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 JOSEPH'S COAT 
 
 VOL. I.
 
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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 f^
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT 
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF A LIFE S ATONEMENT ETC. 
 
 IFit/i TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS by FRED. BARXARD 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 1881 
 
 All rights re serf
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STKEET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 Cr 
 
 /Mf^YJ 
 
 >- 
 
 ;5?( 
 
 
 V.I 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 > 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I 
 
 The Eeverend Paul was knocked head- 
 long INTO THE ARMS OF BusHELL, SENIOR Frontispiece 
 
 'We were MARRIED LAST Whiisuntide ' . to face ^. 100 
 
 ' Yes, father, I've overstated the market * ,. 206 
 
 ' He glared at her like one distraught ' „ 290 
 
 * Have Yor been a-trtix' to steal a coat 
 
 o" mine ? ' . ..306 
 
 ,0^ 
 
 ^"^ 
 
 i.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Old Joe and young Joe, sturdy sire and lissome 
 son, trudged througii the dust together — old 
 Joe bent down a little earthwards, and going 
 rather like a carthorse ; young Joe with his 
 head well up, and stepping like a hunter that 
 can carry weight. I see them in my mind's 
 eye, as in a picture. Old Joe, dressed in white 
 moleskin of such weight and thickness that he 
 looked like a polar bear, with his gnarled hands 
 hanging lazily and solidly as if each carried a 
 hundredweight which his gigantic strength made 
 light of, — blue-eyed, grey-whiskered, with deep 
 
 YOL I. B
 
 2 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 blue scars like tattoo marks all over liis face, — 
 tramped on serenely, pipe in mouth. Young 
 Joe, with a sprouting bit of whisker, downy as 
 yet, and yellow like a callow fledgling's feathers ; 
 blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, lithe and limber, 
 went springily at the old man's side. Young 
 Joe was dressed like a gentleman of that period 
 (it is nearly thirty years since the father and 
 son walked side by side for the last time), and 
 he and the old man made altogether a fine 
 contrast. Old Joe was stolidly genial, as be- 
 fitted a man who had beaten the world hollow, 
 and now took his ease with dignity. Young 
 Joe had something of an aggressive air, or 
 carried at least a sort of warning in his face — 
 nemo me impune lacessit This warning was 
 perhaps a trifle sulky, as was natural, all things 
 considered. How rich old Joe might be no 
 man knew, but he clung to the dress and habits 
 of his youth — dressed like a working miner on 
 holiday, lived like a miner, looked like a miner, 
 and was proud to talk like one. Young Joe, 
 bred at a distant ' college school,' and return- 
 ing home only at holiday times, resented these
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 3 
 
 things. His speech was of the finest, his clothes 
 were of the best — the son of a baronet was his 
 chosen chum, he had yearnings towards the 
 world of fashion, and believed that he could 
 shine in that bright sphere, if he had but a 
 chance. Old Joe cared for none of those things, 
 and, except for a certain sturdy self-possession, 
 had no pride. He would have met the heredi- 
 tary Autocrat of All the Paissias with a senti- 
 ment of equality so natural that he would not 
 have dreamed of formulating it even to himself. 
 Young Joe formulated liis behefs in the equality 
 of mankind daily, and, with a natural want of 
 logic, resented with great hauteur the approach 
 of any of his father's old and less prosperous 
 companions. He himself was ' a man for a' 
 that ' — cela va sans dire — ^^but ' for a' that and 
 a' that,' the claims of one's social inferiors must 
 be repelled and beaten down. He was the 
 equal of any man above him, but no one below 
 him had a right to a similar claim. This mental 
 attitude is not uncommon. 
 
 Young Joe resented his name, and would 
 have preferred Eeginald, or Herbert, or Walter 
 
 B 2
 
 4 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 or anything rather than Joseph, so easily sus- 
 ceptible of a vulgar abbreviation. He was not 
 without pride in his father, but he resented the 
 old man's clothes, and his house, and his speech. 
 And, most bitterly and shamefacedly of all, ho 
 resented the spectacle he was now on his way 
 to witness. 
 
 It was summer weather, in days when 
 summer weather meant warmth and sunshine. 
 There was sunshine even here, though the scene 
 lay in the centre of the Black Country. It is 
 pleasant to notice how nature has reasserted 
 herself in that grimy province after all the scars 
 which labour has left upon her. Labour has 
 dug deep into her heart, and has rifled her very 
 entrails, and has set upon her breast such 
 burdens as Enceladus lay under. Yet, where- 
 soever you see her face, she smiles ; wheresoever 
 her busy hands can move, she weaves her spells. 
 Tall purple foxgloves lined the road, and the 
 hawthorns were white with blossom, and the 
 lark shook with the delight of his own song a 
 mile above the smoke wreaths. It was Sunday 
 also, and the smoke wreaths were something
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 5 
 
 thinner and even fewer than they would have 
 been on any other day in the seven. Old Joe 
 had a httle of the quiet Sabbath feehng on 
 him. Young Joe, prideMly resenting all things, 
 resented Sunday terribly because of the shame 
 it brought him. 
 
 Father and son were on their way to listen 
 to the most popular preacher of the time and 
 neighbourhood. That preacher was a woman. 
 Nay, the murder must out : that woman was 
 Eebecca Bushell, old Joe's wife and young Joe's 
 mother. On the subject of female preachers in 
 general young Joe had incisive opinions, sharp- 
 ened probably by some personal feeling. That 
 his mother should preach, and be pubhcly 
 advertised to preach, and that she should speak 
 in public with no disguise of that picturesque 
 and drawling accent which was her birthright, 
 was an affliction which the lad's pride had borne 
 with groaning this many a day. And now, 
 worse than all, here was his mother — in com- 
 bination with greasy-complexioned professionals, 
 whom he knew, in seedy black and ties of 
 dubious white, and roomy shoes topped by too-
 
 6 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 visible stockings of white cotton, also dubious 
 in tone — conducting a camp-meeting, advertised 
 far and wide in flaring posters, and sure to bring, 
 with crowds of the pious, countless railers, to 
 many of whom he himself was known. The 
 reader will understand the term ' camp-meeting ' 
 in a limited sense. It was a camp-meeting with 
 no encampment, and lasted one day only. 
 
 As father and son walked together, there 
 was heard suddenly the bray of a band, drown- 
 ing the lark's music, and far and wide the 
 sound of the Hallelujah Chorus filled the fields. 
 It was not ignobly played or sung, though 
 band and choir alike needed a little fining here 
 and there. The folk of the Black Country are 
 essentially musical, and here they played and 
 sang with all their heart and soul and lungs. 
 There was a little admixture of strings with 
 the wind , instruments, and a' tailor led the 
 violins. ' Now David,' cried the drummer, as 
 he grasped his sticks, ' let thy elbow fly like a 
 lamb's tail ! ' and David nodded to this encour- 
 agement, and led the way at a rattling pace. 
 Whilst the band and choir were in the midst of
 
 JOSETH'S COAT. 7 
 
 their fervour, the two late comers took their 
 place at the edge of the vast crowd. There 
 were some five-and-twenty thousand peo]3le 
 present, and the gathering could scarcely fail 
 to be impressive. The place of meeting had 
 some advantages and some disadvantages. For 
 one thing, the crowd was sundered by the 
 waters of a canal ; but as a set-off against this, 
 the lock, over which the platform was built, 
 stood some ten or twelve feet above the hol- 
 low land in which tlie multitude had gathered, 
 so that all could at least see the orators of the 
 day. The platform was primitive but secure, 
 and consisted of great beams of timber laid 
 from wall to wall of the lock ; and in the 
 centre was another smaller platform on which 
 the more prominent of the promoters of the 
 meeting were gathered. They were a rugged 
 set for the most part, and the presence of one 
 or two massive women added httle refinement 
 to this central knot. ]\Irs. Bush ell sat in black 
 silk — square, hard, uncompromising in face 
 and figure — at the little unclothed deal table 
 with red legs, on which were set a water-bottle,
 
 8 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 a glass, a Bible, and a few scattered liymn- 
 books. Young Joe, discerning here and there 
 an acquaintance in the crowd, blushed at the 
 figure on the platform and revolted at its 
 presence there. One gentleman, the son of a 
 neighbouring coal- owner, beholding young Joe, 
 waited until he caught his eye, and then, from 
 his coign of vantage near the lock gates, 
 elaborately winked at him. At this and a 
 slight backward motion of the head, indicating 
 the chief personage on the platform, the young- 
 ster turned scarlet, but he held his head erect 
 and felt savagely defiant — not least defiant, 
 perhaps, of his mother and the prominence of 
 her place. Old Joe, with his massive hands 
 depending downwards, smoked his clay calmly 
 at the edge of the crowd by his son's side. 
 These al-fvesco religious observances had one 
 especial cjiarm for the elder Bushell ; they 
 found room for a pipe ; and without the soothing 
 influence of his tube of clay, the old man found 
 the best of sermons dull. 
 
 Young Joe's resentfulness of humour in- 
 creased as he stood by his father's side. But
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 9 
 
 he was there to brave the whole thing out, and 
 to show to his friends tliat he was not ashamed 
 of his father and mother and their ways. But 
 why, in the name of all things abominable, 
 would his father insist on wearing moleskin 
 clothing and on smoking a clay x^ipe at such 
 a place and time ? and why should his mother 
 sit there, the centre of these vulgar orators, 
 gazed at by all these vulgar eyes ? He was 
 not ashamed of them, he told himself. Was 
 he not here by his own free will ? He grew 
 more and more wrathful and rebellious as he 
 nursed these thoughts. 
 
 By-and-by, after the due introductory 
 readings and prayers had been gone through, 
 and when a hymn had been sung with rough 
 and striking grandeur of tone, Mrs. Eebecca 
 Bushell rose squarely up, and gave out her 
 text and preached. I suppose that everybody 
 who reads this will have some notion of what a 
 revival sermon is hke, and that there is there- 
 fore no need for me to set down Mrs. Bush ell's 
 utterances. The creed she unfolded was stern 
 and ugly, though modified by some private
 
 10 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 tenderness of her own, and young Joe knew 
 well enough that much of the discourse was 
 levelled at himself. The presence of her son 
 gave her speech a passionate earnestness which 
 it would otherwise have missed, and she 
 preached at the crowd through him, and at 
 him through the crowd. This also young Joe 
 resented, and savagely endured. It came to 
 an end at last, and twenty-five thousand pairs of 
 lungs aided the band in giving breath to the 
 Old Hundredth, which rolled its slow, grand 
 stream of sound across the sunny fields, and 
 was heard, soft and sweet with distance, in the 
 Sabbath streets of the town a mile away. 
 
 The crowd broke into scattered sections 
 and took its devious way towards a mid-day 
 dinner. The old man and his son passed to 
 the platform. 
 
 ' Joseph,' said Eebecca, descending, ' put 
 that pipe away. For shame — on a Sunday, an' 
 at meeting too.' 
 
 ' All right, missis,' said Bushell senior. 
 ' There's no harm in a pipe.' And he smoked 
 on placidly.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 11 
 
 His wife, knowing by old experience the 
 uselessness of opposition, resigned tlie point 
 with a sigh, and walked gravely away with the 
 Keverend Paul Screed. 
 
 In these days in which I write the Eeverend 
 Paul is dead, and no truth can hurt his feelings 
 any more. But it is true of him that he 
 preached a vulgar gospel, w^orshipped a vulgar 
 god, and had vulgar notions upon all things 
 which came within the sphere of an intellect 
 not too well instructed. He was always in 
 remarkable earnest, and was very certain that 
 all his beliefs were accurate and that all beliefs 
 rimning counter to his own were sinful. He 
 was incapable of doing a wilful wrong to any- 
 body. In person he was gaunt and bony, and 
 his general aspect was repellent. Young Joe, 
 resentino^ most thincfs, resented the Eeverend 
 Paul with a vehemence inspired by direct hate. 
 The Pieverend Paul, for his part, looked on the 
 young man with a stony severity of holiness 
 which foresaw for him eternal pains and 
 penalties. 
 
 Mrs. Bushell, arm-in-arm with the minister,
 
 12 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 walked homewards, and her husband and her 
 son followed at a little distance. By-and-by 
 came round a corner of the lane, facing this 
 broken quartette, a youngster resplendent in 
 the devices of the latest fashion, switching at 
 the hedges as he walked. The lane was fairly 
 filled with scattered groups of homeward-going 
 worshippers, and all but the new-comer were 
 walking in one direction. He strolled along, a 
 good deal stared at, and pausing suddenly before 
 young Joe, thrust out a gloved hand, and said 
 ' Good morning ' in a loud and cheery voice. 
 The youngster, a httle embarrassed, returned his 
 greeting. The old man, without pausing, turned 
 his head, and in his broadest drawl bade his 
 son be home in time for dinner. 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' said the new-comer. He 
 was one of those people who, without knowing 
 it, are audible under ordinary conditions over a 
 circuit of fifty yards. 
 
 ' My father,' young Joe answered, speaking 
 in tones as loud as the other's, and with an air 
 of injured pride, 
 
 'Who's that.^' asked old Joe, returning,
 
 JOSEPirS COAT. 13 
 
 and joining the young men as they stood before 
 each other. 
 
 ' Mr. Sydney Cheston,' said young Joe ; 
 ' Sir Sydney Cheston's son. My father, Mr. 
 Cheston.' 
 
 ' How be you ? ' said old Joe, pipe in mouth. 
 He kept his hands in the pockets of his mole- 
 skin jacket, and nodded at the baronet's son 
 with perfect naturalness. 
 
 ' I am very well,' returned Lir. Cheston. 
 ' How be you ? ' 
 
 ' I'm as right as a trivet,' old Joe answered, 
 unsuspicious of satire. For a moment he had 
 thought the loud 'Who's that?' a little 
 impudent, but seeing the young man cheerful 
 and self-possessed, forgot to notice it. Young 
 Joe burned to knock ]\It. Sydney Cheston 
 down. 'I've heerd Joe talk about you,' said 
 the old man comfortably. ' Come and have a 
 bit o' dinner along of us. Eh ? ' 
 
 ' Very sorry,' the young buck returned, ' I 
 have an enoraofement.' 
 
 ' All right,' said the old man, nodding. ' Be 
 in time, Joe. Good mornin', young mister.'
 
 14 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Good morning, governor,' said Mr. Clieston 
 with loud clieerfulness. Young Joe raged 
 inwardly. 'Queer old bird, tlie pater,' the 
 future baronet made comment, in a moderated 
 voice. 
 
 'It occurs to me,' young Joe replied, in 
 rapid undertone, ' that I am scarcely a lit re- 
 pository for your opinions.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' said Mr. Cheston lightly, 
 ' everything must liave a beginning. You 
 begin now, and we began a hundred years ago. 
 That's all the difference.' 
 
 ' Possibly,' said young Joe with great stiff- 
 ness. His reply was somewhat vague, even to 
 himself ; but he felt that he discharged a duty, 
 whilst he relieved the gathered spleen of the 
 whole morning. 
 
 ' Don't be rusty,' Mr. Cheston answered. 
 ' Anybody's welcome to tell me that wy 
 governor's a queer old bird. Gad, he is ! A 
 very queer old bird. Most men's governors 
 are queer old birds. We shall be queer old 
 birds ourselves some day.' 
 
 Young Joe, a little mollified and a little in
 
 JOSEPH \S COAT. 15 
 
 haste to be rid of that sore subject, asked what 
 had brought his friend into the neighbourhood. 
 The out-of-door worshippers were still strag- 
 ghng by, and Cheston, taking Joe's arm, turned 
 with him and struck across a by-path which 
 led through cornfields, where the bright scarlet 
 of thick-growing poppies lent more beauty than 
 value to the crop. 
 
 ' I'm staying with old Moulding, at the 
 Hollies,' Cheston said ; ' and as they all went 
 to church this morning, I ventured on a lonely 
 stroll throuo'h the reoion. I'm skid I did it, 
 for I've seen two things which impressed me 
 vastly.' 
 
 ' Imprimis ? ' asked young Joe, trying to 
 catch some little seeming of gaiety, if only for 
 wounded pride's sake. 
 
 ' Imprimis,' answered Cheston, ' the 
 prettiest face I ever set eyes on. A Black 
 Country beauty. A rose springing from an 
 artificial Alp of slag and cinder.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said the other in a meditative way. 
 
 'Pleasing spectacle number one,' said 
 Cheston gaily, as though addressing an audience,
 
 16 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ' led to pleasing spectacle number two. 
 Number one, dressed in the most becoming 
 and least conventional fashion, was apparently- 
 bound for church or chapel, inasmuch as she 
 bore a hymn-book and looked devotional and 
 demure. Having no fear of the proprieties 
 before my eyes, and having a natural delight in 
 the contemplation of beauty, I lit up a cigar 
 and strolled after her. By-and-by we came 
 upon an enormous outdoor meeting, where my 
 little beauty met her mother or some other 
 elderly female dragon, and I lost sight of her. 
 But I know where she lives and I am going to 
 have another look at her.' 
 
 Young Joe, without seeing any clear grounds 
 for apprehension, spoke wdth some anxiety, 
 though with outer lightness. 
 
 ' Who is this charming young person ? ' 
 ' She dwells,' said Cheston, simulating a 
 melodramatic tone, ' though in what capacity 
 I know not, at the sign of the Saracen's Head, 
 and her divine name is Diana — or Dinah. Yes, 
 it's Dinah. I heard the guardian dragon scold 
 her for being late.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 17 
 
 A blush, partly of anger and partly of em- 
 barrassment, was on young Joe's face. He 
 forced a laugh. 
 
 ' Yes, she's a pretty girl ; ' then hiuriedly, 
 to escape further discussion of the topic, ' And 
 what was pleasing spectacle number two ? ' 
 
 ' Pleasing spectacle number two,' said 
 Cheston, with noisy cheerfulness, ' was a sort of 
 she-Boaners^es in black silk who harancrued the 
 multitude. I protest,' lie went on, laughing 
 heartily, ' that she was worth a journey to the 
 North Pole to look at and to listen to. But I 
 dare say you were there and heard her. You 
 were coming back that way. For myself, I 
 walked off to the Saracen's Head and watched 
 my little divinity in again before I turned to 
 walk to the Hollies.' 
 
 What with wounded pride, and jealous 
 fear, and his resentful rage at things in general, 
 young Joe was very near to boiling-point. 
 
 ' You know everybody hereabouts,' said 
 Cheston, with obtuse goodhumour and unflag- 
 ging enjoyment in the sound of his own voice — 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 sweeter music than the spheres could make — 
 ' who was the she-Boanerges ? ' 
 
 Young Joe reached boiling-point and 
 bubbled over. 
 
 ' She was my mother, sir I And in ten 
 minutes you have insulted my father and my 
 mother and have told me how you dogged my 
 — my sweetheart home, and — and — I tell 
 you what it is, Cheston. You cash that I U 
 I have of yours at your earliest convenience, 
 and don't trouble yourself to know me any 
 more. Good morning.' 
 
 And off went the hapless young fellow in a 
 great heat, with a face like a peony, and with 
 smarting tears in his eyes. Cheston stood a 
 moment, stunned, as though an invisible ava- 
 lanche had fallen upon him. Then he raced 
 after his late companion and caught him by the 
 shoulder in the act of mounting the first stile. 
 
 ' My dear fellow,' he said pantingly, ' pray 
 forgive me. I was quite ignorant. I wouldn't 
 have done it for the world. Pray do forgive 
 me. I beg your pardon a hundred thousand 
 times.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 19 
 
 Young Joe s^vimg liimself out of the other's 
 grasp and mounted the stile. He melted a 
 little notwithstanding. He wanted somebody's 
 sympathy and companionship, and Cheston was 
 evidently very sorry. But how could he turn 
 and show the hot tears which were even then 
 finding their channels on his face ? The peni- 
 tent vaulted the stile after him and pursued 
 him with breathless apology, and at last took 
 him by the shoulders and swung him fairly 
 round. At that, in a sudden gust of added 
 shame for the tears with which his eyes 
 were filled, he gave his rage full swing, and 
 launched a blow at the apologist, and stood 
 waving his arms above him, demanding wildly 
 to know if the prostrate Cheston wanted any 
 more. 
 
 ' By Jove I do,' roared the late penitent, 
 and springing to his feet he threw his hat and 
 coat upon the grass and awaited young Joe's 
 onslaught. For a minute the two stood face to 
 face, in posture of defence. Then Cheston 
 dropped liis hands. 'It was quite my fault, 
 Bushell,' he said, ' and I won't fight about it. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 I don't wonder at your striking me. Let us 
 say no more about it. Shake hands, old man, 
 shake hands/ 
 
 Thereupon young Joe shamefacedly shook 
 hands, stammered some broken excuses — 
 ' temper greatly tried,' and so forth — and went 
 his way. 
 
 ' He's got hatsful of money,' meditated the 
 future baronet, as young Joe walked miserably 
 away. ' But ain't he paying for having it, poor 
 beggar ? — ain't he just, that's all ? '
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 21 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bushell and tlie Reverend Paul 
 Screed sat at meat together. A pair of fowls 
 and a leg of mutton, cooked on the previous 
 day to avoid the desecration of the Sabbath by- 
 needless labour, decorated the board, whilst hot 
 vegetables made a sort of conces.sion from 
 religious principle to hospitality. 
 
 ' Shall us wait for Joseph ? ' the old man 
 asked. Joseph was Joe in non-company 
 hours. The conventional form was a conces- 
 sion to the presence of the Reverend Paul. 
 
 ' If Joseph can't get home in time for 
 dinner,' said Mrs. Bushell, ' Joseph must go 
 without.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, missis,' said the old man 
 genially. ' Xobody go's wi'out grub i' this 
 house as long as there is any. But we'll go on 
 wi*out him if you like.'
 
 22 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Grace had already been pronounced by the 
 Eeverend Paul, who crumbled his bread in 
 silence during this brief debate, with a demure 
 eye on the leg of mutton. Mrs. Bushell had 
 the head of the table, and set to work business- 
 like on the cold fowls. At that moment young 
 Joe entered, still resentful, and somewhat 
 heated by a hurried walk home. Mrs. Bushell 
 silently carved for him also and set his plate 
 before him. Eather to be doing something to 
 hide the agitation which yet remained with 
 him, than because the food invited him, he 
 took up his knife and fork. The Eeverend 
 Paul laid a detaining hand upon his arm, and 
 arose slowly. The three bowed their heads 
 whilst the minister pronounced a second and 
 supplementary ' blessing.' ' For what Mr. 
 Joseph is about to receive may the Lord make 
 him truly thankful.' Young Joe accepted this 
 as a new affront, and his food choked him. 
 He pushed his plate a little away, after making 
 an ineffectual attempt at the cold fowl. 
 
 'Joseph,* said his mother with placid 
 severity, ' it is better to serve God than
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 23 
 
 Mammon. I can't break the Sabbath by 
 cooking to satisfy your carnal appetites/ 
 
 ' I don't want you to cook for me, mother/ 
 said the young fellow, sorely baited by his own 
 feelings. ' The fowl is well enough, but I am 
 not hungry. That is all.' 
 
 The mother sijjhed — and the sio-h said 
 plainly. ' I hold my own opinion.' The father 
 set his hand on the young man's shoulder. 
 
 'You've been a bit downhearted-hke all 
 mornin'. What's the matter, lad ? Bain't you 
 well ? ' 
 
 ' I am not altogether well, father,' young 
 Joe answered. 
 
 Mrs. Bushell's severity vanished, and she 
 looked at her son's flushed face with motherly 
 eyes and instant anxiety and pity. 
 
 ' You're a bit feverish, Joseph,' she said ; ' I 
 can see that. Have a glass o' wine an' lie 
 down.' 
 
 ' I think I will lie down,' said young Joe, 
 glad to escape, though conscious of hypocrisy. 
 ' I will lie do^\Ti a little while if you'll excuse 
 me. No, never mind the wine, mother.'
 
 24 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said the Eeverend Paul, ' it is 
 the working of the powerful word we heard 
 this morning.' 
 
 Mrs. Bushell shook her head, and sighed 
 again. This second sigh said plainly, ' I am a 
 humble vessel.' 
 
 'Let us hope so, ma'am,' said the Eeverend 
 Paul, at once recognising and waiving Mrs. 
 Bushell's depreciation of herself. 
 
 ' The lad's well enough,' said old Joe, 
 reaching out his fork and appropriating a slice 
 of cold mutton. 
 
 ' You're over-careless, Joseph,' said Mrs. 
 Bushell, helping the Eeverend Paul. ' You're 
 over-careless yourself, Joseph. I wish Mr. 
 Screed 'ud say a solemn word to him.' 
 
 ' I will, ma'am,' said the Eeverend Paul, 
 with his hand upon the beer-jug. 
 
 Nothing of this was spoken in young Joe's 
 hearing. He, cooling himself meanwhile with 
 a cigar in his own room, thought over the 
 events of the morning with self-tormenting 
 accusation. He despised himself for having 
 made allusion to the I U, and he hated him-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 25 
 
 self for having struck his old school companion 
 and constantly good-humoured friend. And 
 he laid all these things, with whatever other of 
 his own faults and misdoings he could think of. 
 at the parental doors ; though, even as he did 
 so, some self-accusins: thoucrhts assailed him. 
 
 The Eeverend Paul in the meantime medi- 
 tated on the solemn word he had promised to 
 say to young Joe, and as he thought about it, 
 he grew more and more severe in his judg- 
 ments upon young Joe's private character and 
 spiritual prospects. It was quite in a mood of 
 prophetic indignation, therefore, that he en- 
 countered the object of his reflections. The old 
 man had gone upstairs for his afternoon nap — 
 his custom always — and Mrs. Bushell was asleep 
 in the back parlour, when young Joe came a 
 little stealthily downstairs, and, taking his hat 
 from its peg, went towards the door. The 
 Eeverend Paul, also moving stealthily, emerged 
 from the front parlour and approached the 
 young man on tiptoe. 
 
 ' May I ask a word with you ? ' he said 
 with ghostly solemnity.
 
 26 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' You may/ young Joe answered. He bad 
 smoked himself into a better humour, but he 
 hated the reverend gentleman, as I have said 
 already, and his gorge arose at him. 
 
 The minister went on tiptoe back into the 
 parlour, and young Joe, like a conspuator, 
 followed stealthily. It was the habit of the 
 household to go about in this wise whilst the 
 elder Bushell took his nap. 
 
 'Mister Joseph,' said the Eeverend Paul, 
 ' your mother has requested me to speak a 
 solemn word to you.' 
 
 ' About what ? ' asked young Joe, with his 
 eyes glittering a little wickedly. 
 
 ' Your soul,' said the Eeverend Paul. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Joe, with a sigh of desperation ; 
 ' what about it ? ' 
 
 ' It is greatly to be feared,' said the Eeve- 
 rend Paul^.' that you are in a state of impeni- 
 tence.' 
 
 ' About what ? ' asked young Joe again. 
 ' I'm very penitent for some things, and not at 
 all penitent for others.' 
 
 ' You resist the Spirit,' said the minister in
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 27 
 
 a solemn murmur ; ' you ueglect the means of 
 grace ; you scoff at the way of safety ; you 
 live in open profligacy.' 
 
 ' What ? ' asked the other. The question 
 was put with startling distinctness, and sounded 
 like a pistol-shot snapping across the subdued 
 grumble of a violoncello. 
 
 'I have watched you closely,' said the 
 minister ; ' you spent an hour yesterday in a 
 tap-room.' 
 
 ' I did nothing of the sort,' young Joe 
 declared hotly. 'I passed through a tap- 
 room on my way to play a game at billiards.' 
 
 ' A profitless and sinful waste of time,' said 
 the Eeverend Paul. 
 
 ' There are some tilings,' said young Joe, 
 with a fine-gentleman manner, ' which you and 
 I cannot agree upon. I challenge your right 
 to watch me, but every beast acts after his 
 own instinct, and I can't help that. You are 
 my father's guest, Mr. Screed, and I am bound 
 not to quarrel with you. If you take any in- 
 terest in my spiritual welfare, you will refrain 
 from provoking me to wrath. That is, I
 
 28 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 believe, the proper phrase. Good afternooD, 
 sir.' 
 
 The Eeverend Paul Screed's wrath was 
 seasoned by a certain self-repression and a 
 certain sense of authority. He told himself, 
 and he believed it, that he did well to be 
 angry. But, in spite of the fact that he was, 
 according to his lights, a good man, he had a 
 strain of meanness in him. Anger, says the 
 old poet, is a brief madness. It is also a self- 
 revelation, searching as hghtning. 
 
 Young Joe was on his way to the door, hat 
 in hand. The minister, with one hand on the 
 wall and tJie other grasping the edge of the 
 door, barred liis progress. 
 
 ' I am not to be debarred, Mister Joseph,' 
 he said, very picked and precise in every syl- 
 lable, as men only educated late in life are apt 
 to be, — M am not to be debarred, Mr. Joseph, 
 from doing my duty by any pretended con- 
 tempt you may assume. It is my business to 
 warn you, and I do it without fear. If my 
 warnings are disregarded by you, I shall carry 
 them elsewhere. I have already told you that
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 29 
 
 I have watched you closely. I witnessed yoiir 
 parting last night from that unhappy girl 
 whom you are endeavom^ing to entrap.' 
 
 ' Eh ? ' said young Joe, an ocfiive higher 
 than his common speech, and very softly. 
 
 ' I spoke to her,' said the Eeverend Paul, 
 ' and admonished her. And I shall make it 
 my business now, for her soul's safety and 
 yours, to tell your parents and hers what I 
 know about this matter.' 
 
 'You will, will you? ' said the other in the 
 same soft key. 
 
 ' I can tell already,' said the Eeverend Paul, 
 ' that it will be useless to appeal to any honour- 
 able instinct in you. And I have seen enough 
 of the girl whom you have endeavoured to 
 make the victim of your arts and wiles, to 
 know that only constant watching could ensure 
 her safety.' 
 
 At that instant three people were tremen- 
 dously surprised. And I cannot tell who was 
 the most profoundly amazed amongst them. 
 I record the fact. Young Joe struck the Pteve- 
 read Paul and knocked him headlong into the
 
 30 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 arms of Busliell senior, at that moment in the 
 act of entering the room. Father and son re- 
 garded each other across the semi-prostrate 
 figure of the minister with blank amazement, 
 for young Joe was as wildly astonished at his 
 own deed as even the Reverend Paul himself 
 could be. Yet, having done the deed, he must 
 abide by it. 
 
 ' Why, what's all this ? ' demanded the old 
 man sternly. 
 
 ' This fellow,' said young Joe, scornfully 
 indicating the minister, who held a white 
 handkerchief to his mouth, 'has the insolence 
 to tell me that he has been watching me this 
 long time past. He says he saw me kiss a 
 pretty girl last night, and that he's going to 
 tell her mother and my mother, and have us 
 looked after and taken care of. And he has 
 the audacity to tell me that nothing but close 
 watching can save my — my sweetheart's 
 virtue.' 
 
 disingenuous and cowardly young Joe ! 
 It was not too late even then, and one honest
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 31 
 
 word miglit have saved you, but you would 
 not speak it. 
 
 ' An' becos a minister o' God's word, as is 
 a old man likewise, speaks a honest word o' 
 warnin' to you, you go an' knock him down! An' 
 you do it in your father's house, of a Sunday ! ' 
 
 ' He insulted a lady,' said young Joe, ' for 
 whom I have a great respect and regard. I 
 never meant to strike him. I tried to leave 
 the room, and he stood m the doorway, and 
 wouldn't let me pass. Suppose a man had 
 attacked my mother's reputation before you 
 married her, wouldn't you have knocked him 
 down ? ' 
 
 Old Joe had been a httle too handy at 
 knocking people down in his own youth, on 
 sHghter provocation, to feel that he had any 
 great right to be severe about this matter. 
 Yet he felt keenly that an outrage had been 
 committed, and that it must in some way be 
 atoned for. He w^as angry, but he was 
 puzzled, and, as his readiest refuge from be- 
 wilderment, he looked angrier than he was.
 
 32 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 As for young Joe, lie began to feel that he was 
 dangerous and incendiary. He had knocked 
 down two men in one day, and he was now 
 bitterly ashamed of the achievement. One of 
 the men was his closest friend, and the other 
 was elderly and was laid under professional 
 obligations not to fight. But the more 
 ashamed he grew, the more shameful his last 
 misdeed seemed likely to appear in the eyes of 
 others, and the more necessary it became to 
 shroud himself in a sort of cloak of tacit scorn 
 of everybody, and be sulky in as dignified a 
 way as came easily. 
 
 The rustle of a silk dress was heard, and 
 Mrs. Bushell stood in the doorway, by her 
 husband's side. At the bare sidit of his 
 mother young Joe recognised the hopeless- 
 ness of any defence, and threw himself upon 
 the sofa. 
 
 ' What's the matter? ' asked Mrs. Bushell. 
 
 ' Your son,' said the Eeverend Paul Screed, 
 removing the handkerchief, ' has answered the 
 solemn word of warning you desired me to ad- 
 dress to him by blows.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 33 
 
 ' Xot blows,' said tlie culprit from the sofa, 
 hardening himself, ' a blow.' 
 
 ' I do not know,' said the minister, ' whether 
 I received one blow or more. I am still a little 
 shaken by his violence.' 
 
 ' Joseph,' said LIrs. Bushell, advancing, 'leave 
 this house, and never come back to it again.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said the young man, rising. 
 Even at that moment the mother's heart yearned 
 over him, but she must acquit herself of duty 
 first and be tender afterwards. She knew her 
 husband would interfere, and she never dreamed 
 that her only child would leave her, even though 
 she ordered him away. 
 
 ' Eot an' nonsense ! ' said the old man angrily. 
 ' If it's anybody's business to order my son out 
 o' my house, it's mine. Fair play's a jewel. 
 Joe's done wrong, but we do' know ' — (meaniog 
 ' don't know ') — ' the rights o'this business yet. 
 Now, parson, it's your turn. Say thy say.' 
 
 Mr. Screed answered nothing, and Mrs. 
 Bushell, still confident in her husband's inter- 
 ference, turned again upon her son. 
 
 ' Leave the house, Joseph.' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ' Very well,' said young Joe again, and 
 passing from the room went upstairs, and began 
 to pack his belongings together. Meanwhile 
 the minister told his story, and from his own 
 point of view told it fairly. 
 
 ' Mr. Banks,' said Mrs. Bushell, ' ain't a 
 godly person, but I've known Dinah ever since 
 her was a baby, an' her's as good a gell as ever 
 lived, I believe. I've seen as Joe an' her was 
 fond of each other, an' I always thought some- 
 thin' 'ud come of it.' 
 
 ' Cuss it all, passon,' said old Joe in great 
 heat, ' why shouldn't the lad kiss his sweetheart, 
 an' why should yo' goo and black her character 
 to him ? ' 
 
 'I did my duty,' said Mr. Screed with 
 dignity. 
 
 ' Forgiveness is a Christian duty,' said Mrs. 
 Bushell, alarmed by the sounds which came 
 from above, where young Joe was vigorously 
 cording a box. 'I needn't tell you that, sir. 
 But Joseph shall beg your pardon on his bended 
 knees, or out of this house he goes.' 
 
 'I am willing to accept his apology,' said
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 35 
 
 the Eeverend Paul -witli a real effort towards 
 charity, which cost him dear. 
 
 ]\Irs. Bushell mounted the stairs and entered 
 her son's bedroom. He was hastily searching 
 the pockets of an old hght overcoat, and when 
 his mother entered he threw the garment upon 
 the bed, where it lay ^vith all its pockets turned 
 inside out. Whatever he searched for was not 
 found, for he turned, and, disregarding his 
 mother's presence, took a hasty look through a 
 number of documents — old letters, scraps of 
 newspapers and what not — in an open drawer, 
 and then, as if putting off the search to a more 
 convenient moment, tumbled the papers loosely 
 together into a portmanteau which he strapped 
 and locked. His mother watched him with a 
 cold demeanour which belied the longing of 
 her heart. 
 
 ' Joseph ! ' she said harshly, yearning over 
 him. 
 
 'Yes, mother,' said he, looking up for a 
 minute. 
 
 ' Come downstairs an' beg Mr. Screed's 
 pardon, or out o' this house you go.' 
 
 D 2
 
 86 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Beg his pardon for insulting me ! ' said 
 young Joe bitterly. ' No, thank you, mother. 
 As for leaving the house, I've been ready and 
 willing to do that this many a day. It's been 
 none too happy a home for me, with its parsons 
 and prayer-meetings.' 
 
 ' Where do you think you're going ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Bushell severely, wounded by this last 
 allusion. ' A wise son maketh a glad father, 
 but he that is foolish despiseth his mother. 
 He that refuse th instruction despiseth his 
 own soul, but he that heareth reproof getteth 
 understanding. You come down and beg 
 Mr. Screed's pardon, or out o' this house 
 you go.' 
 
 ' Very well, mother,' said young Joe ; and 
 Mrs. Bushell, her mission having failed, went 
 downstairs again. 
 
 ' Joseph,' she said, addressing her husband, 
 * I can do nothin' with him. Will you speak 
 to him?' 
 
 The old man called his son from the foot of 
 the stairs, and Joe came down with a box on 
 his shoulder and a portmanteau in his hand.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 37 
 
 He set them down outside the parlour door, 
 and stood there sulkily. 
 
 ' Tve heerd. this thing through o' one side,' 
 said old Joe, striving to deal honestly with the 
 case. ' What ha' you got to say ? ' 
 
 ' I have said all that I have to say,' young 
 Joe answered. ' He was insolent, and I lost 
 my temper. I told him once that he was my 
 father's guest, and that I had no right to 
 quarrel with him. I bade him good afternoon, 
 but he stopped me, and was more insolent than 
 ever.' 
 
 'Xow, look here, Joseph,' said the old man: 
 ' you ask llv. Screed's pardon, and tak' them 
 things upstairs again, and be a good lad, and 
 let's hear no more about it' 
 
 ' I wouldn't forgive Mr. Screed,' said young 
 Joe, feeling himself to be a very plucky martyr 
 now, ' if he asked my pardon fifty times, and 
 that I should apologise to him is out of the 
 question.' 
 
 ' Then leave the house,' said Mrs. Bushell, 
 still belying herself and thinking it righteous to 
 do so.
 
 ^8 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' I can send for these, I suppose ? ' said 
 young Joe, indicating the chest and the port- 
 manteau. 'Good-bye, father. Good-bye, 
 mother. When next you feel inclined to be 
 insolent, sir, remember the deserved chastise- 
 ment you once met with at my hands.' 
 
 With that final defiance, young Joe was 
 gone. He was very miserable, and very much 
 ashamed ; but there was not one of the three 
 who remained behind who did not confess that 
 he had at least a shadow of right on his side. 
 Indeed, the whole of this poor quarrel was con- 
 ducted by people who were ashamed of their 
 part in it. The Eeverend Paul felt that he had 
 gone further with the lad than duty impelled 
 him. The mother repented of her cruel ulti- 
 matum, and cried to think she had not used 
 softer means. The father was angry with him- 
 self for having allowed young Joe to go. The 
 lad himself, as we have seen already, was 
 heartily ashamed. Of course each member of 
 the quartette would have fought the quarrel 
 through again, rather than admit just then a 
 shade of wrong on his or her own side.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 39 
 
 Young Joe could scarcely analyse Ms sensa- 
 tions at that time. He was very fond of his 
 father and very proud of him, in spite of an 
 education which had done much to weaken all 
 family ties. For his mother he had an affec- 
 tion much less keen. There had never been 
 any sympathy between them, so far as young 
 Joe knew; and although his negative know- 
 ledge was necessarily incomplete, it was a 
 barrier more than sufficient against love's 
 progress. I regret that we shall see but little 
 of that hard old Calvinist, for to one who knew 
 her well she was a woman well worth knowing. 
 She had more affection in her than anybody 
 gave her credit for, and she loved her only 
 child with so passionate a tenderness that she 
 prayed every night and morning that she might 
 not make an ' idol ' of him. In this wise she 
 succeeded in disguising her love so perfectly 
 that yoimg Joe had grown up in the belief that 
 his very presence was distasteful to her. 
 
