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JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 THIRD SERIES. 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/johnnyludlow01wood 
 
JOHNNY LUDLOW 
 
 THIRD SERIES. 
 
 BY MRS. HENRY WOOD 
 
 AUTHOR OF " EAST LYNNE." 
 
 " God sent his Singers upon earth 
 With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
 That they might touch the hearts of men, 
 And bring them back to heaven again." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 R. BENTLEY & SON, New Burlington St., W. 
 
 Publishers in Ordinary to the Queen. 
 
 1885. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 The Disappearance .... 1 
 
 Coming Home to Die .... 42 
 
 OR ABB RAVINE. 
 
 The StPvAnge Man ..... 84 
 Tod's Repentance ..... 122 
 
 OUR VISIT. 
 
 A Great Puzzle ..... 16/ 
 
 JANET CAREY. 
 
 The Loss 213 
 
 DR. KNOX. 
 
 Sally 256 
 
JOHNNY LUDLOW. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 THE DIS APPE AEANCE . 
 
 YOU may think this a curious title, but 
 the history is a perfectly true one. 
 The affair occurred in our neighbourhood 
 many years ago ; people spoke of it at the 
 time as " The mystery of Jessy Page," and 
 they so speak of it to this day. 
 
 It can hardly be necessary to recal to your 
 recollection certain particulars connected with 
 these stories. But, to do so briefly, I here 
 repeat the few words of explanation given 
 when the last volumes were published. Mr. 
 Todhetley, commonly called the Squire, had 
 two estates. The chief one. Dyke Manor, lay 
 on the borders of Worcestershire and War- 
 mckshire, partly in both counties ; the other, 
 Crabb Cot, was a smaller place altogether, 
 and lay much nearer Worcester. Sometimes 
 we stayed at one place, sometimes at the other. 
 By an arrangement with Mr. Brandon, my 
 guardian and the trustee to my property, I, 
 
2 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 Johnny Ludlow, lived with the Todhetleys. 
 Mrs. Todhetley, the Squire's second wife, was 
 my step-mother, my father — William Ludlow 
 of the Court — having married her after my 
 own mother's death. After my father's death, 
 which took place speedily, she became the 
 wife of Squire Todhetley, and the step-mother 
 of his only son and heir, Joseph. Two children 
 were subsequently born, Hugh and Lena, to 
 whom Joseph was of course the half-brother. 
 Joseph, unlike myself, had been old enough to 
 resent the advent of a step-mother when she 
 came : indulged and haughty he did not like 
 the gentle ^control she brought; though 
 she was good as gold, as loving to him as 
 he w^ould permit, and kind to every- 
 body. I don't say but that she was tall and 
 thin as a lamp-post, with a mild face given to 
 having aches in it, scanty, fine, light hair, and 
 kindly blue eyes ; so she had not much to boast 
 of in the way of appearance. Joe and I grew 
 up together like brothers : he was several years 
 the elder and domineered over me absolutely. 
 At school he was always called " Tod," and I 
 fell into the same habit. 
 
 This much comprises the explanation : and 
 now we will go on to the first story, " The 
 Mystery of Jessy Page." 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 3 
 
 Our old grey church at Church Dykely stood 
 in a sohtary spot. Servant maids (two of ours 
 once, Hannah and Molly), and silly village 
 girls went there sometimes to watch for the 
 " shadows " on St. Mark's Eve, and owds had a 
 habit of dashing out of the belfry at night. 
 Within Yie^Y of the church, though at some 
 distance from it, stood the lonely, red brick, 
 angular dwelling house belonging to Copse 
 Farm. It was inhabited by Mr. Page, a plain 
 worthy widower, getting in years ; his three 
 daughters and little son. Abigail and Susan 
 Page, two experienced, sensible, industrious 
 young women, with sallow faces and bunches 
 of short dark curls, were at this period, 
 nearly midway between twenty and thirty: 
 Jessy, very much younger, was gone out to get 
 two years' " finishing " at a plain boarding 
 school ; Charles, the lad, had poor health and 
 went to school by day at Church Dykely. 
 
 . Mr. Page fell ill. He would never be able 
 to get about much again. His two daughters, 
 so far as indoor work and management went, 
 were hosts in themselves. Miss Abigail es- 
 pecially; but they could not mount a horse to 
 superintend out of doors. Other arrangements 
 w^ere made. The second son of Mr. Drench, 
 a neighbouring farmer and friend, came to the 
 
 B— 2 
 
4 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 Copse Farm by day as overlooker. He was paid 
 for his services, and he gained experience. 
 
 No sooner had John Drench, a silent, bash- 
 ful young farmer, well-looking and fairly-well 
 educated, been installed in his new post, 
 than he began to show a decided admiration 
 for Miss Susan Page — who was a few months 
 younger than himself. The slight advances 
 he made were favourably received ; and it was 
 tacitly looked upon that they were " as good 
 as engaged." Things went on pleasantly all 
 the spring, and might have continued so to go 
 on, but for the coming home at Midsummer of 
 the youngest daughter, Jessy. That led to no 
 end of cross-grained contrariety. 
 
 She was the sweetest flower you ever saw ; 
 a fair, delicate lily, with a mild countenance, 
 blue eyes, and hair of a golden tinge. Jessy 
 had never been very strong; she had always 
 been very pretty ; and the consequence was 
 that while her sisters had gro^vn up to be 
 useful, not to be a minute idle throughout the 
 long day, Jessy had been petted and indulged, 
 and was not much except ornamental. The 
 two years' schooling had not improved her taste 
 for domestic occupation. To tell the truth, 
 Jessy was given to be uncommonly idle. 
 
 To John Drench, who had not seen her 
 
THE 3IYSTEBY OF JESSY PAGE. 6 
 
 since her early girlhood, she appeared as a 
 vision of beauty. " It was like an angel coming 
 in at the door," he said of the day she first 
 came home, when telling the tale to a stranger 
 in after years. " My eyes were fairly dazzled." 
 
 Like an angel ! And unfortunately for John 
 Drench, his heart was dazzled as well as his 
 eyes. He fell desperately in love with her. 
 It taught him that what he had felt for Miss 
 Susan was not love at all ; only esteem, and the 
 liking that so often arises from companionship. 
 He was well-meaning, but inexperienced. As 
 he had never spoken to Susan, the utmost sign 
 he had given being a look or a warmer hand- 
 shake than usual, he thought there would 
 be no difficulty in transferring his homage to 
 the younger sister. Susan Page, who really 
 loved him, and perhaps looked on with the 
 keen eyes of jealousy, grew at last to see how 
 matters were. She w^ould have liked to put 
 him in a corn-sack and give him a good shaking 
 by way of cure. Thus the summer months 
 went over in some silent discomfort, and 
 September came in warm and fine. 
 
 Jessy Page stood at the open parlour window 
 in her airy summer muslin, twuiing a rose in 
 her hand, blue ribbons falling from her hair : 
 for Jessy liked to set herself off in little adorn- 
 
6 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 ments. She was laughing at John Drench 
 outside, who had appeared covered with mud 
 from the pond, into which he had contrived 
 partially to slip when they were dragging for 
 eels. 
 
 '• I think your picture ought to be taken, 
 just as you look now, Mr. John." 
 
 He thought hers ought : the bright fair face, 
 the laughing blue eyes, the parted lips and the 
 pretty white teeth presented a picture that, to 
 him, had never had its equal. He could not 
 answer at first for looking at her. 
 
 " Do you. Miss Jessy ? That's a fine rose," 
 he shyly added. He was always shy with her. 
 
 She held it out. She had not the least 
 objection to be admired, even by John Drench 
 in a state of mud. In their hearts, women 
 have all hankered after men s flattery from Eve 
 downwards. 
 
 " These large roses are the sweetest of any," 
 she went on. ''I plucked it from the tree 
 beyond the grass-plat." 
 
 " You are fond of flowers, I've noticed, Miss 
 Jessy." 
 
 " Yes, that I am. Both for themselves and 
 for the language they symbolise." 
 
 " What language is it ? '* 
 
 " Don't you know ? I learnt it at school. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 7 
 
 Each flower possesses its own meaning, Mr. 
 John Drench. This, the rose, is true love." 
 
 " True love, is it, Miss Jessy ! " 
 
 She was lightly flirting it right before his 
 face. It was too much for him, and he took 
 it gently from her. " Will you give it me '? " 
 he asked below his breath. 
 
 " Oh with great pleasure." And then she 
 lightly added, as if to damp the eager look on 
 his face : '' There are plenty more on the same 
 tree. 
 
 "An emblem of true love," he softly 
 repeated. '' It's a pretty thought. I wonder 
 who invented " 
 
 " Now then, John Drench, do you know 
 that tea's waiting. Are you going to sit 
 down in those muddy boots and leggings ? " 
 
 The sharp words came from Susan Page. 
 Jessy turned and saw her sister's pale, angry 
 face. John Drench disappeared, and Miss 
 Susan went out again, and banged the door. 
 
 "It is high time Jessy was put to some 
 regular employment," cried Susan, bursting 
 into the room where Miss Page sat making 
 the tea. " She idles away her time in the 
 most frivolous and wasteful manner, never 
 doing an earthly thing. It is sinful.'' 
 
 " So it is," acquiesced Miss Page. " Have 
 
8 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 you a headache, Susan % You look 
 pale." 
 
 " Never mind my looks," said wrathful 
 Susan. " We will portion out some share 
 of work for her from to-day. She might 
 make up the butter, and undertake the pies 
 and puddings, and do the plain sewing." 
 
 William Page, a gray-haired man, sitting 
 with a stick by his side, looked up. " Pretty 
 creature ! " he said, for he fondly loved his 
 youngest daughter. *' I'll not have her hard- 
 worked, Susan." 
 
 " But you'd not have her sit with her hands 
 before her from Monday morning till Saturday 
 night, I suppose, father ! " sharply returned 
 Miss Susan. " She'll soon be nineteen.*' 
 
 " No, no ; idleness brings nought but evil 
 in its train. I didn't mean that, Susan. Let 
 the child do what is suitable for her. Where's 
 John Drench ? " 
 
 " He is in a fine mess — up to his middle in 
 mud," was Miss Susan's tart answer. " One 
 would think he had been trying to see how 
 great an object he could make of himself." 
 
 John Drench came in, somewhat cleansed, 
 his coat changed and the rose in his button- 
 hole. He took his seat at the tea-table, and 
 was more shy and silent than ever. Jessy sat 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 9 
 
 by her father, chattering gaily, her blue 
 ribbons flickering before his loving eyes. 
 Once he caught hold of an end of the shining 
 silk, and held it for a moment to his lips. 
 
 But the butter-making and the other light 
 work was fated not to be inaugurated yet for 
 Jessy. Charles Page, a tiresome, indulged lad 
 of twelve, became ill again: he was subject 
 to attacks of low fever and ague. Mr. 
 Duffham, peering at the boy over his gold 
 headed cane, said there was nothing for it but 
 a dose of good seaside air. Mr. Page, anxious 
 for his boy, began to consult with his daughters 
 as to how it might be obtained. They had 
 some very distant connections named Allen, 
 living at Aberystwith. To them Miss Page 
 wrote, asking if they could take in Charles 
 and one of his sisters to board for a month or 
 so. Mrs. Allen replied that she would be 
 glad to have them ; since her husband's death 
 she had eked out a scanty income by letting 
 lodgings. 
 
 It was Jessy who went with him. The 
 house and farm could not have spared Abigail ; 
 Susan said neither should it spare her. The 
 idle and useless one had to go — Jessy. Miss 
 Susan thought she and John Drench were well 
 rid of the young lady. 
 
10 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 September was in its second week when 
 they went; Kovember w^as at its close when 
 they returned. The improvement in Charles 
 had been so marked and wonderful — as Mrs. 
 Allen and Jessy both wrote to say — that jVIr. 
 Duffham had strongly urged his staying as long 
 as the weather remained favourable. It was a 
 remarkably fine late autumn that year, and 
 they stayed till November's close. 
 
 Charles came home well and strono:. Jessv 
 was more beautiful than ever ; radiant to 
 behold. But there was some change in her. 
 The light-hearted, talking, laughing girl had 
 grown rather silent; she was often singing 
 snatches of love songs to herself in a low 
 voice, and there was a light in her eyes as of 
 some intense, secret happiness that might not 
 be told. John Drench, who had begun to 
 show signs of returning to his old allegiance 
 (at least. Miss Susan so flattered herself), fell 
 a willing captive again forthwith, and had 
 certainly neither eyes nor ears for anybody 
 but Jessy. Susan Page came to the conclusion 
 that a shaking in a sack would be far too good 
 for him. 
 
 The way of dressing the churches for 
 Christmas in those past days was quite 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 11 
 
 different from the new style of " decoration " 
 
 obtaining now. Spraysof holly with their red 
 
 berries, of ivy with its brown clusters, were 
 
 stuck, each alternately, into the holes on the 
 
 top of the pews. It was a better way than 
 
 the present, far more effective — though I, 
 
 Johnny Ludlow, 'shall be no doubt laughed 
 
 at for saying it. Your woven wreaths tied 
 
 round the pulpit and reading-desk ; your 
 
 lettered scrolls, made of white wadding 
 
 gummed on pink or crimson ground and 
 
 plastered against the walls ; your artificial 
 
 flowers, yellow, blue, salmon, 1 know not how 
 
 many colours, may be talked of as " artistic," 
 
 but for effect they all stand absolutely as 
 
 nothing, in comparison Avith the more simple 
 
 and natural way, and they are, perhaps, the 
 
 least bit tawdry. If you don't believe me, pay 
 
 a visit to some rural church next Christmas 
 
 morning — for the old fashion is observed 
 
 in many a country district still — and 
 
 judge for yourselves. Upon entering, you 
 
 seem to pass into a bright atmosphere ; a 
 
 wide arena of cheery evergreens, symbolical 
 
 of the day. Like many another custom 
 
 that has been changed by the folly and 
 
 fashion of these later days of pretension, 
 
 and not changed for the better, lies 
 
12 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 this one. That is my opinion, and I hold to 
 it. 
 
 The dressing in our church was always done 
 by the clerk, old Bumford. The sexton (called 
 familiarly with us the grave-digger) helped him 
 when his health allowed, but he was nearly 
 always ill, and then Bumford himself had to be 
 grave-digger. It was not much trouble, this 
 manner of decoration, and it took very little 
 time. They had only to cut off the sprays 
 nearly of the same size, smooth the ends, and 
 lodge them in the holes. In the last century 
 when a new country church was rebuilt 
 (though it did not happen often), the drilling 
 of these holes in the woodwork of the pews, 
 for the reception of the " Christmas," was as 
 much a matter of course as w^ere the pews 
 themselves. Our Christmas was supplied by 
 Mr. Page with a liberal hand ; the Copse Farm 
 abounded with trees of holly and ivy ; one of 
 his men, Leek, would help Bumford to cut it, 
 and to cart it in a hand-truck to the church. 
 It took a good lot to do all the pews. 
 
 On this Christmas that I am telling you of, 
 it fell out that Clerk Bumford and the sexton 
 were disabled. Both of them. Bumford had 
 rheumatic gout so badly that his feet were 
 the size of half a dozen — and getting him into 
 
THE MYSTERY 01 JESSY PAGE. 13 
 
 church for the morning service the past three 
 Sundays had been a marvel of dexterity — 
 while the sexton was in bed with what he 
 called catarrh. At first it seemed that we 
 should not get the church dressed at all : but the 
 Miss Pages, ever ready and active in a good 
 work, came to the rescue, and said they would 
 do it themselves, with John Drench's help. 
 The Squire was not going to be behind-hand, 
 and said we boys, for Tod and I were just home 
 for the holidays, should help too. 
 
 And when Christmas Eve came, and Leek 
 had wheeled up the holly, and we were all in 
 the cold church (not I think that any of us 
 cared whether it was cold or warm), we 
 enjoyed the work amazingly, and decided that 
 old Bumford should never be let do it again, 
 gout or no gout. 
 
 Jessy Page was a picture. The two elder 
 ladies had on tight dark cloth dresses, like a 
 riding-habit cut short at the ankles : Jessy was 
 in a bright blue mantle edged with swans- 
 down, and a blue bonnet on her pretty hair. 
 She. came in a little late, and Miss Susan 
 sharply blew her up for putting on that "best 
 Sunday cape " to dress a church in : but Jessv 
 only laughed good-naturedly, and answered 
 that she would take care not to harm it. 
 
14 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 Susan Page, trimming the branches, had seen 
 John Drench's eyes fixed on the girl : and her 
 knife worked away like mad in her vexation. 
 
 " Look here," said Jessy : " we have never 
 had any Christmas over the pulpit ; I think 
 old Bumford was afraid to get up to do it; let 
 us put some. It would hide that ugly nail in 
 the wall.'' 
 
 " There are no holes up in the wall," 
 snapped Miss Susan." 
 
 " I meant a large bunch ; a bunch of holly 
 and i^^ mixed, Susan. John Drench could 
 tie it to the nail : it would look beautiful." 
 
 " I'll do it, too," said John. "• I've some 
 string in my pocket. The parson won't 
 know himself. 'Twill be as good as a canopy 
 over him." 
 
 Miss Page turned round : she and Charley 
 had their arms full of the branches we had 
 been cutting. 
 
 " Put a bunch there, if you like, but let us 
 finish the pews first," she said. "If we go 
 from one thing to another we shall not finish 
 while it's daylight." 
 
 It was plain good sense : she rarely spoke 
 anything else. Once let darkness overtake us, 
 and the dressing would be done for. The 
 church knew nothing about evening service, 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 15 
 
 and had never felt the want of means to 
 light itself up. 
 
 " I shall pick out the best sprays in readi- 
 ness," whispered Jessy to me, as we sat 
 together on the bench by the big christening 
 bowl, she choosing branches, I trimming them 
 and cutting the ends level. " Look at this 
 one ! you could not count the berries on it." 
 
 " Did you enjoy your ^dsit to Aberystwith, 
 Jessy] " 
 
 I wondered what there was in my simple 
 question to move her. The branch of holly 
 went anywhere; her hands met in a silent 
 clasp; the expression of her face changed to 
 one of curious happiness. In answ^ering, her 
 voice fell to a whisper. 
 
 '' Yes, I enjoyed it." 
 
 " What a long time you stayed ! An age, 
 Mrs. Todhetley says." 
 
 " It was nearly eleven weeks." 
 
 " Eleven weeks ! How tedious ! " 
 
 Her face was glomng, her eyes had a sweet 
 light in them. She caught up some holly, and 
 began scattering its berries. 
 
 " AVhat did you do with yourself, Jessy ?" 
 
 "I used to sit by the sea — and to walk 
 about. It was very fine. " They don't often 
 have it like that in November, Mrs. Allen said." 
 
16 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 " Did Mrs. Allen sit and walk with you'? " 
 
 "No. She had enough to do mth the house 
 and her lodgers. We only saw her at meal times." 
 
 " The Miss Aliens, perhaps 1 " 
 
 " There are no Miss Aliens. Only one little 
 boy " 
 
 "Why, then, you had no one but Charley!" 
 
 '' Charley'? Oh, he used to be always about 
 with little Tom Allen — in a boat, or some- 
 thing of that sort. Mrs. Allen thought the 
 sea breezes must be so good for him." 
 
 '' Well, you must have been dull ! " 
 
 Jessy looked rather foolish. She was a 
 simple-minded girl at the best. The two elder 
 sisters had all the strong sense of the family, 
 she the simplicity. Some people called Jessy 
 Page " soft " : perhaps, as contrasted with 
 her sisters, she was so : and she was very 
 inexperienced. 
 
 The dusk was gathering, and Charley had 
 gone out tired, when John Drench got into the " 
 pulpit to tie the bunch of holly to the wall 
 above it. Tod was with him. Drench had 
 his hands stretched out, and we stood watching 
 them in a group in the aisle below, when the 
 porch door was burst open, and in leaped 
 Charles. 
 
 " Jessy ! I say ! Where's Jessy ! " 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 17 
 
 " I am here," said Jessy, looking round. 
 "What do you wantT' 
 
 " Here's ^Ir. Marcus Allen." 
 
 Who Mr. Marcus Allen might be, Charles 
 did not say. Jessy knew : there was no doubt 
 of that. Her face, just then close to mine, 
 had flushed as red as a rose in June. 
 
 A tall, dark, imposing man came looming 
 out of the dusk. His handsome, furred great 
 coat was open, his waistcoat was of crimson 
 velvet ; he wore two chains, three rings, and 
 an eye-glass. And I'll leave you to judge of 
 the effect this vision of grandeur made, 
 dropping do^vn on us plain church-dressers in 
 our every-day clothes. John Drench leaned 
 over the pulpit cushion, string in hand ; the 
 two Miss Pages stood staring; Jessy turned 
 white and red with the unexpected amaze- 
 ment. It was to her he approached, and spoke. 
 
 " How do you do. Miss Jessy I " 
 
 She put her hand out in answer to his ; but 
 seemed to have been struck as dumb as the 
 old stone image on the monument against the 
 wall. 
 
 "These are your sisters, I presume. Miss 
 Jessy 1 Will you do me the honour to intro- 
 duce me to them ] '^ 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen,'' murmured Jessy, 
 c 
 
 ii 
 
18 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 redder now than any cabbage rose. " My 
 sister Abigail; my sister Susan." 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen, bowing over his hat, said 
 something about the pleasure it gave him to 
 make their acquaintance personally, after 
 hearing so much of them from Miss Jessy at 
 Aberystwith, and begged to be allowed to 
 shake their hands. Miss Page, when the hand- 
 shaking was over, said in her straightforward 
 way that she did not know who he was, her 
 young sister never having mentioned him. 
 Jessy, standing like a little simpleton, her 
 eyes bent down on the aisle bricks, murmured 
 in confusion that she " forgot it." John 
 Drench had his face over the cushion all that 
 while, and Tod's arms began to ache, holding 
 up the bunch of green. 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen, it turned out, was related 
 in some way to the Aliens of Aberystwith : he 
 happened to go to the town soon after Jessy 
 Page and her brother went there, and he 
 stayed until they left it. Not at the Aliens' 
 house : he had lodgings elsewhere. Mrs. 
 Allen spoke of him to Jessy as a " grand gen- 
 tleman, quite above them." An idea came 
 over me, as we all now stood together, that he 
 had been Jessy's companion in the walking 
 and the sitting by the sea. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 19 
 
 *' I told Miss Jessy that T should be running 
 do^vn some day to renew my acquaintanceship 
 with her and make that of her family," said 
 Mr. Marcus Allen to Miss Page. " Having 
 no particular engagement on my hands this 
 Christmas time, I came." 
 
 He spoke in the most easy manner con- 
 ceivable : his accent and manner were cer- 
 tainly those of a gentleman. As to the fashion- 
 able attire and the rings and chains, rather 
 startling though they looked to us in the dark 
 church on that dark and busy evening, they 
 were all the rage for dandies in the great 
 world then. 
 
 Noticing the intimation that he had come 
 
 purposely to see them, Miss Page supposed 
 
 that she ought, in hospitably good manners, to 
 
 invite him to stay a day or two at the farm, 
 
 but doubted whether so imposing a gentleman 
 
 would condescend to it. She said nothing 
 
 about it then, and we all went out of the 
 
 church together ; except John Drench^ who 
 
 stayed behind with Leek to help clear up the 
 
 litter for the man to carry away. It was light 
 
 outside, and I took a good look at the stranger : 
 
 a handsome man of seven-or-eight-and-twenty, 
 
 with hard eyes, and black whiskers curled to 
 
 perfection, 
 c— 2 
 
20 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 " In what way is he related to the Aliens of 
 Aberystwith, Jessy ? " questioned Miss Page, 
 drawing her sister away, as we went through 
 the coppice. 
 
 '^ I don't quite know, Abigail. He is some 
 distant cousin." 
 
 " How came you never to speak of him 1 " 
 
 " I— I did not think to." 
 
 " Very careless of you, child. Especially if 
 he gave you cause to suppose he might come 
 here. I don't like to be taken by surprise by 
 strangers : it is not always convenient." 
 
 Jessy walked along in silence, meek as a 
 lamb. 
 
 "What is he'? — in any profession, or 
 trader' 
 
 " Trade ? Oh, I don't think he does any 
 thing of that kind, Abigail. That branch of 
 the family would be above it, Mrs. Allen said. 
 He has a great income, she says; plenty of 
 money." 
 
 " I take it, then, that he is above ^(5," 
 reasoned Miss Page. 
 
 " Oh dear yes : in station. Ever so much." 
 
 "Then I'm sure I don't care to entertain 
 him." 
 
 Miss Page went straight into the best kitchen 
 on arriving at home. Her father sat in the 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 21 
 
 large hearth corner, smoking his pipe. She 
 told him about the stranger, and said she sup- 
 posed they must ask him to stay over the 
 morrow — Christmas day. 
 
 "' Why shouldn't we I " asked Mr. Page. 
 
 " Well, father, he seems very grand and 
 great." 
 • " Does he '? Give him the best bedroom." 
 
 " And our ways are plain, you know," she 
 added. 
 
 " He must take us as he finds us, Abigail. 
 Any friend of Mrs. Allen's is welcome : she 
 was downright kind to the children." 
 
 We had a jolly tea. Tod and I had been 
 asked to it beforehand. Pork-pies, Miss 
 Susan's make, and hot buttered batch-cakes, 
 and lemon cake and jams. Mr. Marcus Allen 
 was charmed with everything : he was a plea- 
 sant man to talk to. When we left, he and 
 Mr. Page had gone to the best kitchen again, 
 to smoke together in the wide chimney 
 corner. 
 
 You Londoners, who go in for your artistic 
 scrolls and crosses, should have seen the church 
 on Christmas morning. It burst upon our 
 sight, as we entered from the porch, like a 
 capacious grove of green, on which the sun 
 
22 TBE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 streamed through the south windows. Old 
 Bumford's dressing had never been as full and 
 handsome as this of ours, for we had rejected 
 all niggardly sprays. The squire even allowed 
 that much. Shaking hands with Miss Page in 
 the porch after service, he told her that it cut 
 Clerk Bumford out and out. IVIr. Marcus 
 Allen, in fashionable coat, with the furred over- 
 coat flung back, light gloves, and big white 
 wristbands, was in the Pages' pew, sitting 
 between old Page and Jessy. He found all 
 the places for her in her prayer-book (a shabby 
 red one, some of the leaves loose) ; bowing 
 slightly every time he handed her the book, as 
 if she had been a Princess of the blood royal. 
 Such gallantry was new in our parts : and the 
 congregation were rather taken off their de- 
 votions watching it. As to Jessy, she kept 
 flushing like a rose. 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen remained more than a 
 week, staying over New Year's Day. He 
 made himself popular with them all, and 
 enjoyed what Miss Abigail called their plain 
 ways, just as though he had been reared in 
 them. He smoked his pipe in the kitchen 
 with the farmer; he drove Miss Susan to 
 Alcester in the tax- cart ; he presented Miss 
 Abigail with a handsome work-box ; and gave 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 23 
 
 Charley a bright half-sovereign for bullseyes- 
 As to Jessy, he did not take more notice of 
 her than he did of her sisters ; hardly as 
 much : so that if Miss Susan had been en- 
 tertaining any faint hope that his object in 
 coming to the Copse was Jessy, and that in 
 consequence John Drench might escape from 
 bewitching wiles, she found the hope falla- 
 cious. Mr. Marcus Allen had apparently no 
 more thought of Jessy than he had of Sally, 
 the red-armed serving girl. " But what in 
 the world brought the man here at all "? " 
 questioned Miss Susan of her sister. "He 
 wanted a bit of country holiday," answered 
 Miss Page with her common sense. 
 
 One day during the week the squire met 
 them abroad, and gave an impromptu invita- 
 tion to the Manor for the evening. Only the 
 three Miss Pages came. Mr. Marcus Allen 
 sent his compliments, and begged to be 
 excused on the score of headache. 
 
 One evening at dusk we met him and Jessy. 
 She had been out on some errand, and he 
 overtook her in the little coppice path between 
 the church and the farm. Tod, dashing 
 through it to get home for dinner, I after 
 him, nearly dashed right upon them. Mr. 
 Marcus Allen had his face inside her bonnet. 
 
24 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 as if he were speaking in the ear of a deaf 
 old lady of seventy. Tod burst out laughing 
 when we got on. 
 
 " That fellow was stealing a sly kiss in the 
 dark, Johnny." 
 
 " Like his impudence." 
 
 " Eubbish to impudence," retorted Tod. 
 "It's Christmas-tide, and all fair. Didn't you 
 see the bit of mistletoe he was holding up 1 " 
 And Tod ran on, whistling a line of a song 
 that the Squire used to sing in his young days : 
 
 '' We all love a pretty girl, under the rose." 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen left the Copse Farm with 
 hearty thanks for its hospitality. He pro- 
 mised to come again in the summer, when the 
 fields should be sweet with their mounds of 
 hay and the golden corn was ripening. 
 
 No sooner had he gone than John Drench 
 asked Jessy to promise to be his wife. Whether 
 he had felt any secret jealousy of Mr. Marcus 
 Allen and his attractions, and deemed it well 
 to secure Jessy as soon as the coast was clear, 
 he spoke out. Jessy did not receive the 
 honour kindly. She tossed her pretty head 
 in a violent rage: the idea, she said, of her 
 marrying him. Jessy had never flirted with 
 John Drench since the Aberystwith journey, 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 25 
 
 or encouraged him in any way — that much 
 was certain. There ensued unpleasantness at 
 the farm. Mr. Page decidedly approved of 
 the suitor : he alone had perceived nothing of 
 Susan's hopes : and, perhaps for the first 
 time in his life, he spoke sharply to Jessy. 
 John Drench was not to be despised, he told 
 her ; his father was a wealthy man, and John 
 would have a substantial portion ; more than 
 double enough to put him into the largest 
 and best farm in the county : Mr. Drench was 
 only waiting for a good one to fall in, to take 
 it for him. No : Jessy would not listen. And 
 as the days went on and John Drench, as she 
 said., strove to push his suit on every oppor- 
 tunity she conceived, or professed, a downright 
 aversion to him. Sadly miserable indeed she 
 seemed, crying often ; and saying she w^ould 
 rather go out to be a lady's-maid to some well- 
 born lady than stay at home to be persecuted. 
 Miss Susan was in as high a state of rapture 
 as the iniquity of false John Drench permitted ; 
 and said it served the man right for making 
 an oaf of himself. 
 
 " Let be," cried old Page of Jessy. " She'll 
 come to her senses in time." But Miss Abigail, 
 regarding Jessy in silence with her critical 
 eyes, took up the notion that the girl had 
 
26 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 some inward source of discomfort, with whicli 
 John Drench had nothing to do. 
 
 It was close upon this, hardly beyond the 
 middle of January, when one Monday evening 
 Duff ham trudged over from Church Dykely 
 to have a match at chess with the Squire. 
 Hard weather had set in ; ice and snow lay on 
 the ground. Mrs. Todhetley nursed her face 
 by the fire, for she had toothache as usual; Tod 
 watched the chess ; I was reading. In the 
 midst of a silence, the door opened, and old 
 Thomas ushered in John Drench, a huge red 
 comforter round his neck, his hat in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Good evening. Squire ; good evening, 
 ma'am," said he in his shy way, nodding sepa- 
 rately to the rest of us, as he unwound the 
 comforter. " I've come for Miss Jessy, 
 please." 
 
 " Come for Miss Jessy ! " was the squire's 
 surprised echo. " Miss Jessy's not here. Take 
 a seat, Mr. John." 
 
 " Not here \ " cried Drench, opening his 
 eyes in something like affright, and totally 
 disregarding the invitation to sit down. " Not 
 here ! Why where can she have got to ? 
 Surely she has not fallen down in the snow 
 and ice, and disabled herself ! " 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 27 
 
 " Why did you think she was here ? " 
 
 " I don't know," he replied, after a pause, 
 during which he seemed to be lost. " Miss 
 Jessy was not at home at tea : later, when I 
 was leaving for the night. Miss Abigail asked 
 me if I would come over here first and fetch 
 Jessy. I put no questions, but came ofFat once.'*^ 
 ''She has not been here," said Mrs. Todhetley. 
 " I have not seen Jessy Page since yesterday 
 afternoon, when I spoke to her coming out of 
 church." 
 
 John Drench looked about as mystified as 
 man can well look. That there must have 
 been some misapprehension on Miss Page's 
 part ; or else on his, and he had come to the 
 wrong house ; or that poor Jessy had come to 
 grief in the snow on her way to us, seemed 
 certain. He drank a glass of ale, and went 
 away. 
 
 They Avere over again at breakfast time in 
 the morning, John Drench and Miss Abigail 
 herself, bringing strange news. The latter 's 
 face turned white as she told it. Jessy Page 
 had not been found. John Drench and two of 
 the men had been out all night in the fields 
 and lanes, searching for her. Miss Abigail 
 gave us the reasons for thinking Jessy had 
 come to Dyke Manor. 
 
28 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 On the Sunday afternoon, when the Miss 
 
 Pages went home from church, Jessy, instead 
 
 of turning indoors with them, continued her 
 
 way onwards to the cottage of a poor old woman 
 
 named Matt, saying Mrs. Todhetley had told 
 
 her the old granny was very ill. At six o'clock, 
 
 when they had tea — tea was always late on 
 
 Sunday evenings, as Sally had leave to stay out 
 
 gossiping for a good hour after service — it was 
 
 discovered that Jessy had not come in. Charley 
 
 was sent out after her, and met her at the gate. 
 
 She had a chiding from her sister for staying 
 
 out after dark had fallen ; but all she said in 
 
 excuse was, that the old granny was so very 
 
 ill. That passed. On the Monday, soon after 
 
 dinner, she came down stairs with her things 
 
 on, saying she was going over to Dyke Manor, 
 
 having promised Mrs. Todhetley to let her 
 
 know the real state of Granny Matt. " Don't 
 
 thee get slipping in the snow, Jessy," said Mr. 
 
 Page to her, half jokingly. " No danger, 
 
 father," she replied : and went up and kissed 
 
 him fondly. As she did not return by tea-time. 
 
 Miss Page took it for granted she was staying 
 
 the evening with us. Since that, she had not 
 
 been seen. 
 
 It seemed very odd. Mrs. Todhetley said 
 that in talking with Jessy in the porch, she had 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 2» 
 
 incidentally mentioned the sickness of Granny 
 Matt. Jessy immediately said she would go 
 there and see her ; and if she found her very 
 ill would send word to Dyke Manor. Talk as 
 they would, there was no more to be made of it 
 than that : Jessy had quitted home to come 
 to us, and was lost by the w^ay. 
 
 Lost to her friends, at any rate, if not to 
 herself. John Drench and Miss Page departed ; 
 and all day long the search after Jessy and the 
 speculation as to what had become of her 
 continued. At first, no one had glanced at 
 anything except some untoward accident as the 
 sole likely cause, but gradually the opinions 
 veered round to a diiferent fear. They began 
 to think she might have run away ! 
 
 Eun away to escape Mr. John Drench's 
 persevering attentions ; and to seek the post 
 of lady's-maid — which she had been expressing 
 a wish for. John stated, however, that he had 
 not persecuted her ; that he had resolved to let 
 a little time go by in silence, and then try his 
 luck again. Granny Matt was questioned, and 
 declared most positively that the young lady 
 had not stayed ten minutes with her ; that it 
 was only " duskish " when she went away. 
 " Duskish " at that season, in the broad open 
 country, with the white snow on the ground, 
 
30 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 would mean about five o'clock. What had Jessy 
 done with herself during the other hour — for 
 it was past six when she got home, — and why 
 should she have excused her tardiness by im- 
 plying that Granny Matt's illness had kept 
 her ? 
 
 No one could fathom it. No one ever knew. 
 She might have gone up in a balloon and paid 
 a visit to the moon during that hour, for all 
 that was learnt to the contrary, then or in the 
 time to come. Before that first day of trouble 
 was over, John Drench suggested worse. 
 Deeply mortified at its being said that she 
 might have run away from him, he breathed a 
 hasty retort — that it was more likely she had 
 been run away with by Mr. Marcus Allen. 
 Had William Page been strong enough he had 
 certainly knocked him do^vn for the aspersion. 
 Susan heard it with a scared face : practical 
 Miss Abigail sternly demanded upon what 
 grounds he spoke. Upon no grounds in 
 particular, Drench honestly answered : it was 
 a thought that came into his mind and he spoke 
 it on the spur of the moment. Any way, it 
 was most unjust to say he had sent her. 
 
 The post-mistress at the general shop, Mrs. 
 Small, came forward with some testimony. 
 Miss Jessy had been no less than twice to the 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 31 
 
 shop during the past fortnight, nay, three 
 times, she thought, to inquire after letters 
 addressed J. P. The last time she got one. 
 Had she been negotiating privately for the 
 lady's-maid's situation, wondered Abigail : had 
 she been corresponding mth Mr. Marcus Allen, 
 retorted Susan, in her ill nature ; for she did 
 not just now hold Jessy in any favour. Mrs. 
 Smail was asked whether she had observed, 
 amid the letters dropped into the box, any 
 directed to Mr. Marcus Allen. But this had 
 to be left an open question : there might have 
 been plenty directed to him, or there might 
 not have been a single one, was the unsatis- 
 factory answer : she had " no ' call ' to examine 
 the directions, and as often did up the bag 
 without her spectacles as with 'em." 
 
 All this, put together, certainly did not tend 
 to show that Mr. Marcus Allen had anything to 
 do with the disappearance. Jessy had now and 
 then received letters from her former school- 
 fellows addressed to the post office — for her 
 sisters, who considered her but a child, had an 
 inconvenient habit of looking over her shoulder 
 while she read them. The whole family, John 
 Drench included, were up to their ears in agony : 
 they did not know in what direction to look for 
 her ; were just in that state of mind when 
 
32 THE MYS2ERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 straws are caught at. Tod, knowing it could 
 do no harm, told Miss Abigail about the kiss 
 in the coppice. Miss Abigail quite laughed at 
 it : kisses under the mistletoe were as common 
 as blackberries with us, and just as innocent. 
 She wrote to Aberystwith, asking questions 
 about Marcus Allen, especially as to where he 
 might be found. In answer, Mrs. Allen said 
 she had not heard from him since he left 
 Aberystwith, early in December, but had no 
 doubt he was in London at his own home : she 
 did not know exactly where that was, except 
 that it was " somewhere at the West End.'* 
 
 This letter w^as no more satisfactory than 
 anything else. It seemed all of a piece ; al] 
 vague and doubtful. Miss Page read it to her 
 father when he was in bed: Susan had just 
 brought up his breakfast, and he sat up with 
 the tray before him, his face nearly as white 
 as the pillow behind him. They could not 
 help seeing how ill and how shrunken he 
 looked : Jessy's loss had told upon him. 
 
 " I think, father, I had better go to London, 
 and see if any thing's to be learnt there," said 
 Miss Page. " We cannot live on, in this sus- 
 pense." 
 
 " Ay ; best go," answered he, " / can't live 
 m it, either. I've had another sleepless night : 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 33 
 
 and I wish that I was strong to travel. I 
 should have been away long ago searching for 
 the child " 
 
 " You see, father, we don't know where to 
 seek her ; there's no clue," interrupted Abigail. 
 
 " I'd have gone from place to place till I 
 found her. But now, I'll tell ye, Abigail, 
 where you must go first — the thought has been 
 in my mind all night. And that is to Madame 
 Caron's." 
 
 " To Madame Caron's ! " echoed both the 
 sisters at once. " Madame Caron's ! " 
 
 '' Don't neither of ye remember how your 
 mother used to talk of her I Ann Dicker she 
 was. She knows a sight of great folks now — 
 and it may be that Jessy's gone to her. Bond 
 Street, or somewhere near to it, is where she 
 lives." 
 
 In truth they had nearly forgotten the 
 person spoken of. Madame Caron had once 
 been plain Ann Dicker, of Church Dykely, 
 intimate with William Page and his wife. 
 She went to London when a young woman to 
 learn the millinery and dressmaking ; married 
 a Frenchman, and rose by degrees to be a 
 fashionable court milliner. It struck Mr. 
 Page, during the past night-watch, that 
 Jessy might have applied to Madame Caron 
 
 D 
 
U THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 to help her in getting a place as lady's- 
 maid. 
 
 " It's the likeliest thing she'd do," he urged, 
 
 if her mind was bent that way. " How was 
 she to find such a place of herself? — and I 
 wish we had all been smothered afore we'd 
 made her home here unhappy, and put her on 
 to think of such a thing." 
 
 " Father, I don't think her home was made 
 unhappy," said Miss Page. 
 
 " ' I should like to be a lady's-maid, father, 
 in some great duchess's family,' she says to me 
 one day," continued the sorrowful man : "and I 
 laughed, taking it for nothing but nonsense. 
 ' Thee'd soon wish th'self back at home, 
 child,' was all 1 said. Ay: she's off to 
 Madame Caron's ; little doubt on't : I can't 
 tell how it w^as I never thought of it till 
 to-night." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder but what it is so," 
 slowly spoke x\bigail, seizing on the probability 
 in her sore perplexity. 
 
 " And some of you were for taking away 
 my poor lamb's good name ! " he added, with 
 emotion. " She'd no more run away after 
 Marcus Allen, or any other Marcus, than you 
 two would run." 
 
 To resolve and to do were one with prompt 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 35 
 
 Abigail Page. Not a moment lost she, nov/ 
 that some sort of clue was afforded to act 
 upon. That same morning she was on her 
 way to London, attended by John Drench. 
 
 A large handsome double show-room. Brass 
 hooks on the walls and slender bonnet-stands 
 on the tables, garnished with gowns and 
 mantles and head-gear and fal-lals ; wide pier 
 glasses; sofas and chairs covered with chintz. 
 Except for these articles, the room was empty. 
 In a small apartment opening from it, called 
 '' the trying-on room," sat Madame Caron 
 herself, taking a comfortable cup of tea and a 
 toasted muffin, after the labours of the day 
 were over. Not that the labours were great 
 at that season: people who require court 
 millinery being mostly out of town, 
 
 " You are wanted, if you please, madame, 
 in the show-room," said a page in buttons, 
 coming in to disturb the tea. 
 
 '' Wanted ! — at this hour ! " cried Madame 
 Caron, as she glanced at the time-piece, and 
 saw it was on the stroke of six. '' Who is it ] " 
 
 " It's a lady and gentleman, madame. They 
 look like travellers." 
 
 " Go in and light the gas," said Madame. 
 
 " Passing through London and are requiring 
 
 D— 2 
 
36 THE MYSTEB.Y OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 things in a hurry," thought she, mentally 
 running through a list of some of her most 
 fashionable customers. 
 
 " She went in mth a swimming curtsey — 
 quite that of a Frenchwoman — and the parties, 
 visitors and visited, gazed at each other in the 
 gaslight. They saw a very stylish lady in rich 
 black satin that stood on end, and lappets of 
 point lace : she saw two homely country people, 
 the one in a red comforter, muffled about his 
 ears, the other in an antiquated fur tippet that 
 must originally have come out of Noah's ark. 
 
 " Mon Dieu !" inwardly ejaculated Madame, 
 who had caught up a few of her husband's 
 native sayings. 
 
 '' Is it — Madame Caron 1 " questioned Miss 
 Abigail, in hesitation. For, you see, she 
 doubted whether it might not be one of 
 Madame Caron's duchesses. 
 
