f 
 
 "L I E> R.ARY 
 
 OF THL 
 U N I VLRSITY 
 or ILLI NOIS 
 
 V. I
 
 IN BAD HANDS 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 AT ALL THE LIBRARIES 
 
 THE TREASURE OF THORBURNS. By Frederick 
 
 Boyle, author of ' A Good Hater,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. By Mrs. Oliphant, 
 
 author of ' It was a Lover and his Lass,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 COULD HE DO BETTER? By Arthur A. Hoffmann, 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 CATERINA. By the author of ' Lauterdale.' 3 vols. 
 WEEPING FERRY. By George Halse. 2 vols. 
 
 HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
 
 IN BAD HANDS 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " aRANDMOTHER'S MONEY," " NO CHURCH," 
 "THE COURTING OF MARY SMITH," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1887. 
 
 All riglds reserved.
 
 ^J3 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 r 
 
 In Bad Hands : 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 v^ 
 
 I. 
 
 The Lodgers at Broadbrook's ... 3 
 
 
 11. 
 
 Foxy Wharton has his Hair cut 
 
 
 26 
 
 
 nr. 
 
 What he Came for . 
 
 
 38 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 Phil Acts for Himself 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 '1 
 
 '1 
 
 V. 
 
 False Security . 
 
 
 
 . 59 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 Disappearance . 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Minstrels of the Tyrol 
 
 
 
 76 
 
 "-C- 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Happy Pair 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 A very Strange Boy . 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 X. 
 
 The Break-up of the Minstrels 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 T^ 
 
 XI. 
 
 ' In Good Hands ' . 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 VMr. Bird 
 
 's Best Umbrella 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 A Prison Flower : 
 
 I. 
 
 Child or Woman 107 
 
 
 II. 
 
 On Night Duty 
 
 
 
 208
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 III. The Prison Daisy 218 
 
 IV. Daisy is Deceived 232 
 
 V. The Infirmary Cell 244 
 
 VI. The Message from the Dead . . . 249 
 
 VII. Mistress and Maid 259 
 
 VIII. The Whole Truth 280 
 
 The Luck of Luke Shands : 
 
 L My Lady's Chapel 293
 
 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 VOL. r.
 
 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 
 
 Marsh Walk, in the heart of busy Lambeth, 
 was, at the time of which my story treats, 
 one of the most bustling, strugghng, fighting 
 and tearing thoroughfares of the many crowded 
 highways of human hfe which are to be dis- 
 covered in South London. The Marsh Walk 
 was always busy ; it was a place in which no grass 
 grew under the feet of its inhabitants. It was a 
 squalid place altogether in its way, and they 
 were very poor, ' hand to mouth ' folk, who 
 thronged its streets, and haggled for prices at 
 
 b2
 
 4 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 butchers' shops, and begged for credit * till next 
 Saturday night, sir, — oh ! only till next Satur- 
 day !' — of the stern man behind the counter, 
 who was selling at the lowest prices the harshest 
 and most alumy of bread, and striving hard him- 
 self to live, and failing very often. 
 
 Marsh Walk was the highway of the ' poorest 
 poor' — and the shopkeepers were, as a rule, 
 very poor too, to match their customers. Names 
 were always changing over the shop-fronts in 
 Marsh Walk, and only the publicans and pawn- 
 brokers were * old established ' and waxed fat on 
 people's thirst or people's troubles. 
 
 One of the poorest shops in this neighbourhood 
 to which we direct our reader's attention was 
 Mr. Broadbrook's — and it was always a matter 
 of grave speculation how Mr. Broadbrook lived 
 and kept house and home together on ' easy 
 shaving at a half-penny ' and ' gents and ladies 
 hair cut at three-pence,' or, cut and curled for 
 the sum of fourpence, paid in advance, to save 
 unnecessary disputes, or tlie fatigue of opening 
 credit accounts. 
 
 But Mr. Broadbrook did live, and keep house
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK S. 
 
 somehow, and supported, or endeavoured to 
 support, a grimy, and carroty-b aired Mrs. 
 Broadbrook and nine small Broadbrooks, all 
 grimier and more carroty than their mother, and 
 whose hair was never cut and curled, and was 
 altogether a reflection on the parent male, a 
 dreamy little man, who passed the greater part 
 of the day in his shirt sleeves, at his open door, 
 with a comb behind his ear, and the handles of 
 several scissors sticking out of the all round 
 pocket of his dirty white apron, like a buccaneer 
 armed to the teeth. 
 
 Certainly, Mr. Broadbrook had lodgers, and, 
 icJieii they paid their Avay ' fair and square,' that 
 was a something ofi" the rent, and made up for a 
 paucity of customers. And it is of these lodgers 
 we have to speak ; just as the inhabitants of 
 Marsh Walk — especially those living over the 
 way — had spoken, and wondered, and speculated 
 about them for the last two years, and made 
 artful attempts to ' draw out ' Broadbrook, who 
 was not to be drawn out, for the very sapient 
 reason that there was nothing to draw, and tlie 
 barber was as ignorant as his neighbours.
 
 6 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 The lodgers then who rented the small first 
 floor of Mr. Broadbrook, were a woman of some 
 forty years of age, and a boy of eleven or 
 twelve ; the woman a pale, washed-out, fragile 
 being with ' not an ounce of strength in her,'^ 
 Mr. Broadbrook said, and said very near the 
 truth ; the boy also fragile, and white as a ghost, 
 with two grey eyes which were several sizes too 
 large for the thin, small face they lighted up so 
 strangely. A quiet pair of lodgers who gave little 
 or no trouble, who had brought their own furni- 
 ture to the first floor of Mr. Broadbrook' s, and 
 settled there for good, paying ' pretty tidy 
 middling ' take them the year round, was the 
 verdict of the hairdresser. 
 
 No one was expected to pay punctually in 
 Marsh Walk such an out-of-the-way luxury as 
 the rent ; Mr. Broadbrook seldom paid his own 
 rent till the brokers were in, when he dunned 
 Mrs. Wharton for arrears, and sold something on 
 his own account to make up his quarter. Leave 
 Mr. Broadbrook alone, and he left other people 
 alone, being an easy-going person, as was Mrs. 
 Broadbrook, and as are most poor people with
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 7 
 
 large families, we fancy. If they were not, they 
 would die despairing of the better days, and 
 under the grim surroundings of their lives — as 
 some reckless souls do die in the big city, after 
 all, and glad to get out of it too I 
 
 Mrs. Wharton was glad to live and take care 
 of her nephew Phil— though she had not much 
 to be glad about, and it may be said, at first 
 start, that Phil took care of her. There had 
 been times when this was different, but now the 
 position had changed, and one good turn had 
 deserved, and brought about another, as it should 
 do, and as it will do occasionally. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton was an invalid, at the period our 
 story opens, one who had almost lost the use of 
 her limbs some time after her arrival at Marsh 
 Walk, and so had been unable to do as much for 
 Phil as she had anticipated when she had taken 
 upon herself his sole care and custody. 
 
 ' What did you do that for V asked Mrs. Broad- 
 brook, who was by nature more curious than 
 her husband. 
 
 ' There was no one else to take care of him.' 
 
 ' Why not V
 
 8 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 ' Well,' was the slow, reflective response, as if 
 such a question took a long time to answer, 
 * because there wasn't, don't you see V 
 
 Mrs. Broadbrook did not see, but she thought 
 she did. 
 
 ' An orphan ! poor little chap, is he ? x\h ! 
 that's hard.' 
 
 ' I didn't say he was an orphan.' 
 
 *Bad mother, perhaps — or a father who 
 drinks,' she suggested, without eliciting a re- 
 sponse, and adding by way of encouragement 
 to confide in her — ' Broadbrook drinks, if he 
 ain't busy, and it's astonishing what a little gets 
 into his head.' 
 
 *I dare say it does,' was Mrs. Wharton's 
 broken answer, ' but Phil has not a mother.' 
 
 ' Oh, I see ! that's why you take care of him 
 — whilst the father's away, 1 suppose V 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' whilst the father's away — 
 that's it.' 
 
 This was not strikingly explicit, but it was all 
 the facts that could be elicited from Mrs. Whar- 
 ton. And as the father seemed always away, 
 and never came to see his son, or sister-in-law,
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 9 
 
 and never wrote a line to either, Mrs. Wharton 
 had no correspondents whatever. The Broad- 
 brooks, and the little circle of hard-workers 
 round the Broadbrooks, were left to guess at 
 the facts, or give them up. The missing Mr. 
 Wharton might be abroad, on foreign service, 
 in the army, or in gaol, or might even have a 
 nice little lighthouse to mind somewhere — there 
 was no telKng where he was from Mrs. Whar- 
 ton's comments on the subject, and the boy 
 Philip was as reticent as his aunt. 
 
 The Whartons paid their way tolerably fairly 
 for a while, and Philip went to school in the 
 neighbourhood, and was considered by his con- 
 temporaries a quiet, milksop sort of youth, who 
 stood a lot before he was ' riled,' and then let 
 out a bit and had his say and held his own on 
 his little battle-field of life, weak and sickly as 
 he was. Mrs. Wharton was an artist in wool, 
 which article, during the first year of her resi- 
 dence in Marsh Walk, she was incessantly knit- 
 ting and crotcheting into all kinds of soft goods 
 that were made into a big parcel once a fort- 
 night, and sent off to a wholesale house near St.
 
 10 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 Paul's Churchyard. And it was out of this 
 wool-work that her nephew Philip was supported, 
 for wlien rheumatic fever seized her, and it was 
 found after a tedious recovery that the use of 
 her hands had not come back to her, the woman 
 and child were in sore straits enough, and had 
 to throw themselves on the mercy of Mr. Broad- 
 brook, who, always in a chronic state of debt 
 and difficulty himself, was not greatly shocked, 
 and said, ' Don't trouble,' in quite a sympathis- 
 ing way, and ' When they begin to .bother me, 
 why, I must bother you, andnot before. That's all.' 
 And that was quite enough ; for the water rate 
 was down upon him the next week, and the gas- 
 man, accompanied by a myrmidon in corduroys, 
 cut off and carried away the meter the week fol- 
 lowing and left Samuel Broadbrook to paraffin 
 lamps and candle dips till the question of arrears 
 was finally adjusted. And they were adjusted by 
 Mrs. Wharton's aid, and by the sale of some- 
 thing or other out of Mrs. Wharton's big box 
 with brass nails — and Phihp always noticed 
 that when times were very hard, and the people 
 in them harder, Mrs. Wharton dived into the
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 11 
 
 big box, and fished therefrom soraething or 
 other that fetched money at the pawnbroker's. 
 Hence there was treasure trove in the corner of 
 her Httle back bed-room, and it never wholly 
 failed them. It was to Philip's mind an inex- 
 hanstible well-spring, till one day there was 
 nothing more to sell, she said, and this at the 
 time when Samuel Broadbrook had the shadow 
 of his landlord's last quarter falling once more 
 across his chequered career like a big black 
 smudge. 
 
 It was at this period that our little hero woke 
 up. 
 
 ' I think I can earn money now,' said Phil, 
 very thoughtfully, one day. 
 
 ' Not yet, my poor boy,' said his aunt, shak- 
 ing her rusty cap at him, ' it isn't likely yet.' 
 
 ' I'm sure I can earn money,' he exclaimed^ 
 with a vehemence which scared Mrs. Wharton 
 and took her breath away, her nerves never 
 having been properly under her personal con- 
 trol. ' You see if I can't.' 
 
 Mrs. Wharton waited patiently, and did see 
 within four-and-twenty hours, when Phihp
 
 12 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 Wharton marched indoors with a golden sove- 
 reign in his hand and laid it triumphantly upon 
 the table. 
 
 'There, auntie,' he said, 'how about that?' 
 
 ' Good gracious, Phil, you must have stolen it,' 
 exclaimed the old lady, beginning to tremble 
 like a blanc-mange ; ' oh ! what have you 
 done V 
 
 ' Earned it.' 
 
 ' Earned a sovereign ! You could not, Phil, it 
 is not possible.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm going to earn it,' he explained, ' I 
 begged for this on account, because you weren't 
 well enough to do any work just yet, I said, and 
 we were behindhand with the rent, and getting 
 hungry. And the gentleman said, "I don't 
 believe in boys, but I'll trust you for once," and 
 gave me that out of his pocket, and — just like a 
 gentleman, that was, wasn't it V 
 
 'Very much like a kind-hearted gentleman, 
 indeed, if ' 
 
 'Here, I'll tell you all about it. They've 
 been talking about my voice, oh, for ever so long, 
 at school, and pushing me forward in singing,
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 13 
 
 and I heard old Prouts — that's our singing- 
 master — say, " That boy's got a soprano voice 
 that's worth something," and then the choir- 
 master and organist of a chnrch over Westminster 
 way came and heard me a week or two back 
 and said, " What a pity I hadn't been better 
 trained," and made Prouts awful waxy, and 
 then — are you listening, auntie, or going to 
 sleep V 
 
 ' I'm listening to every word you say, but yon 
 rattle on so fast, my head's going round and 
 round, Phil,' she said, ' and I don't see ' 
 
 ' Why, how can you see, when you shut your 
 eyes, Aunt Bella,' he cried. 
 
 ' Sharp as his father,' muttered Mrs. Wharton, 
 * well, go on, who gave you that sovereign V 
 
 ' Why, the gentleman at Westminster — the 
 choir-master of St. Eustace's Church, — and he's 
 going to train me and put me in his choir as 
 soon as he can, and I am to have twenty pounds 
 to begin with. There !' 
 
 ' Twenty pounds ! and at your age !' exclaimed 
 his aunt. * Gracious !' 
 
 ' Andperhaps thirty, though he doesn't promise
 
 14 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 that. 1 walked straight to his house to-day, 
 found him, settled the business,' said this small 
 boy, with grave self-confidence, * and I only wish 
 I'd done it before, when I was a young one.' 
 
 Thus it was that Master Philip Wharton be- 
 came a boy soprano at St. Eustace's Church, 
 Westminster, and being a quick boy, with a 
 voice as clear as a bell, he dropped into a salary 
 that was remarkable considering his years, and 
 became the mainstay, the prop and support, as 
 it were, of the feeble woman struck down before 
 her time, whose one grief was that she was of 
 so little help to him, assuaged by the one comfort 
 perhaps that he was of great help to her, and 
 gave that help with all the warmth of his un- 
 grudging little heart. 
 
 And so, from eleven years of age to twelve, 
 did Phihp Wharton remain at St. Eustace's and 
 become of grave importance to the choir, and 
 progressed in musical knowledge, under the 
 efficient training he received, and was somewhat 
 a wonder of a boy soprano to be jealously guard- 
 ed from other choirs and choir-masters who would 
 have snapped him up and earned him away per-
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 15 
 
 force. For choirs are like the myriads in the 
 water drop, and prey on one another. Phihp 
 was not elated at his success, and indeed hardly 
 knew he was successful. No one spoiled him 
 by flattery, and the choirmaster, an irritable old 
 gentleman who meant well, but was always 
 finding fault, told him regularly twice a week 
 that he could not sing a bit, and was not wortli 
 his salt. The boys were not pleasant company 
 to Phil either, being bigger and stronger than 
 he, and invariably disposed to make game of 
 him when they were not knocking him about, 
 and his only friend was the young organist, 
 Folkestone Miles by name — christened Folke- 
 stone by an admiring mother, because he was 
 born in Dover — and a sandy-haired, limp young- 
 man by nature he was, who carried his hat on 
 the back of his head, and wore violet-coloured 
 glasses, which were always askew, on the 
 bridge of a long, thin nose. He was a hard 
 working young man, paid sparsely for his duties 
 at the rate of forty pounds per annum, and look- 
 ing through his spectacles vaguely for extra 
 pupils to make a living for him. He lived or
 
 16 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 lodged in Hercules Buildings, Lambeth, and 
 Philip AVharton, being a little fellow, with a 
 long way to go from Westminster in the same 
 direction, often trotted by the side of the 
 organist, who was not too proud to have him 
 for a companion, and to ask him many questions, 
 and to be generally interested in this quiet boy 
 who had much less to say for himself than 
 most choir boys have, as a rule. 
 
 He was an eccentric young man this Folke- 
 stone Miles, and perhaps as curious as the folk in 
 the Marsh Walk, for the isolation of the lad, his 
 self-dependence at so early an age, the self-re- 
 straint or reticence, which was characteristic of 
 him, all aroused the organist's interest and 
 sympathy. 
 
 'That boy's a queer customer,' he said to 
 himself more than once. 'I'll draw him out.' 
 And, instead of this, it was Master PhiHp Whar- 
 ton who drew out Mr. Folkestone Miles, one 
 sultry August evening when they were crossing 
 Westminster Bridge together. 
 
 * Have you lived in Lambeth all your life, 
 Phil V Mr. Miles asked, as they walked on side 
 by side.
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 1 7 
 
 'No — have you, sirf answered the quiet lad. 
 
 ' Yes — almost all my life. My father and my 
 mother died in Lambeth.' 
 
 'Did they, though?' 
 
 ' Your father and mother are dead too, Phil, 
 I suppose V 
 
 ' Mother is — long ago.' 
 
 ' Don't you remember your mother then V 
 
 ' Oh, yes.' 
 
 'And what's your father?' 
 
 ' I don't know what aunt calls father. Your 
 father was an organist, too, wasn't he, sir?' 
 
 ' Yes— that's it. Who told you V 
 
 ' I have heard you say so before. He was at 
 the same church years ago you told me once.' 
 
 ' Did I,' said this absent-minded young man, 
 ' very likely I did — I don't remember.' 
 
 ' Wasn't he very clever at the organ V 
 
 ' He was a great musician,' said Folkestone 
 Miles, who would always grow enthusiastic over 
 his father's accomplishments, ' he composed a 
 fugue that should Lave made his fortune, but it 
 did not. And there's an oratorio in a drawer at 
 home — such a manuscript ! If it had only been 
 
 VOL. 1. C
 
 18 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 played anywhere, Phil, I should have been in a 
 different position by this time, but you can't sell 
 oratorios just when you feel disposed. Very 
 few people want to buy oratorios,' he added, 
 
 * and nobody wants to hear them.' 
 
 ' What a pity !' said Phil. 
 
 * I have been composing a little myself — but 
 there, you don't want to know what IVe done, 
 and it isn't worth while,' he said, ' only I've done 
 no good, Phil, and that's my luck always,' he 
 added, with a pleasant laugh at his own mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 'Are you very unlucky, Mr. Miles?' 
 
 * To be sure I am ; but it can't be helped.' 
 
 * I wish I had forty pounds a year ; I shouldn't 
 think I was unlucky,' remarked Master Phil, 
 with great deliberation. 
 
 ' Why, you cheeky young rascal, what would 
 you do with it?' 
 
 *Help aunt more. Help poor old Broad- 
 brook.' 
 
 ' And help yourself,' suggested the organist. 
 
 * No, I wasn't thinking of myself,' said Phil ; 
 
 * good-night, sir.'
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 19 
 
 ' Good-night, Phil, good-night. Be early 
 Sunday morning, or you'll have the choir- 
 master down on you. He said you were very 
 late to-night. And you mustn't offend him.' 
 
 ' Did he say that V said Phil ; * yes, I luas 
 late. But I couldn't help it.' 
 
 ' One can always help being late.' 
 
 ' Not always,' replied the boy, deliberately, 
 and very gravely. 
 
 * Why not V 
 
 'Not when anyone's ill, and wants a doctor.' 
 
 * Who's ill where you live V 
 ' My aunt.' 
 
 ' Why, you haven't said anything about it,' 
 said the amazed organist. ' You didn't tell Mr. 
 Holloboys that that was the reason f 
 
 'No. 1 didn't want to talk of it. Good- 
 night, sir ;' and Phil, with his hymn-book under 
 his arm, and his hands in his trousers pockets, 
 walked slowly and thoughtfully away, looking 
 more like a little old man than the boy of twelve 
 that he really was. 
 
 The organist glanced after him curiously, 
 stood on the kerbstone of his native street, and 
 
 o2
 
 20 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 watched bim through his violet glasses, instead 
 of letting himself into the house with his latch- 
 key, and proceeding to his bachelor quarters on 
 the second-floor back. He grew almost uneasj 
 about the lad ; the lad's grave manner that night 
 puzzled him, and suddenly he made a dash after 
 him, and overtook him as he was turning into 
 Lambeth Road. , 
 
 ' Here, Phil,' he said, as he came up with him 
 again, to the boy's astonishment, 'can 1 be 
 of any use in any way? You're down to- 
 night, and if there's anything I can do, you 
 know ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Miles. It's very kind of you,' 
 he answered, looking up very steadily with his 
 great grey eyes at the speaker ; * but no, you 
 can't be of any use to her.' 
 
 * Is she so very ill, then V 
 
 ' I don't know. I couldn't wait to hear what 
 the doctor said.' 
 
 ' Do you think she's very ill V 
 
 * She's different like — to me,' he answered. 
 
 * Isn't there anyone to write to V 
 'Oh, no.'
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 21 
 
 •Nobody?' 
 
 * Nobody/ 
 
 * Shall I come home with you V 
 
 * What's the use, sir?' 
 
 'Well, I don't know,' confessed Mr. Miles; 
 * but if you should find out in any way that I 
 <;an be of use, why, you know where I live.' 
 
 The boy nodded, and murmured something 
 that was intended for thanks, but which would 
 not come further than a brand-new bung which 
 had suddenly risen up in his throat, and arrested 
 further powers of speech. 
 
 With the consciousness that he was rather in 
 the way, Mr. Folkestone Miles turned back, 
 wondering at the boy, wondering a little more 
 Avhat would become of this quiet youth if the 
 aunt were to die, and leave that twelve-year old 
 to begin life entirely on his own account. He 
 wondered at a little more than that, too— why 
 he should be interested in him in any way — 
 having had some years' experience of choir-boys, 
 and being disposed to consider them, upon the 
 whole, as hideous and irreverent tormentors, 
 prepared for any mischief when his back, or Mr.
 
 22 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 Holloboy's back, was turned, and doing a fair 
 amount of it on practice nights before his very 
 face. 
 
 'But this is such an odd sort of boy,' he 
 muttered, ' a boy who keeps himself to himself. 
 A boy I don't make out, at all, a boy who — oh ! 
 bother the boy.' 
 
 And he stepped out in double-quick time to- 
 wards home, resolved to mind his own business, 
 and to brush and do himself up sprucely for a 
 late visit to a pupil — a brush manufacturers 
 daughter in the Westminster Road, who served 
 in the shop, and had only time for the accom- 
 plishments after nine o'clock in the evening, 
 when her father, a rough old savage, sat and 
 smoked opposite master and pupil, and made 
 crude and scoffing comments upon his daughter's 
 five-finger exercises. But, though of limited 
 musical intelligence, she was a pretty, amiable 
 girl, and Folkestone Miles thought a great deal 
 about her, and only wished his receipts were 
 five hundred pounds a year instead of about 
 fifty-eight, take them altogether, and then — Oh ! 
 then.
 
 THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 23 
 
 Still it was not nine o'clock, it wanted a 
 quarter to nine, when he was outside in the 
 Hercules Buildings again, with a sprig of red 
 geranium — his own culture from a sooty plant 
 which was perched on his window-sill — in his 
 left hand top button hole, and the boy he had 
 left suddenly rose in his mind again like a ghost 
 not to be exorcised too readily. 
 
 ' I'll just go into the Marsh Walk and see if 
 it's all right at Broadbrook's. If — if the shutters 
 are down, and the blinds are up, poor little chap,' 
 he muttered, and away he went once more in 
 the direction of Phil Wharton's lodgings, a being 
 possessed with one idea. 
 
 Yes, it was all right, and Folkestone Miles* 
 spirits went up seventy-five per cent, for no 
 reason that could be accounted for, or that he, 
 callous being as he thought himself, was likely 
 to own. There was Mr. Broadbrook at the door, 
 serene and smiling and red-headed and hot, 
 with a girdle of bright scissor handles glistening 
 all round his fairly plump waist; there were 
 three little red- headed Broadbrooks, who should 
 have been in bed hours ago, tumbling about the
 
 24 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 j^hop, and playing with two razors and half-a- 
 dozen balls of sand soap left promiscuously on the 
 floor, and there were the blinds on the first floor 
 still drawn up to admit into the room all that 
 was left of the twihght lingering in Marsh 
 AValk. 
 
 * That's all right,' thought Mr. Miles again as 
 he walked away. But it was not all right, or 
 hardly as right as it might have been. 
 
 For if Mr. Folkestone Miles had not been 
 short-sighted, or had his weak vision been un- 
 beclouded by violet glass, which had grown 
 terribly steamy and dull that close evening, he 
 would have recognized, and been surprised to 
 recognize, a burly, high-shouldered, broad-faced, 
 black-muzzled man, who had asked liim in 
 AVestminster the way to Charing Cross, who had 
 thanked him surlily for the information, and 
 then marched off in a different direction to that 
 which he had been told, who had hung about 
 the church and listened to the choir practice 
 going on within, who had put his head through 
 the doors to listen more attentively, and to peer 
 more closely into the sliadowy edifice, who had
 
 . THE LODGERS AT BROADBROOK'S. 25 
 
 followed step by step the organist and the boy 
 from Westminister to Lambeth, and who was 
 leaning against the lamp-post at the corner of 
 the street opposite, ostensibly a street figure that 
 was very streety, and was watching furtively 
 from his bloated and blood-shot eyes, as wolves 
 and foxes Avatch, the windows over the barber's 
 shop, or something beyond the windows of the 
 room in which Phil Wharton and his aunt were 
 sitting. 
 
 Aunt and little Phil were as unconscious of 
 the man without, as Folkstone Miles had been. 
 They would as soon have believed in one risen 
 from the dead, as in his coming back ; and they 
 would have been less scared at the opening of 
 the grave, and the white figure rising in its 
 cere-cloth, than at encountering face to face that 
 dreadful man again.
 
 26 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 
 
 Although Folkestone Miles, organist of St. 
 Eustace, had not seen the man at the opposite 
 lamp-post, the man at the opposite lamp-post 
 had taken stock of him, and swung his ungainly 
 and ill-clad body ronnd a Httle, as if anxious to 
 escape the attention of one of whom he had in- 
 quired a short time since the way to Chaiing 
 Cross. When Mr. Miles had departed after satis- 
 fying his mind that all ivas right at Broadbrook's, 
 the man slowly relapsed into his old position, and 
 from under his shaggy eyebrows — which seemed 
 made of wire, so thick and bristly were they — 
 kept his watch again upon the hair-dresser's 
 shop, and upon the hair-dresser himself standing
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 27 
 
 in the cool of the evening on the threshold of 
 the domicile, with a self-satisfied smile upon his 
 countenance. 
 
 Presently the watcher crossed the road, and 
 with a solid, heavy slouch moved towards Mr. 
 Broadbrook, who not expecting a customer, or 
 such a customer, gave a little jump of surprise 
 as he stopped in front of him. 
 
 ' Not too late to have my hair cut, governor, 
 is it V he said, in a tone of forced familiarity that 
 w^as particularly out of place in a gentleman so 
 strikingly forbidding. 
 
 *N — no,' said Mr. Broadbrook, hesitatingly. 
 ' It's never too late for customers.' 
 
 ' Very well then.' 
 
 ' The charge is threepence — in advance,' Mr. 
 Broadbrook added, doubtfully regarding the new- 
 comer. 
 
 ' ' Don't I look worth threepence V asked the 
 man, as he placed three pennies in the hand of 
 the hairdresser forthwith. 
 
 ' Oh yes, but it's the rule of the establish- 
 ment.' 
 
 Mr. Broadbrook backed into his shop, and
 
 .28 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 over his sprawling children, set a chair for his 
 visitor, and enwrapped him with much briskness 
 and sleight of hand in a grey cotton sheet that 
 had only been a week from the wash, and was 
 less dingy than might have been expected. 
 
 * Run away, my chicks,' said Mr. Broadbrook 
 to his progeny, ' You see, papa is engaged,' and, 
 .at this suggestion, the three young Broadbrooks 
 -scrambled off the floor and departed like dutiful 
 children to another sphere of action. Mean- 
 while the customer for hair-cutting sat with a 
 very much battered, billy-cock hat on his head 
 as though there was no necessity to remove 
 it. 
 
 * Will you allow me ' said the hair-dresser 
 
 at last, with a suave movement of the hands in 
 the direction of the hat, and the man who was 
 staring absently at the fireplace in the shop, and 
 the hot shaving water ready on the hob for any- 
 one who might want an evening ha'porth, said 
 nothing in dissent. Mr. Broadbrook removed 
 the hat gently, turned up his one jet of gas, and 
 produced a pair of scissors from his apron ^vith 
 an easy flourish. Then he paused and looked
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 2^' 
 
 dowu on his customer's head of hair, with a 
 certain amount of curiosity and awe. He had 
 seen a great many heads of hair in his time, and 
 had operated upon them fearlessly — and mascu- 
 line heads of hair in Marsh Walk were of all 
 degrees of tangleness and picturesque confusion 
 — but this particular crop was uncommonly and 
 luxuriantly wild, and matted together so 
 strangely that even Mr. Broadbrook was per- 
 plexed how to make his first start, and in which 
 direction. 
 
 ' Fine weather for the country, sir,' he remark- 
 ed, as he hovered in the rear with comb and 
 scissors prepared for immediate action. 
 
 * Yes,' hastily assented the gentleman in the 
 chair, ' fine weather.' 
 
 * Been in the country lately, sir V Mr. Broad- 
 brook ventured to remark, as he became aware 
 of the various grassy filaments mixed with his 
 customer's hair, and which were strongly sugges- 
 tive of the gentleman having slept last night 
 under a haystack. 
 
 * I came from the country yesterday. I have 
 been there for the benefit of my health,' he add-
 
 30 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 eel, with a sudden, mocking laugh which had no 
 sense of fun in it. 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed. Harvest all in, I suppose V 
 
 The man writhed in his grey wrapper as 
 though !Mr. Broadbrook's questions were annoy- 
 ing him, and then growled forth — 
 
 ' I don't know. And I don't care if it isn't.' 
 
 *No — ahem — I suppose not. Hoav will you 
 have your hair cut, sir ? Long or ' 
 
 ' Anyhow,' he answered, without waiting for 
 the operator to finish his sentence. 
 
 *0h.' 
 
 ' You don't think it matters a great deal in 
 what particular style I have it cut,' he said, in a 
 friendly tone, as if suddenly aware that civility 
 of demeanour would become him better, ' do 
 you, now?' 
 
 * Well — we always like to know.' 
 
 * I was particular enough when I was a 
 young fool, but I've got over all that nonsense 
 now. So, Mr. Broadbrook, I leave it to your 
 taste.' 
 
 * Very good, sir.' 
 
 Then the little barber attacked him in earnest,
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 31 
 
 and struggled hard with comb and scissors, the 
 customer groaning very often, and cursing now 
 and then between his strong, white teeth, which 
 would have been a redeeming feature in his 
 personal appearance, had they been a little less 
 in size than dominoes. 
 
 Presently when he was out of pain, and there 
 was a considerable portion of his hair shorn or 
 torn away, and lying on Mr. Broadbrook's sanded 
 floor, he said : 
 
 ' You must find it uphill work to make a 
 fortune here, Mr. Broadbrookf 
 
 ' Fortune is not the word, sir. A hving it is 
 — nothing more.' 
 
 ' And you get a living out of this. Really V 
 
 * Really,' repeated the hairdresser, not disposed 
 to run down his own position in society before 
 so rough a customer, ' and a fair living too, as 
 times go.' 
 
 'Ah! you're lucky,' remarked the man, as if 
 he doubted him ; ' I don't see how it pays my- 
 self. I could put you in a w^ay of earning 
 money a bit faster.' 
 
 Mr. Broadbrook did not respond. He did not
 
 32 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 like the manners of the individual whose head 
 he was, as he inelegantly termed it, ' licking into 
 shape,' and though they Avere exceptionally 
 good manners for the gentleman under treat- 
 ment — company manners, in fact — they had 
 failed to make a favourable impression on the 
 hairdresser. 
 
 After a moment's silence, and imagining Mr. 
 Broadbrook had not heard him, he repeated 
 slowly : 
 
 * I could put you in a way of earning money 
 a bit faster than this. Don't you hear?' he 
 added, sharply: and after another moment's 
 pause, 'Where's your tongue got to all of a 
 sudden ? You were talkative enough a minute 
 ago.' 
 
 * I don't want to earn any money,' said the 
 hairdresser, tetchily. 
 
 * Oh, don't you though V 
 
 * And you will excuse me, but you look as if 
 you did.' 
 
 The man scowled at Mr. Broadbrook, as 
 though he resented this flippant and uncalled-for 
 observation, and the hairdresser felt an unpleas-
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 33 
 
 ant creeping up his back, at the darkhug glance 
 bestowed upon him. Mr. Broadbrook was not a 
 brave man, and, as a rule, not personal, but the 
 impudence of some people, he considered, would 
 make a worm turn, and hence his natural affabi- 
 lity had changed suddenly to pertness. He was 
 a London shopkeeper in a big thoroughfare — one 
 w^ho paid his rent and taxes pretty regularly — 
 and to be ' talked to ' by a common rough, 
 emphatically a rough, was a little too much for 
 his equanimity. 
 
 Nevertheless he wished he had not taken any 
 notice of him and his remarks, after encountering 
 that terrible sidelong glance from the man 
 sw^addled up in the grey wrapper. It told of a 
 creature who was dangerous — of a wild beast to 
 be on guard against, he was pretty sure of that. 
 
 The best thing to be done, was to get him 
 out of the shop as speedily as possible, and to be 
 as ci^-il as possible to him also until he had gone. 
 This was a fellow out of the common — or out of 
 the jungle — and Mr. Broadbrook had not dis- 
 covered that fact a moment too soon. 
 
 The man seemed to read what was passing in 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 the hairdresser s mind — being with all his crude- 
 ness, his suppressed desperateness, a man of an 
 observant tm'n — for he made another effort to 
 laugh pleasantly, and turned Mr. Broadbrook all 
 goose-flesh in the futile effort. 
 
 * Money-making never was in my line,' he re- 
 marked. * I've had my chances, and lost them, 
 like a good many more people. And T don't 
 complain, do I ?' 
 
 *No, indeed. Dear me. Certainly not,' re- 
 plied Mr. Broadbrook, willing to agree with his 
 customer on every point now. 
 
 * What's the good of complaining after the 
 chance has slipped out of one's hands ? Do you 
 see any good in that V 
 
 ' No, I don't.' 
 
 ' Then you're a philosopher. Come over the 
 way and have a drink V 
 
 'N — no, thank you,' stammered Mr. Broad- 
 brook, *I — I never drink in business hours.' 
 
 ' That's a lie,' was the flat contradiction here. 
 * You came out of the " Jolly Gardeners " three 
 quarters of an hour ago, wiping the back of your 
 hand on that slobbery mouth of yours. I saw you.'
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 35 
 
 'I — 1 went to see the time,' explained Mr. 
 Broadbrook, and yet wondering why he said 
 this, as if by way of an apology. And he had 
 popped across the road with that object, and 
 the landlord had in the most friendly spirit ask- 
 ed him if he would — 'just a drain,' and he had 
 'drained' accordingly, at the liberal expense of 
 a liberal but improvident host who was fast 
 draining himself into his grave by undue con- 
 sumption of the stock-in-trade. 
 
 ' I don't want to force anybody to drink with 
 me/ said the man, making another effort to be 
 conciliatory, after his impromptu burst of energy. 
 ' rVe plenty of friends too glad to get drunk at 
 my expense. Even you don't find friends of 
 that sort scarce, I reckon V 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no, certainly not,' assented the 
 barber, with a feeble chuckle. ' There's lots of 
 that sort about, and no mistake.' 
 
 The man's hair was cut, but he still sat there, 
 wrapped in Mr. Broadbrook's cotton toga, as 
 though he had found the hairdresser to be 
 pleasant company, and was very loth to part 
 with him. He could not expect to sit there all 
 
 d2
 
 36 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 night for threepence, and talk in that queer, 
 scoffing way like a man who had had his better 
 days, and been a fool in them ; and Mr. Broad- 
 brook hoped in his heart another late customer 
 would step into his premises and oust the 
 present party from them. 
 
 ' There you are, sir, unless there is anything 
 else I can do,' said Mr. Broadbrook at last, and 
 whisking the wrapper suddenly from the stal- 
 wart form before him. 
 
 The man looked at him from his half-shut, 
 crafty eyes, and, with a smile that was as bad 
 as his laugh had been, said, 
 
 * Do you think I look nice and smart now V 
 
 * It has certainly improved you.' 
 
