every case the same, but you will understand the dismay with which we have heard the concluding paragraph when i tell you that general mathieson's heir, walter rivington, now a child of six or seven years old, disappeared--i think i may say was kidnaped--on the day preceding general mathieson's death, and that all efforts to discover his whereabouts have so far been unsuccessful." mr. halstead and his partner looked at each other with dismay, even greater than that exhibited by the other lawyers. "god bless me!" mr. halstead exclaimed. "this is a bad business indeed--and a very strange one. do you think that this mr. simcoe can have been aware of this provision in his favor?" "it is likely enough that he was aware of it," mr. pettigrew said; "he was constantly in the company of general mathieson, and the latter, who was one of the frankest of men, may very well have informed him; but whether he actually did do so or not of course i cannot say. would you have any objection to my looking at the written instructions?" "certainly not. i brought them with me in order that they may be referred to as to any question that might arise." "it is certainly in the general's own handwriting," mr. pettigrew said, after looking at the paper. "but, indeed, the identity of the legacies given to some twenty or thirty persons, and of all the other provisions of the will, including the appointment of trustees and guardians, with those of the will in our possession, would seem in itself to set the matter at rest. were you present yourself when the general signed it?" "certainly. both mr. james and myself were present. i can now only express my deep regret that we acceded to the general's request to draw up the will." "it is unfortunate, certainly," mr. farmer said. "i do not see that under the circumstances of his introduction by an old client, and the fact that you had seen him before, anyone could blame you for undertaking the matter. such cases are, as you said, by no means unusual, and i am quite sure that you would not have undertaken it, had you considered for a moment that any injustice was being done by its provisions." "may i ask to whom the property was to go to by the first will?" "it was to go to miss covington. i am sure that i can say, in her name, that under other circumstances she would not feel in any way aggrieved at the loss of a property she can well dispense with, especially as the chances of that provision coming into effect were but small, as the child was a healthy little fellow, and in all respects likely to live to come of age." "i do not care in the least for myself," hilda said impetuously. "on the contrary, i would much rather that it had gone to someone else. i should not have at all liked the thought that i might benefit by walter's death, but i would rather that it had been left to anyone but this man, whom i have always disliked, and whom walter also disliked. i cannot give any reason why. i suppose it was an instinct, and now the instinct is justified, for i feel sure that he is at the bottom of walter's disappearance." "hush! hush! my dear young lady," mr. farmer said, holding up his hand in dismay, "you must not say such things; they are libelous in the extreme. whatever suspicions you may have--and i own that at present things look awkward--you must not mention those suspicions until you obtain some evidence in their support. the disappearance of the child at this moment may be a mere coincidence--a singular one, if you like--and we shall, of course, examine the matter to the utmost and sift it to the bottom, but nothing must be said until we have something to go on." hilda sat silent, with her lips pressed tightly together and an expression of determination upon her face. the other solicitors speedily left, after more expressions of regret. "what are we going to do next, mr. pettigrew?" hilda asked abruptly, as the door closed behind them. "that is too difficult a matter to decide off-hand, but after going into the whole matter with my co-trustee, colonel bulstrode, with the assistance of my partner, we shall come to some agreement as to the best course to take. of course we could oppose the probate of this new will, but it does not seem to me that we have a leg to stand upon in that respect. i have no doubt that halstead & james will retire altogether from the matter, and refuse to act further. in that case it will be my duty, of course, to acquaint simcoe with the provisions of the will, and to inform him that we, as trustees, shall not proceed to take any further steps in the matter until the fate of walter rivington is ascertained, but shall until then administer the estate in his behalf. it will then be for him to take the next step, and he certainly will not move for some months. after a time he will, of course, apply to the court to have it declared that walter rivington, having disappeared for a long time, there is reasonable presumption of his death. i shall then, in your name and mine, as the child's guardians, be heard in opposition, and i feel sure that the court will refuse to grant the petition, especially under the serious and most suspicious circumstances of the case. in time simcoe will repeat the application, and we shall of course oppose it. in fact, i think it likely that it will be a good many years before the court will take the step asked, and all that time we shall be quietly making inquiries about this man and his antecedents, and we shall, of course, keep up a search for the child. it may be that his disappearance is only a coincidence, and that he has, as we at first supposed, been stolen for the purpose of making a heavy claim for his return." "you may be sure that i shall not rest until i find him, mr. pettigrew," hilda said. "i shall devote my life to it. i love the child dearly; but even were he a perfect stranger to me i would do everything in my power, if only to prevent this man from obtaining the proceeds of his villainy." mr. farmer again interposed. "my dear miss covington," he said, "you really must not speak like this. of course, with us it is perfectly safe. i admit that you have good reason for your indignation, but you must really moderate your expressions, which might cause infinite mischief were you to use them before other people. in the eye of the law a man is innocent until he is proved guilty, and we have not a shadow of proof that this man has anything to do with the child's abduction. moreover, it might do harm in other ways. to begin with, it might render the discovery of the child more difficult; for if his abductors were aware or even suspected that you were searching in all directions for him, they would take all the greater pains to conceal his hiding-place." "i will be careful, mr. farmer, but i shall proceed to have a search made at every workhouse and night refuge and place of that sort in london, and within twenty miles round, and issue more placards of your offer of a reward of five hundred pounds for information. there is no harm in that." "certainly not. those are the measures that one would naturally take in any case. indeed, i should already have pushed my inquiries in that direction, but i have hitherto felt sure that had he been merely taken for his clothes, the police would have traced him before now; but as they have not been able to do so, that it was a case of blackmail, and that we should hear very shortly from the people that had stolen him. i sincerely trust that this may the case, and that it will turn out that this man simcoe has nothing whatever to do with it. i will come down and let you know what steps we are taking from time to time, and learn the directions in which you are pushing your inquiries." neither miss purcell nor netta had spoken from the time they had entered the room, but as soon as they took their places in the carriage waiting for them, they burst out. "what an extraordinary thing, hilda! and yet," miss purcell added, "the search for walter may do good in one way; it will prevent you from turning your thoughts constantly to the past and to the loss that you have suffered." "if it had not been for walter being missing, aunt, i should have thought nothing of uncle's appointing mr. simcoe as heir to his property if anything should happen to him. this man had obtained an extraordinary influence over him, and there can be no doubt from uncle's statement to me that he owed his life solely to him, and that simcoe indeed was seriously injured in saving him. he knew that i had no occasion for the money, and have already more than is good for a girl to have at her absolute disposal; therefore i am in no way surprised that he should have left him his estate in the event of walter's death. all that is quite right, and i have nothing to say against it, except that i have always disliked the man. it is only the extraordinary disappearance of walter, just at this moment, that seems to me to render it certain that simcoe is at the bottom of it. no one else could have had any motive for stealing walter, more than any other rich man's child. his interest in his disappearance is immense. i have no doubt uncle had told him what he had done, and the man must have seen that his chance of getting the estate was very small unless the child could be put out of the way." "you don't think," netta began, "that any harm can have happened to him?" "no, i don't think that. whether this man would have shrunk from it if there were no other way, i need not ask myself; but there could have been no occasion for it. walter is so young that he will very soon forget the past; he might be handed over to a gypsy and grow up a little vagrant, and as there is no mark on him by which he might be identified, he would be lost to us forever. you see the man can afford to wait. he has doubtless means of his own--how large i do not know, but i have heard my uncle say that he had handsome chambers, and certainly he lived in good style. now he will have this legacy of ten thousand pounds, and if the court keeps him waiting ten or fifteen years before pronouncing walter dead, he can afford to wait. anyhow, i shall have plenty of time in which to act, and it will require a lot of thinking over before i decide what i had best do." she lost no time, however, in beginning to work. posters offering the reward of five hundred pounds for information of the missing boy were at once issued, and stuck up not only in london, but in every town and village within thirty miles. then she obtained from mr. pettigrew the name of a firm of trustworthy private detectives and set them to make inquiries, in the first place at all the institutions where a lost child would be likely to be taken if found, or where it might have been left by a tramp. two days after the reading of the will she received the following letter from john simcoe: "dear miss covington: i have learned from messrs. farmer & pettigrew the liberal and i may say extraordinary generosity shown towards myself by the late general mathieson, whose loss i most deeply deplore. my feelings of gratitude are at the present moment overwhelmed by the very painful position in which i find myself. i had, of course, heard, upon calling at your door to make inquiries, that little walter was missing, and was deeply grieved at the news, though not at the time dreaming that it could affect me personally. now, however, the circumstances of the case are completely changed, for, by the provisions of the will, i should benefit pecuniarily by the poor child's death. i will not for a moment permit myself to believe that he is not alive and well, and do not doubt that you will speedily recover him; but, until this occurs, i feel that some sort of suspicion must attach to me, who am the only person having an interest in his disappearance. the thought that this may be so is distressing to me in the extreme. since i heard of his disappearance i have spent the greater part of my time in traversing the slums of london in hopes of lighting upon him. i shall now undertake wider researches, and shall to-day insert advertisements in all the daily papers, offering one thousand pounds for his recovery. i feel sure that you at least will not for a moment entertain unjust suspicions concerning me, but those who do not know me well may do so, and although at present none of the facts have been made public, i feel as if i were already under a cloud, and that men in the club look askance at me, and unless the child is found my position will speedily become intolerable. my only support in this trial is my consciousness of innocence. you will excuse me for intruding upon your sorrow at the present moment, but i felt compelled to write as i have done, and to assure you that i will use every effort in my power to discover the child, not only for his own sake and yours, but because i feel that until he is discovered i must continue to rest under the terrible, if unspoken, suspicion of being concerned in his disappearance. "believe me, yours very truly, "john simcoe." chapter xii. dr. leeds speaks. after reading john simcoe's letter, hilda threw it down with an exclamation of contempt. "read it!" she said to netta, who was alone with her. "the letter is good enough as it stands," netta remarked, as she finished it. "good enough, if coming from anyone else," hilda said scornfully, "perhaps better than most men would write, but i think that a rogue can generally express himself better than an honest man." "now you are getting cynical--a new and unpleasant phase in your character, hilda. i have heard you say that you do not like this man, but you have never given me any particular reason for it, beyond, in one of your letters, saying that it was an instinct. now do try to give me a more palpable reason than that. at present it seems to be only a case of dr. fell. you don't like him because you don't." "i don't like him because from the first i distrusted him. personally, i had no reason to complain; on the contrary, he has been extremely civil, and indeed willing to put himself out in any way to do me small services. then, as i told you, walter disliked him, too, although he was always bringing chocolates and toys for him; so that the child's dislike must have been also a sort of instinct. he felt, as i did, that the man was not true and honest. he always gave me the impression of acting a part, and i have never been able to understand how a man of his class could have performed so noble and heroic an act as rushing in almost unarmed to save another, who was almost a stranger to him, from the grip of a tiger. so absolutely did i feel this that i have at times even doubted whether he could be the john simcoe who had performed this gallant action." "my dear hilda, you are getting fanciful! do you think that your uncle was likely to be deceived in such a matter, and that he would not have a vivid remembrance of his preserver, even after twenty years?" "that depends on how much he saw of him. my uncle told me that mr. simcoe brought some good introductions from a friend of his at calcutta who came out in the same ship with him. no doubt he dined at my uncle's two or three times--he may even have stayed a few days in the house--possibly more; but as commanding the district my uncle must have been fully occupied during the day, and can have seen little of him until, i suppose, a week or so after his arrival, when he invited him to join in the hunt for a tiger. although much hurt on that occasion, simcoe was much less injured than my uncle, who lay between life and death for some time, and simcoe had left before he was well enough to see him. if he had dined with my uncle a few times after this affair, undoubtedly his features would have been so impressed on him that he would have recognized him, even after twenty years; but, as it was, he could have no particular interest in this gentleman, and can have entertained but a hazy recollection of his features. in fact, the general did not recognize him when he first called upon him, until he had related certain details of the affair. it had always been a sore point with my uncle that he had never had an opportunity of thanking his preserver, who had, as he believed, lost his life at sea before he himself was off his sick bed, and when he heard the man's story he was naturally anxious to welcome him with open arms, and to do all in his power for him. i admit that this man must either have been in benares then, or shortly afterwards, for he remembered various officers who were there and little incidents of cantonment life that could, one would think, be only known to one who had been there at the time." "but you say he was only there a week, hilda?" "only a week before this tiger business; but it was a month before he was able to travel. no doubt all the officers there would make a good deal of a man who had performed such a deed, and would go and sit with him and chat to while away the hours; so that he would, in that time, pick up a great deal of the gossip of the station." "well, then, what is your theory, hilda? the real man, as you say, no doubt made a great many acquaintances there; this man seems to have been behind the scenes also." "he unquestionably knew many of the officers, for uncle told me that he recognized several men who had been out there when he met them at the club, and went up and addressed them by name." "did they know him also?" "no; at first none of them had any idea who he was. but that is not surprising, for they had seen him principally when he was greatly pulled down; and believing him to be drowned, it would have been strange indeed if they had recalled his face until he had mentioned who he was." "well, it seems to me that you are arguing against yourself, hilda. everything you say points to the fact that this man is the john simcoe he claims to be. if he is not simcoe, who can he be?" "ah! there you ask a question that i cannot answer." "in fact, hilda, you have nothing beyond the fact that you do not like the man, and believe that he is not the sort of man to perform an heroic and self-sacrificing action, on behalf of this curious theory of yours." "that is all at present, but i mean to set myself to work to find out more about him. if i can find out that this man is an impostor we shall recover walter; if not, i doubt whether we shall ever hear of him again." netta lifted her eyebrows. "well, at any rate, you have plenty of time before you, hilda." the next morning dr. leeds, who had not called for the last three or four days, came in to say that he was arranging a partnership with a doctor of considerable eminence, but who was beginning to find the pressure of work too much for him, and wanted the aid of a younger and more active man. "it is a chance in a thousand," he said. "i owe it largely to the kind manner in which both sir henry havercourt and dr. pearson spoke to him as to my ability. you will excuse me," he went on, after hilda had warmly congratulated him, "for talking of myself before i have asked any questions, but i know that, had you obtained any news of walter, you would have let me know at once." "certainly i should; but i have some news, and really important news, to give you." and she related the production of the new will and gave him the details of its provisions. he looked very serious. "it is certainly an ugly outlook," he said. "i have never seen this simcoe, but i know from the tone in which you have spoken of him, at least two or three times, that he is by no means a favorite of yours. can you tell me anything about him?" "not beyond the fact that he saved the general's life from a tiger a great many years ago. shortly after that he was supposed to be lost at sea. certainly the vessel in which he sailed went down in a hurricane with, as was reported, all hands. he says that he was picked up clinging to a spar. of his life for the twenty years following he has never given a very connected account, at least as far as i know; but some of the stories that i have heard him tell show that he led a very wild sort of life. sometimes he was working in a small trader among the islands of the pacific, and i believe he had a share in some of these enterprises. then he claims to have been in the service of a native prince somewhere up beyond burmah, and according to his account took quite an active part in many sanguinary wars and adventures of all sorts." the doctor's face grew more and more serious as she proceeded. "do i gather, miss covington, that you do not believe that this man is what he claims to be?" "frankly that is my opinion, doctor. i own that i have no ground whatever for my disbelief, except that i have naturally studied the man closely. i have watched his lips as he spoke. when he has been talking about these adventures with savages he spoke without effort, and i have no doubt whatever that he did take part in such adventures; but when he was speaking of india, and especially when at some of the bachelor dinners uncle gave there were officers who had known him out there, it was clear to me that he did not speak with the same freedom. he weighed his words, as if afraid of making a mistake. i believe that the man was playing a part. his tone was genial and sometimes a little boisterous, as it might well be on the part of a man who had been years away from civilization; but i always thought from his manner that all this was false. i am convinced that he is a double-faced man. when he spoke i observed that he watched in a furtive sort of way the person to whom he was speaking, to see the effect of his words; but, above all, i formed my opinion upon the fact that i am absolutely convinced that this man could never have performed the splendid action of facing a wounded tiger unarmed for the sake of one who was, in fact, but a casual acquaintance." "you will excuse me if i make no comment on what you have told me, miss covington. it is a matter far too serious for any man to form a hasty opinion upon. i myself have never seen this man, but i am content to take your estimate of his character. one trained, as you were for years, in the habit of closely watching faces cannot but be a far better judge of character than those who have not had such training. i will take two or three days to think the matter over; and now will you tell me what steps you are taking at present to discover walter?" she told him of what was being done. "can you suggest anything else, dr. leeds?" "nothing. it seems to me that the key to the mystery is in the hands of this man, and that it is there it must be sought, though at present i can see no way in which the matter can be set about. when one enters into a struggle with a man like this, one must be armed at all points, prepared to meet craft with craft, and above all to have a well-marked-out plan of campaign. now i will say good-morning. i suppose miss purcell and her niece will stay on with you, at any rate for a time?" "for a long time, i hope," she said. "may i ask if you have stated the view that you have given me to miss netta purcell?" "yes, i have told her. she is disposed to treat it as an absurd fancy on my part, but if i can get anything to go upon which will convince her that there is even a faint possibility of my being right, she will go through fire and water to assist me." "i can well believe that," the doctor said. "i am sure that she has a strong character, although so lively and full of fun. of course, having been thrown with her for four months, i am able to form a very fair opinion of her disposition." after dr. leeds had left, hilda began to build castles for her friend. "it would be a splendid thing for her," she said. "he is certainly not a man to speak in the way he did unless he thoroughly meant it. i should think that they were just suited to each other; though it would be really a pity that the scheme i had set my mind upon for getting her over here as head of an institution for teaching deaf and dumb children on professor menzel's plan should come to nothing. perhaps, though, he might be willing that she should act as the head of such an establishment, getting trained assistants from those she knows in hanover and giving a few hours a day herself to the general supervision, if only for the sake of the good that such an institution would do among, perhaps the most unfortunate of all beings. i am quite sure that, so far, she has no thought of such a thing. however, perhaps i am running on too fast, and that he only means what he said, that he admired her character. i suppose there is no reason that because a man admires a girl's character he should fall in love with her, and yet netta is so bright and cheerful, and at the same time so kind and thoughtful, i can hardly imagine that any man, thrown with her as he has been, could help falling in love with her." netta was surprised when hilda told her that dr. leeds had been inclined to view her theory seriously. "really, hilda? certainly he is not the sort of man to be carried away by your enthusiasm, so please consider all that i have said upon the subject as unspoken, and i will stand neutral until i hear further what he says." "he did not say very much, i admit, netta; but he said that he would take the matter seriously into consideration and let me know what he thinks in two or three days." "i am afraid that he wants to let you down gently," netta said. "well, well, don't looked vexed! i will say no more about it until this solemn judgment is delivered." netta was in the room when dr. leeds called, two days later. "netta is in all my counsels, dr. leeds," hilda said, "and she is, as a rule, a capital hand at keeping a secret, though she did let mine slip out to you." there was no smile on the doctor's face, and both girls felt at once that the interview was to be a serious one. "i am well aware that i can speak before miss purcell," he said, "although there are very few people before whom i would repeat what i am going to say. i have two questions to ask you, miss covington. what is the date of this last will of your uncle's?" "it is dated the th of may." "about a fortnight before the general's alarming seizure?" hilda bowed her head in assent. the next question took her quite by surprise. "do you know whether this man simcoe was one of the party when the seizure took place?" "he was, doctor. my uncle told me that he was going to dine with him, and dr. pearson mentioned to me that he was next to the general and caught him as he fell from his chair." dr. leeds got up and walked up and down the room two or three minutes. "i think that now things have come to the present pass you ought to know what was the opinion that i originally formed of general mathieson's illness. dr. pearson and sir henry havercourt both differed from me and treated my theory as a fanciful one, and without foundation; and of course i yielded to such superior authority, and henceforth kept my ideas to myself. nevertheless, during the time the general was under my charge i failed altogether to find any theory or explanation for his strange attack and subsequent state, except that which i had first formed. it was a theory that a medical man is always most reluctant to declare unless he is in a position to prove it, or at least to give some very strong reason in its favor, for a mistake would not only cost him his reputation, but might involve him in litigation and ruin his career altogether. but i think that i ought to tell you what my opinion is, miss covington. you must not take it for more than it is worth, namely as a theory; but it may possibly set you on a new track and aid you in your endeavor to discover the missing child." the surprise of the two girls increased as he continued, after a pause: "ever since the day when i was first requested to act as the general's resident medical man i have devoted a considerable time to the study of books in which, here and there, could be found accounts of the action of the herbs in use among the obi women, fetich men, and so-called wizards on the west coast of africa, also in india, and among the savage tribes of the malay archipelago and the pacific islands. what drugs they use has never been discovered, although many efforts have been made to obtain a knowledge of them, both in india and on the west coast; but doctors have found it necessary to abandon the attempt, several of them having fallen victims of the jealousy of these people because of the researches they were making. but at the least the effects of the administration of these drugs have been frequently described, and in some respects these correspond so closely to those noticeable in the general's case that i say now, as i said at first, i believe the general's illness was caused by the administration of some drug absolutely unknown to european science." "you think that my uncle was poisoned?" hilda exclaimed in a tone of horror, while netta started to her feet with clenched hands and flushed face. "i have not used the word 'poisoned,' miss covington, though in fact it comes to that. it may not have been administered with the intention of killing; it may have been intended only to bring on a fit, which, in due time, might have been attended by others; but the dose may have been stronger than its administrator intended." "and you think, dr. leeds--you think that it was administered by----" "no, miss covington; i accuse no one. i have no shadow of proof against anyone; but taking this illness, with the abduction of the child, it cannot be denied that one's suspicions must, in the first case, fall upon the man who has profited by the crime, if crime it was. on may this will was drawn up, bequeathing the property to a certain person. the circumstances of the will were curious, but from what i learned from you of the explanation given by the lawyers who drew it up, it seems fair and above-board enough. the general was certainly greatly under the influence of this man, who had rendered him the greatest service one man can render another, and that at the risk of his own life. therefore i do not consider that this will, which was, so to speak, sprung upon you, is in itself an important link in the chain. but when we find that twelve or fourteen days afterwards the general was, when at table, seized with a terrible fit of an extraordinary and mysterious nature, and that the man who had an interest in his death was sitting next to him, the coincidence is at least a strange one. when, however, the general's heir is abducted, when the general is at the point of death, the matter for the first time assumes a position of the most extreme gravity. "at first, like you, i thought that walter had either been stolen by some woman for the sake of his clothes, or that he had been carried off by someone aware that he was the general's heir, with a view to obtaining a large sum of money as his ransom. such things have been done before, and will, no doubt, be done again. the first hypothesis appears to have failed altogether; no woman who had robbed a child of his clothes would desire to detain him for an hour longer than was necessary. the inquiries of the police have failed altogether; the people you have employed have ascertained that neither at the workhouses of london nor in the adjacent counties has any child at all answering to walter's description been left by a tramp or brought in by the police or by someone who had found him wandering about. it cannot be said that the second hypothesis is also proved to be a mistaken one; the men who took him away would be obliged to exercise the greatest caution when opening negotiations for his release, and it might be a month or more before you heard from them. "therefore, it would be unfair to this man simcoe to assume that he is the author of the plot until so long a period has passed that it is morally certain that the boy was not stolen for the purpose of blackmail. however, we have the following suspicious circumstances: first, that, as i believe, the general was drugged by some poison of whose nature we are ignorant beyond that we read of very similar cases occurring among natives races in africa and elsewhere. then we have the point that no one would have had any interest in the general's death, with the exception of the man he had named as his heir in the event of the child's death. we know by the man's statement that he was for many years living among tribes where poisons of this kind are used by the wizards and fetich men to support their authority and to remove persons against whom they have a grudge. lastly, we have the crowning fact of the abduction of the child, who stood between this man and the estates. all this is at best mere circumstantial evidence. we do not know for certain what caused the general's fit, we have no proof that simcoe had any hand in the abduction, and whatever our opinion may be, it is absolutely necessary that we do not breathe a hint to anyone." hilda did not speak; the shock and the horror of the matter were too much for her. she sat with open lips and blanched face, looking at dr. leeds. netta, however, leaped to her feet again. "it must be so, dr. leeds. it does not seem to me that there can be a shadow of doubt in the matter, and anything that i can do to bring the truth to light i will do, however long a time it takes me." "thank you, netta," hilda said, holding out her hand to her friend; "as for me, i will devote my life to clearing up this mystery." "i am afraid, miss covington, that my engagements henceforth will prevent my joining actively in your search, but my advice will always be at your service, and it may be that i shall be able to point out methods that have not occurred to you." "but, oh, dr. leeds!" hilda exclaimed suddenly; "if this villain poisoned my uncle, surely he will not hesitate to put walter out of his path." "i have been thinking of that," dr. leeds exclaimed, "but i have come to the conclusion that it is very unlikely that he will do so. in the first place, he must have had accomplices. the man who spoke to the nurse and the cabman who drove the child away must both have been employed by him, and i have no doubt whatever that the child has been placed with some persons who are probably altogether ignorant of his identity. walter was a lovable child, and as soon as he got over his first grief he would no doubt become attached to the people he was with, and although these might be willing to take a child who, they were told, had lost its parents, and was homeless and friendless, without inquiring too closely into the circumstances, it is unlikely in the extreme that they would connive at any acts of violence. it is by no means easy to murder and then to dispose of the body of a child of seven, and i should doubt whether this man would attempt such a thing. he would be perfectly content that the boy would be out of his way, that all traces of him should be lost, and that it would be beyond the range of probability that he could ever be identified, and, lastly, even the most hardened villains do not like putting their necks in a noose. moreover, if in the last extremity his confederates, believing that he had made away with the child, tried to blackmail him, or some unforeseen circumstance brought home to him the guilt of this abduction, he would be in a position to produce the child, and even to make good terms for himself for doing so. you yourself, whatever your feelings might be as to the man whom you believe to be the murderer of your uncle, would still be willing to pay a considerable sum and allow him to leave the country, on condition of his restoring walter. therefore i think that you may make your mind easy on that score, and believe that whatever has happened to him, or wherever he may be, there is no risk of actual harm befalling him." "thank you very much, doctor. that is indeed a relief. and now have you thought of any plan upon which we had best set to work?" "not at present, beyond the fact that i see that the power you both possess of reading what men say, when, as they believe, out of earshot, ought to be of material advantage to you. as miss purcell has promised to associate herself with you in the search, i should say that she would be of more use in this direction than you would. you have told me that he must be perfectly aware of your dislike for him, and would certainly be most careful, were you in his presence, although he might not dream of this power that you possess. but he has never seen your friend, and would not be on his guard with her. i have at present not thought over any plan by which she could watch him--that must be for after consideration--but it seems to me that this offers some chance of obtaining a clew." "i am ready to do anything, dr. leeds," netta said firmly. "you only have to find out a way, and i will follow out your instructions to the letter. first we must find out whether hilda's theory about this man, which i scoffed at when she first spoke of it to me, is correct." "you mean the theory that this man is not john simcoe at all, but someone who, knowing the facts of the rescue from the tiger, and being also well acquainted with people and things in benares, has personated him? i will not discuss that now. i have an appointment to meet a colleague for consultation in a difficult case, and have already run the time very close. you shall see me again shortly, when i have had time to think the whole matter over quietly." chapter xiii. netta visits stowmarket. "well, netta," hilda said, after dr. leeds had left them, "i suppose you will not in future laugh at my instincts. i only wish that they had been stronger. i wish i had told my dear uncle that i disliked the man so thoroughly that i was sure there was something wrong with him, and implored him not to become very intimate with him. if i had told him how strongly i felt on the subject, although, of course, he could have left or given him any sum that he chose, i do think it would have had some influence with him. no doubt he would have laughed at what he would have called my suspicious nature, but i think he would not have become so friendly with the man; but, of course, i never thought of this. oh, netta! my heart seems broken at the thought that my dear uncle, the kindest of men, should have been murdered by a man towards whom his thoughts were so kindly that he appointed him his heir in the event of walter's death. if he had left him double the sum he did, and had directed that in case of walter's death the property should go to hospitals, the child might now have been safe in the house. it is heartbreaking to think of." "well, dear," netta said, "we have our work before us. i say 'we' because, although he was no relation to me, i loved him from the first, when he came over with the news of your father's death. had i been his niece as well as you, he could not have treated me more kindly than he did when i was staying with you last year, and during the last four months that i have been with you. one could see, even in the state he was in, how kind his nature was, and his very helplessness added to one's affection for him. i quite meant what i said, for until this matter is cleared up, and until this crime, if crime it really is, is brought to light, i will stay here, and be your helper, however the long the time may be. there are two of us, and i do not think that either of us are fools, and we ought to be a match for one man. there is one thing we have, that is a man on whom we can rely. i do not mean dr. leeds; i regard him as our director. i mean tom roberts; he would have given his life, i am sure, for his master, and i feel confident that he will carry out any instructions we may give him to the letter." "i am sure he will, netta. do you think we ought to tell him our suspicions?" "i should do so unhesitatingly, hilda. i am sure he will be ready to go through fire and water to avenge his master's death. as aunt is out i think it will be as well to take him into our confidence at once." hilda said nothing, but got up and rang the bell. when the footman entered she said, "tell roberts that i want to speak to him." when the man came up she went on, "we are quite sure, tom, that you were most thoroughly devoted to your master, and that you would do anything in your power to get to the bottom of the events that have brought about his death and the carrying off of his grandson." "that i would, miss; there is not anything that i would not do if you would only set me about it." "well, roberts, i am about to take you into our confidence, relying implicitly upon your silence and on your aid." "you can do that, miss, safely enough. there is nothing now that i can do for my master; but as for master walter, i would walk to china if i thought that there was a chance of finding him there." "in the first place you must remember, roberts, that we are acting only upon suspicion; we have only that to go upon, and our object must be to find some proofs to justify those suspicions." "i understand, miss; you have got an idea, and you want to see if it is right?" "we ourselves have little doubt of it, roberts. now please sit down and listen to me, and don't interrupt me till i have finished." then she related the grounds that she had for suspicion that the general's death and walter's abduction were both the work of john simcoe, and also her own theory that this man was not the person who had saved the general's life. in spite of her warning not to interrupt, tom roberts' exclamations of fury were frequent and strongly worded. "well, miss!" he exclaimed, when she had finished and his tongue was untied, "i did not think that there was such a villain upon the face of the earth. why, if i had suspected this i would have killed him, if i had been hung for it a week after. and to think that he regular took me in! he had always a cheerful word for me, if i happened to open the door for him. 'how are you, tom?' he would say, 'hearty as usual?' and he would slip a crown into my hand to drink his health. i always keep an account of tips that i receive, and the first thing i do will be to add them up and see how much i have had from him, and i will hand it over to a charity. one don't like setting out to help to bring a man to the gallus when you have got his money in your pocket. i must have been a fool, miss, not to have kept a better watch, but i never thought ill of the man. it seemed to me that he had been a soldier. sometimes when he was talking with me he would come out with barrack-room sayings, and though he never said that he had served, nor the general neither, i thought that he must have done so. he had a sort of way of carrying his shoulders which you don't often see among men who have not learned the goose-step. i will wait, miss, with your permission, until i have got rid of that money, and then if you say to me, 'go to that man's rooms and take him by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him,' i am ready to do it." "we shall not require such prompt measures as that, tom; we must go about our work carefully and quietly, and i fear that it will be a very long time before we are able to collect facts that we can act upon. we have not decided yet how to begin. i may tell you that the only other person who shares our suspicions is dr. leeds. we think it best that even miss purcell should know nothing about them. it would only cause her great anxiety, and the matter will, therefore, be kept a close secret among our four selves. in a few days our plans will probably be complete, and i think that your share in the business will be to watch every movement of this man and to ascertain who are his associates; many of them, no doubt, are club men, who, of course, will be above suspicion, but it is certain that he must have had accomplices in the abduction of the child. whether he visits them or they visit him, is a point to find out. there is little chance of their calling during daylight, and it is in the evening that you will have to keep a close eye on him and ascertain who his visitors are." "all right, miss, i wish he did not know me by sight; but i expect that i can get some sort of a disguise so that he won't recognize me." "i don't think that there will be any difficulty about that. of course we are not going to rely only upon you; miss purcell and myself are both going to devote ourselves to the search." "we will run him down between us, miss, never fear. it cannot be meant that such a fellow as this should not be found out in his villainy. i wish that there was something more for me to do. i know several old soldiers like myself, who would join me willingly enough, and we might between us carry him off and keep him shut up somewhere, just as he is doing master walter, until he makes a clean breast of it. it is wonderful what the cells and bread and water will do to take a fellow's spirit down. it is bad enough when one knows how long one has got to bear it; but to know that there is no end to it until you choose to speak would get the truth out of old nick, begging your pardon for naming him." "well, we shall see, roberts. that would certainly be a last resource, and i fear that it would not be so effectual as you think. if he told us that if he did not pay his usual visit to the boy it would be absolutely certain we should never see him alive again, we should not dare retain him." "well, miss, whatever you decide on i will do. i have lost as a good master as ever a man had, and there is nothing that i would not do to bring that fellow to justice." the girls waited impatiently for the next visit of dr. leeds. it was four days before he came. "i hoped to have been here before," he said, "but i have been so busy that it has not been possible for me to manage it. of course this business has always been in my mind, and it seems to me that the first step to be taken is to endeavor to ascertain whether this fellow is really, as you believe, miss covington, an impostor. have you ever heard him say in what part of the country he formerly resided?" "yes; he lived at stowmarket. i know that some months ago he introduced to uncle a gentleman who was manager at a bank there, and had known him from boyhood. he was up for a few days staying with him." "that is certainly rather against your surmise, miss covington; however, it is as well to clear that matter up before we attempt anything else." "i will go down and make inquiries, doctor," netta said quietly. "i am half a head shorter than hilda, and altogether different in face; therefore, if he learns that any inquiries have been made, he will be sure that whoever made them was not hilda." "we might send down a detective, miss purcell." "no; i want to be useful," she said, "and i flatter myself that i shall be able to do quite as well as a detective. we could hardly take a detective into our confidence in a matter of this kind, and not knowing everything, he might miss points that would give us a clew to the truth. i will start to-morrow. i shall tell my aunt that i am going away for a day or two to follow up some clew we have obtained that may lead to walter's discovery. in a week you shall know whether this man is really what he claims to be." "very well, miss purcell; then we will leave this matter in your hands." "by the way, doctor," hilda covington said, "we have taken roberts into our confidence. we know that we can rely upon his discretion implicitly, and it seemed to us that we must have somebody we can trust absolutely to watch this man." "i don't think that you could have done better," he said. "i was going to suggest that it would be well to obtain his assistance. from what i have heard, very few of these private detectives can be absolutely relied upon. i do not mean that they are necessarily rogues, who would take money from both sides, but that, if after trying for some time they consider the matter hopeless, they will go on running up expenses and making charges when they have in reality given up the search. what do you propose that he shall do?" "i should say that, in the first place, he should watch every evening the house where simcoe lives, and follow up everyone who comes out and ascertain who they are. no doubt the great majority of them will be clubmen, but it is likely that he will be occasionally visited by some of his confederates." "i think that is an excellent plan. he will, of course, also follow him when he goes out, for it is much more likely that he will visit these fellows than that they should come to him. in a case like this he would assuredly use every precaution, and would scarcely let them know who he is and where he resides." "no doubt that is so, doctor, and it would make roberts' work all the easier, for even if they came to the man's lodgings he might be away, following up the track of someone who had called before him." netta returned at the end of four days. "i have not succeeded," she said, in answer to hilda's inquiring look as she came in. "the man is certainly well known at stowmarket as john simcoe; but that does not prove that he is the man, and just as he deceived your uncle he may have deceived the people down there. now i will go upstairs and take off my things, and then give you a full account of my proceedings. "my first step," she began on her return, "was, of course, to find out what members of the simcoe family lived there. after engaging a room at the hotel, which i can assure you was the most unpleasant part of the business, for they seemed to be altogether unaccustomed to the arrival of young ladies unattended, i went into the town. it is not much of a place, and after making some little purchases and inquiring at several places, i heard of a maiden lady of that name. the woman who told me of her was communicative. 'she has just had a great piece of luck,' she said. 'about ten months back a nephew, whom everyone had supposed to have been lost at sea, came home with a great fortune, and they say that he has behaved most handsomely to her. she has always bought her berlin wool and such things here, and she has spent three or four times as much since he came home as she did before, and i know from a neighbor, of whom she is a customer, that the yards and yards of flannel that she buys for making up into petticoats for poor children is wonderful. do you know her, miss?' i said that i did not know her personally, but that some friends of mine, knowing that i was going to stowmarket, had asked me to inquire if miss simcoe was still alive. i said casually that i might call and see her, and so got her address. "i then went to call upon her. she lives in a little place called myrtle cottage. i had been a good deal puzzled as to what story i should tell her. i thought at first of giving myself out as the sister of the young lady to whom her nephew was paying his addresses; and as we knew nothing of him except that he was wealthy, and as he had mentioned that he had an aunt at stowmarket, and as i was coming down there, i had been asked to make inquiries about him. but i thought this might render her so indignant that i should get nothing from her. i thought, therefore, i had better get all she knew voluntarily; so i went to the house, knocked, and asked whether miss simcoe was in. i was shown by a little maid into the parlor, a funny, little, old-fashioned room. presently miss simcoe herself came in. she was just the sort of woman i had pictured--a kindly-looking, little old maid. "'i do not know whether i have done wrong, miss simcoe,' i said, 'but i am a stranger here, and having over-worked myself at a picture from which i hope great things, i have been recommended country air; and a friend told me that stowmarket was a pretty, quiet, country town, just the place for an over-worked londoner to gain health in, so i came down and made some inquiries for a single lady who would perhaps take me in and give me a comfortable home for two or three months. your name has been mentioned to me as being just the lady i am seeking." "'you have been misinformed,' she said, a little primly. 'i do not say that a few months back i might not have been willing to have entertained such an offer, but my circumstances have changed since then, and now i should not think for a moment of doing so.' "rising from my seat with a tired air, i said that i was much obliged to her, but i was very sorry she could not take me in, as i was sure that i should be very comfortable; however, as she could not, of course there was an end of it. "'sit down, my dear,' the old lady said. 'i see that you are tired and worn out; my servant shall get you a cup of tea. you see,' she went on, as i murmured my thanks and sat down, 'i cannot very well do what you ask. as i said, a few months ago i should certainly have been very glad to have had a young lady like yourself to stay with me for a time; i think that when a lady gets to my age a little youthful companionship does her good. besides, i do not mind saying that my means were somewhat straitened, and that a little additional money would have been a great help to me; but everything was changed by the arrival of a nephew of mine. perhaps you may have heard his name; he is a rich man, and i believe goes out a great deal, and belongs to clubs and so on.' "i said that i had not heard of him, for i knew nothing about society, nor the sort of men who frequented clubs. "'no, of course not, my dear,' she said. 'well, he had been away for twenty years, and everyone thought he was dead. he sailed away in some ship that was never heard of again, and you may guess my surprise when he walked in here and called me aunt.' "'you must have been indeed surprised, miss simcoe,' i said; 'it must have been quite a shock to you. and did you know him at once?' "'oh, dear, no! he had been traveling about the world, you see, for a very long time, and naturally in twenty years he was very much changed; but of course i soon knew him when he began to talk.' "'you recognized his voice, i suppose?' i suggested. "'no, my dear, no. of course his voice had changed, just as his appearance had done. he had been what he called knocking about, among all sorts of horrible savages, eating and drinking all kinds of queer things; it made my blood run cold to listen to him. but i never asked any questions about these things; i was afraid he might say that when he was among the cannibals he used to eat human flesh, and i don't think that i could like a man who had done that, even though he was my nephew.' "'did he go out quite as a boy, miss simcoe?' i asked. "'oh, no! he was twenty-four, i think, when he went abroad. he had a situation in the bank here. i know that the manager thought very highly of him, and, indeed, he was everywhere well spoken of. my brother joshua--his father, you know--died, and he came in for two or three thousand pounds. he had always had a great fancy for travel, and so, instead of looking out for some nice girl and settling down, he threw up his situation and started on his travels.' "'had his memory been affected by the hot suns and the hardships that he had gone through?' i asked. "'oh, dear! not at all. he recognized everyone almost whom he had known. of course he was a good deal more changed than they were.' "'they did not recognize him any more than you did?' "'not at first,' she said. 'when a man is believed to have been dead for twenty years, his face does not occur to old friends when they meet an apparent stranger.' "'that is quite natural,' i agreed. 'what a pleasure it must have been to him to talk over old times and old friends!' "'indeed it was, my dear. he enjoyed it so much that for three days he would not move out of the house. dear me! what pleasant talks we had.' "'and you say, miss simcoe, that his coming has quite altered your position?' "'yes, indeed. the very first thing he said after coming into the house was that he had come home resolved to make me and my sister maria thoroughly comfortable. poor maria died some years ago, but of course he did not know it. then he said that he should allow me fifty pounds a year for life.' "'that was very kind and nice indeed, miss simcoe,' i said. "by this time, seeing that my sympathy was with her, her heart opened altogether to me, and she said that she felt sure that her nephew would not like it were she to take in a lodger, and might indeed consider it a hint that he might have been more liberal than he was. but she invited me to stay three days with her while i was looking about for suitable lodgings. i found that her house was a regular rendezvous for the tabbies of the neighborhood. every afternoon there were some four or five of them there. some brought work, others came in undisguisedly to gossip. many of these had known john simcoe in his younger days, and by careless questioning i elicited the fact that no one would have recognized him had it not been for miss simcoe having told them of his arrival. "the manager of the bank i rather shrank from an encounter with, but i managed to obtain from miss simcoe a letter her nephew had written to her when he was away from home a short time before he left england, and also one written by him since his return. so far as i could see, there was not the slightest resemblance between them. "i thought that i might possibly get at someone less likely to be on his guard than the bank manager, and she happened to mention as an interesting fact that one of the clerks who had entered the bank a lad of seventeen, only a month or two before her nephew left, was now married to the daughter of one of her gossips. i said that her story had so deeply interested me that i should be glad to make his acquaintance. "he came with his wife the evening before i left. he was very chatty and pleasant, and while there was a general conversation going on among the others, i said to him that i was a great student of handwriting, and i flattered myself that i could tell a man's character from his handwriting; but i owned that i had been quite disconcerted by two letters which miss simcoe was kind enough to show me from her nephew, one written before he left the bank, the other dated three or four months ago. "'i cannot see the slightest resemblance between the two,' i said, 'and do not remember any instance which has come under my knowledge of the handwriting of any man or woman changing so completely in the course of twenty years. the one is a methodical, business sort of writing, showing marks of steady purpose, regularity of habits, and a kindly disposition. i won't give you my opinion of the other, but the impression that was left upon my mind was far from favorable.' "'yes, there has been an extraordinary change,' he agreed. 'i can recollect the former one perfectly, for i saw him sign scores of letters and documents, and if he had had an account standing at the bank now i should without question honor a check so signed. no doubt the great difference is accounted for by the life that mr. simcoe has led. he told me himself that for years, at one time, he had never taken a pen in hand, and that he had almost forgotten how to write; and that his fingers had grown so clumsy pulling at ropes, rowing an oar, digging for gold, and opening oysters for pearls, that they had become all thumbs, and he wrote no better than a schoolboy.' "'but that is not the case, mr. askill,' i said; 'the writing is still clerkly in character, and does not at all answer to his own description.' "'i noticed that myself, and so did our chief. he showed me a letter that he had received from simcoe, asking him to run up for a few days to stay with him in london. he showed it to me with the remark that in all his experience he had never seen so great and complete a change in the handwriting of any man as in that of mr. simcoe since he left the bank. he considered it striking proof how completely a man's handwriting depends upon his surroundings. he turned up an old ledger containing many entries in simcoe's handwriting, and we both agreed that we could not see a single point of resemblance.' "'thank you,' i said; 'i am glad to find that my failure to recognize the two handwritings as being those of the same man has been shared by two gentlemen who are, like myself in a humble way, experts at handwriting.' "the next morning i got your letter, written after i had sent you the address, and told miss simcoe that i was unexpectedly called back to town, but that it was quite probable that i should ere long be down again, when i would arrange with one or other of the people of whom she had kindly spoken to me. that is all i have been able to learn, hilda." "but it seems to me that you have learned an immense deal, netta. you have managed it most admirably." "at any rate, i have got as much as i expected, if not more; i have learned that no one recognized this man simcoe on his first arrival in his native town, and it was only when this old lady had spread the news abroad, and had told the tale of his generosity to her, and so prepared the way for him, that he was more or less recognized; she having no shadow of doubt but that he was her long-lost nephew. in the three days that he stopped with her he had no doubt learned from the dear old gossip almost every fact connected with his boyhood, the men he was most intimate with, the positions they held, and i doubt not some of the escapades in which they might have taken part together; so that he was thoroughly well primed before he met them. besides, no doubt they were more anxious to hear tales of adventure than to talk of the past, and his course must have been a very easy one. "miss simcoe said that he spent money like a prince, and gave a dinner to all his old friends, at which every dainty appeared, and the champagne flowed like water. we may take it as certain that none of his guests ever entertained the slightest doubt that their host was the man he pretended to be. there could seem to them no conceivable reason why a stranger should come down, settle an income upon miss simcoe, and spend his money liberally among all his former acquaintances, if he were any other man than john simcoe. "lastly, we have the handwriting. the man seems to have laid his plans marvelously well, and to have provided against every unforeseen contingency; yet undoubtedly he must have altogether overlooked the question of handwriting, although his declaration that he had almost forgotten how to use his pen was an ingenious one, and i might have accepted it myself if he had written in the rough, scrambling character you would expect under the circumstances. but his handwriting, although in some places he had evidently tried to write roughly, on the whole is certainly that of a man accustomed at one time of his life to clerkly work, and yet differing as widely as the poles from the handwriting of simcoe, both in the bank ledger and in the letter to his aunt. "i think, hilda, that although the matter cannot be decided, it certainly points to your theory that this man is not the john simcoe who left stowmarket twenty years ago. he attempted, and i think very cleverly, to establish his identity by a visit to stowmarket, and no doubt did so to everyone's perfect satisfaction; but when we come to go into the thing step by step, we see that everything he did might have been done by anyone who happened to have a close resemblance to john simcoe in figure and some slight resemblance in face, after listening for three days to miss simcoe's gossip." chapter xiv. an advertisement. "i cannot wait for dr. leeds to come round," hilda said the next morning at breakfast. "you and i will pay him a visit in harley street. i am sure that he will not grudge a quarter of an hour to hear what you have done." "what mystery are you two girls engaged in?" miss purcell asked, as she placidly poured out the tea. "it is a little plot of our own, aunt," netta said. "we are trying to get on walter's track in our own way, and to be for a time amateur detectives. so far we have not found any decisive clew, but i think that we are searching in the right direction. please trust us entirely, and we hope some day we shall have the triumph of bringing walter back, safe and sound." "i pray god that it may be so, my dear. i know that you are both sensible girls, and not likely to get yourselves into any silly scrape." "i don't think we are, aunt; but i am afraid that neither of us would consider any scrape a foolish one that brought us even a little bit nearer to the object of our search. at any rate, aunt, it will reassure you to know that we are acting in concert with dr. leeds, of whom i know that you entertain the highest opinion." "certainly i do. of course i am no judge whatever as to whether he is a good doctor, but i should think, from what dr. pearson says, that he must, in the opinion of other medical men, be considered an exceptionally clever man for his age; and having seen him for four months and lived in close contact with him, i would rather be attended by him than by anyone else i have ever met. his kindness to the general was unceasing. had he been his son, he could not have been more patient and more attentive. he showed wonderful skill in managing him, and was at once sympathetic and cheerful. but, more than that, i admired his tact in filling the somewhat difficult position in which he was placed. although he was completely one of the family, and any stranger would have supposed that he was a brother, or at least a cousin, there was always something in his manner that, even while laughing and chatting with us all, placed a little barrier between us and himself; and one felt that, although most essentially a friend, he was still there as the general's medical attendant. "it was a difficult position for a man of his age to be placed in. had he been like most of the doctors we knew in germany, a man filled with the idea that he must always be a professor of medicine, and impressing people with his learning and gravity, it might have been easy enough. but there is nothing of that sort about him at all; he is just as high-spirited and is as bright and cheerful as other young men of about the same age, and it was only when he was with the general that his gentleness of manner recalled the fact that he was a doctor. as i say, it was a difficult position, with only an old woman like myself and two girls, who looked to him for comfort and hope, who treated him as if he had been an old friend, and were constantly appealing to him for his opinion on all sorts of subjects. "i confess that, when he first came here with dr. pearson, i thought that it was a very rash experiment to introduce a young and evidently pleasant man to us under such circumstances, especially as you, hilda, are a rich heiress and your own mistress; and feeling as i did that i was in the position of your chaperon, i must say that at first i felt very anxious about you, and it was a great relief to me when after a time i saw no signs, either on his part or yours, of any feeling stronger than friendship springing up." hilda laughed merrily. "the idea never entered into my mind, aunt; it is funny to me that so many people should think that a young man and a young woman cannot be thrown together without falling in love with each other. at present, fortunately, i don't quite understand what falling in love means. i like dr. leeds better, i think, than any young man i ever met, but i don't think that it can be in the least like what people feel when they fall in love. certainly it was always as uncle's doctor, rather than as a possible suitor for my hand--that is the proper expression, isn't it?--that i thought of him." "so i was glad to perceive, hilda; and i was very thankful that it was so. against him personally i had nothing to say, quite the contrary; but i saw that he was greatly attached to a profession in which he seems likely to make himself a fine position, and nothing could be more uncomfortable than that such a man should marry a girl with a fine country estate. either he would have to give up his profession or she would have to settle down in london as the wife of a physician, and practically forfeit all her advantages." hilda again laughed. "it is wonderful that all these things should never have occurred to me, aunt. i see now how fortunate it was that i did not fall in love with him. and now, netta, as we have finished breakfast, we will put on our things at once and go and consult our physician in ordinary. we have a fair chance of being the first to arrive if we start immediately. i told roberts to have the carriage at the door at half-past nine, and he does not begin to see patients until ten." "bravo! miss purcell," dr. leeds exclaimed, when she had given him an account of her mission. "of course there is nothing absolutely proved, but at least it shows that his identity is open to doubt, since none of the people he had known recognized him at first sight, and of course all his knowledge of them may have been picked up from the gossiping old lady, his aunt. something has been gained, but the evidence is rather negative than positive. it is possible that he is not the man that he pretends to be; though at present, putting aside the question of handwriting, we must admit that the balance of probability is very much the other way. to begin with, how could this man, supposing him to be an impostor, know that john simcoe was born in stowmarket, and had relatives living there?" "i forgot to mention that, dr. leeds. an advertisement was inserted in the county paper, saying that if any relatives of john simcoe, who left england about , would communicate with someone or other in town they would hear something to their advantage. i was told this by one of miss simcoe's friends, who saw it in the paper and brought it in to her. she was very proud of having made the discovery, and regarded herself quite in the light of a benefactor to miss simcoe. i remarked, when she told me, that it was curious he should have advertised instead of coming down himself to inquire. miss simcoe said that she had expressed surprise to him, and that he had said he did so because he should have shrunk from coming down, had he not learned there was someone to welcome him." "curious," dr. leeds said thoughtfully. "we may quite put it out of our minds that the reason he gave was the real one. a man of this kind would not have suffered any very severe shock had he found that stowmarket and all it contained had been swallowed up by an earthquake. no, certainly that could not have been the reason; we must think of some other. and now, ladies, as this is the third card i have had brought in since you arrived, i must leave the matter as it stands. i think that we are getting on much better than we could have expected." "that advertisement is very curious, netta," hilda said as they drove back. "why should he have put it in? it would have been so much more natural that he should have gone straight down." "i cannot think, hilda. it did not strike me particularly when i heard of it, and i did not give it a thought afterwards. you see, i did not mention it, either to you or dr. leeds, until it flashed across my mind when we were talking. of course i did not see the advertisement itself, but miss simcoe told me that there had been a good deal of discussion before she answered it, as some of them had thought that it might be a trick." "when was it he went down?" "it was in august last year; and it was in the first week in september that he came here." "he went down to get or manufacture proof of his identity," hilda said. "as it turned out, uncle accepted his statement at once, and never had the smallest doubt as to his being john simcoe. the precaution, therefore, was unnecessary; but at the same time it certainly helps him now that a doubt has arisen. it would have been very strange if a man possessing sufficient means to travel in india should have had no friends or connections in england. i was present when he told my uncle that he had been down to see his aunt at stowmarket, and in the spring he brought a gentleman who, he said, was manager of the stowmarket bank, in which he had himself been at one time a clerk. so you see he did strengthen his position by going down there." "it strengthens it in one way, hilda, but in the other it weakens it. as long as no close inquiries were made, it was doubtless an advantage to him to have an aunt of the same name in stowmarket, and to be able to prove by means of a gentleman in the position of manager of the bank that he, john simcoe, had worked under him three or four and twenty years ago. on the other hand, it was useful to us as a starting-point. if we had been utterly in the dark as to simcoe's birthplace or past career, we should have had to start entirely in the dark. now, at any rate, we have located the birthplace of the real man, and learned something of his position, his family, and how he became possessed of money that enabled him to start on a tour round the world. i adhere as firmly as before to the belief that this is not the real man, and the next step is to discover how he learned that john simcoe had lived at stowmarket. at any rate it would be as well that we should find the advertisement. it might tell us nothing, but at the least we should learn the place to which answers were to be sent. how should we set about that?" "i can get a reader's ticket for the british museum, because the chief librarian was a friend of uncle's and dined with him several times," hilda replied. "if i write to him and say that i want to examine some files of newspapers, to determine a question of importance, i am sure that he will send me a ticket at once. i may as well ask for one for you also. we may want to go there again to decide some other point." hilda at once wrote a note and sent tom roberts with it to the museum, and he returned two hours later with the tickets. "there are three suffolk papers," the chief assistant in the newspaper department said courteously, on their sending up the usual slip of paper. "which do you want?" "i do not know. i should like to see them all three, please; the numbers for the first two weeks in august last." in a few minutes three great volumes were placed on the table. these contained a year's issue, and on turning to the first week in august they found that the advertisement had appeared in all of the papers. they carefully copied it out, and were about to leave the library when netta said: "let us talk this over for a minute or two before we go. it seems to me that there is a curious omission in the advertisement." "what is that?" "don't you see that he does not mention stowmarket? he simply inquires for relations of john simcoe, who was supposed to have been lost at sea. it would certainly seem to be more natural that he should put it only in the paper that was likely to be read in stowmarket, and surely he would have said 'relatives of john simcoe, who left stowmarket in the year .' it looks very much as if, while he knew that simcoe was a suffolk man, he had no idea in what part of the county he had lived." "it is very curious, certainly, netta; and, as you say, it does seem that if he had known that it had been stowmarket he would have said so in the advertisement. possibly!" hilda exclaimed so sharply that a gentleman at an adjoining table murmured "hush!" "he did did not know that it was in suffolk. let us look in the london papers. let us ask for the files of the _times_ and _standard_." the papers were brought and the advertisement was found in both of them. "there, you see," netta said triumphantly, "he still says nothing about suffolk." she beckoned to the attendant. "i am sorry to give you so much trouble, but will you please get us the files of three or four country papers of the same date. i should like them in different parts of the country--yorkshire, for instance, and hereford, and devonshire." "it is no trouble, miss," he replied; "that is what we are here for." in a few minutes the three papers were brought, and netta's triumph was great when she found the advertisement in each of them. "that settles it conclusively," she said. "the man did not know what part of the country john simcoe came from, and he advertised in the london papers, and in the provincial papers all over the country." "that was a splendid idea of yours, netta. i think that it settles the question as to the fact that the theory you all laughed at was correct, and that this man is not the real john simcoe." when they got back, hilda wrote a line to dr. leeds: "dear doctor: i do think that we have discovered beyond doubt that the man is an impostor, and that whoever he may be, he is not john simcoe. when you can spare time, please come round. it is too long to explain." at nine o'clock that evening dr. leeds arrived, and heard of the steps that they had taken. "really, young ladies," he said, "i must retire at once from my post of director of searches. it was an excellent thought to ascertain the exact wording of the advertisement, and the fact that the word stowmarket did not appear in it, and that it was inserted in other county papers, was very significant as to the advertiser's ignorance of john simcoe's birthplace. but the quickness with which you saw how this could be proved up to the hilt shows that you are born detectives, and i shall be happy to sit at your feet in future." "then you think that it is quite conclusive?" "perfectly so. the real john simcoe would, of course, have put the advertisement into the county paper published nearest to stowmarket, and he would naturally have used the word stowmarket. that omission might, however, have been accidental; but the appearance of the advertisement in the london papers, and as you have seen, in provincial papers all over england, appears to me ample evidence that he did not know from what county simcoe came, and was ready to spend a pretty heavy amount to discover it. now, i think that you should at once communicate with mr. pettigrew, and inform him of your suspicion and the discovery that you have made. it is for him to decide whether any steps should be taken in the matter, and, if so, what steps. as one of the trustees he is responsible for the proper division of the estates of general mathieson, and the matter is of considerable importance to him. "i think now, too, that our other suspicions should also be laid before him. of course, these are greatly strengthened by his discovery. john simcoe, who saved your uncle's life at the risk of his own, was scarcely the sort of man who would be guilty of murder and abduction; but an unknown adventurer, who had passed himself off as being simcoe, with the object of obtaining a large legacy from the general, may fairly be assumed capable of taking any steps that would enable him to obtain it. if you'd like to write to mr. pettigrew and make an appointment to meet him at his office at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, i will be here half an hour before and accompany you." the lawyer was somewhat surprised when dr. leeds entered the office with the two ladies, but that astonishment became stupefaction when they told their story. "in the whole of my professional career i have never heard a more astonishing story. i own that the abduction of the child at that critical moment did arouse suspicions in my mind that this mr. simcoe, the only person that could be benefited by his disappearance, might be at the bottom of it, and i was quite prepared to resist until the last any demand that might be made on his part for walter to be declared to be dead, and the property handed over to him. but that the man could have had any connection whatever with the illness of the general, or that he was an impostor, never entered my mind. with regard to the first, it is still a matter of suspicion only, and we have not a shadow of proof to go upon. you say yourself, dr. leeds, that dr. pearson, the general's own medical attendant, and the other eminent physicians called in, refused absolutely to accept your suggestion, because, exceptional as the seizure and its effects were, there was nothing that absolutely pointed to poison. unless we can obtain some distinct evidence on that point, the matter must not be touched upon; for even you would hardly be prepared to swear in court that the general was a victim to poison?" "no. i could not take my oath to it, but i certainly could declare that the symptoms, to my mind, could be attributed to poison only." "in the case of the abduction of the boy," the lawyer went on, "the only absolute ground for our suspicion is that this man and no one else would have benefited by it; and this theory certainly appears to be, after the discoveries you have made, a very tenable one. it all comes so suddenly on me that i cannot think of giving any opinion as to the best course to be adopted. i shall, in the first place, consult mr. farmer, and in the next place shall feel it my duty to take my co-trustee, colonel bulstrode, into my confidence, because any action that we may take must, of course, be in our joint names. he called here the other day and stated to me that he regarded the whole matter of walter's abduction to be suspicious in the extreme. he said he was convinced that john simcoe was at the bottom of it, his interest in getting the boy out of the way being unquestionable, and that we must move heaven and earth to find the child. he agreed that we can do nothing about carrying out the will until we have found him. i told him of the steps that we have been taking and their want of success. 