 " I have the honour to be Madame Caron," 
 replied the lady with her grandest air. 
 
 Thus put at ease in regard to identity, Miss 
 Page introduced herself — and John Drench, 
 son of Mr. Drench of the Upland Farm. 
 Madame Caron — who had a good heart, and 
 retained amid her grandeur a vivid remem- 
 brance of home and early friends — came down 
 from her stilts on the instant, took off with her 
 
THE MYSTUEY OF JESSY PA GE. 37 
 
 own hands the objectionable tippet, on the plea 
 of heat, conducted them into the little room, 
 and rang for a fresh supply of tea and muffins. 
 
 " I remember you so well when you were a 
 little thing, Abigail," she said, her heart 
 warming to the old days. " We always said 
 you would grow up like your mother, and so 
 you have. Ah, dear ! that's something like a 
 quarter of a century ago. As to you, Mr. 
 John, your father and I were boy and girl 
 sweethearts." 
 
 Over the refreshing tea and the buttered 
 muffins, Abigail Page told her tale. The 
 whole of it. Her father had warned her not 
 to hint a word against Jessy ; but there was 
 something in the face before her that spoke of 
 truth and trust ; and, besides, she did not see 
 her way clear not to speak of Marcus Allen. 
 To leave him out altogether would have been 
 like bargaining for a spring calf in the dark, 
 as she said later to John Drench. 
 
 " I have never had a line from Jessy in all 
 my life : I have neither seen her nor heard 
 of her," said Madame. " As to Mr. Marcus 
 Allen, I don't know him personally myself, 
 but Miss Connaway, my head dressmaker, does : 
 for I have heard her speak of him. I can 
 soon find out for you where he lives." 
 
3o THE 2IYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 Miss Page thought she should like to see 
 the head dressmaker, and a message was sent 
 up for her. A neat little middle-aged woman 
 came down, and was invited to the tea-table. 
 Madame turned the conversation on Mr. 
 Marcus Allen; telling Miss Connaw^ay that these 
 country friends of hers knew him slightly, and 
 would be glad to get his address to call upon 
 him ; but she did not say a syllable about Jessy. 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen had about two hundred 
 a year of his own, and was an artist in water 
 colours. The certain income made him idle ; 
 and he played just as often as he worked. The 
 few pictures he completed were good, and sold 
 well. He shared a spacious painting room 
 somewhere with a brother artist, but lived in 
 chambers. All this Miss Connaway told 
 readily ; she had known him since he was a 
 child. 
 
 Late though it was. Miss Abigail and her 
 cavalier proceeded to Marcus Allen's lodgings ; 
 or "chambers," as they were ostentatiously 
 called, and found him seated at dinner. He 
 rose in the utmost astonishment at sight of 
 them ; an astonishment that looked thoroughly 
 genuine. 
 
 Jessy missing ! Jessy left her home ! He 
 could but reiterate the words in wondering: 
 
THE 3IYSTEIiY OF JESSY PA GE, 39 
 
 disbelief. Abigail Page felt reassured from 
 tliat moment; even jealous John Drench in 
 his heart acquitted him. He had not ^vritten 
 to Jessy, he said ; he had nothing to write to 
 her about, therefore it could not have been his 
 letter she went to receive at the post office; 
 and most certainly she had not written to him. 
 Miss Abigail — willing perhaps to offer some 
 excuse for coming to him — said they had 
 thought it possible Jessy might have consulted 
 him about getting a lady's-maid's place. She 
 never had consulted him, he answered, but 
 had once told him that she intended to go out 
 as one. He should imagine, he added, it was 
 what she had done. 
 
 Mr. Marcus Allen pressed them to sit down 
 and partake of his dinner, such as it was ; he 
 poured out glasses of wine ; he was altogether 
 hospitable. But they declined all. He then 
 asked how he could assist them ; he was most 
 anxious they should find her, and would help 
 towards it in any way that lay in his power. 
 
 " He knows no more about her than we 
 know," said John Drench as they turned out 
 into the lighted streets, on their way back to 
 the inn they had put up at, which had been 
 recommended to them by Mr. Page. " I'm 
 sorry I misjudged him." 
 
40 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 " I am sorry too, John Drench," was Miss 
 Abigail's sorro's\^ul answer. '' But for listening 
 to the words you said, we should never have 
 had such a mcked thought about her, poor 
 child, and been spared many a bitter moment. 
 Where in the wide world are we to look for 
 her now ? " 
 
 The wide world did not make sign of 
 answer. London, with its teeming millions, 
 was an enormous arena — and there was no 
 especial cause to suppose Jessy Page had come 
 to it. 
 
 " I am afraid it will be of no use to stay 
 here longer," said Miss Abigail to John 
 Drench, after another unsatisfactory day 
 went by, during which Marcus Allen called 
 upon them at the inn, and said he had spoken 
 to the police. It was John Drench's own 
 opinion. 
 
 " Why you see. Miss Abigail, that to look 
 for her here, not knowing where or how, is 
 like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay,'' 
 said John. 
 
 They got home none too soon. Two unex- 
 pected events were there to greet them. The 
 one was Mr. Page who was lying low in an 
 attack of paralysis; the other was a letter 
 from Jessy. 
 
TBE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 41 
 
 It gave no clue to where she was. All she 
 said in it was that she had found a situa- 
 tion, and hoped to suit and be happy in it ; 
 and she sent her love to all. 
 
 And the weeks and the months went on. 
 
 -=6- 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PxiGE. 
 Part the Second. 
 
 coming home to die. 
 
 THE snow was falling. At one of the 
 windows of the parlour at Copse Farm, 
 stood Susan Page, her bunch of short dark 
 curls fastened back with a comb on both sides 
 of her thin face, her trim figure neat in a 
 fine merino gown of crimson. Her own 
 portion of household-work was already done, 
 though it was not yet mid-day, and she was 
 about to sit down, dressed for the day, to some 
 sewing that lay on the work-table near. 
 
 " I was in hopes the snow was over : the 
 morning looked so clear and bright," she said 
 to herself, watching the large fiakes. " Leek 
 will have a job to get the truck to the 
 church." 
 
 It was a long, narrow room. At the other 
 end, by the fire, sat Mr. Page in his arm-chair. 
 He had dropped asleep, his cheek leaning on 
 his hand. As Miss Susan sat down and took 
 up her work, a large pair of scissors fell to the 
 ground with a crash. ''Hush — sh — sh ! " said 
 
THE MYSIERY 01 JESSY PAGE. 43 
 
 she softly, as if the scissors could hear, and 
 oflanced round at her father. He did not 
 wake. That stroke of a year ago had dulled 
 his faculties. 
 
 " I should uncommonly like to know who 
 did this — whether Sally or the woman," she 
 exclaimed^ examining the work she had to do. 
 One of Mr. Page's new shirts had been torn in 
 the washing, and she was about to mend the 
 rent. " That woman has a heavy hand : and 
 Sally a careless one. It ought not to have 
 been ironed." 
 
 The door opened, and John Drench came 
 in. When he saw that Mr. Page slept, he 
 walked up the room towards Miss Susan. In 
 the past twelvemonth — for that length of time 
 had rolled on since the trouble about Jessy and 
 her mysterious disappearance — John Drench 
 had had time to return to his first allegiance 
 (or, as Miss Susan mentally put it, get over 
 his folly) ; and he had decidedly done it. 
 
 " Did you want anything'? " asked Susan in 
 a cold tone. For she made a point of being 
 short with him — for his own benefit. 
 
 " I wanted to ask the master whether he'd 
 have that ditch made, that he was talking of," 
 was the answer. " There's no hurry : not much 
 to be done anywhere while this weather lasts." 
 
44 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 She made no comment. John Drench stood, 
 Avaiting for Mr. Page to wake, looking alter- 
 nately at the snow and at Miss Susan's steel 
 thimble and nimble fingers. Very deftly was 
 she doing the work, holding the linen 
 gingerly, that the well-ironed bosom and ^mst- 
 bands might not get a crease and unfit the 
 shirt for wear. He was thinking what a good 
 wife she would make : for there was nothing, 
 in the shape of usefulness, that Susan Page 
 could not put her hand to, and put it well. 
 
 " Miss Susan, I was going to ask a question 
 of you," he began, standing uncomfortably on 
 one leg. " I've been wanting to do it for this 
 good bit now, but " 
 
 " Pick up my cotton," said Miss Susan 
 tartly, dropping a reel on purpose. 
 
 "Bat I b'lieve I have wanted courage," 
 resumed he after doing as he was bid. " It is 
 a puzzling task how to do it for the best, and 
 what to say. If you " 
 
 Open flew the door, and in came IMiss Page, 
 in her thick white kitchen apron. Her go^\Ti- 
 sleeves were rolled above her elbows, her 
 floured hands were lightly wiped. John 
 Drench, struck into himself, thought he should 
 never have pluck to speak again. 
 
 " Susan, do you know where that old red 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE, 45 
 
 receipt book is] " she asked, in a low tone, 
 glancing at her sleeping father. " I am not 
 certain about the proportions for the lemon 
 cake." 
 
 "The red receipt book V repeated Susan. 
 " I have not seen it for ever so long." 
 
 " Nor I. I don't think I have had occasion 
 to use it since last Christmas Eve. I know I 
 had to look at it then for the lemon- cake. 
 Sally says she's sure it is somewhere in this 
 room." 
 
 " Then you had better send Sally to find it, 
 Abigail." 
 
 Instead of that, Miss Page began looking 
 herself. On the book-shelves ; on the side- 
 board; in all the nooks and corners. It was 
 found in the empty drawer — empty except for 
 that — of an unused table that stood against 
 the wall. 
 
 " Well, I declare ! " she exclaimed, as she 
 drew it out. " I wonder who put it in here ?" 
 
 In turning over the leaves to look for what 
 she wanted, a piece of paper, loosely folded, 
 fell to the ground. John Drench picked 
 it up. 
 
 " Why ! " he said, " it is a note from 
 Jessy." 
 
 It was the letter written to them by Jessy^ 
 
46 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 saying she had found a situation and hoped to 
 suit and be happy in it. The one letter : for 
 no other had ever come. Abigail, missing the 
 letter months ago, supposed it had got burnt. 
 
 " Yes," she said with a sigh, as she glanced 
 over the few lines now, standing by Susan's 
 work-table, "it is Jessy's letter. She might 
 have written again. Every morning of my 
 life for w^eeks and weeks, I kept looking for 
 the letter-man to bring another. But the 
 hope died out at last, for it never came." 
 
 " She is a heartless baggage ! " cried Miss 
 Susan. In her grand lady's-maid's place, amid 
 her high people, she is content to forget and 
 abandon us. I'd never have believed it 
 of her." 
 
 There ensued a pause. The subject was a 
 painful one. Mortifying too : for nobody 
 likes to be set at nought and forgotten by one 
 that they have loved and cherished and 
 brought up from a little child. Abigail Page 
 had tears in her eyes. 
 
 " It's just a year ago to-day that she cam.e 
 into the church to help us dress it," said John 
 Drench, his tender tone of regret grating on 
 Miss Susan's ear. " In her blue mantle : 
 looking sweeter and brighter than a faiiy 
 princess." 
 
TEE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 47 
 
 " Did you ever see a fairy princess, pray ? " 
 asked Miss Susan, sharply taking him up. 
 " She acted Hke a princess, didn't she." 
 
 *' Best to forget her," interposed Abigail, 
 suppressing a sigh. '' As Susan says, she is 
 heartless. Almost wicked : for what is worse 
 than ingratitude ? Never to A\Tite : never to 
 let us know where her situation is and with 
 what people : never to ask or care whether 
 her poor father, who had nothing but love for 
 her, is living or dead ? It's best to forget her." 
 
 She went out of the room with the note and 
 receipt book as she spoke, softly closing the 
 door behind her, as one does who is feeling 
 trouble. Miss Susan worked on with rapid 
 and angry stitches ; John Drench looked out 
 on the low-lying snow. The storm had passed ; 
 the sky was blue again. 
 
 Yes. Christmas Eve had come round, 
 making it just a year since Jessy in her pretty 
 blue mantle had chosen the sprays of holly in 
 the church. They had never had from her but 
 that one first unsatisfactory letter : they knew 
 no more how she went, or why she went, or 
 where she was, than they had known then. 
 No news whatever came of her : she was as a 
 myth ; as a thing that had never had any place 
 in the world. Within a week or two of the 
 
48 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 unsatisfactory journey to London of Miss 
 Abigail and John Drench, a letter came to the 
 farm from Mr. Marcus Allen, enquiring after 
 Jessy, expressing hopes that she had been 
 found and was at home again. It was not 
 answered : Miss Page, busy with her father's 
 illness, neglected it at first, and then thought 
 it did not matter. 
 
 Mr. Page had recovered from his stroke: 
 but he w^ould never be good for anything again. 
 He was very much changed ; would sit lor 
 hours and never speak : at times his daughters 
 thought him a little silly, as if his intellect 
 were failing. Miss Page, Avith John Drench's 
 help, managed the farm: though she always 
 made it a point of duty to consult her father 
 and ask for his orders. In the month of June 
 they heard again from Mr. Marcus Allen. He 
 wrote to say that he was sorry not to fulfil 
 his promise (made in the winter's ^isit) of 
 coming to stay with them during the time of 
 hay-making, but he was busy finishing a 
 painting and could not leave it : he hoped to 
 come at some other time. And this was now 
 December. 
 
 Susan Page worked on: John Drench 
 looked from the window. The young lady 
 was determined not to break the silence. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 49 
 
 "The Dunn farm is to let," said he sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Is it," slightingly returned Miss Susan. 
 
 " My father has some thoughts of taking it 
 for me. It's good land." 
 
 "No better than other land about here." 
 
 " It's very good, Susan. And just the place 
 I should like. There's a nice convenient house 
 too, on it." 
 
 Susan Page began rummaging in the deep 
 drawer of the work-table for her box of 
 buttons. She had a great mind to hum a 
 tune. 
 
 " But I couldn't take it, or let father take it 
 for me, unless you'd promise to go to it with 
 me, Susan." 
 
 " Promise to go to it with you, John 
 Drench ! " 
 
 "- I'd make you as good a husband as I know 
 how. Perhaps you'll think of it." 
 
 No answer. She was doubling her thread 
 to sew on the button. 
 
 " Will you think of it. Miss Susan 1 " 
 
 "Well — yes, I will," she said in a softer 
 tone. " And if I decide to bring my mind to 
 have you, John Drench, I'll hope to make you 
 a good and faithful wife." 
 
 He held out his hand to shake her's upon 
 
 E 
 
50 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 the bargain. Their eyes met in kindliness: 
 and John Drench knew that the Dunn Farm 
 would have its mistress. 
 
 We were going to dress the church this 
 year as we did the last. Clerk Bumford's 
 cough was bad to hear, and the old sexton was 
 laid by as usual. Tod and I got to the church 
 early in the afternoon, and saw the Miss Pages 
 wading their way through the coppice, over 
 their ankles in snow : the one lady having 
 finished her cake making and the other her 
 shirt mending. 
 
 "Is Leek not here yet! '' cried they in sur- 
 prise. " We need not have made so much 
 haste.'' 
 
 . Leek with his large truck of holly was some- 
 where on the road. He had started, as Miss 
 Page said, while they were at dinner. And 
 he was not to be seen ! 
 
 "It is all through his obstinacy," cried 
 Susan. " I told him he had better take the 
 highway, though it was a bit further round ; 
 but he said he knew he could get well through 
 the little valley. That's where he has stuck, 
 truck and all." 
 
 John Drench came up as she was speaking. 
 He had been on some errand to Church 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 51 
 
 Dykely ; and gave a bad account of the snow 
 on the roads. This was the third day of it. 
 The skies just now were blue as in spring; the 
 sun, drawing towards the west, was without a 
 cloud. After waiting a few minutes, John 
 Drench started to meet Leek and help him on ; 
 and we cooled our heels in the church-porch, 
 unable to get inside. As it was supposed 
 Leek would be there sooner than anybody 
 else, the key of the church had been given to 
 him that he might get the holly in. There 
 we waited in the cold. At last, out of patience, 
 Tod went off in John Drench's w^ake, and I 
 after him. 
 
 It was as Miss Susan surmised. Leek and 
 his truck had stuck in the valley: a low, 
 narrow neck of land connecting a by-way to 
 the farm with the lane. The snow was above 
 the wheels : Leek could neither get on nor turn 
 back. He and John Drench were hard at 
 work, pulling and pushing; and the obstinate 
 truck refusing to move an inch. With the 
 help of our strength — if mine w^as not worth 
 much. Tod's ivas — w^e got it on. But all this 
 caused ever so much delay : and the dressing 
 was begun when it ought to have been nearing 
 its ending. I could not help thinking of the 
 other Christmas Eve ; and of pretty Jessy who 
 
 E— 2 
 
52 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 had helped — and of Miss Susan's blowing her 
 up for coming in her best blue mantle — and 
 of the sudden looming in upon us of the 
 stranger, Marcus Allen. Perhaps the rest 
 were thinking about it as I was. One thing 
 was certain — that there was no liveliness in 
 this year's dressing ; we were all as silent and 
 dull as ditch-water. Charley Page, who had 
 made enough noise last year, was away this. 
 He went to school at Worcester now, and had 
 gone to spend the Christmas with some 
 people in Gloucestershire, instead of coming 
 home. 
 
 The work was in progress, when who should 
 look in upon us but Duff ham. He was passing 
 by to visit somebody ill in the cottages. 
 "Rather late, shan't you be?" cried he, seeing 
 that there was hardly any green up yet. And 
 we told him about the truck sticking in the 
 snow. 
 
 " AVhat possessed Leek to take it through 
 the valley \ " returned Duffham. 
 
 " Because he is fonder of having his own 
 way than any mule," called out Miss Susan 
 from the aisle. 
 
 Duff ham laughed. " Don't forget the gala 
 bunch over the parson's head; it looked well 
 last year," said he, turning to go out. And 
 
THE JirSTJEEY OF JESSY PAGE. 53 
 
 we told him there was no danger of forgetting 
 it : it was one of our improvements on old 
 Bumford's dressing. 
 
 The dark overtook us before half the work 
 was done. There was nothing for it but to 
 get candles from the Copse Farm to finish by. 
 Nobody volunteered to fetch them : a walk 
 through the snow did not look lively in 
 prospective to any one of us, and Leek had 
 gone off somewhere. " I suppose it must be 
 me,'' said John Drench, coming out from 
 amidst the holly to start: when Miss Page 
 suddenly bethought herself of what the rest 
 of us were forgetting — that there might be 
 candles in the church. On a winter's after- 
 noon, when it grew dark early and the parson 
 could not see through his spectacles to finish 
 his sermon. Clerk Bumford would go stumping 
 into the place under the belfry, and re-appear 
 with a lighted candle and hand it up to the 
 pulpit. He ought to have a stock of candles 
 in store. 
 
 John Drench struck some matches, and we 
 went to explore Bumford's den — a place dimly 
 lighted by the open slits in the belfry above. 
 The first thing seen was his black gown 
 hanging up, next a horn lantern on the floor 
 and the grave-digging tools, then an iron 
 
54 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 candlestick with an end of candle in it, then a 
 stick half a mile lono^ that he menaced the 
 boys with if they laughed in church ; and next 
 a round tin candlebox on a nail in the wall. 
 It was a prize. 
 
 There were ten candles in it. Ten ! Leaving 
 one, in case it should be wanted on the morrow 
 afternoon, the nine others were set alight. 
 One was put into the iron candlestick, the rest 
 we stuck upright in dropped dabs of tallow, 
 wherever one was wanted : how else could 
 they be set up ? It was a grand illumination : 
 and we laughed over Clerk Bumford's dismay 
 when he should find his store of candles 
 gone. 
 
 That took time: finding the candles, and 
 dropping the grease, and talking and laugh- 
 ing. In the midst of it the clock struck 
 five. Upon that. Miss Abigail told us 
 to hinder no more time, or the work would 
 not be done by midnight. So we set to with 
 a will. In a couple of hours all the dressing 
 was finished, and the branches were ready to 
 be hung over the pulpit. John Drench felt for 
 the string. He seemed to take his time over it. 
 
 '• Where on earth is it I " cried he, searching 
 his pockets. " I'm sure I brought some." 
 
 He might have brought it ; but it was 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 55 
 
 certain he had not got it then. Miss Abigail, 
 who had no patience with carelessness, told 
 him rather sharply that if he had put 
 it in his pockets at all, there it would be 
 now. 
 
 " Well, I did," he answered, in his quiet 
 way. " I put it in on purpose. I'm sure I 
 don't know where it can have got to." 
 
 And there we were : at a standstill for a bit 
 of string. Looking at one another like so 
 many helpless noodles, and the flaring candles 
 nearly come to an end ! Tod said, tear a strip 
 off the tail of Bumford's gown ; he'd never 
 miss it : for which Miss Abigail gave it him 
 as sharply as if he had proposed to tear it off' 
 the parson's. 
 
 '^I might get a bit of string at old Bum- 
 ford's," I said. " In a few minutes I'll be 
 back with it." 
 
 It was one of the lightest nights ever seen : 
 the air clear, the moon bright, the ground 
 white with snow. Rushing round the north 
 and unfrequented side of the church, where 
 the grass on the graves was long and nobody 
 ever walked, save old Bumford when he 
 wanted to cut across the near way to his 
 cottage, I saw something stirring against the 
 church wall. Something dark: that seemed 
 
66 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 to have been looking in at the window, and 
 now crouched down with a sudden movement 
 in the corner made by the buttress, as if afraid 
 of being seen. 
 
 " Is that you, Leek ? " I called out. 
 
 There was no answer : no movement : 
 nothing but a dark heap lying low. I thought 
 it might be a fox ; and crossed over to look. 
 
 Well — I had had surprises in my life, but 
 never one that so struck upon me as this. 
 Foxes don't wear women's clothes : this thing 
 did. I pulled aside the dark covering cloak, 
 and a face stood out white and cold in the 
 moonlight — the face of Jessy Page. 
 
 You may fancy it is a slice of romance this; 
 made up for effect out of my imagination : but 
 it is the real truth, as everybody about the 
 place can testify to, and its strangeness is 
 talked of still. Yet there are stranger coin- 
 cidences in life than this. On Christmas 
 Eve, a year before, Jessy Page had been help- 
 ing to dress the church, in her fine blue 
 mantle, in her beauty, in her light-hearted 
 happiness: on this Christmas Eve when we 
 were dressing it again, she reappeared. But 
 how changed ! Wan, white, faint, thin ! 
 I am not sure that I should have known her 
 but for her voice. Shrinking, as it struck 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 57 
 
 me, with shame and fear, she put up her 
 trembling hands in supplication. 
 
 " Don't betray me ! — don't call out ! " she 
 implored in weak, feverish, anxious tones. 
 " Go away and leave me. Let me lie here 
 unsuspected until they have all gone 
 away." 
 
 What ought I to do ] I was just as be- 
 wildered as it's possible for a fellow to be. 
 It's no exaggeration to say that I thought her 
 dying: and it would never do to leave her 
 there to die. 
 
 The stillness was broken by a commotion. 
 While she lay with her thin hands raised, and 
 I was gazing down on her poor face, wonder- 
 ing what to say, and how to act. Miss Susan 
 came flying round the corner after me. 
 
 " Johnny Ludlow ! Master Johnny ! Don't 
 go. There's no need. We have found the 
 string under the unused holly. Why ! — 
 what's that I " 
 
 No chance of concealment for Jessy 
 now. Susan Page made for the buttress, 
 and saw the white face lying in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 " It's Jessy," I whispered. 
 
 With a shriek that might have scared away 
 all the ghosts in the churchyard, Susan Page 
 
58 THE MYSIERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 called out for Abigail. They heard it through 
 the window, and came rushing out, thinking 
 Susan must have fallen at least into the fangs 
 of a winter wolf. Miss Susan's voice shook 
 as she spoke : spoke in a whisper. 
 
 '' Here's Jessy — come back at last ! " 
 
 Disbelieving Abigail Page went down on 
 her knees in the snow to trace the features, 
 and convince herself. Yes, it was Jessy. She 
 had fainted now, and lay motionless. Leek 
 came up then, and stood staring. 
 
 Where had she come from ] — how had she 
 got there'? It was just as though she had 
 dropped from the skies with the snow. And 
 what was to be done with her? 
 
 " She must — come home," said Abigail. 
 
 But she spoke hesitatingly, as though some 
 impediments might lie in the way: and she 
 looked round in a dreamy manner on the open 
 country, all so white and dreary in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 " Yes, there's no other place — of course it 
 must be the farm," she added. " Perhaps 
 you can bring her between you. But I'll go 
 on and speak to my father first." 
 
 It was easy for one to carry her, she was so 
 thin and light. John Drench lifted her and 
 they all went off: leaving me and Leek to 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 59 
 
 finish up in the church, and put out the 
 guttering candles. 
 
 William Page was sitting in his favourite 
 place, the wide chimney-corner of the kitchen, 
 quietly smoking his pipe, when his daughter 
 broke in upon him with the strange news. 
 Just in the same way that, a year before, she 
 had broken in upon him with that other news 
 — that a gentleman had arrived, uninvited, on 
 a visit to the farm. This news was more 
 startling than that. 
 
 " Are they bringing her home 1 — how long 
 will they heV cried the old man with feverish 
 eagerness, as he let fall his long churchwarden 
 pipe, and broke it. " Abigail, will they be 
 long 1 " 
 
 " Father, I want to say something : 1 came 
 on to say it," returned Miss Page, and she was 
 tremblino^ too. "I don't like her face: it is 
 wan, and thin, and full of suffering: but 
 there's a look in it that — that seems to tell of 
 shame." 
 
 " To tell of what '? " he asked, not catching 
 the word. 
 
 " May heaven forgive me if I misjudge her ! 
 The fear crossed me, as I saw her lying there, 
 that her life may not have been innocent since 
 she left us : why else should she come back in 
 
60 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 this most strange way? Must we take her in 
 all the same, father \ " 
 
 " Take her in ! " he repeated in amazement. 
 *' Yes. What are you thinking of, child, to 
 ask it ? " 
 
 " It's the home of me and Susan, father : it 
 has been always an honest one in the sight of 
 the neighbours. May be, they'll be hard upon 
 us for receiving her into it." 
 
 He stared as one who does not under- 
 stand, and then made a movement with his 
 hands, as if warding off her words and the 
 neighbours' hardness together. 
 
 " Let her come, Abigail ! Let her come, 
 poor stray lamb. Christ wouldn't turn away a 
 little one that had strayed from the fold : 
 should her own father do it ? " 
 
 And when they brought her in, and put her 
 in an easy-chair by the sitting-room fire, stir- 
 ring it into a hot blaze, and gave her hot tea 
 and brandy in it, William Page sat down by 
 her side, and shed fast tears over her, as he 
 fondlv stroked her hand. 
 
 Gay and green looked the church on 
 Christmas morning, the sun shining in upon 
 us as brightly as it shone a year before. 
 The news of Jessy Page's return and the 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 61 
 
 curious manner of it, had spread; causing the 
 congregation to turn their eyes in natural 
 instinct on the Pages' pew„ Perhaps not one 
 but recalled the last Christmas — and the gal- 
 lant stranger who had sat in it, and found the 
 places in the prayer-book for Jessy. Only Mr. 
 Page was there to-day. He came slowly in 
 with his thick stick — for he walked badly 
 since his illness, and dragged one leg behind 
 the other. Before the thanksgiving prayer the 
 parson opened a paper and read out a notice. 
 Such things were uncommon in our church, 
 and it caused a stir. 
 
 " William Page desires to return thanks to 
 Almighty God for a great mercy vouchsafed 
 to him." 
 
 We walked to the Copse Farm with him 
 after service. Considering that he had been 
 returning thanks, he seemed dreadfully sub- 
 dued. He didn't know how it was yet ; where 
 she had been, or why she had come home in 
 the manner she did, he told the Squire; but, 
 anyway, she had come. Come to die, it might 
 be, but come home^ and that was enough. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley went upstairs to see her. 
 They had given her the best bed, the one they 
 had put Marcus Allen in. She lay in it like a 
 lily. — It was what Mrs. Todhetley said when 
 
62 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 she came down: "like a lily, so white and 
 delicate." — There was no talking. Jessy 
 mostly kept her eyes shut and her face 
 turned away. Miss Page whispered that they 
 had not questioned her yet ; she seemed too 
 weak to bear it. " But what do you thinJcl " 
 asked Mrs. Todhetley in return. " I am 
 afraid to think," was all the answer. In 
 coming away, Mrs. Todhetley stooped over 
 the bed to kiss her. 
 
 " Oh don't, don't ! " said Jessy faintly : " you 
 might not if you knew all. I am not worth 
 it." 
 
 " Perhaps I should kiss you all the more, my 
 poor child," answered Mrs. Todhetley. And 
 she came downstairs with red eyes. 
 
 But Miss Susan Page was burning with 
 impatience to know the ins and outs of the 
 strange affair. Naturally so. It had brought 
 more scandal and gossip on the Copse Farm 
 than even the running away of the year before. 
 That was bad enough : this was worse. Alto- 
 gether Jessy was the home's heartsore. ]\lr. 
 Page spoke of her as a lamb, a wanderer 
 returned to the fold, and Susan heard it with 
 compressed lips : in her private opinion, she 
 had more justly been called an ungrateful 
 girl. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 08 
 
 *' Now then, Jessy ; you must let us know a 
 little about yourself,'^ began Susan on this 
 same afternoon when she was with her alone, 
 and Jessy lay apparently stronger, refreshed 
 with the dinner and the lono^ rest. Abigail 
 had gone to church with Mr. Page. Susan 
 could not remember that any of them had gone 
 to church before on Christmas day after the 
 morning service : but there was no festive 
 gathering to keep them at hom.e to day. 
 Unconsciously, perhaps, Susan resented the 
 fact. Even John Drench was dining at his 
 father's. " Where have you been all this 
 while in London ? " 
 
 Jessy suddenly lifted her arm to shade her 
 eyes ; and remained silent. 
 
 " It is in London, I conclude, that you have 
 been? Come: answer me." 
 
 " Yes," said Jessy faintly. 
 
 " And where have you been ? In what part 
 of it ]— who with % " 
 
 " Don't ask me," was the low reply, given 
 with a sob of pain. 
 
 ''Not ask you! But we must ask vou. 
 And you must answer. Where have you been, 
 and what have you been doing ] " 
 
 " I — can't tell," sobbed Jessy, catching up 
 her breath. " The story is too long." 
 
64 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 
 
 Story too long ! " echoed Susan quickly, 
 you mighxt say in half a dozen words — and 
 leave close explanation until to-morrow. Did 
 you find a place in to^vn % " 
 Yes, I found a place." 
 A lady's-maid's place 1 — as you said." 
 
 Jessy turned her face to the wall, and never 
 spoke. 
 
 " Now, this won't do," cried Miss Susan, not 
 choosing to be thwarted : and no doubt Jessy, 
 hearing the determined tone, felt something 
 like a reed in her hands. " Just you tell me 
 a little." 
 
 " I am very ill, Susan ; I can't talk much," 
 was the pleading excuse. " If you'd only let 
 me be quiet." 
 
 " It will no more hurt you to say in a few 
 words where you have been than to make 
 excuses that you can't say," persisted Miss 
 Susan, giving a flick to the skirt of her new 
 puce silk gown. " Your conduct altogether 
 has been most extraordinary, quite baffling to 
 us at home, and I must hear some explanation 
 of it." 
 
 " The place I went to was too hard for me,'^ 
 said Jessy after a pause, speaking out of the 
 pillow. 
 
 " Too hard ! " 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 65 
 
 " Yes ; too hard. My heart was breaking 
 with its hardness, and 1 couldn't stop in it. 
 Oh, be merciful to me, Susan! don't ask 
 more." 
 
 Susan Page thought that when mysterious 
 answers like these were creeping out, there 
 was all the greater need that she should ask 
 more. 
 
 " Who found you the place at first, Jessy '\ " 
 
 Not a word. Susan asked again. 
 
 " I — got it through an advertisement," said 
 Jessy at length." 
 
 Advertisements in those days, down in our 
 rural district, were looked upon as wonderful 
 things, and Miss Susan opened her eyes in 
 surprise. A faint idea pervaded her that Jessy 
 could not be telling the truth. 
 
 " In that letter that you wrote to us ; the 
 only one you did write ; you asserted that you 
 liked the place.'^ 
 
 " Yes. That was at first. But afterwards 
 — oh, afterwards it got cruelly hard." 
 
 " Why did you not change it for another 1 " 
 
 Jessy made no answer. Susan heard the 
 sobs in her throat. 
 
 " Now, Jessy, don't be silly. I ask why you 
 did not get another place, if you were unable 
 to stay in that one % " 
 
66 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 " I couldn't have got another, Susan. I 
 would never have got another." 
 
 " Why not 1 " persisted Susan. 
 
 " I — I — don't you see how weak I am % " 
 she asked with some energy, showing her face 
 for a moment to Susan. 
 
 And its wan pain, its depth of anguish, 
 disarmed Susan. Jessy looked like a once fair 
 blossom on which a blight had passed. 
 
 "Well, Jessy, we will leave these matters 
 until later. But there's one thing you must 
 answer. What induced you to take this 
 disreputable mode of coming back % " 
 
 A dead silence. 
 
 " Could you not have "written to say you 
 were coming, as any sensible girl would, that 
 you might have been properly met and 
 received] Instead of appearing like a vaga- 
 bond, to be picked up by anybody." 
 
 "I never meant to come home — to the 
 house." 
 
 " But why ? " asked Susan. 
 
 " Oh because — because of my ingratitude 
 in running away — and never ^vriting — and — 
 and all that." 
 
 "That is, you were ashamed to come and 
 face us." 
 
 "Yes, I was ashamed," said Jessy, shivering. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 67 
 
 " And no wonder. Why did you go % " 
 
 Jessy gave a despairing sigh. Leaving that 
 question in abeyance, Susan returned to the 
 former one. 
 
 " If you did not mean to come home, what 
 brought you down here at all ] " 
 
 " It didn't matter where I went. And my 
 heart was yearning for a look at the old place 
 — and so I came." 
 
 " And if we had not found you under the 
 church wall — and we never should but for 
 Johnny Ludlow's running out to get some 
 string — where should you have gone, pray \ " 
 
 " Crawled under some haystack, and let the 
 cold and hunger kill me." 
 
 " Don't be a simpleton,'^ reproved Susan. 
 
 *' I wish it had been so," returned Jessy. 
 "Pd rather be dying there in quiet. Oh, Susan, 
 I am ill ; I am indeed ! Let me be at peace ! " 
 
 The appeal shut up Susan Page. She did 
 not want to be too hard. 
 
 Mr. Duff ham came in after church. Abigail 
 had told him that she did not like Jessy's looks ; 
 nor yet her cough. He went up alone, and 
 was at the bedside before Jessy was aware. 
 IShe put up her hand to hide her face, but not 
 in time : Duffham had seen it. Doctors don't 
 get shocks in a general way : they are too 
 
 F— 2 
 
68 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 familiar with appearances that frighten other 
 people : but he started a little. If ever he saw 
 coming death in a face, he thought he saw it 
 in that of Jessy Page. 
 
 He drew away the shading hand, and looked 
 at her. Duifham was pompous on the whole 
 and thought a good deal of his gold-headed 
 cane, but he was a tender man with the sad 
 and sick. After that, he sat down and began 
 asking her a few things — where she had been, 
 and what she had done. Not out of curiosity, 
 or quite with the same motive that Miss 
 Susan had just asked ; but because he -wished 
 to find out whether her illness was more on the 
 body or the mind. She would not answer. 
 Only cried softly. 
 
 " My dear," said Dufiham, " I must have 
 you tell me a little of the past. Don't be 
 afraid : it shall go no further. If you only knew 
 the strange confidences that are sometimes 
 placed in me, Jessy, you would not hesitate." 
 
 No, she would not speak of her own accord, 
 so he began to pump her. Doing it very kindly 
 and soothingly : had Jessy spent her year in 
 London robbing all the banks, one might 
 have thought she could only have yielded 
 to his wish to come to the bottom of it. Duff- 
 ham listened to her answers, and sat with a 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 69 
 
 puzzled face. She told him what she had 
 told Susan : that her post of lady's-maid had 
 been too hard for her and worn her to what 
 she was ; that she had shrunk from return- 
 ing home on account of her ingratitude, and 
 should not have returned ever of her own 
 will. But she had yearned for a sight of the 
 old place, and so came down by rail, and 
 walked over after dark. In passing the 
 church she saw it lighted up ; and lingered, 
 peeping in. She never meant to be seen; 
 she should have gone away somewhere before 
 morning. Nothing more. 
 
 Nothing more ! DufFham sat listening to her. 
 He pushed back the pretty golden hair (no 
 more blue ribbons in it now), lost in thought. 
 
 " Nothing more, Jessy '? There must have 
 been something more, I think, to have brought 
 you into this state. What was it '? " 
 
 "No," she faintly said: "only the hard 
 work I had to do ; and the thought of how I 
 left my home ; and — and my unhappiness. I 
 was unhappy always, nearly from my first 
 entering. The work was hard." 
 
 " What was the workT' 
 
 " It was " 
 
 A long pause. Mr. Duffham, always look- 
 ing at her, waited. 
 
70 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 " It was sewing ; dress-making. And — there 
 was sitting up at nights." 
 
 "Who was the lady you served'? What 
 was her name V 
 
 " I can't tell it," answered Jessy, her cheeks 
 flushing to a mid hectic. 
 
 The surgeon suddenly turned the left hand 
 towards him, and looked at the forefinger. 
 It was smooth as ivory. 
 
 " Not much sign of sewing there, Jessy." 
 
 She drew it under the clothes. " It is 
 some little time since I did any ; I was too 
 sick," she answered. " Mr. Duffham, I have 
 told you all there is to tell. The place was 
 too hard for me, and it made me ill." 
 
 It was all she told. Duffham w^ondered 
 whether it was, in substance, all she had to 
 tell. He went down and entered the parlour 
 with a grave face : Mr. Page, his daughters, 
 and John Drench were there. The doctor 
 said Jessy must have perfect rest, tranquillity, 
 and the best of nourishment ; and he would 
 send some medicine. Abigail put a shawl 
 over her head, and walked with him across 
 the garden. 
 
 "You will tell me what your opinion is, 
 Mr. Duffham." 
 
 " Ay. It is no good one. Miss Abigail." 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 71 
 
 " Is she very ill?" 
 
 " Very. In so far as that I do not think 
 she will materially rally. Her chest and 
 lungs are both weak." 
 
 "Here mother's were before her. As I 
 told you, Jessy looks to me just as my mother 
 used to look in her last illness." 
 
 Mr. Duffham went through the gate with- 
 out saying more. The snow was sparkhng 
 like diamonds in the moonlight. 
 
 "I think I gather what you mean," re- 
 sumed Abigail. "That she is, in point of 
 fact, dying." 
 
 " That's it. As I truly believe." 
 
 They looked at each other in the clear light 
 air. "But not — surely, Mr. Duffham, not 
 immediately I " 
 
 "Not immediately. It may be weeks off 
 yet. Mind — I don't assert that she is abso- 
 lutely past hope; I only think it. It is 
 possible that she may rally, and recover." 
 
 " It might not be the happier for her," said 
 Abigail, under her breath. "She is in a 
 curiously miserable state of mind — as you no 
 doubt saw. Mr. Duffham, did she tell you 
 anything] " 
 
 . " She says she took a place as lady's-maid ; 
 that the work proved too hard for her ; and 
 
72 TEE MTSTEEY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 that, with the remorse for her ingratitude 
 towards her home, made her ill." 
 
 " She said the same to Susan this afternoon. 
 Well, we must wait for more. Good night, 
 Mr. Duffham ; I am sure you will do all you 
 can." 
 
 Of course Duifham meant to do all he 
 could ; and from that time he began to attend 
 her regularly. 
 
 Jessy Pages' coming home, with, as Miss 
 Susan had put it, the vagabond manner of it, 
 was a nine days' wonder. The neighbours 
 went making calls at the Copse Farm, to talk 
 about it and to see her. In the latter hope 
 they failed. Jessy showed a great fear of 
 seeing any one of them; would put her head 
 under the bed-clothes and lie there shaking 
 till the house was clear; and Duifham said 
 she was not to be crossed. 
 
 Her sisters got to know no more of the past. 
 Not a syllable. They questioned and cross- 
 questioned her; but she only stuck to her 
 text. It was the work that had been too 
 much for her ; the people she served were 
 cruelly hard. 
 
 " I really think it must be so ; that she has 
 nothing else to tell," remarked Abigail to 
 Susan one morning, as they sat alone at 
 
THi: MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 73 
 
 breakfast. " But she must have been a down- 
 right simpleton to stay." 
 
 " I can't make her out," returned Susan, 
 hard of belief. " Why should she not say 
 where it was, and who the people are? Here 
 comes the letter man." 
 
 The letter man — as he was called — was 
 bringing a letter for Miss Page. Letters at 
 the Copse Farm were rare, and she opened 
 it with curiosity. It proved to be from Mrs. 
 Allen of Aberystwith ; and out of it dropped 
 two cards, tied together with silver cord. 
 
 Mrs. Allen wrote to say that her distant 
 relative, Marcus, was married. He had been 
 married on Christmas Eve to a Miss Mary 
 Goldbeater, a rich heiress, and they had sent 
 her cards. Thinking the Miss Pages might 
 like to see the cards (as they knew something 
 of him) she had forwarded them. 
 
 Abigail took the cards up. " Mr. Marcus 
 Allen. Mrs. Marcus Allen." And on hers 
 was the address: "Gipsy Villas, Montgomery 
 Road, Prompt on.'' " I think he might have 
 been polite enough to send us cards also," 
 observed Abigail. 
 
 Susan put the cards on the waiter when she 
 went upstairs with her sister's tea. Jessy, 
 looking rather more feverish than usual in a 
 
74 THE MYSTERY OF JESST PAGE. 
 
 morning, turned the cards about in her slender 
 hands. 
 
 " I have heard of her, this Mary Gold- 
 beater," said Jessy, biting her parched lips. 
 " They say she's pretty, and — and very rich." 
 
 " Where did you hear of her '? " asked 
 Susan. 
 
 " Oh, in — let me think. In the work- 
 room." 
 
 *■' Now what do you mean by that I " cried 
 Miss Susan, catching at the words. " A 
 work-room implies a dressmaker's establish- 
 ment, and you tell us you were a lady's-maid." 
 
 Jessy seemed unable to ansAver. 
 
 " I don't believe you were at either the one 
 place or the other. You are deceivmg us, 
 Jessy." 
 
 " No," gasped Jessy. 
 
 " Did you ever see Mr. Marcus Allen when 
 you were in town]" 
 
 " Mr. Marcus Allen 1 " repeated Jessy after 
 a pause, just as if she were unable to recall 
 who Mr. Marcus Allen was. 
 
 " The Mr. Marcus Allen you knew at 
 Aberystwith ; he who came here afterwards," 
 went on Susan impatiently. " Are you losing 
 your memory, Jessy % " 
 
 " No, I never saw the Marcus Allen I knew 
 
TRE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 75 
 
 here — and there," was Jessy's answer, her face 
 white and still as death. 
 
 " Why I — Did you know any other Marcus 
 Allen, then?" questioned Susan, in surprise. 
 For the words had seemed to imply it. 
 
 " No," replied Jessy. " No." 
 