 ' Fit for the society of ladies, eh V 
 
 ' Why not V rejoined Mr. Broadbrook, lightly, 
 and yet not committing himself to a palpable 
 untruth. 
 
 'And why not?' was the echo back. 'Then, 
 Mr. Broadbrook, be good enough to inform your 
 upstairs lodger — your " first-floor front," as you 
 would call her — that her brother Foxy particu- 
 larly wishes to see her.'
 
 FOXY WHARTON HAS HIS HAIR CUT. 37 
 
 ' Bless my soul and body !' 
 
 * And that he's not going away without see- 
 ing her,' added Mr. Wharton, as his big teeth 
 closed together with a clashing sound, ^ and if 
 he stops here till doomsday. You may as well 
 mention that to her as well whilst you are about 
 it, Broadbrook.'
 
 38 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHAT HE CAME FOR. 
 
 Mr. Broadbrook remained speechless for a few 
 moments, and regarded Mr. Wharton with eyes 
 distended, and his lower jaw reposing on his 
 chest. 
 
 * Mrs. — Wharton's — brother !' he gasped forth 
 at last. ' I — I didn't know she had a brother.' 
 
 ' She's a close one. Miss Wharton — or Mrs. 
 Wharton, if she likes it better — always was a 
 close one,' rephed Mr. Wharton. 'Don't you 
 see a likeness V 
 
 ' Can't say I do, although, now you come to 
 speak of it ' 
 
 ' Tell her, will you V exclaimed Mr. Wharton, 
 very roughly now. ' Do you think I can wait 
 here all night talking to you V
 
 ^HAT HE CAME FOR. 39 
 
 Mr. Broadbrook was scared by this fierce 
 inquiry out of his own shop into his back-par- 
 lour, where was Mrs. Broadbrook, to whom he 
 communicated the news in a stage whisper, and 
 making many excited danger-signals with his 
 arms. 
 
 ' Go up and tell her, Charlotte, he's come.' 
 
 * Who's come?' exclaimed his better half. 
 
 * Her brother — a regular blackguard — had his 
 hair cut — wants to see her — ask her to tell you 
 whether I shall show him up, or send for a 
 dozen policemen to take him away. Look 
 sharp.' 
 
 Mrs. Broadbrook, looking sharp in conse- 
 quence, hurried upstairs to the first floor, and 
 her lord and master skipped into the shop again, 
 where he found his customer examining a small 
 regiment of razors ranged in a row against the 
 wall, taking one down after another, and feeling 
 the edge of each with a very black, thick thumb. 
 
 < Well, what does she say V he asked, as the 
 hair-dresser reappeared. 
 
 * Mrs. Broadbrook has gone upstairs with your 
 message.'
 
 40 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 ' I asked you to go,' he growled forth. ' Wo- 
 men always muddle messages.' 
 
 * Mrs. Broadbrook is a much better hand at 
 messages that I am ; and I never leave my shop 
 till the shutters are up,' the hair-dresser added, 
 with a faint assumption of dignity. 
 
 ' Except when you go over to the '• Jolly 
 Gardeners,'" said the man, with a shrug of his 
 broad shoulders. Then he put the last razor 
 back, and began to walk round the shop slowly, 
 reading all the bills upon the walls, the pro- 
 grammes of the ' Surrey ' and ' Victoria,' the 
 grand attractions at the 'South London' and 
 the ' Canterbury,' the wonders to be seen nightly 
 at ' Gatti's ' and the * Winchester,' the ' friendly 
 lead ' at the ' Malsters' Arms, in Gravel Lane,' the 
 annual summer excursion of the Lambeth Under- 
 takers to Box Hill, the terms for a quarter's in- 
 struction at the dancing academies down various 
 back streets in the vicinity, the forthcoming 
 great cricket-match at the Oval, and a * prompt ' 
 sale by auction of the goods and chattels of an 
 unhappy neighbour, too far gone in arrears of 
 rent to do anything but be sold off without reserve.
 
 WHAT HE CAME FOR. 41 
 
 Mr. Wharton had read all these announce- 
 ments before Mrs. Broadbrook came into the 
 shop : his impatience had vanished again and ' he 
 seemed to take it awful easy,' thought the hair- 
 dresser. He was in no hurry now — quite the 
 contrary. 
 
 * And how's the boy getting on, Broadbrook V 
 he asked, as he turned away from the last speci- 
 men of wall literature with which the shop was 
 decorated, 'how's Phil f 
 
 ' Oh ! he's pretty well,' replied the hair-dresser, 
 * works hard, and gets on, I should say, famously. 
 A nice little fellow.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear you say that. Thankee, 
 sir — thankee.' 
 
 * He ain't — is he — ' began Mr. Broadbrook. 
 
 * My only son, sir. Yes. And what a sweet 
 voice he has — and how it tells at St. Eustace's. 
 Have you heard him sing'?' 
 
 ' I should think I had,' exclaimed the hair- 
 dresser, * not at St. Eustace's, for it's a goodish 
 way off, and Mrs. Broadbrook takes the young 
 ones to the chapel round the corner, in the after- 
 noon, when it isn't too hot ; but of course we have
 
 42 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 all heard him. We sit on the stairs, one behind 
 the other sometimes, and listen to his singing, 
 his practising, you know. It's beautiful — one 
 wonders where it comes from — he's a wonderful 
 little chap, take him altogether.' 
 
 ' Yes. That's why I'm so proud of him,' said 
 Mr. Wharton. 
 
 * Oh ! you are V replied Mr. Broadbrook, < Oh I 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' I don't miss a note of his voice every Sun- 
 day. I can pick him out of the whole lot of 
 them, like a winkle. I can Oh ! here's some- 
 body at last.' 
 
 Mrs. Broadbrook emerged cautiously from the 
 back parlour into the shop, and approached Mr. 
 Wharton almost on tiptoe. 
 
 ' She's very ill ' 
 
 * What do I care about that,' cried the man, 
 flaming out again, ' what's that to do with me — 
 what^s ' 
 
 ' Gracious, man, let a body finish/ exclaimed 
 the barber's wife, starting off herself in a higher 
 and shriller key, < but she'll see you, if you wish.' 
 
 ' All right. J do wish.'
 
 WHAT HE CAME FOR. 45 
 
 ' Then go upstairs, and don't make too much 
 noise or yon'll wake my baby,' said Mrs. Broad- 
 brook, * it's the first floor front room.' 
 
 ' I know,' answered Wharton, nodding his 
 head as he strode past her into the parlom-, and 
 through a side door leading to the stairs, up 
 which he clumped his way in heavy, thick-soled 
 boots, covered with a week's mud, which had 
 dried upon the leather in a white and nubbly 
 pattern. On the first landing stood a pale-faced 
 boy holding in his hand a small oil-lamp to light 
 the footsteps of the visitor towards him — a boy 
 with eyes too large for him now in very truth, 
 dilated, as they were, with horror at the man's 
 approach. The coming of a phantom from 
 another world could not have scared young- 
 Phil Wharton more than this coming of his 
 father, who from another world too — a world of 
 sin, and shame, and devilry, beyond one's power 
 to describe — advanced towards him like an ogre. 
 
 ' Phil,' said the father, in a rough grating voice, 
 as he caught sight of him on the landing, * so 
 you're there then.' 
 
 ' Yes,' w^as the soft, low answer back.
 
 44 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 As the father approached, the son, Hght in 
 hand, went slowly backwards through the open 
 doorway keeping his great grey eyes fixed upon 
 the visitor, and then, step by step, into the room 
 and to the side of his sick aunt, sitting in a 
 pillowed chair by the fireplace, mth two thin 
 hands crossed upon her lap, and her white, 
 lined face, turned steadily towards her brother 
 as he entered with that scowl of hate she knew 
 so well, and had fled from, years ago. And yet, 
 with him before her again, it seemed only a day or 
 two since she had stolen away, taking his child 
 with her, saving his child from him. 
 
 Phil put the little lamp on the mantelpiece, 
 and then stood by his aunt's side watchful, and 
 calm, and pale, and Foxy Wharton looked from 
 one to the other as he closed the door carefully 
 behind him, and turned the key in the lock, as 
 though doubtful or afraid of those who miglit 
 follow in his wake. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton was the first to speak. 
 
 * I did not think 1 should see you any more in 
 life, Mark,' she said, calmly. ' I had a hope 
 that you were dead.'
 
 "SVHAT HE CAME FOR. 45 
 
 * A pretty hope that was,' answered the man, 
 ' so nice and kind too ! I'd have been ashamed 
 to own as much as that to anyone. Well, I 
 haven't come to see you — I could have lived on 
 or died off, without fretting myself about you, 
 Bella, very comfortably.' 
 
 * What have you come for, then T 
 
 * For him /' 
 
 And Mr. Mark Wharton, better known 
 amongst a choice circle of friends and acquaint- 
 ances as Foxy AVharton, stepped across the 
 worn-out hearthrug, and laid his big broad hand 
 upon the shoulder of his son.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 
 
 Phil Wharton shrank for an instant beneath 
 the heavy hand of his parent, and then recover- 
 ed himself and looked his father steadily in the 
 face. 
 
 * I can't leave aunt,' he said. 
 
 * We shall see about that/ Mr. Wharton an- 
 swered; 'you go and sit down there whilst I 
 talk to your aunt a little while. I hate listeners. 
 They're dirty sneaks.' 
 
 ' Phil need not stay at all,' murmured Mrs. 
 Wharton. 
 
 * Oh, yes, he need,' w^as the flat contradiction 
 proffered by her brother. 'Do you think 1 have 
 taken all this trouble to find my only child — the
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 47 
 
 long-lost son, feloniously abstracted from my 
 house and home — to have him slip away 
 again. Thank you, Bella dear, but I'll keep 
 him in sight, please.' 
 
 Phil sat down by the window — which was 
 still open that hot summer night — and looked 
 into the street below. He was very pale, but 
 very grave and self-possessed. It was impossi- 
 ble to guess what thoughts were troubling him, 
 or distressing him, by. a glance at his quiet 
 little face. They were shutting up some of the 
 shops in the Marsh Walk now ; all the drapers 
 and all the ' fancy goods ' depots for wooden 
 dolls and tin soldiers and detonating balls 
 were closed ; the greengrocer's, the hot-baked 
 sheeps' heads emporium, the cheesemonger's 
 next door, and the oil-shop were still expectant 
 of customers, though they had lowered their 
 gas to half-cock : the tobacconist over the way 
 was actually busy with three youths, the tallest 
 having resolved to try one of ' Brown's famous 
 penny smokes,' and his two companions having 
 accompanied him to superintend the purcliase 
 and make sure that Mr. Brown picked out a
 
 4:8 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 nice and mild one; and the * Jolly Gardeners* 
 was a blaze of light and life, with two per- 
 formers, with violin and piccolo, playing at the 
 jug and bottle entrance, the piccolo with his left 
 eye riveted on the landlord behind the distant 
 counter. There were some drops of rain patter- 
 ing into the street, and covering the pa'^'ement 
 with black spots, and the policeman across the 
 road was telling the master butcher next to 
 Brown's that it would be a wet night, and very 
 good for the country, if not for him upon his 
 beat. Phil could hear the words, and he won- 
 dered what hind of night it would be for him 
 now, and how it would end, with Foxy Whar- 
 ton glowering at him there, and his aunt en- 
 deavouring to look calm and undismayed, and 
 hold her ground against her brother. 
 
 Mr. Wharton had taken a seat and was lean- 
 ing a little forward on the chair making his 
 intentions as plain as possible to his sister, and 
 emphasising his discourse by various slaps on 
 the table with his brown, hard hand. He had 
 been always, even in his l:)est days, a noisy brag- 
 gart, Mrs. Wharton was aware, and therefore
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 49 
 
 his manner was not new to her, and did not in 
 any way surprise her. She remembered it too 
 well — she, and the poor wife who had died 
 young, and got away from him, had grown very 
 used to it once upon a time. And here was 
 the grim, dark time back again, as it were, and 
 these three face to face again without any 
 friendly greeting, any token of the strong tie of 
 kindred existent between them, any loving 
 looks or fair-spoken words. Nothing but fear 
 and distrust, and a wonder in the woman's 
 mind, as in the boy's, as to what would come of 
 it all. 
 
 The man was endeavouring to make that 
 clear enougli to them ; but his listeners were not 
 disposed to agree with him, only to speculate 
 already as to what would be the result of oppo- 
 sition to his wishes, even to the extent of a 
 direct defiance of them. 
 
 He spoke of the law, and laid before them the 
 law's opinion, which they did not believe. He 
 had been all his life too lawless himself to im- 
 press them very much in that way — hence his 
 legal knowledge, his exhibition of virtuous in- 
 VOL. I. K
 
 50 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 dignation, might, -ander less serious circum- 
 stances to them, have bordered on burlesque. 
 But now in their hearts they were simply afraid 
 of him. They had run away in fear of him some 
 years ago, and the fear had grown no less. 
 That night had even added to its strength. 
 This was a crisis in their career which they 
 thought might come some day, although the 
 man had never cared for them, and might 
 possibly have been very glad to get rid of them 
 for what they knew to the contrary. Why 
 should he want to see them ? — they had been a 
 clog upon him always, and he had always look- 
 ed upon them as very much in his way, and told 
 them so, and swore at them for the encum- 
 brances they were. They had not credited him 
 with any paternal instincts, and yet, after all, 
 there he was before them asserting his rights 
 to be considered the lawful guardian of his son. 
 
 ' What use would he be to jouV inquired Mrs. 
 Wharton at last. 
 
 ' Never mind what use. That's my business,' 
 replied her brother ; * and it*s high time I looked 
 after him, and saw his education was not being
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 51 
 
 neglected. How do I know in what way the 
 boy has been dragged up V 
 
 ' He has been well looked after,' was the slow 
 reply. 'He will make a better man, Foxy, 
 than you have been.' 
 
 ' I don't want any sauce,' Mr. Wharton replied. 
 * You always had a nasty, biting tongue of your 
 own, and that's what got you so generally dis- 
 liked. And I'll thank you not to call me 
 "Foxy;" it's a vulgar nickname, which I re- 
 pudiate.' 
 
 ' You were rather proud of it once, I used to 
 think.' 
 
 'Pity you hadn't something better to think 
 about,' said her brother ; ' to think, for instance, 
 how that dear boy is going to get on in the 
 world after you are gone — and you don't look 
 as if you'd last the blessed week out — or of how 
 you reconcile your canting talk with running 
 away with my property. What have you done 
 with that V 
 
 * It was Mary's own property. It belonged to 
 her mother. It has been used to keep Phil 
 alive. Mary gave it me, when she begged me 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBRARY 
 
 "^"VERs/TYoFfrrrwov
 
 52 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 to escape with Phil, at any risk and cost, to get 
 away from you/ 
 
 * It's all very well to tell me that. It's a poor 
 excuse, and I don't believe a word of it,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' It's the truth.' 
 
 *It's a clear case of kidnapping and wholesale 
 felony. What do you think the pohce would 
 say to the whole business V he inquired. 
 
 * Call in the police and ask them.' 
 
 * Shan't. I am not so fond of them. I can 
 manage my own business, thank you. So, Phil,*^ 
 (in a loud voice), ' get on your cap, and come 
 with me.' 
 
 ' Where f asked Phil, quietly. 
 
 * Never you mind where,' roared the man; 
 * that you'll find out in good time. Pm your 
 father, and there's no one here dare stop me — no 
 one to prove he has the faintest right to stop me ; 
 so come on.' 
 
 * x^nd aunt, who has been so good and kind 
 to me since mother died — who has been so like 
 the mother to me V murmured the boy. 
 
 * Rot your aunt !' he exclaimed. * I'll have
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 53 
 
 nothing to do with her ; and I'll train you up to 
 hate her presently.' 
 
 « Oh, no, you won't.' 
 
 ' What's that you say f 
 
 ' You can't do that, father ; that's not in your 
 power.' 
 
 Mr. Wharton looked hard at the boy, whose 
 pale face was set and resolute, and whose grey 
 €yes did not flinch from the fierce light they met 
 in his. He wavered, and then changed front. 
 * I mean,' he said, ' when you know all the truth 
 which she's kept from you, boy. When you a ad 
 I are in the country together, living like lords 
 or fighting-cocks, and happy as the day is long, 
 with no work to do, and yet the money coming 
 in, nice and regular, Phil, and only the two of 
 us to spend it. When ' 
 
 * I can't go with you.' 
 ' But you must go.' 
 
 ' I can't trust you again. I'm afraid of you as 
 — as mother was,' said Phil. ' I recollect what 
 you were before we ran away. I can't forget all 
 that.' 
 
 * Here, Pve stood enough of this !' he shouted.
 
 54 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 What were Mr. Wharton's intentions were not 
 very clearly manifested, although he had sprung 
 to his feet as if with the object of caiTying oflf 
 his son by sheer force of arms — not so difficult a 
 task, perhaps, considering those with whom he 
 had to contend, and ' the rights ' which were on 
 his side. He could not go to law, perhaps, for 
 the recovery of his child, but there was no one 
 to go to law with him — no one to whom this 
 mighty, sluggish law would listen, if Phil were 
 once in his possession. 
 
 Bella Wharton saw this, and the boy's instincts 
 were keen enough to second her. In his father's 
 power he was surely helpless. Foxy AA^harton 
 had been so terrible a sire — so iiTcdeemably 
 bad and callous and unjust — and life with him" 
 again was to live the life of the lost. Woman 
 and child had striven hard to get away from him, 
 and this was too miserable an end to all their 
 efforts. 
 
 Phil seemed to have only one chance of 
 settling the question that night, and that was to 
 get away as speedily and swiftly as it had been 
 done before. At all events it would postpone
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 55 
 
 the question for that evening, and save further 
 disputes and much violence of language. Phil 
 stepped suddenly out of the window, amongst 
 the flower-pots, and went lightly along the 
 narrow ledge of shops to Hickmaa's the cheese- 
 monger's next door, where there was a shop- 
 blind still running out across the street, and an 
 iron bar thereto supporting it, festooned by Ostend 
 rabbits. The instant afterwards Phil Wharton 
 was dangling amongst the rabbits, and the 
 instant after that he had dropped to the ground, 
 bringing down a rabbit or two with him, 
 frightening the man in charge, and scaring ]\Ir. 
 Broadbrook almost out of his life, and just as he 
 was gingerly putting up the last shutter of his 
 establishment. 
 
 * Bless my soul and body, what's the matter 
 now,' exclaimed the hairdresser, as he slipped 
 down, shutter and all, on the wet pavement in 
 his consternation. 
 
 ' Don't say which way Pve gone. Be good 
 to aunt, please,' cried Phil, as he took to his 
 heels — and a very light pair of heels too — along 
 the middle of the Marsh Walk, sending up a
 
 56 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 fountain of mud over himself as he ran. Mr. 
 Broadbrook gathered up himself and his shutter 
 and looked vacantly after Phil's retreating 
 figure till he was once more swung round by 
 an opposing force in the huge shape of Mr, 
 Wharton, who came tumbHng out of the shop 
 and upon him. 
 
 * Which way has he gone V he cried out. 
 
 ' Which — way — has — who gone V asked the 
 barber, staggering about with his shutter very 
 helplessly. 
 
 Foxy Wharton did not stop to explain. In 
 the distance he could see Phil running swiftly 
 along, and he set up a whoop of ' Stop thief,' 
 which roused the echoes of the street, and 
 enlisted attention and auxiliary forces at once. 
 
 *Stop thief set all Marsh Walk alive. It 
 always did. The place was a common hunting- 
 ground for the vagrant and the desperate, and, 
 though this was a cry patent to the neighbour- 
 hood, it always aroused interest and excitement 
 and ' fun.' Mr. Broadbrook put up his remain- 
 ing shutter and then joined in the race on his 
 own account, and in the hope of being of some
 
 PHIL ACTS FOR HIMSELF. 57 
 
 service should Phil be overtaken, and the cheese- 
 monger's young man followed with alacrity, 
 believing that he was a rabbit short, and not 
 stopping to count his stock in hand in the eager- 
 ness of pm^snit. 
 
 But when Foxy Wharton, and his band of 
 volunteers, and the hairdresser, and the cheese- 
 monger's young man had turned the corner 
 of the street down which Phil had plunged, 
 there was no sign of the youth who had taken 
 flight, and all was damp, and dark, and desolate 
 in James Street. Conscious of this fact, after a 
 while, Mr. Broadbrook went speedily homewards, 
 before Mr. Wharton had recognized him, and 
 bolted and barred his premises for the night 
 with an extra degree of precaution. 
 
 He would sit up for Phil, nevertheless, being 
 sure that he should see him later on, and hear him 
 knock quietly at the door for re-admittance, 
 which would be granted after a few inquiries 
 through the key-hole, and the making sure that 
 it was not Foxy Wharton who had returned. 
 He went upstairs along with his better half, to 
 talk it over with the aunt, who had ' quieted
 
 58 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 down,' she said, and was very glad that Phil 
 had got away — and very sure, hke Mr. Broad- 
 brook, that Phil would quickly be back again. 
 
 ' I shall see him soon, and then we will talk 
 over what is best to do,' she said. 
 
 But she never saw Phil Wharton again, and 
 there was no talking it over in this world for 
 her.
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FALSE SECURITY. 
 
 The next day there came a letter to Mrs. Whar- 
 ton, care of Mr. Broadbrook, hahdresser, 729, 
 Marsh Walk, and the letter was from her nephew 
 Phil, and ran as follows : — 
 
 ' Hercules Buildings, 
 
 ' Lambeth. 
 
 « My dear Aunt, 
 
 * I got away stunning ! But it was 
 not till I was clear off that I found out I had 
 twisted my ankle dropping from old Hickman's 
 blind. Tell him I am»very sorry, and hope the 
 rabbits did not get much damaged, and if they 
 did, I will pay for them some day. I fancy you 
 gave me the office ' {tipped me the icinh — the boy
 
 60 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 had written iu true boyish slang, and then had 
 crossed it out again, at the suggestion of a 
 friend to whom he had shown the letter before 
 despatching it) 'to get away; and it was jolly 
 easy to slip out of the window and drop into the 
 street. I am afraid I dropped upon Mr. Broad- 
 brook, as he was shutting up the shop ; but I 
 don't remember anything, except seeing him 
 sitting upon the wet pavement, with the shutter 
 in his lap. My love to him, and I hope he isn't 
 hurt. I am quite safe with Mr. Miles the organist, 
 who is going to keep me in his house, and out 
 of the way, until my ankle is better, and I can 
 get about again. He is a regular good one' 
 (hrich had been erased, and good one substitut- 
 ed), ' and won't let me move off the sofa ; and 
 hopes you will not fret about my being absent, 
 or let father worry you again, if you can help it. 
 You will do as well as you can without me, and 
 keep nice and cheerful. I hope to get to church 
 next Sunday. Mr. Miles -thinks it would not be 
 safe for you to come round to me, as father may 
 be watching the shop in Marsh Walk, and follow 
 you. I miss you very much. My best love, and
 
 FALSE SECURITY. 61 
 
 please feed mj silkworms, which you will find 
 inside my Sunday cap, and I should like my 
 prayer-book and hymn-book sent by post, and" 
 don't worry about me, and get well soon, and 
 God bless you, auntie, and with love to you, and 
 all the Broadbrooks, 
 
 *Your affectionate Nephew, 
 
 * Pnnjp Whakton.' 
 
 ' That's a good boy, to think of all those who 
 are anxious about him,' said Mr. Broadbrook, to 
 whom the letter was slowly and gravely read 
 by Mrs. Wharton ; • I'm very glad he's written.' 
 
 * You will not let my brother know where Phil 
 is, if he should call again?' said the old lady. 
 
 « Madam, 1 would rather welter in my own 
 gore, in my own shop, slain by his own hand,' 
 answered the brave Broadbrook, 
 
 *Yes, it would be better,' remarked Mrs. 
 Wharton, absently. * Thank you — 3^ou are very 
 kind.' 
 
 But there was nothing seen of Foxy Wharton 
 in Marsh Walk, and the opportunity to defy 
 that gentleman was not offered to Mr. Broad-
 
 62 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 brook. Still, the bouse was watched, and a 
 very thin, shabby, collarless man, deeply pitted 
 with small-pox, took an interest in the wares 
 displayed in the shop window, and gazed at 
 them admiringly half an horn' at a time, despite 
 the stock consisting only of pomatum pots, a few 
 combs and brushes damaged by the sun and the 
 flies, and seven bottles of ' Broadbrook's Three- 
 penny Rose-Oil for the Nursery,' a bright crimson 
 fluid which the nurseries of Marsh AValk sternly 
 refused to patronize, although there was nearly 
 half a Ipint for threepence, and the colour was 
 absolutely dazzling. 
 
 This tliia man of shabby exterior, * with a 
 face like a cribbage board,' as Mr. Broadbrook 
 described it afterwards, was evidently keeping 
 an eye upon the premises, and was not to be 
 frowned away by the proprietor. AVhen tired 
 mth gazing in the window he would take up 
 his position by the lamp-post, where Mr. Whar- 
 ton once stood, or hang around the doors of the 
 ' Jolly Gardeners,' dropping in occasionally, like a 
 man with drink money to spare, and very often 
 thirsty. Mr. Broadbrook took counsel of a
 
 FALSE SECURITY. 63 
 
 policeman, who did not see what was to be done, 
 and recommended Mr. Bradbrook's applying to 
 the police station in the Lane, where the hair- 
 dresser was snubbed by the inspector and told 
 to mind his own business, and to wait at least 
 till something illegal had happened before he 
 began harassing the authorities with his cock- 
 and-a-bull stories. As for the father, why, he loas 
 the boy's father, and nobody denied it, and 
 there was nothing to be said against him that 
 anybody could prove, and Mr. Broadbrook 
 and his female lodger had better be careful 
 they did not get themselves into trouble pre- 
 sently for keeping the boy away from his lawful 
 guardian. Just what Foxy Wharton had said — 
 and said with emphasis; and Mr. Broadbrook 
 returned to his shop in Marsh AValk in a desolate 
 frame of mind, and with a dim prospect of 
 standing in the dock by the side of Mrs. Whar- 
 ton, to answer a charge of kidnapping. 
 
 But the lawful guardian did not claim the 
 assistance of the law. The name of Wharton 
 was unknown to the police, but there were 
 several aliases by which he had been known,
 
 64 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 and might be still inquired for, and it was as 
 well to manage matters his own way. And his 
 own way was to take possession of his son, and 
 bring him up to be a comfort, and a source of 
 profit to him. 
 
 And we may say at once that he was per- 
 fectly aware what had become of Phil, and 
 with whom he was staying. He had not fol- 
 lowed Phil Wharton from the church of St. 
 Eustace, Westminster, to his home in Marsh 
 Walk for nothing ; he had seen his son in com- 
 pany with the organist, and noticed him shake 
 hands with him at the door of his lodgings ; 
 and it was Folkestone Miles to whom his 
 suspicions were first directed when it was 
 discovered that the choir-boy did not return to 
 his aunt Bella. 
 
 The nets were closing round this little stray, 
 though he was unaware of it, and Folkestone 
 Miles, as well as himself, was buoyed up by 
 false security. 
 
 * It is all right, I think,' the organist said on 
 the Sunday morning, when it was very much all 
 wrong, and Phil was able to limp, if a little
 
 FALSE SECURITY. 65 
 
 slowly, across Westminster Bridge to the church 
 of St. Eustace and sing his very best there. In 
 the evening Mr. IMiles, always thoughtful and 
 considerate, and warm-hearted, treated him to 
 an omnibus ride to AVestminster, and thought, 
 he said laughingly, that it would ' run to it ' on 
 the homeward route again; and Phil's heart 
 warmed to the young man as towards an elder 
 brother, and life would have been pleasant and 
 happy with him had it not been for the 
 thoughts of his aunt, patient and hopeful, and 
 always waiting for him in the upstairs room at 
 Broadbrook's. 
 
 * The house is watched — you must not come 
 home yet,' she had written to say, forgetting, or 
 rather not guessing, that Mr. Miles's house was 
 watched as well, by men determined to have 
 this singing-bird, and seeing the way to make 
 it worth their while. Had Foxy Wharton been 
 captain of the forty thieves he could not have 
 been served more faithfully by the subordinates 
 about him, and two of them were even inside 
 St. Eustace's itself next Sunday evening, out- 
 wardly devout, and inwardly watching and 
 VOL. I. F
 
 QQ IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 plotting for the boy's capture. They sat in the 
 free seats, and Hstened to his singing, clear and 
 bell-like, and of surprising power ; they nudged 
 each other craftily as they noted the effect upon 
 many of the congregation to whom the chou* of 
 St. Eustace was the principal attraction, and 
 prayers and sermon only a secondary considera- 
 tion, if even of any consideration at all ; they 
 crept out of the church before the service was 
 quite finished and lay in ambush outside, in the 
 shadows of the vestry, trusting for the chance 
 which might present itself, and for which they 
 had planned. For which they had prayed too, 
 — understanding such prayers as that, and 
 knowing nothing of the earnest supplications 
 they had listened to, in church that night, mak- 
 ing neither head nor tail of them. 
 
 It was by cruel chance that the vicar of St. 
 Eustace called Mr. Folkestone Miles back into 
 the vestry that evening, when the choir had 
 gone its various ways, and Pbil was about leav- 
 ing with his friend. 
 
 ' I will not keep you a moment, Mr. Miles,' 
 Baid the vicar, blandly, and Mr. Miles, nodding
 
 FALSE SECURITY. 67 
 
 to Phil, and implying by that nod that he was 
 to wait for him outside, passed into the vestry 
 with the clergyman, and Philip went on, reck- 
 ing not of danger by the way. 
 
 The vicar was not quite as good as his word, 
 and the minute became two, three, five, length- 
 ened even to ten before all had been explained 
 about a special service which was due on Friday 
 next. When Folkestone Miles was in the open 
 air at last it was lightening vividly, and through 
 his violet glasses he could see no sign of the 
 chorister. Phil had grown tired of waiting, he 
 thought, and had gone slowly in the direction 
 of Hercules Buildings, unmindful of the ride 
 homewards that had been promised ; and Folke- 
 stone Miles stepped out, confident of over- 
 taking him before the Houses of Parliament 
 were reached. 
 
 But he failed to come up with him, or his 
 weak sight had not stood him in good stead, or 
 he had passed him, or the lightning, which was 
 very blue and vivid, had confused him on his 
 way. He was not nervous about Phil, even 
 when he found that he had reached home before 
 
 f2
 
 68 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 the boy ; he was a sharp walker, and of course 
 had passed Phil, who was very lame just then — 
 it was only half-an-hour afterwards, three-quar- 
 ters, and then an hour, that there came to his 
 slow mind the suspicion of foul play.
 
 69 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 Folkestone Miles sat up all that night waiting 
 and wishing for the coming of little Phil, but the 
 choir-boy was seen no more in Hercules Build- 
 ings, Lambeth. He had vanished like a ghost — 
 leaving, ghost-like also, not a clue by which he 
 might be tracked. Those who had trapped him 
 had managed their nefarious business neatly, 
 and had vanished as completely ' into thin air ' 
 as the boy whom they had captured. Over the 
 whole affair hung the black curtain, heavy and 
 thick and pall-like, and there was no drawing it 
 aside and seeing where Phil was. He was gone 
 and for good. 
 
 He came not back to the organist's home ; he
 
 70 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 ■was seen no more by Aunt Bella who, pale, ill, 
 and patient, was sure every morning that she 
 should hear of him before nightfall, possibly see 
 him ; and thus buoyed up for a while her poor 
 vain hopes, though growing weaker every day 
 along with them. Folkestone Miles, restless 
 and excited, called twice a week to see her, to 
 ask if there were any news, to talk it over 
 downstairs with Mr. and Mrs. Broadbrook, and 
 speculate with them concerning the great 
 mystery, all three making wild guesses at the 
 truth. 
 
 * He must be dead,' said Mr. Broadbrook on 
 one of those occasions ; ' he would have surely 
 found time to write, to let us know somehow 
 where he was. Depend upon it, sir, that boy is 
 dead.' 
 
 * I don't think so,' remarked Mr. Miles. 
 
 * Murdered probably. If ever I cut the hair of 
 a murderer for threepence I cut it that blessed 
 night he kicked up such a row here,' said the 
 barber. 
 
 * It was not worth while to take all that 
 trouble to murder Phil,' said Mr. Miles.
 
 DISAPPEARANCE. 71 
 
 * Perhaps there were estates coming to him,' 
 suggested Mrs. Broadbrook, who had been 
 reading ' penny dreadfuls,' in large quantities, 
 and was a little weak in mind in consequence. 
 
 ' Yes, but who would have benefited by killing 
 Phil V said Mr. Broadbrook, critically. 
 
 ' The usurper,' was his better half's confident 
 reply. 
 
 * Who's he — that father of his !' cried the 
 barber, with a disparaging elevation of his 
 nose. ' Well, he didn't look much hke one to 
 me; although I must say I never saw a real 
 usurper to my knowledge. What's he like, Mr. 
 Miles?' 
 
 Mr. Miles found it extremely difficult to 
 describe ofi-hand an usurper's personal appear- 
 ance and said he did not know for certain. From 
 a histrionic point of view, he thought it was 
 something in black velvet with a point lace 
 collar. 
 
 < Well, the boy's murdered,' said Mr. Broad- 
 brook, firmly, * you see if he isn't. You wait.' 
 
 ' We shan't see — and we must wait,' replied 
 the organist, as he walked away thoughtfully.
 
 72 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 And seeing nothing and waiting in vain 
 became the order of the day in Marsh AValk and 
 Hercules Buildings, and with never a gleam of 
 light to show the track through the mists. Mr. 
 Broadbrook's neighbours talked of it for a 
 time and then dismissed the subject ; the choir- 
 boys wondered and wondered for a week or 
 two, and then almost forgot that Phil had ever 
 lived ; the choirmaster, a sceptical man, half 
 believed there had been an underhand plot to 
 smuggle Phil off to another church at an 
 advanced rate of wage ; and the vicar, still more 
 sceptical, was quite sure of that, for it was an 
 old trick ; the police laughed their heads 
 nearly off at the station-house, and could see 
 nothing alarming in a boy's going away with 
 his own father, and without the ceremony of a 
 formal farewell to a sleepy old aunt, and one or 
 two people who seemed to know very little about 
 him. 
 
 And so time diifted by, and the hot, close, 
 summer in Marsh Walk became the cooler 
 autumn which presently drifted into the mild, 
 wet winter for which that year was famous.
 
 DISAPPEARANCE. 73 
 
 even in crowded Lambeth, where the difference 
 in the seasons is noted by the goods upon the 
 costers' barrows rather than by any changing 
 tints or fall of leaves, and the days which 
 ' draw in,' as the phrase runs, are only regulated 
 by the longer scores upon the dials of the gas- 
 meters. And later in the winter Bella Whar- 
 ton died and was buried by the parish, and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Broadbrook officiated as chief 
 mourners, and shut up shop to do honour to a 
 lodger who had died very much in their debt, 
 and yet with whom these wonderful folk were 
 sorry to ,part. And later on still Mr. Broad- 
 brook got more deeply into debt himself, and 
 discovered that his landlord was a more 
 merciless creditor than he had been to Phil's 
 aunt ; for the brokers swooped down in earnest 
 upon him at last, and out went the barber, his 
 wife and family in a strange hurry, and were 
 seen no more in Marsh Walk or parts adjacent. 
 ' I wonder what's become of old Broadbrook,' 
 one or two people said at first — the landlord of 
 the * Jolly Gardeners,' who missed a good cus- 
 tomer, for one — and then the world spun round
 
 74 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 and there were fresh faces in the crowd of 
 struggh'ng men and women, and * Jones, Dealer 
 in Second-hand Wearing Apparel, and Ladies' 
 Wardrobes purchased,' was printed over the 
 premises, and announced in the windows where 
 ' Broadbrook's Rose Oil for the Nursery' had 
 offered its attractions to passers-by in vain. 
 
 To round off this portion of our little story 
 we may chronicle another change, although it 
 did not happen till late in the spring, when 
 there were wall-flowers on the barrows, and 
 green-peas could be got for sixpence a peck from 
 the costermonger, if one were inclined to put 
 faith in a measure the bottom of which was 
 pushed upwards when the peas were put in ! 
 Mr. Folkestone Miles left the church at West- 
 minster ' to better himself,' went in for a com- 
 petition for an organist's post at a fashionable 
 church further west, and got it, even to his own 
 astonishment, not being quite certain whether 
 he was a clever fellow or not, but inclined to 
 think at times, and with a due amount of 
 modesty, that he was not quite a fool. Hence 
 Hercules Buildings knew him no longer, and the
 
 DISAPPEARANCE. 75 
 
 last of the characters of our story passed away 
 from Lambeth, and, unlike the rest of them, 
 began to prosper a little and to gather round 
 him by degrees various well-paying pupils in 
 the new neighbourhood in which he had pitch- 
 ed his tent. So whilst some folk went down 
 others went up, in the see-saw fashion patent to 
 humanity.
 
