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 LI E> RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 QZ3> 
 C94t 
 
 V.I
 
 AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 Ifovels by the same Author. 
 
 MY BEST PUPIL, i Vol. 
 
 THE STOP V OF MEG, 2 Vols. 
 
 LEAP YEAR, 2 Vols. 
 
 ATHLOS: THE STORY OF A 
 LIFE, 2 Vols. 
 
 REMINGTON & Co Henrietta Street Covent 
 Garden
 
 T R A C K E D /^^f 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 M A CXJUTOIS 
 
 Author of " The Story of Meg " 6;c 
 
 The bridegroom sat at the table head, 
 And the lights burnt bright and clear- 
 
 ' Oh, who is that,' the bridegroom said, 
 ' Whose weary feet I hear ? ' 
 
 'Twas one look'd from the lighted hall, 
 And answered soft and slow — 
 
 ' It is a wolf runs up and down, 
 With a black track in the snow,' " 
 
 VOL I 
 
 REMINGTON AND CO PUBLISHERS 
 
 HENRIETTA STREET COVENT GARDEN 
 
 1888 
 [All Rights Reserved]
 
 \ \
 
 (^IHt CONTENTS. 
 V. I 
 
 r 
 
 I. The Black Track in the Snow i 
 
 II. A Very Disreputable Family 8 
 
 III. Through the Night 25 
 
 IV. A Darker Night 49 
 
 V. Will at the Sunday School 62 
 
 VI. In Wait for the Wolf 77 
 
 VII. Will has Hard Times at Home 95 
 
 VIII. The Wolf is Seen ... 119 
 
 IX. The Wolf is Hunted 145 
 
 X. Mr. Audley of the Hall 159 
 
 XI. The Phantom at the Window 178 
 
 XII. Elizabeth 200 
 
 XIII. Night in the Cottage 215 
 
 XIV. Elizabeth at the Farm 230 
 
 ^ XV. In the Drawing-room at the Hall ... 247 
 
 XVI. The coming of the Spring 251 
 
 XVII. Ben Wilde in the Market-place 256 
 
 XVIII. The Wolf is Hungry 264 
 
 XIX. The Wolf finds a Prey 275 
 
 XX. Will has Hard Times once more ... 285 
 
 XXI. The Home of Ben 317 
 
 \^
 
 ^ CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BLACK TRACK IN THE SNOW. 
 
 The stars shone out at last, and the snow 
 had ceased to fall. 
 
 Through the whole day it had been snow- 
 ing, not at intervals, but ceaselessly, with 
 small, steady flakes, that filled the air — the 
 first heavy snow of the year, although the 
 spring had come. Already, before the even- 
 ing, the road to the little station had become 
 almost blocked ; now its red lights shone on 
 a white waste of a world, and the river, which 
 had been dark and still under its thin coating 
 of ice only yesterday, was as white now as 
 were the banks above. The stars had seemed 
 blurred and feeble when at first they shone, 
 
 VOL. L B 
 
 ^i
 
 2 \ TRACKED. 
 
 \ 
 
 and there had been heavy storm-clouds in the 
 
 sky ; but these had swept away, and at last 
 the night was clear, and over the barren 
 whiteness the Swan spread her wings, and 
 there was the sharp glitter of Orion's belt. 
 
 The path by the river lay white and silent 
 under the sky and stars, with no traces of the 
 workmen who had tramped along it from the 
 town at noon. The snow which had fallen 
 in the evening had effaced the marks they 
 made ; and yet there was one line of foot- 
 marks now, which lay there, uneffaced, in a 
 dark track beneath the sky. 
 
 These had been caused by a young man or 
 boy — he was of the age to which either title 
 can be given — who had come along in the 
 darkness by the river from the town, and who 
 stood now within the gate that separated the 
 path from the platform, leaning upon it, and 
 watchinof the bustle that the arrival of the 
 evening train had caused. Perhaps the view 
 of the lights and movements pleased him 
 after his dark and lonely walk ; and perhaps, 
 also, he was himself in no great hurry to be 
 seen. 
 
 Yet, as he stood there leaning upon the
 
 THE BLACK TRACK IN THE SNOW. 3 
 
 gate, he hiir cr rct that nught 
 
 have pleased an ar:i5 . 5 r t — such careless 
 grace was there in his position, so free and 
 supple was the appearance of his young limbs 
 in their attitude of rest. The frayed sleeve 
 gave more effect to the bending wrist and 
 hand, the rough cap to the dark curis from 
 which it had been pushed ; there was grace 
 er : -igh in these things even without the 
 singular beauty of the lad's face, which jhiom 
 the position in which he stood could be but 
 dimly seen. Without moving, he stood lean- 
 ing on one arm upon the gate, watching the 
 movements in the station with dark, attentive 
 eyes. 
 
 Within, the arrival of the train had absorbed 
 attention for a time, and it was not till some 
 while had passed that he recaved a share of 
 notice too. A httie party of ladies had got out 
 on the platform, closely wrapped in furs, and 
 attended by a maid ; and the thoughts of the 
 s:?/^" : :^ster and porter were turned, of 
 course, cO them. It was not until the ladies 
 had exchanged a few words with t!^e older 
 man, until their tickets had leer. : and 
 
 they had begun to cress : : s
 
 4 TRACKED. 
 
 that the stationmaster, with a mind reHeved 
 at last, turned round to the porter and mut- 
 tered a word or two to him. 
 
 ''Oh, there is Geoff Haldan watching us," 
 he said. '' What new mischief has that young 
 devil been up to now ? " 
 
 The words reached the ears of the youngest 
 of the three ladies, who was behind the rest, 
 and she gave a little start and partly turned ; 
 and then, her eyes following in the same 
 direction as that which those of the two men 
 had taken, she looked with attention at the 
 boy who was leaning upon the gate. Some- 
 thing appeared to move her — perhaps the 
 look of beauty in the lad's attitude, or perhaps 
 the ominous words that had just been said — 
 for though she had scarcely spoken to the 
 boy in her life she knew him well. She stood 
 still for an instant at the end of the platform, 
 and then took a few irresolute steps upon the 
 lines, and stood still again. The impulse that 
 was upon her was strong. She was a young 
 lady, and had been brought up in all the ex- 
 clusiveness of feeling of a country house, 
 such thoughts as these had never touched 
 her mind before.
 
 THE BLACK TRACK IN THE SNOW. 5 
 
 No, the impulse was not to be resisted ; 
 she could not help herself. Turning round 
 suddenly, she went with swift, nervous move- 
 ments to the gate, and stood before the lad. 
 
 '' Geoff ! " 
 
 The boy let his arm drop in his astonish- 
 ment, but he did not touch his cap. The 
 gate was between them. She went on 
 speaking in nervous, trembling tones. 
 
 '' There is only one word — there is some- 
 thing I want to say to you," she said. And 
 then there was a pause, for her heart was 
 beating so fast that she could scarcely 
 breathe. '' I have heard such things of you 
 lately — dreadful things ! Oh, are they true ? " 
 
 There was a pause again. 
 
 *' Very like, miss," said Geoff. 
 
 " But don't you know that it is wrong, 
 terrible, that you will get into trouble if you 
 do things like these ? " 
 
 Her voice had gained strength with her 
 earnestness. Again there was a pause. 
 
 '' It's like enough, miss," he said. 
 
 His tone was not disrespectful or sullen ; 
 it was only very quiet. She raised her eyes 
 to him for a last appeal.
 
 6 TRACKED. 
 
 '' Oh, do you not think — have you never 
 thought?" she said. ''You are so young, 
 and wrong ways destroy people ; indeed, 
 indeed they do. Oh ! why must you spoil 
 your young Hfe — so soon ? " 
 
 /'Where are you, Sehna? Are you not 
 coming ? " called her companions from the 
 road, but without turning back to look at her ; 
 and, leaving the gate, she turned and ran to 
 them. Her light footsteps could scarcely be 
 heard upon the lines ; the little gate closed 
 behind her — she was gone. 
 
 And he stood leaning once more upon the 
 gate, looking after her across the lines. And 
 then he turned and looked back at the river 
 path along the track that his own feet had 
 made there beneath the stars. Seventeen 
 years old to-day ; the thought repeated itself 
 in a monotonous way within his mind. 
 
 Seventeen — only seventeen — and after the 
 deed of his this day had seen, what good thing 
 now was left to him of his life ? This only — 
 that there still remained for him one who 
 could be sorry that he had spoilt his young 
 life — so soon. 
 
 That night Selina was in no hurry to ring
 
 THE BLACK TRACK IN THE SNOW. 7 
 
 for her maid before the time for dinner came. 
 She sat by her window, leaning dreamily 
 against it, looking out at the dark garden and 
 the stars. A new feeling of sympathy and 
 of pain had touched her heart — as if some 
 spell were upon her she kept repeating in 
 her mind the scene througrh which she had 
 passed, as she looked out with dreaming eyes 
 upon the snow. 
 
 But Geoff Haldan had gone onwards to his 
 home, his young footsteps leaving a steady 
 track behind him as he went ; and in his 
 heart, stirred only for a moment by the words 
 that had been spoken, was no stronger sen- 
 sation than a dim remorse and fear — a dread 
 of the future to which his own footsteps were 
 conducting him, and which lay before him 
 like the darkness of the night.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A VERY DISREPUTABLE FAMILY. 
 
 It might have been a little past nine o'clock 
 that night when stealthy footsteps were heard 
 approaching the cottage of old Jem upon the 
 waste. 
 
 Within, the gleaming fire made light enough 
 in the room, at least for the five men who 
 were assembled there. Old Jem himself sat 
 smoking upon the wooden settle, with a short 
 pipe in his mouth, and his rough beard falling 
 upon his ragged coat. By the table in the 
 corner two men were playing cards, as they 
 smoked, with a dirty pack ; another upon a 
 stool was mending a pair of trousers which 
 lay across his lap ; and by the fire, seated
 
 A VERY DISREPUTABLE FAMILY. 9 
 
 upon the floor and clasping his knees, sat 
 Geoff, with the changing Hght upon his face. 
 The darkness and beauty of his young 
 features was only heightened by the lurid, 
 changeful glow ; but something more than 
 that varying light seemed needed to account 
 for the restless expression, like that of an 
 animal ready to be startled, in his eyes. He 
 had been sitting for a long time in perfect 
 stillness, but at the first sound of the foot- 
 steps without he started to his feet; and, 
 going to the door, admitted a visitor with the 
 driving snow. 
 
 Before we learn more of that intruder, let 
 us linger yet for a moment upon that family 
 scene — the rough men, the clouds of tobacco 
 smoke, the room that no woman's hand had 
 touched, the dark-eyed, handsome lad who 
 bore no resemblance, either in figure or 
 features, to the rest. That mattered little, 
 the look of wild lawlessness was alike on all ; 
 and in the fitful light of the fire as it rose and 
 fell the room and its inmates made an apt 
 image of the den of wild animals to which 
 they had been compared. Let us consider 
 that matter for a little ; the story of God's
 
 10 TRACKED. 
 
 creatures should be always interesting, and 
 so the natural history of wolves must have 
 its interest too. 
 
 Old Jem's cottage — known as the Wolf's 
 Den for many years before he had inhabited it 
 — was situated, as I have said, upon the waste ; 
 that is, upon a long stretch of uncultivated 
 ground about half-a-mile from the nearest 
 village doors. The stars, when they rose 
 over it that night, had looked down upon a 
 barren expanse of dreary sedges and half- 
 frozen water, broken principally by some 
 rising ground, on which a black, deserted 
 windmill stood. At some considerable dis- 
 tance from this, on flat ground barely above 
 the water, were four much-Injured trees, and 
 close to them a rough cottage with leaning 
 walls and disordered thatch, and a few bushes 
 and vegetables behind. There was no fence 
 of any sort to separate it from the waste land 
 around. 
 
 Here, then, for many years had old Jem 
 Haldan lived, peddling, poaching, snaring 
 rabbits, or cultivating vegetables as he 
 pleased ; and In this secluded place had he 
 reared three stalwart sons — Reuben, who
 
 A VER V DISREPUTABLE FAMIL Y. 1 1 
 
 from his habit of lounging was called Ben-o'- 
 the-Gate ; Nicholas, known as Red Nickle 
 from the colour of his beard ; and a younger 
 one who in his early youth had attempted 
 suicide after. being threatened with arrest for 
 stealing plums, and who, though promptly 
 cut down, had been known ever afterwards 
 by the name of Bill-be-Hanged. These 
 young men, the dread of the village for their 
 strength and lawlessness, had attempted 
 various occupations now and then, but they 
 had always ended by finding their way back 
 again to their father's home upon the waste, 
 and for many years they were, with him, the 
 only inmates of the place. 
 
 A great deal becomes forgotten, or but 
 dimly remembered, in more than twenty years, 
 and it is not, therefore, surprising that few 
 people in the village were prepared to say 
 distinctly in what manner Jem Haldan had 
 first taken possession of his home. There 
 were one or two, however, who asserted that 
 he had once lived in a neighbouring village, 
 and that in those days he had possessed a 
 wife to live with him, a dark, gipsy-looking 
 woman, who had disappeared suddenly from
 
 12 TRACKED, 
 
 the place^ and had not been seen again. It 
 was said that she was dead, but there were 
 one or two who beheved that statement to be 
 a convenient fiction devised in order to assist 
 the woman to escape from some unexplained 
 terror of the law ; and it was even asserted 
 that during Jem's frequent absences from 
 home he went to stay with her. However 
 that might have been, the years passed on, 
 the cottage on the waste became inhabited, 
 as we have seen, and nothing more was heard 
 or seen by anyone of Jem Haldan's wife. 
 
 And then, all at once, an unexpected in- 
 cident occurred, which revived immediately 
 the long-forgotten tale, and provided the 
 Wolf's Den with another life to rear. 
 
 On one gloomy evening in November, 
 when a heavy fog rested on the earth, a 
 woman, returning homeward to the village, 
 passed Jem Haldan on her way across the 
 waste. The fog was so dense that she did 
 not recognize him until they almost touched, 
 and she saw then that he had a knotted stick 
 in his left hand, and that he carried a large 
 basket upon his other arm. And then, as 
 she was passing by him without a greeting.
 
 A VERY DISREPUTABLE FAMILY. 13 
 
 there rose from the basket one sino:le waihnor 
 cry ; and, turning her head, she saw, thrust 
 upwards from the covering, a baby's hand. 
 
 If that meeting had taken place under 
 other circumstances, if there had even been 
 anyone near them in the gloom, she would 
 probably have stopped to express the sur- 
 prise she felt. But the loneliness of the 
 waste land and of the dreary fog, the little 
 hand, the sudden cr}% were all too much for 
 her — they ''give her a turn," as she after- 
 wards said herself — and she hastened on- 
 wards with all the speed she could command. 
 Only, when she was safely at home by her 
 blazing cottage fire, it uas natural that her 
 tongue should be loosed at last, and amongst 
 her neighbours considerable curiosity was 
 excited by her words. Before the next few 
 days were over it became generally known in 
 the village that in the Wolf's Den there was 
 a baby now. 
 
 And then rose other stories more uncertain 
 in their foundation, and yet very generally 
 beHeved. It was said that on the nieht on 
 which the basket and its little occupant were 
 introduced into the place there had risen a
 
 14 TRACKED. 
 
 furious dissension amongst the dwellers in the 
 Den ; and that, in the dead of the night, 
 whilst all the others w^ere asleep. Red Nickle 
 had risen, placed the baby again in its basket, 
 and put it outside the door, that his move- 
 ments had roused the others, and that a 
 violent fight arose. The truth of this story 
 could not be ascertained ; at any rate it was 
 certain that, even if there had been disputes, 
 the baby continued to exist within the Den. 
 Those w^ho saw it reported it to be a little 
 creature of several months, with a head 
 ^' black as an imp," and added that Jem 
 seemed to have some '' care of it." And 
 then, one evening in the public-house, when 
 his heart was w^armed with drink, Jem revealed 
 some facts himself. He said that his wife, who 
 had not been for '^ many year" in the place, 
 had lately died, and allowed it to be under- 
 stood that the new inmate of his home was 
 her child, and his youngest son. 
 
 This story, agreeing well enough with the 
 tradition of which I have spoken, was received 
 at the time, both at the public-house and 
 elsewhere, w^ith belief. As time passed on 
 some further doubts arose, but there were
 
 A VEJ^Y DISREPUTABLE FAMILY, 15 
 
 none enough Interested in the matter to care 
 to track to certainty a doubtful tale. And 
 one conclusion at any rate remained — the 
 child had been brought to the Wolf's Den, 
 and within that shelter it remained. 
 
 And now let us think for a moment of the 
 influences that thus from its earliest times 
 surrounded that httle life — the little life that 
 had cried out upon the waste as if protesting 
 against the home it had not reached. No 
 gentle education, no sweet, early instruction, 
 to bear fruit in after years, pervaded for it the 
 smoking and drinking that were the constant 
 amusements of the Den ; the hands that 
 surrounded it had been used to unlawful 
 deeds ; the lips that spoke to it were more 
 fond of oaths than prayer. The three young 
 men, indeed, had appeared to receive with a 
 curious, sullen unwillingness this intruder who 
 was thrust upon their care ; and, though Jem 
 looked after the child with an abiding interest 
 that belied his words, he was frequently heard 
 to declare that '' it was no matter to him if 
 the thing did live or die." The thing did not 
 die — it lived ; and some natural pity for its 
 condition, combined with an almost supersti-
 
 16 TRACKED, 
 
 tious interest arising from the story of that 
 night upon the waste, induced its neighbours 
 in the village to take some thought for it. 
 As soon as its childish feet were strong 
 enough to find their way so far, it was received 
 into many homes in the village, and there fed 
 and caressed. 
 
 And here let me wait for a moment, for 
 pictures are rising to my mind — a father 
 coming home in the afternoon to find a 
 lovely, dark-eyed child laid to rest beside 
 his own child in the bed ; a young woman 
 stopping in the street to give her bunch of 
 flowers into the hands of ''that pretty boy." 
 Slim, ragged, brown, with eyes dark and wild 
 like those of an animal, the little creature 
 made a singular plaything even then. As it 
 grew older it gained shy and sullen ways, 
 and preferred to play alone about its dis- 
 ordered home, and shrank away from any 
 chance comer who tried to approach it there. 
 Some amount of ill-treatment at home might 
 in part account for this, as the speech heard 
 continually at home might be held answerable 
 for the broken words and oaths which sounded 
 yet more terrible when lisped by childish lips.
 
 A VERY DISREPUTABLE FAMILY. 17 
 
 Alas, poor Geoff 1 
 
 Yes, before we return to the fireside of the 
 cottage upon that winter evening, we must 
 linger yet for a moment over those early 
 scenes. We shall need all the light we can 
 gain before we set out upon the journey that 
 is to follow a wolfs track through the night. 
 
 But I fear we shall be mistaken if we are 
 led to suppose that Geoff could be thought a 
 nice little boy even in those early days, or 
 that the circumstances of his education could 
 altogether account for the peculiarities of his 
 disposition even then. Little Geoff, in spite 
 of ill-treatment and raggedness, was a lovely 
 child, and his beauty moved at once all eyes 
 that saw him first. But the boy was mis- 
 chievous, changeable, full of tricks and 
 mimicry, with a dangerous power of assuming 
 penitence when he pleased. When he was 
 not sullen or shy he was marvellously bright 
 and quick, with a sensitive instinct through 
 all his changing moods ; but there seemed 
 something dangerous in his varying nature 
 all the same. His three brothers and father 
 were heavy, stalwart men ; the pretty lad had 
 not the look of them^ and his dark eyes 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 TRACKED. 
 
 suggested the thought of an animal even to 
 those who had never heard the title of his 
 home. Before he was seven years old Geoff 
 had been already called '^ Wolf" by his com- 
 panions in the school. 
 
 Jem, who had provided a certain amount 
 of learning for his elder sons, appeared to 
 treat this, his youngest, with the most intense 
 neglect ; and nothinof less than the dread of 
 a fine would have induced him to send the 
 boy to school. As it was Geoff attended as 
 irregularly as he dared, and got into all the 
 mischief that he could, preserving always a 
 demure demeanour that often saved him from 
 the suspicion he deserved. The other boys 
 dreaded him, though they admired him, and 
 he did not go much with them ; the teachers 
 always ended by becoming w^orn out with his 
 ways, in spite of their natural inclination 
 towards a scholar who looked at them with 
 such brilliant eyes. It seemed as if neither 
 at home nor abroad had the boy any real 
 companions of his own. 
 
 He grew up the handsomest, wildest lad in 
 all the parish, the ringleader in scrapes, the 
 best singer in public-houses, the swiftest
 
 A VER Y DISREPUTA BLE EAMIL V. 1 9 
 
 runner, and the most daring climber in the 
 place. On the whole, he obtained but little 
 punishment for all his deeds, though once a 
 farmer, whose nectarines he had stolen, and 
 to whom, moreover, Jem owed some money, 
 pursued him to his home ; for the man, 
 being good-natured, w^as so distressed at 
 being compelled to be a witness of the savage 
 thrashing that the boy received, and a hearer 
 of his wild screams and oaths whilst his 
 brothers held him down, that the result was 
 he never complained of him again, and Geoff 
 plundered his apples with impunity all the 
 autumn throuorh. 
 
 If the boy was leniently dealt with abroad, 
 however, it was not so at home, and there 
 were many stories of the ill-treatment he 
 received. It was said, for instance, that his 
 three brothers had once chased him up into 
 a tree, and then watched by it in turns for a 
 whole day and night, until he made a 
 desperate leap from it, and hurt himself, and 
 was still further hurt by them. His father 
 never attempted to defend him, and Geoff 
 only received a severe beating for himself on 
 one occasion when he ventured to complain.
 
 20 TRACKED. 
 
 As years went on, however, it was observable 
 that a change took place at home ; the grow- 
 ing boy became more able to defend himself, 
 and his brothers seemed, like his school 
 friends, to be almost afraid of him. His 
 resentment was so determined, his resolute 
 silence or fits of frenzied passion so unlike 
 their ways, that they became accustomed to 
 leave him to himself ; the lad, slender as he 
 was, could hold his own with them. 
 
 Let us add to these things that Geoff more 
 than once during his seventeen years of life 
 had been considered to be a '^ spiritual- 
 minded" boy. He was, indeed, capable of 
 assuming a most devotional aspect now and 
 then, and various Bible-teachers had formed 
 great hopes of him. There had been one old 
 lady in particular who had given him private 
 lessons on the Catechism in her house, and 
 who had been rendered ill by the shock of 
 the discovery that he was accustomed to go 
 from her to the public-house and repeat his 
 lesson there. Geoff was very readily called 
 a hypocrite for such things, I need hardly 
 say ; and yet there may have been some 
 injustice in the accusation all the same. His
 
 A VER V DISREPUTABLE FAMIL Y. 21 
 
 nature was very impressionable, and capable 
 of widely different moods, and some real ele- 
 ments of superstitious terror lurked always 
 beneath the wildness of his life. 
 
 Well, we have nearly reached again the 
 scene of that winter's night, and yet we must 
 pause for another moment still; for there is one 
 element that is never wanting in a romance, 
 and that can find its way into a history as 
 well. And that one element had not been 
 wanting here, though the handsomest lad in 
 the parish was still a boy in years. 
 
 About two miles from the cottage on the 
 waste there lived a farmer whose only daugh- 
 ter was said to look with favour upon Jem's 
 youngest son, and there were stories told in 
 the village of walks in the evening and of 
 gifts exchanged. But no one supposed for 
 an instant that Mr. Gibson would allow his 
 pretty Lizzie to care for such as Geoff. 
 
 And so there had been disputes between 
 Geoff and her brother Jim — young Jim, as he 
 was called — the only respectable associate 
 the boy had found. And Geoff, finding him- 
 self cast out from friendship, and also crossed 
 in love, had chosen promptly another com-
 
 22 TRACKED, 
 
 panion for himself. This was Ben Wilde — 
 whom village wits named Wild Ben — the 
 worst company In the place, as all the sober 
 thought. Between this man and Geoff and 
 Geoff's father there had been an old dispute, 
 but he readily received all the boy's advances 
 now, and the result was that the village 
 gossips shook their heads anew, and whis- 
 pered that there was no longer any hope for 
 that mischievous Geoff Haldan and his ways 
 — '' a sweerin', smokin', gamblin', drinkin' 
 lad." 
 
 It was some such tale as this, probably, 
 that Miss Selina heard. And yet this tale, 
 too, was not altogether true, for Geoff did 
 not smoke, and did not even care to drink; 
 his young nature was too continually afire of 
 its own accord to feel itself in need of stimu- 
 lants as yet. The exaggerated stories about 
 him had been his misfortune often enough 
 before ; his disposition was wild and un- 
 settled, and the w^orst fears might be enter- 
 tained of him, but, though he was fond of the 
 public-houses of the place, and of the sort of 
 society they held, he had not as yet advanced 
 by many footsteps upon the path to ruin.
 
 A VEI^Y DISREPUTABLE FAMILY. 23 
 
 On the morning of that day of which we 
 have already seen the night he had started 
 off early for the town where he was to meet 
 Wild Ben, and then to do some work (for he 
 had odd jobs now and then), and then in the 
 afternoon to meet Jim Gibson, too. The 
 night had fallen before he reached his home 
 once more. His father and brothers were 
 seated round the fire. He lifted the latch 
 quietly, came in, and sat down upon the 
 ground, clasping his knees and looking at 
 the fire, without saying a word. Even to 
 them it was clear that something unusual 
 must have happened, but they did not speak 
 to him, and after a while fell to their cards 
 and work, whilst he remained seated on the 
 ground before the fire. One hour passed 
 after another, and then the footsteps came, 
 and Geoff started up and went straightway 
 to the door. 
 
 What had been passing through his mind 
 during those silent hours? Was it shame, 
 or remorse, or only a fear of pain ? Had his 
 young heart become too hardened for peni- 
 tence even now? 
 
 He had not spoken of himself, but another
 
 24 TRACKED, 
 
 would speak of him. The visitor stood In the 
 doorway, looking in upon the firellt scene. 
 Beyond, the snow was driving through the 
 darkness outside the open door. The young 
 men looked up from their cards and work ; 
 the older man silently laid down his pipe ; 
 Geoff sat down again, clasping his knees, 
 before the fire.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 
 
 *' An' what brings you here so late, Mick 
 Ralfer?" asked Jem, as he laid his pipe upon 
 the settle by his side. 
 
 The two men who were playing cards in 
 the corner looked up with impatience at 
 finding their game disturbed. The young 
 man by the fire gave a kick to the logs that 
 started the flames afresh. 
 
 '' Shut that door, will you, Mick ? " he 
 growled ; " it's powerful cold." 
 
 He kicked the logs and started the flames 
 again. The light gave a changing look to 
 the motionless face of Geoff, who sat still in 
 his old position on the ground. 
 
 Mick Ralfer shut the door and advanced to
 
 26 TRACKED, 
 
 the blaze himself, with the alert face of one 
 who has some news to tell. He was a little 
 old man, with a bent form and legs, a face 
 like a red, withered apple, and little twinkling 
 eyes. Whatever the words might be he had 
 to say, it was plain that the task of messen- 
 ger was congenial enough to him ; and yet in 
 his manner there was the excitement of evil 
 tidings, too. 
 
 '' Ho, you're there, Geoff," he said, glan- 
 cing down as he spoke at the boy upon the 
 ground. '' I've come to earn the shillln' that 
 ye give me, as ye see. But I can tell ye, I've 
 nothin' good to say. You've done it now — 
 you've done It now, my lad." 
 
 There was a pause, whilst all were still to 
 hear. 
 
 And then Geoff spoke, very quietly, and 
 with his eyes upon the fire. 
 
 *'An' howls Jim?" 
 
 /' He's mortal bad ; they say he'll die to- 
 night ! " 
 
 Silence. Not a man In the room had a 
 thought of moving now. 
 
 '' An' his father, he says ye shall swing for 
 this before the spring is out."
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 27 
 
 The ghastly words fell with distinctness 
 upon the stillness of the room. A slight 
 shudder had passed through the boy's frame 
 after the first sentence — not after the second 
 — but he continued to sit quietly as before. 
 Old Ralf advanced to the low mantelpiece 
 and leant on that. His figure was black 
 against the firelight ; he moved his hand 
 like an orator ; it was evident that his mind 
 was full of the scene that he described. 
 
 '' I see him a-lyin' on a shooter wi' his hair 
 all a-sookin' like, wi' blood ; and his father 
 lean over him all a-sweerin", and he says, says 
 he, ' Geoff Haldan '11 pay for this.' An' they 
 was in the little tobaccer shop at the corner, 
 an' the 'ole place w^ere full o' men an' women 
 fro' the streets, an' there wasn't one of 'em 
 but had some words to throw at ye ; an' I 
 thort, thort I, it's true enough, I know — " 
 
 ^' — you," said Geoff, looking up now with 
 an oath. " You ! What have your thoughts 
 to do with me, I say? Tell me what I'm to 
 do ; I'll thank you then." 
 
 ^' You'd best be off ; you'd best be off^ 
 m' lad. For I tell ye, Jim's father'll ha' the 
 law on ye. He said as Jim was to be taken
 
 28 TRACKED. 
 
 all the way to his cottage from the town : ' For 
 it'll be better like for him,' says he, ' to die at 
 home.' And there was some as wanted to 
 call for the bobbies and ha' ye up at once. 
 But he says, ' No ; let him alone/ he says ; 
 ' I'll have him up for murder before the night 
 is o'er. If my son dies I'll die ten times o'er 
 but he shall swing for this.' And then he 
 swears he'll have ye hanged at the assizes 
 before the spring is done. He'll not rest day 
 nor night till ye be hanged. An' if Jim's 
 dead by now ye may look for the bobbies 
 soon." 
 
 There was an awful silence within the fire- 
 lit room. Geoff remained very quiet, and 
 did not move or speak ; but his eyes shone, 
 though his breath came more quickly, and 
 his young face was pale. He did not seem 
 in the least inclined to stir. 
 
 '' Ye needn't 'a hit him so hard acrost the 
 face, m' lad/' went on old Ralf, in persuasive, 
 soothing tones. " It's that as'll go agin' ye 
 at the end. His father's got the old bit o' 
 iron ye did it wi' to keep. They say as ye 
 allers meant it, as ye come up behind — " 
 
 ''An' that's a lie," cried Geoff, looking up
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 29 
 
 suddenly, with a dark glow on his face. '' I 
 never meant to hurt him ; it's not my fault if 
 he is dead to-night. I wouldn't a' touched 
 him if he hadn't said I stole ; an' then I only 
 took up the first thing that was near; I never 
 supposed he wouldn't save his face. He 
 went on so about Liz, an' he'd no call for 
 that. It's not my fault if I did kill him — kill 
 him " 
 
 His voice trembled with a passionate sob 
 beneath it. Again there was silence, whilst 
 the men gathered round the fire, their excited 
 faces dimly seen in the imperfect light. Old 
 Jem alone had remained upon the settle, and 
 it was his voice which came from the dark 
 corner now. 
 
 '' It's all very well what ye tell us, Geoff," 
 said he ; '' but if ye hurt him, as ye say, the 
 law'll have a hold on ye, in spite o' that. An' 
 I'll not ha' one of ye ta'en to prison fro' here. 
 Ye'd best go an' hide wi' yer friends i' the 
 town a bit." 
 
 '' An' it'll be well if ye ever get back again," 
 old Ralf observed. 
 
 The boy remained motionless, except for 
 a tightening movement in the fingers that
 
 so TRACKED. 
 
 clasped his knees. There seemed to be on 
 him a dreary wish not to stir, in spite of the 
 sensation of terror or excitement that shone 
 with quivering Hght in his eyes. 
 
 *' Ye'd best be off, Geoff," said Jem, in 
 insisting tones. 
 
 But still the lad did not move till one of 
 his brothers pushed him with his foot. He 
 rose then very slowly, stretching himself as 
 if he had been asleep. His words came in 
 sullen tones, which would not have induced a 
 feeling of mercy in anyone who heard. 
 
 " I must have some money. You owe me 
 two pound," he said. 
 
 ''And that two pound," said Jem, with 
 composure, " I take to pay your keep. I 
 can't afford to lose no mooney now. The 
 rest '11 agree wi' me, I'll be bound, i' that." 
 
 Geoff looked on them with wild eyes, but 
 ap^ainst his father and brothers he had no 
 power to resist. He went to the card-table, 
 on which a heap of shillings lay, swept them 
 into his hand, and pocketed them without a 
 word. His brothers seemed for a moment as 
 if they would prevent him ; but, either from 
 good-nature, or because they saw the white,
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 31 
 
 contracted look of his face, did not think it 
 worth their while. Only Red Nickle, who 
 had pushed him with his foot a few minutes 
 before, growled out to him — 
 
 " We can get more money'n that by handin' 
 ye to the justices when we please, m' lad.'' 
 
 Geoff took no notice ; he moved across the 
 room. 
 
 *' Where art thou going ? That's not the 
 way to t' door," muttered Jem, as he raised 
 his pipe again. 
 
 '' I'm going to my room to get my things 
 fro' there." 
 
 " Well, hasten thee, then, or I'll set my 
 hand to thee." 
 
 '' Ye'll want a light, mebbee," suggested 
 Ben, who was the most good-natured of the 
 three. But Red Nickle accepted the obser- 
 vation in a different way. 
 
 " Ay ; keep an eye on him — keep an eye 
 on him," he said. '' He's had our money, an* 
 he'll take our jackets, too." And, as Geoff 
 went forward towards the inner apartment, he 
 pushed Ben-o'-the-Gate, who had lighted a 
 candle, after him. Bill-be-Hanged, who was 
 of a more placid turn of mind, was still
 
 32 TRACKED. 
 
 occupied in thought with the clothes that he 
 wanted to wear on Monday at the fair. He 
 had seated himself again by the fire, and was 
 industriously threading a needle by its light. 
 Geoff took no notice of any of them ; he went 
 on into the inner room alone. 
 
 This was the room he shared with his 
 brothers and father, the only sleeping apart- 
 ment all possessed. A poor, rough place it 
 looked now, dimly lighted by the candle 
 which Ben held at the door ; small, close, 
 disordered, with a black sloping roof, untidy 
 beds and mattresses, and some clothes and 
 dirty blankets lying about the floor. Geoff 
 felt his way through these things to his own 
 mattress, which was at the further end 
 against the wall, with the sloping roof close 
 above it, and which, alone of all of them, had 
 been arranged with care. It was at a little 
 distance from the rest, and some strung birds' 
 eggs were fastened above it on the roof. He 
 had been accustomed to consider this corner 
 his own peculiar room ; and, after his own 
 fashion, he had been pleased with it. And 
 now, for one instant, he laid himself down 
 upon the bed, and hid his face upon the
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 33 
 
 pillow, and closed his eyes. It seemed to 
 him as if he wanted to forget ; to think only 
 that he had come in tired, and had lain down 
 to rest ; but Ben was watching him, and he 
 dared not sleep or cry. For one moment 
 only he let his eyelids close, whilst his fingers 
 were strained and twisted underneath ; then 
 he opened them to the dimly-lighted room, 
 and the sense of flight again. 
 
 And after that his movements were quick 
 enough. Still lying on his face, as if he had 
 placed himself in that attitude for the pur- 
 pose, he rapidly turned up his mattress and 
 took out some books beneath it ; for in this 
 manner, through the last two or three years, 
 he had kept his little library concealed. The 
 books made a curious collection, and were 
 much worn and soiled — a Bible, a hymn- 
 book, a Handbook of Logic, a book of Natural 
 History, an Arabian Nights, some penny 
 novelettes, a few Theological Discussions, and 
 some Eastern Tales. He turned these over 
 quickly, for a feverish feeling was growing on 
 him that he had no time to spare. The Bible 
 and hymn-book he rejected first, then held in 
 his hand for one moment the Arabian Nights, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 TRACKED. 
 
 and finally put within his coat the little volume 
 of Eastern Tales. The rest he replaced 
 rapidly, but with characteristic care, made up 
 a few of his possessions into a little bundle, 
 which he tied round with string, and then 
 turned to the door as if prepared to start. 
 Yet still for one instant he lingered, knelt 
 down by his little mattress, and, putting his 
 face against the pillow, kissed it softly as one 
 who leaves a friend ; and then he turned again 
 and w^ent in to the rest, with his bundle thrown 
 over his shoulder, and a look of feverish hurry 
 in his eyes. 
 
 Bill looked up from the fire, where he sat 
 stitching still. 
 
 '' So you're ready now at last, are ye, 
 Geoff?" he said. '' We thort the bobbies 'ud 
 have ye arter all." 
 
 ^' I'll not be taken to prison ; I'll kill myself 
 first ! " cried Geoff, with his dark glance 
 blazing now. '' And look here, all of ye here, 
 this thing it's not my fault. If I was to die 
 to-morrow I'd say no less than that." 
 
 '' Where be going ? " asked Ben, in a slow, 
 good-natured way. 
 
 But the old father interrupted before any
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 35 
 
 answer came, taking his pipe quickly out of 
 his mouth and puUing at his beard — 
 
 '' Keep quiet tongues," he said ; '' there Is 
 no good In that. We'se hear of him, sooner 
 or later, as a bad coin, I'll be bound. And 
 ye be off, Geoff, and don't stand fooling 
 there." 
 
 Geoff looked round on them all, and gave a 
 little scornful movement of his head ; then 
 arranged the bundle anew on his shoulder and 
 moved quickly to the door. 
 
 " Good-bye, Geoff ! " called out Bill to him, 
 from the corner of the fireplace where he sat. 
 
 ^* God be wa' ye, Geoff ! " cried Red NIckle 
 after him, thinking perhaps to improve upon 
 the phrase. 
 
 " Na — ay. He'll stay wi' ye, more like," 
 said Geoff, stopping for an instant and turning 
 round his head. '' Ye and yer ways — I'll be 
 bound He likes the sort ! " The door closed 
 upon him as he spoke ; with that bitter pro- 
 fanity upon his lips he left his home. 
 
 The snow and the stars were without, the 
 sound of the closing door w^as in his ears, and 
 he was alone. For one moment he stood 
 looking upon the dreary waste around, then
 
 36 TRACKED. 
 
 he let himself fall down upon the ground and 
 cried. 
 
 A long while passed before he raised his 
 head. There was a sound like singing in his 
 ears. He was confused with crying, and felt 
 almost bewildered ; but the intense coldness 
 of the night brought a reviving sense. He 
 dashed his fingers across his eyes, which were 
 still dim with tears, and sat down on the 
 ground, clasping his knees, upon the snow. 
 
 Where could he go now ? What must he 
 do? 
 
 Around him were the night and the waste, 
 and above him were the stars ; the trees were 
 near him, and from one window of the cottage 
 came a red gleam of light. Geoff looked up 
 towards that for an instant as if it were not in 
 his power to bear the sight, and then threw 
 himself on his face upon the ground in con- 
 vulsive tears again. 
 ' Indeed he had cause for crying, this lad of 
 seventeen, thus thrust out alone in shame and 
 guilt into the night, accused by his enemies, 
 deserted by all to whom he might have clung, 
 under the pressure of a doom that by this 
 time might have stained his young hands
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT, 37 
 
 with blood. So guilty, so deserted, so de- 
 serving of penalties both from God and man, 
 the very agony of his sorrow might have 
 seemed the fairest hope for him. 
 
 If only It had been sorrow which had moved 
 him, or If a real penitence could have touched 
 him then ! Indeed, there was a horror as of 
 unknown guilt upon his conscience — a weight, 
 of which he dared not think, upon his mind. 
 But In the madness of his folly and perversity 
 he did his best to put repentant thoughts 
 away. 
 
 ''Jim was not dying — couldn't be dying — 
 he was so strong allays— there was no need to 
 think o' that. And It was his own fault, too — 
 he had no call to say what he did — he might 
 a saved himself — * if I was to die to-morrow 
 I'd say no less than that.' " And then, though 
 he was thus already too hardened to w^eep for 
 his fault or for his ruin, or over the father and 
 brothers he had left within his home, he was 
 y^t young enough to burst out crying again 
 like a child or baby at the thought of the 
 string of birds' eggs he had hung above his 
 bed. 
 
 Gone — lost — all the little possessions he
 
 38 TRACKED. 
 
 had valued once ; he might never return to 
 them or to his home again. And perhaps 
 even this grief — even this, since at least it was 
 sincere — bore witness to a nature not com- 
 pletely lost as yet. 
 
 Only it was not in Geoff's disposition to go 
 on crying long. He sat up again on the 
 ground in a more determined way, cleared 
 his eyes with his fingers, and disposed him- 
 self to think. There was time enough, 
 for he was not in the least afraid of being 
 pursued ; his clasp-knife was in his pocket ; 
 he was by a long way the swiftest runner in 
 the neighbourhood ; and he knew, moreover, 
 every path across the waste. One hasty 
 glance he cast on all sides of him to be sure 
 he was alone, and then he leant his elbows 
 upon his knees and thought. 
 
 The stars were above him, the lonely night 
 around, the trees looked black and strange 
 against the sky. There was coming on him 
 a curious feeling of intense loneliness, as if 
 the great black night were round him, en- 
 closing him, as if he must go forwards into a 
 darkness in which he would be alone. He 
 began to think what it would be like to be
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 39 
 
 alone for ever. Better that, perhaps, than to 
 have Jim's dying face — and he stopped him- 
 self again. 
 
 He would 20 to Mrs. Rawson and ask for 
 shelter ; Mrs. Rawson would give it to him, 
 he knew. Or, if she would not. Wild Ben 
 would take him in ; for the last few weeks 
 Ben had taken '' such notice like " of him. 
 And he must see him, too, and oret him to 
 explain about the purse — that purse w^hich 
 Ben had given to him to keep, and which 
 had dropped out of his pocket before Jim 
 said he stole. That miserable purse, which 
 had brought such ruin on him, he dared not 
 look at it, though it was in his pocket still. 
 
 With a long, weary sigh Geoff raised him- 
 self slowly to his feet. He was cramped and 
 aching with cold, and a miserable fear was 
 straining at his heart, but the very pain of it 
 all seemed to give him strength to move ; he 
 was no longer utterly stunned as he had been 
 whilst he sat before the fire. If only he did 
 not feel so alone — alone ; but he must even 
 now make some effort for himself. The stars 
 would be a sufficient guide to him. He turned 
 his face in the direction of the town.
 
 40 TRACKED. 
 
 And then another thought seized him, a 
 wild and daring idea that checked his steps. 
 No, he must be going in another direction 
 first ; there was something that he must learn 
 before he could seek safety for himself. The 
 very desperateness of the idea made half its 
 charm for him. With renewed vigour he 
 grasped the stick that held the bundle on 
 his shoulder, and set off with hasty footsteps 
 on his journey through the night. 
 
 The waste land lay white and dim beneath 
 the stars, the frozen marshes made difficult 
 ground to tread. But Geoff had the instinct 
 that comes by long acquaintance ; he found 
 his way without stumbling amongst the sedges 
 and the pools. Once only he started with a 
 sudden terror that made his heart beat fast ; 
 the deserted windmill looked so black against 
 the sky. He left that behind him with rapid 
 footsteps, mocking himself inwardly for his 
 fear, and scrambled on through the marsh- 
 land towards the firmer ground. And now 
 before him there lay the village roofs, and 
 one or two gleams of light from sheltered
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 41 
 
 houses. He did not go on to these, but 
 scrambled through a hedge into the road. 
 
 And now it was not difficult to find the 
 way. He turned his back to the village, and 
 went straight onwards still. After a while he 
 clambered over a gate into a field, and having 
 waded through the snow to a hurdle at the 
 further end, he climbed over that again into 
 a lane. It was a rough, dark lane, with high 
 hedges on each side, and many ruts, but he 
 did not stay for that. He turned into another 
 lane, and after a time into another, which 
 w^as long and straight ; and now, straight 
 before him, as far as he could see, the roof of 
 a house made a black line against the sky. 
 
 He did not delay his steps, but his heart 
 beat faster now. Up the long lane he went 
 ivith rapid movements, his eyes fixed always 
 upon the black lines of the house. There 
 was no light even in little Will's bedroom ; 
 but, then, little Will might be in bed. What 
 should he do ? How should he rouse him ? 
 For he must be roused. There was difficulty, 
 •danger . . . the fast beating of his heart 
 seemed to interrupt his breath, but his foot- 
 steps still went on. And now he had reached
 
 42 TRACKED. 
 
 the wall of the yard that was behind the house. 
 And here, then, for one instant, he stood still. 
 