 " She seems queerer than usual — 1 hope 
 her mind's not going," thought Susan. " Did 
 you ever go to see Madame Caron, Jessy, while 
 you were in London \ " 
 
 " Never. Why should I ? I didn't know 
 Madame Caron." 
 
 " When Marcus Allen wrote to excuse 
 himself from visiting us in the summer, he 
 said he would be sure to come later," resumed 
 Susan. "I wonder if he will keep his promise." 
 
 " No — never," answered Jessy. 
 
 " How do you know ] " 
 
 " Oh — I don't think it. He'd not care to 
 come. Especially now he's married." 
 
 " And you never saw him in to^vn, Jessy ? 
 Never even met him by chance % " 
 
 " I've told you — No. Do you suppose I 
 should be likely to call upon Marcus Allen \ 
 As to meeting him by chance, it is not often I 
 went out, I can tell you." 
 
 "Well, sit up and take your breakfast,'^ 
 concluded Susan. 
 
76 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 A thought had crossed Susan Page's mind — 
 whether this marriage of Marcus Allen's on 
 Christmas Eve could have had anything to do 
 with Jessy's return and her miserable unhappi- 
 ness. It was only a thought ; and she drove it 
 away again. As Abigail said, she had been 
 inclined throughout to judge hardly of Jessy. 
 
 The winter snow lay on the ground still, 
 when it became a question not of how many 
 weeks Jessy would live, but of days. And 
 then she confessed to a secret that pretty 
 nearly changed the sober Miss Pages' hair 
 from black to grey. Jessy had turned Roman 
 Catholic. 
 
 It came out through her persistent refusal 
 to see the parson, Mr. Holland, a little man 
 with shaky legs. He'd go trotting up to the 
 Copse Farm once or twice a week ; all in vain. 
 Miss Abigail w^ould console him with a good 
 hot jorum of sweet elder wine, and then he'd 
 trot back again. One day Jessy, brought to 
 bay, confessed that she was a Roman Catholic. 
 
 There was grand commotion. John Drench 
 went about, his hands lifted in the frosty air ; 
 Abigail and Susan Page sat in the bedroom 
 with (metaphorically speaking) ashes on their 
 heads. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 77 
 
 People have their prejudices. It was not 
 so much that these ladies wished to cast re- 
 flection on good Catholics born and bred, as 
 that Jessy should have abandoned her own 
 religion, just as though it had been an in- 
 adequate faith. It was the slight on it that 
 they could not bear. 
 
 " Miserable girl ! " exclaimed Miss Susan, 
 looking upon Jessy as a turncoat, and there- 
 fore next door to lost. And Jessy told, through 
 her sobs, how it had come to pass. 
 
 Wandering about one evening in London 
 when she was very unhappy, she entered a 
 catholic place of worship styled an ''Oratory." 
 — The Miss Pages caught up the word as 
 " oratorio," and never called it anything else. — 
 There a priest got into conversation with Jessy. 
 He had a pleasant, kind manner that won upon 
 her and drew from her the fact that she was 
 unhappy. Become a Catholic, he said to her ; 
 it w^ould bring back her happiness : and he 
 asked her to go and see him again. She 
 went again ; again and again. And so, going 
 and listening to him, she at length did 
 turn, and was received by him into his 
 church. 
 
 " Are you the happier for it ? " sharply 
 asked Miss Abigail. 
 
78 THE IIYYTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 " No," answered Jessy with distressed eyes. 
 ^' Only — only " 
 
 " Only what, pray % " 
 
 " Well, they can absolve me from all sin." 
 
 " Oh, you poor foolish misguided child ! " 
 cried Abigail in anguish ; " you must take your 
 sins to the Saviour : He can absolve you, and 
 He alone. Do you want any third person to 
 stand between you and Him ? " 
 
 Jessy gave a sobbing sigh. " It's best as it 
 is, Abigail. Anyway, it is too late now." 
 
 " Stop a bit," cried sharp Miss Susan. " I 
 should like to have one thing answered, Jessy. 
 You have told us how hard you were kept to 
 work : if that was so, pray how did you get 
 leisure to be dancing abroad to Oratorios ? " 
 Come I " 
 
 Jessy could not, or would not, answer. 
 
 " Can you explain that I " said Miss Susan, 
 some sarcasm in her tone. 
 
 " I went out sometimes in an evening," 
 faltered Jessy. And more than that could not 
 be drawn from her. 
 
 They did not tell Mr. Page : it would have 
 distressed him too much. In a day or two 
 Jessy asked to see a priest. Miss Abigail flatly 
 refused, on account of the scandal. As if their 
 minister was not good enough ! 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 79 
 
 One afternoon I was standing by Jessy's 
 bed- — for Miss Abigail had let me go up to see 
 her. Mrs. Todhetley, that first day, had said 
 she looked like a lily : she was more like one 
 now. A faded lily that has had all its bright- 
 ness washed out of it. 
 
 " Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow," she said, open- 
 ing her eyes, and putting out her feeble hand. 
 *' I shall not see you again." 
 
 "I hope you Avill, Jessy. I'll come over 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Never again in this world." And I had to 
 lean over to catch the words, and my eyes were 
 full. 
 
 " In the next world there'll be no parting, 
 Jessy. We shall see each other there." 
 
 " I don't know,'^ she said. '' You will be 
 there, Johnny ; I can't teU whether I shall be. 
 I turned Koman Catholic, you see ; and Abigail 
 won't let a priest come. And so — I don't 
 know how it will be." 
 
 The words struck upon me. The Miss Pages 
 had kept the secret too closely for news of it 
 to have come abroad. It seemed worse to me 
 to hear it than to her to say it. But she had 
 got too weak to feel things strongly, 
 
 " Good-bye, Johnny." 
 
 " Good-bye, Jessy dear," I whispered. "Don't 
 
80 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 
 
 fear : God will be sure to take you to Heaven 
 if you ask Him." 
 
 Miss Abigail got it out of me — what she had 
 said about the priest. In fact, I told. She 
 was very cross. 
 
 " There ; let it drop, Johnny Ludlow. John 
 Drench is gone off in the gig to Coughton to 
 bring one. All I hope and trust is, that they'll 
 not be back until the shades of night have 
 fallen to hide the earth ! I'd not like a 
 priest to be seen coming into tliis door. Such 
 a reproach on good IVIr. Holland ! I'm sure I 
 trust it will never get about ! " 
 
 We all have our prejudices, I repeat. And 
 not a soul amongst us for miles round had 
 found it necessary to change religions since the 
 Reformation. 
 
 Evening was well on when John Drench 
 brought him in. A mild-faced man, wearing 
 a scull-cap under his broad-brimmed hat. He 
 saw Jessy alone. Miss Page would not have 
 made a third at the interview though they had 
 bribed her to it — and of course they'd not have 
 had her. It was quite late when he came 
 down. Miss Page stopped him as he was 
 going out, after declining refreshment. 
 
 " I presume, sir, she has told you all about this 
 past year — that has been so mysterious to us T' 
 
THE MYSTERY OE JESSY PAGE. 81 
 
 " Yes ; I think all," replied the priest. 
 
 " Will you tell me the particulars I " 
 
 "I cannot do that," he said. "They have 
 been given to me under the seal of confes- 
 sion." 
 
 " Only to me and to her sister Susan," 
 pleaded Abigail. " We will not even disclose 
 it to our father. Sir, it would be a true kind- 
 ness to us, and it can do her no harm. You 
 do not know what our past doubts and distress 
 have been." 
 
 But the priest shook his head. He was very 
 sorry to refuse, he said, but the tenets of his 
 church forbade his speaking. And Miss Page 
 thought he was sorry, for he had a benevolent 
 face. 
 
 "Best let the past lie," he gently added. 
 " Suffice it to know that she is happy now, 
 poor child, and will die in peace." 
 
 They buried her in the churchyard beside 
 her mother. When the secret got about, some 
 said it was not right — that she ought to have 
 been taken elsewhere, to a graveyard pertaining 
 to the other faith. Which would just have 
 put the finishing stroke on old Page — broken 
 all of his heart there was left to break. The 
 Squire said he didn't suppose it mattered in the 
 
82 THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. 
 
 sight of God : or would make much difference 
 at the Last Day. 
 
 And that ended the life of Jessy Page : and, 
 in one sense, its episode of mystery. Nothing 
 more was ever heard or known of where she 
 had been or what she had done. Years have 
 gone by since ; and William Page is lying by 
 her. Miss Page and Charley live on at the 
 Copse Farm ; Susan has been Mrs. John Drench 
 ages ago. Her husband, a man of substance 
 now, was driving her into Alcester last Tuesday 
 (market-day) in his four-wheeled chaise, two 
 buxom daughters in the back seat. I nodded 
 to them from Mr. Brandon's window. 
 
 There's nothing more to tell. The mystery 
 of Jessy Page (as we grew to call it) remained 
 a mystery. It remains one to this day. What 
 the secret was — if there was a secret — why she 
 went in the way she did, and came back in what 
 looked like shame and fear and trembling, a 
 dying girl — has not been solved. It never 
 will be in this world. Some old women put it 
 all do^\Ti to her having changed her religion 
 and been afraid to tell: while Miss Abigail 
 and Miss Susan have never got rid of a vague 
 doubt, touching Marcus Allen. But it may be 
 only their fancy ; they admit that, and say to 
 one another when talking of it privately, that 
 
THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PA GE. 83 
 
 it is not right to judge a man without cause. 
 He keeps a carriage-and-pair now, with servants 
 outside it ; and gives dinners, and has handsome 
 daughters gromng up ; and is altogether grand, 
 quite up to the present style of expensive life 
 in London. 
 
 And I never go into church on a Christmas 
 morning — whether it may be decorated in our 
 simple country fashion, green with its branches 
 of holly, or in accordance with your new 
 "artistic" achievements, great in flowers of many 
 colours and tawdry scrolls — but I think of Jessy 
 Page. Of her sweet face, her simplicity, and 
 her want of guile : and of the poor wan wreck 
 that came back, broken-hearted, to die. 
 
 ■^>^^s^^ — 
 
 G— 2 
 
CRABB HAVINE. 
 
 THE STRANGE MAN. 
 
 YES! HaUoa! What is it T' 
 To be woke up short by a knocking, 
 or other noise, in the night, is enough to make 
 you start in bed, and stare round in confusion. 
 The room was dark, save for the light that 
 always glimmers in at the window on a 
 summer's night, and I listened and waited 
 for more. Nothing came : it was all as 
 silent as the grave. 
 
 We were staying at Crabb Cot. I had 
 gone to bed at half-past nine, dead tired after 
 a day's fishing. The Squire and Tod were 
 away; Mrs. Todhetley went over to the 
 Coneys' after tea, and did not seem in a hurry 
 to come back. They fried one of the fish I 
 had caught for my supper; and after that, 
 there being nobody to speak to, I went to bed. 
 
 It was a knocking that had woke me out of 
 my sleep : I was sure of that. And it sounded 
 exactly as though it were at the ^vindow — 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 85 
 
 which was very improbable. Calling out 
 again to know who was there, and what was 
 wanted — but not very loudly, because the 
 children slept mthin earshot — and getting no 
 answer, I lay down again, and was all but 
 asleep when the noise came a second time. 
 
 It was at the dining-room window, right 
 underneath mine. There could be no mistake. 
 The ceilings of the old-fashioned house were 
 low ; the Avindows were very near each other, 
 and mine was down at the top. I thought it 
 time to jump from the bed, and take a look 
 out." 
 
 " Well, I was surprised ! Instead of its being 
 the middle of the night, it must be quite early 
 still; for the lamp was yet alight in the 
 dining-room. It was a cosy kind of room, 
 Avith a bow window abutting on the garden, 
 whose middle compartment opened to the 
 ground lengthways, as French windows do. 
 My window Avas a bow also, and close above 
 the other. Throwing it up, I looked round. 
 
 There was not a soul to be seen. And the 
 knocking could not have been from within, 
 because the inside shutters were shut : they 
 did not cover the top panes, and the light of 
 the lamp gleamed through them on the mul- 
 berry tree. As I leaned out, wondering, the 
 
86 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 tinkling old clock at North Crabb church 
 began to tell the hour. I counted the strokes, 
 one by one — ten. Only ten o'clock ! And I 
 thought I had been asleep half the night. 
 
 All in a moment I caught sight of some- 
 body moving slowly away. He was keeping 
 in the shade; close to the shrubs that en- 
 circled the lawn, as if not caring to be seen. 
 A short, thin man, in dark clothes and round 
 black felt hat. "Who he was, and what he 
 wanted, was more than I could imagine. It 
 could not be a robber. Robbers don't come 
 to houses with a knock before their people 
 have gone to bed. 
 
 The small side-gate gave a bang, and Mrs. 
 Todhetley came in. Old Coney's farm was but 
 a stone's-throw off, and she had run home by 
 herself. We people in the country think no- 
 thing of being abroad alone at night. The man 
 emerged from the shade, and put himself right 
 into her path, on the gravel walk. They stood 
 there together. I could see him better now : 
 there was no moon, but the night was light ; 
 and it flashed into my mind that he was the 
 same man 1 had seen Mrs. Todhetley with in 
 the morning, as I went across the fields, with 
 my rod and line. She was at the stile, about 
 to descend into the Eavine, when he came up 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 87 
 
 from it, and accosted her. He was a stranger ; 
 wearing a seedy, shabby, black coat ; and I 
 had wondered what he wanted. They were 
 still talking together when I got out of sight, 
 for I turned to look. 
 
 JSTot for long did they stand now. The 
 gentleman went away ; she came scuttering on 
 with her head down, a soft kerchief of wool 
 tied over her cap. In all North Crabb, nobody 
 was so fearful of catching cold in the face as 
 Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 " Who was it? " I called out, when she was 
 underneath the window: which seemed to 
 startle her considerably, for she gave a spring 
 back, right on to the grass. 
 
 " Johnny ! how you frightened me ! What 
 are you looking out at ? " 
 
 " At that fellow who has just taken himself 
 off. Who is he ? " 
 
 " I do believe you have got on nothing but 
 vour nightshirt ! You'll be sure to take cold, 
 ^hut the window do^vn, and get into bed." 
 
 Four times over, in all, had I to ask about 
 le man before I got an answer. Now it was 
 t.e nightshirt, now the catching cold, now the 
 oen window and the damp air. She always 
 wnted to be as tender over us as though we 
 wre chickens. 
 
88 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 " The man that met me in the path?" she 
 got to, at length. " He made some excuse for 
 being here : was not sure whose house it was, I 
 think he said : had turned in by mistake to the 
 wrong one." 
 
 " That's all very fine ; but, not being sure, 
 he ought to mind his manners. He came 
 rapping at the dining-room window like any- 
 thing, and it woke me up. Had you been at 
 home, sitting there, good mother, you might 
 have been startled out of your seven senses." 
 
 "So I should, Johnny. The Coneys would 
 not let me come away : they had friends with 
 them. Good-night, dear. Shut down that 
 window." I 
 
 She went on to the side-door. I shut the 
 window down, opened it at the top, and let the 
 white curtain drop before it. It was an hour 
 or two before I got to sleep, and had the man 
 and the knocking in my thoughts all the while., 
 
 " Don't say anything about it in the house, 
 Johnny," Mrs. Todhetley said to me, in th^ 
 morning. " It might alarm the children." S^ 
 I promised her I would not. 
 
 Tod came home at midday, not the Squin 
 and the first thing I did was to tell him. J\ 
 not have broken faith with the Mother for t] 
 world ; not even for Tod ; but it never entei^ 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 89 
 
 my mind that she wished me to keep it an 
 entire secret, except from those, servants or 
 others, who might be likely to repeat it before 
 Hugh and Lena. I cautioned Tod. 
 
 " Confound his impudence 1 " cried Tod. 
 "" Could he not be satisfied with disturbing the 
 house by the door at night, but he must make 
 it the window] I msh I had been at home." 
 
 Crabb Ravine lay to the side of our house, 
 beyond the wide field. It was a regular 
 wilderness. The sharp descent began in that 
 three-cornered grove, of which you've heard 
 before, for it was where Daniel Ferrar hung 
 himself; and the wild, deep, mossy dell, about 
 as wide as an ordinary road, went running along 
 below, soft, and green, and damp. Towering 
 banks, sloping backwards, rose on either side ; 
 a mass of verdure in summer ; of briars, brown 
 and tangled, in winter. Dwarf shrubs, tall 
 trees, blackberry and nut bushes, sweet-briar 
 and broom clustered there in wild profusion. 
 Primroses and violets peeped up when spring 
 came in; blue bells and cowslips, dog-roses, 
 woodbine, and lots more sweet flowers, came 
 later. Few people would descend except by 
 the stile opposite our house and the proper zig- 
 zag path leading down the side bank, for a fall 
 might have snapped limbs, besides bringing 
 
90 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 one's pantaloons to grief. No houses stood 
 near it, except ours and old Coney's ; and the 
 field bordering it just here on this side be- 
 longed to Squire Todhetley. If you went do^vn 
 the zigzag path, turned to the right, walked 
 along the E-avine some way, and then up 
 another zigzag on the opposite side, you 
 came soon to Timberdale, a small place in 
 itself, but our nearest post-town. The high- 
 road to Timberdale, winding past our house 
 from South Crabb, was double the distance, 
 so that people might sometimes be seen in 
 the Ravine by day ; but nobody cared to 
 go near it at evening, as it had the reputation 
 of being haunted. A mysterious light might 
 sometimes be observed there at night, dodging 
 itself about the banks, where it w^ould be rather 
 difficult for human legs to walk : some said it 
 was a will-o'-the-wisp, and some said a ghost. It 
 was a regular difficulty to get even a farm servant 
 to go the near way to Timberdale after dark. 
 
 One morning, when I was running through 
 the Ravine with Tod in search of Tom Coney, 
 we came slap against a man, who seemed to be 
 sneaking there, for he turned short off, amidst 
 the underwood, to hide himself. I knew him 
 by his hat. 
 
 " Tod, that's the man," I w^hispered. 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 91 
 
 " What man? He from the moon, Johnny ? " 
 
 " The one that came knocking at the window 
 three nights ago." 
 
 " Oh !" said Tod, carelessly. " He looks like 
 a fellow who comes out with begging petitions." 
 
 It might have been an hour after that. We 
 had come up from the Ravine, on our side of 
 it, not having seen or spoken to a soul, except 
 Luke Mackintosh. Tod told me to stay and 
 waylay Coney if he made his appearance, while 
 he went again to the farm in search of him. 
 Accordingly, I was sitting on the fence (put 
 there to hinder the cattle and sheep from 
 getting over the brink of the E-avine), throw- 
 ing stones and whistling, when I saw Mrs, 
 Todhetley cross the stile to go down the zigzag. 
 She did not see me : the fence could hardly be 
 got to for trees, and I was hidden. 
 
 Just because I had nothing to do, I watched 
 her as she went; tall, thin, and light in figure, 
 she could spin along nearly as quick as we. 
 The zigzag path went in and out, sloping along 
 sideways on the bank until it brought itself to 
 the dell at a spot a good bit beyond me as I 
 looked do^vn, finishing there with a high, 
 rough step. Mrs. Todhetley took it with a 
 spring. 
 
 What next ! In one moment the man with 
 
92 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 the black coat and hat had appeared from 
 somewhere, and put himself in front of her 
 parasol. Before I could quit the place, and 
 leap down after her, a conviction took me that 
 the meeting was not accidental : and I rubbed 
 my eyes in wonder, and thought I must be 
 dreaming. 
 
 The summer air was clear as crystal ; not a 
 bee's hum just then disturbed its stillness. 
 Detached words ascended from where they 
 stood ; and now and again a whole sentence. 
 She kept looking each way as if afraid to be 
 seen ; and so did he, for that matter. The 
 colloquy seemed to be about money. I caught 
 the word two or three times ; and Mrs. 
 Todhetley said it was " impossible." " I must, 
 and I will have it," came up distinctly from 
 him in answer. 
 
 "What's tliat, Johnny?" 
 
 The interruption came from Tod. All my 
 attention absorbed in them, he stood at my 
 elbow before I knew he was near. When I 
 would have answered, he suddenly put his 
 hand upon my mouth for silence. His face 
 had a proud anger on it as he looked down. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley seemed to be using entreaty 
 to the man, for she clasped her hands in a 
 piteous manner, and then turned to ascend tlie 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 93 
 
 zigzag. He followed her, talking very fast. 
 As to me, I was in a regular sea of marvel, 
 understanding nothing. Our heads were 
 amidst the bushes, hardly to be distinguished 
 from them, even if she had looked up. 
 
 " No," she said, turning round upon him ; 
 and they were near us then, half way up the 
 path, so that every word was audible. " You 
 must not venture to come to the house, or near 
 the house. I would not have Mr. Todhetley 
 know of this for the world : for your sake as 
 well as his." 
 
 " Todhetley's not at home," was the man's 
 answer : and Tod gave a growl as he heard it. 
 
 " If he is not, his son is," said Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. " It would be all the same ; or worse." 
 
 " His son's here," roared out passionate Tod. 
 "What the deuce is the meaning of this, 
 sir % " 
 
 The man shot down the path like an arrow. 
 Mrs. Todhetley — who had been walking on, 
 seeming not to have caught the words, or to 
 know whose the voice was, or where it came 
 from — gazed round in all directions, her 
 countenance curiously helpless. She ran up 
 the rest of the zigzag, and went swiftly home 
 across the field. Tod disentangled himself 
 from the brambles, and drew a long breath. 
 
n CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 "I think it's time that we went now, Johnny." 
 It was not often he spoke in that tone. He 
 had always been at war tacitly with Mrs. 
 Todhetley, and was not likely to favour her 
 now. Generous though he was by nature, 
 there could be no denying that he took up 
 a^vful prejudices. 
 
 " It is something about money. Tod." 
 " I don't care what it is about — the fellow 
 has no business to be prowling here, on my 
 father's grounds ; and he shan't be, without 
 my knowing what it's for. I'll watch Madam's 
 movements." 
 
 " What do you think it can mean % " 
 "Mean! Why, that the individual is some 
 poor relation of hers, come to drain as much 
 of my father's money out of her as he can. 
 She is the one to blame. I wonder how she 
 dare encourage him ! " 
 
 " Perhaps she can't help herself." 
 " Not help herself 1 Don't show yourself a 
 fool, Johnny. An honest-minded, straight- 
 forward woman would appeal to my father in 
 any annoyance of this sort, or to me, in his 
 absence, and say ' Here's So-and-so come 
 down upon us, asking for help, can we give it 
 him? — and there's no doubt the Squire would 
 give it him ; he's soft enough for anything." 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 95 
 
 It was of no use contending. I did not see it in 
 quite that light, but Tod liked his o^vn opinion. 
 He flung up his head with a haughty jerk. 
 
 " You have tried to defend Mrs. Todhetley 
 before, in trifling matters, Johnny ; don't 
 attempt it now. Would any good woman, 
 say any lady^ if you ^vill, subject herself to this 
 kind of thing ? — hold private meetings mth a 
 man — allow him to come tapping at her 
 sitting-room window at night 1 No ; not 
 though he were her own brother." 
 
 " Tod, it may be her brother. She'd not do 
 anything wrong willingly." 
 
 " Shut up, Johnny. She never had a 
 brother." 
 
 Of course I shut up forthwith, and went 
 across the field by Tod's side in silence, his 
 strides wide enough for ten indignant men, his 
 head aloft in the air. Mrs. Todhetley was hear- 
 ing Lena read when we got in, and looked as if 
 she had never been abroad that morning. 
 
 Some days went on. The man remained 
 near, for he was seen occasionally, and the 
 servants began to talk. One remarked upon 
 him, wondering who he was ; another remarked 
 upon him, speculating on what he did there. 
 In a quiet country place, a dodging stranger 
 
96 CBABB BAVINE. 
 
 excites curiosity, and this one dodged about as 
 much as ever the ghost's light did. If you 
 caught sight of him in the three-cornered 
 plantation, he'd vanish forthwith to appear 
 next in the Ravine ; if he stood peering out 
 from the trees on the bank, and found him- 
 self observed, the next minute he'd be stoop- 
 ing amidst the thick broom on the other 
 side. 
 
 This came to be observed, and was thought 
 strange, naturally ; Hannah, who was often 
 out with Hugh and Lena, saw him mostly, 
 and she talked to the other servants. One 
 evening, when we were finishing dinner, the 
 glass doors of the bow-window being open, 
 Hannah came back with the children. They 
 ran across the grass-plat after the fawn — one 
 we had, just then — and Hannah sat do\^Ti in the 
 porch of the side-door to wait. Old Thomas 
 had just drawn the slips from the table, and 
 went through the passage to the side-door to 
 shake them. 
 
 " I say," cried Hannah's voice, " I saw that 
 man again." 
 
 " Where \ " asked Thomas, between his 
 shakes of the linen, which we could hear 
 distinctly. 
 
 " In the old place — the Ravine. He was 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 97 
 
 sitting on the stile at the top of the zigzags 
 as cool as might be." 
 
 " Did you speak to him ? I should, if I 
 came across the man ; and ask what his 
 business might be in these parts." 
 
 " I didn't speak to him," returned Hannah. 
 " I'd rather not. There's no knowing the 
 answer one might get, Thomas, or what it is 
 he's looking after. He spoke to the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 '' What did he say to them?" 
 
 " Asked if they'd go away with him to 
 some beautiful coral islands over the sea, and 
 catch pretty birds, and parrots, and monkeys. 
 He called them by their names, too — ' Hugh ' 
 and ' Lena.' I should like to know how he 
 got hold of tliemr 
 
 " I can't help thinking that he belongs to 
 them engineering folks who come spying for 
 no good on people's land : the Squire won't 
 like it if they cut a railroad through here," 
 said Thomas, and the supposition did not 
 appear to please Hannah. 
 
 " Why you must be as silly as a gobbling 
 turkey, old Thomas ! Engineers have no need 
 to hide themselves as if they were afraid of 
 being took up for murder. He has got about 
 as much the cut of an engineer as you have, 
 
 H 
 
98 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 and no more : they don't go about looking like 
 Methodist parsons run to seed. My opinion 
 is that he's something of that sort." 
 
 " A Methodist parson ! " 
 
 '' No ; not anything half so respectable. If 
 I spoke out my thoughts, though, I daresay 
 you'd laugh at me." 
 
 " Not I," said Thomas. " Make haste. I 
 forgot to put the claret jug on the table." 
 
 " Then I've got it in my head that he is one 
 of them seducing Mormons. They appear in 
 neighbourhoods without the smallest warning, 
 lie there partly concealed by day, and go 
 abroad at night persuading all the likely 
 women and girls to join their sect. My sister 
 told me about it in a letter she wrote me only 
 three days ago. There has been a Mormon 
 down there ; he called himself a saint, she 
 says ; and when he went finally away he 
 took fifteen young women with him. Fifteen, 
 Thomas ! and after only three weeks' persua- 
 sion ! It's as true as that you've got that 
 damask cloth in your hand." 
 
 Nothing further was heard for a minute. 
 Then Thomas spoke. " Has the man here 
 been seen talking with young women 1 " 
 
 " Who is to know] They take care not to 
 be seen ; that's their craft. And so you see, 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 99 
 
 Thomas, I'd rather steer clear of the man, and 
 not give him the opportunity of trying his 
 arts on me. I can tell him it's not Hannah 
 Baber that would be cajoled off to a barbarous 
 desert at the tail of a man who had got fifteen 
 other wives beside ! — Lord help the women 
 for geese ! Miss Lena " (raising her voice to 
 a scream), " don't you tear about after the 
 fawn like that ; you'll put yourself into a 
 pretty heat." 
 
 "I'd look him up when I came home, if I 
 were the Squire," said Thomas, who evidently 
 took it all gravely in. " We don't want a 
 Mormon on the place." 
 
 " If he were not a Mormon, which I'm 
 pretty sure he is, I should say he was a kid- 
 napper of children," went on Hannah. " After 
 we had got past him ever so far, he managed 
 to 'tice Hugh back to him at the stile, gave 
 him a sugar-stick, and said he'd take him aAvay 
 if he'd go. It struck me he'd like to kidnap 
 him. Miss Lena, then, I won't have it ! look 
 at your hat on the grass. You'll get a face 
 like the full moon." 
 
 Tod, sitting at the foot of the table in the 
 Squire's place, had listened to all this deli- 
 berately, showing that he listened. Mrs. 
 Todhetley, opposite to him, her back to the 
 
 H— 2 
 
100 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 light, had tried, in a feeble manner, once or 
 twice, to drown the sounds by saying some 
 thing. But when urgently wanting to speak, 
 we often can't ; and her efforts died away 
 helplessly. She looked miserably uncomfort- 
 able ; she seemed conscious of Tod's feeling in 
 the matter ; and when Hannah wound up -with 
 the bold assertion touching the kidnapping of 
 Hugh, she gave a start of alarm, which left 
 her face white. 
 
 " Who is this man that shows himself in 
 the neighbourhood I " asked Tod, putting the 
 question to her in a slow, marked manner, his 
 dark eyes, stern then, fixed on hers. 
 
 " Johnny, those cherries don't look ripe. 
 Try the summer apples." 
 
 It was of no use at any time trying to put 
 aside Tod. Before I had answered her that 
 the cherries were ripe enough for me. Tod 
 began at her again. 
 
 " Can you tell me who he is ? " 
 
 " Dear me, no," she faintly said. " I can't 
 tell you anytiiing about it." 
 
 " Nor w^hat he wants ] " 
 
 " No. Won't you take some w-ine, 
 Joseph? " 
 
 " I shall make it my business to inquire, 
 then,'* said Tod, disregarding the wine and 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 101 
 
 everything else. "The first time I come 
 across the man, unless he gives me a perfectly 
 satisfactory answer as to what he may be doing 
 here on our land, I'll horsewhip him. Mrs. 
 Todhstley put the trembling fingers of her left 
 hand into the finger-glass, and dried them. I 
 don't believe she knew what she was about 
 more than a baby. 
 
 "The man is nothing to you, Joseph. 
 Why should you interfere with him? " 
 
 " I shall interfere because my father is not 
 here to do it," he answered, in his least 
 compromising tones. " An ill-looking stranger 
 has no right to be prowling mysteriously 
 amidst us at all. But when it comes to 
 knocking at windows at night, to waylaying — 
 people — in solitary places, and to exciting 
 comments from the servants, it is time some- 
 body interfered to know the reason of it." 
 
 I am sure he had been going to say you ; 
 but mth all his prejudice he never was inso- 
 lent to Mrs. Todhetley, when face to face ; and 
 he substituted " people." Her pale blue eyes 
 had the saddest light in them you can well 
 conceive, and yet she tried to look as though 
 the matter did not concern her. Old Thomas 
 came in with the folded damask slips, little 
 thinking he and Hannah had been overheard, 
 
102 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 put them in the drawer, and set things straight 
 on the sideboard. 
 
 "What time tea, ma'am?" he asked. 
 
 " Any time," answered Mrs. Todhetley. 
 '' 1 am going over to Mr. Coney's, but not to 
 stay. Or perhaps you'll go for me presently, 
 Johnny, and ask whether Mrs. Coney has come 
 home," she added, as Thomas left the room. 
 
 I said I'd go. And it struck me that she 
 must want Mrs. Coney very particularly, for 
 this would make the fifth time I had gone 
 on the same errand within a week. On the 
 morning following that rapping at the window, 
 Mrs. Coney got news that Mrs. West, her 
 married daughter, was ill, and she started at 
 once by the rail to Worcester to visit her. 
 
 " I think I'll go and look for the fellow 
 now," exclaimed Tod, rising from his seat and 
 making for the window. But Mrs. Todhetley 
 rose too, like one in mortal fright, and put 
 herself in his way. 
 
 " Joseph," she said, " I have no authority 
 over you ; you know that I have never 
 attempted to exercise any since I came home 
 to your father's house ; but I must ask you to 
 respect my wishes now." 
 
 *' What wishes?" 
 
 "That you w^ill refrain from seeking this 
 
CRABB RIVIXE. 103 
 
 stranger : that you will not speak to or accost 
 him in any way, should you and he by chance 
 meet. I have good reasons for asking it." Tod 
 stood stock-still, neither saying Yes nor Xo ; 
 only biting his lips in the anger he strove to 
 keep down. 
 
 " Oh, very well," said he, going back to his 
 seat. " Of course, as you put it in this light, 
 I have no alternative. A night's delay cannot 
 make much difference, and my father will be 
 home to-morrow to act for himself." 
 
 " You must not mention it to your father, 
 Joseph. You must keep it from him." 
 
 " I shall tell him as soon as he comes 
 home." 
 
 '' Tell him what ? What is it that you 
 suspect? What would you tell him? " 
 
 Tod hesitated. He had spoken in random 
 heat ; and found, on consideration, he was 
 without a case. He could not complain to 
 his father of her : in spite of his hasty temper, 
 he was honourable as the day. Her apparent 
 intimacy with the man would also tie his 
 tongue as to him, whomsoever he might be. 
 
 " You must be quite aware that it is not a 
 pleasant thing, or a proper thing, to have this 
 mysterious individual encouraged here," he 
 said, looking at her. 
 
104 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 " And you think I encourage liinij Joseph?" 
 
 " Well, it seems that you — that you must 
 know who he is. I saw you talking with him 
 one day in the Eavine," continued Tod, 
 disdaining not to be perfectly open, now it had 
 come to an explanation. " Johnny was with 
 me. If he is a relative of yours, why, of 
 course " 
 
 " He is no relative of mine, Joseph." And 
 Tod opened his eyes wide to hear the denial. 
 It was the view he had taken all along. 
 
 " Then why do you suffer him to annoy you? 
 — and I am sure he does do it. Let me deal 
 with him. I'll soon ascertain what his business 
 may be." 
 
 " But that is just what you must not do," 
 she said, seeming to speak out the truth in 
 very helplessness, like a frightened child. 
 " You must please leave him in my hands, 
 Joseph : I shall be able, I dare say, to — to — 
 get rid of him shortly." 
 
 " You know what he wants ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid I do. It is quite my 
 affair ; and you must take no more notice of 
 it: above all, you must not say anything to 
 your father." 
 
 How much Tod was condemning her in his 
 heart perhaps he'd not have cared to tell ; but 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 105 
 
 he could but be generous, even to his step- 
 mother. 
 
 " I suppose I must understand that you are 
 in some kind of trouble?" 
 
 " Indeed I am." 
 
 " If it is anything in which I can help you, 
 you have but to ask me to do it," he said. 
 But his manner was lofty as he spoke, his 
 voice had a hard ring in it. 
 
 " Thank you very much, Joseph," was the 
 meek, grateful answer. '' If you will only take 
 no further notice, and say nothing to your 
 father when he comes home, it will be 
 sufficiently helping me." 
 
 Tod strolled out ; just as angry as he could 
 be ; and I ran over to the Farm. Jane Coney 
 had got a letter from her mother by the after- 
 noon post, saying she might not be home for 
 some days to come. 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Todhetley that I am sorry to 
 have to send her bad news over and over 
 again," said Jane Coney, who was sitting in 
 the best kitchen, with her muslin sleeves 
 turned up, and a big apron on, stripping fruit 
 for jam. The Coneys had brought up their 
 girls sensibly, not to be ashamed to make 
 themselves thoroughly useful, in spite of their 
 good education, and the fair fortune they'd 
 
106 CBABB RAVINE. 
 
 have. Mary was married ; Jane engaged to 
 be. I sat on the table by her, eating away at 
 the fruit. 
 
 " What is it that Mrs. Todhetley wants with 
 my mother, Johnny \ " 
 
 " As if I knew!" 
 
 " I think it must be something urgent. 
 When she came in, that morning, only five 
 minutes after mamma had driven off, she was 
 so terribly disappointed, saying she would give 
 a great deal to have spoken to her first. My 
 sister is not quite so well again; that's why 
 mamma is staying longer." 
 
 " I'll tell her, Jane." 
 
 " By the way, Johnny, what's this they are 
 saying — about some strange man being seen 
 here \ A special constable, peeping after bad 
 characters % " 
 
 " A special constable ? " 
 
 Jane Coney laughed. " Or a police officer 
 in disguise. It is what one of our maids 
 told me." 
 
 " Oh," I answered, carelessly, for somehow 
 I did not like the words ; " you must mean a 
 man that is looking at the land; an engineer." 
 
 "Is that all?" cried Jane Coney. "How 
 foolish people are ! " 
 
 It was a kind of untruth, no doubt; but I 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 107 
 
 should have told a worse in the necessity. I 
 did not like the aspect of things; and they 
 puzzled my brain unpleasantly all the way 
 home. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley was at work by the window 
 when I got there. Tod had not made his 
 re- appearance ; Hugh and Lena were in bed. 
 She dropped her work when I gave the 
 message. 
 
 " Not for some days to come yet ! Oh, 
 Johnny ! " 
 
 " But what do you want with her?" 
 
 " Well, I do want her. I want a friend 
 just now, Johnny, that's the truth ; and I 
 think Mrs. Coney would be one." 
 
 " Joe asked if he could help you ; and you 
 said 'No.' Can I?" 
 
 " Johnny, if you could, there's no one in 
 the world I'd rather ask. But you cannot." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Because " — she smiled for a moment — 
 " you are not old enough. If you were — of 
 age, say — why then I would." 
 
 I had hold of the window-frame, looking at 
 her, and an idea struck me. '' Do you mean 
 that I should be able then to command 
 money? " 
 
 "Yes, that's it, Johnny." 
 
108 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 " But, perhaps — if I were to write to Mr. 
 Brandon " 
 
 " Hush!" she exclaimed in a kind of fright. 
 "You must not talk of this, Johnny; you 
 don't know the sad mischief you might do. 
 Oh, if I can but keep it from you all ! Here 
 comes Joseph," she added in a whisper ; and 
 gathering up her work, went out of the 
 room. 
 
 Did I not make a sign to you to come after 
 me? " began Tod, in one of his tempers. 
 
 " But I had to go over to the Coneys'. I've 
 only just got back." 
 
 He looked into the room and saw that it 
 was empty. " Where's Madam gone ? To 
 the Ravine after her friend?" 
 
 " She was here sewing not a minute ago." 
 
 "Johnny, she told a lie. Did you notice 
 the sound of her voice when she said the 
 fellow was no relative of hers ? " 
 
 "Not particularly." 
 
 " I did, then. At the moment the denial 
 took me by surprise ; but I remembered the 
 tone later. It had an untrue ring in it. 
 Madam told a lie, Johnny, as sure as that we 
 are here: I'd lay my life he is a relative of 
 hers, or a connection in some way. I don't 
 think now it is money he wants ; if it were 
 
CRABB RAVINE. IO9. 
 
 only that, she'd get it, and send him packing. 
 It's worse than that : disgrace, perhaps." 
 
 " What sort of disgrace can it be ? " 
 
 "I don't know. But if something of the 
 sort is not looming, never trust me again. 
 And here am I, with my hands tied, forbidden 
 to unravel it. Johnny, I feel just like a wild 
 beast barred up in a cage." 
 
 Had he been a real wild beast he could not 
 have given the window-frame a much worse 
 shake, as he passed through in his anger to the 
 bench under the mulberry-tree. 
 
 When you have to look far back to things, 
 the recollection sometimes gets puzzled as to 
 the order in which they happened. How it 
 came about I am by no means clear, but an 
 uncomfortable feeling grew up in my mind 
 about Hugh. About both the children, in fact, 
 but Hugh more than Lena. Mrs. Todhetley 
 seemed to dread Hugh's being abroad — and 
 I'm sure I was not mistaken in thinkinor 
 it. I heard her order Hannah to keep the 
 children within view of the house, and not to 
 allow Hugh to stray away from her. Had it 
 been winter weather I suppose she'd have kept 
 them in-doors entirely ; there could be no 
 plea for it under the blue sky and the hot 
 summer sun. 
 
110 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 The Squire came home; he had been stay- 
 ing some time with friends in Gloucestershire; 
 but ]\Irs. Coney did not come — although Mrs. 
 Todhetley kept sending me for news. Twice 
 T saw her talking to the strange man ; who I 
 believed made his abode in the Ravine. Tod 
 watched, as he had threatened to do ; and 
 would often appear with dra\vn-in lips. There 
 was active w^arfare between him and his step- 
 mother : at least if you can say that when both 
 kept silence. As to the Squire, he observed 
 nothing, and knew nothing: and nobody 
 enlightened him. It seems a long while, I 
 dare say, when reading of this, as if it had 
 extended over a month of Sundays; but I 
 don't think it lasted much more than a fort- 
 night in all. 
 
 One evening, quite late, when the sun was 
 setting, and the Squire was smoking his pipe 
 on the lawn, talking to me and Tod, Lena and 
 her mother came in at the gate. In spite of 
 the red rays lighting up Mrs. Todhetley's face, 
 it struck me that I had never seen it look 
 more careworn. Lena put her arms on Tod's 
 knee, and began telling about a fright she had 
 had : of a big toad that leaped out of the grass, 
 and made her scream and cry. She cried 
 ^' because nobody was with her." 
 
CRABB RAVINE. Ill 
 
 "Where was mamma?" asked Tod; but I 
 am sure he spoke without any ulterior thought. 
 
 " Mamma had gone to the zigzag stile to 
 talk to the man. She told me to wait for her." 
 
 " What man? " cried the Squire. 
 
 " Why the man," said Lena, logically. " He 
 asks Hugh to go with him over the sea to see 
 the birds and the red coral." 
 
 If any one face ever turned whiter than 
 another, Mrs. Todhetley's did then. Tod 
 looked at her, sternly, ungenerously ; and her 
 eyes fell. She laid hold of Lena's hand, saying 
 it was bed-time. 
 
 "What man is the child talking about?" 
 the Squire asked her. 
 
 " She talks about so many people," rather 
 faintly answered Mrs. Todhetley. " Come, 
 Lena, dear ; Hannah's waiting for you. Say 
 good-night." 
 
 The Squire, quite unsuspicious, thought no 
 more. He got up and walked over to the beds 
 to look at the flowers, holding his long church- 
 warden's pipe in his mouth. Tod put his 
 back against the tree. 
 
 "It is getting complicated, Johnny." 
 "What is?" 
 
 " What is ! Why Madam's drama. She is 
 afraid of that hinted-at scheme of her friend's 
 
112 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 — the carrying-off Master Hugh beyond the 
 
 seas." 
 
 He spoke in satire. ") you think so?" 
 I returned. 
 
 " Upon my word and honour I do. She 
 must be an idiot ! I should like to give her a 
 good fright." 
 
 " Tod, I think she is frightened enough 
 without our giving her one." 
 
 " I think she is. She must have caught up 
 the idea from overhearing Hannah's gossip 
 with old Thomas. This afternoon Hugh was 
 running through the little gate with me ; 
 Madam came flying over the lawn and begged 
 me not let him out of my hand, or else to leave 
 him indoors. But for being my father's wife, 
 I should have asked her if her common-sense 
 had gone wool-gathering." 
 
 " I suppose it has, Tod. Fancy a kidnapper 
 in these days ! The curious thing is, that she 
 should fear anything of the sort." 
 
 " If she really does fear it. I tell you, 
 Johnny, the performance is growing compli- 
 cated ; somewhat puzzling. But I'll see it 
 played out if I live." 
 
 The week went on to Friday. But the 
 afternoon was over, and evening set in, before 
 the shock fell upon us : Hugh loas missing. 
 