 76 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 
 
 A CLEAR twelve months after the disappearance 
 of Phil Wharton, there was bright summer 
 weather down at the pleasant watering-place of 
 Tenby, in South Wales. The old town was 
 full of company ; in the memory of the oldest 
 inhabitant there had never been so prosperous 
 a season, and the north and south sands were 
 equally thronged with visitors amusing them- 
 selves, or being amused, working hard at sand- 
 digging, cavern-exploring, fossil-hunting, ener- 
 getic bathing, and desperate donkey-riding, or 
 taking it very easily in lazy, happy groups of 
 loungers and sprawlers on the sands, or in the 
 Castle grounds, listening to the Tenby band, or
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 77 
 
 those itinerant musicians whose mission in h'fe 
 appeared to be to take the bread out of tlie 
 mouths of the Tenby band by vigorous compe- 
 tition, and who had been lured thither on this 
 occasion by the news of Tenby's doing well and 
 being very full of company — of Monmouth and 
 Cardiff folk, of Swansea swells, of the ' fat of 
 the land' from Birmingham, Manchester, and 
 Liverpool, of the families from London, with 
 time and money to spare for the long journey, 
 and for settling down afterwards, of the tourist 
 from everywhere with his clattering bicycle, 
 tricycle, sociable, or, better thanall, with his own 
 sturdy legs to carry him up or down fair moun- 
 tain-side, stiff path, or valley, where anything on 
 wheels would surely come to grief in this nub- 
 bly quarter of the kingdom. 
 
 Into this romantic old Welsh watering-place 
 there tramped one bright morning a band of 
 singers and players who styled themselves tlie 
 * Minstrels of the Tyrol,' for no particular reason 
 that was apparent, one man being a GerDian, 
 another unmistakably French, and the rest as 
 thoroughly English as anyone could wish — un-
 
 78 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 less it was in a faint attempt at a costume 
 which might by a stretch of imagination be set 
 down as Tyrolese, and which consisted of 
 steeple-crowned hats, green cotton velvet 
 jackets and knee-breeches, and tricolour ribbons 
 dangling from their shoulders and knees, and 
 from the rims of their weather-beaten felt hats. 
 
 They were eight in number, one man not a 
 singing member of the corps, but a burly gen- 
 tleman who wandered about with a highly- 
 polished shell, which was presented to each 
 visitor who stopped to listen, and who, having 
 contributed to the expenses of management, 
 was rewarded with a bow so elaborate and 
 profound, and with a grin so wide and alligator- 
 ish, that the suspicion that all this was a bur- 
 lesque of gratitude instinctively occun-ed to 
 the donor. 
 
 Nevertheless the * Minstrels of the Tyrol ' 
 became popular favomites at Tenby, and were 
 rewarded by so many sixpences and shiUings 
 that the rumour that they were coining money 
 began to circulate amongst the visitors. They 
 became the favourites of the place — as itiner-
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 79 
 
 ants will, tinder certain favourable conditions, 
 and with some talent to raise them above the 
 street standard of howling vagabonds — and 
 their entertainment on the sands became exten- 
 siv^ely patronised, and was considered 'quite the 
 fashion ' to attend between the hours of twelve 
 and one. 
 
 These minstrels were clever in their way : the 
 Frenchman was an expert violinist, who played 
 on his instrument upside down, and fiddled away 
 with extraordinary rapidity and precision ; the 
 German was a flautist of ability, and a third man 
 worked the violoncello, less effectively perhaps, 
 but with a knowledge of time and tune that 
 kept him in accord with his contemporaries. 
 The remaining few were part-singers, and the 
 chief attraction of the company ; three voices 
 were a little above the average of men singing 
 out of doors for a living ; but the fourth voice 
 was of surprising sweetness and volume, a 
 remarkable boy soprano voice, that took listeners 
 off their guard and entranced them strangely. 
 It was a voice out of the common run indeed, 
 and led to innumerable inquiries of the man
 
 80 / IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 wijjithe shell, who shrugged his broad shoulders 
 "and showed his big white teeth, and thanked 
 everybody for much advice and friendly sugges- 
 tion, and gave everybody as much information 
 as time would allow concerning his ' leetle son,' 
 speaking in the broken English of his native 
 Whitechapel; but imposing on a few folk, credu- 
 lous and unsuspicious. 
 
 ' Filippo Moriega was a clayver boy — a goot 
 boy — yes, he should be trained by great masters 
 soon some day — to be sure. That's what he 
 (Ludovic Moriega) was saving for — taking a 
 troupe round the country for — to make money 
 to give Filippo — Gord bless him I — a musical 
 education at Rome. Indeed, they were making 
 their way to Rome now, the whole of them,' 
 Monsieur Moriega, senior, affirmed, as though 
 Rome was somewhere round the corner, and 
 South Wales was indubitably the nearest way 
 to it. 
 
 Filippo said very httle himself, and it was 
 found difficult to say anything to him ; lie 
 remained always in the centre of the singers 
 and players, a thin pale-faced youth, with large
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 81 
 
 grey eyes and a very sad and thoughtful ex- 
 pression in them — a youth who walked with a 
 crutch, and that with considerable difficulty, it 
 was observed. 
 
 ' What a pity he is a cripple,' said many a 
 sympathizer amongst the crowd which the 
 ' Minstrels of the Tyrol ' drew about them ; and 
 ' Has he been a cripple all his life V was often 
 the inquiry put to Monsieur Moriega, who 
 answered, ' Ya'as,' unless his questioner looked 
 medical, when he said, * No, sa'ar,' with equal 
 confidence, before he bowed himself from too 
 many questions which might become irksome 
 and inquisitorial. It was observed that none of 
 the minstrels cared for too much questioning : 
 they were in Tenby to sing and play, not to 
 give autobiographical sketches of their career, 
 and at times they were so haughty and reserved 
 that a few romantic minds had spread about the 
 notion that they were foreign noblemen in dis- 
 guise, Itahan refugees or Neapolitan wreckage, 
 or a something or other wrapped in mystery, 
 although the maestro of the company was of the 
 full proportions of an English navvy, and looked 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 IN BAD HANDS, 
 
 far more bulgy than aristocratic, in his green 
 cotton velvet smalls. 
 
 It was one hot August morning, when the 
 * Minstrels of the Tyrol ' were playing and sing- 
 ing to a large audience on the south sands, that 
 a lady and gentleman, attracted by the crowd 
 and by the part-singing which was going on 
 just then, left off walking hand-in-hand, in a 
 slightly silly and sentimental fashion, and strolled 
 towards the centre of attraction, 
 
 * Something in your line, dear,' said the lady. 
 
 'Yes, my darling love, so it is,' replied the 
 gentleman. 
 
 The affectionate couple stood at the back of 
 the crowd and clasped hands together again, 
 then the gentleman who wore violet glasses on 
 his nose, and a straw hat encircled by a broad 
 blue ribbon on the extreme back of his head, 
 rose on tiptoe and endeavoured to peer over the 
 heads of the audience, and failing in his 
 manoeuvre, being short of stature, to gain a clear 
 view of the singers, began jumping about like a 
 sportive kangaroo. 
 
 'My dear Folkestone, whatever is it?' exclaim-
 
 THE MNSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 83 
 
 eel the lady, alarmed for the sanity of her brand- 
 new spouse and helpmate — not married more 
 than forty-eight hours to him either, and coming 
 all the way from Westminster Bridge Road, 
 where the wedding had been celebrated, to this 
 picturesque portion of South Wales to spend the 
 honeymoon. 
 
 ' What's the matter ? Oh, dear ! what is it ? 
 Is it a fish-bone ? Won t you tell me ?' 
 
 ' It's all right, Fanny ; it isn't a bone in my 
 throat — it's the voice — it's — it's that boy!' he 
 exclaimed, incoherently, and continuing to 
 jump. 
 
 ' In your throat — a boy ! Oh, Folkestone ! 
 what do you mean V 
 
 ' It's Philip AVharton — you know — the miss- 
 ing lad. I'll swear it is, by thunder !' exclaimed 
 the excited organist. ' Fanny, we must part !' 
 
 ' Oh, mercy !' 
 
 ' For a few minutes — perhaps for half-an- 
 hour, or till dinner-time — don't fret ; don't 
 stop me — please let go the pocket of my jacket, 
 Fanny, or I shall rip — I must know all the 
 truth !'
 
 8i IX BAD HANDS. 
 
 And with a sudden dive into the crowd, unpre- 
 pared for so unceremonious an attack in the rear^ 
 Folkestone Miles plunged his way into the front 
 rank, and stood glaring through his glasses at 
 the singers, deaf to the objurgations and protests 
 of several ladies and gentlemen, astonished, 
 shocked, and indignant at his rudeness, and 
 hurling ' Well-I'm-sure's ' and ' I-never-did's ' on 
 all sides at him. But he paid no heed to them 
 — did not even hear them. 
 
 Yes, that was surely Philip Wharton I Little 
 Phil, of Marsh Walk — the lad who had been 
 spirited away from him, carried off twelve 
 months ago almost to the very day. But Phil 
 did not recognise him, although he stood exact- 
 ly in front of him, and Folkestone's glasses 
 should have been a landmark and reminiscence. 
 Folkestone could have run forward and shaken 
 hands with him — even have hugged him to his 
 breast in the joy of the discovery ; but a second 
 and wiser impulse warned him to be careful. If 
 it should be necessary to get Phil away from 
 them, if Phil was a prisoner and anxious to 
 escape, if he had not joined this band of singers
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 85 
 
 and players of his own free will — he, Folkestone 
 Miles, must not let any excitement betray him 
 to this crew. He would simply stand there 
 direct in front of Phil until he was recognised 
 by the lad. There would be plenty of time to 
 act afterwards, he thought. 
 
 But Phil did not recognize him. Gentlemen 
 m neutral-tinted glasses, blue, violet, or black, 
 were not uncommon in August by the seaside 
 when the sun's glare was powerful, and Phil 
 had got used to them now, although they had 
 made him start more than once in the grim, 
 early days of his strange wanderings. And the 
 present Folkestone Miles was so wholly unlike 
 the little, shabby, rusty black-frocked young 
 man by whose side he had trotted in the old 
 Lambeth days, that he could not associate the 
 organist of St. Eustace with a straw hat, a 'blazer' 
 jacket — red and green — a pair of baggy, flannel 
 trousers, and sand shoes of a dazzling yellow. 
 That was a festive figure, foreign to Hercules 
 Buildings and the life within fifty miles of it. 
 This was holiday time, and there had been no 
 hohdays in Lambeth for Folkestone Miles any 
 more than for Phil Wharton.
 
 86 IN BAD HAXDS. 
 
 The boy glanced once at him from under- 
 neath his broad felt brim, and went on with his 
 singing calmly and imconscioiisly, and the 
 thought that he might be mistaken crossed the 
 mind of the organist. Phil was not so tall, not 
 quite so pale and thin as that, and not a youth 
 scarcely able to put the tip of one foot to the 
 ground — the crutch was against him, and the 
 costume, and the place in which he was. But 
 that voice, thought Mr. Miles, with his ears at- 
 tuned to music very keenly, and with a memory 
 for voices that had music in them preternatural- 
 ly strong, was it possible he should be deceived ? 
 Phil's was an uncommon voice, too; he had had 
 strange dreams of what Phil's voice might turn 
 out one of these fine days if it were cared for 
 properly and duly trained; it had been, as a 
 soprano in a church choir, a remarkable voice ; 
 it was on these bright sands, and mth a sea- 
 breeze interfering with it, still more remarkable 
 that day. 
 
 Yes, it must be Phil ; but why did not Pliil 
 recognise him as readily as he had recognised 
 Phil, thought Folkestone Miles, not taking into
 
 THE MINSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 87 
 
 account the extraordiaaiy 'character' of his 
 tourist suit, and the complete disguise it was to 
 him. Presently an idea seized him ; he would 
 beat time with a copy of that day's Birminglmm 
 Post, which he carried in his hand. He had a 
 demonstrative way of beating time, and the 
 choir-boys had often giggled at it, when he had 
 been called upon to act as deputy in the choir- 
 master's absence, and Phil had laughed too, or 
 sat and stared at him with wonder when he was 
 extra energetic, which had occurred more than 
 once in his lodgings in Hercules Buildings. 
 
 Folkestone Miles rolled up his newspaper, and 
 began, to the evident astonishment and disgust 
 of the Tyrolese; there was a little tittering 
 amongst the community around him ; ' a musical 
 enthusiast/ said one, and ' drunk so early in the 
 morning — dreadful I' was the verdict of the 
 charitable majority.- AVhen he had executed a 
 particular flourish with his extempore baton, and 
 stamped wildly upon the sand — sending a dense 
 shower of gritty particles over a basket of very 
 sticky tarts which a youth was purveying round 
 the inner circle — the boy, Filippo Moriega, or Phil
 
 SS IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 AVharton, turned suddenly very white, dropped 
 his crutch, and left oif singing. 
 
 It was only for an instant, but Mr. Miles knew 
 he had been recognized, although Phil was 
 strangely impassive the instant afterwards, and 
 went on singing very calmly, as though nothing 
 remarkable had occurred to disturb his equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 Folkestone Miles left off beating time, put a 
 shilling into the shell which Signer Ludovic 
 IMoriega presented to him suddenly, with his 
 usual bow and broad grimace, and with an extra 
 keen look at him from head to foot, as at an 
 object of great interest. Folkestone backed 
 his way out of the crowd, and rejoined his 
 anxions wife, who was inclined to reproach 
 him, and to sob npon his shoulder in the light 
 of day. 
 
 ' I — I didn^t think you wonld desert me like 
 this — and so soon too,' she cried. 
 
 ' My darling, you don't understand,' said 
 Folkestone Miles. 
 
 ' Oh ! why did I leave home V 
 
 ' My precious one — haven't I explained? Don't
 
 THE MIXSTRELS OF THE TYROL. 89 
 
 you remember all about little Phil Wharton?' he 
 exclaimed. 
 'Phil who?' 
 
 * Phil WhartoD, of Marsh Walk — the choir- 
 boy !' 
 
 ' Yes — yes. I think 1 do. But is this — this 
 a time — to be running after dirty boys !' 
 
 ' My dear Fanny, we must save him. We — 
 they're going. Good gracious I' And away 
 darted the excitable organist again, as the 
 crowd separated, and the minstrels one by one 
 plodded across the deep sands towards the 
 High Street. The boy Avith the crutch was the 
 last of them, and Folkestone had increased his 
 j)ace, to get to his side, and say a few words, 
 when the big fellow, like a shabby cotton- velvet 
 brigand as he was, suddenly strode back and 
 took up his position on the right of his son, 
 clutching at Phil's arm, dragging it through his 
 own, and glancing back at Folkestone Miles, 
 who was stealthily approaching. 
 
 ' Who are you looking after?' lie asked. 
 
 * Nobody.' 
 
 'Yes, you are. I know tliat man,' Foxy
 
 90 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 growled in the ear of his offspring, ' and so do 
 you. So take care Avhat you're about, do you 
 hear ? or it will be the worse for you.'
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 
 
 Folkestone Miles did not intrude, after all^ 
 npon the society of Foxy Wharton and his son 
 that particular morning on which he had dis- 
 covered Phil. Discretion was the better part of 
 valour, he thought — the better part of a great 
 many things besides valour, if he Avere going to 
 act as Phil's champion or deliverer. Through 
 his violet glasses he perceived that the boy 
 thought so also — seemed even to warn him not 
 to speak, and as effectually, by the droop of his 
 shoulders and drag of his gait, as by the very 
 forbidding scowl which he had received from 
 Wharton senior. 
 
 flaking up his mind suddenly to a new and
 
 92 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 distinct line of policy, Folkestone Miles marched 
 past them both at a smart pace, and went home, 
 thereby leaving, he hoped, some doubt in the 
 mind of Wharton pere whether there was any- 
 thing more in him than in the ordinary sea-side 
 lounger. He did not know, however, that Mr. 
 Wharton, one practice night, had followed him 
 and Phil from the church of St. Eustace, "West- 
 minster, to Hercules Buildings, taking stock of 
 him all the way, and remembering him always 
 from that time by his thin, pale face, his long- 
 hair, and the coloured glasses to his spectacles. 
 He had a fallacious idea that Phil's father had 
 never set eyes upon him before, and, therefore, 
 that he would be able to act presently with 
 considerable success. 
 
 Mr. Miles returned to his sea-side lodgings to 
 find Mrs. Miles in grief and great tribulation of 
 spirit. She had not settled down to married 
 life yet, and the vagaries — she could call them 
 nothing better than vagaries, she said — of ^Ir. 
 Miles had very seriously disheartened her. It 
 was like absolute desertion to have Folkestone 
 flying all over Tenby after minstrels of the
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 93 
 
 Tyrol at a time when she had a right to ex- 
 pect — even demand — his sole and undivided 
 attention. 
 
 ' It's — it's not a bit like a honeymoon,' she 
 cried behind her white pocket-handkerchief. 
 'I was never treated so in all my life. It's 
 dreadful I' 
 
 ' My precious !' he said, soothingly. 
 
 But ' my precious ' was not to be soothed too 
 quickly by endearing terms, and it was only by 
 appealing to her feelings, by telling the story 
 of Phil Wharton over again from beginning to 
 end, by gently and delicately reminding her 
 that they might have a dear child of their own 
 stolen away some day, and with no human soul 
 to help them find it ' ever and ever again,' that 
 the exciteable young bride became interested 
 in the case, and thought that Folkestone might 
 be excused his eccentric conduct of the morning. 
 
 ' We will save him, Folkestone,' she said at 
 last, ' but we will save him together.' 
 
 ' Well, we'll try, at any rate,' answered the 
 bridegroom, though he did not quite see the 
 way to begin, not being blessed or cursed — which
 
 ^4 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 is it? — with a particularly fertile imagination. 
 
 They must wait and watch, they both con- 
 sidered. The Tyrolese would not, probably, 
 leave the town whilst business w^as brisk. Mr. 
 Wharton was strong on the point of law, and on 
 the point of possession, and it was difficult to 
 know^ how to act until Folkestone had had a 
 little talk with Phil. Poor Phil ! he thouglit, 
 walking about with a crutch, and evidently a 
 cripple for life — poor Phil, a prisoner in bad 
 hands, and unable to escape from them ! ' By 
 Jove, he shall escape though !' cried the organist. 
 
 Folkestone Miles and his young wife made 
 many inquiries that day concerning the Tyrol- 
 ese ; they found out that they were lodging in 
 the small house of a bibulous fisherman, down a 
 back street near the pier — ' all of a lump, like a 
 lot of pigs,' said their informant — and that they 
 were not particularly amicable amongst them- 
 selves after business hours, and were heard 
 quarrelling and swearing and shouting long 
 after their more peaceful neighbours were in 
 bed and trying to sleep. Once the French- 
 man was heard crying * murder,' but as he
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 95 
 
 turned up on the sands in the morning, smiling 
 and gesticulating as nsnal, it was set down as a 
 little pleasantly on his part dm-ing the previous 
 night. And once Mr. Moriega was heard strik- 
 ing something or some one with a strap, and it 
 was thought it might be his little son, as he did 
 not sing the next day, and was at home with 
 toothache, ' poor little fellah,' the father explain- 
 ed, with a deep sigh, to those who had missed 
 him and inquired after him. 
 
 The general opinion of the working-classes 
 of Tenby — those who knew the Tyrolese in 
 their hours of leisure — was that they were a bad 
 lot, and the sooner the town was rid of them, 
 the better. 'If the swells only knew what a 
 gang they were, they wouldn't pitch their 
 money at them quite so freely,' was the verdict 
 pronounced, but the swells icould pitch away 
 their money, and the Tyrolese were surely pros- 
 pering, although there was nothing to show for 
 it particularly, except some straggling figures 
 reeling homewards late at night down the nar- 
 row, shadowy street wherein they lurked. 
 
 * This makes my blood boil, Fanny,' said the
 
 96 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 organist at supper — in their smart first-floor 
 lodgings on the North Cliff — and flourishing his 
 knife and fork bravely above his head ; ' the boy 
 is kept a prisoner — treated badly — half-killed — 
 I'm sure of it.' 
 
 * Yes, dear — but please don't shout so. They'll 
 hear you in the road.' 
 
 ' And perhaps they are watching us, my dar- 
 ling, as we are watching them,' he said. 
 
 * Oh ! don't say that, Folkestone, you make 
 me so dreadfully nervous. Hadn't we better 
 shut the windows?' 
 
 Fanny Miles left the supper-table at once and 
 approached the French windows, opening on to 
 a balcony, where this happy couple had intend- 
 ed to sit lovingly and quietly day after day 
 and watch the great green, restless sea, and 
 the oyster boats sailing in and out with the 
 tides, and the white gulls scudding from cliff 
 to wave, and from wave to cliff again, and the 
 happy pleasure-seekers wandering below them 
 and not half so happy as they were. The 
 clock in the tower of the old church was 
 striking eleven as she stepped timidly on to the
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 97 
 
 balcony and peered doAvn into the dusky road. 
 They were Hviug at the upper end of the town, 
 and the place was very still and quiet at that 
 hour — the lapping of the sea upon the sands 
 and the soft murmuiing of the summer wind 
 alone broke the stillness of that starlit night. 
 There was only a light here and there behind 
 the blinds of the houses in the terraces sloping 
 towards the pier — people Avere tired and ]iad 
 gone to roost, and there was but one living soul 
 in the far distance — a primitive-looking police- 
 man, grey-bearded and bent a little askew, who 
 was toddling along in the middle of the road, 
 with his little cane in his hands like an ante- 
 diluvian ' masher.' 
 
 * I had no idea it was so late/ said Fanny, * I 
 had no idea Yah /' she shrieked out, dash- 
 ing back, all legs and wings, into the drawing- 
 room, bringing the heart of Folkestone Miles 
 into his throat, and curdling every drop of blood 
 in his body. ' Mercy ! — save me ! — fire I — 
 thieves ! — help !' Then she fell into the arms of 
 her lord and husband, and hid her head upon 
 his manly waistcoat. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 'My dear, what is it? Pray compose your- 
 self/ he entreated, ' how you've frightened me I 
 — I've run the fork through my upper hp — 
 what is it ? Pray don't kick, my love ! what 
 can ' 
 
 * The balcony. Somebody creeping up it ! oh, 
 shut the windows !' she screamed ; ' for heaven's 
 sake lock the windows, Folkestone, we shall all 
 be murdered/ 
 
 ' No — no — wait a moment ! Don't shut me 
 out, oh ! don't shut me out,' cried a shrill voice, 
 and then Phil Wharton, capless and shoeless, and 
 with his velvet jacket torn across the arm, 
 where he had encountered a nail in climbing up 
 the trelHs-work beneath the balcony, tumbled 
 into the room and ran panting and scared to- 
 wards his old friend.
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A VERY STRANGE BOY. 
 
 * Phil — my poor Phil,' exclaimed Folkestone, 
 
 * 3^ou have got away then. How did you get 
 here? Where's— the crutch?' he asked, after a 
 moment's hesitation. 
 
 * I haven't got it. I don't want it,' exclaimed 
 Phil, speaking very humedly. ' May I draAv 
 down the blinds ? It's safer.' 
 
 Folkestone nodded, and Phil ran back and 
 pulled the blinds down before the windows. 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Miles had been deposited in an 
 ai-m-chair, and was slowly recovering from her 
 alarm. 
 
 ' To think you've got aw^ay,' said Folkestone, 
 shaking hands heartily with Phil, ' and now — 
 and now — what are we to do with you V 
 
 h2
 
 100 IX BAD HANDS. 
 
 ' I haven't got away yet,' cried the boy. *I 
 have only come to see you, Mr. Miles.' 
 
 ' But ' 
 
 ' But let me speak, please, sir. I liavenH 
 much time. I want to get back before they 
 miss me. Don't you see that V he said. 
 
 ' I don't see anything very plainly,' answered 
 the bewildered organist. 
 
 ' I am so glad to find you — to know you are 
 here and will help me presently. I am so glad !' 
 Phil exclaimed again ; ' it's the old times come 
 back to see you — the dear old times in Lambeth 
 
 when you and I ' and then a lump rose in 
 
 Phil's throat and he could not get on any 
 further. 
 
 ' Take it more quietly, boy. Sit down, there's 
 a good fellow, and let us understand the posi- 
 tion, and what is to be done. Where have you 
 been all this while V asked Folkestone. * What 
 have they been doing to you that you never 
 wrote to us, or sent any of us a line V 
 
 ' I wrote as soon as I could get the chance ; 
 there was no chance for months : and the letters 
 came back to the address I'd put upon them.
 
 A VERY STRANGE BOY. 101 
 
 You had all gone away, my aunt, Mr. Broad- 
 brook, you. I wrote to all of you.' 
 
 'AVhen was that f 
 
 ' Six months ago — nearly.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Folkestone Miles, thoughtfully, 
 * we had all gone then.' 
 
 * Your aunt ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know, sir. Don't tell me again. 
 She's dead,' he said, sorrowfully. ' They knew 
 that soon afterwards, and they told me, think- 
 ing I should settle down amongst them, hav- 
 ing no one to care for and to fret after any 
 more.' 
 
 ' And why did you not write earlier?' asked 
 the young wife. 
 
 ' I'll tell you as soon as I've got my breath, 
 ma'am,' Phil replied, and Mr. Miles noticed that 
 he was still panting from his recent efforts 
 to approach them, and looking considerably 
 exhausted. 
 
 Folkestone poured him out a glass of ale, 
 which he sipped at and then set aside again. 
 
 ' It has struck eleven, hasn't it V he asked. 
 
 ^Yes.'
 
 102 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 ' I must be back before twelve. Before lie^* 
 he added, with a shudder, ' comes home.' 
 
 ' Your father,' said Mr. Miles, interrogatively. 
 
 ' Yes — my father,' he replied. 
 
 ' The wi'etch — the awful wretch,' cried Folke- 
 stone, indignantly. 
 
 ' Yes, he is an awful wretch,' said Phil, with 
 grave deliberation, ' that is, everybody says so. 
 But we won't speak of him just now, please. 
 There isn't time.' 
 
 ' Well — well,' said the organist, ' it would take 
 a long time to reckon him up, I daresay. How 
 did you fall into his hands ? How did I manage 
 to miss you on that night, Phil ?' 
 
 ' I'll tell you in a moment, sir,' said Phil, 
 Imrriedly, *and then the whole story another 
 day when — when I'm safe. For,' he added, 
 lowering his voice to a whisper, as though there 
 might be eavesdroppers in that very house, * I 
 am not safe at present.' 
 
 ' I hope you are, boy.' 
 
 ' No, not yet,' he answered, sadly, ' it has not 
 come yet.' 
 
 ' What hasn't come V
 
 A VERT STRANGE BOY. 103 
 
 * The chance of getting away from them. 
 They would follow me — they would kill me.' 
 
 ' We'll see about that,' said the organist, with 
 a cheery laugh. ' Kill you, indeed !' 
 
 But the boy did not laugh in return, only 
 stared at the speaker with his great eyes. 
 
 ' They were waiting for me outside the church 
 that night,' said Phil, by way of explanation of 
 last year's disappearance. 'That's how they 
 got hold of me, although I struggled very hard. 
 There were two or three men, and there was a 
 cab ready to pitch me into, and to be driven 
 away with me. They were determined to have 
 me, Mr. Miles, and that's how it was done. 
 They hid me in a house in a street that seemed 
 somewhere near St. Eustace, for we weren't 
 long in getting there, and then they found my 
 leg was broken. You may remember, Mr. Miles, 
 it was not strong just then, and in my struggles 
 it snapped.' 
 
 ' Poor little chap,' said Folkestone, sympathe- 
 tically. * Here, take some more beer, do. And 
 the doctor — didn't the doctor ' 
 
 ' They never sent for a doctor. That would
 
 101 IN BAD HAXUS. 
 
 not have done. One of them had been a medical 
 student, and he set my leg, after a fashion.' 
 
 * And crippled you for life V 
 ' Almost. Although,' he added, sinking his 
 voice to a whisper again, after the new habit he 
 had contracted with the wild beings amongst 
 whom his life had been lately spent, 'I am 
 not so bad as they believe. I don't want the 
 crutch, but I pretend I do, so that they shall 
 fancy, sir, I can't move without it ; and every 
 night they take the crutch away, and think I'm 
 safe.' 
 
 ' I see. That's pretty cunning for a young 
 one, that is,' said Mr. Miles, admiringly. 
 
 ' I have been amongst cunning people,' 
 answered the boy, frankly ; * and I haven't 
 improved. That Avasn't likely, was it V 
 
 ' Well, no.' 
 
 ' I have dropped awfully down. But I'll get 
 back again — I will, sir, if you'll help me,' cried 
 Phil. 
 
 ' Why, of course I'll help you.' 
 
 * Thank you. 1 didn't know. Everybody has 
 seemed so much against me that I didn't know 
 how to trust in anybody.'
 
 A VERY STRANGE BOY. 105 
 
 * Poor fellow. Take some more beer.' 
 
 * No, thank you,' said Phil ; ' I won't have any 
 more of that, or I shall go home like father, 
 driinkj' he added, with another visible shudder ; 
 ' and when he's drunk he's very dreadful. At his 
 worst then — always.' 
 
 ' I don't doubt it in the least,' said Folkestone 
 in reply. 
 
 ' For six months I never got a chance, night 
 or day, of wnting to anybody, of telHng any- 
 body, ho^v I had been snared,' Phil Wharton 
 explained further. * When I was well enough 
 to leave my bed and limp about, they took me 
 away, and we went from town to town earning' 
 our living, as you see. My father never let me 
 out of his sight ; it is only lately he thinks I 
 have got used to him, and not likely to escape. 
 And I did not know where to escape to when 
 the letters came back and you were all gone — 
 every one of you ! I gave up then. I should 
 not have minded them killing me for trying to 
 find one friend ; I should have been glad enough 
 to die and get it over.' 
 
 * And now you are going to live, and grow
 
 106 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 famous, perhaps. For it's a wonderful voice, 
 Phil,' said the organist ; ' and something must 
 be done with it soon, instead of wearing and 
 tearing it all to pieces with those singing 
 scoundrels.' 
 
 * That's what father says.' 
 
 ' Your father appears to have studied the 
 matter very deeply,' said Folkestone Miles, 
 caustically. 
 
 ' Yes, and he's proud of me, after his way,' 
 said Phil, to his listener's surprise. ' Sometimes 
 I think he even cares for me a bit — as a father 
 should, I mean. But,' with an odd little sigh. 
 ' I suppose that's all fancy.' 
 
 ' Most likely,' assented Mr. Miles. 
 
 ' Though he lost his voice when he was young, 
 he seems to know as much as you do about 
 music, Mr. Miles — and I haven't gone back in 
 that,' he added, with a hollow little laugh. ' It 
 would have been better for me if I had.' 
 
 'VVhyr 
 
 ' They would have turned me adrift then, I 
 think,' Phil answered; ' and I should have got 
 back to London, and found some of you.'
 
 A VERY STRANGE BOY. lOX 
 
 ' Perhaps you would.' 
 
 ' How's Mr. Broadbrook, and Mrs. Broadbrook, 
 and all the rest of them V he asked, with all a 
 boy's eagerness for news ; * you know, I daresay.' 
 
 ' They have gone away. I don't know what 
 has become of them,' was the reply. 
 
 ' And you — married V 
 
 ' Yes, and down here for my honeymoon, 
 Phil' 
 
 ' You're a— bit — better off than you were 
 then?' he inquired, with some delicate hesitation. 
 
 'Yes. I have a better church, and I have 
 five-and-twenty pupils.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' said Phil ; ' I wish I was^ 
 one of the pupils.' 
 
 ' So you shall be — if you will.' 
 
 ' Yes, presently — who knows,' cried Phil, with 
 his eyes sparkling at the prospect, and then be- 
 coming full of thought again ; ' some of these 
 days, I hope.' 
 
 ' And now, what is to be done f asked Folke- 
 stone, ' will you stop here and defy them ? Shall 
 I ask the landlady to take care of you, to hide 
 you ? They'll never guess you're here.'
 
 108 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 * Ob, yes, they will ! They know who you 
 are, and they can easily find out, as I have, 
 where you're lodging. Father knows you very 
 well. He said he should probably cut my 
 throat if 1 had anything to say to you,' said the 
 boy, coolly. 
 
 ' Oh, good gracious !' exclaimed Mrs. Miles. 
 
 ' But he always talks like that ; that's his way, 
 ma'am,' said Phil, apologetically, on his sire's 
 behalf. 
 
 ' And a very nasty way of talking too. Folke- 
 stone,' to her husband, 'he had better not go 
 back. What is the law about it V 
 
 * Smothered if I know,' replied Folkestone, 
 rubbing his hair up the wrong way in his per- 
 plexity, ' and I don't much care. I'm going to 
 defy the law.' 
 
 * There's a dear,' said Mrs. Miles, admiringly ; 
 * I thought you would.' 
 
 '■ Yes, Phil, you had better stop. We could 
 ^et away in the morning.' 
 
 * No, we couldn't,' said Phil, who seemed to 
 possess the most practical mind of the three, 
 'they would watch this house and watch the
 
 A VERY STRANGE BOY. 109 
 
 station. That's why I have come — to ask you 
 to take no more notice of me yet awhile^ to^ 
 leave me with them jnst the same — to let me be 
 quite sure of the next step before 1 make it. In 
 the night like this I can come again, to-morrow 
 or the next night even, and tell you what I have 
 arranged.' 
 
 ' You talk as if you hadn't quite made up 
 your mind to get away,' said Folkestone, 
 regarding him for the first time somewhat 
 doubtfully. 
 
 * I think I have ; oh ! yes, I'm sure I have.' 
 
 * They treat you badly.' 
 
 * Yes, they treat me badly, most of them,' he 
 added, with a reserve. 
 
 ' And life much longer with them means going 
 utterly to ruin.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's it,' assented Phil. 
 
 ' Then you must get away.' 
 
 ' Yes, I will get away,' said the boy, starting 
 to his feet, ' and you will help me. That's 
 arranged, unless ' 
 
 Unless what V 
 
 Unless anything should happen. They might
 
 no . IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 find me out coming here. I might die ; there 
 are such lots of things to stop me, after all. 
 But,' he cried, * I am so glad I've seen you, 
 and found you well and happy. I am so very 
 glad. God bless you and this lady, sir ; 
 and thank you both for thinking of me. Good- 
 bye.' 
 
 And, without a moment's further hesitation, 
 Phil shook hands with them, darted to the 
 window, drew up the blinds, and passed through 
 to the balcony, over which he climbed and dis- 
 appeared. Always very handy at climbing and 
 getting in and out of windows, this Phil 
 Wharton. 
 
 Husband and wife went to the balcony and 
 watched him speeding along in the shadow of 
 the houses, and looking very unlike a cripple at 
 that moment. 
 
 ' He's keeping something back,' said the 
 organist, ' he seems almost loth to leave them at 
 the last.' 
 
 ' Poor boy, he is confused.'' 
 
 ' I should not be surprised if he stops with 
 them, for some reason or other.'
 
 A VERY STRAXGE BOY. Ill 
 
 * Impossible.' 
 
 But it seemed as if Folkestone Miles was not 
 very far from the truth in his new and startling 
 surmise. At the same time the next night, when 
 the town was still and most folk seemed to have 
 locked up and gone to bed, Phil Wharton came 
 like a cat up the trellis-work again, and 
 through the window left open to receive him. 
 He came in looking very white and scared still. 
 
 ' I have altered my mind, sir,' he said ; ' don't 
 think the worst of me. But I'm not going to 
 leave them.' 
 
 * Not going to leave them, Phil !' 
 ' No, sir. I can't.'
 
 112 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 
 
 We can more easily and briefly explain the 
 mysterious behaviom* of Master Phil Wharton by 
 looking in upon the home of the ' Minstrels of 
 the Tyrol' on the morning preceding Phil's 
 second visit to the Miles's. The minstrels were 
 seriously depressed, and yet nervous and ex- 
 cited ; there was trouble in the house of Wharton, 
 or in the house which they temporarily occupied, 
 and it was considered that Foxy Wharton was 
 * not quite himself by a very long way indeed. 
 It might be even said that he was 'beside him- 
 self with rage, being a man who took any little 
 ailment with great discomposure of mind and 
 spirit, and broke into much bad language under
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 113 
 
 any affliction with Avhich he might be visited. 
 If there was one thing more than another which 
 put him out completely, it was the fact that he 
 was not feeling as well as he could wish. And 
 he liked to feel well and strong, with a grand 
 capacity for eating and drinking — especially 
 drinking, which he always thought agreed Avith 
 him. 
 