 He went back a little, climbed over a gate 
 into the field behind the yard, and then stood 
 still again beneath the wall. It was above 
 his head, but he grasped the coping stone 
 with his hands, pulled himself up by his 
 arms, and then dropped down easily into the 
 yard below. The little square enclosure lay 
 beneath the stars, beyond were the outlines 
 of house and stacks against the sky. Geoff 
 sat down in an empty wheelbarrow to think. 
 
 It had occurred to him that hewould climb 
 the wall at the further end, and from that 
 height tap upon little Will's window, which 
 was just above. But Will might not be 
 there, and he might only incur needless 
 danger by the act. He looked carefully 
 through the darkness at the house. There 
 was no blind down in the room of the little 
 boy ; and the window, as he could see, had 
 not been closed. That last sight decided 
 him at once. Will would not be sleeping 
 with his window open upon this winter's 
 night. 
 
 Perhaps he was downstairs with Jim,,
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 43 
 
 perhaps they were all with Jim ; the horrible 
 dread made his face burn in spite of the 
 bitter cold. Oh ! he must know more — he 
 would — yes, even if he had to go in and face 
 them all. 
 
 If he were to go to the back door now — to 
 steal there very quietly, and knock, and take 
 his chance. Will wouldn't call anyone, Liz 
 wouldn't, and if the old man came — Well, 
 after all, he could run quickly, and he had his 
 knife. Anything was better than sitting here 
 and thinking of the sitting-room, and the 
 wounded man. 
 
 He got up quickly and stole across the 
 yard. There was a heap of stones below the 
 wall at the further end ; it was not so hard to 
 climb. But there was a dread upon him that 
 made him noiseless now. Between the wall 
 and the back of the house was a narrow stone 
 passage, not two feet in wadth. He drew 
 himself to the top of the wall, let himself drop 
 by his hands, and fell silently on his feet upon 
 the stones below. The door was near him in 
 the darkness — he crept close to it — he could 
 hear footsteps in the passage just within. 
 With a fast-beating heart he put out his
 
 44 TRACKED. 
 
 hand, and knocked. The footsteps came 
 nearer, the handle softly turned, a little boy 
 stood upon the threshold of the door. 
 
 In another Instant Geoff had caught the 
 child up into his arms, had pressed a firm 
 hand over his mouth, and with his other hand 
 had closed the door. It was all done so 
 quickly the child had no time to cry, he lay 
 like a passive burden in his captor's arms. 
 Still holding him firmly, Geoff stole round 
 the house, crept beneath the stacks that rose 
 upon the left, and threw himself down beneath 
 them upon some littered hay. For the first 
 time then he allowed himself to relax his 
 hold ; but he kept his arms still round the 
 boy, whom he held upon his knees. 
 
 '' Will— little Will— don't you know me?" 
 he said. 
 
 Some instants passed before the panting 
 answer came ; the child had been frightened, 
 and had scarcely breath to speak. 
 
 '' It is you, Geoffie ; I thought it must be 
 you." 
 
 Geoff answered by soft kisses on the hair 
 of the little lad, and by taking the boy's 
 face gently between his hands. His small
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT, 45 
 
 acquaintance did not appear surprised ; Geoff 
 had been fond of the child, and had pleasant 
 ways with him. The Httle boy's breathing 
 had almost ceased to pant. 
 
 '^ I'm glad you have come to-night, 
 Geoffie," said little Will. He added, with a 
 small sob that caught his breath, '^ We are in 
 trouble now — Jim is so bad.'^ 
 
 They sat silent, with the stars above the 
 stacks looking silently down on them. It 
 was the turn of the older lad to tremble now. 
 His voice came in a mutter that was scarcely 
 above his breath. 
 
 '' But he is better — he will gtt better." 
 
 There was no answer ; the child, perhaps, 
 had no certain reply to make ; he lay shiver- 
 ing in his companion's arms. 
 
 '' Father says he'll kill you when he sees 
 you, Geoff," he said. ''He says he'll mark 
 your face as you marked Jim's for him." 
 
 There was silence from both, and they 
 shuddered with the cold. 
 
 '' But you don't want my face to be marked, 
 little Will ? " said Geoff. 
 
 His whisper was very low, but there was a 
 trembling anxiety in its tone.
 
 46 TRACKED. 
 
 '' Oh, no, Geoff," said Will, " you are allays 
 ^ood to me." He added a childish sentence, 
 '' And you're so pretty, too." 
 
 Geoff laughed softly, and stroked and 
 Icissed his hair. In the midst of the anguish 
 of dread that possessed his heart this small 
 consolation of friendship had its weight; it 
 would have been a bitter punishment if 
 the child had shrunk from him. But the 
 innocent mind of the boy had no slightest 
 thought of that. 
 
 "You kiss warm, Geoff," he whispered, 
 ^' but it is very cold." 
 
 And, indeed, even Geoff was trembling, 
 although his face and lips were hot. 
 
 '' You shall go in directly, little Will ; I say 
 you shall. But tell me first, will they ask 
 you where you have been ? An' look at the 
 stars, Willy, they're strange and bright to- 
 night." 
 
 '' They are bright," said the boy, with a 
 glance above the stacks. '' No, they wonna 
 ask me ; they're a' ta'en up wi' Jim. Be you 
 goin' away, Geoff? for father'll sure an' hurt 
 you if^ you stay." 
 
 ''I'm goin' away, but not far," Geoff
 
 THROUGH THE NIGHT. 47 
 
 replied, with some reluctance, as if he were 
 not sure how much he ought to tell; "an' 
 you mustn't tell no one as you've seen me to- 
 night, not even Liz — poor Liz. You'll re- 
 member that ? But ril be sure to come agin 
 to-morrow, and see you then ; an' you must 
 remember every bit I tell you now." 
 
 He waited here for an instant, and then 
 went on — 
 
 '' You must go to the school at Crasteno' 
 the Sunday arternoon, as you allays do ; and 
 when school's ended you must get right by 
 yourself, and come to the stone-pit agin the 
 church, and I'll be there. An' you mustn't 
 let no one see what you're about, and be sure 
 an' not tell father, whate'er you do, or he'll be 
 rare an' angered wi' you, an' whip you, too." 
 
 " I donno as he will," said Will, in solemn 
 tones ; '' he's never beat me, not in all my 
 life. Day school master tell me he' d give 
 me the stick if I didn't learn my lesson for 
 the school." 
 
 '' Well, y' mustn't say naught, anyhow," 
 insisted Geoff, without attending to this super- 
 fluous information. " It's a poor lad that 
 canna hold his tongue. I won't ha' father
 
 48 TRACKED. 
 
 know that I'v^e been here. And put up your 
 face now and gi' me a kiss, an' go — ye'll be 
 wanting to run in to the fire. An' tell me ye 
 don't hate — hate me" ... he was almost in 
 tears. 
 
 But Will knelt at once and readily on his 
 older companion's knees, and threw round his 
 neck the clasp of his childish arms, and the 
 two lads kissed and clung together in the 
 darkness. It seemed as if Geoff could not 
 let him go at first. 
 
 And then, when he had released him, he 
 sprang up himself with a sudden movement 
 and caught him back, and lifted him in his 
 arms that he might hold him to his face, 
 though Will could feel in the darkness that 
 his face was covered with tears. It was so 
 strange — so unlike Geoff ; and then he had 
 put him down, thrust him away, in an instant 
 he w^as gone. 
 
 The little, bewildered boy crept round the 
 stacks ; but only darkness was round them, 
 though the stars shone above. The snow 
 lay everywhere ; it w^as bitterly cold, and 
 silent — very silent. The wolfs track was 
 lost entirely in the night.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 
 
 That night the firelight and lamplight were 
 ruddy in Farmer Gibson's sitting-room, and 
 the blue curtains that were drawn over the 
 window shut out all sight of the darkness 
 and snow without. But on the silent family 
 that was assembled there had risen an Im- 
 pression as of a darker night ; for they had 
 assembled to watch a struggling life, and to 
 our blind Ignorance there is no night so dark 
 as death. 
 
 The little sitting-room was a pleasant room, 
 and In its books and engravings showed some- 
 thing of superior taste. It had also that look 
 of being lived in which does not always 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 TRACKED. 
 
 belong to the parlours of its size. On the 
 round table was Mrs. Gibson's work-basket, 
 and a mat of coloured wools that had been 
 begun by Jim, and in the corner of the fire- 
 place was Mr. Gibson's chair. The horse-hair 
 sofa had pillows and coverings now, and there 
 upon it lay the wounded man. 
 
 He lay unconscious, with interrupted, heavy 
 breathing, his eyes closed, his face scarcely 
 to be seen for bandages, and a wet cloth 
 swathed round his head to keep the fever off. 
 Even thus he had the appearance of a strong 
 young fellow ; the weight of his shoulders 
 pressed heavily down on the pillows where 
 they lay ; and the arm and hand that hung 
 languidly on the counterpane must have 
 possessed only that morning a true work- 
 man's strength. From the moment in which 
 he had been brought into the house he had 
 not moved eye or hand. The relations, 
 of whose presence he was unconscious, had 
 arranged his bed ; and, leaving him covered 
 and supported, could only sit near his couch, 
 watching in silence the struggle that they 
 could not help. 
 
 The great clock ticked ; the silence was
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 51 
 
 heavy and oppressive ; the sound of the in- 
 terrupted breathing fell with painful distinct- 
 ness on the room. It is probable that those 
 who were present were longing to move or 
 speak ; but they w^ere afraid of each other, 
 and had not strength of mind to stir. 
 
 Liz sat by the head of the sofa on the little 
 easy-chair that was always her favourite seat ; 
 and, leaning against the sofa, watched her 
 brother with anxious eyes. It is likely that 
 the attention of a stranger would have been 
 attracted first to her. A handsome girl, only 
 sixteen, but several years older in appearance, 
 with blue-black hair growing low upon her 
 forehead, and eyebrows and lashes of the same 
 darkness of hue ; the striking effect of her 
 colouring agreed well with the wilful, deter- 
 mined expression of her mouth. Forecasters 
 might have easily guessed at future troubles 
 from her appearance — there are some faces 
 full of promise of difficulties, and that possess 
 beholders always with an idea of storms — and 
 yet she was very simple-hearted, poor Liz, in 
 spite of that. At that moment the remem- 
 brance of her fancy-work was in her mind, 
 but it seemed to her that such employment
 
 52 TRACKED. 
 
 would be wrong. She sat with her eyes fixed 
 upon her brother, as if she were counting 
 anxiously the breathing that she heard. 
 
 At a little distance Will was seated at the 
 table, more happy than the others, because 
 he was allowed an occupation ; and, in con- 
 sideration for his tender years, no one had 
 objected to the sight of his lessons for the 
 school. He sat bending over them, and 
 moving slightly his pretty eyebrows as he 
 learned, a little, fair creature, of ten years 
 old, too slight and delicate in appearance for 
 a boy. At his right elbow all his books were 
 piled, and in front of him was a flat, short- 
 necked inkstand, too heavy to be easily 
 overthrown. Nevertheless, in spite of his 
 innocent appearance, little Will felt himself 
 in trouble too. The rapid visit of Geoff had 
 been disturbing ; and though he was too 
 young to understand his brother's danger, he 
 was sensitive enough to be bewildered by the 
 grief that was round him in his home. Under 
 these circumstances, his poetry lesson was a 
 great relief ; and he had said a little prayer 
 at his bedside for Jim ('' An extry prayer," 
 as Will told himself with pride), so that he
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 53 
 
 was quite confident he had done the best 
 he could. His mind wandered now and then 
 to some thoughts of bird's-nesting and the 
 spring ; but then, poor child, it would be 
 hard to blame him for that. 
 
 The clock ticked ; the silent moments 
 passed. 
 
 Mrs. Gibson was on a low wooden chair 
 apart from the others, leaning her elbow upon 
 the arm and her head upon her hand. Now 
 and then some quiet tears fell down her face, 
 and she put up a withered hand to them. 
 The attitude in which she sat had pushed 
 her cap from its place — the afternoon cap 
 with purple ribbons that she put on always 
 when her rougher work was done, and which 
 she had been wearing, seated quietly at her 
 knitting, when she first heard the footsteps 
 of the men who brought back her son. A 
 faded woman, worn and quiet, with timid, 
 nervous movements, as if she were always 
 afraid of being blamed, she retained few 
 traces of the long-past beauty of her youth. 
 Life, and work, and the strong wills and 
 tempers of her husband and her daughter, 
 had been too much for her; and yet in her
 
 54 TRACKED, 
 
 own fashion she could bear resentment too. 
 As she sat now, stunned and silent, under 
 the pressure of the grief that weighed on all, 
 she was telling herself that she did love Jim ; 
 Jim had been good to her. 
 
 Farmer Gibson, alone by the fire, with his 
 broad back leaning against his broad-backed 
 chair, and his pipe resting unfilled on the 
 mantelpiece above, might be supposed to 
 be unconscious of the implied judgment 
 of his wife. And yet he felt something — a 
 certain absence of sympathy — that prevented 
 him from so much as desiring to turn his face 
 to her. He sat lookingr in front of him, with 
 his thick grey eyebrows drawn more closely 
 together than usual, and a look of stern 
 suffering upon his face — a man of notable 
 presence, not to be quickly forgotten by those 
 who saw him once. A large man, with a 
 large head that yet seemed to promise more 
 of strength than brains, with a great, hard- 
 set figure, and thick, firmly-closing lips, 
 there was something formidable in the look 
 of him. i\nd since the day when he had 
 thrashed Painter Robson's 'prentice, years 
 ago, his neighbours had been more willing to
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 55 
 
 believe that there was danger in him than 
 before. 
 
 He sat now, looking before him, with that 
 stern appearance of suffering upon his face, 
 listening to the laboured breathing that 
 oppressed his heart like pain, whilst the 
 thoughts that worked in his mind were like a 
 wild joy of which he dared not speak. ''Jim 
 — lad Jim— ahvays so good to me," so moved 
 the tenderer feeling of the father's love ; but, 
 with the almost unbearable pain of that, 
 moved the vision of a writhing figure and 
 an ignominious death. For our fierce agony 
 cries out for relief, and w^e lay hold on our 
 hatred for comfort if w^e cannot on our 
 love. 
 
 Farmer Gibson had been strongly advised 
 by those who assisted him in the town during 
 a dreary hour to take out a warrant against 
 his son's assailant there, but he had rejected 
 the advice with all the obstinacy of an un- 
 trained mind ; for in his heart there remained 
 a clinging belief that since no charge of 
 murder could be established until his son was 
 dead, it was necessary for him in consequence 
 to wait for that event. It should not be said
 
 56 TRACKED. 
 
 of him that he had brought a lesser charge ; 
 he was possessed with the notion that the 
 culprit might possibly escape '^ wl' that." 
 This Ignorance of the farmer's saved Geoff, as 
 we have seen. 
 
 The clock In the passage ticked on, the 
 silent minutes passed, and still the heavy, 
 interrupted breathing was the only distinct 
 sound within the room. The stillness seemed 
 endless, oppressive, but no one dared to 
 move. 
 
 And then little Will closed his poetry book 
 with a prodigious sigh, and looked up in a 
 piteous manner at the rest. His eyelids were 
 heavy and burning with the desire to sleep, a 
 wish that comes naturally uppermost in a 
 childish mind. 
 
 '' I want to go to bed ; please will you let 
 me go to bed?" said Will; and, disturbed 
 from their meditations or their silence^ the 
 rest looked round on him. 
 
 '^ You wish to go an' sleep," said his 
 mother, in a low, fierce whisper, '' wi' your 
 brother so 111 as this ? " 
 
 '' I want to go to bed," repeated Will, with 
 a little wail.
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 57 
 
 He was very sensitive to reproof, but 
 fatigue was too much for him. That half- 
 crying tone from the family pet produced 
 some effect at once. 
 
 ** Come, don't cry, Willy," whispered Liz, 
 in a caressing manner, as she got up from 
 her place; ''you needn't be frightened, I'll 
 make things nice for you. You shan't leave 
 this room, and then mother won't be vexed ; 
 I'll get you a mattress and some shawls, and 
 make a beautiful bed wi' them." 
 
 She left the room and returned as she had 
 said, but with quiet movements that did not 
 disturb the rest ; and arranged the mattress in 
 a corner of the room, whilst Will sat watch- 
 ing her with Interested eyes. He was to 
 have two pillows, and his sister's beautiful 
 plaid shawl of blue and green, and he had 
 never slept out of his own bed before. The 
 sense of adventure and wonder was rising in 
 his mind. 
 
 " Ought I to say my prayers, mother," he 
 whispered, timidly, '' when I do not un- 
 dress ? " 
 
 His mother made no reply ; but Liz, who 
 had sat down by the table, held out her arms
 
 58 TRACKED. 
 
 to him, and he knelt down and hid his face 
 upon her lap. There was something of a 
 gentler silence on the rest of them as he 
 knelt ; the farmer with his consciousness of 
 fierce revenge, the silent mother, and the 
 poor girl, distracted by the remembrance of 
 her lover, had had no thought of prayer. 
 
 Then Will rose, and Liz took off his little 
 jacket tenderly, and unlaced his boots, and 
 stroked his soft hair before she laid him down 
 and^ wrapped him up in her shawl. It was all 
 very wonderful to Will. 
 
 Yes, it was strange to lie there with his 
 tired head resting on soft pillows and look at 
 the light on the walls, and the others, and the 
 motionless form of Jim across the room ; and 
 then there were moments when he felt inclined 
 to sleep, and his eyes would shut, and he could 
 see water rushing amongst trees — dark pine 
 trees — as he had seen in a book. 
 
 The soft breathing of the sleeping child 
 made another sound in the room. But no 
 rest came to the other watchers as they sat, 
 with the lamp burning dimly, enclosed in that 
 darker night. 
 
 No, there was no change. It seemed as if
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 59 
 
 no change would come. What endless hours 
 had passed since those sudden, startling 
 tidings which had called the farmer from 
 out of the streets into the carpenter's shop 
 to see Jim lying there ! And now by the 
 couch of his son the visions came and went. 
 The dimness of the room hid from the other 
 watchers the strange light In his eyes. Yes, 
 he could see himself giving evidence, proving 
 everything ; he could see the trembling cul- 
 prit at the bar. ... It scarcely occurred to 
 him to remember that before he could realize 
 this vision his own son must have died. 
 
 And Liz — poor Liz — as she sat bending 
 forwards had her own dreaming too. Her 
 mind, released from the immediate pressure 
 of anxiety for her brother, kept slipping away, 
 against its will, to old thoughts and hopes 
 again. In her half-sleeping state it was so 
 natural to dream. Yes, she would be in 
 white — she '^ allays" liked brides in white; 
 it wouldn't matter If people said she was only 
 a village-girl. And he — he was so handsome ; 
 there wasn't a lad in all the village that could 
 come up to him. She thought of him by her 
 side, smiling as he looked down on her. And
 
 60 TRACKED. 
 
 then that dream of the church, and the 
 people, and his face, suddenly passed away, 
 and she saw again the dark room, the dying 
 lamp, and her brother's altered face. 
 
 No, it was no good, it was all over ; and 
 yet it would have been pleasant. Her head 
 bent lower, and the dream returned again. 
 
 A sudden movement — a faint stirring of 
 the still figure on the couch — in another in- 
 stant father, mother, sister were all on their 
 feet at once. 
 
 ''Mother." 
 
 It was his voice — he had spoken, though 
 in the faintest whisper. They all held their 
 breath to hear ; they stood trembling toge- 
 ther. The dying light rose and fell. 
 
 '' Mother, where am I ? What's been to 
 me? I am so thirsty." 
 
 He could speak, understand, he was becom- 
 ing like himself. A sudden agony came on 
 Liz ; and, as the mother bent over her first- 
 born, she rushed noiselessly from the room. 
 She fled upstairs with rapid, quiet move- 
 ments, and, closing her own door, threw her- 
 self on her knees, and let the passionate tears 
 burst forth. Her eyes were hot with weep-
 
 A DARKER NIGHT. 61 
 
 ing when she raised herself at last. She 
 went to her window, over which blind and 
 curtain had not been drawn that night. The 
 solemn mystery of the dawn was spreading 
 across the earth ; the sky had the first faint 
 flush of redness ; a dim white mist had 
 gathered upon the Fens, white as the bridal 
 veil of which her thoughts had dreamed. 
 Oh, surely Jim was better ! They might be 
 happy now.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 
 
 It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon that day. 
 The frost still lingered, and the air was keen 
 and clear, whilst the blue sky was bright 
 above the stacks, and all the ground sparkled 
 and shone beneath. When Farmer Gibson's 
 family had assembled at breakfast that morn- 
 ing — all but one — they had been tired and 
 silent, with the look of those on whom a great 
 weight has been, but the sense of bright 
 weather mingled with their relief, and had 
 effect on all. It had been a strange, idle, and 
 anxious morning all the same. 
 
 Only now the feeling of familiar employ- 
 ment was beginning to wake again. The
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDA Y SCHOOL. 63 
 
 doctor had been ; the Sunday dhmer had to 
 be cleared away ; Jim was sleeping quietly ; 
 the farmer had lit his pipe ; and now little 
 Will had come to Liz to be prepared for the 
 Sunday School— for regularly every Sunday 
 he was sent to that, though neither he nor 
 the others often went to church. 
 
 It was a lonely place, Rose Cottage, where 
 Mr. Gibson lived, reached only by heavy lanes, 
 and with a wide outlook on the Fens. It was 
 difficult even to get to it in times like this 
 when the lanes were deep with snow ; but in 
 the early spring it was not without its charm. 
 The wide view then showed the green hedges, 
 powdered here and there where the thorn- 
 bushes were white with may ; the bare com- 
 mons, separated by low, yellow lines of gorse ; 
 and the wide, enclosing blue and purple dis- 
 tance, whose misty colour rested against the 
 sky. Then the great ditches, in which chil- 
 dren fell sometimes, w^ould be bright with 
 golden flowers ; and Will would come home 
 with his hands full of marsh-marigolds, which 
 he called " butter-bumps." 
 
 Rose Cottage itself was a bare, straight 
 place enough, with a stiff garden in front, a
 
 64 TRACKED. 
 
 window on each side of the door, and without 
 any vestige of a rose-tree on the house to 
 give any meaning to its name ; but then, 
 after all, there were roses In the garden In the 
 summer-time, and It had always been called 
 by that name before it was enlarged into a 
 farmhouse, as all the village knew. It be- 
 longed to Hanorth parish, where the Wolf's 
 Den also was, though Crasten village was a 
 mile nearer If you went to It across the fields. 
 
 And now Will stood In his sister's bed- 
 room — come to get ready for the Sunday 
 School — standing Impatiently whilst she 
 smoothed his hair and arranged the little tie 
 of red, which he was only allowed to wear 
 when Sunday came. He was very restless, 
 and would not let her spend much time over 
 him ; she thought he was longing for the open 
 air and for his Sunday walk, but on his mind 
 were the stone-pit and Geoff. 
 
 Yet he looked a dainty morsel of a boy 
 when he set out at last, very neat In his little 
 Sunday suit, and with a small switch In his 
 hand, which made him feel like a man. There 
 were no boys who lived near him, so he had 
 to walk alone. If there had been he would
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 65 
 
 have been in no need of company, for every- 
 one, old or young, made a favourite of little 
 Will. 
 
 There are a few lives that seem born to 
 affection in this manner from all they meet, 
 and that can receive it as naturally as it is 
 bestowed. Will had not felt what it was to 
 have hard times outside or in his home. His 
 father and mother said they had ''never 
 known such a boy." The old clergyman 
 patted him on the head whenever they 
 chanced to meet. His schoolfellows p^athered 
 round him as soon as they saw him come. 
 He looked so fair always, so delicate and 
 clean, his eyebrows could express such pretty 
 perplexity, and he was always so childish- 
 hearted and ready to oblige. If you had re- 
 turned home after an absence of several 
 weeks, and Will had known you at all, it 
 would not have come more natural to your 
 dog to wag his tail than it would to Will for 
 his face to beam with smiles. 
 
 Yet, in spite of these things, it must not 
 be supposed that Will was a perfect boy ; 
 or that he was like those good children of 
 whom we read in books, whose relations 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 TRACKED. 
 
 write biographies of them after they are dead. 
 He was accustomed to do as he Hked, and 
 not to trouble himself ; his schoolmaster 
 found him very idle, and much disposed to 
 play, and Will had before now, after many 
 offences, been more than once produced to 
 view mounted on a form, his face burnt with 
 blushes, and his legs exposed as an easy prey 
 to the pinches of his neighbours. No harder 
 penalty had been exacted yet ; no one, at 
 home or out of it, had dared to beat little 
 Will. 
 
 So much we have ventured to say of the 
 one pet of the wolf, for even Geoff Haldan 
 had made Will his friend. A dangerous com- 
 panion that, poor child, for you ! — but with 
 all his childish heart did Will believe in Geoff. 
 And now one thought only was in his mind 
 as he made his way through the snow — he 
 must get to the stone-pit somehow and see 
 his friend. 
 
 It was hard work toiling to Crasten village, 
 but he could see its smoke at last, and the 
 tower of the church, and the dark trees of 
 the Hall. He would have liked to go to the 
 stone-pit and find out Geoff at once, but he
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDA V SCHOOL. 67 
 
 knew that he was already almost too late for 
 school. The vicarage was some way from 
 the village ; he made his way to that, avoid- 
 ing the village streets, with their lounging 
 boys and men. It was a still afternoon, like 
 evening even then ; the sky was grey and 
 heavy, as if more snow would fall. 
 
 And now he had reached the little church 
 and churchyard, where the snow of yesterday 
 was lying white upon the graves. And on 
 one side were the dark evergreens of the 
 vicarage, with the old house in the midst, 
 and red firelight through the window of the 
 sitting-room, where the boys used to meet. 
 And Will began to think again of the stone- 
 pit and Geoff. Only he must go inside ; 
 they gave cake when school was done ; and 
 he was cold and tired also, and could not re- 
 sist the fire. 
 
 Once in the little sitting-room there was 
 no lack of warmth, of noise and fun either, 
 and a sense of riotous glee. A dozen boys 
 were there already, of many ages and sizes, 
 an'd in all sorts of clothes ; some very neatly 
 turned out in their Sunday best ; some of 
 a rough and patched appearance ; and one in
 
 68 TRACKED, 
 
 a torn jacket, which he concealed as well as 
 he could by sitting in a dark corner, and re- 
 maining there, in a sulky condition because 
 some of the others had made remarks on 
 him. The others were in high spirits, and 
 soon laid hold of Will, shook him, tumbled 
 his hair, and stole away his books. Will did 
 not mind, he was laughing with the rest ; 
 but it was curious how much he was dis- 
 turbed all the time by the constant thought 
 of Geoff ; he looked now and then at the 
 window, as if he could see him there. 
 
 '' How's your brother, little Will?" called 
 out the oldest boy. 
 
 *' He's better, thank you. Doctor says he 
 may get well." 
 
 '' Ah ! Geoff's a bad 'un," said the boy, in 
 a grave and thoughtful tone. 
 
 Will looked up suddenly, as if he wished 
 to speak, but even his instinct warned him 
 not to defend his friend. He would not have 
 minded the others if he had thought it best 
 to speak ; the delicate child had a courage 
 of his own. 
 
 .Oh ! how late school was to-day. When 
 would he get to Geoff ?
 
 WILL AT THE SUN DA V SCHOOL. 69 
 
 The other boys had also begun to find it 
 late, and had their own ready devices, of 
 course, for absorbing time ; they placed the 
 chairs in a line, and prepared to jump over 
 them. But at this moment the door at the 
 end of the passage was heard to close. In 
 an instant the chairs were in their places, 
 and each boy was on his seat, with his Bible 
 all ready on his knee for the reading to begin. 
 A solemn class they looked, all prepared for 
 Sunday School. 
 
 The door opened, and Miss Selina entered, 
 but she was wrapped in furs. Behind her 
 followed a young woman, quietly dressed in 
 black. There was no basket of hymn-books 
 to be seen, nor was there one of cake. Miss 
 Selina advanced a few steps into the room, 
 her fair face flushing a little with shyness, 
 and then she spoke. Will was alarmed to 
 see that she was in her walking things. Oh! 
 would he never be able to get to Geoff to- 
 day ? 
 
 Let it be here explained that this class at 
 the vicarage, which was called a Sunday 
 School by way of compliment, had been only 
 started a few weeks before, and that Miss
 
 70 TRACKED. 
 
 Selina Horley used to come over from 
 Hanorth Hall to take it for the wife of the 
 vicar, who was ill. The young lady was shy 
 and pretty, and dressed always in silk and 
 velvet, which has an effect on boys. She 
 always brought a story-book too, and closed 
 the class with cake ; and the rough boys 
 were enchanted, and had been good with 
 her. She felt inwardly proud of herself for 
 the way she managed them ; it had not 
 occurred to her that she had hardly yet been 
 called upon to exercise any management at all. 
 
 And now she stood before them, rather 
 more shyly than usual, her face fair and soft 
 within the dark-blue quillings of her bonnet 
 (for bonnets at that time, it must be said, 
 were very round and close). And behind 
 her, like a shadow that has no power to come 
 forwards to the light, there stood the strange 
 young woman who was dressed in black. 
 
 ■' I wanted to say, boys,'^ said Miss Selina, 
 very softly, but looking on them with more 
 interest than usual, for the scene of the night 
 before was still within her mind, '^ I wanted 
 to tell you that I cannot take the class to- 
 day. Miss Harte has kindly promised to
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. 71 
 
 teach you all for me. Only there was one 
 question I said I would ask for her before I 
 went." 
 
 She waited again, with that soft light in 
 her eyes. '' Can any of you tell Miss Harte 
 where Geoff Haldan is to-day ? I saw him 
 yesterday, but I do not know where he 
 lives." 
 
 There was a pause, for the lads were not 
 inclined to speak. No doubt they could have 
 said a great deal if they had liked, but a shy 
 unreadiness is common enough with boys. 
 
 '' He lives on the waste, most-wise," said 
 the oldest, reluctantly, '^ but he's not at home 
 to-day." 
 
 ''Oh! not at home?" murmured Miss 
 Selina, '' but I suppose he will soon return?" 
 
 *' Very like," said the boy, still reluctantly, 
 and as if there was something behind his 
 words. They all looked at Will as if he ought 
 to speak ; but the child had no desire to tell 
 the story of his brother and his friend. Only 
 he fixed his eyes with some interest on the 
 stranger who wanted to hear of Geoff. She 
 was a young woman, she had a strange face ; 
 that was all he knew as yet.
 
 72 TRACKED. 
 
 In another instant he pulled his hair with 
 the other boys as Miss Selina rustled out, 
 confident that her good boys were going to 
 read the Bible quietly, and quite forgetting 
 that she had brought no cake that day. Alas 
 for those who forget that the goodness of boy- 
 hood is an evanescent thing ! For ominous 
 murmurs were beginning to rise before the last 
 fold of dark-blue silk had left the room : ''That 
 one's on'y the new dressmaker ; we needn't 
 care for she I" Will had been impressed by 
 the question about Geoff, but he was becom- 
 ing alive for fun. 
 
 And now the young woman stood and sur- 
 veyed them all. She wore no bonnet, and 
 her hair was soft and pretty, but the delicate 
 features were irregular underneath it, and her 
 thin hands had been made rough with work. 
 Something of power in the look of her pale 
 grey eyes held the rough boys still for an instant 
 as she looked. But she was too evidently not 
 used to her position, and a nervous colour 
 flushed into her face as soon as she began to 
 speak. 
 
 '' Miss Horley told me — she asked me to hear 
 you say your Catechism/' she faltered, with
 
 WILL AT THE SUNT) A V SCHOOL. 73 
 
 visible efforts to overcome the timidity she 
 felt. '' Will you not try and say it to me now? " 
 A rude titter answered her from all the assem- 
 bled boys. The dressmaker's face flushed 
 with what seemed like anger. Without say- 
 ing a word, she beckoned to the biggest boy 
 to stand by her. He w^as a great, red-haired, 
 dull-lookinor fellow ; she addressed him with 
 that first question of the Catechism that is 
 familiar to us all — 
 
 " What is your name ? '' 
 
 *^A' donno." 
 
 '' You do know." 
 
 The sudden, sharp decision of her voice 
 quelled the boys to an instant's silence as she 
 spoke, and in that instant the boy who stood 
 next to W^ill put a toy trumpet into his hand 
 without a word. Will was all alive with a 
 sense of play, as we have said, and it occurred 
 to him that if the school was broken up he 
 could go at once to Geoff. W^ithout stay- 
 ing to think further he put it to his mouth and 
 blew. 
 
 A complete silence followed ; the boys them- 
 selves had become overawed at this, and Will 
 began to tremble immediately over the ill-
 
 74 TRACKED. 
 
 advised act that he had done. The young 
 dressmaker stood before them quivering with 
 indignation through all her slight figure, and 
 yet struggling for self-control. There was a 
 strange timbre in her voice that those who 
 heard did not forget. 
 
 ^' We have come here to speak about God — 
 to read the Bible — not to play. Is there any 
 boy out of all of you who will help me now?'* 
 
 '^ I'll help ye, missis," called out the oldest 
 lad, the boy who had spoken about Geoff, a 
 dark, good-looking fellow, who was the most 
 steady there. The young teacher turned her 
 eyes on him, and then she spoke. 
 
 ^' Will you please tell the boy who blew the 
 trumpet," she said, very gently, '' that he must 
 leave the room." The ranks of boys opened 
 at these words and disclosed little Will, blush- 
 ing, trembling, almost inclined to cry. No 
 time was allowed him in which to make 
 amends, for stalwart Robin advanced on him 
 at once, put a hand under each arm, and lifted 
 him up, then put him outside the room and 
 closed the door. He had gained what he 
 wanted and could go now to Geoff. 
 
 Instead of that, however, he walked up and
 
 WILL AT THE SUNDA Y SCHOOL. 75 
 
 down outside In shame and distress, and cry- 
 ing softly to himself. For it was very certain 
 he had been a naughty boy, and not even the 
 prospect of seeing his hero could console 
 him for that. If the little scene had induced 
 him to consider whether the influence of his 
 hero was indeed the best for him, if it had led 
 him to mistrust these secret meetings as a 
 disobedience to his father and a deceit 
 towards his home, he might have spared 
 himself, poor child, more lasting disgrace 
 and pain. But in the innocence of his 
 heart he had no thought of that, and his 
 wild companion took no care for him. 
 
 An hour later two lads climbed up together 
 from the steep and snowy stone-pit, and 
 separated from each other in the evening 
 gloom ; the younger turning to the road that 
 led to the rough lanes and to the Fens ; the 
 elder striking across the dark fields towards 
 the town, with the fearless instinct of one 
 who is quick to find his way. The weight 
 of remorse and dread had been loosened at 
 his heart ; he could seek his ill-favoured 
 lodging-house without so much anguish now. 
 Mrs. Rawson, listening through the night,
 
 76 TRACKED. 
 
 heard the low tap at her door, and, opening 
 it cautiously as she had done on the night 
 before, received the wanderer into her house 
 again. 
 
 The doctor's carriage stopped once more 
 at Rose Cottage before that Sunday night had 
 passed, but his visit did but confirm the hopes 
 that his morning's call had raised. The whole 
 family stood at the door when he went to 
 see him go, and watched the two lights dis- 
 appearing in the night. Then they went in 
 again, and closed and barred the door, and 
 the stars shone out over Rose Cottage and the 
 snow.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 
 
 The snow melted away, and the warmer 
 weather came, but Geoff Haldan did not re- 
 turn to his home on the \vaste again. From 
 the night on which he had fled in the dark- 
 ness there came no news of him. 
 
 But, though there was no news, both in 
 Hanorth and in Crasten there was much to be 
 said of him, in spite of that ; the village gossips 
 had a ceaseless topic now. His absence 
 — his quarrel with Jim Gibson — the doubts 
 about his birth — the many tricks he had com- 
 mitted, or was said to have committed — there 
 could be endless comments upon such things 
 as these. The wild lad's reputation for evil
 
 78 TRACKED. 
 
 became considerably enhanced, and loungers 
 at street corners took their pipes out of their 
 mouths to say '' he wasn't born to good — 
 they didn't think much to him." 
 
 And meanwhile the skies above Rose 
 Cottage had become blue and soft, and Jim 
 Gibson was advancing more steadily to 
 recovery than had been hoped. And yet his 
 recovery was, notwithstanding, very slow ; he 
 had been too severely and variously injured 
 for the strength of his constitution to be able 
 to assert itself at once. When he had par- 
 tially recovered from the deep wound on his 
 head it was feared that he had received some 
 internal injury from his fall that could not be 
 cured, and when this dread also was dispelled 
 there remained on him a weakness from which 
 he did not rally soon. He lay in bed, eating, 
 sleeping, paying little attention to anything 
 that passed ; and it had become quite certain 
 now that his face would be always scarred. 
 
 Alas for that fact! If it had not been for 
 that it is possible that Mr. Gibson's wrath 
 might have smouldered itself out at last ; for 
 he was not insensible to pleasure at his son's 
 reviving strength, and that feeling of a father's
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 79 
 
 tenderness might have overcome his rage. 
 In vain ! whilst there remained on him the 
 bitterness that every sight of his son pro- 
 duced — that sight of the altered face which 
 would be always altered now. Jim had been 
 a personable young workman, with a strong 
 and healthy look ; the livid mark which 
 stretched from his temple to his lip had made 
 a difference that would last his life ; and 
 Farmer Gibson swore inwardly and outwardly 
 that he would mark Geoff for that. 
 
 It may seem strange, then, that he took 
 no measures to get his enemy arrested, since 
 he was certainly within the compass of the 
 law. And if he had possessed any notion 
 of the wild resolve of the lad to kill himself 
 rather than be put into prison, he would no 
 doubt have caused a warrant to be taken out 
 at once. But Farmer Gibson fell into error, 
 as so many of us do, for want of a due appre- 
 ciation of the humanity of those to whom we 
 are opposed. '' Why, he'd heard about prison 
 lately, that he had ! a place where they feed 
 men up as if they was pigs ; that 'ud just do 
 for hi7n. Disgrace ! it wasn't likely that such 
 as him 'ud feel disgrace ; he'd be glad to be
 
 80 TRACKED, 
 
 boarded for nothing, that he would." If his 
 son had died, and there had been any chance 
 of fastening a charge of murder upon Geoff, 
 he would have attempted that, because it did 
 seem possible to him that Geoff might not 
 like being hanged. 
 
 And so Farmer Gibson lived from day to 
 day, brooding over his anger, sleeping with it, 
 eating with it, feeling it always present as he 
 spoke casual words to his acquaintances, or 
 gave orders and directions to his men. In 
 those days he smoked more, and drank more, 
 and lived with worse friends than he had been 
 used to do, lashing up his own anger per- 
 petually as the fierce wind stirs the waves. It 
 is a lowering, maddening atmosphere, such a 
 continual state of wrath — it is in this manner 
 that we who seek for vengeance on our neigh- 
 bours draw down a surer vengeance on our- 
 selves. 
 
 However, the farmer was successful enough 
 in one way, it must be owned, for the sym- 
 pathy of the village was undoubtedly stirred 
 for him ; and those who had grievances of 
 their own against the Haldan family found 
 this a convenient time to remember them
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 81 
 
 again. At the street corners, and in that 
 room of the pubHc-house where the village 
 club was heldj men with pipes in their hands 
 agreed that they would '^ stand those pests no 
 more." Jim Gibson had been known as a 
 good and steady workman, and it was natural 
 that pity should be felt for him ; though there 
 were a few^ who put their tongues in their 
 cheeks and slily winked aside when the father 
 stated that if there w^as a lad in the village who 
 had not know^n a public-house, that lad was his 
 son. 
 
 Poor Jim, lying alone and prostrate in his 
 little room upstairs, with a dreamy sense of 
 the past mingling always with his pain as he 
 lay and watched wearily the white curtains of 
 the window or the changes of the sunlight 
 upon the pattern of the wall, w^ould have been 
 honest enough perhaps to have disclaimed the 
 merit that his father claimed for him ; for 
 there had been episodes in his hfe of which his 
 father was ignorant — as he knew. 
 
 It was perhaps a remembrance of these 
 things that had drawn him somewhat towards 
 the wildest lad of the parish, an associate 
 whom he might not otherwise have been so 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 TRACKED, 
 
 much disposed to own ; for virtuous Jim could 
 not but be conscious that he had known his 
 times of peril too. And such a remembrance 
 again arose in his heart as he lay dreamily 
 and watched the sunlight on the wall ; and he 
 thought also, as he had not done since years 
 had ^one, of the hand that had stretched 
 itself out to help him in his need. 
 
 Let us pause for a moment, and think of 
 that story ourselves. To Jim, as to Geoff, 
 had come in his sorest peril the touch of a 
 woman's hand, and in this instance the hand 
 had sufficed to save. 
 
 The story is very simple, and can be briefly 
 told. 
 
 On one hot summer's evening, nearly seven 
 years before, Jim Gibson had turned into the 
 public-house, as he did often then. He had 
 met a few associates on the way who had 
 asked him to come in there with them, and he 
 had comphed without hesitation, as he was 
 used to do. He was only sixteen at that 
 time, but broad and strong, and a good work- 
 man even then. His father and his mother 
 believed in him so implicitly that they took 
 no notice of his coming in or going out ; he
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 83 
 
 had been brought up with a great deal of 
 severity, and was proud of being able to prove 
 himself a man. 
 
 He was proving that amongst his com- 
 panions in the public-house that evening, and 
 was hot and flushed with drink, and join- 
 ing loudly in the laughter of the others, when 
 an unexpected message was brought in — 
 there was a young woman outside who 
 wished to speak to him. 
 
 Now Jim knew no young woman, not being 
 yet quite old enough for that, and so he 
 became at once surprised and curious ; and 
 was flattered, moreover, by the obvious excite- 
 ment of the rest. He got up immediately, 
 therefore, and w^ent out to see. Outside were 
 some boys and men, smoking and talking 
 beneath the light that was above the door ; 
 and at a little distance from them a young 
 girl stood in the street. She came up to him 
 as he stepped from the door, and laid her 
 trembling fingers on his arm. 
 
 '' I want to ask you, Jim Gibson, if you will 
 come to your home with me." 
 
 Jim knew her at once — the shabbily-dressed 
 girl, with an old grey shawl drawn round her,
 
 84 TRACKED. 
 
 and an old black hat above — a thin, silent^ 
 hardly-treated milliner's 'prentice who lived 
 close to his home, and with whom he had 
 scarcely ever exchanged a word before. She 
 stood now, with her fingers on his arm, looking 
 up at him whilst the men and boys drew round 
 them ; and from the very vibration which 
 that pressure caused he could feel what a 
 terrible effort she had made. In an instant 
 he understood how it had been. She had 
 been coming up the street to bring some 
 fresh needlework to her miserable home, and 
 had heard the men and boys outside saying 
 some words of him. He had always known 
 her absorbed and wretched, as if overwhelmed 
 by the hardships of her lot. From out of that 
 contemplation she had roused herself to make 
 an attempt to save. 
 
 ''Well, my dear," said one of the men 
 with a laugh, '' are ye going to the public 
 too?" 
 
 She paid no attention ; she only continued 
 to look up into the young man's face. But 
 her slight grasp had tightened upon his arm, 
 and he knew that without an effort he could 
 not shake it off.
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 85 
 
 '' Will you come to your home ? " she said, 
 and the trembling words ended off in sobs — 
 a sobbing breathing that found for echo the 
 laughter of the boys. Something there was 
 that stirred within Jim as he heard and saw 
 them laugh. He was confused, excited, half 
 tipsy, with a young man's false sense of 
 shame, but he had some real manhood within 
 him, and she had done this thing for him. 
 
 " Don't ye cry, Lizzie," he said ; '' I'll come 
 to my home wi' ye." 
 
 There was an outburst and an uproar from 
 the rest, he felt that as he felt her clutch upon 
 his arm. He was pressing through them, 
 pushing, almost struggling — he did not quite 
 know what passed — only that the noise and 
 confusion were left behind at last, and that 
 he was walking up the village street with 
 her. 
 
 They went side by side in silence ; neither 
 spoke. Her fingers scarcely seemed to 
 touch his arm; she appeared to be satisfied, 
 and to need no more. And he — he dared not 
 look at her for another reason that was burn- 
 ing in his heart ; he felt now in the silence 
 the reproach that there had been in her eyes.
 
 86 TRACKED. 
 
 Self-condemned — stained by the shame he 
 had chosen — he dared not even turn his head 
 to her. They went, without speaking, up the 
 village street, up to the garden gate of the 
 house that was then his home, and there they 
 stopped. 
 
 It was a hot summer's night ; the air was 
 heavy with the sweetness of the roses that 
 were below them ; they stood there by the 
 gate. And still he dared not speak, dared not 
 turn his head to her. She let her hand drop 
 from his arm ; she remained silent for an 
 instant, standing by him, and then she 
 spoke — 
 
 '^ I am going away with Miss Morton 
 early to-morrow morning. I shall not come 
 back again." 
 