'by gad, sir,' he said, 'he must be found, if we examine every child in the country.' i ventured to suggest that this would be a very difficult undertaking, to which he only made some remark about the cold-bloodedness of lawyers, and said that if there were no other way he would dress himself up as a costermonger and go into every slum of london. whether you would find him a judicious assistant in your searches i should scarcely be inclined to say, but you would certainly find him ready to give every assistance in his power." the next day, at three o'clock, colonel bulstrode was announced. he was a short man, of full habit of body. at the present moment his face was even redder than usual. "my dear miss covington," he burst out, as he came into the room, "i have just heard of all this rascality, and what you and your friend miss purcell have discovered. by gad, young ladies, i feel ashamed of myself. here am i, harry bulstrode, a man of the world, and, as such, considered that this affair of the man simcoe being made heir in case of the child's death and the simultaneous disappearance of the boy to have been suspicious in the extreme, and yet i have seen no way of doing anything, and have been so upset that my temper has, as that rascal andrew, my old servant, had the impudence to tell this morning, become absolutely unbearable. and now i find that you two girls and a doctor fellow have been quietly working the whole thing out, and that not improbably my dear old friend was poisoned, and that the man who did it is not the man he pretended to be, but an infernal impostor, who had of course carried the child away, and may, for anything we know, have murdered him. it has made me feel that i ought to go to school again, for i must be getting into my second childhood. still, young ladies, if, as is evident, i have no sense to plan, i can at least do all in my power to assist you in your search, and you have only to say to me, 'colonel bulstrode, we want an inquiry made in india,' and i am off by the first p. and o." "thank you very much, colonel," hilda said, trying to repress a smile. "i was quite sure that from your friendship for my dear uncle you would be ready to give us your assistance, but so far there has been no way in which you could have aided us in the inquiries that we have made. indeed, as dr. leeds has impressed upon us, the fewer there are engaged in the matter the better; for if this man knew that we were making all sorts of inquiries about him, he might think it necessary for his safety either to put walter out of the way altogether, or to send him to some place so distant that there would be practically no hope whatever of our ever discovering him. at present i think that we have fairly satisfied ourselves that this man is an impostor, and that the real john simcoe was drowned, as supposed, in the ship in which he sailed from india. who this man is, and how he became acquainted with the fact that john simcoe saved my uncle's life in india, are mysteries that so far we have no clew to; but these matters are at present of minor importance to us. before anything else we want to find where walter is hidden, and to do this we are going to have this man watched. he cannot have carried off walter by himself, and, no doubt, he meets occasionally the people who helped him, and who are now hiding walter. it is scarcely probable that they come to his lodgings. he is not likely to put himself into anyone's power, and no doubt goes by night in some disguise to meet them. as, of course, he knows you perfectly well, it would be worse than useless for you to try to follow him. that is going to be done by tom roberts." "well, my man andrew might help him," the colonel said. "simcoe has often dined with me at the club, but he never came to my chambers. one man cannot be always on the watch, and andrew can take turns with roberts. he is an impudent rascal, but he has got a fair share of sense; so, when you are ready, if you will drop me a line, he shall come here and take his instructions from you." "thank you very much, colonel. that certainly would be of assistance. it is only of an evening that he would be wanted, for we are quite agreed that these meetings are sure to take place after dark." chapter xv. very bad news. a month passed. tom roberts and andrew watched together in jermyn street, the former with a cap pulled well down over his face and very tattered clothes, the latter dressed as a groom, but making no attempt to disguise his face. during that time everyone who called at the house in jermyn street was followed, and their names and addresses ascertained, one always remaining in jermyn street while the other was away. the man they were watching had gone out every evening, but it was either to one or the other of the clubs to which he belonged, or to the theater or opera. "you will trace him to the right place presently, roberts," hilda said cheerfully, when she saw that he was beginning to be disheartened at the non-success of his search. "you may be sure that he will not go to see these men oftener than he can help. does he generally wear evening clothes?" "always, miss." "i don't think there is any occasion to follow him in future when he goes out in that dress; i think it certain that when he goes to meet these men he will be in disguise. when you see him come out dressed altogether differently to usual, follow him closely. even if we only find where he goes it will be a very important step." * * * * * on the seventh week after the disappearance of walter, mr. pettigrew came in one morning at eleven o'clock. his air was very grave. "have you heard news, mr. pettigrew?" hilda asked. "i have very bad news. mr. comfrey, a lawyer of not the highest standing, who is, i have learnt, acting for this fellow, called upon me. he said, 'i am sorry to say that i have some painful news to give you, mr. pettigrew. yesterday the body of a child, a boy some six or seven years old, was found in the canal at paddington. it was taken to the lockhouse. the features were entirely unrecognizable, and the police surgeon who examined it said that it had been in the water over a month. most of its clothing was gone, partly torn off by barges passing over the body; but there still remained a portion of its underclothing, and this bore the letters w. r. the police recognized them as those of the child who has been so largely advertised for, and, as my client, mr. simcoe, had offered a thousand pounds reward, and as all information was to be sent to me, a policeman came down, just as i was closing the office, to inform me of the fact. "'i at once communicated with my client, who was greatly distressed. he went to paddington the first thing this morning, and he tells me that he has no doubt whatever that the remains are those of walter rivington, although he could not swear to his identity, as the features are altogether unrecognizable. as i understand, sir, that you and miss covington were the guardians of this unfortunate child, i have driven here at once in order that you may go up and satisfy yourselves on the subject. i understand that an inquest will be held to-morrow.'" hilda had not spoken while mr. pettigrew was telling his story, but sat speechless with horror. "it cannot be; surely it cannot be!" she murmured. "oh, mr. pettigrew! say that you cannot believe it." "i can hardly say that, my dear; the whole affair is such a terrible one that i can place no bounds whatever to the villainy of which this man may be capable. this may be the missing child, but, on the other hand, it may be only a part of the whole plot." "but who else can it be if it has walter's clothes on?" "as to that i can say nothing; but you must remember that this man is an extraordinarily adroit plotter, and would hesitate at nothing to secure this inheritance. there would be no very great difficulty in obtaining from some rascally undertaker the body of a child of the right age, dressing him up in some of our ward's clothes, and dropping the body into the canal, which may have been done seven weeks ago, or may have been done but a month. of course i do not mean to say that this was so. i only mean to say that it is possible. no. i expressed my opinion, when we talked it over before, that no sensible man would put his neck in a noose if he could carry out his object without doing so; and murder could hardly be perpetrated without running a very great risk, for the people with whom the child was placed would, upon missing it suddenly, be very likely to suspect that it had been made away with, and would either denounce the crime or extort money by holding a threat over his head for years." "yes, that may be so!" hilda exclaimed, rising to her feet. "let us go and see at once. i will take netta with me; she knows him as well as i do." she ran upstairs and in a few words told netta the news, and in five minutes they came down, ready to start. "i have told walter's nurse to come with us," hilda said. "if anyone can recognize the child she ought to be able to do so. fortunately, she is still in the house." "now, young ladies," the lawyer said before they started, "let me caution you, unless you feel a moderate certainty that this child is walter rivington, make no admission whatever that you see any resemblance. if the matter comes to a trial, your evidence and mine cannot but weigh with the court as against that of this man who is interested in proving its identity with walter. of course, if there is any sign or mark on the body that you recognize, you will acknowledge it as the body of our ward. we shall then have to fight the case on other grounds. but unless you detect some unmistakable mark, and it is extremely unlikely that you will do so in the state the body must be in, confine yourself to simply stating that you fail to recognize it in any way." "there never was any mark on the poor child's body," hilda said. "i have regretted it so much, because, in the absence of any descriptive marks, the chance of his ever being found was, of course, much lessened." the lawyer had come in a four-wheeled cab, and in this the party all took their places. not a word was spoken on the way, except that hilda repeated what mr. pettigrew had said to the nurse. it was with very white faces that they entered the lockhouse. the little body was lying on a board supported by two trestles. it was covered by a piece of sailcloth, and the tattered garments that it had had on were placed on a chair beside it. prepared as she was for something dreadful, the room swam round, and had hilda not been leaning on mr. pettigrew's arm she would have fallen. there was scarce a semblance of humanity in the little figure. the features of the face had been entirely obliterated, possibly by the passage of barges, possibly by the work of simple decay. "courage, my dear!" mr. pettigrew said. "it is a painful duty, but it must be performed." the three women stood silent beside the little corpse. netta was the first to speak. "i cannot identify the body as that of walter rivington," she said. "i don't think that it would be possible for anyone to do so." "is the hair of the same color?" the policeman who was in charge of the room asked. "the hair is rather darker than his," netta said; "but being so long in the water, and in such dirty water, it might have darkened." "that was never master walter's hair!" the nurse exclaimed. "the darling had long, soft hair, and unless those who murdered him cut it short, it would not be like this. besides, this hair is stiffer. it is more like the hair of a workhouse child than master walter's." "that is so," hilda said. "i declare that i not only do not recognize the body as that of my ward, but that i am convinced it is not his." "judging only by the hair," mr. pettigrew said, "i am entirely of your opinion, miss covington. i have stroked the child's head many times, and his hair was like silk. i have nothing else to go by, and am convinced that the body is not walter rivington's." they then looked at the fragments of clothes. in two places they were marked "w. r." "that is my marking, miss," the nurse said, after closely examining the initials. "i could not swear to the bits of clothes, but i can to the letters. you see, miss, i always work a line above the letters and another below them. i was taught to do it so when i was a girl in our village school, and i have always done it since. but i never saw anyone else mark them so. you see the letters are worked in red silk, and the two lines in white. the old woman who taught us said that it made a proper finish to the work. yes, miss covington, i can swear to these things being master walter's." "you could not swear to their being those in which he went out the morning he was lost, nurse?" "i can, sir, because there is nothing missing except what he had on. i have all his things properly counted, and everything is there." at this moment there was a little stir outside, and hilda glanced down and whispered to netta: "let down your fall; i do not want this man to recognize you." just as she did so john simcoe entered. he bowed to hilda. "i am sorry, indeed, to meet you under such painful circumstances." "i beg you not to address me, sir," she said haughtily. "i wish to have no communication with or from you. your coming here reminds me of the thirty-seventh verse of the nineteenth chapter of st. john. you can look it out, sir, if you happen to have a bible at home. fortunately it is not wholly applicable, for we are all absolutely convinced that this poor little body is not that of general mathieson's grandson." so saying she stepped out of the little house, followed by the others; leaving john simcoe white with passion. "you should not have shown your hand so plainly, miss covington." "i could not help it," the girl said. "he has called a dozen times at the house and has always received the message, 'not at home,' and he must know that i suspect him of being walter's abductor." "what is the verse you referred him to, hilda?" netta said. "i confess that i do not know any verse in st. john that seems to be at all applicable to him." "the quotation is, 'they shall look on him whom they pierced.'" netta could not help smiling. mr. pettigrew shook his head. "you are really too outspoken, miss covington, and you will get yourself into trouble. as it is, you have clearly laid yourself open to an action for libel for having practically called the man a murderer. we may think what we like, but we are in no position to prove it." "i am not afraid of that," she said. "i wish that he would do it; then we should have all the facts brought out in court, and, even if we could not, as you say, prove everything, we could at least let the world know what we think. no, there is no chance of his doing that, mr. pettigrew." "it is fortunate for us, miss covington, that our clients are for the most part men. your sex are so impetuous and so headstrong that we should have a hard time of it indeed if we had to take our instructions from them." "mr. pettigrew, you will please remember that there are three of my sex in this cab, and if you malign us in this way we will at once get out and walk." the old lawyer smiled indulgently. "it is quite true, my dear. women are always passionately certain that they are right, and neither counsel nor entreaty can get them to believe that there can be any other side to a case than that which they take. talk about men ruining themselves by litigation; the number that do so is as nothing to that of the women who would do so, were they to get as often involved in lawsuits! when dickens drew the man who haunted the courts he would have been much nearer the mark had he drawn the woman who did so. you can persuade a man that when he has been beaten in every court his case is a lost one; but a woman simply regards a hostile decision as the effect either of great partiality or of incompetence on the part of the judge, and even after being beaten in the house of lords will attend the courts and pester the judges with applications for the hearing of some new points. it becomes a perfect mania with some of them." "very well, mr. pettigrew. i would certainly carry my case up to the highest court, and if i were beaten i would not admit that i was in the wrong; still, i do not think that i should pester the poor old judges after that. i suppose we shall all have to come up again to-morrow to the inquest?" "certainly. nurse has recognized the clothes, and i suppose you all recognize the marks, miss covington?" "yes; i have no doubt whatever that the clothes are walter's." "of course we shall be represented by counsel," mr. pettigrew went on. "we must not let the jury find that this is walter's body if we can possibly prevent it." "you think that they will do so?" "i am afraid of it. they will know nothing of the real circumstances of the case; they will only know that the child has been missing for nearly two months, and that, in spite of large rewards, no news has been obtained of him. they will see that this child is about the same age, that the clothes in which it was found are those worn by the missing boy. they will themselves have viewed the body and have seen that identification is almost impossible. this man will give his evidence to the effect that he believes it to be walter rivington's body. we shall give it as our opinion that it is not; that opinion being founded upon the fact that the few patches of hair left on the head are shorter and coarser than this was. to us this may appear decisive, but the counsel who will, no doubt, appear for simcoe, will very legitimately say this fact has no weight, and will point out that no real judgment can be formed upon this. the child was missing--probably stolen for the sake of its clothes. seeing the description in the handbills and placards, the first step would be to cut off its hair, which disposes of the question of length, and, as he will point out, hair which, when very long, seems soft and silky, will stand up and appear almost bristly when cropped close to the head. i am afraid that, in the face of all that we can say, the coroner's jury will find that the body is walter's. as to the cause of death they will probably give an open verdict, for even if the surgeon has found any signs of violence upon the body, these may have been inflicted by passing barges long after death." "will you have it brought forward that simcoe has an interest in proving the body to be walter's?" "i think not. there would be no use in beginning the fight in the coroner's court. it will all have to be gone into when he applies to the higher courts for an order on the trustees of the will to proceed to carry out its provisions. then our case will be fully gone into. we shall plead that in the first place the will was made under undue influence. we shall point to the singularity of the general's mysterious attack, an attack which one of the doctors who attended him at once put down to poison, and that at the moment of the attack simcoe was sitting next to him at dinner. we shall point to the extraordinary coincidence that the child who stood between simcoe and the inheritance disappeared on the evening when the general was _in extremis_, and, lastly, we shall fire our last shot by declaring that the man is not the john simcoe named in the will, but is an impostor who assumed his name and traded upon his brave action on the general's behalf. "but i do not want the fight to begin until we are in a better position than at present to prove what we say. as yet, however satisfactory to us, we have not got beyond the point of conjecture and probabilities, and i trust that, before we have to fight the case, we shall obtain some absolute facts in support of our theory. the man would be able at present to put into court a number of highly respectable witnesses from stowmarket, and of officers he has met here, who would all testify to his being john simcoe, and as against their evidence our conjectures would literally go for nothing. no doubt you will all receive notices to attend this evening. the policeman took your names and addresses, and will have told the officer in charge of the case the nature of the evidence you will probably give. and please remember that, in giving evidence, you must carefully abstain from saying anything that would lead the jury to perceive that you have any personal feeling against simcoe, for they would be likely to put down your declaration of inability to recognize the body as a result of a bias against him. do not let it be seen that there is any personal feeling in the matter at all." the summonses arrived that evening and the next morning they drove to the coroner's court, miss purcell accompanying them. they found mr. pettigrew awaiting them at the door. "there is another case on before ours," he said, "and i should advise you to take a drive for half an hour, and, when you come back, to sit in the carriage until i come for you. the waiting room is a stuffy little place, and is at present full of witnesses in the case now on, and as that case is one of a man killed in a drunken row, they are not of a class whom it is pleasant to mix with." when they returned, he again came out. "i have just spoken to the coroner and told him who you are, and he has kindly given permission for you to go up to his own room. the case he has now before him may last another half hour." it was just about that time when mr. pettigrew came up and said that their case was about to commence, and that they must go down and take their places in court. this was now almost empty; a few minutes before it had been crowded by those interested in the proceedings, which had terminated in the finding of manslaughter against four of those concerned in the fray. the discovery of a child's body in the canal was far too common an event to afford any attraction, and with the exception of the witnesses, two counsel seated in the front line facing the coroner, and two or three officials, there was no one in court. as soon as the little stir caused by the return of the jury from viewing the body had ceased, the coroner addressed them. "we shall now, gentlemen of the jury, proceed to the case of the body of the child said to be that of walter rivington, which was found under very strange and suspicious circumstances near this end of the canal. you will hear that the child was missing from his home in hyde park gardens on the d of october, and for his discovery, as some of you are doubtless aware, large sums have been offered. the day before yesterday the drags were used for the purpose of discovering whether another child, who was lost, and who had been seen going near the bank, had been drowned. in the course of that search this body was brought up. you have already viewed it, gentlemen. dr. macilvaine will tell you that it has certainly been a month in the water, perhaps two or three weeks longer. unfortunately the state of the body is such that it is impossible now to ascertain the cause of death, or whether it was alive when it fell in, or was placed in, the water. fortunately some of its clothes still remain on the body, and one of the witnesses, the nurse of the missing boy, will tell you that the marks upon them were worked by herself, and that she can swear to them. whether any other matters will come before you in reference to the case, which, from the fact that the child was grandson of the late general mathieson and heir to his property, has attracted much attention, i cannot say. the first witness you will hear is the lock-keeper, who was present at the finding of the body." before the witness was called, however, one of the counsel rose and said: "i am instructed, sir, to appear to watch the proceedings on behalf of mr. john simcoe, who, by the death of walter rivington, inherits under the will of the late general mathieson." the coroner bowed. the other counsel then rose. "and i, sir, have been instructed by mr. pettigrew and colonel bulstrode, the trustees under the will, the former gentleman being also joint guardian with miss hilda covington of the missing child, to watch the case on their behalf." there was again an exchange of bows, and the lock-keeper then entered the box. his evidence was given in few words. he simply deposed to assisting in dragging the canal, and to the finding of the body. "have you any questions to ask the witness?" the coroner said, turning to the barristers. the counsel employed by mr. pettigrew rose. "yes, sir; i have a few questions to ask. now, mr. cousins, you say that you took part in dragging the canal. you are in charge of the drags, are you not?" "yes, sir; they are always kept in readiness at the lockhouse." "how came you to use the drags? i suppose you don't take them down and spend a day or two in dragging the canal unless you have reason for supposing that a body is there." "no, sir. the afternoon before a woman came up crying and said that her child had fallen into the water. he had gone out in the morning to play, and when dinner-time came and he didn't return she searched everywhere for him, and two children had just told her that they were playing with him on the bank of the canal, and that he had fallen in. they tried to get him out, but he sank, and they were so frightened that they ran home without saying anything. but they thought now that they had better tell. i said that she had better go to the police station and repeat her statement, and they would send a constable to help me. she did that, and came back with the policeman. it was getting late then, but we took a boat and dragged the canal for two or three hours. the next morning she came again, and said that the boys had shown her just where her child fell in, and we dragged there and found this body. we brought it ashore, and after we had carried it to the lockhouse we set to work again, but could not find any other body." "what became of the woman?" "she was with us till we fetched up this body. when she saw it she ran away crying, and did not come back again." "you have not seen her since, mr. cousins?" "no, sir; i have not seen her since. i believe the constable made inquiries about her." "thank you, i have nothing more to ask." the policeman then entered the box and gave his evidence shortly, as to assisting in the operation of dragging and to finding the body. "about this woman who gave the alarm," the barrister asked. "have you seen her, constable?" "no, sir; not since the body was found. thinking it strange that she did not come back, i reported it at the station. she had given the name of mary smith and an address in old park. i was told to go round there, but no such person was known, and no one had heard of a child being lost. on my reporting this, inquiries were made all round the neighborhood; but no one had heard of such a woman, nor of a missing child." "this is a very strange circumstance, sir, and it looks as if the whole story of the drowning child was a fabrication. the fact that the body of the child whose death we are considering was found close to the spot would certainly seem to point to the fact that some person or persons who were cognizant of the fact that this body was there were for some reasons anxious that it should be found, and so employed this woman to get the drags used at that point in order that the body might be brought to light." "it is certainly a very strange business," the coroner said, "and i hope that the police will spare no efforts to discover this woman. however, as she is not before us, we must proceed with the case." then the officer of the court called out the name of mary summerford, and the nurse went into the witness box. "i understand, mary sommerford, that you were nurse to walter rivington?" "i was, sir." "will you tell the jury when you last saw him, and how it was that he was lost?" she told the story as she had told it to hilda on the day that he was missing. "you have seen the clothes found on the body. do you recognize them as those that he was wearing when you last saw him?" "yes, sir." "how do you recognize them?" "because his initials are worked in two places. i worked them myself, and can swear to them." "you cannot recognize the body, nurse?" "i do not believe it is the body of my young master," she said; "his hair was lovely--long and silky. what hair remains on the body is very short, and what i should call stubbly." "but the hair might have been cut short by the people who stole him," the coroner said. "it is the first precaution they would take to evade the search that would at once be set on foot." "yes, sir, but i don't think that it would have grown up so stiff." "my experience of workhouse children," the coroner remarked, "is that whatever the hair they may have had when they entered the house, it is stiff enough to stand upright when cut close to the head. there is nothing else, is there, which leads you to doubt the identity of the child?" "no, sir, i cannot say that there is; but i don't believe that it is master walter's body." hilda, netta, and mr. pettigrew all gave their evidence. the two former stated that they identified the clothes, but, upon the same ground as the nurse, they failed to recognize the body as that of walter rivington. all were asked if they could in any way account for the finding of the child's body there. the question had been foreseen, and they said that, although they had used every means of discovering the child, they had obtained no clew whatever as to his whereabouts from the time that he was stolen to the time they were summoned to identify the body. "you quite assume that he was stolen, and not that he wandered away, as children will do when their nurses are gossiping?" "we are convinced that he was stolen, sir, because the search was begun so momentarily after he was missed that he could hardly have got out of sight, had he merely wandered away on foot. notice was given to the police an hour after he disappeared, and every street in this part of london was scoured immediately." "children of that age, miss covington, have often a fancy for hiding themselves; and this child may have hidden somewhere close until he saw his nurse pass by, and then made off in the opposite direction. the spot where the child's body was found is little more than a quarter of a mile from the corner where he was missed. he might have wandered up there, found himself on the canal bank, and childlike, have begun to play, and so slipped into the water." john simcoe was the last witness called. he gave his evidence to the effect that he had seen the body, and that personally he saw no reason to doubt that it was that of walter rivington. his counsel then rose. "you are, i believe, mr. simcoe, owing to the death of this poor child, the principal legatee under the will of general mathieson?" "i am sorry to say that i am. the whole business has caused me immense distress. i have felt that, being the only person that would benefit by the child's death, those who did not know me would have a suspicion that i might have had a hand in his mysterious disappearance." "you have taken an active part in the search for him?" "i offered a reward of one thousand pounds for any information that would lead to his discovery, and i believe that i have traveled up and down every obscure slum in london in hopes of lighting upon him." "even without the provision in the will which made you next heir you benefited by it, did you not?" "i did, most munificently. general mathieson had himself informed me that i should find, by his will, that he had not been ungrateful for a service that i rendered him many years ago; but i was not aware of the sum that he had left me. as to the distant contingency of inheriting in case of the child's death, i was altogether ignorant of it; but had i known it, it would in no way have affected me. the little fellow was a fine healthy child, and, therefore, the thought that he might not live to come of age would never have entered my mind." as the other counsel had no question to ask, the evidence was now concluded. "well, gentlemen, you have heard the evidence," the coroner said. "dr. macilvaine has told you, as indeed you might judge for yourselves on viewing the body, that it is impossible, in its advanced state of decomposition, to say whether the child was alive or dead at the time he fell, or was placed in the canal. as to who were the guilty persons who beguiled the child away, if he was beguiled, we have no shadow of evidence, and it may well be that he was stolen for the sake of his clothes. the cutting short of his hair certainly points to the truth of this theory, as does also the fact that no vestige has been found of his upper clothing. it is probable that some woman enticed him away, and kept him for some time with her, and then, when she became alarmed by the search made for him, carried him in his sleep from the house, and perhaps laid him down by the canal, thinking that he would be found there in the morning, and that the poor child awoke in the dark, wandered about, and fell into the canal. "however, this is only theory; but it is at least supported by the mysterious incident of the unknown woman who, by means of a tale which appears beyond doubt to have been wholly fictitious, caused the water at that spot to be dragged. the fact that on the second day she pointed out almost the exact point where the body was found would seem to show that the child could scarcely have fallen in the water, as she suggested, for in that case she could not have known the precise spot. it would seem, then, more likely that either the child died a natural death, perhaps from confinement or bad treatment, or possibly that, terribly alarmed at the search that was being maintained, he was put out of the way and then thrown into the canal at this spot. in that case we may admit that it is certainly strange that she should risk discovery by the course she took, and i can only account for it on the ground that she had been, ever since his death, suffering from remorse, and possibly she may have thought that she might in some sort of way atone for her conduct were she to point out where the child was, and so secure for him christian burial. that, however, is not before us at present, and i see no advantage in an adjournment for an indefinite time until this mystery is solved. the police have taken the matter in hand, and will spare no pains to discover the woman. if they do so, undoubtedly proceedings will be taken in another court. the point that we have to consider is who this child was, and how he came to his death. unfortunately we are absolutely without any evidence of what became of him from the time he got lost up to the discovery of his body, and i think that you cannot do otherwise than find an open verdict. "as to the question of identity, there can, i think, be no shadow of doubt. the clothes in which he was found prove him beyond question to have been walter rivington, although the body itself is absolutely beyond identification. i do not think that you need give any weight to the nurse's failure to recognize him, or to her opinion about the hair. she is naturally reluctant to acknowledge, even to herself, that the child which was lost by her inadvertence is dead, and the ladies would be equally reluctant to admit that all hope was over." the jury put their heads together, and there was evidently no difference of opinion, for in two or three minutes they sat down again and the foreman stood up. "you have decided on your verdict?" the coroner asked. "we have, sir. we find that the body is that of walter rivington, and that he was found dead in the canal, but how he came there and by what means he came by his death, there is no evidence to show." "thank you, gentlemen; that is precisely the verdict that i should myself have given." chapter xvi. a fresh clew. "just the verdict that i expected," mr. pettigrew said, as he and the ladies issued from the courthouse. "i suppose that it is for the best, mr. pettigrew, but it seems hard, when we could have said so much, to be obliged to hold our tongues altogether." "no doubt you will have an opportunity later on, miss covington. our tongues are tied until we can obtain some sort of proof to go upon. we cannot go into court with merely suspicions; we must get facts. all we have done at present is to obtain some sort of foundation on which to work; but facts we shall, i hope, get ere long from what we may discover of this fellow's movements. he is likely to be less careful now that it has been decided that walter is dead. he is doubtless well aware of the fact that trustees have a year given them before proceeding to carry out the provisions of a will, and, therefore, for that time he will keep quiet. at the end of the year his solicitor will write us a courteous letter, asking when we shall be in a position to distribute the estate in accordance with the provisions of the will. we shall reply that we are not in a position to do so. then, after a time, will come letters of a more and more peremptory character, and at last a notice that they are about to apply to the courts for an order for us to act upon the provisions of the will. about two years after the general's death the matter will probably come on. i may say that i have already sent checks to all the small legatees." "thank you, i was aware of that, because tom roberts came to me yesterday with his check for two hundred pounds," and said, "look here, miss covington; you said you meant to keep me on just the same as in the general's time, so this won't be of any use to me, and i should like to spend it in any way that you think best to find out what has become of master walter.' of course i told him that the money could not be spent in that way, and that the work that he was doing was of far greater use than ten times that sum would be." "i will send you your check to-morrow, miss covington. the sum we have paid to the people who have been searching, and all other expenses that may be incurred, will, of course, come out of the estate. you have not as yet settled, i suppose, as to your future plans?" "no, except that i shall certainly keep on the house in hyde park gardens for the present. it is, of course, ridiculously large for me, but i don't want the trouble of making a move until i make one permanently, and shall therefore stay here until this matter is finally cleared up. miss purcell has most kindly consented to remain as my chaperon, and her plans and those of her niece will depend upon mine." they had sent away their carriage when they entered the court, and they walked quietly home, mr. pettigrew returning at once to his office. the next morning tom roberts accosted hilda as she entered the breakfast room, with a face that showed he had news. "we have traced him down to one of his places at last, miss. i said to andrew, 'we must keep a special sharp look out to-night, for like enough, now that the inquest is over, he will be going to talk over the matter with his pals.' well, miss, last night, at half-past nine, out he comes. he wasn't in evening dress, for although, as usual, he had a topcoat on, he had light trousers and walking boots. he did not turn the usual way, but went up into piccadilly. we followed him. i kept close behind him, and andrew at a distance, so that he should not notice us together. at the circus he hailed a cab, and as he got in i heard him say to the driver, 'king's cross station.' as soon as he had gone off andrew and i jumped into another cab, and told the man to drive to the same place, and that we would give him a shilling extra if he drove sharp. "he did drive sharp, and i felt sure that we had got there before our man. i stopped outside the entrance, andrew went inside. in five minutes he arrived, paid the driver his fare, and went in. i had agreed to wait two or three minutes outside, while andrew was to be at the ticket office to see where he booked for. i was just going in when, to my surprise, out the man came again and walked briskly away. i ran in and fetched andrew, and off we went after him. he hadn't more than a minute's start, and we were nearly up to him by the time he had got down to the main road. we kept behind him until we saw him go up pentonville hill, then andrew went on ahead of him and i followed. we agreed that if he looked back, suspicious, i should drop behind. andrew, when he once got ahead, was to keep about the same distance in front of him, so as to be able to drop behind and take it up instead of me, while i was to cross over the road if i thought that he had discovered i was following him. "however, it did not seem to strike him that anyone was watching him, and he walked on briskly until he came to a small house standing by itself, and as he turned in we were in time to see that the door was opened to him by a man. andrew and i consulted. i went in at the gate, took my shoes off, and went round the house. there was only a light in one room, which looked as if there were no servants. the curtains were pulled together inside, and i could see nothing of what was going on. he stopped there for an hour and a half, then came out again, hailed a cab halfway down the hill, and drove off. andrew and i had compared watches, and he had gone back to jermyn street, so that we should be able to know by the time the chap arrived whether he had gone anywhere else on his way back. when i joined him i found that the man must have driven straight to the circus and then got out, for he walked in just twenty minutes after i had seen him start." "that is good news indeed, roberts. we will go and see mr. pettigrew directly after breakfast. please order the carriage to be round at a quarter to ten." netta was as pleased as her friend when she heard that a step had been made at last. "i am sick of this inaction," she said, "and want to be doing something towards getting to the bottom of the affair. i do hope that we shall find some way in which i can be useful." "i have no doubt at all that you will be very useful when we get fairly on the track. i expect that this will lead to something." after tom roberts had repeated his story to mr. pettigrew, hilda said: "i brought roberts with me, mr. pettigrew, that he might tell the story in his own way. it seems to me that the best thing now would be to employ a private detective to find out who the man is who lives in rose cottage. this would be out of the line of tom roberts and colonel bulstrode's servant altogether. they would not know how to set about making inquiries, whereas a detective would be at home at such work." "i quite agree with you," the lawyer said. "to make inquiries without exciting suspicion requires training and practice. an injudicious question might lead to this man being warned that inquiries were being made about him and might ruin the matter altogether. of course your two men will still keep up their watch. it may be that we shall find it is of more use to follow the track of this man than the other. but you must not be too sanguine; the man at rose cottage may be an old acquaintance of simcoe. well, my dear," he went on, in answer to a decided shake of the head on hilda's part, "you must call the man by the only name that he is known by, although it may not belong to him. i grant that the manner in which he drove into king's cross station and then walked out on foot would seem to show that he was anxious to throw anyone who might be watching him off the scent, and that the visit was, so to speak, a clandestine one. but it may relate to an entirely different matter; for this man may be, for aught we know, an adept in crime, and may be in league with many other doubtful characters." "it may be so, mr. pettigrew, but we will hope not." "very well, my dear," the lawyer said. "i will send for a trustworthy man at once, and set him to work collecting information regarding the occupant of the cottage. and now i have a point upon which i wish to ask your opinion. i have this morning received a letter from this man's solicitor, asking if we intend to undertake the funeral of the body which the coroner's jury have found to be that of walter rivington; and announcing that, if we do not, his client will himself have it carried out." "what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" hilda said hesitatingly. "we may be wrong, you know, and it may be walter's body." "i have been thinking it over," the lawyer replied, "and i must say it is my opinion that, as we have all stated our conviction that it is not, we should only stultify ourselves if we now undertook the funeral and put a stone, with his name on, over the grave. if we should at any time become convinced that we have been wrong, we can apply for a faculty to remove the coffin to the family vault down in warwickshire." "if we could do that i should not mind," hilda said; "but even the possibility of walter being buried by the man who we firmly believe was the cause of his death is terrible." "yes, i can quite understand your feelings, but i think that it is necessary that the family should make a protest against its being supposed that they recognize the child, by declining to undertake the funeral. no protest could well be stronger." "if you think that, mr. pettigrew, we certainly had best stand aside and let that poor child be buried by this man." two days later they were driving in the row. it was hilda's first appearance there since the general's death, and, after talking it over with netta, she now appeared there in order to show that she was perfectly convinced that the child which had been found in the canal was not her little cousin. the details of the proceedings of the coroner's court had, of course, been read by all her friends, and her appearance in the park would be the best proof that she could give that the family were absolutely convinced that the body was not that of walter. miss purcell and netta were with her. the latter had on, as usual, a thick veil. this she always wore when driving through any locality where she might meet john simcoe. "that is the man," hilda said to her in a sharp tone; "the farther of those two leaning on the rail the other side of the road." as hilda fixed her eyes on the man she saw him give a sudden movement. then he said to the man next to him: "do you see that girl in deep mourning? it is that little vixen, hilda covington. confound her, she is at the bottom of all this trouble, and i believe she would give ten thousand out of her own pocket to checkmate me." the carriage was opposite to them now. hilda looked straight in front of her, while netta, who was sitting with her back to the horses, took up the watch. "she would have to be sharp indeed to do that," the other man said. "so far everything has gone without a hitch, and i don't see a single weak point in your case. the most troublesome part has been got over." and now some carriages going the other way cut off the view, and netta could read no further. she drew a long breath as hilda's eyes turned towards her. "what did you read?" the latter asked. netta repeated what she had caught, and then hilda took up the conversation. "it is quite evident that this man, whoever he is, is an accomplice. he is a gentlemanly-looking man, and i fancy that he sat in the stalls near to us one evening this spring. however, it is quite clear that he is a confederate of simcoe. just repeat his words over again. they were in answer to his remark that i would give ten thousand pounds to be able to checkmate him." netta repeated the answer of simcoe's companion. "you see, netta, there is something to find out that would checkmate him; that is quite evident. he thinks that i cannot find it out. it must be, i should think, that walter is kept in hiding somewhere. it could not mean that he had killed my uncle, for he would hardly tell that to anyone, and so put himself in their power." "it may mean that you cannot find out that he is not john simcoe," netta suggested. "possibly; but he cannot know we suspect that." "it might be about the last will, hilda." the latter shook her head. "we have never thought that there could be anything wrong about it. the will was drawn up by colonel bulstrode's lawyers, and they knew my uncle by sight; besides, all the legacies were exactly the same as in the other will, the signature and the written instructions were in his handwriting, and he signed it in the solicitor's office in the presence of two of their clerks. no, i don't think he can possibly mean that. it must be either walter's abduction or that he is not john simcoe, and i should say that the former is much the more likely. you see, he had no need of an accomplice in the matter of getting evidence as to identity, whereas he did need an accomplice in the carrying off of walter. i should say that he is far too clever a man to let anyone into any of his secrets, unless he needed his assistance. i wonder who the man with him can be. he is dressed in good style, and i have certainly met him somewhere. i believe, as i said, it was at the opera. i should have thought that a man of that class is the last simcoe would choose as a confederate." miss purcell looked from one to the other as they talked. she had by this time been taken completely into their confidence, but had refused absolutely to believe that a man could be guilty of such wickedness as that which they suspected. on their return home they found a letter awaiting them from mr. pettigrew: "my dear miss covington [it ran]: my detective has not yet finished his inquiries, but has at least discovered that the proprietor of rose cottage, for they say that the place belongs to him, is somewhat of a mystery to his neighbors. he lives there entirely alone. he goes out regularly in a morning, it is supposed to some occupation in the city. no tradesmen ever call at the door; it is supposed that he brings home something for his breakfast and cooks it for himself, and that he dines in the city and makes himself a cup of tea in the evening, or else that he goes out after dark. sometimes, of summer evenings, he has been seen to go out just at twilight, dressed in full evening costume--that is to say, it is supposed so, for he wore a light overcoat--but certainly a white necktie, black trousers, and patent leather boots. of course, in all this there is nothing in itself absolutely suspicious. a man engaged in the city would naturally enough take his meals there, and may prefer to do everything for himself to having the bother of servants. also, if his means permit it, he may like to go to theaters or places of amusement, or may go out to visit business friends. i have, of course, directed the detective to follow him to town and find out what is his business, and where employed. i will let you know result to-morrow." the next day brought the letter. "the man's name is william barens. he has a small office on the third floor of a house of business in great st. helens, and on the doorway below his name is the word 'accountant,' the housekeeper knows nothing about him, except that he has occupied the room for the last twelve years, and that he is a gentleman who gives no trouble. he always puts his papers away at night in his safe, so that his table can be properly dusted. she knows that he has clients, as several times, when he has been away for his dinner hour, she has been asked when he would return. he is a well-spoken gentleman, though not as particular about his dress as some; but liberal with his money, and gives her as handsome a tip at christmas as some people who have three or four rooms, and, no doubt, think themselves much finer people. this certainly does not amount to much. by the way, the old woman said that she knew he was employed by several tradesmen in the neighborhood to keep their books for them." two days later there was another communication: "my dear miss covington: my man has taken a step which i should certainly have forbidden, had he told me beforehand of his intention. he watched the man go out, and then, having previously provided himself with instruments for picking locks, he opened the door and went in. on the table were several heavy ledgers and account books, all bearing the names of tradesmen in the neighborhood, with several files of accounts, bills, and invoices. these fully bore out what the woman had told him. besides the chairs, table, and safe, the only other articles of furniture in the room were an office washing stand and a large closet. in the latter were a dress suit and boots, and a suit of fashionable walking clothes, so that it is evident that he often changed there instead of going home. i am sorry to say that all this throws no further light upon the man's pursuits, and had it not been for simcoe's visit to him, it would be safe to say that he is a hard-working accountant, in a somewhat humble, but perhaps well-paying line; that he is a trifle eccentric in his habits, and prefers living a cheap, solitary life at home, while spending his money freely in the character of a man about town in the evening. i cannot say that the prospect in this direction seems hopeful. i have told my man that for the present we shall not require his services further." "it does not seem very satisfactory, certainly," hilda said with a sigh; "i am afraid that we shall have to keep on watching simcoe. i wish i could peep into his room as this detective did into that of the pentonville man." "i don't suppose that you would find anything there, hilda; he is not the sort of man to keep a memorandum book, jotting down all his own doings." "no," hilda said with a laugh; "still, one always thinks that one can find something." had hilda covington had her wish and looked into john simcoe's room that morning, she would certainly have derived some satisfaction from the sight. he had finished his breakfast before opening a letter that lay beside him. "what a plague the old woman is with her letters! i told her that i hated correspondence, but she persists in writing every month or so, though she never gets any reply except, 'my dear aunt: thanks for your letter. i am glad to hear that you are well.--your affectionate nephew.' well, i suppose i must read it through." he glanced over the first page, but on turning to the second his eye became arrested, and he read carefully, frowning deeply as he did so. then he turned back and read it again. the passage was as follows: "i had quite an interesting little episode a day or two after i last wrote. a young lady--she said her name was barcum, and that she was an artist--came in and asked if i would take her in as a lodger. she was a total stranger to the place, and had come down for her health, and said that some tradesman had recommended her to come here, saying that, as a single lady, i might be glad to accommodate her. of course i told her that i did not take lodgers. she got up to go, when she nearly fainted, and i could not do less than offer her a cup of tea. then we got very chatty, and as i saw that she was really too weak to go about town looking for lodgings, i invited her to stay a day or two with me, she being quite a lady and a very pleasant-spoken one. she accepted, and a pleasanter companion i never had. naturally i mentioned your name, and told her what adventures you had gone through, and how kind you were. she was greatly interested, and often asked questions about you, and i do think that she almost fell in love with you from my description. she left suddenly on receipt of a letter that called her up to town, saying that she would return; but i have not heard from her since, and i am greatly afraid that the poor child must be seriously ill. she was a pretty and intelligent-looking girl, with dark eyes and hair, and i should say that when in good health she must be very bright. of course, she may have changed her mind about coming down. i am sure she would have written if she had been well." "confound the old gossip!" john simcoe said angrily, as he threw the letter down. "i wonder what this means, and who this girl can be? it is clear enough that, whoever she is, she was sent down there to make inquiries about me. it is that girl covington's doing, i have no doubt, though it was not the minx herself, for the description does not tally at all. she has light brown hair and grayish sort of eyes. there is one comfort, she would learn nothing to my disadvantage from the old woman, nor, i believe, from anyone at stowmarket. in fact, she would only get more and more confirmation of my story. i have no fear upon that score, but the thing shows how that girl is working on my track. as for the lawyer, he is an old fool; and if it hadn't been for her i would bet a hundred to one that he would never have entertained any suspicion that all was not right. it is her doing all through, and this is a piece of it. of course she could have no suspicion that i was not john simcoe, but i suppose she wanted to learn if there was any dark spot in my history--whether i had ever been suspected of robbing a bank, or had been expelled from school for thieving, or something of that sort. i begin to be downright afraid of her. she had a way of looking through me, when i was telling my best stories to the general, that always put me out. she disliked me from the first, though i am sure i tried in every way to be pleasant to her. i felt from the day i first saw her that she was an enemy, and that if any trouble ever did come it would be through her. i have no doubt she is moving heaven and earth to find walter; but that she will never do, for harrison is as true as steel, and he is the only man who could put them on the right track. moreover, i have as much pull over him as he has over me. he has never had a doubt about my being john simcoe; he doesn't know about the other affair, but only that walter stood between me and the estate, and he was quite ready to lend me a hand to manage to get him out of the way. so in that business he is in it as deep as i am, while i know of a score of schemes he has been engaged in, any one of which would send him abroad for life. i expect those inquiries were made at stowmarket to endeavor to find out whether any child had been sent down there. if so, miss covington is not so sharp as i took her to be. stowmarket would be the very last place where a man, having relations and friends there, would send a child whom he wished to keep concealed. still it is annoying, confoundedly annoying; and it shows that these people, that is to say hilda covington, are pushing their inquiries in every direction, likely or unlikely. "the only comfort is, the more closely they search the sooner they will come to the conclusion that the boy is not to be found. i believe that, though they declared they did not recognize the body, they had no real doubt about it, and they only said so because if they had admitted it, the trustees would have had no excuse for not carrying out the provisions of the will. that text the girl had the impudence to quote to me looked as if she believed the body was walter's, and that i had killed him, though it may be that she only said it to drive me to bringing the whole business into court, by bringing an action against her for libel; but i am not such a fool as to do that. just at present there is a lot of public feeling excited by the circumstances of the child's loss and the finding of the body, and even if i got a verdict i fancy that the jury would be all on the girl's side, and give me such trifling damages that the verdict would do me more harm than good. no, our game clearly is to let the matter rest until it has died out of the public mind. then we shall apply formally for the trustees to be called upon to act. no doubt they will give us a great deal of trouble, but comfrey says that he thinks that the order must be granted at last, though possibly it may be withheld, as far as the estate is concerned, for some years. at any rate i ought to get the ten thousand at once, as the question whether the boy is alive or dead cannot affect that in the slightest." chapter xvii. netta acts independently. "it seems to me, hilda, that somehow or other we are wasting our time," netta said one morning suddenly, as they were sitting together. "how do you mean, netta?" "well, you see, we relied a great deal on being able to overhear conversation from a distance; and, except those few words we gathered in the park, we have absolutely done nothing that way." "but how can we do more than we are doing?" "i don't know; that is what is troubling me. you know, dear, that i am quite content to give up my own work to help you. at first, of course, aunt and i would have stayed here, at any rate for a time, to keep you company; but your uncle has been dead now for more than eight months, and time is going on. if i were really helping you i would stop, if it were five years; but in fact i am not helping you in the way we intended." "you are helping me, netta!" hilda exclaimed with tears in her eyes. "how should i have got on through all this sad time if you had not been here to comfort and cheer me?" "yes, but the necessity for that is over. you have your friends, and though you don't go out yet, you often go to lady moulton's and some of your other friends', and they come to see you." "yes, and you will never go with me, netta, nor see them when they come." "no, dear; i have nothing in common with them. i do not know the people of whom you talk, and should simply sit there uncomfortably, so i prefer to be out of it altogether. then i really miss my work. ever since you came to us some eight years ago i have been teaching eight or ten hours a day. i like the work; it is immensely interesting, and i am happy in seeing my pupils improve." "and all this means," hilda said sorrowfully, "you are going to say that it is time for you to go back." "no, it does not necessarily mean that--there is an alternative; i must either be doing something or go back." "but, as i said before, netta, what can we do, more than we have done?" "that is what i have been thinking, hilda. anyhow, i mean to try to do something before i give it up and go to germany again." "i warn you, netta, that i shall be furious if you do that. i am my own mistress now, for mr. pettigrew will let me do as i like now i am nineteen, and am quite determined that our old plan shall be carried out, and that you shall start an institution like that of professor menzel somewhere near london. you have been twelve months away, your pupils have already taken to other teachers, and there cannot be the least occasion for your assistance in an institution that is now well stocked with teachers, while here you could do enormous good. anyhow, whether you stay or not, i shall, as soon as all this is settled, take a large house standing in its own grounds, in some healthy place near london, and obtain teachers." "well, we need not talk of that just yet," netta said quietly; "it will be time enough when i have failed in carrying out my plans." "but what are your plans?" "i have not quite settled myself; and when i do i mean to work entirely in my own way, and shall say nothing about it until i come to you and say i have succeeded, or i have failed." hilda opened her eyes in surprise. "but why should i be kept in the dark?" "because, dear, you might not approve of my plans," netta replied coolly. "you are not thinking of doing anything foolish, i hope?" hilda exclaimed. "if it were foolish it would be excusable where the counsels of wisdom have failed," netta laughed; and then more seriously, "nothing would be foolish if it could possibly lead to the discovery of walter's hiding place." that afternoon, when hilda drove out with miss purcell to make some calls, netta rang the bell, and when tom roberts came in she said: "i want to have a long talk with you, roberts. but mind, what i say is to be kept a perfect secret between ourselves." "yes, miss," he said in surprise. "now, sit down," she went on; "we can talk more comfortably so. now, roberts, there is no doubt that we are not making much headway with our search." "that we are not, miss netta," he agreed. "i did think that we had gained something when we traced him to that house on pentonville hill, but it does not seem that anything has come of it, after all." "then it is quite time that we took some other steps," she said decisively. "i am ready, miss," he replied eagerly. "you tell me what to do, and i am game to do it." "well, there are two or three things i have in my mind. first of all, i want to be able to watch john simcoe and this pentonville man when they are talking together." "yes, i understand," he said; "but how is it to be done?" "that is what i want to find out. now, in the first place, about this house. which way did the window look of the room where there was a light?" "that window was at the side of the house, miss; a little way round the corner. we noticed the light there, but there was another window looking out on the front. we did not see any light there, as the shutters were closed." "and you say that the curtains of the other window were pulled very close?" "yes, they crossed each other most of the way down." "now, the question in my mind, roberts, is which would be easier--to cut a slit in the curtain, or to bore a hole in the shutter, or to take a brick out carefully from the side wall and then to deepen the hole until we got to the wall-paper, and then make a slight hole there?" roberts looked at her with astonishment. "do you really mean it, miss?" "certainly i mean it; it seems to me that our only chance of ever finding walter is to overhear those men's talk." "then, miss, i should say that the simplest way would be to cut a window pane out." "yes; but, you see, it is pretty certain that that curtain will not be drawn until they come in, and they would notice it at once. if we took out a pane in the front window the shutter would prevent our seeing or hearing, and the man would be sure to notice the pane was missing as he walked up from the gate to the house." "i should say, miss, that the best plan would be for me to manage to get into the house some time during the day and to hide in that room, under the table or sofa or somewhere, and listen to them." she shook her head. "in the first place, roberts, you would certainly be murdered if they found you there." "i would take my chance of that, miss; and you may be sure that i would take a brace of the general's pistols with me, and they would not find it such easy work to get rid of me." "that may be so," netta said, "but if in the struggle you shot them both, our last chance of ever hearing of walter would be gone. you yourself might be tried for murder, and it would be assumed, of course, that you were a burglar; for the explanation that you had broken into the house only to hear a conversation would scarcely be believed. moreover, you must remember that we don't know how often these men meet. simcoe has not been there since you tracked him there six months ago, and the only thing we have since found out is that the man i saw him with in the park is the man who lives in that house. it would never do for you to make an entrance into the house night after night and week after week, to run the risk of being detected there, or seized as you entered, or caught by the police as a burglar. no, as far as i can see, the only safe plan is to get out a brick very carefully in the side wall and to make a hole behind it through the paper. it might be necessary to make an entry into the house before this was done, so as to decide which was the best spot for an opening. a great deal would depend upon the paper in the room. if it is a light paper, with only a small amount of pattern upon it, any hole large enough to see through might be noticed. if it is a dark paper, well covered, a hole might be made without any fear of its catching the eye. you see, it must be a rather large hole, for, supposing the wall is only nine inches thick, a person standing outside could not see what was passing inside unless the hole were a good size." "but i doubt much if you would be able to hear them, miss netta." "no, i don't think that i should; especially as people talking of things of that sort, even if they had no great fear of being overheard, would speak in a low voice. but that would not matter if i could see their faces. i should know what they were saying." roberts did not think it right to offer any remark on what appeared to him to be impossible, and he confined himself to saying in a respectful voice, "indeed, miss netta." "i am stone-deaf," she said, "but have learned to read what people are saying from the movement of their lips." although the "indeed, miss," was as respectful as before, netta saw that he did not in the slightest degree believe her. "just go to the other end of the room, roberts, and make some remark to yourself. move your lips in the same way as if you were talking, but do not make any sound." roberts, with military obedience, marched to the other end of the room, placed himself in a corner, and turned round, facing her. his lips moved, and, confident that she could not know what he was saying, he expressed his natural sentiments. the girl at once repeated the words: "well, i'm jiggered! this is a rum start; miss netta has gone clean off her head." roberts' jaw dropped, and he flushed up to the hair. "i am sure," he began; but he was stopped by the girl's merry laugh. "do not apologize, roberts; it was natural enough that you should be surprised. well, you see i can do as i say. we will now go on with our talk." greatly abashed, tom roberts returned to the chair, murmuring to himself as he sat down, "well, i'm blowed!" when he was roughly recalled to the necessity of keeping his mouth shut by her quiet remark, "never mind about being blowed at present, roberts; let us talk over another plan. who are the keepers of the house in jermyn street?" "it is kept by a man and his wife, miss. he has been a butler, i believe, and his wife was a cook. he waits upon the gentlemen who lodge there, and she cooks. they have a girl who sweeps and does the bedrooms and the scrubbing and that sort of thing." "what sort of a girl is she, roberts?" "she seems a nice sort of young woman, miss. andrew has spoken to her more than i have, because, you see, my get-up aint likely to take much with a young girl." "i suppose she is not very much attached to her place?" "lor', no, miss; she told andrew that she was only six months up from the country, and they don't pay her but eight pounds a year, and pretty hard work she has to do for it." "well, roberts, i want to take her place." "you want----" and roberts' voice failed him in his astonishment. "yes, i want to take her place, roberts. i should think that if you or andrew were to tell her that you have a friend up from the country who wants just such a place, and is ready to pay five pounds to get one, she might be ready to take the offer; especially as you might say that you knew of a lady who is in want of an under-housemaid and you thought that you could get her the place." "as to that, miss, i have no doubt that she would leave to-morrow, if she could get five pounds. she told andrew that she hated london, and should go down home and take a country place as soon as she had saved up money to do so." "all the better, roberts; then all she would have to do would be to say that she had heard of a place near home, and wanted to leave at once. she did not wish to inconvenience them, but that she had a cousin who was just coming up to london and wanted a place, and that she would jump at it. she could say that her cousin had not been in service before, but that she was a thorough good cleaner and hard worker." "and do you mean that you would go as a servant, miss netta? why, it would not be right for you to do so." "anything would be right that led to the discovery of walter's hiding place, roberts. i have been accustomed to teaching, and i have helped my aunt to look after the house for years, and i do not in the slightest degree mind playing the part of a servant for a short time, in order to try and get at the bottom of this matter. you think that it can be managed?" "i am sure it can be managed right enough, miss; but what miss covington would say, if she knew that i had a hand in bringing it about, i can't say." "well, you won't be drawn into the matter. i shall say enough to my aunt to satisfy her that i am acting for the best, and shall simply, when i go, leave a note for your mistress, telling her that i have gone to work out an idea that i have had in my mind, and that it would be no use for her to inquire into the matter until she hears of me again." "what am i to tell andrew, miss?" "simply tell him that a young woman has been engaged to watch simcoe in his lodgings. then tell him the story he has to tell the girl. i shall want three or four days to get my things ready. i shall have to go to a dressmaker's and tell her that i want three or four print gowns for a young servant about my own figure, and as soon as they are ready i shall be ready, too." "well, miss, i will do as you tell me, but i would say, quite respectful, i hope that you will bear in mind, if things goes wrong, that i was dead against it, and that it was only because you said that it was our only chance of finding master walter that i agreed to lend a hand." "i will certainly bear that in mind," netta said with a smile. "talk it over with andrew to-night; but remember he is only to know that a young woman has been engaged to keep a watch on simcoe." "he will be glad enough to hear, miss, that someone else is going to do something. he says the colonel is so irritable because he has found out so little that there is no bearing with him." "the colonel is trying," netta laughed. "as you know, he comes here two or three times a week and puts himself into such rages that, as he stamps up and down the room, i expect to hear a crash and to find that the dining-room ceiling has fallen down. he is a thoroughly kind-hearted man, but is a dreadful specimen of what an english gentleman may come to after he has had the command of an indian regiment for some years, and been accustomed to have his will obeyed in everything. it is very bad for a man." "it is a good deal worse for his servant, miss," tom roberts said, in a tone of deep sympathy for his comrade. "i doubt whether i could have stood it myself; but though andrew expresses his feelings strong sometimes, i know that if you offered him a good place, even in buckingham palace, he would not leave the colonel." two days later netta heard that the girl in jermyn street had joyfully accepted the offer, and had that morning told her master that she had heard that she was wanted badly at home, and that a cousin of hers would be up in a day or two, and would, she was sure, be very glad to take her place. the master agreed to give her a trial, if she looked a clean and tidy girl. "i shall be clean and tidy, roberts; and i am sure i shall do no injustice to her recommendation." roberts shook his head. the matter was, to his mind, far too serious to be joked about, and he almost felt as if he were acting in a treasonable sort of way in aiding to carry out such a project. on the following monday hilda, on coming down to breakfast, found a note on the table. she opened it in haste, seeing that it was in netta's handwriting, and her eyes opened in surprise and almost dismay as she read: "my darling hilda: i told you that i had a plan. well, i am off to carry it out. it is of no use your asking what it is, or where i am going. you will hear nothing of me until i return to tell you whether i have failed or succeeded. aunt knows what i am going to do." hilda at once ran upstairs to miss purcell's room. "where has netta gone?" she exclaimed. "her letter has given me quite a turn. she says that you know; but i feel sure that it is something very foolish and rash." "i thought that you had a better opinion of netta's common sense," miss purcell said placidly, smiling a little at hilda's excitement. "it is her arrangement, dear, and not mine, and i am certainly not at liberty to give you any information about it. i do not say that i should not have opposed it in the first instance, had i known of it, but i certainly cannot say that there is anything foolish in it, and i admit that it seems to me to offer a better chance of success than any plan that has yet been tried. i don't think there is any occasion for anxiety about her. netta has thought over her plans very carefully, and has gone to work in a methodical way; she may fail, but if so i don't think that it will be her fault." "but why could she not tell me as well as you?" hilda asked rather indignantly. "possibly because she did not wish to raise hopes that might not be fulfilled; but principally, i own, because she thought you would raise objections to it, and she was bent upon having her own way. she has seconded you well, my dear, all through this business." "yes, i know, aunt; she has been most kind in every respect." "well, my dear, then don't grudge her having a little plan of her own." "i don't grudge her a bit," hilda said impetuously, "and, as you are quite satisfied, i will try to be quite satisfied too. but, you see, it took me by surprise; and i was so afraid that she might do something rash and get into trouble somehow. you know really i am quite afraid of this man, and would certainly far rather run a risk myself than let her do so." "of that i have no doubt, hilda; but i am quite sure that, if the case had been reversed, you would have undertaken this little plan that she has hit upon, to endeavor to relieve her of a terrible anxiety, just as she is doing for you." "well, i will be patient, aunt. how long do you think that she will be away?" "that is more than i can tell you; but at any rate she has promised to write me a line at least twice a week, and, should i think it right, i can recall her." "that is something, aunt. you cannot guess whether it is likely to be a week or a month?" miss purcell shook her head. "it will all depend upon whether she succeeds in hitting upon a clew as to where walter is. if she finds that she has no chance of so doing she will return; if, on the other hand, she thinks that there is a probability that with patience she will succeed, she will continue to watch and wait." "miss netta is not ill, i hope, miss?" roberts said, when he came in to clear the breakfast things away. "no she has gone away on a short visit," hilda replied. had she been watching the old soldier's face, she might have caught a slight contortion that would have enlightened her as to the fact that he knew more than she did about the matter; but she had avoided looking at him, lest he should read in her face that she was in ignorance as to netta's whereabouts. she would have liked to have asked when she went; whether she took a box with her, and whether she had gone early that morning or late the evening before; but she felt that any questions of the sort would show that she was totally in the dark as to her friend's movements. in fact netta had walked out early that morning, having sent off a box by the carrier on the previous saturday when hilda was out; roberts having himself carried it to the receiving house. it was four or five days before dr. leeds called again. "is miss purcell out?" he asked carelessly, when some little time had elapsed without her making her appearance. "is that asked innocently, dr. leeds?" hilda said quickly. the doctor looked at her in genuine surprise. "innocently, miss covington? i don't think that i quite understand you." "i see, doctor, that i have been in error. i suspected you of being an accomplice of netta's in a little scheme in which she is engaged on her own account." and she then told him about her disappearance, of the letter that she had received, and of the conversation with her aunt. dr. leeds was seriously disturbed. "i need hardly say that this comes as a perfect surprise to me, miss covington, and i say frankly a very unpleasant one. but the only satisfactory feature is that the young lady's aunt does not absolutely disapprove of the scheme, whatever it is, although it is evident that her approval is by no means a warm one. this is a very serious matter. i have the highest opinion of your friend's judgment and sense, but i own that i feel extremely uneasy at the thought that she has, so to speak, pitted herself against one of the most unscrupulous villains i have ever met, whose past conduct shows that he would stop at nothing, and who is playing for a very big stake. it would be as dangerous to interfere between a tiger and his prey as to endeavor to discover the secret on which so much depends." "i feel that myself, doctor, and i own that i'm exceedingly anxious. aunt has had two short letters from her. both are written in pencil, but the envelope is in ink, and in her usual handwriting. i should think it probable that she took with her several directed envelopes. the letters are very short. the first was: 'i am getting on all right, aunt, and am comfortable. too early to say whether i am likely to discover anything. pray do not fidget about me, nor let hilda do so. there is nothing to be uneasy about.' the second was as nearly as possible in the same words, except that she said, 'you and hilda must be patient. rome was not built in a day, and after so many clever people have failed you cannot expect that i can succeed all at once.'" "that is good as far as it goes," the doctor said, "but you see it does not go very far. it is not until success is nearly reached that the danger will really begin. i do not mind saying to you that miss purcell is very dear to me. i have not spoken to her on the subject, as i wished to see how my present partnership was likely to turn out. i am wholly dependent upon my profession, and until i felt my ground thoroughly i determined to remain silent. you can imagine, therefore, how troubled i am at your news. were it not that i have such implicit confidence in her judgment i should feel it still more; but even as it is, when i think how unscrupulous and how desperate is the man against whom she has, single-handed, entered the lists, i cannot but be alarmed." "i am very glad at what you have told me, doctor. i had a little hope that it might be so. it seemed to me impossible that you could be living for four months with such a dear girl without being greatly attracted by her. of course i know nothing of her feelings. the subject is one that has never been alluded to between us, but i am sure that no girl living is more fitted than she is to be the wife of a medical man. i would give much to have netta back again, but miss purcell is obdurate. she says that, knowing as she does what netta is doing, she does not think that she is running any risk--at any rate, none proportionate to the importance of finding a clew to walter's hiding place." "will you ask her if she will write to her niece and urge her to return, saying how anxious you are about her? or, if she will not do that, whether she will release her from her promise of secrecy, so that she may let us know what she is doing?" "i will go and ask her now; i will bring her down so that you can add your entreaties to mine, doctor." but miss purcell refused to interfere. "i consider netta's scheme to be a possible one," she said, "though i am certainly doubtful of its success. but she has set her heart upon it, and i will do nothing to balk her. i do not say that i am free from anxiety myself, but my confidence in netta's cleverness, and i may say prudence, is such that i believe that the risk she is running is very slight. it would be cruel, and i think wrong at the present moment, when above all things it is necessary that her brain should be clear, to distress and trouble her by interfering with her actions." "perhaps you are right, miss purcell," the doctor said thoughtfully. "being totally in the dark in the matter, i am not justified in giving a decisive opinion, but i will admit that it would not conduce either to her comfort or to the success of her undertaking were we to harass her by interfering in any way with her plan, which, i have no doubt, has been thoroughly thought out before she undertook it. no one but a madman would shout instructions or warnings to a person performing a dangerous feat requiring coolness and presence of mind. such, i take it, is the scheme, whatever it is, in which she is engaged; and as you are the only one who knows what that scheme is, i must, however reluctantly, abide by your decision. when miss covington tells you the conversation that we have had together you will recognize how deeply i am interested in the matter." chapter xviii. down in the marshes. comparatively few of those who nowadays run down to southend for a breath of fresh air give a thought to the fact that the wide stretch of low country lying between the railroad and the thames, from pitsea to leigh, was at one time, and that not so many centuries back, a mud flat, a continuation of the great line of sand that still, with but a short break here and there, stretches down beyond yarmouth; still less that, were it not for the watchfulness of those who dwell upon it, it would in a short time revert to its original condition, the country lying below the level of higher water. along the whole face of the river run banks--the work, doubtless, of engineers brought over by dutch william--strong, massive, and stone-faced, as they need be to withstand the rush and fret of the tide and the action of the waves when, as is often the case, the east wind knocks up ridges of short, angry water in sea reach. similarly, the winding creeks are all embanked, but here dams of earth are sufficient to retain within its bounds the sluggish water as it rises and falls. standing on any of these, the farmhouses and little homesteads lie below, their eaves for the most part level with the top of the bank, though there are a few knolls which rise above the level of the tidal water. the most conspicuous objects are the brown sails of the barges, which seem to stand up in the midst of the brownish-green fields, the hulls being invisible. this cannot be called marsh land, for the ground is intersected by ditches, having sluices through which they discharge their water at low tide. very fertile is the land in some spots, notably in canvey island, where there are great stretches of wheat and broad meadows deep with rich waving grass; but there are other places where the grass is brown and coarse, showing that, though the surface may be hard and dry, water lies not far below. here a few cattle gather a scanty living, and the little homesteads are few and far between. most of the houses are placed near the banks of the creeks. the barges serve as their wagons, and carry their hay up to london and bring down manure and other things required, or carry coal and lime to the wharves of pitsea. a rare place was this in the old