 So, with a sore heart and with some 
 burdens of conscience, the young fellow 
 dawdled away from the house in which he was
 
 40 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 born, resolved never to return to it. The 
 future looked blank enough, for he had no 
 business or profession, and had discovered in 
 himself no special aptitudes which were likely 
 to be profitable to him. He had ten pounds 
 in his pocket, and might be able, perhaps, on 
 his personal possessions of jewelry and what 
 not, to realise fifty. The prospect was alto- 
 gether dreary, and in spite of his resolve not to 
 return, he was conscious of a very definite 
 longing that his father would run after him and 
 take forcible possession of him by ear or 
 shoulder. He would willingly have gone back 
 — even ignominiously — so that the ignominy 
 had not seemed voluntary. But nobody ran 
 after him ; no restraining voice called him ; 
 and young Joe went his way to shame and 
 sorrow, as many a thousand worse and better 
 men have gone before him ; for the want of 
 one wise courage in himself, or, faihng that, 
 one word of friendly resolution from outside 
 him. 
 
 There was nothing to invite or encourage 
 him in the blank Sabbath street, where one cur
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 41 
 
 lay ill the sunshine snapping at the flies. 
 Young Joe had upon him an impulse to kick 
 the cur, but restrained himself, and went miser- 
 ably and moodily along. It was counted 
 highly improper and even immoral to smoke in 
 the streets on Sunday in that quarter of the 
 world ; but Joe, feehng that he was leaving the 
 town and could afford to despise its edict, lit a 
 cigar and hardened himself. He chose a way 
 which led him across certain mournful 
 meadows, where the grass was poisoned by the 
 exhalations of a chemical factory near at hand, 
 and rambled on tlirough frowsy verdure until 
 he reached a canal. The artificial hills rose 
 high on each side of the cutting, and on one 
 side ran clean into the water, wooded to the 
 very edge. On the other, the towing-path was 
 green except for one little streak. The water 
 was without motion, or the place might have 
 passed for an unusually favourable scrap of 
 Enghsh river scenery. The artificial bluffs 
 were bold and precipitous, and they had the 
 merit of hiding the defaced country which lay 
 beyond them. Up and down the towing-path
 
 42 JOSUFH'S COAT. 
 
 young Joe wandered with the air of a man who 
 has appointed a rendezvous. He waited for 
 perhaps an hour, when round the corner of the 
 farthest bhifF came a figure in fluttering white 
 mushn and a straw hat. His back was turned, 
 and the new-comer, with innocent mirthful 
 mischief in her face^ ran tiptoe along the sward, 
 and clapped both hands across his eyes. 
 
 ' Guess who it is,' said the new-comer 
 bhthely.' 
 
 Young Joe returned no answer. The ex- 
 pression in the girl's face changed. She moved 
 her hands, and saw — what she had only felt 
 before — that they were wet with tears. She 
 threw one arm around his neck, and, seeking 
 his left hand with hers, asked with tender 
 solicitude, 
 
 'What is it, Joe, dear.^ What's the 
 matter ? ' 
 
 Young Joe, facing about, kissed her, and 
 took both her hands in his. The tears still 
 glistened on the lashes over his gloomy eyes, 
 and the girl regarded him with a look of fear 
 and anxiety.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 43 
 
 ' I have bad news for you, Dinah,' said 
 young Joe at last. ' I am turned out of house 
 and home, and I shall have to go away some- 
 where and face the w^orld.' 
 
 ' Turned out of house and home ? ' ques- 
 tioned Dinah, with brown frightened eyes wide 
 open. 
 
 ' Turned out of house and home,' young 
 Joe repeated sombrely. ' But don't be afraid, 
 Dinah. I shall be able to take care of myself 
 and you. I shall cast about for something to 
 do, and I'll work my fingers to the bone rather 
 than see you want: anything.' 
 
 ' Turned away from home ? 'Dinah again 
 asked. ' Who tiurned you away ? ' 
 
 Joe related the incidents of the afternoon, 
 with some httle natural bias. 
 
 ' And you see, dear, there's nothing for it 
 but to go away and ' — with a bitter httle 
 laugh — ' and seek my fortune.' 
 
 ' But, Joe,' said Dinah, ' you hadn't ought 
 to have hit him, and him a middle-aged man. 
 Wouldn't it be better, darling, to go back and 
 say as you was sorry ? '
 
 44 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 'Good heaven, Dinah!' said young Joe, 
 ' don't say hadrit ought. How can I go back 
 and say I'm sorry ? I'm not sorry ; and even 
 if I were, I couldn't go back and say so, to 
 have them think I was afraid to face the 
 world.' 
 
 Dinah stood grave and thoughtful for a 
 minute, and then said, 
 
 ' I suppose I mustn't tell father as we're 
 a-going?' 
 
 ' My darling,' said young Joe, ' you mustn't 
 think of coming with me. Not at first, you 
 know. I must go away and get something to 
 do, and make a home for you. We can't run 
 away like two babes in the wood, in that 
 fashion. It won't be long, Dinah. Don't cry, 
 my darling, don't cry. We shan't be long 
 apart. I'll take care of that.' 
 
 'I don't see any use,' said Dinah, sitting 
 disconsolately on the side of the spoil-bank and 
 wiping her eyes with her little muslin apron — 
 ' I don't see any use in being married if a wife 
 can't go along with her husband when he's 
 turned out of house an' home, and hasn't got
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT 45 
 
 anywhere to go to. Joe, you can't leave me 
 behind — you can't be so cruel. No, Joe, no, 
 you couldn't have the heart to leave me.' 
 
 Joe sat down beside her on tlie grass-grown 
 bank and soothed her, feeling himself very 
 guilty all the while. Dinah refused to be 
 comforted, and yet found his proffered comfort 
 pleasant. But by-and-by a certain coquettish 
 little petulance took the place of grief, and 
 young Joe knew that he had half won his 
 cause, which he admitted was a poor one to 
 win. 
 
 ' Don't tell me, Joe,' said pretty Dinah, as 
 yoiu- folks are going to drive you away for 
 always — I know better. If you take 'em at 
 their w^ord, and stay away a w^eek, they'll be 
 glad to have you back again.' 
 
 Young Joe recognised the truth of this 
 observation, but it played such havoc with the 
 heroics of the case that he resented it and 
 pooh-poohed it with a sombre gloom. 
 
 ' It isn't very kind of you, Dinah,' said Joe, 
 glad to appear as the injured person of the two 
 ' to make light of such a serious matter. And
 
 46 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 I would not lower myself in my own esteem 
 by begging myself back again for anything the 
 world could give me. I couldn't do it, darling, 
 even for your sake. No, I'll work for you and 
 struggle for you, but I won't do a mean thing, 
 even for you.' 
 
 He said ' even for you ' so tenderly, and 
 there was such an obvious self-accusation in 
 him when he said it, that the girl threw her 
 arms about his neck and kissed him. 
 
 ' I know you're noble an' 'igh spirited, my 
 dear,' she said, ' and I shall never say a Avord 
 to ask you to be nothing else for me. No, not 
 a word, Joe. And I've been a very thankless 
 girl, Joe, to make believe as it was my trouble, 
 when it was yours all the time. Why, dear 
 me ! it's no great matter for me to go on livin' 
 at home with my father an' mother, till you 
 can afford to send for me, is it, Joe? No, 
 darlin', I shan't fret no more about myself 
 
 He read the devotion and the affection in her 
 heart, and had a dim notion that he could not 
 be altogether a bad fellow, since she gave him 
 such unstinted love. It stirred a vague com-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 47 
 
 fort in him and strengthened him to approve of 
 himself. He biilhed his conscience into quiet, 
 therefore, and began to take quite a liigh tone 
 with it. 
 
 ' It's perhaps a good thing, after all,' he 
 said. ' A man ought not to be dependent upon 
 anybody. He ought to be able to take care of 
 himself And I shall go into the "world and 
 fight for you, Dinah, and that will help me. 
 
 And when I have made a place for you ' 
 
 He smiled in appreciation of the Avork already 
 done — in fancy. 
 
 ' Don't mind about its being a very fine 
 place at first, dear,' said Dinah, nesthng to him 
 and admiring him with all her heart — his 
 courage, his misfortune, his love. 
 
 ' Not too fine a place at first,' said Joe, ' but 
 later on a palace of a place.' 
 
 He said it hghtly, and she laughed at the 
 badinage, but in a moment they were grave 
 again. It was a bitter business, after all. 
 When the time for parting came, Joe strained 
 her to his breast, and she ^hung about him 
 sobbing.
 
 48 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Go,' she said, struggling to be brave. 
 ' Go, an' God bless you, my own dear, dear, 
 ever dearest Joe/ 
 
 At this courageous sorrow young Joe 
 melted. 
 
 * Yes,' he said, * I will go. I'll go home 
 and beg Screed's pardon, and I'll — I'll tell my 
 father that we're married, Dinah, and if he 
 likes to cut up rough about it he can, but I 
 can at least feel then that I've acted like a man, 
 and not like a coward. And if he likes to send me 
 away then, I can work with a clear conscience, 
 and I shall know that I've done my duty.' 
 
 Now, women have always been puzzles to 
 me, and I understand very little of them, but I 
 have noticed in them one consistent peculiarity. 
 If you once succeed in awaking in a woman 
 that sense of protecting strength and tenderness 
 which the most helpless of women are caj)able 
 of feeling over even the most helpful of men, she 
 will protect you, at the cost of serious wounds, 
 from the merest scratch of any little thorn. 
 Dinah would have none of this wholesome and 
 honest sacrifice for her sake.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 49 
 
 ' ^o,' she said, fairly yearning over him and 
 worshipping hun for this bare promise of bare 
 justice. ' Don't vex him with any talk about 
 me yet, my dear. Why, you know, darling,' 
 she went on, strangling her own hopes with the 
 bowstring her sultan had sent her a month be- 
 fore, ' that if you hadn't known as it *ud vex 
 him, you'd ha' told him of it long ago. And 
 now you want to tell him when he's vexed 
 a ready.' 
 
 ' I don't care,' said Joe, feeling heroic. 
 ' He can't do anything worse than he has done. 
 I'll do the right thing.' 
 
 But Dinah clung to hioi. 
 
 ' No,' she said. ' You shan't ruin yourself 
 for me, Joe.' And she clung to her point with 
 such vehemence that Joe yielded, and had all 
 the satisfaction of seeming heroic without in- 
 curring any danger — a joy which I have myself 
 experienced. 
 
 They kissed and embraced again, and Joe 
 wiped her eyes, and promised brokenly to write 
 often. 
 
 ' You're not a-going far away, my darhn', 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 are you ? ' said Dinah, trying to be brave 
 again. 
 
 ' No, dear, no,' said he in answer ; ' not 
 far.' 
 
 ' And, Joe, darlin',' she said, after a tearful 
 pause, reheved by many sad kisses, ' will you 
 let me keep my marriage lines ? ' 
 
 She whispered the question at his ear, and 
 he bent over tenderly the while. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, my dear,' he answered ; ' I meant 
 to bring them to you this afternoon, but I was 
 in such a hurry. They are packed up in my 
 portmanteau, but I will send them to you.' 
 
 ' You don't mind my askin' for 'em, do you, 
 Joe.' 
 
 ' I was wrong all through,' he said ; ' we 
 ought to have been married openly. But I 
 shall do you justice, Dinah. You know that, 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 And so, with protestations, and caresses, 
 and hopes, and with some repentances on his 
 side, they parted. Joe chmbed the bank again, 
 and waved adieu from the top. She answered 
 with a motion of the hand, and he was gone.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 61 
 
 CHAPTEK ni. 
 
 Mrs. Bushell did what she could to atone 
 to the minister for the terrible insult which had 
 been put upon him by her son. Old Joe sat 
 awhile and smoked in silence, and, being greatly 
 exercised by the whole business, drank rather 
 more whisky and water than was good for him. 
 Finally a streak of light^appeared, and he went, 
 a little flushed, towards it. It led him for a 
 while by the road young Joe had taken an 
 hour or two before, but he stopped short of 
 the mangy meadow and sounded a heavy rat- 
 tat at the door of a smart- looking house^ 
 which stood a little back from the lane. 
 A neat servant-maid responded to this 
 summons. 
 
 ' Is Brother George in ? ' asked the old 
 man. 
 
 s2 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the damsel, and led the way 
 into a gaudily furnished parlour, where in black 
 broadcloth sat an intensely respectable man in 
 an armchair by the fireplace. 
 
 ' Joe-ziph,' said the intensely respectable 
 man, dividing the name into two balanced 
 syllables, ' how are you ? ' 
 
 ' George,' said old Joe, seating himself, ' I'm 
 in a bit o' trouble.' 
 
 'You don't say so, Joe-ziph,' said the 
 respectable man, with a wooden want of in- 
 terest. 
 
 ' Yis,' said old Joe, rubbing his grey hair 
 with an enormous palm. ' I'm in a peck o' 
 trouble. My Eebecca has been an' ordered my 
 Joe out o' my house, an' he's took her at a 
 word, an' he's gone.' 
 
 ' Dear me,' said Brother George, as woodenly 
 as before. 
 
 ' Yes,' said old Joe again, ' he's took her at 
 a word, an' he's gone.' 
 
 ' What did her order him off for ? ' asked 
 Brother George. 
 
 Old Joe told the story, with rough-hewn
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 53 
 
 brevity, and his brother nodded now and then 
 to signify attention. In point of fact, it in- 
 terested him more than it seemed to do. He 
 was pretty nearly as wooden as he looked, but 
 he had a very remarkable eye for the main 
 chance. He saw money with an eye at once 
 telescopic and microscopic, and he scented it, 
 or seemed to scent it, as a sleuth-hound scents 
 his game. Joe Bushell had made his money 
 by a remarkably profitable patent, was worth a 
 quarter of a million if a penny, and hved on 
 less than a twentieth part of his income. George 
 had borrowed from his brother to start life as a 
 charter-master, had worked hard and lived hard, 
 and screwed down all under him to the utter- 
 most farthing, and, having made his money 
 chiefly by hard-fistedness, was hated by his 
 workpeople, and knew it, and rather rejoiced 
 in it than otherwise, as being in some sense a 
 tribute to his business capacity. He was a 
 mean and grudging creature, with no instinct 
 of active dishonesty. He had a dull, slow, 
 wooden dislike of young Joe, because young 
 Joe would one day inherit old Joe's fortune.
 
 54 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Not that George had ever had a hope of it him- 
 self, but he grudged wealth to anybody, and 
 could have nursed a spite against the very walls 
 of a bank's strong-room for holding so much 
 money. And now for the first time in his life 
 dawned upon him some dim fancy, scarcely a 
 hope, that he might handle Brother Joseph's 
 money as his own some day. It was that dim 
 fancy which made old Joe's story interesting to 
 him. 
 
 ' JSTow,' said the father, when his narrative 
 was finished, ' what I want thee to do, Greorge, 
 is just this. Thee go an' find Joe, an' fetch him 
 hum. Tek no sort o' denial. He can stop wi' 
 thee a day or two, an' then, when it's blowed 
 over wi' Eebecca, he can come back to me. 
 Dost see ? ' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Brother George, ' I see.' And 
 he saw more than he confessed to seeing. He 
 intended no wrong to anybody, but was it likely 
 that young Joe would listen to his solicitations ? 
 He thought not. And if that misguided young 
 man declined to listen, might not his absence 
 become a source of profit to his uncle ? ' Where
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 55 
 
 is he ? ' the imcle asked, after giving these re- 
 flections time to form. 
 
 ' Well, thee seest,' said old Joe, nibbing his 
 head perplexedly, ' we do' rightly know wheer 
 he is. But he's bound to send for his luggage/ 
 
 ' Ah,' said Brother George again, ' / see.' 
 
 ' I think,' old Joe resumed, ' as he's likely 
 to send for it to-night. Our Joe's allays in a 
 bit of a hurry, an' does everythin' hot-foot.' 
 
 ' Then,' said George, ' I'd better come up 
 to your place, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Just what I wanted,' answered old Joe ; 
 and the two set out together. ' Not a word to 
 the missis, mind.' George nodded in reply, 
 turning over in that stiff-jointed mind of his the 
 question — Shall I break or keep that promise ? 
 Which is likelier to pay ? He would not have 
 robbed young Joe — he would not have robbed 
 anybody. Theft was ' agen the law.' But 
 although any plain and straightforward method 
 of transferring a neighbour's coin to his pouch 
 was a thing to be reprehended, the construction 
 of any crooked scheme for that purpose was 
 praiseworthy, and the carriage of the same to
 
 66 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 triumphant effect was a thing to be proud of. 
 In short, Brother George was a diplomatist, and 
 had some personal advantages in the diplomatic 
 way — singular as that statement may appear. 
 He could lie, for instance, with a stolidity which 
 defied scrutiny. Practice had done much for 
 him, but the first great gift was Nature's. He 
 was ' inscrutable ' enough to have reahsed a 
 Tory journahst's idea of a prime minister. His 
 respectable countenance, clean-shaven but for 
 its respectable tufts of grey whisker, was scarcely 
 more mobile than a mask. Since he never lied 
 apart from strict necessity, he was commonly 
 regarded as a veracious man. He is not the 
 scoundrel of this story — which, indeed, scarcely 
 aspires to the portraiture of a real rascal — and 
 nobody who knew him thought of him as being 
 anything but a very respectable self-made man, 
 who did unusual credit to his original station 
 in hfe. The remarkable woodenness of his 
 manner, and a certain solemn drawl he had, 
 were mainly responsible for the family belief 
 in his wisdom. He was the final authority on 
 family affairs.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 67 
 
 The Reverend Paul had left the house when 
 the brothers reached it. Mrs. Bushell was 
 sitting in the kitchen with a big Bible before 
 her, earnestly and beUevingly struggling after 
 comfort in the utterances of Habakkuk. There 
 are people who find Christian philosophies in 
 Solomon's Song and suck satisfaction out of 
 Ecclesiastes ; and Mrs. Bushell was of them. 
 But at this sorrowful hour, a phihppic against 
 the Chaldeans, ' that bitter and hasty nation,' 
 had little power to soothe. 
 
 ' Brother George,' she said, as that respect- 
 able person entered, ' has Joseph been a-asking 
 your advice ? ' 
 
 'Rebecker,' Brother George rephed with 
 weighty solemnity, ' far be it from me to deny 
 any thin' as is true. That's what Joe-ziph 
 come to see me for, as far as I can see.' 
 
 ' Why,' read Mrs. Bushell with her finger 
 tracking the denouncing lines in the great 
 Bible, ' why dost thou show me iniquity, and 
 cause me to behold grievance ? for spoiling and 
 violence are before me ; and there are that 
 raise up strife and contention. Therefore the
 
 68 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 law is slacked and judgment doth never go 
 forth ; for the wicked doth compass about the 
 righteous ; therefore wrong judgment pro- 
 ceedeth.' 
 
 ' Well, well, Eebecker,' said Brother George 
 with a propitiatory accent, ' boys will be boys, 
 you know, an' allays was.' 
 
 ' They wouldn't he boys if they wasn't,' said 
 old Joe, with a touch of the local humour. 
 
 ' Joseph ! ' said Mrs. Bushell warningly. 
 
 ' Becky, my gell ! ' said old Joe, leaning 
 above her chair and laying a heavy hand upon 
 her shoulder. 
 
 She felt the appeal thus conveyed, for she 
 was by nature a woman of much tenderness. 
 But she only straightened herself, and laid her 
 finger once more upon the warning text. 
 
 'There's my guide, Joseph,' she made 
 answer, when she could trust her voice, for she 
 was sore disturbed, and her ' worldly longings,' 
 as she called them, moved strongly in her 
 heart. 
 
 Old Joe moved away from the back of her 
 chair, and Brother George sat down with an air
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 69 
 
 of wisdom on him, and looked as one who is 
 prepared to proffer counsel. There was silence 
 for a time ; then Mrs. Bushell tm^ned her head 
 away and asked, 
 
 ' What do you advise, Brother George ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said Brother George, venting an 
 elaborate and prolonged wink upon old Joe, ' I 
 should advise as nothing should be done, not to 
 say precipitate.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said old Joe, nodding at his brother, 
 ' give him a day or two, an' he'll come round.' 
 
 ' Joseph,' said Mrs. Bushell, ^vith unfortunate 
 solemnity, ' if you look for any healin' of this 
 breach apart from liis repentance, you will wait 
 in vain. If you mean as I shall come round, 
 you are mistaken. In this case, Joseph, there 
 is duty to be done, an' I've spoke my last word 
 a'ready.' 
 
 Joe shook his head at Brother George 
 mournfully, and George shook his head in 
 answer. Matters were growing rather bright 
 for Brother George, and if the brightness were 
 only nebulous as yet, it might reveal things 
 pleasant to look at by-and-by. Kotwithstand-
 
 60 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ing this cheerful inward knowledge, however, 
 George looked upon his brother with a solemn 
 countenance. He would fain have appealed 
 seriously to his sister-in-law's forbearance, and 
 so have drawn from her a more emphatic and 
 forcible denial of her own desires, but he was 
 afraid of that experiment. 
 
 ' Becky,' said old Joe, being perhaps a little 
 more accessible to emotion at that moment than 
 he commonly was, ' the lad was hard put on. 
 The parson go's an' says things to him about 
 his sweetheart, an' it stands to r'ason as Joe got 
 humped at it. He axed me, Becky, afore you 
 come into the room, what I'd ha' done if any 
 mon had said things to me about yo' afore we 
 got married. It wouldn't ha' made much differ 
 to me, I think,' said old Joe, driving one great 
 hand into the palm of the other, ' who it was as 
 said it. I'd ha ' floored him, if he'd ha' killed 
 me the next minute.' 
 
 Brother George nodded gloomily in assent 
 to this, for it seemed to him an unanswerable 
 argument in young Joe's favour. But Mrs. 
 Bushell held firm.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 61 
 
 ' I've spoke my last word, Joseph. He 
 struck a minister o' God's word, in liis own 
 father's house, of a Sunday ; an' if that ain't 
 worth sayin' " I'm sorry for," I've got no more 
 to say.' 
 
 Brother George nodded again in acqui- 
 esence, for this view of the case also seemed 
 imanswerable. 
 
 ' Gi'e the lad time,' urged old Joe. 
 
 * Let him tak' his own time, Joseph,' said the 
 mother staunchly. ' When he's tired o' the husks 
 o' the Prodigal, he'll come back again. But 
 I fear he'll sup sorrow by spoonfuls i' the way.' 
 
 She left the room, and old Joe, with a 
 troubled face, set tobacco and a glass of whisky 
 before his brother. The pair sat in gloomy 
 silence for a while, when a knock came to the 
 door. Old Joe answered this summons. 
 
 ' Who's theer ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Well,' said a voice from the dark outside, 
 ' as fur as my apinium go's, it's a young feller o* 
 the name o' Bowker.' 
 
 ' Come in, WilUam,' said old Joe in a shaky 
 voice. ' What be you come for ? '
 
 62 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ' Why, your son's at the Dudley Arms/ said 
 Mr. Bowker, entering the kitchen, ' an' he's sent 
 me up here t' ax for his box. He's a-gooin' in 
 to Brummagem to-night, he says, an' on to 
 London i' the mornin'.' 
 
 ' Goo an' say a word to him, George,' said 
 the father. 'Don't let the lad go further 'n 
 Brummagem. Mak' him send word to you 
 wheer he is, when he gets theer, an' we'll tek 
 care on him. But, George, don't go to let him 
 know as I ain't angry wi' him. Mind that. 
 Do it all as if it was comin' from yourself like. 
 D'ye see ? ' 
 
 ' I see,' said Brother George. Could any- 
 thing have been designed to play better into 
 the hands of a respectable man who desired to 
 secure an advantage and was afraid of a crime ? 
 He would not in this case have even the 
 shadow of a lie upon his conscience. All that 
 was to be done was to tell the truth, and obey 
 instructions — in breaking them. Mrs. Bushell, 
 without an apology, was implacable, and her 
 husband wished to have it supposed that he 
 also was very angry. George knew very well
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 63 
 
 that his nephew would tender no apology just 
 then, and began to look complacently on the 
 promise of the future. 
 
 Young Joe sat moody and alone in the 
 smoke-room of the Dudley Arms, awaiting the 
 return of his emissary, when Uncle George 
 entered, and with a solemn aspect took a seat 
 before him. 
 
 ' This is a bad job, Joe-ziph,' said he, 
 shaking his head. ' I've heerd all about it 
 from your mother and father. I don't say as 
 you was in the wrong, not to say altogether, 
 but you know as it was a dreadful tiling to do 
 — a dreadfid thing. But look thee here, my 
 lad,' he continued, with a wooden assumption 
 of geniahty which went, howsoever unreal it 
 might be, clean to the lad's sore heart, ' blood's 
 thicker than water, an' when all's said an' done 
 you're my nevew and I'm your uncle. Now, 
 what d'ye mean to do ? They'm hard on you 
 at home, fearful hard.' 
 
 ' I shall go out and face the world,' said 
 young Joe. ' I'm not afraid ! ' 
 
 ' Of course you ain't, a fine-built young
 
 84 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 fellow like you ! It ain't likely as you would 
 be. But look here, my lad — you can't face 
 the world on nothing. Can you, now ? ' 
 
 ' I have something to begin with,^ said Joe 
 in answer. ' I am not altogether without 
 money. And then, I have a little owing to 
 me/ 
 
 'Ah, dear me. Well. I can see as you re 
 just as hot-foot as your father and mother! 
 But, come now, wheer do you think o' goin' 
 to!' 
 
 ' I'd go to America,' said young Joe, ' if I 
 only had the chance.' 
 
 ' Merriky ? ' echoed Uncle George. ' It's a 
 long way there.' 
 
 ' The longer the better,' said Joe bitterly. 
 
 ' No, no, Joseph,' said Uncle George. 
 ' Don't say that. But if you're bent on it, 
 why, I . No, no, Joseph, don't think on it.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Joe, ' I'll do it. I'll do it if I 
 work my passage out. There's room for a 
 man to move in, in America.' 
 
 'Don't you talk nonsense,' said Uncle 
 George.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 65 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' quoth young Joe, rising, and 
 feeling already the glow of a successfLil ex- 
 plorer, ' I'll show you whether or not I'm 
 talking nonsense. I tell you, sir, I'U do it, and 
 I will; 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' said Uncle George ; ' you ain't 
 going to w^ork your passage out. Not while 
 you've got a uncle as can put his hand in his 
 pocket to help you. No, no, Joseph.' 
 
 ' You're very kind, uncle,' said Joe, ' but I 
 can't accept any help from you.' And he 
 wondered ' why did I never see what a good 
 fellow Uncle George is until now ? ' 
 
 ' Wait here a bit,' said the benevolent 
 uncle, and with that arose, and left the room 
 with stagey stealth. When he returned, he 
 bore with him a sheet of letter-paper and an 
 inkstand. He sat down in silence, and wrote 
 in a slow and laboured manner. Then he pro- 
 duced a pocket-book, from which, after an 
 intricate search, he drew a crumpled receipt- 
 stamp. Gazing hard at Joe, he moistened this 
 with his tongue, affixed it to the paper, and 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 then, squaring his elbows, he set his head down 
 sideways to the table, and laboriously signed 
 the document. Joe watched him, not knowing 
 what all this might mean, until the sheet, care- 
 fully dried before the fire, was placed in his 
 own hands. He read it with a swift moistening 
 of the eyes, less at the gift than at the kindness 
 which dictated it. 
 
 ' Thank you, uncle,' said young Joe. ' God 
 bless you for your goodness. You are the 
 only friend I have.' 
 
 'If they knowed,' said his only friend 
 truthfully, ' as I'd helped you i' this way, 
 they'd never forgive me. But Vv^herever you 
 goo, Joseph, remember as you've got a friend 
 in me. Allays write to me, my lad ; allays 
 write to me.' 
 
 Therewith the benevolent uncle squeezed 
 his nephew's hand and left him. Young Joe 
 sat with his elbows on the table, and looked 
 with new-born afiection and gratitude after 
 him. Why had he never understood Uncle 
 George until now ?
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 67 
 
 ' A dear good fellow ! ' he said aloud in his 
 enthusiasm ; ' a most kindly, generous fellow ! ' 
 
 And with tears of gratitude hot in his eyes, 
 he folded up his uncle's cheque for a hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 p2
 
 68 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Young Joe, his heart still warmed by his 
 uncle's generosity, sat at the side of the bed in 
 his room at the Dudley Arm.s that Sunday 
 night, and surveyed the situation. Starting in 
 this well-provided way, it did not seem easy to 
 fail in the world. Practically, as everybody 
 knows, there is an end to the productive 
 powers of a hundred pounds, but, for all that, a 
 hundred pounds is a good round sum for a 
 start in the world, and young Joe saw already 
 in fancy his fortune made. 
 
 'And ril make poor little Dinah happyt 
 anyhow,' he thought. She haunted him, and 
 her memory filled him with a keen and 
 poignant remorse. ^ The poor child,' he said 
 to himself, ' must have her marriage lines.' 
 With that he unstrapped his portmanteau,
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 69 
 
 tumbled out its disorderly papers ou the carpet, 
 and set to work to search for the certificate of 
 the marriage between Joseph Bushell, bachelor, 
 and Dinah Banks, spinster. First, he made a 
 hasty and confident grope amongst the papers ; 
 next, with a little shade of perplexity on his 
 face, he took a more careful search ; and 
 finally, having separately examined every scrap, 
 turned out his pockets, unlocked his chest and 
 searched through its contents, and still met 
 with no success, he sat down on the lid of the 
 box in the midst of his tumbled l^elongings and 
 clawed his hair with vexation. 
 
 ' Confound it all ! ' said Toe. ' The thing's 
 somewhere here, I'm sure. I must look for it 
 by daylight.' With this promise by way of 
 consolation for almost certain loss, he undressed 
 and got into bed. He had but a poor night of 
 it, for Dinah's appealing face was always before 
 him, and he felt alternately base and heroic as 
 he thoucfht of his encounter ^\\\\\ the minister. 
 The candle burned down and went out, with 
 the result particularised in the Honourable Mr. 
 Sucklethumbkin's account of a pubhc execution.
 
 70 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Then the moonhght sent into the room a beam 
 which travelled very, very slowly across the 
 carpet, and rose very slowly up the fireplace, 
 and when Joe had tossed about for long ages, 
 reached the mirror, and crept along the wall, 
 and slid slowly towards the window, as its 
 brightness faded and died. Then the swallows 
 who built beneath the roof-pipes began to 
 chirrup, and the window glimmered grey. Joe 
 pulled up the blind and lighted a cigar, and 
 looked a last look on the familiar High Street : 
 a last conscious look, at least, for always when 
 Memory brought her budget of pictures to him 
 thereafter, she brought that view, with the grey 
 desolate dawnlight broadening on the closed 
 shutters of the shops, and he heard distinctly, 
 many a time, by Memory's magic, the stately 
 step of the peeler — ' the blue-robed guardian 
 of the city streets,' as a minor poet called him 
 once upon a time — ^patrolling the silent high- 
 way. 
 
 I — the present writer — have found it neces- 
 sary, for one reason or another, to face the 
 world anew so often, and under such varying
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 71 
 
 circumstances, that I liave almost worn out the 
 sensations attendant on the process. But striv- 
 ing, as a faithful chronicler should strive, to 
 project myself into young Joe's personality, I 
 succeed chiefly in calling to mind my first im- 
 pressions of that melancholy yet inspiriting 
 business. I recall the heartache and the sense 
 of freedom — the regrets for past folly and the 
 promises of amendment so devoutly sworn — the 
 dear regard for parted friends, the hope to 
 meet again, the determination to return trium- 
 phant. 
 
 All these held sway in the young fellow's 
 heart. But for Uncle George's news of the 
 attitude of father and mother, he could wilhngly 
 have gone home again to say good-bye, not 
 without hope of no good-bye being said. 
 Shame pulled him both ways, now homewards, 
 now abroad. After all, going back was out of 
 the question. He packed carefully, purposmg 
 to go once more through the papers, but when 
 he came to them he said, without being quite 
 sure of the motive which moved him, ' 111 look 
 into them on the way/ and so thrust them anew
 
 72 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 into his portmanteau, and waited drearily for 
 some sign of life in the hotel. 
 
 At the first sound of opening doors he rang 
 his bell, and demanded of Boots, who came 
 unkempt and sleepy, the time-table for London. 
 The railway had not reached the outlying 
 Black Country towns at this time, but coaches 
 ran through most of them to the great New 
 Street station in Birmingham, a marvel of art, 
 whose vast glass roof was in those days, as I 
 can just remember, an object of unfading 
 wonder to the populace. The coach would 
 start in time to catch the mid- day train, and 
 there were four hours to wait. He went down- 
 stairs and sat alone in the dismal coffee-room, 
 and being presently broken in upon by a 
 damsel in curl-papers, asked for breakfast, and 
 in an hour's time attacked with languid appetite 
 a cindery dish of eggs and bacon, and investi- 
 gated a funereal-looking Britannia metal urn 
 containing a dark-coloured semi-liquid tepid 
 concoction announced by the curl-papered 
 damsel as coffee. After this he called deject- 
 edly for his bill, ordered Boots to send on his
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 73 
 
 luggage by the coach in time for the up-train, 
 and set out to walk. His spirits rose as he 
 went along the road. Town seems m danger 
 of meeting town to-day, and some no^v alive 
 may live to see a vaster London join its 
 scattered parts in the middle of England, form- 
 ing one sohd and prodigious city. But there 
 were fair spaces of field and park about the 
 central town when Joe walked towards it, and 
 here and there a rabbit frolicked across his 
 path, and once he stood still to watch a weasel 
 shoot across the road from hedge to hedge, 
 where a grey rabbit had run a second before. 
 ' The mellow ousel fluted in the elm,' colts 
 pushed their inquiring heads over the gates 
 which held them from the road, the sun shone 
 clear, the wind blew warm. Joe meant no 
 wrong to any human creature. Why should 
 trouble weigh upon him ? He pegged on, with 
 snatches of song on his mind, and high resolve 
 in his heart. There was gold in California. 
 Jim Brooks, the High Street tailor's son, had 
 found a nugget weighing two hundred ounces. 
 Gold-digging was the readiest way to wealth
 
 74 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 the world had seen, and many a man had 
 prospered at it — Why not he ? The great 
 Henry EusselPs songs were in vogue, and 
 young Joe sang jolUly back to the lark and 
 throstle : — 
 
 Pull away, cheerily, 
 
 Not slow or wearily, 
 Shifting the cradle, boys, fast to and fro ; 
 
 Working your hand about, 
 
 Shifting the sand about. 
 Seeking for treasures that lie hid below. 
 
 And so on. The verse was not written in the 
 highest possible style of art, but it might be 
 interesting to know how many young fellows 
 went out of England with that doggerel in 
 their ears and on their tongues. Joe was only 
 one out of many who made it a part of the 
 Litany sung at Gold's great shrine. 
 
 He cashed Uncle George's cheque at 
 Lloyd's bank, and drew the hundred pounds in 
 sovereigns, influenced, 1 fancy, by those gold- 
 digging visions. Paper is but a poor medium 
 betAveen riches and poverty, after all. You 
 may be able to translate it into gold, but it has 
 not gold's magic, and can exert but little of
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 75 
 
 gold's charm. I am nothing of a money-lover, 
 but I do yet care somewhat for the roimd rmg 
 of minted cfold, and find a something sibilant in 
 the rustle of bank paper, as though that rustle 
 whispered, ' Soon shall I fly.' With the hard 
 gold in a lump in his inner breast-pocket, tied 
 in a chamois leather bag, Joe wandered down 
 to the station and awaited the arrival of the 
 coach. By some accident, for the days were 
 leisurely, and people gave themselves plenty of 
 time for most things, the sound of Old Tom's 
 horn came tootling into New Street a quarter 
 of an hour beyond its usual time, and the train 
 was already puffing to be gone. Joe had 
 secured his ticket, and now fell upon his 
 luggage, called a porter, impetuously bade him 
 get these things into the London train, saw 
 them hurriedly labelled, took his seat just in 
 time, and was swallowed up by the darkness 
 of the tunnel before he had looked round 
 him to observe his fellow -passengers. Light, 
 breaking in anew, revealed the florid counten- 
 ance of Mr. Sydney Cheston, who held out his 
 hand with a loud greeting. Joe took it, a
 
 76 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 little shamefacedly, but his friend was deter- 
 mined to make light of the affair of the pre- 
 vious day, and was even ostentatiously hearty. 
 At Coventry they were left alone, and, having 
 bribed the guard with half-a-crown (after the 
 manner of young British gentlemen before 
 Brinsley Sheridan's grandson gave us the good 
 gift of smoking-carriages), they began to 
 smoke at a great rate ; and it befell that in the 
 course of the journey Joe opened his heart, 
 and, having first apologised once more, went 
 on ; — 
 
 ' I'm in a deuce of a mess, old fellow. To 
 tell the truth, I was in a wretched bad temper 
 all day yesterday, or I should never have be- 
 haved as I did to you ' 
 
 ' Don't say a word about it,' Cheston said ; 
 ' I didn't mean to hurt you, but it was my 
 fault.' , 
 
 Then the young men shook hands, and Joe 
 went on again : — 
 
 ' When I got home there was a parson 
 there. He's not a bad fellow for a parson, and 
 I'm very sorry for what happened, but I was
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 77 
 
 ia an infernal temper, and lie insulted me, and 
 was horribly trying and annoying, and all that 
 sort of thing ; and, gad, sir, I knocked him 
 down !' 
 
 Cheston stared hard at Joe and burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 ' What a fire-eater you are, Bushell,' said 
 he. ' Excommunication, you know. That 
 sort of thing.' 
 
 ' He was a Nonconformist parson,' said Joe 
 guiltily, ' and really, in cold blood, I've a great 
 deal of respect for him.' 
 
 The irreverent Cheston screamed with 
 laughter, and by-and-by asked breathlessly : 
 
 'You must have had a row about 
 it?' 
 
 ' A row ! ' said Joe ruefully. ' My mother 
 told me either to apologise or leave the house 
 and never go back again. I couldn't apolo- 
 gise. It was impossible.' 
 
 'Especially under compulsion,' said Ches- 
 ton, still laughing. ' If apologies were as 
 plenty as blackberries, I wouldn't give an 
 apology under compulsion. Well ? '
 
 78 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Well,' Joe returned, ' the long and tlie 
 short of it is, I'm on the way to America.' 
 
 ' No ! ' cried Cheston. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Joe stolidly, ' I'm on the way 
 to America.' Then cheering a little, * I shall 
 try my luck on the Pacific side, amongst the 
 nuggets.' 
 
 ' By George, you know,' said Cheston, sur- 
 veying him with an eye of admiration and 
 envy, 'I should like that. What a lark it 
 would be. No,' he added sorrowfully, ' the 
 governor wouldn't listen to it. In the words 
 of Shenstone, or something like 'em — 
 
 I should like for to follow you there, 
 
 And to toil where the gold-nuggets breed ; 
 
 But papa would be ready to swear, 
 And 
 
 Hang it all ! I'm full of these momentary 
 flashes of genius. Aha ! Got him ! — 
 
 And I know that I shouldn't succeed I 
 
 Besides, my son, I haven't got the rhino. But 
 are you really going ? When ? ' 
 
 ' I'm really going, and I'm going now,' said 
 Joe. ' Now, at once.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 79 
 
 'I suppose,' said Clieston, striving pur- 
 posely to bury Joe's angry meanness of the day 
 before, ' I suppose you remember that I owe 
 you something ? Thirty odd pounds, I think 
 t is. If you'll come round with me, I'll let 
 you have it.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Joe, striving also to wipe out 
 that ugly remembrance, 'if you don't mind, 
 Cheston, I'd rather you kept it until I ask you 
 for it. I have enough to begin with, but I 
 might get hard up, and in that case it would 
 come in usefully. You be my banker, and 
 when I find myself in danger of wanting the 
 coin I'll send for it.' 
 