 Yesterday he had not been first-rate — qualm- 
 ish, in fact, with shivers. And now all day he 
 had been troubled with a splitting headache, 
 and, possessing a large head, there w^as of course 
 more ache in it than there would have been in 
 people's heads of less abnormal development. 
 He had come home very drunk the night before 
 and quarrelled all round with the members of 
 his band, and knocked down the German for 
 screaming at him in a foreign language he did 
 not understand, and had thrown himself on the 
 floor to sleep in a somewhat excited and heated 
 condition. There he must have caught cold 
 and cramp, for he woke up with this headache, 
 and with pains in his joints and with no appe- 
 tite, and with most unpleasant swimmings, and 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 a general inability to make use of his limbs — all 
 of which signs of bodily prostration he anathe- 
 matized freely, and raved over, and wondered 
 at. 
 
 Still he was determined to go out with the 
 minstrels as usual that morning. There was no 
 one w4iom he could trust to collect the money, 
 and he was not going to be robbed at his time 
 of life, just when a little more prosperity, and 
 an opportunity of drinking more freely, had 
 presented itself, thanks to a liberal public. But, 
 when he rose to put on his felt hat, he found a 
 difficulty in walking, and the first half dozen 
 steps into the street were accompanied by such 
 a formidable attack of ' staggers ' that he sat 
 down on the pavement to consider the question 
 afresh, and to look helplessly up at the seven 
 dusky faces looking down at him. 
 
 'Have any of you fellows been trying to 
 poison me V he asked, suspiciously. ' Have you, 
 Phiir 
 
 No. No one had been trying to poison Foxy 
 Wharton. No one had dreamed of such a thing. 
 The German, who had been knocked down last
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 115 
 
 night, thought it was not at all a bad idea, but 
 it had Dot suggested itself to him before. 
 
 * I can't go any further,' he groaned ; ' help me 
 up, and take me in again.' 
 
 ' Shall 1 run for a doctor V asked Phil. 
 
 A doctor ! Mr. Foxy Wharton here expressed 
 his mind, firmly, strongly and most fully upon 
 doctors in general, declining their interference, 
 and threatening to kill, or gouge the eyes out 
 of the first medical practitioner who came to do 
 him any good, or even to so much as look at him. 
 
 Take him indoors, and let him rest ; he should 
 be better before the morning was over. He was 
 only a bit queer on his legs — spasms, perhaps, or 
 indigestion. 
 
 They helped him into the front parlour, and 
 put him on an old sofa there, which did duty as 
 a bed for five of them during the night, Phil and 
 the two foreigners sleeping in the room above, 
 when there was a chance of sleep, Phil's father 
 being fond of late hours, and cards, as Avell as 
 ardent spirits. . It had been a dispute over the 
 oards which had led to blows last night ; they 
 were at it when Phil had returned from the 
 
 I 2
 
 •116 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 organist's to his lodgings, and gone up to his 
 room via the zinc waterspout outside. 
 
 ' You chaps go and do your best without me. 
 And don't keep any of the money. I know 
 what it will come to pretty well,' he said, ' and 
 I'll look you up later on, I daresay.' 
 
 ' All right.' 
 
 ' And, hi ! — here — Phil will stop with me,' 
 roared forth Mr. Wharton, ' he sha'n't stir a step.* 
 
 A blank look of dismay settled on the counte- 
 nances of the itinerants. 
 
 ' We can't do without him. We sha'n't get 
 any money without him,' grumbled the spokes- 
 man — a shadowy figure in our story whom we 
 have once seen cowering in the back seats of 
 the church of St. Eustace — an old friend of 
 Foxy's, and a man who spoke his mind at times 
 — a prime mover in the capture of Phil Wharton 
 twelve months since. 
 
 ' I tell you he sha'n't go,' shouted Mr. Whar- 
 ton, ' isn't that enough V 
 
 'You can trust him with us,' said the man, 
 persistently, ' we can see after him as well as 
 you. We're not likely to let him go, are we?'
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 117 
 
 'I'll keep an eye on him myself. He stops 
 here,' cried the father. 
 
 ' Very well, then we'll all stop,' was the obstin- 
 ate reply, and the musicians unpacked their in- 
 struments, and pitched their felt hats into a 
 corner, and the German, with a strong want of 
 consideration for the headache of the manager, 
 began tuning up his double-bass. 
 
 Mr. Wharton looked at them indignantly and 
 then doubtfully, and finally, to their amazement, 
 when they had settled down, and taken out and 
 lighted their pipes, and filled the little room 
 with tobacco smoke, he burst into tears and 
 began to moan and gesticulate like a big child. 
 
 'Blest if he isn't going soft,' exclaimed a 
 minstrel ; ' what's the matter now, Foxy T 
 
 ' To be treated like this^after all I've done 
 for you — you infernal vagabonds,' he cried, 
 wringing his hands, ' I won't stand it — I can't 
 stand it ! Phil, reach me something ofi* the 
 mantel-piece to throw at them. That flat iron 
 will do.' 
 
 ' Phil better not do anything so seelly,' mut- 
 tered the Frenchman.
 
 118 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 * Take him with you then — get out of the 
 place, let him run away and ruin us, as he means 
 to do. I know — I know all about it. Get out 
 all of you, before I go mad looking at your 
 cussed ugly faces,' he went on, whimpering and 
 raving, * just leave me to myself.' 
 
 The men rose, and prepared once more for 
 their exit. Phil w^ent to his father's side. 
 
 ' I would rather stop with you,' he said. 
 
 Mr. AVharton scowled at him, and dried his 
 tears with the back of a huge dirty hand. 
 
 * What's that for?' 
 
 * You're ill, and not fit to be left,' explained 
 Phil, as he looked at him very thoughtfully. 
 
 ' What do you know about it ?' 
 
 ' And I'd much rather stop — oh ! so much 
 rather, if you'll let me,' pleaded his son. 
 
 ' Well — I'm blowed,' muttered Foxy Wharton. 
 
 He lay and considered this proposition, staring 
 hard at Phil until a fresh shivering fit seized 
 him, and his great white teeth rattled Kke 
 castanets. 
 
 ' Go — why don't you go ? Every one of you,' 
 he screamed at last, * don't you see the money
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 119 
 
 we're chucking away? Phil, you won't mn off 
 and leave usV 
 
 ' No — not now.' 
 
 * Say, " wish you may die, if you do." ' 
 
 Phil said it to please his suspicious parent, 
 but he still remained at the bedside and looked 
 imploringly at the others. 
 
 ' Leave me with him,' he said at last, ' he is 
 my father, and I have a right to stop.' 
 
 ' I tell you to get away,' said Mr. Wharton ; 
 ' I hate the sight of you.' 
 
 And Phil, at this paternal remark, got up and 
 departed with the minstrels forthwith. But he 
 could not sing that day ; his voice trembled and 
 was out of tune, and he thought in his heart he 
 was going to be ill like his father. 
 
 ' Something's the matter with the boy,' 
 thought the visitors, and the absence of the 
 big, bland Mr. Moriega was explained to a few 
 inquirers who were full of sympathy. Piiil 
 looked round once for Mr. Miles and his wife, 
 but, true to their new line of policy not to look 
 conspicuous and arouse fresh suspicions, they 
 were not upon the sands, and presently, and
 
 120 IX BAD HANDS. 
 
 before the entertainment was over, Phil slipped 
 away and went back to the little cottage near 
 the pier. 
 
 Here he found his father much worse, and a 
 neighbour from next door attending upon him, 
 and endeavouring to pacify him. At sight of 
 Phil he was a little calmer, and the ruling 
 passion was strong in him for a moment again. 
 
 'What's the take this morning?' he inquired, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 ' Three pounds odd.' 
 
 'Where's the money ?' he asked ;' who's got 
 the money?' 
 
 ' Biggins.' 
 
 ' Biggins is a thief, and will stick to the lot if 
 we don't look after him.' 
 
 ' I don't think he will.' 
 
 'You did not run away, then,' he said, after a 
 long pause. 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you V 
 
 'I — I couldn't leave you like this,' replied 
 Phil, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Why not ?'
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 121 
 
 'I may go when you are strong and well 
 again, but J shouldn't like to slip ofif to-day/ 
 said Phil, thoughtfully. ' I don't know why, 
 except it seems so strange to leave you now.' 
 
 Foxy Wharton glared at his son, and tried to 
 speak again — this time failing and making a 
 miserable noise instead. Phil ran out of the 
 house, and on his own responsibility went in 
 search of a doctor, whom he brought back with 
 him, and w^ho pronounced Mr. Wharton, alias 
 Moriega, in a very bad way indeed, although 
 extremely guarded in his opinion as to what 
 was the matter with the gentleman. 
 
 He recommended perfect quiet, and the with- 
 drawal of the minstrels to another lodging, and 
 Foxy AVharton was too ill to utter anything by 
 way of protest. Pie could just stretch his liand 
 out towards his son, and say, in a sad, piteous 
 tone, ^ Don't go away, Phil,' and that Avas his 
 last coherent phrase for a considerable period 
 of time. He was raving with brain-fever before 
 the day was over, and the news took an exag- 
 gerated shape, as news will, now and then, and 
 tlie worthy souls of Tenby were scared the next
 
 122 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 morning by the news that scarlet fever or small- 
 pox, or scarlet fever and small-pox combined, 
 had seized upon the ' Minstrels of the Tyrol,' 
 and heaven and the doctor only knew how many 
 of them were down in it. This alarming news 
 was circulated in the market-place on Saturday, 
 and detailed over shop- counters and at street 
 corners, the result being that when the * Min- 
 strels of the Tyrol,' minus the Moriegas, father 
 and son, appeared upon the sands, there was a 
 general stampede away from them, and they 
 were left to two empty bathing-machines, a 
 blind man, and a dog with a tin mug in his 
 mouth. 
 
 There was a hurried consultation as to ways 
 and means, and by the afternoon train the 
 minstrels hurried away to Milford, and were 
 fiddling and singing in the streets that evening 
 with but indifierent success. They would have 
 taken Phil away with them, but he refused to 
 go, and was deaf to all entreaties, threats, or 
 promises. The law was very clearly on his side 
 now, and, as the members of the company did 
 not see well how to break it with impunity,
 
 THE BREAK UP OF THE MINSTRELS. 123 
 
 they hastened away and were seen no more in 
 Tenby. Were seen never again, we may add^ 
 by Philip Wharton or his father.
 
 124 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 m GOOD HANDS. 
 
 Many clays passed before Mr. Wharton, better 
 known to the Welsh folk as Moriega, was con- 
 scious enough to become aware that his band 
 of singers and players had vanished away from 
 him. When he came back to himself, or to his 
 senses, he was very strangely weak; and life 
 lay before him very strangely too, like a steep 
 np-hill track over a foggy moorland, and in 
 crossing which rugged way, so weak and faint 
 as he was, the odds were that he would die. 
 
 Phil thought he would die, though he had 
 never faced death before, or known anything of 
 the signs and shadows of it; the neighbours, 
 ^sympathetic in their rough, homely fashion,
 
 IN GOOD HANDS. 125" 
 
 were sure Mr. Moriega was not long for this 
 world ; the doctor, in his heart of hearts, had not 
 any hope of him. The fever had burned it- 
 self out, but it had burned away the life of 
 the man too, and here was almost the end of it, 
 unless signs and tokens, neighbours' prophecies 
 and doctor's forebodings, were all equally 
 delusive. 
 
 The first sign of his better estate in one re- 
 spect was in his recognition of Phil sitting by 
 his bedside watching him attentively, with his 
 thill hands upon his knees. 
 
 • Have you been there long T he asked, in a 
 faint whisper. 
 
 ' Not very long,' was the reply. 
 ' Since the morning when I was taken ill V 
 he asked again. 
 
 * Off and on — yes.' 
 
 ' For how long now V 
 
 ' Ten days or more.' 
 
 ' Good lor', you don't say so !' . 
 
 Then he put his hand up with a great effort 
 to his head, which he found as smooth and shin^- 
 as a billiard ball. This was a new surprise, and
 
 126 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 not having struggled out of his delirium a per- 
 fect Christian, as people always do in very 
 proper books, he took a long breath for a good 
 swear, and got through most of it before he gave 
 over suddenly. 
 
 ' Don't go on like that now, father,' cried 
 Phil. 
 
 ' Because — why V 
 
 ' Because you mustnH.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mustn't I ? We'll see about— who the 
 blazes has been and shaved my head?' he asked, 
 indignantly, but very faintly still. 
 
 ' The doctor.' 
 
 ' I'll about kill him when I get round,' he 
 muttered, * see if I don't, the brute. What 
 business ' 
 
 And then Mr. Wharton had to give up, being 
 entirely pumped out of breath for that occasion. 
 
 'You are to keep very quiet, father,' said 
 Phil, ' and to be kept very quiet.' 
 
 Mr. Wharton did not answer. He lay and 
 looked at his son steadily until his eyes closed 
 by degrees, and he passed away again into 
 dreamland.
 
 IN GOOD HANDS. 127 
 
 Later on in the nigbt he mustered up strength 
 to feel his head very carefully again, as if ex- 
 ceedingly perplexed by its smoothness and 
 spherical conformation, and to mutter, 
 
 * He'll pay for his larks presently. A pretty 
 game to be up to when a fellow couldn't help 
 himself. Phil!' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 ' Where are they all V 
 
 ' Gone.' 
 
 ' Run away ? The lot of them V 
 
 Phil nodded. 
 
 'Why didn't your 
 
 Phil did not reply to this. 
 
 ' They asked you V 
 
 Phil nodded again. 
 
 * Ah ! I think I see,' were the last words he 
 said that night. 
 
 But in the morning he saw more than that, as 
 men sick unto death do see at times, when the 
 great Hand draws the curtain aside. The doc- 
 tor came, and told him, after Phil had been sent 
 away upon some errand, all that Phil had done
 
 128 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 to nurse and watch him, and help those who 
 nursed and watched along with him ; he spoke 
 of the unselfishness, even of the afi'ection of the 
 boy, distressed and amazed at this man of 
 mighty strength and force reduced to such a 
 strait as this. 
 
 ' Do you think he's sorry, then V asked the 
 sick man, wonderingly. 
 
 ' I'm sure he is.' 
 
 ' It's not likely. About as sorry as you are 
 for nialdng me this infernal scarecrow of a 
 Chinaman. What did you go and ' 
 
 ' There, there, you must take things very 
 calmly, Mr. Moriega. You must not excite 
 yourself in the least,' said the doctor, laying his 
 •hand gently on the shoulder of his patient. 
 
 « How would you like 2/oitrug\y head shaved?' 
 muttered Wharton. 
 
 ' I should be glad, if it gave me a better 
 chance of life,' was the ready answer. 
 
 Foxy Wharton considered this ; then he said, 
 very sharply, 
 
 ' Has it given me any chance V 
 
 * It was necessary. It '
 
 IX GOOD HANDS. 129 
 
 ' Look here. Am I going to pull through, or 
 to die V 
 
 * That is in God's hands, not mine.' 
 
 'What do yozi think r 
 
 A doctor does not care to be pressed for a 
 definite opinion as to the condition of his pa- 
 tient, but the man seemed anxious to know the 
 exact truth, and there might be reasons why he 
 should. 
 
 ' I am afraid, my poor fellow,' he said, after 
 another moment's hesitation, ' that you will not 
 get over this.' 
 
 ' You know I sha'n't.' 
 
 ' No, I don't know,' said the doctor. 
 
 Foxy Wharton did not ask any more ques- 
 tions ; did not say much during the rest of the 
 day — only towards evening he made a sign, to 
 which the watchful Phil at once responded. 
 
 ' You want me, father. What is it V 
 
 'Ask that — organist chap — to come and see 
 me,^ he whispered. ' Look alive — I'm getting 
 precious — weak.' 
 
 Phil gave a frightened look at him, and darted 
 away. Half-an-hour afterwards, he and Folke- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IX BAD HAXDS. 
 
 stone Miles, and a third figure, wlio stood in the 
 background, were in the room together. 
 
 'Who else have you brought with — you V the 
 weak man asked, feebly. 
 
 ' A minister,' said Phil. ' Mr. Miles thought 
 you would like to see him presently.' 
 
 ' 1 — don't want any minister,' he answered, 
 with a hard laugh. ' What next V 
 
 * Shall I send him away ? Ask him to come 
 to-morroAv ? Tell him ' 
 
 ' No. Let him be,' muttered \Vharton ; then he 
 turned to Folkestone Miles, who was looking at 
 him through his glasses very curiously. 
 
 ' You've been a friend to Phil,' he said ; ' do 
 you mind — my sa^dng — thankee 1' 
 
 ' I am glad to have your thanks.' 
 
 'He has — a wonderful — voice. Look after 
 him, will you?' 
 
 ' I will,' was the promise given here. 
 
 ' Thankee again. He's been in bad hands — 
 but it hasn't — spoilt the boy.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 A smile — a very strange smile — lighted up the 
 broad, white face for an instant, as he whispered, 
 very faintly,
 
 IN GOOD HANDS. 131 
 
 * In good — hands — now !' 
 
 Philip Wharton is a great singer at the pres- 
 ent time — a rich man, it is said, and one who 
 makes good use of his riches, and turns not his 
 back upon old friends ; takes trouble even, 
 people say, to find out old friends and help 
 them in his way, as they helped him, in old 
 times, in theirs. There are a few who set him 
 down as a trifle too eccentric even for a popular 
 professional. He is bringing out an oratorio, 
 in which a Mr. Folkestone Miles is deeply in- 
 terested, and which Francis Poofer, a musical 
 critic of light and leading, and who writes 
 oratorios himself, says will fail, let Wharton try 
 all he may to force it down the throats of the 
 public, and take the principal tenor part in it, and 
 all that nonsense. But PhiHp Wharton says it 
 shall succeed, and slaps the back of Mr. Miles, — 
 who is his sole and permanent accompanyist at 
 all the concerts, and who is doing very well 
 indeed — and adds that he means it to be the 
 big hit of the season. 
 
 Yes — an eccentric man, Mr. WhartoD. Ho 
 
 k2
 
 132 IN BAD HANDS. 
 
 walks all the way to the Westminster Bridge 
 Eoad to have his hair cut at Broadbrook's ' Hair 
 Cutting Saloon and Fashionable Emporium ' — 
 an establishment all plate-glass front, wax dum- 
 mies^ and ivory hair-brushes — and how Mr. 
 Broadbrook managed to start such a business 
 as that, all of a sudden too, no one in Lambeth, 
 aware of Mr. Broadbrook's antecedents, has ever 
 been able to make out. 
 
 Phil Wharton knows, and Folkestone Miles 
 can make a very tolerable guess.
 
 MR. BIRD'S BEST UMBRELLA.
 
 135 
 
 MR. BIRD'S BEST UMBRELLA. 
 
 ' Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat — Bang ! 
 There was a pause, and a long enough pause to 
 give me the impression that I had been dream- 
 ing of earthquakes, or of the bombardment of 
 the British Museum, or of a volcanic eruption in 
 Russell Square, to convince me even forcibly 
 that I must have been dreaming, as I sat up in 
 bed, and rubbed my eyes and listened. Then 
 — Bang ! bang ! bang I — rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a- 
 tat-a-tat-a-tat — Bang ! Yes, there was some- 
 body evidently knocking at the street-door, 
 hanging by the street-door knocker, and tlu'ow- 
 ing his whole soul into the instrument— the 
 house was on fire perhaps, or we were wanted
 
 13(5 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 next door at Brian's, or a lanatic had escaped^ 
 and was clamouring for admittance, strait-waist- 
 coat and all, or else the upstairs lodgers had 
 come back prematurely from their visit to Tun- 
 bridge, and were anxious to get in out of the 
 rain, which was coming down with a vehemence 
 that was certainly startling. I could suiTtiise 
 nothing more at a moment's notice and at half- 
 past two in the morning. 
 
 We all slept very soundly in No. 10, Prossi- 
 ter Street, Prossiter Place, Russell Square, 
 Bloomsbury, for we worked very hard at No. 
 10, and the house was a large one. It was a 
 house of many lodgers— parlour-floor, first-floor, 
 and second-floor — and all comfortably let, and 
 those lodgers who were at home were all fast 
 asleep, or else waiting for me, the poor, weakly 
 proprietor of the establishment (Jane Neild, at 
 your service, gentle reader, age twenty-two, and 
 an oi'phan with an establishment on her mind, and 
 a living to get out of the establishment), to call 
 to the servants (Bridget, able-bodied, ' general,' 
 aged forty, and a frightful temper, and Sarah, 
 aged thirteen, child with a chronic cold and a
 
 137 
 
 red nose, but handy as a help to Bridget) to get 
 up and see what "was the matter at No. 10, or 
 with the party outside No. 10 who was * kicking 
 up such a deuce of a row.' 
 
 That was the way it was put at last by 
 Captain Choppers, my drawing-room floor, an 
 irritable old gentleman — not to say violent when, 
 roused — who came out on the landing at last 
 in an attire which Bridget told me afterwards 
 was far from decorous, and began bawling 
 vociferously up the staircase the names of each 
 of my maids in turn, concluding with my own 
 name in a shriek of sheer despair. 
 
 * Miss Neild — here, I say — is everybody dead ? 
 Miss N-e-e-e-ild !' 
 
 'Bless my soul, captain, what is it now?' I 
 cried, through the crack in my door. 
 
 'Don't you hear that infernal noise down- 
 stairs, madam ? AVho the deuce is it at this 
 time of night, who . the — ivhat do you say, 
 madam?' 
 
 ' I'm going to open the window, and inquire, 
 unless you ' 
 
 ' It's no business of mine. Miss Neild,' bawled
 
 138 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 the captain. ' I don't expect anybody — I'm not 
 going into the drawing-room at this time of 
 night, with my cold. I'm disturbed enough, as 
 it is, through your being all so diabolically deaf. 
 I shall leave this day week, ma'am. There.' 
 
 And slam went the back drawing-room door, 
 and crick-crack went the key in the irascible 
 captain's lock. I was in my dressing-room, with a 
 flannel garment, which 1 take the liberty here of 
 calhng a ' muffler,' wrapped round my head and 
 shoulders; and, as 1 went towards the T\andow, 
 trembhng, I must say, in every hmb, the knock- 
 ing was repeated for the third time, and with 
 a threefold vigour, born of the delay and irri- 
 tation at the gross want of attention to past 
 summonses. 
 
 I waited till there was silence again, or nearly 
 silence — for I could distinctly hear Captain Chop- 
 pers loading all his firearms — and then opened 
 the window, and peered down into the damp, 
 shiny street, which the wind and rain had all to 
 themselves, with the exception of a dark figure 
 on my top step, whose hat, I could see, was as 
 shiny as the pavement.
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 139 
 
 * What is it V I inquired ; but the wind whisked 
 my voice into Museum Street, and I had to 
 repeat the inquiry in a shrill falsetto. The 
 man below paused with his hand to the knocker 
 again — for he was just going to begin afresh — 
 listened, and then ran down the steps and stood 
 on the edge of the kerbstone, with his hands 
 behind him, looking up at me at last. I could 
 make nothing of him in the darkness from my 
 point of view. 
 
 ' What do you want, sir V I asked, now that I 
 had secured the attention of this individual. 
 * What are jow making such a noise for, at this 
 time of night V 
 
 ' I'm very sorry to disturb you, lady ' 
 
 ' So it seems,' I said, acrimoniously ; but he 
 did not hear me, and perhaps it was as well he 
 did not. I have not a reputation for being 
 severe in my remarks, but then this was an 
 exceptional proceeding, and deserved rebuke. 
 
 ' The fact is, madam, the wind has blown my 
 umbrella clean out of my hand into your area. 
 I would not mind so much,' he condescended to 
 explain still further, at the top of his voice, 'but
 
 140 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 it's an umbrella I set great store by. Besides, 
 it's raining tremendously.' 
 
 ' I really cannot come down at this hour and 
 get your umbrella,' I said, severely ; ' you must 
 call to-morrow for it.' 
 
 'Isn't there anyone in the house — any man — 
 who can get it V 
 
 ' The house is locked up for the night.' 
 
 ' It's such a very deep area, or I would drop 
 over and get it myself — but then I don't see 
 how to get out again,' he said. 
 
 * I can't help you, sir ; I am very sorry,' I 
 replied, ' but I can't go down to-night for it.' 
 
 ' I should be a brute to ask you, ma'am,' he 
 said, politely now ; and here I could see he 
 raised his hat to me ; ' of course I could not tell 
 who was in the house, or whether it might not 
 be easy to get my umbrella — which I really 
 value very much, I assure you ; it's an umbrella 
 which —but I am very sorry to have disturbed 
 you. I will call in the morning — thank you, 
 good-night.' 
 
 And away the gentleman strode, turning up 
 the collar of his coat above his ears as he went
 
 MK. bird's best umbrella. 141 
 
 on €lown the street. I closed the window, I 
 set my 'mufHer' aside, and in another moment 
 I should have been in my humble couch again, 
 •when Rat-a-tat- a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a- tat 
 — Bang ! once more aroused the echoes of the 
 neighbourhood, but brought no policeman to 
 the rescue, or any anxious inquirers to the 
 windows, except myself, who, once more en- 
 wrapped, and this time trembhng with indig- 
 nation, w^as a minute afterwards in my old 
 position facing the dangers and inconveniences 
 of the gale, and looking down once more at the 
 figure belov/ me, standing in his old position on 
 the brink of the deep gutter in the roadway. 
 
 'I beg your pardon again very much, I am 
 awfully sorry to be such a nuisance, but I really 
 don't know Vv^here I am,' he cried, ratthng on 
 with great volubility. ' I haven't the least idea, 
 and the streets are all alike, and I am quite a 
 stranger to this part of the world, and I am 
 afraid 1 sha'n't know this house from any other 
 in the dayhght. Might I just trouble you for 
 the address?' 
 • ' Prossiter Street,' I called down to him.
 
 142 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' I thaok yuii very much. Boshington Street/ 
 
 ' Prossiter Street,' I screamed. 
 
 ' Prossiter — a thousand thanks and apologies. 
 And what number, ma'am, may I ask V 
 
 'No. 10.' 
 
 ' I am very much obhged to you,' he bawled 
 forth, ' I am exceedingly indebted ; I would not 
 have troubled you in this way if the umbrella 
 had not been ' 
 
 But I would not listen to any further expla- 
 nation ; he had already said that he set great 
 store by the umbrella, and I did not want to 
 hear that fact again with the rain coming down 
 like a waterspout, and the wind blowing every 
 way at once. I closed the window summarily 
 and cut short his volubihty, and the instant 
 afterwards I heard him running along towards 
 New Oxford Street as if to make up for lost 
 time, or to overtake a passing cab of which he 
 had probably caught sight. 
 
 It was some time before I could get to sleep 
 after so lengthy a discussion under such peculiar 
 circumstances. I was annoyed at the man's 
 l^ertinacity concerning his trumpery umbrella,
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 145 
 
 his indiiFerence to time, and the personal incon- 
 venience to which he exposed people by his- 
 unseasonable reqnest, and I lay in considerable 
 fear of his third return and another series of 
 questions at the top of his lungs. But he came 
 not again, and I dropped off to sleep at last, 
 and was troubled by dreams of tempests, and 
 tornadoes, and white squalls carrying away 
 whole grosses of umbrellas, till Sarah knocked 
 at the panels of my door with her customary 
 information that it was half-past six o'clock. 
 
 1 was perforce an early riser. There was a 
 great deal to superintend, and my parlour-floor 
 was a gentleman connected with the railway 
 goods traffic department, who was always get- 
 ting up early and going out to business and 
 letting himself in again with his latch-key about 
 seven in the morning, when he expected break- 
 fast ready, and ate it walking about the room, 
 as a rule, preparatory to running away again in 
 hot haste. I should have considered Mr. Goode 
 an irritable lodger if it had not been for the 
 angelic contrast that he afforded to Captain 
 Choppers. As it was, he seemed only a little
 
 144 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 bit fussy and precise, which was atti^butable 
 chiefly to his lot in life. Mr. Goode was a 
 widower with two sons at boarding-school, and 
 if those boys had lived and died at boarding- 
 school, instead of coming home twice a year 
 for the hoKdays, I think Bridget and Sarah 
 would have rejoiced exceedingly. 
 
 I remember Mr. Goode asked Sarah that 
 morning if he could speak with Miss Neild 
 before he left, and I went upstairs at once to 
 see him. He was walking about with his mouth 
 full and a slice of bread-and butter in his hand. 
 
 'That was a dreadful noise last night. Miss 
 Neild,' he began ; ' 1 couldn't get a wink of 
 sleep. The captain, I suppose, again '{ I must 
 certainly ask you in ray name to present my 
 compliments to him, and ' 
 
 ' It was not Captain Choppers.' 
 
 * Indeed. No. Well, I thought I heard his 
 voice,' said Mr. Goode, very much disappointed. 
 
 There was no homogeneousness between Mr. 
 Goode and Captain Choppers — I may say even 
 that there were times when they hated and 
 loathed each other.
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 145 
 
 ' He's a beggarly upstart civilian, madam,' the 
 captain would roar in excited moments ; and 
 * He a captain !' Mr. Goode would say with 
 withering contempt. 'Captain of a penny 
 steamboat, perhaps, nothing more.' 
 
 But to my strange story. 
 
 *A gentleman dropped his umbrella down 
 the area and knocked me up for it,' I explained, 
 with a little acrimonious emphasis. 
 
 * Well, of all the confounded impertinence !' 
 exclaimed Mr. Goode; *1 should like to treat 
 that party to a bit of my mind. You never got 
 up and gave it to him.' 
 
 'No, I did not.' 
 
 'I am glad to hear that. For you must take 
 care of yourself, Miss Neild, and keep strong. 
 You are not looking well,' he said, regarding me 
 with his head on one side as if he had a trouble- 
 some wen on the other which he was anxious to 
 keep clear of the edge of his shirt-collar, * upon 
 my word you are not. You are pale and fragile- 
 looking. A little change at the seaside now 
 would do you a world of good.' 
 
 * Yes, I daresay it would.' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' This large house is a trial to you — and that 
 captain, with his absurd fancies and his ridicu- 
 lous tempers, would worry the life out of a saint 
 — and you are really looking extremely pale 
 this morning. And — good gracious 1 had no 
 idea it was so late !' 
 
 Mr. Goode swallowed the last portion of his 
 bread-and-butter whole, and dashed like a 
 harlequin out of the front door. When he had 
 gone I surveyed myself in his parlour glass and 
 wondered if I was looking very ill, or whether, 
 being a dismal man, he was trying to frighten 
 me, and I arrived at the conclusion I was look- 
 ing about the same as usual, ' a prim, pale, pert 
 little puss,' as my dear old dad called me once, 
 when I was arguing with him on the house- 
 keeping expenses, and how the weekly money 
 would never hold out if he would continually 
 ask the lodgers into supper and a game at crib- 
 bage afterwards. 
 
 Poor dad, he died next year, and left me sole 
 proprietor of the lease and furniture of the 
 house in Prossiter Street, and there w^ere no late 
 suppers and cribbage any more. I was seven-
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 147 
 
 teeu when he died, and I had had five years' 
 charge of No. 10 since — ' getting quite an old 
 maid, Lily Brian, who lived next door, said ; but 
 then Lily was four years younger than I, and 
 assumed upon her youth, as girls will. A nice 
 girl was Lily Brian, and my one friend and con- 
 fidante, but perhaps too fond of laughing at 
 everything, although that showed she was 
 happy and had a keen sense of humour and a 
 fine set of teeth. 
 
 Well, perhaps I icas a trifle paler, was my 
 second conclusion after the first five minutes, 
 and with a tinge of redness — a mere tinge — 
 about the nose, just as if I was * breeding a 
 cold,' as Bridget put it. And this was not 
 remarkable, considering last night's experiences, 
 and sure enough the cold ivas bred before my 
 early dinner-hour, when the sneezing stage had 
 set in with considerable force. This reminded 
 me once more of the umbrella which had been 
 dropped into the area last night, and I asked 
 Bridget to bring it to me. 
 
 * The what, m'm V asked Bridget, with a wild 
 stare. 
 
 l2
 
 148 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' The umbrella.' 
 
 ' Umbereller, and down our airy, did ye say, 
 m'm ? There's not a scrap of umbereller down 
 our airy. I've been in and out twenty toimes, 
 and must have seen it," continued Bridget. 
 
 ' Bridget, there must be an umbrella,' I said^ 
 ' go and see.' 
 
 Bridget departed and returned with the 
 information that there was no umbrella in the 
 area, and then I went and looked for myself, 
 and, as it was still drizzling with rain, I caught 
 another cold on the top of the first one, and 
 was at fever heat ere twenty-four hours had 
 ensued. But before then the gentleman had 
 called for his property, and I had met face to 
 face the individual who had rendered last night 
 hideous. 
 
 He came at three in the afternoon, sending 
 in his card by way of preliminary announce- 
 ment that he had arrived. I did not associate 
 him with the umbrella — indeed, I was feeling- 
 drowsy and ' out of sorts,' with pains at the 
 back of my head, when a huge glazed card was 
 presented to me bearing the inscription in large
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 149 
 
 fancy letters of ' Geoffry Bird, Carver and 
 Gilder and Picture-Frame Maker, 967, Goswell 
 Road, Islington, N.' 
 
 'I don't want any picture-frames, Sarah,' I 
 said to my small help, wearily. 
 
 ' It's the gentleman about his umbrella, mum,' 
 said Sarah. 
 
 ' Good Heavens I Oh, indeed. Well, ask 
 him to step in, then.' 
 
 My sitting-room was a small apartment at 
 the end of the long passage, the only little room 
 I had to myself and my day-dreams — yes, my 
 day-dreams I — when the house was full, which it 
 had been all these years, for they were the 
 same lodgers who had hved with us in father's 
 time — odd, inconsiderate, queer-tempered lodgers 
 enough, but faithful to my house, and keepmg 
 an old promise to my father, too, * to stand by 
 the little woman a bit when he was gone.' 
 
 Mr. Bird was ushered into my presence, and 
 he came in with a low bow and with a trifle too 
 much of a smile to wholly please me, although 
 it suggested itself to me somewhat quaintly 
 that he would not have much to smile at pre-
 
 150 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 sently. Mr. Bird was a slim and somewhat 
 short young man who wore his black hair long 
 enough for a violinist, and had upon the small- 
 est of hands the reddest and most prominent of 
 knuckles. He was rather a good-looking young 
 man, with brown eyes and black bushy eyebrows, 
 and with a habit of shaking his head suddenly, 
 as if to get the hair back from his forehead, or 
 as if he had just come up out of water. He was 
 fairly well dressed, might have passed even for 
 a gentleman if it had not been for his red 
 knuckles and that very obtrusive smile. 
 
 ' Good afternoon. Miss Neild — for 1 understand 
 your name is Neild/ he began ; ' 1 am very 
 sorry for the third time in my life to be such 
 a complete nuisance to you. But I think I 
 am in the right this time, being here by in- 
 vitation.' 
 
 ' Yes; I asked you to call at a more season- 
 able hour, I remember,' I replied, ' but ' 
 
 'And I owe you no end of apologies,' he 
 added, ' for the noise I made last night. I was 
 in too much of a hurry — I am naturally impul- 
 sive, in fact — and when the wind caught my
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 151 
 
 umbrella, and blew it clean out of my hands 
 into your area, my first impulse was to run up 
 the steps and knock.' 
 
 * Yes, 1 heard you knock,' I said, quietly. 
 
 ' No, I'm sure you didn't,' he said, flatly con- 
 tradicting me here ; * you couldn't have heard 
 me the first time, for I waited a reasonable 
 period before I knocked again. It was a tre- 
 mendous while to wait with a fellow drenched 
 to the skin all the time. Bj George, I was 
 never out in such a rain. I shall catch a nice 
 cold, I am afraid. You have a bad cold, young- 
 lady?' 
 
 * I caught cold last night.' 
 
 ' Not — not at that window T 
 
 ' Yes, at that window.' 
 
 ' Oh, come, I am awfully sorry for that,' Mr. 
 Bird cried, ' I didn't think of that. I thought 
 some gentleman, or servant, or porter might be 
 up, for there was a light burning over the hall 
 door, and it wouldn't be a great deal of trouble 
 and save my getting wet through. Why, I 
 would much rather have lost my umbrella alto- 
 gether than have given yoii cold, although it's an
 
 152 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 iimbrella which I would not take twenty pounds 
 for —no, nor fifty pounds either.' 
 