 He knew from the sound of her voice that 
 she had raised her face ; he turned his slow, 
 awkward J confused gaze to her. And then 
 through the summer twilight he felt her eyes 
 burn on him. 
 
 *^ You will not go and drink at the public- 
 house again ? " 
 
 Her whisper was breathless, vibrating — the 
 tone of one who seizes a last hope or chance.
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 87 
 
 He answered softly, slowly, and as if against 
 his will — 
 
 '' Noa, I will not." 
 
 '' You will try to serve God ? " 
 
 Again there was a pause — a longer one this 
 time. 
 
 '' I will try— if I can." 
 
 Her eyes still looked at him, but as their 
 glance met his own it melted into a tender- 
 ness that she could not restrain; and, looking 
 down into them, he understood for the first 
 time what feehng it w^as that had given her 
 strength to do so much for him. For one 
 instant he looked down on her, silent and 
 fascinated, and then she turned away. 
 
 The next morning, when he came downstairs 
 after his heavy sleep, he heard that she was 
 gone. And from the date of that summer 
 evening, nearly seven years before, he had 
 seen her no more. But from the date of that 
 summer evening Jim Gibson had become an 
 altered man, and even those who would have 
 been least disposed to blame him previously 
 could not but see and own a change in him. 
 A steady lad, a good and honest workman, 
 there was no part of his life now that he was
 
 88 TRACKED. 
 
 ashamed to own. Do we say that such an 
 alteration is impossible after a scene so slight? 
 Life is full of such changes. We must keep 
 our eyes shut indeed if we will not own to 
 that. 
 
 And now, lying sick and helpless on his 
 bed, the scene of that summer evening often 
 returned to Jim — the girl w^as standing in the 
 evening by his side, and the red roses were 
 sweet in the garden underneath — it was a long 
 time since he had thought so much of her. 
 Once, just before his illness, he had heard of 
 her ; he had been told that she had returned 
 as a dressmaker to the parish next his own ; and 
 once, after he had been ill, he had heard Will 
 say something of a strange teacher, a dress- 
 maker, who had come once to '' learn " the 
 boys ; but he had asked no question on either 
 occasion, though he had heard. 
 
 The memory of the summer evening, of 
 the garden, was strong within his mind. He 
 was' not sure that he wished to see the girl 
 again ; and yet throughout those years he 
 had oriven to the remembrance of her a 
 strong, devoted feeling — the honour, at least, 
 that a man pays to the woman who has saved
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE IVOIF. 89 
 
 him, if not that other devotion that is con- 
 strained from a man by the woman whom he 
 loves. 
 
 And now, in his feverish pain, as he lay 
 upon his bed, that one dream moved con- 
 tinually before his mind. They stood at the 
 garden gate ; he could feel her eyes on him ; 
 the roses were sweet in the evening . . . 
 
 And so Jim lay in his room with his visions 
 for company, whilst his father in the Hanorth 
 public-house was indulging fiercer dreams ; 
 for the words of Mr. Gibson against the 
 Haldans were taking effect at last, and it 
 was beginning to be generally believed that 
 *' summat " must be done. 
 
 Accordingly, on one starlit evening, a com- 
 pany of people, headed by the village black- 
 smith, found their way across the waste to 
 the Wolf's Den, determined to discover if 
 Geoff Haldan had returned. They found old 
 Jem alone, sitting and smoking in solitude 
 before a smouldering fire, with some gin in a 
 broken bottle upon the ground. He received 
 them peaceably — possibly on account of their 
 numbers — but they could get no news from 
 him.
 
 90 TRACKED. 
 
 No, he knew nort o' Geoff ; had never 
 heard o' the lad sin' he had left, and didn't 
 want to, neither. Geoff might look arter his 
 own skin an' bones hisself. No, an' he 
 wasn't like to come back 'ere agen, he could 
 tell 'em that. If they wanted to wallop the 
 lad they must look elsewhere for him. 
 
 Some of the men who were present insis- 
 ted incredulously upon going into the only 
 other room, but they found nothing but 
 untidiness and desolation there. Old Jem 
 made no effort to hinder them ; he sat by the 
 fire and smoked. There was nothing remain- 
 ing, therefore, to be done but to depart, after 
 the blacksmith had delivered the caution 
 previously agreed upon to the old man who 
 was master of the house. They hadn't no 
 wish to be hard on him, not they ; but it 
 wasn't for him to harbour such a lad-o'-tricks 
 as Geoff. If they ever heard as Geoff was 
 in the Den they'd come to it by night and 
 burn him out. 
 
 The eyes of the oldest of the wolves 
 flashed somewhat as he heard this statement 
 of their views, but he continued to smoke, 
 and said no word to them. They left the
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WO IF. 91 
 
 old man with his pipe and with his gin bottle, 
 a weird object in the light of the smouldering 
 fire, and found their way across the waste 
 beneath the stars. 
 
 After that nothing could be more natural 
 than that they should turn into the village 
 public-house to drink themselves into warmth, 
 and to meet Farmer Gibson too. For they 
 had not told the farmer of their errand, 
 rather dreading his unrestrained fierceness, to 
 tell the truth. It was an easy matter to exalt 
 their prowess now, and then each in turn made 
 a promise that if ever he met with Geoff — 
 
 Each one but one. They had been sitting 
 in their wooden armchairs with their pipes in 
 their mouths, and their chairs drawn round 
 the hearth. The blazing fire shone on their 
 excited faces, and on the jugs of ale. One 
 there was, lately come in, who had not spoken 
 yet. He had been sitting apart from the 
 rest, but he drew near them now. He was a 
 rough, red-bearded man, dressed in corduroys, 
 and with a furrowed, careworn face — the 
 farmer whose nectarines Geoff had stolen 
 years before. 
 
 '* Look-ee, masters," he said, '' I'll tell
 
 92 TRACKED. 
 
 some sense to ye, for ye talk an' talk till ye 
 almost lose yer wits. Ye'll ne'er get the 
 wickedness out o' a lad by floggin' him ; ye 
 may flog for ever, but ye'll never compass 
 that. Why, I spoke to his father about that 
 boy years agone ; and his father, he tore the 
 clothes fro' his shoulders, and scared 'em wi' 
 a rope — I can tell 'ee the lad knows what it 
 is to be chastised enow. An' it does na' seem 
 to 'a done him a mort o' good. Now, if I'd 
 my own way wi' him, this is the thing I'd do. 
 I'd say to him, ' Look'ee here, m' lad, ye don't 
 seem to get on very well just here. Ye've 
 been a bad boy ; we don't like the looks of 
 ye. Get ye off to Ameriky, or some'ere ; 
 make a fresh start, ye'll mebbe do better 
 there.' That wonna mend your son's face, 
 Farmer Gibson, ye'll tell me that ! But 
 w^hat's the good o' spoilin' another lad 'cause 
 one is hurt ? Ye'll mend no evil in all the 
 world wi' that. And now I'm dry wi' speakin', 
 an' I'll thank ye for the beer." 
 
 But Farmer Gibson passed him the beer 
 without a word, and the rest were silent too. 
 They had heard the man out, and let him 
 say his say. But in what council, public or
 
 IN WAIT FOR THE WOLF. 93 
 
 private, that is held within the world do the 
 words of mercy and tolerance easily prevail ? 
 As Mr. Gibson found his way through the 
 lanes that night with staggering steps, he 
 retained a fierce impression that he was being 
 hindered, but that he would have his revenge ; 
 and he had the satisfaction of knowing that 
 the rest agreed with him. 
 
 And yet there was a flickering memory 
 that now and then found a place in his heart 
 whilst he sat with the others in the public- 
 house, or lay still at night upon his bed — the 
 memory of the stormy day when he came 
 back to his home in the village, and saw in 
 the bed of his little Jim a lovely, dark-eyed 
 child looking up towards him with its smiling 
 eyes, whilst Jim slept by its side. The little, 
 outcast creature ! He had reproved his wife 
 for taking such care of it, and yet he had felt 
 himself drawn towards the baby all the same. 
 But he would have no mercy upon that out- 
 cast now ! 
 
 The hedges in the Fens were gaining a 
 look of life, that warmer look that comes 
 before the buds have opened. The lanes 
 were no longer so impassable, the light spring
 
 -94 TRACKED, 
 
 winds were warm. There were prospects of 
 a good season, since the winter had been 
 short, and in farming work there was a great 
 deal to be done. But as Farmer Gibson 
 walked with steady steps about his fields, or 
 rode on his heavy horse on Fridays to the 
 nearest market town, the one thought of his 
 revenore remained ever in his mind ; and 
 now and then he heard rumours that Geoff 
 Haldan had been seen, but day succeeded day 
 and there came no certain news of him. And 
 then one morning unlooked-for tidings came. 
 
 '' Why, farmer, I seen Geoff Haldan only 
 yeste'en," said a rough seller of early flowers 
 in the market-place. *' He wur standin' i' the 
 field by Hanorth stone-pit, an' bavin' a crack 
 wi' that little Will o' yours. A shepherd as 
 wur' wi' me he did tell me as he'd seen the 
 two lads there often enough afore." 
 
 Farmer Gibson stood still for an instant as 
 if he were turned to stone. It was early in 
 the morning, and it w^as market-day ; but 
 without another word or look, and without 
 staying to attend to the business that had 
 brought him to the town, he turned his 
 horse's head and rode back to his home.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 
 
 All was quiet there. 
 
 The bright sunHght was shining above 
 Rose Cottage, the front-door was open, and 
 there were sounds of stirring feet ; but 
 nothing was noisy or out of character with 
 the sweet peacefuh^ess of the spring morning, 
 or the brightness of the Httle fleecy clouds in 
 the blue sky above. Jim had eaten a good 
 breakfast, and was dozing pleasantly, with his 
 blind drawn up so that when he woke he might 
 see the sky ; Mrs. Gibson and Liz were stir- 
 ring about their employments in the busy 
 morning hours ; the farm girls and boys had 
 their work to do ; and Will^ released by
 
 96 TRACKED. 
 
 the illness of his master and a Httle cold of 
 his own, was happy in an unexpected holiday 
 and in a picture-book. No, there was nothing 
 out of character with the spring brightness 
 and peacefulness, as I have said — nothing, 
 except the heavy tramp and contracted brow 
 of the master, as he flung his bridle to a 
 farm-boy and strode into the house. 
 
 ''Will!" 
 
 Never before since the birth of the family 
 pet had his name been pronounced in the 
 household in such a tone as that. It did not 
 wake Jim from his slumber as he dozed on 
 upstairs, but it startled Mrs. Gibson and Liz 
 in kitchen and dairy, and they came out to 
 hear. At the same moment little Will ap- 
 peared obediently at the parlour door, with 
 his finger keeping his place in the picture- 
 book that he held in his hand. Mr. Gibson 
 experienced a sense of choking relief at the 
 sight of him ; it had haunted his mind that 
 the boy would be at school. 
 
 '' Put that thing down at once," he said, 
 ''and come in here wi' me." 
 
 He closed the parlour door upon himself 
 and his wife and daughter, who followed close
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 97 
 
 after him. Will had put down his picture- 
 book upon the nearest chair ; he stood before 
 his father, pale, trembling, not in the least 
 understanding what was meant. 
 
 '' Come here an' tell me," said Mr. Gibson, 
 *' that this thing isn't true, that it's not a son 
 o' mine that goes an' harbours intimacy wi' a 
 lad that did his best to kill our Jim. Come 
 an' tell me that ye don't speak to Geoff — 
 that ye haven't seen him — that them tells lies 
 as says that ye spoke wi' him last night." 
 
 There was a silence that was broken 
 only by the panting breathing of the little, 
 frightened lad. Will understood now^, and 
 entirely, but did not speak. 
 
 '' I won't have that obstinacy an' that 
 sulkiness," cried Mr. Gibson ; ''ye can't put 
 me off wi' that. Did ye go an' speak wi' Geoff 
 last night? Ye tell me that." 
 
 ''Yes, father," murmured the Httle boy, 
 softly, raising his fair head, whilst his eyes 
 filled with tears. The next instant he hung 
 his head in terror as he met his father's 
 eyes. 
 
 " An' ye're goin' to meet him again to- 
 night, ye are ! " thundered Mr. Gibson, now 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 TRACKED, 
 
 almost beside himself with wrath. ''An' I 
 have lived to call ye a son o' mine ! " 
 
 He stopped, choked and breathless, so 
 that he could not speak. The women were 
 silent from astonishment and fright, and little 
 Will's panting terror turned itself now to 
 sobs. The sound of sobbing seemed to pro- 
 duce an effect upon the father, for he fell 
 back a pace, occupied partly, perhaps, with 
 a new idea that entered and filled his mind, 
 and partly moved even now, it may be, by 
 that distressful sound from the little lad who 
 had been his pet and darling ever since he 
 was born. 
 
 '' Come here to me, Willy," he said, in a 
 gentler voice ; and, a little reassured. Will 
 drew close to him again. " I don't want to be 
 hard on ye," said Mr. Gibson, in curiously 
 breathless tones. '' I know as ye have 
 known Geoff for awhile, an' have e'en been 
 thick wi' him. I don't want to fleesh ye if I 
 can help it, whatever ye desarve. Ye tell 
 me where Geoff is, so as I can get to him, 
 an' I won't hurt ye now." 
 
 There was no answer, but the child was 
 visibly shaking through all his limbs, and he
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 99 
 
 could not look up and meet his father's eyes. 
 That sensation of helpless terror was all that 
 Will could feel ; it never even occurred to 
 him as a possibility that he should betray his 
 friend. 
 
 '' Do you know where Geoff is? Tell me 
 that at least," said Mr. Gibson, and he spoke 
 in a louder voice. 
 
 ''Yes, father," whispered the child, in 
 more trembling accents still. Indeed he 
 knew both where Geoff lodged and where he 
 would be that night, for they had arranged 
 with each other in what place to meet again. 
 
 '' Then tell me where to find him ; ye tell 
 me that at once." 
 
 There was no answer, but little Will was 
 trembling so convulsively that he had to lean 
 against a chair. His mother and sister drew 
 closer in their fear for him. But Mr. Gibson 
 grasped hold of his shoulder now. 
 
 "Tell me where Geoff is; tell me that at 
 once ! !' 
 
 There was only silence till Will broke 
 down into cries. In despair and fury Mr. 
 Gibson raised his hand; but it was an im- 
 potent movement, he let it fall a^-ain. A
 
 100 TRACKED, 
 
 sick revulsion came over him ; he could not 
 strike little Will. 
 
 He began to stride up and down the room 
 in impatient rage and despair. Another 
 feeling, too, was beginning to stir within 
 his heart — the business instincts of the man 
 were chafing against this impotent wasting 
 of the morning hours. There was an im- 
 portant appointment he had made for that 
 day — if he let it slip now, wasting his time like 
 this — 
 
 '' Look here, Will," he said, stopping sud- 
 denly in his impatient pacing of the room, 
 and letting his clenched hand fall heavily on 
 a chair, " ye needn't go for to think that I'll 
 spend my life wi' ye. I've got to go now, 
 and I wonna stop for ye, stannin' there in yer 
 obstinacy and sulkiness like that. But I'll 
 be back early enough in the arternoon, an' ye 
 can tell me then. An' ye'll take me to Geoff 
 at once, and tell me right where he is, or I'll 
 fleesh ye to some purpose, I can tell ye that. 
 Be wise in time, my lad, ye'll find it best for 
 
 He stopped only an instant to call his wife 
 to him, and command her to keep the boy in
 
 V/ILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME, 101 
 
 her sight during all the day. " Put him i' the 
 corner, woman ; it's the only place for him ;" 
 and with these few words he strode with 
 great strides from the room, roared out to 
 the farm-boy outside to fetch his horse, fiung 
 himself into the saddle, and left the place. 
 They could hear the sound of his horse's 
 hoofs as they went along the road. 
 
 Will stood still where he was, pale, trem- 
 bling, not daring to raise his eyes to the 
 mother and sister who were left near him. 
 These were both of them overwhelmed with 
 unexpected astonishment and fear, amazed at 
 the boy's secret inter^'iews, of which for the 
 first time they had heard, and terrified at 
 the wrath of the father which had been called 
 down on him. Under the circumstances it 
 seemed the best policy to be much vexed 
 with Will. So Airs. Gibson addressed him in 
 severe and angry tones, and told him to go 
 and stand in the corner of the parlour, and 
 not to stir from there, '' a-disobeyin' all his 
 father asked like that I " She would have 
 told him to come into the kitchen where she 
 would be herself, but she was a true wife 
 after her fashion, though a resentful one, and
 
 102 TRACKED. 
 
 she feared that the sympathy of the servants 
 might be with the boy. So she returned 
 with Liz to the duties in which each had 
 been engaged, and Will went and stood in 
 the corner of the parlour as he had been told 
 to do. He was ten years old and upwards, 
 and did not, of course, consider himself a 
 child, and yet it would have been as far from 
 natural to him to disobey that command as it 
 is to a boy of a rebellious spirit to stand stilt 
 and quietly submit. 
 
 And yet it is a dull business, standing in a 
 corner. Do we remember, any of us, what it 
 is like ? Will had been in a corner, perhaps, 
 before that day, but it was the first time he 
 had felt himself in real disgrace at home. 
 
 And it was the feeling of that disgrace 
 that weighed upon him as he stood with tears 
 rolling slowly down his face, looking pitifully 
 at the angle of the wall. For he had been 
 ^'bad," and father was '^angered" with him, 
 and even mother had '^ spoke so cross" to 
 him. He had a vague dread upon him of 
 father's return that day, but of what he should 
 say or do himself he scarcely thought. 
 
 The sunlight came and played upon the
 
 WILL HAS HARD TLMES AT HOME. 103 
 
 pattern of the paper — it was a yellow paper, 
 with a diamond pattern, and his tears grew 
 dry as he looked. There was a little hole in 
 the wall where the paper had been torn, he 
 tore it more by putting his fingers in ; of 
 course any boy would be certain to do that. 
 And then he stood upon one foot and 
 counted twenty, and stood upon the other, 
 with a great effort, and counted a hundred 
 and forty. And after that he began to find 
 the corner slow. 
 
 He had been there an hour, for the clock 
 had struck eleven, when he heard his mother 
 outside the open door, and ventured to call to 
 her. He had become weary of watching the 
 sunlight on the paper, and there was nothing 
 else to do. 
 
 '' Mother, mayn't I go out? I'm so tired 
 o' stannin' here." 
 
 " Go to your room, you bad boy," said 
 Mrs. Gibson, '' and stay there till father 
 comes. I'll lock the door on ye if ye try to 
 run away." 
 
 Will had no intention of running away ; his 
 conscience would not even allow him to take 
 his picture-book. But his little room up-
 
 104 TRACKED. 
 
 Stairs was larger than the corner, and he had 
 hopes of playing there. He did play there 
 accordingly for more than an hour, and in 
 many different ways ; for first he amused 
 himself with an extra toilette, and washed 
 his face and hands, and brushed his hair; 
 and after that he made a journey round the 
 room upon the furniture without touching the 
 floor ; and then he lay down on his bed, and 
 made a little fairy-story for himself on the 
 flowers of the counterpane. That effort of 
 fancy was fatiguing, he lay back and went to 
 sleep. When he awoke he found his dinner 
 set upon a chair, and he ate the bread and 
 bacon, drank the water, and was refreshed. 
 Then he sat down upon a chair by the 
 window, but he had no thought of playing 
 now. He looked down the road that led 
 towards the town, and wondered how long it 
 would be before father would come home. 
 
 Will was not self-conscious, and had been 
 brought up in an atmosphere of love ; it did 
 not come natural to him, even now, to feel 
 afraid. And yet he had a certain dread of 
 father's home-coming, to which he had never 
 yet been used, and that weight upon his
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 105 
 
 spirit was very strange to him. Would Geoff 
 wait a long while for him in the '' little wood " 
 that night ? Poor Geoff ! he would not be 
 able to go out and see him now. Father was so 
 " mad-like " with him always, poor GeoflBe, he 
 must never let father know where Geoflfie was. 
 And then he rested his chin upon his hands 
 upon the sill, and wondered how long it would 
 be before father would come home. 
 
 Surely that could not be father, it was only 
 three o'clock. The horse's hoofs came clatter- 
 ing down the road. Will started to his feet, 
 and felt that his pulses were beating, and that 
 he could scarcely breathe. It was father, it 
 was ; he had hastened to come home. And 
 there was no mistaking the tone of the sum- 
 mons that rang now through the house. 
 
 " Come down. Will. Come down at once 
 to me." 
 
 Will did not wait for the second summons, 
 of his name only, which came in his mother's 
 voice. Sick and trembling with terror as he 
 was, he slipped softly down the stairs, and 
 stole quietly into the kitchen where his father 
 was.
 
 106 TRACKED. 
 
 That would have been a strange sight If 
 anyone had been there to see — the httle, 
 pale, fair-haired boy standing alone in tremb- 
 ling terror by the door, and the great, rough 
 man, flushed and haggard with his excited 
 ride, who had flung himself down in the 
 wooden armchair on the hearth. Mr. Gibson 
 had not been passing calm hours, that was 
 plainly to be seen ; and it was evident also 
 that he had been drinking. 
 
 '' Come here to me. Will," he said, with a 
 savage laugh. 
 
 Will had never heard his father speak like 
 that. He came, trembling, and stood by him, 
 as he had done before that day. The two 
 were alone together, though there were others 
 near, for the women of the household were 
 alarmed, and dared not come into the room. 
 Will felt a longing for protection for the first 
 time in his fife. 
 
 '' I'll have no foolery from you. Will ; I've 
 had enough of that. Tell me where Geoff is 
 at once, and I will go." 
 
 The child raised his tearful eyes, and looked 
 in his father's face. He had no other answer; 
 and to him that seemed enough.
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 107 
 
 "D'ye hear me?" roared Mr. Gibson, 
 with a trembling in his arms. 
 
 But the boy stood silent, though tears 
 rolled down his cheeks. His eyes met those 
 of his father ; there was silence in the room. 
 And then all at once Mr. Gibson turned very 
 pale. His manner changed entirely ; he 
 became quiet now. 
 
 " Look you across the room, Will," he 
 said, in a quiet voice. *' D'ye see what's 
 lyin' there wi' my hat on the chair again' the 
 door?" 
 
 '"Yes, father," murmured poor Will, with 
 a creeping in his limbs. 
 
 ''Then go acrost the room and bring that 
 back to me." 
 
 Will went at once, obediently, as he was 
 told, and lifted the heavy riding-whip that 
 lay beside the hat. His face was very pale 
 as he returned with it ; he kept his wide- 
 opened eyes upon his father's face. 
 
 '' Aha, this is summut like, this is," said 
 the farmer, as he took it in his hand. " Now, 
 Will, tell me where Geoff is — now!^ 
 
 '' Don't beat me, father ; don't beat me ! " 
 cried Will, in an agony of terror, as his father
 
 108 TRACKED. 
 
 raised his arm. The next instant his scream 
 of pain brought the others into the room. 
 
 "Tell me where Geoff is, or I'll kill ye," 
 thundered Mr. Gibson, as he took him by the 
 shoulder and shook him to and fro. 
 
 But the boy gave no answer beyond his 
 tears and cries. In another instant his father 
 dragged him across his knees, and was flog- 
 ging him fiercely with his strong arm, from 
 which there was no escape. 
 
 '' Tell me where he is now, ye devil," 
 thundered Mr. Gibson, as he thrust him 
 down at last, holding him at arm's length 
 that he might see his face. '' Tell me where 
 he is, and I won't fleesh ye no more." 
 
 Will was writhing with misery, and beside 
 himself with fear and pain, sobbing only with 
 convulsive childish pleading : '' I will — I will 
 be good." As his father grasped hold of him, 
 however, he roused himself again. 
 
 "' Oh! I can't tell you — I can't," he cried 
 out, with all the strength he had. " You'll 
 kill Geoflie if I tell you — I know, I know you 
 will ! " 
 
 Mr. Gibson dragged him for answer across 
 his knees again, and struck him once more,
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 109 
 
 again, and yet again ; and then his wife seized 
 his arm. 
 
 " Go and murder Geoff if you Hke," she 
 cried, " but you shan't kill our boy ! " 
 
 And Will, released, but scarcely able to 
 stand, clung to his mother's skirts ; whilst 
 his father raved out in triumphant, broken 
 sentences that ''he wanted a good, sharp 
 whipping, and that's what he's had." 
 
 '' I'll take him upstairs," faltered poor Mrs. 
 Gibson, in her confusion, only too anxious to 
 get him from the room. But, even clinging 
 to her, it was hard for Will to move. And 
 meanwhile Mr. Gibson continued to storm 
 about the Board Schools. '' They taught 
 childer to disobey the Fifth Commandment, 
 that they did ; but he knew better himself, 
 and he'd have Will to know." It scarcely 
 seemed to occur to him that the severity of 
 his chastisement had not produced the 
 obedience he desired. 
 
 Mrs. Gibson was undressing Will upstairs, 
 and was very cross with him. ''He w^as a 
 bad, wicked boy not to do what his father 
 wished. He had better go to bed, that they 
 might have no more to do wi' himJ' Her
 
 110 TRACKED. 
 
 angry and troubled condition made her unable 
 to restrain her wrath, and the boy's violent 
 laughing and crying had the effect only of 
 irritating her more. But that violent distress 
 produced another result ; Jim was heard call- 
 ing from his room for " mother" to come to 
 him. He had raised himself up in his bed 
 upon his arm ; on his face was an agitation 
 that the doctor would have feared. 
 
 '' Mother, what is the matter? Who has 
 been crying so ?" 
 
 '' Father's been fleeshin' Will," said Mrs. 
 Gibson, shortly, as she stooped over him to 
 arrange the pillow as she wished. 
 
 " What, father whip Will ! " called out Jim, 
 in an amazement that did not come from his 
 own experiences of his father's hand. " I 
 don't understan' it ; he's ne'er done like that 
 afore." 
 
 '' Your father's wild to get at Geoff ever 
 sin' he hurt you," explained Mrs. Gibson^ as 
 she tucked the bed; "and Will knows where 
 he is, but he wonna choose to tell." 
 
 ''Oh — oh!" said Jim, in two great, slow 
 sighs that appeared to exhaust his breath ; 
 and, without attempting to answer, he lay
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. Ill 
 
 back and appeared to think. *' Mother," he 
 said at last, '' put Will i' bed wi' me." 
 
 *' He'll wear you out wi' his cryin' an' ways," 
 said Mrs. Gibson. '' I'm so flustered mysel' 
 that I donno what to do." 
 
 ''Mother," repeated Jim, ''I should hke 
 Will i' the bed." 
 
 He was not strong enough to be asked to 
 explain his reasons, and his mother was afraid 
 besides to contradict his wish. She went and 
 fetched Will, who had worn himself out with 
 crying, but who began again when he was 
 required to move. He came in, clinging to 
 her dress like a baby, in the little white night- 
 dress that Liz had made daintily for him ; 
 and, still pale and crying, and beside himself 
 with pain and trouble, was laid down by the 
 side of his brother in the bed. Mrs. Gibson 
 was relieved to be able to leave them to each 
 other, and left the room at once. 
 
 The two lay together — Will sobbing softly 
 to himself ; Jim less able to speak to him 
 than he had believed himself to be, for the 
 sensation of intense weakness was still a new 
 thing to the young man w^ho had been strong. 
 He lay still without a word, waiting for breath
 
 112 TRACKED. 
 
 to speak, whilst Will moved about restlessly 
 in his misery of pain ; and the failing of the 
 short afternoon sunlight began to make 
 twilight in the room. It would be better to 
 say what he had to say and get it over now. 
 
 *' So father's been fleeshin' of ye, little 
 Will," said Jim, and there stopped, as an 
 outburst of sobs and cries came as an answer 
 and an interruption to his words. '' Hold 
 that noise, will ye?" he commanded, in a 
 harsh voice, after a while had passed ; and 
 the child, who was always in some dread of 
 his elder brother, restrained himself at once. 
 *' I have some words for ye. Will," said Jim, 
 when there was silence enough for his counsel 
 to be heard, " andye'd best be still for awhile 
 and hear what I've got to say. Ye know 
 where Geoff is; ye've been meetin' him, it's 
 Hke ? " 
 
 He waited for an answer, but Will only hid 
 his face, and his low sobbing made all the 
 sound there was. 
 
 '/ Well, father wouldn't 'a thrashed ye, ye 
 see, if ye hadna met wi' Geoff. An' Geoff's 
 a bad, wicked boy ; ye munna go wi' him. 
 Do ye hear what I say ? Ye'd best attend
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 113 
 
 to it too. But there's one other thing still 
 I've got to tell to ye." 
 
 He went on speaking with more agitation 
 now ; some deeper feeling gave vibration to 
 his words. 
 
 " Look here, Will, let father fieesh ye all 
 he can, but don't ye be tempted to go and 
 tell on Geoff. That may do more harm than 
 e'er ye know of now. An' Geoff has been 
 good enough to ye ; ye must always think on 
 that. Don't ha't on your conscience as ye've 
 told on a friend. Stick to your friends, little 
 Willy, and the Lord'U stick to ye." 
 
 He paused for want of breath, and Will 
 had no strength to speak. They remained 
 silent till Mrs. Gibson came, fearing lest Jim 
 should be disturbed, and took the child 
 away. 
 
 But there are words that fall on certain 
 crises of our feelings like the blacksmith's 
 hammer upon the red-hot iron — there is no 
 fear of their impress being entirely lost. The 
 elder brother's counsel had chosen such time 
 as that. Yet Will was not thinking much of 
 it as he cried himself to sleep, whilst the 
 spring night darkened over his home again. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 TRACKED. 
 
 The morning dawned peacefully on Rose 
 Cottage and its inhabitants, and there was no 
 renewal of the storm within the house. Yet 
 there was a difference within it, as every in- 
 mate felt ; and, though the days passed on 
 quietly, life was not the same to them. 
 
 Indeed, it would be a hard matter to 
 describe in sentences the bewildered misery 
 of those spring weeks to Will. He was 
 physically ill and in pain as he had never 
 been before ; he knew himself continually 
 watched and in disgrace, and his sensitive 
 nature shrank as before repeated blows. 
 Through the bright spring weather he dragged 
 himself to school, but he could scarcely get 
 there or take his place with the rest ; and 
 the master, seeing he was ill, kindly sent him 
 home again. The story of his punishment, 
 however, remained a secret still, for neither 
 the members of his own family nor the old 
 servant, who had been the only other witness, 
 spoke a word to anyone else of what they had 
 seen and heard. His father was continually 
 on the watch for some mute complaint from 
 him, but Will only cowered away from him 
 as a guilty thing ; his child's eyes had no
 
 WILL HAS HARD TLMES AT HOME. 115 
 
 more reproach for him than they had held 
 once for Geoff. 
 
 And so, whilst the bright earth became flecked 
 with April sunlight, Farmer Gibson hardened 
 himself more and more against the boy. . He 
 could not get out of his mind that the child had 
 defied him, and had been successful, too ; 
 he avoided his presence as far as might be 
 both during meals and w^ork, and called him 
 openly " a disobedient snake whom all the 
 house had spoilt." It was almost incredible 
 to him that his little delicate Will could 
 resist his command like this. Alas ! and 
 Will was neither disobedient nor rebellious, 
 and w^as as miserable in his continued resist- 
 ance as his father could have wished — but the 
 motives that govern a sensitive nature are not 
 always understood. From the vaguely dreaded 
 torment of remorse he had saved himself at 
 least ; his father had not been able to meet 
 with Geoff through him ; the child's instinc- 
 tive heroism had been stronor enough for 
 that. 
 
 What would have happened if that meeting 
 had taken place ? There were some who 
 asked themselves that within the house.
 
 116 TRACKED. 
 
 Farmer Gibson shrank from the inward 
 question with a dread he could not but own ; 
 he had tasted the wine of vengeance, and had 
 scarcely found it sweet ; and he was not quite 
 so determined now to meet with Geoff. And 
 for that sense of failing resolve he revenged 
 himself on Will, addressing him always with 
 severity and scorn, and forbidding his wife 
 and daughter to be '' foolish wi' the lad." 
 The servants knew the boy was in disgrace, 
 and were afraid to be kind to him ; and 
 Will believed always in a confused way that 
 he was wrong, and drooped like a delicate 
 flower that has been used to the sunlight 
 once. 
 
 That one day of martyrdom and retribution 
 could not be without its lasting effect upon 
 his life. But our victories are tangled things 
 of right and wrong. . . . Poor little Will ! 
 
 So the warm April showers came to bathe 
 the earth into life, the hedges began to be 
 covered with yellow points of buds, and over 
 all the Fens was the mysterious growth of 
 spring. And Geoff Haldan had never re- 
 turned to the Wolf's Den on the waste, and 
 in all Hanorth parish was no certain news of
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES AT HOME. 117 
 
 him. It was said that he had gone off to 
 America, and some believed it true. 
 
 And then on one dark, warm April night, 
 after some storms had passed, Liz Gibson 
 wandered out into the yard and leant there 
 against the door, crooning softly a little love- 
 soncr to herself. And then all at once a low 
 whistle came to her ears from without, and the 
 door opened softly ; and, as she bent to look, the 
 figure that entered took her in its arms. She 
 could feel an arm round her, and a hand upon 
 her eyes, and then some rapidly-pressed kisses 
 on her lips, mingled with a low sound of laugh- 
 ter that she knew very well. And then in an 
 instant she was thrust gently backwards, the 
 door was closed, the intruding form had fled, 
 and without a word or cry Liz returned softly 
 to the house. 
 
 She sat down in her own room at her 
 needlework, and the light of the candle on her 
 face showed it was very pale. But she did not 
 speak, and she did not call the rest, though 
 the feet of the wolf had entered within their 
 doors again. 
 
 There were others in Hanorth parish who 
 were to remember that evening too. In the
 
 118 TRACKED, 
 
 darkness of that April evening, hot with 
 storms, a Httle company of men had again 
 left the public-house. A message had been 
 sent to them from a friend in the market- 
 town, and they had certain hopes of securing 
 the fugitive at last. They left the village 
 under cover of the darkness, and turned their 
 faces in silence towards the moor.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 
 
 On that same evening old Jem Haldan saw a 
 light shining in his cottage, as he came to it 
 through the darkness across the waste. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock, and on that 
 stormy night the waste was entirely dark, and 
 he had been scarcely able to find his way 
 along. For the last few days he had been 
 staying near the town, disposing of a collec- 
 tion of cheap articles of which he had become 
 possessed, for in such pedlar business he was 
 keen and skilful still. Yet the old man felt 
 weary, very weary, as he dragged his feet 
 towards his home, with the basket on his arm 
 that had held a baby once ; the few shillings 
 in his pocket were not enough to give heart
 
 120 TRACKED. 
 
 to him. He was dreaming only, as such old 
 animals dream, of food and shelter — such 
 miserable food and shelter as his lonely home 
 could give — the gin bottle in the cupboard, 
 the tobacco on the shelf, the fireless grate, to 
 which he would have to attend himself, for 
 his sons had dispersed and he was left alone. 
 He thought of himself sitting crouched upon 
 the hearth, and drinking till he was warm, or 
 till he slept ; there was a dull pleasure in his 
 old heart at the thought. And then, lifting 
 up his eyes, he saw the light. 
 
 In another instant old Jem had drawn him- 
 self together, and his stick was clenched in 
 the hand that had seemed without strength 
 before, for at rare moments there would come 
 to his old limbs some power for action still. 
 There was someone who had been before him 
 at the Den — not his sons, for he believed 
 them far enough away — some tramp, perhaps, 
 who had been passing in the night-time, and 
 who had turned for shelter into the deserted 
 house. The old man began to tremble with 
 his fury — his old, wild nature had dangerous 
 fierceness yet. As fast as his trembling 
 steps and the aid of his stick could carry him 
 he. hurried on through the darkness to his 
 home.
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 121 
 
 The light of a blazing fire made the whole 
 room bright within ; as he stood peering out- 
 side the window it was easy enough to see. 
 The grate had been piled with wood, the gin- 
 bottle had been taken from the cupboard, 
 there were bread and meat on the table, and 
 there on the hearth was Geoff. 
 
 He had thrown himself down on the ground 
 after his old fashion, and was caressing his 
 bare feet with his hands. His wet boots and 
 socks had been flung into a corner, his ragged 
 jacket was drying on a chair before the fire, 
 the light of the flames upon his face was re- 
 flected in the brightness of his eyes. Un- 
 doubtedly it had been pleasant enough to him 
 to be left alone in his own old home like this, 
 and he had taken advantage of his oppor- 
 tunities to secure for himself every comfort 
 that he could. 
 
 For one instant, and during his first glimpse 
 at the intruder, Jem had experienced a sensa- 
 tion of relief ; but, as he looked at the lad's 
 appearance of ease and comfort, his hands 
 began to tremble with wrath again. In 
 another instant he had burst open the door, 
 and at that sound Geoff started to his feet. 
 
 The firelight picture became too quickly 
 changed ; the dreaming boy had a wild look
 
 122 TRACKED. 
 
 of manhood now. He had snatched up the 
 rusty poker with which to defend himself \ 
 he stood before the fire, grasping that weapon 
 in his hand, barefooted and almost bare- 
 shouldered, like a young robber stripped and 
 ready for the fray. The old man stood 
 quietly, without moving, and surveyed him 
 from a distance by the door, wet, ragged 
 bent himself, but with a strong clutch up. 
 the thick stick in his hand. So they con. 
 fronted each other in the home that thej 
 both had shared — the fugitive criminal and 
 the father he had owned. 
 
 '' So ye've come back, m' lad," said Jem, 
 speaking very slowly, and with emphasis on 
 his words, and with a slight movement also 
 of his withered fingers on the stick. He did 
 not attempt, however, to advance any nearer 
 from the door. 
 
 ''Yes, I've come back, ye see," replied 
 Geoff, with a little sound of laughter, and he 
 sat himself down in a defiant manner on the 
 floor, and clasped his knees. The light of 
 the fire was on his upturned head ; he kept 
 the poker resolutely between his fingers still. 
 The two men looked at each other for a 
 while and did not speak. 
 
 '' Come now, m' lad," said Jem, '' ye mun
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 123 
 
 clear out from here. I don' want to ha' to 
 lay this thing on ye, ye see?'' Geoff made 
 a little movement with his head, but said no 
 more. *' Do you hear me, Geoff?" said 
 Jem, in a louder tone. 
 
 The boy raised his head still further, and 
 laughed aloud at him. This feeling of con- 
 "-^st was probably not new to both. 
 
 '"I shall stay here this e'en long, old Wolf ; 
 v^e may break yer stick upo' me if ye like, 
 i'm as good a man as ye, now ye've got so 
 old and lame." 
 
 The old man advanced on him without a 
 word, but keeping at a cautious distance all 
 the same. The boy sat in his former atti- 
 tude without stirring, but with his eyes fixed 
 on him, and with the poker between the 
 fingers that clasped his knees. It was 
 curious that in spite of the resolution of his 
 attitude there was an uneasy look, as of some 
 old terror, in his eyes. As soon as the old 
 man was almost near to him he stopped short, 
 and they looked at each other again. 
 
 '* Come, don't ye be a fule, Geoff," said 
 Jem, in a more entreating tone, condescend- 
 ing to some explanation now at last. 'T can't 
 ha' ye here to-night, or I 'ud do so ; ye mua 
 be gone fro' here afore the night has come.'^
 
 124 TRACKED. 
 
 The boy glanced slightly up at him, but 
 did not stir. 
 
 '^ I'll stay here this even long, at any rate," 
 he said ; and, as if he were satisfied, Jem 
 sank into an armchair near the fire ; then bent 
 in a careless way over the boy who was re- 
 clining at his feet, and gave him a savage 
 blow on the ear that knocked him down. 
 
 '' That's for not chusing to attend to me 
 when I spake to you," he said. 
 
 Geoff raised himself quietly, and reclined 
 on his arm again ; he had no wish at that 
 moment to quarrel with his father, or he 
 might not have received the correction so 
 indifferently as he did. He lay still on the 
 hearth, and Jem took a pipe and smoked. 
 
 The firelit room had become more quiet 
 again, and its dirty desolation appeared 
 almost peaceful now. The old man sat 
 smoking, with his tangled beard on his 
 breast ; the lad lay at his feet in an attitude 
 as if he were reposing, though with an un- 
 easy watchfulness always in his eyes, whilst 
 there was some mistrust also in the eyes that 
 looked down on him. The dreary experiences 
 of neMect and ill-treatment on one side, and 
 outbursts of frenzied passion on the other, 
 were not forgotten still ; and the young out-
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 125 
 
 cast's mind could not feel entirely at rest, 
 though as lonor as he could remember he had 
 called this place his home. 
 
 " I've been i' the other room sin' I've been 
 back," said Geoff, turning a little to look up 
 in the old man's face. " I thort as I'd see if 
 ye'd left anything for me." A deeper glow 
 than the heat of the fire had kindled was 
 upon his features now. '' I couldn't find 
 much, that I couldn't ; ye've not taken much 
 pains to think o' me. Ye've sold all my 
 books, an' broke my birds' eggs, an' got rid 
 o' every scrap of a thing as I had left ; there 
 isn't even a bit o' my bed to show. I was 
 right enough to think ye didn't want me to 
 come back." 
 
 '* We didn't know as ye was comin'," said 
 Je-m, smoking peacefully. '' Ye've made the 
 place a bit too hot for thee, m' lad." 
 
 " It's hot enough, isn't it," cried Geoff, 
 " to go wanderin' out i' the cold and rain like 
 this, an' know that wherever ye may chance 
 there'll sure never be a bit o' welcome to be 
 found ? An' they say as the village here '11 
 chase me like an animal ; though, whatever I 
 do, it's no concern o' theirs. I'm sick o' my 
 life, I am, an' I've a right to be ; there's never 
 been any good in it for me."
 
 126 TRACKED. 
 
 The old man continued to smoke peacefully 
 above, without seeming to pay any heed to 
 what he said. 
 
 '' Ye s'ouldna knock honest lads o' the 
 head," he said, at last; ''ye'll sure to get into 
 trouble if ye play such tricks as them." He 
 had taken his pipe serenely out of his mouth, 
 and he held it in his hand as he looked down. 
 " I have a word for ye, Geoff, as Molly 
 Brenton said ; ye remember Molly Brenton, 
 whose cloak ye tore one day. She come to 
 my door here on the waste on the e'en afore 
 I left ; she had her red handkercher on her 
 head, an' an old crutch in her hand. ' How's 
 all wi' ye, Jem ? ' she says ; ' ye're left alone, 
 I see. I've a word for yer handsome lad as 
 is not got back agin — I've told amany 
 fortunes, an' I'll tell this 'un now. Ye may 
 tell Geoff Haldan,' she says, ^ what Molly 
 Brenton say ; she gives her blessing to his 
 pretty face that tore her gown — he's got 
 the light o' hell in his eyes, an' he'll feel its 
 scorch one day ! ' " 
 
 The old man muttered the words with some 
 enjoyment, but the boy shrank suddenly as if 
 something had touched his limbs ; and then, 
 unwilling, perhaps, for his emotion to be seen,
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 127 
 
 turned partly away and shaded his eyes with 
 his hand. 
 
 *' It's Hke enough," he muttered drearily, 
 ** like enough." 
 
 The older man paid but little heed to him. 
 The religious training of Jem lay far away in 
 his youth, if he had ever received any religious 
 ideas at all. He sat smoking with a mind as 
 obscure as the risinof clouds of smoke, and 
 the changing flames made a weird light in 
 the den. 
 
 Indeed, Geoff himself looked round without 
 difficulty after a while had passed, and a burn- 
 ing glow had succeeded to the momentary 
 paleness of his cheeks. He was passing 
 throuorh one of the sudden chancres of mood 
 that were peculiar to him, and there was even 
 more briorhtness than usual in his dark, dilated 
 eyes. 
 
 '' I think I'll get me a kitten," he said, 
 carelessly, as he lay upon his elbow, and 
 pulled with his other hand at a nail that was 
 in the ground. '' I feel to want a summat 
 that's soft an' warm, an' that 'ud creep round 
 my neck as little Will 'ud do. I've not seen 
 Willy for many a night an' oft. He's got 
 tired o' me, it's like, like all the rest."
 
 128 TRACKED. 
 
 ^^ Will ye take the kitten to Mrs. Rawson's, 
 Geoff?" asked Jem, after a pause, with some 
 meaning in his tone. 
 
 He had spoken quietly, but the boy gave a 
 start. 
 
 '' An' how do ye know where I am ? " he 
 quickly asked. 
 
