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 JOHNNY LUDLOW 
 
 We spake of many a vanished scene, 
 Of what we once had thought and said, 
 
 Of what had been, and might have been. 
 And who was changed, and who was dead." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 New Burlington Street, 
 ^ublt^ljer^ in ^rtsimrv to |i)ci" iirlajfstn. 
 
 187-t. 
 
 {^All right H reserved.]
 
 These Stories, hy " Johnny Ludlow," are 
 reprinted from the Argosy Magazine.
 
 
 \j. I 
 
 C X 1^ E X T S, 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Losing Lena 1 
 
 II. Finding Both of Them 31 
 
 III. Wolfe Barrington's Taming .... 54 
 
 IV. Major Parrifer 94 
 
 V. Coming Home to Him 125 
 
 VI, Lease, the Pointsman 156 
 
 VII. Aunt Dean 192 
 
 ' VIII. Going Through the Tunnel .... 229 
 
 ^ IX. Dick Mitchei 201 
 
 
 c^^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 ^ 
 
 4
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/johnnyludlow01woo
 
 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 I. 
 
 LOSING LENA. 
 
 WE lived chiefly at Dyke Manor. A fine 
 old place, so close upon the borders of 
 War^ckshire and Worcestershire, that many 
 people did not know which of the two counties 
 it was really in. The house was in Warwick- 
 shire, but some of the land was in Worcester- 
 shire. The Squire had, however, another 
 estate, Crabb Cot, all in Worcestershire, and 
 very many miles nearer to Worcester. 
 
 Squire Todhetley was rich. But he lived 
 in the plain, good old-fashioned way that his 
 forefathers had lived ; almost a homely way, it 
 might be called, in contrast with the show and 
 parade springing up of late years. He was 
 respected by every body, and though hotheaded 
 and impetuous, he was simple-minded, open- 
 handed, and had as good a heart as any body 
 ever had in this world. An elderly gentleman 
 now, was he, of middle height, with a portly 
 form and a red face ; and his hair, what was left 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 of it, consisted of a few scanty lightish locks, 
 standing up straight on the top of his head. 
 
 The squire had married, but not very early 
 in life. His wife died in a few years, leaving 
 one child only ; a son, named after his father, 
 Joseph. Young Joe was just the pride of the 
 Manor and of his father's heart. 
 
 I, writing this, am Johnny Ludlow. And 
 you will naturally want to hear what I did at 
 Dyke Manor, and why I lived there. 
 
 About three miles' distance from the Manor 
 was a place called the Court. Not a property 
 of so much importance as the Manor, but a 
 nice place, for all that. It belonged to my 
 father, William Ludlow. He and Squire Tod- 
 hetley were good friends. I was the only child, 
 just as Tod was ; and, like him, I had lost my 
 mother. They had christened me John but 
 always called me Johnny. I can remember 
 many incidents of my early life now, but I 
 cannot recal to my mind my mother. She 
 must have died ; at least, I fancy so ; when I 
 was two years old. 
 
 One morning, two years after that, when 
 I was about four, the servants told me I had a 
 new mamma. I can see her now as she looked 
 when she came home : tall and thin and up- 
 right, with a long face, pinched nose, a meek 
 expression, and gentle voice. She was a Miss 
 Marks, who used to play the organ at church, 
 and had hardly any income at all. Hannah
 
 LOSING LENA. 3 
 
 said she was sure she was thirty-five if she 
 was a clay — she was talking to Ehza while she 
 dressed me — and they both agreed that she 
 would probably turn out to be a Tartar, and 
 that the master might have chosen better. I 
 understood quite well that they meant papa, 
 and asked why he might have chosen better ; 
 upon which they shook me and said they had 
 not been speaking of my papa at all, but of the 
 old blacksmith round the corner. Hannah 
 brushed my hair the wrong way, and Eliza 
 went off to see to her bedrooms. Children are 
 easily prejudiced : and they prejudiced me 
 against my new mother. Looking at her by 
 the improved eyes of maturer years, I know that 
 though she might be poor in pocket, she was 
 good and kindly, and every inch a lady. 
 
 Papa died that same year. At the end of 
 another year, Mrs. Ludlow, my stepmother, 
 married Squire Todhetley, and we went to live 
 at Dyke Manor ; she, I, and my nurse Hannah. 
 The Court was let for a term of years to the 
 Sterlings. 
 
 Young Joe did not like the new arrangements. 
 He was older than I, could take up prejudices 
 more strongly, and he took a mighty strong 
 one against the new Mrs. Todhetley. He had 
 been regularly indulged by his father and spoilt 
 by all the servants ; so it was only to be ex- 
 pected that he would not like the invasion. 
 Mrs. Todhetley introduced order into the pro-
 
 4 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 fuse household, hitherto governed by the ser- 
 vants. They and young Joe equally resented 
 it ; they refused to see that things were really 
 more comfortable than they used to be, and at 
 half the cost. 
 
 Two babies came to the Manor ; Hugh first, 
 Lena next. Joe and I were sent to school. He 
 was as big as a house, compared with me, tall 
 and strong and dark, with an imperious way 
 and will of his own. I was fair, gentle, timid, 
 yielding to him in all things. His was the 
 master spirit, swaying mine at will. At school 
 the boys at once, the very first day we entered, 
 shortened his name from Todhetley to Tod. I 
 caught the habit, and from that time I never 
 called hi in anything else. 
 
 And so the years went on. Tod and I at 
 school being drilled into learning ; Hugh and 
 Lena growing into nice little children. During 
 the holidays, hot war waged between Tod and 
 his stepmother. At least, silent war. Mrs. 
 Todhetley was always kind to him, and she 
 never quarrelled ; but Tod opposed her in many 
 things, and would be generally sarcastically 
 cool to her in manner. 
 
 We did lead the children into mischief, and 
 she complained of that. Tod did, that is, and 
 of course I followed where he led. *^But we 
 can't let Hugh grow up a milksop, you know, 
 Johnny," he would say to me; " and he would, 
 if left to his mother." So Hugh's clothes in
 
 LOSING LENA. 5 
 
 Tod's bands came to grief, and Hugh himself 
 sometimes. Hannah, who was the children's 
 nurse now, stormed and scolded over it ; she 
 and Tod had ever been at daggers drawn with 
 each other; and Mrs. Todhetley would implore 
 Tod with tears in her eyes to be careful with 
 the child. Tod appeared to turn a deaf ear, 
 and marched off with Hugh before their very 
 eyes. He really loved the children, and would 
 have saved them from injury with his life. The 
 Squire drove and rode his fine horses. Mrs. 
 Todhetley had set up a low basket-chaise drawn 
 by a mild she-donkey : it was safer for the 
 children, she said. Tod went into fits when- 
 ever he met the turn-out. 
 
 But Tod was not always to escape scot-free, 
 or incite the children to rebellion with impunity. 
 There came a day when he brought himself, 
 through it, to a state of repentance and self- 
 torture. 
 
 It occurred when we were at home for the 
 summer holidays, just after the crop of hay 
 was got in, and the bare fields looked as white 
 in the blazing sun as if they had been scorched. 
 Tod and I were in the three-cornered meadow 
 next the fold-yard. He was making a bat-net 
 with gauze and two sticks. Young Jacobson 
 had shown us his the previous day, and a bat 
 he caught with it ; and Tod thought he would 
 catch bats too. But he did not seem to be 
 making much hand at the net, and somehow
 
 b JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 managed to send the pointed end of the stick 
 
 through a corner of it. 
 
 " I don't think that gauze is strong enough. 
 
 Tod." 
 
 " I am afraid it is not, Johnny. Here, catch 
 
 hold of it. I'll go in-doors, and see if they 
 
 can't find me some better. Hannah must 
 
 have some." 
 
 He flew off past the ricks, and leaped the Httle 
 
 gate into the fold-yard — a tall, strong fellow, 
 
 who might leap the Avon. In a few minutes 
 
 I heard his voice again, and went to meet him. 
 
 Tod was coming away from the house with Lena. 
 " Have you the gauze, Tod ? " 
 '' Not a bit of it ; that old cat won't look for 
 
 any ; says she hasn't time. I'll hinder her 
 
 time a little. Come along, Lena." 
 
 The "old cat " was Hannah. I told you she 
 and he were often at daggers drawn. Hannah 
 had a chronic complaint, ill-temper, and Tod 
 called her names to her face. Upon going in 
 to ask her for the gauze, he found her dressing 
 Hugh and Lena to go out, and she just turned 
 him out of the nursery, and told him not to 
 bother her then with his gauze and his wants. 
 Lena ran after Tod ; she liked him better than 
 all of us put together. She had on a blue 
 silk frock, and a white straw hat with daisies 
 round it ; open-work stockings were on a pretty 
 little legs. By which we saw she was about to 
 be taken out for show.
 
 LOSING LENA. Y 
 
 *' What are you going to do mth her, Tod?" 
 
 ''I'm going to hide her," answered Tod, in 
 his decisive voice. " Keep where you are, 
 Johnny." 
 
 Lena enjoyed the rebellion. In a minute or 
 two Tod came back alone. He had left her 
 between the ricks in the three-cornered field, 
 and told her not to come out. Then he went 
 off to the front of the house, and I stood inside 
 the barn, talking to Mack, who was hammering 
 away at the iron of the cart-wheel. Out came 
 Hannah by-and-by. She had been dressing 
 herself as well as Hugh. 
 
 "Miss Lena!" 
 
 No answer. Hannah called again, and then 
 came up the fold-yard, looking about. 
 
 " Master Johnny, have you seen the child?" 
 
 "What child?" I was not going to spoil 
 Tod's sport by telling her. 
 
 " Miss Lena. She has got off somewhere, 
 and my mistress is waiting for her in the 
 basket-chaise." 
 
 " I see her just now along of Master Joseph," 
 spoke up Mack, arresting his noisy hammer. 
 
 " See her where ?" asked Hannah. 
 
 " Close here, a-going that way." 
 
 He pointed with the hammer to the palings 
 and gate that divided the yard from the three- 
 cornered field. Hannah ran there and stood 
 looking over. The ricks were within a short 
 stone's throw, but Lena kept close. Hannah
 
 8 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 called out again, and threw her eyes over the 
 empty field. 
 
 " The child's not there. Where can she 
 have got to, tiresome little thing?" 
 
 In the house, and about the house, and out 
 of the house, as the old riddle says, went 
 Hannah. It was jolly to see her. Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley and Hugh were seated patiently in the 
 basket-chaise before the hall-door, wondering 
 what made Hannah so long. Tod, playing 
 with the mild she-donkey's ears, and laughing 
 to himself, stood talking graciously to his step- 
 mother. I went round. The Squire had gone 
 riding to Evesham; Dwarf Giles, who made 
 the nattiest little groom in the county, for all 
 his five-and-thirty years, behind him. 
 
 *'I can't find Miss Lena," cried Hannah, 
 coming out. 
 
 *' Not find Miss Lena!" echoed Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. "What do you mean, Hannah? Have 
 you not dressed her?" 
 
 " I dressed her first, ma'am, before Master 
 Hugh, and she went out of the nursery. I 
 can't think where she can have got to. I've 
 searched everywhere.'* 
 
 *'But, Hannah, we must have her directly; 
 I am late as it is." 
 
 They were going over to the Court to a 
 children's early party at the Sterlings. Mrs. 
 Todhetley stejoped out of the basket-chaise, to 
 help in the search.
 
 LOSING LENA. 9 
 
 *'I had better fetch her, Tod," I whispered. 
 
 He nodded yes. Tod never bore malice, 
 and I suppose he thought Hannah had had 
 enough of a hunt for that day. I ran through 
 the fold-yard to the ricks, and called to Lena. 
 
 ** You can come out now, little stupid." 
 
 But no Lena answered. There were seven 
 ricks in a group, and I went into all the 
 openings between them. Lena was not there. 
 It was rather odd, and I looked across the field 
 and towards the lane and the coppice, shouting 
 out stm'dily. 
 
 "Mack, have you seen Miss Lena pass in 
 doors ?" I stayed to ask him, in going back. 
 
 No : Mack had not noticed her ; and I went 
 round to the front again, and whispered to 
 Tod. 
 
 "What a muff you are, Johnny ! She's 
 between the ricks fast enough. No danger 
 that she'd come out when I told her to stay!" 
 
 "But she's not there indeed, Tod. You go 
 and look." 
 
 Tod vaulted off, his long legs seeming to 
 take flying leaps, like a deer's, on his way to 
 the ricks. 
 
 To make short of the story, Lena was gone. 
 Lost. The house, the out-door buildings, the 
 gardens were searched for her, and she was 
 not to be found. Mrs. Todhetley's fears flew 
 to the ponds at first ; but it was impossible 
 she could have come to grief in either of the
 
 10 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 two, as they were both in view of the barn- 
 door where I and Mack had been. Tod avowed 
 that he had put her amid the ricks to hide ; and 
 it was not to be imagined she had gone. The 
 most feasible conjecture was, that she had run 
 from between the ricks when Hannah called to 
 her, and was hiding in the lane. 
 
 Tod was in a fever, loudly threatening Lena 
 with unheard-of whippings, to cover his real 
 concern. Hannah looked red, Mrs. Todhetley 
 white. I was standing by him when the cook 
 came up ; a sharp woman, with red-brown 
 eyes. We called her Moll}^ 
 
 "Mr. Joseph," said she, "I have heard of 
 gipsies stealing childi'en." 
 
 ''Well?" returned Tod. 
 
 " There was one at the door a while agone — 
 an insolent one, too. Perhaps Miss Lena " 
 
 ' ' Which way did she go ? — which door was 
 she at?" burst forth Tod. 
 
 " 'Twas a man, sir. He come up to the 
 kitchen-door, and steps inside as bold as brass, 
 asking me to buy some wooden skewers he'd 
 cut, and saying something about a sick child. 
 When I told him to march, that we never en- 
 couraged tramps here, he wanted to answer me, 
 and I just shut the door in his face. A regular 
 gipsy, if ever I see one," continued Molly ; "his 
 skin tawny and his wild hair jet-black. Maybe, 
 in revenge, he have stole off the little miss." 
 
 Tod took up the notion, and his face turned
 
 LOSING LENA. 1 1 
 
 white. *' Don't say anything of this to Mrs. 
 Todhetley," he said to Molly. " We must just 
 scour the country." 
 
 But in departing from the kitchen-door, the 
 gipsy man could not by any possibility have 
 made his way to the rick-field direct without 
 going through the fold-yard. And he had not 
 done that. It was true that Lena might have 
 run round and got in the gipsy's way. Unfor- 
 tunately, none of the men were about, except 
 Mack and old Thomas. Tod sent these off in 
 different directions ; Mrs. Todhetley drove away 
 in her pony-chaise to the lanes round, saying 
 the child might have strayed there ; Molly and 
 the maids started elsewhere ; and I and Tod 
 went flying along a bye-road that branched off' 
 in a line, as it were, from the kitchen-door. 
 Nobody could keep up with Tod, he went so 
 fast ; and I was not tall and strong as he was. 
 But I saw what Tod in his haste did not see 
 — a dark man, with some bundles of skewers 
 and a stout stick, walking on the other side 
 of the hedge. I whistled Tod back again. 
 
 "What is it, Johnny?" he said, panting. 
 " Have you seen her ? " 
 
 " Not her. But look there. That must be 
 the man Molly spoke of." 
 
 Tod crashed through the hedge as if it had 
 been so many cobwebs, and accosted the gipsy. 
 I followed more carefully, but got my face 
 scratched.
 
 12 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Were yon up at the great house, begging, a 
 short while ago ? " demanded Tod, in an awful 
 passion. 
 
 The man turned round on Tod with a face 
 of brass. I say brass, because he did it so 
 independently ; but it was not an insolent face 
 in itself; rather a sad one, and very sickly. 
 
 *' What's that you ask me, master? " 
 
 " I ask whether it was you who were at the 
 Manor-house just now, begging?" fiercely 
 repeated Tod. 
 
 " I was at a big house offering wares for 
 sale, if 5^ou mean that, sir. I wasn't begging." 
 
 *' Call it what you please," said Tod, growing 
 white again. " What have you done with the 
 little girl ? " 
 
 For, you see, Tod had fully caught up the 
 impression that the gipsy had stolen Lena, and 
 he spoke in accordance with it. 
 
 " I've seen no little girl, master." 
 
 " You have," and Tod gave his foot a stamp. 
 " What have you done with her ? " 
 
 The man's only answer was to turn round 
 and walk off, muttering to himself. Tod 
 pursued him, calling him a thief and other 
 names ; but nothing more satisfactory could 
 he get. 
 
 " He can't have taken her, Tod. If he had, 
 she'd be with him now. He couldn't eat her, 
 you know." 
 
 " He may have given her to a confederate."
 
 LOSING LENA. 13 
 
 '' What to do ? What do gipsies steal 
 children for?" 
 
 Tod stopped in a passion, lifting his hand. 
 " If you torment me with these frivolous ques- 
 tions, Johnny, I'll strike you. How do I know 
 what's done with stolen children ? Sold, 
 perha]3S. I'd give a hundred pounds out of 
 my pocket at this minute if I knew where those 
 gipsies w^ere encamped." 
 
 We suddenly lost the fellow. Tod had been 
 keeping him in sight in the distance. Whether 
 he disappeared up a gum-tree, or into a rabbit- 
 hole, Tod couldn't tell ; but gone he was. 
 
 Up this lane, down that ; over that moor, 
 across this common ; so raced Tod and I. 
 And the afternoon wore away, and we had 
 changed our direction a dozen times : which 
 possibly was not wdse. 
 
 The sun was getting low as we passed 
 Eagley gates, for we had finally got into the 
 Alcester road. Tod was going to do what we 
 ought to have done at first : report the loss at 
 Alcester. Somebody came riding along on a 
 stumpy pony. It proved to be Gruff Blossom, 
 groom to the Jacobsons. They called him 
 " Gruff " because of his temper. He did touch 
 his hat to us, which was as much as you could 
 say, and spurred the stumpy animal on. But 
 Tod made a sign to him, and he was obliged 
 to stop and listen. 
 
 "The gipsies stole off little Miss Lena! "
 
 14 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 cried old Blossom, coming out of his gruffness. 
 " That's a rum go ! Ten to one if you find 
 her for a year to come." 
 
 " But, Blossom, what do they do with the 
 children they steal?" I asked, in a sort of 
 agony. 
 
 " They cuts their hair off and dyes their 
 skins brown and then takes 'em out to fairs a 
 ballad-singing," answered Blossom. 
 
 *' But why need they do it, when they have 
 children of their own ? " 
 
 "Ah, well, that's a question I couldn't 
 answer," said old Blossom. " Maybe their'n 
 arn't pretty childern — Miss Lena, she is pretty." 
 
 " Have you heard of any gipsies being en- 
 camped about here ? " Tod demanded of him. 
 
 *' Not lately, Mr. Joseph. Five or six months 
 ago, there was a lot 'camped on the Markis's 
 ground. They warn't there long." 
 
 " Can't you ride about. Blossom, and see 
 after the child ? " asked Tod, putting something 
 into his hand. 
 
 Old Blossom pocketed it, and went off with a 
 nod. He was riding about, as we knew after- 
 wards, for hours. Tod made straight for the 
 police-station at Alcester, and told his tale. 
 Not a soul was there but Jenkins, one of the 
 men. 
 
 " I haven't seen no suspicious characters 
 about," said Jenkins, who seemed to be eating 
 something. He was a big man, with short
 
 LOSING LENA. 15 
 
 black hair combed on his forehead, and he had 
 a habit of turning his face uj)wards, as if 
 looking after his nose — a square ornament, 
 that stood up straight. 
 
 " She is between four and five years old ; 
 a very pretty child, with blue eyes, and a good 
 deal of curling auburn hair," said Tod, ^Yho 
 was getting feverish. 
 
 Jenkins wrote it down — " Name, Todhetley. 
 What Christian name ? " 
 
 "Adalena, called 'Lena.' " 
 
 " Eecollect the dress, sir ? " 
 
 " Pale blue silk ; straw hat with wreath of 
 daisies round it ; open-worked white stockings, 
 and thin black shoes ; white drawers, finished 
 off with tatting stuff," recounted Tod, as if he 
 had prepared the list by heart coming along. 
 
 " That's bad, that dress is, " said Jenkins, 
 putting down the pen. 
 
 ''Why is it bad?" 
 
 " 'Cause the things is tempting. Quite 
 half the children that gets stole is stole for what 
 they've got upon their backs. Tramps and 
 that sort will run a risk for a blue silk, specially 
 if it's clean and glistening, that they'd not run 
 for a brown holland pinafore. Auburn curls 
 too," added Jenkins, shaking his head ; " that's 
 a temptation also. I've knowed children sent 
 back home with bare heads afore now. Any 
 ornaments, sir ? " 
 
 '•' She was safe to have on her little gold
 
 16 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 neck-chain and cross. They are very small, 
 Jenkins — not worth ranch." 
 
 Jenkins lifted his nose — not in disdain, it 
 was a habit he had. " Not worth much to 
 you, sir, who could buy such any day, but an 
 uncommon bait to professional child-stealers. 
 Were the cross a coral, or any stone of that 
 sort?" 
 
 " It was a small gold cross, and the chain 
 was thin. They could only be seen when 
 her cloak was off. Oh, I forgot the cloak ; 
 it was white : llama, I think they call it. She 
 was going to a child's party." 
 
 Some more questions and answers, most of 
 which Jenkins took down. Handbills were to 
 be printed and posted, and a reward offered on 
 the morrow, if she was not found previously. 
 Then we came away ; there was nothing more 
 to do at the station. 
 
 '' Wouldn't it have been better. Tod, had 
 Jenkins gone out seeking her and telling of the 
 loss abroad, instead of waiting to write all that 
 down?" 
 
 " Johnny, if we don't find her to-night, I 
 shall go mad," was all he answered. 
 
 He went back down Alcester Street at a 
 rushing walk — not a run. 
 
 " Where are you going now ? " I asked. 
 
 ^' I'm going up hill and down dale till I find 
 that gipsies' encampment. You can go on home, 
 Johnny, if you are tired."
 
 LOSING LENA. 17 
 
 I had not felt tired till we were in the police- 
 station. Excitement keeps fatigue off. But I 
 was not going to give in, and said I should 
 keep with him. 
 
 ''All right, Johnny." 
 
 Before we were clear of Alcester, Budd the 
 land-agent came up. He was turning out of 
 the public-house at the corner. It was dusk 
 then. Tod laid hold of him. 
 
 " Budd, you are about always, in all kinds 
 of by-nooks and lanes : can you tell me of any 
 encampment of gipsies between here and the 
 Manor-house ? ' ' 
 
 The agent's business took him abroad a great 
 deal, you know, into the rural districts around. 
 
 "Gipsies' encampment?" repeated Budd, 
 giving both of us a stare. " There's none that 
 I know of. In the spring, a lot of them had 
 the impudence to squat down on the Mar- 
 quis's " 
 
 " Oh, I know all that," interrupted Tod. 
 " Is there nothing of the sort about now ? " 
 
 " I saw a miserable little tent to-day up 
 Cookhill way," said Budd. ''It might have 
 been a gipsy's or a travelling tinker's. 'T wasn't 
 of much account, whichever it was." 
 
 Tod gave a sort of spring. " Whereabouts ? " 
 was all he asked. And Budd explained where. 
 Tod went off like a shot, and I after him. 
 
 If you are familiar with Alcester, or have 
 visited at Piagley or anything of that, you 
 
 VOL I. c
 
 18 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 must know the long green lane leading to 
 Cookhill ; it is dark with overhanging trees, 
 and up-hill all the way. We took that road — 
 Tod first, and I last ; and we came to the top, 
 and turned in the direction Budd had described 
 the tent to be. 
 
 It was not to be called dark ; the nights 
 never are at midsummer ; and rays from the 
 bright light in the west glimmered through the 
 trees. On the outskirts of the coppice, in a 
 bit of low ground, we saw the tent, a little mite 
 of a thing, looking no better than a funnel 
 turned upside down. Sounds were heard 
 within it, and Tod put his finger on his lip 
 while he listened. But we were too far off, 
 and he took his boots off, and crept up close. 
 
 Sounds of wailing — of somebody in pain. 
 But that Tod had been three parts out of his 
 senses all the afternoon, he might have known 
 at once that they did not come from Lena, or 
 any one so young. Words were mingled with 
 them in a woman's voice ; uncouth in its 
 accents, nearly non-understandable in its 
 language, an awful sadness in its tone. 
 
 " A bit longer ! a bit longer, Corry, and he'd 
 ha' been back. You needn't ha' grudged it to 
 
 us. Oh h ! if ye had but w^aited a bit 
 
 longer ! ' ' 
 
 I don't write exactly as she spoke ; I shouldn't 
 know how to spell it : we made a guess at 
 half the words. Tod, who had grown white
 
 LOSING LENA. 19 
 
 again, put on his boots, and lifted up the 
 opening of the tent. 
 
 I had never seen any scene like that ; I 
 don't suppose I shall see another. About a 
 foot from the ground was a raised surface of 
 some sort, thickly covered with dark-green 
 rushes, just the size and shape of a gravestone. 
 A little child, about as old as Lena, lay on it, 
 a white cloth thrown across her, just touching 
 the white, still face. A torch, blazing and 
 smoking away, was thrust into the ground and 
 lighted up the scene. Whiter the face looked 
 now, because it had been tawney in life. I'd 
 rather see one of our faces dead than a gipsy's. 
 The contrast between the white face and dress 
 of the child, and the green bed of rushes it lay 
 on was something remarkable. A young 
 woman, dark too, and handsome enough to 
 create a commotion at the fair, knelt down, her 
 brown hands uplifted ; a gaudy ring on one of 
 the fingers, worth sixpence perhaps when new, 
 sparkling in the torchlight. Tod strode up 
 to the dead face and looked at it for full ten 
 minutes. I do believe he thought at first that 
 it was Lena. 
 
 "What is this?" he asked. 
 
 " It is my dead child ! " the woman answered. 
 *' She did not wait that her father might see her 
 die!" 
 
 But Tod had got his head full of Lena, and 
 iooked around. " Is there no other child here ? '*
 
 20 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 As if to answer him, a bundle of rags came 
 out of a corner and set up a howl. It was a 
 boy about seven, and our going in had woke 
 him up. The woman sat down on the ground 
 and looked at us. 
 
 *' We have lost a child — a little girl," ex- 
 plained Tod. " I thought she might have been 
 brought here — or have strayed here." 
 
 " I've lost mi) girl," said the woman. " Death 
 has come for her ! " And, in speaking to us, 
 she spoke a more intelligible language than 
 when alone. 
 
 " Yes ; but this child has been lost — lost 
 out of doors ! Have you seen or heard any- 
 thing of one ? " 
 
 " I've not been in the way o' seeing or hear- 
 ing, master ; I've been in the tent alone. If 
 folks had come to my aid, Corry might not have 
 died. I've had nothing but water to put in her 
 lips all day ! ' ' 
 
 "What was the matter with her ?" Tod asked, 
 convinced at length that Lena was not there. 
 
 " She have been ailing long — worse since the 
 moon come in. The sickness took her with the 
 summer, and the strength began to go out. Jake 
 have been down, too. He couldn't get out to 
 bring us help, and we have had none." 
 
 Jake was the husband, we sujDposed. The 
 help meant food, or funds to get it with. 
 
 " He sat all yesterday cutting skewers, his 
 hands a' most too weak to fashion 'em. Maybe
 
 LOSING LENA. 21 
 
 he'd sell 'em for a few ha'pence, he said; and 
 he went out this morning to try, and bring 
 home a morsel of food." 
 
 "Tod," I whispered, ''I wish that hard- 
 hearted Molly had " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Johnny," he interrupted 
 sharply. "Is Jake your husband?" he asked 
 of the woman. 
 
 "He's my husband, and the children's 
 father." 
 
 " Jake would not be likely to steal a child, 
 would he ?" asked Tod, in a hesitating manner, 
 for him. 
 
 She looked up, as if not understanding. 
 " Steal a child, master ! What for ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Tod. "I thought 
 perhaps he had done it, and had brought the 
 child here." 
 
 Another comical stare from the woman. "We 
 couldn't feed these of ours ; what should we do 
 with another ? ' ' 
 
 " AVell : Jake called at our house to sell his 
 skewers; and, directly afterwards, we missed my 
 little sister. I have been hunting for her ever 
 since." 
 
 " Was the house far from here ?" 
 
 "A few miles." 
 
 " Then he have sunk down of weakness on 
 his way, and can't get back." 
 
 Putting her head on her knees, she began to 
 sob and moan. The child — the living one —
 
 22 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 began to bawl ; one couldn't call it anything 
 else ; and pulled at the green rushes. 
 
 " He knew Corry was sick and faint when he 
 went out. He'd have got back afore now if his 
 strength hadn't failed him ; though, maybe, he 
 didn't think of death. Whist, then. Dor," she 
 added, to the boy. 
 
 *' Don't cry," said Tod to the little chap, who 
 had got the largest, brightest eyes I ever saw ; 
 'Hhat will do no good, you know." 
 
 '' I want Corry," said he. *' Where's Corry 
 gone?" 
 
 " She's gone up to God," answered Tod, 
 speaking very gently. "She gone to be a bright 
 angel with Him in heaven." 
 
 " Will she fly down to me ?" asked Dor, his 
 great eyes shining through their tears on 
 Tod. 
 
 " Yes," affirmed Tod, who had a theory of his 
 own on the point, and used to think, when a 
 little boy, that his mother was always near him, 
 one of God's angels keeping him from harm. 
 " And after a while, you know, if you are 
 good, you'll go to Corry, and be an angel, 
 too." 
 
 "God bless you, master!" interposed the 
 woman. " He'll think of that always." 
 
 " Tod," I said, as we went out of the tent, 
 "I don't think they are people to steal children." 
 
 " Who's to know what the man would do ? " 
 retorted Tod.
 
 LOSING LENA. 23 
 
 " A maa with a dying child at home wouldn't 
 be likely to harm another." 
 
 Tod did not answer. He stood still a mo- 
 ment, deliberating which way to go. Back to 
 Alcester ? — where a conveyance might be found 
 to take us home, for the fatigue was telling on 
 both of us, now that disappointment was pro- 
 longed, and I, at least, could hardly put one 
 foot before another. Or down to the high road, 
 and run the chance of some vehicle overtaking 
 us ? Or keep on amidst these fields and hedge- 
 rows, which would lead us home by a rather 
 nearer way, but without chance of a lift ? Tod 
 made up his mind, and struck down the lane 
 the way we had come. He was on first, and I 
 saw him come to a sudden halt, and turn his 
 head to me. 
 
 " Look here, Johnny ! " 
 
 I looked as well as I could for the night and 
 the trees, and saw something on the ground. 
 A man had sunk down there, seemingly from 
 exhaustion. His face was a tawny white, just 
 like the dead child's ; a stout stick and the 
 bundles of skewers lay beside him. 
 
 *'Do you see the fellow, Johnny? It is the 
 
 gipsy." 
 
 "Has he fainted?" 
 
 "Fainted, or shamming it. I wonder if 
 there's any water about ?" 
 
 But the man opened his eyes ; perhaps the 
 sound of voices revived him. After looking at
 
 24 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 US a minute or two, he raised himself slowly 
 on his elbow. Tod — the one thought upper- 
 most in his mind — said something about Lena. 
 
 " The child's found, master ! " 
 
 Tod seemed to give a leap. I know his heart 
 did. "Found!" 
 
 " Been safe at home this long while." 
 
 "Who found her?" 
 
 " 'Twas me, master." 
 
 "Where was she?" asked Tod, his tone 
 softening. "Let us hear about it." 
 
 " I was making back for the town " (we sup- 
 posed he meant Alcester), " and missed the 
 way; land about here's strange to me. Agoing 
 through a bit of a grove, which didn't seem as 
 if it was leading to nowhere, I heard a child 
 crying. There w^as the little thing tied to a 
 tree, stripped, and " 
 
 "Stripped!" roared Tod. 
 
 " StrijDped to the skin, su', save for a dii^ty old 
 skirt that was tied round her. A woman carried 
 her off to that spot, she told me, robbed her of 
 her clothes, and left her there. Knowing where 
 she must ha' been stole from — through you're 
 accusing me of it, master — I untied her to lead 
 her home, but her feet warn't used to the rough 
 ground, and I made shift to carry her. A 
 matter of two mile it were, and I be not good 
 for much. I left her at home safe, and set off 
 back. That's all, master." 
 
 "What were you doing here?" asked Tod
 
 LOSING LENA. 25 
 
 as considerately as if he bad been speaking to 
 a lord. *'Eesting?" 
 
 "I suppose I fell, master. I don't remember 
 nothing, since I was tramping up the lane, till 
 your voices came. I've had naught inside my 
 lips to-day but a drink o' water." 
 
 "Did they give you nothing to eat at the 
 house when you took the child home ?" 
 
 He shook his head. " I saw the woman 
 again, nobody else. She heard what I had to 
 say about the child, and she never said ' Thank 
 ye.' " 
 
 The man had been getting on his feet, and 
 caught up the skewers, that were all tied to- 
 gether with string, and the stick. But he 
 reeled as he stood, and would have fallen 
 again but for Tod. Tod gave him his arm. 
 
 " We are in for it, Johnny," said he aside to 
 me. " Pity but I could be put in a picture — 
 the Samaritan helping the destitute !" 
 
 " I'd not accept of ye, sir, but that I have a 
 child sick at home, and want to get to her. 
 There's a piece of bread in my pocket that was 
 give me at a cottage to-da}^" 
 
 " Is your child sure to get well ?" asked Tod, 
 after a pause ; wondering whether he could say 
 anything of what had occurred, so as to break 
 the news. 
 
 The man gazed right away into the distance, 
 as if searching for an answer in the far-off star 
 shining there.
 
 26 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " There's been a death-look in her face this 
 day and night past, master. But the Lord's 
 good to us all." 
 
 " And sometimes, when He takes children, 
 it is done in mercy," said Tod. *' Heaven is a 
 better place than this." 
 
 ''Ay," rejoined the man, who was leaning 
 heavily on Tod, and could never have got home 
 without him, unless he had crawled on hands 
 and knees. " I've been sickly on and off for 
 this year past ; worse lately ; and I've thought 
 at times that if my own turn was coming, I'd 
 be glad to see my children gone afore me." 
 
 " Oh, Tod!" I w^hispered, in a burst of re- 
 pentance, " how could we have been so hard 
 with this poor fellow, and roughly accused him 
 of stealing Lena?" But Tod only gave me a 
 knock with his elbow. 
 
 " I fancy it must be pleasant to think of a 
 little child being an angel in heaven — a child 
 that we have loved," said Tod. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the man. 
 
 Tod had no courage to say more. He was 
 not a parson. Presently he asked the man 
 what tribe he belonged to — being a gipsy. 
 
 " I'm not a gipsy, master. Never was one 
 yet. I and my wife are dark-complexioned by 
 nature ; living in the open air has made us 
 darker ; but I'm English born ; Christian, too. 
 My wife's Irish : but they do say she comes of 
 a gipsy tribe. We used to have a cart, and
 
 LOSING LENA. 27 
 
 went about the country with crockery ; but a 
 year ago, when I got ill and lay in a lodging, 
 the things were seized for rent and debt. Since 
 then it's been hard lines with us. Tender's my 
 bit of a tent, master, and now I can get on alone. 
 Thanking ye kindly." 
 
 " I am sorry I spoke harshly to you, to-day," 
 said Tod. " Take this : it is all I have with 
 me." 
 
 *' I'll take it, sir, for my child's sake ; it may 
 heljD to put the strength into her. Otherwise I'd 
 not. We're honest ; we've never begged. Thank 
 ye both, masters, once again." 
 
 It was only a shilling or two. Tod spent, 
 and never had much in his pockets. " I wish 
 it had been sovereigns," said he to me; "but 
 we will do something better for them to-morow, 
 Johnny. I am sure the Pater will." 
 
 *' Tod," said I, as we ran on, " had we seen 
 the man close before, and spoken with him, I 
 should never have suspected him. He has a 
 face to be trusted." 
 
 Tod burst into a laugh. " There you are, 
 Johnny, at your faces again !" 
 
 I was always reading people's faces, and 
 taking likes and dislikes accordingly. They 
 called me a muff for it at home (and for many 
 other things), Tod especially ; but it seemed to 
 me that I could read people as easily as a book. 
 Duffham, our surgeon at Church Dykely, bade 
 me trust to it as a good gift from God. One day,
 
 28 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 pushing my straw hat up to draw his fingers 
 across the top of ray hrow, he quaintty told 
 the Squire that when he wanted people's morals 
 read, to come to me to read them. The Squire 
 only laughed in answer. 
 
 As luck had it, a gentleman we knew was 
 passing in his dog-cart when we got to the foot 
 of the hill. It was old Pitchley. He drove us 
 home : and I could hardly get down, I was so stiff. 
 
 Lena was in bed, safe and sound. No damage, 
 except the fright and the loss of her clothes. 
 From what we could learn, the woman who took 
 her off must have been concealed amidst the 
 ricks ; when Tod put her there. Lena said the 
 woman laid hold of her very soon, caught her 
 up, and put her hand over her mouth, to pre- 
 vent her crying out ; she could only give one 
 scream. I ought to have heard it, only Mack 
 was making such an awful row, hammering 
 that iron. How far along fields and byeways 
 the woman carried her, Lena could not be sup- 
 posed to tell: "Miles!" she said. Then the 
 thief plunged amidst a few trees, took the child's 
 things off, put on an old rag of a petticoat, and 
 tied her loosely to a tree. Lena thought she 
 could have got loose herself, but was too 
 frightened to try; and just then the man, Jake, 
 came up. 
 
 " I liked him,'' said Lena. " He carried me 
 all the way home, that my feet should not hurt ; 
 but he had to sit down sometimes. He said he
 
 LOSING LENA. 29 
 
 had a i^oor little girl who was nearly as hadly 
 off for clothes as that, but she did not want 
 them now, she was too sick. He said he hoped 
 my papa would find the woman, and put her in 
 prison." 
 
 It is what the Squire intended to do, good 
 chance helping him. But he did not reach 
 home till after us, when all was quiet again : 
 which was fortunate. 
 
 " I suppose you blame me for this ? " cried 
 Tod, to his stepmother. 
 
 " No, I don't, Joseph," said Mrs. Todhetley. 
 She called him Joseph nearly always, not liking 
 to abbreviate his name, as some of us did. "It 
 is so very common a thing for the children to 
 be playing in the three-cornered field amidst 
 the ricks ; and no suspicion that danger could 
 arise from it having ever been glanced at, I do 
 not think any blame attaches to you." 
 
 " I am very sorry now for having done it," 
 said Tod. "1 shall never forget the fright to 
 the last hour of my life." 
 
 He went straight to Molly, from Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley, a look on his face that, when seen there, 
 which was rare, the servants did not like. 
 Deference was rendered to Tod in the household. 
 When anything should take off the good old 
 Pater, Tod would be master. What he said 
 to Molly nobody heard ; but the woman was 
 banging at the brass things in a tantrum for 
 three days afterwards.
 
 30 JOHXXY LUDLOW. 
 
 And when we went to see after poor Jake and 
 his people, it was too late. The man, the tent, 
 the living people, and the dead child — all were 
 gone.
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 31 
 
 II. 
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 
 
 WOECESTEE Assizes were being held, and 
 Squire Todlietley was on the grand 
 jury. You see, although Dyke Manor was just 
 within the borders of Warwickshii-e, the greater 
 portion of the Squire's property lay in Wor- 
 cestershire. This caused him to be summoned 
 to serve. We were often at his house there, 
 Crabb Cot. I forget who was foreman of the 
 jury that time : either Sir John Pakington, or 
 the Honourable Mr. Coventry. 
 
 The week was jolly. We put up at the "Star 
 and Garter " when we went to Worcester, which 
 was two or three times a-year ; generally at the 
 assizes, or the races, or the quarter sessions ; 
 one or other of the busy times. 
 
 The Pater would grumble at the bills — and 
 say we boys had no business to be there ; but 
 he would take us, if we were at home, for all 
 that. The assizes came on this time the week 
 before our summer holidays were up ; the squire 
 wished they had not come on until the week 
 after. Anyway, there we were, in clover ; the 
 Squire about to be stewed up in the county
 
 32 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 courts all clay ; I and Tod flying about the 
 town, and doing what we liked. 
 
 The judges came in from Oxford on the usual 
 day, Saturday. And, to make plain what I am 
 going to tell about, we must go back to that 
 morning and to Dyke Manor. It was broiling 
 hot weather, and Mrs. Todhetley, Hugh, and 
 Lena, with old Thomas and Hannah, all came 
 on the lawn after breakfast to see us start. The 
 open carriage was at the door, with the fine dark 
 horses. When the Squire did come out, he 
 liked to do things well ; and Dwarf Giles, the 
 groom, had gone on to Worcester the i^receding 
 day with the two saddle-horses, the Pater's and 
 Tod's. They might have ridden them in this 
 morning, but the Squire chose to have his horses 
 sleek and fresh when attending the high sheriff. 
 
 " Shall I drive, sir ? " asked Tod. 
 
 *' No," said the Pater. " These two have 
 queer tempers, and must be handled carefully." 
 He meant the horses. Bob and Blister. Tod 
 looked at me ; he thought he could have 
 managed them quite as well as the Pater. 
 
 " Papa," cried Lena, as we were driving off, 
 running up in her white pinafore, with her pretty 
 hair flying, " if you can catch that naughty 
 kidnapper at Worcester, you j)ut her in prison." 
 
 The Squire nodded emphatically, as much as 
 to say, " Trust me for that." Lena alluded to 
 the woman who had taken her off and stolen 
 her clothes two or three weeks before. Tod said,
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 33 
 
 afterwards, there must have been some prevision 
 on the child's mind when she said this. 
 
 We reached Worcester at twelve. It is a long 
 drive, you know. Lots of country-people had 
 arrived, and the Squii'e went off with some of 
 them. Tod and I thought we'd order luncheon 
 at the Star — a jolly good one; stew^ed lampreys, 
 kidnej^s, and cherry tart ; and let it go into the 
 Squire's bill. 
 
 I'm afraid I envied Tod. The old days of 
 travelling post were past, when the sheriff's pro- 
 cession would go out to Whittington to meet 
 the judges' carriage. They came now by rail 
 from Oxford, and the sheriff and his attendants 
 received them at the railway station. It was 
 the first time Tod had been allowed to make one 
 of the gentlemen-attendants. The Squire said 
 now he was too young ; but he looked big, and 
 tall, and strong. To see him mount his horse 
 and go cantering off with the rest sent me into 
 a state of envy. Tod saw it. 
 
 *' Don't drop your mouth, Johnny," said he. 
 " You'll make one of us in another year or two." 
 
 I stood about for half an hour, and the pro- 
 cession came back, passing the Star on its way 
 to the county courts. The bells were ringing, 
 the advance heralds blew their trumpets, and 
 the javelin guard rode at a foot pace, their 
 lances in rest, preceding the high sheriff'' s grand 
 carriage, with its four prancing horses and their 
 silvered harness. Both the judges had come in, 
 
 VOL I. D
 
 34 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 SO we knew that business was over at Oxford ; 
 they sat opposite to the sheriff and his chaplain. 
 I used to wonder whether they travelled all the 
 way in their wigs and gowns, or robed outside 
 Worcester. Squire Todhetley rode in the line 
 next the carriage, with some more old ones of 
 consequence ; Tod on his fine bay was nearly 
 at the tail, and he gave me a nod in passing. 
 The judges were going to open the commission, 
 and Foregate Street was crowded. 
 
 The high sheriff that year was a friend of 
 ours, and the Pater had an invitation to the 
 banquet he gave that evening. Tod thought he 
 ought to have been invited too. 
 
 *' It's sinfully stingy of him, Johnny. When 
 I am pricked for sheriff — and I suppose my 
 turn will come some time, either for Warwick- 
 shire or Worcestershire — I'll have more young 
 fellows to my dinner than old ones." 
 
 The Squire, knowing nothing of our mid-day 
 luncheon, was surprised that we chose supper 
 at eight instead of dinner at six ; but he told 
 the waiter to give us a good one. We went out 
 while it was getting ready, and walked arm-in- 
 arm through the crowded streets. Worcester 
 is always full on a Saturday evening ; it is 
 market-day there, as everybody knows ; but on 
 Assize Saturday the streets are nearly impass- 
 able. Tod, tall and strong, held on his way, 
 and asked leave of none. 
 
 " Now, then, you two gents, can't you go on
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 35 
 
 proper, and not elbow respectable folks like 
 that?" 
 
 " Halloa ! " cried Tod, turning at the voice. 
 *' Is it you, old Jones ? " 
 
 Old Jones, the constable of our parish, 
 touched his hat when he saw it was us, and 
 begged pardon. We asked what he was doing 
 at Worcester ; but he had only come on his own 
 account. "On the sj^ree," Tod suggested to him. 
 
 " Young Mr. Todhetley," cried he — the way 
 he mostly addressed Tod — "I'd not be sure 
 but that woman's took — her that served ou^ 
 little Miss Lena." 
 
 " That woman ! " said Tod. " Why do you 
 think it?" 
 
 Old Jones explained. A woman had been 
 apprehended near Worcester the ]3revious day, 
 on a charge of stripping two little boys of their 
 clothes in Perry Wood. The description given 
 of her answered exactly, old Jones thought, to 
 that given by Lena. 
 
 " She stripped 'em to the skin," groaned 
 Jones, drawing a long face as he recited the mis- 
 hap: "two poor little chaps of three years, they 
 was, living in them cottages under the Wood — 
 not as much as their boots did she leave on 
 'em. When they got home their folks didn't 
 know 'em ; quite naked they was, and bleating 
 with terror, like a brace of shorn sheep." 
 
 Tod put on his determined look. " And she 
 is taken, you say, Jones ? "
 
 S6 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " She was took yesterday, sir. They had her 
 before the justices this morning, and the little 
 fellows knowed her at once. As the 'sizes was 
 on, leastways as good as on, their worships com- 
 mitted her for trial there and then. Policeman 
 Cripp told me all about it ; it was him that took 
 her. She's in the county gaol." 
 
 We carried the tale to the Pater that night, 
 and he despatched a messenger to Mrs. Todhet- 
 ley, to say that Lena must be at Worcester on 
 the Monday morning. But there's something 
 to tell about the Sunday yet. 
 
 If you have been in Worcester on Assize 
 Sunday, you know how the cathedral is on that 
 morning crowded. Enough strangers are in 
 the town to fill it : the inhabitants who go to 
 the churches at other times attend it then; 
 and King Mob flocks in to see the show. 
 
 Squire Todhetley was put in the stalls ; Tod 
 and I scrambled for places on a bench. The 
 alterations in the cathedral (going on for yearsbe- 
 fore that, and going on for years since, and going 
 on still) caused space to be limited, and it was no 
 end of a cram. While people fought for stand- 
 ing-places, the procession was played in to the 
 crash of the organ. The judges came, glorious 
 in their wigs and gowns ; the mayor and alder- 
 men were grand as scarlet and gold chains could 
 make them ; and there was a large attendance 
 of the clergy in their white robes. The Bishop 
 had come in from Hartlebury, and was on his
 
 riNDi:NG BOTH OF THEM. 67 
 
 throne, and the service began. The Eev. 
 Mr. Wheeler chanted ; the Dean read the 
 lessons. Of course the music was all right ; 
 they put up fine services on Assize Sundays 
 now : and the sheriff's chaplain went up in his 
 black gown to preach the sermon. Three- 
 quarters of an hour, if you'll believe me, before 
 that sermon came to an end ! 
 