 * Is it a very valuable umbrella V 
 
 ' Oh no, not at all ; but, as you know now, it's 
 my best umbrella in every sense of the word,' he 
 said, laughing, ' my very best umbrella, don't 
 you see V 
 
 But I did not see ; neither the application nor 
 the umbrella was apparent to me, and my heart 
 quite sank at the news which I had to impart to 
 him. The man was so enwrapped in his um- 
 brella — speaking figuratively — that I felt it was 
 necessary to break the news gently. 
 
 ' I'm sorry to say I don't see/ I replied, ' for 
 the fact is ' 
 
 Yes, he was impulsive, and dashed to conclu- 
 sions ; and the smile did leave his face as sud- 
 denly and completely as if somebody had pulled 
 it away by a string, and a settled look of horror, 
 and for an instant open-mouthed idiocy, took its 
 place. 
 
 ' The fact is ' he repeated, very slowly at 
 
 last ; ' go on, please.' 
 
 ' That there 'svas no umbrella down our area 
 at all;
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 153 
 
 ' Oh ! that won't do,' he exclaimed, so abrupt- 
 ly and rudely that I felt the colour coming up 
 all over me, * that won't do at any price.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean by any price, 
 sir,' I said, drawing myself up to my full height, 
 as the novehsts say — and that height was exact- 
 ly live feet three inches and a half when fully 
 drawn and a little bit on tiptoe — ' but you must 
 take my word, sir, that I haven't set eyes on 
 your umbrella.' 
 
 * No, Miss Neild, I don't suppose you have,' 
 he said, very quickly ; ' don't think that I think 
 that you think — that — that — why, of" course I 
 don't,' he said, tumbling into another sentence 
 as the first one became hopelessly involved, 
 * and it's not at all likely ; but it went down 
 your area — 1 was perfectly sober — and the ser- 
 vants must have seen it in the morning. Ma}' I 
 ask the servants V 
 
 ' I have asked them.' 
 
 'Isn't there a page-boy, or somebody who 
 comes early to clean something ?' 
 
 ^ No.' 
 
 ' Who is the first to go into that area in the
 
 154 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 morning, Miss Neild?' he inquired — * somebody 
 for coals, I suppose?' 
 
 * Bridget or Sarah, certainly.' 
 
 * I should very much hke to see Bridget and 
 Sarah,' he suggested, * if you would not object/ 
 
 ' You must be content with my word, sir, that 
 your umbrella is not on the premises,' I said, 
 still loftily ; ' I cannot have my servants subject- 
 ed to a cross-examination on this question. I 
 have abeady made every inquiry.' 
 
 ' And they tell you they have not seen my 
 umbrella?' 
 
 'They -do.' 
 
 ' And you believe them V 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 « Well, 1 don't — and that's plain speaking,' he 
 said, frankly. 
 
 ' I'm aware of that.' 
 
 ' Because, you see, it is quite impossible, un- 
 less there's anybody else in the house who gets 
 up earlier than the servants. Is there anybody 
 else V he asked. 
 
 * Yes, there's a gentleman who lodges in my 
 front parlours, who leaves very early, but '
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 155 
 
 'That's the man. Where is he?' cried Mr. 
 Bird, with a frantic dash in a neAV direction of 
 suspicion, ' 1 should hke to see him.' 
 
 * He's a gentleman holding a high position on 
 the railway, and is not at all likely to confiscate 
 property that does not belong to him,' 1 said. 
 
 ' I don't say he has confiscated it,' answered 
 Mr. Bird, less brusquely, 'but he may have 
 seen it this morning, and put it aside for further 
 inquiries.' 
 
 ' Mr. Goode is not in the habit of going into 
 my area,' I said ; ' I don't beheve he has been in 
 the area in the whole course of his life.' 
 
 'Not before this morning, Miss Neild — very 
 likely not, having nothing to go for, as it were. 
 But when he caught sight of an umbrella — and a 
 very peculiar umbrella — lying on the wet stones, 
 I haven't the slightest doubt ' 
 
 ' He could not get into the area, sir,' I said ; 
 ' Bridget takes up the key with her every night, 
 and, besides, I told him about the umbrella this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' What did he say to that V 
 
 'He said it was like your impertinence —
 
 156 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 " confouucled impertinence," I may say were the 
 actual words used,' I answered ; ' to make such 
 a noise in the middle of the night, and he should 
 like to give you a piece of his mind.' 
 
 ' Oh ! he said that, did he V he remarked, 
 biting his finger-nails almost savagely. 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 ' Then he's the man who's got my umbrella,' 
 he cried ; ' I see it all now. He's keeping it 
 back out of spite I' 
 
 ' Mr. Bird, this is absolutely unendurable.' 
 
 ' I suppose he was the fellow bellowing about 
 the house like a bull last night, trying to make 
 somebody understand that I was knocking. I 
 heard him.' 
 
 ' No, he was not the fellow^ I replied, severe- 
 ly ; ' that was Captain Choppers.' 
 
 ' Does Captain Choppers get up early V 
 
 ' No, he doesn't, he's a very late riser indeed ; 
 I believe he's in bed now.' 
 
 ' That's his artfulness,' said the suspicious in- 
 dividual, *just to make you ftincy ' 
 
 But I could not allow him to proceed any 
 further. I was fairly roused by this stranger's
 
 :\iR. bird's best umbrelLx\. 157 
 
 disparaging reflections. I rose, looked steadily 
 and grayely at him, and said — 
 
 ' This interview is at an end, Mr. Bird. These 
 gentlemen are my lodgers — I might say almost 
 my friends — and I cannot listen to yom- cruel 
 and nncalled-for remarks against their common 
 honesty.' 
 
 ' Common honesty it may be, Miss Neild,' he 
 replied ; * but you must allow there is very 
 uncommon dishonesty somewhere in your 
 estabhshment.' 
 
 ' 1 mil allow nothing.' 
 
 ' 1 don't mean I want you to allow me any- 
 thing for the loss of my umbrella,' he said, 
 hurriedly. ^ Pray don't understand that to h& 
 my wish.' 
 
 ' Of course not. The idea !' 
 
 ' That's all right then ; very likely I am a little 
 put out — rude, in fact,' he added, apologetically^ 
 ' for I'm not a lady's man, and don't know any- 
 thing about ladies ; but, as I am quite prepared 
 to take my oath the umbrella did go down your 
 area, it's rather aggravating to be told you don't 
 believe a word I say.'
 
 158 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' I never said that,' I answered. 
 
 ' I shall find it all out my own way, I daresay ; 
 I have got a habit of sifting to the bottom of 
 things, they tell me — but I will not trouble you 
 any more about it, Miss Neild. If I have been 
 a bit rough/ he said, ' I'll ask you to forgive me, 
 and to believe I don't think for an instant yon 
 know anything about it. Heaven forbid, with 
 such a nice look as you've got ' 
 
 *Sirr 
 
 ' I beg pardon. Don't mind me ; I'm bother- 
 ed,' he ran on, with extraordinary volubility, 
 ' and this umbrella was my old father's last 
 present — ^just three days before he died — when 
 he was given up, and one would have thought 
 he had had something more serious to consider 
 than buying me an umbrella for my birthday. 
 He died on my birthday, too, which is another 
 odd part of the story,' he ran on ; ' but there, 
 good-day, madam, I am bothering you. I wish 
 your cold better — good-day.' 
 
 And away marched Mr. GeofFry Bird out of 
 my room, and down the long passage to 
 the street-door, swinging his arms wildly to
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 159 
 
 and fro. He jumped the whole flight of steps 
 into the street, and was gone, as I thought, for 
 good. 
 
 The next day I was very ill indeed — too ill 
 to rise. I had caught cold at the o.pen window 
 and in the damp night air, and it had become 
 absolutely necessary to send for the doctor, and 
 to make what I always considered was too 
 much of a fuss over me. Lily Brian told me a 
 week afterwards, when I was able to sit up for 
 the first time in my room, that I had been in a 
 critical state, and there had been one night 
 when everybody was anxious and excited, and 
 even Captain Choppers walked continuously up 
 and down the stairs for two hours and a half, 
 and said, ' Poor girl, poor girl,' and had a secret 
 conference with Mr. Goode as to the advisa- 
 bility of having a physician in the morning, at 
 their mutual expense^ and ' say nothing about 
 it, sir, to anyone.' But I was better that next 
 morning : I changed for the better with the 
 summer weather which came in, bright, and 
 fine, and hot, and suggested holidays out of 
 town and by the great green sea for the lucky
 
 1 60 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 folk ^vho could afford to spend their money, 
 Lily Brian and her mother and father, and 
 two gawky brothers whom I did not like very 
 much, and thirteen small members of the family, 
 were all going out of town, and ' Why not come 
 with usT Lily had said, kindly. 
 
 My answer was a very old one, and very 
 natural, and very truthful too. 
 
 * Because 1 cannot afford it, Lily.' 
 
 * Oh, bother the money,' said Lily. 
 
 * That's what I often say myself.' 
 
 'It shall cost you next to nothing — hardly 
 anything,' Lily suggested. ' Papa says you 
 will only have to pay for a room somewhere, 
 and you can board with us, and oh, dear, it will 
 be awfully jolly!' 
 
 ' It's very kind of your papa, and — and I'll 
 think of it, Lily, at any rate.' 
 
 ' And make up your mind and say " yes," ' 
 cried Lily — ' won't you, Jane V 
 
 * I don't know.' 
 
 ' That fright of a captain's going somewhere, 
 I know,' Lily said, ' and Mr. Goode has got a 
 free pass down the line, you tell me, and he's
 
 ]\iR. bird's best umbrella. 161 
 
 sure to go into the countiy with so Httle to pay 
 for it : it's just like him. And do think of it, 
 Jane, there's a love !' 
 
 I did think of it. Thought of Mr. Brian's 
 large family, eighteen of them altogether, and 
 whether it was possible I could intrude grace- 
 fully upon them. Mr. Brian had retired from a 
 cocoa-nut fibre and street-door mat business in 
 the Tottenham Court Koad, and was pretty well 
 off, with only a slight necessity for letting his 
 drawing-room floor. He was evidently not a 
 rich man, and there were a few struggles to 
 ' keep up an appearance,' although he went out 
 of town with his family for a month every 
 summer, by express desire of Mrs. Brian, who 
 required change every August, and regularly 
 sallied forth, en famille, from her large establish- 
 ment in Prossiter Street to a house down a 
 back slum in High Street, Margate, where the 
 rooms were small, and the children were heaped 
 together sardine fashion, and now and then 
 came back with ' something catching,' as a 
 wind-up to the season's enjoyment. 
 
 And this particular August I was asked to 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1G2 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 join them. There was ths sea, aud ' You must 
 take a Httle change,' said the doctor, and Lily 
 Brian was very pressing, and Captain Choppers 
 had talked of going away for a week or two, 
 and the boys Goode were coming home for the 
 holidays, and I, Jane Neild, was able to pay — 
 and would insist upon paying — my fair share 
 for board with the Brians, having my little 
 room out of the house, too, for that peace and 
 quietness which is not always found in large 
 families. Yes, 1 would go down to Margate 
 when I was strong — when I was well enough 
 to bear the fatigue of the journey. 
 
 This was a promise on the day the Brians, 
 with much formality of departure, left town for 
 the season, and I made up my mind to get well 
 and strong as soon as possible, and join them. 
 When I was downstairs again in my little back 
 room there was a great surprise awaiting me. 
 Nailed against the wall, under my father's 
 cabinet-sized photograph, was a brand-new 
 ornament — a little carving in oak of a dead 
 bird hanging by its claws head downwards, and 
 with every feather wonderfully delineated. I
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 163 
 
 stared at it with intense astonishment, and 
 Bridget stood in the background with a grin 
 on her face from ear to ear. 
 
 ' Where did this come from ? Good gracious, 
 how beautiful ! how — well, I never did !' 
 
 My thoughts flashed to Mr. Goode, for he was 
 liberal at times, and grateful for any httle atten- 
 tions in his widowerhood's estate in the shape of 
 darning socks or re-establishing the security of 
 buttons ; but the truth soon came out, and then 
 I was more astonished than ever. 
 
 ' If you please, m'm, it^s the young man who 
 lost his umbereller,' explained Bridget, with a 
 loud guffaw at last and a violent stamping of 
 both her big Irish feet, like an excitable person 
 ^vith a bone in her throat. 
 
 'What!' 
 
 'Yes, m'm,' continued Bridget; 'and I was 
 to say nothing about it to anybody but you — 
 and not till you were downstairs again — be- 
 cause he wouldn't have you worried about 
 anything, he said, not for worlds.' 
 
 'He said all that?' 
 
 ' Yes, m'm.' 
 
 .m2
 
 164 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 * But, bless the man,' I exclaimed, * what has 
 he left this here for V 
 
 * It's — it's a prisent, m'm, I'm thinking.' 
 
 ' A present to me, and from that impertinent 
 being !' 1 said ; * I'll see about his present pres- 
 ently. When did he come V 
 
 ' He's been here every day, m'm.' 
 
 ' Every day?' 
 
 * Twice a day,' Bridget replied. ' And the day 
 you were so ill he came three times, to make 
 sure the doctors weren't killing you.' 
 
 * It's very extraordinary.' 
 
 ' He is 'stronary, m'm,' asserted Bridget, 
 ' shure, and there's not much doubt of it. The 
 way he axed me and badgered me about that 
 umbereller, m'm, every day after you were took 
 ill, you'd have thought he was a judge and jury 
 rolled into one — and Sarah, too, poor critter.' 
 
 ' I never heard of such behaviour in my 
 hfe.' 
 
 * Right ye are, Miss Neild, as far as that goes ; 
 but when Sarah bust out crying at last he was 
 very sorry and gave her 'arf-a-crown ; and so he 
 did me, m'm, like a real gentleman, when I
 
 MR. bird's BEST UMBRELLA. 165 
 
 thought it was quite time I cried too, when 
 'arf-crowns were flying about hke that.' 
 
 'That'll do, Bridget,' I said— for Bridget 
 when loquacious was familiar — 'when was he 
 here last V 
 
 ' This morning.' 
 
 ' Indeed.' 
 
 ' And I told him you were quite come round, 
 and he said, '• That's a good job," and went 
 away.' 
 
 ' Do you think he'll return V 
 
 ' I don't think so, m'm,for he said, " Good- bye, 
 Bridget; mind you take care of her," as he 
 walked hisself off.' 
 
 ' Did he say anything else V 
 
 ' N — no, m'm, I don't seem to recollect ' 
 
 ' Answer me truthfully, Bridget ; what else did 
 he say V 
 
 ' Sorra a word else, except he hoped Mar- 
 gate Avould do you a power of good.' 
 
 ' How did he know I was going to Margate V 
 I inquired. 
 
 ' That's more nor mortal can say, m'm. He 
 knows a great deal more about other people's
 
 166 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 afiairs than he ought. He interferes like, doesn't 
 he ? He's a terrible curious young man.' 
 
 ' Bridget, you have something more to tell me, 
 I'm sure you have.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss Neild.' 
 
 * How dare you deceive me ! how dare ' 
 
 ' Mercy on us, my dear mistress, don't go and 
 throw yourself all the way back agin by flaring 
 off like this. I'll tell ye everything, and it's not 
 much, after all, if ye'll only keep cool and 
 comfor'ble.' 
 
 ' Well — go on.' 
 
 * And ye may give me a month's warning and 
 send me away arterwards, if ye'll only be cool. 
 Miss, and don't blame me too much jest at 
 prisint.' 
 
 * Why don't you explain V 
 
 'Well, then, he took it into his head Mr. 
 Goode had got his umbereller or else Captain 
 Choppers, and one day, when they were both 
 out, he axed me to let him look into their rooms, 
 and I did, m'm — and begorra I shouldn't have 
 been surprised if either of 'em had got it, mane 
 souls that they are, with never a kind word to
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. IT) 7 
 
 those vrh.0 are slaving their hearts out for 'em, 
 and ' 
 
 * Bridget, go downstairs directly.' 
 
 ' To be sure, m'm, I will if ye don't want me 
 any more.' 
 
 Bridget departed, and it dawned upon me 
 that she had been imbibing just a little — and 
 this had occurred once before, when papa was 
 alive. And she had too, but it was for joy that 
 I was better, and to drink good luck to me, she 
 afterwards confessed, and I forgave her, especi- 
 ally as on the next day she joined the Blue Rib- 
 bon movement, in sheer contriteness of spirit, 
 and was for ever afterwards — that is, up till now 
 — a worthy, if humble, member of society. 
 
 But this Mr. Geofifry Bird, how the man did 
 trouble me I How his nasty suspicious nature 
 had led him to poke and pry about my establish- 
 ment, and to take advantage of my helplessness, 
 and the proneness of Bridget and Sarah for half- 
 crowns, to ransack the whole place ! My blood 
 boiled with indignation. And then his present ! 
 — if it were a present — obtrusively nailed against 
 the wall, too, as if / cared for his carvings, or
 
 ItoS MR. bird's best UMBRELLA, 
 
 did anything but despise his miserable manners 
 and his uncharitable self. He could not take 
 my word that no one had stolen his umbrella, 
 oh, dear no ! He must prove for himself that 
 I was not speaking the truth. How I hated 
 him ! 
 
 I was recommended to take a drive next day, 
 and I hired a hansom cab and went to Goswell 
 Road, Islington, with the carved bird. I dis- 
 covered No. 967 at last, and found the house 
 empty, and a bill with ' This House to Let ' 
 pasted upon the shutters. Mr. Geoffry Bird had 
 left the neighbourhood within the last few days, 
 and no one in Goswell Road knew what had 
 become of him. 
 
 So I had my journey for nothing, and all the 
 expenses of payment for carrying me througli 
 the heart of the big city, where there was not a 
 breath of air stirring that hot day. I do not 
 think the drive did me any good, I was so terri- 
 bly vexed that Mr. Bird was not to be discover- 
 ed, and that I had to return to Prossiter Street 
 with his hateful carving on my lap. I would 
 have thrown it out of the cab only I was afraid
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 169 
 
 of hitting somebody between the eyes and creat- 
 ing an uproar in the metropohs. 
 
 * Put that wretched thing away where I can't 
 see it,' I said to Bridget, on my retm-n. 
 
 ' Yes, m'm, leave it to me, m'm.' 
 
 ' I don't mean where we can't find it,' I 
 added, meeting a decisive expression in Bridget 
 O'Gowan's green eyes that alarmed me ; * the 
 man may call again, although I doubt it very 
 much.' 
 
 Next week I was strong enough to join the 
 Brians at Margate — that salubrious retreat 
 where one meets everybody he knows, if he 
 only waits long enough. And on the jetty 
 extension that evening I met Captain Choppers 
 and Mr. Goode, who had both come down ' by 
 accident,' and who had been passing each other 
 on the jetty all the evening as though they had 
 never met in the whole course of their lives. 
 ;Mr. Goode's two sons were in Margate also, but, 
 having fallen headlong into the water whilst 
 fishing, had gone home to bed whilst their suits 
 were being dried. And the next morning 
 whom should I meet face to face, and smiling
 
 170 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 as vigorously as ever, but Geoffiy Bird the 
 carver. 
 
 It was early morning, when few people were 
 stirring, and I had gone for a walk along the 
 Fort to put my blood in circulation and get an 
 appetite for breakfast. The Brians were not 
 early risers, and I knew it was no use calling at 
 their apartments till half-past eight o'clock. 
 
 Mr. Bird was clad in a dark blue pilot suit, 
 with a very yellow straw hat set on the back of 
 his head and a large telescope under his arm. 
 He was supremely nautical, and I took him for 
 somebody rather high in the coastguard ser- 
 vice — a sergeant or something — before he raised 
 his hat and came with an antelope kind of spring 
 towards me. 
 
 ' Miss Neild,' he exclaimed, * I am so very 
 glad to see you about again. You really can- 
 not imagine how glad T am !' 
 
 ' I don't understand why it should occasion 
 you any pleasure, sir,' I said, in my most re- 
 served tone of voice. 
 
 'Don't you, though? Oh, well, I'll tell 
 you.'
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 171 
 
 He turned and walked by my side, and I did 
 not see on the instant how it was possible to 
 get rid of him. I felt my equanimity was 
 seriously disturbed by his appearance, by his 
 insufferable obtrusiveness. This was part and 
 parcel of his ordinary behaviour — a total want 
 of forethought, which was as evident that day 
 as in the small hours of the morning when he 
 had roused me out of my first sleep by nearly 
 battering the house down. 
 
 He alluded to that little incident at once. 
 
 ' In answering me that unlucky night, Miss 
 Neild, you nearly caught your death,' he ex- 
 plained, * and nobody can imagine how miser- 
 able I was — how desperately wretched — until I 
 heard you were out of danger. I should have 
 never forgiven myself, upon my honour, and I 
 did not know a moment's peace till Bridget, 
 your girl, told me you were out of danger. 
 Lor', what a trial it was !' 
 
 ' I don't see why — I don't understand at all — 
 I ' 
 
 ' I can just fancy how a man feels who has 
 committed a murder and is not found out yet,'
 
 172 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 he continued : ' it was dreadful, and all my own 
 fault too — every scrap of it.' 
 
 I did not feel so bitterly towards him after 
 this. His manner was genuine, if too forcible 
 and fluent for every-day wear. I might have 
 even thanked him for his exaggerated interest 
 in my health and said good-morning, if I 
 had not suddenly remembered his surreptitious 
 visits to my lodgers' apartments. Then I was 
 adamant, and he saw it. He was certainly an 
 observant man whom very little escaped. I 
 noticed the broad smile disappear, and he said, 
 almost with astonishment, 
 
 ' Why, you're offended with me still !' 
 
 ' As I have only seen you once before in my 
 life, I cannot very well speak of being offended, 
 Mr. Bird — but I must say ' 
 
 ' No, no, don't say it,' he cried, interrupting 
 me, ' don't say a word more, please. I — I know 
 it was a great liberty— an unwarrantable liberty 
 — but I couldn't help it. I wanted to make a 
 little return for all the trouble and misery I had 
 brought about, and I couldn't think of anything 
 else. I had just done it, you see.'
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 173' 
 
 ' Done what V I exclaiaied, snappishly — I 
 could have screamed at him for two pins. 
 
 * Why, the little bit of carving — aren't you 
 talking about that V he inquired. 
 
 ' No, sir, although I'll trouble you to remove 
 the article from my premises as soon as you 
 conveniently can.' 
 
 'Oh!' 
 
 ' But 1 am alluding now, sir, to your ungentle- 
 manly behaviour in bribing my servants to let 
 you inspect my apartments.' 
 
 'I didn't bribe your servants, Miss Neild. 
 Poor girls, I frightened them, but I did not give 
 them money as a bribe. You might have thought 
 better of a fellow than that,' he said, very 
 sorrowfully ; ' although why you should I don't 
 know exactly.' 
 
 ' You had no right to go into my lodgers' 
 rooms and search for that trumpery umbrella 
 you lost.' 
 
 ' No right !' he repeated. 
 
 ' Certainly — no right.' 
 
 ' But one of those two old beggars has got it,' 
 he cried, energetically ; ' I'm sure of that.'
 
 174 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' How dare you say this to me !' 
 
 * AVho else can it be ? I know yoic haven't 
 got it,' he cried. ' I am sm-e yom* two servants 
 are as innocent as babes unborn, and they were 
 the only two besides in the house that night — 
 the upstairs lot had gone to Tunbridge for two 
 days.' 
 
 ' How did you know that V 
 
 'Oh, I made every inquiry,' he explained, 
 coolly ; ' and as the umbrella was a precious 
 possession to me — I think I told you before it 
 was a gift from my father on his dying bed — 1 
 made every effort to find out what had become 
 of it.' 
 
 ' And a very mean way to find out it Avas,' I 
 «aid, with aspeiity, ' and — good-morning.' 
 
 ' Go-ood morning,' he said, in a low, croaking 
 voice. He raised his bilious straw hat, dropped 
 his telescope, which he picked up and tucked 
 once more under his arm, came suddenly to a 
 full stop, and let me go on my Avay unmolested 
 any further by him. 
 
 AVhen I had got a good distance from him, I 
 began to feel a little sorry — even a little in
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 175 
 
 doubt if I had not been too hard upon him. He 
 had appeared so utterly dumbfounded by my 
 last opinion of his conduct, and he had turned 
 of such a variety of colours. Perhaps, from his 
 point of view, and with an umbrella which had 
 vanished from every point of view, he was not 
 wholly to be blamed. Perhaps the captain had 
 — no, that was quite impossible. Perhaps Mr. 
 Goode — oh ! I was getting as miserably dis- 
 trustful as this unhappy man. 
 
 Yes, I was a little sorry. x\s I went off the 
 Fort, I stole one glance behind me to make sure 
 what had become of him — that his impulsive 
 nature even had not led him to jump off the 
 cliff. He was all right, he was a long way off — 
 indeed, in the very place where I had left him — 
 not overwhelmed or mad with grief and shame, 
 as I had almost feared he might be, but stand- 
 ing with his legs planted widely apart looking 
 at me through his telescope. When he saw I 
 had turned he wheeled quickly round and feign- 
 ed an interest in the sea, knocking the hat off a 
 bath-chairman just passing him with an early 
 fare who had lost the use of his legs.
 
 176 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 Well, there was an end of the intruder, I 
 thought, and I could have wished — yes, I did 
 actually wish — that I had been more of a young- 
 lady and less of a vixen in my reproaches to 
 him. I had been put out by his appearance at 
 Margate, by his venturing to address me, and 
 had lost my self-composure, but then a more 
 obtuse and aggravating person I had never 
 encountered before. 
 
 Not so very obtuse either, but very quick to 
 take a hint, and to guess when he was disliked 
 and his company objected to. We passed each 
 other twice or thrice a day after that, but he 
 never ventured to speak to me again ; he boAved 
 with great "gravity, and exhibited an extraor- 
 dinary formality in taking off his hat, seizing it 
 in the middle of the crown, and raising it like 
 the lid off a saucepan, and there was no further 
 occasion to object to his expansive smile. He 
 was a stolid, even a woebegone, young man, 
 with something on his mind. Had it not been 
 for that everlasting telescope under his arm, one 
 could have imagined him a prey to the deepest- 
 rooted sorrow.
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 177 
 
 I think he was the most sad when I passed 
 him in company with the captain, who some- 
 times condescended to promenade with me, and 
 the most angry when I was out with Mr. Goode, 
 to whom I was a rehef from the wear and tear 
 of two boys wonderfully full of animal spirits 
 on unseasonable occasions. When I was with 
 Lily Brian, he seemed to brighten up a little, 
 and Lily was curious concerning him, and asked 
 me many questions. 
 
 ' Who is that good-looking young man, Jane, 
 who is always taking his hat o&V she asked 
 one morning. 
 
 ' He is a carver and gilder ; I don't know him 
 — that is, I hardly know him,' I said. 'He 
 called once about something he had dropped 
 down our area, and he has claimed an acquaint- 
 ance ever since.' 
 
 ' Then why doesn't he speak V asked the 
 practical Lily. 
 
 * He's much too quick with his speech ; and 
 it's a very good thing he's a trifle quieter just 
 now,' I said, sharply, and Lily looked at me 
 and said, eagerly, 
 
 VOL I. N
 
 178 i\iR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' Tell me all about it ! Is he ' 
 
 ' No, he is not' 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon, Jane ; I thought he 
 was.' 
 
 An enigmatic dialogue, but we perfectly 
 understood each other. And I hoped that 1 
 had made Lily understand I had no interest in 
 Mr. Bird, for young girls jump so rapidly at 
 conclusions where young men are concerned. 
 Not that Lily was in the habit of jumping after 
 young men in any way — 1 do not mean to convey 
 that impression. Lily was full of spirits, but a 
 good girl in every respect, with not an atom's 
 worth of the ordinary Margate jetty girl in her 
 constitution ; not she. Still, curiously enough, 
 I was deceived in and by Lily Brian. 1 had no 
 idea she could have been so cunning or so 
 easily deceived. One morning when I walked 
 down the jetty, I found to my intense astonish- 
 ment Mr. and Mrs. Brian, Lily, George, the 
 eldest Master Brian, and Mr. Goode, all talking 
 and laughing with Mr. Bird, and taking it in 
 turns to peer through his telescope at some
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 179 
 
 object on the far horizon. I walked up slowly, 
 and with blushes on my cheeks, I am sure, in 
 my surprise. 
 
 ' Lily, my dear, here's a gunboat,' said Mr. 
 Brian, as I approached ; ' this gentleman has 
 been kind enough to allow us to inspect it 
 through his very powerful telescope. Look 
 here, child.' 
 
 Mr. Bird did smile a little, in a sheep-faced 
 and embarrassed kind of manner, as he glanced 
 towards me, but he did not say a word when 
 Mr. Brian handed me the instrument. He even 
 let Mr. Goode focus the instrument for me with- 
 out interfering in any way, although I fancied I 
 heard him grinding his teeth. 
 
 ' It's a capital glass, sir,' said Mr. Brian to 
 him. Mr. Brian, being of a genial turn, was 
 always disposed to be friendly with the first 
 stranger whom he encountered out of town. 
 
 ' Yes, it's a good glass.' 
 
 ' Had it long, sir ? Would you like to dispose 
 of it now V was the insinuating inquiry. 
 
 'It belonged to my father,* was the reply,
 
 180 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 ' therefore it has not a money value to me. It 
 was his present when I was one-and-twenty, 
 and 1 shouldn't like to part with it' 
 
 xA^nother bii-thday present, I thought. Heavens, 
 if he was to lose this too ! 
 
 ' Certainly not, certainly not,' said Mr. Brian ; 
 • I admire your good feeling, sir. George, you 
 hear that,' he said to his son, who was wholly 
 lacking in filial sentiment, and was at that iden- 
 tical moment sucking the bare knob of his stick 
 as if it was an egg, 
 
 George nodded and then winked at me. A 
 most objectionable lout was George, and Mr. 
 Bird scowled ferociously at him, and from him 
 to me. 
 
 I inspected the gunboat, or tried to inspect 
 it, .for the object-glass was very misty with little 
 transparent worms that seemed to be wriggling 
 and dancing all over it; I returned the tele- 
 scope to its owner, who said, ' Thank you, 
 ma'am,' very quietly, and with his look of sad- 
 ness highly developed again. 
 
 Still he remained remarkably non-obtrusive ; 
 he did not attempt to force his conversation
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 18 1 
 
 upon me in any way, and presently he was 
 walking down the jetty with Mr. Brian, and 
 talking and laughing as if he had known him 
 all his life. 
 
 I thought all this was a new and deep-laid 
 scheme of his, but it was really Lily Brian who 
 was at the bottom of it all, or who at least in- 
 duced her parents and her brother to say from 
 that day ' Good-morning ' to Mr. Bird, and even 
 to shake hands with him. Hence I was obliged 
 to say * Good-morning ' also when he directly 
 addressed me, and to become by degrees on 
 speaking terms with him again, and almost to 
 forget that umbrella question which had been 
 a bone of contention — a whalebone of coiiten- 
 tion — between us. Not that the umbrella was 
 off his mind in any way, for he had been intro- 
 duced to Captain Choppers on one occasion — 
 by Captain Choppers's express request, as that 
 gentleman wanted to borrow his telescope — 
 and to my astonishment I heard Mr. Bird say, 
 five minutes after the introduction, 
 
 * You see, it was not for the value of the 
 umbrella, but because of the associations con-
 
 182 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 nectecl with it. I hope you understand, captain.' 
 'I understand perfectly,' was the reply; 'but 
 that was no reason why you should have kicked 
 up such an abominable uproar, sir.' 
 
 Captain Choppers had borrowed the tele- 
 scope, and was now dominant and rude. 
 
 The time was drawing near towards the end 
 of the holiday when Mr. Bird and I were friends. 
 I may remark, actually friends, although I will 
 say very firmly, and despite Lily Brian's opinion, 
 nothing more than friends. Mr. Bird's holiday 
 would expire a few days before our own, I 
 learned, and, though I would not have owned 
 it for untold wealth, I was sorry he was going 
 back to London. He had informed me of his 
 position by that time, and of his prospects for 
 the future, or of some of them. He had given 
 up the business, and his father's business before 
 him, of carver and gilder in the Goswell Road ; 
 he was very clever at his trade, I felt sure, for 
 he had been offered the post of superintendent 
 of work by an eminent firm in Oxford Street^ 
 with whom he had done business for years, and 
 at a very respectable salary indeed.
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 183 
 
 He was exceediDgly commTinicative the last 
 day of his stay in Margate ; we were sitting 
 together under the shelter of the verandah of 
 the refreshment-room, with the band playing 
 out in the rain. We were alone for a wonder ; 
 the Brians were on the rocks in search of ane- 
 mones, with the exception of Lily, who had left 
 me half-an-hour ago, with an injunction to come 
 home if it * poured,' and with an umbrella to 
 shelter me, as I had ventured out without my 
 own. She had seen — ha^ang very sharp eyes 
 of her own — Mr. GeoiBTry Bird advancing down 
 the jetty, and had made some trivial little excuse 
 to leave me, ' to give the poor fellow a chance,' 
 she told me afterwards. And there he was 
 sitting by my side, cool and comfortable, 
 and with the rain coming down in big drops 
 and startling and confounding the pleasure- 
 seekers. 
 
 ' I shall be quite the gentleman soon, Miss 
 Neild,' he said, with a laugh, 'and with a soul 
 above shopkeeping. I only Avant a few friends 
 about me to make life worth living, but I have 
 never had any friends. Never had the time,
 
 184 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 or never saw anybody who was worth taking 
 any trouble about, until — until lately.' 
 
 I could not reply to this. 1 did not know 
 what he meant by ' lately.' 
 
 * People never took to me either,' he confessed, 
 ruefully ; ' I have a bad habit of speaking out 
 what is on my mind, and I'm inquisitive and 
 suspicious at times, and so forth. Altogether a 
 beastly character.' 
 
 He waited for me to reply to this. I had 
 thought him abrupt and inquisitive and sus- 
 picious, but that seemed a very long time ago 
 now. He had improved loonderfully of late 
 days ; there were little traits of character, of 
 frankness, earnestness, generosity, one could 
 almost admire, but I was not going to tell him 
 so, though he waited patiently as if he expected 
 something of the kind. As if men were not 
 vain enough in themselves, without being told 
 of their accomplishments ! 
 
 ' You would not like anybody to say that but 
 yourself,' I said, however ; and it was a remark 
 which did not commit me to anything. 
 
 * No. I should knock him down probably,'
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 185 
 
 he replied, ' especially if it were the captain or 
 that railway goods inspector fellow.' 
 
 ' Don't you like them V I asked, innocently. 
 
 *Do yon?' he rejoined. 
 
 ' They are old friends, almost.' 
 
 ' You don't make your lodgers your friends?' 
 he remarked. 
 
 ^ Not always.' 
 
 ' I should think not,' he said, very scornfully 
 now. 
 
 'But these two gentlemen knew me when I 
 was a little girl.' 
 
 ' Ah ! That makes a difference, 1 suppose ; 
 that's why they are both so fond of you,' he 
 added, with a sigh. 
 
 ^ Fond of me !' 
 
 * You might marry either of them to-morrow, 
 if you cared to hold up your little finger — I can 
 see that.' 
 
 ' What nonsense !' 
 
 ' Oh ! it's true enough,' he cried. 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Then I sha'n't hold up my little finger.' 
 
 ' That's right,' he said ; and he actually drew
 
 18 B MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 a long, deep breath, as though it relieved him 
 to hear me say so ; ' for that captain's a pomp- 
 ous old noodle — a selfish party, who's stuck to 
 my telescope a whole week — and the railway 
 man would fidget any woman out of her life in 
 a fortnight.' 
 
 ' What's the matter with him V 
 
 * He's an old woman, that's all.' 
 
 *Upon my honour, you are very uncompli- 
 mentary in your verdict upon my lodgers.' 
 
 ' I hate your keeping a lodging-house,' he 
 muttered. 
 
 ' My poverty, and not my will, consents,' I 
 answered. 
 
 He was very silent for a long time now. The 
 visitors had hurried homew^ards, or had sought 
 shelter like ourselves, the band had ceased 
 playing, the rain was coming down in earnest. 
 
 ' May I ask a favour of you before I go back 
 to London ?' he said, suddenly and very hoarsely. 
 
 'What is it r 
 
 ' Will you say " yes " ?' 
 
 * Not till I know what it is about,' 1 replied,, 
 with spirit, ' certainly not.'
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 187 
 
 * Well, then,' be cried, * don't give me back 
 that little bird I carved. You said you would, 
 and it has been preying on my mind that it will 
 come flying back some day when I least expect 
 it, and so upset me terribly. 1 want it hanging 
 on your wall, to remind you of me sometimes, 
 you know ; being a hijxl like me, you see, it 
 must. And though our acquaintance did not 
 commence auspiciously, still you have forgotten 
 and forgiven, haven't you?' 
 