smuggling days, and indeed until quite lately the trade was carried on, though upon a reduced scale. vessels drifting slowly up the river would show a light as they passed a barge at anchor or a bawley hanging to its trawl, a light would be shown in answer, and a moment later a boat would row off to the ship, and a score of tubs or a dozen bales of tobacco be quickly transferred, and before morning the contents would be stowed in underground cellars in some of the little farmhouses on the creeks, or be hidden away in the leigh marshes. "will bill be in to-night with the barge?" a child asked a woman, as he came down from the bank to a not uncomfortable-looking homestead ten yards from its foot. "i told you that you are to call him uncle," the woman said sharply, but not unkindly. "i have told you so over and over again, child." "i generally do now, but one forgets sometimes." "there is never any saying"--the woman went on in reply to his question--"there is never any saying; it all depends on tide and wind. sometimes they have to anchor and lose a tide, or maybe two. sometimes they get a cargo directly they get into the pool or at rochester; sometimes they wait two or three days. they have been away four days now; they might have been here yesterday, but may not come till to-morrow. one thing is certain, whenever he do come he will want something to eat, and i hope that they will bring it with them, for there is nothing here but bread and bacon." "and do you think that i shall soon go home again, aunt?" "there is no saying," the woman said evasively. "you are very comfortable here, aint you?" "oh, yes! there are the dogs and the ducks and the chickens, and uncle says that he will take me sometimes for a sail with him in the barge." "yes, i expect it won't be long first. you know, i used to go with him regular till, as i have told you, my little billy fell overboard one night, and we knew nothing of it until he was gone, and i have never liked the barge since. besides, i have plenty to do here. but i am going across to rochester very soon. it's a good place for shopping, and i want groceries and little things for myself and more things for you. i will take you with me, but you will have to promise to be very good and careful." "i will be careful," the child said confidently, "and you know that uncle said that when spring comes he will teach me to swim; and i shall like that, and if i tumble overboard it won't matter. he says that when i get a few years older i shall go with him regularly, and learn to steer and to manage the sails. i shall like that; but i should like to go back sometimes to see hilda and netta and my grandpapa." "well, well, my dear, we will see about it; they can't take you at present. i think that they have gone away traveling, and may not be back for a long time. and mind, you know you are not to talk about them. just when you are here with me i don't care; but you know uncle does not like it, and if anyone asks, you must say just what he told you, that your father and mother are dead, and that uncle bill has took you." "i shan't forget," the boy said. "i never do talk about it before him; it makes him angry. i don't know why, but it does." "but he is always kind to you, jack?" "oh, yes, he is very kind, and he often brings me things when he comes back; he brought me my dear little kitten. pussy, where have you hidden yourself? puss! puss!" and in answer a little ball of white fur bounded out from behind a chair, and the child was soon engaged in a game of romps with it. "it is a shame!" the woman said, as she watched them; "i don't mind the other things, but i never liked this. i wonder who the poor little chap is. by the way he talked when he first came, about his home and his nurse and horses and carriages, his friends must be rich people. bill has never understood why they wanted to get rid of him; but i suppose that he was in somebody's way, and, as he never speaks of his father and mother, but only of those two girls and his grandfather, who seems to have been an invalid, i expect that he must have lost his father and mother before he can remember. well, he will be right enough here; i should miss him dreadful if he were to go away; he seems to have taken the place of my little billy. and bill takes to him, too, wonderfully. he said the other day that when the boy grew up he would buy a barge, a new one of the best kind, and that some day it should be the boy's own. so he won't do so bad, after all." a stranger would have wondered at the comfort in the interior of the little farmhouse. the land round it was very poor. three horses--which seemed as if they had nothing to do but to nibble the coarse grass--and a couple of cows wandered about on a few acres of land, inclosed by deep water ditches; a score or two of ducks and geese paddled in the mud in the bottom of the creek at low tide, or swam about in the water when it was up; and a patch of garden ground, attended to chiefly by the woman, surrounded the cottage. but all this would have afforded a scanty living indeed, were it not that the master, bill nibson, was the owner of the _mary ann_ barge, an old craft with a somewhat dilapidated sail, which journeyed up and down the river with more or less regularity, laden, for the most part, with manure, hay, lime, bricks, or coal. this he navigated with the aid of a lad of fourteen, a waif, whose mother, a tramp, had died by the roadside one bitter cold night four years before. bill had been summoned on the coroner's jury and had offered to take the boy. "i can do with him on board the barge," he said; "he is only a little nipper now, but in a year or two he will be useful. the boy i have got wants to go to sea, and i shan't be sorry to get rid of him; he is getting too knowing for me altogether." as no one else wanted the boy he was handed over to bill, and was now a sharp lad, who, never having been instructed in the niceties of right and wrong, and being especially ignorant that there was any harm in cheating her majesty's customs, was in all things a useful assistant to his master. he had, indeed, very soon imbibed the spirit, not uncommon among the dwellers on the marshes, that if managed without detection, the smuggling of tobacco and spirits was a meritorious action, advantageous to the community at large, and hurting no one except that mysterious and unknown entity, the queen's revenue. he was greatly attached to bill, and took an occasional thrashing as a matter of course; regarding him as having saved him from the workhouse and having put him in a fair way of making a man of himself. the next day at twelve o'clock the child, playing on the bank, ran in and reported that joshua was coming along the bank, and in a few minutes the boy appeared. "morning, missis," he said. "master sent me on to say that the barge got into the haven this morning, and that she will come on with the evening tide. he sent me on with this lump of meat, and these rokers he got from a bawley which came in just as we were getting up sail off grain spit. he says he has got a barrel of beer on board, that he will land as he passes. he will be along about nine o'clock. well, jack, how are you?" "i am all right," the child said, "and so is kitty. i am glad that you are back. how long are you going to stay?" "i suppose that it will take us a couple of days to unload. master is going as usual to hire a couple of men to get the line out, so i shall be over here by breakfast. he says that i may as well do a job of digging in the garden, as he wants to get some things in before we get frosty nights. have you any message for him, missis?" "you can tell him he may as well get a dish of eels from one of the dutchmen there. i suppose there is one in the haven?" "two of them, missis; he will be able to get them, for one of them is the _marden_, and the skipper has always let master have some, though he won't sell an eel to anyone else." "is there any business to be done?" the woman asked significantly. the boy nodded. "all right; tell him that i will get the horses in." the child was put to bed upstairs at seven o'clock, although he in vain petitioned to be allowed to stop up until the barge came along. he already knew, however, by experience, that his request was not likely to be granted, as when the barge came along after dark he was always put to bed, the woman telling him that bill didn't like him to be up when he came in, as he wanted to have a talk with her in quiet, and to eat his supper in peace. an hour after dark the woman went out onto the bank and listened. in a quarter of an hour she heard the rattle of a block in the distance. she went down, stirred up the fire, and put on the kettle, and in twenty minutes the barge came along. the boat, instead of towing behind as usual, was alongside. "you take her on, joshua," its owner said, as he quietly got into the boat; "run in where the water is deep alongside, a quarter of a mile this side pitsea. i will come along and get on board there as soon as i have finished this job. keep a sharp lookout on the banks; some of the coastguardsmen may be about. if they hail you and ask if i am on board, say i landed as we passed here, to have a cup of tea, and that i shall not be five minutes." then he pushed the boat to shore. "well, betsy, how are you? i have got twenty kegs here, and five or six hundredweight of tobacco. i will get it up the bank, and you had better stow it away at once; i will lend you a hand as soon as it is all up." as fast as he could carry the kegs up the banks she slipped slings round them, two at a time, hooked them to a milkmaid's yoke, and went off with them to a shed which served as a stable and cowhouse in the winter. against this was a rick of hay. putting the kegs down she returned for more, and by the time that they were all in the stable her husband had finished his share of the work and had carried the heavy bales of tobacco to the shed. the three horses were already there. "are you going to take them out at once?" "no, not until i come back. i must get on board the barge as soon as possible. we will bundle them all in, in case any of those fellows should come along." three planks were removed from the side of the shed next to the stack, and an opening was seen. some turf was taken up and a trapdoor exposed. the kegs and tobacco were speedily carried down into a large cellar, the trapdoor was closed, and the boards placed securely in position and fastened by six long screws. then they returned to the house. the teapot and cups were on the table, the kettle was boiling, and in two or three minutes they were taking tea. scarcely had they begun their meal when there was a knock at the door. bill got up and opened it, and two coastguards entered. "we saw there was a light burning, and thought that you might be here, bill. the wind is bitter cold." "come in and have a cup of tea or a glass of rum, whichever you like best. as you say, the wind is bitter cold, and i thought that i would land and have a cup of tea. i shall catch the barge up before she gets to pitsea." the coastguardsmen accepted the offer of a cup of tea, glancing furtively round the room as they drank it. "it is good tea." "'tis that," bill said, "and it has never paid duty. i got it from an indiaman that was on the nore three weeks ago. she transshipped part of her cargo on my barge and floated next tide. it was one of the best jobs i've had for some time, and stood me in fifty pounds and a pound or two of tea." "perhaps a chest of it!" one of the men said with a laugh. "well, well, i am not sure that it was not a chest. i like my cup of tea, and so does betsy; and there is no getting tea like this at stanford." they chatted for about ten minutes, when bill remarked, "i must be going," and they went out together, and taking his place in his boat he rowed up the creek, while the coastguards continued their walk along the bank. "he is not a bad 'un, tom," one of them said. "i guess he is like a good many of the others, runs a keg occasionally. however, his place has been searched half a dozen times, and nothing has been found. we have drunk many a glass of ale with him at the 'lobster smack' at hole haven, and i am sure i don't want to catch him unless there is some information to go on. the barge passed us half an hour ago, and i knew that it was no use looking in her, but of course when the boatswain said this afternoon, 'just follow that barge when she gets under way, and see if she goes on to pitsea,' we had to do it; but the boat was late for us where the creek branches off round the island, and before we were across he must have got more than half an hour's start of us. and i am not sorry, tom. we have got to do our duty, but we don't want to be at war with every good fellow on the marshes." "right you are, dick; besides, they are as slippery as eels. who can tell what they have got under their lime or manure? short of unloading it to the bottom there would be no finding it, if they had anything; and it is a job that i should not care for. besides, there aint no place to empty it on; and we could not go and chuck a cargo overboard unless we were quite certain that we should find something underneath. as you say, i dare say bill runs a keg or two now and then, but i don't suppose that he is worse than his neighbors; i have always suspected that it was he who left a keg of whisky at our door last christmas." in the meantime bill had overtaken his barge, and they soon had her alongside of the little wharf at pitsea. "tide is just turning. she will be aground in half an hour," he said. "as soon as you have got these mooring ropes fastened, you had better fry that steak and have your supper. i shall be over by seven o'clock in the morning. if harvey and wilson come alongside before that, tell them they can have the job at the usual price, and can set to work without waiting for me. it will be pretty late before i am in bed to-night." it was over a mile walk back to his cottage. as soon as he arrived he sat down to a hearty supper which his wife had prepared for him. he then got three pack-saddles out of the cellar, put them on the horses, and fastened four kegs on each horse. tying one behind the other, he started, and in an hour the kegs were stowed in the cellars of four farmers near stanford. it was midnight before he returned home. at half-past six he was down to breakfast. "well, uncle, how are you?" he asked the child, who was already up. "i am not your uncle," the boy replied; "you are my uncle." "ah, well, it's a way of speaking down here. it does not mean that anyone is one's uncle; it is just a way of speaking." the child nodded. he was learning many things. "then it is a way of speaking when i call you uncle?" "no, no! that is different. a child like you would not call anyone uncle unless he was uncle; while a man my age calls anyone uncle." "that is funny, isn't it?" "well, i suppose, when you think of it, it is; but, as i said, it is a way we have in this part of the country. well, mother, have you got that fish nearly fried?" "it will be ready in five minutes. this roker is a very thick one. i put it on as soon as i heard you stirring, and it is not quite ready yet. that was a pretty near escape last night, bill." "yes; but, you see, they can hardly catch us unless they send men down in the afternoon. they cannot get along from the station without passing two or three creeks; and coming along with the tide, especially when there is a breath of wind to help her, we can do it in half the time. you see, i always get the things out from under the cargo and into the boat as we come along, so that the barge shall not be stopped." "but they might send down a boat from the thames haven station, bill." "yes; but then they don't know when the barge is in, or when it is going to start. so we get the best of them in that way. besides, they have a good bit to go along the river face, and they have to cross a dozen deep cuts to get there. no, i have no fear of them, nor of the others either, as far as that goes. i have more than once had a word dropped, meant to put me on my guard, and instead of landing the things here have dropped them in a deep hole in the creek, where i could pick them up the next night i came in. things have changed with us for the better, lass. five years ago we had pretty hard work, with the farm and the old boat, to live at all comfortable; but since i have got into the swim things have changed with us, and i can tell you that i am making money hand over fist. i allow that there is a certain risk in it, but, after all, one likes it all the better for that. if the worst came to the worst they could but confiscate the old barge; if they gave me a heavy fine i could pay it, and if they gave me six months i could work it out, and buy a new barge and half a dozen farms like this on the day i came out." "but the other would be more serious, bill?" "well, yes; but i don't see any chance of that being found out. a gent comes to me at a spot we have settled on, say on the road halfway between pitsea and stanford; he hands me a box, sometimes two; i puts them on one of the horses, and rides over here with them; then i stows them away in that secret place off the store, where there aint a shadow of a chance of the sharpest-eyed coastguardsman ever finding them. they would be too delighted to light on the spirits and bacca to think of digging up the floor underneath. there they lie, till i take them down to the _marden_. they put them into the eel tank, and next morning off she sails." "but you have had heavy cases brought once or twice?" "only once--heavy enough to be troublesome. ten cases there was then, each as heavy as a man could lift. it took me three journeys with three horses, and i had to dig a big hole in the garden to bury them till the _marden_ had got rid of her eels, and was ready to sail again. yes, that was a heavy job, and i got a couple of hundred pounds for my share of the business. i should not mind having such a job twice a week. a few months of that, and i could buy the biggest farm on this side of essex--that is to say, if i could make up my mind to cut it and settle down as a farmer." "you will never do that, bill; but you might settle down in rochester, and buy half a dozen barges, with a tip-top one you would sail yourself. you might have a couple of men and a cabin forward, and a nice roomy place for yourself and me aft; and you could just steer when you liked, or sit down and smoke your pipe and watch her going through the fleet as we worked through the swatchway. that would be more your sort, bill, and mine too. i know you have money enough laid by to get such a barge." "that is so, betsy. i allow that i could do that. i have been thinking of it for some time, but somehow or other one never works one's self up to the right point to give it all up of a sudden and cut the old place. well, i suppose one of these days i shall do it, if it is only to please you." "it would please me, you know, bill. i don't see no harm in running the kegs or the bacca--it's what the people about here have been doing for hundreds of years--but i don't like this other business. you don't know what is in the cases, and you don't ask, but there aint much difficulty in guessing. and i don't much like this business of the child. i did not like it at all at first; but when i found that he had no father nor mother as he knew of, and so it was certain that no one was breaking their heart about him, i did not mind it; and i have taken to him, and he has pretty nearly forgotten about his home, and is as contented as if he had been here all his life. i have nothing more to say about him, though it is as certain as eggs is eggs that it has been a bad business. the boy has been cheated out of his money, and if his friends ever find him it is a nice row that we shall get into." "you need not bother yourself about that," the man said; "he aint more likely to be found here than if he was across the seas in ameriky. we have had him near nine months now, and in another three months, if you were to put him down in front of his own house, he would not know it. everyone about here believes as he is my nevvy, the son of a brother of yours who died down in the midlands, and left him motherless. no one asks any questions about him now, no more than they does about joshua. no, no; we are all right there, missis; and the hundred pounds that we had down with him, and fifty pounds a year till he gets big enough to earn his own grub on the barge, all helps. anyhow, if something should happen to me before i have made up my mind to quit this, you know where the pot of money is hidden. you can settle in rochester, and get him some schooling, and then apprentice him to a barge-owner and start him with a barge of his own as soon as he is out of his time. you bear it in mind that is what i should like done." "i will mind," she said quietly; "but i am as likely to be carried to the churchyard as you are, and you remember what i should like, and try, bill, if you give up the water yourself, to see that he is with a man as doesn't drink. most of the things we hears of--of barges being run down, and of men falling overboard on a dark night--are just drink, and nothing else. you are not a man as drinks yourself; you take your glass when the barge is in the creek, but i have never seen you the worse for liquor since you courted me fifteen years ago, and i tell you there is not a night when you are out on the barge as i don't thank god that it is so. i says to myself, when the wind is blowing on a dark night, 'he is anchored somewheres under a weather shore, and he is snug asleep in his cabin. there is no fear of his driving along through it and carrying on sail; there is no fear of his stumbling as he goes forward and pitching over'; and no one but myself knows what a comfort it is to me. you bring him up in the same way, bill. you teach him as it is always a good thing to keep from liquor, though a pint with an old mate aint neither here nor there, but that he might almost as well take poison as to drink down in the cabin." "i will mind, missis; i like the child, and have got it in my mind to bring him up straight, so let us have no more words about it." chapter xix. a partial success. netta had been away three weeks when one morning, just as they were sitting down to breakfast, she suddenly came into the room. with a cry of joy hilda ran into her arms. "you wicked, wicked girl!" she exclaimed. "i know that i ought not to speak to you. you don't deserve that i should even look at you, but i cannot help it." miss purcell embraced her niece more soberly, but hilda saw by the expression of her face that her niece's return relieved her of a burden of anxiety which at times she had had difficulty in concealing. "in the first place, netta, before i even give you a cup of tea, tell me if this is a final return, or whether you are going to disappear again." "that we will decide after you have heard my story," netta said quietly. "and have you got any news of walter?" "i am not sure; i think so. so you have kept my secret, aunt?" "i promised that i would, dear, and of course i have kept my word, though it was very difficult to resist hilda's pleading. dr. leeds, too, has been terribly anxious about you, and not a day has passed that he has not run in for a few minutes to learn if there was any news." "i don't see why he should have known that i have been away." "why, my dear," hilda said, "coming here as often as he does, he naturally inquired where you were, and as i was uncertain how long you would be away, and as he had always been in our counsels, i could hardly keep him in the dark, even had i wished to do so. now, my dear, let us know all about it; there can be no possible reason for keeping silent any longer." "well, hilda, the whole affair has been very simple, and there was not the least occasion for being anxious. i simply wanted to keep it quiet because i felt that you would raise all sorts of objections to the plan. we had, as you know, thought over a great many methods by which we might overhear a conversation between john simcoe and the man on pentonville hill. but it seemed next to be impossible that it could be managed there. suddenly the idea came into my brain that, as a servant at simcoe's lodgings in jermyn street, i might have an excellent chance." hilda gave an exclamation of horror. "my dear netta, you never can really have thought of carrying this out?" "i not only thought of it, but did it. with a little management the girl there was got hold of, and as it fortunately happened that she did not like london and wanted to take a country situation, there was very little difficulty, and she agreed to introduce me as a friend who was willing to take her place. of course, it took a few days to make all the arrangements and to get suitable clothes for the place, and these i sent by parcel delivery, and on the morning of the day that the girl was to leave presented myself at the house. the man and his wife were good enough to approve of my appearance. they had, it seemed, three sets of lodgers, one on each floor; the man himself waited upon them, and my work was to do their rooms and keep the house tidy generally." again hilda gave a gasp. "there was nothing much in that," netta went on, without heeding her. "i used to do most of the house work when we were in germany, and i think that i gave every satisfaction. of course the chief difficulty was about my deafness. i was obliged to explain to them that i was very hard of hearing unless i was directly spoken to. mr. johnstone always answered the bells himself when he was at home. of course, when he was out it was my duty to do so. when i was downstairs it was simple enough, for i only had to go to the door of the room of which i saw the bell in motion. at first they seemed to think that the difficulty was insuperable; but i believe that in other respects i suited them so well that they decided to make the best of it, and when her husband was out and i was upstairs mrs. johnstone took to answering the door bells, or if a lodger rang, which was not very often, for her husband seldom went out unless they were all three away, she would come upstairs and tell me. johnstone himself said to me one day that i was the best girl he had ever had, and that instead of having to go most carefully over the sitting rooms before the gentlemen came in for breakfast, he found that everything was so perfectly dusted and tidied up that there was really nothing for him to do. "but oh, hilda, i never had the slightest idea before how untidy men are! the way they spill their tobacco ash all over the room, and put the ends of their cigars upon mantelpieces, tables, and everywhere else, you would hardly believe it. the ground floor and the second floor were the worst, for they very often had men in of an evening, and the state of the rooms in the morning was something awful. our man was on the first floor, and did not give anything like so much trouble, for he almost always went out in the evening and never had more than one or two friends in with him. one of these friends was the man we saw with him in the row, and who, we had no doubt, was an accomplice of his. he came oftener than anyone else, very often coming in to fetch him. as he was always in evening dress i suppose they went to some club or to the theater together. i am bound to say that his appearance is distinctly that of a gentleman. "i had taken with me two or three things that i foresaw i should want. among them was an auger, and some corks of a size that would exactly fit the hole that it would make. simcoe's bedroom communicated with the sitting room, and he always used this door in going from one room to the other; and it was evident that it was only through that that i could get a view of what was going on. i did not see how i could possibly make a hole through the door itself. it was on one side, next to that where the fireplace was, and there was a window directly opposite, and of course a hole would have been noticed immediately. the only place that i could see to make it was through the door frame. its position was a matter of much calculation, i can assure you. the auger was half an inch bore. i dared not get it larger, and it would have been hopeless to try and see anything with a smaller one, especially as the hole would have to be four or five inches long. as i sometimes went into the room when they were together, either with hot water or grilled bones, or something of that sort, i was able to notice exactly where the chairs were generally placed. simcoe sat with his back to the bedroom door, and the other man on the other side of the hearthrug, facing him. i, therefore, decided to make the hole on the side nearest to the wall, so that i could see the other man past simcoe. of course i wanted the hole to be as low as possible, as it would not be so likely to be noticed as it would were it higher up. i chose a point, therefore, that would come level with my eye when i was kneeling down. "at about four o'clock in the afternoon they always went out, and from then till six johnstone also took his airing, and i went upstairs to turn down the beds and tidy up generally. it was very seldom that any of them dined at home; i, therefore, had that two hours to myself. i got the line the hole should go by leaving the door open, fastening a stick to the back of a chair till it was, as nearly as i could judge, the height of the man's face, tying a piece of string to it and bringing it tight to the point where i settled the hole should start, and then marking the line the string made across the frame. then there was a good deal more calculation as to the side-slant; but ten days ago i boldly set to work and bored the hole. everything was perfectly right; i could see the head of the stick, and the circle was large enough for me to get all the man's face in view. of course i had put a duster on the ground to prevent any chips falling onto the carpet. "i was a little nervous when i set to work to drill that hole; it was the only time that i felt nervous at all. i had beforehand drilled several holes in the shelves of cupboards, so as to accustom myself to use the auger, and it did not take me many minutes before it came through on the other side. the corks were of two sizes; one fitted tightly into the hole, the other could be drawn in or out with very little difficulty. i had gone out one day and bought some tubes of paint of the colors that i thought would match the graining of the door frame. i also bought a corkscrew that was about an inch and a half shorter than the depth of the hole. it was meant to be used by a cross-piece that went through a hole at the top. i had got this cross-piece out with some trouble, and tied a short loop of string through the hole it had gone through. i put the corkscrew into one of the smaller corks and pushed it through until it was level with the frame on the sitting-room side, and found that by aid of the loop of string i could draw it out easily. then i put one of the larger corks in at the bedroom side of the hole and pushed it in until it was level with that side. then i painted the ends of the corks to resemble the graining, and when it was done they could hardly be noticed a couple of feet away. "i had now nothing to do but to wait until the right moment came. it came last night. the man arrived about seven o'clock. johnstone was out, and i showed him upstairs. simcoe was already dressed, and was in the sitting room. i lost no time, but went into the bedroom, where the gas was burning, turned down the bed on the side nearest to the door, and then went round, and with another corkscrew i had ready in my pocket took out the inner cork, got hold of the loop, and pulled the other one out also. even had i had my hearing, i could have heard nothing of what was said inside, for the doors were of mahogany, and very well fitted, and johnstone had said one day that even if a man shouted in one room he would hardly be heard in the next, or on the landing. i pushed a wedge under the door so as to prevent its being opened suddenly. that was the thing that i was most afraid of. i thought that simcoe could hardly move without coming within my line of sight, and that i should have time to jump up and be busy at the bed before he could open the door. but i was not sure of this, so i used the wedge. if he tried the door and could not open it, he would only suppose that the door had stuck and i could snatch out the wedge and kick it under the bed by the time he made a second effort. "kneeling down, i saw to my delight that my calculations had been perfectly right. i could see the man's face well, for the light of the candles fell full upon it. they talked for a time about the club and the men they were going to dine with, and i began to be afraid that there was going to be nothing more, when the man said, 'by the way, simcoe, i went down to tilbury yesterday.' what simcoe said, of course, i could not hear; but the other answered, 'oh, yes, he is all right, getting quite at home, the man said; and has almost ceased to talk about his friends.' then i saw him rise, and at once jumped up and went on turning down the bed, lest simcoe should have forgotten something and come in for it. however, he did not, and two or three minutes later i peeped in again. the room was all dark, and i knew that they had gone. then i put my corks in again, saw that the paint was all right, and went downstairs. i told mrs. johnstone that, if i could be spared, i should like to go out for two or three hours this morning to see a friend in service. it was the time that i could best be spared. i should have finished the sitting rooms by eight o'clock, and as none of the men have breakfast until about eleven, there was plenty of time for me to make the beds after i got back." hilda was crying now. her relief that hearing that walter was alive and well was unbounded. she had absolutely refused to recognize the body found in the canal, but she could not but admit that the probabilities were all against her. it was certain that the clothes were his, the child's age was about the same, the body must have been in the water the right length of time, the only shadow of evidence to support her was the hair. she had taken the trouble to go to two or three workhouses, and found that the coroner's assertion that soft hair when cut quite close will, in a very short time, stand upright, was a correct one. she kept on hoping against hope, but her faith had been yielding, especially since netta's absence had deprived her of the support that she obtained from her when inclined to look at matters from a dark point of view. "oh, netta," she cried, "how can i thank you enough! how happy the news has made me! and to think that i have been blaming you, while you have been doing all this. you cannot tell what a relief it is to me. i have thought so much of that poor little body, and the dread that it was walter's after all has been growing upon me. i have scarcely slept for a long time." "i know, dear. it was because i saw that though you still kept up an appearance of hope, you were really in despair, and could tell from your heavy eyes when you came down of a morning that you had hardly slept, that i made up my mind something must be done. there was no hardship whatever in my acting as a servant for a month or two. i can assure you that i regarded it rather as fun, and was quite proud of the credit that my master gave me. now, the question is, shall i go back again?" "certainly not, netta. you might be months there without having such a piece of luck again. at any moment you might be caught listening, or they might notice the hole that you made so cleverly. besides, we have gained a clew now to walter's hiding place. but even that is as nothing to me in comparison with having learned that he is alive and well, and that he has ceased to fret and is becoming contented in his new home. we can afford to wait now. sooner or later we are sure to find him. before, i pictured him, if still alive, as shut up in some horrible cellar. now i can be patient. i think that we are sure to find him before long." "well, i think, dear," miss purcell said quietly, "that we had better ring the bell and have some fresh tea made. everything is perfectly cold, for it is three-quarters of an hour since it came up." hilda rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. "let janet bring the things up, roberts, and come back yourself when you have given the order. i want to send a line to dr. leeds. you will be delighted to hear that miss purcell has learned, at least, that walter is alive and well; but mind," she went on, as the old soldier was about to burst out into exclamations of delight, "you must keep this altogether to yourself. it is quite possible that we have been watched as closely as we have been watching this man, and that he may in some way learn everything that passes here; therefore it must not be whispered outside this room that we have obtained any news." "i understand, miss. i won't say a word about it downstairs." hilda scribbled a line in pencil to the doctor, saying that netta was back and that she had obtained some news of a favorable description, and that, as she knew that at this hour he could not get away, she would come over with netta at once to tell him what they had learned, and would be in harley street within half an hour of his getting the message. as soon as they had finished breakfast they drove to the doctor's. they were shown up into the drawing room, where dr. leeds joined them almost immediately. "we are not going to detain you more than two or three minutes," hilda said, while he shook hands warmly with netta. "you must come over this evening, and then you shall hear the whole story; but i thought that it was only fair that netta should have the satisfaction of telling you herself what she had learned." "it is very little, but so far as it goes it is quite satisfactory, dr. leeds. i heard, or rather i saw, the man we suspected of being simcoe's accomplice say, 'by the way, i ran down to tilbury yesterday.' simcoe then said something, but what i could not tell, as his face was hidden from me, and the man in reply said, 'oh, yes, he is all right, and has almost ceased to talk about his friends.' now you must be content with that until this evening." "i will be content with it," the doctor said, "if you will assure me that you are not going away again. if you will not, i will stop here and hear the whole story, even at the risk of a riot down in my waiting room." "no, she is not going away, doctor; she had not quite settled about it when she got back this morning, but i settled it for her. i will take care that she does not slip out of my sight till after you have seen her and talked it all over." "then the matter is finally settled," netta said, "for unless i go in half an hour's time i cannot go at all." "then i will be patient until this evening." "will you come to dinner, doctor?" hilda said. "i have sent notes off to mr. pettigrew and colonel bulstrode to ask them to come, as i have news of importance to give them." "what will they do, netta, when they find that you do not come back?" hilda asked as they drove away. "that has puzzled me a good deal. i quite saw that if i disappeared suddenly they might take it into their heads that something had happened to me, and might go to the police office and say i was missing. but that would not be the worst. simcoe might guess, when he heard that i had gone without notice and left my things behind me, that i had been put there to watch him. he certainly would not suspect that he could have been overheard, for he must know that it would be quite impossible for any words to be heard through the doors; still, he would be uneasy, and might even have the child moved to some other locality. so i have written a note, which we can talk over when we get in. of course they may think that i have behaved very badly in throwing them over like this, but it is better that they should do that than they should think there was anything suspicious about it. my wages are due to-morrow; like the girl i succeeded, i was to have eight pounds a year. i have left my box open, so that the mistress can see for herself that there is none of the lodgers' property in it. there are two or three print dresses--i put on my sunday gown when i came out--and the underclothes are all duly marked jane clotworthy." "what a name to take, netta!" "yes, i do not know how i came to choose it. i was thinking what name i would take when clotworthy flashed across my mind. i don't think that i ever heard the name before, and how i came to think of it i cannot imagine; it seemed to me a sort of inspiration, so i settled on it at once." "now, let me see the letter," hilda asked, as soon as they returned home. "i hardly liked to write it," netta said, "it is such a wicked story; but i don't see how a person can act as detective without telling stories, and, at any rate, it is perfectly harmless." "oh, yes; it is quite certain, netta, that you could not write and tell her that you have been in her house in disguise, and that, having found out what you wanted, you have now left her. of course you must make up a story of some sort, or, as you say, simcoe would at once suspect that you had been sent there to watch him. he might feel perfectly sure that no conversation could have been heard outside the room, but he could not be sure that you might not have been hidden under the table or sofa, or behind a curtain. when so much depends upon his thinking that he is absolutely safe, one must use what weapons one can. if you have any scruples about it, i will write the letter for you." "no, i do not think the scruples will trouble me," netta laughed. "of course, i have had to tell stories, and one more or less will not weigh on my mind. here is the letter. if you can think of any better reason for running away so suddenly, by all means let me have it." the letter was written in a sprawling hand, and with many of the words misspelt. it began: "dear mrs. johnstone: i am afraid you will think very badly of me for leaving you so sudding, after you and mr. johnstone have been so kind to me, but who should i meet at my friend's but my young man. we were ingaged to be married, but we had a quarrel, and that is why i came up to town so sudding. we has made it up. he only come up yesterday, and is going down this morning, and nothing would do but that i must go down with him and that we should get married directly. he says that as the banns has been published there aint any occasion to wait, and we might be married at the end of the week, as he has got everything ready and is in good employment. so the long and the short of it is, mam, that i am going down with him home this afternoon. as to the wages that was due to-morrow, of course i forfeit them, and sorry i am to give you troubil, by leaving you without a girl. my box is not locked, plese look in it and you will see that there aint nothing there that isn't my own. in one corner you will find half a crown wrapped up in paper, plese take that to pay for the carriage of the box, the key is in the lock, and i send a labil to tie on." "what do you think of that, hilda?" "i think it will do capitally. i don't think any better excuse could be made. but where will you have the box sent?" "that is what we must settle together. it would not do to send it down to some little village, for if the address was unknown it might be sent back again." "yes; and if john simcoe had any suspicions that the story was a false one he might go down there to make inquiries about jane clotworthy, and, finding no such name known there, and the box still lying at the station, his suspicion that he had been watched would become almost a certainty." "i should think that reading would be a good place to send to it. 'jane clotworthy, luggage office, reading.' then i could go down myself and ask for it, and could bring it up by the next train." "tom roberts could do that, netta; there is no reason why you should trouble about it." "i think that i had better go myself. it is most unlikely that simcoe would send down anyone to watch who took the box away, but if he should be very uneasy he might do so. he would be sure to describe me to anyone that he sent, so that it would be better that i should go myself." "i think that your story is so plausible, netta, that there is no risk whatever of his having any doubts about it, but still one cannot be too careful." "then i will wind up the letter. "'begging your pardon for having left you in the lurch so sudding. i remain, your obedient servant, "'jane clotworthy. "'p.s.--i am very sorry. "'p.s.--plese give my respects to mr. johnstone, and excuse blots.'" hilda burst into a fit of laughter as she glanced at the postscript. "that will do admirably, netta," she said. "now how had we better send it?" "i should think that your maid had better take it. you might tell her to ring at the bell, hand it to the woman, and come away at once, without talking, except saying 'i was told to give you this.' then she would be well away before mrs. johnstone had mastered the contents of the note. it had better be sent off at once, for by this time they will be getting in a way." "i think that i had better send roberts. no doubt johnstone himself will be in, and will answer the door; and he might ask lucy where she came from, and i don't want to tell her anything. roberts could say that a young woman of his acquaintance, down chelsea way, asked him to get on a 'bus and leave it for her. he can be trusted, if the man does detain him and ask him questions, to give sensible answers." the letter was sealed and roberts called up. "take a cab and go down with this to jermyn street," hilda said. "i want it left at that house. if the man who opens the door asks you who you have brought it from, say from a young woman, a friend of yours, in a place down chelsea way. i don't suppose that he will ask any other questions, and you had best say 'good-morning,' and saunter off carelessly, as if, having done your errand, you had nothing else on hand. of course you won't drive up to the door. leave the cab round the corner, and come straight back here in it." "all right, miss," he answered. there was a little look of amusement in the man's face as he glanced at netta that did not this time pass unnoticed by his mistress. she waited until the door had closed behind him, and then turned sharply on her friend. "i believe, netta, you have had roberts in your confidence all the time, and while we have all been working ourselves into a fever as to where you could be, he has known it all along." "one cannot work without accomplices," netta laughed. "it was necessary that someone should make arrangements with the servant there for me to take her place, and who could i trust better than roberts? i think colonel bulstrode's servant helped in the matter; at any rate, they managed it capitally between them. of course it was roberts who carried my box out that morning. you must not be angry with him, hilda, for keeping it from you. i made him promise most faithfully that nothing should induce him to confess." "i shan't be angry with him, netta, but you may be sure that i shall give him a little lecture and say that i will have no more meddling on his part, except by my express orders. it is really annoying, you know, to think that all this time we were fretting about you there was roberts going about laughing in his sleeve." "well, you know, hilda, he has the discovery of walter as much at heart as we have, and he has certainly not spared himself in the search for him." "no, that he has not. he is a faithful fellow, and i promise you that i won't be too hard on him." chapter xx. a dinner party. it was the first time that anyone had dined at the house in hyde park gardens since general mathieson's death, and it seemed strange to hilda when mr. pettigrew, at her request, faced her at the table. the gentlemen had all arrived within a minute or two of each other, and no word had been said by hilda as to the subject about which she had specially asked them there. the table was well lighted and bright with flowers, and the lawyer and colonel bulstrode were both somewhat surprised at the cheerful tone in which hilda began to talk as soon as they sat down. it was, however, eight months since the house was first shut up, and though all had sincerely regretted the general's death, it was an old story now, and they were relieved to find that it was evidently not hilda's intention to recall the past. during dinner the talk went on as usual, and it was not until the servants had left the room that hilda said: "now, mr. pettigrew, i have no doubt that both you and colonel bulstrode are wondering what the matter of importance about which i asked you to come here can be. it is rather a long story, so instead of going upstairs we will stop here. my news is great news. we have discovered--at least my friend miss purcell has discovered--that without doubt walter is alive and well." an exclamation of surprise broke from mr. pettigrew and the colonel. "by gad, that is great news indeed!" the latter exclaimed; "and i congratulate you most heartily. i had quite given up all hope myself, and although i would have fought that fellow to the last, i never had any real doubt in my mind that the child they fished out of the canal was general's mathieson's grandson." "you astonish me indeed," mr. pettigrew said. "i own that, while i was able to swear that i did not recognize him, yet as a reasonable man i felt that the evidence was overpowering the other way. though i would not dash your hopes by saying so, it appeared to me certain that, sooner or later, the courts would decide that the provisions of the will must be carried out. and so you discovered this, miss netta? may we ask how you did it?" "netta wanted her share in the matter to remain a secret, mr. pettigrew; but i told her that was out of the question, and that it was quite necessary that you and colonel bulstrode should know the precise facts, for that, as a lawyer, you could not take any action or decide upon any course to be pursued unless you knew the exact circumstances of the case. however, she asked me, as she has given me the whole particulars, to tell the story for her. when i have done she will answer any questions you may like to ask." hilda then repeated, almost word for word, the story netta had told her. mr. pettigrew and the colonel several times broke in with exclamations of surprise as she went on. dr. leeds sat grave and thoughtful. "splendidly done!" colonel bulstrode exclaimed when she brought her story to an end. "it was a magnificent idea, and it must have needed no end of pluck to carry it out as you did. but how, by looking at a fellow's mouth through a hole, you knew what he said beats me altogether." "that part was very simple, colonel bulstrode," netta said quietly. "i learned it by a new system that they have in germany, and was myself a teacher in the institution. you may not know, perhaps, that i am stone-deaf." "you are not joking, miss purcell; are you?" the colonel said, looking at her earnestly. "why, i have talked to you a dozen times and it never struck me that you were in the slightest degree deaf." "i am absolutely so, as miss covington will tell you, and mr. pettigrew knows it also. fortunately i did not lose my hearing until i was six years old, and i had not altogether lost the habit of speaking when i went out to germany, three years later. had i been born deaf and dumb i could have learned to understand what was said perfectly, but should never have spoken in a natural voice." "well, it is wonderful altogether, and i should not have believed it if a stranger had told me. however, the great thing at present is that you have found out that the child is alive. we ought not to be long in laying hands on him now, pettigrew, eh?" "i hope not, colonel; but you must not be too sanguine about that; we have evidently very crafty scoundrels to deal with. still, now that we feel sure that the child is alive and well, the matter is a comparatively straightforward one, and we can afford to work and wait patiently. tilbury is only a bit of a village, but beyond that stretch great marshes--in fact, all south essex as far as the mouths of the rivers crouch, blackwater, and coln. he would say, 'i went down to tilbury,' because tilbury is the terminus of the railway. possibly he may have crossed to gravesend; possibly he may have gone inland to upminster or some other village lying in that district; or he may have driven down as far as foulness, which, so far as anybody knows anything about it, might be the end of the world. therefore, there is a wide area to be searched." "but he can be followed when he goes down again, mr. pettigrew?" "of course, my dear, that is what must be done, though there is no reason why we should not set about inquiries at once. but, you see, it is not so easy to follow a man about country roads as it is in the streets of london. no doubt he must drive or ride, unless, indeed, walter is within two or three miles of the station, and you may be sure that if he sees a trap coming after him he will not go near the place where the child is. possibly, again, he may not go near the place at all, but may meet someone who takes the money for the child's keep. it may be a bargeman who sails round to harwich or somewhere along the south coast. it may be the steward of a steamer that goes regularly backwards and forwards to france. "i don't want to dishearten you, my dear," he broke off, as he saw how hilda's face fell as he went on, "but, you see, we have not common rogues to deal with; their whole proceedings have shown an exceptional amount of coolness and determination. although i own that i can see nothing absolutely suspicious in the way that last will was drawn up and signed, still i have never been able to divest my mind of an idea that there is something radically wrong about it. but putting aside the strange death of your uncle, we have the cunning way in which the boy was stolen, the complete success with which our search was baffled, the daring attempt to prove his death by what we now know must have been the substitution of the body of some other child of the same age dressed in his clothes. all this shows how carefully every detail must have been thought out, and we must assume that equal care will be shown to prevent our recovering the boy. were they to suspect that they had been traced to tilbury, and were watched there, or that any inquiries were being made in the neighborhood, you may be sure that walter would be at once removed some distance away, or possibly sent abroad, perhaps to australia or the states. there could be no difficulty about that. there are hundreds of emigrants going out every week with their families, who would jump at the offer of a hundred pounds for adopting a child, and once away it would be next to impossible ever to come upon his traces. so, you see, we shall need to exercise the most extreme caution in our searches." "i see, mr. pettigrew," hilda said quietly, "that the difficulties are far greater than i ever dreamt of. it seemed to me that when we had found out that walter was alive and well, and that tilbury was, so to speak, the starting place of our search, it would be an easy matter to find him. now i see that, except for the knowledge that he is alive, we are nearly as far off as ever." "i think mr. pettigrew is rather making the worst of things, miss covington," dr. leeds said, speaking for the first time. "no doubt the difficulties are considerable, but i think we have good heads on our side too, as miss purcell has proved, and i feel confident that, now that we have learned as much as we have done, we shall be successful in the end." "my opinion," colonel bulstrode said, "is that we ought to give these two fellows in custody as rogues, vagabonds, and kidnapers. then the police will set to work to find out their antecedents, and at least while they are shut up they can do no harm. gad, sir, we should make short work of them in india." "i am afraid that that would hardly do, colonel bulstrode," mr. pettigrew said mildly. "we have practically nothing to go upon; we have no evidence that a magistrate would entertain for a moment. the men would be discharged at once, and we should no doubt be served the next morning with a writ for at least ten thousand pounds' damages, and, what is more, they would get them; and you may be very sure that you would never find the child." "then it is shameful that it should be so," the colonel said warmly; "why, i served three years as a police officer in india, and when i got news that a dacoit, for instance, was hiding in a jungle near a village, down i would go, with a couple of dozen of men, surround the place, and make every man and woman a prisoner. then the police would examine them, and let me tell you that they have pretty rough ways of finding out a secret. of course i knew nothing about it, and asked no questions, but you may be sure that it was not long before they made someone open his mouth. hanging up a man by his thumbs, for instance, freshens his memory wonderfully. you may say that this thorough way of getting at things is not according to modern ideas. i don't care a fig for modern ideas, and, as far as that goes, neither do the natives of india. my object is to find out the author of certain crimes; the villagers' object is to shield him. if they are obstinate, they bring it on themselves; the criminal is caught, and justice is satisfied. what is the use of police if they are not to catch criminals? i have no patience with the maudlin nonsense that prevails in this country, that a criminal should have every chance of escape. he is warned not to say anything that would incriminate himself, material evidence is not admitted, his wife mayn't be questioned. why, it is downright sickening, sir. the so-called spirit of fairness is all on the side of the criminal, and it seems to me that our whole procedure, instead of being directed to punish criminals, is calculated to enable them to escape from punishment. the whole thing is wrong, sir--radically wrong." and colonel bulstrode wiped his heated forehead with a huge indian silk handkerchief. hilda laughed, netta smiled, and mr. pettigrew's eyes twinkled. "there is a good deal in what you say, colonel bulstrode, though i cannot go with you in the matter of hanging men up by their thumbs." "why, sir," broke in colonel, "what is it? their own native princes would have stretched them over a charcoal fire until they got the truth out of them." "so, possibly, would our own forefathers, colonel." "humph! they had a lot more common sense in those days than they have now, mr. pettigrew. there was no sentimentality about them; they were short and sharp in their measures. they were men, sir--men. they drank like men, and they fought like men; there was sterling stuff in them; they didn't weaken their bodies by drinking slops, or their minds by reading newspapers." "well, colonel bulstrode," hilda said, smiling, "if it is not contrary to your convictions, we will go upstairs and have a cup of tea. no doubt there is something to be said for the old days, but there is a good deal to be said on the other side of the question, too." when they went upstairs dr. leeds sat down by netta. "i am afraid that you blame me for what i did, dr. leeds," she said timidly. "no, i do not blame you at all for doing it, but i do think that you ought to have consulted us all before undertaking it. your intention was a noble one, but the risk that you ran was so great that certainly i should not have felt justified in allowing you to undertake it, had i had any voice in the matter." "but i cannot see that it was dangerous," the girl said. "he could not have knocked me down and beaten me, even if he had caught me with my eye at the peep-hole. he could only have called up johnstone and denounced me as an eavesdropper, and at the worst i should only have been turned straight out of the house." "i do not think that that would have been at all his course of action. i believe, on the contrary, that although he would have spoken angrily to you, he would have said nothing to the lodging-house keeper. he would have at once guessed that you had not taken all this trouble merely to gratify a silly curiosity, but would have been sure that you had been employed as a spy. what he would have done i do not know, but he would certainly have had you watched as you watched him, and he would, in his conversation with his confederates, have dropped clews that would have sent us all off on wild-goose chases. i don't think that he would have ventured on getting you removed, for he would have known that he would have been suspected of foul play at once by those who had employed you. i hope you will give me a promise that you will never undertake any plan without consulting miss covington and myself. you can hardly realize what anxiety i have suffered while you have been away." "i will promise willingly, dr. leeds. i did not think anything of the danger, and do not believe even now there was any; but i do think that hilda would not have heard of my going as a servant, and that you would not have approved of it. still, as i saw no harm in it myself, i thought that for once i would act upon my own ideas." "there are circumstances under which no one need disapprove of a lady acting as a servant," he said quietly. "if a family misfortune has happened, and she has to earn her own living, i think that there are many who would be far happier in the position of a servant in a good family, than as an ill-paid and over-worked governess. the one is at least her own mistress, to a large extent, as long as she does her work properly; the other can never call her time her own. in your case, certainly, the kind object with which you undertook the task was a full justification of it, had you not been matching yourself against an unscrupulous villain, who, had he detected your disguise, would have practically hesitated at nothing to rid himself of you. it happened, too, in this case you were one of the few persons who could have succeeded; for, as you say, it would have been next to impossible for anyone unpossessed of your peculiar faculty to have overheard a conversation, doubtless conducted in a somewhat low voice, through such a hole as you made." "then you don't think any worse of me for it?" "you need not be afraid of that," he said quietly. "my opinion is already so fixed on that subject that i doubt if anything you could do would shake it." then he got up and walked across to where the others were chatting together. "now, are we to have another council?" hilda asked. "i think not," dr. leeds said; "it seems to me that the matter requires a great deal of thinking over before we decide, and fortunately, as the man went down to tilbury only two days ago, he is not likely to repeat his visit for another month at least, possibly for another three months. men like that do not give away chances, and he would probably pay for three months' board for the child at a time, so as to avoid having to make the journey oftener, however confident he might be that he was not watched." "i agree with you, dr. leeds," mr. pettigrew said. "it would never do to make a false step." "still," hilda urged, "surely there cannot be any need to wait for his going down again. a sharp detective might find out a good deal. he could inquire whether there was anyone at tilbury who let out traps. probably nothing beyond a gig or a pony-cart could be obtained there. he would, of course, hire it for a drive to some place within three or four miles, and while it was got ready would casually ask if it was often let; he might possibly hear of someone who came down from town--a bagman, perhaps, who hired it occasionally for calling upon his customers in the villages round." "i think that that is a capital suggestion," mr. pettigrew said. "i don't see why, while we are thinking over the best way to proceed, we should not get these inquiries made. they might be of some assistance to us. i will send a man down to-morrow or next day. as you say, it may give us something to go upon." netta went down two days later to reading. she had the box labeled to oxford, and took a third-class ticket for herself. she had a suspicion that a man who was lolling on a seat on the platform looked closely at her, and she saw him afterwards saunter away towards the luggage office. when the train came in her box was put into the van, and she got out at the next station and returned by the first train to london, feeling satisfied that she would never hear anything more of the box. the next day a detective called who had been engaged earlier in the search for walter and had frequently seen hilda. "mr. pettigrew said, miss covington, that i had better come to you and tell you exactly what i have done. i went down to tilbury yesterday. i took with me one or two cases made up like a traveler's samples, and i presently found that the man at the public house by the water had a pony-trap which he let. i went over to him and said that i wanted it for the day. "'how far are you going?' he asked. "'i am going to stanford,' i said; 'then by a crossroad by laindon to hornchurch and back.' "'it is rather a long round for one day,' he said. "''tis a long round,' i said. 'well, maybe i might sleep at hornchurch, and go on to upminster.' "'you will have to pay a deposit of a couple of pounds,' he said, 'unless you like to take a boy.' "i said i preferred driving myself, and that it was less weight for the pony. 'i suppose you often let it out?' i remarked. "'pretty often,' he said; 'you see, there is no way of getting about beyond this. it would pay me to keep a better trap if it wasn't that commercials generally work this country in their own vehicles, and take the road from barking through dagenham, or else from brentwood or chelmsford or one of the other great eastern stations. there is one in your line comes occasionally; he goes by the same route you are taking, and always has the trap to himself. he travels for some spirit firm, i think; he always brings down a couple of cases of bottles.' "'that is my line too,' i said. 'he hasn't been here lately, i hope?' "'well, yes, he was here three or four days ago; he is a pretty liberal chap with his samples, i should say, for he always comes back with his cases empty.' of course i hired the pony and trap. i drove through new tilbury, low street, and stanford. i put up there for three or four hours. at each place i went to all the public houses, and as i marked the liquors cheap i got several orders. i asked at every place had anyone in my line been round lately, and they all said no, and nobody had noticed the pony cart; but of course that did not prove that he might not have driven through there." "you did not make any inquiries about a missing child?" "no, miss covington. mr. pettigrew particularly told me that i was not to make any inquiries whatever." "yes, that is what we agreed upon, bassett; we don't want to run the slightest risk of their suspecting that we are inquiring in that direction. my own idea is that you could do no harm if you went round several times, just as you did yesterday; and perhaps it would be better for you not to start from the same place, but to hire a vehicle and drive round the country, stopping at all the villages, and apparently trying to get orders for spirits or tobacco. that idea of yours is an excellent one, because your inquiry whether another man had been along in the same trade would seem natural. you might say everywhere that you had heard of his going round there, but that it did not look much like business driving a rickety little trap with a pony not worth fifty shillings. at any village public houses at which he stopped they could hardly help noticing it, and if you heard that he had put up there for an hour or two, it would certainly be something to go upon, and a search round there might lead to a result. however, do not go until you hear again from me. i will talk it over with mr. pettigrew, and see what he thinks of it." "it certainly seems to me that we might light upon a clew that way, miss covington, and if he were to happen to hear that another man in the same line had been there asking questions about him, it would seem natural enough, because of course a commercial would like to know what line another in the same branch was following, and how he was doing. then i will wait your further orders. there would be sure to be traps to be hired at barking or rainham, and if there are not, i could get one at bromley. indeed, as i should want it for a day or two, it would be just as well to get it there as farther east, and i should be likely to get a better-looking turnout. in little places a man with a good turnout is more likely to do business than one who looks second-rate altogether. it seems a sort of credit to the place; and they would give him orders where they would not to a man who made no sort of show. i should say, miss, that as i shall be going over the ground more than once, it would be best to send on the goods i get orders for; they don't amount to very much, and i should get about the same price that i gave for them. i know a clerk in the firm whose liquors i took down. i told him that i was going down in that part of essex, and asked if they would give me a commission on anything that i could sell. they said 'yes' willingly enough, and the clerk said i was a respectable man who could be trusted; and so it will cost nothing, and will open the way for my making another call. of course when i am known there i can ask questions more freely, sit in the bar-parlor, smoke a cigar with the landlord, and so on." "i think that is an excellent idea. well, at any rate you shall hear in the course of a day or two." miss purcell had gone on quietly with her knitting and uttered no remarks while the man was present. immediately he had left, she said, "i think, netta, that we shall gradually get at it." "yes, i think so; that man seems really a sharp fellow. i had quite lost all faith in detectives, but i see that when they have really got something to go upon, they know how to follow it up." hilda wrote a long letter to mr. pettigrew, and received three words in answer: "by all means." so bassett was written to and told to continue his career as a commercial traveler, but to abstain altogether, for the present, from any questions about the boy. ten days later mr. pettigrew forwarded a letter that he had received from bassett, which was as follows: "sir: i have to report that i have for the last fortnight been engaged in driving about the country in accordance with miss covington's instructions. the only place where i can ascertain that the pony and cart from tilbury was noticed about that time was at stanford. my inquiries there before had failed, but after dining at the inn, i went out into the yard behind, and asked the helper whether the same trap that i drove over in from tilbury had been there since. "'not since you were here last,' he said; 'at least if it was you as drove the pony over somewhere about three weeks ago. i did not see you then, i was doing a job over at the cowhouse. that pony aint been here since then, though he was here two days before. the man put him up for three or four hours, and hired a horse from the landlord to ride over to billericay. he must have gone cross country, i should say, by the mud on its legs. however, he tipped me a bob, so i cleaned it up and said nothing to master; but the horse was all in a lather and must have been taken along at a hunting pace all the way.' waiting further orders, "i remain, "yours respectfully, "h. bassett." mr. pettigrew came down himself in the evening. "well, miss covington, i think that the scent is getting warm. now is the time that you must be very cautious. i think we may take it that the child is somewhere within ten or twelve miles of stanford, north or east of it. the man was away for over three hours, and he rode fast. it's not likely that the horse was anything out of the way. however, allowing for half an hour's stay somewhere, i think we may take twelve miles as the limit. still, a circle of twelve miles' radius covers a very large area. i have been looking up the map since that man set about inquiring down there. twelve miles would include the whole of the marshes as far as leigh. it goes up to brentwood, billericay, downham, and touches rayleigh; and in that semicircle would be some sixty or seventy villages, large and small." "i have been looking at the map too, mr. pettigrew, and it does not seem to me at all likely that he would go near the places that you first mentioned; they are quite close to the great eastern railway, by which he would have traveled, instead of going round such an enormous detour by tilbury and stanford." "one would think so, my dear, certainly; but, you see, a man having the least idea that he was watched, which i admit we have no reason for believing that this fellow has, would naturally choose a very circuitous route. however, i think that we need hardly try so far to the north, to begin with; i should say that the area of our search need go no farther north than downham, and that between a line running west from that place and the river the child is most likely to be hidden." "i should say, mr. pettigrew, that the detective might engage four or five fellows who could act separately in villages on each of the roads running from stanford east or northeast. the villages should be at least two miles away from stanford, because he might start by one road and then turn off by another. but in two miles he would probably settle down on the road he was going to follow and we should, therefore, get the general direction of walter's hiding place. then, as soon as he passed, the watcher should follow him on foot till he met him coming back. if he did meet him, he would know that at any rate he had been farther; if he did not meet him, he would know that he had turned off somewhere between him and the village that he had passed. netta and i have been talking the matter over, and it seems to us that this would be the best plan, and that it would be as well, also, to have a man to watch at tilbury station; because he may possibly choose some entirely different route the next time he comes, and the men in the villages, not knowing that he had come down at all, might be kept there for a month waiting for his next visit." "you and your friend have certainly put your heads together to good purpose," the old lawyer said, "and i do not see any better plan than you suggest. you had better have bassett down here, and give him your instructions yourself." "yes, mr. pettigrew; and i shall be glad if you will write a line to him to-night, for in three days it will be a month since this man last went down, or at any rate since we know that he went down. of course, it may be three months before he goes again, and if he does not come in four or five days the men must be recalled; for although each of them could stop in a village for a day or two under the pretense of finding work in the neighborhood, they certainly could not stop for a month." "very well, i leave you a free hand in the matter, altogether, miss covington; for frankly i acknowledge that you are vastly more likely to ferret the thing out than i am." chapter xxi. a box at the opera. "i tell you what it is, simcoe," harrison said two months later, "this affair of yours is getting to be a good deal more troublesome than i bargained for. it all looked simple enough; one only had to pick up a child, drive him in a cab across london, then down in a trap to pitsea, hand him over to a man i knew would take good care of him, and take the payments for him when they became due, which would be no trouble, as i had to see the man occasionally on my own business. of course i expected that there would be a big hue and cry for him, but i had no fear whatever of his being found. then i managed through another man to get that body from the workhouse undertaker, and you managed the rest easily enough; but i tell you that the matter is getting a good deal hotter than i ever thought it would. "i told you that i had been followed several times after leaving your place, and one morning when i went out early i saw footmarks, showing that someone had been walking round my house and trying to look in at the windows. i have a strong suspicion that i have been followed to my office, and i know that someone got in there one day at my dinner hour. i know, because i always fasten a piece of thread, so that if the door is opened it breaks it. there is nothing there that anyone could make anything of, but it is just as well to know if anyone has been prying about. the woman of the house was sure that she had not been in there, nor had she let anyone in; so the lock must have been picked. of course anyone is liable to have his office robbed when he is out and it is empty; but nothing was taken, and if a common thief had found nothing else he would probably have made off with my dress suit, which would have brought him a sov. in a second-hand clothes shop. "you know i have an excessive objection to being watched. i have had nothing on hand lately, at any rate nothing that has come off, but i might have had, you know. well, yesterday i was going down to see my man in the marshes, and to tell him that likely enough i should bring something down to him next week. i got out of the train at tilbury, and, as you know, there are not a dozen houses anywhere near the station. now, i have a habit of keeping my eyes open, and i saw a man sitting on an old boat. what called my attention particularly to him was that he was turned half round watching the entrance to the station as i came out. you can always tell whether a man is watching for someone, or whether he is merely looking generally in that direction, and this man was certainly watching for someone. the instant his eye fell upon me he turned round and stared at the river. the path to the public house lay just behind him. now, it would be natural that hearing a footstep a man doing nothing would look round and perhaps say a word--ask the time, or something of that sort. well, he didn't turn round. now, it is my habit, and a very useful one, always to carry a glass of about the size of a folded letter in my pocket. instead of going on to the public house i turned off from the path and walked away from the river. when i had got some little distance i took out my glass, and still walking along, i held it up so that i could see in it what was going on behind. the man was standing up, watching me. i put the glass in my pocket and dropped my handkerchief. i stooped down to pick it up, of course partly turning as i did so, and saw that he had instantly dropped into a sitting position again, with his back to me. "that was good enough. i turned, cut across the fields, went straight back to the station and took the next ferry-boat to gravesend, and came back that way. it is quite clear to me that not only is this girl on the track still, but the chase is getting to be a very hot one, and that not only are they watching you, but they are watching me, and have in some way or other, though how, i cannot guess, found out that i go down to tilbury, and have accordingly sent a man down to follow me. now, i tell you frankly, i will have no more to do with the matter--that is to say, as far as going down on your business. as i have told you, i have always managed my own affairs so well that the police and i have no acquaintance whatever; and i am not going to be spied upon and followed and have the 'tecs upon my track about an affair in which i have no interest at all, except that, you having stood by my brother, i was glad to do you any service i could. but this is getting serious. i don't like it. i have told you i have business with the man, and get things off abroad through him that i should have great trouble in getting rid of in any other way; but unless in quite exceptional cases, these things are so small that they could be hidden away for months without much risk of their being found, however sharp the hunt after them might be. as i am in no way pressed for money i can afford to wait, though i own that i like to get the things off my hands as soon as i can, and as i considered that i ran practically no risk in going down with them into essex, i never kept them at my house. however, for a time i must do so. i must tell you that when i am going down i always write beforehand and make an appointment for him to have his barge at the wharf at pitsea, and i send my letter addressed to him: 'mr. william nibson, barge _mary ann_, care of mr. scholey, spotted horse, pitsea.' you had better write to him in future. you need not put anything inside the envelope except notes for twenty-five pounds, and the words, 'for the child's keep for six months.' i need not say that you had better disguise your writing, both on the envelope and on the inside, and it is best that you should get your notes from some bookmaker on a race-course. you tell me you often go to races now and do a little betting. they are not the sort of men who take the numbers of the notes they pay out, and it would be next to impossible for them to be traced to you." "thank you, harrison; you have behaved like a true pal to me, and i am ever so much obliged to you. i quite see what you mean, and indeed it is as much for my interest as yours that you should not go down there any more. confound that girl covington! i am sure she is the moving spirit of it all. i always felt uneasy about her from the first, and was sure that if there was any trouble it would come from her. i wonder how the deuce she ever found out that you went down to tilbury." "that beats me too, simcoe. as you may guess, i am always most cautious about it, and always take a very roundabout way of going to the station." "i have been uneasy ever since that girl at our place left so suddenly. a fortnight afterwards we found that there was a hole bored through the doorpost. of course it might have been bored before i went there; but in that case it is curious that it was never noticed before. i cannot help thinking that she did it." "yes, you told me; but you said that you tried the experiment, and found that when your man and his wife were talking there in a loud voice, and you had your ear at the hole, you could not catch a single word." "yes, that was certainly so. i could hear them talking, but i could not make out a word of their conversation. still it is evident that somebody has been trying to hear. i cannot help thinking that it was that girl, though both johnstone and his wife spoke very highly of her. certainly the story she told them was true to a certain extent, for when they sent the box down to reading i sent a man down there to watch, and she called to fetch it, and my man found out that she labeled it 'oxford,' and took it away with her on the down train. as he had no directions to follow her farther he came back. after we found the hole i sent him down again; but he never came upon her traces, though he inquired at every village near oxford." "she may have been put there as a spy," the other said; "but as it is evident that she couldn't hear through that hole, it is clear that she could not have done them any good. that is, i suppose, why they called her off; so the puzzle still remains how they got on my track at tilbury. i should like to have a good look at this covington girl. i can admire a clever wench, even when she is working against me." "there is 'the huguenots' at her majesty's to-night, the first time this season. she very often goes in lady moulton's box, and it is likely enough that she will go to-night. it's the third box from the stage, on the first tier; i will go down to bond street and see if i can get hold of a box opposite, on the second or third