 Ere the organ had well played its Amen to 
 the Bishop's blessing, the crowd began to push 
 out. We pushed with the rest, and took up our 
 places in the long cathedral body to see the 
 procession pass back again. It came winding 
 down between the line of javelin-men. Just as 
 the judges were passing. Tod touched me to 
 look opposite. There stood a young boy in 
 dreadful clothes, patched all over, but other- 
 wise clean : with great dark wondering eyes 
 riveted on the judges, as if they had been pea- 
 cocks on stilts ; on their wigs, on their solemn 
 countenances, on their held-up scarlet trains. 
 
 Where had I seen those eyes, and their 
 brilliant brightness ? Eecollection flashed over 
 me before Tod's whisper: "Jake's boy; the 
 youngster we saw in the tent." 
 
 To get across the line was impossible : good 
 manners would not permit it, let alone the 
 javelin-guard. And when the procession had 
 passed, leaving nothing but a crowd of shuffling 
 feet and the dust on the white cathedral floor, 
 the boy was gone.
 
 38 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " I say, Johnny, it is rather odd we should 
 come on those tent-people, just as the woman 
 has turned up," exclaimed Tod, as we got clear 
 of the cathedral. 
 
 " But you don't think they can be con- 
 nected. Tod?" 
 
 "Well, no; I suppose not. It's a queer 
 coincidence, though." 
 
 This we also carried to the Squire, as we 
 had the other news. He was standing in the 
 Star gateway 
 
 "Look here, you hoys," said he, after a 
 pause of thought ; " keep your eyes open; you 
 may come upon the lad again, or some of his 
 folks. I should like to do something for that 
 poor man ; I've wished it ever since he brought 
 home Lena, and that confounded Molly drove 
 him out by way of recompense." 
 
 "And if they should be confederates, sir?" 
 suggested Tod. 
 
 " Who confederates ? What do you mean, 
 Joe?" 
 
 " These people and the female-stripper. It 
 seems strange they should both turn up again 
 in the same spot." 
 
 The notion took away the Pater's breath. 
 " If I thought that ; if I find it is so," he broke 
 forth, " I'll— I'll— transport the lot." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley arrived with Lena on Sunday 
 afternoon. Early on Monday, the Squire and 
 Tod took her to the governor's house at the
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 39 
 
 county prison, where she was to see the 
 woman, as if accidentally, nothing being said 
 to Lena. 
 
 The woman was brought in : a bold jade 
 with a red face : and Lena nearly went into 
 convulsions at the sight of her. There could 
 be no mistake : the woman was the same : 
 and the Pater became redhot with anger ; 
 especially to think he could not punish her 
 in Worcester. 
 
 As the fly went racing up Salt Lane after 
 the interview, on its way to leave the Squire 
 at the county courts, a lad ran past. It was 
 Jake's boy; the same we had seen in the 
 cathedral. Tod leaped up and called to the 
 driver to stop, but the Pater roared out an 
 order to go on. His appearance at the court 
 could not be delayed, and Tod had to stay 
 with Lena. So the clue was lost again. Tod 
 brought Lena to the Star, and then he and I 
 went to the criminal court, and bribed a fellow 
 for places. Tod said it would be a sin not to 
 hear the kidnapper tried. 
 
 It was nearly the first case called on. Some 
 of the lighter cases were taken first, while the 
 grand jury deliberated on their bills for the 
 graver ones. Her name, as given in, was 
 Nancy Cole, and she tried to excite the sym- 
 pathies of the judge and jury by reciting a 
 whining account of a deserting husband and 
 other ills. The evidence was quite clear. The
 
 40 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 two children (little shavers in petticoats) set up 
 a roar in court at sight of the woman, just 
 as Lena had in the governor's house ; and a 
 dealer in marine stores produced their clothes, 
 which he had hought of her. Tod whispered 
 to me that he should go ahout Worcester after 
 this in daity dread of seeing Lena's blue-silk 
 frock and open-worked stockings hanging in 
 a shojD window. Some allusion was spoken 
 during the trial to the raid the prisoner had 
 also recently made on the little daughter of 
 Mr. Todhetley, of Dyke Manor, Warwickshire, 
 and of Crabb Cot, Worcestershire, " one of the 
 gentlemen of the grand jury at j)resent sitting 
 in deliberation in an adjoining chamber of the 
 court." But, as the judge said, that could not 
 be received in evidence. 
 
 Mrs. Cole brazened it out : the testimony 
 was too strong to attempt denial. "And if 
 she had took a few bits o' things, cause she 
 was famishing, she didn't hurt the childern. 
 She'd never hurt a child in her life ; couldn't 
 do it. Just conterairy to that ; she gave 'em 
 sugar plums — and candy — and a piece of a 
 wig,* she did. What was she to do "? Starve '? 
 Since her wicked husband, that she hadn't seen 
 for this five year, deserted of her, and her two 
 boys, fine grown lads both of 'em, had been 
 accused of theft and got put away from her, 
 one into prison, t'other into a 'formitory, she 
 * A sort of plain bun sold in "Worcester.
 
 FINDING BOTH OF TKEM. 41 
 
 hadn't got no soul to care for her nor helj) 
 her to a bit o' bread. Life was hard, and times 
 was bad ; and — there it was. No good o' say- 
 
 : more." 
 
 ■' Guilty," said the foreman of the jury, 
 without turning round. " We find the prisoner 
 guilty, my lord." 
 
 The judge sentenced her to six months' 
 imprisonment with hard labour. Mrs. Cole 
 brazened it still. 
 
 " Thank 3^ou," said she to his lordship, 
 dropping a curtsey as they were taking her 
 from the dock; " and I hope you'll sit there, 
 old gentleman, till I come out." 
 
 When the Squire was told of the sentence 
 that evening, he said it was too mild by half, 
 and talked of bringing her also to book at 
 Warwick. But Mrs. Todhetly said, ''No; 
 forgive her." After all, it was but the loss 
 of the clothes. 
 
 Nothing whatever had come out during the 
 trial to connect Jake with the woman. She 
 appeared to be a stray waif without friends. 
 " And I watched and listened closely for it, 
 mind you, Johnny," remarked Tod. 
 
 It was a day or two after this — I think, on 
 the Wednesday evening. The Squire's grand- 
 jury duties were over, but he stayed on, in-
 
 42 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 tending to make a week of it ; Mrs. Todhetley 
 and Lena had left for home. We had dined 
 late, and Tod and I went for a stroll after- 
 wards; leaving the Pater, and an old clergy- 
 man, who had dined with us, to their wine. 
 In passing the cooked-meat shop in High- 
 street, we saw a little chap looking in, his face 
 flattened against the panes. Tod laid hold of 
 his shoulder, and the boy turned his brilliant 
 eyes and their hungry expression upon us. 
 
 *'Do you remember me, Dor?" You see, 
 Tod had not forgotten his name. 
 
 Dor evidently did remember. And whether 
 it was that he felt frightened at being accosted, 
 or whether the sight of us brought back to him 
 the image of the dead child-sister lying on the 
 rushes, was best known to himself; but he 
 burst out crying. 
 
 "There's nothing to cry for," said Tod; 
 " you need not be afraid. Could you eat some 
 of that meat ?" 
 
 Something like a shiver of glad surprise 
 broke over the boy's face at the question ; 
 just as though he had had no food for weeks. 
 Tod gave him a shilling, and told him to go in 
 and buy some. But the boy looked at the 
 money doubtingly. 
 
 '' A whole shilling ! They'd think I stole it." 
 
 Tod took back the money, and went in him- 
 self. He was as proud a fellow as you'd find 
 in the two counties, and yet he would do all
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THE:M. 43 
 
 sorts of things that many another glanced 
 askance at. 
 
 ''I want half a pound of beef," said he to 
 the man who was carving, " and some bread, 
 if you sell it. And I'll take one of those small 
 pork pies." 
 
 "Shall I put the meat in paper, sir?" 
 asked the man : as if doubting whether Tod 
 might prefer to eat it there. 
 
 "Yes," said Tod. And the customers, 
 working men, and a woman in a drab shawl, 
 turned and stared at him. 
 
 Tod paid; took it all in his hands, and we left 
 the shop. He did not mind to be seen carrying 
 the parcels ; but he would have minded letting 
 them know that he was feeding a poor boy. 
 
 "Here, Dor, you can take the things now," 
 said he, when we had gone a few yards. 
 " Where do you live ?" 
 
 Dor explained in a fashion. We knew 
 Worcester well, but failed to understand. 
 "Not far from the big church," he said; 
 and at first we thought he meant the cathedral. 
 
 "Never mind," said Tod; "go on, and 
 show us." 
 
 He went skimming along. Tod keeping him 
 within arm's length, lest he should try to 
 escape. Why Tod should have suspected he 
 might, I don't know ; nothing, as it turned out, 
 could have been farther from Dor's thoughts. 
 The church he spoke of proved to be All Saints' ;
 
 44 JOHNNY LrDLOW. 
 
 the boy turned up an entry near to it, and we 
 found ourselves in a regular rookery of dirty, 
 miserable, tumble-down houses. Loose men 
 stood about, pipes in their mouths ; women, in 
 tatters, had their hair hanging down. 
 
 Dor dived into a dark den that seemed to 
 be reached through a hole you had to stoop 
 under. My patience ! w^hat a close place it 
 was, with a smell that nearly knocked you 
 backwards. There was not an earthly thing 
 in the room that we could see, except some 
 straw in a corner, and on that Jake was lying. 
 The boy appeared w^ith a piece of lighted 
 candle, w^hich he had been ujDstairs to borrow. 
 
 Jake was thin enough before ; he was a 
 skeleton now. His eyes were sunk, the bones 
 of his thin face stood out, the skin glistening 
 on his shapely nose, his voice w^as weak and 
 hollow. He knew us, and smiled. 
 
 *' What's the matter ?" asked Tod, speaking 
 gently. '' You look very ill." 
 
 '*I be very ill, master; I've been getting 
 worse ever since." 
 
 His history was this. The same night that 
 we had seen the tent at Cookhill, some travel- 
 ling people of Jake's fraternity happened to 
 encamp close to it for the night. By their help, 
 the dead child was removed as far as Evesham, 
 and there buried. Jake, his wife, and son, 
 w^ent on to ^Yorcester, and there the man was 
 taken worse ; they had been in this room
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 45 
 
 Bince ; the wife had found a place of washing 
 to go to twice a week, earning her food and a 
 shilling each time. It was all they had to de- 
 pend upon, these two shillings weekly ; and 
 the few bits o' things they had, to use Jake's 
 words, had been taken by the landlord for 
 rent. But to see Jake's resignation was some- 
 thing curious. 
 
 ''He was very good," he said, alluding to 
 the landlord and the seizure; "he left me the 
 straw. When he saw how bad I was, he 
 wouldn't take it. We had been obliged to sell 
 the tent, and there was a'most nothing for him." 
 " Have you had no medicine ? have you had 
 no advice?" cried Tod, speaking as if he had 
 a lump in his throat. 
 
 Yes, he had had medicine ; the wife went for 
 
 it to the free place (he meant the dispensary) 
 twice a week, and a young doctor had been to 
 
 see him. 
 
 Dor opened the paper of meat, and showed 
 
 it to his father. " The gentleman bought it 
 
 me," he said; '' and this, and this. Couldn't 
 
 you eat some ?" 
 
 I saw the eager look that arose for a moment 
 
 to Jake's face at sight of the meat : three slices 
 
 of nice cold boiled beef, better than what we 
 
 got at school. Dor held out one in his fingers ; 
 
 the man broke off a morsel, put it into his 
 
 mouth, and had a choking fit. 
 ''It's of no use, Dor."
 
 46 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 '' Is his name ^ Dor ' ? " asked Tod. 
 
 ** His name is James, sir ; same as mine," 
 answered Jake, panting a little from the exer- 
 tion of swallowing the meat. " The wife, she 
 has called him ' Dor' for ' dear,' and I've fell 
 into it. She has called me Jake all along." 
 
 Tod felt something ought to be done to help 
 him, but he had no more idea what than the 
 man in the moon. I had less. As Dor piloted 
 us to the open street, we asked him where his 
 mother was. It was one of her working days 
 out, he answered ; she was always kej)t late. 
 
 " Could he drink wine, do you think. Dor?" 
 
 *' The gentleman said he was to have it," 
 answered Dor, alluding to the doctor. 
 
 " How old are you. Dor ? " 
 
 " I'm a nigh ten." He did not look it. 
 
 " Johnny, I wonder if there's any place 
 where they sell beef- tea ? " cried Tod, as we 
 went up Broad Street. ''My goodness! lying 
 there in that state, with no help ! " 
 
 '' I never saw anything so bad before. Tod." 
 
 " Do you know what I kept thinking of all 
 the time ? I could not get it out of my head." 
 
 ''What?" 
 
 " Of Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Johnny, 
 lad, there seems an awful responsibility lying 
 on some of us." 
 
 To hear Tod say such a thing was stranger 
 than all. He set off running, and burst into 
 our sitting-room in the Star, startling the Pater,
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 47 
 
 who T\-as alone and reading one of the Worces- 
 ter papers with his spectacles on. Tod sat 
 down and told him all. 
 
 " Dear me ! dear me ! " cried the Pater, 
 growing red as he listened. "Why, Joe, the 
 poor fellow must be dying ! " 
 
 " He may not have gone too far for recovery, 
 father," was Tod's answer. " If we had to lie 
 in that close hole, and had nothing to eat or 
 drink, we should probably soon become skele- 
 tons also. He may get well yet with proper 
 care and treatment." 
 
 " It seems to me that the first thing to do is 
 to get him into the Infirmary," remarked the 
 Pater. 
 
 " And it ought to be done early to-morrow 
 morning, sir ; if it's too late to-night." 
 
 The Pater got up in a bustle, put on his hat, 
 and went out. He was going to his old friend, 
 the great surgeon, Henry Garden. Tod ran 
 after him up Foregate Street, but was sent back 
 to me. We stood at the door of the hotel, and 
 in a few moments saw them coming along, the 
 Pater arm-in-arm with Mr. Garden. He had 
 come out as readily to visit the poor helpless 
 man as he would to visit a rich one. Perhaps 
 more so. They stopped when they saw us, 
 and Mr. Garden asked Tod some of the parti- 
 culars. 
 
 " You can get him admitted to the Infirmary 
 at once, can you not?" said the Pater im-
 
 48 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 patiently, who was all on thorns to have some- 
 thing done. 
 
 " By what I can gather, it is not a case for 
 the Infirmary," was the answer of its chief 
 surgeon. ''We'll see." 
 
 Down we went, walking fast : the Pater and 
 Mr. Garden in front, I and Tod at their heels; 
 and found the room again with some difficulty. 
 The wife was in then, and had made a handful 
 of fire in the grate. What with the smoke, 
 and what with the other agreeable accompani- 
 ments, we were nearly stifled. 
 
 If ever I wished to be a doctor, it was when 
 I saw Mr. Garden with that poor sick man. 
 He was so gentle with him, so cheery and kind. 
 Had Jake been a duke, I don't see that he could 
 have been treated differently. There was some- 
 thing superior about the man, too, as though 
 he had seen better days. 
 
 ''What is your name ? " asked Mr. Garden. 
 
 " James Winter, sir, a native of Hereford- 
 shire. I was on my way there when I was 
 taken ill in this place." 
 
 " What to do there ? To get work ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; to die. It don't much matter, 
 though ; God's here as well as there." 
 
 " You are not a gipsy ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no, sir. From my dark skin, 
 though, I've been taken for one. My wife's 
 descended from a gipsy tribe." 
 
 " We are thinking of placing you in the In-
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 4'9 
 
 firmary, Jake,'' cried the Pater. *' You will 
 have every comfort there, and the best of 
 attendance. This gentleman " 
 
 " We'll see — we'll see," interposed Mr. Car- 
 den, breaking in hastily on the promises. " I am 
 not sure that the Infirmary will do for him." 
 
 " It is too late, sir, I think," said Jake, 
 quietly, to Mr. Garden. 
 
 Mr. Garden made no reply. He asked the 
 woman if she had such a thing as a tea-cup or 
 wine-glass. She produced a cracked cup with 
 the handle off and a notch in the rim. Mr. 
 Garden poured something into it that he had 
 brought in his pocket, and stooped over the 
 man. Jake began to speak in his faint voice. 
 
 *' Sir, I'd not seem ungrateful, but I'd like 
 to stay here with the wife and boy to the last. 
 It can't be for long now." 
 
 " Drink this ; it will do you good," said Mr. 
 Garden, holding the cup to his lips. 
 
 "This close place is a change from the tent," 
 I said to the woman, who was stooping over 
 the bit of fire. 
 
 Such a look of regret came upon her counte- 
 nance as she lifted it : just as if the tent had 
 been a palace of gold. " When we got here, 
 master, it was after that two days' rain, and 
 the ground was sopping. It didn't do for him" 
 — glancing round at the straw. " He was 
 getting mighty bad then, and we just put our 
 heads into this place — bad luck to us! " 
 
 VOL I. E
 
 50 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 The Squire gave her^^ some silver, and told 
 her to get anything in she thought best. It 
 was too late to do more that night. The 
 church clocks were striking ten as we went out. 
 ''Won't it do to move him to the Infirmary?" 
 were the Pater's first words to Mr. Garden. 
 
 "Certainly not. The man's hours are num- 
 bered." 
 
 "There is no hope, I suppose?" 
 " Not the least. He may be said to be 
 dying now." 
 
 No time was lost in the morning. When 
 Squire Todhetley took a will to heart he carried 
 it out, and speedily. A decent room with an 
 airy window was found in the same block of 
 buildings. A bed and other things were put in 
 it ; some clothes were redeemed ; and by twelve 
 o'clock in the day Jake was comfortably lying 
 there. The Pater seemed to think that this 
 was not enough : he wanted to do more. 
 
 " His humanity to my child kept him from 
 seeing the last moments of his," said he. 
 " The little help we can give him now is no 
 return for that." 
 
 Food and clothes, and a dry, comfortable 
 room, and wine and proper things for Jake — 
 of which he could not swallow much. The 
 woman was not to go out to work again while 
 he lasted, but to stay at home and attend to 
 him. 
 
 " I shall be at liberty by the hop-picking
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 51 
 
 time," she said, with a sigh. Ah, poor creature ! 
 long before that. 
 
 When Tod and I went in later in the after- 
 noon, she had just given Jake some physic, 
 ordered by Mr. Garden. She and the boy sat 
 by the fire, tea and bread-and-butter on the 
 deal table between them. Jake lay in bed, his 
 head raised on account of his breathing. I 
 thought he was better ; but his thin white face, 
 with the dark, earnest, glistening eyes, was 
 almost painful to look upon. 
 
 *'The reading-gentleman have been in," 
 cried the woman suddenly. ''He's coming 
 again, he says, the night or the morning." 
 
 Tod looked puzzled, and Jake explained. A 
 good young clergyman, who had found him out 
 a day or two before, had been in each day since 
 with his Bible, to read and pray. " God bless 
 him ! " said Jake. 
 
 "Why did you go away so suddenly?" 
 Tod asked, alluding to the hasty departure 
 from Cookhill. " My father was intending to do 
 something for you." 
 
 " I didn't know that, sir. Many thanks all 
 the same. I'd like to thank ijou too, sir," he 
 went on, after a fit of coughing. " I've wanted 
 to thank you ever since. When you gave me 
 your arm up the lane, and said them pleasant 
 things to me about having a little child in 
 heaven, you knew she was gone." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 IJNIVFRSITY OF ILUIVUIS
 
 52 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " It broke the trouble to me, sir. My wife 
 heard me coughing afar off, and came out o' 
 the tent. She didn't say at first what there 
 was in the tent, but began telling how you had 
 been there. It made me know what had hap- 
 pened ; and when she set on a-grie^dng, I told 
 her not to : Carry was gone up to be an angel 
 in Heaven." 
 
 Tod touched the hand he put out, not speak- 
 ing. 
 
 " She's waiting for me, sir," he continued, 
 in a fainter whisper. "I'm as sure of it as if 
 I saw her. The little girl I found and carried 
 to the great house has got rich friends and a 
 fine home to shelter her ; mine had none, and 
 so it was for the best that she should go. God 
 has been very good to me. Instead of letting 
 me fret after her, or murmur at lying helpless 
 like this, He only gives me peace." 
 
 " That man must have had a good mother," 
 cried out Tod, as we went away down the 
 entry. And I looked up at him, he spoke so 
 queerly. 
 
 ''Do you think he will get better, Tod? 
 He does not seem as bad as he did last 
 night." 
 
 ''Get better!" retorted Tod. "You'll al- 
 ways be a muff, Johnny. Why, every breath 
 he takes threatens to be his last. He is miles 
 worse than he was when we found him. This 
 is Thursday: I don't believe he can last out
 
 FINDING BOTH OF THEM. 53 
 
 longer than the week ; and I think Mr. Garden 
 knows it." 
 
 He did not last so long. On the Saturday 
 morning, just as we were going to start for home, 
 the wife came to the Star with the news. Jake 
 had died at ten the previous night. 
 
 '' He went off quiet," said she to the Squire. 
 " I asked if he'd not like a dhrink ; but he 
 wouldn't have it : the good gentleman had been 
 there giving him the bread and wine, and he 
 said he'd take nothing, he thought, after that. 
 ' I'm going, Mary,' he suddenly says to me 
 about ten o'clock, and he called Dor up and 
 shook hands with him, and bade him be good 
 to me, and then he shook hands with me. 
 * God bless ye both,' says he, ' for Christ sake ; 
 and God bless the friends who have been kind 
 to us ! ' And with that he died." 
 
 That's all, for now. And I hope no one will 
 think I invented the account of Jake's death, 
 for I should not like to do it. The wife related 
 it to us in the exact words written. 
 
 *' And I able to do so little for him !" broke 
 forth the Squire, suddenly, when we were about 
 half way home ; and he lashed up Bob and 
 Blister regardless of theii' tempers. Which 
 the animals did not relish. 
 
 And so that assize week ended the matter. 
 Bringing imprisonment to the kidnapping 
 woman, and to Jake death.
 
 54 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 III. 
 
 WOLFE BAEKINGTON'S TAMING. 
 
 THIS is an incident of our school life; one 
 that I never care to look back upon. 
 All of us have sad remembrances of some kind 
 living in the mind ; and we are apt in our pain- 
 ful regret to say, " If I had but done this, or 
 had but done the other, things might have 
 turned out differently." 
 
 The school was a large square house, built 
 of rough stone, gardens and playgrounds and 
 fields extending around it. It was called 
 Worcester House : a title of the fancy, I sup- 
 pose, since it was some miles away from Wor- 
 cester. The master was Dr. Frost, a tall, 
 stout man, in white frilled shirt, knee-breeches 
 and buckles ; stern on occasion, but a gentle- 
 man to the back-bone. He had several under 
 masters. Forty boys were received ; we wore 
 the college cap and Eton jacket. Mrs. Frost 
 was delicate : and Hall, a sour old woman of 
 fifty, was manager of the eatables. 
 
 Tod and I must have been in the school two 
 years, I think, when Archie Hearn entered. 
 He was eleven years old. We had seen him at
 
 WOLFE barrington's tam:ing. 55 
 
 the house sometimes before, and liked him. A 
 regular good little fellow was Archie, 
 
 Hearn's father was dead. His mother had 
 been a Miss Stockhausen, sister to Mrs. Frost. 
 The Stockhausens had a name in Worcester- 
 shire : chiefly, I think, for dying off. There 
 had been six sisters ; and the only two now 
 left were Mrs. Frost and Mrs. Hearn : the other 
 four quietly decayed away one after another, 
 not living to see thirty. Mr. Hearn died (from 
 an accident) when Archie was only a year old. 
 He left no will, and there ensued a sharp dis- 
 pute about his property. The Stockha,usens 
 said it all belonged to the little son ; the Hearn 
 family considered a j)ortion of it ought to go 
 back to them. The poor widow was the only 
 quiet spirit amidst them, willing to be led either 
 way. What the disputants did was to put it 
 into Chancery : and I don't much think it ever 
 came out again. 
 
 It was the worst move they could have made 
 for Mrs. Hearn. For it reduced her to a very 
 slender income indeed, and the world wondered 
 how she got on at all. She lived in a cottage 
 about three miles off the Frosts, with one ser- 
 vant and the little child Archibald. In the 
 course of years people seemed to forget all 
 about the property in Chancery, and to ignore 
 her as quite a poor woman. 
 
 Well, we — I and Tod — had been at Dr. 
 Frost's two years or so, when Archibald Hearn
 
 56 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 entered the school. He was a slender little lad 
 with bright brown eyes, a delicate face and red 
 cheeks, very sweet tempered and pleasant in 
 manner. At first he used to go home at night, 
 but when the winter weather set in he got a 
 cough, and he then came into the house alto- 
 gether. Some of the big ones felt sure that 
 old Frost took him for nothing : but as little 
 Hearn was Mrs. Frost's nephew and we liked 
 her, no talk was made over it. The lad did 
 not much like coming into the house : we 
 could see that. He seemed always to be han- 
 kering after his mother and old Betty the ser- 
 vant. Not in words : but he'd stand with his 
 arms on the play -yard gate, and his eyes gazing 
 out to the quarter where the cottage was ; as 
 if he'd like his sight to leap the wood and the 
 two or three miles of distance, and take a look 
 at it. When any of us said to him as a bit of 
 chaff "You are staring after old Betty," he 
 would say Yes, he wished he could see her and 
 his mother ; and then tell no end of tales about 
 what Betty had done for him in his illnesses. 
 Any way, Hearn was a straightforward little 
 chap, and a favourite in the school. 
 
 He had been with us about a year when 
 Wolfe Barrington came. Quite another sort 
 of pupil. A big strong fellow who had never 
 had a mother : rich and overbearing, and 
 cruel enough. He was in black from head to 
 foot for his father, who had just died : a rich
 
 WOLFE BAERINGTON'S TAMING. 57 
 
 Irishman, given to company and strong living. 
 Wolfe came in for all the money ; so that he 
 had a fine career before him and might be ex- 
 pected to set the world on fire. Little Hearn's 
 stories had been of home ; of his mother and 
 old Betty. Wolfe's were different. He had 
 had the run of his father's stables and knew 
 more about horses and dogs than the animals 
 themselves. Curious things, too, he'd tell of 
 men and women, who had stayed at old Bar- 
 rington's place : and what he said of the public 
 school he had been at might have made old 
 Frost's hair stand on end. Why he quitted 
 the public school we did not find out : some said 
 he had run away from it, and that his father, 
 who'd indulged him awfully, would not send 
 him back to be punished ; others said the pub- 
 lic masters would not receive him back. In 
 the nick of time the father died ; and Wolfe's 
 guardians put him at Dr. Frost's. 
 
 '' I shall make you my fag," said Barrington, 
 the day he entered, catching hold of little Hearn 
 in the x)layground, and twisting him round by 
 the arm. 
 
 *' What's that ?" asked Hearn, rubbing his 
 arm — for Wolfe's grasp had not been a light 
 one. 
 
 " What's that!" repeated Barrington, scorn- 
 fully. " What a precious young fool you must 
 be, not to know. Who's your mother?" 
 
 " She lives over there," answered Hearn,
 
 oa JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 taking the question literally, and nodding be- 
 yond the wood. 
 
 " Oh !" said Barrington, twisting his mouth. 
 What's her name ? And what's yours?" 
 
 "Mrs. Hearn. Mine's Archibald." 
 
 " Good, Mr. Archibald. You shall be my fag. 
 That is, my servant. And you'll do every 
 earthly thing that I order you to do. And 
 mind you do it smartly, or may be that girl's 
 face of yours will show out rather green some- 
 times." 
 
 " I shall not be anybody's servant," returned 
 Archie, in his mild, inoffensive way. 
 
 '' Won't you ! You'll tell me another tale 
 before this time to-morrow. Did you ever get 
 licked into next week ?" 
 
 The child made no answer. He began to 
 think the new fellow might be in earnest, and 
 gazed up at him in questioning doubt. 
 
 " When your two e^^es can't see out for the 
 swelling round them, and your back's stiff with 
 smarting and aching — thafs the kind of lick- 
 ing I mean," went on Barrington. " Did you 
 ever taste it ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 • " Good again. It will be the sweeter when 
 you do. Now look you here, Mr. Archibald 
 Hearn. I appoint you my fag in ordinary. 
 You'll fetch and carry for me : j^ou'll black my 
 boots and brush my clothes ; you'll sit up to 
 wait on me when I go to bed, and read me to
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 59 
 
 sleep ; you'll be dressed before I am in the 
 morning, and be ready with my clothes and hot 
 water. Never mind whether the rules of the 
 house are against hot water, yoii'll have to pro- 
 vide it, though you boil it on sticks in the bed- 
 room grate, or out in the nearest field. You'll 
 attend me at my lessons; look out words for 
 me ; copy my exercises in a fair hand — and if 
 you were old enough to do them, you'd have to. 
 That's a few of the items ; but there are a hun- 
 dred other things, that I've not time to detail. 
 If I can get a horse for my use, you'll have to 
 groom him. And if you don't jDut out your 
 mettle to serve me in all these ways, and don't 
 hold yourself in readiness to fly and obey me 
 at any minute or hour, you'll get one of the 
 lickings I've told you of every day, until you 
 are licked into shape." 
 
 Barrington meant what he said. Voice and 
 countenance alike wore a carelessly determined 
 look, as if his words were law. Lots of the 
 fellows, attracted by the talking, had gathered 
 round. Hearn, honest and straightforward 
 himself, did not altogether understand what 
 evil might be in store for him, and grew seriously 
 frightened. 
 
 The captain of the school walked up — John 
 Whitney. "What is that you say Hearn has 
 got to do ?'' he asked. 
 
 ^^ He knows now," answered Barrington. 
 *' That's enough. They don't allow ser-
 
 60 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 vants here : I must have a fag in place of 
 one." 
 
 In turning his fascinated eyes from Barring- 
 ton, Hearn saw Blair standing by, our mathe- 
 matical master — of whom you will hear more 
 later. Blair must have caught what passed : 
 and little Hearn appealed to him. 
 
 *' Am I obliged to be his fag, sir ?" 
 
 Mr. Blair put us leisurely aside with his 
 hands, and confronted the new fellow. "Your 
 name is Barrington, I think," he said. 
 
 " Yes, it is," said Barrington, staring at him 
 defiantly. 
 
 *' Allow me to tell you that ' fags ' are not 
 permitted here. The system would not be 
 tolerated by Dr. Frost for a moment. Each 
 boy must wait on himself, and be responsible 
 for himself: seniors and juniors alike. You 
 are not at a public school now, Barrington. In 
 a day or two, when you shall have learnt the 
 in-door customs and rules here, I daresay you 
 will find yourself quite sufficiently comfortable, 
 and see that a fag would be an unnecessary 
 appendage." 
 
 " Who is that man?" cried Barrington, as 
 Blair turned away. 
 
 " Mathematical master. Sees to us out of 
 hours," answered Bill Whitney. 
 
 '' And what the devil did you mean by making 
 a sneaking appeal to him ? " continued Barring- 
 ton, seizing Hearn roughly.
 
 Gl 
 
 " I did not mean it for sneaking; but I could 
 not do what you wanted," said Hearn. " He 
 had been listening to us." 
 
 " I wish to goodness that confounded fool, 
 Taptal, had been sunk in his horse-^Dond before 
 he put me to such a place as this," cried Bar- 
 rington passionately. " As to you, you sneak- 
 ing little devil, it seems I can't make you do 
 what I wanted, fags being forbidden fruit here, 
 but it sha'n't serve you much. There's to 
 begin with." 
 
 Hearn got a shake and a kick that sent him 
 flying. Blair was back on the instant. 
 
 "Are you a coward, Mr. Barrington ? " 
 
 " A coward ! " retorted Barrington, his eyes 
 flashing. " You had better try whether I am 
 or not." 
 
 " It seems to me that you act like one, in 
 attacking a lad so much younger and weaker 
 than yourself. Don't let me have to report you 
 to Dr. Frost the first day of your arrival. 
 Another thing — I must request you to be a 
 little more careful in your language. You 
 have come amidst gentlemen here, not black- 
 guards." 
 
 The matter ended at this ; but Barrington 
 looked in a frightful rage. It was unfortunate 
 that it should have occm-red the day he entered; 
 but it did, word for word, as I have wiitten it. 
 It set some of us rather against Barrington, 
 and it set him against Hearn. He didn't '* lick
 
 62 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 him into next week," but lie gave him many a 
 blow that the boy did nothing to deserve. 
 
 Barrington won his way, though, as the time 
 went on. He had a large supply of money, 
 and was open-handed with it ; and he'd often 
 do a generous turn for one and another. The 
 worst of him was his savage roughness. At 
 play he was always rough ; and, when put out, 
 savage as well. His strength and activity were 
 something remarkable ; he would not have 
 minded hard blows himself, and he showered 
 them out on others with no more care than if 
 we had been made of pumice-stone. 
 
 It was Barrington who introduced the new 
 system at football. We had played it before in 
 a rather mild manner, speaking comparatively, 
 but he soon changed that. Dr. Frost got to 
 know of it in time, and he appeared amongst 
 us one day when we were in the thick of it, 
 and stopped the game with a sweep of his hand. 
 They play it at Rugby now very much as Bar- 
 rington made us play it then. The Doctor — 
 standing with his face unusually red, and his 
 shirt and necktie unusually white, and his 
 knee-buckles shining — asked whether we were 
 a pack of Ah-ican cannibals, that we should 
 kick at one another in that dangerous manner. 
 If we ever attempted it again, he said, football 
 should be interdicted. 
 
 So we went back to the old way. But we 
 had tried the new, you see: and the conse-
 
 WOLFE BARRIXGTON's TAMING. 63 
 
 quence was that undue roughness would creep 
 into it now and again. Barrington led it on. 
 No African cannibal (as old Frost put it) could 
 have been more incautiously furious at it than 
 he. To see him with his sallow face in a steam, 
 and his keen black eyes shining, his hat off, and 
 his straight hair flung behind, was not the plea- 
 santest sight to my mind. Snepp said one day 
 that he looked just like the devil at these times. 
 Wolfe Barrington overheard, and kicked him 
 right over the hillock. I don't think he was 
 ill-intentioned ; but his powerful frame had been 
 untamed ; it required a vent for its superfluous 
 strength : his animal spirits led him away, and 
 he had never been taught to put a curb on him- 
 self or his inclinations. One thing was certain 
 — that the name, Wolfe, for such a nature as 
 his, was singularly a^Dpropriate. Some of us 
 told him so. He laughed in answer ; never 
 saying that it was only so shortened from Wol- 
 frey, which was his real name, as we learnt 
 later. He could be as good a fellow and com- 
 rade as any of them when he chose, and on the 
 whole we liked him a great deal better than we 
 had thought we should at first. 
 
 As to the animosity against little Hearn, it 
 was wearing off. The lad was too young to 
 retaliate, and Barrington got tired of knocking 
 him about : perhaps a little ashamed of it when 
 there was no return. In a twelvemonth's time 
 it had quite subsided, and, to the surprise of
 
 64 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 many of us, Barringtou (coming back from 
 a visit to his guardian, old Taptal) brought 
 Hearn a handsome knife of three blades as a 
 present. 
 
 And so it -^ould have gone on but for an un- 
 fortunate occurrence. I shall alwa^^s say and 
 think so. But for that, it might have been 
 peace between them to the end and the end. 
 Barrington, who was defiantly independent, had 
 betaken himself to Evesham, one half holiday, 
 without leave. He walked straight into some 
 mischief there, and broke a street boy's head. 
 Dr. Frost was appealed to by the boy's father, 
 and of course there was a row. The Doctor 
 forbade Barrington ever to stir beyond bounds 
 again without first obtaining permission ; and 
 Blair had orders that for a fortnight to come 
 Barrington was to be confined to the play 
 ground in after hours. 
 
 Very good. A day or two after — on the next 
 Saturday afternoon — the school went to a 
 cricket-match ; Doctor, masters, boys, and all ; 
 Barrington only being left behind. 
 
 Was he one to stand this ? No. He coolly 
 walked away to the high road, saw a public 
 conveyance passing, hailed it, mounted it, and 
 was carried to Evesham. There he disported 
 himself for an hour or so, visited the chief fruit 
 and tart shops ; and then chartered a gig to 
 bring him back to within half a mile of the 
 school's entrance.
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 65 
 
 The cricket-match was not over when he got 
 in, for it lasted up to the dark of the summer 
 evening, and nobody would have known of the 
 escapade but for one miserable misfortune — 
 Archie Hearn happened to have gone that after- 
 noon to Evesham with his mother. They were 
 passing along the street, and he saw Barrington 
 amid the sweets. 
 
 ** There's Wolfe Barrington!" said Archie, 
 in the surprise of the moment, and would have 
 halted at the tart-shop door; but Mrs. Hearn, 
 who was in a hurry, did not sto2D. On the 
 Monday, she brought Archie back to school : he 
 had been at home, sick, for more than a week, 
 and knew nothing of Barrington' s punishment. 
 Archie came amidst us at once, but Mrs. Hearn 
 stayed to take tea with her sister and Dr. Frost. 
 Without the slightest intention to create mis- 
 chief, quite unaware that she was doing it, Mrs. 
 Hearn mentioned incidentally that they had 
 seen one of the boys — Barrington — at Evesham 
 on the Saturday. Dr. Frost pricked up his 
 ears at the news ; not believing it, however : but 
 Mrs. Hearn said yes, for Archie had seen him 
 eating tarts at the confectioner's. The Doctor 
 finished his tea, went to his study, and sent for 
 Barrington. Barrington denied it. He was not 
 in the habit of telling lies, was too fearless of 
 consequences to do anything of the kind ; but 
 he denied it now to the Doctor's face ; perhaps 
 he began to think he might have gone a little 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 too far. Dr. Frost rang the bell and ordered 
 Archie Hearn in. 
 
 " Which shop was Barrington in when you 
 saw him on Saturday?" questioned the Doctor. 
 
 " The pastry cook's," said Archie, innocentl}^ 
 
 *' What was he doing?" blandly went on the 
 Doctor. 
 
 "Oh! no harm, sir; only eating tarts," 
 Archie hastened to say. 
 
 Well — it all came out then, and though 
 Archie was entirely innocent of wilfully telling 
 tales ; would have cut out his tongue rather 
 than have said a word to harm Barrington, he 
 got the credit of it now. Barrington took his 
 punishment without a word ; the hardest caning 
 old Frost had given for many a long day, and 
 heaps of work besides, and a promise of certain 
 expulsion if he ever went off surreptitiously 
 in coaches and gigs again. But Barrington 
 thrashed Hearn worse when it was over, and 
 branded him with the name of Tell-tale Sneak. 
 
 " He will never believe otherwise," said 
 Archie, the tears of pain and mortification run- 
 ning down his cheeks, fresh and delicate as a 
 girl's. "But I'd give the world not to have gone 
 that after noon to Evesham." 
 
 A week or two later we went in for a turn at 
 "Hare and Hounds." Barrington's term of 
 punishment was over then. Snepp was the 
 hare ; a ^ fleet, wiry fellow who could outrun 
 most of us. But the hare this time came to
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 67 
 
 grief. After doubling and turning, as Snepp 
 used to like to do, thinking to throw us off the 
 scent, he sprained his foot, trying to leap a 
 hedge and the dry ditch beyond it. We were 
 on his trail, whooping and halloaing like mad ; 
 he kept quiet, and we passed on and never saw 
 him. But there was no more scent to be seen 
 (little pieces of white paper that Snepp had to 
 let fall as he ran), and we found we had lost it, 
 and went back. Snepp showed himself then, 
 and the sport was over for the day. Some went 
 home one way, and some another ; all of us were 
 as hot as Jupiter, and thirsting for water. 
 
 *' If you'll turn down here by the great oak 
 tree, we shall come to my mother's house, and 
 you can have as much water as you like," said 
 little Hearn, in his good-nature. 
 
 So we turned down. There were but six or 
 seven of us, for Snepp and his damaged foot 
 made one, and most of them had gone on at a 
 quicker pace. Tod helped Snepp on one side, 
 Barrington on the other ; he limping along 
 between them. 
 
 It was a narrow red-brick house, a parlour 
 window on each side the door, and three windows 
 above ; small altogether, but very pretty, with 
 the jessamine and clematis climbing up the 
 walls. Archie Hearn opened the door, and we 
 trooped in, without any regard to ceremony. 
 Mrs. Hearn — she had the same delicate face 
 that Archie had, the same rose-pink colour and
 
 68 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 bright brown eyes — came out of the kitchen to 
 stare. As well she might. Her cotton gown- 
 sleeves were turned up to the elbows, her fingers 
 were stained red, and she had a. coarse kitchen 
 cloth pinned round her. She was pressing black 
 currants for jelly. 
 
 We had plenty of water, and Mrs. Hearn made 
 Snepp sit down, and looked at his foot, and put 
 a wet bandage round, kneeling before him to do 
 it. I thought I had never seen so nice a face 
 as hers ; very placid, with a kind of sad look in 
 it. Old Betty, that Hearn used to talk about, 
 appeared in a short blue petticoat and a sort of 
 jacket of brown print. I have seen the homely 
 servants in France, since, dressed very similarly. 
 Snepp thanked Mrs. Hearn for giving his foot 
 relief, and we took off our hats to her as we 
 went away. 
 
 The same night, before Blair called us in for 
 prayers, Archie Hearn heard Barrington giving 
 a sneering account of the visit to some of the 
 fellows in the playground. 
 
 "Just like a cook, you know. Might be 
 taken for one. Some coarse bunting tied round 
 her middle, and hands steeped in red kitchen 
 stuff." 
 
 "My mother could never be taken for any- 
 thing but a lady," spoke up Archie bravely. 
 "A lady may make jelly. A great many ladies 
 l^refer to do it themselves." 
 
 " Now you be off," cried Barrington, turning
 
 69 
 
 on him sharply. ** Keep at a distance from 
 yom* betters." 
 
 '* There's nobody in the world better than 
 my mother," returned the boy, standing his 
 ground, and flushing a painful flush : for, in 
 truth, the small way they were obliged to live 
 in, through Chancery retaining hold of the pro- 
 perty, made a sore place in a corner of Archie's 
 heart." Ask Joseph Todhetley what he thinks 
 of her. Ask John Whitney. They recognise 
 her for a lady." 
 
 *' But then they are gentlemen, themselves." 
 
 It was I put in that. I couldn't help having 
 a fling at Barrington. A bit of applause fol- 
 lowed, and stung him. 
 
 " If you shove in your oar, Johnny Ludlow, 
 or presume to interfere with me, I'll pummel 
 you to powder. There." 
 
 Barrington kicked out on all sides of him, 
 sending us back. The bell rang for prayers 
 then, and we had to go in. 
 
 The game the next evening was football. 
 We went out to it as soon as tea was over, to 
 the field by the river towards Vale Farm. I 
 can't tell much about its progress, save that 
 the play seemed rougher and louder than usual. 
 Once there was a regular scrimmage : scores 
 of feet kicking out at once ; great struggling 
 and pushing and shunting : and when the ball 
 got off, and the tail after it in full hue and cry, 
 one was left behind lying on the ground.
 
 70 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 I don't know why I turned my head back ; 
 it was the merest chance that I did turn it : 
 and I saw Tod kneeling on the grass, raising 
 the boy's head. 
 
 "Halloa!" said I, running back. ''Any- 
 thing amiss ? Who is it ? " 
 
 It was little Hearn. He had his eyes shut. 
 Tod did not speak. 
 
 " What's the matter, Tod ? Is he hurt ?. " 
 
 " Well, I think he's hurt a little," was Tod's 
 answer. *' He has had a kick here." 
 
 Tod touched the left temple with the point 
 of his finger, drawing the finger down as far 
 as the back of the ear, to indicate the part he 
 meant. It must have been a good wide kick, 
 I thought. 
 
 " It has stunned him, poor little fellow. Can 
 you get some water from the river, Johnny?" 
 
 " I could if I had anything to bring it in. 
 It would leak out of my hat long before I got 
 here." For the hat was of straw. 
 
 But little Hearn made a move then, and 
 opened his eyes. Presently he sat up, putting 
 his hands to his head. Tod was as tender 
 with him as a mother. 
 
 '' How do you feel, Archie ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right, I think. A bit giddy." 
 
 Getting on his feet, he looked from me to 
 Tod in a bewildered manner. I thought it 
 odd. He said he'd not join the game again, 
 but would go in and rest. Tod went with him,
 
 WOLFE BAKRINGTON's TAMING. 71/ 
 
 ordering me to keep with the players. Hearu 
 walked all right, and did not seem to be much 
 the worse for it. 
 
 *' What's the matter now?" asked Mrs. 
 Hall, in her cranky way ; for she happened to 
 be in the yard when they entered, Tod marshal- 
 ling little Hearn by the arm. 
 
 *'He has had a blow at football," answered 
 Tod. "Here" — showing the place he had 
 shown me. 
 
 "A kick, I suppose you mean," said Mother 
 Hall. 
 
 " Yes, if you like to call it so. It was a 
 blow with a foot." 
 
 " Did you do it. Master Todhetley ? " 
 
 " No I did not," retorted Tod. 
 
 " I wonder the Doctor allows that football 
 to be played ! " she went on, grumbling. " I 
 wouldn't, if I kept a school ; I know that. It 
 is a barbarous, cruel game, fit only for bears." 
 
 " I am all right," put in Hearn. *' 
 needn't have come in but for feeling giddy." 
 
 But he was not quite right yet. For with- 
 out the slightest warning, before he had time 
 to stir from where he stood, he became fright- 
 fully sick. Hall ran for a basin and some 
 warm water. Tod held his head. 
 
 " This is through having gobbled down your 
 tea in such a mortal hurry, to be off to that 
 precious football," decided Hall resentfully. 
 '' The wonder is, that the whole crew of you
 
 72 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 are not sick, swallowing your food at the rate 
 you do." 
 
 '' I think I'll lie on the bed for a bit," said 
 Archie, when the sickness had passed. '' I 
 shall be up again by supper time." 
 
 They went with him to his room. Neither 
 of them had the slightest notion that he was 
 hurt seriously, or that there could be any 
 danger. Archie took off his jacket, and lay 
 down in his other clothes. Mrs. Hall offered 
 to bring him up a cup of tea ; but he said it 
 might make him sick again, and he'd rather be 
 quiet. She went down, and Tod sat on the 
 edge of the bed. Archie shut his eyes, and 
 kept still. Tod thought he was dropping off 
 to sleep, and began to creep out of the room. 
 The eyes opened then, and Archie called 
 to him. 
 
 "Todhetley?" 
 
 " I am here, old fellow. What is it ?" 
 
 *' You'll tell him I forgive him," said Archie, 
 speaking in an earnest whisper. '' Tell him I 
 know he didn't think to hurt me.'* 
 
 " Oh, I'll teJl him," answered Tod, lightly. 
 
 ** And be sure give my dear love to mamma.'* 
 
 " So I will." 
 
 " And now I'll go to sleep, or I sha'n't be 
 down to supper. You will come and call me 
 if I am not, won't you?" 
 