 ' Well — yes — almost.' 
 
 'And you'll keep that little carving?' 
 
 ' Perhaps I will.' 
 
 ' Bless you, Jane— Miss Neild, I mean. And 
 now ' 
 
 1 was getting alarmed at his vehemence, and 
 very much afraid of what he would say next. 
 1 jumped up. 
 
 ' I think I will go home to Lily. She's all 
 alone, poor girl.' 
 
 ' But it's raining cats and dogs.' 
 
 ' I don't mind the rain, and I'm fond of cats 
 and dogs,' I said, tripping from the shelter, and 
 strugghng to open the umbrella which Lily 
 had lent to me.
 
 188 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 * You have caught cold in the rain before 
 now,' he said, drily, * do stop a few minutes 
 longer.' 
 
 ' No,' I said, shaking my head, ' I would rather 
 not.' 
 
 *Here, let me manage that thing for you, 
 then,' he said, making a dash at the umbrella, 
 opening it, and holding it above my head, ' if 
 you must run away ; but you'll get very wet.' 
 
 ' I've got my waterproof.' 
 
 ' Yes, but— oh. Lord !' 
 
 ' What is the matter V I exclaimed, as he 
 turned very red and white, just as I had seen 
 him on the Fort, only now he looked at me as if 
 I were a ghofet, and my spectral appearance had 
 frightened him. 
 
 He did not reply at once, and I cried, 
 
 ' Oh ! what is the matter ? Aren't you well ? 
 AVon't you tell me V 
 
 ' It's all right — that is, I shall be all right in a 
 minute,' he answered, in quite a new and hard 
 tone of voice ; ' don't mind me.' 
 
 * What can it be?' 
 
 *I tell you it's nothing, Miss Neild,' he said.
 
 189 
 
 * Don't take any notice of me, please. I had 
 rather you didn't.' 
 
 It was a strange request, but I did not. I 
 maintained a rigid silence, being a little nettled 
 presently at his own silent movements at my 
 side, his steady stare ahead of him, the stern 
 expression on his face. He marched along in 
 so grave and dumb a fashion at last, that I 
 could have slapped his face for him. AVhat did 
 he mean by such behaviour, I wondered? At 
 the end of the jetty he brought my heart into 
 my mouth, by suddenly roaring out, 
 
 ' No, I'll never believe it ! It's magic, it's a 
 lying dream, it's anything but this! I can't 
 believe it of you — I'd rather jump into the sea 
 than think it for another moment.' 
 
 'Think what? Good gracious! why don't 
 you tell me ?' 
 
 * Think that you have deceived me all the 
 time. You, too, of all the lot of them !' 
 
 ' What have I done, Mr. Bird V 
 
 ' This — this umbrella,' he cried. 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' It — it's the umbrella I dropped down your
 
 190 
 
 area ! My father's present ; I can swear to it 
 anywhere. They're my initials on that silver 
 collar, " G. B." Oh ! heaven and earth, to fancy 
 for one instant that you — Miss Neild, I am goin.tj; 
 raving mad. Look at it, look at it I' 
 
 I stared from him to the umbrella, which he 
 had thrust into my hands, and felt going mad 
 myself. I looked so terribly mean and guilty, 
 and yet I was so perfectly innocent, and I did 
 not want him now to have one thought against 
 me. I was confused, I did not know how to 
 explain ; I felt too indignant in the midst of my 
 grief even to try to explain ; for he should 
 not have jumped to conclusions in this way, 
 but have waited, and — and then I burst into 
 tears. 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't cry,' he called out, * for 
 mercy's sake, don't, Jane ; I don't care about 
 the umbrella now, I don't mind your taking — ' 
 
 'It's — it's not mine I' I screamed out at last. 
 * It was lent me by Lily Brian, because she 
 thought it — it — it would rain before I got home. 
 There !' 
 
 ' Thank God ! What an awful thief she is for
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 191 
 
 one so young/ he cried. ' I am so tremendously 
 glad though, so awfully glad ' 
 
 * Take your umbrella,' I cried, pitching it at 
 him ; ' and I'm glad it's found too, very.' 
 
 ' I don't mean I'm glad I've found it, but that 
 you ' 
 
 ' How dare you suspect me V I cried, sweep- 
 ing majestically away from him, but he followed 
 me, and held the umbrella over my head again, 
 and overwhelmed me with hurried and incohe- 
 rent apologies, which I declined to accept. 
 
 * Perhaps it's not mine,' he said at last. ' Pray 
 be rational, Miss Neild, " B " stands for Brian as 
 well as Bird. Is Mr. Brian's Christian name 
 George, do you think?' 
 
 * Don't speak to me. You know it's your 
 umbrella.' 
 
 * It is a little like it,' he said, dismally. 
 
 ' I don't want any miserable evasions, Mr. 
 Bird, and I never want to see or speak to you 
 again, and I ' 
 
 'Why, Jenny, what's the matter?' cried Lily 
 Brian, suddenly appearing round the corner of 
 the street, and under another umbrella, and with
 
 192 MR. bird's best umbrella. 
 
 a shawl over her arm. ' Where have you been ? 
 Ma was afraid you wanted more wraps, and has 
 sent me out with them, and — how d'ye do, Mr. 
 Bird? Who'd have thought of seeing ?/o?« this 
 wet day V 
 
 ' I've offended Miss Neild,' he said, not smiKng- 
 in the least at her arch manner of address to 
 him. 
 
 * You ! Oh, what about V she cried. 
 
 ' That nasty, hateful umbrella,' I said. ' Where 
 did you get it, Lily ? oh ! where did you get it V 
 
 ' What's the matter with the umbrella V asked 
 Lily, very cool and self-possessed. 
 
 ' It — it's not yours !' I exclaimed, ' it never 
 was yours V ' 
 
 ' No, it's George's. He lent it me this morning.' 
 
 'And where — where did your brother get it?' 
 
 ' 1 don't know.' 
 
 But we did very shortly. George had found 
 it in his father's area, and, with a total disregard 
 of other people's rights — being young, and short 
 of umbrellas — had quietly appropriated it with- 
 out any fuss. It was like a merciful dispensation 
 having his initials already engraved for him, too.
 
 MR. bird's best umbrella. 193 
 
 Yes, it was down Mr. Brian's area that Mr. Bird 
 had dropped his umbrella that night, and Geoffry 
 had knocked at the next door by mistake. 
 
 I call him Geoffrj now. And a very lucky 
 mistake it was, he always says, even to this day, 
 and I have been Mrs. Bird three years, and 
 there is another Kttle Bird croAAang in its nest 
 too. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 o2
 
 197 
 
 A PRISON FLOWER 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILD OR \YOMAN. 
 
 The sun was sliming brightly in the airing- 
 yard of one of onr great Government prisons, 
 and the ' children of the night,' poor, forlorn, 
 pm'poseless women most of them, were plodding 
 round their allotted space in the mill-horse 
 fashion patent to the place, with the matron, a 
 vigilant atom of humanity, in the background. It 
 was early spring-time, and cold even in the sun- 
 shine, and the women, under their thick sliawls, 
 walked with briskness, as if anxious to get the 
 hour's exercise over, as well as to put some
 
 198 A PRISON flo^\t:r. 
 
 extra degree of warmth into their bodies. It 
 was the penal-class ward which was taking its 
 exercise at this period when tlie curtain rises on 
 our story, and the grim and lowering visages of 
 the female prisoners stood almost as a warranty 
 of the crime for which they were under lock and 
 key for many years of their terribly wasted 
 lives. They looked like beings without hope, 
 or faith, or love ; Avith hearts like the nether 
 millstone, and on their rugged countenances 
 was marked * Dangerous* as clearly as though 
 it were imprinted as a warning to all better folk 
 brought into contact with them. Round and 
 round, in Indian file, went the prisoners, stolid 
 and silent, the rules against them as to con- 
 versation with each other. These Avere new- 
 comers, of the worst class, or old offenders, or 
 ' returns ' from other prisons, where the lighter 
 duties or the privileges of 'association,' had 
 been abused, and so they were back again to 
 the first and worst estate of penal servitude. 
 
 They were, taken altogether — taken mayhap 
 without an exception — ' a bad lot,' and the 
 matron was wary of her black sheep. The
 
 CHILD OR WOMAN. 199 
 
 prison was out of gear — ' out of sorts ' — that 
 day, as it had been for weeks past, for the 
 matter of that. Things had gone wrong gener- 
 ally ; matrons and assistant-matrons had been 
 changed ; some new orders had been issued to 
 the class which hated new orders ; one or two 
 of the women had broken out in defiance of 
 them, and been carried to the ' dark cells,' and 
 more than one life had been threatened for 
 offences real or imaginary. 
 
 Even in the airing-yard there was an extra 
 shadow cast, and the gloomy prison world was 
 hardly working satisfactorily to prisoners or 
 matrons, much less to the Honourable Board of 
 Directors sitting in solemn conclave at Parlia- 
 ment Street, eternally studying the great ques- 
 tion of ' Our Criminals '; the gigantic paradox of 
 how these unruly souls shall live or die by 
 rule. 
 
 Suddenly there appeared in the yard one 
 prisoner a little behind time, and under escort 
 of her officer — a new arrival, to whom rules 
 were new and convict- life unknown ; and it was 
 her unlooked-for advent which turned the cur-
 
 200 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 rent of every woman's thoughts, and woke them 
 up to life and wonderment and a strange ex- 
 citement, for which even the matrons were 
 wholly unprepared. For this was an innovation 
 upon the monotony of prison service ; a some- 
 thing new and unprepared for ; a change in the 
 affairs of those who were working out their 
 sentences. 
 
 This was surely not a woman ; rather a child ; 
 and even the matrons on duty, accustomed to 
 cloak all feelings under official reserve, were 
 taken off their guard. The new-comer was not 
 fifteen years of age, but looked two good years 
 younger. So child-like was her face and figure, 
 and so short in stature was she, that the smallest 
 sized prison dress in the establishment had had 
 to be pinned up carefully round her to make 
 even the semblance of a fit of it. A fair-haired, 
 blue-eyed child was this too, Avhose proper place 
 should have been at her mother's knees in some 
 peaceful English home, rather than one more 
 atom here of a world of crime and ignorance and 
 horror. 
 
 The prisoners came, as if by one general in-
 
 CHILD OR WOMAX. 201 
 
 stinct, to a full stop in the airing-yard ; every- 
 thing was forgotten but the presence in their 
 midst of this new recruit to the ranks of the 
 Devil's regiment, and the matron on duty, sur- 
 prised even in her turn, omitted at once to re- 
 mind them that they were infringing the great 
 rule of the establishment. The child — for she 
 looked no more than a childj and was at heart 
 far less— had touched some unused chords in the 
 wild nature of these prisoners ; perhaps they had 
 had sisters and daughters like her ; they had 
 been like her themselves before the world was 
 steeped in murky darkness to them, and they 
 knew what a terrible place it was, and how un- 
 fit for this young life. It was, even to the callous, 
 sin-begrimed souls here, so awful a beginning to 
 the little w^aif suddenly starting up amongst 
 them, and proclaiming to them by her presence 
 that she was one of them ; just as bad as all the 
 rest ! One old woman who had lived in gaol 
 almost all her life, and was prone to boast of 
 her eight-and-twenty sentences, was the first to 
 stop, horror-stricken, and arouse the attention 
 of the rest.
 
 202 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 <My God I look here,' she shrieked out 
 across the ahing-yard. ' Oh I just look here !' 
 
 ' Silence !' exclaimed the matron, roused to a 
 sense of the disorganisation gradually gaining 
 the upper hand of all obedieuce to order. 
 * Silence, please.' 
 
 * Why, she's only a kid !' cried another. ' Oh, 
 it's dreadful I' 
 
 ' It's a shame — it was a burning shame to 
 bring her here,' was the next exclamation. 
 
 ' AVot's she done ? AVho is she ? Here, let's 
 have a squint at her, will yer,' cried a tall, raw- 
 boned Lancashire woman, leaving the ranks and 
 elbowing her way towards her. 
 
 ' Why, it's like my own Bessie when I saw her 
 last at home,' cried a fourth. 'I can't stand 
 this ; I can^t look at her !' 
 
 ' It's a shame,' welled forth the deep, hoarse 
 murmur of the prison voices once again. 
 
 There were stifled sobs, suppressed cries of 
 grief, even loud waihngs and protestations 
 against the enormity of the law^ which had 
 placed this little stray in the great prison 
 amongst them.
 
 CHILD OR WOMAN. 203 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of all this attention re- 
 mained quiet and composed ; she had even fallen 
 into rank before the ranks had become broken 
 up, and the matrons had grown nervous as to 
 the ultimate result. It took but httle to excite 
 these women ; they were always waiting, long- 
 ing, and scheming for reaction. 
 
 ' Take her back to her ward,' cried the 
 matron in charge ; and it was by only these 
 means that some semblance of peace and con- 
 cord was brought to the disorganised forces. 
 
 The child was hustled away, and, by dint of 
 appeal and threat, the regiment of despair was 
 once again formed into line, set slovvl}^ in 
 motion, and proceeded on its monotonous 
 tramp, tramp, tramp, round the big airing-yard. 
 
 The silent system was a delusion for the day ; 
 it was policy to ignore for a while the quick, 
 short whispers of the prisoners when they 
 thought themselves fairly beyond the earshot 
 of their watchers. The element of discord had 
 been removed, and in a few more minutes it was 
 hoped that the women would settle down. Two 
 prisoners, plodding on at the distance of a yard
 
 204 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 from each other, were the most talkative ; one, 
 the tall, Lancashh-e female already alluded to ; 
 the other, a thin, fragile being, of some two or 
 three-and-twenty years of age, who had seemed 
 to take less heed of the new-comer than the rest 
 of her contemporaries. Only seemed — for there 
 had been keen eyes which had taken stock of 
 the latter prisoner, and ears which had heard 
 one wild, heart-breaking cry escape her : a cry 
 that had been wholly submerged in the Babel 
 of sound which had broken loose. Finlanson, 
 the Lancashire woman, remained still demon- 
 strative ; she who had the strength of a man, 
 and was at times as violent as a man. Finlan- 
 son v/as sniffing very much, and occasionally 
 wiping her eyes with the back of her hand in a 
 quick, angry fashion. 
 
 ' I'd like to smash the head in of that old 
 judge who sent the kid on here,' she growled. 
 ' I only wish he'd come in to see us, and I knew 
 the bloke. He wouldn't get out alive, I'm 
 i'eckonin'.* 
 
 ' What business is it of yourn V was the sharp 
 answer back, and without looking round.
 
 CHILD OR WOMAX. 205 
 
 ' It ain't nat'ral, Wilton, that's all ; it ain't a bit 
 nat'rai; 
 
 ' I daresay she's as bad as you are.' 
 
 * How do you make that out V 
 
 ' 1 don't know. Don't bother me about the 
 gal/ said Wilton. 
 
 ' Did you see what blue eyes she'd got ? Blest 
 if they wasn't like bits of ehaney,' exclaimed 
 Finlanson. 
 
 ' I didn't notice.' 
 
 ' I never felt so much like a babby in all my 
 life as I do this blessed day,' Finlanson mutter- 
 ed. ' I there's that cat of a matron looking 
 
 at us.' 
 
 ' I don't care for the matron,' Wilton respond- 
 ed, sullenly. 
 
 ' No more do I. For two pins I'd fling that 
 stone at her.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, you won't ; not while I'm here, you 
 won't do that trick.' 
 
 ' Won^t I? You, you whipper-snapper, to talk 
 to me. Take that!' 
 
 And, excited and out of temper, and readily 
 impulsive, and altogether weary of the method
 
 20(5 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 and monotony of an hour's exercise, Janet 
 Finlanson, taunted by Mary Wilton, brought 
 one large and heavy hand on the top of that 
 lady's big straw bonnet, and levelled her to 
 the ground. Then began at once a second 
 scene of tumult with Janet Finlanson raving 
 like a mad woman, and threatening annihilation 
 to the authorities in general, with piisoners 
 siding for and against her, an alarm bell ringing, 
 and male warders from the men's side springing 
 up like magic and bearing off to solitary con- 
 finement the pugilistic and kicking Janet, ' put 
 out ' by the mere entrance into prison service of 
 a girl of tender years, and not to be reduced to 
 a quiet state again for many desperate days of 
 insubordination and defiance. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary Wilton was picked up from 
 the ground and helped to her own cell, under 
 protest. She was well enough — well enough to 
 ' cut the heart out ' of that Lancashire brute the 
 first time she came across her again. ' See if 
 she didn't ! See if she was going to be bashed 
 about for nothing by a common crittur like that ! 
 Only just wait and see !'
 
 CHILD OR WOMAN. 207 
 
 It was on the cards that Marv Wilton, in her 
 cell, and suffering from Janet Finlanson's un- 
 looked-for assault, would prove herself an- 
 other source of trouble presently to the 
 authorities. She was excited and hysterical and 
 hurt, and a little out of the common way had 
 been known before to disturb the equanimity of 
 Mary. But locked up in her cell, with her work 
 ready to her hand, she, after a few minutes 
 deliberation, thought better of it, and put down 
 the metal ' pint ' from which she had emptied 
 some water on the floor, with the intention of 
 battering at everything within reach. She sat 
 down, snatched up her work suddenly, and after 
 one little suppressed scream, with her face 
 pressed against the mattress folded on the wall, 
 so that no sound should well into the corridor, 
 where the matron was on duty. 
 
 Had Miss Greenwood been listening without, 
 she might have heard the following short 
 soliloquy : 
 
 ' No ; I'll keep quiet for this once. To think 
 that she's come, arter all. My little sister Daisy 
 — ^just as she said she would !'
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 ON NIGHT DUTY. 
 
 At nine o'clock in the evening there entered 
 upon night duty a young and pretty — if a pale 
 and delicate — woman, who at first sight seemed 
 as singularly out of place in the precincts of a 
 gaol, as little Daisy March had looked that 
 morning. As she stood, talking to an ofiicer 
 before proceeding on her task of watch and 
 ward, there ' seemed too much of the lady ' in 
 her to render the onerous duties of a prison fair 
 and acceptable service ; a common observer 
 even might have perceived that this was some 
 one from the better days, who, by a strange 
 chance, or a strong motive — or, say even by a 
 perverted taste — had been led to an uncongenial
 
 ON NIGHT DUTY. 209 
 
 and unsatisfactoiy mode of life. The stoiy may 
 be faintly sketched forth presently, so far as it 
 pertains to the chronicle which we have set our- 
 selves to write, or affects the prison characters 
 which will flit athwart our pages ; therefore we 
 need not enter into details here upon it. 
 
 Patience Greenwood had not been long in 
 the service, and was, therefore, new to the rules. 
 Night duty is the novitiate of the new officer — 
 there is less upon the mind, less calls upon one's 
 judgment in the dark hours with the wild beasts 
 in their dens, asleep or feigning sleep, and, as a 
 rule, particularly still. To a nervous matron, 
 the night duty is probably a greater trial than 
 the day's, but then one is not called upon to 
 consider nerves in prison service. People with 
 nerves are better out of it, and the less imagin- 
 ative they are, probably the better too ; and if it 
 Avere possible in a young and thoughtfnl woman 
 to submerge all sympathy with her surround- 
 ings, as one might sink a big stone to the bot- 
 tom of the sea, why, in time she might become a 
 model officer. But given nerves, and imagina- 
 tion, and a true woman's heart which will not 
 
 VOL. 1. P
 
 210 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 grow callous with the callous and unyielding 
 souls within her ken, and there is soon an end 
 of it. The w^heels grind heavily and harshly 
 against each other, and their revolutions are 
 fast and furious, till the final crash conies of the 
 whole machinery. 
 
 Miss Greenwood was not a nervous matron 
 for all this — on the contrary, one more self-pos- 
 sessed and calm it would have been difficult to 
 match in the great gaol, but she possessed im- 
 agination, and mixed with a strong, religious 
 feeling was that deep sympathy with the unfor- 
 tunate which was at least against her becoming 
 an e very-day, mechanical officer. Still, these 
 were early times, and she had not settled down 
 yet ; the prison world was strange and new to 
 her, and even interesting. She was already 
 considered very diligent and earnest — a new 
 broom which had begun by sweeping cleanly. 
 Presently, the old stagers thought, she would be 
 like the rest of them — more matter-of-fact and 
 less ' fine ' — more like her sharp sister possibly, 
 who had been a prison matron some two years 
 and a half, and had all the rules and regulations
 
 ox NIGHT DUTY. 211 
 
 at her finger-ends. It was the elder sister whom 
 we have seen that morning in the airing-yard, 
 when the coming of Daisy March had seriously 
 upset the little amount of self-command of which 
 the female prisoners had to boast. 
 
 The younger Miss Greenwood proceeded 
 upon her night duty calmly and methodically, 
 making the detour of the prison, passing noise- 
 lessly and quickly from cell to cell, along corri- 
 dor after corridor, listening once or twice to a 
 more than usually heavy sigh, or muttered 
 sleep-word, once exchanging a ' good-night ' 
 with a restless soul, wide awake and staring, 
 and waiting for those two words from her, as 
 though in some way they were grains of com- 
 fort which a woman might take to heart and 
 sleep presently the better for. Down the dimly- 
 lighted wards to the corridor beyond and apart, 
 at the end of which w^ere the dark cells, in the 
 days of which w^e write, proceeded the young 
 night officer. She closed the door after her as 
 she entered the passage, for Janet Finlanson 
 was bawHng a ribald ditty at the top of her 
 voice, and accompanying herself with emphatic 
 
 p2
 
 212 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 kicks upon the wooden bench whereon she was 
 lying full length. The dark cell had not daunt- 
 ed her; time had not weakened her voice, but 
 only rendered her particularly husky, and her 
 sense of injury was very strong upon her 
 still. Janet Finlanson was making a night of 
 it. 
 
 * Here — Hi ! you Greenwood gal I' she shout- 
 ed, directly the assistant-matron was in the 
 ward, ' I know you're here. You can't do me ; 
 I want to speak to you.' 
 
 Miss Greenwood approached to listen to her 
 complaint, and Janet Finlanson left off thump- 
 ing with her heels in order to address her officer 
 for awhile, and if the said officer were disposed 
 to listen to her, which she was. 
 
 ' r say, I've got a word or two for your sister.' 
 
 ' Indeed.' 
 
 ' She's dropped me into this mess, mind you, 
 and I shall smash her when I get out,' said Fin- 
 lanson ; ' I'll smash her into atoms.' 
 
 ' That is a poor message to give me, Finlanson,* 
 said Patience Greenwood, quietly. 
 
 * Well, I mean it, and she'd better look out.'
 
 ON NIGHT DUTY. 213 
 
 ' She will look out, although you don't mean 
 it.' 
 
 ' Don't I V And here Finlanson was about to 
 asseverate most solemnly and fiercely her fixed 
 intention to ' do ' for Miss Greenwood within the 
 next seven days, when the young matron said 
 ' Good-night,' in a quiet way that checked her. 
 'You ain't a-going?' cried Finlanson at once. 
 
 ' Yes ; I must not stop, you know.' 
 
 ' Sometimes you stops longer,' remarked the 
 prisoner. ' The last time I had a kick-up, and 
 settled all the glass, you said as you was sorry.' 
 
 ' I'm always sorry when you break out.' 
 
 * Good lor' — why V 
 
 ' Because you are so steady and straight- 
 forward when you are going on well.' 
 
 Miss Greenw^ood knew the power of flattery 
 over the majority of her sex, although there was 
 truth as well as praise in her last assertion. No 
 prisoner could behave better than Janet P'inlan- 
 son when she liked — the pity of it was that she 
 very seldom liked. Even when disposed to be 
 diligent and placid she was to be turned into a 
 fury by the least fancied slight from ofiicer or
 
 214 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 fellow-prisoner, and witbont so much as a mo- 
 ment's warning of the transformation. 
 
 ' Ah ! yes ; but the likes of you won't let us go 
 on well.' 
 
 ' Some of us try.' 
 
 ' You do, pVaps. I don't know no one else, 
 and I likes you sometimes,' was the gruff response,. 
 ' but as for your sister ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you don't know what a good sister she 
 is.' 
 
 ' What did she want calling in the men, jest 
 because I flattened Poll Wilton's bonnet ? Mind 
 yer, I shall kill Wilton, bang off.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; you like her.' 
 
 ' I shall suttingly kill Wilton,' persisted Janet. 
 ' The likes of her a-talkin' about what she'll do 
 to me, if I — but never mind that. The imper- 
 ence of her — why, I could blow her away at any 
 moment.' 
 
 ' Yes. She is very weak,' said the assistant- 
 matron. ' You must not be too hard upon her, 
 Finlanson. She thinks a great deal of you.' 
 
 ' What next will you say V 
 
 ' She said she was very sorry you'd got into
 
 ON NIGHT DUTY. 215 
 
 the " clailv," and it was all her fault. She nearly 
 broke out, too, to join you.' 
 
 'Did she though?' said Finlanson, with a 
 great gasp, * what, Poll Wilton ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I don't see how you know, as you ain't in 
 her ward, and ain't on duty all day,' said Fin- 
 lanson, suspiciously. 
 
 ' My sister told me.' 
 
 «Ah! well, tell Wilton I don't mind a bit 
 then. I don't care what they do to me. I'm 
 strong as a 'ouse, and can keep it up. Here 
 goes agin.' 
 
 And Finlanson began to sing and scream and 
 hammer with her heels until Patience Green- 
 wood said ' Good-night ' once more. 
 
 * Oh ! you're off then.' 
 
 ' Yes, my head aches.' 
 
 ' I won't make any row till you've got out of 
 the ward, jest because you haven't cut away 
 without saying a Avord to-night. But I shall 
 kill your sister, fust chance ; see if I don't.' 
 
 These were Janet Finlanson's last words, but 
 they did not impress Patience Greenwood as
 
 216 A PRISON FLOWER . 
 
 words uttered b}^ women less demonstrative and 
 more dangerous might have done. Finlanson 
 was a big woman, with big words to match, 
 but with an infinitesimal amount of brain, and 
 some semblance of a heart left. An impulsive, 
 spasmodic, awkward customer, this ' Lancashire 
 lass ' of fourteen stone, to whom the coming of 
 a child to prison had been an offence and giiev- 
 ance only to be protested against by a meaning- 
 less outbreak on her own part. * One of the 
 worst of women,' was written against her in the 
 prison-books, but this was hardly fair. ' One of 
 the most unmanageable,' would have been a 
 fairer criticism ; but then there had been no one 
 to manage and control this nature in its early 
 stages — no one to love and rear her, and only 
 the eternal horror of a bad example for ever set 
 before her — examples of theft and profligacy, 
 and even murder, in the dens of Liverpool, 
 where she had been born and bred, and hence 
 the result scarcely to be w^ondered at. Here 
 was the natural outcome of neglect in one mis- 
 guided nature. What the sum total is of such 
 neglect amongst the poor and vicious, one reads
 
 ON NIGHT DUTY. 217 
 
 whilst running past in fear of them. The prisons 
 were always full in those days. The light of 
 better times and truer thoughts shines even now 
 but dimly over the waste land on which the 
 darkness rests. 
 
 i
 
 218 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 
 
 We, as faithful chroniclers, are somewhat dis- 
 posed to assert that Patience Greenwood had 
 at least not that supreme reverence for prison 
 rules and regulations which a properly orga- 
 nised matron was expected to possess. Had 
 she remained all her hfe — or the best years of 
 her life — ' under government,' it is doubtful if 
 the reverence would have deepened veiy much. 
 She was an eccentric young woman, and would 
 have given trouble to the authorities by ' want- 
 ing to know, you know,' — by objecting to the 
 rules, and possibly by sendhig in proposed 
 amendments to them, by an absence of profound 
 respect, mayhap, for principals, and an inner
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 219^ 
 
 consciousness that they were but fussy, pom- 
 pous^ and common-place folk, take them alto- 
 gether, to whom in her old and higher estate — 
 from which a father's speculations had hurled 
 down a family — she might have thought it 
 preferable to hold aloof, or to laugh at good- 
 naturedly, for their httle vain displays of brief 
 authority. 
 
 But she was fond of * the service,' and with 
 an honourable desire to be of service too, which 
 is not always the incentive to exertion in the 
 heart of every matron. She had a fair idea of 
 what was duty, and she followed it to the best 
 of her ability, — although it was remarked that 
 she showed too much interest in the prisoners, 
 talked too much to them at times, and had 
 been even known to preach at them. Though 
 a good officer, she was not likely to prove so 
 sharp and efficient as her elder sister, it was 
 thought. She would probably wear herself out 
 quickly, taking things to heart too much as she 
 did, and not getting used to the business so 
 promptly as she might have done. Her sister 
 Kate thought this, as well as many strangers
 
 220 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 with not half the interest in her, but Patience 
 Greenwood only smiled, and continued the even 
 tenor of her way. 
 
 Decidedly an inquisitive young woman, we 
 may assert without exaggeration ; and it was 
 evident that Daisy March had aroused in her 
 more than a common amount of interest. She 
 would have been glad to know the whole story 
 of this child of fourteen's appearance in gaol ; 
 and why the sentence had been so severe upon 
 a girl so young. This was an impression which 
 Patience could not shake from her mind — not 
 even as it became fairly evident to the Avorld 
 about her that Daisy March was as wild and 
 wilful, as resistive of all discipline, and as defiant 
 of it, as women twice and thrice her age, and 
 with twice and thrice her penal-servitude ex- 
 perience. Taken altogether, Daisy March was 
 hardly an interesting character, people thought; 
 she was only a specimen of one who had 
 matured in crime with a more frightful rapidity 
 than her fellows, and seemed at her early age 
 as bad as any of them. The prisoners had soon 
 grown accustomed to her, and their sympathy
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 221 
 
 had evaporated as quickly as it had been 
 shown on her first appearance in their midst ; 
 she was as sullen and harsh to them as to her 
 officers, as ready to take ofi'ence, as watchful 
 of every opportunity to deceive — the regular 
 gaol-bird — and of the old, grim, regulation 
 pattern. 
 
 Still, in the estimation of Patience Greenwood, 
 there 2cas something in her which was different 
 from the rest — there was, even to the assistant- 
 matron's mind, the certainty of a mystery about 
 her presence there, which had not yet been 
 fathomed. 
 
 ' That girl March pretends to be worse than 
 she is/ said Patience Greenwood one day to her 
 sister. 
 
 'My dear Patience, how you worry about 
 that prisoner. She cannot be a great deal 
 worse, I fancy.' 
 
 ' I am not so sure of it.' 
 
 ' You must not be romantic in this sad busi- 
 ness of our lives,' said the elder sister, ' or the 
 work will become too much for you.' 
 
 '. It is too much for me already.'
 
 222 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * Yon are not feeling illf asked Kate, anxi- 
 ously. 
 
 ' 1 don't know that I am feeling particularly 
 strong,' was the reply. 
 
 ' You will apply for sick leave, then. Go 
 down to Aunt Mary's in the country. You 
 must not give way.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I shall keep well,' said the younger 
 sister: 'you and I cannot afford to fall sick. 
 We must leave that luxury to the rich.' 
 
 * I don't quite understand you,' said Kate 
 Greenwood, regarding her sister doubtfully ; 
 ' but I know that I am not going to have you 
 killed by prison service. If you cannot get 
 used to it — resign.' 
 
 * Have you got used to it ?' answered Patience, 
 with a visible little shudder. 
 
 ' 1 think I have.' 
 
 ' Then I am sorry for you.' 
 
 ' It is my " profession." ' said Kate, laughing, 
 * and I study it professionally.' 
 
 ' If our poor, dear dad could only have known 
 what was to become of us, Kate,' said Patience, 
 half- slowly, half-drily, 'perhaps he would not
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 223 
 
 have speculated in quite so many bubble com- 
 panies.' 
 
 * Patience, 1 am sure you detest this life.' 
 
 ' I don't like it a great deal,' was the confes- 
 sion ; * possibly for the reason I have already 
 stated, that it is too much for me.' 
 
 ' You will give it up ?' 
 
 ' Not yet.' 
 
 * Presently V 
 
 ' Yes — presently.' 
 
 'Before the long hours and the hard service 
 render you unfit for anything else. Oh I Patience, 
 you are all I have left in the world, and I cannot 
 afford to lose you.' 
 
 Kate flung her arms round her, and kissed 
 her. The elder sister was not an impulsive or 
 demonstrative woman, but there was a true 
 affection for the younger in her heart, one of 
 those unfathomable loves which one sees at 
 times — not too often — between sisters, and 
 which, in its deep solemnity of devotion and 
 self-sacrifice, amazes people of a colder stamp. 
 And Kate Greenwood was devoted to this 
 younger sister — had been as a mother to her in
 
 224 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 those tender years of girlhood, when the mother, 
 by God's will, had been taken away from them 
 both. Under the mask of her imperturbability, 
 she was watching her sister every day with 
 keen attention, and setting others on a friendly 
 watch also. 
 
 Our dialogue had occurred in the little room 
 of Patience Greenwood. It was Kate's ' night- 
 off,' and she was spending an hour or two with 
 her younger sister, whose time for going on 
 night duty was approaching. The time passed 
 quickly with them ; they had had a great deal 
 to talk about — of many little plans for the future, 
 when, perhaps, they should be able to give up 
 prison service altogether, and live somew^here in 
 the country. This was Kate's day-dream, which 
 rendered the present life endurable, and which 
 kept Kate stronger than her sister Patience, 
 wliose day-dreams were hardly as bright, and 
 who did not see the end of it so clearly as the 
 other. 
 
 A few days afterwards, it was announced to 
 Miss Patience Greenwood that she was to be 
 transferred to another government prison in a
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 225 
 
 pleasant London suburb, and Patience regarded 
 the lady-superintendent a little doubtfully when 
 the announcement was made to her. 
 
 ' I would prefer to remain with my sister, Mrs. 
 Edgar,' was Patience's slow reply. 
 
 ' The order has come from Parliament Street, 
 and there is no appeal,' said the lady. 
 
 Patience flew to her sister. 
 
 * You are at the bottom of this transfer, Kate, 
 and it's no use denying it.' 
 
 ' Well, I am,' the elder sister acknowledged. 
 ' I was anxious about you, and spoke to the 
 doctor. The new prison is on a more healthy 
 site, and you will have a better chance of 
 health.' 
 
 * This is our first separation, then T 
 
 ' ' We are separated now, Patience,' was the 
 other's reply, ' and we shall even meet more 
 often under the new arrangement. Our "nights- 
 off " will be the same, and we will spend them 
 together.' 
 
 ' I shall miss all the old faces,' said Patience. 
 ' The matrons I have learned to like, and the 
 prisoners who have become, as it were, my 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 charge. I wonder what Daisy March will do 
 without me.' 
 
 'Without you!' 
 
 ' Well, she does mind what I say, now and 
 then, I think.' 
 
 ' My dear Patience, you have Daisy March 
 upon the brain.' 
 
 And this Daisy March, whose name stands 
 in this story as one of our principal characters 
 — what of her ? That young lady was in ' the 
 dark ' at the present moment, having tried the 
 effect of a break-out, it was thought upon Janet 
 Fiulanson's earnest recommendation, who con- 
 sidered that it ' kept the pot a-bihn'.' But 
 Daisy had especial reasons for this extraordinary 
 ebullition of temper, and they were soon ap- 
 parent to the night officer. Daisy March had 
 been three months in prison at this time, w'e 
 may add. 
 
 ' I say. Miss Greenwood,' she said, in a low 
 voice, when the ' inspection ' had been opened, 
 to see that the refractory prisoner was ' all 
 right ' in the dark cell to which she had been 
 consigned, 'I want to speak to you.'
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 227 
 
 * W^ell V 
 
 'I ain't to see mucli more on you, they say.' 
 
 ' How do you know that V 
 
 ' You're goin' to t'other prison, ain't you V 
 
 ' Who told you V 
 
 ' Oh ! it's all over the place, you can't keep 
 things quiet here. I knowed it yesterday, and 
 that's why I've got to " the dark." ' 
 
 ' You ! And for what reason V 
 
 ' I could speak to yer, you see — I could ' 
 
 She paused, then went on again. 
 
 ' I could tell you I was sorry you was a-goin", 
 miss.' 
 
 ' Why, you don't care for me V 
 
 ' Don't s'pose 1 care for nobody. Nobody at 
 all ; but I don't want you to go, somehow.' 
 
 ' Why not r 
 
 ' You ain't like the rest on 'em,' she rephed. 
 ' You ain't like your sister — not a bit of it. No- 
 body likes your sister.' 
 
 * That's bad news to me.' 
 