 ' Good,' said Cheston ; and the two began 
 to talk about Cahfornia, and told each other 
 what they knew of it — which was mostly more 
 marvellous than true. 
 
 ' But what,' asked Cheston, ' induced you 
 to come to London? Isn't Liverpool the 
 nearest way ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes,' said Joe, ' I suppose it is. 
 
 But ' there he blushed a httle, ' you see it's 
 
 altogether a little sudden for a fellow, and — and.
 
 80 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 in point of fact, I never made up my mind 
 until I started to walk into town to catch this 
 train. London is the first place a man tends 
 to, you know, and it's a sort of axle whose 
 spokes radiate to everywhere.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Cheston, with that happy-go- 
 lucky spirit which^ distinguishes the average 
 young Englishman, and perhaps helps to make 
 him what he is — the wonder of the world for 
 pluck, and dash, and enterprise — 'it doesn't 
 matter a great deal where a man goes, so long 
 as he has the right stuff in him, and sticks to 
 what he takes to.' 
 
 ' I'm not going to be beaten,' said young 
 Joe valiantly. ' Money isn't everything in the 
 world ; and if I can't get much of it, I must do 
 with little.' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' Cheston answered, ' and besides 
 that, your governor will turn up trumps 
 at the finish. You're the only son, I 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' The only child,' said Joe, with a tremor 
 on his lip. 'I mustn't stay away too long, 
 after all, for they're both getting old, and a
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 81 
 
 little bit frail, and it wouldn't be nice to come 
 back and find them gone.' 
 
 ' You must write to 'em,' Cheston answered 
 cheerfully. 
 
 The conversation languished. Young Joe's 
 heart once mere began to fail him. He had 
 fairly started now, and going back was more 
 than ever impossible until he had at least done 
 something. With little further speech they 
 came to London, and went down to the 
 luggage-van together to secure their belong- 
 ings. Cheston 's came out first. Then, after a 
 long delay, came one of Joe's properties — his 
 chest. Then, after another pause, the van was 
 cleared, and there was no sign of his port- 
 manteau. 
 
 'Must have been put out at Eugby, sir,' 
 said the porter in answer to the young man's 
 claim. 'We can send back for it. Where 
 shall we send it, sir ? ' 
 
 Joe gave his address at an hotel in Covent 
 Garden, and was driven thither in a hackney 
 coach. Cheston accompanied him. and that 
 night they dined together. In the morning 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Joe made inquiries as to the easiest and 
 quickest way to California, and learned little that 
 was likely to be of practical use to him, for he 
 had, no idea as to the right way of going about 
 the business, and wandered rather listlessly 
 about the docks, standing promiscuous treat to 
 nautical-looking men who appeared to have 
 nothing special on their hands. The best way, 
 he concluded, would be to get to New York, 
 and make a start for the gold fields thence. 
 The route to New York at least was clear. 
 Meantime, back to the hotel to see if the lost 
 portmanteau had arrived, and, in case it had, 
 to send the certificate of marriage to Dinah. 
 For it was characteristic of young Joe that, at 
 the moment at which the portmanteau was 
 known to have disappeared, he was resolved 
 that it held the certificate, though whilst it 
 remained in his possession he was most mourn- 
 fully sure it did not. 
 
 No portmanteau for him at the hotel. No 
 news of it at the railway station. No news of 
 it next day, and next day still no news. And 
 on the Thursday night the fast-sailing clipper
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 83 
 
 ship ' Orinoco ' dropped down the Thames, and 
 the portmanteau was finally left behind — and 
 with it the last hope of Dinah's peace ? Xot 
 so, young Joe inwardly declared. Cheston was 
 with him on the deck, and was prepared to go 
 as far as Greenwich, to keep heart and hope in 
 him at the start. 
 
 ' We'll have a bottle of champagne, Bushell, 
 for doch an dhorras,' says that young gentle- 
 man cheerfully. 
 
 Joe accedes, and they go below, and with 
 laughter and clinking of glasses and good 
 wishes and high hope they drink to each other. 
 
 ' And here,' cried Cheston, ' here is the 
 Eose of the Midlands, coupled with the name 
 of the gentleman who will shortly return from 
 Tom Tiddler's ground with his pockets full of 
 nuggets.' 
 
 Joe laughed, a httle constrainedly, and 
 drank, murmuring into the glass a word of 
 tenderness for Dinah. He would fain have 
 given his confidence to Cheston, but something 
 witliheld him, some fear perhaps of breaking 
 down, or some childish dread of seeming senti-
 
 84 JOSEnrS COAT. 
 
 mental, or reluctant about going at this final 
 moment. 
 
 ' You'll let me know how you get along/ 
 says Cheston ; ' and/ drawing him aside, 
 ' you'll claim the coin whenever you want it, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' All right,' Joe nodded in return. New 
 clinking of glasses, new good wishes. Wine 
 makes the heart glad and the face to shine, 
 and sets the little cords within tingling and 
 ringing to tunes tender and hopeful, mournful 
 and triumphant. On deck again, the inward 
 orchestra playing ' Good-bye, Sweetheart,' 
 ' The Emigrant's Farewell,' and ' Cheer, Boys, 
 Cheer,' in a strange laughing tearful medley. 
 Steadfast lights ashore and shifting lights afloat, 
 shining reflected on the transparent gloom of 
 the river, many a time to be recalled by fancy, 
 and looking already memorable and unlike 
 anything seen before. Greenwich and 'good- 
 bye ' — the little boat dancing shoreward into 
 darkness, the great black hulk sliding sullenly 
 down the river and towards the open sea. 
 
 And now for the first time in his life young
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 85 
 
 Joe felt alone. A man may be alone a thou- 
 sand times without feeling it, or may feel it in 
 spite of society. There are certain normal 
 conditions of nature which we do our best to 
 leave unrecognised. Silence is one, darkness 
 another, solitude a third. We make raids into 
 silence with a tremulous defiance, as a boy 
 whistles to keep his heart up when walking in 
 the dusk through a churchyard. We defy 
 darkness in the feeblest ways, and she has her 
 own in spite of us. One of these days she will 
 creep at an extinguished sun and stifle the fading 
 stars. And as for sohtude, every human soul 
 is so alone that no other can get into reach 
 of it, but we make pretence of being gregarious 
 and we foro^et our fears. These three orreat 
 negatives, silence and darkness and sohtude, 
 are the eternal background against which we 
 fantoccini disport ourselves, for Heaven knows 
 whose amusement. We huddle together to 
 forget these gruesome everlasting negatives ; 
 but when we are for a moment severed from 
 the crowd, how the knowledge of them swoops 
 down and shrivels us ! Solitude, silence, dark-
 
 86 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ness on the sea, and tlie hapless young Joe in 
 the middle of them. 
 
 He had never been at sea before, and he 
 suffered physically. The Eeverend Paul Screed 
 was avenged already, and could he have appre- 
 ciated his enemy's naiseries, he would have been 
 more than ready to forgive. Surely, thought 
 Joe, there was nothing in the world — nothing, 
 nothing, nothing — which could make it worth 
 while to endure this helpless horrible nausea, 
 this fruitless revolt of soul and body against a 
 universe suddenly grown hideous and unbear- 
 able. ' Ah, death I'd gladly welcome,' sings 
 the melodious Itahan tenor in florid declama- 
 tion to Leonora. Young Joe had no heart to 
 sing it, but he groaned it, as with heavy eyes 
 and pea-green countenance he lay in his berth 
 surrendered to misery. Only one man in a 
 hundred tastes the awful possibilities of sea- 
 sickness, but Joe was the one in the hundred 
 who sailed aboard the ' Orinoco,' and the ship's 
 look-out had sighted Kinsale Head before he 
 was better. Then he began to recover pluck 
 and appetite together, and the remainder part
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 87 
 
 of the voyage went pleasantly enough. When 
 a man has been as penitent for three or four 
 days as he had been, penitence is apt to be 
 worn a little threadbare. There is no emotion 
 which cannot be out-worn, and Joe had got 
 through his stock of repentances too speedily 
 perhaps. I knew a schoolboy whose one 
 gustatory passion was cheese. Once being 
 possessed of a spare half-crown, he bought an 
 egregious lump of Gruyere, and attacked it in 
 the sohtude of his chamber, and ate until he 
 could eat no more. He has arrived now at 
 man's estate, that schoolboy ; and his youthful 
 feast was enjoyed years and years ago, but if 
 you show him Gruyere at this day you almost 
 drive him from the table. He ate enough to 
 last him for his Hfetime. In like manner, young 
 Joe was so greedy of remorse that his four 
 days' feast of woe lasted him the voyage and 
 for some time beyond it. 
 
 He landed in due time in Xew York, and 
 before he had set foot upon American ground 
 the crushing sense of solitude had retired in 
 favoiu^ of an exhilarating feeling of independ-
 
 88 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ence. He had already been so long absent 
 from Dinah without sending her a message that 
 he felt it unworthy to write now until he had 
 begun to do something to atone for absence 
 and silence. He was a little dismayed to 
 discover that he was as far off from California, 
 practically, as ever, and that he had not money 
 enough to go there, except in the roughest and 
 meanest way. Then, people with whom he 
 talked set the chances before him in a dis- 
 couraging manner, and, in brief, his money 
 melted with surprising swiftness, and, though 
 employment was plentiful enough for those who 
 knew how to work, he knew how to do 
 nothing, and therefore got nothing to do. He 
 wrote to Cheston and to Uncle George. 
 Cheston kept his promise and sent the money 
 he owed, and that also melted. Uncle George 
 wrote a letter, which he took the precaution to 
 post in Birmingham, lest the local postmaster 
 should know the lad's address. In this epistle 
 he set forth his deep sorrow at the fact that his 
 brother and his sister-in-law were still implac- 
 able. Young Joe's resolve to emigrate —
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 89 
 
 according to Uncle George — ^had been the last 
 straw which broke the camel's back, and they 
 were now irreconcilable. The writer expressed 
 his deepest regret for young Joe's prospects, 
 but he sent no money. 
 
 Then came two or three days' semi-starva- 
 tion in New York, then an engagement as fire- 
 mender at a brick-kiln some miles outside the 
 city. This business in a rough and squalid way 
 held body and soul together, but there was no 
 chance of making a home for Dinah out of it. 
 And so Dinah was still unwritten to, and the 
 days and weeks and months went by. He had 
 new remorses, but he had his work to do and 
 his bodily discomforts to endure, and by-and- 
 by memory grew less poignant. After some 
 months he fell in with a lumber crani^er, and 
 went with him to the Dominion and lived a 
 rough backwood life, hardening his hands and 
 toughening his muscles and growing a great 
 beard. Anybody seeing him would never have 
 recognised the spruce young Midland dandy, 
 and he had almost foro^otten himself. 
 
 By this time he was ashamed and afraid to
 
 90 JOSUPH'JS COAT, 
 
 write to Dinah. He was very unhappy about 
 her often. He was very tender and sore in his 
 thoughts about her always. But he never 
 wrote, and he began to hope that she would 
 forget him, and give him up for dead, and 
 carry on her life without him. In one of his 
 rare letters to Uncle George, a couple of years 
 after leaving England, he mentioned Dinah so 
 particularly that the old fox suspected him of 
 an inclination to come back again. So he 
 wrote in answer that Dinah Banks had married, 
 and from that time forth he received no letters 
 from his nephew. This rejoiced him, for with 
 every day that passed he felt his hold upon his 
 brother's fortune surer and more sure.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 91 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 The Saracen's Head was a cheerful and com- 
 fortable hostel, proffering on its signboard good 
 accommodation for man and beast, and fulfilling 
 its promise liberally within. Sanded floor, 
 huge open fireplace blazing with an enormous 
 fire, after the generous-looking fashion of the 
 mining districts, where coal is cheap and a good 
 fire is counted first of household comforts. Big 
 bare oak beams in the ceihng, with flitches of 
 mellow bacon stuck flat across them, ripening 
 to the rasher stage ; shining onions in nets and 
 reeves, and hams in canvas jackets bearing 
 them company. Prodigiously solid tables of 
 dark oak, much battered by years of rough 
 usage and irregularly gauffred at the edges by 
 idle pocket-knives. Heavy wooden settles, 
 polished by the lounging shoulders of many
 
 92 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 generations of guests, and staunch to carry 
 generations more. The present assembly — 
 clad in thick flannel jackets, thrown open to 
 show the gaudy lining of cheap felt carpeting, 
 heavy ankle-jack boots, mostly worn unlaced, 
 with a big crumpled tongue hanging out, as 
 though the boots were thirstier than their 
 wearers, nondescript hats of felt, shaped like 
 basins and without a pretence of brim — the 
 present assembly sat smoking and drinking in 
 a quiet contentment almost bovine. It was 
 noticeable that most of the men w^ere blazoned 
 in a singular manner on the face, as if they had 
 been tattooed and the design had been half 
 obliterated. Each man so marked had felt 
 Death's hand upon his cheek once at least. 
 But that was commonplace, every-day, and in 
 the way of business, and as a general thing was 
 not much thought of. 
 
 This was the Saracen's common room, and 
 was rather out of the Saracen's own direct line 
 of observation. He swung, with inflamed 
 countenance, portentous turban, unnumbered 
 jewels, and bilious eyes, above a brighter
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 93 
 
 window round the corner, and behind the 
 brighter window lay a snugger room — a sort of 
 library of liquor, where bottles held the shelves 
 instead of books. It was a mere bandbox of a 
 room, and what with its jolly fire and crimson 
 window blind, and its glitter of glass and gilt 
 lettering, it glowed and sparkled on this wintry 
 nicrht with amazinor warmth and bricrhtness. 
 
 o o o 
 
 For the wind was howling and the Saracen was 
 pitching gustily to and fro outside, and shiiek- 
 ing rustily at the weather, and the rain beat at 
 the windows frantically at times. All tliis re- 
 doubled the inner warmth and brightness, of 
 course, and sent the inmates of the cosy room 
 closer with comfortable shiverings round the 
 fire. The inmates of the room were three in 
 number. On one side of the fire sat an old 
 woman, and on the other a young one. Be- 
 tween them an old man in a sleeved waistcoat 
 sat back in an armchair and scorched his legs 
 with an aspect of much contentment. He was 
 a fat man with a pale countenance, white hair, 
 and a well-filled rotund waistcoat. Every now 
 and then with his fat hands he caressed the
 
 94 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 rotund waistcoat as if encouraging his digestive 
 faculties, as you pat a horse when he has 
 pleased you. The old woman was ruddy and 
 neat and clean, in an old-fashioned mutch cap 
 with spotless crisp lace edges and having a 
 white silk kerchief drawn squarely over her 
 round shoulders. . The young woman was 
 pretty but wistful-looking, her face paler than 
 it should have been ; her eyes giving a kindly 
 observer warrant to believe that they were 
 more used to tears than eyes which had a right 
 to be gay by virtue of their brightness and 
 their beauty should be. 
 
 ' Daniel,' said the old lady, ' what's the 
 time ? ' 
 
 The old man stole a caressing hand across 
 the rotundity of his figure and pulled out a fat, 
 pale watch. ' It's nearhand on ten.' 
 
 'Tinje them chaps was goin', then,' said the 
 old lady. 
 
 * Ah ! ' said the old man assentingly, ' I 
 suppose it is, missis. I suppose it is.' He 
 drew his legs from the fire, and stroked them 
 persuasively, as who should say 'Will you carry
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 95 
 
 me ? ' The legs apparently declined, for the 
 feet went back to the fender, and tlieir owner's 
 hands once more offered a silent recognition of 
 the efforts made by his digestive organs. A 
 long-drawn sigh seemed to admit that they 
 were overworked, and that he had no wish to 
 hurry them. 
 
 'I do declare, our Daniel,' said his ^^ife 
 placidly, ' you're gettin' lazier every day.' 
 
 ' Very hke, missis,' assented Daniel, ' very 
 like. A mon do't get no suppler at my time 
 o' life.' 
 
 ' I'm ashamed on you, Daniel,' said the 
 wife, half vexed, half laughing. ' Dinah, hght 
 your father's candle, an' send him to bed.' 
 The girl rose to obey. The old woman, laymg 
 down the knitting which had hitherto occupied 
 her plump white fingers, set her hands upon 
 the elbows of her armchair and made a motion 
 to rise. By that time the struggle between the 
 smile and the frown was over and the smile 
 had won. Her placid and good-humoured 
 gaze followed her daughter's languid motion 
 across the room, when suddenly her hands
 
 96 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 relaxed their hold upon the elbows of the chair 
 and she sank back with a look in which terror 
 and suspicion were singularly blended. The 
 girl reached a candlestick from the mantel- 
 piece, crossed the room for a spill of paper, 
 returned, lighted the candle and set it in 
 the old man's hand. Then stooping over him 
 she kissed his cheek, and sat down in 
 her corner. The mother arose and left 
 the room. A moment later her voice was 
 heard. 
 
 ' Now, Willy-um, your mother '11 be a sittin' 
 up for you. George Bethell, you ought to ha' 
 been abed an hour ago. Tummas, you're on 
 the night shift, I know, an' it's time as you was 
 gone.' 
 
 ' Let's have another half-gallint, mother,' 
 pleaded one solemn roysterer gruffly. 'It'll 
 on'y be a half-a-pint all round.' 
 
 ' Not another drop o' drink'll be drawed i' 
 this- house this night,' returned the old lady 
 with unusual acidity of tone. 
 
 'Missis,' responded the young man first 
 addressed, 'yo' mote [must not] send Turn
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 97 
 
 whum sober. His ode woman ain't used to it. 
 Her'll have a fit, or summat.' 
 
 * Haw, haw, haw ! ' from the assemblage. 
 The old lady turned upon the wag with solemn 
 anger. 
 
 ' Willy-um Bowker,' she said, ' you'm worse 
 than any on 'em, an' to be so young too. It's 
 known far an' wide as nobody ever got drink 
 to mek him unsteady at the Saracen's Head, 
 neither Tummas Howl nor no man.' 
 
 ' Missis,' said the wag with instant propitia- 
 tion in his tone, ' it een't like yo to turn rusty 
 at a joke. But we gone away dry to-night 
 i'stead o' drunk, an' for my part I likin' to be 
 about half-way.' A murmur of general ap- 
 proval greeted this statement, and every man 
 seemed to be in favour of t]ie golden mean. 
 But the old lady was inexorable. 
 
 ' Drunk or dry,' she said with much acerbity 
 and decision, ' you'll go as you are.' 
 
 ' Come on, chaps,' said Mi\ Bowker, who as 
 yet was beardless. ' Her's as good as a mother 
 to all on us, an' what her says her sticks to. 
 " Good-night, missis, and no offence," as 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 98 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Turn said to the windmill last time he fell 
 agen it.' 
 
 ' Good-night, missis,' said each grave roy- 
 sterer as he passed her. She answered each by 
 name. 'Good-night, 'Minadab. Good-night, 
 Ebenezer. Good-night, Meshach.' And so on 
 through a list of the quaintest names, until the 
 last had tramped up the sanded passage and 
 had turned out into the rain. She blew out 
 the candles, bolted the door behind the retiring 
 guests, and returned to the smaller room. The 
 old man had gone upstairs, and the girl was 
 preparing to follow. The staircase, with steps 
 of. well-scoured white-sanded wood, opened 
 into this snug little room, and the mother, 
 closing the door, stood with her shoulders 
 against it regarding Dinah. The girl looked at 
 her meekly, but with an air a little startled. 
 
 ' Our Dinah,' said the mother, ' I want to 
 speak to you. You'd better sit down.' The 
 girl obeyed. ' There's somethin' the matter wi' 
 you. What is it ? ' 
 
 'There's nothing the matter with m<?, 
 mother,' answered Dinah wearily
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 99 
 
 ' My gell,' said Mrs. Banks advancing, and 
 bending towards lier witli an anxious, tremidous 
 severity, ' you can't deceive me. There's some- 
 thin' the matter.' 
 
 ' No,' said Dinah, looking puzzled ; ' I'm a 
 bit dull. That's aU.' 
 
 ' Dinah, you can't deceive an old experienced 
 woman. There's somethin' the matter with 
 you, and somethin' very dreadful. Tell me 
 this minute what it is.' 
 
 'Oh, mother,' said Dinah, in an agitated 
 whisper, ' am I going to die ? ' 
 
 ' It'd a'most be better if you was,' said the 
 mother. Dinah's face was white, and her eyes 
 were wide open with fear, but at this she 
 flushed suddenly, and shrank and cowered, 
 with her arms drawn across her face. Her 
 very ears and neck were red and white by 
 turns, as she bent down. 
 
 ' Is it that ? ' she sobbed ; ' oh, is it that ? ' 
 
 '^Dinah ! Dinah ! you wicked gell,' said her 
 mother. * Tell me who it is ! ' Dinah bent 
 lower and lower, and drew herself away as 
 any defenceless thing draws back into itself at 
 
 n 2
 
 100 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 the toucli of an intruding finger. Her mother 
 seized one of her hands, and strove to draw it 
 from her face, but Dinah held her head down 
 so resokitely, and drew her arms so tightly 
 towards herself, that the old woman was j)ower- 
 less to efiect her purpose. ' Tell me who it is ! ' 
 she repeated severely, relinquishing her hand. 
 'Is it young Joe Bushell — as has broke his 
 father's and mother's heart, and made a huzzy 
 o' you as well ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, mother,' cried Dinah, dropping 
 suddenly upon her knees, and seizing the old 
 woman by both hands, * we were married at 
 Waston Church last Whitsuntide.' Dinah's 
 mother dropped down upon her knees and 
 faced the girl. * . 
 
 ' You was married ? At Whitsuntide ? 
 You an' young Joe Bushell ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried the girl, and suddenly releasing 
 her mother's hands, she fell forward upon the 
 floor, and hiding her face again, cried passion- 
 ately. The elder woman fell forward also, and 
 clipping her by the waist, strove to lift her.
 
 'lie 7i.<cre }}iarru\l last \l Jntsuntide.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 101 
 
 but again Dinah would not move. So they 
 knelt there and mingled their tears. 
 
 'Dinah,' said the mother, whispering, 'it 
 never crossed my mind till to-night when you 
 got up to get your father's candle, an' then it 
 come to me at a run. But, Dinah, I'm sorry 
 for you, an' you'll have a bad time wi' your 
 father an' the neighbours. Oh, you poor silly 
 gell not to tell me as you w^as married ! An* 
 now he's gone, the Lord alone knows wheer.' 
 
 ' He'll come back again,' sobbed Dinah. ' If 
 he's alive, he'll come back again.' 
 
 ' Haven't you heerd on him, neither ? * asked 
 her mother in surprise and fear. 
 
 ' No,' wept Dinah, ' never since the day he 
 went away. Oh, mother, do you think he's 
 dead ? They say he's gone to America, an' he 
 might ha' been drowned at sea, or anything. 
 Oh, I can't think as if he'd been alive he'd ha' 
 left like this. And he promised to send my 
 lines an' aU, an' I've never heard a word.' 
 
 ' Dinah,' said the mother in a horror-stricken 
 whisper, ' haven't you got your lines ? '
 
 102 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' No,' answered Dinah, still weeping. ' He 
 promised to send 'em tlie day lie went away.' 
 
 Then the mother lifted up her voice and 
 wept aloud. 
 
 'Dinah, you're a ruined gell, and I'm a 
 miserable, disgraced old woman ! ' 
 
 The immortal Doctor Marigold remarks 
 that in his father's days 'registration hadn't 
 come up much.' So far as the knowledge of 
 poor Dinah and her mother went, registration 
 had not come up at all. To this very day, in 
 that part of England in which they lived, there 
 are women who believe that the possession of 
 their ' marriage lines ' is the only surety of 
 their own honour. To lose their ' lines,' in the 
 belief of those simple souls, would be to invali- 
 date the marriage ceremony, and to make their 
 children illegitimate. Nor is this curious super- 
 stition confined to the downright ignorant 
 classes, as you might fancy. Fairly well-to-do 
 people, who can read the newspaper w^ithout 
 spelling the hard words at all, and who would 
 with righteous anger resent the imputation of
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 103 
 
 ignorance, still stick to the belief. Thirty years 
 ago it was probably general. 
 
 Mrs. Banks, landlady of the Saracen's Head, 
 was not by nature an imaginative or an in- 
 ventive woman. Unless you choose to call 
 the immortal allegories of Bunyan by that 
 name, she had never read a romance in her 
 Hfe. Nowadays Mr. Wilkie Collins is to the 
 fore to help anybody to an elaborate plot upon 
 emergency, and there is, indeed, scarcely a 
 condition of hfe imaginable upon which modern 
 fiction could not throw a light more or less 
 direct and helpful. But feminine human natiu-e 
 existed on much the same lines as now before 
 the popular novelist came into being. Necessity 
 is the mother of invention, and here if any- 
 where in the world was a necessity of the 
 sternest sort. At any risk, the family reputa- 
 tion must be saved : at any risk short of crime. 
 It would be surely the very whitest of white 
 lies if the mother could acknowledge her 
 daughter's child as her own, and could thereby 
 save her daughter's reputation. In any case.
 
 104 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 the material cost of the child's maintenance 
 would fall upon the Saracen, and his shoulders 
 were broad enough to bear without tremor a 
 score of such burdens. Dinah was the only 
 child of her parents, and if she shared in the 
 deceit she could rob nobody. So the old 
 woman mellowed her plan, and slowly turned 
 it over, and then laid it before Dinah. 
 
 ' Dinah, my dear, we're in a peck o' trouble, 
 and we shall ha' to get weselves out on it as 
 best we can. It 'ud break thy father's heart to 
 know it, and it mustn't be let get to his hearin' 
 at all.' 
 
 ' How can we help it ? ' asked Dinah, forlorn 
 and pale. 
 
 The old lady revealed her plan in a 
 sentence. 
 
 * He must be made to think as the child's 
 mine.' Dinah quivered at this. One of those 
 amazing and mysterious instincts which make 
 mothers what they are, awoke in her, and she 
 felt as if her unborn baby were being stolen from 
 her. The mother saw this and understood it, 
 being a mother. ' By yourself it'll be all your
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 105 
 
 ov;n. I must tell Daniel as I expect it. He'll 
 be sore amazed, I doubt, but you must get away 
 into the country when the time's comin', an' I 
 must come to see you. Then you'll ha' to write 
 to your father an' say as I'm took ill, an' can't 
 come back again. Then, when it's all o'er, we 
 can come back together, an' nobody '11 think 
 any thin' about it.' 
 
 From the first moment of Dinah's proclam- 
 ation of the truth, there had been no shadow 
 of doubt in the mother's mind. She beheved 
 the story unreservedly, and when Dinah told it 
 in full, setting forth the errant young Joe's 
 reasons for concealment, she, though her anger 
 burned against the runaway, forgave her 
 daughter the folly of which she had been 
 guilty. 
 
 The winter wore away, and through it all 
 Dinah was kept almost a prisoner. Daniel was 
 not often curious about her, but when he was 
 his wife was equal to the occasion, and satisfied 
 him easily. What should make him believe that 
 a plot like the beginning of a melodrama was 
 going on at the Saracen's Head ? The spring
 
 106 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 began to hint that it was coming, and the time 
 drew near. 
 
 ' Our Daniel,' said Mrs. Banks to her 
 husband, * our Dinah is looking a bit delicate, 
 don't you fancy ? ' 
 
 Daniel was a good husband, and agreed with 
 his wife in all things. He had had five-and- 
 twenty years of married life, and found that a 
 policy of general acquiescence kept things 
 smooth. 
 
 ' Is her ? ' said Daniel. ' Well, I thought 
 I'd noticed it myself.' 
 
 ' I think o' sendin' her to Wardenb'ry,' said 
 Mrs. Banks, ' for change of air, like. What do 
 you say, Daniel ? ' 
 
 ' Very well, missis,' said that easy man. ' It'll 
 do her a bit of good, mayhap, poor wench ! ' 
 
 ' Mayhap it will, Daniel,' said Mrs. Banks. 
 ' We'll go to-morrow.' 
 
 I Daniel was somewhat taken aback by this 
 precipitancy. Commonly at the Saracen's Head 
 a thing was mentioned, discussed, put by, 
 mentioned and discussed again, and put into 
 action long after in less sleepy places it would
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 107 
 
 have been forgotten. He offered no opposition. 
 He was accustomed to philosophise about women 
 in his own way. ' A woman,' he had been 
 known to say, ' is hke a pig. Her'll nayther 
 be led nor drove, an' it's as tryin' to a mon to 
 do one as it is to do the t'other.' So, as a 
 rule, Daniel said nothing, but encouraged his 
 digestive apparatus by patting his waistcoat, and 
 let things take their course. 
 
 Wardenbiuy was thirty miles off, and Daniel 
 knew it vaguely as being Coventry way. Mrs. 
 Banks had relatives there, and in the long 
 course of her married life had paid it two or 
 three visits. Daniel used to speak of himself as 
 being ' no great hands of a traveller.' He had 
 been born at the Saracen's Head, and had never 
 been farther away than Birmingham. But 
 though he was no traveller, and might, had he 
 been a demonstrative man, have run a risk of 
 seeming hen-pecked, he had his feelings as a 
 husband. 
 
 ' Mother,' he advised, ' I shouldn't go to 
 Wardenb'ry yet, if I was you. Think o' your 
 condition.'
 
 308 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Think o' your own condition, y'ode timber- 
 head ! ' returned his wife, ' an' leave me to 
 think o' mine.' 
 
 ' Well, think on it,' said Daniel. Mrs. 
 Banks bustled away to tell Dinah that matters 
 were arranged, and to help her to prepare for 
 the journey. The landlord of the Saracen was 
 not in the least degree offended by his wife's 
 outspokenness. Had she even called upon him 
 to confirm her criticism he would probably have 
 done it. 
 
 The morrow came, and Dinah was smug- 
 gled into the tra]3 in the back yard. The 
 mother followed. A shock-headed stable-boy 
 called Jabez drove the pair to the railway 
 station, and returned alone. Next morning 
 €ame a letter to Daniel stating that Mrs. Banks 
 would spend a day or two at Wardenbury. 
 
 ' I knowed how it 'ud be,' said Daniel. 
 ^ Once let 'em goo a-gaddin' about, an' thee 
 may'st whistle for 'em afore they comin' back 
 again.' He had not the remotest suspicion. 
 He had never read anything more romantic 
 than an invoice for wines and spirits, and he
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 109 
 
 had never seen a play. Even if he had, why 
 should he suspect his wife and daughter ? The 
 day or two lengthened into a week, and then 
 came the news that he was again a father. 
 His old age was blessed with a son. He took 
 an extra glass or two on the strength of it, and 
 went about with an air of proprietorial gravity, 
 crossed at times by an involuntary smile. To- 
 wards evening the neighbours dropped in as 
 usual. Daniel imparted the news and was con- 
 gratulated. He sat in his big armchair with 
 his hands resting on the crook of a thick walk- 
 ing-stick and his elbows squared, and looked as 
 if he thought that he deserved the congratula- 
 tions and had earned the applause of the 
 w^orld. There was an air upon him as of one 
 who might boast if he would, but woidd not. 
 The httle snuggery was rather better filled than 
 common that evening, and the health of the 
 son and heir was diamk pretty frequently. 
 Daniel could do notliing less than join. Liquor 
 took little effect upon him : he was accustomed 
 to it, and his inner man was toughened to its 
 assaults. It floated his smile to the surface a
 
 110 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 little oftener, that was all. But when closing 
 time came, and he was left alone, he gave vent 
 to his joy and trimnph. He struck his stick 
 upon the floor with both hands and arose ; and 
 laughed long and loud. 
 
 ' Ha, ha, ha ! ' cried Daniel, shaking and 
 beaming ; ' theer's life in th' ode dog yit.' 
 
 That night shock-headed Jabez had to 
 guide the landlord upstairs, but on the morrow 
 the old man had accepted the position of afiairs, 
 and awaited the arrival of the infant and his 
 mother with an approach to phlegm. He had 
 never received many letters, and had never had 
 occasion to write many. The lack of corre- 
 spondence did not affect him. Dinah wrote 
 once or twice, but that was all, and mother 
 and daughter came back with the infant, after 
 little more than a month from the date of their 
 departure. Dinah^s restoration to health seemed 
 little less than miraculous. Her languid heavy 
 step was changed for one light and full of 
 energy. Her face beamed and bloomed once 
 more, and there was no trace of grief in her 
 eyes. And surely never was sister so passion-
 
 JOSEPHS COAT. Ill 
 
 ately devoted to a late-born brother who came 
 to step in between herself and wealth. For 
 old Daniel — who, in a quiet way, was very 
 well-to-do — made no secret of his intent to 
 leave everything — or nearly everything — to the 
 young stranger. He was ludicrously proud of 
 the baby, and used to rock him in his cradle 
 or watch him as he yelled and fought against 
 milk-warm water and soap, or crowed, in 
 better moods, for kisses in his elder sister's lap. 
 Dinah never allowed him to crow in vain. The 
 old man was amazed sometimes by the almost 
 savage fervour of the kisses with which she mum- 
 bhngly devoured the little pink body and the 
 podgy httle face and hands. Mrs. Banks and 
 her daughter between them attended to the 
 infant's wants with amazing ardour, and some- 
 times almost quarrelled for the possession of 
 him. 
 
 Once Daniel overheard a colloquy between 
 them. 
 
 ' Dinah,' said her mother, in a half-cross, 
 half-appealing tone, ' you might let me nurse 
 the babby now an' then.'
 
 112 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' He's mine,' said Dinah defiantly. 
 
 ' Why, Dinah,' cried Mrs. Banks, seeing the 
 old man looking in at the door, ' a body might 
 think as you was the mother as bore him. 
 Give me the child, I tell thee.' A meaning look 
 passed between them. Dinah miderstood, and 
 surrendered little George. But scarcely a day 
 passed in which she was not in danger of be- 
 traying herself. She would sit for hours and 
 hours poring over the little red snub-nosed 
 baby face, reading a likeness to the absent Joe 
 in features where your eye or mine could have 
 discovered no atom of resemblance, and where 
 she found one clearer than the truest photo- 
 graph the sun ever made. It was curious and 
 yet natural how the presence of the child 
 atoned for the absence of the father. And 
 yet there was a terrible cruelty in it. The 
 child would never learn to call her * Mother.'
 
 JOSEPH\S COAT. 113 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 When Eebecca Bushell took her ultimatum 
 to young Joe, then packing up for departure in 
 his bedroom, she saw, lying upon the bed. an 
 old light overcoat, with its pockets turned 
 inside out. In those pockets Joe had made a 
 hasty search for the certificate, and, not finding 
 it, had cast the coat aside. The mother 
 walked into the son's empty room next morn- 
 ing. It was just as he had left it the night 
 before. All the drawers had been taken 
 bodily from the chest, and were stacked 
 disorderly on each other beside it. The mother, 
 by matronly instiact, began to abolish disorder, 
 crying silently the while. Then wiping her 
 eyes with her apron and looking round to see 
 if all were straight, she noticed the light over- 
 'coat thrown across the bed. With native tidi- 
 
 TOL. I. I
 
 114 JOSEPirs COAT. 
 
 ness she took up tlie coat and straightened it, 
 and observing a rent in one of the pockets, 
 drew out a housewife and sat upon the bed to 
 repair that shght mischief; folding the coat 
 carefully, she placed it in one of the drawers, 
 smoothed the pillows, adjusted the hangings of 
 the bed, and left the room. 
 
 This empty chamber became sacred to 
 motherly prayers and tears thereafter, when 
 many heavy months had gone by, and young 
 Joe's silence had not been broken. Many a 
 time she knelt there and followed him into she 
 knew not what of danger and temptation, and 
 many a time she opened the drawer to look at 
 the coat, which was the only relic her only 
 child had left her. By mutual consent of 
 sorrow, husband and wife spoke httle of the 
 absent son ; but old Joe would yet break out 
 at times, with a shake of his head : — 
 ' Becky, you was too hard on the lad.' 
 ' Joseph,' Eebecca would answer, ' he that 
 spareth the rod hateth his son, but he that 
 loveth him chastiseth him betimes.' 
 
 ' Yes,' old Joe would say in return, ' that's
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 115 
 
 well enough, but you was too haixl on the 
 lad.' 
 
 So Eebecca bore alike her own burden 
 and a load which was not hers. She had but 
 one way with all her troubles — to cast them on 
 the hands of that vast, vague, cruel, unfatherly 
 Fatherhood who was the refuge of His chosen, 
 and the scourge and overwhelming terror of all 
 others. She went into her son's room, and 
 there knelt down, and poured out her soul in 
 silent tears ; and after a while, seeing how she 
 grieved, old Joe troubled her no more. 
 
 The Eeverend Paul Screed was less reti- 
 cent. 
 
 ' It is ordained,' he would say, ' that the 
 saints shall be troubled, lest they become too 
 much absorbed by the world ; ' and by a thou- 
 sand platitudes of the sort he strove to console 
 the inconsolable, probing a wound which could 
 only heal by rest. The Eeverend Paul was a 
 good man, and tried hoiurly to be better than 
 he was, but he had no touch of tact in all his 
 clumsy nature. I looked up to him in my 
 youth, and I respect his memory now, but I
 
 116 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 could find it in my heart to wisli him and his 
 kind an island to themselves, where they should 
 vex none out of their own communion. Yet, 
 within six months of the day on which young 
 Joe departed from his native town, the minister 
 did as noble a thing as lay within him to do. 
 He sat once more at meat with old Joe and 
 his wife, and dinner being over, the minister 
 cleared his voice with a sorrowful ' Ahem,' and 
 addressed his host and hostess. 
 
 ' Mr. Bushell and Madam,' he said, with a 
 certain stiff formality which perhaps was the 
 only manner which left speech possible to him, 
 ' it is part of our mortal burden to reflect that 
 we have laid it chiefly upon ourselves. One 
 part of my burden is that I helped to bring a 
 heavy and an undeserved trouble upon people 
 whom I value, and people who have borne my 
 injury without an angry word. Even whilst I 
 thought I was doing my duty as a minister of 
 the Word, I was but revenging myself for 
 certain shghts and thoughtless witticisms which 
 your now errant son had vented upon me. I 
 spoke in anger and in bitterness, and I spoke,
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 117 
 
 as I have since had reason to beheve, on no 
 sufficient grounds. And it has been borne in 
 upon me, my friends, that although it is un- 
 happily beyond my power to undo the wrong I 
 did, it is still my duty to confess it humbly 
 before you, and to beg yom- Christian forgive- 
 ness. I have long since forgiven the blow ^vith 
 which yoiu" son retaliated upon my sour imper- 
 tinences. I trust that he has forgiven me 
 my part. I confess my wrong-doing, and 
 I ask, humbly and witli deep sorrow, for your 
 pardon.' 
 
 Mrs. Bushell had never been so near dis- 
 liking the Eeverend Paul as she was at that 
 minute, for she had long since formed her 
 judgment and forgiven, and this appeal set the 
 old wound aching. 
 
 ' Parson,' said old Joe, ' say no more about 
 it. There was faults all round.' 
 
 ' Ah, Joseph,' said Mrs. Bushell with tears 
 in her eyes, * it's too late now, but I should 
 have been a glad woman at this minute if you'd 
 said me nay when I was that cruel to poor 
 Joe.'
 