 *'A11 right," said Tod, tucking the counterpane 
 about him, ** Are you comfortable, Archie ?"
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTOK'S TAMING. 73 
 
 "Quite. Thank you." 
 
 Tocl came on to the field again, and joined 
 the game. It was a little less rough, and 
 there were no more mishaps. We got home 
 iatjr than usual, and the supper stood on the 
 table. 
 
 The suppers at Worcester House were always 
 the same. Bread and cheese. And not too 
 much of it. Half a round off the loaf, with a 
 piece of cheese, for each fellow ; and a small 
 drop of beer or water. Our other meals were 
 good and plentiful ; but the Doctor waged war 
 with heavy suppers. If old Hall had had her 
 way, we should have had none. Little Hearn 
 did not appear ; and Tod, biting at his bread 
 and cheese, went up to look after him. I 
 followed. 
 
 Opening the door without noise, we stood 
 listening and looking. Not that there was 
 much good in looking, for the room was in 
 darkness then. 
 
 *' Archie," whispered Tod. 
 
 No answer. No sound. 
 
 **Are you asleep, old fellow?" 
 
 Not a word still. The dead might be there, 
 for all the sound there was. 
 
 '' He's asleep, for certain," said Tod, groping 
 his way towards the bed. ** So much the 
 better, poor little chap. I'll not wake 
 him." 
 
 It was a small room, two beds in it :
 
 74 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Archie's was the one at the end by the wall. 
 Tod groped his way to it : and, in thinking of 
 it afterwards, I wondered that Tod did go up 
 to him. The most natural thing would have 
 been to come away, and shut the door. Un- 
 conscious instinct must have guided him — as 
 it guides us all. Tod bent over him, touching 
 his face, I think. I stood close behind. Now that 
 our eyes were accustomed to the darkness, it 
 seemed a bit lighter. 
 
 Something like a shout fi'om Tod made me 
 start. It was but a kind of suppressed cry. 
 But in the dark, and holding the breath, one 
 is startled easily. 
 
 " Get a light, Johnny. A light ! — quick ! 
 for the love of heaven." 
 
 I believe I leaped the stairs at a bound. I 
 believe I knocked over Mother Hall at the foot. 
 I know I snatched the candle that was in her 
 hand: and she screamed after me as if I had 
 murdered her. 
 
 ''Here it is. Tod." 
 
 He was at the door waiting for it, every 
 atom of colour gone clean out of his counte- 
 nance. Carrying it to the bed, he let its light 
 fall full on Archie Hearn. The face was white 
 and cold; the mouth covered with froth. 
 
 " Oh Tod ! What is it that's the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 "Hush, Johnny! I fear he's dying. Good 
 Lord ! to think we should have been such
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 75 
 
 ignorant fools as to leave him by himself ! — 
 as not to have sent for Featherstone ! " 
 
 We were down again in a moment. Hall 
 stood scolding still at the top of her breath, 
 demanding her candle. Tod said a word that 
 stopped her. She backed against the wall, 
 staring at him. 
 
 " Don't you play your tricks on me, Mr. 
 Todhetley." 
 
 " Go and see," said Tod. 
 
 She took the light from his hand quietly, 
 and went up. Just then, the Doctor and Mrs. 
 Frost, who had been walking all the way home 
 from Sir John Whitney's, where they had spent 
 the evening, came in ; and learnt what had 
 happened. 
 
 Featherstone was there in no time, so to say, 
 and shut himself in the bedroom with the 
 Doctor and Mrs. Frost and Hall, and I don't 
 know how many more. Nothing could be done 
 for Archibald Hearn : he was not quite dead, 
 but close upon it. He was dead before gmy- 
 body thought of sending to Mrs. Hearn. It 
 came to the same. Had there been telegraph 
 wires to send and bring her upon, she would 
 have come too late. 
 
 When I look back upon that evening — and 
 a good many years have gone by since, as if it 
 had been in the beginning of the world — no- 
 thing arises in my mind but a picture of con- 
 fusion, tinged with a feeling of dreadful sorrow;
 
 76 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 ay, and of horror. If a death happens in a 
 school, it is generally kept from the pupils, so 
 far as may be ; at any rate they are not allowed 
 to see any of the attendant stir and details. 
 But this was different. Upon masters and 
 boys, upon mistress and household, it came 
 with the like startling shock. Dr. Frost said 
 feebly that the boys ought to go up to bed, and 
 then Blah' told us to go ; but the boys stayed 
 on where they were. Hanging about the pas- 
 sages, stealing up stairs and peeping into the 
 room, questioning Featherstone (when we could 
 get the chance to come upon him), A\hether 
 Hearn would get well. Nobody checked us. 
 
 I went in once. Mrs. Frost was alone, 
 kneeling by the bed ; I thought she must have 
 been saying a prayer. Just then she lifted her 
 head to look at him. As I backed away again, 
 she began to speak aloud — and oh ! what a 
 sad tone she said it in ! 
 
 ** The only son of his mother, and she was 
 a widow ! " 
 
 There had to be an inquest. It did not come 
 to much. The most that could be said was, 
 that he died from a kick at football. '' A 
 most unfortunate but accidental kick," quoth 
 the coroner. Tod had said that he saw the 
 kick given : that is, had seen some foot come 
 flat down with a bang on the side of little 
 Hearn' s head ; and when Tod was asked if he 
 recognized the foot, he replied No : for boots
 
 WOLFE BARRINQTON'S TAMING. 77 
 
 looked much alike, and a vast many were 
 thrust out in the scrimmage, all kicking to- 
 gether. 
 
 Not one would own to having given it. For 
 the matter of that, the fellow might not have 
 been conscious of what he did. No end of 
 thoughts glanced towards Barrington : both 
 because he was so ferocious at the game, and 
 that he had a spite against Hearn. 
 
 ''I never touched him," said Barrington when 
 this leaked out ; and his face and voice were 
 fearlessly defiant. " It wasn't me. I never 
 so much as saw that Hearn was down." 
 
 And as there were others quite as brutal at 
 football as Barrington, he was believed. 
 
 We could not get over it any way. It seemed 
 so dreadful that he should have been left alone 
 to die. Hall was chiefly to blame for that ; and 
 it cowed her. 
 
 "Look here," said Tod to us, "I have got 
 a message for one of you. Whichever the cap 
 fits may take it to himself. When Hearn was 
 dying he told me to say that he forgave the 
 fellow who kicked him". 
 
 This was the evening of the inquest-day. 
 We had all gathered in the porch by the stone 
 bench, and Tod took the opportunity to relate 
 what he had not related before. He repeated 
 every word that Hearn had said. 
 
 "Did Hearn know who it was, then?" asked 
 John Whitney.
 
 78 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 '' Then why didn't you ask him to name ? " 
 
 " Why didn't I ask him to name ! " repeated 
 Tod, in a fume. " Do you suppose I thought 
 he was going to die, Whitney ? — or that the 
 kick was to turn out a serious one? Hearn was 
 getting big enough to fight his own battles : and 
 I never thought but he would be up again at 
 supper time." 
 
 John Whitney pushed his hair back, in his 
 quiet, thoughtful way, and said no more. He 
 was to die, himself, the following year, — but 
 that has nothing to do with the present matter. 
 
 I was standing away at the gate after this, 
 looking at the sunset, when Tod came up and 
 put his arms on the top bar. 
 
 ** What are you gazing at, Johnny ? " 
 
 *' At the sunset. How red it is ! I was 
 thinking that if Hearn' s up there now he is 
 better off. It is very beautiful." 
 
 "I would not like to have been the one to 
 send him there, though," was Tod's answer. 
 " Johnny, I am certain Hearn knew who it was," 
 he went on in a low tone. " I am certain he 
 thought the fellow, himself, knew, and that it had 
 been done for the purpose. I think I know also." 
 
 *' Tell us," I said. And Tod glanced over his 
 shoulders, to make sure nobody was within 
 hearing before he replied. 
 
 "Wolfe Barrington." 
 
 ''Why don't you accuse him. Tod?"
 
 WOLFE BAREINGTON's TAMING. 79 
 
 " It wouldn't do. And I am not absolutely 
 sure. What I saw, was this. In the rush, one 
 of them fell : I saw his head lying on the 
 ground sideways. Before I could shout out to 
 the fellows to take care, a boot with a grey 
 trouser over it came stamping down (not 
 kicking) on the side of the head. If ever any- 
 thing was done deliberately, that stamp seemed 
 to be ; it could hardly have been accidental. 
 I know no more than that : it all passed in a 
 moment of time. I didn't see that it was Bar- 
 rington. But — what other fellow is there among 
 us who would have wilfully harmed little Hearn ? 
 It is that thought that brings me conviction." 
 
 I looked round to where a lot of them stood 
 at a distance. " Wolfe has got on grey 
 trousers, too." 
 
 " That does not tell much," returned Tod. 
 " Half of us wear the same. Yours are grey; 
 mine are grey. It's just this : While I am 
 convinced in my own mind that it was Barring- 
 ton, there's no sort of proof that it was, and 
 he denies it. So it must rest, and die away. 
 Keep counsel, Johnny." 
 
 The funeral took place from the school. All 
 of us went to it. In the evening, Mrs. Hearn, 
 who had been staying at the house, surprised 
 us by coming into the tea-room. She looked 
 very small in her black gown. Her thin cheeks 
 were more flushed than usual, and her eyes had 
 a mournful sadness in them.
 
 80 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 "I wish to say good-bye to you; and to 
 shake hands with you before I go home," she 
 began, in a kind tone, and we all got up from 
 the table to face her. 
 
 " I thought you would like me to tell you 
 that I feel sure it must have been an accident ; 
 that no harm was intended. My dear little 
 son said this to Joseph Todhetley when he was 
 djdng — and I fancy that some prevision of 
 death must have lain then upon his spirit 
 and caused him to say it, though he himself 
 might not have been quite conscious of it. He 
 died in love and peace with all ; and, if he had 
 anything to forgive — he forgave freely. I wish 
 to let you know that I do the same. Only try 
 to be a little less rough at play — and God bless 
 you all. Will you shake hands with me ? " 
 
 John Whitney, a true gentleman always, 
 went up to her first, meeting her offered hand. 
 
 "If it had been anything but an accident, 
 Mrs. Hearn," he began in a tone of deep feeling, 
 *' if any one of us had done it wilfully, I think, 
 standing to hear you now, we should shrink to 
 the earth in our shame and contrition. You 
 cannot regret Archibald much more than we 
 do." 
 
 " In the midst of my grief, I know one thing-: 
 that God has taken him from a world of care to 
 peace and happiness; I try to rest in that. 
 Thank you all. Good-bye." 
 
 Catching up her breath, she shook hands with
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON'S TAMING. 81 
 
 US one by one, giving each a smile ; but did 
 not say more. 
 
 And the only one of us who did not feel her 
 visit as it was meant, was Barrington. But he 
 had no feeling : his body was too strong for it, 
 his temper too fierce. He would have thrown 
 a sneer of ridicule after her, but Whitney hissed 
 it down. 
 
 Before another day had gone over, Barrington 
 and Tod had a row. It was about a crib. Tod 
 could be as overbearing as Barrington when he 
 pleased, and he was cherishing a bad feeling 
 towards him. They went and had it out in 
 private — but it did not come to a fight. Tod 
 was not one to keep in matters till they rankled, 
 and he openly told Barrington that he believed 
 it was he who had caused Hearn's death. Bar- 
 rington denied it out-and-out ; first of all swear- 
 ing passionately that he had not, and then 
 calming down to talk about it quietly. Tod felt 
 less sure of it after that : as he confided to me 
 in the bed-room. 
 
 Dr. Frost forbid football. And the time went 
 on. 
 
 What I have to relate further may be thought 
 a made-up story, such as we read in fiction. It 
 is so very like a case of retribution. But it is 
 all true, and happened as I shall put it. And 
 somehow I never care to dwell long upon the 
 calamity. 
 
 VOL. li G
 
 82 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 It was as nearly as possible a year after 
 Hearn died. Jessup was captain of the school, 
 for John Whitney was too ill to come. Jessup 
 was nearly as rebellious as Wolfe ; and the two 
 would ridicule Blair audaciously, and call him 
 " Baked pie " to his face. One morning, when 
 they had given no end of trouble to old Frost 
 over their Greek, and laid the blame upon the 
 hot weather, the Doctor said he had a great mind 
 to keep them in till dinner-time. However, 
 they eat humble-pie, and were allowed to escape. 
 Blair was taking us for a walk. Instead of 
 keeping with the ranks, Barrington and Jessup 
 fell out, and sat down on the gate of a field, 
 where the wheat was being carried. Blair said 
 they might sit there if they pleased, but forbid 
 them to cross the gate. Indeed, there was a 
 general and standing interdiction against our 
 entering any field while the crops were being 
 gathered. We went on and left them. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, before we got back, 
 Barrington had been carried home, dying. 
 
 Dying, as was supposed. He and Jessup had 
 disobeyed Blair, disregarded orders, and rushed 
 into the field, shouting and leaping like two 
 mad fellows — as the labourers said afterwards. 
 Making for the waggon, laden high with wheat, 
 they mounted it, and started-on the horses. In 
 some way, Barrington lost his balance, slipped 
 over the side and the hind wheel went over 
 him.
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 83 
 
 I shall never forget the house when we got 
 home. Jessup, in his terror, had made off for 
 his home, running all the way — seven miles. 
 He was in the same boat as Wolfe, except that 
 he escaped injury — had gone over the stile in 
 defiance of orders, and got on the waggon. 
 Barrington was lying in the blue-room ; and 
 Mrs. Frost, frightened out of bed, stood on the 
 landing in her night-cap, a shawl wrapped 
 round her loose white dressing-gown. She was 
 ill at the time. Feather stone came striding 
 up the road wiping his hot face. 
 
 " Lord bless me !" cried Featherstone when 
 he had looked at Wolfe and touched him. " I 
 can't deal with this by myself, Dr. Frost." 
 
 The Doctor had guessed that. And Koger 
 was already away on a galloping horse, flying 
 to fetch another. It was little Pink he brought : 
 a shrimp of a man, with a fair reputation 
 in his profession. But the two were more 
 accustomed to treat rustic ailments than grave 
 cases, and Dr. Frost knew that. Evening drew 
 on, and the dusk was gathering, when a carriage 
 with post horses came thundering in at the 
 front gates, bringing Mr. Garden. 
 
 They did not explain to us boys the particu- 
 lars of the injuries ; and I don't know them to 
 this day. The spine was hurt ; the right ankle 
 smashed : we heard that much. Taptal, Bar- 
 rington' s guardian, came over, and an uncle 
 from London. Altogether, it was a miserable
 
 84 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 time. The masters seized upon it to be doubl}^ 
 stern, and read us lectures upon disobedience 
 and rebellion — as though we had been the 
 offenders ! As to Jessup, his father handed him 
 back again to Dr. Frost, saying that in his 
 opinion a taste of birch would much conduce 
 to his benefit. 
 
 Barrington did not seem to suffer as keenly 
 as some might ; perhaps his spirits kept him 
 up, for they were untamed. On the very day 
 after the accident, he asked for some of the 
 fellows to go in and sit with him, because he 
 was dull. By-and-by, the doctors said. And 
 the next day but one. Dr. Frost sent in me. 
 Me! The paid nurse sat at the end of the 
 room. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, is it, Ludlow! Where's Jessup?" 
 
 " Jessup's under punishment." 
 
 His face looked the same as ever, and that 
 was all of him that could be seen. He lay on 
 his back, covered over. As to the low bed, it 
 might have been a board, to judge by the flat- 
 ness. And perhaps was. 
 
 '* I'm very sorry about it, Barrington. We 
 all are. iire you in much pain ?" 
 
 ''Oh I don't know," was his impatient an- 
 swer. " One has to grin and bear it. The 
 cursed idiots had stacked the wheat sloping to 
 the sides, or it would never have happened. 
 What do you hear about me ? " 
 
 *' Nothin" but velvet that it "
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON S TAMING. So 
 
 '' I don't mean that stuff. Regret, indeed ! 
 regret won't undo it. I mean as to my getting 
 about again. Will it be ages first ? " 
 
 " We don't hear a word." 
 
 '' If they were to keep me here a month, Lud- 
 low, I should go mad. Eampant. You shut 
 up, old woman." 
 
 For the nurse had interfered, telling him he 
 must not excite himself. 
 
 " My ankle's hurt ; but I believe it is not 
 half so bad as a regular fracture : and my 
 back's bruised. Well, what's a bruise? Nothing. 
 Of course there's pain and stiffness, and all 
 that ; but so there is after a bad fight, or a 
 thrashing. And they talk about my lying here 
 for three or four weeks! Catch me." 
 
 One thing was evident : that they had not 
 allowed Wolfe to suspect the gravity of the case. 
 Down stairs we had an inkling, I don't remem- 
 ber whence gathered, that it might possibly end 
 in death. There was a suspicion of some injury 
 that we could not get to know of; inward I 
 think ; and it is said that even Mr. Garden, with 
 all his surgical skill, could not get to it either. 
 Any way, the prospect of recovery for Barring- 
 ton was supposed to be of the scantiest ; and it 
 put a gloom upon us. 
 
 A sad mishap was to occur. Of course no- 
 body in their senses would have let Barrington 
 learn the danger he was in ; especially while 
 there was just a chance that the peril would be
 
 80 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 surmounted. I read a book lately — I, Johnny 
 Ludlow — where a little child met with an acci- 
 dent ; and the first thing the people around him 
 did, father, doctors, nurses, was to inform him 
 that he would be a cripple for the rest of his 
 days. That was common sense with a venge- 
 ance : and about as likely to occur in real life 
 as that I could turn myself into a Dutchman. 
 However, something of the kind did happen in 
 Barrington's case, but through inadvertence. 
 Another uncle came over from Ireland ; an old 
 man ; and in talking with Featherstone spoke 
 out too freely. They were outside Barrington's 
 door, and, besides that, supposed he was 
 asleep. But he had woke then ; and heard 
 more than he ought. That blue-room always 
 seemed to have an echo in it. 
 
 " So it's all up with me, Ludlow ? " 
 I was by his bedside when he suddenly said 
 this, in the gathering dusk of the summer's 
 evening. He had been lying quite silent since 
 I entered, and his face had a white, still look 
 on it, never before noticed there. 
 
 " What do you mean, Barrington ? " 
 " None of your shamming here. I know ; 
 and so do you, Johnny Ludlow. I say, though, 
 it makes one feel queer to find the world's slip- 
 ping away. I had looked for so much jolly life 
 in it." 
 
 "Barrington, you may get well yet; you 
 mav, indeed. Ask Pink and Featherstone, else.
 
 WOLFE BARKINGTON'S TAMING. 87 
 
 when they next come ; ask Mr. Garden. J 
 can't think what idea you have been getting 
 hold of." 
 
 '' There, that's enough," he answered 
 ''Don't bother. I want to be quiet." 
 
 He shut his eyes ; and the dusk grew greatei 
 as the minutes passed. Presently some one 
 came into the room ^dth a gentle step : a lady 
 in a black-and-white gown that didn't rustle. 
 It was Mrs. Hearn. Barrington looked up at her. 
 
 " I am going to stay with you for a day or 
 two," she said in a low sweet voice, bending 
 over him and touching his forehead with her 
 cool fingers. " I hear you have taken a dislike 
 to the nurse : and Mrs. Frost is really too 
 weakly just now to get about." 
 
 " She's a sly cat," said Barrington, alluding 
 to the nurse : '' she watches me out of the tail 
 of her eye. Hall's as bad. They are in league 
 together." 
 
 " Well, they shall not come in more than I 
 can help. I will nurse you myself." 
 
 "No; not you," said Barrington, his face 
 looking red and uneasy. " I'll not trouble 
 your 
 
 She sat down in my chair, just pressing my 
 hand in token of greeting. And I left them. 
 
 Iji the ensuing days his life trembled in the 
 balance : and even when part of the more im- 
 mediate danger was surmounted, part of the 
 worst of the pain, it was still a toss-up. Bar-
 
 88 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 rington had no hope whatever: I don't think 
 Mrs. Hearn had, either. 
 
 She hardly left him. At first he seemed to 
 resent her presence ; to wish her away ; to re- 
 ceive what she did for him unwillingly : but, in 
 spite of himself he grew to look round for her, 
 and to let his hand lie in hers whenever she 
 chose to take it. 
 
 Who can tell what she said to him ? Who 
 can know how she softly and gradually awoke 
 the good feelings mthin him, and won his heart 
 from its brazen hardness ? She did do it, and 
 that's enough. The way was .paved for her. 
 What the accident had not done, the fear of 
 death had. Tamed him. 
 
 One evening when the sun had sunk, leaving 
 only its light fading in the western sky, and 
 Barrington had been watching it from his bed, 
 he suddenly burst into tears. Mrs. Hearn, 
 busy amidst the physic bottles, was by his side 
 in a moment. 
 
 '^ Wolfe!" 
 
 "It's very hard to have to die." 
 
 "■ Hush, my dear, you are not worse : a little 
 better. I think you may be spared ; I do in- 
 deed. And — in any case — you know what I 
 read to you this evening : that to die is gain." 
 
 '' Yes, for some. I've never had my thoughts 
 turned that way." 
 
 " They are turned now. That is quite 
 enough."
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 89 
 
 " It is such a little while to have lived," went 
 on Barrington, after a pause. "■ Such a little 
 while to have enjoyed earth. What are my 
 few years compared to the ages that have gone 
 by, to the ages and ages that are to come ? 
 Nothing. Not as much as a single drop of 
 water to the wide ocean." 
 
 " Wolfe, dear, if you live out the allotted 
 years of man, three score and ten, what would 
 even that be in comparison ? As you say — 
 nothing. It seems to me that our well-being 
 or ill-being here need not much concern us : 
 the days, whether short or long, will pass as a 
 dream. Eternal life lasts for ever ; soon we 
 must all be departing for it." 
 
 Wolfe made no answer. The clear sky was 
 assuming its pale tints, blue, green, orange, 
 shading off one into another, a beautiful opal, 
 and his eyes were looking out at it. But as if 
 he saw nothing. 
 
 " Listen, my dear. When Archibald died, 
 I thought I should have died ; died of grief 
 and aching pain. I grieved to think how short 
 had been his span of life on this fair earth ; 
 how cruel his fate in being taken from it so 
 early. But, oh, W^olfe, God has shown me my 
 mistake. I would not have him back if I 
 could." 
 
 Wolfe put up his hand to cover his face. 
 Not a word spoke he. 
 
 " I wish you could see things as I see them,
 
 90 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 now that tlie}^ have been cleared for me," she 
 resumed. "It is so much better to be in 
 heaven than on earth. We, who are here, have 
 to battle with many cares and crosses ; and 
 shall have to the end. Archie has thrown all 
 care off. He is in happiness amidst the re- 
 deemed." 
 
 The room was getting darker; the sky's 
 opal tints came out brighter. Wolfe's face 
 was one of intense pain. 
 
 " Wolfe, dear, do not mistake me ; do not 
 think me hard if I say that you would be 
 happier there than here. There is nothing to 
 dread, dying in Christ. Believe me, I would 
 not for the world have Archie back again : how 
 could I then make sure what the eventual end- 
 ing would be ? You and he will know each 
 other up there." 
 
 ''Don't," said Wolfe. 
 
 ''Don't what?" 
 
 Wolfe pulled her hand close to his face, and 
 she knelt down to catch his whisper. 
 
 "I killed him." 
 
 A pause : and a kind of sob in her throat. 
 Then, drawing away her hand, she laid her 
 cheek to his. 
 
 " My dear, I think I have known it." 
 
 " You — have — known — it?" stammered dis- 
 believing Wolfe. 
 
 " Yes. I thought it was likely. I felt nearly 
 sure. Don't let it trouble you now. Aixhie
 
 WOLFE BARRINGTON's TAMING. 91 
 
 forgave, you know, and I forgave : and God 
 will forgive." 
 
 " How could you come here to nurse me — 
 knowing that ? " 
 
 " It made me the more anxious to come. 
 You have no mother." 
 
 "No." -Wolfe was sobbing bitterly. *' She 
 died when I was born. I've never had any- 
 body. I've never had a chapter read to me, or 
 a prayer prayed." 
 
 " No, no, dear. And Archie — oh, Archie 
 had all that. From the time he could speak, 
 I tried to train him for heaven. It has seemed 
 to me, since, just as though I had foreseen he 
 would go early, and was preparing him for it." 
 
 "I never meant to kill him," sobbed Wolfe. 
 ''I saw his head down there, and I sent my 
 foot upon it without a moment's thought. If 
 I had taken thought, or known it would hurt 
 him seriously, I'd not have done it." 
 
 "He is better off, dear," was all she said. 
 "You have that comfort." 
 
 "Any way, I am paid out for it. At the 
 best, I suppose I shall go upon crutches for life. 
 That's bad enough : but dying's worse. Mrs. 
 Hearn, I am not ready to die." 
 
 "Be you very sure God will not take 3'ou 
 until you are ready, if you only wish and hope 
 to be made so from your very heart," she 
 whispered. " I am praying to Him often for 
 you, Wolfe."
 
 92 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " I think you must be one of heaven's 
 angels," said Wolfe, with a burst of emotion. 
 
 " No, dear ; only a weak woman. I have had 
 so much sorrow and care, trial upon trial, one 
 disappointment after another, that it has left 
 me nothing but heaven to lean upon. Wolfe, 
 I am trying to show you a little bit of the way 
 thither : and I think — I do indeed — that this 
 accident, which seems, and is, so dreadful, may 
 have been sent by God in mercy. Perhaps, 
 else, you might never have found Him : and 
 whore would you have been in all that long, 
 long eternity that has to come ? A few years 
 here: millions of never ending ages hereafter! 
 — oh, Wolfe ! bear up bravely for the little span, 
 even though the cross may be heavy. Fight 
 on manfully for the real life." 
 
 " If you will help me." 
 
 '' To be sure I will." 
 
 Wolfe got about again, and came out upon 
 crutches. After awhile they were discarded, 
 first one, then the other, and he took to a stick 
 permanently. He would never go without that. 
 He would never run or leap again, or kick 
 much either. The doctors looked upon it as a 
 wonderful cure — and old Featherstone was apt 
 to talk to us boys as if it were he who had 
 pulled him through. But not in Henry Car- 
 den's hearing.
 
 93 
 
 The uncles and Taptal said he would be better 
 now at a private tutor's. But Wolfe would 
 not leave Dr. Frost's. A low pony carriage was 
 bought for him, and all his spare time he would 
 go driving over to Mrs. Hearn's. He was as a 
 son to her. His great animal spirits had been 
 taken out of him, you see ; and he had to find 
 his happiness in quieter grooves. One Satur- 
 day afternoon he drove me over. Mrs. Hearn 
 had asked me to stay with her until the Monday 
 morning. Barrington generally stayed. 
 
 It was in November. Considerably more than 
 a year after the accident. The guns of the 
 sportsmen were heard in the wood ; a pack of 
 hounds and their huntsmen rode past the cot- 
 tage at a gallop, in full chase after a late find. 
 Barrington looked and listened, a sigh escaping 
 him. 
 
 " These pleasures are barred to me now." 
 
 " But a better one has been opened to you," 
 said Mrs. Hearn, with a meaning smile, as she 
 took his hand to hold. 
 
 And on Wolfe's face, when he glanced at her 
 in answer, there sat a look of satisfied rest, 
 that I am sure had never been seen on it before 
 he fell off the waggon.
 
 94 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 IV. 
 
 M A J E P A R K I F E E . 
 
 HE was one of the worst magistrates that 
 ever sat upon the bench of justices. 
 Strangers were given to wonder how he got his 
 commission. But, you see, men are fit or unfit 
 for a post according to their doings in it ; and, 
 generally speaking, people cannot tell what the 
 doings will be beforehand. 
 
 They called him Major : Major Parrifer : 
 but he only held rank in a militia regiment, 
 and everybody knows what that is. He had 
 bought the place he lived in some years before, 
 and christened it Parrifer Hall. The worst 
 title he could have hit upon ; seeing that the 
 good old Hall, with a good old family in it, 
 was only a mile or two distant. Parrifer Hall 
 was only a stone's throw, so to say, beyond 
 om- village. Church Dykely. 
 
 They lived at a high rate ; money was not 
 lacking ; the Major^ his wife, six daughters, and 
 a son who did not come home much. Mrs. 
 Parrifer was stuck up : it is one of our county 
 sayings, and it applied to her well. When 
 she called on people her silk gowns rustled
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 95 
 
 as if buckram lined them ; her voice was loud, 
 her manner patronising ; the Major's voice 
 and manner were the same ; and the girls took 
 after them. 
 
 Close by, at the corner of Piefinch Lane, 
 was a cottage that belonged to me. To me, 
 Johnny Ludlow. Not that I had control yet 
 awhile over that, or any other cottage I might 
 possess. George Eeed rented the cottage. It 
 stood in a good large garden which touched 
 Major Parrifer's side fence. On the other side 
 the garden, a high hedge divided it from the 
 lane : but it had only a low hedge in front, 
 with a low gate in the middle. Well-kept trim 
 hedges : George Eeed took care of that. 
 
 There was quite a history attaching to him. 
 His father had been indoor servant at the 
 Court ; when he married and left it, my grand- 
 father gave him a lease of this cottage, renew- 
 able every seven years. George was the only 
 son, had been very decently educated, but 
 turned out wild when he grew up and got out 
 of everything ; the result was, that he was only 
 a day-labourer, and never likely to be anything 
 else. He took to the cottage after old Eeod's 
 death, and worked for Mr. Sterling ; who had 
 the Court now. George Eeed was civil in 
 ordinary, but uncommonly independent. His 
 first wife had died, leaving a daughter, Cathy ; 
 later he married again. Eeed's wild oats had 
 been sown years ago ; he was thoroughly well-
 
 96 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 conducted and industrious now, working in his 
 own garden early and late. 
 
 When Cathy's mother died, she was taken 
 to by an aunt, who lived near Worcester. At 
 fifteen she came home again, for the aunt had 
 died. Her ten years' training there had done 
 very little for her, except make her into a 
 pretty girl. Cathy had been trained to idle- 
 ness, but to very little else. She could sing : 
 self-taught of course ; she could embroider 
 handkerchiefs and frills and petticoat-tails ; 
 she could write a tolerable letter without many 
 mistakes, and was great at reading, especially 
 when the literature was of the halfpenny kind 
 issued weekly. The acquirements (except the 
 last) were not bad things in themselves, but 
 entirely unsuited to Cathy Eeed's condition and 
 her future prospects in life. The best that she 
 could aspire to be, the best her father expected 
 for her, was that of entering on a light respect- 
 able service, and later to become, perhaps, a 
 labourer's wife. 
 
 The second Mrs. Eeed, a quiet kind of young 
 woman, had one little girl only when Cathy 
 came home. She was nearly struck dumb 
 when she found what had been Cathy's acquire- 
 ments in the way of usefulness ; or rather 
 what were her non-acquirements : the facts 
 unfolding themselves by degrees. 
 
 '' Your father thinks he'd like you to get a 
 service with some of the gentlefolks, Cathy,"
 
 MAJOR PAERIFER. 97 
 
 her stepmother said to her. '' Perhaps at the 
 Court, if they could make room for you ; or 
 over at Squu'e Todhetley's. Meanwhile you'll 
 help me with the work at home for a few 
 weeks first; won't you, dear ? When another little 
 one comes, there'll be a good deal on my hands." 
 '' Oh, I'll help," answered Cathy, who was 
 a good-natured, ready-speaking girl. 
 '' That's right. Can you wash ? " 
 '' No," said Cathy, with a very decisive 
 shake of the head. 
 " Not wash ? " 
 *' Oh dear, no." 
 *' Can you iron? " 
 ** Pocket-handkerchiefs." 
 *' Your aunt was a seamstress : can you 
 sew well?" 
 
 " I don't like sewing." 
 
 Mrs. Pieed looked at her, hut said no more 
 then, rather leaving it to practice instead of 
 theory to develop Cathy's capabilities. But 
 when she came to put her to the test, she 
 found Cathy could not, or would not, do any 
 kind of useful work whatever. Cathy could 
 not wash, or iron, or scour, or cook, or sweep ; 
 or even sew coarse plain things, such as are 
 required in labourers' families. Cathy could 
 do several kinds of fancy work. Cathy could 
 idle away her time at the glass, oiling her 
 hair, and dressing herself to the best advantage ; 
 Cathy had a smattering of history and geo- 
 voL I. a
 
 98 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 graphy and chronology ; and of polite literature, 
 as comprised in the pages of the aforesaid 
 halfpenny and penny weekly romances. The 
 aunt had sent Cathy to a cheap day-school 
 where such learning was supposed to he taught : 
 had let her run about when she ought to have 
 been cooking and washing ; and of course Cathy 
 had acquired a distaste for work. Mrs. Eeed 
 sat down aghast, her hands falling helpless on 
 her lap, and a kind of fear at what might be 
 Cathy's future stealing into her heart. 
 
 " Child, what is to become of you ? " 
 
 Cathy had no qualms upon the point herself. 
 She gave a laughing kiss to the little child, 
 toddling round the room by the chairs, and 
 took out of her pocket one of those halfpenny 
 serials, whose enthrilling stories of brigands 
 and captive damsels she had learnt to take 
 her chief delight in. 
 
 "I shall have to teach her ' everything," 
 sighed disappointed Mrs. Eeed. " Catherine, 
 I don't think the kind of useless things your aunt 
 has let you learn are good for poor folk like us." 
 
 Good ! Mrs. Eeed might have gone a little 
 farther. She began her instruction, but Cathy 
 would not learn. Cathy was good-humoured 
 always ; but of work she would do none. If she 
 attempted it, Mrs. Eeed had to do it over again. 
 
 *' Where on earth will the gentlefolks get 
 their servants from, if the girls are to be like 
 you? " cried honest Mrs. Eeed.
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 99 
 
 Well, time went on ; a year or two. Cathy 
 Eeed tried two or three services, but did not 
 keep them. Young Mrs. Sterling at the Court 
 at length took her. In three months Cathy 
 was back home as usual. ''I do not think 
 Catherine will be kept anywhere," Mrs. Sterling 
 said to her stepmother. "When she ought to 
 have been minding the baby, the nurse would 
 find her with a strip of embroidery in her hand, 
 or else buried in the pages of some bad story 
 that can only do her harm." 
 
 Cathy was turned seventeen when the 
 warfare set in between her father and Major 
 Parrifer. The Major suddenly cast his eyes on 
 the little cottage outside his own land and 
 coveted it. Before this, young Parrifer (a 
 harmless young man with no whiskers, and 
 sandy hair parted down the middle) had struck 
 up an acquaintance with Cathy. When he 
 left Oxford (where he got plucked twice, and 
 at length took his name off the books) he 
 would often be seen leaning over the cottage- 
 gate, talking to Cathy in the garden, with 
 her two little half-sisters that she pretended 
 to mind. There was no harm : but perhaps 
 Major Parrifer feared it might grow into it ; 
 and he badly wanted the plot of ground to be 
 his, that he might pull the cottage down and 
 extend his own boundaries to Piefinch Lane. 
 
 One fine day in the holidays, when Tod and 
 I were indoors making flies for fishing, our old
 
 100 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 servant, Thomas, appeared, and said that George 
 Beed had come over and wanted to speak to 
 me. "Which set us wondering. What could he 
 want with me ? 
 
 " Show him in here," said Tod. 
 Eeed came in : a tall and powerful man of 
 forty ; with dark curling hair, and a deter- 
 mined, good-looking face. He began saying 
 that he had heard Major Parrifer was after his 
 cottage, wanting to buy it ; so he had come 
 over to beg me to interfere and stop the sale. 
 
 " Why, Eeed, what can I do ? " I asked. 
 " You know I have no power." 
 
 " You'd not turn me out of it yourself, I 
 know, sir." 
 
 '^That I'd not." 
 
 Neither would I. I liked George Eeed. And 
 I remembered that he used to have me in his 
 arms sometimes when I was a little fellow at 
 the Court. Once he carried me to my mother's 
 grave in the churchyard, and told me she had 
 gone to live in heaven. 
 
 *'When a rich gentleman sets his mind on a 
 poor man's bit of a cottage, and says, * That 
 shall be mine,' the poor man has not got much 
 chance against him, su', unless he that owns 
 the cottage will be his friend. I know you have 
 got no power at present, Master Johnny; but if 
 you'd speak to Mr. Brandon, perhaps he would 
 listen to you." 
 
 " Sit down, Eeed," interrupted Tod, putting
 
 MAJOR PARPtlFEE. 101 
 
 his catgut out of hand. '' I thought you had 
 the cottage on a lease." 
 
 ''And so I have, sir. But the lease will be 
 out at Michaelmas next, and Mr. Brandon can 
 turn me from it if he likes. My father and 
 mother died there, sir; my wife died there; my 
 children were born there ; and the place is as 
 much like my homestead as if it was my own." 
 
 " How do you know old Parrifer wants it ?" 
 continued Tod. 
 
 " I have heard it from a sure source. I've 
 heard, too, that his lawyer and Mr. Bran- 
 don's lawyer have settled the matter between 
 their two selves, and don't intend to let me as 
 much as know I'm to go out till the time has 
 come, for fear I should make a row over it. 
 Nobody upon earth can stop it except Mr. 
 Brandon," added Eeed with energy. 
 
 " Have you spoken to Mr. Brandon, Eeed?" 
 
 *' No, sir. I was going up to him ; but the 
 thought took me that I'd better come off at once 
 to Master Ludlow ; his word might be of more 
 avail than mine. There's no time to be lost. 
 If once the lawyers get Mr. Brandon's consent, 
 he may not be able to recal it.'* 
 
 " What does Parrifer want with the cottage?" 
 
 " I fancy he covets the bit of garden, sir; he 
 sees the good order I've brought it into. If it's 
 not that, I don't know what it can be. The 
 cottage can be no eyesore to him ; he can't see 
 it from his windows."
 
 102 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Shall I go with you, Johnny?" said Tod, 
 as Eeed went home, after drinking the ale old 
 Thomas gave him. " We will circumvent that 
 Parrifer, if there's law or justice in the Brandon 
 land." 
 
 We went off to Mr. Brandon's in the pon}'- 
 carriage. Tod driving. He lived near Alcester, 
 and had the management of my property while 
 I was a minor. As we went along who should 
 ride past, meeting us, but Major Parrifer. 
 
 " Looking like the bull-dog that he is," cried 
 Tod, who could not bear the man. " Johnny, 
 what will you lay that he has not been to Mr. 
 Brandon's ? The negotiations are becoming 
 intricate." 
 
 Tod did not go in. On second thought, he 
 said, it might be better to leave it to me. The 
 Squire must try, if I failed. Mr. Brandon was 
 at home ; and Tod drove on into Alcester by 
 way of passing the time. 
 
 "But I don't think you can see him," said 
 the housekeeper when she came to me in the 
 drawing-room. " This is one of his bad days. 
 A gentleman called just now, and I went in to 
 the master, but it was of jio use." 
 
 ''I know ; it was Major Parrifer. We thought 
 he might have been calling here." 
 
 Mr. Brandon was little and thin, with a 
 shrivelled face. He lived alone, except for 
 three or four servants, and always fancied him- 
 self ill with one ailment or another. W^hen I
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 103 
 
 went in, for lie said he'd see me, he was sitting 
 in an easy chair, with a geranium-coloured 
 Turkish cap on his head, and two bottles of 
 medicine at his elbow. 
 
 '' Well, Johnny, an invalid as usual, you see. 
 And what is it you so particularly want ?" 
 
 " I want to ask you a favour, Mr. Brandon, 
 if you'll please to grant it me." 
 
 ''What is it?" 
 
 " You know that cottage, sir, at the corner 
 of Piefinch Lane. George Eeed's." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I am come to ask you to j)lease not to let 
 it be sold." 
 
 "Who wants to sell it?" asked he, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Major Parrifer wants to buy it ; and to 
 turn out Pieed. The lawyers are going to 
 arrange it." 
 
 Mr. Brandon pushed the Turkish cap up on 
 his brow and gave the purple tassel over his ear 
 a twirl as he looked at me. People thought him 
 incapable ; but it was only because he had no 
 work to do that he seemed so. He would get a 
 bit irritable sometimes ; very rarely, though ; 
 and he had a squeaky voice : but he was a good 
 and just man. 
 
 " How did you hear this, Johnny ?" 
 
 I told him all about it. What Keed had said, 
 and of our having met the Major on horseback 
 as we drove along.
 
 104 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 "He came here, but I did not feel tvcII enough 
 to see him," said Mr. Brandon. "Johnny, you 
 know that I stand in place of your father, as re- 
 gards your property ; to do the best I can with 
 it." 
 
 ** Yes, sir. And I am sure you do it." 
 
 " If Major Parrifer — I don't like the man," 
 broke off Mr. Brandon, " but that's neither here 
 nor there. At the last magistrates' meeting I 
 attended he was so overbearing as to shut us all 
 up. My nerves were unstrung for four-and- 
 twenty hours afterwards." 
 
 '^ And Squire Todhetley came home swear- 
 ing," I could not help putting in. 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. Brandon. "Yes; some 
 people can throw bile off in that way. I can't. 
 But, Johnny, all that goes for nothing, in regard 
 to the matter in hand : and I was about to 
 point out to you that if Major Parrifer has set 
 his mind upon buying Eeed's cottage and the 
 bit of land attached to it, he is no doubt pre- 
 pared to offer a large price ; more, probably, 
 than it is worth. If so, I should not, in your 
 interests, be justified in refusing this." 
 
 I could feel my face flush with the sense of 
 injustice, and the tears come into my eyes. 
 They called me a muff for many things. 
 
 " I would not touch the money myself, sir. 
 And if you used it for me, I'm sure it would 
 never bring any good." 
 
 "What's that, Johnny?"
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 105 
 
 " Money got by oi^pression or injustice never 
 does. There was a fellow at school " 
 
 " Never mind the fellow at school. Go on 
 with your own arguments." 
 
 *' To turn Eeed out of the place where he has 
 always lived, out of the garden he has done so 
 well by, just because a rich man wants to get it 
 into his possession, would be fearfully unjust, 
 sir. It would be as bad as the story we heard 
 read in church last Sunday, for the First Les- 
 son, of Naboth's vineyard. Tod said so as we 
 came along." 
 
 ^' Who's Tod?" 
 
 " Joseph Todhetley. If you turned Eeed out, 
 sir, for the sake of benefiting me, I should be 
 ashamed to look people in the face when they 
 talked of it. If you please, sir, I do not think 
 my father would allow it if he were alive. Eeed 
 says the place is like his homestead." 
 
 Mr. Brandon measured two tablespoonfuls of 
 medicine into a glass, drank it, and ate a French 
 plum afterwards. The plums were in a paper, 
 and he handed them to me. I ate one, and 
 tried to crack the stone. 
 
 " You have taken up a strong opinion upon 
 this matter. Master Johnny." 
 
 " Yes, sir. I like Eeed. And if I did not, he 
 has no more right to be turned out of his home 
 than Major Parrifer has out of his. How would 
 lie like it, if some great rich powerful man came 
 down on his place and turned him out ?"
 
 105 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 '' Major Parrifer can't be turned out of liis, 
 Johnny. It is his own." 
 
 "And Eeed's place is mine, sir — if you'll 
 not be angry with me for saying it. Please don't 
 let it be done, Mr. Brandon." 
 
 The pony-carriage came rattling up at this 
 juncture, and we saw Tod look at the windows 
 impatiently. I got up, and Mr. Brandon shook 
 hands with me. 
 
 *' What you have said is all very good, Johnny, 
 right in principle ; but I cannot let it entirely 
 outweigh your interest. When this proposal 
 shall be put before me — as you say it will be — 
 it must have my full consideration." 
 
 I stopped when I got to the door and turned 
 to look at him. If he would but have given me 
 an assurance ! He read in my face what I 
 wanted. 
 
 " No, Johnny, I can't do that. You may go 
 home easy for the present, however ; for I will 
 promise not to accept the offer to purchase with- 
 out first seeing you again and showing you my 
 reasons." 
 
 "I may have gone back to school, sir." 
 
 *' I tell you I will see you again if I decide to 
 accept the offer," he repeated emphatically. 
 And I went out to the pony-chaise. 
 
 *' Old Brandon means to sell," said Tod when 
 I told him. And he gave the pony an angry 
 cut, that made him fly off' with a leap. 
 
 Will anybody believe that I never heard
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 107 
 
 another word upon the subject ? — except what 
 people said in the way of gossip. It was soon 
 knoMTi that Mr. Brandon had declined to sell 
 the cottage ; and when his lawyer wrote him 
 word that the sum, offered for it, was increased 
 to quite an unprecedented amount, considering 
 the small value of the cottage and garden in 
 question, Mr. Brandon only sent a peremptory 
 note back again, saying he was not in the habit 
 of changing his decisions, and the place icas not 
 for sale. Tod threw up his hat. 
 
 " Bravo, old Brandon ! I thought he'd not 
 go quite over to the enemy." 
 
 George Eeed wanted to thank me for it. One 
 evening, in passing his cottage on m}^ way home 
 from the Court, I leaned over the gate to speak 
 to his little ones. He saw me, and came run- 
 ning out. The rays of the setting sun shone on 
 the children's white corded bonnets. 
 
 " I have to thank you for this, sir. They are 
 going to renew my lease." 
 
 "Are they? All right. But you need not 
 thank me ; I know nothing about it." 
 
 George Pieed gave a sort of decisive nod. " If 
 you had not got the ear of Mr. Brandon, sir, I 
 know what box I'd have been in now. Look at 
 them girls ! ' ' 
 
 It was not a very complimentary mode of 
 speech, as a^opHed to the Misses Parrifer. Three 
 of them were passing, dressed outrageously in 
 the fashion as usual. I lifted my straw hat,
 
 108 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 and one of them nodded in return, but the other 
 two only looked out at the tail of their eyes. 
 
 " The Major has been trying it on with me 
 now," remarked Eeed, watching them out of 
 sight. *'When he found he could not buy the 
 place, he thought he'd try and buy out me. He 
 wanted the bit of land for a kitchen-garden, he 
 said ; and he'd give me a bank-note of five 
 pounds to go out of it. Much obliged. Major, 
 I said, but I'd not go for fifty." 
 
 "As if he had not got heaps of land himself 
 to make kitchen gardens of!" 
 
 " But don't you see. Master Johnny, to a man 
 like Major Parrifer, who thinks the world was 
 made for him, there's nothing so mortifying as 
 being balked. He set his mind upon this place ; 
 he can't get it ; and he is just boiling over. 
 He'd poison me if he could. Now then, what's 
 wanted?" 
 
 Cathy had come up, with her pretty dark 
 eyes, whispering some question to her father. 
 I ran on ; it was getting late, and the Manor 
 ever-so-far off. 
 
 From that time the feud grew between Major 
 Parrifer and George Eeed. Not openly ; not 
 actively. It could not well be either when 
 the relative positions in life were so different. 
 Major Parrifer was a wealthy proprietor, a 
 county magistrate (and an awfully overbearing 
 one) ; and George Pieed was a poor cottager
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 109 
 
 "^'lio worked for his bread as a day-labourer. 
 But that the Major grew to abhor and hate 
 Eeed ; that the raan, inhabiting the place at 
 his very gates in spite of him, and looking at 
 him independently, as if to say he knew it, 
 every time he passed, had become an eyesore; 
 was easy to be seen. 
 