 " They w^ere talkin' o' ye i' the village here 
 to-day. I think as they've gone, some o' 'em, 
 to visit ye i' the town." 
 
 ^' Then it's Will as has told on me," cried 
 Geoff then, with blazing eyes. '^ I did think 
 I could trust little Will to be as true as anyone 
 on earth. Well, it'll go hard wi' me if I don't 
 half murder him for tellin' on me if I ever 
 come across his face again." 
 
 '' Hold hard yoursel', an' don't be a fool," 
 said Jem. '' It was the wheelwright's son as 
 saw ye i' the town. They do say as Farmer 
 Gibson's been chastisin' Will hisself, but that 
 he canna get the lad to tell a word." 
 
 He had spoken in soothing tones, but the 
 boy was wrathful still. 
 
 ^' If it wasn't for Farmer Gibson I could 
 come back," he cried. ''This is his doin', I 
 know that very well. Well, I've set his son 
 agen him, if that is true yer say — an' I kissed 
 Liz to-night ; I'll have his daughter too."
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 129 
 
 He spoke with a curious triumph in his 
 tone, so unworthy was he of the suffering 
 that had been endured for him. His words 
 must have sounded ominous in any hearer's 
 ears, but his older companion had no warning 
 to bestow. 
 
 " An' how do ye Hke Mrs. Rawson's?" he 
 asked, when a while had passed ; but Geoff 
 only turned on his side with a long and heavy 
 sigh. It was not possible for him to explain to 
 that companion the effect that the ill-favoured 
 lodging-house had had on him, the confine- 
 ment and closeness of it, the necessity for im- 
 prisoning himself there often in the daytime, 
 the talk of the men who shared the room in 
 which he slept at night. Indeed, his life had 
 not been such as to make him fastidious ; but 
 then, after all, he had been a village lad, accus- 
 tomed to the open air and to the sunlight, and 
 with more knowledge of wild, lawless mischief 
 than of vice. Already, in so short a time, 
 there had come a change in him ; the ex- 
 pression of his face had grown worse and 
 harder since he had left his home. 
 
 " It's as good as I can get," he said, in a 
 weary way. '' I wouldn't 'a left it, but I had 
 to speak to ye." 
 
 "An' what had ye to say to me?" asked 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 TRACKED. 
 
 old Jem quickly, and in surprise, his face 
 growing harder as he pronounced the hasty 
 words ; for it occurred to him immediately 
 that the boy wished to beg from him. But 
 Geoff did not hurry himself ; he was not 
 inclined to speak. 
 
 '^ I saw Wild Ben last night, this last night 
 as ever w^as," he said with difficulty, plucking 
 away at the nail as if that concerned him 
 most. And then there was silence, whilst 
 Jem waited in vain for more. ''An' there's a 
 question I want to ask o' ye/' muttered Geoff, 
 with more difficulty still ; with such trouble, 
 indeed, that, even in the firelight, it could be 
 seen his face was pale. But his older com- 
 panion said nothing, and appeared even 
 amazed at him ; and the lad raised himself 
 aofain on his elbow with a determined effort 
 now. " I wanted to ask ye," he said, " whose 
 son I am." 
 
 The last words were almost inaudible, as if 
 he had lost them in his throat, and there 
 came a dull colour into the pallor of his face. 
 But the old man looked down on him steadily 
 and without an effort, and there was no agita- 
 tion in his voice when at last he spoke. 
 
 " An' what's put that notion into your stupid 
 head ? " he said.
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 131 
 
 '' Am I your son ? '' asked the lad, looking 
 up at him, his dark eyes fixed as if he would 
 read his heart. But Jem burst into coarse 
 ■laughter, and attempted no reply. 
 
 " It's a wise son that knows his own father, 
 isn't it, Geoff?" he said. '' 'Am I your son,' 
 do ye ask ? Why, w^hose else should ye 
 be?" 
 
 " They've allays said i' the village," 
 muttered Geoff, turning restlessly over, "as 
 I'm not yere son. They say I'm not like 
 none o' ye ; I can see that mysel'. It'll go 
 hard wi' me but I'll get the truth fro' ye." 
 
 " An' how'll ye manage that? " began Jem, 
 with another laugh. But Geoff started up 
 into sudden movement and excitement, and 
 with a quivering in the arms that his ragged 
 shirt-sleeves left bare. 
 
 " Look here," he said, " I've come a' this 
 way to ask this thing, an' I'll not leave this 
 place till I've got some truth fro' ye. When 
 I was a little 'un, an' asked a question, ye 
 smashed at my head wi' the first thing ye 
 could find. But ye'll not do so now, I've 
 grown too strong for that. An' I'll have my 
 answer, if I have to fight for it." 
 
 His eyes had begun to shine with the 
 strange light of passion that belonged to
 
 132 TRACKED. 
 
 them sometimes, a most dangerous light, as 
 all who saw it knew. And even Jem, though 
 he continued to smoke, did not appear at 
 ease. For he had his memories, also, like 
 the boy, and he had not forgotten an evening 
 years before, when he had beaten Geoff 
 whilst his brothers held him down, and Geoff 
 had started up suddenly and set the house 
 on fire. Ah ! what a home-training for early 
 years was that ! What memories and un- 
 conscious prophecies were these ! 
 
 ^' So ye want to know more o' yersel', 
 lad ? " the old man slowly said. He seemed 
 to think it wisest not to provoke his com- 
 panion, and yet at the same time to be most 
 unwilling to reply. Geoff remained silent, 
 with an expression of feverish eagerness, and 
 appeared to wait with both eyes and ears for 
 more. " Ye want for me to tell 'ee what 
 woman yer mother was ? " 
 
 '* I want to know who my father w^as," said 
 Geoff. His hard abruptness quite altered the 
 tone of his voice. 
 
 " I am yer father — that's good enough for 
 ye." The boy remained motionless, looking 
 silently up at him. '' Ye see there's been a 
 sort o' mystery in it, Geoff," Jem slowly said ; 
 *' I thort as it 'ud be a pity as ye should be
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 133 
 
 called differ to the rest. My wife, she died 
 long ago, she did. I daresay the village 
 have learned of that by now. There wasn't 
 no need for me to tell 'em what woman yer 
 mother was." 
 
 There was still silence, but the boy was 
 breathing hard. Jem went on speaking as if 
 he liked his voice, heaping detail on detail, 
 with all reluctance gone. 
 
 '' I thortas I'd take to mysel' another wife, 
 ye see. She was a very pretty girl, yer 
 mother was. Primrose her name was. She 
 used to sell butter once ; she had eyes as 
 black as a crow's, an' she could give a man a 
 straight look i' the face. I used to think 
 once as I could have fine times wi' her. 
 But then, ye see, she died when ye were 
 born ; ye were allays a trouble to me fro' the 
 first ; an' I thort as I'd make no differ 
 between ye an' the rest." 
 
 He paused for an answer, but the lad 
 would not speak. He lay on his arm, with 
 his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 '' An' that's the truth, an' the whole truth, 
 Geoff," said Jem, 
 
 '' It's like enough," said Geoff, without 
 raising an eyelid now. His manner was that 
 of one who has received the tale he hears ;
 
 134 TRACKED. 
 
 but, save for a wan and dreary expression in 
 his face, he gave no sign of any emotion that 
 he felt. He lay looking downwards, his long 
 curling lashes resting like a dark shadow on 
 his cheek, the light of the fire upon his 
 ragged clothes and slender limbs ; and, as if 
 lost in some strange meditation, the old man 
 looked down on him. His voice came in a 
 dreaming tone when at last, after a long 
 time, he spoke ; as if his thoughts had been 
 wandering far and he was answering to them. 
 '"'' / should a-liked to a-called ye my oivn 
 son, Geoff /^ he said. Geoff started suddenly, 
 a deep colour flushed his face, and the eyes 
 he raised were bright, his singular beauty 
 enhanced as if lit by that sudden light and 
 glow. Jem looked down upon him in a 
 melancholy way ; he went on talking as if he 
 were speaking to himself. '' The rest are all 
 stoopid — so stoopid," he slowly said ; 
 '' there isn't a grain o' sense in 'em, in 
 Nickle, or Bill, or Ben. I might 'a 'ad sons 
 as 'ud be more worth nor that. I could a- 
 done summat wi' ye if ye'd on'y been my 
 own ; I'd a tried to make a gentleman on ye 
 afore I'd done ; but what's the good o' that 
 when ye've nort to do wi' me ? An' yer own 
 father he's got no want o' ye, he's a genel-
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 135 
 
 man, they say, an' he'll not care for ye. It 
 'ud a' been differ for ye if ye had been mee 
 own." 
 
 ''A gentleman ! '' murmured Geoff, almost 
 below his breath ; and then, looking up 
 fiercely once more, he spoke again. *' An' 
 what did ye mean by the story ye were tellin' 
 me just now ? " 
 
 " That was inwention," said Jem, with 
 modest pride. He went on maundering with 
 an old man's weakness still : " I wouldn't a' 
 beat ye if ye had been mee own." 
 
 Again there was silence, and the flames 
 rose and fell. 
 
 '' Were my father and mother — married ? " 
 asked the boy, in a low voice, as he kept his 
 face concealed. If his nature were being 
 torn meanwhile with its passionate hope and 
 fear, at least he made efforts to o^ive no out- 
 ward signs. He lay very still, but there was 
 a quivering in his feet. 
 
 *' It's like they were," said Jem. '' I donno 
 so much o' that." 
 
 " Tell me more," muttered Geoff, looking 
 up with kindled eyes. But the old man was 
 being wakened to more practical answers 
 now. 
 
 " An' what'U ye gi' me for that ? " he asked,
 
 136 TRACKED, 
 
 with the expression of a fox. '' If I help ye 
 to yer father I must a' summat for mesel', 
 especial sin' I've brought ye up through all 
 these years." 
 
 '' If I gi' ye a penny on every blow ye've 
 given me," said Geoff, '^ye'll soon be rich 
 enough. I'll count 'em up if I get any good 
 fro' ye." 
 
 Jem looked doubtfully down at him and 
 made no reply. 
 
 "" Come, tell me^ said the lad, with still 
 more fierce impatience, and there seemed no 
 reason why the tale should be withheld. So 
 the old man told it by the dim light of the 
 fire, whilst the wind and the rain without were 
 beating against the Den. 
 
 And a stormy and broken tale it was that 
 he slowly told, confused by his want of memory 
 and of power to narrate, for his rough life was 
 sinking into an old man's weakness now — a 
 story of a dark night, about seventeen years 
 before, of the inn on the lonely road, where 
 he had wandered with his pack, and of the 
 sudden birth of the child of one of the 
 travellers who were there. Jem had heard 
 stirring and movements as he lay in his bed 
 that night, but though lights kept passing his 
 door he was too tired to move ; it was not
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 137 
 
 until dawn that he was disturbed at last. For 
 in the early morning he was awaked suddenly 
 — a gentleman had come who wished to 
 speak to him. He went downstairs to the 
 dark parlour of the inn, and found there a 
 solitary candle on the table, and by its side a 
 tall man walked up and dow^n, who seemed 
 '' very white like and scarce fit to speak." 
 He said at intervals, walking all the time, 
 that his wife, who had escaped from him, had 
 died that night ; and that '^ ' as for t' babe 
 he didn't mind for that, he'd sure never see 
 it or hear of it again. He'd give tw^enty 
 pound to a man as 'ud take it quite away; 
 it might die very like, he didn't care for that; 
 he'd never look on it whether it lived or died.' 
 An' then he burst out a-laughin' like and says, 
 ' Ye'd have yer son an' heir, I'll make him 
 fit for that!'" 
 
 The rest of the story could be very quickly 
 told. Jem took the twenty pounds and ac- 
 cepted the charge at once ; and in the early 
 morning the gentleman departed without 
 having told his name to anyone in the house. 
 He left money, however, to pay the ex- 
 penses of the funeral, and orders also that 
 Jem should take the child, promising himself 
 to come back that same evening if he could.
 
 138 TRACKED. 
 
 But although he made this promise he did 
 not return. The young woman he had called 
 his wife lay dead upstairs ; she had been 
 delirious or unconscious almost the whole 
 time she had been in the house, and had told 
 her name to none ; there was no one who 
 knew who she was or whence she came. Jem 
 didn't see her, he had *' no mind to see a 
 corpse," but he could see the white sheet 
 they had laid over her, '^ an' a taller candle o' 
 the table by her side." The landlady was 
 glad to get rid of the baby in any way she 
 could, and on the day its mother was buried 
 Jem took it away with him. But the new- 
 born infant was not carried far ; it began to 
 cry, and he brought it back again, for it was 
 a snowy day, '' fit enough to kill a child." 
 The landlady was most unwilling to receive it, 
 but he paid her doubts away, and set out 
 himself to return home to the Den. In the 
 cold winter, many months later, he returned 
 again and preferred his claim to receive the 
 child once more. But the woman and her 
 servant were unwilling now to part with the 
 baby who had been once so unwillingly 
 received. They had gained some notion that 
 the child belonged to gentlefolks, and pro- 
 fessed to forget that it had been left in their
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 139 
 
 charge by Jem. On his part he heard them 
 very patiently, and seemed even to be con- 
 vinced by what they said. He bided his time 
 until the evening came ; and then, when there 
 was uproar and merriment downstairs, and 
 the baby for a time was left alone, he went 
 upstairs quietly, put it into his basket with its 
 coverings, and stole out unperceived into the 
 nieht. Throuo^h the lonor November niorht 
 he trudged, going southward, and through 
 succeeding days and nights, until that evening 
 when dense fog wrapped the waste and he 
 found his w^ay through it with toil and 
 difficulty and brought the baby in safety to 
 the Den. 
 
 'This was his story, told as the firelight 
 rose and fell, and the lad lay listening to him 
 upon the hearth. Geoff asked one question 
 only when the whole of it was done — 
 
 *' An' he was a gentleman, an' he talked 
 about an heir? " 
 
 '^Ah, yes, he were a crenelman, sure 
 enough,^' replied Jem, in dreamy tones ; and 
 then, looking down with a suddenly piercing 
 glance from under his bushy eyebrows at the 
 lad's eager face, he spoke again. " An' do 
 ye think any genelman 'ud own ye Jioiv ? '' 
 
 The words struck hard — too hard. There
 
 140 TRACKED. 
 
 came an awful pallor into the boy's young 
 face, and his lips contracted as in some 
 mortal pain. After a while, with a low, 
 angry groan, he turned his head away, 
 and hid his face on his arm ; and then for 
 a long time afterwards there was silence in 
 the room. 
 
 Jem pushed his companion roughly with 
 his foot. 
 
 '' I want my supper, Geoff. Get up an' eat 
 wi' me." 
 
 ''An' drink yer gin," said Geoff; " I sup- 
 pose that's what ye mean. It's all I'm fit 
 for; ye've brought me up for that." 
 
 He raised himself, however, and sat up upon 
 the hearth, his dark hair all tumbled round a 
 face that still was white, and from which his 
 eyes looked out silently like those of an 
 animal that has been hurt. 
 
 Jem had never seen even his adopted son 
 in such varying moods before, and a rough 
 pity that could visit him sometimes was 
 stirred in him. He got ready his own supper 
 from the scraps on the table, and heated 
 some gin and water for himself, and then 
 prepared another plate and tumbler and 
 pushed them to the boy. 
 
 Geoff had been used to detest the taste of
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. 141 
 
 spirits, but he ate and drank ravenously now, 
 and then laid himself down as if he wished to 
 sleep, only his eyes all the while seemed to be 
 thinking, thinking, as Jem observed by furtive 
 looks at him. The lad was fairly worn out, 
 however, by his stormy journey, and possibly 
 by his emotion too ; his dark eyelashes 
 dropped after a while, and his head sank as 
 well. Then Jem drew his own chair nearer, 
 and began himself to doze. 
 
 A long while seemed to pass, long enough 
 for wavering dreams ; and fields, and sunlight, 
 and light upon bramble-blossoms were before 
 the old man's eyes, although they mingled 
 with the sight of the slumbering lad, and of 
 the firelight on the bare walls of the Den ; 
 and then through the double vision there 
 came sounds from without, and in another 
 instant Geoff had started to his feet. 
 
 "What's that?" gasped Jem, who was 
 scarcely awake as yet. 
 
 "Don't you see?" cried Geoff, sharply, 
 " they are coming across the waste." 
 
 Indeed, the gleam of a lantern without could 
 now be seen, and Jem rose slowly and cau- 
 tiously, and grasped his stick ; the lad mean- 
 while thrusting on his jacket with the hastiest 
 movements he could make. He had not
 
 142 TRACKED. 
 
 fastened it, however, when the old man seized 
 his arms. 
 
 '' What art thou going to do? Where will 
 ye go?" 
 
 " Let me go, ye old scamp," cried Geoff, in 
 a frenzy ; "what d'ye mean by holdin' of me 
 an' delayin' me like this ? I'll get through 
 the window behind, an' cut off across the 
 w^aste." 
 
 "An' leave m' house to be burnt and 
 mesel' to be thrashed for ye. Not if I knows 
 it, lad ; ye stay here until they come. Or, sin' 
 Tve got my stick now, ye may look to be 
 brained wi' that ! " 
 
 A violent struggle took place, for the old 
 man's selfishness was supported still by 
 strength, and Geoff could not at once free 
 his arms or get the stick. The language 
 that passed between them had better not be 
 transcribed. 
 
 But meanwhile the light of the lantern 
 drew nearer still to them, and footsteps could 
 be now more distinctly heard without. 
 
 " I say, Jem," cried Geoff, who saw his 
 danger, and whose quick wit w^arned him not 
 to continue a worse than useless struggle, 
 " leave go yere hold on me, an' I'll be quiet. 
 Ye Stan' still as if ye were holdin' me, an' let
 
 THE WOLF IS SEEN. US 
 
 ^em see us so, and then when I tread on you 
 ye let go at once, an' it'll go hard wi' me but 
 I'll run an' get away. Or, if ye dare to hinder, 
 rU burn yere hut an' ye." . 
 
 Jem relaxed his hold cautiously on hearing 
 this, and Geoff stood quite still, as he had 
 promised, like a captured animal in his 
 adopted parent's grasp. The footsteps came 
 closer, closer. There were sounds of whisper- 
 ing voices, and the tread, too, of a horse. 
 Outside the door of the hovel there was a 
 pause ; the two men within could not be 
 seen from ihe window, and the intruders 
 seemed afraid. They waited cautiously ; the 
 two men were still within ; the liorht of the 
 wood fire made a bright glow in the place. 
 And then the door was burst open suddenly 
 upon them both. 
 
 Thev were all there, standingr darklv in the 
 entrance of the door ; the blacksmith, and the 
 blacksmith's boy, the young wheelwright, the 
 village carpenter, a farm boy with a horse, 
 and others behind who could not be so plainly 
 seen. They stood still on the threshold, 
 and those within looked at them. /\nd for 
 that instant also they had a sight of those 
 within, the old man with his arms round the bov, 
 ■whom he seemed to hold for them ; the lad for
 
 144 TRACKED, 
 
 whose sake they had come across the waste 
 in the night-time, standing there before them, 
 barefooted, with unfastened jacket, and dark, 
 tumbled hair, a visible vagrant and an easy 
 prey. For one instant only his wild eyes 
 gleamed on them. . . . 
 
 *' He's here," cried Jem. '' I've got him 
 fast for ye ! " 
 
 He released his hold that same instant, as 
 he felt a touch on his foot ; and with a sudden 
 movement the lad burst from him, broke 
 through the rank of his enemies with a quick- 
 ness for which they were entirely unprepared, 
 struck the halter from the hand of the farm- 
 boy who held the horse, sprang and scrambled 
 on to its back, although it kicked and reared, 
 seized the halter as it broke, terrified, into a 
 gallop, and disappeared in the night. 
 
 They looked at each other with blank, con- 
 founded faces, the blacksmith and the black- 
 smith's son, the young wheelwright, the 
 farm-boy, and the rest. They had come pre- 
 pared, with their prey within their reach, but 
 the footsteps of the wolf had been too swift 
 for them.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 
 
 And Geoff, meanwhile? Let us follow him 
 through the night, though the trail of a hunted 
 creature is no easy thing to trace. 
 
 During those first few minutes he had been 
 sensible of little else but wild, overpowering 
 terror as he clung on to the horse. In spite 
 of the agility he had displayed he scarcely 
 knew how to ride ; and even if he had been 
 trained to such exercise from his early years 
 it would have been difficult enough to guide 
 a frightened animal through such darkness, 
 and on such uneven ground. He lay pros- 
 trate, anyhow, on his face, as he had flung 
 himself, tossed and trembling, clinging to the 
 horse's neck, and to the halter, with a wild 
 singing of terror in his ears. After a while, 
 
 VOL. L L
 
 146 TRACKED. 
 
 however, though the terrible, plunging gallop 
 still continued, he was more able to collect 
 himself ; to draw himself together, though he 
 held still to the halter and the mane ; and, 
 with the instinct of a born rider, to cling to 
 the animal rather with his knees than with 
 his hands. But before he had time for any 
 thought or resolve, all shaken as he was with 
 the rapid movement and his own fear besides, 
 there came a more violent plunge, and then 
 a stumble, and he was flung far forwards 
 over the horse's head ; it came down alto- 
 gether in the marsh, and began to struggle 
 there. 
 
 Geoff felt lame and stunned, and sick, too, 
 with the force with which he had been thrown ; 
 but he got up at once, and ran to the assist- 
 ance of the animal, guided by the fitful light 
 of the moon between the clouds. But the 
 horse would not allow him to approach, as it 
 struggled and floundered in the marsh ; until 
 at last, by some desperate effort, it regained 
 its footing upon the miry ground, snorted, 
 flung out its hoofs in terror and in triumph, 
 and rushed off in a wild gallop across the 
 waste. The boy had been afraid that it 
 would sink before his eyes ; he sat on a stone 
 looking after it, with a mind relieved.
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 147 
 
 What strange shadows there were upon the 
 waste to-night ! The moon kept coming and 
 going between. the clouds. He felt sick and 
 giddy still, and kept shivering, although it was 
 not cold. Where should he go to find a rest 
 that night? His feet were bare, for he had 
 been left no time in which to put on his old 
 boots and socks, and one of them had been 
 cut badly by a stone when he fell off the horse. 
 He took it between his hands and caressed 
 it softly, and then tore his handkerchief 
 into strips and bandaged it as best he could. 
 He felt tired, cold, lame, utterly disheartened, 
 without the wish to rise. The moon looked 
 down on him at intervals, a young vagrant, 
 sitting homeless there beneath the sky. 
 
 And yet his father was a gentleman ; he 
 had been told that, at least. 
 
 A hot, burning sensation rushed into his 
 face. His father was a gentleman ; he could 
 be proud of that. Why, all the village boys, 
 who looked down on him, their fathers were 
 not gentlemen, they couldn't say they were. 
 " They may talk as they like, they're not as 
 good as me." And visions of the great parks 
 of Hanorth and of Crasten, of galleries and 
 dark pictures, and Hghted chandeliers, of all 
 that world of wealth and luxury, of which he
 
 148 TRACKED. 
 
 had been permitted but the bare and scanty- 
 glimpses befitting his condition, began to float 
 in array before his eyes. '' My father was a 
 gentleman, I may be proud." 
 
 '' Yes, truly, for it is permitted to me to sit^ 
 ragged and desolate, on a stone upon the 
 waste, homeless, fatherless, destitute, alone 
 here in the night-time without a shelter." 
 '* Homeless ! fatherless ! " The words seemed 
 to press with burning force upon his heart, 
 and he covered his face with his hands and 
 burst into tears. Oh ! where were they ? 
 Would he ever find them, his father and 
 his home? 
 
 Yes, homeless, fatherless ! So the thoughts 
 came still, or might have come, within his 
 mind. ''Yes, truly, without a father or a home. 
 But not because I have never seen the man 
 who gave me my existence, not because I 
 have been called an heir and have never 
 beheld my heritage : I have greater wants 
 than these. Fatherless, because my own 
 father has sold me to a life of want and 
 shame ; homeless, because I have never had 
 experience of the love of home and kindred ; 
 untaught, because the knowledge of God has 
 never entered into my heart or life ; un- 
 friended, because none care sufficiently for
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 149 
 
 me to turn me back from sin — I have been 
 left, indeed, homeless ; I am, indeed, alone. 
 
 *' If my father were owner of the richest 
 wealth in the nation, and I had power to 
 claim that inheritance from him, I should 
 have been bereft still of the highest gifts of 
 all. The starving child, creeping and cling- 
 inof to her mother's side in the wretched 
 hovel, would know more of the love of home. 
 The little village-boy, coming hastily home 
 after some success at school, that he may 
 feel how soft his father's rough hand can 
 seem as it strokes his head, would have a 
 richer heritage than mine." Some feelings 
 such as these, though unformed and without 
 expression, stirred within the heart of Geoff, 
 but they did not touch it, for he was excited 
 still, and a sense as of exaltation remained 
 uppermost with him. 
 
 And yet — where was he to go ? — what 
 could he do ? 
 
 Some sounds in the distance made him 
 turn his head. There was a light, there were 
 voices, they must be coming back across the 
 waste. He laid himself down on the ground 
 that they might get no sight of him. They 
 did not come near him — he lay and waited, 
 looking up at the moon which kept drifting in
 
 150 TRACKED, 
 
 and out amongst the clouds ; and as he did 
 so he thought what he should do if they did 
 come close to him. He had not even his 
 knife with him, and he was almost too lame 
 to walk. 
 
 No — they had gone by in the distance — he 
 could see the light now far on the other side. 
 What should he do ? He must try and 
 decide. It would be impossible to sleep out 
 of doors on the bare, wet ground on such a 
 stormy night. He raised himself, shivering, 
 and began to try to walk. As he did so his 
 injured foot began to bleed again ; he could 
 feel the blood soaking through the bandage 
 he had made. And then he thought of Ben 
 Wilde, and of the Gin-shop (as it was called) 
 within the town, and thought also whether 
 he should return to the Den and force 
 his adopted father to shelter him for the 
 night. But Ben Wilde, and the gin-shop 
 in the town, were far away, and he could 
 not rouse himself to strength enough for 
 any struggle now. Then should he go into 
 the villao^e, which was not far from where he 
 was, and find some barn or outhouse into 
 which he could creep and sleep ? That 
 seemed the best thing to do, and he began to 
 move, limping painfully along as best he could.
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 151 
 
 What 1 a light in the distance ! They were 
 coming back again ; no doubt they were 
 searching the waste for some trace of the 
 horse or himself. If he attempted to enter 
 the village he might meet some of them ; he 
 must get on to Crasten, if he could, and 
 find shelter there. He turned once more and 
 began to walk again, though before he had 
 gone far he could have cried from fatigue and 
 pain. 
 
 How strange the waste looked to-night — 
 so black and shadowy — the few distant trees 
 made weird outlines against the sky ! It was 
 bad walking — if he could lie down and die. 
 . . . And then he remembered what had been 
 foretold for him. " I'll be hot enough then/' 
 cried Geoff, with wild laughter, that sounded 
 strange in the night. 
 
 No, the young life that was in him had no 
 thought after all of being easily resigned ; 
 the determination was strong in him to 
 struggle still. He reached a hedge at last, 
 and found a way through an opening in it 
 into a lane \ also he broke a bough off a 
 tree to serve him for a crutch, though even 
 with its aid it was hard to get along ; his 
 other foot now was scratched and bleeding 
 too. He sat down in the hedge upon the
 
 152 TRACKED. 
 
 trunk of a tree that had been felled, and began 
 to think once more. They might go on to 
 Crasten, and he might meet them there. The 
 clouds were gathering blackly above his head ; 
 there would soon be a storm, and he would 
 need shelter then. With a weary, aimless 
 movement he put his hand into his pocket, 
 and drew out a purse. 
 
 For the moment he was almost startled, 
 and a quick tremor shook his hand ; but that 
 feeling passed even as it came, and an even 
 deeper depression crossed his face. What a 
 fool he had been to think anything new was 
 here. For nothing new to him Indeed was 
 this — this purse that had been the cause of 
 his misfortunes — this present from Ben Wilde 
 which had dropped out of his pocket as he 
 stood talking to Jim Gibson in the town. If 
 it had not been for that ! He raised the 
 purse with his hand, intending to fling it aside 
 in his first impatient rage, but with another 
 sudden reflection he dropped his hand again. 
 
 Who did it belong to, after all, this purse 
 that Ben had given to him after a drunken 
 fit, empty, of course, but in good condition 
 still, and with '' E. Harte" worked in very 
 small letters In red silk Inside ? It had seemed 
 to him as if Jim had recognized the thing ; he
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 153 
 
 might not have called him a thief if it had not 
 been for that. There was a Miss Harte, a 
 dressmaker, who had come to Crasten now — 
 he might go this very night and give back 
 the purse to her. 
 
 What ! a light behind him ! They were on 
 the Crasten road. He forced himself between 
 the tree-trunk and the hedge, and crouched 
 in shelter there. Two men passed by with a 
 lantern on the path. 
 
 *' The boy and your horse," said one, '' may 
 be miles away by now. It is more than time 
 to do something to stop Geoff Haldan's 
 tricks." 
 
 '^ Such a pest should be hanged," said the 
 other ; '' there is nothing else for him." 
 
 The lantern flashed for a moment, and then 
 they passed. 
 
 Geoff crept from his hiding-place as soon 
 as they had gone by, and sat down on the 
 trunk, rather pleased with himself because he 
 had been so well concealed. He sat resting 
 and thinking, whilst an odd smile curled his 
 lips. 
 
 ''Hanging and hell," he said; "there's 
 nothing else for me ! " 
 
 And then he rose slowly, and crept on to- 
 wards Crasten with his wounded feet again.
 
 154 TRACKED. 
 
 Well, it was reached at last, the village, 
 dark in the night-time, lying amongst the 
 trees. He could see the lights in the cottages 
 in front of him, and the blackness of the great 
 trees of the Hall. But the house he wished 
 to reach was a long way from him still. He 
 began to limp more wearily, feeling his lame- 
 ness now. 
 
 He had got as far as the outskirts of the 
 village, and near him on the right were two 
 cottages, from whose open doors came two 
 short streams of light. There was a yard at 
 the side of the one nearest to him, with an 
 open gate, and within that were lights and 
 voices. As he passed by it he could not but 
 stop and look. A little group of men were 
 collected round a horse, tired, foaming, with 
 panting sides, and splashed and covered with 
 mud as if it had fallen down. He glanced 
 towards it with idle curiosity, and then sud- 
 denly stood still. Was this the horse which 
 had carried him that day ? His desire to 
 know was too strong to be restrained ; with 
 cautious movements he ventured within the 
 yard. 
 
 The men there were all gathered round the 
 horse ; the light came from a lantern which 
 one held in his hand. A little boy was play-
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 165 
 
 ing about the yard. As he stole closer to 
 them there came a movement in the group, 
 and the light of the lantern fell upon his face. 
 
 '' Geoff Haldan's come ! " cried the Httle 
 boy, in a shrill piercing tone. 
 
 In an instant they all turned round and 
 looked at him. For that one moment, and 
 then Geoff turned as well. How he got out 
 of the yard he scarcely knew ; he felt only 
 that he was frying down the road. Voices 
 and shouting, they were in hot pursuit ; and 
 pain and fatigue were forgotten as he fled 
 away from them. He had taken the lane 
 that led from the village towards the dark 
 trees of the Hall ; he was the swiftest runner 
 in the two parishes, and neither pain, nor ex- 
 haustion, nor darkness could keep him back. 
 
 For those few minutes the very pleasure of 
 the movement was enough. He could hear 
 their voices farther and farther behind him 
 in the distance with a throbbing sense of 
 triumph ; there was not one of them who 
 was able to gain on him. It was only when 
 far away from them he slackened his speed, 
 and then stood still at last ; when, leaning 
 against the wall of "the park, with the dark 
 trees overhead, he could feel his heart beat- 
 ing as if it would burst his breast — only then
 
 156 TRACKED. 
 
 was he able for the first time to understand 
 how Httle real strength his fatigue and pain 
 had left. 
 
 He leant against the wall, faint, panting, 
 without the power to move. A light near 
 him shone into his eyes ; he was not able 
 even to raise his head to discover what it 
 was. And yet they were near . . . they would 
 be coming ; they would catch him at last. 
 With a great effort he raised his head towards 
 the light. It was a lantern hung over a green 
 door in the wall, no doubt intended kindly to 
 relieve the darkness of the lane. The sight 
 of the door gave a new thought to him. He 
 tried the handle, and it opened to his hand. 
 The dark trees of the park were within, he 
 would hide himself in them. 
 
 And then suddenly he started, with a sick 
 faintness that made his eyes grow dim. Oh ! 
 they would not need a guide, they could trace 
 his footsteps to the door. But not by a 
 black track in the snow this time — for these 
 were marks of blood ! 
 
 No matter, he must go on quickly, for they 
 would be coming soon. He closed the little 
 door after him, and stood within the park, 
 beneath the great silent trees that appeared 
 mysterious under the stormy sky. It seemed
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNTED. 157 
 
 to him that he could hear voices in the lane, 
 and with rapid movements he fled across the 
 grass. He ran a long way without staying 
 to listen or to look, and then threw himself 
 down on the grass beneath a tree. No, he 
 was still alone ; they had not followed yet. 
 
 How wild, and strange, and silent the park 
 looked in the night, with its dark masses of 
 trees lit by stray gleams of the moon, and its 
 one solitary light in the great house at the 
 end — as solitary as himself, all alone in dark- 
 ness here. Was that the light of the room 
 where the new master was ? He had only 
 come there for the first time — the new master 
 of whom he had heard. How curiously Ben 
 had looked at him when he had happened to 
 mention Mr. Audley's name. 
 
 A strange, starting fancy, as fitful as the 
 moonlight on the clouds, began to stir in his 
 mind as he raised himself from the grass ; he 
 had been conscious of it in the midst of his 
 excitement as he fled beneath the dark trees 
 of the Hall. Oh ! it was miserable here in the 
 grass, so wet and cold ; he would die if he 
 had to stay here all the night. If he could 
 find some way to see the master of the house. 
 
 He sat up in the grass, and clasped his 
 knees ; he was so stiff with pain and cold
 
 158 TRACKED. 
 
 that it was difficult to move. He began to 
 be afraid that he might die, that he had no 
 longer any strength to help himself. A 
 horrible fear came over him, like that of a 
 frightened child ; a loneliness that seemed 
 to enclose him, to be in him. He stretched 
 out his arms and wailed out to the night, 
 *' Oh ! I am frightened, I can't bear to be 
 alone ! '' 
 
 Alas ! there could come to his loneliness 
 no vision of fireside or of home. A drizzling 
 rain was beginning to fall ; he felt chilled, 
 wet, and sick almost to death. With weary 
 footsteps he dragged himself along through 
 the darkness ; the strange terror was on him, 
 and he could not feel like himself. He kept 
 his eyes fixed always upon the light. . . .
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 
 
 In the library of the Hall, meanwhile, a 
 blazing firelight shone ; the grate was piled 
 with logs and coals, and the flames leaped 
 up the chimney as if themselves rejoiced. 
 There was a bronze lamp on the table with a 
 pleasant softness of light ; a great carved 
 armchair had been drawn up to the hearth; 
 and in that rested the owner, with his head 
 upon his hand. 
 
 Above him, over the black marble mantel- 
 piece, that was a work of art, a dark picture 
 looked down from its gold frame on him. It re- 
 presented a boy of about sixteen, with his hand 
 upon his whip, fantastically dressed in dark 
 purple, with lace ruffles round his neck ; a
 
 160 TRACKED. 
 
 boy with pensive eyes and soft, full lips, 
 which were slightly parted, as if with pleasant 
 thoughts. It was a beautiful picture, and in 
 spite of its old-fashioned darkness, and of the 
 old costume, there was enough resemblance 
 to make it a likeness still — a likeness of the 
 man who sat now in the carved armchair 
 beneath, as he had appeared once when 
 dressed for a fancy ball some thirty years 
 before. 
 
 On the other side of the room, resting 
 carelessly on one of the bookshelves, was 
 another picture of a very different sort, 
 though the rough vigour of the few strokes 
 which composed it bore as clear evidence of 
 a master's hand as did the exquisite finish of 
 the boy with the lace ruffles and the dark, 
 pensive eyes. This was a snowstorm, a 
 fierce and whirling storm, one of those 
 tempests which tear the boughs and appear 
 to rend sky and earth. The heavens were 
 black with it, and deep snow lay beneath ; a 
 struggling ray of sunshme seemed like a lurid 
 gleam ; below a woman was crouching with 
 a baby in her arms. Besides the picture 
 over the mantelpiece, there was no other one 
 but this. And, indeed, it was one that might 
 well seem pleasant to the owner of the room.
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 161 
 
 because it is pleasant to sit in an easy-chair 
 with the warmth and comfort of the fire in our 
 bones, and think of fierce snowstorms, and 
 suffering, and cold, and the outcast feet that 
 are far off from our doors. 
 
 Only it is the attitude of our minds after 
 all that makes the real meaning of a room ; 
 an easy-chair may become a stool of peni- 
 tence, a soft rug like the stones on which the 
 criminal wears his knees — -we can give our 
 own meanings to our surroundings after all. 
 And there is certainly no need for us to seek 
 far off for a confessional when we can judge 
 our own sins much more easily in our own 
 hearts at home. 
 
 Mr. Audley, lying comfortably backwards 
 in his luxurious easy-chair, in the little library 
 that had been fitted up for him, with the 
 sound of the flames in his ears and their 
 bright glow on his face, was, consciously and 
 comfortably, in his own confessional just 
 then. For it was with a very distinct purpose 
 in his mind that he had declared his wish to 
 be alone. That night he had come over from 
 Hanorth Hall, where he was an honoured 
 guest, to his great house at Crasten, which 
 had scarcely been prepared, and had informed 
 his servants that he would not be disturbed. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 TRACKED. 
 
 This one evening should be given to thought 
 and meditation ; it might be to a long- 
 delayed penitence as well. 
 
 And, indeed, it might have seemed as if 
 through the length and breadth of the king- 
 dom no pleasanter nook for penitence could 
 have been found ; for this was not the great 
 library with its wealth of mouldering books, 
 it was a smaller apartment which the owner 
 had prepared specially for himself;, small 
 enough to give full effect to the fire's light 
 and warmth, and to the favourite volumes 
 which lined the walls from the ceiling to the 
 floor, save for the one recess over the mantel- 
 piece where the beautiful portrait hung. 
 There was a luxurious cosiness in the whole 
 appearance of the room ; and yet it was not 
 too bright for penitence either, it seemed 
 carefully subdued, and the half-drawn curtains 
 gave a glimpse of the blackness of the night, 
 and there was the sound of a beating rain 
 upon the panes. Mr. Audley, lying back 
 and listening, felt the pleasantness of that 
 dreaming sound of rain. He was a man who 
 liked to have such natural music in his ears, 
 fof he could feel the suggestiveness of those 
 tones of nature that can be almost like 
 thoughts and memories to us.
 
 MR. A UDLE Y OF THE HALL, 163 
 
 And, lying back and resting now in full 
 view of the picture of his youth, it was plain 
 that life must have had thoughts and memories 
 for him. The dreaming boy had become a 
 melancholy man, with that look of older 
 gravity upon his face that means far more 
 than the sentiment of youth. And yet it was 
 not at all a harsh, repulsive melancholy that 
 years and time had left imprinted there, the 
 dark, pensive eyes had their old softness still, 
 the small, full lips had no hardness in their ex- 
 pression when they closed ; it was the face 
 of a man of feeling and of culture, of a 
 delicate valetudinarian who yet had not ill- 
 health, a face on which time had inflicted few 
 grey hairs and wrinkles yet. And the unde- 
 fined shadow in its expression only added 
 a greater interest and charm ; the spoiled 
 child of fortune had his look of sorrow too. 
 Perhaps even to Mr. Audley there had been 
 a sense of poetry in that shadow of sadness 
 and perplexity which lay far back in the 
 recesses of his heart, so well concealed there 
 that it was known only to himself. And yet 
 he had never dared to wake the phantom, but 
 had let it exist undisturbed from year to year, a 
 mystery even to his closest chosen friends. 
 A determining motive, however, was at work
 
 164 TRACKED. 
 
 in him to-night ; that silent secrecy of his Hfe- 
 time should still exist for others, but he 
 would dare, at last, to be open with himself. 
 
 And so Mr. Audley had come to Crasten 
 Hall, and the room that he called his library 
 had been prepared for him, for Mr. Audley's 
 penitence desired a fire and comfort, and an 
 easy chair, and all things pleasant round. It 
 was necessary to him also to have the luxury 
 of utter solitude that his mind might be left 
 entirely undisturbed. 
 
 And certainly there is some great mistake 
 in our ideas when we imagine that hair-shirts 
 and whips are necessary to penitence, or the 
 cold stones that hurt us when we fall upon 
 our knees. These things are old-fashioned 
 and unnecessary, and as needless are strained 
 hands and burning eyes ; it is far wiser for 
 us to learn not to torment ourselves without 
 reason — if we can. 
 
 Mr. Audley had ordered for himself a 
 delicate little dinner that his digestion might 
 have no reason to be disturbed. And he had 
 chosen to have this meal in the little library 
 in order that he might not have to change his 
 room to think. He was wise, for the little 
 library was the warmest, brightest room, and 
 the dainty meal added to it an extra charm.
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 165 
 
 When it was removed at last he drew his 
 easy-chair to the fire and resigned himself to 
 thought. 
 
 Only, after the young chicken, and carefully 
 made bread sauce, the little bunch of grapes, 
 and the pleasant glass of Hock, it was natural 
 to repose for awhile on pleasant thoughts. 
 The hours of the night were before him ; there 
 was plenty of time to think ; and his gentle, 
 €ase-loving nature was afraid to begin too 
 soon. The book of the past was with him, he 
 need not turn its pages yet. 
 
 So he lay in his easy-chair, as we have seen, 
 and the beautiful picture above looked down 
 -on him. In the midst of such stillness it was 
 natural to dream. 
 
 Only it was curious that the feeling of the 
 picture should be with him in his dreams ; 
 the dark, pensive eyes haunted him as he 
 looked into the fire. The boy's face was with 
 him as if it had not been his own ; it was near 
 him, by his side, like a presence in the room. 
 And still with this fancy there moved a . re- 
 membrance too — that night of the fancy ball, 
 so long ago ; the night on which he had first 
 heard that his uncle was engaged. 
 
 The boy's face — still the boy's face — there 
 was a strange dreaming persistency in that.
 
 166 TRACKED, 
 
 Only it would not appear with lace ruffles or 
 with a riding whip, it was poorly dressed, 
 with the look of a village lad. But it had the 
 dark eyes, and they looked entreatingly at 
 him. There was something that seemed to 
 stir in Mr. Audley, a feeling that had been 
 unknown to him through all his life. 
 
 '' He must be seventeen years old," he mur- 
 mured, ''if it is really true that he is alive 
 to-night." And then he started as if he had 
 been revealing secrets, and tried hard to turn 
 his thoughts to the fancy ball again. 
 
 Yes, they were there, the lights, and the 
 faces, and the dresses, and he could hear even 
 the clash of the music in his ears, and he was 
 standing in the corner by the folding doors 
 — how well he could remember it — and by his 
 side was the lady dressed like Queen Elizabeth, 
 who was telling him that he need no longer 
 hope to be his uncle's heir. And still, even 
 with the remembrance of his indignant pain 
 and scorn, there came the fancy of the poor, 
 dark-eyed boy again ; and, vividly as he could 
 see both himself and Queen Elizabeth, that 
 shadowy fancy made a third with them. 
 
 Oh, this was foolish, absurd ; he must not 
 dream ! He had come here to be serious, 
 to repent ; he would begin repenting now*
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 167 
 
 What a fool Captain Holt would think him 
 if he could know his thoughts. . . . But he 
 must repent. 
 
 The rain began to beat against the panes. 
 He cared less now to hear the sound of that. 
 He shivered a little, and drew closer to the fire ; 
 only first he looked in a furtive manner over his 
 shoulder as if some other presence were in 
 the room with him. 
 
 Oh, what an unsatisfied life he had owned 
 through all his days ; how lonely, and silent, 
 and without affection after all ! How much 
 he had been left to himself, even when he was 
 in his uncle's home at Langen, when he was 
 the heir, and spoiled, and the servants paid 
 deference to him. And after that there had 
 been such an ebb and flow of hope and fear, 
 the one great mistake of his life had never 
 been committed but for that. 
 
 The fire continued burning brightly always, 
 but through the half-drawn curtains the night 
 without was black, only neither darkness nor 
 beating rain could find their way within. 
 