 * You do, I s'pose?' 
 
 ' Yes. She has been a good, kind sister to 
 me.' 
 
 q2
 
 228 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * Has she, really V 
 
 ' And you have a sister, who has been kind 
 to you.' 
 
 ' How — how do you know that V cried Daisy, 
 very quickly now. It was her turn to be sur- 
 prised at the information. 
 
 * I have fancied it,' said Patience Greenwood, 
 drily. 
 
 * You knows too much for me,' said Daisy 
 March ; ' you are precious artful, if ' 
 
 * If I sometimes think I can guess the reason 
 why you are here.' 
 
 * Well, what was it r 
 
 ' Because your sister was here too. And you 
 were rash enough, and wicked enough, to join 
 her at any cost.' 
 
 ' You know a lot, you do,' said Daisy, ironically. 
 
 * Am I wrong V 
 
 * Well, Poll wos allers good to me. She took 
 my part — fought with father for me, scratched 
 mother, did everythink for me — and as I 
 couldn't get on without her, why, I came here. 
 That's it. And you won't split, will you?' 
 
 ' And you are fond of this sister, then?'
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 229 
 
 * I jest am !' 
 
 ' Why do you break out like this, then ? Mary 
 Wilton doesn't.' 
 
 ' Oh, she puts me out, though ; she talks to 
 the other women too much,' Daisy added, jea- 
 lously, ' and I can't bear it. But,' she added, 
 quaintly, ' I came here to see you this time, and 
 I'm werry comforbul. / like this shop /' 
 
 ' Horrible !' 
 
 ' And I shall come and see you in your new 
 -crib,' said Daisy, positively. ' I goes in for a 
 bran new leaf to-morrow. I shan't be werry 
 long afore I follow you, you see.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you'll have to be very good, March, to 
 get to the next prison.' 
 
 ' You'll see.' 
 
 ' You can be good if you like, then?' 
 
 ' You jest see V was the strong reiteration 
 here. 'Poll's going, and now you're going, and 
 — I mean it now.' 
 
 * Mean it always, Daisy March, and I shall 
 be very glad,' said our heroine, earnestly. 
 
 ' You glad ! What if I Here, did you 
 
 say glad V
 
 230 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * Yes, very glad.' 
 
 * Well, you are a rum un,' was the inelegant 
 response, in a low, sepulchral, wondering tone 
 of voice. * I don't make it out, you know.' 
 
 ' Why I should be glad V 
 
 * Zackly so, miss. Because you see I'm so 
 awful bad ; born bad, without a scrap of good 
 in me anywhere. They'll tell you so in Scroggs's 
 Court, Liverpool, and no flies. They'll tell you 
 there ' 
 
 ' I don't want to hear what they say of you 
 there, Daisy. Never mind them. What they 
 say of you here is another matter, and I shall 
 be glad when you have your good conduct 
 badge. I'm going now. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Good-bye for the present, miss. That's all ?' 
 
 'That's all.' 
 
 ' And you will be glad to see me ?' 
 
 * Yes, very glad.' 
 
 ' Thankee, thankee. God bless you, miss. I 
 don't make it all out, but God bless you. 
 There !' shrieked the girl. 
 
 The matron walked away slowly, stopped,, 
 came back again.
 
 THE PRISON DAISY. 231 
 
 * What made you say that V she asked. 
 
 < I don't know. I've heard people talk like 
 that, off and on.' 
 
 'Do you know what it means?' 
 
 ' Dashed if I do.' 
 
 ' Do you know anything of Him whom you 
 call upon to bless me?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 'Not anything? — oh, not anything?' 
 
 ' The parson's been a tryin' to make me know 
 a bit, and I've been a tryin to understand him 
 — but lor, bless you, there's no making him out, 
 miss ; try as hard as you can.' 
 
 'You will understand, I hope. Meanwhile, 
 God bless Daisy March for trying. I think He 
 ^vill in His good time.' 
 
 And Patience Greenwood moved slowly away 
 — moved on for ever from this neglected prison 
 flower. Matron and convict had made many 
 plans, and looked forward to the future. But 
 the future is God's, and belongs not to man or 
 woman.
 
 232 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 
 
 Step by step, to trace the prison life of Daisy 
 March, and to track her faltering, feeble pro- 
 gress — but still a progress — in detail, comes not 
 within the province of a story of this kind. It 
 will be sufficient to record that a wild, distorted 
 nature put forth some green young shoots to- 
 wards the light and life lying beyond the murky 
 world in which she had been cast, and that she 
 showed some little efforts to work upwards. 
 And if this was not repentance, and there was 
 no religion in the question, if the chaplain of 
 the gaol exercised no power over her, and was 
 at any opportunity an object to be ridiculed and 
 scoffed at, still Daisy March worked on dogged-
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 233 
 
 ly, learned some lesson of self-restraint, gathered 
 to herself the fact that, by good behaviour and 
 fair obedience, the distance between the penal 
 class and ' the association ' — the prison, wherein 
 the rule was silence and severity, and the prison 
 beyond, where silence would be the exception 
 — grew less and less with every day. The good 
 conduct badge was earned at last, and it was on 
 the cards that Daisy March might be transferred 
 at any moment. There had been every incentive 
 to exertion ; her sister had gone, and was a 
 * Number One woman ' in the new prison, and 
 Patience Greenwood was waiting for her, she 
 was sure. It had been a promise between them, 
 and the young assistant-matron had been the 
 only oflScer to give her a good word. This 
 sister of hers — this Kate Greenwood — was not 
 one of the right sort. She was * down on her '; 
 she was all for the rules; she was more like a 
 machine than an officer ; she seldom smiled, and 
 Avas always very silent, watchful, cross ; she 
 gave her no news of the ' other one '; not she, 
 without it was wrenched out of her. 
 
 Once or twice in odd opportunities to say a
 
 234 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 few words, when Daisy March had become a 
 piisoner over whom a less amount of rigom- was 
 exercised, when she was a * cleaning woman,* 
 and allowed a few half-hours of liberty about 
 the wards, efforts were made by her to render 
 Kate Greenwood conversational. 
 
 ' Yon don't tell me anythink about her, Miss 
 Greenwood,' she said once ; ' I don't know 
 nothin'.' 
 
 Miss Greenwood regarded her very thought- 
 fully, and, as Daisy March considered, very 
 crossly, being a bad judge of the looks of earnest 
 folk. 
 
 ' What do you want to know, March V 
 
 ' She's at the other prison, I s'pose V 
 
 * My sister r 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 ' She is in the country now,' was the reply ; 
 ' at her aunt's.' 
 
 ' There, now ; blest if I didn't think there was 
 some game up. What's the use in her bein' 
 away when I'm a-goin' to her directly ? What's 
 the ' 
 
 * She has been ill,' said Kate Greenwood, 
 interrupting her.
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 235 
 
 < You don't say that !' 
 
 ' But she is getting better, they say. She 
 will be on duty next week again, I hope.' 
 
 'Why didn't I know this afore? Why 
 couldn't you tell me ?' said Daisy March, almost 
 peremptorily. 
 
 ' 1 am not here to give you news,' was the 
 cold answer ; •' and, besides,' she added, ' it might 
 have unsettled you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! much you cared about that.' 
 
 ' And,' she continued, very calmly, and quite 
 oblivious to the taunt conveyed, ' I wanted you 
 to get to your sister.' 
 
 ' Oh ! she's told you that, then, has she V ex- 
 claimed Daisy. 
 
 ' No ; I told her long ago,' was the reply. 
 
 * Ah ! you're too sharp for me, i\Iiss Green- 
 wood,' remarked the other. ' And what's she 
 doing V 
 
 ' She is doing pretty well.' 
 
 ' It's funny ^^ou're having a sister and me 
 having one, too, and all going on together like 
 a four-in-hand ; ain't it 1' 
 
 * I don't see the fun in it.'
 
 236 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 ' It's funny to me, and no mistake. You don't 
 know ' 
 
 ' I know you are talking too much,' said the 
 matron, closing the subject suddenly and 
 peremptorily. ' There, get on wnth your work.' 
 
 ' Ah I I shall never like you a bit,' muttered 
 Daisy March to herself; 'and, what's more, I 
 shan't try.' 
 
 The impression even grew^ upon Daisy March 
 that she disliked this officer more with every 
 day, and that the prim young matron evaded 
 her, and took a deal of pains to keep out of lier 
 way, a tremendous deal of pains, as though she 
 hated to say a word to her, or give her one 
 scrap of news. Thank goodness, she should 
 soon be out of her clutches, soon have earned 
 her right to get away to the prison where the 
 other was, and where the rules were not so hard 
 and fast, or ' doAvn upon a gal.' She should 
 like that new prison, she was sure ; she would 
 be presently in association there, and allowed to 
 talk a bit, and she was ' uncommon fond ' of 
 talking, if they would only let her. 
 
 ' There was a great deal to perplex this half-
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 237 
 
 child, half-Avoman. She did not quite make 
 everything out. Miss Greenwood was not seen 
 for days together ; then she took her fortnight's 
 hohdays, and came back, looking all the worse 
 for them. There was something wrong some- 
 where, she thought; and one early morning 
 Daisy seized her opportunity and made a dash 
 at her in the ward : 
 
 ' How is she ? You don't tell me nothin',. 
 you don't,' was the old charge against the 
 matron. 
 
 Miss Greenwood turned white, but she was- 
 very calm, and even firm. 
 
 ' How is your sister, do you mean V she said,, 
 interrogati^'ely. 
 
 ' No, no, yours ; is she well V 
 
 ' She is very well,' came the slow answer,, 
 which Avas accompanied by a swift walk away 
 from her questioner, with whom she would hold 
 no further converse, it was evident, that day. 
 
 ' Stuck up ; allers so drefful stuck up. I do 
 hate the sight o' you, and no mistake,' Daisy 
 March said, shaking her fist after the matron. 
 
 A few days afterwards there came back to the
 
 238 A PRISOX FLOWER. 
 
 old prison big Janet Finlanson, the woman who 
 had broken out into a fit of passion because so 
 young a prisoner as Daisy March had fallen into 
 the custody of the State. Janet had worked 
 her way almost by a miracle to the secondary 
 stage of prison servitude, but it had been more 
 than a miracle to keep her subservient to the 
 rules there. She iiad had her feelings hurt ; 
 there had been a great deal to upset her in Poll 
 March's behaviour, and she had shivered all the 
 glass in the kitchen with her broom one day in- 
 stead of doing her v/ork, and had tried to knock 
 Poll March's brains out against the wall for 
 sending her contemptuous messages, and return- 
 ing the lock of her hair which she had given 
 her, covered thickly with salt.* Janet had been 
 sent back to the penal ward, with her badge 
 stripped from her, and all her hard work to 
 begin over again. She did not care, she said ; 
 nobody should trample upon her ; and as she 
 had come back, by jingo, they should have a 
 
 * An insult which one female convict will occasionally 
 offer to another, and which invariably leads to much heart- 
 burniug and passionate outbreaks.
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 239 
 
 time of it — the lot of 'em ! And a time of it 
 they had. 
 
 Still, Daisy March found an opportunity to 
 communicate with Janet Finlanson. In a ' stiff' 
 — which is the cant name for a written missive 
 surreptitiously conveyed from one prisoner to 
 another, and faithfully passed on till it reaches 
 the hands of her for whom it is intended — 
 Daisy, who could write a little now, asked two 
 questions — 
 
 * Was Poll hurt ? How was the GreeuAvood 
 girl?' 
 
 She did not get her answer readily. It was 
 three days coming back, and was at last taken 
 from under the back hair of a prisoner, and 
 surreptitiously conveyed to her. 
 
 Here is the letter, the ink manufactured from 
 the smoke gathered at the bottom of a ' pint ' 
 which had been held over the gas-jet in the 
 cell, and the paper a torn fly-leaf of her Bible. 
 Janet Finlanson had been taught to write and 
 spell in prison, and here is a fair specimen of 
 her powers of composition : 
 
 ' PoVs had. Lade up. She sint mi air hao
 
 240 A PRISON ^LO^YER. 
 
 sallted, art 1 rushed ^er fur it. She won't cheek 
 mee afjane. ^Ope I aint urt her to mutch, i doant 
 no loot u, mene hij oius the other grenewood. She's 
 ded.' 
 
 Daisy March deciphered this epistle with 
 great difficulty, but, when it was mastered, she 
 was more like the child she looked than she 
 had ever been yet — a child in her passionate 
 abandonment to grief and the extravagant 
 misery of her despair. There Avere strange 
 depths of feeling, wild and incomprehensible 
 and unfathomable in this untaught nature_, but 
 they displayed themselves only in the old, sad, 
 mad fashion of our female prisoners. Daisy 
 March ' broke out ;' the glass within reach was 
 shattered, the metal pint was battered out of 
 shape, the blankets were torn into a hundred 
 strips, and fighting, kicking, and screaming, tliis 
 distraught chikl was carried to the penal cell 
 out of the way of women striving to do Avell, 
 but terribly quick to follow an evil example, 
 and only too ready to fling away all sense of 
 self-restraint. 
 
 It was a source of regret to more than one
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 241 
 
 female officer that Daisy March had broken out 
 again. The extreme youth of the prisoner had 
 always stood in her favour, and enlisted the 
 secret sympathy of the matrons in her anoma- 
 lous position ; there had been no little satisfac- 
 tion at the child prisoner becoming more childlike 
 and natural with the teaching of the gaol. And 
 now it had all to be begun again — and the 
 weary, heart-sickening, hop^-def erred task, to 
 start afresh from the very beginning of this 
 miserable, soul-shadowing existence. 
 
 ' They told me a lot o' lies ; they kep it all 
 from me, an' she was dead all the while. I 
 won't go to any other prison now. Ill die here, 
 if I can. I won't care for anythink or anybody 
 ever any more. I won't — I won't — I won't !' 
 
 The matron on duty came to see her every 
 hour, and strove to pacify her, but she would 
 not listen to a word. She was a fury, who 
 might scream herself to death in time— a de- 
 moniac, and not human in her ravings. The 
 disappointment was hard to endure. Heaven 
 knows what thoughts had been in this young 
 girl's mind concerning her new life in prison, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 her better life beyond it, and she did not bear 
 this disappointment well. She gave way com- 
 pletely — so very completely that even the 
 matrons, accustomed to these scenes, became 
 alarmed, and the prison surgeon regarded her 
 as a being whom it was difficult to comprehend, 
 and beyond his power, as it seemed, presently 
 to save. 
 
 No one had imagined that Daisy March would 
 have taken the matter to heart; she was a 
 prison item, nothing more, and not to be 
 credited with more human feeling than the 
 rest of them, and indeed, in the early stages 
 of her career, she had shown herself in many 
 things particularly callous. But Daisy March 
 was not to be measured by the square and rule, 
 and no one understood her yet. The suspicion 
 that this was a character out of the common 
 order had been guessed at faintly, perhaps, by 
 Patience Greenwood, sleeping now peacefully 
 in a country churchyard, with all the dangers 
 and difficulties of prison service for ever far 
 removed from her. 
 
 Daisy March refused all food — fought with
 
 DAISY IS DECEIVED. 243 
 
 those who endeavoured to give it her — was 
 found at last lying like a dead thing in her 
 cell, and was carried to the infirmary, where 
 she battled with a raging fever, and the bodily 
 weakness following the fever, for many a long 
 day. 
 
 r2
 
 244 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INFIRMARY CELL. 
 
 Closely attached to the infirmary of the prison 
 were several cells, whither were drifted those 
 invalids whose refractory nature would resist 
 even the mild rules of the doctor, and * break 
 out ' on the sick beds, to the distress and dis- 
 comfort of their fellow prisoners about them. 
 Such women would be removed to large and 
 airy cells away from the general ward, and here 
 the ordinary attendant, very often a prison 
 cleaner, who had been promoted for 'sobriety 
 of conduct,' or general good behaviour, would 
 wait upon them, or occasionally a special at- 
 tendant in those extraordinary cases which are 
 patent to gaol life as elsewhere.
 
 THE INFIRMARY CELL. 245 
 
 Cases of infection would be isolated thus, of 
 course, and Daisy March's had become one of 
 these. Hers had been a terrible fever, and the 
 authorities had become greatly alarmed for the 
 safety of their large flock of black sheep, and 
 hence Daisy March_, on coming to herself, found 
 that she was the inmate of a large, well-ventil- 
 ated room, or cell, wherein was plenty of space, 
 and light, and air ; and that this cell was her 
 own exclusive, private apartment, for her sole 
 use and benefit, and with the luxury of a special 
 attendant to her needs. 
 
 And that special attendant, sitting with her 
 back towards her, seemed, to the half-dazed 
 intellect of Daisy March, something like a figure 
 she had seen before, although, mayhap, a dream 
 figure, one of the many by which she had been 
 lately most terribly perplexed, and which took 
 all shapes and every conceivable and inconceiv- 
 able form and face, from Patience Greenwood's, 
 the woman who was dead, to those * pals ' of 
 the Livei-pool dens, from which, for a time, the 
 hand of the law had snatched her away. 
 
 She was too weak to speak, so she lay and
 
 246 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 wondered till her weakness led her to close her 
 ejeSj and finally to faint. And so on for a day 
 or two, with the attendant very calm and self- 
 possessed and watchful, until some sHght renewal 
 of vitality gave the sick girl strength to speak. 
 
 Then came the words out, very low and 
 falteringly, and with a ring of wonderment in 
 them which was not to be repressed. 
 
 ' You are her sister, then V 
 
 * Yes, her sister.* 
 
 * And where's this ? Prison still V 
 
 ' This is one of the infirmary cells,' was the 
 reply. 
 
 ' And you — what's put you here V 
 
 ' 1 will tell you when you are stronger. Not 
 now.' 
 
 *I don't want to be no stronger. I don't 
 want to hear any think about you. I won't — 
 1 ' 
 
 'Hush, hush!' said Kate Greenwood, rising 
 and bending over her. ' You forget I have a 
 deal to tell you, when you are a little better. ' 
 
 ' A deal to tell me V repeated Daisy March, 
 slowly. 
 
 *Yes.'
 
 THE INFIRMARY CELL. 247 
 
 * About her, do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Yes, about her. She charged me to deHver 
 you a message.' 
 
 'Honour bright?' 
 
 'Yes— honour bright,' repHed Kate Green- 
 wood, earnestly. 
 
 ' Becos you're such a har, you are,' murmured 
 Daisy March. 
 
 The matron winced at this plain-speaking. 
 
 ' Why do you think that f she asked, softly. 
 
 * You told me she was well — very well, you 
 jsaid ; and all the time she was dead and gone. 
 And you knew she was !' cried Daisy March, 
 fretfully. 
 
 'There, there, you must not grow excited, 
 Daisy,' said Kate, in a low tone. ' I was asked 
 not to tell you — it was her wish that you should 
 not know till you had gone to the. new prison. 
 And she icas well, I think, in Heaven.' 
 
 ' You were not to tell me ?' 
 
 ' No ; I was not to tell you.' 
 
 ' That's queer. Let me know all about it to- 
 morrow, please, when I'm a bit less like a babby. 
 Will your 
 
 ' Yes.'
 
 248 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 But on the morrow she was ill again, and it 
 was feared that the relapse would carry Daisy 
 March away before the message from the dead 
 could be delivered to her. The morrow brought 
 a faint ray of hope again, and though she did 
 not get rapidly strong, though it seemed as if 
 it were destined that health and strength should 
 come no more to her, still she lay a fragile and 
 faint semblance of life at last, and with the 
 courage to hear the story out. And this was 
 it, told by white, quivering hps, and from an 
 earnest woman's heart.
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 
 
 * You wasn't to tell me, you say. And why V 
 was Daisy March's inquiry, when she was well 
 enough to hear the story. 
 
 ' Lest it should lead you to break out, just as 
 it did after all when it was told you by Finlan- 
 son. My poor sister Patience was very anxious 
 you should get away from here,' replied Kate 
 Greenwood ; * here were the worst of prisoners, 
 and you were very young.' 
 
 ' Was she anxshus V murmured the sick girl. 
 ' Well, I thought she took to me a bit ; I did, 
 indeed. She was not like any of the rest of 
 you ; no, that she wasn't.' 
 
 ' And on being transferred to the other prison.
 
 250 A PRISON FLO^VER. 
 
 Daisy, my sister had hoped that you would re- 
 main ; passing on in time to Fulham Refuge, 
 and from the Refuge to an honest hfe beyond 
 it,' continued the matron. 
 
 ' The hkes o' that now. To think all that of 
 me, as if it could be done !' 
 
 'And 1 should have told you of this before 
 you went away, giving you her message, when 
 you were stronger of heart and had more self- 
 control,' said Kate. ' Do you understand me ?' 
 
 ' I think I do. Go on, please, and don't give 
 me too many hard words, if you can help it.' 
 
 ' When my sister Patience lay dying, she 
 thought of you very deeply. You seemed to 
 be as a iDart of her life, which I had never 
 known. She had had strange hopes about you 
 — a strong wish to rescue you from the old life 
 that has sent you here, poor child. Had she 
 lived, she would not have lost sight of you ; and 
 when your four years had been served, Daisy, 
 she, with God's gi-eat help, would have striven 
 very hard to make you better than you are ; to 
 put you in a fair way of beginning life again, 
 and beginning it well.'
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 251 
 
 ' She was very good,' said the sick girl, 
 
 -thoughtfully; 'but ' 
 
 *But?' repeated Kate Greenwood. 
 
 * But it couldn't have been done, at no price !' 
 *Yes — yes — it could have been done,' said 
 
 Kate Greenwood, quickly. 
 
 The girl lay and regarded the excitement of 
 her nurse with a faint and wondering interest ; 
 but she said again : 
 
 * I shouldn't have been up to gi'owin' good, 
 like those poor critters in the tracts the lady 
 comes and reads to us,' said Daisy March ; ' I 
 wasn't born good no how. AVe've never had a 
 good 'un in our family : nothing like one.' 
 
 ' Then you must leave the family, Daisy ; get 
 away from all of them.' 
 
 ' It ain't easy that,' was the reply ; * they likes 
 me, and I likes them. They'd do anythink for 
 me, the lot on 'em, though we fight orful at 
 times.' 
 
 ' And " the lot "—who are they?' 
 
 Daisy thought the matron particularly curi- 
 ous, but she answered, very readily : 
 
 'There's the guv'nor, but he's at Portland
 
 252 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 jest now; and mother — she keeps 'ouse, and looks 
 arter me, and Poll, and Tom, and Teddy, when 
 she can.' 
 
 'When she is ont of prison herself ?' added 
 Miss Greenwood. 
 
 ' Ex'axly.' 
 
 ' And when in prison V 
 
 ' Ah ! there it is. Then we gets into a mess, 
 and that's 'ow Poll got here. And as I missed 
 Poll dreadful— for she's been allers kind to me, 
 she has — I thought I'd come in arter her. And 
 much good that's done,' she added, querulously 
 — '•' and much I've seen on her !' 
 
 * Perhaps that's for the best.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it's easy to say that ; but didn't you hke 
 your sister?' said Daisy March, with the blue 
 eyes keenly watching over the coverlet. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the reply, ' she was a good woman.' 
 
 ' I knows it,' answered Daisy ; ' and Poll's a 
 bad 'un. And bad 'uns like each other, too ; 
 they can't help it, I s'pose, sometimes. And,' 
 continued Daisy, warming with her subject, 
 * Poll allers took my part becos I was a little 
 'un, and fought 'em all round at times, guv'nor
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 253 
 
 and all ; and when she was tooked, and I was 
 left with Tom and Ted, I thought I'd rather 
 come here jest for peace and quietness ; and 
 here 1 am.' 
 
 'Out of love for your sister f inquired Kate 
 Greenwood. 
 
 'I don't quite know what it wos for now; I 
 tried to be caught, and it didn't take a long- 
 while to catch me, did it?' she added, with a 
 feeble little laugh ; ' it was the sixth case agin 
 me, and 1 caught it hot ; jest as I calkylated.' 
 
 Kate Greenwood regarded her attentively ; 
 even critically. In the matron's mind were 
 many thoughts and doubts, and the child's char- 
 acter was difficult to comprehend. There were 
 lights and shades in it, though the shades were 
 terribly predominant, and only a faint thread of 
 gold, here and there amidst the darkness, told 
 of the good that might have been, with 
 other hands leading her away from — instead of 
 towards— the terrible pitfalls about her desolate 
 young life. To look now so very fair, and 
 gentle, and bright, and to have known oniy 
 the ghastly experience of sin, and to have been
 
 254 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 trained to theft as to something that paid, even 
 taking into account the ' bad luck ' against it 
 sometimes, and the accumulation of the sentences 
 against it, leading at last to penal ser\'itude. 
 Not fifteen years of age yet ! and presently to 
 go into the world with no better thoughts or 
 fairer hopes than when she had been locked up 
 away from it. The matron had had experience 
 herself of prison characters, had witnessed much 
 defiance of good, the cunning to resist right, 
 the awful callousness to all impressions which 
 sought to convey one idea of God, or hope of 
 heaven ; and of the power of these lower and 
 benighted natures to reform at all, she had be- 
 come a little sceptical. She had seen a great 
 deal of hypocrisy, and no true penitence, and 
 hence had grown — albeit a good and earnest 
 woman — somewhat callous in herself, the natural 
 outcome possibly of the fife which she had 
 chosen, or necessity had chosen for her. 
 
 But there had come a change to her, too, 
 though she hardly knew the length and breadth 
 of it yet ; in her sister's thoughts, her sister's 
 death, she had witnessed a more earnest and
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 255 
 
 hopeful nature than her own, and it had softened 
 and impressed her ; teaching her the lesson of 
 true sympathy for the poor humanity about her, 
 and pointing out the way, at times, to be of 
 service to it. 
 
 It was as if some of the kindly Christian vir- 
 tues of the younger woman had fallen to Kate 
 Greenwood as a legacy, which she would 
 treasure all the more out of the deep love for 
 her to whom it had belonged. 
 
 ' I wish you wouldn't stare at me lilve that,' 
 said Daisy March at last. 
 
 ' AVas I staring V murmured Kate ; * I did not 
 know it.' 
 
 ' You wosn't thinkin' of me, I fancy. Poll 
 stares hke that at times. Poll agin !' said Daisy, 
 fretfully. * Blest if I can keep her out of my 'ed 
 at all to-day.' 
 
 ' I was thinking of my sister, too,' said Kate at 
 last, ' and in what way I should deliver you her 
 message.' 
 
 * You've been a long while giving it a body.' 
 
 <I have.' 
 
 ' Go on, please. I 'spose there's a sermon in
 
 256 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 it ; but I can bear her preaching now. I liked 
 her/ said the child prisoner, very thoughtfully 
 again. 
 
 * No, Daisy March, the sermon was for me, and 
 I have profited by it. It was to me she preached, 
 and taught me courage, and faith, and per- 
 severance. Her message to you was this ; 
 '* Trust in my sister Kate ; she takes my place, 
 and will save you if you will try to save your- 
 self.'" 
 
 'Is that all?' said Daisy March, somewhat 
 disappointed, ' becos I don't know as how I 
 make it out.' 
 
 'And she bade me say with all her heart, 
 what you said once to her, " God bless you." ' 
 
 The girl was very silent for a while now, 
 and closed the blue eyes, over which the long 
 lashes quivered painfully. When she opened 
 them again, she said ; 
 
 'I am to trust you then ? She said so V 
 
 * If you will.' 
 
 ' What are you goin' to do with me V 
 ' Pray for you. Teach you to pray for your- 
 •self.'
 
 THE MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 257 
 
 * I'm too old for that fun ; I know I am.' 
 
 * You are not yet fifteen?' 
 
 * Yes ; but then I never wos a child, you see/ 
 she answered, moodily ; ' and what are you 
 goin' to make out of me here ' 
 
 ' Oh ! not here, so much,' cried Kate, seizing 
 her opportunity, ' but away from here, if you 
 will come to me when the old, bad life Hes 
 further back, and the light shines upon the new : 
 the light of Heaven, Daisy. For ' — she added, 
 after a pause — ' I am going away.' 
 
 * Going away ; you, too !' 
 
 * I shall be waiting for you, as I promised my 
 sister Patience that I would, under any circum- 
 stances,' she said ; * and you will come to me a 
 better woman.' 
 
 ' I can only try,' murmured Daisy March. 
 
 * And you will try V 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 * That is a promise. We can talk more of this 
 before I leave for good. I am hardly of the 
 service now, and only here by a kind permission 
 to act as nurse to you until you are strong 
 again.' 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 < Oh ! I don't want to get strong if you're a- 
 goin' when I'm well.' 
 
 * For the sake of her we have lost, get strong 
 in health, and so strong in the good pm-pose to 
 begin life afresh.' 
 
 *1 can but try,' said the child prisoner again, 
 and in a lower voice. 
 
 ' And try you will,' was whispered back again, 
 and as the old response to her. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Daisy, for the second time, 
 * jest as if she was a-watchin' on me, as they say 
 God watches ; don't they V 
 
 ' Yes, always.' 
 
 'x\ll right. I make it out a little now, I 
 think.'
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 
 
 It is not necessary to dwell at much greater 
 length on the prison life of Daisy March, though 
 this is a story of the prison-land. It will' suffice 
 for the clearer explanation of our narrative to 
 say that Daisy March came by slow degrees to 
 convalescence, even to a fixed resolution to 
 amend, backed by the hope of future peace, the 
 fair promise of a home, the fairer promise of a 
 friend. She became one of the few female 
 convicts — terribly few, alas ! — who, without 
 hypocrisy, do make an earnest, upward effort, 
 and awaken to the sense of the horrors by which 
 they have been surrounded and the evils from 
 which it is in their power to escape. She awoke 
 
 s2
 
 260 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 to penitence ; she learned diligently to read and' 
 write now.; she became one of the most promis- 
 ing of the prison school ; she read, and presently 
 she understood her Bible ; the misty land of doubt 
 and despair receded further and further back, 
 and the life in store for her grew brighter as she 
 gazed towards it. 
 
 She grew up a fair young woman with a very 
 sad and thoughtful face — they called her the 
 Prison Daisy, or the Prison Flower — and her 
 fellow convicts were proud of her, despite all her 
 efforts to keep good, and show herself ' Oh ! so 
 much better,' they added, scoffingly, ' than any- 
 body else.' It Avas these scoffs which were 
 hardest to bear up against, as they came also 
 from her sister, of whom she was very fond, for 
 whose sake she had sinned to share her prison- 
 home, and who, having never recovered from 
 her last conflict with Janet Finlanson, was almost 
 a confirmed invalid. Presently * Mary Wilton,' 
 as she had called herself upon her trial, and was 
 known by in the prison books, was delegated to 
 the infirmary, where, before Daisy March's time
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 261 
 
 was up, she died — a poor, weak, wilful woman 
 to the last, and resisting to the last all efforts to 
 amend. It is the rule which governs innumer- 
 able lives like unto this, and which are ever 
 drifting away, with good men, as it seems, 
 powerless to save them,; it is the dark cloud for 
 ever lowering above the miles of roofs covering 
 these ' prison homes,' and is charged with the 
 hghtning which destroys. 
 
 . Let us in our farewell chapters pass from this 
 benighted land to a brighter scene beyond it. 
 Here at least will be the moral to our story, the 
 plain truth, as old as the green hills, that the 
 ^ ways of restoration ' are ' fashioned to the steps 
 of ALL infirmity \ and that the Great Hand is 
 stretched forth to help all sinners striving to cross 
 the border-land, separating the old life from the 
 new, the false from true, the bad from good. 
 
 Seven years afterwards two women were 
 seated, in the early evening of a summer's day, 
 on the lawn of an old-fashioned garden, in one 
 of the fairest portions of our Essex county. The
 
 262 A PRISON FLO^VER. 
 
 church clock had struck six, but there were two 
 hours at least of clear daylight in that bright 
 midsummer time, and the heat of the day had 
 disposed them both to linger there. They had 
 been talking very earnestly — ^the younger woman 
 seated on a lower seat at the feet of the elder, 
 and looking up into her face with an earnest, 
 wistful gaze, born of her deep affection. 
 
 Both women had served their apprenticeship 
 to sorrow long ago, and looked before them now 
 a trifle seriously, as if the ways of life were not 
 all rose-strewn paths leading unto peace, which- 
 ever route the wayfarer might choose to strike 
 out for himself. And one woman, the younger 
 and fairer, had sinned and suffered and repent- 
 ed, and we know her still as Daisy March. 
 
 The elder. Miss Greenwood, of the Larches, 
 *down in Essex,' — she had come into a little 
 property bequeathed her by Aunt Mary, and had 
 retired from Government — was listening atten- 
 tively to the remarks of her companion; for more 
 of a companion than a lady's-maid, and more of 
 a friend than either, had this prison waif become. 
 The love and gratitude of Daisy March, the
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 263 
 
 slowly failing health of Kate Greenwood, the 
 strange tie of prison service, even in so different 
 a fashion as the State had been served by each 
 of them, had bound their hearts together very 
 strongly, and the memorable past, though there 
 were bitter records in it, was a link that time 
 only riveted more closely. 
 
 Kate had worked hard for the redemption of 
 a stubborn nature that had-known sin, and been 
 trained to it from the cradle side, but here was 
 her reward at last, in the faithful reverence of 
 her handmaiden, in the sweet knowledge that 
 this soul had been saved from the darkness by 
 her efforts,her encouragement, and her example, 
 by that consideration for the ' fallen and degrad- 
 ed of our kind,' which had been at the heart of 
 one good Christian, whom we have known as 
 Patience Greenwood. 
 
 That Daisy March had become a perfect 
 character in all respects, it would be a mistake 
 to assert — the perfect beings exist not on this 
 lower land. She had many faults, was not 
 always patient under the little trials of life, as 
 though some sparks of the old red fire of opposi-
 
 264 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 tion were smouldering still withiu her ; but she 
 strove readily to make amends for all her petty 
 faults of omission and commission, and at her 
 heart was ever the deep sense of gratitude to 
 set her right again, and the deeper conscious- 
 ness of all that she had escaped, and all the 
 peace and rest of the present life about her. 
 
 Still life had not ended yet, and Daisy March 
 was only one-and-twenty years of age. There 
 were trials and temptations yet to come — nay, 
 had come, for Daisy was perplexed and almost 
 fretful that day, and Kate Greenwood was acting 
 as adviser on that summer evening when we first 
 escape our prison world. 
 
 Daisy March had had an offer of marriage that 
 very morning, and it had disturbed, perplexed, 
 grieved her, and altogether had resulted in un- 
 settling her from her usual train of calm, grave 
 thoughts. It had come upon her unexpectedly 
 too — which is not often the case in feminine 
 history — but then Daisy March had never 
 thought of marrying, or giving in marriage, 
 knowing that the great, black past lay like a 
 barrier between her and any honest man who
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 265 
 
 might think what a fair young wife she would 
 make him. The past was dead — and as she 
 hoped from all memories irrevocably buried — 
 but it was a reminiscence to her not to be lived 
 down, and she would have no one in the better 
 hfe about her dream of it, save the earnest, 
 religious woman, whom she called her mistress. 
 
 Kate Greenwood still retained her gift of 
 perspicacity — she was a strangely observant 
 woman with the great art of not appearing to 
 observe, and ill-health had not weakened her 
 power in this respect. 
 
 * But you love this Robert Halstead, Daisy,' 
 said the low voice of the mistress. 
 
 ' Oh ! I'm almost sure I don't,' cried Daisy, ' I 
 — I have never thought of such a thing. And 
 as for thinking that he, he — had it ever in his 
 heart to think of me, I never could have fancied 
 that. Oh ! what made him so foolish,' cried 
 Daisy, bursting into tears at last, ' when there 
 were so many better girls about than I can ever 
 be.' 
 
 « Still you love this Robert Halstead V Kate 
 persisted in asserting.
 
 266 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * 1 didn't,' cried Daisy. 
 
 'But you do now.' 
 
 ' I — I don't know. I'm sure I don't though/ 
 cried Daisy, very irrelevantly. 
 
 ' And Robert Halstead loves you,' said Miss 
 Greenwood, very thoughtfully, ' and that must 
 be taken into consideration too, before we have 
 quite made up our minds what to say, and Mr. 
 Halstead comes here for your answer.' 
 
 ' My answer is, No,' said Daisy, very firmly. 
 
 ' You have made up your mind to that V 
 
 ' Yes, yes. Very decidedly, very firmly, I 
 have made up my mind,' answered Daisy March, 
 ' and, oh ! my dear mistress, do not you try to 
 turn me from it.' 
 
 ' I mil make no promise yet,' said Kate Green- 
 wood, in reply. 
 
 ' I shall think you are tired of me — that you 
 want to get rid of me— or to tell him all the 
 story of my guilty past,' cried Daisy. 
 