 118 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' I'm master i' this house,' said old Joe, 
 ' and what I ought to ha' done would ha' been 
 to ha' gi'en him a lickin' theer an' then, an' 
 said no more about it.' 
 
 When they had time to think about it, 
 husband and wife respected the minister the 
 more for his candid and manly confession, but 
 neither that nor any other reparation could 
 bring back young Joe, who now began to live 
 in the regard of those three with something of 
 the martyr's halo about him. The neighbour- 
 hood knew the story, of course, and the neigh- 
 bours put their own constructions upon it. 
 Those who went to Ebenezer Chapel, in which 
 edifice the Eeverend Paul habitually discoursed, 
 held with their pastor. Those who went to 
 Church, and those who went nowhere — the vast 
 majority — held for the most part with young 
 Joe, and made a hero of him as well as a 
 martyr. Had the young fellow returned with- 
 in any reasonable time after his escapade, he 
 would have been encountered by precisely that 
 kind of qualified laudation with which it is now 
 the practice of this enlightened and steadfast
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 119 
 
 country to greet its home-returning warriors or 
 colonial governors. 
 
 In those days of decent poverty when she 
 first gave her hand to old Joe, and set up 
 housekeeping with him, Eebecca had mastered 
 the practice of all virtues of industry, and even 
 in later years, when her husband became 
 wealthy beyond the wildest and most extrava- 
 gant hopes of his class, and when she might 
 have surrounded herself with an army of 
 servants had she chosen it, she still performed 
 all but the roug^hest work of the household 
 with her own hands. I hke to think of the 
 erect, personable woman in her afternoon black 
 silk, looking, as she sat in state in the little 
 parlour, almost too lofty for approach. At 
 such times, when the scrubbing, scouring, and 
 dusting, the washing, baking, mending, cooking 
 — whatever may have been the business of the 
 day — was done with, she would sit there above 
 her big Bible or the ' Holy War,' in which 
 volume, as I remember, she took an especial 
 and unique delight, and would resign herself 
 to a stern and stately meditation on holy things.
 
 120 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 Whilst young Joe was with her he vexed her 
 often, and her heart ached with fear for his 
 future many a time. But now that he was 
 gone and gave no sign, these daylight vigils 
 became a prolonged and prayerful pain to the 
 mother's heart. Old Joe, who had no taste for 
 parlours, would sit and smoke gloomily and 
 alone beside the kitchen fire. He too had his 
 dreary vigils, troubled, certainly, by no such 
 spiritual agonies as his wife endured, but un- 
 lighted by those flashes of pious hope which 
 sometimes illiuiiined her spirit. Novv and then 
 Brother George would look in, and, wooden as 
 he was, some qualms of conscience touched 
 him, beholding the desolation he had helped to 
 bring about. I do not wish, as I have inti- 
 mated, to paint George in the darkest sort of 
 colours. He had not enough of virtuous in- 
 stinct to be a villain. There was nothing in him 
 for himself to sin against. 
 
 ' It's the best thing in the world as could 
 happen to him.' Thus George meditated re- 
 specting young Joe. It is the mean man's 
 tribute to honour, the rogue's admission of the
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 121 
 
 beauty of justice, that he cares to justify him- 
 self in his own mind. ' It'll make a man of 
 him, an' he'll have me to thank for it. It's a 
 precious poor chance I've got o' seein' that 
 hunderd pound again. Eh dear, but I allays 
 was a fool wi' my money.' Thus he held his 
 head in the sand, and persuaded himself that 
 his conscience did not see him — an attitude 
 more common than the superficial student 
 might suppose. 
 
 It became more and more evident, as time 
 went on, that old Joe and Eebecca his wife 
 were breaking. Trouble told upon the woman 
 earlier than upon the man, for though she bore 
 it better, she suffered more intensely. She fell 
 into languor. The household work, once gone 
 through with such swift bustle, had to be com- 
 mitted to a stranger's charge ; she spent more 
 of her time in her bedroom, and old Joe sat, 
 feeling loneher than ever, by the kitchen fire. 
 
 Eebecca, though few people guessed it, had 
 always been strongly attracted to young people. 
 That young people were not attracted to her was 
 natural enough, perhaps, though she felt it to
 
 122 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 be hard. But now, in this time of her distress, 
 Dinah Banks became her chief comfort. The 
 clumsy servant wench, though animated by the 
 best intentions, was a poor attendant in a sick 
 room. A hippopotamus in clogs might have 
 gone about as lightly, and she had one or two 
 special faculties in the way of tumbling over 
 fire-irons, dropping dishes and the like, which 
 were aggravated into supernatural exercise by 
 her own desire to go about the sick-chamber 
 silently. Dinah, light-footed and soft-handed, 
 was a welcome relief to the sufferer's nerves. 
 The more Dinah came, the more Mrs. Bushell 
 cared to have her there, and the better Dinah 
 loved to wait upon her. 
 
 The thing which drew Dinah there was 
 the hope that she might hear something of 
 her husband. No news came, but at last, 
 on the anniversary of the day of his depar- 
 ture, Mrs. Bushell for the first time spoke of 
 him. 
 
 ' It's a year to-day,' she said, ' since my 
 poor lad went away.' 
 
 Dinah, whose mind was full of the remem-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 123 
 
 brance of the day (for women are your true 
 keepers of anniversaries, and have other saints' 
 days than are sat down in the calendar), 
 trembled and turned pale at these simple 
 words. Eebecca, lying with her eyes closed, 
 and her thin hands folded below her chin, went 
 on ; — 
 
 ' We're short-sighted creatures, and there's 
 only one thing as we can be sure of, Dinah. 
 It's all in the Lord's hands.' 
 
 Then she lay quiet for a while, and Dinah 
 quivered beside her. For not Joe's desertion 
 of her, nor the failure of his promise, nor the 
 danger of disgrace, nor the fact that fate had 
 stolen her child fi'om her, had weaned her 
 heart from young Joe. She would believe no 
 ill of him, but dreaded to hear of terrible 
 mischiefs which had happened to him. 
 
 ' And now,' said the old woman again, ' I 
 shan't be here long, and perhaps I vshall know 
 more about it where I'm goin' to.' 
 
 ' No,' said Dinah, laying a timid hand upon 
 Eebecca's brow, 'you must wait long enough 
 to see him come back again. He can't have
 
 124 JOSEPJrS COAT. 
 
 the heart to stay away for good, if he's ahve/ 
 and at that Dinah broke out crying. 
 
 Kebecca opened her eyes, and her hands 
 parted. 
 
 'Dinah, my poor gell!' was all she 
 said. 
 
 And Dinah, pierced by a sudden revelation 
 of instinct, read the stately heart of the rigid 
 old Calvinist aright and knew its tenderness. 
 She leaned over the bed, and laid her face 
 softly in Kebecca's bosom, and the old woman 
 and the young one cried together. 
 
 'I always knowed,' said Eebecca, gliding 
 back into the broadest accent of her childhood, 
 ' as you loved him, an' I know as he loved you. 
 An' he wasn't a bad lad at bottom, Dinah, 
 an' he never meant no harm ; an' it was my 
 cruel ways as made him angry wi' rehgion.' The 
 old woman's tears flowed freely, but she w^ent 
 on with no break in her voice. 'Yo' seek 
 help where help is to be got. Yo'll see him 
 come back again some day, Dinah, an' yo' 
 must tell him as whatever he did as was wrong 
 his mother forgive him afore her died, an'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 125 
 
 whatever her did as was wrong to him, her 
 asked yo' t'ask him to forget.' 
 
 There she ceased again, and lay, stroking 
 Dinah's wet cheek, and feebly drying the girl's 
 eyes. Dinah had an impulse upon her to tell 
 the story of her marriage to yomig Joe, and 
 the birth of her son, but was restrained by the 
 sense of Eebecca's weakness, and by some mis- 
 giving that without her ' lines ' a strict woman 
 like Mrs. Bushell might regard her as an alto- 
 gether improper sort of person. In a little 
 time she controlled herself, and sat down, once 
 more, beside the bed. For a time both were 
 silent. Eebecca lay with closed eyes like one 
 asleep, and Dinah had risen to steal from the 
 room, when the sick woman turned her head, 
 saying :— 
 
 ' Dinah, my dear, theer's only one thing as 
 Joe left behind him. Yo'll find it i' the top 
 long drawer i' the next room. It's a grey- 
 coloured coat. Bring it in to me, there's a 
 good gell : I want to see it again before I die. 
 It's the only thing he left behind him.' 
 
 'Dinah passed into the next room, found
 
 126 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 the coat and returned. Eebecca took it from 
 her, unfolded it feebly, and caressed it with her 
 hands. 
 
 ' It was Joseph's Coat,' she said. ' When 
 the wicked sons pretended as young Joseph 
 was dead, they brought his coat to Jacob ; 
 Joseph's Coat. But he was alive all the time 
 in Egypt, and his father lived to see him rich 
 and well-to-do.' 
 
 Her mind began to wander, and she fancied 
 that her son stood beside her. 
 
 ' Yo'U be kind to your father, Joseph,' she 
 said, ' when you come back from Egypt, and 
 yo'll remember as it's my wish as you should 
 marry Dinah.' 
 
 Then she slumbered for a while, and Dinah, 
 full of fear and awe, stole downstairs to the 
 kitchen, where old Joe sat in gloomy silence, 
 with an unlighted pipe between his teeth and 
 stared into the ashy bars of the grate. 
 
 ' There's a great change in her, Mr. 
 Bushell,' she said. 
 
 Old Joe shook his head sadly. 
 
 ' I've knowed as it was a-comin',' he said.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 127 
 
 in a deep inward murmur ; ' I've seen it a- 
 comin' this many a day.' 
 
 Tliey passed upstairs together. Eebecca 
 still slumbered. They stood for a time on 
 either side of the bed in silence. By-and-by the 
 dying woman opened her eyes languidly, looked 
 round with no recognition, plucked feebly at 
 tlie coat which lay beneath her hands, and then, 
 with the last ray of intelhgence which visited 
 her sold in this world, recognised the garment. 
 
 ' It was Joseph's Coat,' she said, and with 
 these words she died. 
 
 Old Joe bore liis wife's death stonily, and 
 no man could tell whether he gTieved or not. 
 The funeral took place on Sunday, and the 
 bereaved husband and his brother George were 
 the only mourners. They walked behind the 
 hearse in long hat-bands and black clothes, 
 saw the dead interred in the squalid graveyard 
 of Ebenezer, and went back together. 
 
 ' Theer was a will I made,' said Old Joe, 
 sitting beside the kitchen fire, ' i' my son's 
 favour.' He rose and took the document of 
 which he spoke from a sham two volumes in
 
 128 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 folio of the ' History of England/ marked on 
 the inside for a chess board. ' Me an' Joe/ he 
 said, 'used to play draughts on that. They 
 used to reckon me a pretty good player, but 
 he could beat my yed off. He was a very 
 good draught-player, was Joe.' 
 
 He set down the chess-board lingeringly, 
 and tapped it once or twice with his knuckles. 
 Then, seating himself again, he opened the 
 document. 
 
 ' It was drawed up,' he said, ' by a lawyer 
 an' all made out proper, this here will was. 
 Everythin* on my Eebecca's death was to goo 
 without reserve to my son Joseph, except a 
 thousand pound to my brother George. And 
 now there don't seem no son Joseph for it to 
 goo to, an' wheer it does goo I don't care.' 
 
 At this intimation Brother George's heart 
 experienced a soft and gentle glow. Things 
 were looking well for Brother George. It was 
 a maxim of his that ' fine words butter no 
 parsnips,' but he knew also that they cost 
 nothing, and he expended a few upon his 
 brother's grief.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 129 
 
 • Your piternal feelin's, Joe-zipb, as a man 
 might say, is a playin' on your heart-strings. 
 But theer's many a young man as has stopped 
 away for a year as has come back at the end 
 of it, or, leastways, in the course of time. 
 Preapshe mightn't ha' gone to Merriky after alL 
 He might ha' 'hsted.' 
 
 ' He's never wrote to nobody,' said Joe, 
 ' not all the time he's been away.' 
 
 ' Xo,' said Brother George, with no token 
 of shame ; ' never a word, as I've heerd on.' 
 
 The elder brother sat silent, looking" at the 
 fire, with his massive hands depending loosely 
 between his knees, and the ^dll held Ijetween 
 the finger and thumb of each hand. Without 
 any sign of haste or anger, or any new resolve, 
 he tore the document across leisurely, and with 
 no look of emotion laid the two pieces together 
 and tore them through. Then, in tlie same 
 listless way, he took the poker, liollowed out 
 the fire a little, piLshed the paper fragments 
 into the hollow, and beat down the fire upon 
 them. 
 
 Brother George sipped whisky and water 
 
 VOL. I. e:
 
 130 JOSUPH'S COAT. 
 
 to conceal his smile. Any sort of facial de- 
 monstration was rare with him, but this action 
 of old Joe's was in its way 'a foretaste of triumph 
 for the clumsy schemer, and that soft glow of 
 satisfaction warmed his heart so well that he 
 could not keep its reflection from his face. He 
 might have grinned his broadest, for old Joe 
 never looked at him. 
 
 ' Twelve months to a day,' said Joe, with 
 his hands still hanging lax before him, and 
 his eyes upon the fire, 'twelve months to a 
 day.' 
 
 ' What was twelve months to a day? ' asked 
 the other. 
 
 'From the time he went,' said old Joe 
 listlessly, ' to the time her died.' Then he 
 said ' Twelve months to a day ' again, and^sat 
 silent for a long time. 
 
 A ihan with an atom of perception in him 
 would have been keenly touched — must have 
 been touched — by the complete forlornness of 
 the old man's face, and voice, and attitude; 
 but George, being by nature wooden, and by 
 cultivation hardened, laid an unsympathetic
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 131 
 
 hand upon, liis brother's shoulder, and congra- 
 tulated him. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you bear it so easy, Joe- 
 ziph.' 
 
 Old Joe looked at him slowly, dropped his 
 head again, and murmured, ' Twelve months to 
 a day.' 
 
 ' Have a glass o' grog,' said George. It 
 was not his own hquor, and he could afford to 
 be generous with it. ' It'll warm the cockles 
 of your heart, and do you good.' 
 
 He took the kettle from the hearth, mixed 
 a stiff glass, and set it on the hob beside his 
 brother. 
 
 ' Jones her maiden name was,' said old Joe. 
 'We was married at the parish church. A 
 good wife for five-and-thirty years was my 
 Eebecca. A good wife.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Brother George, ' her was a fine 
 personable figure of a woman, and a savin' man- 
 ager. Yes, Joe, her was all that, an' her's no 
 doubt better off.' 
 
 To this genially spoken commendation the 
 widower made no answer. Brother George feU 
 
 K 2
 
 1.32 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 to thinking as to what the mourner's fortune 
 might amount to. 
 
 In the silence of the room a murmur broke 
 upon his thoughts. 
 
 ' Eh ? ' said George. 
 
 ' It was a twel'month to a day,' said old 
 Joe vacantly. I hain't well, George,' he added. 
 ' I think I'll goo upstairs an' lay down a bit.' 
 
 ' Ah, do,' said Brother George. ' And I'll 
 wait here till you've had a rest.' 
 
 Old Joe, l)ent strangely, with his massive 
 arms dependent like weights from his broad 
 shoulders, bored his way slowly out of the 
 room, and went heavily upstairs. George sat 
 absorbed in halcyon visions. Two hundred 
 and fifty thousand pounds. Call it two hun- 
 dred thousand. A wooden man ; a dull, slow, 
 unperceptive, unimaginative man. And yet, 
 what visions haunted that dim brain of his and 
 warmed his chilly heart ! The summer after- 
 noon wore down to summer evening, and 
 George took a comfortable tea in his brother's 
 parlour, and returning to the kitchen sat and 
 smoked and sipped his grog, until it grew too
 
 josi:ph's coat. 133 
 
 dark for him to see the wreaths of smoke 
 Avhich curled about his head. He called to 
 the ruddy servant, who sat alone in the back 
 kitchen. 
 
 ' Sarah, go upstairs and call the master, 
 there's a good wench.' 
 
 The girl clamped upstairs and tapped at 
 the sleeper's door. There came no answer, and 
 she rapped again. She called downstairs, say- 
 ing that she could not make him hear. 
 
 ' He's pretty sound asleep, then,' said 
 Brother George. ' Leave him to it. I'll go 
 away home.' 
 
 He put on the crape-bound hat, and walked 
 gravely to his own house, and slept the sleep 
 of the just. His dreams were bright ^vith the 
 gleam of two hundred thousand pounds. He 
 sat at breakfast in tlie morning, and the sun- 
 beams flowing through the window were 
 mellow with the same aiuriferous shine. There 
 came a hurried knock at the door, and George's 
 servant, beinor en^as^ed at the back of the 
 house, left her master to answer it. He found 
 his brother's clumsy Black Countiy serving-
 
 134 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 wench standing on the doorstep with blanched 
 cheek, and eyes full of terror. 
 
 ' I've fetched the doctor,' she gasped breath- 
 lessly, ' an' he says he must ha' been dead afore 
 you left the house last night.' 
 
 George fell back against the wall of the 
 passage. 
 
 ' Dead ! ' he gasped ; ' who's dead ? ' 
 
 ' Your brother Joseph, said the girl. 
 
 HEEE THE PEOLOGUE CLOSES.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 135 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 FouE-AXD-TWEXTY years have gone by since the 
 prologue opened ^ old Joe and his wife have 
 lain side by side in Ebenezer Graveyard for 
 years three-and-twenty. The baby is a young 
 man with moustaches and a sweetheart, and 
 his mother is getting on towards middle age, if 
 an earthly pilgrimage of forty-two years may 
 be supposed to have borne a pretty woman so 
 far. Daniel's thin legs nowadays will scarcely 
 carry him, and he is more than eighty years of 
 age. His wife died half a score of years ago. 
 and took her pious fraud to the grave with her. 
 Errant Joe's uncle George is over sixty, and is 
 mightily prosperous and somewhat swollen out 
 with worldly grandeur. For over a score of 
 years nobody has heard of errant Joe, and to 
 the minds of his contemporaries he is as dead
 
 136 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 as Nebuchadnezzar. To Dinali he remains an 
 unchangeable, fixed figure. Whilst other 
 young men have grown into middle age, whilst 
 they wear garments of the fashion of 1874 and 
 have grown wizened or burly according to 
 their nature, young Joe in her remembrance 
 remains in the garb in which she last beheld 
 him : no older, no stouter or thinner ; a blue- 
 eyed young fellow still, with blooming cheeks 
 and a downy bit of whisker. If anywhere 
 alive, young Joe is five-and-forty by this time, 
 and young Joe no longer ; but in Dinah's 
 remembrances of him. Time stands still. In 
 short, madam, you were just married when the 
 tale opened, and yesterday you cried and 
 smiled at the wedding breakfast of your second 
 daughter. And you, sir, were in a round 
 jacket and a broad collar at Eton, with no 
 notion that the wave of a Conservative reaction 
 would drift you into Parliament to denounce 
 the Opposition in well-prepared impromptu 
 epigram, or to demand from your place to be 
 instructed by the right honourable gentleman 
 at the head of Her Majesty's Government. A
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 137 
 
 great space of time. Let it pass in tliis story 
 — as it passes in much more tremendous 
 chronicles — like a breath. 
 
 Dinah Banks, or Bushell, was a simple- 
 mmded woman, and all these years she had 
 passively defrauded herself and her child of a 
 great fortune which was legitimately theirs. 
 George, her son, was not the sort of person to 
 be defrauded of any rights he knew of, but he 
 was as ignorant of these as poor Sir Eoger 
 before this time proved himself to be of his 
 dear mother's Christian name. Since Daniel's 
 early days, times had changed a good deal. 
 He had httle sympathy with the new crotchet 
 of education ; but it is hard for simple folks 
 hke Daniel to swim against the tide, and the 
 lad went to the great Grammar School in 
 Birmingham and swallowed his modicum of 
 Latin and Euchd and Algebra, and grew up 
 quite a superior young person, with a natural 
 disdain for home associations and a genuine 
 contempt for his putative father which would 
 have done credit to a princely fairy changeling. 
 Daniel humoured the lad in everything, as old
 
 138 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 fathers sometimes will iiumour sons ; and the 
 boy himself bullied where he could, and had 
 his own way royally when he was sure of it. 
 As he grew up, the fraud his mother had 
 practised bore very bitter fruit. Her child 
 scorned her in spite of her tenderness, and 
 spoke scoffingly of her as an old maid with old- 
 maidish fancies when she would stay him from 
 participation in this or that boyish freak or 
 folly. I have not the heart to tell how she 
 suffered and in what mean ways. Things that 
 to a sister would have been little troubles 
 magnified themselves to the mother's heart, 
 and every day in all these dreary years her 
 soul cried out for the child's love, and yearned 
 unsatisfied. It was a proof, perhaps, of great 
 sweetness of nature that she remained comely 
 still, and that even in some eyes she grew more 
 beautiful as Time touched her. It was com- 
 monly said of her that she wore a motherly 
 rather than an old-maidish air, and, indeed, she 
 had grown buxom and a little portly. Her 
 eyes were sad, but wonderfully sweet and affec- 
 tionate. She had offers of marriage in profu-
 
 'JOSEPH'S COAT. 139 
 
 sion ; but declined them all, for no reason that 
 the neighbours could divine, and lived solely 
 for her child and her memories of his father. 
 There are among women many thousands of 
 such faithful hearts, who suffer much, but have 
 their reward now and then even in this hard 
 world. 
 
 Visible from the upper bed-room windows 
 of the Saracen is a range of hills, of perhaps 
 twelve or thirteen hundred feet elevation, the 
 only notable thing in the landscape. They are 
 not more than four miles away, and they 
 naturally draw the eye of a stranger from the 
 surrounding dead level. Under the shadow of 
 that low range of hills, on the farther side, lies 
 as charming a bit of country as you may look 
 for in a quiet way in England — a rich undulat- 
 ing landscape, mth meadow and cornfield, and 
 noble timber here and there, all gathering an 
 added charm from the fact that by a walk of 
 half a mile you may command a view of 
 another valley, lurid with vast columns of fiery 
 smoke and the red tongues of furnace flame 
 that leap at the low skies. Lying in any field
 
 140 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 about that pleasant stretch of country on a 
 quiet day in summer, beneath skies whose blue 
 is somewhat toned by the thin gauze of out- 
 lying smoke-clouds, you may hear afar off the 
 great heart of giant Labour beating ; and 
 standing still at night, when sound travels 
 farther, you can catch tlie clank of iron and 
 the shuddering roar or shrill shriek of distant 
 engines, or even the dull thud of the forge 
 hammer. And even in the pleasant valley 
 itself, when you might fancy that you had 
 strayed unaware into the very heart of 
 Agricola's realm, when the ferns are unrolling 
 their crown-like scrolls, and the dog-rose is 
 opening from the bud, and the air is sickly 
 sweet w^ith the heavy scent of the may, you 
 come saunteringly to a little rise and look 
 about you, and you see pit-stacks in the 
 distance sending up their blue curls of smoke, 
 and pit frames with gliding chains above them, 
 filmy-fine. 
 
 On the lower slope of one of these hills I 
 know^ a farmhouse, so old that its outside walls 
 have grown grey and rimy like the rind of a
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 141 
 
 Stilton cheese. Great beams of timber cross 
 its front, and here and there its hnes have 
 swayed picturesquely out of their first prim 
 drawing. Dormer windows peep from the 
 roof: the chimney stacks are EHzabethan, but 
 the rest of the house is a sort of architectural 
 dream made concrete. The building: is all 
 gables and corners outside, and within there 
 are little flights of unexpected stairs in unex- 
 pected places, and a stranger finds himself 
 intruding on rooms in which he has no busi- 
 ness, and wondering how they got there. All 
 the windows are diamonded, and the panes held 
 together by little strips of lead. The floors are 
 sunken in a curious way, and the inner walls 
 warp to this side or that in such a fashion as to 
 give you an impression of being somehow in a 
 house at sea. But the old place is solid and 
 sturdy, pinned together as it is by its huge oak 
 beams, and it may stand for hundreds of years 
 yet in defiance of wind and weather. 
 
 Behind this fine old house there is a fine 
 old garden, where in their season ten- week- 
 stocks and gilly-flowers and bachelor's buttons
 
 142 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 and other sucli homely blossoms grow with 
 roses red and white, and lilies pale and golden. 
 Here are hoary apple-trees bearing wonderful 
 fruit, plum-trees, damson-trees, pear-trees, and 
 a little forest of gooseberry bushes. And in 
 great strips between the flower-beds, or edged 
 round with flowers and tangled aromatic 
 bushes, there are spaces set apart for the 
 culture of the homely cabbage and cauliflower, 
 the pungent eschalot and others of its tribe. 
 Everything seems more or less entangled with 
 everything else in this delightful, disorderly old 
 garden. The sides of its walks are edged with 
 box and moss-grown, and its high brick walls, 
 mellow with age, are thick with lichens. 
 Walking here on any summer day you are at 
 liberty to forget that there is any such thing 
 as a forge, a foundry, a coal-mine, a smoke- 
 cloud in the world. Yet even here, if you 
 listen closely, you may hear great Labour's 
 muffled heart beat two or three miles away, 
 and beyond the hills at night-time the sky is 
 livid red. There are gardens as old-fashioned 
 and profuse in growth in many places, I dare
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 143 
 
 say — gardens ^vliere the same liomely blossoms 
 blow, and tlie same scents perfume the air, and 
 the same spirit of retired Quiet dwells ; but 
 they lack the charm of this retreat for the most 
 part, because they have not its singular contrast 
 of neighbourhood. AYhen by good chance you 
 meet amongst those ' fair Circassians,' of whom 
 so many fables have been told, a woman with 
 any decent pretensions to good looks — when 
 you see a star ghnting through the late -divided 
 storm- wrack — when you see the pearl upon the 
 Ethiop's arm — when you see (if ever you do) 
 Mr. Leigh Hunt's beautiful symbol of the lily 
 in the mouth of Tartarus — you know what 
 advantages you expect to get out of contrast. 
 Those advantages are here, in this old garden's 
 neighbourhood, with smoke and fire, and the 
 amazing travail of the earth about it. 
 
 The Donne family had hved in the old 
 house for many generations and farmed the 
 land which surrounded it. The fact that in 
 the parish churchyard there was a tombstone 
 bearing their name, and dated as far back as 
 the year 1613, proved that the family was sub-
 
 144 JOSEFR'S COAT. 
 
 stantial and respectable more than two cen- 
 turies ago. At the beginning of the seventeenth 
 century it was not everybody who , was hon- 
 oured with a tombstone. The stones came 
 down from that date ahnost without a break; — 
 lohn Aldley Dunne succeeded by lohn Aldley 
 Dunne for nigh a hundred years, and being 
 followed by other Johns whose J's had long 
 and curly tails. It was at the beginning of the 
 curly- J period that the spelling of the names 
 was changed, Audley being substituted for 
 Aldley, and Donne for Dunne. There were 
 many Dunne Aldleys, too, buried in the 
 churchyard, and the two families had evidently 
 been somehow tied together. 
 
 In the year 1870 the male branch of the 
 Donnes became extinct, and there were now 
 left but two women to bear the old name — 
 Mrs. Donne, a notable woman, widow of the 
 late farmer, and her daughter Ethel. Now, in 
 that part of the country people go, as a rule, 
 for Scriptural appellations, and the old English 
 feminine names are neglected. It may perhaps 
 be accepted as corroborative of other evidence
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 145 
 
 in favour of some old standing in the family 
 that it held a distinctive feminine name again 
 and again repeated. Below the record of lohn 
 Aldley Dunne's years and virtues ran this 
 legend : ' Alsoe Ethyl hys wyfe, aetat 48, obitt 
 lune 2, 1621. Alsoe Ethyl, infant child of y' 
 above.' When the present Ethel was christ- 
 ened, Mr. Borge, her godfather, had objected 
 to the name as bring^ing^ ill-luck with it. He 
 founded himself on tombstone evidence, and 
 pointed out the fact that four Ethels had died 
 in maidenhood. His superstitions were derided ; 
 but Mr Borge always protested ' he knowed ill 
 'ud come on it,' and was the more firmly fixed 
 in his belief by the fact that the baby suffered 
 from convulsions while teething. A pretty 
 smart attack of croup and some extra trouble 
 in regard to measles were currently held to 
 have justified the Borgian vaticinations. But 
 the baby grew to girlhood, and the girl became 
 a young woman, without anything more terrible 
 than those infant maladies encountered by the 
 way. 
 
 Ethel Donne was nearly nineteen years of 
 
 VOL. I. L •
 
 146 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 age, and a very cliarming and beautiful young 
 woman. Her beauty was not of the kind you 
 see in London drawing-rooms or at the opera, 
 but much more robust and blooming and 
 delicate. Her complexion bore looking at, and 
 was admirably waterproof. Ill-natured young 
 women, her compeers, said that her hair was 
 ' carroty,' from which I desire you to argue 
 that it was of the colour painters have loved to 
 paint — 
 
 In gloss and hue the chestnut when the husk 
 Divides three-fold to show the fruit within, 
 
 as Mr. Tennyson says. Her eyes were hazel 
 and full of mirth and honesty. Her skin was 
 of red rose and white ; not the dead lily 
 colour which poets have so often and so falsely 
 feigned, but white rose with the faintest live 
 blush in it. Her features were not those of a 
 Greek statue, fortunately, but they were fairly 
 regular. The dear little nose, in particular, 
 was very daintily modelled, and her hps and 
 teeth — to speak of rubies and pearls is to 
 desecrate the beauties of flesh and blood and
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 147 
 
 ivory. To see her figure at its full advantage 
 you should perhaps have beheld her in the act 
 of hanging out the family washing to dry in 
 that old garden, or ^vith a hayrake in the 
 meadows. To say that she was unaware of her 
 manifold natural advantages would be to portray 
 her as a very foolish young person. Shake- 
 speare thought fit to put into the mouth of a 
 fool the statement that there never was fair 
 maid but made mouths in a glass ; but it is 
 probable that he himself beheved it. For one 
 prodigy of nature you can show me where a 
 pretty young woman honestly thinks herself 
 j)lain, I will undertake to find you five hundred 
 natiu-al-minded, lovable young women who, 
 being passably plain, think themselves pretty ; 
 and a very proper and kindly ordinance of 
 nature this provision is. Let us think well of 
 ourselves and be happy. The male animal has 
 no right to conceit himself on the score of 
 personal modesty. A very popular writer of 
 essays, who is not beautiful, has made confession 
 in print that he feels a pleasurable sensation in 
 looking at his own reflection in a mirror. I
 
 148 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 may not have the courage to follow his bold 
 example with a like confession. 
 
 But more than mere good sense, of which 
 she had plenty, her own free nature saved 
 her from the canker of self- consciousness, and 
 she had a certain merry scorn of mere personal 
 vanity. She was country-bred, but not un- 
 polished, though unvarnished. She had a 
 natural art in music, cultivated, not to perfec- 
 tion, but to a fair growth ; and, being natural 
 with her, it enabled her to accompany a singer 
 with grace and fineness, and to sing a simple 
 ballad in a way which even cultured listeners 
 found attractive. Her secular music was mostly 
 antiquated, and was made up chiefly of the 
 songs of Purcell and Shield and Arne, with one 
 or two of Haydn's canzonets. Her knowledge 
 of sacred music went httle further than ' The 
 Messiah,' ' The Creation,' and Mozart's ' Twelfth 
 Mass ' would carry her. She read French fairly 
 well ; but her knowledge of the hterature of 
 that language was confined to Lamar tine's 
 ' Heroes and Heroines of the Eevolution ' and 
 Yolney's ' Euins of Empire.' Notwithstanding
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 149 
 
 the latter, she was orthodox. M. Vohiey, after 
 the elegant rhapsodies with which he opens, 
 was, indeed, for the most part Greek to her. 
 
 In household virtues she was a treasiure, and 
 was mistress of all the arts of the dairy. She 
 made rare butter and the crispest, hghtest 
 pastry ; and krew how, if called upon, to wash 
 and bake, and even brew. I remember her 
 mother's damson cheese, and they say that 
 Ethel was her mother's mistress. In short, a 
 charming girl, with rare housewifely quahties, 
 and fit to make a prince a wife, if princes had 
 the good luck to be allowed to choose, as we 
 happy plebeians liave. 
 
 It is not to be supposed for a moment that 
 all these charms and virtues were allowed to 
 lie unclaimed by the adventurous young man- 
 hood of tlie region. Lovers clustered aroimd 
 her like flies about a honeypot, else were she 
 no fit heroine of mine. The Quarrymoor farm 
 ran into three hundred acres, and every incli 
 was freehold, and she the heiress of it. Why 
 should she not be courted ? 
 
 The parish chm'ch was so situate that there
 
 160 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 was a pleasant walk to it in summer time from 
 three or four parishes in the neighbom'hood, 
 and gay young bachelors from several town- 
 ships, with their sisters and sweethearts, would 
 stroll out on peaceful Sunday evenings, after a 
 four-o'clock tea following on a one-o'clock 
 dinner, and save themselves from any sense of 
 spending the day unfittingly by dropping in at 
 the Old Church, and would then saunter home 
 again in the calm dusk, refreshed by a glance at 
 country green and a taste of country air. Ethel 
 drilled the choir and played the wheezy organ, 
 and had delight in this part of her life. She 
 searched for voices far and near, and strove to 
 impress their owners into her band, and by- 
 and-by got up quite a respectable assemblage 
 of singers. Then it was decided that the organ 
 should be replaced — you heard the bellows 
 wheeze and rattle even when the instrument 
 was in full blast; and it was settled between 
 Ethel and the Vicar that, as a first step towards 
 this consummation, there should be holden in 
 the schoolroom a public soiree. Tliis meant 
 the traditional teafight, with the addition of
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 151 
 
 ham sandwiches to the ordinary provisions, and 
 a concert interspersed with readings afterwards. 
 Ethel entered into the scheme w^ith great 
 fervour. The magnates of the immediate 
 locahty were impressed — none of them very 
 tremendous people ; and Llrs. Hick gave a tray 
 of cake, and Mrs. Hince a ham of her own 
 curing, and Mrs. Warmington, of the Moimt, 
 six pounds of tea, and Mrs. Jones a batch of 
 household bread, and somebody else a basket of 
 dairy butter. The ladies who gave gifts had 
 the right to preside at the tables, and when the 
 time came they were gay with festive ribbons 
 and sat above their cates with proprietoral 
 smile. But before the time came Ethel had 
 much to do in rehearsing the choir in part- 
 songs cidled fifom her own httle repertoire — 
 ' Blow, Gentle Gales,' and * Spotted Snakes,' 
 and the hke. The rehearsals were held in the 
 school-room, and very pleasant they were "vvith 
 their mixture of fun and formality ; but the 
 foundress of the festival had her troubles, and 
 chief among them was the want of a tenor who 
 could take the high A natiu-al without cracking
 
 152 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 on it. All the young gentlemen of the choir 
 who sang tenor through their noses could get 
 at it more or less by dint of choking ; but she 
 yearned for somebody who would not choke, 
 and in the nick of time he came. 
 
 'Miss Donne,' said the Vicar one dusky 
 evening, clamping noisily into the schoolroom, 
 and beginning to speak as soon as he had 
 passed the door ; ' I have brought you a recruit. 
 Allow me to introduce to you Mr. George 
 Banks. Miss Donne, Mr. Banks.' 
 
 Ethel rose from her seat at the piano to 
 receive him. The light was so dim that she 
 could make out nothing but a tall and well-set 
 figure — Mr. George was a volunteer — and a 
 pair of pretty broad shoulders. 
 
 ' Mr. Banks is a tenor. Miss Donne,' said the 
 Vicar, ' and I have induced him to promise his 
 assistance at our soiree.^ 
 
 ' I shall be most happy to be of service, I 
 am sure,' said Mr. George Banks in a tenor 
 voice of considerable sweetness. To Ethel's 
 ear the tone had culture and refinement in it, 
 and the speaking voice carried promise. It was
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 153 
 
 softer and lighter than men's voices commonly 
 are, but it was clear and round. The Vicar 
 l3egan to drag a form about the room and to 
 light the gas, and Ethel saw before her a good- 
 looking young fellow, ^vith brown hair, and 
 eyes, a palish complexion, and a fair sweeping 
 moustache, which gave him perhaps a hand- 
 somer look than his features deserved. The 
 moustache was silky and long, and the young 
 man's brown hair was parted in the middle and 
 carefully groomed. He was dressed quietly 
 and in good taste, and bore her scrutiny with- 
 out embarrassment. Ethel's first view was 
 eminently favourable. 
 
 ' You have music with you,' she said. 
 'Perhaps you will give us a solo at the 
 soiree ? ' 
 
 ' With very great pleasure,' he responded. 
 
 ' I dare say, now,' thought the girl, ' that 
 he can sing. They generally make such a fuss 
 when they can't. It tmmed out that Mr. Banks 
 could sing nicely ; not so well as he thought, 
 perhaps, but he was pleasant to hsten to, and 
 that for an amateur tenor is something. The
 
 154 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 high A presented no difficulties to him. ' You 
 will be a great accession to us, Mr. Banks,' said 
 Ethel gratefully. ' I am very much obliged to 
 you for coming.' 
 
 'Not at all,' protested Mr. Banks. But, 
 walking homeward with Miss Donne and the 
 Vicar, the artful youth drew out the fact that 
 the lady had a soprano voice, and hinted at the 
 preparation of a duet or two. The Vicar 
 seconded him, and Ethel felt a great desire 
 to sing with somebody who really could sing. 
 That was a pleasure she had never enjoyed ; 
 and Mr. Banks and the Vicar were, in brief, in- 
 vited to the farmhouse, and by its hospitable 
 mistress pressed to take supper. They con- 
 sented ; and whilst the meal was getting ready, 
 Ethel and the new-comer tried over ' The 
 Minute Gun at Sea,' and arranged for them- 
 selves a tenor and treble rendering of * All's 
 Well.' The Vicar was delighted, and his 
 delight took a practical turn. 
 
 ' Eeally, Miss Donne,' said the Vicar, ' we 
 ought to raise the prices.' 
 
 It transpired at table that Mr. Banks had a
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 155 
 
 four miles' walk before him, and everybody 
 was quite sympathetic with him on that ac- 
 count. He declared that he really didn't mind 
 it, and in fact he set out upon it in evident 
 high good spirits. The young man had finessed 
 for this meeting with some skill, and, hearing 
 of the coming soiree^ had induced a friend to 
 mention him and his vocal powers to the 
 Vicar, had unobtrusively thrown himself in 
 that good man's way, and procured an easy 
 invitation. He had seen Ethel once by chance 
 a year before, and of set purpose many a time 
 since then, and had longed to speak to her, 
 but had never been able to approach her until 
 now. He could see that he had made a favour- 
 able impression to begin with, and he resolved 
 to improve it. 
 