 Oh, he was sorry, he knew he had been in 
 fault. In his own mind he had never justified 
 himself. But then it had become so wearing 
 — that waiting from year to year — whilst the 
 sickly, miserable child seemed neither to live
 
 168 TRACKED. 
 
 nor die — his uncle's child which came between 
 him and his hopes. He had been brought up 
 as the heir to the estates ; it was not his 
 fault that he had been brought up like that. 
 And then in that angry, sickening revulsion 
 of feeling it was so natural that he should 
 take all the pleasure that he could. He had 
 cared for her, the dark-eyed pedlar's daughter 
 — another man would not have married her as 
 he had done. 
 
 (And here, before his eyes, came, for one 
 inconsequent instant, the remembrance of a 
 picture. It was one he had seen years ago 
 when he was travelling, a picture of a dark 
 night, and a mullioned window all aglow with 
 the light within, whilst a poor ragged boy 
 stood without with a rough harp in his hand.) 
 
 For oh, it was true that he had intended to 
 be good to her, he had pitied her so much 
 after her father's sudden death — the poor old 
 pedlar who had dropped dead as he passed by 
 in the road. He had provided her with a home 
 and means to live, he had come to see her with 
 no thought but that of help. There had been 
 no harm in his visits, and he had meant none 
 to her. It was not his fault, that fierce and 
 sudden passion which mingled with his dis- 
 appointment and resentment, and demanded
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 169 
 
 to be gratified at once. For he had lost the 
 hope of all for which he had cared — the old 
 trees, and the old Hall which had been his 
 home — It was so natural that he should seek 
 some consolation after that. And he had 
 been honest with her; Indeed, Indeed he 
 had, for he had told her that if he had in- 
 herited the estate she could not have been 
 his wife. 
 
 And then, suddenly, with fierce and start- 
 ling suddenness, there rose another scene 
 before Mr. Audley's eyes— the poor room, 
 lighted by one tallow candle on the table, the 
 dark face of his wife set hard and still in 
 death. He turned away hastily from that 
 scene In thought and memory as he had 
 turned away from its reality seventeen years 
 before. 
 
 Oh, was it his fault that the poor passionate 
 dream had fled so quickly, that he had been 
 unable to forget what he had lost by indulg- 
 ing In his love ? He had been so young then, 
 so young, only a little over twenty-six, so 
 afraid of offending the uncle, childless then^ 
 whose heir he was. Left childless a week 
 before his marriage, he would never have 
 married if he had known of that before. 
 And then it was so natural that he should try
 
 170 TRACKED. 
 
 to hide his folly ; it would have been such 
 ruin to him to have spoken ; he had not 
 strength enough for that. And he had loved 
 her — indeed he had loved her — he had tried 
 hard to love her to the end. It was in real 
 penitence he had visited her at last — that 
 one last visit so full of anger and of bitter- 
 ness ! He shrank from the remembrance of 
 it even now. 
 
 Oh, if she had only never let him know of 
 that knowledge she had hid from him, or if 
 she had only told him before their marriage 
 of the death of his uncle's child. It would 
 have made no difference to her, it would not 
 indeed, he would surely have kept his promise 
 to her all the same. But to be taunted then 
 with his ignorance and her deceit, to know that 
 from their very wedding-day she had deceived 
 him, to feel that she had ruined him, and that 
 he was tied to her — the unbearable throbs of 
 anger seemed to thrill still through his brain. 
 He remembered how he had rushed out at 
 last into the night-time declaring that her 
 child should never be the heir. And then in 
 the frenzy of his passion he had returned that 
 night again, and had found that the lodging 
 was deserted and that the young wife had 
 fled.
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 171 
 
 And after that he dared scarcely remember 
 more, though the vivid, painful visions rose 
 too clearly before his eyes . . . the coarse, ill- 
 spelt letter she had left for him informing him 
 that she was seeking his uncle's home ; his 
 own frenzied pursuit of her through a day 
 and night of snow ; the dark, lonely inn in 
 which he arrived at length to hear the last 
 tidings he would ever learn of her. There 
 was a terrible picture of a room and a white 
 sheet ... he turned away his mind from the 
 slightest thought of that. And yet he could 
 not remember any sorrow, only terror and the 
 thought that she had ruined him even then. 
 The one Hnk that she had left behind would 
 ruin him ; his uncle would never forgive him 
 for the marriage he had made. And then 
 Came the sudden temptation, and the sudden 
 yielding too, and he had left the place alone, 
 as he had come. He could seek his uncle's 
 home now without terror ; he had neither 
 wife nor child to vex him more. 
 
 Oh, he had been wrong, wrong ! No doubt 
 he had been wrong. He had intended to re- 
 pent of it, and he did repent. But then the 
 temptation had been so strong, so sudden, a 
 better man might have been tempted as he 
 had been. And he had often thouorht — so
 
 172 TRACKED, 
 
 often — that he would not renounce his child, 
 the child whom he had seen but once in the 
 lonely inn that night. He would make in- 
 quiries after it ; he would do the best he 
 could — if he did not venture to claim it, he 
 might help its life at least. But the years 
 had passed by, and no inquiries had been 
 made. He had been so afraid, afraid of 
 revelations — such fear was in his nature — 
 there had been no avoiding that. It had 
 seemed to him so likely that the infant might 
 have died, it had been born so suddenly in 
 the lonely inn that night. Now and then, 
 when once or twice he had thought of 
 marriage, he had dreaded that shadowy 
 phantom which might rise up before him 
 still. But he had never married, and his 
 uncle had long been dead, and he was be- 
 ginning to feel himself an older man. The 
 years had passed pleasantly and luxuriously 
 for him— but he was an older man — his heir 
 was aware of that. 
 
 Mr. Audley got up then and walked about 
 the room, a sign of irritation that was very 
 rare with him. But then the last few days 
 had known their irritation — those days which 
 had been -passed in the company of Captain 
 Holt. Oh, was it not hard that he must leave
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 173 
 
 everything to this young London exquisite, 
 whom his uncle had chosen as the next heir 
 to himself, this dandy who could not even 
 continue In the army, but preferred to amuse 
 himself with London life? There seemed to 
 be nothing about Captain Holt that was not 
 in some shape an annoyance to Mr. Audley, 
 who yet found himself forced by circumstances 
 to be polite to him — his contempt for Invalid 
 habits, and his want of taste In art, his con- 
 stant statements with regard to the manage- 
 ment of estates, his habit even of whistling 
 out of tune. And he was In no need of 
 money — the Horley estates would certainly 
 come to him — and yet It was only of Crasten 
 and Langen that he talked, as If his object 
 was to annoy their owner by his words. If 
 he had taken the smallest pains to be civil to 
 Mr. Audley — but he would not, he was too 
 sure of being the heir. And he Intended to 
 cut down the trees and alter everything at 
 once ; he would have no pity on old servants 
 or old timber ; he would spend his time In 
 London In neglect of the estates. It would 
 be different If Mr. Audley had a son. 
 
 And, suddenly startled again, Mr. Audley's 
 musings stopped. He drew a sharp breath 
 like a man oppressed with pain. Oh, had he
 
 174 TRACKED. 
 
 the right to hope that his wish might be ful- 
 filled? 
 
 Why not ? Why not ? There was nothing 
 impossible in it after all. 
 
 He turned away with a decided movement 
 from the mantelpiece, against which he had 
 been leaning, and sat down by the table, and 
 drew his desk to him. And yet, irresolute 
 again immediately, he did not open it, but sat 
 with his elbows on it and his face upon his 
 hands. 
 
 Seventeen years old — the busy thoughts 
 went on, whilst his dark, dreaming eyes 
 rested upon the picture by the books. 
 Seventeen years, that is still a pliant age ; 
 it is possible to undo the effects of early 
 training then. And surely he could not be 
 hopelessly coarse or vulgar — this possible boy 
 whom he might own as his son ; he might 
 be good-looking, graceful. . . . Mr. Audley 
 paused and smiled. At any rate, there could 
 be no possible harm in discovering if it were 
 really true that he was indeed alive. 
 
 He paused for a moment here, and leant 
 harder on his desk. His eyes were on the 
 picture of the snowstorm, but he paid no heed 
 to that. 
 
 Oh ! how terrified he had been when that
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 175 
 
 anonymous letter came — the ill-spelt letter 
 that hinted darkly at a secret, that spoke of 
 a ''yung relation'* whom he might not 
 *' be pleesed to know." It had seemed to 
 him for the moment as if all were lost indeed. 
 He remembered how he had wandered beneath 
 the Langen trees that night, and how the 
 wind kept moaning of terror and disgrace ; 
 how after those voices he had shut himself 
 in his room, and had locked his door before 
 he thrust the letter in the fire ; he remem- 
 bered the ghastly dreams afterwards, in which 
 it would not burn. And now times had so 
 changed, and his own emotions too, that the 
 ghastly terror had become a hope for him. 
 
 Yes, it was strange, indeed, that he should 
 be seated now^ at Crasten, the inherited estate 
 which he had never dared to see, because it 
 was so close to the town from which the 
 anonymous letter came ; strange, indeed, that 
 the postmark, preserved from the letter, 
 should seem now like a hope, like the dearest 
 hope that life had left for him. If it might 
 be fulfilled — fulfilled, indeed, at last. 
 
 And why not? Why not? There was 
 every reason that it should. It would be an 
 act of justice, and of justice long delayed, 
 an act of penitence in due time fulfilled, an
 
 176 TRACKED. 
 
 acknowledgment of past errors, and an attempt 
 to repair them too. For he had been wrong ; 
 he would dare to own it now. 
 
 '* I could not have told my uncle that a son 
 was born to me. It would have broken his 
 heart to know, the poor old man ! He would 
 never have forgiven me for the marriage 
 which I kept concealed from him. And yet I 
 was wrong — I was wrong ; I ought not to 
 have parted from my child. But it seemed 
 for the best, and I wished to do the best." 
 
 He let his head sink within his hands, and 
 fell slowly into a meditation too vague and 
 deep for words. The light of the lamp was 
 on his face, on the few grey hairs that were 
 scattered on his head, and on the soft, 
 thoughtful smile upon his lips ; his eyes 
 seemed to dream, and to be looking faraway. 
 And still his lips kept moving, though he did 
 not know what they said. The rain mean- 
 while was beating against the panes ; it 
 seemed to him as if there was the chiming of 
 bells within his ears. 
 
 '' I have not gone wrong like others ; I 
 have always meant the best." 
 
 A sudden sound at the window — Mr. 
 Audley raised his head ; to the excitement 
 of his nerves it was like detection come at last.
 
 MR. AUDLEY OF THE HALL. 177 
 
 He Started up with a shivering thrill of terror, 
 reached the window in two strides, and pushed 
 the curtain back, and flung up the glass, and 
 let in the beating rain. He had not been 
 mistaken — a boy's face looked in on him. 
 White, wan, desperate, with dripping hair, 
 and with fierce, despairing eyes, he saw it 
 only for one instant as it looked. With a 
 violent movement he flung down the panes 
 again, and pulled at the blind, and dragged 
 the curtains close, and staggered out, pant- 
 ing wildly, into the room. The next instant 
 the sound of the bell he had pulled rang 
 through the house. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 ^' An' if you please, sir, there's some men 
 that wish to speak to you." 
 
 Mr. Audley was still standing in the centre 
 of the room, trembling and panting, with the 
 violent clash of the bell within his ears. He 
 did not know why he had rung, or what he 
 had meant to say ; he had scarcely more self- 
 command left than was necessary to guide 
 the hand which he had laid upon the table 
 near him to support himself. But the feeling 
 that a message had been delivered to him, 
 the presence of this strange servant, whom 
 he scarcely knew by sight, for his own 
 familiar attendant had been left at Langen 
 ill, the very dread itself which had laid hold
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 179 
 
 of his heart, all urged him to do his utmost 
 to gain some self-command. And yet even 
 his utmost effort could not enable him to 
 speak. 
 
 '' Are you ill, sir ? " asked the man, observ- 
 ing this at last. 
 
 Mr. Audley struggled for breath and re- 
 gained some power for words. They came 
 from him fiercely, as words will come some- 
 times when the effort of speaking has taken 
 all our self-control. 
 
 " Who are these men, and what can they 
 want w^ith me ? " 
 
 He felt so ill that he could almost have 
 given way to tears, but he would not break 
 down before this strange servant who stood 
 there watching him. The man answered 
 at once, with the quietness of a trained 
 domestic who has been taught to observe 
 in silence, and to give no outward signs. 
 
 " They have come to speak of a boy as 
 has stole a horse." 
 
 '' And what have I to do with a horse- 
 stealer ? " asked Mr. Audley, laughing gently ; 
 " unless they think I am sharing gains with 
 him ? " The man smiled in answer, again with 
 the trained manner of a servant who knows 
 when he may share respectfully in his master's
 
 180 TRACKED. 
 
 . mirth ; but he was observing his master keenly 
 all the time. The Squire was beginning to 
 recover his composure, he was able to return 
 to his charming manners now. '^ Ah ! well, I 
 suppose I must see them, even at this hour 
 of the night," he said ; '' it will never do for 
 me to give offence at first. But I have not 
 the least idea what they can mean. Though, 
 by the way," he added, with sudden fierce- 
 ness, as a new idea brought burning blood to 
 his face, '^ there is a boy, a vagrant, who is 
 loitering about the place. It cannot be for 
 any good purpose he has come. I saw him 
 outside the window here just now." 
 
 *' Outside there, sir?" asked the man, in 
 amazement, that almost overthrew his re- 
 spectful manner for the time. '^ You saw a 
 lad outside the window there?" 
 
 '' I told you so, I think," replied Mr. 
 Audley, irritably, for he had not quite control 
 over his manner yet. '' I should like some 
 search to be made ; he had an evil face. A 
 young thief, I suppose, who is seeking what 
 he can get. Be off with you now, and send 
 those men to me." 
 
 . The man turned away, but after a few 
 steps stood still. 
 
 '* I ought to have mentioned, sir," he said,
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 181 
 
 respectfully, " that there is a young woman 
 also who wishes to speak to you. Her hat 
 and cloak are being dried before the fire. 
 She is Miss Harte, the dressmaker, sir, who 
 lives near here." 
 
 "Miss Harte, the dressmaker!" echoed 
 Mr. Audley, and then burst into laughter ; 
 " she must think there is a lady here. Well, 
 send her to me and I will see her first. 
 Place aitx dames always," he muttered, as he 
 turned away and smiled. In his heart he knew 
 he was glad to delay speaking to the men. 
 
 In the passage outside, James, the tem- 
 porary valet, pausing to ponder, and rubbing 
 his bald head meditatively, was of the same 
 opinion too. '' The new master's like the 
 rest on us," he said ; '' it's allays the lasses 
 first." And then he winked a little, and put 
 his tongue in his cheek. " He speaks very 
 pleasant like, but I don't quite make him out, 
 this new gent here," he said. 
 
 Mr. Audley, lying back in his chair, could 
 not at all make out himself. The physical 
 suffering occasioned by the fast throbs of his 
 heart, the agonizing throbs that beat in his 
 pulses and that stopped his breath, was 
 alone sufficient to absorb his thoughts at 
 first J in his whole bodily life he had never
 
 182 TRACKED. 
 
 suffered so much before, and like a man 
 unused to pain he became almost alarmed, 
 as if these new sensations must mean a real 
 danger to his life. And then, as by slow, too 
 slow degrees, that agonizing pulsation wore 
 itself out at last, and it became at length 
 possible again to breathe, to live, that bodily 
 terror became only succeeded by another 
 that made his limbs tremble, and made 
 his forehead damp. Oh, how could he bear 
 to be left alone like this? What could that 
 face be that had looked in on him ? 
 
 Rising suddenly, he went hastily to the 
 window he had left, and pulled back the 
 curtains and then drew up the blind. There 
 was no sign, no sound ; the rain had ceased, 
 the night was black without. Trembling 
 convulsively, and yet controlHng himself, he 
 raised the window, and put his hand out into 
 the blackness of the night. But there was no 
 sign and no sound to disturb the night for 
 him. Still trembling, he closed the window, 
 and drew blind and curtain, and returned to 
 his seat again. 
 
 Oh, what had that face been that had 
 looked in from the night on him ? Had that 
 phantom at the window been an imagination 
 of his own ?
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 185 
 
 For an instant Mr. Audley found himself 
 confronted by an unexpected terror that 
 threatened him with a succession of ghastly 
 enemies, against which even the seclusion of 
 his home would be powerless to contend. He 
 found himself shrinking as before some un- 
 known illness for which no prevailing remedy 
 can be found. But for an instant only, and 
 his hope revived again. 
 
 *' I am a fool, indeed, after the message I 
 have had. These men are looking for a boy, a 
 vagrant, who is loitering about ; he has 
 rushed in here for safety, thinking they will 
 not pursue him here. If I find the young 
 scamp I will have him soundly horse-whipped, 
 and satisfy their vengeance and my own fear 
 besides. Only I wish that just at the time I 
 was thinking — " 
 
 He broke off here as there could be heard 
 a low tap on the door. 
 
 The next instant Mr. Audley rose with 
 instinctive courtesy as a young woman entered 
 shyly into the room. It seemed as if she 
 were afraid of intruding or had some special 
 cause for fear ; she closed the door softly, 
 and stood still. He did not know her, and 
 had never seen her before, the young dress- 
 maker who had been Jim Gibson's friend.
 
 184 TRACKED. 
 
 But there are certain times when we can be 
 grateful for the presence of a stranger, if that 
 has the power to save us from our too 
 familiar selves. Mr. Audley looked with re- 
 lieved eyes at the intruder, his terror of 
 phantoms was becoming more distant now. 
 She stood by the door, a slight figure dressed 
 in black ; the picture of the boy over the 
 mantelpiece looked down on both. 
 
 " If you would please excuse me, sir,'* 
 Miss Harte softly said. 
 
 She stood yet by the door as if she did 
 not dare to move, her black dress hanging 
 closely to her, her fair hair clinging to her 
 forehead from the damp. Mr. Audley saw 
 in an instant that this young dressmaker who 
 had lately come to the village was not exactly 
 what is called a pretty woman, but there was 
 something in her appearance that interested 
 him in spite of that. 
 
 ^' It's a cold, wet evening," he replied, 
 kindly, to her. '' You wish to speak to me, 
 my servant said. Come in, then, and sit 
 down by the fire." 
 
 *' I hope, sir, you will excuse me for one 
 thing," she answered, blushing; '' I have not
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 185 
 
 been able to put on my hat again. It is so 
 wet, and they are drying it by the fire." 
 
 '*0h, never mind that," he said to her, 
 laughing. '' Come closer here, and sit by the 
 fire yourself;" and, a little encouraged, Miss 
 Harte advanced into the room. 
 
 As the light fell upon her he could see her 
 face more clearly, and even in the midst of 
 his own trouble and agitation he could not 
 help being impressed by what he saw. There 
 seemed, indeed, to most people something 
 unusual, at least, even if not attractive, in 
 Ehzabeth Harte's thin and nervous face. 
 She appeared to be about tw^enty, or a year 
 or two older ; she was very thin, and her face 
 was strangely worn. Her black dress was 
 plain and simple, and her fair hair, save for 
 the loose, damp rings on her forehead, was 
 gathered tightly back. Perhaps that which 
 would impress most people at first sight of 
 her was the very sharp line of her forehead 
 above her eyes, which gave her expression a 
 sensitive, peculiar look. She had the face of 
 a girl or woman who has seen a great deal of 
 trouble ; the rude boys of the Sunday School 
 had not been able to recognize this fact, but 
 Mr. Audley did. 
 
 And there are times when we are grateful for
 
 186 TRACKED. 
 
 that look of trouble in the face of a stranger ; 
 it seems like an unspoken sympathy with our 
 own ; and in that presence of the lonely pain 
 of another our own loneliness becomes less 
 hard to bear. 
 
 '' Your name is — ? " asked Mr. Audley^ 
 looking at her in a kindly, interested way. 
 He scarcely knew why he seemed to feel re- 
 lieved. 
 
 '' I am Elizabeth Harte, sir. I have come 
 to live near here." 
 
 '' You wish to speak to me, I think?" 
 
 '' Yes, sir." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, standing by the 
 side of the chair he had placed for her ; her 
 voice had a curious timbre that impressed 
 it on the ear. Her manner was girlish, and 
 not without a certain dignity, but the shyness 
 of it made it somewhat awkward too. 
 
 ^' Ah, yes. Sit down, if you please. Will you 
 tell me now what it was you wished to say ?" 
 
 He looked at her with a pleasant expression 
 in his soft, dark eyes : Mr. Audley had that 
 sort of gentle manner to all who came near 
 him. She appeared to feel its influence, and 
 replied to him at once. 
 
 '' I wished to ask you a question, sir, about 
 a boy."
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 187 
 
 Her shyness made her voice tremble before 
 her sentence was done, and the same cause 
 blinded her eyes for the instant that she 
 spoke. Mr. Audley sat looking in front of 
 him, sick, faint, unable entirely to speak. 
 
 ''Are you ill, sir?" she asked, observ^ing 
 him at last with some concern. She spoke 
 in a very different manner from that in which 
 the servant had said the same words to 
 him. 
 
 " No — no — not ill — not that," he answered, 
 with impatience. " I am tired, overdone; I 
 should be by myself to-night." And yet he 
 was soothed to see her pitying eyes, pale 
 eyes with the strained look in them that the 
 eyes of women have who have worked too 
 hard, or who have felt too much, and with 
 something in them of a mother's tenderness 
 as well. '' Come, tell me what you mean," 
 he went on, with an effort and a smile. "You 
 wished to ask me some question, about a boy, 
 I think? There is a young vagrant who is 
 loitering here to-night." 
 
 " I know, sir," said Elizabeth ; " I wished 
 to speak of him." She went on in a low 
 voice, and with an effort that brought the 
 blood into her face. '' I was coming past 
 your gate in the very midst of the storm —
 
 188 TRACKED. 
 
 but it's a shame to weary you, sir, if you're 
 not well to-night." 
 
 '' No, no ; go on, and tell me," Mr. Audley 
 said. 
 
 '^ Then, sir, since you're so good as to hear 
 me, I saw by your door in the wall a lot of 
 men. And they were talking about a boy who 
 had stolen a horse, and they said he had run 
 from them, and had sheltered in the park. 
 And I asked what could make them think he 
 would dare as much as that, and they held 
 the lantern by the ground for me to see, and 
 there on the ground were his footmarks and 
 marks of blood." She waited an instant, but 
 Mr. Audley did not speak. ''And so, sir, I 
 stood there a while and talked with them, for 
 the sight of the blood was there before my 
 eyes, and I felt in me a wish to learn more of 
 the boy. I thought it seemed bad that he 
 should be wounded and wandering alone ; I 
 felt afraid that he might be sorely hurt. And 
 then they told me it was old Jem Haldan's 
 lad. I had heard of that lad often enough 
 before their words. And it was that made 
 me think I must come and speak to you." 
 Again she waited for a remark, but Mr. Audley 
 did not speak. She went on with a still in- 
 creasing nervousness, as if she were not sure
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 18^ 
 
 if her words were acceptable or not. '' Sir, 
 it is now some weeks ago I lost a purse ; it 
 was my mother's purse, so that was a grief 
 to me. And then I heard a story — I do not 
 know yet if it is true — that the purse had 
 been seen in the hands of Jem Haldan's lad. 
 So when I heard the men here speak of the 
 boy this night I thought I would follow if I 
 might see him too. And I thought it might 
 seem good that I mentioned it to you, and 
 that you, perhaps, would ask him about it if 
 they brought him here ; for it is not the 
 money that I care for, there's little enough of 
 that, but it is my mother's purse, I have 
 nothing else of her." 
 
 Again she paused, with a longer pause this 
 time. Mr. Audley began to fear that he must 
 rouse himself and speak. 
 
 '' And I wanted to ask you, sir, not to be 
 hard upon the lad." 
 
 " Not to be hard on him ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Audley, rousing himself at last, '^ a thief and 
 a vagrant who has stolen your mother's purse ! 
 It's mistaken kindness to be too merciful to 
 such. I have seen the boy myself only this 
 very night ; a bad face he had, and he is here 
 with some bad design. If I catch him he 
 shall be horse-whipped ; I have promised
 
 190 TRACKED. 
 
 that to myself. And if he has stolen your 
 purse he shall be put in prison too." 
 
 And here he stopped, as again there rose 
 before his mind that vision of the phantom at 
 the window — the face with the dripping hair 
 and the wild, despairing eyes. Oh, had it 
 been his fancy ; had he imagined that image 
 of the darkness ; or had he lent to the outward 
 features of its appearance some nightmare 
 imaginations of his own ? 
 
 The low voice of Elizabeth broke in upon 
 his thoughts, which were wandering away to 
 his fears and dread again. 
 
 '' Oh, sir, if you'll forgive me for being so 
 bold as to speak to you," she said, '' I've 
 heard so much of this boy, and been sorry for 
 him too. He's been brought up always to be 
 so wild and rough — brought up like an animal 
 without a chance of right ; and there's such a 
 feeling against him now in both the villages, 
 they say that they'll chase him if ever he 
 shows his face. And yet I've always heard 
 of him as quick and active, with so much in 
 him that might lead him to do well. His 
 father's been so unkind to him — if he is his 
 father — I can't help being sorry for him when 
 I think of that." 
 
 Mr. Audley Hstened to her as if he did not
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 191 
 
 hear ; her words made more Impression upon 
 his ears than on his mind. He lay back in 
 his chair with a face that was pale and worn, 
 and with eyes that appeared to be looking far 
 away ; and yet when she stopped he made an 
 effort, and roused himself again. 
 
 "" Ah, well, if it is as you say, and you want 
 to know more of this boy of whom you speak, 
 I may as well ring for the men and hear what 
 they have to tell." 
 
 His voice came with a low and dreamy 
 sound ; it seemed to him almost as if he 
 were speaking in a dream. But he laid his 
 hand on the bell and rang it as he had said, 
 and then lay wearily back in his armchair 
 again. His brain w^as suffering from a re- 
 action from excitement, and that absorbed 
 mood had even a charm for him. He made 
 no further efforts to address his companion 
 now, and on her part she made no attempt to 
 speak to him. They sat opposite each other, 
 and the fire shone on them both. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards there came the 
 sound of footsteps, of heavy, tramping foot- 
 steps that were only too plainly to be heard , 
 and then there was a pause, and then a knock, 
 and then the door burst open, as doors will 
 do when a pressure is bent against them
 
 192 TRACKED. 
 
 and the handle is not much turned. There 
 entered a great, brawny man in a coloured 
 shirt, and behind him followed a little crowd 
 of men. Mr. Audley was not fond by nature 
 of shirt-sleeves, or of crow^ds, or of rough 
 manners, or rudely-opened doors, but he rose 
 politely to receive them all the same. 
 
 '' Good-evening, my friends,'^ he said. 
 ^' Will you tell me what I can do for you ? " 
 
 His courteous manner appeared to discon- 
 cert them ; for a considerable time there was 
 silence in the room. 
 
 ''Well, ye see, master," said the foremost, 
 pulling his forelocks, ''we've come to speak 
 to ye concerning a boy. Ye are not ill ? " he 
 added, with sudden agitation, as Mr. Audley 
 winced despite himself. 
 
 Oh, what was it that troubled him, what 
 made him such a fool ? He turned away 
 his head that his face might not be seen, 
 and met the pale eyes of Elizabeth Harte 
 again. 
 
 " No — no — I'm not ill," he said, with an 
 effort at composure. " There is nothing the 
 matter with me ; do go on." 
 
 The eyes of Elizabeth Harte were still 
 upon his face. " He is not telling the truth," 
 she was saying to herself.
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW, 193 
 
 '' It is getting late," said Mr. Audley ; '' do 
 go on." 
 
 And the foremost man of his audience 
 took heart to speak again. The Squire 
 remained standing with his hand on his 
 armchair ; the young dressmaker had risen 
 also, and all were standing in the room. 
 
 '' Ye see, master," went on the foremost 
 man, whose brawny arms made him worthy of 
 the station of village blacksmith, which, in- 
 deed, he owned, *'ye see w^e get a little flustered 
 like when we come to speak to ye ; but we 
 have to tell ye about this boy and all. It's an 
 hour agone since they brought a horse into 
 the yard agen my smithy as had fallen down 
 i' the marsh, a poor, lame creature, all 
 covered wi' mud an' all. An' the men begun 
 tellin' me o' this boy — Jem Haldan's lad — as 
 had run off wi' it sudden, like a devil's flash 
 o' fire, an' had throwm it down i' the very 
 midst o' the marsh ; an' I had been saying 
 ' I'd lick him if I were ye.' An' as we w^ere 
 talkin' on him there he stood by us, as he'd 
 been brought there by the wind, as one may 
 say ; an' we turned and we chased him right 
 away down the road, for we thought it a good 
 thing to drive such animals afar ; an' he went 
 wi' more than human swiftness, as one may 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 TRACKED. 
 
 say, an' there wasn't a man on us could keep 
 pace wi' that. An' I said to 'em, ' Let be ; 
 let's try no more to run ; his master below 
 there he gives him feet to fly.' An' we'd 
 given o'er, an' was turnin' home agen, when 
 one on us sets to hold his lantern low, an' 
 there on the ground was his footmarks an' 
 marks o' blood ; an' we tracked 'em up to 
 your doorway i' the wall. An' so — an' so — 
 ye'll forgive me, master, now^, 'cause I've got 
 flustered, an' I donno what to say." 
 
 His face had become very red and very 
 hot ; he took out a blue handkerchief and 
 rubbed it down. Mr. Audley seized the 
 moment to sink into his armchair. The 
 silence had been prolonged before he spoke. 
 
 '' I am to understand," he said, ''that you 
 have not found the boy ? " 
 
 '' Why, no, sir, no ; Ave can't get a sight on 
 him. But he run in here, we're all on us sure 
 o' that. An' we wanted to ask ye to gi' him 
 up to us." 
 
 '' May I ask what 3'^ou will do with him if 
 I give him up to you ? " There was silence 
 again, and some confusion in the group. 
 They looked at each other ; they did not 
 attempt to speak. The young dressmaker, 
 standing apart from all, kept her attention
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 195 
 
 fixed upon Mr. Audley's face. '' Because, 
 to prevent mistakes, I had better tell you 
 that you ought to leave him to be dealt with 
 by the law. If you attempt to take the law 
 into your own hands with regard to him you 
 will find yourselves in trouble before you have 
 done." 
 
 " Ye mean ter say, master," said the black- 
 smith, whom this appeared to perplex, '' that 
 if a man licks a boy he may be punished like 
 for that." 
 
 *' He may be, undoubtedly, if his offence is 
 proved." 
 
 *' Ah ! but it can't be proved; at least, it's 
 not like to be. There's not a man as'll speak 
 up for the lad ; not his own father, and them 
 as brought him up." 
 
 " You can say that," broke forth the young 
 dressmaker, who could restrain herself no 
 more; "you can make that a reason for 
 being hard on the lad. Poor, friendless boy, 
 he has no one to speak for him ! " 
 
 They all turned round, and looked at her 
 where she stood, a black, trembling figure, 
 with her face aglow. Their surprise held 
 them silent till a full minute passed. 
 
 " Ask your pardon, miss," said the black- 
 smith, slowly, then, '' but ye don't understan'
 
 196 TRACKED. 
 
 these things as men can do. WImmin are 
 tender-hearted, they don't see straight like 
 men." 
 
 " I can see as straight as some of you, at 
 least," Miss Harte replied, with indignation 
 in her tone. "Why did the boy you speak 
 of touch the horse ? There isn't one of you 
 says a word on that. It was because those 
 men there went to chase him, because they 
 have made up their minds he shall not live in 
 the Den. And what right have they at all 
 to turn him from his home ? Who gave them 
 the power to decide on things like that ? If 
 he did hurt Jim Gibson, as all the village 
 says, it isn't for Hanorth and Crasten to 
 punish him for that. Let Farmer Gibson 
 and each man look after his own affairs." 
 
 " And I'll look after my horse, if you please, 
 missus," a burly farmer said ; *' an' the boy 
 as hurts that he shall be thrashed by me." 
 
 '' But there is some truth in Miss Harte's 
 words," Mr. Audley quietly observed. 
 
 His little speech seemed to irritate the 
 blacksmith, who burst out in a red-hot state 
 again. 
 
 . " Ask your pardon, sir, again for inter- 
 ruppin' you, but it's not possible for you to 
 know this young 'ooman as we can do. I
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 197 
 
 don't wish to say a single word agin' a lass 
 as is quiet, an' is clever at her trade, an' as 
 all the village knows. But when a young 
 'ooman has had wisions it stands to reason as 
 she can't see so clear. An' it's true what I 
 say of her ; you ask her that." 
 
 '' Had visions ! " Mr. Audley echoed, in per- 
 plexity, and looking, in spite of himself, at 
 the dressmaker's changing face. His two 
 words had been only the expression of his 
 astonishment, but she made a brave attempt 
 to answer them. 
 
 " I — I," she faltered, and then her courage 
 failed, her eyelids drooped, the blood rushed 
 to her face ; she stood, a pitiable object, ex- 
 posed to their disdain. 
 
 Ah, poor Elizabeth ! too brave, not brave 
 .enough. So had she almost broken down once 
 several years before when she stood by the 
 public-house with her hand on Jim Gibson's 
 arm. Her lips began to falter, though she tried 
 for self-control, and her drooping eyelashes be- 
 came hot and wet with tears. Mr. Audley 
 wished to spare her, and did the best he could. 
 He rang the bell, and so turned away from her. 
 
 '' I will ask my servants," he said, '' if they 
 have found the boy." And to all the silent 
 assembly the words came as a relief.
 
 198 TRACKED. 
 
 But there was no news ; the boy had not 
 been found. In gardens and outhouses was 
 left no trace of him ; the beating rain had 
 washed away his footmarks if there had been 
 any, and no sign remained on the grass of 
 any mark of blood. To Mr. Audley this 
 came as a relief ; he could scarcely explain 
 the strange dread in his heart, and he ex- 
 perienced a burning desire to be alone. 
 
 '' I will make more inquiries," he said, ''as 
 soon as to-morrow comes. Meanwhile, it is 
 now nearly midnight, and some of you are a 
 long way from home ; I will tell my servants 
 to give you refreshments in the kitchen. I 
 am glad to be able to exercise some hospi- 
 tality on this first night that I have come to 
 the house. Take care of yourselves, for the 
 night is dark. Good-night." 
 
 The passage echoed again to the sound of 
 tramping feet. The men went off in toler- 
 able spirits, the refreshments in the kitchen 
 having some charm for them. EHzabeth 
 lingered behind them to make alone her 
 quiet, respectful curtsey ; she had been 
 standing apart from the others, like a 
 punished child. At another moment Mr. 
 Audley would have wished to detain her, 
 but the desire to be by himself was too
 
 THE PHANTOM AT THE WINDOW. 199 
 
 strong on him for that. She went out ; the 
 door was closed ; he was alone. 
 
 And then he went up immediately to his 
 bedroom ; he could not bear to be alone in 
 the Hbrary again. The bedroom was one in 
 which he had never slept before — heavily 
 furnished, dark, old-fashioned, with sombre 
 corners, and with a haunted look. A longing 
 for air came over him as soon as he was 
 within, and he went hastily towards the 
 window ; and then stood still, whilst the 
 deadly terror stirred his nerves again. With 
 another feeling upon him, he threw up the 
 glass and bent out into the darkness of the 
 night. No, it was dark, the stars w^ere 
 shining ; there was no sign, no sound. He 
 put down the glass, and drew blinds and 
 curtains close. He was alone amidst his 
 possessions ; he felt very much alone. With 
 weary, staggering footsteps he crossed the 
 room, and laid himself down on the great 
 dark bed, and cried.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 And, meanwhile, the dressmaker was finding 
 her way back to her home beneath the starlit 
 sky. The storm-clouds had swept away, and 
 the sky was clear, the wide distance lay black 
 and indistinct, the cottages had all closed 
 their windows for the night, and the roads 
 made faint gleaming tracks beneath the stars. 
 Above the sky was bright, though not with 
 the sharpness of a frosty night ; the stars 
 shone with a quivering radiance, and across 
 them, like a faint tremulousness, stretched 
 the Milky Way. Elizabeth left the sleeping 
 village behind her, and then turned off from 
 the road ; beyond a little gate was a small 
 ascent and path, above which a wood of fir- 
 trees was dark against the sky. She paused
 
 ELIZABETH. 201 
 
 before entering, for the wood was black ; and 
 then, Hke a movino: shadow herself, was lost 
 within. 
 
 And let us, too, pause once again before 
 following the wolf's track through the night, 
 and look back on this other story that has 
 been dimly shown to us. The life of a dress- 
 maker, indeed, should not be a visionary 
 matter ; but we cannot account always for the 
 emotions beneath the surface of the world. 
 And it is good for us sometimes to look 
 beneath the surface, and examine the stuff 
 of which we all, like '' dreams, are made ; " 
 it may be that in such knowledge, when care- 
 fully considered, we may find some clue to 
 the outcast lives as well. It is certain, at 
 any rate, that she had not known an easy 
 life, this poor Elizabeth Harte, who stitched 
 so well ; who lived in a little house at the '' far 
 end " of the wood, surrounded with paper 
 patterns, and buttons, and breadths of stuff, 
 with scissors and work-basket always close at 
 hand. They had meant many things for her, 
 the troubled, stitching years ; she was not 
 the same in appearance, face, or form, as the 
 thin, very timid, not-to-be-noticed 'prentice 
 who had stood by the public-house with her 
 hand on Jim Gibson's arm.
 
 202 TRACKED. 
 
 " I should like to engage you to come and 
 work In my house," a farmer's wife had said 
 to her some months before, '' but then I have 
 heard some stories that people tell of you. 
 They say you have dreams, and that you 
 walk out at night. My master Is very par- 
 ticular, more than most men, I know. He 
 likes the lasses to be respectable In their 
 ways." 
 
 Elizabeth made no answer, no attempt to> 
 defend herself. She trembled a little, and 
 her lips trembled more : she stood up and 
 curtsied as the farmer's wife retired. But,, 
 although she had been living there In that 
 large village or small town for several years, 
 within a week from that day she left the 
 place. 
 
 And yet the chance words had not been 
 unkindly meant, nor was It a definite reproach 
 that they Implied. The village in which she 
 lived contained some three thousand souls, 
 and out of all that crowd of human beings 
 there was not one who in real seriousness 
 would have spoken ill of her. No, she *' had 
 dreams;" she was ''half-baked;" that was 
 all — and these lesser Imputations she could 
 haVe found streno^th enouorh to bear. But 
 she had the sensitive nature that is scorched
 
 ELIZABETH. 203 
 
 by certain trials, and, in spite of her gentle- 
 ness, a silent pride : it was more easy to her 
 to leave her home utterly than to defend 
 herself. So she came to Crasten, to the 
 " far end " of the wood, and her reputation for 
 "wisions " preceded her, as we have seen. 
 
 How had she, then, obtained that most 
 unsought-for fame ? The life of a dressmaker 
 should be free from dreams. 
 
 Twenty-three years before the mother of 
 Elizabeth had died when she was born ; and 
 the child had been left, an orphan, to the 
 mercy of the world. She was adopted by an 
 aunt, who was a dressmaker, a hard and grasp- 
 ing woman who had no love for her, but who 
 took her into her house out of ostentatious 
 generosity in order that she might win the 
 favour of the daughters of the Squire. 
 
 Elizabeth was brought up upon blows and 
 scanty fare, upon hard work and continued 
 harsh reproofs. She grew up a thin, colour- 
 less, timid, shrinking girl, not often noticed 
 even by those who saw her most ; and as 
 years went on she became even less observed. 
 Her movements were so silent, her whole 
 appearance so little to be remarked, that it 
 was not any wonder she should almost not be 
 seen. Once, and once only, during all those
 
 20i TRACKED. 
 
 years did the feelings within her break into 
 sudden hfe ; a soHtary and unconnected 
 occurrence in her existence that evening 
 seemed, but it was to be an earnest of 
 future years for her. 
 
 When Ehzabeth from her Crasten home 
 looked back on those early days she shrank 
 from the memory of them as she had shrunk 
 once from her aunt. It was not in her nature 
 to bear easily the remembrance of pain, and 
 her long, sad girlhood was to her an enduring 
 fact. 
 
 Yet there had been some pleasant things 
 in the course of the dreary years — the blue 
 handkerchief that her childish fingers had 
 been so proud to sew ; the books that she had 
 won sometimes as prizes in the school ; the 
 sight of Jim Gibson in his young health and 
 strength, as he stood with her at the garden 
 gate on the night before she left. She had 
 been used to hide behind a bush in the early 
 morning light that she might watch him 
 passing as he went to his work. 
 
 And then her aunt suddenly left the place 
 with her, and then went to Australia and left 
 her to herself ; and in the struggle that fol- 
 lowed for work and life itself she had little 
 time left to remember what had been — the
 
 ELIZABETH. 205 
 
 schooltlme, the harsh reproofs, the dreary 
 years, or the first dawning of her girlhood's 
 love. 
 
 It was a very strange life that followed in 
 the town — for though it was more like a 
 village, it called itself a town — a very different 
 existence from the past. Her aunt was away 
 in Australia, where she soon after died ; 
 Elizabeth was left without relations in the 
 world ; she hired two rooms, took in needle- 
 work, and kept herself. At first the delicious 
 relief of being free from restraint was almost 
 like a dream — when she woke up each morn- 
 ing she was thankful over that — and even 
 when worse times came her surprise and 
 gratitude remained. 
 
 Worse times did follow, and w^re not slow 
 to come. Her little stock of money melted 
 silently away ; she worked beautifully, but 
 no one bought her work. The pangs of 
 starvation pierced through her relief ; she 
 tried to think she did not suffer, but she 
 could not but feel the pain, and she was in 
 danger of sinking into despair w^hen another 
 comfort rose. 
 
 '' It was one morning when I woke up," 
 said Elizabeth, "that I saw^ it first. I was 
 sleeping in my bare room, which had no
 
 20G TRACKED. 
 
 chair or carpet, only a wash-handstand, and 
 my wooden stool, and the bed on which I lay. 
 I lay with my eyes open, seeing the cracks 
 upon the wall. And then it came — it was a 
 bright light — it shone through all the room — 
 I was glad to see it — " and she broke off into 
 tears. 
 
 That was the beginning of her strange 
 experience, but it was not the whole. From 
 that autumn morning dawned a new life for 
 her. The bright light continued to shine 
 round her from time to time, and with it came 
 other manifestations too — soft, radiant colours 
 appeared before her eyes, the sound of low 
 music made chiming in her ears. She yielded 
 herself to these things with a new and strange 
 delight, as to some pleasures that had been 
 sent to her ; her eyes seemed to grow more 
 large and full of light ; for a week or two 
 she lived her inward life alone. Then a 
 chance sentence spoken to her landlady, who 
 had come in with a present of meat and beer 
 to her, and had found her sitting on her bed 
 with clasped hands and straining eyes, pro- 
 duced some other results that she had not 
 foreseen. For the landlady told what she had 
 heard to one of the '' young ladies " in a 
 draper's shop close by, who came to EHzabeth
 
 ELIZABETH. 207 
 
 .as a visitor forthwith, and heard from her the 
 words that have been transcribed above. It 
 was not to be supposed that the young lady 
 would not tell others too : Elizabeth had 
 several visitors before many weeks had passed. 
 As a natural consequence orders for work 
 flowed in, and the thought of starvation be- 
 came no more to be feared. 
 
 There followed for her a month beset with 
 •dangers, and yet one of more power and 
 popularity than she had ever known. If 
 Elizabeth had not been by nature conscien- 
 tious she could have made an easy trade out 
 of her neighbours' fears ; but then If her 
 intellect had not been so refined and pure she 
 might have disgusted some of those who 
 came to her. As It was, it was impossible to 
 have any doubt of her simplicity, of her simple 
 delight in her visions, and of her gentle heart. 
 The talk of her began to spread through the 
 breadth of the little town. A dancrerous 
 pedestal was being raised for her ; in the deep 
 perils and temptations of the mystic and the 
 fanatic she would soon have been involved. 
 