CRABB RAVINB. 113 
 
 The Squire had been out in the gig, taking 
 me ; and it seems they had supposed at home 
 that Hugh war nth us. The particulars of 
 Hugh's disappearance, and what had happened 
 in the day, I will relate further on. 
 
 The Squire thought nothing : he said Hugh 
 must have got into Coney's house or some 
 other neighbour's house: and sat down to 
 dinner, wondering why so much to-do was made. 
 Mrs. Todhetley looked scared to death ; and 
 Tod tore about as if he were wild. The servants 
 were sent here, the out-door men yonder : it 
 was like a second edition of that day in War- 
 wickshire when we lost Lena: like it, only 
 worse, more of commotion. Hannah boldly 
 said to her mistress that the strange man must 
 have carried off the boy. 
 
 Hour after hour the search continued. With 
 no result. Night came on, and a bright moon 
 to light it up. But it did not light up Hugh. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley, a dark shawl over her head, 
 and I dare say a darker fear over her heart, 
 went out for the second or third time towards 
 the Ravine. I ran after her. We had nearly 
 reached the stile at the zigzag, when Tod came 
 bounding over it. 
 
 " Has not the time for shielding this man 
 one by, think you ? " he asked, placing himself 
 
 <> 
 
114 CItABB RAVINE. 
 
 in Mrs. Todhetley's path, and speaking as coolly 
 as he was able for the agitation that shook 
 him. And why Tod, with his known careless- 
 ness, should be so moved, I could not fathom. 
 
 " Joseph, I do not suppose or think the 
 man knows anything of Hugh ; I have my 
 reasons for it," she answered, bearing on for 
 the stile, and leaning over it to look down into 
 the Kavine's darkness. 
 
 " Will you give me permission to inquire 
 that of himself ? " 
 
 " You will not find the man. He is gone." 
 
 " Leave the finding him to me," persisted 
 Tod. " Will you withdraw the embargo you 
 laid upon me? " 
 
 " No, no," she whispered, " I cannot do it." 
 
 The trees had an uncommonly damp feel in 
 the night air, and the place altogether looked 
 as weird as could be. I was away then in the 
 underwood ; she looked down always into the 
 Ravine and called Hugh's name aloud. 
 Nothing but echo answered. 
 
 " It has appeared to me for several days that 
 you have feared something of this," Tod said, 
 trying to get a full view of her face. " It might 
 have been better for — for all of us — if you had 
 allowed me at first to take the affair in hand." 
 
 " Perhaps I ought ; perhaps I ought," she 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 115 
 
 said, bursting into tears. " Heaven knows, 
 though, that I acted from a good motive. It 
 was not to screen myself that I've tried to keep 
 the matter secret." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 The mocking sarcasm of Tod's short com- 
 ment was like nothing I ever heard. 
 
 " To screen me, perhaps % " said he. 
 
 " Well, yes — in a measure, Joseph," she 
 patiently said. " I only wished to spare you 
 vexation. Oh, Joseph ! if — if Hugh cannot 
 be found, and — and all has to come out — who 
 he is and what he wants here — remember that 
 I wished nothing but to spare others pain." 
 
 Tod's eyes were ablaze with angry, haughty 
 light. Spare him! He thought she was 
 miserably equivocating ; he had some such 
 idea as that she sought (in words) to make 
 him a scape-goat for her relative's sins. What 
 he answered I hardly know ; except that he 
 civilly dared her to speak. 
 
 " Do not spare me : I particularly request 
 you will not," he scornfully retorted. "Your- 
 self as much as you will, but not me." 
 
 " I have done it for the best," she 
 pleaded. " Joseph, I have done it all for the 
 best." 
 
 " Where is this man to be found ? I have 
 
 1—2 
 
116 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 been looking for him these several hours past, 
 as I should think no man was ever looked for 
 yet." 
 
 " I have said I think he is not to be found. 
 I think he is gone. 
 
 " Gone ! " shrieked Tod. " Gone ! " 
 
 " I think he must be. I — I saw him just 
 
 before dinner-time, here at this very stile ; I 
 
 gave him something that I had to give, and I 
 
 , think he left at once, to make the best of his 
 
 way from the place." 
 
 " And Hugh ] " asked Tod, savagely. 
 
 '• I did not know then that Hugh was 
 missing. Oh, Joseph, I can't tell what to 
 think. When I said to him one day that he 
 ought not to talk nonsense to the children 
 about corals and animals — in fact, should not 
 speak to them at all — he answered that if I 
 did not get him the money he wanted he'd 
 take the boy off with him. I knew it was a 
 jest ; but I could not help thinking of it when 
 the days went on and on, and I had no money 
 to give him." 
 
 '' Of course he has taken the boy," said Tod, 
 stamping his foot. And the words sent Mrs. 
 Todhetley into a tremble. 
 
 " Joseph ! Do you think so 1 " 
 
 " Heaven help you, Mrs. Todhetley, for a 
 
CRABB li.AVINE. 117 
 
 — a simple woman ! We may never see Hugh 
 
 again." 
 
 He caught up the word he had been going 
 to say — fool. Mrs. Todhetley clasped her 
 hands together with a piteous groan, and the 
 shawl slipped off her shoulders. 
 
 " I think, madam, you must tell what you 
 can," he resumed, scarcely knowing which to 
 let come uppermost, his anxiety for Hugh or 
 his lofty, scornful anger. Is the man a relative 
 of yours ? " 
 
 " No, not of mine. — Oh, Joseph, please don't 
 be angry with me ! Not of mine, but of yours." 
 
 " Of mine ! " cried proud Tod. " Thank 
 you, Mrs. Todhetley." 
 
 " His name is Arne," she whispered. 
 
 " What ! " shouted Tod. 
 
 " Joseph, indeed it is. Alfred Arne." 
 
 Had Tod been shot by a cannon-ball, he could 
 hardly have been more completely struck into 
 himself ; doubled up, so to say. His mother 
 had been an Arne ; and he well remembered to 
 have heard of an ill-doing, mauvais sujet of a 
 half-brother of hers, called Alfred, who brought 
 nothing but trouble and disgrace on all con- 
 nected with him. There ensued a silence, 
 broken only by Mrs. Todhetley 's tears. Tod 
 was looking white in the moonlight. 
 
118 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 "So it seems it is my affair ! " he suddenly 
 said ; but though he drew up his head till he 
 looked as tall as the alder-tree under which 
 they stood, all his fierce spirit seemed to have 
 gone out of him. " You can have no objec- 
 tion to speak fully now." 
 
 And Mrs. Todhetley, partly because of her 
 unresisting nature, partly in her fear for Hugh, 
 obeyed him. 
 
 " I had seen Mr. Arne once before," she 
 began. It was the same year that I first went 
 home to Dyke Manor. He made his appear- 
 ance there, not openly, but just as he has 
 made it here now. His object was to get 
 money from the Squire to go abroad with. 
 And at length he did get it. But it put your 
 father very much out ; made him ill, in fact ; 
 and I believe he took a kind of vow, in his 
 haste and vexation, to give Alfred Arne into 
 custody if he ever came within reach of him 
 again. I think — I fear — he always has some- 
 thing or other hanging over his head worse 
 than debt ; and for that reason can never 
 show himself by daylight without danger." 
 '' Go on," said Tod, quite calmly. 
 " One morning recently I suddenly met him. 
 He stepped right into my path, here at this 
 same spot, as I was about to descend the 
 
CRA BB RA riXE. 119 
 
 Ravine, and asked if I knew him again. I 
 was afraid I did. I was afraid he had come on 
 the same errand as before : and oh, Joseph, 
 how thankful I felt that you and your father 
 were away ! He told me a long and pitiful 
 tale, and I thought I ought to try and help 
 him to the money he needed. He was im- 
 patient for it, and the same evening, supposing 
 no one was at home but myself, he came to 
 the dining-room window, wishing to ask if I 
 had already procured the money. Johnny 
 heard him knock." 
 
 " It might have been better that we had 
 been here," repeated Tod. " Better that we 
 should have dealt with him than you." 
 
 " Your father was so thankful that you 
 were at school before, Joseph ; so thankful ! 
 He said he would not have you know anything 
 about Alfred Arne for the world. And so — 
 I tried to keep it this time from both you and 
 him, and, but for this fear about Hugh, I 
 should have done it." 
 
 Tod did not answer. He looked at her 
 keenly in the light of the summer's night, 
 apparently waiting for more. She continued 
 her explanation ; not enlarging upon things, 
 suffering, rather, inferences to be drawn. The 
 following was its substance : — 
 
120 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 Alfred Arne asked for fifty pounds. He 
 had returned to England only a few months, 
 had got into some fresh danger, and had to 
 leave it again, and to hide himself until he did 
 so. The fifty pounds — to get him off, he said, 
 and start him afresh in the colonies — he de- 
 manded not as a gift, but a matter of right : 
 the Todhetleys, being his near relatives, must 
 help him. Mrs. Todhetley knew but of one 
 person she could borrow it from privately — 
 Mrs. Coney — and she had gone from home 
 just as she was about to be asked for it. Only 
 this afternoon had Mrs. Todhetley received 
 the money from her and paid it to Alfred 
 Arne. 
 
 " I would not have told you this, but for 
 being obliged, Joseph," she pleaded meekly, 
 when the brief explanation was ended. " We 
 can still keep it from your father ; better, 
 perhaps, that you should know it than he : 
 you are young and he is not." 
 
 " A great deal better," assented Tod. " You 
 have made yourself responsible to Mrs. Coney 
 for the fifty pounds l " 
 
 " Don't think of that, Joseph. She is in 
 no hurry for repayment, and will get it from 
 me by degrees. I have a little trifle of my 
 own, you know, that I get half-yearly, and I 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 121 
 
 can pinch in my clothes. I did so hope to 
 keep it from you as well as from your father." 
 
 I wondered if Tod saw all the patient, 
 generous, self-sacrificing spirit. I wondered 
 if he was growing to think that he had been 
 always on the wrong tack in judging harshly 
 of his stepmother. She turned away think- 
 ing perhaps that time was being lost. I 
 said something about Hugh. 
 
 " Hugh is all right, Johnny; he'll be found 
 now," Tod answered in a dreamy tone, as he 
 looked after her with a dreamy look. The 
 next moment he strode forward, and was up 
 with Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for the past, mother ; 
 I beg it with shame and contrition. Can you 
 forgive me 1 " 
 
 " Oh, pray don't, dear Joseph ! I have 
 nothing to forgive," she answered, bursting 
 into fresh tears as she took his offered hand. 
 And that was the first time in all his life that 
 Tod, prejudiced Tod, had allowed himself to 
 call her " mother." 
 
CEABB EAVINE. 
 
 Part the Secoxd. 
 
 tod's REPEJS'TAXCE. 
 
 INEYEE saw anything plainer in my life. 
 It was not just opposite to where I stood, 
 bat lower down towards the end of the Eavine, 
 Amidst the dark thick underwood of the rising 
 bank it dodged about, just as if somebody who 
 was walking carried it in his hand lifted up in 
 front of him. A round white light, exactly as 
 the ghost's light was described to be. One 
 might have fancied it the light of a wax-candle, 
 only that a candle would flicker itself dim and 
 bright by turns in the current of air, and this 
 was steady and did not. 
 
 If a ghost was carrying it, he must have been 
 pacing backwards and forwards ; for the light 
 confined itself to the range of a few yards. 
 Beginning at the environs of the black old yew- 
 tree, it would come on amidst the broom and 
 shrubs to the group of alders, and then go back 
 again Timberdale way, sometimes lost to sight 
 for a minute, as if hidden behind a thicker mass 
 
CRABB RA VINE. 12^ 
 
 of underwood, and then gleaming out afresh 
 further on in its path. Now up, now down ; 
 backw^ards and forwards ; here, there, every- 
 where ; it was about as droll and unaccountable 
 a sight as any veritable ghost ever displayed, 
 or I, Johnny Ludlow, had chanced to come 
 upon. 
 
 The early part of the night had been bright. 
 It was the same night, spoken of in the last 
 chapter, when Hugh was being searched for. 
 Up to eleven o'clock the moon had shone 
 radiantly. Since then a curious kind of dark- 
 ness had come creeping along the heavens, and 
 now, close upon tAvelve, it overshadowed the 
 earth like a pall. A dark, black canopy, 
 which the slight wind, getting up, never stirred, 
 though it sighed and moaned with a weird 
 unpleasant sound down the Ravine. I did not 
 mind the light myself, don't think I should 
 much have minded the ghost : but Luke 
 Mackintosh, standing by me, did. Considering 
 that he was a good five-and- twenty years of age^ 
 and had led an out-of-door life, it may sound 
 queer to say it, but he seemed timid as a hare. 
 
 " I don't like it, Master Johnny," he 
 whispered, as he grasped hold of the fence with 
 a shaking hand, and followed the light with 
 his eyes. What with the trees around us, and 
 
124 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 the pall overhead, it was dark enough, but I 
 could see his face, and knew it had turned 
 white. 
 
 " I believe you are afraid, Luke ! " 
 
 " Well, sir, so might you be if you knowed 
 as much of that there light as I do. It never 
 comes but it bodes trouble." 
 
 " Who brings the light]" 
 
 " It's more than I can say, sir. They call 
 it here the ghost's light. And folks say. 
 Master Johnny, that when it's seen, there's 
 sure to be some bad trouble in the air." 
 
 " I think we have got trouble enough just 
 now without the light, Luke ; and our trouble 
 was with us before we saw that." 
 
 The Ravine lay beneath us, stretching out on 
 either hand, weird, lonesome, dreary, the 
 bottom of it hidden in gloom. The towering 
 banks, whether we looked down the one we 
 leaned over, or to the other opposite, presented 
 nothing to the eye but darkness : w^e knew the 
 masses of trees, bushes, underwood were there, 
 but could not see them : and the spot favoured 
 by the restless light was too wild and steep to 
 be safe for the foot of man. Of course it was 
 a curious speculation what it could be. 
 
 " Did you ever see the light before, 
 Mackintosh 1" 
 
CBABB BAVINE, 125- 
 
 " Yes," he answered, '' half a dozen times. 
 Do you mind, Master Johnny, my getting that 
 there bad cut in the leg with my reaping-hook 
 awhile agone \ Seven weeks I lay in Worcester 
 Infirmary: they carried me there on a mat- 
 tress shoved down in the cart." 
 
 " I remember hearing of it. We were at 
 Dyke Manor." 
 
 Before Luke went on, he turned his face to 
 me and dropped his voice to a deeper whisper. 
 The man seemed scared three parts out of his 
 senses. 
 
 " Master Ludlow, as true as us two be a 
 standing here, I saw the ghost's light the very 
 night afore I got the hurt. I was working for 
 Mr. Coney then, it was before I came into the 
 Squire's service. Young Master Tom, he came 
 out of the kitchen with a letter when we was 
 at our seven o'clock supper, and said I were to 
 cut off to Timberdale with it and to look sharp, 
 or the letter-box 'ud be shut. So I had to do 
 it, sir, and I came through this here Ravine, a 
 whistling and a holding of my head down, 
 though I'd rather ha' went ten mile round. 
 When I got out of it on t'other side, on top of 
 the zigzag, I chanced to look back over the 
 stile, and there I see the light. It were 
 opposite then, on this side, sir, and moving 
 
126 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 about in the same see-saw way it be now, for 
 I stood and watched it." 
 
 " I wonder you phicked up the courage to 
 stand and watch it, Luke \ " 
 
 " I were took aback, sir ; were all in a maze 
 like ; and then I started off full pelt , as quick 
 as my heels 'ud carry me. That was the very 
 blessed night afore I got the hurt. When the 
 doctors was a talking round me at the infirmary, 
 and I think they was a arguing whether or 
 not my leg must come off, I telled 'em that I 
 was afeared it wouldn't much matter neither 
 way, for I'd seen the ghost's light the past 
 night and knowed my fate. One of them, a 
 young man he were, burst out laughing above 
 my face as I lay, and the t'other next him, a 
 grave gentleman with white hair, turned round 
 and hushed at him. Master Ludlow, it's all 
 gospel true." 
 
 '' But you got well, Luke." 
 
 " But I didn't think to," argued Luke. 
 " And I see the light." 
 
 As he turned his face again, the old church 
 clock at Timberdale struck twelve. It seemed 
 to come booming over the Ravine with quite a 
 warning sound, and Luke gave himself a shake. 
 As for me, I could only wish one thing — that 
 Hugh was found. 
 
CRABB RAVINE, 127 
 
 Tod came up the zigzag path, a lantern in his 
 hand ; I whistled to let him know I w^as near. 
 He had been to look in the unused little shed- 
 place nearly at the other end of the Ravine ; 
 not for Hugh, but for the man, Alfred Arne. 
 Tod came up to us, and his face, as the lantern 
 flashed upon it, was whiter and graver than 
 that of Luke Mackintosh. 
 
 " Did you see that, sir? " asked Luke. 
 
 '• See what 1 " cried Tod, turning with eager 
 sharpness. He thought it might be some trace 
 of Hugh. 
 
 " That there g^host's light, sir. It's showing 
 of itself to night. 
 
 Angry, perplexed, nearly out of his mind with 
 remorse and fear. Tod gave Luke a word of 
 a sort, ordering him to be silent for an idiot, 
 and put the lantern down. He then saw the 
 moving light, and let his eyes rest on it 
 in momentary curiosity. 
 
 " It's the ghost's light, sir," repeated Luke, 
 for the man seemed as if he and all other 
 interests were lost in that. 
 
 " The deuce take the ghost's light, and you 
 with it," said Tod passionately. " Is this a 
 time to be staring at ghosts' lights ? Get you 
 into Timberdale, Mackintosh, and see whether 
 the police have got news of the child." 
 
128 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 " Master, I'd not go through the Ravine 
 to-night," was Luke's answer. " No, not 
 though I knowed I was to be killed at 
 to-morrow's dawn for disobeying of the order." 
 
 " Man, what are you afraid of? " 
 
 " Of that," said Luke, nodding at the light. 
 " But I don't like the E-avine in the night at 
 no time." 
 
 "Why, that's nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp,'* 
 returned Tod, condescending to reason -s^ith 
 him. 
 
 Luke shook his head. There was the light ; 
 and neither his faith in it nor his fear could be 
 shaken. Tod had his arms on the fence now, 
 and was staring at the light as fixedly as Luke 
 had done. 
 
 " Johnny." 
 
 " What I " 
 
 " That light is carried by some one. It's 
 being lifted about." 
 
 " How could anyone carry it there ? " I 
 returned, " He'd pitch head over heels do-v^Ti 
 the Ravine. No fellow could get to the place, 
 Tod, let alone keep his footing. It's where 
 the bushes are thickest." 
 
 Tod caught up the lantern. As its light 
 flashed on his face, I could see it working with 
 new eagerness. He was taking up the notion 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 129 
 
 that Hugh might have fallen on that very spot, 
 and that somebody was waving a light to attract 
 attention. As to ghosts, Tod would have met 
 an army of them without the smallest fear. 
 
 He went back do^vn the Eavine, and we 
 heard him go crashing through the underwood. 
 Luke never spoke a word. All on a sudden, 
 long before Tod could get to it, the light 
 disappeared. We waited and watched, but it 
 did not come again. 
 
 " It have been like that always. Master 
 Johnny," whispered Luke, taking his arms off 
 the fence. " Folks may look as long as they 
 will at that there light ; but as soon as they 
 go off, a trying to get to see what it is, it takes 
 itself away. It will be seen no more to-night, 
 sir." 
 
 He turned off across the meadow for the 
 high road, to go and do Tod's bidding at 
 Timberdale, walking at a sharp pace. Any 
 amount of exertion would have been welcome 
 to Mackintosh, as an alternative to passing 
 through the Havine. 
 
 It may be remembered that for some days 
 we had been vaguely uneasy about Hugh, 
 and the uneasiness had penetrated to Mrs. 
 Todhetley. Tod had made private mockery 
 of it to me, thinking she must be three pnrts 
 
130 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 a fool to entertain any such fear. " I should 
 like to give Madam a fright," he said to me 
 one day — meaning that he'd like to hide little 
 Hugh for a time. But I never supposed he 
 would really do it. And it was only to-night 
 — hours and hours after Hugh disappeared, 
 that Tod avowed to me the part he had taken 
 in the loss. To make it clear to the reader, 
 we must go back to the morning of this same 
 day — Friday. 
 
 After breakfast I was shut up ^vith my 
 books, paying no attention to anything that 
 might be going on, inside the house or out of 
 it. Old Frost gave us a woeful lot to do in 
 the holidays. The voices of the children, 
 playing at the swing, came wafting in through 
 the open window ; but they died away to 
 quietness as the morning went on. About 
 twelve o'clock Mrs. Todhetley looked in. 
 
 " Are the children here, Johnny 1 " 
 
 She saw they were not, and went away 
 Avithout waiting for an answer. Lena ran up 
 the passage, and I heard her say papa had 
 taken Hugh out in the pony-gig. The inter- 
 ruption made an excuse for putting up the 
 books for the day, and I went out. 
 
 Of all young ragamuffins, the worst came 
 running after me as I went through the fold- 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 131 
 
 yard gate. Master Hugh ! AVhether he had 
 been in the green pond again or over the 
 house-roof, he was in a state to behold ; his 
 bhie eyes not to be seen for mud, his straw-hat 
 bent, his bro^vn holland blouse all tatters and 
 slime, and the pretty fair curls that Hannah 
 was proud of and wasted her time over, a 
 regular mass of tangle. 
 
 " Take me with you, Johnny ! " 
 
 " I should think I would, like that ! What 
 have you been doing with yourself? " 
 
 " Playing with the pnppy. We fell do^vn 
 in the mud amid the ducks. Joe says I am 
 to stop in the barn and hide myself. I am 
 afraid to go indoors." 
 
 " You'll catch it, and no mistake. Come, be 
 off back." 
 
 But he'd not go back, and kept running by 
 my side under the high hedge. When we 
 came to the gate at the end of the field, I 
 stood and ordered him to go. He began to cry 
 a little. 
 
 " Now, Hugh, you know you cannot go with 
 me in that plight. Walk yourself straight off 
 to Hannah and get her to change the things 
 before your mamma sees you. There ; you may 
 have the biscuit: I don't much care for it." 
 
 It was a big captain's biscuit that I had caught 
 
 K— 2 
 
132 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 up in going through the dining-room. He took 
 that readily enough, the young cormorant, but 
 he'd not stir any the more for it : and I might 
 have had the small object with me till now, 
 but for the appearance of the Squire's gig in 
 the lane. The moment Hugh caught sight of 
 his papa, he turned tail and scampered away 
 like a young wild animal. Remembering Mrs. 
 Todhetley's foolish fear, I mounted the gate and 
 watched him turn safely in at the other. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Johnny 1 " asked 
 the Squire, as he drove leisurely up. 
 
 " At Hugh, sir. I've sent him in-doors." 
 
 " I'm going over to Massock's, Johnny, 
 about the bricks for that cottage. You can 
 get up, if you like to come with me." 
 
 I got into the gig at once, and we drove 
 to South Crabb, to Massock's place. He was 
 not to be seen ; his people thought he had gone 
 out for the day. Upon that, the Squire went 
 on to see old Gartwright, and they made us 
 stop there and put up the pony. When we 
 reached home it was past dinner-time. Mrs. 
 Todhetley came running out." 
 
 " Couldn't get here before : the Cart- 
 wrights kept us," called out the Squire. "We 
 are going to catch it, Johnny," he whispered to 
 me^ with a laugh : " we've let the dinner spoil." 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 133 
 
 But it was not the dinner. " Where's 
 Hugh I " asked Mrs. Todhetley. 
 
 "I've not seen Hugh," said the Squire, 
 flinging the reins to Luke Mackintosh, who 
 had come up. Luke did all kinds of odd jobs 
 about the place, and sometimes helped the 
 groom. 
 
 " But you took Hugh out with you," she 
 said. 
 
 " Not I," answered the Squire. 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley's face turned white. She 
 looked from one to the other of us in a helpless 
 kind of manner. " Lena said you did," she 
 returned, and her voice seemed to fear its o^vn 
 sound. The Squire, talking with Mackintosh 
 about the pony, noticed nothing particular. 
 
 " Lena did I Oh, ay, I remember. I let 
 Hugh get up at the door and drove him round 
 to the fold-yard gate. I dropped him there." 
 
 He went in as he spoke : Mrs. Todhetley 
 seemed undecided whether to follow him. Tod 
 had his back against the door-post, listening. 
 
 " What are you alarmed at 1 " he asked her, 
 not even attempting to suppress his mocking 
 tone. 
 
 "Oh, Johnny!" she said, "have you not 
 seen him ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and a flue pickle he was in," 1 
 
134 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 answered, telling about it. "I daresay 
 Hannah has put him to bed for punish- 
 ment." 
 
 " But Hannah has not," said Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley. " She came down at four o'clock to 
 inquire if he had come in." 
 
 However, thinking that it might possibly 
 turn out to be so, she ran in to ascertain. Tod 
 put his hand on my shoulder, and walked me 
 further off. 
 
 " Johnny, did Hugh really not go with 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Why of course he did not. Should I 
 deny it if he did ? " 
 
 ''Where the dickens can the young idiot 
 have got to?" mused Tod. "Jeffries vowed 
 he saw him go off with you down the field, 
 Johnny." 
 
 "But I sent him back. I watched him in 
 at the fold-yard gate. You don't suppose I 
 could take him further in that pickle ! " 
 
 Tod laughed a little at the remembrance. 
 Mrs. Todhetley returned, saying Hugh was 
 not to be found anywhere. She looked ready 
 to die. Tod was inwardly enjoying her fright 
 beyond everything : it was better than a play 
 to him. His particularly easy aspect struck 
 her. 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 135 
 
 " Oh, Joseph !" she implored, " if you know 
 where he is, pray tell me." 
 
 " How should I know ? " returned Tod. " I 
 protest on my honour I have not set eyes on 
 him since before luncheon to-day." 
 
 *' Do you know where he is, Tod '? " I asked 
 him, as she turned indoors. 
 
 " No ; but I can guess. He's not far off. 
 And I really did think he was mth you, 
 Johnny. I suppose I must go and bring him 
 in, now ; but I'd give every individual thing 
 my pockets contain if Madam had had a few 
 hours' fright of it, instead of a few minutes'." 
 
 The dinner-bell was ringing, but Tod went 
 off in an opposite direction. And I must 
 explain here what he knew of it, though he 
 did not tell me then. Walking through the 
 fold-yard that morning, he had come upon 
 Master Hugh, just emerging from the bed of 
 green mud, crying his eyes out, and a piteous 
 object. Hannah had promised Hugh that 
 the next time he got into this state of grief 
 she would carry him to the Squire. Hugh 
 knew she'd be sure to keep her word, and that 
 the upshot would probably be a whipping. 
 Tod, after gratifying his eyes with the choice 
 spectacle, and listening to the fears of the 
 whipping, calmly assured the young gen- 
 
136 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 tleman that he was " in for it," at which 
 Hugh only howled the more. All in a 
 moment it occurred to Tod to make use of 
 this opportunity to frighten Mrs. Todhetley. 
 He took Hugh off to the barn, and told 
 him that if he'd hide himself there until 
 the evening, he'd not only get him off his 
 whipping, but give him all sorts of good 
 things besides. Hugh was ^\illing to promise, 
 but said he wanted his dinner, upon w^hich 
 Tod went and brought him a heap of bread 
 and butter, telling Molly, w^ho cut it, that it 
 was for himself. Tod left him devouring it 
 in the dark corner behind the waggon, par- 
 ticularly impressing upon him the fact that 
 he was to keep close and make no sign if his 
 mamma, or Hannah, or anybody else, came to 
 look for him. One of the men, Jeifries, was 
 at work in the barn, and Tod, so to say, 
 took him into confidence, ordering him to 
 know nothing if Master Hugh were inquired 
 for. As Hannah and Jeffries were at daggers 
 drawn, and the man supposed this hiding was 
 to spite her, he entered into it with interest. 
 
 There were two barns at Crabb Cot. One 
 some way do^vn the road in front of the house 
 was the store barn, and you've heard of it 
 before in connection with something seen by 
 
CBABB RAVINE, 137 
 
 Maria Lease. It was called the yellow barn 
 from the colour of its outer walls. The other, 
 of red brick, was right at the back of 
 the fold-yard, and it was in this last that Tod 
 left Hugh, all safe and secure, as he thought, 
 until told he might come out again. 
 
 But now, when Tod went into the dining, 
 room to luncheon at half-past twelve — we 
 country people breakfast early — at which 
 meal he expected the hue and cry after Hugh 
 to set in, for it was the children's dinner, he 
 found there was a hitch in the programme. 
 Mrs. Todhetley appeared perfectly easy on 
 the score of Hugh's absence, and presently 
 casually mentioned that he had gone out with 
 his papa in the pony-gig. Tod's lips parted 
 to say that Hugh was not in the pony-gig, but 
 in a state of pickle instead. Prudence caused 
 him to close them again. Hannah, standing 
 behind Lena's chair, openly gave thanks that 
 the child was got rid of for a bit, and said he 
 was " getting a'most beyond her." Tod bit 
 his lips with vexation : the gilt was taken off 
 the gingerbread. He went to the barn again 
 presently, and then found that Hugh had left 
 it. Jeffries said he saw him going towards 
 the lane with Master Ludlow, and supposed 
 that the little lad had taken the ' opportunity 
 
138 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 to slip out of the barn when he (Jeffries) 
 went to dinner, at twelve o'clock. And thus 
 the whole afternoon had gone peaceably 
 and unsuspiciously on ; Mrs. Todhetley and 
 Hannah supposing Hugh was with the Squire, 
 Tod supposing he must be somewhere with 
 me. 
 
 And when we both appeared at home with- 
 out him. Tod took it for granted that Hugh 
 had gone back to his hiding-place in the barn, 
 and a qualm of conscience shot through him 
 for leaving the lad there so many hours 
 unlooked after. He rushed off to it at once, 
 while the dinner-bell was ringing. But when 
 he got there, Jeffries declared Hugh had not 
 been back to it at all. Tod, in his hot way, 
 retorted on Jeffries for saying so ; but the man 
 persisted that he could not be mistaken, as he 
 had never been away from the barn since 
 coming back from dinner. 
 
 And then arose the commotion. Tod came 
 back with a stern face, almost as anxious as 
 Mrs. Todhetley's. Hugh had not been seen, 
 so far as could be ascertained, since I watched 
 him in at the fold-yard gate soon after twelve. 
 That was nearly seven hours ago. Tod felt 
 himself responsible for the loss, and sent the 
 men to look about. But the worst he thought 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 13^ 
 
 then was, that the boy, whose fears of show- 
 ing himself in his state of dilapidation Tod 
 himself had mischievously augmented, had 
 laid down somewhere or other and dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 It had gone on, and on, and on, until late 
 at night, and then had occurred that explana- 
 tion between Tod and his stepmother told 
 of in the other paper. Tod was all impulse, 
 and pride, and heat, and passion ; but his 
 heart was made of sterling gold, just like the 
 Squire's. Holding himself aloof from her in 
 haughty condemnation, in the matter of the 
 mysterious stranger, to find now that the 
 stranger was a man called Alfred Arne, his 
 relative, and that Mrs. Todhetley had been 
 generously taking the trouble upon herself for 
 the sake of sparing him and his father pain, 
 completely turned Tod and his pride over. 
 
 He had grown desperately frightened as 
 the hours went on. The moon-lit night had 
 become dark, as I've already said, and the men 
 could not pursue their search to much effect. 
 Tod did not cease his. He got a lantern, and 
 went rushing about as if he were crazy. You 
 saw him come up with it from the Ravine, and 
 now he had gone back on a wild-goose chase 
 after the ghost's light. Where was Hugh ? 
 
140 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 Where could he be 1 It was not likely Alfred 
 Arne had taken him, because he had that 
 afternoon got from Mrs. Todhetley the fifty 
 pounds he worried for, and she thought he had 
 gone finally off with it. It stood to reason 
 that the child would be an encumbrance to 
 him. On the other hand. Tod's theory, that 
 Hugh had dropped asleep somewhere, seemed, 
 as the hours crept on, less and less likely to 
 hold water, for he'd have wakened up and come 
 home long ago. As to the E-avine, in spite of 
 Tod's suspicions that he might be there, I was 
 sure the little fellow would not have ventured 
 into it. 
 
 I stood on, in the dark night, waiting 
 for Tod to come back again. It felt awfully 
 desolate now Luke Mackintosh had gone. 
 The ghost's light did not show again. I 
 rather wished it would, for company. He 
 came at last — Tod, not the ghost. I had 
 heard him shouting, and nothing answered but 
 the echoes. A piece of his coat was torn, and 
 some brambles were sticking to him, and the 
 lantern was broken; what dangerous places 
 he had pushed himself into could never be 
 told. 
 
 " I wonder you've come out with whole 
 limbs, Tod." 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 141 
 
 " Hold your peace, Johnny," was all the 
 retort I got ; and his voice rose nearly to a 
 shout in its desperate sorrow. 
 
 Morning came, but no news with it, no 
 Hugh. Tod had been about all night. With 
 daylight, the fields, and all other seemingly 
 possible places, were searched. Tom Conev 
 went knocking at every house in North and 
 South Crabb, and burst into cottages, and 
 turned over, so to say, all the dwellings in that 
 savoury locality, Crabb Lane, but with no 
 result. The Squire was getting anxious ; but 
 none of us had ventured to tell him of our 
 especial cause for anxiety, or to speak of Alfred 
 Arne. 
 
 It appeared nearly certain now, to us, that 
 he had gone with Alfred Arne, and, after a 
 private consultation with Mrs. Todhetley, Tod 
 and I set out in search of the man. She still 
 wished to spare the knowledge of his visit to 
 the Squire, if possible. 
 
 We had not far to go. Mrs. Todhetley 's 
 fears went ranging abroad to London, or 
 Liverpool, or the Coral Islands beyond the sea, 
 of which Arne had talked to Hugh : but Arne 
 was found at Timberdale. In an obscure lodsr- 
 ing in the further outskirts of the place, the 
 
U2 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 landlord of which, a man named Cookum, was 
 a bad character, and very shy of the police, 
 Arne was found. We might have searched for 
 him to the month's end, but for Luke Mackin- 
 tosh. When Luke arrived at Timber dale in 
 the middle of the night, ordered thither by 
 Tod to make inquiries at the police-station, he 
 saw a tipsy man slink into Cookum's house, 
 and recognised him for the one who had 
 recently been exciting speculation at home. 
 Luke happened to mention this to Tod, not 
 connecting Hugh with it at all, simply as a bit 
 of gossip : of course it was not knoAvn who 
 Arne was, or his name, or what he had been 
 waiting for. 
 
 We had a fight to get in. Cookum came 
 leaping down the crazy stairs, and put himself 
 in our way in the passage, swearing we should 
 not go on. Tod lifted his strong hand. 
 
 " I mean to go on, Cookum," he said, in a 
 slow, quiet voice that had determination in 
 every tone of it. ''I have come to see a man 
 named Arne. I don't want to do him any ill, 
 or you either ; but, see him, I will. If you do 
 not move out of my way I'll knock you down." 
 
 Cookum stood his ground. He was short, 
 slight, and sickly, with a puffy face and red 
 hair ; a very reed beside Tod. 
 
CRABB RAVINE, 143 
 
 "There ain't no man here of that name. 
 There ain't no man here at all." 
 
 " Very well. Then you can't object to let- 
 ting me see that there is not." 
 
 " I swear that you sha'n't see, master. 
 There ! " 
 
 Tocl flung him aside. Cookum, something 
 like an eel, slipped under Tod's arm, and was 
 in front of him again. 
 
 " I don't care to damage you, Cookum, as 
 you must see I could do, and force my way in 
 over your disabled body ; you look too weak 
 for it. But I'll either go in so, or the police 
 shall clear an entrance for me." 
 
 The mention of the police scared the man ; 
 I saw it in his face. Tod kept pushing on and 
 the man backing, just a little. 
 
 " I won't have no police here. What is it 
 you want I 
 
 "I have told you once. A man named 
 Arne." 
 
 "I swear then that I never knowed a man 
 o* that name ; let alone having him in my 
 place." 
 
 And he spoke with such passionate fervour 
 that it struck me Arne did not go by his own 
 name : which was more than probable. They 
 were past the stairs now, and Cookum did not 
 
114 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 seem to care to guard them. The nasty pas- 
 sage, long and narrow, its wet walls nearly 
 touching one's arms on either side, had a 
 door at the end. Tod thought that must be 
 the fortress. 
 
 " You are a great fool, Cookum. I've told 
 you that I mean no harm to you or to anybody 
 in the place ; so to make this fuss is needless. 
 You may have a band of felons concealed here, 
 or a cart-load of stolen goods ; they are all 
 safe for me. But if you force me to bring in 
 the police it might be a different matter." 
 
 Perhaps the argument told on the man; 
 perhaps the tone of reason it was spoken in ; 
 but he certainly seemed to hesitate. 
 
 "You can't prove that to me, master: not 
 that there's any felons or things in here. 
 Show me that you don't mean harm, and you 
 shall go on." 
 
 " Have you got a stolen child here ] " 
 
 Cookum's mouth oj)ened with genuine sur- 
 prise. " A stolen child ! " 
 
 " We have lost a little boy. 1 have reason 
 to think that a man who was seen to enter this 
 passage in the middle of the night knows 
 something of him, and I have come to 
 ask and see. Now you know all. Let me go 
 
 on. 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 145 
 
 The relief on the man's face was great. 
 " Honour bright, master ] " 
 
 " Don't stand quibbling, man," roared Tod, 
 passionately. " Yes ! " 
 
 " I've got but one man in all the place. 
 He have got no boy with him, he haven't." 
 
 " But he may know something of one. 
 What's his name I " 
 
 " All the name he've give to me is Jack.'" 
 
 " I dare say it's the same. Come ! you are 
 wasting time." 
 
 But Cookum, doubtful still, never moved. 
 They were close to the door now, and he had 
 his back against it. Tod turned his head. 
 
 " Go for the two policemen, Johnny. They 
 are both in readiness, Cookum. I looked in 
 at the station as I came by, to say I might 
 want them." 
 
 Before I could get out, Cookum howled 
 out to me not to go, as one in mortal fear. 
 He took a latch-key from his pocket, and put 
 it into the latch of the door, which had no 
 other fastening outside, not even a handle. 
 " You can open it yourself," said he to Tod, 
 and slipped away. 
 
 It might have been a sort of kitchen but 
 that it looked so like a den, with nothing to 
 light it but a dirty sky-light above. The floor 
 
146 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 was of red brick ; a tea-kettle boiled on the 
 fire ; there was a smell of coffee. Alfred Arne 
 stood on the defensive against the opposite 
 wall, a life-preserver in his hand, and his thin 
 hair on end with fright. 
 
 " I am here on a peaceable errand, if you 
 will allow it to be so," said Tod, shutting us 
 in. " Is your name Arne 1 " 
 
 Arne dropped the life-preserver into the 
 breast-pocket of his coat, and came forward 
 with something of a gentleman's courtesy. 
 
 " Yes, my name is Arne, Joseph Todhetley. 
 And your mother — as I make no doubt you 
 know — was a very near relative of mine. If 
 you damage me, you will bring her name un- 
 pleasantly before the public, as well as your 
 own and your father's." 
 
 That he thought our errand was to demand 
 back the fifty pounds, there could be no 
 doubt: perhaps to hand him into custody if 
 he refused to give it up. 
 
 " I have not come to damage you in any 
 way," said Tod in answer. " Where's Hugh 1 " 
 
 Arne looked as surprised as the other man 
 had. " Hugh ! " 
 
 "Yes, Hugh: my little brother. Where is 
 he'? ' 
 
 " How can I tell 1 " 
 
CRABB RAVINE 147 
 
 Tod glanced round the place ; there was not 
 any nook or corner capable of affording con- 
 cealment. Arne gazed at him. He stood on 
 that side the dirty deal table, we on this. 
 
 " We have lost Hugh since mid-day yester- 
 day. Do you know anything of him ]" 
 
 " Certainly not^'' was the emphatic answer, 
 and I at least saw that it was a true one. '' Is 
 it to ask that, that you have come here I " 
 
 " For that, and nothing else. We have 
 been up all night searching for him." 
 
 " But why do you come after him here 1 I 
 am not likely to know where he is." 
 
 '' I think you are likely." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " You have been talking to the boy about 
 carrying him off with you to see coral islands. 
 You hinted, I believe, to Mrs. Todhetley that 
 you might really take him, if your demands 
 were not complied with." 
 
 Arne slightly laughed. "I talked to the 
 boy about the Coral Islands because it pleased 
 him. As to Mrs. Todhetley, if she has the 
 sense of a goose, she must have known I 
 meant nothing. Take off a child with me 1 
 Why, if he were made a present to me, I 
 should only drop him at his own door at Crabb 
 Cot, as they drop the foundlings at the gate of 
 
 1—2 
 
148 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 the Maison Dieu in Paris. Joseph Todhetley, 
 I could not be encumbered with a child : the 
 life of shifts and concealment I have to lead 
 would debar it." 
 
 I think Tod saw he was in earnest. But 
 he stood in indecision: this dashed out his 
 great hope. 
 
 " I should have been away from here last 
 night, but that I got a drop too much and 
 must wait till dark again," resumed Arne. 
 "The last time I saw Hugh was on Thurs- 
 day afternoon. He was in the meadow with 
 your 
 
 " I did not see you," remarked Tod. 
 
 " I saw you, though. And that is the last 
 time I saw him. Don't you believe me ? 
 You may. I like the little lad, and would find 
 him for you if I could, rather than help to lose 
 him. I'd say take my honour upon this, 
 Joseph Todhetley, only you might retort that 
 it has not been worth anything this many a 
 year." 
 
 " And with justice," said Tod, boldly. 
 
 " True. The world has been against me 
 and I against the world. But it has not come 
 yet with me to stealing children. With the 
 loan of the money now safe in my pocket, 
 I shall make a fresh start in life. A precious 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 149 
 
 long time your stepmotlier kept me waiting 
 for it." 
 
 " She did her best. You ought not to have 
 applied to her at all." 
 
 " I know that : it should have been to the 
 other side of the house. She prevented me : 
 wanting, she said, to spare you and your 
 father." 
 
 " The knowledge of the disgrace. Yes." 
 
 " There's no need to have recourse to hard 
 names, Joseph Todhetley. What I am, I am : 
 but you have not much cause to grumble, 
 for I don't trouble you often. As many 
 thousand miles away as the seas can put 
 between me and England, I'm going now: 
 and it's nearly as many chances to one 
 against your ever seeing me again." 
 
 Tod turned to depart : the intensely 
 haughty look his face wore at odd moments 
 had been upon it throughout the interview. 
 Had he been a woman he might have stood 
 with his skirts picked up, as if to save them 
 contamination from some kind of reptile. He 
 stayed for a final word. 
 
 " Then I may take your answer in good 
 faith — that you know nothing of Hugh ? " 
 
 " Take it, or not, as you please. If I 
 knew that I was going to stand next minute 
 
150 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 in the presence of Heaven, 1 could not give 
 it more truthfully. For the child's own sake, 
 I hope he will be found. Why don't you 
 ask the man who owns the rooms I — he can 
 tell you I have had no boy here. If you 
 choose to watch me away to-night, do so ; 
 you'll see I go alone. A child with me! I 
 might about as well give myself up to the 
 law at once, for I shouldn't long remain out 
 of its clutches, Joseph Todhetley." 
 