 There were more rehearsals before the 
 eventful night came ; and Mr. Banks, although 
 much too wary to introduce any other men- 
 singers, who might have turned out unpleasant, 
 brought an ugly old fellow who fluted like an 
 angel, and he threw himself into the musical 
 preparations with so much ardoiu- that Ethel
 
 166 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 was charmed witli him. He was the most 
 active and obhging young man she had en- 
 countered, and the frequency with which he 
 contrived excuses for meeting her did credit to 
 the fertihty of his fancy. She found no fault 
 with this, and thought it all natural enough. 
 She took Mr. Banks for a musical enthusiast ; 
 and so he was, by a quibble. He was musical 
 after a fashion, and he was enthusiastic — in his 
 admiration of himself and Miss Donne. He 
 could not help thinking what a beautiful couple 
 they would make. The young man's forte was 
 not personal modesty. ' Hang it all,' he had 
 been known to plead, ' I haven't any sympathy 
 with that confounded cant which tells a good- 
 looking fellow that he ought to pretend to be 
 unaware of his own advantages.' He broke 
 out thus pretty often upon John Keen, his 
 chum. ' I'm not an Adonis, I know.' ' No,' 
 John would answer, 'you ain't, old man.' 
 'But I should pass in a crowd,' Mr. Banks 
 would flow on, silently contemning satire ; 
 ' and I should be an ass not to know it.' John 
 was a long-haired young man, careless of his
 
 JOSEPHTS COAT. 157 
 
 personal aspect and at feud with society. He 
 made war against convention by smoking in 
 the streets, and by wearing a broad-brimmed 
 felt and his shabbiest coat on Sundays. These 
 habits and an open warfare with the Eeverend 
 Jabez Wallier, of Zion, gave John a repubhcan, 
 communistic, free-thinking sort of reputation 
 with the graver seniors of the town. George 
 Banks and he had been at school together, and 
 were companions still, with next to nothing in 
 common. In an incautious moment Lir. 
 Banks mentioned the approaching soiree and 
 its date. 
 
 ' I'll go to Quarrymoor with you,' said 
 John Keen ; and George, who could not very 
 well object to this, gave way to it with an ill 
 grace. ' You don't mean to say,' said John, 
 who had or aflfected the merest suspicion of the 
 local drawl, ' that you're going to get into a 
 claw-hammer coat for this business, do you?' 
 George had been giving elaborate instructions 
 to a Birmingham tailor about a new dress-suit, 
 which must be ready before Thursday. 
 
 ' I'm not a barbarian,' said he, ' if you are.
 
 158 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 Of course I shall dress for it.' John had a dry 
 and aggravating slow smile, which looked as if 
 it meant sometliing. It came into play now, 
 and now, as always, affected his companion 
 unpleasantly. ' What have you to grin at ? ' 
 George asked, with some show of temper. 
 
 ' What has anybody got to grin at on this 
 filthy planet ? ' asked John ; but he smiled, 
 nevertheless, with a look of uncertain humour. 
 George had an uneasy suspicion that his friend 
 was smiling at him. 
 
 The evening came, and George appeared 
 resplendent. Anxious as he was to meet Miss 
 Donne, he was careful not to mar the eclat of 
 his advent by too early an arrival, and only 
 turned up when the tables had been cleared 
 and put away and the seats arranged. Most 
 of the natives had never seen a man in evening 
 dress before, and they regarded him with 
 critical wonder. After his first' song a burly, 
 red-faced man of genial aspect cried aloud, 
 ' Three cheers for the mon i' the shirt-front ! ' 
 and the ditty was loudly redemanded. George 
 sang again with a readiness which estabhshed
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 159 
 
 Mm as a popular favourite, and when Ethel 
 and he appeared together the enthusiasm was 
 tremendous. It was a great night for Quarry- 
 moor. A local celebrity had ^vritten a poem 
 for the occasion. 
 
 Good people all, I hope yo'm well, 
 An' as yo' an' your tay '11 agree ; 
 
 For my own part, I'n a taal to tell 
 About this heeur Swarree. 
 
 This composition ran into ninety verses, and 
 the bard was so tickled with his own humour 
 that now and again he laughed till the tears 
 ran, and the audience roared ^vith liim and at 
 him. He rhymed swarray with ' ham and buns 
 and tay ' ; he rhymed swarri with ' summer 
 sky ' ; and in the last verse he well-nigh killed 
 the Yicar by an evident but unfulfilled inten- 
 tion to make the much-tortured last syl- 
 lable jingle with ' me and you.' The majority 
 laughed because the act of laughter is catching, 
 and because the example was set them by the 
 gentlefolks. Otherwise, they would have sat 
 to see the word more knocked about even than 
 it had been, conscious of a necessity for poetic
 
 160 JOSJEPH\S COAT. 
 
 licence in its handling. The bard was the hit 
 of the evening ; and an hour later, when he 
 could trust himself, John Keen congratulated 
 him upon his success. ' Well, mister,' said the 
 local lion with a sort of proud humility, ' it 
 eeat everybody as can write poetry.' John 
 went outside and sat upon a tombstone, and 
 gave his heart to mirth. 
 
 Meantime, Mr. Banks made large strides in 
 the good graces of Miss Donne. I suppose you 
 would not give much for a story which had no 
 chronicle of love-making. I think it is Agur 
 the son of Jakeh who, in reciting the words of 
 wisdom which his mother taught him, expresses 
 his wonder at ' the way of a man with a maid.' 
 It was wonderful so long ago, and it is still 
 wonderful. The literature of love-making is 
 beyond computation, and the simple theme still 
 pleases. '
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 161 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII 
 
 It befell that, after the soiree at Quarrymoor, 
 Mr. George Banks began to profess an extra- 
 ordinary interest in matters antiquarian, and to 
 poke about at odd hours in the old church, 
 copying brasses and making sketches of a 
 marble lord of the manor who lay on his back 
 in a neglected corner of the building. John 
 Keen, his chum, had a sort of double-barrelled 
 profession, being both solicitor and mine 
 surveyor ; but his natural tastes were towards 
 architecture, and it was to him that George was 
 indebted for his new pursuit. John, having 
 seen Ethel, followed George's example and fell 
 in love with her. It came quite naturally to 
 him to haunt the old church in the hope of 
 seeing her, and George learned the lesson and 
 availed himself of it. So the two young men 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 used to dodge each other in a rather guilty 
 way on leisure afternoons, and once or twice, 
 with mutual ire and astonishment, met at the 
 church. 
 
 I have already told you that George Bushell 
 had inherited his brother Joseph's fortune. He 
 throve mightily, atid became a local magnate, 
 signing himself J.P. and being much looked 
 up to. He was a member of the Conservative 
 Central Committee for the county, and had 
 embarked in great mining speculations, and 
 was in these days a staunch Churchman. In 
 affairs ecclesiastical, political, and commercial 
 he came into contact with the best sort of 
 people, and was highly respected. If his 
 money had betrayed him into any pretence of 
 fashion, he would no doubt have been laughed 
 at ; but he behaved with much reticence and 
 modesty, and people naturally spoke well of 
 him. No repentances troubled him, and young 
 Joe, his ill-starred nephew, had faded out of 
 memory years ago. Amongst other enterprises 
 of his, he had bought shares in a local bank, 
 and had bought so largely that he might almost
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 163 
 
 be said to have been the bank's proprietor. 
 He held mines under all sorts of business con- 
 ditions, and he employed some twenty or thirty 
 clerks at his offices. These, like everybody 
 else in his pay, worked under his own super- 
 vision ; and amongst them, and high in favour, 
 was George Banks, who, of course, had he only 
 known it, was George Bushell, and legal owner 
 of the desk he sat at, the ledger he made 
 entries in, and the vast estate upon which he 
 was employed. Old Daniel, George's supposed 
 father, had plenty of money, but he would not 
 have the lad trained in idleness. The Saracen 
 was but a httle part of the old man's belong- 
 ings, and George, being acknowledged heir to 
 everything, was lordly with his fellow-clerks 
 and flush of pocket-money. His financial posi- 
 tion went with other things to make him a 
 favourite with his employer, and he had free- 
 doms and advantages which his compeers 
 envied. 
 
 On the Saturday afternoon which followed 
 the Quarrymoor entertainment, George called 
 upon his employer. ]\ir. Bushell, intensely
 
 164 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 respectable to begin with, had by this time 
 grown imposing in appearance. He wore the 
 high collars and the large stock of twenty 
 years' earlier date, and his hair was silvery. 
 His hands, though large with early labour, had 
 grown soft and plump and white ; and his 
 black broadcloth dress, if staid and old- 
 fashioned, was of the best material and cut. 
 He affected some homelinesses of custom, and 
 amongst them he preserved the habit of 
 smoking a long churchwarden clay. This one 
 practice was of considerable value to him, for 
 it lent him a certain patriarchal and unafiected 
 look, and greenhorns said that it showed sim- 
 plicity of character. The Wrongful Heir sat 
 in dull dignity, and the Eightful Heir smirked 
 before him with propitiatory smile. 
 
 ' I have called, sir,' said the favoured clerk 
 with suavity, ' to ask a favour. My father's 
 affairs are growing a little too heavy for his 
 hands, and he himself is getting old, sir, as you 
 know. If you could spare me upon an occa- 
 sional Wednesday afternoon, I could be of 
 more service to him than I am at present.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 165 
 
 ' Mr. Banks,' said the usurper, ' no man can 
 serve two masters.' Mr. Bushell was familiar 
 with many texts out of Scripture, and most of 
 the passages which stuck in his memory ap- 
 peared to make for his advantage, so that he 
 regarded the sacred vohm^e with respect, as a 
 storehouse of useful aphorism. But the clerk 
 knew his way with him. 
 
 ' I am sure, sir,' he answered, ' that I am 
 fully sensible of the favour I ask, and of course 
 I know that it is not business-like. But I 
 should be most happy if you would allow me 
 to make up the deficiency I propose to create 
 on other evenings. My father is jealous about 
 entrusting his business to other hands, and 
 his aifairs are becoming: considerable.' 
 
 Mr. Bushell, being well-to-do himself, 
 naturally hked to have well-to-do people about 
 him. He abhorred poverty. It Avanted to 
 borrow, which was bad ; or to beg, which was 
 worse ; and it made itself disagreeable in many 
 ways. It presented facilities for being ground 
 down, which could not be looked for in people 
 in prosperous circumstances ; but tliis mere
 
 166 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 amelioration left the main evils of it un- 
 checked. 
 
 'I'll think about it, Mr. Banks,' said the 
 usurper ; and the Eightful Heir, having bowed 
 and smirked himself away, walked to Quarry- 
 moor attired in festal raiment. Three miles out 
 he overtook John Keen, and on first sighting 
 him was disposed to drop bqhind ; but so slight 
 a matter as the direction of the summer wind 
 made that inconvenient. For John was lighting 
 a pipe, and, in turning his back upon the wind 
 to do it, he faced George. The young men 
 met with a confused attempt at indifierent 
 good-fellowship, and of course each thought 
 the other abominably in the way. 
 
 ' Lovely weather, isn't it ? ' said George. 
 
 ' Admirable,' said John. There was a dry, 
 aggravating air of self-possession about this 
 young man, even when he was least self-pos- 
 sessed. He said little at most times, but he 
 always gave George an impression that he was 
 thinking with cutting smartness. In point of 
 fact John inspired a feeling of something very 
 hke terror in George's mind.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 167 
 
 ' Where are you off to ? ' asked George 
 witli a great effort. 
 
 'I am going to make some sketches in 
 Qiiarrymoor Church,' John answered. ' There 
 are some stunning brasses there, too, and the 
 pulpites very interesting.' George sketched a 
 httle in a mechanical South Kensington manner, 
 and had wasted the evenings of a year or two 
 of his hfe at the Birmingham Ait School ; but 
 he scarcely knew whether his companion was 
 chaffing him or not. Ethel practised on the 
 organ on Saturday afternoons, and George was 
 bound to the church to hsten to her, and a 
 guilty conscience needs no accuser. This talk 
 about an interesting pidpit sounded hke satire 
 under the circumstances ; but George con- 
 trolled himself, and said simply : — 
 
 ' I'll come with you, if you don't mind.' 
 
 ' Very glad, I am siure,' John responded 
 hypocritically ; and they went on in mutual 
 distrust of each other. ' This dandified duffer,' 
 thought John to himself, ' can't be sneaking 
 after ]\Iiss Donne, can he ? She's worth a 
 miUion of him.' George, on the other hand.
 
 168 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 felt a sort of right over tlie young lady, and, 
 like a lover, was ready to be jealous. Of 
 course he acknowledged that his rights were as 
 yet exceedingly vague ; but they were there 
 somehow, and he wasn't going to have that 
 fellow Keen trampling on them. 
 
 Quarrymoor Church had a squat Norman 
 tower of great antiquity, and its lines were too 
 ugly to be made pleasant even by its clustering 
 mosses and ivy. Yet it was pleasing to the 
 eyes of these young men when once their ears 
 had assured them that the shrine held their 
 own divinity. Ethel was in the organ loft, im- 
 provising on the wheezy organ, unconscious of 
 listeners. And if she had dreams which were 
 not altogether in character with the place, I, 
 for one, am not disposed to be very hard upon 
 her. She was thinking of a young man with 
 broad shoulders and a tenor voice, and the 
 voice spoke to her even in the broken-winded, 
 asthmatic music of the old organ. It was 
 dusky up there, though the sun blazed hot and 
 bright outside ; and in the cool dimness of the 
 place Ethel saw the eyes of the tenor- voiced
 
 \ JOSEPH'S COAT. 169 
 
 yoiing man, and thought them very tender and 
 honest. In truth, their brown inchned a trifle 
 too much to green, and they were something 
 too near together, and had to the observant 
 physiognomist a furtive and even frightened 
 look. The rivals stole into the church on tiptoe, 
 and John began to sketch the recumbent lord 
 of the manor, George making a pretence of 
 watching him; and both of tbem yearned a 
 little over the wheezy voluntary, which, after 
 all, was played by Love's own hands. They 
 said not a word to each other for an hour, and 
 just as the sketch was finished they heard Ethel 
 closing the organ. Then a ridiculous tremor 
 fell upon them, and the girl, coming in sight of 
 them unexpectedly, shared it to the full ; but, 
 showing nothing of it, advanced and shook 
 hands with both, and, leading the way to the 
 porch, covered her own confusion by examining 
 the drawing there to John's satisfaction and 
 George's enragement. But Mr. Banks was too 
 good a diplomatist to display his anger openly, 
 and explained suavely how his visit to the 
 church was entirely due to Mr. Keen's artistic
 
 170 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 enthusiasm, how he was taking a walk and fell 
 in with Mr. Keen, how Mr. Keen was going 
 sketching, how he availed himself of that op- 
 portunity to take a closer look at the anti- 
 quities of which the Vicar had spoken, and 
 how dehghted he had been to listen to Miss 
 Donne's playing. 
 
 ' The poor old organ,' said Miss Donne, ' is 
 in a sad condition.' 
 
 ' Worst instrument I ever heard,' said 
 clumsy, downright John. Ethel was hurt at 
 this. You may pity an old friend broken by 
 time and asthma, but you do not care to hear 
 anybody speak bitterly of his infirmities. 
 George had more tact, and caught exactly the 
 light tone of half-affectionate regret. 
 
 ' I dare say,' said he, ' that you won't like 
 the new organ half so well as this.' Ethel 
 looked at him almost with gratitude. 
 
 ' How well he understands one ! ' she 
 thought. ' ! ' she said aloud, unwilling to be 
 thought sentimental, ' it won't have the associa- 
 tions at first, but of course it will be a much 
 finer instrument.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 171 
 
 ' I beg yoiir pardon,' said John, ' for pitch- 
 ing into the old organ. I forgot that it was a 
 Mend of yours. That makes every difi'erence.' 
 Ethel smiled at this, and John continued. ' I've 
 a queer old square box of a piano that I learned 
 to play on. I can't have it tuned because the 
 wires would pull it off its legs if I did, and all 
 the chords are loose. I like it, somehow, 
 though.' 
 
 'That is precisely how I feel about the 
 organ,' said Ethel, readily forgiving him. 
 
 ' Confound the fellow ! ' said George to him^ 
 self. ' He's getting sentimental now ! ' 
 
 Miss Donne did not ask the young men to 
 enter the farmhouse, but bade them good-bye 
 at the gate, and they walked home together in 
 rather an ill-humoured way. George betook 
 himself to the Dudley Arms and sought the 
 delights of a shilling pool an hour or two earher 
 than usual, and, being out of temper, played 
 badly ; and, playing badly, lost ; and, losing, 
 strove to recoup himself by bets. Losing in 
 that direction also, he went home in a very 
 savage condition, disposed to quarrel with any-
 
 172 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 body. Old Daniel, who closed his house at 
 eleven o'clock, had gone to bed an hour ago ; 
 but Dinah was sitting up for her son, and on 
 his entry she saw that he was sullen and out of 
 temper. Indeed, George's tenor voice did not 
 often make home musical. 
 
 ' I've laid out a nice bit o' supper for you, 
 George,' said Dinah, quaking a little, but affect- 
 ing not to see the lowering look upon his face. 
 
 ' I don't want any supper,' said George, 
 throwing himself moodily into an armchair, 
 and diving both hands deep into his pockets. 
 
 ' Won't you eat a bit, my dear ? ' asked 
 Dinah. 
 
 'No,' said George, with undignified 
 mockery ; ' I won't eat a bit, my dear. Who 
 the deuce asked you to sit up for me ? ' 
 
 Dinah returned no answer ; and the young 
 man, whose sulks were always a little young- 
 womanish, felt a feminine sense of spite at her 
 quietude. It angered him more than any 
 retort would have done. 
 
 ' Confound it ! ' he broke out, his tenor 
 voice sounding in its petulance quite shrill and
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 173 
 
 querulous, ' can't you leave a man alone ? 
 Sitting up to watch what time of night I come 
 in, and spying on me when I go out ! You can 
 go to bed now, anyway.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear,' said Dinah submissively, ' I will. 
 But I wish you'd eat a bit.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' snapped Miss Donne's lover, 
 ' you'll have your wish for your trouble. Go 
 to bed.' 
 
 The last straw breaks the camel's back, but, 
 before that consummation can be arrived at, a 
 good many straws must have been heaped up. 
 Dinah's womanly patience had endured for four- 
 and-twenty years, and through all that dreary 
 time she had kept her secret. She had often 
 so yearned to tell it to her son, that her whole 
 soul had seemed to ache with the effort of re- 
 pression, and every fibre of her body had 
 thrilled with unsatisfied longing. But she had 
 never been so near to the actual revelation 
 as she was now. Human affection, like every- 
 thing else in the world, is intermittent, and has 
 its ebbs and flows. The tide of motherly long- 
 ing and unsatisfied desire of love had been
 
 174 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 running high all day in Dinah's heart. She 
 did not cry easily ; women who have endured 
 real and lasting sorrows rarely do, for tears 
 have a knack of wearing out their channel 
 when they run too freely. But at George's last 
 rebuff the water sprang to her eyes with a 
 bitter little pang of actual physical pain, and 
 with glistening eyes she laid a timid hand upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 '1 wish you'd be a bit kinder with me, 
 George,' she said. 
 
 'Then, why the dickens don't you let a 
 man alone? ' responded the injured George. 
 
 The urgent affection in the mother's heart 
 overflowed all bounds but one. She put her 
 arms about her son's neck, and laid her cheek 
 against his. 
 
 'You don't know how I love you, my 
 darling,' she said ; ' do give me a little bit o' 
 love back again, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, be hanged! ' said George. 
 
 Dinah withdrew her hands and stood up as 
 if he had struck her. There was at least this 
 one poor excuse for the son of the errant Joe,
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 175 
 
 that he had no knowledge of the real relation- 
 ship between Dinah and himself. Perhaps one 
 other excuse he had may be reckoned a little 
 more cogent. He was a cad through and 
 through, and, being what he was, had no capa- 
 city for the understanding of any unselfish 
 love ; and, wanting that capacity, could scarcely 
 guess his own power to wound. Let the 
 student of human nature be honest, and strive 
 to do justice to everybody. How far a cad is 
 answerable for being a cad is a subtle and per- 
 plexing question. Only a fool would break a 
 half-gallon jug for not holding a gallon. 
 
 ' Why don't you get married ? ' said George ; 
 ' you've had chances enough. There's that 
 fellow BLince has asked you three times already, 
 and he's always hanging about the house now.' 
 
 Dinah stood silent. ]\Ir. Hince was a 
 butcher, of prosperous circumstances and more 
 than middle age, and a second time widowed. 
 Some time before the death of his second wife 
 this gentleman had expressed his intention of 
 making Dinah IVIrs. EQnce the third. So far as 
 so gentle and affectionate a creature was able
 
 176 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 to hate anybody, Dinali hated the prosperous 
 butcher. 
 
 ' Why don't you marry him ? ' said George, 
 newly aggrieved by the withdrawal of the 
 caress which had oJBTended him and by her 
 silence ; ' you'd better. I don't want to have 
 you on my hands all my life long.' 
 
 'Good-night, George,' said Dinah. 
 
 George was too surly to answer even so 
 small an overture of peace as this. But the 
 last word was precious to him, and he re- 
 sponded, ' Just you remember that ! ' 
 
 ' Good night,' said Dinah meekly once 
 more. 
 
 ' Just you remember that ! ' her son re- 
 peated, and she withdrew to her own room. 
 
 This, and many a hke scene which had 
 gone before it, seemed to her self-accusing 
 mind the fit and proper punishment of the 
 deceit she had practised so many years ago. 
 She was not clever enough to formulate it to 
 herself; but she thought all punishment the 
 natural outgrowth of crime, and her own 
 girhsh yielding to her lover's impetuous
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 177 
 
 demands for a secret marriage had long since 
 assumed criminal dimensions in her eyes. 
 Dinah being thus summarily and triumphantly 
 disposed of, it occurred to George that he did 
 want his supper after all, and he sat down to 
 the dish she had provided, and cleared it with a 
 gusto rather increased than otherwise by the 
 memory of the rebuff he had administered. As 
 almost anybody who ever beguiled an even- 
 ing by the consumption of alcoholic liquors 
 knows, there is a midnight appetite which 
 makes food singularly enjoyable, and George 
 enjoyed his supper. He drank a glass or two 
 of whisky after it, and went to bed, arising late 
 in the morning to breakfast on brandy and 
 soda. Beincf blessed with a grood constitution 
 to begin with, he freshened up on this unsub- 
 stantial diet, and, after a stroll, returned to the 
 homely midday Sunday dinner, and played a 
 decent knife and fork there. An hour after 
 dinner, carefully groomed and dressed in ex- 
 cellent taste, he walked to Quarrymoor, and, 
 encountering Ethel in the fields, greeted her in 
 his best manner with a winning smile. The 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 tenor voice was pleasant in the girl's ears, and 
 she had no guess as to how querulous it might 
 be. In the hours of courtship young people, 
 for the most part, see only the best side of each 
 other. I will not do Ethel the injustice to say 
 that she had but one side to show ; but at this 
 time, as nearly always, the best side declared 
 itself naturally and without effort. She thought 
 very highly of her companion, and though not 
 yet in love with him, she walked with a cer- 
 tain tremulous gaiety towards the bound- 
 aries of love's demesne, not altogether un- 
 conscious of the direction in which her steps 
 were tending. 
 
 George himself, as becomes the male 
 animal under such circumstances, had more 
 pronounced and decided views with regard to 
 his own intentions. When a man is young, he 
 can fall in love with a pretty woman after a 
 fashion, without developing any particular 
 nobilities of sentiment. George was not uncul- 
 tured. His taste in poetry was not the highest; 
 but he had read a certain quantity of British 
 verse, and knew, or thought he knew, the sen-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 179 
 
 timents whicli were proper to entertain under 
 the circumstances. The beauties of nature, for 
 instance, came into his scheme of things, and he 
 invited Miss Donne to listen to the strains of a 
 skylark which made double holiday in the 
 Sunday air, freer of smoke-wreaths than com- 
 mon. He stood with her upon the wooden 
 bridge that crossed a small bickering stream, 
 and asked her to guess in what key its mur- 
 mm^ed music ran. This enquiry quite charmed 
 Ethel, seemim^ to indicate a love at once for 
 nature and for art. When a young woman is dis- 
 posed to think well of you, you need not be very 
 clever for her to think you clever, or a pattern 
 of sweet temper for her to think you amiable. 
 There are not many things more pathetic 
 than the trustful willingness of almost any girl 
 to be led into a false estimate of character under 
 such conditions. Titania can fall in love with 
 Bottom the weaver, and give Oberon and Puck 
 no pains to plot against her. She is happy if 
 she wakes from her dream before the golden 
 circle has bound the ass-headed clown and the 
 fairy queen irrevocably together. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 josunrs coat. 
 
 Love is an idolater, worshipping the 
 poorest idol with the completest faith, gilding the 
 base earth of which the image is compact until 
 it looks like gold and taking it for gold. And 
 the worst of it is that no wit or worth or wisdom 
 can save any man or woman from this amazing 
 folly. To have a statue of all imaginable ex- 
 cellences set up in your holy of holies, and to be 
 afraid to scratch lest you should find the clay 
 below the gilding ! To have the ungilded 
 original entering that sacred place and smash- 
 ing the statue ! 
 
 Perhaps, when she went into the fields that 
 afternoon, Ethel was not altogether free of 
 fancy that the young gentleman with the tenor 
 voice and the brown eyes might, by good 
 fortune, meet her. It is certain that when she 
 encountered him the air had suddenly grown 
 sunnier, and the quiet landscape brighter. She 
 had offered George no hospitality on the pre- 
 vious day, not caring probably to make John 
 Keen free of the farmhouse parlour ; but when, 
 after a long-drawn stroll, George offered to say 
 ' Good-bye ' at the gate, she asked him in, and
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 181 
 
 he, without even a pretence of polite rekictance, 
 accepted her invitation. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Ethel, ' you remember Mr. 
 Banks ? ' 
 
 Of course the old lady remembered him 
 well, and lie was received wdth much cordiahty. 
 There was something so particular in her 
 mother's manner, though George did not see it, 
 and was not intended to see it, that the girl 
 blushed two or three times as the three sat 
 together at the tea-table. George found him- 
 self, so to speak, in clover. The juicy, home- 
 made bread, the firm, pale-golden butter, the 
 fragrant tea, were each and all pleasant in their 
 way. The young lady's manner was everything 
 that could be hoped for ; the mother was 
 courteous, and evidently pleased to see him ; 
 and he was enough in love with Ethel to find 
 even her unassisted presence charming. 
 
 Tea being over, they had a little sacred 
 music before church, and after the sacred music 
 they walked to the ugly old Norman edifice 
 together. After church two or three of the 
 neighbours dropped in, and they had a little
 
 182 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 more sacred music, Mr. Banks being the central 
 figure of the evening. Then came supper, and, 
 by something hke common consent, a seat was 
 found for him next to Ethel's, and in the virgin's 
 innocent heart arose and radiated those little 
 electric flashes which begin with nearness when 
 love begins. Tliis Sunday evening was the 
 precursor of many similarly spent ; and George, 
 in a tacit way, became recognised by the 
 neighbourhood as Miss Donne's suitor. 
 
 On the Monday following this particular 
 Sunday the Wrongful Heir turned up at his 
 offices. 
 
 ' I've been thinkin', Mr. Banks, about what 
 you asked me o' Saturday,' said he. ' You can 
 have your Wednesday afternoons, seein' as you 
 want to attend to your father's business, and I 
 shall expect you to give me an extra hour or 
 two on Monday nights, private, at my own 
 house. Will that suit you ? ' 
 
 The Eightful Heir, with iugratiatory smile, 
 became fluent in acknowledgment. The 
 arrangement would suit him admirably. It 
 was understood that the said arrangement
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 183 
 
 should be and remain in force until further 
 orders. But I regret to say that old Daniel's 
 business received no profit from it, for the 
 holiday was invariably employed in a visit to 
 Quarrymoor. The arrangement for Monday 
 evening brought Pdghtful Heir and Wrongfid 
 Heir more close together than they had ever 
 been before, and George got to know a good 
 deal about his employer's private concerns. He 
 could guess, with a fair approach to accuracy, 
 how much the old man was worth ; and he 
 knew, with tolerable exactness, in what direc- 
 tions his money was invested. Old George 
 found him very smart and apt, and felt himself 
 reheved of much labour by the new arrange- 
 ment. It was not in his nature to trust anybody 
 very far ; but he gave young George more of 
 his confidence than he had ever given elsewhere, 
 and the young man repaid him by a sleek and 
 well-conditioned assiduity. Almost any sort of 
 human arrangement is liable to grow out of its 
 original bounds, and Mi\ Banks in course of a 
 month or two was not in the least sm-prised to 
 find himself translated from his stool in the
 
 184 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 office to tlie chair of private secretary in Mr. 
 BuslielFs own house. This brought with it an 
 increase of salary and an increase of freedom, 
 and George began to make a consideaable figure 
 in the town. It was generally said that old 
 Bushell, who had not a single creature belong- 
 ing to him, might not improbably leave at least 
 a slice of his vast fortune to young Banks. 
 This kind of rumour is apt, in little conntry 
 places, to bring about results more or less 
 practical, and George's tenor voice was heard 
 in drawing-rooms whose occupants were quite 
 outside the Saracen's homely sphere. 
 
 The summer had gone, and the harvest was 
 over and ended. The fields at Quarrymoor 
 Farm, lately thick with waving wheat and 
 barley, looked threadbare and waste. Here 
 and there a meagre covey rose from the stubble 
 when a chance footstep crossed the lonelier 
 fields. The trees were slowly firing towards 
 the flush of beauty which heralds winter and 
 their own bereavement. Love's little idyll had, 
 of course, been writing itself out all this time 
 line by line, and Ethel had learned many things.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 185 
 
 Mr. Banks had not yet formally proposed ; but 
 he had been very near it once or twice, and 
 Ethel was quite content to wait, and to leave 
 unspoiled that delicious maiden uncertainty 
 which yet was certain. Love is a rare epicure. 
 Whilst George's tenor voice had been grow- 
 ing sweeter and sweeter for Ethel's ears, and 
 she had been translating into him all the charm 
 of her owm nature, and, with no egotism, 
 worshipping her own heart's reflection, John 
 Keen had been walking in the same path with 
 George. There was an uneasy sense between 
 the old companions that w^ar was coming, and, 
 although the rivalry between them had never 
 been openly declared as yet, it was none the 
 less recognised. It broke out at last in an un- 
 expected w^ay. John's chronic w^ar with the 
 Eeverend Jabez Wallier, of Zion, had reached 
 an acute stage, and the young sinner had written 
 rhymes about the parson. The Eeverend Jabez 
 had carried the war back into the enemy's 
 country, and had pubhshed a pamphlet in which 
 he had pointedly set forth his belief that John 
 had the sign of the beast in his forehead. The
 
 186 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 young man's sense of humour being tickled, lie 
 wrote further verses, which to the Eeverend 
 Jabez really represented themselves as being 
 the very versified voice of the pit. Even the 
 average churchgoers were shocked ; and John, 
 to his own distaste, found himself on a sudden 
 the hero of that section of the town he liked 
 least of all. The Vicar of Quarrymoor loved a 
 joke and hated a Dissenter, and, one or two 
 copies of John's verses having fallen into his 
 hands, he disseminated them, with less judg- 
 ment than might have been expected of him. 
 Somehow, the knowledge of this pouring forth 
 of John's muse got to Ethel's ears, and she was 
 alarmed for George. That sweet-minded young 
 man was orthodox and had no sense of humour ; 
 and one can readily imagine the dread an 
 innocent girl might feel, lest a free-thinking 
 firebrand of a fellow, who could publicly chaff 
 a preacher, should communicate his baleful 
 fires to her sweetheart. She warned George 
 against him. 
 
 ' He is an old and valued friend of mine,' 
 said that good creature. He was very glad of
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 187 
 
 a chance to throw John over and be rid of him ; 
 but if he did it for Ethel's sake, it would be 
 something in his own favour. ' And I have not 
 read the verses. It would be unjust to con- 
 demn him without a trial.' 
 
 That was obviously fair, and Ethel admitted 
 it. She was a httle afraid of John, apart from 
 theological questions ; for he came courting in 
 a dogged manner, praising her to her face 
 without disguise, and blurting out his admira- 
 tion with a resolved shamefacedness which was 
 hard to hear. 
 
 'I don't ask you to leave him unkindly,' 
 said Ethel ; and added, with blushing haste, ' I 
 have no right to ask you anything— but ' 
 
 'You have a right to ask me anything,' 
 said George, who was always in these days 
 hovering on the brink of an actual declara- 
 tion, and always shrinking back again. I 
 will read the verses, and if I find them as 
 bad as they have been represented, I shall not 
 hesitate.' 
 
 There the question dropped; but when 
 the rivals, successful and unsuccessful, next
 
 188 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 encountered eacli other, George opened fire 
 upon his old companion. Whatever a man 
 does, it is worth while to do it thoroughly ; 
 and George, being for the moment orthodox, 
 surprised himself by the religious fervour of his 
 own feelings. The interview took place in the 
 street. John, with his shocking bad hat on 
 the back of his head and his pipe in his mouth, 
 lounged on to meet his rival, who was cap-a- 
 pie in the latest devices of male fashion. 
 
 ' I've been waiting for an opportunity to 
 speak to you,' said George, with such a sensa- 
 tion as a man might feel if some important part 
 of him were dissolving inside. True courage, 
 it may be argued, consists in the facing of 
 one's own fears. A man may behave with 
 magnificent pluck though lie wants to run 
 away all the time. 
 
 'Ah ! ' said John, suspicious of the truth. 
 
 'I hope,' said George, 'that you will be 
 able to deny the authorship of those black- 
 guard verses addressed to Mr. Wallier.' The 
 versifier looked at him and gave him time to
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 189 
 
 go on. ' They are attributed to you,' George 
 added uncomfortably. 
 
 ' Have you read 'em ? ' enquired the versi- 
 fier. 
 
 'I regret to say I have,' responded George. 
 If you examine this response with verbal 
 subtlety, you will discover that it was not a lie. 
 There was something in his rival's manner 
 which gave the versifier an inkling of the 
 truth. 
 
 ' ITever mind what you regret,' said John. 
 ' Have you read 'em ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said George, lying this time plump 
 and clean, though against his conscience. 
 ' Did you write them ? ' 
 
 'Hit Jabez w^here he lived, didn't they?' 
 asked John elliptically. 'Yes, yes. I wrote 
 'em. What about 'em ? ' 
 
 ' I regret,' said George, almost startled to 
 notice how much his pious anger helped him, 
 ' to learn that the popular accusation is based 
 on truth. You w^ill see that, after this, it is 
 not very likely that we can know each other.'
 
 190 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Clearly/ said Jolm ; and, dull as lie was, 
 the other felt the satire. 
 
 ' Good-day,' said George stiffly. ^ 
 
 ' Wait a bit,' said Keen ; and for a second 
 or two the young men faced each other in 
 silence. ' Before we part, I've a word to say.' 
 There was another pause. 'No, I won't say 
 it now, because I mean it, and after what has 
 happened you'd misunderstand me.' 
 
 ' If you have anything to say,' said George, 
 ' pray say it now. I shall certainly be unwilling 
 to offer you another opportunity.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said John, with the air of one 
 who is too tired to be scornful. ' You and I 
 know why we part.' 
 
 ' We part,' said George, ' because of your 
 indecent violation of things w^hich I have been 
 taught to consider sacred. I'm not a saint ' — 
 John nodded with his customary dry smile — 
 * but there are some things I can't stand, 
 
 and ' 
 
 ' J. K. at Quarrymoor is one of 'em,' said 
 J. K. quietly. ' We both know.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 191 
 
 ' I am at a loss to understand you,' returned 
 George. 
 
 ' Are you ? ' tlie other asked. ' I'm very 
 glad of it, because it simplifies matters. We 
 have but one quarrel, and only the odium 
 theologicum divides us.' 
 
 ' Let me know at once what you have to 
 say/ demanded George with some asperity. 
 
 ' I'll say nothing worse than good-bye,' 
 John answered ; and the old companions 
 parted. The condemned satirist pulled his 
 shocking bad hat from the back of his head low 
 upon his brows, and walked on. 
 
 ' She'll marry that fellow,' he mused sadly 
 and bitterly. ' It would have been of no use 
 to warn him at any time, I suppose, and we 
 should only have quarrelled outright if I had 
 warned him now. I wonder if she had heard 
 of me and the Eeverend Jabez ? Might have 
 frightened her. I don't care much about 
 pubhc opinion, but I don't want her to think ill 
 of me. Pooh ! ^Yhat does it matter what she 
 thinks of me? If she can only think well of
 
 192 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 him ! — that's enough for me to pray for.' The 
 young man went on until he came to the front 
 of the Dudley Arms, and there somebody 
 rounding the corner suddenly ran against him. 
 It turned out to be the Eeverend Jabez, who, 
 without apology, hurried on his way. ' I beg 
 your pardon, sir ! ' cried John with a smile as 
 the parson scuttled along the High Street ; but 
 before the verse-writer had turned again the 
 smile had faded, and he walked on with a 
 melancholy countenance and a heavy heart. 
 No man of five-and-twenty can endure with 
 equanimity to be crossed in love. And least of 
 all can any young gentleman endure to be 
 thrown away for a rival whom he knows to be 
 unworthy.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 193 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Geokge Baxks seems inclined, up to now, to 
 turn out badly, as young gentlemen T^itli the 
 sweetest of tenor voices, the silkiest of 
 moustaches, and the suavest manners, have un- 
 happily done before him. The Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast Table speaks of a Thomas who in- 
 cludes three Thomases — the Thomas you know, 
 the Thomas Thomas knows, and the Thomas 
 God made. All men have their various sides, 
 but the width of difference which can lie 
 between a good woman's apprehension of her 
 lover and the man's real nature is rarely 
 equalled elsewhere. To Ethel. George was a 
 hero ; and when, after no more than a six 
 months' courtship, he asked her to marry him, 
 she consented, and thought herself the happiest 
 and most honoured of women. There is pro- 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 bably a strong family likeness between one pro- 
 posal of marriage and another, and it seems 
 likely that there is no equally important move- 
 ment made in life in which men's idiosyncrasies 
 assert themselves less freely. 
 
 There had been great efforts made to fit up 
 the new organ at Quarrymoor Church in time 
 for the Christmas festival, and, the important 
 work being finished, Ethel, one evening a fort- 
 night before the sacred day, sent round a shock- 
 headed farm boy to the bellows, drew out the 
 stops, laid her hands upon the keys, and for the 
 first time heard the new voice speak to her. It 
 was quite an event in her life, and a score of 
 the people amongst whom her simple days had 
 been spent were there to share the pleasure of 
 it. There had been finer organs built than this ; 
 but eloquence dwells in the heart of the hearer 
 rather than in the voice of the speaker, and 
 Miss Donne had a sort of right of ownership in 
 the new instrument, and, though a more than 
 commonly good musician, w^ould have been 
 charmed with one much poorer. As the music 
 woke from the great square chest in which
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, ]95 
 
 until now it had slumbered, it was like the 
 awakening of a soul to life. And as the new 
 soul, with widespread, slow-sounding majestic 
 pinions, fanned its way towards heaven, the 
 player's seemed to follow it, and to hover, 
 clothed in sweetness, high above this mere 
 earth, and its little cares and griefs and un- 
 heroic joys. But she had been no lover if 
 George's soul had not seemed to hover side by 
 side with hers, borne up by the storm- wind of 
 the music. George was not in the organ-loft, 
 though he had begged hard to be allowed to 
 accompany her there. Nobody hkes to be 
 seen at a disadvantage. St. Cecilia seated 
 before tlie organ-pipes with an angel looking 
 at her makes a pretty picture, but the lady pro- 
 bably played in her own primitive days without 
 the use of pedals. There is a good deal of un- 
 graceful labour in playing an organ, and Ethel 
 knew it, and gave George the benefit of her 
 knowledge, compelling him to sit ^vith the rest 
 in the body of the church. Music hath charms 
 to soothe the savage breast, to soften rocks and 
 rend the knotted oak. George Banks was an 
 
 2
 
 196 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 emotional person, with some knowledge of 
 music and a considerable liking for it, and, over 
 and beyond this, he was in love. He could lie 
 upon occasion, and he could be ungenerous 
 and ungracious with anybody who was too 
 weak to punish him ; but these faculties are not 
 incompatible with the existence of the power to 
 compass emotional pleasures. His soul also, or 
 what passed for it, took an owl's flight after the 
 dove-flight of Ethel's and the eagle-soaring of 
 the music, and his love mixed with the organ 
 tones and they with it, until his greenish-brown 
 eyes were glistening with easy tears. He had 
 time to be proud of this manifestation of a cul- 
 tured and impressible nature before the music 
 ceased, and was sorry that Ethel was not there 
 to see the artistic moisture in his eyes. When 
 she came down he told her of it, and praised 
 the beauty of her playing. They walked home 
 together, and nobody was stupid enough to try 
 to come between them, or to distract the atten- 
 tion of either of the lovers from the other. 
 