 The Major resented it on us all. He was 
 rude to Mr. Brandon when they met ; he struck 
 out his whip once when he was on horseback, 
 and I passed him, as if he would like to strike 
 me. I don't know whether he was aware of 
 my visit to Mr. Brandon ; but the cottage was 
 mine, I was friendly with Keed, and that 
 was enough. Months, however, went on, and 
 nothing came of it. 
 
 One Sunday morning in winter, when our 
 chm'ch bells were going for service. Major Par- 
 rifer's carriage turned out with the ladies all in 
 full fig. The Major himself turned out after it, 
 walking, one of his daughters with him, a young 
 man who was on a visit there, and a couple of 
 servants. As they passed George Reed's, the 
 sound of work being done in the garden at the 
 back of the cottage caught the Major's quick 
 ears. He turned softly down Piefinch Lane, 
 stole to the high hedge on tiptoe, and stooped 
 to peep through it. 
 
 Eeed was doing something to his turnips ; 
 hoeing them, the Major said. He called the 
 gentleman to him and the two servants, and
 
 110 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 bade them look through the hedge. Nothing 
 more. The party came on to church then. 
 
 On Tuesday, the Major rode out to take his 
 place on the magisterial bench at Alcester. It 
 was bitterly cold January weather, and only 
 one magistrate besides himself was on it : a 
 clergyman. Two or three petty offenders were 
 brought before them, who were severely sen- 
 tenced — as prisoners always were when Major 
 Parrifer was the presiding judge. Another 
 magistrate came in afterwards. 
 
 Singular to say, Tod and I had gone to the 
 town that day about a new saddle for his horse; 
 singular on account of what happened. In 
 saying we were there I am telling the truth ; it 
 is not an invented fiction to give colour to the 
 tale. Upon turning out of the saddler's, which 
 is near the justice-room, old Jones the consta- 
 ble was coming along with a handcuffed pri- 
 soner, a tail trailing after him. 
 
 '' Halloa ! " cried Tod. '' Here's fun! " 
 
 But I had seen what Tod did not, and rub- 
 bed my eyes, wondering if they saw double. 
 
 *' Todf It is George Eeed! " 
 
 Eeed's face was as white as a sheet, and he 
 walked along, not to say unwillingly, but as 
 one in a state of sad shame, of awful rage. Tod 
 made only one bound to the prisoner ; and old 
 Jones, knowing us, did not push him back 
 again. 
 
 *' As I'm a living man, I do not know what
 
 MAJOR PAPtRIFER. Ill 
 
 tliis is for, or why I am paraded through the 
 town in disgrace," spoke Eeed in answer to 
 Tod's question. *' If I'm charged with doing 
 wrong, I am willing to appear and answer for 
 it, without being made into a felon in the face 
 and eyes of folks, beforehand." 
 
 *' Why do you bring Eeed up in this man- 
 ner — with the handcuffs on?" demanded Tod 
 of the constable. 
 
 *' Because the Major telled me to, young Mr. 
 Todhetley." 
 
 Be you very sure Tod pushed after them into 
 the justice-room : the police saw him, but he 
 was a magistrate's son. The crowd would have 
 liked to push in also, but were ignominiously 
 sent to the right-about. I waited, and was 
 presently admitted surreptitiously. Eeed was 
 standing before Major Parrifer and the other 
 two, handcuffed still ; and I gathered what the 
 charge was. 
 
 It was preferred by Major Parrifer, who had 
 his servants there and a gentleman as witnesses. 
 George Eeed had been working in his garden 
 on the previous Sunday morning — which was 
 against the law. Old Jones had gone to Mr. 
 Sterling's and taken him on the Major's war- 
 rant, as he was thrashing corn. 
 
 Eeed's answer was to the following effect. 
 
 He was not working. His wife was ill — her 
 little boy being but four days old — and Dr. 
 Duffham ordered her some mutton broth. He
 
 112 JOHNNY LUDLO-W. 
 
 went to the garden to get the turnips to jout In 
 it. It was only on account of her illness that 
 he didn't go to church himself, he and Cathy. 
 They might ask Dr. Duffham. 
 
 " Bo 3^ou dare to tell me you were not hoe- 
 ing turnips?" cried Major Parrifer. 
 
 '' I dare to say I was not doing it as work," 
 indej^endently answered the man. " If you 
 looked at me, as you say, major, through the 
 hedge, you must have seen the hunch of turnips 
 I had got up, lying near. I took the hoe in my 
 hand, and I did use it for two or three minutes. 
 Some dead weeds had got thrown along the 
 hed, by the children perhaps, and I pulled 
 them away. I went indoors directly : before 
 the clock struck eleven the turnips were on, 
 boiling with the scrag of mutton. I peeled them 
 and put them in myself." 
 
 ''I see the bunch of turnips," cried one of 
 the servants. '' They was lying— — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir," roared his master; 
 " if your further evidence is wanted, you'll be 
 asked for it. As to this defence" — and the 
 Major turned to his brother magistrates with a 
 scornful smile — " it is quite ingenious ; one of 
 the clever excuses we usually get here. But it 
 will not serve your turn, George Eeed. When 
 the sanctity of the Sabbath is violated " 
 
 " Eeed is not a man to say he did not do a 
 thing if he did," interrupted Tod. 
 
 The Major glared at him for an instant, and
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 113 
 
 then put out of hand a big gold pencil he was 
 waving majestically. 
 
 " Clear the room of spectators," said he to 
 the policemen. 
 
 Which was all Tod got for interfering. We 
 had to go out : and in a minute or two Eeed 
 came out also, handcuffed as before ; not in 
 charge of old Jones, but of the county police. 
 He had been sentenced to a month's imprison- 
 ment. Major Parrifer had wanted to make it 
 threemonths ; he said something about six ; but 
 the other two thought they saw some slightly 
 extenuating circumstances in the case. A soli- 
 citor who was intimate with the Sterlings, and 
 knew Eeed very well, had been present towards 
 the end. 
 
 " Could you not have spoken in my de- 
 fence, sir?" asked Eeed, as he passed this gen- 
 tleman in coming out. 
 
 *' I would had I been able. But you see, 
 my man, when the law gets broken " 
 
 ^' The devil take the law," said Eeed savagely. 
 " What I want is justice." 
 
 " And the administrators of it are determined 
 to uphold it, what can be said?" went on the 
 solicitor equably, as if there had been no inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 " You would make out that I broke the law, 
 just doing what I did; and I swear it was no 
 more? That I can be legally punished for it?" 
 
 " Don't, Eeed ; it's of no use. The Major 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 and his witnesses swore you were at work. 
 And it appears you were." 
 
 "I asked them to take a fine — if I must be 
 punished. I might have found friends to ad- 
 vance it for me." 
 
 *' Just so. And for that reason of course 
 they did not take it," said the candid lawyer. 
 
 " What is my wife to do while I am in prison? 
 And the children ? I may come out to find 
 them starv^ed. A month's long enough to starve 
 them in such weather as this." 
 
 Eeed was allowed time for no more. He 
 would not have been allowed that, but for hav- 
 ing been jammed by the crowd at the doorway. 
 He caught my eye as they were getting clear. 
 
 *' Master Johnny, will you go to the Court 
 for me — your own place, sir — and tell the 
 master that I swear I am innocent ? Perhaps 
 he'll let a few shillings go to the wife weekly ; tell 
 him with my duty that I'll work it out as soon 
 as I'm released. All this is done out of revenge, 
 sir, because Major Parrifer couldn't get me from 
 my cottage. May the Lord repay him !" 
 
 It caused a commotion, I can tell you, this 
 imprisonment of Eeed ; the place was ringing 
 with it between the Court and Dyke Manor. 
 Our two houses seemed to have more to do 
 with it than other people's ; first because Eeed 
 worked at the Court ; secondly, because I, who 
 owned both the Court and the cottage, lived at 
 the Manor. People took it up pretty warmly.
 
 MAJOR PAERIFER. 115 
 
 and Mrs. Reed and the children were cared for. 
 Mr. Sterling paid her five shillings a week ; and 
 Mr. Brandon and the Squire helj^ed her on the 
 quiet, and there were others. In small country 
 localities gentlemen don't like to say openly that 
 their neighbours are in the wrong : at any rate, 
 they rarely do anything by way of vemedj. 
 Some spoke of an appeal to the Secretary of 
 State, but it came to nothing, and no steps were 
 taken to liberate Eeed. Bill Whitney, who 
 was staying a week with us, wrote and told his 
 mother about it ; she sent back a sovereign for 
 Mrs. Eeed ; we three took it to her, and went 
 about saying old Parrifer ought to be kicked, 
 which was a relief to our feelings. 
 
 But there's something to tell about Cathy. 
 On the day that Eeed was taken up, it was not 
 known at his home immediately. The neigh- 
 bours, aware that the wife was ill, said 
 nothing to her — for old Duffham thought she 
 was going to have a fever, and ordered her to 
 be kept quiet. For one thing, they did not 
 know what there was to tell ; except that Eeed 
 had been marched off from his work in hand- 
 cuffs by Jones the constable. In the evening, 
 when news came of his committal, it was 
 agreed that an excuse should be made to Mrs. 
 Reed that her husband had gone out on a busi- 
 ness job for his master ; and that Cathy — who 
 could not fail to hear the truth from one or 
 another — should be warned not to say anything.
 
 116 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Tell Cathy to come out here/' said the 
 women, looking over the gate. It was the little 
 girl they spoke to ; who could talk well : and 
 she answered that Cathy was not there. So 
 Ann Perkins, Mrs. Eeed's sister, was called out. 
 
 ** Where's Cathy?" cried they. 
 
 Ann Perkins answered in a passion — that 
 she did not know where Cathy was, but should 
 uncommonly like to know, and she only wished 
 she was behind her — keeping her there with 
 her sister when she ought to be at her own home ! 
 Then the women told Ann Perkins what they 
 had been intending to tell Cathy, and looked 
 out for the latter. 
 
 She did not come back. The night passed, 
 and the next day passed, and Cathy was not 
 seen or heard of. The only person who ap- 
 peared to have met her was Goody Picker. It was 
 about two o'clock in the afternoon, Tuesday, and 
 Cathy had her best bonnet on. Mother Picker 
 remarked upon her looking so smart, and asked 
 where she was going to. Cathy answered that 
 her uncle (who lived at Evesham) had sent to 
 say she must go over there at once. " But 
 when she came to the two roads, she turned off 
 quite on the conterairy way to Evesham, and I 
 thought the young woman must be daft," con- 
 cluded Mrs. Picker. 
 
 The month passed away, and Eeed came out; 
 but Cathy had not returned. He got home on 
 foot, in the afternoon ; with his hair cut close.
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 117 
 
 and seemed as quiet as a iamb. The man had 
 been daunted. It was an awful insult to put 
 upon him ; a slur on his good name for life ; 
 and some of them said George Eeed would never 
 hold up his head again. Had he been cruel 
 or vindictive, he might have revenged himself 
 on Major Parrifer, personally, in a manner the 
 Major would have found it difficult to forget. 
 
 The wife was about again, but sickly : the 
 little ones did not at first know their father. 
 One of the first people he asked after was Cathy. 
 The girl was not at hand to welcome him, and 
 he took it in the light of a reproach. When 
 men come for the first time out of jail, they are 
 sensitive. 
 
 " Mr. Sterling called in yesterday, George, 
 to say you were to go to your work again as 
 soon as ever you came home," said the wife, 
 evading the question about Cathy. " Every- 
 body has been so kind ; they know you didn't 
 deserve what you got." 
 
 " Ah," said Eeed, carelessly. " Where's 
 Cathy?" 
 
 * Mrs. Eeed felt herself obliged to tell. No 
 diplomatist, she brought out the news abruptly : 
 Cathy had not been seen or heard of since the 
 afternoon he was sent to prison. That aroused 
 Eeed : nothing else seemed to have done it : 
 and he got up from his chair. 
 
 *' Why, where is she ? What's become of 
 her ? "
 
 118 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 The neighbours had been indulging in sundry 
 speculations on the same question, which they 
 had obligingly favoured Mrs. Eeed with ; but 
 she did not think it necessary to impart them 
 to her husband. 
 
 " Cath}^ was a good girl on the whole, 
 George ; putting aside that she'd do no work, 
 and spent her time reading good-for-nothing 
 books. What I think is this — that she heard 
 of your misfortune after she left, and wouldn't 
 come home to face it. She is eighteen now, 
 you know." 
 
 *' Come home from where ? " 
 
 Mrs. Eeed had to tell the whole truth. That 
 Cathy, dressed up in her best things, had left 
 home without saying a word to anybody, steal- 
 ing out of the house unseen ; she had been met 
 in the road by Mrs. Picker, and told her what 
 has abeady been said. But the uncle at Eves- 
 ham had seen nothing of her. 
 
 Forgetting his shorn hair — as he would have 
 to forget it, or, at least, to ignore it until it 
 should grow again — George Eeed went tramp- 
 ing off, there and then, the nearly two miles of 
 way to Mother Picker's. She could not tell 
 him much more than he already knew. " Cathy 
 was all in her best, her curls 'iled, and her pink 
 ribbins as fresh as her cheeks, and said in 
 answer to questions that she had been sent for 
 sudden to her uncle's at Evesham : but she had 
 turned off quite the conterairy road." From
 
 :\IAJOR PAEPtlFER. 119 
 
 thence, Eeed walked on to his l3rotlier's at 
 Evesham ; and learnt that Cathy had not been 
 sent for, and had not come. 
 
 When Eeed got home, he was dead-beat. 
 How many miles the man had walked that bleak 
 February day, he did not stay to think — perhaps 
 t vventy. When excitement buoys up the spirit, 
 the body does not feel fatigue. Mrs. Eeed put 
 supper before her husband, and he ate a bit 
 mechanically, lost in thought. 
 
 '' It fairly 'mazes me," he said, presently, 
 in the local phraseology. " But for going out 
 in her best things, I should think some bad ac- 
 cident had come to her. There's ponds aboat, 
 and young girls might slip in unawares. But 
 the putting on her best things shows she was 
 going somewhere." 
 
 " She put 'em on, and went off unseen," 
 repeated Mrs. Eeed, snuffing the candle. *' Z 
 should have thought she'd maybe gone off 
 to some wake — only there wasn't one agate 
 within range." 
 
 " Cathy had no bad acquaintance to lead her 
 astray," he resumed. "The girls about here 
 are decent, and mind their work." 
 
 " Which Cathy didn't," thought Mrs. Eeed. 
 '' Cathy held her head above 'em," she said, 
 aloud : ''it's my belief she used to fancy herself 
 one o' them fine ladies in her halfpenny books. 
 She didn't seem to make acquaintance with 
 nobody but that young Parrifer. She'd talk to
 
 120 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 him by the hour together, and I couldn't get her 
 indoors." 
 
 Eeed lifted his head. *' Young Parrifer ! 
 — what — his son ? " turning his thumb in the 
 direction of Parrifer Hall. " Cathy talked to 
 him?" 
 
 " By the hour together," reiterated Mrs. 
 Eeed. " He'd be on that side the gate, a-talk- 
 ing, and laughing, and leaning on it ; and Cathy, 
 she'd be in the path by the tall hollyhocks, talk- 
 ing back to him, and fondling the children." 
 
 Eeed rose up, a strange look on his face. 
 " How long was that going on ? " 
 
 " Ever so long ; I can't remember just. But 
 young Parrifer is only at the Hall by fits and 
 starts." 
 
 " And you never told me, woman ! " 
 
 " I thought no harm of it. I don't think 
 harm of it now," emphatically added Mrs. Eeed. 
 " The worst of young Parrifer, that I've seen, 
 is that he's as soft as a tomtit." 
 
 Eeed put on his hat without another word, 
 and walked out. Late as it was, he was going 
 to the Hall. He rang a peal at it, more like a 
 lord, than a labourer just let out of prison. 
 There was some delay in opening the door : the 
 household had gone upstairs : but a man came 
 at last. 
 
 *'I want to see Major Parrifer." 
 
 The words were so authoritatve ; the man's 
 appearance so strange, with his tall figure
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 121 
 
 and his clipped hair, as he pushed forward into 
 the hall, that the servant momentarily lost his 
 Tvits. A light, in a room on the left, guided Eeed ; 
 he entered it, and found himself face to face 
 with Major Parrifer, who was seated in an easy 
 chair before a good fire, spirits on the table, 
 and a cigar in his mouth. What with the curl- 
 ing smoke from that, what with the faint light 
 — for all the candles had been put out but one 
 — the Major did not at first distinguish his late 
 visitor's face. When the bare head and the 
 resolute eyes met his, he certainly paled a little, 
 and the cigar fell on the carpet. 
 
 *^I want my daughter. Major Parrifer." 
 
 To hear a demand made for a daughter when 
 the Major had possibly been thinking the demand 
 might be for his life, was undoubtedly a relief. 
 It brought back his courage. 
 
 "What do you mean, fellow?" he growled, 
 stamping out the fire of the cigar. " Are you 
 out of your mind ? ' ' 
 
 " Not quite. You might have di'iven some 
 men out of theirs, though, by what you've done. 
 We'll let that part he, Major. I have come to- 
 night about my daughter. Where is she ? " 
 
 They stood looking at each other. Eeed 
 stood just inside the door, his hat in his hand ; 
 he did not forget his good manners even in the 
 presence of his enemy ; they were a habit with 
 him. The Major, who had risen in his surprise, 
 stared at him : he really knew nothing what-
 
 122 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 ever of the matter, not even that the girl was 
 missing; and he did think Eeed's imprisonment 
 must have turned his hrain. Perhaps Eeed saw 
 that he was not understood. 
 
 " I come home from prison, into which you 
 put me, Major Parrifer, to find my daughter 
 Catherine gone. She went away the day I was 
 taken up. Where she went, or what she's 
 doing, heaven knows ; but you or yours are 
 answerable for it, whichever way it may be." 
 
 *' You have been drinking," said Major Par- 
 rifer. 
 
 " You have, maybe," returned Eeed, glanc- 
 ing at the spirits. " Either Cathy went out on 
 a harmless jaunt, and is stajdng away because 
 she can't face the shame at home which you 
 have put there ; or else she went out to meet 
 your son, and has been taken away by him. I 
 think it must be the last ; my fears whisper it 
 to me ; and, if so, you can't be off knowing 
 something of it. Major Parrifer, I must have 
 my daughter." 
 
 Whether the hint given about his son alarmed 
 the Major, causing him to forget his bluster for 
 once and answer civilly, he certainly did it. His 
 son was in Ireland with his regiment, he said ; 
 had not been at the Hall for weeks and weeks : 
 he could answer for it that Lieutenant Parrifer 
 knew nothing of the girl. 
 
 ''He was here at Christmas," said George 
 Eeed. *' I saw him."
 
 MAJOR PARRIFER. 123 
 
 *' And left two or three days after it. How 
 dare you, fellow, charge him with such a thing? 
 He'd wring your neck for you if he were 
 here." 
 
 " Perhaps I might find cause to wring his 
 first. Major Parrifer, I want my daughter." 
 
 " If you do not get out of my house, I'll have 
 you brought before me to-morrow for trespass- 
 ing, and give you a second month's imprison- 
 ment," roared the Major, gathering bluster and 
 courage. " You want another month of it : 
 this one does not appear to have done 3^ou the 
 good it ought. Now — go ! " 
 
 " I'll go," said Pieed, who began to see the 
 Major really did not know anything of Cathy — 
 and it had not been very probable that he did. 
 " But I'd like to leave a word behind me. You 
 have succeeded in doing me a great injury, 
 Major Parrifer. Y"ou are rich and powerful, I 
 am poor and lowly. You set your mind on my 
 bit of a home, and because you could not drive 
 me from it, you took advantage of your magis- 
 trate's post to sentence me to prison, and so 
 be revenged. It has done me a great deal of 
 harm. What good has it done you ? " 
 
 Major Parrifer could not speak for rage. 
 
 '* It will come home to you, sir ; mark me if 
 it does not. God has seen my trouble, and my 
 wife's trouble, and I don't believe He ever let 
 such a wrong pass by unrewarded. It ivill come 
 home to you, Major Parrifer,''
 
 124 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 George Eeed went out, quietly shutting the 
 hall-door behind him, and walked home through 
 the thick flakes of snow that had begun to 
 fall.
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 125 
 
 V. 
 
 COMING HO:^IE TO HIM. 
 
 THE year ^as getting on. Summer fruits 
 ^ere ripening. It had been a warm 
 spring, and liot weather was upon us early. 
 
 One fine Sunday morning, George Eeed came 
 out of his cottage and turned up Piefinch Lane. 
 His little girls were with him, one in either 
 hand, in their clean cotton frocks and pinafores, 
 and straw hats. People had gone into church, 
 and the bells had ceased. Pieed had not been 
 constant in attendance since the misfortune in 
 the winter, when Major Parrifer put him into 
 prison. The month's imprisonment had altered 
 him ; his daughter Cathy's mysterious absence 
 had altered him more ; he seemed not to like 
 to face people, and any trifle was made an 
 excuse to himself to keep away from service. 
 To-day it was afforded by the baby's illness. 
 Keed said to his wife that he would take the 
 little girls out a bit to keep the place quiet. 
 
 Piumours were abroad that he had heard 
 once from Cathy ; that she told him she should 
 come back some day and surprise him and the 
 neighbours, that she was ''all right, and he had
 
 126 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 no call to fret after her." Whether this was 
 true, or pure fiction, Eeed did not say : he was 
 a closer man than he used to be. 
 
 Lifting the children over a stile in Piefinch 
 Lane, just beyond his garden, Eeed strolled 
 along the cross path of the field. It brought 
 him to the high hedge that skirted the premises 
 of Major Parrifer. The man had taken it by 
 chance, because it was a quiet walk. He was 
 passing along slowly, the children running about 
 the field, on which the second crop of grass 
 was beginning to grow, when voices on the 
 other side the hedge struck on his ear. Reed 
 gently put some of the foliage aside, and looked 
 through : just as Major Parrifer had looked 
 through the hedge in Piefinch Lane at him, 
 that Sunday morning some few months before. 
 
 Major Parrifer had been suffering from a 
 slight temporary indisposition. He did not 
 consider himself sufficiently recovered to attend 
 service, but neither was he ill enough to lie in 
 bed. With the departure of his family for 
 church, the Major had come strolling out in the 
 garden in an airy dressing-gown, and there saw 
 his gardener picking peas. 
 
 " Halloa, Hotty ! This ought to have been 
 done before.'' 
 
 "Yes, sir, I know it; I'm a little late," 
 answered Hotty ; "I shall have done in two or 
 three minutes. The cook makes a fuss if I pick 
 'em too early; she says they don't eat so well."
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 127 
 
 The peas were for the delectation of the 
 Major's own palate, so he found no more fault. 
 Hotty went on with his work, and the Major 
 gave a general look round. On a wall near, 
 at right angles with the hedge through which 
 Eeed was then peering, some fine apricots were 
 growing, green yet. 
 
 "These apricots want thinning, Hotty," 
 observed the Major. 
 
 " I have thinned 'em some, sir." 
 
 "Not enough. Our apricots were not as 
 fine last year as they ought to have been. I 
 said then they had not had sufficient room to 
 grow. Green apricots are always useful ; they 
 make the best tart known." 
 
 Major Parrifer walked to the greenhouse, 
 outside which a small basket was hanging, 
 brought it back, and began to pick some of the 
 apricots where they looked too thick. Eeed, 
 outside, watched the process — not alone. As 
 luck had it, a man appeared in the field path, 
 who proved to be Gruff Blossom, the Jacobsons' 
 groom, coming home to spend Sunday with his 
 friends. Eeed made a sign to Blossom for 
 silence, and caused him to look on also. 
 
 With the small basket half full, the Major 
 desisted, thinking possibly he had plucked 
 enough, and turned away carrying it. Hotty 
 came out from the peas then, his task finished. 
 They strolled slowly down the path by the 
 hedge ; the Major first, Hotty a step behind.
 
 128 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 talking about late and early peas, and whether 
 Prussian blues or marrowfats were the best 
 eating. 
 
 *' Do you see those weeds in the onion-bed ?" 
 suddenly asked the Major, stopping as they 
 were passing it. 
 
 Hotty turned his head to look. A few weeds 
 certainly had sprung up. He'd attend to it on 
 the morrow, he told his master ; and then said 
 something about the work accumulating almost 
 beyond him, since the under gardener had been 
 at home ill. 
 
 ''Pick them out now," said the Major; 
 " there's not a dozen of them." 
 
 Hotty stooped to do as he was bid. The 
 Major made no more ado but stooped also, he 
 himself uprooting quite half of the weeds. 
 Not much more, in all, than the dozen he had 
 spoken of : and then they went on with their 
 baskets to the house. 
 
 Never had George Eeed experienced so much 
 gratification since the day he came out of 
 prison. " Did you see the Major at it ? — 
 thinning his apricots and pulling up his 
 weeds?" he asked of Gruff Blossom. And 
 Blossom's reply, gruff as usual, was to ask 
 what might be suj^posed to ail his eyes that he 
 shouldn't see it. 
 
 " Very good," said Eeed. 
 
 One evening in the following week, when we 
 were sitting out on the lawn, the Squire smok-
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 129 
 
 ing, Mrs. Todlietley nursing her face in lier 
 Jiand, -with tooth-ache as usual, Tod teazing 
 Hugh and Lena, and I up in the beech-tree, a 
 horseman rode in. It proved to be Mr. Jacob - 
 son. Giles took his horse, and he came and 
 sat down on the bench. The Squire asked him 
 Tvhat he'd take, and he chose cider, being thirsty. 
 Which Thomas brought. 
 
 '* Here's a go," began Mr. Jacobson. ''Have 
 you heard what's up ? " 
 
 " I've not heard anything," answered the 
 Squire. 
 
 " Major Parrifer has got a summons served 
 on him for working in his garden on a Sunday, 
 and is to appear before the magistrates at 
 Alcester to-morrow," continued old Jacobson, 
 drinking off a glass of cider at a draught. 
 
 ^' No ! " cried Squire Todhetley. 
 
 ** It's a fact. Blossom, our groom, has also 
 a summons served on him to give evidence." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley lifted her face ; Tod left Hugh 
 and Lena to themselves : I slid down from the 
 beech-tree ; and we listened for more. 
 
 But Mr. Jacobson could not give particulars, 
 or say much else than he had already said. 
 All he knew was, that on Monday morning 
 George Keed had appeared before the magis- 
 trates and made a complaint. At first they were 
 unwilling to grant a summons, laughed at it ; 
 but Pieed, in a burst of reproach, civilly de- 
 livered, asked why there should be a law for 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 the poor and not for the rich, and in what lay 
 the difference between himself and Major 
 Parrifer ; that the one should be called to 
 account and punished for doing wrong, and the 
 other was not even to be accused when he had 
 done it. 
 
 "Brandon happened to be on the Bench," 
 continued Jacobson. " He appeared struck with 
 the argument, and signed the summons." 
 
 The Squire nodded. 
 
 " My belief is," continued old Jacobson, with 
 a wink over the rim of the cider glass, " that 
 the granting of that summons was as good as 
 a play to Brandon and the rest. I'd as lieve, 
 though, that they'd not brought Blossom into 
 it." 
 
 *'Why?" asked Mrs. Todhetley, who had 
 been grieved at the time at the injustice done 
 to Keed. 
 
 *' Well, Parrifer is a disagreeable man to 
 offend. And he is sure to visit Blossom's part 
 in this on me." 
 
 " Let him," said Tod, with enthusiasm. 
 " Well done, George Pieed ! " 
 
 Be you very sure we went over to the fight. 
 Squire Todhetley did not appear : at which Tod 
 exploded a little : he only wished he was a 
 magistrate, wouldn't he take his place and 
 judge the Major ! But the Pater said that when 
 people had lived to his age, they liked to be at 
 peace with their neighbours — not but what he
 
 COMING HOME TO HBI. 131 
 
 hoped Parrifer would "get it," for having heen 
 so cruelly hard upon Eeed. 
 
 Major Parrifer came driving to the Court- 
 house in his high carriage with a great bluster, 
 and his iron-grey hair sticking up, two grooms 
 attending him. Only the magistrates who had 
 granted the summons sat. The news had gone 
 about like wild-fire, and several of them were in 
 the town and about, but did not take their places. 
 I don't believe there was one would have lifted 
 his finger to save the Major from a month's 
 imprisonment ; but they did not care to sen- 
 tence him to it. 
 
 It was a regular battle. Major Parrifer was 
 in an awful passion all the time ; asking, when 
 he came in, how they dared summons him. 
 Him ! Mr. Brandon, cool as a cucumber, 
 answered in his squeaky voice, that when a 
 complaint of breaking the law was preferred 
 before them and sworn to by witnesses, they 
 could only act upon it. 
 
 First of all, the Major denied the facts. He 
 work in his garden on a Sunday ! — the very 
 supposition was preposterous ! Upon which 
 George Pieed, who was in his best clothes, and 
 looked every bit as good as the Major, and far 
 pleasanter, testified to what he had seen. 
 
 Major Parrifer, dancing with temper when 
 he found he had been looked at through the 
 hedge, and that it was Eeed who looked, gave
 
 132 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 the lie direct. He called liis gardener, Pdchard 
 Hotty, ordering him to testify whether he, the 
 Major, ever worked in his garden, either on 
 Sundays or week-days. 
 
 ^ *' Hotty was working himself, gentlemen," 
 interruiDted George Eeed. "He was picking 
 peas; and he helped to weed the onion-hed. 
 But it was done hy his master's orders, so it 
 would he unjust to seek to punish him." 
 
 The Major turned on Eeed as if he would 
 strike him, and demanded of the magistrates 
 why they permitted the fellow to interrupt. 
 They ordered Eeed to be quiet, and told Hotty 
 to i^roceed. 
 
 But Hotty was one of those slow men to 
 whom anything like evasion is difficult. His 
 master had thinned the apricot tree that Sun- 
 day morning ; he had helped to weed the onion- 
 bed; Hotty, conscious of the fact, but not liking 
 to admit it, stammered and stuttered, and made 
 a poor figure of himself. Mr. Brandon thought 
 he would help him out. 
 
 *'Did you see your master i^ickthe apricots?" 
 
 ''I see him pick — ^just a few; green uns," 
 answered Hotty, shuffling from one leg to the 
 other in his perplexity. '' 'Twarn't to be called 
 work, sir." 
 
 '' Oh ! And did he help you to weed the 
 onion-bed ?" 
 
 " There warn't a dozen weeds in it in all, as 
 the Major said to me at the time," returned
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 133 
 
 Hotty. *'He see 'em, and stooped down on the 
 spur o' the moment, and me too. We had 'em 
 up in a twinkling. 'Twarn't work, sir; couldn't 
 be called it nohow ? The Major, he never do 
 work at no time." 
 
 Blossom had not arrived, and it was hard to 
 tell how the thing would terminate : the Major 
 had this witness, Hotty, such as he was, pro- 
 testing that nothing to be called work was 
 done. Eeed had no witness, as yet. 
 
 *' Old Jacobson is keeping Blossom back, 
 Johnny," whispered Tod. "It's a sin and a 
 shame." 
 
 '' No, he is not," I said. '' Look there ! '* 
 
 Blossom was coming in. He had walked 
 over, and not hurried himself. Major Parrifer 
 cast daggers upon him, if looks could do it, but 
 it made no difference to Blossom. 
 
 He gave his evidence in his usual surly 
 manner. It was clear and straightforward. 
 Major Parrifer had thinned the apricot tree for 
 its own benefit; and had weeded the onion-bed, 
 Hotty helping at the weeds by order. 
 
 "What brought yon spying at the place, 
 James Blossom?" demanded a lawyer on the 
 Major's behalf. 
 
 "Accident," was the short answer. 
 
 " Indeed ! You didn't go there on purpose, 
 I suppose ? — and skulk under the hedge on 
 purpose ? — and peer into the Major's garden 
 on purpose ?"
 
 134 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 ''No, I didn't," said Blossom. '' The field 
 is open to walk in, and I was crossing it on my 
 way to old father's. George Eeed made me a 
 sign afore I came up to him, to look in, as he 
 was doing ; and I did so, not knowing what 
 there might he to see. It would he nothing to 
 me if the Major worked in his garden of a 
 Sunday from sunrise to sunset ; he's welcome 
 to do it ; but if you summon me here and ask 
 me, did I see him working, I say yes, I did. 
 Why d'you send me a summons if you don't 
 w^ant me to tell the truth ? Let me be, and I'd 
 ha' said nothing to mortal man." 
 
 Evidently nothing favourable to the defence 
 could be got out of James Blossom. Mr. Bran- 
 don began saying to the Major that he feared 
 there was no help for it ; they should be obliged 
 to convict him : and he was met by a storm of 
 reproach. 
 
 Convict him! roared the Major. For having 
 picked two or three green apricots — and for 
 stooping to pull up a couj)le or so of worthless 
 weeds ? He would be glad to ask which of 
 them, his brother magistrates sitting there, 
 would not pick an apricot, or a i)each, or what 
 not, on a Sunday, if he wanted to eat one. 
 The thing was utterly preposterous. 
 
 " And what was it I did?" demanded George 
 Eeed, drowning interfering voices that would 
 have stopped him. ''I went to the garden to get 
 up a bunch of turnips for my sick wife, and
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 135 
 
 seeing some withered weeds flung on the bed I 
 drew them off with the hoe. What was that, 
 I ask ? And it was no more. No more, gen- 
 tlemen, in the sight of heaven." 
 
 No particular answer was given to this ; 
 perhaps the justices had not any ready. Mr. 
 Brandon was beginning to confer with the other 
 two in an under tone, when Eeed spoke again. 
 
 " I was dragged up here in handcuffs, and 
 told I had broken the law ; Major Parrifer said 
 to me himself that I had violated the sanctity 
 of the Sabbath (those were the words), and 
 therefore I must be punished ; there was no 
 help for it. What has he done ? I did not do 
 as much as he has." 
 
 *' Now, you know, Eeed, this is irregular," 
 said one of the justices. *' You must not inter- 
 rupt the Court." 
 
 " You j)ut me in prison for a month, gentle- 
 men," resumed Eeed, paying no attention to 
 the injunction. " They cut my hair close in 
 the prison, and they kept me to hard labour for 
 the month, as if I did not have enough of hard 
 labour out of it. My wife was sick and disabled 
 at the time, my three little children are helpless : 
 it was no thanks to the magistrates^ who sen- 
 tenced me, gentlemen, or to Major Parrifer, 
 that they did not starve." 
 
 *' Will you be quiet, Eeed ? " 
 
 **If I deserved one month of prison," per- 
 sisted Eeed, fully bent on saying what he had
 
 136 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 to say, '' Major Parrifer must deserve two 
 months, for his offence is larger than mine. 
 The law is the same for both of us, I suppose. 
 He " 
 
 '' Eeed, if you say another word, I will order 
 you at once from the room," interrupted Mr- 
 Brandon, his thin voice sharp and determined. 
 " How dare you persist in addressing the Bench 
 when told to he quiet ! " 
 
 Eeed fell back and said no more. He knew 
 that Mr. Brandon had a habit of carrying out 
 his own authority, in spite of his nervous health 
 and querulous way of sj^eaking. The justices 
 spoke a few words together, and then said they 
 found the offence proved, and inflicted a fine on 
 Major Parrifer. 
 
 He dashed the money down on the table, in 
 too great a rage to do it politely, and went out 
 to his carriage. No other case was on, 
 that day, and the justices got up and mixed 
 with the crowd. Mr. Brandon, who felt chill 
 in the hottest summer's day, and was afraid of 
 showers, buttoned on a light overcoat. 
 
 " Then there are Uco laws, sir?" said Eeed 
 to him, quite civilly, but in a voice that every- 
 body might hear. " When the law was made 
 against Sabbath-breaking, those that made it. 
 passed one for the rich and another for the 
 poor!" 
 
 ** Nonsense, Eeed." 
 
 '^Nonsense, sir ? I don't see it. I was put
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 13-7 
 
 in prison ; Major Parrifer has only got to pay 
 a bit of money, which is of no more account to 
 him than dirt, and that he can't feel the loss 
 of. And my offence — if it was an offence — 
 was less than his." 
 
 " Two wrongs don't make a right," said Mr. 
 Brandon, dropping his voice to a low key. 
 *'You ought not to have been put in prison, 
 Eeed ; had I been on the bench it should not 
 have been done." 
 
 *' But it was done, sir, and my life got a blight 
 on it. It's on me yet ; will never be lifted off 
 me." 
 
 Mr. Brandon smiled one of his quiet smiles, 
 and spoke in a whisper. " He has got it too, 
 Eeed, unless I mistake. He'll carry that fine 
 about with him always. Johnny, are you 
 there ? Don't go and repeat what you've heard 
 me say." 
 
 Mr. Brandon was right. To have been 
 summoned before the bench, where he had 
 pompously sat to summon others, and for 
 working on a Sunday above all things, to have 
 been found guilty and fined, was as the bit- 
 terest potion to Major Parrifer. The bench 
 would never be to him the seat it had been ; 
 the remembrance of the day when he was 
 before it would, as Mr. Brandon exj)ressed it, 
 be carried about with him always. 
 
 They projected a visit to the sea-side at 
 once. Mrs. Parrifer, with three of the Misses
 
 138 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Parrifer, came dashing up to people's houses 
 in the carriage, finer and louder than ever; she 
 said that she had not been well, and was or- 
 dered to Aberystwith for six weeks. The next 
 day they and the Major were off; and heaps of 
 cards were sent round with '' P.P.C." in their 
 corner. I think Mr. Brandon must have 
 laughed when he got his. 
 
 The winter holidays came round again. We 
 went home for Christmas, as usual, and found 
 George Pieed down with some sort of illness. 
 There's an old saying, *' When the mind's at 
 ease the body's delicate," but Mr. Duffham 
 always maintained that though that might 
 apply to a short period of time, in the long run 
 mind and body sympathised together. George 
 Eeed had been a very healthy man, and as free 
 from care as most people ; this last j^ear care 
 and trouble and mortification had lain on his 
 mind, and at the beginning of winter his health 
 broke down. It was quite a triumph (in the 
 matter of opinion) for old Dufi'ham. 
 
 The illness began with a cough and a low 
 fever, neither of which can labourers afford time 
 to lie by for. It went on to greater fever, and 
 to inflammation on the chest or lungs, or 
 both. There was no choice then, and Eeed 
 took to his bed. For the most part, when our 
 poor people got ill, they had to get well again
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 139 
 
 ^vithout notice being taken of tliem ; but events 
 had drawn attention to Eeed, making him into 
 a conspicuous character. His illness was talked 
 of, and so he received help. Ever since the 
 prison affair I had felt sorry for Eeed, as had 
 Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 ^'1 have had some nice strong broth made for 
 Eeed, Johnny," she said to me one day in Jan- 
 uary; ''it's as good and nourishing as beef-tea. 
 If you want a walk, you might take it to him." 
 
 Tod had gone out with the Squire ; I felt 
 dull, as I generally did without him, and put 
 on my coat and hat. Mrs. Todhetley had the 
 broth put into a bottle, and brought it me 
 wrapped in paper. 
 
 *' I would send him a drop of wine as well, 
 Johnny, if you'd take care not to break the 
 bottles, carrying two." 
 
 No fear. I put the one bottle to lodge in my 
 breast-pocket, and took the other in my hand. 
 It was a cold afternoon, the sky nearly of a steel- 
 blue, the sun bright, the ground hard. Major Par- 
 rifer and two of his daughters, coming home from 
 a ride, were cantering into the gates as I passed, 
 their groom riding behind. I lifted my hat to 
 the girls, but they only tossed their heads. 
 
 Eeed was getting over the worst then, and I 
 found him sitting by the kitchen fire, muffled 
 in a bed-rug. Mrs. Eeed took the bottles from 
 me in the back' us — as they called the back 
 I)lace where washing and the like was done — for
 
 140 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Eeed was sensitive, an I did not like things to 
 be sent to him. 
 
 " Please God, I shall he at work next week,'* 
 said Eeed, with a groan : and I saw he knew I 
 had brought something. 
 
 He had been saying that all along ; four or 
 five weeks now. I sat down opposite to him, 
 and took up the bo}^, Georgy. The little shaver 
 had come round to me, holding by the chairs. 
 
 ''It's going to be a hard frost, Eeed.'' 
 
 ** Is it, sir ? Out-o'-door weather don't 
 seem to be of much odds to me now." 
 
 " And a fall o' some sort's not far off, as 
 my wrist tells me," put in Mrs. Eeed. Years 
 ago she had broken her wrist, and felt it 
 always on change of weather. *' Maybe some 
 snow's coming." 
 
 I gave Georgy a biscuit ; the two little girls, 
 who had been standing still against the press, 
 began to come slowly forward. They guessed 
 there was a supply in my pocket. I had dipped 
 my hand into the biscuit-basket at home before 
 coming away. The two put out a hand each with- 
 out being told, and I dropped a biscuit into them. 
 
 It had taken neither time nor noise, and yet 
 there was some one standing inside the door 
 when I looked up again, who must have come 
 in stealthily ; some one in a dark dress, and a 
 black and white plaid shawl. Mrs. Eeed looked 
 and the children looked ; ai d then Eeed turned 
 his head to look.
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 141 
 
 I think I was the first to know her ; she had 
 a thick black veil before her face, and the room 
 was not light. Eeed's illness had left him 
 thin, causing his eyes to appear very large : 
 they assumed a sort of frightened stare. 
 
 *' Father ! you are sick ! " 
 
 Before he could answer, she ran across the 
 brick floor and had her arms round his neck. 
 Cathy ! The two girls were frightened and flew 
 to their mother ; one began to scream and the 
 other followed suit. Altogether there was 
 noise and commotion ; Georgy, like a brave 
 little man, sucking his biscuit through it all 
 with great composure. 
 
 What Eeed said or did, I had not noticed ; I 
 think he went to fling Cathy from him — to 
 avoid suffocation perhaps. She burst out 
 laughing in her old light manner, and took 
 something out of the body of her gown, under 
 the shawl. 
 
 "No need, father: I am as honest as any- 
 body," said she. "Look at this." 
 
 Eeed's hand shook so that he could not 
 open the paper, or understand it at first when 
 he had opened it. Cathy flung off her bonnet 
 and caught the children to her. They began to 
 know her then and ceased their cries. Presently 
 Eeed held the paper across to me, his hand 
 trembling worse than before, and his face, that 
 illness had left white, turning ghastly with 
 emotion.
 
 142 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 '* Please read it, sir." 
 
 I did not understand it at first either, but 
 the sense came to me soon. It was a certificate 
 of the marriage of Spencer Gervoise Daubeney 
 Parrifer and Catherine Eeed. They had been 
 married at Liverpool the very day after Cathy 
 disappeared from home ; now just a year ago. 
 
 A sound of sobbing broke the stillness. 
 Eeed had fallen back in his chair in a sort of 
 hysterical fit. Defiant, hard, strong-minded 
 Eeed ! But the man was three parts dead from 
 weakness. It lasted but a minute or two ; he 
 roused himself as if ashamed, and swallowed 
 down his sobs. 
 
 " How came he to marry ^''ou, Cathy ? " 
 
 " Because I would not go with him without 
 it, father. We have been staying in Ireland." 
 
 *' And be you a repenting of it yet ?" asked 
 Mrs. Eeed, in an ungracious tone. 
 
 *' Pretty near," answered Cathy, with candour. 
 
 It appeared that Cathy had made her way 
 direct to Liverpool when she left home the 
 previous January, travelling all night. There 
 she met young Parrifer, who had preceded her 
 and made arrangements for the marriage. 
 They were married that day, and afterwards 
 went on to Ireland, where he had to join his 
 regiment. 
 
 To hear all this, sounding like a page out of 
 a romance, would be something wonderful for 
 our quiet place when it came to be told. You
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 143 
 
 meet with marvellous stories in towns now and 
 then, but they are almost unknown with us. 
 
 *' Where's your husband ? " asked Eeed. 
 
 Cathy tossed her head. " Ah ! Where ! 
 That's what I've come home about," she 
 answered : and it struck me at once that some- 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 What occurred next we only learnt from hear- 
 say. I said good-day to them, and came 
 away, thinking to myself it might have been 
 better if Cathy had not married and had not 
 left home. It was a fancy of mine, and I 
 don't know why it should have come to me, but 
 it proved to be a right one, Cathy put on her 
 bonnet again to go to Parrifer Hall : and the 
 particulars of her visit were known abroad later. 
 
 It was getting rather dusk when she 
 approached it ; the sun had set, the grey of 
 evening was drawing on. Two of the Misses 
 Parrifer were at the window and saw her 
 coming, but Cathy had her veil down and they 
 did not recognize her. The actions and man- 
 ners and air of a lady do not come on a sudden 
 to one who has been bred differently ; and the 
 Misses Parrifer supposed the visitor to be for 
 the servants. 
 
 " Like her impudence ! " said Miss Jemima. 
 '' Coming to the front entrance ! " 
 
 For Cathy, whose year's experience in 
 Ireland had widely changed her, had no notion 
 of taking up her old position. She meant to
 
 144 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 hold her own ; and was capable of doing it, 
 not being deficient in the quality just ascribed 
 to her by Miss Jemima Parrifer. 
 
 *' What next?" cried Miss Jemima, as a 
 ring and a knock resounded through the house, 
 waking up the Major : who had been dozing 
 over the fire amidst his daughters. 
 
 The next was that a servant came to the 
 room and told the Major a lady wanted him. 
 She had been shown into the library. 
 
 " What name ? " asked the Major. 
 
 *' She didn't give none, sir. I asked, but 
 she said never mind the name." 
 
 " Go and ask it again." 
 
 The man went and came back. ''It is Mrs. 
 Parrifer, sir." 
 
 ''Mrs. Who?" 
 
 *' Mrs. Parrifer, sir." 
 
 The Major turned and stared at his servant. 
 They had no relatives. Consequently the only 
 Mrs. Parrifer within knowledge was his wife. 
 
 Staring at the man would not bring any 
 elucidation. Major Parrifer went to the library, 
 and there saw the lady standing at one side of 
 the fender, holding her foot to the fire. She had 
 her back to him, did not turn, and so the Major 
 went round to the other side of the hearth-rug 
 where he could see her. 
 
 " My servant told me a Mrs. Parrifer wanted 
 me. Did he make a mistake in the name ? " 
 
 *' No mistake at all, sir," said Cathy,
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 145 
 
 throwing up her thick veil, and drawing a step 
 or two back. "I am Mrs. Parrifer." 
 
 The Major recognized her then. Cathy Eeed ! 
 He was a man whose bkister rarely failed, but 
 he had none ready at that moment. Three- 
 parts astounded, various perplexities tied his 
 tongue. 
 
 " That is to say, Mrs. Spencer Parrifer," 
 continued Cathy. ''And I have come over 
 from Ireland on a mission to you, sir, from 
 your son." 
 
 The Major thought that of all the audacious 
 w^omen it had ever been his lot to meet, this 
 one was the worst : at least as much as he 
 could think anything, for his wdts were a little 
 confused just then. A moment's pause, and 
 then the storm burst forth. 
 
 Cathy was called various agreeable names, 
 and ordered out of the room and the house. 
 The Major put up his hands to " hurrish" her 
 out — as w^e say in Worcestershire by the cows,, 
 though I don't think you would find the w^ord 
 ill the dictionary. But Cathy stood her ground.. 
 He then went screaming towards the door, 
 calling for the servants to come and put her 
 forth; Cathy, quicker than he, gained it first 
 and turned to face him, her back against it. 
 