 And then, on one of those summer days, a 
 doctor rode through the town, a celebrated 
 man, who had been a London physician a 
 year or two before, but who had given up his
 
 208 TRACKED, 
 
 practice as his Infirmities Increased ; and who, 
 happening to stay for an hour or two in the 
 little inn, heard of this dreamer of whom so 
 many spoke. At once the old instinct re- 
 turned to life in him. He gave up his 
 journey, engaged a room for the night, and 
 set out immediately to examine the case him- 
 self. A fee to the dressmaker's landlady 
 secured all that he desired ; he stole up to 
 the little attic-room alone. The door was 
 partly open, and he entered quietly. The 
 room was bare and clean, and as silent as the 
 grave. On the bed sat a young girl with her 
 face white and set, and her eyes fixed on the 
 opposite wall, dilated, and full of light. He 
 stood looking at her quietly, and at the room, 
 then stole softly downstairs again, and left 
 the house. The next day he sent for Elizabeth 
 to come to him. She came, unsuspecting, 
 with a grateful, childish heart, thanking the 
 Lord all the way for her new life and light. 
 The old man received her with a severe, un- 
 bending face ; he told her that he had treated 
 a case like hers before ; he told her that 
 her visions w^ere a delusion of the brain, and 
 that If she would save herself from madness 
 she must submit to him. She listened quietly 
 though with trembling lips. She did not
 
 ELIZABETH. 209 
 
 oppose herself to his will by word or look. 
 But the shock of his words had been greater 
 than she knew, and her health had been 
 weakened by a life of want and toil ; the next 
 day she was unable to rise up from her bed. 
 Throuo^h the illness that followed he watched 
 over her Avith care, but she recovered her 
 consciousness to find her visions gone. No 
 light shone again upon her wall or bed ; there 
 was no more enchantment on heart or life for 
 her. If that had been all ; if that loss had 
 meant no more ! 
 
 It was nothing to her indeed that the fame 
 w^hich had spread so quickly had died away as 
 quickly as it came ; and that in back-parlours 
 or in corners of the streets she was now 
 talked of only as a sickly, deluded girl, the 
 folly of whose imaginations had been clearly 
 proved at last. Elizabeth had not cared 
 much for the money or the fame ; she cared 
 as little for the hard words that were bestowed 
 upon her now, or for the loneliness that sur- 
 rounded her once more. Her beautiful needle- 
 work was becoming widely known ; she had 
 orders enough, and was not in fear of want» 
 It should have been easy for her to take up 
 her life again, but, alas ! for her a deeper 
 loss remained. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 TRACKED. 
 
 Alas, poor Elizabeth ! With simple-hearted 
 faith she had received the light that had 
 shone upon her life, she had been glad of it 
 as a gift that had been sent to her. And 
 now it was gone — vanished — a simple delusion 
 — an affection of the brain — a disease 
 that treatment and medicine could cure. 
 What if her other faith should prove also a 
 disease, if it should fail when she needed it 
 as the dreams had done ? She would have 
 once thought it enough to answer that she 
 believed, but she had believed also in the 
 light that she had seen. She grew better, 
 and began to work again ; but the haunting 
 sadness touched everything she did ; she had 
 lost her grasp upon all for which she cared. 
 In these shiftinof sands of life there was no 
 sure ground to be felt. 
 
 Elizabeth had never received an education 
 in religion, had never been taught to set her 
 emotions in order and make them sure with 
 facts. In this time of ceaseless depression 
 she studied the subject more ; but her learning 
 produced no result upon her trouble, she had 
 lost not the knowledge, but the power of 
 belief. And then she went to a Wesleyan 
 class meeting to gain some comfort there ; 
 but, though she listened humbly to the ex-
 
 ELIZABETH. 211 
 
 periences of the others, she had no voice for 
 herself — It seemed Impossible for her broken 
 life to speak and declare the manner In which 
 "the Lord had dealt" with her. And then 
 she went to church and tried to join In the 
 prayers, but they seemed to her to be words 
 without a meaning ; she could gain no hope 
 from them. And day after day she bent still 
 above her work and resigned herself slowly to 
 a life without a faith. In this slow, sad 
 manner there passed some lonely years ; she 
 cooked her own meals, and stitched, and sold 
 her work ; other people spoke little to her, or 
 she to them ; she bent over her sewing and 
 lived always alone. 
 
 And then one day she was going down the 
 street, with that lonely feeling, and with 
 some work In her hand, and she saw a child 
 standing before a general shop. It was a 
 dirty, fair-haired creature, with a forlorn and 
 wasted face, and it kept its eyes fixed upon 
 some toys in the window of the shop. Eliza- 
 beth was moved by an impulse she had not 
 known before ; she bought a little coloured 
 ball and gave it to the child. The creature 
 did not thank her — for children never do — 
 but it looked at her and laughed with all its 
 eyes, and ran away ; and she went on down
 
 212 TRACKED. 
 
 the street with her work in her hand. But 
 there had stirred a new feehng in her heart. 
 
 From that day as she sat in her lonely 
 room at work she no longer felt so entirely 
 alone. She thought of the children playing 
 in the streets, the dirty children with babbling 
 voices and laughter ; she wondered if they 
 had pleasant lives at home, and if the masters 
 were kind to them at school. And then she 
 thought of the young workmen going out to 
 their work in the early morning as Jim 
 Gibson used to do, and on hot days she 
 wondered whether they felt the heat, and on 
 rainy days whether they were obliged to stay 
 at home. Her bare room had begun to be 
 full of images ; she wondered within herself 
 at the interest she felt. No doubt it was the 
 mother-feeling that had begun to stir in her, 
 that feeling which has power in some form or 
 other over the loneliest, hardest woman that 
 is upon the earth when once the youthful, pas- 
 sionate craving for personal love has failed. 
 
 And, after all, when one is sensible of 
 failure, and has lost the help of prayer, what 
 can be better for us than to keep constant to 
 our work, and from out of the loneliness of 
 our lives to stretch out helping hands ? When 
 we have given a sugar-plum to a child we
 
 ELIZABETH. 213 
 
 have not relieved the world, but then it is 
 something gained if even a child is pleased. 
 And it was so that slowly, very slowly, as 
 most things grew with her, there came on 
 Elizabeth an interest in her neighbours' lives. 
 She was awkward, and timid, and reserved, 
 and had little intercourse with them, but she 
 thought a great deal about them as she sat 
 at her work ; and now and then she made 
 some little efforts to reUeve, but she became 
 too easily disconcerted or afraid. Her many 
 troubles had affected her too deeply, she 
 did not find herself able to accomplish much ; 
 but an inward sympathy can count for some- 
 thing, too. Meanwhile she was said to be 
 ''half-baked," to ''be crazed, poor girl," to 
 '' be like to lose her wits ; " and her neigh- 
 bours in the town had no sympathy for her. 
 But she had begun to be able to pray again, 
 and that was a relief. 
 
 This, then, was the dressmaker we have 
 seen, with the worn and silent face, the young 
 girl who had once laid her hand upon Jim 
 Gibson's life ; and who now, through the April 
 midnight, after the storms had passed, was 
 finding her w^ay through the w^et, dark trees 
 towards her home.
 
 214 TRACKED, 
 
 She came quickly through the courtyard 
 after she had left the wood. The lamp which 
 she had lighted was burning in her window, 
 but the door of the cottage was open, though 
 she had left it shut. She went hastily up to 
 it, and then stood still ; a sudden terror had 
 seized upon her, and she could not move. 
 The room was as she had left it, in its quiet 
 order, but In the chair by the table a young 
 man lay asleep. As she stood there trem- 
 bling the clock within struck one.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 
 
 Elizabeth remained by the door with a 
 quickly beating heart. All was quiet ; the 
 intruder did not move, the sound of his 
 breathing came softly through the room. At 
 that hour of the night there would be no 
 passers-by, she would be left alone till morn- 
 ing came with him. She began to think 
 how many hours must pass before the morn- 
 ing came. She was but a woman, unprotected 
 and alone. 
 
 And yet how soundly he was sleeping, poor 
 boy ; how tired he must be ! If he had meant 
 any harm to her he could not sleep like that. 
 He lay with one arm on the back of the 
 chair and his head on that, and turned away
 
 216 TRACKED. 
 
 from her ; his breathing came softly and 
 regularly through the room. He must be 
 really asleep ; he had not stirred since she 
 came in. Should she wake him ? Dare she 
 do so, and ask him who he was ? 
 
 She came a little closer, with her eyes 
 fixed on him. He looked so tired and wet ; 
 the rain had dripped from his clothes, his 
 feet were bare, and his dark hair hid his face. 
 His feet had been wounded ; there were torn 
 rags round them ; she could see that now. 
 So this was the boy whom all the men had 
 •chased, the wild animal whom two villages 
 had feared. Why had he come in here, poor 
 lad? He was tired with the storm; he had 
 come in to sleep. She went softly up to him, 
 and laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping to 
 rouse him so. But he was in a heavy sleep, 
 and even then he did not move. And then, as 
 she bent over him, she saw something else — 
 on the table before him lay her mother's purse. 
 She started and cried out with sudden surprise 
 and joy. And, as she did so, all at once his 
 eyelids stirred, and as her hand dropped from 
 his shoulder he moved in the chair at last. 
 
 It was strange to see him rouse himself 
 slowly from that heavy sleep, to see the first 
 faint movements that came as consciousness
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 217 
 
 began. For he was still very tired ; it was 
 hard for him to move. He shivered a little, 
 and then looked slow^ly round; his eyelids 
 drooped over his dark eyes as if he could 
 not wake. And then he caught sight of her, 
 and started, and tried hard to sit ; up and then 
 made another effort to rise upon his feet. 
 She came up to him, and laid her hand softly 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 '' Your feet are hurt," she said to him. 
 '' Sit down." 
 
 He could not disobey her, but two sobs 
 caught his breath ; he seemed utterly ill and 
 overcome with fatigue and pain. She stood 
 without touching him, bending over him ; he 
 lay back with closed eyes as if he must faint 
 away. And then his eyes opened slowly and 
 looked at her again, and as if by instinct a 
 smile rose in them. They looked at each 
 other until a minute passed. 
 
 '' You have come here," said Elizabeth, not 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 He answered in a murmur as faint as that 
 of a dying child — 
 
 ''Yes; must I go?" 
 
 She did not speak, but only looked at him. 
 And then she bent over him and touched him 
 with her hand.
 
 218 TRACKED. 
 
 *' You are Jem Haldan's boy ? " 
 
 His face contracted a little as if it shrank. 
 But still he looked at her. 
 
 '' I'm Geoff Haldan/' he answered, in a 
 weary tone. 
 
 Her eyes would not let him go as she 
 spoke to him again. 
 
 '' You are the boy that hurt the horse to- 
 day. They call you a wolf in Hanorth and 
 Crasten too ? " 
 
 He made no answer by word or look to that. 
 
 '' Why are you here ? " 
 
 " Tired, so tired," said Geoff, and then he 
 sobbed. 
 
 His state of fatigue, indeed, was terrible to 
 see ; his young face was haggard and drawn 
 with it, and he could scarcely move. Eliza- 
 beth had quivered when she first heard him 
 cry ; she went hastily to him and laid her 
 hands on his head — it is a woman's instinct in 
 such moments to give some tenderness of 
 touch. He dragged his head from her hands 
 as if they hurt him, sobbing violently. She 
 waited until he was quiet before she spoke. 
 
 '' If I let you rest here awhile you will not 
 harm me — you will not steal from me ? " 
 But he only answered by the choking, tear- 
 less gasps ; he could not speak.
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 219 
 
 '' Lie still a bit, then," she said, as if he had 
 spoken, *' and I will do what I can for you.'' 
 
 Without hesitating now she w^ent to her 
 door and bolted it, as she did usually for the 
 night. And then she attended to the fire, 
 which had been laid, and lit it, and filled the 
 kettle with water, and put it on. He could 
 not move, but his eyes were w^atching her 
 silently all the time. She came up then to 
 him, and took off his wet, ragged jacket, and 
 put it by the fire ; and then w^armed a shawl, 
 and put it round him, and took an old, soft 
 cloth and rubbed his wet hair till it was dry. 
 Then she fetched a pillow and put it behind 
 his head, for that was so heavy and faint that 
 he could not move it himself ; and heated 
 some wine, for she had a very little that 
 someone had given to her ; and gave it to 
 him in teaspoonfuls till it was done. And, 
 after that, she prepared some warm water ; 
 and, kneeling down by him, she bathed his 
 wounded feet and tied them up in some old 
 rags of her own. If any of her neighbours 
 had been able to enter they would have been 
 much surprised, but then Elizabeth rarely did 
 anything from their point of view. Geoff lay 
 entirely passive, and let her do what she 
 pleased.
 
 220 TRACKED. 
 
 " Do you feel any better ? " she asked 
 anxiously at last, after she had moved him 
 and his pillow into the armchair near the fire, 
 and had supported his injured feet upon a 
 stool. He gave her a little smile with his 
 eyes, but would not speak. 
 
 '' Do you know me at all ? Have you seen 
 me before?" She was anxious to get some 
 sort of speech from him. 
 
 '^ No, miss," said Geoff, with an effort, 
 '' but I've heard of ye." 
 
 '' I gave you some flowers long ago ; you 
 were a pretty child." The last words came 
 with the memory of the lovely baby-face ; 
 they brought a slight smile into the dark 
 eyes of the boy. 
 
 '' I'm not pretty now," he murmured, as if 
 he were amused. 
 
 Elizabeth answered gravely, as she looked 
 at his burning eyes — 
 
 '' Not pretty, no ; " and with more anxiety 
 then, '' you are tired and ill ; have you some 
 fever, too ? " 
 
 '* No, miss," Geoff answered feebly. '' I'm 
 only very tired. I've the devil's fire in my 
 eyes ; they allays tell me that." 
 
 '' Oh, hush, hush ; that is terrible. You 
 must not speak like that."
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 221 
 
 *' I'm to feel it some day," he went on, 
 with some mischievous dehght ; but he was so 
 feeble still that the few words took all his 
 breath. Elizabeth stood thinking — what 
 could she do with him ? He was wan and 
 pale, and was scarcely recovered yet ; the 
 rain beat on the window, she could not turn 
 him out. And yet there was suspicion and 
 dread of the strange vagrant in her heart, and 
 she dared not leave him' alone within the 
 room. She drew a chair to the fire, prepared 
 to sit down near him ; he lay against the pillow, 
 faint and weary, without the power to move. 
 
 '' I wish I could sleep here for ever — ever," 
 he murmured to himself. The words just 
 reached her ears, and they touched her heart. 
 With an instinctive movement she bent over 
 him, as if to see whether his curling hair w^as 
 dry, and laid her hands again softly on his 
 head. He moved and quivered, and then 
 tears streamed down his face — Elizabeth 
 would take no notice ; she sat down by the 
 fire, and bent above her work. When she 
 had given him time enough to quiet himself 
 she looked at him again. There was a very 
 grave, intent expression of melancholy on her 
 face ; she had been thinking, perhaps pray- 
 ing, whilst her head was bent.
 
 222 TRACKED. 
 
 *' Geoff — may I call you so ? May I speak 
 to you? " she said. There was the sound of 
 a very great effort in her voice. But Geoff 
 answered only by the peculiar listening 
 smile that could make his dark eyes bright. 
 '' You have come to me, to my house. I 
 may not see you again. It wouldn't be right 
 in me not to speak to you." Her words 
 sounded like pleading, there was silence in 
 the room. Fixing her eyes on him, she 
 spoke again. '' They call you a bad boy — 
 you have been a bad boy," she said. His 
 eyelids drooped, but he did not speak a 
 word. '' You have never tried, you have 
 never cared to do right." Her voice was 
 lower still. 
 
 '' I've been no worse than others," said 
 Geoff, in a sullen tone. 
 
 '' Do you know where the road on which 
 you are will lead ? " There was silence again, 
 but he kept his eyes on hers. 
 
 '' If you will hear me I must tell you, I 
 must, for this one only time. I have to tell 
 you that God has given you many gifts for 
 Him — young strength, and quickness, and 
 beauty — and you throw these things away. 
 You were speaking to me of the devil's fire 
 just now — it doesn't burn in your eyes, poor
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 223 
 
 boy ; It burns your heart." Her voice trem- 
 bled and stopped, and she took up her work 
 again. 
 
 " I've not had a chance — not a chance — 
 I've not," cried Geoff. '' I've never been 
 taught like the others i' the world. If I do 
 try to be good they wonna let me now ; they 
 hunt me and chase me as soon's they see my 
 face. I'll kill some of 'em some day, I will, 
 for that. I've not been so very bad — not yet 
 I've not. I knocked Jim Gibson o' the head ; 
 that's the worst I've done. They teach me 
 worse, an' I'll soon do worse nor that." 
 
 " You will do worse," she said, low, as she 
 looked at him. 
 
 The murmur seemed like a prophecy, with 
 the glance of her pale eyes. Geoff shrank a 
 little, as he had done before that niorht. 
 
 '' It isn't my fault ; I'll not answer for't," 
 he said. '' It's the fault o' them people as 
 brought me i' the world an' took no pains to 
 help me out when I were there. I've the sins 
 o' my father o' my head an' not my own." 
 
 " The sins of the fathers," repeated Eliza- 
 beth, in a low, dreaming voice. And then she 
 rose and took down a great book from a shelf, 
 and opened it on her knee. '^ Geoff, you're 
 not wrong there j I do not think you wrong.
 
 224 TRACKED, 
 
 Will you allow me to read a few words to 
 you?" 
 
 Her low voice had a curious thrill as she 
 began — 
 
 '"'' '' For I the Loj^d thy God am a jealous 
 God J and visit the sins of the fathers tip on 
 the children unto the third and fourth 
 generation of them that hate Me''' — she 
 paused a little there — " ' And show mercy 
 unto thousands of them that love Me and keep 
 My commandments/ " 
 
 She closed the book and looked up again 
 at him. 
 
 " You have never tried to earn that mercy, 
 Geoff. Poor lad," said Elizabeth, as she put 
 the book away, '^ you have the sins of your 
 fathers upon your head — and then your own." 
 
 She sat down and took up her work again, 
 and there was a long silence. 
 
 *' Where will you go when you leave me ? 
 What will you do?" 
 
 '' I don' know," said Geoif, in a rather less 
 weary tone, *' I thought I should die when I 
 got here ; but I'm not so tired now. I think 
 I shall go to the man as give your purse to 
 me. Oh, and I meant to tell ye," with a fresh 
 life in his eyes, ^' for that was the reason I 
 came to ye this night. It's now some months
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 225 
 
 since Ben Wilde give me a purse ; he said it 
 had been dropped by the station, and he didn't 
 know whose it was ; he said there was nothing 
 in it, an' it didn't matter much. There was 
 nothing in it when he give it to me ; but there 
 was yer name a-worked i' silk inside. I didn't 
 know, not for a long time, whose it was. He 
 was sellin' oranges i' the station when ye 
 passed him by." 
 
 ''I remember; there was a man there," 
 Elizabeth slowly said. 
 
 " An' Jim Gibson — he said I stole it," 
 muttered Geoff, with a darkened brow. " I'd 
 like him to know as I didn't ; he's been good 
 enough to me. An' little Willy — have ye 
 ever seen little Will ? " 
 
 " I do not remember him. I knew his 
 brother once." 
 
 " He's just like a kitten, Willy," went on 
 Geoff, without heeding her. '' He's such a 
 little chap to climb about ye ; an' he's that 
 courage ye can take him anywhere. I'd like 
 to see little Willy, if it was only once again. 
 But I must try an' find out Ben after what 
 Jim said to-night." 
 
 '' Ben Wilde — who took my purse ? Is he a 
 good friend for you ? " 
 
 ''It's like he's not," said Geoff; ''but 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 TRACKED. 
 
 there's summat he can tell. He's the worst 
 scamp, they say, in all the town." 
 
 '' Then — Geoff — Geoff- — have nothing to do 
 with him." 
 
 ^' I can't help it/' said Geoff, in a sullen 
 tone again. '' There's a thing he can tell me, 
 an' as no one else can tell, an' unless I'm a 
 deal wi' him he tells me nort." 
 
 '' Unless you are with him. Does he care 
 for you, then ? " 
 
 '' It's like he hates me," said Geoff ; '' but 
 I don't care for that. I'll get the thing that I 
 want to know from him." 
 
 '' And he's a bad man, and you are but a 
 boy. Do you never feel a wish, Geoff, to be 
 good, to do what is right ? " 
 
 Geoff's dark eyelashes drooped, and he was 
 silent ; but there was a trembling movement 
 in his lips. 
 
 " Do you think of that — do you ever mean 
 to think?" 
 
 '^ I don' know," muttered the boy, whilst 
 his lips trembled more, and slowly became 
 more pale. 
 
 Elizabeth was afraid of agitating him too 
 much. 
 
 " You are tired to-night," she said ; ^' I will 
 talk no more to you. I will trust you to do
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 227 
 
 no mischief ; you shall stay here all the night ; 
 and to-morrow, if you will, you shall have 
 breakfast with me, and then you shall go. 
 And now you must try and sleep, that you may 
 be well and strong again." 
 
 She rose as she spoke and put her work 
 away. He lay and looked at her all the time 
 she moved, but he was too tired still to at- 
 tempt himself to stir. Only, when at last she 
 passed by him, after having set the room in 
 order, and turned the lamp low, and made up 
 the fire, he raised his head to look with 
 pleading eyes at her. Elizabeth remembered 
 afterwards the white face, with the look of an 
 inward struggle in it, and the dark, entreating 
 eyes. 
 
 " My head aches very much — so much/* 
 he said, and she laid her hands on his fore- 
 head as if she were obeying a request. Per- 
 haps the caress soothed him ; he lay very still. 
 
 When she removed her hands she saw his 
 eyes w^ere full of tears. 
 
 " I will try — I ought to be better," he mur- 
 mured, very low, and then covered his face 
 entirely with his hands. 
 
 She thought it best to pass on and to leave 
 him to himself. Upstairs, in her room, she 
 desired to sit and think ; but she was too
 
 228 TRACKED. 
 
 utterly exhausted, she lay down on her bed 
 and slept. 
 
 That deep, intense sleep broke into painful 
 dreams at last. It seemed to her that she 
 was compelled to go on following, and follow- 
 ing some wild animal, some shadow, which 
 kept escaping from her grasp ; that she was 
 pursuing it into a valley full of shadows where 
 every footmark became a trace of blood. And 
 then the conflict became more visible and 
 more tangible, and she was clinging with her 
 arms to the boy she had seen that night, 
 straining to hold him back from something, 
 she knew not what, some invisible horror that 
 made her blood feel cold, whilst he tried to 
 break from her into the shadows and stains 
 again. It seemed as if she were straining 
 every effort to speak to him, to hold him 
 back, and yet no sound would come to her 
 lips, though she struggled hard to speak ; 
 and, as the agony became too great to be 
 endured, her arms seemed to loose their 
 clasp, and she awoke. She woke, hot and 
 trembling, with her forehead wet, although 
 the room w^as cold ; and, instantly rising, she 
 .went hastily downstairs in the dim light of 
 the dawn. It seemed to her that it would be 
 a relief to see the vagrant boy again.
 
 NIGHT IN THE COTTAGE. 229 
 
 Had there been, indeed, invisible wrestling 
 in the room that she had left ? It was very 
 quiet ; the door was open, and the morning air 
 came in, the morning light shone on the wet 
 leaves of the trees. The lamp was out ; the 
 purse lay on the table ; the shawl she had lent 
 had been folded carefully and placed upon the 
 chair ; everything was in order and as she 
 had left it, but the visitor of the night before 
 was gone. 
 
 That afternoon, with a strange sense of 
 trouble in her heart, and the scene and dream 
 of the night throbbing in her brain, Elizabeth 
 set out to walk towards the Fens. There 
 was a heavy presentiment on her, though she 
 could not tell what she feared ; she must 
 make one effort to save Jem Haldan's lad.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM, 
 
 That was, indeed, an afternoon to be long 
 remembered afterwards, and for other reasons 
 also besides that which had drawn her from 
 her home. 
 
 For it was, first of all, a lovely day for a 
 walk. The April sunlight was bright now 
 that the storms had passed ; the Fens lay 
 blue in the distance, the nearer fields had 
 some warm spring colour, and there were 
 white clouds in the bright blue sky above* 
 When one has been accustomed to bend over 
 '' mourning orders," to take few holidays, 
 and to live alone, there can be something 
 truly refreshing in the splendour of the 
 earth ; and Elizabeth had been so busy all
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 231 
 
 the morning, had set her rooms in order, and 
 had patiently stitched for hours ; it was very 
 unusual for her to feel so free as this. Her 
 eyes were heavy from her late hours last 
 night, her bones still aching from the cold 
 and wetting then, but she was giving herself 
 a holiday for once ; and, though her errand 
 of mercy lay anxiously at her heart, it was 
 impossible not to have some disposition to be 
 glad. And yet she felt some inward trembling 
 — she was going to Jim Gibson's home. 
 
 It was, perhaps, some thought of this that 
 had guided her, half ashamed, to turn back 
 again to the glass before she left the house ; 
 for there was a glass on the wall that her 
 customers used sometimes, though it was 
 not often that she looked in it herself. It 
 was a thin, worn face that gave her glance 
 back to her, with the look of mocking com- 
 panionship in the pale eyes with which a 
 lonely woman greets her own image now and 
 then • she made a Httle, sorrowful grimace at 
 it, and then she smiled. After all she had her 
 work to care for, and was not that enough ? 
 She turned the glass with its face to the wall 
 and left the house. 
 
 Wide, blue Fens, green, warm earth, the 
 sense all around of the bursting growth of
 
 232 TRACKED. 
 
 Spring — there is an uplifting feeling in such 
 things as these. Elizabeth stood on an 
 eminence, and looked at the country stretch- 
 ing on all sides, whilst the air breathed freely 
 upon her tired eyes, and then thought with 
 renewed pity of the wanderer of last night, 
 who had begun to slip from out of her mind 
 again. He was so young, poor lad, and yet 
 so wild and lost ; she must venture to go to 
 Jim Gibson's home for him. 
 
 With determined footsteps, and yet with a 
 beating heart, she turned into the lane towards 
 the Fens. There were some birds singing in 
 the trees, and she stayed to hear them sing. . . . 
 Oh, w^ould the Gibsons think it strange of her 
 to come ? Would he think it strange, think 
 her crazed as others did, perhaps ? Poor Jim ! 
 his face was scarred ; it was so long since 
 she had seen him. . . . She went on for a few 
 steps and then stood still again, her face 
 burning as if on fire with memory now. She 
 had never seen him since that one night, long 
 ago. Had he thought her bold then, forward ? 
 Had he laughed at her folly since ? What 
 would he say to her now for seeking him 
 again ? She had never thought to see him 
 after that night had passed ; it was the 
 knowledge of her departure that had given
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 233 
 
 her courage then. Oh, was she doing right 
 to seek him now ? . . . One instant she waited, 
 and then w^ent on again. In her dream of 
 the night before she had struggled to save 
 the boy; and Jim had been once his friend; 
 she must do her best with him. 
 
 Oh, beautiful lanes, and soft, warm air of 
 spring ! — in spite of aching fatigue she could 
 not but feel revived. The great ditches, un- 
 guarded by hedges, were full of w^ater now ; 
 the sun shone in them till they seemed like 
 paths of light. And then on one side of her 
 was an enormous hedge, with points of buds 
 that were breaking into life, and the whole 
 wide country appeared almost to glitter with 
 the sunlight. Only the lanes were long and 
 were heavy to her tread, and the hours of 
 the daylight slowly wore away. 
 
 The light was beginning to sink in the 
 west when she stood by the wall that bounded 
 the yard at last. Before her rose the chimneys 
 and the back part of the house ; the evening 
 glow was already on the stacks, the yard wall 
 with its heavy stones was by her side, and 
 there on the top of it was a little boy. 
 
 EUzabeth remembered well afterwards the
 
 234 TRACKED. 
 
 appearance of the child. He seemed to be 
 ten or eleven, and was a slight, childish 
 thing ; his fair hair was distinct against the 
 brightness of the sky. He sat with his back 
 to her and his arms upon his knees ; he 
 appeared to be looking at the bright sky 
 beyond. As she advanced towards him he 
 began to talk ; the pretty, childish babble 
 came pleasantly down to her ; and, surprised 
 into interest, she stood still to listen. After- 
 wards, when she remembered that evening, 
 she remembered the story too. 
 
 '' I will tell you a fairy tale," said Will, ^'if 
 you are good." He was addressing himself, 
 and supposed himself alone. '' It is a very 
 nice story, and you must learn your lessons 
 well. There was once a boy — a nice boy — " 
 and here he stopped. 
 
 '' He was a very good boy ; he always learnt 
 his lessons ; he used to go to school wi' me. 
 (This is a story, so I needn't tell the trooth.) 
 An' he never got stood up on the form, he 
 was too good for that. An' every night, 
 arter he come home wi' me, a little yellow 
 cloud used to come down for him : an' he 
 would go sailin', an' sailin' away into the sky ; 
 an' the sky it was always bright, like as it is 
 now.
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 235 
 
 ^' An' then, one evening, he told me all he 
 saw, for I said it was bad of him to go like 
 that, an' he says, ' Will, you don't know, I've 
 such fine times up there. There aren't no 
 lessons, an' no one has the stick ; an' the 
 mountains they're like gold, an' there are the 
 biggest woods ! An' it 'ud be like fairy- 
 land, but there are no fairies now.' An' I 
 says, ' Is it heaven ? ' for I thort it must be 
 so ; but he says to me, ' Oh, no, it can't be 
 that, 'cause heaven it's the place where the 
 goodest people go, an' boys as goes to school 
 they're not good enough for that.' An' then he 
 takes me with him — I did like that so much. 
 
 '' I had been a good boy that day, the 
 master said, an' then in the even' the cloud it 
 come for me. An' it was so nice up there in 
 the big woods ; an' I looked down an' saw our 
 house such a way below. An' there were 
 very nice boys up there who played wi' me. 
 An' they let all the people i' Rose Cottage 
 come up too ; and there were nuts, an' almonds, 
 an' cakes for all who were there, an' I did like 
 the games an' the cakes with sugar sweets. 
 An' father did love vie as he used to dof 
 
 His voice trembled and stopped ; it became 
 evident the fairy tale was done. Elizabeth 
 came up beneath him by the wall.
 
 236 TRACKED. 
 
 ^' Are you little Will?" she said, as she 
 looked up at him. But the boy was 
 frightened, for he had thought himself alone. 
 With an exclamation he slipped off the wall 
 at once, and Elizabeth was left standing in 
 the road. With a little sigh she went on to 
 the house. 
 
 The evening light was upon Rose Cottage 
 and the stiff beds in front ; the garden-gate 
 stood open, and she went in at that. A 
 girl's voice was singing inside the house. 
 And then the front-door opened, and a young 
 man stood there, a man who was broad and 
 strongr, with a ^reat scar on his face. 
 
 *' Will told me — " he began, and then he 
 stopped. He looked at her with half-recog- 
 nizing eyes ; they stood facing each other by 
 the door. 
 
 '^ I am Elizabeth Harte. Do you know 
 me, Jim ? " she asked. 
 
 She had no need of an answer, for his face 
 grew red at once. 
 
 '^ Surely, and I'm main glad to see you 
 again," he said, after that pause, as he put 
 out his hand to her. '' Come into the house 
 now, Lizzie, and rest a bit. The mother's 
 there, and you can have tea with us."
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 237 
 
 It seemed like a dream to Elizabeth in her 
 nervous state, the great farm kitchen with its 
 roarinor fire, and the beam across the ceihngr 
 from which the flitches hung. And Mrs. Gib- 
 son was there, in her cap with purple ribbons, 
 engaged in preparing tea ; and black-haired 
 Liz was knitting in the great rocking-chair, 
 whilst Will, in a dark corner, devoured a 
 picture-book. There seemed something 
 bright in this look of family life. 
 
 And then the father came in from his ride, 
 and Liz went at once to take off his boots for 
 him. He appeared tired and surly, and 
 growled that his horse was lame ; but on 
 being told of the visitor he came and held 
 out his hand : and then he turned to his 
 wife and discussed some things with her. 
 Elizabeth sat and w^atched from her corner by 
 the fire. 
 
 Jim had put her into one of the wooden 
 arm-chairs on the hearth after his mother had 
 received her and asked her to tea. He stood 
 close by, as if to look after her, but a little 
 behind her, so that she could not speak to him. 
 Liz had returned to her knitting, and seemed to 
 be lost in thought ; and Will's fair head was 
 bent over his picture-book. Elizabeth was 
 tired, and not sorry for a rest ; she sat and
 
 238 TRACKED. 
 
 looked at the firelight on the walls. It was 
 so pleasant to see this family life. 
 
 ''Will," roared the farmer, ''do you hear 
 your mother speak ? " 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Gibson had not raised her 
 voice, so the little boy might have found an 
 excuse. He got up with a start, and dropped 
 his picture-book. Elizabeth was surprised to 
 see how pale he was. 
 
 "You've forgot the milk, Willy," his 
 mother gently said. 
 
 "Go, get it at once," roared the farmer; 
 " we'll have no tricks fro' ye." 
 
 The blue milk-jug was high upon a shelf, 
 and the little boy climbed upon a chair to 
 reach it down. He seemed very nervous, and 
 trembled in arms and legs ; the seat of the 
 wooden chair was slippery, and his feet 
 began to slide. Elizabeth rose at once, but 
 her assistance came too late ; the blue milk- 
 jug fell with a crash upon the ground. 
 
 " Oh ! the awk'erd, tiresome boy," cried 
 Mrs. Gibson ; " I can't think what's come at 
 him now, there's no good left in him." 
 
 The milk was flowing in a white stream on 
 the ground, and Liz wxnt down upon her 
 knees to mop it up. 
 
 " It's his conceit, an' his readin', an' his
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 239 
 
 disobed'ent ways " — Mr. Gibson, on his part, 
 did not seem at a loss. '' He's been brought 
 up too kind ; he ought to have had the stick. 
 Ye'll have no supper to-night, Will ; perhaps 
 ye'll attend to that ? " 
 
 '' Yes, father," murmured the little boy, in 
 trembling tones. He stood with his fair head 
 drooping, and tears upon his cheeks. 
 
 ''An' there ye go, cryin' like a baby," 
 called out his father then. " Be off wi' ye, 
 for I canna bear the sight. Cryin' for supper, 
 to think o' the greed o' that ! " 
 
 Will slipped off willingly, and quiet was re- 
 stored. Liz went out of the room ; the farmer 
 and his wife continued their discussion ; and 
 Elizabeth remained in state in the arm-chair 
 by the fire. But she was no longer occupied 
 with the charms of family life; there was a 
 rising as if against injustice in her heart. 
 
 '' The child was not crying for his supper, 
 but for the angry words ; and those are hard 
 enough for all of us to bear." 
 
 ''Ye think that, Lizzie?" asked a voice 
 behind her chair. 
 
 EHzabeth had been scarcely conscious that 
 she spoke aloud, and she had forgotten that 
 Jim was near to her. She blushed deep red, 
 and for a moment could not speak.
 
 240 TRACKED. 
 
 '* Do you not think so, Jim?" she softly 
 asked. 
 
 '^ Me ? Not a bit on it," the young farmer 
 said. '' Men must 'a skins hke leather if they 
 mean to fight in life. Will mun go out i' the 
 world and take the knocks he gets." 
 
 '' You say so because you are strong, and 
 strong people bear the pain. But your little 
 brother is weak, and he has not strength for 
 that." 
 
 " Then let him go learn the strength," 
 answered Jim, with contracted brows. '' We 
 don' want a bit o' sugar-candy for the first 
 shower to melt. Will '11 get no pity as soon 
 as he is old, let him do wi'out it now that he 
 is young." 
 
 '' But that is hard — it is hard," the young 
 dressmaker began ; but she could say no 
 more, for Liz called them to tea. As she 
 rose from her seat it came into her mind that 
 this was the first real talk she had ever had 
 with Jim. 
 
 The farmhouse tea was a warm and plea- 
 sant scene. The light of the flames on the 
 big kitchen made a cheerful glow ; the great 
 loaves and dishes of bacon and eggs had a 
 look of plenty ; and there was a glass jug of 
 thick cream since a visitor was there. And
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 241 
 
 Liz looked so handsome sitting by the table, 
 with some yellow hairpins In her masses of 
 black hair ; and the farmer was cheerful, and 
 Mrs. Gibson quiet ; and poor Will was wise 
 enough to keep away. Perhaps they were 
 none of them disposed to pay much attention 
 to their visitor, but they included her In their 
 conversation on the past. And for Elizabeth, 
 If she was shaken in her views of family life, 
 there was still no question that voices can 
 have a pleasant sound. She would go home 
 and think of all this — in her lonely home. 
 
 "And so ye'd be very pitiful always, 
 Lizzie ? " said Jim. 
 
 She was alone with the young man in the 
 great, warm kitchen now, and he sat in a 
 wooden chair near her on the hearth ; for 
 she had been advised not to start until the 
 moon had '' riz," and, though the others dis- 
 persed to their duties after tea, Jim had 
 lingered near, and had then sat down by her. 
 He had begged his mother to take the lamp 
 away, and there was only the red glow of the 
 firelight on the walls. 
 
 Elizabeth looked down, for she felt that he 
 looked at her. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 TRACKED. 
 
 '^ I don't know," she said. ^' I am sorry 
 for folk sometimes." 
 
 His voice was lower when he spoke to her 
 again. 
 
 '* An' are ye ever sorry, Lizzie, for your- 
 self ? " 
 
 Elizabeth's face had a glow like firelight 
 now. 
 
 "' I don't know ; why do you ask ? " she 
 shortly said. 
 
 '* Ye look so thin, Lizzie. Will ye not tell 
 me more ?" 
 
 "There is nothing to tell," she answered, 
 after a pause. '' I have a quiet life now — you 
 know I always had. I have had my troubles. 
 I — keep them to myself." 
 
 ''Ah 1" Jim said, quietly ; and as quietly he 
 smiled. 
 
 Her answer had been repelling, yet it 
 seemed to please him too. He drew his 
 chair closer, and anxiously spoke again. 
 
 "An' there isn't nothing, Lizzie, as I can 
 do for ye ? " 
 
 The honesty of his tone was unmistakable ; 
 no doubt he recognized that he had a debt 
 to pay. She had not thought he would 
 remember that so long, and felt her colour 
 deepen, for she was surprised and touched.
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 243 
 
 But a new idea made her speak more quickly 
 now. 
 
 ** Oh, yes, there is, Jim, there is," she said, 
 quickly, Hke a child. " There is someone I 
 do want you to help for me." 
 
 *' An' who is that ? " he asked, looking 
 fixedly at her. 
 
 *' You know him," she said, with difficulty ; 
 ^'Jem Haldan's lad." 
 
 '' What, Geoff? " he asked, drawing his 
 breath quickly in. ^' Oh, yes, I know him, of 
 course ; I know him well." He waited an 
 instant. '^ / have reason to know him now/' 
 
 " And it is for that reason I have come to 
 you," cried poor Elizabeth, hastening to speak 
 again before her courage failed. " Oh, Jim, 
 he is lost and wandering ; they won't have 
 him in his home ; they drive him from the 
 villages, and leave him no place to rest ; and 
 he came to me last night, so tired and woun- 
 ded, like a lost animal that has been hunted 
 down. I couldn't but pity him." And then 
 she stopped. 
 
 "There's some animals," said Jim, ''folk 
 find it best to kill." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at him, and said no more. 
 
 '' Ye think me hard, Lizzie. Ye don't 
 know Geoff like me."
 
 244 TRACKED. 
 
 '^ But If you had seen him," said Ehzabeth, 
 '' all wet and dripping, with more misery in 
 his face than a dead face can have ; if he 
 had come to your home as he did last night 
 to mine — " 
 
 " An' if he had," said Jim, '' I might not 'a 
 felt like ye. But I'm not surprised as ye 
 felt so, all the same : the women all feel so 
 an' talk like that o' Geoff." He waited a 
 moment with a bitter smile. '' He's not 
 like me ; he's a handsome chap, he is. . . . 
 An' if that seems hard to ye," he went 
 on, after a silence, " I'll open my heart so as 
 to tell ye one thing more. When I see the 
 look in the eyes of our Liz sometimes, an' 
 know as she's fool enough to think o' that 
 fellow still, I feel inclined to ask God to send 
 him one like hisself as'll do hurt to his face 
 as he did once to m.ine. I'm afraid of her 
 an' him — I can say no more 'an that. But 
 I won't stop ye speaking, Lizzie, if ye want to 
 speak to me. Ye shall tell me what happened 
 last night ; it'll happen do good to me." 
 
 So Elizabeth told him as they sat together 
 in the firelight, with its red glow upon their 
 faces as they talked. The kitchen remained 
 etnpty and no one interrupted them ; in the 
 great warm room was a silence that made it
 
 ELIZABETH AT THE FARM. 245 
 
 less hard to speak. She told him of the 
 scene of last night, and of Mr. Audley's 
 trouble, of her lonely walk home, and of the 
 visitor she found. And she added a few- 
 words to describe his desolate condition, 
 until at the remembrance of that her eyes 
 grew dim. And then, in one final effort to 
 soften her companion, she told him the words 
 that had been said of himself and of the 
 purse. There was a long silence in the 
 kitchen after she had done ; Jim sat with 
 his scarred face on his hand looking straight 
 into the fire ; his face was thoughtful, but he 
 W'Ould not speak to her. The sound of the 
 opening door made him raise himself at last. 
 
 ''I thank ye, Lizzie," he said; '' I'll think 
 o' that." 
 
 And Elizabeth understood that he would 
 say no more. She rose to meet Mrs. Gibson, 
 and did not look again at him. For a while 
 she stood talking with Mrs. Gibson and 
 with Liz, and then got on her bonnet and 
 prepared to go ; and they stood at the door 
 to watch her as she left the farm. 
 
 The cold, streaming moonlight was on her 
 homeward walk, and there were dark shadows 
 on the wide expanse of Fens. In the kitchen 
 she had left Jim sat for a long while by the fire,
 
 246 TRACKED, 
 
 with its red glow upon his troubled face. And 
 Mrs. Gibson gave Will a private tea ; and up- 
 stairs in one of the bedrooms, face downward 
 on the bed, poor Liz lay indulging in passionate 
 dreams of Geoff. Where had the wanderer 
 of the night before found shelter now ? 
 
 Alas ! in no sheltered home was that 
 needful refuge found. For bright lights were 
 burning that night in the club-room of the 
 *' Ginshop," and with laughter and boisterous 
 singing its guests sat there and drank. And 
 there, in the midst of that fuddled, drunken 
 crowd, himself more than half-intoxicated, 
 with burning eyes and face, sat Geoff, with 
 the readiest tongue and the quickest wit of 
 all, and yet with the sense of shame eating 
 always at his heart; for he was '^ the son of 
 a gentleman," he had not forgotten that. 
 Alas ! that the revelation had come too late 
 to save, that with the remembrance of it 
 burning in his heart, with the memory, too, 
 of the kind hands that had so lately touched 
 his face, he could yet be attempting here to 
 drink care and shame away. The touch of 
 those kind hands had scarcely delayed his 
 course ; the cold and the lonely night had 
 driven him here to rest, and the feet of the 
 wolf were in deeper darkness now.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IN THE DRAWING-ROOM AT THE HALL. 
 
 And meanwhile the great drawing-room at 
 the Hall was bright with lights, and there at 
 the piano Miss Selina sat and played. Her 
 fingers touched daintily the great instrument, 
 which had only arrived that day ; the wax 
 candles shone on her fair hair and face ; her 
 muslin dress and bunch of red ribbons had a 
 pretty, modern look amidst the antique 
 furniture of the dark, old-fashioned room. 
 And, whilst the soft music softly came and 
 went. Captain Holt, close by her side, would 
 whisper gentle words ; and Mr. Audley, from 
 his place by the fire, would praise her too. 
 There was a pathos in her music that it was 
 not wont to have ; the great dark room or 
 the presence of her lover may have been
 
 248 TRACKED, 
 
 unconscious spells ; she went on playing as 
 if hearing music in a dream. For it was all so 
 pleasant, and Wentworth was good to-night. 
 
 For, oh, Captain Holt had never told her 
 so much before, or confided so freely to her 
 his schemes and plans. As they drove to- 
 gether In the evening to the Hall he had even 
 ventured on whispers about their wedding- 
 day. He was so pleased with this house, 
 which would one day be his own, there were 
 so many improvements he wished to make in 
 it ; and he was so clever always — knew so 
 much. And they might live together here 
 some day — some day. 
 
 Softly the dainty music came and went ; 
 the light of the lamps shone on exquisite ferns 
 and flowers ; and the dark portraits on the 
 walls looked down from their frames. The 
 long disused room had been set In order now; 
 it had once possessed a magnificence of its 
 own, and, though its colours were faded, it 
 had an ancient splendour still. Ah ! how 
 many young brides, triumphant bridegrooms 
 this place had known! What glowing hopes 
 there had been within its walls ! 
 