 " Good morning," said Tod shortly. I 
 echoed the words, and we were civilly 
 answered. As we went out, Arne shut the 
 door behind us. In the middle of the pas- 
 sage stood Cookum. 
 
 " Have you found he was who you wanted, 
 
 sir 5 
 
 "Yes," answered Tod, not vouchsafing to 
 explain. "Another time when I say I do 
 not msh to harm you, perhaps you'll take 
 my word." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley, pale and anxious, was 
 standing under the mulberry-tree when we 
 got back. She came across the grass. 
 
 "Any news'?" cried Tod. As if the sight 
 of her was not enough, that he need have 
 asked ! 
 
 " No, no, Joseph. Did you see him % " 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 151 
 
 " Yes, he had not left. He knows nothing 
 of Hugh." 
 
 " I had no hope that he did," moaned poor 
 Mrs. Todhetley. " All he wanted was the 
 money." 
 
 We turned into the dining-room hy the 
 glass doors, and it seemed to strike out 
 a gloomy chill. On the wall near the 
 Avindow, there was a chalk drawing of Hugh 
 in colours, hung up by a bit of common 
 string. It was only a rough sketch that Jane 
 Coney had done half in sport ; but it was 
 like him, especially in the blue eyes and the 
 pretty light hair. 
 
 " Where's my father? " asked Tod. 
 
 " Gone riding over to the brick-fields 
 again," she answered : " he cannot get it out 
 of his mind that Hugh must be there. 
 Joseph, as Mr. Arne has nothing to do with 
 the loss, we can still spare your father the 
 knowledge that he has been here. Spare it, 
 I mean, for good." 
 
 " Yes. Thank you." 
 
 Hugh was uncommonly fond of old Mas- 
 sock's brick-fields ; he would go there on 
 any occasion that offered, had once or twice 
 strayed there a truant ; sending Hannah, for 
 the time being, into a state of mortal fright. 
 
152 CBABB RAVINE. 
 
 The Squire's opinion was that Hugh must 
 have decamped there sometime in the course 
 of the Friday afternoon, perhaps followed the 
 gig; and was staying there, afraid to come 
 home. 
 
 " He might have hung on to the tail of the 
 gig itself, and I and Johnny never have seen 
 him, the 'cute Turk," argued the Squire. 
 
 AMiich I knew was just as likely as that he 
 had, unseen, hung on to the moon. In the 
 state he had brought his clothes to, he'd not 
 have gone to the brick-fields at all. The 
 Squire did not seem so uneasy as he might 
 have been. Hugh would be sure to turn up, 
 he said, and should get the soundest whipping 
 any young rascal ever had. 
 
 But he came riding back from the brick- 
 fields as before — without him. Tod, awfully 
 impatient, met him in the road by the yellow 
 bam. The Squire got ofi" his horse there, 
 for Luke Mackintosh was at hand to take it. 
 
 " Father, I cannot think of any other place 
 he can have got to : we have searched every- 
 where. Can you?" 
 
 "Not I, Joe. Don't be down-hearted. 
 He'll turn up ; he'll turn up. Halloa ! " 
 broke off" the Squu'e as an idea struck him, 
 has this barn been searched ? " 
 
CRABB BAVTNK 153 
 
 "He can't be in there, sir; it's just a 
 moral impossibility that he could be," spoke 
 up Mackintosh. " The place was empty, 
 which I can be upon my oath, when I locked 
 it up yesterday afternoon, after getting some 
 corn out ; and the key have never been out o' 
 my trousers' pocket since. Mr. Joseph, he 
 was inside with me at the time, and knows 
 it." 
 
 Tod nodded assent, and the Squire walked 
 away. As there was no other accessible 
 entrance to the front barn, and the windows 
 were ever so many yards from the ground, 
 they felt that it must be, as the man said, a 
 '' moral impossibility." 
 
 The day went on, it was Saturday, re- 
 member, and the miserable hours went on, 
 and there came no trace of the child. The 
 E-avine was again searched thoroughly : that 
 is, as thoroughly as its overgrown state per- 
 mitted. It was like waste of time ; for 
 Hugh would not have hidden himself in it ; 
 and if he had fallen over the fence he'd have 
 been found before from the traces that must 
 have been left in the bushes. The searchers 
 would come in, one after another, now a farm- 
 servant, now one of the police, bringing no 
 news, except of defeat, but hoping somebody 
 
154 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 else had brought it. Every time that Tod 
 looked at the poor mild face of Mrs. Tod- 
 hetley, always meek and patient, striving 
 ever to hide the anguish that each fresh dis- 
 appointment brought, I know he felt ready to 
 hang himself. It was getting dusk when 
 Maria Lease came up with a piece of straw 
 hat that she had found in the withy walk. 
 But both Mrs. Todhetley and Hannah, upon 
 looking at it, decided that the straw was of 
 finer grain than Hugh's. 
 
 That afternoon they dragged the pond, but 
 there was nothing found in it. We could 
 get no traces anywhere. Nobody had seen 
 him, nobody heard of him. From the 
 moment when I had watched him into the 
 fold-yard gate, it seemed that he had alto- 
 gether vanished from above ground. Since 
 then all scent of him was missing. It was 
 very strange : just as though the boy had 
 been spirited away. 
 
 Sunday morning rose. As lovely a Sunday 
 as ever this world saw, but all sad for us- 
 Tod had flung himself back in the Pater's 
 easy-chair, pretty nigh done over. Two nights, 
 and he had not been to bed. In spite of his 
 faith in Alfred Arne's denial, he had chosen 
 to watch him away in the night from Timber- 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 155 
 
 dale ; and he saw the man steal off in the 
 darkness on foot and alone. The incessant 
 hunting about was bringing its reaction on 
 Tod, and the fatigue of body and mind began 
 to show itself. But as to giving in, he'd never 
 do that, and would be as likely as not to walk 
 and worry himself into a fever. 
 
 The day was warm and beautiful ; the glass 
 doors of the room stood open to the sweet 
 summer air. Light fleecy clouds floated over 
 the blue sky, the sun shone on the green grass 
 of the lawn and sparkled amid the leaves of 
 the great mulberry-tree. Butterflies flitted 
 past in pairs, chasing each other ; bees sent 
 forth their hum as they sipped the honey-dew 
 from the flowers ; the birds sang their love- 
 songs on the boughs : all seemed happiness 
 oustide, as if to mock our care within. 
 
 Tod lay back with his eyes closed : I sat on 
 the arm of the old red sofa. The bells of 
 North Crabb church rang out for morning 
 service. It was rather a cracked old peal, but 
 on great occasions the ringers assembled and 
 did their best. The Bishop of Worcester was 
 coming over to-day to preach a charity sermon : 
 and North Crabb never had anything greater 
 than that. Tod opened his eyes and listened 
 in silence. 
 
156 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 ''Tod, do you know what it puts me in 
 mind of 1 " 
 
 " Don't bother. It's because of the bishop, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " I don't mean the bells. It's like the old 
 fable, told of in ' The Mistletoe Bough,' 
 enacted in real life. If there were any deep 
 chest about the premises " 
 
 " Hold your peace, Johnny ! — unless you 
 want to drive me mad. If we come upon the 
 child like that, I'll— I'U " 
 
 I think he was going to say shoot himself, 
 or something of that sort, for he was given to 
 random speech when put to it. But at that 
 moment Lena ran in dressed for church, in 
 her white frock and straw hat ^vith blue 
 ribbons. She threw her hands on Tod's knee 
 and burst out crying. 
 
 " Joe, I don't want to go to church ; I want 
 Hugh." 
 
 Quite a spasm of pain shot across his face, 
 but he was very tender with her. In all my 
 life I had never seen Tod so gentle as he had 
 been at moments during the last two days. 
 
 " Don't cry, pretty one," he said, pushing 
 the fair curls from her face. " Go to church 
 like a good little girl ; perhaps we shall have 
 found him by the time you come home." 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 157 
 
 " Hannah says he's lying dead somewhere." 
 
 " Hannah's nothing but a -wicked woman," 
 savagely answered Tod. "Don't you mind 
 her." 
 
 But Lena would not be pacified, and kept 
 on sobbing and crying, " I want Hugh ; I 
 want Hugh." 
 
 Mrs. Todhetley, who had come in then, 
 drew her away and sat doAvn with the child on 
 her knee, talking to her in a low, soothing 
 tone. 
 
 "Lena, dear, you know I wish you to go 
 with Hannah to church this morning. And 
 you will put papa's money into the plate. 
 See : it is a golden sovereign. Hannah must 
 carry it, and you shall put it in." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! will Hugh never come 
 home again '? Will he die I " 
 
 " Hush, Lena," she said, as Tod bit his lip 
 and gave his hair a dash backwards. " Shall 
 I tell you something that sounds like a pretty 
 story ? " 
 
 Lena was always ready for a story, pretty or 
 ugly, and her blue eyes were lifted to her 
 mother's brightly through the tears. At that 
 moment she looked wonderfully like the por- 
 trait on the wall. 
 
 ''Just now, dear, I was in my room up- 
 
158 CRABB RA VINE. 
 
 stairs, feeling very, very unhappy ; I'm not 
 sure but I was sobbing nearly as much as you 
 were just now. ' He will never come back,' I 
 said to myself; ' he is lost to us for ever.' At 
 that moment those sweet bells broke out, 
 calling people to Heaven's service, and I don't 
 know why, Lena, but they seemed to whisper 
 a great comfort to me. They seemed to say 
 that God was over us all, and saw our trouble, 
 and would heal it in His good time." 
 
 Lena stared a little, digesting what she 
 could of the words. The tears were nowhere. 
 
 "Will He send Hugh back?" 
 
 " I can't tell, darling. He can take care of 
 Hugh, and bless him, and keep him, wherever 
 he may be, and I know He will. If He 
 should have taken him to Heaven above the 
 blue sky — oh then, Hugh must be very happy. 
 He will be mth the angels. He will see 
 Jesus face to face ; and you know how He 
 loved little children. The bells seemed to say 
 all this to me as I listened to them, Lena." 
 
 Lena went off contented : we saw her skip- 
 ping along by Hannah's side, who had on a 
 new purple gown and staring red and green 
 trimmings to her bonnet. Children are as 
 changeable as a chameleon, sobbing one 
 minute, laughing the next. Tod was standing 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 159 
 
 now with his back to the window, and Mrs. 
 Todhetley sat by the table, her long thin 
 fingers supporting her cheek ; very meek, very, 
 very patient. Tod was thinking so as he 
 glanced at her. 
 
 "How you must hate me for this!" he said. 
 
 " Oh, Joseph ! Hate you? " 
 
 " The thing is all my fault. A great deal 
 has been my fault for a long while ; all the 
 unpleasantness and the misunderstanding." 
 
 She got up and took his hand timidly, as if 
 she feared he might think it too great a 
 liberty. " If you can only understand me for 
 the future, Joseph ; understand how I wish 
 and try to make things pleasant to you, I shall 
 be fully repaid : to you most especially in all 
 the house, after your father. I have ever 
 striven and prayed for it." 
 
 He answered nothing for the moment ; his 
 face was working a little, and he gave her 
 fingers a grip that must have caused pain. 
 
 "If the worst comes of this, and Hugh 
 never is amidst us again, I will go over the 
 seas in the wake of the villain Arne," he said 
 in a low, firm tone, " and spare you the sight 
 of me." 
 
 Tears began to trickle down her face. 
 " Joseph, my dear — if you will let me call you 
 
160 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 SO — this shall draw us near to each other, as 
 we never might have been drawn without it. 
 You shall not hear a word of reproach from 
 me, or any word but love ; there shall never 
 be a thought of reproach in my heart. I have 
 had a great deal of sorrow in my life, Joseph, 
 and have learnt patiently to bear, leaving all 
 things to Heaven." 
 
 "And if Hugh is dead?" 
 
 " What I said to Lena, I meant," she softlv 
 whispered. ''If God has taken him he is 
 with the angels, far happier than he could be 
 in this world of care, though his lot were of 
 the brightest." 
 
 The tears were running do^vn her cheeks 
 as she went out of the room. Tod stood still 
 as a stone. 
 
 " She is made of gold," I whispered. 
 
 " No, Johnny. Of something better." 
 
 The sound of the bells died away. None of 
 us went to church ; in the present excitement 
 it would have been a farce. The Squire had 
 gone riding about the roads, sending his 
 groom the opposite way. He telegraphed to 
 the police at Worcester ; saying, in the mes- 
 sage, that these country officers were no 
 better than dummies ; and openly lamented 
 at home that it had not happened at Dyke 
 
CRABB RAVINE. 161 
 
 Manor, mthin the range of old Jones the 
 constable. 
 
 Tod disappeared with the last sound of the 
 bells. Just as the Pater's head was full of the 
 brick-fields, his was of the Eavine ; that he 
 had gone off to beat it again I was sure. In 
 a trouble such as this you want incessantly to 
 be up and doing .Lena and Hannah came back 
 from church, the child calling out for Hugh : 
 she wanted to tell him about the gentleman 
 who had preached in big white sleeves and 
 pretty frills on his wrists. 
 
 Two o'clock was the Sunday dinner-hour. 
 Tod came in when it was striking. He looked 
 dead-beat as he sat down to carve in his 
 father's place. The sirloin of beef was as 
 good as usual, but only Lena seemed to think 
 so. The little gobbler ate two servings, and a 
 heap of raspberry pie and cream. 
 
 How it happened, I don't know. I was just 
 as anxious as any of them, and yet, in sitting 
 under the mulberry tree, I fell fast asleep, 
 never waking till five. Mrs. Todhetley, always 
 finding excuses for us, said it was worry and 
 want of proper rest. She was sitting close 
 to the window, her head leaning against it. 
 The Squire had not come home. Tod was 
 somewhere about, she did not know where. 
 
 M 
 
162 CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 I found him in the yard. Luke Mackintosh 
 was harnessing the pony to the gig, Tod 
 helping him in a state of excitement. Some 
 man had come in with a tale that a tribe of 
 gipsies was discovered, encamped beyond the 
 brick-fields, who seemed to have been there 
 for a week past. Tod jumped to the conclu- 
 sion that Hugh was concealed mth them, and 
 was about to go off in search. 
 
 " Will you come with me, Johnny ? Luke 
 must remain in case the Squire rides in." 
 
 " Of course I will. I'll run and tell Mrs. 
 Todhetley." 
 
 " Stay where you are, you stupid muff. To 
 excite her hopes, in the uncertainty, would be 
 cruel. Get up." 
 
 Tod need not have talked about excited 
 hopes. He was just three parts mad. Fancy 
 his great strong hands shaking as he took the 
 reins ! The pony dashed off in a fright with 
 the cut he gave it, and brought us cleverly 
 against the post of the gate, breaking the near 
 shaft. Over that^ but for the delay. Tod 
 would have been cool as an orange. 
 
 " The phaeton now, single horse," he called 
 out to Mackintosh. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Bob, or Blister? " 
 
 Tod stamped his foot in a passion. " As if 
 
CRABB RAVINE, 163 
 
 it mattered ! Blister ; he is the more fiery of 
 the two." 
 
 " I must get the harness," said Mackintosh. 
 It is in the yellow barn." 
 
 Mackintosh went round on the run to gain 
 the front barn ; the harness, least used, was 
 kept there, hung on the walls. Tod unhar- 
 nessed the pony, left me to lead him to the 
 stable, and went after the man. In his state 
 of impatience and his strength, he could have 
 done the work of ten men. He met Mackin- 
 tosh coming out of the barn, without the 
 harness, but with a white face. Since he saw 
 the ghost's light on Friday night the man had 
 been scared at shadows. 
 
 " There's sum'at in there, master," said he, 
 his teeth chattering. 
 
 *' What? " roared Tod, in desperate anger. 
 
 " There Z5, master. It's like a faint tapping." 
 
 Tod dashed in, controlling his hands, lest 
 they might take French leave and strike Luke 
 for a coward. He was seeking the proper set 
 of harness, when a knocking, faint and irregu- 
 lar, smote his ear. Tod turned to look, and 
 thought it came from the staircase door. He 
 went forward and opened it. 
 
 Lying at the foot of the stairs was Hugh. 
 Hugh! Low, and weak, and faint, there he 
 
 M— 2 
 
16i CRABB RAVINE. 
 
 lay, his blue eyes only half opened, and his 
 pretty curls mingling with the dust. 
 
 " Hugh ! is it you, my darling I " 
 
 Tod's gasp was like a great cry. Hugh 
 put up his little feeble hand, and a smile 
 parted his lips. 
 
 *' Yes, it's me, Joe.'^ 
 
 The riddle is easily solved. When sent 
 back by me, Hugh saw Hannah in the fold- 
 yard ; she was, in point of fact, looking after 
 him. In his fear, he stole round to hide in 
 the shrubbery, and thence got to the front of 
 the house, and ran away down the road. 
 Seeing the front barn door open, for it was 
 when Luke Mackintosh was getting the corn, 
 Hugh slipped in and hid behind the door. 
 Luke went out with the first lot of corn, and 
 the senseless child, hearing Tod's voice outside, 
 got into the place leading to the stairs, and 
 shut the door. Luke, talking to Tod, who 
 had stepped inside the barn, saw the door 
 was shut and slipped the big outside bolt, 
 never remembering that it ivas not he ivho had 
 shut it. Poor little Hugh, when their voices 
 had died away, ran upstairs to get to the 
 upper granary, and found its door fastened. 
 And there the child was shut up beyond reach 
 of call and hearing. The skylight in the roof, 
 
CRABB RA VINE. 165 
 
 miles, as it seemed, above him, had its venti- 
 lator open. He had called and called ; but 
 his voice must have been lost amidst the space 
 of the barn. It was too weak to disturb a 
 rat now. 
 
 Tod took him up in his arms, tenderly as 
 if he had been a new-born baby that he was 
 hushing to the rest of death. 
 
 "Were you frightened, child]" 
 
 " I was till I heard the church-bells," whis- 
 pered Hugh. "I don't know how long it 
 was — oh, a great while — and I had eat the 
 biscuit Johnny gave me and been asleep. I 
 was not frightened then, Joe ; I thought they'd 
 come to me when church was over." 
 
 I met the procession. What the dirty 
 object might be in Tod's arms was quite a 
 mystery at first. Tod's eyes were dropping tears 
 upon it, and his breath was coming in great 
 sobs. Luke brought up the rear a few yards 
 behind, looking as if he'd never find his senses 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, Tod ! will he get over it \ " 
 
 " Yes. Please God." 
 
 " Is he injured '? " 
 
 " No, no. Get out of my way, Johnny. Go 
 to the mother now, if you like. Tell her he 
 has only been shut up in the barn and I'm 
 
166 CBABB RAVINE. 
 
 coming in mth him. The dirt's nothing : it 
 was on him before." 
 
 Just as meek and gentle she stood as ever, 
 the tears rolling do^vn her face, and a quiet 
 joy in it. Tod brought him in, laying him 
 across her knee as she sat on the sofa. 
 
 "There,^' he said. "He'll be aU right 
 when he has been washed and had something 
 to eat." 
 
 " God bless you, Joseph ! " she whispered. 
 
 Tod could say no more. He bent to kiss 
 Hugh ; lifted his face, and kissed the mother. 
 And then he went rushing out with a great 
 burst of emotion. 
 
 oO -r HT^Oo 
 
OUE VISIT. 
 
 A GREAT PUZZLE. 
 
 WE went down from Oxford together, I 
 and Tod and William Whitney; ac- 
 companying Miss Deveen and Helen and Anna 
 Whitney, who had been there for a few days. 
 Miss Deveen's carriage was waiting at the 
 Paddington station ; they got into it with Tod, 
 and William and I followed in a cab with the 
 luggage. Miss Deveen had invited us all to 
 stay with her. 
 
 Miss Cattledon, the companion, with her 
 tall, thin figure, her pinched-in waist and her 
 creaking stays, stood ready to receive us Avhen 
 Ave reached the house. Miss Deveen held out 
 her hand. 
 
 " How have you been, Jemima ? Taking 
 care of yourself, I hope !" 
 
 " Quite well, thank you, Miss Deveen ; and 
 very glad to see you at home again, ' returned 
 Cattledon. " This is my niece, Janet Carey." 
 
168 OUR VISIT. 
 
 A slight, small girl, with smooth brown hair 
 and a quiet face that looked as if it had just 
 come out of some wasting illness, was hiding 
 herself behind Cattledon. Miss Deveen said a 
 few pleasant words of welcome, and took her 
 hand. The girl looked as shy and frightened 
 as though we had all been a pack of 
 gorillas. 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am ; you are very kind," 
 she said in a tremble ; and her voice, I noticed, 
 was low and pleasant. I like nice voices, 
 whether in man or woman. 
 
 " It wants but half an hour to dinner-time," 
 said Miss Deveen, untying the strings of her 
 bonnet. " Miss Gattledon, will you show these 
 young friends of ours the rooms you have ap- 
 propriated to them." 
 
 My room and Tod's — two beds in it — was on 
 the second floor ; Helen and Anna had the best 
 company room below, near Miss Deveen's ; Bill 
 had a little one lower still, half way up the 
 first flight of stairs. Miss Cattledon's room, 
 we found out, was next to ours, and her niece 
 slept with her. 
 
 Tod threw himself full length on his counter- 
 pane — tired out, he said. Certain matters had 
 not gone very smoothly for him at Oxford, and 
 the smart remained. 
 
OUR VISIT. 169 
 
 " Youll be late, Tod," I said when I was ready. 
 
 " Plenty of time, Johnny. I don't suppose 
 I shall keep dinner waiting." 
 
 Miss Deveen stood at the door of the blue 
 room when I went down : that pretty sitting- 
 room, exclusively hers, that I remembered so 
 well. She had on a purple silk gown, with 
 studs of pale yellow topaz in its white lace 
 front, studs every whit as beautiful as the 
 emeralds made free with by Sophie Chalk. 
 
 " Come in here, Johnny." 
 
 She was beginning to talk to me as we stood 
 by the fire, when some one was heard to enter 
 the inner room ; Miss Deveen's bed-chamber, 
 which opened from this room as well as from 
 the landing. She crossed over into it, and I 
 heard Cattledon's voice. 
 
 '' It is so very kind of you. Miss Deveen, to 
 have allowed me to bring my niece here ! 
 Under the circumstances — with such a cloud 
 upon her — " 
 
 " She is quite welcome," interrupted Miss 
 Deveen's voice. 
 
 " Yes, I know that, I know it : and I could 
 not go down without thanking you. I have 
 told Lettice to take some tea up to her while 
 we dine. She can come to the drawing-room 
 afterw^ards if you have no objection." 
 
170 OTJB VISIl 
 
 " Why can't she dine with us ?" asked Miss 
 Deveen. 
 
 "Better not," said Cattledon. "She does 
 not expect it ; and with so many at table " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " came Miss Deveen's quick^ 
 decisive interruption. " Many at table ! There 
 are enough servants to wait on us, and I suppose 
 you have enough dinner. Go and bring her 
 down." 
 
 Miss Deveen came back, holding out her 
 hand to me as she crossed the room. The gong 
 sounded as we went down to the drawing-room. 
 They all came crowding in, Tod last ; and we 
 went in to dinner. 
 
 Miss Deveen, with her fresh and handsome 
 face and her snow-white hair, took the head of 
 the table. Cattledon, at the foot, a green 
 velvet ribbon round her genteel throat, 
 helped the soup. William Whitney sat on 
 Miss Deveen's right, I on her left. Janet 
 Carey sat next to him — and this brought her 
 nearly opposite me. 
 
 She had an old black silk on, with a white 
 frill at the throat — very poor and plain as con- 
 trasted with the light gleaming silks of Helen 
 and Anna. But she had nice eyes; their 
 colour a light hazel, their expression honest and 
 sweet. It was a pity she could not get some 
 
OUR VISIT. 171 
 
 colour into her wan face, and a little courage 
 into her manner. 
 
 After coffee we sat down in the drawing-room 
 to a round game at cards, and then had some 
 music; Helen playing first. Janet Carey was 
 at the table, looking at a view in an album. I 
 went up to her. 
 
 Had I caught her staring at some native 
 Indians tarred and feathered, she could not 
 have given a worse jump. It might have been 
 fancy, but I thought her face turned white. 
 
 " Did I startle you Miss Carey? " I am very 
 sorry." 
 
 " Oh, thank you— no. Every one is very 
 kind. The truth is " — pausing a moment and 
 looking at the view — "I knew the place in 
 earlv life, and was lost in old memories. Past 
 times and events connected with it came back 
 to me. I recognized the place at once, though 
 I was only ten years old when I left it." 
 
 " Places do linger on the memory in a singu- 
 larly vivid manner sometimes. Especially 
 those we have known when young." 
 
 " I can recognize every spot in this," she 
 said, gazing still at the album. " And I have 
 not seen it for fifteen years." 
 
 " Fifteen. I — I understood you to say you 
 were ten years old when you left it." 
 
172 OUR VISIT. 
 
 " So I was. I am twenty-five now." 
 
 So much as that ! So much older than any 
 of us ! I could hardly believe it. 
 
 " I should not have taken you for more than 
 seventeen, Miss Carey." 
 
 " At seventeen I went out to get my o^\ti 
 living," she said, in a sad tone, but mth a 
 candour that I liked. " That is eight years 
 ago." 
 
 Helen's music ceased with a crash. Miss 
 Deveen came up to Janet Carey. 
 
 "My dear, I hear you can sing: your aunt 
 tells me so. Will you sing a song, to please 
 mer' 
 
 She was like a startled fa^vn : looking here, 
 looking there, and turning white and red. 
 But she rose at once. 
 
 " I will sing if you wish it, madam. But 
 my singing is only plain singing : just a few 
 old songs. I have never learnt to sing." 
 
 " The old songs are the best," said Miss 
 Deveen. Can you sing that sweet song of all 
 songs — ' Blow", blow, thou wintry wind ' % " 
 
 She went to the piano, struck the chords 
 quietly, without any flourish or prelude, and 
 began the first note. 
 
 Oh the soft, sweet, musical voice that broke 
 upon us ! Not a powerful voice, that astounds 
 
OUR VISIT. 173 
 
 the nerves like an electric machine ; but one 
 of that intense, thrilling, plaintive harmony 
 which brings a mist to the eye and a throb to 
 the heart. Tod backed against the wall to 
 look at her : Bill, who had taken up the cat, 
 let it drop through his knees. 
 
 You might have heard a pin drop when the 
 last words died away : " As friends remember- 
 ing not." Miss Deveen broke the silence : 
 praising her and telling her to go on again. 
 The girl did not seem to have the least notion 
 of refusing : she appeared to have lived under 
 submission. 1 think Miss Deveen would have 
 liked her to go on for ever. 
 
 " The wonder to me is that you can remem- 
 ber the accompaniment to so many sono-s 
 without your notes," cried Helen Whitney. 
 
 " I do not know my notes. I cannot 
 play." 
 
 " Not know your notes ! " 
 
 " I never learnt them. I never learnt music. 
 I just play some few chords by ear that will 
 harmonize with the songs. That is why my 
 singing is so poor, so different from other 
 people's. Where I have been living they say 
 it is not worth listening to." 
 
 She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. 
 I had heard of self-depreciation : this was an 
 
174 OUR VISIT. 
 
 instance of it. Janet Carey was one of the 
 humble ones. 
 
 The next day was Good Friday. We went 
 to church under lowering clouds, and came 
 home again to luncheon. Cattledon's face 
 was all vinegar when we sat down to it. 
 
 " There's that woman down stairs again ! — 
 that Dess ! " she exclaimed with acrimony. 
 ^' Making herself at home with the servants ! '' 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it," smiled Miss Deveen. 
 ^' She'll get some dinner, poor thing." 
 
 Cattledon sniffed. " It's not a month since 
 she was here before." 
 
 " And I'm sure if she came every week 
 she'd be welcome to a meal," spoke Miss 
 Deveen. " Ah now, young ladies," she went 
 on in a joking tone, " if you wanted your 
 fortunes told, Mrs. Dess is the one to do 
 it." 
 
 " Does she tell truth 1 " asked Helen 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, very true, of course," laughed Miss 
 Deveen. " She'll promise you a rich husband 
 apiece. Dame Dess is a good woman, and 
 has had many misfortunes. I have known her 
 through all of them." 
 
 "And helped her too," resentfully put in 
 Cattledon. 
 
OUR VISIT. 175 
 
 " But does she really tell fortunes ? " pur- 
 sued Helen. 
 
 "She thinks she does," laughed Miss 
 Deveen. " She told mine once — many a year 
 ago." 
 
 " And did it come true T' 
 
 " Well, as far as T remember, she candidly 
 confessed that there was not much to tell — 
 that my life would be prosperous but un- 
 eventful." 
 
 " I don't think, begging your pardon, Miss 
 Deveen, that it is quite a proper subject for 
 young people," struck in Cattledon, drawing 
 up her thin red neck. 
 
 "Dear me, no," replied Miss Deveen, still 
 laughing a little. And the subject dropped, 
 and we finished luncheon. 
 
 The rain had come on, a regular downpour. 
 We went into the breakfast-room: though 
 why it was called that, I don't know, since 
 breakfast was never taken there. It was a 
 fair sized, square room, built out at the back, 
 and gained by a few stairs down from the hall 
 and a passage. Somehow people prefer plain 
 rooms to grand ones for every-day use : per- 
 haps that was why we all took a liking to this 
 room, for it was plain enough. An old carpet 
 on the floor, chairs covered with tumbled 
 
176 OUR VISIT. 
 
 chintz, and always a good blazing fire in the 
 grate. Miss Deveen would go in there to 
 write her business letters — when she had any 
 to write ; or to cut out sewing Avith Cattledon 
 for the housemaids. An old-fashioned secre- 
 tary stood against the wall, in which receipts 
 and other papers were kept. The French 
 window opened to the garden. 
 
 " Pour, pour, pour ! It's going to be wet 
 for the rest of the day," said Tod gloomily. 
 
 Cattledon came in, equipped for church in 
 a long brown cloak, a pair of clogs in her 
 hand. Did none of us intend to go, she asked. 
 Nobody answered. The weather outside was 
 not tempting. 
 
 " You must come, Janet Carey," she said 
 very tartly, angry with us all, I expect. " Go 
 and put on your things." 
 
 " No," interposed Miss Deveen. " It would 
 not be prudent for your niece to venture out 
 in this rain, Jemima." 
 
 "The church is only over the way." 
 
 " But consider the illness she has but just 
 recovered from. Let her stay in doors." 
 
 Cattledon went off without further oppo- 
 sition, Janet kneeling down unasked, to put 
 on her clogs, and then opening her umbrella 
 for her in the hall. Janet did not come in 
 
OUR VISIT. 177 
 
 again. Miss Deveen went out to sit with a 
 sick neighbour ; so we were alone. 
 
 " What a cranky old thinor that Cattledon 
 is ! " cried Bill, throwing down his newspaper. 
 " She'd have walked that sick girl off in the 
 wet, you see." 
 
 "How old is Cattledon?" asked Tod. 
 "Sixty?" 
 
 " Oh, you stupid fellow ! " exclaimed Helen, 
 looking up from the stool on the hearth rug, 
 where she was sitting, nursing her knees. 
 "Cattledon sixty! Why, she can't be above 
 forty-five." 
 
 It was disrespectful no doubt, but we all 
 called her plain " Cattledon " behind her back; 
 putting no handle to her name. 
 
 " That's rather a queer girl, that niece," said 
 Tod. " She won't speak to one : she's like a 
 frightened hare." 
 
 " I like her," said Anna. " I feel very sorry 
 for her. She gives one the idea of having 
 been always put upon : and she looks dread- 
 fully ill." 
 
 " I should say she has been kept in some 
 Blue Beard's cupboard, amongst a lot of 
 hanging wives that have permanently scared 
 her," remarked Bill. 
 
 "It's Cattledon," said Tod; "it's not the 
 
178 OTJn VISIT. 
 
 Avives. She puts upon the girl and frightens 
 her senses out of her. Cattledon's a cross- 
 grained, two-edged " 
 
 He had to shut up : Janet Carey was coming 
 in again. For about five minutes nobody 
 spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. 
 Bill played at ball with Miss Deveen's red pen- 
 wiper : Anna began turning over the period- 
 icals : Helen gave the cat a box when it 
 would have jumped on her knee. 
 
 " Well, this is lively ! " cried Tod. " Nothing 
 on earth to do ; I wonder why the rain couldn't 
 have kept off till to-morrow?" 
 
 " I say," whispered Helen, treason sparkling 
 from her bright eyes, " let us have up that old 
 fortune-teller ! I'll go and ask Lettice." 
 
 She whisked out of the room, shutting the 
 tail of her black silk dress in the door, and 
 called Lettice. A few minutes, and Mrs. Ness 
 came in, curtseying. A stout old lady in a 
 cotton shawl and broad-bordered cap with 
 a big red bow tied in front. 
 
 " I say, Mrs. Ness, can you tell our fortunes? " 
 cried Bill. 
 
 " Bless you, young gentlefolks, I've told a 
 many in my^time. " I'll tell yours, if you like 
 to bid me, sir.'* 
 
 " Do the cards tell true ? 
 
OUR VISIT. 170 
 
 " I believe they does, sir. I've knowed 'em 
 to tell over true now and again — more's the 
 pity ! " 
 
 " Why do you say more's the pity ? " asked 
 Anna. 
 
 "When they've foretelled bad things, my 
 sweet, pretty young lady. "Death, and what 
 not." 
 
 " But how it must frighten the people who 
 are having them told ! " cried Anna. 
 
 "Well, to speak the truth, young gentle- 
 folks, when it's very bad, I generally softens 
 it over to 'em — say the cards is cloudy, or 
 some'at o' that," was the old woman's candid 
 answer. "It don't do to make folks un- 
 easy." 
 
 " Look here," said Helen, who had been to 
 find the cards, " I should not like to hear it if 
 it's anything bad." 
 
 " Ah, my dear young lady, I don't think 
 yoit need fear any but a good fortune, with 
 that handsome face and them bright eyes of 
 yours," returned the old dame — who really 
 seemed to speak, not in flattery, but from the 
 bottom of her heart. " I don't know what 
 the young lords 'ud be about, to pass you 
 
 by-" 
 
 Helen liked that ; she was just as vain as a 
 
 N— 2 
 
180 OUR VISIT. 
 
 peacock, and thought no little of herself. 
 " Who'll begin \ " asked she. 
 
 " Begin yourself, Helen," said Tod. " It's 
 sure to be something good." 
 
 So she shuffled and cut the cards as directed : 
 and the old woman, sitting at the table, spread 
 them out before her, talking a little bit to 
 herself, and pointing with her finger here and 
 there. 
 
 " You've been upon a journey lately," she 
 said, " and you'll soon be going upon another.'* 
 I give only the substance of what the old lady 
 said, but it was interspersed freely with her 
 own remarks. " You'll have a present before 
 many days is gone ; and you'll — stay, 
 there's that black card — you'll hear of some- 
 body that's sick. And — dear me ! there's an 
 offer for you — an offer of marriage, — but it 
 won't come to anything. Well, now, shuffle 
 and cut again, please." 
 
 Helen did so. This was repeated three 
 times in all. But, so far as we could under- 
 stand it, her future seemed to be very unevent- 
 ful — to have nothing in it — something like 
 Miss De Veen's. 
 
 " It's a brave fortune, as I thought, young 
 lady," cried Mrs. Ness. " No trouble or care 
 in store for you." 
 
OUR VISIT. 181 
 
 " But there's nothing^'' said Helen, too 
 Intently earnest to mind any of us. " When 
 am I to be married ? " 
 
 " Well, my dear, the cards haven't told so 
 much this time. There'll be an offer, as I said 
 — and I think a bit of trouble over it; but — " 
 
 "But you said it would not come to 
 anything," interrupted Helen. 
 
 " Well, and no more it won't : leastways, it 
 seemed so by the cards ; and it seemed to 
 bring a bother with it — old folks pulling one 
 way maybe, and young 'uns the other. You'll 
 have to wait a bit for the right gentleman, my 
 pretty miss." 
 
 " What stupid cards they are ! " cried Helen, 
 in dudgeon. " I daresay it's all rubbish." 
 
 " Any ways, you've had nothing bad," said 
 the old woman. " And that's a priceless con- 
 solation." 
 
 " It's your turn now, Anna." 
 
 " I won't have mine told," said Anna. " I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " Oh, you senseless donkey ! " cried Bill. 
 *' Afraid of a pack of cards!" So Anna 
 laughed, and began. 
 
 " Ah, there's more here," said the old woman 
 as she laid them out. " You are going through 
 some great ceremony not long first. See here 
 
182 OUR VISIT. 
 
 — crowds of people — and show. Is it a great 
 ball, I wonder ? " 
 
 " It may be my presentation," said Anna. 
 
 " And here's the wedding ring ! — and there's 
 the gentleman ! See ! he's turning towards 
 you ; a dark man it is ; and he'll be very fond 
 of you, too ! — and " 
 
 " Oh, don't go on," cried Anna, in terrible 
 confusion as she heard all this, and caught 
 Tod's eye, and saw Bill on the broad laugh* 
 " Don't, pray don't ; it must be all nonsense,"" 
 she went on, blushing redder than a rose. 
 
 But it's true," steadily urged the old lady. 
 There the wedding is. I don't say it'll be 
 soon ; perhaps not for some years ; but come 
 it will in its proper time. And you'll live in 
 a fine big house ; and — stay a bit — you'll 
 have " 
 
 Anna, half laughing, half crying, and her 
 face redder than Dame Ness's fiery bow, pushed 
 the cards together. " I won't be told any 
 more," she said; "it must be all a pack of 
 nonsense." 
 
 " Of course it is," added Helen decisively. 
 " xlnd why couldn't you have told me all that, 
 Mrs. Ness?" 
 
 " Why, my dear, sweet young lady, it isn't 
 me that tells : it's the cards.'' 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
OTJR VISIT. 183 
 
 " I don't believe it. But it does to Avhile 
 away a wet and wretched afternoon. Now, 
 Miss Carey." 
 
 Miss Carey looked up from her book with a 
 start. " Oh, not me ! Please, not me ! " 
 
 "Not you! — the idea!" cried Helen. 
 '' Why, of course you must. I and my sister 
 have had our turn, and you must take yours. '^ 
 
 As if further objection were out of the 
 question, Miss Carey stood timidly up by the 
 table and shuffled the cards that Dame Ness 
 handed to her. When they were spread out, 
 the old woman looked at the cards longer than 
 she had looked for either Helen or Anna, then 
 at the girl, then at the cards again. 
 
 " There has been sickness ; — and trouble ; — 
 and distress," she said at length. "And — 
 and — 'tain't over yet. I see a dark lady and 
 a fair man : they've been in it, somehow. 
 Seems to ha' been a great trouble — " putting 
 the tips of her forefingers upon two cards. 
 "Here you are, you see, right among it," — 
 pointing to the Queen of Hearts. " I don't 
 like the look of it. And there's money 
 
 mixed up in the sorrow " 
 
 A low, shuddering cry. I happened to be 
 looking from the window at the moment, and 
 turned to see Janet Carey with hands uplifted 
 
184 OUR VISIT. 
 
 and a face of imploring terror. The cry came 
 from her. 
 
 " Oh don't, don't ! don't tell any more ! " she 
 implored. " I — was — not — guilty." 
 
 Down went her voice by little and little, 
 down fell her hands ; and down dropped she 
 on the chair behind her. The next moment 
 she was crying and sobbing. We stood round 
 like so many helpless simpletons, quite put 
 down by this unexpected interlude. Old Dame 
 Ness stared, slowly shuffling the cards from 
 hand to hand, and could not make it out. 
 
 " Here, I'll have my fortune told next, 
 Mother Ness," said Bill Whitney," really out 
 of good nature to the girl, that she might be 
 left unobserved to recover herself. " Mind 
 you promise me a good one." 
 
 " And so I will then, young gentleman, if 
 the cards '11 let me," was the hearty answer. 
 ^' Please shuffle 'em well, sir, and then cut 
 'em into three." 
 
 Bill was shuffling with all his might when 
 we heard the front door open, and Cattledon's 
 voice in the hall. "Oh, by George, I say, 
 what's to be done ? " cried he. " She'll be fit 
 to smother us. That old parson can't have 
 given them a sermon." 
 
 Fortunately she stayed on the door-mat to 
 
OUR VISIT. 185 
 
 take off her clogs. Dame Ness was scuffled 
 down the kitchen stairs, and Bill hid the cards 
 away in his pocket. 
 
 And until then it had not occurred to us 
 that it might not be quite the right thing to 
 go in for fortune-telling on Good Friday. 
 
 II. 
 Ox Easter Tuesday William Whitney and 
 Tod went off to Whitney Hall for a few days : 
 Sir John wrote for them. In the afternoon 
 Miss Deveen took Helen in the carriage to 
 make calls : and the rest of us went to the 
 Colosseum, in the Regent's Park. Cattledon 
 rather fought against the expedition, but Miss 
 Deveen did not listen to her. None of us — 
 except herself — had seen it before : and I 
 know that I, for one, was delighted with it. 
 
 The last scene of the performance was over. 
 If I remember aright, at this distance of time, 
 it was the representation of the falling of an 
 avalanche on a Smss village, to bury it for ever 
 in the snow ; and we saw the little lighted 
 church to which the terrified inhabitants were 
 flying for succour, and heard the tinkling of 
 its alarm bell. As we pushed out with the 
 crowd, a policeman appeared in our w^ay, 
 facing us, a tall, big, fierce-looking man ; not 
 to impede the advance of the throng, but to 
 
186 OUR VISIT. 
 
 direct its moveraents. Janet Carey seized hold 
 of my arm, and I turned to look at her. She 
 stood somethinor like a block of stone ; her 
 face white with terror, her eyes fixed on the 
 policeman. I could not get her on, and we 
 were stopping those behind. Naturally the 
 man's eyes fell on her ; and with evident 
 recognition. 
 
 " Oh it's you here, is it. Miss Carey ! " 
 
 The tone was not exactly insolent : but it 
 was cool and significant, wanting in respect. 
 When I would have asked him how he dared 
 so to address a young lady, the words were 
 arrested by Janet. I thought she had gone mad. 
 
 " Oh, get me away, Mr. Ludlow, for 
 Heaven's sake ! Don't let him take me ! Oh 
 what shall I do ! what shall I do ? " 
 
 " What you've got to do is to get for'ard 
 out o' this here passage and not block up the 
 way," struck in the policeman. " I hain't after 
 you now ; so you've no call to be afeared 
 this time. Pass on that way, sir." 
 
 I drew her onwards, and in half a minute 
 we were in the open air, clear of the throng. 
 Cattledon, who seemed to have understood 
 nothing, except that we had stopped the 
 way, shook Janet by the arm in anger, and 
 asked what had come to her. 
 
OUR VISIT. 187 
 
 " It was the same man, aunt, that Mrs. 
 Knox called in," she gasped. " I thought he 
 had come to London to look for me." 
 
 Miss Cattledon's answer was to keep hold 
 of her arm, and whirl her along towards 
 the outer gates. Anna and I followed in 
 wonder. 
 
 " What is it all, Johnny ? " she whispered. 
 
 *' Goodness knows, Anna. I " 
 
 Cattledon turned her head, asking me to 
 go on and secure a cab. Janet was helped 
 into it and sat back with her eyes closed, a 
 shiver taking her every now and then. 
 