 " You needn't call me those names. Major 
 Parrifer. Not that I care — as I might if I 
 deserved them. I am your son's wife, and have 
 been such ever since I left father's cottage last 
 
 VOL I. L
 
 346 JOHNNY LUDLO^W. 
 
 year ; and my baby, your grandson, sir, w-hich 
 it's seven -weeks old be is, is now at tbe Eed 
 Lion, a mile off. I've left it there with the 
 landlady." 
 
 He could not put her out of the room unless 
 by force ; he looked ready to kick and strike 
 her ; but in the midst of it a horrible dread 
 rose up in his heart that the calm "words were 
 true. Perhaps from the hour when Keed had 
 presented himself at the house to ask for his 
 daughter, the evening of the day he was dis- 
 charged from i)rison, up to this time, Major 
 Parrifer had never thought of the girl. It had 
 been said in his ears now and again that Reed 
 was grieving for his daughter ; but the matter 
 was altogether too contemptuous for Major 
 Parrifer to take note of. And now to hear that 
 the girl had been with his son all the while, 
 his wife ! But that utter disbelief came to 
 his aid, the Major might have fallen into a fit 
 on the spot. For young Mr. Parrifer had 
 cleverly contrived that neither his father away 
 at home nor his friends near should know any- 
 thing about Cathy. He had been with his 
 regiment in quarters ; she had lived privately 
 in another part of the town. Mrs. Eeed had 
 once called Lieutenant Parrifer as soft as a 
 tom-tit. He was a vast deal softer. 
 
 " Woman ! if you do not quit my house, 
 with your shameless lies, you shall be flung 
 out of it."
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 147 
 
 " I'll quit it as soon as I have told you what 
 I came over the sea to tell. Please to look 
 at this first, sir?" 
 
 Major Parrifer snatched the paper that she 
 held out, carried it to the window, and put his 
 glasses across his nose. It was a copy of the 
 certificate of marriage. His hands shook as 
 he read it, just as Pieed's had shaken a short 
 while before ; and he tore it passionately in 
 two. 
 
 " It is only the copy," said Cathy calmly, as 
 she picked up the pieces. " Your son — if he 
 lives — is about to be tried for his life, sir. 
 He is in custody for wilful murder!" 
 
 " How dare you ! " shrieked Major Parrifer. 
 
 ''It is what they have charged him with. I 
 have come all the way to tell it you, sir." 
 
 Major Parrifer, brought to his senses by a 
 shock of fright, could but listen. Cathy, her 
 back against the door still, gave him the heads 
 of the story. 
 
 Young Parrifer was so soft that he had been 
 made a butt of by sundry of his brother-officers. 
 They might not have tolerated him at all, but for 
 winning his money. He drank, and played 
 cards, and bet upon horses ; they encouraged 
 him to drink, and then made him play and bet, 
 and altogether cleared him out : not of brains, 
 he had none to be cleared of : but of money. 
 Piuin stared him in the face : his available 
 cash had been parted with long ago ; his com-
 
 148 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 mission (it was said) was mortgaged : how many 
 promissory notes, bills, lOU's lie had signed, 
 could not even be guessed at. In a quarrel v. 
 few nights before, after a public-house supper, 
 when some of them were the worse for drink, 
 young Parrifer, who could go on rare occasions 
 into frightful passions, flung a carving-knife at 
 one of the others, a lieutenant named Cook ; 
 it entered a vital part, and killed him. Mr. 
 Parrifer was arrested by the police at once ; he 
 was in plain clothes, and there was nothing to 
 show that he was an officer. They had to strap 
 him down to carry him to prison : between 
 drink, rage, and fever, he was as a maniac. 
 The next morning he was lying in brain fever, 
 and when Cathy left he had been put into a 
 strait-waistcoat. 
 
 She gave the heads of this account in as few 
 words as it is written. Major Parrifer stood 
 like a helpless man. Taking one thing with 
 another, the blow was horrible. Parents don't 
 often see the defects in their own children, es- 
 pecially if they are only sons ; far from having 
 thought his son soft, unfit (as he w.as nearly) to 
 be trusted about, the Major had been proud of 
 him as his heir, and told the world he was per- 
 fection. Soft as 3'oung Parrifer was, he had 
 contrived to keep his ill-doings from his father. 
 
 Of com'se it was only natural that the Major's 
 first relief should be abuse of Cathy. He told 
 her all that had happened to his son she was
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 149 
 
 the cause of, and called her a few more genteel 
 names in doing it. 
 
 " Not at all," said Cathy; ''you are wrong 
 ihere, sir. His marriage with me was a little 
 bit of a stop-gap and served to keep him straight 
 for a month or two ; but for that, he would 
 have done for himself before he has. Do j^ou 
 think I've had a bargain in him, sir ? No. 
 Marriage is a thing that can't be undone, Major 
 Parrifer : but I wish to my heart that I was at 
 home again in father's cottage, light-hearted 
 Cathy Eeed." 
 
 The Major made no answer. Cathy went 
 on. 
 
 '' When the news was brought to me by his 
 servant, that he had killed a man and was 
 lying raving, 1 thought it time to go and see 
 about him. They would not let me into the 
 lock-up house where he was lying — and you 
 might have heard his ravings outside : I did. 
 I said I was his wife ; and then they told me I 
 had better see Captain Williams. I went to 
 liead-quarters and saw Captain Williams. He 
 seemed to doubt me ; so I showed him the cer- 
 tificate, and told him my baby was at home, 
 turned six weeks old. He was very kind then, 
 sir ; he took me to see my husband ; and he 
 advised me to come over here at once and givs 
 you the particulars. 1 told him what was the 
 truth — that I had no money, and the lodginge 
 were owing for. He said the lodgings must
 
 150 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 wait : and he would lend me enough money for 
 the journey." 
 
 '' Did you see him?" growled Major Parrifer. 
 
 Cathy knew that he alluded to his son, though 
 he would not speak the name. 
 
 *'I saw him, sir; I told you so. He did 
 not know me or anybody else ; he was raving 
 mad, and shaking so that the bed shook under 
 him." 
 
 "How is it that they have not written to 
 me ? " demanded Major Parrifer. 
 
 " I don't think anybody liked to do it. Cap- 
 tain Williams said the best plan would be for 
 me to come. He asked me if I'd like to hear 
 the truth of the past as regarded vaj husband ; 
 or if I would just come here and tell you the 
 bare facts that were known, about his illness 
 and the charge against him. I said I'd prefer 
 to hear the truth — that it couldn't be worse 
 than I suspected. Then he went on to the 
 drinking and the gambling and the debts, just 
 as I have rejDeated to you, sir. He was very 
 gentle ; but he said he thought it would be 
 mistaken kindness not to let me fully under- 
 stand the state of things. He said Mr. Parri- 
 fer's father, or some other friend, had better go 
 over to Ireland." 
 
 In S23ite of himself, a groan escaped Major 
 Parrifer. The blow was the worst that could 
 have fallen upon him. He had not cared much 
 for his daughters ; his ambition was centred
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. • 151 
 
 in his son. Visions of a sojourn at Dublin and 
 of figuring off at the Vice-Eegal Court, himself, 
 his wife, and his son, had floated occasionally 
 in rose-coloured clouds before his brain, poor 
 pomjDous old simpleton. And now — to picture 
 the visit he must set out upon ere the night 
 was over nearly drove him wild with pain. 
 Cathy unlatched the door, but waited to speak 
 again before she opened it. 
 
 ''I'll rid the house of me now that I have broke 
 it to you, sir. If you want me I shall be found 
 at father's cottage ; I suppose they'll let me 
 stay there : if not, you can hear of me at the 
 place where I've left my baby. And if your 
 son should ever wake out of his delirium. Major 
 Parrifer, he will be able to tell you that if he had 
 listened to me and heeded me, or even only 
 come to spend his evenings with me — vdiich 
 it's months since he did — he would not have 
 been in this plight now. Should they try him 
 for murder ; and nothing can save him fi'oin. 
 it if he gets well ; I " 
 
 A succession of screams cut short what Cathy 
 was about to add. In her surprise she drew 
 wide the door, and was confronted by Miss 
 Jemima Parrifer. That young lady, curious 
 upon the subject of the visit and visitor, had 
 thought it well to put her ear to the library 
 door. To no effect, however, until Cathy un- 
 latched it. And then she heard more than she 
 had thought for.
 
 152 * JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 ''Is it you!'' rough]}^ cried Miss Jemima, 
 recognizing her for the ill-talked of Cathy Reed, 
 the daughter of the Major's enem3^ "What 
 do 3^011 want here ?" 
 
 Cathy did not answer. She walked to the 
 hall-door and let herself out. Miss Jemima 
 went on into the library. 
 
 *' Papa, what was it she was saying about 
 Spencer, that yile girl ? What did she do 
 here ? Why did she send in her name as Mrs. 
 Parrifer?" 
 
 The Major might have heard the questions, 
 or he might not ; he didn't respond to them. 
 Miss Jemima, looking closely at him in the 
 dusk of the room, saw a grey, worn, terror- 
 stricken face, that looked as her father's had 
 never looked yet. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! what is the matter ? Are you 
 ill?" 
 
 He walked towards her in the quietest man- 
 ner possible, took her arm and pushed her out 
 at the door. Not rudety ; softly, as one might 
 do who is in a dream. 
 
 '' Presently, presently," he muttered in quite 
 an altered voice, low and timid. And Miss 
 Jemima found the door bolted against her. 
 
 It must have been an awful moment with 
 him. Look on what side he would, there was 
 no comfort. Spencer Parrifer was ruined past 
 i-edemption. He might die in this illness, and 
 then, what of his soul? Not that the Major
 
 C3MIXG HOME TO HIM. 153 
 
 was given to that kind of reflection. Escaping 
 the ilhiess, he must be tried — for his life, as 
 Cathy had phrased it. And, escaping that, if 
 the miracle were possible, there remained the 
 miserable debts and the miserable wife he had 
 clogged himself with. 
 
 Curious enough, as the miserable Major, 
 most miserable in that moment, pictured 
 these things, there suddenly rose up before 
 his mind's eye another picture. A remem- 
 brance of Eeed, who had stood in that very room 
 less than twelve months ago, in the dim light 
 of late night, with his hair cut close, and his 
 semi-threat : '' It icill come home to you, Major 
 Parrifer." J/c/fZ it come home to him ? Home 
 to him already ? The drops of agony broke 
 out on his face as he asked the question. It 
 seemed to him, in that moment of excitement, 
 so very like some of Heaven's own lightning. 
 
 One grievous portion of the many ills had 
 perhaps not fallen, but for the putting of Reed 
 in prison — the marriage ; and that one was 
 more humiliating to Major Parrifer's spirit 
 than all the rest. Had Reed been at liberty, 
 Cathy might not have made her escape un- 
 tracked, and the bitter marriage might, in that 
 €ase, have been avoided. 
 
 A groan, and now another, broke from the 
 Major. How it had come home to him ! not 
 his selfishness and his barbarity and his pride, 
 but this blow of sorrow. Reed's month of
 
 154 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 prison, compared to this, was a drop of water 
 to the w^ide waves of the ocean. As to the 
 girl — when Reed had come asking for tidings 
 of her, it had seemed to the Major not of the 
 least moment whither she had gone or what ill 
 she had entered on : was she not. a common 
 labom-er's daughter, and that labourer George 
 Reed ? Even then, at that very time, she was 
 his daughter-in-law, and his son the one to he 
 humiliated. Major Parrifer ground his teeth, 
 and only stopped when he remembered that 
 something must be done about that disgraceful 
 son. 
 
 He started that night for Ireland. Cathy, 
 affronted at some remark made by Mrs. Reed, 
 took herself off from her father's cottage. She 
 had a little money left yet from her journey, 
 and could spend it. 
 
 Spencer Gervoise Daubeney Parrifer (the 
 Major and his wife had bestowed upon him the 
 fine names in pride at his baptism) died in 
 prison. He lived but a day after Major Parri- 
 fer' s arrival, and never recognized him. It of 
 course saved the trial, when he would i^robably 
 have been convicted of manslaughter. It saved 
 the payment of his hundreds of debts too ; post- 
 obits and all ; he died before his father. But 
 it could not save exposure ; it could not save 
 the facts from the world. Major and Mrs. 
 Parrifer, so to say, would never lift up their 
 heads again ; the sun of their life had set.
 
 COMING HOME TO HIM. 155 
 
 Neither would Cathy lift hers yet awhile. 
 She contrived to quarrel with her father ; the 
 Parrifers never took the remotest notice of her ; 
 she was nearly starved and her hahy too. 
 What little she earned was hy hard work : but 
 it would not keep her, and she applied to the 
 parish. The parish in turn apx^lied to Major 
 Parrifer, and forced from him as much as 
 the law allowed, a few shillings a week. The 
 having to apply to the parish was, for Cathy, 
 a humiliation never to be forgotten. The 
 neighbours made their comments. 
 
 " Cathy Pieed have brought her pigs to a 
 fine market ! ' ' 
 
 So she had ; and she felt it more than the 
 loss of her baby, who died soon after. Better 
 that she had married an honest day-labourer ; 
 and Cathy knew it now.
 
 156 JOHNNY LUDLOW 
 
 VI. 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 
 
 IT happened when we were sta^^ing at our 
 other house, Crabb Cot. In saymg 
 *' we " were staying at it, I mean the family, 
 for Tod and I were at school. 
 
 Crabb Cot lay beyond the village of Crabb. 
 Just across the road, a few yards higher up, 
 was the large farm of Mr. Coney ; and his 
 house and ours were the only two that stood 
 there. Crabb Cot was a smaller and more 
 cosy house than Dyke Manor ; and, when 
 there, we were not so very far from Worcester: 
 less than half way, comparing it with the 
 Manor. 
 
 Crabb was a large and straggling parish. 
 North Crabb, which was nearest to us, had 
 "the church and schools in it, but very few 
 houses. South Crabb, further off, was more 
 2)opulous. Nearly a mile beyond South Crabb, 
 there was a regular junction of rails. Lines, 
 crossing each other in a most bewildering 
 manner, led off in all directions ; and it re- 
 quired no little manoevuring to send the trains
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 157 
 
 away right at busy times. Which of course 
 was the pointsman's affair. 
 
 The busiest days had place in summer, when 
 excursion trains were in full swing : but they 
 would come occasionally at other periods, 
 driving the South Crabb station people off their 
 heads with bother before night. 
 
 The pointsman was Harry Lease. I dare 
 say you have noticed how certain names seem 
 to belong to certain places. iVt Xorth Crabb 
 and South Crabb, and in the district round 
 about, the name of Lease was as common as 
 are blackberries in a hedge; and if the different 
 Leases had been cousins in the days gone by, 
 the relationship was lost now. There mighi 
 be seven-and-twenty Leases, in and out, but 
 Harry Lease was not, so far as he knew, akin 
 to any of them. 
 
 South Crabb was not much of a place at 
 best. A part of it, Crabb Lane, branching oft' 
 towards Massock's brick-fields, was crowded as 
 a London street. Poor dweUings were huddled 
 together, and children jostled each other on the 
 door-steps. Squire Todhetley said he remem- 
 bered it when it really was a lane, hedges on 
 either side and a pond that was never dry, 
 Harry Lease lived in the last house, a thatched 
 hut with three rooms in it. He was a steady, 
 hardworking, civil man, superior to some of his 
 neighbours, who were given to reel home at 
 night and beat their wives on arrival. His
 
 158 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 "wife, a nice kind of woman to talk to, was a 
 poor manager ; but the five children were better 
 behaved and better kept than the other grubbers 
 in the gutter. 
 
 Lease was the pointsman at South Crabb 
 Junction, and aided also in the general business 
 there. He walked to his .work at six in the 
 morning, carrj^ng his breakfast with him ; 
 went home to dinner at twelve, the slack part 
 of the day at the station, and had his tea taken 
 to him at four ; leaving in general at nine. 
 Sometimes his wife arrived with the tea ; 
 sometimes the eldest child, Polly, an intelligent 
 girl of six. But, one afternoon in September, 
 a crew of mischievous boys from the brickfields 
 espied what Polly was carrying. They set upon 
 her, turned over the can of tea in fighting for 
 it, ate the bread and butter, tore her pinafore 
 in the scrimmage, and frightened her nearly 
 to death. After that. Lease said that the child 
 should not be sent with the tea : so, when his 
 wife could not take it, he went without tea. 
 Polly and her father were uncommonly alike, 
 too quiet to do much battle with the world : 
 sensitive, in fact ; though it sounds odd to say 
 that. 
 
 During the montli of November one of the 
 busy days occurred at South Crabb Junction. 
 There was a winter meeting on Worcester race- 
 course, a cattle and pig show in a town larger 
 than Worcester, and two or three markets and
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 159 
 
 other causes of increased traffic, all falling on 
 the same day. What Tvith cattle trains, and 
 ordinary and special trains, and goods trains, 
 and the grunting of ill-conditioned pigs, Lease 
 had plenty to do to keep his points in order. 
 
 How it fell out he never knew. Between 
 eight and nine o'clock, when a train was 
 expected in on its way to Worcester, Lease 
 forgot to shift the points. A goods train had 
 come in ten minutes before, for which he had 
 had to turn the points, and he never turned 
 them back again. On came the train, almost 
 as quickly as though it had not to pull up at 
 South Crabb Junction. Watson the station- 
 master came out to be in readiness. 
 
 " The engine has got her steam on to-night," 
 he remarked to Lease as he watched the red 
 lights, like two great eyes, come tearing on. 
 *' She'll have to back." 
 
 She did something worse than back. Instead 
 of slackening along on the near lines, she went 
 flying off at a tangent to some outer ones on 
 which the goods train stood, waiting until the 
 passenger train should pass. There was a 
 sound from the whistle, a great collision, a 
 noise of hissing steam, a sense of dire confu- 
 sion : and for one minute afterwards a dead 
 lull, as if every body and thing were paralysed. 
 "You never turned the points!" shrieked 
 the station-master to Lease. 
 
 Lease made no rejoinder. He backed
 
 160 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 against the wall like a helpless man, his arms 
 stretched out, his face and eyes wild with 
 horror. Watson thought he was going to 
 have a fit, and shook him roughly. 
 
 " You've done it nicely, you have ! " he 
 added, as he flew off to the scene of disaster, 
 from which the steam was heginning to clear 
 away. But Lease reached it hefore him. 
 
 '' God forgive me ! God have mercy upon 
 me! " 
 
 A porter, running side hy side with Lease, 
 heard him say it. In telling it afterwards, the 
 man described the tone as one of piteous agony. 
 
 The Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, who had 
 been a few miles off to spend the day, were in 
 the train with Lena. The child did nothing 
 but cry and sob ; not with damage, but fright. 
 Mr. Coney also happened to be in it ; and 
 Massock, who owned the brick-fields. They 
 were not hurt at all, only a little shaken, and 
 (as the Squire put it afterwards) mortally 
 scared. Massock, an under-bred man, who 
 had grown rich by his brick-fields, was more 
 pompous than a lord. The three seized upon 
 the station-master. 
 
 " Now then, Watson,'' cried Mr. Coney, 
 " Vv'hat was the cause of all this ? " 
 
 " If there have been any negligence here — 
 and I know there have — you shall be trans- 
 ported for it, Watson, as sure as I'm a living 
 man," roared Massock.
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 161 
 
 " I'm afraid, gentlemen, that something was 
 wrong with the points,'' acknowledged Watson, 
 willing to shift the blame from himseJf, and 
 too confused to consider policy. "At least 
 that's all I can think." 
 
 " With the points ! " cried Massock. 
 " Them's Harry Lease's work. Was he on 
 to-night? " 
 
 '' Lease is here as usual, Mr. Massock. I 
 don't say this lies at his door," added Watson, 
 hastily. '* The points might have been out of 
 order ; or something else wrong totally dif- 
 ferent. I should like to know, for my part, 
 what possessed Roberts to bring up his train 
 xt such speed." 
 
 Darting in and out of the heap of confusion 
 like a mad spirit ; now trying by his own effort 
 to lift the broken parts of carriages off some 
 sufferer, now carrying a poor fellow away to 
 safety, but always in the thick of danger ; went 
 Harry Lease. Braving the heat and steam as 
 though he felt them not, he flew everywhere, 
 himself and his lantern alike shaking with 
 agitation. 
 
 " Come and bok here, Harry ; I'm afraid 
 he's dead," said a porter, holding his light 
 down to a man's face. The words arrested 
 Mr. Todhetley, who was searching for Lease to 
 let off a little of his explosive anger. It was 
 Eoberts, the driver of the passenger train, that 
 lay there, his face white and still. Somehow 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 the sight made the Squire still, too. Eaising 
 Eoberts's head, the men put a drop of brandy 
 between his lips, and he moved. Lease broke 
 into a low glad cry. 
 
 " He is not dead ! he is not dead ! " 
 
 The angry reproaches died away on the 
 Squire's tongue : it did not seem quite the 
 time to speak them. By-and-by, he came upon 
 Lease again. The man had halted to lean 
 against some palings, feeling unaccountably 
 strange, much as though the world around 
 were closing to him. 
 
 " Had you been drinking to-night. Lease ? " 
 
 The question was put quietly : which was, 
 so to say, a feather in the hot Squire's cap. 
 Lease only shook his head by way of answer. 
 He had a pale, gentle kind of face, with brown 
 eyes that always wore a sad expression. He 
 never drank ; and the Squire knew it. 
 
 " Then how came you to neglect the points, 
 Lease, and cause this awful accident ? " 
 
 *' I don't know, sir," answered Lease, 
 rousing up from his lethargy, but speaking 
 like one in a dream. " I can't think but 
 what I turned them as usual." 
 
 " You knew the train was coming ? It was 
 the ordinary train." 
 
 " I knew it was coming," assented Lease. 
 " I watched it come along, standing by the 
 side of Mr. Watson. If I had not set the 
 points right, why, I should have thought surely
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 163 
 
 of them then ; it stands to reason I should. 
 But never such a thought came into my mind, 
 sir. I waited there, just as if all was right ; 
 and I believe I did shift the points." 
 
 Lease did not put this forth as a false 
 excuse : he only spoke aloud the problem that 
 was working in his mind. Having shifted the 
 points regularly for five years, it seemed just 
 impossible that he could have neglected it now. 
 And yet the man could not remember to have 
 done it this evening. 
 
 " You can't call it to mind ? " said Squire 
 Todhetley, repeating his last words. 
 
 '' No, I can't, sir : and no wonder, with all 
 this confusion around me and the distress I'm 
 in. I may be able to do so to-morrow." 
 
 "Now look you here. Lease," said the 
 Squire, getting just a little cross. " If you had 
 put the points right you couldn't fail to 
 remember it. And what causes you to be in 
 distress, I'd like to ask, but the knowledge 
 that you didn't, and that all this carnage 
 is owing to you ? " 
 
 " There is such a thing as doing things 
 mechanically, sir, without the mind being 
 conscious of it." 
 
 " Doing things wilfully," roared the Squire. 
 " Do you want to tell me I am a fool to my 
 face?" 
 
 " It has often happened, sir, that when I 
 have wound up the mantel-shelf clock at night
 
 164 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 in our sleeping-room, I'll not know the next 
 minute whether I've wound it or not, and I 
 have to try it again, or else ask my wife," 
 went on Lease, his eyes looking straight out 
 in the darkness, as if he could see the mantel- 
 shelf clock then. *' I can't think but what it 
 must have been just in that way that I put the 
 points right to-night." 
 
 Squire Todhetley, in his anger, which was 
 growing hot again, felt that he should like to 
 give Lease a sound shaking. He had no 
 notion of such talk as this. 
 
 " I don't know whether you are a knave or 
 a fool, Lease. Killing men and women and 
 children ; breaking arms and shins and bones ; 
 putting a whole trainful into mortal fright ; 
 smashing goods and property and engines to 
 atoms ; turning the world, in fact, upside down, 
 60 that people don't know whether they stand 
 on their heads or their heels ! You may think 
 you can do this with impunity perhaps, but the 
 Ittw will soon teach you better. I should not 
 like to go to bed with human lives upon my 
 soul." 
 
 The Squire disappeared in a whirlwind. 
 Lease — who seemed to have taken a leaf out 
 of his own theory, and listened mechanically — 
 closed his eyes and put his head back against 
 the top ledge of the palings, like one who has 
 had a shock. He went home when there was 
 nothing more to do. Not down the frequented
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 165 
 
 highway, but choosing the field path, where he 
 would not be likely to meet a soul. Crabb Lane, 
 accustomed to put itself into a state of commo- 
 tion for nothing at all, had got something at 
 last, and was up in arms. All the men em- 
 ployed at the station lived in Crabb Lane. 
 The wife and children of Bowen, the stoker of 
 the passenger train, — dead — also inhabited a 
 room in that screaming locality. So that when 
 Lease came in view of the place, he saw a 
 noisy multitude, though it was then long after 
 ordinary bed-time. Groups stood in the high- 
 way ; heads, thrust forth at upstairs windows, 
 were shrieking remarks across the street and 
 back again. Keeping on the far side of the 
 hedge. Lease got in by the back door unper- 
 ceived. His wife was sitting by the fire, 
 shaking all over. She started up. 
 
 " Oh Harry ! what is the truth of this ?" 
 He did not answer. Not in rough neglect ; 
 Lease was as civil indoors as out, which can't 
 be said of everybody ; but as if he did not hear 
 it. The supper ; bread and half a cold red- 
 herring ; was on the table. Generally he was 
 hungry enough for supper, but he never glanced 
 at it this evening. 
 
 Sitting down, he looked into the fire and re- 
 mained still, listening perhaps to the hubbub 
 outside. His wife, half dead with fear and ap- 
 prehension, could keep silence no longer, and 
 asked again.
 
 166 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " I don't know," he answered then. ** They 
 say that I never turned the points ; I'm trying 
 to remember doing it, Mary. My senses have 
 been scared out of me." 
 
 "But don't you remember doing it ?" 
 He put his hands to his temples, and the 
 eyes took that far-off, sad look, often seen in 
 eyes when the heart is troubled. With all his 
 might and main, the man was trying to recal 
 to mind the occurrence which would not come 
 into it. A dread conviction began to dawn 
 within him that it never would or could come ; 
 and Lease's head and face grew wet with cold 
 drops of agony. 
 
 " I turned the points for the down goods 
 train," he said presently ; " I remember that. 
 When the goods came in, I know I was in the 
 signal house. Then I took a message to Hoar ; 
 and next I stepped across with some oil for the 
 engine of an up train that dashed in ; they 
 called out that it wanted some. I helped to 
 do it, and took the oil back again. It would 
 be then that I went to put the points right," 
 he added after a pause. " I hope I did." 
 " But, Harry, don't you remember doing it?" 
 " No, I don't ; there's where it is." 
 " You always put the points straight at once 
 after the train has passed ?" 
 
 " Not if I'm called off by other work. It 
 ought to be done. A pointsman should stand 
 while the train passes, and then step off' to right
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 167 
 
 the points at once. But when you are called 
 off half a dozen ways to things crying out to be 
 done, you can't spend the time in waiting for 
 the points. We've never had a harder day's 
 work at the station than this has been, Mary ; 
 trains in, trains out ; the place has hardly been 
 free a minute together. And the extra tele- 
 graphing ! — half the passengers that stopped 
 seemed to want to send messages. Allien six 
 o'clock came I was worn out ; done up ; fit to 
 drop." 
 
 Mrs. Lease gave a start. An idea flashed 
 into her mind, causing her to ask mentally 
 whether she could have had indirectly a hand 
 in the calamity. For that had been one of 
 the days when her husband had no tea taken 
 to him. She had been very busy washing, 
 and the baby was sick and cross : that had 
 been quite enough to fill incapable Mrs. Lease's 
 hands, without bothering about her husband's 
 tea. And, of all days in the year, it seemed 
 that he had, on this one, most needed tea. 
 Worn out ! done up ! 
 
 The noise in Crabb Lane was increasing, 
 voices sounded louder, and Mrs. Lease put her 
 apron over her ears. Just then a sudden inter- 
 ruption occurred. Polly, supposed to be safe 
 asleep above stairs, burst into the kitchen in 
 her night-gown, and flew into her father's 
 arms, sobbing and crying. 
 
 *' Oh father, is it true ? — is it true ?"
 
 168 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Why — Polly ! " cried the man, looking at 
 her, in astonishment, ''What's this?" 
 
 She hid her face on his waistcoat, her hands 
 clinging round him. Polly had awoke and 
 heard the comments outside. She was too 
 nervous and excitahle for Crahb Lane. 
 
 " They are saying you have killed Kitty 
 Bowen's father. It isn't true, father! Go 
 out and tell them that it isn't true !" 
 
 His own nerves were unstrung ; his strength 
 had gone out of him ; it only needed something 
 of this kind to finish up Lease ; and he broke 
 into sobs nearly as loud as the child's. Hold- 
 ing her to him with a tight grasp, they cried 
 together. If Lease had never known agony be- 
 fore in his life, he knew it then. 
 
 The days went on. There was no longer 
 holding-out on Lease's part on the matter of 
 points : all the world said he had been guilty of 
 neglecting to turn them ; and he supposed he 
 had. He accepted the fate meekly, without re- 
 sistance, his manner strangely still, like one who 
 has been subdued. ^Y\len talked to, he freely 
 avowed that it remained a puzzle to him how 
 he could have forgotten the points, and what 
 made him forget them. He shrank neither 
 from reproach nor abuse ; listening patiently 
 to all who chose to attack him, as if he had 
 no more any right to claim a place in the 
 world. 
 
 He was not spared. Coroner and jury,
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 169 
 
 friends and foes, alike went on at him, paint- 
 ing his sins in flaring colours, and calling him 
 names to his face. "Murderer" was one of 
 the politest of them. Four had died in all : 
 Koberts was not expected to live ; the rest 
 were getting well. There would have been 
 no trouble over the inquest (held at the " Bull," 
 between Crabb Lane and the station), it might 
 have been finished in a day, and Lease com- 
 mitted for trial, but that one of those who had 
 died was a lawyer ; and his brother (also a 
 lawyer) and other of his relatives (likewise 
 lawyers) chose to raise a commotion. Mr. 
 Massock helped them. Passengers must be 
 examined ; rails tried ; the points tested ; 
 every conceivable obstacle was put in the way 
 of a conclusion. Fifteen times had the jury 
 to go and take a look at the spot, and see 
 the working of the points tested. And so the 
 inquest was adjourned from time to time, and 
 might get finished perhaps under a year. 
 
 The public were like so many wolves, all 
 howling at Lease ; from the relatives aforesaid 
 and brickfield Massock, down to the men 
 and women of Crabb Lane. Lease was home 
 on bail, surrendering himself at every fresh 
 meeting of the inquest. A few ill-conditioned 
 malcontents had begun to hiss him as he 
 passed in and out of Crabb Lane.
 
 170 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 When we got home for the Christmas holi- 
 days, nothing met us hut tales of Lease's 
 wickedness, in having sent the one train upon 
 the other. The Squire grew hot in talking 
 of it. Tod, given to be contrary, said he 
 should like to have Lease's own version of 
 the affair. A remark that affronted the 
 Squire. 
 
 ''You can go off and get it from him, sir. 
 Lease won't refuse it ; he'd give it to the 
 dickens, for asking. He likes nothing better 
 than to talk of it." 
 
 " After all, it was but a misfortune," said 
 Tod. " It was not done willingly." 
 
 "Not done willingly!" stuttered the Pater 
 in his rage. " When I, and Lena, and her 
 mother were in the train, and might have been 
 smashed to atoms ! When Coney, and Massock 
 (not that I like the fellow) and scores more 
 were put in jeopardy, and some were killed ; 
 yes sir, killed. A misfortune ! Johnny, if 
 you stand there with a grin across your mouth, 
 like an idiot, I'll send you back to school : 
 you shall both pack off this very hour. A 
 misfortune, indeed ! Lease deserves hanging." 
 
 The next morning we came upon Lease acci- 
 dentally in the fields. He was leaning over 
 the gate amid the trees, as Tod and I crossed 
 the rivulet bridge — which was nothing but a 
 plank. Two bounds, and we were up with 
 him.
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 171 
 
 " Now for it, Lease ! " cried Tod. " Let us 
 hear a bit about the thing." 
 
 Was not Lease altered ! His cheeks were 
 thin and white, his eyes had nothing but 
 gloom in them. Standing uj), he touched 
 his hat respectfully. 
 
 ''Ay, sir, it has been a sad time," answered 
 Lease, in a low, patient voice, as if he felt 
 worn out with weariness. " I little thought 
 when I last shut you and Mr. Johnny into the 
 carriage the morning you left, that misfortune 
 was so close at hand." For, just before it 
 happened, we had been at home for a day's 
 holiday. 
 
 "Well, tell us about it." 
 
 Tod stood with his arm round the trunk of 
 a tree, and I sat down on an opposite stump. 
 Lease had very little to say ; nothing, except 
 that he must have forgotten to change the points. 
 
 And that made Tod stare. I, watching him, 
 saw his brow go in and his lips go out, a sure 
 sign of displeasure. Tod, like the Pater, was 
 hasty by nature. Knowing Lease's good cha- 
 racter, he had not supposed him guilty ; and 
 to hear the man quietly admit that he icas, ex- 
 cited Tod's ire. 
 
 " What do you mean, Lease ?" 
 
 " Mean, sir?" returned Lease, meekly. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you did not 
 attend to the points ? — that you just let one 
 train run on to the other?"
 
 172 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 **Yes sir; that is how it must have been. 
 I didn't believe it, sir, for a long while after- 
 wards : not for several hours." 
 
 " A long while, that," said Tod, an unplea- 
 sant sound of mockery in his tone. 
 
 "No, sir; I know it's not much, counting 
 by time," answered Lease patiently. " But no- 
 body can ever picture how long those hours 
 seemed to me. They were like years. I 
 couldn't get the idea into me at all that 
 I had not set the points as usual ; it seemed 
 a thing unbelievable ; but, try as I would, I 
 was unable to call to mind the having done it," 
 
 " Well, I must say that is a nice thing to 
 confess to, Lease ! And there was I, yesterday 
 afternoon, taking your part and quarrelling 
 with my father." 
 
 " I am sorry for that, sir. I am not worth 
 having my part taken in anything, since that 
 happened." 
 
 " But how came you to do it ?" 
 
 "It's a question that I shall never be able 
 to answer, sir. We had a busy day, were on 
 the run from morning till night, and there was 
 a great deal of confusion at the station : but it 
 was no worse than many a day that went 
 before it." 
 
 "Well, I shall be off," said Tod. "This 
 has shut me up. I thought of going in for 
 you. Lease, finding everybody else was dead 
 against you. A misfortune is a misfortune,
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 173 
 
 but wilful carelessness is sin : and my father 
 and his wife and my little sister were in the 
 train. Come along, Johnny." 
 
 " Directly, Tod. I'll catch you up. I say, 
 Lease, how will it end?" I asked, as Tod 
 went on. 
 
 " It can't end better than two years' impri- 
 sonment for me, sir ; and I suppose it may end 
 worse. It is not that 1 think of." 
 
 ^' What else, then?" 
 
 ''Four dead already, sir; four — and one 
 soon to follow them, making five," he answered, 
 his voice hushed nearly to a whisper. "Master 
 Johnny, it lies on me always, a dreadful weight 
 never to be got rid of. When I was young, I 
 had a kind of low fever, and used to see in my 
 dreams some dreadful task too big to attempt, 
 and yet I had to do it ; and the weight on my 
 mind was awful. I didn't think, till now, such 
 a weight could fall in real life. Sleeping 
 or waking, sir, I see those four before me dead. 
 Squire Todhetley told me that I had their 
 lives on my soul. And it is so." 
 
 I did not know what to answer. 
 
 " So you see, sir, I don't think much of the 
 imprisonment ; if I did, I might be wanting to 
 get the suspense over. It's not any term 
 of imprisonment, no, not though it were for 
 life, that can wash out the past. I'd give my 
 own life, sir, twice over if that could undo 
 it."
 
 174 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Lease had bis arm on the gate as he spoke, 
 leaning forward. I could not help feeling sorry 
 for him. 
 
 '' If people knew how I'm punished within 
 myself, Master Johnny, they'd perhaps not be 
 so harsh. I have never had a proper night's 
 rest since it happened, sir. I have to get up 
 and walk about in the middle of the night 
 because I can't lie. The sight of the dawn 
 makes me sick, and I say to myself. How shall 
 I get through the day ? When bed-time comes, 
 I wonder how I shall lie till morning. Often I 
 wish it had pleased God to take me before that 
 day had happened." 
 
 " Why don't they get the inquest over. 
 Lease?" 
 
 ''' There's something or other always brought 
 up to delay it, sir. I don't see the need 
 of it. If it would bring the dead back, why 
 they might delay it ; but it won't. They 
 might as well let it end, and sentence me, and 
 have done with it. Each time when I go back 
 home through Crabb Lane, the men and women 
 call out, What, put off again ! what, ain't he 
 in gaol yet ! Which is the place they say I 
 ought to have been in all along." 
 
 " I suppose the coroner knows you'll not run 
 away, Lease." 
 
 "Everybody knows that, sir." 
 
 '' Some would, though, in your place." 
 
 *' I don't know where they'd run to," returned
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 175 
 
 Lease. '' They couldn't ran away from their 
 own minds — and that's the worst part. Some- 
 times I wonder whether I shall ever get it off 
 mine, sir, or if I shall have it on me, like this, 
 to the end of my life. The Lord knows what it 
 is to me ; nobody else does." 
 
 You cannot always make things fit into one 
 another. I was thinking so as I left Lease 
 and went after Tod. It was an awful careless- 
 ness not to have set the points; causing death, 
 and sorrow, and distress to many people. 
 Looking at it from their side, the pointsman 
 was detestable ; only fit, as the Squire said, for 
 hanging. But, looking at it side by side with 
 Lease, seeing his sad face, and his self-reproach, 
 and his patient suffering, it seemed altogether 
 different ; and the two sides would not by any 
 means fit in together. 
 
 Christmas week, and the absence of a juror 
 who had gone out visiting, made another excuse 
 for putting off' the inquest to the next week. 
 When that came, the coroner was ill. There 
 seemed to be no end to the delays, and the 
 public steam was getting up in consequence. 
 As to Lease, he went about dazed, like a man 
 who is looking for something that he has lost 
 and cannot find. 
 
 One day when the ice lay in Crabb Lane, 
 and I was taking the slides on my way through 
 it to join Tod, who had gone rabbit-shoot- 
 ing, a little girl ran across my feet, and was
 
 176 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 knocked down. I fell too ; and the child 
 began to ciy. Picking her up, I saw it was 
 Polly Lease. 
 
 "You little stupid! why did 3'ou run into 
 my path like that ?" 
 
 '' Please, sir, I didn't see you," she sobbed, 
 " I was running after father. Mother saw him 
 in the field yonder, and sent me to tell him 
 we'd got a bit 0' fire." 
 
 Polly had grazed both her knees ; they began 
 to bleed just a little, and she went into convul- 
 sions nearly at sight of the blood. I carried 
 her in. There was about a handful of fire in 
 the grate — I'm sure I could have put it into my 
 two hands. The mother sat on a low stool, 
 close into it, nursing one of the children, and 
 the rest sat on the floor. 
 
 " I never saw such a child as this in all my 
 life, Mrs. Lease. Because she has hurt her 
 knees a bit ; and sees a drop of blood, she's 
 going to die of fright. Look here." 
 
 Mrs. Lease put down the boy and took Polly, 
 who was shaking all over with her deep low 
 sobs. 
 
 " It was always so, sir," said Mrs. Lease; 
 "always since she was a baby. She is the 
 timorest-natured child possible. We have 
 tried every thing ; coaxing, and scolding too ; 
 but we can't get her out of it. If she pricks 
 her finger her face turns white." 
 
 "I'd be more of a woman than to cry at
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 177 
 
 nothing, if I were you, Polly," said I, sitting 
 on the window-ledge, while Mrs. Lease washed 
 the knees ; which were hardly damaged at 
 all when they came to be looked into. But 
 Polly only clung to her mother, with her 
 face hidden, and gave a deep sob now and 
 then. 
 
 " Look up, Polly. What's this?" 
 
 I put it into her hand as I spoke ; a bath 
 bun that I had been carrying with me, in case 
 I did not get home to luncheon. Polly looked 
 round, and the sight dried the tears on her 
 swollen face. You never saw such a change 
 all in a moment, or such eager, glad little eyes 
 as hers. 
 
 "Divide it, mother," said she. "Leave a 
 bit for father." 
 
 Two of them came flocking round like a 
 couple of young wolves ; the youngest couldn't 
 get up, and the one Mrs. Lease had been nurs- 
 ing stayed on the floor where she put him. He 
 had a sickly face, with great bright grey eyes 
 and hot, red lips. 
 
 " What's the matter with him, Mrs. 
 Lease ?" 
 
 " With little Tom, sir ? I think it's a kind 
 of fever. He never was strong ; none of them 
 are : and of course these bad times can but tell 
 upon us." 
 
 " Don't forget father, mother," said Polly. 
 *' Leave the biggest piece for father." 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Now I tell you all what it is," said I to 
 the children, when Mrs. Lease began to divide 
 it into five hundred pieces, " that bun's for 
 Polly, because she has hurt herself: you shall 
 not take any of it from her. Give it to Polly, 
 Mrs. Lease.'' 
 
 Of all the uproars ever heard, those little 
 cormorants set up the worst. Mrs. Lease 
 looked at me. 
 
 " They must have a bit, sir : they must 
 indeed. Polly wouldn't eat all herself, Master 
 Ludlow ; you couldn't get her to." 
 
 But I was determined Polly should have it. 
 It was through me she got hurt; and besides, 
 I liked her. 
 
 " Now just listen, you little pigs. I'll go to 
 the baker's, Ford's, and bring you all a penny 
 plum-bun a piece, but Polly must have this 
 one. They have got lots of currants in 
 them, for children that don't squeal. How 
 
 many are there of you ? One, two, three, 
 
 four." 
 
 Catching up my cap, I was going out when 
 Mrs. Lease touched me. " Do you really 
 mean it, sir ?" she asked in a whisper. 
 
 " Mean what ? That I am going to bring 
 the buns ? Of course I mean it. I'll be back 
 with them directly." 
 
 " Oh, sir — but do forgive me for making free 
 to ask such a thing — if you would but let it be 
 a half-quartern loaf instead ?"
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 179 
 
 " A half quartern loaf ! " 
 
 " They've not had a bit within their Hps 
 this clay, Master Ludlow," she said, catching 
 up her breath, as her face, which had flushed, 
 turned pale again. ''Last night I divided 
 between the four of them a piece of bread 
 half the size of my hand ; Tom, he couldn't 
 eat." 
 
 I stared for a minute. " How is it, Mrs. 
 Lease? can j^ou not get enough food ? " 
 
 " I don't know where we should get it from, 
 sir. Lease has not broken his fast since 
 yesterday at midday. " 
 
 Dame Ford put the loaf in paper for me, 
 wondering what on earth I wanted with it, as 
 I could see by her inquisitive eyes, but not 
 liking to ask ; and I carried it back with the 
 four buns. They were little wolves, and nothing 
 else, when they saw the food. 
 
 ''How has this come about, Mrs. Lease ?" 
 I asked, while they were eating the bread she 
 cut them, and she had taken Tom on her lap 
 again. 
 
 " \Yhy, sir, it is eight weeks now, or hard 
 upon it, since my husband earned anything. 
 They didn't even pay him for the last week he 
 was at work, as the accident happened in it. 
 We had nothing in hand ; people with only 
 eighteen shillings a week and five children, 
 can't save ; and we have been living on our 
 things. But there's nothing left now to make
 
 180 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 money of — as you may see by the bare room, 
 sir." 
 
 ** Does not anybody help you?" 
 
 " Help us !" returned Mrs. Lease. *' Why, 
 Master Ludlow, people, for the most part, are 
 so incensed against my husband, that they'd 
 take the bread out of our lips, instead of putting 
 a bit into them. All their help goes to poor 
 Nancy Bowen and her children : and Lease is 
 glad it should be so. When I carried Tom to 
 Mr. Cole's yesterday, he said that what the 
 child wanted was nourishment." 
 
 " This must try Lease." 
 
 "Yes," she said, her face flushing again, 
 but speaking very quietly. " Taking one thing 
 with another, I am not sure but it is killing 
 him." 
 
 After this break, I did not care to go to 
 the shooting, but turned back to Crabb Cot. 
 Mrs. Todhetley was alone in the bow-windowed 
 parlom', so I told her of the state the Leases 
 were in,, and asked if she would not help 
 them. 
 
 " I don't know what to say about it, Johnny," 
 she said, after a pause. *' If I were willing, 
 you know Mr. Todhetley would not be. He 
 can't forgive Lease for his carelessness. Every 
 time Lena wakes up from sleep in a fright, 
 fancjdng it is another accident, his anger 
 returns. We hear her crying out, you know, 
 down here in an evening."
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 181 
 
 ** The carelessness was no fault of Lease's 
 children, that they should suffer for it." 
 
 " When you get older, Johnny, you will find 
 that the consequences of people's faults fall 
 more on others than on themselves. It is very 
 sad the Leases should be in this state ; I am 
 sorry for them." 
 
 " Then you'll help them a bit, good mother." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley was always ready to help any 
 one, not needing to be urged ; on the other 
 hand, she liked to bend implicitly to the opinions 
 of the Squire. Between the two, she went into 
 a dilemma. 
 
 " Suppose it were Lena, starving for want of 
 food and warmth?" I said. ''Or Hugh sick 
 with fever, as that young Tom is ? Those chil- 
 dren have done no more harm than ours." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley put her hand up to her face, 
 and her mild eyes looked nearly as sad as 
 Lease's. 
 
 "Will you take it to them yourself, Johnny, 
 in a covered basket, and not let it be seen ? That 
 is, make it your own doing ? " 
 
 '' Yes." 
 
 "Go to the kitchen then, and ask Molly. 
 There are some odds and ends of things in the 
 larder that will not be particularly wanted. 
 You see, Johnny, I do not like to take an active 
 part in this ; it would seem like opposing the 
 Squire." 
 
 Molly was stooping before the big fire, bast-
 
 182 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 ing the meat, and in one of her vile humours. 
 If I wanted to rob the larder I must do it, she 
 cried ; it was my business, not hers ; and she 
 dashed the iron basting spoon across the table 
 by way of chorus. 
 
 I gave a good look round the larder, and 
 took a raised pork pie that had a piece cut out 
 of it, and a leg of mutton three parts eaten. 
 On the shelf were a dozen mince pies, just out 
 of their patty-pans ; I took six and left six. 
 Molly, screwing her face round the kitchen door, 
 caught sight of them as they went into the 
 basket, and rushed after me out of the house, 
 shrieking out for her mince -pies. 
 
 The race went on. She was a woman not 
 to be daunted. Just as we turned round by the 
 yellow barn, I first, she raving behind redder 
 than a turkey-cock, the Squire pounced upon 
 us, asking what the uproar meant. Molly told 
 her tale ; I was a thief, and had gone off with 
 the whole larder, more particularly with her 
 mince-pies. 
 
 " Open the basket, Johnny," said the Squire: 
 which was the one Tod and I used when we 
 went fishing. 
 
 No sooner was it done than Molly marched 
 off with the pies in triumph. The Pater re- 
 garded the pork pie and the meat with a curious 
 gaze. 
 