tier. the money will be well laid out, for i should very much like you to study her face, and i won enough at pool at the club this afternoon to pay for it." "very well, then i will come round to your place. i really am curious to see the girl. i only caught a passing glimpse of her in the park that day." simcoe was not wrong in his conjecture, for hilda dined at lady moulton's, and they took their places in the latter's box just as the first bar of the overture sounded. she was in half mourning now, and in black lace, with white camellias in her hair and breast, was, as netta had told her before starting, looking her best. "that is the girl," simcoe exclaimed, as she went forward to the front of the box. "well, there is no denying that she is good-looking," the other said, as he turned his glasses upon her; "there is not a better-looking woman in the house. plenty of self-possession too," he added, as hilda took her seat and at once, in apparent ignorance that any glasses were upon her, took her own lorgnettes from their case and proceeded calmly to scan the stalls and boxes, to see who among her numerous acquaintances were there. as her eyes fell upon the two men sitting nearly opposite to her, her glasses steadied, then after a minute she lowered them. "lady moulton, i regard it as a providence that you brought me here this evening. do you see those two men there in the box nearly opposite, in the second tier? well, one of the men is simcoe, to whom my uncle left all his property if walter should not live to come of age, and who i am absolutely convinced carried the child away." "i see them, my dear; they are staring at you. i suppose they are as much interested in you as you in them." hilda again put her glasses to her eyes. "she has just told lady moulton who i am," simcoe said. "she has a clever face, simcoe--broad across the chin--any amount of determination, i should say. ah! there, she is getting up to make room for somebody else." "stay where you are, my dear," lady moulton said, putting her hand on hilda's arm; "there is plenty of room for three." "plenty," she replied; "but i want to watch those two men, and i cannot keep my glasses fixed on them while i am sitting in the front row." "hardly, my dear," lady moulton said with a smile. "well, have your own way." a fourth lady came in almost immediately. she took the third chair in the front, and hilda, sitting half in the shade, was able to devote herself to her purpose free from general observation. she had already heard that simcoe's companion had apparently suspected that he was watched, and had returned to town at once without speaking to anyone at tilbury. she felt that he would probably henceforth choose some other route, and the chances of following him would be greatly diminished. the opportunity was a fortunate one indeed. for months she had been hoping that some day or other she could watch these men talking, and now, as it seemed by accident, just at the moment when her hopes had fallen, the chance had come to her. "she has changed her place in order to have a better look at us," john simcoe said, as she moved. "she has got her glasses on us." "we came to stare at her. it seems to me that she is staring at us," harrison said. "well, i should think that she knows my face pretty well by this time," simcoe laughed. "i told you she has a way of looking through one that has often made me uncomfortable." "i can quite understand that. i noticed myself that when she looked at us, without her glasses, there was a curious intentness in her expression, as if she was taking stock of every point about us. she cannot be the girl who has been to your lodging." "certainly not," the other said; "i know her a great deal too well for her to try that on. besides, beyond the fact that the other was a good-looking girl too--and, by the way, that she had the same trick of looking full in your face when you spoke--there was no resemblance whatever between them." the curtain now drew up, and silence fell upon the house, and the men did not speak again until the end of the first act. they then continued their conversation where they had left it off. "she has moved, and has been attending to the opera," simcoe said; "but she has gone into the shade again, and is taking another look at us." "i am not given to nervousness, but upon my word those glasses fixed upon me make me quite fidgety." "pooh, man! she is not looking at you; she is looking at me. i don't know whether she thinks that she can read my thoughts, and find out where the child is hidden. by the way, i know nothing about this place pitsea. where is it, and which is the best way to get there?" "you can drive straight down by road through upminster and laindon. the place lies about three miles this side of benfleet. there are only about half a dozen houses, at the end of a creek that comes up from hole haven. but i should not think of going near the house. the latter, directed as i told you, is sure to find the man." "oh, i am not thinking of going! but i shall get a man to watch the fellows they sent down to watch you, and if i find that they seem to be getting on the right track, i shall run down at all hazards and take him away." "your best plan by far will be to go with him, on board nibson's barge, up to rochester. no doubt he can find some bargeman there who will take the boy in. or, what would perhaps be better, hire a trap there, and drive him down to margate or ramsgate. there are plenty of schools there, and you might get up a yarn about his being a nephew of yours, and leave him there for a term or two. that would give you time to decide. by this time he will have but a very faint remembrance of his life in town, and anything that he may say about it will certainly meet with no attention." "would it be as well to do it at once, do you think?" simcoe asked. "no; we have no idea how many people they may have on the watch, and it would be only running unnecessary risks. stick to the plan that we have already agreed on, of communicating only by writing. but i think your idea of sending two or three sharp fellows down there to find out what the party are doing is really a good one." hilda lowered her glasses as the curtain rose again. "oh, lady moulton!" she whispered, "i have found out all that i have been so long wanting to know. i believe now that in three days i shall have the child home again." lady moulton turned half round. "how on earth have you found that out, hilda? are you a wizard indeed, who can read men's thoughts in their faces? i always thought that there was something uncanny about you, ever since that day of my fête." to harrison's relief, miss covington did not turn her glass towards him again during the evening. when the curtain fell on the next act a gentleman, to whom lady moulton had nodded in the stalls, came in. after shaking hands with her and her friends, he seated himself by the side of hilda. "miss covington," he said, "i have never had an opportunity of speaking to you since that fête at lady moulton's. i have understood that the gypsy on that occasion was engaged by you, and that there was, if you will excuse me saying so, some little mystery about it. i don't wish to pry into that, but if you should ever see the woman again you will oblige me very greatly by telling her that i consider i owe her a deep debt of gratitude. she said something to me then that made a tremendous impression upon me, and i do not mind telling you it brought me up with a round turn. i had been going ahead a great deal too fast, and i see now that, had i continued on the same course, i should have brought absolute ruin upon myself, and blighted my life in every way. the shock she gave me by warning me what would come if i did not give up cards and racing showed me my utter folly, and on that day i swore never to touch a card or lay a penny upon a horse for the rest of my life. when i tell you that i have completely pulled myself round, and that, by the aid of an old uncle, to whom i went and made a clean breast of all, i am now straight in every way, and, as you may have heard, am going to be married to miss fortescue in a fortnight, you may guess what deep reason i have to be grateful to this gypsy woman of yours, and how i hope that, should you come across her again, you will tell her so, and should there be any possible way in which i can prove my gratitude, by money or otherwise, i shall be delighted to do so." "i will tell her, captain desmond," the girl said in a low voice. "i am sure that it will make her happy to know that she did some good that evening. i do not think that she is in need of money or assistance of any kind, but should she be so i will let you know." "and do you really mean that you have discovered where general mathieson's grandson is living?" lady moulton asked, as they rose to leave their seats when the curtain fell. "i think so; i am almost sure of it." lady moulton had heard a good deal from hilda as to the situation. mr. pettigrew had strongly impressed upon both hilda and colonel bulstrode that it was very important that the contents of the will should not be talked about. "we don't want our private affairs discussed in the press and made the subject of general talk," he had said, and it was only to lady moulton that hilda had spoken freely of the matter, so far as the discovery of the new will, the change that had been made, and the singularity of walter being missing. she had also mentioned her belief that simcoe was at the bottom of this, but had breathed no words of her suspicion that the general had come to his death by foul play, or of her own conviction that simcoe was an impostor, although there had been some talk in the clubs over the matter, for colonel bulstrode was by no means so discreet as hilda, and among his intimate friends spoke his mind with great vehemence and strength of language as to general mathieson having made so singular a disposition of his property, and he made no secret of his suspicion that simcoe was at the bottom of walter's disappearance. thus the matter had gradually gone the round of the clubs; but it was not until simcoe's own counsel had drawn from him the fact that walter's death would put him into possession of the estate that the public in general learned the facts. "it was a clever move," mr. pettigrew had said, talking it over with his partner. "no doubt he was afraid that the question would be asked by our counsel, and he thought that it was better that the fact should come voluntarily from himself. his best plan by far was to brazen it out. no doubt nine men out of ten will consider that the affair is a very suspicious one, and some of them will give him the cold shoulder; but whatever their opinions, they dare not express them without laying themselves open to an action for libel, while, on the other hand, the fact that a man is heir to a good estate will always cause a good many to rally round him. not the best of men, you know, but enough to prevent his being a lonely figure in a club. "yes, i think he was certainly well advised to declare his heirship voluntarily, instead of having it drawn from him. he must have known, of course, that sooner or later the matter would be made public, and it is better for him to get the talk and gossip over now instead of the matter being known for the first time when he begins to take legal steps to compel us to put him into possession of the estate." "what on earth did you mean, hilda," lady moulton said, as the door of the carriage was closed and they drove off from her majesty's, "by saying that you had discovered a clew by which you might in a few days find your little cousin?" "i cannot tell you exactly how i discovered it. at present it is a secret that both my mother and uncle charged me to keep, but when these troubles are over i will explain it all to you, though i should certainly do so to no one else." "well, i suppose i must be content with that, hilda. but it certainly does seem extraordinary to me that by merely seeing two men in a box on the other side of the house you should have obtained a clew to what you have for a year now been trying to get at." "it does seem extraordinary, lady moulton, but it really is not so, and i hope to convince you that i am right by producing walter in a week from the present time." "i hope you will, hilda. i sincerely hope so, both for the child's sake, yours, and my own. of course, when he is found there will be no possible reason for your keeping yourself shut up as you have done. i have missed you very much, and shall be very glad to have you under my wing again." "thank you for saying so, lady moulton; but so far as i have formed my plans, they are that walter's trustees shall either let or sell the house in hyde park gardens, and that i shall go down for a time with him into the country. i have had a great deal of anxiety this last year, and i shall be very glad of complete rest for a time." "that is reasonable enough, my dear, but i do hope that you are not thinking of burying yourself in the country for good. there, i am at home. good-night, hilda; thanks for the lift. it is not often my horses or my coachmen have a night off during the season." chapter xxii. nearing the goal. "i suppose miss netta is in bed?" hilda asked, as she entered the house. "yes, miss; she and miss purcell went to their rooms soon after ten o'clock." hilda ran upstairs to netta's room. "are you awake, netta?" she asked, as she opened the door. "well, i think i was asleep, hilda; i didn't intend to go off, for i made sure that you would come in for a chat, as usual, when you got back; but i think i must have dozed off." "well, if you had been so sound asleep that i had had to violently wake you up, i should have done so. i have had my chance, netta. simcoe and his friend were in a box opposite to ours, and i have learned where walter is." "that is news indeed," netta exclaimed, leaping up; "that is worth being awakened a hundred times for. please hand me my dressing-gown. now let us sit down and talk it over comfortably." hilda then repeated the whole conversation that she had overheard. "splendid!" netta exclaimed, clapping her hands; "and that man was right, dear, in feeling uncomfortable when your glasses were fixed on his face, though he little guessed what reason he had for the feeling. well, it is worth all the four years you spent with us to have learned to read people's words from their lips. i always said that you were my best pupil, and you have proved it so now. what is to be done next?" "we shall need a general council for that!" hilda laughed. "we must do nothing rash now that success seems so close; a false move might spoil everything." "yes, we shall have to be very careful. this bargeman may not live near there at all; though no doubt he goes there pretty often, as letters are sent there for him. besides, simcoe may have someone stationed there to find out whether any inquiries have been made for a missing child." "yes, i see that we shall have to be very careful, netta, and we must not spoil our chances by being over hasty." they talked for upwards of an hour, and then went to their beds. the next morning roberts took a note to dr. leeds. it contained only a few lines from hilda: "my dear dr. leeds: we have found a most important clew, and are going to have a consultation, at which, of course, we want you to be present. could you manage to be at mr. pettigrew's office at three o'clock? if so, on hearing from you, i will send to him to make an appointment." the answer came back: "i congratulate you heartily, and will meet you at three o'clock at pettigrew's office." a note was at once sent off to the lawyer's to make the appointment, and the girls arrived with miss purcell two or three minutes before the hour, and were at once shown into mr. pettigrew's room, where mr. farmer immediately joined them. "i will wait a minute or two before i begin," hilda said. "i have asked dr. leeds to join us here. he has been so very kind throughout the whole matter that we thought it was only fair that he should be here." "certainly, i thoroughly agree with you. i never thought that terrible suspicion of his well founded, but he certainly took immense pains in collecting information of all sorts about these native poisons, and since then has shown the greatest desire to assist in any way." a minute later dr. leeds was shown in. "now, miss covington," mr. farmer said, "we are ready to hear your communication." hilda then related what she had learned at the opera. "really, miss covington," mr. farmer continued, "it is a thousand pities that you and your friend cannot utilize your singular accomplishment in the detective line. you ought to make a fortune by it. i have, of course, heard from my partner of the education that you had in germany, and of your having acquired some new system by which you can understand what people are saying by watching their lips, but i certainly had no conception that it could be carried to such an extent as you have just proved it can. it is like gaining a new sense. now i suppose you have come to us for advice as to what had best be done next." "that is it, mr. farmer. it is quite evident to us that we must be extremely careful, for if these people suspect that we are so far on their track, they might remove walter at once, and we might never be able to light upon a clew again." "yes, i see that. of course, if we were absolutely in a position to prove that this child has been kept down near pitsea with their cognizance we could arrest them at once; but, unfortunately, in the words you heard there was no mention of the child, and at present we have nothing but a series of small circumstantial facts to adduce. you believe, mr. pettigrew tells me, that the man who calls himself john simcoe is an impostor who has no right to the name, and that general mathieson was under a complete delusion when he made that extraordinary will. you believe that, or at any rate you have a suspicion that, having got the general to make the will, he administered some unknown drug that finally caused his death. you believe that, as this child alone stood between him and the inheritance, he had him carried off with the assistance of the other man. you believe that the body the coroner's jury decided to be that of walter rivington was not his, and that the child himself is being kept out of the way somewhere in essex, and you believe that the conversation that you most singularly overheard related to him. "but, unfortunately, all these beliefs are unsupported by a single legal fact, and i doubt very much whether any magistrate would issue a warrant for these men's arrest upon your story being laid before him. even if they were arrested, some confederate might hasten down to pitsea and carry the child off; and, indeed, pitsea may only be the meeting-place of these conspirators, and the child may be at limehouse or at chatham, or at any other place frequented by barges. therefore we must for the present give up all idea of seizing these men. any researches at pitsea itself are clearly attended by danger, and yet i see no other way of proceeding." "it seems," dr. leeds said, "that this other man, who appears to have acted as simcoe's agent throughout the affair, took the alarm the other day, and instead of taking a trap as usual from tilbury, returned to the station, took the ferry across to gravesend, and then, as we suppose, came up to town again, told simcoe that he found he was watched, and that simcoe must himself take the matter up. evidently, by what miss covington overheard, he had instructed him where and how to communicate with this bargeman, or in case of necessity to find him. i should think that the first step would be to withdraw the men now on watch, for it is possible that they may also send down men to places in the locality of pitsea. in point of fact, your men have been instructed to make no such inquiries, but only to endeavor to trace where simcoe's agent drives to. still, i think it would be as well to withdraw them at once, as they can do no further good." mr. pettigrew nodded. "i know nothing of pitsea," the doctor went on, "but i do know hole haven. when i was walking the hospital, three or four of us had a little sailing-boat, and used to go out from saturday until monday morning. hole haven was generally the limit of our excursions. it is a snug little harbor for small boats, and there is a comfortable old-fashioned little inn there, where we used to sleep. the coastguards were all sociable fellows, ready to chat with strangers and not averse to a small tip. of course the same men will not be there now, nor would it be very safe to ask questions of them; for no doubt they are on friendly terms with the men on the barges which go up and down the creek. i might, however, learn something from them of the ways of these men, and i should think that, on giving my card to the petty officer in charge, i could safely question him. i don't suppose that he would know where this man nibson has his headquarters. if he lives at rochester, or chatham, or at limehouse, or shadwell, he certainly would not know him; but if he lives at pitsea he might know him. i fancy they keep a pretty sharp lookout on the barges. i know that the coastguard told me that there was still a good deal of smuggling carried on in the marshes between leigh and thames haven. i fancy, from what he said, that the leigh fishermen think it no harm to run a few pounds of tobacco or a keg of spirit from a passing ship, and, indeed, as there are so many vessels that go ashore on the sands below, and as they are generally engaged in unloading them or helping them to get off, they have considerable facilities that way. at any rate, as an old frequenter of the place and as knowing the landlord--that is to say if there has been no change there--no suspicion could fall upon me of going down there in reference to your affair. to-day is friday. on sunday morning, early, i will run down to gravesend, hire a boat there, and will sail down to hole haven. it will be an outing for me, and a pleasant one; and at least i can be doing no harm." "thank you very much indeed, dr. leeds," hilda said warmly; "that is a splendid idea." on sunday evening dr. leeds called at hyde park gardens to report his day's work. "i think that my news is eminently satisfactory. i saw the petty officer in command of the coastguard station, and he willingly gave me all the information in his power. he knew the bargee, bill nibson. he is up and down the creek, he says, once and sometimes twice a week. he has got a little bit of a farm and a house on the bank of the creek a mile and a half on this side of pitsea. they watch him pretty closely, as they do all the men who use the creek; there is not one of them who does not carry on a bit of smuggling if he gets the chance. "'i thought that was almost given up,' i said. 'oh, no; it is carried on,' he replied, 'on a much smaller scale than it used to be, but there is plenty of it, and i should say that there is more done that way on the thames than anywhere else. in the first place, dutch, german, and french craft coming up the channels after dark can have no difficulty whatever in transferring tobacco and spirits into barges or fishing-boats. i need hardly say it is not ships of any size that carry on this sort of business, but small vessels, such as billy-boys and craft of that sort. they carry their regular cargoes, and probably never bring more than a few hundredweight of tobacco and a dozen or so kegs of spirits. it is doubtful whether their owners know anything of what is being done, and i should say that it is generally a sort of speculation on the part of the skipper and men. on this side the trade is no doubt in the hands of men who either work a single barge or fishing-boat of their own, or who certainly work it without the least suspicion on the part of the owners. "'the thing is so easily arranged. a man before he starts from ostend or hamburg, or the mouth of the seine, sends a line to his friends here, at rochester or limehouse or leigh, "shall sail to-night. expect to come up the south channel on monday evening." the bargeman or fisherman runs down at the time arranged, and five or six miles below the nore brings up and shows a light. he knows that the craft he expects will not be up before that time, for if the wind was extremely favorable, and they made the run quicker than they expected, they would bring up in margate roads till the time appointed. if they didn't arrive that night, they would do so the next, and the barge would lay there and wait for them, or the fishermen would go into sheerness or leigh and come out again the next night. "'you might wonder how a barge could waste twenty-four or forty-eight hours without being called to account by its owners, but there are barges which will anchor up for two or three days under the pretense that the weather is bad, but really from sheer laziness. "'that is one way the stuff comes into the country, and, so far as i can see, there is no way whatever of stopping it. the difficulty, of course, is with the landing, and even that is not great. when the tide turns to run out there are scores, i may say hundreds, of barges anchored between chatham and gravesend. they generally anchor close in shore, and it would require twenty times the number of coastguards there are between chatham and gravesend on one side, and foulness and tilbury on the other, to watch the whole of them and to see that boats do not come ashore. "'a few strokes and they are there. one man will wait in the boat while the other goes up onto the bank to see that all is clear. if it is, the things are carried up at once. probably the barge has put up some flag that is understood by friends ashore; they are there to meet it, and in half an hour the kegs are either stowed away in lonely farmhouses or sunk in some of the deep ditches, and there they will remain until they can be fished up and sent off in a cart loaded with hay or something of that sort. you may take it that among the marshes on the banks of the medway and thames there is a pretty good deal done in the way of smuggling still. we keep a very close eye upon all the barges that come up here, but it is very seldom that we make any catch. one cannot seize a barge like the _mary ann_, that is the boat belonging to nibson, with perhaps sixty tons of manure or cement or bricks, and unload it without some specific information that would justify our doing so. indeed, we hardly could unload it unless we took it out into the thames and threw the contents overboard. we could not carry it up this steep, stone-faced bank, and higher up there are very few places where a barge could lie alongside the bank to be unloaded. we suspect nibson of doing something that way, but we have never been able to catch him at it. we have searched his place suddenly three or four times, but never found anything suspicious.' "'may i ask what family the man has?' i said. "he shook his head. 'there is his wife--i have seen her once or twice on board the barge as it has come in and out--and there is a boy, who helps him on the barge--i don't know whether he is his son or not. i have no idea whether he has any family, but i have never seen a child on the barge.' "all this seemed to be fairly satisfactory. i told him that we suspected that a stolen child was kept in nibson's house, and asked him whether one of his men off duty would, at any time, go with me in a boat and point out the house. he said that there would be no difficulty about that. my idea, miss covington, was that it would be by far the best plan for us to go down with a pretty strong party--that is to say, two or three men--and to go from gravesend in a boat, arriving at hole haven at eleven or twelve o'clock at night. i should write beforehand to the coastguard officer, asking him to have a man in readiness to guide us, and then row up to the house. in that way we should avoid all chance of a warning being sent on ahead from pitsea, or from any other place where they might have men on watch. "i mentioned this to the officer, and he said, 'well, i don't see how you could break into the man's house. if the child is not there you might find yourself in a very awkward position, and if nibson himself happened to be at home he would be perfectly justified in using firearms.' i said of course that was a point i must consider. it is indeed a point on which we must take mr. pettigrew's opinion. but probably we shall have to lay an information before the nearest magistrate, though i think myself that if we were to take the officer into our confidence--and he seemed to me a bluff, hearty fellow--he would take a lot of interest in the matter, and might stretch a point, and send three or four men down after dark to search the place again for smuggled goods. you see, he has strong suspicions of the man, and has searched his place more than once. then, when they were about it, we could enter and seize walter. should there be a mistake altogether, and the child not be found there, we could give the officer a written undertaking to hold him free in the very unlikely event of the fellow making a fuss about his house being entered." the next morning hilda again drove up with netta to see mr. pettigrew. "we must be careful, my dear; we must be very careful," he said. "if we obtain a search warrant, it can only be executed during the day, and even if the coastguards were to make a raid upon the place, we, as civilians, would not have any right to enter the house. i don't like the idea of this night business--indeed, i do not see why it should not be managed by day. apparently, from what dr. leeds said, this hole haven is a place where little sailing-boats often go in. i don't know much of these matters, but probably in some cases gentlemen are accompanied by ladies, and no doubt sometimes these boats go up the creeks. now, there must be good-sized boats that could be hired at gravesend, with men accustomed to sailing them, and i can see no reason why we should not go down in a party. i should certainly wish to be there myself, and think colonel bulstrode should be there. you might bring your two men, and get an information laid before an essex magistrate and obtain a warrant to search this man's place for a child supposed to be hidden there. by the way, i have a client who is an essex magistrate; he lives near billericay. i will have an information drawn out, and will go myself with it and see him; it is only about five miles to drive from brentwood station. if i sent a clerk down, there might be some difficulty, whereas, when i personally explain the circumstances to him, he will, i am sure, grant it. at the same time i will arrange with him that two of the county constabulary shall be at this place, hole haven, at the time we arrive there, and shall accompany us to execute the warrant. let me see," and he turned to his engagement book, "there is no very special matter on for to-morrow, and i am sure that mr. farmer will see to the little matters that there are in my department. by the way, it was a year yesterday since the general's death, and we have this morning been served with a notice to show cause why we should not proceed at once to distribute the various legacies under his will. i don't think that refers to the bequest of the estates, though, of course, it may do so, but to the ten thousand pounds to which simcoe is clearly entitled. of course, we should appear by counsel in any case; but with walter in our hands we can bring him to his knees at once, and he will have to wait some time before he touches the money. we cannot prevent his having that. he may get five years for abducting the child, but that does not affect his claim to the money." "unless, mr. pettigrew, we could prove that he is not john simcoe." "certainly, my dear," the lawyer said, with an indulgent smile. "your other theories have turned out very successful, i am bound to admit; but for this you have not a shadow of evidence, while he could produce a dozen respectable witnesses in his favor. however, we need not trouble ourselves about that now. as to the abduction of the child, while our evidence is pretty clear against the other man, we have only the fact against simcoe that he was a constant associate of his, and had an immense interest in the child being lost. the other man seems to have acted as his intermediary all through, and so far as we actually know, simcoe has never seen the child since he was taken away. of course, if walter can prove to the contrary, the case is clear against him; but without this it is only circumstantial, though i fancy that the jury would be pretty sure to convict. and now, how about the boat? who will undertake that? we are rather busy at present, and could scarcely spare a clerk to go down." "we will look after that, mr. pettigrew; it is only an hour's run to gravesend, and it will be an amusement for us. we will take roberts down with us. what day shall we fix it for?" "well, my dear, the sooner the better. i shall get the warrant to-morrow, and there is no reason why the constable should not be at hole haven the next day, at, say, two in the afternoon. so if you go down to-morrow and arrange for a boat, the matter may as well be carried out at once, especially as i know that you are burning with anxiety to get the child back. of course this rascal of a bargeman must be arrested." "i should think that would depend partly on how he has treated walter," hilda said. "i don't suppose he knows who he is, or anything of the circumstances of the case; he is simply paid so much to take charge of him. if he has behaved cruelly to him it is of course right that he should be punished; but if he has been kind to him i don't see why he should not be let off. besides, we may want him as a witness against the others." "well, there is something in that. of course we might, if he were arrested, allow him to turn queen's evidence, but there is always a certain feeling against this class of witness. however, we needn't discuss that now. i suppose that we ought to allow an hour and a half or two hours to get to this place from gravesend, but you can find that out when you hire the boat. of course, it will depend a good deal on which way the tide is. by the way, you had better look to that at once; for if it is not somewhere near high tide when we get to hole haven there may not be water enough to row up the creek." he called in one of the clerks, and told him to go out to get him an almanac with a tide-table. "i want to know when it will be high water the day after to-morrow at gravesend," he said. "i can tell you that at once, sir. when i came across waterloo bridge this morning at a quarter to nine the tide was running in. i should say that it was about half-flood, and would be high about twelve o'clock. so that it will be high about half-past one o'clock on wednesday. it is about three-quarters of an hour earlier at gravesend. i don't know whether that is near enough for you, sir?" "yes, that is near enough, thank you. so, you see," he went on after the clerk had left the room, "the tide will be just about high when you get to gravesend, and you will get there in about an hour, i should say. i don't know exactly how far this place is, but i should say seven or eight miles; and with a sail, or, if the wind is contrary, a couple of oars, you will not be much above an hour, and i should think that there will be still plenty of water in the creek. you had better see colonel bulstrode. as joint trustee he should certainly be there." they drove at once to the colonel's and found him in. he had not heard of the discovery hilda had made, and was greatly excited at the prospect of so soon recovering walter, and bringing, as he said, "the rascals to book." the next morning they went down with roberts to gravesend, to engage a large and roomy boat with two watermen for their trip. just as they were entering hyde park gardens, on their return, a man passed them. roberts looked hard at him, and then said, "if you don't want me any more now, miss, i should like to speak to that man; he is an old fellow-soldier." "certainly, roberts. i shall not want you again for some time." roberts hurried after the man. "sergeant nichol," he said, as he came up to him, "it is years since i saw you last." "i remember your face, if i do not remember your name," the man said. "i am tom roberts. i was in your company, you know, before you went onto the staff." "i remember you now, roberts," and the two shook hands heartily. "what are you doing now? if i remember right, you went as servant to general mathieson when you got your discharge." "yes; you see, i had been his orderly for two or three years before, and when i got my discharge with my pension, i told him that i should like to stop with him if he would take me. i was with him out there for five years after; then i came home, and was with him until his death, and am still in the service of his niece, miss covington, one of the young ladies i was with just now. and what are you doing?" "i am collector for a firm in the city. it is an easy berth, and with my pension i am as comfortable as a man can wish to be." so they chatted for half an hour, and when they parted roberts received a hearty invitation to look in at the other's place at kilburn. "both my boys are in the army," he said, "and likely to get on well. my eldest girl is married, my youngest is at home with her mother and myself; they will be pleased to see you too. the missus enjoys a gossip about india, and is always glad to welcome any old comrade of mine." chapter xxiii. walter. the wind was westerly, and the boat ran fast down the river from gravesend; roberts and andrew, both in civilian clothes, were sitting in the bows, where there were stowed a large hamper and a small traveling-bag with some clothes. one waterman sat by the mast, in case it should be necessary to lower sail; the other was aft at the tiller. the men must have thought that they had never had so silent and grave a pleasure party before: two elderly gentlemen and two girls, none of whom seemed inclined to make merry in any way. colonel bulstrode, indeed, tried hard to keep up a conversation about the ships, barges, and other craft that they met, or which lay at anchor in the stream, and recalling reminiscences of trips on indian rivers. netta was the only one of his hearers who apparently took any interest in the talk. to her the scene was so new that she regarded everything with attention and pleasure, and looked with wonder at the great ships which were dragged along by tiny tugs, wondered at the rate at which the clumsy-looking barges made their way through the water, and enjoyed the rapid and easy motion with which their own boat glided along. mr. pettigrew was revolving in his mind the problem of what should next be done; while hilda's thoughts were centered upon walter, and the joy that it would be to have him with her again. "this is hole haven," the boatman in the stern said, as a wide sheet of water opened on their left. "why don't you turn in, then?" colonel bulstrode asked. "there is scarce water enough for us, sir; they are neap tides at present, and in half an hour the sands will begin to show all over there. we have to go in onto the farther side--that is, where the channel is. you see those craft at anchor; there is the landing, just in front of the low roof you see over the bank. that is the 'lobster smack,' and a very comfortable house it is; and you can get as good a glass of beer there as anywhere on the river." as they turned into the creek they saw two constables on the top of the bank, and at the head of the steps stood a gentleman talking with a coastguard officer. "that is my friend, mr. bostock," mr. pettigrew said. "he told me that, if he could manage it, he would drive over himself with the two constables. i am glad that he has been able to do so; his presence will strengthen our hands." a coast guard boat, with four sailors in it, was lying close to the steps, and the officer came down with mr. bostock, followed by the two constables. the magistrate greeted mr. pettigrew and took his place in the boat beside him, after being introduced to the two ladies and the colonel. the officer with the two constables stepped into the coastguard boat, which rowed on ahead of the other. "i could not resist the temptation of coming over to see the end of this singular affair, of which i heard from mr. pettigrew," mr. bostock said to hilda. "the officer of the coastguard is going on, partly to show us the way to the house, and partly because it will be a good opportunity for him to search the place thoroughly for smuggled goods. he tells me that the barge is up the creek now; it went up yesterday evening. so we may find the fellow at home." "now, my men," colonel bulstrode said to the boatmen, "we have got to follow that boat. you will have plenty of time for beer when you get there, and a good lunch besides. so pull your hardest; we have not got very far to go. can either of you men row?" [illustration: "i am a magistrate of the county of essex."--_page ._] "i can pull a bit," roberts said, and, aided by the sail and the three oars, the boat went along at a fair rate through the water, the coastguard boat keeping a short distance ahead of them. after a quarter of an hour's rowing the bargeman's house came in view. the revenue officer pointed to it. "now, row your hardest, men," colonel bulstrode said; "we have but a hundred yards further to go." the two boats rowed up to the bank together; mr. bostock sprang out, as did the constables and sailors, and ran up the bank, the others following at once. as they appeared on the bank a boy working in the garden gave a shrill whistle; a man immediately appeared at the door and looked surprised at the appearance of the party. he stepped back a foot, and then, as if changing his mind, came out and closed the door after him. "i am a magistrate of the county of essex," mr. bostock said, "and i have come to see a warrant executed for the search of your house for a child named walter rivington, who is believed to be concealed here, and who has been stolen from the care of his guardians." "i know nothing of any child of that name," the man replied, "but i have a child here that i am taking care of for a gentleman in london; i have had him here for just a year, and no one has made any inquiries about him. you are welcome to enter and see if he is the one you are in search of. if he is, all that i can say is that i know nothing about his being stolen, and shall be very sorry to lose him." he stood aside, and the two constables entered, followed closely by hilda. the latter gave a cry of joy, for seated on the ground, playing with a box of soldiers, was walter. she would hardly have known him anywhere else. his curls had been cut short, his face was brown and tanned, and his clothes, although scrupulously clean, were such as would be worn by any bargeman's boy at that age. the child looked up as they entered. hilda ran to him, and caught him up in her arms. "don't you know me, walter? don't you remember cousin hilda?" "yes, i remember you," the child said, now returning her embrace. "you used to tell me stories and take me out in a carriage for drives. where have you been so long? and where is grandpapa? oh, here is netta!" and as hilda put him down he ran to her, for during the four months spent in the country she had been his chief playmate. "i have learned to swim, netta. uncle bill has taught me himself; and he is going to take me out in his barge some day." the woman, who had come in with her arms covered with lather, from the little washhouse adjoining the house, now came forward. "i hope, miss, that there is nothing wrong," she said to hilda. "we have done our best for the little boy, and i have come to care for him just as if he had been my own; and if you are going to take him away i shall miss him dreadful, for he is a dear little fellow," and she burst into tears. walter struggled from netta's arms, and ran to the woman, and, pulling her by the apron, said: "don't cry, aunt betsy; jack is not going away from you. jack will stay here; he likes going in a barge better than riding in a carriage." "well, miss covington," mr. bostock said, "the recognition appears to be complete on both sides; now what is the next step? do you give this man into custody for unlawfully concealing this child and aiding and abetting in his abduction?" "will you wait a minute while i speak to mr. pettigrew?" she said; and they went out of the house together. "well, what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" "i have been thinking it over all the way as we came down," the lawyer said. "of course, we have no shadow of proof that this man was aware who the child was, and, in fact, if he had seen the placards offering altogether fifteen hundred pounds for his recovery, we must certainly assume that he would have given him up; for however well he may have been paid for taking charge of him, the offer would have been too tempting for a man of that kind to have resisted. no doubt he had strong suspicions, but you can hardly say that it amounted to guilty knowledge that the child had been abducted. if walter had been ill-treated i should have said at once, 'give him into custody'; but this does not seem to have been the case." "no; they have evidently been very kind to him. i am so grateful for that that i should be sorry to do the man any harm." "that is not the only point," the lawyer went on. "it is evident that the other people very seldom come down here, and from what you heard, in future simcoe is going to write. if we arrest this man the others will know at once that the game is up. now, if you will take the child away quietly, we can tell the man that he shall not be prosecuted, providing that he takes no steps whatever to inform his employers that the child is gone; even if one of them came down here to see the child, the wife must say that he is away on the barge. anyhow, we shall have ample time to decide upon what steps to take against simcoe, and can lay hands upon him whenever we choose; whereas, if he got an inkling that we had discovered the child, he and his associate would probably disappear at once, and we might have lots of trouble to find them." "yes, i think that would be a very good plan, mr. pettigrew. i will ask him and his wife to come out." "that will be the best way, my dear. we could hardly discuss the matter before bostock." hilda went in. as soon as she spoke to the man and his wife mr. bostock said, "if you want a conference, miss covington, i will go out and leave you to talk matters over." he and the two constables withdrew, and mr. pettigrew came in. "now, my man," he began, "you must see that you have placed yourself in a very awkward position. you are found taking care of a child that has been stolen, and for whose recovery large rewards have been offered all over the country. it is like the case of a man found hiding stolen goods. he would be called upon to account for their being in his possession. now, it is hardly possible that you can have been ignorant that this child was stolen. you may not have been told so in words, but you cannot have helped having suspicions. from what the child no doubt said when he first came here, you must have been sure that he had been brought up in luxury. no doubt he spoke of rides in a carriage, of servants, his nurse, and so on. however, miss covington is one of the child's guardians, and i am the other, and we are most reluctant to give you in charge. it is evident, from the behavior of the child, and from the affection that he shows to yourself and your wife, that you have treated him very kindly since he has been here, and these toys i see about show that you have done your best to make him happy." "that we have, sir," the man said. "betsy and i took to him from the first. we have no children of our own, none living at least, and we have made as much of him as if he had been one of our own--perhaps more. we have often talked it over, and both thought that we were not doing the fair thing by him, and were, perhaps, keeping him out of his own. i did not like having anything to do with it at first, but i had had some business with the man who gave him to me, and when he asked me to undertake the job it did not seem to me so serious an affair as it has done since. i am heartily sorry that we have had any hand in it; not only because we have done the child harm, but because it seems that we are going to lose him now that we have come to care for him as if he was our own." "of course you played only a minor part in the business, nibson. we quite understand that, and it is the men who have carried out this abduction that we want to catch. do you know the name of the man who brought the child to you?" "i don't, sir. he knows where to find me, but i have no more idea than a child unborn who he is or where he lives. when he writes to me, which he generally does before he comes down, which may be two or three times a month, or may be once in six months, he signs himself smith. i don't suppose that is his right name, but i say fairly that if i knew it, and where he lived, i would not peach upon him. he has always been straight with me in the business i have done with him, and i would rather take six months for this affair than say anything against him." "we are not asking you at present to say anything against him, and he is not the principal man in this business. i believe he is only acting as agent for another more dangerous rascal than himself. we are not prepared at the present moment to arrest the chief scoundrel. before we do that we must obtain evidence that will render his conviction a certainty. we have reason to believe that this man that you know will not come down for some time, and that you will receive the money for the child's keep by post; but if we abstain altogether from prosecuting you in this matter, you must give us your word that you will not take any steps whatever to let them know that the child is no longer with you. he says that you promised to take him out in your barge. well, if by any chance this man--not your man, but the other--comes down here, and wants to see the child, you or your wife will lead him to believe that he is on board your barge. it will also be necessary that, if we do arrest them, you should enter as a witness to prove that the man handed the child over to you. you could let it be seen that you are an unwilling witness, but the evidence of the handing over of the child will be an absolute necessity." "all right, sir, i will undertake that. there is no fear of my letting him know that the child has gone, for i don't know where to write him; and if he or the other should come down, if i am here i shall have no difficulty in keeping it from him that the child has gone, for my man has never set foot in this house. he just meets me on the road near pitsea, says what he has to say, and gives me what he has to give me, and then drives off again. of course, if i am summoned as a witness, i know that the law can make me go. i remember now that when he gave me the child he said he was doing it to oblige a friend of his, and he may be able to prove that he had nothing to do with carrying it off." "that is as it may be," the lawyer said dryly. "however, we are quite content with your promise." "and i thank you most heartily, you and your wife," hilda covington said warmly, "for your kindness to the child. it would have made me very happy all this time if i could have known that he was in such good hands, but i pictured him shut up in some vile den in london, ill treated, and half starved. he has grown very much since he has been with you, and looks a great deal more boyish than he did." "yes, he plays a good deal with my barge boy, who has taken to him just as we have." "well, your kindness will not be forgotten nor unrewarded, mr. nibson." "i'm sure we don't want any reward, miss; we have been well paid. but even if we hadn't been paid at all after the first month, we should have gone on keeping him just the same." "now, walter," hilda said, "we want you to come home with us; we have all been wanting you very badly. nurse and tom roberts have been in a terrible way, and so has dr. leeds. you remember him, don't you? he was very kind to you all the time that you were down in the country." the child nodded. "i should like to see tom roberts and nurse, but i don't want to go away. i am going out in the barge soon." "well, dear, i dare say that we shall be able to arrange for you to come down sometimes, and to go out in it, especially as you have learned to swim. we are going away now in a boat." "i often go out in the boat," walter pouted. "i go with joshua; he is a nice boy, joshua is, and i like him." "well, dear, we will see what we can do for joshua." "you are sure that i shall come back and go out in the barge?" "quite sure, dear; and perhaps i will go out with you, too." "yes, you must go, like a good boy," mrs. nibson said. "you know, dear, that i shall always love you, and shall be very, very glad if the ladies can spare you to come down to see me sometimes. you won't forget me, will you?" "no, aunt betsy, i shall never forget you; i promise you that," the child said. "and i don't want to go away from you at all, only cousin hilda says i must." mr. pettigrew went out to tell mr. bostock that they should not give nibson into custody. "the principal scoundrels would take the alarm instantly," he said, "and, above all things, we want to keep them in the dark until we are ready to arrest them. it will be much better that we should have this man to call as a witness than that he should appear in the dock as an accomplice." "i think that you are right there," the magistrate agreed; "and really, he and his wife seem to have been very kind to the child. i have been talking to this young barge boy. it seems he is no relation of these people. his mother was a tramp, who died one winter's night on the road to pitsea. he was about ten or eleven years old then, and they would have sent him to the workhouse; but nibson, who was on the coroner's jury, volunteered to take him, and i dare say he finds him very useful on board the barge. at any rate, he has been well treated, and says that nibson is the best master on the river. so the fellow must have some good in him, though, from what the coastguard officer said, there are very strong suspicions that he is mixed up in the smuggling business, which, it seems, is still carried on in these marshes. well, no doubt you have decided wisely; and now, i suppose, we shall be off." at this moment they were joined by the coastguard officer. "he has done us again," he said. "we have been investigating these outhouses thoroughly, and there is no question that he has had smuggled goods here. we found a clever hiding-place in that cattle-shed. it struck me that it was a curious thing that there should be a stack of hay built up right against the side of it. so we took down a plank or two, and i was not surprised to find that there was a hollow in the stack. one of the men stamped his foot, and the sound showed that there was another hollow underneath. we dug up the ground, and found, six inches below it, a trapdoor, and on lifting it discovered a hole five or six feet deep and six feet square. it was lined with bricks, roughly cemented together. it is lucky for him that the place is empty, and i should think that after this he will go out of the business for a time. of course we cannot arrest a man merely for having a hidden cellar; i fancy that there are not many houses on the marshes that have not some places of the sort. indeed, i am rather glad that we did not catch him, for in other respects nibson is a decent, hard-working fellow. sometimes he has a glass or two at the 'lobster smack,' but never takes too much, and is always very quiet and decent in his talk. i doubt whether the men would have found that hiding-place if i had not been there; they all know him well, and would not get him into a scrape if they could help it, though there are some fellows on the marshes they would give a month's pay to catch with kegs or tobacco." the door of the house opened, and the three women and nibson came out with walter, who was now dressed in the clothes that they had brought down for him. while the others were getting ready to enter the boat the officer took nibson aside. "you have had a close squeak of it, nibson; we found your hiding-place under the stack, and it is lucky for you that it was empty. so we have nothing to say to you. i should advise you to give it up, my man; sooner or later you are bound to be caught." the man's brow had darkened as the officer began, but it cleared up again. "all right," he said; "i have been thinking for the last half hour that i shall drop the business altogether, but when a man once gets into it, it is not so easy to get out. now that you have found that cellar, it is a good excuse to cut it. i can well say that i dare not risk it again, for that, after so nearly catching me, you would be sure to keep an extra sharp eye on me in the future." "you give me your word for that, nibson?" "yes, sir; i swear off it altogether from the present day." "good. i will take your word for it, and you can go in and come out as you like without being watched, and you need not fear that we shall pay you another visit." walter went off in fair spirits. the promise that he should come down again and see his friends and have a sail in the barge lessened the pang of leaving, and as hilda's and netta's faces came more strongly back to him, as they talked to him and recalled pleasant things that had almost faded from his memory, he went away contentedly, while betsy nibson went back to the house and had what she called "a good cry." she too, however, cheered up when her husband told her how narrow an escape he had had, and how he had given his word that he would drop smuggling altogether. "that makes my mind easier than it has been for years, bill. and will you give up the other thing, too? there may not be much harm in running kegs and bacca, but there is no doubt about its being wrong to have anything to do with stolen goods and to mix yourself up with men who steal them." "yes, i will give that up, too, betsy; and, as soon as i have time to look round, i will give an order for a new barge to be built for me. i have been ashamed of the old thing for a long time past with her patched sails. of course, she suited my purpose, for when the other barges kept on their course it gave me a good excuse for anchoring; but it aint pleasant to have every barge passing you. there is old joe hargett; he said the other day that, if i ever thought of getting a new barge, he would give a hundred for her. he has got a set of decent sails, and he is a pretty handy carpenter, and no doubt he will make her look decent again. a hundred pounds aint much, but it will help. i can get a new one complete, sails and all, for fourteen or fifteen hundred, and have a hundred or two left in the bag afterwards. i tell you what, betsy, i will get an extra comfortable cabin made, and a place forward for joshua. it will be dull for you here now the child is gone, and it would be a sight more comfortable for us both to be always together." "that it will, bill," she said joyfully. "i was always very happy on board till we lost our billy. i took a dislike to it then, and was glad enough to come here; but i have got over it now, and this place is very lonely during the long winter nights when you are away." then they talked over the barge, and how the cabin should be fitted up, and, in spite of having lost walter, the evening was a pleasant one to them. that was not the only conversation that took place that day with reference to a new barge for bill nibson. as they rowed up against the tide, hilda said: "we must do something for that bargeman, colonel bulstrode. i am sure we cannot be too grateful to him and his wife for their treatment of walter. think how different it might have been had he fallen into bad hands. now he looks the picture of health; the change in the life and the open air has done wonders. you know, dr. leeds said that the officer of the coastguard had told him that nibson's barge was one of the oldest and rottenest crafts on the river. now, i propose that we buy him a new one. what would it cost, colonel bulstrode?" "i have not the slightest idea," the colonel replied; "it might cost five hundred pounds, or it might cost five thousand, for all i know." "i will ask the waterman," hilda said, and raising her voice she said, "how much do barges cost when they are new?" "from ten or eleven hundred up to fifteen," the man said. "does that include sails and all?" "yes, miss; down to the boat." "who is considered the best barge-builder?" "well, there are a good many of them, miss; but i should say that gill, of rochester, is considered as good as any." "what do you think, mr. pettigrew?" hilda said. "should we, as walter's guardians, be justified in spending this money? mind, i don't care a bit whether we are or not, because i would buy it myself if it would not be right for us to use his money." "i am afraid that it would not be right," mr. pettigrew said. "as a trustee of the property, i should certainly not feel myself justified in sanctioning such a sum being drawn, though i quite admit that this good couple should be rewarded. i cannot regard a barge as a necessary; anything in reason that the child could require we should be justified in agreeing to. of course, whatever may be his expenses at a public school, we should pay them without hesitation; but for a child of that age to give a present of fifteen hundred pounds would be altogether beyond our power to sanction." "very well," hilda said decidedly, "then i shall take the matter into my own hands, and i shall go down to rochester to-morrow and see if these people have a barge ready built. i don't know whether they are the sort of things people keep in stock." "that i can't say, my dear. i should think it probable that in slack times they may build a barge or two on speculation, for the purpose of keeping their hands employed, but whether that is the case now or not i don't know. if these people at rochester have not got one you may hear of one somewhere else. i want you all to come up to the office one day next week to talk over this matter of the order simcoe is applying for--for us to carry out the provisions of the will--at any rate, as far as his legacy is concerned." "very well, mr. pettigrew, i will come up any time that you write to me, but you know that i have very strong opinions about it." "i know your opinions are strong, as ladies' opinions generally are," mr. pettigrew said with a smile; "but, unfortunately, they are much more influenced by their own view of matters than by the legal bearing of them. however, we will talk that over when we meet again." the arrival of walter occasioned the most lively joy in hyde park gardens. hilda had written to his nurse, who had gone home to live with her mother when all hope of finding walter had seemed to be at an end, to tell her that he would probably be at home on wednesday evening, and that she was to be there to meet him. her greeting of him was rapturous. it had been a source of bitter grief to her that he had been lost through a momentary act of carelessness on her part, and the relief that hilda's letter had caused was great indeed. the child was scarcely less pleased to see her, for he retained a much more vivid recollection of her than he did of the others. he had already been told of his grandfather's death, but a year had so effaced his memory of him that he was not greatly affected at the news. in the course of a few hours he was almost as much at home in the house as if he had never left it. chapter xxiv. a new barge. the next morning hilda went down to rochester with netta, tom roberts accompanying them. they had no difficulty in discovering the barge-builder's. it seemed to the girls a dirty-looking place, thickly littered as it was with shavings; men were at work on two or three barges which seemed, thus seen out of the water, an enormous size. "which is mr. gill?" hilda asked a man passing. "that is him, miss," and he pointed to a man who was in the act of giving directions to some workmen. they waited until he had finished, and then went up to him. "i want to buy a barge, mr. gill," hilda said. "to buy a barge!" he repeated in surprise, for never before had he had a young lady as a customer. hilda nodded. "i want to give it to a bargeman who has rendered me a great service," as if it were an everyday occurrence for a young lady to buy a barge as a present. "i want it at once, please; and it is to be a first-class barge. how much would it cost?" the builder rubbed his chin. "well, miss, it is a little unusual to sell a barge right off in this way; as a rule people want barges built for them. some want them for speed, some want them for their carrying capacity." "i want a first-class barge," hilda replied. "i suppose it will be for traffic on the thames, and that he will like it to be fast." "well, miss," the builder said slowly, for he could not yet quite persuade himself that this young lady was really prepared to pay such a sum as a new barge would cost, "i have got such a barge. she was launched last week, but i had a dispute with the man for whom i built her, and i said that i would not hold him to his bargain, and that he could get a barge elsewhere. he went off in a huff, but i expect he will come back before long and ask me to let him have her, and i should not be altogether sorry to say that she is gone. she is a first-class barge, and i expect that she will be as fast as anything on the river. of course, i have got everything ready for her--masts, sails, and gear, even down to her dingey--and in twenty-four hours she would be ready to sail. the price is fifteen hundred pounds," and he looked sharply at hilda to see what effect that communication would have. to his great surprise she replied quietly: "that is about the sum i expected, mr. gill. can we look at her?" "certainly, miss; she is lying alongside, and it is nearly high tide." he led the way over piles of balks of timber, across sloppy pieces of ground, over which at high tide water extended, to the edge of the wharf, where the barge floated. she was indeed all ready for her mast; her sides shone with fresh paint, her upper works were painted an emerald green, a color greatly in favor among bargemen, and there was a patch of the same on her bow, ready for the name, surrounded by gilt scrollwork. "there she is, miss; as handsome a barge as there is afloat." "i want to see the cabin. what a little place!" she went on, as she and netta went down through a narrow hatchway, "and how low!" "it is the usual height in barges, miss, and the same size, unless especially ordered otherwise." "i should like the cabin to be made very comfortable, for i think the boatman will have his wife on board. could it not be made a little larger?" "there would be no great difficulty about that. you see, this is a water-tight compartment, but of course it could be carried six feet farther forward and a permanent hatchway be fixed over it, and the lining made good in the new part. as to height, one might put in a good-sized skylight; it would not be usual, but of course it could be done." "and you could put the bed-place across there, could you not, and put a curtain to draw across it?" "yes, that could be managed easy enough, miss; and it would make a very tidy cabin." "then how much would that cost extra?" "forty or fifty pounds, at the outside." "and when could you get it all finished, and everything painted a nice color?" "i could get it done in a week or ten days, if you made a point of it." "i do make a point of it," hilda said. "what do you say to our leaving this bulkhead up as it is, miss, and making a door through it, and putting a small skylight, say three feet square, over the new part? you see, it will be fifteen feet wide by six feet, so that it will make a tidy little place. it would not cost more than the other way, not so much perhaps; for it would be a lot of trouble to get this bulkhead down, and then, you see, the second hand could have his bunk in here, on the lockers, and be quite separate." "isn't there a cabin at the other end?" "well, there is one, miss; you can come and look at it. that is where the second hand always sleeps when the bargeman has got his wife on board." "i think that it would be better to have the second hand sleep there," hilda said. "this is very rough," she went on, when she inspected the little cabin forward; "there are all the beams sticking out. surely it can be made more comfortable than this." "we could matchboard the timbers over if you like, but it is not usual." "never mind, please do it; and put some lockers up for his clothes, and make it very comfortable. has the barge got a name yet?" "well, miss, we have always called her the _medway_; but there is no reason that you should stick to that name. she has not been registered yet, so we can call her any name you like." "then we will call her the _walter_," hilda said, for the girls had already settled this point between them. "and now, mr. gill, i suppose there is nothing to do but to give you a check for fifteen hundred pounds, and i can pay for the alterations when i come down next monday week. can you get me a couple of men who understand the work--bargees, don't you call them? i want them to take her as far as hole haven and a short way up the creek." "i can do that easily enough," the builder said; "and i promise you that everything shall be ready for sailing, though i don't guarantee that the paint in the new part of the cabin will be dry. all the rest i can promise. i will set a strong gang of men on at once." a few days later hilda wrote a line to william nibson, saying that she intended to come down with the child on the following monday, and hoped that he would be able to make it convenient to be at home on that day. "she is not long in coming down again, betsy," he said, when on the friday the barge went up to pitsea again, and he received the letter, which was carried home and read by his wife, he himself being, like most of his class at the time, unable to read or write. "i suppose the child pined in his new home, and she had to pacify him by saying that he should come down and see us next week. that will suit me very well. i have a load of manure waiting for me at rotherhithe; it is for farmer gilston, near pitsea, so that i shall just manage it comfortably. next week i will go over to rochester and see if i can hear of a good barge for sale." on the following monday morning the girls again went down to rochester, this time taking walter with them; having the previous week sent off three or four great parcels by luggage train. roberts went to look for a cart to bring them to the barge-builder's, and the girls went on alone. "there she lies, miss," mr. gill said, pointing to a barge with new tanned sails lying out in the stream; "she is a boat any man might be proud of." "she looks very nice indeed," hilda said, "though, of course, i am no judge of such things." "you may be sure that she is all right, miss covington." "is the paint dry, down below?" "yes. i saw that you were anxious about it, so put plenty of drier in. so that, though she was only painted on saturday morning, she is perfectly dry now. but you are rather earlier than i had expected." "yes; we have sent a lot of things down by rail. our man is getting a cart, and i dare say they will be here in a quarter of an hour." the things were brought on a large hand-cart, and as soon as these were carried down to the boat they went off with mr. gill to the barge. "there, miss," he said, as he led the way down into the cabin; "there is not a barge afloat with such a comfortable cabin as this. i put up two or three more cupboards, for as they will sleep in the next room there is plenty of space for them." except in point of height, the cabin was as comfortable a little room as could be desired. it was painted a light slate color, with the panels of the closets of a lighter shade of the same. the inner cabin was of the same color. a broad wooden bedstead extended across one end, and at the other were two long cupboards extending from the ceiling to the floor. the skylight afforded plenty of light to this room, while the large one in the main cabin gave standing height six feet square in the middle. "it could not have been better," hilda said, greatly pleased. "well, miss, i took upon myself to do several things in the way of cupboards, and so on, that you had not ordered, but seeing that you wanted to have things comfortable i took upon myself to do them." "you did quite right, mr. gill. this big skylight makes all the difference in height. i see that you have painted the name, and that you have got a flag flying from the masthead." "yes; bargemen generally like a bit of a flag, that is to say if they take any pride in their boat. you cannot trade in the barge until you have had it registered; shall i get that done for you?" "yes, i should be very much obliged if you would." "and in whose name shall i register it? in yours?" "no; in the name of william nibson. if you want his address it is creek farm, pitsea." "well, miss, he is a lucky fellow. i will get it done, and he can call here for the register the first time he comes up the medway." roberts was sent ashore again for a number of hooks, screws, and a few tools. "now, mr. gill, we are quite ready to start. we shall get things straight on the voyage." "you will have plenty of time, miss; she will anchor off grain spit till the tide begins to run up hard. you won't be able to get up the creek till an hour before high tide." "that won't matter," hilda said; "it will not be dark till nine." "you can get up the anchor now," the builder said to two men who had been sitting smoking in the bow. the barge's boat was lying bottom upwards on the hatches and another boat lay behind her. "this boat does not belong to her, mr. gill; does she?" hilda asked. "no, miss; that is the men's boat. when they have got the barge to where she is to be moored, they will row down to hole haven, and get a tow up with the first barge that comes down after the tide has turned. how will you be coming back, miss covington?" "we have arranged for a gig to be at hole haven at eight o'clock to drive us to brentwood, where we shall take train to town. we shall not be up before half-past eleven, but as we have our man with us that does not matter; besides, the carriage is to be at the station to meet the train." the girls and walter watched the operation of getting up the anchor and of setting the foresail and jib. they remained on deck while the barge beat down the long reach past the dockyards, and then with slackened sheets rounded the wooded curve down into gillingham reach, then, accompanied by roberts, they went below. here they were soon hard at work. the great packages were opened, and mattresses and bedclothes brought out. "this reminds one of our work when you first came to us," netta laughed, as they made the bed. "yes, it is like old times, certainly. we used to like to work then, because we were doing it together; we like it still more to-day, because not only are we together, but we are looking forward to the delight that we are going to give." carpets were laid down, curtains hung to the bed, and a wash-hand stand fixed in its place. a hamper of crockery was unpacked and the contents placed on the shelves that had been made for them, and cooking utensils arranged on the stove, which had been obtained for them by the builder. by this time roberts had screwed up the hooks in the long cupboards, and in every spot round both cabins where they could be made available. then numerous japanned tin boxes, filled with tea, sugar, and other groceries, were stowed away, and a large one with a label, "tobacco," placed on a shelf for bill nibson's special delectation. curtains that could be drawn were fixed to the skylights, looking-glasses fastened against the walls, and by the time that the barge neared sheerness their labors were finished. then the forward cabin was similarly made comfortable. walter had assisted to the best of his power in all the arrangements, and when he became tired was allowed to go up on deck, on his promise to remain quiet by the side of the helmsman. "now i think that everything is in its place," hilda said at last, "and really they make two very pretty little rooms. i can't say that the one in the bow is pretty, but at any rate it is thoroughly comfortable, and i have no doubt that joshua will be as pleased with it as the nibsons are with theirs. oh, dear, how dusty one gets! and we never thought of getting water on board for the jugs." on going up on deck, however, they observed two barrels lashed together. "are those water?" hilda asked the man at the tiller. "yes, ma'am." "how do you get it out? i don't see a tap." "you put that little pump lying by the side into the bunghole. i will do it for you, miss." "now we will go downstairs and tidy up, and then come and sit up here and enjoy ourselves," said hilda. when they were below they heard a rattle of the chain, and, on going up, found that the barge had come to anchor in the midst of some thirty or forty others. the foresail had been run down and the jib lowered, but the great mainsail, with its huge, brightly painted sprit, was still standing. roberts now opened a hamper that had been left on deck, and produced luncheon. cold meat and beer were handed to the two watermen, who went up into the bow to eat it. an hour later the tide began to slacken, and many of the barges got up sail. "shall we get up the anchor, ma'am?" one of the watermen asked. "there's plenty of time, is there not?" hilda asked. "yes, ma'am, but we thought that you would like to see how she goes with the others." "yes, i should like that," hilda said, and in a few minutes the barge was under sail again. "she is a clipper, and no mistake," the man at the tiller said, as one by one they passed the barges that had started ahead of them, and walter clapped his hands in delight. "we may as well go down to the lower end of the hope, miss. we shall have plenty of time to get back again before there is water enough for us in the creek." for three hours they sailed about, the girls enjoying it as much as walter. "i do think, netta, that i shall have to buy a barge on my own account. it is splendid, and, after all, the cabins are large enough for anything." "you had better have a yacht," netta laughed. "you would soon get tired of always going up and down the river." "one might do worse," hilda said. "of course, now we shall give up that big house in hyde park gardens, which is ridiculous for me and the boy. we have each got a country house, and when we want a thorough change i would infinitely rather have a yacht than a small house in town. i don't suppose that it would cost very much more. besides, you know, it is arranged that i am always to have rooms at your house at the institute. that is to be the next thing seen after; you know that is quite agreed upon." "i shall be glad to be at work again," netta said. "now that walter is found, there is certainly nothing to keep us any longer in town." "i know that it must have been horribly dull for you, netta, but you see that you are partly to blame yourself for refusing to go out with me." "that would have been duller still," netta laughed. "i should have been a long time before i got to know people, and there is no good in knowing people when you are going right away from them in a short time, and may never meet them again." at last the men said that there would be water enough to get up the creek. "we shan't be able to sail up, miss; you see, the wind will be right in our teeth. but that don't matter; we can pole her up. the tide will take us along, and we shall only have to keep her straight and get her round the corners." "are you sure that there will be water enough?" "yes, miss. you see, she is empty, and doesn't draw much more than a foot of water." as they entered the haven the head sails were dropped and the mainsail brailed up. the tide was running in strong, and, as the men had said, they had nothing to do but to keep the barge in the deepest part of the channel. * * * * * "how do you think they will be coming, bill?" betsy nibson said, as she joined her husband, who was standing on the bank dressed in his sunday clothes. "i cannot say, betsy; if i had known i should have gone to meet them. they cannot drive here from pitsea, but must walk; and, of course, i would have been there if i had been sure of their coming that way. but i should think most likely that they will drive to the haven and come up by boat." "there is a new barge coming up the creek," joshua said. "you can see that she is new by her spars and sails." "that's so, boy," bill agreed. "she has got a flag i haven't seen before at her masthead. it is white, and i think there are some red letters on it--her name, i suppose. 