 ' A past of which you have repented.' 
 
 ' But which I would hide for ever from the 
 world,' cried Daisy, * which I will hide, or die — 
 especially from him.'
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 267 
 
 * Hush, hush, this is extravagance, not reason- 
 ing,' reproved Kate Greenwood, ' and yon do 
 not know what is best.' 
 
 ' Do you. Miss Kate V was the rejoinder. 
 ' Well — no, not yet,' confessed the mistress. 
 
 * I think I do — I'm sure I do,' said Daisy 
 March, * to thank Mr. Halstead for his offer, and 
 say — I won't have him at any price !' 
 
 ' What a reply ! And he ^vill ask your 
 reasons.' 
 
 ' I am not obliged to tell them.' 
 
 ' He will try and find out for himself then, 
 being a curious man.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I don't think he will do that.' 
 
 ' He will wonder what offence he has given ; 
 whom you love better than he, or why you 
 are afraid to share your life with him.' 
 
 ' Ah, then,' said Daisy, with a sigh, ' he must 
 wonder. That is all.' 
 
 ' We will see,' murmured Miss Greenwood to 
 herself. 
 
 ' And he — Oh ! here he comes. What shall I 
 do ? where shall I hide?' cried Daisy March, her 
 fair face flushing very crimson. She had leaped
 
 268 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 to her feet, and would have run away into the 
 house, had not Robert Halstead been too close 
 upon her to allow of even a retreat moderately 
 graceful. As it was, she stood by the side of 
 her mistress's garden chair and looked down at 
 the grass, as the lover came slowly to her side. 
 
 Robert Halstead was a man some ten years 
 Daisy March's senior ; and, therefore, had passed 
 his thirtieth year. He was a stalwart young 
 farmer, with an honest face that looked at the 
 world in an undaunted fashion, and with a fear- 
 less outlook at it, which told — unless looks were 
 deceptive in this instance — of much courage and 
 self-reliance. Hardly a handsome face, and yet 
 one which was worth a second glance for the 
 determination it expressed. 
 
 He came towards them with but little sign 
 of the bashful suitor in his mien ; more like a 
 man who expected an answer which would be 
 favourable to his suit than one whose heart was 
 failing him for fear. 
 
 * Well,' he said, in a clear, ringing voice, in 
 which only an acute ear, such as Kate Green- 
 wood's, might have detected a scarcely percep-
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 269 
 
 tible tremor ; ' I hope you have made up your 
 mind, Daisy.' 
 
 * Yes,' was Daisy's answer, and without look- 
 ing into the steadfast grey eyes directed to her 
 half-averted face, * I have made up my mind to 
 say it cannot be.' 
 
 ' Cannot be !' he repeated, in a lower, deeper 
 voice. 
 
 'Yes, cannot be,' Daisy responded again. 
 
 ' May I ask ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, no ; don't ask me,' cried Daisy March 
 at once ; ' it was what my mistress said you 
 would do, and I cannot bear it.' 
 
 * Ay,' he said, more firmly now, ^ but it is what 
 I have right to ask, I think. It is what every 
 man has a right to ask before he goes away for 
 good.' 
 
 Daisy Marsh wrung her hands silently to- 
 gether, but did not utter another word. 
 
 ' I was mistaken, then, altogether,' he said. 
 'I was too rough and uncultivated a fellow, 
 with his own way to make in the world, 'and 
 with no right to think of a young wife until his 
 place was more assured. Is that it V
 
 270 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 ' No/ answered Daisy, quickly. 
 
 'I was too old for you, perhaps. Ten years 
 are a !^long sight of time between man and 
 woman, some people think ; but it's all on the 
 right side, and I ' 
 
 He stopped as Daisy turned away, dropped 
 slowly to her mistress's side and buried her fair 
 head on her shoulder. 
 
 ' Tell him not to say any more. Ask him to 
 go,' she murmured ; ' I cannot bear it any 
 longer I' 
 
 ' Can you not trust him with the whole 
 truth V whispered Kate, in the agitated girl's 
 ears, as Robert Halstead took one turn across 
 the lawn with his strong hands clasped behind 
 his back. 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake, no,' cried Daisy ; ' I 
 would rather die — 1 have said so, and I mean it, 
 — than tell him what I have been. Let him go 
 his way.' 
 
 « Shall I tell him for you V 
 
 ' If you do, I will drown myself to-night,' 
 cried Daisy March, with the old prison fever 
 raging in her suddenly. It was awfully exempli-
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 271 
 
 fied ; here was the fire hghting up again, the 
 ^ break out/ threatening, and Kate Greenwood 
 was dismayed and silenced. 
 
 It was not till Robert Halstead was coming 
 back slowly to them that Kate found her voice 
 to say : 
 
 * Trust me ; he shall never know this secret 
 from me.' 
 
 * Thank you,' murmured Daisy; *but say 
 something to him which will not — not make it 
 seem so hard to both of us.' 
 
 ' I will,' was the whisper back, ' and if I can.' 
 Eobert Halstead was close upon them ; he 
 had thought out his own position now, and was 
 prepared to speak again, and argue his case 
 from a new stand-point, which he trusted might 
 plead in his favour, but the lady of the Larches 
 balked him by taking up the thread of the dis- 
 cussion, and acting at once as spokeswoman for 
 her he wished to marry. 
 
 ' Mr. Halstead,' she said, very calmly, ' I 
 think, for this poor girl's sake, it is hardly fair 
 to prolong a painful interview. She has made 
 up her mind not to leave me, and I have no
 
 272 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 wish to part from her. It is unHkely that her 
 hfe or mine will lie apart mitil death steps iu 
 between us.' 
 
 ' Yes, women talk like that,' said Robert Hal- 
 stead, bluntly, ' but they do not mean it very 
 often. And you. Miss Greenwood, I should have 
 thought a more sensible woman than to have 
 talked like it at all.' 
 
 Miss Greenwood coloured at the reproof, but 
 she went on, very calmly : 
 
 ' And Daisy does not want to go aAvay. She 
 and I have lived together for years, and under- 
 stand each other's ways as no two persons can 
 understand each other, until fidelity, and truth,, 
 and real affection have been proved to be some- 
 thing more than words between them. And so 
 Daisy will not leave me ever.' 
 
 ' For ever is a long day, madam,' muttered 
 Robert Halstead ; ' and you will pardon me for 
 saying so, but it appears to me that there is 
 more of selfishness than love for Daisy March 
 in keeping her with you, in binding her life so 
 hard and fast to yours.' 
 
 * Yes, it is selfish from your view of it,' con-
 
 mSTRESS AND MAID. 273 
 
 fessed Kate Greenwood ; * but Daisy March is 
 selfish too, and finds her happiness in my quiet 
 home. And,' she added, after a pause, ' she 
 will always find it there, unless her heart mis- 
 gives her at the eleventh hour.' 
 
 * Daisy,' cried Robert Halstead, ^ say it does, 
 girl!' 
 
 * No, no ; it does not,' answered Daisy at this 
 appeal. 
 
 ' I am almost an invahd, and require careful 
 attendance and much faithful service,' concluded 
 Kate ; ' and I should be wholly lost without this 
 little friend of mine ; and so she will not desert 
 me. She is very grateful for the ofier of your 
 hand, but she has the courage to look you in 
 the face now and say it is better you should 
 part.' 
 
 Daisy looked up at this appeal, quick to 
 respond to her own share in this hard de- 
 ception. 
 
 *Yes, it is much the better for us all,' said 
 Daisy, very firmly. * I — I should not be happy 
 with you.' 
 
 * I can say no more,' he answered, very sadly, 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 ' save that I am dashed down completely, and 
 that it is my own foolish fault.' 
 
 He held out his hand to Daisy, and wrung 
 it in his own an instant ; then he bowed more 
 formally to Miss Greenwood, and went his 
 way. 
 
 * Why have you made yourself so cruel in his 
 eyes V asked Daisy March, as the cHck of the 
 wicket gate told that he had passed into the 
 country road. 
 
 ' I have been cruel to be kind,' was the enig- 
 matic reply. 
 
 ' But you have made yourself so — so unlike 
 yourself,' said Daisy ; * and it was not what I 
 wished.' 
 
 ' I had a reason for it.' 
 
 ' That he should not suspect there was a mys- 
 tery, or that there had always been a bhght 
 about my wretched life V cried Daisy. 
 
 ' No, not that. And the life should be no 
 longer wretched to one poor child who sinned 
 from ignorance, and only wanted the right way 
 shown her to amend. Such a life, Daisy, should 
 be glorious, even now. Unless '
 
 MISTRESS AND ^lAID. 275 
 
 * Unless !' echoed Daisy March. 
 
 ' Unless you love this man very much indeed.' 
 
 * I love him too well to deceive him/ was the 
 answer back, ' and I am very, very happy with 
 you.' 
 
 ' That's well.' 
 
 ' And your reason for lowering yourself — for 
 being so unlike my own true-hearted mistress — 
 to this Robert Halstead?' asked Daisy March, 
 returning to the old subject which had bewil- 
 dered her, even in the rush of love-thoughts 
 which had come to her brain. 
 
 ' Ah ! that I will tell you presently/ replied 
 Miss Greenwood, with a smile. 
 
 The twilight was deepening on these figures 
 as they walked towards the house, the stars 
 were quivering over their heads, the sun had 
 gone down in a glory of golden flame, and the 
 night w^s close at band. As they passed on 
 together, there followed in the shadow of the 
 bushes the shadow of their lives — a spectre 
 from the old grim prison days — a wreck 
 drifting still more hopelessly and wreck-like 
 on the ocean of crime towards the barren 
 
 T 2
 
 276 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 shore on wliicli it must break piecemeaL 
 They had been tracked by this outcast of the 
 prison. She had followed them and found 
 them out with much cunning, acting by orders 
 of men and women as .cunning as herself, and 
 who were lurking in their dens of London and 
 Liverpool unwilling to give up one clever child 
 whose * handy fingers ^ had done so much for the 
 gang, and had resulted in such handsome profit, 
 A genius, this Daisy March — and not to be 
 allowed to quit her sphere of action without 
 one more effort from father, mother, friends. 
 Without a dozen efibrts, if it were necessary, for 
 that matter. 
 
 When the light was shining from the window 
 of the little parlour, where the blind remained 
 undrawn, and the window was left open for the 
 sweet summer air to cool the room in which the 
 two watched women sat, the watcher approach- 
 ed more stealthily, and took up her position 
 where, in the distance, her keen sight could see 
 them very clearly. 
 
 It was Janet Finlanson, the woman who had 
 served her time out, and gone back to the old,
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 277 
 
 bad life — the woman who of late days had 
 made the acquaintance of the Marchs, and had 
 heard them wondering what had become of a 
 ohild more than ordinarily clever, and who 
 would turn out a woman more than ordinarily 
 olever too, and make a fortune with her ready 
 wit and handsome face. 
 
 * I think as I can find her,' Janet had said. 
 
 ' Tell her her mother is dying, and wants to 
 see her bad/ suggested Mrs. March, who was 
 very much intoxicated at that moment, and 
 might be — possibly was — dying fast of the drink 
 she took by wholesale now. 
 
 Janet had started on her expedition hopeful 
 of finding her ; and resolved to find her at all 
 hazards — being pertinacious in all things evil, 
 and when the evil days were free for her to act 
 her worst. Still Janet was^a strange woman in 
 her way, and had one fault or virtue. She was 
 prone to act on impulse — for good or for bad — 
 and there were moments when she was hardly 
 Janet Finlanson. As she approached the open 
 window, with the noiseless step of a sleuth 
 hound, there rang out clear and resonant in the
 
 21 S A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 summer air the words of Holy Writ — words of 
 consolation and comfort to those stricken down, 
 words of hope to those in suffering and sin, and 
 of promise to the penitent, words which Janet 
 Finlanson had heard in the prison chapel scores 
 of times with deadened ears and heart, but 
 which vibrated awfully within her that night. 
 She stopped aghast, and went back a step or 
 two, but still where the inmates of the room 
 were not hidden from her view. She could see 
 the well-known face of the matron bending over 
 the open Bible, and with a bright look upon it 
 that seemed hardly of the earth in that hour, 
 and the rapt attention on a face more fair and 
 young. The resignation and the trust expressed 
 there, touched the woman on the watch — and 
 such a woman! — with the live coal of a strong, 
 if fitful remorse. She recoiled, and went further 
 and further back into the ongathering night, 
 flinging up once her arms despairingly, and as 
 she had done seven years ago when a child of 
 fourteen years of age was brought into the prison 
 yard. 
 
 ' No ! I won't have nothink to do with it.
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 279 
 
 Not me /' were the last words of Janet Finlan- 
 son as she passed from the garden into the 
 country road lying beyond.
 
 280 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. 
 
 Mistress and ward had read far into the night 
 before the Bible was closed, and they were re- 
 garding each other with looks of fair content. 
 The timepiece on the mantel-shelf was striking- 
 eleven, a late horn- for early Essex folk, as Kate 
 Greenwood looked round astonished not a httle 
 at the progress of time.' 
 
 ' So late as that,' exclaimed the mistress, ' 1 
 had no idea of it.' 
 
 She had been reading very long and earnest- 
 ly ; her extensive knowledge of the Scriptures 
 had stood her in good stead, and enabled her 
 to dwell upon innumerable passages which seem-
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. 281 
 
 ed, as it were, to have been written especially 
 for souls stricken down as Daisy March's was 
 that night, despite the strong, good fight she 
 had made. 
 
 * Yes, it is late/ said Daisy, ' but go on.' 
 ' Not now.' 
 
 ' I am resigned,' Daisy March continued, * and 
 my duty lies with you for good. Every hour I 
 see that very clearly.' 
 
 ' I do not see it so clearly as yourself,' rephed 
 the elder woman, ' but I am very happy to think 
 of your content, in time. And if you ivill be 
 contented with my quiet life and ways.' 
 
 * I will,' responded Daisy March. 
 
 At the same moment there came to their ears 
 the sound of footsteps on the lonely country 
 road, and both of them paused to listen, even 
 held their breath to listen. They were advanc- 
 ing rapidly, and to one pair of loving ears they 
 were familiar footfalls. 
 
 * He is coming back. Oh ! Miss Kate, he is 
 coming back,' cried Daisy, ' what shall we do 
 now, if he begins to talk again V 
 
 'Whof
 
 282 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * Robert Halstead. I am sure it is his step, 
 I would know it in a thousand.' 
 
 ^ Strange !' 
 
 * What is he coming back for at this time of 
 night f asked Daisy, trembling again. 
 
 * Courage,' replied Kate Greenwood, ' we shall 
 see.' 
 
 They stood at the open window waiting and 
 watching, and the footfalls came on nearer and 
 nearer, approaching with strange haste. There 
 was a sudden pause at the gate beyond, as if 
 the lighted room were a surprise in its turn to 
 him who was advancing, and then the figure of 
 a man came across the lawn towards them. 
 
 * Is that you, Robert Halstead f called out 
 Kate Greenwood. 
 
 ' Yes, it is I — do not be afraid,' was the deep 
 answer back, before Robert Halstead stood 
 facing them once again. 
 
 ' What is the matter V said both watchers at 
 once, as they went back step by step into the 
 room, followed by him who had evidently come 
 in search of them. 
 
 * A woman has met with an accident crossing
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. 28^ 
 
 the canal bridge, and has been carried to my 
 farm,' said Robert Halstead. 
 
 ' We can be of assistance, then,' said Kate. 
 * Shall we come at once ? Has a doctor been 
 sent for?' 
 
 ' The doctor is there, but the woman wishes 
 to see Miss Greenwood before the night is out.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 ' Her name is Janet Finlanson, and you, Miss 
 Greenwood, she says, will remember her as 
 a prisoner once under your charge.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Miss Greenwood, very calmly, 
 ' I remember her very well.' 
 
 ' You have been in prison service, then, Miss 
 Greenwood V 
 
 ^1 was a prison matron for three years or 
 more,' was the answer back. 
 
 'I did not know that,' he said. Then he 
 looked wistfully and very sorrowfully at her 
 whom he had asked that day to be his wife, and 
 added : ' I have not been trusted very much 
 with the history of your ^lives, and I had no 
 right to expect that' you should tell it to me. 
 Only '
 
 284 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 * Only,' repeated Daisy and Kate. 
 
 * Only you might have trusted me. It would 
 have been so much the best.' 
 
 ' Has Janet Finlanson said anything more V 
 asked Miss Greenwood. 
 
 * She is wild in her statements — altogether a 
 strange and uncontrollable woman,' was his 
 evasive answer ; ' but she is anxious to see you 
 both, to ask your forgiveness and advice. Put 
 you both, as she says, on your guard.' 
 
 * Is she in danger?' 
 
 * There is no immediate danger.' 
 
 ' I will go to her now. But why does she 
 want to see Daisy V inquired Kate Greenwood. 
 
 ' She wishes to see you both, I have said. 
 She has mentioned both your names,' answered 
 the farmer, looking hard at Daisy. 
 
 'What — what has she said about me?' was 
 asked now, in a troubled voice. 
 
 ' She has told me all she knew,' he replied. 
 
 Daisy clasped her hands together for an 
 instant, and then spread them before her face. 
 Kate Greenwood came back from the doorway 
 and stood beside the girl she had sheltered and
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. SSo- 
 
 saved ; tlie protector to the last, if any help were 
 needed. 
 
 * She has told you what I was ?' murmured 
 Daisy. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the reply ; ' but ' 
 
 ' But you do not believe it,' said Daisy. ' Oh ! 
 it is true enough, God knows.' 
 
 * But it has made no difference in my thoughts 
 of you,' he answered very earnestly ; * and that 
 is what I was going to say when you interrupt- 
 ed me. Yes, I know all the story, Daisy; I 
 have insisted upon knowing it, and it is a record 
 of salvation surely. You stepped from darkness 
 to light ; you have repented. You began a new 
 life here with this good woman at your side ; you 
 have made restitution.' 
 
 ' I think you understand her now,' said Kate 
 Greenwood, very softly. 
 
 ' And it was for this, then, Daisy, that you 
 would not become my wife'?' he asked. 
 
 * I was unfit to be your wife, Robert. And I 
 did not want you to guess what 1 had ever been,' 
 she cried. ' I — I would so much rather have died 
 than have had you know.'
 
 286 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 ' It is as well I do.' 
 
 He was leaning over her and endeavouring to 
 draw her hands down from her face, but she 
 resisted him. Kate Greenwood moved once 
 more towards the door. 
 
 ' I will get my bonnet on,' said she ; and 
 Robert Halstead looked gratefully towards her, 
 when Daisy cried : 
 
 ' Don't go : oh ! don't go.' 
 
 Kate paused again ; and Robert Halstead 
 said : 
 
 ' It is right you should remain for a minute or 
 two longer, if you will.' 
 
 ' Very well.' And Kate went back to the 
 side of Daisy March ; and once more the arm 
 was passed round the neck of the weeping 
 girl. 
 
 ' I'm a rough fellow in my way, Daisy,' said 
 Robert ; ' and say things out very plainly, and I 
 fear I have offended you.' 
 
 ' No, no.' 
 
 'That's well. I am doubtful if I am a religious 
 man,' he said, ' but I do not look back at the 
 past of any man or woman if the present tells
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. 287 
 
 of a worthy and earnest life ; and that is true 
 rehgion, possibly.' 
 
 ' It approaches it,' answered Miss Greenwood, 
 ' but it is not religion.' 
 
 ' What is it ?' he asked, quickly. 
 
 ' Charity.' 
 
 ' And Mercy,' murmured Daisy March. 
 
 ' Well, let it be Faith and Hope as well, or 
 lead to them,' he answered. * I am alone in the 
 world, and without the world to take into con- 
 sideration ; and I am unhappy alone, and with- 
 out you, Daisy. Let the past go back from us ; 
 you and I can look forward to the future, trust- 
 ing in each other.' 
 
 ' Can you ever trust me V murmured Daisy. 
 
 ' With all my heart, I will,' answered Robert 
 Halstead. 
 
 ' I must have time to think, to make up my 
 mind,' said Daisy ; ' it is all so like a dream to 
 me. You know now, at least, that it was out of 
 respect for you and your good name that I said 
 No, to-night. 1 felt myself unworthy, though I 
 dared not tell you so.' 
 
 ' I thought you loved me a little, perhaps a
 
 288 A PRISON FLOWER. 
 
 great deal, but Miss Greenwood threw me aback 
 and confused me. I went away, madam,' he 
 said, turning to Kate, ' thinking it was all your 
 fault.' 
 
 ' That is what I wanted you to think,' Kate 
 answered; 'what I schemed for after my woman's 
 fashion.' 
 
 Daisy looked up now, and for the first time. 
 
 Kate went on : 
 
 ' I wanted you to think it was my selfishness 
 that stood in the way, and not her afi'ection. I 
 wanted you to wait for her, to give her time ; to 
 see, as time went on, that her heart was, after 
 all, in your honest keeping. And I thought,' she 
 added, * that, in that good time, she might be led 
 to tell you all the truth, and you to pardon it for 
 her sake.' 
 
 *As I have done, at once. And if I have any 
 right to pardon.' 
 
 * You will look not back to the past, but to the 
 future, together.' 
 
 He took Daisy's hands in his, and she did not 
 withdraw them from him now ; but she whisper- 
 ed, in a lower tone :
 
 THE WHOLE TRUTH. 289 
 
 * That past is so terribly black !' 
 
 * But the future has the light of Heaven on it/ 
 
 answered her lover. 
 
 ' Heaven !' repeated Daisy March. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 

 
 29: 
 
 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 MY lady's chapel. 
 
 It was a quaint little village that of Felspar. 
 It is still a quaint village, although Felspar is 
 famous in its way now, and has one big hotel in 
 the valley, and by the stream which falls head- 
 long from the hills to a boulder-broken channel, 
 where the water fumes and froths and rushes 
 by, a mass of seething silver in the smi. The 
 hotel does well in the summer time, because 
 there are curiosities in Felspar, and tourists and 
 geologists come to see them ; because there are 
 fine bits of English hill scenery and woodland,
 
 294 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHAXDS. 
 
 pine-trees and white, weird tors, and artists 
 come to paint them ; l^ecause the guide-books 
 have written up Felspar, and it is fashionable to 
 see it, and fashionable folk, being sheep-like, 
 come in droves in the season^ with odd-looking 
 shepherds to keep an eye upon them sometimes. 
 But our story is of Felspar before it woke up, 
 and found itself famous, and of a certain humble 
 individual who helped to make it famous, and 
 who, without a dream of greatness, fortunate 
 fellow that he was, had ^greatness thrust upon 
 him. There are some lucky people in the world 
 — even of a world not lying back more than 
 fifteen years from present date. 
 
 Fifteen years ago, then. Felspar was only 
 known to a few in the county in which it was 
 hiding, and to the people who lived and died in 
 the little nest of cottages clustered by the one- 
 arched stone bridge crossing the babbling brook; 
 to the inhabitants of the bigger village ten 
 miles away, and to a few folk in the nearest 
 town, twenty miles off as the crow flies, the 
 town that had a railway-station all to itself, and 
 was a flourishing place, and had waters which
 
 MY LADT'S CHAPEL. 295 
 
 cured gout and rheumatism and general bone- 
 disarrangements, and was at all times and seasons 
 running over with every variety of cripple and 
 contortionist. 
 
 Felspar, fifteen years ago, was only running 
 over vdth every variety of beauty — which it 
 had completely, which those living in it day by 
 day did not seem to value, for they were a 
 homespun, matter-of-fact lot, whose only thought 
 was how to live, but who clung to the place 
 because their fathers and grandfathers had clung 
 to it before them, strugghng in the summer on 
 a-few-shillings-a-week's wage to rear a large 
 family — and rearing it ! — and fighting with the 
 winter always desperately, and dying in the 
 fight now and then. 
 
 It was getting on for winter, when the days 
 were cold and the nights set in very early in 
 the Felspar valley, although the leaves had not 
 shaken themselves off the trees, and there were 
 rare autumnal tints about for those who cared 
 to notice them, and nobody did care. * Leaves 
 brownish,' was the one verdict, and there was 
 an end of it, just as in the City sometimes.
 
 296 THE LUCK OF LUKE SIIANDS. 
 
 ' money's tightish,' and then there is an end of 
 that. 
 
 And yet, if anyone noticed the beanty of the 
 autumn in the valley, it was Peggy Brantwell, 
 a pretty girl acclimatised to much out-of-door 
 occupation, with her grandfather's pigs and 
 poultry to look after, and two cows to milk, and 
 her grandfather to keep in a good temper, and 
 make sure that his poor old legs took him up 
 safely to bed in the early evening before ' a 
 sight of candle-light ' was wasted. Peggy was 
 a beauty in her way, or rather had been a 
 beauty in her day, for she was seven-and-twenty 
 now. She was a favourite with Felspar folk, 
 who thought her grandfather was hard upon 
 her, and put upon her, like an old curmudgeon 
 as he was, they said, old Brantwell being as 
 generally disliked as are most people who give 
 themselves airs, and are better off than their 
 neighbours. Why Peggy had grown up so 
 amiable and lovable a little woman under the 
 guardianship of Matthew Brantwell no one ex- 
 actly could make out, and why, when it was 
 rumoured he was not kind to her, and said hard
 
 MY lady's chapel. 297 
 
 things, and taunted and suspected her, and 
 threatened her even with turning her out of 
 house and home, she did not take him at his 
 word, and get ' oop and oot o' it,' the Felspar 
 community did not understand. But the Fel- 
 spar community was not quick of comprehen- 
 sion ; they were fully certain Peggy could have 
 done better for herself than remaining all these 
 years her grandfather's drudge — that Lady Glide 
 up at the Hall would have been glad long ago 
 to have had her for lady's-maid, and trained 
 her for a lady's-maid; they did not think it 
 possible that there could be any aifection for 
 an irritable, rasping, ungenerous old hunks who 
 gave nobody a good word ; she might be wait- 
 ing for her grandfather's money — which, with 
 his usual spirit of contrariness, he would be sure 
 to leave elsewhere — but it was impossible to 
 say what she teas waiting for. Unless — she was 
 waiting for Luke Shands, which we may say at 
 once was exactly the fact of the case. 
 
 Perhaps, to put it more politely, it would 
 have been graceful to say Luke Shands was 
 waiting for her ; but, as theywere waiting for
 
 298 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 each other, it matters not a great deal, and 
 looking at it either way is to look at it in the 
 right light. 
 
 Matthew Brantwell, however, did not look at 
 it in the right light at all ; they were waiting 
 till he was dead, he said ; he was sure they were 
 waiting till he was dead and gone, but he was 
 not a-going to die to oblige either of them. 
 His father had lived till ninety-four, and he was 
 only seventy-three next bean-feast, and, bar his 
 cussed legs, he was as good a man as any in 
 Felspar, and, if they were waiting for his death 
 and his money, never were two people more 
 mistaken in their lives. As they would see, see 
 if they wouldn't, rabbit 'em for a selfish, aggra- 
 vating, greedy pair ! 
 
 ' But Ave are not waiting for your death, 
 grandfather,' Peggy said, on the autumn day 
 to which we have already alluded ; ' I shall be 
 only too glad if you'll live to be as old as 
 Methusaleh.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't be surprised if I did.' 
 
 ' No,' said Peggy, laughing. 
 
 * There's been some wonderful ages in my
 
 MY lady's chapel. 299 
 
 family. I don't see anything to laugh at in the 
 idea/ said Mr. Brantwell. 
 
 ' Oh, you're not an old man yet, grandfather/ 
 said Peggy, as she bustled about the room pre- 
 paring the afternoon tea for her relative. ' There 
 are plenty in Felspar older than you, and plenty 
 younger who look as old already.' 
 
 * Because they never took care of themselves/ 
 he said, ' but sotted away their time at the 
 " Quarry Inn/' and sat up till nine or ten night 
 after night, like them rackety Londoners. Be- 
 cause — but ain't you in a mortal hurry to get 
 tea over to-night?' 
 
 'What a question !' said Peggy, briskly ; 'is 
 it any earlier?' 
 
 ' It's a good bit earlier/ said her observant 
 grandfather; ' the shadow across the floor was 
 longer yesterday afternoon by fourteen inches 
 afore the kettle biled.' 
 
 ' I didn't notice the shadow,' said Peggy. 
 
 ' But it was.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 ' Very well — it was, then. x\nd it was later 
 in the afternoon, o' course. And you know it
 
 300 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 was later. And you had a reason for its being 
 later yesterday, or earlier to-day, and it's no use 
 trying to trick me,' he snapped. 
 
 ' I am not trying to trick you, grandfather.' 
 'Yes, you are. You had a reason.' 
 
 * Well — I had a reason,' Peggy confessed. 
 ' You're a-going out.' 
 
 ' Yes— for a little while.' 
 
 * To meet that Luke. You know you are.' 
 
 * No, I'm not going to meet that Luke,' replied 
 the grand-daughter. ' I'm not thinking of such 
 a thing.' 
 
 'Oh, ain't youf exclaimed the irritable old 
 man, bringing his broad brown hand with a 
 formidable slap into the tea-tray, and causing a 
 considerable commotion amongst the crockery 
 in consequence. ' Then why can't you be fair 
 and straight, and say what you are going to 
 do ? Why can't you tell me you want to choke 
 me ofif with tea before I've got the dinner down 
 my throat, and to put me into bed again afore 
 I'm hardly got out of it, or it's had time to cool? 
 I hate such artful ways.' 
 
 * Grandfather, what has disturbed you to-day?'
 
 MY lady's chapel. 301 
 
 * I ain't disturbed/ 
 
 ' You are not very often like this.' 
 ' Yes, I am.' 
 
 * Not often quite as hard as. this, I think,' said 
 Peggj, in a calm, half-wondering way, which, 
 if it had not been natural, would have been 
 very aggravating. But Peggy was really sur- 
 prised by the extra energy which her grand- 
 father had contrived to throw into the conver- 
 sation that afternoon. 
 
 ' I shall be harder soon, if that's any comfort 
 to you,' was the final remark of this amiable old 
 gentleman ; after which he went to bed, though 
 the sun was still shining, and it was half an 
 hour before his usual time. Indeed, the alacrity 
 with which he had taken himself off would have 
 aroused the suspicions of most folk ; but Peggy 
 was not distrustful — on the contrary, very, very 
 trustful — or she would not have waited all this 
 while for Luke Shands, and Luke Shands' luck, 
 which was generally going the wrong way to 
 which he was. 
 
 Five minutes after her grandfather had gone 
 to bed, Peggy had put on her neat little straw
 
 30,2 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 hat, and was out of the house and tripping 
 along the high-road. Had she looked back, she 
 would have seen the head of old Matthew 
 craning out of the front window watching her. 
 Had she waited at the bend of the road, she 
 would have found old Matthew there five min- 
 utes afterwards; and, had she hidden herself 
 behind the great sprawling brambles, she would 
 have seen Matthew bribe little Tom Crasp — a 
 ragged youth, who professed to mind the sheep 
 in Owen's fields, and spent his time in flinging 
 stones at crows — to follow her, and bring him 
 back the news where she had gone ; to make 
 all the haste he could too, because he, Matthew 
 Brantwell, did not want to be out of his bed 
 much later than his usual time. 
 
 But Peggy, unmindful of all this treachery, 
 had gone on her way with grave composure, 
 steadily and swiftly. She had turned from the 
 high-road, or the apology that there was for a 
 high-road in so break-neck a part of the country 
 as Felspar, and gone down into the valley, deep 
 down into the lower path by the side of the 
 stream, where the trees arched overhead, and
 
 MY lady's chapel. 303 
 
 the way was thickly hidden now by rustHng 
 dead leaves. 
 
 Presently she crossed a little plank across the 
 stream, and went up from the valley by degrees, 
 making for the higher ground by a steep ascent 
 through trees and bushes, which hid the way 
 from those below. Here a hundred or a hun- 
 dred and fifty feet from the valley's level, and 
 a quarter of the way to the summit of the gi'een- 
 crested tor, she paused at a strange fissure in 
 the rock, which she could now touch with her 
 hands, and looked around at the fair English 
 landscape lying beneath her steeped in autumn 
 tints. 
 
 It had been a sharp ascent, and she might 
 have paused to get her breath, only she was 
 light of foot, and not half as ' blown ' as Tom 
 Crasp, who, lying on his stomach amongst the 
 bracken, was panting like a puppy-dog. 
 
 Peggy Brant well was waiting for something, 
 it was evident. She crossed her hands, and sat 
 down on a. boulder that had slipped in times 
 remote from the summit, and was covered now 
 with lichens and mosses, and here she waited
 
 304 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 patiently, looking along the valley, a pretty 
 iSgure that any artist would have loved to 
 sketch. There was just a little expression of 
 anxiety on her face even, as she gazed towards 
 the sun dipping slowly behind a cloud-bank 
 of purple and gold — a sun which she watched 
 sink at last with all the devout expression of 
 a fire-worshipper. Then, as the edge of the 
 disc disappeared, she turned round, darted into 
 the cleft of the rock, and was gone. 
 
 The cleft widened after a few steps over some 
 rough, loose shingle, and here, well out of the 
 draught, Peggy lighted a candle wliich she had 
 brought with her, and went on groping her way 
 steadily forward into the heart of those grand 
 old cliffs, which have been the wonder of geolo- 
 gists of late years, but which no one thought a 
 great deal about in Peggy's time. 
 
 Peggy's best time, that is — for Peggy lives 
 and flourishes still, and has grown very stout 
 and buxom, and laughs when she tells this 
 story, as she has told it to the present writer — 
 with all the fears and troubles in the back- 
 ground of some fifteen dusty years, and with the
 
 305 
 
 sunshine, as she says, ' round about her every- 
 where.' And yet it was Peggy's best time, for 
 her good looks, and health and strength of 
 youth, and the faith and courage of love, and 
 in the belief even in old country superstitions, 
 which she clung to with the rest of the good 
 folk in Felspar, who believed in ' all the won- 
 ders,' just as unsophisticated Peggy did. 
 
 But Peggy was showing her belief by acts, 
 having great faith, poor little dreamer that she 
 was. And the proof was in this desperate ex- 
 pedition, and in the sudden dropping down on 
 her knees in a ragged, jagged part of the 
 cavern, which had widened out into some sem- 
 blance of a rough-hewn room, and in pla.nting 
 her candle on an anvil-shaped rock that stood 
 ill the centre, uncommonly handy for catching 
 unawares the knee-caps of rash explorers. And 
 had anyone been listening, which there was not 
 — for Tom Grasp would not have followed her 
 into ' My Lady's Chapel ' for the wealth of 
 Felspar, and was even lurking outside with his 
 hair on end — he would have heard this extra- 
 ordinary appeal to the hidden genius of the 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE LUCK OF LUKE SHANDS. 
 
 place, supposed to be propitiatory to all inter- 
 cessions, if uttered five minutes after sundown, 
 neither more nor less, because her ladyship 
 loved punctuality, objected to be kept waiting, 
 and, it was possible, had important business 
 elsewhere : 
 
 ' Lady of the Grey Tor Chapel (this repeated 
 three times), listen to me, Peggy Brantwell, speak- 
 ing with all her heart, as all must speak who enter 
 here, please bring luck to my clear Luke, change his 
 had luck into good, and help us all you can. No 
 one has seen me come in, no one shall see ine come 
 out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven (which, 
 being exactly the number of letters in Felspar, 
 was supposed to be the principal part of the 
 ceremony). A, h, c, d (to the end of the 
 alphabet). High, low. Jack, game. Amen.' Here 
 our superstitious heroine blew out her candle, 
 deposited it as a votive offering to the gods on 
 the extempore altar, and groped her way cauti- 
 ously and timidly through the fissure to the day- 
 light, which shone at last ahead of her, and 
 which she was so long in discovering that she 
 began to fear she had taken a wrong turning.
 
 MY lady's chapel. 307 
 
 and was coming out at the other end of the 
 world. 
 
 There was only twilight left^ in fact, when she 
 emerged from My Lady's Chapel, and it had not 
 pierced very far into the shadows. It would be 
 pitch dark night before she got home to her 
 grandfather's, she was afraid. Never mind, she 
 had succeeded in her mission, and perhaps luck 
 would turn now. At all events, she had done 
 her best to make it turn, and no one could blame 
 her afterwards. And no one had seen her come 
 out, and — Yah ! 
 
 Peggy gave vent to a very substantial, un- 
 romantic, and high-pitched yell, for exactly in 
 front of her, and evidently highly amused by her 
 exit from the cave — * grinning like a goose ' she 
 called it afterwards, and in her hot indignation 
 — was Luke Shands. 
 
 END OF THE FIKST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : DUNCAN MACDONALD, PRINTER, BLENHEIM HOUSE.