 " This is for you and Joe, I suppose. I 
 should like to know for how many more,"
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 183 
 
 I was one of the worst to conceal things, 
 when taken to like this, and he got it all out 
 of me in no time. And then he put his hand 
 on my shoulder and ordered me to say ivho the 
 things were for. Which I had to do. 
 
 Well, there was a row. He wanted to know 
 what I meant hy being wicked enough to give 
 food to Lease. I said it was for the children. 
 I'm afraid I cried a little, for I did not like him 
 to be angry with me, but I know I promised not 
 to eat any dinner at home for three days if he 
 would let me take the meat. Molly's com- 
 ments, echoing through the house, betrayed to 
 Mrs. Todhetley what had happened, and she 
 came down the road with a shawl over her 
 head. She told the Squire the truth then : that 
 she had sanctioned it. She said she feared the 
 Leases were quite in extremity, and begged him 
 to let the meat go. 
 
 '*Be off for this once, you young thief,*' 
 stamped the Squire, " but don't let me catch 
 you at anything of this sort again." 
 
 So the meat went to the Leases, and two 
 loaves that Mrs. Todhetley whispered me to 
 order for them at Ford's. When I reached 
 home with the empty basket, they were going 
 in to dinner. I took a book and stayed in the 
 parlour. In a minute or two the Squire sent 
 to ask what I was doing that for. 
 
 "It's all right, Thomas. I don't want any 
 dinner to-day."
 
 184 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Old Thomas went away and returned again, 
 saying the master ordered me to go in. Bnt I 
 wouldn't do anything of the sort. If he for- 
 got the bargain, I did not. 
 
 Out came the Squire, his face red, his napkin 
 in his hand, and laidhold of me by the shoulders. 
 
 " You obstinate young Turk ! How dare yon 
 defy me ? Come along." 
 
 "But it is not to defy you, sir. It was a 
 bargain, you know; I promised." 
 
 " What was a bargain ? " 
 
 " That I should not eat dinner for three days. 
 Indeed I meant it." 
 
 The Squire's answer was to propel me into 
 the dining-room. " Move down, Joe," he said, 
 *' I'll have him by me to-day. I'll see whether 
 he is to starve himself out of bravado/' 
 
 " Why, what's up ? " asked Tod, as he went 
 to a lower seat. " Wh2ii have you been doing, 
 Johnny ? " 
 
 "Never mind," said the Squire, putting 
 enough mutton on my plate for two. "You 
 eat that, Mr. Johnny." 
 
 It went on so through the dinner. Mrs. 
 Todhetley gave me a big share of apple pud- 
 ding ; and, when the macaroni came on, the 
 Squire heaped my plate. And I know it was 
 all done to show he was not really angry with 
 me for having taken the things. 
 
 Mr. Cole, the surgeon, came in after dinner, 
 and was told of my wickedness. Lena raB
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 185 
 
 up to me and said might she send her new 
 sixpence to the poor little children who had 
 no bread to eat. 
 
 "What's that Lease about, that he does not 
 go to work ? " asked the Squire, in a loud tone. 
 *' Letting folks hear that his young ones are 
 starving ! " 
 
 " The man can't work,'' said Mr. Cole. 
 "He is out on probation, you know, waiting 
 for the verdict, and the sentence on him that 
 is to follow." 
 
 " Then why don't they return their verdict 
 and sentence him ? " demanded the Squire in 
 his hot way. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mr. Cole, "it's what they ought 
 to have done long ago." 
 
 "What will it be ? Transportation ? " 
 
 " I should take care it was not, if I were on 
 the jury. The man had too much work on him 
 that day, and had had nothing to eat or drink 
 for too many hours." 
 
 " I won't hear a word in his defence," 
 growled the Squire. 
 
 When the jury met for the last time. Lease 
 was ill. A day or two before that, some one 
 had brought Lease word that Roberts, who had 
 been lingering all that while in the infirmary 
 at Worcester, was going at last. Upon which
 
 186 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Lease started to see him. It was not the day 
 for visitors at the infirmary, but he gained admit- 
 tance. Eoberts was lying in the accident ward, 
 with his head low and a blue look in his face ; 
 and the first thing Lease did, when he began 
 to speak, was to burst out crying. The man's 
 strength had gone down to nothing and his 
 spirit was broken. Roberts made out that he 
 was speaking of his distress at having been the 
 cause of the calamity, and asking to be for- 
 given. 
 
 " Mate," said Eoberts, putting out his hand 
 that Lease might take it, *' I've never had an 
 ill thought to ye. Mishaps come to all of us 
 that have to do with rail-travelling ; us drivers 
 get more nor you pointsmen. It might have 
 happened to me to be the cause, just as well 
 as to you. Don't think no more of it." 
 
 " Say you forgive me," urged Lease, *' or I 
 shall not know how to bear it." 
 
 ** I forgive thee with my whole heart and 
 soul. I've had a spell of it here, Lease, wait- 
 ing for death, knowing it must come to me, and 
 I've got to look for it kindly. I don't think I'd 
 go back to the world now if I could. I'm going 
 to a better. It seems just peace, and nothing 
 less. Shake hands, mate." 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 " I wish ye'd lift my head a bit," Eoberts 
 said, after awhile. " The nurse she come and 
 took away my pillow, thinking I might die
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 187 
 
 easier, I suppose : I've seen her do it to others. 
 Maybe I was a'most gone, and the sight of you 
 woke me up again like." 
 
 Lease sat down on the bed and put the man's 
 head upon his breast in the position that 
 seemed most easy to him ; and Roberts died 
 there. 
 
 It was one of the worst days we had that 
 winter. Lease had a night's walk home of 
 many miles, the sleet and the wind beating at 
 him all the way. He was not well clad either, 
 for his best things had been pawned. 
 
 So that when the inquest assembled two days 
 afterwards. Lease did not ajDj^ear at it. He 
 was in bed with inflammation of the chest, and 
 Mr. Cole told the coroner that it would be dan- 
 gerous to take him out of it. Some of them 
 called it bronchitis ; but the Squire never went 
 in for new names, and never would. 
 
 *'I tell you what it is, gentlemen," broke in 
 Mr. Cole, when they were quarrelling whether 
 there should be another adjournment or not, 
 *' you'll put off and put off, until Lease slips 
 through your fingers." 
 
 " Oh, will he, though ! " blustered old Mas- 
 sock. " He had better try at it ! We'd soon 
 fetch him back again." 
 
 "You'd be clever to do it," said the doctor. 
 
 Any way, whether it was this or not, they 
 thought better of the adjournment, and gave 
 their verdict, " Manslaughter against Henry
 
 188 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Lease." And the coroner made out his warrant 
 of committal to Worcester county prison : where 
 Lease would lie until the March assizes. 
 
 " I am not sure but it ought to have been 
 returned Wilful Murder," remarked the Squire, 
 as he and the doctor turned out of the Bull, 
 and picked their way over the slush towards 
 Crabb Lane. 
 
 " It might make no difference, one way or 
 the other," answered Mr. Cole. 
 
 " Make no difference ! What d'ye mean ? 
 Murder and manslaughter are two opposite 
 crimes, Cole, and punished accordingly. You 
 see, Johnny, what your friend Lease has come 
 to!" 
 
 " What I meant. Squire, was this : that I 
 don't much think Lease will live to be tried at 
 all." 
 
 ^'Not live! " 
 
 " I fancy not. Unless I am much mistaken, 
 his life will have been claimed by its Giver 
 long before March." 
 
 The Squire stopped and looked at Cole. 
 '' What's the matter with him ? This inflam- 
 mation — that you went and testified to ? " 
 
 " That will be the cause of death, as returned 
 to the registrar." 
 
 " Why, you speak just as if the man were 
 dying now, Cole ! " 
 
 '' And I think he is. Lease has been very 
 low in frame for a long while," added Mr. Cole ;
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 189 
 
 " half clad, and not a quarter fed. But it is 
 not that, Squire : the heart and spirit are alike 
 broken : and when this cold caught him, he 
 had no stamina to withstand it ; and so it has 
 laid hold of a vital part." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me to my face that he 
 will die of it ? " cried the Squire, holding on 
 by the middle button of old Cole's great coat. 
 *' Nonsense, man ! you must cure him. We — 
 we did not want him to die, you know." 
 
 " His life or his death, as it may be, are in 
 the hands of One higher than I, Squire." 
 
 '^ I think I'll go in and see him," said the 
 Squire, meekly. 
 
 Lease was lying on a bed close to the floor 
 when we got to the top of the creaky stairs, 
 which had threatened to come down with the 
 Squire's weight and awkwardness. He had 
 dozed off, and little Polly, sitting on the boards, 
 had her head upon his arm. Her starting up 
 awoke Lease. I was not in the habit of seeing 
 dying people ; but the thought struck me that 
 Lease must be dying. His pale weary face 
 wore the same hue that Jake's had worn when 
 he was dying : if you have not forgotten him. 
 
 " God bless me ! " exclaimed the Squire. 
 
 Lease looked up with his sad eyes. He 
 supposed they had come to tell him officially 
 about the verdict — which had already reached 
 him unofficially. 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen, I know it," he said, trying
 
 190 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 to get up out of respect, and falling back. 
 " Manslaughter. I'd have been present if I 
 could. Mr. Cole knows I wasn't able. I think 
 God is taking me instead." 
 
 ''But this Won't do, you know. Lease," said 
 the Squire. '' We don't want you to die." 
 
 "Well, sir, I'm afraid I am not good for much 
 now. And there' d be the imprisonment, and 
 then the sentence, so that I could not work for 
 my wife and children for some long years. 
 When people come to know how I repented of 
 that night's mistake, and that I have died of it, 
 why they'll perhaps befriend them and forgive 
 me. I think God has forgiven me : He is very 
 merciful." 
 
 " I'll send you in some port wine and some 
 jelly and some beef tea and some blankets. 
 Lease," cried the Squire quickly, as if he felt 
 flurried. *' And, Lease, poor fellow, I am sorry 
 for having been so angry with 3^ou." 
 
 *' Thank you for all favours, sir, past and 
 present. But for the help from your house my 
 little ones would have starved. God bless you all, 
 and forgive me ! Master Johnny, God bless youy 
 
 "You'll rally yet. Lease ; take heart," said 
 the Squire. 
 
 " No, sir, I don't think so. The great dark 
 load seems to have been lifted off me, and light 
 to be breaking. Don't sob, Polly ! Perhaps 
 father will be able to see you from up there as 
 well as if he stayed here."
 
 LEASE, THE POINTSMAN. 191 
 
 The first thing the Squire did when we got 
 out, was to attack Mr. Cole, telling him he 
 ought not to have let Lease die. As he was in 
 a way, Cole excused it, quietly saying it was 
 no fault of his. 
 
 " I should like to know what it is that has 
 killed him, then ? " 
 
 "Grief," said Mr. Cole. ''The man has 
 died of what we call a broken heart. Hearts 
 don't actually sever, you know. Squire, like a 
 china basin, and there's always some ostensible 
 malady that serves as a hold to talk about. In 
 this case it will be bronchitis. Which, in point 
 of fact, is the final end, because Lease could 
 not rally against it. He told me yesterday 
 that his heart had ached so keenly since Novem- 
 ber, it seemed to have dried up within him." 
 
 '' We are all a pack of hard-hearted sinners," 
 groaned the Squire, in his repentance. " Johnny, 
 why could you not have found them out sooner ? 
 Where was the use of your doing it at the 
 eleventh hour, sir, I'd like tq know?" 
 
 Harry Lease died that night. And Crabb 
 Lane, in a fit of repentance as sudden as the 
 Squire's, took the cost of the funeral off the 
 parish (giving some abuse in exchange) and 
 went in a body to the grave. I and Tod 
 followed.
 
 192 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 VII. 
 
 AUNT DEAN. 
 
 TIMBEEDALE was a small place on the 
 other side of Crabh Kavine. Its rector 
 was the Eev. Jacob Lewis. Timberdale called 
 him Parson Lewis when not on ceremon3^ He 
 had married a widow, Mrs. Tanerton : she 
 had a good deal of money and two boys, and 
 the parish thought the new lady might be 
 above them. But she proved kind and good ; 
 and her boys did not ride roughshod over the 
 land or break down the farmer's fences. 
 She died in three or four years, after a long 
 illness. 
 
 Timberdale talked about her will, deeming it 
 a foolish one. She left all she possessed to the 
 rector, " in affectionate confidence," as the will 
 worded it, " knowing he would do what was 
 right and just by her sons." As Parson Lewis 
 was an upright man with a conscience of his 
 own, it was supposed he would do so ; but 
 Timberdale considered that for the boys' sake 
 she should have made it sure herself. It was 
 eight hundred a year, good measure. 
 
 Parson Lewis had a sister, Mrs. Dean, a 
 widow also, who lived near Liverpool. She was
 
 AUNT DEAN. 193 
 
 not left well off at all ; could but just make a 
 living of it. She used to come on long visits 
 to the parsonage, which saved her cupboard at 
 home ; but it was said that Mrs. Lewis did not 
 like her, thinking her deceitful, and they did 
 not get on very well together. Parson Lewis, 
 the meekest man in the world and most easily 
 led, admitted to his wife that Eebecca had 
 always been a little given to scheming, but he 
 thought her true at heart. 
 
 When poor Mrs. Lewis was out of the way 
 for good in Timberdale church-yard, Aunt Dean 
 had the field to herself, and came and stayed 
 as long as she pleased, with her child, Alice. 
 She was a little woman with a mild face and 
 fair skin, and had a sort of purring manner 
 with her. Hardly speaking above her breath, 
 and saying '' dear " and ''love " at every sen- 
 tence, and caressing people to their faces, the 
 rule was to fall in love with her at once. The 
 boys, Herbert and Jack, had taken to her with- 
 out question from the first, and called her 
 " Aunt." Though she was of course no rela- 
 tion whatever to them. 
 
 Both the boys made much of Alice — a bright- 
 eyed, pretty little girl with brown curls and 
 timid, winsome ways. Herbert, who was very 
 studious himself, helped her with her lessons : 
 Jack, who was nearer her age, but a few 
 months older, took her out on expeditions, hay- 
 making and blackberrying and the like, and 
 
 VOL I. o
 
 194 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 would bring her home with her frock torn and 
 her knees damaged. He told her that brave 
 little girls never cried with him ; and the child 
 would ignore the smart of the grazed knees and 
 show herself as brave as a martyr. Jack was 
 so brave and fearless himself and made so little 
 of hurts, that she felt a kind of shame at 
 giving way to her natural timidity when with 
 him. What Alice Hked best was to sit in- 
 doors by Herbert's side while he was at his 
 lessons, and read story books and fairy tales. 
 Jack was the o^Dposite of all that, and a regular 
 renegade in all kinds of study. He would have 
 liked to i)itch the books into the fire, and did 
 not even care for faii'y tales. They came often 
 enough to Crabb Cot when we were there, and 
 to our neighbours the Coneys, with whom the 
 parsonage was intimate. I was only a little 
 fellow at the time, years younger than they were, 
 but I remember I liked Jack better than Herbert. 
 As did Tod also, for the matter of that . Herbert 
 was too clever for us, and he was to be a parson 
 besides. He chose the calling for himself. More 
 than once he was caught muffled in the parson's 
 white surplice, preaching to Jack and Alice a 
 sermon he had composed. 
 
 Aunt Dean had her plans and her plots. One 
 great plot was always at work. She made it 
 into a dream, and peeped into it night and 
 day, as if it were a kaleidoscope of rich 
 colours. Herbert Tanerton was to marry her
 
 AUNT DEAN. 195 
 
 daughter and succeed to his mother's pro- 
 perty as eldest son : Jack must go adrift, and 
 earn his own living. She considered it was 
 already three parts as good as accomplished. 
 To see Herbert and Alice poring over books 
 together side by side and to know that they had 
 the same tastes, was welcome to her as the 
 sight of gold. As to Jack, with his roving 
 propensities and his climbing and his daring, 
 she thought it little matter if he came down a 
 tree head-foremost some day, or pitched neck 
 over heels into the depths of Crabb Eavine, and 
 so threw away his life. Not that she really 
 wished any cruel fate for the boy ; but she did 
 not care for him ; and he might be terribly in 
 the way, when her foolish brother, the parson, 
 came to apportion out the money. And he was 
 foolish in some things ; soft, in fact : she often 
 said it. 
 
 One summer day when the fruit was ripe 
 and the sun shining, Mr. Lewis had gone into 
 his study to write his next Sunday's sermon. 
 He did not get on very quickly, for Aunt Dean 
 was in there also, and it disturbed him a little. 
 She was of a restless habit, everlastingly dust- 
 ing books, and putting things in their places 
 without need. 
 
 *' Do you wish to keep out all three of these 
 inkstands, Jacob ? It is not necessary, I should 
 think. Shall I put one up ? " 
 
 The parson took his eyes off his sermon to
 
 196 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 answer. " I don't see that they do any harm, 
 Eebecca. The children are using two some- 
 times. Do as you like, however." 
 
 Mrs. Dean put one of the inkstands inside 
 the book-case, and then looked round the room 
 to see what else she could do. A letter caught 
 her eye. 
 
 " Jacob, I do believe you have never an- 
 swered the note old Mullet brought this morn- 
 ing ! There it is on the mantel-piece." 
 
 The parson sighed. To be interrupted in 
 this way he took quite as a matter of course, 
 but it teased him a little. 
 
 '^ I must see the churchwardens, Eebecca, 
 before I answer it. I want to know, you see, 
 what would be best approved of by the parish." 
 
 "Just like you, Jacob," she caressingly 
 said. "The parish must approve of what you 
 approve." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he hastily said ; " but I like to 
 live at peace with everybody." 
 
 He dipped his pen into the ink, and wrote a 
 line in his sermon. The open window looked 
 on the kitchen-garden. Herbert Tanerton had 
 his back against the walnut-tree, doing nothing. 
 Alice sat near on a stool, her head buried in a 
 book that by its canvas cover Mrs. Dean knew 
 to be "Robinson Crusoe." Just then Jack 
 came out of the raspberry bushes with a hand- 
 ful of fruit, which he held out for Alice to eat. 
 " Eobinson Crusoe " fell to the ground.
 
 AUNT DEAN. 197 
 
 ** Oh, Jack, how good they are!" said Alice. 
 And the words came distinctly to Aunt Dean's 
 ears in the still day. 
 
 '' They are as good again when you pick them 
 off the trees for yourself," cried Jack. " Come 
 along and get some, Alice." 
 
 With the taste of the raspberries in her mouth, 
 the temptation was not to be resisted ; and she 
 ran after Jack. Aunt Dean put her head out at 
 the window. 
 
 " Alice, my love, I cannot have you go amidst 
 those raspberry bushes ; you would stain and 
 tear your frock." 
 
 "I'll take care of her frock, aunt," called back 
 Jack. 
 
 *' My darling Jack, it cannot be. That is her 
 new muslin frock, and she must not go where 
 she might hurt it." 
 
 So Alice sat down again to " Kobinson 
 Crusoe," and Jack went his way amid the 
 raspberry bushes, or whither he would. 
 
 " Jacob, have you begun to think of what 
 John is to be ? " resumed Aunt Dean, as she 
 shut down the window. 
 
 The parson pushed his sermon from him in a 
 
 kind of patient hopelessness, and turned round 
 
 on his chair. "To be? — in what way, Rebecca?" 
 
 " In profession," she answered. '' I fancy 
 
 it is time it was thought of.'' 
 
 " Do you ? I'm sure I don't know. The 
 other day when something was being mentioned
 
 198 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 about it, Jack said he did not care what he was 
 to be, provided he had no books to trouble him." 
 
 " I only hope you will not have trouble with 
 him, Jacob, dear," observed Mrs. Dean, in an 
 ominous tone, that plainly intimated she thought 
 the parson would. 
 
 " He has a good heart, though he is not so 
 studious as his brother. Why have you shut 
 the window, Eebecca ? It is very warm." 
 
 Mrs. Dean did not say why. Perhaps she 
 wished to guard against the conversation being 
 heard. When any question not quite convenient 
 to answer was put to her, she had a way of 
 passing it by in silence ; and the parson was 
 too yielding or too inert to ask again. 
 
 *' Of course, Brother Jacob, you will make 
 Herbert the heir." 
 
 The parson looked surprised. '^ Why should 
 you suppose that, Eebecca ? I think the two 
 boys ought to share and share alike." 
 
 *' My dear Jacob, how can you think so ? 
 Your dead wife left you in charge, remember." 
 
 " That's what I do remember, Eebecca. She 
 never gave me the slightest hint that she should 
 wish a difference to be made : she was as fond 
 of one boy as of the other.'' 
 
 " Jacob, you must do your duty by the boys,'* 
 returned Mrs. Dean, with affectionate solemnity. 
 " Herbert must be his mother's heir ; it is right 
 and proper it should be so : Jack must be 
 trained to earn his own livelihood. Jack — dear
 
 AUNT DEAN. 199 
 
 fellow ! — is, I fear, of a roving, random dis- 
 position : were you to leave any iDortion of the 
 money to him, he would squander it in a year." 
 
 *'Dear me, I hope not! But as to leaving all 
 to his brother — or even a larger portion than to 
 Jack — I don't know that it would be right. A 
 heavy responsibility lies on me in this charge, 
 don't you see, Eebecca ? " 
 
 *' No doubt it does. It is full eight hundred 
 a year. And you must be putting something 
 by, Jacob." 
 
 " Not much. I draw the money yearly, but 
 expenses seem to swallow it. What with the 
 ponies kept for the boys, and the cost of the 
 masters from Worcester, and a hundred a year 
 out of it that my wife desired the poor old nurse 
 should have till she died, there's not a great 
 deal left. My living is a poor one, you know, 
 and I like to help the poor freely. When the 
 boys go to the university it will be all wanted." 
 
 Help the poor freely ! — just like him ! 
 thought Aunt Dean. 
 
 *' It would be waste of money and waste of 
 time to send Jack to college. You should try 
 and get him some appointment abroad, Jacob. 
 In India, say." 
 
 The clergyman opened his ejes at this, and 
 eaid he should not like to see Jack go out of his 
 own country. Jack's mother had not had any 
 opinion of foreign places. Jack himself inter- 
 rupted the conversation. He came flying up the
 
 200 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 path, put down a cabbage leaf of raspberries 
 on the window-sill, and flung open the window 
 mth his stained fingers. 
 
 *' Aunt Dean, I've picked these for you," he 
 said, introducing the leaf, his handsome face 
 and his good-natured eyes sparkling. "They've 
 never been so good as they are this year. 
 Father, you just taste them." 
 
 Aunt Dean smiled sweetly, and called him 
 her darling, and Mr. Lewis tasted the rasp- 
 berries. 
 
 *' We were just talking of you, Jack," cried 
 the unsophisticated man — and Mrs. Dean 
 knitted her brows slightly. " Your aunt says it 
 is time you began to think of some profession.'* 
 
 '' What, yet awhile ?" returned Jack. 
 
 " That you may be suitably educated for it, 
 my boy." 
 
 *' I should like to be something that won't 
 w^ant education," cried Jack, leaning his arms 
 on the window-sill, and jumping up and down. 
 " I think I'd rather be a farmer than any- 
 thing, father." 
 
 The parson drew a long face. It had never 
 entered into his calculation. 
 
 " I fear that would not do, Jack. I should 
 like you to choose something higher than that ; 
 some good profession by which you may rise in 
 the world. Herbert will go into the Church : 
 what should you say to the Bar ? " 
 
 Jack's jumping ceased all at once. ''AVhat,
 
 AL'NT DEAN. 201 
 
 to be a barrister, father ? Like those be-wigged 
 fellows that come circuit twice a year to Wor- 
 cester ? " 
 
 "Like that, Jack." 
 
 '' But they have to study all their lives for 
 it, father ; and read uj) millions of books before 
 they can pass ! I couldn't do it ; I couldn't 
 indeed." 
 
 " What do you think of being a high-class 
 lawyer, then? I might place you with some good 
 firm, such as " 
 
 '' Don't, there's a dear father ! " interrupted 
 Jack, all the sunshine leaving his face. " I'm 
 afraid if I were at a desk I should kick it over 
 without knowing it : I must be running out and 
 about. — Are they all gone. Aunt Dean ? Give 
 me the leaf to throw away, and I'll pick you 
 some more." 
 
 The years went on. Jack was fifteen; Her- 
 bert eighteen and at Oxford : the advanced 
 scholar had gone to college early. Aunt Dean 
 spent quite half her time at Timberdale, from 
 Easter till autumn, and the parson never rose 
 against it. She let her house during her 
 absence : it was situated on the banks of the 
 river a little way from Liverpool, near the place 
 they call New Brighton now. It might have 
 been called New Brighton then for all I know. 
 One family always took the house for the sum- 
 mer months, glad to get out of hot Liverpool. 
 
 As to Jack, nothing had been decided in
 
 202 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 regard to bis future, for opinions about it dif- 
 fered. A little Latin and a little bistory and a 
 great deal of geograpby (for be liked tbat) bad 
 been drilled into bim : and tbere bis education 
 ended. But be was tbe best climber and walker 
 and leaper, and witbal tbe best bearted young 
 fellow tbat Timberdale could boast : and be 
 knew about land tborougbly, and possessed a 
 great stock of general and useful practical in- 
 formation. Many a day wben some of tbe poorer 
 farmers were in a desperate burry to get in tbeir 
 bay or carry tbeir wbeat on account of tbreat- 
 ening weatber, bas Jack Tanerton turned out to 
 belp, and toiled as bard and as long as any 
 of tbe labourers. He was bail-fellow-well-met 
 wdtb everybody, ricb and poor. 
 
 Mrs. Dean bad worked on always to ac- 
 complisb ber ends. Slowly and imperceptibly, 
 but surely : Herbert must be tbe beir ; Jobn 
 must sbift for bimself. Tbe parson bad bad 
 tbis dinned into bim so often now, in ber ap- 
 parently frank and reasoning way, tbat be began 
 to lend an ear. Wbat witb bis strict sense of 
 innate justice, and bis babit of yielding to bis 
 sister's views, be felt mostly in a kind of pickle. 
 But Mrs. Dean bad come over tbis time deter- 
 mined to get sometbing settled, one way or tbe 
 otber. 
 
 Sbe arrived before Easter tbis year. Tbe 
 interminable Jack (as sbe often called bim in 
 heart) was at bome; Herbert not. Jack and
 
 AUNT DEAN. 203 
 
 Alice did not seem to miss him, but went out 
 on their rambles together as they did when 
 children. The morning before Herbert was ex- 
 pected, a letter came from him to his step- 
 father, saying he had been invited by a fellow- 
 student to spend the Easter holidays at his 
 home near London and had accepted it. 
 
 Mr. Lewis took it as a matter of course in 
 his easy way ; but it disagreed with Aunt 
 Dean. She said all manner of things to the 
 parson, and incited him to write for Herbert 
 to return at once. Herbert's answer to this 
 was a courteous intimation that he could not 
 alter his plans ; and he hoped his father, on 
 consideration, would fail to see any good reason 
 why he should. Herbert Tanerton had a will 
 of his own, 
 
 ** Neither do I see any reason, good or bad, 
 why he should not pay the visit, Eebecca," con- 
 fessed the rector. *' I'm afraid it was foolish 
 of me to object at all. Perhaps I have not the 
 right to deny him, either, if I wished it. He is 
 getting on for nineteen, and I am not his own 
 father." 
 
 So Aunt Dean had to make the best and 
 the worst of it ; but she felt as cross as two 
 sticks. 
 
 One day when the parson was abroad on 
 parish matters, and the Eectory empty, she 
 went out for a stroll, and reached the high steep 
 bank where the primroses and violets grew.
 
 204 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Looking over, she saw Jack and Alice seated 
 below ; Jack's arm round her waist. 
 
 '* You are to be my wife, you know, Alice, 
 when we are grown up. Mind that." 
 
 There was no answer, but Aunt Dean 
 certainly thought she heard the sound of a kiss. 
 Peeping over again, she saw Jack taking another. 
 
 *' And if you don't object to my being a 
 farmer, AHce, I should like it best of all. We'll 
 keep two jolly ponies and ride about together. 
 "Won't it be good ! " 
 
 *'I don't object to farming, Jack. Anything 
 you like. A successful farmer's home is a very 
 pleasant one." 
 
 Aunt Dean drew away with noiseless steps. 
 She was too calm and callous a woman to turn 
 white ; but she did turn angry, and registered 
 a vow in her heart. That presuming, upstart 
 Jack ! They were but two little fools, it's true; 
 no better than children ; but the nonsense must 
 be stopped in time. 
 
 Herbert went back to Oxford without coming 
 home. Alice, to her own infinite astonishment, 
 was despatched to school till midsummer. The 
 parson and his sister and Jack were left alone ; 
 and Aunt Dean, with her soft smooth manner 
 and her false expressions of endearment, ruled 
 all things ; her brother's better nature amid the 
 rest. 
 
 Jack was asked what he would be. A farmer, 
 he answered. But Aunt Dean had somehow
 
 AUNT DEAN. 205 
 
 caught up the most bitter notions possible 
 against farming in general ; and Mr. Lewis, 
 not much liking the thing himself, and yielding 
 to the under-current ever gently flowing, told 
 Jack he must fix on something else. 
 
 " There's nothing I shall do so well at as 
 farming, father," remonstrated Jack. "You 
 can put me for three or four years to some good 
 agriculturist, and I'll be bound at the end of 
 the time I should be fit to manage the largest 
 and best farm in the country. Why, I am 
 a better farmer now than some of them 
 are." 
 
 " Jack, my boy, you must not be self-willed. 
 I cannot let you be a farmer." 
 
 " Then send me to sea, father, and make a 
 sailor of me," returned Jack, with undisturbed 
 good humour. 
 
 But this startled the parson. He liked Jack, 
 and he had a horror of the sea. *' Not that. 
 Jack, my boy. Anything but that." 
 
 '' I'm not sure but I should like the sea 
 better than farming," went on Jack, the idea 
 full in his head. " Aunt Dean lent me ' Peter 
 Simple ' one day. I know I should make a 
 first-rate sailor." 
 
 "Jack, don't talk so. Your poor mother 
 would not have liked it, and I don't like it ; 
 and I shall never let you go." 
 
 " Some fellows run away to sea," said Jack, 
 laughing.
 
 206 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 The parson felt as though a bucket of cold 
 water was thrown down his back. Did Jack 
 mean that as a threat ? 
 
 " John," said he, in as solemn a way as he 
 had ever spoken, " disobedience to parents some- 
 times brings a curse with it. You must promise 
 me that you will never go to sea." 
 
 ** I'll not promise that, off hand," said Jack. 
 *' But I will promise never to go without your 
 consent. Think it over well, father ; there's 
 no hurry." 
 
 It was on the tip of Mr. Lewis's tongue to 
 withdraw his objection to the farming scheme 
 there and then : in comparison with the other 
 it looked quite fair and bright. But he thought 
 he might compromise his judgment to yield thus 
 instantly : and, as easy Jack said, there was no 
 hurry. 
 
 So Jack went rushing out of doors again to 
 the uttermost bounds of the parish, and the 
 parson was left to Aunt Dean. When he told 
 her he meant to let Jack be a farmer, she 
 laughed till the tears came into her eyes, and 
 begged him to leave matters to her. She knew 
 how to manage boys, without appearing directly 
 to cross them : there was this kind of trouble 
 with most boys, she had observed, before they 
 settled satisfactorily in life, but it all came right 
 in the end. 
 
 So the parson said no more about farming : 
 but Jack talked a great deal about the sea. Mr.
 
 AUNT DEAN. 207 
 
 Lewis went over in his gig to Worcester, and 
 bought a book he had heard of, " Two Years 
 before the Mast." He wrote Jack's name in it 
 and gave it him, hoping its contents might serve 
 to sicken him of the sea. 
 
 The next morning the book was missing. 
 Jack looked high and low for it, but it was gone. 
 He had left it on the sitting-room table when 
 he went up to bed, and it mysteriously dis- 
 appeared during the night. The servants had 
 not seen it, and declared it was not on the 
 table in the morning. 
 
 *' It could not — I suppose — have been the 
 cat," observed Aunt Dean, in a doubtful manner, 
 her eyes full of wonder as to where the book 
 could have got to. ''I have heard of cats doing 
 strange things." 
 
 *' I don't think the cat would make away with 
 a book of that size, Eebecca," said the parson. 
 And if he had not been the least suspicious 
 parson in all the Worcester Diocese, he might 
 have asked his sister whether she had been the 
 cat, and secured the book lest it should serve to 
 dissipate Jack's fancy for the sea. 
 
 The next thing she did was to carry Jack off 
 to Liverpool. The parson objected at first : 
 Liverpool was a seaport town, and might put 
 Jack more in mind of the sea than ever. Aunt 
 Dean replied that she meant him to see the 
 worst sides of a sea life, the dirty boats in the 
 Mersey, the wretchedness of the crews, and the
 
 208 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 real discomfort and misery of a sailor's life. 
 That would cure him, she said : what he had 
 got in his head now was the romance picked up 
 from hooks. The parson thought there was 
 reason in this, and yielded. He was dreadfully 
 anxious ahout Jack. 
 
 She went straight to her house near New 
 Brighton, Jack with her, and a suhstantial sum 
 in her pocket from the rector to pay Jack's keep. 
 The old servant, Peggy, who took care of it, was 
 thunderstruck to see her mistress come in. It 
 was not yet occupied hy the Liverpool people, 
 and Mrs. Dean sent them word they could not 
 have it this year : at least not for the present. 
 While she got matters straight, she supplied 
 Jack with all Captain Marryat's novels to read. 
 The house looked on the river, and Jack would 
 watch the fine grand vessels starting on their 
 long voyages, their trim white sails glowing fair 
 in the sunshine, or hear the joyous shouts from 
 the sailors of a homeward hound ship as Liver- 
 pool hove in view ; and he grew to think there 
 was no sight so pleasant to the eye as these 
 heauteous ships ; no fate so desirahle as to sail 
 in them. 
 
 But Aunt Dean had entirely changed her 
 tactics. Instead of sending Jack on to the 
 dirtiest and worst managed hoats in the docks, 
 where the living was hard and the sailors were 
 discontented, she allowed him to roam at will 
 on the finest ships, and make acquaintance with
 
 AUNT DEAN. 209 
 
 their enthusiastic young officers, especially 
 with those who were going to sea for the first 
 time with just such notions as Jack's. Be- 
 fore midsummer came, Jack Tanerton had 
 got to think that he could never be happy 
 on land. 
 
 There was a new ship just launched, the Eose 
 of Delhi ; a magnificent vessel. Jack took rare 
 interest in her. He was for ever on hoard ; 
 was for ever saying to her owners — friends of 
 Aunt Dean's, to whom she had introduced him 
 — how much he should like to sail in her. The 
 owners thought it would be an advantageous 
 thing to get so active, open, and ready a lad 
 into their service, although he was somewhat 
 old for entering, and they offered to article him 
 for four years, as "midshipman" on the Eose 
 of Delhi. Jack went home with his tale, his 
 eyes glowing ; and Aunt Dean neither checked 
 him nor helped him. 
 
 Not then. Later, when the ship was all but 
 ready to sail, she told Jack she washed her 
 hands of it, and recommended him to write 
 and ask his stepfather whether he might sail in 
 her, or not. 
 
 Now Jack was no letter writer; neither, truth 
 to tell, was the parson. He had not once 
 written home ; but had contented himself with 
 sending affectionate messages in Aunt Dean's 
 letters. Consequently, Mr. Lewis only knew 
 what Aunt Dean had chosen to tell him, and 
 
 VOL. I. • p
 
 210 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 had no idea that Jack was getting the real sea 
 fever. But at the suggestion Jack sat down 
 now, and wrote a long letter. 
 
 Its purport was this. That he was longing 
 and hoping to go to sea ; was sure he should 
 never like anything else in the world so well ; 
 that the Eose of Delhi, Captain Druce, was the 
 most magnificent ship ever launched ; that the 
 owners bore the best character in Liverpool for 
 liberality, and Captain Druce for kindness to his 
 middies ; and that he hoped, oh he hoped, his 
 father would let him go ; but that if he still 
 refused, he (Jack) would do his best to be con- 
 tent to stay on shore, for he did not forget his 
 promise of never sailing without consent. 
 
 " Would you like to see the letter. Aunt Dean, 
 before I shut it up?" he asked. 
 
 Aunt Dean, who had been sitting by, took 
 the letter, and privately thought it was as good 
 a letter and as much to the purpose as the best 
 scribe in the land could have written. She dis- 
 liked it, for all that. 
 
 " Jack, dear, I think you had better put a 
 postscript," she said. " Your father detests 
 writing, as you know. Tell him that if he con- 
 sents he need not write any answer : you will 
 know what it means, — that you may go, — and 
 it will save him trouble." 
 
 "But, Aunt Dean, I should like him to wish 
 me good-bye and God speed." 
 
 " He will be sure to do the one in his heart
 
 AUNT DEAa. 211 
 
 and the other in his praj'ers, my boy. Write 
 your postscrij)t." 
 
 Jack did as he was bid : he was as docile as 
 his stepfather. Exactly as Mrs. Dean sug- 
 gested, wrote he : and he added that if no 
 answer arrived within two posts, he should take 
 it for granted that he was to go, and should see 
 about his outfit. There was no time to lose, 
 for the ship would sail in three or four days. 
 
 " I will post it for you, Jack," she said, when 
 it was ready. '' I am going out." 
 
 '' Thank you. Aunt Dean, but I can post it 
 myself. I'd rather ; and then I shall know it's 
 off. Oh, sha'n't I be on thorns till the time for 
 an answer comes and goes ! " 
 
 He snatched his cap and vaulted off with 
 the letter before he could be stopped. Aunt 
 Dean had a curious look on her face, and 
 sat biting her lips. She had not intended the 
 letter to go. 
 
 The first post that could possibly bring an 
 answer brought one. Jack was not at home. 
 Aunt Dean had sent him out on an early com- 
 mission, watched for the postman, and hastened 
 to the door herself to receive what he might 
 bring. He brought two letters — as it chanced. 
 One from the Eector of Timberdale ; one from 
 Alice Dean. Mrs. Dean locked the one up in 
 her private drawer above stairs : the other she 
 left on the breakfast table. 
 
 " Peggy says the postman has been here,
 
 212 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 aunt !" cried the boy, all excitement, as h'S 
 ran in. 
 
 " Yes, dear. He brought a letter from 
 Alice." 
 
 ''And nothing from Timberdale ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know that you could quite ex- 
 i^ect it by this post, Jack. Your father might 
 like to take a little time for consideration. You 
 may read Alice's letter, my boy : she comes 
 home this day week for the summer holidays." 
 
 "Not till this day week!" cried Jack, in 
 frightful disappointment. "Why, I shall have 
 sailed then, if I go. Aunt Dean ! I shall not see 
 her." 
 
 " Well, dear, 3'ou will see her when you come 
 home." 
 
 Aunt Dean had no more commissions for 
 Jack after that, and each time the postman was 
 expected, he posted himself outside the door to 
 wait for him. The man brought no other letter. 
 The reasonable time for an answer went by, and 
 there came none. 
 
 " Aunt Dean, I suppose I may get my outfit 
 now," said Jack, only half satisfied. " But I 
 wish I had told him to write in any case : just 
 a line." 
 
 "According to what you said, you know, 
 Jack, silence must be taken to give consent." 
 
 " Yes, I know. I'd rather have had a word, 
 and made certain. I wish there was time for 
 me just to run over to Timberdale and see him ! "
 
 AUNT DEAN. 213 
 
 ''But there's not, Jack, more's the pity: 
 Tou would lose the ship. Get a piece of i)aper 
 and make out a list of the articles the second 
 mate told you you would want." 
 
 The Eose of Delhi sailed out of port for 
 Calcutta, and John Tanerton with her, having 
 signed articles to serve in her for four years. 
 The night before his departure he wrote a short 
 letter of farewell to his stepfather, thanking 
 him for his tacit consent, and i^romising to do 
 his best to get on, concluding it with love to 
 himself and to Herbert, and to the Eectory 
 servants. Which letter somehow got put into 
 Aunt Dean's kitchen fire, and never reached 
 Timberdale. 
 
 Aunt Dean watched the Rose of Delhi sail 
 by; Jack, in his bran-new uniform, waving his 
 last farewells to her with his gold-banded cap. 
 The sigh of relief she heaved when the fine 
 vessel was out of sight seemed to do her good. 
 Then she bolted herself into her chamber, and 
 opened Mr. Lewis's letter, which had lain un- 
 touched till then. As she expected, it contained 
 a positive interdiction, written half sternly, 
 half lovingly, for John to sail in the Rose of 
 Delhi, or to think more of the sea. Moreover, 
 it commanded him home at once, and it con- 
 tained a promise that he should be placed to 
 learn the farming without delay. Aunt Dean 
 tripped to Peggy's fire and burnt that too. 
 
 There was a dreadful fuss when Jack's
 
 214 JOHXXY LUDLOW. 
 
 departure became known at Timberdale. It 
 fell upon the parson like a thunderbolt. He 
 came striding through the ravine to Crabb Cot, 
 and burst out crying while telling the news to 
 the Squire. He feared he had failed somehow 
 in bringing John up, he said, or he never would 
 have repaid him with this base disobedience 
 and ingratitude. For, you see, the poor man 
 thought Jack had received his letter, and gone 
 off in defiance of it. The Squire agreed with 
 him that Jack deserved the cat-o'-nine tails, 
 and all other boys who traitorously decamped 
 to sea. 
 
 Before the hay was all got in, Aunt Dean 
 was back at Timberdale, bringing Alice with 
 her and the bills for the outfit. She let the 
 parson think what he would about Jack, ignoring 
 all knowledge of the letter, and afi'ecting to be- 
 lieve that Jack could not have had it. But the 
 parson argued that Jack must have had it, and 
 did have it, or it would have come back to him. 
 The only one to say a good word for Jack was 
 Alice. She persisted in an opinion that Jack 
 could not be either disobedient or 'ungrateful, 
 and that there must have been some strange 
 mistake somewhere. 
 
 Aunt Dean's work was not all done. She 
 took the poor parson under her wing, and 
 proved to him that he had no resource now but 
 to disinherit Jack, and make Herbert the entire 
 heir. To leave money to Jack would be wanton
 
 AUNT DEAN. 215 
 
 waste, she urged, for lie would be sure to 
 squander it : better bequeath all to Herbert, 
 who would of course look after his brother in 
 later life, and help him if he needed help. So 
 one of the Worcester solicitors, Mr. Hill, was 
 sent for to Timberdale to receive instructions 
 for making the parson's will in Herbert's 
 favour, and to cut oif Jack. 
 
 That night, after Mr. Hill had gone back 
 again, was one of the worst the parson had 
 ever spent. He was a just man and a kind 
 one, and he felt racked with fear lest he had 
 taken too severe a measure, and one that his 
 late wife, the true owner of the money and 
 John's mother, would never have sanctioned. 
 His bed was as a fever, his pillow a torment ; 
 up he got, and walked the room in his night- 
 shirt. 
 
 " My Lord and God knoweth that I would 
 do what is right," he groaned. " I am sorely 
 troubled. Youth is vain and desperately 
 thoughtless ; perhaps the boy, in his love of 
 adventure, never looked at the step in the light 
 of ingratitude. I cannot cut him quite off ; 
 I should never find peace of mind if I did. 
 He shall have a little ; and perhaps if he grows 
 into a steady fellow and comes back what he 
 ought to be, I may alter the will later and leave 
 them equal." '^ 
 
 The next day the parson wrote privately to 
 Mr. Hill, saying he had reconsidered his deter-
 
 216 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 mination and would let Jack inherit to the 
 extent of a hundred and fift}^ pounds a year. 
 
 Herbert came home for the long vacation ; 
 and he and Alice were together as they had 
 been before that upstart Jack stepped in. They 
 often came to the Squire's and oftener to the 
 Coneys'. Grace Coney, a niece of old Coney, 
 had come to live at the farm ; she was a nice 
 girl, and she and Alice liked each other. You 
 might see them with Herbert strolling about 
 the fields any hour in the day. At home 
 Alice and Herbert seemed never to care to 
 separate. Mrs. Dean watched them quietly, 
 and thought how beautifully her plans had 
 i\^orked. 
 
 Aunt Dean did not go home till October. 
 After she left, the parson had a stroke of para- 
 lysis. Charles Ashton, then just ordained to 
 priest's orders, took the duty. Mrs. Dean 
 came back again for Christmas. As if she 
 would let Alice stay away from the parsonage 
 ^^hen Herbert was at home ! 
 
 The Eose of Delhi did not come back for 
 nearly two years. She was what is called a 
 free ship, and took charters for any place she 
 could make money by. One day Alice Dean 
 was leaning out of the windows of her mother's 
 house, gazing wistfully on the si^arkling sea, 
 when a grand and stately vessel came sailing 
 homewards, and some brown-faced young fellow 
 on the quarter deck set on to swing his cap
 
 AUNT DEAN. 217 
 
 violently by way of hailing her. She looked 
 to the flag which hai:)pened to be flying, and 
 read the name there, " The Eose of Delhi." It 
 must be Jack who was saluting. Alice burst 
 into tears of emotion. 
 
 He came up from the docks the same day. 
 A great brown handsome fellow with the old 
 single heart and open manners. And he clasped 
 Alice in his arms and kissed her ever so many 
 times before she could get fi-ee. Being a grown- 
 up young lady now, she did not approve of 
 unceremonious kissing, and told Jack so. Aunt 
 Dean was not present, or she might have told 
 him so more to the purpose. 
 
 Jack had given satisfaction, and was getting 
 on. He told Alice privately that he did not 
 like the sea so much as he anticipated, and 
 could not believe how any other fellow did ; but 
 as he had chosen it as his calling, he meant to 
 stand by it. He went to Timberdale, in spite 
 of Aunt Dean's advice and efforts to keep him 
 away. Herbert was absent, she said, the rector 
 ill and childish. Jack found it all too true. 
 Mr. Lewis's mind had failed and his health 
 was breaking. He knew Jack and was over- 
 affectionate with him, but seemed not to re- 
 member anything of the past. So never a 
 word did Jack hear of his own disobedience, or 
 of any missing letters. 
 
 One person alone questioned him ; and that 
 was Alice. It was after he got back from
 
 218 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Timberdale. She asked him to tell her the 
 history of his sailing in the Eose of Delhi, and 
 he gave it in detail, without reserve. When he 
 spoke of the jDOstscript that Aunt Dean had 
 bade him add to his letter, arranging that 
 silence should be taken for consent, and that 
 as no answer had come, he of course had so 
 taken it, the girl turned sick and faint. She 
 saw the treachery that had been at work and 
 where it had lain; but for her mother's sake 
 she hushed it up and let the matter pass. 
 Alice had not lived with her mother so many 
 years without detecting her propensity for 
 deceit. 
 
 Some years passed by. Jack got on well. 
 He served as third mate on the Eose of Delhi 
 long before he could pass, by law, for second. 
 He was made second mate as soon as he had 
 passed for it. The Eose of Delhi came in and 
 went out, and Jack stayed by her, and passed 
 for first mate in course of time. He was not 
 sent back in any of his examinations, as most 
 young sailors are, and the board once went the 
 length of complimenting him on his answers. 
 The fact was. Jack held to his word of doing 
 his best ; he got into no mischief and was the 
 smartest sailor afloat. He was in consequence 
 a favourite with the owners, and Captain Druce 
 took pains with him and brought him on in 
 seamanship and navigation, and showed him 
 how to take observations, and all the rest of it.
 