 Janet appeared at dinner, and seemed as 
 well as usual. In the evening Helen tore the 
 skirt of her thin dress: and before she was 
 aware, the girl was kneeling by the side of 
 her chair with a needle and thread, beginning 
 to mend it. 
 
 " You are very kind," said Helen heartily, 
 when she saw what Janet was doing. 
 
 " Oh no," answered Janet, with an upward,, 
 self-depreciatory glance from her nice eyes. 
 
 But soon after that, when we w^ere describ- 
 ing to Helen and Miss Deveen the sights at 
 the Colosseum, and the silence of the buried 
 village after the avalanche had fallen, Janet 
 was taken with an ague fit. The very chair 
 
188 OUR VISiT. 
 
 shook ; it seemed that she must fall out of 
 it. Anna ran to hold her. Miss Deveen 
 got up in consternation. 
 
 " That Colosseum has been too much for 
 her : there's nothing so fatiguing as sight- 
 seeing. I did wrong in letting Janet go, as 
 she is still weak from her illness. Perhaps 
 she has taken cold." 
 
 Ringing the bell, Miss Deveen told George 
 to make some hot wine and water. When it was 
 brought in, she made Janet drink it, and sent 
 her up-stairs to bed, marshalled by Cattledon. 
 
 The next morning, Wednesday, I was 
 dressing in the sunshine that streamed in at 
 the bedroom windows, when a loud hulla- 
 balloo was set up below^, enough to startle 
 the king and all his men. 
 
 " Thieves ! robbers ! murder ! " 
 
 Dashing to the door, I looked over the 
 balustrades. The shrieks and calls came 
 from Lettice Lane, who was stumbling up 
 the stairs from the hall. Cattledon opened 
 her door in her nightcap, saw me, and shut 
 it again with a bang. 
 
 " Murder ! robbers ! thieves ! " shrieked 
 Lettice. 
 
 " But what is it, Lettice ? " I cried, leaping 
 down. 
 
OUR VISIT. 189 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Johnny, the house is robbed ! — 
 and we might just as well all have been 
 murdered in our beds ! " 
 
 Everybody was appearing on the scene. 
 Miss Deveen came fully dressed — she was 
 often up before other people ; Cattledon 
 arrived in a white petticoat and shawl. The 
 servants were running up from the kitchen. 
 
 Thieves had broken in during the night. 
 The (so-called) breakfast-room at the back 
 presented a scene of indescribable confusion. 
 Every thing in it was turned topsy-turvy; 
 the secretary had been ransacked ; the glass 
 doors stood open to the garden. 
 
 It seemed that Lettice, in pursuance of 
 her morning's duties, had gone to the room, 
 and found it in this state. Lettice was of 
 the excitable order, and went into shrieks. 
 She stood now, sobbing and shaking, as she 
 gave her explanation. 
 
 " When I opened the door and saw the 
 room in this pickle, the window standing 
 open, my very blood seemed to curdle 
 within me. For all I knew the thieves might 
 have done murder. Just look at the place, 
 ma'am ! — look at your secretary ! " 
 
 It's what we were all looking at. The 
 sight was as good as moving house. Chairs 
 
190 OUR VISIT. 
 
 and footstools lay upside down, their chintz 
 covers untied and flung off; the hearth-rug 
 was under the table ; books were open, period- 
 icals scattered about ; two pictures had been 
 taken from the wall and lay face downwards ; 
 every ornament was moved from the mantel- 
 piece. The secretary stood open ; all its 
 papers had been taken out, opened, and lay 
 in a heap on the floor ; and Janet Carey's 
 well-stocked work-box was turned bottom up- 
 wards, its contents having rolled anywhere. 
 
 " This must be your work, George," said 
 Miss Cattle don, turning on the servant man 
 with a grim frown. 
 
 " Mine, ma'am ! " he answered, amazed at 
 the charge. 
 
 " Yes, yours," repeated Cattledon. " You 
 could not have fastened the shutters last 
 night ; and that is how the thieves have got 
 
 in." 
 
 " But I did, ma'am. I fastened them just 
 as usual." 
 
 " Couldn't be," said Cattledon decisively, 
 who had been making her way over the 
 debris to examine the shutters. '' They have 
 not been forced in any way : they have simply 
 been opened. The window also." 
 
 " And neither window nor shutters could be 
 
OUR VISIT. 191 
 
 opened from the outside without force," re- 
 marked Miss Deveen. '' I fear, George, you 
 must have forgotten this room when you shut 
 up last night." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, I did not forget it," was the 
 respectful answer. " I assure you I bolted the 
 window and barred the shutters as I always 
 do." 
 
 Janet Carey, standing in mute wonder like 
 the rest of us, testified to this. " When I came 
 in here last night to get a needle and thread to 
 mend Miss Whitney's dress, I am sure the 
 shutters were shut : I noticed that they were." 
 
 Cattledon would not listen. She had taken 
 up her own opinion of George's neglect, and 
 sharply told Janet not to be so positive. Janet 
 looked frightfully white and wan this morning, 
 worse than a ghost. 
 
 " Oh my goodness ! " cried Helen Whitney, 
 appearing on the scene. '' If ever I saw such 
 a thing ! " 
 
 " I never did — in all my life," cried Cattle- 
 don. 
 
 "Have you lost any valuables from the 
 secretary. Miss Deveen ? " 
 
 "- My dear Helen, there were no valuables in 
 the secretary to lose," was Miss Deveen's 
 answer. " Sometimes I keep money in it — a 
 
192 OUR VISIT. 
 
 little : but last night there happened to be 
 none. Of course the thieves could not know 
 that, and must have been greatly disappointed. 
 If they did not come in through the window — 
 why, they must have got in elsewhere." 
 
 Miss Deveen spoke in a dubious tone, that 
 too plainly showed her own doubts on the 
 point. George felt himself and his word re- 
 flected upon. 
 
 " If I had indeed forgotten this window last 
 night, ma'am — though for me to do such a 
 thing seems next door to impossible — I would 
 confess to it at once. I can be upon my oath, 
 ma'am, if put to it, that I made all secure here 
 at dusk." 
 
 " Then, George, you had better look to your 
 other doors and windows," was the reply of his 
 mistress. 
 
 The other doors and windows were looked 
 to : but no trace could be found of how the 
 thieves got in. After breakfast, we succeeded 
 in putting the room tolerably straight. The 
 letters and bills took most time, for every one 
 was lying open. And after it was all done. 
 Miss Deveen came to the conclusion that no- 
 thinof had been taken. 
 
 " Their object must have been money," she 
 observed. " It is a good thing I happened to 
 
OUR VISIT. 193 
 
 carry my cash-box up-stairs yesterday. Some- 
 times I leave it here in the secretary." 
 
 " And was much in it \ " one of us asked. 
 
 " Not very much. More, though, than one 
 cares to lose: a little gold and a bank-note." 
 
 "A bank-note ! " echoed Janet, repeating the 
 words quickly. " Is it safe ? — are you sure, 
 ma'am, the note is safe ? " 
 
 "Well, I conclude it is," answered Miss 
 Deveen with composure. "I saw the cash- 
 box before I came down this mornins:. I did 
 not look inside it." 
 
 " Oh, but you had better look," urged Janet, 
 betraying some excitement. " Suppose it should 
 be gone ! Can / look, ma'am ? " 
 
 " What nonsense ! " exclaimed Helen. " If 
 the cash-box is safe, the money must be safe 
 inside it. The thieves did not go into Miss 
 Deveen's room, Janet Carey." 
 
 The servants wanted the police called in ; 
 but their mistress saw no necessity for it. 
 Nothing had been carried off, she said, and 
 therefore she should take no further trouble. 
 Her private opinion was that George, in spite 
 of his assertions, must have forgotten the win- 
 dow. 
 
 It seemed a curious thing that the thieves 
 had not visited other rooms. Unless, indeed^ 
 o 
 
194 OUR VISIT. 
 
 the door of this one had been locked on the 
 outside, and thev were afraid to risk the noise 
 of forcing it : and no one could tell whether 
 the key had been turned, or not. George had 
 the plate-basket in his bed-chamber; but on 
 the sideboard in the dining-room stood a silver 
 tea-caddy and a small silver waiter : how was 
 it they had not walked off with these two 
 articles? Or, as the cook said, why didn't 
 they rifle her larder? She had various tempt- 
 ini>: thino^s in it, includiuGf a fresh-boiled 
 ham. 
 
 "Janet Carey has been ill all the after- 
 noon," observed Anna, when I and Helen got 
 liome before dinner, for we had been out with 
 ^liss Deveen. " I think she feels frightened 
 about the thieves, for one thing." 
 
 "Ill for nothing!" returned Helen slight- 
 ingly. " Why should she be frightened any 
 more than we are ? The thieves did not hurt 
 her. I might just as well say I am ill." 
 
 " But she has been really ill, Helen. She 
 has a shivering-fit one minute and is sick the 
 next. Cattledon savs she must have cau^fht 
 cold yesterday, and is cross with her for catch- 
 ing It. 
 
 " Look here," said Helen, lowering her 
 voice. " I can't get it out of my head that 
 
OUR VISIT. 195 
 
 that old fortune-teller must have had to do 
 with it. She must have seen the secretary 
 and may have taken note of the window 
 fasteninofs. I am in a state over it: as you 
 both know, it was I who had her up." 
 
 Janet did not come down until after dinner. 
 She was pale and quiet, but not less ready than 
 ever to do what she could for everybody. 
 Helen had broufjht home some ferns to — 
 transfer, I think she called it. Janet at once 
 offered to help her. The process involved a 
 large washhand-basin full of water, and Miss 
 Deveen sent the two girls into the breakfast- 
 parlour, not to make a mess in the dramng- 
 room. 
 
 " Well, my dears," said Miss Deveen, when 
 she had read the Chapter before bed-time, " I 
 liope you will all sleep well to-night, and that 
 we shall be undisturbed by thieves. Not that 
 they disturbed us last night," she added, laugh- 
 ing. " Considering all things, I'm sure they 
 were as polite and considerate thieves as we 
 could wish to have to do with." 
 
 Whether the others slept well I cannot say : 
 I know I did. So well that I never woke at 
 all until the same cries from Lettice disturbed 
 the house as on the previous morning. The 
 thieves had been in again. , 
 
 0—2 
 
196 OUR VISIT, 
 
 Down stairs we went, as quickly as some 
 degree of dressing allowed, and found the 
 breakfast parlour all confusion, the servants 
 all consternation : the window open as before ; 
 the furniture turned about, the ornaments 
 and pictures moved from their places, the 
 books scattered, the papers of the secretary 
 lying unfolded in a heap on the carpet, and 
 a pair of embroidered slippers of Helen 
 Whitney's lying in the washhand basin of 
 water. 
 
 " What an extraordinary thing !" exclaimed 
 Miss Deveen, while the rest of us stood in 
 silent amazement. 
 
 Lettice's tale was the same as the previous 
 one. Upon proceeding to the room to put it 
 to rights, she found it thus, and its shutters 
 and glass doors wide open. There was no 
 trace, except here, of the possible entrance or 
 exit of thieves : all other fastenings were 
 secure as they had been left over night ; other 
 rooms had not been disturbed; and, more 
 singular than all, nothing appeared to have 
 been taken. What could the thieves be 
 seeking for % 
 
 " Shall you call in the police now, ma'am] '* 
 asked Cattledon, her tone implying that they 
 ought to have been called in before. 
 
OUR VISIT, 197 
 
 "Yes, I shall," emphatically replied Miss 
 Deveen. 
 
 " Oh ! " shrieked Helen, darting in, after 
 making a hasty and impromptu toilet, "look 
 at my new slippers ! " 
 
 After finishing the ferns last night they had 
 neglected to send the basin away. The slip- 
 pers were rose-coloured, worked with white 
 iiowers in floss silk; and the bits of loose green 
 from the ferns floated over them like green 
 weeds on a pond. Helen had bought them 
 when we were out yesterday. 
 
 " My beautiful slippers ! " lamented Helen. 
 " I wish to goodness I had not forgotten to 
 take them upstairs. What wicked thieves 
 they must be ! They ought to be hung." 
 
 " It's to know, mum, whether it was 
 thieves," spoke the cook. 
 
 " Why, what else can it have been cook?" 
 asked Miss Deveen. 
 
 " Mum, I don't pretend to say. I've 
 knowed cats do queer things. A^'e've got two 
 on 'em — the old cat and her kitten." 
 
 " Did you ever know cats unlock a secre- 
 tary and take out the papers, cook? " returned 
 Miss Deveen. 
 
 " Well no, mum. But, on the other hand, 
 I never knowed thieves break into a house two 
 
19S OUR VISIT. 
 
 nights running, and both times go away empty 
 handed." 
 
 The argument was unanswerable. Unless 
 the thieves had been disturbed on each night, 
 how was it they had taken nothing? 
 
 Miss Deveen locked the door upon the room 
 just as it was ; and after breakfast sent George 
 to the nearest police-station. While he was 
 gone I was alone in the dining-room, stooping 
 down to hunt for a book in the lowest shelf 
 of the book-case, wdien Janet Carey came in 
 followed by Cattledon. I suppose the table- 
 cover hid me from them, for Cattledon began 
 to blow her up. 
 
 " One would think you were a troubled 
 ghost, shaking and shivering in that way, first 
 upstairs and then down ! The police coming ! 
 
 what if they are? They are not coming 
 
 after you this time. There's no money missing 
 now." 
 
 Janet burst into tears. " Oh, aunt, why do 
 you speak so to me? It is as though you 
 believed me guilty!" 
 
 " Don't be a simpleton, Janet," rebuked 
 Cattledon in a softer tone. " If I did not 
 know you were not, and could not, be guilty, 
 should I have brought you here under Miss 
 Deveen's roof? What vexes me so much is to 
 
OUll VISIT. 199 
 
 see you look as though you were guilty — with 
 your white face, and your hysterics, and your 
 tremhling hands and lips. Get a little spirit 
 into yourself, child : the police won't harm 
 you." 
 
 Catching up the keys from the table, she 
 went out again, leaving Janet sobbing. I 
 stood forward. She started when she saw me,, 
 and tried to dry her eyes. 
 
 " I am sorry. Miss Carey, that all this- 
 bother is affecting you. Why are you so 
 sad?" 
 
 " 1 — have gone through a great deal of 
 trouble lately ; — and been ill," she answered, 
 with hesitation, arresting her sobs. 
 
 '' Can I do anything for you? — help you in 
 any way?" 
 
 " You are very kind, Mr. LudloAV ; you have 
 been kind to me all along. There's nothing 
 any one can do. Sometimes I wish I could die." 
 
 " Die ! " 
 
 " There is so much unhappiness in the 
 world ! " 
 
 George's voice was heard in the hall with 
 the policeman. Janet vanished. But whether 
 it was through the floor or out at the door, 1 
 declare I did not see then, and don't quite 
 know to this day. 
 
200 Om VISIT. 
 
 T and Cattledon were allowed to assist at 
 tlie conference between Miss Deveen and the 
 policeman; a dark man with a double chin 
 and stripes on his coat sleeve. After hearing 
 particulars, and examining the room and the 
 mess it was in, he inquired how many servants 
 were kept, and whether Miss Deveen had con- 
 fidence in them. She told him the number, 
 and said she had confidence in all. 
 
 He went into the kitchen, put what ques- 
 tions he pleased to the servants, looked at the 
 fastenino^s of the doors 2:enerallv, examined the 
 outside of the window and walked about the 
 garden. George called him Mr. Stone — which 
 appeared to be his name. Mr. Stone had 
 nothing of a report to bring Miss Deveen. 
 
 '• It's one of two things, ma'am," he said. 
 *' Either this has been done bv somebodv in 
 vour own house ; or else the neii^hbours are 
 playing tricks upon you. I can't come to 
 any other conclusion. The case is peculiar, 
 vou see, in-so-far as that nothins; has been 
 Stolen. 
 
 '• It is very peculiar indeed," returned Miss 
 Deveen. 
 
 " I should have said — I should feel inclined 
 to say — that the culprit is some one in the 
 house " 
 
OUR VISIT. 201 
 
 '^ It's the most unlikely thing in the world, 
 that it should have been anybody in the 
 house," struck in Miss Deveen, not allowing 
 him to go on. " To suspect any of the young 
 people who are visiting me, would be simply 
 an insult. And my servants would no more 
 play the trick than I or Miss Cattledon would 
 play it." 
 
 " Failing indoors then, we must look out," 
 said Mr. Stone, after listening patiently. 
 *' And that brings up more difliculty, ma'am. 
 For I confess I don't see how they could get 
 the windows and shutters open from the out- 
 side, and leave no marks of damage." 
 
 " The fact of the window and shutters 
 being wide open each morning, shows how 
 thev e:ot out." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Stone; "but it does 
 not show how they got in. Of course there's 
 the possibility that they managed to secrete 
 themselves in the house beforehand." 
 
 " Yesterday I thought that might have 
 been the case," remarked ]\liss Deveen ; "to- 
 day I do not think so. It seems that, after 
 what occurred, my servants were especially 
 cautious to keep their doors and windows 
 not only closed but bolted all day yester- 
 day, quite barring the possibility of any one's 
 
202 OUR VISIl. 
 
 stealing in. Except, of course, do^vn the 
 chimneys." 
 
 Mr. Stone laughed. " They'd bring a lot 
 of soot with 'em that way." 
 
 " And spoil my hearth-rugs. No ; that was 
 not the way of entrance." „ 
 
 " Then we come to the question — did one 
 of the servants get up and admit 'em ? " 
 
 "But that would be doubtins: mv servants 
 still, you see. It really seems, Mr. Stone, as 
 though you could not help me." 
 
 " Before saying whether I can or I can't, I 
 should be glad, ma'am, to have a conversation 
 with you alone," was the unexpected answer. 
 
 So we left him with Miss Deveen. Cattle- 
 don's stays appeared to resent it, for they 
 creaked alarmingly in the hall, and her voice 
 was tart. 
 
 " Perhaps the man wants to accuse you or 
 me, Mr. Johnny ! " 
 
 "We knew later, after the upshot came, what 
 it was he did want ; and I may as well state 
 it at once. Stone had made up his mind to 
 watch that night in the garden ; but he 
 wished it kept secret from everybody, except 
 Miss Deveen herself, and he charged lier 
 strictly not to mention it. " How will it 
 serve you, if, as you say, they do not come in 
 
OUR VISIT. 203 
 
 that way?" she had asked. " But the proba- 
 bility is they come out that way," he answered. 
 '" At any rate, they fling the doors open, and I 
 shall be there to drop upon them." 
 
 Janet Carey grew very ill as the day went 
 on. Lettice offered to sit up with her, in case 
 she wanted anything in the night. Janet had 
 just the appearance of somebody worn out. 
 
 We went to bed at the usual time, quite 
 unconscious that Mr. Stone had taken up his 
 night watch in the summer-house at the end of 
 the garden. The nights were very bright just 
 then ; the moon at about the full. No- 
 thing came of it : neither the room nor the 
 window was disturbed. 
 
 " They scented my watch," remarked the 
 officer in private next morning to Miss Deveen. 
 " However, ma'am, I don't think it likely you 
 will be troubled again. Seeing you've put it 
 into our hands, they'll not dare to risk further 
 annoyance." 
 
 " I suppose not — if they know it," dubiously 
 spoke Miss Deveen. 
 
 He shook his head. " They know as much 
 as that, ma'am. Depend upon it, their little 
 game is over." 
 
 Mr. Stone was mistaken. On the following 
 mornino:, the breakfast- room was found by 
 
204 OUR VISIl. 
 
 Lettice in exactly the same state of confusion. 
 The furniture dragged about, the ornaments 
 moved from the mantel-piece, the bills and 
 papers opened, as before. Miss Deveen was 
 very silent over it, and said in the hearing of 
 the servants that she should have to carry 
 the grievance to Scotland Yard. 
 
 And I'm sure I thought she set out to do 
 it. The carriage came to the door in the 
 course of the morning. Miss Deveen, who 
 was ready dressed, passed over the others, and 
 asked me to go with her. 
 
 " Do you know what I'm going to do, 
 Johnny?" she questioned, as George took his 
 place on the box and the fat old coachman 
 gave the word to his horses. 
 
 " I think I do. Miss Deveen. We are 
 going to Scotland Yard." 
 
 " Not a bit of it, Johnny," she said. " My 
 opinion has come round to Mr. Policeman 
 Stone's — that we must look indoors for the 
 disturber. I have brought you out with me 
 to talk of it. It is a great mystery — for I 
 thought I could have trusted the servants and 
 all the rest of you with my life." 
 
 It was a mystery — and no mistake. 
 
 " A great mystery," repeated Miss Deveen ; 
 *'a puzzle; and I want you to help me to 
 
OUR VISIT. 205 
 
 unravel it, Johnny. I intend to sit up to- 
 night in the breakfast-parlour. But not being- 
 assured of my nerves while watching in soli- 
 tude for thieves, or ghosts, or what not, I wish 
 you to sit up with me." 
 
 " Oh, I shall like it. Miss Deveen." 
 " I have heard of houses being disturbed 
 before in a similar manner," she continued. 
 "There was a story in the old days of the 
 Cock Lane ghost : I think that was something 
 of the same kind, but my memory is rather 
 cloudy on the point. Other cases I know 
 have been traced to the sudden mania, solely 
 mischievous or otherwise, of some female 
 inmate. I hope it will not turn out to have 
 been Lettice herself." 
 
 '' Shall I watch without you. Miss Deveen 1 " 
 " No, no ; you will bear me company. We 
 will make our arrangements now, Johnny — 
 for I do not intend that any soul shall know of 
 this ; not even Miss Cattledon. You will 
 keep counsel, mind, like the true and loyal 
 knight you are." 
 
 The house had gone to rest. In the dark 
 breakfast-room sat Miss Deveen and I, side by 
 side. The fire was dying away, and it gave 
 scarcely any light. We sat back against the 
 
206 OUR VISIT. 
 
 wall between the fire-place and the door, she 
 in one armchair, I in another. The secretary 
 was opposite the fire, the key in the lock as 
 usual ; the window, closed and barred, lay to 
 the left, the door to the right, a table in the 
 middle. An outline of the objects was just 
 discernible in the fading light. 
 
 " Do you leave the key in the secretary as 
 a rule, Miss Deveen '? " I asked in a whisper. 
 
 " Yes. There's nothino; in it that anvbodv 
 would care to look at," she replied in the same 
 cautious tone. " My cash-box is generally 
 there, but that is always locked. But I think 
 we had better not talk, Johnnv." 
 
 So we sat on in silence. The faint light of 
 the fire died away, giving place to total dark- 
 ness. It w^as weary watching there, hour 
 after hour, each hour seeming like an age. 
 Twelve o'clock struck ; one ; two ! I'd have 
 given something to be at liberty to fall asleep. 
 Just to speak a word to Miss Deveen would 
 be a relief, and I forgot her injunctions. 
 
 " Are you thinking of ghosts. Miss 
 Deveen'? " 
 
 " Just then I was thinking of God, Johnny. 
 How srood it is to know that He is with us in 
 the dark as in the light." . 
 
 Almost with the last word, my cars, younger 
 
OUR VISIT. 207 
 
 and quicker than Miss Deveen's, caught the 
 sound of a faint movement outside — as though 
 steps were descending the stairs. I touched 
 Miss Deveen's arm and breathed a cau- 
 tion. 
 
 '• I hear something. I think it is coming 
 now." 
 
 The door softly opened. Some white figure 
 was standing there — as might be seen by the 
 ghmmer of light that came in through the 
 passage window. Who or what it was, Ave 
 could not gather. It shut the door behind 
 it, and came slowly gliding along the room 
 on the other side the table, evidently feeling 
 its way as it went, and making for the win- 
 dow. We sat in breathless silence. Miss 
 Deveen had caught my hand and was holding- 
 it in hers. 
 
 Next, the shutters w^ere unfastened and 
 slowly folded back ; then the window was 
 unbolted and its doors were flung wide. This 
 let in a flood of moonlight : after the darkness 
 the room seemed bright as day. And the 
 white figure doing all this Avas — Janet Carey 
 in her night gown, her feet bare. 
 
 Whether Miss Deveen held my hand the 
 tighter, or I hers, I daresay neither of us 
 could tell. Janet's eyes turned on us, as we 
 
203 OUR VISIT. 
 
 sat: and I fully expected her to go into a 
 succession of shrieks. 
 
 But no. She took no manner of notice. 
 It was just as though she did not see us. 
 Steadily, methodically as it seemed, she pro- 
 ceeded to search the room, apparently looking 
 for something. First she took the chintz 
 cover off the nearest chair, and shook it out ; 
 turned over the chair and felt it all over ; a 
 small round stand was served the same ; a 
 blotting-case that happened to lie on the table 
 she carried to the Avindow, knelt down, and 
 examined it on the floor by the moonlight, pass- 
 ing her fingers over its few pages, unfolding 
 a letter that was inside and shaking it out to 
 the air. Then all that was left on the floor, and 
 she turned over another chair, and so went on. 
 
 I felt as cold as charity. Was it her ghost 
 that was doing this I How was it she did not 
 see us sitting there] Her eyes were open 
 enough to see anything ! 
 
 Coming to the secretary, she turned the key, 
 and began her search in it. Pulling out one 
 drawer first, she opened every paper it con- 
 tained, shook them one by one, and let them 
 drop on to the floor. As she was commencing 
 at the next drawer, her back towards us. Miss 
 Deveen whispered to me. 
 
OUR VISIT. 209 
 
 " We will get away, Johnny. You go on 
 first. No noise, mind." 
 
 We got out without being seen or heard. 
 At least, there was no outcry ; no sign to tell 
 we had been. Miss Deveen drew me into the 
 dining-room ; her face, as it caught the glim- 
 mer, entering by the fan-light over the hall 
 door, looked deadly pale. 
 
 " I understand it all, Johnny. She is doing 
 it in her sleep." 
 
 " In her sleep ? " 
 
 "Yes. She is unconscious. It was better 
 to come away. As she came round to search 
 in our part of the room, she might have 
 found us, and awoke. That would have been 
 dangerous." • 
 
 " But, Miss Deveen, what is she searching 
 for \ " 
 
 " I know. I see it all perfectly. It is for a 
 bank-note." 
 
 " But — if she is really asleep, how can she 
 go about the search in that systematic way \ 
 Her eyes are wide open : she seems to examine 
 things as though she saw them." 
 
 " I cannot tell you how it is, Johnny. They 
 do seem to see things, though they are asleep. 
 What's more, when they awake there remains 
 no consciousness of what they have done. This 
 
210 OVR VISIT. 
 
 is not the first case of somnambulism I have 
 been an eye-witness to. She throws the 
 window and shutters open to admit the light." 
 
 " How can she have the sense to know in 
 her sleep that the opening of them will admit 
 it ?" 
 
 " Johnny, though these things are^ I cannot 
 explain them. Go up to your bed now and 
 get to sleep. As I shall go to mine. You 
 shall know about Janet in the morning. She 
 will take no harm if left alone : she has taken 
 none hitherto. Say nothing to any one." 
 
 It was the solution of the great puzzle. 
 Janet Carey had done it all in her sleep. And 
 what she had been searching for was a bank- 
 note. 
 
 In the situation where Janet had been living 
 as nursery governess, a bank note had disap- 
 peared. Janet was suspected and accused of 
 taking it. Constitutionally timid and nervous, 
 her spirits long depressed by circumstances, 
 the accusation had a grave effect upon her. 
 J^he searched the house for it incessantly, 
 almost night and day, just as we had seen her 
 searching the parlour at Miss Deveen's in her 
 sleep, and then fell into a fever — which was 
 only saved by great care from settling on the 
 brain. When well enough. Miss Cattledon 
 
OUR VISIT. 211 
 
 had her removed to London to Miss Deveen's ; 
 but the stigma still clung to her, and the in- 
 cipient fever seemed still to hover about her. 
 The day William Whitney left, she moved 
 from Miss Cattledon's chamber to the one he 
 had occupied : and that night, being unre- 
 strained, she went down in her sleep to search. 
 The situation of the room in which the note 
 had been lost was precisely similar to this 
 breakfast-room at Miss Deveen's — in her 
 troubled sleep, poor girl, she must have taken 
 it for the same room, and crept down, still 
 asleep, to renew the endless search she had 
 formerly made when awake. The night the 
 policeman was watching in the summer-house, 
 Lettice sat up with Janet ; so that night 
 nothing occurred. Lettice said afterwards 
 that Miss Carey twice got out of bed in her 
 sleep and seemed to be making for the door, 
 but Lettice guided her back to bed again. 
 And so there was the elucidation : and Janet 
 was just as unconscious of what she had done 
 as the bed-post. 
 
 Miss Deveen's medical man was called in, 
 for brain-fever, escaped, appeared to be fasten- 
 ing on Janet in earnest now. He gave it as 
 his opinion that she was no natural sleep- 
 walker, but that the mind's disturbance had 
 
 p— 2 
 
2i2 OUR VISIT. 
 
 SO acted on the brain and system, coupled 
 with her fright at meeting the policeman at 
 the Colosseum, as to have induced the result. 
 At any rate, whatever may have caused it, and 
 strange though it was, I have only given facts. 
 And in the next paper we shall hear more 
 about the bank-note. 
 
 — .Sri^^@>5^ 
 
JANET CAHEY. 
 
 THE LOSS. 
 
 IT was a summer's evening, some two 
 years or so previous to the events told of 
 in the last chapter, and the sun was setting in 
 clouds of crimson and gold. On the green 
 lawn at the back of Eose Villa — a pretty 
 detached house, about twenty minutes' walk 
 from the town of Lefford — sat a lady in a gay 
 dress. She was dark and plain, with crinkled 
 black hair, and a rough voice. A girl of 
 twelve, fair, pretty, and not in the least like 
 her, sat on the same bench. Three younger 
 girls were scampering about at some noisy 
 play; and a boy, the youngest of all, lay on 
 the grass, whistling, and knotting a whip-cord. 
 The sun's slanting rays tinted all with a 
 w^arm hue : the white walls of the house and 
 its clear glass windows ; the smooth lawn and 
 its surrounding shrubs and flowers ; the bright 
 clothes of the lady and children : putting one 
 in mind of a scene in fairy land. 
 
214 JANET CAnEY. 
 
 " Get up, Dicky," said the lady to the boy. 
 Dicky, aged fixQ, whistled on, without 
 takino^ auv manner of notice. 
 
 *--' ft 
 
 " Did you hear mamma tell you to get up, 
 Dicky 1" spoke the fair girl by her mother's 
 side. " Get up, sir." 
 
 " Shan't," said Dicky. 
 
 " You go in for me, Mina," said Mrs. Knox. 
 " I want to know the time. Arnold took my 
 watch into to^^ii this morning to have the 
 spring mended." 
 
 Mina seemed in no more hurrv to obey 
 
 ft ft 
 
 than Dicky was. Just then a low pony-chaise, 
 driven by a boy-groom, rattled out from the 
 stable-yard at the side of the house. Mina 
 looked across at it. 
 
 "It must be about a quarter past eight," 
 she said. " You told James not to be later 
 than that in going to the station." 
 
 " You might go and see," spoke Mrs. Knox : 
 " James is not sure to be to time. How glad 
 I shall be w^hen that governess is here to 
 take the trouble of vou children off me!" she 
 
 ft 
 
 added, fretfully. Mina did not take the hint 
 about going in: she made off to her sisters 
 instead. 
 
 This house had once been a doctor's resi- 
 dence. Soon after Thomas Knox, surgeon 
 
JANET CAREY. 215 
 
 and apothecary, sot up in practice at T.efford, 
 now five-and-tvventy years ago, he married 
 Mary Arnohl. Hose Villa was hers, and some 
 money besides, and they came to live at it, Mr. 
 Knox keeping on his surgery in LefFord. They 
 had one son, who was named Arnold. When 
 Arnold was tow years old, his mother died. 
 A year later his father married a second Avife, 
 Miss Amelia Carey: after which these five 
 otlier young ones came to town. Arnold was 
 to be a doctor like his father. His studies 
 Avere in progress, when one morning a letter 
 came to him in London — where he was walk- 
 ing Bartholomew's Hospital under that clever 
 man, William Lawrence — saying that his 
 father was alarmingly ill. Arnold reached 
 Lefford just in time to see him die. The little 
 one, Dicky, was a baby then in long clothes. 
 Arnold was only nineteen. No chance 
 tliat lie could sot up in, and keep together 
 the practice, which fell through. So he went 
 back to London to study on, and pass, and 
 what not ; and by and by he came down again 
 ])r. Knox: for he had followed the fashioui 
 just then getting common, of taking the M.l>.. 
 degree. Arnold Knox had his share of good 
 plain sense, and of earnestness too ; but ex- 
 ample is contagious, and he only followed that 
 
216 JAXET CAREY. 
 
 of his fellow-students in going in thus early 
 for the degree. He arrived at LefFord " Dr. 
 Knox." Mr. Tamlyn laughed at him, before 
 his face and behind his back, asking him what 
 experience he had had that he should hasten 
 to tack on M.D. to his name : why, not more 
 experience than a country apothecary's appren- 
 tice. Arnold, feeling half ashamed of himself, 
 for he was very modest, pleaded the new 
 custom. Custom ! returned old Tamlyn ; in 
 Ids davs medical men had worked for their 
 honours before taking them. Arnold engaged 
 himself as assistant to Mr. Tamlyn, who had 
 dropped into the best part of Dr. Knox's 
 practice since that gentleman's death, in addi- 
 tion to his own. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Knox, the widow, had 
 continued to live at E-ose Villa. It belonged 
 to Arnold, having descended to him in right 
 of his mother. Mr. Knox had bequeathed by 
 will five hundred pounds to xlrnold for the 
 completion of his studies ; and all the rest of 
 his money to his wife and second family. 
 Lefford talked of it resentfully, saying it was 
 an unjust w^ill : for a good portion of the 
 money had been Mary Arnold's and ought to 
 have gone to her son. It was about three 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year in all; 
 
JANET CAREY. 217 
 
 and Mrs. Knox bewailed and bemoaned her 
 hard fate at having to bring up her children 
 upon so little. She was one of those who 
 must spend ; and her extravagance had kept 
 her husband poor, in spite of his good 
 practice. 
 
 Never a hint did she offer her step-son of 
 paying him rent for his house ; never a word 
 of thanks did she tender for the use of it. 
 
 Arnold said nothing : he was thoroughly 
 warm hearted, generous-natured, considering 
 everybody before himself, and he would not 
 have hurt her feelings or cramped her pocket 
 for the world. As long as he did not want the 
 house, she and his half-sisters and brother were 
 welcome to it. When he came back from 
 London he naturally went to it ; it was his 
 home ; and Mrs. Knox did not at all like the 
 addition he made to her housekeeping ex- 
 penses : which could not be very much amid 
 the nine others to provide for. The very day 
 after Arnold's bargain was made with Mr. 
 Tamlyn, she asked him how much he was 
 going to pay her for his board. Half his 
 salary, Arnold promptly replied ; seventy-five 
 pounds a year. And Mrs. Knox would have 
 liked to say it was not enough. 
 
 " Five-ani-seventy pounds a year ! " cackled 
 
218 JAXET CAREY. 
 
 LefFord, when it got hold of the news. *' Why, 
 it won't cost her half that. And she using^ 
 his house and enjoying all the money that was 
 his poor mother's ! Well, she has a con- 
 science, that Widow Knox ! " 
 
 The arrangement had continued until now. 
 Three years had elapsed since, and Arnold was 
 four-and-twentv. Mrs. Knox found herself 
 often in monev difficulties : when she would 
 horrow from Arnold, and never think of 
 repaying him. She was now going to increase 
 expenses hy taking a nursery governess. 
 Awfully tiresome those children were, and 
 Mrs. Knox said they w^ore her out. She 
 should have managed the little brats better : 
 not indulged and neglected them by turns. 
 One hour she'd let them run wild, the next 
 hour was shrieking at them in words next 
 door to swearing. 
 
 The governess engaged was a distant relative 
 of her own, a Miss Janet Carev. She was an 
 orphan, and had for a year or two been teacher 
 in a boys' preparatory school, limited to thirty 
 23upils. Mrs. Knox wrote to offer her twelve 
 pounds a year and a " very comfortable home 
 at Eose Villa ; to be as one of the family." It 
 must have sounded tempting to Miss Carev 
 after the thirty little boys, and she gratefully 
 
JANET CAREY. 211) 
 
 accepted it. Mrs. Knox had never seen her ; 
 she pictured to herself a tall, bony young 
 woman with weak eves, for that had been the 
 portrait of her second cousin, Miss Carey's 
 father. 
 
 " Crack ! crack! Tally-ho ! tally-ho ! " 
 shouted Dicky, who had com^^leted his whip, 
 and got up to stamp and smack it. " Yo-ho ! 
 " Taily-ho, tally-ho ! " 
 
 " Oh, do for goodness' sake be quiet, Dick ! '* 
 screamed Mrs. Knox. " I can't have that 
 noise now : I told you I had a headache. 
 Do you hear me, then ! Mina, come and take 
 away this horrible whip." 
 
 Mina came running at the call. Master 
 Dicky was so much given way to as a general 
 rule, that to thwart him seemed to his sisters 
 something delightful. Dicky dodged out of 
 harm's way amid the shrubs ; and Mina was 
 about to go after him, when some one came 
 through the open glass doors of what was 
 called the garden-room. 
 
 " Here's Arnold," she cried. 
 
 Dr. Knox was a tall, strong-built, fair man, 
 lookino^ older than his four-and-twentv vears. 
 Xobody could help liking his thin face, for it 
 was a good face, full of sense and thought, but 
 it was not a handsome one. His complexion 
 
220 JANET CAREY. 
 
 was sallow, and his light hair had a habit of 
 standing up wild. 
 
 " You are home betimes," remarked Mrs. 
 Knox. 
 
 " Yes ; there was nothing more to do," he 
 answered, sitting down in a rustic garden 
 chair. " I met James in the pony chaise : 
 wh ore's he gone \ " 
 
 "Why, Arnold, don't you know that the 
 governess is coming this evening % " cried the 
 second girl, Lotty, who was fanning her hot 
 face with a cabbage-leaf. " James is gone to 
 the station for her." 
 
 " I forgot all about the governess," said Dr. 
 Knox. " Lotty, what a heat you are in ! " 
 
 " We have been running races," said the 
 child ; " and the sun was blazing." 
 
 Dicky came tearing up. Something had 
 happened to the whip. 
 
 "Look at it, Arnold," he said, throwing his 
 arms and the whip on the Doctor's knees. 
 *' The lash w^on't stav on." 
 
 " And you want me to mend it, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes. Do it now." 
 
 " Is that the way to ask? " 
 
 " Please do it now, Arnold." 
 
 *' If I can. But I fear I can't, Dicky." 
 
 " No ! You can mend arms and legs." 
 
JAXET CAREY, 221 
 
 " Sometimes. Have you a strip of leather? 
 Or some twine ? " 
 
 Dicky pulled a piece of string out of some 
 unfathomable pocket. He was not promoted 
 to trousers yet, but wore white drawers reach- 
 ing to the knee and a purple velvet tunic. 
 Dr. Knox took out his penknife. 
 
 "What's the matter with that young 
 Tamlyn again?" asked Mrs. Knox in a fret- 
 ful tone. 
 
 " With Bertie?" returned Dr. Knox, rather 
 carelessly, for he was intent on the w^hip. 
 " It is one of the old attacks." 
 
 " Of course ! I knew it was nothing more,'* 
 spoke Mrs. Knox in resentment. " There 
 was to have been a party at Mrs. Green's this 
 evening. Just as I was ready to start for it, 
 her footman came to say it was put off on 
 account of Miss Tamlvn, who could not 
 come because Master Albert was ill." 
 
 " Miss Tamlyn would not leave Bertie when 
 he is ill for all the parties in Christendom, 
 mother." 
 
 " Miss Tamlyn is welcome to stay w^ith him. 
 But that's no reason why Mrs. Green should 
 have put the rest of us off. Who's Bessy 
 Tamlyn, that she should be considered before 
 everybody ? — stupid old maid ! " 
 
222 JAXET CAREY. 
 
 Mrs. Knox pushed up her lace sleeves iu 
 wrath, and jingled her bracelets. Evening, 
 parties made the solace of her life. 
 
 The wheels of the returning chaise were 
 heard, and the children went rushing round 
 to the front of the house to look at the new 
 governess. They brought Janet Carey back 
 to the lawn. Mrs. Knox saw a small, slight 
 young girl with a quiet, nice face and very 
 simple manners. Dr. Knox rose. Mrs. Knox 
 did not rise. Expecting to see a kind of dark 
 strong giantess, she was struck with astonish- 
 ment and remained sitting. 
 
 " You are surely not Matthew Carey's 
 daughter ! " 
 
 " Yes, madam, I am," was the young lady's 
 answer, as a blush stole into the clear, meek 
 face. 
 
 " Dear me ! I should never have thoui^ht 
 it. Mat Carey was as tall and big as a lamp- 
 post. And — why ! — you told me you were 
 twenty-three ! " 
 
 " I was twenty- three last March." 
 
 "Well, I trust you will be found com- 
 petent to manage my children. I had no 
 idea you were so young-looking." 
 
 The tone expressed a huge doubt of it. 
 The ill-trained youngsters stood staring rudely 
 
 '^p 
 
JAyEl CABIJY. 223 
 
 into Miss Carey's face. Dr. Knox, pushing 
 some of them aside, held out his hand with a 
 smile of welcome. 
 
 "I hope you will be able to feel at 
 home here, Miss Carev," he said : " the 
 children must not be allowed to give you 
 too much trouble. Have you had a pleasant 
 journey? " 
 
 "Take Miss Carey to her room, Mina," 
 sharply struck in Mrs. Knox, not at all 
 pleased that her step-son should presume to 
 say so much : as if the house were his. And 
 Mina, followed by the shy and shrinking 
 young governess, went in-doors and up to the 
 roof, and showed her a little comfortless 
 chamber there. 
 
 (But the reader must understand that in 
 writing this paper, I, Johnny Ludlow, am at 
 a disadvantage. Not having been present 
 myself at LeiFord, I can only relate at second 
 hand what happened at Mrs. Knox's.) 
 
 The time went on. Janet Carey proved 
 herself equal to her work : although Mrs. 
 Knox, judging by her young look and gentle 
 manners, had been struck by a doubt of her 
 capacity, and politely expressed it aloud. 
 
224 JANET CAREY. 
 
 Janet's duties were something like the labours 
 of Hercules : at least, as varied. Teaching 
 was only one of them. She helped to dress 
 and undress the children, or did it entirely 
 if Sally the housemaid forgot to attend; 
 she kept all the wardrobes and mended the 
 clothes and the socks. She had to be in all 
 places at once. Helping Mrs. Knox in the 
 parlour, taking messages to the kitchen, 
 hearing the girls' lessons, and rushing out 
 to the field to see that Dicky was not w^orry- 
 ing the pony or milking the cow on his own 
 account. It was not an orderly household ; 
 two maids were kept and James. Mrs. Knox 
 had no talent for management, and was fright- 
 fully lazy besides ; and Janet, little foreseeing 
 what additional labour she would bring on 
 herself, took to remedy as far as she could 
 the shortcomings and confusion. Mrs. Knox 
 saw her value, and actually thanked her. 
 As a reward, she made Janet her own attend- 
 ant, her secretary, and her partial house- 
 keeper. Mrs. Knox's hair, coarse and stiff, 
 was rather difficult hair to manage ; in the 
 morning it was let go any how, and Janet 
 dressed it in the afternoon. Janet wrote 
 Mrs. Knox's letters ; kept her accounts ; paid 
 the bills — paid them, that is, when she could 
 
JANET CAREY. 225 
 
 get the money. Janet, you perceive, was 
 made Jack-of-all-trades at Rose Villa. She 
 was conscious that it was hardly fair, but 
 she did it cheerfully; and, as Mrs. Knox 
 would say, it was all in the day's work. 
 