 Captain Holt, reclining easily in a comfort- 
 able easy-chair, with the pretty form of his 
 betrothed before his eyes, and with the ripple
 
 IN THE DRA WING-ROOM A T THE HALL. 249 
 
 of her music in his ears, felt disposed to 
 stroke his moustache caressingly and feel 
 content. This was really a fine place now, 
 and might be finer if only a little capital and 
 common sense could be brought to bear upon 
 it; he was so slow and behind the times, this 
 poor old Audley was. And yet it had been 
 p^ood-natured in him to ask them both to 
 dine ; but no doubt he found it dull here in 
 this great house alone. 
 
 And, no doubt, in this thought at least 
 Captain Holt was right. Mr. Audley had 
 found one lonely evening quite enough. 
 
 He lay wearily now in an arm-chair on the 
 hearth, putting up one delicate hand to shield 
 his face, without looking often at the others 
 in the room. And yet there was a sense all 
 the time of their presence in his heart, though 
 from that feeling he turned away his mind. 
 The sight of the young lovers conveyed no 
 joy to him ; a better looking, better educated, 
 better dressed, more cultivated, and more 
 refined human being than this man, who was 
 his heir, he could not but be sensible at the 
 same time of all the advantages that youth 
 and strength can give, of the fact that this 
 young captain, on whom he looked down, 
 could hold him in contempt. Therefore, Mr.
 
 250 TRACKED, 
 
 Audley preferred to sit where he could not 
 see Captain Holt, and to let his indolent glance 
 rest rather on flowers and ferns ; he dreaded 
 emotions, and turned from conscious strife ; 
 he had been used to drifting from trouble all 
 his life. Only whilst, almost dreaming, he 
 reclined still in his chair, with the sound of 
 the captain's whispers always in his ears, 
 there rose in his own heart a whisper that he 
 had not the power to quell — it rose like a 
 little murmur — '^ My son, my son ! " 
 
 Oh, if he were to stand up now before 
 these two who claimed possession and tell 
 them that they need not be so secure — he 
 had a son. How overwhelmed and con- 
 founded in the midst of their expectations 
 they would be ! Oh, he would begin to make 
 secret inquiries ; there was no need for haste. 
 The day might come when he could so stand 
 and speak to them — it might, it might. . . . 
 
 Mr. Audley lay back and dreamed with a 
 smile upon his lips ; the light of the wax 
 candles in the drawing-room shone on the 
 ferns and flowers ; far off the lights in the 
 public-houses of the town were burning too.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE COMLNG OF THE SPRING. 
 
 Morning after morning succeeded to night 
 and the spring months slowly passed — the 
 hedges became sweet with violets, the woods 
 white with anemones, little blue speedwells 
 grew all over the fields, and children made 
 themselves happy with buttercups and cow- 
 slip balls. And so peaceful looked the 
 villages of Hanorth and of Crasten, so softly 
 did they harmonise with the undulating 
 country, so gently did the blue smoke rise 
 from their quiet chimneys, that no stranger^ 
 looking at them and the spring beauty of the 
 land, could have believed that any wild 
 animal need be ever hunted there. 
 
 Farther off there was better walking than
 
 252 TRACKED. 
 
 before in the lanes towards the Fens, and 
 Will started willingly in the bright spring 
 mornings for school. For there in the ditches 
 grew the marsh marigolds, with their thick 
 stems and yellow, brilliant blossoms, and he 
 liked to fill his hands with his beloved 
 *' butter-bumps." Then from Rose Cottage 
 itself, whose site was high, the surrounding 
 country looked no longer bleak and bare ; by 
 slow degrees the hedges became powdered 
 with hawthorn blossoms ; and, though the 
 trees were not high, they were very green and 
 fresh. It was a fine spring, and the crops 
 were growing well. And Liz seemed more 
 ^^ content-like," though she was quiet and 
 dreamy still ; and Jim was better and 
 stronger, and had gone out to work again. 
 If only, thought little Will, he could hear 
 some news of Geoff ! 
 
 No, the spring days passed onwards, but 
 there came no news of him ; the warmth of 
 the early summer was on the Crasten lanes, 
 but he was no longer amongst the lads at 
 play, climbing for birds' eggs or leaping over 
 the stream, the boldest and swiftest in move- 
 ment of them all. The little lad lingered 
 often in fields where they used to meet, or 
 beneath the shade of Sir John Horley's trees
 
 THE COMING OF THE SPRING. 2^>a 
 
 at Hanorth, or near the stone-pit after the 
 Sunday School ; he dared no longer attempt 
 to seek his friend, but in the spring brightness 
 it seemed as if he must meet him again. The 
 story of the chase by night had reached Rose 
 Cottage, and in Will's tender heart was a yet 
 more terrified pity ; whilst they spoke of the 
 lamed horse he thought of the marks of blood. 
 But Geoff was so quick and active, he had 
 been able to escape ; and, oh ! surely he 
 would be coming back some day. 
 
 No, there was silence now beneath Sir 
 John Horley's trees, and beneath the trees of 
 Mr. Audley, at Crasten, where Geoff had last 
 been seen ; he made no further attempt to 
 return to the villages again. There were, 
 indeed, stories that he had been seen in the 
 town ; but, though these murmurs reached the 
 people in Rose Cottage now and then, no one 
 in the town or country dared inform Farmer 
 Gibson of the fact. And, meanwhile, in the 
 village boys went to work and school ; and 
 careful mothers mended the clothes of their 
 offspring, which climbing for birds' eggs had 
 a tendency to tear ; and the workmen tramped 
 from the town in the evenings with tired 
 longings for their supper and their beds ; it 
 was not wonderful that the wanderer should
 
 254 TRACKED. 
 
 be forgotten. Only there were still a few old 
 companions who missed him at their play — it 
 was even now but a short while since he had 
 gone. 
 
 In the dark evenings a few lights shone 
 like stars through the thick trees of the Hall. 
 They shone from the windows of its master, 
 for he had not left the place ; he seemed un- 
 willing to leave it, though none knew why he 
 stayed. He kept much to himself, and 
 passed his time alone — his servants talked 
 of him in the village, but they had not much 
 to tell. And men coming back in the even- 
 ing from their work looked at the lights of 
 the Hall through the trees, and told each 
 other that the Squire had not departed yet. 
 
 Far off, across the waste, was another lio^ht 
 which no one cared to see ; only now and 
 then some belated wanderer, finding his 'way 
 with difficulty over the marshy ground, half- 
 scared by the dark windmill, which had a 
 ghostly look at night, would turn his eyes 
 towards the red point which showed where 
 Jem Haldan's cottage stood. He did not 
 care to go nearer, no one dared approach to 
 that. The young men had returned to their 
 father, so it was said ; excepting only one, 
 who had not returned again.
 
 THE COMING OF THE SPRING. 255 
 
 So the spring days brightened into Hfe, 
 and warmth, and beauty ; the sunHght flashed 
 on the streams, flowers bloomed in the 
 marshes and by the hedgerows, and even the 
 roads to the town were sweet with may. It 
 is in the town that we must wait for the 
 wandering footsteps now — the town with tall 
 chimneys, smoky streets, and red and dingy 
 roofs ; the manufacturing town, where men 
 had careworn faces, and women nursed babies 
 in narrow alleys, and dingy sparrows fluttered 
 about the black gardens, and heavy carts 
 moved with jolts in ill-paved streets, and 
 lights shone out in the public-houses in the 
 night, whilst over all the human work, arid 
 sin, and poverty stretched always the vast- 
 ness of the sky. Ah ! but in those who 
 w^ander with vagrant footsteps on the 
 thoroughfares there is not always the power 
 of looking upwards, whilst the downward 
 paths are many and are very quickly found. 
 Let us take one life from the thousands, 
 and look on it whilst we wait.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BEN WILDE IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 
 
 Ben Wilde stood on a Wednesday morning 
 by his stall In the market-place. 
 
 It was a bright May day, and above the 
 deserted market-place the sky was blue, with 
 a few little white clouds that a soft wind 
 drove across It, and a mellow sunlight that 
 made the roofs and houses bright. But Ben 
 was not one of those who pay attention to the 
 sky. 
 
 Nor could it have been said of him that he 
 was much of an ornament to the empty 
 market, as he stood leaning against his dingy 
 stall of gingerbreads and sweets, a solitary 
 figure within the railing of the place. He 
 wore a crushed hat that had been pressed 
 hard down upon his head, and an old greasy
 
 BEN WILDE IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 257 
 
 coat which wanted mending at the sleeves, 
 whilst round his neck had been thrust a 
 frowsy red handkerchief, which hung loosely 
 there, confined by a dissipated knot. The 
 face above was red and weatherbeaten, with 
 small eyes close together, and an unpleasant 
 scar, gained outside a public-house, which 
 had injured its left eyebrow ; in another con- 
 flict he had lost one of his teeth. Ben had a 
 small figure, with very bandy legs, and he was 
 rarely able to keep steadily on those legs even 
 in morning hours ; for, in addition to certain 
 habits unfavourable to regularity of balance, 
 he had a little curious shiver and a continual 
 cold. No amount of stimulants had proved 
 effectual over these ; and if you had stood 
 watching him for the space of only a few 
 minutes at a time you would have observed 
 him get through more sniffs and shivers than 
 might readily be believed. 
 
 Such was Ben Wilde then, a well-known 
 figure there, leaning wearily in his greasy 
 coat against his stall, ready to put out his 
 trembling hands towards the sweets, and 
 looking with beery eyes upon the surrounding 
 town. And yet he did not see one of the 
 houses on which he seemed to look ; his 
 thoughts, such as they were, and heated by 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 TRACKED. 
 
 beer as they were, were far away — like a 
 young, romantic girl, Ben was in the land of 
 dreams. He had drunk more than usual 
 this morning, which might, perhaps, account 
 for that. 
 
 And no doubt, also, the enforced idleness of 
 his condition allowed more time for thought ; 
 for the market-place, as I have said, was 
 empty then. In an hour or two more^ when 
 twelve o'clock came, and the children were 
 loosed from school, a motley crowd would be 
 swarming through the place, climbing on the 
 railing, and surging round the stall. Ben was 
 not fond of the children, though they brought 
 pence to him ; they bawled and were mis- 
 chievous and stole his sweets sometimes, 
 and he was glad when the men who passed 
 in carts cut at them with their whips. But 
 he depended upon them for his profits all the 
 same ; and, leaning against his stall, might 
 be said to wait for them. 
 
 The market-place opened from the High 
 Street, and formed a sort of square, in the 
 midst of which was a great piece of asphalte, 
 railed in, much worn, and with shallow pools 
 in it to-day from last night's rain. Ben 
 stood alone in this, leaning against the railing, 
 near where the High Street was. At the
 
 BEN WILDE IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 259 
 
 other end of the enclosure was the Exchange 
 Arcade, a great building which had offices 
 above and shops on either side of its ground- 
 floor ; an archway admitted those who 
 desired to see or buy. And, as you passed 
 leisurely through, the sound of music was 
 always to be heard, for there was one shop — a 
 collection of miscellaneous articles — which 
 possessed a musical owner and a small 
 American organ with a deep, rich tone ; and 
 by that the artist would sit and play for 
 hours, whilst behind him, and beneath a gas- 
 lamp, propped on a chair, was an old mellow 
 picture of the Madonna and the Child. On 
 this May morning, whilst Ben leant, half- 
 drunk, outside, the music came floating out 
 from the Arcade to him. 
 
 On either side of the square that was 
 closed by the Arcade w^ere shops — shops not 
 so select, it must be understood, as those 
 that were within. These were chiefly in the 
 eating and drinking line, and rather more 
 specially in that of drinking, for the benefit 
 of the workmen who passed by at noon and 
 night. On the right side as you faced the 
 High Street were a public-house and a wine 
 and spirit stores, an eating room, a barber's 
 shop, and a public-house again. On the left
 
 260 TRACKED. 
 
 were a '^ Food and Beds ; " a shop for sewing- 
 machines, chiefly of the Cleopatra order, 
 with an elaborate representation of the asp ; 
 another public-house ; a butcher's shop, 
 another public-house, and, nearest the High 
 Street, a shop devoted to chemical manu- 
 factures, whose windows contained a ledge 
 on which were heavy bottles with great brass 
 tops, and full of a whitish substance, labelled 
 '' Bones." Crossing all these things at right 
 angles was the old-fashioned High Street, 
 which might be said scarcely to possess two 
 corresponding roofs, whose red tiles and 
 dingy slates, unequal in height, colour, and 
 construction, were alike only in their evident 
 marks of age. These things were there, and 
 had been there for many years ; and Ben, 
 leaning against his stall, whilst the ends of 
 his red handkerchief floated loosely in the 
 wind, was a familiar form as well. 
 
 What was he thinking of as he leant idly 
 there, sniffing and shivering, with his shoulder 
 against his stall, his little eyes peering 
 vacantly, and his lips twitched in a smile? 
 It was a curious expression, an evil look, he 
 had : if there had been anyone near him to 
 peer beneath his hat, the crushed hat that 
 had an evil appearance of its own, there
 
 BEN WILDE IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 2C1 
 
 would have been something to arrest attention 
 in his face. And yet, old, shaken, broken- 
 down, drunken bit of humanity that he was, 
 in spite of his twitching lips and peering eyes, 
 it seemed scarcely possible there could be 
 any schemes in him, any visionary hopes 
 such as happier lives can have. He leant 
 against his stall, and sniffed, and shivered, 
 and smiled, and peered out into the distance, 
 and was still. 
 
 The morning wore slowly onwards ; there 
 were not many passers-by. Now and then 
 some old acquaintance would give to Ben a 
 nod or greeting as he passed ; some carrier 
 going down the High Street in his cart ; 
 some man out of work or idle, with a pipe in 
 his mouth, and an unsteady, lounging gait ; 
 some bold-faced girl of the factory order, 
 with a crumpled, faded dress. Ben appeared 
 almost too absorbed to attend to these ; he 
 seemed to be lost in thought — a most un- 
 usual mood for him. And after a time even 
 these few greetings ceased ; a sharp shower 
 came on, and for awhile the streets were 
 clear. Ben had the solitude that he desired 
 at last ; he hung some sacking behind his 
 stall, and sheltered there. 
 
 Some minutes afterwards, when the shower
 
 262 TRACKED. 
 
 was over, and he had pulled down the sacking 
 from the green roof of his stall, and looked 
 around for customers now that his sweets were 
 again exposed to view, he became aware of a 
 solitary individual who was standing close to 
 him. He stood outside the raiHnor of the 
 market, leaning against it and looking down- 
 wards, so that his long black eyelashes quite 
 concealed his eyes, a lad of about seventeen, 
 in ragged clothes, and with a wasted, hungry 
 face. A certain look of unrest in his features 
 and lips might serve to show that he was 
 paying more attention to surrounding objects 
 than might have been supposed from his 
 motionless attitude and downcast eyes ; and 
 though he did not look up at Ben he was 
 turned to him. The seller of sweets stood 
 still ; there came a change in the expression 
 of his face as well. 
 
 For a full two minutes they remained thus, 
 motionless ; and then the boy slowly raised his 
 eyes. It seemed as if he had known all the 
 time that he was being watched, for as he 
 lifted his eyes he kept them fixed on Ben. 
 The older man was quite still, observant, as 
 quiet as the serpent that seeks to fascinate 
 its prey. His steady gaze and his silence 
 appeared to confuse his companion. There
 
 BEN WILDE IN THE MARKET-PLACE. 263 
 
 came a quiver in the lad's frame and then an 
 impatient movement of his hps ; and then, 
 as if he could endure no longer, he broke 
 out into speech. 
 
 '^ Well, why do ye look at me ? Can't ye 
 speak to me ? Have ye forgotten me, it's 
 like?" he cried. 
 
 *''Ee — ah — no — I ain't forgotten 'ee," Ben 
 answered, slowly, and with successive sniffs. 
 ** I seem to a-know 'ee, altho' 'ee've got so 
 thin — Jem Haldan's Geoff ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGRY. 
 
 " Well, an' if ye do know o' me, as ye say 
 ye do, what sort o' word ha' ye got for me 
 now at all ? " cried Geoff. 
 
 They stood looking at each other, the old 
 man and the boy : Ben blinking in front of 
 his stall, with some vain attempts to arrange 
 himself with composed dignity upon his tremb- 
 ling legs; the lad leaning against the railing 
 with the instinctive grace of attitude that did 
 not desert him even now, even now when he 
 was so thin that his rags hung loosely on him, 
 and the bones of his face seemed almost pro- 
 truding through the skin. It was a hungry 
 face, with defiant, hardened eyes — the village 
 hero was strangely altered now.
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGR V. 265 
 
 '' Ah, 'ee are thin, 'ee are thin," murmured 
 Ben to him. 
 
 "An' what if I am, what's that to do wi' 
 ye?" 
 
 " It hasn't aught then, laddie ; ye tell the 
 truth. An' now get out o' the way ; I want 
 to sell my sweets." 
 
 Geoff looked at him, and his dark eyes 
 flashed fire ; but he remained leaning against 
 the railing as before. There w^as a quiver 
 that w^as not to be controlled in his lip when 
 at last he spoke. 
 
 " Ye didna treat me like this on the night 
 I saw ye last." 
 
 '' It's like I didn't, lad ; there 'as cause eno' 
 for that. They liked 'ee I' the GInshop, and 
 let me stay for 'ee. An' I wanted to see an' 
 speak to 'ee mysel', I did. But' ee thought 
 yersel' too gran' a lot for me, ye wouldn't stay 
 wi' me, so I let'ee go. Go then ; am yer living, 
 I'm quite content wi' that. Ye be so clever, 
 ye'U get no good fro' me. Why, 'ee be too 
 gran' a lot to speak to me, 'ee be." 
 
 Geoff remained leaning against the railing, 
 but his proud lips quivered more. The insult- 
 ing tone of his companion seemed to touch 
 him to the quick ; but he was so forlorn and 
 hungry, he had no power left for pride. And
 
 266 TRACKED. 
 
 yet there was a dangerous expression still in 
 his dark eyes. 
 
 *' I gave 'ee some boots," said Ben, " that 
 night 'ee came ; an' I took 'ee to the Ginshop 
 an' introjuced 'ee there ; an' I made 'ee a 
 good offer as e'er a feller made, an' told 'ee 
 I 'ud make a genelman of 'ee an' all, I did. 
 But, no, 'ee wouldn't listen ; 'ee were too 
 gran' for me." 
 
 '' I'd have listened to ye fast enough if ye'd 
 spoken fair," cried Geoff. '' I'll listen to 
 ye now if ye tell me what ye know. But ye 
 won't tell me a word, ye're a deal too sly for 
 that. I mun live wi' ye, and help ye every 
 day, an' bind mysel' i' writing, and I dunno 
 what beside. I won't bind mysel' to ye, I 
 tell ye that. I'll know nothing rather; I'll 
 sooner starve and die." 
 
 There was a short silence, whilst their 
 glances met. 
 
 '^ 'Ee'd better do that then, m' dear," said 
 Ben. 
 
 He spoke with a twitching smile that rose 
 like triumph ; the young man's evident con- 
 dition gave meaning to his words. 
 
 '' If I could trust ye," cried Geoff, with 
 misery in his tone ; ''if I could on'y trust ye 
 to be honest Hke wi' me. It's not so pleasant
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGR V. 267 
 
 for me to live like this — I've gnawed my 
 fingers this mornin' for I couldna bear the 
 pain. But what can I do ? There's none'll 
 gi' me work ; an' I won't go to the workhouse, 
 that 'ud kill me more. I've roamed the 
 country round, an' can get no work to do. 
 If I could only trusten ye ; but I know ye 
 too well of old. Ye mean to do me a hurt if 
 ye get me i' your power ; ye've not forgot 
 what ye got through Jem an' me." 
 
 It was a curious instinct that made Ben 
 hide his face ; he turned away as if to arrange 
 his sweets. The motion served his purpose, 
 it concealed his distorted lips ; and when he 
 turned round again his face looked as before. 
 
 '' An' why should I try to hurt 'ee, m' 
 dear? " said Ben. 
 
 " Look here," cried Geoff, with an oath 
 that need not be transcribed, ''ye needn't 
 think as I'll bear that tone fro' ye. The day 
 '11 come when I'll take yer old throat atween 
 my hands, and throttle out from ye all ye've 
 got to tell. I'll w^arrant when that's the case 
 as ye'll speak fast enough. Ah, ye may well 
 shiver ; that day ye'll shiver more." 
 
 Ben had, indeed, retreated to his stall, as 
 if w^ith some idea of finding protection there. 
 Leaning against its green post, and shivering
 
 268 TRACKED. 
 
 somewhat, he peered out anxiously and 
 mahgnantly at the lad. But Geoff did not 
 attempt to come close to him, he leant against 
 the railing in his old position ; and, moreover, 
 there was a cart going down the High Street, 
 so help was near. 
 
 " Ye'll be ready enough to speak to me 
 that day," cried Geoff. 
 
 '^ ye," cried the old man, putting out 
 
 his trembling hands, ^' I'll be moithered 
 mysel' ere I give help again to 'ee. Go an' 
 starve, an' be hanged, an' take yer face fro' 
 out m' sight — I'll see 'ee crushed under cart- 
 wheels an' not put a hand to help. 'Ee 
 might be a genelman, but 'ee's too low for 
 that ! " 
 
 Geoff leant against the railing, with his 
 eyes fixed and absorbed : Ben remained by 
 his stall, peering anxiously at him. The cart 
 going down the High Street was passing near, 
 and the driver shouted out to the boy to move 
 away. But he was too lost in his own medita- 
 tions to attend ; and the driver, enraged, 
 struck at him with his whip. Geoff felt the 
 cut of the lash on his neck and started up, 
 his face white, and his eyes blazing, and 
 'sprang up at the cart. He was too late, the 
 horse had been startled by the crack of the
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGRY. 269 
 
 whip, and had started off at once ; and, 
 moreover, the reaction from that momentary 
 passion came on him, and he was too weak 
 to bear easily the emotion that it caused. 
 TrembHng, choking, and almost fainting, he 
 leant upon the railing for support. 
 
 '' Ah, 'ee sees what 'ee gets, 'ee sees," 
 shouted Ben, in high delight ; too blind him- 
 self, in spite of long years of evil and 
 cunning, to understand all the danger of 
 such madness as he had seen. Geoff under- 
 stood it better, he had known that torment 
 before ; and since he had struck Jim Gibson 
 he had learnt to dread himself. Moreover, 
 he was too physically weak to bear the pain 
 of wrath ; a wiser instinct than had been 
 governing him warned him to move away. 
 His companion would not let him go without 
 a parting word. 
 
 '' 'Ee'll be comin' to beg o' me some of 
 these days," he cried ; " but 'ee needn't be 
 hoping to get any crusts fro' me." 
 
 Geoff turned round upon him with a white 
 and desperate face ; and Ben, in his terror, 
 shrunk up behind his stall. When he dared 
 to raise his face again the lad was gone. 
 
 Yes, gone ; in the empty market no sign 
 was left of him. Ben peered timidly down
 
 270 TRACKED. 
 
 the High Street; and then at the asphalte, on 
 which the pools were deeper now, and then 
 glanced up at the chimneys, and even down 
 beneath his stall. There was a feeling of 
 perplexity and disappointment in his heart, 
 mingled with a strange terror that he had not 
 felt before. He hired a boy, who was pass- 
 ing, to keep his stall ; and went into the pubHc- 
 house in the High Street, and had a dram. 
 After that he came back, and sat upon his 
 stool, whilst the noontide sun shone and 
 glanced upon the pools. 
 
 '' He'll come back to me, an' I'll ha' my 
 will," the old man said. ''An' at least he's 
 sore pinched an' pined : I'm glad o' that." 
 
 The sun was bright, and many footsteps 
 were passing down the High Street, and 
 through them all he seemed to hear the tread 
 he longed to track. But Geoff had slipped off 
 down a side-street, past the Arcade, down a 
 dingy alley, and down some steps ; and there, 
 on the lowest step, with a bare wall on either 
 hand, he sat crouching, hungry and desolate, 
 whilst tears rolled down his face. And still 
 he saw ever before him the old man's tremb- 
 ling hands, and those trembling hands seemed 
 to draw him back once more. 
 
 Oh, he had passed through such cruel,
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGRY. 271 
 
 bitter days since that early morning when he 
 had escaped from the cottage of the dress- 
 maker — such weary seeking after employ- 
 ment, such lonely, hungry hours, such painful 
 trudging on his still wounded feet, such scorn- 
 ful repulses when he dared to ask for work. 
 He had tried so hard to bear up against it 
 all, to attempt to believe that something 
 good must come at last. And now as he 
 sat with tears rolling down his cheeks he 
 seemed to himself to have no strenorth or 
 
 CD 
 
 spirit left. 
 
 Oh, he was hungry, so hungry, he wanted 
 so much to eat. He would feel so much 
 better if he could only have some food. And 
 yet he had no spirit left to go and seek for 
 that ; he could only sit still and cry like 
 a punished child. And then in the midst of 
 that prostration there was something left to 
 dread, the miaddened feeling that overcame 
 him now and then, like the physical craving 
 that tore his breast sometimes. 
 
 And oh, it w^as needless to struggle, he 
 must put an end to that. He must pawn or 
 sell his jacket and get some food or drink. 
 He would beg, steal, attack someone, do 
 anything to get rid of this torture — he would 
 ^et rid of it ; he would never starve to death.
 
 272 TRACKED. 
 
 Only — only, if he could help it, he would not 
 go back to Ben. 
 
 Worn, hungry, desperate as a famished 
 animal, and almost as untrained, there could 
 even yet then be something that Geoff 
 Haldan dared not do ; could yet be one 
 action before which even now he shrank. 
 He dreaded to place himself in the power of 
 this man who was his enemy, in the grasp 
 of the old hatred that had been helpless for 
 so long ; he was afraid of the older cunning 
 which he had wit enough to feel, the very 
 quickness of his instinct only served to rouse 
 his fear. ^* He may speak me well, but he 
 means to turn on me. I'm not so old as him, 
 an' I donno all his ways." Since his inter- 
 view with Jem on that night, which seemed 
 far away, he had been confirmed in the belief 
 that Ben had some real information to bestow ; 
 but it was also upon his mind that this might 
 prove dearly bought. '' He can't do nothing 
 without me or he'd surely be working for his- 
 self. If I wait for awhile he'll come down 
 a bit to me." Cunning against cunning — that 
 seemed the best course to him, for the younger 
 man had his subtle devices too. 
 
 Oh, how nearly he had placed himself in 
 the power of Ben that night — the night after
 
 THE WOLF IS HUNGRY. 273 
 
 the morning on which he had fled from the 
 cottage of EHzabeth, escaping by desperate 
 efforts from the only one on earth who seemed 
 to be his friend. It had not been better with 
 him in the pubHc-house that evening, with 
 Ben's evil face so close to him, in the midst of 
 drunken men. And yet he had almost chosen 
 — only once more he found himself afraid. 
 Geoff dreaded any constraint of good or evil, 
 as an untamed animal might dread to be in 
 bonds — he had refused entirely to make 
 promises " i' writing;" had quarrelled with 
 Ben in the morning on this subject, and had 
 fied. 
 
 And now as he sat, desolate, on the lowest 
 step, with a bare wall on either hand, alter- 
 nately mad or depressed with pain and craving, 
 with tears standing on his cheeks that he had 
 not concerned himself to dry, there was one 
 remembrance still that came with a sense of 
 soothing, the thought of a gentle voice that 
 had spoken once to him. That was not the 
 voice of Elizabeth ; he seemed to shrink 
 from that ; it was the remembrance of the 
 young lady who had stood by him on the 
 snow. In his almost fainting condition she 
 appeared to be near him now. He could 
 see her, hear her whispers ; oh, she had been 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 TRACKED. 
 
 good to him ! — So good, so pretty — and tears 
 fell down his face. 
 
 ''If I could only find anyone to care for 
 me!" 
 
 He lifted his head suddenly as his ears 
 caught the sound of distant footsteps, and 
 raised himself on the step on which he sat. 
 A boy had entered the alley at the further 
 end, and was coming down towards him, a 
 small boy with a cap on his head and a little 
 switch in his hand. As he came closer Geoff 
 recognized little Will.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE WOLF FINDS A PREY. 
 
 There are some moments that come to our 
 worst times with a soothing, healing influence, 
 that have the power to touch us when we 
 seem beyond the reach of help. And if any- 
 thing could be expected to have such power 
 upon the outcast, it would be this sudden ap- 
 pearance of the child he had loved. 
 
 Geoff sat upright on the step, with his 
 heart beating so fiercely that his breath came 
 and went. With an instinctive movement he 
 put up his hands rapidly and smoothed his' 
 hair ; he drew his ragged jacket together, 
 and fastened such buttons as there were ; 
 and still, as he did these things, he kept his 
 eyes fixed upon the boy. No doubt it was a 
 tender instinct that was stirrino- in his heart :
 
 276 TRACKED. 
 
 and yet, alas, poor child, that was a dangerous 
 meeting too. 
 
 Will had been given a holiday by his 
 father's wish that he might do some shopping 
 that was needed in the town, and he had 
 been driven into the town in a neighbour's 
 cart. He was full of his commissions and 
 his importance, and held his head very high, 
 and now and then he patted his pocket that 
 he might be sure the purse was there. The 
 sight of a vagrant sitting upon the step did 
 not affect him much ; he only put his hand 
 on his pocket to keep his treasure safe. He 
 looked well, and bright, and sunburnt, for he 
 had been much out of doors that spring, and 
 yet a little delicate creature in spite of that. 
 As he came onwards he was talking to himself. 
 
 '' I must make haste," said Will, ^^ and get 
 my shopping done." 
 
 So he reached the steps, and began to 
 mount them without looking round. 
 
 '' Willy, don't you know me ? Will ! '^ 
 
 The little boy started, and looked round and 
 down. He had reached the third step now, 
 upon which he stood. Below him, and look- 
 ing up at him, was the vagrant lad. 
 
 '' So ye've forgot me at last, Httle Will?" 
 he cried.
 
 THE WOLF FINDS A PREY. 277 
 
 It was Geoff, it was, this haggard, wasted 
 boy. These shining eyes and black curhng 
 lashes could belong to none but him. Will 
 stood still, trembling, without the power to 
 move. But now Geoff raised himself a little, 
 and laid hold of him, and drew him softly down, 
 Will submitting to his grasp as if he had been 
 without any strength ; and then, when he had 
 drawn him to his side, threw his arms round 
 him and held him close and tight, and then 
 stroked all his hair and stroked his face. 
 
 " Willy ! Will ! Will ! I've got ye again," 
 he cried. 
 
 Willy, released a little, nestled close into 
 his side, with a contented look like that of a 
 kitten when it purrs. He possessed himself 
 of Geoff's hand and held it softly, and then 
 put up his other hand and touched his face ; 
 and then he remained quiet by his side, but 
 always leaning against him as before. And 
 after a time, in the softest tones, he spoke. 
 
 *'Ye don' look the same; ye look differ, 
 Geoff," he said. 
 
 '' I've been sore an' hungered," said Geoff ; 
 '' I be sore hungered now. But I'se glad to 
 see ye, Willy, i' spite o' that." 
 
 He paused for a while, as a new idea 
 touched his mind.
 
 278 TRACKED. 
 
 *' Will, I be sick wi' hunger. Do ye think 
 ye've a coin or two for me ? " 
 
 '' Oh, I haven't, Geoff, I haven't," cried 
 poor Will, in distress. '' I haven't no money 
 of my own, or I'd give it all to ye. And I 
 haven't no money of father's ; it's all spent in 
 the shops. An' if I had I durstn't give it — 
 he gets so angered now." 
 
 Geoff said no word, but pressed the boy 
 closer to him ; and sat for a while silent, 
 holding him to his side. He was remembering 
 inwardly what old Jem had said, and he 
 had not the least doubt of the truth of the 
 words of Will. And yet, although he was 
 certain that the boy had suffered for him, he 
 was considering all the time if it might not be 
 possible for him to obtain Will's parcel now. 
 Alas ! for the cruelty and selfishness of pain 
 and hunger, for the pangs that kill affection 
 and drive gratitude away. 
 
 '' I'll sell the clothes off my back if I can't 
 do this," thought Geoff. " I must eat an' 
 drink summat, I must an' will." 
 
 " Will," he began, in a trembling voice, 
 and then he stopped. And Will looked 
 round with his innocent eyes at him. 
 
 Oh, he could not do it, he could not, not 
 even to save himself ; he could not kill the
 
 THE WOLF FINDS A FREY. 279 
 
 trust in the eyes of little Will. He dared 
 not propose anything which might make that 
 trustfulness less ; he was so afraid of seeing 
 a change in the childish face. And yet it 
 would be easy enough, after all, to devise a 
 tale — a tale of a lost parcel that no one could 
 suspect. Only he could not propose it — 
 dared not mention it to Will. He miorht take 
 it, perhaps, without the knowledge of the 
 child — but then that might be discovered, 
 even that he dared not do. As his thouo^hts 
 surged restlessly his breath came in heavy 
 pants. 
 
 '' Be you ill, Geoffie ? You do look strange 
 and thin." 
 
 '' I may well look thin," answered Geoff ; 
 '■ I've pined eno'. I've been amongst the 
 villages on th' other side the town ; and I've 
 tried all my might to get some work to do. 
 But it's no good, that isn't, they'll have 
 nought to do wi' me. I've slep' where I could, 
 an' ate what I could, an' then come back. 
 I'll not go in the workus, an' be shut up an' 
 laughed at there ; but yet I donno what else 
 is left to me. I'd like to go back to old Jem, 
 but he's sold my little bed ; an' the people o' 
 Hanorth an' Crasten won't have me there 
 agin.
 
 280 TRACKED, 
 
 '' There's Ben, he knows summat," he went 
 on after a while ; " but he wonna deal fair an' 
 tell me what it is. An' I've been afeard o' 
 him sin' the day he stole fro' Jem ; altho' 
 he's a drucken creature as don't know what 
 he does. It was my evidence as got him i' the 
 prison, I be right sure he's never forgotten 
 that. He'll do me a hurt if he can, I'm sure 
 eno' o' that ; but he'd best look to hisself, 
 I'll try be a match for him ; on'y I must get 
 summat to eat, or else I'll die. An' now we'll 
 sit an' play here a bit, Will, an' then we'll 
 
 go." _ 
 
 Will nestled closer, and Geoff pressed him 
 with his arm, looking hard at him with his 
 dark, shining eyes. It was a singular part of 
 his strangely mingled nature that he was able 
 to assimilate himself with those he met ; with 
 Ben he had been cunning, with Elizabeth 
 passionate and penitent, with this childish 
 nature he could be childish too. He pulled 
 Will's hair softly, and twisted his fingers, and 
 drew little faces with Will's pencil upon the 
 boy's thumb-nails ; and then, collecting his 
 imaginative powers, he told a fairy-tale to 
 him. It cannot be said that he told it very 
 well — Will possessed the gift of telling a 
 story in a greater degree himself, but this the
 
 THE WOLF FINDS A PREY. 281 
 
 little boy was not critic enough to know. It 
 isoas good to be with Geoffie ; there was 
 nothing so good as that. They both fell 
 into silence when the fairy-tale was done. 
 
 '' We must go now, Willy," said the out- 
 cast, with a sigh. 
 
 " Oh, I must find Mr. Smith ; I be going 
 back wi' him." 
 
 " Not yet, not yet for a bit ; bide you for a 
 while wi' me." 
 
 Geoff w^as not entirely influenced in this 
 desire by his affection for the boy. He had 
 a strange belief that he could secure some 
 food from him ; and he w^as not willing, there- 
 fore, to let him go. The fact of the parcel 
 pressed still upon his mind, and he could not 
 resist the desire to keep Will in his power. 
 ' 'M be so hungry," he saidj with a heavy 
 sigh. 
 
 ''' An' what is it like to be hungry, Geoff?" 
 asked Will. 
 
 "' It's worse nor I thought it w^as, it is," 
 said Geoff. '' It's like a pain an' a wishing, 
 an' it tears me so sometimes ; it seems to get 
 down to the roots an' tears you there. Oh, I 
 must 'a summat to eat — I must — I must." 
 
 He rose to his feet as he spoke, and Will 
 got up with him. The boy had a little red
 
 282 TRACKED. 
 
 tie ; Geoff noticed that. He beo^an thinkinor 
 that it might be possible to. pawn that— it was 
 new. 
 
 '^Oh, look, Geoff," cried Will; 'there's 
 gentlemen coming down." 
 
 Geoff never knew what instinct it was that 
 made him crouch down at once, and draw 
 down the boy with him. It may have been 
 the dislike to being seen that comes some- 
 times with pain, but there was no definite 
 feeling at the moment in his mind. He kept 
 listening to the footsteps as he crouched, but 
 he would not raise his head. They came 
 nearer, nearer ; they began to descend the 
 steps. And then a gentleman's voice spoke 
 in sharp, commanding tones — 
 
 '' Come now, you lads, make room ; don't 
 idle there." 
 
 Geoff raised his head a little as he heard 
 himself thus addressed, and in that instant he 
 saw the man who spoke to him. He was 
 young, handsomely dressed, with the erect 
 carriage of an officer, and with self-assurance, 
 too. He did not trouble himself to look at 
 the boys again, but went hastily on, pushing 
 by. them as he went. A man w^ho appeared 
 to be a groom came after him. It was just 
 as they passed that something seemed to fall ;
 
 THE WOLF FINDS A PREY. 283 
 
 and the quick eyes of Geoff at once perceived 
 a purse, a handsome article, of sealskin, and 
 thickly clasped. He put out his hand and 
 covered the purse with that. And even as he 
 did so the men turned round on him. 
 
 " My purse is gone ; they have taken it," 
 the foremost cried. 
 
 Geoff started to his feet, and pulled Will up 
 with him. In that instant he was not quite 
 certain what he would do or say. But the 
 men had turned on him — they were advanc- 
 ing — the impulse came. Without staying to 
 consider an instant he turned and fled. He 
 dragged Will along with him — they went 
 quickly up the steps. They could hear the 
 men behind, pursuing and shouting, too. 
 And then they became aware that the way in 
 front was barred : some men were collected 
 there, assembled from the street. An in- 
 describable horror laid hold on Geoff — the 
 dread of a prison, of contempt, and of dis- 
 grace. He was afraid to keep the purse, yet 
 he dared not let it drop ; he was impeded by 
 his companion, and could not run very fast. 
 And then it came into his mind that Will was 
 well known in the town, that no one would be 
 willing to do much harm to him. The temp- 
 tation came in an instant, before he had a
 
 284 TRACKED, 
 
 moment in which to think. He thrust the 
 purse into his companion's pocket and let go 
 his hand; and then, released from all hindrance 
 and fear of being taken now, flung himself 
 desperately on the men who barred the way, 
 forced his way through them, and rushed off 
 down the street. If the wolf had escaped 
 from them his prey had not. A few attempted 
 to follow ; the rest laid hold of Will.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 
 
 " An' what 'a ye bin a-doin' on like, my 
 lad?" 
 
 " He looks as whitish as if he'd sure be 
 hanged." 
 
 ''Ah, an' he'll come to that too, he'll get 
 his deserts at last." 
 
 Will heard these words with a curious, un- 
 real feeling, and with the same sensation felt 
 the grasp of heavy hands. His heart was 
 beating so much that he could not think — he 
 had been with Geoff; they had been running ; 
 Geoff had left him alone. Oh ! what did they 
 mean by taking hold of him ? 
 
 " This is one of the boys," a voice said, 
 " who took my purse."
 
 286 TRACKED. 
 
 " Who took my purse !^^ Oh, what did 
 that mean to say ? Will was all trembling, 
 panting, unable to understand. He was at 
 the top of the alley, some men were holding 
 him ; the officer and his groom had come up, 
 and stood close at hand. 
 
 '' We've one of the two of 'em. Captain, 
 sure enough ; an' no doubt he can tell us where 
 the other is." 
 
 '' I can't, can't! Oh, let me go. I want to 
 go home," cried Will. 
 
 His despairing struggle made the cap fall 
 from his head, and the sunlight fell on his 
 fair hair and upturned face. It was then that 
 a man near him called out in his surprise. 
 
 " Why, it's Will Gibson— it's little Will," he 
 said. 
 
 ''Oh, Mr. Smith," cried Will, ''will you 
 take me home with you ? " He tried to stretch 
 out his arms, but they were still tightly held; 
 he was almost crying with the relief of dis- 
 covering a friend at last. Mr. Smith, on his 
 part, was impressed with the appeal ; he was 
 a village grocer, who had come into the town 
 that day. 
 
 " There's something wrong here, I think," 
 he said at once. " I know this lad, and I 
 know his father too. They're people respect-
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 2^1 
 
 able, and well-known in the town ; I think as a 
 many 'ud answer for the lad." 
 
 '' He is a thief, or a companion of thieves," 
 replied Captain Holt. '4 will have some 
 news of my purse before he goes ; or, at least, 
 he shall prove himself innocent, if he can. 
 Turn out his pockets, he need not object to 
 that." 
 
 But the men who held Will did not seem 
 inclined for further movements, impressed in 
 spite of themselves by his innocent, childish 
 face. Moreover they knew Mr. Smith, who 
 was visibly discontented ; they were beginning 
 to fear they had themselves made a mistake, 
 and but for the officer's presence would have 
 let go their prey. There followed a pause, 
 during which all stood in a group, the roughly- 
 dressed workmen holding the fair-haired boy, 
 the groom behind his master with a demure 
 and watchful look, the handsome young officer, 
 and the big village grocer with his perplexed, 
 goodnatured face. Mr. Smith, on his part, 
 was not afraid of Captain Holt ; his business 
 was flourishing, and he w^as in his Sunday 
 clothes. 
 
 " If the lad is honest he needn't be held," 
 he growled. 
 
 '^ I don't say he's not honest, confound
 
 288 TRACKED. 
 
 you ! I say my purse is gone. Let him turn 
 out his pockets himself, and prove his case." 
 
 Will's face was burning with hot, indignant 
 shame ; but he looked in a childish way for 
 direction from Mr. Smith. The grocer was 
 fuming, but he was a man peaceably disposed, 
 and his immediate wish was that the boy 
 should be released. He spoke in pacific 
 tones, though with great reluctance too. 
 
 '' Well, turn 'em out then, my lad ; there 
 aint no harm i' that." 
 
 For all his gentleness Will was hot with 
 indignation, as well as confusion ; his father's 
 son was being treated as a thief. But his 
 first impulse, now as always, was quietly to 
 obey. He put a hand in one pocket, and 
 drew out his handkerchief, some bitten toffy, 
 a few marbles, and a piece of string ; he put 
 in his hand carefully again and produced from 
 its deepest depth his one big marble, which 
 lay secluded there ; and then he put his 
 hand into his other pocket, and with an inno- 
 cent movement drew out the purse. For one 
 instant he held it up that he might see what 
 it was, surprised himself, and wondering what 
 it meant ; and then at the sound of a sharp 
 exclamation from the rest he let it fall. 
 
 They all stood together at the top of the
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 289 
 
 alley ; no one spoke a word. The May sun 
 shone down on them ; the purse lay on the 
 ground. No one was even able to move to 
 pick it up. 
 
 '' Well, I hope you are satisfied now/' said 
 Captain Holt. 
 
 He was delighted, triumphant, his acute- 
 ness had been justified, and he felt pleased 
 wdth himself ; and yet it must be owned that he 
 felt surprised as well. Will stood and trembled, 
 not knowing what to do ; the burly grocer 
 surveyed him, and scratched his head ; and 
 the groom came from behind his master, and 
 looked quietly at him. 
 
 '' It's a bad business that the lad should be 
 a thief and a hypocrite,'' said the Captain — 
 *' so young a boy." 
 
 '' I am not a thief," said Will, with his pale 
 face scarlet now. 
 
 " But how came my purse in your pocket ? 
 Tell me that." 
 
 '' I don't know who put it there; it wasn't 
 me." 
 
 He spoke with such childish earnestness, 
 and in such a simple tone, that there was no 
 one present who did not believe his words. 
 The Captain twirled his moustache and ap- 
 peared exceedingly annoyed ; the groom 
 
 VOL. I. W
 
 290 TRACKED. 
 
 picked up the purse and restored it once more 
 to him. And now, in a tone of rehef, the 
 big grocer spoke again. 
 
 '' If you'll count your money, sir, I've no 
 doubt you'll find it right. And you'll let the 
 boy then, perhaps, go home wi' me." 
 
 His words were not well-timed, and did not 
 produce the effect he desired. 
 
 " The money will probably be right, I have 
 no doubt of that. But that does not alter 
 the fact that the boy has had my purse. I 
 had better call a policeman ; that will teach 
 him his lesson well." 
 
 Will gave a little cry, and there was a stir 
 amongst the rest. 
 
 " There was another boy with him, sir/^ 
 one of the workmen said. 
 
 " That does not alter the fact that this one 
 has had my purse. Do you \i^2,x—you? Do 
 you intend to accuse your companion of the 
 theft?" 
 