 Anything was welcome at Quarrymoor 
 Farm which gave an occasion for hospitality ;
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 197 
 
 and, as a matter of course, tliis trial of the new 
 organ presented a capital opportunity. The 
 maids had set out a supper-table in the old- 
 fashioned parlour — a noble piece of beef, a 
 juicy ham, home-bred and home-cured, a 
 saddle of mutton : all cold, but flanked by 
 steaming dishes of hot potatoes, and supported 
 by vast loaves of home -baked bread on 
 trenchers, and foaming jugs of liome-brewed 
 ale. A meal for hungry people, on a night 
 when the keen air made even lovers sharp-set 
 in appetite. Uncle Borge was there, a wizened 
 man in black ; and Aunt Borge, a fat lady in 
 blue, who sat down to supper in her bonnet, 
 as a hint that her society might be looked for 
 no longer than the meal should last. The 
 Vicar was there, radiant ; and j\Ir. Hick, the 
 miller, an ardent politician ; and Mrs. Hick, 
 the miller's wife. In all, a dozen people sat 
 down to that generous board ; Ethel and 
 George being side by side as usual. 
 
 ' Now, Mr. Hick,' said Uncle Borge, ' what 
 do you think about this here Conservative re- 
 haction ? '
 
 198 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 'Why,' returned the miller, 'I think as 
 it's of a piece wi' welly (well nigh) every- 
 thin'.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mr. Borge. ' Do you, now ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I remember,' said Mr. Hick, ' when 
 the bread riots was on i' Bilston, when the 
 flour was that bad as the bread 'ud run out o' 
 th' ovens. The Toery party was i' power i' 
 them days.' 
 
 ' Was 'em ? ' asked Uncle Borge ; ' an' wheer 
 was De Isreeayly then ? ' 
 
 'Well,' said the miller, ' I don't rightly 
 know as he'd come up ; not a lot.' 
 
 ' JSTo ? ' said Uncle Borge. 
 
 ' He was some wheer about, I mek no doubt,' 
 said Mr. Hick. ' Thee may'st bet thy head he 
 was up to summat even i' them days.' 
 
 ' Ah, to be sure ! ' said Uncle Borge, with 
 the air of a man convinced by abstruse argu- 
 ment. A second supply of beef for Mr. Hick 
 and of mutton for Uncle Borge arriving simul- 
 taneously, the discussion was allowed to slum- 
 ber. The miller welcomed this diversion, not 
 being so sure of the company as he would
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 199 
 
 have been at tlie King's Arms at Quarrymoor. 
 The Vicar daunted him a Httle. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Donne,' said Mr. Hick, raising 
 his glass in the next pause, ' I mightn't see thee 
 again not afore Christmas ; an' so, here's a 
 merry Christmas an' a happy New Year to thee 
 an' thine. Mrs. Donne, ma'am, I drink to you. 
 My respects to you^ sir,' to the Vicar ; ' Missis, 
 to Mrs. Hick, ' my opinion on you.' 
 
 ' James '11 allays tek a chance for a merry 
 word,' said Mrs. Hick, apologetically, to the 
 Vicar. 
 
 ' And why not ? ' asked the Vicar. ' Mr. 
 Hick, I follow yoiu: example, and drink to the 
 general health of the whole table. Ladies and 
 gentlemen, a merry Christmas and a happy 
 New Year.' Everybody sipped in answer to 
 this sentiment, and George, glass in hand, 
 murmured in Ethel's ear— 
 
 ' A happy New Year, Miss Donne.' 
 
 Ethel tm^ned and answered, ' A happy New 
 Year.' 
 
 She had caught his tone of voice, as sym- 
 pathetic people often do, and she half- whispered
 
 200 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 the words, with a smile. He ventured on what 
 he had never done before, and, first touching 
 her hand beneath the table and finding^ it 
 imwithdrawn, he clasped it in his own. She 
 made a faint, a very faint, effort to remove it ; 
 and, he resisting ever so slightly, she let it rest 
 for a brief second or two. After that she sate 
 in a pleasant confusion, whilst Uncle Borge and 
 Mr. Hick talked about the ' staiit o' traad ' and 
 kindred matters. 
 
 ' Our Borge/ said the stout lady in blue, 
 ' 'ud sit an' talk all night if a body'd let him.' 
 Thin Uncle Borge took this as a signal to be 
 gone, and arose in obedience to it. The other 
 guests followed his example, but George dared 
 to linger. Ethel had thrown a shawl about 
 her head and had run out to the gate to repeat 
 her wishes for a merry Christmas. The 
 friendly voices burthened with the local drawl 
 came back, borne down the snow-covered lane 
 on the clear air with a genial crispness in the 
 toi:te, when George emerged in his great-coat 
 from the house and intercepted Miss Donne's 
 return. Perhaps Miss Donne was willing to
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 201 
 
 have her return intercepted — perhaps she had 
 even run out of doors for a purpose of her 
 own. How would the dumsy male creature 
 make chances for the utterance of his senti- 
 ments in this sort of case unless he were 
 assisted ? 
 
 ' You'll wish me a merry Christmas, won't 
 you, Miss Donne P ' asked George. 
 
 * Yes,' said Ethel, ' a merry Christmas.' 
 
 ' And a happy Xew Year ? ' the young man 
 asked. 
 
 'I shall see you again before the Xew 
 Year,' she answered. 
 
 ' Won't you wish me a happy Xew Year ? ' 
 he asked again. ' Won't you give me a happy 
 Xew Year ? — the happiest new year I ever had 
 in my life ! ' Ethel murmured an inaudible 
 something — she herself scarcely knew what. 
 But she knew that by this time she was in 
 George's arms, and that he was working with 
 the fingers of one hand to free her face from 
 the shawl which obscured it. When he had 
 achieved that object he kissed her, and the 
 tenor voice murmured at her ear, tellina' how
 
 202 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 long George liad loved lier and liow dearly, and 
 how it should be the one effort of his life to 
 make her happy, and calling her his angel and 
 his darling. It is quite a commonplace sort of 
 matter to write about or to read about in a 
 novel, and George did it all in the orthodox 
 manner ; but it is curious to notice how fresh 
 it is when one meets with it outside books. 
 With George it was perhaps more a matter of 
 the youth of blood than a matter of the affec- 
 tions ; but, as I have said already, some people 
 do not find nobility of sentiment a necessary 
 appurtenance to love, and he was at least more 
 in earnest than he had ever been before, and 
 meant all he said ; and could not, indeed, find 
 words to say a hundredth part enough. Ethel 
 had no need of any words of her own just then. 
 She could let her lover speak for both, and his 
 words were sweeter than sweet. But at last — 
 and the whole thing lasted scarcely more than 
 a minute — George felt his kisses answered once, 
 only once, and she was gone. He went home- 
 wards triumphing ; and, what with his triumph 
 and the clear exhilarating air, he felt so full
 
 JOSEPirS COAT, 203 
 
 of life and gladness that he must needs run at 
 full speed every now and again, so that the 
 four miles between himself and home were 
 covered in forty minutes, and he reached the 
 Saracen bri^rht and flushed, and lookino^ for 
 once in his life downright handsome. He 
 greeted Dinah good-humouredly when he met 
 her in one of the passages, and, pushing by, 
 reached the little snuggery — so unchanged, 
 during this fonr-and-twenty years, that a pic- 
 ture of it drawn in the old days would still 
 answer for it almost to a bottle — and there 
 found Daniel scorchincr his thin less beFore a 
 rousing fire, and with fat white hands feebly 
 encouragins: his dig;estive organs, as on the 
 night when we first saw him. 
 
 ' Father,' said the young man, throwing ofi* 
 his overcoat and tiurning his face away a Httle, 
 'I've news for vou. I am encracred to be 
 
 «/ DC 
 
 married.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the old man quietly. ' Can the 
 young woman keep thee ? ' 
 
 ' I hope to be able to keep the young lady,' 
 George answered in afiront.
 
 204 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 ' Engaaged to be married, beest thee?' 
 asked Daniel. ' It's a bit sudden-like, ain't it, 
 George, lad ? Who is it ? Maid or widder ? ' 
 
 ' The lady is Miss Ethel Donne, of Quarry- 
 moor Earm,' George answered. 
 
 'I thought as theer was summat a-tekin' 
 thee out to Quarry moor,' chuckled Daniel with 
 an asthmatic wheeze. 'Donne? I knowin' 
 the naam, I thinkin'. Ah ! John Donne, he 
 was a farmer out theer. Is her a daughter of 
 hisn ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said George ; ' Miss Donne lives at 
 the farm. She is an only child.' 
 
 ' I reckon her'll be pretty warm, then ? ' 
 said Daniel. 
 
 ' Her mother has only a life-interest,' said 
 George complacently. ' The farm is a freehold 
 of more than three hundred acres, and she will 
 have other J3roperty besides.' 
 
 ' Very well, then,' said Daniel, with another 
 asthmatic chuckle, ' I'm ready to dance at the 
 weddin'. I should like to live to nuss a grand- 
 child o' mine, though I don't reckon on it. I'm 
 a-gettin' to be very old, George. I'm a-gettin'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 205 
 
 main old. I'm three years i' front o' Jim 
 Bonser, and they say as he's a-dyin'. Well, 
 well, well ! Tell Diner I want her.' 
 
 ' Dinah/ said George, ' your father wants 
 you.' 
 
 ' What is it, fatlier ? ^ asked Dinah, entering 
 quietly. 
 
 'Your brother George is engaaged to be 
 married,' said Daniel ; ' what d'ye think o' 
 that ? ' 
 
 Here, as always, Dinah's secret stared her 
 in the face. If she could but have claimed 
 George for her child, and have given him a 
 mother's sympathy and a mother's congratu- 
 lations ! 
 
 'Who is it, George?' she asked tenderly. 
 He answered more kindly than he had spoken 
 to her for years. 
 
 ' ]\Iiss Donne, at Quarrymoor.' 
 
 'The young lady who plays the organ 
 at church ? ' cried Dinah. ' Why, George, 
 she's the prettiest gell in all this part o' the 
 country.' 
 
 ' Isn't she ? ' said George.
 
 206 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 'And such a good gell, too, from all I 
 hear,' said motherly Dmah. 'Why, my dear, 
 you are fortunate ! ' 
 
 'When be you agom' off the hooks, 
 Diner?' cried old Daniel. 'I'm afeard, my 
 gell, as you've overstayed your market^' 
 
 ' Yes, father,' said poor Dinah, ' I've over- 
 stayed the market.' 
 
 'There's no pleasin' some folks,' said her 
 father. ' You've had chance enough ; but 
 you've never seemed to tek a likin' to none on 
 'em, 'cept p'raps as it was young Joe Bushell, 
 an' he's been dead, I count, these 'ears and 
 'ears.' 
 
 Dinah had never even heard the errant 
 Joe's name since her mother's death, ten 
 years ago and more. You may guess 
 what a wound the ignorant words made. 
 But she was used to endurance, and she gave 
 no sign. 
 
 ' If you'd ha' struck up wi' young Joe,' said 
 Daniel, ' you'd ha' been main rich now. An' I 
 shouldn't ha' sent you to bed wi' your husband 
 naked, if you had ha' married. Joe'd ha' had
 
 JOSEPirS COAT. 207 
 
 everythin' as George's master's got, an' at one 
 time I thought you'd mek a match on it.' 
 
 What a very patent secret the two young 
 people's love-making must have been, after all ! 
 
 Dinah kissed George, and congratulated 
 him with all her heart. The young man for 
 once accepted her caresses, and she went to 
 bed almost happy, but full of such thoughts as 
 you may fancy. George himself was too 
 excited to sleep for some two or three hours 
 after getting into bed, and lay tumbhng in a 
 way which, under the circumstances, might 
 seem unnatural ; but George had a variety of 
 subjects to think about, and the cross-winds 
 and cross-ciurents of thought tossed the mental 
 barque about rather wildly. For one thing, he 
 was of course going to reform ; for, in spite of 
 the airs he had taken with his old companion, 
 he could not lie alone in the darkness of the 
 night thinking of Ethel, and fail to acknowledge 
 that some small reforms in him were needed. 
 To a conscience not over-tender, shilling pool 
 may seem a sufficiently harmless entertainment, 
 but one of George's vows was against its seduc-
 
 208 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 tions. It was easy, by the aid of a little small bet- 
 ting, to lose a pound or two in an evening even 
 at shilling pool ; and when a man of limited in- 
 come tests his resources in that way five even- 
 ings out of six, he bids fair to get into trouble. 
 In fact, George had borrowed a good bit of 
 money, say a hundred pounds, over and above 
 the ' debts of honour ' ; and though old Daniel 
 was well-to-do, George was not too sure of get- 
 ting money from him except by a method 
 which, in the light of his own connection with 
 Miss Donne, seemed unworthy of him. An 
 only son ought, of course, to be welcome to 
 take from a well-to-do father a share of what 
 wdll one day be his own, and the young man 
 had acted upon this principle with some fre- 
 dom in bygone small emergencies. There are 
 some things a man must take a bold face with, 
 if he desire to have his own way and hve in 
 peace ; and conscience is one of them. George 
 had been apt to deride the utterances of his in- 
 ward monitor, accusing it of cant and over- 
 susceptibihty ; but somehow the accusations 
 seemed at this time to stick in his throat, and
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 209 
 
 Ethel presided in a new court of conscience, 
 and gave ruling against him on a hundred 
 matters in which he had been apt to rule in 
 his own favour. Well, he was o-oingr to be a 
 
 ' DO 
 
 new man and start afresh. It was unfair and 
 injurious that, under the chcumstances, he 
 could not wipe the slate clean of the old 
 record. His troubles were small enough. He 
 was going to marry a wealthy wife, and would 
 himself in due time inherit a nice little fortune. 
 What has been done once may be done again, 
 and George had borrowed already. To fill one 
 hole he must dig another ; and though the 
 second hole must necessarily be a little larger 
 than the first, it need scarcely be big enough to 
 bury himself in. 
 
 Yet in a httle while his debts worried him, 
 and not without cause. Mr. Curtice, who was 
 supposed to be a sohcitor, and was a bilhard- 
 sharp, horse-chaunter, Jew usurer's tout, and 
 so on, was a man who knew how to be exigent, 
 and it w^as to him that George applied for help. 
 ]\Ir. Curtice was helpful first and exigent after- 
 wards. George's life became a nuisance to 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 liim. The billiard-sliarping solicitor dogged 
 him with threats of open proceedings ; and, as 
 most of us know by experience, folly looks 
 extra-foolish when threatened with detection, 
 and mere peccadilloes in the dawn of exposure 
 assume aspects mean and criminal. When, by 
 way of miracle, we do see ourselves as others 
 are likely to see us, we are rarely flattered. 
 There was a way out of trouble which some 
 people would have called mean ; but after all, 
 when George had looked at it long enough, he 
 felt the path a just one, and took it. There are 
 actions by no means reprehensible, for the per- 
 formance of which one desires a clear field ; 
 and George, though he knew himself justified, 
 wished for secresy. His plan was simple — he 
 had resolved to antedate possession of a little 
 portion of his own : he was going, in short, to 
 rob his fiither. Now, that is an action about 
 which many theories may be constructed, and 
 in this case there were many excuses for it. 
 Daniel had greatly more money than he wanted ; 
 George was his undisputed heir : and yet the old 
 man was parsimonious. And whom is a high-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 211 
 
 spirited young fellow to rob if not his own 
 father ? In brief, George silenced everything 
 within himself, except a voice which seemed to 
 belong to Ethel and would not be stifled. 
 
 In Daniel's bed-room stood a great, solid 
 mahogany chest of drawers, daik with age and 
 much polishing. The five lower drawers occu- 
 pied each the fuU width available, but the two 
 topmost divided the space between them. The 
 right-hand drawer at the top held Daniel's cash- 
 box, and w^as always locked ; but the left-hand 
 drawer held nothing of value, and was always 
 unsecured. When this left-hand drawer was 
 taken clean out of the chest, a space was dis- 
 covered (the mahogany partition rising only 
 to half the needful height), through which any 
 fairly slender hand might be introduced. Possi- 
 bly some loose silver may have found a way of 
 escape by this route aforetime. Anyway, 
 George was familiar with the build of the 
 furniture, and, being quite cornered, resolved 
 upon the deed. ^Ir. Curtice had grown so 
 noisy in his claim that the young man had made 
 him an absolute j^romise for a certain Wednes-
 
 212 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 day morning, and here came Tuesday night, 
 and with it such courage as a coward can get 
 out of desperation. The time was more than 
 commonly favourable, for Daniel, to George's 
 knowledge, had been keeping an unusually 
 large sum in hand to meet an account which 
 was to be called for on that very decisive Wed- 
 nesday. Yet, when in the darkness of the night 
 he crept from his own room to make the attempt 
 he encountered an obstacle unlocked for, and, 
 at first sight, fatal. The chamber door was 
 locked. 
 
 Creeping quietly as a ghost, he tried the key 
 of his own room and found it useless. Despair 
 fell upon him for a while, and then out of it 
 came new cunning and fresh resolve. At the 
 back of the Saracen was a long and narrow 
 garden, and beyond this garden lay a field ; 
 from the field led a little lane which ran at the 
 back of a line of mean houses and ended in a 
 dark by-street. George pulled on his boots, 
 donned hat and coat, and, ostentatiously dis- 
 playing himself in the bar, announced his inten- 
 tion of going out, and so swaggered away.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 213 
 
 He plunged into the by-street, ran croucliing 
 down the lane, climbed the gate, slunk along 
 the field, and in two minutes from the start 
 stood in the Saracen's garden. The new plan 
 was but a bolder development of the first. He 
 had intended that an open bed-room window 
 with a ladder placed against it should lead to 
 the suspicion of such an entry as he was about 
 to make, and the ladder was in proper position 
 already. He mounted it in the darkness, 
 pulled a diamonded pane easily out of the soft 
 and flexible leaden fi-ame which held it, and, 
 having thrown back the catch, opened the 
 window and crawled through into the room. 
 Though he shook hke the hoimd he was, it 
 took but a moment to whip out the left-hand 
 drawer ; but his sleeve-hnks and the cuff of his 
 overcoat caught at the upper and lower car- 
 pentry of the partition ; and he struggled in 
 vain to pass his hand thus cumbered. 
 
 This brought delay, and the delay carried 
 with it the beginning; of a tragedv. 
 
 'Dinah,' said Daniel, comfortably roasting 
 his legs at the snuggery fire, ' tek my keys an'
 
 214 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 fetcli the casli-box.' One of the maids had 
 asked for change. 
 
 Dinah went upstairs Hghtly ; but a criminal 
 person who at that second had laid his fingers 
 on a cash-box in a corner difficult of access, 
 heard the step and shook and sweated at it. 
 His fingers, scrambling for a hold upon the 
 box, played a sort of tattoo on the lid ; but he 
 clutched it, and drew it through the faulty par- 
 tition ; when with more noise — or so it 
 seemed — than ever a key made, Dinah began 
 to unlock the door. Clutching the box, 
 George made for the window, and had already 
 got his legs outside when Dinah opened the 
 door, and, with a strange little cry, ran at him 
 and seized him by the shoulders. A thief was 
 much more likely to be afraid of Dinah than 
 she of a thief. 
 
 It was hard on George to be thus disturbed 
 at such a moment. The hysteric rage which is 
 the coward's courage rose in him, and, feeling 
 the ladder firm beneath his feet at that instant, 
 he raised the cash-box in both hands in act to 
 strike. But in the mere second for which she
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 215 
 
 had held hnn she had seen his face and read 
 the truth. Before he could strike her she had 
 fallen on the floor, and there she lay in a swoon, 
 while George went shakily down the ladder, 
 with failing knees, and ran, with the main 
 bones drawn from the small of his back, along 
 the garden ; passed through the field, the lane, 
 and the dark by-street, and, sweating and 
 quaking and palpitating still, found himself by- 
 and-by near a disused mine ^vith the silence of 
 the night about him. There, kneeling on the 
 frosty grass, he set to work with a cold chisel, 
 and, after barking his knuckles a little, suc- 
 ceeded in forcing the lid of the box. He had 
 been in such a thievish fear and hurry until 
 now that he never thouQ-ht of the weio'ht of the 
 plunder, or collected his own thouglits so far as 
 to guess how much he might have secured. 
 Before the thino; was done he had known how 
 much he had expected to find ; but now it 
 came upon him with a dizzy sickness of re- 
 morse, and rebellion against his luck, that he 
 had done the deed almost in vain. His thievish 
 fingers — he felt that they were thievish—
 
 216 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 prowling round and round the box, found in 
 all some two dozen coins and one piece of bank 
 paper. It was too dark for him to tell the dif- 
 ference between gold and silver, but, weighing 
 the coins nervously in his moist hand, he 
 thought them too light for gold, and his heart 
 sank. If Dinah should tell of him ! It is 
 characteristic of a coward to grow a little 
 murderous under such conditions. 
 
 Dinah stayed so long upstairs that Daniel, 
 having once or twice called to her and 
 received no answer, unwillingly took himself 
 from the sphere of grateful warmth in which 
 he sat, and found her lying in a dead faint 
 beneath the open window. He tugged in 
 alarm at the bed-room bell, and was so per- 
 turbed by his daughter's condition that for a 
 full half-hour he forgot to think about the 
 message upon which he had sent her. Then 
 came the discovery. The open window, the 
 ladder set against it, the displaced draw^er, 
 the faulty partition — all helped to tell the 
 tale. 
 
 ' It eea't much,' said Daniel, ' as the thief's
 
 JOSEPBTS COAT. 217 
 
 got for his trouble, anyhow. Lucky for me, 
 the sperit traveller called this arternoon ! ' 
 
 Dinah sat white and chill in the snuggery 
 and listened to the talk and said nothing. It 
 had been drawn from her that she had seen the 
 thief. 
 
 ' Should you know him again ? ' asked 
 Daniel. 
 
 ' I couldn't tell you who it was to save my 
 life,' said poor Dinah, forced into prevarication ; 
 but after that she held her tongue, and her 
 agitation was so plainly to be seen that Daniel 
 and his guests forbore to trouble her further. 
 
 George threw the empty cash-box down the 
 disused mine, and heard it go clanging with a 
 thousand hollow echoes at the sides until it fell 
 with a dull splash into the gathered water at 
 the bottom of the shaft. Then he went to the 
 Dudley Arms, quaking still, but counterfeiting 
 jollity, and overdoing it a little. A glass or 
 two of brandy set him on his feet again, and he 
 was able to look things in the face with open 
 eyes. He was horribly afraid that Dinah might 
 have recognised him ; but the hurry and the
 
 218 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 darkness were in his favour, and he was in the 
 bed-room so soon after having left the house by 
 the front way, that even if she had thought the 
 thief resembled him she had probably dismissed 
 the fancy. Then, neither she nor Daniel knew 
 of his debts. However that might be, his coup 
 had failed, and he had made but nine pounds 
 towards the necessary hundred and eighty.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 219 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 George naturally felt himself affronted by fate. 
 When a high-spirited young man finds himself 
 compelled by circumstances to do a mean thing, 
 it is hard that his umvilhng baseness should be 
 of no avail to liim. The bargain he had made 
 was that for a little less than two hundred 
 pounds he should become despicable. He had 
 become despicable — he knew it and felt it — 
 but he had been robbed of his bargain. He 
 had been ready to be ashamed of himself for a 
 full cash-box ; it was additionally shameful to 
 have to be ashamed for one that was nearly 
 empty. His righteous anger even sustained 
 him against the assaults of conscience. Indeed, 
 he had other things to think about than the 
 upbraidings of the inward voice.
 
 220 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 There was Curtice's money to be paid. 
 Curse Curtice ! That, with all the changes 
 rung upon it, was well enough as a momentary 
 relief, but it brought no lasting balm to George's 
 heart. It was nice to curse Curtice : it would 
 have been delicious to maltreat him, if the thing 
 could have been done safely; but then the 
 creditor was a big man with a taste for boxing ; 
 and, even if it had been possible to thrash him, 
 the debt would still remain unpaid, and George's 
 signature at the bottom of the bill unobliterated. 
 George confessed to himself in the form of 
 Shylock's taunt to Gratiano : rage as he would, 
 he could not rail the seal from off the bond. 
 If only somebody else who hated Curtice as 
 much as he did would run the risk of poison- 
 ing him ! But there are some things altogether 
 too desirable ever to come true. 
 
 Even at five-and-twenty a sleepless night 
 results in pallor ; and wrinkles, hitherto lying 
 invisible upon the skin, as secret writing upon 
 paper, start into life. The hollow clang of the 
 empty cash-box as it beat from side to side of 
 the mine, and the final splash it gave at the
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 221 
 
 bottom, made no good sleeping-music. Daniel, 
 in these late days of life, did not rise for break- 
 fast, and on the fateful morning when the in- 
 convenient Curtice was decisively to be met, 
 even Dinah did not appear until George's meal 
 was nearly over. "When she entered the room 
 it was plainly to be seen that she also had 
 passed but a poor night. Of all the griefs she 
 had suffered, this new one was the heaviest and 
 the hardest to endure. She had been praying 
 and crying all night, as women do, and she was 
 sore perplexed. Could she do anything to save 
 her child from the pit to which he seemed to 
 be hastening ? Dare she warn him .^ Dare 
 she acknowledge her last nio'ht's recos^nition of 
 the thief? Would such an acknowledsrment 
 serve to scare him from his evil courses, or 
 would it drive him into recklessness ? She 
 would perhaps have dared to tell him of her 
 knowledge, but that her shame and its anguish 
 seemed too great already to bear increasing by 
 a spoken admission of them. 
 
 George felt that it would appear odd in him 
 if he made no allusion to an incident so unusual
 
 222 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 as a robbery at the Saracen. But it was hard 
 for him to find words wliich should sound 
 commonplace, and harder still to speak them 
 unconcernedly. 
 
 ' I couldn't make head or tail of the 
 governor's yarn last night, Dinah,' he said at 
 last, having twice or thrice cleared his throat. 
 ' Did you see the fellow ? ' 
 
 His back was half turned to her, and the 
 newspaper he held was so arranged as to 
 conceal his face. He knew the stroke a bold 
 one — it was so bold that his heart seemed to 
 stop whilst he made it — but nobody fights more 
 pluckily than a coward in a corner, though his 
 strokes are sometimes wild enough to damage 
 himself rather than his adversary. Dinah gave 
 no answer. 
 
 ' Can't you hear ? ' asked George, rustling 
 his newspaper angrily and turning his back 
 fairly upon her. He felt that she' was looking 
 at him, and he heard her feet moving slowly on 
 the sanded floor. ' Did you see the fellow ? 
 Hang it all ! I suppose it hasn't quite frightened 
 your wits away ! ' If he had but a chance to
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 223 
 
 seem ill-tempered slie might miss his agitation. 
 * Did you see him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dinah, in a whisper. It would 
 be difficult to tell in whose ears the whisper 
 sounded more terrible — his or hers. 
 
 * Should you ' — said George, with his back 
 still turned to her — ' should you know him 
 again ? ' He poured a cup of tea over the 
 table-cloth as he asked the question. Before it 
 was answered Dinah stood in front of him, and 
 he could feel that she was looking at him still. 
 ' What's come to you ? ' he asked with a sickly 
 pretence of contempt. ' Can't you speak ? ' 
 He dared not raise his eyes. ' Should you know 
 him again ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Dinah, and then for a second 
 or two their eyes met, in spite of him. 
 
 He tried to ask ' Who was it ? ' but liis 
 voice failed him. He tried to brave her look 
 and his own quailing heart, but they bore him 
 down, and he stirred at an empty cup and pre- 
 tended to drink from it. Dinah began to cry, 
 and, in the shame and grief which oppressed 
 her, could think of nothing better than to run
 
 224 JOSEPH' 8 COAT. 
 
 away. George's knees were so weak for a 
 moment that he could not rise. To have failed 
 and then to have been detected was unusually 
 hard measure, and the detection made every- 
 thing else look awkward. Dinah had not told 
 so far, but the young man did not know how 
 long he could count upon her forbearance. If 
 his debts should become known at home, there 
 would be a row of course, and Daniel Banks 
 most assuredly would not pay them, though he 
 might use a father's privilege, and be exces- 
 sively disagreeable about them. 
 
 Curtice was lounging in the road when 
 at last George left the door of the Saracen. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mr. Banks,' said Curtice, 
 civilly enough, to look at. 
 
 ' When did I promise to pay you ? ' asked 
 George with intentionally offensive magnifi- 
 cence. ' I'm not the sort of fellow to cringe 
 to a hound like this,' said George internally, 
 ' simply because I owe him money.' And to 
 do him justice, he never cringed except where 
 thrift might follow fawning. It was hopeless 
 to cringe here, and he knew it.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 225 
 
 * Twelve to-day,' said Curtice. 
 
 ' Then, don't bother me till twelve to-day,' 
 said George, walking on. 
 
 'All right,' said Curtice, quickening his 
 step to keep alongside, 'I can't wait any 
 longer, mind.' 
 
 ' Don't trouble yourself,' returned the 
 debtor, 'until you're asked to wait.' 
 
 'AU right,' repeated Curtice, dropping a 
 step behind. 'Twelve to-day at the Dudley. 
 George marched on, and the creditor, stopping 
 to hojht a ciii;ar, murmured to himself his be- 
 lief that he would get his money, after all. 
 But in the debtor's heart, fear and desperation 
 sat side by side, and altogether his emotions 
 were unenviable. He had two hours and a 
 half in which to find the sum required. Xot 
 to find it meant open shame, and nobody knew 
 what of evil consequences beside. His em- 
 ployer was a man of notorious strictness, and 
 his father was the last man in the world either 
 to condone or remove the ground of ofience. 
 
 When the Eightful Heir to old Joe Bushell's 
 fortune reached the house of the Wrongful Heir 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 who held the fortune, he found that his em- 
 ployer had been been called away to London 
 on urgent business, and had gone up by the 
 night train, leaving behind him a letter of in- 
 structions. He would either be down again that 
 night, or would forward fresh orders. George 
 sat down before the fire to think, holding the 
 letter in his hand. The kind of grief which had 
 fallen upon him is noticeable for always occur- 
 ring at the wrong time. There was a perfectly 
 dark horse he knew of, which would infallibly 
 have pulled him through this had it happened 
 two months later. The dark horse was the 
 deadest of all dead certainties, and was really to 
 be relied upon. He stood already to win three 
 hundred pounds upon this animal's achieve- 
 ments, and if by any means it were possible to 
 keep Curtice off until the race was won, George 
 was safe. But Curtice would only be held off 
 by being paid — an impossible condition. 
 
 The sight of means to do prompts to the 
 deed. Young gentlemen holding situations of 
 trust, and finding themselves in unpleasant 
 corners, have sometimes made a way of escape
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 227 
 
 by the betrayal of their trust. ' George 
 Bushell,' written in a laboured heavy hand, 
 stared at George Banks (who was George 
 Bushell without knowing it) from the paper he 
 held in his hand. It was not a difficult sig- 
 nature to imitate. When George took up a 
 sheet of note-paper and, laying it over the letter, 
 set the two against a window pane and traced 
 the signature "svith a lead pencil, he did nobody 
 any wrong. When, seating himself at the table, 
 he elaborately painted-in the clumsy up and 
 down-strokes in ink, he was still quite within 
 the pale of the law. Despair made experi- 
 ments, that was all. Forgery is a dangerous 
 game to play, as any young gentleman of 
 business cultivation knows. And yet — George 
 Bushell's business had drifted, bit by bit, so 
 completely into the hands of George Banks, 
 and the young fellow had so exclusive a con- 
 trol of things, that it might be easy to conceal 
 it until the dark horse should have time to 
 extricate him from his difficulties. And there 
 was no denying that the imitation before him 
 was complete enough to deceive a casual 
 
 q2
 
 228 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 observer. Curtice could not be put off any 
 longer. If Ethel were pressed, there was no 
 reason why she should not marry him a month 
 or two sooner than the date she was already 
 willing to fix, and in that case old Daniel 
 would come down pretty handsomely for house 
 and furniture. Then, having ready money for 
 house and furniture, it was possible to go in 
 debt for them even if the dark horse failed, 
 though that of course was nonsense. 
 
 The imitation of the signature was admir- 
 able. They were written with the same pen 
 and the same ink and on the same sort of 
 paper. George cut the two out and shook 
 them in his hat, and found it a difficult thing 
 to say which was his own and which his em- 
 ployer's, until he detected on the back of the 
 imitation the trace the pencil had left in press- 
 ing upon the paper. 
 
 At twelve o'clock that day Mr. Curtice was 
 paid. George had unwittingly signed his own 
 name, and had illegally secured a little por- 
 tion of the property to which he was legally 
 entitled.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 229 
 
 ' In for a penny, in for a pound,' is a very 
 good maxim in its way. Since the dark horse 
 — whose name, by the way, was Erebus — was 
 good for three hundred pounds in the fulness 
 of time, it was scarcely worth George's while 
 to forge a cheque which was merely large 
 enough to cover Curtice's claims. He im- 
 pawned the whole of the dark horse's future 
 earnings, and had something over a hundred 
 pounds in hand. Curtice was discreet, and 
 nobody except the people concerned had any 
 knowledge of George's late indebtedness. At 
 the Dudley Arms that evening the young man 
 shone resplendent, and his luck took a turn 
 which was nothing short of wonderful. There 
 might be a way to wealth even in shilling pool 
 if a man could always win at it. George took 
 his success as an omen of good fortune. His 
 luck had turned. He needed some sort of con- 
 solation for the miseries which hung over him, 
 though they only occasionally touched him. 
 Dinah's secresy never seemed certain for a 
 moment, and for a dashing young man, whose 
 social quahties and personal appearance were
 
 230 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 SO widely admired, it was unpleasant to have to 
 be carefully civil to a sister who might in any 
 moment of pique draw down ruin. It was not 
 in him to understand how impossible such a 
 betrayal would have looked to Dinah's eyes. 
 The woman whose heart through all these 
 dreary years had been faithful to the lover of 
 her girlhood was in one hemisphere and he in 
 another, mother and son though they were. If 
 you ask me from wdiom George inherited his 
 nature, I own that I cannot tell. For the lost Joe, 
 though invertebrate, was a lad of good impulses 
 and an honest and gentle nature, and George's 
 mother was as loyal and true a creature as ever 
 wore woman's shape. That says much, and is 
 intended to say much. But every beast, as 
 young Joe had years since told the Eeverend 
 Paul, acts after its own instinct and judges 
 after its own nature, and George judged his 
 mother by the only standard he had ; and the 
 result of his judgment made him tremble for 
 his own safety. 
 
 It may have been some grace in him, it 
 may have been the weather, it may have been
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 231 
 
 the seductive force of shilling pool which held 
 him from Ethel's presence for three or four 
 days after the settlement of Ciurtice's account. 
 But the Sunday afternoon being fine, he walked 
 over to Quarrymoor, not unassailed by qualms 
 of conscience. For there is something in the 
 presence of a good woman with whom a man 
 is in love which seems almost to detect the 
 past committal of any wrong by her lover. 
 Even a little thing reproaches under such cir- 
 cumstances. I remember how guilty last 
 night's game at loo used to look when I was 
 first in love and met Beauty and Grace and 
 Goodness in the chapel porch on a Sunday 
 morning. To be in love makes the conscience 
 tender, and love's pure eyes seem so to look 
 through a man that he can scarcely think of 
 hiding anything from them. 
 
 By this time Ethel was far enough advanced 
 in love to run eagerly forv\'ard at the sight of 
 George's broad-shouldered and Avell-knit figiu:e, 
 and met him at the gate. She was no more a 
 mere receiver of caresses, but had learned — 
 quite easily — to caress. And in her inmost
 
 232 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 heart she thought George the handsomest, the 
 cleverest, the most modest, the most honour- 
 able of men. Oh, the pity of it, lago ! the pity 
 of it! 
 
 On this particular Sunday she ran out to 
 meet him at the gate, and they walked indoors 
 together demurely enough. But once inside 
 the dimly-lighted hall, George stooped down to 
 kiss her, and she put both her arms about his 
 neck and kissed him back again, with no pre- 
 tence of coyness. Pretences of any sort were 
 rather out of this young lady's way, and for some 
 reason or no reason she was full that day of an 
 unusual tenderness and gentle gaiety which 
 made her face at once soft and arch, so that 
 her lips moved gently with deep feeling and 
 her eyes laughed at the same moment for 
 innocent gladness of heart. A compound 
 mood, which I am pleased to believe is not un- 
 •common to good girls w^ho are in love ; and a 
 mood in which even a plain woman would be 
 downright delightful even to a dull lover. 
 
 There is no finer armour than egotism, but 
 even egotism has crevices that a needle can be
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 233 
 
 got through by chance or skill. George was 
 well-protected, but for once he was wounded, 
 and the needle pricked so deep and keen that 
 the tears sprang into his eyes. 
 
 ' I'm not worthy of you, my darling,' he 
 whispered. ' I'm not worthy of the love you 
 give me.' 
 
 He really meant it, and saw for a second or 
 two how true it was. Love is a continual 
 worker of miracles. 
 
 ' George ! ' cried Ethel in a wounded voice. 
 Who has the right to depreciate a woman's 
 idol? Even the oracle himself is no oracle if 
 he dare to tell her the truth about his own 
 right to ]ier worship. But of course his 
 humility was beautiful, and of course she loved 
 him the more for it, if that were possible. 
 
 ' I don't believe,' said George, ' that any 
 man would be worthy of your love.' The 
 proposition set forth in this general manner 
 became a compliment, fitly to be answered by 
 a kiss, which meant amongst other things — 
 
 ' 1 am not worthy oiyou. You are worthy
 
 234 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 of a queen. And as for men in general, I 
 believe you.' 
 
 In her mixed mood of gaiety and tenderness 
 she charmed the young man from his self- 
 accusing thoughts. They were never likely to 
 abide long with him, and by-and-by, seeing 
 how favourable the time was, he began to urge 
 her about the hastening of the wedding-day. 
 She resisted him — he asked for reasons — she 
 had none to give — and, in short, he won in a 
 canter. They settled it between themselves — 
 with her mother's consent, they would be 
 married in two months' time. At the tea-table 
 George laid the new scheme before Mrs. Donne, 
 who, apart from a vague opposition on the 
 score of dresses to be made, had no objection to 
 offer. She liked the young fellow, and thought 
 that he and her daughter made a pretty pair. 
 She had, besides, a strong dislike to lengthy 
 waiting in a case like this where two young 
 people who were old enough to do it had 
 thoroughly made up their minds. 
 
 That night in church George turned things 
 over in his mind. His employer was back
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 235 
 
 again, and had displayed no more curiosity than 
 common about the conduct of recent business. 
 There would come an overhauling of the pass- 
 book and so forth by-and-by, and George would 
 have that in his own hands and would make 
 his return for his employer's inspection. 
 Nothing seemed less likely than discovery, if 
 only the hole he had made could be filled up 
 in the space of a month or so. To leave 
 it open would be inevitably to tumble into 
 it. But now, with the marriage definitely 
 arranged, everything would go well, and he 
 would never be fool enough to peril his safety 
 again. Ethel on her marriage would surely 
 come into possession of some little ready money, 
 and old Daniel was certain to behave pretty 
 handsomely. George had in his breast-pocket 
 at that moment something over a hundred 
 pounds in notes, and as he thought things over, 
 staring at the Yicar in rapt attention to his own 
 affairs, he decided that it would be well to put 
 the money into safe keeping. 
 