'tis not often that a new barge comes up to pitsea. she is a fine-looking craft," he went on, as a turning in the creek brought her wholly into view. "a first-class barge, i should say. yes, there is no doubt about her being new. i should say, from the look of her spars, she cannot have made many trips up and down the river." "she has got a party on board," mrs. nibson said presently. "there are two women and a child. perhaps it's them, bill. they may have some friend in the barge line, and he has offered to bring them down, seeing that this is a difficult place to get at." "i believe you are right, betsy. they are too far off to see their faces, but they are certainly not barge people." "they are waving their handkerchiefs!" betsy exclaimed; "it is them, sure enough. well, we have wondered how they would come down, but we never thought of a barge." the three hurried along the bank to meet the barge. walter danced and waved his hat and shouted loudly to them as they approached. "you did not expect to see us arrive in a barge, mrs. nibson," hilda called out as they came abreast of them. "no, indeed, miss; we talked it over together as to how you would come, but we never thought of a barge." "it belongs to a friend of ours, and we thought that it would be a pleasant way of coming. she is a new boat. you must come on board and have a look at her before we land." in a few minutes the barge was alongside the bank, opposite the house. a plank was run across and walter scampered over it to his friends. "bless his little face!" mrs. nibson said, as she lifted him up to kiss her. "what a darling he looks, bill! and he has not forgotten us a bit." "he could not well forget in a week," bill said, rather gruffly, for he, too, was moved by the warmth of the child's welcome. "well, let us go on board and pay our respects. she is a fine barge, surely; and she has got the same name as the child." "why, it is not 'jack,'" his wife said, looking up. "jack!" her husband repeated scornfully. "didn't they call him walter the other day? go on, wife; the lady is waiting at the end of the plank for you." mrs. nibson put the child down and followed him across the plank, smoothing her apron as she went. "my best respects, miss," she said, as hilda shook hands with her warmly. "we are glad to see you again, mrs. nibson, and hope that you have not missed walter very much." "i cannot say that i have not missed him a good deal, miss, but, luckily, we have had other things to think about. we are giving up the farm; it is lonesome here in the winter, and i am going to take to barge life again." "well, what do you think of this barge, mr. nibson?" hilda asked. "i allow she is a handsome craft, and she ought to be fast." "she is fast. we have been sailing about until there was enough water in the creek, and we have passed every barge that we have come near. she is comfortable, too. come below and look at her cabin." "well, i never!" mrs. nibson said, pausing in astonishment at the foot of the ladder. "i have been in many barge cabins, but never saw one like this." her surprise increased when the door of the bulkhead was opened and she saw the sleeping cabin beyond. "did you ever, bill?" "no, i never saw two cabins in a barge before," her husband said. "i suppose, miss, the owner must have had the cabin specially done up for his own use sometimes, and the crew lived forward." "there is a place forward for the second hand," she replied, "and i suppose the owner will sleep here." "of course it is a loss of space, but she will carry a big load, too. who is the owner, miss, if i may make so bold as to ask?" "the registered owner is william nibson," hilda said quietly. the bargeman and his wife gazed at each other in astonishment. "but," he said hesitatingly, "i have never heard of any owner of that name." "except yourself, nibson." "yes, except myself; but i am not an owner, as i have sold the _mary ann_." "there is no other owner now," she said, "that i know of, of that name. the barge is yours. it is bought as testimony of our gratitude for the kindness that you have shown walter, and you see it is named after him." "it is too much, miss," said bill huskily, while his wife burst into tears. "it is too much altogether. we only did our duty to the child, and we were well paid for it." "you did more than your duty," hilda said. "the money might pay for food and shelter and clothes, but money cannot buy love, and that is what you gave, both of you; and it is for that that we now pay as well as we can." "miss covington should say 'i,'" netta broke in, "for it is her present entirely. walter's trustees could not touch his money for the purpose, and so she has done it herself." "hush, netta! you should have said nothing about it," hilda said; and then, turning to nibson, went on, "i am his nearest relative--his only relative, in fact--besides being his guardian, and, therefore, naturally i am the most interested in his happiness; and as, fortunately, i am myself very well off, i can well afford the pleasure of helping those who have been so good to him. please do not say anything more about it. now we will go on deck for a few minutes, and leave you and your wife to look round. we will show joshua his cabin." so saying, she and netta went on deck. joshua, led by walter, was just crossing the plank. he had not received a special invitation, and he felt too shy to go on board with these ladies present. walter, however, had run across to him, and at last persuaded him to come. "well, joshua," hilda said, as she reached him, "what do you think of the barge?" "she is as good a one as ever i seed," the boy said. "well, joshua, she belongs to mr. nibson." "to bill?" joshua exclaimed. "you don't mean it, miss." "i do mean it," she said; "this is his barge." "well, i shouldn't have thought that bill was that artful!" joshua exclaimed almost indignantly. "fancy his keeping it from the missis and me that he had been and bought a new barge! but she is a fine one, there aint no doubt about that." "come forward and look at your cabin, joshua. i think you will say that it is more comfortable than usual." "well, i am blowed!" the boy ejaculated, as he followed her down the ladder and looked round. "why, it is a palace, that is wot it is; it is more comfortable than the master's cabin aft in most barges. and what a bed! why, it is soft enough for a hemperor." "there are no sheets, joshua. they told me that the men never use sheets in barges." "lor' bless you! no, ma'am. we mostly stretch ourselves on the locker and roll ourselves up in a blanket, if we are lucky enough to have one. why, i don't know as i shan't be afraid of getting into that bed, though i does take a header in the water every morning. there are lockers on both sides, too, and a basin. who ever heard of such a thing as a basin? why, miss, we allus washes in the pail on deck." "well, i should think that it would be a good deal more comfortable to wash down here in a basin on a cold morning." "well, i suppose it might, miss; it be sharp sometimes outside. why, there is oilcloth all over the floor, and a mat to wipe one's feet at the bottom of the ladder, and a rug by the side of the bed! i never did see such things. bill must have gone clean off his chump. well, i am blessed!" "it is miss covington who has given bill the barge and seen to its being fitted up," netta said, "and she has done her best to make your cabin as comfortable as possible, because you have been so kind to walter." "and i hope to do some more for you, joshua, when i can see my way to do it. you will find two or three suits of clothes for your work in those lockers. i do not know that they will quite fit, but i dare say if they don't mrs. nibson can alter them for you, and you will find shirts and warm underclothing, and so on, in that cupboard." joshua sat down suddenly on a locker, completely overpowered with what seemed to him the immensity of his possessions. there the girls left him, and they went up on deck again. going aft, they sat down and talked for a few minutes, and were then joined by nibson and his wife. the latter still bore traces of tears on her cheeks, and there was a suspicious redness about bill's eyes. "we won't try to say what we would like to say," the man began, "'cause we could not say it, but we feels it just the same. here we are with everything man or woman could wish for, ready to hand." "as i have said before, nibson, please do not say anything more about it. it has made me quite as happy to get this barge for you, and to make it comfortable, as it can do you both to receive it. and now we will go ashore." in the house they found that tea was ready, save pouring the water into the pot. a ham and a couple of cold chickens were on the table, and jam and honey were specially provided for walter. joshua did not make one of the party. after recovering from the contemplation of his own cabin he had gone aft and remained in almost awe-struck admiration at the comfort and conveniences there, until summoned by bill to take his place and help to get the new boat into the water, and to row the ladies down to hole haven. chapter xxv. a crushing exposure. the case of the application by john simcoe for an order for the trustees of the will of the late general mathieson to carry its provisions into effect was on the list of cases for the day. tom roberts was walking up and down in westminster hall, waiting for it to come on, when he saw a face he knew. "hullo, sergeant nichol, what brings you here?" "just curiosity, roberts. i happened to see in the list of cases one of simcoe against the trustees of general mathieson. 'what,' i said to himself, 'simcoe? that is the name of the chap who saved general mathieson's life.' i remember their being both brought into cantonment, as well as if it were yesterday. i was with paymaster-sergeant sanderson, the fellow who bolted a short time afterwards with three hundred pounds from the pay-chest and never was heard of afterwards. we heard that simcoe was drowned at sea; and sorry we all were, for a braver fellow never stepped in shoe leather, and there was not a man there who did not feel that he owed him a debt of gratitude for saving the brigadier's life. so when i saw the paper i said to myself, 'either the man was not drowned at all, or he must be some relation of his. i will go into court and have a look at him.'" "it is the same man, but i am sorry to say that, though he may be as brave as a lion, he is a rogue. but you can see him without going into court. that is him, talking with the man in a wig and gown and that little man in black, who is, i suppose, his lawyer. he knows me, so i won't go near him; but you can walk as close as you like to him, and take a good look at him." not content with looking once, sergeant nichol passed him backwards and forwards three times. when he rejoined roberts the latter saw that he looked flushed and excited. "what is it, sergeant?" "i don't believe it is simcoe at all," the sergeant said. "it is that man sanderson i was speaking about just now. several of us noticed how like he was to simcoe, but the expression of their faces was different. simcoe was five or six years younger, and had a pleasant expression; sanderson had a hard face. none of us liked him, he was a man one could never get friendly with; you might be in the same mess for years and not know more about him at the end than you did at the beginning. of course, they would both be changed a good deal by this time, but i don't believe that simcoe would have grown so as to be like this man; and i am sure that sanderson would. he had a mark on him that i should know him by. one day when he was a recruit his musket went off, and the ball went through his left forearm. it was only a flesh wound, but it left a blackened scar, and i will bet all that i am worth that if you turned up that fellow's sleeve you would find it there." "that is very important, sergeant. i will go and tell my young lady; she is talking with her lawyers and colonel bulstrode at the other end of the hall." hilda clapped her hands. "what do you say now, mr. pettigrew? i was right, after all. bring your friend up, roberts, and let us hear his story ourselves." sergeant nichol was fetched, and repeated the story that he had told to roberts. "thank you very much, sergeant," the barrister said. "please remain here while we talk it over. what do you think of this, mr. pettigrew?" "it would seem to explain the whole matter that has puzzled us so. i did not tell you, because it was not in my opinion at all necessary to the case, that miss covington has always maintained that the man was not simcoe, and so positive was she that her friend, miss purcell, went down to stowmarket to make inquiries. it was certainly believed by his friends there that he was simcoe, and this to my mind was quite conclusive. but i am bound to say that it did not satisfy miss covington." "may i ask, miss covington, why you took up that opinion in the first place?" "because i was convinced that he was not the sort of man who would have risked his life for another. after miss purcell came back from stowmarket we found out that just before he called on my uncle he advertised for relatives of the late john simcoe, and that the advertisement appeared not in the suffolk papers only, but in the london and provincial papers all over the country; and it was evident, if this man was john simcoe, he would not advertise all over england, instead of going down to stowmarket, where his family lived, and where he himself had lived for years. he received a reply from an old lady, an aunt of john simcoe's, living there, went down and saluted her as his aunt, at once offered to settle a pension of fifty pounds a year on her, and after remaining for three days in her house, no doubt listening to her gossip about all john simcoe's friends, went and introduced himself to them. there was probably some resemblance in height and figure, and an absence of twenty years would have effected a change in his face, so that, when it was found that his aunt unhesitatingly accepted him, the people there had no doubt whatever that it was their old acquaintance. therefore, this in no way shook my belief that he was not the man. "it turns out now, you see, that there was another man at benares at the time who was remarkably like him, and that this man was a scoundrel and a thief. when he deserted no doubt he would take another name, and having doubtless heard that john simcoe was dead, and remembering the remarks made as to his likeness to him, he was as likely to take that name as any other, though probably not with any idea of making any special use of it. when in england he may have heard general mathieson's name mentioned, and remembering that simcoe had saved the life of the general, may have thought that the name and the likeness might enable him to personate the man. he first set about establishing his identity by going down to stowmarket, and after that it was easy. i have thought it all over so many times that although it never struck me that there might have been at benares some man bearing a striking resemblance to john simcoe, all the rest is exactly as i had figured it out to my mind. now i will leave you, gentlemen, to decide what use you will make of the discovery, while i go and tell my friends of it." the seats allotted to the general public were empty, as a case of this sort offered but slight attraction even to the loungers in the hall, but a large number of barristers were present. it had been whispered about that there were likely to be some unexpected developments in the case. the counsel engaged on both sides were the leaders of the profession, who could hardly have been expected to be retained in a mere case of a formal application for an order for trustees to act upon a will. "the facts of the case, my lord," the counsel who led for john simcoe commenced, "are simple, and we are at a loss to understand how the trustees of the late general mathieson can offer any opposition to our obtaining the order asked for. nothing can be more straightforward than the facts. the late general mathieson, early in march, , made a will, which was duly signed and witnessed, bequeathing, among other legacies, the amount of ten thousand pounds to mr. john simcoe, as a mark of his gratitude for his having saved him from a tiger some twenty years before in india. the act was one of heroic bravery, and mr. simcoe nearly lost his own life in saving that of the general." he then related with dramatic power the incidents of the struggle. "there is, then, no matter of surprise that this large legacy should have been left to mr. simcoe by the general, who was a man of considerable wealth. the bulk of the property was left to his grandson, and in the event of his dying before coming of age it was to go to a niece, a miss covington, to whom only a small legacy was left; she being herself mistress of an estate and well provided for. two months afterwards the general, upon reflection, decided to enlarge his gift to mr. simcoe, and he, therefore, in another will named him, in place of miss covington, who was amply provided for, his heir in the event of his grandson's death. i may say that the second will was not drawn up by the solicitors who had framed the first will. probably, as often happens, the general preferred that the change he had effected should not be known until after his death, even to his family solicitors. he, therefore, went to a firm of equal respectability and standing, messrs. halstead & james, who have made an affidavit that he interviewed them personally on the matter, and gave them written instructions for drawing up his will, and signed it in their presence. "i may say that in all other respects, including the legacy of ten thousand pounds, the wills were absolutely identical. the trustees, after waiting until the last day permitted by law, have, to our client's surprise, proved the first of these two wills, ignoring the second; on what ground i am at a loss to understand. as my client is entitled to ten thousand pounds under either will it might be thought that the change would make little difference to him; but unhappily the circumstances have entirely changed by the fact that the general's grandson was lost or stolen on the day before his death, and in spite of the most active efforts of the police, and the offer of large rewards--my client, who was deeply affected by the loss of the child, himself offering a thousand pounds for news of his whereabouts--nothing was heard of him until two months after his disappearance, when his body was found in the canal at paddington, and after hearing evidence of identification, and examining the clothes, which all parties agreed to be those of the missing child, the jury returned a verdict that the body was that of walter rivington, and that there was no proof of how he came by his end. "as the residence of general mathieson was in hyde park gardens, no doubt the poor child strolled away from the care of a careless nurse, came to the canal, and, walking near the bank, fell in and was drowned. no one could have been more grieved than my client at this, and although it practically put him into possession of a large property, he would, i am sure, gladly forfeit a large portion of it rather than come into possession of it in so melancholy a manner. i have not heard of the slightest reason why the last will of general mathieson should be put aside. i believe that no question could arise as to his state of mind at the time that it was made. it may be that a plea of undue influence may be raised, but this, to those who knew the general, would appear absurd. he was a man of active habits, and vigorous both in mind and body. here was no case of a man living in the house and influencing an old gentleman approaching his dotage. they met only at clubs and at dinners; and although the general was rightly and naturally attached to simcoe, he was certainly not a man to be influenced against his will. i beg, therefore, to ask, my lord, that you will pronounce in favor of this second will, and issue an order to the trustees to carry out its provisions forthwith." "but upon the face of your appeal to the court, sir henry, there is no question as to the validity of the will you propound set up by the trustees?" "none, my lord. in fact, at the time the case was put down we were ignorant that there would be any attempt on the part of the trustees to dispute the second will, and that they should do so came upon us as a surprise. however, at a consultation between my learned friend and myself just before we came into court, it was agreed that, if your lordship would permit it, we would take the two matters at once. one of the trustees is a member of the firm who are and have been the family lawyers of general mathieson, and of his father before him, for a long period of years. they are gentlemen of well-known honor, who are, i am sure, as anxious as we are to obtain from your lordship a judicial decision on which they can act." "it is irregular," the judge said, "but as both parties seemed agreed upon it, it will doubtless save much expense to the estate if the whole matter can be settled at once. i will permit the whole matter to be taken. now, brother herbert, we will hear you on the other side." "i am sorry to say, my lord, that it will be impossible for me to imitate my learned brother in the brevity with which he opened the case. so far from the facts being extremely simple, they are, i may say, of a very complicated nature. we own that we have no explanation to offer with regard to the second will. it was strange, very strange, that general mathieson, a man of methodical habits, having just drawn up his will, should go to another firm of solicitors and draw up a fresh one, but the fact that the whole of the minor bequests are the same in the two wills is certainly a very strong proof, as also is the fact that the instructions for drafting the will were written by the general himself, or, at any rate, by someone intimately acquainted with the contents of that will, which we admit was difficult to believe could be the case, as the will, from the time it was signed by the general, has not been out of messrs. farmer & pettigrew's hands until it was taken for probate the other day. "now, my lord, i trust that you will allow me a certain amount of license while i go into this somewhat singular story. twenty-three years ago, general mathieson's life was saved in india by mr. john simcoe. mr. simcoe himself was seriously wounded, and when he recovered somewhat he was recommended by the surgeon who attended him to go down to calcutta at once and take a sea voyage. he did so, and embarked upon the ship _nepaul_, which was lost in a terrible gale in the bay of bengal a few days later, with, as was supposed, all hands. twenty years passed, and then to the surprise, and i may say to the delight of the general, who had much grieved over the loss of his preserver, mr. simcoe presented himself. for a moment the general did not recognize him; but it was not long before he became convinced of his identity, for he knew the officers who had been at the station at the time, and was well up in the gossip of the place, and the general at once hailed him as the man who had saved his life, introduced him to many friends, got him put up at a good club, and became, i may say, very fond of him. mr. simcoe brought up a friend or two who had known him at stowmarket, where he had an aunt still living, and the result of all this was that the general requested messrs. farmer & pettigrew to draw up a new will bequeathing to john simcoe the sum of ten thousand pounds. "then came the singular episode of the second will. a fortnight later, when at dinner at his club, the general was smitten with a strange kind of fit, from which he recovered, but only lived for a few months, a half-paralyzed invalid. he was attended during that time by dr. leeds--a gentleman with a very high reputation, and now practicing in harley street as a consulting physician. the general was brought up to town, but broke down during the journey and died two days later. "now we come to the second strange fact in this strange case. a day before his death his grandson, walter rivington, was missing. the efforts of the police, aided by a number of private detectives, failed to obtain any clew to the child until a body was found in the canal at paddington. that the body was dressed in some of the clothes worn by the child when carried off was unquestionable; but the three persons who knew walter rivington best, namely, miss covington, a friend of hers named miss purcell, who had been all the summer assisting her to nurse general mathieson, and the child's own nurse, all declared that the body was not that of the general's grandson. they were unable to adduce anything in support of this belief beyond the fact that the hair of the child found was short and to some extent bristly, whereas that of walter rivington was long and silky. the jury, however, adopted the view of the coroner that hair, however soft, when cut close to the skull will appear more or less bristly, and gave a verdict to the effect that the body was that of walter rivington. miss covington and her friends refused to accept the verdict, and continued their search for the child. "without occupying your attention by going into details, my lord, i may briefly say that a close watch was set on mr. simcoe, and it was found that he was exceedingly intimate with a man of whom no one seemed to know anything; and before i go further i will ask, my lord, that you will give orders that mr. simcoe shall not leave the court until i have finished." "you are not asking without strong reason, i trust, brother herbert?" "certainly not, my lord." the order was, therefore, given. simcoe grew very white in the face, but otherwise maintained an air of stolid indifference. "i will now go back for a moment, my lord. general mathieson was attended by three of the leading physicians in london at the time of his seizure. the symptoms were so peculiar that in all their experience they had not met a similar case. dr. leeds, however, differed from them, but being their junior could not press his opinion; but he told them that his opinion was that the fit was due to the administration of some drug unknown to the british pharmacopoeia, as the effects were precisely similar to those in cases that he had read of in africa and among other savage people, where a poison of this kind was used by the native fetich men or wizards. that opinion was confirmed rather than diminished by the subsequent progress of the malady and the final death of his patient. the one man who could benefit by the general's death was sitting next to him at dinner at the time of his seizure, and that man, according to his own statement, had been for many years knocking about among the savages of the south sea islands and the islands of the malay archipelago. "i do not accuse john simcoe of this crime, but i need hardly say that the mere possibility of such a thing heightened the strong feeling entertained by miss covington that simcoe was the author of the abduction of walter rivington. she and her devoted friend, miss purcell, pursued their investigations with unflagging energy. they suspected that the man who was very intimate with simcoe had acted as his agent in the matter, and a casual remark which was overheard in a singular manner, which will be explained when the case goes into another court, that this man was going to tilbury, gave them a clew. then, in a manner which many persons might find it very hard to believe, miss covington learned from a conversation between the two men, when together in a box at her majesty's theater, that the lad was in charge of a bargeman living near the little village of pitsea, in essex. from that place, my lord, he was brought last week, and miss covington will produce him in court, if your lordship wishes to see him. thus, then, it is immaterial to us whether your lordship pronounces for the first or second will. "but, my lord, i have not finished my story. under neither of the wills does that man take a farthing. the money was left to john simcoe; and john simcoe was drowned over twenty years ago. the man standing over there is one william sanderson, a sergeant on the paymaster's staff at benares when the real john simcoe was there. there happened to be a resemblance between this man and him, so strong that it was generally remarked upon by his comrades. this man sanderson deserted soon after simcoe was drowned, taking with him three hundred pounds of the paymaster's money. there was a sharp hue and cry after him, but he managed to make his escape. all this is a certainty, but we may assume without much difficulty that the man changed his name as soon as he got to calcutta, and nothing was more likely than that he should take the name of john simcoe, whom he had been told that he so strongly resembled. "for twenty years we hear nothing further of william sanderson, nor do we hear when he returned to london. probably he, in some way or other, came across the name of general mathieson, and remembering what john simcoe had done for the general, he, on the strength of his personal likeness, and the fact that he had, for twenty years, gone by that name, determined to introduce himself to him, with the result you know. he was clever enough to know that he must answer questions as to his history before he left england, and it was desirable to obtain witnesses who would, if necessary, certify to him. but he knew nothing of simcoe's birthplace or history; so he inserted advertisements in a great number of london and provincial newspapers, saying that the relations of the john simcoe who was supposed to have been drowned in the bay of bengal in the year would hear of something to their advantage at the address given. a maiden aunt, living at stowmarket, did reply. he went down there at once, rushed into her arms and called her aunt, and told her that it was his intention to make her comfortable for life by allowing her fifty pounds per annum. he stayed with her for three days, and during that time obtained from her gossip full details of his boyhood and youth, his friends and their occupation, and he then went out and called upon john simcoe's old companions, all of whom took him on his own word and his knowledge of the past and his recognition by his aunt. "so things might have remained. this man, after undergoing what punishment might be awarded to him for his abduction of walter rivington, could have claimed the ten thousand pounds left him by general mathieson, had it not been that, by what i cannot but consider a dispensation of providence, an old comrade of his, staff-sergeant nichol, was attracted to the hall this morning by seeing the name of simcoe and that of general mathieson coupled in the cause list. this man was in the hall talking to his professional advisers, and nichol, walking close to him, to see if he could recognize the man whom he had last seen carried wounded into benares, at once recognized in the supposed john simcoe the deserter and thief, sergeant sanderson. he passed him two or three times, to assure himself that he was not mistaken. happily the deserter had a mark that was ineffaceable; he had, as a recruit, let off his rifle, and the ball had passed through the fleshy part of the forearm, leaving there, as sergeant nichol has informed me, an ineffaceable scar, blackened by powder. if this man is not sergeant sanderson, and is the long-lost john simcoe, he has but to pull up the sleeve of his left arm and show that it is without scar." the man did not move; he was half stunned by the sudden and terrible exposure of the whole of his plans. as he did not rise the counsel said: "my lord, i must ask that you give an order for the arrest of this man, william sanderson, as a deserter and a thief; also upon the charge of conspiring, with others, the abduction of walter rivington." "certainly, brother herbert," the judge said, as he saw that the accused made no motion to answer the challenge of the counsel. "tipstaff, take that man into custody on the charge of aiding in the abduction of walter rivington. as to the other charge, i shall communicate with the authorities of the india office, and leave it to them to prosecute if they choose to do so. after this lapse of years they may not think it worth while to do so, especially as the man is in custody on a still graver charge." the tipstaff moved toward the man, who roused himself with a great effort, snatched a small glass ball from a pocket inside his waistcoat, thrust it between his teeth, and bit it into fragments, and, as the officer laid his hand upon him, fell down in a fit. dr. leeds, who had come in just as the trial began, rose to his feet. "i am a doctor, my lord. my name is leeds, and the opinion i held of the cause of general mathieson's death is now proved to be correct. the symptoms of this fit are precisely similar to those of general mathieson's seizure, and this man has taken some of the very poison with which he murdered the general." for a minute sanderson struggled in violent convulsions, then, as dr. leeds bent over him, his head fell back suddenly. dr. leeds felt his pulse and then rose to his feet. "my lord," he said, "the case is finally closed. he has gone to a higher judgment seat." chapter xxvi. a letter from abroad. three days later, when hilda returned from a drive, she found that dr. leeds was in the drawing room with miss purcell and netta, whose face at once told what had happened. "i have asked the question at last, miss covington," dr. leeds said, coming forward to shake hands, "and netta has consented to be my wife." "i am heartily glad. that you would ask her i knew from what you told me; and although i knew nothing of her thoughts in the matter, i felt sure that she would hardly say no. netta, darling, i am glad. long ago i thought and hoped that this would come about. it seemed to me that it would be such a happy thing." "auntie said just the same thing," netta said, smiling through her tears, as hilda embraced her. "as you both knew, you ought to have given me some little hint; then i should not have been taken quite by surprise. i might have pretended that i did not quite know my own mind, and ask for time to think it over, instead of surrendering at once." "but you did make a condition, netta," dr. leeds laughed. "not a condition--a request, if you like, but certainly not a condition." "netta said that her heart was greatly set on the work she had always looked forward to, and she hoped that i should let her do something in that way still. of course i have heard you both talk over that institute a score of times, and i was as much impressed as yourselves with the enormous boon that it would be. i should be sorry indeed that the plan should be given up. i need hardly say that in the half hour we have had together we did not go deeply into it, but we will have a general council about it, as soon as we can get down to plain matter of fact. netta can talk it over with you, and i can talk it over with her; and then we can hold a meeting, with miss purcell as president of the committee." but matters were not finally settled until the ladies were established at holmwood with walter, and dr. leeds came down for a short holiday of two or three days. then the arrangements were made to the satisfaction of all parties. a large house, standing in grounds of considerable extent, was to be taken in the suburbs of london, netta was to be lady superintendent, her aunt assisting in the domestic arrangements. miss purcell insisted that her savings should be used for furnishing the house. hilda was to put in as a loan, for the others would receive it in no other way, five thousand pounds for working capital. she determined to take a house near the institute, so that she could run in and out and assist netta in teaching. dr. leeds was to drive up every morning to harley street, where his work was over by two o'clock, except when he had to attend consultations. no arrangements would be necessary about the house, as this was the residence of his partner, and he only had his own set of rooms there. he was steadily making his way, and to his surprise already found that the report in the papers of his successful diagnosis of the cause of general mathieson's death had resulted in a considerable addition to his practice, as a number of people consulted him on obscure, and in many cases fanciful, maladies, in which they had come to entertain the idea that they were suffering from the effects of poison. now that she was going to assist at the institution and had no intention of entering society again in london, hilda had no longer any objection to the power she had acquired being known, and, when questioned on the subject of the trial, made no secret of the manner in which she had made the discovery at the opera, and mentioned that she was going to assist in an institution that was about to be established for teaching the system by which she had benefited to deaf children. the matter excited considerable interest in medical circles, and by the time that the institution was ready the number of applicants was greater than could be entertained. by this time dr. leeds and netta were married. the engagement was a short one, and the wedding took place within two months of their going down into the country with hilda. being anxious that as many as possible should participate in the benefits of the system, the doors of the institute were at once opened to outdoor pupils, who were boarded in the neighborhood. six of netta's pupils in hanover were brought over as teachers, and a few weeks from its being opened the institution was in full swing. as dr. leeds wished that no profit whatever be made by the undertaking, in which desire he was cordially joined by his wife and hilda, the charges were extremely low, except in the case of children of wealthy parents, the surplus in their case being devoted to taking in, free of payment, children of the poor. before netta's marriage the interest in the mathieson case was revived by the appearance of a letter in the principal london papers. all search for the man who had assisted sanderson in the abduction of the child had been fruitless. he had probably taken steps to receive information of how matters were going on in court, and long before an officer arrived at rose cottage with a warrant for his arrest he had left, and the police had failed to find any trace of his subsequent movements. the letter bore the simple heading, "united states," and ran as follows: "to the editor. "sir: i scarcely know why i write this letter, but i suppose even an habitual criminal does not care to remain under an unjust suspicion. i acknowledge that i come under that category, and that my life has been spent in crime, although never once has suspicion attached to me, until i became mixed up in the simcoe-mathieson affair. i wish to state solemnly that i was absolutely ignorant that the name john simcoe was an assumed one. that was the name he gave me when i first knew him, and i believed that he was, as he represented, the man who had saved general mathieson's life from a tiger. that he had subsequently lived a rough life in the south seas i was aware, for he came to me with a message sent by a brother of mine when at the point of death. the man had been a chum of his out there and had gallantly carried him off when he had received the wound from which he subsequently died, in a fight with a large body of natives. i have absolute assurance that this was true, for my brother would never have sent anyone to me except under altogether extraordinary circumstances. the man called on me when he first returned to england, but i saw little of him for the first two years, and then he came to me and said that he had looked up general mathieson, and that the general had taken to him, and put him down in his will for ten thousand pounds. he said that general mathieson was worth a hundred thousand, and that he had planned to get the whole. not being in any way squeamish, i agreed at once to help him in any way in my power. "his plan briefly was that he should obtain a fresh will, appointing him sole heir to the general's estate in the event of a boy of six or seven years old dying before he came of age. he had somehow obtained a copy of the general's will, and had notes in the general's handwriting. there were two things to be done, first that he should get instructions for the draft of the will drawn up in precise imitation of the general's handwriting, containing all the provisions of the former will, except that he was made heir in place of miss covington in the event of his grandson's death. there are a dozen men in london who can imitate handwriting so as to defy detection, and i introduced him to one of them, who drew up the instructions. then i introduced him to a man who is the cleverest i know--and i know most of them--at getting up disguises. "he had already ascertained that the general had on one occasion been for a minute or two in the offices of messrs. halstead & james. they would, therefore, have a vague, and only a vague, remembrance of him. he had obtained a photograph of the general, who was about his own height and figure, and although there was no facial resemblance, the man, by the aid of this photograph, converted him into a likeness of the general that would pass with anyone who had seen him but once casually. so disguised, he went to the offices of these solicitors, told a plausible story, and gave them the written instructions. in the meantime he had been practicing the general's signature, and being a good penman had got to imitate it so accurately that i doubt if any expert would have suspected the forgery. the lawyers were completely deceived, and he had only to go there again three days later, in the same disguise, and sign the will. "so much for that. then came the general's seizure. i most solemnly declare that i had no shadow of suspicion that it was not a natural fit, and that if i had had such a suspicion i should have chucked the whole thing over at once, for though, as i have said, an habitual criminal, that is to say, one who plans and directs what may be called sensational robberies, i have always insisted that the men who have worked under me should go unprovided with arms of any kind, and in no case in which i have been concerned has a drop of blood been shed. as to the carrying off of the boy, it was entirely managed by me. i had agents, men on whom i could rely, as a word of mine would have sent them to penal servitude for life. we knew that suspicion would fall upon simcoe, and that it was important that he should be able to account for every hour of his time. therefore, on the day the child was carried away he went down to stowmarket, while i managed the affair and took the child down to the place where he was hidden in the essex marshes. it was i also who made the arrangements by which the body of the child about the same age, who had died in the workhouse, was placed in the canal in some of the clothes the missing heir had worn when taken away. i owe it to myself to say that in all this there was no question of payment between this man and myself. i am well off, and i acted simply to oblige a man who had stood by the side of my brother to death. whether his name was simcoe or sanderson mattered nothing to me; i should have aided him just the same. but i did believe that it was simcoe, and that, having risked his life to save that of general mathieson, he had as good a right as another to his inheritance. he never hinted to me that it would be a good thing if the child was got rid of altogether. he knew well enough that if he had done so i would not only have had nothing to do with it, but that i would have taken steps to have put a stop to his game altogether. now i have only to add that, having fairly stated the part that i bore in this affair, i have nothing more to say, except that i have now retired from business altogether, and that this is the last that the world will hear of william sanderson's accomplice." for four or five years hilda covington devoted much of her time to assisting netta leeds in her work, but at the end of that time she married. her husband was a widower, whose wife had died in her first confinement. his name was desmond. he sold out of the army, and hilda never had reason to regret that she had played the part of a gypsy woman at lady moulton's fête. walter grew up strong and healthy, and is one of the most popular men of his county. his early love for the water developed, and he served his time as a midshipman in one of her majesty's ships, and passed as a lieutenant. he then retired from the service and bought a fine yacht, which he himself commanded. his friends were never able to understand why he allowed his nominal skipper, william nibson, to take his wife on board, and gave up two cabins for their accommodation. the barge _walter_ passed into the hands of joshua, who, for many years, sailed her most successfully. he is now an elderly man, and his four sons are skippers of as many fine barges, all his own property. the end. [illustration] the famous henty books the boys' own library mo, cloth g. a. henty has long held the field as the most popular boys' author. age after age of heroic deeds has been the subject of his pen, and the knights of old seem very real in his pages. always wholesome and manly, always heroic and of high ideals, his books are more than popular wherever the english language is spoken. each volume is printed on excellent paper from new large-type plates, bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an attractive ink and gold stamp. price cents. a final reckoning a tale of bush life in australia among the malay pirates by england's aid the freeing of the netherlands by right of conquest a tale of cortez in mexico bravest of the brave a tale of peterborough in spain by pike and dyke the rise of the dutch republic by sheer pluck a tale of the ashantee war bonnie prince charlie a tale of fontenoy and culloden captain bayley's heir a tale of the gold fields of california cat of bubastes a story of ancient egypt colonel thorndyke's secret cornet of horse a tale of marlborough's wars facing death a tale of the coal mines friends, though divided a tale of the civil war in england for name and fame a tale of afghan warfare for the temple a tale of the fall of jerusalem in freedom's cause a story of wallace and bruce in the reign of terror the adventures of a westminster boy in times of peril a tale of india jack archer a tale of the crimea lion of st. mark a tale of venice in the xiv. century lion of the north a tale of gustavus adolphus maori and settler a tale of the new zealand war orange and green a tale of the boyne and limerick one of the th a tale of waterloo out on the pampas a tale of south america rujub the juggler st. george for england a tale of crécy and poictiers sturdy and strong true to the old flag a tale of the revolution the golden cañon the lost heir the young colonists a tale of the zulu and boer wars the young midshipman the dragon and the raven a tale of king alfred the boy knight a tale of the crusades through the fray a story of the luddite riots under drake's flag a tale of the spanish main with wolfe in canada the tale of winning a continent with clive in india the beginning of an empire with lee in virginia a story of the american civil war young carthaginian a story of the times of hannibal young buglers a tale of the peninsular war young franc-tireurs a tale of the franco-prussian war flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill volumes illustrated, bound in cloth, with a very attractive cover, price $ . per volume, or set of five in box for $ . boys of the fort; or, a young captain's pluck captain bonehill is at his best when relating a tale of military adventure, and this story of stirring doings at one of our well-known forts in the wild west is of more than ordinary interest. the young captain had a difficult task to accomplish, but he had been drilled to do his duty, and he did it thoroughly. gives a good insight into army life of to-day. the young bandmaster; or, concert stage and battlefield in this tale captain bonehill touches upon a new field. the hero is a youth with a passion for music, who, compelled to make his own way in the world, becomes a cornetist in an orchestra, and works his way up, first, to the position of a soloist, and then to that of leader of a brass band. he is carried off to sea and falls in with a secret-service cutter bound for cuba, and while in that island joins a military band which accompanies our soldiers in the never-to-be-forgotten attack on santiago. a mystery connected with the hero's inheritance adds to the interest of the tale. off for hawaii; or, the mystery of a great volcano here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. several boys start on a tour of the hawaiian islands. they have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest. a sailor boy with dewey; or, afloat in the philippines the story of dewey's victory in manila bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form--not as those in command witnessed the contest, but as it appeared to a real, live american youth who was in the navy at the time. many adventures in manila and in the interior follow, giving true-to-life scenes from this remote portion of the globe. a book that should be in every boy's library. when santiago fell; or, the war adventures of two chums captain bonehill has never penned a better tale than this stirring story of adventures in cuba. two boys, an american and his cuban chum, leave new york to join their parents in the interior of cuba. the war between spain and the cubans is on, and the boys are detained at santiago de cuba, but escape by crossing the bay at night. many adventures between the lines follow, and a good pen-picture of general garcia is given. the american lad, with others, is captured and cast into a dungeon in santiago; and then follows the never-to-be-forgotten campaign in cuba under general shafter. how the hero finally escapes makes reading no wide-awake boy will want to miss. press opinions of captain bonehill's books for boys "captain bonehill's stories will always be popular with our boys, for the reason that they are thoroughly up-to-date and true to life. as a writer of outdoor tales he has no rival."--_bright days._ "the story is by captain ralph bonehill, and that is all that need be said about it, for all of our readers know that the captain is one of america's best story-tellers, so far as stories for young people go."--_young people of america._ "we understand that captain bonehill will soon be turning from sporting stories to tales of the war. this field is one in which he should feel thoroughly at home. we are certain that the boys will look eagerly for the bonehill war tales."--_weekly messenger._ [illustration] mrs. l. t. meade's famous books for girls mo, cloth, price $ . there are few more favorite authors with american girls than mrs. l. t. meade, whose copyright works can only be had from us. essentially a writer for the home, with the loftiest aims and purest sentiments, mrs. meade's books possess the merit of utility as well as the means of amusement. they are girls' books--written for girls, and fitted for every home. here will be found no maudlin nonsense as to the affections. there are no counts in disguise nor castles in spain. it is pure and wholesome literature of a high order with a lofty ideal. the volumes are all copyright, excellently printed with clear, open type, uniformly bound in best cloth, with ink and gold stamp. the following are the titles the children of wilton chase bashful fifteen betty: a schoolgirl four on an island girls new and old out of the fashion the palace beautiful polly, a new-fashioned girl red rose and tiger lily temptation of olive latimer a ring of rubies a sweet girl graduate a world of girls good luck a girl in ten thousand a young mutineer wild kitty the children's pilgrimage the girls of st. wode's light o' the morning bad little hannah rebellion of lill carrington a little mother to the others merry girls of england the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: "there appeared three figures, dripping from head to foot." (p. .)] our den by e. m. waterworth, author of "master lionel, that tiresome child," etc. london: s. w. partridge & co. , paternoster row. [illustration: contents headpiece] chapter i. the savages are expected chapter ii. they arrive--unexpectedly chapter iii. our den is fortified chapter iv. fish or fowl for supper chapter v. tied to the bell buoy chapter vi. punishment and escape chapter vii. the mysterious visitor chapter viii. the oak chest chapter ix. the mystery deepens chapter x. how the stranger helped chapter xi. a day of surprises chapter xii. the lost will [illustration: contents tailpiece] [illustration: chapter i headpiece] our den. chapter i. the savages are expected. "i think it is our duty, john." "stuff and nonsense. how can it be our duty to turn our house into a bear-garden for the sake of a lot of young savages? let them spend their holidays at school." i was reading, as i generally was in those days, but the word "savages" made me look up. it was fun reading about such people, but i was not at all sure that i should care to see even one alive, and here was father talking about a lot of them. mother laughed merrily. somehow, she generally did laugh when other people would have cried; and i know now that it was mother's merry laugh that made the sunshine of our home. "why, john, how can you make savages into bears? they would not even hug you if you looked as fierce as you do now." then glancing towards my little sofa, mother's face became sweetly grave as she added in a low voice, "besides, dear, we should like people to be good to edric if we were not here; and, after all, they may do him good. you know the london doctor said he would have more chance of getting strong if he had plenty of play with brothers and sisters, instead of always having a book in his hand." the colour came to my face, and i turned hot and cold all over, while i listened for father's answer. it was about six months since they had taken me to london to see a famous physician, and i had never heard them mention what he had said about me. i was the only child, and, owing to a fall downstairs when i was quite a tiny trot, there was a slight curvature in my spine. i did not know what was the matter then, but i knew that i was not like other children. i dreaded the noise which my few friends made in the room when they came to see me. i had lived in an iron frame for about two years; and when i was taken out of it, and was supposed to be allowed to walk a little, the desire to move had gone. my parents did not like to urge me, and so six months passed away and i was still carried from room to room, still lay reading most of the day, and was quietly content. it was only now and then that mother's anxious look at me told that she was not satisfied; father and i seemed to have made up our minds that i was to be an invalid for the rest of my life, so i listened anxiously for his answer to mother's remark about the doctor. "do you really think it would do the boy good to be tormented by a lot of rough, strong children? then let them come, but keep them out of my sight. i hate noise almost as much as edric does." "i had settled all that, dear, before i ever spoke to you about it. there's the tower room--it is big and airy, and right at the top of the house--i thought they should have that for their playroom." "you'd better call it their den at once," said father, leaning over my shoulder to read the title of my book. "there are about twenty panes of glass in it now. i wonder how many whole ones there will be when the holidays are over. how do you like the idea of the invasion of the savages, my boy?" he added, in the tender tone in which he always addressed me. "who are they, father?" i asked, laying my thin white hand in his brown, strong one. "your uncle george's children, dear. he sent them to school at bath, and intended to be in england for their summer holidays, but he was prevented from leaving sydney just at the last minute; and your aunt mary has written to ask if we will let them all spend the time here. there are four of them, three boys and a girl who is as big a boy as any of them, i believe. what do you think of it, edric?" "i think i shall like seeing cousin kathleen," i said, rather shyly; even with my parents it was rather difficult for me to speak my thoughts. "she has often sent nice messages to me, and this is the book-marker she made for me. perhaps she will read to me, and show me how to play chess." "we will burn all those books, lad," said father, sweeping a little heap off my sofa to the floor. "let me carry you out to see the high tide." "not just now, father, please," i said, cuddling the last remaining book in my arms. "i want to see what becomes of rupert in the redskins' camp." "that's good," said father, laughing heartily. "your eldest cousin's name is rupert, and we shall soon be wanting to know what becomes of edric in rupert's den." "when are they coming?" i asked, with a faint trembling at my heart. mother had taught me to be kind in my thoughts of every one, but i began to be a little afraid of these stranger cousins. "they may be here next week; but i am not sure what day the school breaks up." "well, i will go and see about getting the tower room ready," said mother, when father had gone out to look at a new horse which he had bought for the farm. "do you want anything before i go, darling?" "no, thank you, mother." as she bent down to kiss me before she left me, mother looked longingly into my face. "i believe you look better already, dear. don't you think that---- why, darling, what's the matter; there are tears in your eyes." of course it was silly for a boy of twelve to begin to cry because his cousins were coming to stay with him, but i feel bound to let you know the whole truth about myself. i couldn't possibly say what i was crying for, but i suppose that i was in a weak and morbid state. "you'll love me still, mother, won't you," i whispered, clinging to her neck; "and you won't let them make me do anything i don't want to?" poor mother! if i had only known, that was just the very reason she wanted my cousins to come; but she comforted me, and promised faithfully i should be left to myself as much as i liked. "they will have their den, as your father calls it, and you needn't go in it unless you like. now i will go and see about getting it ready. it will want brightening up a bit. nobody has ever used it since i have lived here, and that is nearly fourteen years. good-bye, dear; don't read too much." she had her hand on the door before i could summon courage to speak what was in my mind. "i've never been in the tower room, mother. do you think i might go with you, just to see it before they come?" [illustration: chapter ii headpiece] chapter ii. they arrive--unexpectedly. there was a joyous ring in my dear mother's voice as she called out of the window for father to carry me upstairs; and i noticed that they both looked at each other with a satisfied nod as i was deposited on a long rattan chair, which, with the exception of a great oak chest, was the only piece of furniture in the den. it was a glorious day in july. the tower room was almost walled with glass on three sides, and looking out i saw such a view as i had never imagined could be seen from our own house. in front of me i could gaze across the field to the back-water of the river which made our farm into an island at high tide; beyond that, again, lay a narrow neck of land, then the main stream, which, running to the left, widened and widened till it entered into the sea. across the river were some few houses of a small seaside town, and beyond those houses i knew was the sea; the open sea on which i had never been but once. i knew that summer after summer yachts sailed from the pier at craigstown round the eagle point, and up the river to the old watermill, or from the mill to the pier. sometimes i would watch the tops of the sails from my bedroom window; but i could see little more, and never wished to be in the vessels. here in the tower room i could see the whole course of the river when mother dragged my chair to the different windows, and i exclaimed, "oh! i am glad i came, mother: doesn't the water look lovely?" "yes, darling, it is a very high tide to-day. if you look down there to the right of that large tree you will see that our road to craigstown is quite covered up. they may well call this island farm; you would have to swim across the little stream whichever way you wanted to go now. now, edric, you can help me; tell me what i shall put in this room to make it nice for your cousins. remember, their parents are thousands of miles away, and we must try to make them happy. fancy how you would feel if you were in australia without me." i didn't fancy it at all; but i know what mother meant, and suggested that first one thing and then another should be brought upstairs. there was my tool chest--of course i should never use it; it was such a funny thing for father to give me. i did not realize that he had bought it hoping to rouse me to try to use some of the tools. there was a box of lovely stone bricks. i could play with them, and used to enjoy making designs out of my own head, which pleased my parents and made them prophesy that i should be an architect some day. there were paint boxes and puzzles. there was even a fishing rod and a landing net; i almost laughed when mother brought them up from a cupboard in my room. "it seems a pity that father should buy me such things, doesn't it, mother?" i said, and then i felt sorry. mother came across the room to me, and said softly, "you see, dear, the london doctor said he quite hoped that you would be able to get about like other children some day, though you would always have a little twist in your back, which would prevent you being as straight and strong as they are. your father loves you so, that he cannot bear to think you ore different from others; and so he keeps giving you things just as if you were well and strong, hoping that some day you will be able to use them. now where shall i put this flag?" you would not believe what a change mother made in the room. by dinner time it looked quite pretty; and i was actually so hungry that i was glad when the dinner bell sounded, and father came up the creaky stairs two at a time to carry me down. "i think the change of rooms has done you good, laddie," he said, as he took me in his arms. "you had better have that rattan chair moved, mary," he added to my mother; "there won't be much of it left by september if you don't." "oh, don't move it, please, father," i said. "it will do so nicely for me to lie in when i go there." "so it's going to be your den as well as theirs, is it, young man? and, pray, what do you think we shall feel like when we come into this room and see your empty sofa?" glancing at father, to see how much he meant, i fancied that there was a merry twinkle in his eye. at all events, i am certain that we had a brighter dinner than we generally had, and i remember particularly that i asked for a second helping of meat. "what shall i bring you from colchester?" said father, after dinner. "i am going to try the new mare, and i'll bring you back anything you like to name up to five shillings." "there's a new book of kingston's, father--i forget the title--if you wouldn't mind getting that. i have nearly finished _rupert and the redskins_." "oh, no more books," said father, impatiently. "i'd like to burn the lot of them. i'd rather buy you a cricket bat. there, don't look miserable, laddie. you shall have the book, but i'd give a five-pound note to hear you say, 'take me with you in the dog-cart.' now, good-bye. i shan't be starting for another hour, till the tide is down, but i don't suppose you will see me again before i go. shall i send a telegram to bath to say the youngsters can come? perhaps they will like to look forward to it. and is there anything else you want, to rig up their den?" we both laughed, and mother said something about believing father would be delighted to see the savages after all. "oh! i don't care, as long as you keep them out of my way. i'll bring them a couple of boxes of soldiers; that's sure to keep them quiet for a time." "girls don't like soldiers," i remarked. "don't they, though, if they have half a dozen brothers and no sister. i suppose you'd like me to buy miss kathleen a workbox, and she wouldn't know which finger to put the thimble on, i'll be bound. what on earth is that?" well might he ask. a succession of shouts and yells, interspersed with loud "c-o-o-e-e, c-o-o-e-e," disturbed the usual placid silence which reigned on a summer afternoon in our island farm, especially when the tide was up, and we were cut off from the mainland. angry expostulations from some of the labourers followed; and then, to our utter amazement, there appeared on the lawn at our open window three figures, dripping from head to foot. [illustration: chapter ii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter iii headpiece] chapter iii. our den is fortified "stand back! stand back!" shouted father, as the boys made straight for our new carpet. "who in the world are you?" "don't you know us, uncle?" said the eldest, shaking the water from him like a newfoundland dog. "the old fellow drove us from colchester station, and actually wanted us to wait the other side of that stream till the tide went down. it wasn't likely we should do that, was it? so we just walked through. kathleen got her shoe stuck in the mud, but she's coming along presently. now, aren't you glad to see us, uncle?" there was something irresistible in the impudent, freckled face turned up to father's; and although my first thought was that rupert was decidedly ugly, i soon came to see that there was the beauty of goodness in eyes and mouth and general expression. mother was the first to regain her self-possession. "you naughty children," she said, stepping out on the lawn, "you will catch your death of cold, and i suppose you haven't even got any other clothes to put on. edric's won't fit any of you but harold." "don't you fret, auntie," said jack, who had been capering about, and leaving little rivulets of water wherever he went. "we don't think anything of wet clothes, we just run about till they are dry." "but where's your box?" said father. "it's the other side of the water," said rupert, laughing; "i know now what king john felt like when he lost all his luggage in the wash. we lost half our things in the wash at school, and now we've lost the other half in your wash. my word, hasn't the tide gone down quick! the old fellow was right after all. why, it's only up to kathleen's ankles now. here she comes, shoes and all. ugh! go away, you horrid, wet girl." a well-aimed shoeful of water went over jack's head, and then with a queer, uneven step, due to having one shoe off and one on, my cousin kathleen advanced to greet my father and mother. "what do you think of that, uncle john?" she said, putting her dry arm round his neck. "those naughty boys left me to get on as well as i could with one foot stuck in the mud; but i'll pay them out. ah, there's cousin edric," and there was such a change in the merry face, that a glow of pleasure spread over mine. "we know each other already, don't we, dear? isn't it lovely to think that we are going to be here six whole weeks? can't you really walk, edric?" there was something so very funny in the whole scene, the dripping boys outside, the girl with hat thrown back and tumbled, curly hair, with skirts wet to the waist, and one shoe in her hand, that i burst out laughing. of course, everyone joined, and it was thus that we received the savages into our home circle. but mother now interposed, and marched them all off to their bedrooms, while father sent a man in one of the carts to fetch the boxes, which the colchester fly-driver had so unceremoniously deposited on the other side of the stream. we found out in the course of time, that the boys' school had been suddenly closed, owing to the death of the master's wife. my cousins had heard from their father that they would probably spend the summer holidays with us, and the master had thought it best to send them straight to us, taking their sister with them. the telegram which should have prepared us for their arrival, came about half an hour after we were all sitting down to tea. what a tea that was! father was, of course, away, having merely looked in to say good-bye to me and whisper, "don't let the young rogues tire you, laddie; they can go upstairs to their own room. i shall be back in time to carry you to bed if you stop up a little later than usual." kathleen took me under her wing at once. her chair must be next to my sofa, and she must hand me everything i wanted. we were all ready; i had taken one or two bites of bread and butter, and saw to my surprise that none of my cousins had begun eating. "why are you waiting?" asked mother. "for grace," said jack, the second boy. we had always been accustomed to say grace before and after dinner, but it never seemed to have entered our heads to say it at any other meals. i glanced at mother. "say it then, dear," she said, kindly, and rupert said it; then they fell to and made a hearty tea. from that day forward we never forgot to give thanks for every meal which was put before us. i don't think i ate much, for i was laughing so heartily. it was quite a new phase of life to me, and my cousins seemed so possessed with the spirit of fun that it was quite infectious. "now, auntie, where's our den?" said rupert, when tea was over. "father had a den in sydney. he called it his den, but it was the jolliest place in the house, except----" "except when rupert went into a rage and hit harold, then father told him to meet him in his study, and you should have seen rupert's face," interposed jack. "rupert ran away and hid under the tank," continued kathleen, with a broad smile on her face. "the clergyman was staying with us, and he went to fish him out. rupert saw him coming, and cried out, 'i say, mr. wilson, is father after you, too?' you should have heard them laugh. of course rupert didn't get his caning, so father's den is still the jolliest place in the house." "and so will ours be," was the general shout as they filed upstairs behind mother. the sunshine seemed gone out of the room when they left it. i tried to go on with my reading, but i found myself listening for any sound from the tower room. it was too far away, however, for me to hear anything but the loud bang of the door at the bottom of the little staircase, so i was obliged to go back to my book with a sigh. it was not likely strong, healthy, rackety children would want poor sickly little me. "bo! twopence for your thoughts, edric. oh, did i hurt you? i didn't know you would be really frightened. what's the matter?" "it's nothing," i said, hastily, trying to breathe quietly again, and smiling at rupert. "you see i am so used to being alone that a sudden noise makes me jump." "i'm sorry," said rupert, sitting on the edge of my sofa, and swinging his legs so violently that he almost made my teeth chatter. "what pretty hair you've got, edric. it is all wavy like mother's, and just the same colour. you'd have made a splendid girl. there, now, i've hurt you again, and i didn't mean to either. you'll be a big man and a clever one some day, i expect; anyway, no one can call you carrots as they do me. halloa, kathleen, what do you want?" "let's carry edric upstairs," said kathleen; "he can tell us where to find things;" and, before i could say yes or no, they had taken me in their arms, so carefully, so tenderly, that after the first moment i was quite happy. "there, captain," said jack, as they pulled the long chair into the middle of the room. "now we want your orders. this is our castle, but what is a castle without fortifications? you might as well have a plum pudding without any plums! we've got to barricade this place, so that the enemy can't get in unless we wish it." "but if they can't get in, we can't get out," i said, hastily. "of course we can, you owl! what's the good of lovely windows like those, with old ivy climbing outside? i've been down to the garden already that way," said harold. "but edric can't go in and out of the window," said kathleen; "and i don't think i should care to very often; it is rather awkward with petticoats. let us fortify the castle, but we must do it so that we can go in and out if we wish. now, captain, tell us where to find wood." there was plenty to be had in the outhouses, and they worked so hard that they had made several rough defences for door and window before it was dark, and mother came up anxiously to look for me. "how ever did you get up here, darling?" she asked. "by the same way that he's going back, auntie," and as rupert spoke my two cousins raised me in their arms and carried me as carefully as if i were made of egg-shell china. [illustration: chapter iii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter iv headpiece] chapter iv. fish or fowl for supper. it would take too long to tell you of all the things which happened in our den. little bits of fun which would sound nothing to you, were great events in my life. i had lived so long on my invalid couch that both griefs and joys were intensified to me. i was too young to think such things; but if i had been older i should have asked myself very often, "is this the same _me_ that used to lie reading for hours, and never left his sofa if he could help it?" why, i actually had forgotten to see what became of rupert among the redskins. my four cousins were all so busy making the most of their holidays that i didn't seem to have time to breathe. whatever they did, edric must at least look on--if he would help, so much the better; so it ended in my seeing very little of my parents. father still persisted in refusing to let the young savages have meals with him, though i felt sure, from the look he gave them when he happened to peep in our room, that he was getting to like them; and i overheard him once say to mother: "our laddie looks fatter and brighter; i suppose it's those young scamps' doings. i wish they had come before." "i'm sure they have done him good," said mother, heartily; "and they have done no harm to anyone, in spite of all the mischief you prophesied." "wait and see," said father, grimly. "that young jack reminds me of a volcano; it looks quiet enough one minute, but it may swallow you up the next. if they get through the holidays without an eruption, i'll give them a sovereign between them when i drive them to colchester." sudden news from london took father away that very evening, and hastened the explosion which he had prophesied. "now, what shall we do this afternoon?" said rupert the next day, when dinner was over and i had been carried by my two faithful bearers into the den. "i vote we go fishing," said jack, proceeding to inspect my fishing rod and line. "we have been here a fortnight and haven't been fishing once. what do you say, captain? shall we be like the monks who hid in the old water mill, and fish for our dinner? what's the matter? you look quite glum." "of course he does," said kathleen; "he doesn't wish to be left alone. i'll stay with you, edric." "why shouldn't he go, too?" suggested harold. "it's a regular tub of a boat, rather different from the one we had at sydney." "perhaps your river was rather different from ours," i said, colouring at the slight cast upon my father's boat. "you forget that this is a tidal river; there's only a small part of it fit for a boat at all at low water, and if there's much wind it runs like a racehorse just past our back-water to the bay." "all right, captain, we beg your boat's pardon, and as it is so big we will make good use of it. you shall come out fishing with us," said rupert, marching out of the room as if he considered that his word was law, instead of mine. i know i was very naughty, but i had perfect confidence in my two bearers; and when kathleen had tried to find mother all over the house and failed, i let my wishes silence my conscience and said, "all right, i'll come if you will put me in carefully; but mind, i don't know anything about boating." "oh, rupert knows enough for all of us. father says he can manage a boat as well as he can. let's get some food out of our cupboard and start at once." our den was always well provided with eatables, so there was no difficulty on that score, and the dread of being stopped at the last moment made me hurry them all as much as possible. i was quite relieved when rupert appeared with my hat and a plaid. "we'll take this in case it gets cool. now, then, kathleen. heave ahoy!" i was carried down those stairs more rapidly than i had ever been before. i shut my eyes and bit my lips to avoid showing how frightened i was. when i looked up i was in the bottom of the boat. harold, with loving thoughtfulness, had put in some cushions, and i felt as comfortable as on my sofa. "push her off, jack." jack did it skilfully, and sprang in just as my heart came into my mouth for fear he should fall into the water. "hurrah!" they all cried, at the top of their voices, but my cheer was a feeble one; i had caught sight of something in the bows, and if there is one thing i have hated all my life it is a gun. "what have you got that for?" i said to rupert. "always best to have two strings to your bow, captain. if jack can't catch any fish, then i'll shoot something; we must have either fish or fowl for supper to-night." "did mother say you might have it?" jack made a grimace, and said something about rupert not being half as stupid as he looked; but i soon forgot all about the gun in my enjoyment of the water. rupert and harold rowed well together, and kathleen steered till we came to the main stream, when jack put out his line. if fish can hear and understand, they certainly must have thought that there never was a noisier crew come out to look for them. we laughed till we couldn't laugh any more, and our rowers had to rest on their oars to recover strength to pull them. "just look!" said jack, suddenly. "there's a tiny footmark. i should think that fellow wears nineteens." "hold hard a minute, and let us trace them," said rupert, leaning over the side. "talk of footprints in the snow, they are not half as beautiful as footprints in the mud under the river." he guided the boat skilfully, so that we followed the steps, till they went up the bank on the side nearest craigstown. "the old fellow comes from there, then; i wonder where he goes, and where he comes from. it's a queer sort of place to choose for an afternoon walk. halloa, what's that? push off quick, jack, or we shall stick, and on the wrong side, too." [illustration: "he was thrown to the bottom of the boat."] jack sprang up, and put the oar down with a force which sent the boat out into the current again, but the next instant he fell. he had overreached himself, the oar stuck, and he was thrown to the bottom of the boat. there was consternation in every face for a moment. rupert was the first to recover himself. "take that stretcher, jack, and see what you can do to help me. you will pull stronger than harold. i'll just turn her round and go home." it was very easy to say, but impossible to do; pull as they would they could only get the boat half round, so that she was more than ever in the power of the stream. i looked at kathleen anxiously. she was as white as her frock. "the tide has turned," she cried, "and we are going out to sea." [illustration: chapter iv tailpiece] [illustration: chapter v headpiece] chapter v. tied to the bell buoy. i expect i fainted, for when i looked at kathleen again she was bathing my face and hands with sea water, and the shores were ever so much farther off than they had been. "oh, edric, what shall we do? what will uncle and aunt say? are you better now? what is the time, rupert?" "half-past four," said rupert. "the tide runs out six hours, so we can't be back any way before midnight." "then i vote we have something to eat," said jack, as usual the first to recover himself. "i say, rupert, is it any good fagging away with that oar to keep her in the middle of the stream? don't you think we might as well let her run aground?" rupert was standing in the bows, guiding the boat as they do the gondolas in venice, and looked tired and anxious. "i think we ought to go on," he said, quietly. "edric has never been on the water but once, and i want to get him home. if we get stranded we are bound to stay till the tide comes up and floats us, and then there's a doubt whether we can get this heavy tub home with one oar. i think our best chance is to go down with the stream, till we get into the bay. perhaps a boat will pass, and take us round to craigstown." "we could easily drive home from there at low water," said i, trying to speak cheerily, though i felt fearful. what a different party we were then, as the boat went swiftly down the river, widening and widening every moment. "now, captain, your eyes are good, whatever your legs and arms may be. just keep a sharp look out, and shout 'ship, ahoy!' the instant you see anything." "what's that?" cried harold, suddenly. "i heard a bell. i say, isn't it getting rough; don't pitch me overboard, please. you'd better sit down, rupert, or you'll take a header. there's no one here to fish you out, and there isn't a towel on board. stewardess, you'll please to take a month's notice for forgetting them." with such little jokes we tried to hide the fear which sat heavily on every heart. "there it is again," said kathleen, looking eagerly around. "it sounds like a bell." i raised myself on my elbow. "it must be the bell buoy," i exclaimed. "i have heard father talk about it. it is a great big buoy, painted red and white. there's a bell on the top, and four hammers which swing up against it with the waves." "is there danger there?" said rupert, standing up again, and grasping his oar. "not for us, i think. i almost forget; but i think father said it was put to show the steamers their course when they are up the chiswell to barford." "what! is there another river up there? no wonder we have such a tossing. there's the bell again--we must be getting nearer to it. there it is. ship, ahoy! why didn't you shout, captain?" we were making straight for the bell buoy, but i saw that we were also making straight for the open sea. in an instant a prayer came to my lips, and i said aloud: "oh, god, show us what we ought to do." like a direct answer from heaven, which we all believed it was, kathleen said, "tie the boat to the buoy, rupert." in the excitement, eager to help, eager to see, i raised myself to my knees, and then dropped back; i had never done so much in my life before. it was a terrible moment of suspense, and then rupert almost fell into kathleen's arms. "bravo!" she cried; "you've done it, darling." he had tied the painter skilfully round the iron frame which supported the bell. "yes, it's done, dear; the question is, how long will the rope last. it isn't like being moored to a tree at the side of a river. oh! i'm tired, i must rest a moment; you two look out, and signal if you see any vessel." as he spoke he kicked something. "what a set of idiots we are," said jack, crawling carefully along the bottom of the boat, which was pitching in a manner fearful to describe. "here's the gun; let's fire it till someone sees us." a bang, a flash, a sharp pain in my hand, and a cry of misery. shall i ever forget those few minutes? i didn't know where i was hurt at first; but the marvel was we were not all turned into the sea as my cousins rushed to me. if our boat had not been, as jack said, a regular old tub, you would never have read this tale, for i should never have written it. the bullet had just grazed my left hand and carried away my little finger. of course, i have missed it very often since, and groaned over the pain then; but if i had to go through that afternoon's experience again, i would certainly still let that bullet work its mischief. care for me, staunching the blood, and tearing handkerchiefs into strips to stop the circulation at the wrist, which idea i had gathered from various books of war and bloodshed, all took time and distracted our thoughts for a while from the danger which threatened us all. "i see a boat!" said harold, with a gasp of joy. "give me the gun, quick," cried rupert. "don't be frightened, edric; i won't hurt you. it is our only hope." bang, bang, bang--three shots in the air as quickly as possible. [illustration: "don't be frightened, edric. it is our only hope."] "she sees us, she's turning this way," we cried, with voices in which tears and joy struggled for the mastery. but we were not yet out of danger. even as we uttered that cry, we gave another. "look! the rope is broken. we are adrift!" [illustration: chapter v tailpiece] [illustration: chapter vi headpiece] chapter vi. punishment and escape. it was ten o'clock when we were driven through the gates of our home. father had only just returned from london, so he had been spared the long hours of agony which mother had passed after missing us at the usual tea hour. what a miserable party we must have looked as one by one we got out of the cart. of course, i was last; and as father lifted me in his arms, he caught sight of my hand, which had been bandaged by the doctor at craigstown, and was now in a sling. "it's only my little finger, father," i said; "i shan't miss it." then i remembered that, of course, he knew nothing that had happened, and said no more. no prisoners in the dock ever felt more wretched than we did, as we stood in the dining-room wondering what would be our fate. my gentle mother came to the rescue. "i'm sure you must all be starved; eat your supper first, and then tell us what you have been doing." i tried to eat; but every mouthful seemed to choke me, and mother's sorrowful look at my maimed hand, and tenderly whispered words of love were almost too much for me to bear. i felt how wicked i had been to give her such pain as she must have borne since she went upstairs and found our den empty, then heard from one of the farm labourers that he had seen us in the boat. my cousins were stronger in mind and body than i was; and although they looked conscience-stricken enough, they managed to eat a hearty supper. when the things were cleared away, father put down his newspaper, and called us to account. "now, what have you to say for yourselves?" he asked, in a stern voice. i looked up and began to speak, but