 AUNT DEAN. 219 
 
 There's no end of difference in merchant- 
 captains in this respect : some teach their 
 junior officers nothing. Jack finally passed 
 triumphantly for master, and hoped his time 
 would come to get a command. Meanwhile he 
 went out again as first mate on the Eose of 
 Delhi. 
 
 One spring morning there came news to 
 Mrs. Dean from Timherdale. The rector had 
 had another stroke and was thought to he near 
 his end. She started off at once, with Alice. 
 Charles Ashton had had a living given to him ; 
 and Herbert Tanerton was now his stepfather's 
 curate. Herbert had passed as shiningly in 
 mods and divinity and all the rest of it as 
 Jack had passed before the marine board. He 
 was a steady, thoughtful, serious young man, 
 did his duty well in the parish, and preached 
 better sermons than ever the rector had, Mrs. 
 Dean, who looked upon him as Alice's husband 
 as surely as though they were married, was as 
 proud of his success as though it had been her 
 own. 
 
 The rector was very ill and unable to leave 
 his bed. His intellect was quite gone now. 
 Mrs. Dean sat with him most of the day, 
 leaving Alice to be taken care of by Herbert. 
 They went about together just as always, and 
 were on the best of confidential terms ; and 
 came over to the Coneys', and to us when we 
 were at Crabb Cot.
 
 220 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 *' Herbert," said Mrs. Dean one evening 
 when she had all her soft, sugary manner 
 upon her and was making the young j)arson 
 believe she had nobody's interest at heart in 
 the world but his: " my darling boy, is it not 
 almost time you began to think of marriage ? 
 None know the happiness and comfort brought 
 by a good wife, dear, until they experience it." 
 
 Herbert looked taken to. He turned as red 
 as a school-girl, and glanced half a moment at 
 Alice, like a detected thief. 
 
 *' I must wait until I get a living to think of 
 that. Aunt Dean." 
 
 "Is it necessary, Herbert ? I should have 
 thought you might bring a wife home to the 
 Piectory here." 
 
 Herbert turned off the subject with a jesting 
 word or two, and got out of his redness. Aunt 
 Dean was eminently satisfied ; his confusion 
 and his impromptu glance at Alice had told 
 tales ; and she knew it was only a question of 
 time. 
 
 The rector died. When the grass was long 
 and the May flowers were in bloom and the 
 cuckoo was singing in the trees, he passed peace- 
 fully to his Best. Just before death he recovered 
 speech and consciousness ; but the chief thing 
 lie said was that he left his love to Jack. 
 
 After the funeral the will was opened. It 
 had not been touched since that far past j^ear 
 when Jack had gone away to sea. Out of the
 
 AUNT DEAN. 221 
 
 eight hundrecl a year descenclecl from their 
 mother Jack had a hundred and fifty ; Her- 
 bert the rest. Aunt Dean made a hideous 
 frown for once in her life ; a hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year for Jack, was only, as she 
 looked ujDon it, so much robbery on Herbert 
 and Alice. Out of the little money saved by 
 the rector, five hundred pounds were left to his 
 sister, Eebecca Dean; the rest was to be 
 divided equally between Herbert and Jack; 
 and his fm-niture and effects went to Herbert. 
 On the whole. Aunt Dean was tolerably satisfied. 
 
 She was " a woman who liked to keep up 
 appearances strictly, and she made a move to 
 leave the young parson at the end of a week 
 or two's time, and go back to Liverpool. Her- 
 bert did not detain her. His own course was 
 uncertain until a fresh rector should be 
 appointed. The living was in the gift of a 
 neighbouring baronet, and it was fancied by 
 some that he might give it to Herbert. One 
 thing did surprise Mrs. Dean ; angered her too: 
 -that Herbert had not made his offer to Alice 
 before their departure. Now that he had his 
 own fortune at command, there was no necessity 
 for him to wait for a living. 
 
 News greeted them on their arrival. The 
 Rose of Delhi was on her way home once more, 
 with John Tanerton in command. Captain 
 Druce had been left behind at Calcutta, 
 dangerously ill. Alice's colour came and went.
 
 222 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 She looked out for the homeward-bound vessels 
 passing inwarcjs, and felt quite sick with 
 anxiety lest Jack should fail in any way, and 
 never bring home the ship. 
 
 "The Eose of Delhi, Captain Tanerton." 
 Alice Dean cast her eyes on the ship news in 
 the morning paper, and read the announcement 
 amidst the arrivals. Just for an instant her 
 sight left her. 
 
 "Mamma," she presently said, quietly pass- 
 ing over the newspaper, " the Eose of Delhi is 
 
 in 
 
 "The Eose of Delhi, Captain Tanerton," 
 read Mrs. Dean. " The idea of their sticking 
 in Jack's name as Captain ! He will have to 
 go down again as soon as Captain Druce re- 
 turns. A fine captain I daresay he has made ! " 
 
 "At least he has brought the ship home 
 safely and quickly," Alice ventured to say. " It 
 must have passed after dark last night." 
 
 " Why after dark ? '.' 
 
 Alice did not reply Because I was watching 
 till daylight faded — which would have been the 
 truth. " Had it passed before, some of us 
 might have seen it, mamma." 
 
 The day was waning before Jack came up. 
 Captain Tanerton. Jack was never to go back 
 again to his chief-mateship, as Aunt Dean had 
 surmised, for the owners had given him the 
 2)ermanent command of the Eose of Delhi. 
 The last mail had brought news from Captain
 
 AUNT DEAN. 22B 
 
 Driice that be should never be well enough for 
 the command again, and the owners were only 
 glad to give it to the younger and more active 
 man. The officers and crew alike reported that 
 never a better master sailed, than Jack had 
 proved himself on this homeward voyage. 
 
 " Don't you think I have been very lucky on 
 the whole, Aunt Dean ? Fancy a young fellow 
 like me getting such a beautiful ship as that !" 
 " Oh, very lucky," returned Aunt Dean. 
 Jack looked like a captain too. He was 
 broad and manly, with an intelligent, honest, 
 handsome face, and the quick keen eye of a 
 sailor. Jack was particular in his attire too : 
 and some sailors are not : he dressed as a 
 private gentleman when on shore. 
 
 " Only a hundred and fifty left to me ! " 
 cried Jack, when he was told the news. " Well, 
 perhaps Herbert may require more than I, poor 
 fellow," he added in his good nature; "he 
 may not get a good lining, and then he'll be 
 glad of it. I shall be sure to do well now I've 
 got the ship." 
 
 " You'll be at sea always. Jack, and will 
 have no use for money," said Mrs Dean. 
 
 '' Oh, I don't know about having no use for 
 it, aunt. Anyway, my father thought it right 
 to leave it so, and I am content. I wish I 
 could have said farewell to him before he died ! " 
 A few days more, and Aunt Dean was thrown 
 on her beam-ends at a worse angle than ever
 
 224 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 the Rose of Delhi hoped to he. Jack and 
 AHce discussed matters hetween themselves, 
 and the result was disclosed to her. They 
 were going to he married. 
 
 It was Alice who told. Jack had just left, 
 and she and her mother were sitting together 
 in the summer twilight. At first Mrs. Dean 
 thought Alice was joking : she was like a 
 mad woman when she found it true. Her great 
 dream had never foreshadowed this. 
 
 "How dare you to attempt to think of so 
 monstrous a thing, you wicked girl ? Marry 
 your own hrother-in-law ! — it would he no better. 
 It is Herbert that is to be your husband." 
 
 Alice shook her head with a smile. "Her- 
 bert would not have me, mamma; nor would I 
 have him. Herbert will marry Grace Coney." 
 
 " Who ? " cried Mrs. Dean. 
 
 " Grace Coney. They have been in love 
 with one another ever so many years. I have 
 known it all along. He will marry her as soon 
 as his future is settled. I had promised to be 
 one of the bridesmaids, but I suppose I shall 
 not get the chance now." 
 
 "Grace Coney — that beggarly girl! " shrieked 
 Mrs. Dean. "But for her uncle's giving her 
 shelter she must have turned out in the world 
 when her father died and got her living how 
 she could. She is not a lady. She is not 
 Herbert's equal." 
 
 " Oh, ves, she is, mamma. She is a nice
 
 AUNT DEAN. 225 
 
 giii and will make him a perfect wife. Herbert 
 would not exchange her for the richest lady in 
 the land." 
 
 " If Herbert chooses to make a spectacle of 
 himself, you never shall ! " cried poor Mrs. Dean, 
 all her golden visions fast melting into air. "I 
 would see that wicked Jack Tanerton at the 
 bottom of the sea first." 
 
 "Mother, dear, listen to me. Jack and I 
 have cared for each other for years and years, 
 and we should neither of us marry anybody 
 else. There is nothing to wait for ; Jack is 
 as well off as he will be for years to come : 
 and — and we have settled it so, and I hope 
 you will not oppose it." 
 
 It was a cruel moment for Aunt Dean. Her 
 love for other people had been all pretence, but 
 she did love her daughter. Besides that, she 
 was ambitious for her. 
 
 '' I can never let you marry a sailor, Alice. 
 Anything but that." 
 
 " It was you who made Jack a sailor, mother, 
 and there's no help for it," said Alice, in a low 
 tone. " I would rather he had been anything 
 else in the world. I would have liked him to 
 have had land and farmed it. We should have 
 done well. Jack had his four hundred a year 
 clear, you know. At least, he ought to have 
 had it. Oh, mother, don't you see that while 
 you have been plotting against Jack you have 
 plotted against me?" 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Aunt Dean felt sick with the memories that 
 were crowding upon her. The mistake she had 
 made was a frightful one. 
 
 *' You cannot join your fate to Jack's, Alice," 
 she repeated, wringing her hands. ** A sailor's 
 wife is too liable to be made a widow." 
 
 '*I know it, mother. I shall share his 
 danger, for I am going out in the Eose of 
 Delhi. The owners have consented, and Jack 
 is fitting up a lovely little cabin for me that is 
 to be my own saloon." 
 
 *' My daughter sailing over the seas in 
 a merchant ship !" gasped Aunt Dean. 
 ''Never!" 
 
 " I should be no true wife if I could let my 
 husband sail without me. Mother, it is you 
 alone who have carved out our destiny. Better 
 have left it to God." 
 
 In a startled way, her heart full of remorse, 
 she was beginning to see it ; and sat down, 
 half fainting, on a chaii'. 
 
 *'It is a miserable prospect, Alice." 
 
 " Mother, we shall get on. There's the 
 hundred and fifty a year certain, you know. 
 That we shall put by ; and, as long as I sail 
 with him, a good deal more besides. Jack's 
 pay is fixed at twenty pounds a month, and he 
 will make more by commission : perhaps as 
 much again. Have no fear for us on that 
 score. Jack has been deprived unjustly of 
 his birthright ; and I think sometimes that
 
 AUNT DEAN. 227 
 
 perhaps as a recompense Heaven will prosper 
 him." 
 
 " But the danger, Alice ! The danger of a 
 sea-life!" 
 
 " Do you know what Jack says about the 
 danger, mother ? He says God is over us on 
 the sea as well as on the land and will take 
 care of those who put their trust in Him. In 
 the wildest storm I will try to let that great 
 truth help me to feel peace." 
 
 Alas for Aunt Dean ! The arguments slipped 
 away from her hands just as her plans had 
 slipped. In her bitter repentance, she lay on 
 the floor of her room that night and asked God 
 to have pity upon her, for her trouble seemed 
 greater than she could bear. 
 
 The morning's post brought news from Her- 
 bert. He was made Eector of Timberdale. 
 Aunt Dean wrote back, telling him what had 
 taken place, and asking, nay, almost command- 
 ing, that he should restore an equal share of 
 the property to Jack. Herbert replied that he 
 should abide by his stepfather's will. The 
 living of Timberdale was not a rich one, and he 
 wished Grace, his future wife, to be comfortable. 
 *' Herbert was always intensely selfish," groaned 
 Aunt Dean. Look on which side she would, 
 there was no comfort. 
 
 The Eose of Delhi, Captain Tanerton, sailed 
 out of port again, carrying also with her Mrs. 
 Tanerton, the captain's wife. And Aunt Dean
 
 228 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 was left to bemoan her fate, and wish she had 
 never meddled to shape out other people's des- 
 tinies. Better, as Alice said, that she had left 
 that to God.
 
 GOING THKOUGH THE TUNNEL. 229 
 
 VITI. 
 GOING THEOUGH THE TUNNEL. 
 
 WE had to make a rush for it. And making 
 a rush did not suit the Squire, any 
 more than it does other peoj)le who have 
 come to an age when the body's big and the 
 breath nowhere. He reached the train, pushed 
 head-foremost into a carriage, and then re- 
 membered the tickets. *' Bless my heart!" 
 he exclaimed, as he jumped out again, and 
 nearly upset a lady who had a little dog in 
 her arms, and a great big mass of fashionable 
 hair on her head, that the Squire, in his hurry, 
 mistook for tow. 
 
 " Plenty of time, sir," said a guard who was 
 passing. " There's three minutes to spare." 
 
 Instead of saying he was obliged to the man 
 for his civility, or relieved to find the tickets 
 might be had still, the Squire snatched out his 
 old watch, and began abusing the railway clocks 
 for being slow. Had Tod been there he would 
 have told him to his face that it was the watch 
 that was fast, braving all retort, for the Squire 
 believed in his watch as he did in himself, and 
 would rather have been told that he could go
 
 230 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 wrong than that the watch could. But there 
 was only me : and I'd not have said it for 
 anything. 
 
 '' Keep two back-seats there, Johnny," said 
 the Squire. 
 
 I put my coat on the corner-seat furthest 
 from the door, and the rug on the one next to 
 it, and followed him into the station. When 
 the Squire was late in starting, he was apt to 
 get into the greatest flurry conceivable ; and 
 the first thing I saw was himself blocking up 
 the ticket-place, and undoing his pocket-book 
 with twitching fingers. He had some loose gold 
 about him, silver too, but the pocket-book met 
 his hand first, so he pulled out that. These 
 flurried moments of the Squire's amused Tod 
 beyond telling ; he was so cool himself. 
 
 *' Can you change this ? " said the Squire, 
 drawing out one from a roll of five-pound 
 notes. 
 
 " No, I can't," was the answer, in the surly 
 tone put on by ticket-clerks. 
 
 How the Squire crumpled up the note again, 
 and searched in his breeches pocket for the 
 gold, and came away with the two tickets and 
 the change, I'm sure he never knew. There 
 was a crowd gathered round, wanting to take 
 their tickets in turn, and the knowledge that 
 he was keeping them flurried him all the more. 
 He stood at the back a moment, put the roll of 
 notes into his case, fastened it and returned it
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 231 
 
 to the breast of his over-coat, sent the change 
 down into another pocket without counting it, 
 and went out with the tickets in his hand. Not 
 to the carriage ; but to take a stare at the big 
 clock in front. 
 
 '^ Don't you see, Johnny? exactly four 
 minutes and a half difference," he cried, hold- 
 ing out his watch to me. *' It is a strange 
 thing they can't keep these railway clocks in 
 order." 
 
 *' My watch keeps good time, sir, and mine 
 is with the railway. I think it is right." 
 
 '* Hold your tongue, Johnny. How dare you ! 
 Eight! You send your watch to be regu- 
 lated the first opportunity, sir ; don't you 
 get into the habit of being too late or too 
 early." 
 
 When we went finally to the carriage there 
 were some people in it, but our seats were left. 
 Squire Todhetley sat down by the further door, 
 and settled himself and his coats and his things 
 comfortably, which he had been too flurried to do 
 before. Coolas acucumberwas he, now the bustle 
 was over; cool as Tod could have been. At the 
 other door, with his face to the engine, sat a 
 dark, gentlemanly-looking man of forty, who 
 had made room for us to pass him as we got 
 in. He had a large signet-ring on one hand, 
 and a lavender glove on the other. The other 
 three seats opposite to us were vacant. Next 
 to me sat a little man with a fresh colour and
 
 232 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 gold spectacles, who was already reading ; and 
 beyond him, in the corner, face to face with the 
 dark man, was a lunatic. That's to speak of 
 him politely. Of all the restless, fidgety, wor- 
 rying, hot-tempered passengers that ever put 
 themselves into a carriage to travel with people 
 in their senses, he was the worst. In fifteen 
 moments he had made fifteen darts ; now after 
 his hat-box and things above his head ; now 
 calling the guard and the porters to ask sense- 
 less questions about his luggage ; now treading 
 on our toes, and trying the corner seat opposite 
 the Squii'e, and then darting back to his own. 
 His hair was a wig, and had a decided green 
 tinge, the effect of keeping, perhaps, and his skin 
 was dry and shrivelled as an Egyptian mummy's. 
 
 A servant, in undress livery, came to the 
 door, and touched his hat, which had a cockade 
 in it, as he spoke to the dark man. 
 
 " Your ticket, my lord." 
 
 Lords are not travelled with every day, and 
 some of us looked up. The gentleman took the 
 ticket from the man's hand and slipped it into 
 his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 " You can get me a newspaper, Wilkins. The 
 Times, if it is to be had." 
 
 " Y"es, my lord." 
 
 ''Yes, there's room here, ma'am," inter- 
 rupted the guard, sending the door back with a 
 click, for a lady who stood at it. "Make haste^ 
 please."
 
 GOIN^G THKOUGH THE TUNNEL. 233 
 
 The lady who stepped in was the same the 
 Squire had bolted against. She sat down in 
 the seat opposite me, and looked at every one 
 of us by turns. There was a kind of violet 
 bloom on her face and some soft white powder, 
 seen plain enough through her veil. She took 
 the longest gaze at the dark gentleman, bending 
 a little forward to do it ; for, as he was in a 
 line with her, and had his head turned from 
 her as well, her curiosity could only get a view 
 of his side-face. Mrs. Todhetley might have 
 said she had not put on her company manners. 
 In the midst of this, the servant-man came back 
 again. 
 
 " The Times is not here yet, my lord. They 
 are expecting the papers in by the next down 
 train." 
 
 " Never mind, then. You can get me one at 
 the next station, Wilkins." 
 
 " Very well, my lord." 
 
 Wilkins must certainly have had a scramble 
 for his carriage, for we started before he had 
 well left the door. It was not an express-train, 
 and we should have to stop at several stations. 
 Where the Squire and I had been staying does 
 not matter ; it has nothing to do with what I 
 have to tell. It was a long way from our own 
 home, and that's enough to say. 
 
 '' Would you mind changing seats with me, 
 sir?" 
 
 I looked up, to find the lady's face close to
 
 234 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 mine ; she had spoken in a half-whisper. The 
 Squire, who carried his old-fashioned notions of 
 politeness with him when he went travelling, at 
 once got up to offer her the corner. But she 
 declined it, saying she was subject to face-ache, 
 and did not care to be next the window. So 
 she took my seat, and I sat down in the one 
 opposite Mr. Todhetley. 
 
 " Which of the peers is that ?" I heard her 
 ask him in a loud whisper, as the lord put his 
 head out at his window. 
 
 ** Don't know at all, ma'am," said the Squire. 
 ** Don't know many of the peers myself, except 
 those of my own county : Lyttelton, and Beau- 
 champ, and " 
 
 Of all snarling barks, the worst was given 
 that moment in the Squire's face, stopping the 
 list suddenly. The little dog, an ugly, hairy, 
 vile-tempered Scotch terrier, had been held in 
 concealment under the lady's jacket, and now 
 struggled himself free. The Squire's look of 
 consternation was good ! You see, he had not 
 known any animal was there. 
 
 " Be quiet. Wasp. How dare you bark at 
 the gentleman? He will not bite, sir: he " 
 
 *' Who has got a dog in the carriage?" 
 shrieked out the lunatic, starting up in a 
 passion. *' Dogs don't travel with passengers. 
 Here! Guard! Guard!" 
 
 To call out for the guard when a train is 
 going at full speed is generally useless. The
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 235 
 
 lunatic had to sit down again ; and the lady 
 defied him, so to say, coolly avowing that she 
 had hid the dog from the guard on purpose, 
 staring him in the face while she said it. 
 
 After this there was a lull, and we went 
 speeding along, the lady talking now and again 
 to the Squire. She seemed to want to get con- 
 fidential with him; but the Squire did not seem 
 to care for it, though he was quite civil. She 
 held the dog in her lap amidst her clothes, so 
 that nothing but his head peeped out. 
 
 *' Halloa ! How dare they be so negligent ? 
 There's no lamp in this carriage." 
 
 It was the lunatic again, and we all looked 
 at the lamp. It had no light in it; but that 
 it had when we first reached the carriage 
 was certain ; for, as the Squire went stumbling 
 in, his head nearly touched the lamp, and I 
 had noticed the flame. It seems the Squire 
 had also. 
 
 ^' They must have put it out while we were 
 getting our tickets," he said. 
 
 " I'll know the reason why when we stop," 
 cried the lunatic, fiercely. " After passing the 
 next station, we dash into the long tunnel. The 
 idea of going through it in pitch-darkness ! It 
 would not be safe." 
 
 ** Especially with a dog in the carriage," 
 spoke the lord, in a chafi&ng kind of tone, but 
 with a good-natured smile. *' We will have the 
 lamp lighted, however."
 
 236 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 As if to reward him for interference, the dog 
 barked up loudly, and tried to make a spring at 
 him ; upon which the lady smothered the animal 
 up, head and all. 
 
 Another minute or two, and the train began 
 to slacken its speed. It was but an insignificant 
 station, one not likely to be halted at for above 
 a minute. The lunatic twisted his body out at 
 the window, and shouted for the guard long 
 before we were at a standstill. 
 
 "Allow me to manage this," said the lord, 
 quietly putting him down. ' ' They know me on 
 the line. Wilkins!" 
 
 The man came rushing up at the call. He 
 must have been out already, though we were 
 not quite at a stand-still yet. 
 
 "Is it for the Times, my lord ? I am going 
 to get it?" 
 
 " Never mind the Times. This lamp is not 
 lighted, Wilkins. See the guard, and get it done. 
 At once." 
 
 " And ask him what the mischief he means 
 by his carelessness," roared out the lunatic in 
 the wake of Wilkins, who went flying off. 
 " Sending us on our road without a light ! — 
 and that dangerous tunnel close at hand." 
 
 The emphatic authority laid upon the words 
 " Get it done," seemed an earnest that the 
 speaker was accustomed to be obeyed at will, 
 and would be this time. For once the lunatic 
 sat quiet, watching the lamp, and for the light
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 237 
 
 that was to be dropped into it fi-om the top ; 
 and so did I, and so did the lady. We were 
 all deceived, however, and the train went puffing 
 on. The lunatic shrieked, the lord put his 
 head out of the carriage and shouted for 
 Wilkins. 
 
 No good. Shouting after a train is off 
 never is much good. The lord sat down on his 
 seat again, an angry frown crossing his face, 
 and the lunatic got up and danced on his legs. 
 
 " I do not know where the blame lies," 
 observed the lord. " Not with my servant, I 
 think : he is attentive, and has been with me 
 some years." 
 
 ''I'll know where it lies," retorted the lunatic. 
 " I am a director on the line, though I don't 
 often travel on it. This is management, this 
 is ! A few minutes more, and we shall be in 
 the dark tunnel." 
 
 " Of course it would have been satisfactory 
 to have a light ; but it is not of so much conse- 
 quence," said the nobleman, wishing to soothe 
 him. *' There's no danger in the dark." 
 
 *' No danger ! No danger, sir ! I think there 
 is danger. Who's to know that dog won't 
 spring out and bite us ? Who's to know there 
 won't be an accident in mid-tunnel ? A light 
 is a protection against having our pockets 
 picked, if it's a protection against nothing 
 else." 
 
 " I fancy our pockets are pretty safe to-day,"
 
 238 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 said the lord, glancing round at us with a good- 
 natured smile ; as much as to say that none of 
 us looked like thieves. " And I certainly trust 
 we shall get through the tunnel in safety." 
 
 " And I'll take care the dog does not hite you 
 in the dark," spoke up the lady, pushing her 
 head forward to give the lunatic a nod or two 
 that you'd hardly have matched for defiant im- 
 pudence. *' You'll he good, won't you. Wasp ! 
 But I should like the lamp lighted myself. 
 You will perhaps be so kind, my lord, as to see 
 that there's no mistake made about it at the 
 next station !" 
 
 He slightly raised his hat to her and 
 bowed in answer, but did not speak. The 
 lunatic buttoned up his coat with fingers that 
 were either nervous or angry, and then disturbed 
 the little gentleman next him, who had read his 
 big book throughout the whole commotion with- 
 out once lifting his eyes, by hunting everywhere 
 for his pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 '' Here's the tunnel ! " he cried out resentfully, 
 as we dashed with a shriek into pitch-darkness. 
 It was all very well for her to say she would 
 take care of the dog, but the first thing the 
 young beast did was to make a spring at me 
 and then at the Squire, barking and yelping 
 frightfully. The Squire pushed it away in a 
 commotion. Though well accustomed to dogs, 
 he always fought shy of strange ones. The 
 lady chattered and laughed, and did not seem to
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 239 
 
 try to get hold of him, but we couldn't see, 
 you know ; the Squire hissed at him, the dog 
 snarled and growled ; altogether there was noise 
 enough to deafen anything but a tunnel. 
 
 ** Pitch him out at the window," cried the 
 lunatic. 
 
 " Pitch yourself out," answered the lady. 
 And whether she propelled the dog, or whether 
 he went of his own accord, the beast sprang to 
 the other end of the carriage, and was seized 
 upon by the nobleman. 
 
 " I think, madam, you had better put him 
 under your mantle and keep him there," said 
 he, bringing the dog back to her and speaking 
 quite civilly, but in the same tone of authority 
 he had used to his servant about the lamp. *'I 
 have not the slightest objection to dogs myself, 
 but many people have, and it is not altogether 
 pleasant to have them loose in a railway car- 
 riage. I beg your pardon ; I cannot see ; is 
 this your hand?" 
 
 It was her hand, I suppose, for the dog was 
 left with her, and he went back to his seat 
 again. When we emerged out of the tunnel 
 into the light of day, the lunatic's face was 
 blue. 
 
 *' Ma'am, if that miserable brute had laid 
 hold of me by so much as the corner of my 
 great-coat tail, I'd have had the law of you. It is 
 perfectly monstrous that anybody, putting them- 
 selves into a first-class carriage, should attempt
 
 240 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 to outrage railway laws, and upset the comfort 
 of travellers with impunity. I shall complain 
 to the guard." 
 
 ''He does not bite, sir; he never bites," 
 she softly answered, as if sorry for the escapade, 
 and wishing to conciliate him. " The poor 
 little bijou is frightened at darkness, and leaped 
 from my arms unawares. There ! I'll promise 
 that you shall neither see nor hear him 
 again." 
 
 She had tucked the dog so completely out of 
 sight, that no one could have suspected one was 
 there, just as it had been on first entering. 
 The train was drawn up to the next station ; 
 when it stopped, the servant came and opened 
 the carriage-door for his master to get out. 
 
 "Did you understand me, Wilkins, when I 
 told you to get this lamp lighted ?" 
 
 " My lord, I'm very sorry ; I understood 
 your lordship perfectly, but I couldn't see the 
 guard," answered Wilkins. " I caught sight of 
 him running up to his van-door at the last 
 moment, but the train began to move off, and I 
 had to jump in myself, or else be left behind." 
 
 The guard passed as he was explaining this, 
 and the nobleman drew his attention to the 
 lamp, curtly ordering him to "light it instantly." 
 Lifting his hat to us by way of farewell, he dis- 
 appeared ; and the lunatic began upon the 
 guard as if he were commencing a lecture in 
 Bedlam to a deaf audience. The guard seemed
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 241 
 
 not to hear it, so lost was he in astonishment 
 at there being no light. 
 
 " Why, what can have clouted it ?" he cried 
 aloud, staring up at the lamp. And the Squire 
 smiled at the familiar word, so common in our 
 ears at home, and had a great mind to ask the 
 guard whence he came. 
 
 " I lighted all these here lamps myself afore 
 we started, and I see 'em all burning," said he. 
 There was no mistaking the home accent now, 
 and the Squire looked down the carriage with a 
 beaming face. 
 
 ** You are from Worcestershire, my man." 
 
 " From Worcester itself, sir. Leastways 
 from St. John's, which is the same thing." 
 
 '' Whether you are from Worcester, or 
 whether you are from Jericho, I'll let you know 
 that you can't put dark lamps into first-class- 
 carriages on this line without being made to^ 
 answer for it ! " roared the lunatic. " What's- 
 your name ? I am a director." 
 
 " My name is Thomas Brooks, sir," replied 
 the man, respectfully touching his silver-banded 
 cap. " But I declare to you, sir, that I've told 
 the truth in saying the lamps were all right when 
 we started : how this one can have got douted, I 
 can't think. There's not a guard on the line, 
 sir, more particular in seeing to the lamps than 
 I am." 
 
 " Well, light it now ; don't waste time ex- 
 cusing yourself," growled the lunatic. But he 
 
 VOL I. R
 
 242 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 said nothing about the dog ; which was sur- 
 prising. 
 
 In a twinkling the lamp was lighted, and we 
 were off again. The lady and her dog were 
 quiet now : he was out of sight : she leaned 
 back to go to sleep. The Squire put his head 
 against the curtain, and shut his eyes to do 
 the same ; the little man, as before, never 
 looked off his book ; and the lunatic frantically 
 shifted himself every two minutes between his 
 own seat and that of the oj^posite corner. There 
 were no more tunnels, and we went smoothly 
 on to the next station. Five minutes allowed 
 there. 
 
 The little man, putting his book in his pocket, 
 took up a black leather bag from above his 
 head, and got out ; the lady, her dog hidden 
 still, prepared to follow him, wishing the Squire 
 and me, and even the lunatic, with a forgiving 
 smile, a polite good morning. I had moved to 
 that end, and was watching the lady's wonder- 
 ful back hair as she stepped out, when all in a 
 moment the Squire sjDrang up with a shout and 
 a cry, and jumped out nearly upon her, calling 
 out that he had been robbed. She dropped 
 the dog, and I thought he must have caught the 
 lunatic's disorder and become fi-antic. 
 
 It is of no use attempting to describe exactly 
 what followed. The lady, snatching up her 
 dog, shrieked out that perhaps she had been 
 robbed too; she laid hold of the Squire's arm,
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 243 
 
 and went with him into the station-master's 
 room. And there we were : us three ; and the 
 guard, and the station-master, and the lunatic, 
 who had come pouncing out too at the Squire's 
 cry. The man in spectacles had disappeared 
 for good. 
 
 The Squu'e's pocket-book was gone. He 
 gave his name and address at once to the 
 station-master : and the guard's face lighted 
 with intelligence when he heard it, for he knew 
 Squire Todhetley by reputation. The pocket-book 
 had been safe just before we entered the tunnel ; 
 the Squire was certain of that, having felt it. 
 He had sat in the carriage with his coat un- 
 buttoned, rather thrown back ; and nothing 
 could have been easier than for a practised 
 thief to draw it cleverly out, under cover of the 
 darkness. 
 
 "I had fifty pounds in it," he said; "fifty 
 pounds in five-pound notes. And some memo- 
 randa besides." 
 
 '' Fifty pounds ! " cried out the lady, quickly. 
 ** And you could travel with all that about you, 
 and not button up your coat ! You ought to 
 be rich!" 
 
 *' Have you been in the habit of meeting 
 thieves, madam, when traTelling?" suddenly 
 demanded the lunatic, turning upon her without 
 warning, his coat whirling about on all sides 
 with the rapidity of his movements, as if the 
 wind took it.
 
 244 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " No, sir, I have not," she answered, in an. 
 indignant tone. " Have you ? " 
 
 " I have not, madam. But then, you per- 
 ceive I see no risk in travelKng with a coat 
 unbuttoned, although it may have bank-notes 
 in its pockets." 
 
 She made no reply : was too much occupied 
 in turning out her own pockets and purse, to> 
 ascertain that they had not been rifled. Re- 
 assured on the point, she sat down on a low 
 box against the wall, nursing her dog ; which 
 had begun his snarling barks again. 
 
 " It must have been taken from me in the 
 darkness as we went through the tunnel," 
 affirmed the Squire to the room in general and 
 perhaps the station-master in particular. " I 
 am a magistrate, and have some experience in 
 these things. I sat completely off my guards 
 a ready prey to anybody, my hands stretched 
 out before me, grappling with that dog, that 
 seemed — why, goodness me ! yes he did, now 
 that I think of it — that seemed to be held about 
 fifteen inches off my nose on purpose to attack 
 me. That's when the thing must have been 
 done. But now — which of them could it have 
 been ?" 
 
 He meant of the passengers. As he looked 
 hard at us in rotation, especially at the guard 
 and station-master, who had not been in the 
 carriage, the lady gave a shrill shriek, and 
 threw the dog into the middle of the room.
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 245 
 
 '' I see it all," she said, faintly. "He lias 
 a habit of snatching at things with his mouth. 
 He must have snatched the case out of your 
 pocket, sir, and dropped it from the window. 
 You will find it in the tunnel." 
 
 ''Who has?" asked the lunatic, while the 
 Squire stared in wonder. 
 
 " My poor little Wasp. Ah, villain ! beast ! 
 it is he that has done all this mischief." 
 
 " He might have taken the pocket-book," I 
 said, thinking it time to speak, '' but he could 
 not have dropped it out, for I put the window 
 «p as we went into the tunnel." 
 
 It seemed a nonplus, and her face fell again. 
 ^' There was the other window," she said in a 
 minute. " He might have dropped it there. I 
 heard his bark quite close to it." 
 
 " I pulled up that window, madam," said the 
 lunatic. " If the dog did take it out of the 
 pocket it may be in the carriage now." 
 
 The guard rushed out to search it ; the 
 Squire followed, but the station-master remained 
 where he was, and closed the door after them. 
 A thought came over me that he was staying to 
 keep the two passengers in view. 
 
 No ; the pocket-book could not be found in 
 the carriage. As they came back, the Squire 
 was asking the guard if he knew who the noble- 
 man was who had got out at the last station 
 with his servant. But the guard did not. 
 
 '' He said they knew him on the line."
 
 246 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Very likely sir. I have not been on this 
 line above a month or two." 
 
 '* Well, this is an unpleasant affair," said 
 the lunatic impatiently, " and the question is 
 — What's to be done ? It appears pretty evi- 
 dent that your pocket-book was taken in the 
 carriage, sir. Of the four passengers, I suppose 
 the one who left us at the last station must be 
 held exempt from suspicion, being a nobleman. 
 Another got out here, and has disappeared ; 
 the other two are present. I propose that we 
 should both be searched." 
 
 "I'm sure I am quite willing," said the lady, 
 and she got up at once. 
 
 I think the Squire was about to disclaim any 
 wish so to act ; but the lunatic was resolute, 
 and the station-master agreed with him. There 
 was no time to be lost, for the train was in a 
 hurry to go, her minutes were up, and the luna- 
 tic was turned out. The lady went into another 
 room with two women, called by the station- 
 master, and she was turned out. Neither of 
 them had the pocket-book. 
 
 '' Here's my card, sir," said the lunatic, 
 handing one to Mr. Todhetley. " You know my 
 name, I daresay. If I can be of any future assist- 
 ance to you in this matter, you may command 
 me." 
 
 ** Bless my heart ! " cried the Squire, as he 
 read the name on the card. " How could you 
 allow yourself to be searched, sir ? "
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUXXEL. 247 
 
 *' Because, in such a case as this, I think it 
 only right and fair that everybody who has the 
 misfortune to be mixed up in it should be 
 searched," replied the lunatic, as they went 
 out together. "It is a satisfaction to both 
 parties. Unless you offered to search me, you 
 could not have offered to search that w^oman ; 
 and I suspected her." 
 
 " Suspected /ier/ " cried the Squire, opening 
 his eyes. 
 
 *' If I didn't suspect, I doubted. Why on 
 earth did she cause her dog to make all that 
 row the moment we got into the tunnel? It 
 must have been done then. I should not be 
 startled out of my senses if I heard that that 
 silent man by my side and hers was in league 
 with her." 
 
 The Squire stood in a kind of maze, trying 
 to recal what he could of the little man in 
 spectacles, and see if things would fit into one 
 another. 
 
 "Don't you like her look?" he suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 " No, I don't,'' said the lunatic, turning him- 
 self about recklessly. " I have a prejudice 
 against painted women : they put me in mind 
 of Jezebel. Look at her hair. It's awful." 
 
 He went out in a storm, and took his seat in 
 the carriage, not a moment before it puffed off. 
 
 "7s he a lunatic ? " I whispered to the Squire. 
 
 " He a lunatic!" he roared. "You must
 
 248 JJH.WNY LUDLOW. 
 
 be a lunatic for asking it, Johnny. Why, that's 
 —that's " 
 
 Instead of saying more, he showed me the 
 card, and the name nearl}^ took my breath away. 
 He is a well-known London man, of science, 
 talent, and position, and of world-wide fame. 
 
 " Well, I thought him nothing better than an 
 escaped maniac." 
 
 " Did you?" said the Squire. " Perhaps he 
 returned the comj^liment on you, sir. But now 
 — Johnn}^ who has got my pocket-book?" 
 
 As if it was any use asking me ! As w^e 
 turned back to the station-master's room, the 
 lady came into it, evidently resenting the 
 search, although she had seemed to acquiesce 
 in it so readily. 
 
 " They were rude, those women. It is the 
 first time I ever had the misfortune to travel 
 with men who carry pocket-books to lose them, 
 and I hope it will be the last," she pursued, in 
 scornful j)assion, meant for the Squire. '' One 
 generally meets with gentlemen in a first-class 
 carriage." 
 
 The emphasis came out with a sort of shriek, 
 ;and it told on him. Now that she was proved 
 innocent, he was as vexed as she for having 
 listened to the advice of the scientific man — 
 .but I can't help calling him a lunatic still. The 
 Squire's apologies might have disarmed a 
 cross-grained h^'aena ; and she came round with 
 a smile.
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 249 
 
 '' If anybody lias got the pocket-book," she 
 said, as she stroked her dog's ears, " it must 
 be that silent man with the gold spectacles. 
 There T^as nobody else, sir, who could have 
 reached jon without getting up to do it. And 
 I declare on my honour that when that commo- 
 tion first arose through my poor little dog, I 
 felt for a moment something like a man's arm 
 stretched out across me. It could only have 
 been his. I hope you have the numbers of the 
 notes. 
 
 " But I have not," said the Squire. 
 
 The room was being invaded by this time. 
 Two stray joassengers, a friend of the station- 
 master's, and the porter who took the tickets, 
 had crept in. All thought the lady's oj)inion 
 must be correct, and said the spectacled man 
 had got clear off with the pocket-book. There 
 Tvas nobody else to pitch upon. A nobleman 
 -travelling with his servant would not be likely 
 to commit a robbery ; the lunatic was really 
 the man his card represented him to be, for the 
 station-master's friend had seen and recognized 
 him ; and the lady was proved innocent by 
 practical search. Wasn't the Squire in a 
 passion ! 
 
 " That close reading of his was all a blind," 
 he said, in sudden conviction. " He kept his 
 face down that we should not know him in 
 future. He never looked at one of us ! he 
 never said a word ! I shall go and find him."
 
 250 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Away went the Squire, as fast as he could 
 run, but came back in a moment to know which 
 was the way out, and where it led to. There 
 was quite a lot of us by this time. Some fields 
 lay beyond the outlet of the station at the back ; 
 and a boy affirmed that he had seen a little 
 gentleman in spectacles, with a black bag in 
 his hand, making over the first stile. 
 
 " Now look you here, boy," said the Squire. 
 ** If you catch that same man, I'll give you 
 five shillings." 
 
 Tod could not have flown faster than the boy 
 did. He took the stile at a kind of leap ; it 
 was high and awkward ; and the Squire tumbled 
 over it after him. Some boys and men joined 
 in the chase ; and a cow, feeding in the field, 
 trotted after us and brought uj) the rear. 
 
 Such a shout from the boy ! It came from 
 behind the opposite hedge of the long field. I 
 was over the gate first ; the Squire came 
 next. 
 
 On the edge of the dry ditch sat the passen- 
 ger, his legs hanging down, his neck imprisoned 
 in the boy's arms. I knew him at once. His 
 hat and his gold spectacles had fallen off in the 
 scuffle ; the black bag was wide open, and had 
 a tall bunch of something green sticking up 
 from it ; some tools lay on the ground. 
 
 " Oh, you wicked hyj)ocrite! " spluttered the 
 Squire, not in the least knowing what he said 
 in his passion. " Are you not ashamed to have
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 251 
 
 played upon me such a vile trick ? How dare 
 you go about to commit robberies ! " 
 
 ^'I have not robbed you, at any rate," said the 
 man, his voice shaking a little and his face 
 pale, while the boy loosed the neck but jDinioned 
 the arms behind. 
 
 " Not robbed me ! " cried the Squire. "Good 
 heavens! Whom do you suppose you have 
 robbed, if not me? Here, Johnny, lad, you are 
 a witness. He says he has not robbed me." 
 
 " I did not know it was yours," said the man 
 meekly, '* Loose me, boy; I'll not attempt to 
 run away." 
 
 "Halloa! here! what's to do? "roared a 
 big fellow, swinging himself over the gate. 
 "Any tramp been trespassing ? — anybody want- 
 ing to be took up ? I'm the parish constable.'* 
 
 If he had said he was the parish engine, 
 ready to let loose buckets of water on the offen- 
 der, he could not have been more welcome. The 
 Squire's face was rosy with satisfaction. 
 
 " Have you got your handcuffs with you, my 
 man?'* 
 
 " I've not got them, sir ; but I fancy I'm big 
 enough and strong enough to take liim without 
 'em. Something to spare, too." 
 
 " There's nothing like handcuffs for safety," 
 said the Squire, rather damped, for he believed 
 in them as one of the country's institutions. 
 " Oh, you villain I Perhaps you can tie him 
 with cords ? "
 
 252 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 The tliief floundered out of the ditch and 
 stood upon his feet. He did not look an un- 
 gentlemanly thief, now you came to see him and 
 hear him ; and his face, though scared and 
 white, might have been thought an honest one. 
 He picked up his hat and glasses, and held 
 them in his hand while he spoke, in a tone of 
 earnest remonstrance. 
 
 " Surely, sir, you will not have me taken up 
 for this slight offence ! I did not know I was 
 doing wrong, and I doubt if the law would con- 
 demn me ; I thought it was public property." 
 
 "Public property!" danced the Squire, 
 turning red at the words. " Of all the impu- 
 dent brazen-faced rascals that are cheating the 
 gallows, you must be the worst. My bank-notes 
 IDublic property! " 
 
 ''Your what, sir?" 
 
 *' My bank-notes, j^ou villain. How dare you 
 repeat your insolent question ! ' ' 
 
 " But I don't know anything about your bank- 
 notes, sir," said the man meekly. ''I do not 
 know what you mean." 
 
 They stood facing each other, a sight for a 
 picture: the Squire with his hands under his 
 coat, dancing a little in rage, his face crimson ; 
 the other quite still, holding his hat and gold 
 spectacles, and looking at him in wonder. 
 
 " You don't know what I mean ! When you 
 confessed with your last breath that you had 
 robbed me of my pocket-book ! "
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 253 
 
 " I confessed — I have not sought to conceal 
 — that I have robbed the ground of this rare 
 fern," said the man, handling carefully the 
 green-stuff in the black bag. "I have not 
 robbed you, or anyone, of anything else." 
 
 The tone, simple, quiet, self-contained, put 
 the Squire in amaze. He stood staring. 
 
 ''Are you a fool?" he asked. "What do 
 you suppose I have to do with your rubbishing 
 ferns?" 
 
 " Nay, I supposed you owned them; that is, 
 owned the land. You led me to believe so, in 
 saying I had robbed you." 
 
 "What I've lost is a pocket-book, with ten 
 live-pound bank-notes in it ; I lost it in the 
 train ; it must have been taken as we came 
 through the tunnel ; and you sat next but one 
 to me," reiterated the Squire. 
 
 The man put on his hat and glasses. " I 
 am a geologist and botanist, sir. I came here 
 after this plant toVlay — having seen it yesterday, 
 but I had not then my tools with me. 1 don't 
 know anything about the pocket-book and bank- 
 notes." 
 
 So that was another mistake, for the botanist 
 turned out of his pockets a heap of letters 
 directed to him, and a big book he had been 
 reading in the train, a treatise on botan}^ to 
 prove who he was. And, as if to leave no loop- 
 hole of doubt, one stepped up who knew bim, 
 and assured the Squire there was not a more
 
 254 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 learned man in his line, no, nor one more re- 
 spected, in the three kingdoms. The Squire 
 shook him hy the hand in apologizing, and 
 told him we had some valuable ferns near Dyke 
 Manor, if he would come and see them. 
 
 Like Patience on a monument, when we got 
 back, sat the lady, waiting to see the prisoner 
 brought in. Her face would have made a 
 picture too, when she discovered the upshot, 
 and saw the hot Squire and the gold spectacles 
 walking side by side in friendly talk. 
 
 " I think still he must have got it," she said, 
 sharply. 
 
 *' No, madam," answered the Squire. "Who- 
 ever may have taken it, it was not he." 
 
 " Then there's only one man, and that is he 
 whom you have let go on in the train," she 
 decisively returned : '* I thought his fidgety 
 movements were not put on for nothing. He 
 had secured the pocket-book somewhere, and 
 then made a show of offering to be searched. 
 Ah, ha!" 
 
 And the Squire veered round again at this 
 suggestion, and began to suspect he had been 
 doubly cheated. First out of his money, next 
 out of his suspicions. One only thing in the 
 whole bother seemed clear ; and that was, that 
 the notes and case had gone for good. As, in 
 point of fact, they had.
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 255 
 
 "We were on the chain-pier at Brighton, Tod 
 and I. It was about eight or nine months 
 after. I had put my arms on the high rails at 
 the end, looking at a pleasure-party sailing by. 
 Tod, next to me, was bewailing his ill-fortune 
 in not possessing a yacht and opportunities of 
 cruising in it. 
 
 '' I tell you No. I don't want to be made 
 sea-sick." 
 
 The words came from somebody behind us. 
 It seemed almost as though they were spoken 
 in reference to Tod's wish for a yacht to cruise 
 in. But it was not that that made me turn 
 sharply round ; it was the sound of the voice, 
 for I thought I recognized it. 
 
 Yes : there she was. The lady who had 
 been with us in the carriage that day. The dog 
 was not with her now, but her hair was more 
 amazing than ever, enough of it hanging down 
 behind to make a horse's tail. She did not see 
 me. As I turned, she turned, and began to walk 
 slowly back, arm-in-arm with a gentleman. And 
 to see him — that is, to see them together — made 
 me open, my eyes. For it was the lord who 
 had travelled with us. 
 
 *' Look, Tod! " I said, and told him in a 
 word who they were. 
 
 *' What the deuce do they know of each 
 other?" cried Tod with a frown, for he felt 
 angry every time the thing was referred to. 
 Not for the loss of the money, but for what he
 
 256 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 called the stupidity of us all ; saying always 
 had he been there, he should have detected the 
 thief at once. 
 