 ' Ethel,' he said, when, in the interval
 
 236 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 between church and supper, they sat alone in 
 the parlour, ' I want you to do me a favour.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' said Ethel, smiling in anticipation. 
 
 ' Put your hand into this pocket,' said 
 George, holding his coat open, ' and see what 
 you'll find there.' 
 
 Ethel did as she was told, and brought out 
 a bundle of five-pound notes. Holding the 
 bundle in her hand, she looked inquiry at her 
 s wee til ear t. 
 
 ' I'm not an economical man by nature,' 
 said the young man, ' but I've begun to save a 
 little for an event you know of, and that's my 
 first achievement.' 
 
 ' What a sum of money ! ' said Ethel. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied George, ' more than a hun- 
 dred pounds. Now, that goes towards house- 
 keeping.' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' said Ethel, quite delightedly. 
 
 ' At least,' explained the young man, with 
 greater caution, ' that is what it's intended for 
 at present. But I have embarked in a business 
 transaction which may call for capital at any 
 moment. Except for that, I am resolved not
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 237 
 
 to touch it. Xovv, if I keep it myself I shan't 
 keep it long, I know, for I am a dreadfully 
 extravagant fellow.' 
 
 ' You are too generous,' said Ethel. 
 ' Well — I am,' responded George, with the 
 air a man generally puts on when admittinor 
 that sort of faihng. ' But I want you to keep 
 the money for me, so that it can only be used 
 for one of two specific objects.' 
 
 ' You want me to keep it for you ? ' 
 ' Yes. K I bank it, I can go and draw it 
 out when I like, and I don't want to be tempted. 
 But if it's once in your hands, I can only draw 
 it at actual need. You'll be my banker, won't 
 you?' 
 
 ' Suppose,' said Ethel, ' that it should be 
 stolen ? ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, my darhng,' said George. ' Lock 
 it in a drawer upstairs.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Ethel merrily, ' it would be easy 
 for a burglar to put a ladder against the win- 
 dow and get into the room that way in the 
 dark.' George said nothing. ' And suppose,' said 
 Ethel, 'that I should just be running into the
 
 238 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 room at the time, and should be frightened out 
 of my wits for ever. Wouldn't that be dread- 
 ful ! Why, George, what's the matter ? You 
 are ill ! ' 
 
 ' No,' said George. ' A little twinge. 
 Nothing to speak of. There ! I'm all right 
 again.' But his cheeks, which commonly kept 
 a remarkable bloom, all things considered, were 
 chalky in their hue, and his stare was a little 
 ghastly. Ethel's imagination could scarcely 
 have led her to a theme less pleasant for her 
 lover's ears. Yet, how was she to know that ? 
 Even George saw clearly that he had started at 
 a shadow which he himself had thrown. ' Don't 
 let anybody know about the money, Ethel,' he 
 said, a second or two later. Her chance 
 speech had made him timorous, and he began 
 to fear lest a w^ord about the trust he had re- 
 posed in her should lead to suspicion and detec- 
 tion. ' Let nobody know,' he urged ; ' keep it a 
 secret. Will you promise.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, somewhat surprised 
 by his vehemence ; ' I promise.' 
 
 ' Eun away upstairs with it,' said George,
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 239 
 
 with an imsiiccessfal smile. 'Don't let it be 
 seen.' 
 
 ' He is nervous about me^' thought Ethel. 
 She was sure that in his own behalf he was as 
 bold as a lion ; but it was evident that he 
 could not even bear to think of danger ap- 
 proaching her. If that reflection should seem 
 a little self-conscious on the girl's part, remem- 
 ber that she was in love. Of course it was sweet 
 to think that even the thought of a possible 
 danger for her could so move him. Love, as I 
 have said already, is a rare epicure.' 
 
 Ethel ran upstairs and locked the notes into 
 an old-fashioned httle cabinet which had a 
 transparently undeceptive secret drawer. She 
 kissed the bundle before she put it away — not, 
 you may be sure, because it was worth more 
 than a hundred pounds. It was worth a great 
 deal more than many hundreds of pounds to 
 her, because she thought she saw in it the fruit of 
 effort and glad self-denial for love's sake. Love 
 had earned it, so she thought ; love gave it ; it 
 was to help love to live gracefully. Xo miser 
 ever hugged money so gladly, and no spendthrift
 
 240 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ever thought less of its practical value. George 
 was waiting below, and was feeling a good deal 
 unhinged when she returned. 
 
 ' My darling,' she said, ' you haven't been 
 frightened by my silly speech about myself P ' 
 
 ' No, dear, no ! ' said he with an effort. 
 
 ' It was very silly for me to hint at such a 
 thing,' said Ethel. ' You won't like me to keep 
 the money now.' 
 
 George with a coward's courage turned 
 upon the situation, so to speak, and struck out 
 at it. 
 
 ' My dear, I confess that the suggestion 
 alarmed me. Shall I tell you why ? It's a very 
 singular coincidence, but my sister was alarmed 
 last week in the very way you indicated.' 
 Ethel was astonished, and he related the inci- 
 dent with dramatic force. It was a good move, 
 or so he told himself Ethel and Dinah were 
 growing companionable. His sweetheart would 
 be sure to mention the story to Dinah, and she, 
 learning that he had told it, would find her sus- 
 picions shaken by the very effrontery of the 
 thing. And in any case Ethel would be still
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 241 
 
 less inclined to believe any horrible future 
 accusation against liim, since he himself had 
 voluntarily alluded to the tale. 
 
 Days went on, and Erebus came into the 
 light and became a favourite. When Georo^e 
 had backed the dark horse, he was going beg- 
 ging at thiity to one. Now it was a hard matter 
 to get three to two against him. George felt 
 that this turn of fortune was absolutely provi- 
 dential. But it happened one dull afternoon, 
 when ]\Ir. Bushell was prowling about amidst 
 the fragments in the waste-paper basket, look- 
 ing for a scrap small enough to light his pipe 
 with, that he made a discovery. And here it 
 may be noticed that people who commit 
 offences against the law are^ constantly guilty of 
 the most surprising stupidities. The least 
 capable of the human race are forgers and 
 murderers. They go about ^vith an infantile 
 simphcity to make avenues to detection. They 
 leave trails behind them which even the police 
 have not the ingenuity to miss. And Master 
 George had positively left undestroyed the real 
 signature from which he had made his first 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 rough copy, and the copy itself. Slow George 
 Bushell was about to burn his fingers by at- 
 tempting to light one of these tiny scraps at the 
 fire. The larger scraps were of no service or 
 value, but it was part of his character to save 
 useless things. As he was gingerly pushing the 
 scrap of paper through the bars, he caught sight 
 of the writing upon it, and, lifting it nearer to 
 his eyes, read his own name. There was no- 
 thing very peculiar about it at first sight, but 
 yet — why should anybody have cut olF his sig- 
 nature from the tail of a letter ? And here 
 was another bit of paper lying on the hearth- 
 rug, which being picked up also proved to have 
 his name written upon it, apparently by his own 
 hand. Not quite suspicious yet, he turned 
 them over, and after a minute's inspection he 
 made the discovery George had made a little 
 while before. One of the signatures had been 
 traced with a pencil. The real signature, 
 having been firmly pressed against the glass, 
 bore no mark ; but the other, lying on a softer 
 surface, bore the impress clearly. 
 
 ' Why,' said Mr. Bushell in his own wooden
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 243 
 
 and deliberate manner, ' if somebody ain't been 
 a-practisin' my autygraph ! ' His long clay 
 pipe dropped from his fingers and broke in 
 pieces on the fender, and at that moment, with 
 premonitory tap at the door, his confidential 
 secretary entered. The old man looked at him 
 and arose slowly. His inexpressive counte- 
 nance bore no greater mark of annoyance than 
 almost any man might have shown at even so 
 triflmg an accident as the breaking of a pipe. 
 ' I shall be out this afternoon, Mr. Banks,' he 
 said, as he passed the unconscious George. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said he in answer. ' About that 
 thousand tons of Heathen ? Can Dunn and 
 Bolhnger have it at the price ? ' 
 
 ' Why, yes,' said Mr. Bushell, ' delivered at 
 the wharf, mind you.' 
 
 'Very good, sir,' said George; and away 
 went his employer to the bank, where he was 
 closeted with the manager whilst the guilty 
 youngster, not knowing what had befallen him, 
 was leisurely apprising Messrs. Dunn and 
 BoUinger of the fact that their price was 
 accepted. 
 
 b2
 
 244 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 'You've kep' all my cheques, I suppose/ 
 said Mr. Bushel! ; ' all as has been sent in this 
 'ear, anyhow ? ' The manager answered ' Yes,' 
 and in a little while the cheques were produced. 
 
 ' I never drawed this,' said Mr. Bushell, 
 with unusual emphasis, laying a heavy hand 
 flat on a draught in favour of ' Self for three 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 ' It was presented in the ordinary course 
 by Mr. Banks, sir,' said the manager. 
 
 ' Was it ? ' asked the Wrongful Heir half 
 jeeringly, half angrily. 'Look here!' And 
 he unfolded the two crumpled bits of paper. 
 The manager stared from him to them and 
 from them to him. ' Here's somebody been a- 
 practisin' my autygraph.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said the manager fatuously. 
 He had, like other men, heard of forgeries, 
 but they were outside the sphere of his experi- 
 ence until now. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mr. Bushell scoffingly, ' an' dear 
 me, too. Three hundred pound ! If it's young 
 Banks, and it looks like it — don't it? — if it's 
 hmi as I took such notice of an' took such a
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 245 
 
 fancy to an' trusted — . . . Why, damn it, it's 
 beyond believin' — ain't it ? ' 
 
 'Very extraordinary indeed,' the manager 
 responded. ' You can swear that you never 
 signed this cheque, sir? The signature is 
 remarkably well imitated.' 
 
 ' Swear it ! ' said Mr. Bushell. ' I'd swear 
 it on my dyin' bed.' 
 
 ' We must proceed with caution, sir,' said 
 the manac^er, becrinnino; to rehsh this new 
 mental flavour as he grew accustomed to it. 
 No sport so enjoyable as man-hunting, when 
 once you get your hand in. ' A false arrest 
 would set the real criminal on his guard, and 
 he mvjh.t g^et clean off. We must be cautious, 
 sir.' 
 
 ' Cautious ! ' said the other, with a heavy 
 jeer. ' Cautious, when I find these in young 
 Banks's room, where nobody ever goes but him 
 an' me ! ' He held the crumpled scraps in 
 the manager's face. ' Cautious, when young 
 Banks come to the bank himself an' drawed 
 for it ! He was cautious to some tune, he was. 
 I'll caution him ! You send for a poHceman.'
 
 246 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 One trifle and another had kept the guilty 
 George from looking at the sporting news in 
 that day's paper, but having finished his reply 
 to Dunn and Bollinger, he sauntered out for 
 the local journal, and returning leisurely, found 
 on opening the sheet that Erebus was esta- 
 blished as first favourite. In his rejoicing at this 
 happy condition of afiairs he arose and waltzed 
 softly round the room, and snapped his fingers 
 smiling. He had always felt so sure about 
 Erebus that it was most flattering on the 
 horse's part to come to the front in this way. 
 He sat down beside the fire in the chair his 
 employer was wont to use, and gave his mind 
 to pleasant fancies. There was a sense of 
 thanksgiving in his mind. And he was quite 
 persuaded that he was never agam to be such 
 a fool as to run the risk of being mistaken for 
 a criminal. For of course he had only been 
 borrowing the money, and yet people are so 
 stupid that discovery would have stamped him 
 with indelible disgrace. As for the affair of 
 the cash-box, that wore an altogether different 
 complexion. Daniel did not want the money.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 247 
 
 and would not have really missed it even bad 
 the box been full ; and after all, a son has 
 some right to consideration at his father's 
 hands, and if a father is miserly, a high- 
 spirited young man has his remedy. But 
 happil}^ there would be no further need for 
 transactions of either nature. People are 
 opinionated and given to jumping at false 
 conclusions. To have had the forgery de- 
 tected would have been excessively unpleasant, 
 and it was comforting to know that he could 
 restore the money. 
 
 Eat-tat-tat-tat at the front door. Then the 
 door was somewhat violently opened. It clung 
 a little in moist weather, and opened with a 
 shivering jar of bolts and chain. Nothing at 
 all remarkable in it, but somehow George 
 noticed it, and will remember it all his life. 
 Mr. Bushell's voice, sounding bullying and 
 angry, cried, ' Come this way.' George 
 whipped out of his master's chair and into 
 his own, and in one second was so deep sunk in 
 business that he did not even look up at the 
 Wrongful Hek's noisy entry.
 
 248 JOSEPH'S COAT, 
 
 ' Officer ! ' said the Wrongful Heir, with 
 something of an inchnation towards melodrama 
 — ' Officer, do your duty.' 
 
 ' I suppose you'll come quiet and take it 
 easy ? There won't be any need for these, eh ? * 
 A quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, the local 
 inspector, was holding up a pair of brightly 
 burnished handcuffs. 
 
 ' Why,' said George with a sick frost inside 
 him, * what — what do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Very sorry, Mr. Banks,' said the inspector, 
 ' I wanted it done quietly out of consideration 
 for you, and so I came myself. It's a charge 
 of forgery. Three hundred pounds.' George 
 lurched to his feet, and looked at the inspector 
 in a ghastly agony and terror. ' Mr. Bushell 
 brings the charge. I should advise you not to 
 say anything. You can if you like, but it may 
 be used against you on your trial.' 
 
 George said nothing, less because of the 
 official advice than because he could not have 
 spoken a word just then if one word could have 
 proved it all a dream.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT 249. 
 
 'That's right,' said the inspector genially. 
 ' Nobody'll think anything of seeing you and 
 me in the street together. This your hat? 
 Come along.' 
 
 What a walk it was alonor the hio^h street ! 
 What a nightmare the little formalities made in 
 the room hung round with maps and cutlasses 
 and handcuffs ! What a sensation to remember 
 when the official's gentle hand insinuated itself 
 into George's pockets, and possessed itself of 
 penknife and keys and purse and pocket-book ! 
 A corridor, a paved yard, a fustian-clad ruffian 
 exercising there, who laughed and called him 
 ' mate ' ; and then — the cell. Lord Byron has 
 told us that until the ear becomes more Irish 
 and less nice, the sound of a pistol cocking at 
 twelve paces is remarkable. The amazing old 
 ladies who get into the papers on the strength 
 of the fact that they have been two hundred 
 times imprisoned for being drunk and disorderly 
 may perhaps have gTown used to another click 
 which has a singular sound in the ear of a 
 novice — the click of a key in the lock of a
 
 260 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 police cell. But nothing much less than their 
 experience can take the sting out of it. The 
 sound seemed to run a little icy needle of 
 despair into the criminal's marrow. 
 
 And Erebus was first favourite, after all.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The English Law, being (at least in part) a 
 civilised code, professes to deal with intentions 
 as well as with actions. But before the law can 
 deal with them, it is clear that the intentions 
 must be pretty obvious. George had intended 
 to pay back the money he had borrowed from 
 his employer; but the intent was nowhere 
 discoverable by the legal eye, and went for 
 nothing. And yet Erebus was first favourite. 
 Even a dull man may see how poignant an 
 aggravation of the pain this was. If old 
 Bushell had but kept quiet for a few more 
 weeks, had been out of the way, had taken to 
 his bed, had been blmd — anything — the thing 
 would have been over. Eor of course it was 
 preposterous beyond the dreams of madness 
 to suppose that a man in George's position
 
 252 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 intended to let a danger like this hang over him 
 a minute longer than he could help it. It was 
 more than incredible that any man should 
 barter freedom, good name, love, the Saracen, 
 and the acres of Quarrymoor for three hun- 
 dred pounds. And it was wilder than ever 
 to suppose it when the three hundred 
 pounds were to be got so cheaply and so 
 
 easily. 
 
 Even a worm will turn. If you hunt any 
 creature too hard, it will do its strong or feeble 
 best to rend you. It w^as surely too bad to 
 brand a young man of George's prospects as a 
 felon, simply because for a week or two he had 
 borrowed from another man's abundance. 
 George turned and stood at bay against the 
 situation. He resolved that through thick and 
 thin he would swear to the end that George 
 Bushell had signed the cheque and sent him to 
 the bank with it, and had trumped up this 
 charge to ruin him. He would defy experts, 
 he would defy everybody. He swore to stand 
 at bay, and if he fell, to fall with the look of a 
 martyr. Perhaps — perhaps — his father or Ethel
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 253 
 
 might believe him, and he need not lose every- 
 thing. 
 
 I am afraid this young man will take a 
 good deal of moulding before he becomes 
 respectable. 
 
 The news of the arrest went through the 
 town hke wildfire ; for GeoTge was a well- 
 known figure, and his father one of the primeval 
 citizens of the place, or so it seemed to modern 
 fancies. Yet, far and wide as it travelled, the 
 news halted at the door of the Saracen, and 
 neither Daniel nor Dinah had yet heard it. 
 That such a thing could be never entered the 
 mind of Mr. William Bowker and his mates, the 
 nightly frequenters of the Saracen's kitchen 
 from time almost immemorial. Tummas Howl, 
 very grey by this time, Aminadab, and Meshach, 
 and Ebenezer, also grey, kept up the habits of 
 middle age and youth, and (unless when en- 
 gaged upon the ' night-shift ') would have felt 
 themselves homeless without the Saracen after 
 working hours. 
 
 They had all heard the news, and met at 
 the accustomed corner. For it is the habit in
 
 254 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 the Black Country to drop into a public-house 
 — though you have done it for a lifetime at the 
 same hour every day — as if you did it by 
 accident, and William and his comrades were 
 not superior to this transparent pretence. 
 
 ' Well, chaps,' said one, ' this is a sad sort o' 
 come-down for poor ode Dan'l, eeat it ? ' 
 
 «Ah,' said another, 'it's all that. It'll be 
 the finishin' on him, I reckon.' 
 
 'It eeat to be took for settled,' said Mr 
 Bowker, ' as he's done it. Not till he's been 
 afore the magistrate.' 
 
 ' Course not,' they all assented. 
 
 ' Gooin' to look in to-nia^ht ? ' asked 
 Meshach. 
 
 ' I think not,' Aminadab answered. 
 
 ' Fellers ! ' pleaded Mr. Bowker ; 'be we 
 gooin' to turn we backs on a friend cos he's i' 
 trouble ? ' 
 
 ' 'Teeat likely,' said Ebenezer, who com- 
 monly followed William's lead. 
 
 ' For my part,' said Mr. Bowker, ' I'd sooner 
 goo twice as often an' drink twice as much, to 
 keep their sperits up a bit.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 255 
 
 'You'm i' the right, Willyiim,' responded 
 Ebenezer. 
 
 ' Then come on, chaps,' said Friendship's 
 champion. ' Tek no notice, and mek no differ. 
 They'n like thee all the better for not seemin' 
 to know as anythin's the matter.' 
 
 WiUiam's Heutenant followed his lead, and 
 the rest followed the lieutenant. 
 
 Dinah met them in the passage as they 
 entered, and had her word for each. ' Good 
 night, William. Good night, Meshach,' and so 
 forth. She had known them since she was a baby. 
 
 Since young Joe's departure, so many years 
 ago, Dinah's manner had always been a little 
 tinctured by sadness, but in such a way that 
 people took it rather for gentleness and tender- 
 n ess than for sorrow. But latterly, and with good 
 reason, she had been plainly sorrowful and de- 
 pressed, and to-night she was unusually mourn- 
 ful . George, her boy, the baby she bore, her 
 consolation, her fear, and next her sorest 
 trouble, had never dared to face her since the 
 morning after her discovery of his theft. And 
 now he was away from the house all day long,
 
 256 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 and kept away until it was closed at night. 
 Only an hour ago Daniel had been storming 
 about it, and vowing that he would get to the 
 bottom of it, and the mother had broken into 
 tears. The servant-girl who acted as kitchen 
 waitress of an evening was engaged, and Dinah, 
 who could scarce control her face from openly 
 showing signs of heartbreak, served the men 
 with her own hands. 
 
 ' Eh, dear me,' said one when she had gone, 
 leaving the ale upon the table, 'her takes it 
 plucky, but it's bitter hard, poor creetur.' 
 
 ' Yis,' said Mr. Bowker, with pretended cyni- 
 cism ; ' trouble's bitter hard whenever it comes.' 
 
 ' How's poor Dan'l takin' it, I wonder ? ' said 
 Aminadab. 
 
 ' Gorramity knows ! ' William answered, 
 and rising left the room. 
 
 ' He's a sharp-tongued un at times, Willy um 
 is,' said Meshach, ' but he's a bit soft-hearted, 
 too. I seed the tears in his eyes.' 
 
 'Well, thee know*st,' observed Tummas, 
 who was the Nestor of the house, ' Dan'l was as 
 good's a feyther to Willyum when he broke his
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 257 
 
 arm a-tr}^in' to save yoimg Turn mas, my 
 nevew/ 
 
 In point of fact, William felt the position so 
 keenly that he could not bear to sit in the 
 house. He walked into the sanded passage, 
 and there stood Dinah. Everybody knows 
 how foolish it seems in little things like this to 
 be detected in the act of going about without a 
 purpose, and ]\Ir. Bowker, who had walked 
 away for no other reason than to hide an emo- 
 tion of which he was ashamed, at once feigned 
 an object and walked briskly up the passage. 
 As he passed Dinah, he cast a furtive swift 
 glance at her, and saw that she was crying. 
 
 ' ]\Iisris,' he said, pausing at once before her, 
 and forgetting his own advice at the siglit of 
 her tears, ' perhaps yo'd just as soon as we 
 shouldn't stop to-night. Say the word, an' I'll 
 turn 'em out in a minute. Yo mote think as 
 we bain't friendly becos we come to-night. We 
 thought yo'd hke it better to look as if nothin' 
 had happened.' 
 
 ' Happened I ' cried Dinah. ' What has hap- 
 pened ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 The truth flashed upon the man in a 
 second, and he stood speechless. 
 
 ' What has happened ? ' Dinah again de- 
 manded. 
 
 ' I niver thought,' said he, ' as it 'ud be my 
 part to be the messenger o' shaam an' sorrow i' 
 this house. It's got to be known, howiver, soon 
 or late.' 
 
 ' What is it ? ' Dinah besought him with her 
 hands upon her bosom. ' Tell me.' 
 
 ' Your brother George is in prison,' he 
 answered. 
 
 ' No, no, no, William ! ' said poor Dinah, 
 grasping him with feeble hands. 
 
 ' God forgi' me,' said he, ' as I should be the 
 one to tell you, but it's true. Bear it, missis, 
 bear it, for the Lord's sake. It'll be the death 
 o' Dan'l, I doubt.' 
 
 ' Why ? why ? ' cried Dinah, wringing her 
 hands together, ' why is he put in prison ? ' 
 
 ' He mightn't be guilty, mind you,' began 
 William. But Dinah laid hands upon him and 
 looked at him so that he had pity on her be- 
 seeching face and panting bosom, and struck the
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 259 
 
 blow at once. * He's charged with forgin' on 
 his master for three hunderd pound.' 
 
 How loner does it take to orrasD a state of 
 thincrs like this and to form a resolution ? The 
 streets were pitch-dark, except for a glimmering 
 lamp or two, which indeed rather set the darkness 
 off than relieved it, and it was raining drearily. 
 Dinah dashed into the roadway so swiftly that 
 Wilham, who had looked away from her whilst 
 he gave the evil tidings, saw nothing of her but 
 a waving skirt as she went throuorh the door- 
 way. Fearing mischief, though of what sort 
 he scarcely dared to guess, he ran out after 
 her, and saw the wavins^ skirt as^ain as she 
 ran round the corner. He remembered sud- 
 denly that the canal lay in that direction, and 
 rushed after her at full speed. She was run- 
 ning like a mad creature when he came up 
 with her and laid a restraining hand upon her 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Don't stop me,' she panted. ' Let me 
 
 go.' 
 
 ' Xo missis, not there,' said William, plead- 
 ing with her. ' Not there.' 
 
 8 2
 
 260 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' I must go,' she cried. 'It is the only 
 chance to save him.* 
 
 She was going not only in the direction of 
 the canal, but towards George Bushell's house, 
 and he saw a part of her purpose at once. 
 
 ' He's as hard,' said William, ' as the nether 
 millstone.' 
 
 ' I must go,' was all that Dinah answered, 
 and he released her, but followed close at her 
 elbow. They had scarcely gone twenty yards 
 when he pulled his coat off and threw it over 
 her shoulders, but she let it fall, and he ran on 
 with her, disregarding it. Down the road she 
 sped, going so swiftly that it put the man to 
 his best pace to keep up wtth her, and crossing 
 the canal bridge turned sharply to the right, 
 and held on until she reached the gate of 
 George Bushell's house. Whilst William rang 
 the bell she pressed the palms of her hands 
 against the gate twice or thrice, as if she made 
 even to it the beginning of the appeal she had 
 in her mind. A door was heard to open, and a 
 step came crunching down the gravelled drive. 
 
 'Keep it in, missis,' said William, laying
 
 JOSEPirS COAT, 261 
 
 his hand again upon her shoulder. ' Go to liim 
 quiet hke. It's the best way, I'm sure.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she answered, laying her hands 
 again and again upon the gate, as if it were 
 sensible to her prayer and could answer it. 
 
 ' Who's there ? ' asked a voice from within. 
 
 ' I want to see ^Ir. Bushell,' said Dinah ; ' I 
 must see him.' 
 
 A sturdy woman opened the gate and 
 answered, 
 
 ' Is that you. Miss Banks ? I'm afeard it's 
 no use your coming. He's as hard as hard. I 
 niver seed him s' angry.' 
 
 ' I must see him,' said Dinah. ' Let me in. 
 Don't tell him I am here. I must see him.' 
 
 Her manner was still urgent, but had on a 
 sudden grown collected. Bootless as her 
 errand might seem to others, she had a secret 
 power in reserve, and began to feel its comfort. 
 Perhaps the housekeeper felt something of the 
 strange influence with which strong feeling in 
 strong natures acts at times even upon the 
 vulgarest hearts ; or she may have been moved 
 by some memory of Dinah's kindness in time
 
 262 JOSEPirS COAT. 
 
 of trouble. She risked something at least in 
 granting Dinah's wish, but she granted it. 
 
 ' Come wi' me,' she said ; and, leading the 
 way swiftly into the hall, pointed to a door. 
 * In there,' she whispered, and w^hisked upstairs 
 as a rabbit makes up-hill for his burrow. 
 
 Dinah turned the handle of the door and 
 entered, leaving Mr. Bowker standing in his 
 coaly shirt-sleeves in the hall. George Bushell 
 was sitting by the fireside, pipe in mouth, look- 
 ing woodenly respectable as of old. His face 
 was flushed, but expressed the internal dis- 
 turbance he felt in no other readable w^ay. 
 He was a temperate man as a rule, but on the 
 strength of his secretary's unexpected defection 
 from virtue he had been drinking. Whisky 
 brings out a man's true nature, as for a minute 
 or two you can see the real tones of an old 
 picture by passing a sponge across it. He was 
 naturally and bitterly indignant. He had 
 helped to break four hearts to get his money, 
 but he had never committed forgery, and of 
 course he loathed the crime. He never knew 
 how much until he found it j)ractised on him-
 
 JOSEPWS COAT. 263 
 
 self. And all this apart, he had liked George, 
 and had done something to push him on in the 
 world. He could never have been got to like 
 anybody who was not of use to him, but 
 George had been useful, and it had been 
 pleasant to talk about his private secretary. 
 The possession of a private secretary seemed 
 to carry a sort of dignity with it, and a man 
 naturally keeps his best regards for those 
 people who are of advantage to him and reflect 
 credit on him. 
 
 ' Hillo I ' he said, starting from his seat, and 
 for the second time that day he dropped his 
 long clay into the fender. ' What brings you 
 here ? ' 
 
 Dinah's hair and face were wet ^vith ram, 
 and her dress was a little disordered. But she 
 was something more than comely even under 
 these conditions, and she had the sTeat ad van- 
 tage of being a woman ; so that ]\L\ Bushell 
 felt the brutality of this welcome as soon as he 
 had uttered it. 
 
 ' I have come,' said Dinah, ' to speak to 
 you about George.' She panted a little in her
 
 2tJ4 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 speech, but otherwise she seemed wonderfully 
 collected. 'I have come to ask you not to 
 appear against him.' 
 
 ' I'm very sorry for you, Miss Banks,' said 
 the Wrongful Heir, w^ith natural and excusable 
 surliness, ' but the law must tek it's course.' 
 
 ' There is a reason for my asking it,' said 
 Dinah. ' Believe me, there is a reason. You 
 must not go against him.' 
 
 'The matter's out o' my hands,' returned 
 Mr. Bush ell, ' an I've got no more to do with 
 it. I'm sorry for the young man's relations, 
 but he should ha' thought about them afore 
 he did what he did. It's out o' my power to 
 move i' the matter, an' the law must tek its 
 course.' 
 
 Saying this, he made a motion to leave 
 the room, but Dinah set herself between him 
 and the door. 
 
 ' No,' she besought him. '• Let him go 
 away and begin life again. If you knew what 
 I could tell you, you would let him go.' Her 
 hands, and her very body, besought him. 
 * Oh, let him go, Mr. Bushell. Let Inm go.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 265 
 
 Nobody's temper can last for ever, and it 
 was hard to be pestered in this way after being 
 robbed. 
 
 ' I'll see him damn'd fust ! ' cried the 
 Wrongful Heir, indignant at the monstrosity of 
 the proposal. Dinah's life had been a sacrifice, 
 and she could scarcely miss such a chance of 
 self-torture for another's sake as the situation 
 presented. 
 
 ' Listen for a moment,' she said, laying such 
 a grip upon the lappel of his coat when he 
 strove to pass her that he could not disengage 
 himself without violence. 'You can't send 
 your own flesh and blood to prison.' 
 
 ' My flesh and blood ! ' said George Bushell. 
 ' Why, you're ravin'.' 
 
 ' Listen to me,' said Dinah, clinging to him. 
 ' He is your flesh and blood. He is your 
 nephew Joseph's child.' 
 
 ' What ! ' he said, falling back a step and 
 drawing her with him. 
 
 ' Before Joe went away,' she answered, 
 speaking rapidly, ' him and me was married at 
 Waston Church on a Whit-Sunday. George
 
 266 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 is our child, and if lie had his rights he'd have 
 more than half your money, Mr. BushelL But 
 when Joe went away I never spoke a word 
 about it, and nobody but mother knew.' 
 
 ' That's a poor sort of a lie, missis,' said the 
 Wrongful Heir. But all the colour of his face 
 had faded, and he trembled in Dinah's hands. 
 
 ' It's as true as heaven ! ' she answered. ' I 
 kept it secret up to now, an' robbed him of 
 his money all the while, but I won't see him 
 sent to prison. All his grandfather left is his 
 by right, but he shall never know it, an' never 
 ask you for a penny. Let him go ! ' 
 
 Then she released him and fell upon her 
 knees. 
 
 Young Joe's money had belonged to Uncle 
 George so long that it had grown into him and 
 become a part of him, no more to be taken 
 away from him than heart or brains. And 
 was it possible that now — after a lapse of four- 
 and-twenty years — his hold upon it could be 
 threatened ? Strange things happen sometimes, 
 and it fell upon the dull conscience of the old 
 schemer like a blow to remember that, after
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 267 
 
 all, the wealth was wickedly gained, and might 
 not prosper. For in his way he was orthodox, 
 and, like the devils, he believed, but he had 
 never trembled until now. This might be God's 
 vengeance on him. He was a respectable man, 
 and he had beheved in God, theoretically, all 
 his life. Xow, belief began to take a practical 
 cast, and, as revolutions of opinion will, it 
 shook him. But dull and slow as he was, and 
 staggered as he was by this amazing story, he 
 was not long in seeing the tremendous flaw 
 in it. 
 
 ' 'My brother Joseph,' he said slowly, with 
 some tremor in his tones, ' was wu'th a quarter 
 a million o' money when he died. Xow, that's 
 a deal o' money, an' my nevew Joseph was 
 rightful heir to it if he'd beeu alive. If you 
 are his wife, how comes it you never said a 
 word about it ? Answer me that.' 
 
 ' He took the marriage lines away with him 
 when he left home,' responded Dinah. 'I 
 parted with him on a Sunday — the day he hit 
 Mr. Screed, and his mother ordered him out of 
 house an' home — and he promised me he'd
 
 268 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 send 'em, but I never heard a word of him 
 again, and now beyond doubt he's been dead 
 these years and years. But George is his child, 
 Mr. Bushell, his lawful child. You've got all 
 his money. Be content with that. We'll 
 never ask you for a penny, and his father'll 
 pay you back the three hundred pounds. Let 
 him go.' 
 
 He went untouched by her distress, for he 
 had his own afiairs to think of. He was never 
 particularly accessible to other people's emo- 
 tions, and now, if ever in his life, he was self- 
 absorbed. 
 
 ' You won't go against your own flesh and 
 blood, Mr. Bushell ! ' said weeping Dinah, 
 thinking that his silence gave a little hope. 
 
 He answered her out of his own nature. 
 
 'If you made a slip with my nevew 
 Joseph, that's your look-out.' She was on her 
 feet before him in a second. ' You hid your 
 shame pretty cunning,' he went on, ' an' you'd 
 best ha' kept it hid.' He was not a wise man, 
 and he disbelieved the story simply because it 
 sounded improbable. He was ready enough
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, 269 
 
 to believe that Dinah had tripped in her 
 younger days, and that George Banks was his 
 nephew's son, but he gave no credence to the 
 story of the marriage and the lost ' Hues.' At 
 one moment he was on the edge of a question 
 which might have wrecked his fortunes. The 
 jeering query trembled on his tongue — why 
 not go to the church at which the marriage 
 took place and get a copy of the entry there ? 
 But there was just a chance that the tale was 
 true, and he held his tongue, asking himself if 
 such simphcity was believable. 
 
 Dinah stood before him with eyes suddenly 
 brightened, and a flush of colour on her cheek. 
 
 ' I am your nevew Joseph's wedded wife,' 
 she said. ' We was married at Waston Church 
 last Whit-Sunday was five-and-twenty years. 
 And George was our lawful-born child ; and if 
 everybody had their rights, he'd have his 
 grandfather's money. I don't want that. I 
 only ask you to let him go.' 
 
 ' I don't believe a word o' your tale,' he 
 said slowly. ' If you could ha' proved it, 
 you'd ha' done that long an' long ago. Whoever
 
 270 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 lie is, the Iciw'll ha' to take it's course, an' if 
 he was my own child, I'd do the same with 
 him.' 
 
 ' Will you take your three hundred pounds 
 back again and let him go ? ' asked Dinah des- 
 perately. 
 
 It was a temptation to which his sense of 
 public justice would have yielded before George 
 was fairly in the hands of the pohce ; but it 
 was not to be thought of now. He knew no- 
 thing of the rules of criminal procedure, and 
 believed himself already bound to carry on the 
 prosecution. 
 
 ' No,' he answered. ' He's committed a 
 crime agen the law, an' he must suffer for it.' 
 
 ' It shall be known,' said Dinah, growing 
 more and more desperate as the failure of her 
 mission became obvious. ' It shall be known 
 as you know who he is. It shall be known far 
 an' wide as you send your own flesh an' blood 
 to prison. I kept it hid all these years, but I 
 don't care now, and I'll have my rights as 
 Joseph Bushell's lawful wedded wife.' He 
 turned a little . pale, but said nothing. ' If I
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 271 
 
 have to walk barefoot to the Queen herself,' 
 said poor Dmah, weeping fast and speaking 
 with a piteously broken voice, ' I'll do it. And 
 if she makes a law o' purpose, she'll give me 
 back my honest name an' give my child his 
 la^vful rights.' 
 
 There mi^ht be somethinj:^ in it after all, he 
 thought, she stuck so to her point. All the 
 more reason then to fight the matter out, and 
 clear the pretenders off the ground. Old 
 Daniel would never face the shame of a trial 
 for his son, real or reputed, and George himself 
 would be in prison. A wooden man, as I have 
 said of him already. A dull, slow, unpercep- 
 tive, unimaginative man. And yet he saw as 
 if in a drama acted before him Daniel's flight 
 of shame, and George's committal, and the 
 popular discredit of Dinah's story, and he 
 answered her. 
 
 ' You're a-threatenin', are you ? Then 
 leave my house. I know my dooty, an' I've 
 done my dooty all my life, an' I shall do it 
 now.' He flung the door wide open. ' Get 
 out, you baggage I I' my young days you'd
 
 272 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ha' had your legs i' the stocks for such a tale 
 as you've brought to me.' 
 
 ' Here, I say, Gaffer,' cried Mr. Bowker 
 from the hall, ' draw it mild ! ' 
 
 ' Hillo ! ' said the disciple of duty, peering 
 at him savagely. ' Who's that ? What do 
 you do here ? ' 
 
 'I come along o' the lady,' answered 
 William. ' That's what I do here. I tode her 
 as yo' was a hard un, but I deea't expect to 
 hear you go on i' that way.' 
 
 ' Get out, the pair o' you ! ' shouted the old 
 man wrathfully. ' I think you're i' my empl'y. 
 Tek a minute's notice now an' leave it.' 
 
 ' All right,' returned Mr. Bowker with 
 sudden cheerfulness as of one who has received 
 a gift, ' I've got the bag. Come along, missis,' 
 he continued with a ludicrously sudden turn 
 to notes of sympathy. ' I was afeard you'd 
 mek nothin' out o' him. He's known for what 
 he is — he is.' 
 
 His employer had the front door open. 
 
 ' Get out ! ' he cried again. ' Bringin' a 
 pack o' lies to me an' makin' yourself out no
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 273 
 
 better thaa you should be ! Get out I ' He 
 boiled by this time with virtuous indignation. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Dinah's ineffectual champion. 
 * Shut up ! Be ashamed o' yourself. To talk 
 to a woman i' trouble like that ! Why, y'ode 
 rip, wheer's your bowels ? ' 
 
 They were on the doorstep, and George 
 Bushell slammed the door behind them fiercely. 
 
 ' If I knowed,' he growled, ' as it was true, 
 I'd fight it every inch. It's all a pack o' lies, 
 though — a pack o' lies ! ' 
 
 ' Oh. Wilham,' cried Dinah, wringing her 
 hands in the darkness and the rain, ' what shall 
 I do? What 5Aa/a do ? ' 
 
 The tears were in the soft-hearted fellow's 
 eyes again, but he could offer her no comfort. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 JOSEPirS COAT, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 George had not long to wait for an opportunity 
 to vindicate himself. The petty sessions were 
 held the morning after his arrest. 
 
 A prison couch is rarely luxurious, even 
 though a man be blessed with that approving 
 conscience which is popularly and mistakenly 
 supposed to make him quite easy in his mind. 
 It is easy to be virtuously indignant about a 
 scoundrel and his doings, but harder, much 
 harder to understand him, to see things from 
 his point of view, to comprehend his self-justifi- 
 cations, his excuses. To my mind, a scoundrel 
 is much to be pitied for being a scoundrel. 
 His detection and punishment are good things 
 for him, and we who are virtuous may claim 
 for his soul's good to see that the knots of the 
 whip are drawn tight, and that a strong arm 
 lays it on. But we are not without compassion
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 275 
 
 as lie writhes. It is hard measure. Could he 
 have exercised an unbiassed judgment to 
 begin with, he would ]Di'ohably have chosen 
 another lot than this. 
 