rupert stepped forward and silenced me. "i'm the eldest," he said, "and all the blame is mine. i'll tell you about it, sir." something in the honest face, now pale with fatigue and excitement, yet made noble by its fearless expression, seemed to touch us all. "you'd better sit down," said father, less sternly; but rupert took no notice. with eager words, which seemed to come rushing out, he described our adventures as far as you know them. "when the rope broke," he continued, "i thought it was all up with us. edric fainted for the second time, and i thought he was dead. i knelt down then and prayed god to forgive me for what i had done, and let me die, too, and to take the others safe home; but the fishing smack came along almost directly, and one of the sailors caught hold of our boat. they lifted us all into their boat; and we lay down amongst the fishes and nets and lines, and went to sleep, i believe, till they landed us at craigstown pier. one man, philip they called him, took edric to the doctor to have his hand done. it had begun bleeding again almost directly we got in the boat; but philip bound it up splendidly. then we got into that cart, and here we are. i don't know what you mean to do to us, uncle; but i'd like to tell you we are all bitterly sorry, and will go back to school tomorrow if you wish it." "that won't put edric's finger on again, or cure his back if you have hurt it by those hours of exposure. do you know he hardly ever goes out except in the long perambulator, which is pushed as gently as possible?" "please, uncle," said jack, who had been fretting at the long silence to which rupert had condemned him, "i don't think we did him any harm, except about his finger. he knelt up in the boat once." "perhaps you'll try to make me believe that he can do better with nine fingers than ten. well, you can go to bed now. i cannot send you back to school because mr. barton has gone abroad and there is no one there, so you will have to remain here for the rest of the holidays. you have prepared means of barricading your tower-room; i shall use them on the outside instead of your using them on the inside. you will be locked in there for two days. your meals will be brought to you, and you will be let out to go to bed; but until thursday night you are my prisoners; and i expect you to be honourable ones." father glanced at rupert as he spoke; but rupert made no sign. "will edric come, too?" asked kathleen. "not exactly. i think he has been punished enough. you will not see edric till you are released from prison. you can all go now; good-night." with bent heads and dejected steps my cousins left the room, but mother went after them; and i heard afterwards that she did not say good-night to them till she had joined them in asking god's forgiveness, and in thanking him for the great mercy shown to us all. what a wretched day the next one was for me. i could not read, and i hardly felt inclined to talk even to mother. i thought of the prisoners in the tower-room, and wondered what they were doing. the day was so long, and my hand was rather painful, so that at last when tea-time came i felt quite cross and miserable. "don't you think i might go upstairs for a few minutes," i said to mother when she came in with her bonnet on; "it's so dull." "i am sorry, darling, i must go out, but i shall not be gone more than half-an-hour. here's a book you have not read. the time will soon pass, and you will be able to go upstairs again; but you must not disobey father." i did try to read, but i could not. i was not quite happy, because i felt that there was something unfair in my cousins being punished and my being let off with only a finger less. at last i turned round on my sofa and had what jack called "a little weep." a light touch on my shoulder startled me--jack stood by my side. "oh jack! how could you?" i whispered; "you have broken your word of honour." "that's what rupert says, so he is sticking up in that room, fretting himself to fiddle strings. i never promised anything, and so i'm not bound to stay there. i nearly broke my neck corning down, my foot caught in the ivy. but what do you think i found out? there's a regular ladder up to one of the windows on the side that looks towards the water-mill." "a ladder! nonsense; how could a ladder be there without our seeing it?" "oh! you matter-of-fact creature. i don't mean a ladder of wood or a ladder of rope thirty yards long. i found that there were little places cut in the bricks just to put your toes in. i counted six of them; but there was a noise, and i didn't dare to count any more. how are you, old man? they all want to know badly; they seem to think we had almost killed you, but i know better--i believe we did you good. i must go now; if uncle found me here he'd eat me." "wait a minute. what did you say about those steps? i wonder whether---- do you know both our servants left last year because they said the place was haunted? of course it was all rubbish, because there are no such things as ghosts, but nothing that mother could say would make them happy; they said if it wasn't ghosts it was burglars or smugglers, and off they went." "what a joke!" said jack, standing close to the window; "that's the way the ghost went up and down, then. hush! who in the world is that? there's somebody in white creeping among the rhododendron bushes. i'm off. cooee, cooee!" the australian cry sounded weird enough, and i gasped for breath as i saw jack's figure disappear at full speed among the rhododendrons. an instant afterwards there was a scream, and then dead silence. [illustration: chapter vi tailpiece] [illustration: chapter vii headpiece] chapter vii. the mysterious visitor. if any one had told me i was a coward, i should have been very indignant, and i think rightly so; but i must confess that i lay and trembled, as i looked through the open window, and wondered who had screamed and what was the matter. the steps in the wall, the white figure skulking among the bushes, and finally the scream; was that not enough material wherewith to make a very nice little chapter of horrors? never had i so much regretted my helplessness. if i had only been able to walk, nothing would have prevented my going upstairs and telling rupert that i thought jack had got into trouble; as it was, i could only exercise my brains for some other way to let him know. mother came in just then, and exclaimed at my white face. that was the best thing that could have happened. i made her promise not to get jack into further trouble, and then i told her all about it. she went into the garden at once, and found him lying on the ground writhing with pain, with his foot caught in a man-trap, which he had himself found in the loft the day before, and put in the path out of mischief, and then forgotten to remove it. cautioning him not to struggle, for he would only make the pain greater and get more firmly fixed, she ran to find father, who came with some men to release the prisoner. [illustration: "father came with some men to release the prisoner."] father then carried him into the room where i was lying, and put him on a sofa near me. "it has broken your ankle, i'm afraid," he said, examining jack's foot carefully. "send george for the doctor at once, mary." then poor father walked up and down the room as if he were worried almost out of his mind. "i was after the ghost," said jack, presently, in a timid voice; "i was creeping behind him, and was just close up when my foot was gripped by that thing. i believe i screamed once; if so, he heard me, and won't come again." "don't talk such nonsense," said mother, who had returned by this time. "there are no such things as ghosts." "of course, i know that," said jack, recovering a little of his usual spirit. "the ghost i was after wore a white mackintosh coat and a pair of big sailor's boots. i wonder--oh, edric, do you remember the footmarks in the mud?" "what of them?" said father, sternly. "do you remember, young gentleman, that you are a prisoner, and have no business at all out of that room; and here you are with a broken ankle talking nonsense about ghosts and footmarks in the mud. why did you leave the tower when i told you not to do so?" "for two reasons, uncle. first, i wanted to see edric. you see we all like edric, and we felt----" a little pause, and jack seemed to choke; "we felt sorry about yesterday. i dreamt of fingers all night, uncle, indeed i did--covered with blood, too." "go on," said father, gravely. "well, we wanted to know how edric was. the servant who brought our meals was as dumb as any old monk who had promised never to speak, so we couldn't get anything out of her. i was standing by the window at about eight o'clock, wondering whether i dared climb down the ivy and run round to the dining-room to see edric, when all of a sudden i saw something moving in the bushes. i put my head out without saying a word to the others, who were all busy writing to tell father and mother how naughty we have been; and what do you think i saw? a man, in a white coat and sailor's slouch hat, beginning to climb up the ivy. i waited till he had got half-way up, and then i sneezed; like this." jack sneezed so naturally that we all laughed. "that's the way i get the windows shut at school if it's cold. mother told mr. barton to be particularly careful that we didn't catch cold; so when we want the windows shut i just keep on sneezing till he does it." "what happened next?" asked father, speaking in his natural manner for the first time since our escapade. jack's sensitive nature felt the change at once. "you should have seen him," he said, brightly. "he dropped down like a cat, and bolted." "did he look up?" "i don't know. i took my head in quick, for fear he might owe me one if he should ever see me again. i waited a minute, and then climbed down after him. i couldn't see him anywhere, so i went to look at edric." now, although i have told you all that my cousin said without any breaks, you must remember he had a broken ankle, and many times he stopped in great pain in the middle of a sentence. father noticed this; and as soon as he had heard all that he required, he put his hand on jack's head and told him to lie quietly till the doctor came. "you can't think of all the dreadful things i was going to do to you," he said. "you will learn some day that everything we do wrong brings its own punishment. it does not come perhaps directly, as edric's lost finger and your broken ankle did; but it does come, my boy." "but he wanted to help you, father," i said, hastily, sorry that my hero should be looked upon as a culprit. "that was right enough, laddie; but he set to work the wrong way. it is no use doing evil that good may come; good never does come in the end from such work. he should have obeyed me first, and helped me afterwards." it was a bit of a puzzle to me then; but now that i am older, i know that father was right. as it was, i am afraid that i was not as grieved about jack's broken ankle as i should have been. for the next few days, at all events, i knew he would be my constant companion, for he would lie on the sofa near me. nothing more was said by my parents about our mysterious visitor, though, of course, jack and i were never tired of talking about him. we made him out to be everything in turns, from a russian nobleman to a london burglar in disguise. thursday evening came, and brought welcome release to the other prisoners in the tower-room; and on friday morning my two bearers came and carried me off to the den, where we talked till it was a wonder our tongues did not ache. they had heard nothing about the cause of jack's accident, and great was their amazement when they were told of the stranger who knew so well the way to the tower-room. "how long is it since this room was used?" asked rupert. "it has never been used that i can remember," i replied. "mother thought it would make a good playroom for you because it is so far away. when i first came into it with her, it was thick with dust, and had nothing in it but that oak chest and this chair." "then i'll be bound that man knows more about it than you do," said rupert. "you'll find out some day; i only hope it will be whilst we are here." [illustration: chapter vii tailpiece] [illustration: chapter viii headpiece] chapter viii. the oak chest. the mysterious visitor was forgotten, my hand had healed, and jack's ankle was in a fair way to recovery, when a letter arrived from mr. barton to say that, owing to his wife's death, he felt he could not return to bath. he had taken a house at brighton, but the necessary business of moving would make it impossible for him to receive his pupils at the time fixed. he hoped, therefore, that my father would not object to keeping the boys a fortnight longer. with what a shout the letter was welcomed! i glanced anxiously at father; he did not look half as displeased as i thought he would. "can you make yourselves happy till the beginning of september?" he asked. "just give us the chance, uncle. we will let you see what we can do. but what about kathleen? we can't let her go before us?" rupert looked at me with a mysterious sign. "no, please father, don't send her away yet. i want her particularly." "mischief again?" said father, just catching my knowing look across at kathleen. "i should have thought you had enough of getting into trouble by this time." "it isn't mischief, father," i cried. "it's good, it's a beautiful secret, it's----" then i broke down and burst into tears. it was only then, i think, that my parents realized that i had not done such a thing lately. "why, laddie," said father, soothing me gently, "i haven't seen any tears since the invasion of the goths and vandals. here, young alaric, carry him off, and bring back the smiles. of course, kathleen shall stay as long as you do, but i warn you"--and here father's face became very grave--"you have risked my son's life once, you had better not do it twice." harold was going to make some reply; but rupert put his hand hastily over his mouth, and swung him out of the room before he and kathleen came to lift me. whether it was that his foot was much better, or that jack was delighted at the thought of spending a fortnight more than he expected at the island farm, i do not know; but he seemed that day to be possessed of twice his usual spirits. of course, he was not allowed to put his foot to the ground; but it was cased in plaster of paris, and he managed to hop with the help of a stick if he really wished to move. "now, commodore," said i, at last--for we had pretended he had been wounded in battle--"i wish you would keep still, you give me the fidgets; i know you'll damage that foot again; and you do look so queer hopping about like a wounded stork. i might as well try to get about--i believe i should do it as well." "so you will, old fellow, only not just yet. rub, rub, rub, scrub, scrub, scrub, kathleen, and then he will go like a bird." "do keep still," said rupert, presently. "i've tried three times to make a straight line on this piece of wood, and each time you've shaken the table. what do you want? tell me, and i'll get it; but don't keep bobbing about like a lame duck." "that oak chest is bothering me," said jack, coming to an anchor at last, with his bad foot on the chest itself. "what's inside of it." "how should i know? you heard edric say it was here when he first came up. i expect it has old clothes in it. curiosity killed a cat; and when you know that a cat has nine lives, you can see what a deadly poison curiosity must be. it's a glorious bench to carpenter on; and it makes a good place to lie on, if you are fearfully tired and don't mind pretending you are on a stone bench." "and it would be a splendid place to----" "to what?" we all asked, looking up at jack. "never you mind; i know what i know, and i'm not going to tell anybody." but, unfortunately, he did tell somebody, and that was harold, who was the very last person who should have been told. a few days afterwards jack was not well--it was merely a passing indisposition, headache and cold; but as there was so much difficulty in keeping him quiet when he was up, mother thought it best to make him stay in bed. my parents were both going to spend the afternoon and evening at a friend's house, and so my cousins were told that they need not keep only to their den; they might have the run of the house, if they would promise to do nothing which they knew was wrong, and not to go outside at all, in case they might be tempted to mischief. "we promise," said rupert, gravely, and father knew he could trust him. they carried me into jack's room directly we were left alone, and there a certain mysterious operation went on, which had occupied us for half an hour twice a day during the last few weeks. a little reading, a good deal of talking, and then jack said his head was worse; so we all retreated into the dining-room, and wondered what we should play at. "i know," said kathleen. "we have permission to go anywhere; let's have a game of hide-and-seek. i believe you'd take half an hour to find me, there are so many ins and outs, and ups and downs." of course, i could not join in that game, so i begged them to carry me back into jack's room, where i lay reading, sometimes aloud, sometimes to myself, till, to my great delight, i saw him fall asleep. from time to time i could hear a merry peal of laughter in the distance, or the quiet footsteps of someone running past the door in search of a hiding-place. the sounds pleased me, and then i began to wonder whether i should ever be able to join in such a game. four weeks ago i should have laughed at the bare idea of such a thing; but now, things had changed. my cousins had brought fresh vigour to my mind; and if all were true that they told me, there seemed a hope that they might be the means of bringing new strength to my body. i lay building castles in the air after a fashion quite new to me. i had got as far as walking to church with mother on my arm when i was a young man, when suddenly the door was pushed gently open, and rupert whispered, "have you seen harold?" "no; he has not been here." "i told you he must have gone outside," said kathleen, peeping over his shoulder. "not he," replied rupert. "don't you remember we all three promised we would not go out of the house? he must be somewhere inside? let's hunt again." half an hour passed, and then my cousins came back. i signalled to them that jack was still asleep, and they could take me out of the room. "we can't find him anywhere," said rupert, as they carried me downstairs. "don't be anxious," i replied. "he must have gone outside; he will come back when he finds you do not go after him. or shall you go into the garden to look for him?" rupert looked at me in amazement. "didn't i tell you we all promised not to go out?" he said. "i don't believe harold is outside; if he is, i'll never speak to him again." of course, we laughed at the hasty speech which had ended in a promise that the speaker would certainly never keep. but by-and-by, as the light began to fade, and harold made no appearance, we grew anxious about him. "supper will bring him; he will be tired and hungry by that time," we said; but we had finished our supper when the door was pushed open, and jack entered in dressing-gown and slippers. "jane says you have been playing hide-and-seek, and have lost harold. have you looked in the oak chest for him?" "the oak chest?" we all repeated, with a terrified gasp. "if he has been shut in there for a couple of hours he will be dead!" [illustration: chapter ix headpiece] chapter ix. the mystery deepens. never had i longed so eagerly to walk, as i did that evening when all three cousins ran out of the room in pursuit of their missing brother. i had not really been anxious before, for harold, although only nine years old, was well able to take care of himself, and i had only regretted that he would probably get into trouble again with father for disobedience. it never entered my head that he could possibly be hidden in the house, far less that he should be in the oak chest, which for all i knew was locked up. the housemaid coming in just then, i begged her to carry me up to the tower-room, putting aside for the moment the fear i had always had, before my cousins came, of trusting myself to any one but father. when we reached our den the children were standing by the chest, which was open, and was empty. "he has been here," said rupert; "see how the things are pressed down." "i don't believe he could get in," said i; "it isn't long enough." but my doubts were silenced by kathleen stooping and lifting from one corner a handkerchief stained with blood, which was still wet. "this is harold's!" she cried. "whatever has happened to him!" "his nose has been bleeding," said jack, promptly; "you know it often does. it would be enough to make a mummy's nose bleed to be shut up in that old chest. i wish i had never told him what a splendid place it would be to hide in. it seems i'm always to be at the bottom of the mischief. we shouldn't have gone in that boat if i had not suggested fishing, and edric would still have had five fingers on each hand if i hadn't fired the gun. now poor old harold will get into a scrape for hiding so long, just because i went and showed him how the spring of the chest worked, after i had ferreted it out myself. halloa, what are you about, rupert? don't kill me; i didn't mean any harm." rupert had suddenly sprung at jack, and seizing him by the arm almost screamed out-- "spring, did you say? then it can't be opened from the inside." in another moment rupert had flung out the few odds and ends of old clothing which were in the bottom of the chest, and sprang into it; as he did so, his heels made a strange, hollow sound, which caught my attention. he was rather tall for his age, and had to double himself up in a way that would have delighted the heart of his gymnasium master before he could say-- "now shut it down, quick, and i'll see if i can open it; but mind you undo the spring directly i give three knocks." of course, he could do nothing; the box could only be opened from the outside by pressing the springs. we were glad enough to reply, to his signal, and release the prisoner. then we all stood with puzzled faces looking at the open chest. "what have you been up to?" said a cheery voice, and never were we more relieved to see my mother. she listened gravely and quietly to our account. "if he has really been in that box, and the handkerchief certainly seems to prove it, then some one must have got him out. perhaps one of the servants did. let us go and inquire. you had better all come downstairs; you look as white as the miller. there's nothing much to be frightened at, after all. if harold were able to get out of the chest, he certainly was not smothered. as to his nose bleeding, you know that won't hurt him. perhaps he is asleep in bed; have you looked?" "we've ransacked every room in the house, and the servants have not seen him since six o'clock." ten o'clock came, and with his usual punctuality father sounded the gong for prayers. he insisted on doing it with the outer doors wide open, so that if harold were within earshot, he would be reminded that it was bedtime. i had never been up to evening prayers before; and as i lay with my hands clasped, i looked out for a moment to the calm summer sky. there was a glorious moon, which made a path of silver among the rhododendron bushes. it all looked very beautiful, and my heart joined with delight in the words of thanksgiving which father was speaking. then he went on to pray that we might all be guarded through the night; i thought of harold, and said, amen. i had said my prayers night and morning ever since i was old enough to know who it was to whom i owed everything, but i am sure i had never really prayed before. a change came over me that evening; god seemed nearer to me, i seemed nearer to him, and i realised fully for the first time that he was my loving father and king. my eyes were closed for a moment in earnest, silent prayer; when i opened them again--could it possibly be fancy?--i thought i saw a figure going swiftly down the rhododendron path. "the ghost!" i cried, not waiting till the family were off their knees; "there's jack's ghost again!" father ran out of the window; but, of course, as he had not seen the mysterious visitor when he came before, he did not know which way he went, and turned to the left. that gave the man a start; and although i called out to father which way to go, he did not succeed in finding any one. we all waited in intense excitement till father came back; and then the finishing touch to our evening was given by our young coachman coming in with a broad grin on his face, without even waiting to knock at the door. "if you please, mum, master harold's sitting on my bed. i think he's summat light-headed, for he keeps on asking how he got there, and declares that he was in the oak chest and couldn't get out. do you mind coming to see him, mum?" robert had been out all the evening with my parents, and had only had time to attend to the horse and put the carriage away when the gong sounded for prayers, so he had not been in his room, which was above the coach-house, since he dressed at four o'clock. rupert and kathleen did a dance of delight round the table; while jack, who was still attired in his dressing-gown, had to content himself with playing the castanets with his fingers and whistling. "what a funny go," he cried, when his brother and sister had dropped breathless into the one big armchair. "listen! what do you say to my ghost being the one who rescued him? if so, he must have left robert's room when you saw him, edric. oh dear, what a thing it is to feel like a bottle of ginger beer, and yet have to behave as if you were as flat as ditch water, owing to your stupid foot." then, with his usual sensitiveness, jack felt that he had said something which might hurt me, and hastened to mend it. "that's my own fault, isn't it, edric? and that's just why it's harder to bear. virtue is its own reward, they say, and so is wickedness. here he comes! 'i've waited long for you, my man; oh, welcome safe to land,'" he sang, gently, as harold came in, holding mother's hand and looking rather bewildered. "now, young man," said father, "give an account of yourself. what do you mean by disobeying me and going out of the house when you promised not, and harrowing the hearts of your brothers and sister and all your relations?" "please, uncle, i didn't go out of the house," said harold, earnestly. [illustration: chapter ix tailpiece] [illustration: chapter x headpiece] chapter x. how the stranger helped. "curiouser and curiouser," quoted jack, from alice in wonderland; but we were all too astonished to laugh at his droll face. "i specs he walked in his sleep." harold looked angrily at his elder brother. "i promised i would not go out of the house, and i didn't." "coach-house doesn't count, i suppose," remarked rupert, who was, i fancy, a little annoyed by the uneasiness we had all felt. "don't tease him, my boy," said father, kindly; "let him tell his story in his own fashion." thus encouraged, harold sat down, and told us that he had got into the oak chest to hide. "i thought, of course, that you would hear me when i called, but you didn't seem to come into that room at all." "we did go there," said kathleen; "but you know there is no place to hide there but the cupboard, and that had been left wide open by rupert when he hid there at the beginning of the game. so we just ran up the stairs, put our heads in and saw that the room and cupboard were empty, and then ran off to what we thought were more likely places." "then that's why i did not hear your footsteps. the wood must be fearfully thick. i lay still till i began to feel suffocated, and then i tried to get out. i tried and tried, i pushed with my hands, then i lay on my back and pressed with my knees and kicked with my feet. it wasn't a bit of good, i only hurt myself and got more choky. then my nose began to bleed, and i gave up trying, and lay with my face to the side of the chest. oh, it was horrible, auntie! i thought that i should die; and i wondered how long you would be before you found me, and what poor father and mother would say when they heard about it." "there, there, don't pile it on," said jack, rubbing his hand across his eyes; "tell us how you got out, that's what we want to know. anyone could get in and be choked; but it's a regular maskelyne and cooke's dodge to get out again instead." "i can't tell you, i don't remember anything till i woke up in bed in a strange room. i know now it was robert's. your new man gave me a sandwich and something out of a little bottle, and i----" "my new man?" repeated father, with his eyes wide open. "why, i haven't one in the place that has been here less than five years." "oh! perhaps i made a mistake," said harold, rather wearily; "i didn't know his face, so i thought he must be a stranger. he had a white coat on like a coachman, and----" "hurrah!" cried jack, "my mysterious stranger went to the rescue. could he talk english, harold? was he very furious?" "he was very kind; but he didn't speak once, i remember. he bathed my face with water out of robert's basin, and i noticed that he kept looking out of the window. then i heard a noise like a bell; and he went to the window, stood there a minute, then he waved his hand to me, and unlocked the door and went." "why had he locked the door?" "how can i tell?" "how did you see all this in the dark?" "the moon shone right in at the window. i don't know who the man was, if uncle says he was not one of the servants; but i'm very tired, and don't want to talk any more." so we all were; but i am afraid if there had been any one sleeping in my little room i should have talked all night about our mysterious stranger. the next morning things went on much as usual, till kathleen and rupert came to carry me upstairs. then you would have laughed if you could have heard all the wild guesses we made as to the identity of our strange visitor. "let's have a good look at that chest," said rupert, when kathleen had declared she had done with it for the present. "your heels made a very queer sound in it last night, rupert," i said. "only for pity's sake let somebody sit on the edge of it whilst it is open. i don't want you to be guillotined or smothered." harold perched himself in such a manner that the lid could not possibly fall, and dangled his legs against the side. it was a wonderful old chest, and we have it still in our house. it is made of black oak, is just five feet long, and about two feet wide. "i know," said rupert, presently, springing out of the box. "where's the foot rule?" "what's the joke now?" said harold. "are you going to measure it to see if there's room for the mysterious stranger to hide in?" "that's it," exclaimed rupert, disdaining to answer his brother's remark. "that's it. there's a false bottom to it. look! it measures twenty inches inside and twenty-five outside. let's break it open; we shall find a treasure, perhaps. no wonder my heels rattled when i got in last night." "if it rattles," said jack, sagaciously, "there isn't much inside. but let's see if we can open it." they pushed and knocked in turns, but it was useless; they only grew tired and cross. for once my studious life gave me an advantage over them. i remembered that in all the wonderful tales i had read of hidden chambers and secret drawers, there was no force required to open them. i reminded my cousins of this. "there's some little trick about it; some panel or hidden spring. you will be more likely to find it just when you least expect." "get along, you stupid old thing," said harold, losing patience; "i'm sick of you." as he spoke he sprang from his perch and administered a kick to the obstinate box. kathleen was holding the lid on the opposite side, and saw the bottom of the box move. "look, look," she cried, "it is opening!" it did not spring up, it merely stood just enough away from the box for rupert to put his fingers under it and lift it out bodily. a low groan of disappointment escaped us all. they had pulled my chair close to the chest, and i was able to look into it as well, and certainly shared in the groan. i can't say what we had expected. it may have been gold, it may have been treasures of another kind. most certainly we none of us had expected to see a few packets of papers, yellow with age, and covered with dust. so engrossed had we been that we had not noticed a step in the room; and when rupert raised himself from the chest with a bundle of papers in his hand, declaring he would take them to uncle, my blood seemed to stand still and my heart almost to jump into my mouth when a voice, with a strong french accent, said-- "not too fast, young gentleman; those papers belong to me." [illustration: "not too fast, young gentleman; those papers belong to me."] by the side of my couch, almost touching me, stood the man whom we had named jack's ghost! [illustration: chapter xi headpiece] chapter xi. a day of surprises. "are you better, now?" said the stranger, laying his hand on harold's shoulder. "yes, thank you," replied harold, jerking himself away, while rupert gave expression to what we all felt and thought. "i wish you'd go about like other people, instead of sneaking up the sides of walls." as he spoke he went to the window. "uncle george!" he shouted at the top of his voice. an answer came from a distance. "make haste up here, there's a man who wants to see you." "i pity him if he is in your den," father called out merrily, after about two minutes during which time we had all been perfectly silent, kathleen and harold keeping a strict guard over the chest by sitting on it. it seemed to me a fearful time before father's footstep sounded on the stairs. i almost expected to see the stranger bolt out of the window, but he did not. he stood as still as if he had been cut in marble, until the door opened, and father entered with some joke on his lips which was never uttered. the mysterious stranger took his hat from his head, and father gazed at him for one brief second, then held out both his hands. [illustration: "father gazed at him for one second, then held out both his hands."] "what! you, joe?" "yes, i, george." the words meant little enough, but the tone spoke volumes, and, to our terrible distress, the stranger dropped on the oak chest and was convulsed with sobs. "right about face, quick march," whispered jack, hopping off as well as he could. "look after the baggage." the baggage meaning me, rupert and kathleen seized me with a rapidity which would have terrified me a month back; and in less time than it takes to write, we had made our retreat in disorder, and the enemy were left in possession. "never no more," said jack, whom we found resting on one of the landings, "will i pass my days in that den. i shan't have nerve enough to face a cricket-ball when i get back to school. to think that the ghost, the mysterious stranger, the rescuer of my beloved brother, should be called joe, and be on speaking terms with my uncle! after that, no more mysteries for me. i mean to live in the dining-room, and devote myself to bread and butter." "that's all providing that father will let you," i said. "no, it isn't. he will have to let me. i feel like the poultry in the farmer's yard, who declared 'twas hard that their nerves should be shaken, and their rest be marred by the visit of mr. ghost. oh, i'll go to brighton, if uncle likes; but pass the rest of my days in the tower-room, i won't." a burst of laughter restored jack's good temper, and then we all went into the dining-room and told mother about everything. i'm a good deal older now than i was then, but i have not yet got out of the way of wanting to rush off to tell mother everything. happy are the youngsters who have such a mother as i have, and who try all their lives never to do or say anything that they would be afraid or ashamed to tell her. let me see, i said "rush off," did i not? and i meant it; though at the time i am speaking about, i was dependent on other people's rushing instead of my own. mother was nearly as excited as we were about the stranger, only she seemed to know a little more about him. "your father had a half-brother named joseph," she said; "his mother was a frenchwoman, and when she died her little boy was sent by your grandfather to stay with her relations in france." "but why has father never mentioned him?" i asked. "there was some unhappiness about him, dear, and you know your father never speaks about anything like that. he bears it all, and says nothing. take care, edric! what are you going to do?" "take hold of me, mother." slowly and carefully i drew my legs round, and then, leaning on her arm, with rupert on the other side of me i put them to the ground. of course, it was but a poor attempt at walking, but still, it was an attempt, and mother seemed utterly amazed. nothing ever happens just as one has expected and planned it; i had so often gone through that little scene in my mind, and yet i had not the least intention of acting it that day. "well done, my darling, well done! how came you to think of trying that? why, you will walk as well as i do some day." "it is all kathleen's doing," i said, still standing propped up by their arms, and wondering at the peculiar feeling in my feet. "she had seen a child cured in australia by doing a few exercises daily. she had watched very carefully, and was sure she could do me good if i would only persevere. so she has made me do them twice every day, for half an hour, for five weeks." "but that was what the doctor ordered for you, darling; and you cried and said the woman hurt you, so we had to leave it off." "i know, mother," i said, colouring, for i was ashamed of myself now; "but in those days i did not really feel as if i cared to move about. i would rather not walk at all than be hurt as that woman hurt me. now, kathleen is different; she has not hurt me once, and yet she would not let me off a minute before the half-hour." "mary! mary!" said father's voice, "i want you for a moment." he pushed the door open and stood transfixed. "what! edric trying to walk? this is a day of surprises. whose doing is that?" "kathleen's," i said, making a sign to mother that i wanted to go back to my couch again. father came into the room and looked gravely at me. "do you know, laddie," he said, seriously. "i have found out that there is one thing in this world which always brings a reward, and that is unselfishness. it's your mother that's unselfish, not i. if it had not been for her, i should never have consented to have your cousins here. i hated the thought of it, and only consented to please her. wow see the reward we have got, far beyond what i, at least, deserve; my little helpless laddie is going to try to be like other children, and my half-brother is restored to his inheritance. come and see him, mary; i'll tell you all about it presently, children." [illustration: chapter xii headpiece] chapter xii. the lost will we spent the rest of that day in a state of effervescence. no one seemed to be able to settle down to anything; and we were so excited that even dinner had little attraction, especially as we were told that father and mother and the strange gentleman had driven off to colchester. "so we shall dine here, then," said rupert, with a look at jack, who had fixed himself in an armchair in a most determined attitude; "unless you prefer going up to the tower-room." "never again," said jack, gravely; "uncle says we've done him good, and when he comes back i mean to ask for our reward. 'tis a very good den that we live in, to laugh, or to talk, or to play in; but to hide or to think, or to be quite alone, 'tis the very worst den that ever was known." "bravo, jack! poor old hudibras wouldn't know his own lines if he were here. give us some more of that sort of thing to make the time pass till uncle comes home. i'm just burning with curiosity." a glass of cold water down his back, under pretence of extinguishing him, ended in the aggressor being put out himself. it seemed a long day in spite of all the fun we managed to get in one way or another; but "be the day weary, be the day long, at length it ringeth to evensong," and about seven o'clock we heard the horse's feet in the yard, and my parents came in alone. even then we had, of course, to wait a short time before they were ready to tell us what we were longing to hear. "now i'll tell you all about the mysterious stranger," said father, at last. "but i am tired, and you must not interrupt me. you will have plenty of time to ask questions another day. it is just fifteen years since my half-brother joe was in this room. his mother died when he was about three years old, and at her request your grandfather sent the little fellow over to normandy to be brought up by his mother's brother. this brother was a very rich man, and when my father married again he offered to adopt joe, bring him up as his own son, and leave him all he possessed, if my father would consent. he would not, however, do this, and insisted on joe returning home at once, so one of my first recollections is being carried about by my big brother joe. as i got older i used to spend most of my days in the tower-room, where joe was always busy with some carpentering, or work of one kind or another. your grandfather was a severe man, very harsh in his management of children, and joe often resented what he considered his unkindness. that oak chest, which was nearly the cause of your death the other night, harold, was the cause of our separation. one day the french count came to stay with our father, and joe, who was really very fond of him, owing to having spent his early years with him, wanted to go back with him; but our father would not consent. joe tells me now that he distinctly heard the frenchman say, 'well, i've made my will in his favour, and i shall leave it with you. i've made you executor, and when i am dead you will let the boy come over to normandy. it's a pity you won't let him go back with me, for there are people who would like to oust him out of his property if they could.' "years passed away, and one day, when joe had been imprisoned in the tower-room for some naughtiness, he ran away, climbing down by those very steps that he climbed up yesterday, and which he had made when quite a youngster, to be able to get in or out of his play-room as he liked. i said your grandfather was a harsh man; and when he heard of joe's flight, he knew of course he had gone to normandy, and he made a solemn vow that joe should never enter the house again. i was about twelve then, and old enough to see that, however harsh my father might be, he really loved his elder son. he was never the same again, and one morning we found him struck by paralysis. he recovered consciousness before he died, and seemed anxious to tell us something, but he could neither write nor speak distinctly, though i fancy he wanted to say something about joe. my mother and i lived alone here, writing occasionally to normandy, but never expecting to see joe again. one day, fifteen years ago, i was sitting writing, when a servant came to say that a stranger had called, and had pushed past her, saying he wanted to go to the tower-room. running upstairs quickly, i found your uncle joe kneeling at the oak chest, which stood open. i was angry at his impertinence, and seizing him by the collar as he knelt, i shook him violently and reproached him with killing our father, and then coming into the house in that fashion. he was pale with anger; but he is a noble character, in spite of all his faults. he remembered that we were brothers, and would not strike me. 'i came to see if i could find the count d'arcy's will,' he said; 'a cousin of his claims the estate, and i have nothing to prove that he made me his heir. i know the count gave it to our father.' 'and i know that our father forbade you to enter the house while he was alive. i shall not allow it now he is dead. go!' i replied, pointing to the door. he went, and i have never seen him till to-day." "what has he been doing all these years?" i asked, unable to restrain my curiosity any longer. "he has been working hard and making a name for himself at rouen, while the count's cousin has been squandering the estate. from time to time, he tells me, he has come over to england, stayed at the watermill, with the old woman who nursed him as a baby, and made occasional visits to the tower-room in search of the will which was to restore him to his rights, going and coming always by means of those steps." "whatever made him think of that place?" said jack, finding that my interruption was unreproved. "he says that he remembered your grandfather telling some one that there was a false bottom in the oak chest which made a splendid hiding-place. he had tried several times to get it open, but he had never succeeded. the last time he tried was on that evening when he heard from old jane that we had gone to colchester. when he opened the lid of the chest he found harold inside quite unconscious and almost suffocated. of course, he knew the ways of the house; so he carried him to the coachman's room, where he stayed with him till the gong sounded for prayers." "then they were his footmarks we saw in the mud," cried rupert. "what a joke. don't you tell him i said they were nineteens. what is he like? is he very cross?" "here he comes, so you can judge for yourselves," said mother, opening the door to admit our new-found uncle, who turned out to be just as jolly as any boys could wish. * * * * * years passed by. uncle joe, by means of the will, which was hidden in the oak chest, came into possession of a beautiful little estate in normandy, where we all spent many happy days with our french cousins, for he had married a frenchwoman. i say _we_, because, thanks to my cousins' good influence on mind and body, i became as strong as any one could expect, and was able to enjoy school life in a quiet way, though never fit for rough games, and always rather sensitive about the slight hump on my back. never shall i forget my grief when those first holidays were over, and father and mother and i stood at the door to wave our farewells. "god bless you, children," said father; "you've done us all good." "then you don't wish the savages had never come, uncle," shouted jack, with a merry smile. "no, no, no!" replied father; and then the carriage went out of sight, though the sounds of the australian "cooee" reached us for some minutes afterwards. the end. london: knight, printer, middle street, aldersgate, e.c. [illustration: mary erskine's farm] mary erskine a franconia story, by the author of the rollo books. new york: harper & brothers publishers. franklin square. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office for the southern district of new york. preface. the development of the moral sentiments in the human heart, in early life,--and every thing in fact which relates to the formation of character,--is determined in a far greater degree by sympathy, and by the influence of example, than by formal precepts and didactic instruction. if a boy hears his father speaking kindly to a robin in the spring,--welcoming its coming and offering it food,--there arises at once in his own mind, a feeling of kindness toward the bird, and toward all the animal creation, which is produced by a sort of sympathetic action, a power somewhat similar to what in physical philosophy is called _induction_. on the other hand, if the father, instead of feeding the bird, goes eagerly for a gun, in order that he may shoot it, the boy will sympathize in that desire, and growing up under such an influence, there will be gradually formed within him, through the mysterious tendency of the youthful heart to vibrate in unison with hearts that are near, a disposition to kill and destroy all helpless beings that come within his power. there is no need of any formal instruction in either case. of a thousand children brought up under the former of the above-described influences, nearly every one, when he sees a bird, will wish to go and get crumbs to feed it, while in the latter case, nearly every one will just as certainly look for a stone. thus the growing up in the right atmosphere, rather than the receiving of the right instruction, is the condition which it is most important to secure, in plans for forming the characters of children. it is in accordance with this philosophy that these stories, though written mainly with a view to their moral influence on the hearts and dispositions of the readers, contain very little formal exhortation and instruction. they present quiet and peaceful pictures of happy domestic life, portraying generally such conduct, and expressing such sentiments and feelings, as it is desirable to exhibit and express in the presence of children. the books, however, will be found, perhaps, after all, to be useful mainly in entertaining and amusing the youthful readers who may peruse them, as the writing of them has been the amusement and recreation of the author in the intervals of more serious pursuits. contents. chapter i.--jemmy ii.--the bride iii.--mary erskine's visitors iv.--calamity v.--consultations vi.--mary bell in the woods vii.--house-keeping viii.--the school ix.--good management x.--the visit to mary erskine's engravings. mary erskine's farm--frontispiece. catching the horse the log house mary bell at the brook the widow and the fatherless mrs. bell mary bell and queen bess mary bell getting breakfast the school going to court the strawberry party the franconia stories. order of the volumes. malleville. wallace. mary erskine. mary bell. beechnut. rodolphus. ellen linn. stuyvesant. caroline. agnes. scene of the story the country in the vicinity of franconia, at the north. principal persons mary erskine. albert. phonny and malleville, cousins, residing at the house of phonny's mother. mrs. henry, phonny's mother. antonio blanchinette, a french boy, residing at mrs. henry's; commonly called beechnut. mrs. bell, a widow lady, living in the vicinity of mrs. henry's. mary bell, her daughter. mary erskine. chapter i. jemmy. malleville and her cousin phonny generally played together at franconia a great part of the day, and at night they slept in two separate recesses which opened out of the same room. these recesses were deep and large, and they were divided from the room by curtains, so that they formed as it were separate chambers: and yet the children could speak to each other from them in the morning before they got up, since the curtains did not intercept the sound of their voices. they might have talked in the same manner at night, after they had gone to bed, but this was against mrs. henry's rules. one morning malleville, after lying awake a few minutes, listening to the birds that were singing in the yard, and wishing that the window was open so that she could hear them more distinctly, heard phonny's voice calling to her. "malleville," said he, "are you awake?" "yes," said malleville, "are you?" "yes," said phonny, "i'm awake--but what a cold morning it is!" it was indeed a cold morning, or at least a very _cool_ one. this was somewhat remarkable, as it was in the month of june. but the country about franconia was cold in winter, and cool in summer. phonny and malleville rose and dressed themselves, and then went down stairs. they hoped to find a fire in the sitting-room, but there was none. "how sorry i am," said phonny. "but hark, i hear a roaring." "yes," said malleville; "it is the oven; they are going to bake." the back of the oven was so near to the partition wall which formed one side of the sitting-room, that the sound of the fire could be heard through it. the mouth of the oven however opened into another small room connected with the kitchen, which was called the baking-room. the children went out into the baking-room, to warm themselves by the oven fire. "i am very glad that it is a cool day," said phonny, "for perhaps mother will let us go to mary erskine's. should not you like to go?" "yes," said malleville, "very much. where is it?" the readers who have perused the preceding volumes of this series will have observed that mary bell, who lived with her mother in the pleasant little farm-house at a short distance from the village, was always called by her full name, mary bell, and not ever, or scarcely ever, merely mary. people had acquired the habit of speaking of her in this way, in order to distinguish her from another mary who lived with mrs. bell for several years. this other mary was mary erskine. mary erskine did not live now at mrs. bell's, but at another house which was situated nearly two miles from mrs. henry's, and the way to it was by a very wild and unfrequented road. the children were frequently accustomed to go and make mary erskine a visit; but it was so long a walk that mrs. henry never allowed them to go unless on a very cool day. at breakfast that morning phonny asked his mother if that would not be a good day for them to go and see mary erskine. mrs. henry said that it would be an excellent day, and that she should be very glad to have them go, for there were some things there to be brought home. besides beechnut was going to mill, and he could carry them as far as kater's corner. kater's corner was a place where a sort of cart path, branching off from the main road, led through the woods to the house where mary erskine lived. it took its name from a farmer, whose name was kater, and whose house was at the corner where the roads diverged. the main road itself was very rough and wild, and the cart path which led from the corner was almost impassable in summer, even for a wagon, though it was a very romantic and beautiful road for travelers on horseback or on foot. in the winter the road was excellent: for the snow buried all the roughness of the way two or three feet deep, and the teams which went back and forth into the woods, made a smooth and beautiful track for every thing on runners, upon the top of it. malleville and phonny were very much pleased with the prospect of riding a part of the way to mary erskine's, with beechnut, in the wagon. they made themselves ready immediately after breakfast, and then went and sat down upon the step of the door, waiting for beechnut to appear. beechnut was in the barn, harnessing the horse into the wagon. malleville sat down quietly upon the step while waiting for beechnut. phonny began to amuse himself by climbing up the railing of the bannisters, at the side of the stairs. he was trying to poise himself upon the top of the railing and then to work himself up the ascent by pulling and pushing with his hands and feet against the bannisters themselves below. "i wish you would not do that," said malleville. "i think it is very foolish, for you may fall and hurt yourself." "no," said phonny. "it is not foolish. it is very useful for me to learn to climb." so saying he went on scrambling up the railing of the bannisters as before. just then beechnut came along through the yard, towards the house. he was coming for the whip. "beechnut," said malleville, "i wish that you would speak to phonny." "_is_ it foolish for me to learn to climb?" asked phonny. in order to see beechnut while he asked this question, phonny had to twist his head round in a very unusual position, and look out under his arm. it was obvious that in doing this he was in imminent danger of falling, so unstable was the equilibrium in which he was poised upon the rail. "is not he foolish?" asked malleville. beechnut looked at him a moment, and then said, as he resumed his walk through the entry, "not very;--that is for a boy. i have known boys sometimes to do foolisher things than that." "what did they do?" asked phonny. "why once," said beechnut, "i knew a boy who put his nose into the crack of the door, and then took hold of the latch and pulled the door to, and pinched his nose to death. that was a _little_ more foolish, though not much." so saying beechnut passed through the door and disappeared. phonny was seized with so violent a convulsion of laughter at the idea of such absurd folly as beechnut had described, that he tumbled off the bannisters, but fortunately he fell _in_, towards the stairs, and was very little hurt. he came down the stairs to malleville, and as beechnut returned in a few minutes with the whip, they all went out towards the barn together. beechnut had already put the bags of grain into the wagon behind, and now he assisted phonny and malleville to get in. he gave them the whole of the seat, in order that they might have plenty of room, and also that they might be high up, where they could see. he had a small bench which was made to fit in, in front, and which he was accustomed to use for himself, as a sort of driver's seat, whenever the wagon was full. he placed this bench in its place in front, and taking his seat upon it, he drove away. when the party had thus fairly set out, and phonny and malleville had in some measure finished uttering the multitude of exclamations of delight with which they usually commenced a ride, they began to wish that beechnut would tell them a story. now beechnut was a boy of boundless fertility of imagination, and he was almost always ready to tell a story. his stories were usually invented on the spot, and were often extremely wild and extravagant, both in the incidents involved in them, and in the personages whom he introduced as actors. the extravagance of these tales was however usually no objection to them in phonny's and malleville's estimation. in fact beechnut observed that the more extravagant his stories were, the better pleased his auditors generally appeared to be in listening to them. he therefore did not spare invention, or restrict himself by any rules either of truth or probability in his narratives. nor did he usually require any time for preparation, but commenced at once with whatever came into his head, pronouncing the first sentence of his story, very often without any idea of what he was to say next. on this occasion beechnut began as follows: "once there was a girl about three years old, and she had a large black cat. the cat was of a jet black color, and her fur was very soft and glossy. it was as soft as silk. "this cat was very mischievous and very sly. she was _very_ sly: very indeed. in fact she used to go about the house so very slyly, getting into all sorts of mischief which the people could never find out till afterwards, that they gave her the name of sligo. some people said that the reason why she had that name was because she came from a place called sligo, in ireland. but that was not the reason. it was veritably and truly because she was so sly." beechnut pronounced this decision in respect to the etymological import of the pussy's name in the most grave and serious manner, and malleville and phonny listened with profound attention. "what was the girl's name?" asked malleville. "the girl's?" repeated beechnut. "oh, her name was--arabella." "well, go on," said malleville. "one day," continued beechnut, "sligo was walking about the house, trying to find something to do. she came into the parlor. there was nobody there. she looked about a little, and presently she saw a work-basket upon the corner of a table, where arabella's mother had been at work. sligo began to look at the basket, thinking that it would make a good nest for her to sleep in, if she could only get it under the clock. the clock stood in a corner of the room. "sligo accordingly jumped up into a chair, and from the chair to the table, and then pushing the basket along nearer and nearer to the edge of the table, she at last made it fall over, and all the sewing and knitting work, and the balls, and needles, and spools, fell out upon the floor. sligo then jumped down and pushed the basket along toward the clock. she finally got it under the clock, crept into it, curled herself round into the form of a semicircle inside, so as just to fill the basket, and went to sleep. "presently arabella came in, and seeing the spools and balls upon the floor, began to play with them. in a few minutes more, arabella's mother came in, and when she saw arabella playing with these things upon the floor, she supposed that arabella herself was the rogue that had thrown the basket off the table. arabella could not talk much. when her mother accused her of doing this mischief, she could only say "no;" "no;" but her mother did not believe her. so she made her go and stand up in the corner of the room, for punishment, while sligo peeped out from under the clock to see." "but you said that sligo was asleep," said phonny. "yes, she went to sleep," replied beechnut, "but she waked up when arabella's mother came into the room." beechnut here paused a moment to consider what he should say next, when suddenly he began to point forward to a little distance before them in the road, where a boy was to be seen at the side of the road, sitting upon a stone. "i verily believe it is jemmy," said he. as the wagon approached the place where jemmy was sitting, they found that he was bending down over his foot, and moaning with, pain. beechnut asked him what was the matter. he said that he had sprained his foot dreadfully. beechnut stopped the horse, and giving the reins to phonny, he got out to see. phonny immediately gave them to malleville, and followed. "are you much hurt?" asked beechnut. "oh, yes," said jemmy, moaning and groaning; "oh dear me!" beechnut then went back to the horse, and taking him by the bridle, he led him a little way out of the road, toward a small tree, where he thought he would stand, and then taking malleville out, so that she might not be in any danger if the horse should chance to start, he went back to jemmy. "you see," said jemmy, "i was going to mill, and i was riding along here, and the horse pranced about and threw me off and sprained my foot. oh dear me! what shall i do?" "where is the horse?" asked beechnut. "there he is," said jemmy, "somewhere out there. he has gone along the road. and the bags have fallen off too. oh dear me!" phonny ran out into the road, and looked forward. he could see the horse standing by the side of the road at some distance, quietly eating the grass. a little this side of the place where the horse stood, the bags were lying upon the ground, not very far from each other. the story which jemmy told was not strictly true. he was one of the boys of the village, and was of a wild and reckless character. this was, however, partly his father's fault, who never gave him any kind and friendly instruction, and always treated him with a great degree of sternness and severity. a circus company had visited franconia a few weeks before the time of this accident, and jemmy had peeped through the cracks of the fence that formed their enclosure, and had seen the performers ride around the ring, standing upon the backs of the horses. he was immediately inspired with the ambition to imitate this feat, and the next time that he mounted his father's horse, he made the attempt to perform it. his father, when he found it out, was very angry with him, and sternly forbade him ever to do such a thing again. he declared positively that if he did, he would whip him to death, as he said. jemmy was silent, but he secretly resolved that he would ride standing again, the very first opportunity. accordingly, when his father put the two bags of grain upon the horse, and ordered jemmy to go to mill with them, jemmy thought that the opportunity had come. he had observed that the circus riders, instead of a saddle, used upon the backs of their horses a sort of flat pad, which afforded a much more convenient footing than any saddle; and as to standing on the naked back of a horse, it was manifestly impossible for any body but a rope-dancer. when, however, jemmy saw his father placing the bags of grain upon the horse, he perceived at once that a good broad and level surface was produced by them, which was much more extended and level, even than the pads of the circus-riders. he instantly resolved, that the moment that he got completely away from the village, he would mount upon the bags and ride standing--and ride so, too, just as long as he pleased. accordingly, as soon as he had passed the house where phonny lived, which was the last house in that direction for some distance, he looked round in order to be sure that his father was not by any accident behind him, and then climbing up first upon his knees, and afterward upon his feet, he drew up the reins cautiously, and then chirruped to the horse to go on. the horse began to move slowly along. jemmy was surprised and delighted to find how firm his footing was on the broad surface of the bags. growing more and more bold and confident as he became accustomed to his situation, he began presently to dance about, or rather to perform certain awkward antics, which he considered dancing, looking round continually, with a mingled expression of guilt, pleasure, and fear, in his countenance, in order to be sure that his father was not coming. finally, he undertook to make his horse trot a little. the horse, however, by this time, began to grow somewhat impatient at the unusual sensations which he experienced--the weight of the rider being concentrated upon one single point, directly on his back, and resting very unsteadily and interruptedly there,--and the bridle-reins passing up almost perpendicularly into the air, instead of declining backwards, as they ought to do in any proper position of the horseman. he began to trot forward faster and faster. jemmy soon found that it would be prudent to restrain him, but in his upright position, he had no control over the horse by pulling the reins. he only pulled the horse's head upwards, and made him more uneasy and impatient than before. he then attempted to get down into a sitting posture again, but in doing so, he fell off upon the hard road and sprained his ankle. the horse trotted rapidly on, until the bags fell off, first one and then the other. finding himself thus wholly at liberty, he stopped and began to eat the grass at the road-side, wholly unconcerned at the mischief that had been done. jemmy's distress was owing much more to his alarm and his sense of guilt, than to the actual pain of the injury which he had suffered. he was, however, entirely disabled by the sprain. "it is rather a hard case," said beechnut, "no doubt, but never mind it, jemmy. a man may break his leg, and yet live to dance many a hornpipe afterwards. you'll get over all this and laugh about it one day. come, i'll carry you home in my wagon." "but i am afraid to go home," said jemmy. "what are you afraid of?" asked beechnut. "of my father," said jemmy. "oh no," said beechnut. "the horse is not hurt, and as for the grist i'll carry it to mill with mine. so there is no harm done. come, let me put you into the wagon." "yes," said phonny, "and i will go and catch the horse." while beechnut was putting jemmy into the wagon, phonny ran along the road toward the horse. the horse, hearing footsteps, and supposing from the sound that somebody might be coming to catch him, was at first disposed to set off and gallop away; but looking round and seeing that it was nobody but phonny he went on eating as before. when phonny got pretty near to the horse, he began to walk up slowly towards him, putting out his hand as if to take hold of the bridle and saying, "whoa--dobbin,--whoa." the horse raised his head a little from the grass, shook it very expressively at phonny, walked on a few steps, and then began to feed upon the grass as before. he seemed to know precisely how much resistance was necessary to avoid the recapture with which he was threatened. "whoa jack! whoa!" said phonny, advancing again. the horse, however, moved on, shaking his head as before. he seemed to be no more disposed to recognize the name of jack than dobbin. [illustration: catching the horse.] "jemmy," said phonny, turning back and calling out aloud, "jemmy! what's his name?" jemmy did not answer. he was fully occupied in getting into the wagon. beechnut called phonny back and asked him to hold his horse, while he went to catch jemmy's. he did it by opening one of the bags and taking out a little grain, and by means of it enticing the stray horse near enough to enable him to take hold of the bridle. he then fastened him behind the wagon, and putting jemmy's two bags in, he turned round and went back to carry jemmy home, leaving malleville and phonny to walk the rest of the way to mary erskine's. besides their ride, they lost the remainder of the story of sligo, if that can be said to be lost which never existed. for at the time when beechnut paused in his narration, he had told the story as far as he had invented it. he had not thought of another word. chapter ii. the bride. mary erskine was an orphan. her mother died when she was about twelve years old. her father had died long before, and after her father's death her mother was very poor, and lived in so secluded and solitary a place, that mary had no opportunity then to go to school. she began to work too as soon as she was able to do any thing, and it was necessary from that day forward for her to work all the time; and this would have prevented her from going to school, if there had been one near. thus when her mother died, although she was an intelligent and very sensible girl, she could neither read nor write a word. she told mrs. bell the day that she went to live with her, that she did not even know any of the letters, except the round one and the crooked one. the round one she said she _always_ knew, and as for s she learned that, because it stood for erskine. this shows how little she knew about spelling. mrs. bell wanted mary erskine to help her in taking care of her own daughter mary, who was then an infant. as both the girls were named mary, the people of the family and the neighbors gradually fell into the habit of calling each of them by her full name, in order to distinguish them from each other. thus the baby was never called mary, but always mary bell, and the little nursery maid was always known as mary erskine. mary erskine became a great favorite at mrs. bell's. she was of a very light-hearted and joyous disposition, always contented and happy, singing like a nightingale at her work all the day long, when she was alone, and cheering and enlivening all around her by her buoyant spirits when she was in company. when mary bell became old enough to run about and play, mary erskine became her playmate and companion, as well as her protector. there was no distinction of rank to separate them. if mary bell had been as old as mary erskine and had had a younger sister, her duties in the household would have been exactly the same as mary erskine's were. in fact, mary erskine's position was altogether that of an older sister, and strangers visiting, the family would have supposed that the two girls were really sisters, had they not both been named mary. mary erskine was about twelve years older than mary bell, so that when mary bell began to go to school, which was when she was about five years old, mary erskine was about seventeen. mrs. bell had proposed, when mary erskine first came to her house, that she would go to school and learn to read and write; but mary had been very much disinclined to do so. in connection with the amiableness and gentleness of her character and her natural good sense, she had a great deal of pride and independence of spirit; and she was very unwilling to go to school--being, as she was, almost in her teens--and begin there to learn her letters with the little children. mrs. bell ought to have required her to go, notwithstanding her reluctance, or else to have made some other proper arrangement for teaching her to read and write. mrs. bell was aware of this in fact, and frequently resolved that she would do so. but she postponed the performance of her resolution from month to month and year to year, and finally it was not performed at all. mary erskine was so very useful at home, that a convenient time for sparing her never came. and then besides she was so kind, and so tractable, and so intent upon complying with all mrs. bell's wishes, in every respect, that mrs. bell was extremely averse to require any thing of her, which would mortify her, or give her pain. when mary erskine was about eighteen years old, she was walking home one evening from the village, where she had been to do some shopping for mrs. bell, and as she came to a solitary part of the road after having left the last house which belonged to the village, she saw a young man coming out of the woods at a little distance before her. she recognized him, immediately, as a young man whom she called albert, who had often been employed by mrs. bell, at work about the farm and garden. albert was a very sedate and industrious young man, of frank and open and manly countenance, and of an erect and athletic form. mary erskine liked albert very well, and yet the first impulse was, when she saw him coming, to cross over to the other side of the road, and thus pass him at a little distance. she did in fact take one or two steps in that direction, but thinking almost immediately that it would be foolish to do so, she returned to the same side of the road and walked on. albert walked slowly along towards mary erskine, until at length they met. "good evening, mary erskine," said albert. "good evening, albert," said mary erskine. albert turned and began to walk along slowly, by mary erskine's side. "i have been waiting here for you more than two hours," said albert. "have you?" said mary erskine. her heart began to beat, and she was afraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble, "yes," said albert. "i saw you go to the village, and i wanted to speak to you when you came back." mary erskine walked along, but did not speak. "and i have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to the village," continued albert. "i have not been much to the village, lately," said mary. here there was a pause of a few minutes, when albert said again, "have you any objection to my walking along with you here a little way, mary?" "no," said mary, "not at all." "mary," said albert, after another short pause, "i have got a hundred dollars and my axe,--and this right arm. i am thinking of buying a lot of land, about a mile beyond kater's corner. if i will do it, and build a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife? it will have to be a _log_ house at first." mary erskine related subsequently to mary bell what took place at this interview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest. it was evident, however, that mary erskine was inclined to accept this proposal, from a conversation which took place between her and mrs. bell the next evening. it was after tea. the sun had gone down, and the evening was beautiful. mrs. bell was sitting in a low rocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which they called the stoop. there were two seats, one on each side of the stoop, and there was a vine climbing over it. mrs. bell was knitting. mary bell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard, watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers. "you may stay here and play a little while," said mary erskine to mary bell. "i am going to talk with your mother a little; but i shall be back again pretty soon." mary erskine accordingly went to the stoop where mrs. bell was sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of mrs. bell, though rather behind than before her. there was a railing along behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush, covered with roses, upon the other side. mrs. bell perceived from mary erskine's air and manner that she had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for mary erskine to begin. "mrs. bell," said mary. "well," said mrs. bell. the trouble was that mary erskine did not know exactly _how_ to begin. she paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said, "albert wants me to go and live with him." "does he?" said mrs. bell. "and where does he want you to go and live?" "he is thinking of buying a farm," said mary erskine. "where?" said mrs. bell. "i believe the land is about a mile from kater's corner." mrs. bell was silent for a few minutes. she was pondering the thought now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin to form her own independent plans of life. she looked at little mary bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when mary erskine was gone. after a short pause spent in reflections like these, mrs. bell resumed the conversation by saying, "well, mary,--and what do you think of the plan?" "why--i don't know," said mary erskine, timidly and doubtfully. "you are very young," said mrs. bell. "yes," said mary erskine, "i always was very young. i was very young when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, i was very young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living. and now i am very young, i know. but then i am eighteen." "are you eighteen?" asked mrs. bell. "yes," said mary erskine, "i was eighteen the day before yesterday." "it is a lonesome place,--out beyond kater's corner," said mrs. bell, after another pause. "yes," said mary erskine, "but i am not afraid of lonesomeness. i never cared about seeing a great many people." "and you will have to work very hard," continued mrs. bell. "i know that," replied mary; "but then i am not afraid of work any more than i am of lonesomeness. i began to work when i was five years old, and i have worked ever since,--and i like it." "then, besides," said mrs. bell, "i don't know what i shall do with _my_ mary when you have gone away. you have had the care of her ever since she was born." mary erskine did not reply to this. she turned her head away farther and farther from mrs. bell, looking over the railing of the stoop toward the white roses. in a minute or two she got up suddenly from her seat, and still keeping her face averted from mrs. bell, she went in by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. in about ten minutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place where mary bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tones as joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have one game of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would be time for her to go to bed. two days after this, albert closed the bargain for his land, and began his work upon it. the farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yet to be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all in forest. a great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit only for woodland and pasturage. there were, however, a great many fertile vales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, there was a broad tract which albert thought would make, when the trees were felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece of intervale." albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, on a part of his lot which was nearest the corner. a road, which had been laid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. the trees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enough for a sled road in winter. in summer there was nothing but a wild path, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and other forest obstructions. a person on foot could get along very well, and even a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance for any thing on wheels. albert said that it would not be possible to get even a wheelbarrow in. albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over this road, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a pack upon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. when they were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, and then set them on fire. he chose for the burning, the afternoon of a hot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west, which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. it was important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which he would have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees were consumed. his fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations, and the next day he brought mary erskine in to see what a "splendid burn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he was going to build for her. mary erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of albert's clearing. the area which had been opened ascended a little from the road, and presented a gently undulating surface, which mary erskine thought would make very beautiful fields. it was now, however, one vast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins. albert conducted mary erskine and mary bell--for mary bell had come in with them to see the fire,--to a little eminence from which they could survey the whole scene. "look," said he, "is not that beautiful? did you ever see a better burn?" "i don't know much about burns," said mary erskine, "but i can see that it will be a beautiful place for a farm. why we can see the pond," she added, pointing toward the south. this was true. the falling of the trees had opened up a fine view of the pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. there was a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along the lower part of the ground, and a wild brook which came tumbling down from the mountains, and then, after running across the road, fell into the larger stream, not far from the corner of the farm. the brook and the stream formed two sides of the clearing. beyond them, and along the other two sides of the clearing, the tall trees of those parts of the forest which had not been disturbed, rose like a wall and hemmed the opening closely in. albert and mary erskine walked along the road through the whole length of the clearing, looking out for the best place to build their house. "perhaps it will be lonesome here this winter, mary," said albert. "i don't know but that you would rather wait till next spring." mary erskine hesitated about her reply. she did, in fact, wish to come to her new home that fall, and she thought it was proper that she should express the cordial interest which she felt in albert's plans;--but, then, on the other hand, she did not like to say any thing which might seem to indicate a wish on her part to hasten the time of their marriage. so she said doubtfully,--"i don't know;--i don't think that it would be lonesome." "what do you mean, albert," said mary bell, "about mary erskine's coming to live here? she can't come and live here, among all these black stumps and logs." albert and mary erskine were too intent upon their own thoughts and plans to pay any attention to mary bell's questions. so they walked along without answering her. "what could we have to _do_ this fall and winter?" asked mary erskine. she wished to ascertain whether she could do any good by coming at once, or whether it would be better, for albert's plans, to wait until the spring. "oh there will be plenty to do," said albert. "i shall have to work a great deal, while the ground continues open, in clearing up the land, and getting it ready for sowing in the spring; and it will be a great deal better for me to live here, in order to save my traveling back and forth, so far, every night and morning. then this winter i shall have my tools to make,--and to finish the inside of the house, and make the furniture; and if you have any leisure time you can spin. but after all it will not be very comfortable for you, and perhaps you would rather wait until spring." "no," said mary erskine. "i would rather come this fall." "well," rejoined albert, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction. "then i will get the house up next week, and we will be married very soon after." there were very few young men whose prospects in commencing life were so fair and favorable as those of