 The only one who showed consideration 
 for Miss Carey was Dr. Knox. He lectured 
 the children about giving her so much un- 
 necessary trouble : he bribed Dicky mth 
 lozenges and liquorice from the surgery 
 drawers not to kick or spit at her; and he 
 was, himself, ever kind and considerate to 
 her. They only met at dinner and tea, for 
 Dr. Knox snatched a scrambling breakfast 
 (the servants never got it ready for him in 
 time), and went off betimes to Lefford. Now 
 and then he would come home tolerably early 
 in the evening, but he had a great deal to 
 do, and it did not happen often. Mr. Tamlyn 
 was the parish doctor, and it gave Dr. Knox 
 an incessant round of tramping : for the less 
 pleasant division of the daily professional 
 work was turned over to him. 
 
 They got to have a fellow-feeling for one 
 another — Jo net and Dr. Knox — a kind of 
 mutual, inward sympathy. Both of them were 
 overworked ; in the lot of each was less of 
 comfort than might have been. Dr. Knox com- 
 
226 JANET CAREY. 
 
 passioned Janet's hard place and the want of 
 poetry in her life. Janet felt hurt to see him 
 made so little of at home, and she knew about 
 the house being his property, and the seventy- 
 five pounds a year he paid for the liberty of 
 living in it, — and she knew that most of the in- 
 come enjoyed by Mrs. Knox ought to have been 
 Arnold's income. His breakfast was scanty ; a 
 cup of cofiee, drunk standing, and some thick 
 bread-and-butter eaten as he went along the 
 road to Lefford. Or he would be off by cock- 
 crow without chance of breakfast, unless he 
 cut a slice of bread in the pantry : or perhaps 
 would have to be out all night. Sometimes 
 he would get home to dinner ; one o'clock ; 
 more often it was two o'clock, or half past, or 
 three. In that case, Sally would bring in a 
 plate of half-cold scraps for him — -anything 
 that happened to be left. Once, when Janet 
 was carving a leg of mutton, she asked 
 leave to cut off a slice or two that they might 
 be kept warm for the Doctor ; but Mrs. 
 Knox blew her up — a fine trouble that would 
 be ! As to tea, the chances were, if he came 
 in to it at all, that the tea-pot would be 
 drained: upon which, some half-cold water 
 would be dashed in, and the loaf and butter 
 pushed before him. Dr. Knox took it all 
 
JANET CAREY. 227 
 
 « 
 
 quietly: perhaps he saw how useless com- 
 plaint would be. 
 
 Mr. Tamlyn's was a large, red-brick, hand- 
 some house, standing in a beautiful garden, in 
 the best and widest street of Lefford. The 
 surgery, built on the side of the house, 
 consisted of two rooms : one contained the 
 drugs and the scales, and so on ; the other 
 was where the better class of patients waited. 
 Mr. Tamlyn's wife was dead, and he had one 
 son, who was a cripple. Poor Bertie was 
 thro^vn down by his nurse when he was a 
 child ; he had hardly ever been out of pain 
 since ; sometimes the attacks were very bad. 
 It made him more cross and fractious than a 
 stranger would believe ; rude, in fact, and self- 
 willed. Mr. Tamlyn just worshipped Bertie. 
 He only lived to one end — that of making 
 money for Bertie, after he, himself, should be 
 gone. Miss Bessy, Mr. Tamlyn's half-sister, 
 kept his house, and she was the only one who 
 tried to keep down Bertie's temper. Leiford 
 thought it odd that Mr. Tamlyn did not raise 
 "Dr. Knox's salary : but it was known he 
 wanted to put by what he could for Bertie. 
 
 The afternoon sun streamed full on the 
 surgery window, and Dr. Knox, who had just 
 pelted back from dinner, stood behind the 
 
 Q-2 
 
228 JANET CAREY. 
 
 counter, making up bottles of physic. Mr. 
 Tamlyn had an apprentice, a young fellow 
 named Dockett, but he could not be trusted 
 with the physic department yet, as he was apt 
 to serve out calomel powder for camomile 
 blows. Of the three poor parish patients, 
 waiting for their medicine, two sat and 
 one stood, there not being a third chair. 
 The Doctor spoke very kindly to them 
 about their ailments ; he always did that ; " but 
 he did not seem well himself and often put 
 his hand to his throat and chest. 
 
 The physic and the parish patients done 
 with, he went into the other room, and threw 
 himself into the easy chair. " I wonder what's 
 the matter with me] " he said to himself: and 
 then he got up again, for Mr. Tamlyn was 
 coming in. He was a short man with a grey 
 face, and iron grey hair. 
 
 " Arnold," said he, " I wish you'd take my 
 round this afternoon. There are only three 
 or four people who need be seen, and the 
 carriage is at the door." 
 
 " Is Bertie worse than usual ? " asked 
 Arnold ; who knew that every impediment in 
 Mr. Tamlyn's way was caused by Bertie. 
 
 " He is in a great deal of pain. I really 
 don't care to leave him." 
 
JANET CAREY. 229 
 
 " Oh; I'll go with pleasure," replied Arnold, 
 passing into the surgery to get his hat. 
 
 Mr. Tamlyn walked with him across the 
 flagged court to the gate, talking of the sick 
 people he was going to see. Arnold got 
 into the brougham and was driven away. 
 When he returned, Mr. Tamlyn was up- 
 stairs in Bertie's sitting-room. Arnold went 
 there. 
 
 " Anything more come in? " he asked. " Or 
 can the brougham be put up ? " 
 
 " Dear me, yes ; here's a note from Mrs. 
 Stephenson," said Mr. -Tamlyn, replying to the 
 first question. And he spoke testily : for 
 Mrs. Stephenson was a lady of seventy, who 
 alwavs insisted on his own attendance, 
 objecting to Dr. Knox on the score of his 
 youth. " Well, you must go for once, Arnold. 
 If she grumbles, tell her I was out." 
 
 On a sofa in the room lay Albert Tamlyn; 
 a lad of sixteen with a fretful countenance and 
 rumpled hair. Miss Tamlyn, a pleasant- 
 looking lady of thirty-five, sat by the sofa at 
 work. Arnold Knox went up to the boy, 
 speaking with the utmost gentleness. 
 
 " Bertie, my boy, I am sorry you are in pain 
 to-day." 
 
 *' Who said I was in pain?" retorted Bertie, 
 
230 JANET CAREY, 
 
 ungraciously, his voice as squeaky as a penny 
 trumpet. 
 
 "Why, Bertie, you know you are in sad 
 pain: it was I who told Dr. Kjqox so," 
 interposed the father. 
 
 " Then you had no business to tell him so,'^ 
 shrieked Bertie, with a hideous grin of resent- 
 ment. " What is it to him? — or to you? — or 
 to anybody ? " 
 
 " Oh, Bertie, Bertie ! " whispered Miss 
 Tamlyn. " Oh, my boy, you should not give 
 way like this." 
 
 "You just give your tongue a holiday. Aunt 
 Bessy," fired Bertie. " I can't be bothered by 
 you all in this way." 
 
 Dr. Knox, looking do^vn at him, saw some- 
 thing wrong in the position he was lying in. 
 He stooped, lifted him quietly in his strong 
 arms, and altered it. 
 
 " There, Bertie, you will be better now." 
 
 " No, I'm not better, and why d'you inter- 
 fere ? " retorted Bertie in his temper, and 
 burst out crying. It was weary work, waiting 
 on that lad ; the house had a daily benefit of 
 it. He had always been given way to : his 
 whims were studied, his tempers went unre- 
 proved, and no patience was taught him. 
 
 Dr. Knox drove to Mrs. Stephenson's. He 
 
JANET CAB.EY. 231 
 
 dismissed the carriage when he came out ; for 
 he had some patients to see on his own score 
 among the poor, and went on to them. They 
 were at tea at Mr. Tamlyn's when he got 
 back. He looked very ill, and sat down at 
 once. 
 
 "Are you tired, Arnold?" asked the 
 surgeon. 
 
 " Not very ; but I feel out of sorts. My 
 throat is rather painful." 
 
 " What's the matter with it? " 
 
 " Not much, I daresay. A little ulcerated 
 perhaps." 
 
 " I'll have a look at it presently. Bessy, 
 give Dr. Knox a cup of tea." 
 
 " Thank you, I shall be glad of it," inter- 
 posed the Doctor. It was not often he took 
 a meal in the house, not liking to intrude on 
 them. When he went up this evening he had 
 thought the tea was over. 
 
 "We are later than usual," said Miss 
 Tamlyn, in answer to some remark he made. 
 " Bertie dropped asleep." 
 
 Bertie was awake, and eating relays of bread- 
 and-butter as he lay, speaking to nobody. 
 The handsome sitting-rooms down stairs were 
 nearly deserted: Mr. Tamlyn could not bear 
 even to take his meals away from Bertie. 
 
232 JANET CAREY. 
 
 It was growing dusk when Dr. Knox went 
 home. Mr. Tamlyn told him to take a cool- 
 ing draught and to go to bed early. Mrs. 
 Knox was out for the evening. Janet Carey 
 sat at the old piano in the school-room, sing- 
 ing songs to the children to keep them quiet. 
 They were crowding round her, and nobody 
 saw him enter the room. 
 
 Janet happened to be singing the very song 
 she sang later to us that night at Miss 
 Deveen's — " Blow, blow, thou wintry wind." 
 Although she had now been at Rose Villa 
 nearly a twelvemonth, for early summer had 
 €ome round again. Dr. Knox had never heard 
 her sing. Mrs. Knox hated singing altogether, 
 and especially despised Janet's : it was only 
 when Janet was alone with the children that 
 she ventured on it, hoping to keep them still. 
 Arnold Knox sat in utter silence ; entranced ; 
 just as we were at Miss Deveen's. 
 
 " You sing ' I've been roaming,' now," 
 called out Dicky, before the song was well 
 over. 
 
 " No, not that thing," dissented Mina. 
 *' Sing ' Pray, Goody,' Janet." They had long- 
 since called her by her Christian name. 
 
 The whole five (the other three taking 
 sides), not being able to agree, plunged at 
 
JANET CAREY. 233 
 
 once into a hot dispute. Janet in vain tried 
 to make peace by saying she would sing both 
 songs, one after the other : they did not listen 
 to her. In the midst of the noise, Sally 
 looked in to say James had caught a magpie ; 
 and the lot scampered off. 
 
 Janet Carey heaved a sad sigh, and passed 
 her hand over her weary brow. She had had a 
 tiring day : there were times when she thought 
 her duties would get beyond her. E-ising to 
 follow the rebellious flock, she caught sight 
 of Dr. Knox, seated back in the wide old cane 
 chair. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! I — I beg your pardon. I had no 
 idea any one was here." 
 
 He came forward smiling ; Janet had sat 
 down again in her surprise. 
 
 " And though I am here ? — Why should 
 you beg my pardon, Miss Carey?" 
 
 " For singing before you. I did not know — 
 I am very sorry." 
 
 " Perhaps you fancy I don't like singing ? " 
 
 " Mine is such poor singing, sir. And the 
 songs are so old. I can't play : I often only 
 play to them with one hand." 
 
 " The singing is so poor — and the songs are 
 so old, that I was going to ask of you — to beg 
 of you — to sing one of them again for me." 
 
234 JAXET CAREY, 
 
 She stood glancing up at him with her nice 
 eyes, as shy as could be, uncertain whether he 
 was mockino^ her. 
 
 " Do you know, Miss Carey, that I never 
 ask a young lady for a song now. I don't care 
 to hear the new songs, they are so poor and 
 frivolous : the old ones are worth a kinsr's 
 ransom. Won't you oblige me?" 
 
 ''What shall I'sin^?" 
 
 " The one you have just sung. ' Blow, 
 blow, thou ^vintrv wind.' " 
 
 He drew a chair close, and listened ; and 
 seemed lost in thous^ht when it was over. 
 Janet could not conveniently get up without 
 pushing the stool against him, and so sat in 
 silence. 
 
 "My mother used to sing that song, he 
 said, looking up. " I can recall her every 
 note as well as thouo-h I had heard her 
 yesterday. ' As friends remembering not ' ! 
 Ay: it's a harsh world — and it grows more 
 harsh and selfish day by day. I don't think it 
 treats you any too well, Miss Carey." 
 
 "Me, sir?" 
 
 " Who remembers you ? " 
 
 " Not many people. But I have never had 
 any friends to speak of." 
 
 " Will you give me another song \ The one 
 
JANET CAREY. 235 
 
 I heard Mina ask you for — ' Pray, Goody.' My 
 mother used to sing that also." 
 
 " I don't know whether I must stay, sir. 
 The children will be getting into mischief." 
 
 "Never mind the children. I'll take the 
 responsibility." 
 
 Janet sang the song. Before it was finished 
 the flock came in again. Dicky had tried to 
 pull the magpie's feathers out, so James had 
 let it fly. 
 
 After this evening, it somehow happened 
 that Dr. Knox often came home early, although 
 his thrpat was well again. He liked to make 
 Miss Carey sing ; and to talk to her ; and to 
 linger in the garden with her and the children 
 in the twilight. Mrs. Knox was rarely at 
 home, and had no idea how sociable her step- 
 son was becoming. Lefford and its neighbour- 
 hood followed the unfashionable custom of 
 giving early soirees : tea at six, supper at nine, 
 at home by eleven. James used to go for his 
 mistress ; on dark nights he took a lighted 
 lantern. Mrs. Knox would arrive at home, 
 her gown well pinned up, and innocent of any 
 treasonable lino^erino^s out of doors or in. It 
 was beyond Janet's power to get Mina and 
 Lotty to bed one minute before they chose to 
 go: though her orders from Mrs. Knox on the 
 
236 JANET CAREY. 
 
 point were strict. As soon as their mother's 
 step was heard they would make a rush for the 
 stairs. Janet had to follow them, as that 
 formed part of her duty : and by the time Mrs. 
 Knox was indoors, the rooms were free, and 
 Arnold was shut up in his study with his 
 medical books and a skeleton. 
 
 For any treason that met the eye or the ear, 
 Mrs. Knox might have assisted at all the inter- 
 views. The children might have repeated 
 everv word said to one another by the Doctor 
 and Janet, and welcome. The talk was all 
 legitimate : of their own individual, ordinary 
 interests, perhaps ; of their lost parents ; their 
 past lives ; the present daily doings ; or, as the 
 Vicar of Wakefield has it, of pictures, taste, 
 Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. Dr. 
 Knox never said such a thing to her as. Miss, 
 I am in love with you ; Janet was the essence 
 of respectful shyness and called him Sir. 
 
 One evening something or other caused one 
 of the soirees to break up midway, and Mrs. 
 Knox came home by twilight in her pink 
 gauze gown. Instead of ringing at the front 
 door, she came round the garden to the lawn, 
 knowing quite well the elder children were not 
 gone to bed, and would probably be in the 
 garden-room. Very softly went she, intending 
 
JANET CAREY. 237 
 
 to surprise them. The moon shone full on 
 the glass doors. 
 
 The doors were shut. And she could see 
 no children. Only Janet Carey sitting at the 
 piano, and Dr. Knox sitting close by her, his 
 eyes resting on her face, and an unmistakable 
 look of — say friendship — in them. Mrs. Knox 
 took in the whole scene by the light of the one 
 candle standing on the table. 
 
 She let go the pink skirt and burst open the 
 doors with a bang. Imagination is apt to 
 conjure up skeletons of the future; a whole 
 army of skeletons rushed into hers, any 
 one of them ten times more ugly than that 
 real skeleton in the Doctor's study. A vision 
 of his marrying Janet and taking possession of 
 the house, and wanting all his money for him- 
 self instead of paying the family bills mth it, 
 was the worst. 
 
 Before a great and real dread, passion has 
 to be silent. Mrs. Knox felt that she should 
 very much like to buffet both of them with 
 hands and tongue : but policy restrained her. 
 
 "Where are the children?" she began, as 
 snappish as a fox ; but that was only usual. 
 
 Janet had turned round on the music stool : 
 her meek hands dropping on her lap, her face 
 turning all the colours of the rainbow. Dr. 
 
238 JANET CAREY. 
 
 Knox just sat back in his chair and carelessly 
 hummed to himself the tune Janet had been 
 singing. 
 
 " Mina and Lotty are at Mrs. Hampshire's, 
 ma'am," answered Janet. " She came to fetch 
 them just after you left, and said I might send 
 in for them at half-past nine. The little ones 
 are in bed." 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Knox. " It's rather early 
 for you to be at home ; is it not, Arnold ? " 
 
 " Not particularly, I think. My time for 
 coming home is always uncertain, you know." 
 
 He rose, and went to his room as he spoke. 
 Janet got out the basket of stockings ; and 
 Mrs. Knox sat buried in a brown study. 
 
 After this evening things grew bad for Miss 
 Carey. Mrs. Knox watched. She noted her 
 step-son's manner to Janet, and saw that he 
 liked her ever so much more than was expe- 
 dient. What to do, or how to stop it, she did 
 not know, and was at her wits' end. To begin 
 with, there was nothing to stop. Had she put 
 together a whole week's looks and words of 
 Arnold's, directed to Janet, she could not have 
 squeezed one decent iota of complaint out of 
 the lot. Neither dared she risk offendins: 
 Arnold. What with the perpetual soirees out, 
 and the general daily improvidence at home. 
 
JANET CAREY, 239 
 
 Mrs. Knox was never in funds, and Arnold 
 found oceans of household bills coming in to 
 him. Tradesmen were beginning, as a rule 
 now, to address their accounts to Dr. Knox. 
 Arnold paid them ; he was good-natured, and 
 sensitively averse to complaining to his step- 
 mother ; but he thought it w^as hardly fair. 
 What on earth she did with her income he 
 could not imagine : rather than live in this 
 chronic state of begging, she might have laid 
 down the pony-carriage. 
 
 Not being able to attack the Doctor, Mrs. 
 Knox vented all her venom on Miss Carey. 
 Janet was the dray horse of the family, and 
 therefore could not be turned away : she was 
 too useful to Mrs. Knox to be parted with. 
 Real venom it was ; and hard to be borne. 
 Her w^ork grew harder, and she was snubbed 
 from morning till night. The children's inso- 
 lence to her was not reproved ; Mina took to 
 order her about. Weary and heart-sick grew 
 she : her life was no better than Cinderella's : 
 the only ray of comfort in it being the rare 
 snatches of intercourse with Dr. Knox. He 
 was like a true friend to her, and ever kind. 
 He might have been kinder had he known 
 what sort of a life she really led. But Mrs. 
 Knox was a diplomatist, and the young fry did 
 
240 JANET CAREY. 
 
 not dare to worry people very much, or to cal 
 names before their big brother Arnold. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Has Dr. Knox come in, Mr. Dockett '? " 
 
 Mr. Dockett, lounging over the counter to 
 tease the dog, brought himself straight with 
 a jerk, and faced his master, Mr. Tamlyn. 
 
 " Not yet, sir." 
 
 " When he comes in, ask him if he'll be so 
 kind as step to me in the dining-room." 
 
 Mr. Tamlyn shut the surgery door, and the 
 apprentice whistled to the dog, which had made 
 its escape. Presently Dr. Knox came across 
 the court-yard and received the message. 
 
 " Mr. Tamlyn wants you, sir, please. He 
 is in the dining-room." 
 
 " Have you nothing to do, Dockett ? Just 
 set on and clean those scales." 
 
 The dining-room looked out on the garden 
 and on the playing fountain. It Avas one of 
 the prettiest rooms in Lefford ; with white-and- 
 gold papered walls, and mirrors, and a new 
 carpet. Mr. Tamlyn liked to have things 
 nice at home, and screwed the money out of 
 the capital put by for Bertie. He sat at the 
 table before some account books. 
 
 " Sit down, Arnold," he said, taking off his 
 
JANET CARET, 241 
 
 spectacles. " I have some news for you : I 
 hope it won't put you out too much." 
 
 It did put out Dr. Knox very considerably, 
 and it surprised him even more. For some 
 time past now he had been cherishing a private 
 expectation that Mr. Tamlyn would be taking 
 him into partnership, giving him probably a 
 small share only at first. Of all things it 
 seemed the most likely to Dr. Knox : and, 
 wanting in self-assertion though he was, it 
 seemed to him that it would be a right thing 
 to do. Mr. Tamlyn had no one to succeed 
 him : and all the best part of his practice was 
 formerly Mr. Knox's. Had Arnold only been 
 a little older when his father died, he should 
 have succeeded to it himself : there would 
 have been little chance of Mr. Tamlyn's get- 
 ting any of it. In justice, then, if Mr. 
 Tamlyn now, or later, took a partner at all, 
 it ought to be Arnold. But for looking for- 
 ward to this. Dr. Knox had never stayed on 
 all this while at the paltry salary paid him, 
 and worked himself nearly to a skeleton. As 
 old Tamlyn talked, he listened as one in a 
 bewildered dream, and he learnt that his own 
 day-dream was over. 
 
 Old Tamlyn was about to take a partner: 
 some gentleman from London, a Mr. Shut- 
 
242 JANET CAREY. 
 
 tlew(jrth. Mr. Shuttleworth was seeking a 
 country practice, and would bring in three 
 thousand pounds. Arnold's services would 
 only be required to the end of the year, as Mr. 
 Shuttle w^orth would join on the first of January. 
 
 " There'll not be room for three of us, 
 Arnold — and Dockett will be coming on," 
 said Mr. Tamlyn. "Besides, at your age, 
 and with your talents, you ought to be doing 
 something better for yourself. Don't you see 
 that you ought ? " 
 
 '* I have seen it for some time. But — the 
 truth is," added Arnold, " though I hardly 
 like to own to it now, I have been cherish- 
 ing a hope of this kind for myself. I thought, 
 Mr. Tamlyn, you might some time offer it to 
 me. 
 
 "And so I would, Arnold, and there's no 
 one I should like to take as partner half so 
 well as yourself, but that you have not the 
 necessary money," said the surgeon with 
 eagerness. " I see what you are thinking, 
 Arnold — that I might have taken you without 
 premium : but I must think of my poor boy. 
 Shuttleworth brings in three thousand: I 
 would have taken you mth two." 
 
 " I could not bring in two hundred, let alone 
 two thousand," said Dr. Knox. 
 
JANET CARET. 243 
 
 '' There's where it is. To tell you the truth, 
 Arnold, I am getting tired of work ; don't seem 
 so much up to it as I was. Whoever comes 
 in will have to do more even than you have 
 -done, and of course will expect to take at 
 least a half share of the yearly profits. I should 
 not put by much then : I could not alter my 
 style of living, you know, or put down the 
 ■carriages and horses, or anything of that sort : 
 and I must save for poor Bertie. A sum of 
 three thousand pounds means three thousand 
 to me." 
 
 " Are the arrangements fully made ? " asked 
 Dr. Knox. 
 
 " Yes. Mr. Shuttleworth came do-wn to 
 LefFord yesterday, and has been going into 
 the books with me this morning. — And, by 
 the w^ay, Arnold, I hope you will meet him 
 here at dinner to-night. I should not a bit 
 wonder, either, but he might tell you of some 
 opening for yourself: he seems to know most 
 of the chief medical men in London. He is 
 selling a good practice of his own. It is his 
 health that obliges him to come to the 
 country." 
 
 " I hope you will suit one another," said Dr. 
 Knox ; for he knew that it was not everybody 
 who could get on with fidgety old Tamlyn. 
 
 R— 2 
 
244 JANET CAREY. 
 
 " We are to give it a six months' trial," said 
 Tamlyn. " He would not bind himself with- 
 out that. At the end of the six months, if 
 both parties are not satisfied, we cancel the 
 agreement : he withdraws his money, and I 
 am at liberty to take a fresh partner. For 
 that half year's services he will receive his 
 half share of profits : which of course is only 
 fair. You see I tell you all, Arnold." 
 
 Dr. Knox dined with them, and found the 
 new man a very pleasant fellow, but quite as 
 old as Tamlyn. He could not help wonder- 
 ing how he would relish the parish work, and 
 said so in a whisper to Mr. Tamlyn while 
 Shuttleworth was talking to Bertie. 
 
 " Oh, he thinks it will be exercise for him," 
 replied the surgeon. " And Dockett will be 
 coming on, you know." 
 
 It was a dark night, the beginning of 
 November, wet and splashy. Mrs. Knox had 
 a soiree at Rose Villa ; and when the Doctor 
 reached home he met the company coming 
 forth with cloaks and lanterns and clogs. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, Arnold, is it ! " cried Mrs. 
 Knox. " Could you not have come home for 
 my evening ? Two of the whist-tables had 
 to play dummy: we had some disappoint- 
 ments." 
 
JANET CAREY. 245 
 
 " I stayed to dine with Mr. Tamlyn," said 
 Arnold. 
 
 Sitting together over the fire, he and she 
 alone, Mrs. Knox asked him whether he 
 would not give her a hundred pounds a year 
 for his board, instead of seventy-five. Which 
 was uncommonly cool, considering what he 
 paid for her besides in housekeeping bills. 
 Upon which, Arnold told her he should not 
 be with her beyond the close of the year : he 
 was going to leave LefFord. For a minute, 
 it struck her dumb. 
 
 " Good heavens, Arnold, how am I to keep 
 the house on without your help 1 I must 
 say you have no consideration. Leave Lef- 
 ford ! " 
 
 " Mr. Tamljrn has given me notice," replied 
 Arnold. " He is taking a partner." 
 
 " But — I just ask you — how am I to pay 
 my way I " 
 
 " It seems to me that your income is quite 
 sufficient for that, mother. If not — ^perhaps 
 — if I may suggest it — you might put down 
 the pony chaise." 
 
 Mrs. Knox shrieked out that he was a 
 cruel man. Arnold, who never cared to 
 stand scenes, lighted his candle and went up 
 to bed. 
 
246 JANET CAREY. 
 
 Shuttleworth had taken rather a fancy to 
 Dr. Knox ; perhaps he remembered, too, that 
 he was turning him adrift. Anyway, he be- 
 stirred himself, and got him appointed to a 
 medical post in London, where Arnold would 
 receive two hundred pounds a year, and his 
 board. 
 
 " I presume you know that I am about to 
 run away, Miss Carey," said Dr. Knox, hasten- 
 ing up to join her one Sunday evening when 
 they w^ere coming out of church at Lefford. 
 
 " As if everybody did not know that ! " 
 cried Mina. "Where's mamma, Arnold ? 
 and Lotty?" 
 
 " They are behind, talking to the Parkers." 
 
 The Parkers were great friends of Mina's, 
 so she ran back. The Doctor and Janet 
 walked slowly on. 
 
 " You will be glad to leave, sir," said Janet, 
 in her humble fashion. " Things have not 
 been very comfortable for you at home — and 
 I hear you are taking a much better post." 
 
 " I shall be sorry to leave for one thing — 
 that is, because I fear things may be more 
 uncomfortable for you," he spoke out bravely. 
 " What Rose Villa will be when all restraint 
 is taken off the children, and with other un- 
 desirable things, I don't like to imagine." 
 
JANET CAREY. 247 
 
 " I shall do very well, sir," said Janet 
 meekly. 
 
 " I wonder you put up with it," he ex- 
 claimed. " You might be ten thousand times 
 better and happier elsewhere." 
 
 " But I fear to change : I have no one to 
 recommend me or to look out for me, you 
 know." 
 
 "There's that lady I've heard you speak 
 of — your aunt. Miss Cattle don." 
 
 " I could not think of troubling her. My 
 mother's family do not care to take much 
 notice of me. They thought my father was 
 not my mother's equal in point of family, and 
 when she married him, they turned her off, as 
 it were. No, sir, I have only myself to look to." 
 
 " A great many of us are in the same case," 
 he said. " Myself, for instance. I have been 
 indulging I don't know what day-dreams for 
 some time past : one of them that Mr. Tamlyn 
 would give me a share in his practice : and 
 — and there were others to follow in due 
 course. Yain dreams all, and knocked on the 
 head now." 
 
 " You will be sure to get on," said Janet. 
 
 " Do you think so \ " he asked very softly, 
 looking down into Janet's nice eyes by the 
 gaslight in the road. 
 
248 JANET CARET. 
 
 " At least, sir, I hope you will." 
 
 "Well, I shall try for it." 
 
 " Arnold ! — come back, Arnold ; I want 
 you to give me your arm up the hill," called 
 out Mrs. Knox. 
 
 Dr. Knox had to enter on his new situation 
 at quarter day, the twenty-fifth of December ; 
 so he went up to London on Christmas Eve. 
 Which was no end of a blow to old Tamlvn, 
 as it left all the work on his o^vn shoulders 
 for a week. 
 
 III. 
 
 From two to three months passed on. One 
 windy March day, Mrs. Knox sat alone in 
 the garden-room, worrying over her money 
 matters. The table, drawn near the fire, was 
 strewed mth bills and tradesmen's books ; 
 the sun shone on the closed glass doors. 
 
 Mrs. Knox's afi^airs had been getting into 
 an extremely hopeless condition. It seemed, 
 by the accumulation of present debts, that 
 Arnold's money must have paid for every- 
 thing. Her own income, which came in 
 quarterly, appeared to dwindle away, she 
 knew not how or where. A piteous appeal 
 had gone up a week ago to Arnold, saying 
 she should be in prison unless he assisted 
 her, for the creditors were threatening to 
 
JANET CABEY. 249 
 
 take steps. Arnold's answer, delivered this 
 morning, was a fifty-pound note enclosed in a 
 very plain letter. It had inconvenienced him 
 to send the money, he said, and he begged 
 her fully to understand that it was the last he 
 should ever send. 
 
 So there sat Mrs. Knox before the table in 
 an old dressing-gOA^Ti, and her black hair more 
 dishevelled than a mop. The bills, oceans 
 of them, and the fifty-pound bank-note lay 
 in a heap together. Master Dicky had been 
 cutting animals out of a picture book, leaving 
 the scraps on the cloth and the old carpet. 
 Lotty had distributed there a few sets of dolls' 
 clothes. Gerty had been tearing up a news- 
 paper for a kite's tail. The fifty pounds 
 would pay about a third of the debts, and 
 Mrs. Knox was trying to apportion a sum 
 to each of them accordingly. 
 
 It bothered her finely, for she was no 
 accountant. She could manage to add up 
 without making very many mistakes ; but 
 when it came to subtraction, her brain got 
 into a hopeless maze. Janet might have done 
 it, but Mrs. Knox was furious with Janet and 
 would not ask her. Ill-treated, over-worked, 
 Janet had plucked up courage to give notice, 
 and was looking out for a situation in Lefi'ord. 
 
250 JANET CAREY. 
 
 Just now, Janet was in the kitchen, ironing 
 Dick's frilled collars. 
 
 " Take fifty-three from fourteen, and how 
 much does remain T' groaned Mrs. Knox over 
 the shillings. At that moment there was a 
 sound of carriage-wheels, and a tremendous 
 ring at the door. Sally darted in. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am, it's my Lady Jenkins! I knew 
 her carriage at a distance. It have got red 
 wheels ! " 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! " cried Mrs. Knox 
 starting up. " Don't open the door yet, Sally : 
 let me get upstairs first. Her ladyship's come 
 to take me a drive, I suppose. Go and call 
 Miss Carey — or stay, I'll go to her." 
 
 Mrs. Knox opened one of the glass doors, 
 and whisked round to the kitchen. She bade 
 Janet leave the ironing and go to do her books 
 and bills : hastily explaining that she wanted 
 to know how far fifty pounds would go towards 
 paying a fair proportion ofi" each debt. Janet 
 was to make it all out in figures. 
 
 " Be sure take care of the note — I've left it 
 somewdiere," called back Mrs. Knox as she 
 escaped to the stairs in hurry and confusion; 
 for my Lady Jenkins's footman had hold of 
 the bell and knocker, and was working both 
 alarmingly. 
 
JANET CAREY. 251 
 
 Janet only half comprehended. She went 
 round to the garden-room, shut the glass 
 doors, and began upon the bills and books. 
 But first of all, she looked out for the letters 
 that were lying about, never supposing that 
 the special charge had reference to anything 
 else : at least, she said so afterwards : and put 
 them inside Mrs. Knox's desk. From first to 
 last, then and later, Janet Carey maintained 
 that she did not see any bank-note. 
 
 MrSo Knox dressed herself with Sally's help, 
 and went out with my Lady Jenkins — the ex- 
 Mayor of LefFord's wife. The bills and the 
 calculations made a long job, and Janet's mind 
 was buried in it, when a startling disturbance 
 suddenly arose in the garden : Dicky had 
 climbed into the mulberry tree and fallen out 
 of it. The girls came, dashing open the glass 
 doors, saying he was dead. Janet ran out, 
 herself nearly frightened to death. 
 
 Very true. If Dicky was not dead, he 
 looked like it. He lay white and cold under 
 the tree, blood trickling down his face. James 
 galloped off for Mr. Tamlyn. The two maids 
 and Janet carried Dicky into the kitchen, and 
 put him on the ironing-board with his head 
 on an old cushion. That revived him ; and 
 
252 JANET CAREY. 
 
 when Mr. Shuttleworth arrived, for Tamlyn 
 was out, Dicky was demanding bread-and- 
 treacle. Shuttleworth put some diachylon 
 plaster on his head, ordered him to bed, and 
 told him not to get into trees again. 
 
 Their fears relieved, the maids had time to 
 remember common affairs. Sally found all 
 the sitting-room fires out, and hastened to 
 light them. As soon as Janet could leave 
 Dicky, who had persisted in going to bed in 
 his boots, she went back to the accounts. 
 Mrs. Knox came in before they were done. 
 She blew up Janet for not being quicker, and 
 when she had recovered the shock of Dicky's 
 accident, she blew her up for that. 
 
 " Where's the note ? " she snapped. 
 
 " What note, ma'am? " asked Janet. 
 
 " The bank-note. The bank-note for fifty 
 pounds that I told you to take care of." 
 
 " I have not seen any bank-note," said Janet. 
 
 Well, that began the trouble. The bank- 
 note was searched for, and there was neither 
 sign nor symptom of it to be found. Mrs. 
 Knox accused Janet Carey of stealing it, and 
 called in a policeman. Mrs. Knox made her 
 tale good to the man, representing Janet as a 
 very black girl indeed; iDut the man said he 
 could not take her into custody unless Mrs. 
 
JANET CAREY. 253 
 
 Knox would charge her formally with the 
 theft. 
 
 And, that, Mrs. Knox hesitated to do. She 
 told the policeman she would take until the 
 morrow to consider of it. The whole of that 
 evening, the whole of the night, the whole of 
 the next morning till mid-day, Janet spent 
 searching the garden-room. At mid-day the 
 policeman appeared again, and Janet w^ent 
 into a sort of fit. 
 
 When Mr. Shuttleworth was sent for to her, 
 he said it was caused by fright, and that she 
 had received a shock to the nervous system. 
 For some days she was delirious, on and off ; 
 and when she could escape Sally's notice, who 
 waited on her, they'd find her down in the 
 garden-room, searching for the note, just as 
 we afterwards saw her searching for it in her 
 sleep at Miss Deveen's. It chanced that the 
 two rooms resembled each other remarkably : 
 in their situation in the houses, in their shape 
 and size and building arrangements, and in 
 their opening by glass doors to the garden. 
 Janet subsided into a sort of wasting fever; 
 and Mrs. Knox thought it time to send for 
 Miss Cattledon. The criminal proceedings 
 might wait, she told Janet : like the heartless 
 woman that she was ! Not but that the loss 
 
254 JANET CAREY. 
 
 of the money had thro^vn her flat on her beam- 
 ends. 
 
 Miss Cattledon came. Janet solemnly de- 
 clared, not only that she had not got the bank- 
 note, but that she had never seen the note: 
 never at all. Mrs. Knox said no one but 
 Janet could have got it, and but for her illness, 
 she would be already in prison. Miss Cattledon 
 told Mrs. Knox she ought to be ashamed of 
 herself for suspecting Janet Carey, and took 
 Janet off by train to Miss Deveen's. Janet 
 got there in a shivering fit, fully persuaded 
 that the Lefford policemen were follomng 
 her by the orders of Mrs. Knox. 
 
 And for the result of it all we must go on 
 to the next paper. 
 
DE. KNOX. 
 
 SALLY. 
 
 " My Dear Aexold, 
 
 " Come down to Lefford without delay if you can : I 
 to see you particularly. I am in a peck of trouble. 
 
 " Ever your friend, 
 
 "RlCHAED TaMPLYN." 
 
 The above letter reached Dr. Knox in 
 London one morning in April. He made it 
 right with the authorities to whom he was 
 subject, and reached Lefford the same 
 afternoon. 
 
 Leaving his bag at the station, he went 
 straight to Mr. Tamlyn's house ; every other 
 person he met halting to shake hands with 
 him. Entering the iron gates, he looked up 
 at the windows, but saw no one. The sun 
 shone on the pillared portico, the drawing- 
 room blinds beside it were down. Dr. Knox 
 crossed the flagged court yard, and passed off 
 to enter by the route most familiar to him, the 
 
256 DM. KNOX. 
 
 surgery, trodden by him so often in the days 
 not long gone by. Mr. Dockett stood behind 
 the counter, compounding medicines, with his 
 coat-cufFs and wristbands turned up. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " exclaimed the young 
 gentleman, dropping a bottle in his astonish- 
 ment as he stared at Dr. Knox. " You are 
 about the last person I should have expected 
 to see, sir." 
 
 By which remark the Doctor found that 
 Mr. Tamlyn had not taken his apprentice into 
 his confidence. "Are you all well here? " he 
 asked, shaking hands. 
 
 "All as jolly as circumstances will let us 
 be," said Mr. Dockett. " Young Bertie has 
 taken a turn for the worse." 
 
 " Has he? I am sorry to hear that. Is Mr. 
 Tamlyn at home \ If so I'll go in and see 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, he's at home," was the answer. " He 
 has hardly stirred out of doors for a week, 
 and Shuttleworth says he's done to death mth 
 the work." 
 
 Going in as readily as though he had not 
 left the house for a day, Dr. Knox found Mr. 
 Tamlyn in the dining-room : the pretty room 
 that looked to the garden and the fountain. 
 He was sitting by the fire, his hand rumpling 
 
BB, KNOX. 257 
 
 his grey hair : a sure sign that he was in 
 some bother or tribulation. In the not quite 
 four months that had passed since Dr. Knox 
 left him, he had changed considerably: his 
 hair was greyer, his face thinner. 
 
 "Is it you, Arnold? — I am so glad. I 
 thought you'd come if you could." 
 
 Dr. Knox drew a chair near the fire, and 
 sat down. " Your letter gave me concern," he 
 said. " And what do you mean by talking 
 about a peck of trouble? " 
 
 " A peck of trouble ! " echoed Mr. Tamlyn. 
 " I might have said a bushel. I might have 
 said a ton. There's trouble on all sides, 
 Arnold." 
 
 " Can I help you out of it in any way % " 
 
 " With some of it, I hope you can : it's why 
 I sent for you. But not with all: not with 
 the worst. Bertie's dying, Arnold." 
 
 " I hope not X " 
 
 'As truly as that we are here talking to 
 one another, I believe him to be literally 
 dying," repeated the surgeon solemnly, his 
 eyes filling and his voice quivering with pain. 
 " He has dropped asleep, and Bessy sent me 
 out of the room : my sighs wake him, she says. 
 I can't help sighing, Arnold : and sometimes the 
 sigh ends with a groan, and I can't help that." 
 
258 DR. KNOX. 
 
 Dr. Knox didn't see his way clear to make 
 much answer just here. 
 
 " I've detected the change in him for a 
 month past ; in my inward heart I felt sure he 
 could not live. Do you know what your 
 father used to say, Arnold? He always said 
 that if Bertie lived over his sixteenth or 
 seventeenth year, he'd do ; but the battle 
 would be just about that time. Heaven 
 knows, I attached no importance to the opin- 
 ion : I have hardly thought of it : but he was 
 right, you see. Bertie would be seventeen 
 next Julv, if he were to live." 
 
 " I'm sure I am very grieved to hear this — 
 and to see your sorrow," spoke Arnold. 
 
 " He is so changed!" resumed Mr. Tamlyn, 
 In a low voice. " You remember how irritable 
 he was, poor fellow ? — well, all that has gone, 
 and he is like an angel. So afraid of giving 
 trouble ; so humble and considerate to every- 
 one! It was this change that first alarmed 
 me. 
 
 " When did it come on? " 
 
 " Oh, weeks ago. Long before there was 
 much change for the worse to be seen in 
 him. Only this morning he held my hand, 
 poor lad, and — and — " Mr. Tamlyn faltered, 
 coughed, and then went on again more bravely. 
 
LR. KNOX. 259 
 
 '' He held my hand between his, Arnold, and 
 said he thought God had forgiven him, and 
 how happy it would all be when we met in 
 Heaven. For a long while now not a day has 
 passed but he has asked us to forgive him for 
 his wicked tempers — that's his word for it, 
 wicked — the servants, and all." 
 
 "Is he in much pain 1 " 
 
 " Not much now. He has been in a great 
 deal at times. But it made no difference, 
 pain or no pain, to his sweetness of temper. 
 He will lie resigned and quiet, the drops 
 pouring down his face with the agony, never 
 an impatient word escaping him. One day I 
 heard him tell Bessy that angels were around 
 him, helping him to bear it. We may be 
 sure, Arnold, when so extraordinary a change 
 as that takes place in the temperament, the 
 close of life is not far off." 
 
 " Very true — as an ordinary rule," ac- 
 quiesced Dr. Knox. " And now, how can I 
 help you in this trouble ? " 
 
 " In this trouble ? — not at all," returned 
 Mr. Tamlyn, rousing himself, and speaking en- 
 ergetically, as if he meant to put the thought 
 behind him. " This trouble no earthly being 
 can aid me in, Arnold ; and I don't think 
 there's anybody but yourself I'd speak to of it: 
 
 S— 2 
 
260 DR. KNOX. 
 
 it lies too deep, you see ; it wrings the soul. 
 I could die of this trouble : I only fret at the 
 other." 
 
 " And what is the other ? " 
 
 " Shuttleworth won't stay." 
 
 " Won't he ! " 
 
 " Shuttleworth says the kind of practice is 
 not what he has been accustomed to, and the 
 work's too hard, and he does not care how 
 soon he leaves it. And yet Dockett has come 
 on surprisingly, and takes his share now. 
 The fact is, Arnold, Shuttleworth is just as lazy 
 as he can hang together ; he'd like to treat a 
 dozen rose-water patients a day, and go through 
 life easily. My belief is, he means to do it." 
 
 " But that will scarcely bring grist to his 
 mill, will it I " cried Dr. Knox. 
 
 "His mill doesn't want grist ; there's the 
 worst of it," said Tamlyn. " The man was 
 not badly off when he came here : but since 
 then his only brother must go and die, and 
 Shuttleworth has come into all his money. A 
 thousand a year, if it's a penny." 
 
 " Then, I certainly don't wonder at his 
 wanting to give up the practice," returned the 
 Doctor, with a smile. 
 