 Will remained silent, trembling, looking 
 round as if for help. He was beginning to 
 remember who had been his companion now. 
 
 '' Confound you, cannot you speak? Tell 
 me now, who was the boy ? You have had 
 some low companion whom you are ashamed 
 to own."
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 291 
 
 Will was still silent, trembling more visibly 
 now. 
 
 " I vow you shall speak, or I will make you 
 soon. Am I to understand that you accuse 
 the other boy? " 
 
 '' No, sir," faltered Will, with an effort that 
 made him cry. He was thinking so much of 
 Geoff's danger that he could not realize his 
 own. 
 
 The officer seemed to be unmoved by his 
 tears. 
 
 " It's a clear case, a very clear case," he 
 said. '' The purse was on this boy, and he 
 has no one to accuse. Ash, go down the 
 street, and see if the police are near." 
 
 But at this Will threw himself on the groom 
 and seized his hands. 
 
 '' Oh, don't put me in prison, don't put me 
 in prison, sir ! " he cried. 
 
 The man was moved by this appeal which 
 had been made to him. He had the look of 
 a superior servant, and had a grave, silent 
 face. 
 
 ''Ah, sir," he said to his master, speaking 
 for the first time, '' you've got your purse all 
 right. Take the boy to his father, Captain, 
 or let him go." 
 
 " Have the goodness to meddle only with
 
 292 TRACKED, 
 
 your own business," Captain Holt began ; but 
 was stopped In his remarks by a piercing cry 
 from Will. 
 
 ''Oh! don't tell father; put me i' prison 
 first." 
 
 '' It would be a good thing," said Captain 
 Holt, '' for his father to be told." 
 
 Perhaps it would not be too much to say 
 that this remark was entirely suggested by 
 the distress of Will ; but there was a certain 
 fitness about it all the same, and those who 
 stood round felt more ready to approve. 
 Will had looked such a little fair creature, 
 alone in the midst of enemies, that the idea 
 of the police had roused the bystanders' feel- 
 ings ; but that his father should be told, that 
 was quite a different thing. 
 
 " His father, he lives a long way down," 
 said the grocer, '' down I' the Fens." 
 
 ''Oh! don't tell father; don't— don't— 
 he'll kill me ! " cried Will, in an agony that 
 made him unable to be still. " Oh ! please 
 don't tell him ; he be always hard wi' me." 
 
 " The wretched Httle coward ! " said Captain 
 Holt, in scorn ; whilst Will, restless and sob- 
 bing, clung still with despairing efforts to the 
 hands and arms of the groom. The servant 
 may have pitied him, though he gave no sign
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 293 
 
 of that. He knew his master too well to 
 interfere. 
 
 "The Fens are some way off, but I have 
 not much to do to-day. If you will put him 
 into the dog-cart we will drive him to his 
 home." 
 
 '' Oh, don't ; I've not done nothing — 
 don't ! " 
 
 Will's words were lost in tears. The officer 
 turned round severely, and addressed him 
 then. 
 
 '^ And will you then tell me who your com- 
 panion was ? " 
 
 But Will remained silent, though he was 
 sobbing still. 
 
 Do we say to ourselves that such silence 
 proved him indeed a fool, that his friend had 
 betrayed him cruelly, and was unworthy of 
 his regard, that it would have been no more 
 than reasonable to attempt to save himself? 
 Ah, but the children, they have not such 
 power of reasoning, they act rather upon 
 their instincts than from their brain. Before 
 Will's sensitive heart was always Geoff's 
 wasted face ; the wounded feet, and the flight 
 in the darkness, of which he had heard ; the 
 threats of his father, which rang still in his 
 ears. It had become like a part of his life.
 
 294 TRACKED. 
 
 that desire to shield his friend ; he had not 
 had time to consider how Geoff had behaved 
 to him. 
 
 So he remained silent, sobbing, clinging 
 always to the groom ; whilst Captain Holt 
 gave money to the workmen who had cap- 
 tured him, and sent them away. They went 
 reluctantly, often looking back ; and with still 
 more reluctance the big grocer also retreated, 
 with doubtful looks at Will. After all he was 
 to be taken to Farmer Gibson ; and the 
 farmer, '' he had always looved the lad." 
 
 '^ But that young gent as calls hisself a 
 officer, he do seem to me a hard un, that he 
 do. I wouldn't trust no one in such hands as 
 his." 
 
 Perhaps the grocer w^as right, though with 
 reservations too. Captain Holt, standing 
 now in the alley, a tall, handsome figure 
 by the miserable Will, had no idea that 
 fault could be found with him. He intended 
 always to be honourable and upright, and 
 had great belief in the superior sense of 
 justice that governed all his ways. For he 
 had not yet become aware of that singular 
 fact in life — that it is possible to mistake for 
 justice our pleasure in giving pain. 
 
 There is a beautiful, terrible justice to be
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 295 
 
 found sometimes in the world, a justice that 
 never strikes save with utmost reason, and 
 then strikes relentlessly, that may be accused 
 sometimes of hardness, but never of caprice. 
 But this very quality, so tenfold rare and 
 precious, is founded upon the sentiment to 
 which it seems to pay no heed — an unconscious 
 sympathy, it may be, but not less true for 
 that. For it is the clear-sightedness of 
 sympathy that we need to direct our blows ; 
 without it they fall untruly, and our sense 
 of law is vain. 
 
 The little group in the alley was fast 
 dispersing now ; though somx men, passing 
 through the street, and moved by the sound of 
 crying, were lingering near at hand. The sun 
 shone down more brightly for recent storms ; 
 and Will clung still to the groom like one 
 pleading for his life. 
 
 '' The dog-cart is waiting down the street," 
 said Captain Holt; ''take the little wretch 
 there, James, and keep him quiet. He had 
 better reserve his dancing till his father has 
 dealt with him." 
 
 '' Ah ! be still, my lad ; you'll find it as 
 well," said James. 
 
 But Will could not be still ; he was in too 
 much distress. The man w^as unwilling to
 
 296 TRACKED. 
 
 hurt him, and yet he dared not delay ; he 
 snatched him up at last into his arms, and 
 carried him down the street. Then, with a 
 bit of cord that had been round a parcel, 
 he tied him on to the back seat of the dog- 
 cart ; and took his own place beside his 
 master, and they drove away. And Will 
 could only be sensible of one agonizing 
 thought — as a convicted thief he was being 
 driven to his home. 
 
 They drove out into the country, between 
 hedges white with may-blossoms, through the 
 warmth of early summer that was upon the 
 lanes. They did not go by the usual way 
 towards the Fens, and Will began to have 
 hopes that they did not know the road. It 
 seemed to him as if every man in every cart 
 that passed must see that he was tied : he 
 felt himself disgraced and shamed for ever ; 
 he told himself that his father would never 
 forgive him now. Now and then he burst 
 into tears, but he was almost too miserable to 
 cry. They drove for several miles down 
 country lanes ; and turned in by a lodge and 
 down an avenue at last. There was a great 
 grey house at the end, with steps in front ; and 
 Captain Holt pulled up there, and flung the 
 reins to the groom, and told him he meant to
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 207 
 
 •stay there to luncheon, and would drive after- 
 wards to the Fens ; and after these words he 
 disappeared into the house. And then some 
 servants came ; and they looked at Will, and 
 whispered to each other, and laughed very 
 much. And then the dog-cart was taken to 
 the stables ; and the horse was taken out, and 
 the folding doors were closed. Will remained 
 amongst the carriages, tied still to the seat ; 
 and there he was left alone, and hour after 
 hour went by. 
 
 And then at last that endless time was 
 over, and they opened the doors and took the 
 dog-cart out. And James w^as there helping, 
 and he seemed much annoyed, and said — 
 
 ''The Captain didn't ought to have stayed 
 on so long like that." 
 
 And the grooms and stable-boys seemed 
 to think Will very small ; and they asked him 
 if he was not hungry, and seemed to pity 
 him, and one of them gave him a biscuit, 
 which he tried to eat in vain. He scarcely 
 knew what he had been doing during the 
 hours he had been alone. It seemed as if 
 he had been sleeping, though he had not been 
 asleep ; and he had tried to say his prayers, 
 but had not been able to do that. And now 
 the high dog-cart was hoisted up again, and
 
 298 TRACKED. 
 
 then the horse was in. And then Captain 
 Holt came into the yard laughing, and draw- 
 ing on his gloves, and laughed more than 
 ever when he caught sight of Will. And 
 then he had taken his place, with James Ash 
 by his side, and the yard-doors were thrown 
 open, and he flung some money down, and 
 out into the open country they drove again. 
 And Will's miserable heart began to beat 
 more quickly as they turned into the familiar 
 lanes at last. 
 
 And then^oh, the agony of it! — Rose 
 Cottage came in sight ; and he began to feel 
 burnt and strangled with the cord with which 
 he was tied. They would never forget it, 
 never ! — the shame of that. They would think 
 him disgraced for ever in his home. He was 
 sick with hunger, but that he could scarcely 
 feel ; he could not attempt to reason, or to 
 think over what had passed. Child as he 
 was, and until so recently a spoiled and petted 
 child, he yet suffered as much as any man 
 could do ; his brain seemed to be bursting, 
 so that he could scarcely see the sunlight, 
 and he dared not look round lest anyone 
 might be near. There was no escape for 
 him — he had no hope of one. The horse was 
 pulled up before the garden gate.
 
 WILL HAS LIARD TLMES ONCE MORE. 29^) 
 
 It may be that the Captain himself was 
 not easy In his mind, and that In the wide 
 outlook of Fens were some vague fears, too, 
 for him. But he had the courage of his con- 
 victions, and his self-assurance too ; so he 
 threw the reins confidently to a farm boy who 
 was there, and then jumped down. After 
 that he waited until James had untied Will ; 
 and then, leaving him to follow with the 
 prisoner, marched boldly Into the house. 
 
 '' I have come on an unpleasant business, I 
 am afraid," said Captain Holt. 
 
 He had entered the house without knock- 
 ing ; had rapped boldly at the first door that 
 he saw, and then walked in at once. His 
 movements had been better directed than he 
 knew ; the door was that of the great 
 kitchen, and all the members of the family 
 were within. Mrs. Gibson was by the long 
 table, laying the cloth for a very early tea ; 
 her husband, flushed, haggard, with the ap- 
 pearance of one who has been lately drinking, 
 was resting his great form In an armchair by 
 the fire. On a seat opposite, looking rather 
 tired and worn, sat Jim, making drawings of 
 machinery In his pocket-book ; and Liz,
 
 SOO TRACKED. 
 
 whose dark beauty the visitor observed at 
 once, had opened the cupboard to get the 
 tea-things down. 
 
 The kitchen looked much as we have seen 
 it, and was very warm and bright, with a 
 great fire that was pleasant in the chill spring 
 afternoon, and that cast a ruddy glow on the 
 people who were there. These people seemed 
 all of them so very much at home, an entrance 
 there seemed so like an invasion of the terri- 
 tory of others, that vaguely unpleasant sensa- 
 tions again attacked Captain Holt. He 
 stood by the closed door without advancing 
 further, with his groom behind him still holding 
 little Will ; and Farmer Gibson, aware of the 
 presence of a visitor, slowly rose. 
 
 '' Is there anything we can do for you, 
 sir ? " he said. 
 
 He spoke with the instinct of hospitality 
 which, in spite of his roughness, always 
 belonged to him, but more thickly than usual, 
 for he had been drinking very much. To an 
 observant eye it would soon have been ap- 
 parent that there was something other than 
 brightness in the aspect of the inhabitants of 
 the kitchen ; in fact, the farmer had come 
 home after a drinking bout, and had been 
 disputing with his wife.
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 301 
 
 Alas ! that afternoon he had received vaorue 
 news of Geoff, and such rumours seemed to 
 excite him to madness every time. Captain 
 Holt himself looked dubiously at the enormous 
 man, with his unsteady body, and his flushed, 
 haggard face. 
 
 '' I am sorry I have nothing pleasant to 
 say to you," he said. '' I bring you a story 
 that you will hardly like to hear." 
 
 '' Then, sir," said the farmer, with tolerable 
 clearness now, though he supported himself 
 against the armchair as he spoke, "' you'll 
 happen bring to us some news o' Will ; for 
 he's never come back fro' the town, as he did 
 say he'd do ; an' the missus, here, she's un- 
 easy, like, for him. But I say he's i' mischief, 
 an' I do know he is ; an' it's sheer waste o' 
 time to spend thought o' such a lad. You 
 didn't happen to see him, sir, when as you 
 came ^ 
 
 ^' I believe I did," said the Captain, '' and 
 I believe he is here behind me now." He 
 moved as he spoke, and revealed the groom 
 and Will. '' I am sorry to say that I must 
 speak of him." 
 
 There w^as one moment of silence and of 
 intense surprise. The inmates of the room 
 kept their places : Will stood still, looking
 
 302 TRACKED. 
 
 on the ground, with the groom's hand on his 
 arm. He was very pale, and shivered ; his 
 head sunk on his breast ; he longed to be 
 able to sink down through the floor. There 
 was not one in all the room who did not look 
 at him. 
 
 '' I thought it better," said the Captain, 
 addressing the farmer, '' to speak to you. I 
 have to accuse your son of taking a purse of 
 mine." And again for an instant there was 
 silence in the room. 
 
 "A purse — Will take a purse!" cried 
 Mrs. Gibson. And the farmer drew in his 
 breath with a loud, snorting sound. Liz 
 stood still by the cupboard as if she could 
 not believe her ears ; and Jim raised his head 
 with a quiet attention in his face. '' It's not 
 likely," Mrs. Gibson said, "as one of us 'ud 
 do like that." 
 
 " You had better, then, listen to the cir- 
 cumstances of the case." Captain Holt 
 spoke now in an irritated tone ; he was 
 seldom able to endure contradiction to his 
 words. • ''I was going down an alley with my 
 groom this morning when I first discovered 
 that I had lost my purse. There were only 
 two boys in the alley besides ourselves, and 
 when we turned round they immediately ran
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 303 
 
 away. We ran after them, and captured one — 
 3^our son ; and in one of his pockets was the 
 purse that I had lost. He would give no ex- 
 planation, so I bring him here to you. If I had 
 not been told that he was the son of respect- 
 able parents I would have given him over to 
 the police at once." 
 
 " The police — our Will to the police 1 " 
 cried poor ]\Irs. Gibson, and she wrung her 
 hands. But now the farmer swunor his orreat 
 fist on the chair. 
 
 " Isn't that what I told you, woman, though 
 you wouldn't hear?" he cried. "I said it 
 'ud be no good that 'ud be told us o' the 
 lad. He's never done no good to us in all 
 his life, an' now he's gone and been a thief, 
 an' has disgraced us all. If it wasn't for the 
 shame to the family like, I'd say — " 
 
 " Oh, father, father ! " here interrupted Liz ; 
 and Captain Holt, who was beginning to think 
 the farmer '' a very sensible man," now spoke 
 again. 
 
 " I have no wish to proceed to extreme mea- 
 sures, for your own sake," he said ; '* though 
 it seems bad to see so much evil in a boy so 
 young. If you will engage to punish him, I 
 will be quite content. But you must punish 
 him as much as such a fault as theft deserves."
 
 304 TRACKED. 
 
 '' Our Will's not a thief," here cried poor 
 Mrs. Gibson, with a flushed face, and tears 
 rolling down her cheeks. '' If you've lost a 
 penny through him, sir, we'll restore it fast 
 enough ; but I won't hear my boy called a 
 thief, an' me a-stannin' by. We're honest 
 people, sir, whate'er you've heard of us ; and 
 I won't hear us called — and called — " She 
 became too confused for words. 
 
 "■ You can, perhaps, explain to me, then," 
 said Captain Holt, '' how my purse came into 
 the pocket of your son ? Or it will be better, 
 perhaps, for me to ask the boy himself." 
 He turned with cold seventy to Will, who 
 shrunk and shivered, and hung his head, with- 
 out attempting to reply. 
 
 '' Dost thou hear. Will?" roared the farmer; 
 '' the gentleman speaks to thee." 
 
 The child broke out into frightened crying, 
 without a word. Mrs. Gibson, almost beside 
 herself, made a hasty movement forwards ; 
 but the farmer caught her arm and pushed 
 her back. 
 
 " Don' go near him, don' ye touch him, or 
 go for to speak to him ! " he cried ; " it's for 
 me to touch him — the boy as is our shame. 
 ril let him know what it is to bring disgrace 
 on honest folk, to bring down our heads w^i'
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 305 
 
 shame, an' break our hearts. I'll make hun 
 smart for this — the boy as shames his kindred, 
 an' makes friends wi' them as means most 
 harm to us. Don't ye be feared, sir — I'll 
 murder him for ye." 
 
 " Don't beat me, father, don't beat me ! '* 
 cried out Will, with such piercing agony in 
 his tone that the groom, who held his arm, 
 almost trembled. 
 
 But Captain Holt only shrugged his 
 shoulders slightly. ''The miserable coward," 
 he muttered betw^een his teeth. 
 
 '* I do not pity you in the least," he said, 
 aloud ; '' a liar and a thief, you deserve the 
 worst that you can get. Go now to your 
 father, and get what you deserve." 
 
 But with shrieks of terror Will clung hard 
 to his arm, as one who in mortal agony holds 
 fast in his despair. It was despair . . . the 
 officer's grasp was on him . . . his last hope 
 was gone. . . . 
 
 '' Hold hard, sir ! " said Jim, rising quietly ; 
 " you shall not touch our Will." And with a 
 start of astonishment all turned round on him. 
 
 ''Confound you!" cried the Captain, in 
 wrath; "what right have you to speak? 
 The boy's father alone has the power to 
 decide." 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 TRACKED. 
 
 " He has the power, and he'll use it, er — 
 can — tell — yer," pronounced Farmer Gibson, 
 though his voice was thick. *' Gur — out — 
 m'way — let me at'm — shan't — hinna — mer — 
 a' 11 do what — er — plerse — yer shanna stop — 
 mer — mer — " 
 
 " By the Lord, but 1 will, though!" said 
 Jim, standing in front of him, excited into an 
 expression he would not have used if he had 
 been calm. *' Go ye back an' sit down, that's 
 all ye're fit for now. What ! do ye think 
 yerself fit at this instant to touch a child ? I 
 tell ye, ye shouldn't touch one of 'em in my 
 presence here, much less a brother o' mine, an' 
 son o' yours — not if I'd only three bones i' 
 my body with which to hold ye back. No, 
 nor this gentleman neither ; he shan't touch 
 our Will. The boy belongs to us, it's for us 
 to punish him ; I'll have no gentleman or his 
 servant to do our work for us. Come ye here, 
 Will, an' stand here fast by me." 
 
 He put out his hands and drew his brother 
 to him, whilst all present were too much sur- 
 prised to speak. Jim kept his Httle brother 
 enclosed still in his arms ; they stood in the 
 .centre of the great kitchen — the young man 
 and the child. 
 
 " Look ye, Willy," said Jim, '' we'll have 
 no cryin' now ; ye just be quiet an' hear what
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 307 
 
 I've got to say. I don't want to hear no more 
 o' this here unpleasant story ; ye've been i' 
 bad company, it's hke, an' must pay for that. 
 This gentleman, he's not gien ye over to the 
 police, although it was so that his purse was 
 found wi' you ; an' now ye must answer for 
 the purse that he did find. An' boys as has 
 purses that are not theirs, they're punished — ■ 
 ye understand ? " 
 
 " Yes, Jim," said Will, quietly, looking at 
 him with steady eyes. 
 
 From the moment that his brother touched 
 him he had been very quiet ; standing quite 
 motionless within his brother's arms. But it 
 is scarcely possible to describe the rest of 
 that strong touch to him ; the strength of the 
 big brother who had not been used to notice 
 him before. It was not like a relief from any 
 ordinary fear, it was a rest from terror, almost 
 release from death. 
 
 The others in the room did not come close 
 to them ; they stood silent, observing them in 
 mute surprise. 
 
 '' Oh ! Jim, don't let go o' me," whispered 
 Will, ''or father '11 come." 
 
 " Will ye let me punish ye i'sted o' father, 
 Will?" said Jim. 
 
 "Yes . . . I will, Jim," faltered Will, 
 trying hard to control his voice.
 
 308 TRACKED. 
 
 *^ Take off your jacket, then ; I shall 
 know by that." 
 
 Without a murmur or hesitation Will 
 obeyed ; whilst Jim, moving away from him 
 for a single instant, took up his father's stick, 
 which lay near upon a chair. His face was 
 as none had ever seen it, white and stern, 
 with closely shut lips, and frowning, con- 
 tracted brows ; none moved or spoke, or 
 could have dared to interfere. Will had un- 
 buttoned his jacket and let it slip to the 
 ground ; he stood in the centre of the kitchen 
 in his little blue and red-coloured shirt, with 
 his eyes fixed steadily upon his brother's 
 face. He stood quite still, though his breath 
 came and went ; he was very pale, and there 
 was a strange light in his eyes. He looked a 
 little creature there in the midst of all. 
 
 '' Ye mun stand quiet, Will," said Jim, 
 looking steadily at him. 
 
 '' I will— I will ! " 
 
 '' An' ye mun be quiet, too ; ye mustn't 
 cry." 
 
 *' No, Jim, I wonna ; I wonna cry a bit." 
 
 He did not look as if he were going to cry, 
 though he was so small, and his eyes were 
 swollen still. What Jim felt could be seen 
 chiefly in his left hand, which was hanging 
 down ; it was curiously clenched, and all the
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 309 
 
 veins had risen ; but the expression of his 
 face remained unchanged. 
 
 ''Ye needn't touch me," Will said; "I 
 will stand fast — I will." 
 
 And he did. 
 
 '' There — there ! " cried Jim at last, flinging 
 the stick across the room ; '' may the Lord 
 do worse to me if I touch a child again ! " 
 
 ''I didn't cry, Jim, did I?" asked Will, 
 looking up in his face. 
 
 He was standing quite still with the 
 strange light in his eyes. Jim tried to speak 
 to him, and tried again, and then burst into 
 violent crying such as none had heard from 
 him before. He could not control himself, 
 and hastily left the room. 
 
 '' I didn't cry; not a bit, I didn't," mur- 
 mured Will. No one else spoke ; they re- 
 mained in their places. He was very pleased 
 with himself. Then Captain Holt called to 
 him in a strange, husky voice — 
 
 '' You didn't cry," he said to him. '' Come 
 out and talk to me." 
 
 They stood together in the prim garden, 
 the officer and the child. The evening light, 
 which was falling upon the Fens, was round 
 their feet ; if it had been higher, instead of
 
 310 TRACKED. 
 
 being very low, It might have found an un- 
 accustomed brightness in the Captain's eyes. 
 
 '^ By — ! " said the officer, with a muttered 
 oath — he was entirely amazed himself to feel 
 his tears — '' you are the pluckiest little chap 
 I have seen in all my life. And now, tell me 
 one thing only. Did you take my purse ? " 
 
 ^' No, sir," said Will, touching his hair to 
 show respect. 
 
 '' You did not ? Then, who did ? " 
 
 Little Will hesitated, and his colour came 
 and went ; an agitation, of which he had shown 
 no sign whilst he was being punished, shook 
 him visibly ; he seemed very much distressed, 
 and almost afraid to speak. Yet he did 
 answer after a while had passed. 
 
 *' I suppose, sir, it was the boy as was wi' 
 me." 
 
 '' You little fool, why did you not say so at 
 the time ? " 
 
 Again Will hesitated, and was agitated, 
 and his colour went and came. Yet he did 
 venture to whisper at last, though in a 
 trembling tone — 
 
 '' If you only wouldn't tell anyone, sir," he 
 said. 
 
 '' No, no ; I won't tell." Captain Holt was 
 curious now. ^' Come, speak up, I must know 
 the truth of this."
 
 WILL HAS HARD TL]fES ONCE MORE. 311 
 
 But a little while still elapsed before Will 
 could speak. 
 
 '' If you only won't tell father, sir," he said, 
 raising tearful eyes ; '' I be so feared always 
 lest he should get hold on Geoff. It was 
 Geoff as hurt our Jim, an' father is mad wi' 
 him. He would kill him if he could eet at 
 him ; an' I do love him so." 
 
 Afterwards Captain Holt had a curiously 
 vivid remembrance of that instant, and the 
 uplifted face of the little fair-haired lad ; he 
 could even feel still behind him the prim 
 background of the house, and before him, and 
 far in the distance, the Fens in golden light. 
 Something had touched him unwontedly ; he 
 spoke in a gentle tone, with a touch of kindly 
 warning and seriousness in his voice. 
 
 '' I will keep my word to you, and will not 
 betray your friend ; you deserve that at least 
 after all that has been done. But, if this 
 friend of yours knows so well how to lie and 
 steal, I must call him a bad companion ; he 
 will lead you into wrong." 
 
 "I know, sir," said Will, sorrowfully, oh ! 
 how sorrowfully ; "I know it now." 
 
 He stood with hanging head, pale still 
 from his recent punishment, and looking so 
 oppressed and mournful, so like one who 
 has for ever lost a friend, that the young
 
 312 TRACKED. 
 
 officer, in spite of his late anger and his 
 habitual indifference, was touched with some- 
 thing Hke real pity for the child. 
 
 '' It was not you who stole ; yoii wouldn't 
 steal," he said, in a cheerful voice. 
 
 "The Bible says we mustn't," murmured 
 Will, in solemn tones. 
 
 '' I don't know much about the Bible," re- 
 pHed the young man, with a laugh ; "I am 
 not likely to, for I have not one of my own." 
 
 *' Teacher says," observed Will, who was 
 obviously quoting now, " that every man has a 
 Bible through the whole breadth of the land." 
 
 '^ Teacher's wrong then," said the young 
 man, stroking his moustache. He was rather 
 amused at being spoken to like this. 
 
 '' Oh, haven't you got one, sir ? I've gotten 
 two." 
 
 ''Two, have you? That's one too many ; 
 you should give one to me." Captain Holt 
 said the words in jocular indifference, intend- 
 ing only to be good-humoured to the child. 
 He did not understand the radiance that 
 lighted up Will's face at once ; the little boy 
 turned round and ran into the house. 
 
 A few minutes later, as the officer stood by 
 the side of his dog-cart, he felt himself lightly 
 touched ; and, as he turned, a book was put 
 into his hand. Will had hastened to fetch
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 313 
 
 one of his Bibles, and had brought it out to 
 him. And here let me add that Will possessed 
 two Bibles, one only of which had coloured 
 prints and maps, and that it was the one with 
 coloured prints and maps he had bestowed. 
 
 " Thank you, thanks much," said Captain 
 Holt, confused. 
 
 Yes, experienced and self-assured as he 
 always felt himself, an officer of some years 
 standing, and the heir to two estates, at that 
 moment he did, indeed, feel entirely confused. 
 He was inclined to decline the gift, and yet 
 he could not do so ; an unusual compunction 
 made him fear to disappoint the child. And 
 after all there was no one looking on. He 
 put the Bible into his pocket (which it filled 
 uncomfortably, being rather large) without a 
 word ; and then, more uncomfortably still, 
 began feeling for his purse. For the poor 
 never do anything except for money, he knew 
 that of old. He looked down ; Will was look- 
 ing up with innocent eyes at him : Captain 
 Holt's fingers unclosed from the purse ; after 
 all, the gift was free. He could think of no 
 words that would not seem ungracious, so he 
 gave a little nod, jumped into his dog-cart, 
 where James already was, and started off. 
 
 Off into the evening shadows which were 
 falling on the Fens, off along the darkening
 
 314 TRACKED, 
 
 lanes, with their wide prospect around, and 
 their heavy ruts beneath. There was a long 
 drive before him, and he was not accustomed 
 to exchange words with his servant ; but he 
 did not feel lonely now. The events of that 
 afternoon had given him food for thought. 
 
 And if he found in those thoughts no food 
 for self-questioning or self-discontent, if they 
 roused in him no doubts of his own judgment, 
 no deeper sense of that spirit of mercy that 
 should lie deep with us all, if they left him, in 
 mind and purpose, very much the man he 
 was, it must yet not be supposed they had 
 no influence on him. That gift — the gift of 
 the Bible — had surprised him much. It was 
 so strange that a boy could make a gift after 
 being severely punished ; he could not have 
 done so himself. It is possible that Captain 
 Holt w^as not wrong in being surprised ; and 
 yet no one would have been astonished who 
 had been acquainted with little Will. 
 
 The Bible remained in his pocket ; he 
 could feel it as he drove. It was strange 
 that there seemed to be in his mind an un- 
 wonted tenderness of imagination ; for he was 
 not given to visions in a general way, and yet 
 he could not avoid them now. As he drove 
 along slowly in the heavy lanes, on which the 
 greyness of evening fell, there kept rising
 
 WILL HAS HARD TIMES ONCE MORE. 315 
 
 before his eyes a childish face — the face of 
 a httle boy, with innocent eyes — an intclH- 
 gent, dehcate face — pleasant enough to see. 
 It would be pleasant to own such a little lad 
 one's self — a little lad of one's own, whom 
 one could teach, who would climb up in one's 
 arms, with just such pretty eyebrows. . . . 
 
 Such visions can save worse men than 
 Captain Holt, touching them with the purify- 
 ing tenderness of the fireside and of home. 
 It was, perhaps, well for Miss Selina, sitting 
 alone then, and meditating by her bedroom 
 fire, dreaming of her wedding-day and her 
 lover with affection, and yet with dread — it 
 w^as, perhaps, well for her that her lover, in 
 the evening darkness, had such thoughts to 
 occupy his mind during his long and lonely 
 drive. For even such simple thoughts have 
 power to save. . . . 
 
 Little Will, meanwhile, feeling very stiff 
 and sore, had gone upstairs to lie down upon 
 his iron bed, and only his sense of heroism 
 kept him from tears and sobs. But his 
 mother came to him, and petted him, and 
 cried over him ; and Liz made a little tea-cake, 
 and brought it up ; and the old servant brought 
 her knitting, and sat by him ; so that, after a 
 httle depression, he revived again. For the 
 terrible sense of disorrace was weighing less
 
 316 TRACKED. 
 
 heavily upon him — they were beginning again 
 to be kind as they used to be. And if he 
 had passed through more troubled times that 
 day than even before, those hours of suffering 
 were over, and he had not betrayed his friend. 
 Only he dared not think of the thing that 
 friend had done ; the dread of the wolf had 
 fallen now on him. 
 
 And of that friend, the betrayer, we may 
 say that he suffered too, and we may add the 
 condemnation that he suffered as he deserved. 
 That evening, whilst Will lay sleeping upon 
 his iron bed, with the light of the summer 
 evening upon his tired face, dreaming, though 
 with some feeling of trouble, that he was 
 playing again with Geoff — on that evening the 
 outcast was wandering with restless footsteps 
 up and down, choosing the loneliest alleys, 
 the narrowest, darkest streets, waiting with 
 feverish misery for the night to come at last. 
 He was no longer torn with hunger, as he had 
 been before ; he had pawned some clothes, 
 and obtained some food to eat ; but the satis- 
 fied want left behind a deeper loss, he dared 
 not think of the thing he had done that day. 
 Oh ! he would go to Ben Wilde, and give 
 way at length to him — he felt detestable ; 
 there was nothing that mattered now.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE HOME OF BEN. 
 
 And now it falls to our lot to descend into very 
 low society, an unfortunate necessity, but one 
 that is needful now and then. When a gentle- 
 man sells his son to a wandering pedlar, and 
 leaves him to take his chance, it is just possible 
 that after long and anxious search he may dis- 
 cover him again, but then that search should 
 not be directed to the dwellings of the rich ; 
 for our children must remain, to a certain 
 extent, what we have made them, and the 
 dwelling-place is the outward expression, as 
 we know, of the man. It is for that last 
 reason, at any rate, if not for others too, that 
 a certain knowledge of human abodes is de- 
 sirable in those who deliver opinions on 
 humanity from their own well-ordered homes.
 
 518 TRACKED. 
 
 Ben Wilde lived in the town which we have 
 mentioned so often ; and he lived, moreover, 
 in one of its oldest, poorest streets. He was 
 very well known indeed in the house in 
 which he lodged, the landlady of which was 
 accustomed to tell her guests that during the 
 fifteen years he had lodged there he had gone 
 each night drunk to bed. 
 
 That house was quite a character in its 
 way amongst its neighbours, and possessed 
 the reputation of being the oldest in the 
 street. The street, which was narrow and 
 dingy, went up a little hill, and the house 
 itself was upon its steepest slope ; it was at 
 the corner of an alley which led to a dingy 
 square behind, and thus had more room for 
 eccentricities of construction than its neigh- 
 bours had. Its staircase, instead of following 
 the rules of ordinary staircases, was outside 
 the house, and this made a peculiarity that 
 could be observed at once. The steps, which 
 were rough, and guarded by a railing, were 
 on the side that was nearest to the alley, and 
 for some distance went up straight ; then a 
 corner and angle of the house made a sort of 
 landing on which were two doors ; one, black 
 and rotting, leading to an unused room that 
 jutted out from the house ; another to the
 
 THE HOME OF BEN, 319 
 
 bedroom where the landlady slept. Proceed- 
 ing further, but becoming now more like a 
 rough ladder, the steps still went on, and, 
 without making any difficulty about it, went 
 straight up to the roof ; though that was old, 
 shaken-looking, and so beset with smuts and 
 cats, that it could scarcely have seemed an 
 agreeable place to anyone for a walk. Below 
 the roof was Ben's bedroom-door, but there 
 was no landing-place for that ; vou had to 
 stand sideways on the steps, and get in as 
 you could. This impromptu staircase made 
 the only means of reaching the upstairs 
 rooms ; no one knew what had been in the 
 minds of those ancient builders when thev 
 constructed a house like that. 
 
 However, it had been built, and there was 
 this orood thino: about it: that it made Ben's 
 room a difficult place to reach. For no one 
 who had ever been in that enchanted chamber 
 felt the verv smallest desire to return to it 
 again. Foul with the fumes of spirits and 
 stale tobacco, dirty, untidy, chilly with the 
 winds that found their way through the 
 crevices and shook the crazy roof above — a 
 true drunkard's habitation and home of ill 
 was this. The tall, thin lad who lay in a 
 corner of it now, with some ragged clothes
 
 320 TRACKED. 
 
 thrown over him for covering, and a piece of" 
 dirty, doubled-up carpet beneath his head — 
 who lay there day after day, with aching 
 hmbs, too ill to move — had, even in that 
 condition, something in him that seemed 
 superior to the place. No pleasant sick- 
 room, indeed, for an invalid was that. 
 
 The other inmates of the house paid very 
 little attention to those above, only coming 
 out upon the landing-place to shout w^hen 
 Ben, in a drunken fit, disturbed the place. 
 The landlady slept below in a room at the 
 back ; and, whatever she may have said to 
 others of Ben's intemperance, drank almost 
 as much as he did every day herself. On the 
 first floor, which opened out upon the landing, 
 were two rooms, one within the other, and in 
 these two families slept, and one of these 
 families kept lodgers, finding the floor had 
 space to spare. In the front room below 
 lived a man and his son, old acquaintances of 
 Ben, and it was there that Ben's stall was 
 kept on nights and rainy days. The man 
 was a one-eyed creature, very dark, with a 
 sinister face, and a rusty black beard that 
 covered his mouth and cheeks ; the boy 
 (whom he called his son, though there was 
 no resemblance of any sort between them)
 
 THE HOME OF BEN. 321 
 
 was a queer, crooked, comical sort of being, 
 full of ways and devices, and up to many 
 tricks, always being beaten, and seeming 
 none the worse. It was from this monkey of 
 a creature, who in the course of climbing one 
 day discovered him, that Geoff gained such 
 little kindness as was bestowed upon him 
 whilst he was ill. 
 
 But many long days had passed before 
 that kindness came. Oh ! the long dreary 
 days whilst he lay and ached upon the floor ; 
 the hot, endless nights whilst he tossed, 
 parched with fever, longing for water, and yet 
 too weak to rise. If the punishment for his 
 many faults were indeed being exacted then, 
 the penalty might almost have been con- 
 sidered sufficient even by those who had 
 suffered from them most. Sick as he was, and 
 needing care and attention, Ben gave to him 
 nothing more than the scanty amount of food 
 and drink that kept him in life ; and left him 
 with only a few rags between him and the 
 floor, whilst he snored comfortably in his 
 own bed every night. Nay, more, he accepted 
 an invitation one night from a friend, and did 
 not return till nearly two days had passed ; 
 leaving Geoff, with his scanty store exhausted, 
 and just then in extremity of fever, to lie 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 TRACKED. 
 
 through a whole afternoon raving for water, 
 and in vain. If the lad had been seized 
 during that time with any positive illness or 
 disease, his reduced constitution miorht 
 scarcely have found strength to rally from 
 that again ; but he was only suffering from 
 the effects of privation, and from nights 
 spent out of doors ; he had always possessed 
 a wonderful elasticity that served for rallying 
 power, and after a time, though slowly, he 
 revived. If he had received only an ordinary 
 amount of attention it Is probable that his ill- 
 ness would have been short ; as it was, it 
 lasted for nearly a month, and left him weak 
 and low. 
 
 And perhaps those days of convalescence 
 proved almost the worst, for whilst they 
 lasted he possessed more power to think. 
 During the endless nights whilst he lay in 
 the stifling room, too weak, as it seemed 
 to him, to move or sleep — during those nights 
 whilst his small Increase of strength made 
 him only more sensible of suffering and weak- 
 ness, whilst all old hopes and fears and even 
 resentments seemed like dreams and far 
 away — the thought of death became more 
 present to him than it had ever been before. 
 Yet he found in it no relief, though he had
 
 THE HOME OF BEN. 323 
 
 little hope in life ; it was like a dim terror 
 and shadow ; he would have turned from it if 
 he could. He had been educated in reliiiion 
 at school and elsewhere, and had learned 
 many texts and hymns, but it was perhaps 
 natural that he should find no hope in these ; 
 he thought only of the burning punishment 
 of which he had heard as well — the doom 
 with which he had been continually threatened, 
 and in which, in some vague shape or manner, 
 he believed. And yet if it could have risen 
 before him in any tangible form, like that of 
 the burning flames of which he dreamt one 
 night, his wild courage might have risen to 
 the occasion, and he might have dared the 
 vengeance from his very despair itself. But 
 his nature was keenly alive, even in its 
 daring, to superstitious terror — the next 
 world was the region of the unknown, and 
 before the unknown he quailed. And since, 
 as will be seen, no thoughts of real penitence 
 or repentance mingled vvith his suffering, he 
 rose from his sick-bed at last with his deeper 
 ills unhealed. He recovered — older, weaker, 
 with a face more thin and pained, but still 
 with the instinct of life, for life and youth are 
 strong. 
 
 It need not be repeated that Ben had not
 
 324 TRACKED. 
 
 been a careful nurse, for no one who knew him 
 could have suspected him of such a thing, 
 and Geoff, in particular, had no reason to 
 expect tenderness from him ; but as his fears 
 for the invalid diminished it became still more 
 hard for him to conceal the dislike he felt. If 
 the sick lad had really developed some serious 
 illness, or If he had believed him to be 
 dangerously ill, it is possible, indeed, that he 
 might have summoned a doctor and lavished 
 care on him, for in spite of his brutal selfish- 
 ness it could be easily perceived that for some 
 reason or other he had an interest in Geoff ; 
 only with that interest much hate was mingled 
 too. And a man who drinks every day and 
 feels resentment is not likely to have much 
 power to control the resentment that he feels. 
 When Ben came home, drunk and stumbling, 
 and staggered through his room at night, it 
 was so dangerously easy to kick Geoff as if 
 he w^ere lying In the way — a casual action of 
 that sort may be said almost to have a 
 natural grace — and the boy took no notice, it 
 seemed as if he could not feel. Ben could 
 not see him afterwards In the darkness, 
 sitting up upon the floor with clenched hands 
 and burning eyes : if he had done so he 
 might have been more inclined to practice 
 the self-control of those who reserve their
 
 THE HOME OF BEN. JJ25 
 
 kicks for the animals whom domestic use has 
 trained. He did not know, he had no power 
 to understand ; in keeping close to him this 
 lad, whom he hated and who hated him, he 
 was haunted by no vision of a darkened path, 
 and a track of blood. 
 
 It has become time for us to hear the story 
 of this life out of the thousands, and yet we 
 might almost be led to believe that, like the 
 knife-grinder, the life had '' none to tell," 
 so confused and beer-stained a record would 
 have been that formed out of the reminis- 
 cences of Ben. He was the son of a gardener 
 who had drunk himself out of all his places, 
 and of a factory girl who deserted her husband, 
 leaving him their child to keep. He him- 
 self had run away from his home as soon as 
 he was old enough to run at all. Then he 
 had fallen into the hands of an old woman, 
 w^ho took him round with her when she went 
 a-begging, exhibiting him as her interesting 
 son ; and then into those of a caravan with an 
 Abyssinian monkey, and then into those of a 
 man with a Punch-and-Judy show, and then 
 into those of many other owners too, all out 
 at armholes and pockets, scant in principles, 
 and with still more scanty means, depending 
 for the day's bread on the most precarious 
 employments, and content to give up the day's
 
 326 TRACKED, 
 
 bread if the day's drink could be had. Now 
 and then, once in particular, when he was ill 
 and for a few days sheltered in a respect- 
 able workman's house, Ben himself felt some 
 yearnings towards that life of respectability 
 which he had never known — the Hfe that has 
 no need to sleep under hedges, or to prowl at 
 nights, to seek out the lowest lodging-houses, 
 and the most disreputable '' pubs," to get into 
 illegal troubles, and to live in fear of gaol — the 
 life that has regular wages, and a comfortable 
 bed, that has well-brought-up children, and a 
 well-ordered home. And yet it !?•> only too 
 probable that if every opportuni had been 
 placed at his disposal he woul*^ lever have 
 found himself able to settle do^k^n ^o such a 
 life as that — your inbred vagrant is not so 
 easily reclaimed. However that may be, 
 Ben had drifted on through various employ- 
 ments in a drunken or sober state (more often 
 drunk) from year to year ; and had arrived at 
 last at his fifty-seventh year, at the condition, 
 the habits, the stall, the lodging, and the 
 lodger whom we have known. And on that 
 lodger, now at length after long persuasion 
 -an inmate of his home, all such vague, con- 
 fused, intoxicated, and intoxicating hopes as 
 he could form were centred now.
 
 THE HOME OF BEN. :^27 
 
 And yet it need scarcely be added thai he 
 disliked the lad, hating him always with a long- 
 enduring resentment which was almost as 
 strong as his ambition was. The cause of 
 this resentment we need not go far to seek. 
 Eight years before, in a drunken scuffle one 
 evening at a low public-house, Ben had 
 quarrelled with old Jem Gibson and had 
 struck him with a knife ; and there had fol- 
 lowed for him the only imprisonment that all 
 his Hfe had known. That imprisonment and 
 ignominy he considered due to Geoff ; to the 
 little GeoF who, alone of all spectators on the 
 occasion, d not been drunk, who had driven 
 his childis. . idence in such a delighted way, 
 and whojjhaa looked such a pretty lad as he 
 stood before the magistrates that all hearts 
 were won by him. It was an old joke, that 
 story of Ben's imprisonment, and he had not 
 forgotten it yet; he remembered it with the 
 poisonous hatred of a dull, malignant nature, 
 and for many years it had been in his heart 
 to ruin the lad ; he had tried to ruin him by 
 the persistently offered friendship that was 
 far worse than enmity from him. And now, 
 strangely and mysteriously, and from no 
 desire or expectation of his own, he found 
 his own hopes were linked with those of
 
 328 TRACKED. 
 
 Geoff ; the secret Information he possessed 
 would be of no value unless Geoff would act 
 with him. And yet, over and over again, he 
 told himself in his muddled, weakened brain 
 that he would not make Geoff a gentleman ; 
 he knew '' tricks more worth nor that." 
 
 What the information was that he possessed 
 we shall see before much more time has passed ; 
 meanwhile, we have to think of those two in 
 their lodging every night, in the crazy attic 
 room which was swept by every wind and 
 disturbed by the noise and tumult of the 
 lodgers down below ; of those two, so much 
 disunited and yet so strangely linked. There 
 is one picture out of those nights that rises 
 before me now ; the dark room with its low, 
 many-cornered roof, and an expiring tallow- 
 candle upon a broken chair ; and Ben, in a 
 nap, snoring heavily, though still dressed, upon 
 the bed ; and the failing light reflected in the 
 dark, glittering eyes of Geoff, as he sits up, 
 too feverish to lie, on his rags upon the floor — 
 like some wild animal watching in the gloom 
 of that miserable home ; or a lost being on a 
 dangerous pathway, with a still uncertain end. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.