albert. in the first place, he was not obliged to incur any debt on account of his land, as most young farmers necessarily do. his land was one dollar an acre. he had one hundred dollars of his own, and enough besides to buy a winter stock of provisions for his house. he had expected to have gone in debt for the sixty dollars, the whole price of the land being one hundred and sixty; but to his great surprise and pleasure mary erskine told him, as they were coming home from seeing the land after the burn, that she had seventy-five dollars of her own, besides interest; and that she should like to have sixty dollars of that sum go toward paying for the land. the fifteen dollars that would be left, she said, would be enough to buy the furniture. "i don't think that will be quite enough," said albert. "yes," said mary erskine. "we shall not want a great deal. we shall want a table and two chairs, and some things to cook with." "and a bed," said albert. "yes," said mary erskine, "but i can make that myself. the cloth will not cost much, and you can get some straw for me. next summer we can keep some geese, and so have a feather bed some day." "we shall want some knives and forks, and plates," said albert. "yes," said mary erskine, "but they will not cost much. i think fifteen dollars will get us all we need. besides there is more than fifteen dollars, for there is the interest." the money had been put out at interest in the village. "well," said albert, "and i can make the rest of the furniture that we shall need, this winter. i shall have a shop near the house. i have got the tools already." thus all was arranged. albert built his house on the spot which mary erskine thought would be the most pleasant for it, the week after her visit to the land. three young men from the neighborhood assisted him, as is usual in such cases, on the understanding that albert was to help each of them as many days about their work as they worked for him. this plan is often adopted by farmers in doing work which absolutely requires several men at a time, as for example, the raising of heavy logs one upon another to form the walls of a house. in order to obtain logs for the building albert and his helpers cut down fresh trees from the forest, as the blackened and half-burned trunks, which lay about his clearing, were of course unsuitable for such a work. they selected the tallest and straightest trees, and after felling them and cutting them to the proper length, they hauled them to the spot by means of oxen. the ground served for a floor, and the fire-place was made of stones. the roof was formed of sheets of hemlock bark, laid, like slates upon rafters made of the stems of slender trees. albert promised mary erskine that, as soon as the snow came, in the winter, to make a road, so that he could get through the woods with a load of boards upon a sled, he would make her a floor. from this time forward, although mary erskine was more diligent and faithful than ever in performing all her duties at mrs. bell's, her imagination was incessantly occupied with pictures and images of the new scenes into which she was about to be ushered as the mistress of her own independent household and home. she made out lists, mentally, for she could not write, of the articles which it would be best to purchase. she formed and matured in her own mind all her house-keeping plans. she pictured to herself the scene which the interior of her dwelling would present in cold and stormy winter evenings, while she was knitting at one side of the fire, and albert was busy at some ingenious workmanship, on the other; or thought of the beautiful prospect which she should enjoy in the spring and summer following; when fields of waving grain, rich with promises of plenty and of wealth, would extend in every direction around her dwelling. she cherished, in a word, the brightest anticipations of happiness. [illustration: the log house.] the house at length was finished. the necessary furniture which albert contrived in some way to get moved to it, was put in; and early in august mary erskine was married. she was married in the morning, and a party of the villagers escorted her on horseback to her new home. chapter iii. mary erskine's visitors. mary erskine's anticipations of happiness in being the mistress of her own independent home were very high, but they were more than realized. the place which had been chosen for the house was not only a suitable one in respect to convenience, but it was a very pleasant one. it was near the brook which, as has already been said, came cascading down from among the forests and mountains, and passing along near one side of albert's clearing, flowed across the road, and finally emptied into the great stream. the house was placed near the brook, in order that albert might have a watering-place at hand for his horses and cattle when he should have stocked his farm. in felling the forest albert left a fringe of trees along the banks of the brook, that it might be cool and shady there when the cattle went down to drink. there was a spring of pure cold water boiling up from beneath some rocks not far from the brook, on the side toward the clearing. the water from this spring flowed down along a little mossy dell, until it reached the brook. the bed over which this little rivulet flowed was stony, and yet no stones were to be seen. they all had the appearance of rounded tufts of soft green moss, so completely were they all covered and hidden by the beautiful verdure. albert was very much pleased when he discovered this spring, and traced its little mossy rivulet down to the brook. he thought that mary erskine would like it. so he avoided cutting down any of the trees from the dell, or from around the spring, and in cutting down those which grew near it, he took care to make them fall away from the dell, so that in burning they should not injure the trees which he wished to save. thus that part of the wood which shaded and sheltered the spring and the dell, escaped the fire. the house was placed in such a position that this spring was directly behind it, and albert made a smooth and pretty path leading down to it; or rather he made the path smooth, and nature made it pretty. for no sooner had he completed his work upon it than nature began to adorn it by a profusion of the richest and greenest grass and flowers, which she caused to spring up on either side. it was so in fact in all albert's operations upon his farm. almost every thing that he did was for some purpose of convenience and utility, and he himself undertook nothing more than was necessary to secure the useful end. but his kind and playful co-operator, nature, would always take up the work where he left it, and begin at once to beautify it with her rich and luxuriant verdure. for example, as soon as the fires went out over the clearing, she began, with her sun and rain, to blanch the blackened stumps, and to gnaw at their foundations with her tooth of decay. if albert made a road or a path she rounded its angles, softened away all the roughness that his plow or hoe had left in it, and fringed it with grass and flowers. the solitary and slender trees which had been left standing here and there around the clearing, having escaped the fire, she took under her special care--throwing out new and thrifty branches from them, in every direction, and thus giving them massive and luxuriant forms, to beautify the landscape, and to form shady retreats for the flocks and herds which might in subsequent years graze upon the ground. thus while albert devoted himself to the substantial and useful improvements which were required upon his farm, with a view simply to profit, nature took the work of ornamenting it under her own special and particular charge. the sphere of mary erskine's duties and pleasures was within doors. her conveniences for house-keeping were somewhat limited at first, but albert, who kept himself busy at work on his land all day, spent the evenings in his shanty shop, making various household implements and articles of furniture for her. mary sat with him, usually, at such times, knitting by the side of the great, blazing fire, made partly for the sake of the light that it afforded, and partly for the warmth, which was required to temper the coolness of the autumnal evenings. mary took a very special interest in the progress of albert's work, every thing which he made being for her. each new acquisition, as one article after another was completed and delivered into her possession, gave her fresh pleasure: and she deposited it in its proper place in her house with a feeling of great satisfaction and pride. "mary erskine," said albert one evening--for though she was married, and her name thus really changed, albert himself, as well as every body else, went on calling her mary erskine just as before--"it is rather hard to make you wait so long for these conveniences, especially as there is no necessity for it. we need not have paid for our land this three years. i might have taken the money and built a handsome house, and furnished it for you at once." "and so have been in debt for the land," said mary. "yes," said albert. "i could have paid off that debt by the profits of the farming. i can lay up a hundred dollars a year, certainly." "no," said mary erskine. "i like this plan the best. we will pay as we go along. it will be a great deal better to have the three hundred dollars for something else than to pay old debts with. we will build a better house than this if we want one, one of these years, when we get the money. but i like this house very much as it is. perhaps, however, it is only because it is my own." it was not altogether the idea that it was her own that made mary erskine like her house. the interior of it was very pleasant indeed, especially after albert had completed the furnishing of it, and had laid the floor. it contained but one room, it is true, but that was a very spacious one. there were, in fact, two apartments enclosed by the walls and the roof, though only one of them could strictly be called a room. the other was rather a shed, or stoop, and it was entered from the front by a wide opening, like a great shed door. the entrance to the house proper was by a door opening from this stoop, so as to be sheltered from the storms in winter. there was a very large fire place made of stones in the middle of one side of the room, with a large flat stone for a hearth in front of it. this hearth stone was very smooth, and mary erskine kept it always very bright and clean. on one side of the fire was what they called a settle, which was a long wooden seat with a very high back. it was placed on the side of the fire toward the door, so that it answered the purpose of a screen to keep off any cold currents of air, which might come in on blustering winter nights, around the door. on the other side of the fire was a small and \ very elegant mahogany work table. this was a present to mary erskine from mrs. bell on the day of her marriage. there were drawers in this table containing sundry conveniences. the upper drawer was made to answer the purpose of a desk, and it had an inkstand in a small division in one corner. mrs. bell had thought of taking this inkstand out, and putting in some spools, or something else which mary erskine would be able to use. but mary herself would not allow her to make such a change. she said it was true that she could not write, but that was no reason why she should not have an inkstand. so she filled the inkstand with ink, and furnished the desk completely in other respects, by putting in six sheets of paper, a pen, and several wafers. the truth was, she thought it possible that an occasion might arise some time or other, at which albert might wish to write a letter; and if such a case should occur, it would give her great pleasure to have him write his letter at her desk. beyond the work table, on one of the sides of the room, was a cupboard, and next to the cupboard a large window. this was the only window in the house, and it had a sash which would rise and fall. mary erskine had made white curtains for this window, which could be parted in the middle, and hung up upon nails driven into the logs which formed the wall of the house, one on each side. of what use these curtains could be except to make the room look more snug and pleasant within, it would be difficult to say; for there was only one vast expanse of forests and mountains on that side of the house, so that there was nobody to look in. on the back side of the room, in one corner, was the bed. it was supported upon a bedstead which albert had made. the bedstead had high posts, and was covered, like the window, with curtains. in the other corner was the place for the loom, with the spinning-wheel between the loom and the bed. when mary erskine was using the spinning-wheel, she brought it out into the center of the room. the loom was not yet finished. albert was building it, working upon it from time to time as he had opportunity. the frame of it was up, and some of the machinery was made. mary erskine kept most of her clothes in a trunk; but albert was making her a bureau. instead of finding it lonesome at her new home, as mrs. bell had predicted, mary erskine had plenty of company. the girls from the village, whom she used to know, were very fond of coming out to see her. many of them were much younger than she was, and they loved to ramble about in the woods around mary erskine's house, and to play along the bank of the brook. mary used to show them too, every time they came, the new articles which albert had made for her, and to explain to them the gradual progress of the improvements. mary bell herself was very fond of going to see mary erskine,--though she was of course at that time too young to go alone. sometimes however mrs. bell would send her out in the morning and let her remain all day, playing, very happily, around the door and down by the spring. she used to play all day among the logs and stumps, and upon the sandy beach by the side of the brook, and yet when she went home at night she always looked as nice, and her clothes were as neat and as clean as when she went in the morning. mrs. bell wondered at this, and on observing that it continued to be so, repeatedly, after several visits, she asked mary bell how it happened that mary erskine kept her so nice. "oh," said mary bell, "i always put on my working frock when i go out to mary erskine's." the working frock was a plain, loose woolen dress, which mary erskine made for mary bell, and which mary bell, always put on in the morning, whenever she came to the farm. her own dress was taken off and laid carefully away upon the bed, under the curtains. her shoes and stockings were taken off too, so that she might play in the brook if she pleased, though mary erskine told her it was not best to remain in the water long enough to have her feet get very cold. when mary bell was dressed thus in her working frock, she was allowed to play wherever she pleased, so that she enjoyed almost an absolute and unbounded liberty. and yet there were some restrictions. she must not go across the brook, for fear that she might get lost in the woods, nor go out of sight of the house in any direction. she might build fires upon any of the stumps or logs, but not within certain limits of distance from the house, lest she should set the house on fire. and she must not touch the axe, for fear that she might cut herself, nor climb upon the wood-pile, for fear that it might fall down upon her. with some such restrictions as these, she could do whatever she pleased. she was very much delighted, one morning in september, when she was playing around the house in her working frock, at finding a great hole or hollow under a stump, which she immediately resolved to have for her oven. she was sitting down upon the ground by the side of it, and she began to call out as loud as she could, "mary erskine! mary erskine!" but mary erskine did not answer. mary bell could hear the sound of the spinning-wheel in the house, and she wondered why the spinner could not hear her, when she called so loud. she listened, watching for the pauses in the buzzing sound of the wheel, and endeavored to call out in the pauses,--but with no better success than before. at last she got up and walked along toward the house, swinging in her hand a small wooden shovel, which albert had made for her to dig wells with in the sand on the margin of the brook. "mary erskine!" said she, when she got to the door of the house, "didn't you hear me calling for you?" "yes," said mary erskine. "then why did not you come?" said mary bell. "because i was disobedient," said mary erskine, "and now i suppose i must be punished." "well," said mary bell. the expression of dissatisfaction and reproof upon mary bell's countenance was changed immediately into one of surprise and pleasure, at the idea of mary erskine's being punished for disobeying _her_. so she said, "well. and what shall your punishment be?" "what did you want me for?" asked mary erskine. "i wanted you to see my oven." "have you got an oven?" asked mary erskine. "yes," said mary bell, "it is under a stump. i have got some wood, and now i want some fire." "very well," said mary erskine, "get your fire-pan." mary bell's fire-pan, was an old tin dipper with a long handle. it had been worn out as a dipper, and so they used to let mary bell have it to carry her fire in. there were several small holes in the bottom of the dipper, so completely was it worn out: but this made it all the better for a fire-pan, since the air which came up through the holes, fanned the coals and kept them alive. this dipper was very valuable, too, for another purpose. mary bell was accustomed, sometimes, to go down to the brook and dip up water with it, in order to see the water stream down into the brook again, through these holes, in a sort of a shower. mary bell went, accordingly, for her fire-pan, which she found in its place in the open stoop or shed. she came into the house, and mary erskine, raking open the ashes in the fire-place, took out two large coals with the tongs, and dropped them into the dipper. mary bell held the dipper at arm's length before her, and began to walk along. "hold it out upon one side," said mary erskine, "and then if you fall down, you will not fall upon your fire." mary bell, obeying this injunction, went out to her oven and put the coals in at the mouth of it. then she began to gather sticks, and little branches, and strips of birch bark, and other silvan combustibles, which she found scattered about the ground, and put them upon the coals to make the fire. she stopped now and then a minute or two to rest and to listen to the sound of mary erskine's spinning. at last some sudden thought seemed to come into her head, and throwing down upon the ground a handful of sticks which she had in her hand, and was just ready to put upon the fire, she got up and walked toward the house. "mary erskine," said she, "i almost forgot about your punishment." "yes," said mary erskine, "i hoped that you had forgot about it, altogether." "why?" said mary bell. "because," said mary erskine, "i don't like to be punished." "but you _must_ be punished," said mary bell, very positively, "and-what shall your punishment be?" "how would it do," said mary erskine, going on, however, all the time with her spinning, "for me to have to give you two potatoes to roast in your oven?--or one? one potato will be enough punishment for such a little disobedience." "no; two," said mary bell. "well, two," said mary erskine. "you may go and get them in a pail out in the stoop. but you must wash them first, before you put them in the oven. you can wash them down at the brook." "i am afraid that i shall get my fingers smutty," said mary bell, "at my oven, for the stump is pretty black." "no matter if you do," said mary erskine. "you can go down and wash them at the brook." "and my frock, too," said mary bell. "no matter for that either," said mary erskine; "only keep it as clean as you can." so mary bell took the two potatoes and went down to the brook to wash them. she found, however, when she reached the brook, that there was a square piece of bark lying upon the margin of the water, and she determined to push it in and sail it, for her ship, putting the two potatoes on for cargo. after sailing the potatoes about for some time, her eye chanced to fall upon a smooth spot in the sand, which she thought would make a good place for a garden. so she determined to _plant_ her potatoes instead of roasting them. she accordingly dug a hole in the sand with her fingers, and put the potatoes in, and then after covering them, over with the sand, she went to the oven to get her fire-pan for her watering-pot, in order to water her garden. the holes in the bottom of the dipper made it an excellent watering-pot, provided the garden to be watered was not too far from the brook: for the shower would always begin to fall the instant the dipper was lifted out of the water. [illustration: mary bell at the brook.] after watering her garden again and again, mary bell concluded on the whole not to wait for her potatoes to grow, but dug them up and began to wash them in the brook, to make them ready for the roasting. her little feet sank into the sand at the margin of the water while she held the potatoes in the stream, one in each hand, and watched the current as it swept swiftly by them. after a while she took them out and put them in the sun upon a flat stone to dry, and when they were dry she carried them to her oven and buried them in the hot embers there. thus mary bell would amuse herself, hour after hour of the long day, when she went to visit mary erskine, with an endless variety of childish imaginings. her working-frock became in fact, in her mind, the emblem of complete and perfect liberty and happiness, unbounded and unalloyed. the other children of the village, too, were accustomed to come out and see mary erskine, and sometimes older and more ceremonious company still. there was one young lady named anne sophia, who, having been a near neighbor of mrs. bell's, was considerably acquainted with mary erskine, though as the two young ladies had very different tastes and habits of mind, they never became very intimate friends. anne sophia was fond of dress and of company. her thoughts were always running upon village subjects and village people, and her highest ambition was to live there. she had been, while mary erskine had lived at mrs. bell's, very much interested in a young man named gordon. he was a clerk in a store in the village. he was a very agreeable young man, and much more genteel and polished in his personal appearance than albert. he had great influence among the young men of the village, being the leader in all the excursions and parties of pleasure which were formed among them. anne sophia knew very well that mr. gordon liked to see young ladies handsomely dressed when they appeared in public, and partly to please him, and partly to gratify that very proper feeling of pleasure which all young ladies have in appearing well, she spent a large part of earnings in dress. she was not particularly extravagant, nor did she get into debt; but she did not, like mary erskine, attempt to lay up any of her wages. she often endeavored to persuade mary erskine to follow her example. "it is of no use," said she, "for girls like you and me to try to lay up money. if we are ever married we shall make our husbands take care of us; and if we are not married we shall not want our savings, for we can always earn what we need as we go along." mary erskine had no reply at hand to make to this reasoning, but she was not convinced by it, so she went on pursuing her own course, while anne sophia pursued hers. anne sophia was a very capable and intelligent girl, and as mr. gordon thought, would do credit to any society in which she might be called to move. he became more and more interested in her, and it happened that they formed an engagement to be married, just about the time that albert made his proposal to mary erskine. mr. gordon was a very promising business man, and had an offer from the merchant with whom he was employed as a clerk, to enter into partnership with him, just before the time of his engagement. he declined this offer, determining rather to go into business independently. he had laid up about as much money as albert had, and by means of this, and the excellent letters of recommendation which he obtained from the village people, he obtained a large stock of goods, on credit, in the city. when buying his goods he also bought a small quantity of handsome furniture, on the same terms. he hired a store. he also hired a small white house, with green trees around it, and a pretty garden behind. he was married nearly at the same time with albert, and anne sophia in taking possession of her genteel and beautiful village home, was as happy as mary erskine was in her sylvan solitude. mr. gordon told her that he had made a calculation, and he thought there was no doubt that, if business was tolerably good that winter, he should be able to clear enough to pay all his expenses and to pay for his furniture. his calculations proved to be correct. business was very good. he paid for his furniture, and bought as much more on a new credit in the spring. anne sophia came out to make a call upon mary erskine, about a month after she had got established in her new home. she came in the morning. mr. gordon brought her in a chaise as far as to the corner, and she walked the rest of the way. she was dressed very handsomely, and yet in pretty good taste. it was not wholly a call of ceremony, for anne sophia felt really a strong attachment to mary erskine, and had a great desire to see her in her new home. when she rose to take her leave, after her call was ended, she asked mary erskine to come to the village and see her as soon as she could. "i meant to have called upon you long before this," said she, "but i have been so busy, and we have had so much company. but i want to see you very much indeed. we have a beautiful house, and i have a great desire to show it to you. i think you have got a beautiful place here for a farm, one of these days; but you ought to make your husband build you a better house. he is as able to do it as my husband is to get me one, i have no doubt." mary erskine had no doubt either. she did not say so however, but only replied that she liked her house very well. the real reason why she liked it so much was one that anne sophia did not consider. the reason was that it was her own. whereas anne sophia lived in a house, which, pretty as it was, belonged to other people. all these things, it must be remembered, took place eight or ten years before the time when malleville and phonny went to visit mary erskine, and when mary bell was only four or five years old. phonny and malleville, as well as a great many other children, had grown up from infancy since that time. in fact, the jemmy who fell from his horse and sprained his ankle the day they came, was jemmy gordon, anne sophia's oldest son. chapter iv. calamity. both mary erskine and anne sophia went on very pleasantly and prosperously, each in her own way, for several years. every spring albert cut down more trees, and made new openings and clearings. he built barns and sheds about his house, and gradually accumulated quite a stock of animals. with the money that he obtained by selling the grain and the grass seed which he raised upon his land, he bought oxen and sheep and cows. these animals fed in his pastures in the summer, and in the winter he gave them hay from his barn. mary erskine used to take the greatest pleasure in getting up early in the cold winter mornings, and going out with her husband to see him feed the animals. she always brought in a large pile of wood every night, the last thing before going to bed, and laid it upon the hearth where it would be ready at hand for the morning fire. she also had a pail of water ready, from the spring, and the tea-kettle by the side of it, ready to be filled. the potatoes, too, which were to be roasted for breakfast, were always prepared the night before, and placed in an earthen pan, before the fire. mary erskine, in fact, was always very earnest to make every possible preparation over night, for the work of the morning. this arose partly from an instinctive impulse which made her always wish, as she expressed it, "to do every duty as soon as it came in sight," and partly from the pleasure which she derived from a morning visit to the animals in the barn. she knew them all by name. she imagined that they all knew her, and were glad to see her by the light of her lantern in the morning. it gave her the utmost satisfaction to see them rise, one after another, from their straw, and begin eagerly to eat the hay which albert pitched down to them from the scaffold, while she, standing below upon the barn floor, held the lantern so that he could see. she was always very careful to hold it so that the cows and the oxen could see too. one day, when albert came home from the village, he told mary erskine that he had an offer of a loan of two hundred dollars, from mr. keep. mr. keep was an elderly gentleman of the village,--of a mild and gentle expression of countenance, and white hair. he was a man of large property, and often had money to lend at interest. he had an office, where he used to do his business. this office was in a wing of his house, which was a large and handsome house in the center of the village. mr. keep had a son who was a physician, and he used often to ask his son's opinion and advice about his affairs. one day when mr. keep was sitting in his office, mr. gordon came in and told him that he had some plans for enlarging his business a little, and wished to know if mr. keep had two or three hundred dollars that he would like to lend for six months. mr. keep, who, though he was a very benevolent and a very honorable man, was very careful in all his money dealings, said that he would look a little into his accounts, and see how much he had to spare, and let mr. gordon know the next day. that night mr. keep asked his son what he thought of lending mr. gordon two or three hundred dollars. his son said doubtfully that he did not know. he was somewhat uncertain about it. mr. gordon was doing very well, he believed, but then his expenses were quite heavy, and it was not quite certain how it would turn with him. mr. keep then said that he had two or three hundred dollars on hand which he must dispose of in some way or other, and he asked his son what he should do with it. his son recommended that he should offer it to albert. albert formerly lived at mr. keep's, as a hired man, so that mr. keep knew him very well. "he is going on quite prosperously in his farm, i understand," said the doctor. "his land is all paid for, and he is getting quite a stock of cattle, and very comfortable buildings. i think it very likely that he can buy more stock with the money, and do well with it. and, at all events, you could not put the money in _safer_ hands." "i will propose it to him," said mr. keep. he did propose it to him that very afternoon, for it happened that albert went to the village that day. albert told mr. keep that he was very much obliged to him for the offer of the money, and that he would consider whether it would be best for him to take it or not, and let him know in the morning. so he told mary erskine of the offer that he had had, as soon as he got home. "i am very glad to get such an offer," said albert. "shall you take the money?" said his wife. "i don't know," replied albert. "i rather think not." "then why are you glad to get the offer?" asked mary erskine. "oh, it shows that my credit is good in the village. it must be very good, indeed, to lead such a man as mr. keep to offer to lend me money, of his own accord. it is a considerable comfort to know that i can get money, whenever i want it, even if i never take it." "yes," said mary erskine, "so it is." "and it is all owing to you," said albert. "to me?" said mary erskine. "yes," said he; "to your prudence and economy, and to your contented and happy disposition. that is one thing that i always liked you for. it is so easy to make you happy. there is many a wife, in your situation, who could not have been happy unless their husband would build them a handsome house and fill it with handsome furniture--even if he had to go in debt for his land to pay for it." mary erskine did not reply, though it gratified her very much to hear her husband commend her. "well," said she at length, "i am very glad that you have got good credit. what should you do with the money, if you borrowed it?" "why, one thing that i could do," said albert, "would be to build a new house." "no," said mary erskine, "i like this house very much. i don't want any other--certainly not until we can build one with our own money." "then," said albert, "i can buy more stock, and perhaps hire some help, and get more land cleared this fall, so as to have greater crops next spring, and then sell the stock when it has grown and increased, and also the crops, and so get money enough to pay back the debt and have something over." "should you have much over?" asked mary. "why that would depend upon how my business turned out,--and that would depend upon the weather, and the markets, and other things which we can not now foresee. i think it probable that we should have a good deal over." "well," said mary erskine, "then i would take the money." "but, then, on the other hand," said albert, "i should run some risk of embarrassing myself, if things did not turn out well. if i were to be sick, so that i could not attend to so much business, or if i should jose any of my stock, or if the crops should not do well, then i might not get enough to pay back the debt." "and what should you do then?" asked mary erskine. "why then," replied albert, "i should have to make up the deficiency in some other way. i might ask mr. keep to put off the payment of the note, or i might borrow the money of somebody else to pay him, or i might sell some of my other stock. i could do any of these things well enough, but it would perhaps cause me some trouble and anxiety." "then i would not take the money," said mary erskine. "i don't like anxiety. i can bear any thing else better than anxiety." "however, i don't know any thing about it," continued mary erskine, after a short pause. "you can judge best." they conversed on the subject some time longer, albert being quite at a loss to know what it was best to do. mary erskine, for her part, seemed perfectly willing that he should borrow the money to buy more stock, as she liked the idea of having more oxen, sheep, and cows. but she seemed decidedly opposed to using borrowed money to build a new house, or to buy new furniture. her head would ache, she said, to lie on a pillow of feathers that was not paid for. albert finally concluded not to borrow the money, and so mr. keep lent it to mr. gordon. things went on in this way for about three or four years, and then albert began to think seriously of building another house. he had now money enough of his own to build it with. his stock had become so large that he had not sufficient barn room for his hay, and he did not wish to build larger barns where he then lived, for in the course of his clearings he had found a much better place for a house than the one which they had at first selected. then his house was beginning to be too small for his family, for mary erskine had, now, two children. one was an infant, and the other was about two years old. these children slept in a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the great bed in the daytime, but still the room became rather crowded. so albert determined to build another house. mary erskine was very much interested in this plan. she would like to live in a handsome house as well as any other lady, only she preferred to wait until she could have one of her own. now that that time had arrived, she was greatly pleased with the prospect of having her kitchen, her sitting-room, and her bed-room, in three separate rooms, instead of having them, as heretofore, all in one. then the barns and barn-yards, and the pens and sheds for the sheep and cattle, were all going to be much more convenient than they had been; so that albert could take care of a greater amount of stock than before, with the same labor. the new house, too, was going to be built in a much more pleasant situation than the old one, and the road from it to the corner was to be improved, so that they could go in and out with a wagon. in a word, mary erskine's heart was filled with new hopes and anticipations, as she saw before her means and sources of happiness, higher and more extended than she had ever before enjoyed. when the time approached for moving into the new house mary erskine occupied herself, whenever she had any leisure time, in packing up such articles as were not in use. one afternoon while she was engaged in this occupation, albert came home from the field much earlier than usual. mary erskine was very glad to see him, as she wished him to nail up the box in which she had been packing her cups and saucers. she was at work on the stoop, very near the door, so that she could watch the children. the baby was in the cradle. the other child, whose name was bella, was playing about the floor. albert stopped a moment to look at mary erskine's packing, and then went in and took his seat upon the settle. "tell me when your box is ready," said he, "and i will come and nail it for you." bella walked along toward her father--for she had just learned to walk--and attempted to climb up into his lap. "run away, bella," said albert. mary erskine was surprised to hear albert tell bella to run away, for he was usually very glad to have his daughter come to him when he got home from his work. she looked up to see what was the matter. he was sitting upon the settle, and leaning his head upon his hand. mary erskine left her work and went to him. "are you not well, albert?" said she. "my head aches a little. it ached in the field, and that was the reason why i thought i would come home. but it is better now. are you ready for me to come and nail the box?" "no," said mary, "not quite; and besides, it is no matter about it to-night. i will get you some tea." "no," said albert, "finish your packing first, and i will come and nail it. then we can put it out of the way." mary erskine accordingly finished her packing, and albert went to it, to nail the cover on. he drove one or two nails, and then he put the hammer down, and sat down himself upon the box, saying that he could not finish the nailing after all. he was too unwell. he went into the room, mary erskine leading and supporting him. she conducted him to the bed and opened the curtains so as to let him lie down. she helped him to undress himself, and then left him, a few minutes while she began to get some tea. she moved the box, which she had been packing, away from the stoop door, and put it in a corner. she drew out the trundle-bed, and made, it ready for bella. she sat down and gave bella some supper, and then put her into the trundle-bed, directing her to shut up her eyes and go to sleep. bella obeyed. mary erskine then went to the fire and made some tea and toast for albert, doing every thing in as quiet and noiseless a manner as possible. when the tea and toast were ready she put them upon a small waiter, and then moving her little work-table up to the side of the bed, she put the waiter upon it. when every thing was thus ready, she opened the curtains. albert was asleep. he seemed however to be uneasy and restless, and he moaned now and then as if in pain. mary erskine stood leaning over him for some time, with a countenance filled with anxiety and concern. she then turned away, saying to herself, "if albert is going to be sick and to die, what _will_ become of me?" she kneeled down upon the floor at the foot of the bed, crossed her arms before her, laid them down very quietly upon the counterpane, and reclined her forehead upon them. she remained in that position for some time without speaking a word. presently she rose and took the tea and toast upon the waiter, and set them down by the fire in order to keep them warm. she next went to look at the children, to see if they were properly covered. then she opened the bed-curtains a little way in order that she might see albert in case he should wake or move, and having adjusted them as she wished, she went to the stoop door and took her seat there, with her knitting-work in her hand, in a position from which, on one side she could look into the room and observe every thing which took place there, and on the other side, watch the road and see if any one went by. she thought it probable that some of the workmen, who had been employed at the new house, might be going home about that time, and she wished to send into the village by them to ask dr. keep to come. mary erskine succeeded in her design of sending into the village by one of the workmen, and dr. keep came about nine o'clock he prescribed for albert, and prepared, and left, some medicine for him. he said he hoped that he was not going to be very sick, but he could tell better in the morning when he would come again. "but you ought not to be here alone," said he to mary erskine. "you ought to have some one with you." "no," said mary erskine, "i can get along very well, alone, to-night,--and i think he will be better in the morning." stories of sickness and suffering are painful to read, as the reality is painful to witness. we will therefore shorten the tale of mary erskine's anxiety and distress, by saying, at once that albert grew worse instead of better, every day for a fortnight, and then died. during his sickness mrs. bell spent a great deal of time at mary erskine's house, and other persons, from the village, came every day to watch with albert, and to help take care of the children. there was a young man also, named thomas, whom mary erskine employed to come and stay there all day, to take the necessary care of the cattle and of the farm. they made a bed for thomas in the scaffold in the barn. they also made up a bed in the stoop, in a corner which they divided off by means of a curtain. this bed was for the watchers, and for mary erskine herself, when she or they wished to lie down. mary erskine went to it, herself very seldom. she remained at her husband's bedside almost all the time, day and night. albert suffered very little pain, and seemed to sleep most of the time. he revived a little the afternoon before he died, and appeared as if he were going to be better. he looked up into mary erskine's face and smiled. it was plain, however, that he was very feeble. there was nobody but mrs. bell in the house, at that time, besides mary erskine and the baby. bella had gone to mrs. bell's house, and mary bell was taking care of her. albert beckoned his wife to come to him, and said to her, in a faint and feeble voice, that he wished mrs. bell to write something for him. mary erskine immediately brought her work-table up to the bedside, opened the drawer, took out one of the sheets of paper and a pen, opened the inkstand, and thus made every thing ready for writing. mrs. bell took her seat by the table in such a manner that her head was near to albert's as it lay upon the pillow. "i am ready now," said mrs. bell. "i bequeath all my property,"--said albert. mrs. bell wrote these words upon the paper, and then said, "well: i have written that." "to mary erskine my wife," said albert. "i have written that," said mrs. bell, a minute afterwards. "now hand it to me to sign," said albert. they put the paper upon a book, and raising albert up in the bed, they put the pen into his hand. he wrote his name at the bottom of the writing at the right hand. then moving his hand to the left, he wrote the word '_witness_' under the writing on that side. his hand trembled, but he wrote the word pretty plain. as he finished writing it he told mrs. bell that she must sign her name as witness. when this had been done he gave back the paper and the pen into mary erskine's hand, and said that she must take good care of that paper, for it was very important. he then laid his head down again upon the pillow and shut his eyes. he died that night. mary erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found that all was over. in a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm, and the next day she began to help mrs. bell in making preparations for the funeral. she sent for bella to come home immediately. mrs. bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go with her to _her_ house, after the funeral, and stay there for a few days at least, till she could determine what to do. "no," said mary erskine. "it will be better for me to come back here." "what do you think you shall do?" said mrs. bell. "i don't know," said mary erskine. "i can't even begin to think now. i am going to wait a week before i try to think about it at all." "and in the mean time you are going to stay in this house." "yes," said mary erskine, "i think that is best." "but you must not stay here alone," said mrs. bell. "i will come back with you and stay with you, at least one night." "no," said mary erskine. "i have got to learn to be alone now, and i may as well begin at once. i am very much obliged to you for all your--" here mary erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. mrs. bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. she remained at the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; and some friends came back with mary erskine, after the funeral. they all, however, went away about sunset, leaving mary erskine alone with her children. as soon as her friends had gone, mary erskine took the children and sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in her lap, the baby upon one side and bella upon the other, and began to rock back and forth with great rapidity. she kissed the children again and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the excess of her anguish. she remained sitting thus for half an hour. the twilight gradually faded away. the flickering flame, which rose from the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as to give it a genial and cheerful expression. mary erskine gradually became calm. the children, first the baby, and then bella, fell asleep. finally mary erskine herself, who was by this time entirely exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. mary erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the nestling of the baby. [illustration: the widow and the fatherless.] when mary erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly calm, tranquil, and happy. she looked down upon her children--bella asleep and the baby just awaking--with a heart full of maternal joy and pleasure. her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and cheerful and happy as then. she carried bella to the bed and laid her gently down in albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep. her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, she put the baby, at length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked god with her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit of resignation and peace. she then pushed open the curtains, and reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand in the fire. after lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again. she slept very profoundly. it was a summer night, although, as usual, mary erskine had a fire. clouds rose in the west, bringing with them gusts of wind and rain. the wind and the rain beat against the window, but they did not wake her. it thundered. the thunder did not wake her. the shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while mary erskine slept tranquilly on. at length the baby began to move in the cradle. mary erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and raised herself up suddenly. the fire had nearly gone out. there was no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning embers. mary erskine was frightened to find herself alone. the tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and mysterious distress and terror. she went to the fire-place and built a new fire, for the sake of its company. she took the baby from the cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to bed again till morning. she went to the window and looked out at the stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before the morning would come. she felt afraid, though she knew not why, and holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish, longing for the morning to come. such is the capriciousness of grief. chapter v. consultations. mrs. bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and exertion. she went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly midnight. the thunder awaked her. she felt solitary and afraid. mary bell, who was then about nine years old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. there was a little night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal gleam upon the objects around it. every few minutes, however, the lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. the little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning came to extinguish it as before. mrs. bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if mary bell was safe. she found her sleeping quietly. mrs. bell drew the crib out a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into a somewhat safer position. then she lighted a large lamp. then she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the lightning. then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. but she could not. she was thinking of mary erskine, and endeavoring to form some plan for her future life. she could not, however, determine what it was best for her to do. in the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. presently she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy reverie. mary bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she said, "mother, what is the matter with you?" "why, mary," said mrs. bell, in a melancholy tone, "i was thinking of poor mary erskine." "well, mother," said mary bell, "could not you give her a little money, if she is poor? i will give her my ten cents." [illustration: mrs. bell.] mary bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a little box, in her mother's room up stairs. "oh, she is not poor for want of money," said mrs. bell. "her husband made his will, before he died, and left her all his property." "though i told mr. keep about it last night," continued mrs. bell, talking half to herself and half to mary, "and he said the will was not good." "not good," said mary. "i think it is a very good will indeed. i am sure mary erskine ought to have it all. who should have it, if not she?" "the children, i suppose," said her mother. "the children!" exclaimed mary bell. "hoh! they are not half big enough. they are only two babies; a great baby and a little one." mrs. bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice of it, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. mary bell did not understand very well about the will. the case was this: the law, in the state where mary erskine lived, provided that when a man died, as albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm, and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, if he made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and the rest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them, when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. the farm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children should grow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit of it,--that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it--until the children became of age. the amount of the other two thirds was to be kept for them. in respect to all movable property, such as stock and tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since they could not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enough to use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half the value, and the children the other half. in respect to the children's part of all the property, they were not, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to be appointed to be their guardian. this guardian was to have the care of all their share of the property, until they were of age, when it was to be paid over into their hands. if, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, he might make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased. if he decided, as albert had done, to give it all to his wife, then it would come wholly under her control, at once. she would be under no obligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, but might expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she might keep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her own industry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might give them as much as her maternal affection should dictate. in order that the property of men who die, should be disposed of properly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will be made, it is required that soon after the death of any person takes place, the state of the case should be reported at a certain public office, instituted to attend to this business. there is such an office in every county in the new england states. it is called the probate office. the officer, who has this business in charge, is called the judge of probate. there is a similar system in force, in all the other states of the union, though the officers are sometimes called by different names from those which they receive in new england. now, while albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a great deal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinking what was to become of his wife and children in case he should die. he knew very well that in case he died without making any will, his property must be divided, under the direction of the judge of probate, and one part of it be kept for the children, while mary erskine would have the control only of the other part. this is a very excellent arrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is a very good law. there are, however, some cases, which are exceptions, and albert thought that mary erskine's case was one. it was owing, in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficient industry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had been able to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned, like mr. gordon, as fast as he earned it. then, besides, he knew that mary erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for the benefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as she would if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safe keeping, as their guardian. whereas, if this last arrangement went into effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keep the accounts, as she could not write, not even to sign her name. he determined, therefore, to make a will, and give all his property, of every kind, absolutely to her. this he did, in the manner described in the last chapter. the law invests every man with a very absolute power in respect to his property, authorizing him to make any disposition of it whatever, and carrying faithfully into effect, after his death, any wish that he may have expressed in regard to it, as his deliberate and final intention. it insists, however, that there should be evidence that the wish, so expressed, is really a deliberate and final act. it is not enough that the man should say in words what his wishes are. the will must be in writing, and it must be signed; or if the sick man can not write, he must make some mark with the pen, at the bottom of the paper, to stand instead of a signature, and to show that he considers the act, which he is performing, as a solemn and binding transaction. nor will it do to have the will executed in the presence of only one witness; for if that were allowed, designing persons would sometimes persuade a sick man, who was rich, to sign a will which they themselves had written, telling him, perhaps, that it was only a receipt, or some other unimportant paper, and thus inducing him to convey his property in a way that he did not intend. the truth is, that there is necessity for a much greater degree of precautionary form, in the execution of a will, than in almost any other transaction; for as the man himself will be dead and gone when the time comes for carrying the will into effect,--and so can not give any explanation of his designs, it is necessary to make them absolutely clear and certain, independently of him. it was, accordingly, the law, in the state where mary erskine lived, that there should be three witnesses present, when any person signed a will; and also that when signing the paper, the man should say that he knew that it was his will. if three credible persons thus attested the reality and honesty of the transaction, it was thought sufficient, in all ordinary cases, to make it sure. albert, it seems, was not aware how many witnesses were required. when he requested mrs. bell to sign his will, as witness, he thought that he was doing all that was necessary to make it valid. when, however, mrs. bell, afterwards, in going home, met mr. keep and related to him the transaction, he said that he was afraid that the will was not good, meaning that it would not stand in law. the thought that the will was probably not valid, caused mrs. bell a considerable degree of anxiety and concern, as she imagined that its failure would probably cause mary erskine a considerable degree of trouble and embarrassment, though she did not know precisely how. she supposed that the children's share of the property must necessarily be kept separate and untouched until they grew up, and that in the mean time their mother would have to work very hard in order to maintain herself and them too. but this is not the law. the guardian of children, in such cases, is authorized to expend, from the children's share of property, as much as is necessary for their maintenance while they are children; and it is only the surplus, if there is any, which it is required of her to pay over to them, when they come of age. it would be obviously unjust, in cases where children themselves have property left them by legacy, or falling to them by inheritance, to compel their father or mother to toil ten or twenty years to feed and clothe them, in order that they might have their property, whole and untouched, when they come of age. all that the law requires is that the property bequeathed to children, or falling to them by inheritance, shall always be exactly ascertained, and an account of it put upon record in the probate office: and then, that a guardian shall be appointed, who shall expend only so much of it, while the children are young, as is necessary for their comfortable support and proper education; and then, when they come of age, if there is any surplus left, that it shall be paid over to them. in mary erskine's case, these accounts would, of course, cause her some trouble, but it would make but little difference in the end. mrs. bell spent a great deal of time, during the day, in trying to think what it would be best for mary erskine to do, and also in trying to think what she could herself do for her. she, however, made very little progress in respect to either of those points. it seemed to her that mary erskine could not move into the new house, and attempt to carry on the farm, and, on the other hand, it appeared equally out of the question for her to remain where she was, in her lonesome log cabin. she might move into the village, or to some house nearer the village, but what should she do in that case for a livelihood. in a word, the more that mrs. bell reflected upon the subject, the more at a loss she was. she determined to go and see mary erskine after dinner, again, as the visit would at least be a token of kindness and sympathy, even if it should do no other good. she arrived at the house about the middle of the afternoon. she found mary erskine busily at work, putting the house in order, and rectifying the many derangements which sickness and death always occasion. mary erskine received mrs. bell at first with a cheerful smile, and seemed, to all appearance, as contented and happy as usual. the sight of mrs. bell, however, recalled forcibly to her mind her irremediable loss, and overwhelmed her heart, again, with bitter grief. she went to the window, where her little work-table had been placed, and throwing herself down in a chair before it, she crossed her arms upon the table, laid her forehead down upon them in an attitude of despair, and burst into tears. mrs. bell drew up toward her and stood by her side in silence. she pitied her with all her heart, but she did not know what to say to comfort her. just then little bella came climbing up the steps, from the stoop, with some flowers in her hand, which she had gathered in the yard. as soon as she had got up into the room she stood upon her feet and went dancing along toward the baby, who was playing upon the floor, singing as she danced. she gave the baby the flowers, and then, seeing that her mother was in trouble, she came up toward the place and stood still a moment, with a countenance expressive of great concern. she put her arm around her mother's neck, saying in a very gentle and soothing tone, "mother! what is the matter, mother?" mary erskine liberated one of her arms, and clasped bella with it fondly, but did not raise her head, or answer. "go and get some flowers for your mother," said mrs. bell, "like those which you got for the baby." "well," said bella, "i will." so she turned away, and went singing and dancing out of the room. "mary," said mrs. bell. "i wish that you would shut up this house and take the children and come to my house, at least for a while, until you can determine what to do." mary erskine shook her head, but did not reply. she seemed, however, to be regaining her composure. presently she raised her head, smoothed down her hair, which was very soft and beautiful, readjusted her dress, and sat up, looking out at the window. "if you stay here," continued mrs. bell, "you will only spend your time in useless and hopeless grief." "no," said mary erskine, "i am not going to do any such a thing." "have you begun to think at all what you shall do?" asked mrs. bell. "no," said mary erskine. "when any great thing happens, i always have to wait a little while till i get accustomed to knowing that it has happened, before i can determine what to do about it. it seems as if i did not more than half know yet, that albert is dead. every time the door opens i almost expect to see him come in." "do you think that you shall move to the new house?" asked mrs. bell. "no," said mary erskine, "i see that i can't do that. i don't wish to move there, either, now." "there's one thing," continued mrs. bell after a moment's pause, "that perhaps i ought to tell you, though it is rather bad news for you. mr. keep says that he is afraid that the will, which albert made, is not good in law." "not good! why not?" asked mary erskine. "why because there is only one witness the law requires that there should be three witnesses, so as to be sure that albert really signed the will." "oh no," said mary erskine. "one witness is enough, i am sure. the judge of probate knows you, and he will believe you as certainly as he would a dozen witnesses." "but i suppose," said mrs. bell, "that it does not depend upon the judge of probate. it depends upon the law." mary erskine was silent. presently she opened her drawer and took out the will and looked at it mysteriously. she could not read a word of it. "read it to me, mrs. bell," said she, handing the paper to mrs. bell. mrs. bell read as follows: "i bequeath all my property to my wife, mary erskine. albert forester. witness, mary bell." "i am sure that is all right," said mary erskine. "it is very plain, and one witness is enough. besides, albert would know how it ought to be done." "but then," she continued after a moment's pause, "he was very sick and feeble. perhaps he did not think. i am sure i shall be very sorry if it is not a good will, for if i do not have the farm and the stock, i don't know what i shall do with my poor children." mary erskine had a vague idea that if the will should prove invalid, she and her children would lose the property, in some way or other, entirely,--though she did not know precisely how. after musing upon this melancholy prospect a moment she asked, "should not i have _any_ of the property, if the will proves not to be good?" "oh yes," said mrs. bell, "you will have a considerable part of it, at any rate." "how much?" asked mary erskine. "why about half, i believe," replied mrs. bell. "oh," said mary erskine, apparently very much relieved. "that will do very well. half will be enough. there is a great deal of property. albert told me that the farm and the new house are worth five hundred dollars, and the stock is worth full three hundred more. and albert does not owe any thing at all." "well," said mrs. bell. "you will have half. either half or a third, i forget exactly which." "and what becomes of the rest?" asked mary erskine. "why the rest goes to the children," said mrs. bell. "to the children!" repeated mary erskine. "yes," said she, "you will have to be appointed guardian, and take care of it for them, and carry in your account, now and then, to the judge of probate." "oh," said mary erskine, her countenance brightening up with an expression of great relief and satisfaction. "that is just the same thing. if it is to go to the children, and i am to take care of it for them, it is just the same thing. i don't care any thing about the will at all." so saying, she threw the paper down upon the table, as if it was of no value whatever. "but there's one thing," she said again, after pausing a few minutes. "i can't keep any accounts. i can not even write my name." "that is no matter," said mrs. bell. "there will be but little to do about the accounts, and it is easy to get somebody to do that for you." "i wish i had learned to write," said mary erskine. mrs. bell said nothing, but in her heart she wished so too. "do you think that i could possibly learn now?" asked mary erskine. "why,--i don't know,--perhaps, if you had any one to teach you." "thomas might teach me, perhaps," said mary erskine, doubtfully. then, in a moment she added again, in a desponding tone,--"but i don't know how long he will stay here." "then you don't know at all yet," said mrs. bell, after a short pause, "what you shall conclude to do." "no," replied mary erskine, "not at all. i am going on, just as i am now, for some days, without perplexing myself at all about it. and i am not going to mourn and make myself miserable. i am going to make myself as contented and happy as i can, with my work and my children." here mary erskine suddenly laid her head down upon her arms again, on the little work-table before her, and burst into tears. after sobbing convulsively a few minutes she rose, hastily brushed the tears away with her handkerchief, and went toward the door. she then took the water pail, which stood upon a bench near the door, and said that she was going to get some water, at the spring, for tea, and that she would be back in a moment. she returned very soon, with a countenance entirely serene. "i have been trying all day," said mrs. bell, "to think of something that i could do for you, to help you or to relieve you in some way or other; but i can not think of any thing at all that i can do." "yes," said mary erskine, "there is one thing that you could do for me, that would be a very great kindness, a very great kindness indeed." "what is it?" asked mrs. bell. "i am afraid that you will think it is too much for me to ask." "no," said mrs. bell, "what is it?" mary erskine hesitated a moment, and then said, "to let mary bell come and stay here with me, a few days." "do you mean all night, too?" asked mrs. bell. "yes," said mary erskine, "all the time." "why, you have got two children to take care of now," replied mrs. bell, "and nobody to help you. i should have thought that you would have sooner asked me to take bella home with me." "no," said mary erskine. "i should like to have mary bell here, very much, for a few days." "well," said mrs. bell, "she shall certainly come. i will send her, to-morrow morning." chapter vi. mary bell in the woods. mary erskine had a bible in her house, although she could not read it. when albert was alive he was accustomed to read a chapter every evening, just before bed-time, and then he and mary erskine would kneel down together, by the settle which stood in the corner, while he repeated his evening prayer. this short season of devotion was always a great source of enjoyment to mary erskine. if she was tired and troubled, it soothed and quieted her mind. if she was sorrowful, it comforted her. if she was happy, it seemed to make her happiness more deep and unalloyed. mary erskine could not read the bible, but she could repeat a considerable number of texts and verses from it, and she knew, too, the prayer, which albert had been accustomed to offer, almost by heart. so after mrs. bell had gone home, as described in the last chapter, and after she herself had undressed the children and put them to bed, and had finished all the other labors and duties of the day, she took the bible down from its shelf, and seating herself upon the settle, so as to see by the light of the fire, as albert had been accustomed to do, she opened the book, and then began to repeat such verses as she could remember. at length she closed the book, and laying it down upon the seat of the settle, in imitation of albert's custom, she kneeled down before it, and repeated the prayer. the use of the bible itself, in this service, was of course a mere form:--but there is sometimes a great deal of spiritual good to be derived from a form, when the heart is in it, to give it meaning and life. mary erskine went to bed comforted and happy; and she slept peacefully through each one of the three periods of repose, into which the care of an infant by a mother usually divides the night. in the morning, the first thought which came into her mind was, that mary bell was coming to see her. she anticipated the visit from her former charge with great pleasure. she had had mary bell under her charge from early infancy, and she loved her, accordingly, almost as much as if she were her own child. besides, as mary bell had grown up she had become a very attractive and beautiful child, so kind to all, so considerate, so gentle, so active and intelligent, and at the same time so docile, and so quiet, that she was a universal favorite wherever she went. mary erskine was full of joy at the idea of having her come and spend several days and nights too, at her house, and she was impatient for the time to arrive when she might begin to expect her. at eight o'clock, she began to go often to the door to look down the road. at nine, she began to feel uneasy. at ten, she put on her hood and went down the road, almost to the corner, to meet her--looking forward intensely all the way, hoping at every turn to see her expected visitor advancing along the path. she went on thus until she came in sight of the corner, without seeing or hearing any thing of mary bell; and then she was compelled to return home alone, disappointed and sad. she waited dinner from twelve until one, but no mary bell appeared. mary erskine then concluded that something had happened to detain her expected visitor at home, and that she might be disappointed of the visit altogether. still she could not but hope that mary would come in the course of the afternoon. the hours of the afternoon, however, passed tediously away, and the sun began to decline toward the west; still there was no mary bell. the cause of her detention will now be explained. when mary bell came down to breakfast, on the morning after her mother's visit to mary erskine, her mother told her, as she came into the room, that she had an invitation for her to go out to mary erskine's that day. "and may i go?" asked mary bell. "yes," said her mother, "i think i shall let you go." "i am _so_ glad!" said mary bell, clapping her hands. "mary erskine wishes to have you stay there several days," continued her mother. mary bell began to look a little sober again. she was not quite sure that she should be willing to be absent from her mother, for so many days. "could not i come home every night?" said she. "why, she wishes," answered mrs. bell, "to have you stay there all the time, day and night, for several days. it is an opportunity for you to do some good. you could not do mary erskine any good by giving her your money, for she has got plenty of money; nor by carrying her any thing good to eat, for her house is full of abundance, and she knows as well how to make good things as any body in town. but you can do her a great deal of good by going and staying with her, and keeping her company. perhaps you can help her a little, in taking care of the children." "well," said mary bell, "i should like to go." so mrs. bell dressed mary neatly, for the walk, gave her a very small tin pail, with two oranges in it for mary erskine's children, and then sent out word to the hired man, whose name was joseph, to harness the horse into the wagon. when the wagon was ready, she directed joseph to carry mary to the corner, and see that she set out upon the right road there, toward mary erskine's house. it was only about half a mile from the corner to the house, and the road, though crooked, stony, and rough, was very plain, and mary bell had often walked over it alone. there was, in fact, only one place where there could be any danger of mary bell's losing her way, and that was at a point about midway between the corner and mary erskine's house, where a road branched off to the right, and led into the woods. there was a large pine-tree at this point, which mary bell remembered well; and she knew that she must take the left-hand road when she reached this tree. there were various little paths, at other places, but none that could mislead her. when joseph, at length, set mary bell down in the path at the corner, she stood still, upon a flat rock by the side of the road, to see him turn the wagon and set out upon his return. "good-bye, joseph," said she. "i am going to be gone several days." "good-bye," said joseph, turning to look round at mary bell, as the wagon slowly moved away. "bid mother good-bye," said mary bell,--"and joseph, don't you forget to water my geranium." "no," said joseph, "and don't you forget to take the left-hand road." "no," said mary bell. she felt a slight sensation of lonesomeness, to be left there in solitude at the entrance of a dark and somber wood, especially when she reflected that it was to be several days before she should see her mother again. but then, calling up to her mind a vivid picture of mary erskine's house, and of the pleasure that she should enjoy there, in playing with bella and the baby, she turned toward the pathway into the woods, and walked resolutely forward, swinging her pail in her hand and singing a song. there were a great many birds in the woods; some were hopping about upon the rocks and bushes by the road-side. others were singing in solitary places, upon the tops of tall trees in the depths of the forest, their notes being heard at intervals, in various directions, as if one was answering another, to beguile the solemn loneliness of the woods. the trees were very tall, and mary bell, as she looked up from her deep and narrow pathway, and saw the lofty tops rocking to and fro with a very slow and gentle motion, as they were waved by the wind, it seemed to her that they actually touched the sky. at one time she heard the leaves rustling, by the side of the road, and looking in under the trees, she saw a gray squirrel, just in the act of leaping up from the leaves upon the ground to the end of a log. as soon as he had gained this footing, he stopped and looked round at mary bell. mary bell stopped too; each looked at the other for several seconds, in silence,--the child with an expression of curiosity and pleasure upon her countenance, and the squirrel with one of wonder and fear upon his. mary bell made a sudden motion toward him with her hand to frighten him a little. it did frighten him. he turned off and ran along the log as fast as he could go, until he reached the end of it, and disappeared. "poor bobbin," said mary bell, "i am sorry that i frightened you away." a few steps farther on in her walk, mary bell came to a place where a great number of yellow butterflies had settled down together in the path. most of them were still, but a few were fluttering about, to find good places. "oh, what pretty butterflies!" said mary bell. "they have been flying about, i suppose, till they have got tired, and have stopped to rest. but if i were a butterfly, i would rest upon flowers, and not upon the ground." mary bell paused and looked upon the butterflies a moment, and then said, "and now how shall i get by? i am sure i don't want to tread upon those butterflies. i will sit down here, myself, on a stone, and wait till they get rested and fly away. besides, i am tired myself, and _i_ shall get rested too." just as she took her seat she saw that there was a little path, which diverged here from the main road, and turned into the woods a little way, seeming to come back again after a short distance. there were many such little paths, here and there, running parallel to the main road. they were made by the cows, in the spring of the year when the roads were wet, to avoid the swampy places. these places were now all dry, and the bye-paths were consequently of no use, though traces of them remained. "no," said mary bell. "i will not stop to rest; i am not very tired; so i will go around by this little path. it will come into the road again very soon." mary bell's opinion would have been just, in respect to any other path but this one; but it so happened, very unfortunately for her, that now, although not aware of it, she was in fact very near the great pine-tree, where the road into the woods branched off, and the path which she was determining to take, though it commenced in the main road leading to mary erskine's, did not return to it again, but after passing, by a circuitous and devious course, through the bushes a little way, ended in the branch road which led into the woods, at a short distance beyond the pine-tree. mary bell was not aware of this state of things, but supposed, without doubt, that the path would come out again into the same road that it left, and that, she could pass round through it, and so avoid disturbing the butterflies. she thought, indeed, it might possibly be that the path would not come back at all, but would lose itself in the woods; and to guard against this danger, she determined that after going on for a very short distance, if she found that it did not come out into the road again, she would come directly back. the idea of its coming out into a wrong road did not occur to her mind as a possibility. she accordingly entered the path, and after proceeding in it a little way she was quite pleased to see it coming out again into what she supposed was the main road. dismissing, now, all care and concern, she walked forward in a very light-hearted and happy manner. the road was very similar in its character to the one which she ought to have taken, so that there was nothing in the appearances around her to lead her to suppose that she was wrong. she had, moreover, very little idea of measures of time, and still less of distance, and thus she went on for more than an hour before she began to wonder why she did not get to mary erskine's. she began to suspect, then, that she had in some way or other lost the right road. she, however, went on, looking anxiously about for indications of an approach to the farm, until at length she saw signs of an opening in the woods, at some distance before her. she concluded to go on until she came to this opening, and if she could not tell where she was by the appearance of the country there, she would go back again by the road she came. the opening, when she reached it, appeared to consist of a sort of pasture land, undulating in its surface, and having thickets of trees and bushes scattered over it, here and there. there was a small elevation in the land, at a little distance from the place where mary bell came out, and she thought that she would go to the top of this elevation, and look for mary erskine's house, all around. she accordingly did so, but neither mary erskine's house nor any other human habitation was anywhere to be seen. she sat down upon a smooth stone, which was near her, feeling tired and thirsty, and beginning to be somewhat anxious in respect to her situation. she thought, however, that there was no great danger, for her mother would certainly send joseph out into the woods to find her, as soon as she heard that she was lost. she concluded, at first, to wait where she was until joseph should come, but on second thoughts, she concluded to go back by the road which had led her to the opening, and so, perhaps meet him on the way. she was very thirsty, and wished very much that one of the oranges in the pail belonged to her, for she would have liked to eat one very much indeed. but they were not either of them hers. one belonged to bella, and the other to the baby. she walked back again to the woods, intending to return toward the corner, by the road in which she came, but now she could not find the entrance to it. she wandered for some time, this way and that, along the margin of the wood, but could find no road. she, however, at length found something which she liked better. it was a beautiful spring of cool water, bubbling up from between the rocks on the side of a little hill. she sat down by the side of this spring, took off the cover from her little pail, took out the oranges and laid them down carefully in a little nook where they would not roll away, and then using the pail for a dipper, she dipped up some water, and had an excellent drink. "what a good spring this is!" said she to herself. "it is as good as mary erskine's." it was the time of the year in which raspberries were ripe, and mary bell, in looking around her from her seat near the spring, saw at a distance a place which appeared as if there were raspberry bushes growing there. "i verily believe that there are some raspberries," said she. "i will go and see; if i could only find plenty of raspberries, it would be all that i should want." the bushes proved to be raspberry bushes, as mary had supposed, and she found them loaded with fruit. she ate of them abundantly, and was very much refreshed. she would have filled her pail besides, so as to have some to take along with her, but she had no place to put the oranges, except within the pail. it was now about noon; the sun was hot, and mary bell began to be pretty tired. she wished that they would come for her. she climbed up upon a large log which lay among the bushes, and called as loud as she could, "_mary erskine! mary erskine!_" then after pausing a moment, and listening in vain for an answer, she renewed her call, "_thom--as! thom--as!_" then again, after another pause, "_jo--seph! jo--seph!