 But our young criminal was not yet con- 
 . verted to the ways of wisdom. The rat who 
 has made predatory excursions after your salad 
 oil is not converted when the avencfinor terrier 
 gets him into a corner. He squeals, and bites 
 if he can, and dies with the rat-pulses of him 
 beating to the tune of despairing vengeance. 
 George was very angry. He anathematised 
 Bush ell and Curtice and the spirit merchant 
 whose half-chance call had so depleted the 
 cash-box. Why did nobody come near him ? 
 Why was not his father here to offer bail until 
 the morrow, and to show a little of that 
 fatherly faith which, even if misplaced, was 
 surely due to one whose guilt had not yet been 
 proved ? If they could not prove what he had 
 done with the money, he tried to persuade 
 himself that he might yet have a squeak for 
 liberty. It was only Bushell's word against 
 his, and he would face it out. In hours of 
 
 T 2
 
 276 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 extremity you see safety in any foolish trifle. 
 There Avas no reason why Curtice should 
 talk, and if he held his tongue it was a 
 point in the prisoner's favour. Ethel's silence, 
 of course, was certain. Not even feminine 
 spite at being disgraced could make her false 
 to him. The poor wretch did love her, after 
 all, as well as he knew how to love, and he 
 could not think as ill of her as he did of every- 
 body else. If his best conceptions of her were 
 shameful to her — and they were — he gave her 
 his best, and it was love that created them. 
 Ethel would be staunch to him, and would not 
 betray him. If he were found guilty, she 
 might send the money back secretly to George 
 Bushell, but until then she would hold it for 
 him, and keep a still tongue. He did not up- 
 braid himself for being a villain and a fool, but 
 he upbraided circumstance for the hard 
 measure dealt out to him. Only to have 
 quietly borrowed three hundred pounds, with 
 the most upright of intentions, and to lose 
 Ethel, the acres of Quarrymoor, liome, good 
 name, the Saracen, Daniel's quiet but substan-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 277 
 
 tial earnings, — tlie punishment and the offence 
 seemed unequaL 
 
 There was a ^Yise man in the East whose 
 constant prayer it was that he might see to-day 
 with the eyes of to-morrow. 
 
 The inspector lent the prisoner brushes and 
 other necessaries in the morning, and even gave 
 liim a clean shirt, taking George's in return. 
 There was no news from the Saracen, and the 
 prisoner dared not send there, believing his 
 father's silence due to Dinah's betrayal of the 
 truth in that unfortunate affair of the cash-box ; 
 or, at least, having fear enough of the betrayal 
 to keep him from making even the slightest 
 appeal to home. 
 
 How loner the nis^ht had S3emed, and how 
 
 CO ' 
 
 slowly the shackled feet of the minutes crawled 
 along in the morning ! I have talked ^vith an 
 Englishman who was led out one frosty morn- 
 ing during the Carlist War to be shot, and who 
 was standing at the head of the grave w^hich 
 had been dug for him, when he was released 
 and set at liberty. He told me, I remember, 
 that the only sensation he felt was one of
 
 278 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 absolute physical emptiness, as though the inte- 
 rior of his trunk were a scientific vacuum. He 
 was a brave man too, and had distinguished him- 
 self under fire pretty often. There was some- 
 thing of that unpleasant sensation in the 
 criminal's interior when at last a hand was laid 
 upon him and he was told to rise and mount 
 a set of corkscrew steps which led from the 
 waiting-chamber of justice into the hall itself. 
 The hall of justice was small and shabby, and 
 there were fifty or sixty people packed into it 
 like herrings in a barrel. There were hun- 
 dreds more outside eager for a look at hiin^ 
 doomed for the present to be disappointed. 
 The prisoner was a good-looking young fellow, 
 tall, straight, and broad-shouldered, scrupu- 
 lously dressed and groomed. He smoothed 
 his silky moustache nervously with his ringed 
 hand, and stood squarely there, at military 
 ease. Nobody at first looking at him thought 
 him hkely to be guilty. The women who 
 were squeezed in with the other spectators 
 were with him every one. 
 
 The proceedings were formal, and neces-
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 279 
 
 sarily incomplete. George Bushell, sworn, 
 made his statement, denying the validity of 
 the cheque, and producing the crumpled scraps 
 he had discovered. The bank manager, sworn, 
 made Ais statement, and proved that the 
 prisoner had himself cashed the cheque. He 
 admitted that he had noticed nothing sus- 
 picious or peculiar in Mr. Banks's demeanour, 
 — Nothing. 
 
 Had the prisoner anything to say in answer 
 to the charge ? He need say nothing. Anyj 
 thing he did say would be taken down. The 
 case could not be dealt with there, and would 
 have to go for trial. 
 
 George answered in a voice which the 
 local reporter called ' unmoved,' though to 
 himself it sounded as if somebody else were 
 speaking. 
 
 ' I am perfectly innocent of the charge 
 brought against me. I received the cheque 
 from Mr. BushelUs own hands, and paid the 
 money over to him on his return from London. 
 I am at a loss to understand the accusation, 
 unless it has been brouQ:ht forward with the
 
 280 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 diabolical intention of ruining an innocent 
 man.' 
 
 Suddenly a heart had found its way into 
 the internal vacuum, and it beat madly at the 
 prisoner's side. Could the people hear it? 
 There was such a clamour of excited tongues 
 when the prisoner had made this speech, that 
 the officials ejected half a dozen of the spectators, 
 and lodged them on the packed and crowded 
 stairs before silence was restored. 
 
 ' That is one of two things, Mr. Banks,' 
 said the magistrate. ' It is either a very com- 
 plete defence, or a very foolish one. If it is 
 not true, nothing could tell more heavily 
 against you than such a defence.' 
 
 ' It is true,' said the prisoner, and nine out 
 of ten believed him for the moment. 
 
 The case, said the magistrate, must be re- 
 manded until Wednesday. In the meantime 
 the police would make all inquiry after the 
 whereabouts of the notes in which the cheque 
 had been paid. The bank manager had with 
 him a memorandum of the notes, and, being 
 again put in|;o the box, swore to its accuracy.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 231 
 
 The prisoner was removed, no bail being 
 offered or demanded. The day's work was 
 over, and the crowd dispersed. An hour later, 
 the news flew through the town that more than 
 half the notes were traced. Curtice the soli- 
 citor had paid them into the bank the day after 
 that on which they had been drawn, and being 
 interrogated, had declared that the prisoner had 
 handed them to him in satisfaction of an 
 account long overdue. 
 
 Even in the popular mind, impressed as it 
 had been by the firmness of the prisoner's 
 counter-accusation against his employer, 
 George's position began to look fishy. 
 
 The Saracen stood all that day with bolted 
 doors, shuttered windows, and down-drawn 
 blinds. Dinah would have fain left the house on 
 her own mission, but Daniel, who by this time 
 knew the disgrace which had fallen upon him, 
 had sternly forbidden her, and had indeed 
 driven her to her room and locked her in there 
 with unwonted imprecations. 
 
 I do not beheve that there is any criminally- 
 minded cur ahve who would not deny himself
 
 282 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 his crime, if he could see the brood that it is 
 sure to bear. 
 
 Even pubhc gossip, which is irreverent 
 enough, and even private spite, which is upon 
 occasion cruel, spare something, and Ethel heard 
 no word of the dreadful tidings of her lover's 
 wickedness. But the daily newspaper spares 
 nobody, and in its columns she read the tale. 
 And how, will you ask, did she accept the 
 story ? How should she accept it, but hke the 
 loyal and true-hearted maid she was, with 
 passionate faith in her lover, and unmeasured 
 defiance and scorn for his accuser ! It never en- 
 tered into lier heart for a fraction of a second to 
 believe him guilty. Guilty ? He — her lover ? 
 The policeman who arrested him, the magistrate 
 who committed him, the people who looked on 
 and listened were sunk beneath the lowest reach 
 of contemptuous indignation, not to know, not 
 to see at a glance, that he was and must be 
 innocent. 
 
 And so, not merely thinking him guiltless, 
 but feeling as persuaded of his honour as if she 
 herself had held it in her keeping, she turned
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 283 
 
 about to see in Avhat way she could be of ser- 
 vice to him. She was quick to see and under- 
 stand anything set before her, and though she 
 was as ignorant of legal matters as most 
 women are, it seemed strange to her that nobody 
 should have spoken for him. Surely he should 
 have had a lawyer to defend him, but the 
 stupidities had only arrested him the day before, 
 and were bent, apparently, on affording him as 
 little chance as possible for the proof of his 
 transparent innocence. The man of business 
 who had made her father's will, and who still 
 manacled such small lec^al concerns as Mrs. 
 Donne was afflicted with, lived thirty miles 
 away, and she knew no other la^vyer. Yes — 
 there was Mr. Keen, but she did not think well 
 of Mr. Keen's spiritual prospects, and she had 
 bec^ged Georc^e to cease to associate with him. 
 There were other lawyers to be had, and she 
 could easily find them. But then came tlie ques- 
 tion of money. She had heard it said emphati- 
 cally that lawyers, above all men, demanded 
 that their services should be paid for. That 
 was Uncle Borge's verdict, and Uncle Bors^e
 
 284 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 was of a decidedly litigious character — and had 
 experience. 
 
 There was the money George had given 
 her. For such a purpose as she had in mind 
 it was surely righteous to use that. She took 
 the bundle of notes from their hiding-place, 
 slipped them into her bosom, dressed and set 
 out upon her walk. The roads were miry, but 
 the day was bright and clear, freshened with 
 recent rains. Ethel was a good pedestrian, as 
 a farmer's daughter should be, and the four 
 miles were not much to her, animated by such 
 a purpose as she bore. 
 
 At the edge of the town she encountered 
 an undersized coaly man in very heavy and 
 very dirty flannel. Any lady strange to the 
 district might have been excused if the coaly 
 man's exterior had deterred her from addressing 
 him. But Ethel approached him without any 
 thought of his appearance. 
 
 ' Can you direct me to a lawyer's office ? ' 
 she asked. 
 
 ' Why, yis, miss,' said Mr. Bowker. ' There's 
 Mr. Keen's office roun' the corner. It's nine
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 285 
 
 or ten housen up wi' a brass plaiit o' the 
 door.' 
 
 ' Do you know another lawyer ? ' she 
 asked. She had an objection to consuhing 
 Mr. Keen. 
 
 Mr. Bowker did know of another lawyer, 
 as it happened, and volunteered to show the 
 way. 
 
 ' I need not trouble you,' said the ghi with 
 a sort of sad graciousness. 
 
 ' Trouble ! ' said Mr. Bowker, with great 
 gallantry. ' It's no trouble to do- a turn for 
 a good-lookin' lady. This way, miss, if yo' 
 please.' 
 
 Ethel followed perforce, and Mr. Bowker 
 led her by intricate ways to the office of a ]\Ir. 
 Packmore, an elderly conveyancer, who had 
 no more to do with criminal legahties than I 
 have. But he was able to tell her that Mr. 
 John Keen had undertaken the defence of the 
 prisoner ; and so fate seemed to push her 
 towards Mr. John Keen in spite of herself. 
 Mr. Bowker had waited outside, and now
 
 286 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 led her back again, declining her proffered 
 gratuity. 
 
 ' Pray take it,' said Ethel. 
 
 ' No, miss, thank you,' answered Wilham ; 
 ' you do't look the sort to want to mek a mon 
 feel ashaamed of himsen.' 
 
 Ethel withdrew the proffered florin swiftly, 
 wath a little blush. 
 
 ' I am very much obliged to you,' she said. 
 
 'Not a bit on it,' protested Mr. Bowker. 
 ' I do't git the chance to tak' a walk wi' a young 
 lady every day. Let alone a nice-looking un,' 
 he added, fearing lest the compliment might 
 seem feebly expressed without that addendum. 
 
 Sad as she was, she could scarcely thank 
 him with less than a smile. Wilham grinned 
 and ducked responsive. 
 
 Mr. Keen was at home and would receive 
 Miss Doniie. He rose when she entered, and 
 pushed his long hair back with both hands, 
 looking at her earnestly and with evident 
 sadness. 
 
 ' I think,' he began, ' that I can guess the 
 object of your visit.'
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 287 
 
 ' I am told/ she answered, ' that you are de- 
 fending Mr. Banks.' John nodded miserably, 
 and shifted his papers to and fro upon Ms desk. 
 'I did not know,' she went on, 'until this 
 morning that any charge had been preferred 
 against him. But I saw from the newspaper 
 that he had no lawyer, and I came to engage 
 one. Did he send for you ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said John unwillingly, ' not exactly. 
 We were old school-fellows, and his people 
 seemed to desert him, and I thought ' 
 
 His voice trailed off, and he left the sen- 
 tence unfinished. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Keen,' said Ethel, rising 
 from her chair and impulsively holding out 
 her hand. 'Any one who has known him 
 can tell how ridiculous the accusation is.' 
 
 John took her hand in an embarrassed 
 way, and with embarrassment released it. 
 
 'We must do our best,' he said, with a 
 dismal attempt at cheerfulness. 
 
 ' If I wanted an argument for his innocence 
 of such a shameful crime,' said Ethel, reseating 
 herself — ' and I certainly don't want anytliing
 
 288 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 of the sort — I have it with me now. Before a 
 man commits a crime he must have a motive 
 for it. George was saving money, and had a 
 considerable sum in his possession at the very- 
 time when he is said to have forged this 
 cheque.' She spoke with such an assured and 
 quiet scorn that John Keen's heart ached for 
 her. But he had his wits about him, too. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, brightening a httle, • that 
 is something in his favour, if we can prove it.' 
 He knew his chent pretty thoroughly, and 
 thought him guilty, but there was a chance 
 that his story of a conspiracy was true, after 
 all, though the chance was certainly one of the 
 slenderest. 
 
 ' I can prove it,' said Ethel quietly. She 
 disliked this young man again, because he was 
 not as certain of her lover's innocence as she 
 was. ' You know already,' she went on, ' that 
 Mr. Banks and I were engaged to be married.' 
 That was a theme about which on common 
 occasions Ethel would not have spoken to any- 
 body except her mother and her lover, but she 
 spoke of it now as a matter of course, and with
 
 JOSEPHS COAT. 2S0 
 
 no confusion. John nodded again. Her pride 
 in George and her certainty of him were 
 troublesome to his spirit, for he himself was in 
 love with her with all his heart, and it was 
 bitter, to be sure, that she had so much to 
 suffer. ' Looking forward to that, she said, * he 
 gave me this money — a hundred and ten 
 pounds — to keep for him.' She laid the bundle 
 of notes upon the table, and John reached out 
 for it. This cast a curious hght upon the 
 case, he thought ; but when once he had un- 
 folded the notes, he fell back in his official 
 arm-chair and looked at her with so amazed 
 and stricken a countenance that she arose to 
 her feet and looked back at him as if his sorrow 
 and surprise had been an epidemic, and she in 
 a flash of time had caught it. 
 
 ' Great heaven ! ' he gasped, and, rising, 
 held out the notes at arm's leng^th. ' Do von 
 tell me. Miss Donne, that George Banks gave 
 you these ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered boldly, though amazed. 
 He let them fall to the table, his arm dropped 
 heavily to his side, and he fell back into his 
 
 VOL. I, U
 
 290 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 seat again limply ; tlien rising on a sudden, lie 
 paced the room, and pulled at his long hair 
 with both hands. At this slie regarded him with 
 increased wonder, following him with her eyes 
 until, with a final wrench at his hair, he threw 
 himself bodily into the seat he had just quitted, 
 and glared at her like one distraught. '' What 
 is it, Mr. Keen ? ' she asked, not without a 
 tone of contempt in her voice. 
 
 ' Miss Donne,' protested the young lawyer 
 earnestly, ' my heart bleeds for you ! ' She 
 faced him bravely, without a word, waiting for 
 him. ' I must tell you what it will pain you 
 terribly to know.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' she said steadfastly, seeing that 
 lie faltered. 
 
 *This,' he said, taking up the bundle of 
 notes from the table and dropping it again, 
 *was a,ll that was wanted finally to prove his 
 guilt. The villain ! ' he muttered, grinding his 
 teeth and starting to his feet again. 
 
 ' Explain yourself,' she answered, steadfast 
 still. All colour had flown from her face 
 except for one spot on either cheek, and her
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 291 
 
 fine nostrils were a little dinted, but her eyes 
 glittered with a hght which under some cir- 
 cumstances would have looked dangerous. 
 
 ' I would as soon be shot as do it,' said the 
 miserable John ; ' but it has to be done. 
 These are the circumstances : — Mr. Bushell 
 charges the prisoner with forgery. The 
 prisoner answers that he received the cheque 
 from ]\Ir. Bushell, cashed it for him at the 
 bank, and paid the money into his hands. 
 The people at the bank keep a register of the 
 number of all notes paid out and received ; 
 they supply the pohce with a copy of that 
 register in this particular case, and of course 
 it becomes the duty of the police to trace the 
 notes and see whose hands they pass through. 
 Now, here ' — he handed her a slip of paper 
 from a pigeon-hole in his desk — 'here is a 
 copy of the bank manager's memorandum. 
 Look at the notes yourself. Miss Donne — I hate 
 myself for teUing you ! — and you will see that 
 you have had put into your innocent hands a 
 portion of the forger's gains. And now the 
 murder's out ! ' 
 
 u 2
 
 202 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 The murder was out indeed. In the face 
 of such evidence, faith was useless. There was 
 no crevice, in the certainty which prisoned her, 
 through which the loyalest doubt of love could 
 struggle. Love's dream was over, and love's 
 gilded idol lay shattered at her feet. The 
 amazed contempt and scorn with which she 
 had read the story of the accusation of her 
 lover, the loyalty with which she would have 
 clung to him against all the evidence the wide 
 world could bring, lent a doubled and re- 
 doubled force to the blow which fell upon 
 her. She would have taken him to her true 
 breast, against the jeers of a universe, whilst 
 she knew him to be true. For she had not 
 merely thought him honest, beheved him honest 
 — she knew him to be honest, as only love 
 knows love ; and after all, his truth was a lie, 
 and the' gift of his love a shame from which no 
 years or tears could cleanse her. 
 
 I will not try beyond this to tell you how 
 she suffered. 
 
 It was decided, before that terrible in- 
 terview closed, that there was but one thing to
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 2S3 
 
 be done with the knowledge John Keen had 
 acquured — to submit it to the authorities. And 
 so on Wednesday the sight-seers at the pohce- 
 court beheld the outside of as great a tragedy 
 as ever a woman's heart played a part in. 
 Curtice got up and told his tale, and the 
 prisoner, pallid and desperate, gave him the lie. 
 
 Then Ethel Donne appeared in the witness- 
 box, and the coward's heart stood still. 
 
 Dinah was in the court, resolved to tell her 
 story to the magistrate. For Daniel, after his 
 first rage, had fallen into lethargy, and had let 
 her have her way, not even imderstanding the 
 tale she told him with so many fawning, piteous 
 caresses and such tears of heartbreak. John 
 Keen, to the general surprise, had thrown up 
 the case for the defence, but sat there in court 
 with a grey, hard face, and never once looked 
 from the prisoner's eyes. This persistent re- 
 gard drew a shifty glance now and again from 
 George, but John's aspect never changed. 
 The angry loathing in it might have discon- 
 certed even an honourable man. 
 
 Ethel, gently handled by the magistrate,
 
 294 JOSEPirS COAT, 
 
 told her story. What it cost to tell it can 
 never be known. Dinah heard it, and began 
 to hate her child. 
 
 ' Have you any question to ask this witness, 
 prisoner?* Thus Sir Sydney Cheston, magis- 
 trate. 
 
 The human rat in a corner shrieked, 
 ' It's false ! It's a vile conspiracy ! ' 
 There rose a cry of indignation from the 
 little crowd in the packed court. 
 
 ' The child I bore ! ' groaned Dinah. None 
 heard the words but Ethel ; for Dinah, as she 
 spoke them, rose beside the witness-box and 
 stretched out her arms as if to save the girl 
 from this last and cruellest blow. Ethel 
 turned to her embrace and fainted on that 
 sheltering bosom.
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT, L^95 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Doubt is not incompatible with belief, after all. 
 A man may believe a thing pretty firmly and 
 yet have his misgivings about it. Old George 
 believed that Dinah had lied to him, and hav- 
 ing an interest in that belief, he gave it all the 
 nourishment he had to give. But he felt like 
 one who walks on unsafe grouud, who cannot 
 leave the place, and has no clue to the divina- 
 tion of the moment when the mine may burst. 
 A sensation not wholly comfortable, as any 
 successful schemer may believe. 
 
 The Eightful Heir was committed to take 
 his trial, and the Wrongful Heir was bound over 
 to appear against him. Ethel also was bound 
 over to appear, and waited for the day wdth 
 every hour a dull agony. It came at last, and 
 Master George, following his own wise maxim
 
 298 JOSJSFJrS COAT. 
 
 of in for a penny in for a pound, stuck to hi 
 tale of a conspiracy. He was without defence, 
 cross-examined no witnesses, but made his 
 simple and despairing plaint to a jury convinced 
 of his guilt and a judge whom his base protes- 
 tations made angry. When Ethel had re- 
 covered from her swoon in the police court, her 
 deposition was brought to her to be signed, and 
 the intelhgent and active officer whose duty it 
 was to see that she signed it, guided her weak 
 and shakinc: li nosers with such result that her 
 signature looked like that of Guy Fawkes after 
 the rack. The judge had read the depositions 
 and had seen the signature, and it had got 
 somehow into the judicial mind that the 
 prisoner was going to marry socially beneath 
 him. When, therefore, the name of Ethel 
 Donne was called aloud, and the girl stepped 
 into the witness-box, his lordship was very 
 strongly surprised and favourably impressed by 
 her appearance. When she told anew the 
 story of the false trust her lover had invested 
 in her hands, the hardened official heart began 
 to discern a tragedy unusually terrible even for
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 297 
 
 his experience. George stuck to his colours, 
 and prochiimed himself once more a maligned 
 and persecuted character, the victim of an 
 unheard-of conspiracy. The jury, without 
 leaving the box, found him guilty, and his 
 lordship (frostily remarking that if the prisoner 
 had set up another sort of defence he might 
 have been let off more hghtly, in consideration 
 of his youth, his social condition, and the good 
 prospects he had ruined) sentenced him to two 
 years' imprisonment. There was scarcely a 
 lighter heart that day in Stafford town than old 
 George's. The burden of fear which had lain 
 upon him for weeks past fell away and left him 
 free — free at least for two years, and two years 
 give time enough even for the slowest man to 
 turn about in. And apart from that, Dinah's 
 silence argued the whole thing a lie, so for as 
 her story of the marriage was concerned. 
 Beyond the marriage he had no need to trouble 
 himself, and he began to dismiss even the re- 
 motest fear of that from his mind. 
 
 He dined at the Swan, took his way home 
 by train, and for a day or two he hved on in
 
 1398 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 tlie usual way, until a little incident led to a 
 big one, and he began again to be terribly 
 afraid — much more afraid, indeed, than before. 
 
 It happened in this wise. His housekeeper 
 brought hhn every week a list of the house ex- 
 penses, and he had been in the habit of check- 
 ing this to the last farthing with his own hand, 
 even whilst he had resigned the almost entire 
 care of his vast business concerns to the 
 scoundrel who had at last forged his name. 
 She brought in the list now a day or two after 
 the trial, and George, sitting down to consider 
 it, arrived at the conclusion that cheese, candles, 
 tea, coffee, butter, and other articles of house- 
 hold use were going faster than they should do. 
 He was in a more than commonly grudging 
 humour, and there was a sum of two hundred 
 pounds to be made up somehow by squeezing 
 something or somebody. He rang for his 
 housekeeper. 
 
 ' Look here ! ' he said, when she reappeared 
 in answer to his summons ; 'I'm a-being 
 robbed right an' left, I am. I shan't stand it, 
 Mrs. Bullus, an' you'd better mek your mind
 
 JOSEPH'S ^ CO A T. 299 
 
 up to that at once. Here's two pound of 
 butter gone since last Saturday, an' a pound an' 
 a half o' candles. An' as for tea an' coffee, 
 why, you might swim in 'em, to look at these 
 here accounts. Xow, I've been done pretty 
 smart a'ready, an' it's the fust time, an' it'll be 
 the last — mind what I'm a-tellin' you.' 
 
 ' I'm sure, sir,' said Mrs. Bullus, in some 
 wrath, ' as nobody's got cause to say a word 
 again' me on that count. I've been a honest 
 woman all my days, an' if you're say in' any- 
 thin' again' me, you'll have to prove your words. 
 For, what though I'm poor, I ain't that sperit- 
 less to endure it.' 
 
 George was getting to be querulous as he 
 grew old, and that matter of the forgery had 
 set his temper's teeth on edge so thoroughly 
 that small things jarred him. 
 
 ' D'ye call this here item right ? ' he asked, 
 almost fiercely. ' Eight an' sixpence for tea 
 an' coffee in a week for three people, an' one 
 on 'em just fetched new out of the workus ! ' 
 
 Mr. Bushell's maid- of-all- work was but 
 newly emancipated from the discipline of the
 
 300 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 Bastille, as they call the workhouse in those 
 parts, and was therefore naturally supposed to 
 be able to content herself on a moderate diet. 
 
 ' Well, it does seem a large sum, sir,' the 
 housekeeper admitted. 
 
 'Why, it couldn't ha' come about at all,' 
 cried the old man, ' onless I was a-bein' robbed 
 again. Where's that little hussey of a Jane ? 
 Fetch her here. I'll oet at the bottom o' this 
 one way or another.' 
 
 ' Jane's gone up to Mrs. Bunch's to borrer 
 a strainer. There ain't a si' fit to use in the 
 wull house, an' that's as true as I'm a standin' 
 here if I should never speak another word, an' 
 the Lord A'mighty knows it.' 
 
 It was Mrs. Bullus's favourite method of 
 warfare to carry the fighting into the enemy's 
 country in this wise whenever she and her 
 master held a dispute together. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, woman,' said George 
 savagely. ' An' when that little trollop comes in 
 again — Here, niver mind waitin' for that. You 
 come wi' me, an' I'll have a look at her box 
 now this minute, an' if I find anything theer as
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 301 
 
 don't belong to her, I'll send her to StaiTord 
 Jail as sure as I'm alive. Come along.' 
 
 ' Fie for shame, master,' said Mrs. Bullus. 
 ' I wouldn't be that suspectious-like, not to 
 have ivery hair o' my head hung wi' gold. 
 That I wouldn't.' 
 
 ' Come wi me ! ' said her master, so angrily 
 that, privileged as long service had seemed to 
 make her, she dare answer him no further. 
 George Bushell led the way, and the woman, 
 with an expression of countenance which ap- 
 peared to presage a jest of some sort, followed. 
 The old man walked to the top of the house 
 and entered a little bare room in the attic. He 
 glared round him in rage and amazement, see- 
 ing nothing but the bare walls and the floor, 
 on which there was a great patch of wet cor- 
 responding to another patch in the plastered 
 ceiling. 
 
 ' Why, what's this ? ' he called to the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 ' This is the room Jane slep' in up till last 
 We'nsday was a week,' the woman answered 
 with much seriousness. ' But it's been a-rainin'
 
 3C2 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 SO, an' tlie roof's tliat bad, her had to move her 
 bed into tlie hnnber room.' 
 
 ' Why couldn't you ha' tode me that afore,' 
 asked George, ' i'stead o' bringhi' me a-trapesin' 
 all the way up here ? ' 
 
 ' You said, " Come along of me," ' the 
 housekeeper answered, and grinned broadly all 
 over her Black Country countenance as her 
 master, growling, led the way downstairs again. 
 The room he next entered was half filled with 
 odds and ends of furniture, broken chairs, 
 crippled tables, and the like, and in one corner 
 stood a high-shouklered wardrobe, which had 
 once made part of the furniture of his brother 
 Joseph's bedroom. When old Joe died, 
 brother George had laid hands upon everything, 
 even upon those things which were of no use 
 to him. ' Keep a thing long enough, an' you'll 
 find a use for it,' was one of George's constantly 
 quoted aphorisms. But he had never dreamed of 
 keeping this old wardrobe for such a use as at 
 length he found in it. 
 
 It may go without saying that the dull 
 schemer had long ceased to have any remorses
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 303 
 
 about young Joe, or the metliod by wliich he 
 himself had acquired young Joe's fortune. At 
 a very httle distance of time the cheque he had 
 given to his nephew had begun in memory to 
 communicate a sense of warmth to his heart, 
 and he thought the gift an almost unexampled 
 stroke of generosity. Lifeless things which 
 had once belonged to the brother and sister 
 whose hearts he helped to break were not likely 
 to touch him very keenly at any time, and after 
 these years were scarcely hkely to remind him 
 at all of their first owners. He was absolutely 
 unaJSected by them, and had no present memory 
 of Joseph and Eebecca nor any thought about 
 them. 
 
 'Turn the things out o' that theer box,' 
 said George. ' I'll see who's a-thievin' i' my 
 house.' 
 
 There was not much in the box, and if 
 anything in it had been stolen, it had certainly 
 not been fi:om old George. 
 
 ' This is a nice sort o' place to hide things 
 in,' said he, whilst the housekeeper loosely 
 tumbled the things back into the meagre box.
 
 S04 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 He went, stepping gingerly betAveen broken 
 chairs and the other lumber with which the 
 corner was filled, towards the w^ardrobe. The 
 door had long since lost its handle, but he 
 clawed it open, and rapped out a good round 
 oath, for there at the bottom of the wardrobe 
 lay a score or two of little packages, mere 
 newspaper screws, and on these fell the man 
 who had inherited a quarter of a million 
 of money and had doubled it. Unfolding 
 them one by one, he displayed their con- 
 tents to the housekeeper with a suppressed 
 severity of passion worthy of a loftier cause. 
 In one was an ounce of cheese, in another a 
 little bit of butter, in a third a table-spoonful 
 of coffee, in a fourth a pinch or two of moist 
 sugar. And as the owner of half a million 
 sterling opened up to the housekeeper's vision 
 this hidden stolen treasure, the peccant Jane, 
 who had come into the house by the back way, 
 bounced into the room and stood guiltily 
 transfixed before the accusing eyes of her 
 master. 
 
 'Mrs. Bullus,' said old George, regarding
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 305 
 
 the criminal T\dth Ehadamanthine severity, 
 ' fetcli a policeman.' 
 
 The wretched detected one fell upon her 
 knees before him with a countenance of implor- 
 ing agony. 
 
 ' It was my mother as axed me to do it,' 
 she declared. 
 
 * Fetch a pohceman,' said George again, 
 and Mrs. Bullus, with no intention of obeying, 
 left the room. The master of the house went 
 on opening the little packages, and spread them 
 all out before the miserable Jane. ' This is 
 wheer my household provisions has been a- 
 going to, is it ! — Eh ? ' said he with withering 
 sarcasm. ' How many shillin'-worths of my 
 property have you stole? Answer me that 
 this minute. Wheer's that policeman, Mrs. 
 BuUus?' 
 
 ' D'ye mind comin' here a minute, master ? ' 
 asked the housekeeper, reappearing. George 
 picked his way through the debris of tlie 
 comer and joined the woman outside. 
 
 ' You don't r'aly want me to fetch a pleece- 
 man, do you? ' she asked. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 'Yis, I do,' said George; but no man is 
 insensible to the feelings of other people, and 
 he hastened to add : ' I want to gi'e the young 
 madam a good fright.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the housekeeper in a louder 
 tone ; ' the pleeceman'll be here in a minute.' 
 
 Old George went heavily back into the 
 lumber-room. The criminal was in a condition 
 of abject terror, boo-hooing on the floor. Her 
 employer, disregarding her, passed once more 
 to the wardrobe. 
 
 'Is there anythin' else you've hid here, 
 you wicked gell? he demanded, poking about 
 in the darker corners. ' Why, what's this P 
 Have you been a-tryin' to steal a coat o' mine ? ' 
 The garment he had in his hand Tvas none of 
 his, as the glance of a moment told him. It 
 was old and mildewed, and almost rotten in 
 places, and it felt moist in his hand. A certain 
 musty smell with which his nostrils had been 
 acquainted ever since his entry to the room, 
 seemed now to be chiefly traceable to this 
 shabby and decayed old coat. 
 
 The blubbering little culprit was forgotten.
 
 rN
 
 JOSJEPS'JS COAT. 307 
 
 George liad heard the manner of his sister-in- 
 law's death, and had been told of her last 
 words. 
 
 It was Joseph's Coat. 
 
 He held the coat in his hand, and knew it 
 almost at a glance. He walked into his own 
 room with it, threw it into a chair, and stood 
 staring at it for a full minute. There were few 
 men less hkely be affected by the sight of any 
 worthless rehc such as this, but possibly it hit 
 him as it did because it was such a trifle, and 
 because he had found it after such a lapse of 
 years. A greater thing arising sooner might 
 have passed him by. 
 
 ' It's made me feel moist all o'er,' said he, 
 rubbing the palm of the hand in which he had 
 carried it against his own coat, to get rid of 
 the feel of the discovered garment. ' Eh 
 dear ! ' And he stared at the coat, and went 
 off mto reverie. ' I reckon,' he said after a 
 time, ' as he's been dead these 'ears and 'ears. 
 It feels as if he had been.' 
 
 He seemed reluctant to touch the coat 
 again, for he put his hand out towards it once 
 
 X 2
 
 308 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 or twice, and drew it back. But laying hold 
 of it at last, he took a step to the door, as if 
 intending to return it to the place from which 
 he had taken it, but as he did so he stopped 
 short, dropped the garment upon the table, 
 and felt a part of it with his hand. 
 
 ' Theer's somethin' i' the linin',' he said 
 slowly. ' A bit o' paper o' some sort.' The 
 lining was so old and rotten that he tore it 
 open easily with his fingers, and there, sure 
 enough, was a scrap of paper, George put 
 on his glasses and looked at it. No change in 
 face or attitude gave notice of the shock it 
 brought him to read the little document he 
 held. Yet it was nothing less than a copy of 
 the certifica' of marriage between Joseph 
 Bushell, bac^ 3lor, and Dinah Banks, spinster. 
 
 Then, Dinah's story of the marriage had 
 not been a lie, after all ! Errant Joe had left 
 a rightful heir behind him ! 
 
 The first conscious and distinct feeling he 
 had was one of relief that this discovery had 
 not been made before George had proved him- 
 self unworthy. It is always pleasanter to
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 309 
 
 escape from being a scoundrel than to be one, 
 and now old George was armed in honesty for 
 two years at least. For two years he could be 
 honest and yet hold the money. Any question 
 of becoming c?i6'honest and still holding the 
 money might reasonably be deferred until the 
 time came. 
 
 For two years he could be honest and yet 
 hold the money. And yet he began to doubt 
 that postulate. The money had never be- 
 longed to young George as yet, but it undoubt- 
 edly did belong now, and had belonged, ever 
 since old Joe's death, to Dinah, young Joe's 
 wedded wife. Well, there was some comfort 
 there. She had voluntarily resi aed it all this 
 time, and had, indeed, when le sued for 
 mercy for her son, expressly disowned all 
 desire to claim it. 
 
 ' Her don't want it,' mused old George. 
 ' Said so with her own hps. It don't belong to 
 him not till her's dead, an' if it belonged to 
 him now he's a felon.' He could argue w^ell 
 on the side of justice, for he went on — ' An' if 
 he signed his own name, he didn't know it, an'
 
 310 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 it was a felonious intention. I've heard that 
 on the bench many a time. What's to be 
 looked at is the intention. It never was i' my 
 mind for a minute to swindle anybody. I gave 
 a hunderd pound to my young nevevv Joseph 
 as I've never seen, again from that day to this. 
 If he'd ha' come again, an' ha' took everythin', 
 could I ha' said to him, " Joseph, you owe me 
 a hunderd pound " ? Now, could I ? Could I 
 ha' been that mean as to ha' said it ? ' 
 
 He felt magnanimously disdainful at the 
 thought. 
 
 ' Her must ha' been an uncommon foolish 
 sort o' woman to ha' laid out of her money all 
 these 'ears for want of a scrap like this,' said 
 the considerate George w^ith the certificate held 
 between his plump thumb and finger. ' But 
 sence her has laid out of it, an' — why — I'll ' 
 
 He did not complete the sentence, but he 
 took the poker in his disengaged hand, hollowed 
 out the fire, put the certificate gently into the 
 hollow, and beat down the glowing coals upon 
 it. As he did so, his brother's latest action 
 came into his mind. Not that the burning of
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 311 
 
 the will had made any difference in his position, 
 or could have done, any more than now the 
 destruction of the marriage certificate made ; 
 but the two things somehow associated them- 
 selves together. The burning of the will had 
 heralded in a tenancy of five-and- twenty years : 
 the destruction of the certificate might, for 
 anything he could tell, be as good an omen. 
 
 Whilst he still stood idly beating at the 
 coals with the poker, a tap came to the door. 
 
 ' Come in ! ' cried he, and the housekeeper 
 entered. 
 
 ' What am I to do along o' Jane, master ? ' 
 she inquired. 
 
 Mx. Bush ell had forgotten the peccant 
 maid, but a flush of virtuous heat touched him 
 at the mention of her. 
 
 ' Mek the baggage pack her things up and 
 be off at once,' he answered. 'I'll have no 
 roguery i' this house, if I can help it.' 
 
 ' Her s a-cryin' fit to split, master,' said the 
 housekeeper. ' Her swears her mother set her 
 on to it, and says her'll never do it again. I 
 can allays keep a look on her.'
 
 312 JOSEPH'S COAT. 
 
 ' Send her off,' said George. 
 
 ' Her's afraid to go hum/ the housekeeper 
 pleaded. 'Best let her stop, master. Her 
 comes cheaper than a bigger gell would, an' I'll 
 keep a look on her.' 
 
 There was a consideration there which 
 touched Old George. Give him the benefit of 
 the doubt, and say it was pity. 
 
 ' I'll tek a day or two to think it over,' he 
 responded, and the housekeeper was about to 
 retire, when she saw the decayed and mildewed 
 old coat lying on the table. 
 
 ' Why, master,' she said, advancing towards 
 it, ' whatever do you mean by keepin' a rag 
 like that i' the parlour, a-makin' a litter ? ' 
 
 'Leave it alone,' cried George. ' I want it.' 
 He was never unwilling to show a softer side 
 to his nature, when he could do so inexpen- 
 sively. ' That garmint,' he proceeded, ' is th' 
 o'ny one thing as is left in the wull wide 
 world of a poor nevew of mine. My eldest 
 brother's o'ny son he was, an' that's his coat I 
 just found. I'll keep it' 
 
 ' Why, that'd be young Mister Joseph as
 
 JOSEPH'S COAT. 313 
 
 run away from hum when I was a gell,' said 
 tlie housekeeper. ' More than twenty 'ear ago.* 
 
 ' Five-an'-twenty,' said old George. * Yes : 
 I'll keep it. You go an' frighten that little 
 trollop's hfe out. Tell her I'll ha' no mercy on 
 her next time if ever her does such a thing 
 again. I'll ha' nobody but upright folks i' my 
 house, Mrs. Bullus.' 
 
 The housekeeper retired, and having 
 soothed Jane with promises of a public hanging 
 in case of any renewal of her peccadilloes, she 
 mused upon her master. 
 
 ' He's hard to get on wi',' she concluded, 
 'but I think he's main true at bottom. An' 
 anyhow he does abhor a thief, an' so do I.' 
 
 EXD OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 I.O>-r)OX : PEIXTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOO^E ANi> CO.. XE'V-STREET SQUAB.^ 
 
 AND PAULIAJIEXT STKEET