 I sauntered after them : why I wanted to 
 learn which of the lords he was, I can't tell, 
 for lords are numerous enough, but I had had 
 a curiosity upon the point ever since. They 
 encountered some people and were standing 
 to speak ; three ladies, and a fellow in a 
 black glazed hat with a piece of green ribbon 
 round it. 
 
 ''I was trying to induce my wife to take a 
 sail," the lord was saying, "but she won't. She 
 is not a very good sailor, unless the sea has its 
 calmest behaviour on." 
 
 " Will you go to-morrow, Mrs. Mowbray?" 
 asked the man in the glazed hat, who spoke 
 and looked like a gentleman. " I will promise 
 you perfect calmness ; I am weather-wise, and 
 can assure you this little wind will have gone 
 down before night, leaving us without a breath 
 of air." 
 
 *' I will go : on condition that your assur- 
 ance shall prove correct." 
 
 " All right. You of course will come, Mow- 
 bray ? " 
 
 The lord nodded. ''Very happy." 
 
 "When do you leave Brighton, Mr. Mow- 
 bray? " asked one of the ladies. 
 
 " I don't know exactly. Not for some days.'* 
 
 "A muff as usual, Johnny," whispered Tod.
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 257 
 
 '' That man is no lord ; he is a Mr. Mow- 
 bray." 
 
 '* But, Tod, he is the lord. It is the one 
 that travelled with us ; there's no mistake 
 about that. Lords can't put off their titles as 
 parsons can : do you suppose his servant 
 would have called him ' my lord,' if he had not 
 been one ? " 
 
 " At least there is no mistake that these 
 people are calling him Mr. Mowbray now." 
 
 That was true. It was equally true that they 
 were calling her Mrs. Mowbray. My ears had 
 been as quick as Tod's, and I don't deny I was 
 puzzled. They turned to come up the pier 
 again with the people, and the lady saw me 
 standing there with Tod. Saw me looking at 
 her, too, and I think she did not relish it, for 
 she took a step backward like one startled, and 
 then stared me fuU in the face, as if asking 
 who I might be. I lifted my hat. 
 
 There was no response. In another moment 
 she and her husband were walking quickly down 
 the pier together, and the other party went on 
 to the top quietly. A man in a tweed suit and 
 brown hat drawn lo'^ on his eyes, was standing 
 back with his arms folded, looking after the 
 two with a queer smile upon his face. Tod 
 marked it and spoke. 
 
 '' Do you happen to know that gentleman?" 
 
 '* Yes, I do," was the answer. 
 
 " Is he a peer?" 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 258 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " On occasion." 
 
 " On occasion ! " repeated Tod. " I have a 
 reason for asking," he added ; '* do not think 
 me impertinent." 
 
 "Been swindled out of anything?" asked 
 the man, coolly. 
 
 " My father was, some months ago. He lost 
 a pocket-book with fifty pounds in it in a rail- 
 way carriage. Those people were both in it, 
 but not then acquainted with each other." 
 
 " Oh, weren't they ! " said the man. 
 
 "No, they were not," I put in, " for I was 
 there. He was a lord then." 
 
 "Ah," said the man, "and had a servant 
 in livery no doubt, who came up my-lording 
 him without occasion every other minute. He 
 is a member of the swell-mob ; one of the 
 cleverest of the gentlemen fraternity of them, 
 and the one who acts as servant is another." 
 
 "And the lady?" I asked. 
 
 " She is a third. They have been working 
 in concert for two or three years now ; and 
 will give us trouble yet before their career is 
 stoj)ped. But for being cautiously clever, we 
 should have had them long ago. And so they 
 did not know each other in the train ! I dare- 
 say not ! " 
 
 The man spoke with quiet authority. He 
 was a detective officer come down h'om London 
 to Brighton that morning ; whether for a private 
 sanatory trip, or on business, he did not say.
 
 GOING THROUGH THE TUNNEL. 259 
 
 I related to him what had passed in the 
 train. 
 
 " Ay," said he, after listening. " They con- 
 trived to put the lamp out before starting. 
 The lady took the pocket-book during the com- 
 motion she caused the dog to make, and the 
 lord received it from her hand when he gave 
 her back the dog.' Cleverly done ! He had 
 it about him, young sir, when he got out at the 
 next station. She waited to be searched, and 
 to throw the scent off. Very ingenious : but 
 they'll be a little too much so some fine day." 
 
 " Can't you take them up ? " demanded Tod. 
 
 '*No." 
 
 '* I will accuse them of it," he haughtily 
 said. " If I meet them again on this pier " 
 
 "Which you won't do to-day," interrupted 
 the man. 
 
 " I heard them say they were not going for 
 some days." 
 
 " Ah, but they have seen you now. And I 
 think — I'm not quite sure — that he saw me. 
 They'll be off by the next train." 
 
 "Who are they ? " asked Tod, pointing to the 
 top of the pier." 
 
 " Unsuspicious people whose acquaintance 
 they have casually made here. Yes, an hour 
 or two will see Brighton quit of the pair." 
 
 And it was so. A train was starting within 
 an hour, and Tod and I galloped to the station. 
 There they were : in a first-class carriage : not
 
 260 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 apparently knowing each other, I verily believe, 
 for he sat at one door and she at the other, 
 passengers dividing them. 
 
 *' Lambs between two wolves," remarked 
 Tod. " I have a great mind to warn the people 
 of the sort of company they are in. Would it 
 be actionable, Johnny?" 
 
 The train moved off as he was speaking. 
 And may I never write another word, if I did 
 not catch sight of the servant-man and his 
 cockade in the carriage next behind them !
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 261 
 
 IX. 
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 
 
 I DID not relate this story by my own wish. 
 To my mind there's nothing much in it 
 to relate. At the time it was written the 
 newspapers were squabbling about farmers' 
 boys and field labour and political economy. 
 "And," says a gentleman to me, " as you were 
 at the top and tail of the thing when it 
 happened, and are well up in the subject 
 generally, Johnny Ludlow, you may as well 
 make a paper of it." That was no other than 
 the surgeon — Duffham. 
 
 About two miles from Dyke Manor across 
 the fields, but in the opposite direction to that 
 of the Court where the Sterlings lived. Elm 
 Farm was situated. Mr. Jacobson lived in it, as 
 his father had lived before him. The property 
 was not their own ; they rented it : it was fine 
 land, and Jacobson had the reputation of being 
 the best farmer for miles round. Being a 
 wealthy man, he had no need to spare money 
 on house or land, and did not spare it. He 
 and the Squire were about the same age, and 
 had been cronies all their lives.
 
 262 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Not to go into extraneous matter, I may as 
 well say at once that one of the labourers on 
 Jacobson's farm was a man named John Mit- 
 chel. He lived in a cottage not far from us — 
 a poor place of two rooms and a washhouse ; 
 but they call it back' us there — and had to walk 
 nearly two miles to his work of a morning. 
 Mitchel was a steady man of thirty-five, with a 
 round head and not any great amount of brains 
 inside it. Not but what he had as much brains 
 as many labourers have, and quite enough 
 for the kind of work his life was passed in. 
 There were six children ; the eldest, Dick, ten 
 years old ; and most of them had straw- 
 coloured hair, the pattern of their father's. 
 
 Just before the turn of harvest one hot 
 summer, John Mitchel presented himself at 
 Mr. Jacobson's house in a clean smock frock, 
 and asked a favour. It was, that his boy, Dick, 
 should be taken on as ploughboy. Old Jacob- 
 son objected ; sa^dng the boy was too young and 
 little. Little he might be, Mitchel answered, 
 but not too young — warn't he ten? The lad 
 had been about the farm for some time as 
 scarecrow : that is, employed to keep the birds 
 away : and had a shilling a week for it. Old 
 Jacobson stood to what he said, however, and 
 little Dick did not get his promotion. 
 
 But old Jacobson got no peace. Every 
 opportunity Mitchel could get, or dare to use, 
 he began again, praving that Dick might be
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 263 
 
 tried. The boy was *' cute," be said, strong 
 enough also, though Httle; and if the master 
 liked to pay him only fourpence a day, they'd 
 be grateful for it ; 'twould be a help, and was 
 wanted badly. All of no use : old Jacobson 
 still said No. 
 
 One afternoon during this time, we started 
 to go to the Jacobsons' after a one o'clock 
 dinner. I and Mrs. Todhetley. She was 
 fond of going over to an early tea there, 
 but not by herself, for part of the near ' way 
 across the fields was lonely. Considering that 
 she had been used to the country, she was a 
 regular coward as to lonely walks, expecting to 
 see a tramp or a robber at every corner. In 
 passing the row of cottages in Duck Lane, for 
 that's the road we took, we saw Hannah Mitchel 
 leaning over the footboard of her door to look 
 after her children, who were playing near the 
 pond in the sunshine with a lot more ; quite a 
 heap of the little reptiles, all badly clad and as 
 dirty as pigs. Other labourers' dwellings stood 
 within hail, and the children seemed to spring 
 up in the place thicker than wheat ; Mrs. 
 Mitchel* s was quite a small family, reckoning 
 by comparison, but how the six got clothed and 
 fed was a mystery, out of Mitchel' s wages of 
 ten shillings a week. It was thought good pay. 
 Old Jacobson was liberal, as farmers go. He 
 paid the best wages ; gave all his labourers a 
 stunning big portion of homo-fed fresh pork at
 
 264 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 Christmas, with fuel to cook it : and his wife 
 was good to the women when they fell sick. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley stopped to speak. "Is it 
 you, Hannah Mitchel? Are you pretty well?" 
 
 Hannah Mitchel stood upright and dropped 
 a curtsey. She had a covered-up bundle in her 
 arms, which proved to be the baby, then not 
 much above a fortnight old. 
 
 "Dear me! it's very early for it to be about," 
 said Mrs. Todhetley, touching its little red 
 cheeks. " And for you too." 
 
 "It is, ma'am: but what's to be done?" 
 was the answer. " When there's only a pair 
 of hands for everything, one can't afford to lie 
 by long." 
 
 " You seem but poorly," said Mrs. Todhet- 
 ley, looking at her. She was a thin, dark- 
 haired woman, with a sensible face. Before 
 she married Mitchel, she had lived under nurse 
 in a gentleman's family, where she picked up 
 some idea of good manners. 
 
 " I be feeling a bit stronger, thank you," 
 said the woman. " Strength don't come back 
 to one in a day, ma'am." 
 
 The Mitchel children were sidling up, at- 
 tracted by the sight of the lady. Four young 
 grubs in tattered garments. 
 
 "I can't keep 'em decent," said the mother, 
 with a sigh of apology, "I've not got no 
 soap nor no clothes to do it with. They come 
 on so fast, and make such a many, one after
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 265 
 
 another, that it's getting a hard pull to live 
 anyhow," 
 
 Looking at the children ; remembering that, 
 with the father and mother, there were eight 
 mouths to feed, and that the man's wages were 
 the ten shillings weekly all the year round (but 
 there were seasons when he did over-work and 
 earned more), Mrs. Todhetley might well give 
 her assenting answer with an em^Dhatic nod. 
 
 "We was hoping to get on a bit better," 
 resumed the wife ; " but Mitchel he says the 
 master don't seem to like to listen. A'most 
 a three week it be now since Mitehel first asked 
 it him." 
 
 *' In what way better?" 
 
 ** By a putting little Dick to the plough, 
 ma'am. He gets a shilling a week now, he'd 
 get two then, perhaps three, and 'twould be 
 such a help to us. Some o' the farmers gives 
 fourpence halfpenny a day to a ploughboy, 
 some as much as sixpence. The master he 
 hain't one o' the near ones ; but Dick be Httle 
 of his age, he don't grow fast, and Mitchel 
 telled the master he'd take fourpence a day 
 and be thankful for't." 
 
 Thoughts were crowding into Mrs. Todhet- 
 ley' s mind — as she mentioned afterwards. A 
 child of ten ought to be learning and playing ; 
 not working from twelve to fourteen hours a 
 day. 
 
 " It would be a hard life for him."
 
 266 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 (( 
 
 True, ma'am, at first ; but he'd get used 
 to it. I could have wished the summer was 
 coming on instead o' the winter — 'twould be 
 easier for him to begin upon. Winter mornings 
 be so dark and cold." 
 
 " Why not let him wait until the next 
 winter's over?" 
 
 The very suggestion brought tears into 
 Hannah Mitchel's eyes. " You'd never say it, 
 ma'am, if you knew how bad his wages is 
 wanted and the help they'd be. The older 
 childern grows, the more they wants to eat ; 
 and we've got six of 'em now. W^hat would 
 you, ma'am ? — they don't bring food into the 
 world with 'em; they must help to earn it for 
 themselves as quick as anybody can be got to 
 let 'em earn it. Sometimes I wonder why God 
 should send such large families to us poor 
 people." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley was turning to go on her 
 way, when the woman in a timid voice said, 
 Might she make bold to ask, if she or Squire 
 Todhetley would say a good word to Mr. Jacob- 
 son about the boy : that it would be just a 
 merciful kindness. 
 
 " We should not like to interfere," replied 
 Mrs. Todhetley. " In any case I could not do 
 it with a good heart : I think it would be so 
 hard upon the poor little boy." 
 
 " Starving' s harder, ma'am." 
 
 The tears came runnino; down her cheeks
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 267 
 
 with the answer ; and they won over Mrs. 
 Toclhetley. 
 
 Crossing the high, crooked, awkward stile — 
 over which, in coming the other way, if people 
 were not careful they generally pitched over 
 with their noses into Duck Lane mud — we 
 found ourselves in what was called the square 
 paddock, a huge piece of land, ploughed last 
 year. The wheat had been carried from it 
 only this afternoon, and the gleaners in their 
 cotton bonnets were coming in. On, from 
 thence, across other fields and stiles. We went 
 a little out of our way to call at Glebe Cottage — 
 a small white house that lay back amidst the 
 fields — and enquire after old Mrs. Parry, who 
 had just had a stroke. 
 
 Who should be at Elm Farm, when we got 
 in, but the surgeon, Duffham : come on there 
 from paying his daily visit to Mrs. Parry. He 
 and old Jacobson were in the green-house, 
 looking at the grapes : a famous crop they had 
 that year ; not ripe yet. Mrs. Jacobson sat at 
 the open window of the long parlour, making a 
 new jelly-bag. She was a pleasant-faced old 
 lady, with small flat silver cm-Is and a net 
 cap. 
 
 Of course they got talking about little Dick 
 Mitchel. Duffham knew the boy ; seeing that 
 when a doctor was wanted at the Mitchels', it 
 was he that attended. Mrs. Todhetley told 
 exactly what had passed : and old Jacobson —
 
 268 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 a tall, portly man, with a healthy colour — grew 
 nearly purple in the face, disputing. 
 
 Dick Mitchel would be of as good as no use 
 for the team, he said, and the carters put 
 shamefully upon those young ones. In another 
 year the boy would be stronger and bigger. 
 Perhaps he would take him then. 
 
 ''For my part, I cannot think howthe mothers 
 can like their poor boys to go out so young," cried 
 the old lady, looking up from her flannel bag. 
 ''A ploughboy's life is very hard in winter." 
 
 " Hannah Mitchel says it has to be one of 
 two things — early work or starving," said Mrs. 
 Todhetley. " And that's pretty true." 
 
 ''Labourers' boys are born to it, ma'am, 
 and so it comes easy to 'em : as skinning does 
 to eels," cried Duffham, quaintly. 
 
 " Poor things, yes. But it is very hard upon 
 the children. The worst is, all the labourers 
 seem to have no end of them. Hannah Mitchel 
 has just said she sometimes wonders why God 
 should send so many to poor people." 
 
 This was an unfortunate remark. To hear 
 the two gentlemen laugh, you'd have thought 
 they were at a Christmas pantomime. Old Ja- 
 cobson brought himself up in a kind of passion. 
 
 What business, in the name of all that was 
 imprudent, had these poor people to have their 
 troops of children ? he asked. They knew quite 
 well they could not feed them ; that the young 
 ones would be three parts starved in their earlier
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 269 
 
 years, and in their later ones come to the parish 
 and be a burden on the community. Look at 
 this same man, Mitchel. His grandfather, a 
 poor miserable labourer, had a troop of chil- 
 dren; Mitchel' s father had a troop, twelve ; he, 
 Mitchel, had six, and seemed to be going on fair 
 to have six more. There was no reason in it. 
 Why couldn't they be content with a moderate 
 number, three or four, that might get a chance 
 of being found room for in the world? It was 
 not much less than a crime for these men, next 
 door to paupers themselves, to launch their tens 
 and their dozens of boys and girls into life, 
 and then turn round and say. Why does God 
 send them ? Nice kind of logic, that was ! 
 
 And so he kept on, for a good half-hour, 
 Duffham helping him. He brought up the 
 French peasantry : saying our folks ought to 
 take a lesson from them. You don't see whole 
 flocks of children over there, cried Duffham. 
 One, or two, or at most three, would be found 
 to comprise the number of a family. And why? 
 Because the French were a prudent race. They 
 knew there w^as no provision for superfluous 
 children ; no house-room at home, or food, or 
 clothing ; and no parish pay to fall back upon : 
 they knew that however many children they had 
 they must provide for them : they didn't set up, 
 of themselves, a regiment of little famishing 
 mouths, and then charge it on heaven ; they 
 were not so reckless and wicked. Yes, he must
 
 270 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 repeat it, wicked ; and the two ladies listening 
 would endorse the w^ord if they knew half the 
 deprivation and the sufferings these poor small 
 mortals were born to ; he saw enough of it, 
 having to be often amidst them. 
 
 '"Why don't you tell the parents this, 
 doctor ? " 
 
 Tell them ! returned Duffham. He had told 
 them ; told them till his tongue was tired. 
 
 Any w^ay, the little things w^ere grievously to 
 be pitied, was what the two ladies made answer. 
 
 " I have often wished it was not a sin to 
 drown the superfluous little mites as we do 
 kittens," wound up Duff. 
 
 One of the ladies dropped the jelly-bag, the 
 other shrieked out. Oh ! 
 
 " For their sakes," he added. "It's true, 
 upon my w^ord and honour. Of all wrongs the 
 world sees, never was there a worse wrong than 
 the one inflicted on these inoffensive children 
 by the parents, in bringing them into it. God 
 help the little wretches ! man can't do much." 
 
 And so they talked on. The upshot was, that 
 old Jacobson stood to his word, and declined to 
 make Dick Mitchel a ploughboy yet awhile. 
 
 We had tea at four o'clock — at which fashion- 
 able people may laugh ; considering that it was 
 the real tea, not the sham one lately come 
 into custom. Mrs. Todhetley wanted to get 
 home by daylight, and the summer evenings 
 were shortening. Never was brown bread-and-
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 271 
 
 butter so sweet as the Jacobsons' : we used to 
 say it every time we went ; and the home-baked 
 rusks were better than Shrewsbury cake. They 
 made Mrs. Todhetley take two or three in her 
 bag for Hugh and Lena. 
 
 Old Duff went with us across the first field, 
 turning off there to take the short cut to his 
 home. It was a warm, still, lovely evening, the 
 yellow moon rising. The gleaners were busy 
 in the square paddock: Mrs. Todhetley spoke 
 to some as we passed. At the other end, near 
 the crooked stile, two urchins stood fighting, 
 the bigger one trying to take a small armful 
 of wheat from the other. I went to the rescue, 
 and the marauder made off as fast as his small 
 bare feet would carry him. 
 
 " He haven't gleaned, hisself, and wants to 
 take mine," said the little one, casting up his 
 big gray eyes to us in appeal through the tears. 
 He was a delicate-looking pale-faced boy of nine, 
 or so, with light hair. 
 
 '* Very naughty of him," said Mrs. Todhet- 
 ley. " What's your name? " 
 
 '' It's Dick, lady." 
 
 ''Dick— what?" 
 
 " Dick Mitchel." 
 
 "Dear me — I thought I had seen the face," 
 said Mrs. Todhetley to me. " But there are so 
 many boys about here, Johnny ; and they all look 
 pretty much alike. How old are you, Dick?" 
 
 "I'm over ten," answered Dick, with an
 
 '272 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 emphasis on the over. Children catch up ideas, 
 and no doubt he ^ya3 as eager as the parents 
 could be to impress on the world his fitness, in 
 years, to be a jploughboy. 
 
 " How is it that you have been gleaning, 
 Dick ? " 
 
 "Mother couldn't, 'cause o' the babby. They 
 give me leave to come on since four o'clock : 
 and I've got all this." 
 
 Dick looked at the stile and then at his bundle 
 of wheat, so I took it while he got over. As we 
 went on down the lane, Mrs. Todhetley inquired 
 whether he wanted to be a ploughboy. Oh yes ! 
 he answered, his face lighting up, as if the 
 situation offered some glorious prospect. It 'ud 
 be tw^o shilling a week ; happen more ; and 
 mother said as he and Totty and Sam and the 
 t' others 'ud get treacle to their bread on Sun- 
 days then. Apparently Mrs. Mitchel knew how 
 to diplomatize. 
 
 "I'll give him one of the rusks, I think, 
 Johnny," whispered Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 But while she was getting it from the bag, he 
 ran in with his wheat. She called to him to 
 come back, and gave him one. His mother had 
 taken the wheat from him ; she looked out at 
 the door with it in her hands. Seeing her, Mrs. 
 Todhetley went up, and said Mr. Jacobson 
 would not at present do anything. The next 
 minute Mitchel appeared, pulling at his straw 
 hair.
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 273 
 
 ''It is hard lines," he said, humbly, " when 
 the lad's of a' age to be a earning, and the 
 master can't be got to take him on. And me 
 to ha' worked on the same farm, man and boy; 
 and father afore me." 
 
 " Mr. Jacobson thinks the boy would not be 
 strong enough for the work." 
 
 " Not strong enough, and him rising eleven ! " 
 exclaimed Mitchel, as if the words were some 
 dreadful aspersion on Dick. *' How can he be 
 strong if he gets no work to make him strong, 
 ma'am? Strength comes with the working — 
 and nobody don't oughtn't to know that better 
 nor the master. Anyhow, if he don't take him, 
 it'll be cruel hard lines for us." 
 
 Dick was outside, dividing the rusk with a 
 small girl and boy, all three seated in the lane, 
 and looking as happy over the rusk as if they 
 had been children in a fairy tale. "It's Totty," 
 said he, pausing in the work of division to speak, 
 "and that 'un's Sam." Mrs. Todhetley could not 
 resist the temptation of finding two more rusks ; 
 which made one apiece. 
 
 " He is a good-natured little fellow, Johnny," 
 she remarked as we went along. " Intelligent 
 too : in that he takes after his mother." 
 
 " Would it be wrong to let him go on the 
 farm as ploughboy ? " 
 
 " Johnny, I don't know. I'd rather not give 
 an opinion," she added, looking right before her 
 into the moon, as if seeking for one there. " Of 
 
 VOL I. T
 
 274 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 course he is not old enough or big enough, 
 practically speaking : but on the other hand, 
 where there are so many mouths to feed, it 
 seems hard not to let him earn money if he 
 can earn it. The root of the evil lies in there 
 being so many mouths — as was said at Mr. 
 Jacobson's this afternoon." 
 
 It was winter before I heard anything more 
 of the matter. Tod and I got home for Christ- 
 mas. One day in January, when the skies were 
 lowering, and the air cold with a raw coldness, 
 but not frosty, I was crossing a field on old 
 Jacobson's land, then being j)loughed. The 
 three brown horses at the work were as fine as 
 ye'd wish to see. 
 
 " You'll catch it smart on that there skull o' 
 yourn, if ye doan't keep their yeads straight, ye 
 young divil." 
 
 The salutation was from the man at the tail 
 of the plough to the boy at the head of the first 
 horse. Looking round, I saw little Mitchel. 
 The horses stopped, and I went up to him. Hall, 
 the ploughman, took the opportunity to beat 
 his arms. I daresay they were cold enough. 
 
 " So your ambition is attained, is it, Dick? 
 Are you satisfied?" 
 
 Dick seemed not to understand. He was 
 taller, but the face looked pinched, and there was 
 never a smile on it.
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 275 
 
 " Do you like being a ploughboy ? " 
 
 " It's hard and cold. Hard always ; fright- 
 ful cold of a morning." 
 
 ''How's Totty?" 
 
 The face lighted up just a little. Totty 
 weren't any better, but she didn't die ; 
 Jimmy did. Which was Jimmy ? — Oh, Jimmy 
 was after Nanny, next to the babby. 
 
 " What did Jimmy die of ? " 
 
 Whooping-cough. They'd all been bad but 
 him — Dick. Mother said he'd had it when he 
 was no older nor the babby. 
 
 Whether the whooping-cough had caused an 
 undue absorption of Mitchel's means, certain it 
 was, Dick looked famished. His cheeks were 
 thin, his hands blue. 
 
 " Have you been ill, Dick? " 
 
 No, he had not been ill. 'Twas Jimmy and 
 the t'others. 
 
 " He's the incapablest little villain I ever had 
 put me to do with," struck in the ploughman, 
 stilling his arms to speak. " More lazy nor a 
 fattening i)ig." 
 
 " Are you lazy, Dick?" 
 
 I think an eager disclaimer was coming out, 
 ])ut the boy remembered in time who was 
 present — his master, the ploughman. 
 
 " Not lazy wilful," he said, bursting into 
 tears. " I does my best : mother tells me to." 
 
 " Take that, you young sniveller," said 
 Hall, dealing him a good sound slap on the left
 
 276 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 cheek. "And now go on: ye know ye've got 
 this lot to go through to-day." 
 
 He caught hold of the plough, and Dick 
 stretched up his poor trembling hands to the 
 first horse to guide him. I am sure the boy 
 7vas trying to do his best : but he looked weak 
 and famished and ill. 
 
 ''Why did you strike him, Hall ? He did 
 nothing to deserve it." 
 
 *' He don't deserve nothing else," was Hall's 
 answer. " Let him alone, and the furrows 'ud 
 be as crooked as a dog's leg. You dun' know 
 what these young 'uns be for work, sir. — Keep 
 'em in the line, you fool ! " 
 
 Looking back as I went down the field, I 
 watched the plough going slowly up it, Dick 
 seeming to have his hands full with the well- 
 fed horses. 
 
 " Yes, I heard the lad was taken on, Johnny," 
 Mrs. Todhetley said when I told her that even- 
 ing. " Mitchel prevailed with his master at 
 last. Mr. Jacobson is good-hearted, and knew 
 the Mitchels were in sore need of the extra 
 money the boy would earn. Sickness makes a 
 difference to the poor as well as to the rich." 
 
 I saw Dick Mitchel three or four times during 
 that January month. The Jacobsons had two 
 nephews staying with them from Oxfordshire, 
 and it caused us to go over often. The 
 boy seemed a weak little mite for the place : 
 but of course, having undertaken the work, he
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 277 
 
 had to do it. He was no worse off than others. 
 To be at the farm before six o'clock, he had to 
 leave home at half-past five, taking his break- 
 fast with him, which was mostly dry bread. As 
 to the boy's work, it varied — as those acquainted 
 with the executive of a busy farm can tell. Be- 
 sides the ploughing, he had to pump, and carry 
 water and straw, and help with the horses, and 
 go errands to the blacksmith's and elsewhere, 
 and so on. Carters and ploughmen do not 
 spare their helping boys : and on a large farm 
 like this they are the immediate rulers, not the 
 master himself. Had Dick been under Mr. 
 Jacobson's personal eye, perhaps it might have 
 been lightened a little, for he was a humane 
 man. There were three things that made it 
 seem particularly hard for Dick Mitchel, and 
 those three were under nobody's control : his 
 natural weakliness, his living so far off the 
 farm, and its being winter weather. In summer 
 the work is nothing like as hard for the boys ; 
 and it was a great pity that Dick had not first 
 entered on his duties in that season to get inured 
 to them against the winter. Mr. Jacobson gave 
 him the best wages — three shillings a week. 
 Looking at the addition it must have seemed 
 to Mitchel' s ten, it was little wonder he had 
 not ceased to petition old Jacobson. 
 
 The Jacobsons were kind to the boy — as I 
 can testify. One cold day when I was over 
 there with the nephews, shooting birds, we went
 
 278 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 into the best kitchen at twelve o'clock for some 
 pea-soup. They were going to carry the basins 
 into the parlour, but we said we'd rather eat it 
 there by the blazing big fire. Mrs. Jacobson came 
 in. I can see her now, with a soft white woollen 
 kerchief thrown over her shoulders to keep the 
 cold off, and her net cap above her silver curls. 
 We were getting our second basinfuls. 
 
 "Do have some, aunt," said Fred. "It's 
 the best you ever tasted." 
 
 " No, thank you, Fred. I don't care to spoil 
 my dinner." 
 
 " It won't spoil ours." 
 
 She laughed a little, and stood looking from 
 the window into the fold-yard, saying presently 
 that she feared the frost was going to set in now 
 in earnest, which would not be pleasant for their 
 journey. — For this was the last day of the 
 nephews' stay, and she was going home with 
 them for a week. There had been no very 
 sharp cold all the winter : which was a shame 
 because of the skating : if the ponds got a thin 
 coating of ice on them one day, it would be all 
 melted the next. 
 
 "Bless me! there's that poor child sitting 
 out in the cold ! What is he eating? — his 
 dinner ? " 
 
 Her words made us look from the window. 
 Dick Mitchel had stuck himself down by the 
 far-off pig-sty, and seemed to be eating some- 
 thing that he held in his hands. He was very
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 279 
 
 white — as might be seen even from where we 
 stood. 
 
 " Mary," said she to one of the servants, 
 " go and call that boy in." 
 
 Little Mitchel came in ; pinched and white 
 and blue. His clothes were thin, not half warm 
 enough for the weather, an old red woollen com- 
 forter was twisted round his neck. He took 
 off his battered drab hat, and put his bread 
 into it. 
 
 " Is that your dinner?" asked Mrs. Jacobson. 
 
 '' Yes 'm," said Dick, pulling the forelock of 
 his light hair. 
 
 *'But why did you not go home to-day? " 
 
 *' Mother said there was nothing but bread 
 for dinner to-day, and she give it me to bring 
 away with my breakfast." 
 
 " Well, why did you sit out in the cold ? 
 You might have gone indoors somewhere to 
 eat it." 
 
 " I were tired 'm," was all Dick answered. 
 
 To look at him, one would say the "tired " 
 state was chronic. He was shivering slightly 
 all over with the cold ; his teeth chattered. 
 Mrs. Jacobson took his hand, and put him to 
 sit on a low wooden stool close to the fire, and 
 gave him a basin of the pea-soup. 
 
 ** Let him have more if he can eat it," she 
 said to Mary when she went away. So the 
 boy for once got well warmed and fed. 
 
 Now, it may be thought that Mrs. Jacobson,
 
 280 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 being a kind old lady, might have told him to 
 come in for some soup every cold day. And 
 perhaps her will was good to do it. But it 
 would never have answered. There were boys 
 on the farm besides Dick, and no favour could 
 be shown to one more than to another. No, 
 nor to the boys more than to the men. Nor to 
 the men on this farm more than to the men 
 on that. Old Jacobs on would have had his 
 brother farmers pulling at his ears. Those of 
 you acquainted with the subject will know all 
 this. 
 
 And there's another thing I had better say. In 
 telling of Dick Mitchel, it will naturally sound 
 like an exceptional or isolated case, because 
 those who read have their attention directed 
 to this one and not to others. But, in actual 
 fact, Dick's was only one of a great many ; the 
 Jacobsons had employed ploughboys and other 
 boys always, lots of them ; some strong and 
 some weak, just as the boys might happen to 
 be. For a young boy to be out with the plough 
 in the cold winter weather, seems to a farmer 
 and a farmer's men nothing : it lies in the 
 common course of events. He has to get through 
 as he best can ; he must work to eat ; and as a 
 compensating balance there comes the genial 
 warmth and the easy work of summer. Dick 
 Mitchel was but one of the race ; the carter 
 and ploughman, his masters, had begun life 
 exactly as he did, had gone through the same
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 281 
 
 ordeal, the hardships of a long winter's day 
 and the frost and snow. Dick Mitchel was as 
 capable of his duties as many another had been. 
 Dick's father had been little and weakly in his 
 boyhood, but he got over that and grew as 
 strong as the rest of them. Dick might have 
 got over it, too, but for some extraordinary 
 weather that came in. 
 
 Mrs. Jacobson had been in Oxfordshire a 
 week when old Jacobson started to fetch her 
 home, intending to stay there two or three days. 
 The weather since she left had been going on 
 in the same stupid way ; a thin ooating of snow 
 to be seen one day, the green of the fields the 
 next. But on the morning after old Jacobson 
 started, the frost set in with a vengeance, and 
 we got our skates out. Another day came in, 
 and the Squire declared he had never felt any- 
 thing to equal the cold. We had not had it as 
 sharp for years : and then, you see, he was too 
 fat to skate. The best skating was on a pond 
 on old Jacobson' 8 land, which they called the 
 lake from its size. 
 
 It was on this second day that I came across 
 Dick Mitchel. Hastening home from the lake- 
 pond after dark — for we had skated till we 
 couldn't see and then kept on by moonlight — 
 the skates in my hand and all aglow with heat, 
 who should be sitting by the bank on this side 
 the crooked stile instead of getting over it, but 
 little Mitchel. But for the moon shining right
 
 282 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 on his face, I might have passed without seeing 
 him. 
 
 " You are taking it airily, young Dick. Got 
 the gout?" 
 
 Dick just lifted his head and stared a little ; 
 hut didn't speak. 
 
 " Come ! Why don't you go home ? " 
 
 '' I'm tired," murmured Dick. " I'm cold." 
 
 " Get up. I'll help you over the stile." 
 
 He did as he was hid at once. We had got 
 well on down the lane, and I had my hand on 
 his shoulder to steady him, for his legs seemed 
 to slip ahout like Punch's in the show, when he 
 turned suddenly hack again. 
 
 ''The harness." 
 
 '' The what ?" I said. 
 
 Something seemed the matter with the hoy : 
 it was just as if he had partly lost the power ol 
 ready speech, or had been struck stupid. I 
 made out at last that he had left some harness 
 on the ground, which he was ordered to take to 
 the blacksmith's. 
 
 " I'll get over for it, Dick. You stop where 
 you are." 
 
 It was lying where he had been sitting ; a 
 short strap with a torn buckle. Dick took it 
 and we went on again. 
 
 " Were you asleep, just now, Dick ?" 
 
 *' No, sir. It were the moon." 
 
 " What was the moon ? " 
 
 " I were looking into it. Mother says God's
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 283 
 
 all above there : I thought happen I might see 
 Him." 
 
 A long explanation for Dick to-night. The 
 recovery of the strap seemed to have bright- 
 ened up his intellect. 
 
 " You'll never see Him in this world, Dick. 
 He sees you always." 
 
 " And that's what mother says. He sees I 
 can't do more nor my arms' 11 let me. I'd not 
 like Him to think I can." 
 
 " All right, Dick. You only do your best 
 always : He won't fail to see it." 
 
 I had hardly said the last words when down 
 went Dick without warning, face foremost. Pick- 
 ing him up, I took a look into his eyes by the 
 moon's light. 
 
 '' What did you do that for, Dick ? " 
 
 *'I don't know." 
 
 " Is it your legs?" 
 
 "Yes, it's my legs. I didn't mean it. I 
 didn't mean it when I fell under the horses to- 
 day, but Hall he heated of me and said I did." 
 
 After that I did not loose him ; or I'm sure 
 he would have gone down again. Arrived at 
 his cottage, he was for passing it. 
 
 Don't you know your own door, DickMitchel ?" 
 
 " It's the strap," he said. " I ha' got to take 
 it to Cawson's." 
 
 " Oh, I'll step round with that. Let's see 
 what there is to do." 
 
 He seemed unwilling, saying he must take it
 
 284 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 back to Hall in the morning. Very well, I 
 said, so he could. We went in at his door : 
 and at first I thought I must have got into a 
 black fog. The room was a narrow poking 
 place ; but I couldn't see to the other end of it. 
 Two children were coughing, one choking, one 
 crying. Mrs. Mitchel's face, ornamented with 
 blacks, gradually loomed out to view through 
 the atmosphere. 
 
 '' It be the chimbley, sir. I hope you'll please 
 to excuse it. It don't smoke as bad as this ex- 
 cept when the weather's cold beyond common." 
 
 "It's to be hoped it doesn't. I should call 
 it rather miserable if it did." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Mitchel, he says he thinks the 
 chimbley must have frozed." 
 
 " Look here, Mrs. Mitchel, I've brought Dick 
 home : I found him sitting in the cold on the 
 other side of the stile yonder, and my belief is, 
 he thought he could not get over it. He is about 
 as weak as a young rat." 
 
 "It's the frost, sir," she said. " The boys 
 all feel it that has to be out and about. It'll 
 soon be gone, Dick. This here biting cold don't 
 never last long." 
 
 Dick was standing against her, bending his 
 face on her old stuff gown. She put her arm 
 about him kindly. 
 
 " No, it can't last long, Mrs. Mitchel. Could 
 he not be kept in doors until it gives a bit — let 
 him have a holiday ? No. Wouldn't it do ? "
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 285 
 
 She opened her eyes wide at this, braving the 
 cloud of flying blacks. Such a thing as keeping 
 a ploughboy at home for a holiday, had never 
 entered her imagination at its widest range. 
 
 " Why, Master Ludlow, sir, he'd lose his 
 place ! " 
 
 " But, suppose he were ill, and had to stay 
 at home ? " 
 
 " Then the Lord help us, if it came to that ! 
 Please, sir, his wages might be stopped. I've 
 heard of a master paying in illness, though it's 
 not many of 'em as would, but I've never 
 knowed 'em pay for holidays. The biting cold 
 ^-ill go soon, Dick," she added, looking at him ; 
 '* don't be downhearted." 
 
 '* I should give him a cup of hot tea, Mrs. 
 Mitchel, and let him go to bed. Good night ; 
 I'm off." 
 
 I would have liked to say beer instead of tea; 
 it would have put a bit of strength into the boy ; 
 but I might just as well have suggested wine, 
 for all they had of either. Leaving the strap 
 at the blacksmith's — it was but a minute or 
 two out of my road — I told him to send it up 
 to Mitchel' s as soon as it was done. 
 
 '* I daresay ! " was what I got in answer. 
 
 " Look here, Cawson : the lad's ill, and his 
 father was not in the way. If you don't choose 
 to let your boy run up with that, or take it 
 yourself, you shall never have another job of 
 work from the Squire if I can prevent it."
 
 286 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 'Til send it, sir," said Cawson, coming to 
 his senses. Not that he had much from us : 
 we mostly patronised Dovey, down in Piefinch 
 Cut. 
 
 Now, all this happened : as Duffham and 
 others could testify if necessary ; it is not put 
 in to make up a story. But I never thought 
 worse of Dick than that he was done over for 
 the moment with the cold. 
 
 Of all days in remembrance, the next was 
 the worst. The cold was more intense — though 
 that had seemed impossible ; and a fierce wind 
 was blowing that cut you in two. It kept us 
 from skating — and that's saying a good deal. 
 We got half-way to the lake-pond, and couldn't 
 stand it, so turned home again. Jacobson's 
 team was out, braving the weather : we saw it 
 at a distance. 
 
 " What a fool that waggoner must be to 
 bring out the team to-day! " cried Tod. "He 
 can't do any good on this hard ground. He 
 must be doing it for bravado. It is a sign his 
 master's not at home." 
 
 In the afternoon, when a good hot meal had 
 put warmth into us, we thought we'd be off 
 again; and this time gained the pond. The 
 wind was like a rough knife : I never skated in 
 such before : but we kept on till dusk. 
 
 Going homewards, in passing Glebe Cottage, 
 which lay away on the left, we caught sight of 
 three or four people standing before it.
 
 DICK mTCHEL. 287 
 
 '' What's to do there ?" asked Tod of a man, 
 expecting to hear that old Mrs. Parry had a 
 second stroke. 
 
 "Sum'at's wrong wi' Jacobson's ploughboy," 
 was the answer. " He has just been took in 
 there." 
 
 *' Jacobson's ploughboy ! Why, Tod, that 
 must be Dick Mitchel." 
 
 "And what if it is ! " returned Tod, starting 
 off again. " The youngster's half frozen, I 
 daresay. Let us get home, Johnny. What are 
 you stopping for ? " 
 
 By saying " half frozen" he meant nothing. 
 Not a thought of real ill was in his mind. I 
 went across to the house ; and met Hall the 
 ploughman coming out of it. 
 
 -Is Dick Mitchel ill. Hall?" 
 
 "He ought to be, sir; if he hain't shamming," 
 returned Hall, crustily. " He have fell down 
 five times since noon, and the last time wouldn't 
 get up upon his feet again nohow. Being 
 close a-nigh the old lady's I carried of him 
 in." 
 
 Hall went back to the house with me. I 
 don't think he much liked the boy's looks. Dick 
 had been put to lie on the warm brick floor 
 before the kitchen fire, a blanket on his legs, 
 and his head on a cushion. Mrs. Parry was 
 ill in bed upstairs. The servant looked a 
 stupid young country girl, seemingly born with- 
 out wits.
 
 288 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 " Have you given him anything? " I asked 
 her. 
 
 " Please sir, I've put the kettle on to bile." 
 
 '' Is there any brandy in the house ? " 
 
 " Brandy ! '' the girl exclaimed with wonder. 
 No. Her missis never took nothing stronger 
 nor tea and water gruel. 
 
 "Hall," I said, looking at the man, " some- 
 body must go for Mr. DufQiam. And Dick's 
 mother might as well be told." 
 
 Bill Leet, a strapping young fellow standing 
 by, made off at this, saying he'd bring them 
 both. Hall went away to his waiting team, and 
 I stooped over the boy. 
 
 ''What is the matter, Dick? Tell me how 
 you feel." 
 
 Except that Dick smiled a little, he made no 
 answer. His eyes, gazing up into mine, looked 
 dim. The girl had taken away the candle, 
 but the fire was bright. As I took one of his 
 hands to rub it, his fingers clasped themselves 
 round mine. Then he began to say something, 
 with a stop between each word. I had to bend 
 down close to catch it. 
 
 ' ' He — brought — that — there — strap . ' ' 
 
 " All right, Dick." 
 
 " Thank — ee — sir." 
 
 " Are you in any pain, Dick ? " 
 
 ''No." 
 
 " Or cold?" 
 
 "No."
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 289 
 
 The girl came back with a candle and some 
 hot milk in a tea-cup. I put a tea-spoonful 
 into Dick's mouth. But he could not swallow 
 it. Who should come rushing in then but old 
 Jones the constable, wanting to know what was 
 up. 
 
 '' Well I never !— why, that's Mitchel's Dick!" 
 cried Jones, peering down in the candle-light. 
 "What's took liim^ " 
 
 ''Jones, if you and the girl will rub his hands, 
 I'll go and get some brandy. We can't let him 
 lie like this and give him nothing." 
 
 Old Jones, liking the word brandy on his own 
 score, knelt down on his fat gouty legs with a 
 groan, and laid hold of one of the hands, the 
 girl taking the other. I went leaping off to 
 Elm Farm. 
 
 And went for nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Jacob- 
 son being out, the cellar was locked up, and no 
 brandy could be got at. The cook gave me a 
 bottle of gooseberry wine ; which she said 
 might do as well if hotted up. 
 
 Duffham was stooping over the boy when I 
 got back, his face long, and his cane lying on 
 the ironing-board. Bill Leet had met him half- 
 way, so no time was lost. He was putting 
 something into Dick's lips with a teaspoon — 
 perhaps brandy. But it ran the wrong way ; 
 out instead of in. Dick never stirred, and his 
 eyes were shut. The doctor got up. 
 
 '* Too late, Johnny," he whispered. 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 The words startled me. '' Mr. Duffham ! 
 No?" 
 
 He looked into my eyes, and nodded Yes. 
 '' The exposure to-day has been too much for 
 him. He is going fast." 
 
 And just at that moment Hannah Mitchel 
 came in. I have often thought that the ex- 
 treme poor, whose lives are but one vast hard- 
 ship from the cradle to the grave, who have to 
 struggle always, do not feel strong emotion. 
 At any rate, they don't show much. Hannah 
 Mitchel knelt down, and looked quietly at the 
 w^hite and shrunken face. 
 
 ''Dicky," she said, putting his hair gently 
 back from his brow ; which had now a damp 
 moisture on it. "What's amiss, Dicky?" 
 
 He opened his eyes at the voice and feebly 
 lifted one hand towards her. Mrs. Mitchel 
 glanced round at the doctor's face ; and I think 
 she read the truth there. She gathered his 
 poor head into her arms, and let it rest on her 
 bosom. Her old black shawl was on, her 
 bonnet fell backwards andhung from her neck 
 by the strings. 
 
 "Oh, Dicky! Dicky!" 
 
 He lay still, looking at her. She gave one 
 sob and choked the rest down. 
 
 "Be he dying, sir ? — ain't there no hope ? " 
 she cried to Mr. Duffham, who was standing in 
 the blaze of the fire. And the doctor just 
 moved his head for answer.
 
 DICK MITCHEL. 291 
 
 There was a still hush in the kitchen. Her 
 tears began to fall down her cheeks slowly and 
 softly. 
 
 " Dicky, wouldn't you like to say ' Our 
 Father'?" 
 
 '' I — 've — said — it, — mother." 
 
 ''You've always been a good boy, Dicky." 
 
 Old Jones blew his nose ; the stupid girl 
 burst into a sob. Mr. Duffham told them to 
 hush. 
 
 Dick's eyes were slowly closing. The breath 
 was very faint now, and came at long inter- 
 vals. Presently Mr. Duffham took him from 
 his mother, and laid him down flat, without the 
 cushion. 
 
 Well, he died. Poor little Dicky Mitchel 
 died. And I think, taking the wind and the work 
 into consideration, that he was better off. 
 
 Mr. Jacobson got back the next day. He 
 sharply taxed the ploughman with the death, 
 saying he ought to have seen the state the boy 
 was in on that last bitter day, and have sent him 
 home. But Hall declared he never thought any- 
 thing ailed the boy, except that the cold was 
 cutting him more than ordinary, just as it was 
 cutting everybody else. 
 
 The county coroner came over to hold the 
 inquest. The jury, after hearing what Mr. 
 Duffham had to say, brought it in that Pilchard 
 Mitchel died from exposure to the cold during 
 the recent remarkable severity of the weather,
 
 292 JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 not having sufficient stamina to resist it. Some 
 of the local newspapers took it up, being in 
 want of matter that dreary season. They at- 
 tacked the farmers ; asking the public whether 
 labourers' children were to be held as of no 
 more value than this, in a free and generous 
 country like England, and why they were made 
 to work so young by such hard and wicked 
 task-masters as the master of Elm Farm. That 
 put the master of Elm Farm on his mettle. 
 He retorted by a letter of sharp good sense ; 
 finishing it with a demand to know whether the 
 farmers were expected to club together to pro- 
 vide meat and puddings gratis for the flocks of 
 children that labourers chose to gather about 
 them. The Squire read it aloud to everybody, 
 as the soundest letter he'd ever seen written. 
 
 "I am afraid their view is the right one — that 
 the children are too thick on the ground, poor 
 things," sighed Mrs. Todhetley. ''Any way, 
 Johnny, it is very hard on the young ones to 
 have to work as poor little Dick did ; late and 
 early, wet or dry : and I am glad for his sake 
 that God has taken him." 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Printed by J. Ogden and Co., 172, St. Jolm Street, E.G.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF lULINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112056548941