_" she listened a long time, but heard nothing except the singing of the birds, and the sighing of the wind upon the tops of the trees in the neighboring forests. she began to feel very anxious and very lonely. she descended from the log, and walked along till she got out of the bushes. she came to a place where there were rocks, with smooth surfaces of moss and grass among them. she found a shady place among these rocks, and sat down upon the moss. she laid her head down upon her arm and began to weep bitterly. presently she raised her head again, and endeavored to compose herself, saying, "but i must not cry. i must be patient, and wait till they come. i am very tired, but i must not go to sleep, for then i shall not hear them when they come. i will lay my head down, but i will keep my eyes open." she laid her head down accordingly upon a mossy mound, and notwithstanding her resolution to keep her eyes open, in ten minutes she was fast asleep. she slept very soundly for more than two hours. she was a little frightened when she awoke, to find that she had been sleeping, and she started up and climbed along upon a rock which was near by, until she gained a projecting elevation, and here she began to listen again. she heard the distant tinkling of a bell. "hark," said she. "i hear a bell. it is out _that_ way. i wonder what it is. i will go there and see." so taking up her pail very carefully, she walked along in the direction where she had heard the bell. she stopped frequently to listen. sometimes she could hear it, and sometimes she could not. she, however, steadily persevered, though she encountered a great many obstacles on the way. sometimes there were wet places, which it was very hard to get round. at other times, there were dense thickets, which she had to scramble through, or rocks over which she had to climb, either up or down. the sound, however, of the bell, came nearer and nearer. "i verily believe," said she at length, "that it is queen bess." queen bess was one of mary erskine's cows. the idea that the sound which she was following might possibly be queen bess's bell, gave her great courage. she was well acquainted with queen bess, having often gone out to see mary erskine milk her, with the other cows. she had even tried many times to milk her herself, mary erskine having frequently allowed her to milk enough, in a mug, to provide herself with a drink. "i hope it is queen bess," said mary bell. "she knows me, and she will give me a drink of her milk, i am sure." mary bell proved to be right in her conjecture. it was queen bess. she was feeding very quietly, mary erskine's other cows being near, some cropping the grass and some browsing upon the bushes. queen bess raised her head and looked at mary bell with a momentary feeling of astonishment, wondering how she came there, and then put down her head again and resumed her feeding. "now," said mary bell, "i shall certainly get home again, for i shall stay with you until thomas comes up after the cows. he will find you by your bell. and now i am going to put these oranges down upon the grass, and milk some milk into this pail." so mary bell put the oranges in a safe place upon the grass, and then went cautiously up to the side of the cow, and attempted to milk her. but it is very difficult to milk a cow while she is grazing in a pasture. she is not inclined to stand still, but advances all the time, slowly, step by step, making it very difficult to do any thing at milking. mary bell, however, succeeded very well. she was so thirsty that she did not wait to get a great deal at a time, but as soon as she had two or three spoonfuls in the pail, she stopped to drink it. in this manner, by dint of a great deal of labor and pains, she succeeded, in about a quarter of an hour, in getting as much as she wanted. [illustration: mary bell and queen bess.] she remained in company with the cows all the afternoon. sometimes she would wander from them a little way to gather raspberries, and then she would creep up cautiously to queen bess, and get another drink of milk. when she had thus had as many raspberries, and as much milk, as she wished, she amused herself for some time in gathering a bouquet of wild flowers to give to mary erskine on her return. the time, being thus filled up with useful occupation, passed pleasantly and rapidly along, and at length, when the sun was nearly ready to go down, she heard a distant voice shouting to the cows. it was thomas, coming to drive them home. thomas was of course greatly astonished to find mary bell in the woods, and his astonishment was not at all diminished at hearing her story. he offered to carry her, in going home,--but she said that she was not tired, and could walk as well as not. so they went down together, the cows running along before them in the paths. when they reached the house, thomas went to turn the cows into the yard, while mary bell went into the house to mary erskine, with her little pail in one hand, and her bouquet of flowers in the other. chapter vii. house-keeping. one of the greatest pleasures which mary bell enjoyed, in her visits at mary erskine's at this period, was to assist in the house-keeping. she was particularly pleased with being allowed to help in getting breakfast or tea, and in setting the table. she rose accordingly very early on the morning after her arrival there from the woods, as described in the last chapter, and put on the working-dress which mary erskine had made for her, and which was always kept at the farm. this was not the working-dress which was described in a preceding chapter as the one which mary bell used to play in, when out among the stumps. her playing among the stumps was two or three years before the period which we are now describing. during those two or three years, mary bell had wholly outgrown her first working-dress, and her mind had become improved and enlarged, and her tastes matured more rapidly even than her body had grown. she now no longer took any pleasure in dabbling in the brook, or planting potatoes in the sand,--or in heating sham ovens in stumps and hollow trees. she had begun to like realities. to bake a real cake for breakfast or tea, to set a real table with real cups and saucers, for a real and useful purpose, or to assist mary erskine in the care of the children, or in making the morning arrangements in the room, gave her more pleasure than any species of child's play could possibly do. when she went out now, she liked to be dressed neatly, and take pleasant walks, to see the views or to gather flowers. in a word, though she was still in fact a child, she began to have in some degree the tastes and feelings of a woman. "what are you going to have for breakfast?" said mary bell to mary erskine, while they were getting up. "what should you like?" asked mary erskine in reply. "why i should like some roast potatoes, and a spider cake," said mary bell. the spider cake received its name from being baked before the fire in a flat, iron vessel, called a spider. the spider was so called probably, because, like the animal of that name, it had several legs and a great round body. the iron spider, however, unlike its living namesake, had a long straight tail, which, extending out behind, served for a handle. the spider cake being very tender and nice, and coming as it usually did, hot upon the table, made a most excellent breakfast,--though this was not the principal reason which led mary bell to ask for it. she liked to _make_ the spider cake; for mary erskine, after mixing and preparing the material, used to allow mary bell to roll it out to its proper form, and put it into the spider. then more than all the rest, mary bell liked to _bake_ a spider cake. she used to take great pleasure in carrying the cake in her two hands to the fire-place, and laying it carefully in its place in the spider, and then setting it up before the fire to bake, lifting the spider by the end of the tail. she also took great satisfaction afterward in watching it, as the surface which was presented toward the fire became browned by the heat. when it was sufficiently baked upon one side it had to be turned, and then set up before the fire again, to be baked on the other side; and every part of the long operation was always watched by mary bell with great interest and pleasure. mary erskine consented to mary bell's proposal in respect to breakfast, and for an hour mary bell was diligently employed in making the preparations. [illustration: mary bell getting breakfast.] she put the potatoes in the bed which mary erskine opened for them in the ashes. she rolled out the spider cake, and put it into the spider; she spread the cloth upon the table, and took down the plates, and the cups and saucers from the cupboard, and set them in order on the table. she went down into the little cellar to bring up the butter. she skimmed a pan of milk to get the cream, she measured out the tea; and at last, when all else was ready, she took a pitcher and went down to the spring to bring up a pitcher of cool water. in all these operations bella accompanied her, always eager to help, and mary bell, knowing that it gave bella great pleasure to have something to do, called upon her, continually, for her aid, and allowed her to do every thing that it was safe to entrust to her. thus they went on very happily together. at length, when the breakfast was ready they all sat down around the table to eat it, except the baby. he remained in the trundle-bed, playing with his play-things. his play-things consisted of three or four smooth pebble stones of different colors, each being of about the size of an egg, which his mother had chosen for him out of the brook, and also of a short piece of bright iron chain. the chain was originally a part of a harness, but the harness had become worn out, and albert had brought in the chain and given it to the baby. the baby liked these play-things very much indeed,--both the pebbles and the chain. when he was well, and neither hungry nor sleepy, he was never tired of playing with them,--trying to bite them, and jingling them together. "now," said mary erskine to the children, as they were sitting at the table, at the close of the breakfast, and after thomas had gone away, "you may go out and play for an hour while i finish my morning work, and put the baby to sleep, and then i want you to come in and have a school." "who shall be the teacher?" said mary bell. "you shall be _one_," said mary erskine. "are you going to have two teachers?" asked mary bell. "if you do, then we can't have any scholars;--for the baby is not old enough to go to school." "i know it," said mary erskine, "but we can have three scholars without him." "who shall they be?" asked mary bell. "you and i, and bella," answered mary erskine. "i will tell you what my plan is. i expect that i shall conclude to stay here, and live in this house alone for some years to come, and the children can not go to school, for there is now nobody to take them, and it is too far for them to go alone. i must teach them myself at home, or else they can not learn. i am very sorry indeed now that i did not learn to read and write when i was a child: for that would have saved me the time and trouble of learning now. but i think i _can_ learn now. don't you think i can, mary?" "oh, yes, indeed," said mary bell, "i am sure you can. it is very easy to read." "i am going to try," continued mary erskine, "and so i want you to teach me. and while you are teaching me, bella may as well begin at the same time. so that you will have two scholars." "three--you said three scholars," rejoined mary bell. "yes," said mary erskine. "you shall be the third scholar. i am going to teach you to draw." "do you know how to draw?" asked mary bell, surprised. "no," said mary erskine, "but i can show _you_ how to learn." "well," said mary bell, "i should like to learn to draw very much indeed. though i don't see how any body can teach a thing unless they can do it themselves." "sometimes they can," said mary erskine. "a man may teach a horse to canter, without being able to canter himself." mary bell laughed at the idea of a man attempting to canter, and said that she should be very glad to try to learn to draw. mary erskine then said that after they had finished their breakfast the children might go out an hour to walk and play, and that then when they should come in, they would find every thing ready for the school. mary bell concluded to take a walk about the farm during the time which they were allowed to spend in play, before the school was to begin. so she and bella put on their bonnets, and bidding mary erskine good morning, they sallied forth. as they came out at the great stoop door their attention was arrested by the sound of a cow-bell. the sound seemed to come from the barn-yard. "ah," said mary bell, "there is queen bess going to pasture this morning. how glad i was to see her yesterday in the woods! let us go and see her now." so saying she led the way around the corner of the house, by a pleasant path through the high grass that was growing in the yard, toward the barns. bella followed her. they passed through a gate, then across a little lane, then through a gate on the other side of the lane, which led into the barn-yards. the barns, like the house, were built of logs, but they were very neatly made, and the yards around them were at this season of the year dry and green. mary and bella walked on across the barn-yard until they got to the back side of the barn, when they found thomas turning the cows into a little green lane which led to the pasture. it was not very far to the pasture bars, and so mary bell proposed that they should go and help thomas drive the cows. they accordingly went on, but they had not gone far before they came to a brook, which here flowed across the lane. the cows walked directly through the brook, while thomas got across it by stepping over some stones at one side. mary bell thought that the spaces were a little too wide for bella to jump over, so she concluded not to go any farther in that direction. bella then proposed that they should go and see the new house. this mary bell thought would be an excellent plan if bella's mother would give them leave. they accordingly went in to ask her. they found her in the back stoop, employed in straining the milk which thomas had brought in. she was straining it into great pans. she said that she should like to have the children go and see the new house very much indeed, and she gave them the key, so that they might go into it. the children took the key and went across the fields by a winding path until they came out into the main road again, near the new house. the house was in a very pleasant place indeed. there was a green yard in front of it, and a place for a garden at one side. at the other side was a wide yard open to the road, so that persons could ride up to the door without the trouble of opening any gate. the children walked up this open yard. they went to the door, intending to unlock it with their key, but they were surprised to find that there was not any key hole. mary bell said that she supposed the key hole was not made yet. they tried to open the door, but they could not succeed. it was obviously fastened on the inside. "now how can we get in?" said bella. "i don't see," replied mary bell, "and i can't think how they locked the door without any key-hole." "could not we climb in at one of the windows?" said mary bell,--"only they are so high up!" the children looked around at the windows. they were all too high from the ground for them to reach. there was, however, a heap of short blocks and boards which the carpenters had left in the yard near the house, and mary bell said that perhaps they could build up a "climbing pile" with them, so as to get in at a window. she accordingly went to this heap, and by means of considerable exertion and toil she rolled two large blocks--the ends of sticks of timber which the carpenters had sawed off in framing the house--up under the nearest window. she placed these blocks, which were about two feet long, at a little distance apart under the window, with one end of each block against the house. she then, with bella's help, got some short boards from the pile, and placed them across these blocks from one to the other, making a sort of a flooring. "there," said mary bell, looking at the work with great satisfaction, "that is _one_ story." then she brought two more blocks, and laid them upon the flooring over the first two, placing the second pair of blocks, like the first, at right angles to the house, and with the ends close against it to keep them steady. on these blocks she laid a second flooring of short boards, which made the second story. she then stepped up upon the staging which she had thus built, to see if it was steady. it was very steady indeed. "let _me_ get up on it," said bella. bella accordingly climbed up, and she and mary bell danced upon it together in great glee for some time to show how steady it was. mary bell then attempted to open the window. she found that she could open it a little way, but not far enough to get in. so she said that she must make one more "story." they then both went back to the pile, and got two more blocks and another board to lay across upon the top of them for a flooring, and when these were placed, mary bell found that she could raise the window very high. she got a long stick to put under it to hold it up, and then tried to climb in. she found, however, that the window sill over which she was to climb was still rather too high; but, at length, after various consultations and experiments, _bella_ succeeded in getting up by means of the help which mary bell, who was large and strong, gave her, by "boosting her," as she called it, that is, pushing her up from below while she climbed by means of her arms clasped over the window sill above. bella being thus in the house, took the key, which mary bell handed her for the purpose, and went along to the entry to unlock the door, while mary bell, stepping down from the scaffolding, went to the door on the outside, ready to enter when it should be opened. the children had no doubt that there was a key-hole in the lock on the inside, although there was none made in the door on the outside. when, however, bella reached the door on the inside, she called out to mary bell, through the door, to say that she could not find any key-hole. "it is in the lock," said mary bell. "but there is not any lock," said bella. "is not there any thing?" asked mary bell. "yes," said bella, "there is a bolt." "oh, very well, then, open the bolt," replied mary bell. after a great deal of tugging and pushing at the bolt, bella succeeded in getting it back, but even then the door would not come open. it was new, and it fitted very tight. bella said that mary bell must push from the outside, while she held up the latch. mary bell accordingly pushed with all her force, and at length the door flew open, and to their great joy they found themselves both fairly admitted to the house. they rambled about for some time, looking at the different rooms, and at the various conveniences for house-keeping which albert had planned, and which were all just ready for use when albert had died. there was a sink in the kitchen, with a little spout leading into it, from which the water was running in a constant stream. it came from an aqueduct of logs brought under ground. there was a tin dipper there upon the top of the post which the water-spout came out of, and mary bell and bella had an excellent drink from it the first thing. the kitchen floor was covered with shavings, and the children played in them for some time, until they were tired. then they went and got another drink. when they at last got tired of the kitchen, they went to a window at the back side of the sitting-room, which looked out toward the garden, and commanded also a beautiful prospect beyond. they opened this window in order to see the garden better. a fresh and delightful breeze came in immediately, which the children enjoyed very much. the breeze, however, in drawing through the house, shut all the doors which the children had left open, with a loud noise, and then having no longer any egress, it ceased to come in. the air seemed suddenly to become calm; the children stood for some time at the window, looking out at the garden, and at the pond, and the mountains beyond. at length they shut the window again, and went to the door at which they had entered, and found it shut fast. they could not open it, for there was now no one to push upon the outside. mary bell laughed. bella looked very much frightened. "what shall we do?" said she. "we can't get out." "oh, don't be afraid," said mary bell, "we will get out some way or other." she then tried again to open the door, exerting all her strength in pulling upon the latch, but all in vain. they were finally obliged to give up the attempt as utterly hopeless. mary bell then led the way to the window where bella had got in, and looked out upon the little scaffolding. it looked as if the window was too high above the scaffolding for them to get down there safely. one of them might, perhaps, have succeeded in descending, if the other had been outside to help her down; but as it was, mary bell herself did not dare to make the attempt. "i will tell you what we will do," said mary bell. "we will go to another window where there are no blocks below, and throw all the shavings out from the kitchen. that will make a soft bed for us to jump upon." "well," said bella, "let us do that." so they went to the kitchen, and opening one of the windows, they began to gather up the shavings in their arms from off the floor, and to throw them out. they worked very industriously at this undertaking for a long time, until the kitchen floor was entirely cleared. they picked out carefully all the sticks, and blocks, and pieces of board which were mixed with the shavings, before throwing them out, in order that there might be nothing hard in the heap which they were to jump upon. when the work was completed, and all the shavings were out, they went to the window, and leaning over the sill, they looked down. "i wish we had some more shavings," said mary bell. "yes," said bella, "that is too far to jump down. we can't get out any way at all." so saying, she began to cry. "don't cry, bella," said mary bell, in a soothing tone. "it is no matter if we can't get out, for your mother knows that we came here, and if we don't come home in an hour, she will come for us and let us out." "but perhaps there is a ladder somewhere," added mary bell, after a short pause. "perhaps we can find a ladder that the carpenters have left somewhere about. if there is, we can put it out the window, and then climb down upon it. let us go and look." "well," said bella, "so we will." the two children accordingly set off on an exploring tour to find a ladder. mary bell went toward the front part of the house, and bella into the back kitchen. they looked not only in the rooms, but also in the passage-ways and closets, and in every corner where a ladder could possibly be hid. at length, just as mary bell was going up the stairs, in order to look into the little attic chambers, she heard bella calling out from the back part of the house, in a tone of voice expressive of great exultation and joy. "she has found the ladder," said mary bell, and leaving the stairs she went to meet her. she found bella running through the kitchen toward the entry where mary bell was, calling out with great appearance of delight, "i've found the key-hole, mary bell! i've found the key-hole!" this was indeed true. the lock to which the key that mary erskine had given the children belonged, was upon the _back_ door, the principal door of the house being fastened by a bolt. mary bell went to the back door, and easily opened it by means of the key. glad to discover this mode of escape from their thraldom, the children ran out, and capered about upon the back stoop in great glee. presently they went in again and shut all the windows which they had opened, and then came out, locking the door after them, and set out on their return home. when they arrived, they found that mary erskine had got every thing ready for the school. chapter viii. the school. good teachers and proper conveniences for study, tend very much, it is true, to facilitate the progress of pupils in all attempts for the acquisition of knowledge. but where these advantages cannot be enjoyed, it is astonishing how far a little ingenuity, and resolution, and earnestness, on the part of the pupil, will atone for the deficiency. no child need ever be deterred from undertaking any study adapted to his years and previous attainments, for want of the necessary implements or apparatus, or the requisite means of instruction. the means of supplying the want of these things are always at the command of those who are intelligent, resolute, and determined. it is only the irresolute, the incompetent, and the feeble-minded that are dependent for their progress on having a teacher to show them and to urge them onward, every step of the way. when mary bell and bella returned home they found that mary erskine had made all the preparations necessary for the commencement of the school. she had made a desk for the two children by means of the ironing-board, which was a long and wide board, made very smooth on both sides. this board mary erskine placed across two chairs, having previously laid two blocks of wood upon the chairs in a line with the back side of the board, in such a manner as to raise that side and to cause the board to slope forward like a desk. she had placed two stools in front of this desk for seats. upon this desk, at one end of it, the end, namely, at which bella was to sit, mary erskine had placed a small thin board which she found in the shop, and by the side of it a piece of chalk. this small board and piece of chalk were to be used instead of a slate and pencil. at mary bell's end of the desk there was a piece of paper and a pen, which mary erskine had taken out of her work-table. by the side of the paper and pen was bella's picture-book. this picture-book was a small but very pretty picture-book, which mary bell had given to bella for a present on her birth-day, the year before. the picture-book looked, as it lay upon the desk, as if it were perfectly new. mary erskine had kept it very carefully in her work-table drawer, as it was the only picture-book that bella had. she was accustomed to take it out sometimes in the evening, and show the pictures to bella, one by one, explaining them at the same time, so far as she could guess at the story from the picture itself, for neither she herself, nor bella, could understand a word of the reading. on these occasions mary erskine never allowed bella to touch the book, but always turned over the leaves herself, and that too in a very careful manner, so as to preserve it in its original condition, smooth, fresh, and unsullied. mary bell and bella looked at the desk which mary erskine had prepared for them, and liked it very much indeed. "but where are _you_ going to study?" asked mary bell. "i shall study at my work-table, but not now. i can't study until the evening. i have my work to do, all the day, and so i shall not begin my studies until the evening when you children are all gone to bed. and besides, there is only one pen." "oh, but you will not want the pen," said mary bell. "you are going to learn to read." "no," said mary erskine. "i am going to learn to write first." "not _first_," said mary bell. "we always learn to _read_, before we learn to write." "but i am going to learn to write first," said mary erskine. "i have been thinking about it, and i think that will be best. i have got the plan all formed. i shall want you to set me a copy, and then this evening i shall write it." "well," said mary bell, "i will. the first copy must be straight marks." "no," said mary erskine, "the first thing is to learn to write my name. i shall never have any occasion to write straight marks, but i shall want to write my name a great many times." "oh, but you can't _begin_ with writing your name," said mary bell. "yes," said mary erskine, "i am going to begin with _mary_: only _mary_. i want you to write me two copies, one with the letters all separate, and the other with the letters together. "well," said mary bell, "i will." so she sat down to her desk, taking up her pen, she dipped it into the inkstand. the inkstand had been placed into the chair which mary bell's end of the ironing-board rested upon. it could not stand safely on the board itself as that was sloping. mary bell wrote the letters m--a--r--y, in a large plain hand upon the top of the paper, and then in a same line she wrote them again, joining them together in a word. mary erskine stood by while she wrote, examining very attentively her method of doing the work, and especially her way of holding the pen. when the copy was finished, mary erskine cut it off from the top of the paper and pinned it up against the side of the room, where she could look at it and study the names of the letters in the intervals of her work during the day. "there," said she in a tone of satisfaction when this was done. "i have got my work before me. the next thing is to give bella hers." it was decided that bella should pursue a different method from her mother. she was to learn the letters of the alphabet in regular order, taking the first two, _a_ and _b_, for her first lesson. mary bell made copies of those two letters for her, with the chalk, upon the top of the board. she made these letters in the form of printed and not written characters, because the object was to teach bella to read printed books. "now," said mary erskine to bella, "you must study _a_ and _b_ for half an hour. i shall tell you when i think the half hour is out. if you get tired of sitting at your desk, you may take your board and your chalk out to the door and sit upon the step. you must spend all the time in making the letters on the board, and you may say _a_ and _b_ while you are making the letters, but besides that you must not speak a word. for every time that you speak, except to say _a_ and _b_, after i tell you to begin, you will have to pick up a basket of chips." picking up baskets of chips was the common punishment that bella was subjected to for her childish misdemeanors. there was a bin in the stoop, where she used to put them, and a small basket hanging up by the side of it. the chip-yard was behind the house, and there was always an abundant supply of chips in it, from albert's cutting. the basket, it is true, was quite small, and to fill it once with chips, was but a slight punishment; but slight punishments are always sufficient for sustaining any just and equitable government, provided they are certain to follow transgression, and are strictly and faithfully enforced. bella was a very obedient and submissive child, though she had scarcely ever been subjected to any heavier punishment than picking up chips. "shall i begin now?" said bella. "no," replied her mother, "wait, if you like, till mary bell has taken her lesson." "i don't see how i am going to draw," said mary bell, "without any pencil." "you will have to draw with the pen," said mary erskine. "i am very sorry that i have not got any pencil for you." so saying, mary erskine took up the picture-book, and began turning over the leaves, to find, as she said, the picture of a house. she should think, she said, that the picture of a house would be a good thing to begin with. she found a view of a house in the third picture in the book. there was a great deal in the picture besides the house, but mary erskine said that the house alone should be the lesson. there was a pond near it, with a shore, and ducks and geese swimming in the water. then there was a fence and a gate, and a boy coming through the gate, and some trees. there was one large tree with a swing hanging from one of the branches. "now, mary," said mary erskine, speaking to mary bell, "you may take the house alone. first you must look at it carefully, and examine all the little lines and marks, and see exactly how they are made. there is the chimney, for example. see first what the shape of the outline of it is, and look at all _those_ little lines, and _those_, and _those_," continued mary erskine, pointing to the different parts of the chimney. "you must examine in the same way all the other lines, in all the other parts of the picture, and see exactly how fine they are, and how near together they are, so that you can imitate them exactly. then you must make some little dots upon your paper to mark the length and breadth of the house, so as to get it of the right shape; and then draw the lines and finish it all exactly as it is in the book." bella looked over very attentively, while her mother was explaining these things to mary bell, and then said that _she_ would rather draw a house than make letters. "no," said her mother, "you must make letters." "but it is harder to make letters than it is to make a house," said bella. "yes," said her mother, "i think it is." "and i think," said bella, "that the littlest scholar ought to have the easiest things to do." mary erskine laughed, and said that in schools, those things were not done that seemed best to the scholars, but those that seemed best to the teachers. "then," said mary bell, "why must not you write marks." mary erskine laughed still more at this, and said she acknowledged that the children had got her penned up in a corner. "now," said mary erskine, "are you ready to begin; because when you once begin, you must not speak a word till the half hour is out." "yes," said the children, "we are ready." "then _begin_," said mary erskine. the children began with great gravity and silence, each at her separate task, while mary erskine went on with her own regular employment. the silence continued unbroken for about five minutes, when bella laid down her chalk in a despairing manner, saying, "o dear me! i can't make a _a_." "there's one basket of chips," said mary erskine. "why i really can't," said bella, "i have tried three times." "two baskets of chips," said her mother. "make two marks on the corner of your board," she continued, "and every time you speak put down another, so that we can remember how many baskets of chips you have to pick up." bella looked rather disconsolate at receiving this direction. she knew, however, that she must obey. she was also well aware that she would certainly have to pick up as many baskets of chips as should be indicated by the line of chalk marks. she, therefore, resumed her work, inwardly resolving that she would not speak another word. all this time, mary bell went on with her drawing, without apparently paying any attention to the conversation between bella and her mother. [illustration: the school.] bella went on, too, herself after this, very attentively, making the letters which had been assigned her for her lesson, and calling the names of them as she made them, but not speaking any words. at length mary erskine told the children that the half hour had expired, and that they were at liberty. bella jumped up and ran away to play. mary bell wished to remain and finish her house. mary erskine went to look at it. she compared it very attentively with the original in the picture-book, and observed several places in which mary bell had deviated from her pattern. she did not, however, point out any of these faults to mary bell, but simply said that she had done her work very well indeed. she had made a very pretty house. mary bell said that it was not quite finished, and she wished to remain at her desk a little longer to complete it. mary erskine gave her leave to do so. bella, who had gone away at first, dancing to the door, pleased to be released from her confinement, came back to see mary bell's picture, while her mother was examining it. she seemed very much pleased with it indeed. then she asked her mother to look at her letters upon the board. mary erskine and mary bell both looked at them, one by one, very attentively, and compared them with the letters which mary bell had made for patterns, and also with specimens of the letters in the books. bella took great interest in looking for the letters in the book, much pleased to find that she knew them wherever she saw them. her mother, too, learned _a_ and _b_ very effectually by this examination of bella's work. mary erskine selected the two best letters which bella had made, one of each kind, and rubbed out all the rest with a cloth. she then put up the board in a conspicuous place upon a shelf, where the two good letters could be seen by all in the room. bella was much pleased at this, and she came in from her play several times in the course of the day, to look at her letters and to call them by name. when bella's board had thus been put up in its conspicuous position, mary bell sat down to finish her drawing, while bella went out to pick up her two baskets of chips. mary bell worked upon her house for nearly the whole of another half hour. when it was finished she cut the part of the paper which it was drawn upon off from the rest, and ruled around it a neat margin of double black lines. she obtained a narrow strip of wood, from the shop which served her as a ruler. she said that she meant to have all her drawing lessons of the same size, and to put the same margin around them. she marked her house no. , writing the numbering in a small but plain hand on one corner. she wrote the initials of her, name, m.b., in the same small hand, on the opposite corner. mary erskine did not attempt _her_ lesson until the evening. she finished her work about the house a little after eight o'clock, and then she undressed the children and put them to bed. by this time it was nearly nine o'clock. the day had been warm and pleasant, but the nights at this season were cool, and mary erskine put two or three dry sticks upon the fire, before she commenced her work, partly for the warmth, and partly for the cheerfulness of the blaze. she lighted her lamp, and sat down at her work-table, with mary bell's copy, and her pen, ink, and paper, before her. the copy had been pinned up in sight all the day, and she had very often examined it, when passing it, in going to and fro at her work. she had thus learned the names of all the letters in the word mary, and had made herself considerably familiar with the forms of them; so that she not only knew exactly what she had to do in writing the letters, but she felt a strong interest in doing it. she, however, made extremely awkward work in her first attempts at writing the letters. she, nevertheless, steadily persevered. she wrote the words, first in separate letters, and then afterwards in a joined hand, again and again, going down the paper. she found that she could write a little more easily, if not better, as she proceeded,--but still the work was very hard. at ten o'clock her paper was covered with what she thought were miserable scrawls, and her wrist and her fingers ached excessively. she put her work away, and prepared to go to bed. "perhaps i shall have to give it up after all," said she. "but i will not give up till i am beaten. i will write an hour every day for six months, and then if i can not write my name so that people can read it, i will stop." the next day about an hour after breakfast mary erskine had another school for the children. bella took the two next letters _c_ and _d_ for her lesson, while mary bell took the swing hanging from the branch of the tree in the picture-book, for the subject of her second drawing. before beginning her work, she studied all the touches by which the drawing was made in the book, with great attention and care, in order that she might imitate them as precisely as possible. she succeeded very well indeed in this second attempt. the swing made even a prettier picture than the house. when it was finished she cut the paper out, of the same size with the other, drew a border around it, and marked it no. . she went on in this manner every day as long as she remained at mary erskine's, drawing a new picture every day. at last, when she went home, mary erskine put all her drawings up together, and mary bell carried them home to show them to her mother. this was the beginning of mary bell's drawing. as for mary erskine, her second lesson was the word _erskine_, which she found a great deal harder to write than mary. there was one thing, however, that pleased her in it, which was that there was one letter which she knew already, having learned it in mary: that was the _r_. all the rest of the letters, however, were new, and she had to practice writing the word two evenings before she could write it well, without looking at the copy. she then thought that probably by that time she had forgotten _mary_; but on trying to write that word, she was very much pleased to find that she could write it much more easily than she could before. this encouraged her, and she accordingly took forester for her third lesson without any fear of forgetting the mary and the erskine. the forester lesson proved to be a very easy one. there were only three new letters in it, and those three were very easy to write. in fine, at the end of the four days, when mary bell was to go home, mary erskine could read, write, and spell her name very respectably well. mrs. bell came herself for mary when the time of her visit expired. she was very much pleased to learn how good a girl and how useful her daughter had been. she was particularly pleased with her drawings. she said that she had been very desirous to have mary learn to draw, but that she did not know it was possible to make so good a beginning without a teacher. "why i _had_ a teacher," said mary bell. "i think that mary erskine is a teacher; and a very good one besides." "i think so too," said mrs. bell. the children went out to get some wild flowers for mary bell to carry home, and mrs. bell then asked mary if she had begun to consider what it was best for her to do. "yes," said mary erskine. "i think it will be best for me to sell the farm, and the new house, and all the stock, and live here in this house with my children." mrs. bell did not answer, but seemed to be thinking whether this would be the best plan or not. "the children cannot go to school from here," said mrs. bell. "no," said mary erskine, "but i can teach them myself, i think, till they are old enough to walk to the school-house. i find that i can learn the letters faster than bella can, and that without interfering with my work; and mary bell will come out here now and then and tell us what we don't know." "yes," said mrs. bell, "i shall be glad to have her come as often as you wish. but it seems to me that you had better move into the village. half the money that the farm and the stock will sell for, will buy you a very pleasant house in the village, and the interest on the other half, together with what you can earn, will support you comfortably." "yes," said mary erskine, "but then i should be growing poorer, rather than richer, all the time; and when my children grow large, and i want the money for them, i shall find that i have spent it all. now if i stay here in this house, i shall have no rent to pay, nor shall i lose the interest of a part of my money, as i should if i were to buy a house in the village with it to live in myself. i can earn enough here too by knitting, and by spinning and weaving, for all that we shall want while the children are young. i can keep a little land with this house, and let thomas, or some other such boy live with me, and raise such things as we want to eat; and so i think i can get along very well, and put out all the money which i get from the farm and the stock, at interest. in ten or fifteen years it will be two thousand dollars. then i shall be rich, and can move into the village without any danger. "not two thousand dollars!" said mrs. bell. "yes," said mary erskine, "if i have calculated it right." "why, how much do you think the farm and stock will sell for?" asked mrs. bell. "about eight hundred dollars," said mary erskine. "that put out at interest will double in about twelve years." "very well," rejoined mrs. bell, "but that makes only sixteen hundred dollars." "but then i think that i can lay up half a dollar a week of my own earnings, especially when bella gets a little bigger so as to help me about the house," said mary erskine. "well;" said mrs. bell. "that," continued mary erskine, "will be twenty-five dollars a year. which will be at least three hundred dollars in twelve years." "very well," said mrs. bell, "that makes nineteen hundred." "then," continued mary erskine, "i thought that at the end of the twelve years i should be able to sell this house and the land around it for a hundred dollars, especially if i take good care of the buildings in the mean while." "and that makes your two thousand dollars," said mrs. bell. "yes," replied mary erskine. "but suppose you are sick." "oh, if i am sick, or if i die," rejoined mary erskine, "of course that breaks up all my plans. i know i can't plan against calamities." "well," said mrs. bell, rising from her seat with a smile of satisfaction upon her countenance, "i can't advise you. but if ever i get into any serious trouble, i shall come to you to advise me." so bidding mary erskine good-bye, mrs. bell called her daughter, and they went together toward their home. chapter ix. good management. whenever any person dies, leaving property to be divided among his heirs, and not leaving any valid will to determine the mode of division, the property as has already been said, must be divided on certain principles, established by the law of the land, and under the direction of the judge of probate, who has jurisdiction over the county in which the property is situated. the judge of probate appoints a person to take charge of the property and divide it among the heirs. this person is called the administrator, or, if a woman, the administratrix. the judge gives the administrator or the administratrix a paper, which authorises him or her to take charge of the property, which paper is called, "letters of administration." the letters of administration are usually granted to the wife of the deceased, or to his oldest son, or, if there is no wife or son, to the nearest heir who is of proper age and discretion to manage the trust. the person who receives administration is obliged to take a solemn oath before the judge of probate, that he will report to the judge a full account of all the property that belonged to the deceased which shall come to his knowledge. the judge also appoints three persons to go and examine the property, and make an inventory of it, and appraise every article, so as to know as nearly as possible, how much and what property there is. these persons are called appraisers. the inventory which they make out is lodged in the office of the judge of probate, where any person who has an interest in the estate can see it at any time. the administrator usually keeps a copy of the inventory besides. if among the property left by a person deceased, which is to go in part to children, there are any houses and lands,--a kind of property which is called in law _real estate_, to distinguish it from moveable property, which is called _personal estate_,--such real estate cannot be sold, in ordinary cases, by the administrator, without leave from the judge of probate. this leave the judge of probate will give in cases where it is clearly best for the children that the property should be so sold and the _avails of it_ kept for them, rather than the property itself. all these things mrs. bell explained to mary erskine, having learned about them herself some years before when her own husband died. accordingly, a few weeks after albert died, mary erskine went one day in a wagon, taking the baby with her, and thomas to drive, to the county town, where the probate court was held. [illustration: going to court.] at the probate court, mary erskine made all the arrangements necessary in respect to the estate. she had to go twice, in fact, before all these arrangements were completed. she expected to have a great deal of trouble and embarrassment in doing this business, but she did not find that there was any trouble at all. the judge of probate told her exactly what to do. she was required to sign her name once or twice to papers. this she did with great trepidation, and after writing her name, on the first occasion which occurred requiring her signature, she apologized for not being able to write any better. the judge of probate said that very few of the papers that he received were signed so well. mary erskine was appointed administratrix, and the judge gave her a paper which he said was her "letters of administration." what the judge gave to her seemed to be only one paper, but she thought it probable, as the judge said "letters" that there was another inside. when she got home, however, and opened the paper she found that there was only one. she could not read it herself, her studies having yet extended no farther than to the writing of her name. the first time, however, that mary bell came to see her, after she received this document, she asked mary bell to read it to her. mary bell did so, but after she had got through, mary erskine said that she could not understand one word of it from beginning to end. mary bell said that that was not strange, for she believed that lawyers' papers were only meant for lawyers to understand. the appraisers came about this time to make an inventory of the property. they went all over the house and barns, and took a complete account of every thing that they found. they made a list of all the oxen, sheep, cows, horses, and other animals, putting down opposite to each one, their estimate of its value. they did the same with the vehicles, and farming implements, and utensils, and also with all the household furniture, and the provisions and stores. when they had completed the appraisement they added up the amount, and found that the total was a little over four hundred dollars, mary erskine was very much surprised to find that there was so much. the appraisers then told mary erskine that half of that property was hers, and the other half belonged to the children; and that as much of their half as was necessary for their support could be used for that purpose, and the rest must be paid over to them when they became of age. they said also that she or some one else must be appointed their guardian, to take care of their part of the property; and that the guardian could either keep the property as it was, or sell it and keep the money as she thought would be most for the interest of the children; and that she had the same power in respect to her own share. mary erskine said that she thought it would be best for her to sell the stock and farming tools, because she could not take care of them nor use them, and she might put the money out at interest. the appraisers said they thought so too. in the end, mary erskine was appointed guardian. the idea appeared strange to her at first of being _appointed_ guardian to her own children, as it seemed to her that a mother naturally and necessarily held that relation to her offspring. but the meaning of the law, in making a mother the guardian of her children by appointment in such a case as this, is simply to authorize her to take care of _property_ left to them, or descending to them. it is obvious that cases must frequently occur in which a mother, though the natural guardian of her children so far as the personal care of them is concerned, would not be properly qualified to take charge of any considerable amount of property coming to them. when the mother is qualified to take this charge, she can be duly authorized to do it; and this is the appointment to the guardianship--meaning the guardianship of the property to which the appointment refers. mary erskine was accordingly appointed guardian of the children, and she obtained leave to sell the farm. she decided that it would be best to sell it as she thought, after making diligent enquiry, that she could not depend on receiving any considerable annual rent for it, if she were to attempt to let it. she accordingly sold the farm, with the new house, and all the stock,--excepting that she reserved from the farm ten acres of land around her own house, and one cow, one horse, two pigs, and all the poultry. she also reserved all the household furniture. these things she took as a part of her portion. the purchase money for all the rest amounted to nine hundred and fifty dollars. this sum was considerably more than mary erskine had expected to receive. the question now was what should be done with this money. there are various modes which are adopted for investing such sums so as to get an annual income from them. the money may be lent to some person who will take it and pay interest for it. a house may be bought and let to some one who wishes to hire it; or shares in a rail-road, or a bank, or a bridge, may be taken. such kinds of property as those are managed by directors, who take care of all the profits that are made, and twice a year divide the money among the persons that own the shares. mary erskine had a great deal of time for enquiry and reflection in respect to the proper mode of investing her money, for the man who purchased the farm and the stock was not to pay the money immediately. the price agreed upon for the farm, including of course the new house, was five hundred dollars. the stock, farming utensils, &c, which he took with it, came to three hundred and sixty dollars. the purchaser was to pay, of this money, four hundred dollars in three months, and the balance in six months. mary erskine, therefore, had to make provision for investing the four hundred dollars first. she determined, after a great deal of consideration and inquiry, to lay out this money in buying four shares in the franconia bridge. these shares were originally one hundred dollars each, but the bridge had become so profitable on account of the number of persons that passed it, and the amount of money which was consequently collected for tolls, that the shares would sell for a hundred and ten dollars each. this ten dollars advance over the original price of the shares, is called _premium_. upon the four shares which mary erskine was going to buy, the premium would be of course forty dollars. this money mary erskine concluded to borrow. mr. keep said that he would very gladly lend it to her. her plan was to pay the borrowed money back out of the dividends which she would receive from her bridge shares. the dividend was usually five per centum, or, as they commonly called it, _five per cent._, that is, five dollars on every share of a hundred dollars every six months.[a] the dividend on the four shares would, of course, be twenty dollars, so that it would take two dividends to pay off the forty dollar debt to mr. keep, besides a little interest. when this was done, mary erskine would have property in the bridge worth four hundred and forty dollars, without having used any more than four hundred dollars of her farm money, and she would continue to have forty dollars a year from it, as long as she kept it in her possession. [footnote a: _per_ is a latin word meaning _for_, and _centum_ another meaning _a hundred_.] when the rest of the money for the farm was paid, mary erskine resolved on purchasing a certain small, but very pleasant house with it. this house was in the village, and she found on inquiry, that it could be let to a family for fifty dollars a year. it is true that a part of this fifty dollars would have to be expended every year in making repairs upon the house, so as to keep it in good order; such as painting it from time to time, and renewing the roof when the shingles began to decay, and other similar things. but, then, mary erskine found, on making a careful examination, that after expending as much of the money which she should receive for the rent of her house, as should be necessary for the repairs, she should still have rather more than she would receive from the money to be invested, if it was put out at interest by lending it to some person who wanted to borrow it. so she decided to buy the house in preference to adopting any other plan. it happened that the house which mary erskine thus determined to buy, was the very one that mr. gordon lived in. the owner of the house wished to sell it, and offered it first to mr. gordon; but he said that he was not able to buy it. he had been doing very well in his business, but his expenses were so great, he said, that he had not any ready money at command. he was very sorry, he added, that the owner wished to sell the house, for whoever should buy it, would want to come and live in it, he supposed, and he should be obliged to move away. the owner said that he was sorry, but that he could not help it. a few days after this, mr. gordon came home one evening, and told anne sophia, with a countenance expressive of great surprise and some little vexation, that her old friend, mrs. forester, had bought their house, and was going to move into it. anne sophia was amazed at this intelligence, and both she and her husband were thrown into a state of great perplexity and trouble. the next morning anne sophia went out to see mary erskine about it. mary erskine received her in a very kind and cordial manner. "i am very glad to see you," said mary erskine. "i was coming to your house myself in a day or two, about some business, if you had not come here." "yes," said anne sophia. "i understand that you have been buying our house away from over our heads, and are going to turn us out of house and home." "oh, no," said mary erskine, smiling, "not at all. in the first place, i have not really bought the house yet, but am only talking about it; and in the second place, if i buy it, i shall not want it myself, but shall wish to have you live in it just as you have done." "you will not want it yourself!" exclaimed anne sophia, astonished. "no," said mary erskine, "i am only going to buy it as an investment." there were so many things to be astonished at in this statement, that anne sophia hardly knew where to begin with her wonder. first, she was surprised to learn that mary erskine had so much money. when she heard that she had bought the house, she supposed of course that she had bought it on credit, for the sake of having a house in the village to live in. then she was amazed at the idea of any person continuing to live in a log house in the woods, when she had a pretty house of her own in the middle of the village. she could not for some time be satisfied that mary erskine was in earnest in what she said. but when she found that it was really so, she went away greatly relieved. mary erskine told her that she had postponed giving her final answer about buying the house, in order first to see mr. gordon, to know whether he had any objection to the change of ownership. she knew, of course, that mr. gordon would have no right to object, but she rightly supposed that he would be gratified at having her ask him the question. mary erskine went on after this for two or three years very prosperously in all her affairs. thomas continued to live with her, in her log-house, and to cultivate the land which she had retained. in the fall and winter, when there was nothing to be done in the fields or garden, he was accustomed to work in the shop, making improvements for the house, such as finishing off the stoop into another room, to be used for a kitchen, making new windows to the house, and a regular front door, and in preparing fences and gates to be put up around the house. he made an aqueduct, too, to conduct the water from a new spring which he discovered at a place higher than the house, and so brought a constant stream of water into the kitchen which he had made in the stoop. the stumps, too, in the fields around the house, gradually decayed, so that thomas could root them out and smooth over the ground where they had stood. mary erskine's ten acres thus became very smooth and beautiful. it was divided by fences into very pleasant fields, with green lanes shaded by trees, leading from one place to another. the brook flowed through this land along a very beautiful valley, and there were groves and thickets here and there, both along the margin of the brook, and in the corners of the fields, which gave to the grounds a very sheltered, as well as a very picturesque expression. mary erskine also caused trees and shrubbery to be planted near the house, and trained honey-suckles and wild roses upon a trellis over the front door. all these improvements were made in a very plain and simple manner, and at very little expense, and yet there was so much taste exercised in the arrangement of them all, that the effect was very agreeable in the end. the house and all about it formed, in time, an enchanting picture of rural beauty.[a] [footnote a: see frontispiece.] it was, however, only a few occasional hours of recreation that mary erskine devoted to ornamenting her dwelling. the main portion of her time and attention was devoted to such industrial pursuits as were most available in bringing in the means of support for herself and her children, so as to leave untouched the income from her house and her bridge shares. this income, as fast as it was paid in, she deposited with mr. keep, to be lent out on interest, until a sufficient sum was thus accumulated to make a new investment of a permanent character. when the sum at length amounted to two hundred and twenty dollars, she bought two more bridge shares with it, and from that time forward she received dividends on six shares instead of four; that is, she received thirty dollars every six months, instead of twenty, as before. one reason why mary erskine invested her money in a house and in a bridge, instead of lending it out at interest, was that by so doing, her property was before her in a visible form, and she could take a constant pleasure in seeing it. whenever she went to the village she enjoyed seeing her house, which she kept in a complete state of repair, and which she had ornamented with shrubbery and trees, so that it was a very agreeable object to look upon of itself, independently of the pleasure of ownership. in the same manner she liked to see the bridge, and think when teams and people were passing over it, that a part of all the toll which they paid, would, in the end, come to her. she thus took the same kind of pleasure in having purchased a house, and shares in a bridge, that any lady in a city would take in an expensive new carpet, or a rosewood piano, which would cost about the same sum; and then she had all the profit, in the shape of the annual income, besides. there was one great advantage too which mary erskine derived from owning this property, which, though she did not think of it at all when she commenced her prudent and economical course, at the time of her marriage, proved in the end to be of inestimable value to her. this advantage was the high degree of respectability which it gave her in the public estimation. the people of the village gradually found out how she managed, and how fast her property was increasing, and they entertained for her a great deal of that kind of respect which worldly prosperity always commands. the store-keepers were anxious to have her custom. those who had money to lend were always very ready to let her have it, if at any time she wished to make up a sum for a new investment: and all the ladies of the village were willing that their daughters should go out to her little farm to visit bella, and to have bella visit them in return. thus mary erskine found that she was becoming quite an important personage. her plan of teaching herself and her children succeeded perfectly. by the time that she had thoroughly learned to write her own name, she knew half of the letters of the alphabet, for her name contained nearly that number. she next learned to write her children's names, bella forester and albert forester. after that, she learned to write the names of all the months, and to read them when she had written them. she chose the names of the months, next after the names of her own family, so that she might be able to date her letters if she should ever have occasion to write any. mary bell set copies for her, when she came out to see her, and mary erskine went on so much faster than bella, that she could teach her very well. she required bella to spend an hour at her studies every day. thomas made a little desk for her, and her mother bought her a slate and a pencil, and in process of time an arithmetic, and other books. as soon as mary erskine could read fluently, mary bell used to bring out books to her, containing entertaining stories. at first mary bell would read these stories to her once, while she was at her work, and then mary erskine, having heard mary bell read them, could read them herself in the evening without much difficulty. at length she made such progress that she could read the stories herself alone, the first time, with very little trouble. thus things went on in a very pleasant and prosperous manner, and this was the condition of mary erskine and of her affairs, at the time when malleville and phonny went to pay her their visit, as described in the first chapter of this volume. chapter x. the visit to mary erskine's. malleville and phonny arrived at mary erskine's about an hour after beechnut left them. they met with no special adventures by the way, except that when they reached the great pine-tree, phonny proposed to climb up, for the purpose of examining a small bunch which he saw upon one of the branches, which he thought was a bird's nest. it was the same pine-tree that marked the place at which a road branched off into the woods, where mary bell had lost her way, several years before. malleville was very unwilling to have phonny climb up upon such a high tree, but phonny himself was very desirous to make the attempt. there was a log fence at the foot of the tree, and the distance was not very great from the uppermost log of the fence, to the lowermost branch of the tree. so phonny thought that he could get up without any difficulty. malleville was afraid to have him try, and she said that if he did, he would be acting just as foolish as the boy that beechnut had told them about, who nipped his own nose; and that she should not stop to see him do any such foolishness. so she walked along as fast as she could go. phonny unfortunately was rendered only the more determined to climb the tree by malleville's opposition. he accordingly mounted up to the top of the fence, and thence reaching the lower branches of the tree he succeeded at length, by dint of much scrambling and struggling, in lifting himself up among them. he climbed out to the limb where he had seen the appearances of a bird's nest, but found to his disappointment that there was no bird's nest there. the bunch was only a little tuft of twigs growing out together. phonny then began to shout out for malleville to wait for him. "mal--le--ville! mal--le--ville!" said he. "wait a minute for me. i am coming down." he did not like to be left there all alone, in the gloomy and solitary forest. so he made all the haste possible in descending. there are a great many accidents which may befall a boy in coming down a tree. the one which phonny was fated to incur in this instance, was to catch his trowsers near the knee, in a small sharp twig which projected from a branch, and tear them. when he reached the ground he looked at the rent in dismay. he was generally nice and particular about his clothes, and he was very unwilling to go to mary erskine's, and let her and bella see him in such a plight. he was equally unwilling to go home again, and to lose his visit. "provoking!" said he. "that comes from malleville's hurrying me so. it is all her fault." then starting off suddenly, he began to run, shouting out, "malleville! malleville!" at length, when he got pretty near her, he called out for her to stop and see what she had made him do. "did i make you do that?" said malleville, looking at the rent, while phonny stood with his foot extended, and pointing at it with his finger. "yes," said phonny,--"because you hurried me." "well, i'm sorry;" said malleville, looking very much concerned. phonny was put quite to a nonplus by this unexpected answer. he had expected to hear malleville deny that it was her fault that he had torn his clothes, and was prepared to insist strenuously that it was; but this unlooked-for gentleness seemed to leave him not a word to say. so he walked along by the side of malleville in silence. "was it a pretty bird's-nest?" said malleville in a conciliatory tone, after a moment's pause. "no," said phonny. "it was not any bird's nest at all." when the children reached the farm as they called it, mary erskine seated phonny on the bed, and then drawing up her chair near to him, she took his foot in her lap and mended the rent so neatly that there was afterwards no sign of it to be seen. little albert was at this time about three years old, and bella was seven. phonny, while mary erskine was mending his clothes, asked where the children were. mary erskine said that they had gone out into the fields with thomas, to make hay. so phonny and malleville, after getting proper directions in respect to the way that they were to go, set off in pursuit of them. they went out at a back-door which led to a beautiful walk under a long trellis, which was covered with honey-suckles and roses. malleville stopped to get a rose, and phonny to admire two humming-birds that were playing about the honey-suckles. he wished very much that he could catch one of them, but he could not even get near them. from the end of the trellis's walk the children entered a garden, and at the back side of the garden they went through a narrow place between two posts into a field. they walked along the side of this field, by a very pleasant path with high green grass and flowers on one side, and a wall with a great many raspberry bushes growing by it, and now and then little thickets of trees, on the other. the bushes and trees made the walk that they were going in very cool and shady. there were plenty of raspberries upon the bushes, but they were not yet ripe. phonny said that when the raspberries were ripe he meant to come out to mary erskine's again and get some. presently the children turned a sort of a corner which was formed by a group of trees, and then they came in sight of the hay-making party. "oh, they have got the horse and cart," said phonny. so saying he set off as fast he could run, toward the hay-makers, malleville following him. the horse and cart were standing in the middle of the field among the numerous winrows of hay. the two children of mrs. forester, bella and albert, were in the cart, treading down the hay as fast as thomas pitched it up. as soon as phonny and malleville reached the place, malleville stood still with her hands behind her, looking at the scene with great interest and pleasure. phonny wanted to know if thomas had not got another pitch-fork, so that he might help him pitch up the hay. thomas said, no. he, however, told phonny that he might get into the cart if he pleased, and drive the horse along when it was time to go to a new place. phonny was extremely pleased with this plan. he climbed into the cart, bella helping him up by a prodigious lift which she gave him, seizing him by the shoulder as he came up. malleville was afraid to get into the cart at all, but preferred walking along the field and playing among the winrows. phonny drove along from place to place as thomas directed him, until at length the cart was so full that it was no longer safe for the children to remain upon the top. they then slid down the hay to the ground, thomas receiving them so as to prevent any violent fall. thomas then forked up as much more hay as he could make stay upon the top of his load, and when this was done, he set out to go to the barn. the children accompanied him, walking behind the cart. when the party reached the barn, the children went inside to a place which phonny called the bay. thomas drove his cart up near the side of the barn without, and began to pitch the hay in through a great square window, quite high up. the window opened into the bay, so that the hay, when thomas pitched it in, fell down into the place where the children were standing. they jumped upon it, when it came down, with great glee. as every new forkful which thomas pitched in came without any warning except the momentary darkening of the window, it sometimes fell upon the children's heads and half buried them, each new accident of this kind awakening, as it occurred, loud and long continued bursts of laughter. after getting in two or three loads of hay in this manner, dinner time came, and the whole party went in to dinner. they found when they entered the house that mary erskine had been frying nut-cakes and apple-turnovers for them. there was a large earthen pan full of such things, and there were more over the fire. there were also around the table four bowls full of very rich looking milk, with a spoon in each bowl, and a large supply of bread, cut into very small pieces, upon a plate near the bowls. the children were all hungry and thirsty, and they gathered around the table to eat the excellent dinner which mary erskine had provided for them, with an air of great eagerness and delight. after their dinner was over, mary erskine said that they might go out and play for half an hour, and that then she would go with them into the fields, and see if they could not find some strawberries. accordingly, when the time arrived, they all assembled at the door, and mary erskine came out, bringing mugs and baskets to put the strawberries in. there were four mugs made, of tin; such as were there called _dippers_. there were two pretty large baskets besides, both covered. mary erskine gave to each of the children a dipper, and carried the baskets herself. she seemed to carry them very carefully, and they appeared to be heavy, as if there might be something inside. phonny wanted very much to know what there was in those baskets. mary erskine said he must guess. "some cake," said phonny. "guess again," said mary erskine. "apples," said phonny. "guess again," said mary erskine. "why, have not i guessed right yet?" asked phonny. "i can't tell you," replied mary erskine. "only you may guess as much as you please." phonny of course gave up guessing, since he was not to be told whether he guessed right or not; though he said he was sure that it was cake, or else, perhaps, some of the turn-overs. the party walked along by very pleasant paths until they came to a field by the side of the brook. there were trees along the banks of the brook, under which, and near the water, there were a great many cool and shady places that were very pleasant. mary erskine led the way down to one of these where there was a large flat stone near the water. she hid her two baskets in the bushes, and then directed the children to go up into the field with her and get the strawberries. the strawberries were not only very abundant, but also very large and ripe. mary erskine said that they might all eat ten, but no more. all that they got, except ten, they must put into their dippers, until the dippers were full. she herself went busily at work, finding strawberries and putting them into the dippers of the children, sometimes into one and sometimes into another. in a short time the dippers were full. the whole party then went back to the brook and sat down upon the great flat stone, with their dippers before them. mary erskine then brought out one of her baskets, and lifting up the cover, she took out five saucers and five spoons. "there," said she, "i brought you some saucers and spoons to eat your strawberries with. now take up the bunches from your dippers, and pull off the strawberries from the stems, and put them in the saucers." while the children were all busily engaged in doing this, mary erskine opened the other basket, and took out a pitcher of very rich looking cream. the sight of this treasure of course awakened in all the party the utmost enthusiasm and delight. they went on hulling their strawberries very industriously, and were soon ready, one after another, to have the cream poured over them, which mary erskine proceeded to do, giving to each one of the children a very abundant supply. [illustration: the strawberry party.] phonny finished his strawberries first, and then went to the margin of the brook to look into the water, in order, as he said, "to see if he could see any fishes." he did see several, and became greatly excited in consequence, calling eagerly upon the rest of the party to come down and look. he said that he wished very much that he had a fishing-line. mary erskine said that thomas had a fishing-line, which he would lend him, she had no doubt; and away phonny went, accordingly, to find thomas and to get the line. this procedure was not quite right on phonny's part. it is not right to abandon one's party under such circumstances as these, for the sake of some new pleasure accidentally coming into view, which the whole party cannot share. besides, phonny left his dipper for mary erskine or malleville to carry up, instead of taking care of it himself. mary erskine, however, said that this was of no consequence, as she could carry it just as well as not. mary erskine and the three remaining children, then went back to the house, where bella and malleville amused themselves for half an hour in building houses with the blocks in thomas's shop, when all at once malleville was surprised to see beechnut coming in. beechnut, was returning from the mill, and as the children had had to walk nearly all the way to mary erskine's, he thought it very probable that they would be too tired to walk back again. so he had left his horse and wagon at the corner, and had walked out to the farm to take the children home with him, if they were ready to go. "i am not _ready_ to go," said malleville, after having heard this story, but i _will_ go for the sake of the ride. i am too tired to walk all the way. but phonny is not here. he has gone a-fishing." "where has he gone?" said beechnut. "down to the brook," replied malleville. "i will go and find him," said beechnut. so saying, beechnut left the shop, went out into the yard, and began to walk down the path which led toward the brook. very soon he saw phonny coming out from among the bushes with his pole over his shoulder, and walking along with quite a disconsolate air. beechnut sat down upon a log by the side of the road, to wait for him. "did you catch any fishes?" said beechnut, as phonny approached him. "no," said phonny, despondingly. "i am glad of that," said beechnut. "glad!" said phonny, looking up surprised, and somewhat displeased. "what are you glad for?" "for the sake of the fishes," said beechnut. "hoh!" said phonny. "and the other day, when i did catch some, you said you were glad of that." "yes," said beechnut, "then i was glad for your sake. there is always a chance to be glad for some sake or other, happen what may." this, though very good philosophy, did not appear to be just at that time at all satisfactory to phonny. "i have had nothing but ill-luck all this afternoon," said phonny, in a pettish tone. "that great ugly black horse of thomas's trod on my foot." "did he?" said beechnut; his countenance brightening up at the same time, as if phonny had told him some good news. "yes," said phonny, "thomas came along near where i was fishing, and i laid down my fishing-line, and went up to the horse, and was standing by his head, and he trod on my foot dreadfully." "did he?" said beechnut, "i am very glad of that." "glad of that!" repeated phonny. "i don't see whose sake you can be glad of that for. i am sure it did not do the horse any good." "i am glad of that for your sake," said beechnut. "there never was a boy that grew up to be a man, that did not have his foot trod upon at some time or other by a horse. there is no other possible way for them to learn that when a horse takes up his foot, he will put it down again wherever it happens, and if a boy's foot is under it, it will get trod upon. there is no possible way for boys to learn that but by experiencing it. the only difference is, that some boys take the treading light, and others get it heavy. you have got it light. so if you have only learned the lesson, you have learned it very easily, and so i am glad." "no, it was not light," said phonny. "it was very heavy. what makes you think it was light?" "by your walking," replied beechnut. "i have known some boys that when they took their lesson in keeping out of the way of horses' forefeet, could not stand for a week after it. you have had most excellent luck, you may depend." by the time that beechnut and phonny reached the house, malleville had put on her bonnet and was ready to go. mary erskine said that she would go with them a little way. bella and albert then wanted to go too. their mother said that she had no objection, and so they all went along together. "did you know that we were going to have a new road?" said mary erskine to beechnut. "are you?" asked phonny eagerly. "yes," said mary erskine. "they have laid out a new road to the corner, and are going to make it very soon. it will be a very good wagon road, and when it is made you can ride all the way. but then it will not be done in time for my raspberry party." "your raspberry party?" repeated phonny, "what is that?' "did not i tell you about it? i am going to invite you and all the children in the village that i know, to come here some day when the raspberries are ripe, and have a raspberry party,--like the strawberry party that we had to-day. there are a great many raspberries on my place." "i'm _very_ glad," said malleville. "when are you going to invite us?" "oh, in a week or two," said mary erskine. "but then the new road will not be done until the fall. they have just begun it. we can hear them working upon it in one place, pretty soon." the party soon came to the place which mary erskine had referred to. it was a point where the new road came near the line of the old one, and a party of men and oxen were at work, making a causeway, across a low wet place. as the children passed along, they could hear the sound of axes and the voices of men shouting to oxen. phonny wished very much to go and see. so mary erskine led the way through the woods a short distance, till they came in sight of the men at work. they were engaged in felling trees, pulling out rocks and old logs which were sunken in the mire, by means of oxen and chains, and in other similar works, making all the time loud and continual vociferations, which resounded and echoed through the forest in a very impressive manner. what interested phonny most in these operations, was to see how patiently the oxen bore being driven about in the deep mire, and the prodigious strength which they exerted in pulling out the logs. one of the workmen would take a strong iron chain, and while two others would pry up the end of a log with crow-bars or levers, he would pass the chain under the end so raised, and then hook it together above. another man would then back up a pair of oxen to the place, and sometimes two pairs, in order that they might be hooked to the chain which passed around the log. when all was ready, the oxen were started forward, and though they went very slowly, step by step, yet they exerted such prodigious strength as to tear the log out of its bed, and drag it off, roots, branches, and all, entirely out of the way. monstrous rocks were lifted up and dragged out of the line of the road in much the same manner. after looking at this scene for some time, the party returned to the old road again, and there mary erskine said that she would bid her visitors good-bye, and telling them that she would not forget to invite them to her raspberry party, she took leave of them and went back toward her own home. "if all the children of the village that mary erskine knows, are invited to that party," said phonny, "what a great raspberry party it will be!" "yes," said beechnut, "it will be a raspberry _jam_." the end.