 "That's not all," grumbled old Tamlyn. 
 " He wants to take away Bessy." 
 
DR. KNOX. 261 
 
 " To take away Bessy ! " 
 
 " The two have determined to make them- 
 selves into one, T believe. Bessy only hesitated 
 because of leaving poor Bertie. That impedi- 
 ment will not be in her way long." 
 
 He sighed as he spoke. Dr. Knox did not 
 yet see what he was wanted for : and asked 
 again. 
 
 "I've been leading up to it," said Mr. 
 Tamlyn. "You must come back to me, 
 Arnold." 
 
 " On the same terms as before ? " inquired 
 the Doctor after a pause. 
 
 " Nonsense. You'd say ' No,' off-hand, if I 
 proposed them. In Shuttleworth's place." 
 
 " Of course, Mr. Tamlyn, I could not come 
 — I would not come unless it were made worth 
 my while. If it were, I should like it of all 
 things." 
 
 "Yes, just so; that's what I mean. Don't 
 you like your post in London ? " 
 
 " I like it very well, indeed. And I have 
 had no doubt that it will lead to something 
 better. But, if I saw a fair prospect before 
 me here, I would prefer to come back to 
 Lefford." 
 
 " That shall be made fair enough. Things 
 have changed with me, Arnold: and I 
 
262 DR. KNOX. 
 
 shouldn't wonder but you will some time, 
 perhaps not very far distant, have all my 
 practice in your own hands. I feel to be 
 getting old : spirits and health are alike 
 broken." 
 
 " Nay, not old yet, Mr. Tamlyn. You may 
 wait a good twenty years for that." 
 
 " AY ell, well, we'll talk further at another 
 interview. My mind's at rest now, and that's 
 a great thing. If you had refused, Arnold, I 
 should have sold my practice for an old song 
 and orone clean awav: I never could have 
 stood being associated with another stranger. 
 You are going up home, I conclude. Will 
 you come in this evening I " 
 
 " Very well," said Dr. Knox, rising. " Can 
 I go up and see Bertie \ " 
 
 " Not now ; I'd not have him awakened for 
 the world : and I assure vou the turnino^ of a 
 straw seems to do it. You shall see him this 
 evening : he is always awake and restless then." 
 
 Calling for his bag at the station, Dr. Knox 
 went on to Rose Villa. They were at tea. 
 The children rose up with a shout : his step- 
 mother looked as though she could not be- 
 lieve her eyesight. 
 
 " Why, Arnold ! Have you come home to 
 stay \ " 
 
BR. KNOX. 263 
 
 " Only for a day or two," he answered. '' I 
 thought I should surprise you, but I had not 
 time to write." 
 
 Shaking hands with her, kissing the children, 
 he turned to some one else, who was seated 
 at the tea-table and had not stirred. His 
 hand was already out, when she turned her 
 head, and he drew his hand and himself back 
 together. 
 
 " Miss Mack, my new governess," spoke 
 Mrs. Knox. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Dr. Knox ta 
 Miss Mack, who turned out to be a young 
 person in green, with stout legs and slippers 
 do^vn at heel. " I thought it was Miss Carey," 
 he added to his stepmother. " Where is Miss 
 Carey ] " 
 
 Which of the company. Miss Mack excepted, 
 talked the fastest, and which the loudest, 
 could not have been decided though a thousand 
 pound wager rested on it. It was a dreadful 
 tale to tell. Janet Carey had turned out to 
 be a thief ; Janet Carey had gone out of her 
 mind nearly with fever and fear when she 
 knew she was to be taken to prison and tried : 
 tried for stealing the money ; and Janet's aunt 
 had come down and carried her away out of 
 the reach of the policemen. Dr. Knox gazed 
 
264 DR. KNOX. 
 
 and listened, and felt his blood turning cold 
 with righteous horror. 
 
 " Be silent," he sternly said. " There must 
 have been some strange mistake. Miss Carey 
 was good and upright as the day." 
 
 " She stole my fifty pounds," said Mrs. 
 Knox. 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " She stole my fifty-pound note. It was the 
 one YOU sent me, Arnold." 
 
 His face reddened a little. " That note 1 
 Well, I do not know the circumstances that 
 led you to accuse Miss Carey ; but I know 
 they w^ere mistaken ones. I will answer for 
 Janet Carey with my life." 
 
 " She took that note ; it could not have 
 gone in any other manner," steadily persisted 
 Mrs. Knox. " You'll say so yourself, Arnold, 
 when you know all. The commotion it has 
 caused in the place, and the worry it has 
 caused me are beyond everything. Every day 
 some tradesman or other comes here to ask 
 whether the money has been replaced — for of 
 course they know I can't pay them under such a 
 loss, until it is ; and I must say they have be- 
 haved very well. I never liked Janet Carey. — 
 Deceitful minx ! " 
 
 With so many talking together, Dr. Knox 
 
DR. JLYOX. 265 
 
 did not gather a very clear account of the 
 details. Mrs. Knox mixed up surmises with 
 facts, in a manner to render the whole incom- 
 prehensible. He said no more then. Later, 
 Mrs. Knox saw that he was preparing to go 
 out. She resented it. 
 
 " I think, Arnold, you might have passed 
 this one evening at home : I want to have a 
 talk with you about money matters. What I 
 am to do is more than I know, unless Janet 
 Carey or her friends can be made to return the 
 money." 
 
 "I am going down to Tamlyn's, to see 
 Bertie." 
 
 Dr. Knox let himself out at the street door, 
 and was walking do^vn the garden-path, when 
 he found somebody come flying past. It was 
 Sally the housemaid, on her way to open the 
 gate for him. Such an act of attention was 
 unusual and quite unnecessary ; the Doctor 
 thanked her but told her she need not have 
 taken the trouble. 
 
 " I — I thought I'd like to ask you, sir, how 
 that— that poor Miss Carey is," said Sally, in 
 a whisper, as she held the gate back, and her 
 breath was so short as to hinder her words. 
 " It was London she was took to, sir ; and, as 
 you live in the same town, I've wondered 
 
266 BB. KNOX. 
 
 whether you might not have come across 
 her." 
 
 "London is a large place," observed Dr. Knox. 
 " I did not even know Miss Carey was there." 
 
 " It was a dreadful thing, sir, poor young 
 lady. Everybody so harsh, too, over it. And 
 I — I — I carit believe but she was innocent." 
 
 "It is simply an insult on Miss Carey to 
 suppose otherwise," said Dr. Kjiox. " Are you 
 well, Sally? What's the matter with your 
 breath ? " 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing but a stitch that takes 
 me, thank you, sir," returned Sally, as she 
 shut the gate after him and flew back again. 
 
 But Dr. Knox saw it was no " stitch " that 
 had stopped Sally's breath and checked her 
 utterance, but genuine agitation. It set him 
 thinking. 
 
 No longer any sitting up for poor Bertie 
 Tamlyn in this world! It was about eight 
 o'clock when Dr. Knox entered the sick cham- 
 ber. Bertie lay in bed ; his arms thrown 
 outside the counterpane beside him, as though 
 they were too warm. The fire gave out its 
 heat ; two lamps were burning, one on the 
 mantel-piece, one on the drawers at the far 
 end of the room. Bertie had always liked a 
 
BR. KNOX. 267 
 
 great deal of light, and he liked it still. Miss 
 Tamlyn met Dr. Knox at the door, and silently 
 shook hands with him. 
 
 Bertie's wide open eyes turned to look, and 
 the Doctor approached the bed ; but he halted 
 for one imperceptible moment in his course. 
 When Mr. Tamlyn had said Bertie was dying, 
 Arnold Knox had assumed it to mean, not that 
 he was actually dying at that present time, 
 but that he would not recover ! But as he 
 gazed at Bertie now in the bright light, he saw 
 something in the face that his experienced 
 medical eye could not mistake. 
 
 He took the wasted, fevered hand in his^ 
 and laid his soothing fingers on the damp 
 brow. Miss Tamlyn went away for a minute's 
 respite from the sick room. 
 
 " Bertie, my boy ! " 
 
 "Why didn't you come before, Arnold]" 
 was the low, weak answer ; and the breath 
 was laboured and the voice do^vn nowhere. 
 " I have wanted you. Aunt Bessy would 
 not write; and papa thought you would not 
 care to come dovm from London, just for 
 me. 
 
 " But I would, Bertie — had I known you 
 were as ill as this." 
 
 Bertie's hands were restless. The white 
 
268 JDR. KXOX. 
 
 quilt had knots in it as big as peas, and he 
 was picking at them. Dr. Knox sat down by 
 the low bed. 
 
 " Do you think I am dying 1 " suddenly 
 asked Bertie. 
 
 It took the Doctor by surprise. One does 
 not always know how to answer such home 
 questions. 
 
 " I'll tell you more about it when I've seen 
 you by daylight, Bertie. Are you in any 
 pam { 
 
 " Not a bit now : that's gone. But I'm 
 weak, and I can't stir about in bed, and — and 
 — they all look at me so. This morning papa 
 and Shuttleworth brought in Dr. Green. Any 
 ^vay? you must know that I shall not get to be 
 as well as I used to be." 
 
 " What with one ailment and another, with 
 care, and pain, and sorrow, and \vrong, it seems 
 to me, Bertie, that very few of us are well for 
 long together. There's always something in 
 this world : it is only when we go to the next 
 that we can hope for rest and peace." 
 
 Bertie lifted his restless hands and caught 
 one of Dr. Knox's between them. He had a 
 yearning, imploring look that quite pained the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " I want you to forgive me, Arnold," he 
 
DR. KNOX. 269 
 
 said, the tears running down. " When I re- 
 member how wicked I was, my heart just 
 faints with shame. Calling all of you hideous 
 names ! — returning bitter words for kind ones. 
 When we are going to die the past comes 
 back to us. Such a little while it seems to 
 have been now, Arnold ! Why, if I had en- 
 dured ten times as much pain, it would be 
 over now. You were all so gentle and patient 
 with me, and I never cared what trouble I 
 gave, or what ill words I returned. And now 
 the time is gone ! Arnold, I want you to for- 
 give me." 
 
 " My dear boy, there's nothing to forgive. 
 If you think there is, why then I forgive you 
 with all my heart." 
 
 "Will God ever forgive me, do you think?" 
 " Oh, my boy, yes," said the Doctor, in a 
 husky tone. " If we, poor sinful mortals, can 
 forgive one another, how much more readily 
 will He forgive — the good Father in Heaven 
 of us aU ! " 
 
 Bertie sighed. ''It would have been so 
 easy for me to have tried for a little patience ! 
 Instead of that, I took pleasure in being cross 
 and obstinate and wicked ! If the time would 
 but come over again ! Arnold, do you think 
 we shall be able to do one another good in 
 
270 DR. KNOX. 
 
 the next world 1 — or will the opportunity be 
 lost with this ? " 
 
 " Ah, Bertie, I cannot tell," said Dr. Knox. 
 " Sometimes I think that just because so few 
 of us make use of our opportunities here, God 
 will, perhaps, give us a chance once again. I 
 have not been at very many death-beds yet, but 
 of some of those the recollection of oppor- 
 tunities wasted has made the chief sting. It 
 is only when life is closing that we see what 
 we might have been, what we might have 
 done." 
 
 " Perhaps He'll remember what my pain 
 has been, Arnold, and how hard it was to bear. 
 I was not like other boys. They can run, and 
 climb, and leap, and ride on horseback, and 
 do anything. When I've gone out, it has 
 been in a hand- carriage, you know ; and I've 
 had to lie and lie on the sofa, and just look 
 up at the blue sky, or on the street that tired 
 me so : or else in bed, where it was worse, and 
 always hot. I hope He wiU recollect how 
 hard it was for me." 
 
 " He saw how hard it was for you at the 
 time, Bertie ; saw it always." 
 
 " And Jesus Christ forgave all who went to 
 Him, you know, Arnold ; every one ; just for 
 the asking." 
 
DR. KNOX. 271 
 
 " Why, yes, of course He did. As He does 
 
 now." 
 
 Mr. Tamlyn came into the room presently : 
 he had been out to a patient. Seeing that 
 Bertie was half asleep, he and Dr. Knox stood 
 talking together on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " What's that % " cried the surgeon, suddenly 
 catching sight of the movement of the restless 
 fingers picking at the counterpane. 
 
 Dr. Knox did not answer. 
 
 " A trick he always had," said the surgeon, 
 breaking the silence, and trying to make be- 
 lieve to cheat himself still. " The maids say 
 he wears out all his quilts." 
 
 Bertie opened his eyes. " Is that you, 
 papa I Is tea over 1 " 
 
 " Why yes, my boy ; two or three hours 
 ago," said the father, going forward. "Why? 
 Do you wish for some tea?" 
 
 " Oh, I — I thought Arnold would have 
 liked some." 
 
 He closed his eyes again directly. Dr. 
 Knox took leave in silence, promising to be 
 there again in the morning. As he was pass- 
 ing the dining-room down stairs, he saw Mr. 
 Shuttleworth, who had just looked in. They 
 shook hands, began to chat, and Dr. Knox 
 sat do^vn. 
 
272 I)B. KXOX, 
 
 "I hear you do not like Lefford," he 
 said. 
 
 " I don't dislike Lefford : it's a pretty and 
 healthy place," was Mr. Shuttleworth's 
 answer. '• ^"Sliat I dislike is my position in 
 it as Tamlyn's partner. The practice won't 
 do for me/' 
 
 '• A doubt lav on mv mind whether it 
 would suit vou when vou came down to make 
 the engagement," said Dr. Knox. '* Parish 
 work is not to everyone's taste. And there's 
 a great deal of practice besides. But the re- 
 turns from that must be good." 
 
 " I'd not stav in it if it were worth a 
 million a vear." cried Mr. Shuttleworth. 
 " Dockett takes the parish ; I make him : but 
 he is not up to much yet, and of course I 
 feel that I am responsible. As to the town 
 practice, why I assure you nearly all of it 
 has lain on me. Tamlyn, poor fellow, can 
 think of nothiuo: but his bov." 
 
 " He will not have him here long to think 
 of, I fear." 
 
 " Not very long ; no. I hear, Doctor, he 
 is going to offer a partnership to you." 
 
 •' He has said somethins: about it. I shall 
 take it if he does. Lefford is mv native 
 place, and I would rather live here than 
 
DU. KNOX. 273 
 
 anywhere. Besides, I don't mind work," he 
 added with a smile. 
 
 " Ah, voii are vounojer than I am. But I'd 
 advise you, as I have advised Tamlyn, to give 
 up the parish. For goodness sake do, Knox. 
 Tamlvn savs that at one time he had not 
 much else hut the parish, but it's different now. 
 Your father had all the good practice then." 
 
 " Shall you set up elsewhere V 
 
 " Not at present," said Mr. Shuttleworth. 
 " We — I — perhaps you have heard, though — 
 that I and Bessy are going to make a match 
 of it ? We shall travel for a few months, or 
 so, and then come home and pitch our tent 
 in some pleasant sea-side place. If a little 
 easy practice drops into me there, well and 
 good : if not, w^e can do without it. Stay and 
 smoke a cigar Avith me \ " 
 
 Arnold looked at his watch, and sat down 
 again. He wanted to ask Mr. Shuttlew^orth 
 about Miss Carev's illness. 
 
 *' The cause of her illness was the loss of 
 that bank-note," said the surgeon. " They 
 accused her of stealing it, and w^anted to give 
 her into custody. A little more, and she'd 
 have had brain-fever. She was a timid, in- 
 experienced girl, and the fright gave her 
 system a shock." 
 
 T 
 
274 BB. KNOX. 
 
 " Miss Carey would no more steal a bank- 
 note than you or I would steal one, Mr. 
 Shuttle worth." 
 
 " Not she. I told Mrs. Knox so : but she 
 scoffed at me." 
 
 " That Miss Carey is innocent as the day, 
 that she is an upright, gentle, Christian girl, 
 I will stake my life upon," said Dr. Knox. 
 " How the note can have gone is another 
 matter." 
 
 " Are you at all interested in finding it 
 out \ " questioned Mr. Shuttle worth. 
 
 " Certainly I am. Every one ought to be, 
 I think." 
 
 The surgeon took his cigar from his mouth. 
 ^' I'll tell you my opinion, if you care to know 
 it," he said. " The note was burnt." 
 " Burnt ! " 
 
 " Well, it is the most likely solution of the 
 matter that I can come to. Either burnt, or 
 else was blown away." 
 
 " But why do you say this I " questioned 
 Dr. Knox. 
 
 " It was a particularly windy day. The 
 glass-doors of the room were left open while 
 the house ran about in a fright, attending to 
 the child, young Dick. A flimsy bit of bank 
 paper, lying on the table, would get blow-- 
 
DR. KNOX. 275 
 
 about like a feather in a gale. Whether it 
 got into the fire, caught by the current of the 
 chimney, or whether it sailed out of doors 
 and disappeared in the air, is a question I can't 
 undertake to solve. Rely upon it, Knox, it 
 was one of the two : and I should bet upon 
 the fire." 
 
 It was just the clue Dr. Knox had been 
 wishing for. But he did not think the whole 
 fault lay with the wind : he had another idea. 
 
 Lefford had a shock in the morning. 
 Bertie Tamlyn was dead. The news came 
 to Dr. Knox in a note from Mr. Tamlyn, 
 which was delivered while he was dressing. 
 " You will stay for the funeral, Arnold," 
 were the concluding words. And as Dr. 
 Knox wanted to be at home a little longer 
 on his own account, he Avrote to London to 
 say that business was temporarily detaining 
 him. He then went to see what he could 
 do for Mr. Tamlyn, and got back to Rose Villa 
 for dinner. 
 
 Watching for an opportunity — which did 
 not occur until late in the afternoon — Dr. 
 Knox startled the servants by walking into 
 the kitchen, and sitting down. Mrs. Knox 
 had gone off" in the pony-chaise ; the children 
 
 T— 2 
 
276 BR. KXOX. 
 
 were out with the new governess. The kit- 
 chen and the servants were aUke smartened- 
 up for the rest of the day. Eliza, the cook, 
 was making a new pudding-cloth ; Sally was 
 ironing. 
 
 " 1 wish to ask you both a few questions," 
 said Dr. Knox, taking out his note-book and 
 pencil. "It is not possible that Miss Carey 
 can be allowed to lie under the disgraceful 
 accusation that was brought against her, and 
 I am about to try and discover what became 
 of the bank-note. Mrs. Knox was not in the 
 house at the time, and therefore cannot give 
 me the details." 
 
 Eliza, who had risen and stood, work in 
 hand, simply stared at the Doctor in surprise. 
 Sally dropped her iron on the blanket. 
 
 " We didn't take the note, sir," said Eliza, 
 after a pause. " We'd not do such a thing." 
 
 " I'm sure I didn't ; I'd burn my hands off 
 first," broke in Sally, with a burst of tears. 
 
 " Of course you would not," returned Dr. 
 Knox in a pleasant tone. "The children 
 would not. Mrs. Knox would not. But as 
 the note undoubtedly disappeared, and with- 
 out hands, we must try and discover where 
 the mystery lies and how it went. I daresay 
 you would like Miss Carey to be cleared." 
 
DR. KNOX. 277 
 
 " Miss Carey was a downright nice young 
 lady," pronounced the cook. " Quite another 
 sort from this one we've got now." 
 
 " Well, give me all the particulars as 
 correctly as you can remember," said the 
 Doctor. " We may get some notion or other 
 out of them." 
 
 Eliza plunged into the narration. She was 
 fond of talking. Sally stood over her 
 ironing, sniffing, and sighing. Dr. Knox 
 listened. 
 
 " Mrs. Knox left the note on the table — 
 which was much strewed with papers — when 
 she went out with Lady Jenkins, and Miss 
 Carey took her place at the accounts," 
 repeated Dr. Knox, summing up the profuse 
 history in a few concise words. " While — " 
 
 " And Miss Carey declared, sir, that she 
 never saw the note ; never noticed it lying 
 there at all," came Eliza's interruption. 
 
 " Yes, just so. While Miss Carey was at 
 the table, the alarm came that Master Dick 
 had fallen out of the tree, and she ran to 
 him " 
 
 "And a fine fright that fall put us into, 
 sir! We thought he was dead. Jim went 
 galloping ofi" for the Doctor, and me and Sally 
 and Miss Carey stayed bathing his head on 
 
278 BR. KNOX. 
 
 that there very ironing-board, a trying to find 
 out what the damage was." 
 
 " And the children : where were thev \ " 
 
 "All round us here in the kitchen, sir, 
 sobbing and staring." 
 
 " Meanwhile the garden-room was de- 
 serted. Nobody went into it, as far as you 
 know." 
 
 " Nobody at all, sir. When Sally ran in to 
 look at the fire, she found it had gone clean 
 out. The Doctor had been there then, and 
 Master Richard was in bed. A fine pickle 
 Sally found the room in, with the scraps of 
 paper, and that, blown about the floor. The 
 glass-doors was standing stark staring open 
 to the wind." 
 
 " And, I presume, you gathered up some of 
 these scraps of paper, and lighted the fire 
 with them, Sally?" 
 
 Dr. Knox did not appear to look at Sally as 
 he spoke, but he saw and noted every move- 
 ment. He saw that her hand shook so that 
 she could scarcely hold the iron. 
 
 " Has it never struck you, Sally, that you 
 might have put the bank-note into the grate 
 with these scraps of paper, and burnt it? " he 
 continued. " Innocently, of course. That is 
 how I think the note must have disappeared. 
 
DR. KNOX. 279 
 
 Had the wind taken it into the garden, it 
 would most probably have been found." 
 
 Sally flung her apron over her face and 
 herself on a chair, and burst into a howl. 
 Eliza looked at her. 
 
 " If you think there is a probability 
 that this was the case, Sally, you must 
 say so," continued Dr. Knox. " You will 
 never be blamed, except for not having 
 spoken." 
 
 " 'Twas only yesterday I asked Sally 
 whether she didn't think this was the way it 
 might have been," said the cook in a low tone 
 to Dr. Knox. " She have seemed so put out, 
 sir, for a week past." 
 
 " I vow to goodness that I never knew I 
 did it," sobbed Sally. " All the while the 
 bother was about, and Miss Carey, poor young 
 lady, was off" her head, it never once struck 
 me. What Eliza and me thought was, that 
 some tramps must have come round the side 
 of the house and got in at the open glass-doors, 
 and stole it. The night after Miss Carey left 
 with her aunt, I was thinking about her as I 
 lay in bed, and wondering whether the mistress 
 would send the police after her or not, when 
 all of a sudden the thought flashed across me 
 that it might have gone into the flre with the 
 
2S0 BR, XiYOX. 
 
 other pieces of paper. Oh mercy, I wish I 
 was somewhere ! " 
 
 " What became of the ashes out of the 
 grate ? — the cinders ] " asked Dr. Knox. 
 
 " They're all in the ash-place, sir, waiting till 
 the garden's ready for them," sobbed Sally. 
 
 With as little delay as possible, Dr. Knox 
 had the cinders carefully sifted and examined, 
 when the traces of what had once undoubtedly 
 been a bank-note were discovered. The greater 
 portion of the note had been reduced to tinder, 
 but a small part of it remained, enough to 
 show what it had been and its number. It 
 must have fallen out of the grate partly con- 
 sumed, while the fire was lighting up, and 
 been swept underneath by Sally with other 
 remnants, where it had lain quietly until 
 morning and been taken away with the ashes. 
 
 The traces gathered carefully into a small 
 box and sealed up, Dr. Knox went into the 
 presence of his stepmother. 
 
 '' I think," he said, just showing the box as 
 it lay in his hand, "that this proof Avill be 
 accepted by the Bank of England ; in that 
 case they will make good the money to me. 
 One question, mother, I wish to ask you : how 
 could you possibly suspect Miss Carey ? " 
 
DR. KNOX. 281 
 
 " There was no one else for me to suspect," 
 replied Mrs. Knox in a fretful tone ; for she 
 did not at all like this turn in the affair. 
 
 " Did you really suspect her \ " 
 
 " Why, of course I did. How can you ask 
 such foolish questions?" 
 
 " It was a great mistake in any case to take 
 it up as you did. I am not alluding to the 
 suspicion now ; but to your harsh and cruel 
 treatment." 
 
 "Just mind your own business, Arnold. 
 It's nothing to you." 
 
 " For my own part, I regard it as a matter 
 that we must ever look back upon with shame." 
 
 " There, that's enough," said Mrs. Knox. 
 " The thing is done mth, and it cannot be 
 recalled. Janet Carey won't die of it." 
 
 Dr. Knox went about Lefford with the box 
 in his hand, making things right. He called 
 in at the police station ; he caused a minute 
 account to be put in the " Lefford News ; " he 
 related the details to his private friends. Not 
 once did he allude to Janet Carey, or mention 
 her name : it was as though he would proudly 
 ignore the stigma cast on her and assume 
 that the world did the same. The world did : 
 but it gave some hard words to Mrs. Knox. 
 Mr. Tamlyn had not much sympathy for 
 
282 DR. KNOX. 
 
 wonders of any kind just then. Poor Bertie^ 
 lying cold and still in the chamber above, took 
 up all his thoughts and his grief. Arnold 
 spent a good deal of time with him, and took 
 his round of patients. 
 
 It was the night before the funeral, and 
 they were sitting together at twilight in the 
 dining-room. Dr. Knox was looking through 
 the large window at the fountain in the 
 middle of the grass-plat : Mr. Tamlyn had his 
 face on his knees ; he had not looked up for 
 the last half hour. 
 
 " When is the very earliest time that you 
 can come, i^rnold I " he began abruptly. 
 
 " As soon as ever they mil release me in 
 London. Perhaps that will be in a month ; 
 perhaps not until the end of June, when the 
 six months will be up." 
 
 Mr. Tamlyn groaned. "I want you at 
 once, Arnold. You are all 1 have now." 
 
 " Shuttleworth must stay until I come." 
 
 " Shuttleworth's not you. You must live 
 with me, Arnold?" 
 
 " Live with you ] " 
 
 " Why of course you must. What am I 
 to do in this large house by myself now he is 
 gone] Bessy will be gone too. I couldn't 
 stand it." 
 
BB. KNOX. 285 
 
 " It would be much more convenient for me 
 to be here, as far as the practice is concerned," 
 remarked Dr. Knox, after reflection. 
 
 " And more sociable. Do you never think 
 of marriage, Arnold ] " 
 
 Dr. Knox turned a little red. " It has been 
 of no use for me to think of it hitherto, you 
 know, sir." 
 
 " I wish you would. Some nice, steady 
 girl, who would make things pleasant here for 
 us in Bessy's place. There's room for a wife 
 as well as for you, Arnold. Think of these 
 empty rooms: nobody but you and me in 
 them ! And you know people like a married 
 medical man better than a single one." 
 
 The Doctor opened his lips to speak, but 
 his courage failed him ; he would leave it to 
 the last thing before he left on the morrow, or 
 else write from London. Tamlyn mistook his 
 silence. 
 
 " You'll be well enough off to keep two 
 wives, if the law allowed it, let alone one. 
 From the day you join me, Arnold, half the 
 profits shall be yours — I'll have the deed made 
 out — and the whole practice at my death. 
 I've nobody to save for, now Bertie's gone." 
 
 " He is better off ; he is in happiness," said 
 Dr. Knox, his voice a little husky. 
 
284 DB. KNOX. 
 
 " Ay. I try to let it console me. But I've 
 nobody but you now, Arnold. And I don't 
 suppose I shall forget you in my Will. To 
 confess the truth, the turning you away to 
 make room for Shuttleworth has lain on my 
 conscience." 
 
 When Arnold reached home that night, Mrs. 
 Knox and her eldest daughter were alone ; 
 she reading, Mina dressing a doll. Lefford 
 was a place that went in for propriety, and 
 nobody gave soirees while Bertie Tamlyn lay 
 dead. Arnold told Mrs. Knox of the new 
 arrangement. 
 
 "Good gracious ! " she exclaimed. "Coming 
 back to Lefford! Well, I shall be glad to 
 have you at home again," she added, thinking 
 of the household bills. 
 
 " Mr. Tamlyn proposes that I shall live with 
 him," said Dr. Knox. 
 
 " But you will never be so stupid as to do 
 that ! " 
 
 " I have promised to do it. It will be much 
 more convenient." 
 
 Mrs. Knox looked sullen, and bit her lips. 
 "How much of a share are you to have?" 
 
 " I go in as full partner." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad ! " cried out Miss Mina — 
 for they all liked their good-natured brother. 
 
BR. KNOX. 285 
 
 " Arnold, perhaps you'll go and get married 
 now ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I may," he answered. 
 
 Mrs. Knox dropped her book in the sudden 
 fright. If Arnold married, he might want his 
 house — and turn her out of it ! He read the 
 fear in her face. 
 
 ' "We may make some arrangement," said he 
 quietly. " You shall still occupy it and pay 
 me a small nominal rent — five pounds a year, 
 say — which I shall probably return in toys for 
 the children." 
 
 The thought of his marriage had always lain 
 upon her with a thorny dread. " Who is the 
 lady?" she asked. 
 
 "The lady? Oh, I can't tell you, I'm sure. 
 I have not asked any one yet." 
 
 " Is that all ! " 
 
 " Quite all — at present." 
 
 "I think," said Mrs. Knox slowly, as if 
 deliberating the point with herself, and in 
 the most affectionate of tones, "that you 
 would be happier in a single life, Arnold. 
 One never knows what a wife is till she's 
 tried." 
 
 " Do you think so \ Well, we must 
 leave it to the future. What will be, will 
 be." 
 
28G BR. KNOX. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now I am taking up the story for 
 myself; I, Johnny Ludlow. Had I gone 
 straight on with it after that last night of 
 Janet's sleep-walking at Miss Deveen's, you 
 would never have understood. 
 
 It was on the Saturday night that Janet 
 was found out — as anybody must remember 
 who took the trouble to count up the nights 
 and days. On the Sunday morning early, 
 Miss Deveen's doctor was sent for. Dr. 
 Galliard happened to be out of town, so Mr. 
 Black attended for him. Cattledon was like 
 vinegar. She looked upon Janet's proceedings 
 as a regular scandal, and begged Miss 
 Deveen's pardon for having brought her 
 niece into the house. Upon which she was 
 requested not to be silly. 
 
 Miss Deveen told the whole tale of the lost 
 bank-note, to me and to Helen and Anna 
 Whitney : at least, as much as she knew of it 
 herself. Janet was innocent as a child ; she 
 felt sure of that, she said, and much to be 
 pitied ; and that Mrs. Knox, of LefFord, seemed 
 to be a most undesirable kind of person. To 
 us it sounded like a romance, or a story out 
 of a newspaper police report. 
 
 Monday came in ; a warm, bright April-day. 
 
DB. KNOX, 287 
 
 I was returning to Oxford in the evening — 
 and why I had not returned in the past week, 
 as ought to have been the case, there's no 
 space to tell of here. Miss Deveen said we 
 might go for a walk if we liked. But Helen 
 and Anna did not seem to care about it ; 
 neither did I, to say the truth. A house with 
 a marvel in it has attractions ; and we would 
 by far rather have gone upstairs to see Janet. 
 Janet was better, quite composed, but weak, 
 they said : she was up and dressed, and in Miss 
 Deveen's o^vn blue-room. 
 
 " Well, do you mean to go out, or not, you 
 young people ? " asked Miss Deveen. " Dear 
 me, here are visitors ! " 
 
 George came in bringing a card. " Dr. 
 Knox." 
 
 "Why! — it must be some one from that 
 woman at Lefford ! " exclaimed Miss Deveen, 
 in an undertone to me. " Oh, no ; I remember 
 now, Johnny ; Dr. Knox was the step-son ; 
 he was away and had nothing to do with it. 
 Show Dr. Knox in, George." 
 
 A tall man in black, whom one might have 
 taken anywhere for a doctor, with a grave, 
 nice face, came in. He said his visit was 
 to Miss Carey, as he took the chair George 
 placed near his mistress. Just a few words, 
 
288 DR. KXOX. 
 
 and then we knew the whole, and saw a small 
 sealed-up box in his hand, which contained 
 the remains of the bank-note. 
 
 " I am more glad than though you brought 
 Janet a purse of gold ! " cried Miss Deveen, 
 her eyes sparkling with pleasure. " Not that 
 I think any one could have doubted her, Dr. 
 Knox — not even your stepmother, in her 
 heart, — but it is satisfactory to have it cleared 
 up. It has made Miss Carey very ill ; but 
 this will set her at rest." 
 
 " Your servant told me Miss Carey w-as ill," 
 he said. " It was for her I asked." 
 
 With a face of concern, he listened to what 
 Miss Deveen had to say of the illness. When 
 she spoke of Janet's fright at seeing the police- 
 man at the Colosseum, his brow w^ent red and 
 he bit his lips. Next came the sleep-walking ; 
 she told it all. 
 
 " Her brain and nerves must have been over- 
 strained to an alarming degree," he observed, 
 after a short silence. "Mr. Shuttleworth, who at- 
 tended her at the time, spoke to me of the shock 
 to the system. But I hoped she had recovered." 
 
 " She w^ould never have recovered. Dr. 
 Knox, so long as the dread lay upon her that 
 she was to be criminally prosecuted : at least, 
 that is my opinion," said Miss Deveen. "I 
 
DR. KNOX. 289 
 
 believe the chief thing that ails her h fright. 
 Not a knock at the door, not the marching 
 past the house of a policeman, not the sudden 
 entrance of a servant into the room, but has 
 brought to her a shock of agonising fear. It 
 is a mercy that she has escaped brain fever. 
 After all, she must possess a good constitution. 
 The sight of that man Lefford at the Colos- 
 seum did great mischief." 
 
 " It was unfortunate that he should happen 
 to be there," said Dr. Knox : " and that the 
 man should have dared to accost her with his 
 insolence! But I shall inquire into it." 
 
 " What you have in that box will be the 
 best medicine for her," said Miss Deveen. " It 
 Avill speedily effect a cure — or call me an un- 
 true prophet. Dear me ! how strangely things 
 come out ! " 
 
 "May I be allowed to see Miss Carey ?" 
 asked Dr. Knox. " And to — to tell her the 
 story of her clearance in my own way ? " 
 
 Miss Deveen made no reply. She looked at 
 Dr. Knox, and seemed to hesitate. 
 
 " I think it may be better for Miss Carey 
 that I should, madam. For more reasons 
 than one." 
 
 "And really I don't see why you should 
 not," said Miss Deveen, heartily. " I hesitated 
 
290 JDR- KNOX. 
 
 because Mr. Black forbade the admission of 
 strangers. But — perhaps you are not a 
 stranger to her ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no : I and Miss Carey are old 
 friends," he answered, a curious smile lighting 
 up his face. " And I should also wish to see 
 her in my medical capacity." 
 
 But the one to put in her word against this, 
 was Cattledon. She came down looking green, 
 and protesting in Miss Deveen's ear that no 
 male subject in Her Majesty's dominions, 
 save and except Mr. Black, ought to be ad- 
 mitted to the blue-room. Janet had no full 
 dress on ; nothing but skirts and a shawl. 
 
 " Oh nonsense ! " cried Miss Deveen. " Why 
 Dr. Knox might haye seen her had she been 
 in bed : he is a physician." And she took him 
 up herself to the blue-room. 
 
 " Of all old maids that Cattledon's the 
 worst ! " nodded Helen Whitney. 
 
 Miss Deyeen went in alone, leaying him 
 outside the door. Janet sat in an arm-chair 
 by the fire, muffled in an old brown shawl of 
 Cattledon's. 
 
 " And how do you feel now, my dear 1 " said 
 Miss Deyeen, quietly. " Better, I see. And 
 oh, I haye such pleasant news for you : an old 
 friend of yours has called to see you ; and I 
 
DR. KNOX. 291 
 
 think — I think — he will be able to cure you 
 sooner than Mr. Black. It is Dr. Knox, my 
 dear: not of Lefford now, you know: of 
 London." 
 
 She called the doctor in, and Janet's pale 
 cheeks took a tint of crimson. Janet's face 
 had never been big: but as he stood looking 
 at her, her hand in his, he w^as shocked to see 
 how small it had become. Miss Deveen shut 
 the door upon them. She hoped with all her 
 heart he was not going to spare that woman 
 at LeiFord. 
 
 " Janet, my dear," he said in a fatherly kind 
 of way as he drew a chair near her and kept 
 her hand, "when that trouble happened at 
 home, how was it you did not write to me I " 
 
 " Write to you ! Oh, sir, I could not do 
 such a thing," answered Janet, beginning to 
 tremble. 
 
 " But you might have known I should be 
 your friend. You might also have known 
 that I should have been able to clear you." 
 
 " I did once think of writing to you, Dr. 
 Kjiox: just to tell you that I had not indeed 
 touched the bank-note," faltered Janet. " As 
 the money came from you, I should have liked 
 to write so much. But I did not dare." 
 
 " And you preferred to suffer all these weeks 
 
 u— 2 
 
292 DR. KNOX. 
 
 of pain, and the fright brought upon you by 
 Mrs. Knox — for which," said he deliberately, 
 " I shall never forgive her — rather than drop 
 me a few lines ! You must never be so foolish 
 again, Janet. I should have gone to Lefford 
 at once and searched out the myster}^ of the 
 note — and found it." 
 
 Janet moved her lips and shook her head, as 
 much as to say that he could never have done 
 that. 
 
 " But I have done it," said he. " I have 
 been do^\Ti to Lefford and found it all out, and 
 have brought the bank-note up with me — 
 what remains of it. Sally was the culprit." 
 
 " Sally ! " gasped Janet, going from red to 
 white. 
 
 " Sally — but not intentionally. She lighted 
 the fire that afternoon with the note and some 
 more scraps. The note fell out, only partly 
 burnt ; and I am going to take it to the bank 
 that they may exchange it for a whole one." 
 
 " And — will —they X " panted Janet. 
 
 '' Of course they will ; it is in the regular 
 course of business that they should," affirmed 
 Dr. Knox, deeming it best to be positive for 
 her sake. " Now, Janet, if you are to tremble 
 like this, I shall go away and send up Miss 
 Cattledon — and she does not look as if she had 
 
DH. KNOX. 293 
 
 a very amiable temper. Why, my dear child, 
 you ought to be glad." 
 
 " Oh, so I am, so I am!" she said, breaking 
 into sobs. " And — and does everybody know 
 at LefFord that I was innocent ] " 
 
 " Nobody at LefFord believed you guilty. 
 Of course, it is all kno^vn, and in the news- 
 papers too — how Sally lighted the fire with a 
 fifty-pound bank-note, and the remains were 
 fished out of the ashes." 
 
 " Mrs. Knox — Mrs. Knox " She could 
 
 not go on for agitation. 
 
 " As to Mrs. Knox, I am not sure but we 
 might prosecute her. Rely upon one thing, 
 Janet : that she will not be very well welcomed 
 at her beloved soirees for some long time to 
 come." 
 
 Janet looked at the fire and thought. Dr. 
 Knox kept silence, that she might recover 
 herself after the news. 
 
 " I shall get well now," she said in a half 
 whisper. '' I shall soon " — turning to him — 
 " be able to take another situation. Do you 
 think Mrs. Knox will give me a recommend- 
 ation X " 
 
 "Yes, that she will — when it's wanted," 
 said he, with a queer smile. 
 
 She sat in silence again, a tinge of colour 
 
294 DU. KKOX. 
 
 in her face, and seeing fortunes in the fire. 
 "Oh, the relief, the relief!" she murmured, 
 slightly lifting her hands. "To feel that I 
 may be at peace and fear nothing ! I am very 
 thankful to you. Dr. Knox, for all things." 
 
 " Do you know what I think would do you 
 good ] " said Dr. Knox suddenly. " A drive. 
 The day is so fine, the air so balmy : I am sure 
 it would strengthen you. Will you go ? " 
 
 " If you please, sir. I do feel stronger, 
 since you told me this." 
 
 He went down and spoke to Miss Deveen. 
 She heartily agreed: anything that would 
 benefit the poor girl, she said; and the carriage 
 was coming round to the door, for she had 
 been thinking of going out herself. Cattledon 
 could not oppose them, for she had stepped 
 over to the curate's. 
 
 " Would you very much mind — would you 
 pardon me if I asked to be allowed to accom- 
 pany her alone % " said Dr. Knox, hurriedly to 
 Miss Deveen, as Janet was coming do\\Ti stairs 
 on Lettice's arm, dressed for the drive. 
 
 Miss Deveen was taken by surprise. He 
 spoke as though he were flurried, and she saw 
 the red look on his face. 
 
 " I can take care of her as perhaps no one 
 else could," he added with a smile. " And 
 
BR. KNOX. • 295 
 
 I — I want to ask her a question, Miss 
 Deveen." 
 
 " I — think — I — understand you," she said, 
 smiling back at him. "Well, you shall go. 
 Miss Cattledon will talk of propriety, though, 
 when she comes home, and be ready to snap 
 us all up." 
 
 And Cattledon was. When she found Janet 
 had been let go for a slow and easy drive, with 
 no escort but Dr. Knox inside, and the fat 
 coachman on the box, she conjectured that 
 Miss Deveen must have taken leave of her 
 senses. Cattledon took up her station at the 
 window to wait for their return, firing out 
 words of temper every other second. 
 
 The air must have done Janet good. She 
 came in from the carriage on Dr. Knox's arm, 
 her cheeks bright, her pretty eyes cast down, 
 and looking quite another girl. 
 
 " Have you put your question. Dr. Knox ? " 
 asked Miss Deveen, meeting him in the hall, 
 while Janet came on. 
 
 " Yes, and had it answered," he said brightly. 
 " Thank you, dear Miss Deveen ; I see we have 
 your sympathies." 
 
 She just took his hand in hers and squeezed 
 it. It was the first day she had seen him, but 
 she liked his face. 
 
296 BR. KNOX, 
 
 Cattledon began upon Janet at once. If 
 she felt well enough to start off on promis- 
 cuous drives, she must be well enough to see 
 about a situation. 
 
 " I have been speaking to her of one, Miss 
 Cattledon," said Dr, Knox, catching the 
 words as he came in. " I think she will accept 
 it." 
 
 " Where is it % " asked Cattledon. 
 
 " At Lefford." 
 
 " She shall never go back to Rose Villa with 
 my consent, sir. And I think you ought to 
 know better than to propose it to her." 
 
 " To Rose Villa ! Certainly not : at least 
 at present. Eose Villa will be hers, though ; 
 the only little settlement that can be made 
 upon her." 
 
 The words struck Cattledon silent. But 
 she could see through a brick wall. 
 
 "Perhaps you want her, young man?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. I should have wanted her 
 before this, but that I had no home to offer 
 her. I have one now; and good prospects 
 too. Janet has had it all explained to her. 
 Perhaps you will allow me to explain it to 
 you, Miss Cattledon." 
 
 " I'm sure it's more than Janet Carey could 
 have expected," said Cattledon, growing molli- 
 
DB. KKOX. 2i)7 
 
 lied as she listened. " She's a poor thing. I 
 hope she will make a good wife !" 
 
 ''I will risk it, Miss Cattle don." 
 
 " And she shall be married from my house," 
 struck in Miss Deveen. " Johnny, if you 
 young Oxford blades can get here for it, I 
 will have you all to the wedding." 
 
 And we did get there for it : I, and Tod, 
 and William Witney. And saw the end, so 
 far, of Janet Carey. 
 
 END OF VOL. T. 
 
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